Chapter XI: How to Read Poetry (8)

But my questions lose their way,—
You sing what tender lovers say,—
Not of wars and wars’ alarms,
Yours the songs of woman’s charms,
Your tones silk-fitting rosy lips
From which the kissing lyric slips.

When he limped along the trail
That his wild men might not fail
Of the sacrament which saves
And lights the shadowed way of graves
Did the halt monk, thinking how
His Saint Francis on the bough
Gathered all the gracious birds,
Preached to them the gospel’s words,
Still his earnest heart to hear
Your lover-calls sing out their cheer,
And for one heart-beat clean forgot
The Christ-fervor of his thought,
Hearing words that thrilled his soul
Ere he wore the hallowed stole,
Among red roses there in Spain
Where he’ll never walk again?

But these tongues you cannot speak,
Hebrew, Latin, Spanish, Greek;
’Tis in Anglo-Saxon tongue
Your name-calls are sweetly sung.

If from Saxon land you hail,
Not the Mayflower was your sail;
But some daring Cavalier
Loved your song and brought you here,—
Fervid, knightly, militant,
Still his heart your raptures chant;
And from his sorrows maybe came
Your minors, wavering like flame
Which marked the ashes that remain
When wild men have burned and slain;
In your tones the Southern tongue,
Chivalry forever young,
Love the only noble theme
When we’re waking, when we dream?

But your secret still allures,
Whence came those sweetheart names of yours?

You, the American of birds,
You are singing English words;
So where Shakespeare’s tongue we speak
There your secret we must seek.

But your name? that tells it all;
Changes to your tongue befall,
And you can speak each language new
Or sing the last light wind that blew;
You hearken, and new gossipings
Are music-scattered by your wings;
You overhear and feel no shames;
And call out loud the lovers’ names.

In some dear later days you heard
This you sing in true love’s word.

I think that in our war’s some year
Your throat was taught these words so dear;
When Grant’s and Lee’s were names of dread,
Where billowed fields with sweetheart dead.

Your “Peter! Peter,” there you learned
As “Gertie! Gertie” to him yearned.
It was a time when sorrow rent
Full many a heart of sweet content.

’Twas beneath sweet Southern pines;
They walked softly on the spines,
While you, silent, on your nest
Heard these names, and all the rest
Which passioned from their lips that time
You caught their name-calls in your rhyme;
E’en that night ’neath star-bright skies
Your joy-song sang their sweet Good-bys.

You’re an emigrant, as we;
Other states our birth-states be,
And we bring out memories here,
Bright with smile, or darked with tear;
So in California’s sun
Sings your song, back there begun.

But do you know, O song-heart brave,
That Peter’s in an unknown grave,
Where the Rappahannock flows;
No more fearing war’s dread blows?
And not a mound to mark the place
Where went out his sweetheart face;
And not a bough where some song-mate
Might his hero deeds relate,
And recall in bird-sweet lay
How called he Gertie’s name that day?

And Gertie grieved where the lagoons
Sluggish gulfward with their tunes,
And with breaking heart grew old
Waiting for her soldier bold,—
Dying lonely, lonely past,
Calling “Peter” to the last.

Where she’s resting no one notes,
Save your song-mates with sweet throats.

Do you know? Is that the note
Which sometimes saddens from your throat,
And makes my heart slow down a throb,
And my words hush in a sob?

That’s the Gertie, that’s the Peter
Who go rapturing through your meter!
Since within your song they live
Where skies such sunny brightness give,
Maybe in the Sky of skies
Love calls, hearing love’s replies;
Through some angel-mocking bird
All the earth-old sweetness heard,—
Gertie! Peter! still as dear
As when called their love-names here?

So our thoughts, as your fleet wings
Above the dark earth lightly springs,
Think that skies of brightness say,
“Love is love for aye and aye!”
And this Gertie and this Peter
Gentles love through angel-meter,
Which the grace of God outrhymes,
Calling, calling endless times!

When “Gertie,” “Peter” you so lift
As if the very stars you’d sift,
Down to their souls to voice their bliss,
O mocking-birds, do you know this?

A JOLLY GOOD FRIENDSHIP IS BETTER THAN ALL

(A BALLADE)

BY HENRY MEADE BLAND

You may travel in China, Luzon, or Japan;
Or lodge on the plains of the Ultimate West;
You may lounge at your ease on a rich divan;
And drink of red wine at a king’s behest,
Then lie by the hour in slumberous rest,
And be of deep joy a subservient thrall,
Yet awake with a feel that is clearly confessed,
That a jolly good friendship is better than all!

You may sail from your home-port a half-a-world span,
And touch the Sweet Isle with joy in your breast;
You may sing as you sail, and shout as you scan
The white airy foam-flakes that ride the fair crest
Of orient wave: but, truly the test
Of laughters and pleasures that come at a call
Is fellowship rising in full easy zest—
A jolly good friendship is better than all!

You may listen to Melba or Sembrich and plan
With a five-dollar note to corner the best
Of Caruso’s high-piping; and be in the van
Of those who would fain with great Patti be blest:
But you’ll learn when you come to the end of your quest,
And find that the sweetest in cabin or hall,
No matter what note or what harmony stressed,
The lilt of good friendship is better than all!

ENVOI

Aye, rarer than any rare vintage e’er pressed
For banqueter merry or bold bacchanal;
Aye, better than nectar e’er dream of or guessed—
A jolly good fellowship is better than all.

THE TRAILMAN

(_Lines written in 1909 in honor of John Muir_)

BY HENRY MEADE BLAND

A spirit that pulses forever like the fiery heart of a boy;
A forehead that lifts to the sunlight and is wreathed forever in joy;
A muscle that holds like the iron that binds in the prisoner steam;
Yea, these are the Trailman’s glory; Yea, these are the Trailman’s dream!

An eye that catches the splendor as it shines from mountain and sky;
And an ear that awakes to the song of the storm as it surges on high;
A sense that garners the beauty of sun, moon, or starry gleam;
Lo, these are the Trailman’s glory; Lo, these are the Trailman’s dream!

The wild, high climb o’er the mountain, the lodge by the river’s brim;
The glance at the great cloud-horses, as they plunge o’er the range’s
rim;
The juniper’s balm for the nostril, the dash in the cool trout stream;
Yea, these are the Trailman’s glory; Yea, these are the Trailman’s dream!

The ride up the wild river-canyon where the wild oats grow breast high;
The shout of the quail on the hillside; the turtle dove flashing by;
An eve round the fragrant fire, and the tales of heroic theme;
Lo, these are the Trailman’s glory; Lo, these are the Trailman’s dream!

THE HYMN OF THE WIND

BY HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND

I am the Wind, whom none can ever conquer;
I am the Wind, whom none may ever bind.
The One who fashion’d ye,
He, too, has fashion’d me—
He gave to me dominion o’er the air.
Go where ye will, and ye shall ever find
Me singing, ever free,
Over land and over sea,
From the fire-belted Tropics to the Poles.

I am the Wind. I sing the glad Spring’s coming;
I bid the leaves burst forth and greet the sun.
I lure the modest bloom
From out the soil-sweet gloom;
I bid the wild-bird leave the drowsy South.
My loves are violets. By my pure kisses won,
They spring from earth, and smile,
All-innocent, the while
I woo them in the aisles of pensive woods.

I am the Wind. From dew-pearl’d heights of wonder
I fall like music on the listening wheat.
My hands disturb its calm
Till, like a joyous psalm,
Its swaying benediction greets the sky.
I kiss the pines that brood where seldom falls
The solace of the light,
And the hush’d voice of Night
Soothes the awed mountains in their somber dreams.

I am the Wind. I see enorme creations
Starring the vault above ye, and below.
Where bide the Seraphim
In silent places dim
I pass, and tell your coming in the end.
Omniscient I, eternal; and I know
The gleaming destiny
That waits ye, being free,
When ye have pass’d the border-line of Death.

I am the Wind—the Lord God’s faithful servant;
’Twixt earth and sky I wander, and I know
His Sign is ever found
The blue-veil’d earth around,
As on the furthest spheres that whirl in space,
All things are His; and all things slowly go
Through manifold degrees
Of marvelous mysteries,
From life to highest life, from highest life to Him.

I am the Wind. I know that all is tending
To that bright end; and ye, through years of toil
Shall reach at last the height
Where Freedom is, and Light;
And ye shall find new paths that still lead up.
Be free as I; be patient and have faith;
And when your scroll is writ
And God shall pass on it,
Ye need not fear to face Him—He is Love.

DRIFTING

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ

My soul to-day
Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My wingèd boat,
A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote:—

Round purple peaks
It sails and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague and dim
The mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius’ misty brim,
With outstretched hands,
The gray smoke stands
O’erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles
O’er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the isles,
Calm Capri waits,
Her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if
My rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;—
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls
Where swells and falls
The Bay’s deep breast at intervals
At peace I lie,
Blown softly by,
A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild,
Is Heaven’s own child,
With Earth and Ocean reconciled;—
The airs I feel
Around me steal
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail
My hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail,
A joy intense,
The cooling sense
Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Where Summer sings and never dies,—
O’erveiled with vines,
She glows and shines
Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid
The cliffs amid,
Are gamboling with the gamboling kid;
Or down the walls,
With tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher’s child,
With tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
With glowing lips
Sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes
Where traffic blows,
From lands of sun to lands of snows;—
This happier one,
Its course is run
From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship,
To rise and dip,
With the blue crystal at your lip!
O happy crew,
My heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more
The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar;
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise!

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO

BY ROBERT BURNS

John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessing on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill together;
And monie a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

RECESSIONAL

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—
The captains and the kings depart,
Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire;
Lo! all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds, without the law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts its trust
In reeking tube, and iron shard—
All valiant dust, that builds on dust,
And guarding call not Thee to guard—
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!

MY COUNTRY

BY ROBERT WHITAKER

My country is the world; I count
No son of man my foe,
Whether the warm life-currents mount
And mantle brows like snow
Or red or yellow, brown or black,
The face that into mine looks back.

My native land is Mother Earth,
And all men are my kin,
Whether of rude or gentle birth,
However steeped in sin;
Or rich, or poor, or great, or small,
I count them brothers, one and all.

My birthplace is no spot apart,
I claim no town nor State;
Love hath a shrine in every heart,
And wheresoe’er men mate
To do the right and say the truth,
Love evermore renews her youth.

My flag is the star-spangled sky,
Woven without a seam,
Where dawn and sunset colors lie,
Fair as an angel’s dream;
The flag that still, unstained, untorn,
Floats over all of mortal born.

My party is all human-kind,
My platform brotherhood;
I count all men of honest mind
Who work for human good,
And for the hope that gleams afar,
My comrades in this holy war.

My heroes are the great and good
Of every age and clime,
Too often mocked, misunderstood,
And murdered in their time;
But spite of ignorance and hate
Known and exalted soon or late.

My country is the world; I scorn
No lesser love than mine,
But calmly wait that happy morn
When all shall own this sign,
And love of country as of clan,
Shall yield to world-wide love of man.

SOMEWHERE ADOWN THE YEARS

BY ROBERT WHITAKER

Somewhere adown the years there waits a man
Who shall give wings to what my soul has said:
Shall speak for me when I am mute and dead;
And shall perfect the work I but began.

What matter, therefore, if my word to-day
Falls on unwilling ears, finds few to praise?
Since some mere child, in his incipient days,
That word may win to walk a prophet’s way?

And he, of greater gift, more favored state,
Shall speak to thousands where I speak to one:
Shall do the work that I would fain have done;
Helped to that fortune at my lonely gate.

Perchance some Saul of Tarsus, hating me,
And hating mine while yet misunderstood,
Stung by my word shall some day find it good,
And bear it broadcast over land and sea.

Or some Saint Augustine, of careless mien,
Giving himself to sensuous pleasures now,
Shall catch the glory from his mother’s brow
That in some word of mine her soul hath seen.

Nay, but I claim no honor as my own
That is not equally the goal for all
Who run with truth, and care not though it fall
That they must sometimes run with her alone.

God will not suffer any word to fail
That is not uttered for the hour’s success:
No word that has in it the power to bless
Shall lack the means to make it of avail.

Who speaks the people’s weal shall some day find
Voices to bear it to the people’s will.
However potent be the present ill
They who assail it are to-morrow’s kind.

And that to-morrow shall uphold their cause
Who fell not for the plaudits of to-day:
Those who are reckoned rebels in their day
Are always makers of to-morrow’s laws.

Our present skeptics voice to-morrow’s faith;
To-day’s disturbers bring to-morrow’s peace:
’Tis they who dare to die who win release
For all their fellows from the fear of death.

SERENADE

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

Stars of the summer night!
Far in your azure deeps,
Hide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night!
Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night!
Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Fold, fold thy pinions light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night!
Tell her, her lover keeps
Watch, while in slumbers light
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

THE BROOKSIDE

BY RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES

I wandered by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill;
I could not hear the brook flow,—
The noisy wheel was still.
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree:
I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,
I listened for a word,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,—no, he came not,—
The night came on alone,—
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
The evening wind passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast, silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind:
A hand was on my shoulder,—
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer—nearer—
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG

BY JOHN FRANCIS WALLER

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning;
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;
Bent o’er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is groaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,—
“Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping.”
“’Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping.”
“Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing.”
“’Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying.”
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot’s stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

“What’s that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?”
“’Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under.”
“What makes you be shoving and moving your stool in,
And singing all wrong that old song of ‘The Coolin’?’”
There’s a form at the casement,—the form of her true love,—
And he whispers, with face bent, “I’m waiting for you, love;
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly,
We’ll rove in the grove while the moon’s shining brightly.”
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot’s stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,
Steals up from her seat,—longs to go, and yet lingers;
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,
Puts one foot on the stool, and spins the wheel with the other.
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel’s sound;
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her
The maid steps,—then leaps to the arms of her lover.
Slower—and slower—and slower the wheel swings;
Lower—and lower—and lower the reel rings;
Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving,
Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.

DOWN THE LANE

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

Down the lane, as I went humming, humming,
Who should I see coming
But May Marjory!
“What was that I heard you humming, humming,
As you saw me coming?
Prithee, tell!” said she.

“Oh,” I smiled, “I was just humming, humming,
As I saw you coming
Where boughs met above,—
And the crickets kept on thrumming, thrumming,
As I saw you coming,—
Something about love!”
Ah, her blush it was becoming—coming,
As I kept on humming
While we walked along,
And the crickets still were strumming, strumming,
As I kept on humming
That low strain of song.

Drooped her eyes as I continued humming;
Ah, ’twas so becoming
To May Marjory!
Then she raised them, and my heart went thrumming,
Though I kept on humming;
“You’re a dear!” said she.

—From _Judge_.

THE MOUNTAIN MIST

BY HESPER LE GALLIENNE

I am the mist and the lover of mountains,
I, like a scarf, waft and wave in the breeze;
I am the sister of streams and of fountains,
Born ’neath the roots of the flowers and the trees.
Wayward and free
Listen to me—
I am the Now and the Never-to-Be!

Slowly I rise in the cool of the gloaming,
Softly I creep through the grass and the leaves,
Over the river, on past the men homing,
Men living lives midst the fruit and the sheaves,
Airy and light,
Filmy and white,
I come when Daytime is kissing the Night.

I am the Question, so luring, so cunning,
Yet, when you answer, the Answer is—none!
For, when you watch me skipping and running
Yet, when you catch me, you find I am—gone!
Catch if you can!
Never there ran
Any so fast, be they maiden or man.

THE LOOM OF LIFE

ANONYMOUS

All day, all night, I can hear the jar
Of the loom of life; and near and far
It thrills with its deep and muffled sound,
As the tireless wheels go always round.
Busily, ceaselessly goes the loom
In the light of day and the midnight’s gloom.
The wheels are turning early and late,
And the woof is wound in the warp of fate.
Click! Clack! there’s a thread of love wove in!
Click! Clack! and another of wrong and sin!

What a checkered thing this life will be,
When we see it unrolled in eternity!
Time, with a face like a mystery,
And hands as busy as hands can be,
Sits at the loom with its warp outspread,
To catch in its meshes each glancing thread.
When shall this wonderful web be done?
In a thousand years, perhaps, or one,
Or to-morrow, who knoweth? Not you nor I,
But the wheels turn on, and the shuttles fly.

Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow,
But each one is nearer the end, I know.
And some day the last thread shall be wove in,
God grant it be love instead of sin.
Are we spinners of woof for this life web, say?
Do we furnish the weavers a thread each day?
It were better then, O my friend, to spin
A beautiful thread, than a thread of sin.

THE FORTUNATE ISLES

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles,
The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird’s song?
Then steer straight on through the watery miles,
Straight on, straight on and you can’t go wrong.
Nay not to the left, nay not to the right,
But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight,
The Fortunate Isles where the yellow birds sing
And life lies girt with a golden ring.

These Fortunate Isles they are not so far,
They lie within reach of the lowliest door;
You can see them gleam by the twilight star;
You can hear them sing by the moon’s white shore—
Nay, never look back! Those leveled grave stones
They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones
Of glory for souls that have sailed before,
And have set white feet on the fortunate shore.

And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles?
Why, Duty and Love and a large Content.
Lo! these are the Isles of the watery miles,
That God let down from the firmament.
Lo! Duty, and Love, and a true man’s Trust;
Your forehead to God though your feet in the dust;
Lo! Duty, and Love, and a sweet Babe’s Smiles,
And these, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

YOSEMITE

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

Sound! sound! sound!
O colossal walls and crown’d
In one eternal thunder!
Sound! sound! sound!
O ye oceans overhead,
While we walk, subdued in wonder,
In the ferns and grasses, under
And beside the swift Merced!

Fret! fret! fret!
Streaming, sounding banners, set
On the giant granite castles
In the clouds and in the snow!
But the foe he comes not yet,—
We are loyal, valiant vassals,
And we touch the trailing tassels
Of the banners far below.

Surge! surge! surge!
From the white Sierra’s verge,
To the very valley blossom.
Surge! surge! surge!
Yet the song-bird builds a home,
And the mossy branches cross them,
And the tasseled tree-tops toss them,
In the clouds of falling foam.

Sweep! sweep! sweep!
O ye heaven-born and deep,
In one dread, unbroken chorus!
We may wonder or may weep,—
We may wait on God before us;
We may shout or lift a hand,—
We may bow down and deplore us,
But may never understand.

Beat! beat! beat!
We advance, but would retreat
From this restless, broken breast
Of the earth in a convulsion.
We would rest, but dare not rest,
For the angel of expulsion
From this Paradise below
Waves us onward and ... we go.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE DEAD MILLIONAIRE

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

The gold that with the sunlight lies
In bursting heaps at dawn,
The silver spilling from the skies
At night to walk upon,
The diamonds gleaming in the dew
He never saw, he never knew.

He got some gold, dug from the mud,
Some silver, crushed from stones.
The gold was red with dead man’s blood,
The silver black with groans;
And when he died he moaned aloud,
“There’ll be no pocket in my shroud.”

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

PETER COOPER

(_Died 1883_)

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

Give honor and love forevermore
To this great man gone to rest;
Peace on the dim Plutonian shore,
Rest in the land of the blest.

I reckon him greater than any man
That ever drew sword in war;
I reckon him nobler than king or khan,
Braver and better by far.

And wisest he in this whole wide land
Of hoarding till bent and gray;
For all you can hold in your cold dead hand
Is what you have given away.

So whether to wander the stars or to rest
Forever hushed and dumb,
He gave with a zest and he gave his best—
Give him the best to come.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE VOICE OF THE DOVE

BY JOAQUIN MILLER

Come, listen, O Love, to the voice of the dove,
Come, hearken and hear him say:
“There are many To-morrows, my Love, my Love,
There is only one To-day.”

And all day long you can hear him say
This day in purple is rolled
And the baby stars of the milky-way
They are cradled in cradles of gold.

Now what is thy secret serene, gray dove,
Of singing so sweetly alway?
“There are many To-morrows, my Love, my Love,
There is only one To-day.”

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

WHERE THE WEST BEGINS

BY ARTHUR CHAPMAN

Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,
Out where a smile dwells a little longer,
That’s where the West begins.
Out where the sun’s a little brighter,
Where the snow that falls is a trifle whiter,
Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,
That’s where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,
Out where friendship’s a little truer,
That’s where the West begins.
Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,
Where there is laughter in each streamlet flowing,
Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing,
That’s where the West begins.

Out where the world is in the making,
Where fewer hearts with despair are aching,
That’s where the West begins.
Where there is more of singing and less of sighing,
Where there is more of giving and less of buying,
And a man makes friends without half trying—
That’s where the West begins.

AS I CAME DOWN FROM LEBANON

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

As I came down from Lebanon,
Came winding, wandering slowly down
Through mountain passes bleak and brown,
The cloudless day was well nigh done.
The city like an opal set
In emerald, showed each minaret
Afire with radiant beams of sun,
And glistened orange, fig, and lime,
Where song-birds made melodious chime,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
Like lava in the dying glow,
Through olive orchards far below
I saw the murmuring river run;
And ’neath the wall upon the sand
Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand,
With precious spices they had won,
Lay long and languidly in wait
Till they might pass the guarded gate,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
I saw strange men from lands afar,
In mosque and square and gay bazar,
The magi that the Moslem shun,
And grave effendi from Stamboul,
Who sherbet sipped in corners cool;
And, from the balconies o’errun
With roses, gleamed the eyes of those
Who dwell in still seraglios,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
The flaming flower of daytime died,
And Night, arrayed as is a bride
Of some great king, in garment spun
Of purple and the finest gold,
Outbloomed in glories manifold,
Until the moon, above the dun
And darkening desert, void of shade,
Shone like a keen Damascus blade,
As I came down from Lebanon.

APPLE BLOSSOMS

BY WILLIAM WESLEY MARTIN

Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring? in the spring?
An English apple orchard in the spring?
When the spreading trees are hoary
With their wealth of promised glory,
And the mavis pipes his story
In the spring?

Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring? in the spring?
And caught their subtle odors in the spring?
Pink buds bursting at the light,
Crumpled petals baby-white,
Just to touch them a delight!
In the spring!

Have you walked beneath the blossoms in the spring? in the spring?
Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring?
When the pink cascades were falling,
And the silver brooklets brawling,
And the cuckoo-bird is calling
In the spring?

Have you seen a merry bridal in the spring? in the spring?
In an English apple country in the spring?
When the brides and maidens wear
Apple blossoms in their hair:
Apple blossoms everywhere,
In the spring!

If you have not, then you know not, in the spring, in the spring,
Half the color, beauty, wonder of the spring.
No sight can I remember,
Half so precious, half so tender,
As the apple blossoms render
In the spring!

A MATCH

BY A. C. SWINBURNE

If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pastures or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.

If you were queen of Pleasure,
And I were king of Pain,
We’d hunt down Love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of Pleasure;
And I were king of Pain.

THE BROOK AND THE WAVE

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

The brooklet came from the mountain,
As sang the bard of old,
Running with feet of silver
Over the sands of gold!

Far away in the briny ocean
There rolled a turbulent wave
Now singing along the sea-beach,
Now howling along the cave.

And the brooklet has found the billow
Though they flowed so far apart,
And has filled with its freshness and sweetness
That turbulent bitter heart!

INDIRECTION

BY RICHARD REALF

Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is
fairer;
Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer;
Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter;
And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out-mastered the meter.

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing;
Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing;
Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him,
Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold him.

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden;
Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bidden;
Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling;
Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the revealing.

Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is greater;
Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator;
Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the giving;
Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving.

Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing;
The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing;
And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights where
those shine,
Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life is divine.

—Copyright by _Funk & Wagnalls Co_., New York, and used by kind permission.

LIFE AND LOVE

BY RICHARD REALF

There is something to live for and something to love
Wherever we linger, wherever we rove,
There are thousands of sad ones to cheer and sustain
Till hopes that were hidden beam o’er them again.

There is something to live for and something to love,
For the spirit of Man is like garden or grove,
It will yield a sweet fragrance, but still you must toil,
And cherish the blossoms, and culture the soil.

There is something to live for and something to love,
’Tis a truth which the misanthrope ne’er can disprove,
For tho’ thorns and thistles may choke up the flower,
Some beauty will grace the most desolate bower.

Then think on, brother, wherever thou art,
Let the life be for men and the love for the heart,
For know that the pathway which leads us above
Is something to live for and something to love.

—Copyright by _Funk & Wagnalls Co._, New York, and used by kind permission.

SONG OF SPRING

BY RICHARD REALF

My heart goes forth to meet the Spring
With the step of a bounding roe,
For it seems like the touch of a seraph’s wing
When the pleasant south winds blow.

O, I love the loveliness that lies
In the smiling heart of May,
The beauty throbbing in violet eyes,
The breath of the fragrant hay.

There’s a great calm joy in the song of birds,
And in the voice of the streams,
In the lowly peace of flocks and herds,
And our own soul’s quiet dreams.

So my heart goes forth to meet the Spring
As a lover to his bride;
And over us both there broods the wing
Of the angel at her side.

—Copyright by _Funk & Wagnalls Co._, New York, and used by kind permission.

SONG OF THE SEAMSTRESS

BY RICHARD REALF

It is twelve o’clock by the city’s chime,
And my task is not yet done;
Through two more weary hours of time
Must my heavy eyes ache on.
I may not suffer my tears to come,
And I dare not stop to feel;
For each idle moment steals a crumb
From my sad to-morrow’s meal.

It is very cold in this cheerless room,
And my limbs are strangely chill;
My pulses beat with a sense of doom,
And my very heart seems still;
But I shall not care for this so much,
If my fingers hold their power,
And the hand of sleep forbears to touch
My eyes for another hour.

I wish I could earn a little more,
And live in another street,
Where I need not tremble to pass the door,
And shudder at all I meet.
’Tis a fearful thing that a friendless girl
Forever alone should dwell
In the midst of scenes enough to hurl
A universe to hell.

God knows that I do not wish to sink
In the pit that yawns around;
But I cannot stand on its very brink,
As I could on purer ground;
I do not think that my strength is gone,
Nor fear for my shortening breath;
But the terrible winter is coming on,
And I must not starve to death.

I wish I had died with sister Rose,
Ere hunger and I were mates;
Ere I felt the grip of the thought that grows
The hotter the more it waits.
I am sure that He whom they curse to me,
The Father of all our race,
Did not mean the world He made to be
Such a dark and dreary place.

I would not mind if they’d only give
A little less meager pay,
And spare me a moment’s time to grieve,
With a little while to pray.
But until these far-off blessings come,
I may neither weep nor kneel;
For, alas! ’twould cost me a precious crumb
Of my sad to-morrow’s meal.

—Copyright by _Funk & Wagnalls Co._, New York, and used by kind permission.

SONG OF THE INDIAN MOTHER

BY JAMES GOWDY CLARK

Gently dream, my darling child,
Sleeping in the lonely wild;
Would thy dreams might never know
Clouds that darken mine with woe;
Oh! to smile as thou art smiling,
All my hopeless hours beguiling
With the hope that thou mightst see
Blessings that are hid from me.

CHORUS
Lullaby, my gentle boy,
Sleeping in the wilderness,
Dreaming in thy childish joy
Of a mother’s fond caress,—
Lullaby, lullaby.

Sleep, while gleams the council fire,
Kindled by thy hunted sire:
Guarded by thy God above,
Sleep and dream of peace and love:
Dream not of the band that perished
From the sacred soil they cherished,
Nor the ruthless race that roams
O’er our ancient shrines and homes.

Sleep, while autumn glories fly,
’Neath the melancholy sky,
From the trees before the storm,
Chased by winter’s tyrant form:
Oh! ’tis thus our warriors, wasted,
From their altars torn and blasted,
Followed by the storm of death,
Fly before Oppression’s breath.

Sleep, while night hides home and grave,
Rest, while mourn the suff’ring brave,
Mourning as thou, too, wilt mourn,
Through the future, wild and worn;
Bruised in heart, in spirit shaken,
Scourged by man, by God forsaken,
Wandering on in war and strife,
Living still, yet cursing life.

Could thy tender fancy feel
All that manhood will reveal,
Couldst thou dream thy breast would share
All the ills thy fathers bear,
Thou wouldst weep as I am weeping,
Tearful watches wildly keeping,
By the silver-beaming light
Of the long and lonely night.

(_Repeat Chorus_)

OLD TIMES

BY GERALD GRIFFIN

Old times! old times! the gay old times!
When I was young and free,
And heard the merry Easter chimes
Under the sally tree.
My Sunday palm beside me placed,
My cross upon my hand;
A heart at rest within my breast,
And sunshine on the land!
Old times! old times!

It is not that my fortunes flee,
Nor that my cheek is pale;
I mourn whene’er I think of thee,
My darling native vale!
A wiser head I have, I know,
Than when I loitered there;
But in my wisdom there is woe,
And in my knowledge care.
Old times! old times!

I’ve lived to know my share of joy,
To feel my share of pain;
To learn that friendship’s self can cloy,
To love and love in vain;
To feel a pang and wear a smile,
To tire of other climes;
To love my own unhappy Isle,
And sing the gay old times!
Old times! old times!

And sure the land is nothing changed;
The birds are singing still,
The flowers are springing where we ranged,
There’s sunshine on the hill.
The sally waving o’er my head
Still sweetly shades my frame;
But oh! those happy days are fled,
And I am not the same.
Old times! old times!

Oh, come again, ye merry times!
Sweet, sunny, fresh and calm;
And let me hear those Easter chimes,
And wear my Sunday palm.
If I could cry away mine eyes,
My tears would flow in vain;
If I could waste my heart in sighs,
They’ll never come again!
Old times! old times!

TWILIGHT FANCIES

BY ELIZA A. PITTSINGER

Softly flit the fairy fancies
Through the sunlight of my brain,
Weaving webs of weird romances
In a laughing, joyous strain—
Gently creeping,
Gaily leaping,
Twilight revels strangely keeping
In my brain.

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
While my soul is wrapt in thought,
Wait they not to be invited,
Quite unwelcome and unsought—
Never sitting,
Ever flitting,
All the earnestness outwitting
Of my thought.

Thus to have my being haunted
By these fairies, all astray,
By these elfin-sprites enchanted,
Is a spell upon my way,
That shall borrow
For the morrow,
All the pleasure and the sorrow
Of to-day.

In my hours of quiet musing,
By these phantoms thus caressed,
I have lost the right of choosing
As I ought, my favored guest—
Uninvited,
Often slighted,
Come they when the lamps are lighted
For a guest.

Thus they come, the fairy fancies,
Laughing, flitting through my brain,
Weaving webs of weird romances,
In a wayward, joyous strain—
Gaily creeping,
Madly leaping,
Even now their revels keeping
In my brain.

THE SONG OF THE FLUME[16]

BY ANNA M. FITCH

Awake, awake! for my track is red,
With the glow of the coming day;
And with tinkling tread, from my dusky bed,
I haste o’er hill away,
Up from the valley, up from the plain,
Up from the river’s side;
For I come with a gush, and a torrent’s rush,
And there’s wealth in my swelling tide.

I am fed by the melting rills that start
Where the sparkling snow-peaks gleam,
My voice is free, and with fiercest glee
I leap in the sun’s broad beam;
Tho’ torn from the channels deep and old,
I have worn through the craggy hill,
Yet I flow in pride, as my waters glide,
And there’s mirth in my music still.

I sought the shore of the sounding sea,
From the far Sierra’s height,
With a starry breast, and a snow-capped crest
I foamed in a path of light;
But they bore me thence in a winding way,
They’ve fettered me like a slave,
And as scarfs of old were exchanged for gold,
So they barter my soil-stained wave.

Thro’ the deep tunnel, down the dark shaft,
I search for the shining ore;
Hoist it away to the light of day,
Which it never has seen before.
Spade and shovel, mattock and pick,
Ply them with eager haste;
For my golden shower is sold by the hour,
And the drops are too dear to waste.

Lift me aloft to the mountain’s brow,
Fathom the deep “blue vein,”
And I’ll sift the soil for the shining spoil,
As I sink to the valley again.
The swell of my swarthy breast shall bear
Pebble and rock away,
Though they brave my strength, they shall yield at length,
But the glittering gold shall stay.

Mine is no stern and warrior march,
No stormy trump and drum;
No banners gleam in my darkened stream,
As with conquering step I come;
But I touch the tributary earth
Till it owns a monarch’s sway,
And with eager hand, from a conquered land,
I bear its wealth away.

Awake, awake! there are loving hearts
In the lands you’ve left afar;
There are tearful eyes in the homes you prize
As they gaze on the western star;
Then up from the valley, up from the hill,
Up from the river’s side;
For I come with a gush, and a torrent’s rush,
And there’s wealth in my swelling tide.

THE WEST

BY ANNIE ELIZABETH CHENEY

Wings that are glancing, wings of my soul,
That speeding like arrows fly to their goal;
Wings that have cut the keen ethers above,
O carry me on to the West of my love!

The West it is magic, perspective and fire,
Its peaks are like daggers thrust up by desire;
It is Tyre, it is Sidon and Ophir in one,
This land by the waters, this land of the sun.

—From “Dreams of Hellas.”

THE MOON-CRADLE

BY KATE WISNER M’CLUSKEY

The little, the yellow moon-cradle
Is swaying, is swinging slow;
And the tiny white star-tapers burning
Have flickered their lights down low;
The night has the cloud-curtains ready,
She is holding them draped on her breast,
For the dear little, queer little babe in the moon
Will have sunk to rest in the west.
Hush, baby, hush!
Mother’s heart aches for the joy that she takes
In holding you close to her breast!

Perhaps in the yellow moon-cradle
A little cold baby may be;
And the tiny white star-tapers burning
May be sad for some mother to see;—
O night-angel! drop the cloud-curtain
While the gleaming bed’s caught in that tree,
For not even to the rest in the beautiful west
Will I let my babe go from me!
Sleep, sleep, my sweet!
Are you warm, little feet?
Close to my heart you will be!

GREEN THINGS GROWING

BY DINAH MARIA MULOCK

Oh, the green things growing, the green things growing,
The faint sweet smell of the green things growing!
I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve,
Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.

Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing.
How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing
In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight
Or the dim, dreary dawn when the cocks are crowing.

I love, I love them so,—my green things growing;
And I think that they love me, without false showing;
For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much,
With the soft, mute comfort of green things growing.

DAFFODILS

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

MAMMY’S LULLABY

BY STRICKLAND W. GILLILAN

Sleep, mah li’l pigeon, don’ yo’ heah yo’ mammy coo?
Sunset still a-shinin’ in de wes’;
Sky am full o’ windehs an’ de stahs am peepin’ froo—
Eb’ryt’ing but mammy’s lamb at res’.
Swing ’im to’ds de Eas’lan’,
Swing ’im to’ds de Souf—
See dat dove a-comin’ wif a olive in ’is mouf!
Angel hahps a-hummin’,
Angel banjos strummin’—
Sleep, mah li’l pigeon, don’ yo’ heah yo’ mammy coo?

Cricket fiddleh scrapin’ off de rozzum f’um ’is bow,
Whippo’will a-mo’nin’ on a lawg;
Moon ez pale ez hit kin be a-risin’ mighty slow—
Stahtled at de bahkin’ ob de dawg;
Swing de baby Eas’way,
Swing de baby Wes’,
Swing ’im to’ds de Souflan’ whah de melon grow de bes’!
Angel singers singin’,
Angel bells a-ringin’,
Sleep, mah li’l pigeon, don’ yo’ heah yo’ mammy coo?

Eyelids des a-droopin’ li’l loweh all de w’ile,
Undeh lip a-saggin’ des a mite;
Li’l baby toofies showin’ so’t o’ lak a smile,
Whiteh dan de snow, or des ez white.
Swing ’im to’ds de No’flan’,
Swing ’im to’ds de Eas’—
Woolly cloud a-comin’ fo’ t’ wrap ’im in ’is fleece!
Angel ban’ a-playin’—
Whut dat music sayin’?
“Sleep, mah li’l pigeon, don’ yo’ heah yo’ mammy coo?”

SONG OF THE BROOK

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

I come from haunts of coot and hern:
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down the valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Phillip’s farm I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I wind about and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling.

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel.

I draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots;
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows.

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

MEADOW-LARKS

BY INA COOLBRITH

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy that I am!
(Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!)
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm,
O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring!

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue,
That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain’s crest!
Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew?
The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain?
Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet!
Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain,
The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.

Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is!
Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss,—
For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!

—Copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

OWNERSHIP

BY INA COOLBRITH

In a garden that I know,
Only palest blossoms blow.

There the lily, purest nun,
Hides her white face from the sun,

And the maiden rose-bud stirs
In a garment fair as hers.

One shy bird, with folded wings
Sits within the leaves and sings:

Sits and sings the daylight long,
Just a patient, plaintive song.

Other gardens greet the spring
With a blaze of blossoming;

Other song-birds, piping clear,
Chorus from the branches near;

But my blossoms, palest known,
Bloom for me and me alone,

And my bird, though sad and lonely,
Sings for me, and for me only.

—Copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, Boston, Mass., and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

CALIFORNIA

BY ANNIE ELIZABETH CHENEY

There are lands where the poppies are golden,
Where the skies are a rapture in blue,
Where the breezes on roses are stealing,
But land of my love, what of you?

There are lands where the birds warble ever,
Where the air is a-thrill in the sun,
Where the singer and song sever never,
And beauty and passion are one.

There are lands where the pine and the palm-tree,
The rose and the lily are fair,
Where color is married to music,
But magic—thy magic—O where?

There are lands where the hills silver-crested
Flash far on a foam-glitt’ring sea,
Where Winter weds amorous Summer,
But land of my love, what of thee?