Chapter IV

They burned a witch in our town,
On hangman's hill to-day;
And black the ashes drifted down,
Ashes black and grey,
Not white like those o' martyred folk
Whose souls are clean as they.

They burned a witch in our town,
Upon a windy hill,
For that she made the wells sink down
And wrought a young man ill,
The smoke rose black against the sky,
And hangs before it still.

They burned a witch in our town,
And sure they did but right,
_And yet I would the rain could drown_
_That blackened hill from sight,_
_And some great wind might drive that cloud_
_'Twixt God and me this night._

THE DAYS

I call my years back, I, grown old,
Recall them day by day;
And some are dressed in cloth o' gold
And some in humble grey.

And those in gold glance scornfully
Or pass me unawares;
But those in grey come close to me
And take my hands in theirs.

THE CALL

I must be off where the green boughs beckon--
Why should I linger to barter and reckon?
The mart may pay me--the mart may cheat me,
I have had enough of the huckster's din,
The calm of the deep woods waits to greet me,
(Heart of the high hills, take me in.)

I must be off where the brooks are waking,
Where birds are building and green leaves breaking.
Why should the hold of an old task bind me?
I know of an eyrie I fain would win
Where a wind of the West shall seek me and find me,
(Heart of my high hills, take me in.)

I must be off where the stars are nearer,
Where feet go swifter and eyes see clearer,
Little I heed what the toilers name me--
I have heard the call that to miss were sin,
The April voices that clamour and claim me,
(Heart of my high hills, take me in.)

THE PARASITE

They brought to the little Princess, from her earliest hour of birth,
The lovely things, the beautiful things, the soft things of earth.

They covered her floor with crimson, they wrapped her in eiderdown;
They hung the windows with cloth of gold, lest her eyes look down;
(Lest the highway show an unlovely thing
And her eyes look down.)

They brought rare toys to her cradle, rich gems to her maidenhood;
All that she saw was beautiful, all that she heard was good.

When tumult rose in the city they bade her minstrels sing;
They drowned with the sound of music a people's clamouring;
(Lest she turn and hark to the highway,
And hear an unlovely thing.)

But there came a day of terror, when a cry too sharp and long
Tore through the streets of the city, through the soft, sweet song.

She bade her singers be silent--silent they stood in awe;
She raised the gold from the window; she looked down and saw.
(She leaned and looked on the highway,
She looked down and saw.)

She saw men driven like cattle, she heard the woman's cry,
She saw the white-faced children toil, and the weaklings die.

She saw the bound and the beaten beneath her like shifting sands,
And--she dropped the cloth on her window with her own white hands,
(She shut out her people's crying
With her own white hands.)

As a child may turn from a picture that he may not understand,
She turned to fragrance and music,--to soft things and bland.

_If the Princess is blind to anguish, if the Princess is deaf to woe,_
_If the streets of her city may run with blood, and she not know,_
_Now theirs is the blame who have closed her in ease as in
folded wings,_
_Who have barred the doors and windows, what time her minstrel sings,_
_Lest her eyes look down on the highway,_
_And look on unlovely things._

YOUTH

What do they know of youth, who still are young?
They but the singers of a golden song
Who may not guess its worth or wonder--flung
Like largesse to the throng.
We only,--young no longer,--old so long
Before its harmonies, stand marvelling--
Oh! we who listen--never they who sing.

Not for itself is beauty, but for us
Who gaze upon it with all reverent eyes;
And youth which sheds its glory luminous,
Gives ever in this wise:--
Itself the joy it may not realise.
Only we know, who linger overlong
Youth that is made of beauty and of song.

THE EMPTY HOUSE

April will come to the quiet town
That I left long ago,
Scattering primroses up and down--
Row upon happy row.
(Oh, little green lane, will she come your way,
To a certain path I know?)

April will pause by cottage and gate
In the wild, sweet evening rain,
Where the garden borders run brown and straight,
To coax them to bloom again.
(Oh, little sad garden that once was gay,
Must she call to you all in vain?)

April will come to cottage and hill,
Laughing her lovers awake.
(Oh, little closed house, so cold and still,
Will she find you for old joy's sake,
And leave one primrose beside your door,
Lest the heart of your garden break?)

THE BROKEN LUTE

Good-bye, my song--I, who found words for sorrow,
Offer my joy to-day a useless lute.
In the deep night I sang me of the morrow;
The sun is on my face and I am mute.

Good-bye, my song, in you was all my yearning,
The prayer for this poor heart I wore so long.
Now love heaps roses where the wounds were burning;
What need have I for song?

Long since I sang of all one loves and misses;
How may I sing to-day who know no wrong?
My lips are all for laughter and for kisses.
Good-bye, my song.

ORCHARDS

Orchards in the Spring-time! Oh, I think and think of them,--
Filmy mists of pink and white above the fresh, young green,
Lifting and drifting,--how my eyes could drink of them,
_I'm staring at a dirty wall beyond a big machine._

Orchards in the Spring-time! Deep in soft, cool shadows,--
Moving all together when the west wind blows
Fragrance upon fragrance over road and meadows--
_I'm smelling heat and oil and sweat, and thick, black clothes._

Orchards in the Spring-time! The clean white and pink of them
Lifting and drifting with all the winds that blow.
Orchards in the Spring-time! Thank God I still can think of them!
_You're not docked for thinking,--if the foreman doesn't know._

TWILIGHT

Below them in the twilight the quiet village lies,
And warm within its holding, the old folks and the wise,
But here within the open fields the paths of Eden show,
And, hand in hand, across them the little lovers go.

Below them in the village are peaceful folk and still,
They gossip of old yesterdays, of merry times or ill.
But here beyond the twilight stray two who only see
The promise of to-morrow--the dawn that is to be.

Below them in the village the quiet hearth-flames glow,
With friendly word and greeting the neighbours come and go,
But here the silence folds them together, each to each,
And lights within the mating eyes the dream beyond their speech.

Below them in the village stay honest toil and truth,--
They rest there who adventured the road of love and youth.
Smile out, old hearts, when once again two take the path you know,
And, hand in hand, at twilight the little lovers go.

A LOVE SONG

My love it should be silent, being deep--
And being very peaceful should be still--
Still as the utmost depths of ocean keep--
Serenely silent as some mighty hill.

Yet is my love so great it needs must fill
With very joy the inmost heart of me,
The joy of dancing branches on the hill,
The joy of leaping waves upon the sea.

OLD BOATS

I saw the old sea captain in his city daughter's house,
Shaved till his chin was pink, and brushed till his hair was flat,
In a broadcloth suit and varnished boots and a collar up to his ears.
(I'd seen him last with a slicker on and a tied down oilskin hat.)

And it happened that I went home last June, and saw in Mallory's yard
The old red dory that sprung a leak a couple of years ago,
Dragged out of good salt water and braced to stand in the grass
And be filled with dirt from stem to stern, where posies and such
could grow.

Painted to beat the band, with vines strung over the sides
And red geraniums in the bow,--a boat that was built for water
Made into a flower garden. I looked, but I didn't laugh,
For I thought of the old sea captain living in town with his daughter.

BEAUTY

Sometimes, slow moving through unlovely days,
The need to look on beauty falls on me
As on the blind the anguished wish to see,
As on the dumb the urge to rage or praise;
Beauty of marble where the eyes may gaze
Till soothed to peace by white serenity,
Or canvas where one master hand sets free
Great colours that like angels blend and blaze.

O, there be many starved in this strange wise--
For this diviner food their days deny,
Knowing beyond their vision beauty stands
With pitying eyes--with tender, outstretched hands,
Eager to give to every passer-by
The loveliness that feeds a soul's demands.

A SONG

I am as weary as a child
That weeps upon its mother's breast
For joy of comforting. But I
Have no such place to rest.

I am as weary as a bird
Blown by wild winds far out to sea
When it regains its nest. But, Oh,
There waits no nest for me.

What think you may sustain the bird
That finds no housing after flight?
And what the little child console
Who weeps alone at night?

MOTHERS OF MEN

Mothers of men--the words are good indeed in the saying,
Pride in the very sound of them, strength in the sense of them, then
Why is it their faces haunt me, wistful faces as praying
Ever some dear thing vanished and ever a hope delaying,
Mothers of Men?

Mothers of Men, most patient, tenderly slow to discover
The loss of the old allegiance that may not return again.
You give a man to the world, you give a woman a lover--
Where is your solace then when the time of giving is over,
Mothers of Men?

Mothers of Men, but surely, the title is worth the earning.
You who are brave in feigning must I ever behold you then
By the door of an empty heart with the lamp of faith still burning,
Watching the ways of life for the sight of a child returning,
Mothers of Men?

LOVELACE GROWN OLD