UC-NRLF $B SS 851 THE FLAM E IN THE W I N D VlARliARliT SrtnLfc WDtRSON CHAUNCEY WETMORE WELLS 1872-1933 This book belonged to ChSuncey Wetmore Wells. He taught in Yale College, of which he was a graduate, from 1897 to 1901, and from 1 90 1 to 1933 at this University. Chauncey Wells was, essentially, a scholar. The range of his read- ing was wide, the breadth of his literary sympathy as uncommon as the breadth of his human sympathy. He was less concerned with the collection of facts than with meditation upon their sig- nificance. His distinctive power lay in his ability to give to his students a subtle perception of the inner implications of form, of manners, of taste, of the really disciplined and discriminating mind. And this perception appeared not only in his thinking and teaching but also in all his relations with books and with men. ^- A /^ ^>^. J'. ^^ . Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/flameinwindOOanderich The Flame in the Wind BY Margaret Steele Anderson JOHN p. MORTON & COMPANY INCORPORATED LomsviLLE, Kenttjckt 1914 ' * coptbight, 1913, By Margaret Steele Anderson IN MEMORIAM To THE Memory of Mt Brother WILLIAM HAMILTON ANDERSON THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED 86S723 /REPRINT ''Pain" and ''The Dead Child'* by permission of The Century Magazine; "Work," "Allurement," "The Prayer of the Weak," "Michael AngeWs Dawn," "The Mystery," and "Not this World," by permission of McClure's Magazine; "Habit," "The Breaking," "The Victor," "Imagination," "The Dream," and "In the Image of God" by permission of The American Magazine; "Whistler," by that of The Atlantic ;" Conscience," by that of Lip- pincotVs; "Childless," by that of The Cosmopolitan; "The Spring Afterwards," by that of The Criterion; "The Night. Watches," by that of G. P. Putnam's Sons; and "The Violinist," by that of The Independent. M. S. A. CONTENTS. PAGE5 The Flame i^i the Wind 5 The Breaking 6 Pain 7 The Mystery • 8 Habit 9 Not This World 10 In the Image of Grod 11 The Dead Child 12 The Prayer of the Weak 13 The Victor 14 The Dream 16 The Mystic 17 God, the Complement 18 Work 19 Michael Angelo's ''Dawn" 20 The Demeter of Praxiteles 21 Lines Written to a Translator of Greek Poetry 22 A Greek Lyrist Sings of Apollo 23 Odes of a Boy 24 On a Pompeiian Bust called ' ' Sappho " 25 The Putto 26 The Shepherd 27 Whistler 28 A Stage-Figure 29 The Church 30 The Madonna of the Veil 31 La Doleur de la Jeunesse 32 Song— The Fallen Leaves 33 The Sin 34 PAGE ''From Sudden Death . . ." 35 Autumn 36 The Lesser Beauty 37 To the Fighting Weak 38 The Doubter 39 Childless 40 The Mother 40 In the Dawn 41 The Spring Afterwards 41 Spring 42 Imagination 42 The Italian Renaissance 43 Agostino di Duccio 43 Hawthorne 44 The Violinist 45 Thalia and Melpomene 46 A Boy's Virgil 47 The Shadow 48 Allurement 49 To the Men Who Went Down on The Titanic 50 The Night- Watches 51 Courage 52 The Angel and the Child 53 Donatello 54 Beatrice 54 The Invalid Child 55 Conscience 55 The Trees 56 Lost Youth 57 To a Fighter, Dead 58 ''Where There Is No Vision the People Perish" 59 The Flame in the Wind Dost thou burn low and tremble — all but die ? And dost thou fear in darkness to be whirled ? Nay, flame, thou art mine immortality, The wind is but the passing of the world! *!;.'*•. '. c*: :.:f/fE FLAME IN THE WIND * ,'' ' .«'• '. THE BREAKING. (The Lord God speaks to a youth.) Bend now thy body to the common weight ! (But oh, that vine-clad head, those limbs of morn ! Those proud young shoulders I myself made straight! How shall ye wear the yoke that must be worn?) Look thou, my son, what wisdom comes to thee ! (But oh, that singing mouth, those radiant eyes! Those dancing feet — that I myself made free! How shall I sadden them to make them wise?) Nay then, thou shalt! Resist not, have a care! (Yea, I must work my plans who sovereign sit! Yet do not tremble so ! I cannot bear — Though I am God! — to see thee so submit!) THE FLAME IN THE WIND PAIN. You eat the heart of life like some great beast, You blacken the sweet sky — ^that God made blue ! ^You are the death's-head set amid the feast, The desert breath, that drinks up every dew ! And no man lives that doth not fear you, Pain ! And no man lives that learns to love your rod ; The white lip smiles — but ever and again God's image cries your horror unto God! And yet — 0, Terrible ! — men grant you this : You work a mystery ; when you are done, Lo ! common living changes into bliss, Lo ! the mere light is as the noonday sun ! THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE MYSTERY. This is your cup — the cup assigned to you From the beginning. Yea, my child, I know How much of that dark drink is your own, brew Of fault and passion. Ages long ago, In the deep years of yesterday, I knew. This is your road — a painful road and drear. I made the stones — that never give you rest; I set your friend in pleasant ways and clear. And he shall come, like you, unto my breast; But you — my weary child! — must travel here. This is your work. It has no fame, no grace, But is not meant for any other hand. And in my universe hath measured place. Take it; I do not bid you understand; I bid you close your eyes — to see my face! THE FLAME IN THE WIND HABIT. So, then ! Wilt use me as a garment ? Well, 'Tis man's high impudence to think he may; But I, who am as old as heav'n and hell, I am not lightly to be east away. Wilt run a race ? Then I will run with thee, And stay thy steps or speed thee to the goal; Wilt dare a fight? Then, of a certainty, I'll aid thy foeman, or sustain thy soul. Lo, at thy marriage-feast, upon one hand. Face of thy bride, and on the other, mine ! Lo, at thy couch of sickness close I stand. And taint the cup, or make it more benign. Yea, hark! the very son thou hast begot One day doth give thee certain sign and cry; Hold thou thy peace — frighted or frighted not; That look — that sign — that presence — it is I! THE FLAME IN THE WIND NOT THIS WORLD. Shall I not give this world my heart, and well? If for naught else, for many a miracle Of the impassioned spring, the rose, the snow? Nay, by the spring that still must come and go When thou art dust, hy roses that shall blow Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss. Not this world, oh, not this! Shall I not give this w^orld my heart, who find Within this world the glories of the mind — That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God? Nay, hy the little footways it hath trod, And smiUs to see, when thou art under sod. And hy its very gaze across the ahyss. Not this world, oh, not this! Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold One figure here above myself, my gold. My life and hope, my joy and my intent ? Nay, hy that form whose strength so soon is spent. That fragile garment that shall soon he rent. By lips and eyes the heavy earth shall kiss, Not this world, oh, not this! Then this poor world shall not my heart disdain? Where beauty mocks and springtime comes in vain, And love grows mute, and wisdom is forgot? Thou child and thankless! On this little spot Thy heart hath fed, and shall despise it not; Yea, shall forget, through many a world of hliss, Not this world, oh, not this! 10 THE FLAME IN THE WIND IN THE IMAGE OF GOD. The falling of a leaf upon thy way, The flutter of a bird along thy sky, Thou God, to whom the ages are a day, Ev'n such, alas! — oh, ev'n such am I! So long the time, O Lord, when I was not. And ah, so long the time I shall not be, So strange and small, so passing small my lot, I cry aloud at thine immensity! Will not thy garment brush the leaf aside ? Wilt thou, eternal, look upon the fall Of one poor bird? Or canst thou, stooping wide From thy great orbit, hearken to my call ? 0, little child— 0, little child and fool !— My planets are my gardens, where I go. At morn and eve, at dawning and at cool. To see my living green and mark it grow. I know the leaves that fall from every tree, I know the birds that nest those gardens through, I hear the wounded sparrow cry to me, I note that dying flutter on the blue. Hast thou a spot on earth to name it thine ? Does any creature lift to thee a cry? Behold ! Thyself my token and my siern ; For ev'n as thou art — so, my son, am I! 11 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE DEAD CHILD. C'l believe ... in the resurrection of the body.") How young you are, for such lone majesty Of silence and repose! That lip was vowed to laughter and that eye, That white cheek to the rose ! What age your spirit hath, who thinks to say ? If young, or young no more; But all for merriment, oh, all for play. That new, sweet shape it wore! So, in His time, to whom all time is now. From flower and wind and steep. Shall He not summon you to keep your vow, Since He hath made you sleep? 12 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK. Lord of all strength — behold, I am but frail ! Lord of all harvest — few the grapes and pale Allotted for my wine-press ! Thou, Lord, Who boldest in thy gift the tempered sword. Hast armed me with a sapling ! Lest I die, Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry: Grant me, I pray, to tread my grapes as one Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun; Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed Let me lift up my sapling like a blade ; Then, Lord, thy cup for mine abundant wine, Thy foeman. Lord, for that white steel of mine! 13 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE VICTOR. "Thou hast not lived! No aim of earth Thy body serves — nor home nor birth; No children's eyes look up to thee To solace thy mortality. "Thou hast not lived! Forbidden seas Shut thee from Beauty's treasuries; Not for those hungry eyes of thine Her marbles gleam, her colors shine. - * ' Thou hast not lived ! Hast never brought To steadfast form thy hidden thought ; Striving to speak, thou still art mute. And fain to bear, hast yet no fruit." So spake the Tempter, at his plot, But thee, my Soul, he counted not! Who mad'st me stand, serene and free. And give him answer dauntlessly: "Yea, shapes of earth are sweet and near. And home and child are very dear; Yet do I live — to be denied These things, and still be satisfied. "Yea, Beauty's treasures all are barred By one dark hand — so spare, so hard! Yet do I live — who still can be Their lover, though I may not see. 14 THE FLAME IN THE WIND Yea, it is true that I have wrought No form divine from secret thought; Yet do I live — since fain am I To work that marvel ere I die. And if I fruitless seem to thee, Yet hath my God some fruit of me ; Since I can hear thee out — and bear A spirit still for dreams and prayer!" 15 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE DREAM. They sing the race — the song is wildly sweet ; But thou, my harp, oh thou shalt sing the goal ! The distant goal, that draws the bleeding feet And lights the brow and lifts the fainting soul ! (And yet, I know not ! — Is the goal the place I dream it is the while I run the race?) They sing the fight — the list 'ners come in bands ; But tune thy chords, my harp, to sing the prize, That noble prize for which the fighter stands. And bids his body strain and agonize ! (Yet, if I knew ! O, is the prize so bright As I have thought it, all this bitter fight?) They sing the work ; the song makes labor fair ; But thou, my harp, shalt sing the labor's aim. The gleaming light, the beauty throned there That calls the worker onward more than fame! (But oh, I pray the aim be what I sought And visioned ceaselessly the while I wrought!) Yet — ^hear me not, Watcher of the race ! Forgive me, thou Giver of the prize ! It is enough — the hope before my face. It is enough — ^the dream before mine eyes! And this I dare: to think thou hast not wrought Or dream or ardent dreamer all for nought! 16 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE MYSTIC. When, wild and spent, I fly before Some steadfast Fate, serene, malign, Let me not think — Lord, I implore — Those dark and awful eyes are thine ! Oh, when the dogs of life are loose, And, raging, follow on my track. Let me not dream, by chance or use. The leash was thine that held the pack! Nay — hunted, breathless, faint and prone. With my last gaze, ah, let me see The shape I know, nor shall disown. Thy shape, oh Grod, that runs with me ! 17 THE FLAME IN THE WIND GOD, THE COMPLEMENT. (*'Nor does being weary imply that there is any place to rest.'') Yea, by your wants bestead, You come Myself to know; For if I be not bread, Why hunger so? And if not water I, Your fountain last and first, Why should your earth be dry? Why should you thirst? Have you not read desire? Do you not know your quest? Spirit, why should you tire Were I not rest? 18 THE FLAME IN THE WIND WORK. Mine is the shape forever set between The thought and form, the vision and the deed ; The hidden light, the glory all unseen, I bring to mortal senses, mortal need. Who loves me not, my sorrowing slave is he, Bent with the burden, knowing oft the rod; But he who loves me shall my master be, And use me with the joyance of a god. Man's lord or servant, still I am his friend; Desire for me is simple as his breath ; Yea, waiting, old and patient, for the end, He prays that he may find me after death! 19 THE FLAME IN THE WIND MICHAEL ANGELO'S ''DAWN." Dawn — midnight — noonday? What are times to thee Man's Grief art thou, that moanest with the light, And starest dumb at evening — and at night Dost wake and dream and slumber fitfully ! Thou art Distress — that cannot cry aloud. That cannot weep, that cannot stoop to tear One fold of all her garment, but with air Supremely brooding waits the final shroud ! Dust, long ago, the princes of this place ; Forgot the civic losses which in thee Great Angelo lamented; but thy face Proclaims the master's immortality! So sit thee, marble Grief ! this very day How burns the art when long the hand is clay! 20 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE DEMETER OF PRAXITELES. Demeter ? 'T is a name ! For in thy face A myriad women find their mourning-place ! Thou, sitting lonely on the wayside stone, O pagan mother, thou art not alone! Though Hellas now — thy grief so calmly worn! — Yet art thou Egypt, reft of thy first-born; And now lamenting Rama, that fair head With ashes strewn, and all uncomforted! And Mary thou — and many women more! This very day I see thee at my door; Thine was the voice, an hour ago, that cried From the next house — wherein a child has died! 21 THE FLAME IN THE WIND LINES WRITTEN TO A TRANSLATOR OF GREEK POETRY. A wild spring upland all this charmed page, Where, in the early dawn, the maenads rage, Mad, chaste, and lovely ! This, a darker spot^ Where lone Antigone bewails her lot. Death for her spouse, her bridal-bed the tomb. And this, again, is some rich palace-room. Where Phsedra pines: ''0 woodlands! 0, the sea!'* Or some sweet walk of Sappho, beauteously Built o'er with rose, with bloom of purple grapes! They are all here — the ancient Attic shapes Of passion, beauty, terror, love, and shame; Proud shadows, you do summon them by name : Achaean princes — Helen — ^the young god. Fair Dionysus — (Edipus, who trod Such ways of doom ! Aye, these and more than these You call across the ages and the seas! And each one, answering, doth dream he lists To the great voices of old tragedists ! THE FLAME IN THE WIND A GREEK LYRIST SINGS OF APOLLO. Ah, it was he I heard at early dawn, From the high hilltop and the dew-wet hollow, While I was yet as tender as a fawn. Calling me, "Follow!" And it was he who spoke at sultry noon, By the bright pool, when Dian was away: — ** Frail is your harp as is the crescent moon, Yet shall you play ! ' ' Still do I hear that calling, Apollo ! Though it is far, and failing is the light: — *'Lo, you are spent, but you shall rise and follow Into the night!" 23 THE FLAME IN THE WIND ODES OF A BOY. (At Keats' grave— Winter, 1909.) Fades the great pyramid, the blank walls fade ! And thou, immortal boy, dost walk with me Along that grove from out whose deeper shade The nightingale sings living ecstasy. And where thy burial-stone so long is set With plaintive lines that tell a day's despair, Lo, now that urn with happy figures fret Which cannot fail, but go eternal fair ! Yet — suddenly — the wind of death is blown On all earth 's beauty, even at its prime ; The red rose drops, the hand of Joy is flown, And thou — oh, thou art dust this long, long time! 24 THE FLAME IN THE WIND ON A POMPEIIAN BUST CALLED ''SAPPHO. Oh no, not this ! This is a Roman face, Superb, composed, with such a matron grace As that of great Cornelia — never thee. Young princess of an ancient poetry! Nor do I wish thy beauty from its grave; Rather, one bird across the purple wave, Or the mere sight of that ^gean sea. Shall tell thy mortal loveliness to me! Or I will find some slender, broken plinth. And mark it thine with wild blue hyacinth, "While some far fruit, upon triumphant bough. Shall say how unattainable wert thou! 26 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE PUTTO. No child, no mortal child am I, No angel from the blue on high, And, though I gayly dance and shout, No Cupid, from a Bacchic rout. But I am all young innocence. So young I do not know offence. So very young I think that I Will catch that bird, that butterfly. Madonna — Lady — Queen of Heaven, Or Mother, whose red wounds are seven, Or waiting Virgin, mild and fair. See, I will hide behind thy chair! And round thy pulpit, friar gray, Lo, I will frolic all the day ! My ways, perchance, are not divine. But cannot hurt thee — no, nor thine! And thou, little darling Christ, 'Tis long ere thou be sacrificed; Do beckon me, thou pretty One, And we will sing and laugh and run ! And at the last, why then will I The earthly darkness beautify; Dead Son, upon thy mother's knee, While Heaven weeps blood, I garland thee ! 26 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE SHEPHERD. (On a fragment by De Bussy.) Thy slender form I think I see On winter hills of Tuscany, Thy slender pipe I think I hear, So very faint, so very clear. That lonely reed! It seems to me To sing thine own simplicity, For thou art but a child and young, How should 'st thou know a subtler tongue? Then, still a child, I pray thee pass! I would not see thee with a lass. Nor follow thee o'er grass and rock. As thou dost lead some larger flock. Ah no! That little, wilding pipe I would not give for one more ripe ; E'en glad were I to hear it spent Unchanged — and thou still innocent! 27 THE FLAME IN THE WIND WHISTLER. (At the Exhibit in the Metropolitan Museum, March, 1910.) So sharp the sword, so airy the defence ! As 'twere a play, or delicate pretence! So fine and strange — so subtly poised, too — The egoist, that looks forever through ! That little spirit, air and grace and fire, A-flutter at your frame, is your desire ; No, it is you, who never knew the net. Exquisite, vain — whom we shall not forget! 28 THE FLAME IN THE WIND A STAGE-FIGURE. (A painting by Whistler.) A thing of flesh and blood? Not so! Yet what you are I do not know. A paper sword? A pasteboard flame? Ah no, I cannot find the name ! Whate'er you are, 'tis not of earth, Nor did high Heaven give you birth; A marionette your mother? Well — But you were sired by Ariel ! THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE CHURCH. Still, still thy garden hath its fruits and spices, My Lord, my Lord! Still hath its wells and pools of thy devices, My Lord! White, in a stranger soil, thy lily stands — the close Breathes with thy rose! Wild feet, mad feet, thy lovely paths have beaten, My Lord, my Lord! And sinful lips thy holy fruits have eaten, My Lord! Strange hands have tended me and tended ill, yet thou Lovest me — now ! So to thy feet I offer my waste places. My Lord, my Lord! walk them till they spring in verdant graces, My Lord! With new trees plant — and from the fruits divine Tread out thy wine ! 30 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE MADONNA OF THE VEIL. Light through a little veil is all thy trace Of halo, blessed Child! The sorrow of the world is in thy face, fair, undefiled! dear and undefiled! The kneeling boy, with pretty lips apart, Half loves, half worships thee ; Baby and sweet, yet separate thou art To that simplicity, To that young piety! But Mary's look no hint of anguish stirs; Perfect that motherhood; One day the bitter sword — this day is hers ; And — God ! — how very good ! gracious God ! How good ! 31 THE FLAME IN THE WIND LA DOLEUR DE LA JEUNESSB. Ah, love, why love you tears? What beauty in the rue? Do you not know the years Shall bring their griefs to you, To dew your nightly pillow ere you sleep ? Perchance — hut let me weep! No sorrow do you mourn, No cloud in heaven for you. No graves have you, forlorn. With salt tears to bestrew. Nor any field of tares that you must reap. Ah no! Yet I would weep! One day, shall not your ships Come sailing o'er the blue. With fruit and spice for lips. And robes of many a hue. And gems and gold for your white hands to keep ? Yet, on the shore, I weep! Then I my harp will bring, And sing your tears and ruth; More sweet than songs of spring Sweet bitterness of youth! I will forget, one hour, that grief is deep, And, singing, I will weep! THE FLAME IN THE WIND SONG. THE FALLEN LEAVES. The bride, she wears a white, white rose — the plucking, it was mine; The poet wears a laurel wreath — and I the laurel twine; And oh, the child, your little child, that's clinging close to you, It laughs to wear my violets — they are so sweet and blue! And I, I have a wreath to wear — ah, never rue nor thorn! I sometimes think that bitter wreath could be more sweetly worn! For mine is made of ghostly bloom, of what I can't forget — The fallen leaves of other crowns — rose, laurel, violet! 38 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE SIN. That haunting air had some far strain of it, That morning rose hath flung it back to met The wind of spring, the ancient, awful sea. Bid me remember it. And looking back against the look of Love, I feel the old shame start again and sting; Such eyes are Love's they will not ask the thing, But I remember it! So this one dream of heaven I dare not dream : We two in your familiar ways and hi^. While you and God forget — and even I Cannot remember it! 34 THE FLAME IN THE WIND "FROM SUDDEN DEATH. . . ." Roses about my way, and roses still ! 0, I must pick and have my very fill ! Red for my heart and white upon my hair — And still I shall have roses and to spare ! My child, I save thee thorns! Dear little friend, This is the end! So long the road, so lone the road and gray, My bleeding feet must travel many a day ! With not an inn where I may stop and rest, With not a roof that claims me for its guest ! Hush! the road vanishes! Yes, yes, poor friend, This is the end! I-K)rd, let thou thy servant go in peace ! Now I have rounded out life's perfect lease, Spare me the clouded brain, the dark'ning eye, Nor let me be a burden ere I die ! Thou shalt not he! Nay, even no^u, old friend, This is the end! 35 THE FLAME IN THE WIND AUTUMN. Tainted with death ? Ah then, the taint is sweet ! As if God took the essences of life And burned them in a brazier at his feet, The smoke of them ascending rich and rife To please his nostrils ! What if man be loath To your deep bosom, and would have the Spring His bride forever! He who made you both Knoweth your beauty for as fair a thing; Like that of one who long hath been a wife. And mothered men ! As piercing as a knife, And rich beyond all mortal imaging! 36 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE LESSER BEAUTY. You are the first wild violet of the year; Young grass you are, and apple-bloom, and spray Of honeysuckle; you are dawn of day. And the first snow-fall! It is you I hear When the March robin calls me loud and clear. Or lonely rill goes singing on its way Like some small flute of heav'n; or when the gray Sad wood-dove calls and early stars appear. And you it is within the wayside shrine Carved tenderly ; and in the folded wings On some neglected tomb ; and in the vine And leaf and saint of old imaginings On some forgotten missal — ^little things We would not barter for things more divine ! 37 THE FLAME IN THE WIND TO THE FIGHTING WEAK. Stand up, you Strong ! Touch glasses ! To the Weak ! The Weak who fight : or habit or disease, Birth, chance, or ignorance — or awful wreak Of some lost forbear, who has drained the cup Of passion and wild pleasure ! So ! To these. You strong, you proud, you conquerors — stand up! Touch glasses ! You shall never drink a glass So salt of tears, so bitter through and through, As they must drink, who cannot hope to pass Beyond their place of trial and of pain, Who cannot match their trifling strength with you; To these, touch glasses — and the glasses drain ! They cannot build, they never break the trail. No city rises out of their desires ; They do the little task, and dare not fail For fear of little losses — or they keep The humble path and sit by humble fires; They know their places — all these fighting Weak! Yet what -have you to show of tears and blood, That mates their blood and tears ? What shaft have you, To mark the dreadful spots where you have stood. That rises to the height of one poor stone Proclaiming one poor triumph to the blue ? Ah, you have nothing ! Then stand up and own ! And yet you shall not pity them ! They bear The stripe of some far coufage that to you Is all unknown — and you shall never wear Such splendor as they bring to some last cup ; You do not fight the desperate fight they do ; Then — ^to the Weak ! Touch glasses ! standing up ! 38 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE DOUBTER. friendly, that I never knew for friend, flame, that never warmed me from the cold, light, that never beckoned to an end, Give me but once thy beauty to behold ! Thou, Faith! Who never held before mine eyes Or wreath of bay or life's diviner rose, Lift up thy face against my sombre skies And let me see thee ere mine eyelids close ! Come, lighten mine as thou dost other ways. Come, conquer me if only for an hour ! beckon with that shadowy wreath of bays! lift to me that unimagined flow'r! 39 THE FLAME IN THE WIND CHILDLESS. Up to the little grave, with blossoms kept, They went together; and one hid her face, And spoke aloud the boy's dear name, and wept. The other woman stood apart a space. And prayed to God. "If only I," she said, ''Might keep a grave, and mourn my little dead!" THE MOTHER. Yes, Lord, I know! The child is thine And in thy house he shall grow up. Nor know the lash of life, nor cup Of trembling, as if child of mine. But ah — forgive me! — is he warm? And fed? Or does he miss my breast? Oh, I blaspheme! But can he rest. And never cry, in Mary's arm? 40 THE FLAME IN THE WIND IN THE DAWN. At night it is not strange that thou art dead ; I give thee to the stars, the moonlight snow; But ah, when desolate I lift my head, And thou art gone at early morning — No ! THE SPRING AFTERWARDS. Ah, give again the pitiless snow and sleet — November's leaves — or raving winds, that beat The heart's own doors — or rain's long ache and fret! Only, not spring and all this delicate sweet! Or not this vision of a girl, so set In April grass, in April violet! 41 THE FLAME'^IN THE WIND SPRING. I am a virgin — whom no man hath known, And all desire to know. The figure I Of mortal dream and mortal prophecy. Thou desert Sphinx, with thy gray lips of stone, Keep thy poor secret — I have kept mine own ! IMAGINATION. With the old gods thou walkest, 'mid the leaf And bloom of ancient morning and of light ; Thou die'st with Christ, and with the nailed thief That dies upon his left hand and his right. Yea, thou descendest into hell — and then To the last heaven dost take thy road sublime ; Thine hostelries the secret souls of men, Thy servants all the fleeting things of time ! 42 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. How splendid and how vain in thee The ancient quest, Italy ! Too strange that wreath, too strangely worn, Apollo's laurel — Christ's red thorn! AGOSTINO DI DUCCIO. The chime of silver bells ; the sweet Wild rush of fairy wings and feet ; The fluting birds of dawn ; the small And crystal music of the waterfall. Or piping of some lone and hidden faun ; All this you were — and suddenly were not A moment's Ariel — centuries forgot! 43 THE FLAME IN THE WIND HAWTHORNE. Child — ^lover — servant — ^master of Romance, To you she showed, not splendid of attire, With gaud and grace, but all to your desire In lonelier hues of solemn radiance ! Long years you followed her, and at her glance, As at some word, divinely sweet or dire, Beheld the souls of men, in shapes of fire, Through veiling flesh look out to her askance. You saw the brand upon unbranded breast ; From evil heart you saw the witches wind; You saw dark passion breed in frolic youth ; And yet, with sight all delicate and blest, You knew the primrose of a maiden's mind, You took of shame the grave white flower of truth ! THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE VIOLINIST. But that one air for all that throng ! And yet How wondrously the magic strain went through Those thousand hearts! I saw young eyes, that knew Only the fairest sights, grow dim and wet, While eyes long fed on visions of regret Beheld life's rose, upspringing from its rue; For some, the night-wind in thy music blew, For some, the spring's celestial clarinet! And each heart knew its own : the poet heard. Ravished, the song his lips could never free ; The girl, her lover's swift, impassioned word; The mother thought, ''O little, buried face!" And one, through veil of doubt and agony, Saw Christ, alone in the dim garden-place ! 45 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THALIA AND MELPOMENE. The night would sadden us with wind and rain — Let's to sweet Comedy and scorn the night ! Let's read together: how, by silver light, The fairies went, a most enchanting train. Amid those clowns and lovers; how the twain, Celia and Rosalind, as shepherds dight. Frolicked through Arden; or of that rare sprite, That Ariel, who could trick the mortal brain To strange beliefs. What! wilt have nothing glad? Wilt read, while winds are moaning out regret. The fate of Desdemona — Juliet? Lovest the rain to come and make thee sad? Ah, well! — I know! — How sweet the tragic part! I am grown old, but once — was what thou art I 46 THE FLAME IN THE WIND A BOY'S VIRGIL. Dust on the page, from these forgetful years ! I brush it off, to see the fading date Written in boyish hand; to find through tears The lad's dear name, inscribed with all the state Of the first day's possession; and to read Along the tell-tale margin, scribbled thick. Here is the note — 'twas writ with guilty speed — And here the sketch, with guilty pencil quick; And here's a picture! Was she ever so? Were these her curls and this her merry look Who lieth in her old green grave as low As he is lying ? Ah, this faded book ! I think not of the bold and storied wrong Done for a woman's fairness, nor of strong And god-like heroes, nor of beauteous youth In game and battle — but, with heart of ruth, About this boy, who laughed and played and read So carelessly ! Ah, how long he is dead ! 47 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE SHADOW. Get you away! Is not the rose at flow'r? And list that song ! The bird is in the sky ! Ah, foolish one, I know your final hour, I know the very place where you shall lie. Silence ! The music, and the bridal-train ! Do you not see the maidens in their white? Along that whiteness, lo, I am the stain, And darken where the Lord of all shall smite! Yet leave me, Shadow, leave the day dear-bought When the swift runner reaches to the goal! That day is mine — and at the end, unsought, I ask the runner's body from his soul. Then hast thou all ! The beautiful, the brave ! Nothing untouched, dark Visitant, of thee! Oh blinded Reason! Sweeter for the grave. And fair a thousand-fold because of me! 48 THE FLAME IN THE WIND ALLUREMENT. From yonder hedge, from yonder spray, He calls me onward and away; Broad lies the world and fair < to see, The cuckoo calls — is calling me! I have not seen nor heard of Care, Who used my very bed to share, Since that first morn when, airily, The cuckoo, calling, called to me! My sweetheart's face? I have forgot; My mother? But she calls me not; From that green bank, from that dim lea, The cuckoo calls — is calling me ! And I must go — I may not choose ; No gain there is, nor aught to lose ; And soon — ah, soon ! — on some wild tree The bird sits long and waits for me ! 49 THE FLAME IN THE WIND TO THE MEN WHO WENT DOWN ON THE TITANIC. (News Item: ''It remains true that two hundred English and American men were sacrificed for as many peasant women.") Once more I read, writ out in hlood and tears, Across this midnight page of sea and sky, The legend of our English race that fears, never death, but to refuse to die ! Soldier and merchant, men of bench and bar, Of brush and pen, of gold deep-multiplied. To those poor women, peasants from afar. You gave your places, and in giving died! Yet not for these, oh, not for these alone. You made the last, the lasting sacrifice ! On those dark seas great Honor called her own. All women's faces set before their eyes! Lord of the virtues, spare, O spare us suchl We cannot live without this grace from thee ; Gold, statecraft, beauty — yea, we need them much. But more — ah, Grod ! — this ancient gallantry ! 50 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE NIGHT-WATCHES. The laurel withers on your brow, victor, weary of the race ! And you, who sit in mighty place, How heavy is your scepter now! Flushed with the kiss your lips have known, "Woman, this is your hour to wake. And know that flesh and heart may break When love hath entered on its own. And you, who knew where angels trod. And marked the path for duller eyes. In this lone hour are you still wise? Do you not quail before your God? God, to whom the dark is day. Forget not these, the strong, the right. The happy souls — for. Lord, at night They tremble in their tents of clay! 51 THE FLAME IN THE WIND COURAGE. I thank thee, Life, that though I be This poor and broken thing to see, I still can look with pure delight Upon thy rose — ^the red, the white. And though so dark my own demesne, My neighbor's fields so fair and green, I thank thee that my soul and I Can fare along that grass and sky. Yet am I weak! Ere I be done. Give me one spot that takes the sun ! Give me, ere I uncaring rest. One rose — to wear it on my breast ! 62 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. * * 0, was it on that awful road, The way of death, you came?" *'It was a little road," he said, '*I never knew its name." * ' Is it not rough along that road ? ' * '*I cannot tell," said he, *'Up to your gate, in her two arms. My mother carried me." ''And will you show me Christ?" he said, ''And must we seek Him far?" "That is our Lord, with children round. Where little blue-bells are." "Why, so my mother sits at night, When all the lights are dim! 0, would He mind — would it be right — If I should sit by Him?" 53 THE FLAME IN THE WIND DONATELLO. Child of the North, within thy Northern eyes How brood and burn the restless mysteries! Blooded of Hellas — thy dark brows between, That spray of antique laurel, how serene! BEATRICE. Vision of light, above triumphal car — Vision of guidance — star of ev'ry star — And throned saint within the great white Rose, I follow thee: the book at last to close, And see again, while sun and stars grow less, A little girl, in little crimson dress! 54 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE INVALID CHILD. When I see other women's sons at play, God, pity me, lest I should turn away In rage and grief, and should not dare to look At my child, sitting patient with his book ! But when their sons hold all the world in fee, With young men's pride — oh, then think not of me! Load me with burdens, let me feel the rod, And give my son his manhood, my God! CONSCIENCE. Wisdom am I when thou art but a fool ; My part the man, when thou hast played the clod ; Hast lost thy garden? When the eve is cool, Harken! — 'tis I who walk there with thy God! 55 THE FLAME IN THE WIND THE TREES. When on the spring's enchanting blue You trace your slender leaves and few, Then do I wish myself re-born To lands of hope, to lands of morn. And when you wear your rich attire, Your autumn garments, touched with fire, I want again that ardent soul That dared the race and dreamed the goal. But, oh, when leafless, dark and high, You rise against this winter sky, I hear God's word: "Stand still and see How fair is mine austerity!" 56 THE FLAME IN THE WIND LOST YOUTH. (For a friend who mourns its passing.) He took the earth as earth had been his throne; And beauty as the red rose for his eye ; ''Give me the moon," he said, "for mine alone; Or I will reach and pluck it from the sky ! ' ' And thou, Life, dost mourn him — for the day Has darkened since the gallant youngling went; And smaller seems thy dwelling-place of clay Since he has left that valley tenement. But oh, perchance, beyond some utmost gate. While at the gate thy stranger feet do stand. He shall approach thee — beautiful, elate. Crowned with his moon, the red rose in his hand ! THE FLAME IN THE WIND TO A FIGHTER, DEAD. Pass, pass, you fiery spirit ! Never bland And halting never! Hosted round to-night, At the great wall, with spears of lifted light, Held by embattled seraphim, who stand To greet their friend, their comrade, and their own! Doubtless, spirit made for burning war. Doubtless your God has need of you afar. To lead, for Him, some heav'nly fight and lone. And therefore knights you — thus, before the throne! 58 THE FLAME IN THE WIND ''WHERE THERE IS NO VISION THE PEOPLE PERISH." Spare us, Lord, that last, that dreariest ill ! Thy wrath's grim thunder, and thy lightning-scorn For our iniquity — that we have worn Soft as a grace — these, if it be thy will, But not unsouled darkness ! Not the chill Dead air, in which men move a while forlorn And swiftly fail ! Oh, break us, make us mourn With tears of blood — but let us see thee still ! For we have visioned thee! Once, long ago, 'er sea and wilderness a cloud of fire. Thou led'st us forth; 'mid many a shame and woe. We still have dreamed apocalypse ; at last. Ah, go not out, thou Flame of all the past! Burn, thou bright Ardor — ^burn, thou great Desire! 59 raiS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LA.. . STAMPED BEWW^^°^^= re 43276 863T23 THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY