STACK 
 ANNEX 
 
 5 
 
 053 
 428 
 
 
 IN 
 
 GOSSAMER 
 GREY 
 
 C 
 
 OSCAR 
 WILLIAMS
 
 / o 

 
 In Gossamer Grey 
 
 By 
 Oscar Williams 
 
 CHICAGO 
 THE BOOKFE1 LOWS 
 
 1921
 
 Seven hundred fifty copies of this bookly brochure have been 
 printed in the month of August, 1921, by Luther A. Brevier, 
 BOOKFELLOW No. if. The author, Oscar Williams, is BOOKFEL- 
 LOW No. 652. 
 
 For pemission to reprint <we are indebted to Everybody's, 
 Contemporary Verse, London Chapbooh, the New York Evening 
 Post, and the Pictorial Review. 
 
 Copyright, 1921, by 
 Flora Warren Seymowr
 
 IN GOSSAMER GREY 
 
 2056561
 
 To 
 
 Out of the sea of dreams have you risen, 
 And your hair is dripping with stars !
 
 DUSK IN A CITY 
 
 The sifting shadows lift and fall 
 Among the lamp-posts' yellow gleams ; 
 
 The frail wind wafts the twilight down 
 The gossamer grey dust of dreams. 
 
 Against my pane the shadows whirl, 
 
 While, strange and huge, a hush drifts by, 
 
 And leaves a vastness in my room, 
 A crying urge to wind and sky. 
 
 And I must dream of how the dusk 
 Beyond the walls around my walls, 
 
 Must curl a flower to send the moon 
 Cascading down far waterfalls. 
 
 And I must dream of how the wind, 
 Beyond the bars around my bars, 
 
 Awakens elfin melodies 
 
 Upon the silver strings of stars !
 
 SECRET 
 
 The silver black-browed midnight in my room 
 
 Frowned at the wind, and forward leaned to hear; 
 
 A ghost of silence fled a shadow's doom 
 And whispered secret wonder in my ear. 
 
 Fear not, O you who brought all this to pass, 
 
 I shall not tell the mystery I know, 
 Though spring should plead, and I were flowers and grass ; 
 
 Though white-toothed frost demand, and I were snow. 
 
 Fear not, I shall not tell ; O you can trust ; 
 
 Though earth should shake beneath the tread of wars, 
 I shall be like that pebble in the dust 
 
 That dumbly clasps the secret of the stars ! 
 
 There are 
 
 But three deep deaths: 
 
 The sleep that follows sin, 
 
 The sleep that follows the wakening, 
 
 And sleep. . .
 
 SHADOWS 
 
 What though in silver drapery 
 The night is proud on sea and hill 
 
 When little wind-haired shadows fear 
 To cross a lighted window sill ! 
 
 What though life wears its high romance 
 Of shimmering silver, twinkling foam, 
 
 When wistful shadows cry upon 
 The edge of cheerfulness and home ! 
 
 It may be the stars have been dead 
 For more than a million years 
 And what we see 
 Is their light traveling through space. 
 
 It may be my dreams have been dead 
 
 For centuries 
 
 And what I feel 
 
 Is their light traveling through song.
 
 LATE O' NIGHTS 
 
 Once when I wrote poems 
 
 Late into the night 
 
 And used the gas my father paid bills for 
 
 (Which he strongly resented), 
 
 I was always in terror 
 
 Of the thud thud thud 
 
 Of his bare feet in the hallway. 
 
 I remember that when he caught me 
 He raised a howling uproar, 
 And woke the terrified household, 
 And cursed me roundly, 
 And turned out the light, 
 And my head ached and screamed 
 Till I buried it in the cool asylum 
 Of the pillowy bed. 
 
 Now I pay my own gas-bills, 
 
 But still late in the night 
 
 When my thoughts surge in delirium, 
 
 Suddenly a hush drifts into my brain 
 
 From the bourne of silence, 
 
 And down the stones of the hallway 
 
 I hear coming towards me 
 
 The thud thud thud 
 
 Of Something with bare feet. . .
 
 EYES 
 
 Sometimes I hold a glass before my face 
 And, gazing into my own life-filled eyes, 
 I think of the passion that behind them lies, 
 
 The centuries of pride and creed and race, 
 
 The myriads of memories under sway 
 
 The dawns and sunsets jostling there, the sea 
 Foam-fringed, bent flowers listening for a bee, 
 
 Even the lips of love I kissed only to-day. 
 
 All this and more . . . but suddenly I know 
 My brain, that holds these memories all in pawn, 
 Is rummaging in darkness once again, 
 And I must see my eyes as other men 
 Have always seen, and still will see them, so 
 As windows, strange and closed, with curtains drawn. 
 
 A SLIGHT REMARK 
 
 Of the dead 
 
 We say, "The late so-and-so, 
 
 The late thus-and-thus," 
 
 They 
 
 Who are so much earlier 
 
 Than we!
 
 I THOUGHT TO HIDE MY HEART 
 
 I thought to hide my aching heart, 
 To wall it in, the whole night long, 
 
 With dance of feet, with colored lights, 
 With laughter and with song. 
 
 I thought to hide my bitter heart, 
 To wall it in, for just one night, 
 
 But Oh, what have I done ? My heart 
 Looks out of every light. 
 
 My heart cries out in every song, 
 Oh, what is this that I have done ? 
 
 I have a thousand breaking hearts, 
 Who had but only one! 
 
 The window's rectangle of gold 
 
 Spreads a wide trap of light 
 
 Over the snow, 
 
 But the eyes of the night 
 
 Are dark with suspicion 
 
 And she keeps wisely 
 
 Aloof. 
 
 10
 
 ALL THE WHILE 
 
 Many have been within my dwelling-place, 
 And I have merry-made in sun and rain, 
 
 But all the while I saw like a strange face, 
 Loneliness prowling round my window pane. 
 
 I have laughed loudly, sung, spoken with guile, 
 And danced and rioted and longed for more, 
 
 But underneath, insistent all the while, 
 I heard the silence knocking on my door. 
 
 ROOFS 
 
 Dream, Oh men, to reach the sky, 
 Build your roofs and build them high; 
 From the earth where soft grass drowses 
 Take the rock to build your houses; 
 From the plains where beauty roams 
 Take the shadows for your homes; 
 Build and dream to reach the sky, 
 Dreams are dear, but truth is dearer, 
 If your roofs were not so high, 
 Oh, your blue sky would be nearer!
 
 IN A TENEMENT 
 First Floor 
 
 "Little square with cobwebbed shadows, 
 
 I would not have you keep so aloof, 
 I have a gas-light guttering under you, 
 You are my roof." 
 
 Second Floor 
 
 "Little square with cobwebbed shadows, 
 
 You run too eagerly to the door, 
 I have a table and chair upon you, 
 
 You are my floor." 
 
 TWILIGHT BEFORE THE DAWN 
 
 The twilight's shadow-vivid drapery 
 
 Is rustling through the skies before the dawn; 
 
 Her wind-filled folds are moist with cloud and sea, 
 And blow against the stars till they are gone. 
 
 The twilight hastens on, but all the day 
 
 Myriads of twilights under grey waves blow, 
 
 While white dreams floating down the great blue way 
 Are touched with shadow of a garment's flow. 
 
 12
 
 TO J. B. 
 
 In a strange land where lost moonlight wanders, 
 
 And star-pinned rainbows arch the temples of the skies, 
 Where winds ruffle the golden feathers of sleeping waters 
 
 That wake, with myriad little planets in their eyes, 
 In a strange land, through whose twilight of magic, 
 
 Vanished, colored moons once mysteriously stole, 
 Where star-dew is peopled with tiny elf-gleams, 
 
 And every little shadow has a trembling soul, 
 In that strange land of King Marvel and Queen Glamour, 
 
 Where the Sphinx whispers, and old gods are new, 
 In that strange land of everlasting wonder, 
 
 Dear friend, we keep our unseen rendevous! 
 
 HEARTS 
 
 O hearts there are that cry at night 
 And hearts that sing by day, 
 
 But hearts that cannot cry or sing 
 Must dumbly waste away. 
 
 O hearts that cry are eased in storms, 
 And hearts that sing, in peace, 
 
 But silent hearts in all the world 
 Can never find release !
 
 THE DOOR OF YOUTH 
 
 The door of youth was open, 
 And love who heard no din, 
 
 Was lured by the very silence 
 And entered in. 
 
 The door of youth was open, 
 And grave-eyed age drew nigh, 
 
 Who looked in, smiling kindly, 
 And then went by. 
 
 SONG 
 
 The wild birds sing for joy of spring 
 But unto me who dream and long, 
 
 Pain is a stabbing melody 
 And sadness is a song. 
 
 But grief is patient evermore, 
 
 And I will wait till that far day 
 
 When Happiness will come to me 
 And blow my songs away!
 
 O LITTLE WAIF 
 
 O little waif from fairyland, 
 
 My heart can never be your home, 
 
 For you belong where free winds kiss 
 The ocean's white lips pursed in foam. 
 
 O little waif from fairyland, 
 I have no comforting for you, 
 
 Your hope is in some magic night 
 
 Where silver moonbeams kiss the dew. 
 
 O little, crying, homeless waif, 
 If you could only understand, 
 
 My heart can never be the home 
 You could not find in fairyland! 
 
 You are coming, love, 
 
 You are coming; 
 
 A flower lifts her head in the wind 
 
 And listens.
 
 THE ANSWER 
 
 When I ask God 
 
 The why of my little sins, 
 
 And God is silent, 
 
 I know the answer. 
 
 But when God comes to me 
 With wistful questions in the dusk, 
 With wild demands in the wind, 
 I, too, must be silent . . . 
 
 A poet said, 
 
 "What is in a name?" 
 
 But I had a beautiful meaning 
 
 And I forgot to name it, 
 
 And now 
 
 How can I call it 
 
 Out of the depth ? 
 
 16
 
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