Jzs UC-NRLF I ^B 273 m? T ©ream ^relube antr ^i\\tx \Tersfes! I Roy Walter James GIFT or Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/dreampreludeotheOOjamerich y€^^%^ A^%y\*^ ^ '^ C AA\y»^tx iATL^^ ..tu-e-Hi. >CK.*X DREAM PRELUDE AND OTHER VERSES /Ai;^:^•:• COPYRIGHTED 199 (All Rights Reserved) by ROY WALTER JAMES COVINA CITIZEN Covina, California 415572 TABLE OF CONTENTS (WITH THEMATIC INDEX) DREAM PRELUDE Palace of my dreams 7 THE STUDENT AND THE FLY (A One-Act Play) 9 Cast of Characters 10 SCENE I Student: "Ha! Ha! some queer sensation trickles o'er" H SCENE II First Fly: "Right glad am I our masters are not here" 24 SCENE m Student: "Horrors! Was that a ghost I saw?" 41 PARADISE The dew as yet is on the springtime grass 50 THE SONG OF THE MARSH Ha! ha! I love the swamps and sloughs 51 IN DESERT WINTER WIND I sit upon a sand-dune bleak 53 SUNSET A gloom the glade pervades 54 IN DESERT WASH How parched, and scorched, and dry 55 SIERRA SUNSET When the sun is sinking golden 56 ALONE 'Neath weeping willow sapling on a stone 57 UNKNOWN Far up the mountain side there sings ^ 58 ONLY A FROG Only a frog 60 TABLE OF CONTENTS (Continued) THE DEVIL'S RHAPSODY With a "Ha! ha! ha!" and a "Ho! ho! ho!" 62 OUT OF THE DEEP I saw or thought I saw 71 THE LEGEND OF "LAS LAMAS'* Down in a level plain 74 TO THOMAS A. EDISON Master mechanic mind 81 TO CHOPIN (No. 1) Far off beyond the distant skies 81 TO RUBENSTEIN Could I have only heard just once 82 NEAR THE SEA Far down the hill past cypress tree 83 HOMO ET NATURA The greatest book will ne'er be made 83 WHY The Earth moves on and rolls itself 85 GENTLE RAIN I love the gentle dripping rain 86 OH, OCEAN! With all the throbbing woe 87 MY DREAM PIANIST (To Alec W. Anderson) Swinging, — swaying, — back and on 89 THE FOUNTAIN In still and starry night 91 TO WILLIAM WENDT All nature glows with sweetest smiles 92 AT LAGUNA The rocky caverns Issue forth a muffled roar -f. 93 YELFENSO Far out across the paling hills 94 TABLE OF CONTENTS ( Continued ) SHADY NOOKS Far o'er In the shadowy trees' deep shade 95 TO MME. ELLEN BEACH YAW Echo! Echo! fall thou hither 96 A PAINTER'S SONG I painted a scene when the hills were green 97 THE WIZARD— OLD BALDY When the sun with his head of blazing red 9g LOVE Who has a perfect soul 102 THE HAUNTING TRAIL Ha! ha! just wait till work Is done 103 A WANDERER'S SONG When I sit around the flre : •. 104 DREAMING Dreaming, dreaming, drifting along In a dream 106 —BUT ALL OF US ANGELS ARE Some of us are good, some of us are bad 106 IN THE HEART OF THE HEARTLESS Worn out, — far off, — alone — 107 OF LATE Oh God! my friends fade fast away 109 FAREWELL Can Walls resound with laughter of the past HO SALAMANDER Red salamander I HI LIFE'S EPITOME Changing ever in a grand ethereal cycle 112 THE MAN WITH THE HOE It's the man wlth^he hoe that cuts the weeds 115 NOW Ha! ha! some solely seek to gain 116 TABLE OF CONTENTS (Continued) BEAUTY If everyone could only see Hg TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ' I've never seen the golden sun 117 YOU OR I? With clanging bells, and honk on honk Hg IN MEMORIAM We all are beckoned forth by gracious hand 119 HIS MAJESTY With a "Rah-ta-ta," and a sharp "Car-hoo" 122 A PERFECT LAND Far to the west in sunset land 123 WHERE BALDY REIGNS IN PEACE Did you ever see when you traveled free 123 TO HELEN Oft when I sit at evening time 124 TO WORK I meet a face upon my way to work • 125 TO LAUGH OR TO CRY When you don't know whether to laugh or cry 125 POST MORTEM Tho now I lie with pallid white, crossed hands 126 POST SCRIPT Tho now the end is here PREFACE WITH George Washington in mind it is impossible ta be deceiving, so will frankly state that the rea- son for publishing the following pages is for the purpose of getting them copyrighted; and while having them printed, thinking some friends may be desirous of having a copy, a few extras are being made. This is in no way an artistic, well bound, or attractive volume ; and is not considered to be put before the general public — but just for local friends. Some years hence the work here, together with a previously bound book of verse, may be published by the Poet Lore Co. of Boston, who have spoken already for the work, and placed before the gen- eral public in the shape of a well-bound, well illustrated, and altogether artistic work. My only ambition at present is to get them copyright- ed and put them under my hat, as it were, and keep them there for a sufficient number of years to find out if they are really worthy of broadcast publication or not. I wish to express my most sincere thanks and deep appreciation to Mr. Edwin Jobe for technical correction and criticism. The playlet, tho quite original, may not appeal to some people for various reasons ; but if others consider the time spent in reading it, well spent, and enjoy it — I shall be satisfied. It is likely that all the verses here will not appeal to everyone, as they are so diverse in their senti- ment and subject — but if one is found which "comes home" to the reader — that is sufficient; and if a friend read one a third time because of its merit alone, I wiH deem it the highest of honors. Covina, Cal. OWN in a small valley in Mexico on a level plair lies the village of Mayran. Beyond the borders o1 this Jittle valley all is barren and hot. Even the hills surrounding the valley look forlorn, and desert ed of vegetation. Bordering on the south lies "Las Lam as," a large stretch of boggy, swampy, land ; quite ranl^ with marsh grasses and plants, but containing only a few shrubs, the most prominent of which is a large aged wil- low tree, standing along the north bank quite near the village. At times stray cattle and horses, or other domes- tic animals, get out on this unfirm sod and sink in the mud farther and farther, until they utterly disappear and per ish in the oozy, sticky, slimy mire. The dazzling sunlight drizzles down upon the antique adobe dwellings of the village, until the outlines of the buildings waver up and down as tho they were alive anc wished to crawl out across the swamp and be delivered forever from the land of light and sun A few wan look ins Spaniards trudge along the streets ; the sun is slanting across their brilliant garbs and playing hide and seek ir the ridges and furrows of their faces. In contrast to the parched, cracked houses, on the nor them outskirts of the village is a beautiful spring, cleai as crystal and ice cold. It was owned by a very poor mar by name Soto Pico. He was tall, and lanky, and lean with deep-set dark eyes, shaded by large, shaggy eye brows. He had to work hard to support his family of a wife and two sons by selling his water on the streets of the vil- lage for a small sum. Now, since this was the pooresi sort of a village and Soto the poorest kind of a man, he had to take whatever he could get for his water. A1 times he woud get food and meats, at others he was forced to take clothes and woven baskets and pottery, anc 75 then his family and himself had to go hungry But his fine quality of water was much esteemed by all the people in the village, and since the rest of the water thereabouts was not fit for anything but animals to drink — his water was in much demand But this year in particular was a poor year and everything was going from bad to worse and it looked as tho a famine would threaten. Now by tradition this city was long ago occupied by a number of Spanish families from Spain who came over to Mexico in early colonizing times. These Spanish, who were already rich, had, upon settling here, made crusades far and near, and had forced th-e Aztecs to give to them countless millions of gold, silver and jewels. They secured all the wealth form all the Aztecs for miles and miles around. After all these successful campaigns they set- tled down into luxury; such luxury as was never dreamed of by the people of the village today. All of their dwell- ings looked inside like fairyland, and at all hours of the day and night tinkling, fairy-like music could be heard. They ate, drank, came and went when they pleased ; fol- Iwed by the rustling of silk, and the tinkling of silver bells, and the immortal odors of perfume which filled the tingling air with living slumber. All of the halls and chambers were hung with gorgeous curtains; some heavy and dusky, others light and thin, that waved and floated on the air like new spider spinnings seen to swim in the liquid light of early morning.. The handsome ladies with gay and gaudy flowers in their gauzy hair were led by gallant seiiors; going here and there in perfect happiness and content. The table at which they all assembled for their nightly meal was made of rustic oak and crowned with a polished surface of green marble. Many of the platters and urns on the table were of gold and delicately carved. Other pieces were beautiful Aztec pottery, deck- ed with designs of flitting butterflies and bending reeds. All spoons were crowned with a large opal on their han- dles, surrounded alternately with rings of gold and silver, thus forming a beautiful bull's eye. The knives had pearl 76 handles, while the forks were inlaid with moss agate and opal. Thus they lived peacefully for years; and then it was rumored that other Spaniards down south had heard thru the Aztecs of their living in luxury, and were going to make a raid on them in the village, kill them and confis- cate their wealth. Thus was their wonderful, luxurious living to come to such a disastrous death.. They were all astir immediately, for they feared their lives would be lost in the skirmish ; so they held council to devise some plan of escape. Now it happened that there was an old sage among them that they had brought from Spain. He had studied and learned from old Arabian doctors, much of the old Egyptian, Arabian, and Indian lore and astrology, and knew how to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics, Sanskrit, and many Indian characters used by Indian doctors in their magic and witful arts. In the village among these young and luxurious people he had a private chamber where he retired most of the time and studied ; and where he kept many magic devices for solving dufficult prob- lems. Now when this very old sage and doctor was sent for he appeared before the rest of the assemblage. After hearing all their troubles, they were delighted and joyous when he stated that he would try to devise a plan in his magic chamber to save them all. He then retired, stat- ing that on the morning of the fifth day he would make known his results to them at another general assembly. Now he had previously, by magic means, detected the secret of the spring of the village by which he had sec- retly kept all the villagers young. This is what he discov- ered : "Every year on the twenty-first day of« February from midnight until one o'clock, anyone who drank of the water should be restored to youth." By knowing this the old sage had secured urns full of the water at the proper time each year and kept the people young with- out them realizing it. But this fact had dropped from the legend of the present population of the village, and the 77 parts that were known were thought to be the whims of old settlers. The sage worked vigorously for four days and nights and burned blue lights of perfumed oils; and early on the fifth morning, about one o'clock, he discovered, by means of a magic candle, burning a red flame, made of fat from many humming birds, miniature figures and hieroglyphics on the foot of an old owl which had died in his magic chamber of old age. The owl had been purchased by him from old sages of northern Africa when he was a young man studying, and it had been told him by the sages that the owl was a sage, and very old, by tradition among them several hundred years; and to keep it until it died and then save all the preservable parts. This he had done and while working over them as a last resort he made the discovery on the owl's foot. In a short time, by many magic means, he translated the heiroglyphic writing, which turned out to be : **Every year on the twenty-first day of February from midnight to one o'clock, if anyone who desired a wish fulfilled would take an earthen urn to the spring and fill it with water and drop in it a paper on which the wish was written, after being in the water three minutes the wish would be granted ; but during the same hour every year thereafter the earthen urn would appear at the spring and be exposed while this fixed hour passed." On the following morning there was an assembly as before and the sage gave his report, quoting the trans- lation ; and explained that there would be no possible way of preventing the exposure of the urn ; but he explained that there would be little or no danger, as the jar would be exposed but one hour each year, and that at night, and that no one other person knew the secret and would not be looking for it. It happened that the twenty-first day of February was only three days off ; so he drew up the fol- lowing paper: "We now command that an entrance open at the foot of the Old Willow Tree on the brink of the swamp, and that we have access to our wished-for underr 78 grround palaces with all our wealth, that we may escape our enemies." For the following three days they worked gathering all their possessions to the foot of the Old Willow Tree on the brink of the swamp, so that the moment the passage-way was open all would have time to get themselves and their possessions inside before the hour passed and the passage- way closed up. At midnight on the twenty-first day of February the magician dipped the urn in the spring and placed the pa- per in the water and then left for the Old Willow Tree. Three minutes after midnight at the foot of the Old Willow Tree, a soft, sweet music was heard and a beauti- ful marble stairway appeared, leading down into an un- derground fairy-land. Then all took their possessions and went down. One little boy forgot and left his quiver and arrows at the foot of the tree and tore loose from his mother and ran up after them. Just then the time was up, and the sage and all were inside, then with a rumble of underground thunder that shook the earth, the stairway closed forever. The poor boy outside was thus separated from his friends and alone in the world above. Thus on the following day they were living in wealth and luxury when their enemies appeared and found the village deserted except for the poor boy who was left out- side. One man, the leader, took him and went off; and while he was gone the others were very angry at not find- ing riches, and for having attempted such a foolish thing, using just the tales the Aztecs had told as a basis; they fought among themselves until they all were dead. The poor boy told his tale as best he could to the leader, but in telling it he had left out about the spring and its power. After a few days the boy died of grief, leaving only the legend of the luxurious people. Now this was a hard year for Soto, and at times he was forced to do without food for a day or so. One night he come in quite late with his empty urns, it was quite dusky and having little food he gave it to his wife and children and went to bed. Along about mid-night he was wakened 79 by his wife moaning. He got up and found that she called, "Water! Water!" He took up a pitcher and left the house for the spring. On arriving he saw to his sur- prise a strange urn sitting by it. He snatched it up, looked inside and saw a paper; he caught it up and read in the bright moonlight: "We now command that an entrance open at the foot of the Old Willow Tree on the brink of the swamp, that we have access to our wished for under- ground palaces with all our wealth ; that we may escape our enemies." For an instant he stood dazed, then re- called the legend with a flash. He set down the urn, filled his pitcher quickly, returned to his wife and gave her the water; snatched up a piece of paper and wrote: "En- chant immediately all things in the palaces at the foot of the Old Willow Tree and open up the passage-way to them." After throwing it in the jar and filling it with water at the spring, he ran through the silent street in the bright moonlight to the Old Willow Tree. By fact he had rested under it many times in the heat of the day when at the extremity of the village ; but he never once thought of the thing which came upon him so suddenly. Upon arrival at the tree, he saw the beautiful marble stairway and rushed down into the underground wonder- land. The first thing he saw was a walk hedged by flowers and herbs leading to a beautiful palace. He ran down this swiftly. He saw cows and horses in the mea- dows; but they were as stone — enchanted. He passed a fountain — but the water was as glass — enchanted, and the gilded fish therein were motionless. He stepped in the open door and beheld the most beautiful room he had ever seen, and could hardly believe his eyes. He hurried here and there snatching silk, gold, jewels, and whatever he could. When over-loaded, he made for the door and walked as fast as he could under the weight, and climbed up the stairs to the ground above. Just as he stepped out, there was a rumble that shook the earth and the stairway sank, leaving the moon shining down on the lonely swamp shrouded in a turquoise mist that crept from reed to reed. He ran to his wife up the cool, ghastly street, with his 80 wealth. Upon seeing her he saw that she was young and more beautiful than she had ever been before. He was much surprised and could hardly believe it. Finally he took from his treasures a beautiful mirror surrounded by opals set in silver and let her see herself in the bright moonlight. She saw that it was true. Soto was quite worn out, so he took up the pitcher she had drunk from, and took several long draughts. Within a few minutes his face became young and carefree, and his wife told him about it; he looked in the glass and saw it was true. He drew her close to him and they embraced in the quiet night. Just then a quiet shadow flitted across the moonlight that slanted in the open door; and they knew someone had seen them with the gold and jewels. They hurriedly put them out of sight and held council. They decided tc leave that night before the village heard of their fortune from the one who had seen them. They collected all they could carry and left the house with their children. Wher they had gone but a few rods, they saw three forms in th* shadows and in an instant they all pounced upon Sotc Pico. Soto felt skinny fingers clutch his throat; he gasped and sank in silent slumber. His wife and children were then struck down ; leaving only the gold and the legend as a proof of a previous people, that lived in luxurious wealth and leisure long before. 81 TO THOMAS A. EDISON Master ^bite mechanic mind ; The essence of all solving thought Accumulates in thee, That wondrous mind, And, Oh, that face, Has often brought to me For hours and hours. Most pleasant thought. And joyous contemplation; No other face the world o*er, Of living men today, Expresses half so much As that of Edison. Your memory now lives, And always will live, Thru all humanity, Because of all you give. Of multi-thousand things, Which helps posterity. Oh, wondrous mind, O wondrous face ; I cannot find A single place. Half high enough from which to sing thy praise ! TO CHOPIN. (No. 1.) Far off beyond the distant skies. From sun to sun, from star to star. The throbs of mighty music swell Like pulse of grand ethereal bell Till all the harmonies that are Vibrate beyond where last light dies. 82 Far off supreme the master nods, And great pulsations wander forth And hold in spell the mystic Gods, Till wondrous melody there rings So full of sweetest sadness sings That Nature and the Gods away All answer with a sob for aye. Tho masters come and masters die And join the throng beyond the sky. They all bow low, approach him slow, (The master of them all they know) And lowly kneel, while thus, they hear The sweetest mel6dy of love Float forth from this poetic seer To glide beyond all space above And move the universe to tears. TO RUBENSTEIN Could I have only heard just once The grand pulsations of your soul, I could have held my restless self And reached the grand ethereal goal. If I had come beneath your spell, I could have been well satisfied To dwell in solitude and peace. But on I flee — for you have died. 83 NEAR THE SEA Far down the hill past cypress tree The sparkles of sunlight shine Like flashing diamonds on the btine — Upon the green-blue sea. The mists where ocean meets the sky- Are glowing with a silver gold, And all the seething sea waves hold The deep blue of the sky. The clutching billows crash and pound Against the crouching rocky crags, And green sea-weed behind them lags, And vacant caves resound. How soft the sea breeze whispers by. And while thus speaking soft and low Caresses me while passing slow, And leaves me with a sigh. HOMO ET NATURA The greatest book will ne'er be made , And put upon a printed page To rot and mould in moments few; The greatest book was writ and laid, Upon the rocks through age on age. And will a thousand ages new. The greatest music ne'er will be Heard in a hall by concert light. And made by mortal small and weak; The greatest world symphony Will always be the wind at night, The birds, and when the Tree tops speak, 84 When softly swayed by Ijreeze at morn, The brook soft singing in the spring, The patter of the gentle rain, The tinkle of cowbells forlorn, The thunder that the lightnings bring, And crickets in the spring-time grain. The greatest chimes o'er all the Earth Will ne'er be found in belfry tower. Will ne'er be in cathedral found; The greatest chimes, of greatest worth Is Ocean, which by hour on hour Gives forth its grand sonorous sound. The sweetest, most religious light Will ne'er be found 'neath stained-glass pane In old cathedral built of yore ; Between the hours of day and night Does glory of Heaven on Earth hold reign, And will a thousand ages more. The greatest sermon ever heard Will ne'er be preached within four walls. And by one learned in his creed; The desert speaks without a word, And to the way-worn traveler calls More deep than priest will ever read. 85 WHY The Earth moves on and rolls itself With wfondrous rhythm o'er and o'er And has a thousand million years And will a thousand million more ; If you should die would Earth weep tears And thus bewail your loss as I? When ^eat men die the Earth moves on And night still follows after day; Are not the Romans dead and gone, Have not the Greeks long passed away? The heartless Ocean grinds and groans Along its ever-changing shores; Kingdoms rise and kingdoms fall And Ocean doesn't care at all. Race after race of man goes by And just as certain each one falls. Still rolls the Earth, still chimes the Sea, Still murmur soft the waterfalls; What care the twinkling stars on high? What care the breezes o'er the lea? Fast perish all the beasts that are And all the beasts that are to be ; Still twinkles brightly each sun star And will ten trillion ages new ; The Dinosaurus, Mastodon, And all the crawling things that were By millions in the vast deep blue Of Ocean, have departed, gone; And in the future naught shall stir Upon this planet vast and dead. The restless sea shall move no more ; The Desert shall consume the Sea, And all that were and are to be, While rolls the Earth serenely on And follows Sun its way upon. (What? Where? And Why?) 86 GENTLE RAIN I love the gentle dripping rain That drizzles slowly down on everything With sweeter poetry than breezes sing, While fluid hands caress the window pane. If I were but a Chopin I would try To form a melody so sweetly sung That e*en the raindrops falling from the sky Would stop to mingle with the sounds among ; And flowers drinking in the sweet rain near Would turn angelic faces half around To better catch the magic sounds, and hear; And it would sing so truly wonderful, That once a mortal ever heard a strain It would so deep impress his wondrous brain That he would ne'er forget the tune again, And he would weep whene'er he heard the rain And think great thoughts too deep to put in words ; If I were but a Chopin I would sing ! Oh. how I love to hear the gentle rain When in the early evening I repose Before the brilliance of the dancing fire ; What joy! It is not for me to disclose With clumsy words, 'twould take ethereal lyre. 87 OH, OCEAN! With all the throbbing woe Of times past long ago The moaning of the sea Comes clearly now to me, Brought by the willy-nilly wind Across the waste of sand — Across the salt marsh land. The ships of Spanish main Sink in the sea again. And upward goes the wail Of soldiers of the sail, The white caps skip across the crests Of weaves, and laugh and play, But secrets ne'er give 'way. Oh ! countless millions moan With never-ending groan Along the breaker line With never yet a sign To rest their weary souls within The deep, and quick forget The fate with which they met. Again the Norsemen sail Before the pounding gale. Across the unknown seas With sturdy Norseman ease ; They land in countries far away There only to explore. Then off for home once more. Far thru the centuries I hear, brought by the breeze. The never ending story Of Ocean's heartless glory; The ever moaning wail along The shore with sadness throbs In grand majestic sobs. 88 Thru age and age long past, Ere time of sail or mast, Has Ocean clutched and claimed With jealous greed untamed The ever countless millions who Have roamed the wilderness . In utter joyousness. Each rock in every land Was clutched in Ocean's hand And thrown about the shore In some age long before The savage beasts of sylvan wild Roamed forth to prey upon Gigantic Mastodon. The millions wailing in The breakers' muffled din Are calling now for me To join them in the sea; With magic soothing sweetness seem To call with grand profound Deep pathos, all around. I shudder and grow cold, Spell bound, while voices hold Me with their wondrous chant, Vd join them, — but I can't Persuade myself to yield unto Their call ; but still within Mel hear: "Enter in." 89 MY DREAM PIANIST (To Alec W. Anderson.) Swinging, — swaying, — back and on, From the shades of Chaoty; Comes a shimmer like a fawn. Seen in woodland gaiety. Shimmers waver, then grow strong. And then golden light discloses; One that plays a mystic song. On a misty seat reposes. With a movement soft and slow. When the haze again is parted; From the fairest fingers flow. Such sweet sounds as never started From a mortal's hands before ; Up they glide, then high repose. Like perfume that evermore Haunts above the red, red rose. Now the music murmurs sweet, Telling how the planets glide; How the stars are quick and fleet To move across the wide Long gaps of ether spaces; How that mystery abides In all queer and vacant places; Now the murmur circling glides. Now the hands are skipping fast: — How the grass in meadows sway ; Bright, clear brooks are flowing past To the rivers far away ; Thru the creeping veils of mist, Lighted up with golden haze ; Come sweet lays of fingers kist,* Memories of bygone days. 90 Is it now that echoes play, From the w^lls of mist and dark? Now the echoes die away, Like the raptured soaring lark. From the song of soundlessness. Swells again the beautious lay, With the sounds of nothing less. Than the joys of yesterday. Music floW3 with all sweet sounds, That ever touched a mortal's ear; At the seat one sways and bounds. Playing strains that angels hear. Mists around wrap all from sight, And the sounds collect each other; But again there bursts out light, And there issues yet another. # « * * 4> * Sounds grow dim and lights repose. For the lights and sounds are fleet, Still the ebon shades disclose. One that sways — while tones repeat. Swinging, — swaying, — back and on. Now the sounds themselves repress; And the lights fade and are gone. Through a gap of nothingness. 91 THE FOUNTAIN On still and starry night, 0*er near yon cypress tree, A star reflects its light, On drops of mercury — On drops of mercury So seem those drops to be As vanish in the darkness whence they sprung, They sing in revelry! While playing with the harp notes merrily My heart strings ring as ne'er before were rung. Yon tinkling tones ethereal, Even as yon starlight ray. Rise in murmurs lyrical. Till most gaudy breaks the day. n From shadowy dusk of garden walks. While rises the moon above the hedge, The fountain in musical laughter mocks The darkest of shadows by garden edge. Gently a breeze Sifts thru the trees, Singing a song of harmonies ; Loitering here In moonlight clear Musically playing within its sphere. The fountain is bubbling joy; The perfume of roses is everywhere ; A lone star struggles straight over head To send just one ray to the garden there. A breeze in the trees: The moon's mellow light; A fountain to dance V And sparkle all night, 92 And sing *mid perfume Of roses; perchance A ray of lone star; For you, all of these, And I — if you please, For you. My love. And I. III The lightning cuts the storm-swept sky, Which with the earth seems void and black, While flashing blinds the human eye, Or if not turned toward the flash, Paints all behind in dazzling hue; Then thunder rolls and seems to smash The Universe; with crash on crash. The whole air shakes, and all the earth ; With still no clue — To hesitate; The fountain bubbles black. And sparkles blackness; And singing, makes no sound ; And shaking still, the ground Shakes fountain brink. TO WILLIAM WENDT All Nature glows with sweetest smiles And kindles fast love's smouldering fires And all the painter's past desires To do still better she inspires. Her humblest and sincerest child ; He learned from her, and still will learn As long as love within him burn He will not from his tutor turn To seek another in the wild. 93 What e'er it be the brush portrays; Of hills, or mountains, field or stream. In draughtsmanship he stands supreme ; Accomplishes what others dream. And in each composition lies The most exquisite of design. All intertwined superbly fine With wonderfully rhythmic line, Till all description it defies. But greater than these virtues told Is all the wondrous harmony Of colors, for his poetry To his greatness is the key ; The giant of the age he stands. The wondrous master that he is, A most poetic soul is his. While paints he most poetic lands With brush and palette in his hands. AT LAGUNA The rocky caverns issue forth a muffled roar, And wearily do to the waves complain; While circling seagulls squawk as higher up they soar; And there beneath the rocks the crabs yet reign. Where waters washing up and back all white with foam Which sparkles fast away the dusky gloom That seems to so enshroud the cliffs' high tw'ry dome. And dark, harsh rocks that from the waters loom. Up and back, up and back, Up and back they go ; Down they slide, up they glide. Western breezes blow; Over the rocks and ridges, Rippling fast you know ; Washing up under the bridges. Made by the sea long ago. 94 Wave each wave is chasing, All of them are racing — Up the sand where sands are found, Over the rocks where rough the ground, 'Gainst the cliffs with thund'rous sound, Over themselves, and then around — Back to come up again ; — Back to come up again. YELFENSO Far out across the paling hills, With accent long and low. There comes a distant sound that trills Above the breeze's blow; And swells the scented air and fills The valley with its flow ; Until the throbbing echoes sound. With accents falling all around. Then bounding from the grassy ground — It rises slowly higher, higher. Up toward the sunset's fire. And with sound of fading lyre. Sails on toward the brightening stars ! I've heard that sound at evening time When softly hums the breeze ; And oft it lifted with a rhyme. That glided thru the trees; Then up the hillside it would climb, And all the shrubbery seize ; And shake their leaves both to and fro. And up and down, divinely slow, Until it made them vibrate so That all the birds ceased their sweet singing. To listen to the accents ringing, And rustle to the leaves' slow swinging, — Till slowly died the evening song. 95 I love that sound that late of day. Comes soft and sweet to me ; That trill that comes across the way And floats down o'er the lea ; I wish that it could always stay, And vibrate in that key ; But ah ! too soon it slowly dies And sails toward the fading skies, • And now the echo but replies, To my sad heart so dull and broken, While I give up my only token, — My love — to those sweet accents broken,- That linger in my memory. SHADY NOOKS Far o*er in the shadow'y trees' deep shade, Is where I like to repose; On the fresh green grass, near moss and fern, By the vine of the sweet wild rose. Where the rustling leaves sing a lullaby And the birds' sweet notes float down ; And the "bossy cows moo" in the pastures by, In a sweet and soothing tone. By the little green twigs where the lichens grow, And the spider spins afar; Where the busy bee hums around below. By the queenly shooting star. Where the butterfly comes a-flitting in, From out the bright sunshine, And a sunbeam comes a-knitting in, In a dancing brilliant line. 96 By the cricket's twer so soft and sweet; And the black ant's silent tread; With a tuft of ^ass down at my feet, And a cushion of grass at my head ; And thus I lie with all things by, And every woodland sound; With nothing nigh to cause a sigh In the whole wide world around. Till sinks the sun in the western sky, And the rustling leaves are still ; Oh ! who would miss a joy like this For memory's silent rill! TO MME. ELLEN BEACH YAW. (Her Singing) 1913. Echo! Echo! fall thou hither, Bringing back those accents long; Do not let them wither, wither — Bring once more to me the song! Louder — softer — sweeter — lower — , Soaring up into the sky! Sadder — higher — upward — slower — , Now they float down from on high. Lifting — waving — dancing ever — , To and fro, and up, and on; Winging up — , and on forever. With the movement of a fawn. Now they follow one another ; Now they waver with delight; Now they sail on — and farther, Higher! — higher! out of sight. 97 Fainter — , fainter — , they are growing, Mystic — , magic — , wonderful; Rippling faster, ever flowing. Passing the most beautiful. Echo ! Echo ! fall thou hither, Bringing back those accents long; Do not let them wither — , wither — , Bring once more to me the song! A PAINTER'S SONG "I painted a scene when the hills were green, And the clouds were yellow as gold ; From sparkles of dew to far hills that were blue, There was mystery fold on fold. "A soft golden haze was sifting in rays. All over the meadow and trees; And made the whole glow, as the sun would on snow. In a biting and wintry breeze. **A man came to look and the canvas he took. For a sum that was light in my hand ; He went fast away with the canvas that day. And disappeared out of the land. ******** "And still my soul yearns, and yet my heart burns. For canvas, and paint, and a brush ; I know I could draw a scene without flaw. And the cruelest of critics would hush. "The canvas I sold for a small piece of gold, I know is now watched by a saint; But another I fear I shall never draw here. For poverty stops my paint — For poverty stops my paint!" 98 THE WIZARD— OLD BALDY When the sun with his head of blazing red, Is sinking in the west, And o'er the dome of the fathomless sky, Flinging yellows and reds in quest Of the clutching fingers of night that ply In the east *neath the floor of the Earth ; When the valley is full of hush, and is still, Save the tinkling of worldly mirth, And the meadow lark over the hill ; Then at a dizzy and princely height. Stands the Wizard of old in his blanket cold, Majestic, — serene, — and white. The clouds float 'round o'er yon rough ground. And creep from pine to pine ; Across ravine in form serene, They sail in noisless line; From rock to rock they clutch and screen Thy view from all below; From time to time the sun bursts thru. And melts thy mists to show To those down there where cold winds blew Through-out the frosty night; O'er thy proud breast of snow hard prest. Majestic, — serene, — and white. You stand way up and often sup The snow from out the clouds ; When they around you heave and bound. In rolling feathery shrouds. Down from your top so kingly crowned Are three long fuiTows wide, That start up near your rounding cheeks. And cut far down your side. You tower above yon other peaks. We marvel at the sight; With all your crags and pine-tree snags. Majestic, — serene, — and white. 99 In days of yore and long before The white man tarried here ; Along the coast without a boast There plodded year on year, The fathers old to make the most Of all men they could find; They came not after things to sell, Nor gold that could be mined; They came out here to save from hell. And teach the red men right; While you stood by with head up high. Majestic, — serene, — and white. In olden days of Bret Harte lays. When miners roamed the land; And those most bold would hunt for gold Along the desert's sand ; When they would suffer heat and cold. And almost starve to death ; And live in lonely mountain place Until their one last breath : Then you stood up with wrinkled face. And rugged limbs of might. As watchman o*er the valley's floor — Majestic, — serene, — and white. When gold was gone and man was done With all such luck and strife ; He spread below the melted snow And led a different life. He planted slowly, row on row Across the watered sand, Of living gold, and gardens wide. And brightened up the land. And now the sunbeams gaily ride About the valley bright, Which was once sand. But still you stand Majestic, — serene, — and white. 100 When sun is high up in the sky, And fills the world aglow ; Then gardens spread with oranges red Across the plains below ; From hills on south to mountain's shed, They stretch in endless line ; And east, and west in valleys run ; In liquid bright sunshine ; Then back of all and finely spun With World's daily light. You stand up gay in bright array — Majestic, — serene, — and white. Along across, when sun's emboss Has faded fast away. And all the breeze and hushes seize The Valley's silent lay; Then slowly creep from bloom to leaves. To bloom again — and then. Such spasm's of perfume float 'round That charm both beasts and men ; While far above the scented ground, *Tis not for scent but sight ; From rock to rock thy snows o'erlock Majestic, — serene, — and white. Man comes along with Triumph's song. To arid places here ; And water guides across the wide Dry valleys far and near ; And all around you hear him chide: "What wonders have I done." But if you were not snowy crowned. He could not so have won. He changes all the plains around. And sometime wins the fight; But o'er the range you do not change, Majestic, — serene, — and white. i J\' i \ 101 Man struts and stares and has no cares, And puffs his chest up high ; Points here and there with hand in air, And bluffs: ''How great am I!" But only wait until future fare When earth is growing cold. And one last man stands on a crag, Trying his life to hold ; Then you stand up. Eternal's flag. And smile at the sight; Ah ! you have won o'er all his fun, — Majestic, — serene, — and white. As long as Sun his course does run, As he has run of yore ; As long as Moon at night's dark noon. Shines as she has before ; As long as Ocean beats his tune. Upon the caves and sand; As long as Rivers wend their way Across the lengthy land ; As long as Night comes after Day ! You at a dizzy height. Will tower and frown, with brilliant crown. Majestic, — serene, — and white. 102 LOVE Who has a perfect soul? Me? Not I. Who in this world old Cannot die? Love has a perfect soul, Above all, Else in the world whole. Can but fall. True love of other loves, Cannot die; It does as peace doves. Flies on high. All earth is full of love, Everywhere ; In the valleys, up above, Here and there. I love the grasses green. Trees and birds; With a love none has seen Put in words. Each petal of a flower I love too ; Each fern, every bower; Do not you? Every house ; street ; town ; Seem to me — One row of loves off down, To the sea. Every shell, rock, wave. That I see, Look as if they gave Love to thee. 103 THE HAUNTING TRAIL Ha! Ha! just wait *till work' is done, You'll see your Uncle pack his freight For parts that are to you unknown; You'll see him go, and he'll not wait For grass to grow along his trail. If you should hap' by chance to be Up in some cool and cozy camp, And see your Uncle passing, free From all the cares of bygone days; Then you will know the reason why He's pitched his tent where pine tree sways. If you should ask your Uncle why He hangs around up there alone ; He'd grin from ear to ear and say : **I love to hear the pine trees moan, And wail unto the wierd moon, that Shoots with ghastly beams at midnight. And makes the sad sepulchral tones. More sad because of its dim light; I love to glide like spirit thin. And dance across a moon-lit space, Then dart back into shades again. "I love to climb among the crags. That rear their hardy heights To buffet everlasting time ; The huge grey cliff that fights The piercing of the wailing wind. And freezing of the winter's snow ; The water-fall that slips its silvery self From moss and fern, to moss and fern below, I love to wander near in solitary mood, And with my solitary self, — But for the spirit of the lonely wood." 104 A WANDERER'S SONG When I sit around the fire, In the shadow of the pines, And I hear the hoot owl hooting up on high ; And the misty moon up higher With her countless silver lines. Shines so ghastly thru the needles from the sky; Then my thoughts of ancient ages Come upon my vacant mind. When the pine trees 'neath whose shadows now I bow; Were the seeds of olden sages Who this shore then must have lined And so whispered like the pines about me now. Ah ! the ages past do grip me, And they tremble me with awe. All the times that ever have been here-to-fore ; How the grandeurs of them ship me Back beyond man's trifling law. To the eons that have washed up long before. Oh ! how weary, yet not lonely In the solitudes am I, Far from man of any kindred race or kind ; And I stretch my body bonely 'Neath the pine trees standing by, So that I may better use my pensive mind. Ah ! the fire bums so brightly In the dusky shadows 'round And the blue smoke twines about the lazy air; And the resin oozes slightly From the pine-knots on the ground As the fire slowly burns them lying there. Up still higher climbs the thin smoke Where it soon will disappear. And the flickering fire flashes high, — then low ; While the deepest shadows' heads poke, From the pines so ghastly near, As the fire's blazes waver to and fro. 105 When the rushing, foaming' river Rumbles loud along its shore, And the foam is dashing high with ringing glee; And the pine trees slightly quiver As they have since days of yore, Then my olden first-bomed thoughts come back to me; Ah ! the moon*s soft ancient halo That around her runs tonight In the mists that hang about her flawless form; Makes me think when I would lay low, With my mother in my sight. In my inner eyeless sight, while raged a storm. Do I see her face now beaming In the dreary moon-lit mist, With a moon-like halo floating *round her head? Is it true or am I dreaming? Ah ! my brain has been moon-kist. For it cannot be my mother — she is dead. Far from the distant heights there's falling, One great landslip — hear it slide ! From the rocky heights above the river's edge ; Hear the echoes! Hear them calling? Of the crashing rocks they chide. As they bound and rebound on from ledge to ledge. Now the pines take up the chanting As the clatter dies away, From pine to pine the murmur leaps along; • While the moon-beams still a-slanting. Dance again and lightly play, To the music of the fairies' soundless song. Sink I now into a slumber For the hour's growing late. And the fire's golden embers softly glow; And the sandmen without number All about me stand and wait, For me silently to sink in dreamland, slow. 106 DREAMING Dreaming, dreaming, drifting along in a dream. Drifting, drifting, drifting along on a stream ; Drifting in shades and in shadows. Gliding through mystified meadows, — Swaying, swinging, gliding along on the breeze. Now under low weeping willow, Always with mist for a pillow ; Dreaming ,dreaming, dreaming of all things that are Guiding, guiding, guiding our dream with a star; Into infinity passing. Watching the mists in clouds massing ; Dreaming we — wend, dreams without end ; — Dreaming, ever dreaming. —BUT ALL OF US ANGELS ARE Some of us are good, some of us are bad, But all of us angels are ; For the best of the good are as bad as the bad. As it's bad to be good without mar; And the worst of the bad are as good as the good, For they to themselves are true. They do from their heart and do as they would. And they number with those of the few That blame not the bad because they are bad, And these are one class that there be ; And there are the good ; the both good and bad ; And these are all that we see. If the good of the world are angels true. Or sometime are to be ; Then the worst of the bad are angels too, For the good are the worst of the three. We are all to blame for what everyone does, 107 So we are as bad as they ; Then why should a few so eternally buzz, Of their goodness from day to day? We are from All, tho great or small. And to All we again shall return ; Tho you think you are big, you are only a prig And as low as the lowest you spurn. The good are as bad as any we meet. And worse than most that we know, For it's a sin to sit in an angel's seat, In this world of work and woe; It's the worst we can do as good to poese. The worst of hypocrisy; Why some of us do it God only knows, It's not for you or for me ; The worst of us do not follow the fad. And are the truest of all by far; i Some of us are good, some of us are bad, BUT ALL OF US ANGELS ARE! IN THE HEART OF THE HEARTLESS Worn out, — far off, — alone, — I sink upon the sand ; I'm hungry to the bone. And now I cannot stand ; All day the sun has shone And beat me down until I sink down limp, and still. With long drawn moan I hear the tone Of wailing locomotive far Away across the desert hills. And maddest sadness fills My body with a pang; the star Of evening just begins to twinkle in The brilliant light along the west; 108 While all around the silence once again Is broken by that long-drawn, whining groan Which makes a heaving of the lonely breast And makes the hungry heart refuse to rest. While in the distance dies the lone last wail, It seems to thus embody all the woe Of thousands who have died along the trail Across the desert, many years ago ; Or seems the profound pathos to contain Of failing swan-song of a dying race ; Or of the maddening chill Where silences obtain And sweep the failing mind Into a world insane, In some lone frigid and deserted place; Or like the desert moaning of the past; Or like the Universe in wailing song Asks how, and where, and why itself must last Without an end, down through the ages long, Oh, but it's hell to be hungry And have a desire to die ; Then hear the fast express. With moaning heartlessness. Far over the hills go by. How ghastly it is to hear That long last weeping moan When hungry to the bone, And never shed a tear While the night creeps over the sky. Oh ! but it's hell to be hungry. And have a desire to die! 109 OF LATE Oh! God! my friends fade fast away, And all at once I stand alone; Forsaken, shunned, and forfeited To buffet worldly ways and moan. With all the things earless save the wind That shrieks and howls thus to impel More hopeless things upon my mind, And lead me on a little spell To Violence! But yesterday I had my loves, And went as they with joy and hope; Where have they fled ! What demon shoves Me out into the world to cope With all its hardships friendlessly? And stumbling therein all alone I fall, I sink, so endessly, Dowii! Down! for I have flown To Recompense! My friends have friendless cast me by, I saw them truly as they were; They knew me not, and laughed my sigh To ridicule; and when a blur Of precious tears burnt down my cheek In pity of their faithlessness — They smiled, and left me there to reek, And writhe, and moan, so powerless To Renovate. My pomp and power of yesterhour Have left me pityless and poor; The best of friends has, like a flower Its petals shed to give no more; — Shed all its brilliant faith and truth. That clothed the inner self about — And left a phantom in the youth Of wickedness, all — wreathed about With Evil's garb! 110 FAREWELL Can walls resound with laughter of the past, Can stones relate the things of days gone by? Can speech cling longer than the echoes last And call forth gently to the passer-by? Yea, great walls crumble in the mills of Time, Fall slowly down to the receiving ground ; But from their withering forms there comes a rhyme That floats out gently on the breeze around ; They slowly part with all the views they saw. And tell the tales of all the woes and joys Of man, as he passed with his pith and straw, And blaring trumpets, and his gaudy toys. We cannot hear the tales of a town, Deserted long ago by men of old ; We cannot hear the voices, floating down From crumbling ruins, tell the tales untold. As long as we are thus, we cannot hear These lengthy tales of long ago ; These voices speak to but the meatless ear, And here we listen but we do not know. How long will future men assembled here, Have knowledge that we once were in these halls; Or will they care that we once left a tear, When we departed from these brooding walls? Do you have knowledge of the men of yore. Who stood, and danced, and sang, where you now stand? You do not care what happened here before You trod your trail across the trackless sand ! And it will be but just a moment^s time Till you and I will quickly be forgot; We leave this place without a drum or chime, Our places fill with others, we are not! Remember when you tripped so joyously. To learn your numbers, and to read a book ; Where are the friends you daily used to see ? Ill To find them now, where would you have to look? The children in your school to you are new, They walk within that treadmill with their friends; All that the school has knowledge now of you Is all within your mental odds and ends. We have no knowledge of the here-to-fore. We have no eye to see the here-to-after; We only see that others were before. And look ahead with sorrow and with laughter. We cannot help a mite that which we are, As far as we are physically concerned ; We cannot look back in the darkness far. And see the light which we know must have burned. We only faintly in the mists ahead. Discern what those to follow are to be ; When everything is done and all is said. We are slaves of present — cannot flee. It is not our fault that we are here. The wonder is that we are here at all; And there is nothing for o\ir souls to fear, We can do either; we can rise or fall; If we rise up and gain all human heights. We glitter here a moment — quickly fade ; If down we fall while looking t'ward the lights. There is no mocking by the vacant shade. SALAMANDER Red salamander I, Bred in a pool close by, Living from day to day. Giving where e'er I go (In my aquatic way) 'Kin to a candle's glow, A touch of color there May make dark waters fair. With joy I swim. Give light to dim, dark pools. 112 LIFE'S EPITOME I Song of Matter Changing ever in a grand ethereal cycle (The watch-word of the Universe is change) Each element where e'er it may exist Has countless times been circled thu the range Of combinations with other elements; Each one has been a solid, fluid, gas, And for eternal times will quickly pass On thru these same conditions o'er and o'er. Tho some are kncwh as solids on the earth And seem as tho, now, they shall always be, The passing time will be but moments few, While figuring into infinity, When this small sphere again will turn to gas, Fulfilling astronomical cycle, pass On to repeat the process o'er once more. Of all the matter in the endless space, Extending in a never ceasing sphere. Not one small atom (which may ne'er be seen) Will e'er be lost, nor will it ever fear Of being e'er destroyed. For it will ever be as it has been. Base matter knew ho youth in ages old, For backward goes into infinity And it shall know no age, thru times untold Which come beyond the times that are to be. II Song of Youth Dancing with the merriest laughter sweet Upon small, dainty and shapely feet There glides a spirit — Or 'twould seem As tho, in some ethereal dream — 113 Far up the meadow land away When sun is low in early day. Ha! All is joy And all is light, Perfume so sweet, Breeze to delight, Birds winging fleet Sweet cooings low Of wooing dove Professing love In accent slow. How dew drops shine On spider webs. And tendrils twine, And leaflets shake And shimmer in the sun, , While bubbles run And sparkle on the rill; As onward flits The figure up the hill. Ha! Ha! Oh, joy! How sweetly sing The world of birds And everything. With fleeting dance. While tresses float As if by chance. Behind white throat. She flutters in the dell. Ha! Ha; Ho! Ho! Where tresses flow From beaming face Glowing from race In balmy place. There racing let me go! 114 III Sons: of Age On finger aged, and grey, and blue, With veins of sluggish oozing blood, There shines — On finger wrinkled, showing well the marks of time. And stiffened for the lack of youth's vitality, There gleams — On finger shrunken and near void of warmth And with each passing day obtaining more of cold. There glows — A sparkling diamond glittering brilliantly. So clear and beautiful, Symbol of purest love It dances, sparkling forth its joy In radiant flashes all around The trembling finger grey. Sparkling of youth, (Forth from a faded skin) Sparkling of bygone days, (As only on such a finger can) Sparkling of joy, and hope, and love, (On wrinkles that tell of woe) Sparkling of loved ones long since gone, (On finger ready to go) The diamond glitters, and gleams, and glows So bright, and only such a finger knows How bright a stone can shine. Fading finger, Glittering stone. Blood-drops linger, 'Gainst the bone ; Soon there will be All alone Diamond dancing. 115 (Finger flown) Shining still As it has shone. IV Song of the Soul Love, Everything is love ; All that ever has been in the past, And to be in the future, is but love ; Each atom speaks of love, Each sun-star beams with love, And all the infinite Universe Is singing infinite love. Love was from the first — Will be to the last— For all of the All is love. THE MAN WITH THE HOE It's the man with the hoe that cuts the weeds. It's the man that works all day ; It's the man you know by his humble deeds. That's the man of men today. So hail the man that grinds along. Shout loud with cap in air; Come on you can, join in the song. Hail the man with the hoe over there ! It's the man with a hoe and his sleeves rolled up, It's the man with his elbows bare ; It's the man I show with a dripping cup, Whom I hail with cap in air. He's a man with heart, it's a heart of gold ; As true as the sky is blue ; So let us start, now shout out bold : "Here's a man that's really true." 116 NOW Ha! ha! some solely seek to gain A paradise of endless reign ; But as for me I daily find A paradise around me twined; With all their thoughts on future bliss This paradise around them miss; While I in wondrous glory dwell, They deem the pi-esent merely hell. What e*er I do, where e'er I be, I make my paradise for me. I greet each day with joy and love As some folks hope to do above ; Each hour passing thru the day I force to glorify my way, And make my daily paradise. And if there is some planned device Where we shall dwell in endless peace I know that I, when I decease. Shall be there too amid the mass Which will the pearly portals pass. The future takes care of its own. And e'en if I am all alone In hills, or mountains, or near the sea, ril make my paradise for me. BEAUTY If everyone could only see. The beauty hid in every tree, And flower, and every person, too, How pleasanter this world would be For everyone, and you, and me. 117 TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Fve never seen the golden sun Light shining upon perpetual spring In far off tropic isles ; or run Of breakers chasing up the reef, And slippery rocks, where caverns sing With chanting song beyond belief; But I will see I've never stood on mossy crag That overlooks the brilliant sea To watch the greens and purples lag Beyond the foam of breaker line, And dazzling emerald of lagoon Flecked o'er with blues and pinks that shine ; But I will stand I've never heard the breezes sing Among the palms, and all the vines That to the tropic tree-trunks cling. Or all the buzzing insects hum Past flowers in clusters or in lines, And warbling birds a-flitting come; But I will hear I've never sailed from isle to isle, On swelling bosom of the deep To see the mellow sunlight smile On waving palms, and coral growth, And all the golden vapors creep From hill to hill along the steep ; But I will sail For very early in July Of nineteen-twenty-five I will Pack up my trunk and bid good-bye To my home land I love so well, (Provided I am living still) 118 And come down there to where you dwell ; And I will come Your spirit has been calling me, And I will yield unto the call; ril pack my rags and put to sea, And with your spirit roam the isles; And with my heart, and soul, and all, Succumb unto the tropic wiles; While I am there! YOU OR I? With clanging bells, and honk on honk Of horns along the gaudy street. And shrieks and shouts and newsy yells And clatter of a thousand feet Along the walk; still louder grates And floats uncanny o'er the noise An old discordant violin. With hustle and a rustle pass The people in a throbbing mass And only one in all that host So much as turns his head aside To see the figure ('most a ghost) Which scrapes and groans with ghastly tune ; And that one stopped near, ere he spied Between the mass of moving feet The old man begging for his meat. With old torn hat, and rags a-hanging 'round His juicy whiskers all tobacco browned. He crouches low against the granite stone So near to passing hundreds, yet alone, He draws the bow with awful tone ; And with his strength near petrified 119 He uses what is left to wield the bow For nourishment long since ill satisfied. The mass still moves with clapping shoes The whistles blow, the news-boys shriek, The one stands by with hand at eye To brush away the tears that leak ; The one bows low — as he must go — His own lone way with visage meek. A hole in hat, a rag around, And whiskers all tobacco browned And slimy with the dusky ooze. And violin beneath the heap; As stone to stone, against a stone. Are they and wall there all alone ; With ne'er a break no watch they keep. IN MEMORIAM We all are beckoned forth by gracious hand. To serve each other in this world old ; We all are gathered from ethereal sand. And ushered in with lust'rous clouds of gold. Our bodies move about for bits of time, And trip the light fantastic, or perchance We plod with sullen step, whose ancient rhyme. Will always thrust some of us in a trance. When all the world is filled with light of sun, . That slants across the grassy meadows near. And all of us are filled with joyous fun. We never do detect a lurking fear. When all the tinkling stars are shining bright, Reminding us — the Maker and His work; 120 How can we thrust upon our dimly sight, The dangers that around our bodies lurk? When slowly sinks the moon with paling light, And tints with ghastly haze the things we see ; Then does the creepy feeling of the night Thrust on us all the dangers that there be. This moving sod that shuns ethereal things, Must sometime cease its moving to and fro; Then out that ever eternal spark soon swings, Up on — and on — and on — we hardly know. When one poor soul is treading all alone The prickly pear of life with all its tears; There is no one his parting to bemoan. And write down in a book his useful years. But after all what is there to a book? No more than mite of time can it endure ; The single men that look about us look For more, but they can't find it to be sure. What care we if man write us not with words? What care we if Oblivion marks us well? We live between but two eternities, And must pass on with tolling of the bell. What difference does it make if we do die And perish on the scorching desert sands? What difference does it make if we do lie. And feel the breezes of the buzzard's fans? What care we if we die on mountain peak. Where thrashing silence beats the slipp'ry air? What care we — if the coyotes slowly sneak Upon our deaf, dumb, bodies lying there? 121 Will living in a palace when you die. Project your soul into ethereal space? Can that remove the glass from out your eye, Or help increase the speed of soul's slow pace? May not the man that dying there afar, Have not as great a soul as one 'mong men? Just being there alone, how can that bar. That soul from going back where it began? We all must shine a little season here, Then must grow dim and vanish in the night ; Then slowly slip from out our bodies sheer. And go once more to Heaven's glorious light. One evening when the sun was sinking low. And flooded everything with golden light; The sun — it set his living soul aglow. And took away the dread of coming night. And more than once when all the stars were out. He sat and gazed at them in solemn thought; And all that interests man he dreamed about; And worked on plans — the way they should be taught. For years he watched many an ethereal ring, And gazed on them in solemn sacred awe; He heard the orbs their wond'rous music sing. And others were the wonders that he saw. And now — the elements have struck him low. The very ones he studied when at school ; As if in fierce revenge they did it so. Why could they not have struck some vacant fool? Thus runs the world upon its dreary rim, And takes us through the years one by one ; 122 We daily sing our everlasting hymn, The sickly song of sadness on — and on. And all about us our friends hum this tune, Pretty laughter sings it and some know it not ; And never reaches man unto his noon. Without he casts, and draws his dreary lot. As long as loud humanity rolls *long, This sad hum above all it will be heard ; Forming the misty notes of mystic song — But never shall it form a single word. When two friends meet upon the gap of time, And each must turn toward his separate way; Then must the song of sadness hum his rhyme. While they embrace to meet some distant day. The world is growing more sad and wonderful ; And everyone does sing to everyone The song of sadness in its measure full, Tho he may think he*s singing all alone. It is not all in vain ; so we should do All that we can to help the world along. And help our friends while we are passing thru, And cheer them up with all our joyous song. HIS MAJESTY With a "Rah-ta-ta", and a sharp '*Car-hoo"— Out from the woods the old owl calls; And you can hear it plainly too ; Now a reign of silence falls. By the side of the road, by the side of the fence, You will hear the sharp call and wonder whence Such a lone weird call can issue from ; But I'll tell you where the woods and the slough Combine in one, so murky and wild. You can see the call personified. On the top of a tree sitting calm and mild — Large wide eyed. 123 A PERFECT LAND Far to the west in sunset land, Where the breezes breathe and blow ; Where the running waves creep up the sand, And the white foam follows slow; Where the breakers dash and spray bounds high, On the rock's stern, craggy form ; And the misty clouds across the sky Sweep onward with the storm ; Where the seagulls fly from time to time, Or float upon the waves; And the green crabs crawl about and climb Among the ocean's caves; Where the white seasands stretch far and wide, And the sand dunes roll and heave ; And the sand-piper runs along beside The shells the lusty waves leave ; Far to the western rocky isles Where the palms swing to and fro ; Where the earth is decked with golden smiles, Is the place I want to go ! WHERE BALDY REIGNS IN PEACE Did you ever see when you traveled free. In the land of light and sun ; Out in the Southwest by the sea ; Where the world is filled with fun ; Out in the west in Angeles land. Where the Orange trees thrive and grow ; Where the Eucalyptus bows and bends, When the sweet sea breezes blow; Did you ever see when in the train, 124 Sliding along at forty or so, Across the valley bright and gay, Old Baldy white with snow? If you've seen that sight, you may bless your soul. For its the grandest you ever will see ; And it's just as true, as Vm telling you. You can just take that from me ! TO HELEN Oft when I sit at evening time. And watch the sunset's glow. And listen to the breeze's chime In cypress sweet and low ; Of you I think, you know. Oh, Helen! My Helen! When strolling through the meadows wide, Or in the tree's cool shade, I've thought of you and oft have sighed ; The flowers dancing in the glade. For such as you were made, • Oh Helen! My Helen! If I could see your beaming face. For just a little while, When roving but from place to place. Observing Nature's style — Oh ! for just a smile. Oh Helen! My Helen! 125 TO WORK I meet a face upon my way to work Upon its way to daily labor too ; It comes along with bounding rapid gait And passes me so quickly on the street That only for a moment can I gaze Upon the flashing face with which I meet, What kind of work that face may witness each And every day, I only can but guess, But it is something with a daily grind That prints upon that visage hopelessness; I wonder if I too am recognized And contemplated by that face's mind. TO LAUGH OR TO CRY When you don't know whether to laugh or cry I guess it's better to laugh. When your best friend has turned you down And you feel as tho you'll die. And you feel alone in a world of woe And don't know whether to laugh or cry It's better for you to laugh, you know. When all is lost and hope has fled And the world seems plumb insane, And you have a mind you'd better be dead Than suffer heart-breaking pain — And you don't know whether to laugh or cry At the way things go you're passing by, I guess you'll gain if you laugh. Even if to weep seems best to you And the lumps swell up and your throat grows numb. Just swallow the lumps (it's the best to do) And let the rollicking laughter come. 126 POST MORTEM (Inspired by the melody of Chopin's Funeral March.) Tho now I lie with pallid white, crossed hands, And tho I ne'er shall move myself among My friends again, which are so dear to me ; E'en tho the last of all my songs is sung ; Tho ne'er again shall I sit by the sea, Or leave my footprints on the ocean's sands; Tho no more tread among the pasture lands ; Nor sweet repose enjoy the brook beside ; Or sit alone in ancient oak-tree shade ; Tho with the fleeting zephyrs ne'er play hide And seek among the slender poplars tall ; To e'er caress the rose my hand is stayed ; And rollic with the children never more; Tho never shall I do the all, and all. Which always with full love I did before : Tho now I lie with^ pallid^ white, crossed hands, My love will dweWforever with my friends; Why do you weep? Aigl not now with you? There is no need to weep]|3iake amends. Or sob regrets that I amihere no more ; Tho now I lie with pallid white, crossed hands, Still sing I on throughout the Universe ; I'll always murmur with the breaking sea; And ever swish across the pastures by; When babbling fiear the brook, also hear me; And I will spread me where the shadows lie; Tho now I lie with pallid white, crossed hands, I'll ever whisper when the zephyrs sigh Among the leaves where every poplar stands; Forever will I mingle with perfume That e'er shall blend with beauty of the rose ; My play with little children will resume. As over them I hover when they play; I'll still do all my loving spirit knows, Tho now I lie with pallid white, crossed hands. THE END POST SCRIPT Tho now the end is here My love goes on, There is no doubt or fear Where it has gone ; For well I know It shall pervade all space, Tho I know not its pace. It soon shall flow From sun to sun, And with the Universe It shall be one. Tho minute organisms, And leafless mold Each page disintegrate, (Which is its natural fate) And ages old Grow older with the new, Then shall my love Live on, and on, and on — And far above The base destruction of the printed page, Shall reign for times eternal thru an endless age. CHRONOLOGY ME people are interested in knowing the datea when certain works were written. I trust that those who wish to know in this instance will find these pages. The earlier works show the fact that they are such in the lines themselves; but in case such is not recognized the following may clarify the matter. Following are the titles and dates in order of the table of contents: NAME WRITTEN (Apology 1913) Dream Prelude 1918 The Student and the Fly 1917 Paradise 1919 Song of the Marsh 1917 In Desert Winter Wind 1919 Sunset 1918 In Desert Wash 1919 Sierra Sunset 1919 Alone 1919 Unknown 1919 Only a Frog 1918-19 The Devil's Rhapsody 1917-19 Out of the Deep 1918-19 The Legend of "Las Lamas" 1914-15 To Thomas A. Edison 1918 To Chopin 1919 To Rubenstein 1919 Near the Sea 1919 Homo et Natura 1919 Why 1919 Gentle Rain 1919 Oh, Ocean ! 1919 My Dream Pianist 1917 The Fountain 1918 To William Wendt 1919 At Laguna 1917 Yelfenso 1914-17 Shady Nooks 1915-17 To Mme. Ellen Beach Yaw 1913 A Painter's Song 1918 The Wizard — Old Baldy 1916-17 Love 1913 The Haunting Trail 1916 A Wanderer's Song 1916 Dreaming 1917 — But All of Us Angeles Are 1918 In the Heart of the Heartless 1919 Of Late 1916 Farewell 1917 Salamander 1919 Life's Epitome 1919 The Man With the Hoe 1916 Now 1919 Beauty 1914 .... To Robert Louis Stevenson 1919 You or I? 1919 In Memoriam 1916 His Majesty 1916 A Perfect Land 1916 Where Old Baldy Reigns in Peace 1917 To Helen 1918 To Work 1919 To Laugh or To Cry 1919 Post Mortem 1919 Post Script 1917 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO 50 CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO fl.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. YB I 1 966 415572 UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY iii