THE WAGGON AND THE STAR BY MARY SINTON LEITCH [BRARY /HE UNIVERSITY OF CAL :FORNIA LOSANGE ES The tf^aggon and the Star The Waggon and the Star By MARY SINTON LEITCH " Hitch your waggon to o star " Emerson BOSTON B. J. BRIMMER COMPANY 1922 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA COPYRIGHT, 1922 B. J. BRIMMER COMPANY AMBROSE PRESS. INC. Norwood, Mass. The Waggon and the Star Twos fine for Emerson to say Inspiring things, I know, But stars are oh so far away, And waggons very slow. Mine rumbles clumsily along On earth, altho afar Tis held by silver ropes of song Firmly to a star. 6oor"HN ~: **O / i O TO "HIMSELF" ACKNOWLEDGMENTS For the permission, courteously given, to reprint poems included in this book, the author desires to thank the editors and pro prietors of Harper s Magazine, Poet Lore, Con temporary Verse, The Personalist, The Lyric, The Boston Evening Transcript and The Lyric West. Several of the poems have appeared in William Stanley Braithwaite s Anthology of Magazine Verse. CONTENTS Proem : The Poet 1 The River 2 An Egoist at Lynnhaven 3 The Pagan 4 Shadows 5 On Being Advised to Fill in My Swamp . 7 To My Father 8 Crusaders 10 The Owl 11 The Price 12 The Secret 14 The Dead Thrush 15 Sun-Rise 16 The Magic Gown 17 The Old Men 20 A Husband to a Wife 21 On Being Told That My Child Resembles Me 22 One Rose 23 The Flower 24 Yesterday, To-day and To-morrow . . 26 Stratford-on-Avon 28 The Summit 29 The Child of the Childless 30 x Contents To an Aunt on Her Eightieth Birthday . 34 Were You But Dead 35 The Suppliant 36 Sailing-Ship Days 37 Sand Sailors 39 Idolaters 40 Nihil Nisi Bonum 41 The Victory of the Woods 42 My Comfort 45 To A Child That Lived But An Hour . 46 The Modern God 47 Transubstantiation 48 Waiting 49 I Need Not Search the Sky 50 The Song of the Shell 51 Seen in Passing 54 Whom Germany Refuses to Honor . . 55 To My Mother 56 To Romain Rolland 57 Charlemagne 58 The Kiss 59 The Forgotten Grave 61 To the Modern Spirit 62 To a Flying-Fish 63 The Winter Woods 65 The Passing of Tom Champagne ... 66 Point of View 69 To a King-Fisher or Halcyon .... 70 Compensation 72 Contents XL The Inconsistent Pedlar 73 The Land of Upside Down 75 Love is Not Wholly Lost 77 Silence 78 Disguises 80 So, It Has Come 81 To a Girl of the Streets Who Befriended Francis Thompson 82 To a Holly Tree 85 My Instant 87 Unreality 88 A Study in Contrasts 89 To a Hermit Thrush 94 The Turn of the Road 95 Why do You Idle ? 96 Renaissance 97 Masks 99 Why are the Dead Not Dead ? ... 101 Dear, Do I Hope 102 The Vase 103 THE POET In the darkness he sings of the dawning, In the desert he sings of a rose, Or of limpid and laughing water That thro green meadows flows. He flings a Romany ballad Out thro his prison bars And, deaf, he sings of nightingales Or, blind, he sings of stars. And hopeless and old and forsaken, At last with failing breath A song of faith and youth and love He sings at the gates of death. THE RIVER I cannot sleep ; the beautiful Lynnhaven Floods thro my thoughts tonight. Past darkling pines it moves and willows weep ing In many a cove and bight. I cannot sleep because it gleams like silver. Altho my eyes are sealed, Clear to my vision are its dusky shallows And starry depths revealed. Slowly it moves, and in a mystic silence, It draws me wondering, Out thro its shadowy portals to the ocean Where sails are blossoming. On, ever on, to strange and far adventure On waters wide and deep The river bears me thro the fragrant darkness, And so I cannot sleep. AN EGOIST AT LYNNHAVEN The lilies of France are wilting, But here in pain s despite The willow leaves are lilting o er the river s liquid light. The roses of England are bowing In grief o er many a grave, But here star-flowers are showing and green marsh-banners wave. Afar great thrones are falling And Famine stalks the lands, But here Delight is calling to Lynnhaven s shining sands. If God needs my compassion For the sad world s tears and sighs, Why flaunt in ruthless fashion such beauty be fore my eyes ? THE PAGAN Thinking to shrive me in the solitude By all my folly and my failure spent Steeling my heart against the sight and scent Of tender spring, I sought the cloistered wood ; But Nature, scornful of my chastened mood, Across my vision flung a jasmine flower ; How could my thoughts with such a golden dower Go clad in garb of nun or Quaker s hood ? Lest even the yellow jasmine be withstood More snares were set. Not only far around, About, above, did loveliness abound ; A firmament of blossoms starred the sod ! Fie on you Pagan Nature, thus to make Mock of a sober mind for beauty s sake ! SHADOWS The poets croon to the orbed moon Their lays, and their praise they bring To Apollo, the sun, the all-glorious one, In song as an offering. They sing to the stars, to Venus and Mars Votaries all, of light But who of them sings to the shadows, The offspring of day and of night ? Who of them sings or a tribute brings To the shadows more lovely than light ? A spire of darkness, solemn and still, Is the cedar s shadow on the hill, No matter how the wind may try To shake its brooding dignity. The sycamore s shadows are dancing feet Myriads of them, delicate, fleet, That never advance and never retreat, But leap and frolic while breezes play In the whirl and swirl of a French ballet. The pine trees shadows are woven lace Filling the woods with an eerie grace 5 6 The Waggon and the Star Mechlin and Cluny and fine Guipure Such as the knights and ladies wear In paintings of Coques or Lagilliere ; Not even Sir Walter Raleigh spread A carpet so rich for his queen to tread. The shadows are etched on the lawn and sketched On the marsh where the lilies blow ; Thro the crystal glass of the river they pass Far down to the silence below, Where many a faery tower and dome They build to give my thoughts a home. Let others sing to the sun and bring To the moon and stars their offering ! To the gentle shade my songs be sung Whose mantle over my heart is flung, To the quiet shade whose hush is laid On my spirit s stress ! For me full meed of happiness Is found in gazing on woods and meadows And weaving fantasies out of the shadows. ON BEING ADVISED TO FILL IN MY SWAMP Only a swamp ! Yet the inhabitants Speak in the tongue of Aristophanes ! Brekekekex, ko-ax, the guttural chants Are borne to me upon the evening breeze : Without my frogs the night would be too still, The cry too lonely of the whippoorwill. All day the long deft fingers of the light Are weaving patterns in the river reeds. Adventurous snails climb to a perilous height To view the world from swaying grass and weeds, And insects dart about on azure wing. They think a swamp is a delightful thing ! It is a painter s palette, for the sun Mixes his colors there ; and there the fog Creeping about hangs gems on every one Of all the myriad grasses in the bog. You city folk may call it drear and damp ; You have your pavements let me keep my swamp ! TO MY FATHER " Sie hbren nicht die folgenden Gesange, Die Seelen denen ich die ersten sang." Goethe In other years my heart was glad and young, The month was always May, But, tho my throat was all a-throb with song, You bade me " Hold ! Delay The while that you, who know not anything Of life, nor height of joy nor depth of sorrow May live to-day and on a distant morrow Then you shall sing ! " You who had cared to listen now are gone, To a far country sped, Where other voices sing to you or none Among the quiet dead. Would that my voice a starry way could wing To you who had for my sake loved my song ! To win the ear of an indifferent throng Why should I sing ? Oh, but my songs are prisoned birds and wild ! They beat resistlessly 8 To My Father 9 Within my heart, untamed, unreconciled To their captivity. The bud does not today cease burgeoning Because the flower must bloom unseen to morrow ; My soul is over-charged with joy and sorrow And I must sing ! CRUSADERS I see a great procession sweep along : Crusaders these in shining armor. Tho They go they know not whither, yet they go In brave array, a proud and plumed throng. Their trumpets sound and streaming flags out- flung Challenge despair and doubt and overthrow. And still they march, and still they do not know Whither or whence or why their song is sung ! And tho all moving in the van are lost In shadows, others sweeping onward seize The fallen flags and, singing, wave them high. What privilege is mine with such a host, Ever renewed thro time s immensities, To march and sing my hour beneath the sky ! 10 THE OWL In the woods last night I saw an owl. Now Father says he was just a fowl Like all the hens in our kitchen yard ; But don t you know, it s awf lly hard To believe that creature was only a bird ! He stared and stared and never stirred, But once he gave a solemn wink A sort of weird and uncanny blink As tho he would say it was very absurd That I should imagine that he was a bird. He was old and withered and huddled and grey; I felt so creepy I stole away. I d never dare to tell Mamma That he looked just like my gran papa ! 11 THE PRICE If you should love me, all my life were spent, Dearest, in loving you ; your kiss would seal My lips and silence would their message steal. For, to a woman s soul, less eloquent Ambition is than love ; too full content To live in you, no longer I should feel My pulses throb an answer to the appeal Of Fame, and so my loving would prevent My larger living : therefore, dear, to-night, Stretching to God weak arms that yearn for you, With lips that tremble for your kiss, I pray That He will lead you from me to the light Of other love ; that, while you fade from view, I may have strength to turn my face away. II Dearest, I turned my face but still my eyes Held clear the vision of your passing slow : 12 The Price 13 I stopped my hearing to your voice, but lo, Still my heart heard your pleadings and your sighs ! Methought that little arms in tender wise Clung to my neck ah, to have held them so ! Then loosed their clasp and, soft, there seemed to grow And, lingering, die, as music lingering dies Afar, the sound of little pattering feet That paused and passed. With a great cry " Then this, This were the price ! " I turned to you ; oh, fast Enfold me, for my life is full complete If I do naught but love ; that loving is The larger living, now I know at last ! THE SECRET The woods have their secrets but I know one of them ! I have surprised a little pool among the cold bare trees, Silent as moonlight lying On the chill marble of a Venetian palace court yard. The winter, stripping the woods of their shelter ing leaves, Betrayed its hiding-place. So peaceful was it I felt a rude intruder And crept away, treading softly on the soft pine-needles. It was a little pond but it held hi its bosom a vast stillness And the shadows of three cedars. 14 THE DEAD THRUSH Is anything so dead as a dead bird ? So poignantly, so pitifully mute The tender feathered breast no longer stirred By song that, more than viol, harp or flute, Could fill with dear delight the heart that heard. Lovely the wildwood was today and lush With flower and fern till, on a mossy bed Beneath my feet, I saw a hermit thrush ; A singer of celestial song was dead ; And suddenly from tree and flower and bush All fragrance and all loveliness had fled. . . . The twilight falls and all the delicate hush Of evening vibrates with the music sped. 15 SUN-RISE Oh how we loved to see the sun arise Ofttimes in very thunder Of light on strange horizons ! How your eyes Would fill would flood with wonder ! Full many a crimson dawning on far seas Have we watched, love, together ; Behind tall palms or pines or olive trees ; On hills of purple heather. But now unwelcome is the breaking light, For now it comes concealing Your beauty that the darkness of the night Had been awhile revealing. In vain I hold you close ! In vain I hide Your face ! The dawn comes creeping In at our shuttered window to your side And takes you, gently sleeping, Out to the church-yard. There beneath the flowers Where you have long been lying Ah, dear, so long ! you stay till night s still hours Again disprove your dying. 16 THE MAGIC GOWN I long to see the fairies, the fairies, the fairies, Will someone tell me where is The place the fairies dwell ? I long to see the fairies, the fairies, the fairies, But where their hidden lair is, Alas, no child can tell ! Now Mother sang this little song After I went to bed, And so I lay there sleepily With fairies in my head. I wonder where their lair is, I thought : without compare is Their queen, so very fair is Her face, and gold her hair is ; I rather think her chair is A mushroom and her stair is A jasmine stalk ; her wherries Are nautili ; her dairies Are milkweed ; all her care is To keep the little fairies At work, as each one s share is In gathering slugs and berries, Moths, caterpillars, cherries, 17 18 The Waggon and the Star For such their dainty fare is : I ll go on " counting sheep " ; Perhaps in Dreamland there is Some way to catch the fairies ; Perhaps some trap or snare is The means, tho such a scare is Not good for little fairies . . . But here I fell asleep. Now old Jemima Jones, the cook, Had left beside my bed a book. Twas open and I seemed to see, Tho in the dark, this recipe ; " Get satin from the shining grass. Silk from the river s sheen, And velvet from the mullein leaf Of soft and radiant green ; A long pine-needle and some thread Of spider s web as well, And weave a dress whose loveliness Shall serve you as a spell : At red moon-set or pale moon-rise You ll be unseen of fairies eyes, And so within the woodland wild You ll find them tho a mortal child." Across my face the moon-light crept ; Exultant out of bed I leapt. The Magic Gown 19 But then, alas, I struck a light To see if I had read aright. Yes, open there the cook-book lies, But not to gowns of magic sheen All fashioned of the forest green : Dull recipes for lemon pies And stupid puddings greet my eyes ! Farewell then to the fairies, the fairies, the fairies, For none can show me where is The place the fairies dwell. I long to see the fairies, the fairies, the fairies, But where their hidden lair is No waking child can tell ! THE OLD MEN At the edge of Point Graymalkin the pines stand Old men, dark against the sky. They fling out withered arms knotted and gnarled, Threatening the river with frantic gestures, Impotent, grotesque, Daring it to trespass on their woods. The water, all unheeding, rises . . . and falls . . . And the arms wave in triumph, For the old men believe the river slunk away In fear of them. 20 A HUSBAND TO A WIFE Tell me, my dearest, that your love for me Is dead, then turn and look into my eyes. You still shall find a share of Paradise Has lingered there, for there you still shall see My love for you. I shall not utter sighs Or plaints, and standing coldly, quietly, I shall not touch your hand or hair, nor be Your lover, for my love will make me wise And strong to be your helper, and to hide My sorrow and my pain. Not hand in hand Into the morning, as true lovers might, But tho apart together, side by side, Because we share one grief and understand, Let us walk bravely forth into the night. 21 ON BEING TOLD THAT MY CHILD RESEMBLES ME I would not have you of my fashioning Sweet child not yours these hands that spill the wine Life proffers ! You, with steadier grasp than mine, Shall lift the chalice high ; Shall drink and, drinking, sing The song that on my lips would never reach the sky ! Not yours these faltering feet, these strain ing eyes That cannot see the stars for mists of earth ! Oh, naught have I to give you of my dearth ! For your clear gaze shall see Beauty thro all disguise, And winged shall be your feet like those of Mercury ! Yet for your voice of sweetness and of power My voice shall set the key ; my candle-light Shall fire your torch to flame thro all the night. Be, dear one if you must Be aught of me the flower Of all my aspirations, blossoming from their dust ! 22 ONE ROSE I cannot bear the beauty of one rose, Therefore, I pray you, give me two or three - A nosegay of them, that my eye may be Distracted and not linger over-long On one : its heart holds too much mystery : Within it burn the holy vestal fires Of all the world s deep longings and desires All loveliness is there ! So soft among Those tender petals such perfection glows, I cannot bear the beauty of one rose. 23 THE FLOWER I saw you in a shadowy dell Where one wild rose one only grew ; That rose my heart remembers well. I saw you in a shadowy dell ; I gazed and gazed, but could not tell Which was the rose and which was you ! I saw you in a shadowy dell Where one wild rose one only grew. II When all the world was sweet with May (But now alas, it is December ! ) We plighted troth. That blithesome day WTien a 1 the world was sweet with May A warbler sang a lyric lay Above us ; ah, do you remember When all the world was sweet with May ? . . . But now alas, it is December ! 24 The Flower 25 III You are too delicate a flower To gather for a lover s breast. Then bloom your frail and fleeting hour ! You are too delicate a flower ; I leave you in your woodland bower Where passion s wind will not molest. You are too delicate a flower To gather for a lover s breast. YESTERDAY, TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW " My love, your eyes are veiled and sad. You grieve for Youth her dancing feet And all the lightsome ways she had ; But still, tho yesterday was sweet, To-day too may be glad." " What matter whether sad or gay ? One moment we may laugh or pray And lo, today is yesterday ! " " But tho, with all its joy and sorrow, To-day so swiftly comes and goes, Yet future joy is yours to borrow ; The birds will sing, the buds unclose. Rejoice then in to-morrow ! " " Ah, whether skies be blue or grey Come song or silence, March or May, To-morrow will be yesterday ! " " Then, since to-morrow fades so fast Into the shrouding mists that lie 26 Yesterday, To-day and To-morrow 27 Impenetrable, chill and vast About to-day, thro memory Live in the happy past ! " " The happy past ! I say you nay ! For yesterday alas, alway Is sad because tis yesterday." STRATFORD-ON-AVON Stratford, the while I pace your streets, I see Naught of the throng to whom to-day is dear ; For it is yesterday is precious here. Upon the breeze is borne sweet Portia s plea For mercy ; Ariel sings, and Antony Summons me back to weep at Caesar s bier. Macbeth and Hamlet, Bolingbroke and Lear Rise from your storied stones and walk with me. Then, on a sudden, I must halt, my breath Stifled with feeling ; this the very air That Shakespeare breathed ! Mid tender meadows lying Yon Avon smiled upon his life and death ! Ah, Stratford-Town, my heart can hardly bear To realize thus his living and his dying. 28 THE SUMMIT " Why should you seek to scale Mount Everest ? " They cry who blind and dreamless cannot know What fires of glory and of splendor glow Upon that lonely height, who think the crest And summit of the world a waste of snow, A wilderness no more, who have not guessed It is the Peak of Vision where the quest Shall end with stars and suns to crown the brow. Oh, I shall laugh to see the moon arise And look upon me with a startled gaze ! Monarch of earth, invader of the skies, Triumphant I shall sing my diapase. While far below men crawl in clay and clod, Sublimely I shall stand alone with God. 29 THE CHILD OF THE CHILDLESS (A woman with the traces of great beauty in face and form stands before an open fire in the twilight, gazing into a mirror on the mantel.) THE WOMAN : The snow is on nay hair and the swift sap Of summer in my veins is stopped by frost. By my own will I am childless. ( The form of a beautiful child that, like a Botticelli angel, might be either boy or girl, appears. The firelight is seen thining through the transparent form.) THE CHILD : Mother ! Mother ! Did you not hear my cry on the night wind Of yearning to be nested neath your heart ? THE WOMAN : I heard ah, yes, I heard, but would not heed. Oh, but to carry in my body now The fluttering promise of that sweet fulfilment ! For I who feared to suffer should rejoice The while I beat the air in agony. 30 The Child of the Childless 31 Let heaven and earth meet in a flame of pain If milk but come to burn these barren breasts ! THE CHILD : Out of the silence brooding on the sea ; Out of the clouds that swept across the moon ; Out of the tender heart of every rose I called to you to give me flowers and dawn, Sunset and evening star and pain and love. I called to you : you heard and did not heed ! THE WOMAN : Oh, come to me, my hands are over-flowing With roses now and they are all for you. You shall have stars for playthings, and my beauty That I so feared to spend, I ll give to you, And he for whom I guarded it will love it The dearer spent than hoarded. THE CHILD : It is past Your beauty ! Altho hoarded, it is spent ! The stars you might have given were in your eyes Youth, hope and faith these are ex tinguished like A candle in the wind, and see, your roses Are crushed, the petals fallen thro your fingers. 32 The Waggon and the Star THE WOMAN : I have no gifts it is true ! My hands are empty Of rose and star. Yet come un-gifted ; come, Yourself the giver ! Music of pattering feet, Of childish laughter, bring into this stillness That aches about our house and in our hearts ! THE CHILD : I cannot cross the gulf that separates My soul that should have been from yours that is. THE WOMAN : I can no longer bear yet I must bear To see within the eyes of him I love, Tho, loving, I refused him the one gift That most he craved, the pitiful surrender Of our once-dear tomorrow. While we sit And listen to the clock that ticks away Our solitary hours, we doubt and fear Lest now to-day is our entire possession. THE CHILD : Alas, you would have had in me, your child, An immortality to grasp and hold Incorporate against all doubts and fears ! The Child of the Childless 33 THE WOMAN : And now forever I shall hear you call ! THE CHILD : Yes, I shall whisper in the rustling leaves, And I shall sob low in the washing waves, And I shall weep whenever falls the rain ; For now I am but an immortal cry Of longing that shall drift a-down the wind : Yet the mysterious light of the still moon Shall search me out a wraith and give me being Unbearable to your un-childed heart. THE WOMAN : Oh to be spared the silence, with your voice Piercing it thro crying " It is too late ! " THE CHILD : It is too late ! . . . Mother ! (The firelight becomes gradually more brightly visible thro the form of the child, and as it disappears the arms may last be seen stretched out toward the mother in anguished entreaty.) THE WOMAN : (Starting toward the vanishing figure, then sinking into a chair with a strangled cry.) My child ! . . . My child ! TO AN AUNT ON HER EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY Haggard and bent, with slow and weary pace, Have eighty winters passed you. Creeping nigh They held out withered arms that seemed to try To fold you in their harsh and cold embrace ; Their fingers only brushed your hair and face. But eighty summers, lightly tripping by, Have clasped you and enwound you lovingly With garlands of their beauty and their grace. Great-hearted daughter of great-hearted sires, In vain the years besiege you and assail ! Your youthful spirit holds its banners high. Since in my blood smoulder the self-same fires That flame in yours, when I would faint or fail, " Nobless oblige " shall be my rallying-cry ! 34 WERE YOU BUT DEAD Were you but dead, That yearning of the arms that clasp the dark When, in the hush of long night hours, I hark For Memory s whispers even that agony Were sweet if Memory still could comfort me ; But Memory s sweetness is forever fled. Were you but dead ! Were you but dead, Some golden-rod from your gold hair might grow, A wild blush-rose from your cold cheek might blow, And all the fragrance of your grave would steal Across my heart and make my senses reel With past delight till present pain were sped. Were you but dead ! Were you but dead Ah, then mayhap no longer I should crave The sensuous sweetness of your grassy grave, But, all my passion purified, should feel Divmest love my anguished spirit seal, For then from heaven my starving soul were fed. Were you but dead ! 35 THE SUPPLIANT Your sin came knocking at my heart : I bade it stay outside. " If I receive and harbour it, Love is profaned," I cried. Oh fast I locked and barred the door Until at last I knew That, holding it against your sin, I held it against you. No more I heard that knock, and you Were silent in your pride. . . . My trembling fingers on the door I laid and flung it wide. Your sin poor, suppliant, shivering thing Warm to my heart I pressed, And unafraid and unashamed It shelters in my breast. 36 SAILING-SHIP DAYS The roach was in the galley and the rat was in the hold, Not to mention what was in your bunk at night, And the weevil in the biscuit Well, you simply had to risk it, To shut your eyes before you took a bite. What mattered rat or weevil or any such-like evil When the muscles rippled underneath your skin As tho they d all been oiled, And your stomach was un-spoiled And could easily digest a sardine tin ? What mattered anything with those great white sails a-swing, While " Set the cross-jack, boys ! " or " Top sail haul ! " Boomed out along the deck, Or you gaily risked your neck To clear the buntlines fouling in a squall ? 37 38 The Waggon and the Star I m master of a steamer now and crew of forty men, And I never hear a proper sailor s damn. I ve officers, not mates, And we ve bread-and-butter plates And " serviettes " with hem and monogram ! But I d forfeit every button on my uniform to put on Once again the rags and tags of Jacky Tar i My shiny boots and collars And my many monthly dollars I d give them all to sight the Northern Star Twixt sagging sails that sway up and down the Milky Way Or, filling, fling defiance to the gale. I m a gentleman in steam, But I ll never cease to dream I m again a ragged sailor lad in sail. SAND SAILORS The boat on our beach is bedded in sand ; Some storm has lifted her high on the land ; Like the sieve of the famous Wise Men Three She s as full of holes as a boat can be. Now Father says this kind of boat Is very much safer that will not float ; But he does not know how far I go ! Way over the main to the land of Spain In an hour I voyage and back again. To far Peru or Kalamazoo, To India, China or Timbuctoo I sail, and the gale may howl, and the hail May lash, my vessel can never fail To ride in her pride, her wings spread wide, And she cannot sink whatever betide. I have a crew that is staunch and true Brother Johnny and Barbara too. They think like me that a ship on the sea Is not so nice as a ship on the land, Hard and fast in our own beach sand. 39 IDOLATERS If once again the great Gautama came To impious earth, what grief were his to find That men have made of him, whose lofty mind Had fired the torch of truth with searching flame, A graven image only with the name Of Buddha wood and stone, grotesque and blind ! They worship that ! Like chaff upon the wind The truth is lost, Gautama put to shame. If you returned, oh Man of Galilee, And saw your idol that our hands have made ; If you gazed sadly on us as we bow And scrape before it, should we also flee Out of our temples, stricken and afraid, As fled the money-changers long ago ? 40 NffllL NISI BONUM They say his heart was low and vile and base ; But I know only this : I saw his face When spring s first shy, sweet violet met his gaze Blue-peeping from the soft and leafy shade. They say his mind was base and low and vile ; But I know only this : I saw the smile That hovered wistful round his lips the while The great Un-finished Symphony was played. They say his life was vile and base and low ; Little I know of him, but this I know : I saw his tears well up and overflow Beside the grave where his old dog was laid! 41 THE VICTORY OF THE WOODS " Come on, Elijah ! Forward, march ! " I cried One winter s morning to my serving-man Whose threescore years and ten had only made His swing more sure in wielding of the axe ; " Come, shoulder arms ! We ll have a tilt with lance And bayonet your axe, Elijah gainst The trees and shrubs that press upon my house. Tho Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane We ll drive it back ! " Elijah, proof against All classical allusion, understood Enough to lift his axe ... I bade him stay ! " Lige, I forgot the eyrie in this oak. Year after wandering year the self-same eagle Returns to this same nest the tree s a palace, The home of a great king, and heaven forbid That we should raze a palace to the ground ! " Elijah grumbled out his Bolshevistic Disdain of kings. " This cedar here," he said " Is dour and sullen ; a pall-bearer could Not look more darkly." " Yes, I thought to let The cedar fall, but see, a yellow jasmine Has leaned her ladder up against the trunk 42 The Victory of the Woods 43 And when June comes that glowering cedar will Mysteriously bloom in golden flowers." " Well then," said Lige, " I ll cut this slat tern shrub." " What ! Laurel, Lige ? Why, laurel greets the spring With the first bridal blushes of the woods ! It brings the sunrise down to earth for us ! " " This willow then," he said, " for all men know A weeping willow is a worthless weed." " Perhaps, and yet she bathes her slender limbs Throughout the winter in the river there ; You must admire her courage. When the May Decks her in green, she weaves the daintiest shadows ! They dance so lightly that my heart is filled With joyance : we will let the willow live. But this tall holly is too near my door. It pricks and tears at me and casts a shade Where most I need the sun . . . Yet wait," I cried, " Lijah, this holly burns ten thousand tapers - Perhaps for the salvation of my soul ! And verily, it is my burning bush From which God speaks to me as once he spoke To Moses. You and I will not commit A sacrilege upon it ! Let it stay ! " Lijah was baffled, but he persevered 44 The Waggon and the Star With a fine patience : " Here s a rotten stump ; You won t save this ? " " No, surely I can pass Sentence of death on one old rotten stump." The old man s axe was eager. . . . "Hold!" I cried: " A stay of execution ! For I see A mesh of stems enwound about the trunk Virginia creeper with its silent promise Of summer beauty, Nature loveably Hiding unlovely things in loveliness." The old man, muttering his disapprobation, Pointed to masses of low scraggy bushes Of huckleberry spoiling all the sward. " Well then, I ll get my hoe and grub up these : My axe don t seem to be much use today." " Oh, Lige, forgive me ! We must leave the shrubs ! They bring the thrushes to my very door To prink and preen ! These huckleberries gone I lose the sober-coated thrushes too ! " So poor old Lijah mumbled a good-night And trudged despondently away, no doubt Brooding in silence on the queer mad ways Of gentry ; while I passed along the path Uncouth with straggling bushes, to my house .Darkened by shadows of importunate trees. MY COMFORT Dearest, if such a love as we have known Should e er forgotten be, What gain of new delight could then atone For this to me : That I should deem love but a fragile rose Fast fading while we dream ? Better grief s darkness since that darkness knows Vision and gleam : Gleam of the star of faith that shall defy Time s slow forgetfulness. Remembering you, my comfort be that I Am comfortless. 45 TO A CHILD THAT LIVED BUT AN HOUR I have felt your lips like a delicate flower Like rose-leaves on my breast. I have had my hour, one life-long hour, I have known the end of the quest, And sorrow is mine forevermore But never the old unrest. Tho tears forever shall blind my eyes, Yet peace shall seal my pain, For I know why the lily blossoms and dies, Why the moon, tho it wax, must wane, I know why stars were lit in the skies : On my heart a child has lain. 46 THE MODERN GOD Jehovah, ancient God of Israel s race, Our fathers God, is God no more, for we Have dragged him from the sky while Calvary Loomed black against it, smearing on his face The horrid leer of Moloch, the grimace Of Ashtaroth that all may know that he Is but a god of old idolatry ; And now Ourselves we set up in his place. I fear that heavenly radiance will beat Too hot upon our foreheads, and that down We shall come hurtling like some circus clown Who ventures up too high for foolish feet. Then there will be at last no God at all. Better perhaps have Ashtaroth or Baal ! 47 TRANSUBSTANTIATION Here on my verandah the clematis Fills the air with its spiritual fragrance And the rich black grapes hang clustered In lustrous promise of ruby wine. But yonder I see thro a cleft in the mountains That frame it in grandeur Softened by the tender mists of distance The Battlefield of Gettysburg. And, sudden, from the swinging censers Of the delicate spiritual clematis, Issues the penetrant odor of incense, While the cluster of grapes that I hold Stains my palms with blood. 48 WAITING One gesture had sufficed one look of mine Last night, and you had clasped me to your breast. But I, tho fearing you had seen, had guessed, How deep I drew my breath lest you divine My love and longing, gave nor look nor sign ; Lightly I spoke some gay and trivial jest With lips that trembled. Fain they had con fessed That all my hopes about your heart entwine ! Until you love me not alone when eyes Are lit with moonlight making lovers blind, Not with a restless, a tumultuous mind But with a calm sure passion that defies The searching day ; until you consecrate A peaceful heart to love, I watch and wait. 49 I NEED NOT SEARCH THE SKY I need not search the sky for stars ; Down in the leaves and mould The checkerberry blossoms shine In constellations that I hold More intimately mine. I need not look to heaven for all My share of heavenly grace The while, my love, you smile on me. More mine the rapture in your face Than aught in heaven can be. 50 THE SONG OF THE SHELL Mold me a high-explosive shell Carefully, deftly, shape me well ! With lyddite and with mellinite, With fulminate of mercury, Fill me, fitting me for flight My one wild flight of ecstasy Such as the bee s that weds the queen. Oh, make me sure and swift and keen, For tho I wait thro years of peace, Yet war at last shall bring release From restless, dull captivity. In some far land beyond the sea A mother holds upon her knee The victim pre-ordained for me. Methinks I see her ! Firelight gleams Within her eyes that fill with dreams. Oh, little recks she now of wars ! She sings while peaceful shine the stars " The owl may hoot, the bat may flit Without ; I hold you warm and close, 51 52 The Waggon and the Star Wee, tender thing, and exquisite As are the petals of a rose." (How I laugh to hear her sing !) " Wee, exquisite and tender thing, Hush you ! See, the firelight dies, But the love-light in my eyes Is light enough for lullabies. Hush you, sweetling, hush and rest Safe and warm on Mother s breast ! " And I, the high-explosive shell, While she sings am molded well And deftly, and triumphantly I fling my song across the sea To the babe upon her knee : " Your flesh as pink as rose-leaves oh, How I shall tear and mangle it ! That innocent throat the blood shall flow And fill and stop and strangle it ! And you shall lie in agony Beneath a pale and pitiless sky. Above you, waiting till you die, The vultures ravenous shall fly, The while I rest within your breast, The end and goal of all my quest." The Song of the Shell 53 I sing . . . and, soft, the baby sleeps. It is for me the mother keeps Her watch ! For this her hopes are high While low she croons her lullaby : "The owl may hoot, the bat may flit Without ; I hold you warm and close, Wee, tender thing, and exquisite As are the petals of a rose." Aha ! That mother does not guess The song that I, the bullet, sing ! Her voice is sweet with happiness : " Wee, exquisite and tender thing, Hush you ! Hush you, darling ! Rest Safe from harm on Mother s breast." SEEN IN PASSING Brick walls and a few square feet Of dusty and squalid yard Where a poplar tree dies hard And a bird is singing sweet. At a broken pane I see An ancient crone who sits And patiently, hopelessly knits " One two, two three, two three." Then sudden the bird that sings Hushes her mumbling tongue, Gives to her heart its song, Gives to her soul its wings. For an instant the poplar tree Sways on a shining strand And the song is sung in the land Of love her Lombardy. And then the withered lips once more Are mumbling, "One two three and four." 54 WHOM GERMANY REFUSES TO HONOR (An appeal in Germany for funds to keep up as a memorial to Goethe a house in which he had lived, met with almost no response.) Oh Germany, you crown a Hindenburg, A Treitschke, a Bernhardi, and refuse The laurels to your most illustrious son ! He took your harsh and dissonant syllables And tuned them to such beauty that the soul Is borne on waves of deep melodious sound To vast and dim cathedrals ; organs peal Sonorous with the sorrows of the world : Or, soft, a myriad unseen fingers sweep A myriad harps, and hidden choirs hymn, White-stoled, in voices virginal and clear. Amid the rack and tumult of the time The discords of your inharmonious days Unheeded is the singer, and his song Is silent. . . . Hark ! I hear his music still, Stealing thro ruined aisles and crumbling arches Of mighty temples that are dark, deserted, Save that the pale and pitiful listening moon Touches the broken altars wistfully. 55 TO MY MOTHER Your form is dim ; your hands, your brow, your face Are lost, and only some elusive grace Remains of you for memory to prize : A fluttering bit of lace, A ribbon oh, the past is pitiless And will not yield you to my aching eyes ! Is this forgetfulness ? Mother, not so ! For your escape is of The body, not the spirit, and my love Holds you forgotten intimately sweet, And precious far above The need of flesh to keep remembrance true. Forgotten ? Ah, my very pulses beat In memory of you ! 56 TO ROMAIN HOLLAND (Who Remained " Above the Battle ") You stand a lonely figure on a height That reaches to the stars. About you rise The stench and smoke of war s grim sacrifice. To Baal, whom men call God the God of might Their altar fires flame red upon the night. You gaze and deep compassion makes your eyes Tender with tears for men s idolatries. They consecrate with song and solemn rite War, tho it scourges, tho it crucifies Beauty and loveliness and all delight. And you, great soul, clear-seeing anchorite, You they assail with harsh and bitter cries But unavailing. War at last shall cease And men shall worship God the God of peace ! 57 CHARLEMAGNE (Charlemagne was buried sitting upright on hit Ihrone, robed and crowned, his sword at his side.) He sits beneath the dust of conquered worlds Clothed in imperial robes, his restless sword The terror once of Arab, Saxon, Moor Held in that last cold grasp of lifeless clay. How must that spirit, tortured by the sight Of crumbling empires, struggle to break free ! How must that hand, once glorious in the strife, That death alone could conquer, strain to lift The sword and save the kingdom from its doom ! And yet he moves not ! On his shadow throne, While muffled sounds of kingdoms falling strike His earth-clogged ears, he reigns among the shadows Until with wide unblinded eyes he see All thrones and crowns lie broken in the dust. 58 THE KISS (To the Maid) You call me thief ! I stole a kiss Tis true, and yet tis hardly fair That you particeps criminis You call me thief ! I stole a kiss, But your bewitching fault it is For wearing rose-buds in your hair. You call me thief ! I stole a kiss Tis true, and yet tis hardly fair. II (To the Bride) I kissed the maid and little guessed That lips could yield this draft divine. That stolen kiss was but a jest : I kissed the maid and little guessed That thus from wedded lips is pressed A richer, rarer, ruddier wine ! I kissed the maid and little guessed That lips could yield this draft divine. 59 60 The Waggon and the Star HI (To the Wife) No kiss of maid or bride endears Like this, fulfilled of faith and truth, That has withstood the blight of years. No kiss of maid or bride endears Like this made up of smiles and tears Of age, my love, as well as youth. No kiss of maid or bride endears Like this, fulfilled of faith and truth. THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE I would not know the spot where Phebe lies In some still churchyard ; earth and sky and air Are full of her, and ever, everywhere, I feel her presence, sweet and strong and wise. But should I look upon the silent mound, The stone, the flowers, my thoughts would linger there While to my soul the voices of Despair Would whisper " Lo, she lies beneath the ground ! " By others tears the sullen sod be wet That covers the dear hands and eyes and hair ! Ah Phebe, tho I lay no roses there, It is the grave alone that I forget ! 61 TO THE MODERN SPIRIT You say that old beliefs are all out-worn, Old creeds outgrown ; and yet you cannot show That thorns of doubt have pricked upon your brow One gracious drop. If your un-faith were born Thro travail of the soul that left you shorn Of mockery ; or if the overthrow Of ancient altars caused your tears to flow, Baptizing, cleansing, ridding of all scorn Your unbelief : ah, then it were a thing That men should honor, reverence, not despise. But no ! You care not if old truths be lies ! You grieve not that the vault of heaven should ring With empty echoes of our prayers and cries ! While sacred temples burn, you dance and sing ! 62 TO A FLYING-FISH Of bird and naiad you are born, a sprite Of air and ocean, wild and glad and free ! When white sails wing me o er this warm de light - The southern waste of lone cerulean sea My heart leaps up whene er in riotous flight You dart from watery realms of faery. An envious diver hides her feathered breast A moment in the waves, but you surprise The cool green secrets of the sea unguessed Of gull or mortal. Then, in magic wise, You change, and from a billow s curling crest A bird, you sweep into the startled skies ! Whene er the spendthrift moon her treasure flings Over the waters, many a priceless gem You snare within the meshes of your wings That flash and shimmer, flare and flame with them Such emeralds, sapphires, diamonds as kings Have never worn in royal diadem. 63 64 The Waggon and the Star What tender lullabies does ocean croon In azure depths ? Do nymphs and nereids smile Upon you sporting in the surges strewn With streaming stars, cleaving your course the while Mid tall sea-flowers that swing and sway and swoon Against the pillars of a coral isle ? A bright unerring arrow from the quiver Of some mermaiden you are swift up-slung. I watch the ocean mirror crack and shiver The sparkling fragments to the breezes flung. . . . Alas, such ecstasy as yours forever Eludes both human heart and human tongue ! THE WINTER WOODS I love the sober winter woods the trees With their clean trunks and boughs that, clear and bare, Are etched against the blue, with, here and there, A nest more silent for the memories Of song it holds. I love the calm, the peace, That broods upon the frozen earth and air. Summer is wanton, taking thought nor care For bird or flower, and giving no surcease Of beauty till the soul is surfeited. To me the voice of one sweet feathered bard Who lingers when the rest have taken wing, One leaf that flames mid others dry and dead, One winter violet, is more reward Than all the wealth that summer days can bring. 65 It is but yesterday old Tom Champagne Went reeling past this house as yonder ship Reels in the offing. Some three years ago He came, a battered derelict, and cast His anchor in our port. None ever knew Whence he had come or who he was or what The name he bore. He boasted that his gait A limping lurch and roll was consequent On wounds won at the battle of Champagne. He must have meant a bottle of champagne Some wag remarked, and so the neighbors called him The name that made him butt of many a jest, Both for the battle s and the bottle s sake. And yet the while they jeered they envied him His knowledge of the whereabouts of each And every still in all the county round. He swore he knew naught of them, yet he knew Enough to keep his nose forever red, His legs unsteady and his hands a-tremble, However dry the place or sly the police. Well, Tom went lurching to the country store Only last night, to have the usual jests 66 The Passing of Tom Champagne 67 And banter flung at him. He stood inane And simpering there, with sagging mouth that told The story of his sin, with bloated cheeks, Empurpled veins, and eyes like window-panes In a dim, haunted house a thing obscene He was with not a spark of manhood in him. Then, suddenly, with a low, stricken cry, He fell ... lay still ... old Tom Cham pagne was dead! And all the free-flung jests and jeers were changed To whispers full of awe and reverence. Tom, who had been one instant past a creature To spurn, to spit upon, was now become A holy thing, and in the hush that lay Upon him brooded mystery ineffable. The eyes that, open, had been all unseeing Seemed, sealed, to see : gently the eyelids closed On knowledge calm, transcendent, absolute. The face which, but a moment gone, had been A crumpled parchment that the hand of evil Had blotched and blotted, now was changed, transformed Into a white illuminated scroll On which was writ a Sign inscrutable. 68 The Waggon and the Star We gazed awe-stricken in the flickering light Ringed round with darkness. And when Arbuthnot, The keeper of the store, brought out a piece Of sacking to throw over the still form, We stayed his hand and sought a strip of linen The whitest, finest, to be found, and that Was spread upon him, tho it only served To make more still the awful stillness of him. Well, I must go. We bury him this evening. Why should we wait to give him to the arms Of Death ? Life made him subject of a sneer, But Death has won respect for him at last. POINT OF VIEW When earth seems dark with envy And hate and greed and wars, Remember to the distant Inhabitants of Mars It flames upon their vision A star among the stars ! 69 TO A KING-FISHER OR HALCYON It s very queer when garbed like that In fine dress-suit and white cravat To dive into the brook ! I d think that such a bath would hurt Your beautiful white-bosomed shirt And yet you always look Quite freshly starched. No bird before Had ever such a pompadour As you, you funny imp. Why dive for fish when you have bugs And gauzy flies and juicy slugs And those delicious shrimp ? You have the strangest kind of note That ever came from feathered throat - It is not song at all, But just a rattle, yet your true Devoted wife, as she should do, Pretends you re musical. 70 To a King-Fisher or Halcyon 71 And you repay her flattery By treating her with gallantry As tho you thought it fun To housekeep with her by the stream In that lush bank, your days I deem Are truly halcyon. COMPENSATION When wild-plum blossoms fail and fall, The dogwood breaks in delicate spray Against the forest-green, and all The sweet wood-lilies breathe of May. When golden bells of jasmine peal No more with silent song, we have The laurel beautiful to heal The hurt the jasmine s passing gave. And when the laurel s blushes fade And, sighing, we would say " Too soon Does beauty perish " - tis unsaid For lo, the crimson rose of June ! And, roses lost, the holly tree Flames against winter s icy breath. Thus when your love shall pass from me May Nature solace me with death ! 72 THE INCONSISTENT PEDLAR " Oh who will buy a sceptre, Or who a cast-off crown ? Who wants a royal signet-ring Or an ermine-bordered gown ? " Down many a busy city street I hear the pedlar cry His dusty wares, but all in vain, For there is none will buy. The sceptre, crown and ring and gown - Thus held of little worth He sealed up in a casket And he laid them in the earth. " When this, our twentieth century, Is buried in the past," He said, " my children s children May dig these up at last, And then as curiosities I m sure they will be prized As relics of a time before Mankind was civilized ; 73 74 The Waggon and the Star When nations had to have their toys And all such silly things As thrones and crowns and ermine gowns And emperors and kings." The pedlar has no wares to sell ; He s old and bent and lame ; But a light is in the beggar s eyes ; A parchment with his name Lies in the buried casket Sealed with the royal ring, And he hopes his children s children Will believe he was a king. THE LAND OF UPSIDE DOWN The pleasantest place that I ever have known Is the magical country of Upside Down. I could sit on the bank forever and ever And gaze into fairyland down in the river. The hills and the trees and the houses and meadows Are peaceful and cool in the land of the shadows, But whenever the water is touched by the wand Of the wind good-bye to my fairyland ! I wonder whether if I should drown I d live in the land of Upside Down, With my head on the floor and my feet on the ceiling. That might be a very uncomfortable feeling ; But there s this advantage I d climb the trees By sliding down them with perfect ease. But how could I possibly drink from a cup I was holding so funnily down side up ? 75 76 The Waggon and the Star But this is the hardest puzzle for me ; How can the very highest tree In shallow water be straight and tall As tho there were no river bottom at all ? And the sky is as far away down there As the real sky is that is up in the air ! More mysterious much than Reality Town Is the land that I love of Upside Down. LOVE IS NOT WHOLLY LOST Love is not wholly lost to my possessing, For often, when I rouse in sweet unrest From dreams that have restored to me the blessing Of your dear, tender form against me pressed, My hand, that sleep stirred to its old caressing, Curves to the delicate roundness of your breast. Oh, precious gesture ! In the fear of waking Fully to loss and loneliness and cold, I keep my fingers curved till hope forsaking My yearning hand I know that in my hold Is nothingness ; that, tho my heart is breaking, You still remain beneath the leaves and mould. 77 SILENCE What do I love the dearest in my wood ? The holly berries red That swing their censers to the sun ? The bed Of violets as white as virgin s snood ? The gauzy humming-bird ? The scurrying insect-life when moss is stirred By an inquiring hand ? The odors that the balmy south wind brings ? The brown pine-needles carpeting the land Richer than any rug from Samarcand ? Oh dearly, dearly do I love these things ! And yet, of all, I love the silence best The silence of the wood That gently seems to nest And nestle in the over-burdened heart ; Soft as the feathered breast Of yonder thrush that hovers near her brood ; Silence that soothes the ache and pain and smart Of life s swift lash laid on the quivering soul. It is a chalice full of sanctities ; It is a benediction breathing peace. It is as calm, as deep, 78 Silence 7S As cool green wells of sleep In which the spirit sinks and is made whole. And if from some bird-throat a sudden rill Of sound may flow, It is but etched against the stillness so That all the wood seems even more deeply still. Yet most for this I love the silence best, That it is big with longings unexpressed And lyric with unutterable song ; Astir with winds and wings That ever with their soundless whisperings Uplift my heart and make my spirit strong. For silence is as wide And boundless as the wide and boundless sea : It flows around me in a mighty tide Of vast beatitude. Oh, may I ever live upon the shore Of its beneficent immensity That, when life s clamor grows too harsh and rude, I may steal forth to the great quietude ; That I may feel its healing waters pour Over my tired soul and wash it clean Of trivial things and mean ! And thus it is the silence of the wood, The silence of renewal and of rest, That I love best ; Silence that is to-day enfolding me And in its bosom holds eternity ! DISGUISES I saw a lissome form that sped As swift as flame thro field and wood, And whither her light footsteps led Led the desire within my blood, Until upon a distant hill Weary she stood to wait my will. > y u are mine at last ! " I cried : "I ve followed you o er moor and lea And I have won you for my bride." Slowly she turned her face to me : Alas, not Joy but Grief I pressed With rapture to my eager breast. And when one came in mantle clad Of sober grey with veiled face, I knew not that her eyes were glad And turned me cold from her embrace : Too late the sudden moonlight shone Revealing Joy and she was gone ! Thus when upon some night of gloom And mist, I hear upon my door A knock, and see a figure loom In Death s habiliments before My fading eyes, oh may it be Life s face, not Death s, that turns to me ! 80 SO, IT HAS COME . . . So, it has come this horror that shall gnaw In cruel hunger my defenceless breast, The home of all my tenderness where nest My dearest hopes and loves. The tooth and claw Of agony shall rend me and shall draw My courage drop by drop, till, all possessed Of fear, my soul shall be at last the jest, The sport, of pain. ... No ! No ! Not that ! I saw For one black moment, with a coward s eye, Only defeat. My soul shall never lie Cringing to flesh the soul that I inherit From dauntless thousands that have dared to die! I summon all the legions of my spirit To march with me to death and victory ! 81 TO A GIRL OF THE STREETS WHO BEFRIENDED FRANCIS THOMPSON (Finding the poet in dire distress, she gave him food and theUer and tender care, then vanished out of his life, leaving no trace. He celebrates her in " Sister Songs") Frail flower and pale and pitiful That any passer-by might cull Out of the London dust, and wear A fleeting moment if he found it fair, Then with indifferent, careless gesture fling Forth to the wind to be blown withering Thro noisome ways where never flash of wing Is seen or blue of sky or green of spring, And night lurks ever in the baleful air : Poor child ! Poor lost one ! Lovingest, tender thing He called you whom you found so sore be-sted And succored, helped and healed ; For whom you broke your scanty, shameful bread, Knowing but this that he had suffered wrong And that he seemed unloved, uncomforted, Needing your ministering. 82 To a Girl Who Befriended Francis Thompson 83 And all the while a rich red rose of song Lay on his breast beneath his rags concealed. Did some sweet subtle perfume of it, borne Upon you keeping vigil, serve to start The tears of wistful wonder in your eyes, The throb of understanding in your heart ? Whence was the knowledge that could make you wise To see the rose was his and yours the thorn ? Did sudden light from some revealing star Shine on his sleeping brow, Stabbing your brain with its keen scimitar To realization full of pain and woe ? Mayhap he muttered half -remembered prayers Dreaming and fevered and you heard, and knew You entertained an angel unawares. Howe er you saw the truth, you too were true. You too were true and so you would not stay. Your farewell silenced on a stricken tongue, Dumbly you crept away, Leaving the singer to his lonely song. Whatever dark unhallowed paths of sin Your weary feet since then have wandered in, His song has made you pure and you are shriven. He places you, a flower, Again in the bright coronal of spring, 84 The Waggon and the Star No more to be blown wilted thro the street, On dusty, sullen breezes tossed and driven, Worn for a passing hour, Then trampled beneath hurrying, pitiless feet ; But evermore to bloom unwithering In virgin freshness beautiful and sweet. TO A HOLLY TREE I thought these frozen woods were grey and quiet So bare of beauty that the heart would find Within them solace, rest and sanctuary ; But here behold you standing in a riot Of startling and unsympathetic red, As tho the magic wand Of a tormenting fairy Had summoned you from some far tropic land To flare and flame Amid the ashes of the winter s dead Before my weary and reluctant eyes ! I am too tired to bear your loveliness : Then why distract my mind With restless thought I fain had left behind In the uneasy world ? Have you no shame That you in wanton wise Your clamorous, insistent beauty press Upon my sight ? . . . Ah, well, another time I shall find rest in other land and clime Mayhap, not here alas, for beauty here In March June April, is too penetrant, Too poignant for the heart to gain release. 85 86 The Waggon and the Star And now December, that I thought was sere And dun and drab, with all her trees in rags, Produces you, disturber of the peace ! . . . You conquer ! See ! I yield me to delight In your triumphant beauty burning bright ! All thoughts of rest avaunt ! The banners courage, hope and faith, you flaunt In splendid scarlet challenge to despair. Then let my spirit fling out all its flags To stream with yours upon the inspired air ! MY INSTANT Because thro twenty times ten million years The earth has hung in starry space, yet I Have but an hour wherein to live and die An instant only, shall I dim with tears My glimpse of earth ? Shall hesitations, fears And doubts confound me, or despair defy ? No ! Rather shall my voice be lifted high In thankfulness that all of time s arrears Are paid me in the instant that gives sun And moon to me, that makes the wild winds mine To ride upon. I am a part of thee Spirit of Beauty, spirit of Splendor, one In flower and flame ! A moment I am thine : Could all eternity give more to me ? 87 UNREALITY On the banks of the river a willow, The daughter of earth and of air, Is wooed by the wind s caresses And the sun has found her fair. But remote in the clear cool water From the kiss of the wind or the sun, Elusive, her sister of shadows Is chaste as a cloistered nun. Tender the shade that enfolds her, Limpid the light and serene : A willow in shimmering water Is green as no other is green. The tree in the river is silent, The bird-songs all unsung, But sweet to the heart is the music That never may find a tongue. Oh, lovely the shadowy image In the liquid dusk of the stream Unreality mystic, enchanting, With the lure of desire and of dream ! 88 A STUDY IN CONTRASTS (Extracts from the Diaries of a Country Woman and a City Woman.) (City Woman) The First of February. Snow and ice Are holding all the city in a vice Of cursed quiet at the season s height. No matinee ! No tea ! No bridge tonight ! And this the sunny South ! (Country Woman) The snow and hail Induced my trees last night to take the veil. With reverent heads they stand as tho they were A sainted congregation bowed in prayer. I love this nunnery, with the winter hush Upon it ! (City Woman) Fifth of February. This slush Is so unhealthy ! Delicate Annette Has been house-bound for days. How she does fret ! 89 90 The Waggon and the Star (Country Woman) I believe the snow is sent like Santa Claus Just for the children. It has been the cause Today of such a frolic ! We ve been shaking The trees to save their laden boughs from breaking, And many a merry snow-storm of our making Has fallen on an unsuspicious head. The children came in tingling, rosy-red. (City Woman) March Fifth. I took Annette to see a show : The child must be amused, and so we go To " movies," tho " soul mates " and soulful kisses Are all too educational, I know, For little girls of eight. I hope she misses At such a picture hah* the meaning of it. (Country Woman) Arbutus ! I m so glad my children love it ! All six of them and I had searched together The morning long, because we thought this weather Might coax it out. We found some, shy and pink, A Study in Contrasts 91 In the dead leaves. What could I do but sink Down on the earth (tho my own secret this) And touch the dear wee blossoms with a kiss ? (City Woman) March Tenth. The spring has come ! Gwen Vanderloo Appeared in a straw hat a fine one too, With a real bird of Paradise. I m weary Of winter clothes, they look so drab and dreary ! I m glad the spring has come. (Country Woman) The spring ! The spring ! I knew it by the sudden quickening Of one bright bluebird s long-expectant wing : Besides, I asked him, and his answer duly Came with the sweet assurance " Tru-ly ! Tru-ly ! " (City Woman) April the First. It s raining. What a pity ! I can t go shopping in this deluged city. I must sit moping here until it clears. 92 The Waggon and the Star (Country Woman) When April, the light-hearted, sheds her tears They seem like laughter ! I have watched all day The long bright busy needles of the rain Stitching in Nature s wide-spread counterpane Patterns of flowers to deck the bed of May. I think these April showers wash every stain Of age from Earth, making her young again. (City Woman) May the Fifteenth. Gwen Vanderloo is dead ! She lived too hard and fast, the doctors said. The trouble was exhaustion. What a whirl This life is ! Young and care-free as a girl, She s gone ! The funeral is to-day. I ll send A wreath of lilies, but I must attend Two meetings first, and I ll invite a friend To lunch to cheer me up. I must not waste A single minute, I am in such haste ! They ll put Gwen in the city cemetery : It s bare and cold, but fashionable very. I do hope nobody will tell Annette That Gwen is dead, she fears death so, the pet ! A Study in Contrasts 93 (Country Woman) Our kind old neighbor, Ellen Jones, is dead. Why grieve ? Or why regret ? Her life was led In useful leisure and in busy peace Among her flowers, beneath her sheltering trees. I took the children, wishing them to see How lovely and how tender death can be. Cedars may mourn, but let the holly wave Its happy scarlet flags above her grave ! TO A HERMIT THRUSH Great lyricist, you sing of vanished ships Whose spirits haunt the mist-enshrouded dune, Or of long-dead, forgotten lovers lips That drank their draughts of joy beneath the moon; Of Cleopatra s form, of Helen s face, Of Caesar s fame : Egypt and Greece and Rome You know not, but all glory and all grace Within your cosmic strains are gathered home. And I who feel within my aching breast Your own wild, sweet necessity to sing When clouds, rose-petalled, blossom in the west Or when arbutus buds are pink with spring, I must delay and grope for speech, with art Striving in vain to capture ecstasy ; While unrestrained you pour your lyric heart Your lyric soul itself upon the sky, So clearly soars your pure, celestial song Above poor human need of stammering words. Ah, that is poetry ! Speech does beauty wrong. I think there are no poets save the birds. 94 THE TURN OF THE ROAD I swing today on Gallows Hill Because one maid was fair. Because her teeth were white as milk, Because her skin was smooth as silk, I swing today on Gallows Hill With none to heed or care. Why did she stand at the turn of the road That forked to east and west ? " I seek the way to the Temple of Fame," I said. She smiled with a mouth like flame As she pointed the way to Gallows Hill. A curse on the curve of her breast ! To west, to east, and the choice must be Forever, for good or ill. Now answer me, God, if you can, if you dare, And answer me, man, is it fair, is it fair, Because one maid had a mouth like flame, Because her skin was white as milk, Because her hair was fine as silk, That I who was seeking the Temple of Fame Should swing on Gallows Hill ? 95 WHY DO YOU IDLE? " Why do you idle by a woodland stream Singing alone, aloof, while nations lie Stricken and prostrate ? Think you that the gleam Of moon or star will warm them ? Would you try To nourish starving men with melody ? " Thus they who plow the furrow and sew the seam Challenge my peace. " We summon you," they cry, " To labor with us. Dreamer, cease to dream ! " Scorn me not, brothers ! Know that while you spin The flax to cover shivering flesh, I weave Fabric of dreams to clothe the soul within. Toiling at plow and harrow you relieve The hunger of the body. I, apart, Seek with my song to feed the famished heart. 96 RENAISSANCE Asleep lay lovely Poesy Upon a lilied bed : Pale lilies on her heart had she, Pale lilies at her head, And lily-white her drapery Upon the sward was spread. As chill her breast as marble, deep Her slumber as a swoon ; And still the virgin lilies keep Their watch from noon to noon. Stifled with fragrance she must sleep, Tho sun may shine or moon. Life waked and wooed her in the glade " Behold the gifts I bring ! Here is a homespun gown," he said, " And here a wedding-ring Wrought out of iron that was made Where forge-fires leap and sing." She laid her draperies aside, She flung her lilies down, 97 98 The Waggon and the Star And holding high her head in pride She donned the ring and gown. With Life she passed, his wedded bride, Eager from town to town. He showed her beauty in the dust Where men lay grovelling ; In crooked hands that begged a crust, As in a bluebird s wing ; He taught her that from hate and lust White flowers of truth might spring. And now she walks mid toil and strife WTiom lilies lulled to rest. Oh, beautiful she is as wife In humble homespun dressed As evermore she follows Life, Red roses on her breast. MASKS We sat before our hearth-fire, you and I, Secure behind our guardian bolts and bars From lonely winds, from darkness, from the cry Of owls and the cold shining of the stars. I thought : without is mystery, vastness, stark, Unknowable ; within, your form and face. I hold you known against the unknown dark, My only hostage against time and space. Let night flow round me ! I am unafraid : You give me all the certainty I ask. I turned to you. A gleam of firelight played Upon your face and lo, you wore a mask ! " What ! You ? Even you ? " I cried, " Not yours that brow, Those lips that I have loved ? Through all the years You have looked at me, as you are looking now, With eyes whose painted laughter, painted tears, 99 100 The Waggon and the Star Have mocked me ! I will tear that smile away." In vain my trembling hands attempt the task. You point me to the mirror. I obey And see that on my face I wear a mask. WHY ARE THE DEAD NOT DEAD? Why are the dead not dead indeed who crowd Upon me, thus insistent in demands On my remembrance ? Why are pale, cold hands Thrust from enfolding mist as from a shroud To clutch my heart ? In moon and fire and cloud I see lost faces and on desolate sands I hear long-silent footfalls. To far lands They follow follow still. I am allowed No respite none no ease from memory s sadness. You dead, you loved me once, then grant me one Only one hour of sheer unshadowed glad ness, One golden hour of laughter in the sun Out of a heart whence thoughts of you are sped. . . . Then come to me again, beloved dead. 101 DEAR, DO I HOPE Dear, do I hope to find you far beyond The dawn of day, beyond the reach of years, Removed from human laughter, human tears ? Will you in that diviner air respond To love of mine ? Can some ethereal bond Endear us as the bond of flesh endears ? I do not know. My heart is filled with fears, I have so loved the foolish ways and fond Of daily living ; loved your hands and eyes, Your hair and the deep solace of your breast. If these were lost, then what were loving worth ? My lips on yours, I almost hope the skies Beyond our sky will yield us only rest, Lest heaven be cold to this, our heaven on earth ! 102 THE VASE I fain would have my verse a vase Clear as a Cyprian sky, With fair Diana of the chase, With nymphs and fauns of sylvan grace, Winding forever round its base Of veined porphyry. And I would pour my thoughts like wine Within the vase, and they With opalescent light should shine Of tranquil seas that crystalline Hold the irradiance divine Of an eternal day. Alas for this, my vase ! It seems A thing with failure fraught. It can to my desires and dreams Impart no iridescent gleams ; No lucent splendor from it streams ; Of clay my vase is wrought. 103 - L ". ;.;- to star. A 000 923 695 1 FS