Chapter I: Part 1

***Transcriber's Note. Most of this etext was made with a "Top Scan" text scanner, with a bit of correcting here and there. Mr. Riley does spell pretty=purty and such things and have been left as printed, including the first poem in this book listed as "Proem" on both the contents page and the page headers, even though in later editions this poem is simply called "Afterwhiles." In "The South Wind and the Sun" the line is 'Laughed out in every look.' while in later versions it has the word 'nook', replacing 'look.' The poem "Old Aunt Mary's" is later retitled "Out To Old Aunt Mary's" and later enlarged by 13 verses. The "In Dalect" section has the ' to replace a letter that he left out, to make the word sound a certain way, including words like sure-enuff he writes as sho'-nuff, or He'pless as helpless and ect. This etext is based on the 1898 edition Published by The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Indianapolis Publishers. "Teary Eyes" Anderson***

Afterwhiles by James Whitcomb Riley

Dedicated to my mother Elizabeth

Contents Proem (AKA "Afterwhiles") Herr Weiser The Beautiful City Lockerbie Street Das Krist Kindel Anselmo A Home Made Fairy Tale The South Wind and the Sun The Lost Kiss The Sphinx If I knew What Poets Know Ike Walton's Prayer A Rough Sketch Our Kind of a Man The Harper Old Aunt Mary's (AKA "Out To Old Aunt Mary's" Later was enlarged by 13 verses) Illileo The King A Bride The Dead Lover A Song When Bessie Died The Shower A Life-Lesson A Scrawl Away Who Bides His Time From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay Laughter Holding Both His Sides Fame The Ripest Peach A Fruit Piece Their Sweet Sorrow John McKeen Out of Nazareth September Dark We to Sigh Instead of Sing The Blossoms on the Trees Last Night And This A Discouraging Model Back from a Two Year Sentence The Wandering Jew Becalmed To Santa Claus Where the Children Used to Play A Glipse of Pan

Sonnets Pan Dusk June Silence Sleep Her Hair Dearth A Voice from the Farm The Serenade Art and Love Longfellow Indiana Time Grant At Rest August 8, 1885

In Dialect Old Fashioned Roses Griggsby's Station Knee Deep in June When the Hearse Comes Back A Canary at the Farm A Liz Town Humorist Kingry's Mill Joney Like His Mother Used to Make The Train Misser Granny Old October Jim To Robert Burns A New Year's Time at Willard's The Town Karnteel Regardin' Terry Hut Leedle Dutch Baby Down on Wriggle Crick When de Folks is Gone The Little Town o' Tailholt Little Orphant Annie

_Proem_

Where are they-- the Afterwhiles-- Luring us the lengthening miles Of our lives? Where is the dawn With the dew across the lawn Stroked with eager feet the far Way the hills and valleys are? Were the sun that smites the frown Of the eastward-gazer down? Where the rifted wreaths of mist O'er us, tinged with amethyst, Round the mountain's steep defiles? Where are the afterwhiles?

Afterwhile-- and we will go Thither, yon, and too and fro-- From the stifling city streets To the country's cool retreats-- From the riot to the rest Were hearts beat the placidest: Afterwhile, and we will fall Under breezy trees, and loll In the shade, with thirsty sight Drinking deep the blue delight Of the skies that will beguile Us as children-- afterwhile.

Afterwhile-- and one intends To be gentler to his friends--, To walk with them, in the hush Of still evenings, o'er the plush Of home-leading fields, and stand Long at parting, hand in hand: One, in time, will joy to take New resolves for some one's sake, And wear then the look that lies Clear and pure in other eyes-- We will soothe and reconcile His own conscience-- afterwhile.

Afterwhile-- we have in view A far scene to journey to--, Where the old home is, and where The old mother waits us there, Peering, as the time grows late, Down the old path to the gate--. How we'll click the latch that locks In the pinks and hollyhocks, And leap up the path once more Where she waits us at the door--! How we'll greet the dear old smile, And the warm tears-- afterwhile!

Ah, the endless afterwhiles--! Leagues on leagues, and miles on miles, In distance far withdrawn, Stretching on, and on, and on, Till the fancy is footsore And faints in the dust before The last milestone's granite face, Hacked with: Here Beginneth Space. O far glimmering worlds and wings, Mystic smiles and beckonings, Lead us through the shadowy aisles Out into the afterwhiles.

_Herr Weiser_

Herr Weiser--! Three-score-years-and-ten--, A hale white rose of his country-men, Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam, And blossomy as his German home-- As blossomy and as pure and sweet As the cool green glen of his calm retreat, Far withdrawn from the noisy town Where trade goes clamoring up and down, Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife, May not trouble his tranquil life!

Breath of rest, what a balmy gust--! Quite of the city's heat and dust, Jostling down by the winding road, Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode--. Tether the horse, as we onward fare Under the pear-trees trailing there, And thumping the wood bridge at night With lumps of ripeness and lush delight, Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn, Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon.

Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face, And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace Of unassuming honesty, Be there to welcome you and me! And what though the toil of the farm be stopped And the tireless plans of the place be dropped, While the prayerful master's knees are set In beds of pansy and mignonette And lily and aster and columbine, Offered in love, as yours and mine--?

What, but a blessing of kindly thought, Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not--! What, but a spirit of lustrous love White as the aster he bends above--! What, but an odorous memory Of the dear old man, made known to me In days demanding a help like his--, As sweet as the life of the lily is-- As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise Born of a lily in paradise.

_The Beautiful City_

The Beautiful City! Forever Its rapturous praises resound; We fain would behold it-- but never A glimpse of its dory is found: We slacken our lips at the tender White breasts of our mothers to hear Of its marvellous beauty and splendor--; We see-- but the gleam of a tear!

Yet never the story may tire us-- First graven in symbols of stone-- Rewritten on scrolls of papyrus And parchment, and scattered and blown By the winds of the tongues of all nations, Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled Down the rack of a hundred translations, From the earliest lisp of the world.

We compass the earth and the ocean, From the Orient's uttermost light, To where the last ripple in motion Lips hem of the skirt of the night--, But the Beautiful City evades us-- No spire of it glints in the sun-- No glad-bannered battlement shades us When all our Journey is done.

Where lies it? We question and listen; We lean from the mountain, or mast, And see but dull earth, or the glisten Of seas inconceivably vast: The dust of the one blurs our vision, The glare of the other our brain, Nor city nor island Elysian In all of the land or the main!

We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders Of organs tumultuous roll, And the longing heart listens and wonders, And the eyes look aloft from the soul: But the chanson grows fainter and fainter, Swoons wholly away and is dead; AND our eyes only reach where the painter Has dabbled a saint overhead.

The Beautiful City! O mortal, Fare hopefully on in thy quest, Pass down through the green grassy portal That leads to the Valley of Rest; There first passed the One who, in pity Of all thy great yearning, awaits To point out The Beautiful City, And loosen the trump at the gates.

_Lockerbie Street_

Such a dear little street it is, nestled away From the noise of the city and heat of the day, In cool shady coverts of whispering trees, With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the breeze Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie street!

There is such a relief, from the clangor and din Of the heart of the town, to go loitering in Through the dim, narrow walks, with the sheltering shade Of the trees waving over the long promenade, And littering lightly the ways of our feet With the gold of the sunshine of Lockerbie street.

And the nights that come down the dark pathways of dusk, With the stars in their tresses, and odors of musk In their moon-woven raiments, bespangled with dews, And looped up with lilies for lovers to use In the songs that they sing to the tinkle and beat Of their sweet serenadings through Lockerbie street.

O my Lockerbie street! You are fair to be seen-- Be it noon of the day, or the rare and serene Afternoon of the night-- you are one to my heart, And I love you above all the phrases of art, For no language could frame and no lips could repeat My rhyme-haunted raptures of Lockerbie street.

_Das Krist Kindel_

I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night; And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne--" The old split-bottomed rocker-- and was musing all alone.

I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor; But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.

Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar, With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star--; And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh.

And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure, of a man with frosty hair-- A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.

He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth; And at a magic signal of his stubbly little thumb, I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium.

And looking there, I marvelled as I saw a mimic stage Alive with little actors of a very tender age; And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked.

And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew, And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through; And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable.

And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy, Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy; And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee, And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see.

'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double-chin And chubby-cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in; And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds, As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.

And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh; And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the air Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer--:

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and gone As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn; And in kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon.

You have given us a shepherd-- You have given us a guide, And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent him from Your side--, But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wide To welcome his returning when his works are glorified.

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee--, We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain, Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window-pane; And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel Who brings the world good tidings--, "It is Christmas-- all is well!"

_Anselmo_

Years did I vainly seek the good Lord's grace--, Prayed, fasted, and did penance dire and dread; Did kneel, with bleeding knees and rainy face, And mouth the dust, with ashes on my head; Yea, still with knotted scourge the flesh I flayed, Rent fresh the wounds, and moaned and shrieked insanely; And froth oozed with the pleadings that I made, And yet I prayed on vainly, vainly, vainly!

A time, from out of swoon I lifted eye, To find a wretched outcast, gray and grim, Bathing my brow, with many a pitying sigh, And I did pray God's grace might rest on him--. Then, lo! A gentle voice fell on mine ears-- "Thou shalt not sob in suppliance hereafter; Take up thy prayers and wring them dry of tears, And lift them, white and pure with love and laughter!"

So is it now for all men else I pray; So is it I am blest and glad alway.

_A Home-Made Fairy Tale_

Bud, come here to your uncle a spell, And I'll tell you something you mustn't tell-- For it's a secret and shore-'nuf true, And maybe I oughtn't to tell it to you--! But out in the garden, under the shade Of the apple-trees, where we romped and played Till the moon was up, and you thought I'd gone Fast asleep--, That was all put on! For I was a-watchin' something queer Goin' on there in the grass, my dear--! 'Way down deep in it, there I see A little dude-Fairy who winked at me, And snapped his fingers, and laughed as low And fine as the whine of a mus-kee-to! I kept still-- watchin' him closer-- and I noticed a little guitar in his hand, Which he leant 'ginst a little dead bee-- and laid His cigarette down on a clean grass-blade, And then climbed up on the shell of a snail-- Carefully dusting his swallowtail-- And pulling up, by a waxed web-thread, This little guitar, you remember. I said! And there he trinkled and trilled a tune--, "My Love, so Fair, Tans in the Moon!" Till presently, out of the clover-top He seemed to be singing to, came k'pop! The purtiest, daintiest Fairy face In all this world, or any place! Then the little ser'nader waved his hand, As much as to say, "We'll excuse you!" and I heard, as I squinted my eyelids to, A kiss like the drip of a drop of dew!

_The South Wind and the Sun_

O The South Wind and the Sun! How each loved the other one Full of fancy--- full folly-- Full of jollity and fun! How they romped and ran about, Like two boys when school is out, With glowing face, and lisping lip, Low laugh, and lifted shout!

And the South Wind-- he was dressed With a ribbon round his breast That floated, flapped and fluttered In a riotous unrest, And a drapery of mist From the shoulder and the wrist Flowing backward with the motion Of the waving hand he kissed.

And the Sun had on a crown Wrought of gilded thistle-down, And a scarf of velvet vapor, And a ravelled-rainbow gown; And his tinsel-tangled hair, Tossed and lost upon the air, Was glossier and flossier Than any anywhere.

And the South Wind's eyes were two Little dancing drops of dew, As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips, And blew and blew and blew! And the Sun's-- like diamond-stone, Brighter yet than ever known, As he knit his brows and held his breath, And shone and shone and shone!

And this pair of merry fays Wandered through the summer days; Arm-in-arm they went together Over heights of morning haze-- Over slanting slopes of lawn They went on and on and on, Where the daisies looked like star-tracks Trailing up and down the dawn.

And where'er they found the top Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop They chucked it underneath the chin And praised the lavish crop, Till it lifted with the pride Of the heads it grew beside, And then the South Wind and the Sun Went onward satisfied.

Over meadow-lands they tripped, Where the dandelions dipped In crimson foam of clover-bloom, And dripped and dripped and dripped; And they clinched the bumble-stings, Gauming honey on their wings, And bundling them in lily-bells, With maudlin murmurings.

And the humming-bird that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle-horns, They mesmerized, and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And with whispered laughter, slipped away, And left him hanging there.

And they braided blades of grass Where the truant had to pass; And they wriggled through the rushes And the reeds of the morass, Where they danced, in rapture sweet, O'er the leaves that laid a street Of undulant mosaic for The touches of their feet.

By the brook with mossy brink Where the cattle came to drink. They trilled and piped and whistled With the thrush and bobolink, Till the kine in listless pause, Switched their tails in mute applause, With lifted heads and dreamy eyes, And bubble-dripping jaws.

And where the melons grew, Streaked with yellow, green and blue These jolly sprites went wandering Through spangled paths of dew; And the melons, here and there, They made love to, everywhere Turning their pink souls to crimson With caresses fond and fair.

Over orchard walls they went, Where the fruited boughs were bent Till they brushed the sward beneath them Where the shine and shadow blent; And the great green pear they shook Till the sallow hue forsook Its features, and the gleam of gold Laughed out in every look.

And they stroked the downy cheek Of the peach, and smoothed it sleek, And flushed it into splendor; And with many an elfish freak, Gave the russet's rust a wipe-- Prankt the rambo with a stripe, And the wine-sap blushed its reddest As they spanked the pippins ripe.

Through the woven ambuscade That the twining vines had made, They found the grapes, in clusters, Drinking up the shine and shade-- Plumpt like tiny skins of wine, With a vintage so divine That the tongue of fancy tingled With the tang of muscadine.

And the golden-banded bees, Droning o'er the flowery leas, They bridled, reigned, and rode away Across the fragrant breeze, Till in hollow oak and elm They had groomed and stabled them In waxen stalls oozed with dews Of rose and lily-stem.

Where the dusty highway leads, High above the wayside weeds They sowed the air with butterflies Like blooming flower-seeds, Till the dull grasshopper sprung Half a man's height up, and hung Tranced in the heat, with whirring wings, And sung and sung and sung!

And they loitered, hand in hand, Where the snipe along the sand Of the river ran to meet them As the ripple meets the land, Till the dragon-fly, in light Gauzy armor, burnished bright, Came tilting down the waters In a wild, bewildered flight.

And they heard the killdee's call, And afar, the waterfall, But the rustle of a falling leaf They heard above it all; And the trailing willow crept Deeper in the tide that swept The leafy shallop to the shore, And wept and wept and wept!

And the fairy vessel veered From its moorings-- tacked and steered For the centre of the current Sailed away and disappeared: And the burthen that it bore From the long-enchanted shore-- "Alas! The South Wind and the Sun!" I murmur evermore.

For the South Wind and the Sun, Each so loves the other one, For all his jolly folly And frivolity and fun, That our love for them they weigh As their fickle fancies may, And when at last we love them most, They laugh and sail away.

_The Lost Kiss_

I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, Writes on--, "Had I words to complete it, Who'd read it, or who'd understand?" But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over it all.

So I gather it up-- where was broken The tear-faded thread of my theme, Telling how, as one night I sat writing, A fairy broke in on my dream, A little inquisitive fairy-- My own little girl, with the gold Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy Blue eyes of the fairies of old.

'Twas the dear little girl that I scolded-- "For was it a moment like this," I said, "when she knew I was busy, To come romping in for a kiss--? Come rowdying up from her mother, And clamoring there at my knee For 'One 'ittle kiss for my dolly, And one 'ittle uzzer for me!"

God pity, the heart that repelled her, And the cold hand that turned her away, And take, from the lips that denied her, This answerless prayer of to-day! Take Lord, from my mem'ry forever That pitiful sob of despair, And the patter and trip of the little bare feet, And the one piercing cry on the stair!

I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand Writes on--, "Had I words to complete it Who'd read it, or who'd understand?" But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over it all.

_The Sphinx_

I know all about the Sphinx-- I know even what she thinks, Staring with her stony eyes Up forever at the skies.

For last night I dreamed that she Told me all the mystery-- Why for aeons mute she sat--: She was just cut out for that!

_If I knew What Poets Know_

If I knew what poets know, Would I write a rhyme Of the buds that never blow In the summer-time ? Would I sing of golden seeds Springing up in ironweeds? And of raindrops turned to snow, If I knew what poets know?

Did I know what poets do, Would I sing a song Sadder than the pigeon's coo When the days are long? Where I found a heart in pain, I would make it glad again; And the false should be the true, Did I know what poets do.

If I knew what poets know, I would find a theme Sweeter than the placid flow Of the fairest dream: I would sing of love that lives On the errors it forgives; And the world would better grow If I knew what poets know.

_Ike Walton's Prayer_

I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything--. Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear The cricket sing, And have the shine Of one glad woman's eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine--; Just the wee cot-- the cricket's chirr-- Love and the smiling face of her.

I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates and castle-halls--, Give me to hear the bare footfalls Of children o'er An oaken floor New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby's head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, With after-hushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again-- The cricket's call And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not!

I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place And lordly sway--, I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day-- Yield me his horny palm to hold. And I'll not pray For gold--; The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth; The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet. And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, Love and the glad sweet face of her!

_A Rough Sketch_

I caught, for a second, across the crowd-- Just for a second, and barely that-- A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed, Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat-- With small gray eyes, of a look as keen As the long, sharp nose that grew between.

And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own, Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear, On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown Hither and thither and everywhere-- With its keen little sinister eyes of gray, And nose like the beak of a bird of prey!

_Our Kind of a Man_

1 The kind of a man for you and me! He faces the world unflinchingly, And smites, as long as the wrong resists, With a knuckled faith and force like fists: He lives the life he is preaching of, And loves where most is the need of love; His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears, And his face sublime through the blind man's tears; The light shines out where the clouds were dim, And the widow's prayer goes up for him; The latch is clicked at the hovel door And the sick man sees the sun once more, And out o'er the barren fields he sees Springing blossoms and waving trees, Feeling as only the dying may, That God's own servant has come that way, Smoothing the path as it still winds on Through the golden gate where his loved have gone.

2 The kind of a man for me and you! However little of worth we do He credits full, and abides in trust That time will teach us how more is just. He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds Of querulous and uneasy minds, And sympathizing, he shares the pain Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain; And knowing this, as we grasp his hand We are surely coming to understand! He looks on sin with pitying eyes-- E'en as the Lord, since Paradise--, Else, should we read, Though our sins should glow As scarlet, they shall be white as snow--? And feeling still, with a grief half glad, That the bad are as good as the good are bad, He strikes straight out for the Right-- and he Is the kind of a man for you and me!

_The Harper_

Like a drift of faded blossoms Caught in a slanting rain, His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp In a tremulous refrain:

Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip! Ah! But the chords were rainy sweet! And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip, As he played there in the street.

Patter, and drip, and tinkle! And there was the little bed In the corner of the garret, And the rafters overhead!

And there was the little window-- Tinkle, and drip, and drip--! The rain above, and a mother's love, And God's companionship!

_Old Aunt Mary's_

Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine, In those old days of the lost sunshine Of youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through, And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen too, And we went visiting, "me and you," Out to Old Aunt Mary's?

It all comes back so clear to-day! Though I am as bald as you are gray-- Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, We patter along in the dust again, As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

We cross the pasture, and through the wood Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry, And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing" sky And lolled and circled, as we went by Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And then in the dust of the road again; And the teams we met, and the countrymen; And the long highway, with sunshine spread As thick as butter on country bread, Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

Why, I see her now in the open door, Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me! Wasn't it good for a boy to see-- And wasn't it good for a boy to be Out to Old Aunt Mary's?

The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade, And the cherry and quince "preserves'' she made! And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--! And the more we ate was the more to spare, Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept-- Where the cream in a golden languor slept While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept-- Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And O my brother, so far away, This is to tell you she waits to-day To welcome us--: Aunt Mary fell Asleep this morning, whispering-- "Tell The boys to come!" And all is well Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

_Illileo_

Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales-- The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales; The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails, And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.

Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone So mystically, musically mellow as your own.

You whispered low, Illileo-- so low the leaves were mute, And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit; And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute: And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.

Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this--? Let them reeling reach to win me-- even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward--! I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss.

And blossoms should grow odorless-- and lilies all aghast-- And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last--. So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.

IIlileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.

_The King_

They rode right out of the morning sun-- A glimmering, glittering cavalcade Of knights and ladies and every one In princely sheen arrayed; And the king of them all, O he rode ahead, With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red That spurted about in the breeze and bled In the bloom of the everglade.

And they rode high over the dewy lawn, With brave, glad banners of every hue That rolled in ripples, as they rode on In splendor, two and two; And the tinkling links of the golden reins Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains As the castanets in a dream of Spain's Intensest gold and blue.

And they rode and rode; and the steeds they neighed And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides Flickered and lightened and glanced and played Like the moon on rippling tides;

And their manes were silken, and thick and strong, And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long, And jostled in time to the teeming throng, And their knightly song besides.

Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur, And the fluttering sash of the queen went wild In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her As one at a wilful child--, And as knight and lady away they flew, And the banners flapped, and the falcon too, And the lances flashed and the bugle blew, He kissed his hand and smiled.

And then, like a slanting sunlit shower, The pageant glittered across the plain, And the turf spun back, and the wildweed flower Was only a crimson stain. And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast, As he blends these words with the wailing blast: "It is the King of the Year rides past!" And Autumn is here again.

_A Bride_

"O I am weary!" she sighed, as her billowy Hair she unloosed in a torrent of gold That rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy, Graceful and fair as a goddess of old: Over her jewels she flung herself drearily, Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast, Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearily Clung in her hair like a dove in its nest--. And naught but her shadowy form in the mirror To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her!

"Weary--?" Of what? Could we fathom the mystery--? Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tears And wash with their dews one white face from her history, Set like a gem in the red rust of years? Nothing will rest her-- unless he who died of her Strayed from his grave, and in place of the groom, Tipping her face, kneeling there by the side of her, Drained the old kiss to the dregs of his doom--. And naught but that shadowy form in the mirror To heel in dumb agony down and weep near her!

_The Dead Lover_

Time is so long when a man is dead! Some one sews; and the room is made Very clean; and the light is shed Soft through the window-shade.

Yesterday I thought: "I know Just how the bells will sound, and how The friends will talk, and the sermon go, And the hearse-horse bow and bow!"

This is to-day; and I have no thing To think of-- nothing whatever to do But to hear the throb of the pulse of a wing That wants to fly back to you.

_A Song_

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear; There is ever a something sings alway: There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. The sunshine showers across the grain, And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; And in and out, when the eaves dip rain, The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair, There is ever a song that our hearts may hear-- There is ever a song somewhere, my dear There is ever a song somewhere!

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue: The robin pipes when the sun is here, And the cricket chirrups the whole night through. The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow, And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear; But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair, There is ever a song that our hearts may hear-- There is ever a song somewhere, my dear-- There is ever a song somewhere!

_When Bessie Died_

If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; If the white feet into the grave had tripped--"

When Bessie died-- We braided the brown hair, and tied It just as her own little hands Had fastened back the silken strands A thousand times-- the crimson bit Of ribbon woven into it That she had worn with childish pride-- Smoothed down the dainty bow-- and cried When Bessie died.

When Bessie died-- We drew the nursery blinds aside, And as the morning in the room Burst like a primrose into bloom, Her pet canary's cage we hung Where she might hear him when he sung-- And yet not any note he tried, Though she lay listening folded-eyed.

When Bessie died-- We writhed in prayer unsatisfied: We begged of God, and He did smile In silence on us all the while; And we did see Him, through our tears, Enfolding that fair form of hers, She laughing back against His love The kisses had nothing of-- And death to us He still denied, When Bessie died-- When Bessie died.

_The Shower_

The landscape, like the awed face of a child, Grew curiously blurred; a hush of death Fell on the fields, and in the darkened wild The zephyr held its breath.

No wavering glamour-work of light and shade Dappled the shivering surface of the brook; The frightened ripples in their ambuscade Of willows thrilled and shook.

The sullen day grew darker, and anon Dim flashes of pent anger lit the sky; With rumbling wheels of wrath came rolling on The storm's artillery.

The cloud above put on its blackest frown, And then, as with a vengeful cry of pain, The lightning snatched it, ripped and flung it down In ravelled shreds of rain:

While I, transfigured by some wondrous art, Bowed with the thirsty lilies to the sod, My empty soul brimmed over, and my heart Drenched with the love of God.

_A Life Lesson_

There! Little girl; don't cry! They have broken your doll, I know; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house too, Are things of the long ago; But childish troubles will soon pass by--. There! Little girl; don't cry!

There! Little girl; don't cry! They have broken your slate, I know; And the glad, wild ways Of your school-girl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by--. There! Little girl; don't cry!

There! Little girl; don't cry! They have broken your heart, I know; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But heaven holds all for which you sigh--. There! Little girl; don't cry!

_A Scrawl_

I want to sing something-- but this is all-- I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull As though they were damp, and the echoes fall Limp and unlovable.

Words will not say what I yearn to say-- They will not walk as I want them to, But they stumble and fall in the path of the way Of my telling my love for you.

Simply take what the scrawl is worth-- Knowing I love you as sun the sod On the ripening side of the great round earth That swings in the smile of God.

_Away_

I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead--. He is just away!

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand He has wandered into an unknown land,

And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you-- O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return--,

Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes--.

Mild and gentle, as he was brave--, When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things--: Where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to,

The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed:

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain--.

Think of him still as the same, I say: He is not dead-- he is just away!

_Who Bides His Time_

Who bides his time, and day by day Faces defeat full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay, However poor his fortunes be--, He will not fail in any qualm Of poverty-- the paltry dime It will grow golden in his palm, Who bides his time.

Who bides his time-- he tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltest tear; And though he fares with slowest feet, Joy runs to meet him, drawing near; The birds are heralds of his cause; And like a never-ending rhyme, The roadsides bloom in his applause, Who bides his time.

Who bides his time, and fevers not In the hot race that none achieves, Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought With crimson berries in the leaves; And he shall reign a goodly king, And sway his hand o'er every clime, With peace writ on his signet-ring, Who bides his time.

_From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay_

A troth, and a grief, and a blessing, Disguised them and came this way--, And one was a promise, and one was a doubt, And one was a rainy day.

And they met betimes with this maiden, And the promise it spake and lied, And the doubt it gibbered and hugged itself, And the rainy day-- she died.

_Laughter Holding Both His Sides_

Ay, thou varlet! Laugh away! All the world's a holiday! Laugh away, and roar and shout Till thy hoarse tongue lolleth out! Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine eyes Unto bursting; pelt thy thighs With thy swollen palms, and roar As thou never hast before! Lustier! Wilt thou! Peal on peal! Stiflest? Squat and grind thy heel-- Wrestle with thy loins, and then Wheeze thee whiles, and whoop again!

_Fame_

1 Once, in a dream, I saw a man, With haggard face and tangled hair, And eyes that nursed as wild a care As gaunt Starvation ever can; And in his hand he held a wand Whose magic touch gave life and thought Unto a form his fancy wrought And robed with coloring so grand, It seemed the reflex of some child Of Heaven, fair and undefiled-- A face of purity and love-- To woo him into worlds above: And as I gazed with dazzled eyes, A gleaming smile lit up his lips As his bright soul from its eclipse Went flashing into Paradise. Then tardy Fame came through the door And found a picture-- nothing more.

2 And once I saw a man alone, In abject poverty, with hand Uplifted o'er a block of stone That took a shape at his command And smiled upon him, fair and good-- A perfect work of womanhood, Save that the eyes might never weep, Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep, Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist, Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. And as in awe I gazed on her, I saw the sculptor's chisel fall-- I saw him sink, without a moan, Sink life less at the feet of stone, And lie there like a worshipper. Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, And found a statue-- that was all.

3 And once I saw a man who drew A gloom about him like cloak, And wandered aimlessly. The few Who spoke of him at all, but spoke Disparagingly of a mind The Fates had faultily designed: Too indolent for modern times-- Too fanciful, and full of whims-- For talking to himself in rhymes, And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, The idle life to which he clung Was worthless as the songs he sung! I saw him, in my vision, filled With rapture o'er a spray of bloom The wind threw in his lonely room; And of the sweet perfume it spilled He drank to drunkenness, and flung His long hair back, and laughed and sung And clapped his hands as children do At fairy tales they listen to, While from his flying quill there dripped Such music on his manuscript That he who listens to the words May close his eyes and dream the birds Are twittering on every hand A language he can understand. He journeyed on through life unknown, Without one friend to call his own; He tired. No kindly hand to press The cooling touch of tenderness Upon his burning brow, nor lift To his parched lips God's freest gift-- No sympathetic sob or sigh Of trembling lips-- no sorrowing eye Looked out through tears to see him die. And Fame her greenest laurels brought To crown a head that heeded not.

And this is Fame! A thing indeed, That only comes when least the need: The wisest minds of every age The book of life from page to page Have searched in vain; each lesson conned Will promise it the page beyond-- Until the last, when dusk of night Falls over it, and reason's light Is smothered by that unknown friend Who signs his nom de plume, The End.

_The Ripest Peach_

The ripest peach is highest on the tree-- And so her love, beyond the reach of me, Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes bow Her heart down to me where I worship now!

She looms aloft where every eye may see The ripest peach is highest on the tree. Such fruitage as her love I know, alas! I may not reach here from the orchard grass.

I drink the sunshine showered past her lips As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips. The ripest peach is highest on the tree, And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly.

Why-- why do I not turn away in wrath And pluck some heart here hanging in my path--? Lover's lower boughs bend with them-- but, ah me! The ripest peach is highest on the tree!

_A Fruit Piece_

The afternoon of summer folds Its warm arms round the marigolds,

And with its gleaming fingers, pets The watered pinks and violets

That from the casement vases spill, Over the cottage window-sill,

Their fragrance down the garden walks Where droop the dry-mouthed hollyhocks.

How vividly the sunshine scrawls The grape-vine shadows on the walls!

How like a truant swings the breeze In high boughs of the apple-trees!

The slender "free-stone" lifts aloof, Full languidly above the roof,

A hoard of fruitage, stamped with gold And precious mintings manifold.

High up, through curled green leaves, a pear Hangs hot with ripeness here and there.

Beneath the sagging trellisings, In lush, lack-lustre clusterings,

Great torpid grapes, all fattened through With moon and sunshine, shade and dew,

Until their swollen girths express But forms of limp deliciousness--

Drugged to an indolence divine With heaven's own sacramental wine.

_Their Sweet Sorrow_

They meet to say farewell: Their way Of saying this is hard to say--. He holds her hand an Instant, wholly Distressed-- and she unclasps it slowly,

He lends his gaze evasively Over the printed page that she Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder Glimpsed from the lace-mists that infold her.

The clock, beneath its crystal cup, Discreetly clicks-- "Quick! Act! Speak up!" A tension circles both her slender Wrists-- and her raised eyes flash in splendor,

Even as he feels his dazzled own--. Then blindingly, round either thrown, They feel a stress of arms that ever Strain tremblingly-- and "Never! Never!"

Is whispered brokenly, with half A sob, like a belated laugh--, While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes--, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.

_John McKeen_

John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy throat, His face unshaven, and none the less, His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more, And tilt him back in his Windsor chair By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er And the light of the hearth is across the floor, And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And old-time fiddle-tunes!

Tick the clock with a wooden sound, And fill the hearing with childish glee Of rhyming riddle, or story found In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound Old book of the Used-to-be!

John McKeen of the Past! Ah John, To have grown ambitious in worldly ways--! To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don A broadcloth suit, and forgetful, gone Out on election days!

John ah, John! Did it prove your worth To yield you the office you still maintain--? To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth Of all the happier things on earth To the hunger of heart and brain?

Under the dusk of your villa trees, Edging the drives where your blooded span Paw the pebbles and wait your ease--, Where are the children about your knees, And the mirth, and the happy man?

The blinds of your mansion are battened to; Your faded wife is a close recluse; And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do Dutifully all that is willed of you, And marry as you shall choose--!

But O for the old-home voices, blent With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, And the motherly chirrup of glad content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And the old-time fiddle-tunes!

_Out of Nazareth_

"He shall sleep unscathed of thieves Who loves Allah and believes." Thus heard one who shared the tent, In the far-off Orient, Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz-- Nobler never loved the stars Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim Dawn his courser neighed to him!

He said: "Let the sands be swarmed With such thieves as I, and thou Shalt at morning rise unharmed, Light as eyelash to the brow Of thy camel amber-eyed, Ever munching either side, Striding still, with nestled knees, Through the midnight's oases."

"Who can rob thee an thou hast More than this that thou hast cast At my feet-- this dust of gold? Simply this and that, all told! Hast thou not a treasure of Such a thing as men call love?"

"Can the dusky band I lead Rob thee of thy daily need Of a whiter soul, or steal What thy lordly prayers reveal? Who could be enriched of thee By such hoard of poverty As thy niggard hand pretends To dole me-- thy worst of friends? Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless One indeed who blesses thee: Robbing thee, I dispossess But myself--. Pray thou for me!"

He shall sleep unscathed of thieves Who loves Allah and believes.

_September Dark_

1 The air falls chill; The whippoorwill Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill: The dusk grows dense, The silence tense; And lo, the katydids commence.

2 Through shadowy rifts Of woodland lifts The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, While left and right The fireflies' light Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.

3 O Cloudland gray And level lay Thy mists across the face of Day! At foot and head, Above the dead O Dews, weep on uncomforted!

_We To Sigh Instead of Sing_

"Rain and rain! And rain and rain!" Yesterday we muttered Grimly as the grim refrain That the thunders uttered: All the heavens under cloud-- All the sunshine sleeping; All the grasses limply bowed With their weight of weeping.

Sigh and sigh! And sigh and sigh! Never end of sighing; Rain and rain for our reply-- Hopes half drowned and dying; Peering through the window-pane, Naught but endless raining-- Endless sighing, and as vain, Endlessly complaining,

Shine and shine! And shine and shine! Ah! To-day the splendor--! All this glory yours and mine-- God! But God is tender! We to sigh instead of sing, Yesterday, in sorrow, While the Lord was fashioning This for our To-morrow!

_The Blossoms on the Trees_

Blossoms crimson, white, or blue, Purple, pink, and every hue, From sunny skies, to tintings drowned In dusky drops of dew, I praise you all, wherever found, And love you through and through--; But, Blossoms On The Trees, With your breath upon the breeze There's nothing all the world around As half as sweet as you!