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 UC-NRLF 
 
 B 3 553 abM 
 
p^..,.,.-,. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 TWO 
 UNDERGRADUATES 
 
 1905 
 

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 ibarvarD College Xlbrar? 
 
 FROM 
 
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 EACH TO EACH. 
 
 If thou in years we Jcnoir no more 
 
 Hast sotnethnes loved these little soigs^ 
 
 Tale from me now v^hat long before 
 To thee belonged and still belongs. 
 
 It came to me from eery far 
 
 Over a spacious lake of dreams 
 
 To this garish world that only seema^ 
 
 From the dim sn^eet hills that really are. 
 
 My heart is a reed on the windy shore 
 A7id the voice of me is dumb; 
 
 Hut thou knev^est Uden 'inine of yore 
 And wilt arise and co)ne. 
 

 Hymn to Night. 
 
 C\ Thou who holding nature to thy breast 
 
 ^"^ Dost hush the broodings struggling in her soul, 
 
 While all around thy soothing shadows roll, 
 And the East murmurs softly to the West, 
 •'The darkness and the silence are the best," 
 Grant us the quiet calmness of thy sv/ay, in our life-we<|ry 
 rest. 
 
 The day -god swoons upon his purple bed, 
 
 Dyed in the life-blood of a thousand flowers; 
 Above him skip the never -ceasing hours 
 Racing towards doom, while o'er his sinking head 
 Thy noiseless presence leaps with noiseless tread, 
 Thy wide eyes peer across the western rim, over the sup- 
 set's red. 
 
 The Eternal Power musing o'er the abyss 
 
 Smiles in his thought, and kindled with delight 
 Unspeakable, the quivering vault of night 
 Bursts into fiery stars who, rapt in bliss. 
 With myriad eyes strain towards that smile and kiss 
 The darkness all about. O Night, thou art incarnate love- 
 liness. 
 
 042 
 
Cui Fata Parent. 
 
 ■XJISTHAT though a thousand sages 
 
 Thundered beneath the slough, 
 The Mongol of the Ages 
 
 Is the Mongol of the Now. 
 Not omenless the finger 
 
 That points across the sea 
 Where the angry storm-dogs linger 
 
 In the leash of destiny! 
 
 And knowing the requital — 
 
 It is written in The Book 
 How he digged and hid his title 
 
 For the toil he would not brook — 
 And knowing the requital, 
 
 Is it not worth thy breath 
 To rescue what is vital 
 
 From the quicksand that is death? 
 
 Older than all thy brothers, 
 
 M'ghtier born than they. 
 Thou, Teacher of the others, 
 
 And sleeping life away! 
 The Master comes ; no longer 
 
 Thy birthright disavow. 
 For Jacob still is stronger 
 
 And night is closing now. 
 
 From Behemoth no bellow 
 
 Moves from the sluggish mire, 
 (God save us from the yellow 
 
 When yellow turns to fire!) 
 The lamps of Death are burning, 
 
 The watchers are at hand, 
 And there is no returning 
 
 For whom the Fates demand. 
 
Amoretta. 
 
 "XTtTHO is it that goes tripping by ? 
 
 Her darling locks kiss the pure skin 
 Of her white neck, her little chin 
 Wistfully held on high. 
 Who is it that goes tripping by? 
 Mad heart be still! 
 Tremble your voices cooing doves, 
 O calm your voices wooing doves, 
 My love goes tripping by. 
 
 Who is that goes singing by? 
 
 Her thrilling voice, so low, so light, 
 Lulling the sleep of nestling night 
 Under the starry sky. 
 Who is it that goes singing by? 
 Mad heart be still! 
 Tremble your voices cooing doves, 
 O calm your voices wooing doves. 
 My love goes singing by. 
 
Sonnet. 
 
 ""I ""HERE is a dim unreachable desire 
 That mystifies the glory of the dawn, 
 
 And fills me with a sense of more withdrawn, 
 The more withdrawing as I the more aspire ; 
 That through the trembling echoes of the choir 
 
 Shivers in waves of v/andering sympathies, 
 
 (And harmony no longer satisfies, 
 Because I caught a beauty that is higher.) 
 
 If on some morn I could have scanned the East 
 And watched the sun unveiled by doubt arise, 
 And felt the joy of liberty, and heard, 
 Uncloyed by sweeter sounds, the love-crazed bird, 
 If, crushed by loviiig, mystery had ceased. 
 Would I have wakened up in Paradise? 
 
For a Portrait. 
 
 A background of dim trees whose dreaming shade 
 "^^ Leans wondering o'er her uptiirned face. The light 
 Daintily strays across her cheek and bright 
 Falls on her floating hair. As though the maid, 
 On summer's day, light-footed, hence had strayed 
 And some fair scene full dawned upon her sight. 
 Filled with a vague and half-unknown delight, 
 Smiling she gazes. Gently backwards laid v 
 
 On the glad air, her head rests and eyes wide, 
 Locks in the wind, all naturalness and grace 
 She stands; a £aint look half as she had sighed 
 In mild content dreams o'er her wistful face. 
 As Orpheus* form had met her eyes a space. 
 Or Pan's far pipings on the distance died. 
 
They and Thou. 
 
 T call them friends, Dear Heart, whom circumstance 
 Led to my way; 
 
 Others I should have known 
 Choosing the other chance, 
 
 For friends may come and go in one brief day, 
 Creatures of circumstance : 
 
 No man may walk alone, 
 Others I might have known. 
 
 Dear Heart, my path along the shifting years 
 Must have been drawn to thine ; 
 
 For though preborn upon a glimmering star, 
 Immeasurably far, 
 
 I should have yearned across the infinite abyss, 
 And spanned it with a kiss 
 And grasped thy hand in mine. 
 Adown the pathway of the shifting years 
 I should have softly led thee to the music of the spheres. 
 
Melancholy. 
 
 TDOW thy proud head, O stubborn god of sea! 
 
 ^^Stoop that huge brow and let those tangled locks 
 Tumble o'er thy low form and kiss the rocks, 
 
 Thy footstool, in a great humility. 
 
 Let melancholy breathe her soul on thee, 
 
 Calm thy fierce waves and fill thy surging breast 
 With drowsy languor, make thy billows bound 
 Dreamily slow, with a soft chiding sound 
 
 Like the far voice of weary agony, 
 
 Or sob along the shore in sweet unrest. 
 
 And thou O Moon! Make pale thy wistful light. 
 
 Let its wild beauty dream through heaven's spaog 
 Like a wan smile upon a maiden's face ; 
 
 Pour thy beams on the dark, disclose the white 
 
 And trembling arms of all-surrounding night 
 
 Clasping the world; or as toward thy far throne 
 The solemn deep holds out its yearning lips, 
 So let the soul that of thy radiance sips 
 
 Spurn its abode, and with a mad delight 
 
 Flit toward thy melancholy sphere, alone. 
 
 Oh it is sweet to lie within a grove 
 
 Where hyacinth and lily on the air 
 Breathe heavy incense, and in mild despair 
 
 Loiter and dream beneath the shade, to rove 
 
 In mournful fancies of despairing love, 
 
 Madness and pain; to hear the drowsy drone 
 Of honey-laden bees with sleepy wings 
 Fanning the balmy breeze; while echo sings 
 
 With murmuring lips, around, beneath, above, 
 The deepness of the dreamy monotone. 
 
 Oh it is sv/eet to peer with wondering, wide, 
 Far eyes into the night, and feast the soul 
 On the swift worlds that through the darkness roll, 
 
 To lean o'er a clear lute from which there slide 
 
 Piercing delights, and hear from its slim side 
 
 The quivering music skip; ay, through all things 
 To see the wistful; and in the full, clear 
 Harmony of the deathless worlds, to hear 
 
 The yearning chord that in its deepness glides, 
 
 The passionate tone that through creation sings. 
 
"If We Wait till the Close?' 
 
 ^O, dust is the beauty of my flower, 
 And all because I kept it here 
 Beyond its hour. 
 Praise Heaven ! a fate is near 
 
 To keep our eyes from vision of the end, 
 That we might see our sullen souls as drear, 
 
 The higher love outgrown of Friend to Friend, 
 Too barren for a tear. 
 
Death's Kiss. 
 
 A H once your quiet eyes were calm and deep 
 "^ And wistful with much dreaming! Long ago 
 
 Your solemn lips, so innocent of woe 
 And delicately parted, seemed to keep 
 
 Faint musings with themselves, and murmured low. 
 But that was long ago. 
 
 And I who saw and loved you from afar 
 
 Prayed a hushed prayer— the first I ever prayed — 
 That God might keep you safe, and unafraid 
 
 I looked up through the night at my one star, 
 Moving mysteriously and bright-arrayed; 
 And silently I prayed. 
 
 While you passed singing tenderly and low, 
 
 Wandering through life's meadows with sjow tread. 
 Death laid his kiss on your beloved head. ' ' 
 But that was long ago. 
 
The Philosophers. 
 
 XXTE waich you trafficking below, 
 Ye valley-children (who reveal, 
 Unmeant, the mysteries we feel )j 
 
 Coming ye prayed of us to show 
 
 The Potter's everlasting wheel; 
 Such things as we must yet conceal 
 
 With patience bide ; we know, we know. 
 
Silence. 
 
 O WEET Music revels in her own delight 
 
 And sighs, ** O slavish Silence — short-lived death 
 Of airy splendors — how my whispered breath 
 Hath slain thee wholly, as the dawn the night!" 
 
 Even with the words the sound of them has passed: 
 Quietness dims hushed voices till they cease, 
 Soothing their aching beauty into peace. 
 Silence remains, inexorable, vast. 
 
No Longer I Exalted. 
 
 "lyTO longer I exalted to self-believed supremacy — 
 
 A supremacy self-believed in moments of musical 
 
 rapture, 
 But I a mere nauseating monad, 
 Having had just enough acquaintance with men's ways to 
 
 appoint myself a warning to you. 
 Now consider these words which shall be everlasting truth: 
 There is but one unpardonable sin — 
 The permitting, the fostering of life without a passionate 
 
 heart ; 
 Herein are all insincerities, lies, coldnesses (grosser than 
 
 foully-directed and uncurbed lustings), 
 Herein is fickleness. 
 He is foredamned by all religions and by the man of no 
 
 religion — 
 That is he who says, 
 In this thin^^that I do I take no joy. 
 Yet is there nothing else in -ivhich I could take more joy. 
 Pity no more the Shelleys confident of some day being 
 
 understood. 
 Nor the vigorous, chained Columbuses, 
 Nor any man who can be sure of his own greatness, and 
 
 find more potent applause in rocks, waterfalls, the 
 
 melody of thrushes. 
 Pity only the ineffectual man, the man mediocre and inert, 
 He who is unquestionably capable of yawning in the mo- 
 ments which are his utmost strain of passion, 
 He who is not put into any prison, but stagnates more 
 
 contemptibly than those who throng prisons, 
 (No one ever undertook to imprison a dying skunk); 
 Therefore come and listen, and then go away and act 
 
 quickly. 
 Otherwise you will think several times too much, you will 
 
 become effete, indifferent, musty, 
 You will become theoretical. 
 
 I have endeavored to express a mood and have expressed it. 
 
Psyche. 
 
 /^BASELESS I rush on my round 
 ^^ Of ceaseless motion, and hurled 
 By the will in myself and the sound 
 
 Of the voice, which speedily whirled 
 
 My being onward, with glee 
 I run on my circle and spring 
 To that Power whose throne is the world, 
 Who rules, moves and is everything;. 
 Of which I am but as a spark 
 Of the flame, which illumines the dark 
 And limitless waste of the world. 
 
 I am but a thought from his brain, 
 
 A drop of the soul in his breast; 
 Through suffering and anguish and pain 
 
 I rush at my being's behest 
 And pass to new forms again ; 
 
 For such is the will in my breast. 
 
 And when my circle is done, 
 Drav/n by the omnipotent power 
 
 Of that which hath made me, I run 
 As a moth to the candle. That hour 
 
 I am that which ruleth my soul, 
 Myself and my Maker are one, 
 I am lost in the depths of his power. 
 
Amalfi, 
 
 TXT" HEN we shall come where years ago 
 
 Eden I built for thee, 
 There where hot noons with humming low 
 
 Beguile the sleeping sea, 
 All the sweet dreams thy soul shall know 
 
 That seemed too sweet to be. 
 
 There we shall lie in the warm sand 
 
 Together lost in dreams. 
 By orange-laden breezes fanned 
 
 And perfume from cool streams. 
 And shall not care while hand in hand 
 
 What is and what but seems. 
 
 That haze of childhood-born Romance 
 
 Shall fetter us no more, 
 And every load of circumstance 
 
 Our lives aforetime bore 
 Shall melt within that silver trance 
 
 Beside that silver shore. 
 
 Thy soul from mine among the spheres 
 
 No longer far shall be, 
 Nor sightless fears nor useless tears 
 
 Shall part thy love from me, 
 When we come where in distant years 
 
 Eden I built for thee. 
 
Urania. 
 
 'TTHE mistress of the soul adown the years, 
 * Up from the shadowy ages, on her dance | 
 Delightful, trips. Her ever -changing glance 
 Now moves the world to joy and now to tears. 
 Life's beauty in her utterance appears 
 
 And still she sings intense, the truth that burns behind our 
 hopes and fears. 
 
 Adown the years she trips. A dazzling throng 
 Immortal, follow her, the sacred nine 
 Drunk with life's beauty as with ruddy wine 
 Purpling the mouth. Music and art and song 
 With mad delight lead the mad dance along. 
 They move like satyrs in a bacchanal, passionate, fierce 
 and strong. 
 
 Yet not the Ogygian god with fiery breath 
 Inflames their blood. Inspired by the light 
 That blazes from pure beauty and the might 
 Of winged thought, triumphant over death, 
 They speed along, with eager panting breath 
 To reach the Infinite Beauty, whose far light dazzles the 
 world beneath. 
 
 And Harmony was there, and Genius too 
 Flashed by, with fleet foot spurning the light cloud 
 On which he trod. And ever half-aloud. 
 Faint musings from his depthless rapture flew. 
 Quivering the air. And Orpheus v/ho grew 
 From childhood up with deep-eyed reverie, whom deep- 
 eyed reverie slcv/. 
 
 And with the rest trip on Ideals and Graces, 
 Shadows and Dreams, and Fancy only bound 
 By her own will. With a dim murmuring sound 
 Of god-like music, all with eager faces 
 Dash, through those short and yet life-teeming spaces 
 Which we call centuries, as life would flee the dark death 
 that him chases. 
 
 Then was the v/orld one dream of beauty. Then 
 
 Free-willed Imagination did create 
 
 Marvellous fancies, v/hich to contemplate 
 
 Are wistful pleasure. In those ages when 
 /Fair thoughts, like stars, shone in the minds of men, 
 / And god-like forms with god-like power wrought, in hill 
 ^ and field and glen. 
 
The Cry From Galway. 
 
 (And thir. reply from a Fifth Avenue kitchen) 
 
 THE voice of my Fathers in the lone wild wail 
 Of the v/est-bornc wind comes to me ovcr-cca, 
 With a dream of consolation for the promit5es that fail 
 
 And a vision for the broken of the things that cannot be. 
 
 Lo! in my hearth where the ashes lie dead, 
 
 (And the embers of Ambition lie as gray and as cold) 
 Is a symbol of the new life whence the dream-built hopes 
 have fled, 
 
 And the dim far beck of my fathers to the old. 
 
 I have rotted my soul with the sluggishness of knowing* 
 I have jarred against the wall where no more can be 
 known, 
 And the rustle of the moor-sand is the tread of my going 
 To the waters of loud Galway, to the green hills of 
 Tyrone. 
 
 The yearning of my Fathers leaps up in my soul 
 
 For the subtle tests of motive in an age of barren act; 
 
 For the self-obscuring vision of the heaven of the whole, 
 And the mystic distant waters veiling gross ephemeral 
 fact. 
 
 The echo in my being of the vague primordial cry 
 
 Is a silent sick aversion to the growing of the New ; 
 
 And the essence of my nature rises in me to reply: 
 
 I am coming, O my Fathers, I am coming back to you! 
 
Mirror. 
 
 /^ sing glad soul, up from the sod 
 
 To heaven's bosom, not o'er-awed 
 The dust aspiring from the dust, 
 Till God look down and look on God. 
 
Autumn Leaves in June. 
 
 A T dawn I walked the hilly pass ; 
 
 The warbler's wavering tune 
 Joined with the fragrance of the grass 
 To tell me it was June. 
 
 Roused from the stronghold of his nest 
 
 Fluttered the busy wren ; 
 I felt a bound within my breast 
 
 And life was good again. 
 
 The echoes of a happier day 
 
 Once more within me woke — 
 
 Alas ! I saw beside the way 
 A branch of withered oak. 
 
 It was the leprous hand of death 
 
 Laid on the throne of Heaven — 
 
 It was the vapor of his breath 
 Damning the once-forgiven. 
 
 Ah ! In the beauty of the morn, 
 
 I know not anything 
 So bleak, so hopeless, so forlorn 
 
 As Autumn leaves in Spring. 
 
 And when my winter comes, I pray 
 
 To disappear too soon 
 For men to find vie by the way — 
 
 An Autumn leaf in June. 
 
Silent Heart. 
 
 npHE fading music is fled, 
 ^ The shadows creep on the wall, 
 The mourners wail. She is dead^ 
 And singing circle the pall. 
 But I only sit far apart 
 Silent, with silent heart 
 And low-bowed head. 
 
 There comes a £ar voice from the skies 
 
 Beyond where the shadows are fled. 
 The watchers are closing her eyes. 
 
 The mourners wail, She is dead. 
 But I lean to the voice from afar 
 And read in each quivering sur, 
 Eternity never dies. 
 
♦AC9.B7918.905v 
 
 THE HOUGHTON LIBRARY 
 P December 1931 
 
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