Chapter II

Nor as all other women may,
Love I my Love; he is so great,
So beautiful, I dare essay
No nearness but in silence lay
My heart upon his path,--and wait.

Poor heart! its healings are so low
He does not heed them passing by,
Save as one heeds, where violets grow,
A fragrance, caring not to know
Where the veiled purple buds may lie.

I sometimes think that it is dead,
It lies so still. I bend and lean,
Like mother over cradle-head,
Wondering if still faint breaths are shed
Like sighs the parted lips between.

And then, with vivid pulse and thrill,
It quickens into sudden bliss
At sound of step or voice, nor will
Be hushed, although, regardless still,
He knows not, cares not, it is his.

I would not lift it if I could;
The little flame, though faint and dim
As glow-worm spark in lonely wood,
Shining where no man calls it good,
May one day light the path for him,--

May guide his way, or soon or late,
Through blinding mist or wintry rain;
And, so content, I watch and wait.
Let others share his happier fate,
I only ask to share his pain!

And if some day, when passing by,
My dear Love should his steps arrest,
Should mark the poor heart waiting nigh,
Should know it his, should lift it,--why,
Patience is good, but joy is best!

AFTER-GLOW.

My morn was all dewy rose and pearl,
Peace brimmed the skies, a cool and fragrant air
Caressed my going forth, and everywhere
The radiant webs, by hope and fancy spun,
Stretched shining in the sun.

Then came a noon, hot, breathless, still,--
No wind to visit the dew-thirsty flowers,
Only the dust, the road, the urging hours;
And, pressing on, I never guessed or knew
That day was half-way through.

And when the pomp of purple lit the sky,
And sheaves of golden lances tipped with red
Danced in the west, wondering I gazed, and said,
"Lo, a new morning comes, my hopes to crown!"
Sudden the sun dropped down

Like a great golden ball into the sea,
Which made room, laughing, and the serried rank
Of yellow lances flashed, and, turning, sank
After their chieftain, as he led the way,
And all the heaven was gray.

Startled and pale, I stood to see them go;
Then a long, stealing shadow to me crept,
And laid his cold hand on me, and I wept
And hid my eyes, and shivered with affright
At thought of coming night.

But as I wept and shuddered, a warm thrill
Smote on my sense. I raised my eyes, and lo!
The skies, so dim but now, were all aglow
With a new flush of tender rose and gold,
Opening fold on fold.

Higher and higher soared the gracious beam,
Deeper and deeper glowed the heavenly hues,
Nor any cowering shadow could refuse
The beautiful embrace which clasped and kissed
Its dun to amethyst.

A little longer, and the lovely light,
Draining the last drops from its wondrous urn,
Departed, and the swart shades in their turn,
Impatient of the momentary mirth,
Crowded to seize the earth.

No longer do I shudder. With calm eye
I front the night, nor wish its hours away;
For in that message from my banished day
I read his pledge of dawn, and soon or late
I can endure to wait.

HOPE AND I.

Hope stood one morning by the way,
And stretched her fair right hand to me,
And softly whispered, "For this day
I'll company with thee."

"Ah, no, dear Hope," I sighing said;
"Oft have you joined me in the morn,
But when the evening came, you fled
And left me all forlorn.

"'Tis better I should walk alone
Than have your company awhile,
And then to lose it, and go on
For weary mile on mile,"

She turned, rebuked. I went my way,
But sad the sunshine seemed, and chill;
I missed her, missed her all the day,
And O, I miss her still.

LEFT BEHIND.

We started in the morning, a morning full of glee,
All in the early morning, a goodly company;
And some were full of merriment, and all were kind and dear:
But the others have pursued their way, and left me sitting here.

My feet were not so fleet as theirs, my courage soon was gone,
And so I lagged and fell behind, although they cried "Come on!"
They cheered me and they pitied me, but one by one went by,
For the stronger must outstrip the weak; there is no remedy.

Some never looked behind, but smiled, and swiftly, hand in hand,
Departed with, a strange sweet joy I could not understand;
I know not by what silver streams their roses bud and blow,
Rut I am glad--O very glad--they should be happy so.

And some they went companionless, yet not alone, it seemed;
For there were sounds of rustling wings, and songs,--or else we
dreamed;
And a glow from lights invisible to us lit up the place,
And tinged, as if with glory, each dear and parting face.

So happy, happy did they look, as one by one they went,
That we, who missed them sorely, were fain to be content;
And I, who sit the last of all, left far behind, alone,
Cannot be sorry for their sakes, but only for my own.

My eyes seek out the different paths by which they went away,
And oft I wish to follow, but oftener wish to stay;
For fair as may the new things be, the farther things they know,
This is a pleasant resting-place, a pleasant place also.

There are flowers for the gathering, which grow my path anear,
The skies are fair, and everywhere the sun is warm and clear:
I may have missed the wine of life, the strong wine and the new,
But I have my wells of water, my sips of honey-dew.

So when I turn my thoughts from those who shared my dawn of day,
My fresh and joyous morning prune, and now are passed away,
I can see just how sweet all is, how good, and be resigned
To sit thus in the afternoon, alone and left behind.

SAVOIR C'EST PARDONNER.

Myriad rivers seek the sea,
The sea rejects not any one;
A myriad rays of light may be
Clasped in the compass of one sun;
And myriad grasses, wild and free,
Drink of the dew which faileth none.

A myriad worlds encompass ours;
A myriad souls our souls enclose;
And each, its sins and woes and powers,
The Lord He sees, the Lord He knows,
And from the Infinite Knowledge flowers
The Infinite Pity's fadeless rose.

Lighten our darkness, Lord, most wise;
All-seeing One, give us to see;
Our judgments are profanities,
Our ignorance is cruelty,
While Thou, knowing all, dost not despise
To pardon even such things as we.

MORNING.

O word and thing most beautiful!
Our yesterday was cold and dull,
Gray mists obscured the setting sun,
Its evening wept with sobbing rain;
But to and fro, mid shrouding night,
Some healing angel swift has run,
And all is fresh and fair again.

O, word and thing most beautiful!
The hearts, which were of cares so full,
The tired hands, the tired feet,
So glad of night, are glad of morn,--
Where are the clouds of yesterday?
The world is good, the world is sweet,
And life is new and hope re-born.

O, word and thing most beautiful!
O coward soul and sorrowful,
Which sighs to note the ebbing light
Give place to evening's shadowy gray!
What are these things but parables,--
That darkness heals the wrongs of day,
And dawning clears all mists of night.

O, word and thing most beautiful!
The little sleep our cares to lull,
The long, soft dusk and then sunrise,
To waken fresh and angel fair,
Lite all renewed and cares forgot,
Ready for Heaven's glad surprise.
So Christ, who is our Light, be there.

A BLIND SINGER.

In covert of a leafy porch,
Where woodbine clings,
And roses drop their crimson leaves,
He sits and sings;
With soft brown crest erect to hear,
And drooping wings.

Shut in a narrow cage, which bars
His eager flight,
Shut in the darker prison-house
Of blinded sight,
Alike to him are sun and stars,
The day, the night.

But all the fervor of high noon,
Hushed, fragrant, strong,
And all the peace of moonlit nights
When nights are long,
And all the bliss of summer eves,
Breathe in his song.

The rustle of the fresh green woods,
The hum of bee,
The joy of flight, the perfumed waft
Of blossoming tree,
The half-forgotten, rapturous thrill
Of liberty,--

All blend and mix, while evermore,
Now and again,
A plaintive, puzzled cadence comes,
A low refrain,
Caught from some shadowy memory
Of patient pain.

In midnight black, when all men sleep,
My singer wakes,
And pipes his lovely melodies,
And trills and shakes.
The dark sky bends to listen, but
No answer makes.

O, what is joy? In vain we grasp
Her purple wings;
Unwon, unwooed, she flits to dwell
With humble things;
She shares my sightless singer's cage,
And so--he sings.

MARY.

The drowsy summer in the flowering limes
Had laid her down at ease,
Lulled by soft, sportive winds, whose tinkling chimes
Summoned the wandering bees
To feast, and dance, and hold high carnival
Within that vast and fragrant banquet-hall.

She stood, my Mary, on the wall below,
Poised on light, arching feet,
And drew the long, green branches down to show
Where hung, mid odors sweet,--
A tiny miracle to touch and view,--
The humming-bird's, small nest and pearls of blue.

Fair as the summer's self she stood, and smiled,
With eyes like summer sky,
Wistful and glad, half-matron and half-child,
Gentle and proud and shy;
Her sweet head framed against the blossoming bough,
She stood a moment,--and she stands there now!

'Tis sixteen years since, trustful, unafraid,
In her full noon of light,
She passed beneath the grass's curtaining shade,
Out of our mortal sight;
And springs and summers, bearing gifts to men,
And long, long winters have gone by since then.

And each some little gift has brought to dress
That unforgotten bed,--
Violet, anemone, or lady's-tress,
Or spray of berries red,
Or purpling leaf, or mantle, pure and cold,
Of winnowed snow, wrapped round it, fold on fold.

Yet still she stands, a glad and radiant shape,
Set in the morning fair,--
That vanished morn which had such swift escape.
I turn and see her there,--
The arch, sweet smile, the bending, graceful head;
And, seeing thus, why do I call her dead?

WHEN LOVE WENT.

What whispered Love the day he fled?
Ah! this was what Love whispered;
"You sought to hold me with a chain;
I fly to prove such holding vain.

"You bound me burdens, and I bore
The burdens hard, the burdens sore;
I bore them all unmurmuring,
For Love can bear a harder thing.

"You taxed me often, teased me, wept;
I only smiled, and still I kept
Through storm and sun and night and day,
My joyous, viewless, faithful way.

"But, dear, once dearest, you and I
This day have parted company.
Love must be free to give, defer,
Himself alone his almoner.

"As free I freely poured my all,
Enslaved I spurn, renounce my thrall,
Its wages and its bitter bread."
Thus whispered Love the day he fled!

OVERSHADOWED.

"Insomuch that they brought forth the sick into the streets, and laid them on beds and couches, that at the least the shadow of Peter, passing by, might overshadow some of them."

Mid the thronged bustle of the city street,
In the hot hush of noon,
I wait, with folded hands and nerveless feet.
Surely He will come soon.
Surely the Healer will not pass me by,
But listen to my cry.

Long are the hours in which I lie and wait,
Heavy the load I bear;
But He will come ere evening. Soon or late
I shall behold Him there;
Shall hear His dear voice, all the clangor through;
"What wilt thou that I do?"

"If Thou but wilt, Lord, Thou canst make me clean."
Thus shall I answer swift.
And He will touch me, as He walks serene;
And I shall rise and lift
This couch, so long my prison-house of pain,
And be made whole again.

He lingers yet. But lo! a hush, a hum.
The multitudes press on
After some leader. Surely He is come!
He nears me; He is gone!
Only His shadow reached me, as He went;
Yet here I rest content.

In that dear shadow, like some healing spell,
A heavenly patience lay;
Its balm of peace enwrapped me as it fell;
My pains all fled away,--
The weariness, the deep unrest of soul;
I am indeed "made whole."

It is enough, Lord, though Thy face divine
Was turned to other men.
Although no touch, no questioning voice was mine,
Thou wilt come once again;
And, if Thy shadow brings such bliss to me,
What must Thy presence be?

TIME TO GO.

They know the time to go!
The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour
In field and woodland, and each punctual flower
Bows at the signal an obedient head
And hastes to bed.

The pale Anemone
Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night;
The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight;
Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines,
In blithesome lines,

Drop their last courtesies,
Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest;
The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest
And hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green;
Fair and serene,

Her sister Lily floats
On the blue pond, and raises golden eyes
To court the golden splendor of the skies,--
The sudden signal comes, and down she goes
To find repose,

In the cool depths below,
A little later, and the Asters blue
Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew;
While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay,
Turns him away,

Furls his bright parasol,
And, like a little hero, meets his fate.
The Gentians, very proud to sit up late,
Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set
'Neath coverlet,

Downy and soft and warm.
No little seedling voice is heard to grieve
Or make complaints the folding woods beneath;
No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know
The time to go.

Teach us your patience, brave,
Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you,
Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes true,
That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow,
With smiles, not sorrow.

GULF-STREAM.

Lonely and cold and fierce I keep my way,
Scourge of the lands, companioned by the storm,
Tossing to heaven my frontlet, wild and gray,
Mateless, yet conscious ever of a warm
And brooding presence close to mine all day.

What is this alien thing, so near, so far,
Close to my life always, but blending never?
Hemmed in by walls whose crystal gates unbar
Not at the instance of my strong endeavor
To pierce the stronghold where their secrets are?

Buoyant, impalpable, relentless, thin,
Rise the clear, mocking walls. I strive in vain
To reach the pulsing heart that beats within,
Or with persistence of a cold disdain,
To quell the gladness which I may not win.

Forever sundered and forever one,
Linked by a bond whose spell I may not guess,
Our hostile, yet embracing currents run;
Such wedlock lonelier is than loneliness.
Baffled, withheld, I clasp the bride I shun.

Yet even in my wrath a wild regret
Mingles; a bitterness of jealous strife
Tinges my fury as I foam and fret
Against the borders of that calmer life,
Beside whose course my wrathful course is set.

But all my anger, all my pain and woe,
Are vain to daunt her gladness; all the while
She goes rejoicing, and I do not know,
Catching the soft irradiance of her smile,
If I am most her lover or her foe.

MY WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM.

As purely white as is the drifted snow,
More dazzling fair than summer roses are,
Petalled with rays like a clear rounded star,
When winds pipe chilly, and red sunsets glow,
Your blossoms blow.

Sweet with a freshening fragrance, all their own,
In which a faint, dim breath of bitter lies,
Like wholesome breath mid honeyed flatteries;
When other blooms are dead, and birds have flown,
You stand alone.

Fronting the winter with a fearless grace,
Flavoring the odorless gray autumn chill,
Nipped by the furtive frosts, but cheery still,
Lifting to heaven from the bare garden place
A smiling face.

Roses are fair, but frail, and soon grow faint,
Nor can endure a hardness; violets blue,
Short-lived and sweet, live but a day or two;
The nun-like lily bows without complaint,
And dies a saint.

Each following each they hasten them away,
And leave us to our winter and our rue,
Sad and uncomforted; you, only you,
Dear, hardy lover, keep your faith and stay
Long as you may.

And so we choose you out from all the rest,
For that most noble word of "Loyalty,"
Which blazoned on your petals seems to be;
Winter is near,--stay with us; be our guest,
The last and best.

TILL THE DAY DAWN.

Why should I weary you, dear heart, with words,
Words all discordant with a foolish pain?
Thoughts cannot interrupt or prayers do wrong,
And soft and silent as the summer rain
Mine fall upon your pathway all day long.

Giving as God gives, counting not the cost
Of broken box or spilled and fragrant oil,
I know that, spite of your strong carelessness,
Rest must be sweeter, worthier must be toil,
Touched with such mute, invisible caress.

One of these days, our weary ways quite trod,
Made free at last and unafraid of men,
I shall draw near and reach to you my hand.
And you? Ah! well, we shall be spirits then,
I think you will be glad and understand.

MY BIRTHDAY.

Who is this who gently slips
Through my door, and stands and sighs,
Hovering in a soft eclipse,
With a finger on her lips
And a meaning in her eyes?

Once she came to visit me
In white robes with festal airs,
Glad surprises, songs of glee;
Now in silence cometh she,
And a sombre garb she wears.

Once I waited and was tired,
Chid her visits as too few;
Crownless now and undesired,
She to seek me is inspired
Oftener than she used to do.

Grave her coming is and still,
Sober her appealing mien,
Tender thoughts her glances fill;
But I shudder, as one will
When an open grave is seen.

Wherefore, friend,--for friend thou art,--
Should I wrong thee thus and grieve?
Wherefore push thee from my heart?
Of my morning thou wert part;
Be a part too of my eve.

See, I hold my hand to meet
That cool, shadowy hand of thine;
Hold it firmly, it is sweet
Thus to clasp and thus to greet,
Though no more in full sunshine.

Come and freely seek my door,
I will open willingly;
I will chide the past no more,
Looking to the things before,
Led by pathways known to thee.

BY THE CRADLE.

The baby Summer lies asleep and dreaming--
Dreaming and blooming like a guarded rose;
And March, a kindly nurse, though rude of seeming,
Is watching by the cradle hung with snows.

Her blowing winds but keep the rockers swinging,
And deepen slumber in the shut blue eyes,
And the shrill cadences of her high singing
Are to the babe but wonted lullabies.

She draws the coverlet white and tucks it trimly,
She folds the little sleeper safe from harm;
Or bends to lift the veil, and, peering inly,
Makes sure it lies all undisturbed and warm.

And so she sits, till in the still, gray dawning
Two fairer nurses come, her place to take,
And smiling, beaming, with no word of warning,
Draw off the quilt, and kiss the babe awake.

A THUNDER STORM.

The day was hot and the day was dumb,
Save for cricket's chirr or the bee's low hum,
Not a bird was seen or a butterfly,
And ever till noon was over, the sun
Glared down with a yellow and terrible eye;

Glared down in the woods, where the breathless boughs
Hung heavy and faint in a languid drowse,
And the ferns were curling with thirst and heat;
Glared down on the fields where the sleepy cows
Stood munching the grasses, dry and sweet.

Then a single cloud rose up in the west,
With a base of gray and a white, white crest;
It rose and it spread a mighty wing.
And swooped at the sun, though he did his best
And struggled and fought like a wounded thing.

And the woods awoke, and the sleepers heard,
Each heavily hanging leaflet stirred
With a little expectant quiver and thrill,
As the cloud bent over and uttered a word,--
One volleying, rolling syllable.

And once and again came the deep, low tone
Which only to thunder's lips is known,
And the earth held up her fearless face
And listened as if to a signal blown,--
A signal-trump in some heavenly place.

The trumpet of God, obeyed on high,
His signal to open the granary
And send forth his heavily loaded wains
Rambling and roaring down the sky
And scattering the blessed, long-harvested rains.

THROUGH THE DOOR.

The angel opened the door
A little way,
And she vanished, as melts a star,
Into the day,
And, for just a second's space,
Ere the bar he drew,
The pitying angel paused,
And we looked through.

What did we see within?
Ah! who can tell?
What glory and glow of light
Ineffable;
What peace in the very air,
What hush and calm,
Soothing each tired soul
Like healing balm!

Was it a dream we dreamed,
Or did we hear
The harping of silver harps,
Divinely clear?
A murmur of that "new song,"
Which, soft and low,
The happy angels sing,--
Sing as they go?

And, as in the legend old,
The good monk heard,
As he paced his cloister dim,
A heavenly bird,
And, rapt and lost in the joy
Of the wondrous song,
Listened a hundred years,
Nor deemed them long,

So chained in sense and limb,
All blind with sun,
We stood and tasted the joy
Of our vanished one;
And we took no note of time,
Till soon or late
The gentle angel sighed,
And shut the gate.

The vision is closed and sealed.
We are come back
To the old, accustomed earth,
The well-worn track,--
Back to the daily toil,
The daily pain,--
But we never can be the same,
Never again.

We who have bathed in noon,
All radiant white,
Shall we come back content
To sit in night?
Content with self and sin,
The stain, the blot?
To have stood so near the gate
And enter not?

O glimpse so swift, so sweet,
So soon withdrawn!
Stay with us; light our dusks
Till day shall dawn;
Until the shadows flee,
And to our view
Again the gate unbars,
And we pass through.

READJUSTMENT.

After the earthquake shock or lightning dart
Comes a recoil of silence o'er the lands,
And then, with pulses hot and quivering hands,
Earth calls up courage to her mighty heart,
Plies every tender, compensating art,
Draws her green, flowery veil above the scar,
Fills the shrunk hollow, smooths the riven plain,
And with a century's tendance heals again
The seams and gashes which her fairness mar.
So we, when sudden woe like lightning sped,
Finds us and smites us in our guarded place,
After one brief, bewildered moment's space,
By the same heavenly instinct taught and led,
Adjust our lives to loss, make friends with pain,
Bind all our shattered hopes and bid them bloom again.

AT THE GATE

"For behold, the kingdom of God is within you."

Thy kingdom here?
Lord, can it be?
Searching and seeking everywhere
For many a year,
"Thy kingdom come" has been my prayer.
Was that dear kingdom all the while so near?

Blinded and dull
With selfish sin,
Have I been sitting at the gates
Called Beautiful,
Where Thy fair angel stands and waits,
With hand upon the lock to let me in?

Was I the wall
Which barred the way,
Darkening the glory of Thy grace,
Hiding the ray
Which, shining out as from Thy very face,
Had shown to other men the perfect day?

Was I the bar
Which shut me out
From the full joyance which they taste
Whose spirits are
Within Thy Paradise embraced,--
Thy blessed Paradise, which seemed so far?

The vision swells:
I seem to catch
Celestial breezes, rustling low,
The asphodels,
Where, singing softly ever to and fro,
Moves each fair saint who in Thy presence dwells.

Let me not sit
Another hour,
Idly awaiting what is mine to win,
Blinded in wit,
Lord Jesus, rend these walls of self and sin;
Beat down the gate, that I may enter it.

A HOME.

What is a home? A guarded space,
Wherein a few, unfairly blest,
Shall sit together, face to face,
And bask and purr and be at rest?

Where cushioned walls rise up between
Its inmates and the common air,
The common pain, and pad and screen
From blows of fate or winds of care?

Where Art may blossom strong and free,
And Pleasure furl her silken wing,
And every laden moment be
A precious and peculiar thing?

And Past and Future, softly veiled
In hiding mists, shall float and lie
Forgotten half, and unassailed
By either hope or memory,

While the luxurious Present weaves
Her perfumed spells untried, untrue,
Broiders her garments, heaps her sheaves,
All for the pleasure of a few?

Can it be this, the longed-for thing
Which wanderers on the restless foam,
Unsheltered beggars, birds on wing,
Aspire to, dream of, christen "Home"?

No. Art may bloom, and peace and bliss;
Grief may refrain and Death forget;
But if there be no more than this,
The soul of home is wanting yet.

Dim image from far glory caught,
Fair type of fairer things to be,
The true home rises in our thought,
A beacon set for men to see.

Its lamps burn freely in the night,
Its fire-glows unchidden shed
Their cheering and abounding light
On homeless folk uncomforted.

Each sweet and secret thing within
Gives out a fragrance on the air,--
A thankful breath, sent forth to win
A little smile from others' care.

The few, they bask in closer heat;
The many catch the farther ray.
Life higher seems, the world more sweet,
And hope and Heaven less far away.

So the old miracle anew
Is wrought on earth and proved good,
And crumbs apportioned for a few,
God-blessed, suffice a multitude.

THE LEGEND OF KINTU.

When earth was young and men were few,
And all things freshly born and new
Seemed made for blessing, not for ban,
Kintu, the god, appeared as man.
Clad in the plain white priestly dress,
He journeyed through the wilderness,
His wife beside. A mild-faced cow
They drove, and one low-bleating lamb;
He bore a ripe banana-bough,
And she a root of fruitful yam:
This was their worldly worth and store,
But God can make the little more.
The glad earth knew his feet; her mould
Trembled with quickening thrills, and stirred.
Miraculous harvests spread and rolled,
The orchards shone with ruddy gold;
The flocks increased, increased the herd,
And a great nation spread and grew
From the swift lineage of the two,
Peopling the solitary place;
A fair and strong and fruitful race,
Who knew not pain nor want nor grief,
And Kintu reigned their lord and chief.

So sped three centuries along,
Till Kintu's sons waxed fierce and strong;
They learned to war, they loved to slay;
Cruel and dark grew all their faces;
Discordant death-cries scared the day,
Blood stained the green and holy places;
And drunk with lust, with anger hot,
His sons mild Kintu heeded not.
At last the god arose in wrath,
His sandals tied, and down the path,
His wife beside him, as of yore,
He went. A cow, a single lamb
They took; one tuber of the yam;
One yellow-podded branch they bore
Of ripe banana,--these, no more,
Of all the heaped-up harvest store.
They left the huts, they left the tent,
Nor turned, nor cast a backward look:
Behind, the thick boughs met and shook.
They vanished. Long with wild lament
Mourned all the tribe, in vain, in vain;
The gift once given was given no more,
The grieved god came not again.

To what far paradise they fared,
That heavenly pair, what wilderness
Their gentle rule next owned and shared,
Knoweth no man,--no man can guess.
On secret roads, by pathways blind,
The gods go forth, and none may find;
But sad the world where God is not!
By man was Kintu soon forgot,
Or named and held as legend dim,
But the wronged earth, remembering him,
By scanty fruit and tardy grain
And silent song revealed her pain.
So centuries came, and centuries went,
And heaped the graves and filled the tent.
Kings rose, and fought their royal way
To conquest over heaps of slain,
And reigned a little. Then, one day,
They vanished into dust again.
And other kings usurped their place,
Who called themselves of Kintu's race,
And worshipped Kintu; not as he,
The mild, benignant deity,
Who held all life a holy thing,
Be it of insect or of king,
Would have ordained, but with wild rite,
With altars heaped, and dolorous cries,
And savage dance, and bale-fires light,
An unaccepted sacrifice.
At last, when thousand years were flown,
The great Ma-anda filled the throne:
A prince of generous heart and high,
Impetuous, noble, fierce, and true;
His wrath like lightning hurtling by,
His pardon like the healing dew.
And chiefs and sages swore each one
He was great Kintu's worthiest son.

One night, in forests still and deep,
A shepherd sat to watch his sheep,
And started, as through darkness dim
A strange voice rang and calmed to him:
"Wake! there are wonders waiting thee!
Go where the thick mimosas be,
Fringing a little open plain,
Honor and power wouldest thou gain?
Go, foolish man, to fortune blind;
Follow the stream, and thou shall find."
Three several nights the voice was heard,
Louder and more emphatic grown.
Then, at the thrice-repeated word,
The shepherd rose and went alone,
Threading the mazes of the stream
Like one who wanders in a dream.
Long miles he ran, the stream beside,
Which this way, that way, turned and sped,
And called and sang, a noisy guide.
At last its vagrant dances led
To where the thick mimosas' shade
Circled and fringed an open glade;
There the wild streamlet danced away,
The moon was shining strangely white,
And by its fitful, gleaming ray
The shepherd saw a wondrous sight;
In the glade's midst, each on his mat,
A group of armed warriors sat,
White-robed, majestic, with deep eyes
Fixed on him with a stern surprise;
And in their midst an aged chief
Enthroned sat, whose beard, like foam,
Caressed his mighty knees. As leaf
Shakes in the wind the shepherd shook,
And veiled his eyes before that look,
And prayed, and thought upon his home,
Nor spoke, nor moved, till the old man,
In voice like waterfall, began:
"Shepherd, how names himself thy king?"
"Ma-anda," answered, shuddering,
The shepherd. "Good, thou speakest well.
And now, my son, I bid thee tell
Thy first king's name." "It was Kintu."
"'Tis rightly said, thou answerest true.
Hark! To Ma-anda, Kintu's son,
Hasten, and bid him, fearing naught,
Come hither, taking thee for guide;
Thou and he, not another one,
Not even a dog may run beside!
Long has Ma-anda Kintu sought
With spell and conjuration dim,
Now Kintu has a word for him.
Go, do thy errand, haste thee hence,
Kintu insures thy recompense."
All night the shepherd ran, star-led,
All the hot day he hastened straight,
Nor stopped for sleep, nor stopped for bread,
Until he reached the city gate,
And saw red rays of evening fall
On the leaf-hutted capital.
He sought the king, his tale he told.
Ma-anda faltered not, nor stayed.
He seized his spear, he left the tent:
Shook off the brown arms of his queens,
Who clasped his knees with wailing screams;
On pain of instant death forbade
That man should spy or follow him;
And down the pathway, arching dim,
Fearless and light of heart and bold
Followed the shepherd where he went.

But one there was who loved his king
Too well to suffer such strange thing,--
The chieftain of the host was he,
Next to the monarch in degree;
And, fearing wile or stratagem
Menaced the king, he followed them
With noiseless tread and out of sight.
So on they fared the forest through,
From evening shades to dawning light,
From damning to the dusk and dew,--
The unseen follower and the two.
Ofttimes the king turned back to scan
The path, but never saw he man.
At last the forest-guarded space
They reached, where, ranged in order, sat,
Each couched upon his braided mat,
The white-robed warriors, face to face
With their majestic chief. The king,
Albeit unused to fear or awe,
Bowed down in homage, wondering,
And bent his eyes, as fearing to be
Blinded by rays of deity.
Then asked the mighty voice and calm,
"Art thou Ma-anda called?" "I am."
"And art thou king?" "The king am I,"
The bold Ma-anda made reply.
"Tis rightly spoken; but, my son,
Why hast thou my command forgot,
That no man with thee to this spot
Should come, except thy guide alone?"
"No man has come," Ma-anda said.

"Alone we journeyed, he and I;
And often have I turned my head,
And never living thing could spy.
None is there, on my faith as king."
"A king's word is a weighty thing,"
The old man answered. "Let it be,--
But still a man HAS followed thee!
Now answer, Ma-anda, one more thing:
Who, first of all thy line, was king?"
"Kintu the god." "'Tis well, my son,
All creatures Kintu loved,--not one
Too pitiful or weak or small;
He knew them and he loved them all;
And never did a living thing,
Or bird in air or fish in lake,
Endure a pang for Kintu's sake.
Then rose his sons, of differing mind,
Who gorged on cruel feasts each day,
And bathed in blood, and joyed to slay,
And laughed at pain and suffering.
Then Kintu sadly went his way.
The gods long-suffering are and kind,
Often they pardon, long they wait;
But men are evil, men are blind.
After much tarriance, much debate,
The good gods leave them to their fate;
So Kintu went where none may find.

Each king in turn has sought since then,
From Chora down, the first in line,
To win lost Kintu back to men.
Vain was his search, and vain were thine,
Save that the gods have special grace
To thee, Ma-anda. Face to face
With Kintu thou shall stand, and he
Shall speak the word of power to thee;
Clasped to his bosom, thou shall share
His knowledge of the earth, the air,
And deep things, secret things, shall learn.
But stay,"--the old man's voice grew stern,--
"Before I further speak, declare
Who is that man in ambush there!"
"There is no man,--no man I see."
"Deny no longer, it is vain.
Within the shadow of the tree
He lurketh; lo, behold him plain!"
And the king saw;--for at the word
From covert stole the hidden spy,
And sought his monarch's side. One cry,
A lion's roar, Ma-anda gave,
Then seized his spear, and poised and drave.
Like lightning bolt it hissed and whirred,
A flash across the midnight blue.
A single groan, a jet of red,
And, pierced and stricken through and through,
Upon the ground the chief fell dead;
But still with love no death could chase,
His eyes sought out his master's face.

Blent with Ma-anda's a wild cry
Of many voices rose on high,
A shriek of anguish and despair.
Which shook and filled the startled air;
And when the king, his wrath still hot,
Turned him, the little grassy plain
All lonely in the moonlight lay:
The chiefs had vanished all away
As melted into thin, blue wind;
Gone was the old man. Stunned and blind,
For a long moment stood the king;
He tried to wake; he rubbed his eyes,
As though some fearful dream to end.
It was no dream, this fearful thing:
There was the forest, there the skies,
The shepherd--and his murdered friend.
With feverish haste, bewildered, mazed,
This way and that he vainly sped,
Beating the air like one half crazed;
With prayers and cries unnumbered,
Searching, imploring,--vain, all vain.
Only the echoing woods replied,
With mocking booms their long aisles through,
"Come back, Kintu, Kintu, Kintu!"
And pitiless to all his pain
The unanswering gods his suit denied.
At last, as dawning slowly crept
To day, the king sank down and wept
A space; then, lifting as they could
The lifeless burden, once a man,
He and the shepherd-guide began
Their grievous journey through the wood,
The long and hard and dreary way,
Trodden so lightly yesterday;
And the third day, at evening's fall,
Gained the leaf-hutted capital.
There burial rites were duly paid:

Like bridegroom decked for banqueting,
The chief adorned his funeral-pyre;
Rare gums and spices fed the fire,
Perfumes and every precious thing;
And songs were sung, and prayers were prayed,
And priests danced jubilant all day.
But prone the king Ma-anda lay,
With ashes on his royal crest,
And groaned, and beat upon his breast,
And called on Kintu loud and wild:
"Father, come back, forgive thy child!"
Bitter the cry, but vain, all vain;
The grieved god came not again.

EASTER.

When dawns on earth the Easter sun
The dear saints feel an answering thrill.
With whitest flowers their hands they fill;
And, singing all in unison,

Unto the battlements they press--
The very marge of heaven--how near!
And bend, and look upon us here
With eyes that rain down tenderness.

Their roses, brimmed with fragrant dew,
Their lilies fair they raise on high;
"Rejoice! The Lord is risen!" they cry;
"Christ is arisen; we prove it true!

"Rejoice, and dry those faithless tears
With which your Easter flowers are stained;
Share in our bliss, who have attained
The rapture of the eternal years;

"Have proved the promise which endures,
The Love that deigned, the Love that died;
Have reached our haven by His side--
Are Christ's, but none the less are yours;

"Yours with a nearness never known
While parted by the veils of sense;
Infinite knowledge, joy intense,
A love which is not love alone,

"But faith perfected, vision free,
And patience limitless and wise--
Beloved, the Lord is risen, arise!
And dare to be as glad as we!"

We do rejoice, we do give thanks,
O blessed ones, for all your gain,
As dimly through these mists of pain
We catch the gleaming of your ranks.

We will arise, with zeal increased,
Blending, the while we strive and grope,
Our paler festival of Hope
With your Fruition's perfect feast.

Bend low beloved, against the blue;
Lift higher still the lilies fair,
Till, following where our treasures are,
We come to join the feast with you.

BIND-WEED.

In the deep shadow of the porch
A slender bind-weed springs,
And climbs, like airy acrobat,
The trellises, and swings
And dances in the golden sun
In fairy loops and rings.

Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew,
Like pearly chalices,
Hold cooling fountains, to refresh
The butterflies and bees;
And humming-birds on vibrant wings
Hover, to drink at ease.

And up and down the garden-bed,
Mid box and thyme and yew,
And spikes of purple lavender,
And spikes of larkspur blue,
The bind-weed tendrils win their way,
And find a passage through.

With touches coaxing, delicate,
And arts that never tire,
They tie the rose-trees each to each,
The lilac to the brier,
Making for graceless things a grace,
With steady, sweet desire.

Till near and far the garden growths.
The sweet, the frail, the rude,
Draw close, as if with one consent,
And find each other good,
Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops,
In a dear brotherhood.

Like one fair sister, slender, arch,
A flower in bloom and poise,
Gentle and merry and beloved,
Making no stir or noise,
But swaying, linking, blessing all
A family of boys.

APRIL.

Hark! upon the east-wind, piping, creeping,
Comes a voice all clamorous with despair;
It is April, crying sore and weeping,
O'er the chilly earth, so brown and bare.

"When I went away," she murmurs, sobbing,
"All my violet-banks were starred with blue;
Who, O, who has been here, basely robbing
Bloom and odor from the fragrant crew?

"Who has reft the robin's hidden treasure,--
All the speckled spheres he loved so well?
And the buds which danced in merry measure
To the chiming of the hyacinth's bell?

"Where are all my hedge-rows, flushed with Maying?
And the leafy rain, that tossed so fair,
Like the spray from silver fountains playing,
Where the elm-tree's column rose in air?

"All are vanished, and my heart is breaking;
And my tears they slowly drip and fall;
Only death could listen without waking
To the grief and passion of my call!"

Thus she plaineth. Then ten million voices.
Tiny, murmurous, like drops of rain,
Raised in song as when the wind rejoices,
Ring the answer, "We are here again.

"We were hiding, April. Did you miss us?
None of us were really gone away;
Stoop thy pretty head and gently kiss us
Once before we all come out to play.

"Here are all the clustering burls of roses,
And the dandelion's mimic sun;
Of thy much-beloved and vanished posies
None are missing, not a single one!"

Little points of green push out to greet her,
Little creepers grasp her garment's hem,
Hidden sweetnesses grow ever sweeter
As she bends and brightly smiles at them.

Every tear is answered by a blossom,
Every high with songs and laughter blent,
Apple-blooms upon the breezes toss them.
April knows her own, and is content.

MAY.

New flowery scents strewed everywhere,
New sunshine poured in largesse fair,
"We shall be happy now," we say.
A voice just trembles through the air,
And whispers, "May."

Nay, but we MUST! No tiny bud
But thrills with rapture at the flood
Of fresh young life which stirs to-day.
The same wild thrill irradiates our blood;
Why hint of "May"?

For us are coming fast and soon
The delicate witcheries of June;
July, with ankles deep in hay;
The bounteous Autumn. Like a mocking tune
Again sounds, "May."

Spring's last-born darling, clear-eyed, sweet,
Pauses a moment, with white twinkling feet,
And golden locks in breezy play,
Half teasing and half tender, to repeat
Her song of "May."

Ah, month of hope! all promised glee,
All merry meanings, lie in thee;
Surely no cloud can daunt thy day.
The ripe lips part in smiling mockery,
And murmur, "May."

Still from the smile a comfort may we glean;
Although our "must-be's," "shall-be's," idle seem,
Close to our hearts one little word we lay:
We may not be as happy as we dream,
But then we--may.

SECRETS.

In the long, bright summer, dear to bird and bee,
When the woods are standing in liveries green and gay,
Merry little voices sound from every tree,
And they whisper secrets all the day.

If we knew the language, we should hear strange things;
Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, deep in private chat.
"How are all your nestlings, dear? Do they use their wings?
What was that sad tale about a cat?"

"Where is your new cottage?" "Hush! I pray you, hush".
Please speak very softly, dear, and make no noise.
It is on the lowest bough of the lilac bush.
And I am so dreadfully afraid of boys.

"Mr. Chirry chose the spot, without consulting me;
Such a very public place, and insecure for it,
I can scarcely sleep at night for nervousness; but he
Says I am a silly thing and doesn't mind a bit."

"So the Bluebirds have contracted, have they, for a house?
And a nest is under way for little Mr. Wren?
Hush, dear, hush! Be quiet, dear; quiet as a mouse.
These are weighty secrets, and we must whisper them."

Close the downy dowagers nestle on the bough
While the timorous voices soften low with dread,
And we, walking underneath, little reckon their
Mysteries are couching in the tree-tops overhead.

Ah, the pretty whisperers! It was very well
When the leaves were thick and green, awhile ago--
Leaves are secret-keepers; but since the last leaf fell
There is nothing hidden from the eyes below.

Bared are the brown tenements, and all the world may see
What Mrs. Chirry, Mrs. Flurry, hid so close that day.
In the place of rustling wings, cold winds rustling be,
And thickly lie the icicles where once the warm brood lay.

Shall we tease the birdies, when they come back in spring,--
Tease and tell them we have fathomed all their secrets small,
Every secret hiding-place and dear and precious, thing,
Which they left behind the leaves, the red leaves, in the fall?

They would only laugh at us and wink their saucy eyes,
And answer, "Last year's secrets are all past and told.
New years bring new happenings and fresh mysteries,
You are very welcome to the stale ones of the old!"

HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN.

I'll tell you how the leaves came down.
The great Tree to his children said,
"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
Yes, very sleepy, little Red;
It is quite time you went to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,
"Let us a little longer May;
Dear Father Tree, behold our grief,
'Tis such a very pleasant day
We do not want to go away."

So, just for one more merry day
To the great Tree the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced and had their way,
Upon the autumn breezes swung,
Whispering all their sports among,

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget
And let us stay until the spring
If we all beg and coax and fret."
But the great Tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children all, to bed," he cried;
And ere the leaves could urge their prayer
He shook his head, and far and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay,
Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far away,
White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm,
Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.
"Good-night, dear little leaves" he said;
And from below each sleepy child
Replied "Good-night," and murmured,
"It is so nice to go to bed."

BARCAROLES.