UC-NRLF 4MV I *KHS U ..MM* **.) TH UNIY6RS1TY Of CALlfORNlA LIBRARY c C5C LIBRIS I** fe* SONGS ABOUT LIFE LOVE AND DEATH * * ** BY ANNE REEVE ALDRICH CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS NEW YORK MDCCCXCIII Copyright, 1892, by CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS NOTE Miss Aid-rich had arranged for the publication of the present collection of her mat urer poems before the beginning of an illness that terminated fatally June twenty-eighth last. With a single exception the volume remains as she left it in her publishers hands. This is the poem entitled "Death at Daybreak" dictated dtiring her illness when she was too weak to hold the pen, and not long before she herself died at the age of twenty -six just before dawn. The title of the volume is her own, though she had ex pressed herself not wholly satisfied with it and had siig- gested another. It has been retained, however, not only because it was hers, but because of its evident felicity in expressing the essential unity of what really is a cycle of spiritually connected lyrics rather than a collection of un related poems. As she said, in speaking of them, they are "chiefly in a minor key" and, whatever their special sub jects, are expressions of closely allied moods. 396042 CONTENTS PAGE A SONG ABOUT SINGING i MY GUERDON 2 Music OF HUNGARY 3 A SUMMER MORNING 5 To A NIGHTINGALE 7 A YEAR 8 A WAYSIDE CALVARY 9 THE PRAYER OF DOLORES 10 AFTER 12 MY PSALM OF THANKSGIVING 13 IN MEMORY OF FATHER DAMIEN 14 MY PERSIAN PRAYER-RUG 15 A STUDY 17 A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE SQUARE 19 WRITTEN BENEATH A CRUCIFIX 23 A PRAYER 24 ART 25 DAYS AND NIGHTS 27 ROYALTY 28 AN EXPERIENCE 29 THE PRAYER OF OCEAN 30 THE MEANING - 31 iv CONTENTS PAGE FRATERNITY 32 FRANCESCA AND PAOLO 33 A CROWNED POET 34 AGONY 35 A PLEA 36 ART AND LOVE 38 MORNING : AN IMPRESSION 39 A WORD TO MY HEART 4 INSOMNIA 4 1 A RHYME OF THE POTTER 4 2 A WORD AT PARTING 43 Two LOST HEROES 44 A MEDIEVAL DEATH-BED . . 45 CRITICISM 49 REFUGE 5 DESOLATION 5 1 RESOLVE 5 2 CHEATED 53 A WOMAN S ADIEU 5 4 SEE-SAW 5 6 A MOTHER S SONG * . 57 THE FLIGHT 5 s ALLEGIANCE 59 UNDERNEATH 60 IMPOSSIBILITY 61 AN EXPLANATION 62 BLACK MAGIC 63 A SECRET 64 CONTENTS v PAGE A MADMAN 5- SUPPLICATION 55 A SONG OF SORROW 67 To A NUN 58 IN PRAISE OF LIFE 6 9 A PRISONER ^ THE ELEVENTH HOUR 72 A SEASON REMEMBERED 73 HOMESICKNESS 74 LET THE DREAM Go 75 DISILLUSION 75 AT A POET S FUNERAL 77 LAST WORDS 7 9 RECOLLECTION 81 OF LATE g 2 SUPPOSE g,, A TRUTHFUL SONG OF AGE 84 APRIL AND DYING g5 LIVES 8 7 FANNY 88 AN OLD REFRAIN 90 LOVE, THE WANDERER 9l SOUVENIRS 93 HARKING BACKWARD 94 RELICS 9 5 LOVE AND LORE 97 A SILENT EPISODE 9 8 THE RING 101 vi CONTENTS PAGE A SONG OF FAITHFUL LOVE I03 J ANE . 104 MODERN DESPAIR Ic8 THE STORY OF A SONG I09 A NINETEENTH-CENTURY REMEDY no A REWARD OFFERED II2 A MODERN ENCHANTRESS u^ DETHRONED jj, A MIDNIGHT RIDE u^ A WAYSIDE WARNING n 6 AN EARLY LOVE REMEMBERED n7 A LITTLE STORY II9 A SONG AT TWILIGHT I22 A CHILD S QUESTIONS I24 To MY DEAREST I2 ^ THE WORLD AND THE POET I2 ; A LITTLE PARABLE I2 g SONG I29 AT NIGHT-TIME T ^ DEATH AT DAYBREAK x^j THE ETERNAL JUSTICE I2 SONGS ABOUT LIFE LOVE AND DEATH A SONG ABOUT SINGING O nightingale, the poet s bird, A kinsman dear thou art, Who never sings so well as when The rose-thorns bruise his heart. But since thy agony can make A listening world so blest, Be sure it cares but little for Thy wounded, bleeding breast! MY GUERDON I stood where gifts were showered on men from Heaven, And some had honors and the joy thereof; And some received with solemn, radiant faces The gift of love. The green I saw of bay-leaves, and of laurel, Of gold the gleam. A voice spoke to me, standing empty-handed, "For thee a dream." Forbear to pity, ye who richly laden Forth from the place of Heaven s bounty went; Who marvel that I smile, my hands still empty I am content. Ye cannot guess how dowered beyond the measure Of your receiving to myself I seem. Lonely and cold, I yet pass on enraptured- I have my dream. MUSIC OF HUNGARY (A ANTON DVORAK) My body answers you, my blood Leaps at your maddening, piercing call. The fierce notes startle, and the veil Of this dull present seems to fall. My soul responds to that long cry ; It wants its country, Hungary ! Not mine by birth. Yet have I not Some strain of that old Magyar race ? Else why the secret stir of sense At sight of swarthy Tzigane face, That warns me : " Lo, thy kinsmen nigh." All s dear that tastes of Hungary. MUSIC OF HUNGARY Once more, O let me hear once more The passion and barbaric rage ! Let me forget my exile here In this mild land, in this mild age; Once more that unrestrained wild cry That takes me to my Hungary ! They listen with approving smile, But I, O God, I want my home ! I want the Tzigane tongue, the dance, The nights in tents, the days to roam. O music, O fierce life and free, God made my soul for Hungary ! A SUMMER MORNING The city night holds no such ghastly hour As that of city dawn, when in the trees The sparrows quarrel, and the pallid light Is ushered in by waves of fetid breeze. The ghosts that filled a burning, sleepless night Draw closer in this livid birth of day, To fix their dreadful faces on my mind Before the August sun melts them away. With brain exhausted and with body worn, And soul too dulled by pain to frame a prayer, I vaguely long for some fresh, dewy land, Yet, ah, my ghosts would follow even there ! 5 A SUMMER MORNING Beneath my window sleep the long gray streets, Still in the heated heaven shines one star. The ashen light grows whiter in its strength, And, though still haunted, O, to be afar, Where morning mists are brooding on some lake, Or on a cool and silvered stretch of lawn ! An outcast in the street below lifts up her face, The incarnation of this city dawn. TO A NIGHTINGALE Sing for me, O my friend, My music will not come, For Love that urges thee to sing Has made me dumb. Sing for us both, O friend, How heavenly-sweet this night, How white the land beneath the moon, How deep, Delight! - Sing for me, O my friend. Thy song from branch above Shall add one rapture more to night, One more to Love ! A YEAR O the brown dead sedge, and the inlet s ice, And the leaning sky s chill gray, And on sea and shore the Autumn, And in heart and soul the May! O the green marsh- grass, and the inlet s blue, And the sky a turquoise scroll, And on sea and shore the Summer, And Autumn in heart and soul! A WAYSIDE CALVARY Its shadow makes a sheltered place All through the burning summer day. There at the foot, secure from sun, The ragged little children play. And in the winter huddled birds Take refuge from the windward side, When driving snows make bleak the plain, And herald holy Christmas-tide. The bleeding Christ that hangs above To bid the passer stop and pray, Smiles through his bitter agony On such small, tender things as they! THE PRAYER OF DOLORES MADRID, 1888 Beneath the grass, I hear them say, Live loathsome things that hate the day, Strange crawling shapes with blinded eyes, Whose very image terrifies. I dread not these: make deep my bed With good black mold round heart and head. But oh! the fear a Thought may creep Down from the world to where I sleep, Pierce through the earth to heart and brain And coil there, in its home again! Father, thou hast the good God s ear, And when priests speak He bends to hear, Say, " Lord, this woman of Madrid Begs, when herself in earth is hid, THE PRAYER OF DOLORES n Her soul s guilt paid for, grain by grain, In throes of purgatorial pain, That Thou her soul wouldst clean destroy; She hath no wish for heavenly joy, But just to be dissolved to Naught, Beyond the reach of any thought. Some sinners dare to beg for bliss, I know my place, and ask but this: That He, who made will then unmake My soul, for His sweet mercy s sake!" AFTER Well, my heart, we have been happy; Let us snatch that from the wreck of things. But when the forest is choked with ashes, While still the flame round its old nest flashes, T is a brave bird sits on a charred limb and sings ! Well, my heart, we have been happy; Doubtless we find another nest. But, though it be softer, one still remembers, And dearer the ruin of blackened embers Than all the peace of a later rest. MY PSALM OF THANKSGIVING That I am one day nearer to the rest Of my small, narrow bed beneath the sod, Where I shall sleep, haply forgetting much, I thank Thee, God. That though the thorns are keen and thickly set Along the path remaining to be trod, My feet are travel-hardened to their wounds, I thank Thee, God. That in the future there can be for me No bitterer scourgings of Thy heavy rod Than I have borne with patience in the past, I thank Thee, God. That this sad road at least must have an end Toward which we weary travelers ceaseless plod,- Oh, most of all, that this sad road must end, I thank Thee, God! 13 IN MEMORY OF FATHER DAMIEN More royal than the miniver of kings The robe of tortured flesh that clothed his soul,- The martyr, reaching out an eager hand To clasp the cup of bitterness and dole. And lo ! we see through tears the signs divine Of sainthood that the ancient tales repeat : Stigmata were the loathsome ulcer- wounds Disease had marked in holy hands and feet! MY PERSIAN PRAYER-RUG Made smooth some centuries ago By praying Eastern devotees, Blurred by those dusky naked feet, And somewhat worn by shuffling knees, In Ispahan, It lies upon my modern floor, And no one prays there any more. It never felt the worldly tread Of smart betimes, high-heeled and red, In Ispahan. And no one prays there now, I said ? Ah well, that was a hasty word. Once, with my face upon its woof, A fiercer prayer it never heard In Ispahan. 16 MY PERSIAN PRA YER-RUG But still I live who prayed that night That death might come ere came the light. Did any soul in black despair Breathe, kneeling here, that reckless prayer In Ispahan ? Perhaps. I trust that Heaven lent A kinder ear than late to me, If some brown ancient, weeping, begged To have his suffering soul set free In Ispahan. I fancy I shall like to meet The dead who prayed here, and whose feet Once made this rich old carpet frayed. Peace to your souls, my friends, who prayed In Ispahan! A STUDY First, Color: hangings of the vital hue Of life-blood, soft to sight the warm, wet red, Broidered with lordly forms in varied silks And curiously wrought with golden thread; The warmth of living color deep and bright To sweetly satisfy the hungry sight. Next, Fragrance : incense-odors of the East Mixed with these roses dying at our feet, And irritating scent of iris-flowers, And heliotropes soft smell, voluptuous-sweet, Mixed with some poppies bitter, drowsy breath To hint that Pleasure falls asleep in Death. 18 A STUDY And Music : pangs of sharp and dissonant cries, Assuaged by murmuring notes of deep content, And poignant calls, and amorous, low replies, And agony, and languors strangely blent, And one seductive phrase to do its part, Ever recurring, torn from Music s heart. Then Love: now end, my ballad, with this name, Ultimate sweetness of these ministering things; For lo, my gaze is turned upon the ground, And lo, my mouth, made mute, no longer sings. Words for these prelude-notes, but ah, no word For this most rapturous concluding chord! A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE SQUARE Moonlight for other people, but for us, if you please, no moonlight. For us, the electric lights in the very heart of the city. For us the Square, the heart of life (you know where the Square is) The long veins of light that are streets run this way and that way out of it. They carry off part of the blood, and yet the heart seems full of it. Throbbing, pulsing, one drop is a courtesan, one a great lady. Here in the Square they mix; everything here is confluent ; 20 A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE SQUARE See the crush of colors through the bright cafe windows yonder ; See the laughter and food, the faces, the pink-and- white women; Then the gamut of passions struck out of different faces Here in the blur of the streets, as the drops of blood course by you In the white electric glare or the yellow flood from the street-lamps. Oh-he! for the glorious life at night! For this pushing tide of the human. What are the fields and streams To living man and woman ? Oh-he ! How I love this rush of life, To bathe in it, passing by ; The city to live and love in, The country to sleep and die ! No, I will stand here yet; no, do not make me go with you, Here I gain life and strength from the fierce mag netic current. A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE SQUARE 21 Yes, half down the block, if you say you will bring me back here. Love, let me linger yet; be good to me, love, be patient ! Just half a block away, and yet the gray gloom and the houses, Frowning gloomily down, and the click of our feet on the pavement Make it seem lonely; and yes, my lips, love, yes, if you want them What a kiss, strange and short, here in the street, in the city! I to be kissed like this, by the flaring flame of a street-lamp ! What if a passer then, your face, too, felt so chilly Touching mine in this air; but oh and alas! none the less, love, No such wonderful kiss shall we ever again give each other. Sweetened by just the thought of its maddening briefness and folly, No one can understand but only we two what the savor, Lent it by strangeness and night, and the stir of the streets just beyond us. 22 A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE SQUARE Oh, take me back! but that kiss, to think we can never re-live it! One of those wonderful moments not to come twice in a lifetime. We have the Square to thank for it: it was conceived over yonder. Now take me back to forget what you and I could not live over If we should live till these streets and the city are crumbled to ruin, Wholly forgotten and past, a dream of the dead brutal ages. WRITTEN BENEATH A CRUCIFIX He hath not guessed Christ s agony, He hath not dreamed his bitterest woe, Who hath not worn the crown of love And felt the crown of anguish so. Ah, not the torments of the cross, Or nails that pierced, or thirst that burned, Heightened the kingly Victim s pain, But grief of griefs, His love was spurned! A PRAYER A morrow must come on When I shall wake to weep ; But just for some short hours, God, give me sleep! I ask not hope s return; As I have sowed I reap. Grief must awake with dawn, Yet, oh, to sleep! No dreams, dear God, no dreams Mere slumber, dull and deep, Such as thou givest brutes, Sleep, only sleep! ART See ! This is how she standeth,- A woman, calm and ageless, Clad only in a garment Of pure and spotless flesh; While round her shrine forever Circle the eager faces Of those who serve her gladly, Whose souls she hath in mesh. Of gold in grain or nugget, Of fruits and dewy blossoms, Of lambs upon her altars She hath no joy or heed. She only asketh heart-blood Wrung out in toil and anguish: Its drops of shining crimson Are sweet to her indeed. 25 26 ART Yet see the upturned faces ! Their lips are dry with fasting, Their cheeks are gray and sunken, Yet, ah, the rapturous eyes! They ask no joy but toiling, They ask no hope but serving, And with their life-blood furnish Her pleasing sacrifice. No golden world-fruit tempts them; Love bares her rosy bosom, And smiles between her tresses Vainly on such as these. The youths who take her service Pledge to a jealous goddess, Who will have naught but labor, And labor on their knees. She giveth this for guerdon : Age that descends in youth-time, Lit by one star s faint shining That struggles through the gloom. A name in ink that fadeth Writ on Fame s musty pages, Mouthed by the fools and happy, And scrawled upon a tomb. DAYS AND NIGHTS Higher the daily hours of anguish rise, And mount about me as the swelling deep, Till past my mouth and eyes their moments flow, And I am drowned in sleep. But soon the tide of night begins to ebb; Chained on the barren shore of dawn I lie, Again to hear the day s slow-rising flood, Again to live and die. ROYALTY Pity the king ! The state must see him born, And at the end the state must see him die; And scarce an hour is free of prying eyes, From royal birth to royal agony. Yet at such life the king must make no moan He is his people s, he is not his own. Pity the poet : if he hath a woe Or joy, t is only sent him that he may Reveal its depth to all men in a song ; Nor hide it like all other men, and, In pain or bliss, his is the second place: The first belongs to all his waiting race. AN EXPERIENCE Oh, if I could but compass it ! If I could go away And gain, in that strange northern land, Six months of ceaseless day ! There, starting from these awful dreams To find it still was light, Perhaps I might forget, in time, The horrors of that night ! THE PRAYER OF OCEAN The rivers all flow down unto the sea; And yet the yearning Ocean moans for more, To quench its deep, insatiable thirst. It sends its cry to God along the shore: " Drive thou some mighty river through the land, That, drinking, I lie quiet on my strand. "Quench thou, O God, thy Ocean s bitter thirst! Oh, let me drink my fill of some fresh tide! I would not with complaints make sad the land If this fierce craving once were satisfied. I would stretch out in sleep from shore to shore, And praise thee with my silence evermore." THE MEANING He that loseth his life shall find it. I lost my life in losing love. This blurred my Spring and killed its dove. Along my path the dying roses Fell, and disclosed the thorns thereof. I found my life in finding God. In ecstasy I kiss the rod; For who that wins the goal but lightly Thinks of the thorns whereon he trod ? FRATERNITY I ask not how thy suffering came, Or if by sin, or if by shame, Or if by Fate s capricious rulings: To my large pity all s the same. Come close and lean against a heart Eaten by pain and stung by smart ; It is enough if thou hast suffered, Brother or sister then thou art. We will not speak of what we know, Rehearse the pang, nor count the throe, Nor ask what agony admitted Thee to the Brotherhood of Woe. But in our anguish-darkened land Let us draw close, and clasp the hand; Our whispered password holds assuagement,- The solemn "Yea, I understand!" FRANCESCA AND PAOLO There s a picture on my wall Of the hapless, sinful twain, Clinging forms that float embraced Through a mist of fiery rain Onward borne in lurid space By the burning winds that blow. Oft I fancy in the night I can hear them whispering low Each to each the secret dear: "Hell s not Hell, since thou art here!" 33 A CROWNED POET In thy coach of state Pass, O King, along: He no envy feels To whom God giveth song. Starving, still I smile, Laugh at want and wrong: He is fed and crowned To whom God giveth song. Better than all pomps That to rank belong, One such dream as his To whom God giveth song. Let us greet, O King, As we pass along: He, too, is a king To whom God giveth song. 34 AGONY I love to feel a bitter throe Rise to its fullest height, Then watch a conquering anodyne Softly assert its might. I sometimes fear that ill content In heaven I shall remain, Unless the good God graciously Accords to me my pain. For no delight is half so sheer As pangs that melt in peace; One gladly pays in torture s coin For pleasures of release. God knowing that, this strange desire He gave my heart and brain, Will make my heaven more keen to me By still allowing pain. 35 A PLEA You think I do not note that highest peak In Art s fair mountain-land ? Nay, but I see, And more than that, half-way along its height Run lines of frozen foot-prints made by me. Ask of those travelers who have stood upon Its dizziest height, to tell you of the trail I left upon those snows as far along As where the mists begin to weave their veil. And when the pilgrims in that bitter air See my faint footsteps where they pause, then go Vale-ward again, they do but smile and say : "Small woman-feet! They could not tread this snow. 36 A PLEA 37 "She has returned to walk in household ways." And, passing by the landmark made by me, They breathless struggle on, and mount the crest That I shall never reach, and scarce can see. But oh, my heart is with them ! By the hearth I chose, I swear I might have mounted still, And stood there with the cloud-rack round my head! The power and strength were mine, though not the will. So speak not of me, comrades, as of one Too weak to win the summit where you stand, And thus unworthy of your greeting shout That echoes down to this green pasture-land. But say, " She could not choose : one power there is As great as Art, the lord of our domain ; And when Love leadeth down the mountain-path, A woman s feet to follow him are fain. " She could not choose : so sometimes when we share The mystic joys and pains she cannot claim, We will remember she was of us once And, as of comrade dead, speak soft her name." ART AND LOVE They that carried us away captive required of us a song. Bid me not sing: think of the gifts I gave To love and thee; require me not to sing! They who crown poets now must pass me by: I have no claim to wear the bays they bring. To please thy mood one day I broke my lute, And now forever is my music mute. Bid me not sing : since when thy mouth met mine, " Love, love," the only words my lips can say. Lost is the cunning of my worshipped art; Among my peers I must walk dumb alway. For thee I counted song a worthless thing. My heart will break if now thou bidst me sing ! MORNING: AN IMPRESSION Instead of black brown gloom In all the darkened room, A struggle of dull light through the thick curtain. A stir, the natural happiness from sleep, Forgetfulness that one must weep When this vague shadowy land becomes more certain. And then poor, tortured brain, Thou art awake again ! Come, arm thyself to meet the awful day, Thy sweet, brief respite s done. Rouse thyself, suffering one, To bear thy misery as best thou may; To think the thoughts again That madden thee with pain, There s no escape, oh, thou rebellious brain! 39 A WORD TO MY HEART Yes, the days will still be dappled With sweet showers and gleams of sun, And the storms will not last forever, But my beautiful days are done. To be tired so soon in the journey, With the race perhaps but half run ! To know while the Spring yet lingers That my beautiful days are done ! Ah, my Heart, we are very weary ; But courage, thou suffering one ! For all days, sooner or later, Like my beautiful days, are done ! INSOMNIA would God call a. halt, one moment s halt To that procession marching through my brain ! 1 would awake in thankful quiet, lie And watch the long defile begin again ; Would make no further dry-mouthed moans for sleep Would take up patience in sweet hope s default, And mutely bear the burthen of the hours, If God would call a halt, one moment s halt ! A RHYME OF THE POTTER The potter with his clay does what he will: Elects one shape to honor, one to shame. So far, so just; but for the fouler shape The potter, not the vessel, is to blame. A WORD AT PARTING Hadst thou been false to me alone, I haply might forgive; But false to self, that baser way, And yet I still must live! Hadst thou been cruel to me alone, I haply might forget; But cruel to self, that baser way, I must remember yet! 43 TWO LOST HEROES And so Death took your hero. How kind to you was Fate! For Death but crystallizes Life, And you need only wait. Death keeps him, dear, safe from all tainting touch I in your place could scarcely weep so much. For I, too, lost my hero. Would God it were by death! Would God that he were sainted, That I might spend my breath In praying Heaven to make my deeds so sweet That he might welcome me when we should meet! Alas, alas, my hero! How often we bow down, Deceived, to crown a coward king And deify a clown! Pass on ; compared to me you know not grief. You have lost him, but I have lost Belief! A MEDIAEVAL DEATH-BED O brother, little brother, A charge I have for thee To keep when I in three days time Am laid neath kirk-yard tree. Now fetch my mass-book from the shelf; This flower, its leaves between, Was not so blue by half that noon As were his bonny een. But pressed twixt holy psalm and prayer In scarce a twelvemonth s space, They Ve turned to nigh as pale a hue As hath thy sister s face. Go take this mass-book in thy hand, Thy dirk-knife at thy side, And take thy trusty hound with thee, And seek the Lord of Clyde, 45 46 A MEDIAEVAL DEATH-BED Seek for him not in his own halls, But go to Airdislee; He 11 be at Lady Ellen s feet, His head upon her knee. Her knees are clad in cloth of gold, A lordly place to rest; But ask him if it be as soft As was thy sister s breast! Then put this curse upon his head That I may sweetly sleep. I cannot lie there unavenged, Though buried ne er so deep. So that I be not doomed to walk A ghost un comforted, Put thou this ban upon his life, This curse upon his head: "May every step thou takest lead Down on the path to hell. May every daughter of thy race Fall as thy victim fell. A MEDIEVAL DEATH-BED 47 "May every son that s born to thee Be curst with strong desire, Yet powerless by the hand of God To sin as sinned his sire. " May every prayer change on thy lips To awful blasphemy, So that by thine own prayer thy soul Must needs accursed be." Now, long life to the Lord of Clyde, And may my curse work well. I could not bide in heaven were he Undoomed to bide in hell. The little angels I shall leave, My harp I shall forget; T will be my heaven to look on him From heaven s parapet. To see the justice of the Lord Worked out in such a way, Would turn hell s gloom for one like me To bright eternal day. 48 A MEDIEVAL DEATH-BED Fare on, my little brother, now, And do my last behest; Turn thou my face against the wall, And I will sweetly rest. Farewell, and yet a long farewell, For death will come to me Before thyself and Jock, thy hound, Come back from Airdislee. But if the curse thou carry well, The good God I will ask To let Jock enter heaven with thee, Because thou didst this task. Repeat the curse upon the way, Again and yet again ; And be thou blest and be he damned,- Hear me, O God ! Amen. CRITICISM She sang a song of death and battle, Through which one heard the cannon roll. They said, " O wondrous gift of fancy, The glorious dower of poet-soul ! " She sang a song of love and passion Love s land, she sang, was very fair. They said no more of wondrous fancy, They said, " She lays her own heart bare." 49 REFUGE Not to live in thy arms, O Beloved I do not ask that of fate; Past summer nights were the time for dreaming, And this dream came too late. Only to die in thy arms, Beloved Thy kiss to drink my last breath; Too late for the dream, yet I dreamed. What matter? There are still thy arms and death ! DESOLATION Strive not, dear Love, to hide from me thy pain; I know thou lov st, and art not loved again. So I love thee, yea, just as much in vain; Shrink not then, Love: we bear a common pain. We two, alone and chilled, stand side by side, By a grief severed, by a grief allied. The earth a snow-clad moorland stretches wide, And we are far apart, though side by side. RESOLVE He kissed my hand, the hand that holds the pen, Bathed it in love, from finger-tips to wrist. The wandering veins that felt his lips impress Throbbed with new life the moment they were kissed. The hand itself, thus blest, shall strive to be Worthy its honor, and shall only write Words consecrate to high and lofty life From this time on, in memory of to-night. CHEATED You loved me for the gold you thought I had; I loved you for the honor, proud and high, I dreamed was in your soul. Alas, poor fools ! Which was worse cheated, think you, you or I ? And now we meet with shamed, averted eyes; For such false fancies both may meetly sigh; For I am poor as any beggar-maid, And you are not the flower of chivalry. Come, once my suitor, come, extend your hand; T is fitting that we thus should say good-by. Come, let us bid adieu on common ground, Though you were scarce so greatly duped as I ! 53 A WOMAN S ADIEU Our love is done! I would not have it back, I say, I would not have my whole year May ! But yet for our dead passion s sake, Kiss me once more, and strive to make Our last kiss the supremest one, For love is done. Our love is done! And still my eyes with tears are wet, Our souls are stirred with vague regret, We gaze farewell, yet cannot speak, And firm resolve grows strangely weak, Though hearts are twain that once were one. Since love is done. 54 A WOMAN S ADIEU 55 But love is done! I know it, vow it, and that kiss Must set a finis to our bliss; Yet when I felt thy mouth meet mine, My life again seemed half divine, Our very hearts together run ! Can love be done? Can love be done? Who cares if this be mad or wise ? Trust not my words, but read my eyes ; Thy kiss bade sleeping love awake, Then take me to thy heart ah, take The life that with thine own is one! Love is not done. SEE-SAW Oh is it food for sighs at Fate, Or is it food for laughter, That men should love the best to-day, And women the day after? Men seize the hour to vow and kiss, Forget, and onward wander; But women on the morrow sigh, "To-day I would be fonder!" Women steal back, look through the pales At finished yesterday. " Why was it winter with me then, When now my mood is May ? " How fair for women were the world, How full of song and laughter, If they could love to-day, or men Could love them the day after! A MOTHER S SONG Dear little one upon my breast, Not for thy sake alone I love; But when thy dawn-bright eyes unclose To mine, that watch thee from above, In softened mold I vaguely trace The lines of his beloved face. Ah, little one, not solely mine, But mine and his, thus doubly sweet; And ours to guide on heavenward path The journeyings of those little feet. T is joy, not fears, that brings these tears, Thou rt God s and ours through all the years ! 57 THE FLIGHT Love is already on the wing : How quick to fly, once he was freed ! We would not call him if we could, God-speed, dear Love, God-speed ! Love is already on the wing: Both you and I are glad indeed. Yet voices tremble as we cry, "God-speed, dear Love, God-speed!" ALLEGIANCE I used to lay my cheek upon the pillow, Obeying thee, the calm was sweet and deep : " Be thy last conscious thought of me in waking, Ere thy soul sinks in sleep." O bitter, later nights, when still obeying, My soul must needs its awful vigil keep, Until at dawn the body failed in stupor A mockery of sleep. Thou still art lord in death ; for now in passing My soul doth its obedient habit keep, And its last conscious thought is thine this moment, Sinking, thank God, in sleep ! UNDERNEATH I am weary of mask and of buskin, I would throw them aside for a time; But you laugh when I speak of my sorrows, They are pretty enough for a rhyme. But sorrow the women who know it Smile not, nor are jesting the while ! You are baffled, like all men, my dearest, By the simple device of a smile. I think of a certain fair meadow Engirdled by trees where birds sing; And in May gay with white and gold daisies Flung down like a carpet by Spring; And in winter still fair, with its hollows And hillocks enfolded in snow; Yet that once was a battle-field, dearest, And its dead, none the less, lie below ! DO IMPOSSIBILITY Is love eternal in the highest souls? Is it, then, low to love, and love again? Spring goes, and comes back every year to throw Fresh garlands of old kinds on field and fen. Though not the same, are they not just as sweet, These violets crushed beneath our passing feet? I do not love thee, dearest, as I loved, As good, but not the same, my love for thee. I can for thee re-sing the old dear song, Merely transposing to another key. Throw not on me that icy look of blame, What matter, if the tune remain the same? Ask not the river for a last year s tide She yielded tributary to the sea; Ask not of fate long years of garnered love, Stored up with prescience when I knew not thee. Ask for my every drop of blood up to the last, But do not, in God s name, require the past. 61 AN EXPLANATION Ah, well I know that just beyond the gate Lies the long glade where once I used to stray; Yet cease, for friendship s sake, these urging words To tread this year the old accustomed way. I am afraid of that green hedge-girt walk, The silent sun-scorched field, the moist, dim wood, And then O little corner by the fallen tree, O distant murmur of the ocean flood ! No memories of another haunt the place. Yet, while I whisper, pity and forbear. T is that I dare not face my last year s self, The happy ghost that ever wanders there ! BLACK MAGIC I would forgive the sleepless nights, I would forgive the pain, If you would only give me back My own dear world again. I cannot put in subtle words The mischief you have done. But there s a difference in the storm, A difference in the sun. The marshes have an evil look, The sea lies stripped and bare; The gracious mists seem torn away From nature everywhere. I may forget the sleepless nights, I may forget the pain; But I, alas, shall never see My own dear world again ! A SECRET They pass, and smile, and nod the head, They do not guess that I am dead. Dear friends, I died a year ago, Only I never told you so. I dine, and never does my host Suspect he entertains a ghost, Who, when her body dies, will be No stranger in eternity. If I but wore a plaited shroud, And could not breathe, or speak aloud, And lay with lilies at my head, Then they would come and whisper, " Dead." But you, dear friends, my secret know: I really died a year ago. A MADMAN The man most to be envied That my eyes ever saw Fancied he was a king, and wore A crown of plaited straw. He lived in regal dignity, And nothing made him sad This happy king! They pitied him, Merely that he was mad. And yet the men who mourned with sighs His lamentable state Were tortured heart and brain by care And sorrow s leaden weight. I thought what strange ideas of life , These suffering people had, To wish him sane and wretched, when He was so happy, mad! SUPPLICATION Did I not ask for him, my dear, my own, All goodly things of God ? I thought that sand of gold must needs be spread Upon the path he trod. I asked for joy and glory as his right, With arrogance of love. God did not give them to him here below: Perhaps He will, above. O there was nothing good I did not name In asking gifts for him, And now all prayers have dwindled down to one, Whispered with eyes grown dim That last short, humble prayer left us to say, Bent neath the scourging rod: " O grant his coming pains of death be brief, An easy passing, God ! " 66 A SONG OF SORROW These days my breaking heart laments, These nights I weep with moan and sigh; For they must die who fain would live, And they must live who fain would die! O friends unknown, come mourn with me; For bitterest grief hides in that cry. Ask not if, dying, I would live ; Ask not if, living, I would die! TO A NUN The world said in thine ear, " Lo, thou art fair An ivory house, a shelter meet for Love." But thou instead hast made thy saintly self An habitation for the Heavenly Dove. 68 IN PRAISE OF LIFE I am so glad to suffer pain, To bear the old, fierce pangs again, For torturing thought wars with this torture For utter mastery in vain. How little of the soul they know Who paint Hell as the body s woe : They have not guessed the spirit s anguish That finds relief in fleshly throe. O fool ! to dream thy misery Shall fade, once from thy body free, Thinkest thou the soul forgets in passing That with the flesh dies memory ? Body and pain, I cling to thee, From thy diverting clamors free ; Alas, for my sad soul, when, naked In death, it fights with memory! 6 9 A PRISONER What difference, what difference, Which way the body goes; Whether t is burned by Indian suns, Or chilled by Arctic snows? The soul remains forevermore Shut in that one small room, As close immured within those walls As dead men in the tomb. It could not leave that wretched spot To follow if it willed, Condemned, unhappy ghost, to haunt The place where it was killed. 70 A PRISONER 71 It calls the shuddering body back, Wherever it may be, To come there, to that dreadful place, And bear it company. " Come back, thou coward body, come!" It clamors to the heart. " Come here and die, where I was killed, Thy lord, and better part ! " THE ELEVENTH HOUR Why should the gods have sent you at twilight ? Life is too late with me now for a lover. Melted away are the mists of my morning, And love-time is over. Why should the gods have sent you at twilight ? Nay, rny friend, nay, for the shadows grow deeper. Yet to dream of your love shall make the grave s midnight Sweet to one sleeper. A SEASON REMEMBERED I shall never forget those last few days Before the death of my heart: Spring had just leaped in the womb of the year With its first glad vital start; Black buds were splitting to show their green, Fresh showers had washed the blue heavens clean, The whole sweet world with joy was rife, Because the year had just felt life. I shall never forget those last few days Before the death of my heart: In all the life-quiver and bourgeoning I felt I had parcel and part; It is so good that I did not guess I must change those fields for the wilderness; It is so good that I did not know I must leave the spring and go back to the snow. HOMESICKNESS take me back to those low-lying lands I used to love. I want that inlet s tide That runs out moaning twixt the yellow fields To where the shimmering blue is rippling wide, And lay my broken body on the sands Where strong and sparse marsh-grasses wave abov* The salty earth that bears them ; let me rest, For I am very tired of faithless love. And let me feel upon my pallid mouth The wind s rough, friendly kisses, cold and clean, Against the lips that can but shape a moan, Where warmer, falser kisses once have been. 1 want to lay my cheek on kindly earth, I want to see the truthful sky above, I want those old things I have long forgot, For I am very tired of faithless love. 74 LET THE DREAM GO I was so fain to love, dear! Let the dream go. The brightest vision dies of dawn, The rose of snow, And blossoms all fall from the tree When June winds blow. I was so fain to live, dear! Let the dream go. Who heeds the faded blooms of May That drift below? And though Spring s self Should weep for them, They would not know. 75 DISILLUSION I wish I might have borne the woe Of hopeless love and unrequited, And kept a noble all my life The man my sovereign fancy knighted, I thought that pain was hard to bear; T was light beside this later sorrow : To bid farewell to him to-day, Nor care to see him on the morrow ! AT A POET S FUNERAL Thou sang st no labored virelay, Thou hadst no tunes to suit thy day, And so the world hath not drawn near To praise and weep about thy bier. Thou hadst not trilled a dainty song, Nor slurred in art the darling wrong, Nor sucked such milk as one who feeds At withered breasts of ancient creeds. An age too soon thy soul did stray From heaven to earth down star-lit way, And none had grace to understand, And bend to kiss thy prophet hand, And dim]y guess the future might Of pen plunged in thy heart to write. Yet, though that ink of blood and tears Shall glow as fire in coming years, 77 78 AT A POET S FUNERAL Save hirelings and I to-day None watch thy clay returned to clay. Yet prouder I the claim to have To stand here by this open grave Than laureate with the right to sing Beside the catafalque of king. O friend, this lonely scene bespeaks The vengeance that the gay world wreaks On him whose name shall bear this stain: " He loved the truth, and spake too plain." LAST WORDS I waste no pity on my dying self, Because some woman yet may take my place (Nay, swear no oaths that future days may rue, But closer to mine own bend thy dear face). Hers it will be to sigh; for, knowing thee, This, too, I know: the old dream shall obtain, Even while thy head rests soft upon her arm, And while thy hand of her warm hand is fain. And every kiss given in despair to her Upon my lips in fancy will be pressed, And soon or late her breaking heart will learn She cannot drive thy dead love from thy breast. 79 8o LAST WORDS blame me not, since I must go, that I Can snatch prophetic triumph in this hour. 1 who have been thy Light, thy Love, thine Own Will not, in death, resign my queenly power. I shall be thine. Thy soul cannot divorce Me from my place. I fear no later days, Though in them thou wilt learn to smile again, And walk with seeming cheer earth s pleasant ways. Yes, thine I still shall be, as truly thine, Perhaps, as when warm kisses I could give; And so re-kissed, re -loved, and re-embraced in her By thy despair, I, being dead, shall live! RECOLLECTION Ho\v can it be that I forget The way he phrased my doom, When I recall the arabesques That carpeted the room ? How can it be that I forget His look and mien that hour, When I recall I wore a rose, And still can smell the flower? How can it be that I forget Those words that were the last, When I recall the tune a man Was whistling as he passed ? These things are what we keep from life s Supremest joy or pain; For Memory locks her chaff in bins And throws away the grain. Si OF LATE There was a time when I could think of death As calmly as of life : t was ere I knew What sacrament of joy beyond all dream Lies in the life welded from love of two. Now at its whisper I more closely cling In deadliest fear to thee. Yet one must die, And some day one must leave the other here, Ay, one must go first, either thou or I ! And then I heavenward turn my anguished face, And thank God that the way at least is free ; And none can hold, if through the pass of Death, Even as through life, I choose to follow thee! SUPPOSE How sad if, by some strange new law, All kisses scarred ! For she who is most beautiful Would be most marred. And we might be surprised to see Some lovely wife Smooth-visaged, while a seeming prude Was marked for life. A TRUTHFUL SONG OF AGE (Senex loquitur) Only the craven cries, time-conquered, " Fair is this quiet space of honored age ! " I, if I could, would give all days remaining To gain one hour to-night of youth s sweet rage ! Ah, how I loathe these feeble nerves and trembling, This hoary hair, this yellow, time-etched brow! Ah, to stand straight and strong, the hot blood leaping Through this chill body, shrunk and withered now ! Ah, for sweet love, that drove me nigh to madness! His half the royalty of youth s brief reign. No red lips kiss me now; how could they bear it, Through my parched skin the death s-head shows so plain ! 8 4 A TRUTHFUL SONG OF AGE 85 Lies told myself will never serve to soothe me, Why should I vow I find life s sunset bright ? Mine is a soul that should have passed at mid-day; It turns with horror from the gathering night ! APRIL AND DYING Green blood fresh pulsing through the trees, Black buds, that sun and shower distend; All other things begin anew, But I must end. Warm sunlight on faint-colored sward, Warm fragrance in the breezes breath; For other things are heat and life, For me is death. 86 LIVES To drain as the nectar of heaven The dregs of thy youth s poisoned wine ; To stand in thy shadow forever, And hold the shade better than shine This is mine. To spurn, lest its burden impede thee, A love counted once half divine; To tread on a heart without heeding In thy struggle up life s steep incline This is thine. Yet in the black hour when death crosses Life s feebly hedged boundary line, Which lot wouldst thou choose as thy record, Closed till judgment, and sealed with thy sign- Thine or mine? FANNY A SOUTHERN BLOSSOM Come and see her as she stands, Crimson roses in her hands ; And her eyes Are as dark as Southern night, Yet than Southern dawn more bright, And a soft, alluring light In them lies. None deny if she beseech With that pretty, liquid speech Of the South. All her consonants are slurred, And the vowels are preferred; There s a poem in each word From that mouth. FANNY 89 Even Cupid is her slave; Of his arrows, half he gave Her one day In a merry, playful hour. Dowered with these and beauty s dower, Strong indeed her magic power, So they say. Venus, not to be outdone By her generous little son, Shaped the mouth Very like to Cupid s bow. Lack-a-day ! Our North can show No such lovely flowers as grow In the South! AN OLD REFRAIN homely, puzzling, truthful words We women sometimes say ! 1 love you just as much, dear heart, But in a different way. We cannot tell you what we mean, However you may pray, Nor make you feel the later love Is quite so sweet a way. Yet often truer than your oaths Those foolish words we say : " I love you just as much, dear heart, But in a different way." LOVE, THE WANDERER At my threshold stands a guest; Shall I, dare I, bid him enter? T is the very dead of winter ; Snowy roads his feet have pressed; Inhospitably I wait, Trembling, still I hesitate. With his wings he veils his face, And a glory half divine Like a nimbus seems to shine Round him, making bright the place. Cold the night, and yet I stand, On the latch a halting hand. 91 92 LOVE, THE WANDERER What if I should bid him come, And with him should enter Woe? For t is whispered, well we know, That the pair together roam; And who welcomes Love, they say, Lets in Woe, who stays alway. Yet the night is very chill! Love is shivering with the cold; T is, mayhap, a fable old That he bringeth tears and ill. Sure a maiden s heart were hard Thus to keep the entrance barred ! Hark! I hear his piteous moan, Welcome, Love, the house is thine, Shelter, fire, and meat and wine Welcome, Love, and take thine own. And if with thee enter Woe, Then, in sooth, it must be so! SOUVENIRS Mais ou sont les neiges d antan ? Where is the glove that I gave to him, Perfumed and warm from my arm that night ? And where is the rose that another stole When the land was flooded with June moonlight, And the satin slipper I wore? Alack, Some one had that it was wrong, I fear. Where are those souvenirs to-day? But where are the snows of yester-year ? The glove was burned at his next love s prayer, And the rose was lost in the mire of the street ; And the satin slipper he tossed away, For his jealous bride had not fairy feet. Give what you will, but know, mesdames, For a day alone are your favors dear. Be sure for the next fair woman s sake They will go like the snows of yester-year.. 93 HARKING BACKWARD You strive and strive to read my thought. I say and say, you will repent. Foolhardy Soul, come, then, and read, Since thus you crave your own torment. Come, see this room far down a street, Where never trod your hurrying feet ! Come, see this curtained, cushioned room, All bathed in amorous crimson light; Within, the roses die of warmth, Without is chill of bitter night; The blur of sound from city street But makes the silence doubly sweet. 94 HARKING BACKWARD And see me listening for a step Oh, I am tired. Nay, see no more, Nor listen to the hasting feet Come down the echoing corridor. No further, though your prayers besought To follow to the end my thought! Oh, I am tired. So hold me close, My lips against your suffering face. And keep my soul here with your eyes, Lest it should travel back through space. Leaving my body on your breast, A bird, that wants its last year s nest! RELICS I thought I knew her past as mine, Until she lay there dead, And I explored that Indian chest Lacquered in gold and red. I did not stop to moralize; The lesson there was plain. I hurried home to tear and burn, And make her loss my gain. How inconsiderate to die And leave such things to paint An unguessed past, when friends bereaved Prefer to mourn a saint! LOVE AND LORE Ah, let my hand lie warm in thine, the hand that held the pen; It shall not miss its once-loved task, nor long to work again. And let me hide my weary eyes against thy sheltering breast ; Let others wear the bays I craved; I know that love is best! Art s paths were over- sharp for me, and cold its mountain air; For I am but a woman, dear, and Love s land is so fair! So half-way up Fame s steep incline I pause and yield my place. What ! dare you ask if I regret ? Bend close and read my face ! 97 A SILENT EPISODE In a procrastinating car That slowly jogged along Broadway, She on some pious errand bound, I to a matinee. The Little Sister of the Poor Who faced me, gave me one long glance A commentary on our lives, On fate and circumstance. Her look first dwelt upon my face, And then it traveled slowly down, Took in my opera-glass and furs, My rather modish gown. A SILENT EPISODE 99 " And is the world so sweet and bad ? " The saintly blue eyes seemed to ask; " Does pleasure bring one keener joy Than my unceasing task? " My life comprises only this, To toil and weep and serve and pray; But youth and pleasure, song and gold, Make your life bright and gay." And my eyes answered her, but she Could not, perhaps, translate their glance. "Ah, Sister, what an irony Is outward circumstance! " Beneath this silken bodice beats A heart as grave as neath thy serge; And, deaf to melody, it hears Naught but its own sad dirge. " Often it sighs for hours like yours, A cell where it might weep unheard; Freedom to doff the mask of smiles By the gay world preferred. A SILENT EPISODE " And if your gentle soul would pray For hearts whose pain no tongue can tell; Those who need prayers are in the world, Not in a convent-cell." The car stopped, and with eyes downcast She hurried out on bright Broadway; While I went on, with envious heart, A player, to a play. THE RING Hid in an antique box, With faded leaf and flower (The only fitting gifts Of love that lives an hour), Gemmed with a diamond tear For joy that could not cling, Behold the word inside, For " Ton jours" says the ring ! She sometimes lifts the lid, With light and careless laugh, And reads the lying word, Love s mocking epitaph. She has no sighs or tears For such a foolish thing As love dead long ago, Yet " Toujours" says the ring ! 102 THE RING But in soft nights of May The proud and silent heart Owns to itself a truth, And spurns its wonted part. It cries out for the grace Of one departed spring, "Toujours" admits the soul, And "Toujours" says the ring A SONG OF FAITHFUL LOVE He s no lad, my love J s no lad, He s past full manhood s prime; He never stole a curl from me, Or sent me bits of rhyme. But when he folds me in his arm, I feel so sweetly safe from harm ! He s no lad, my love s no lad, No fickle, foolish boy ; And time has written on his face The lines of pain and joy. He often looks both tired and sad, But I what joy! can make him glad. He s no lad, my love s no lad, His youth has passed him by; And though I had no part in it, I cannot breathe one sigh, For, oh, he swears by holy truth I am his sweeter, second youth! 103 JANE (LONG ISLAND DIALECT) Settin round the fish-house door, Sunset time er pretty near; Tellin stories some er which Would n t wish for ma ter hear. Bijer n the younger set Squat behin us mendin seine, N I heerd im talkin low, Laugh n take her name in vain Her, my Jane ! Her, my youngest down ter York, Workin hard for me an mine. I wa n t out er slew thet hour, Though I be most sixty-nine. 104 JANE 105 I rose up ter lay im low. " Stan off, neighbors, lemme be ! " But I dropped my hand, fer all Knowed of some h n black cept me, I c d see. N I left em on the beach. Now they all c d have the r say; I made fer the woods, fer thet s All hurt creeturs natchel way. I can t cal late how I got Home, but ma was settin there, Black cat croonin on er lap, Lamplight shinin on er hair, White, f m care. Crazy-like I called em all, Lide n Vene, n told em how Her thet was the r sister once Wa n t no sister to em now; " Ner no child of mine," says I ; " Ain t no talk of whose ter blame ; , It s past pard nin when a child Slimes the black creek-mud o shame On my name." 106 JANE But the farm looked changed, n Jane Seemed ter follow every place, Where I d go, I d see them curls Bobbin round er baby face, Jest the same as when she d run Crost the picle ter the gate, (Me a-cartin seaweed then), Callin : " Wait, Janey says, wait ! Her 11 fix the gate ! " Jane she come back home at last; Spite er ma, I d held my way, Wrote er thet we cast er off, T wa n t no use ter beg er pray. No one talked of sin er shame When they brought er through the gate, An I knowed t wa n t no success Tryin ter sour love inter hate Then, too late ! Fer ther ain t no shame so black, Ner no brandin of disgrace, Thet s past pard nin when yer child. Lays there with a dead, white face. JANE 107 Best room was so dark T n still, Seemed like she must hear me plain, Whisperin : " Jane, fergive yer pa ; All them words o mine was vain, Come back, Jane ! " Life ain t what it used ter be. Maybe t ain t fair ter the rest, But sence the days er Prodergal Folks seems to love the r worst ones best. I m gettin well along in years, Wimblin , V weak, n full o pain, N more n more seems like she s here A-playin round the floor my Jane My little Jane ! MODERN DESPAIR He used to fancy she would see him next With blossoms heaped about his quiet head; That she would kneel repentant at his side, And mourn her scorn too late when he was dead. He did not die ; but when they met next year His \voes and wrongs again burst into flame ; He longed to score her now with stinging words, But he, alas, could not recall her name! 108 THE STORY OF A SONG I wrote a song long years ago To celebrate another s woe. No soft voice whispered in my ear, "Child, thine own fate is written here." No prescient thought, o er-leaping time, Told me my doom was in that rhyme. I wept for sorrow at her grief Wept see, upon this faded leaf The blistering marks of many tears The paper kept through all these years. But when / bore this agony, The current of my tears ran dry. You see, I shed them long ago, When my woe was another s woe! 109 A NINETEENTH-CENTURY REMEDY " The cure for love is more love." THOREAU Listen, that I may work your cure, M sieur ; You will not at my story s end Call me your love, nor yet your friend; You ll sigh for me no more, depend, M sieur. I took your love to be my cure, M sieur; Perhaps no man can fathom this I took your kiss to blur his kiss; I coarsened with it all past bliss, M sieur. A NINETEENTH-CENTURY REMEDY ill I have to thank you for my cure, M sieur. A lower love may kill a higher; I burned my memories in its fire, Mere acrid smoke rose from the pyre, M sieur ! Adieu, we both have found our cure, M sieur. Love cannot wound us, passing by; We know he is not worth one sigh ; Yet, are we happy, you or I, M sieur ? A REWARD OFFERED Lost, in the month of December, An exquisite dream and belief: It either was dropped on Life s highway, Or stolen by Time, the arch-thief. If found, please return to the owner Its value is small save to her; As reward all her earthly possessions She offers without a demur. Tis so small that the owner could hold it In one human heart s little space; So great, all earth shone with its brightness And looked like a glorified place. If found, and returned in good order, The offered reward will be paid; But the finder is cautioned against delay, Dreams exposed to the air sometimes fade ! A MODERN ENCHANTRESS Try as you may, you will not forget me, Because I was never attained and possessed. Just as your arms were outstretched to enfold me, Onward I fled, an incarnate Unrest. Ever denied makes ever desiring, Ever eluded makes ever pursued. Still would the chase be on, but that I vanished : Tired was the Will-o -the-wisp whom you wooed. Love and be loved; you will always remember Mine was the magic that holds men in thrall. All of you turn from the love that surrenders, Sighing for that which gives nothing at all ! "3 DETHRONED My rose, t is scarce an hour ago We entered regally this room To queen it over suppliant love By beauty s right, by right of bloom So rich in both, so sure of power, O happy I, O happy flower ! My rose, the hour is gone, and now You droop your head against my breast. Our reign was brief, our reign is done, Ah, rose, the end we might have guessed! But I still live, though dead the hour. You died with it, O happy flower! 114 A MIDNIGHT RIDE On and on Foot in t.he stirrup, up and away! The night air is sweet with the scent of the May. Care and the world and anguish of mind, Once in the saddle I leave them behind, Dead to all thought but the sense of delight In the straining of nerve in our swift onward flight. Talk of the passion of love, if you will, Of the leaping of heart, of the kisses that thrill, I tell you love s bliss could never compare With this rapturous race through the midnight air, Nor your love s heart-beats make a sound so dear As the swift hoof-beat to the rider s ear ! The days of the Centaurs have not passed by, So truly one seem my horse and I. On and on, For life knows no fiercer bliss and delight Than this rush through the wind of a summer s night. "5 A WAYSIDE WARNING I fainted by the way, The August heat burned fiercely all the plain; With trembling limbs and turning, dizzying brain Prone by the road I lay. Love passed along that way, And in his hand he bore a generous cup; With crystal water it was brimming up. "O give me, or I die!" Smiling and stooping by my side knelt Love ; The roadside dust was white. He took thereof What in his palm would lie, And twixt my parching lips he poured, and laughed ; Then in the road he threw the sparkling draught, And so passed by. O travellers, heed, Love s other name is Hate; Ask not his aid, lest ye should share my fate, And, like me, die. AN EARLY LOVE REMEMBERED Sometimes, across these later years One memory chaste and holy Drifts back and makes me love my past For that sweet reason solely; Not any tide of time or chance Bears out of sight the old romance. No love on earth can satisfy The dream of child or poet ; I who was happy, guessed it not I who am sadder, know it, Yet O dear days! O sweet belief! O so well worth all later grief! And all fair things, too pure for earth, And therefore briefly given, Lent to us for a passing hour And then recalled to Heaven, 117 H8 AN EARLY LOVE REMEMBERED To find their proper place above, Bring back that holy, childish love : A love most like the fragrant snow Of some fair Mary lily, Scenting the altar all day long To die when night comes chilly; Yet I am glad this heart of mine Gave growth to blossom so divine. Ah, yes, I know that now I love In stronger, deeper fashion ; But womanhood s completest love Is mixed with tears and passion. The vision of my morning-tide Was joy, and nothing else beside: A dream that could not be fulfilled By mortal love or lover. Look not so sad, my own, though we Its bliss shall not recover, I am the better worth thy love For that past vision from above ! A LITTLE STORY Alone, unwedded, past her prime, Her faded face still wore a smile, As if some secret, sweet and dear, She knew, and brooded on the while Some hidden joy that kept life fair, And lifted her above despair. Ah me, you could not guess the dream She cherished in her maiden heart. Once to have voiced it would have been To make her wintry life-blood start Up, till the wrinkled cheeks aflame Glowed with a virgin s piteous shame. Long years ago she loved, and then Who knows? he died, or proved untrue, And so she lived a maiden still. He never wed who rode to woo 119 A LITTLE STORY Through soft spring mornings long ago, And Time had blurred her ancient woe. But when the day was sunk in night, Close by the embers of her fire She sat and rocked, and to herself Feigned that she had her heart s desire. T was then that on her withered breast A little dream-child took its rest. How sweet to raise a quavering voice, And sing a tender lullaby; To feel its head against her neck, And softly soothe its noiseless cry ! It made her life so bright and glad That little child she might have had! Her heart was full of motherhood; Its yearnings all had been denied. She fed its hunger with a dream, And smiled where others might have sighed ; And in the little dream-child s face A likeness vague she loved to trace. A LITTLE STORY 121 Nay, do not smile: our dreams are coarse, Of gold or fame we could not win, Hers was divine ; I love to think Of that bent figure, worn and thin, By flickering firelight, wholly blest, Holding her dream-child on her breast. I think in wondrous Heaven, where The good God makes our hopes come true, He may give back my love to me, He may give back your youth to you. But for that maiden undefiled I know he has a little child. A SONG AT TWILIGHT Lay your hand, sweet wife, in mine; Half divine Was the love of long ago. Dawn s bright hues no longer glow, And we watch, with fading sight, Day turn night. Sitting here at twilight s fall, I recall All our days of changing weather; How we met black care together Fought him till he turned to fly, You and I. A SONG AT TWILIGHT 123 And the hours of glad content We have spent ! Perfect love and perfect life, We have run their round, sweet wife, But of all those hours so blest, This is best. For at first, ah, well we knew We were two, Loving, striving still to mingle, Yet how oft our wills were single; Now our lives are almost done We are one ! A CHILD S QUESTIONS These tears because he s gone ? You really care ? Poor little woman with the rumpled hair, Look at the toys you ve scattered far and near, Play and forget him he forgets, my dear. He "loved you, too"? He "held you on his knee"? But I will hold you closer, darling, see ! At eight years old such griefs soon pass away, And by to-morrow you 11 forget to-day. " But why don t I cry, too, since he would go " ? " Beneath your head what makes my heart beat so " ? There comes a time when all one s tears are shed, The heart throbs out the agony instead. You " do not understand " ? Ah, well, my dear, Some day you 11 understand it, never fear; Poor woman-child, who yet these griefs must know, When tears come not, only the " heart beats so." 124 TO MY DEAREST Couldst thou choose, what wouldst thou, Babe on my breast, Strife for fame and glory, Dreaming that best ? T is the life of an ocean wave, Forever unrest. A life of peace and quiet In some dim land, Where summer seas of azure Wash the warm strand ? Such lives, like placid waters, All stagnant stand. 125 126 7"O MY DEAREST A life of love and passion, All strain and stress? Age comes, when one is left Chilled, comfortless, Unwarmed by the remembrance Of past caress. Death, ere thou know life s anguish ? Yea, that is best! Could I go with thee, dear, Both of us blest; But if that may not be, Stay on my breast ! THE WORLD AND THE POET The knight flung in the mire his cloak, To spare a queen s small feet; We deal in velvets for rewards When sovereigns walk the street. The poet flung his cloak so that A clown might pass dry-shod, Forever stained his singing-robe To save a village clod! 127 A LITTLE PARABLE I made the cross myself whose weight Was later laid on me. This thought is torture as I toil Up life s steep Calvary. To think mine own hands drove the nails! I sang a merry song, And chose the heaviest wood I had To build it firm and strong. If I had guessed if I had dreamed Its weight was meant for me, I should have made a lighter cross To bear up Calvary ! 128 SONG When the land was white with moonlight, And the air was sweet with May, I was so glad that Love would last Forever and a day. Now the fields are white in winter, And dead Love laid away; I am so glad Life cannot last Forever and a day. 129 AT NIGHT-TIME We soothe the child for some withholden pleasure, Till sweet eyes smile that were so fain to weep: "To-morrow only wait until to-morrow, After you sleep." So we are soothed with solemn dreams of heaven, When earthly days no further solace keep; Hope tells us there shall be a happy morrow After we sleep. 130 DEATH AT DAYBREAK I shall go out when the light comes in There lie my cast-off form and face; I shall pass Dawn on her way to earth, As I seek for a path through space. I shall go out when the light comes in; Would I might take one ray with me! It is blackest night between the worlds, And how is a soul to see? THE ETERNAL JUSTICE Thank God that God shall judge my soul, not man! I marvel when they say, " Think of that awful Day No pitying fellow-sinner s eyes shall scan With tolerance thy soul, But His who knows the whole, The God whom all men own is wholly just." Hold thou that last word dear, And live untouched by fear. He knows with what strange fires He mixed this dust. The heritage of race, The circumstance and place Which make us what we are were from His hand, That left us, faint of voice, Small margin for a choice. He gave, I took : Shall I not fearless stand ? THE ETERNAL JUSTICE 133 Hereditary bent That hedges in intent He knows, be sure, the God who shaped thy brain. He loves the souls he made; He knows his own hand laid On each the mark of some ancestral stain. Not souls severely white, But groping for more light, Are what Eternal Justice here demands. Fear not; He made thee dust. Cling to that sweet word "Just." All s well with thee if thou art in just hands THIS BOOK IS DtJE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL PINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE OERDUE SEVENTH OCT 9 1933 10 1933 , w Songs about life, love and death jtmssi ocf 953 A364 396042 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY YC148159