UC-NRLF B 3 3MS ^0=^ FAGOTS OF CEDAR IVAN SWIFT Ill \^} In Michigan FAGOTS OF CEDAR Out of the North & Blown by the Winds & Ashes and Embers By IVAN SWIFT From THE LIZZARD SHOP at Harbor Springs Little Traverse Bay Michigan M CM IX COPYRIGHT 1909 By IVAN SWIFT ..^■ DEDICATED TO THE BEAUTY OF OLD TRADITION AND THE PROMISE OF NEW DEMOCRACY 325843 For the privilege of printing these verses in book form acknowledgement is due The Independent, The Outlook, Sun- set, Recreation, Outers' Book, Field AND Stream, The Midland, American Lumberman, The Comrade and Chicago Exafnhter, in which together, most of the titles originally appeared. CONTENTS A Swallow on a Telegraph-wire In Michigan Home Song of the Cedar-maker Stage of the Woods The Old Courier-de-Bois The Timber Woh-es Gods of the Ki-jik-on Plaint of the Brook-trout The Pleasure of the Hour The Woodman to the River Sprite of the Po-tog-on-og Seal of the North The Way of the North De Fishair of de Sish-ca-wet In Wild Americay Crime of Land Robbins'-Sidin' Farm Sunset of My Years Horse of Pete Lareau Wage of the Wilsons Assassination of the King Pid;ures Up in Readmond If I were Pan Along the Harbor Shore To a Grosbeak in the Garden The Humming-bird Autumn The Siin Sets Cold The Coprid Beetle Call of the Winds Liberty Bell Japan the Beautiful The Dragon City After the Days of Labor The Pilgrim After the Troublous Winds Re/ique- Poetique Memorial Venice To George Gordon Byron My Taper's Recompense Louisiana Gates of Brass The Odalisk Cloister Beads Retribution Charity Thy Love the Pilot Be Repair Heredity The Absent Heart of Me My Heart is Home The Poet's Shift Unto the Least The Poet Vagant The Larger Dream A SWALLOW ON A TELEGRAPH WIRE BATHED in red sun and gladdened by the wind A swallow sat upon a span of wire. He chirped the hours away with idle mind And preened the feathers of his staid attire. The news of all the world ra?i through his feet— The word of birth and sound of wedding- bells ; The cry of pain and laughter of the street^ Earth' s sorrow and the sin that life compels. Whether the message ivere of ill or good ^ A moment' s joy or grievi?ig bitter-long; Of blatajit clamouring or solitude — The swallow shot to earth the one glad song. So might I share the swallow's faithful hearty And know the shadow and the light of life — L d go on singing through the busy mart. And find a symphony in mortal strife. Out of the North IN MICHIGAN SLOW-YIELDING Nymphs Evade unpandered Satyrs here, And sands unconquered laugh at man's invention ; Bright clouds drive darker shadows. And the bay-breeze bears heavy odors — Odor-offerings of ragged pine And spruce. The white-birch single on the hillside. The hemlocks and I Are friends In Michigan. Nature's fingers Seem to play upon my strings In minor harmonies up here — Where sheUs of convents shelter Echoes only, And the last Indian has laid His flints and legends On the grave-mound of the older time In Michigan. HOME IN the evening after the rain. At home with the North and the trees, I turn from the world again And find me a world in these. I searched for a joy in the lands Of castle and kopje and sun, And found what I sought — in the sands Where the journey was lightly begun. The glories of continents seen And all that my ears have heard, Are lost in a garden's green And the chirp of a nested bird. ^ ^ SONG OF THE CEDAR-MAKER DEEP is the wall of the cedar, And tough is the take of the Jack; But a man with a girl must feed her, And the fire must burn in the shack. Ax^ spudy saw, steel! Trim, mark, cut, peel I We tackled the world and shook her — A wench with an eye for hate; We winked at the woods — and took her^ For better and bunk and plate. CHO. Man is a thing for labor, Or what's the game of the trees? The saw is as good as the saber, And tallies are made with these — CHO. Our talk ain't the regular Latin — But we cut to the cedar's core! Our manner '11 stand some battin' — But we pay for our beans and more ! CHO. Tough is the take of the cedar, And rough is the lift of the Jack; But a man with a wife must feed her. And the kettle must boil in the shack. CHO. Continued A chew for the church and the nation ! We work — and the scale is right; Sweat be our soul's salvation, And. freedom is Saturday night! Whack, crack, chip, strip! Zim, zow, zip, zip! Ax, spud, saw, steel! Chop! Mark! Cut! Peel! Camp Ki-jik, 1907 Ctj Ct3 STAGE OF THE WOODS The glow of the moon's low rim Creeps up through the trees to the sky; And the night is a deep, sweet hymn To the lone doe sauntering by. A frail, lithe shape at the spring — A quick, strange flash in the night! A leap and a keen, hot sting! And Death walks weird in the light. THE OLD COURIER-DE-BOIS A COMMON man was PereGilbault," So will the townsmen say, *'A sodden leaf left by the snow Upon the summer way; — "A relic of the older time. He crooned of moldy years. Unknown to fame of good or crime — And sleeps unmourned of tears." And this the tribute of the world To labor's humbler men — ^^A thing the jesting winds have whirled On earth and off again ! ' ' What tho he spread the dauntless sail. And quit the shame of kings — To break the rugged forest trail And dwell with silent things ? What tho he turned the blades to hoes. And tamed the savage breeds? — We hold their homes! No bugle blows A woodman's homely deeds. He made a garden, sowed a seed — But we have plucked the flower! He laid the faith, we made the creed — What boots his lingering hour? Continued No mausoleum marks his grave, No will divides his gold; No pension soothes a whimpering slave. His office none will hold. His tomb is but the earth he trod. His wealth — the poet's heart; His gift — a love for man and God, His post — the honest part. A common Man was Pere Gilbault, And so the world must say — *'A sodden leaf left by the snow. Upon the summer way!" 1906 ^ ^ THE HUNTED ONES The habit of all of your mothers Was flight from a stronger race, — Who knows but the zeal of our brothers Is zest to your joy of the chase? THE TIMBER WOLVES WE are the wolves of the timber land — Me and the Black and the Bay! We work by the day for a pittance of pay. Pork for the man and the horses' hay 1 ''Slaves," ^ou say, *'Of the skid and the sleigh!" It's the echoed word Of the world you've heard; For the nags and me Are the wind and the tree, And none so free ! — We 're czars of the lumberin' band! We sound for the sun his reveille — With the clank of the loggin'-chain. And the bitin' pain of the frost disdain! We warm to the work and won't com- plain. Chuck your Floridy flowers! Michigan woods for ours ! Hills of snow and a hammerin' bell! Four thousan' scale as hard as hell ! Get up. Jack! Together, Nell I Break your tugs ! Shake your lugs! Your frozen steam Is a Cuban dream. When you sleep in the straw with me ! Continued The slaves are rollin' the logs of towns! Give 'em the card they've drawn! The blood and brawn and the liquor-o'- Dawn Are enough for us — we're up and gone! A ten-league run Is a race with the sun. The horses' keep And a cave for sleep, (Better a bear than a shiverin' sheep) Meat and bread And a blanket-bed — And the prayers for more we leave to clowns ! To the hags o' storm my song is hurled ! My poem 's the creak of the hick'ry rack! The lash's crack, in the woods rung back. Is a fire in the veins o' the Bay an' Black! How they dance. And heave and prance! Oh, wild and free. We're comrades three. Born of wind and wave ! Little to lose or save — What of the grave? The boss of Care is the king oj the world I 1904 THE GODS OF THE KI-JIK-ON THE cedar is thick on the Ki-jik-on, And a goose is the queen of the sky ; But the king of the swamp is a Buster John, And the gentleman named is / ! The same to say, I handle the rein Of the huskies, Rock and Rob, And make the law to the timber's pain. A king is a man with a job ! Haw, Rob! Hy, Rock! Mush, Brush ! Duck your block ! We snakes the sticks from dawn to night, And times it's under the Bear ; It's a bunk for bed and a badger's fight, — They's hides is made for wear. We can't get far and we don't see much But a hole to the top of the sky ; They's muck enough for a grave o' such. And we go some^ ever we die ! Hy, Rock! Gee, Rob! Hump ! Jump ! Chew your cob ! They's many a stick in the ''Border of Hell," And thank ye to leave us stay ; For I am the king and the king is well, And the same for the Black and Bay. Continued The dam o' the nags has run in the clouds. Their sire in the wind o' the sea; So here is a laugh to the juniper shrouds. And luck to the pluckiest three ! Whoa, boys ! Haw about ! Backtrack! The hooter's out. 1907 ^ Cj3 PLAINT OF THE BROOK-TROUT IN the unfollowed rivers of Dawn, Of the hundreds of ages ago, A motherhood mothered the spawn And gave us of freedom to grow. We lay on the golden bars And laughed at the witless fly ; We looked on the sun and the stars. And they came to us out of the sky. We drank of the spears of the rain And wheeled in the storm-dog's ring ; We knew of no peril or pain, Nor feared we a wandering thing. The Maker of water and land Stood watch of our joy of the pool ; — But we fell to the rod and the hand. And our faith was the faith of the fool ! Barbed were the wings of the flies. And meshes were laid to deceive ; The manners of man were lies That fish could never believe. He came as a nature-priest, With book — and with hook and gun ; But the lover of beauty was least, And the slaughter of fish was fun. Continued He cast our children ashore For the greed of the bittern's beak ; And caught to his need and more — Pursuing from creek to creek. And thus were we led and decoyed, In shallow and pool and bar; And thus was our faith destroyed, In mortal and sun and star. We cherish our gift of life. And keep from the reach of men Till wiser in ways of strife — But 7nan will be wiser then ! BoYNE Creek, 1907 ^ ^ THE PLEASURE OF THE HOUR WHEN a curtain in the sky, With the sun a-seeping through, Is a-taunting me to try What a fisherman can do — Would you have me stay at home, Reading poems in a tome. While I water at the mouth and live a lie ? For the ringing of the reel And the rythm of the line Is the filling of the creel With the pleasure of the hour when we dine! I have a tender feeling for the fish. And I've got to be forgiven for a lot ; But I love 'em all to pieces — in the dish. And my feeling's sort o' special when they're hot. Oh, the very best of wishes For the sorry little fishes. And a hoping they'll be happy in the pot! For the r-r-rattle of the reel And the r-r-running of the line Is the filling of the creel With the pleasure of the hour when we dine! THE WOODMAN TO THE RIVER UPON THE DROWNING OF A FAVORITE DOG FAREWELL, false Ki-jik-on! I bide with thee no more. Forget that I am gone To seek a kinder shore. I 've had my joy of thee, And fain would yet remain ; But, innocently free. Thy will hath cost me pain. Thou' St borne my rod and boat Through many a truant hour — Where now may no 7nan float! Nor even reed or flower I I learned to love thee best. And grieve to wish thee ill; — Farewell, forever, lest I come to love thee still! The wall of cedar stoops Above thy winding banks; The tangled red-bush droops, And they may give thee thanks. SPRITE OF THE PO-TOG-ON-OG OUT of the fog of a Michigan bog — A hump and a bump! And a thump, thump, thump! It's never a bittern or blubbering frog Calhng a bug or a polly-go-wog — But the moan of the ghosts of the Po-tog-on-og ! Tlump! tlump! tlump! It's not the clog of Gog-ma-gog, Come up with a jump And a clump, clump, clump! Or the gutteral blurt of a beagle dog, Nor yet the grunt of a Jibway hog — But the wail of hosts of the Po-tog-on-og! Tlump! tlump! tlump! Time will jog and jump his cog, But never can trump The stump, stump, stump. That gulped the fog for a morning grog ! The spook of a corn-mill made of a log Will guard at the grave of the Po-tog-on-og ! Tlump! tlump! tlump! 1905 SEAL OF THE NORTH AGES ago when the Dawn first lifted, Audrey, you lay in the far lake-land — Under the pines where the sands were sifted. And touched my untouched hand. Your hair was there as the beach-grass blowing; Your eyes — and the sea-wet stones were those ; Your flesh was one with the soft surf flowing. Your blush with the frail wild-rose. Your blood was drained from the North- sun's setting. Your grace from the virgin-white birch- tree; You breathe with the pure, cool breeze begetting The Spring's sweet ecstasy! Your lyric laugh and the tears, all tender. Keep to the deeps of a nature-heart Long reft in the snow-land's still, cold splendor; — You in the moons apart ! December 1906 THE WAY OF THE NORTH THE spruce stands dark in the north- woods snow, And the lamps of the log-shack camp burn low; For the crew goes dry When the pay comes down, And the long hill-trail leads by To the lights of the taverns' town. There is friends in the woods — as woods friends go — And a Halfbreed John and a Bigfoot Joe Was a pair in a bunk And mess-mate chums; — But there be friends takes the hunk. And there be friends gets the crumbs ! In the taverns' town on a New Years night There's a girl and a drink and a curse-set fight; And a Halfbreed John And a Bigfoot Joe Turn friendship out with a gun, And boast of a boasting foe. The long hill-trail leads back to the camp When the dawn's dim glow is the woods- man's lamp; — Continued But a bunk left bare And the mess-plates down Is a creepish sign — Beware Of the lights of the taverns' town! The trail-side bush and the stars might know Of the purse and the corpse of a Bigfoot Joe; But the shame-paled face Of the midday sun Turned off from the blood-cursed place Of the crime that the night saw done ! But a ghost took scent of the snow-packs' track Stained-red — and a Halfbreed John came back To the sanguine cry And the posse's blow; — And the fir trees point to the sky That a corpse hangs black below ! Camp Ki-jik, 1908 DE FISHAIR OF DE SISH-CA-WET Ah ain't t'ink 'bout dees mill-job here, — Ah dream an' dream an' dream ! Two, t' ree 3^ear more de devil' spear Be pike me down de stream. A'm have some diffrant t'ing to t'ink, ' Bout bettair day went by ; When all de nord-man feesh an' drink And don't be 'fraid to die. Ah b'lieve Ah'm den 'bout twenty-five. Be marry firs' — one son; Far up de nord-shore Ah be drive, Where Pigeon Rivair run. De lak be fill' wid feesh long 'go; Ah bring de firs' pon'-net. An' teach de Injin — course Ah know- To catch de sish-ca-wet. Dees sish-ca-wet be kin' o' trout. She mak' good feed, you boil ; Ma wife pack barrel, tak' heem out, Dare's two eench bes' kni' oil! Eef Ah'm have save Ah don't pile slab For dollair quartair 'day; But how we know de Yankee grab An' all de trouts go 'way? C o ntinued Well, well, who care eef all be spen' ? Ah tell you dees be sure — Ah geeve you gold^ you geeve mefrien' — Ah'm reesh! an' you be poor I Ah wish Ah be young man some more- ' Bout twenty-five — you bet, Ah tak' de lak' to ol' nord-shore An' tra ma luck dare yet! But Ah be old, an' pile de board From sun-up till she set; An' in ma min' Ah pack ten cord Dem sam' blam' sish-ca-wet! But aftair 'while de Frenchman die; Den trout swim on de beash, De franc-piece rain down in de sky, An' every man be reesh! 1903 IN WILD AMERICAY MY name is Nick O'Reilley And I come from Ballybay, But I 'ave't saw old Ireland In many a weary day; For I'm workin' in the lumber-woods Of wild Americay, And I've got a bunch of babies here Behooves me for to stay. I miss the bogs of Erin (But I've got the swamps of Ayr) And the murphies in the counties (But the spuds is pretty fair). The sarpents is leary As the frogs be over there, But they's fairies in a plenty And the ghosts be every where. For the whiskey of old Ireland We've got a brand of booze^ But the laws o' camp is rigorous. And them I don't abuse. They's a Sunday game o' poker As I'm likelier to lose — But the bill I pays in blarney That's a coin they can't refuse! My feet is stuck in Michigan, Me heart for Erin longs; Continued But I works for Yankee silver And I sings the Irish songs. The woman lays furninst the pines. And here the bairns belongs; So I feeds thim with the music Of the silver skidding-tongs ! Camp Ki-jik, 1907 CS3 Ct] THE CRIME OF LAND AH come dees place, Ah b'lieve it be 'Bout Forty-t'ree or four; Den mos' de folks be cedar tree, Grow 'round de harbor shore. Ah be de gov'ment carpentair To buil' de Injin school — . So dey can teach de red man's heir How he can mak' de fool! De Injin he's good fix dat tarn. She be de happy man. Dey live lak fam'ly, all de sam; De chief keep hoi' de Ian'. Dey raise de corn and some potac, Dey have de wood an' feesh An' deer, an' blanket for dair back — Dat's all de man can weesh! Den after 'while some blanc-i^iCe come Wid bag of ten-cent grease; Dey t'ink he's God ! Dey drink hees rum And smoke de pipe-of-peace ! An' dare ees where de game begin, An' dare de Injin lose! He's geeve hees farm for pint of gin And pair ol' Yankee shoes ! Continued Dare where Ah bull' de Injin school, De white man plant hees house; He's be de robbair-cat to rule — De Injin be de mouse! Now day's cry in de swamp for bread, An' lak to fin' dairfrien'. Ah guess een hell, when dey be dead, Dey find dair partnair den ! Dat man is in de devil's net 'Fore he be in de sod! Df hones' man ees bes' tnan yet — An' dat be sure as God! 1903 ft3 CJ3 THE SUNSET OF MY YEARS SOMETIMES when I'm a-settin' here, a-waitin' for the night, The sun is stoopin' over low and spread- in' of his Hght On the puddles in the road there, and the reachin' shadders fold Down around the corn and popples that is throwin' back the gold. Then I ' magine that a voice I know is callin' home the steers From the woods along the gulley — and it sort o' starts the tears. It was nip an' tuck with us awhile a-try- in' to get along, And I calculate it made the bonds a-tween us middlin' strong. Him an' me had pulled together — yes — for more 'an forty years. An' reg'lar, most, as that old clock I'd heard him call the steers. Then one evenin' while the shadders picked the gleanin's of the day, Alf, he heard a voice a-callin', sort o' sweet, — an' went away! And I reckon that's the reason, in this sunset of my years, Why I wait for night to gather and I can't keep back the tears. ROBBINS'-SIDIN' FARM HAVE you ever been to Robbins'-Sidin' farm ? That's down along the railroad track a ways. Now there's a place as does a heart no sort o' harm. An' kind o' calls ye back to country days ! They's somethin' 'bout the stumpy feed- in' field As; draws you there an' keeps you settin' ' round. While fleecy clouds by soothin' winds is reeled Off on the sky; an' shadders run acrost the rollin' ground. Down there's a shaggy sheep a-standin' still- To make a shadder on a limpin' lamb; An' some are nibblin' bushes on the hill Till evenin', then they f oiler, single-file, a leadin' ram. They's a clanky bell a-tinklin' now an' then, And a killdeer goes a-cryin' 'round a puddle — Continued Where you see a patch o' heaven, look- in' in — An' you're feeUn' Hke your money-mak- in' wits was in a muddle An' you hadn't got a solitary sin! ROBBINS, 1902 THE HORSE OF PETE LAREAU SACRE! you laugh ma ol' Paree? You t'ink she's sick to kill! Dees hoss make leetle sad, may be — But sick? — no more as Bill! I tell you ' bout dees horse, my boy : I feed him twenty year; She be ma frien', ma life, ma joy! I kill him now? — Dat's queer! I tak' Paree to circus t'ing ' Bout fifteen year ago ; Dare be t'ree acre in de ring, An' plenty hoss to show. Continued I heech him in de sulkey dare An' pat him on de head — ''Dey's plenty competition here; Now show you don't be dead!" I tak' de rein an' hoi' him tight. An wait de signal gun ; De pistol shoot! Ma hoss step light! Sacre ! but how she run ! Den all de hoss spread out dere nose, De spark fly from de stone ! No odair hoss go fast like dose — 'Cept dees, n\2ijoiie roan! Ma hoss he keep de inside track, An' make dat cirkees short; In just t'ree mineet she be back, An' Paree hoi' de fort! An' den I'm have one odair try. I speak to him some more — "If you be beat, mofi c/ier, I cry; It make my spirit sore." I rub hees leg down wid de sponge, An* tak' de rein ma han'; She hear de gun, she make one lunge! You t'ink she understan'. Continued She go ! She go ! wid hundaird feet ! Hees mane whip lak de flag! She mak' dat cirkees — two mineet! — Behin' one odair nag. She feel dam sorty, dat Paree ! He hoi' hees head in shame, An* shet hees eye so he don't see Daty^/7 go 'gainst hees name. Den I say, "Don't you mind, Paree — You don't be all to blame; You win de nex' one, sure, for me — An' dare we have de game! " An' den I see dat horse wake up, An' know she say "I will! " I geeve him drink, I take one cup — To show we be frien' still ; I sponge his leg; I smood his hair; I tak' ma seat behin'. She tremble lak de leaf, wid fear! An' I be 'fraid dat sign! I hoi' de line; I wait de shot; I say, "Be brave, ma boy!" But dees dam horse! I guess I got One bass-wood duck deecoy! Continued But dare's de gun! an' here's de gale! Dees hoss come out his grave ! She tak' de air! he's mad! he sail, Lak sea-gull on de wave ! No frog be scare can jump lak dat! No fish can cut de sea So fas' she go! I lose ma hat; But I say, "Go! Paree!" She go lak blin' ! She hear no soun' Aftair she hear dat gun. She make t'ree acre — all way 'roun' — Gee Cry! — jus' half past 07ie ! Now what you t*ink 'bout dat, ma men? T 'rough all dese twenty year She be ina pal, ma pride, ma frien' ! I keel heem now? — Dat's queer! Cross Village, 1904 Ct] [?3 THE WAGE OF THE WILSONS NONE shall forget that Sabbath Day When ten bold, skilless men Defied their God upon the Bay — And five returned again ! The schooner Coral — mark the name — On roistering pleasure bent, Swung to the breeze, despite the shame The warning church-bells lent. The frail ship sailed with eagle grace And gently whipping wings; And luffed, for wind, in pride-of-place Just off the bay-head springs. Upon the east, the rocks — what harm ? To westward, open sea; In all the air a breathless charm. As on that day should be. Behind the drowsy fishing-town, Upon the bluff's high brow A lonely Indian, looking down, Mused o'er his Then and Now. There gazing off, as red-men will. He weighed the changing sky; And, save the schooner resting still. No more could he descry. Continued Within his heart he felt the tooth Of some mysterious hour; And toward the sea — in dismal truth — He caught the quickening lower! He knew the Great Lake squalls of old, And knew their demon ire — More ruthless than the northland cold Or raging forest-fire. And there upon the brooding bay, Without suspicion's care, Ten mortals and a vessel lay, With canvas all aglare ! The one man saw, the one man knew — And he of savage breed ; But forest-fleet the Indian flew To cry the fateful need. The storm came on in fury-burst! The bay leaped white with foam ! No boasting village-father durst To quit his sheltering home. But where was Wilson and his son. The humble fishing men ? Look toward the east ! What see you run Like some mad water-hen ? Continued What landsman can believe his eye? — A pound-boat splits the air! A schooner wrecks — and ten men die ! — But Wilson's hope is there ! The pleading wretches pray and gasp, And rise and plead again ! — And thank their God that they may grasp The hands of braver men. And five were saved and five were lost Upon that Sabbath Day! — And this the retribution cost, So cleric men will say. Then what of Wilson and his son? Reward of gold is theirs ; But *'No!" they grieve, "What wage is won Buty/bd" lone widows^ tears?" Little Traverse Bay, eariy. ^ ^ ASSASSINATION OF THE KING DARE'S de land — she lay lak serpent — Twenty mile out in de lake. She's be name de Isle of Beavair 'Cause she's lak de dam dey make. I remembair Eighteen-Fifty, Den I'm fishing on dat shore; Most de people be dose Mormon Who don't stay dare any more. What's de reason dey' sail scattair? I'm one of de man what know! If de fly go, dat is bettair Dan be freeze out by de snow! If you lak to know dis story, I can tell you what is true ; Den you see how some de churchman Be no bettair dan de Jew. All de Mormon pay de ten-tax, All de Cat' lie, he refuse; So dey steal his net an' fish-boat, Cow an' sleigh an' snow-pack shoes! Many year de Frenchman stand dees — 'Cause dat time dare be no law — Den de French and Injin contrac' An' de Cat' lie show de claw! Continued I can stick de stake in san' dare, Hundaird of dem, where dey's thieve Shoot down lak de dog, an' bury Wid no time for pray an' grieve ! or De Strang be king dat Islan' — She's de smart man in de worl' ! He's be lawyer, pries' an' doctair. An' de black fox wid de girl I Fine blue eye an' yellow whisker ! Straight lak tree, wid voice lak win' ! Sing de song an' play de fiddle, Pray de Lord an' mak de "tin!" Strang have only t'irteen woman, So he hunt for nodair wife! — Lak de Frenchman set he's pon'-net, Dey's some white-fish lose- her life! Madame Bedfort be de beauty On de Island in dose day — So dees King sen' off de husban', Den he steal hees dame away ! When de news have reach to Guillam, Where he's trapping in de Nord, He's go mad an' swear de vengeance By de French an' by de Lord ! Continued In de spring de gov'ment cuttair She's be Ian' to Ol' St. Jame'. Den de captain send for Strang dare, See'f he know some smugglair' name. When de King come to de gang-plank, Hoi' hees head high in de air — Dare's two pistol-shot from fish-house ! Den dey's blood-spot in hees hair! I don't swear who kill de great man, But de cuttair sail away — Wid one Frenchman for de deck-han' When de sun go down dat day ! 1904 Ct3 C^ PI'TURES UP IN READMOND I'VE heerd about them paintin's from the Holland paintin'-school, Pi'turin' diggers in the taters, women washin' by a pool. And like o' that ; and folks a-hayin' wear- in' brogans made o' wood And a-doublin' over sickles that we're thinkin' ain't so good Now-a-days. And folks are sayin' that it's like your breathin' air Jest to look at them old pi'tures! I ain't doubtin' they are fair \ But I'm 'lowin' here in Readmon' they is things that's full as fine! — Mebbe not so durned old fashion, but they'll do^ I guess, for mine! Now jest take a squint at Renie there, a- settin' on the bench: They's a scoop o' sunshine pourin' thru the trees and trjdn' to drench Her and the berries she's a-sortin' and a- throwin' out the specks To the hens and chickens waitin' and a- cranin' of their necks ! Continued The only chicken-fixin's that's a-stickin' 'round her gown Is them patches of the sunUght that's a- comin' dancin' down — Golden crickets on her apern, faded blue, and in her hair, Like a swayin' bunch o' golden-rod it keeps a-playin' there ! The cullin's of the berries she's a-throw- in' to the chickens; But the berries on her lips! — Gee! if/ could have the pickin's, At her feet I 'd crow and cackle till I got a even peck! — Like a ragged, beggin' banty rooster, cranin' of his neck! 1900 Ct] Cj3 ALONG THE HARBOR SHORE I LIKE the days of northern Spring When leaves emerge the bud, The birches turn a tender green And maple-blossoms blood. A sail is golden in the sun, Against the purple hill; A gull is high on silent wing. The swallows never still. Where westing sun and fog are met. Along the harbor's shore. An aged fisher reels a net And mutters primal lore. He is not of the Spring of life, Yet find we equal cheer; — He, that the old ship weathered through, I, that the new may clear. At Home, 1908 ^ Cf3 IF I WERE PAN DEEP in the wood across the way, I dreamt that I was Pan today, And tuned me joyous pipes to play. The fronds came out to me, The nymphs and graces three — The world was all aglee ! For I was Pan and this was Spring ! I played that I was Pan today And laughed at mortals on the way, But no man heard and none would stay. Their ears were sorely dull. And sad their eyes and full Of pelf and pride and mull ! — And spring to them is never Spring ! I know that I was Pan a day. But would that I were Pan alway — With ears like his and eyes of May, To hear and feel and see ! Pipe tunes to bird and bee And set the world's heart free With laughter, love and light of Spring ! I would if I were Pan. Cj3 Ct] A GROSBEAK IN THE GARDEN WHEN through the heaviness and clam- oring throng Of mortal ways I hear the mellow song Of birds, the birds seem sent to me. If this be my insanity, As men will measure it — so let it be ! When shadows that no will can drive away Entomb me — then no sermon blesseth day. More true and sweet than that pure note My ear hath caught afloat From out the garden grosbeak's fervent throat. Thou, crimson-caped messenger of God, Seem'st not to feel the thorned and bitter rod Of Life — thy hours are joyously beguiled With melodies so wild! In sooth, thy creed is trusting as a child! Full knowing that thy living days are brief Thou grudgest even an hour for sober grief; Thy poems are scattered free, without a name, Continued Nor hast thou thought of fame ! Is my unpaid aspiring yet my blame? The world is wide 'twixt man and worlds divine. And hearts are dull to such a song as thine ; But / have heard. Sing on, from tree to tree. As thou hast sung to me, — And more shall find the God that guid- eth thee ! 1906 ^ Cj3 THE HUMMING-BIRD WHEN Summer sobs her languor to the Sky, And restive spirits vex the wa3^s of men In vain emprise ; within my garden then Will I elect to let the world go by. And watch the humming-bird. Not seen to fly, He comes, and vanishes, and comes again And sips the sweets of honeysuckles when Their lips are frail — but leaves them not to die. So I have thought how good it were to be This ruthful corsair, bent on such pur- suit, Against the wear of my foreplanning hours ; — How good it were to live thus liegelessly Upon the world's unreckoned blossom- loot — ' ;;a;; Yet spare from any harm its guarded flowers ! 1907 A UTU MN BURDEN banked with many an autumn flower, The hills of aster, golden-rod and tyme Exhale the spell of some old Persian rhyme Revealed from parchments of the ages' dower. The purple mists enshrpud the solemn hour, The throats of Nature hum a requiem chime ; The pageant pauses with the dirge sub- lime. And Life is ' laid beneath the burning bower. When Autumn flaunts her symbols of the dead. And darkness trespasses on hours of light; When frosts foray with banners gold and red, And all the future dawns are robed of night — Then quits my soul her habit's clamor- ing flight And turns to make her peace and funeral bed! 1903 Blown by the Winds THEj sun sets cold on WelcMnp Lake, And the Fail, with her frost-wet mouth, Sumfjwns the drake frofn his home i?i the brake. And the wings of the flock cleave south. The warmth is fled from the bare brown hills. And the light from the famished fleld ; A man' s heaj't fllls where the 7nad crowd wills. And the town takes over his yield. THE COPRID BEETLE THE dragon drinks at the fount of noon, The cicades sing in the tree; The night moth sips at the flower-of-the- moon — But only a coprid beetle am I, And a coprid beetle I 'Id be. They plume and prate of a sun and star, And the work of a worm called Man ; But the road to the realm is rough and far. There 's work in the dark and dirt for me- I '11 be what a beetle can. My mother a coprid beetle born — My sons will be no more. We work, nor worry; no work we scorn. There's peace in the crypt of the coprid cave — What more in the Ultimate Shore ? A coprid they carved me in agate and gold. On a Pharaoh's neck I lay; They put us away in a cave of old, — And I carry a text of the Book of the Dead As I roll my ball of clay! St. Louis, 1904 THE CALL OF THE WINDS I FAIN would laugh with all the laugh- ing world, And let the relic memories be furled With banners of crusades and laid away With tomes and trumpery of the older day; With crooning history, Time's romance, be done — Let ages die, and wake the ' 'On and on ! " And yet in dreaming hours, despite my will, Past friends and fading pictures linger still. Old wars with all their wrongs, caesars and kings With all their crimes and ancient clamor- ings. And troubadours, and pirates of the sea — Seem still to mock our lauded Liberty. Somehow when I would tempt the tune- ful strings I find them fraught with hymns of buried things — I hear the cadence of the awkward flail, And Indians moaning on the bison-trail. The clanking enginery of modern strife Profanes the obsequies of sweeter life. Continued There's grandeur in the press of steam and steel, But heart-beats in the throb of oaken keel! And on the winds a runic wail of doom Pursues the tattered sail and trembling boom Of one-time stately ships. The hulks, all mute. Swing off in funeral pomp ; and in pursuit The squadron hounds of fretful Com- merce bay Their greed of wealth and ruthless pride of prey ! A golden glory filled the sea and air When Turner saw the failing Temeraire ! No harmonies contest the sunset fire, The fondest fancies haunt the Autumn pyre; So, when the Muses seek the tender theme, They find the treasure passing toward a dream ! New York, 1903 LIBERTY BELL AH, here is our Liberty Bell, Paraded in pride of old ! I would that my tongue could dwell In the turbulent times she tolled. I would it were mine to reveal, In a reverent rage of song, The secrets her sibyls conceal And the motley and militant throng. Forgetful of things that be, I turn to the long ago — To the years ere men were free And the world moved on but slow; To the days of rufBe and wig And leathern-apron and hose; Of flint-lock, horn and brig, And the spirit that went with those. My mind is peopled of courts And powder and silk and sword; The hound and the falcon sports, And pride of lady and lord. I witness the hurrying groups To the hall of the prophet's light. And the red and the rags of troops In the dim-lit streets of night. Continued But thou, old Liberty Bell, Attuned to the patriot-shout. Didst ring for a tyrant's knell, And ring till freedom was out! Now loud shall Liberty sing Te Deums around her shrine; And nations bent shall bring Their altars unto thine ! Philadelphia, 1904 JAPAN THE BEAUTIFUL THE ghost of grace through heathen tides and times, Hath kept her vigil 'neath thy trem- bling stars ! Thy cherry-blossom cheeks, in peace or wars. Beam in rapport with all thy sweetest chimes ! New states may grow where fallen states have been ; — The pulse of Beauty, dead, shall beat no more! Thine not the cause of wall and tower and store; — Thy citadels are laid in hearts of men ! THE DRAGON CITY IN this unchanging shaft-hght hour by hour, Pent in and comfortless, the city's power Goes grinding on around me ; and the sky, A somber square the empty winds go b}^ Scarce marks the transit of the night or day. A milHon unfixt spirits take their way Beneath my keep, nor seem to reckon why They tempt a dragon, follow far, and die ! I marvel I could quit the peace of fields For this, where all our fervent sowing yields But mortal thorns to weave us penal crowns ! I have not learned the tenets of the towns : I seem disarmed where every man con- tends. Denying virtue and reje(5ting friends! Where I have wandered, on the northern hills, A Presence full of power and promise fills Our hearts with common joy; and there we learn How comradeship and simple trust will turn The fear of beasts and enmity of men. But what avails the code I gathered then ? Continued The God of farther places here they scorn. And flout the solemn faiths that / have sworn ! Were men but rude, like some unlettered breed, Then might I stand, as one who knew the creed ; But here are sinuous ways and sultan smiles. Soft insolence, diplomacies and wiles. These subtler crafts plain men can never know; And fall as falls the unresisting snow! From this most pitiless of human mills I wonder I am not among the hills, Whose faithful benedidlion followed me ! And I am pained of infidelity At parting from the pines and golden sands And old-time friends — the warm and rug- ged hands Oi long-true friends! I wonder I should roam "This way ! My heart is there — and there is ho?jje! Chicago, 1906 AFTER THE DAYS OF LABOR A RHAPSODY AFTER the days of labor— The netding cares, discordant necessity. The pettiness that unmakes men — Out! Out of it all! Out to the remedies of God ! Air unmonopolized! Trees in peace-tussle with the wind! Grass, flowers, rivers, waves, bird-songs- Uncorporated, untrusted ! In with these ! Out with tedium ! Off with burdens of past days! Out with fears of future days! No Past, no Future ! Today, only Today ! Sunshine, soft clouds, laughing voices! Only Today ! Enough ! And no concern! But a step to Heaven, and the way is free, Free to all men — as all is free To hare, finch, ant, squirrel, perch and pelican and bee ! All free! This, this only, this shall be the life for mankind — This the life to make men and make women ! This shall yield high thoughts, bright hope, prophetic words, divine art; Faith, charity, godliness, comradeship! Continued This shall purge all meanness, rivalry, exaction, hunger for the unattainable! All is attained — attained by all ! No gold shall add to its richness! No world-comfort shall add to its delight! You who sleep, awake ! You in the sick-ward, you in the world- war, Surrender ! Capitulate ! Sell that thou hast and give to the poor! It 's giving waste! Surrender to sky and wave and wind! Out to God's remedies! — And live! Indiana, 1901 ^ ^ THE PILGRIM PALE, pure Star of the North, I come to thee, burning of cities; To thee as to a shrine, I come ! Low, cool Mist of the North, I seek thy inviolable veil — Within thy frail cloistering walls Fold me ere I fail utterly. A slag of man, I come, contrite! Keen, calm Wind of the North, Blow out of the hills! I've need of thee! In thy long, cool tresses lay my fevered brow — Fevered of cities and of sin ! One touch of thy fingers. Wind of the North, And I am free — Free of the purple sin of the South, Free of the slime of the cities; Free of the falser Gods of crowds ! Stript of all falsity I come surrendering To thee, deep, blue Sky of the North ! At the fast ship's prow. Star of the North, In old faith, in old love, I come, cast down to thee ! On Shipboard AFTER TROUBLOUS WINDS AFTER the troublous winds have wear- ied and turned to sleep, I lie on the cool beach-sands, in the sound of the waves of the deep; And the waves of the firm dead-sea, that carry the gray of the sky. Bear earnest of peace to me though the years and the worlds go by. The waves of the wind-reft bay, that re- fled: and rejed: as they will, Unvexed and unfaltering roll and the law of control fulfill ; — And this is the life that will be when our fears are folded away — For the mind is the wide-swung sea, and the sky of the soul is gray. Little Traverse Bay, 1907 Cj3 Ct3 Ashes and Embers WHEN the first floods had newly quit the earthy And annals of the world lay in the loom^ Awaiting time and thu7iders^ — to consume The desert hours a Nile hoy in his mirth Carved a rude shard of clay to deck his girth. And this the paleolith left of the doom Of centuries^ or scaj'ab from the tomb Of Pharaoh — treasures now of priceless worth. So I ?nust wonder^ when I shape my shrine Of feral verse — though no intrinsic good. Will it be buried by the years and then. As legend of the long-departed wood. Be saved to relish like some ancient wine Or relic of old sunken Stavoren? CJ] C53 MEMORIAL A SLEEP is on the northern town Of Hearts-beat-slow; The very steeples wear a frown — The gardener is low ! Toll, bells! Toll, bells! By all the slave is scorned. Toll, bells! Toll, bells! By none will he be mourned. Old time he bore his country's flag — Forgotten now. A shroud will cover him, a rag; A scar his brow. Toll, bells! Toll, bells! A soldier more has slept; Toll, bells! Toll, bells! The soldier has been wept ! He knew no kindly look or word Through laboring hours; He muttered curses, all unheard, — And planted flowers! Toll, bells! Toll, bells! No wreath is on bis grave. Toll, bells! Toll, bells! Who waits to mourn the slave ? Toll for the slave ! Toll for the brave (His curse a flag! ) Continued His gardens bless the child and knave ! (His shroud a rag! ) Toll, bells! Toll, bells! What though the slave is scorned ? Toll, bells! Toll, bells! For him who is not mourned ! Harbor Springs, 1908 Cj} [t3 VENICE IT has been mine to know, in younger days, That love, in fullness, finds no utterance; No mortal word can serve, much less en- hance A perfed: thing. The wondrous Nippon vase Desponds my tongue; the while to ruder clays Of dull unpromising, the Muses dance And wake with hearts of wild exuberance! So Fancy weaves on umber warp her praise ! No song of mine confirms that I have seen San Marco's opal dome and wept be- fore The Campanile's fall. I have riot sung Ca d'Oro's grace nor of the light serene That never was on others' seas, Mag- gior Venezia ! — to me thy bells have rung. 1907 TO GEORGE GORDON BYRON THOU cursed of all the world for want- ing God, And blessed of God with gifts all but divine ; So might one hour thy smallest worth be mine I Id fill that hour with praise of thee. No rod. However cruel, would stay my tongue; no sod With all its fearsome coldness I 'Id de- cline. Enough one leaf of laurels that are^ thine — One tear of those that bathe the paths you trod. So sure the change of mortal hearts and times. So great the final mead of stings you bore — Who can but envy you the spear? Thy rhymes Of bleeding heart are saved to pay thy score; But I may bear my cross to calvary. Nor rise by truth to immortality. (On the fly-leaf of The Castaway) LOUISIANA OUT of the ash of Ages Damp with the tide of Time, Over the reeking pages Red with the Heathen Crime — Here hath the forest Fable Fought with the corpse of Fear, Building a barracked gable Learned of a Savage leer. Spite of the mountain and torrent, Huron and hunger and bear; Praying in plagues abhorrent. Minding of Midasan blare — Jesuit, knight and trader, Crozier and steel and skin, Fool-of-the-Fountain and raider. Founders of Faith and Sin — Chanted their Molochite Aves On through the wilds of the Years, Laying their laws as lavas Hot with the blood and the tears ! In mounds of a Memory faded, The Kingdoms planted their feet; The stream where the bittern waded Thronged of a throbbing fleet. Mine and Timber and Meadow Meet their debt to the Dead, Continued And over the shame and the shadow The Sachem of Peace is led ! Hewer and digger and tinker. Hammer and hoe and shear; Loaner and lover and thinker. Poet and painter and seer — Shoveled the sand to building, Tethered the river to power. Pounded the rock to gilding — And looked on Temple and Tower! St. Louis, 1904 * Ct3 [t3 GAT ES OF BRASS A SINGLE taper, flaming dim and low, Played fitfully on relic altar-gold; Thru windows wrought with miracles of old Fell faint the saffron of the afterglow. Before the penance-bench Sir Hardistan, Scarce more than youth, of sturdy limb and fair, Knelt down as under longer years' de- spair That marked his brow with age ere age began. Within the shadow stooped the solemn priest, In patience with the sorrows of the years — His cup of life o'eriilled of others' tears. Had spilled his tragedy as theirs increased. **Sir Knight, I keep the refuge of the poor — Here knees of plaintive misery are bent When worldly wares and light of life are spent. Thou'rt not of these, but yet in strength secure." Continued * 'Father, I wander thru the endless night. And the paie moon to me appears but rare. I seek, the last, thy famed candle-flare To light my steps and stumbling steed aright." "What meanest thou, Sir Knight? — Hast naught of home?" *'Aye, Father, home — such home as all men seek. And wife and child, and stables of the sheik. And gold to grace a triumphry of Rome." "Grieve not. Sir Knight, if erst thy joust- ing failed." "No conflid: but a conquest, holy one; , The bravest have engaged me and are done With tournaments, whilst I am victor hailed." "Find' St thou no weal in neighbor, friend or kin?" "Thy pardon, sire — thou speak' st in language worn. Can mortal fellowship be bred of scorn ? Continued The wolf am I; the whimpering folds are men." '*Mayhap thy alms are sown to thankless soil." ''Aim? Alms? Wouldst fling thy beads to craven oaves? My gift is steady steel, outlasting loaves ! But haste ! — the serpent Night doth loose her coil!" * 'Haste romps, Sir Knight, without the cloister gates — With such as thou on worldly roads it runs, In vain pursuit of far retreating suns! My humble lamp will serve but him who waits. "The Sangreal lay not the wanton's way ! God's love for love; His mercy for thine own! Turn back whence thou hast come — unarmed, alone! Beyond the east awaits the dawn of day ! " 1907 THE ODALISK OFTTIMES in these our passion-resting hours, When the Ught-mist of early twihght Veils the spectral mosque-tips, And all the silver bells in still suspense Await the towered muezzin's call To prayer — the soft dew-gathering time When rose-perfumes from our seraglio garden Float low and deep upon my idle sense — Then have I dreamed a dream. Though it be all a fancy-fabric. Makes for peace to you and me, Fatima. I have dreamed of other times and lands. Of far-called women freely born — Free to choose and free of any master And of Moslem power — all save Christian creeds. In these, my reveries, the winds From over seas will bear the sobs Of childless wives, and then the cries Of many children left of mothers Weeping for the fathers strange ! I hear of marriage-beds of brides unloved And maidens solitary all their days In pining for some heart they move not; And it has come to me — ah, truly false — That those most virtuous are most bereft, Continued Without abode or any resting place Or sympathy's caress to bless their sleep — And this because of goochiess and the hope Of some out-lying, loveless Paradise to come! So, I am told that in that country ruled Without a king, the waj^s of freedom Are not free, and woman's liberty Is woman's reigning woe. Her fickle fury toys unsavingly. And, being free, men turn unscathed Away, wear>^ of play, to be the masters Men can be ! And woman — Worn of trifling, stale of beauty — lies Remembered in her obloquy, or, worse, forgot! — A slave abjed: to self-invented custom! And you and I, Fatima — we would not, From our sweet certainty and guardian walls. Go in those ways of freedom-woe An hour's part — but we should rend Our matted hair, to be forgiven our dal- liance, And would turn our troubled faces back To him, the Radiant One, our master! 190b MY TAPER'S RECOMPENSE MY candle burned for long to those fair days When chivalry and modest worth held true The scale of life; and then would I pursue In fancy backward up those older ways, To peace! The modern fabric wants the grays And love-care that our mother's sam- pler knew; The world takes on a false, fantastic hue. And hearts and homes are wrought of sordid clays. But here are truth and sweetness of the old Set with the art and splendor of the new, Like strands of silver thread among the gold; That silence-charm, the heritage of few, Frail beauty and the purity of tears — All saved in thee to pay my waiting years ! "'The Oaks," PONTIAC, 1908 CLOISTER BEADS I BESEECH Thee, Mother of Christ, to know Thy will : Have I not loved Thee and obeyed, and kept the vigil, And denied my flesh thus long, so long! Have I not thought to save my soul spot- less of the world? — My tear-burned eyes are weary looking up to Thee. Thou hast been forgotten never, yet — and yet — (Forgive me, Mother!) I am lonely — lonely as the grave. Passing joys, like unto Heaven, I have found In blossoms of the Spring and sunlight on the snow and soothing rain — All these, and prayer has been a moment's solace. Mother Merciful, forgive if I offend — But why am I unhappy always ? Am I tried and wanting, While those others who have knelt to their own beings. Laugh so joyously and are content? They know Thee not, and yet, not know- ing, have they pleased Thee? Continued Dost Thou truly dwell in Heaven apart— or art Thou Love? And is the voice of mortal love Thy voice ? Strange earth-songs call me, urgent as the will to live, And I forget. Then I remember Thee. But as I turn from him my heart is rent ! Mother of Christ, hast Thou not loved ? Hast Thou not known the peace of moth- erhood ? And canst Thou'not f orgiveThy novices ? At night and when the stars go out at dawn, At noon and every hour I crave what is forbid — And, weeping, I am frail and have not prospered ! Must I fail and die — hungering as some hidden flower? Thou art so far — so far from me — and he is near. If I could know that Thou hast sent him ! Hast Thou ? Hast Thou ? Mother of God^ / kve him so I 1908 RETRIBUTION (Jungle Law) IN a far-gone day of the feral Dawn, Where the jungle code began, A lion lived with a boast of brawn And the growl of a brute-heart clan. He took for his mate a tiger-girl For her beautiful coat and eyes; She left her dream in a passion-whirl. And cried as a tiger cries — For the jungle law was Feed and own. And Fight and the fawn is yours I And the doe and the tiger-mate could moan In vain for the life that lures. And the jungle filled with the mongrel- breed, — For the mother-lust must live; And the young ones grew by the lion's greed That took where it would not give/ Her heart went out to a bengal's rune. And the stars stood by in her cause; She sang at night to the desert moon And sighed for the love-made laws. Continued But the jungle law and the mongrel-breed Were strong in the jungle land; A God was not in the lion's creed — And two bloods stained the sand ! The brute-king roared of the deed he'd done. And the mongrel whelps bowed low; A tiger-mate and a chosen one Lay stark in the Bombay glow ! Detroit, 1909 Cj3 Cj3 THY LOVE THE PILOT BE ROUGH is the way of the sea, And tossed are the ships amain — Swayed to the wind and the lea And back to the course again. Shivered the hulk with the weight Of the waves that charge the beam ; Awash are the decks with hate That licks for the open seam. The binnacle dips to the locks Of the surf, from side to side ; And over the sprit the rocks And the siren of sands deride. The hour the seaman sleeps The lorelei songs allure; The wife of a sailor weeps And winds mock over the moor. Our Life is the name of the sea, And the craft is a mortal man; The waves are Inconstancy, And the rocks — to evade, who can 1 So Truth be the oaken keel. And Faith an unfaltering sail; My honor the bulkhead steel. Thy Mercy the yielding mail — Continued And mine is the compass true — A heart that holds to a star Which shines in the hope of you And the buoy of the harbor-bar. Fear not if the mind of me In the wrack of the world be tried; Thy Love may the pilot be — My Soul comes home with the tide ! To V. L., 1909 Cj3 CJ3 THE ABSENT HEART OF ME THE low sun paints the willow rows, Their shadows lengthening eastward fall A purple tracery on the snows; And Spring is here — but that is all ! A silence broods upon the farm — Sweet, sweet as some forgotten song After the battle's mad alarm: Such peace! — and yet I long and long! Here dwell the memories of the past, A tribe as true as God has made, And friends that yield their honor last; — And yet my breast must bear a blade ! This house keeps nature's wondrous plan. Old books and bronze and native art — All things to move the soul of man; But voiceless to a stricken heart ! Ah, wealth and crafts of men, how frail,. And empty of all constancy ! Yea, even grace of God must fail! — You are the absent heart of me! The Willows, 1909 MY HEART IS HOME AND now mad Winter comes again, The wild winds sweep the stubble-fields; Against the gray the willows strain. Blow, blizzard, blow ! My heart is healed ! The gnomes in fiendish carnival Turn chaos loose upon the farm; The porches creak, the dead limbs fall. It snows — but Love is safe from harm ! The wolves of winter charge the doors. Our shutters shake like bones of Death ; The friends heap wood, the back-log roars. And old regrets — no more. Sweet Breath ! The urn against the chimney sings. Old books unlock their treasuries; The wind persuades the 'cello strings To moan — In souls are melodies! As Order makes the charm of home. Its blessing now is sweet Content ; Its glory — R.est thou^ all who roam^ And Love, our love, its sacrament ! The Willows, 1909 THE POET'S SHIFT I SAW them there behind the glass — Red rose, sweet-pea and violet, Lily and pink and mignonette — Persuading me ; but I must pass. What would she give if she could know It hurt my heart to pass them so? — When she loves rose and mignonette And dotes upon the violet! What would I give if these could grow Along the wayside as I pass! — And not behind a window-glass For profit's sake or idle show! But summer comes and some day yet We'll gather worlds of mignonette. Where flowers are free and summers long! Till then my love must live in song! Detroit, 1909 ^ ^ UNTO THE LEAST THE melancholy nights and days of pain. Travail of poverty and solitude, The innocent contempt from all the rude — Whom I love well — must long ago have slain My stubborn faith ; but for persistent stain That saved my need of prayer's deep interlude. 'Tis well the faults that utterly exclude The world of men, God's ministry retain ! A thousand crises in my years have bade Me take with falser gods the luresome meed Of praise and friends and Plenty's fallow ease; But futile penitence hath left me sad With sorrows that no laughing fellows heed ; And, lone, I hear the message of the seas! 1908 C?3 C?3 THE POET VAGRANT WERE I to die this hour or some near day — Be stricken quick upon the way I've trod, Say not '' 'Tis sad the youth has passed away, So reft of fortune and so far from God." Say not in pity that I might have had The gift and favor of the rich and great — But that mischosen insolence forbade My fellows' warning of a hapless fate. Grieve not that I have spent my years in dream, And drifted listless as the vagrant brook — Have sought me substance in the things that seem. And left to earth the semblance of a book. What though I have not where to lay my head. Nor marble weight upon my body's grave; — Of this I make no moan when I am dead And you possess the worth I failed to save. So be it I am soon forgot of men And laid in alien soil by stranger hands; — Continued The pines above my head will mourn me then, And waves intone my requiem on the sands. Say, rather, this: "He chose to make his friends In wood and field, with bird and flower and tree; Began his labor where our labor ends. And saved — the faith in immortality." Good Hart, 1908 ^ Ct3 THE LARGER DREAM WHEN winds are rioting upon the drift- ed hills. And the keen stars defy the frosts of win- ter; Weary with the war of men and paltry wage, I lay me down to sleep. In that uncon- sciousness I know a peace surpassing words. Age and the weight of years are not with me. Nor yet are angels with monotony of harps. Nor vanity of jewels and plentitude of mortal crafts; But youth is everywhere ! and Spring and happy skies, And waters dancing in the potent sun ! Cities do I see, but far away and uninhab- ited, and wraith As gossamer — domes of inobtrusive hue. And minarets of phantom mosques As fleeting as the forms of miracle ! Clad scantily in Attic boy's attire. And lithe of limb and crowned of myrtle wreaths — I gather blossoms from the cherry trees of far Japan Continued And fling them wanton to the Blessed Damosel! I walk with Virgil in the vales of Italy And follow Jaques through the Arden forest To the cool springs, and the frail pipes That Pan is plucking for his instruments. In light of noon and perfume of laburnum Wondrous birds of plumage swing with gladness On primeval boughs. And as they live, so also I! No labor have I dreamed that is not joy- ous, And no pain appears to pall the laughter Of the land of Sleep. The very shadows Are a benedidiion, filled with color's fer- vency. The day encompasses eternity! The uni- verse Of stars and spheres incomparable Are toys of hand ! I toss Capella carelessly And dance with Virgo at the Dragon's mouth ; Astride Camelopard we scatter flowers Upon the Milky-way and fill the Dippers At Aquarius' fountain ! No heat is vexing and no cold avails Continued To still the heart's persistency of song, Or stay the ardor of the love outlasting time ! Then I must wake again upon the world To find the unrest of the dreams of kings! And I am sad — and will the Night to come That knows no end ! . . . . But, Here are homely tasks for every hour. And there — my gray-gowned books That wove the fancies! So my creed is born — And I am comforted as with a prayer: — The After-world is builded large Of little symbols gathered here ! And I could gladly live on earth — In child-like wisdom — yet to know more wonders ; And in patient service — thus to grow More weary for the Larger Dreat?i! THE END Four titles indexed were juvenile curiosities, and the book is deemed improved by their omission from the pages. The Author. ^^S BOOK IS D r7 KA ;vr^ V 325843 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY •- rf"-? ^\ T PDo \\N, V.VMAT \\ .,.CA.^ 1 \^a