1085 
 
 I
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 WORDS OF THE WOOD
 
 WORDS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 WOOD 
 
 Kalcy Busted Bell 
 
 m" m in iinutt nil " Y^l 
 
 I ^ [Francis Jonts^j
 
 OTHER BOOKS BY DR. BELL 
 
 THE WORTH OF WORDS 
 
 Hinds 3" Noble, 1904 
 
 SONGS OF THE SHAWANGUNKS 
 
 (Out of Print) 
 
 AALA DEENE AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 (Out of Print)
 
 WORDS 
 OF THE WOOD 
 
 By 
 RALCY HUSTED BELL 
 
 Boston 
 
 Small, Maynard & Company 
 1906
 
 Copyright, 1905, by 
 
 Ralcy Husted Bell 
 
 Published, December, 1905 
 
 Press of 
 
 George H. Ellis Company 
 Boston, U.S. 4.
 
 PS 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 TO 
 
 FREDERIC HENRY GERRISH, A.M., M.D., LL.D. 5 
 PORTLAND, MAINE. 
 
 MY DEAR DOCTOR: 
 
 An appropriate dedication is a difficult thing to write. It should be done 
 under the most favorable conditions. Even then the result is not always 
 felicitous. Now that the time has come for me to avail myself of this 
 privilege, I am glad that you are travelling abroad, because your 
 absence allows me greater freedom, as it were, than your characteristic re 
 serve would permit if you were here. 
 
 I am thankful for this opportunity to do homage to your broad culture 
 in my own way, and to signify my appreciation of the special attainments 
 of your eminent scholarship. Certainly, you are not unaware of my ad 
 miration for you as a successful Teacher, a great Surgeon, a learned Anato 
 mist. I wish you to know, as well, of my high regard for your splendid 
 character as a man, and especially of my profound esteem for you as 
 a loyal friend. 
 
 A dedication ought to mean something; and this one does. It is sym 
 bolic of a long and beautiful friendship which began during my college 
 days in our relations as Professor and Student, a friendship which time 
 has strengthened, which unselfishness has sweetened, and which only death 
 can end. 
 
 Compared with what I might say, very justly, I feel that I am conserva 
 tive in my expression of your worth. On the other hand, I am conscious 
 of saying much more than your modesty will approve. I rely on my sin 
 cerity to shield me from your frown. Good intention does much to smooth 
 the way in this world, even as it is alleged to pave regions nethermost in 
 the next. 
 
 Trusting that it may never be the lot of either of us to test the accuracy 
 of the allegation, I remain 
 
 Your sometime student and 
 friend always, 
 
 R. H. BELL. 
 
 New York, Sept. 5, 1905. 
 
 904068
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PACK 
 
 Words of the Wood I 
 
 In a Deserted Garden 2 
 
 In the Wildwood of the World .... 3 
 
 The Land of Fern 4 
 
 Dawn 5 
 
 Dreamland Voices 6 
 
 Wild Flowers 7 
 
 A June Song 8 
 
 Benevolentia 9 
 
 The Maligned World 15 
 
 May Twenty-seventh 17 
 
 Stay thy Hand . . . . . . . 19 
 
 America .- . 20 
 
 A Sketch . . 25 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman . . . . .26 
 
 Lines . . . 27 
 
 To a Friend ... . . . . -27 
 
 Herbert Spencer ... . . . . 28 
 
 The Light-house . . . . . . -29 
 
 John James Ingalls . . . . . . . 31 
 
 The Pale Horse ... . . . .31 
 
 To a Dead Man 33 
 
 Marooned . ... . . . . -34 
 
 Robert G. Ingersoll ... . . . -35 
 
 Walt Whitman . . 36
 
 PAGE 
 
 Beauty's Slave 38 
 
 Birthday Blossoms 39 
 
 A Song of the Sun and Dew 40 
 
 My Helen's Eyes 41 
 
 Song of a Starling 42 
 
 Kisses 44 
 
 Late Summer . . . . . . . -45 
 
 A Handful of Clover 45 
 
 Even So -46 
 
 A Love-queen 47 
 
 One Clinging Hour 48 
 
 Kathleen 49 
 
 Requital . 49 
 
 A Rose Song 50 
 
 Night in the Park 51 
 
 Violets 52 
 
 A Smile of Autumn 52 
 
 Love's Star 53 
 
 A Man's Marvel 54 
 
 Sixteen 55 
 
 Fate 56 
 
 A Ballad of Change -57 
 
 Doubt 61 
 
 God 62 
 
 Life 62 
 
 Alone 62 
 
 The Spirit of Democracy 63 
 
 The Middle Ages 64 
 
 War 65
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Cry of the Soul 66 
 
 The Absolute 69 
 
 False Fame 69 
 
 On Sliding Ground . . . . . . -7 
 
 My Soul Awakes 71 
 
 The West Wind 72 
 
 The Soul's Harkback 72 
 
 A Vision of Life 74 
 
 The Negro 75 
 
 United 76 
 
 Dreams 77 
 
 Yesterday 78 
 
 Dead Sea-fruit 78 
 
 De Po' LiT Chil'un 81 
 
 Leavin' Georgy 82 
 
 Goin' Back to Georgy 84 
 
 The Cross 85 
 
 When Day Droops 86 
 
 The Truly Free 86 
 
 Love's Largess 87
 
 WORDS OF THE WOOD 
 
 I know a wild-born instinct of the wood 
 
 Where tangled vine and woven branches are, 
 
 Where fern and flower beneath the feet are good, 
 And sheltering leaves sift light of moon and star. 
 
 I know the longing love for druid trees 
 
 Where shadows droop when all the boughs are still, 
 And all the gloomy ways where Fancy sees 
 
 Her bathing Fauns in every pool and rill. 
 
 Within my soul the woodland voices rise, 
 Like echoes down the years from long ago, 
 
 Until my heart is full of forest cries 
 
 Of every note from mirth to savage woe. 
 
 My wistful gaze is set on some far glade, 
 Deserted long by time and vanished tree, 
 
 Where I may dream at noontide in the shade, 
 And hear no sound save wing of droning bee. 
 
 My love undaunted is as forest life, 
 
 And longs to wed as once the Satyrs did: 
 
 Woo fleeing Nymphs on fleeter foot 'mid strife, 
 And pause to pluck fierce pleasure, leafy hid. 
 
 Ere man conspired with time to mar the world, 
 The mystic woods were fain to nurture me; 
 
 In that dim age my joyous soul is furled, 
 And slumbers yet wherever grows a tree. 
 
 1
 
 IN A DESERTED GARDEN 
 
 In this hard age of steel and stress, 
 'Tis good to sit in some old garden spot 
 
 Beside a quiet lane, 
 Where modest plants in breeze caress 
 Each other's leaves when days are long and hot, 
 And blossoms dream of rain. 
 
 'Twere well to watch the little things, 
 That live their lives far from the world apart 
 
 And know riot of its ways. 
 'Tis good to feel the thought that springs 
 From out the leaning lily's stainless heart 
 On peaceful summer days. 
 
 The lichened stones have tales to tell; 
 The garden wall knows many legends, too, 
 
 Of hearts now silent dust. 
 The grass-grown path that finds the well 
 Is still writ o'er with stories strangely true 
 Of love and faith and trust. 
 
 The moss-rose bush neglected seems, 
 As though it held some bursting heart too full 
 
 Of memory to speak. 
 The comely rambler droops and dreams 
 Where crumbling arbor-cords no longer pull 
 Up tendrils that are weak.
 
 Once-trodden spots where children's feet 
 Knew all the thrills of summer's touch of earth 
 
 Are grassy now and green. 
 The boughs where lovers' lips did meet 
 Where heavenly passion had its human birth 
 Are dark with death between. 
 
 The tea-plant and the tamarack, 
 The hollyhocks and timid violets, 
 
 Half-hopeless seem to wait 
 For friends, ere ruthless Time's attack 
 Had left them there where sleeping love forgets 
 To pass the garden gate. 
 
 But still the birds nest in the briar; 
 And still the rose's heart bursts sweetly red 
 
 Where greenest ferns grow tall. 
 Good Peace, at least, a lonesome friar, 
 Says dewy beads for both bereft and dead 
 And stars shine over all. 
 
 IN THE WILDWOOD OF THE WORLD 
 
 Often waking from the vaguest depths of night, 
 
 I have felt her measured breath upon my cheek; 
 Often walking in the woodland's checkered light, 
 My soul was thrilled with music as I heard her speak 
 Of the little mosses dreaming all alone 
 In their humble nooks, or crannies of a stone;
 
 Of the leaning little flowers 
 
 That were wooing in the bowers 
 Of the tangled wildwood of the world, 
 In the blessed wildwood of the world. 
 
 So through many a night of slumber her sweet breath, 
 
 Like a mystic cadence kissed of quiet rest, 
 Lulls my soul to sleeping, to my spirit saith, 
 
 Peace and love are fairest in the humble breast, 
 Like the gentle mosses dreaming all alone 
 In their timid nooks, or crannies of a stone; 
 Like the leaning little flowers 
 That are loving in the bowers 
 Of the tangled wildwood of the world, 
 In the sleepy wildwood of the world. 
 
 THE LAND OF FERN 
 
 I know a land where simple beauty dwells 
 
 In all the blest perfection of its power, 
 Where viewless sculptors carve the bud that swells 
 
 Each springtime into song of leaf and flower. 
 
 I know a land where fruitful waters flow 
 Adown the rocks to kiss the feet of hills, 
 
 Where beds of moss hold dreaming things that^know 
 The secret plan of ferns, and birth of rills. 
 
 I know where stones have lips of velvet, soft 
 As lovers' lips that part and speak and press;
 
 I know where silent prayer is raised aloft 
 
 From rootlets to the boughs that winds caress. 
 
 I lose myself in shadow where the trees 
 
 Expand their leaves to light of sun and star; 
 
 I barter self where kiss of fluent breeze 
 
 Is fraught with fragrance whence the balsams are. 
 
 I lean beneath the birch in reverent thought, 
 I kneel beneath the oak in thankful prayer, 
 
 And feel a spell the sacred wood has wrought 
 On living things that love it everywhere. 
 
 I spend long hours of rapture with the fern, 
 Amazed to think its primal image wrought 
 
 One changeless plan through countless forms that turn 
 Not from the Artist's proof of living thought. 
 
 I know the secrets of the mystic wood 
 
 Where light-kissed gloom releases fair design; 
 
 I feel the touch of silence that is good, 
 
 And find that peace of heaven which is mine. 
 
 DAWN 
 
 Now the trees awake in murmurs to the winds that 
 
 softly blow, 
 Hail some vague and hidden fancy, that their pulses 
 
 dimly know.
 
 All the smiling grasses bending, under splendid jewels 
 
 seem 
 Half-way conscious of a dawning, as if waking from a 
 
 dream. 
 
 Woodland flowers turn their faces faintly from the 
 
 scowling West, 
 As if seeking smiles and kisses, just as children do 
 
 at rest. 
 
 And the shaded mosses tell me they, too, dream of 
 coming day, 
 
 Though their timid hearts more slowly thrill to dawn- 
 ing's paler ray. 
 
 Happy ferns of countless tracings, standing by the 
 marshes' edge, 
 
 I am certain hail the promise of the golden day- 
 god's pledge. 
 
 All the meadow's swaying censers, all the highland 
 
 vines that cling, 
 Somehow sing the spell of morning sweeter than all 
 
 poets sing. 
 
 DREAMLAND VOICES 
 
 Now sings the mated bird, 
 Scarce knowing why he utters golden mirth. 
 
 The thrilling leaves are stirred 
 With melodies of bird and sky and earth.
 
 From far-off fields of sleep 
 I hear the drowsy phantom voices rise. 
 
 There are no winds to sweep 
 The misty murmur-echoes from the skies. 
 
 Serene soft stars eclipse 
 Their full-eyed gaze with lids of love half closed; 
 
 The great world gently dips 
 Beneath a sea of azure, opal-rosed. 
 
 The half-wake grasses droop 
 Where pools of moonlight lie between the trees; 
 
 And tall night-shadows stoop 
 Like timid silence shrinking from the breeze. 
 
 WILD FLOWERS 
 
 Beyond the daily paths of men, afar 
 
 From rutted ways and dusty barren streets, 
 
 I know where children of the wildwood are, 
 Whose fragrant souls the dewy morning greets. 
 
 These modest dreamers, long ago, have won 
 My spirit back to simpler days when flowers 
 
 And love were one, when woodland poets spun 
 Their tinted lays of sweetness from the showers. 
 
 I live again with these in forests wild, 
 
 Where loam is dark, and mosses green are laid 
 
 Beneath the feet; where all the air is mild, 
 And gladness dwells in every nook and glade. 
 
 7
 
 I wander there in freedom fair and sweet, 
 Content to give my soul to them and take 
 
 Their dreaming odors fresh from colors fleet, 
 And hold them in my heart for beauty's sake. 
 
 Ah, happy children of the happy wood ! 
 
 'Tis blest to know you now while love is wed 
 To life; and yet for widowed love 'tis good 
 
 To feel your presence still when life has fled. 
 
 A JUNE SONG 
 
 I loaf away long summer days 
 
 Where wild hares have their burrows; 
 
 I dream all day where the woodchuck stays 
 'Mid clover fields and furrows. 
 
 I love the bees in the linden-tree 
 
 When the linden leaves are sunny, 
 
 The grass to my knees like an emerald sea, 
 And the bees all making their honey. 
 
 I like to swim where the silverbugs skim 
 The pools of the creek a-creeping 
 
 Up close to the brim of the fields where slim 
 Old poplars lean a-sleeping. 
 
 I tarry long where the skylark's song 
 Rises up from the fields like a spirit, 
 
 Swift as the song of an arrow strong, 
 And fades away as I hear it.
 
 I haunt the spring where the wild birds sing 
 
 To dewy blossoms of glory, 
 Where harebells swing and mosses cling 
 
 To branches gnarled and hoary. 
 
 And I loaf and lie where grasses high 
 
 Are sweetly cool and shady, 
 Where earth and sky conceive and die 
 
 In the arms of me and my lady. 
 
 BENEVOLENTIA 
 
 I have robbed my garden of roses red 
 And lilies white for the graves of the dead. 
 
 I have plucked from my lips their sweetest smile, 
 And bestowed it where everything else was vile. 
 
 I have treasured my noblest words to give 
 Where serpents of thankless hatred live. 
 
 I have grown most glorious grapes, and made 
 A nectared vintage to drunken a jade. 
 
 I have burdened my heart and lightened my purse 
 In barter for bruises bestowed with a curse. 
 
 I have patiently woven my dream-wefts rare 
 To brighten the walls of my lady fair; 
 
 And my choicest woofs were torn in strips 
 
 By the words with claws which leapt from her lips.
 
 I have strewn at the feet of the great and wise 
 My dearest possessions beneath the skies; 
 
 And they trampled them down, and never gave heed 
 To the ruin they wrought by the callous deed. 
 
 I have given with never a thought of return 
 Fair gifts, which were taken with cool unconcern. 
 
 I have shown sweet mercy to mean things with life, 
 And spared most contemptible creatures in strife; 
 
 But they answered my mercy with venomous stings, 
 In perfect accord with the mean human things. 
 
 I have spared my foe, when the battle was mine, 
 Who had sought my blood with malicious design; 
 
 I have spared him the thrust of a mortal fight, 
 
 To be struck from the back in an ambush of night. 
 
 I have answered with softness the hisses of rage; 
 And impudent questions of fools, as a sage. 
 
 Without profit my answers! no surcease from pests 
 In a universe managed by savage behests! 
 
 I have read the books of the wonderful men 
 Wherein feeling was slain for the love of ken. 
 
 Again I have seen where feeling was crazed 
 In the books of men with intellects dazed. 
 
 10
 
 I sorrowed and felt quite equally sad 
 
 At feeling run riot as knowledge gone mad. 
 
 I have builded my hopes of blood and sweat, 
 And labored from dawn till the sun had set; 
 
 From dew-wet eve till the stars went out 
 At dawn again with never a doubt. 
 
 But my labors were vain as the vainest call 
 That ever the human lips let fall; 
 
 And my hopes all died as each thing dies 
 
 Till my Soul grew weary, and dim were my eyes. 
 
 My Soul crawled away as a hurt thing crept 
 To the hollow of night and my spirit wept. 
 
 Alone I wept through the mortal years, 
 Little knowing the fount of my falling tears. 
 
 I thought I was weeping o'er graves of the dead 
 'Mid lilies white and roses red. 
 
 I dreamed I was mourning my sweetest smile, 
 Which was wasted where everything else was vile. 
 
 I grieved for the noblest words which I said, 
 Where the serpents of hatred flourished instead. 
 
 I believed that my glorious grapes that made 
 A nectared vintage were lost on a jade;
 
 That my largess of heart and gifts of purse 
 Were bartered alone for a bruise and a curse; 
 
 That the wefts of my Soul, with its tapestries rare, 
 Were lost on the wretch who seemed so fair; 
 
 That the great and wise by a callous deed 
 Had wantonly made my heart to bleed; 
 
 That my gifts were taken only to spurn 
 The spirit of giving that craved not return; 
 
 That the mercy I showed to the weak and mean 
 Was the weed that was left where the sickle had been, 
 
 And the foe I had spared from sword and lance 
 Was spared by my folly or favored by chance; 
 
 That the legend of answers which turn away wrath 
 Was invented by Satan to trouble my path; 
 
 And that books of men were a fatuous waste 
 Of clean white paper and boards and paste; 
 
 That my hopes were crushed, by a demon done 
 To their death in a cruel burst of fun; 
 
 That the world was a sham 'mid pitfall and fell, 
 And that life was mere savagery, heartless as hell. 
 
 But at last I awoke, and knew that my tears 
 Were not for these through the mortal years. 
 
 12
 
 For my Soul I had wept, my Soul that had fled 
 And for many a mortal year lain dead. 
 
 I opened my heart where the hinges grate 
 (For the rust was deep on the unused gate). 
 
 I opened my heart where the flood-gates are, 
 To let in the light of sun and star. 
 
 I opened my heart with a fervent prayer 
 To the spirits of light and the voices of air, 
 
 To the smiling nymphs of a new-born day; 
 
 And they brought back my Soul from the far-away. 
 
 It came from the far-famed Kingdom of Love, 
 New-risen, song-laden of stars from above. 
 
 And I saw my white lilies and roses red 
 Entwining the brow of my loved and dead. 
 
 I saw that of which all else had been vile 
 
 The foul was made chaste by my sweetest smile; 
 
 That my noblest words to hatred and spite 
 
 Had changed their serpents to flambeaux of light; 
 
 That the jade who was drunk on my nectared wine 
 When human was now a woman divine; 
 
 That my largess of purse was a debt I had paid, 
 And my gifts of heart came back as I prayed; 
 
 13
 
 That the wefts I had woven of patience and trust 
 Were scantily ample as shrouds for my lust, 
 
 And the treasures I'd cast at the feet of the wise 
 Were never beheld by their wistful eyes; 
 
 That mercy was justice deferred too long, 
 And meanness was weakness ere weakness grew 
 strong; 
 
 That the foe I had spared was a friend in disguise, 
 Who struck without light in his darkened eyes; 
 
 That answers of kindness to hisses of wrath 
 Are the blossoms of glory that border my path; 
 
 That the book was as great as the soul of the writer, 
 And the thought more strong than the arm of the 
 fighter; 
 
 That dreams are as real as the action or deed, 
 And faith more holy than preachment or creed. 
 
 Thus feeling and knowledge were squared by the rule 
 That came not from men and is taught not in school. 
 
 And the hopes I had buried with sighs and tears 
 Were the frailest desires of the mortalest years. 
 
 And this I have learned, as all men must 
 Some time 'twixt birth and crumbling dust: 
 
 14
 
 That whoso does his best e'er saith 
 The noblest prayer this side of death; 
 
 That he who has somewhat and somewhat gives 
 Holds that in trust whereby he lives; 
 
 That evil for good is a fiction of night, 
 
 For all things are good by their ultimate right; 
 
 That he sins who sorrows for personal pain, 
 
 Since the wounds he receives are his measure of gain; 
 
 And the culprit who slays is the victim he slew, 
 For this my enlightened Soul told me was true. 
 
 THE MALIGNED WORLD 
 
 How good the world is never has been told. 
 
 The fashion is to rail against its sin, 
 
 Decry its evil ways, augment its din 
 With platitudes on "useless hoarded gold"; 
 But I am with those cheerful souls who hold 
 
 That good is everywhere, that love has been 
 
 The savior of our race, our souls' trust in 
 All noble deeds 'twixt star and earthly mould. 
 I see in country spots ten thousand sweets 
 
 Which bloom perennially the glad year round; 
 I see them throng the crowded city streets; 
 
 I hear the swelling paeans rise and sound 
 In rhythmic cadence of the heart that beats 
 
 With good in everything above the ground. 
 
 15
 
 How glad the world is never has been said. 
 
 So prone are we to sing of grief and tears 
 
 We scarcely note the passing, playful years, 
 But dwell within their graveyards where the dead 
 Unhallowed hopes of yesterday are wed 
 
 To solemn phantoms born of dread and fears, 
 
 While ancient memories are all one hears, 
 As though time's flight had ceased, and joy were fled. 
 But we who walk with hope on either hand, 
 
 And clasp with kisses close all joys between, 
 Behold a smiling, flowery, fairy land, 
 
 Where gladsome spirits dance 'mid leaves of green, 
 See joy in everything and understand 
 
 The saving grace of humor's happy mien. 
 
 How true the world is never 1 has been sung. 
 
 We celebrate its hoary lies too well: 
 
 Preach rambling doctrines red with flames of hell, 
 And mystic nightmares old when earth was young; 
 Ignore the truth to which our souls have clung 
 
 With patience greater than a god could tell, 
 
 And sweet as all the passing years could swell 
 From fair cathedral chimes by angels rung. 
 I know how deep truth lies in humankind; 
 
 How goodness grows on every spot of earth; 
 How gladness sows its seeds in every mind, 
 
 Brings forth its flower and fruit in endless birth; 
 How all the cordial virtues unconfined 
 
 May dwell in every heart, on every hearth. 
 
 16
 
 MAY TWENTY-SEVENTH 
 
 (i9 5) 
 
 Lord God of Nations, Judge of valiant deeds! 
 
 Spirit felt, half-seen along the sky, 
 Spirit or Shade or Fate! the world's heart bleeds 
 
 For strong men drowned, for men who groan and die. 
 
 Yet mute we stand beside the eastern straits, 
 Deep admiration burns the soul like flax, 
 
 We see no widow far away who waits, 
 
 Nor feel the woe that melts her heart like wax. 
 
 We only hear great Togo's sea-dogs bay, 
 
 Firm-fixed as rock, we watch his fierce ships turn 
 
 Their deep-mouthed guns on ships like potter's clay 
 Which break and sink, or limp o'er waves and burn. 
 
 We see the Silent Admiral, calm and still, 
 
 Where mighty engines belch their flame and shell, 
 
 So like a god, since all obey his will, 
 
 Both men and iron ships 'mid flames of hell. 
 
 We see our tawny Sister, Nippon, sweep 
 
 The eastern seas stark clean of Russian boasts, 
 
 If we have any woman's tears to weep, 
 Be they the tears of joy at scattered hosts! 
 
 Be they the tears that leave the eyelids free 
 For clearer vision of the deeds that won 
 
 Unbroken victory on land and sea 
 
 Beneath the hallowed flag of the round red sun! 
 
 17
 
 Be they the tribute tears for Nippon's dead, 
 The holy dead who gave their lives for Him 
 
 Who is of Nippon, heart and soul and head: 
 Colossal Spirit of her ages dim! 
 
 Be they the tears that flow for wounded right, 
 Long patient with the savage, snarling beast 
 
 That knows no higher law than brutal might 
 Of fang and claw which threatened all the East! 
 
 Be they the joyous tears that wet the breast 
 Of homing heroes laurelled from the strife, 
 
 Sweet tears of this great Sister in the West, 
 All jubilant at Nippon's larger life! 
 
 And yet, O God of Nations, Judge of deeds! 
 
 While mumbling oaflets count their endless beads, 
 Poor peasant Russia, ox-like, dumbly bleeds, 
 
 Oppressed by sottish power and sterile creeds. 
 
 O Thou who art the spirit of the earth, 
 Whose awful shadow looms along the sky 
 
 When furious battle moans in giving birth 
 New life to nations, list to those who die! 
 
 Give balm to orphans' woe and widows' tears, 
 And peace to spirits fled of all who fought; 
 
 Give nobler ethics to the newer years, 
 
 And freedom from the chains that folly wrought. 
 
 18
 
 If Freedom, Peace, and Progress follow fray, 
 And might grow merciful with growing power; 
 
 The sad world welcomes this sad crimson day, 
 And worships Nippon's sun this bloody hour. 
 
 STAY THY HAND 
 
 (1898) 
 
 Fair land that rolls from sea to sea! 
 
 Prairies fringed with palm and pine! 
 Thy mountains mingle mightily 
 
 In clasp of ice and kiss of vine. 
 
 Broad seas of meadow daisy strewn, 
 And winding vales caressed by streams, 
 
 And timid valleys green as June 
 
 And sweet as childhood's happy dreams, 
 
 O peaceful land from tide to tide! 
 
 O home for millions yet unborn! 
 Oh, what would you of oceans wide, 
 
 And what would you of bugle-horn ? 
 
 United States, war-won and made 
 
 Of internecine strife and tears 
 One blood, one flag, one damask blade, 
 
 One comrade-hope to greet the years! 
 
 Lift thou, O land, thine arm no more! 
 
 Put thou the kingly crown aside; 
 Bare thou the blade our fathers wore 
 
 To guard thine own where thine abide! 
 
 19
 
 Thou hast no need for navies strong, 
 No need for martial captains bold! 
 
 Thy strength resides in ploughman's song 
 Far more than all thy yellow gold. 
 
 Smite not the lowly tribes that raise 
 
 Their swarthy hands in Freedom's name! 
 
 Think not that holy men will praise 
 
 Thy creed of might, thy banner's shame! 
 
 The puny glory won of tears, 
 
 From gory crimes of war and death, 
 
 Is dead to praise through all the years 
 And doomed by mercy's faintest breath. 
 
 Then sheathe thy sword from tropic isles, 
 And proudly thou let heroes hold 
 
 Dominion where the far sea smiles 
 
 'Round homes peace-won of thy red gold. 
 
 AMERICA 
 
 (1904) 
 
 Around the great round world thy pennants fly. 
 
 The broad seas' breast hath felt thy loud guns' voice : 
 Its resonance hath kissed the shore and sky 
 
 Till foes cried, Peace! for lack of other choice. 
 
 Day follows night as thy swift eagles soar. 
 
 Thy banner's shadow gives thy sons their light, 
 As powder-flash foretells the cannon's roar, 
 
 As sun -dawn greets the day in eager flight. 
 
 20
 
 Thy breast hath reconciled the songs of May 
 
 With Winter's wail. Strong life hath smiled in 
 thee, 
 
 Strong breath of God, and spirit of the day, 
 And deepful breathings of the Western Sea. 
 
 Thy deeds are deathless as th' immortals are. 
 
 Thou hast the splendor of great dreams that dare 
 The fate of oceans wide 'neath cloud or star, 
 
 Thy battle-line hath swept thy foe-line bare. 
 
 Yea, Life hath smiled in thee, and thou hast smiled 
 Upon the world. Thine eyes have heart to face 
 
 All foes of liberty that may be filed 
 
 Along the world in wide skies' huge embrace. 
 
 Thy brow is brave enough to frown on all 
 The hateful acts of man. For thou art great 
 
 Among thy sisters, great and proud and tall, 
 Within thy mien the face and front of Fate ! 
 
 Yet two things menace thee, O Land of Corn 
 And Cotton! These things be the crimes of Cain 
 
 In great south gardens, sweet as breath of morn, 
 And evil plottings of thy sons for gain. 
 
 These twain cry loud to pierce thy human ears 
 With human wails escaped from red throats hoarse 
 
 From calling down the cruel, callous years, 
 And answered only by the lash of force. 
 
 21
 
 These twain are piteous from lips dark-skinned, 
 And sad as grief from whiter sons of toil 
 
 Who suffer north and south, forever sinned 
 Against by soulless greed and lords of soil. 
 
 Look forth upon thy future, O proud Land, 
 With faith and hope! and in thy gardens south 
 
 Protect thy dusky ward with thy right hand! 
 His soul hath hungered greater than his mouth. 
 
 Go make his ways as flowery as thy fields! 
 
 For thou art God-like in thy strength and power. 
 Go wipe the stains, that Crime's red harvest yields, 
 
 From off thy shield ! Stains mar it at this hour. 
 
 Within thy gardens south thy sun-kissed ward 
 In pity's name holds out to thee his arms. 
 
 Be brave, O Soul, as he who was thy lord 
 And master-spirit, sane in war's alarms. 
 
 Between thy breasts thy sons of toil rebel, 
 Who, stronger grown, have now some faith in life. 
 
 The time approaches when the battle-yell 
 
 Shall sound again in fields all red with strife. 
 
 Be thou their friend: too long have they been banned! 
 
 Breathe courage in their heart and strength in arm. 
 Great Soul, lead thou the way of wisdom planned, 
 
 And guide thine own from Mammon's mortal harm! 
 
 22
 
 And when thy weaker weanlings question thee, 
 Or pule at courage shown in cause of right, 
 
 Smile thou in pity, and thy purpose be 
 
 Unswerved. Oh, falter not in thy stern might! 
 
 They shout, "Imperialism!" yelping tikes, 
 Or sucklings blind to thy far destiny! 
 
 They know not when some great occasion strikes 
 The clarion word to man imperiously. 
 
 They see no law of growth in thy out-reach, 
 
 No wide beneficence to all the race. 
 They only hear thy strong-winged eagles screech, 
 
 They only see the frown upon thy face. 
 
 But there be those who see behind thy frown, 
 And hear the songs that follow scream and strife. 
 
 Upon thy Jove-like brow they see no crown, 
 But only laurels of intenser life. 
 
 This must be clear to thee, O Queen, who art 
 The chosen one of world-wide destiny: 
 
 Thy duty is allwhere, in every mart 
 
 And clime where heart hopes for fraternity. 
 
 Dear Titaness, outgrown of sterile forms, 
 
 Aflush with newer life that thrills thee through, 
 
 Thy brow hath nobler courage than the storms 
 That thunder down the world, and threaten you. 
 
 23
 
 Without, thou hast no fear of any foe, 
 
 Within the danger lies, if any be. 
 Then teach thy sons the word that they should know, 
 
 The love that sanctifies and sweetens thee. 
 
 America, we pray the watch of night 
 
 Be passed, and thy clear vision sees afar. 
 
 Dear God of Peoples! thrill thy soul aright, 
 And keep thy purpose true as any star! 
 
 For thou art unconfined between the seas 
 By musty doctrines worn away by years. 
 
 Thou hast the power for good, the good that frees 
 Thy Sisters' sons from caste and cruel tears. 
 
 Dear Prophet-Queen, and Mistress mightier yet 
 Of realms all white with snow, and tropic isles, 
 
 And seas and plains, and uplands granite-set! 
 
 Thy commerce kisses, and the round earth smiles. 
 
 Thy commerce kisses, kisses blossom sweet 
 With bloom of Art, and subtle Science brings 
 
 Her trophies fair to lay them at thy feet, 
 While on thy brow the living laurel clings. 
 
 Thy fervor feels this iron age of might 
 Amid the moving tide of worlds on fire; 
 
 But in thy breast the sacred dreams of right 
 Are strong in ways aflame with sweet desire. 
 
 24
 
 Great love, great faith, not loathing hatred, thine; 
 
 Nor yet unfaith in least of all life's kin! 
 Unfurl thy flag, and let its white stars shine 
 
 Where hope and spiritual glory have not been. 
 
 Unfurl thy flag! unbend its crimson bars 
 Upon the winds of heaven, floating high 
 
 Earth's symbol of her Sisterhood with stars, 
 One brotherhood for all beneath the sky! 
 
 The God of Nations beckons thee afar : 
 Thou hast grim missions yet ere flag be furled, 
 
 Beneath the glory of thy fadeless star 
 Upon the federation of the world. 
 
 A SKETCH 
 
 (c. O. M.) 
 
 To say a man is faultless bars the way 
 For saying of him many better things. 
 
 The man is perfect, then, I will not say; 
 But I aver that some Good Angel sings 
 
 Within him purer strains than men control, 
 
 And from the Angel's song awakes his soul. 
 
 For he is just; and justice is a song 
 
 That steals within the heart all unaware, 
 
 To whiten it from stain of mortal wrong, 
 
 And consecrate the thoughts that blossom there,- 
 
 A conscious song, that, like some fairy wraith, 
 
 Is alien to the world as Doubt to Faith. 
 
 25
 
 Unselfish as the bloom when down the wood 
 The breath of spring foregathers sweets to fill 
 
 The world with fragrant song; so kindly, good 
 Is he to all his fellow-folk; and still 
 
 His generous heart has that whereof to give 
 
 Fair largess to the meekest things that live. 
 
 His honor was not born to need defence, 
 
 "Four square it stands to every wind that blows, " 
 
 A mountain peak that scorns all small pretence, 
 And smiles in pity on the thrusts of foes. 
 
 A man of pride, nor yet too proud to bend, 
 
 Thrice grateful for the chance to serve a friend. 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 
 
 (AT THE AGE OF SEVENTY) 
 
 His brow bears up the drifts of winter snow 
 
 Like some bold headland towering toward the sky. 
 
 He looks adown the world where harbors lie, 
 And sees the burdened ships that come and go. 
 He hears the whispering wave-lips murmur low, 
 
 And all the loud-voiced breakers riding high. 
 
 To him a fallen leaf now floating by 
 Is fraught with meaning full as stars may show. 
 And far across the land where human cries 
 
 Are blent with happy voices soft and sweet, 
 Where joy weds grief in highways of surprise, 
 
 Where flowers melt in fragrance, all too fleet, 
 Unto his soul each spirit-echo flies 
 
 With song, and drops a blossom at his feet. 
 
 26
 
 LINES 
 
 In presentation copy of 
 "Ballades: Les Rayons et Les Ombres" HUGO. 
 
 When frost is in the air 
 And day is gray as grief, 
 
 Look not on branches bare, 
 For here are songs in leaf. 
 
 And here are fragrant things 
 That breathe the soul of light; 
 
 And here mysterious wings 
 Bring shadows from the night. 
 
 The Master touched all strings 
 That thrill the harp of thought; 
 
 And still the echo rings 
 
 With music he has wrought. 
 
 And still rejoicing years 
 
 Shall know the measure sweet 
 
 Of sun and shade, of tears 
 And joy he made complete. 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 Over the world where blossoms foam, 
 Or on the sea-blown billows white, 
 
 In every clime where you may roam 
 In pulse of day or heart of night, 
 
 27
 
 Through time of stress or stormy weather, 
 'Mid hours of song and sun and leaf, 
 May garnered joy and golden sheaf 
 
 Yet speak of days we dwelt together. 
 
 For Time hath teeth with which to gnaw, 
 
 And Fate assumes mysterious guise 
 Of Chance and Change and clasp of law 
 
 We feel, but see not with the eyes. 
 Still mayest thou keep through shifting weather, 
 
 Whate'er the seasons be of soul. 
 
 Beneath the sky's inverted bowl, 
 The first fair dreams we dreamt together. 
 
 HERBERT SPENCER 
 
 Above the world in thought he stood on high 
 But yesterday, a towering, conscious peak, 
 A giant lone, titanic, great and meek, 
 
 The sole Victorian shaft against the sky. 
 
 He looked afar, and measured with his eye 
 
 All depths and heights that the immortals seek, 
 All fancy-flooded realms, and facts that speak 
 
 In divers tongues of truth that few deny. 
 
 Now lies he low; but whence so long he stood 
 At thought's high tide ascends a pillared flame. 
 
 He sleeps! And may his dreams be sweet and good! 
 Large-lettered on the dome of day, his name 
 
 Shall live for aye. Within the solemn wood 
 Of Highgate Hill his dust endures with Fame. 
 
 28
 
 THE LIGHT-HOUSE 
 
 (TO EDITH CASKEY COOPER) 
 
 O'er the waves a light is gleaming, 
 
 Rising from a reef, 
 Like a soul in darkness beaming 
 
 On a sea of grief; 
 On a rocky shore as lonely 
 
 As the sea-caves are 
 Stands a light-house shining only, 
 
 Shining like a star. 
 
 And my eyes are wet with weeping,- 
 
 Weeping for the drowned; 
 While upon the rocks are creeping 
 
 Waves of hollow sound, 
 Wolfish billows that are blinder 
 
 Than the corpse below, 
 Cruel waves, yet not unkinder 
 
 Than some hearts I know. 
 
 All the night the light is streaming 
 
 From a tower of gloom, 
 Like a midnight watcher dreaming 
 
 In the face of doom. 
 All night long it watches, turning 
 
 Ever round and round; 
 While its fiery heart is burning 
 
 Through the breakers' sound. 
 
 29
 
 And my heart has less of sadness 
 
 As the rays illume, 
 Warning sailors of the madness 
 
 Known of reef and spume. 
 For my soul through years of dreaming, 
 
 Watching for the light, 
 Sees at last a beacon gleaming 
 
 On the shores of night. 
 
 Serene, the Soul's prophetic token 
 
 Flashes in a look, 
 Not the hollow promise spoken 
 
 In a creed or book, 
 But the secret of our seeing 
 
 Sweeps the sea afar 
 From the light-house of our being, 
 
 Shining like a star. 
 
 O'er the waves a light is gleaming, 
 
 Rising from a reef, 
 Like a soul in darkness beaming 
 
 On a sea of grief; 
 On a rocky shore as lonely 
 
 As the sea-caves are 
 Stands a light-house shining only, 
 
 Shining like a star. 
 
 30
 
 JOHN JAMES INGALLS 
 
 (IN MEMORIAM) 
 Now long ago, for I have heard it told 
 
 How yesterdays are ancient as the sun, 
 
 And how they rob to-morrows, one by one, 
 Of joys; how moments fled are dead and old, 
 So long ago I stood beside this bold 
 
 And fearless man. I touched his hand that none 
 
 Unknown to shame had feared. 'Twas then begun 
 My love that deepens as the years unfold. 
 O sorrows infinite that smite the breast 
 
 Of finite consciousness! The moan and wail 
 Of grief are sombre birds, that never rest 
 
 While throbbing darkness beats and waves assail 
 The wreckage ever rudderlessly pressed 
 
 To unknown tides 'neath stars that fade and fail. 
 
 THE PALE HORSE 
 
 And at my door the pale horse stands 
 To bear me forth to unknown lands. 
 
 JOHN HAY. 
 There in the gloomy midnight 
 
 With all the stars asleep, 
 Beneath the floating rivers 
 
 That cross the mystic deep, 
 The pale horse pawed and whinnied, 
 
 As restless as the sea, 
 To take a great soul forward 
 From where it loved to be. 
 
 31
 
 Before "The Fells" at midnight 
 
 The pale horse pawed and neighed; 
 But only the shadows saw him, 
 
 And only the shadows made 
 The sign that he was present, 
 
 And deaf was mortal ear 
 To prancing hoof and whinny 
 
 Of the pale horse waiting near. 
 
 The stirrups swayed at midnight; 
 
 A clear-eyed spirit strode 
 The charger pale as morning, 
 
 And bravely away he rode. 
 He took the path that mortals 
 
 Begin when Day is done, 
 A path for his great spirit 
 
 To hills beyond the sun. 
 
 In deepest gloom of midnight, 
 
 Through vales of quiet sleep, 
 He left the kisses of children 
 
 And laurels for wife to keep. 
 The horse was pale as moonlight 
 
 That bore his honored name, 
 With love of home and country, 
 
 To higher hills than Fame. 
 
 From sombre pines at midnight, 
 Across New Hampshire hills, 
 
 A faint breath floats and kisses 
 The half-mast flag it thrills, 
 
 32
 
 And tells a grieving people 
 Of the pale horse in his flight 
 
 That bore a splendid spirit 
 Away from earth at night. 
 
 TO A DEAD MAN 
 
 On the hillside, in the quiet, from the world apart, 
 Resting in the sombre, silent shadows after life, 
 Sleeping in the solemn memories made of weary strife, 
 We have left him as we laid him with a wreath above 
 his heart. 
 
 All the trees had hushed their murmurs in the grave 
 yard where they stood; 
 
 All the grasses, like sweet children under sorrow's 
 early blow, 
 
 Joined the silence of the mourners, drooping sadly, 
 seemed to know 
 
 What the leaves lost in the forest, why the stillness 
 of the wood. 
 
 We were children then beside him, and the eldest of 
 
 us felt 
 Helpless, hopeless, in the darkness there, though 
 
 highest stood the sun. 
 And we marvelled at his stillness, that his active 
 
 life was done, 
 And the mystery of his manner rose triumphant as we 
 
 knelt. 
 
 33
 
 On the hillside, in the quiet, at a peaceful place, 
 Resting in the sombre, silent shadows after life, 
 Sleeping in the solemn memories made of weary strife, 
 We have left him as we laid him with a smile upon 
 his face. 
 
 MAROONED 
 
 Long, long ago I prayed to God, 
 
 Prayed as a little child on bended knee, 
 In the same sweet fervor, love, that I give to thee 
 My whole heart now, and through the long night's 
 sleep wherein thy dreams are one with blossoms 
 rooted in the sod. 
 
 Yes, once I prayed, and now I pray no less, 
 Because my love for thee takes all my speech, 
 Even as no space too distant is beyond the reach 
 Of God's great laws. So are the harmonies of thee 
 which search me through until my very soul for 
 gets that aught else may bless. 
 
 I watch the red sun rise above the sea, 
 Far out beyond the marshes' level rim 
 Where the cool mists mingle and make dim 
 The ships, so like the phantom memories and hope 
 less dreams and shifting mysteries (forever in 
 my brain) of thee. 
 
 34
 
 Beyond the great hills in the West's embrace 
 I see the sun sink low in golden sleep, 
 While all the warden stars come out to keep 
 
 Their watch upon the world, as if to seek the rare 
 beauty of thine eyes, and smile upon thy face. 
 
 And here upon the marshes in the night, 
 I know that I am long marooned by fate, 
 Broken with weariness and cold, to watch and wait 
 For the slow dawn to break in glory of love's perfect 
 day, the perfectness whereof shall be thy image 
 to my sight. 
 
 ROBERT G. INGERSOLL 
 
 We kiss the urn that guards his sacred dust; 
 With reverent lips we press the speechless urn; 
 We kiss our shrine, and clasp it as we must, 
 For on life's road it marks the stop or turn 
 We cannot say which 'twas the Master made. 
 We only know his god-like presence there 
 Was touched to smile, and waft a kiss, and fade. 
 Some think he journeys on, and some declare 
 It is the end. But we who loved him so, 
 And stood like children at his knee to hear 
 The golden words, confess we do not know; 
 And yet our love and hope out-wing all fear. 
 
 This much we know: whate'er the seasons be 
 Of soul beyond our straining, tear-dimmed sight, 
 
 35
 
 This blessed man is Prince of Joy; that he 
 
 Who made of clay and tears and laughing light 
 
 The tenderest memories of adoring wife, 
 
 The sweetest dreams that children ever knew, 
 
 And charmed with friendship's mantling love the life 
 
 Of stumbling, weary souls inspired anew 
 
 To climb the hills, this holy man who thrilled 
 
 A million men with love of better things, 
 
 Who sowed the seeds of flowering thought that filled 
 
 The happy gardens of the world, where sings 
 
 The mated bird, and where the rippling streams 
 
 Of children's laughter and the soft low breath 
 
 Of maidens' vows have peopled poets' dreams 
 
 Of immortality, of life and death, 
 
 This brave and tender man who never wronged 
 
 The least of any race, who fought for right, 
 
 Who loved the world, abhorred the myths that throng 
 
 With devils, saints, and gods and creeds of might, 
 
 This saner, sweeter, nobler Christ is blest; 
 
 For, whether souls live on or starless night 
 
 Enfolds, we know dear Robert is carest 
 
 By dreamless sleep, or lives a Prince of Light. 
 
 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 He gave his wealth to the summer air 
 
 As a spendthrift flower its perfume rare. 
 
 He knew not what was discontent, 
 
 For he worshipped the god of abandonment. 
 
 36
 
 He walked the daisied fields of God 
 Dreaming the dreams new-born of the sod. 
 And beings that breathed where his footsteps bent 
 Somehow breathed, too, of abandonment. 
 
 He sang old songs of the world when new 
 That in some sweet way were as fresh as the dew; 
 And he laughed as he drank the happy air, 
 As a child might laugh in a rocking-chair. 
 
 He kissed his hand to a mocking-bird, 
 And the dear thing sang, as I never heard, 
 Some wayward strain of wild content 
 That thrilled its mate with abandonment. 
 
 He bared his breast to the winsome breeze, 
 With half-shut eyes gazed long at the trees 
 That, shading the lazy river's brim, 
 Stopped in their gossip to bow at him. 
 
 With the pink lips close of a shell to his ear 
 He listened long, and seemed to hear 
 The song of the sea as it kissed the shore, 
 While his deep eyes drank in a world or more. 
 
 And he faded away from the sight of men; 
 But the trees, I guess, have seen him again, 
 And the mocking-birds and flowers and grass, 
 The sod and breeze, have seen him pass. 
 
 37
 
 For his wondrous ways of abandonment, 
 His wealth of ways and sweet content, 
 Live on in the love of bird and breeze, 
 In flowering things and brooks and trees. 
 
 And I sometimes think, when the sun hangs low 
 And revels in painting the clouds aglow, 
 That he speaks to me with his wistful eyes 
 Of abandonment in the wine-spilt skies. 
 
 BEAUTY'S SLAVE 
 
 Oh, let me be thy taper, love, 
 
 And for thy beauty burn! 
 I care not where your glorious eyes 
 
 In rapturous love may turn, 
 If only I may lay myself 
 
 In wanton waste to you; 
 Your breasts of snow may still be snow 
 
 If passion burn them through. 
 
 Your heart of snow may still be snow 
 
 If I, a coal, may lie 
 Upon your bosoms white at night, 
 
 And glow and burn and die. 
 I care not where your glorious eyes 
 
 In rapturous love may turn, 
 If I may be thy taper, love, 
 
 And thou thy taper's urn. 
 
 38
 
 BIRTHDAY BLOSSOMS 
 
 (SEPTEMBER 16, .) 
 The years are fair and fleet, 
 With every year a blossom 
 And every blossom sweet. 
 
 Thy life first dropped its rootlets in the garden of a 
 
 dream; 
 The garden smiled a welcome, and the welcome, it 
 
 would seem, 
 Each year put forth a blossom, and each year the 
 
 blossom grows 
 More sweet with each September as the blossom 
 
 blooms a rose. 
 
 And love was in the sunlight when thy life was just 
 
 begun; 
 And beauty wooed its blossoms as the years fled, one 
 
 by one, 
 Until the bud and blossom met in mild September 
 
 haze, 
 When beauty dreamt of kisses, kisses blossomed into 
 
 days. 
 
 And thus in mild September, when the year is down 
 ward bent, 
 
 The blossom of thy beauty, with the bloom that love 
 has lent, 
 
 Is blown to saintly sweetness in the soft September 
 haze, 
 
 In token of the memory-buds that mark thy natal days. 
 
 39
 
 May all thy days be roses with their petals velvet- 
 gowned; 
 
 May all-to-come Septembers find thee fair as this has 
 found; 
 
 May life and love and beauty make unceasing union 
 here, 
 
 Until the roses faint with joy and time is brown and 
 sere! 
 
 A SONG OF THE SUN AND DEW 
 If I were the sun and you were the dew, 
 
 Each morn as the world lay asleep, 
 Now can't you guess what I would do 
 If I were the sun and you were the dew 
 
 And the old world half asleep ? 
 
 I'd draw you away from the arms of day, 
 
 And take you along with me; 
 And fold you close as a rosebud tight, 
 And set you down on the shores of night, 
 
 And put you to sleep by a sombre sea, 
 Watched by the eyes of the starry skies, 
 Kissed by the breezes soft and low, 
 Kissed and kept till the morning glow 
 
 Should give you back to me. 
 
 So, if I were the sun and you were the dew, 
 
 Each morn as the world lay asleep, 
 Now can't you guess what I would do 
 If I were the sun and you were the dew 
 And the old world half asleep ? 
 
 40
 
 MY HELEN'S EYES 
 
 Where Georgia uplands touch the skies, 
 Now gray with clouds and clinging mist; 
 
 Where changing beauty never dies 
 
 On red hills warm and purple-kissed; 
 
 Where oak and pine hold strong domain, 
 With leaf and vine aglow with dreams 
 
 Of semi-tropic tempered rain, 
 
 That bursts in song from fretted streams; 
 
 Where cabins peep from cotton fields, 
 Or sheltered meads that house the quail, 
 
 Where summer lingers, loves and shields 
 The nursling shoots of hill and vale; 
 
 Where dancing fairies tame the air, 
 Till every little breeze that blows 
 
 Holds in its heart, like gloom of hair, 
 Some mystery that beauty knows, 
 
 I linger yet, while Memory holds 
 
 Her longing face averted-wise 
 To southward where deep browns and golds 
 
 Are wedded in my Helen's eyes. 
 
 41
 
 SONG OF A STARLING 
 
 An inspiration golden 
 
 Came with me to dwell, 
 Dainty as a sunbeam 
 
 In a lily-bell, 
 Dainty as a sunbeam, 
 
 Dearest thing I knew! 
 But, oh, it was crushed, love, 
 
 'Neath the heel of you. 
 
 Precious little tempter! 
 
 Your trysting-place and trust 
 A darling little woman 
 
 Has trampled in the dust. 
 You fell before her lifeless, 
 
 Because the words she said 
 Had chilled my dainty starling 
 
 Until its life had fled. 
 
 I laid you on her bosom 
 
 Of bare and billowed white; 
 But the soul of you had perished 
 
 In the mystery of night. 
 Her thrill, though warm and woosome r 
 
 My agony and pain, 
 Could ne'er recall your spirit 
 
 To that which she had slain. 
 
 My eager arms are empty; 
 
 My woful heart would break, 
 I call thee tender names, love, 
 
 Ten thousand for her sake! 
 42
 
 My whispers woo thee nightly: 
 They haunt the smiling shore, 
 
 When, dreaming for a moment, 
 You live with us once more. 
 
 But, oh, my flitting fancy, 
 
 Dear angel sprite of soul! 
 You fled beyond my vision 
 
 Of utter hope and goal. 
 I linger weary, waiting, 
 
 And watching through my tears, 
 With burning blindness yearning 
 
 For thee, my love of years. 
 
 Why bear this grim "forever," 
 
 This bite of grief sublime, 
 When never star-babe blesses 
 
 Again my tired time 
 With e'er again another, 
 
 Nor little beam of light 
 From constellated musings 
 
 Where sits the sable Night ? 
 
 An inspiration golden 
 
 Came with me to dwell, 
 Dainty as a sunbeam 
 
 In a lily-bell, 
 Dainty as a moonbeam 
 
 Dancing in the dew! 
 But, oh, it was crushed, love, 
 
 'Neath the heel of you. 
 
 43
 
 KISSES 
 
 The lips that I have kissed with heat 
 Are red with blood and bee-stung yet: 
 
 My loves have found no grave so sweet 
 As this, to love and then forget. 
 
 I have no flesh-loves under ground, 
 No gaunt remorse comes back to turn 
 
 My passion-songs to plaintive sound, 
 Where cypress creeps among the fern. 
 
 When scarlet fades from lips that swelled 
 When my lips pressed them close and long, 
 
 And dusts of earth fill eyes that held 
 The mystic light of starry song, 
 
 I know how joyless day shall be, 
 
 How all the night's uncertain gloom 
 
 Shall throng with doubts to menace me, 
 And memories which crowd the tomb. 
 
 And so I laugh and laugh; and yet 
 I dream sometimes my love is dead, 
 
 When not a thing lets me forget 
 
 The least she did, the least she said. 
 
 And there within the folds of sleep 
 My soul doth seek the opiate-clod 
 
 Where she each night hath flowers to keep 
 Sweet kisses moist upon the sod. 
 
 44
 
 Her dew-wet kisses eve and dawn, 
 
 Where phantom daisies droop and nod, 
 
 In mystery of dreams have drawn 
 Some tender magic down from God. 
 
 LATE SUMMER 
 
 Large were her breasts, and in her eyes 
 Dwelt the memories of other days, , 
 
 Dream-spun ghosts 'neath Italian skies, 
 Fleecy clouds and a changing haze 
 
 Of dead love's longing, and a dead love's vow. 
 
 Full and shapely lay her lips 
 
 In sad repose that was half a smile, 
 
 And generous curves threw no eclipse 
 On passion too plaintive to make denial 
 
 From dimple of foot to placid brow. 
 
 Threads of gray in her soft brown hair 
 Quickened my love for her ripened wealth 
 
 Of womanly beauty, and I declare 
 My heart fell prey to a subtle stealth, 
 
 That her bated beauty holds even now. 
 
 A HANDFUL OF CLOVER 
 
 There's a blood-red fleck on my lady's breast, 
 And a sea of night in my lady's eyes, 
 
 And coral tips of the clover rest 
 
 Too close to the flesh that I covet and prize. 
 
 45
 
 There's a beautiful world where my lady breathes, 
 There's Egyptian wealth in her hair of night, 
 
 And the pale pink clover binds and wreathes 
 A brow as fair as the soul of light. 
 
 So I dream of her lips, and the ruby red 
 That an angel left on her fair fine breast, 
 
 Till my heart must speak, though my soul hath said 
 It envies the clover she kissed and pressed. 
 
 EVEN SO 
 
 Your flame of love burns low, my pet. 
 The twilight's dawn and night's high noon 
 
 Have drowsed away, I know, and yet 
 I mourn your loss of love so soon. 
 
 Perchance some newer taper burns 
 The moth-wings of your soul, my pet; 
 
 For love like yours laughs once and turns 
 Where even dagger-points forget. 
 
 Your love hath rode the heights, my pet, 
 Bare-back astride some bat of night; 
 
 And you have thought well to forget 
 Our crimson crush of love at sight. 
 
 Your love hath sounded all the deeps, 
 But not as eagles cleave the air; 
 
 And yet the slimy lizard creeps 
 Perhaps to caves you did not dare. 
 
 46
 
 Your love hath known of forests dark, 
 And not where holy trees find breath, 
 
 But down the gulfs where mushrooms stark 
 Uplift their pallid stems of death. 
 
 I mourn your loss of love, my pet; 
 I mourn for your poor crippled wings. 
 
 For I well, I must needs forget 
 The tarnished hope of changing things. 
 
 A LOVE-QUEEN 
 
 Tall as stately lilies grow, 
 
 My Queen is all that queens may be. 
 And dreams that sleeping poppies know 
 
 Live in her eyes and speak to me 
 Of all that passion dares to paint 
 
 Upon the canvas of the soul. 
 
 Black as night when star-eyes sleep, 
 My lady's hair hangs low and lies 
 
 In witching curls where fairies keep 
 
 Their watch and ward; and mine own eyes 
 
 That wander free from all restraint 
 
 Drink deep where blue-veined billows roll. 
 
 Ample breasts of snow and fire, 
 
 And waist and hips of more than grace! 
 
 My lady holds my fierce desire 
 In thrall with her Madonna face, 
 
 47
 
 Till I could die for beauty's sake, 
 Or live where her red roses blow. 
 
 Dear and sweet is love's caress: 
 
 The touch of her small hand to me 
 
 Is like the kiss of flowers that bless 
 Some vagrant breeze just off the sea; 
 
 Or, like the dews to plants half-wake 
 Ere eastern skies begin to glow. 
 
 ONE CLINGING HOUR 
 
 In dim Swiss valleys sweet with hay 
 New-made by peasant girls I spent 
 
 Some early blushes. Life's red day 
 Unwound itself from night, and lent 
 
 The purple-poppied love to sing 
 And soothe. The new-mown hay was blent 
 
 With shadows; and on happy wing 
 The mated bird wooed blithe content. 
 
 And, lo! between the cool white peaks 
 I measured all my world, and found 
 
 For one short summer day the cheeks 
 That told their blushes to the ground 
 
 As eager flags of flame unfurled 
 A mute desire in mine. No sound 
 
 Profaned the clinging hour. Earth hurled 
 Itself away, and we were bound. 
 
 48
 
 KATHLEEN 
 
 My love to her is like some fairy gown: 
 
 She puts it on when skies are blue, and earth, 
 A dimpled babe of heaven, smiles, when mirth 
 And golden pleasure, as a jaunty crown 
 Upon her brow, have made her quite the queen, 
 A careless mistress she, my fair Kathleen! 
 
 My love she holds it well to don and doff, 
 Is proud to know that it is all her own, 
 Yet lightly deems it as a thistle blown 
 
 Across some sunny lawn, a thing to scoff, 
 
 Or trifling toy put by and left unseen 
 
 When break the sober dawns on fair Kathleen. 
 
 She wears my love as maidens wear a rose: 
 To-night it nestles near her proud heart-beat, 
 At dawn its petals lie where her white feet 
 Shall pass and crush them 'neath their magic snows 
 With cruel scorn, as all the world has seen 
 Her hapless lovers crushed by fair Kathleen. 
 
 REQUITAL 
 
 I sought in dreams a Princess dear to me: 
 
 I wandered where the wind's soft whispers told 
 Sweet grass and trees of her; 
 
 I questioned all the colors, flower and tree, 
 
 49
 
 And tangent kiss of sun that flooded them 
 
 With beauty's apothegm 
 
 Of her dark hair and eyes. 
 Yet she eluded me as shadows run 
 Before the eager face of wooing sun 
 
 When white clouds fleck the skies. 
 
 Not till morning almost touched the noon 
 With fervent kiss, did I behold my love, 
 Whose hair was night, whose eyes 
 Of liquid darkness made my hot blood swoon 
 With such delicious things that, ail aglow, 
 I marvelled at the snow 
 
 Of her too perfect breast. 
 
 Now is she come, and, like each perfect thing, 
 Brings pain with overjoy. And so I fling 
 In air my heart's behest. 
 
 A ROSE SONG 
 
 dark red rose, O blood-red rose, 
 O flower to my fancy wed! 
 
 1 wonder if your mistress knows 
 The tears that we have shed ? 
 
 You nestle where her hands have placed 
 Your bursting heart to mine, 
 
 Where every beat lies love-encased 
 As leaves fold over thine. 
 
 50
 
 O dear red rose, O deep dark rose, 
 
 I wonder if there be 
 One little pang your mistress knows 
 
 Since you have died for me ? 
 
 Alone you grew, and wooing breeze 
 
 Embraced your fragrant breath. 
 Her dainty hand recked not of these, 
 
 Nor of your love-lorn death. 
 
 Nor weep, dear rose, but sleep, red rose, 
 
 And dream of her dusky eyes. 
 Pray God, red rose, that your mistress knows 
 
 The flames you symbolize. 
 
 NIGHT IN THE PARK 
 
 Bright and far were holy stars, 
 Dark and near the shadows stood, 
 
 Red as blood the planet Mars, 
 Brooding night was on the wood. 
 
 Soft as stealing shadows move, 
 Gentle as the cradled boat, 
 
 Girdling, clasped the arms of love, 
 Trembling kisses sought her throat. 
 
 Starry dancers tripped the lake, 
 Hushed the whispers of the dark, 
 
 Love and Life were half awake, 
 Half asleep in Forest Park. 
 
 51
 
 While the drowsy curtains fell, 
 And the lazy moon was late, 
 
 Who shall speak, and who may tell 
 Of the endless ways of fate ? 
 
 Gentle Christ! the waters kissed, 
 Soft as love, the leaning grass; 
 
 Did we gain, or have we missed, 
 Something that in whispers pass ? 
 
 Lovers face an endless guess: 
 
 Which is wrong and what is right ? 
 
 Still I hold it well to bless 
 
 All the ways of fate that night. 
 
 VIOLETS 
 
 In a garden of old Verona, 
 
 Where tender violets grow, 
 I walked with a queenly woman; 
 
 And I would that she might know 
 My heart was aflame with passion 
 
 That glad and golden hour, 
 When I plucked the purple blossom - 
 
 And she folded away the flower. 
 
 A SMILE OF AUTUMN 
 
 Wan autumn lights are sighing on the hills, 
 The harvest fields are sad and shorn, 
 
 52
 
 There is no music in the solemn rills, 
 
 And only a harsh murmur in the fields of corn. 
 
 But in her fawn-brown eyes that follow me 
 No sadness lurks nor tearful thought: 
 
 All melody of earth and sky and sea 
 
 Lives in the magic spell that she has wrought. 
 
 Thus all the seasons' change to me doth seem 
 
 Unlike the fitful, moody years, 
 But rather like some ever-changing dream 
 
 Of joy that never knew the salt of tears. 
 
 There is not any grief and no regret 
 
 In this dear boon that blesses me; 
 No little thing my heart would fain forget 
 
 In all the mystic depths of Love's great sea. 
 
 LOVE'S STAR 
 
 My love is sweet as some dear flower, 
 
 That dreams of dawn and dew; 
 And pure as chimes that fairies ring 
 From blossoms blithe and bloom of spring, 
 When dusk is in the hour 
 And grass is green and new. 
 
 I dream amazed of days that were 
 
 Before my love was mine; 
 And wonder why we dwelt apart, 
 
 53
 
 Two souls with but a single heart 
 
 And that heart all with her, 
 
 And she all but divine. 
 But, when I think how pure and white 
 
 Her soul is on the earth, 
 I wonder not, but marvel why 
 A mortal won a star from sky, 
 
 Ablaze with love and light 
 
 For one so poor in worth. 
 
 A MAN'S MARVEL 
 
 O love, thy heart is whiter than the white snow 
 
 Of frost-bloom down the air. 
 Dear heart, thy breath is sweeter than soft June sighs, 
 
 When all the world is fair. 
 
 O love, thy brow slopes up to God, 
 Thine arms reach down to me. 
 
 Thou art the sun, and I the sod 
 A-blossom under thee. 
 
 O love, thy soul more perfect is than dreams are 
 When my glad heart leaps to thine. 
 
 Dear one, I love thee deeply, more than man loves 
 The something deemed divine. 
 
 O love, thine eyes light all the skies: 
 
 I marvel that for me 
 They bend their beams all mercy-wise 
 
 To earth where mortals be. 
 
 54
 
 SIXTEEN 
 
 Centre-Saint gris! 
 
 (HENRY iv. AND CHARLOTTE MARGUERITE DE MONT- 
 MORENCY) 
 
 With two-step lilt she skims the street: 
 She walks with dreamland graces yet; 
 
 And all the while her musicked feet 
 Keep time my soul would fain forget. 
 
 I cannot choose but follow there, 
 
 With old-time odors over me, 
 Where trails her burnished noon of hair, 
 
 A breath of dainty subtlety. 
 
 Her laughing words assail my ears, 
 
 And set aflame dead-leaf desires; 
 While Maytime mist upfloats in tears, 
 
 And dim-eyed ashes dream of fires. 
 
 To walk again the pansied path, 
 Forget the lessons love has taught, 
 
 I would defy the direst wrath 
 
 That ever man or demon wrought. 
 
 Old Spider Time enmeshes me, 
 
 And rime of years has robbed my hair 
 
 Of all the golden mystery 
 
 That used to dance and shimmer there. 
 
 55
 
 Ah you, O maid of poppy bloom 
 And lily's dower of sinless hue! 
 
 I loathe to think that at his loom 
 The gray old Spider spins for you. 
 
 FATE 
 
 Thou art a cunning tide that sneaks and crawls 
 From out the hungry horror of the night; 
 Or like a maddened fury in thy might, 
 
 Tormented by the moon and sharp sea-squalls. 
 
 Within thy depths a black heart laughs at woe, 
 And mocks with glee thy victim's gasping breath 
 Ere mangled life and hope are one in death, 
 
 Or drowned ambition lies a corpse below. 
 
 I see thy shadowy fingers crook and reach: 
 
 I hear thee screech where scattered waifs are cast 
 Along the shore of days now overpast, 
 
 Along gray reefs and on the pounding beach. 
 
 I know thy subtle ways of hidden snares 
 
 That lure the soul some pleasant path to take, 
 And where thy thousand seemly whispers make 
 
 Ten thousand dangers worse for him who fares. 
 
 But my defiant soul hath scorn for thee: 
 If grief shall break my heart, I answer yet, 
 / have a heart to break! and can forget 
 
 The stones that bruise, the hunger pressing me. 
 
 56
 
 I have the will to look between thine eyes. 
 
 If thou art Master, I at least can be 
 
 As fearless as the spirit blessing me 
 With conscious trust in all things 'neath the skies. 
 
 Erect my soul shall stand forefronting thee, 
 Exulting strength that dares thy sternest might; 
 All unafraid to face the blackest night 
 
 That e'er was filled with threats on land or sea. 
 
 If fortune fail me, let her go and stay! 
 
 My soul from all that is came forth entire, 
 To all that is with calm faith can retire, 
 
 Enrobed for rest or armored for the fray. 
 
 So, if my soul shall journey on and grow 
 More perfect, then have I no cause to fear; 
 And if it melts, dissolves like dead leaves sere, 
 
 Then thou canst never harm it, that I know. 
 
 A BALLAD OF CHANGE 
 
 There stood along the king's highway 
 
 A stolid house hard-by; 
 The eaves were sloping low between 
 
 Two willows spreading high; 
 White lilacs in the dooryard bloomed, 
 
 With tiger-lilies nigh. 
 
 Tall locust-trees stood on the left, 
 A lane ran down the right; 
 
 57
 
 Behind, the smiling garden crept 
 To foaming orchards white. 
 
 And all around the spacious ground 
 Were fireflies at night. 
 
 Beyond the orchard flowed a stream 
 
 With chestnuts on the bank; 
 Beneath them slender violets grew, 
 
 Below them cattle drank. 
 And over all was sun by day, 
 
 At night the dews were dank. 
 
 The dews were dank at early morn; 
 
 At morn the roses seemed 
 To blush with modesty because 
 
 So many jewels gleamed. 
 The hollyhocks demurely stood 
 
 But half awake, and dreamed. 
 
 The spreading currant bushes low 
 
 Were coral-gemmed between 
 The berry vines and jessamines 
 
 And dahlias' leaves of green. 
 While bleeding-hearts beside them grew,- 
 
 The reddest I have seen. 
 
 The cypress cooled the corner-stone, 
 
 A juniper the door; 
 A grape-vine climbed its trellis near, 
 
 While on the whitened floor 
 No carpet lay, but in its stead 
 
 A home-made rug or more. 
 
 58
 
 Across the lane, upon a hill 
 
 Tall poplars pierced the sky; 
 And purple lilacs grew between 
 
 Green plats and fir-trees high. 
 And, just below, a dark cave slipped 
 
 'Neath rocks where waters lie. 
 
 A cherry-tree with vines o'erlaced, 
 
 Gave shelter from the sun 
 To garden walk that met the spring 
 
 Where coolest waters run, 
 Behind the pear-trees, through the lot 
 
 Where clover leaves are spun. 
 
 And here within this happy world 
 
 A child was used to roam: 
 He played with flowers beneath the trees 
 
 That touched the azure dome. 
 He loved the field of clover bloom 
 
 Where wild bees built their home. 
 
 He watched the fireflies in the field, 
 
 The bright stars overhead. 
 He questioned all the flowers if they 
 
 Had guessed why some were red ? 
 He guessed that some were red with blood, 
 
 That human hearts had shed. 
 
 Now things no longer are the same. 
 The stolid house lies low; 
 
 59
 
 Its very ashes ceased to be 
 Since tall weeds came to grow. 
 
 And all around the precious ground 
 Are things he does not know. 
 
 He does not know the little bowers 
 That housed his dreams by day; 
 
 He sees no fairies in the leaves 
 Where fairies were alway. 
 
 He only sees a wretched place 
 
 Where mean things crawl and stay. 
 
 All friendliness has left the things 
 
 That grow there or decay, 
 And everywhere a menace prowls 
 
 Where once were nymphs of day. 
 Now only dole is in his soul 
 
 That once knew how to pray. 
 
 And wherefore all this change, I trow, 
 
 No mortal yet has told: 
 It seems to come with passing years, 
 
 And bitterness of gold, 
 The dregs of years and stains of tears 
 
 That make the heart grow cold. 
 
 O Lord, we know how sad it is 
 That these sad things should be 
 
 On either side as waters glide 
 Forever toward the sea; 
 
 When stars, alas! are broken glass 
 Of shattered memory. 
 
 60
 
 DOUBT 
 
 I walk amid the maze of life, 
 
 At home and yet alone. 
 The tooth of hate, the god of strife, 
 
 The human hearts of stone, 
 And all the terrors teeming round 
 Make me distrust the solid ground. 
 
 The piles that human corals build, 
 
 And dens the spiders weave; 
 The dirty streets with hunger filled, 
 
 And hearts that beat to grieve; 
 And all the waste of blood and tears, 
 Besiege and fill my soul with fears. 
 
 I walk the dusty ways of trade, 
 And breathe the breath of gain, 
 
 And see life's roses pale and fade 
 Beneath a needless pain, 
 
 Until my very soul derides 
 
 The faith that love on earth abides. 
 
 I wonder why the martyrs died, 
 
 And why the heroes bled; 
 How any grave scarce three feet wide 
 
 Can hold some pompous dead; 
 And why a church proclaims its creed 
 As clutching tradesmen voice their greed ? 
 
 61
 
 GOD 
 
 There is no little thing in all this world 
 
 Forgot by thee, O Soul supreme and sweet. 
 Thy mercy shows itself when storms have hurled 
 
 Their fury at the stars beneath thy feet. 
 
 I read the sign, and know; 
 For little flowers burst in fragrant love 
 
 And smile upon the air which vengeance rode 
 In thundering car drawn by the steeds of Jove 
 
 When gloomy Titans stormed the gods' abode 
 One little hour ago. 
 
 LIFE 
 
 The years are a song 
 
 Of laughs and cries; 
 And love is a long, 
 
 Sweet, tireless flight, 
 Of dear unrest 
 
 On a breath of sighs, 
 With dreams at best 
 
 On the shores of night. 
 
 ALONE 
 
 Our days were long as love, and happy seemed 
 All voices of the earth and sky and sea. 
 We knew no joy save what the other dreamed 
 Was good; and every wind that wandered free 
 
 62
 
 A message lent of sweet-mouthed minstrelsy. 
 We sat beneath our vine when mid-day beamed 
 The sun, and yet, when fell the night's decree, 
 We lingered while the starlight on us streamed. 
 Then came the time when I must sit alone, 
 In depths far deeper than the circling sun 
 Has measured through the years that he hath flown. 
 And since that time the shadows one by one 
 Athwart my lonely life have deeper grown, 
 Enfolding me where hope is dead and done. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF DEMOCRACY 
 
 Between earth's darkling womb and quiet moon 
 
 No little straying thing is mean or small; 
 
 The least of these shall yet upreach to all, 
 
 And all shall bow to littleness full soon. 
 
 The rough old parent rocks are earth's sweet boon. 
 
 The voiceless trees have tongues with which to call; 
 
 And playful threads of moss-fringed waterfall 
 
 Have somehow found the fragment of a tune. 
 
 I look on men, their souls are fair to me, 
 
 And, though their lives in tangled courses run, 
 
 I love the very knots of life, and see 
 
 Of loop and kink a flower deftly spun. 
 
 In tear-born streams that seek the levelling sea, 
 
 I solve the sweetest problem of the sun. 
 
 63
 
 THE MIDDLE AGES 
 
 Oh, the gloating in the gloaming and the never-ending 
 pain; 
 
 And the whispers in the darkness, and the voices 
 in the day 
 
 And the vulture birds of midnight; and the plashing 
 tears of rain; 
 
 And the moans of children dying, and the demon- 
 men at play! 
 
 Oh, the hopelessness of watching, when the soul of 
 
 hope is strong, 
 In the prison-house of waiting, which is worse than 
 
 dumb despair; 
 For the demon-claw is tearing, while the mocking 
 
 laugh of Wrong 
 Through the outer world of murder fills the inner 
 
 heart with care. 
 
 Oh, the gnashing and the clashing of the fangs of 
 
 horrid Hate! 
 And the poison in the playing and the preying greed 
 
 of gain; 
 And the hungry babes at twilight, and the coffin at 
 
 the gate, 
 And the lighted halls of laughter near benighted 
 
 dens of pain! 
 
 Oh, the loving of the martyrs who had souls of spot 
 less white! 
 
 64
 
 Oh, the labors of the loving who were toilers grim 
 
 and brave! 
 They have sown the seed at seed-time in the darkling 
 
 fields of night; 
 And their tear-wet, weary sowing blossoms now above 
 
 their grave. 
 
 WAR 
 
 The Pestilence of Tears 
 In the graveyard of the nations, in the trenches of the 
 
 slain, 
 In the lurid smoke of battle, in the steel and leaden 
 
 rain, 
 In the blood of butchered heroes and in needless 
 
 moans and tears, 
 Live the ghosts of cruel ages and the pestilence of 
 
 years. 
 
 What is all this grim disorder, all this savagery of men 
 With their mighty, murderous engines belching fire 
 
 and hell again ? 
 But the madness of the rulers, and the selfish greed of 
 
 gain, 
 And of craven monsters feeding on the bleeding hearts 
 
 of pain. 
 
 Oh, the children born of women, with their tender 
 ness and tears, 
 
 65
 
 Must they turn to beasts of murder at the putting on 
 
 of years ? 
 
 Or is madness of the rulers, and the lust of cruel gain, 
 But the demon-ghosts that wander where the trenches 
 
 scar the plain ? 
 
 What means all this waste of treasure, all the seas of 
 
 blood and tears, 
 Spendthrift children spill through ages in the seething 
 
 tide of years ? 
 Is it to assuage some monster, drunk with blood of 
 
 babes and men, 
 Reeling through the halls of pleasure, laughs and 
 
 then must drink again ? 
 
 O ye babes of winsome women, nursed too kindly 
 
 at the breast, 
 Would ye turn the fangs of hatred on your brothers, 
 
 like caressed ? 
 Have ye had no dreams of mercy, have ye known no 
 
 pity's tears ? 
 Will ye never heed Love's teaching through the red 
 
 and crazy years ? 
 
 A CRY OF THE SOUL 
 
 (With Compliments to the greatest living Poet) 
 O Love, with thy infinite sorrows; 
 
 O Life, so tenacious and strong; 
 O yesterday's warp in to-morrow's 
 
 Red woof of the blossoming song; 
 
 66
 
 O yesterday's warp in to-morrow's 
 Gray woof of the ultimate wail, 
 
 O Love, with thy infinite sorrows, 
 And Life's one monotonous tale. 
 
 We drink from thy cup, which is golden, 
 
 The draught of the vintage of years, 
 Unholy as sins that are olden, 
 
 More bitter than bittermost tears, 
 The love that is fettered with longings, 
 
 With longings it fain would conceal, 
 Denials that wrest the belongings 
 
 From hands in perpetual appeal. 
 
 Thy bruises that mangle, the bleeding 
 
 Red lips of the wounds that are torn, 
 Reopened again with mute pleading 
 
 And answered with insolent scorn. 
 We turn to the infinite changes, 
 
 From altars where vainly we sued, 
 While pallid unrest re-arranges 
 
 The fragments of life's plenitude. 
 
 We marry, and turn to discover 
 
 On lips and in eyes new delight. 
 The woman may reach for her lover 
 
 Fair arms that embrace only night. 
 Impossible kisses redouble 
 
 Desire bursting out into flame 
 From bondage that yokes us to trouble 
 
 And trouble that ties us to shame. 
 
 67
 
 O hunger that feeds on emotion, 
 
 O seas of unbearable things, 
 O endless and changing devotion, 
 
 That shrinks from the arrows and stings 
 Of monsters, mismated immortals, 
 
 Whose eyelids grin jealous, green fire, 
 Like unto bane serpents through portals 
 
 Of hell when its heart is desire! 
 
 O Love, have you crowns of dear roses ? 
 
 O Life, be there other than pain ? 
 O Death, is thy dream what encloses 
 
 From harm the quick soul of the slain ? 
 Is Sorrow the twin that embraces, 
 
 With kisses, her sister Delight ? 
 Does blood that is broken leave traces 
 
 Like tears on the face in the night ? 
 
 We ask, and the answer is only 
 
 An echo that mocks our despair. 
 We stumble through days that are lonely, 
 
 Face nights that seem come to ensnare 
 Our souls for the wanton, fierce pleasure, 
 
 Of torture and fiendish delight. 
 O Life, does thy cruelty measure 
 
 The blackness of ultimate night ? 
 
 68
 
 THE ABSOLUTE 
 
 Faces fade and ears forget, 
 Voices lose the soul of song, 
 
 Memory strays while even yet 
 Echoes linger sweet and long. 
 
 Fading, winding out of sight 
 
 Through the changing scenes of day, 
 Dear warm spirits of delight 
 
 Colder, dimmer grow alway. 
 
 Pearls of pleasure, rubies red, 
 
 Trinkets of an idle hour, 
 Coronal for regal head, 
 
 Soon are spent as blush of flower. 
 
 Love alone, a changeless star, 
 Braves the fickle mortal years; 
 
 Beams in fadeless glory, far 
 
 Down the world adrift in tears. 
 
 FALSE FAME 
 
 Up from the portals of the Night he came; 
 Down from the brow of Dawn to heart of Noon. 
 His footsteps sped where flowers, half a-swoon, 
 Bent low before his eager flight for Fame: 
 Fleet-foot his race despoiled their souls' acclaim. 
 Now golden-girdled Day doth envy Moon 
 Of midnight, and the tawny twilight's boon; 
 
 69
 
 Yet frowning Fame hath blotted out his name. 
 Thus Fame was false; and cruel all the ways 
 The great brute world in sordid pomp has trod. 
 The soul is lost that wastes the freer days 
 Of woodsong, mirth, and stream-kissed flowers and 
 
 sod, 
 
 The courted world a courtesan that slays 
 The children of the brain, beloved of God. 
 
 ON SLIDING GROUND 
 
 We linger over old wine, 
 
 We tarry where our pleasure tempts. 
 With ruthless hand we tear the vine 
 
 That feeds us, in our large attempts 
 To reach beyond the dead plane 
 
 That, desert-wise, afar and 'round 
 Drinks up our strength. In vain, in vain! 
 
 Our feet are set on sliding ground. 
 
 Oh, chide us not! we all must fall 
 Sometime, somewhere. Forgive us all! 
 
 We tease and coax the tame laugh, 
 We try to piece-out pleasure spent. 
 
 With deathless thirst we quaff and quaff, 
 And feed our want on discontent. 
 
 And so, beyond and yet near, 
 
 Almost in reach, just out of grasp, 
 
 70
 
 We vaguely clutch through cheer and fear 
 At dim desire with empty clasp. 
 
 mortal brother, chide us not! 
 
 For Fate was blind when God forgot. 
 
 MY SOUL AWAKES 
 
 My soul awakes, my soul that slept 
 
 Until thy trembling pulse was mine, 
 
 Soft slumbers slowly disentwine 
 My spirit. Dear, my soul has wept, 
 
 A-dreaming, misty tears that wet 
 The lashes merely. Now to thine 
 
 My lips put forth, nor fain forget, 
 Thy kisses are my bread and wine. 
 
 1 hear the roaring traffic swell 
 
 Along the ridge and through the glen, 
 
 And all the mighty hum of men, 
 As noble bees' where flowers dwell. 
 
 My being thrills! my soul awakes! 
 The harp of love is taut in tune; 
 
 And all my spirit's passion takes 
 Its music from the pulse of June. 
 
 For I have seen your wondrous eyes, 
 
 Like woodland pools dark-fringed with fern, 
 And felt their earnest glances burn 
 
 Like mid-day suns from tropic skies. 
 Thy whispers woo my soul from me; 
 
 71
 
 And all my being's tide doth flow 
 
 Where necklaced arms enfold unfree, 
 Two waking spirits white as snow. 
 
 THE WEST WIND 
 
 O mild, mild West Wind that hails the even-tide! 
 Have you no whispers from my love, no hope for hope 
 
 denied ? 
 Whence grasses bend to softest breath, and linger 
 
 dew-spilled tears, 
 Brought you no whispers from her rest, no smile to 
 
 woo my years ? 
 
 wild, wild West Wind, go screaming through the 
 
 sky! 
 
 1 hear your mocking clamor-voice, your demon- 
 
 throated cry. 
 Across the night's uncertain face streams inky black 
 
 your hair. 
 Ah, God! that such as this could be! my love she 
 
 was so fair! 
 
 THE SOUL'S HARKBACK 
 
 Now, from the vantage of man's high estate, 
 I long to turn again to humbler things, 
 
 The vintage of the morn in bowers, where sate 
 Freeborn all joys of soul the body sings, 
 
 Turn back again to where the perfumed leaf 
 
 72
 
 Falls from the swaying censers of the field, 
 And breath of dawn rings flower-bells' relief 
 From human hurts no scars have healed. 
 
 In dreams I turn and tarry long and long: 
 
 The purring tiger-mother kittened lies, 
 And seems so like embodiment of song 
 
 I lose all fear in spell of her fierce eyes. 
 Within her lair the dear first-virtues spring 
 
 That, winged with poesy, enrich and robe 
 Each happy pair, and tell the soul to sing 
 
 And love-engarland all the globe. 
 
 I turn from men, from weariness and wrong, 
 
 From cankering care and pride and prickly fret, 
 And fain embrace again the woodland song, 
 
 And thus drowse back a step, and so forget, 
 Forget that ever slave was born or bred, 
 
 That ever man by man was ridden down, 
 Aye, e'en forget the unforgotten dead 
 
 If babes could know no tear nor frown. 
 
 Perhaps the soul may turn upon high crest 
 
 And beat an ebb-tide dream through ways of past; 
 Perchance the goal lies hidden in the breast 
 
 Of some dim day; and heart find hope at last 
 By turning back to ancient dawn, when first 
 
 The budding fancy felt the dear, warm breath 
 Of waking love, ere creed and crime had curst 
 
 The sons of men with hate and death. 
 
 73
 
 A VISION OF LIFE 
 
 Mine eyes were glad to look upon my love. 
 
 To touch her cheek enkindled flames in mine, 
 
 Sweet red flames above 
 
 All thought, save when lovers' arms entwine 
 
 In dreamy gardens where winds whisper low, 
 
 Making soft hours 'mong glad green leaves and 
 
 bloom 
 
 Of subtle colorings, and flow 
 Of waters tuned with evening's earliest gloom. 
 
 My heart leapt joyously to kiss the cup 
 
 That was her bosom, carved for this sweet grace, 
 
 This inimitable sup. 
 
 Adown, her spilling beauty, pure as her face, 
 
 Carried my being with it rapturously, 
 
 As slipping sea-waves slide upon the sands. 
 
 All this and more was she to me, 
 
 For she held a world of beauty in her two hands. 
 
 My soul's deep consciousness was eddying dreams 
 
 That lived in the rare beauty of her eyes, 
 
 Now sharp as eagle-screams, 
 
 Now soft as moonlight is just when it dies 
 
 In the heart of a red rose some scant hours blown, 
 
 Eyes of such quiet laughter as one sees 
 
 In summer meadows, color sown, 
 
 Where lurks ungathered honey for hungry bees. 
 
 And my Desire grew strong upon her lips, 
 Feeding on kisses, breathing fragrant sighs, 
 
 74
 
 In her glad mouth's ellipse 
 
 Finding joyousness; nor any wise 
 
 Did my desire grow less, where flowers spread 
 
 For kisses moist, and smiling pink leaves cleft 
 
 Asunder when a red heart bled 
 
 For joy at the young god's accustomed theft. 
 
 I saw her blood's increase like ears of corn, 
 
 Strange fruitage torn when ripe from 'neath her heart. 
 
 How good God was that morn! 
 
 And all the ways of life too sweet to part 
 
 With fruit or flower, or glint of sun on leaf. 
 
 Not time, but thoughts outflowing counted years. 
 
 And then gray phantoms of old grief 
 
 Stood out against the sky aflood with tears. 
 
 THE NEGRO 
 
 You are weary, O Brother, my Brother! 
 
 You are tired of your burdens, I know; 
 While the high human hopes you must smother, 
 
 Are phantoms that go where you go. 
 
 You have worn your chains like the sainted; 
 
 You were patient with thankless toil, 
 And your brave heart never once fainted 
 
 'Neath the lash as you bent to the soil. 
 
 You have suffered red sins that are nameless, 
 With the meekness of Christ on your face; 
 
 75
 
 You have fed your indolent, shameless, 
 White master with the blood of your race. 
 
 You have given, you are giving unceasing, 
 You are giving what the good God keeps. 
 
 And the gifts of your toil are increasing 
 The white man's store while he sleeps. 
 
 You work in the dear world's gardens, 
 
 You grind in its dusty mills; 
 And your wage is the coin that hardens 
 
 The heart, starves it and kills. 
 
 Though the chains that were cruel are broken, 
 
 Yet thy spirit in bondage dwells 
 Apart from the world and unspoken, 
 
 Where the tide of its glory swells 
 
 Aye, dwells apart and unspoken 
 
 And mercilessly thrust aside! 
 It is bowed, by God! but unbroken, 
 
 For thy soul, it shall not be denied! 
 
 UNITED 
 
 I dream my dreams at scarlet-time 
 Of love's lone hour; my flag of soul 
 
 Is free upon the breath of rime, 
 As flesh is fond of uncontrol. 
 
 A pinch of snuflF, a puff of smoke 
 
 That kissed the fresh, unravished bowl 
 
 76
 
 Of meerschaum pipe! my soul awoke 
 To its own beauty, brave and whole. 
 
 A conscious breath, a thrill of speed 
 And power! my flesh awoke, and won 
 
 Companionship to sup with need, 
 And then my flesh and soul were one. 
 
 DREAMS 
 
 From what dim corners of the brain they come 
 I know not. Dreams are folk that ask not leave 
 Of you or me. Unwelcome guests are some; 
 And others, dear delights that spin and weave 
 The fabric hope, and play at love and sling 
 Bright arrows through a trembling mark that bleeds, 
 Then flit away from lonesome arms that cling 
 To clay and crumbling ashes. Life thus leads 
 A never-ending chase with dream-desire, 
 Until they both are lost 'mid stars of fire. 
 
 And yet maybe the dream-folk live and dream 
 Their own delights, and feed some frowning guests 
 From sore unwilling hearts, and smile and seem 
 To drink the wine of joy from dark behests. 
 And still beyond, where fancy's faintest cloud 
 Scarce dims the azure dome of dreams, the bird 
 Of song may brood her dream-eggs, love endowed 
 With fairy notes that happy flowers heard 
 Of beauty's many echoes down the breeze, 
 A-dance where blossoms foam the green of trees. 
 
 77
 
 YESTERDAY 
 
 The skies are blue; the ruddy South, 
 So loath of change, seems not to care 
 
 If Autumn waits and Winter's mouth 
 
 Whispers white love where limbs are bare. 
 
 Here in the lazy breathing-spell, 
 
 The aftermath of passion's heat, 
 She listens as the red leaves tell 
 
 Of the Year's spent love, so honey-sweet. 
 
 She dreams again of his sweet hot breath; 
 
 Her scarlet cheek alone betrays 
 Her clinging dream through change and death, 
 
 While dim eyes fade in the purple haze. 
 
 O matron South, with maiden dreams, 
 Sing yet thy love's long roundelay, 
 
 Like mine, a song that faintly seems 
 The soul of a sacred yesterday! 
 
 DEAD-SEA FRUIT 
 
 He told Love's red-bead rosary many times 
 
 In many lands; and Love had answered all 
 
 The prayers his mad desire had made. His heart 
 
 Was not the sanctuary hearts should be 
 
 When souls seek prayer. His became still less 
 
 The harbor-house of sacredness. It came 
 
 To pass, that as the castle of his breast 
 
 Fell more and more to waste and ruinness, 
 
 78
 
 The garden of his speech grew richer in 
 Sweet buds prophetic of the soul's dear bloom. 
 And sickly nature placed the blush of whole 
 And hearty joy upon his hollow flesh, 
 A fit and seemly lord of love was he. 
 
 Poor fire flies seek the stars and perish in 
 
 The outer seas where darkness is, and cold 
 
 Of infinite despair, where star-eyes fade. 
 
 Poor moths seek flame and sacrifice their wings 
 
 Of joy on dazzling altar-pyres. What wonder, then, 
 
 That women weep and drown themselves with tears! 
 
 In careless wantonness he held his arms 
 Wide open, looked desire upon a dear 
 And untried woman's flesh. She gave her soul. 
 He took both flesh and soul to wife, yet could 
 Not be a husband to her soul. He felt 
 The impotence of sentiment, and filled 
 With fleshly dreams her need of matedness, 
 And hid the serpent, lust, beneath the leaves, 
 The petalled kisses cold, but sweet, and said, 
 "This joy, my dear, this sacred dream is love!" 
 
 But, like all love that is not love, the dream 
 Must die, the serpent must be fed, the leaves 
 All fade, and garbage lies where flowers lived. 
 
 One day in early autumn when the gold 
 Of mellow sunlight kissed most dreamily 
 Perfected fruit, she decked herself with best 
 
 79
 
 Of all her jewels, put a rose within 
 
 Her gloomy hair, kissed him, and said, "Good-bye, 
 
 For I may not be back to luncheon, love." 
 
 He muttered: "So be it! I care not when 
 
 She comes!" And yet he watched her fade away 
 
 Far down the street, and thought, "How fair she is, 
 
 How graceful all her lines, how liltingly 
 
 She trips the street where vulgar feet have soiled 
 
 The very stones she treads upon!" He turned 
 
 Upon his world of books and soulless art, 
 
 And then forgot forgot the blood and soul 
 
 The rare divinity he'd sworn to love. 
 
 A preacher once in brutal fury spake: 
 
 "The clock of time hangs on the walls of Hell 
 
 And ticks, too late, too late, too late, too late!" 
 
 With wild, dishevelled hair and hot eyes fixed, 
 
 A mother wailing by a river-brim 
 
 Shrieked out her loss : " Too late ! my babe is drowned !" 
 
 A mother-bird sat brooding where her love 
 In songful joy had builded downily. 
 The leaves all trembled with her thrill of woe 
 For her half-orphaned young. 
 
 A mangled corpse was brought 
 To one who knew but dreams of coldest art, 
 Who nursed a serpent colder still that fed 
 On flesh, and charmed away the soul, grew fat 
 On dead love uninterred. Then love awoke, 
 
 80
 
 And holy dreams bemoaned its loss. He knew 
 Too late the sacred worth of woman's love. 
 
 Speak not, O learned philosopher, again 
 Of Nature's trust and kindliness! She sows 
 The seeds with cruel hand and strikes the buds 
 To earth, and laughs to scorn the wounded rights 
 Denied of fruit by her all-giving hands. 
 
 DE PO' LIT' CHIL'UN 
 
 De Win' dey is blowin' mighty col', 
 
 En de po' HT chil'un is shiverin' in bed; 
 
 De las' pone er bread done eat up whol', 
 En de chil'un's mammy is col' en dead. 
 
 En de po' HT chil'un des cry en cry, 
 
 But I tells 'em fer to hush, er I whup 'em, sho! 
 Den dey axes fer dey mammy, by en by, 
 
 But she ain't ercomin' home no mo', no mo'. 
 
 Oh, she's done gone erway, I say, I say, 
 She's done laid erway in de groun'; 
 
 En de Win' he growl en snarl en say, 
 "Doan yuh heah dat mo'nful soun'?" 
 
 Mister Win', yo's pow'ful bad, I say, 
 Toe de po' liT chil'un in de trundle-bed, 
 
 W'en dey mammy's done gone so fur erway, 
 En dey po' ol' daddy cain't git no bread. 
 
 81
 
 En de Win' des puff en blow en blow, 
 
 Lack de black ol' Satan projectin' eroun'; 
 
 En de po' li'l' chil'un is freezin', sho! 
 
 En dey mammy gone ersleep in de hard col' groun'. 
 
 Oh, she's done gone ervvay, I say, I say, 
 
 She's done laid ervvay in de groun'; 
 En de Win* he growl en snarl en say, 
 
 "Doan yuh heah dat mo'nful soun'?" 
 
 But the wind went down at the break of day, 
 And the snow at dawn lay deep and white; 
 
 And the dead babes there with their father lay 
 In the keep and dreams of the night. 
 
 LEAVIN' GEORGY 
 
 I'm a-leavin' of ol' Georgy, 
 
 Whar the climbin' muscadine 
 'Pears to have its arms aroun' me 
 
 Like an ol' sweetheart o' mine. 
 An' the ol' train keeps a-pullin', 
 
 While my heart is holdin' fast 
 To the dearest of all livin' things 
 
 That life has yanked me past. 
 
 I'm a-leavin' of ol' Georgy, 
 
 Whar the tend'rest green things grow, 
 Coddlin' like an' climbin' clostest 
 
 To the warm red hills I know. 
 
 82
 
 An' the ol' train keeps a-jerkin', 
 An' my heart keeps yankin' back 
 
 Till it seems my soul is spillin' 
 Of its life-blood down the track. 
 
 I'm a-leavin' of ol' Georgy, 
 
 Whar the mockin'-birds an' trees 
 Is the truest frien's of fellers 
 
 That a feller ever sees; 
 Whar the spears er grass is lovin' 
 
 An' the blushin' roses flirt 
 With the meek an' droopin' lilies 
 
 That have flounced the marshes' skirt. 
 
 I'm a-leavin' of ol' Georgy, 
 
 An' I hate it awful bad, 
 Fer my dead dreams thar is sleepin' 
 
 In the'r home that's still an' sad, 
 In the little cabin peepin' 
 
 Through the trees an' muscadines 
 Whar the breezes sigh so lonesome 
 
 When the stars of midnight shines. 
 
 I'm a-leavin' of ol' Georgy, 
 
 But I hain't got fur to go 
 Fer to find that I'm a-leavin' 
 
 Of the dearest things I know. 
 Yet the ol' train keeps a-jerkin', 
 
 An' my heart keeps yankin' back 
 Till between them they're a-spillin' 
 
 Of my life-blood down the track. 
 
 83
 
 COIN' BACK TO GEORGY 
 
 I'm a-goin' back to Georgy, 
 
 Whar the sweet pertaters grow, 
 An' the mockin'-birds is singin' 
 
 To the dear warm hills I know, 
 Whar the melons stretch the'r bellies 
 
 With the sweet juice of the dew, 
 An' the grape-vines' clustered laughter 
 
 Fill an' thrill me through an' through. 
 
 I'm a-goin' back to Georgy, 
 
 Fer to see that gal o' mine, 
 An' to bathe me in the sunshine, 
 
 An' to pick the muscadine, 
 An' to spen' the year a-singin' 
 
 An' a-lovin' of my dear, 
 Whar the berries burst a-drippin' 
 
 Of a juicy kind o' cheer. 
 
 I'm a-goin' back to Georgy, 
 
 Fer I've seen my frien's at Cleves 
 (Oh, the nearest an' the dearest 
 
 That a feller ever leaves!) 
 An' my ol' heart chugs my win'-pipe 
 
 An' my eyes is swimmin' tears, 
 While I clutch the hope to kiss 'em 
 
 Once ag'in in smilin' years. 
 
 I'm a-goin' back to Georgy, 
 An' my ol' heart aches anew, 
 
 84
 
 Fer I'm leavin' of the Coopers, 
 
 An' I love 'em so I do 
 That it seems my soul is splittin' 
 
 As the ol' train pulls away, 
 An' my tremblin' hope is yearnin' 
 
 Fer the'r kiss ag'in some day! 
 
 I'm a-goin' back to Georgy, 
 
 An' you'd reckon by my tears 
 I'm a weaklin'-like an' foolish 
 
 In regards to dreads an' fears; 
 But I've seen so much of partin', 
 
 An' I've knowed so much of tears, 
 That I can't help of my feelin's 
 
 Of the heartlessness of years. 
 
 THE CROSS 
 
 Far down through mists of time and on the tide 
 That never turns, a spar with spikes of pain 
 Is kissed by billowed years and borne along. 
 The stains of tears are on it, virgins' blood 
 And much unholy crime which never wave 
 With ceaseless kiss nor floods may wash away. 
 
 The cross, a strangely simple image, tells 
 Of love and lust. It points, as God might with 
 His finger on the deeds of flesh and soul, 
 To meanings rich with purple, red with pain 
 Of many Christs. It was the first uplift 
 That told the mystic tale, now old as love. 
 
 85
 
 WHEN DAY DROOPS 
 
 The big red sun is setting, 
 The purple mist hangs low, 
 
 The time of sweet forgetting, 
 For love will have it so. 
 
 Whate'er the day was dreaming, 
 
 Whate'er is left undone, 
 Fades now as fancy's seeming, 
 
 And sinks with set of sun. 
 
 The gray now drooping lowly 
 Along the far land's edge 
 
 Enshrouds the world as slowly 
 As mists enfold the hedge. 
 
 The brooding twilight falling 
 
 Calls home the dreams we know,- 
 
 Of joys past all recalling, 
 Since sunset wills it so. 
 
 THE TRULY FREE 
 
 The truly free are those unknown to fame, 
 The careless souls who walk the ways of light, 
 Thrice blessed with hope that hails the clearer sight,- 
 Content without the happy hosts' acclaim, 
 The modest minstrels of the world who came 
 Unbidden guests, to woo and win delight 
 From simpler ways between the shores of night. 
 
 86
 
 Nor thought to write on shifting sands a name. 
 And so I open wide my arms to those 
 
 Dear smiling wights of earth, who clearly see 
 In beauty's being cause that blooms the rose, 
 
 Embodied souls of song through ways that be 
 All-wise, because so meek that no man knows 
 
 Their holy tears, nor yet how truly free. 
 
 LOVE'S LARGESS 
 
 From out fair moments of suppressed delight, 
 When joys, unburdened by a doubt, proclaim 
 A newer waking, comes a whispered name 
 As soft as even-shades subdued with light. 
 Beyond the clasp of touch or kiss of sight 
 Anon a dear face, mated with the name, 
 Consoles the spirit as a smile of fame 
 Broke in upon some dateless waste of night. 
 So from a love supremely full there be 
 Great largess, subtle gifts of hope that are 
 More sacred than mere hollow fantasy, 
 Too sane to be mirages dim and fair; 
 And it were sweet of soul, it seems to me, 
 To hold them true and fixed as any star. 
 
 87
 
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