GIFT OF Prof. S- Einarsson THE POEMS OF EDWARD ROWLAND SILL THE POEMS OF EDWARD ROWLAND SILL CAMBRIDGE tfrintrtr at i)e litfcermtre $m 1902 Copyright 1867 by K R Sill Copyright 1887, 1889, 1899, 1902 by Houghton, Mifflin and Company All rights reserved s CONTENTS PAGE EDWARD ROWLAND SILL xiii THE VENUS OF MILO 1 FIELD NOTES . . ... . . . 9 FIRST LOVE AND FANTASY ..... 21 MORNING 24 LIFE 26 FAITH 27 SOLITUDE 29 RETROSPECT 30 CHRISTMAS IN CALIFORNIA 32 AMONG THE REDWOODS ..... 37 OPPORTUNITY 40 HOME 41 GOOD NEWS 42 REVERIE 45 SPRING 47 67-9819 C vi ] FIVE LIVES 49 TRANQUILLITY .52 MY PEACE THOU ART 54 HER FACE 55 DARE YOU? 56 THE INVISIBLE 58 A DRIFTING CLOUD ....... 61 WORDSWORTH 62 PEACE 64 THE HOUSE AND THE HEART 65 THE FOOL S PRAYER 67 BUT FOR HIM 70 A REPLY 72 THE DESERTER 74 THE REFORMER ........ 75 DESIRE OF SLEEP 76 HER EXPLANATION 78 EVE S DAUGHTER 79 BLINDFOLD . 80 C vii 1 RECALL 82 STRANGE . 83 WIEGENLIED 84 AN ANCIENT ERROR 86 TO A FACE AT A CONCERT 88 TWO VIEWS OF IT 89 THE LINKS OF CHANCE .90 "WORDS, WORDS, WORDS" ..... 91 THE THRUSH 93 CARPE DIEM 94 SERVICE 95 THE BOOK OF HOURS 97 THE WONDERFUL THOUGHT 98 NATURE AND HER CHILD . . . . . 102 THE FOSTER-MOTHER 103 TRUTH AT LAST 104 "QUEM METUI MORITURA?" 105 A MORNING THOUGHT 106 THE HERMITAGE . 107 C viii 3 SUNDOWN 150 THE ARCH 152 APRIL IN OAKLAND 154 STARLIGHT 157 A DEAD BIRD IN WINTER 160 SPRING TWILIGHT 162 * EVENING , 164 THE ORGAN 166 EASTERN WINTER 168 SLEEPING 170 A PRAYER 172 THE POLAR SEA 173 THE FUTURE 176 A DAILY MIRACLE ... 178 THE NORTH WIND .... 179 CALIFORNIA WINTER ... 132 INFLUENCES .... 135 THE LOVER S SONG .... 186 A TROPICAL MORNING AT SEA 137 C ix 3 A FOOLISH WISH . . . . . . . .190 EVERY-DAY LIFE 192 BEFORE SUNRISE IN WINTER 193 THE CHOICE 194 SIBYLLINE BARTERING 195 MUSIC 197 THREE SONGS . .200 DESPAIR AND HOPE 201 WISDOM AND FAME 204 SERENITY 206 THE RUBY HEART 208 TO CHILD ANNA 213 THE WORLD S SECRET 215 THE FOUNTAIN 217 DISCONTENT 219 SEEMING AND BEING 220 WEATHER-BOUND 223 TO CHILD SARA 225 A FABLE . 228 C x 3 THE CREATION ........ 233 THE FIRST CAUSE 234 SEMELE 236 A POETS APOLOGY 239 ONE TOUCH OF NATURE 240 THE CRICKETS IN THE FIELDS .... 243 HERMIONE. I. THE LOST MAGIC 244 II. INFLUENCES 245 III. THE DEAD LETTER 246 IV. THE SONG IN THE NIGHT 247 REPROOF IN LOVE ... .... 248 TEMPTED 249 ALONE 250 TO A MAID DEMURE 252 THE COUP DE GRACE 254 THE WORLD RUNS ROUND . . . . .256 SUNDAY 261 ON SECOND THOUGHT 262 C xi ] HIS LOST DAY .263 FERTILITY . . . 265 THE MYSTERY 266 THE LOST BIRD 267 WARNING 269 SUMMER AFTERNOON .270 SUMMER NIGHT 272 A CALIFORNIAN S DREAMS 273 FULFILLMENT 276 THE SINGER ......... 278 THE THINGS THAT WILL NOT DIE ... 280 THE SECRET . . 283 LOST LOVE 286 APPRECIATED 288 MOODS 289 SPACE 290 UNTIMELY THOUGHT 291 THE LIFE NATURAL 292 THE ORACLE . 293 C x 3 FORCE .......... 295 NIGHT AND PEACE 298 THE SINGER S CONFESSION 299 LIVING 301 EVEN THERE 302 SUMMER RAIN 303 A RESTING-PLACE 304 A MEMORY 306 THE OPEN WINDOW 308 ON A PICTURE OF MT. SHASTA BY KEITH . 310 THE TREE OF MY LIFE 313 A CHILD AND A STAR 315 AT DAWN 317 AN ADAGE FROM THE ORIENT .... 318 A PARADOX 319 THE PHILOSOPHER 320 A BIRD S SONG 321 THE DEAD PRESIDENT 322 ROLAND . 325 EDWAED ROWLAND SILL EDWARD ROWLAND SILL -L HE steady although somewhat tardy growth of Sill s reputation as a poet may best be illustrated by the history of his published writings. In 1868, seven years after leaving college, he issued, through the house of Leypoldt and Holt, a slender volume en titled The Hermitage and Other Poems. He waited fifteen years before venturing upon his next book, which was a still more tiny, privately printed vol ume, The Venus of Milo and Other Poems, dated at Berkeley, California, 1883. A year or two before his death, which occurred in 1887, his present pub lishers, who had noted with interest the poems which Sill had been contributing to the Atlantic and other periodicals, both under his own name and under pseu donyms, invited him to make a collection of his poetry for publication. He was in no haste to do this, for he was in the midst of his most fertile period of cre ative activity. While he was still uncertain as to his choice of material for the proposed volume, he passed C xiv ] away. But in November, 1887, his publishers issued Poems ~by Edward Rowland Sill, a volume which contained five pieces from The Hermitage, a consid erable portion of the contents of The Venus of Milo and Other Poems, and a selection from the uncol- lected poems of the last four or five years of his life. This book won many readers. Two years later a second collection was made, bearing the title The Hermitage and Later Poems, and enriched with a tributary lyric by Mr. Aldrich. So constant did the interest in Sill s poetry prove to be, that in 1899, twelve years after the poet s death, his publishers pre sented a final volume of verse, Hermione and Other Poems, gathered from his manuscripts and from the various periodicals in which his work had appeared. It is by these books, together with The Prose of Ed ward Rowland Sill (1900), a volume made up chiefly of papers written for the Contributors Club of the Atlantic, that his reputation as a man of letters has been established. The interest aroused by Sill s writings is attributa ble in part, no doubt, to the marked individuality of the man. The story of his career is brief and modest. He was born in Windsor, Connecticut, April 29, 1841, C xv 3 of English and Welsh ancestry. His mother s father and grandfather were Congregational ministers. His father and his father s father were physicians and sur geons. He was graduated at Yale in 1861, and for some years was engaged in business in California. In 1867 he returned East with the expectation of en tering the ministry, and studied for a few months at the Divinity School of Harvard University. He gave up the purpose, however, married, and began to occupy himself with literary work. He translated Rau s Mozart, and held for a while an editorial posi tion on the New York Evening Mail. But his pe culiar power in stimulating the minds of others drew him into the work of teaching, and he became prin cipal of an academy in Ohio. His California life, however, had given him a strong attachment to the Pacific coast and a sense that his health would be better there, and accordingly, on receiving an invita tion to a position in the Oakland High School, he re moved to California in 1871. In 1874, he accepted the chair of English Literature in the University of California, and filled it with rare success for eight years. Compelled by failing health to resign in 1882, he passed the latest years of his life in Ohio, c: xvi 3 and died in Cleveland, after a brief illness, on Feb ruary 27, 1887. Yet back of this career, typical of that of many of his countrymen in its frequent changes of scene, its patient struggle against hard conditions, one per ceives a strong personality. His life as a teacher was noteworthy for its capacity to inspire right principles of conduct ; he was a passionate idealist, who drew to himself the affection and pride of his pupils. One of his comrades in many a yearly outing in California sums up his disposition by calling him "a genial, gentle, sincere, unaffected, deep-sighted, quick-witted, delightful, gifted, lovable, manful, communicating man." In this long concourse of friendly adjectives much stress, doubtless, is to be thrown upon the last. Sill loved to communicate, and it was this quality of his temperament which helped to make him a poet. A real poet he unquestionably is : a " minor poet," if one chooses to insist upon distinctions of rank, yet with a message of his own, and a voice that is subtly differentiated from that of any other singer. He wrote in a private letter, the year before his death, " I know my Browning, Tennyson, Matthew Arnold, Emerson, far better than I do the ancients. And my Scott, Byron, Shelley and Wordsworth far better than the more ancient than they." This intimate know ledge of the greater English poets of the nineteenth century left its impress upon Sill s own productions, and among the names cited, Tennyson, Arnold, and Emerson seem to have influenced him most. But as with Lowell, whose nature was in many respects akin to Sill s, the inspiration that comes from books left upon the poet s work few traces of mere bookishness. He saw the world with his own eyes, and his verse was all the richer for his familiarity with the thought and the music of the masters. Some of the most character istic phases of his poetry, such as its variety of mood and form, sensitiveness to the influences of nature, and the flawless purity of its spirit, are traits which attest his brotherhood with the representative authors of his country and his time. But the individual impression he has made thus far and it should be remembered that Sill s fame is still crescent is by virtue of the fine strenuousness, the noble temper, of such poems as Opportunity and The Fool s Prayer. Here are gallant courage, reverence, and enduring faith; an xv insight that divines the prof oundest sources of human emotion and an art that expresses them with finished beauty. The present edition gives the reader, for the first time, an opportunity to survey Sill s poetical produc tions in their entirety. It contains all the work in cluded in the three volumes already published by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin and Company, and, in ad dition to this, several poems hitherto uncollected, which are thought worthy of being placed among the rest, and which the increasing company of Sill s admirers are sure to welcome. March, 1902. POEMS THE VENUS OF MILO THERE fell a vision to Praxiteles : Watching thro drowsy lids the loitering seas That lay caressing with white arms of foam The sleeping marge of his Ionian home, He saw great Aphrodite standing near, Knew her, at last, the Beautiful he had sought With lifelong passion, and in love and fear Into unsullied stone the vision wrought. Far other was the form that Cnidos gave To senile Rome, no longer free or brave, The Medicean, naked like a slave. The Cnidians built her shrine Of creamy ivory fine ; Most costly was the floor Of scented cedar, and from door Was looped to carven door Rich stuff of Tyrian purple, in whose shade Her glistening shoulders and round limbs outshone, Milk-white as lilies in a summer moon. C * ] Here honey-hearted Greece to worship came, And on her altar leaped a turbid flame. The quickened blood ran dancing to its doom, And lip sought trembling lip in that rich gloom. But the island people of Cos, by the salt main From Persia s touch kept clean, Chose for their purer shrine amid the seas That grander vision of Praxiteles. Long ages after, sunken in the ground Of sea-girt Melos, wondering shepherds found The marred and dinted copy which men name Venus of Milo, saved to endless fame. Before the broken marble, on a day, There came a worshiper : a slanted ray Struck in across the dimness of her shrine And touched her face as to a smile divine ; For it was like the worship of a Greek At her old altar. Thus I heard him speak : Men call thee Love : is there no holier name Than hers, the foam-born, laughter-loving dame ? Nay, for there is than love no holier name : C 3 ] All words that pass the lips of mortal men With inner and with outer meaning shine ; An outer gleam that meets the common ken, An inner light that but the few divine. Thou art the love celestial, seeking still The soul beneath the form ; the serene will ; The wisdom, of whose deeps the sages dream ; The unseen beauty that doth faintly gleam In stars, and flowers, and waters where they roll ; The unheard music whose faint echoes even Make whosoever hears a homesick soul Thereafter, till he follow it to heaven. Larger than mortal woman I see thee stand, With beautiful head bent forward steadily, As if those earnest eyes could see Some glorious thing far off, to which thy hand Invisibly stretched onward seems to be. From thy white forehead s breadth of calm, the hair Sweeps lightly, as a cloud in windless air. Placid thy brows, as that still line at dawn Where the dim hills along the sky are drawn, When the last stars are drowned in deeps afar. Thy quiet mouth I know not if it smile, C 4 n Or if in some wise pity thou wilt weep, Little as one may tell, some summer morn, Whether the dreamy brightness is most glad, Or wonderfully sad, So bright, so still thy lips serenely sleep ; So fixedly thine earnest eyes the while, As clear and steady as the morning star, Their gaze upon that coming glory keep. Thy garment s fallen folds Leave beautiful the fair, round breast In sacred loveliness ; the bosom deep Where happy babe might sleep ; The ample waist no narrowing girdle holds, Where daughters slim might come to cling and rest, Like tendriled vines against the plane-tree pressed. Around thy firm, large limbs and steady feet The robes slope downward, as the folded hills Slope round the mountain s knees, when shadow fills The hollow canons, and the wind is sweet From russet oat-fields and the ripening wheat. Prom our low world no gods have taken wing ; Even now upon our hills the twain are wandering ; C 5 ] The Medicean s sly and servile grace, And the immortal beauty of thy face. One is the spirit of all short-lived love And outward, earthly loveliness : The tremulous rosy morn is her mouth s smile, The sky her laughing azure eyes above ; And, waiting for caress, Lie bare the soft hill-slopes, the while Her thrilling voice is heard In song of wind and wave, and every flitting bird. Not plainly, never quite herself she shows ; Just a swift glance of her illumined smile Along the landscape goes ; Just a soft hint of singing, to beguile A man from ah 1 his toil ; Some vanished gleam of beckoning arm, to spoil A morning s task with longing wild and vain. Then if across the parching plain He seek her, she with passion burns His heart to fever, and he hears The west wind s mocking laughter when he turns, Shivering in mist of ocean s sullen tears. It is the Medicean : well I know The arts her ancient subtlety will show ; C 6 ^ The stubble-fields she turns to ruddy gold ; The empty distance she will fold In purple gauze : the warm glow she has kissed Along the chilling mist : Cheating and cheated love that grows to hate And ever deeper loathing, soon or late. Thou, too, fairer spirit, walkest here Upon the hf ted hills : Wherever that still thought within the breast The inner beauty of the world hath moved ; In starlight that the dome of evening fills ; On endless waters rounding to the west : For them who thro 5 that beauty s veil have loved The soul of all things beautiful the best. For lying broad awake, long ere the dawn, Staring against the dark, the blank of space Opens immeasurably, and thy face Wavers and glimmers there and is withdrawn. And many days, when all one s work is vain, And life goes stretching on, a waste gray plain, With even the short mirage of morning gone, No cool breath anywhere, no shadow nigh Where a weary man might lay him down and die, C 7 ] Lo ! thou art there before me suddenly, With shade as if a summer cloud did pass, And spray of fountains whispering to the grass. Oh, save me from the haste and noise and heat That spoil life s music sweet : And from that lesser Aphrodite there Even now she stands Close as I turn, and, my soul, how fair ! Nay, I will heed not thy white beckoning hands, Nor thy soft lips like the curled inner leaf In a rosebud s breast, kissed languid by the sun, Nor eyes like liquid gleams where waters run. Yea, thou art beautiful as morn ; And even as I draw nigh To scoff, I own the loveliness I scorn. Farewell, for thou hast lost me : keep thy train Of worshipers ; me thou dost lure in vain : The inner passion, pure as very fire, Burns to light ash the earthlier desire. greater Aphrodite, unto thee Let me not say farewell. What would Earth be Without thy presence? Surely unto me A lifelong weariness, a dull, bad dream. Abide with me, and let thy calm brows beam Fresh hope upon me every amber dawn, New peace when evening s violet veil is drawn. Then, tho I see along the glooming plain The Medicean s waving hand again, And white feet glimmering in the harvest-field, I shall not turn, nor yield ; But as heaven deepens, and the Cross and Lyre Lift up their stars beneath the Northern Crown, Unto the yearning of the world s desire I shall be ware of answer coming down ; And something, when my heart the darkness stills, Shall tell me, without sound or any sight, That other footsteps are upon the hills ; Till the dim earth is luminous with the light Of the white dawn, from some far-hidden shore, That shines upon thy forehead evermore. FIELD NOTES BY the wild fence-row, all grown up With tall oats, and the buttercup, And the seeded grass, and blue flax-flower, I fling myself in a nest of green, Walled about and all unseen, And lose myself in the quiet hour. Now and then from the orchard-tree To the sweet clover at my knee Hums the crescendo of a bee, Making the silence seem more still ; Overhead on a maple prong The least of birds, a jeweled sprite, With burnished throat and needle bill, Wags his head in the golden light, Till it flashes, and dulls, and flashes bright, Cheeping his microscopic song. 1 Written for the graduating class of 1882, at Smith College, Northampton, Mass. It is a pleasant custom at that college for each class to send abroad and invite some one to celebrate its entrance into the greater world. i: ii Far up the hill-farm, where the breeze Dips its wing in the billowy grain, Waves go chasing from the plain On softly undulating seas ; Now near my nest they swerve and turn, And now go wandering without aim ; Or yonder, where the poppies burn, Race up the slope in harmless flame. Sometimes the bold wind sways my walls, My four green walls of the grass and oats, But never a slender column falls, And the blue sky-roof above them floats. Cool in the glowing sun I feel On wrist and cheek the sea-breeze steal From the wholesome ocean brine. The air is full of the whispering pine, Surf-sound of an aerial sea ; And the light clashing, near and far, As of mimic shield and scimitar, Of the slim Australian tree. C " 3 III So all that azure day In the lap of the green world I lay ; And drinking of the sunshine s flood, Like Sigurd when the dragon s blood Made the bird-songs understood, Inward or outward I could hear A murmuring of music near ; And this is what it seemed to say : IV Old earth, how beautiful thou art ! Though restless fancy wander wide And sigh in dreams for spheres more blest, Save for some trouble, half -confessed, Some least misgiving, all my heart With such a world were satisfied. Had every day such skies of blue, Were men all wise, and women true, Might youth as calm as manhood be, And might calm manhood keep its lore And still be young and one thing more. Old earth were fair enough for me. Ah, sturdy world, old patient world ! Thou hast seen many times and men ; Heard jibes and curses at thee hurled From cynic lip and peevish pen. But give the mother once her due : Were women wise, and men all true And one thing more that may not be, Old earth were fair enough for me. If only we were worthier found Of the stout ball that bears us round ! New wants, new ways, pert plans of change, New answers to old questions strange ; But to the older questions still No new replies have come, or will. New speed to buzz abroad and see Cities where one needs not to be ; But no new way to dwell at home, Or there to make great friendships come ; C is 3 No novel way to seek or find True hearts and the heroic mind. Of atom force and chemic stew Nor Socrates nor Caesar knew, But the old ages knew a plan The lost art how to mould a man. VI World, wise old world. What may man do for thee ? Thou that art greater than all of us, What wilt thou do to me ? This glossy curve of the tall grass-spear Can I make its lustrous green more clear ? This tapering shaft of oat, that knows To grow erect as the great pine grows, And to sway in the wind as well as he Can I teach it to nod more graciously ? The lark on the mossy rail so nigh, Wary, but pleased if I keep my place Who could give a single grace To his flute-note sweet and high, Or help him find his nest hard by ? C 14 1 Can I add to the poppy s gold one bit ? Can I deepen the sky, or soften it ? VII jEons ago a rock crashed down From a mountain s crown, Where a tempest s tread Crumbled it from its hold. Ages dawn and in turn grow old : The rock lies still and dead. Flames come and floods come, Sea rolls this mountain crumb To a pebble,, in its play ; Till at the last man came to be, And a thousand generations passed away. Then from the bed of a brook one day A boy with the heart of a king Fitted the stone to his shepherd sling, And a giant fell, and a royal race was free. Not out of any cloud or sky Will thy good come to prayer or cry. Let the great forces, wise of old, Have their whole way with thee, C 15 ] Crumble thy heart from its hold, Drown thy life in the sea. And aeons hence, some day, The love thou gavest a child, The dream in a midnight wild, The word thou wouldst not say Or in a whisper no one dared to hear, Shall gladden the earth and bring the golden year, VIII Just now a spark of fire Flashed from a builder s saw On the ribs of a roof a mile away. His has been the better day, Gone not in dreams, nor even the subtle desire Not to desire ; But work is the sober law He knows well to obey. It is a poem he fits and fashions well ; And the five chambers are five acts of it : Hope in one shall dwell, In another fear will sit ; In the chamber on the east C l6 1 Shall be the bridal feast ; In the western one The dead shall lie alone. So the cycles of life shall fill The clean, pine-scented rooms where now he works his will. IX Might one be healed from fevering thought, And only look, each night, On some plain work well wrought, Or if a man as right and true might be As a flower or tree ! I would give up all the mind In the prim city s hoard can find House with its scrap-art bedight, Straitened manners of the street, Smooth-voiced society If so the swiftness of the wind Might pass into my feet ; If so the sweetness of the wheat Into my soul might pass, And the clear courage of the grass ; I 17 ] If the lark caroled in my song ; If one tithe of the faithfulness Of the bird-mother with her brood Into my selfish heart might press, And make me also instinct-good. Life is a game the soul can play With fewer pieces than men say. Only to grow as the grass grows, Prating not of joys or woes ; To burn as the steady hearth-fire burns ; To shine as the star can shine, Or only as the mote of dust that turns Darkling and twinkling in the beam of light divine ; And for my wisdom r- glad to know Where the sweetest beech-nuts grow, And to track out the spicy root, Or peel the musky core of the wild-berry shoot ; And how the russet ground-bird bold With both slim feet at once will lightly rake the mould ; And why moon-shadows from the swaying limb [ 18 3 Here are sharp and there are dim ; And how the ant his zigzag way can hold Through the grass that is a grove to him. T were good to live one s life alone. So to share life with many a one : To keep a thought seven years, and then Welcome it coming to you On the way from another s brain and pen, So to judge if it be true. Then would the world be fair, Beautiful as is the past, Whose beauty we can see at last, Since self no more is there. XI I will be glad to be and do, And glad of all good men that live, For they are woof of nature too ; Glad of the poets every one, Pure Longfellow, great Emerson, And all that Shakespeare s world can give. When the road is dust, and the grass dries, I 19 ] Then will I gaze on the deep skies ; And if Dame Nature frown in cloud, Well, mother then my heart shall say You cannot so drive me away ; I will still exult aloud. Companioned of the good hard ground, Whereon stout hearts of every clime, In the battles of all time, Foothold and couch have found. XII Joy to the laughing troop That from the threshold starts, Led on by courage and immortal hope, And with the morning in their hearts. They to the disappointed earth shall give The lives we meant to live, Beautiful, free, and strong ; The light we almost had Shall make them glad ; The words we waited long Shall run in music from their voice and song. Unto our world hope s daily oracles C 20 3 From their lips shall be brought ; And in our lives love s hourly miracles By them be wrought. Their merry task shall be To make the house all fine and sweet Its new inhabitants to greet, The wondrous dawning century. XIII And now the close of this fair day was come ; The bay grew duskier on its purple floor, And the long curve of foam Drew its white net along a dimmer shore. Through the fading saffron light, Through the deepening shade of even, The round earth rolled into the summer night, And watched the kindling of the stars in heaven, C FIRST LOVE AND FANTASY HID in the silence of a forest deep Dwelt a fair soul, in flesh that was as fair. Over her nimble hands her floating hair Made waving shadows, while her eyes did keep The winding track of weavery intricate. Early at morn, and at the evening late, A robe of shimmering silk she wove with care. Hour after hour, though might she smile or weep, Still ran the golden or the glooming thread. Waking, she wove that which she dreamed asleep, Till many a moon had bloomed and blanched above her head. Now when the time was full, the robe was done. Light she would hold it in her loving hand, And with wide eyes of wonder she would stand For half the day, and turn it to the sun, To see its gold lights shift and melt away And grow again, and flash in myriad play. Or, while it glimmered on each glossy strand, L 22 3 For half the night she held it to the moon ; Or, sitting with it sleeked across her knee, She would bend down above it, and would croon The strangest bits of broken songs that e er could be. Then came the dawn when (so her doom had said) Out through the shadowy forest she must go, And follow wheresoever chance might show, Or whither any sound her footsteps led ; Taking for wayward guides whatever stirred The rustling squirrel, or the startled bird, Their pathless ways pursuing, fast or slow Until the forest s border she should tread. There, whosoever met her, she must fling That woven wonder blindly o er his head, And see in him f orevermore her lord and king. Dim was the morn, and dew-wet was the way : Aloft the ancient cedars lifted high Their jagged crosses on the brightening sky : Below, the gossamers were glimmering gray Along her path, and many a silver thread Caught glancing lights, in floating curves o erhead ; And little dew-showers pattered far and nigh, [ 33 3 Where wakened thrushes stirred the sprinkled spray. For hours she wandered where her footsteps led, Till a long glance of open sunlight lay As red as gold upon her lifted, eager head. Ah, woe for her, that mortal doom must be ! Just then the prince came spurring, fair and young, With heart as merry as the song he sung ; But when she started forward, at her knee A cringing beggar from the weeds close by Holds up his cap for alms, with whining cry. Swift over him the lifted robe was flung : Henceforth, his slave, forever she must see All princely beauty in that brutal face Heaven send that by some deeper witchery His meagre soul through her may gain its touch of grace ! C MORNING I ENTERED once, at break of day, A chapel, lichen-stained and gray, Where a congregation dozed and heard An old monk read from a written Word. No light through the window-panes could pass, For shutters were closed on the rich stained-glass ; And in a gloom like the nether night The monk read on by a taper s light. Ghostly with shadows, that shrank and grew As the dim light flared, were aisle and pew ; And the congregation that dozed around Listened without a stir or sound Save one, who rose with wistful face, And shifted a shutter from its place. Then light flashed in like a flashing gem For dawn had come unknown to them And a slender beam, like a lance of gold, Shot to the crimson curtain-fold, Over the bended head of him Who pored and pored by the taper dim ; And it kindled over his wrinkled brow Such words " The law which was till now ; " And I wondered that, under that morning ray, When night and shadow were scattered away, The monk should bow his locks of white By a taper s feebly flickering light Should pore, and pore, and never seem To notice the golden morning-beam. C 26 LIFE FORENOON and afternoon and night, Forenoon, And afternoon, and night, Forenoon, and what ! The empty song repeats itself. No more ? Yea, that is Life : make this forenoon sublime, This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won. FAITH THE tree-top, high above the barren field, Rising beyond the night s gray folds of mist. Rests stirless where the upper air is sealed To perfect silence, by the faint moon kiss d. But the low branches, drooping to the ground, Sway to and fro, as sways funereal plume, While from their restless depths low whispers sound- " We fear, we fear the darkness and the gloom ; Dim forms beneath us pass and reappear, And mournful tongues are menacing us here." Then from the topmost bough falls calm reply " Hush, hush ! I see the coming of the morn ; Swiftly the silent Night is passing by, And in her bosom rosy Dawn is borne. T is but your own dim shadows that ye see, T is but your own low moans that trouble ye." So Life stands, with a twilight world around ; Faith turned serenely to the steadfast sky, C 28 3 Still answering the heart that sweeps the ground, Sobbing in fear, and tossing restlessly " Hush, hush ! The Dawn breaks o er the East ern sea, T is but thine own dim shadow troubling thee." C SOLITUDE ALL alone alone, Calm, as on a kingly throne, Take thy place in the crowded land, Self-centred in free self-command. Let thy manhood leave behind The narrow ways of the lesser mind : What to thee are its little cares, The feeble love or the spite it bears ? Let the noisy crowd go by : In thy lonely watch on high, Far from the chattering tongues of men, Sitting above their call or ken, Free from links of manner and form Thou shalt learn of the winged storm God shall speak to thee out of the sky. C 30 RETROSPECT NOT all which we have been Do we remain. Nor on the dial-hearts of men Do the years mark themselves in vain ; But every cloud that in our sky hath passed, Some gloom or glory hath upon us cast ; And there have fallen from us, as we traveled, Many a burden of an ancient pain Many a tangled chord hath been unraveled, Never to bind our foolish heart again. Old loves have left us lingeringly and slow, As melts away the distant strain of low Sweet music waking us from troubled dreams, Lulling to holier ones that dies afar On the deep night, as if by silver beams Claspt to the trembling breast of some charmed star. And we have stood and watched, all wistfully, While fluttering hopes have died out of our lives, As one who follows with a straining eye A bird that far, far off fades in the sky, C s 1 3 A little rocking speck now lost; and still he strives A moment to recover it in vain ; Then slowly turns back to his work again. But loves and hopes have left us in their place. Thank God ! a gentle grace, A patience, a belief in His good time, Worth more than all earth s joys to which we climb. CHRISTMAS IN CALIFORNIA CAN this be Christmas sweet as May, With drowsy sun, and dreamy air, And new grass pointing out the way For flowers to follow, everywhere ? Has Time grown sleepy at his post, And let the exiled Summer back, Or is it her regretful ghost, Or witchcraft of the almanac ? While wandering breaths of mignonette In at the open window come, I send my thoughts afar, and let Them paint your Christmas Day at home. Glitter of ice, and glint of frost, And sparkles in the crusted snow ; And hark ! the dancing sleigh-bells, tost The faster as they fainter grow. C 33 1 The creaking footsteps hurry past ; The quick breath dims the frosty air ; And down the crisp road slipping fast Their laughing loads the cutters bear. Penciled against the cold white sky. Above the curling eaves of snow, The thin blue smoke lifts lingeringly, As loath to leave the mirth below. For at the door a merry din Is heard, with stamp of feathery feet, And chattering girls come storming in, To toast them at the roaring grate. And then from muff and pocket peer, And many a warm and scented nook, Mysterious little bundles queer, That, rustling, tempt the curious look. Now broad upon the southern walls The mellowed sun s great smile appears, And tips the rough-ringed icicles With sparks, that grow to glittering tears. I 34 ] Then, as the darkening day goes by, The wind gets gustier without, And leaden streaks are on the sky, And whirls of snow are all about. Soon firelight shadows, merry crew, Along the darkling walls will leap And clap their hands, as if they knew A thousand things too good to keep. Sweet eyes with home s contentment filled, As in the smouldering coals they peer, Haply some wondering pictures build Of how I keep my Christmas here. Before me, on the wide, warm bay, A million azure ripples run ; Eound me the sprouting palm-shoots lay Their shining lances to the sun. With glossy leaves that poise or swing, The callas their white cups unfold, And faintest chimes of odor ring From silver bells with tongues of gold. C 35 3 A languor of deliciousness Fills all the sea-enchanted clime ; And in the blue heavens meet, and kiss, The loitering clouds of summer-time. This fragrance of the mountain balm From spicy Lebanon might be ; Beneath such sunshine s amber calm Slumbered the waves of Galilee. wondrous gift, in goodness given, Each hour anew our eyes to greet, An earth so fair so close to Heaven, T was trodden by the Master s feet. And we what bring we in return ? Only these broken lives, and lift Them up to meet His pitying scorn, As some poor child its foolish gift : As some poor child on Christmas Day Its broken toy in love might bring ; You could not break its heart and say / You cared not for the worthless thing ? C 36 1 Ah, word of trust, His child ! That child Who brought to earth the life divine, Tells me the Father s pity mild Scorns not even such a gift as mine. I am His creature, and His air I breathe, where er my feet may stand ; The angels song rings everywhere, And all the earth is Holy Land. 37 3 AMONG THE REDWOODS FAREWELL to such a world ! Too long I press The crowded pavement with unwilling feet. Pity makes pride, and hate breeds hatef ulness, And both are poisons. In the forest, sweet The shade, the peace ! Immensity, that seems To drown the human life of doubts and dreams. Far off the massive portals of the wood, Buttressed with shadow, misty-blue, serene, Waited my coming. Speedily I stood Where the dun wall rose roofed in plumy green. Dare one go in ? Glance backward ! Dusk as night Each column, fringed with sprays of amber light. Let me, along this fallen bole, at rest, Turn to the cool, dim roof my glowing face. Delicious dark on weary eyelids prest ! Enormous solitude of silent space, But for a low and thunderous ocean sound, Too far to hear, felt thrilling through the ground. [ 38 3 No stir nor call the sacred hush profanes ; Save when from some bare treetop, far on high, Fierce disputations of the clamorous cranes Fall muffled, as from out the upper sky. So still, one dreads to wake the dreaming air, Breaks a twig softly, moves the foot with care. The hollow dome is green with empty shade, Struck through with slanted shafts of afternoon ; Aloft, a little rift of blue is made, Where slips a ghost that last night was the moon ; Beside its pearl a sea-cloud stays its wing, Beneath a tilted hawk is balancing. The heart feels not in every time and mood What is around it. Dull as any stone I lay ; then, like a darkening dream, the wood Grew Karnak s temple, where I breathed alone In the awed air strange incense, and uprose Dim, monstrous columns in their dread repose. The mind not always sees ; but if there shine A bit of fern-lace bending over moss, A silky glint that rides a spider-line, On a trefoil two shadow-spears that cross, C 39 3 Three grasses that toss up their nodding heads, With spring and curve like clustered fountain- threads, Suddenly, through side windows of the eye, Deep solitudes, where never souls have met ; Vast spaces, forest corridors that lie In a mysterious world, unpeopled yet. Because the outward eye elsewhere was caught, The awf ulness and wonder come unsought. If death be but resolving back again Into the world s deep soul, this is a kind Of quiet, happy death, untouched by pain Or sharp reluctance. For I feel my mind Is interfused with all I hear and see ; As much a part of All as cloud or tree. Listen ! A deep and solemn wind on high ; The shafts of shining dust shift to and fro ; The columned trees sway imperceptibly, And creak as mighty masts when trade-winds blow. The cloudy sails are set ; the earth-ship swings Along the sea of space to grander things. OPPORTUNITY THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream : There spread a cloud of dust along a plain ; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince s banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle s edge, And thought, " Had I a sword of keener steel That blue blade that the king s son bears, but this Blunt thing ! " he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king s son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day. HOME THERE lies a little city in the hills ; White are its roofs, dim is each dwelling s door, And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills. , There the pure mist, the pity of the sea, Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches o er And touches its still face most tenderly. Unstirred and calm, amid our shifting years, Lo ! where it lies, far from the clash and roar, With quiet distance blurred, as if thro tears. heart, that prayest so for God to send Some loving messenger to go before And lead the way to where thy longings end, Be sure, be very sure, that soon will come His kindest angel, and through that still door Into the Infinite love will lead thee home. C 42 3 GOOD NEWS T is just the day to hear good news : The pulses of the world are still ; The eager spring s unfolding hues Are drowned in floods of sun, that fill The golden air, and softly bear Deep sleep and silence everywhere. No ripple runs along that sea Of warm, new grass, but all things wear A hush of calm expectancy : What is coming to Heart and me ? The idle clouds, that work their wills In moods of shadow, on the hills ; The dusky hollows in the trees, Veiled with their sunlit broideries ; The gate that has not swung, all day ; The dappled water s drowsy gleam ; The tap of hammers far away, And distant voices, like a dream, All seem but visions, and a tone Haunts them of tidings they refuse : C 43 ^ So, all the quiet afternoon, Heart and I we sit alone, Waiting for some good news. Other days had lif e to spare, Tasks to do, and men to meet, Trifling wishes, bits of care, A hundred ways for ready feet ; But this bright day is all so sweet, So sweet, t is sad in its content ; As if kind Nature, as she went Her happy way, had paused a space, Remembered us, and turned her face As toward some protest of distress ; Waiting till we should find our place In the wide world s happiness. Nothing stirs but some vague scent, A breath of hidden violet The lonely last of odors gone Still lingering from the morning dews, As if it were the earth s regret For other such bright days that went, While Heart and I we sat alone, Waiting for our good news. C 44 ] What would you have for your good news, Foolish Heart, foolish Heart ? Some new freedom to abuse, Some old trouble to depart ? Sudden flash of snowy wing Out of yonder blue, to bring Messages so long denied ? The old greeting at your side, The old hunger satisfied ? Nay, the distant will not come ; To deaf ears all songs are dumb : Silly Heart, silly Heart ! From within joy must begin What could help the thing thou art ? Nothing draweth from afar, The gods can give but what we are. Heaven makes the mould, but soon and late Man pours the metal that is Fate. We must speak the word we wait, And give the gift we die to own. Wake, Heart ! From us alone Can come our best good news. C 45 REVERIE WHETHER t was in that dome of evening sky, So hollow where the few great stars were bright, Or something in the cricket s lonely cry, Or, farther off, where swelled upon the night The surf -beat of the symphony s delight, Then died in crumbling cadences away A dream of Schubert s soul, too sweet to stay : Whether from these, or secret spell within, It seemed an empty waste of endless sea, Where the waves mourned for what had never been, Where the wind sought for what could never be : Then all was still, in vast expectancy Of powers that waited but some mystic sign To touch the dead world to a life divine. Me, too, it filled that breathless, blind desire ; And every motion of the oars of thought Thrilled all the deep in flashes sparks of fire In meshes of the darkling ripples caught, C 46 ]] Swiftly rekindled, and then quenched to naught ; And the dark held me ; wish and will were none : A soul unformed and void, silent, alone, And brooded over by the Infinite One. SPRING WHEN is it Spring ? When spirits rise, Pure crocus-buds, where the snow dies ; When children play outdoors till dark ; When the sap trickles up the bark ; When bits of blue sky flit and sing, Playing at birds then is it Spring ? When is it Spring ? When the bee hums ; When through the opened window comes The breeze, and summer-license claims To swing and toss the picture frames ; When the walk dries ; the robins call ; The brown hens doze by the sunny wall, One foot drawn up to warm, or sing With half -filmed eyes then is it Spring ? Nay, each might prove a treacherous sign : But when old waters seem new wine ; When all our mates are half divine ; When love comes easier than hate ; C 48 ] When we have no more shrugs at Fate, But think sometimes of God, and late Our swiftest serving seems to be ; When bright ways numberless we see, And thoughts spring up, and hopes run free. And wild new dreams are all on wing, Till we must either fly or sing With riotous life be sure t is Spring. C 49 FIVE LIVES FIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round drop That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun. To the naked eye they lived invisible ; Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky. One was a meditative monad, called a sage ; And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought : " Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence, When I am very old, yon shimmering dome Come drawing down and down, till all things end ? " Then with a weazen smirk he proudly felt No other mote of God had ever gained Such giant grasp of universal truth. One was a transcendental monad ; thin And long and slim in the mind ; and thus he mused : " Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls ! C 50 3 Made in the image " a hoarse frog croaks from the pool " Hark ! t was some god, voicing his glorious thought In thunder music ! Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work. Some taste they have like ours, some tendency To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum." He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone. One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist ; and he knew positively : " There is no world beyond this certain drop. Prove me another ! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint dreams, and noises from without, And higher and lower ; life is life enough." Then swaggering half a hair s breadth, hungrily He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed. One was a tattered monad, called a poet ; And with shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang : " Oh, the little female monad s lips ! Oh, the little female monad s eyes ! Ah, the little, little, female, female monad ! " c 51 : The last was a strong-minded monadess, Who dashed amid the infusoria. Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove Till the dizzy others held their breath to see. But while they led their wondrous little lives Ionian moments had gone wheeling by. The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed ; A glistening film t was gone ; the leaf was dry. The little ghost of an inaudible squeak Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone ; Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still. 52 TRANQUILLITY WEARY, and marred with care and pain And bruising days, the human brain Draws wounded inward, it might be Some delicate creature of the sea, That, shuddering, shrinks its lucent dome, And coils its azure tendrils home, And folds its filmy curtains tight At jarring contact, e er so light ; But let it float away all free, And feel the buoyant, supple sea Among its tinted streamers swell, Again it spreads its gauzy wings, And, waving its wan fringes, swings With rhythmic pulse its crystal bell. So let the mind, with care overwrought, Float down the tranquil tides of thought : Calm visions of unending years Beyond this little moment s fears ; Of boundless regions far from where C 53 3 The girdle of the azure air Binds to the earth the prisoned mind. Set free the fancy, till it find Beyond our world a vaster place To thrill and vibrate out through space, As some auroral banner streams Up through the night in pulsing gleams, And floats and flashes o er our dreams ; There let the whirling planet fall D own down, till but a glimmering ball, A misty star : and dwindled so, There is no room for care, or woe, Or wish, apart from that one Will That doth the worlds with music fill. C 54 MT PEACE THOU ART MY peace thou art, thou art my rest ; From thee my pain, in thee so blest : Enter mine eyes, this heart draw near, Oh come, oh dwell forever here. Enter, and close the door, and come, And be this breast thine endless home ; Shut out all lesser care and woe, I would thy hurt and healing know. Clear light that on my soul hath shone, Still let it shine from thee alone, From thee alone. C 55 HER FACE I STOOD in sombre dreaming Before her image dear, And saw, in secret wonder, Living my darling appear. About her mouth a smile came, So wonderful and wise, And tears of some still sorrow Seemed shining in her eyes. My tears, they too were flowing, Her face I could not see, And oh ! I cannot believe it, That my love is lost to me. C 56 DARE YOU? DOUBTING Thomas and loving John, Behind the others walking on : " Tell me now, John, dare you be One of the minority ? To be lonely in your thought, Never visited nor sought, Shunned with secret shrug, to go Through the world esteemed its foe ; To be singled out and hissed, Pointed at as one unblessed, Warned against in whispers faint, Lest the children catch a taint ; To bear off your titles well, Heretic and infidel ? If you dare, come now with me, Fearless, confident, and free." " Thomas, do you dare to be Of the great majority ? c 57 : To be only, as the rest, With Heaven s common comforts blessed ; To accept, in humble part, Truth that shines on every heart ; Never to be set on high, Where the envious curses fly ; Never name or fame to find, Still outstripped in soul and mind ; To be hid, unless to God, As one grass-blade in the sod, Underfoot with millions trod ? If you dare, come with us be Lost in love s great unity." C 58 THE INVISIBLE IF there is naught but what we see, What is the wide world worth to me ? But is there naught save what we see ? A thousand things on every hand My sense is numb to understand : I know we eddy round the sun ; When has it dizzied any one ? I know the round worlds draw from far. Through hollow systems, star to star ; But who has e er upon a strand Of those great cables laid his hand ? What reaches up from room to room Of chambered earth, through glare or gloom, Through molten flood and fiery blast, And binds our hurrying feet so fast ? T is the earth-mother s love, that well Will hold the motes that round her dwell : Through granite hills you feel it stir As lightly as through gossamer : Its grasp unseen by mortal eyes, Its grain no lens can analyze. C 59 ] If there is naught but what we see, The friend I loved is lost to me : He fell asleep ; who dares to say His spirit is so far away ? Who knows what wings are round about ? These thoughts who proves but from without They still are whispered ? Who can think They rise from morning s food and drink ! These thoughts that stream on like the sea, And darkly beat incessantly The feet of some great hope, and break, And only broken glimmers make, Nor ever climb the shore, to lie And calmly mirror the far sky, And image forth in tranquil deeps The secret that its silence keeps. Because he never comes, and stands And stretches out to me both hands, Because he never leans before .The gate, when I set wide the door At morning, nor is ever found Just at my side when I turn round, Half thinking I shall meet his eyes, C so 3 From watching the broad moon-globe rise, For all this, shall I homage pay To Death, grow cold of heart, and say : " He perished, and has ceased to be ; Another comes, but never he " ? Nay, by our wondrous being, nay ! Although his face I never see Through aD the infinite To Be, I know he lives and cares for me. C 6l A DRIFTING CLOUD BORN of the shadows that it passes through, Incessantly becoming and destroyed, Its form unchanged, its substance ever new, Builded from its own largess to the void ; Of steady purpose innerly aware, Yet blindly borne upon the streaming air, Giving itself away, distributing Its own abundant heart in splendid showers, But not impoverished, since its losses bring Perpetual renewing all the hours : Drifting, sunlit or shadowed, to the sea, cloud, thou hast a human destiny ! WORDSWORTH A MOONLIT desert s yellow sands, Where, dimmer than its shadow, stands A motionless palm-tree here and there, And the great stars through amber air Burn calm as planets, and the face Of earth seems lifting into space : A tropic ocean s starlit rest, Along whose smooth and sleeping breast Slow swells just stir the mirrored gleams, Like faintest sighs in placid dreams ; All overhead the night, so high And hollow that there seems no sky, But the unf athomed deeps, among The worlds down endless arches swung : On moonlit plain, and starlit sea, Is life s lost charm, tranquillity. A poet found it once, and took It home, and hid it in a book, C 6 3 H As one might press a violet. There still the odor lingers yet Delicious ; from your treasured tomes Reach down your Wordsworth, and there comes That fragrance which no bard but he E er caught, as if the plain and sea Had yielded their serenity. . PEACE T is not in seeking, T is not in endless striving, Thy quest is found : Be still and listen ; Be still and drink the quiet Of all around. Not for thy crying, Not for thy loud beseeching, Will peace draw near : Rest with palms folded ; Rest with thine eyelids fallen Lo ! peace is here. THE HOUSE AND THE HEART EVERY house with its garret ; Lumbered with rubbish and relics Spinning-wheels leaning in corners, Chests under spider-webbed rafters, Brittle and yellow old letters, Grandfather s things and grandmother s. There overhead, at the midnight, Noises of creaking and stepping Startle the hush of the chambers . Ghosts on their tip-toes repassing. Every house with its garden ; Some little plot a half -acre, Or a mere strip by the windows, Flower-beds and narrow box-borders, Something spicily fragrant, Something azure and golden. There the small feet of the sparrow Star the fresh mould round the roses ; And, in the shadowy moonlight, Wonderful secrets are whispered. C 66 3 Every heart with its garret, Cumbered with relics and rubbish Wheels that are silent forever, Leaves that are faded and broken, Foolish old wishes and fancies, Cobwebs of doubt and suspicion Useless, unbeautiful, growing Year by year thicker and faster : Naught but a fire or a moving Ever can clear it, or clean it. Every heart with its garden ; Some little corner kept sacred, Fragrant and pleasant with blossoms ; There the forget-me-nots cluster, And pure love-violets, hidden, Guessed but by sweetness all round them ; Some little strip in the sunshine, Cheery and warm, for above it Rest the deep, beautiful heavens, Blue, and beyond, and forever. C 67 THE FOOL S PRAYER THE royal feast was done ; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried : " Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer ! The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before ; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch s silken stool ; His pleading voice arose : " Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! " No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool ; The rod must heal the sin : but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! C 68 : " T is not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, Lord, we stay ; T is by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. " These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end ; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. " The ill-timed truth we might have kept Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung ? The word we had not sense to say Who knows how grandly it had rung ? " Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all ; But for our blunders oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall. " Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! " C 69 ] The room was hushed ; in silence rose* The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, " Be merciful to me, a fool ! " C 70 BUT FOR HIM DUMB and still was the heart of man By the river of Time : Far it stretched, and wide and free, This rapid river ; on it ran, Through many a land and many a clime, On and on, and no tide turned, Down and down to Eternity. Dumb and still but the man s heart yearned For a voice to break the silence long ; And there by the side of the heart of man Stood the spirit of Song. Then the waves laughed Down the river of Time ; And the west wind and the south wind sang, And the world was glad, For now it had A voice to utter, in jocund chime, The joy it quaffed From the river of Time. C 71 ] But when the song grew low and sad, The trees drooped, The flowers were dim, And a dark cloud down from heaven stooped ; The wind mourned, and tear-drops fell ; And the world cried, grieving, " But for him We had not known but all was well ! " A REPLY To the mother of the world, Not for help or light or grace, Basely I for comfort came : And I brought my craven fears, Late amends of useless tears, Brought my stumbling feet so lame, Hopes with weary pinions furled, Every longing unattained, All my love with self-love stained, Told them to her grave, mild face. And the mother of the world Spake, and answered unto me, In the brook that past me purled ; In the bluebird s heavenly hue, When beyond his downward swerve Up he glanced, a sweep of blue ; In the sunshine s shifting spray, Drifted in beneath the tree Where I sheltered, lest its flood C 73 3 There outside should drown my blood ; In the cloud-pearl s melting curve ; In the little odorous thrill Trembling from each blossom-bell ; In the silence of the sky, And the thoughts that from it fell. Floating as a snowflake will, So the mother answered me : Child ! it is not thine to see Why at all thy life should be, Wherefore thou must thus abide, Foiled, repulsed, unsatisfied, Thou hast not to prove thy right To the earth-room and the light. Thou hast not to justify Thought of mine to human eye. I have borne thee ! Trust to me ! Strength and help are in thy deed ; Comfort thou shalt scorn to need. Careless what shall come to thee, Look but what thy work shall be." [ 74 THE DESERTER BLINDEST and most frantic prayer, Clutching at a senseless boon, His that begs, in mad despair, Death to come ; he comes so soon ! Like a reveler that strains Lip and throat to drink it up The last ruby that remains, One red droplet in the cup. Like a child that, sullen, mute, Sulking spurns, with chin on breast, Of the Tree of Life a fruit, His gift of whom he is the guest. Outcast on the thither shore, Open scorn to him shall give Souls that heavier burdens bore : " See the wretch that dared not live ! THE REFORMER BEFORE the monstrous wrong he sets him down One man against a stone- walled city of sin. For centuries those walls have been a-building ; Smooth porphyry, they slope and coldly glass The flying storm and wheeling sun. No chink, No crevice lets the thinnest arrow in. He fights alone, and from the cloudy ramparts A thousand evil faces gibe and jeer him. Let him lie down and die : what is the right, And where is justice, in a world like this ? But by and by, earth shakes herself, impatient ; And down, in one great roar of ruin, crash Watch-tower and citadel and battlements. When the red dust has cleared, the lonely soldier Stands with strange thoughts beneath the friendly stars. C 76 ] DESIRE OF SLEEP IT is not death I mean, Nor even f orgetf ulness, But healthful human sleep, Dreamless, and still, and deep, Where I would hide and glean Some heavenly balm to bless. I would not die ; I long To live, to see my days Bud once again, and bloom, And make amidst them room For thoughts like birds of song, Out-winging happy ways. I would not even forget : Only, a little while Just now I cannot bear Eemembrance with despair ; The years are coming yet When I shall look, and smile. c 77 n Not now oh, not to-night ! Too clear on midnight s deep Come voice and hand and touch ; The heart aches overmuch Hush sounds ! shut out the light ! A little I must sleep. HEE EXPLANATION So you have wondered at me, guessed in vain What the real woman is you know so well ? I am a lost illusion. Some strange spell Once made your friend there, with his fine disdain Of fact, conceive me perfect. He would fain (But could not) see me always, as befell His dream to see me, plucking asphodel, In saffron robes, on some celestial plain. All that I was he marred and flung away In quest of what I was not, could not be, Lilith, or Helen, or Antigone. Still he may search ; but I have had my day, And now the Past is all the part for me That this world s empty stage has left to play. C 79 EVE S DAUGHTER ( I WAITED in the little sunny room : The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play, The white rose on the porch was all in bloom, And out upon the bay I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come. " Such an old friend, she would not make me stay While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo, Danae in her shower ! and fit to slay All a man s hoarded prudence at a blow : Gold hair, that streamed away As round some nymph a sunlit fountain s flow. " She would not make me wait ! " but well I know She took a good half -hour to loose and lay Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so ! C 8o 3 BLINDFOLD WHAT do we know of the world, as we grow so old and wise ? Do the years, that still the heart-beats, quicken the drowsy eyes ? At twenty we thought we knew it, the world there, at our feet ; We thought we had found its bitter, we knew we had found its sweet. Now at forty and fifty, what do we make of the world? There in her sand she crouches, the Sphinx with her gray wings furled. Soul of a man I know not ; who knoweth, can fore tell, And what can I read of fate, even of self I have learned so well ? Heart of a woman I know not : how should I hope to know, I that am foiled by a flower, or the stars of the silent snow; I that have never guessed the mind of the bright-eyed bird, Whom even the dull rocks cheat, and the whirlwind s awful word ? Let me loosen the fillet of clay from the shut and darkened lid, For life is a blindfold game, and the Voice from view is hid. I face him as best I can, still groping, here and there, For the hand that has touched me lightly, the lips that have said, " Declare ! " Well, I declare him my friend, the friend of the whole sad race ; And oh, that the game were over, and I might see his face! But t is much, though I grope in blindness, the Voice that is hid from view May be heard, may be even loved, in a dream that may come true. RECALL " LOVE me, or I am slain ! " I cried, and meant Bitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped by, Moons,, circling suns, yet still alive am I ; But shame to me, if my best time be spent On this perverse, blind passion ! Are we sent Upon a planet just to mate and die, A man no more than some pale butterfly That yields his day to nature s sole intent ? Or is my life but Marguerite s ox-eyed flower, That I should stand and pluck and fling away, One after one, the petal of each hour, Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say, " Loves me," and " loves me not," and " loves me " ? Nay! Let the man s mind awake to manhood s power. STRANGE HE died at night. Next day they came To weep and praise him : sudden fame These suddenly warm comrades gave. They called him pure, they called him brave ; One praised his heart, and one his brain ; All said, You d seek his like in vain, Gentle, and strong, and good : none saw In all his character a flaw. At noon he wakened from his trance, Mended, was well ! They looked askance ; Took his hand coldly ; loved him not, Though they had wept him ; quite forgot His virtues ; lent an easy ear To slanderous tongues ; professed a fear He was not what he seemed to be ; Thanked God they were not such as he ; Gave to his hunger stones for bread ; And made him, living, wish him dead. WIEGENLIED BE still and sleep, my soul ! Now gentle-footed Night In softly shadowed stole, Holds all the day from sight. Why shouldst thou lie and stare Against the dark, and toss, And live again thy care, Thine agony and loss? T was given thee to live, And thou hast lived it all ; Let that suffice, nor give One thought what may befall. Thou hast no need to wake, Thou art no sentinel ; Love all the care will take, And Wisdom watcheth well. C 8 5 3 Weep not, think not, but rest ! The stars in silence roll ; On the world s mother-breast, Be still and sleep, my soul ! AN ANCIENT ERROR He that has and a little tiny wit, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. LEAR THE " sobbing wind/ the " weeping rain/ T is time to give the lie To these old superstitions twain, That poets sing and sigh. Taste the sweet drops, no tang of brine ; Feel them, they do not burn ; The daisy-buds, whereon they shine, Laugh, and to blossoms turn. There is no natural grief or sin ; T is we have flung the pall, And brought the sound of sorrow in. Pan is not dead at all. The merry Pan ! his blithesome look Twinkles through sun and rain ; i 87 3 By ivied rock and rippled brook He pipes his jocund strain. If winds have wailed and skies wept tears, To poet s vision dim, T was that his own sobs filled his ears, His weeping blinded him. T is laughing breeze and singing shower, As ever heart could need ; And who with " hey " and " ho " must lower Hath " tiny wit " indeed. c: TO A FACE AT A CONCERT WHEN the low music makes a dusk of sound About us, and the viol or far-off horn Swells out above it like a wind forlorn, That wanders seeking something never found, What phantom in your brain, on what dim ground, Traces its shadowy lines ? What vision, born Of unfulfillment, fades in mere self -scorn, Or grows, from that still twilight stealing round ? When the lids droop and the hands lie unstrung, Dare one divine your dream, while the chords weave Their cloudy woof from key to key, and die, Is it one fate that, since the world was young, Has followed man, and makes him half believe The voice of instruments a human cry ? C 89 3 TWO VIEWS OF IT " WORLD, glorious world, good-by ! " Time but to think it one wild cry Unuttered, a heart-wrung farewell To sky and wood and flashing stream, All gathered in a last swift gleam, As the crag crumbled, and he fell. But lo ! the thing was wonderful ! After the echoing crash, a lull : The great fir on the slope below Had spread its mighty mother-arm, And caught him, springing like a bow Of steel, and lowered him safe from harm, T was but an instant s dark and daze : Then, as he felt each limb was sound, And slowly from the swooning haze The dizzy trees stood still that whirled, And the familiar sky and ground, There grew with them across his brain A dull regret : " So, world, dark world, You are come back again ! " I 90 3 THE LINKS OF CHANCE HOLDING apoise in air My twice-dipped pen, for some tense thread of thought Had snapped, mine ears were half aware Of passing wheels ; eyes saw, but mind saw not, My sun-shot linden. Suddenly, as I stare, Two shifting visions grow and fade unsought : Noon-blaze : the broken shade Of ruins strown. Two Tartar lovers sit : She gazing on the ground, face turned, afraid ; And he, at her. Silence is all his wit. She stoops, picks up a pebble of green jade To toss : they watch its flight, unheeding it. Ages have rolled away ; And round the stone, by chance, if chance there be, Sparse soil has caught ; a seed, wind-lodged one Grown grass ; shrubs sprung ; at last a tufted tree : Lo ! over its snake root yon conquering Bey Trips backward, fighting and half Asia free ! 91 WORDS, WORDS, WORDS" (TO ONE WHO FLOtTTED THEM AS VAIN) I AM I not weary of them as your heart Or ever Hamlet s was ? the empty ones, Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow tones That idle winds to broken reeds impart. Have they not cursed my life ? sounds I mistook For sacred verities, love, faith, delight, And the sweet tales that women tell at night, When darkness hides the falsehood of the look. I was the one of all Ulysses crew (What time he stopped their ears) that leaped and fled Unto the sirens, for the honey-dew Of their dear songs. The poets me have fed With the same poisoned fruit. And even you, Did you not pluck them for me in days dead ? C 93 II Nay, they do bear a blessing and a power, Great words and true, that bridge from soul to soul The awful cloud-depths that betwixt us roll. I will not have them so blasphemed. This hour, This little hour of life, this lean to-day, What were it worth but for those mighty dreams That sweep from down the past on sounding streams Of such high-thoughted words as poets say ? What, but for Shakespeare s and for Homer s lay, And bards whose sacred names all lips repeat ? Words, only words ; yet, save for tongue and pen Of those great givers of them unto men, And burdens they still bear of grave or sweet, This world were but for beasts, a darkling den. THE THRUSH THE thrush sings high on the topmost bough, - Low, louder, low again ; and now He has changed his tree, you know not how, For you saw no flitting wing. All the notes of the forest-throng, Flute, reed, and string, are in his song; Never a fear knows he, nor wrong, Nor a doubt of anything. Small room for care in that soft breast ; All weather that comes is to him the best, While he sees his mate close on her nest, And the woods are full of spring. He has lost his last year s love, I know, He, too, but t is little he keeps of woe ; For a bird forgets in a year, and so No wonder the thrush can sing. C 94 CARPE DIEM How the dull thought smites me dumb, " It will come ! " and " It will come ! " But to-day I am not dead ; Life in hand and foot and head Leads me on its wondrous ways. T is in such poor, common days, Made of morning, noon, and night, Golden truth has leaped to light, Potent messages have sped, Torches flashed with running rays, World-runes started on their flight. Let it come, when come it must ; But To-Day from out the dust Blooms and brightens like a flower, Fair with love, and faith, and power. Pluck it with unclouded will, From the great tree Igdrasil. [ 95 SERVICE FRET not that the day is gone. And thy task is still undone. T was not thine, it seems, at all : Near to thee it chanced to fall, Close enough to stir thy brain, And to vex thy heart in vain. Somewhere, in a nook forlorn, Yesterday a babe was born : He shall do thy waiting task ; All thy questions he shall ask, And the answers will be given, Whispered lightly out of heaven. His shall be no stumbling feet, Falling where they should be fleet : He shall hold no broken clue ; Friends shall unto him be true ; Men shall love him ; falsehood s aim Shall not shatter his good name. Day shall nerve his arm with light, Slumber soothe him all the night ; C 9 6 3 Summer s peace and winter s storm Help him all his will perform. T is enough of joy for thee His high service to foresee. I 97 THE BOOK OF HOURS As one who reads a tale writ in a tongue He only partly knows, runs over it And follows but the story, losing wit And charm, and half the subtle links among The haps and harms that the book s folk beset, So do we with our life. Night comes, and morn ; I know that one has died and one is born ; That this by love and that by hate is met. But all the grace and glory of it fail To touch me, and the meanings they enfold. The Spirit of the World hath told the tale, And tells it : and t is very wise and old. But o er the page there is a mist and veil : I do not know the tongue in which t is told. C THE WONDERFUL THOUGHT IT comes upon me in the woods. Of all the days, this day in May : When wind and rain can never think Whose turn t is now to have its way. It finds me as I lie along, Blinking up through the swaying trees, Half wondering if a man who reads " Blue sky " in books that color sees, So fathomless and pure : as if All loveliest azure things have gone To heaven that way, the flowers, the sea, And left their ^olor there alone. Hark ! leaning on each other s arms, The pines are whispering in the breeze, Whispering, then hushing, half in awe Their legends of primeval seas. C 99 3 The wild things of the wood come out, And stir or hide, as wild things will, Like thoughts that may not be pursued, But come if one is calm and still. Deep hemlocks down the gorge shut in Their caves with hollow shadow filled, Where little feathered anchorites Behind a sunlit lattice build. And glimmering through that lace of boughs, Dancing, while they hang darker still, Along the restful river shines The restless light s incessant thrill : As in some sober, silent soul, Whose life appears a tranquil stream, Through some unguarded rift you catch The wildest wishes, all agleam. But to my thought so wonderful ! I know if once t were told, all men Would feel it warm at heart, and life Be more than it had ever been. T would make these flowerless woods laugh out With every garden-color bright, Where only, now, the dogwood hangs Its scattered cloud of ghostly white, Those birds would hold no more aloof : How know they I am here, so well ? T is yon woodpecker s warning note ; He is their seer and sentinel. They use him, but his faithfulness Perchance in human fashion pay, Laugh in their feathers at his voice, And ridicule his stumbling way. That far-off flute-note hours in vain I ve followed it, so shy and fleet ; But if I found him, well I know His song would seem not half so sweet. The swift, soft creatures, how I wish They d trust me, and come perch upon My shoulders ! Do they guess that then Their charm would be forever gone ? c ii 3 But still I prate of sight and sound ; Ah, well, t is always so in rhyme ; The idle fancies find a voice, The wise thought waits another time. 102 NATURE AND HER CHILD As some poor child whose soul is windowless, Having not hearing, speech, nor sight, sits lone In her dark, silent life, till cometh one With a most patient heart, who tries to guess Some hidden way to help her helplessness, And, yearning for that spirit shut in stone, A crystal that has never seen the sun, Smooths now the hair, and now the hand will press, Or gives a key to touch, then letters raised, Its symbol ; then an apple, or a ring, And again letters, so, all blind and dumb, We wait ; the kindly smiles of summer come, And soft winds touch our cheek, and thrushes sing ; The world-heart yearns, but we stand dull and dazed, 103 THE FOSTER-MOTHER As some poor Indian woman A captive child receives, And warms it in her bosom, And o er its weeping grieves ; And comforts it with kisses, And strives to understand Its eager, lonely babble, Fondling the little hand, So Earth, our foster-mother, Yearns for us, with her great Wild heart, and croons in murmurs Low, inarticulate. She knows we are white captives, Her dusky race above, But the deep, childless bosom Throbs with its brooding love. C 104 TRUTH AT LAST DOES a man ever give up hope, I wonder, Face the grim fact, seeing it clear as day ? When Bennen saw the snow slip, heard its thunder Low, louder, roaring round him, felt the speed Grow swifter as the avalanche hurled downward, Did he for just one heart-throb did he indeed Know with all certainty, as they swept onward, There was the end, where the crag dropped away ? Or did he think, even till they plunged and fell, Some miracle would stop them ? Nay, they tell That he turned round, face forward, calm and pale, Stretching his arms out toward his native vale As if in mute, unspeakable farewell, And so went down. ? T is something, if at kst, Though only for a flash, a man may see Clear-eyed the future as he sees the past, From doubt, or fear, or hope s illusion free. 105 "QUEM METUI MORITURA?" IV. 604 WHAT need have I to fear so soon to die ? Let me work on, not watch and wait in dread : What will it matter, when that I am dead, That they bore hate or love who near me lie ? T is but a lifetime, and the end is nigh At best or worst. Let me lift up my head And firmly, as with inner courage, tread Mine own appointed way, on mandates high. Pain could but bring, from all its evil store, The close of pain : hate s venom could but kill ; Kepulse, defeat, desertion, could no more. Let me have lived my life, not cowered until The unhindered and unhastened hour was here. So soon what is there in the world to fear ? C lo6 A MORNING THOUGHT WHAT if some morning, when the stars were paling, And the dawn whitened, and the East was clear, Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence Of a benignant Spirit standing near : And I should tell him, as he stood beside me, " This is our Earth most friendly Earth, and fair; Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air : " There is blest living here, loving and serving, And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear ; But stay not, Spirit ! Earth has one destroyer, His name is Death : flee, lest he find thee here ! " And what if then, while the still morning brightened, And freshened in the elm the Summer s breath, Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel And take my hand and say, " My name is Death." I i7 ] THE HERMITAGE CALIFORNIA, BAY OF SAN FRANCISCO, 1866 A LIFE, a common, cleanly, quiet life, Full of good citizenship and repute, New, but with promise of prosperity, A well-bred, fair, young-gentlemanly life, What business had a girl to bring her eyes, And her blonde hair, and her clear, ringing voice, And break up life, as a bell breaks a dream? Had Love Christ s wrath, and did this life sell doves In the world s temple, that Love scourged it forth Beyond the gates? Within, the worshipers, Without, the waste, and the hill-country, where The life, with smarting shoulders and stung heart, Unknowing that the hand which scourged could heal, Drave forth, blind, cursing, in despair to die, Or work its own salvation out in fear. C Old World old, foolish, wicked World farewell! Since the Time-angel left my soul with thee, Thou hast been a hard stepmother unto me. Now I at last rebel Against thy stony eyes and cruel hands. I will go seek in far-off lands Some quiet corner, where my years shall be Still as the shadow of a brooding bird That stirs but with her heart-beats. Far, unheard May wrangle on the noisy human host, While I will face my Life, that silent ghost, And force it speak what it would have with me. Not of the fair young Earth, The snow-crowned, sunny-belted globe; Not of its skies, nor Twilight s purple robe, Nor pearly dawn; not of the flowers birth, And Autumn s forest-funerals; not of storms, And quiet seas, and clouds incessant forms; Not of the sanctuary of the night, With its solemnities, nor any sight And pleasant sound of all the friendly day: But I am tired of what we call our lives; Tired of the endless humming in the hives, t Sick of the bitter honey that we eat, And sick of cursing all the shallow cheat. Let me arise, and away To the land that guards the dying day, Whose burning tear, the evening-star, Drops silently to the wave afar; The land where summers never cease Their sunny psalm of light and peace. Whose moonlight, poured for years untold, Has drifted down in dust of gold ; Whose morning splendors, fallen in showers, Leave ceaseless sunrise in the flowers. There I will choose some eyrie in the hills, Where I may build, like a lonely bird, And catch the whispered music heard Out of the noise of human ills. So, I am here at last ; A purer world, whose feet the old, salt Past Washes against, and leaves it fresh and free As a new island risen from the sea. C no ] Three dreamy weeks we lay on Ocean s breast, Rocked asleep, by gentle winds caressed, Or crooned with wild wave-lullabies to rest. A memory of foam and glassy spray ; Wave chasing wave, like young sea-beasts at play Stretches of misty silver neath the moon, And night-airs murmuring many a quiet tune. Three long, delicious weeks monotony Of sky, and stars, and sea, Broken midway by one day s tropic scene Of giant plants, tangles of luminous green, With fiery flowers and purple fruits between. I have found a spot for my hermitage, No dank and sunless cave, I come not for a dungeon, nor a cage, Not to be Nature s slave, But, as a weary child, Unto the mother s faithful arms I flee, And seek the sunniest footstool at her knee, Where I may sit beneath caresses mild, And hear the sweet old songs that she will sing tome. C in H T is a grassy mountain-nook, In a gorge, whose foaming brook Tumbles through from the heights above, Merrily leaping to the light From the pine-wood s haunted gloom, As a romping child, Affrighted, from a sombre room Leaps to the sunshine, laughing with delight : Be this my home, by man s tread undefiled. Here sounds no voice but of the mourning dove, Nor harsher footsteps on the sands appear Than the sharp, slender hoof -marks of the deer, Or where the quail has left a zigzag row Of lightly printed stars her track to show. Above me frowns a front of rocky wall, Deep cloven into ruined pillars tall And sculptures strange ; bald to its dizzy edge, Save where, in some deep crevice of a ledge Buttressed by its black shadow hung below, A solitary pine has cleft the rock, Straight as an arrow, feathered to the tip, As if a shaft from the moon-huntress bow Had struck and grazed the cliff s defiant lip, And stood, still stiffly quivering with the shock. C 112 3 Beyond the gorge a slope runs half-way up. With hollow curve as for a giant s cup, Brimming with blue pine-shadows : then in air The gray rock rises bare. Its front deep-fluted by the sculptor-storms In moulded columns, rounded forms, As if great organ-pipes were chiseled there, Whose anthems are the torrent s roar below, And chanting winds that through the pine- tops go. Here bursts of requiem music sink and rise, When the full moonlight, slowly streaming, lies Like panes of gold on some cathedral pave, While floating mists their silver incense wave, And from on high, through fleecy window-bars, Gaze down the saintly faces of the stars. Against the huge trunk of a storm-snapped tree, (Whose hollow, ready-hewn by long decay, Above, a chimney, lined with slate and clay, Below, a broad-arched fireplace makes for me,) I ve built of saplings and long limbs a hut. The roof with lacing boughs is tightly shut, Thatched with thick-spreading palms of pine, And tangled over by a wandering vine, C "3 ] Uprooted from the woods close by, Whose clasping tendrils climb and twine, Waving their little hands on high, As if they loved to deck this nest of mine. Within, by smooth white stones from the brook s beach My rooms are separated, each from each. On yonder island-rock my table s spread, Brook-ringed, that no stray, fasting ant may come To make himself with my wild fare at home. Here will I live, and here my life shall be Serene, still, rooted steadfastly, Yet pointing skyward, and its motions keep A rhythmic balance, as that cedar tall, Whose straight shaft rises from the chasm there, Through the blue, hollow air, And, measuring the dizzy deep, Leans its long shadow on the rock s gray wall. Through the sharp gap of the gorge below, From my mountains feet the gaze may go Over a stretch of fields, broad-sunned, [ 114 ] Then glance beyond, Across the beautiful bay, To that dim ridge, a score of miles away, Lifting its clear-cut outline high, Azure with distance on the azure sky, Whose flocks of white clouds brooding on its crests Have winged from ocean to their piny nests. Beyond the bright blue water s further rim, Where waves seem ripples on its far-off brim, The rich young city lies, Diminished to an ant-hill s size. I trace its steep streets, ribbing all the hill Like narrow bands of steel, Binding the city on the shifting sand : Thick-pressed between them stand Broad piles of buildings, pricked through here and there By a sharp steeple ; and above, the air Murky with smoke and dust, that seem to show The bright sky saddened by the sin below. The voice of my wild brook is marvelous ; Leaning above it from a jutting rock C "5 3 To watch the image of my face, that forms And breaks, and forms again (as the image of God Is broken and re-gathered in a soul), I listen to the chords that sink and swell From many a little fall and babbling run. That hollow gurgle is the deepest bass ; Over the pebbles gush contralto tones, While shriller trebles tinkle merrily, Running, like some enchanted-fingered flute, Endless chromatics. Now it is the hum And roar of distant streets ; the rush of winds Through far-off forests : now the noise of rain Drumming the roof ; the hiss of ocean-foam : Now the swift ripple of piano-keys In mad mazurkas, danced by laughing girls. So, night and day, the hurrying brook goes on ; Sometimes in noisy glee, sometimes far down, Silent along the bottom of the gorge, Like a deep passion hidden in the soul, That chafes in secret hunger for its sea : Yet not so still but that heaven finds its course ; C "6 3 And not so hid but that the yearning night Broods over it, and feeds it with her stars. When earth has Eden spots like this for man, Why will he drag his life where lashing storms Whip him indoors, the petulant weather s slave ? There he is but a helpless, naked snail, Except he wear his house close at his back. Here the wide air builds him his palace walls, Some little corner of it roofed, for sleep ; Or he can lie all night, bare to the sky, And feel updrawn against the breast of heaven, Letting his thoughts stretch out among the stars, As the antennae of an insect grope Blindly for food, or as the ivy s shoots Clamber from cope and tower to find the light, And drink the electric pulses of the sun. As from that sun we draw the coarser fire That swells the veins, and builds the brain and bone, So from each star a finer influence streams, Kindling within the mortal chrysalis The first faint thrills of its new life to come. C "7 I! Here is no niggard gap of sky above, With murk and mist below, but all sides clear, Not an inch bated from the full-swung dome ; Each constellation to the horizon s rim Keen-glittering, as if one only need Walk to the edge there, spread his wings, and float, The dark earth spurned behind, into the blue. I love thee, thou brown, homely, dear old Earth ! Those fairer planets whither fate may lead, Whatever marvel be their bulk or speed, Ringed with what splendor, belted round with fire, In glory of perpetual moons arrayed, Can ne er give back the glow and fresh desire Of youth in that old home where man had birth, Whose paths he trod through wholesome light and shade. Out of their silver radiance to thy dim And clouded orb his eye will turn, As an old man looks back to where he played About his father s hearth, and finds for him No splendor like the fires which there did burn. C 1*8 3 See : I am come to live alone with thee. Thou hast had many a one, grown old and worn, Come to thee weary and forlorn, Bent with the weight of human vanity. But I come with my life almost untried, In thy perpetual presence to abide. Teach me thy wisdom ; let me learn the flowers, And know the rocks and trees, And touch the springs of all thy hidden powers. Let the still gloom of thy rock-fastnesses Fall deep upon my spirit, till the voice Of brooks become familiar, and my heart rejoice With joy of birds and winds ; and all the hours, Unmaddened by the babble of vain men, Bring thy most inner converse to my ken. So shall it be, that, when I stand On that next planet s ruddy-shimmering strand, I shall not seem a pert and forward child Seeking to dabble in abstruser lore With alphabet unlearned, who in disgrace Keturns, upon his primer yet to pore But those examiners, all wise and mild, Shall gently lead me to my place, C "9 ] As one that faithfully did trace These simpler earthly records o er and o er. Beckoned at sunrise by the surf s white hand, I have strayed down to sit upon the beach, And hear the oratorio of the Sea. On this steep, crumbling bank, where the high tides Have crunched the earth away, a crooked oak A hunch-backed dwarf, whose limbs, cramped down by gales, Have twisted stiffening back upon themselves Spreads me a little arbor from the sun. On the brown, shining beach, all ripple-carved, Gleams now and then a pool ; so smooth and clear, That, though I cannot see the plover there Pacing its farther edge (so much he looks The color of the sand), yet I can trace His image hanging in the glassy brine Slim legs and rapier-beak like silver-plate With such a pictured bird clean-etched upon it. Beyond, long curves of little shallow waves Creep, tremulous with ripples, to the shore, [ 120 ] Till the whole bay seems slowly sliding in, With edge of snow that melts against the sand. Above its twinkling blue, where ceaselessly The white curve of a slender arm of foam Is reached along the water, and withdrawn, A flock of sea-birds darken into specks ; Then whiten, as they wheel with sunlit wings, Winking and wavering against the sky. The earth for form, the sea for coloring, And overhead, fair daughters of the two, The clouds, whose curves were moulded on the hills, Whose tints of pearl and foam the ocean gave. Sea, thou art all-beautiful, but dumb ! Thou hast no utterance articulate For human ears ; only a restless moan Of barren tides, that loathe the living earth As alien, striving towards the barren moon. Thou art no longer infinite to man : Has he not touched thy boundary-shores, and now Laid his electric fetters round thy feet ? C Thy dumb moan saddens me ; let me go back And listen to the silence of the hills. At last I live alone : No human judgment-seats are here Thrust in between man and his Maker s throne, With praise to covet, or with frown to fear : No small, distorted judgments bless, or blame ; Only to Him I own The inward sense of worth, or flush of shame. God made the man alone ; And all that first grand morning walked he so. Then was he strong and wise, till at the noon, When tired with joyous wonder he lay prone For rest and sleep, God let him know The subtile sweetness that is bound in Two. Man rises best alone : Upward his thoughts stream, like the leaping flame, Whose base is tempest-blown ; Upward and skyward, since from thence they came, And thither they must flow. * C 122 3 But when in twos we go, The lightnings of the brain weave to and fro. Level across the abyss that parts us all ; If upward, only slantwise, as we scale Slowly together that night-shrouded wall Which bounds our reason, lest our reason fail. If linked in threes, and fives, However heavenward the spirit strives, The lowest stature draws the highest down, The king must keep the level of the clown. The grosser matter has the greater power In all attraction ; every hour We slide and slip to lower scales, Till weary aspiration fails, And that keen fire which might have pierced the skies Is quenched and killed in one another s eyes. A child had blown a bubble fair That floated in the sunny air : A hundred rainbows danced and swung Upon its surface, as it hung In films of changing color rolled, Crimson, and amethyst, and gold, With faintest streaks of azure sheen, And curdling rivulets of green. " If so the surface shines," cried he, " What marvel must the centre be ! " He caught it on his empty hands A drop of turbid water stands ! With men, to help the moments fly, I tossed the ball of talk on high, With glancing jest, and random stings, Grazing the crests of thoughts and things, In many a shifting ray of speech That shot swift sparkles, each to each. I thought, " Ah, could we pierce below To inner soul, what depths would show ! " In friendships many, loves a few, I pierced the inner depths, and knew T was but the shell that splendor caught : Within, one sour and selfish thought. I found a grotto, hidden in the gorge, Paved by the brook in rare mosaic work Of sand, and lucent depths, and shadow-streaks C 124 ] Veining the amber of the sun-dyed wave. Between two mossy masses of gray rock Lay a clear basin, which, with sun and shade Bewitched, a great transparent opal made, Over whose broken rims the water ran. Above each rocky side leaned waving trees Whose lace of branches wove a restless roof, Trailed over by green vines that sifted down A dust of sunshine through the chilly shade. Leaning against a trunk of oak, rock-wedged, Whose writhen roots were clenched upon the stones, I was a Greek, and caught the sudden flash Of a scared Dryad s vanishing robe, and heard The laughter, half -suppressed, of hiding Fauns. Up the dark stairway of the tumbling stream The sun shot through, and struck each foamy fall Into a silvery veil of dazzling fire. Along its shady course, the tossing drops By some swift sunbeam ever caught, were lit To sparkling stars, that fell, and flashed, and fell, Incessantly rekindled. Bubble-troops Came dancing by, to break just at my feet; Lo ! every bubble mirrored the whole scene C The streak of blue between the roofing-boughs, And on it my own face in miniature Quaintly distorted, as if some small elf Peered up at me beneath his glassy dome. If men but knew the mazes of the brain And all its crowded pictures, they would need No Louvre or Vatican : behind our brows Intricate galleries are built, whose walls Are rich with all the splendors of a life. Each crimson leaf of every autumn walk, Dewdrops of childhood s mornings, every scene From any window where we ve chanced to stand, Forgotten sunsets, summer afternoons, Hang fresh in those immortal galleries. Few ever can unlock them, till great Death Unrolls our lifelong memory as a scroll. One key is solitude, and silence one, And one a quiet mind, content to rest In God s sufficiency, and take His world, Not dabbling all the Master s work to death With our small interference. God is God. [ 126 ^ Yet we must give the children leave to use Our garden-tools, though they spoil tool and plant In learning. So the Master may not scorn Our awkwardness, as with these bungling hands We try to uproot the ill. and plant with good Life s barren soil : the child is learning use. Perhaps the angels even are forbid To laugh at us, or may not care to laugh, With kind eyes pitying our little hurts. T is ludicrous that man should think he roams Freely at will a world planned for his use. Lo, what a mite he is ! Snatched hither and yon, Tossed round the sun, and in its orbit flashed Round other centres, orbits without end ; His bit of brain too small to even feel The spinning of the little hailstone, Earth. So his creeds glibly prate of choice and will, When his whole fate is an invisible speck Whirled through the orbits of Eternity. We think that we believe That human souls shall live, and live, I 127 ] When trees have rotted into mould. And all the rocks which these long hills enfold Have crumbled, and beneath new oceans lie. But why ah, why If puny man is not indeed to die, Watch I with such disdain That human speck creeping along the plain, And turn with such a careless scorn of men i . , Back to the mountain s brow again, And feel more pleased that some small, fluttering thing Trusts me and hovers near on fearless wing, Than if the proudest man in all the land Had offered me in friendliness his hand ? However small the present creature man, Ridiculous imitation of the gods, Weak plagiarism on some completer world, Yet we can boast of that strong race to be. The savage broke the attraction which binds fast The fibres of the oak, and we to-day By cunning chemistry can force apart The elements of the air. That coming race I 128 ] Shall loose the bands by which the earth attracts ; A drop of occult tincture, a spring touched Shall outwit gravitation ; men shall float, Or lift the hills and set them where they will. The savage crossed the lake, and we the sea. That coming race shall have no bounds or bars, But, like the fledgeling eaglet, leave the nest, Our earthly eyrie up among the stars, And freely soar, to tread the desolate moon, Or mingle with the neighbor folk of Mars. Yea, if the savage learned by sign and sound To bridge the chasm to his fellow s brain, Till now we flash our whispers round the globe, That race shall signal over the abyss To those bright souls who throng the outer courts Of life, impatient who shall greet men first And solve the riddles that we die to know. T is night: I sit alone among the hills. There is no sound, except the sleepless brook, Whose voice comes faintly from the depths below Through the thick darkness, or the sombre pines That slumber, murmuring sometimes in their dreams. C Hark ! on a fitful gust there came the sound Of the tide rising yonder on the bay. It dies again : t was like the rustling noise Of a great army mustering secretly. There rose an owl s cry, from the woods below, Like a lost spirit s. Now all s still again. T is almost fearful to sit here alone And feel the deathly silence and the dark. I will arise and shout, and hear at least My own voice answer. Not an echo even ! I wish I had not uttered that wild cry ; It broke with such a shock upon the air, Whose leaden silence closed up after it, And seemed to clap together at my ears. The black depths of these muffled woods are thronged With shapes that wait some signal to swoop out, And swirl around and madden me with fear. I will go climb that bare and rocky height Into the clearer air. So, here I breathe ; That silent darkness smothered me. Away Across the bay, the city with its lights [ 130 ]] Twinkling against the horizon s dusky line, Looks a sea-dragon, crawled up on the shore, With rings of fire across his rounded back, And luminous claws spread out among the hills. Above, the glittering heavens. Magnificent ! Oh, if a man could be but as a star, Having his place appointed, here to rise, And there to set, unchanged by earthly change, Content if it can guide some wandering bark, Or be a beacon to some homesick soul ! Those city-lights again : they draw my gaze As if some secret human sympathy Still held my heart down from the lonely heaven. A new-born constellation, settling there Below the Sickle s ruby-hilted curve, They gleam Not so ! No constellation they ; I mock the sad, strong stars that never fail In their eternal patience ; from below Comes that pale glare, like the faint, sulphurous flame Which plays above the ashes of a fire : So trembles the dull flicker of those lamps Over the burnt-out energies of man. C II A month since I last laid my pencil down, An April, fairer than the Atlantic June, Whose calendar of perfect days was kept By daily blossoming of some new flower. The fields, whose carpets now were silken white, Next week were orange-velvet, next, sea-blue. It was as if some central fire of bloom, From which in other climes a random root Is now and then shot up, here had burst forth And overflowed the fields, and set the land Aflame with flowers. I watched them day by day, How at the dawn they wake, and open wide Their little petal-windows, how they turn Their slender necks to follow round the sun, And how the passion they express all day In burning color, steals forth with the dew All night in odor. I have wandered much These weeks, but everywhere a restless mind Has dogged me like the shadow at my heels. [ 132 : Sometimes I watched the morning mist arise, Like an imprisoned Genie from the stream, And wished that death would come on me like dawn, Drawing the spirit, that white, vaporous mist, Up from this noisy, fretted stream of life, To fall where God will, in his bounteous showers. Sometimes I walked at sunset on the edge Of the steep gorge, and saw my shadow pace Along a shadow-wall across the abyss, And felt that we, with all our phantom deeds, Are but far-slanted shadows of some life That walks between our planet and its God. All the long nights those memory-haunted nights, When sleepless conscience would not let me sleep, But stung, and stung, and pointed to the world Which like a coward I had left behind, I watched the heavens, where week by week the moon Slow swelled its silver bud, blossomed full gold, And slowly faded. Laid the pencil down Why not ? Are there not books enough ? Is man A sick child that must be amused by songs, Or be made sicker with their foolish noise ? [ 133 Then illness came : I should have argued, once, That the ill body gave me those ill thoughts ; But I have learned that spirit, though it be Subtile, and hard to trace, is mightier Than matter, and I know the poisoned mind Poisoned its shell. Three days of fever-fire Burned out my strength, leaving me scarcely power To reach the brook s side and my scanty food. What would I not have given to hear the voice Of some one who would raise my throbbing head And shade the fevering sun, and cool my hand In her moist palms ! But I lay there, alone. Blessed be sickness, which cuts down our pride And bares our helplessness. I have had new thoughts. I think the fever burned away some lies Which clogged the truthful currents of the brain. Am I quite happy here ? Have I the right, As wholly independent, to scorn men ? What do I owe them self ? Should I be I, Born in these hills ? A savage rather ! Food, The sailor-bread ? Yes, that took mill and men : Yet flesh and fowl are free ; but powder and gun What human lives went to the making of them ? I am dependent as the villager C Who lives by the white wagon s daily round. Yea, better feed upon the ox, to which The knife is mercy after slavery, Than kill the innocent birds, and trustful deer Whose big blue eyes have almost human pain ; That s murder ! I scorned books : to those same books I owe the power to scorn them. I despised Men : from themselves I drew the pure ideal By which to measure them. At woman s love I laughed : but to that love I owe The hunger for a more abiding love. Their nestlings in our hearts leave vacant there These hollow places, like a lark s round nest Left empty in the grass, and filled with flowers. What do I here alone ? T was not so strange, Weary of discords, that I chose to hear The one, clear, perfect note of solitude ; But now it plagues the ear, that one shrill note : Give me the chords back, even though some ring false. c: *35 3 Unmarried to the steel, the flint is cold : Strike one to the other, and they wake in fire. A solitary fagot will not burn : Bring two, and cheerily the flame ascends. Alone, man is a lifeless stone ; or lies A charring ember, smouldering into ash. If the man riding yonder looks a speck, The town an ant-hill, that is but the trick Of our perspective : wisdom merely means Correction of the angles at the eye. I hold my hand up, so, before my face, It blots ten miles of country, and a town. This little lying lens, that twists the rays, So cheats the brain that My house, My affairs, My hunger, or My happiness, My ache, And My religion, fill immensity ! Yours merely dot the landscape casually. T is well God does not measure a man s worth By the image on his neighbor s retina. I 136 1 I am alone : the birds care not for me, Except to sing a little farther off, With looks that say, " What does this fellow here?" The loud brook babbles only for the flowers : The mountain and the forest take me not Into their meditations ; I disturb Their silence, as a child that drags his toy Across a chapel s porch. The viewless ones Who flattered me to claim their company By gleams of thought fchey tossed to me for alms, About their grander matters turn, nor deign To notice me, unless it were to say As we put off a troublesome child " There, go ! Men are your fellows, go and mate with them ! " If I could find one soul that would not lie, I would go back, and we would arm our hands, And strike at every ugly weed that stands In God s wide garden of the world, and try, Obedient to the Gardener s commands, To set some smallest flowers before we die. C One such I had found, But she was bound, Fettered and led, bid for and sold, Chained to a stone by a ring of gold. In a stony sense the stone loved her, too : Between our places the river was broad, Should she tread on a broken heart to go through Could she put a man s life in mid-stream to be trod, To come over dry-shod ? Shame ! that a man with hand and brain Should, like a love-lorn girl, complain, Rhyming his dainty woes anew, When there is honest work to do ! What work, what work ? Is God not wise To rule the world He could devise ? Yet see thou, though the realm be His, He governs it by deputies. Enough to know of Chance and Luck, The stroke we choose to strike is struck ; The deed we slight will slighted be, I 138 ] In spite of all Necessity. The Parcse s web of good and ill They weave with human shuttle still, And fate is fate through man s free will. With sullen thoughts that smoulder hour by hour, In vague expectancy of help or hope Which still eludes my brain, waiting I sit Like a blind beggar at a palace-gate, Who hears the rustling past of silks, and airs Of costly odor mock him blowing by, And feels within a dull and aching wish That the proud wall would let some coping down To crush him dead, and let him have his rest. No help from men : they could not, if they would. And God ? He lets His world be wrung with pain. No help at all then ? Let life be in vain : To get no help is surely greatest gain ; To taunt the hunger down is sweetest food. C mocker, Memory ! From what floating cloud, Or from what witchery of the haunted wood, Or faintest perfumes, softly drifting through The lupines lattice-bars of white and blue, Steals back upon my soul this weaker mood ? My heart is dreaming ; in a shadowy room I breathe the vague scent of a jasmin-bloom That floats on waves of music, softer played, Till song and odor all the brain pervade ; Swiftly across my cheek there sweeps the thrill Of burning lips, then all is hushed and still ; And round the vision in unearthly awe Deeps of enchanted starlight seem to draw, In which my soul sinks, falling noiselessly As from a lone ship, far-off, in the night, Out of a child s hand slips a pebble white, Glimmering and fading down the awful sea. That night, which pushed me out of Paradise, When the last guest had taken his mask of smiles And gone, she wheeled a sofa from the light Where I sat touching the piano-keys, And begged me play her weariness away. [ 140 3 I played all sweet and solemn airs I knew. And when, with music mesmerized, she slept, I made the deep chords tell her dreams my love. Once, when they grew too passionate, I saw The faint blush ripen in their glow, and chide, Even in dreams, the rash, tumultuous thought. Then when I made them say, "Sleep on, dream on, For now we are together ; when thou wak st Forevermore we are alone alone," She sighed in sleep, and waked not : then I rose, And softly stooped my head, and, half in awe, Half passion-rapt, I kissed her lips farewell. Only the meek-mouthed blossoms kiss I now, Or the cold cheek that sometimes comes at night In haunted dreams, and brushes past my own. Ah, what hast thou to do with me, sweet song Why hauntest thou and vexest so my dreams ? Have I not turned away from thee so long So long, and yet the starry midnight seems Astir with tremulous music, as of old, - Forbidden memories opening, fold on fold ? ghost of Love, why, with thy rose-leaf lips, Dost thou still mock my sleep with kisses warm, C Torturing my dreams with touching finger tips. That madden me to clasp thy phantom form ? Have I not earned, by all these tears, at last, The right to rest untroubled by that Past ? Unto thy patient heart, my mother Earth, I come, a weary child. I have no claim, save that thou gav st me birth, And hast sustained me with thy nurture mild. I have stood up alone these many years ; Now let me come and lie upon my face, And spread my hands among the dewy grass, Till the slow wind s mesmeric touches pass Above my brain, and all its throbbing chase ; Into thy bosom take these bitter tears, And let them seem unto the innocent flowers Only as dew, or heaven s gentle showers ; Till, quieted and hushed against thy breast, I can forget to weep, And sink at last to sleep, Long sleep and rest. C 142 ] Her face ! It must have been her face, No other one was ever half so fair, No other head e er bent with such meek grace Beneath that weight of beautiful blonde hair. In a carriage on the street of the town, Where I had strayed in walking from the bay, Just as the sun was going down, Shielding her sight from his latest ray, She sat, and scanned with eager eye The faces of the passers-by. Whom was she looking for ? Not me Yet what wild purpose can it be That tempted her to this wild land ? I marked that on her lifted hand The diamonds no longer shine Of the ring that meant, not mine not mine ! Ah fool fool fool ! crawl back to thy den, Like a wounded beast as thou art, again ; Whosever she be, not thine not thine ! I sat last night on yonder ridge of rocks To see the sun set over Tamalpais, C Whose tented peak, suffused with rosy mist, Blended the colors of the sea and sky And made the mountain one great amethyst Hanging against the sunset. In the west There lay two clouds which parted company, Floating like two soft-breasted swans, and sailed Farther and farther separate, till one stayed To make a mantle for the evening-star ; The other wept itself away in rain. A fancy seized me ; if , in other worlds, That Spirit from afar should call to me, Across some starry chasm impassable, Weeping, " Oh, hadst thou only come to me ! I loved you so ! I prayed each night that God Would send you to me ! Now, alas ! too late, Too late farewell ! " and still again, " farewell ! Like the pulsation of a silenced bell Whose sobs beat on within the brain. I rose, And smote my staff strongly against the ground, And set my face homeward, and set my heart 144 Firm in a passionate purpose : there, in haste, With that one echo goading me to speed, " If it should be too late if it should be Too late too late ! " I took a pen and wrote : " Dear Soul, if I am mad to speak to thee, And this faint glimmer which I call a hope Be but the corpse-light on the grave of hope If thou, darling Star, art in the West To be my Evening-star, and watch my day Fade slowly into desolate twilight, burn This folly in the flames ; and scattered with Its ashes, let my madness be forgot. But if not so, oh be my Morning-star, And crown my East with splendor : come to me ! A stern, wild, broken place for a man to walk And muse on broken fortunes ; a rare place, There in the Autumn weather, cool and still, With the warm sunshine clinging round the rocks Softly, in pity, like a woman s love, To wait for some one who can never come As a man there was waiting. Overhead [ 145 D A happy bird sang quietly to himself, Unconscious of such sombre thoughts below. To which the song was background : " Yet how men Sometimes will struggle, writhe, and scream at death ! It were so easy now, in the mild air, To close the senses, slowly sleep, and die ; To cease to be the shaped and definite cloud, And melt away into the fathomless blue ; Only to touch this crimson thread of life, Whose steady ripple pulses in my wrist, And watch the little current soak the grass, Till the haze came, then darkness, and then rest. Would God be angry if I stopped one life Among His myriads such a worthless one ? If I should pray, I wonder would He send An angel down out of that great, white cloud, (He surely could spare one from praising Him,) To tell if there is any better way Than Look ! Why, that is grand, now ! (Am I mad? I did not think I should go mad !) That s grand One of the blessed spirits come like this n To meet a poor, lean man among the rocks, And answer questions for him ? " There she stood, With blonde hair blowing back, as if the breeze Blew a light out of it, that ever played And hovered at her shoulders. Such blue eyes Mirrored the dreamy mountain distances, (Yet, are the angels faces thin and wan Like that ; and do they have such mouths, so drawn, As if a sad song, some sad time, had died Upon the lips, and left its echo there ?) And the man rose, and stood with folded hands And head bent, and his downcast looks in awe Touching her garment s hem, that, when she spoke, Trembled a little where it met her feet. " I am come, because you called to me to come. What were all other voices when I heard The voice of my own soul s soul call to me ? You knew I loved you oh, you must have known ! Was it a noble thing to do, you think, To leave a lonely girl to die down there n 147 1 In the great empty world, and come up here To make a martyr s pillar of your pride ? There has been nobler work done, there in the world, Than you have done this year ! " Then cried the man : " voice that I have prayed for sad voice, And woeful eyes, spare me if I have sinned ! There was a little ring you used to wear " " strange, wild Fates, that balance bliss and woe On such poor straws ! It was a brother s gift." " You never told me " " Did you ever ask ? " " You, too, were surely prouder then than now ! " " Dear, I am sadder now : the head must bend A little, when one s weeping." Then the man, While half his mind, bewildered, at a flash Took in the wide, lone place, the singing bird, The sunshine streaming past them like a wind, And the broad tree that moved as though it breathed : " Oh, if t is possible that in the world There lies some low, mean work for me to do, Let me go there alone : I am ashamed To wear life s crown when I flung down its sword. Crammed full of pride, and lust, and littleness, God, I am not worthy of thy gifts ! Let me find penance, till, years hence, perchance, Made pure by toil, and scourged with pain and prayer " Then a voice answered through His creature s lips, " God asks no penance but a better life. He purifies by pain He only ; t is A remedy too dangerous for our Blind pharmacy. Lo ! we have tried that way, And borne what fruit, or blossoms even, save one Poor passion-flower ! Come, take thy happiness ; In happy hearts are all the sunbeams forged That brighten up our weatherbeaten world. 149 Come back with me Come ! for I love you Come!" If it was not a dream : perchance it was Often it seems so, and I wonder when I shall awaken on the mountain-side, With a little bitter taste left in the mouth Of too much sleep, or too much happiness, And sigh, and wish that I might dream again. SUNDOWN A SEA of splendor in the West, Purple, and pearl, and gold, With milk-white ships of cloud, whose sails Slowly the winds unfold. Brown cirrus-bars, like ribbed beach-sand, Cross the blue upper dome ; And nearer flecks of feathery white Blow over them like foam. But when that transient glory dies Into the twilight gray, And leaves me on the beach alone Beside the glimmering bay ; And when I know that, late or soon, Love s glory finds a grave, And hearts that danced like dancing foam Break like the breaking wave ; C A little dreary, homeless thought Creeps sadly over me, Like the shadow of a lonely cloud Moving along the sea. THE ARCH JUST where the street of the village ends, Over the road an oak-tree tall, Curving in more than a crescent, bends With an arch like the gate of a Moorish wall. Over across the river there, Looking under the arch, one sees The sunshine slant through the distant air, And burn on the cliff and the tufted trees. Each day, hurrying through the town, I stop an instant, early or late, As I cross the street, and glancing down I catch a glimpse through the Moorish gate. Only a moment there I stand, But I look through that loop in the dusty air, Into a far-off fairy land, Where all seems calm, and kind, and fair. C W 3 So sometimes at the end of a thought, Where with a vexing doubt we ve striven, A sudden, sunny glimpse is caught Of an open arch, and a peaceful heaven. c: 154 3 APRIL IN OAKLAND WAS there last night a snowstorm ? So thick the orchards stand, With drift on drift of blossom-flakes Whitening all the land. Or have the waves of life that swelled The green buds, day by day, Broken at once in clinging foam And scattered odor-spray ? The winds come drowsy with the breath Of cherry and of pear, Sighing their perfume-laden wings No more of sweet can bear. Over the garden-gateway That parts the tufted hedge, Rimming the idly twinkling bay Sleeps the blue mountains edge, C 155 H Yon fleece of clouds in heaven, So delicate and fair, Seems a whole league of orchard-bloom Sailing along the air. Oh, loveliness of nature ! Oh, sordid minds of men ! Without, a world of bloom and balm A sour, sad soul within. winds that sweep the orchard With Orient spices sweet, Why bring ye with that desolate sound The dead leaves to my feet ? Ah, sweeter were the fragrance That I to-day have found, If last year s crumbled leaves of love Were buried under ground ; And fairer were the shadowed troops That fleck the distant hill, If shades of clouds that will not pass Dimmed not my memory still. C 156 ] Better than all the beauty Which cloud or blossom shows Is the blue sky that arches all With measureless repose. And better than the bright blue sky, To know that far away Sweep all the silent host of stars Behind the veil of day. And best to feel that there and here, About us and above, Move on the purposes of God In justice and in love. L 157 STARLIGHT THEY think me daft, who nightly meet My face turned starward, while my feet Stumble along the unseen street ; But should man s thoughts have only room For Earth, his cradle and his tomb, Not for his Temple s grander gloom ? And must the prisoner all his days Learn but his dungeon s narrow ways And never through its grating gaze ? Then let me linger in your sight, My only amaranths ! blossoming bright As over Eden s cloudless night. The same vast belt, and square, and crown, That on the Deluge glittered down, And lit the roofs of Bethlehem town ! [ 158 3 Ye make me one with all my race, A victor over time and space, Till all the path of men I pace. Far-speeding backward in my brain We build the Pyramids again, And Babel rises from the plain ; And climbing upward on your beams I peer within the Patriarchs dreams, Till the deep sky with angels teems. My Comforters ! Yea, why not mine ? The power that kindled you doth shine, In man, a mastery divine ; That Love which throbs in every star, And quickens all the worlds afar, Beats warmer where his children are. The shadow of the wings of Death Broods over us ; we feel his breath : " Resurgam " still the spirit saith. [ 159 3 These tired feet, this weary brain, Blotted with many a mortal stain, May crumble earthward not in vain. With swifter feet that shall not tire, Eyes that shall fail not at your fire, Nearer your splendors I aspire. c; 16 3 A DEAD BIRD IN WINTER THE cold, hard sky and hidden sun, The stiffened trees that shiver so, With bare twigs naked every one To these harsh winds that freeze the snow,- It was a bitter place to die, Poor birdie ! Was it easier, then, On such a world to shut thine eye, And sleep away from life, than when The apple-blossoms tint the air, And, twittering in the sunny trees, Thy fellow-songsters flit and pair, Breasting the warm, caressing breeze ? Nay, it were easiest, I feel, Though t were a brighter Earth to lose, To let the summer shadows steal About thee, bringing their repose ; C l61 3 When the noon hush was on the air, And on the flowers the warm sun shined, And Earth seemed all so sweet and fair, That He who made it must be kind. So I, too, could not bear to go From Life in this unfriendly clime, To lie beneath the crusted snow, When the dead grass stands stiff with rime ; But under those blue skies of home, Far easier were it to lie down Where the perpetual violets bloom And the rich moss grows never brown ; Where linnets never cease to build Their nests, in boughs that always wave To odorous airs, with blessing filled From nestled blossoms round my grave. 162 SPRING TWILIGHT SINGING in the rain, robin ? Rippling out so fast All thy flute-like notes, as if This singing were thy last ! After sundown, too, robin ? Though the fields are dim, And the trees grow dark and still, Dripping from leaf and limb. T is heart-broken music That sweet, faltering strain, Like a mingled memory, Half ecstasy, half pain. Surely thus to sing, robin, Thou must have in sight Beautiful skies behind the shower, And dawn beyond the night. C Would thy faith were mine, robin ! Then, though night were long, All its silent hours should melt Their sorrow into song. EVENING THE Sun is gone : those glorious chariot-wheels Have sunk their broadening spokes of flame, and left Thin rosy films wimpled across the West, Whose last faint tints melt slowly in the blue, As the last trembling cadence of a song Fades into silence sweeter than all sound. Now the first stars begin to tremble forth Like the first instruments of an orchestra Touched softly, one by one. There in the East Kindles the glory of moonrise : how its waves Break in a surf of silver on the clouds ! White, motionless clouds, like soft and snowy wings Which the great Earth spreads, sailing round the Sun. silent stars ! that over ages past Have shone serenely as ye shine to-night, Unseal, unseal the secret that ye keep ! Is it not time to tell us why we live ? C Through all these shadowy corridors of years, (Like some gray Priest, who through the Mysteries Led the blindfolded Neophyte in fear,) Time leads us blindly onward, till in wrath Tired Life would seize and throttle its stern guide, And force him tell us whither and how long. But Time gives back no answer only points With motionless finger to eternity, Which deepens over us, as that deep sky Darkens above me : only its vestibule Glimmers with scattered stars; and down the West A silent meteor slowly slides afar, As though, pacing the garden-walks of heaven, Some musing seraph had let fall a flower. C l66 THE ORGAN IT is no harmony of human making, Though men have built those pipes of burnished gold; Their music, out of Nature s heart awaking, Forever new, forever is of old. Man makes not only finds all earthly beauty, Catching a thread of sunshine here and there, Some shining pebble in the path of duty, Some echo of the songs that flood the air. That prelude is a wind among the willows, Eising until it meets the torrent s roar ; Now a wild ocean, beating his great billows Among the hollow caverns of the shore. It is the voice of some vast people, pleading For justice from an ancient shame and wrong, The tramp of God s avenging armies, treading With shouted thunders of triumphant song. 3 soul, that sittest chanting dreary dirges, Couldest thou but rise on some divine desire, As those deep chords upon their swelling surges Bear up the wavering voices of the choir ! But ever lurking in the heart, there lingers The trouble of a false and jarring tone, As some great Organ which unskillful fingers Vex into discords when the Master s gone. C 168 EASTERN WINTER COLD cold the very sun looks cold, With those thin rays of chilly gold Laid on that gap of bluish sky That glazes like a dying eye. The naked trees are shivering, Each cramped and bare branch quivering, Cutting the bleak wind into blades, Whose edge to brain and bone invades. That hard ground seems to ache, all day, Even for a sheet of snow, to lay Upon its icy feet and knees, Stretched stiffly there to freeze and freeze. And yon shrunk mortal what s within That nipped and winter-shriveled skin ? The pinched face drawn in peevish lines, The voice that through his blue lips whines, C 16 9 3 The frost has got within, you see, Left but a selfish me and me : The heart is chilled, its nerves are numb, And love has long been frozen dumb. Ah, give me back the clime I know, Where all the year geraniums blow, And hyacinth-buds bloom white for snow ; Where hearts beat warm with life s delight, Through radiant winter s sunshine bright, And summer s starry deeps of night ; Where man may let earth s beauty thaw The wintry creed which Calvin saw, That God is only Power and Law ; And out of Nature s Bible prove, That here below as there above Our Maker Father God is Love. [ 170 SLEEPING HUSHED within her quiet bed She is lying all the night, In her pallid robes of white, Eyelids on the pure eyes pressed, Soft hands folded on the breast, And you thought I meant it dead ? Nay ! I smile at your shocked face : In the morning she will wake, Turn her dreams to sport, and make All the household glad and gay, Yet for many a merry day, With her beauty and her grace. But some summer t will be said, " She is lying all the night, In her pallid robes of white, Eyelids on the tired eyes pressed, Hands that cross upon the breast : " We shall understand it dead ! C Yet t will only be a sleep : When, with songs and dewy light, Morning blossoms out of Night, She will open her blue eyes Neath the palms of Paradise, While we foolish ones shall weep. C A PRATER GOD, our Father, if we had but truth ! Lost truth which thou perchance Didst let man lose, lest all his wayward youth He waste in song and dance ; That he might gain, in searching, mightier powers For manlier use in those foreshadowed hours. If, blindly groping, he shall oft mistake, And follow twinkling motes Thinking them stars, and the one voice forsake Of Wisdom for the notes Which mocking Beauty utters here and there, Thou surely wilt forgive him, and forbear ! Oh, love us, for we love thee, Maker God ! And would creep near thy hand, And call thee " Father, Father," from the sod Where by our graves we stand, And pray to touch, fearless of scorn or blame, Thy garment s hem, which Truth and Good we name. I 173 THE POLAR SEA AT the North, far away, Kolls a great sea for aye, Silently, awfully. Round it on every hand Ice-towers majestic stand, Guarding this silent sea Grimly, invincibly. Never there man hath been, Who hath come back again, Telling to ears of men What is this sea within. Under the starlight, Rippling the moonlight, Drinking the sunlight, Desolate, never heard nor seen, Beating forever it hath been. From our life far away Roll the dark waves, for aye, Of an Eternity, [ 174 ] Silently, awfully. Round it on every hand Death s icy barriers stand. Guarding this silent sea Grimly, invincibly. Never there man hath been Who could return again, Telling to mortal ken What is within the sea Of that Eternity. Terrible is our life In its whole blood-written history Only a feverish strife ; In its beginning, a mystery In its wild ending, an agony. Terrible is our death Black-hanging cloud over Life s setting sun, Darkness of night when the daylight is done. In the shadow of that cloud, Deep within that darkness shroud, Rolls the ever-throbbing sea ; And we all we C 175 1 Are drifting rapidly And floating silently Into that unknown sea Into Eternity. [ 176 THE FUTURE WHAT may we take into the vast forever? That marble door Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor, No fame-wreathed crown we wore, No garnered lore. What can we bear beyond the unknown portal ? No gold, no gains Of all our toiling : in the life immortal No hoarded wealth remains, Nor gilds, nor stains. Naked from out that far abyss behind us We entered here : No word came with our coming, to remind us What wondrous world was near, No hope, no fear. Into the silent, starless Night before us, Naked we glide : C 177 : No hand has mapped the constellations o er us, No comrade at our side, No chart, no guide. Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow, Our footsteps fare : The beckoning of a Father s hand we follow His love alone is there, No curse, no care. C 178 A DAILY MIRACLE JUNE S sunshine on the broad porch shines Through tangled curtains of crossing vines ; The restless dancing of the leaves Dusky webs of shadow weaves, That wander on the oaken floor, Or cross the threshold of the door. Scattered where er their mazes run Lie little phantoms of the sun : Whatever chink the sunbeam found, Crooked or narrow, on the ground The shadowy image still is round. So the image of God in the heart of a Which truth makes, rifting as it can Through the narrow crooked ways Of our restless deeds and days, Still is His image bright or dim And scorning it is scorning Him. I 179 THE NORTH WIND ALL night, beneath the flashing hosts of stars, The North poured forth the passion of its soul In mighty longings for the tawny South, Sleeping afar among her orange-blooms. All night, through the deep canon s organ-pipes, Swept down the grand orchestral harmonies Tumultuous, till the hills rock buttresses Trembled in unison. The sun has risen, But still the storming sea of air beats on, And o er the broad green slopes a flood of light Comes streaming through the heavens like a wind, Till every leaf and twig becomes a lyre And thrills with vibrant splendor. Down the bay The furrowed blue, save that t is starred with foam, Is bare and empty as the sky of clouds ; For all the little sails, that yesterday C 18 3 Flocked past the islands, now have furled their wings, And huddled frightened at the wharves just as, A moment since, a flock of twittering birds Whirled through the almond-trees like scattered leaves, And hid beyond the hedge. How the old oaks Stand stiffly to it, and wrestle with the storm ! While the tall eucalyptus plumy tops Tumble and toss and stream with quivering light. Hark ! when it lulls a moment at the ear, The fir-trees sing their sea-song : now again The roar is all about us like a flood ; And like a flood the fierce light shines, and burns Away all distance, till the far blue ridge, That rims the ocean, rises close at hand, And high, Prometheus-like, great Tamalpais Lifts proudly his grand front, and bears his scar, Heaven s scath of wrath, defiant like a god. I thank thee, glorious wind ! Thou bringest me Something that breathes of mountain crags and pines, C l81 1 Yea, more from the unsullied, farthest North, Where crashing icebergs jar like thunder-shocks, And midnight splendors wave and fade and flame, Thou bring st a keen, fierce joy. So wilt thou help The soul to rise in strength, as some great wave Leaps forth, and shouts, and lifts the ocean-foam, And rides exultant round the shining world. CALIFORNIA WINTER THIS is not winter : where is the crisp air, And snow upon the roof, and frozen ponds, And the star-fire that tips the icicle ? - Here blooms the late rose, pale and odorless ; And the vague fragrance in the garden walks Is but a doubtful dream of mignonette. In some smooth spot, under a sleeping oak That has not dreamed of such a thing as spring, The ground has stolen a kiss from the cool sun And thrilled a little, and the tender grass Has sprung untimely, for these great bright days, Staring upon it, will not let it live. The sky is blue, and t is a goodly time, And the round, barren hillsides tempt the feet ; But t is not winter : such as seems to man What June is to the roses, sending floods Of life and color through the tingling veins. It is a land without a fireside. Far Is the old home, where, even this very night, Roars the great chimney with its glorious fire, And old friends look into each other s eyes Quietly, for each knows the other s trust. Heaven is not far away such winter nights : The big white stars are sparkling in the east, And glitter in the gaze of solemn eyes ; For many things have faded with the flowers, And many things their resurrection wait ; Earth like a sepulchre is sealed with frost, And Morn and Even beside the silent door Sit watching, and their soft and folded wings Are white with feathery snow. Yet even here We are not quite forgotten by the Hours, Could human eyes but see the beautiful Save through the glamour of a memory. Soon comes the strong south wind, and shouts aloud Its jubilant anthem. Soon the singing rain Comes from warm seas, and in its skyey tent Enwraps the drowsy world. And when, some night, Its flowing folds invisibly withdraw, Lo ! the new life in all created things. The azure mountains and the ocean gates Against the lovely sky stand clean and clear As a new purpose in the wiser soul. INFLUENCES FROM the scarlet sea of sunset, Tossing up its waves of fire To a floating spray of splendor, Kindles through me mad desire Now now now to call her mine ! Prom the ashen gray of twilight Musings dark as shadows linger Slowly creeping, leave me weeping While in silence round my finger That long glossy lock I twine. From the holy hush of starlight Sinks a peace upon my spirit, And a voice of hope and patience All the quiet night I hear it Whispers, " Wait, for she is thine ! " THE LOVER S SONG LEND me thy fillet, Love ! I would no longer see ; Cover mine eyelids close awhile. And make me blind like thee. Then might I pass her sunny face, And know not it was fair ; Then might I hear her voice, nor guess Her starry eyes were there. Ah ! banished so from stars and sun Why need it be my fate? If only she might deem me good And wise, and be my mate ! Lend her thy fillet, Love ! Let her no longer see : If there is hope for me at ah 1 , She must be blind like thee. A TROPICAL MORNING AT SEA SKY in its lucent splendor lifted Higher than cloud can be ; Air with no breath of earth to stain it, Pure on the perfect sea. Crests that touch and tilt each other, Jostling as they comb ; Delicate crash of tinkling water, Broken in pearling foam. Flashings or is it the pinewood s whispers, Babble of brooks unseen, Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms, Brushing aside the green ? Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle ; Foam-wreaths slipping by, Soft as a snow of broken roses Afloat over mirrored sky. Off to the East the steady sun-track Golden meshes fill Webs of fire, that lace and tangle, Never a moment still. Liquid palms but clap together, Fountains, flower-like, grow Limpid bells on stems of silver Out of a slope of snow. Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets Blue as a summer sky, When you blink at its arch sprung over Where in the grass you lie. Dimly an orange bit of rainbow Burns where the low west clears, Broken in air, like a passionate promise Born of a moment s tears. Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver, Clouds in the distance dwell, Clouds that are cool, for all their color, Pure as a rose-lipped shell. [ 189 3 Fleets of wool in the upper heavens Gossamer wings unfurl ; Sailing so high they seem but sleeping Over yon bar of pearl. What would the great world lose, I wonder- Would it be missed or no If we stayed in the opal morning, Floating forever so? Swung to sleep by the swaying water, Only to dream all day Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting, Scatter such dreams away ! 190 A FOOLISH WISH WHY need I seek some burden small to bear Before I go ? Will not a host of nobler souls be here, Heaven s will to do? Of stronger hands, unfailing, unafraid? silly soul ! what matters my small aid Before I go ! 1 tried to find, that I might show to them, Before I go, The path of purer lives : the light was dim, I do not know If I had found some footprints of the way ; It is too late their wandering feet to stay, Before I go. I would have sung the rest some song of cheer, Before I go ; But still the chords rang false ; some jar of fear, Some jangling woe. c: And at the end I cannot weave one chord To float into their hearts my last warm word, Before I go. I would be satisfied if I might tell, Before I go, That one warm word, how I have loved them well, Could they but know ! And would have gained for them some gleam of good ; Have sought it long; still seek, if but I could ! Before I go. T is a child s longing, on the beach at play : "Before I go," He begs the beckoning mother, " Let me stay One shell to throw!" T is coming night; the great sea climbs the shore, " Ah, let me toss one little pebble more, Before I go ! " EVERT-DAT LIFE THE marble-smith, at his morning task Merrily glasses the blue-veined stone. With stout hands circling smooth. You ask, " What will it be, when it is done ? " A shaft for a young girl s grave." Both hands Go back with a will to their sinewy play ; And he sings like a bird, as he swaying stands, A rollicking stave of Love and May. BEFORE SUNRISE IN WINTER A PURPLE cloud hangs half way down ; Sky, yellow gold below ; The naked trees, beyond the town, Like masts against it show Bare masts and spars of our earth-ship, With shining snow-sails furled ; And through the sea of space we slip, That flows all round the world. C 194 THE CHOICE ONLY so much of power each day So much nerve-force brought in play ; If it goes for politics or trade, Ends gained or money made, You have it not for the soul and God The choice is yours, to soar or plod. So much water in the rill : It may go to turn the miller s wheel, Or sink in the desert, or flow on free To brighten its banks in meadows green, Till broadening out, fair fields between, It streams to the moon-enchanted sea. Only so little power each day : Week by week days slide away ; Ere the life goes, what shall it be A trade a game a mockery, Or the gate of a rich Eternity? C SIBYLLINE BARTERING FATE, the gray Sibyl, with kind eyes above Closely locked lips, brought youth a merry crew Of proffered friends ; the price, self -slaying love. Proud youth repulsed them. She and they with drew. Then she brought half the troop ; the cost, the same. My man s heart wavered : should I take the few, And pay the whole ? But while I went and came, Fate had decided. She and they withdrew. Once more she came, with two. Now life s midday Left fewer hours before me. Lonelier grew The house and heart. But should the late purse pay The earlier price ? And she and they withdrew. At last I saw Age his forerunners send. Then came the Sibyl, still with kindly eyes C And close-locked lips, and offered me one friend, Thee, my one darling ! With what tears and cries I claimed and claim thee ; ready now to pay The perfect love that leaves no self to slay ! C 197 MUSIC THE little rim of moon hangs low the room Is saintly with the presence of Night, And Silence broods with knitted brows around. The woven lilies of the velvet floor Blend with the roses in the dusky light, Which shows twin pictures glimmering from the walls : Here, a mailed group kneels by the rocky sea There, a gray desert, and a well, and palms ; While the faint perfume of a violet, Vague as a dream of Spring, pervades the air. Where the moon gleams along the organ-front, The crooked shadow of a dead branch stirs Like ghostly fingers gliding through a tune. Now rises one with faintly rustling robes, And white hands search among the glistening keys. Out of the silence sounds are forming tones That seem to come from infinite distances, Soft trebles fluttering down like snowy doves Just dipping their swift wings in the deep bass C 198 ] That crumbles downward like a crumbling wave ; And out of those low-gathering harmonies A voice arises, tangled in their maze, Then soaring up exultantly alone, While the accompaniment wails and complains. I am upon the seashore. T is the sound Of ocean, surging on against the land. That throbbing thunder is the roar of surf Beaten and broken on the frothy rocks. Those whispering trebles are the plashing waves That ripple up the smooth sand s slope, and kiss The tinkling shells with coy lips, quick withdrawn ; And over all, the solitary voice Is the wind wandering on its endless quest. A change comes, in a crash of minor chords. I am a dreamer, waking from his dream Into the life to which our life is sleep. My soul is floating floating, till afar The round Earth rolls, with fleece of moonlit cloud, A globe of amber, gleaming as it goes. Deep in some hollow cavern of the sky All human life is pleading to its God. Still the accompaniment wails and complains ; A wild confusion of entangled chords, C 199 ] Kevenge, and fear, and strong men s agony, The shrill cry of despair, the slow, deep swell Of Time s long effort, sinking but to swell, While woman s lonely love, and childhood s faith Go wandering with soft whispers hand in hand. Suddenly from the ages one pure soul Is singled out to plead before the Throne ; And then again the solitary voice Peals up among the stars from the great throng, Catching from out the storm all love, all hope, All loveliness of life, and utters it. Then the hushed music sobs itself to sleep, And all is still, save the reluctant sigh That tells the wakening from immortal dreams. 20 THREE SONGS SING me, thou Singer, a song of gold ! Said a careworn man to me : So I sang of the golden summer days, And the sad, sweet autumn s yellow haze, Till his heart grew soft, and his mellowed gaze Was a kindly sight to see. Sing me, dear Singer, a song of love ! A fair girl asked of me : Then I sang of a love that clasps the Race, Gives all, asks naught till her kindled face Was radiant with the starry grace Of blessed Charity. Sing me, O Singer, a song of life ! Cried an eager youth to me : And I sang of the life without alloy, Beyond our years, till the heart of the boy Caught the golden beauty, and love, and joy Of the great Eternity. 201 DESPAIR AND HOPE WE sailed a cruise on a summer sea I, and a skull for company : I in the stern our course to turn, And it on the prow to grin at me. Over the deep heaven, hung below, Whose imaged clouds lay white like snow, Glided we, as the tide might be, Slipping swiftly, floating slow. Past the woods all living green Save by the marge some fading tree, Whose leaf, so early autumn-touched, Would make the skull to grin at me. Past a grove of fragrant pine, Prom whose dusky depths of shade Snowy shaft and colonnade Marked a ruined altar-shrine ; And the skull s grim face grinned into mine. 202 Under the arch of a vine-clasped elm Leaning off from the mossy land, Across the shallow the idle helm Lightly furrowed the silver sand : Down the slope all clover-sweet Danced a group in childish glee Hissed a swift snake at their feet ; Then the skull grinned unto me. Into a cavern dim and dank Crept we on the creeping tide ; Shapeless creatures rose and sank, Dripped with damp the ceiling wide. Darker, chiller hung the air ; Scarcely I the prow could see ; But I, through the shadow there, Felt the skull still grin at me. Out of the cavern s thither side, Into a mellow, morn-like glow, Streams the ripple-curving tide ; Sounds of music sweeter grow ; Odorous incense, softened air, Melodies so faint and fair, Thrill me through with life and love : And all suddenly from the prow, Where had seemed the skull just now, Flutters to my breast a dove. WISDOM AND FAME A WILDERNESS, made awful with the night Great glimmering trunks whose tops were hid in gloom, Vast columns in the blackness broken off, Between whose ghostly forms, slow-wandering, A company of lost men sought a path. Some groped among the dead leaves and fallen boughs For footprints ; but the rattle of the leaves And crook of stems seemed serpents coiled to strike. Some took the momentary sparks that rode Upon their straining eyeballs, for far lights, And followed them. Some stood apart, in vain Searching, with horror-widened eyes, for stars. So, stumbling on, they circled round and round Through the same mazes. Then they singled one To climb a pinnacled height, and see from thence C 205 ] The landmarks, and to shout from thence their course. With aching sinews, bleeding feet, bruised hands, He gained the height ; but when they cried to him They got but maudlin answers, he had found, Slaking hot thirst, a fruit that maddened him. Another, and another still they sent ; But every one that climbed found the ill fruit And maddened, and gave back but wild replies : And still in darkness they go wandering, lost. 2 6 SERENITY BROOK, Be still, be still! Midnight s arch is broken In thy ceaseless ripples. Dark and cold below them Runs the troubled water, Only on its bosom, Shimmering and trembling, Doth the glinted star-shine Sparkle and cease. Life, Be still, be still! Boundless truth is shattered On thy hurrying current. Rest, with face uplifted, Calm, serenely quiet ; Drink the deathless beauty Thrills of love and wonder Sinking, shining, star-like ; C 2 7 3 Till the mirrored heaven Hollow down within thee Holy deeps unfathomed, Where far thoughts go floating, And low voices wander Whispering peace, C 208 THE RUBY HEART A CHILD S STORY UNDER a fragrant blossom-bell A tiny Fairy once did dwell. The moss was bright about her feet, Her little face was fair and sweet, Her form in rainbow hues was clad, And yet the Fairy s soul was sad ; For, of the Elves that round her moved, And in the yellow moonlight roved, There was no Spirit that she loved. Many a one there was, I ween, Among the sprites that danced the green, Whose hands were warm to clasp her own, And voices kindly in their tone ; But love the fondest and the best Awaked no answer in her breast : Her heart unmoved within her slept And, " I can never love ! " she wept. C She taught herself a quaint old song And crooned it over all day long : "Heprayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. 7 " But I," she said, " can never pray, Nor to His mansions find the way, For he will suffer not, I know, A creature unto Him to go Who has not loved His world below." Slow-wandering by the brook alone, She chose a pure white pebble-stone, And carved it, sitting there apart, Into a little marble heart ; She hung it by her mossy bed " My heart will never love," she said, " Till this white stone turn ruby-red." One night a moonbeam smote her face And wakened her, and in its place C 21 1 There stood an angel, full of grace. "Dear child/ he said, "from far above I come to teach thee how to love. Do every day some little deed Of kindness, some faint creature feed, Make some hurt spirit cease to bleed, Then carve the record fair, at night, Upon thy heart of marble white. Each word shall turn to ruby-red, And so much of thy task be sped ; For when the whole is ruddied o er, Thy bosom shall be cold no more ; The souls thy careless thoughts contemn Shall win thee by thy deeds to them. 9 Upon the sorrowful Fairy broke Like sudden sunshine this new hope. Each day to some one s door she took A kindly act, or word, or look, Whose record, fairly carved at night, Blushed out upon the stony white ; Till, somehow, wondrously there grew More grace in every one she knew Each little ugliness concealed, Each goodness more and more reveal d, As, when you watch the twilight through, The sky seems one pure empty blue, Till, o er the paling sunset-bars, Suddenly t is one sweep of stars ! So day by day she found herself Grow kindlier to each little elf ; Yea, even to the birds and bees, And slender flowerets round her knees : The very moss-buds at her feet She came with warmer smile to greet, Till now, at last, her marble heart Was ruddy, save one little part That gleamed all snowy as of old In the still moonbeams, white and cold. Her task was almost done she knelt And hid her glad wet eyes, and felt Her soul s first prayer steal up to God, Like Spring s first violet from the sod. Through all her being softly stole Such joy of gratitude, her soul Brimmed over like a brimming cup C 212 3 And then a voice said, " Child, look up ! And lo ! the stone above her head Was a pure ruby, starry-red ; And down among the flowers there flew, Brushing aside the moonlit dew, A little snowy elfin dove, And nestled on her breast, to prove Sweet trust in one whose heart was love. C TO CHILD ANNA As in the Spring, ere any flowers have come, A vague and blossomy smeh 1 Pervades the woods, all odors mixed in one, As if to tell That they are mustering in each sunny dell, So round your childish form there seems to cling A sense of nameless grace, A sweet confusion budding hints of Spring Just giving place To graver woman-shadows in your face. I see no longer the mere child you are The woman you might be Stands in your place, with eyes that gaze afar : Her face I see, And it is very beautiful to me. The little soft white hands you lay in mine I touch with reverent care; C 214 ] I see them wrinkled into many a line, But fair more fair For every weary deed they do and bear. The fresh young mouth, all careless purity, Has faded from my gaze, And all the tender looks, which charity And many patient days Leave round the lips, seem now to take its place. Therefore I stroke so tenderly your head, Or watch your steps afar, Praying that God His love on you will shed More faithful far Than our blind human love and watching are. [ 215 THE WORLD S SECRET I KNOW the splendor of the Sun, And beauty in the leaves, and moss, and grass ; I love the birds small voices every one, And all the hours have kindness as they pass ; But still the heart can apprehend A deeper purport than the brain may know : I see it at the dying daylight s end, And hear it when the winds begin to blow. It strives to speak from all the world, Out of dumb earth, and moaning ocean-tides ; And brooding Night, beneath her pinions furled, Some message writ in starry cipher hides. Must I go seeking everywhere The meanings that behind our objects be A depth serener in the azure air, A something more than peace upon the sea ? C 2l6 3 Not one least deed one soul to bless ? Unto the stern-eyed Future shall I bear Only the sense of pain without redress, Self -sickness, and a duh* and stale despair? Nay, let me shape, in patience slow, My years, like the holy child his bird of clay, Till suddenly the clod its Master know, And thrill with lif e, and soar with songs away. C ^ 3 THE FOUNTAIN WERE it not horrible After all the dreams we dream, Our yearnings and our prayers, If this " I "" were but a stream Of thoughts, sensations, joys, and pains, Which being clogged, no soul remains ? Even as the fountain seems to be A shape of one identity, But only is a stream of drops, And when the swift succession stops, The fountain melts and disappears, Leaving no trace but scattered tears. Yet even here, foolish heart, Thou wert not cheated of thy part ; Were it not better, even here, To keep thy current pure and clear, With pearly drops of dew to wet The amaranth and violet, And round thy crystal feet to shower [ 218 1 Blessings and beauty every hour Better than in a sullen flow To creep around the ground, and go Wasting and sinking through the sand, Because not always thus to stand ? DISCONTENT OH that one could arise and flee Unto blue-eyed Italy, Far from mechanical clank and hum ! There to sit by the sighing sea, And to dream of the days that shall be shall be And the glory of years to come : Or on some far ocean-isle, Under the palm and the cocoa-tree, To build of the coral boughs a home ; Or floating and falling down the Nile, To drown one s cares in the deeps of Time And the desert s brooding mystery. Yet howsoever we plot or plan, In every age through every clime Still the littleness of man Would follow us, fast as we might flee ; And the wrangling world break in on whatever is ten der and sweet, As on a beautiful tune the rattling and noise of the street. [ 220 SEEMING AND BEING THE brave old motto, " Seem not only be/ Would it were set ablaze against the sky In golden letters, where the world must read ! What is there done for the honest doing s sake, In these poor times gone mad with self -parade ? There s not a picture of the Cross but bears The painter s name as prominent as the Christ s: There s not a scene, of such peculiar grace That one would fain forget men s meanness there, But from the rocks some rascal clothier s name Stares in great capitals, till one could wish The knave hung from his signboard, for a sign : There s not a graveyard in the land, but lo ! On the white tablets of the dead, full cut Below their sacred names, his shameless name Who carved the marble ! Is it not pitiful? We are all actors, and all audience. Yea, such a dreary farce we make our lives, C 221 ] That something is expected of a man Upon his deathbed : " Hark ye now, good friends, These fine last words, this notable bravery, see ! " So even the grim cross-bones of awful Death Must take an attitude, and the skull smirk For a last picture. Here is a nation, too, (God help it !) that dare scarcely act its mind, But walks the world s stage, quaking with the thought, " What will great England think of me for this ? " The poet scoffs at fame, then sets himself, Full-titled, with a portrait at the front ; Each beautiful impatient soul, who left The world he scorned, still lingered near enough To listen, not displeased, and hear the world Admiringly relate how he had scorned it ; Even our great doubting Thomas, in young days When he praised silence, did it with loud speech, That ever too distinctly told, " T is I, Thomas, so noisily abuse your noise ! " Is it not enough for the trumpet that the god Has chosen it to sound his message through Must the brass blare in its own petty praise ? And can we never do the right, and do it As though we were alone upon the earth, And the gods blind ? C WEATHER-BOUND THOU pitiless, false sea ! How, like a woman, thou wilt softly sigh With heaving breast where bubble- jewels shine, Or, beckoning, toss thy foam-white arms on high, And laugh with those blue sunny eyes of thine ! Ah, crouching, creeping sea ! Thou tiger-cat ! how, while the winds make pause To stroke thy long smooth back in quiet play, Thou canst unsheathe thy velvet-hidden claws And spring all unawares upon thy prey ! Thou treacherous, cruel sea ! How thou wilt show thy glittering smile at night, Hiding thy fangs, hushing thy fiendish cry, And rise all gentle sport from licking white The bones of men that underneath thee lie ! bitter, bitter sea ! Didst thou not fawn about my naked feet, When I stood with thee on the beach, and say That thou wouldst bear me swiftly home to meet My darling, waiting there in vain to-day ? Yea, thou most mighty sea ! Keep then that promise murmured on the shore ; Put thy great shoulders to our loitering keel, Not as in rage and wrath thou hast before Let the good ship thy help gigantic feel. Thou answerest me, sea ! Lifting in silence, o er the waters stilled, The shattered fragment of a rainbow fair, A mocking promise, ne er to be fulfilled, Based on the waves and broken in mid-air. C TO CHILD SARA I LOOKED in a dew-drop s heart to-day As it clung on a leaf of clover. Holding a sparkle of starry light, Like a liquid drop of opal bright With diamond dusted over. In that least globe of quivering dew, The sunny scene around, Diminished to a grass-blade s width Scarcely a fairy s finger-breadth All imaged there I found : The spreading oak, the fir s soft fringe, The grain-field s brightening green, The linnet that flew fluttering by, And, over all, the dear blue sky, The bending boughs between : And all the night, as from its nest It gazes up afar, I 226 3 Its bosom holds the heavens deep, Whose constellations o er it sweep. And mirrors every star. Child, is that drop of dew your soul With mirrored heaven as bright ? (Forgive me that I ask of you, Whose heart I know is pure and true And stainless as the light :) The sunshine, and the starlight too, Fair hope, and faith as fair, Courage, and patience, silent power, And wisdom for each troubled hour, Tell me, are they all there ? Your quiet grace, and kindly words Have influence sweet and strong ; Your hand and voice can calm the brain, And cheer the heavy hearts of men With music and with song : Let the soul answer can it give That music clear and calm C The rhythmic years, the holier aim, The scorn of pleasure, fortune, fame To make our life a psalm ? All round the house, your birthday morn The budded orchards stand ; And we can watch from every room The trees all blushing into bloom Blossoms on every hand : So may your Life be, many a year, A fair and goodly tree ; Not blossoming only, but sublime With fruit, so hastening the time When Earth shall Eden be. A FABLE TO CHILD ANNA ONE morning, in a Prince s park, Before the rising of the lark Or the first glimmering twilight beam, A Lily blossomed by a stream ; Just at the chillest, darkest hour, When frowning clouds in heaven lower, When shadows crouch all gaunt and grim, And every little star is dim. " dreary world ! " the Lily sighed : Only the dreary wind replied. Soon, in the East uprising slow, A cold gray dawn began to grow. The Lily watched where all around The mist came creeping o er the ground, And listened, while with sadder tone The morning-wind began to moan : But all the more the light drew on, Her tear-dewed cheek was deathlier wan, Each streak of daylight, as it grew, [ 229 ] Revealed a world so strange and new. Slowly the dawn crept up the sky Like a cold, cruel, watching eye. Once from some little wakened bird A twittering note of joy she heard : The chill dew fell upon her head She almost wished that she were dead ; " There comes no joy for me," she said. A gnarled and wisdom-wrinkled Oak Which overheard, in answer spoke : " foolish little Lilybell, Why do you weep, when all is well ? Look up ! Have faith ! For by and by The sun is coming up the sky ; All golden red the heavens will glow, All golden green the earth below ; The birds their rippling songs will sing, And wooing winds their spices bring : And then the Prince will hither come To wander mid his flowers, and some, (Ah, favored blossoms !) bending down, He plucks and places in his crown. Look up, foolish Lilybell ! A little while, and all is well." The Lily drooped and trembled still : " The dawn/ she sobbed, " is dim and chill ; And if the Prince should come, alas ! He will not stoop among the grass ; I surely cannot please his eyes, For I am neither fair nor wise : He 11 choose some tall and stately tree, He surely will not care for me ! " But now the sunrise was at hand, Lighting with splendor all the land ; As if a seraph stood below With lifted pinions all aglow, Whose tips of fire still nearer came In feathery plumes of floating flame ; While from his hidden face the rays Shot up and set the heavens ablaze. They warmed the old Oak s wrinkled face, And touched it with a mellow grace ; Then dancing downward to his feet They kissed the Lily s face so sweet, And laughed away her foolish fear And lit a gem in every tear ; Then flew to greet the Master s eye, Who even now was drawing nigh. C 231 3 He saw the Lily s fragile cup With dew and sunlight brimming up, And, as he marked each beauty well, The petals pure as pearliest shell, And on the lowly bending stem The tear-drop sparkling like a gem, The Prince was glad, and stooping down Plucked it, and set it in his crown ; And mid the jewels glittering there None shone so royally and rare, For none was half so pure and fair. Dear child, t is our ingratitude, And faithless fear, and sullen mood, Darken a world so bright and good ! There s nothing beautiful and true There s not a rift of heaven s blue, And not a flower, or dancing leaf, But shames our selfish-hearted grief. His hand that feels the sparrow s fall, And builds the bee his castle-wall, And spreads the tiniest insect s sail, And tints the violet s purple veil, Will never let His children stray Or wander from His arms away. [ 232 ] To-day may seem all cold and dim Trust the To-morrow unto Him. T is slander that we often hear, " Hope whispers falsehoods in our ear/ There s no such lying voice as Fear. Hope is a prophet sent from Heaven, Fear is a false and croaking raven. The dawn that buds all gray and cold Will blossom to a sky of gold ; God s love shall like a sunrise stay To lighten all the future way Still brighter to the Perfect Day. THE CREATION A FOUNTAIN rusheth upward from God s throne ; Its streaming stem we name Eternal Power : Its tossing drops are worlds, that spin and fall, While on their spheres our little human lives Like gleams and shadows swiftly glance and go. C 234 THE FIRST CAUSE DOUBTLESS the linnet, shut within its cage, Thinks the fair child that loves it, brings it seed, And hangs it, chirping to it, in the sun, Is the preserver of its little world. Doubtless the child, within her nursery walls, Thinks her kind father is the father of all Those happy children, chattering on the lawn Keeps yonder town as well as this bright room, And pours the brook that sparkles past the door. Doubtless we think the Being who made man, The visible world, space powdered thick with stars, The golden fruit whose core is curious life, Created all things love, and law, anc^, death; Fate, the crowned forehead ; Will, the sceptred hand. Perchance perchance : yet need it be that He Who planted us is the Head-gardener? What If beyond Him rose rank on rank, as the bulb Is higher than the crystals of its food, And he who sets it, higher than the flower, And he that owns the garden, more than all ? C The great Cause works through lesser ones ; per mits The plant to bear dead buds on dying stems ; The beaver to weave dams that the stream snaps ; The workman to make watches that lose time, Or organ pipes all jarred and out of tune. Did not I build a playhouse for my boys. And made it ill, and that loose plank fell down And hurt the children ? And did not I learn, After three trials, how to make it well ? Know we the limit of the power He gives To lesser Wills to will imperfectly ? Is earth that limit ? Is the last link man, Between the finite and the infinite? When that new star flared out in heaven, and died, Who knows what Spirit, failing in his plan, Dashed out his work in wrath, to try anew? mother world ! we stammer at thy knee Vainly our childish questions. T is enough For such as we to know, that on His throne, Nearer than we can think, and farther off Than any mind can fathom, sits the One, And sees to it though pain and evil come, And all may not be good that all is well. [ 236 SEMELE WHAT were the garden-bowers of Thebes to me ? What cared I for their dances and their feasts, Whose heart awaited an immortal doom? The Greek youths mocked me, since I shunned in scorn Them and their praises of my brows and hair. The light girls pointed after me, who turned Soul-sick from their unending fooleries. Apollo s noon-glare wrathf ully beat down Upon the head that would not bend to him Him in his fuming anger ! as the highest. In every lily s cup a venomous thing Crooked up its hairy limbs ; or, if I bent To pluck a blue-eyed blossom in the grass, Some squatted horror leered with motionless eyes. I think the very earth did hate my feet, And put forth thistles to them, since I loathed Her bare brown bosom ; and the scowling pines Menaced me with dark arms, and hissed their threats Behind me, hurrying through their gloom, to watch (Blurred in unsteady tears till all their beams Dazzled, and shrank, and grew) that oval ring Of shining points that rift the Milky Way, Revealing, through their gap in the dusted fire, The hollow awf ulness of night beyond. There came a change : a glory fell to me. No more t was Semele, the lonely girl, But Jupiter s Beloved, Semele. With human arms the god came clasping me : New life streamed from his presence ; and a voice That scarce could curb itself to the smooth Greek Now and anon swept forth in those deep nights, Thrilling my flesh with awe ; mysterious words I knew not what ; hints of unearthly things That I had felt on solemn summer noons, When sleeping earth dreamed music, and the heart Went crooning a low song it could not learn, But wandered over it, as one who gropes For a forgotten chord upon a lyre. Yea, Jupiter ! But why this mortal guise, Wooing as if he were a milk-faced boy? Did I lack lovers ? Was my beauty dulled, [ 238 ] The golden hair turned dross, the lithe limbs shrunk, The deathless longings tamed, that I should seethe My soul in love like any shepherd girl ? One night he sware to grant whate er I asked ; And straight I cried, " To know thee as thou art ! To hold thee on my heart as Juno does ! Come in thy thunder kill me with one fierce Divine embrace ! Thine oath ! Now, Earth, at last!" The heavens shot one swift sheet of lurid flame : The world crashed : from a body scathed and torn The soul leapt through, and found his breast, and died. " Died? " So the Theban maidens think, and laugh, Saying, " She had her wish, that Semele ! " But sitting here upon Olympus height I look down, through that oval ring of stars, And see the far-off Earth, a twinkling speck Dust-mote whirled up from the Sun s chariot-wheel And pity their small hearts that hold a man As if he were a god ; or know the god Or dare to know him only as a man ! human love, art thou forever blind ? A POET S APOLOGY TRUTH cut on high in tablets of hewn stone, Or on great columns gorgeously adorned, Perchance were left alone, Passed by and scorned ; i/ But Truth enchased upon a jewel rare, A man would keep, and next his bosom wear. So, many an hour, I sit and carve my gems Ten spoiled, for one in purer beauty set : Not for kings diadems Some amulet That may be worn o er hearts that toil and plod, Though but one pearl that bears the name of God. [ 240 ONE TOUCH OF NATURE CRUEL and wild the battle : Great horses plunged and reared, And through dust-cloud and smoke-cloud, Blood-red with sunset s angry flush, You heard the gun-shots rattle, And, mid hoof-tramp and rush, The shrieks of women speared. For it was Kuss and Turcoman, No quarter asked or given ; A whirl of frenzied hate and death Across the desert driven. Look ! the half -naked horde gives way, Fleeing frantic without breath, Or hope, or will; and on behind The troopers storm, in blood-thirst blind, While, like a dreadful fountain-play, The swords flash up, and fall, and slay Wives, grandsires, baby brows and gray, [ 241 ] Groan after groan, yell upon yell Are men but fiends, and is earth hell ? Nay, for out of the flight and fear Spurs a Russian cuirassier ; In his arms a child he bears. Her little foot bleeds ; stern she stares Back at the ruin of her race. The small hurt creature sheds no tear. Nor utters cry; but clinging still To this one arm that does not kill, She stares back with her baby face. Apart, fenced round with ruined gear, The hurrying horseman finds a space, Where, with face crouched upon her knee, A woman cowers. You see him stoop And reach the child down tenderly, Then dash away to join his troop. How came one pulse of pity there One heart that would not slay, but save In all that Christ-forgotten sight ? Was there, far north by Neva s wave, [ 242 ] Some Kussian girl in sleep-robes white, Making her peaceful evening prayer. That Heaven s great mercy neath its care Would keep and cover him to-night? THE CRICKETS IN THE FIELDS ONE, or a thousand voices? filling noon With such an undersong and drowsy chant As sings in ears that waken from a swoon. And know not yet which world such murmurs haunt : Single, then double beats, reiterant ; Far off and near ; one ceaseless, changeless tune. If bird or breeze awake the dreamy will, We lose the song, as it had never been ; Then suddenly we find J t is singing still And had not ceased. So, friend of mine, within My thoughts one underthought, beneath the din Of life, doth every quiet moment fill. Thy voice is far, thy face is hid from me, But day and night are full of dreams of thee. 244 HEBMIONE THE LOST MAGIC WHITE in her snowy stone, and cold. With azure veins and shining arms, Pygmalion doth his bride behold, Rapt on her pure and sculptured charms. Ah ! in those half -divine old days Love still worked miracles for men ; The gods taught lovers wondrous ways To breathe a soul in marble then. He gazed, he yearned, he vowed, he wept. Some secret witchery touched her breast ; And, laughing April tears, she stepped Down to his arms and lay at rest. Dear artist of the storied land ! I too have loved a heart of stone. C 245 ] What was thy charm of voice or hand, Thy secret spell, Pygmalion ? II INFLUENCES If quiet autumn mornings would not come, With golden light, and haze, and harvest wain, And spices of the dead leaves at my feet ; If sunsets would not burn through cloud, and stain With fading rosy flush the dusky dome ; If the young mother would not croon that sweet Old sleep-song, like the robin s in the rain ; If the great cloud-ships would not float and drift Across such blue all the calm afternoon ; If night were not so hushed ; or if the moon Might pause forever by that pearly rift, Nor fill the garden with its flood again ; If the world were not what it still must be, Then might I live forgetting love and thee. C 246 ] III THE DEAD LETTER The letter came at last. I carried it To the deep woods unopened. All the trees Were hushed, as if they waited what was writ, And feared for me. Silent they let me sit Among them ; leaning breathless while I read, And bending down above me where they stood. A long way off I heard the delicate tread Of the light-footed loiterer, the breeze, Come walking toward me in the leafy wood. I burned the page that brought me love and woe. At first it writhed to feel the spires of flame, Then lay quite still; and o er each word there came Its white ghost of the ash, and burning slow Each said : " You cannot kill the spirit ; know That we shall haunt you, even till heart and brain Lie as we lie in ashes all in vain." C IV THE SONG IN THE NIGHT In the deep night a little bird Wakens, or dreams he is awake : Cheerily clear one phrase is heard, And you almost feel the morning break. In the deep dark of loss and wrong, One face like a lovely dawn will thrill, And all night long at my heart a song Suddenly stirs and then is still. 248 REPROOF IN LOVE BECAUSE we are shut out from light, Each of the other s look and smile ; Because the arms and lips delight Are past and dead, a weary while ; Because the dawn, that joy has brought, Brings now but certainty of pain, Nothing for you and me has bought The right to live our lives in vain. Take not away the only lure That leads me on my lonely way, To know you noble, sweet, and pure, Great in least service, day by day. TEMPTED YES, I know what you say : Since it cannot be soul to soul, Be it flesh to flesh, as it may ; But is Earth the whole? Shall a man betray the Past For all Earth gives ? " But the Past is dead ? " At last, It is all that lives. Which were the nobler goal To snatch at the moment s bliss, Or to swear I will keep my soul Clean for her kiss ? ALONE STILL earth turns and pulses stir, And each day hath its deed ; But if I be dead to her, What is the life I lead? Cares the cuckoo for the wood, When the red leaves are down? Stays the robin near the brood, When they are fledged and flown? Yea, we live ; the common air To both its bounty brings. Mockery ! Can the absent share The half -forgotten things? Barren comfort fancy doles To him that truly sees ; Sullen Earth can sever souls Far as the Pleiades. C Take thy toys, stepmother Earth, Take force of limb and brain ; All thy gifts are little worth, Till her I find again. Grass may spring and buds may stir,- Why should mine eyes take heed ? For if I be dead to her, Then am I dead indeed. [ 252 TO A MAID DEMURE OFTEN when the night is come, With its quiet group at home, While they broider, knit, or sew, Kead, or chat in voices low, Suddenly you lift your eyes With an earnest look, and wise ; But I cannot read their lore, Tell me less, or tell me more. Like a picture in a book, Pure and peaceful is your look, Quietly you walk your ways; Steadfast duty fills the days. Neither tears nor fierce delights, Feverish days nor tossing nights, Any troublous dreams confess, Tell me more, or tell me less. Swift the weeks are on the wing; Years are brief, and love a thing n 253 3 Blooming, fading, like a flower; Wake and seize the little hour. Give me welcome, or farewell; Quick ! I wait ! And who can tell What to-morrow may befall, Love me more, or not at all. 254 ] THE COUP DE GRACE IF I were very sure That all was over betwixt you and me That, while this endless absence I endure With but one mood, one dream, one misery Of waiting, you were happier to be free, Then I might find again In cloud and stream and all the winds that blow, Yea, even in the faces of my fellow-men, The old companionship ; and I might know Once more the pulse of action, ere I go. But now I cannot rest, While this one pleading, querulous tone without Breaks in and mars the music in my breast. I open the closed door lo ! all about, What seem your lingering footprints; then I doubt. C 255 ] Waken me from this sleep ! Strike fearless, let the naked truth-edge gleam ! For while the beautiful old past I keep, I am a phantom, and all mortals seem But phantoms, and my life fades as a dream. c; THE WORLD RUNS ROUND r FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE OVERLAND MAGAZINE, SAN FRANCISCO, 1884 THE world runs round, And the world runs well ; And at heaven s bound, Weaving what the hours shall tell Of the future way. Sit the great Noras, sisters gray. Now a thread of doom and hate, Now a skein of life and love, Whether hearing shriek or psalm, Hearts that curse or pray, Most composed and very calm Is their weaving, soon and late. One man s noisy years go by, Rich to the crowd s shallow eye, Full of big and empty sound, Brandished gesture, voice profound, Blustering benevolence, C 257 3 Thin in deeds and poor in pence. Out of it all, so loud and long. What one thread that s clean and strong To weave the coming good, Can the great Norns find ? But where some poor child stood, And shrank, and wept its f aultiness, Out of that little life so blind The great web takes a golden strand That shall shine and that shall stand The whole wide world to bless. One man walks in silk : Honey and milk Flow through his days. Corn loads his wains, He hath all men s praise, He sees his heart s desire. In all his veins What can the sorrowful Norns Find of heroic fire ? Another finds his ways All blocked and barred. Lonely, he grapples hard, C Sets teeth and bleeds. Then the glad Norns Know he succeeds, With victory wrought Greater than he sought. When will the world believe Force is for him that is met and fought : Storm hath no song till the pine resists ; Lightning no flame when it runs as it lists ; So do the wise Norns weave. The world runs round, And the world runs well : It needs no prophet, when evil is found, Good to foretell. Many the voices Ruffling the air : This one rejoices, That in despair Past the sky-bars Climbs to the stars. One voice is heard By the ocean s shore, C Speaking a word Quiet and sane, Amid the human rush and roar Like a robin s song in the rain. The red gold of the sun Seems to stream in power Already from behind the shower When that song s begun. It doth not insist, or claim ; You may hear, or go : It clamors not for gain or fame, Tranquilly and slow It speaketh unafraid, Calls the spade, spade, With the large sense mature Of him that hath both sat and roved, And with a solemn undercurrent pure, As his that now hath lived and loved. Brightened with glimpse and gleam Of mother- wit There is more salt in it, More germ and sperm Of the great things to be, Than louder notes men speak and sing. [ 260 ] It is a voice of Spring, Clear and firm. Tones prophetic in it flow, Steady and strong, Yet soft and low An excellent thing in song. " I can wait," saith merry Spring, If the rain runneth, and the wind hummeth, And the mount at morn be hoar with snow, In the frost the violet dozes, Wind and rain bear breath of roses, And the great summer cometh Wherein all things shall gayly bloom and grow. Long may the voice be found, Potent its spell, While the world runs round, And the world runs well. C 261 SUNDAY NOT a dread cavern, hoar with damp and mould, Where I must creep, and in the dark and cold, Offer some awful incense at a shrine That hath no more divine Than that *t is far from life, and stern, and old ; But a bright hilltop in the breezy air, Full of the morning freshness high and clear, Where I may climb and drink the pure, new day, And see where winds away The path that God would send me, shining fair. ON SECOND THOUGHT THE end s so near, It is all one What track I steer, What work ? s begun. It is all one If nothing s done, The end s so near ! The end s so near, It is all one What track thou steer, What work s begun Some deed, some plan, As thou J rt a man ! The end s so near ! C HIS LOST DAY GROWING old, and looking back Wistfully along his track, I have heard him try to tell, With a smile a little grim, Why a world he loved so well Had no larger fruit of him : T was one summer, when the time Loitered like drowsy rhyme, Sauntering on his idle way Somehow he had lost a day. Whether t was the daisies meek, Keeping Sabbath all the week, Birds without one work-day even, Or the little pagan bees, Busy all the sunny seven, Whether sleep at afternoon, Or much rising with the moon, Couching with the morning star, Or enchantments like to these, Had confused his calendar, [ 264 3 " It is Saturday/ men said. "Nay, t is Friday/ obstinate Clung the notion in his head. Had the cloudy sisters three In their weaving of his fate, Dozed, and dropped a stitch astray? " T was the losing of that day Cost my fortune," he would say. On that day I should have writ Screeds of wisdom and of wit ; Should have sung the missing song, Wonderful, and sweet, and strong ; Might have solved men s doubt and dream With some waiting truth supreme. If another thing there be That a groping hand may miss In a twilight world like this, Those lost hours its grace and glee Surely would have brought to me." C FERTILITY CLEAR water on smooth rock Could give no foothold for a single flower, Or slenderest shaft of grain : The stone must crumble under storm and rain The forests crash beneath the whirlwind s power - And broken boughs from many a tempest-shock, And fallen leaves of many a wintry hour, Must mingle in the mould, Before the harvest whitens on the plain, Bearing an hundred-fold. Patience, weary heart ! Let all thy sparkling hours depart, And all thy hopes be withered with the frost, And every effort tempest-tost So, when all life s green leaves Are fallen, and mouldered underneath the sod, Thou shalt go not too lightly to thy God, But heavy with full sheaves. [ 266 THE MYSTERY I NEVER know why t is I love thee so : I do not think t is that thine eyes for me Grow bright as sudden sunshine on the sea ; Nor for thy rose-leaf lips, or breast of snow, Or voice like quiet waters where they flow. So why I love thee well I cannot tell : Only it is that when thou speak st to me T is thy voice speaks, and when thy face I see It is thy face I see ; and it befell Thou wert, and I was, and I love thee well. [ 267 J THE LOST BIRD WHAT cared she for the free hearts ? She would com fort The prisoned one : What recked I of the wanton other singers? She sang for me alone Was all my own, my own ! But when they loaded me with heavier fetters, And chained I lay, How could she know I longed to reach her window ? Athirst the livelong day, At eve she fled away. Still stands her cage wide open at the casement, In sun and rain, Though years have gone, and rust has thickly gath ered, My watching all in vain ; She will not come again. C 268 H Against its wires I strum with idle fingers From morn to noon ; I swing the door with loitering touch, and listen To hear that old-time tune. Sweet as the soul of June. My bird, my silver voice that cheered my prison, Hushed, lost to me : And still I wait for death, in chains, forsaken, (Soon may the summons be !) But she is free. "Is free?" Nay, in the palace porches caught and hanging, Who says t is gay The song the false prince hears ? who says her sing ing, From day to summer day, Grieves not her heart away ? But when my dream comes true in that last sleeping, And death makes free, Against the blue shall snowy wings come sweeping, My bird flown back to me, Mine for eternity ! WARNING BE true to me ! For there will dawn a day When thou wilt find the faith that now I see, Bow at the shrines where I must bend the knee, Knowing the great from small. Then lest thou say, " Ah me, that I had never flung away His love who would have stood so close to me Where now I walk alone " lest there should be Such vain regret, Love, oh be true ! But nay, Not true to me : true to thine own high quest Of truth ; the aspiration in thy breast, Noble and blind, that pushes by my hand, And will not lean, yet cannot surely stand ; True to thine own pure heart, as mine to thee Beats true. So shalt thou best be true to me. [ 270 SUMMER AFTERNOON FAR in hollow mountain canons Brood with purple-folded pinions, Flocks of drowsy distance-colors on their nests ; And the bare round slopes for forests Have cloud-shadows, floating forests, On their breasts. Winds are wakening and dying, Questions low with low replying, Through the oak a hushed and trembling whis per goes : Faint and rich the air with odors, Hyacinth and spicy odors Of the rose. Even the flowerless acacia Is one flower such slender stature, With its latticed leaves a-tremble in the sun : They have shower-drops for blossoms, Quivering globes of diamond blossoms, Every one. C In the blue of heaven holy Clouds go floating, floating slowly, Pure in snowy robe and sunny silver crown ; And they seem like gentle angels Leisure-full and loitering angels, Looking down. Half the birds are wild with singing, And the rest with rhythmic winging Sing in melody of motion to the sight; Every little sparrow twitters, Cheerily chirps, and cheeps, and twitters His delight. Sad at heart amid the splendor, Dull to all the radiance tender, What can I for such a world give back again ? Could I only hint the beauty Some least shadow of the beauty, Unto men ! 272 SUMMER NIGHT FROM the warm garden in the summer night All faintest odors came : the tuberose white Glimmered in its dark bed, and many a bloom Invisibly breathed spices on the gloom. It stirred a trouble in the man s dull heart, A vexing, mute unrest : " Now what thou art, Tell me ! " he said in anger. Something sighed, " I am the poor ghost of a ghost that died In years gone by." And he recalled of old A passion dead long dead, even then that came And haunted many a night like this, the same In their dim hush above the fragrant mould And glimmering flowers, and troubled all his breast. " Best ! " then he cried ; " perturbed spirit, rest ! " c; 273 A CALIFORNIAFS DREAMS A THUNDER-STORM of the olden days ! The red sun sinks in a sleepy haze ; The sultry twilight, close and still, Muffles the cricket s drowsy trill. Then a round-topped cloud rolls up the west, Black to its smouldering, ashy crest, And the chariot of the storm you hear, With its jarring axle rumbling near ; Till the blue is hid, and here and there The sudden, blinding lightnings glare. Scattering now the big drops fall, Till the rushing rain in a silver wall Blurs the line of the bending elms, Then blots them out and the landscape whelms. A flash a clap, and a rumbling peal : The broken clouds the blue reveal ; The last bright drops fall far away, And the wind, that had slept for heat all day, With a long-drawn sigh awakes again And drinks the cool of the blessed rain. C 2 74 3 November ! night, and a sleety storm : Close are the ruddy curtains, warm And rich in the glow of the roaring grate. It may howl outside like a baffled fate, And rage on the roof, and lash the pane With its fierce and impotent wrath in vain. Sitting within at our royal ease We sing to the chime of the ivory keys, And feast our hearts from script and score With the wealth of the mellow hearts of yore. A winter s night on a world of snow ! Not a sound above, not a stir below : The moon hangs white in the icy air, And the shadows are motionless everywhere. Is this the planet that we know This silent floor of the ghostly snow ? Or is this the moon, so still and dead, And yonder orb far overhead, With its silver map of plain and sea, Is that the earth where we used to be ? Shall we float away in the frosty blue To that living, summer world we knew, With its full, hot heart-beats as of old, Or be frozen phantoms of the cold ? C 275 ] A river of ice, all blue and glare, Under a star-shine dim and rare. The sheeny sheet in the sparkling light Is ribbed with slender wisps of white Crinkles of snow, that the flying steel Lightly crunches with ringing heel. Swinging swift as the swallows skim, You round the shadowy river s rim : Falling somewhere out of the sky Hollow and weird is the owlet s cry ; The gloaming woods seem phantom hosts, And the bushes cower in the snow like ghosts. Till the tinkling feet that with you glide Skate closer and closer to your side, And something steals from a furry muff, And you clasp it and cannot wonder enough That a little palm so soft and fair Could keep so warm in the frosty air. T is thus we dream in our tranquil clime, Rooted still in the olden time ; Longing for all those glooms and gleams Of passionate Nature s mad extremes. Or was it only our hearts, that swelled With the youth and life and love they held ? FULFILLMENT ALL the skies had gloomed in gray, Many a week, day after day. Nothing came the blank to fill, Nothing stirred the stagnant will. Winds were raw ; buds would not swell : Some malign and sullen spell Soured the currents of the year, And filled the heart with lurking fear. In his room he moped and glowered, Where the leaden daylight lowered ; Drummed the casement, turned his book, Hating nature s hostile look. Suddenly there came a day When he flung his gloom away. Something hinted help was near : Winds were fresh and sky was clear ; Light he stepped, and firmly planned, Some good news was close at hand C Truly : for when day was done, He was lying all alone, Fretted pulse had ceased to beat, Very still were hands and feet, And the robins through the long Twilight sang his slumber song. THE SINGER SILLY bird ! When his mate is near, Not a note of singing shall you hear. Take his little love away. Half the livelong day Will his tune be heard Silly bird! Sunny days Silent basks he in the light, Little sybarite ! But when all the room Darkens in the gloom, And the rain Pours and pours along the pane, He is bent (Ah, the small inconsequent !) On defying all the weather ; Rain and cloud and storm together Naught to him, Singing like the seraphim. C So we know a poet s ways : Sunny days, Silent he In his fine serenity ; But if winds are loud, He will pipe beneath the cloud ; And if one is far away, Sings his heart out, as to say, " It may be She will hear and come to me." ^80 THE THINGS THAT WILL NOT DIE WHAT am I glad will stay when I have passed From this dear valley of the world, and stand On yon snow-glimmering peaks, and lingering cast From that dim land A backward look, and haply stretch my hand* Regretful, now the wish comes true at last? Sweet strains of music I am glad will be Still wandering down the wind, for men will hear And think themselves from all their care set free, And heaven near When summer stars burn very still and clear, And waves of sound are swelling like the sea. And it is good to know that overhead Blue skies will brighten, and the sun will shine, And flowers be sweet in many a garden bed, And all divine, (For are they not, Father, thoughts of thine ?) Earth s warmth and fragrance shall on men be shed, C 281 3 And I am glad that Night will always come, Hushing all sounds, even the soft-voiced birds, Putting away all light from her deep dome, Until are heard In the wide starlight s stillness, unknown words, That make the heart ache till it find its home. And I am glad that neither golden sky, Nor violet lights that linger on the hill, Nor ocean s wistful blue shall satisfy, But they shall fill With wild unrest and endless longing still The soul whose hope beyond them all must lie. And I rejoice that love shall never seem So perfect as it ever was to be, But endlessly that inner haunting dream Each heart shall see Hinted in every dawn s fresh purity, Hopelessly shadowed in each sunset s gleam. And though warm mouths will kiss and hands will cling, And thought by silent thought be understood, \ C I do rejoice that the next hour will bring That far-off mood, That drives one like a lonely child to God, Who only sees and measures everything. And it is well that when these feet have pressed The outward path from earth, t will not seem sad To them that stay ; but they who love me best Will be most glad That such a long unquiet now has had, At last, a gift of perfect peace and rest. C 283 THE SECRET A TIDE of sun and song in beauty broke Against a bitter heart, where no voice woke Till thus it spoke : What was it, in the old time that I know, That made the world with inner beauty glow, Now a vain show ? Still dance the shadows on the grass at play, Still move the clouds like great, calm thoughts away, Nor haste, nor stay. But I have lost that breath within the gale, That light to which the daylight was a veil, The star-shine pale. Still all the summer with its songs is filled, But that delicious undertone they held Why is it stilled? C 284 3 Then I took heart that I would find again The voices that had long in silence lain, Nor live in vain. I stood at noonday in the hollow wind, Listened at midnight, straining heart and mind If I might find ! But all in vain I sought, at eve and morn, On sunny seas, in dripping woods forlorn, Till tired and worn, One day I left my solitary tent And down into the world s bright garden went, On labor bent. The dew stars and the buds about my feet Began their old bright message to repeat, In odors sweet ; And as I worked at weed and root in glee, Now humming and now whistling cheerily, It came to me, C 285 H The secret of the glory that was fled Shone like a sweep of sun all overhead, And something said, The blessing came because it was not sought ; There was no care if thou wert blest or not : The beauty and the wonder all thy thought, - Thyself forgot." LOST LOVE BURY it, and sift Dust upon its light, Death must not be left, To offend the sight. Cover the old love Weep not on the mound Grass shall grow above, Lilies spring around. Can we fight the law, Can our natures change Half-way through withdraw Other lives exchange ? You and I must do As the world has done, There is nothing new Underneath the sun. C Fill the grave up full Put the dead love by Not that men are dull, Not that women lie, But t is well and right Safest, you will find That the Out of Sight Should be Out of Mind. C 288 APPRECIATED AH, could I but be understood ! " (I prayed the powers above,) " Could but some spirit, bright and good, Know me, and, knowing, love ! " One summer s day there came to pass A maid ; and it befell She spied and knew me : yea, alas ! She knew me all too well. , Gray were the eyes of Rosamund, And I could see them see Through and through me, and beyond, And care no more for me. C 289 MOODS DAWN has blossomed : the sun is nigh : Pearl and rose in the wimpled sky, Rose and pearl on a brightening blue : (She is true, and she is true !) The noonday lies all warm and still And calm, and over sleeping hill And wheatfields falls a dreamy hue: (If she be true if she be true !) The patient evening comes, most sad and fair : Veiled are the stars : the dim and quiet air Breathes bitter scents of hidden myrrh and rue (If she were true if she were only true !) SPACE BLACK, frost-cold distance, sparsely honeycombed With hollow shells of glimmering golden light ; Mere amber bubbles floating through the night, Lit by one centred sparkle, azure-domed, With circling motes where life hath lodged and roamed. UNTIMELY THOUGHT I LOOKED across the lawn one summer s day, Deep shadowed, dreaming in the drowsy light, And thought, what if this afternoon, so bright And still, should end it ? as it may. Blue dome, and flocks of fleece that slowly pass Before the pale old moon, the while she keeps Her sleepy watch, and ancient pear that sweeps Its low, fruit-laden skirts along the grass. What if I had to say to all of these, " So this is the last time " suddenly there My love came loitering under the great trees ; And now the thought I could no longer bear : Startled I flung it from me, as one flings All sharply from the hand a bee that stings. C THE LIFE NATURAL OVERHEAD the leaf -song, on the upland slope ; Over that the azure, clean from base to cope ; Belle the mare beside me, drowsy from her lope. Goldy-green the wheat-field, like a fluted wall In the pleasant wind, with waves that rise and fall, " Moving aU together/ if it " move at all." Shakespeare in my pocket, lest I feel alone, Lest the brooding landscape take a sombre tone ; Good to have a poet to fall back upon ! But the vivid beauty makes the book absurd : What beside the real world is the written word ? Keep the page till winter, when no thrush is heard ! Why read Hamlet here ? what s Hecuba to me ? Let me read the grain-field ; let me read the tree ; Let me read mine own heart, deep as I can see. 293 THE ORACLE DOWN in its crystal hollow Gleams the ebon well of ink : In the deepest drop lies lurking The thought all men shall think. Fair on the waiting tablet Lies the empty paper s space : Out of its snow shall flush a word Like an angel s earnest face. * Who in those depths shall cast his line For the gnome that hugs that thought ? Who from the snowy field shall charm That flower of truth untaught ? Not in the lore of the ancients, Not in the yesterday : On the lips of the living moments The gods their message lay. n Somewhere near it is waiting, Like a night-wind wandering free, Seeking a mouth to speak through, Whose shall the message be ? It may steal forth like a flute note, It may be suddenly hurled In blare upon blare of a trumpet blast, To startle and stir the world. Hark ! but just on the other side Some thinnest wall of dreams, Murmurs a whispered music, And softest rose-light gleams. Listen, and watch, and tell the world What it almost dies to know : Or wait and the wise old world will say, " I knew it long ago." n 295 FORCE THE stars know a secret They do not tell ; And morn brings a message Hidden well. There s a blush on the apple, A tint on the wing, And the bright wind whistles, And the pulses sting. Perish dark memories ! There s light ahead ; This world s for the living ; Not for the dead. In the shining city, On the loud pave, The life-tide is running Like a leaping wave. C How the stream quickens, As noon draws near, No room for loiterers, No time for fear. Out on the farm lands Earth smiles as well ; Gold-crusted grain-fields, With sweet, warm smell ; Whir of the reaper, Like a giant bee ; Like a Titan cricket, Thrilling with glee. On mart and meadow, Pavement or plain ; On azure mountain, Or azure main Heaven bends in blessing ; Lost is but won ; Goes the good rain-cloud, Comes the good sun ! C Only babes whimper, And sick men wail, And faint hearts and feeble hearts And weaklings fail. Down the great currents Let the boat swing ; There was never winter But brought the spring. NIGHT AND PEACE NIGHT in the woods, night : Peace, peace on the plain. The last red sunset beam Belts the tall beech with gold ; The quiet kine are in the fold, And stilly flows the stream. Soon shall we see the stars again, For one more day down to its rest has lain, And all its cares have taken flight, And all its doubt and pain. Night in the woods, night : Peace, peace on the plain. C THE SINGER S CONFESSION ONCE he cried to all the hills and waters And the tossing grain and tufted grasses : " Take my message tell it to my brothers ! Stricken mute I cannot speak my message. When the evening wind comes back from ocean, Singing surf-songs, to Earth s fragrant bosom, And the beautiful young human creatures Gather at the mother feet of Nature, Gazing with their pure and wistful faces, Tell the old heroic human story. When they weary of the wheels of science, Grinding, jangling their harsh dissonances, Stones and bones and alkalis and atoms, Sing to them of human hope and passion ; And the soul divine, whose incarnation, Born of love alas ! my message stumbles, Faints on faltering lips : Oh, speak it for me ! " Then a hush fell ; and around about him Suddenly he felt the mighty shadow [ 300 ] Of the hills, like grave and silent pity ; And, as one who, sees without regarding, The wide wind went over him and left him, And the brook, repeating low, " His message ! " Babbled, as it fled, a quiet laughter. What was he, that he had touched their message Theirs, who had been chanting it forever : With whose organ-tones the human spirit Had eternally been overflowing ! Then, with shame that stung in cheek and forehead, Slow he crept away. And now he listens, Mute and still, to hear them tell their message All the holy hills and sacred waters ; When the sea-wind swings its evening censer, Till the misty incense hides the altar And the long-robed shadows, lowly kneeling. 301 LIVING " TO-DAY/ I thought, " I will not plan nor strive ; Idle as yon blue sky, or clouds that go Like loitering ships, with sails as white as snow, I simply will be glad to be alive." For, year by year, in steady summer glow The flowers had bloomed, and life had stored its hive, But tasted not the honey. Quite to thrive, The flavor of my thrift I now would know. But the good breeze blew in a friend a boon At any hour. There was a book to show, A gift to take, a slender one to give. The morning passed to mellow afternoon, And that to twilight ; it was sleep-time soon, And lo ! again I had forgot to live. EVEN THERE A TROOP of babes in Summer Land, At heaven s gate the children s gate : One lifts the latch with rosy hand, Then turns and, dimpling, asks her mate, " What was the last thing that you saw ? " "Hay and watched the dawn begin, And suddenly, through the thatch of straw, A great, clear morning star laughed in." " And you ? " "A floating thistle-down, Against June sky and cloud-wings white." " And you ? " "A falling blow, a frown It frights me yet ; oh, clasp me tight ! " " And you ? " "A face through tears that smiled " The trembling lips could speak no more ; The blue eyes swam ; the lonely child Was homesick even at heaven s door. 303 SUMMER RAIN I SAID : " Blue heaven/ (Oh, it was beautiful !) " Send me a tent to shut me to myself : I am all lonely for my soul, that wanders Weary, bewildered, beckoned by thy depths ; Thy white, round clouds, great bubbles of creamy snow; Thy luscious sunshine, like some ripe, gold fruit ; Thy songs of birds, and wind warm with the flowers." And there swept down (Oh, it was beautiful !) A tent of silver rain, that fell like a veil Shutting me in to think all quiet thoughts, And feel the vibrant thrill of shadowy wings That fluttered, checking their swift flight, and hear, Though with no syllable of earthly music, A voice of melody unutterable. C 304 A RESTING-PLACE A SEA of shade ; with hollow heights above, Where floats the redwood s airy roof away, Whose feathery lace the drowsy breezes move, And softly through the azure windows play: No nearer stir than yon white cloud astray, No closer sound than sob of distant dove. I only live as the deep forest s swoon Dreams me amid its dream ; for all things fade, Nor pulse of mine disturbs the unconscious noon. Even love and hope are still albeit they made My heart beat yesterday in slumber laid, Like yon dim ghost that last night was the moon. Only the bending grass, grown gray and sear, Nods now and then, where at my feet it swings, Pleased that another like itself is here, Unseen among the mighty forest things Another fruitless life, that fading clings To earth and autumn days in doubt and fear. C 305 ] Dream on, wood ! wind, stay in thy west, Nor wake the shadowy spirit of the fern, Asleep along the fallen pine-tree s breast ! That, till the sun go down, and night-stars burn, And the chill dawn-breath from the sea return, Tired earth may taste heaven s honey-dew of rest. I 306 A MEMORY UPON the barren, lonely hill We sat to watch the sinking sun ; Below, the land grew dim and still, Whose evening shadow had begun. Her finger parted the shut book, At Aylmer s Field the leaf was turned, Bound her meek head and sainted look The sunset like a halo burned. She knew not that I watched her face Her spirit through her eyes was gone To some far-off and Sabbath place, And left me gazing there alone. Could she have known, that quiet hour, What ghosts her presence raised in me, What graves were opened by the power Of that unconscious witchery, She would not thus have sat and seen The bird that balanced far below On the blue air, and watched the sheen Along his broad wings come and go. C 307 ] For was she not another s bride ? And I what right had I to feast Upon those eyes in revery wide, With hungering gaze like famished beast ? Was it before my fate I knelt The human fate, the mighty law To hunger for the heart I felt, And love the lovely face I saw? Or was it only that the brow, Or some sweet trick of hand or tone, Brought from the Past to haunt me now Her ghost whose love was mine alone ? I know not ; but we went to rest That eve, from songs that haunt me still, And all night long, in visions blest, I walked with angels on the hill. [ 308 ] THE OPEN WINDOW MY tower was grimly builded, With many a bolt and bar, " And here," I thought, " I will keep my life Prom the bitter world afar." Dark and chill was the stony floor, Where never a sunbeam lay, And the mould crept up on the dreary wall, With its ghost touch, day by day. One morn, in my sullen musings, A flutter and cry I heard ; And close at the rusty casement There clung a frightened bird. Then back I flung the shutter That was never before undone, And I kept till its wings were rested The little weary one. [ 309 ] But in through the open window, Which I had forgot to close, There had burst a gush of sunshine And a summer scent of rose. For all the while I had burrowed There in my dingy tower, Lo ! the birds had sung and the leaves had danced From hour to sunny hour. And such balm and warmth and beauty Came drifting in since then, That window still stands open And shall never be shut again. [ 310 ON A PICTURE OF MT. SHASTA BY KEITH Two craggy slopes, sheer down on either hand, Fall to a cleft, dark and confused with pines. Out of their sombre shade one gleam of light Escaping toward us like a hurrying child, Half laughing, half afraid, a white brook runs. The fancy tracks it back through the thick gloom Of crowded trees, immense, mysterious As monoliths of some colossal temple, Dusky with incense, chill with endless time : Through their dim arches chants the distant wind, Hollow and vast, and ancient oracles Whisper, and wait to be interpreted. Far up the gorge denser and darker grows The forest ; columns lie with writhen roots in air, And across open glades the sunbeams slant To touch the vanishing wing-tips of shy birds ; Till from a mist-rolled valley soar the slopes, Blue-hazy, dense with pines to the verge of snow, Up into cloud. Suddenly parts the cloud, I 311 3 And lo ! in heaven as pure as very snow, Uplifted like a solitary world A star, grown all at once distinct and clear The white earth-spirit, Shasta ! Calm, alone, Silent it stands, cold in the crystal air, White-bosomed sister of the stainless dawn, With whom the cloud holds converse, and the storm Bests there, and stills its tempest into snow. Once you remember ? we beheld that vision, But busy days recalled us, and the whole Fades now among my memories like a dream. The distant thing is all incredible, And the dim past as if it had not been. Our world flees from us ; only the one point, The unsubstantial moment, is our own. We are but as the dead, save that swift mote Of conscious life. Then the great artist comes, Commands the chariot wheels of Time to stay, Summons the distant, as by some austere Grand gesture of a mighty sorcerer s wand, And our whole world again becomes our own. So we escape the petty tyranny Of the incessant hour ; pure thought evades C Its customary bondage, and the mind Is lifted up, watching the moon-like globe. . How should a man be eager or perturbed Within this calm ? How should he greatly care For reparation, or redress of wrong, To scotch the liar, or spurn the fawning knave, Or heed the babble of the ignoble crew ? Seest thou yon blur far up the icy slope, Like a man s footprint ? Half thy little town Might hide there, or be buried in what seems From yonder cliff a curl of feathery snow. Still the far peak would keep its frozen calm, Still at the evening on its pinnacle Would the one tender touch of sunset dwell, And o er it nightlong wheel the silent stars. So the great globe rounds on, mountains, and vales, Forests, waste stretches of gaunt rock and sand, Shore, and the swaying ocean, league on league ; And blossoms open, and are sealed in frost ; And babes are born, and men are laid to rest. What is this breathing atom, that his brain Should build or purpose aught or aught desire, But stand a moment in amaze and awe, Rapt on the wonderf ulness of the world ? 313 THE TREE OF MY LIFE WHEN I was yet but a child, the gardener gave me a tree, A little slim elm, to be set wherever seemed good to me. What a wonderful thing it seemed ! with its lace-edge leaves uncurled, And its span-long stem, that should grow to the grand est tree in the world. So I searched all the garden round, and out over field and hill, But not a spot could I find that suited my wayward will. I would have it bowered in the grove, in a close and quiet vale ; I would rear it aloft on the height, to wrestle with the gale. Then I said, " I will cover its roots with a little earth by the door, And there it shall live and wait, while I search for a place once more. C 314 ]] But still I could never find it, the place for my won drous tree, And it waited and grew by the door, while years passed over me. Till suddenly, one fine day, I saw it was grown too tall, And its roots gone down too deep, to be ever moved at all. So here it is growing still, by the lowly cottage door ; Never so grand and tall as I dreamed it would be of yore, But it shelters a tired old man in its sunshine-dappled shade, The children s pattering feet round its knotty knees have played, Dear singing birds in a storm sometimes take refuge there, And the stars through its silent boughs shine glori ously fair. 315 ] A CHILD AND A STAR THE star, so pure in saintly white, Deep in the solemn soul of night, With dreams of deathless beauty wed, And golden ways that seraphs tread : The child so mere a thing of earth, So meek a flower of mortal birth : A far-off lucent world, so bright, Stooping to touch with tender light That little gown at evening prayer : It seems a condescension rare, Heaven round a common child to glow ! Ah ! wiser eyes of angels know The star, a toy but roughly wrought ; The child, God s own most loving thought. Yon evening planet, wan with moons, Colossal, mid its dim, swift noons, What is it but a bulk of stone, Like this gray globe we dwell upon ? Down hollow spaces, sightless, chill, Its vibrant beams in darkness thrill, C 316 1 Till through some window drift the rays Where a pure heart looks up and prays ; And in that silent worshiper, The waves of feeling stir and stir, And spread in wider rings above, To tremble at God s heart of love. Though it be kingliest one of all His worlds, t is but a stony ball : What are they all, from sun to sun, But dust and stubble, when ah 1 s done? Some heavenly grace it only caught, When, like a hint from home, it brought To a child s heart one tender thought : Itself in that great mystery lost, As some bright pebble, idly tost Into the darkling sea at night, Whose widening ripples, running light, Go out into the infinite. 317 3 AT DAWN I LAY awake and listened, ere the light Began to whiten at the window pane. The world was all asleep : earth was a fane Emptied of worshipers ; its dome of night, Its silent aisles, were awful in their gloom. Suddenly from the tower the bell struck four, Solemn and slow, how slow and solemn ! o er Those death-like slumberers, each within his room. The last reverberation pulsed so long It seemed no tone of earthly mould at all. But the bell woke a thrush ; and with a call He roused his mate, then poured a tide of song : Morning is coming, fresh, and clear, and blue," Said that bright song ; and then I thought of you. 318 AN ADAGE FROM THE ORIENT AT the punch-bowl s brink, Let the thirsty think What they say in Japan : " First the man takes a drink, Then the drink takes a drink, Then the drink takes the man ! " 319 ] A PARADOX HASTE, haste, laggard! leave thy drowsy dreams ; Cram all thy brain with knowledge clutch and cram! The earth is wide, the universe is vast : Thou hast infinity to learn. Oh, haste ! Haste not, haste not, my soul ! " Infinity ! " Thou hast eternity to learn it in. Thy boundless lesson through the endless years Hath boundless leisure. Kun not like a slave Sif like a king, and see the ranks of worlds Wheel in their cycles onward to thy feet. C 320 THE PHILOSOPHER His wheel of logic whirled and spun all day ; All day he held his system, grinding it Finer and finer, till t was fined away. But the chance sparks of sense and mother-wit, Flung out as that wheel-logic spun and whirled, Kindled the nations, and lit up the world. A BIRD S SONG THE shadow of a bird On the shadow of a bough ; Sweet and clear his song is heard, " Seek me now I seek thee now." The bird swings out of reach in the swaying tree, But his shadow on the garden walk below belongs to me. The phantom of my Love False dreams with hope doth fill, Softly singing far above, " Love me still I love thee still ! " The cruel vision hovers at my sad heart s door, But the soul love is soaring out of reach for ever more. 322 THE DEAD PRESIDENT WEKE there no crowns on earth, No evergreen to weave a hero s wreath, That he must pass beyond the gates of death, Our hero, our slain hero, to be crowned ? Could there on our unworthy earth be found Naught to befit his worth ? The noblest soul of all ! When was there ever, since our Washington, A man so pure, so wise, so patient one Who walked with this high goal alone in sight, To speak, to do, to sanction only Right, Though very heaven should fall ! Ah, not for him we weep ; What honor more could be in store for him ? Who would have had him linger in our dim And troublesome world, when his great work was done Who would not leave that worn and weary one Gladly to go to sleep ? [ 323 ] For us the stroke was just ; We were not worthy of that patient heart ; We might have helped him more, not stood apart, And coldly criticised his works and ways Too late now, all too late our little praise Sounds hollow o er his dust. Be merciful, our God ! Forgive the meanness of our human hearts, That never, till a noble soul departs, See half the worth, or hear the angel s wings Till they go rustling heavenward as he springs Up from the mounded sod. Yet what a deathless crown Of Northern pine and Southern orange-flower, For victory, and the land s new bridal hour, Would we have wreathed for that beloved brow ! Sadly upon his sleeping forehead now We lay our cypress down. martyred one, farewell ! Thou hast not left thy people quite alone, C 324 ] Out of thy beautiful life there comes a tone Of power, of love, of trust, a prophecy, Whose fair fulfillment all the earth shall be, And all the Future tell. 325 ROLAND A FOOLISH creature full of fears, He trembled for his fate, And stood aghast to feel the earth Swing round her dizzy freight. With timid foot he touched each plan, Sure that each plan would fail ; Behemoth s tread was his, it seemed, And every bridge too frail. No glory of the night or day Lit any crown for him, The tranquil past but breathed a mist To make the future dim. The world, his birthright, seemed a cell, An iron heritage ; Man, a trapped creature, left to die Forgotten in his cage. In every dark he held his breath, And warded off a blow ; While at his shoulder still he sought Some tagging ghost of woe. Spying the thorns but not the flowers, Through all the blossoming land He hugged his careful heart and shunned The path on either hand. The buds that broke their hearts .to give New odors to the air He saw not ; but he caught the scent Of dead leaves everywhere. Till on a day he came to know He had not made the world ; That if he slept, as when he ran, Each onward planet whirled. He knew not where the vision fell, Only all things grew plain As if some thatch broke through and let A sunbeam cross his brain. C 327 ] In beauty flushed the morning light, With blessing dropped the rain, All creatures were to him most f air, Nor anything in vain. He breathed the space that links the stars, He rested on God s arm A man unmoved by accident, Untouched by any harm. The weary doubt if all is good, The doubt if all is ill, He left to Him who leaves to us To know that all is well. THIS EDITION CONSISTS OF 500 COPIES PRINTED BY H. 0. HOUGHTON & COMPANY AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS CAMBRIDGE FOR HOUGHTON MIFFLIN & COMPANY OF BOSTON NEW YORK AND CHICAGO 1902 JVb. 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 5O CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. Cr-Q ,-, CP 24 |93 6 OCT 1936 SNov 6/DM . j\iQV 1 196Z . LD 21-100m-8, 34 679819 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY ~