LUE 
 
 M 
 
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 UC-NRLF 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
THE M ACM ILL AN COMPANY 
 
 KXW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO DALLAS 
 ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MZLBOCRKI 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 LYRICS 
 
 BY 
 MARGUERITE WILKINSON 
 
 AUTHOR OP " NEW VOICES " 
 
 iCrtn flork 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1920 
 
 All rigkU rMr*d 
 
, 1920 
 Br THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Set up tnd electrotyped. Published June, 1920. 
 
TO J. G. W. 
 
 COMRADE BESIDE ALL SWIFT RIVEB8 
 THESE AND AI - T - MY 8ONQS 
 
 439ii5 
 
Thanks are due to the editors of Contem 
 porary Verse, Scribner s Magazine, the North 
 American Review, The Nation, The Touch 
 stone, The Independent, The Smart Set, 
 Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, Ainslee s 
 Magazine, Everybody s Magazine, McCall s 
 Magazine, The Farm Journal, The Boston 
 Evening Transcript, The Forum, and The 
 New York Times for permission to reprint 
 here poems published for the first time in 
 these periodicals. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 BLUESTONE 1 
 
 SONGS FROM BESIDE SWIFT RIVERS 
 
 A Chant out of Doore 9 
 
 I Came to be Alone 11 
 
 The Air 13 
 
 Ghosts 14 
 
 Song of Two Wanderers 15 
 
 Before Dawn in the Woods 17 
 
 White Magic 18 
 
 By a Salmon River 19 
 
 This Shall be the Bond 20 
 
 An Oath in April 23 
 
 Sunset 24 
 
 Near the Rivers 25 
 
 Silver Waters 26 
 
 "The Really Truly Twirly Whirly Eel" 27 
 
 Barefoot 29 
 
 Berries 32 
 
 A Thought when Noon is Hot 34 
 
 Green Valleys 35 
 
 SONGS OF POVERTY 
 
 Debt 41 
 
 To-day 42 
 
 [fc] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Tired 43 
 
 Pawnbroker 44 
 
 Passing a Friend 45 
 
 Work 46 
 
 Poverty 47 
 
 PREFERENCES 
 
 People 51 
 
 Weather 55 
 
 Music 56 
 
 Food 57 
 
 Colors 58 
 
 Trees 59 
 
 LOVE SONGS 
 
 An Incantation 63 
 
 A Walk in Springtime 64 
 
 A Chant of Youth 65 
 
 In Passing 67 
 
 Let There Be Light 68 
 
 Morning and Evening 69 
 
 A Song for my Mate 71 
 
 At the Last 72 
 
 SONGS OF AN EMPTY HOUSE 
 
 Vista 77 
 
 Food and Clothing 79 
 
 Childless 80 
 
 For the Child that never Was 
 
 -The End 83 
 
 [*] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONGS OP LAUGHTER AND TEARS 
 
 - A Long Song of Momus 87 
 
 An Elegy 91 
 
 Garments 94 
 
 In a Certain Restaurant 96 
 
 Garden Song 98 
 
 A Song for Mother s Day 100 
 
 Birth 101 
 
 To my Country 102 
 
 Songs of Sun and Shadow 
 
 1 103 
 
 II 104 
 
 III 105 
 
 Time-Shadows 106 
 
 WHIMS FOR POETS 
 
 The Winds Ill 
 
 To Seanchan 112 
 
 Duty 113 
 
 If They Will not Hear Me 114 
 
 Songs I Sang Long Ago 115 
 
 CALIFORNIA POEMS 
 
 The Mountain Lilac of California 119 
 
 A Night on the Beach 121 
 
 These for Me 122 
 
 The Fog Comes in at Night 123 
 
 To the Summer Sun 124 
 
 THE PAGEANT 126 
 
 Wl 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The centuries, speeding us through the 
 cycles of human experience, bring us back, 
 from time to time, to an interest in old things 
 that seem new. The making of lyrics with 
 musical melodies that belong to the words 
 because they have grown with them in the 
 mind of the poet is no new thing. But in 
 our times and hi our language it has been 
 little discussed. Nevertheless, I believe that 
 such melodies exist for others, even to-day, 
 as they do for me. In the hope of learning 
 more about them and about their importance 
 as a part of poetic craftsmanship I am writ 
 ing this introduction. If I must offer an 
 other excuse for my temerity in setting down 
 melodies of my own here, let me mention my 
 lifelong interest in rhythm. 
 
 When I was still a child I enjoyed melody, 
 and a sweet-flowing sequence of syllables in 
 verse, or a bit of imaginative phrasing that 
 I could understand. But rhythm gave a 
 deeper delight. I shall never forget my pleas- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 ure in the folksongs that my father and 
 mother sang to their children; nor the dance 
 music that my mother played for us in the 
 evening after dinner, improvising gracefully 
 while she watched us spinning around the big 
 living room on tiptoe. I liked a band, too, 
 partly because the beat of the drum was ac 
 companied by a melody that ran with it, as 
 it seemed to me then, but also ran away from 
 it. But not all rhythms gave me pleasure. 
 I was tormented by the strict regularity of 
 the rhythm of "The Lay of The Last Min 
 strel" when I heard it for the first time. 
 
 I was not a musical child. I was the least 
 musical member of a large and very musical 
 family. I rebelled against piano lessons and 
 suffered when taken to concerts. I am not 
 a musical person to-day, judged by the usual 
 standards. For this reason it may seem 
 strange that when I was still a little girl I 
 began to make lyrics with tunes, to sing them 
 into existence with queer little melodies that 
 grew as the words grew. I would begin to 
 make a poem, and when it was finished I 
 would find a tune with it, come, like one of 
 the Good People, from nobody knows where. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 After those days when poetry was a shy 
 happiness, came school days and college days 
 when an intellectual interest in scansion came 
 near to making me love it for its own sake. 
 I made innumerable experiments. I treated 
 the sonnet and other verse forms with crude 
 unkindness. I attempted to translate the 
 beloved hexameters of Homer into English 
 hexameters. When I failed I trembled on 
 the verge of the perilous thought that it was 
 not altogether my own fault. The English 
 language was quite unlike the Greek in qual 
 ity. At about the tune when I made this 
 discovery I began to lose faith in scansion 
 although I was glad that I had studied and 
 practised it. I came to believe that "correct 
 thought in flawless meter/ taken as an ideal, 
 would never produce poetry. It was quite 
 as likely to produce Brussels carpet. And I 
 realized that the Oriental rug, with its occa 
 sional abrash, is a far truer, stronger, and 
 more beautiful expression of thought and 
 feeling than the impeccable, machine-made 
 carpet can possibly be. But through all my 
 experiments and in spite of changing faiths 
 my method of chanting or singing a lyric 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 into life persisted. And recently I have be 
 gun to give it much thought as a part of 
 craftsmanship. 
 
 What happens is simply this: while I am 
 making a lyric, after the mood becomes clear, 
 after the idea and image emerge from con 
 sciousness, I sing it, and sometimes slowly, 
 sometinies quite rapidly, the words take 
 their places in lines that carry a tune, also. 
 I am not giving conscious attention to the 
 tune. Nor am I making an intellectual 
 effort to combine words and music and get 
 a certain effect. I am not thinking about the 
 music. I am making a single-hearted and 
 strong endeavor to say or sing what is felt 
 and thought. Sometimes a lyric and the 
 melody that belongs with it grow in my mind 
 for a long time before they become vocal and 
 can be set down on paper. "Bluestone" was 
 in my mind for nearly a year before it was 
 finished with the melody given here. Some 
 times it all happens very quickly. But it is 
 always quite impossible to watch the process 
 with detached interest while it is going on. 
 It is only by looking back on it afterward, 
 and by studying the tunes in relation to the 
 
 [xvij 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 words, that I make the discoveries which in 
 terest me and lead me to ask for a share in 
 the knowledge of others who may be working 
 in similar ways. 
 
 First of all let me say that, in my opinion 
 and for me, the musical tunes that I make 
 are of one sort with the rhythmical tunes of 
 the words as spoken, and with the meaning 
 that the words are intended to convey. My 
 melodies even seem to have an organic unity 
 with the phraseology and imagery of the 
 lines. That this will not necessarily be true 
 for others who may read or sing my lyrics 
 I am ready to admit. But for me it is true. 
 
 If I take for example "A Thought When 
 Noon Is Hot/ for me both tune and words 
 are exuberant, sharing the quick joy that 
 comes to campers when, under the sharp 
 noonday sun, after a thirsty morning on the 
 road or on the river, they find a chilly spring 
 where water tastes sweeter than any that 
 can be drawn from a faucet. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
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 A THOUGHT WHEN NOON IS HOT 
 
 Joy will cool my face, 
 
 Joy will wash my hands, 
 
 Into very joy I shall plunge my arms 
 
 And sing; 
 
 Joy will sweeten my mouth, 
 Joy will gladden my throat, 
 And freshen my very life, when I reach 
 
 The spring. 
 
 Similarly it seems to me that in "The 
 Winds" the mood of the tune varies from 
 the delicate joy of the first stanza to the 
 sorrow of the second, then to the pensive 
 quality of the first two lines of the third 
 
 [xviii] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 stanza, and the resolution of the last two 
 lines, just as words and meaning vary. If I 
 were to theorize I should say, also, that I 
 think the fact that all of these feelings are 
 symbolized and generalized, not made actual 
 and concrete, is what makes it possible to 
 touch them all lightly with such a tune and 
 to pass quickly from one to another. 
 
 
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 Ixix] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 
 THE WINDS 
 
 The wind blew north, the wind blew south, 
 The wind blew cherries into my mouth, 
 The wind blew a wild rose into my hair 
 And a pin of gold to hold it there. 
 The wind blew east, the wind blew west, 
 The wind blew a dagger against my breast, 
 And thorny boughs it blew in my way, 
 And I was wounded, day after day. 
 
 Now all the life of the world, I find, 
 Is a whim of the winds, be it cruel or kind. 
 Oh, meet them singing, as they rush forth, 
 Blowing east and west, or south and north! 
 [n] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 I wanted "Bluestone" to be dignified and 
 resonant, but not too sombre. For me the 
 tune echoes and answers that desire. 
 
 BLUESTONE 
 
 Under the bluestone they quarried and cut, 
 Under a great block facing blue sky, 
 Not too far from the home of their pride, 
 Six feet deep my fathers lie. 
 
 I have discovered that syllables are never 
 broken hi the singing of my lyrics. No syl 
 lable is ever combined with several notes, 
 after the manner of composers. There is al 
 ways a single syllable for a single note, a 
 single note for a single syllable. If the num- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 her of syllables in corresponding lines of the 
 several stanzas of a lyric is not always the 
 same, the number of notes in the tune varies. 
 The value of the note seems to depend on 
 the quality of the syllable, on its relation to 
 the rest of the line, and on accent. 
 
 My melodies observe some law of quantity, 
 or enforce it; I am not sure which. A plump, 
 well-rounded syllable is likely to go with an 
 ample, long-sounding note. Quick, slight 
 syllables hurry and scurry along with notes of 
 smalltime-value. The musical accent and 
 the stress of speech fall together. Something 
 of what I mean by this is suggested by the 
 first lines of "The Pageant" and the tune 
 that goes with them. The two long-sounding 
 syllables, "long" and "road," in the first 
 line, are mated with musical notes relatively 
 long. The word "highway," on the other 
 hand, which ends the balancing phrase in the 
 same line, is more quickly sung. 
 
 [xxii] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
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 THE PAGEANT 
 
 Forever is a long road; Forever is a highway 
 Whereon go marching through arching nights 
 and days 
 
 [ xxiii 1 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Proud Dreams with golden crowns fair upon 
 
 their foreheads, 
 Shining Dreams with haloes and bright 
 
 Dreams with bays, 
 And all along the flowered edge the little 
 
 Dreams go dancing, 
 Singing gay canticles of praise. 
 
 Sometimes, however, a sound that could be 
 sung quickly is held and lengthened slightly 
 because it is pleasant to dwell on it. This is 
 true in An Incantation." The "0" with 
 which it begins could have been hurried, but 
 not without loss in sonority. In this chant, 
 and in all the others, the rests have nearly 
 as much enotional value as the notes and 
 words, I think. They provide time for a 
 realization of the pictorial quality of the 
 lines. As I visualized "An Incantation" it 
 was chanted on a windy hillside in April 
 with the sun coming and going through cloud- 
 rack and rain. But it is attuned to the severe 
 moods rather than to the daffodil whimsies 
 of April. 
 
 (xxiv J 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 AN INCANTATION 
 
 O strong sun of heaven, harm not my love! 
 Sear him not with your flame, blind him not 
 
 with your beauty, 
 Shine for his pleasure. 
 
 For the sake of comparison I am setting 
 down another chant, called "A Chant Out 
 Of Doors." It was remembered rather than 
 imagined, a "recollection in tranquillity." It 
 seems to me to be somewhat more complex 
 than "An Incantation" because it carries 
 two interwoven moods, the mood of worship, 
 alternating with the mood of wonder that 
 leads to worship. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 A CHANT OUT OF DOORS 
 
 God of grave nights, 
 God of brave mornings, 
 God of silent noon, 
 Hear my salutation! 
 
 For where the.rapids rage white and scornful 
 I have passed safely, filled with wonder; 
 Where the sweet pools dream under willows 
 I have been swimming, filled with life, 
 [xxvi] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Lyrics written in two stanzas usually have 
 a melody that varies from line to line and 
 from beginning to end. They seldom repeat 
 the melody of the first stanza in the second as 
 hymns do. The melody changes as the poem 
 changes. This is true in particular, of " To 
 day" in "Songs of Poverty," of "Weather" 
 in "Preferences" and of the third song in 
 the "Sun and Shadow" series, which I am 
 offering here. 
 
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INTRODUCTION 
 
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 [xxviii] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 II 
 
 My life is like a shadow, a shadow, a shadow, 
 With soft grey feet that patter down 
 
 A path of waning light; 
 And where the shadow passes is only rustling 
 
 laughter 
 
 That rushes to the mighty dark 
 Of the low-lying night. 
 
 And ail my days go dreaming, dreaming, 
 
 dreaming 
 Of the declining summer time 
 
 And the descending sun, 
 Beseeching him to waken fallen sleeper, 
 
 waken ! 
 
 But he goes silently, who knows 
 The laughing day is done. 
 
 The love song called "Morning and Even 
 ing" varies in a somewhat similar fashion. 
 The first stanza and the last have the same 
 melody, but hi the first it is sung brightly, 
 and in the last, quietly. The second stanza 
 varies. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 MORNING AND EVENING 
 
 Sunlight and glory! 
 
 Who is singing of glory f 
 
 [XXX] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 I am singing with heart as gay as the honey 
 suckle vine, 
 
 I am singing for one whose words are good 
 as ruddy apples 
 
 In the morning, in the evening, he is mine! 
 
 I am singing for one whose voice has music 
 of moving waters; 
 
 Delicate ripple and terrible wave and thrill 
 ing current and tide 
 
 All have tones that he uses well in talk and 
 song and laughter. 
 
 I am singing for love of a voice that was the 
 joy of his bride. 
 
 Poems in free verse seem to be quite as 
 likely to have tunes made with them as poems 
 in rhymed stanzas. But lyrics whose lines 
 approximate the standard iambic pentam 
 eter, either rhymed or blank, seldom grow 
 with tunes of their own. " Berries," " Peo 
 ple," "Music," "Birth" and others of their 
 kind have no tunes. I should like to know 
 what this means. Does the familiarity of 
 the iambic pentameter line, or its naturalness 
 in our language, make the singing of it super- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 fluous? Is the use of a melody, then, a means 
 of learning how to combine many kinds of 
 metrical feet in many ways to express a 
 special emotion, without being mechanical 
 about it? Or is it simply the old method 
 of the folksong, with this difference, that I 
 probably give much more attention to phrase 
 ology, imagery and symbolism and less atten 
 tion to the music than the folk gave who 
 made our folksongs? 
 
 In support of this latter idea is the fact 
 that many of my favorite themes might be 
 called themes of the folk. I write most hap 
 pily of things that even simple people know 
 well, of homes and camps, of physical and 
 mental hardship and prowess, of adventures 
 in the open, of birth and growth and struggle 
 and of our vision of Forever. "Bluestone" 
 has been called a "class-conscious" poem. 
 It is never that for me. It is simply folk- 
 conscious. And I must admit that when I 
 use these themes of the folk I most frequently 
 sing my lyrics. 
 
 In conclusion let me say that I know very 
 well that I am not a musician, a composer. 
 I know very little about music. And I am 
 
 [xxxii] 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 most grateful to my mother and to Miss 
 Anita Darling for their assistance in taking 
 down in musical notation the melodies given 
 here. 
 
 xxriii ] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 Under the bluestone they quarried and 
 
 cut, 
 
 Under a great block facing blue sky, 
 Not too far from the home of their pride, 
 Six feet deep my fathers lie. 
 Their great arms are folded on each broad 
 
 breast, 
 Their strong voices quiet, for their lips are 
 
 dust; 
 
 And none, forever, shall break their rest- 
 But theirs are the words and the deeds that I 
 
 trust. 
 They rise from the dead, though their bodies 
 
 are shut 
 Under the bluestone they quarried and cut. 
 
 They were a good race; theirs was the power 
 Of good height and girth, firm-knit and 
 
 clean; 
 Great skulls they had, and broad, square 
 
 brows, 
 
 ID 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 Eyes like the bluestone with arched nose 
 
 between; 
 Their minds were rugged as their hands were 
 
 strong; 
 They loved good food and they loved good 
 
 song; 
 They built big homes and they planted much 
 
 grain, 
 
 Laughing deep laughter hi sun and rain; 
 Many sons and daughters they got in their 
 
 pride; 
 
 Heartily they lived and hardly they died 
 They died, but they live, for they speak to me 
 Suddenly, sharply, mysteriously. 
 
 When I was a child, they set me my 
 task 
 
 "Bid your mind get all that your mind can 
 
 ask!" 
 
 When I was a girl, the word of my sires 
 Was, "Bid your heart give all that your 
 
 heart desires! 
 For a woman, one lover," they said, "one 
 
 mate! 
 Choose you one of our kind, and let your 
 
 love be great; 
 
 [21 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 Then build walls about your life, like the 
 
 bluestone strong, 
 For the daughters of our race love deeply 
 
 and long!" 
 
 When I was a woman, the wife of a man, 
 Like hammers in quarries their voices rang 
 
 clear, 
 "We are the source where your being 
 
 began 
 You are a mother of to-morrow, my 
 
 dear. 
 You shall thrust our strength and our 
 
 beauty and pride 
 
 Out into life again, ere you have died; 
 You shall be our hands to reach endless 
 
 years away . . . 
 You shall be our voice speaking out of 
 
 to-day." 
 These things they said, though their bodies 
 
 were shut 
 Under the bluestone they quarried and cut. 
 
 Sometimes when morning finds me slow to 
 
 rise, 
 
 Wistful in the sun, dull before the skies, 
 [3] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 I feel on my shoulder a pressure like Fate, 
 The touch of a race that stood tall and 
 
 straight, 
 That stood straight till age had broken body 
 
 and will 
 That nothing else could break. . . I am one 
 
 of them still. . . 
 The bluestone is broken, but never bent/ 
 
 they said. 
 These are still the words of my ever-living 
 
 dead. 
 
 Sometimes at noon, when I would do no more, 
 When I am weary, when all my joy is spent, 
 When I am weak before life, ready to im 
 plore, 
 Though I should command then, with wise 
 
 intent, 
 "Time, not trouble, crumbles bluestone/ 
 
 they say, 
 "Be like the bluestone for another day/ 
 
 Sometimes in the evening, when my work is 
 
 done, 
 When my man comes home to me with the 
 
 setting sun, 
 
 [4] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 I think that my fathers are met with us too, 
 That they rest in our chairs, that they feast 
 
 as we do. 
 For "The bluestone is blessed," they said, 
 
 "when Fate 
 
 Lets it pave a quiet walk to the dear home 
 gate." 
 
 But oftenest, at night, when I can not sleep, 
 When thoughts that rest by day wake their 
 
 watch to keep, 
 When my hands are strangely still, when 
 
 winds drone endlessly, 
 
 My ever-living dead come back to speak to me. 
 I do not see them white-clad in garments of 
 
 the tomb. 
 
 I am not afraid when they fill my quiet room. 
 They murmur in my pulse; they throng my 
 
 wondering brain; 
 They give me their urisdom, their dreams, 
 
 though they remain 
 With their great arms folded, their fine eyes 
 
 shut, 
 
 Under the bluestone they quarried and cut, 
 Though under a great block facing blue sky, 
 Six feet deep my fathers lie. 
 15] 
 
SONGS FROM BESIDE SWIFT 
 RIVERS 
 
A CHANT OUT OF DOORS 
 
 God of grave nights, 
 God of brave mornings, 
 God of silent noon, 
 Hear my salutation! 
 
 For where the rapids rage white and 
 scornful, 
 
 I have passed safely, filled with wonder; 
 
 Where the sweet pools dream under wil 
 lows, 
 
 I have been swimming, filled with life. 
 
 God of round hills, 
 God of green valleys, 
 God of clear springs, 
 Hear my salutation! 
 
 For where the moose feeds, I have eaten 
 
 berries, 
 Where the moose drinks, I have drunk 
 
 deep. 
 
 19] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 When the storms crashed through broken 
 
 heavens 
 And under clear skies I have known joy. 
 
 God of great trees, 
 God of wild grasses, 
 God of little flowers, 
 Hear my salutation! 
 
 For where the deer crops and the beaver 
 
 plunges, 
 
 Near the river I have pitched my tent; 
 Where the pines cast aromatic needles 
 On a still floor, I have known peace. 
 
 God of grave nights, 
 God of brave mornings, 
 God of silent noon, 
 Hear my salutation! 
 
 HO] 
 
I CAME TO BE ALONE 
 
 I went out from the world of futile talking 
 
 and trying, 
 Out from the world of the quarrels of men to 
 
 the nude and silent sky; 
 And into the woods I came, to the easily 
 
 flowing river, 
 Here of my own nude soul to ask, "What 
 
 manner of man am I?" 
 
 But I have strangely forgotten all that I 
 
 dreamed and wanted, 
 All that I thought and hoped and dared 
 
 only a month ago; 
 Even the friends of my heart I have lost in 
 
 the slipping shadows, 
 And the slim, young self I see in the stream 
 
 is the only self I know. 
 
 I shall remember again, perhaps, when the 
 
 blessed summer passes, 
 But now, oh, nothing but storm or peace 
 
 under a bending sky, 
 HU 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 Racket of winds at night that slap and tug 
 
 at the flapping canvas, 
 And the rock of a good canoe by day on the 
 
 rapids racing by. 
 
 I shall remember again, perhaps, but now I 
 
 have clean forgotten, 
 For I have been glad of hunger and thirst, 
 
 and the fear of death I have known; 
 Jagged rocks in the rip I have seen and the 
 
 quiet waters beyond them, 
 And the clean, green banks of perfect rest, 
 
 since I came to be alone! 
 
 1121 
 
THE AIR 
 
 The air shone with light and rang with 
 
 music 
 
 And carried memories of flowers to me, 
 Where I lay, resting a weary head and 
 
 shoulders 
 Hard against the sod, under a tree. 
 
 The air moved gently, joyfully, over, under, 
 With delicate singing soothing my unrest, 
 While I lay there, too weary even to mur 
 mur, 
 Too spent to answer life, even with a jest. 
 
 The air was lovely. There I slept and 
 
 wakened, 
 
 And still there was the miracle of the air; 
 Rested, I flung my arms apart in worship 
 To think of this glory moving everywhere. 
 
 [13 
 
GHOSTS 
 
 You say you saw a ghost, in the house, at 
 night, 
 
 Standing stiff and chilly in evanescent sil 
 ver, 
 
 In your room, near the bed where your 
 grandfather died. 
 
 But I saw ghosts, hundreds of them, danc 
 ing, 
 
 Out of doors, by day, in a dazzle of sunlight, 
 
 Climbing through the air of a clearing near 
 the river, 
 
 Flying dizzily there in a brief puff of the 
 breeze, 
 
 Yes, hundreds of ghosts, where a little while 
 ago 
 
 Died hundreds of the purple blooms of the 
 thistle. 
 
 H4] 
 
SONG OF TWO WANDERERS 
 
 DEAR, when I went with you 
 To where the town ends, 
 
 Simple things that Christ loved, 
 They were our friends. 
 
 Tree-shade and grass-blade 
 
 And meadows in flower, 
 Sun-sparkle, dew-glisten, 
 
 Star-glow and shower, 
 Cool-flowing song at night 
 
 Where the river bends 
 And the shingle croons a tune 
 
 These were our friends! 
 
 Under us the brown earth, 
 
 Ancient and strong, 
 The best bed for wanderers 
 
 All the night long! 
 Over us the blue sky, 
 
 Ancient and dear, 
 The best roof to shelter all 
 
 Glad wanderers here! 
 
 [15] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 And racing between them there 
 
 Falls and ascends 
 The chantey of the clean winds 
 
 These were our friends! 
 
 By day on the broad road 
 
 Or on the narrow trail, 
 Angel wings shadowed us, 
 
 Glimmering pale 
 Through the red heat of noon; 
 
 In the twilight of dawn 
 Fames broke fast with us, 
 
 Prophets led us on! 
 Heroes were kind to us 
 
 Day after happy day; 
 Many white Madonnas 
 
 We met on our way- 
 Farmer and longshoreman, 
 
 Fisherman and wife, 
 Children and laborers 
 
 Brave enough for life 
 Simple folk that Christ loved, 
 
 They were our friends- 
 Dear, we must go again 
 
 To where the town ends! 
 
 [16] 
 
BEFORE DAWN IN THE WOODS 
 
 Upon our eyelids, dear, the dew will lie, 
 And on the roughened meshes of our hair, 
 
 While little feet make bold to scurry by 
 And half-notes shrilly cut the quickened 
 air. 
 
 Our clean, hard bodies on the clean, hard 
 
 ground, 
 Will vaguely feel that they are full of 
 
 power, 
 
 And they will stir and wake and look 
 around, 
 Loving the early, chill, half-lighted hour, 
 
 Loving the voices in the shadowed trees, 
 Loving the feet that move the blossoming 
 
 grass, 
 Oh, always we have known such things as 
 
 these, 
 
 And knowing, can we love and let them 
 pass? 
 
 17] 
 
WHITE MAGIC 
 
 Who bids us be wary 
 Of briar and snake 
 Is led by a fairy; 
 
 Who finds dry wood 
 
 For the fires we make 
 His magic is good; 
 
 Who gathers wild berries 
 
 High on far hills, 
 Or gets sand-cherries, 
 
 Who catches the trout 
 
 Where the deep hole fills, 
 Is a mage no doubt. 
 
 Who knows the cool hollow 
 Where springs drip cold, 
 Is a wizard to follow. 
 
 Let the magic begin 
 
 With the dawn s red-gold 
 But the cook is the Jinn! 
 
 [18] 
 
BY A SALMON RIVER 
 
 From the bank you can see nothing but 
 
 swift water 
 Mottled with shadows and circling golden 
 
 lights. 
 
 But climb into a tree and then look down 
 You will see them etched in grey against the 
 
 bottom, 
 Grand, tapering, silver salmon in delicate 
 
 poise, 
 Headed up-stream to taste the sweetest 
 
 springs. 
 
 // you would see deep you must climb up high 
 And look dear through. 
 
 H91 
 
THIS SHALL BE THE BOND 
 
 This shall be the bond between us, mate of 
 
 my heart- 
 Stir of willow branches where the saplings 
 
 start 
 Out of sedgy meadows by the downhill 
 
 stream 
 Where the air lies soft in dream. 
 
 This shall be the bond between us winding 
 
 in the sun, 
 In and out from yesterday, till all our days 
 
 are done 
 The free, onward flowing of the full-hearted 
 
 river 
 Past reeds that rustle and quiver. 
 
 Ache of throbbing heavens torn by burst 
 ing storm, 
 
 Tang of bitter wood-smoke where our food 
 waits warm, 
 
 And the dear, broken music of the hard- 
 driven rain, 
 And the cold, and thirst, and pain 
 
 [20] 
 
THIS SHALL BE THE BOND 
 
 These shall be a bond between us unto the 
 
 end, 
 The unknown venture where the singing 
 
 rapids bend 
 
 To the clean, white danger of the foaming rip 
 Where our boat must dance and dip. 
 
 Ringing of the pebbles where the riffles are 
 
 shallow, 
 Pleasant quip of quail in the fields long 
 
 fallow, 
 And the dawn s quaint chorus out of old 
 
 delight, 
 And the sweet-scented peace of night; 
 
 Blowing of the merry buds, rosy, blue and 
 yellow, 
 
 Flushing of the wild fruits until they are 
 mellow, 
 
 Strawberries, raspberries, and saucy winter- 
 green, 
 All rich things heard and seen : 
 
 All will be a bond between us, till we are 
 
 too old 
 For the high-hearted going, till the tales we 
 
 have told 
 
 121J 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 Of the long rivers winding from the hills to 
 the sea 
 
 Are but mirth and a memory. 
 
 For the love of all wild things is warm upon 
 our lips, 
 
 And the old earth is answered in our meet 
 ing finger-tips: 
 
 We are growing full-hearted as the rivers 
 
 grow great 
 This shall be the bond, my mate! 
 
 [22] 
 
AN OATH IN APRIL 
 
 I swear by cool white blood-root blossom, 
 By the new grass, by the new day, 
 By the fine, crisp lights on ice-fed waters 
 Where trout and water-beetles play, 
 I swear by the scent of the wet brown earth 
 And by dreams of new moss silently creep 
 ing, 
 
 By the hurrying life that would find birth 
 In the woods, roused from their heavy sleep 
 ing, 
 
 That I will be the wild Earth s friend 
 Till the time has come to rest again, 
 In her rich renewal, world without end, 
 Yes, world without end. Amen! 
 
 1231 
 
SUNSET 
 
 The little, yellow, fluttering rays of light 
 
 Are running home to rest, 
 Where the sun broods like a great mother 
 bird, . 
 
 Red in the low, red West. 
 
 Broad bands of rose and gold flare up and 
 
 out 
 
 Across a cloud-filled sky, 
 And stretch with feathery edge against the 
 
 grey, 
 Like great wings lifted high. 
 
 And then are folded close the little lights, 
 Then fall the wide, bright wings 
 
 On a grey nest of clouds, where shadows 
 
 hide 
 Their mystic flutterings. 
 
 [24] 
 
NEAR THE RIVERS 
 
 Inland a little way are men and women, 
 
 Tall firs upon the hillside, 
 
 Rich wheat in golden fields; 
 
 But beside the banks of little rivers 
 
 Are children, and lilies. 
 
 [25] 
 
SILVER WATERS 
 
 Run, run, silver waters, 
 Underneath the sycamores; 
 
 Ah, what rush of fluent music 
 
 Through the ample shadow pours! 
 
 Leap, dance, silver waters, 
 Over boulders brown and cool; 
 
 Slip around the pebbly corner 
 Quickly to the swimming pool! 
 
 Run, run, silver waters, 
 Till the open pool is won, 
 
 Where our little laughing brothers 
 Plunge and paddle in the sun! 
 
 126] 
 
"THE REALLY TRULY TWIRLY 
 WHIRLY EEL" 
 
 This being no serious poem for scholars, but a 
 jingle for all small boys. 
 
 The trout won t bite? 
 Well, never mind, 
 The eels will 
 They always do! 
 The river is full 
 Quite full of eels 
 That twist and twirl 
 About the piers. 
 Just build a fire 
 Here on the shore 
 They like the light- 
 Then bait your line 
 With cut-up-sucker, 
 Or any old fish, 
 And wait and see . . . 
 
 Uncle Eel will see the light 
 
 Hey, wriggly, twisty, oh! 
 He will smell the bait and bite 
 
 The twirly, whirly sport! 
 
 127] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 He will wriggle and twist like sin, 
 Spatter and splash when you pull him in, 
 Knot your line and writhe in his skin, 
 Wriggly, twisty, oh! 
 
 Now you re sorry for Uncle Eel? 
 
 Hey, wriggly, twisty, oh! 
 Well, I know just how you feel 
 
 For the twirly, whirly sport, 
 For he wriggles his best, when all is said, 
 He never stops when he loses his head, 
 He keeps it up when you know he is dead, 
 
 Wriggly, twisty, oh! 
 
 128] 
 
BAREFOOT 
 
 For all little girls. 
 
 Oh, the fine dust is soft as down for my feet, 
 
 And they feel how the warmth of the sum 
 mer is sweet 
 
 On the broad yellow road, as they travel 
 down 
 
 The big, high hill to the little, low town. 
 
 But still they are dreaming of ways they 
 
 know 
 Through sluggish marshes where rushes 
 
 grow; 
 Of ways that are chilly and moist with 
 
 slime, 
 Where hard is the crossing or heavy the 
 
 climb. 
 
 And my feet remember the ways kept cool 
 By the living spring and the waiting pool, 
 Where weary they rested a night a day- 
 While the frisky pollywogs wriggled at play. 
 
 129] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 And my feet remember the stern, hard rock 
 Of the hilly upland, the sudden shock 
 Of its cold edge at night, and the burning pain 
 Of its blistering heat when the day came 
 again. 
 
 Oh, more they remember a thousand 
 
 things- 
 Fine feathers fallen from little gay wings, 
 And the moss by the dew kept soft and 
 
 clean, 
 And the brush of the ferns, and the dark 
 
 earth between; 
 
 Prick of the thistle and thrust of the thorn 
 Of the wild briar bushes, where quick they 
 
 were torn, 
 And the shifting of pine needles under their 
 
 toes, 
 And the bruises of pebbles where the wild 
 
 brook flows. 
 
 For they have been wounded with porcu 
 pine quills, 
 
 And they have been washed where the 
 spring freshet spills 
 
 [30] 
 
BAREFOOT 
 
 Her flood of rough laughter, and they have 
 
 been gay 
 Like the feet of the fawn, or the squirrel, 
 
 all day. 
 
 Oh, the fine dust is soft on the broad road 
 
 down 
 From the big, high hill to the little, low 
 
 town 
 
 But my feet still remember, and long to go 
 Up again, back, to the things they know. 
 
 [31] 
 
BERRIES 
 
 Which are the sweetest, raciest wild ber 
 ries 
 
 That grow in all the world? Where can you 
 find them? 
 
 Do you think the mellow crimson straw 
 berries 
 
 Dented with gold like shining drops of 
 fire. 
 
 Unquenched in the dewy meadows of New 
 Brunswick 
 
 Are best of all? 
 
 Or do you like raspberries 
 
 Like carmine embers where thorny bushes 
 grow 
 
 On the cleared hill above the beaver dam, 
 
 Or blueberries in a high New England 
 fallow, 
 
 Smoky upon the scrub and warm to touch? 
 
 Or would you have the evergreen black 
 berries 
 Like little clustered spheres of jet, on vines 
 
 [32] 
 
BERRIES 
 
 Whose roots sink deep into moist Oregon 
 
 soil 
 To gather sugary wine? 
 
 If you could choose, 
 Which would you go the longest way to 
 
 gather? 
 Sometimes I think but I can never decide! 
 
 [33] 
 
A THOUGHT WHEN NOON IS HOT 
 
 Joy will cool my face, 
 
 Joy will wash my hands, 
 
 Into very joy I shall plunge my arms 
 
 And sing; 
 
 Joy will sweeten my mouth, 
 Joy will gladden my throat, 
 And freshen my very life, when I reach 
 
 The spring. 
 
 [34] 
 
GREEN VALLEYS 
 
 To you, green valleys, 
 
 I am going home 
 
 You have given me a home 
 
 Whose walls are bright air, 
 
 Whose floor is the grass, 
 
 Whose roof is white light 
 
 Where the blue eaves of heaven hang bare. 
 
 Dear green valleys, 
 I shall go, for you have called 
 With your three ancient voices 
 That speak ten thousand strong; 
 The voice of mating birds, 
 The voice of moving waters, 
 And the wind s inconstant song. 
 You can not know my need 
 Of the home you have given, 
 At whose doors my spirit 
 Never knocks in vain 
 Oh, give me even the thorns 
 And the thistles of your paths 
 For my wise bare feet, 
 
 135] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 And your cold and heat and pain 
 Oh, share your simple strength 
 Of frost and fire and foam 
 Dear green valleys, 
 When I go home. 
 
 Give me your streams 
 
 That I may breast the rapids, 
 
 Fighting bravely up 
 
 With the old, slow strain; 
 
 Give me your hills, 
 
 The wardens of your beauty, 
 
 And your strong-guarding rocks 
 
 That I may climb again; 
 
 Give me your storms 
 
 I would be buffeted and shaken 
 
 That once more I may know 
 
 The peace that conquers fear, 
 
 And the long, grateful rest, 
 
 And the silent hosannah 
 
 That the hard-willed struggle brings near. 
 
 But fill the wide rooms 
 Of my home with fragrance 
 Down the unending corridors 
 Blow the scent of noon; 
 
 [36] 
 
GREEN VALLEYS 
 
 Up the star-reaching stairs 
 
 Whirl the scent of midnight; 
 
 Dear green valleys, 
 
 I shall go soon. 
 
 And always I shall go, 
 
 Always when you call me 
 
 To the hearth unbounded 
 
 And the rooms with fragrance filled, 
 
 Till a quiet time comes 
 
 When my will has forsaken 
 
 All the dear deeds that I have willed. 
 
 Then, when I shall need 
 Airy ways no longer, 
 When my feet can feel 
 No thistle in the grass, 
 Still let your ancient voices, 
 No weaker and no stronger, 
 Chant above my rest, 
 Singing as they pass, 
 For I shall be one, then, 
 With frost and fire and foam. 
 
 Dear green valleys, 
 I shall be at home. 
 
 [37J 
 
SONGS OF POVERTY 
 
DEBT 
 
 Everywhere I go, in country or in town, 
 Great clouds above me are weighing me 
 
 down; 
 The rain drops too heavily; too hard shines 
 
 the sun; 
 All the winds are sinister; the days one by 
 
 one, 
 
 Glide into long nights when I cannot rest; 
 There is no more pleasure in the food on 
 
 my plate; 
 Stronger elbows jostle mine; meaner lips 
 
 jest; 
 
 And for all I want of life I can only wait. 
 Deeper drives the bitterness, deeper every 
 
 day 
 I, who would be giving, can not even pay. 
 
 (411 
 
TO-DAY 
 
 I will walk as far as my strength will take 
 
 me, 
 
 Though I had nothing for breakfast to-day; 
 I will go out where the eyes of strangers 
 Ask me questions when they look my way; 
 
 But I will not bend my neck to the pity of 
 
 fools, 
 I will not turn my face when Arrogance 
 
 calls, 
 
 Though I die of heat, though I die of hunger, 
 Falling by the road as an old horse falls. 
 
 [42] 
 
TIRED 
 
 Going on is a long, long walk; 
 Hills stones heat dust 
 My bundles pull hard upon my arm; 
 How can I go on? But I must. 
 
 My feet are heavy on the road ; 
 
 Up down up down 
 
 They move like a worn-out machine 
 
 About to stop. But I must get to town. 
 
 My shoulders are sagging; I am weak, 
 Faint sore dull slow- 
 It s a long, long walk to just around the 
 
 bend 
 When you are too tired to go. 
 
 143] 
 
PAWNBROKER 
 
 Pawnbroker, pawnbroker, what will you 
 
 lend me 
 On my grandmother s locket with the 
 
 old gold chain? 
 (I wore it one night when my dear leaned 
 
 to kiss me 
 
 We were walking home in the cool grey 
 rain.) 
 
 Pawnbroker, what will you lend me on my 
 
 coat? 
 It s fine cloth. (The weather is warmer 
 
 to-day. 
 It was cold when he gave me that coat on 
 
 my birthday, 
 Reckless because they had raised his pay.) 
 
 Sign of the three golden balls, I am going; 
 For now I have nothing. As others have 
 
 died, 
 Even so I can. I ll not be returning; 
 
 For pawnbroker, what would you lend on 
 my pride? 
 
 [44] 
 
PASSING A FRIEND 
 
 I thought I saw a friend to-day 
 
 The look of him was dear 
 But I shrank and turned my face away, 
 
 Hurt by a sudden fear 
 That he might turn and chance to see, 
 
 As I went down the street, 
 The sloven boots with crooked heels 
 
 That shame my sorry feet. 
 
 M5] 
 
WORK 
 
 Against my need of shelter and food 
 I set my struggling flesh and blood 
 And mind and heart, to make life give 
 What I must have if I would live. 
 
 I do not know from day to day 
 Which side will win the next grim play, 
 What marginal bit of praise or blame 
 Will let me have or lose the game. 
 
 You say the stakes are small, that I 
 Am but one mortal, if I die, 
 And that the odds are heavy. Still 
 Against my need I set my will. 
 
 146] 
 
POVERTY 
 
 This, then, is what the great have known 
 
 The reaching for a crust, 
 The taking of the cast-off cloak, 
 
 The breathing of the dust; 
 This is the thing that saints have praised 
 
 And prophets have endured, 
 And this is what the Lord Christ blessed, 
 
 Since it could not be cured. 
 
 Ah, well, I am not saint enough 
 
 To bless an ugly need. 
 Nor can I share the glowing peace 
 
 Of those of holy breed. 
 But now that I have known this thing, 
 
 I may have grace to find 
 That common good the great have found, 
 
 The courage of mankind. 
 
 (471 
 
PREFERENCES 
 
PEOPLE 
 To E. E. K. and E. K. S. 
 
 Sometimes, when I am happy and at rest, 
 I think, of all things, I like people best. 
 Even the shallow, round-eyed gossips give 
 A little zest to life. So let them live! 
 Just to be near my kind and hear them talk 
 ing 
 
 Seems very good to me. Oh, dearer far 
 The racket on the streets where men are 
 
 walking 
 Than all the prairie s quiet spaces are. 
 
 But when I think more keenly, I confess, 
 There are a few that I like somewhat less 
 Than others; those who smugly speak to me 
 With minds elusive as crabs upon the rocks; 
 Who reach limp fingers out too languidly 
 When they shake hands; whose kindness only 
 
 mocks. 
 I hope that they may prosper in some good 
 
 way 
 And find them friends according to their 
 
 needs, 
 
 [511 
 
BLUESTONE 
 Die, without doing much harm, some quiet 
 
 And reach the heavens of their several 
 creeds. 
 
 But I like people who can make things grow, 
 Whose hands are wise to move the quick 
 
 ened earth 
 
 In Spring, so that the new vine-tendrils know 
 An easier grace and a more confident mirth. 
 I like the makers of a thousand things, 
 Of music, magic of words, or mighty wings 
 That cut the winds as they go droning 
 
 through 
 
 The wondering deeps of the defiant blue. 
 And always I can find out much of good 
 In people who know how to handle food; 
 I think there is some merit of heart or head 
 In any person who can make good bread, 
 And make it lovingly, and put away 
 The golden-crusted loaves, as if to say, 
 "It is no small matter to remake mankind 
 Daily with flour, the body and the mind." 
 I like firm health that never comes by 
 
 chance, 
 
 And a quick handshake, and a greeting meant, 
 152] 
 
PEOPLE 
 
 A sudden glint of hardness in the glance, 
 Ami slow thought s]>oken out ol strong con 
 tent. 
 
 I like an athlete as I like a tree, 
 And both are very beautiful to me. 
 I like men with the manners of great kings 
 In all the little worlds of common things- 
 Shrewd, humorous men, still quick to kind 
 liness, 
 
 With dreams they laugh at rather than ex 
 press; 
 
 And busy women, ample and motherly, 
 Guarding the little children they have borne, 
 Making their homes houses of refuge, free 
 To all who are unmothered and forlorn. 
 Mellow old veterans to whom the years 
 Have given wisdom, and young pioneers 
 Who lay rough hands upon a living truth 
 And hold it with the passion of their youth, 
 And those who can be gay through middle- 
 age, 
 
 And every questioner, and every sage- 
 All these have my respect; whole-heartedly 
 I would give thanks for all their gifts to me. 
 Since I have been poor and sick my words 
 would bless 
 
 1631 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 The sick and poor with every gentleness, 
 And since I have known sadness very well, 
 I care for the sorrowful more than I can tell. 
 And I revere the flower-like, serene 
 Spirits that bloom on hills where air is pure, 
 Lonely and rare, with a long climb between 
 Their world and the lower world that I 
 endure. 
 
 But dearest are the homes where children 
 
 Play, 
 
 Where men smoke quietly to end the day, 
 Where women sew, and sing, and dream, 
 
 and brood, 
 
 Declaring, without speech, that life is good, 
 Where with some homely ritual of delight 
 The year s high festivals are made more 
 
 bright. 
 
 Oh, when in such a simple home I rest, 
 I think that I like simple people best. 
 
WEATHER 
 
 Give me a land where the fog comes mani 
 fold and grey 
 From over the black wash of the waves and 
 
 the sheer white spray; 
 For in a land where the fog lies my mother 
 
 bore her child- 
 Out of the blown wet veil of the fog first I 
 wept and smiled. 
 
 Give me a land where the fog comes, for 
 
 when I burn with pain, 
 As to a mother I would go home into the 
 
 fog again; 
 I would leave the garish fire of the sun and 
 
 go where skies are blind, 
 For cool to cover me is the fog, cool and 
 
 very kind, 
 Large as her love to hold and enfold me, 
 
 quiet as death or sleep- 
 It may be that where the fog lies I can 
 
 smile again or weep. 
 
 [66] 
 
MUSIC 
 
 To my mother. 
 
 Oh, I have loved great rolling hills of sound, 
 A mountainous music, rising in slow curves 
 Of deep-toned and firm-moving melody 
 In a crescendo like a rounding peak 
 Near to the burning stars! 
 
 [66] 
 
FOOD 
 
 The active body will be fed- 
 Give me this day my daily bread ! 
 
 But, that my body may be strong, 
 Brave and ruddy and fit for song, 
 
 And that my spirit may bide in peace 
 Nor ask too soon for her release, 
 
 I d have my food be fair and sound, 
 
 The good, glad fruit of the healthy ground. 
 
 Best I like figs in a deep, blue bowl, 
 Piled high, with cream to cover the whole, 
 
 Thick yellow cream on ripe figs chilled 
 The pitcher empty when the bowl is filled. 
 
 Then, if any virtue be in food, 
 
 Surely such blessedness will make life good! 
 
 157] 
 
COLORS 
 
 Violet and amber, these are my colors; 
 
 Amethyst and topaz, these are my desire! 
 I would wear gowns like darling dusky 
 
 shadows- 
 Gowns that are glowing like candle-light or 
 
 fire 
 I would look long on tumbled storm-clouds of 
 
 summer 
 A sharp-darting lightning my spirit would 
 
 be. 
 
 Violet and amber, these are my colors; 
 Amethyst and topaz are dearest to me! 
 
 [68] 
 
TREES 
 
 The apple tree is a dear tree 
 
 And easy to climb; 
 The elm gives a pleasant shade 
 
 In the summer time; 
 The maple will keep you dry 
 
 Until the shower s end; 
 The willow is gentle 
 
 And the oak a stout friend. 
 But though I live long and long,- 
 
 Amen, so let it be! 
 I shall dream of eucalyptus 
 
 Growing over me, 
 Tall and bare and beautiful 
 
 Against a clear sky, 
 Blue-gum and red-gum 
 
 Reaching very high, 
 Dark-crested in the sun 
 
 And glad to throw away 
 Wasting withered bark of self, 
 
 Day after day; 
 Daring to rise supreme, 
 
 Line on lovely line- 
 Other trees for others, 
 
 159] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 But this tree is mine, 
 Though I live long and long 
 Even till I die. 
 
 Tall and bare and beautiful 
 Against a clear sky. 
 
 [60] 
 
LOVE SONGS 
 
AN INCANTATION 
 
 O strong sun of heaven, harm not my love! 
 Sear him not with your flame, blind him not 
 
 with your beauty, 
 Shine for his pleasure. 
 
 O grey rains of heaven, harm not my love! 
 Drown not in your torrent the song of his 
 
 heart; 
 Lave and caress him. 
 
 O swift winds of heaven, harm not my love! 
 Bruise not, nor buffet him with your rough 
 
 humor; 
 Sing you his prowess. 
 
 mighty triad, strong ones of heaven, 
 Sun, rain and wind, be gentle, I charge you; 
 For your mad mood of wrath, have me; I 
 
 am ready; 
 But spare him, my lover, most proud and 
 
 most dear 
 O sun, rain and wind, strong ones of heaven! 
 
 163] 
 
A WALK IN SPRINGTIME 
 
 Curly were the ferns 
 
 And cool was the brook, 
 When my love and I 
 
 Went out to look; 
 But when we had seen 
 
 We did not look again, 
 For love in our hearts 
 
 Was beating like the rain. 
 
 Little pearly flowers, 
 
 Pearly rose and blue, 
 Blossomed where we passed 
 
 We scarcely knew 
 That the air was sweet, 
 
 That the earth was land, 
 For love in our hearts 
 
 Was blowing like the wind. 
 
 164] 
 
A CHANT OF YOUTH 
 
 To you, Beloved, I have lifted my face, 
 As a flower, amorous of summer sunshine, 
 To a revel of light, a warmth, a wonder 
 I rest in the glow of your presence. 
 
 To you, Beloved, I cling with frail hands, 
 As a miser, clinging to heavy treasure; 
 For you are my wealth, my world s whole 
 
 treasure, 
 My passion of rubies and pearls. 
 
 To you, Beloved, my swift feet bear me, 
 As a child, entering a wild, sweet garden; 
 Your arms are all the garlands I have ever 
 
 chosen 
 Your strength is my shapely tree. 
 
 For to you, Beloved, I have listened long, 
 And my ears remember a well-learned music, 
 Your voice surging sweet through dusk 
 
 into darkness, 
 My strong, flooding stream of spring. 
 
 165] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 And to you, Beloved, what shall I offer? 
 Naught but my life the moments un 
 counted- 
 Thought, hope, and deed a dream shared 
 
 with no other 
 And my soul s little flame thrice-lighted by 
 
 your love! 
 Take then, the love that a woman would 
 
 offer, 
 For to you, Beloved, I have lifted my face! 
 
 [66] 
 
IN PASSING 
 
 I have been washed in joy 
 And dipped in glory; 
 I have been clad with life, 
 For me the world is new, 
 For my dear, in passing, 
 Has bent his face to greet me, 
 Warm as the sun, 
 Gay as the breeze, 
 Gentle as dew. 
 
 1671 
 
LET THERE BE LIGHT 
 
 Through the low window of my life 
 
 I looked, and saw you passing by, 
 
 As lovely as the light! 
 
 To me you were the very dawn, 
 
 Or the dawn s echo of singing hues 
 
 The flowers, 
 
 Or the dawn s answer from the earth- 
 
 Her ecstasy of green. 
 
 In the dark chamber of my life 
 
 I stood upright and looked; 
 
 My lips were muted by my need, 
 
 And I was silent, but I heard 
 
 That which was more than silence, 
 
 Calling, 
 
 "Let there be light for me 
 
 In the dark chamber of my life!" 
 
 Through the low window of my life 
 I leaned; I saw you pause and turn 
 Through the low window of my life 
 You poured the shining sun! 
 
 [68] 
 
MORNING AND EVENING 
 Sunlight and glory! 
 
 Who is singing of glory f 
 
 I am singing with heart as gay as the honey 
 suckle vine, 
 
 I am singing for one whose words are good 
 as ruddy apples 
 
 In the morning, in the evening, he is mine I 
 
 I am singing for one whose voice has music 
 of moving waters; 
 
 Delicate ripple and terrible wave and thrill 
 ing current and tide 
 
 All have tones that he uses well in talk and 
 song and laughter. 
 
 I am singing for love of a voice that was the 
 joy of his bride. 
 
 Star-glow and glory! 
 Who is singing of glory f 
 169] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 I am singing for one whose spirit is light to 
 
 burn and shine, 
 A heaven of sun or a skyful of stars is he for 
 
 whom I am singing; 
 In the evening, in the morning, he is mine! 
 
 170] 
 
A SONG FOR MY MATE 
 
 Higher than the slim eucalyptus, 
 Higher than the dim, purple mountains, 
 Higher than the stern flight of eagles, 
 Rose our young hopes, long, long ago. * 
 
 Sweeter than wild, sweet berries, 
 Sweeter than a chill spring s bounty, 
 Sweeter than a meadowlark s carol, 
 Were the young, sweet joys that we shared. 
 
 More bitter than a swelling olive, 
 More bitter than a brackish river, 
 More bitter than a crow s hard laughter, 
 Were the sorrows we have known, my dear. 
 
 But nearer than the light is to the day, 
 And nearer than the night is to darkness, 
 And nearer than the winds to their crooning, 
 I am drawn, I am held to your heart. 
 
 171] 
 
AT THE LAST 
 
 When all our songs are shut within numb lips, 
 And our joys are small stars denting the 
 
 darkness, 
 When tears have been shed like dew upon 
 
 our spirits 
 And our hopes have grown weary climbing 
 
 unknown summits, 
 When our dreams have become red roads to 
 
 achievement, 
 
 Or drab byways to failure, 
 And our mirth is remote as a mist of early 
 
 morning 
 
 Vanished in the noonday 
 Across a level earth where sleep old com 
 rades, 
 
 The good boon comrades of long ago, 
 Then, dear, let us go to the forest, to the 
 
 forest 
 Where through the leaves, green mysteries 
 
 recurrent, 
 
 Lightly quivers day, no longer full-tinted, 
 But toned to our mood . . . 
 
 We shall rest there at last 
 [72] 
 
AT THE LAST 
 
 Where is a sof Amoving, slow-moving murmur 
 Carrying memories of Spring s clear rapture. 
 We shall rest there at last as we have never 
 
 rested. 
 On the floor of the forest is peace. 
 
 173] 
 
SONGS OF AN EMPTY HOUSE 
 
VISTA 
 
 Before I die I may win grace 
 
 To chant before the kings 
 Who reign in wonderlands of song 
 
 Where every blossom sings; 
 I may put on a golden gown 
 
 And glow with sunny light, 
 Carrying in my hair, the day, 
 
 And in my eyes, the night. 
 
 It may be men will honor me, 
 
 The wistful ones and wise, 
 Who know the ruth of victory, 
 
 The joy of sacrifice; 
 I may be rich; I may be gay; 
 
 But all the crowns grow old 
 The laurel withers and the bay 
 
 And dully rests the gold. 
 
 Before I die I may break bread 
 With many queens and kings 
 
 Oh, take the golden gown away, 
 For there are dearer things! 
 177] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 And I shall miss the love of babes 
 With flesh of rose and pearl, 
 
 The dewy eyes, the budded lips, 
 A boy, a little girl. 
 
 178] 
 
FOOD AND CLOTHING 
 
 Yes, I live pleasantly and well, 
 
 And dainty food I eat; 
 The manna in the wilderness 
 
 Was not more sweet. 
 But I am starved for lack of pain, 
 
 The ecstatic agony 
 That gives the world the wren, the deer, 
 
 And you, and me. 
 
 White linen, very soft and clean, 
 
 Enfolds me limb and breast; 
 And all my days are happy tasks, 
 
 My nights are rest. 
 But I go cold for lack of pain, 
 
 The ancient throes of birth 
 That clothe a woman with hard power 
 
 And peace, and mirth. 
 
 179] 
 
CHILDLESS 
 
 If I had borne children 
 
 I would have made bread, 
 I would have brought honey 
 
 From the hive near my door; 
 I would have aired linen 
 
 For table and bed 
 And gone every day 
 
 For my goods, to the store. 
 I would have been rich 
 
 With a dollar to spend, 
 And I would have been gay 
 
 With the laugh of a friend, 
 And though I wore cotton, 
 
 And worked all day, 
 / would have been proud 
 
 When you looked my way! 
 
 Bread I must eat, 
 
 Though its taste be stale; 
 Honey I can buy, 
 
 Though I gather none. 
 High, where the fresh winds 
 
 Never, never fail, 
 
 [80] 
 
CHILDLESS 
 
 The linen hangs white 
 
 In the pleasant sun. 
 And I go to market 
 
 For needles and pins, 
 To chat with my neighbors 
 
 And learn of my sins 
 But the eyes of the mothers 
 
 What is it they say 
 That I never shall know, 
 
 When they look my way? 
 
 1811 
 
FOR THE CHILD THAT NEVER WAS 
 
 O little hands that never were 
 With apple-petalled beauty made, 
 
 You might have held me close to joy 
 Whence I have strayed. 
 
 O little feet that never were 
 Fashioned for tripping melody, 
 
 Your gladness might have kept me brave 
 On Calvary. 
 
 O little lips that would have drawn 
 White love to feed you, from my breast, 
 
 You would have been my love, itself , 
 Made manifest. 
 
 O Child of mine you never were 
 No throes have thrilled me to rejoice. 
 
 You would have been my conquering soul, 
 My singing voice. 
 
 [82] 
 
THE END 
 
 My father got me strong and straight and 
 
 slim, 
 
 And I give thanks to him; 
 My mother bore me glad and sound and 
 
 sweet, 
 I kiss her feet. 
 
 But now, with me, their generation fails 
 
 And nevermore avails 
 To cast through me the ancient mould again, 
 
 Such women and men. 
 
 I have no son, whose life of flesh and fire 
 
 Sprang from my splendid sire, 
 No daughter for whose soul my mother s flesh 
 
 Wrought raiment fresh. 
 
 life s venerable rhythms like a flood 
 
 Beat in my brain and blood, 
 Crying from all the generations past, 
 
 "Is this the last?" 
 
 [83] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 And I make answer to my haughty dead, 
 Who made me, heart and head, 
 
 "Even the sunbeams falter, flicker and bend; 
 I am the end." 
 
 184J 
 
SONGS OF LAUGHTER AND TEARS 
 
A LONG SONG OF MOMUS, GOD OF 
 LAUGHTER 
 
 When creeks and ditches overflow 
 
 In days of early spring, 
 When shrieking bluejays tell their sins, 
 And while the robins sing, 
 
 When new calves nose me curiously, 
 And tulips dress them gaudily, 
 And boys play marbles merrily, 
 And girls play jacks, I laugh! 
 I clothe young Mirth in rich array. 
 And crown her queen of every day, 
 I am refreshed and innocent, 
 And merrily I laugh! 
 
 When fat men slip on frosty walks 
 
 And curse then* clumsy feet; 
 When mincing ladies scream at mice, 
 While little children eat; 
 
 When debtors meet with creditors, 
 When folly wins and wisdom bores, 
 While grandsir reads and granddam 
 
 snores 
 With wicked glee I laugh. 
 
 187] 
 
BLUE8TONE 
 
 I hold my sides to keep me in 
 
 And stuff my mouth to hide my sin 
 
 They care not, who keep faith with me, 
 
 How boisterously I laugh! 
 
 When youth is young in lustihead 
 
 And struts about too proud, 
 Or drinks too deep, or woos too late, 
 Or shouts his joy too loud; 
 
 When revels crowd the holy night 
 With ribaldry and rough delight, 
 When maids wear daggers tipped with 
 
 spite, 
 
 Ah, me, I needs must laugh. 
 For though I keep an aching heart 
 And know the wounds that soon must 
 
 smart, 
 Tears never quench the thirst of 
 
 youth 
 And wistfully I laugh. 
 
 When churches fill with hypocrites 
 
 And schools breed happy fools; 
 When lawyers would defy the law 
 
 And cavil at their rules; 
 When honest toil loves evil ease, 
 
 188] 
 
ALONG80NGOFMOMU8 
 
 When platforms promise policies, 
 When those who should inspire, would 
 please 
 
 At lunacy I laugh! 
 I shake the air for cowards all, 
 Who start to hear a petal fall; 
 
 I roar with ridicule ah, ha! 
 
 And lustily I laugh. 
 
 Or, when a hero braves the world 
 
 For love of all mankind; 
 (For that great end he sees and dares, 
 Alas, they are too blind!) 
 By every great thought he has known, 
 By every shred of truth new-shown, 
 He will be more and more alone 
 
 That he may hear, I laugh ; 
 And those who fain would tear his flesh 
 But start me to a laughter fresh. 
 At them I laugh, for him I laugh, 
 And comradely I laugh. 
 
 With frilly flowers and babes at play 
 
 And honest lovers all; 
 When good wives fill their steaming pans 
 
 For homely festival; 
 
 189] 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 When greybeards keep last holidays, 
 When sunlight strikes through winter 
 
 haze 
 Into their sombre twilight ways, 
 
 With wondrous hope I laugh. 
 For all the best of life and death, 
 The birth cry and the passing breath, 
 With all the gods there are, I laugh, 
 
 And happily I laugh. 
 
 [901 
 
AN ELEGY 
 
 Comrade, they have closed your eyes 
 
 And given you a gift of tears; 
 
 They have spent their heavy sighs 
 
 Where none hears. 
 
 In your delicate fingers laying 
 
 Chilly flowers cloudy white, 
 
 Weeping, whispering, sighing, praying, 
 
 They will watch with you to-night; 
 
 And to-morrow they will take you 
 
 Silent to her riven breast, 
 
 Who was your triumphant mother, 
 
 Who is their unfailing mother, 
 
 To her broken bosom take you, 
 
 There to rest. 
 
 Kindly cool she will receive you, 
 Comrade; they will go and leave you; 
 They will weep again alone, 
 Wearing crape in solemn duty, 
 Who have never dreamed the beauty 
 You have known. 
 They will weep again together, 
 Stain glad memory with their tears, 
 
 191) 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 Shut themselves away together 
 For a time, and with the years, 
 One by one they will forget you, 
 Dear, whose spirits never met you. 
 
 Comrade, they have called you young, 
 But your soul had travelled far 
 Into youth and into age, 
 Making greater pilgrimage 
 With the souls of sea and star, 
 With the songs the hills have sung, 
 Than they make who call you young. 
 They have said you went too soon, 
 Ere your glory was begun, 
 Sword unused and spurs not won, 
 You were morning without noon. 
 But you knew it was enough 
 Just to be fine human stuff 
 And to fill your little space 
 With delicate grace. 
 
 Therefore shall I feed my sorrow 
 With a steadfast, hollow gazing 
 On eyes shut against to-morrow, 
 On the terrible, amazing 
 Mystery of your folded fingers, 
 
 [92] 
 
AN ELEGY 
 
 When my memory halts and lingers 
 With your spirit s afterglow 
 More than they could ever know? 
 
 I will make me fresh and fair, 
 Bind a flower in my hair, 
 Go abroad to meet the dawn 
 As you, too, have often gone, 
 Making splendid festival, 
 Comrade, where the petals fall 
 That were blossoms yesterday; 
 Where the buds put forth the green 
 That your prescience had foreseen, 
 I will sing my grief away 
 Into joy because you were. 
 With the flowers in my hair, 
 And the fresh sun on the dew, 
 I will sing this song for you, 
 Dawn-exalted on the earth 
 That gave you birth. 
 
 103] 
 
GARMENTS 
 
 Life has taken from us our garments of 
 
 pleasure, 
 Merry colors woven well we have laid 
 
 aside; 
 But we have put on again the old robe of 
 
 courage, 
 
 Wearing what our fathers wore even till 
 they died. 
 
 Lads wear it as the sky wears the flame of 
 
 morning; 
 Women wear it; like the dusk it folds their 
 
 spirits in; 
 And strong men wear it as the grim, gusty 
 
 winter 
 
 Wears a coat of icy mail in winds scream 
 ing thin. 
 
 Life has taken away the quaint motley of 
 
 the jester; 
 
 Life has stolen pretty pearls and laces from 
 the queen; 
 
 [*! 
 
GARMENTS 
 
 Life has torn the scholar s hood, the veils 
 
 of the dreamer, 
 
 And many a little cloak of joy that kept 
 our beauty clean. 
 
 But the old generations have given us their 
 
 garment 
 Of the harsh cloth and heavy that man has 
 
 often worn; 
 And we have put on again the old robe of 
 
 courage, 
 
 And this shall not be taken; and this shall 
 not be torn! 
 
 [95] 
 
IN A CERTAIN RESTAURANT 
 
 These diners should have sat for old Franz 
 
 Hals, 
 
 For all their faces are as round as moons, 
 Glowing with jovial warmth and creased with 
 
 smiles 
 At the turbulent clatter of many forks and 
 
 spoons. 
 
 There is no music and no cabaret 
 China and linen both are coarse and plain 
 But food there is, such stout and honest food 
 As tells a body he has not dined in vain. 
 
 Behind a bar three corpulent men in white 
 Are opening oysters, one by one by one, 
 Laying them delicately on beds of ice, 
 Friendly and slow, as if they think it fun. 
 
 Far back in the room there is a mighty grill 
 Ruddy with fire, clouded with fragrant steam, 
 Where ducks and chickens and other gentry 
 
 turn 
 Over and over as in a drowsy dream. 
 
 [96] 
 
IN A CERTAIN RESTAURANT 
 
 And through the air come speeding plates 
 
 piled high 
 
 With giant potatoes, opened, foamy white, 
 Genial, impressive beefsteaks, lobsters pink 
 As coral beads, and pastry crisp and light. 
 
 This is the place of plenty I like best. 
 I watch Manhattan burghers and their wives 
 Eating tremendously, as all men should, 
 To please their palates and to save their lives. 
 
 No finicky fashion, no satiety, 
 No smirking gesture, and no sour debate 
 Trouble these diners. They are one with life, 
 Now for a while, though inarticulate. 
 
 Such excellent food demands much company 
 Oh, to go out with friendly haste and find 
 The hungriest hungry souls and dine them 
 
 here 
 It would be good to entertain mankind! 
 
 1971 
 
GARDEN SONG 
 
 I went into my garden at break of Delight, 
 Before Joy had risen in the eastern sky, 
 To see how many cucumbers had happened 
 
 overnight, 
 
 And how much higher stood the corn 
 that yesterday was high. 
 
 I went into my garden when Rest had fallen 
 
 away 
 From the tops of blue hills, from the valleys 
 
 gold and green 
 To see how far my beans had travelled up 
 
 into the day, 
 
 And whether all my lettuces were glad and 
 cool and clean. 
 
 I went into my garden when Mirth was 
 
 laughing low 
 Through the sharp-scented leaves of the 
 
 lush tomato vines, 
 Through the long, blue-grey leaves of the 
 
 turnips in a row, 
 
 Where early in the every-day the dew 
 shakes and shines. 
 
 198] 
 
GARDEN SONG 
 
 Oh, Rest had fallen away from the valleys 
 
 green and gold, 
 From the tops of blue hills that were quiet 
 
 all the night, 
 But the big round Joy was rising busy and 
 
 bold 
 
 When I went into my garden at break of 
 Delight. 
 
A SONG FOR MOTHERS DAY 
 
 Mother, you gave me sun and stars, 
 Great hills, and rivers undefiled, 
 For, when you gave me life, you gave 
 Love of their beauty to your child. 
 
 Without you I could not have known 
 The Spring that makes the valleys green, 
 The rustling of the wings of birds, 
 Or clover fragrance kind and keen 
 
 Your travail gave me all my joys, 
 Laughter and talk and young delight 
 And dreams that float like clouds in heaven 
 High, high above me, shy and white. 
 
 For all these proud and lovely things 
 Thanks are too small a thing to give 
 Mother, I thank you with my love, 
 Who gave me this good life to live. 
 
 [100] 
 
BIRTH 
 
 This was the blessing of his draught of 
 
 power, 
 
 And this the sudden ripple of her hope, 
 And the swift current of their great desire, 
 The eddying wonder of their silent hours, 
 The rising flood-tide of her agony, 
 The billowing beauty of the infinite 
 Borne in, a miracle upon the shallows 
 Of their small, individual lives. 
 
 Yet is it but a little human babe, 
 Given at last into his reaching arms 
 And carried to the hollow of her breast! 
 
 [ion 
 
TO MY COUNTRY 
 
 Beams from your forests built my little 
 
 home, 
 And stones from your deep quarries flagged 
 
 my hearth; 
 Your streams have rippled swiftly in my 
 
 blood, 
 
 Your fertile acres made my flesh for me, 
 And your clean-blowing winds have been 
 
 my breath; 
 The dreams you gave have been my dearest 
 
 dreaming, 
 And you have been the mother of my soul. 
 
 Therefore, my country, take again at need 
 Your excellent gifts, home, hearth, and flesh 
 
 and blood, 
 Young dreams and all the good I am or 
 
 have, 
 
 That all your later children may have peace 
 In little homes built of your wood and stone 
 And warmed and lighted by the love of man ! 
 
 102] 
 
SONGS OF SUN AND SHADOW 
 
 I 
 
 I saw a golden horseman 
 Ride upward out of dawn, 
 
 Upon a golden stallion 
 
 On the trails of heaven gone; 
 
 And I, who travelled slowly 
 Through drab and level days 
 
 Looked upward out of sorrow 
 In ecstasies of praise. 
 
 I said, "Lo, one is golden 
 And rides beyond my soul 
 
 And climbs the hills of heaven 
 In fiery caracole!" 
 
 I said, "Lo, one has glory, 
 The heavens gallant guest!" 
 
 But he rides in dying splendor 
 
 Through the far gates of the West! 
 
 11031 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 II 
 
 My life is like a shadow, a shadow, a shadow, 
 With soft grey feet that patter down 
 
 A path of waning light; 
 And where the shadow passes is only rustling 
 
 laughter 
 
 That rushes to the mighty dark 
 Of the low-lying night. 
 
 And all my days go dreaming, dreaming, 
 
 dreaming 
 Of the declining summer time 
 
 And the descending sun, 
 Beseeching him to waken O fallen sleeper, 
 
 waken! 
 
 But he goes silently, who knows 
 The laughing day is done. 
 
 1104] 
 
SONGS OF SUN AND SHADOW 
 
 III 
 
 The shadows come and fold us in 
 
 And hold us through the long night hours 
 As the quiet arms of wedded love 
 
 In an old silence sweet as flowers. 
 
 These are they that guarded us 
 Ere yet we knew the living womb, 
 
 And will come home for us again 
 To the last candle-lighted room. 
 
 Oh, greatly soothe and silence me, 
 
 Oh, welcome me to gentle rest, 
 Shadows, when I may leave my work 
 
 And go to be your guest. 
 
 [105] 
 
TIME-SHADOWS 
 
 Time-Shadows perish; there is no lovely 
 shadow 
 
 But must fade out in dull, inglorious dust. 
 
 Deeds have no death. They were rooted in 
 the Beginning; 
 
 Up toward the topmost skies of Tune they 
 thrust 
 
 Their branching beauty, living and ever 
 lasting, 
 
 Or their poor ugliness, because they must. 
 
 Dreams are undying. They are the rich sap 
 
 moving 
 
 In the tree of life to prosper lovely deeds; 
 Upwelling out of the past they fill the 
 
 branches 
 
 And are the food whereon all beauty feeds; 
 They are the zest of virtue in the bless6d, 
 The power in labors and the faith in creeds. 
 
 We are Time-Shadows, surely, and we perish; 
 These lips that drink, these lungs that love 
 the air, 
 
 U06] 
 
TIME-SHADOWS 
 
 These hands that have the strength and 
 
 skill to fashion 
 
 Soon will be light enough for wind to bear. 
 To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow 
 For water and air and earth they will not care. 
 
 But these that we have known, the fluent 
 
 dreaming 
 And the hard doing, will live when we must 
 
 die; 
 
 Oh, may they flourish with immortal beauty 
 Out of our lives, growing as Time goes by, 
 Forever and forever and forever 
 Thrusting new blossoms toward the topmost 
 
 sky! 
 
 [107] 
 
WHIMS FOR POETS 
 
THE WINDS 
 
 The wind blew north, the wind blew south, 
 The wind blew cherries into iny mouth, 
 The wind blew a wild rose into my hair 
 And a pin of gold to hold it there. 
 
 The wind blew east, the wind blew west, 
 The wind blew a dagger against my breast, 
 And thorny boughs it blew in my way, 
 And I was wounded, day after day. 
 
 Now all the life of the world, I find, 
 Is a whim of the winds, be it cruel or kind. 
 Oh, meet them singing, as they rush forth, 
 Blowing east and west, or south and north! 
 
 I mi 
 
TO SEANCHAN 
 
 (In "At the King s Threshold" 
 by William Butler Yeats) 
 
 We have been too humble, Seanchan, 
 Humble as you were proud ; 
 We have left the royal table 
 For the platters of the crowd; 
 And we eat what they have broken, 
 And we drink what they will leave, 
 But we hear when they have spoken 
 And we suffer when they grieve. 
 
 H12] 
 
DUTY 
 
 I should be working on a book 
 To earn a thousand dollars, 
 
 Or win a dim, respectful look 
 From musty, dusty scholars; 
 
 This duty has not troubled me 
 All day; I have been singing 
 
 In open meadows merrily, 
 Near new brambles springing, 
 
 Near field-sparrows nesting 
 
 Where blackberry blossoms nod, 
 
 And now I am resting 
 On the soft, green sod. 
 
 1113] 
 
IF THEY WILL NOT HEAR ME 
 
 If they will not hear me, shall I sing another 
 
 song, 
 
 Louder yet, or longer, or livelier, to-day? 
 Shall I steal a passion that my music may 
 
 be strong? 
 
 Shall I steal a frolic that my music may 
 be gay? 
 
 Thrushes sing their own song over again 
 
 and over; 
 Larks sing their own song wherever they 
 
 may fly; 
 Robins sing their own song, hopping in the 
 
 clover 
 
 Of my cool, wet lawn. db-e they braver 
 than I? 
 
 [1141 
 
SONGS I SANG LONG AGO 
 
 Songs I sang long ago 
 I would forget; I do not know 
 Why I sang shrilly, frailly, 
 Crudely, harshly, poorly, palely. 
 But the little song I sang last night 
 Is the song of my delight, 
 Dearest of all the songs of men, 
 And will be till I sing again 1 
 
 11181 
 
CALIFORNIA POEMS 
 
THE MOUNTAIN LILAC OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 NEAR SAN DIEGO 
 
 Upon the hills, 
 
 Upon the little foothills, 
 
 Out there, beyond the pungent sage of the 
 
 mesa, 
 
 A film of blue has shadowed the soft green 
 That followed the rains of spring. 
 And into the mountains 
 Far beyond the foothills, 
 A film of fine elusive blue is rising, 
 Even as smoke might rise from spreading fires 
 Long smouldering near the earth. 
 
 The golden sun pitched camp upon the hills, 
 After the long, grey rains had washed them 
 
 clean; 
 And where he touched it, and where his 
 
 fingers wandered, 
 The earth, grown hot with pride in his 
 
 bright beauty, 
 Gave back this smoke, 
 
 [1191 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 Soon to be broken by the flaring flame 
 
 Of mimulus and tarweed. 
 
 Soon through this living haze, 
 
 This dear blue smoke, 
 
 Will the sun-kindled summer break and 
 
 burn 
 Upon the hills. 
 
 [120] 
 
A NIGHT ON THE BEACH 
 NORTH ISLAND 
 
 Where beach-verbenas lay their little cold 
 leaves 
 
 Upon dry sand, and lift their sticky-sweet 
 blossoms 
 
 Pale purple in the dawn, and where the 
 primrose, 
 
 With healthy golden passion fights the tides 
 
 For space hi which to flaunt her echoed sun 
 light, 
 
 There after hours upon the tossing water, 
 
 Utterly weary, we lay down to rest. 
 
 And there came near to us the blessed 
 Night 
 
 Who covered us with peace. And there we 
 met 
 
 The Morning, with all gladness in her eyes. 
 
 121 
 
THESE FOR ME 
 
 Tuberoses for fragrance, 
 Orchids for mystery- 
 Have them, if you care for them, 
 But once again, before I die, 
 These for me 
 The sharp scent of wild sage, 
 Blossoming, fretted by bees, 
 When Spring rolls clouds away 
 From a southern mesa, 
 And the rare sight of yucca 
 Blooming stark and white in blue twilight 
 On the banks of the Sacramento 
 For fragrance, for mystery, 
 These for me. 
 
 11221 
 
THE FOG COMES IN AT NIGHT 
 SAN DIEGO HAKBOR 
 
 A little while ago the sky was clear, 
 A wild blue wine for our young eyes to drink, 
 A wine in which the stars, like jolly bubbles, 
 Rose sparkling from the depths. And while 
 
 we looked, 
 
 A milky cloud flooded the splendid cup 
 And hid the bubble stars, and made opaque 
 That which our eyes were drinking, but our 
 
 spirits 
 Drank yet more deep of a wonder yet more 
 
 dear! 
 
 123] 
 
TO THE SUMMER SUN 
 
 COKONADO 
 
 Great sun, why are you pitiless? 
 All day your glance is hard and keen 
 Upon the hills that once were green, 
 Where Summer, sere and comfortless, 
 Now lies brown-frocked against the sky 
 And makes of them her resting place, 
 Since she has drunk the valleys dry. 
 You never turn away your face, 
 And I, who love you, can not bear 
 Your long, barbaric, searching look 
 Down through the low cool flights of air 
 Your tirelessness I can not brook; 
 For all my body aches with light, 
 And you have glutted me with sight, 
 With flooding color made me blind 
 To homely things more soft and kind, 
 Till I have longed for clouds to roll 
 Between you and my troubled soul 
 Oh, great Beloved, hide away 
 That I may miss you, for a day! 
 
 [1241 
 
THE PAGEANT 
 
THE PAGEANT 
 
 Forever is a long road ; Forever is a highway 
 Whereon go marching through arching nights 
 
 and days 
 Proud Dreams with golden crowns fair upon 
 
 their foreheads, 
 Shining Dreams with haloes and bright 
 
 Dreams with bays, 
 And all along the flowered edge the little 
 
 Dreams go dancing, 
 Singing gay canticles of praise. 
 
 Forever is a broad road where have met to 
 gether 
 
 Brave Deeds in red robes and Deeds of 
 golden fire, 
 
 Grave Deeds in silver gowns, quaint Deeds in 
 motley, 
 
 Quiet Deeds in homely grey that only saints 
 admire, 
 
 Gentle Deeds that love the green raiment of 
 the summer, 
 
 Pure Deeds in very white without the chill of 
 snow, 
 
 11271 
 
BLUESTONE 
 
 Squalid Deeds in dull rags, pitiful and ugly, 
 Down the broad highway they go. 
 
 All the Dreams are living still, all the Deeds 
 
 are working, 
 White man and yellow man and black man at 
 
 last 
 Will join hands and teach their feet how to 
 
 walk together, 
 Following slowly where their Dreams would 
 
 have them follow fast, 
 Where the Dreams with golden crowns, the 
 
 shining Dreams with haloes, 
 And the Dreams with bays have passed. 
 
 All the Dreams will succor them, giving 
 power and beauty, 
 
 Fostering Deeds in red and grey, Deeds in 
 gold and black, 
 
 Helping Deeds in silver gowns to triumph in 
 their going 
 
 Down the everlasting road where is no turn 
 ing back. 
 
 Speaking out of silences, shining out of 
 shadows, 
 
 1128] 
 
THE PAGEANT 
 
 Telling what men never tell, showing what 
 
 they are, 
 Though they taste a bitter death, making 
 
 them immortal, 
 Dreams have gone out to travel far. 
 
 Forever is a long road; Forever is a highway 
 Whereon go marching through arching day 
 
 and night, 
 Old Dreams from long ago, carrying their 
 
 lanterns, 
 Young Dreams from yesterday, bearing rosy 
 
 light, 
 And little Dreams not yet come true, pulling 
 
 wayside blossoms 
 To twinkle in their hands, starry white. 
 
 Printed in the United State* of America 
 
 129] 
 
17 1933 
 APR 9 1 
 
 Nov *iB7 
 
 tD2 >-so w . 
 
 1, 3 8 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY