Chapter VIII

This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness of life. The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of strength In the lust of attainment. Aiming at things for Heaven too high, Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength. So tried it the impossible height, till the end was found: Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of morning stars, The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds, Whose eye is filled with the Image of God, And the end is Death!

GEORGE CABOT LODGE

FRIMAIRE

Dearest, we are like two flowers Blooming in the garden, A purple aster flower and a red one Standing alone in a withered desolation.

The garden plants are shattered and seeded, One brittle leaf scrapes against another, Fiddling echoes of a rush of petals. Now only you and I nodding together.

Many were with us; they have all faded. Only we are purple and crimson, Only we in the dew-clear mornings, Smarten into color as the sun rises.

When I scarcely see you in the flat moonlight, And later when my cold roots tighten, I am anxious for morning, I cannot rest in fear of what may happen.

You or I—and I am a coward. Surely frost should take the crimson. Purple is a finer color, Very splendid in isolation.

So we nod above the broken Stems of flowers almost rotted. Many mornings there cannot be now For us both. Ah, Dear, I love you!

AMY LOWELL

PATTERNS

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only a whale-bone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the splashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled up upon the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon— I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. “Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday sen’night.” As I read it in the white morning sunlight. The letters squirmed like snakes. “Any answer, Madam,” said my footman. “No,” I told him. “See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer.” And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband, In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.” Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and the daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.

I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?

AMY LOWELL

A BATHER

Thick dappled by circles of sunshine and fluttering shade. Your bright, naked body advances, blown over by leaves, Half-quenched in their various green, just a point of you showing, A knee or a thigh, sudden glimpsed, then at once blotted into The filmy and flickering forest, to start out again Triumphant in smooth, supple roundness, edged sharp as white ivory, Cool, perfect, with rose rarely tinting your lips and your breasts, Swelling out from the green in the opulent curves of ripe fruit, And hidden, like fruit, by the swift intermittence of leaves. So, clinging to branches and moss, you advance on the ledges Of rock which hang over the stream, with the wood-smells about you, The pungence of strawberry plants and of gum-oozing spruces, While below runs the water impatient, impatient to take you, To splash you, to run down your sides, to sing you of deepness, Of pools brown and golden, with brown-and-gold flags on their borders, Of blue, lingering skies floating solemnly over your beauty, Of undulant waters a-sway in the effort to hold you To keep you submerged and quiescent while over you glories The summer. Oread, Dryad, or Naiad, or just Woman, clad only in youth and in gallant perfection, Standing up in a great burst of sunshine, you dazzle my eyes Like a snow-star, a moon, your effulgence burns up in a halo, For you are the chalice which holds all the races of men. You slip into the pool and the water folds over your shoulder, And over the tree-tops the clouds slowly follow your swimming, To behold the way they act. And the scent of the woods is sweet on this hot summer morning.

AMY LOWELL

LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS

Over where the Irish hedges Are with blossoms white as snow, Over where the limestone ledges Through the soft green grasses show— There the fairies may be seen In their jackets of red and green, Leprechauns and cluricauns, And the other ones, I ween.

And, bedad, it is a wonder To behold the way they act. They’re the lads that seldom blunder, Wise and wary, that’s the fact. You may hold them with your eye; Look away and off they fly; Leprechauns and cluricauns, Bedad, but they are sly!

They have heaps of golden treasure Hid away within the ground, Where they spend their days in leisure, And where fairy joys abound; But to mortals not a guinea Will they give-no, not a penny. Leprechauns and cluricauns, Their gold is seldom found.

Maybe of a morning early As you pass a lonely rath, You may see a little curly— Headed fairy in your path. He’ll be working at a shoe, But he’ll have his eye on you— Leprechauns and cluricauns, They know just what to do.

Visions of a life of riches Surely will before you flash; (You’ll no longer dig the ditches, You’ll be well supplied with cash.) And you’ll seize the little man, And you’ll hold him—if you can; Leprechauns and cluricauns, ’Tis they’re the slipp’ry clan!

DENIS A. MCCARTHY

L’ENVOI

When the time for parting comes, and the day is on the wane, And the silent evening darkens over hill and over plain, And earth holds no more sorrow, no more grief, and no more pain, Shall we weary for the battle and the strife?

When at last the trail is ending, and the stars are growing near, And we breathe the breath of conquest, and the voices that we hear Are the great companions’ voices that have hallowed year on year, Shall we know an instant’s grieving as we pass?

Shall we pause a fleeting moment ere we grasp the eager hands, Take one last long look of wonder at the dimming of the lands, Love the earth one glowing moment ere we pass from its demands, Cull all beauty in its essence as we gaze?

Or with not one backward longing shall we leap the last abyss, Scale the highest crags glad-hearted, fearful only lest the bliss Of an earth-remembering instant should delay the great sun’s kiss— Consuming us within the flame?

DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN

TO IMAGINATION SUGGESTED BY MAXFIELD PARRISH’S “AIR CASTLES”

O beauteous boy a-dream, what visions sought Of pictures magical thy eyes unfold, What triumphs of celestial wonders wrought, What marvels from a breath of beauty rolled! Skyward and seaward on the clouds are scrolled, A mystic imagery of castled thought, A thousand worlds to lose,—or win and mould— A radiant iridescence swiftly caught Of ever-changing glory, fancy-fraught.

Blue wonder of the sea and luminous sky, A thousand wonders in thy dreamlit face,— Eyes that behold afar the turrets high Of Ilium, and the transient mortal grace Of Deirdre’s sadness, all the conquering race Of Athens,—eyes that saw Eden’s beauty lie In passionate adoration—visions trace Across the tender brooding of the sigh That wrecked a city and made chieftains die.

Forward not backward turns the mystic shine Of those far-seeing orbs that track the gleam— The fleecy marvel of the cloud is line On line the wizard tracery of a dream. O lad, who buildest not of things that seem, Beyond what bounds of visioning divine Came that far smile, from what long-strayed sun-beam Caught thou the radiance, from what fostering vine The power to build and mould the deep design?

Knowest thou the secret that thy brush would tell, Is all the dream a bubbled splendor white, Beyond those castles cloud-bound, does there dwell The eternal silence of the dark—or light? Will thy hand hold the pen which shall indict The symboled mystery-write the final knell Of rainbow fancy-is the distant sight A nothingless encircled by a spell Of gleaming bubbles wrought of beauty’s shell?

In vain to question, where the mystery Of Youth’s short golden dream is lord and king. The eyes that farthest gaze in ecstasy, Were never meant to paint the immortal thing They see, nor understand the joy they bring. The misty baubles of the sky and sea Sail on. Dream still, bright-visioned boy, and fling The glittering mantle of thy thoughts that flee, Weaving us evermore thy shining pageantry.

DORTHEA LAWRENCE MANN

DRAGON

Some saw a dragon eating up the light, Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! Some heard a lost bird riding out the night, Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!

But I saw: A low dark hill with its twisted back Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack, A sprawling flank overlaid with leaf Glitter and gleam and shine like steel, Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail!

And I heard: The wind draw out of the west and wail, Dance and stagger and jig and reel! With the long low sound of a life in grief!

I saw a life in grief Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho Dance and stagger and jig and reel! Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!

JEANNETTE MARKS “THE BOOKMAN.”

GREEN GOLDEN DOOR

Green golden door, swing in, swing in! Fanning the life a man must live, Echoes and airs and minstrelsies, Love and hope that he called his, Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin Casting them forth and sucking them in, Green golden door, swing out, swing out!

Green golden door, swing in, swing in! Show me the youth that will not die, Tell me the dream that has not waked, Seek me the heart that never ached, Green golden door, swing out, swing out!

Green golden door, swing in, swing out! Long is the wailing of man’s breath, Short is the wail of death.

JEANNETTE MARKS

SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD

Four graves there are upon the wooded crest, Each one a shrine to pilgrims ever dear. Uncovered, mute, are those who tarry here. Romance’s dreaming master lies at rest Beneath the cedars. Near is one whose breast Held Mother Nature’s lore. Beyond, the seer And sage. There, one who saw her duty clear, Her name by little men and women blessed.

Four friends who walked in Concord’s pleasant ways Long years ago. They dwelt and worked apart, But now the world has crowned them with its bays, And holds them close forever to its heart. O, sacred hill! There Genius, guarding stays, And from its slopes shall never Love depart!

JOHN CLAIR MINOT

THE SWORD OF ARTHUR

A castle stands in Yorkshire (Oh, the hill is fair and green!) And far beneath it lies a cave No living man has seen.

It is the cave enchanted (Oh, seek it ere ye die!) And there King Arthur and his knights In dreamless slumber lie.

One time a peasant found it (Oh, the years have hurried well!) It was the day of fate for him, And this is what befell:

Upon a couch of crystal (Oh, heart be pure and strong!) He saw the King, and, close beside, The armored knights athrong.

And all of them were sleeping (Praise God, who sendeth rest!) The sleep that comes when strife is done And ended every quest.

Beside the good King Arthur (How high is your desire?) His sword within its scabbard lay, The sword with blade of fire.

Now had the peasant known it (Oh, if we all could know!) He should have drawn that wondrous blade Before he turned to go.

If but his hand had touched it (The sword still lieth there!) He would have felt in every vein A lofty purpose thrill.

If but his hand had drawn it (The sword still lieth there!) A kingly way he would have walked, Wherever he might fare.

But no; he fled affrighted (Oh, pitiful the cost!) And then he knew; but lo! the way Into the cave was lost.

He searched forever after (All this was long ago!) But nevermore that crystal cave His eager eyes could know.

Pray God ye have the vision (Oh, search in every land!) To seize the sword that Arthur bore When it lies at your hand.

JOHN CLAIR MINOT

THE DIVINE FOREST

If there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more, If trunks of trees seem sentinels, For what their vigil no man tells. And if you clasp these guardian trees Nothing there is to hurt or please; Only the dead roof of the forest drops Gently down and never stops And roofs you in and roofs you under, Mute and away from life’s dim thunder; And if there come eternal spring It is but more disheartening, For Autumn takes the Spring and Summer— Autumn that is the latest comer— With the Springtime’s misty wonder And the Summer’s yield of gold, Weighs you down and weighs you under To where the blackened leaves are mold. . . The lone gift of the forest is ever new: Eternity where dwell not you. The forest, accepting, heeds you not; Accepting all-you are forgot. If there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more.

Once the forest spoke but now is silent, Save in the skyward branches whence no sound Seems to touch ear of any man below— Or else no longer the man knows how to hear. Such men build roofs to keep the forest out, Yet all their roofs are built of the forest’s self; Only they make the dead tree a shield against the living. Such lapsing of the forest then they use And turn it into countless lowly dwellings; Sometimes they even cut the living down To leaven the dead roofs they would erect. Though some of these low roofs are lovely there Beneath the guardianship of forest trees, And some yearn upward as with thought of wings, Yet the eyes of the dwellers therein are dark To the upper forest and they Fearful of the windy freedom of its top. They have forgotten That the greatest roof is but a banner And that it was a tree that made a Cross.

CHARLES R. MURPHY

MAGIC

TO W.S.B.

I ran into the sunset light As hard as I could run: The treetops bowed in sheer delight As if they loved the sun: And all the songs of little birds Who laughed and cried in silver words Were joined as they were one.

And down the streaming golden sky A lark came circling with a cry Of wonder-weaving joy: And all the arch of heaven rang Where meadowlands of dreaming hang As when I was a boy.

And through the ringing solitude In pulsing lovely amplitude A mist hung in a shroud, As though the light of loneliness Turned pure delight to holiness, And bathed it in a cloud.

I stripped my laughing body bare And plunged into that holy air That washed me like a sea, And raced against its silver tide That stroked my eager glancing side And made my spirit free.

Across the limits of the land The wind and I swept hand and hand Beyond the golden glow. We danced across the ocean plain Like thrushes singing in the rain A song of long ago.

And on into the silver night We strove to win the race with light And bring the vision home, And bring the wonder home again Unto the sleeping eyes of men Across the singing foam.

And down the river of the world Our glowing, limbs in glory swirled As spring within a flower, And stars in music of delight Streamed gayly down our shoulders white Like petals in a shower.

And tears of awful wonder ran Adown my cheeks to hear the clan Of beauty chaunting white The prayer too deep for living word, Or sight of man or winging bird, Or music over forest heard At falling of the night.

And dropping slowly as the dew On grasses that the winds renew In urge of flooding fire, And softly as the hushing boughs The gentle airs of dawn arouse To cradle morning’s quire.

The murmur of the singing leaves Around the secret Flame, Like mating swallows ’neath the eaves In rustling silence came, And flowing through the silent air Creation fluttered in a prayer Descending on a spiral stair, And calling me by name.

It nestled in my dreaming eyes Like heaven in a lake, And softened hope into surprise For very beauty’s sake, And silence blossomed into morn, Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn Could scarcely bear to break.

I sang into the morning light As loud as I could sing, The treetops bowed in sheer delight Before the slanting wing. And all the songs of little birds Who laughed and cried in silver words Adored the Risen Spring.

EDWARD J. O’BRIEN

MICHAEL PAT

TO ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

Old Michael Pat he said to me He saw an angel in a tree. He knew I’d never, never doubt him, For what would heaven be without them. The angel laughed for very glee And sang out loud: “Heigh! come with me!” Old Michael felt a creeping kind Of wonder in his humble mind, And, hardly knowing what to say, Ran where the angel showed the way. The lambs were running on the hills, Glad laughter echoed from the rills, And many hidden little birds Talked pleasant things in singing words. He followed up a mountain then And saw a crowd of singing men Approaching to a Crown of Light Wherein they took a fresh delight. He danced and sang and whooped and crew To see the Lord of all he knew Surrounded by the living songs Of stars and men in countless throngs, And then he died to life again, And shovelled with the strength of ten. He taught me how to say my letters, And take my hat off to my betters, And when I asked for fairy stories, He told me of angelic glories. He was a lovely farmer, he Had seen an angel in a tree.

EDWARD J. O’BRIEN

SONG

FROM “FLESH: A GEOGORIAN ODE”

Ebb on with me across the sunset tide And float beyond the waters of the world, The light of evening slipping from my side, Thy softened voice in waves of silence furled.

Flow on into the flaming morning wine, Drowning the land in color. Then on high Rise in thy candid innocence and shine Like to a poplar straight against the sky.

EDWARD J. O’BRIEN

IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE (Killed in action, July 31, 1917)

Soldier and singer of Erin, What may I fashion for thee? What garland of words or of flowers? Singer of sunlight and showers, The wind on the lea;

Of clouds, and the houses of Erin, Wee cabins, white on the plain, And bright with the colours of even, Beauty of earth and of heaven Outspread beyond Slane!

Slane, where the Easter of Patrick Flamed on the night of the Gael, Guard both the honor and story Of him who has died for the glory That crowns Innisfail.

Soldier of right and of freedom, I offer thee song and not tears. With Brian, and Red Hugh O’Donnell, The chiefs of Tyrone and Tryconnell, Live on through the years!

NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR

EVENSONG

A shepherd piping, herald of the Night Who comes with Silence up the coloured vale, Treading low gently, clad in greyish white, Poignantly piping, sound your reedy wail! For Day departed moves in funeral train Tended by Twilight and, in deepest rose, The splendid Sunset melts beneath the main While sweet the Sea-wind with cool softness blows. As when a mother gathers to her breast The child who frets for Dad’s remembered smart, Now Light fades quickly in the ashen west, And Night-Peace falls across my troubled heart. Flutes, for the night through let my mind be still, And God keep safe with Him my stubborn will!

NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR

THE PROPHET

All day long he kept the sheep:— Far and early, from the crowd, On the hills from steep to steep, Where the silence cried aloud; And the shadow of the cloud Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.

Where he dipped the water’s cool, Filling boyish hands from thence, Something breathed across the pool Stir of sweet enlightenments; And he drank, with thirsty sense, Till his heart was brimmed and full.

Still, the hovering Voice unshed, And the Vision unbeheld, And the mute sky overhead, And his longing, still withheld! —Even when the two tears welled, Salt, upon that lonely bread.

Vaguely blessed in the leaves, Dim-companioned in the sun, Eager mornings, wistful eyes, Very hunger drew him on; And To-morrow ever shone With the glow the sunset weaves.

Even so, to that young heart, Words and hands and Men were dear; And the stir of lane and mart After daylong vigil here. Sunset called, and he drew near, Still to find his path apart.

When the Bell, with gentle tongue, Called the herd-bells home again, Through the purple shades he swung, Down the mountain, through the glen; Towards the sound of fellow-men,— Even from the light that clung.

Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, Came that silent flock of his: Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, After homing twos and threes; With the longing memories Of all white things dreamed and vowed.

Through the fragrances, alone, By the sudden-silent brook, From the open world unknown, To the close of speech and book; There to find the foreign look In the faces of his own.

Sharing was beyond his skill; Shyly yet, he made essay: Sought to dip, and share, and fill Heart’s-desire, from day to day. But their eyes, some foreign way, Looked at him; and he was still.

Last, he reached his arms to sleep, Where the Vision waited, dim, Still beyond some deep-on-deep. And the darkness folded him, Eager heart and weary limb.— All day long, he kept the sheep.

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

HARVEST-MOON: 1914

Over the twilight field, The overflowing field,— Over the glimmering field, And bleeding furrows with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe, After the scythe; The teeming field and darkly overstrewn With all the garnered fulness of that noon— Two looked upon each other. One was a Woman men called their mother; And one, the Harvest-Moon.

And one, the Harvest-Moon, Who stood, who gazed On those unquiet gleanings where they bled; Till the lone Woman said: “But we were crazed… We should laugh now together, I and you, We two. You, for your dreaming it was worth A star’s while to look on and light the Earth; And I, forever telling to my mind, Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth To humankind! Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss To give the breath to men, For men to slay again: Lording it over anguish but to give My life that men might live For this. You will be laughing now, remembering I called you once Dead World, and barren thing, Yes, so we named you then, You, far more wise Than to give life to men.”

Over the field, that there Gave back the skies A shattered upward stare From blank white eyes,— Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon, She looked; and went her way— The Harvest-Moon.

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY

HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM

“Horseman, springing from the dark, Horseman, flying wild and free, Tell me what shall be thy road Whither speedest far from me?”

“From the dark into the light, From the small unto the great, From the valleys dark I ride O’er the hills to conquer fate!”

“Take me with thee, horseman mine! Let me madly rode with thee!” As he turned I met his eyes, My own soul looked back at me!

LILLA CABOT PERRY

THREE QUATRAINS

THE CUP

She said, “Lift high the cup!” Of her arm’s weariness she gave no sign, But, smiling, raised it up That none might see or guess it held no wine.

FORGIVE ME NOT!

Forgive me not! Hate me and I shall know Some of Love’s fire still burns within your breast! Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest, On dead volcanoes only lies the snow.

THE ROSE

One deep red rose I dropped into his grave, So small a thing to give so great a friend! Yet well he knew it was my heart I gave And must fare on without it to the end,

LILLA CABOT PERRY

A VALENTINE, UNSENT

Stay, flaming rose, ’twould grieve her heart To see you fade away, Unloved, unwelcome and apart From every joy to-day.

Once long ago your tale was new, Days distant yet so dear; Why say her lover still is true, When that is all her fear?

Why thus recall another’s pain, Her tender heart to fret? Best let her think he loves again, Who never can forget!

MARGARET PERRY

SHIPBUILDERS

The German people reared them An idol made of wood; And Hindenburg before them Lifelike and stupid stood.

To clothe him all in iron And thus his soul express, With nails and spikes they covered His wooden nakedness.

And when they, thus had clothed him All in a suit of mail, Still came they, wild-eyed, looking For space to drive a nail.

Whenever Teuton airmen Slay boys and girls at play, Or U-boats, drowning babies, Create a holiday.

Then, gathering round their statue, A happy German throng Drive nails into the idol To make him still more strong.

Avenge the babes, shipbuilders, That on the seas have died; Avenge the little children Murdered for Wilhelm’s pride.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And let your hammers ring, For more than ships and cargoes Waits on your fashioning.

Come, gather at the shipyards; With every bolt you drive Bethink you ’tis the Kaiser Whose brutish head you rive.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And swing with might and main; ’Tis Tirpitz and the Crown Prince That you to-day have slain.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And heat the metal hot, For it is Bethmann Hollweg You’re boiling in the pot.

Come, gather at the shipyards,— And when the day is done, You’ve spent it in driving spikes, In Hindernburg the Hun.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And toil with healthy hate, For only you can save the world, The Hun is at the gate.

ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER

UNFADING PICTURES

(“The air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers…. The old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my aunt’s inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries, the old china … and, wonderfully out of keeping with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything.” —“David Copperfield,” Chapter XIII.)

How many are the scenes he limned, With artist strokes, clear-cut and free— Our Dickens; time shall not efface Their charm, and they will ever grace The halls of memory.

Oft and again we turn to them, To contemplate in pleased review; And like some picture on the screen Comes now to mind a favorite scene His master-pencil drew:—

Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep, I see a small lad, spent and worn, And by the window, stern and grim, A silent figure watching him, So dusty, ragged, torn.

Ah, now she rises from behind The round green fan beside her chair; “Poor fellow!” croons-and pity lends Her voice new softness-and she bends And brushes back his hair.

Then in his sleep he softly stirs. Was that a dream, these murmured words? He wakes! There by the casement sat Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat And her canary birds.

The peaceful calm of that quaint room, Its marks of comfort everywhere— Old china and mahogany And blowing in, fresh from the sea, The perfume-laden air.

Poor little pilgrim so bereft, So weary at his journey’s end! What joy must then have filled his soul To reach at last such happy goal— To find—oh, such a friend!…

And then night came, and from his bed He saw the sea, moonlit and bright, And dreamed there came, to bless her son, His mother, with her little one, Adown that path of light.

Ah, greater blessing I’d not crave, When my life’s pilgrimage is o’er, Than such repose, content, and love; Some shining path that leads above To dear ones gone before!

LOUELLA C. POOLE

WITH WAVES AND WINGS

Waves and Wings and Growing Things! As through the gladden sight ye flow And flit and glow, Ye win me so In soul to go, I too am waves, I too am wings, And kindred motion in me springs.

With thee I pass, glad growing grass!— I climb the air with lissome mien; Unsheathing keen The vivid sheen Of springing green, I thrill the crude, exalt the crass Fine-flex’d and fluent from Earth’s mass.

And impulse craves with thee, Sea Waves!— To make all mutable the floor Of Earth’s firm shore, With flashing pour Whose brimming o’er Impassion’d motion loves and laves And livens sombre slumbering caves.

Then soaring where the wild birds fare, My song would sweep the windy lyre Of Heaven’s choir, Pulsing desire For starry fire, Abashing chilling vagues of air With throbbing of warm breasts that dare!

CHARLOTTE PORTER

BLUEBERRIES

Upon the hills of Garlingtown Beneath the summer sky, In many pleasant pastures On sunny slopes and high, Their skins abloom with dusty blue, Asleep, the berries lie.

And all the lads of Garlingtown, And all the lasses too, Still climb the tranquil hillsides, A merry, barefoot crew; Still homeward plod with unfilled pails And mouths of berry blue.

And all the birds of Garlingtown, When flocking back to nest, Remember well the patches Where berries are the best; They pick the ripest ones at dawn And leave the lads the rest.

Upon the hills of Garlingtown When berry-time was o’er, I looked into the sunset, And saw an open door, And from the hills of Garlingtown I went, and came no more.

FRANK PRENTICE RAND

NOCTURNE

Night of infinite power and infinite silence and space, From you may mortals infer, if ever, the scope divine! The jealous sun conceals all but his arrogant face, You bid the Milky Way and a million suns to shine.

Each star to numberless planets gives light and motion and heat, But you enmantle them all, the nearest and most remote; And the lustres of all the suns are but spangles under your feet,— Mere bubbles and beads of noon, they circle and shine and float.

WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER

ENVOI

I walked with poets in my youth, Because the world they drew Was beautiful and glorious Beyond the world I knew.

The poets are my comrades still, But dearer than in youth, For now I know that they alone Picture the world of truth.

WILLIAM ROSCOE THAYER

THERE WHERE THE SEA

There where the sea enwrapt A strip of land and wind-swept dune, Where nature was quiescent in the glimmering Noonday sun of early June,— The Placid sea lay shimmering In a mist of blue, From which the sky now drew Its wealth of hue and colour; One heard but the deep breathing of the ocean, As it breathed along the shore in even motion. Among the pines and listless of the scene, Atthis and Alcæus lay, Within the heart of each a hunger For the unknown gift of life. Here from day to day They met and dreamed away The soft unfloding days of spring,— Now turning to the summer.

_Alcæus:_ I am faint with all the fire In my blood, And I would plunge into the quiet blue And lose all sense of time and you.

_Atthis:_ I, too, would plunge And swim with you!

Doffing her robe, the maid stood in her beauty, Calm and sure and unafraid, The sinuous splendour of her limbs, A silent symphony of curving line, Which reached its final note In breast and rounded throat. He had not known that flesh could be so fair; Each movement which she made Wove o’er his sense a deeper spell, Her beauty swept him like a flame And caught him unaware. She looked into his eyes, then dropping hers Before that burning gaze, Softly turned and crept with sunlit shoulders Down among the boulders, To the sea. Secure within its covering depth She called to him to follow. She led him out along the tide, With swift unerring stroke, Nor paused till he was at her side. With conquering arm He seized her and from her brow Tossed back the dripping locks, and sought her lips— Her eyes closed,— As all her body yielded to his kiss. Then home he bore her to the shore, Within his heart a song of triumph; In hers, a new-born joy of womanhood. So spring for them passed on to summer.

MARIE TUDOR

MARRIAGE

You, who have given me your name, And with your laws have made me wife, To share your failures and your fame, Whose word has made me yours for life.

What proof have you that you hold me? That in reality I’m one With you, through all eternity? What proof when all is said and done?

In spite of all the laws you’ve made, I’m free. I am no part of you. But wait-the last word is not said; You’re mine, for I’m myself and you.

All through my veins there flows your blood, In you there is no part of me. By virtue of my motherhood Through me you live eternally.

MARIE TUDOR

PITY

Oh do not Pity me because I gave My heart when lovely April with a gust, Swept down the singing lanes with a cool wave; And do not pity me because I thrust Aside your love that once burned as a flame. I was as thirsty as a windy flower That bares its bosom to the summer shower And to the unremembered winds that came. Pity me most for moments yet to be, In the far years, when some day I shall turn Toward this strong path up to our little door And find it barred to all my ecstasy. No sound of your warm voice the winds have borne— Only the crying sea upon the shore.

HAROLD VINAL

A ROSE TO THE LIVING

A rose to the living is more Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead; In filling love’s infinite store, A rose to the living is more, If graciously given before The hungering spirit is fled,— A rose to the living is more Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.

NIXON WATERMAN

THE STORM

She reached for sunset fires, And lived with stars and the sea, The mountains for her temple, The storm for priest had she.

Together a libation They poured to the God she knew, Such wine as ageless heavens And lonely wisdom brew.

Now she has done with worship, For her all rites are the same; Yet the storm keeps green forever The moss upon her name.

G. O. WARREN

WHERE THEY SLEEP

The fog inrolling, dark and still Lies deep upon the crowded dead As flooding sea upon the sands, And quenches starlight overhead.

Long have they slept. Their separate dust Has mingled with a nameless mould. Only the slower-crumbling stones Still tell so much as may be told.

And now in shoreless fog adrift Like some lone mariner gliding by, I lean above the drowning graves And wonder when I too shall lie

Where evermore the tides of night And earth will hide my lonely rest; And Time will bid my love forget To read the stone upon my breast.

G. O. WARREN

BEAUTY

Not flesh alone am I, when I can be So swiftly caught in Beauty’s shimmering thread Whose slender fibres, woven, held by me, With their frail strength my following heart have led.

Yea, not all mortal, not all death my mind, When, watching by lone twilight waters’ brim I tremblingly decipher, as they wind, Her deathless hieroglyphs, though strange and dim.

So for this faith, when Thou my dust shalt bring To dust, remember well, Great Alchemist, Yearly to change my wintry earth to spring, That I with Beauty still may keep my tryst.

G. O. WARREN

COMRADES

Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying, In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming? We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying; Now never a heart to my heart comes homing!— Where is he now, the dark boy slender Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins? I love him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender Tamer of horses on grass-grown plains.

Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter, Softer than love, in his turbulent charms; Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter, And gather me up in his boyhood arms; Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding, Suppled my limbs to the horseman’s war; Where is he now, for whom my heart’s biding, Biding, biding—but he rides far!

O love that passes the love of woman! Who that hath felt it shall ever forget When the breath of life with a throb turns human, And a lad’s heart is to a lad’s heart set? Ever, forever, lover and rover— They shall cling, nor each from other shall part Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, And life is dust in each faithful heart.

They are dead, the American grasses under; There is no one now who presses my side; By the African chotts I am riding asunder, And with great joy ride I the last great ride. I am fey; I am fein of sudden dying; Thousands of miles there is no one near; And my heart—all the night it is crying, crying In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear.

Hearts of my music—them dark earth covers; Comrades to die, and to die for, were they; In the width of the world there were no such rovers— Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished, To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more, And to ride in the track of great souls perished Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o’er.

Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands, Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade, And one, far faring o’er orient islands Whose blood yet glints with my blade’s accolade; North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing, Last love to the breasts where my own has bled; Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing My star where it rises a Star of the Dead.

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY

THE FLIGHT