POEMS OF 
 EARTH'S MEANING 
 
OTHER VERSE 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 RAHAB, A POETIC DRAMA 
 
 Henry Holt and Company. New York 
 
 DUMB IN JUNE 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 LYRICS OF BROTHERHOOD 
 
 MESSAGE AND MELODY 
 
 The Lothrop. Lee and Shepard Co., Boston 
 
 FROM THE BOOK OF LIFE 
 
 Little^ Brown and Co., Boston 
 
POEMS OF EARTH'S 
 MEANING 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD BURTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 1917 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1917, 
 
 BY 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 Published May, 1917 
 
 THE QUINN 4 BODEN CO. PHEJ 
 HA M WAY, N. J. 
 
To my friend 
 EDMUND D. BROOKS 
 
Thanks are herewith tendered the editors of The 
 Atlantic, Harper's Magazine, The Century, Scrib- 
 ner's, The North American Review, The Bookman, 
 The Outlook, The Independent, The Bellman, and 
 Poetry, for permission to reprint such pieces as 
 originally appeared in their pages. Special obliga- 
 tions are due my friend, Edmund D. Brooks, who 
 mostly kindly permits me to reprint " A Midsum- 
 mer Memory." 
 
 vii 
 
SINGING FAITH 
 (R. G. H.) 
 
 DARKNESS and doubt and despair 
 Vanish, at touch of the May ! 
 
 Song? It inhabits the air; 
 Love? It bewitches the way. 
 
 Ah, if we trust, comes the song, 
 (Hark !) and the breath of it sweet; 
 
 Surer, for waiting so long, 
 Fairer, for being so fleet. 
 
 If we have faith! And we must: 
 Faith that shall wholly redeem, 
 
 Faith that shall hallow the dust, 
 Faith, the fulfilment of Dream. 
 
 Darkness and doubt and despair 
 Vanish, at touch of the May ! 
 
 Song? It inhabits the air; 
 Love? It bewitches the way. 
 
 viii 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SINGING FAITH viii 
 
 A MIDSUMMER MEMORY 3 
 
 THE POET'S DESIRE 21 
 
 AN HOUR OF HOURS . . . . . . . .22 
 
 THE EARTH MOTHER 24 
 
 HER EYES 25 
 
 THE NAME 26 
 
 THE COMING OF THE WORDS 27 
 
 DESOLATED GARDENS 29 
 
 HERE LIES PIERROT 31 
 
 PILLAR WORK 33 
 
 CLOWNS' DAY 34 
 
 LITTLE SISTER 36 
 
 SONG OF THE OPEN LAND 38 
 
 THE HOME-RETURNING 40 
 
 ALLAN'S MOTHER 41 
 
 To A CRIPPLED COMRADE 44 
 
 To EACH His DREAM 45 
 
 THE FAR-OFF DAY 47 
 
 FELLOWSHIP 48 
 
 FIRST PRIZE 49 
 
 DREAM GARDEN 50 
 
 SPRING FANTASIES 52 
 
 ASPECTS OF AUTUMN 61 
 
 HEROES 66 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S BOATS 68 
 
 DON QUIXOTE 69 
 
 THE SECRET PLACE 70 
 
 VIGIL 71 
 
 SONG 73 
 
 ix 
 
x Contents 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CONQUERING EAGLES 73 
 
 THE MESSAGE 75 
 
 GUILTY 77 
 
 HAGAR 78 
 
 HUMAN 79 
 
 WITHDRAWALS 80 
 
 YOUNGSTER AND OLDSTER 81 
 
 BETTER So 82 
 
 GARDEN CLOSES 83 
 
 THE OLD COUPLE 85 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE ROSE 87 
 
 THE DERELICT 88 
 
 FACE TO FACE 91 
 
 THE CAMBERWELL GARDEN 92 
 
 GARDEN LORE 94 
 
 THE SECOND BAPTISM 95 
 
 THE SPIRIT SHALL NOT DIE 96 
 
 AN IMPRESSION 98 
 
 LOVE AND TIME 99 
 
 ROMANCE 100 
 
 THE DEAR ADVENTURER 102 
 
 IDOLS 103 
 
 GLIMPSES OF ITALY 104 
 
 APERCUS 108 
 
 Music MYSTERY no 
 
 HIGH AND Low in 
 
 VITA BREVIS EST 112 
 
 WORDS OF PARTING 113 
 
A MIDSUMMER MEMORY 
 
 An Elegy on the Death of Arthur Upson 
 
Note 
 
 ARTHUR UPSON, whom the following poem com- 
 memorates, was drowned from his boat in Bemidji 
 Lake, Minnesota, in the early evening of August 
 14, 1908, in the thirty-second year of his age. A 
 lyric, just written, found in the empty boat, is the 
 " swan song," referred to in stanza XLV of the 
 elegy. He had that very day completed a poetic 
 drama entitled " Gauvaine of The Retz," dealing 
 with the Pornic legend of Gold Hair ; but the manu- 
 script disappeared with him and has never been 
 found. During some ten years of literary activity, 
 he published half a dozen volumes of verse and 
 since his death his collected poems have appeared 
 in two large volumes. Before his passing, recog- 
 nition had come to him from distinguished critics 
 and he was known to the few who treasure good 
 poetry; the publishing of his collected works has 
 already begun to secure the wider hearing his song 
 deserves. 
 
 It was under the branches of an ancient yew tree 
 in the garden of Wadham college, Oxford, that 
 Upson conceived the " Octaves in an Oxford Gar- 
 den," one of his best works. The yew was his 
 favorite tree and was used as a design for his note- 
 paper. There is an allusion to this in stanzas 
 XXXVI-XXXVII. The poet's predilection for 
 the water, also alluded to in the elegy, was well 
 known to his intimate friends. 
 
A MIDSUMMER MEMORY 
 I 
 
 SWIFT April ardors bring the white of May, 
 
 May merges into leafy June, and all 
 Mid splendors of full summer gild the day 
 And make the night an odorous festival 
 'Twixt star and sod; and yet, how wan the cheer, 
 I miss thee, Arthur, thou no more art here 
 To taste the beauty, laud the crescent year. 
 
 ii 
 Strange is thine absence, since no son of man 
 
 Felt deeplier in his blood the summer lure; 
 Nor sang more sweetly, while the caravan 
 
 Of months passed stately by, nor was so sure 
 To list shy sounds, to smell the hidden flowers 
 And rediscover earth's reluctant bowers. 
 
 in 
 Yea, strange and sad. No thrush that flutes alone 
 
 Amidst the thicket but reminds of thee, 
 As, silver sweet and shy, he makes his moan; 
 No single bloom midst garden pageantry 
 3 
 
4 A Midsummer Memory 
 
 But doth declare thee to my musing mind: 
 The presence gone, thy semblance left behind. 
 
 IV 
 
 In this thou livest and shalt ever live : 
 
 Of all the beauty of the breathing days 
 Thou art inextricably a part, dost give 
 
 An added loveliness, a new amaze; 
 Mine in the meadows, mine beside the leas, 
 Mine when I meet (since thou art part of these) 
 The splendor of the sunsets and the seas ! 
 
 Were spring and summer half so fair, if first 
 They came into a world that knew them not? 
 
 Should we receive as now the thrilling burst 
 Of bud and bird-song, if each vernal spot 
 
 Had never known the resurrection bliss? 
 
 Is not our love of summer made up of this 
 
 Welcoming the old friend that summer is? 
 
 VI 
 
 And so with thee, the beauty and the joy 
 Were never half to me so holy-deep 
 
 As since that thou art vanished, comrade, boy, 
 Dear singer, singing yet, although asleep. 
 
 I see all through thine eyes, I feel thee by, 
 
 I know that Memory will not let thee die. 
 
A Midsummer Memory 5 
 
 VII 
 
 Hark! Tis the river-lay beyond the hill. 
 
 How often when we flee the city-spell 
 And gleeful turn to Nature, thence to fill 
 
 Our souls with peace and joyance, and to quell 
 The strife, we recognize old mother earth 
 As calling, calling to us in tender mirth ; 
 How long-witholden secrets come to birth! 
 
 VIII 
 
 Arthur, thy winsomeness of mood and mien, 
 Now treasured up in hearts that still are strong, 
 
 Must gradually, as fade the leaves, I ween, 
 Pass with those hearts the fleeting years along: 
 
 But O thy golden words ! they still shall claim 
 
 Long life and honor and a singing fame ! 
 
 IX 
 
 Thy golden words! Nay, silver were they too; 
 
 Betimes, like sounding brass they summoned us ; 
 Again, with dulcet pleading, pierced us through 
 
 Whenso the hour was soft and amorous; 
 Or yet again, with pomp and purple pride 
 They seemed to open up down vistas wide 
 All ancient glories that have lived and died! 
 
6 A Midsummer Memory 
 
 x 
 
 What pride in chanting hath a forest bird? 
 
 Doth any sunset with most spangled dress 
 Greeting the morn, e'er speak a haughty word? 
 
 Is not all nature one in humbleness? 
 So wert thou humble, priest of beauty, dead 
 Untimely, leaving us discomforted. 
 
 XI 
 
 There is companionship too close for speech: 
 Wordless communion is the best, meseems; 
 
 Such is betwixt us, and our spirits reach 
 To touch and mingle, waking or in dreams : 
 
 The union deepens, even as skies at eve 
 
 Grow mellow when the garish day-things leave. 
 
 XII 
 
 The green of marshes hath another hue 
 From that of inland meadows, and the scent, 
 Salt of the sea and pungent, interblent 
 With memories of sails upon the blue, 
 Comes from another world from that of hay 
 After June mowing; more unlike than they 
 Life seems, companion mine, with thee away. 
 
 XIII 
 
 I hardly know if sorrow or content 
 Have mastery as I brood upon thy loss: 
 
A Midsummer Memory 7 
 
 Such comforting large thoughts are someway blent 
 
 With haunting pain; the shadow of a cross 
 Is all uplit with radiance, and a voice 
 Weeping, becomes a voice that doth rejoice, 
 Although it wots not it hath made the choice. 
 
 XIV 
 
 The bronze magnificence of autumn woke 
 In thee an ecstasy that rivaled spring; 
 
 It seemed as if some pent-up rapture broke 
 All bounds, when regal summer, on the wing, 
 
 Paused momently to hover, and became 
 
 A miracle of slumber and of flame. 
 
 xv 
 Then wert thou fain to weave on wonder looms 
 
 Utterance of joy, stretching out eager hands 
 To May and eke October, apple blooms 
 
 Fellowing with asters, in such cunning strands 
 Of woven fairness, that two-fold delight 
 Was in the pattern of such colors dight. 
 
 XVI 
 
 There came an eve whose colors, like dim strains 
 
 Of old forgotten music, softly stole 
 Into the sundown skies; the subtle stains 
 
 Of gray and pink and russet made a whole 
 Harmonious utterly; which faded slow 
 Into the mist-and-gold of night, and lo, 
 Even the stars were muffled in their glow ! 
 
8 'A Midsummer Memory 
 
 XVII 
 
 Then felt I need of thee to share the sight: 
 It was too delicate to win the praise 
 
 Of many easy-moved to quick delight 
 In obvious skies that follow usual days; 
 
 But this, so marvelous in mood and tone, 
 
 This afterglow seemed meant for us alone. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Alas, the summer waits thee! All her shows 
 Heaped up and heavenly proffer thee their boon, 
 
 And yet in vain the great procession goes; 
 Its chronicler no more beneath the moon, 
 
 Nor when the noon is high, walks as of yore: 
 
 Thy passing hath bereaved both sea and shore, 
 
 The very sea seems silent evermore! 
 
II 
 
 XIX 
 
 The summer means renewal of old loves: 
 Again I meet the friendly wayside things 
 So tenderly recalled from other springs, 
 
 And in the mellow murmuring of ringed doves 
 
 I seem to hear remembered messages; 
 
 It is another youth with all of these. 
 
 xx 
 
 But how with thee? May we fond mortals take 
 This blithe rejuvenescence for a sign 
 
 That likewise man, death's conqueror, shall break 
 The shackles of long slumber, drain the wine 
 
 Of ruddy life again, resume the dear 
 
 Deep fellowships he knew when he was here? 
 
 XXI 
 
 All Nature rises : sap climbs up the bole, 
 
 The flower-hand pricks the soil, the tiny leaf 
 Spreads sunward; shall this struggling wight, the 
 
 soul, 
 
 Alone be doomed never to burst the sheaf? 
 Gladly to grow, soaring elate to sing, 
 Such seems the fate of each created thing. 
 
 9 
 
io 'A Midsummer Memory 
 
 XXII 
 
 Two inconceivables : that we can win 
 
 Our way from that dread land where silence 
 
 reigns, 
 Where all our kind at length are gathered in, 
 
 When blood no more leaps buoyant in our veins ; 
 A place where there is neither glee nor grief, 
 That we return from this, surpasses belief. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 But also it is dark to understand 
 
 How my so dominant spirit can be quenched 
 Forever: I am lord of all the land 
 
 Today, tomorrow from dominion wrenched. 
 How meaningless it looks, the bright, brief glory, 
 Sad with the shortness of all human story, 
 Sweet as the mocking-bird's rich repertory! 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Sometimes I step into the scented night 
 And feel a breathing Presence ; then my fears 
 
 Vanish, and in their stead comes calm delight; 
 The home-call of the earth is in mine ears; 
 
 The universe throbs love, all life is one, 
 
 Swift through the velvet dark I find the sun. 
 
 xxv 
 
 But the mood passes, and the mystery 
 That shuts us in, crushes the mounting soul; 
 
'A Midsummer Memory n 
 
 Passes the hope as well of me-and-thee ; 
 
 The fond reunion and the final goal; 
 O Arthur, then both life and loving seem 
 The obliterated moment of a dream. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Despite the fear, the gnawing unbelief, 
 Thy presence were no miracle, I know, 
 
 If suddenly I saw thee: then my grief 
 Would be as it had never been, for O 
 
 Tis easier far to feel thee close at hand, 
 
 Than banish one so bright to Shadow-land. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 Once when the spring brought lilacs to a town 
 Loved of us both, we planned how we should 
 
 wend 
 
 Together to that place of high renown 
 Where sage and dreamer dwelt, and tall trees 
 
 bend 
 
 Above their sleep, a precious spot. We said: 
 " Tomorrow " ; and " tomorrow " ; spring-tide sped, 
 We never went, and, Arthur, thou art dead ! 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 The heavens were kindlier in the mythic age: 
 The sun, a shining god, gave gifts to men; 
 
12 A Midsummer Memory 
 
 The moon, fair women wight, was human then, 
 And stars were jewels on the poet's page. 
 One who had lost his friend might converse hold, 
 Leaning to listen up those courts of gold. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 But we are wiser now ; the sky recedes 
 And all its friendly populace is fled. 
 
 Time, Space and Substance mock our deepest 
 
 needs, 
 The heart goes hungry for the old faiths dead ; 
 
 So must I seek for thee beyond the bars, 
 
 Higher than suns, behind the outmost stars. 
 
 xxx 
 
 But seek I will! and faithful in the quest 
 I swear to be so long as life may last. 
 
 Of all chill thoughts, this is the hatefulest: 
 
 That, slow but sure, the friendship- freighted past 
 
 Should fade, and I be satisfied to live 
 
 Unmindful, nor, as once, my homage give. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 If there be torture for the dear ones gone, 
 It must be in the thought that they are quite 
 
 Forgotten : not one soul to reckon on, 
 
 Of all who pledged them faith in death's despite. 
 
 Alas, Sad Heart, if thou return to see 
 
 Another in thy place and strange to thee! 
 
A Midsummer Memory '13 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Hear me, dear Arthur, by whatever shore 
 Thou pacest ! As the year brings round the rose, 
 As winter wanes and all the harshness goes 
 
 Out of the ground; as balmier airs restore 
 
 Midsummer's soft elysian miracle, 
 
 And earth resumes the witch-work of her spell, 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 I shall renew the sweet old habitudes 
 
 Were ours, forget thee never, cherish fond 
 
 Each look and tone and word, as one who broods 
 On something sacred from a land beyond 
 
 These present troublings ; hear the oath I swear : 
 
 Where I am thou shalt be, forever there! 
 
 xxxiv 
 Summer shall be the bond that binds us twain, 
 
 Midsummer's purple pleasance be a tryst 
 Both of us haste to keep, and find again 
 
 Solace and comradeship the happiest 
 That men e'er knew; midsummer's mounting tide 
 Of beauty still shall bear us side by side 
 
 xxxv 
 Unto the haven where all dreams come true: 
 
 For in this bounty of the gracious year 
 ; There is no room for grieving, every tear 
 Is dried, and every hurt attended to; 
 Together in the summer, thou and I, 
 Surely, such brothership can never die! 
 
Ill 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Lover of trees wert thou, but loved the best 
 The ancient yew a-muse in gardens old ; 
 
 Beneath her branches, as the sun rode west, 
 Came many a dream too fair to quite unfold, 
 
 And many a note of sorrow and of glee; 
 
 Ineffable fondness seemed 'twixt her and thee. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Was it because, imprisoned in the bole, 
 
 Creature of sylvan glades and twilight moods, 
 A slim, bright girl yearned toward thee in her soul 
 
 And lured thee ever back to walk the woods? 
 If so, thou shouldst have slept, all dreamings past, 
 Tranquil beneath the shade her leafage cast, 
 Keeping a solemn tryst, loved to the last. 
 
 xxxvin 
 But no, another Presence with a cry 
 
 Deeper, more constant, drew thee to thy doom, 
 Haunted thy waking, nixy-like lurked nigh, 
 Sang requiems of rest within the tomb; 
 Strong was the tree-call, strong through all thy 
 
 days, 
 
 But still more potent were the waterways. 
 
 14 
 
r A Midsummer Memory J5 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 The waterways are wondrous ; rivers, lakes, 
 And bubbly well-runs in the inner wood, 
 
 Each has a voice that merry music makes 
 Or mournful, by the spirit understood: 
 
 Ever the ocean with her organ tones 
 
 Sings round the capes, or up the long sand moans. 
 
 XL 
 All the world sang for thee; woodwind and brass 
 
 Made tonal harmonies to haunt thine ear; 
 The thinnest song from out the summer grass, 
 
 The tempest's choral-work, and, sphere by 
 
 sphere, 
 
 The stars of God, chanting their rhythm clear, 
 All, all made music, all to thee were dear. 
 Woods, winds, and waters, how they drew thy soul, 
 Up, out, and ever toward its destined goal ! 
 
 XLI 
 The water-call for thee was constant lure: 
 
 No Undine in a fable heard more sweet 
 The cool, soft croon, nor better loved the pure 
 
 Deep invitation where the mermaids meet. 
 So wert thou fain thine hours of ease to spend 
 Upon the bosom of this calling friend. 
 
 XLII 
 
 False friend and fateful day when thou didst glide 
 Ghost-like, at twilight, in the tiny boat 
 
1 6 A Midsummer Memory 
 
 Out through the shadows of the eventide 
 
 Into the open waters, there to float 
 And dream; for as thou dream'st, some evil thing 
 Reached from the waves to seize thy life, and bring 
 Deep sadness unto all who dream and sing. 
 
 XLIII 
 
 The ebon trees against the saffron sky 
 At sunset-time attended thee; the day 
 Was fading, fading, tranquilly away 
 And soon the stars would shine serene and high ; 
 Husht were the waves, the looming woods were 
 
 ware, 
 Clad in the half light, rising mystic there, 
 
 XLIV 
 
 Of thee and of thy handiwork; Fate drew, 
 Along with thee, under the shadowy piers 
 
 Thy last, lost story-song wherein anew 
 Was told a legend out of elder years : 
 
 Sweet Gold Hair lived and loved beneath the sun; 
 
 Not ours but thine is she, till Time be done. 
 
 XLV 
 
 Fain of the summer thou, so it was meet 
 That on her midmost day of song and shine 
 
 Thy life should cease; surely such end is sweet: 
 What seemlier close could heart of man divine 
 
r A Midsummer Memory 17 
 
 Than while the twilight tints ensoul the sky, 
 Part of the rapture of the sun's good-bye, 
 Swan-like to sing and, singing, so to die? 
 
 XLVI 
 
 I see two shapes that greet thee on the shore 
 Whereof the sun shines through eternal time; 
 
 Twin lords of Beauty, beautiful to name, 
 Who make life musical with lovely rime; 
 
 Above whatever once they knew of shame, 
 Despite or agony, they walk and smile, 
 
 Princes together, such forevermore. 
 
 XLVI i 
 
 Keats, who like thee died young, and Shelley too 
 Whom the wide waters swallowed; surely both 
 Do bid thee welcome, feeling nothing loth 
 To hail with comrade words and vision true 
 A fellow singer, one whose flute was tuned 
 To such a sweetness as to heal death's wound. 
 
XLVIII 
 
 Rises before me the sweet, eloquent face, 
 The lithe form once again is at my side, 
 
 His speech is in mine ear, the moving grace 
 Of his dear presence warms the morning tide 
 
 Or makes the evening lovely, lo! he's there! 
 
 I reach my hand, and meet the empty air. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 Nay, but that air shall stir to the rich strains 
 He struck upon Life's harp; silence shall break 
 Into such harmonies for Love's sole sake, 
 As when a flower after its birth-pains, 
 Bursts, white and odorous and full of scent, 
 Above the earth to bloom for man's content. 
 
 L 
 Bloom ever, in the world's song-garden wide, 
 
 Dear one ! I'll guard thee as a gardener 
 Would guard the growth he loves, nor let beside 
 Their fairness aught unsightly lift or stir; 
 Winds fraught with mignonette and Orient myrrh 
 Shall make thy dim walks fragrant, thy retreat 
 A place for lovers, thy meanderings sweet. 
 
 18 
 
Midsummer Memory 19 
 
 LI 
 
 And O so long as love is love, and glee 
 
 Comes with the morning, and rich beauty broods 
 In twilight skies; so long as interludes 
 
 Of music snatch the soul from misery; 
 
 So long as souls anhunger for delight; 
 
 Arthur, thy words shall be of thrilling might. 
 
 LII 
 
 The soul goes single that hath Beauty known; 
 
 Lovers and troops of friends were thine, but they 
 Could not restrain thee from thy very own : 
 
 The spirit-summons from the Faraway. 
 The early Arthur, him of Camelot, 
 Brooded not straitlier on his mystic lot. 
 
 LIII 
 
 Even as Arthur of the Table Round 
 
 Followed the Gleam and fought the good fight 
 
 through, 
 Then floated down the mere unto the sound 
 
 Of flutes that like soft wind forever blew, 
 So thou didst straight embark and with a smile 
 Float on the bosom of the After-while. 
 
 LIV 
 
 The pure of heart are blessed; they shall fee 
 God's chosen, he is close to them alone. 
 
2O 'A Midsummer Memory 
 
 Lover of earth, now heaven hath claim on thee, 
 Boldly thine eyes face that refulgency 
 
 Of more than mortal keenness ; for thine own 
 Were pure indeed ; forever safe thou art, 
 Because thine often-heavy human heart 
 Rests, circled by that promise: They shall seel 
 
THE POET'S DESIRE 
 
 HE craves not the boon of pleasure, 
 
 Nor the glory of the earth, 
 He hears in the music's measure 
 The measure of all worth. 
 He follows a mystic Duty, 
 
 Shy, with fathomless eyes: 
 And yearns for the vision of Beauty 
 And the Voice before he dies. 
 
 51 
 
AN HOUR OF HOURS 
 
 TOMORROW, we take up our tasks 
 
 That sweep us toward the hidden goal; 
 
 Tomorrow, we resume our masks; 
 Tonight, we meet as soul to soul. 
 
 Mayhap the magic of the moon 
 
 Has done it, or the breakers' sound, 
 
 Or else the mocker's madcap tune 
 Or sweet scents stealing from the ground. 
 
 The loneliness has proved a snare 
 To draw us close; this garden place, 
 
 Removed, and dim and passing fair, 
 Has seized us with its subtle grace, 
 
 Made us forget, recall and dream; 
 
 And so we sit as in a spell, 
 Muse on the glory and the gleam 
 
 Of Life, and feel that all is well. 
 
 The words unspoken in the day 
 Come softly to our lips; our hands 
 
 Are linked; as much as mortals may, 
 Each looks on each and understands. 
 
An Hour of Hours 23 
 
 Yours is the glamour of the stars, 
 And mine the wisdom of the years; 
 
 The tranquil night effaces scars, 
 Its solace wipes away all tears. 
 
 Yet sorrow broods behind each breath 
 To lend a sharper touch of bliss; 
 
 For joy the keenest fellows death 
 And peril trembles in a kiss. 
 
 But O the moonlit world, the palms, 
 The passion flowers, the smell of sea, 
 
 How they do proffer us their balms 
 Of Beauty and of Mystery! 
 
 And this brief while, beneath a sky 
 
 That throbs with meanings rich and strange, 
 
 Luring our hearts out, you and I, 
 Lifting us high o'er chance and change, 
 
 Has welded us and made us one 
 With the immortals; they who live 
 
 As if Fate were not, and the sun 
 Had only golden gifts to give. 
 
 The heavens go gray, the dawn is near, 
 
 Upfolded are the tranced flowers ; 
 Remember, we were happy, Dear, 
 
 For this sole, sacred hour of hours ! 
 
THE EARTH MOTHER 
 
 THE wise old Mother lets man play awhile 
 Even as a child with toys about the earth, 
 
 Ere she shall welcome back, with sweet, slow smile, 
 The foolish one to whom her throes gave birth. 
 
 Tug at his tether as he may, he knows, 
 Deep in his heart, that she is always by; 
 
 He feels her presence underneath the snows, 
 And in the rain of autumn hears her sigh. 
 
 The thrill of spring, and summer's tilth the same, 
 Remind him of her breathing breast; the sea 
 
 Is her unrest; and where the maples flame, 
 She goes decked forth in mood of pleasantry. 
 
 The more he strays, the longer battles grim 
 
 With foes or friends, playing man's shifting role, 
 
 The surelier doth there slow uprise in him 
 
 The yearning to come back and ease his soul; 
 
 To take her hands and look into her face 
 And kiss her forehead, while he hears her say : 
 
 " Welcome, my dear, to the old wonted place, 
 Welcome to love, and sleep, and holiday." 
 24 
 
HER EYES 
 
 ONCE, long ago, a little one of mine 
 
 Would take my hand and look into my face 
 
 As if she magically might divine 
 
 My tempted heart, my imminent disgrace. 
 
 And by that handclasp and that wistful look 
 Would turn me safely in the better way; 
 
 Her faith so perfect that I could not brook 
 The thought of aught to waken her dismay. 
 
 That little one is vanished; o'er her head 
 
 Blow summer blooms, and on her stone you read 
 
 The simple story of the life she led, 
 
 Joyous in semblance, pure in every deed. 
 
 And even yet, across the dim of years, 
 
 How many, comes in the old pleading guise, 
 
 To keep me clean from all that soils and sears, 
 The Christ-like candor of those early eyes. 
 
THE NAME 
 
 WHAT tender love name can I call you by? 
 
 Not that of every hour and every one ; 
 
 I would not take what others have begun 
 To soil by common use ; nay, I would try 
 To lift our loving to some far-hung sky, 
 i To bear it swift beyond each blazing sun 
 
 And in a demi-dark divinely spun 
 Of silver moons, to syllable it shy. 
 
 I yield to none; your mother's early way 
 
 Of calling you; your name in heaven writ clear, 
 These stand for holiness; but mine must be 
 Other, and more : its very sound must say : 
 " My dear, mine own, beloved utterly, 
 (My sweet, my sweet, and yet again, my dear " ! 
 
 26 
 
THE COMING OF THE WORDS 
 
 WISTFUL words, singing words, come to me at 
 
 times, 
 
 And I seize them lovingly, weave them into rhymes ; 
 The brave things, the fair things, that in the world 
 
 I see 
 I marry to these winsome words in song and 
 
 balladry. 
 
 Some words they stand for sorrow, and some for 
 
 tenderness ; 
 They touch the fount of tears, they fall as soft as 
 
 a caress; 
 They ring out like a trumpet, or flute-like plain and 
 
 plead, 
 They tell of noble happenings and glorify the deed. 
 
 Sweet words, they are the saviours of my dumb- 
 stricken soul, 
 
 That give me moving power and vision of the goal ; 
 
 They heal the helpless cripple and make the feeble 
 strong 
 
 And break away the prison bars for one behind 
 them long. 
 
 37 
 
28 The Coming of the Words 
 
 I cannot know the moment when their coming may 
 
 be set, 
 
 I can but dumbly wait and watch, lest haply I forget 
 The bliss that means their breathing, the cadence 
 
 of the air 
 They play upon the pipes of Life to make it smooth 
 
 and fair. 
 
 But O the joy of weaving, and O the beating heart 
 When come these high-born visitors from some dim 
 
 place apart 
 
 To bide with me a little, and lift me on a flame 
 Of love, and give my longing a presence and a 
 
 name! 
 
DESOLATED GARDENS 
 
 THE trampling armies leave discomfited 
 
 How many a garden ! Desolate and dead 
 
 The shining flowers whose soul breathed up to God 
 
 In winsome odors from the quiet sod. 
 
 Where the rose laughed, the dark ensanguined mire, 
 And where the birds in many a leafy choir 
 Greeted the sun, the cannon and the shell 
 Have changed an Eden to a shrieking hell. 
 
 No lilies left that erst rose tall and white, 
 Nor tulips proud a-blow, nor that fair sight, 
 The pansies of the many-winking eyes; 
 Ah, blight for bloom and rain for tranquil skies! 
 
 Of old, how often lovers kept a tryst 
 In such sweet haunts, how tenderly they kissed; 
 But love is now turned hate, the very grass 
 Is color-changed with blood of those who pass. 
 
 Lovers and birds alike have fled the place, 
 The writhen body and the upturned face 
 Know naught of love or song or carefree hours 
 That blessed the alleys of these blameless flowers. 
 
 29 
 
30 Desolated Gardens 
 
 O refuges so rifled and so dim 
 Of color, what to you the martial hymn! 
 How sweet ye were where now the battle raves, 
 O desolated gardens, with your graves ! 
 
HERE LIES PIERROT 
 
 THE moon's ashine; by many a lane 
 Walk wistful lovers to and fro; 
 
 It must be like old days again; 
 How they do love ! Here lies Pierrot. 
 
 She loved me once, did Columbine. 
 
 It sets my dusty heart aglow 
 Merely to lie and dream how fine 
 
 Her semblance was, Here lies Pierrot! 
 
 Her perfumed presence, silks and lace, 
 Did madden men and wrought them woe; 
 
 For me alone her witching grace. 
 Where is she now? Here lies Pierrot. 
 
 We two walked once beneath the moon 
 Yellow it hung, and large and low 
 
 And listened to the tender tune 
 Of nightingales, Here lies Pierrot! 
 
 Our foolish vows of passion shook 
 The very stars, they trembled so. 
 
 How it comes back, her soft, shy look, 
 Now I am dead ! Here lies Pierrot! 
 31 
 
32 Here Lies Pierrot 
 
 These other men and maids, who stroll 
 Through moonlit poplar trees arow, 
 
 Does each play the enchanted role 
 We phantoms played ? Here lies Pierrot! 
 
 O joy, that I remember yet 
 Sweet follies of the long ago! 
 
 Dear heaven, I would not quite forget ! 
 The moon's ashine ; Here lies Pierrot! 
 
PILLAR WORK 
 
 " And upon the top of the pillars was lily- work ; so was 
 the work of the Pillars finished." I Kings, vii, 22. 
 
 AMONG the flowers, the lily blooms supreme 
 For light and loveliness; her odorous breath 
 
 Floats like the memory of some delicate dream, 
 After her body has gone down to death. 
 
 Of garden growths she is the fairest one; 
 
 She crowned the Temple built by Solomon. 
 
 Behold the task completed! Marble strength 
 And ornament of precious stone were there, 
 
 But, for to make it lovelier, at length 
 They wrought a work of lilies, passing fair, 
 
 And set it high atop, like a great gem 
 
 To glow and glitter in Jerusalem. 
 
 The strength that flowers in Beauty is twice strong. 
 
 Four-square the Temple stood ; but when the eye 
 Looked cloudward, lo, like to a lofty song, 
 
 The lily-work made glad the Orient sky; 
 And all the worshipers grew hushed, and peace 
 Fell on their hearts, and heavenly release. 
 
 33 
 
CLOWNS' DAY 
 
 (Choosing April First as an appropriate day, a number 
 of professional clowns held a meeting in New York to 
 perfect a permanent organization.) 
 
 BROTHER fools from everywhere, 
 Let us gather and grow wise. 
 
 Ours the day, so let us dare 
 Show the world our sober guise. 
 
 We must mum it through the year, 
 Hide behind the painted grin; 
 
 Let us be more human here, 
 Men of memories, men of sin. 
 
 Life's no jest, we know it well ; 
 
 Care lurks close behind the scene. 
 Heaven's not half so sure as hell 
 
 For a clown whose purse is lean. 
 
 Ours to make the simple laugh, 
 Ours to give the sad surcease ; 
 
 This our only epitaph : 
 " Here the jester is at peace." 
 34 
 
Clowns' Day 35 
 
 God above! We merry men 
 
 Smile and caper up and down, 
 Sing our foolish catches, when 
 
 Death looks sweet to many a clown. 
 
 We are fain to weep and love, 
 Pray, and think of mighty things; 
 
 Turn our dreamy gaze above, 
 Mount to visions, float on wings. 
 
 Twenty raptures may go by 
 Just outside the big white tent; 
 
 We would taste them ere we die, 
 Since for this our life was lent. 
 
 We must pace the little ring ; 
 
 Yet Life has her golden goals 
 For us all, to that we cling; 
 
 Clowns are we, but living souls ! 
 
 Lads in motley, brothers dear, 
 
 Gather now and hark to me: 
 April Fools, our day, is here; 
 
 Let us use it soberly. 
 
LITTLE SISTER 
 
 I KNOW a girl of presence fresh and fair. 
 
 She lies abed year-long, and so has lain 
 For half a lifetime ; flower-sweet the air ; 
 
 The room is darkened to relieve her pain. 
 
 There is no hope held out of healing her, 
 
 You could not blame her if she turned her face 
 
 Sullen unto the wall, and did demur 
 From further breathing in her prison-place. 
 
 Not so : her sick-bed is a throne, where from 
 She doth most royally her favors grant; 
 
 Thither the needy and the wretched come, 
 She is At Home to every visitant. 
 
 They call her Little Sister: for her heart 
 Goes out to each that takes her by the hand, 
 
 In sisterly devotion; 'tis her part 
 To feel, to succor, and to understand. 
 
 Unto her dim-lit chamber how they flock, 
 The seamy folk, the weakling and the base! 
 
 There is no sin so low that she will mock, 
 No shame that dare not look her in the face. 
 36 
 
Little Sister 37 
 
 One never thinks of woe beside her bed, 
 
 So blithe she bends beneath the rigorous rod; 
 
 She does not seem like one uncomforted, 
 Her prayers like songs go bubbling up to God. 
 
 Hers is the inner secret of the soul ; 
 
 Radiant renouncement, love and fellow cheer, 
 These things do crown her like an aureole, 
 
 Making her saintly, while they make her dear. 
 
SONG OF THE OPEN LAND 
 
 WE of the open country, 
 
 Men of the ranch and range, 
 Bronzed of skin and out to win, 
 
 Men of the landscape strange, 
 
 Hail you, and bid you hither, 
 
 Brothers so far away, 
 City-beguiled and greed-defiled, 
 
 Into the air of day! 
 
 Here are the visions splendid, 
 
 Girdled with space and light ; 
 Ride where you will, there is beauty still, 
 
 Breath, and the body's might. 
 
 The silver gray of the mesa, 
 
 The alkali blotch below, 
 The water pool's sheen where the grass grows green, 
 
 And the far peaks tipped with snow. 
 
 The great, gaunt scars of the chasms, 
 Where the pines are writhen things, 
 
 Small of girth and stunted from birth, 
 Where nothing flies or sings. 
 38 
 
Song of the Open Land 39 
 
 Yellow the sands, or dappled, 
 
 Up where the foot-hills wind, 
 And the white stream leaps down the canon deeps 
 
 ,With the roar of beasts behind. 
 
 Myriad changes, myriad moods, 
 
 Oh, the glad gamut of life ! 
 Deserts abloom or bare as doom, 
 
 Places for sleep or strife. 
 
 All of it splendid, all of it ours ! 
 
 Brother by brother stand ! 
 Ho, for the West, where to breathe is best, 
 
 Hail, from the open land! 
 
THE HOME-RETURNING 
 
 'Tis we who live that vagrants are ; the dead 
 Are not poor outcasts from our love, but rather 
 
 The seeking souls who earlier have sped 
 To where friends gather. 
 
 Just every little while, one slips away; 
 
 Almost we hear their greeting from those others : 
 Our loss must make for them a happy day, 
 
 Brothers to brothers! 
 
 We who remain draw closer each to each ; 
 
 We smile as best we may with each tomorrow ; 
 But oh, our spirits know there is no speech 
 
 To tell our sorrow ! 
 
 Not theirs the grief, we say, not theirs the grief; 
 
 Our ranks grow thin, while theirs increase 
 
 forever : 
 No hearth a-cold, no falling of the leaf, 
 
 No friends that sever. 
 
 Until we long to be of their good cheer; 
 
 Oh, with what heartfelt, wistful yearning 
 To join that company select and dear, 
 
 The home-returning! 
 
 40 
 
ALLAN'S MOTHER 
 
 " O TO be twenty-five again," she cried ; 
 
 And he mistook her meaning, straight replied : 
 
 " Nay, you are fair yet, why upbraid the years 
 
 That leave you comely ; not for you the fears 
 
 That are to beauty as the blight to flowers; 
 
 Behold you, now at best of all your powers, 
 
 Body and brain alike. You are as young 
 
 As youth, and Time sets music to your tongue, 
 
 Sweet wisdom on your brow doth aptly blend 
 
 With charm of eye and mouth, believe me, friend." 
 
 Like one bemused and in a wistful dream, 
 She answered, looking toward the sunset gleam : 
 
 " How little can he know a mother's love, 
 Brooding deep thoughts man may not reckon of. 
 I would not, as I could not, set them back, 
 The years since then; Time's beckoning, backward 
 
 track 
 
 I know is treacherous; but I am fain 
 For his, my baby's sake, to be again 
 In semblance what I was before he slept. 
 
 When it was over, and I had not wept, 
 But dry-eyed faced the future, one thought crept 
 
 41 
 
42 Allan's Mother 
 
 Into my mind to haunt me, and it still 
 
 Clings close and stings, and works its awful will: 
 
 " When I am come to heaven at last and seek 
 My little five-year-old, my darling meek 
 (So meek, so white, he went his lonely way!), 
 I sure shall find him, since perpetual day 
 Shines there, and all unchanged will be his face, 
 His pretty helplessness, his heedless grace, 
 Heaven on the instant home-like, when I see 
 My Allan all alone and wanting me 
 
 God, O God, what if he did not know 
 His mother, whom the years have altered sof 
 What if, as my two arms went round him there, ' 
 Crushed to my breast, and dazed, his unaware 
 Great eyes gave back no memory of earth, 
 
 And I the stranger and the child whose birth 
 Made me a living soul, were not made one? 
 
 " God knew what means a mother and her son ; 
 He would, it seems, have whispered to my dear : 
 
 1 Lo, it is she, herself, yea, she is here.' 
 And yet, and yet, forever in my mind 
 The picture stays, it lurks and looks behind 
 All worldly seemings, till I needs must go 
 Back, back again into the Long Ago 
 When I was young and he, my very breath, 
 Owed everything to me before his death. 
 How shall I meet him, when, with asking eyes, 
 My darling looks at me in Paradise ? " 
 
'Allan's Mothe? 43 
 
 She shook with sobs; the man stood mute, dis- 
 tressed, 
 
 But laid a hand upon her shoulder, lest 
 She deem herself deserted in the breach; 
 Knowing a loving touch is more than speech. 
 
TO A CRIPPLED COMRADE 
 
 MANY a year, O comrade mine, 
 Have we labored side by side, 
 
 Broke the bread and poured the wine 
 Of a friendship true and tried. 
 
 Now, all suddenly, you cease 
 
 From your work, must turn from me: 
 Sit and wait for Death's release 
 
 Silent, in your mystery. 
 
 Crippled friend, 'tis not alone 
 
 You that wait the final call. 
 Time must every man disthrone, 
 
 One by one the workers fall. 
 
 Cripples all, O comrade dear! 
 
 Maimed of dreams we dreamt in youth, 
 Marred from many a combat drear, 
 
 Blanched before the face of Truth. 
 
 Brother cripples! So to you 
 
 Fellow fortune bids me say: 
 " Here's a friendship tried and true, 
 
 Time can never take away." 
 
 44 
 
TO EACH HIS DREAM 
 
 WITH each his little, secret dream 
 We wander in and out the years: 
 
 The things that are, the things that seem, 
 Are mingled with our smiles and tears. 
 
 For some the clue is from the skies, 
 Others would find in mother earth 
 
 The end and the beginning : lies 
 
 Are truth to some, and sorrow, mirth. 
 
 This one would win some dear-sought prize, 
 And that attain his heart's delight 
 
 Through love; some live in sacrifice 
 
 For the few hours 'twixt day and night. 
 
 Another looks beyond what Time 
 May tell, his dream men do not see: 
 
 Upborne by visionings sublime 
 His gaze is on eternity. 
 
 But one and all walk lone, are led 
 By something deep within, the urge 
 
 Of action, and the finer bread 
 That feeds a spirit on the verge 
 45 
 
46 To Each His Dream 
 
 Of perishing, for Life is not 
 A scene without, but looks to where, 
 
 Far in the soul, a sacred spot 
 Is kept for planning and for prayer. 
 
 Each hath his little, secret dream 
 And be it glory or disgrace 
 
 Lo, just beyond, a starry gleam 
 Throws back a wonder on each face! 
 
THE FAR-OFF DAY 
 
 WHENEVER I behold a little bird 
 Moving and singing close about my feet, 
 
 All unafraid because I have not stirred 
 Of brutal blow or pitiless bullet fleet, 
 
 Eager to meet the mood which I profess, 
 
 By blithe acceptance of my friendliness, 
 
 I get a vision of the far-off day, 
 
 Far-off and dim, descried by faith alone, 
 
 When all the tribes of Cain have passed away, 
 And Love, somehow, has come into his own ; 
 
 When kindness is the one felicity, 
 
 And bird and beast and man are one in Thee. 
 
 47 
 
FELLOWSHIP 
 
 THEY told me his heart was a stone, 
 
 His repentance but laughter, 
 As he sat in his durance alone, 
 
 The awful day after. 
 
 I entered; no word did I speak, 
 
 But stood there beside him, 
 Just brother by brother, too meek 
 
 To sting or deride him. 
 
 And sudden the floodgates gave way, 
 
 The strong will was broken ; 
 We had fellowed as erring ones may, 
 
 Though no word had been spoken; 
 
 And I knew I had brought him relief 
 For the day and the morrow, 
 
 When the room became sacred with grief 
 As he sobbed out his sorrow ! 
 
FIRST PRIZE 
 
 (Euripides' drama, "The Trojan Women," when it was 
 first acted in 415 B.C., was, according to the historian 
 Aelian, awarded but second prize. " The first prize was 
 won by Xenocles, whoever he may have been," says 
 Aelian.) 
 
 IN Athens of old when the women wailed of war 
 To the magic of melody wrought of a mighty one, 
 
 The folk who listened grudged him the fitting meed, 
 
 Missed the meaning, blind to a higher deed 
 Than any deed of the sword beneath the sun; 
 
 Message of ruth sung in that place of yore. 
 
 Today, with the world shaken with turmoil and 
 tears, 
 
 Peace but a homeless dream by a fireless shrine 
 And clash of armies louder than all the seas, 
 First prize goes to the wise Euripides 
 
 Bidding us heed, in deathless line upon line, 
 Sorrow and pity and love, across the years! 
 
 49 
 
DREAM GARDEN 
 
 IN sleep, I see a garden fit to frame 
 
 My dreamings: where no touch of the world's 
 
 shame 
 
 Or sorrow or the death of joy can creep 
 Into the shelter of that happy keep. 
 
 This winsome garden is so seeming-true 
 It does not need, as other gardens do, 
 Tendance and toil ; each day and every night 
 It blooms and breathes and lives for sheer delight 
 
 Of being, and the moss-green dials tell 
 Time only to declare that all is well. 
 
 When you have turned from her whose heart alone 
 Calls to your heart, to make it quite your own, 
 Leaving the pretense and the outer sin, 
 Come hither, to be shrived this place within. 
 
 You can be simple midst these walks of flowers : 
 No disillusion lurks along the hours 
 To make the moonlight less than morning glad ; 
 You shall forget that man was ever sad; 
 
 Even the homeless winds come here to rest 
 And, cherished warm, to learn repose is best. 
 
 50 
 
Dream Garden 5 1 
 
 The walls that guard you and the growths that 
 
 fend 
 
 Your soul from thought of Life's so bitter end, 
 Alike desire to close-encompass you 
 With scent and song, with wonder and with dew. 
 
 The hate that kills, the greed whose goal is death 
 Evanish, once they feel the balmy breath 
 Beneath the branches; by those virgins white, 
 The lilies, passions such are conquered quite. 
 
 If there be struggle in the far, dim ways, 
 
 Bees do not bruit it through the tranquil days. 
 
 All flower- things that speak of soft and fair 
 Flourish and give their fragrance to the air; 
 And chief, the sweet briar roses, small and dear 
 And petaled pale, they most inhabit here. 
 
 Dream garden, give me yet again to drink 
 Draughts from your fountains, let me by the brink 
 Of still, oblivious pools rest, and recall 
 My youth, and find old faith that life and all 
 
 It holds of good still shines, a miracle, 
 
 Nor once remember, lulled by this strong spell, 
 
 That just beyond the girdle of your gates, 
 Old agonies are coiled, and parting waits. 
 Let me, dream garden, look deep down the eyes 
 Of love, and so recapture Paradise! 
 
SPRING FANTASIES 
 
 i 
 
 MAY DAY IN MARCH 
 
 MARCH with her madcap winds, March with her 
 weather, 
 
 Hath vanished, in her place 
 Hath come such day of grace 
 
 As May might bring: you wonder whether 
 Tis all a dream, 
 
 A thing light like a feather, 
 
 Blown by a breath to nothingness again. 
 
 Birds blithely chirp, buds ope to tell their joy 
 And from earth's aged mood there wells 
 
 Hark, how it wells and swells! 
 
 The clear song of a boy. 
 
 The robins' rhyme, 
 The green of willows by the turbulent brook, 
 
 The pink and white of orchard trees, 
 
 The odorous arbutus in her nook, 
 
 All, all of these 
 Do testify their gladness, magic time! 
 
 A month before her coming-in, the earth, 
 The dear old foster mother, fain of life, 
 52 
 
Spring Fantasies 53 
 
 To beauty and to hope hath given birth, 
 
 Twin children of her travail and her strife ; 
 And man walks in a very trance of bliss, 
 
 Remembering, remembering 
 
 That only yesterday 
 
 (It seems a world away!) 
 
 No wight dared sing 
 
 Nor any earthy thing 
 The tiniest touch of green and white display. 
 
 But now, the vernal kiss, 
 And lo, the spring, the spring! 
 
 Divine foreteller of eternal summer, 
 
 Hail and farewell ! 
 Before thy time, thou art a comer 
 
 Bearing a promise and a pledge: 
 That when the frost returns and May shall seem 
 
 The semblance of a dream, 
 Our faith may yet be firm; and on the edge 
 Of rigorous winter we may know thee near, 
 Thou mystic miracle ! 
 
 Even as an inland wanderer may hear, 
 
 Far from the sea voice, as he straining yearns 
 To catch the sound of billows, faint but clear, 
 The multitudinous murmur of the brine, 
 And doth divine 
 
 How ever round all lands the water-sphere, 
 Open and splendid, singing as she turns, 
 Past plumed capes of pine, 
 
54 Spring Fantasies 
 
 Beside bland meadows or by dreary sands, 
 Or skirting cliffs sun-soaked and keen ashine, 
 Circles all shores and lifts her moving tides 
 Godward, where peace abides. 
 
 May day in March, the soul shall find thee still 
 A foretaste and a happy prophecy 
 
 Of that far-off, that wished-for day 
 
 When beauty conquers, winter fades away 
 
 Into the perfectness of halycon weather 
 And the world wonders whether 
 
 'Twas ever anything on earth but May! 
 
 ii 
 
 THE SPRING RETURNS 
 
 The spring returns! Not as a strange newcomer, 
 But an old friend, who, just before the summer, 
 
 Comes with glad tidings, smiles a rosy smile; 
 Yet, in her words and ways, in all her bearing, 
 She seems like one from some far outland faring, 
 
 That may but linger here a little while. 
 
 Then in the orchards, blossoms pink or pearly, 
 Apple or cherry trees are blooming early; 
 
 You glimpse the fresh-sprung grass the leaves 
 
 between. 
 
 The birds begin their tentative, sweet speeches, 
 And all along the winding river reaches 
 
 The willows show a soft, ineffable green. 
 
Spring Fantasies 55 
 
 But yesterday, the woods were drear, tomorrow 
 They will have all forgot their winter sorrow, 
 
 The sap will run, the rigor pass away; 
 And in the open, all earth's simple creatures 
 Take heart of hope and don their sun-bright fea- 
 tures, 
 
 While hill and hollow echo with their play. 
 
 And when spring flits, and fuller flush of splendor 
 Usurps the delicate hues and blushes tender, 
 
 Because proud summer mounts her throne again : 
 Then in the moments twilight-touched and tristful, 
 Memory will brood these dawns and evenings 
 wistful, 
 
 The sad, sweet mood of a young soul in pain : 
 
 Sweet for its beauty, sad, because it never 
 May rest, but gypsy-like fleets on forever. 
 
 in 
 
 THE SYMBOL 
 
 What is the symbol underneath it all, 
 
 The secret message of the throb of things : 
 The flower tossings and the whirl of wings, 
 
 The glow and scent when June makes carnival? 
 'Tis like a sweet lost word of some old speech 
 Man has forgotten yet can almost reach. 
 
56 Spring Fantasies 
 
 Listen ! The sap doth murmur it, the rain 
 Chants it in sibilant monotone, the breeze 
 Lifting a voice among the fluttered trees, 
 
 Takes up the song, repeats it once again; 
 And all the movement in the summer grass 
 Seems pulsing to express it ere it pass. 
 
 Ever and alway, iterant and low, 
 
 The whisper and the hint, the half-untold 
 Suggestion that is as the ages old, 
 
 Yet fresh- faced now as in the long ago: 
 
 " Seek, ye shall find, for you and I are one, 
 Bound each to other since the years begun. 
 
 " You hear the call of kinship in my voice, 
 My very breathing makes me part of you; 
 The gifts I offer are a residue 
 
 Of your inheritance and natural choice; 
 Man is not man who hath not eye to see 
 My luminous gloss on Nature's mystery. 
 
 " Rich-languaged, fraught with memories and 
 
 dreams, 
 
 I lure you back in sacred moments when 
 You learn, oblivious to the lore of men, 
 
 The lesson of the forests, fields and streams; 
 Deep at my heart, deeper than all my mirth, 
 The long-witholden meaning of the earth." 
 
Spring Fantasies 57 
 
 In syllables of beauty, yea, with words 
 That move like music through the summer ways, 
 Nature doth speak, and in her every phrase, 
 
 The choiring rivers and the lyric birds, 
 She draws us from false gods, and our release 
 Is certified by joy and love and peace. 
 
 IV 
 HORN AND VIOLIN 
 
 In the autumn, in the weather 
 
 Golden, bronzed, and rich with sighs, 
 
 When we paced the lanes together, 
 Dreamings deep were in your eyes, 
 
 Then, O Love, 'twas like the sounding 
 Of a mellow horn that blows 
 
 Veiled yet vibrant, far-resounding 
 
 Through the paths the woodland knows. 
 
 But with May the magic changes, 
 And the music pants and pleads: 
 
 Like a violin it ranges 
 All the soul's insistent needs. 
 
 All the hopes and pent desires, 
 All the daring and the doubt; 
 
 Like to strong pluckt strings, the fires 
 Of our spirits rushing out. 
 
58 Spring Fantasies 
 
 In the autumn, love seemed sober; 
 
 Dear, 'tis now a passioned thing; 
 As the horn is for October, 
 
 But the violin for spring. 
 
 v 
 
 ROAD SONG 
 
 The world is wide and the wind smells sweet, 
 Wine-of-my Life is the thought of day. 
 
 The journey-lure and the footfall fleet, 
 Over the hills and far away ! 
 
 Joy of the open, joy of the wood: 
 
 Sun-drenched meadow and pungent pine; 
 
 One with the vagrant brotherhood 
 Under the vast sky, comrade mine ! 
 
 The slanting shadows, too, are fair, 
 
 Keen is the afternoon in zest; 
 Cool to the brow is the balmy air; 
 
 At the end of the road is the Inn of gest. 
 
 There, from the travel stains washed clean, 
 
 Better to sit awhile than roam : 
 Friends foregather for talk, I ween, 
 
 All of the wanderers trooping home. 
 
 The sun is up, and the blithe birds call; 
 Then, Ho for the Inn that welcomes all ! 
 
Spring Fantasies 59 
 
 VI 
 RAIN OVERNIGHT 
 
 Can it be possible that overnight 
 Rain roared, wind wailed, and Nature wept in 
 
 woe? 
 Clean-washed and shriven now the heavens are 
 
 bright, 
 
 Keen scents rise from the earth ; each leaf's aglow 
 With sparkling life, and rivers in their flow 
 Give louder voicing to their old delight. 
 
 Call, if you will, this day a respite brief 
 
 'Twixt dark and other dark to come, more drear ; 
 
 I only feel, with every bird and leaf, 
 How beautiful it is and blessed and dear; 
 I only ask to live, and know how near 
 
 Is Love to life, how beauty neighbors grief! 
 
 VII 
 AS FLUTES OF ARCADY 
 
 The purity of water and the peace 
 Of wind-still air: the placid scent of pines, 
 Warming my heart as with the waft of wines; 
 The murmuring of hidden brooks, the fleece 
 Of foam-topped rivers, and the splendid space 
 Of sky above, with all its interlace 
 Of blue and white and gold, O these to me 
 Do plead as plead the flutes of Arcady, 
 Bidding my sorry stressfulness to cease. 
 
60 Spring Fantasies 
 
 For then I take for truth the poet's dream: 
 There's naught in all the world save only good; 
 
 Little, fair children, love no parting kills, 
 Romance through the tree-branches soft agleam, 
 Beauty that lies await by field and wood, 
 And hero-deeds along a hundred hills ! 
 
ASPECTS OF AUTUMN 
 
 i 
 
 IN the wonder of their weaving lie the forests and 
 
 the fields; 
 Rich the broodings of October, rich the magic that 
 
 it wields, 
 With the marvel of its color like the sparkles in 
 
 old wine 
 And the music of its breathing from the tops of 
 
 ancient pine. 
 
 There are dusky purple shadows in the cool of 
 yonder trees, 
 
 But the open plains shine yellow down the corn 
 shocks' companies. 
 
 Oaks in bronze, and birches candid, somber hem- 
 locks make a ring 
 
 Girdling round the green of meadows that seem 
 strayed from some lost spring. 
 
 And the ebon crows in cohorts 'gainst a sky of 
 
 drowsy blue 
 Make a music harsh yet strangely mergent with the 
 
 landscape's hue. 
 Thus a splendid beast recumbent, with his skin of 
 
 tawny glow, 
 Sun-soaked, satisfied, might stretch him where the 
 
 jungle rivers flow; 
 
 61 
 
62 Aspects of Autumn 
 
 Thus a rug of silken texture, mellowed by the dust 
 
 of years, 
 Might be laid before a princess to enchant her from 
 
 her tears. 
 
 Tranced, superb, and deep in dreaming, do you lie, 
 
 this day of days, 
 League on league of autumn landscape, in the vast 
 
 horizon haze; 
 And the umber of your furrows and the russet of 
 
 your red 
 Seem to garb some great earth spirit rising sheerly 
 
 from the dead 
 
 To resume the elder keeping of an age of Innocence, 
 When to look was joy, and breathing sent a thrill 
 
 through every sense, 
 When Pan's pipe still fluted golden where in dance 
 
 the wood nymph whirled, 
 And my Love and I went footing, in the first 
 
 dawn of the world! 
 
 II 
 
 Ah, Autumn, now that you and I must part, 
 You linger, goldenly, your footstep slow, 
 
 Even as a friend, beloved of the heart, 
 Seems doubly dear just ere he turn to go. 
 
Aspects of Autumn 63 
 
 You pause by noon, deep sighing through the trees, 
 And in the spangled sunset hold your breath, 
 
 That I may note your splendid symphonies 
 Of color, that the night shuts in to death. 
 
 Your leaves rain down and prank the forest ways 
 With tapestries of yellow, red and brown, 
 
 And through the glooming glory of your haze 
 I glimpse the dreaming towers of the town. 
 
 October odors between sod and sky 
 
 Remind me of the faith of earthly things, 
 
 As if you murmured, " Surely, by and by 
 
 I shall come back, with birds and errant wings." 
 
 The sweet and strong communion 'twixt us two 
 Is more than all the mouthings among men; 
 
 You are not beautiful alone, but true ; 
 I bide the season till you come again. 
 
 And O be sure of one fond heart, that waits, 
 Loving and longing, midst of wintry fear, 
 
 Until, once more aglow, you ope the gates 
 Of harvest, and fulfil the fruitful year. 
 
 in 
 
 When autumn, pranked in sober pageantry, 
 Returns to earth and broods along the sky, 
 
 Then are the field-fires lighted, and men see 
 Blue smoke uprise from brush heaps, far and nigh. 
 
64 Aspects of Autumn 
 
 A pungent smell is in the nostrils, dim 
 
 Athwart the sun tRe haze makes luminous gold; 
 
 Deep in the distance, on the horizon's rim, 
 The spirals fade in wreathings manifold. 
 
 The tang and gray-blue mist and crackle fine 
 Blend in to stir the secret place of tears; 
 
 I hear a message I may scarce define 
 From immemorial autumns of lost years. 
 
 Upwelling from the heart come storied dreams, 
 The campfires of my fathers seem to glow 
 
 In primal forests, and yon smoke-trail seems 
 A painted picture of the long ago. 
 
 The feel of fall, the brooding trance, the fire 
 Whose smoke crawls up to make of heaven a blur, 
 
 All seem a link between the son and sire, 
 
 They bring them back, the wayfarers that were 
 
 Upon the earth, like us, alert and strong, 
 Feasting or fasting, underneath the sun, 
 
 But now mist-hid, evanished like a song, 
 Yea, utterly forgotten, every one. 
 
 IV 
 
 How can I all-express this golden mood 
 Of sky and russet field, river and hill? 
 
Aspects of Autumn 65 
 
 Some absent God returns, and solitude 
 
 Shines with his presence till our souls o'erfill. 
 Memory and hope are married, and earth's dreams 
 Are deep, ah, deeper than the deepest streams ! 
 
HEROES 
 
 " MOTHER, I read of heroes, kings, 
 
 Of folk with trappings, folk with wings; 
 
 Where live they, will they ever come 
 
 To see me in my little home? 
 
 Are there such beings, fair and wise, 
 
 And have they feet and hands and eyes ? " 
 
 " My child, you saw but yesterday 
 A hero : when he came this way, 
 You gave him scarce a single glance; 
 He wore no crown, he bore no lance, 
 He seemed but made of common clay. 
 
 " And just an hour ago, there stood 
 Before you O so great and good! 
 One who will sit with God for aye, 
 When the brief years are rolled away." 
 
 " But, mother, in the books I read 
 They walk like kings, they do indeed; 
 How could they come and go, and I 
 Not know that they were passing by ? " 
 
 "The tales are true, my dear, there be 
 Kings, heroes, saints, in history; 
 66 
 
Heroes 67 
 
 Romance and legend fitly tell 
 Of what they did, and what their spell; 
 Their deeds are bright like burnished gold, 
 In chronicles and records old." 
 
 " How could I miss their being here ? " 
 
 " They did not seem like saints, my dear, 
 Nor heroes, when they drew so near." 
 
THE CHILDREN'S BOATS 
 
 LITTLE loop of water, with the green 
 
 Of girdling grasses round your lustered sheen, 
 Where are the boats the children used to ride 
 Upon the bosom of your dimpled tide? 
 Those boats they loved, and launched with large- 
 eyed zest 
 On Orient faring or for Polar quest? 
 
 Where are the boats, and where the children, too ? 
 Have they, as such explorers often do, 
 Sunk with their ships? Or do they haply find 
 The new is like the old they left behind: 
 Their deep-sea conquests and their valiant claims 
 To far-found earth are naught but childish games? 
 
 1 know not, but I know they are not here, 
 These young adventurers of y ester year. 
 
 Is it because November, keen with frost, 
 Is come, or are the tiny strayers lost? 
 I listen, and I wait; perhaps the spring 
 Will lure them back, and with the first bird's wing 
 Up in the blue, again shall spread the sails 
 That took the sunlight, or that dared the gales : 
 Perhaps, when comes the May : or must it be, 
 In that far spring men call Eternity ? 
 
 68 
 
DON QUIXOTE 
 
 SMILES for him, yes, and tears but most of all 
 Envy, for that he set his soul to win 
 
 Virtue and love and valor, and their call 
 Upbore him ever above sleight and sin. 
 
 His Dulcinea was of common earth ? 
 
 And Sancho Panza scarce a trusty squire? 
 Not so : mistimed our pity and our mirth ; 
 
 They live forever, in his soul's desire. 
 
 Shiningly sure the Spanish Don was right, 
 Who saw the world through eyes with faith 
 
 agleam ; 
 
 This melancholy, madcap, errant knight, 
 Who wrought so beautifully in his dream! 
 
THE SECRET PLACE 
 
 WHEN I shake off the outer things 
 That, thronging, drag me fifty ways 
 
 The busy needs, the little stings 
 That hum about my usual days 
 
 I come into a secret place 
 
 And meet my true self, face to face. 
 
 Quiet removal from the press, 
 
 A breathing-room wherein the soul 
 
 Knows love and love's own tenderness, 
 And in a dream descries the goal; 
 
 There wholesome thoughts and sweet confer, 
 
 Like garments laid in lavender. 
 
 Anew I feel that I belong 
 
 Alien and outcast though I be 
 
 To the great Spirit whose far song 
 Makes an ineffable harmony ; 
 
 And, with a rhythm in my feet, 
 
 I fare me forth my fate to greet. 
 
VIGIL 
 
 WHY should it irk me, the night, 
 After the day that is done? 
 
 Stars, making distant delight, 
 Dew-pools, instead of the sun? 
 
 Soft, cool winds, and the scent 
 Of gardens, silent and sweet ; 
 
 Why should I lack of content, 
 Joys like to these at my feet? 
 
 Ah, but the hours are long 
 Ere I may haste from afar, 
 
 Seeking your face like a song, 
 Seeking your soul like a star ! 
 
 Winds, waters, skies, be my friend, 
 Grant me swift sleep, and to wake 
 
 Swiftly, my waiting at end, 
 Dearest, be mine with daybreak! 
 
SONG 
 
 (On the Death of a Young Poet) 
 
 SAD little heart, overburdened with dream, 
 Must you cease so soon? 
 Give over the tune, 
 And the dream? 
 
 Valiant you were, for a day brief and bright; 
 Now, comes your rest, 
 Tranquil and blest, 
 In the night. 
 
 They who keep faith, have not kept it in vain. 
 Courage, fond heart, 
 Glad was your part, 
 Sweet your strain. 
 
 Therefore, sing on, every note of you heard; 
 Winter or May, 
 Sounds night and day 
 Your clear word. 
 
 Blithe, buried singer, sing on, for our sake ! 
 Gone is the pain, 
 Never again 
 The heart-break ! 
 
 72 
 
CONQUERING EAGLES 
 
 I READ the classic book and raised mine eye 
 
 To where, with sun-tipped spears, went storming 
 
 by 
 A great, armed host. The splendid roads were 
 
 thronged 
 With all the trappings that to war belonged. 
 
 Next, I beheld how figures stately, slow, 
 With filleted calm brows drew past; and lo, 
 A temple white, within whose pillared porch 
 I saw the sacred fires leap like a torch. 
 
 Then, close beside the waves that seemed to say 
 With silver itinerance, All shall pass away, 
 Loomed large a Senate house where flocked and 
 
 fought 
 The men who for the great Republic wrought. 
 
 While sharp against the saffron-colored sea 
 (How it comes back to musing memory !) 
 Swayed to and fro the swollen tides of folk, 
 The hewers and the builders at their work. 
 
 73 
 
74 Conquering Eagles 
 
 High from a hill, swept sounds of song that fell 
 Upon the city like a miracle; 
 The feet of heroes, like as rhyme to rhyme, 
 Fell into harmony and kept march time. 
 
 All this I saw. Still rule the spirit these 
 Enshrined shapes from out the centuries; 
 Still cry along a sky that seems their home 
 The conquering eagles of imperial Rome! 
 
THE MESSAGE 
 
 I WALKED a lane where overarching trees 
 With shade and shine made woodland witcheries; 
 Earth odors mingled with the breath of flowers, 
 And shift of shadows told the passing hours. 
 
 And sudden, in that place so hushed and hid, 
 The silence that companioned me was thrid 
 By a thrush note that spoke, not to my ear, 
 But to my soul from out some vanished year. 
 
 There seemed to issue from that swelling breast 
 Some secret brooded on as dear and best 
 Through long, sweet sessions; all the doubt and 
 
 dread 
 Resolved themselves into calm faith instead. 
 
 There was nor pain nor parting but would turn 
 Unto the better thing toward which we yearn; 
 " Trust on, trust on," the singer seemed to say, 
 " The Good shall come, though it be far away." 
 
 Because I might not see the singer there, 
 His voice came all the clearer through the air; 
 Had he been close, and plain before my gaze, 
 I might have missed him in the woodland ways. 
 
 75 
 
76 The Message 
 
 All the day through, it haunted me and clung, 
 The message that the tree-hid thrush had sung; 
 And in my dreams that night I heard again 
 The note divine, the wood-begotten strain. 
 
GUILTY 
 
 I LOATHE this room, for it seems to blab 
 
 A hideous secret I would hide ; 
 With its sly, straight chairs, its wall-paper drab, 
 
 Its corners cool and its hearthstone wide. 
 
 Invisible hands reach forth, as fain 
 
 To clutch at Something; and here and there 
 
 Lurk shadowy heads; and moans of pain, 
 Dulled down by dust, invest the air. 
 
 Dark innuendoes and ugly hints, 
 
 Too delicate to be more than guessed, 
 
 Move o'er the floor; in the very tints 
 Of the curtains evil is dim-expressed. 
 
 .Whene'er I enter, I feel the jeers ; 
 
 The mirrors mow at me, face to face; 
 Noon and night, 'tis a nest for fears, 
 
 A sneaking, pitiless, hellish place. 
 
 Open the windows, throw back the door, 
 Let wind-sweet sunlight flood in and shine! 
 
 But O for my soul as it was before, 
 The spirit that dwells here is mine, is mine ! 
 77 
 
HAGAR 
 
 SAID Hagar : " Nay, I cannot see him die, 
 My little lad, my dear, my only one." 
 
 For bread and water failed her, sheer on high 
 Shone, hot and horrible, the desert sun. 
 
 That tiny cry wailed ever in her ears : 
 
 She lifted up her voice and wept; she said: 
 
 " His father loved us not." The happy years 
 In Egypt ran like music in her head. 
 
 Ishmael, the archer, shaggy, strong and wild, 
 For a great end was saved that bitter day. 
 
 He who was but a perishing, wee child, 
 Through mother-love was snatched from death 
 away. 
 
 And Hagar was full happy; who can know 
 The feel of bliss like one who once was sad? 
 
 Hagar was happy, as she watched upgrow 
 To might and masterhood her tender lad. 
 
 And in old age great time of memories 
 How oft she must have sat beside some well 
 
 Of water, set about with slender trees, 
 And mused on Abraham and Ishmael ! 
 78 
 
HUMAN 
 
 WEIGHED down by grief, o'erborne by deep despair, 
 She lifted up white arms to heaven and prayed 
 
 That day for death; she made a mighty prayer 
 Beside her dear one gently to be laid. 
 
 And standing thus, it flashed across her mind 
 How she must make a seemly silhouette 
 
 Against the sky, her figure sharply lined 
 Upon the westering sunlight, black as jet. 
 
 79 
 
WITHDRAWALS 
 
 LOOK on his face, so aged, so set, so white: 
 
 What evil one has cast his horoscope? 
 What is the lack that makes him old tonight? 
 Hope. 
 
 Why sits he statue-like, from head to feet? 
 
 His body holds no pulse of blood, meseems; 
 What was the voice once sang to him so sweet? 
 Dreams. 
 
 But, surely, still some star must gleam for him; 
 
 Some glittering friendship of the sky above? 
 What has he lost that trances life and limb? 
 Love. 
 
 Hope, dreams and love, 'tis these he fed upon, 
 They were his baubles and his very breath. 
 What now is left to him, so wondrous wan? 
 Death. 
 
 80 
 
YOUNGSTER AND OLDSTER 
 
 i 
 
 " Is she not fair? 
 
 Behold, how her hair 
 
 Haloes her head, and those spirit-blue eyes, 
 
 See, how they lift to the stars, to the skies! 
 
 None can compare 
 
 With her, my lady, the soul in her face 
 
 Set like a lamp to illumine the place." 
 
 ii 
 
 " She walks well, and her gown is deftly worn ; 
 Tonight, she's almost beautiful; the morn 
 Is like to show more plain the path of years ; 
 But now, yes, truly, all my doubts and fears 
 Are laid to sleep, and for an hour or two, 
 Ah, foolish me, I dream as others do ! " 
 
 Tell me, Sir Critic, you to error loath, 
 Is one right, or the other or are both? 
 
 81 
 
BETTER SO 
 
 HELEN and Heloise and Joan of France, 
 Ruth and Griselda, Mary with her tears, 
 
 Beautiful stricken women of Romance, 
 
 What are they all but dreams from out the years ? 
 
 I cannot hold them, hear them, kiss their feet ; 
 
 But now beside me, close, and O so fair, 
 You come, and I enfold you, find you sweet, 
 
 Dazed with the splendor of your eyes and hair ! 
 
 82 
 
GARDEN CLOSES 
 
 EARTH buffets and harasses 
 Her children, day by day; 
 
 Pricked on by harsh endeavor, 
 Debarred of prayer and play, 
 
 Chasing a Shade forever, 
 Man fares by perilous passes, 
 Till he be bent and gray. 
 
 But Life, how deep the kindness 
 That saves us from despair! 
 
 Hath eke her garden closes 
 Where all is calm and fair; 
 
 Some place of rest and roses 
 Where- man puts off his blindness 
 Of canker and of care. 
 
 There music sounds, clear-hearted, 
 And star-eyed women smile, 
 
 There friends, estranged in seeming, 
 Forget their former guile; 
 
 Above, to help the dreaming, 
 The clouds are soft disparted 
 By warm, sweet moons the while. 
 
84 Garden Closes 
 
 Into this sacred haven 
 Of health and happy lure, 
 
 Come marred and haunted faces 
 To taste a pleasure pure; 
 
 In this most dear of places 
 What word or wish is craven 
 These walls may not immure. 
 
 So, frayed upon sharp edges 
 Of knives that cut full deep, 
 
 Our own lost souls pursuing, 
 We may thereafter creep 
 
 Away from sordid doing, 
 Behind these holy hedges 
 For solace and for sleep. 
 
THE OLD COUPLE 
 
 A PAIR of oldsters, humble folk, come straying 
 Along the street; their hands are linked, they 
 smile 
 
 Like comrades who are fain to go a-maying, 
 Their cares forgot the while. 
 
 A little basket bears their food, their faces 
 Are rosy-wrinkled and their eyes so bright 
 
 You'd say that they were bound for fairy places 
 Of far-away delight. 
 
 But nay ; in sooth, their fond intent is only 
 To rest an hour or so the fields among, 
 
 Where flowers blow free and clouds sail high and 
 
 lonely 
 And lays of birds are sung. 
 
 For they are country-bred and so the city 
 
 Saddens their hearts, week-long immured for 
 
 toil; 
 
 They know the ugliness, the want of pity, 
 Where myriad workers moil. 
 85 
 
86 The Old Couple 
 
 Quaint is their garb; his coat is out of fashion, 
 Her bonnet never won an envious glance; 
 
 But watch his care, his almost lyric passion 
 Her comfort to enhance, 
 
 And see how she repays it, dumb or speaking, 
 By every look and tone and turn of head. . . . 
 
 Onward they go, the open country seeking, 
 There to be comforted. 
 
 'Tis not when we are young, in time of roses 
 Roses and bird-songs and the bloom of youth 
 
 Love shines most beautiful and full discloses 
 The wonders of his worth. 
 
 Old and uncouth? Not so; by every gesture 
 They stand confessed : the faith in them is seen. 
 
 The twain have donned Love's bright immortal 
 
 vesture : 
 Behold them king and queen! 
 
THE CHILD AND THE ROSE 
 
 SAID the child to the rose : " I would that I 
 Might rest in a pretty garden close, 
 
 fo feel the wind as it brushes by, 
 To play with every flower that grows; 
 
 It must be sweet in the summertide 
 
 To watch the buds as they open wide," 
 Said the child to the rose. 
 
 Said the rose to the child : " And I would be, 
 Like you, a creature sweet and mild, 
 
 Safe-housed from weathers winterly 
 And warmed with love all undefiled ; 
 
 Tis cold for sleep when the night is near, 
 
 And the time till morning goes full drear/' 
 Said the rose to the child. 
 
 They had their will : for the rose one day 
 Was plucked and worn in a ballroom gay, 
 .Where the air was stifling hot, and so 
 It shrunk and died in the fierce, brief glow. 
 
 The child, a woman pinched and white, 
 In after years, on a winter's night, 
 Lay in the garden, took her rest, 
 Dead, with a baby at her breast. 
 87 
 
THE DERELICT 
 
 (The derelict schooner Reindeer has been sighted off 
 Cape Henlopen. She has one hundred cases of dynamite 
 aboard. Daily Newspaper.) 
 
 O, A derelict on the open sea, 
 
 A ship whose crew is fled, 
 Is a somber thing for memory, 
 
 A body whose soul is dead ! 
 
 She floats at will of every wind, 
 
 She drifts as currents set; 
 And all her joy is far behind, 
 
 And all her hope, regret. 
 
 Her spars loom up against the sky, 
 
 Her hulk is black and low ; 
 And sullenly she passes by 
 
 The craft that homeward go. 
 
 Her secret grim would blanch the bold, 
 
 Unsinew e'en the brave; 
 For dynamite is in her hold 
 
 And she above the wave. 
 
 From Saragossa waters far 
 
 Into the Gulf Stream bland, 
 This barque has wandered, by no star 
 
 Sure piloted to land. 
 88 
 
The DereUft 89 
 
 The horrid freight her bosom hides 
 
 Has given charmed life 
 Unto her course, and safe she rides 
 
 Above the billows' strife. 
 
 All sail-sped things will give her berth ; 
 
 E'en birds that beat the air 
 Will cease their clamorous, aery mirth, 
 
 Feeling her presence there; 
 
 And monsters underneath the blue 
 Sheer off, what time her nose 
 
 Their watery regions pushes through 
 And down their sea-walks goes. 
 
 How terrible the thought of night 
 
 To every human soul 
 That meets the ship and knows her plight, 
 
 Her cargo and her goal. 
 
 For when the darkness leaves a maze 
 
 Of bourneless brine alone, 
 And sailors guess their devious ways 
 
 Across the vast unknown, 
 
 Ah, God, to run her down, to shock 
 
 Against her fateful deck: 
 A hell of noise, a shuddering rock 
 
 Of sea and sky and wreck, 
 
90 The Derelict 
 
 Then yawningly her self-made doom 
 Would gulf her down at last; 
 
 A water-worn and dim-lit tomb 
 Redeem her fearsome past. 
 
 But woe betide her rescuer! 
 
 For pitilessly she 
 Will rend and drag him down with her 
 
 Into the under sea ! 
 
FACE TO FACE 
 
 LONG weeks I walked the city's crowded ways, 
 And vainly sought to find you, morn and night; 
 
 By daybreak, when the lamps were all ablaze, 
 And when the noon was bright. 
 
 But when I turned, and with the will to flee 
 Unto some dim and all-deserted place, 
 
 Have hurried here where only God may see, 
 I meet you, face to face ! 
 
THE CAMBERWELL GARDEN 
 
 (Browning was born May 7, at Camberwell, a suburb of 
 London.) 
 
 MAY hath her own blithe beauty, nor doth need 
 
 The other loveliness of human deed 
 
 And human fellowship; yet doubly fair 
 
 She seems to brood o'er Camberwell, since there 
 
 Once walked the lad who made of blooms and birds 
 
 His cronies, knew their winsome ways and words. 
 
 Far did he wander; many a mile away, 
 And many a year, he saw the face of May, 
 Rosy, recurrent, in Italian nooks 
 Uplifting summer arms and Siren looks. 
 This month of melody and warmth and shine 
 Is welcome to the heart of man as wine. 
 
 Ah, but at Camberwell each sound and sight 
 And scent sure ministers to his delight 
 Were interwove with dewy memories 
 Stronger and sweeter than from overseas ; 
 And wheresoe'er his feet in faring turned, 
 Whiles, for that garden-place he must have yearned. 
 
 He who comes back to greet an old, dear friend, 
 And finds him gone, knows it is not the end, 
 
 92 
 
The Camberwell Garden 93 
 
 But lovingly awaits the gladder day 
 When all friends gather in from faraway. 
 So maiden May comes back and waits for him 
 In grass and flower and every greening limb. 
 
 Long gone the garden, and the singer too 
 Sleeps otherwhere ; but still the sky is blue, 
 Spring scents are rife, old magic still beguiles, 
 And May in Camberwell recalls, and smiles. 
 
GARDEN LORE 
 
 THERE'S a flowery shrub the May brings 
 
 (Never mind the name), 
 Tis enough to know its color sings 
 
 Like a living flame ; 
 
 And my heart sings, looking at it there 
 
 In my garden small ; 
 Of the growths so many and so fair, 
 
 Fairest of them all. 
 
 For, what time I stood and asked the bloom 
 
 " Shall I ever be 
 Happier than in this scented room 
 
 I am now with thee ? " 
 
 Then, uplifting graciously the head 
 
 (How the garden hums!) 
 Soft but clear the flowery creature said: 
 " When your lady comes ! " 
 
 94 
 
THE SECOND BAPTISM 
 
 WHEN tiny babes we touch on brow and breast, 
 
 Making them God's the while, 
 We murmur: "Take and keep, Thy keep is best," 
 
 And tearfully we smile. 
 
 And when, lapsed back to childhood's witless ways, 
 
 All helpless in our hands, 
 Poor souls, they walk as in a dim-lit haze 
 
 What myriads in what lands ! 
 
 Then, with awed lips, we look to the divine, 
 
 Striving to still our fears, 
 
 And say : " They seem not ours, they must be 
 Thine," 
 
 Wetting them with our tears. 
 
 95 
 
THE SPIRIT SHALL NOT DIE 
 
 "Yet some men say that King Arthur is not dead, but 
 had by the will of Lord Jesu into another place ; and men 
 say he shall come again and he shall win the Holy Cross." 
 SIR THOMAS MALORY. 
 
 ARTHUR, the peerless king, went out upon 
 The tide and left Sir Bedivere alone; 
 
 Who, reft of his liege lord, the well-loved one, 
 Stood wailing by the marge and made his moan. 
 
 With Arthur all was well, but with his realm 
 
 111 now the lawless days drew nigh to whelm. 
 
 And many said that he would come again: 
 Haply they meant return in youthful might, 
 
 Girt up and ready to wipe out the stain 
 Of erring years, and trumpet in the right 
 
 Which, he a-gone, had faded from the land, 
 
 So that it drooped beneath the heathen hand. 
 
 It is not thus he shall come back ; yet truth 
 They spake who so declared; for all the deeds 
 
 He did were deeds of gentleness and ruth 
 And virtue, and whoever sows such seeds 
 
 Shall bring forth fruit again in spirit, him 
 
 Time cannot quell, nor death itself bedim. 
 
 96 
 
The Spirit Shall Not Die 97 
 
 Yea, Arthur shall return and still return, 
 Till all the earth's good souls are blent as one, 
 
 Till steadily in hearts of men shall burn 
 
 Love that shall leap like fire from sun to sun ; 
 
 Return from Avalon, and evermore 
 
 Kindle the faith of those beside the shore. 
 
AN IMPRESSION 
 
 THE arching skies, the ancient wind 
 Soughing through immemorial trees; 
 
 The sense of all that lurks behind 
 The year's now tattered masonries, 
 
 .Where the blithe birds once built their home 
 
 High in the air-sweet, leafy dome. 
 
 Then, the lone figure of a girl 
 
 Clear-limned against the buttressed hills ; 
 Slim, beautiful, a tiny pearl 
 
 Set round with ruby light that fills 
 The all-illumined spaces where 
 No dark may creep nor shadow dare. 
 
 Not for an earldom would I break 
 The silence of yon dreaming maid ; 
 
 I could not play her soul awake 
 With Love's most magic serenade; 
 
 Her thought holds secrets hid from me, 
 
 Deeper than mortal minstrelsy. 
 
 98 
 
LOVE AND TIME 
 
 THE longest night of the year, they say; 
 
 By four of the clock, the dark comes down, 
 And the hills loom dim and far away, 
 
 While the lights wink out in the big, vague town. 
 
 And yet, O Love, of the nights I know, 
 This night was briefest, so brief, so blest 
 
 For you came and gave me your heart, and so 
 Time was nothing and darkness best! 
 
 99 
 
ROMANCE 
 
 You say Romance is dead, you conjure up 
 Fond images of some idyllic time 
 
 When elves were building in each buttercup 
 And goblins set the church-bells all a-chime. 
 
 When men rode out to battle for the right 
 In armorings that like the sun's self shone, 
 
 And rescued ladies from some hapless plight 
 Of durance grim, or love that plained alone. 
 
 When gods disported them as mortal folk, 
 When all the rivers and each tiny stream 
 
 Must have a tutelary nymph, each oak 
 Its hamadryad, and each night its dream. 
 
 Step to the window, look upon the street : 
 See yonder woman flaunt her jewels rich, 
 
 A milkmaid once; and see that girl so sweet 
 Yet pitiful; and nuzzling in the ditch 
 
 A man who oft has swayed a multitude ; 
 
 Mark how yon cripple cries his tawdry wares 
 And think of him blithe-limbed in boyhood's mood ; 
 
 Look how the harlots lure souls to their lairs. 
 100 
 
Romance ioi 
 
 Watch yonder thief sneak by, and close beside, 
 A pure-eyed nun who plans some holy deed ; 
 
 Think how each story blends to swell the tide 
 Of human histories and hearts that bleed. 
 
 Then speak no more of olden, golden days, 
 Of mythic creature and of magic rill; 
 
 Be the true artist, walk these modern ways; 
 Here are your tools: go, fashion at your will! 
 
THE DEAR ADVENTURER 
 
 (In Memoriam: John S. Bradstreet) 
 
 O DEAR adventurer, once more dost thou 
 Fare forth into the outlands, o'er far seas! 
 
 Nothing can come of strange unto thee now, 
 For travel was thy wont, thy argosies 
 
 Were rich and many; where thy bark was turned 
 
 Friends met thee, and for thee a home-light burned. 
 
 Surely, some day, as often in the Past, 
 Keen-eyed and brown, sweet smiling as of yore, 
 
 Thou wilt come back to live with us at last, 
 Thy shadow ever grateful at our door : 
 
 Bringing, the while we marvel at thy wares, 
 
 An aromatic breath from Otherwheres. 
 
 Or if it be that we instead must go 
 To find thee, friend, all gentle and all true, 
 
 Eager and waving wilt thou stand, we know, 
 To bid us welcome when the voyage is through; 
 
 O what a meeting will be there, what flowers, 
 
 What talk, what treasures shown, what shining 
 hours ! 
 
 103 
 
IDOLS 
 
 THEY made them idols in the elder days, 
 Idols and images of brass and stone, 
 
 To bow before their semblance, when the praise 
 Should go, O God, to Thee and Thee alone. 
 
 Yet who shall say how much of tender trust, 
 
 Of deep-heart adoration and desire 
 Was hid behind these symbols of the dust 
 
 That rose like smoke to dim the central fire ? 
 
 How often, in those heathen hearts, indeed, 
 Ardent and upwardly there must have burned 
 
 A flame of worship, an imperious need 
 
 To clasp and kiss the thing toward which they 
 yearned. 
 
 Midst of the mystic Orient today, 
 
 Far in the north, or where the great South Seas 
 Circle the islands, gather still to pray 
 
 The myriad folk whose faith is like to these. 
 
 Rebuke them not : even as a root at birth 
 Feels upward to the light, these simple men 
 
 Foredream the flower and darkly from the earth 
 Salute the mystery beyond their ken. 
 103 
 
GLIMPSES OF ITALY 
 
 i 
 
 IN AN ITALIAN HILL TOWN 
 
 I MISSED the uses of my mother tongue; 
 
 Afire with Beauty, yet I scarce could speak 
 A few, poor stammering words, hard-wrung 
 
 From lips inapt. So, through a silent week 
 Of dreamful isolation wandered I, 
 The dumbest thing between the sod and sky. 
 
 But heaven sent me token, after while : 
 A wee bambino waved a chubby hand 
 At me, the stranger, in the open street ; 
 Smiling, it waved ; I found it very sweet, 
 This wordless converse ; both could understand 
 The universal language of a smile! 
 
 ii 
 
 THE CLOISTER GARDEN AT CERTOSA 
 
 It is a place monastic, set above 
 The city's pride and pleasuring below; 
 
 The benediction of the sky breathes love 
 Over the olive trees and vines a-row. 
 104 
 
Glimpses of Italy 105 
 
 The old gray walls are dedicate to prayer 
 And silence; in the corridors dim-lit 
 
 Lurks many a painting, many a fresco rare 
 Done by some brother for the joy of it. 
 
 Pale lavender and red pomegranate trees, 
 Roses and poppies spilling garden sweets; 
 
 And tall lush grass and grain, and, circling these, 
 The cool of cloistral walks and shadowed seats. 
 
 By a sun-dial in the center, rests 
 
 One brown-robed Father; and his lips recite 
 Some holy word; little he heeds the jests 
 
 Of those who make the world their chief delight. 
 
 While Florence, far below, from dreamy towers 
 Throws back the sun and tolls the tranquil hours. 
 
 in 
 
 OLD STORY-TELLING 
 
 (At the Villa Palmieri, situated on a hill outside Flor- 
 ence, according to the old tradition, gathered the lords and 
 ladies of a summer evening to hear the stories set down 
 by Boccaccio in the Decameron, while below the plague 
 raged in the city.) 
 
 Heedless gay folk, lying at ease amid 
 
 The fruits and flowers, far above the town 
 
 Whose evil case from them was duly hid 
 By olive gardens stretching down and down ; 
 
io6 Glimpses of Italy 
 
 There, in the scented evenings long ago, 
 They laughed and listened in the afterglow, 
 To tales eternized by Boccaccio. 
 
 IV 
 FRA ANGELICO 
 
 They called him angel brother, for his smile 
 
 Was amiable like angels, and he loved 
 
 To paint them ever on the convent walls; 
 
 Yea, in his very cell he made them sing 
 
 And praise and weep Lord Jesus and the Maid, 
 
 While all his fellow monks looked raptly on. 
 
 No wage he took for work, and ne'er began 
 
 To paint an angel till he breathed a prayer; 
 
 And by that prayer and from that dreaming hand 
 
 Came pictures tremulous with worshiping, 
 
 Till all beholding them are fain to say: 
 
 "Angelico, the artist, loved what things 
 
 Are high and holy, and his tender soul 
 
 Shines through his colors and his saintly forms, 
 
 And shows to men a half -forgotten heaven." 
 
 The flower-like name of Florence sounds twice fair 
 Because he worked within her walls of fame; 
 And on the heights of lovely Fiesole 
 Floats like a Presence his so pure renown 
 
Glimpses of Italy [IOJ 
 
 v 
 
 LIKE P^ESTUM'S TEMPLE 
 
 Moments there are that loom up from the past 
 Tarnished yet beautiful ; we deemed them dead, 
 Their old-time witchery forever fled ; 
 
 Not so ; for of a sudden, all unasked, 
 
 Lo, they return to rule our souls at last; 
 So fresh, so fair, they almost seem to shed 
 A lovelier light than in the years long sped, 
 
 Weaving a wonder that is unsurpassed : 
 
 Proud vistaed arches, gleams of broken stone, 
 Columns superb, blithe statues buried deep 
 Until exhumed from immemorial sleep 
 
 To be beloved as our household own: 
 Like Paestum's temple, tranced beside the sea, 
 Radiant with dreams and ancient extasy. 
 
APERCUS 
 
 CHANGED 
 
 A MOMENT gone, and you were flesh and blood, 
 
 An obvious beauty, any day may see ; 
 But as death's night enwraps you, and the flood 
 
 Of life recedes, you seem to glide from me 
 And of a sudden to be mystical 
 
 As pampas grass around a midnight pool ; 
 
 Delicate, still, and hidden in the cool. 
 Love, is it death, or but a moon-kisst spell ? 
 
 ii 
 
 PETITION 
 
 The big world balks and puzzles me, 
 
 I know not what I truly am ; 
 Lord, grant me grave humility, 
 Sturdy with courage would I be, 
 Yet docile as an upland lamb. 
 
 108 
 
'Aperqus 109 
 
 in 
 
 MULIER MUTABILE 
 
 Three bitter things of womankind I see: 
 
 A young girl who has given utterly, 
 
 And wakes to know her hero common clay. 
 
 A mother bending on a morn of May 
 Over her little dead; 
 
 A creature lewd, 
 
 Wearing the semblance of a merry mood, 
 The lures of sight and sense her only treasures, 
 Grown old, and shrunk, and forced to leave her 
 pleasures. 
 
 IV 
 ETIQUETTE 
 
 I called on my soul one spring-like day, 
 And left my card, for I found him out ; 
 
 My soul, polite, came up my way 
 And called, but I was not about. 
 
 So we missed each other, and never grew 
 
 To be good friends, as some folk do. 
 
MUSIC MYSTERY 
 
 TELL me, O Music, why the bliss you bring 
 Comes edged with pain from every shaken string? 
 " We are but wraiths," the woodwinds wailed reply, 
 " Born to be beautiful but born to die." 
 
 no 
 
HIGH AND LOW 
 
 UPON the heights they rested; looking down, 
 "What shuddering depths/' she said, "thank 
 
 God, afar!" 
 But he : " Twas thence we climbed to reach the 
 
 crown ; 
 O Love, I bless what brought us where we are." 
 
 in 
 
VITA BREVIS EST 
 
 THE gray thing, life, and the bright thing, love, 
 The earth beneath and the heaven above; 
 Swift chance, swift change, be it worst or best, 
 Then the woven boughs, and the long, cool rest. 
 
 112 
 
WORDS OF PARTING 
 
 THE words of parting in our English tongue 
 Are heavy-fraught with tenderness and tears : 
 
 We speak them first when life and love are young, 
 And then repeat them all the after years : 
 
 Good-by, Farewell, over and o'er again, 
 
 Old words of parting and of hidden pain ! 
 
 Good-by, we call, and wave uncertain hands, 
 Farewell, and wonder shall we find some day 
 
 The friend who goes far forth to other lands, 
 The more-than-friend, whose steps must turn 
 away. 
 
 O, the sweet kindnesses our tongues would tell, 
 
 Yet we can only say, Good-by, Farewell. 
 
 Sometimes the words seem light, and lips that 
 smile 
 
 Do utter them, where jest and song are free ; 
 Yet these same jesters, in a little while, 
 
 May speak their burden slow and solemnly: 
 Farewell, Good-by, the revel now is done, 
 We weep alone before the morrow's sun. 
 
 We build us homes, we strive for happiness, 
 So eager is our clinging and so sweet ! 
 113 
 
114 Words of Parting 
 
 We lift strong barriers against distress, 
 But our Forevers are so frail, so fleet. 
 Good-by, Farewell, we say it, soon or late; 
 They are the syllables that spell our Fate. 
 
 The words of parting in our English speech 
 Are magical with meanings left unsaid; 
 
 Earth-warm they are, yet have a heavenly reach, 
 They sound above the living and the dead: 
 
 You hear our heart-beats in a brief Good-by; 
 
 Farewell, our very souls are in that cry! 
 
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