Chapter II (1)

How could I choose but weep?
The poor bird lay asleep;
For lack of food, for lack of breath,
For lack of life he came to death—
How could I choose but weep?

How could I choose but smile?
There was no lack the while!
In bliss he did undo himself;
Where life was full he slew himself—
How could I choose but smile?

Would ye but understand!
Joy is on every hand!
Ye shut your eyes and call it night,
Ye grope and fall in seas of light—
Would ye but understand!

HEAVEN.

Thou bright mirage, that o’er man’s arduous way
Hast hung in the hot sky, with fountains streaming,
Cool marble domes, and palm-fronds waving, gleaming,—
Vision of rest and peace to end the day!
Now he is weariest, alone, astray,
Spent with long labor, led by thy sweet seeming,
Faint as the breath of Nature’s lightest dreaming,
Thou waverest and vanishest away!

Can Nature dream? Is God’s great sky deceiving?
Where joy like that the clouds above us show
Be sure the counterpart must lie below,
Sweeter than hope, more blessed than believing!
We lose the fair reflection of our home
Because so near its gates our feet have come!

BALLAD OF THE SUMMER SUN.

It is said that human nature needeth hardship to be strong,
That highest growth has come to man in countries white with snow;
And they tell of truth and wisdom that to northern folk belong,
And claim the brain is feeble where the south winds always blow.
They forget to read the story of the ages long ago:
The lore that built the pyramids where still the simoom veers,
The knowledge framing Tyrian ships, the greater skill that steers,
The learning of the Hindu in his volumes never done,
All the wisdom of Egyptians and the old Chaldean seers,—
Came to man in summer lands beneath a summer sun.

It is said that human nature needeth hardship to be strong,
That courage bred of meeting cold makes martial bosoms glow;
And they point to mighty generals the northern folk among,
And call mankind emasculate where southern waters flow.
They forget to look at history and see the nations grow!
The cohorts of Assyrian kings, the Pharaohs’ charioteers,
The march of Alexander, the Persians’ conquering spears,
The legions of the Romans, from Ethiop to Hun,
The power that mastered all the world and held it years on years,—
Came to man in summer lands beneath a summer sun.

It is said that human nature needeth hardship to be strong,
That only pain and suffering the power to feel bestow;
And they show us noble artists made great by loss and wrong,
And say the soul is lowered that hath pleasure without woe.
They forget the perfect monuments that pleasure’s blessings show;
The statue and the temple that no man living nears,
Song and verse and music forever in the ears,
The glory that remaineth while the sands of time shall run,
The beauty of immortal art that never disappears,—
Came to man in summer lands beneath a summer sun.

The faith of Thor and Odin, the creed of force and fears,
Cruel gods that deal in death, the icebound soul reveres,
But the Lord of Peace and Blessing was not one!
Truth and Power and Beauty—Love that endeth tears—
Came to man in summer lands beneath a summer sun.

PIONEERS.

Long have we sung our noble pioneers,
Vanguard of progress, heralds of the time,
Guardians of industry and art sublime,
Leaders of man down all the brightening years!
To them the danger, to their wives the tears,
While we sit safely in the city’s grime,
In old-world trammels of distress and crime,
Playing with words and thoughts, with doubts and fears.

Children of axe and gun! Ye take to-day
The baby steps of man’s first, feeblest age,
While we, thought-seekers of the printed page,
We lead the world down its untrodden way!
Ours the drear wastes and leagues of empty waves,
The lonely deaths, the undiscovered graves.

EXILES.

Exiled from home. The far sea rolls
Between them and the country of their birth;
The childhood-turning impulse of their souls
Pulls half across the earth.
Exiled from home. No mother to take care
That they work not too hard, grieve not too sore;
No older brother nor small sister fair;
No father any more.

Exiled from home; from all familiar things;
The low-browed roof, the grass-surrounded door;
Accustomed labors that gave daylight wings;
Loved steps on the worn floor.

Exiled from home. Young girls sent forth alone
When most their hearts need close companioning;
No love and hardly friendship may they own,
No voice of welcoming.

Blinded with homesick tears the exile stands;
To toil for alien household gods she comes;
A servant and a stranger in our lands,
Homeless within our homes.

A NEVADA DESERT.

An aching, blinding, barren, endless plain,
Corpse-colored with white mould of alkali,
Hairy with sage-brush, slimy after rain,
Burnt with the sky’s hot scorn, and still again
Sullenly burning back against the sky.

Dull green, dull brown, dull purple, and dull gray,
The hard earth white with ages of despair,
Slow-crawling, turbid streams where dead reeds sway,
Low wall of sombre mountains far away,
And sickly steam of geysers on the air.

TREE FEELINGS.

I wonder if they like it—being trees?
I suppose they do....
It must feel good to have the ground so flat,
And feel yourself stand right straight up like that—
So stiff in the middle—and then branch at ease,
Big boughs that arch, small ones that bend and blow,
And all those fringy leaves that flutter so.
You’d think they’d break off at the lower end
When the wind fills them, and their great heads bend.
But then you think of all the roots they drop,
As much at bottom as there is on top,—
A double tree, widespread in earth and air
Like a reflection in the water there.

I guess they like to stand still in the sun
And just breathe out and in, and feel the cool sap run;
And like to feel the rain run through their hair
And slide down to the roots and settle there.
But I think they like wind best. From the light touch
That lets the leaves whisper and kiss so much,
To the great swinging, tossing, flying wide,
And all the time so stiff and strong inside!
And the big winds, that pull, and make them feel
How long their roots are, and the earth how leal!

And O the blossoms! And the wild seeds lost!
And jewelled martyrdom of fiery frost!
And fruit trees. I’d forgotten. No cold gem,
But to be apples—and bow down with them!

MONOTONY.
FROM CALIFORNIA.

When ragged lines of passing days go by,
Crowding and hurried, broken-linked and slow,
Some sobbing pitifully as they pass,
Some angry-hot and fierce, some angry cold,
Some raging and some wailing, and again
The fretful days one cannot read aright,—
Then truly, when the fair days smile on us,
We feel that loveliness with sharper touch
And grieve to lose it for the next day’s chance.
And so men question—they who never know
If beauty comes or horror, pain or joy—
If we, whose sky is peace, whose hours are glad,
Find not our happiness monotonous!
But when the long procession of the days
Rolls musically down the waiting year,
Close-ranked, rich-robed, flower-garlanded and fair;
Broad brows of peace, deep eyes of soundless truth,
And lips of love,—warm, steady, changeless love;
Each one more beautiful, till we forget
Our niggard fear of losing half an hour,
And learn to count on more and ever more,—
In the remembered joy of yesterday,
In the full rapture of to-day’s delight,
And knowledge of the happiness to come,
We learn to let life pass without regret,
We learn to hold life softly and in peace,
We learn to meet life gladly, full of faith,
We learn what God is, and to trust in Him!

THE BEDS OF FLEUR-DE-LYS.

High-lying, sea-blown stretches of green turf,
Wind-bitten close, salt-colored by the sea,
Low curve on curve spread far to the cool sky,
And, curving over them as long they lie,
Beds of wild fleur-de-lys.

Wide-flowing, self-sown, stealing near and far,
Breaking the green like islands in the sea;
Great stretches at your feet, and spots that bend
Dwindling over the horizon’s end,—
Wild beds of fleur-de-lys.

The light keen wind streams on across the lifts,
Thin wind of western springtime by the sea;
The close turf smiles unmoved, but over her
Is the far-flying rustle and sweet stir
In beds of fleur-de-lys.

And here and there across the smooth, low grass
Tall maidens wander, thinking of the sea;
And bend, and bend, with light robes blown aside,
For the blue lily-flowers that bloom so wide,—
The beds of fleur-de-lys.

THE PRESIDIO, SAN FRANCISCO.

IT IS GOOD TO BE ALIVE.

It is good to be alive when the trees shine green,
And the steep red hills stand up against the sky;
Big sky, blue sky, with flying clouds between—
It is good to be alive and see the clouds drive by!

It is good to be alive when the strong winds blow,
The strong, sweet winds blowing straightly off the sea;
Great sea, green sea, with swinging ebb and flow—
It is good to be alive and see the waves roll free!

THE CHANGELESS YEAR.
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.

Doth Autumn remind thee of sadness?
And Winter of wasting and pain?
Midsummer, of joy that was madness?
Spring, of hope that was vain?

Do the Seasons fly fast at thy laughter?
Do the Seasons lag slow if thou weep,
Till thou long’st for the land lying after
The River of Sleep?

Come here, where the West lieth golden
In the light of an infinite sun,
Where Summer doth Winter embolden
Till they reign here as one!

Here the Seasons tread soft and steal slowly;
A moment of question and doubt—
Is it Winter? Come faster!—come wholly!—
And Spring rusheth out!

We forget there are tempests and changes;
We forget there are days that are drear;
In a dream of delight, the soul ranges
Through the measureless year.

Still the land is with blossoms enfolden,
Still the sky burneth blue in its deeps;
Time noddeth, ’mid poppies all golden,
And memory sleeps.

WHERE MEMORY SLEEPS.
RONDEAU.

Where memory sleeps the soul doth rise,
Free of that past where sorrow lies,
And storeth against future ills
The courage of the constant hills,
The comfort of the quiet skies.

Fair is this land to tired eyes,
Where summer sunlight never dies,
And summer’s peace the spirit fills,
Where memory sleeps.

Safe from the season’s changing cries
And chill of yearly sacrifice,
Great roses crowd the window-sills,—
Calm roses that no winter kills.
The peaceful heart all pain denies,
Where memory sleeps.

CALIFORNIA CAR WINDOWS.

Lark songs ringing to Heaven,
Earth light clear as the sky;
Air like the breath of a greenhouse
With the greenhouse roof on high.

Flowers to see till you’re weary,
To travel in hours and hours;
Ranches of gold and purple,
Counties covered with flowers!

A rainbow, a running rainbow,
That flies at our side for hours;
A ribbon, a broidered ribbon,
A rainbow ribbon of flowers.

LIMITS.

On sand—loose sand and shifting—
On sand—dry sand and drifting—
The city grows to the west;
Not till its border reaches
The ocean-beaten beaches
Will it rest.

On hills—steep hills and lonely,
That stop at cloudland only—
The city climbs to the sky;
Not till the souls who make it
Touch the clear light and take it,
Will it die.

POWELL STREET.

You start
From the town’s hot heart
To ride up Powell Street.
Hotel and theatre and crowding shops,
And Market’s cabled stream that never stops,
And the mixed hurrying beat
Of countless feet—
Take a front seat.
Before you rise
Six terraced hills, up to the low-hung skies;
Low where across the hill they seem to lie,
And then—how high!
Up you go slowly. To the right
A wide square, green and bright.
Above that green a broad façade,
Strongly and beautifully made,
In warm clear color standeth fair and true
Against the blue.
Only, above, two purple domes rise bold,
Twin-budded spires, bright-tipped with balls of gold.
Past that, and up you glide,
Up, up, till, either side,
Wide earth and water stretch around—away—
The straits, the hills, and the low-lying, wide-spread, dusky bay.
Great houses here,
Dull, opulent, severe.
Dives’ gold birds on guarding lamps a-wing—
Dead gold, that may not sing!
Fair on the other side
Smooth, steep-laid sweeps of turf and green boughs waving wide.
This is the hilltop’s crown.
Below you, down
In blurred, dim streets, the market quarter lies,
Foul, narrow, torn with cries
Of tortured things in cages, and the smell
Of daily bloodshed rising; that is hell.

But up here on the crown of Powell Street
The air is sweet;
And the green swaying mass of eucalyptus bends
Like hands of friends,
To gladden you despite the mansions’ frown.
Then you go down.

Down, down, and round the turns to lower grades;
Lower in all ways; darkening with the shades
Of poverty, old youth, and unearned age,
And that quick squalor which so blots the page
Of San Francisco’s beauty,—swift decay
Chasing the shallow grandeur of a day.

Here, like a noble lady of lost state,
Still calmly smiling at encroaching fate,
Amidst the squalor, rises Russian Hill,—
Proud, isolated, lonely, lovely still.

So on you glide.
Till the blue straits lie wide
Before you; purple mountains loom across,
And islands green as moss;
With soft white fog-wreaths drifting, drifting through
To comfort you;
And light, low-singing waves that tell you reach
The end,—North Beach.

FROM RUSSIAN HILL.

A strange day—bright and still;
Strange for the stillness here,
For the strong trade-winds blow
With such a steady sweep it seems like rest,
Forever steadily across the crest
Of Russian Hill.

Still now and clear,—
So clear you count the houses spreading wide
In the fair cities on the farther side
Of our broad bay;
And brown Goat Island lieth large between,
Its brownness brightening into sudden green
From rains of yesterday.

Blue? Blue above of Californian sky,
Which has no peer on earth for its pure flame;
Bright blue of bay and strait spread wide below,
And, past the low, dull hills that hem it so,—
Blue as the sky, blue as the placid bay,—
Blue mountains far away.

Thanks this year for the early rains that came
To bless us, meaning Summer by and by.
This is our Spring-in-Autumn, making one
The Indian Summer tenderness of sun—
Its hazy stillness, and soft far-heard sound—
And the sweet riot of abundant spring,
The greenness flaming out from everything,
The sense of coming gladness in the ground.

From this high peace and purity look down;
Between you and the blueness lies the town.
Under those huddled roofs the heart of man
Beats warmer than this brooding day,
Spreads wider than the hill-rimmed bay,
And throbs to tenderer life, were it but seen,
Than all this new-born, all-enfolding green!

Within that heart lives still
All that one guesses, dreams, and sees—
Sitting in sunlight, warm, at ease—
From this high island,—Russian Hill.

“AN UNUSUAL RAIN.”

Again!
Another day of rain!
It has rained for years.
It never clears.
The clouds come down so low
They drag and drip
Across each hill-top’s tip.
In progress slow
They blow in from the sea
Eternally;
Hang heavily and black,
And then roll back;
And rain and rain and rain,
Both drifting in and drifting out again.

They come down to the ground,
These clouds, where the ground is high;
And, lest the weather fiend forget
And leave one hidden spot unwet,
The fog comes up to the sky!
And all our pavement of planks and logs
Reeks with the rain and steeps in the fogs
Till the water rises and sinks and presses
Into your bonnets and shoes and dresses;
And every outdoor-going dunce
Is wet in forty ways at once.

Wet?
It’s wetter than being drowned.
Dark?
Such darkness never was found
Since first the light was made. And cold?
O come to the land of grapes and gold,
Of fruit and flowers and sunshine gay,
When the rainy season’s under way!

And they tell you calmly, evermore,
They never had such rain before!

What’s that you say? Come out?
Why, see that sky!
Oh, what a world! so clear! so high!
So clean and lovely all about;
The sunlight burning through and through,
And everything just blazing blue.
And look! the whole world blossoms again
The minute the sunshine follows the rain.
Warm sky—earth basking under—
Did it ever rain, I wonder?

THE HILLS.

The flowing waves of our warm sea
Roll to the beach and die,
But the soul of the waves forever fills
The curving crests of our restless hills
That climb so wantonly.

Up and up till you look to see
Along the cloud-kissed top
The great hill-breakers curve and comb
In crumbling lines of falling foam
Before they settle and drop.

Down and down, with the shuddering sweep
Of the sea-wave’s glassy wall,
You sink with a plunge that takes your breath,
A thrill that stirreth and quickeneth,
Like the great line steamer’s fall.

We have laid our streets by the square and line,
We have built by the line and square;
But the strong hill-rises arch below
And force the houses to curve and flow
In lines of beauty there.

And off to the north and east and south,
With wildering mists between,
They ring us round with wavering hold,
With fold on fold of rose and gold,
Violet, azure, and green.

CITY’S BEAUTY.

Fair, oh, fair are the hills uncrowned,
Only wreathed and garlanded
With the soft clouds overhead,
With the waving streams of rain;
Fair in golden sunlight drowned,
Bathed and buried in the bright
Warm luxuriance of light,—
Fair the hills without a stain.

Fairer far the hills should stand
Crownèd with a city’s halls,
With the glimmer of white walls,
With the climbing grace of towers;
Fair with great fronts tall and grand,
Stately streets that meet the sky,
Lovely roof-lines, low and high,—
Fairer for the days and hours.

Woman’s beauty fades and flies,
In the passing of the years,
With the falling of the tears,
With the lines of toil and stress;
City’s beauty never dies,—
Never while her people know
How to love and honor so
Her immortal loveliness.

TWO SKIES.
FROM ENGLAND.

They have a sky in Albion,
At least they tell me so;
But she will wear a veil so thick,
And she does have the sulks so quick,
And weeps so long and slow,
That one can hardly know.

Yes, there’s a sky in Albion.
She’s shown herself of late.
And where it was not white or gray,
It was quite bluish—in a way;
But near and full of weight,
Like an overhanging plate!

Our sky in California!
Such light the angels knew,
When the strong, tender smile of God
Kindled the spaces where they trod,
And made all life come true!
Deep, soundless, burning blue!

WINDS AND LEAVES.
FROM ENGLAND.

Wet winds that flap the sodden leaves!
Wet leaves that drop and fall!
Unhappy, leafless trees the wind bereaves!
Poor trees and small!

All of a color, solemn in your green;
All of a color, sombre in your brown;
All of a color, dripping gray between
When leaves are down!

O for the bronze-green eucalyptus spires
Far-flashing up against the endless blue!
Shifting and glancing in the steady fires
Of sun and moonlight too.

Dark orange groves! Pomegranate hedges bright,
And varnished fringes of the pepper trees!
And O that wind of sunshine! Wind of light!
Wind of Pacific seas!

ON THE PAWTUXET.

Broad and blue is the river, all bright in the sun;
The little waves sparkle, the little waves run;
The birds carol high, and the winds whisper low;
The boats beckon temptingly, row upon row;
Her hand is in mine as I help her step in.
Please Heaven, this day I shall lose or shall win—
Broad and blue is the river.

Cool and gray is the river, the sun sinks apace,
And the rose-colored twilight glows soft in her face.
In the midst of the rose-color Venus doth shine,
And the blossoming wild grapes are sweeter than wine;
Tall trees rise above us, four bridges are past,
And my stroke’s running slow as the current runs fast—
Cool and gray is the river.

Smooth and black is the river, no sound as we float
Save the soft-lapping water in under the boat.
The white mists are rising, the moon’s rising too,
And Venus, triumphant, rides high in the blue.
I hold the shawl round her, her hand is in mine,
And we drift under grape-blossoms sweeter than wine—
Smooth and black is the river.

A MOONRISE.

The heavy mountains, lying huge and dim,
With uncouth outline breaking heaven’s brim;
And while I watched and waited, o’er them soon,
Cloudy, enormous, spectral, rose the moon.

THEIR GRASS!
A PROTEST FROM CALIFORNIA.

They say we have no grass!
To hear them talk
You’d think that grass could walk
And was their bosom friend,—no day to pass
Between them and their grass.

“No grass!” they say who live
Where hot bricks give
The hot stones all their heat and back again,—
A baking hell for men.

“O, but,” they haste to say, “we have our parks,
Where fat policemen check the children’s larks;
And sign to sign repeats as in a glass,
‘Keep off the grass!’
We have our cities’ parks and grass, you see!”
Well—so have we!

But ’tis the country that they sing of most. “Alas,”
They sing, “for our wide acres of soft grass!—
To please us living and to hide us dead—”
You’d think Walt Whitman’s first was all they read!
You’d think they all went out upon the quiet
Nebuchadnezzar to outdo in diet!
You’d think they found no other green thing fair,
Even its seed an honor in their hair!
You’d think they had this bliss the whole year round,—
Evergreen grass!—and we, ploughed ground!

But come now, how does earth’s pet plumage grow
Under your snow?
Is your beloved grass as softly nice
When packed in ice?
For six long months you live beneath a blight,—
No grass in sight.
You bear up bravely. And not only that,
But leave your grass and travel; and thereat
We marvel deeply, with slow western mind,
Wondering within us what these people find
Among our common oranges and palms
To tear them from the well-remembered charms
Of their dear vegetable. But still they come,
Frost-bitten invalids! to our bright home,
And chide our grasslessness! Until we say,
“But if you hate it so, why come? Why stay?
Just go away!
Go to—your grass!”

THE PROPHETS.

Time was we stoned the Prophets. Age on age,
When men were strong to save, the world hath slain them.
People are wiser now; they waste no rage—
The Prophets entertain them!

SIMILAR CASES.

There was once a little animal,
No bigger than a fox,
And on five toes he scampered
Over Tertiary rocks.
They called him Eohippus,
And they called him very small,
And they thought him of no value—
When they thought of him at all;
For the lumpish old Dinoceras
And Coryphodon so slow
Were the heavy aristocracy
In days of long ago.

Said the little Eohippus,
“I am going to be a horse!
And on my middle finger-nails
To run my earthly course!
I’m going to have a flowing tail!
I’m going to have a mane!
I’m going to stand fourteen hands high
On the psychozoic plain!”

The Coryphodon was horrified,
The Dinoceras was shocked;
And they chased young Eohippus,
But he skipped away and mocked.
Then they laughed enormous laughter,
And they groaned enormous groans,
And they bade young Eohippus
Go view his father’s bones.
Said they, “You always were as small
And mean as now we see,
And that’s conclusive evidence
That you’re always going to be.
What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast,
With hoofs to gallop on?
_Why! You’d have to change your nature!_”
Said the Loxolophodon.
They considered him disposed of,
And retired with gait serene;
That was the way they argued
In “the early Eocene.”

There was once an Anthropoidal Ape,
Far smarter than the rest,
And everything that they could do
He always did the best;
So they naturally disliked him,
And they gave him shoulders cool,
And when they had to mention him
They said he was a fool.

Cried this pretentious Ape one day,
“I’m going to be a Man!
And stand upright, and hunt, and fight,
And conquer all I can!
I’m going to cut down forest trees,
To make my houses higher!
I’m going to kill the Mastodon!
I’m going to make a fire!”

Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes
With laughter wild and gay;
They tried to catch that boastful one,
But he always got away.
So they yelled at him in chorus,
Which he minded not a whit;
And they pelted him with cocoanuts,
Which didn’t seem to hit.
And then they gave him reasons
Which they thought of much avail,
To prove how his preposterous
Attempt was sure to fail.
Said the sages, “In the first place,
The thing cannot be done!
And, second, if it _could_ be,
It would not be any fun!
And, third, and most conclusive,
And admitting no reply,
_You would have to change your nature_!
We should like to see you try!”
They chuckled then triumphantly,
These lean and hairy shapes,
For these things passed as arguments
With the Anthropoidal Apes.

There was once a Neolithic Man,
An enterprising wight,
Who made his chopping implements
Unusually bright.
Unusually clever he,
Unusually brave,
And he drew delightful Mammoths
On the borders of his cave.
To his Neolithic neighbors,
Who were startled and surprised,
Said he, “My friends, in course of time,
We shall be civilized!
We are going to live in cities!
We are going to fight in wars!
We are going to eat three times a day
Without the natural cause!
We are going to turn life upside down
About a thing called gold!
We are going to want the earth, and take
As much as we can hold!
We are going to wear great piles of stuff
Outside our proper skins!
We are going to have Diseases!
And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!”

Then they all rose up in fury
Against their boastful friend,
For prehistoric patience
Cometh quickly to an end.
Said one, “This is chimerical!
Utopian! Absurd!”
Said another, “What a stupid life!
Too dull, upon my word!”
Cried all, “Before such things can come,
You idiotic child,
_You must alter Human Nature_!”
And they all sat back and smiled.
Thought they, “An answer to that last
It will be hard to find!”
It was a clinching argument
To the Neolithic Mind!

A CONSERVATIVE.

The garden beds I wandered by
One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly
A-sitting on a thorn,
A black and crimson butterfly,
All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise,
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I, “What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free
And flowers in goodly store—”
But he only turned away from me
And burst into a roar.

Cried he, “My legs are thin and few
Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view—
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform!”

At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
“You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly!”

“I do not want to fly,” said he,
“I only want to squirm!”
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm;
“I do not want to be a fly!
I want to be a worm!”

O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this,—
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.

AN OBSTACLE.

I was climbing up a mountain-path
With many things to do,
Important business of my own,
And other people’s too,
When I ran against a Prejudice
That quite cut off the view.

My work was such as could not wait,
My path quite clearly showed,
My strength and time were limited,
I carried quite a load;
And there that hulking Prejudice
Sat all across the road.

So I spoke to him politely,
For he was huge and high,
And begged that he would move a bit
And let me travel by.
He smiled, but as for moving!—
He didn’t even try.

And then I reasoned quietly
With that colossal mule:
My time was short—no other path—
The mountain winds were cool.
I argued like a Solomon;
He sat there like a fool.

Then I flew into a passion,
I danced and howled and swore.
I pelted and belabored him
Till I was stiff and sore;
He got as mad as I did—
But he sat there as before.

And then I begged him on my knees;
I might be kneeling still
If so I hoped to move that mass
Of obdurate ill-will—
As well invite the monument
To vacate Bunker Hill!

So I sat before him helpless,
In an ecstasy of woe—
The mountain mists were rising fast,
The sun was sinking slow—
When a sudden inspiration came,
As sudden winds do blow.

I took my hat, I took my stick,
My load I settled fair,
I approached that awful incubus
With an absent-minded air—
And I walked directly through him,
As if he wasn’t there!

THE FOX WHO HAD LOST HIS TAIL.

The fox who had lost his tail found out
That now he could faster go;
He had less to cover when hid for prey,
He had less to carry on hunting day,
He had less to guard when he stood at bay;
He was really better so!

Now he was a fine altruistical fox
With the good of his race at heart,
So he ran to his people with tailless speed,
To tell of the change they all must need,
And recommend as a righteous deed
That they and their tails should part!

Plain was the gain as plain could be,
But his words did not avail;
For they all replied, “We perceive your case;
You do not speak for the good of the race,
But only to cover your own disgrace,
Because you have lost your tail!”

Then another fox, of a liberal mind,
With a tail of splendid size,
Became convinced that the tailless state
Was better for all of them, soon or late.
Said he, “I will let my own tail wait,
And so I can open their eyes.”

Plain was the gain as plain could be,
But his words did not avail,
For they all made answer, “My plausible friend,
You talk wisely and well, but you talk to no end.
We know you’re dishonest and only pretend,
For you have not lost your tail!”

THE SWEET USES OF ADVERSITY.

In Norway fiords, in summer-time,
The Norway birch is fair:
The white trunks shine, the green leaves twine,
The whole tree groweth tall and fine;
For all it wants is there,—
Water and warmth and air,—
Full fed in all its nature needs, and showing
That nature in perfection by its growing.

But follow the persistent tree
To the limit of endless snow
There you may see what a birch can be!
The product showeth plain and free
How nobly plants can grow
With nine months’ winter slow.
’Tis fitted to survive in that position,
Developed by the force of bad condition.

See now what life the tree doth keep,—
Branchless, three-leaved, and tough;
In June the leaf-buds peep, flowers in July dare creep
To bloom, the fruit in August, and then sleep.
Strong is the tree and rough,
It lives, and that’s enough.
“Dog’s-ear” the name the peasants call it by—
A Norway birch—and less than one inch high!

· · · · ·

That silver monarch of the summer wood,
Tall, straight, and lovely, rich in all things good,
Knew not in his perversity
The sweeter uses of adversity!

CONNOISSEURS.

“No,” said the Cultured Critic, gazing haughtily
Whereon some untrained brush had wandered naughtily,
From canons free;
“Work such as this lacks value and perspective,
Has no real feeling,—inner or reflective,—
Does not appeal to me.”

Then quoth the vulgar, knowing art but meagrely,
Their unbesought opinions airing eagerly,
“Why, ain’t that flat?”
Voicing their ignorance all unconcernedly,
Saying of what the Critic scored so learnedly,
“I don’t like that!”

The Critic now vouchsafed approval sparingly
Of what some genius had attempted daringly,
“This fellow tries;
He handles his conception frankly, feelingly.
Such work as this, done strongly and appealingly,
I recognize.”

The vulgar, gazing widely and unknowingly,
Still volunteered their cheap impressions flowingly,
“Oh, come and see!”
But all that they could say of art’s reality
Was this poor voice of poorer personality,
“Now, that suits me!”

TECHNIQUE.

Cometh to-day the very skilful man;
Profoundly skilful in his chosen art;
All things that other men can do he can,
And do them better. He is very smart.

Sayeth, “My work is here before you all;
Come now with duly cultured mind to view it.
Here is great work, no part of it is small;
Perceive how well I do it!

“I do it to perfection. Studious years
Were spent to reach the pinnacle I’ve won;
Labor and thought are in my work, and tears.
Behold how well ’tis done!

“See with what power this great effect is shown;
See with what ease you get the main idea;
A master in my art, I stand alone;
Now you may praise,—I hear.”

And I, “O master, I perceive your sway,
I note the years of study, toil, and strain
That brought the easy power you wield to-day,
The height you now attain.

“Freely your well-trained power I see you spend,
Such skill in all my life I never saw;
You have done nobly; but, my able friend,
What have you done it for?

“You have no doubt achieved your dearest end:
Your work is faultless to the cultured view.
You do it well, but, O my able friend,
What is it that you do?”

THE PASTELLETTE.

“The pastelle is too strong,” said he.
“Lo! I will make it fainter yet!”
And he wrought with tepid ecstasy
A pastellette.

A touch—a word—a tone half caught—
He softly felt and handled them;
Flavor of feeling—scent of thought—
Shimmer of gem—
That we may read, and feel as he
What vague, pale pleasure we can get
From this mild, witless mystery,—
The pastellette.

THE PIG AND THE PEARL.

Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!
Tasteless, and hard, and dry—
Get out of my sty!
Glittering, smooth, and clean,
You only seek to be seen!
I am dirty and big!
A virtuous, valuable pig.
For me all things are sweet
That I can possibly eat;
But you—how can you be good
Without being fit for food?
Not even food for me,
Who can eat all this you see,
No matter how foul and sour;
I revel from hour to hour
In refuse of great and small;
But you are no good at all,
And if I should gulp you, quick,
It would probably make me sick!”
Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!”
And she rooted her out of the sty.
A Philosopher chancing to pass
Saw the Pearl in the grass,
And laid hands on the same in a trice,
For the Pearl was a Pearl of Great Price.
Said he, “Madame Pig, if you knew
What a fool thing you do,
It would grieve even you!
Grant that pearls are not just to your taste,
Must you let them run waste?
You care only for hogwash, I know,
For your litter and you. Even so,
This tasteless hard thing which you scorn
Would buy acres of corn;
And apples, and pumpkins, and pease,
By the ton, if you please!
By the wealth which this pearl represents,
You could grow so immense—
You, and every last one of your young—
That your fame would be sung
As the takers of every first prize,
For your flavor and size!
From even a Pig’s point of view
The Pearl was worth millions to you.
Be a Pig—and a fool—(you must be them)
But try to know Pearls when you see them!”

POOR HUMAN NATURE.

I saw a meagre, melancholy cow,
Blessed with a starveling calf that sucked in vain;
Eftsoon he died. I asked the mother how—?
Quoth she, “Of every four there dieth twain!”
Poor bovine nature!

I saw a sickly horse of shambling gait,
Ugly and wicked, weak in leg and back,
Useless in all ways, in a wretched state.
“We’re all poor creatures!” said the sorry hack.
Poor equine nature!

I saw a slow cat crawling on the ground,
Weak, clumsy, inefficient, full of fears,
The mice escaping from her aimless bound.
Moaned she, “This truly is a vale of tears!”
Poor feline nature!

Then did I glory in my noble race,
Healthful and beautiful, alert and strong,
Rejoicing that we held a higher place
And need not add to theirs our mournful song,—
Poor human nature!

OUR SAN FRANCISCO CLIMATE.

Said I to my friend from the East,—
A tenderfoot he,—
As I showed him the greatest and least
Of our hills by the sea,
“How do you like our climate?”
And I smiled in my glee.

I showed him the blue of the hills,
And the blue of the sky,
And the blue of the beautiful bay
Where the ferry-boats ply;
And “How do you like our climate?”
Securely asked I.

Then the wind blew over the sand,
And the fog came down,
And the papers and dust were on hand
All over the town.
“How do you like our climate?”
I cried with a frown.

On the corner we stood as we met
Awaiting a car;
Beneath us a vent-hole was set,
As our street corners are—
And street corners in our San Francisco
Are perceptible far.

He meant to have answered, of course,
I could see that he tried;
But he had not the strength of a horse,
And before he replied
The climate rose up from that corner in force,
And he died!

SAN FRANCISCO, 1895.

CRITICISM.

The Critic eyed the sunset as the umber turned to gray,
Slow fading in the somewhat foggy west;
To the color-cultured Critic ’twas a very dull display,
“’Tis n’t half so good a sunset as was offered yesterday!
I wonder why,” he murmured, as he sadly turned away,
“The sunsets can’t be always at their best!”

ANOTHER CREED.

Another creed! We’re all so pleased!
A gentle, tentative new creed. We’re eased
Of all those things we could not quite believe,
But would not give the lie to. Now perceive
How charmingly this suits us! Science even
Has naught against our modern views of Heaven;
And yet the most emotional of women
May find this creed a warm, deep sea to swim in.

Here’s something now so loose and large of fit
That all the churches may come under it,
And we may see upon the earth once more
A church united,—as we had before!
Before so much of precious blood was poured
That each in his own way might serve the Lord!
All wide divergence in sweet union sunk,
Like branches growing up into a trunk!

And in our intellectual delight
In this sweet formula that sets us right;
And controversial exercises gay
With those who still prefer a differing way;
And our glad effort to make known this wonder
And get all others to unite thereunder,—
We, joying in this newest, best of creeds,
Continue still to do our usual deeds!

THE LITTLE LION.

It was a little lion lay—
In wait he lay—he lay in wait.
Came those who said, “Pray come my way;
We joy to see a lion play,
And laud his, gait!”

The little lion mildly came—
In wait for prey—for prey in wait.
The people all adored his name,
And those who led him saw the same
With hearts elate.

The little lion grew that day,—
In glee he went—he went in glee.
Said he, “I love to seek my prey,
But also love to see the way
My prey seek me!”

A MISFIT.

O Lord, take me out of this!
I do not fit!
My body does not suit my mind,
My brain is weak in the knees and blind,
My clothes are not what I want to find—
Not one bit!

My house is not the house I like—
Not one bit!
My church is built so loose and thin
That ten fall out where one falls in;
My creed is buttoned with a pin—
It does not fit!

The school I went to wasn’t right—
Not one bit!
The education given me
Was meant for the community,
And my poor head works differently—
It does not fit!

I try to move and find I can’t—
Not one bit!
Things that were given me to stay
Are mostly lost and blown away,
And what I have to use to-day—
It does not fit!

What I was taught I cannot do—
Not one bit!
And what I do I was not taught
And what I find I have not sought;
I never say the thing I ought—
It does not fit!

I have not meant to be like this—
Not one bit!
But in the puzzle and the strife
I fail my friend and pain my wife;
Oh, how it hurts to have a life
That does not fit!

ON NEW YEAR’S DAY.

On New Year’s Day he plans a cruise
To Heaven straight—no time to lose!
Vowing to live so virtuously
That each besetting sin shall flee—
Good resolutions wide he strews
On New Year’s Day.

A while he minds his p’s and q’s,
And all temptations doth refuse,
Recalling his resolves so free
On New Year’s Day.

But in the long year that ensues,
They fade away by threes and twos—
The place we do not wish to see
Is paved with all he meant to be,
When he next year his life reviews—
On New Year’s Day.

OUR EAST.

Our East, long looking backward over sea,
In loving study of what used to be,
Has grown to treat our West with the same scorn
England has had for us since we were born.

You’d think to hear this Eastern judgment hard
The West was just New England’s back yard!
That all the West was made for, last and least,
Was to raise pork and wheat to feed the East!

A place to travel in, for rest and health,
A place to struggle in and get the wealth,
The only normal end of which, of course,
Is to return to its historic source!

Our Western acres, curving to the sun,
The Western strength whereby our work is done,
All Western progress, they attribute fair
To Eastern Capital invested there!

New England never liked old England’s scorn.
Do they think theirs more easy to be borne?
Or that the East, Britain’s rebellious child,
Will find the grandson, West, more meek and mild?

In union still our sovereignty has stood,
A union formed with prayer and sealed with blood.
We stand together. Patience, mighty West!
Don’t mind this scolding from your last year’s nest!

UNMENTIONABLE.

There is a thing of which I fain would speak,
Yet shun the deed;
Lest hot disgust flush the averted cheek
Of those who read.

And yet it is as common in our sight
As dust or grass;
Loathed by the lifted skirt, the tiptoe light,
Of those who pass.

We say no word, but the big placard rests
Frequent in view,
To sicken those who do not with requests
Of those who do.

“Gentlemen will not,” the mild placards say.
They read with scorn.
“Gentlemen must not”—they defile the way
Of those who warn.

On boat and car the careful lady lifts
Her dress aside;
If careless—think, fair traveller, of the gifts
Of those who ride!

On every hall and sidewalk, floor and stair,
Where man’s at home,
This loathsomeness is added to the care
Of those who come.

As some foul slug his trail of slime displays
On leaf and stalk,
These street-beasts make a horror in the ways
Of those who walk.

We cannot ask reform of those who do—
They can’t or won’t.
We can express the scorn, intense and true,
Of those who don’t.

AN INVITATION FROM CALIFORNIA.

Aren’t you tired of protection from the weather?
Of defences, guards, and shields?
Aren’t you tired of the worry as to whether
This year the farm land yields?

Aren’t you tired of the wetness and the dryness,
The dampness, and the hotness, and the cold?
Of waiting on the weather man with shyness
To see if the last plans hold?

Aren’t you tired of the doctoring and nursing,
Of the “sickly winters” and the pocket pills,—
Tired of sorrowing, and burying, and cursing
At Providence and undertakers’ bills?

Aren’t you tired of all the threatening and doubting,
The “weather-breeder” with its lovely lie;
The dubiety of any sort of outing;
The chip upon the shoulder of the sky?

Like a beaten horse who dodges your caresses,
Like a child abused who ducks before your frown,
Is the northerner in our warm air that blesses—
O come and live and take your elbow down!

Don’t be afraid; you do not need defences;
This heavenly day breeds not a stormy end;
Lay down your arms! cut off your war expenses!
This weather is your friend!

A friendliness from earth, a joy from heaven,
A peace that wins your frightened soul at length;
A place where rest as well as work is given,—
Rest is the food of strength.

RESOLVE.

To keep my health!
To do my work!
To live!
To see to it I grow and gain and give!
Never to look behind me for an hour!
To wait in weakness, and to walk in power;
But always fronting onward to the light,
Always and always facing toward the right.
Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide astray—
On, with what strength I have!
Back to the way!

WOMAN.

SHE WALKETH VEILED AND SLEEPING.

She walketh veiled and sleeping,
For she knoweth not her power;
She obeyeth but the pleading
Of her heart, and the high leading
Of her soul, unto this hour.
Slow advancing, halting, creeping,
Comes the Woman to the hour!—
She walketh veiled and sleeping,
For she knoweth not her power.

TO MAN.

In dark and early ages, through the primal forests faring, Ere the soul came shining into prehistoric night, Two-fold man was equal; they were comrades dear and daring, Living wild and free together in unreasoning delight.

Ere the soul was born and consciousness came slowly, Ere the soul was born, to man and woman too, Ere he found the Tree of Knowledge, that awful tree and holy, Ere he knew he felt, and knew he knew.

Then said he to Pain, “I am wise now, and I know you! No more will I suffer while power and wisdom last!” Then said he to Pleasure, “I am strong, and I will show you That the will of man can seize you; aye, and hold you fast!”

Food he ate for pleasure, and wine he drank for gladness, And woman? Ah, the woman! the crown of all delight!— His now—he knew it! He was strong to madness In that early dawning after prehistoric night.

His—his forever! That glory sweet and tender! Ah, but he would love her! And she should love but him! He would work and struggle for her, he would shelter and defend her; She should never leave him, never, till their eyes in death were dim.

Close, close he bound her, that she should leave him never; Weak still he kept her, lest she be strong to flee; And the fainting flame of passion he kept alive forever With all the arts and forces of earth and sky and sea.

And, ah, the long journey! The slow and awful ages They have labored up together, blind and crippled, all astray! Through what a mighty volume, with a million shameful pages, From the freedom of the forest to the prisons of to-day!

Food he ate for pleasure, and it slew him with diseases! Wine he drank for gladness, and it led the way to crime! And woman? He will hold her—he will have her when he pleases— And he never once hath seen her since the prehistoric time!

Gone the friend and comrade of the day when life was younger, She who rests and comforts, she who helps and saves; Still he seeks her vainly, with a never-dying hunger; Alone beneath his tyrants, alone above his slaves!

Toiler, bent and weary with the load of thine own making! Thou who art sad and lonely, though lonely all in vain! Who hast sought to conquer Pleasure and have her for the taking, And found that Pleasure only was another name for Pain,—

Nature hath reclaimed thee, forgiving dispossession! God hath not forgotten, though man doth still forget! The woman-soul is rising, in despite of thy transgression; Loose her now—and trust her! She will love thee yet!

Love thee? She will love thee as only freedom knoweth; Love thee? She will love thee while Love itself doth live! Fear not the heart of woman! No bitterness it showeth! The ages of her sorrow have but taught her to forgive!

WOMEN OF TO-DAY.

You women of to-day who fear so much
The women of the future, showing how
The dangers of her course are such and such—
What are you now?

Mothers and Wives and Housekeepers, forsooth!
Great names! you cry, full scope to rule and please!
Boom for wise age and energetic youth!—
But are you these?

Housekeepers? Do you then, like those of yore,
Keep house with power and pride, with grace and ease?
No, you keep servants only! What is more,
You don’t keep these!

Wives, say you? Wives! Blessed indeed are they
Who hold of love the everlasting keys,
Keeping their husbands’ hearts! Alas the day!
You don’t keep these!

And mothers? Pitying Heaven! Mark the cry
From cradle death-beds! Mothers on their knees!
Why, half the children born—as children die!
You don’t keep these!

And still the wailing babies come and go,
And homes are waste, and husbands’ hearts fly far,
There is no hope until you dare to know
The thing you are!

TO THE YOUNG WIFE.

Are you content, you pretty three-years’ wife?
Are you content and satisfied to live
On what your loving husband loves to give,
And give to him your life?

Are you content with work,—to toil alone,
To clean things dirty and to soil things clean;
To be a kitchen-maid, be called a queen,—
Queen of a cook-stove throne?

Are you content to reign in that small space—
A wooden palace and a yard-fenced land—
With other queens abundant on each hand,
Each fastened in her place?

Are you content to rear your children so?
Untaught yourself, untrained, perplexed, distressed,
Are you so sure your way is always best?
That you can always know?

Have you forgotten how you used to long
In days of ardent girlhood, to be great,
To help the groaning world, to serve the state,
To be so wise—so strong?

And are you quite convinced this is the way,
The only way a woman’s duty lies—
Knowing all women so have shut their eyes?
Seeing the world to-day?

Have you no dream of life in fuller store?
Of growing to be more than that you are?
Doing the things you now do better far,
Yet doing others—more?

Losing no love, but finding as you grew
That as you entered upon nobler life
You so became a richer, sweeter wife,
A wiser mother too?

What holds you? Ah, my dear, it is your throne,
Your paltry queenship in that narrow place,
Your antique labors, your restricted space,
Your working all alone!

Be not deceived! ’Tis not your wifely bond
That holds you, nor the mother’s royal power,
But selfish, slavish service hour by hour—
A life with no beyond!

FALSE PLAY.

“Do you love me?” asked the mother of her child,
And the baby answered, “No!”
Great Love listened and sadly smiled;
He knew the love in the heart of the child—
That you could not wake it so.

“Do not love me?” the foolish mother cried,
And the baby answered, “No!”
He knew the worth of the trick she tried—
Great Love listened, and grieving, sighed
That the mother scorned him so.

“Oh, poor mama!” and she played her part
Till the baby’s strength gave way:
He knew it was false in his inmost heart,
But he could not bear that her tears should start,
So he joined in the lying play.

“Then love mama!” and the soft lips crept
To the kiss that his love should show,—
The mouth to speak while the spirit slept!
Great Love listened, and blushed, and wept
That they blasphemed him so.

MOTHERHOOD.