CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND GIVEN IN 1 89 1 BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE Cornell University Library PS 3543.E21M6 1914 Miscellaneous moods In verse :one hundre 3 1924 021 714 211 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021714211 MISCELLANEOUS MOODS MELPOMENE MISCELLANEOUS MOODS IN VERSE One Hundred and One Poems with Illustrations BY Elihu Vedder PORTER E. SARGENT 50 CONGRESS STREET BOSTON 1914 Copyright, 1914, by PORTER E. SARGENT THE FOUR SEAS PRESS BOSTON AND NORWOOD EDITOR'S FOREWORD GENIUS brings with it everlasting youth. And Elihu Vedder at seventy-eight wears his years lightly. His active mind, roaming the universe and probing all problems, must still find expression. Like Leonardo, he could not be content with the mastery of any one medium. In the sixties while but a youth, he won his position among painters of the first rank. In the eighties he gave the world a new vision of Omar, placing himself among the foremost of the world's illus- trators. To-day our conception of Omar Khajryam stands for a trinity of great personalities, — Omar, the Persian astronomer, Fitzgerald, the English poet, and Vedder, the American artist who has put it all visually before us, interpreting its philosophy and mysticism in terms of eternal beauty. Later he made himself a master of modeling. Few know what beauty of form, what wealth of symbolism he found in marble and metal. Living these fifty years in Rome and Capri, secluded, unexploited, and fearing exploitation, — ^his best work hidden away in private collections, there can be, in fact, no general ap- preciation of the range and power of his genius until his varied creations are brought together in a great loan exhibit. To-day, Vedder in his vigorous old age, still has surprises for a younger generation. He had expressed himself in line and color and clay, and now as he approaches four-score he has taken up the pen. A few years ago Vedder made his debut as a writer in his inimitable "Digressions of V", and since passing the three- quarter century mark he has broken into verse. Not that there was any conscious purpose on his part to master this medium. In fact, in a personal letter he expresses himself as impatient of the technicalities of versification and breaks forth : "Only my ignorance of spelling keeps the divine afflatus from coming to the point of bursting,— the fact of having to decide whether you shall have two I's in a word gives the vision time to vanish." And again, "I wash my hands of this rhyming which is little more than a malady at best and shall turn to my legitimate work with delight." Nor has Vedder any desire to multiply the number of books. "All literature," he writes, "should be reduced to the form of a cablegram and the price raised." Rather it was that Vedder had things to say, — things that he could not well put in paint or clay, — and of this the present volume is only partial evidence. There is more to come. However imperfect the technique, there is directness and vigor about these verses, — there is something in them that lingers after the lines are forgotten. But once having expressed the idea, the vision, or voiced the unanswerable question, — having imparted the thrill or the titillation, Vedder is impatient at the minutiae of technical polish. At the suggestion that these poems be returned to him for final revision, he writes, "I am over- whelmed at the project of going over everything. I thought someone was going to select, correct, spell, edit — in fact incu- bate. I, the hen, produce the eggs, while you, the incubator, stand close at hand." Thus, this difficult function has been thrust upon me, — one not unattended with perplexities. Of the one hundred and sixty poems submitted, only one hundred and one here appear. Some of the poems it has seemed desirable to omit, at Vedder's sugges- tion, for he writes, "Brain is not all wheat. There must be some chaff. Perhaps something may be left for stuffing. I see much of it in books." With the assistance of other loyal friends, Nathan Haskell Dole, Eben Francis Thompson, and Edgar W. Anthony, Jr., lines that seemed faulty have been mended, and then beholding the faultless line, technically perfect, — sapped of its Vedderesque vigor, — it has often seemed better to return to the original. The use of capitals and quotation marks through- out the volume has brought revolt from printer and proof read- er, fearing they were having a Futurist typography forced upon them. But something of Vedder's free and characteristic use of these has been retained. The hours spent on this task have been a labor of love which has nevertheless been doubly repaid, — ^both by the feeling that this was a service to Vedder and by the loyal and hearty response that has come from Vedder's friends. Porter E. Sargent. Thanksgiving Day, 1914. LIST OF POEMS I. AUTUMN LEAVES. II. THE HERMITAGE. III. THE PHANTOM SHIP. IV. MIRAGE. V. EARTH BOUND. VI. HUMBLE PIE. VII. WIND BLOWN TRESSES. VIII. FLEETING THOUGHTS. IX. THE LOVE-SICK FAUN. X. STRENUOSITY. XL WELSH RABBITS. XII. THE NIGHTMARE. XIII. TO W. R. EATER, ESQ. XIV. LIBATIONS. XV. THE PYRAMIDS. XVI. MEMNON. XVII. POSTERITY. XVIII. THE EMPTY BUTTON-HOLE. XIX. IN A NUT SHELL. XX. FOOLISHNESS. XXI. OLD CICALA. XXII. EVE'S SENSES. XXIII. TO A CHILD. XXIV. THE COMIC INFECTION. XXV. IN LUCCA. XXVI. THE LABYRINTH. XXVII. A QUESTION. XXVIII. LIFE'S CHARIOT. XXIX. INUMBRIA. XXX. A COSTLY SHOW. XXXI. TRUTH. XXXII. THE POINT OF VIEW. XXXIII. NEPTUNE'S SIESTA. XXXIV. DAYBREAK ON THE CAMPAGNA. XXXV. THE SIREN'S SONG. XXXVI. TWO MOODS. XXXVII. LONG AGO. XXXVIII. A MIDSUMMER DAY DREAM. XXXIX. A PASSING THOUGHT. XL. THE WINDS AT TORRE QUATRO VENTI. XLI. A WORLD IDENTIFIED. XLII. PARNASSUS' HILL. XLIII. MAN'S GUESS. XLIV. MICROBES. XLV. THE RACE. XLVI. NATURE'S WAY. XLVII. IN SPRING. XLVIII. THE LACKING RHYME. XLIX. I FIND THAT— L. FOOTSTEPS. LI. SPOILING PAPER. LII. CUPID'S LAMENT. LIII. CUPID'S LITTLE GRAVEYARD. LIV. LINES TO E. W. H. LV. GAZE NOT. LVI. POLONIUS. LVII. IN HAMLET'S VEIN. LVIII. LIFE'S GAME. LIX. SOMETHING BEYOND? LX. PHONETICS. LXI. STORM IN SUMMER. LXII. MICHELANGELO'S DIVIDERS. LXIII. A SCARCELY WHISPERED PRAYER. LXIV. SPORT. LXV. TOO LATE. LXVI. THE MILESTONE. LXVII. MUSINGS. LXVIII. AUTUMN. LXIX. WINTER. LXX. HOPE. LXXI. PANAMA. LXXII. YOU IN VENICE ! LXXIII. A VISION. LXXIV. ON AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL. LXXV. 'TIS* BETTER SO. LXXVI. THE DEMON OF NOTRE DAME. LXXVII. THE MELANCHOLY NOTES. LXXVIII. SADDER THAN TWILIGHT FALLING. LXXIX. LOST IN THE SWAMP. LXXX. SNUGNESS. LXXXI. THE LAMB. LXXXII. A TEE-TOTAL TABLE. LXXXIII. THE USUAL TROUBLE— WANT. LXXXIV. TIBERIUS. LXXXV. CALIGULA. LXXXVI. ODDITIES. LXXXVII. CHIPPENDALE. LXXXVIII. TO iEOLUS. LXXXIX. SIROCCO. XC. THE SPARK. XCI. MANY IN ONE. XCII. WHEN WE WERE YOUNG. XCIII. THE SURVIVAL OF THE UNFITTEST. XCIV. TO A FAIR LADY. XCV. EVIDENTLY UNDER INFLUENCE. XCVI. "UN CONCETTO." XCVII. THE SILK WORM. XCVIII. STARCH. XCIX. MODESTY. CI. OLD OMAR. CII. IN MY COPY OF OMAR. MISCELLANEOUS MOODS Autumn Leaves How loud the bitter Wind now raves, How fast the withered leaves drift by; Are they seeking out their Graves Not knowing yet where they may lie? First borne aloft, then sweeping low They ever lower and lower go, Till fluttering down to Earth's cold breast Each finds its grave and sinks to rest. Go, fleeting Thoughts, — My Autumn Leaves, You know how few things old Time saves, Go quickly then and find your Rest In loving hearts — not on cold Graves ; And yet, poor things, though doomed to die, You'll know on which loved Graves to lie. II. The Hermitage Ah! for a quiet Hermitage A little home, like Herrick's parsonage, Far from the world and all its noisy ways. Wherein to pass the remnant of my days: A place from which, if needs be, I may roam, But on returning, ever find a home Filled with fond memories and beloved shades Of faithful friends, or ever gentle maids; A place unchanging where I hear each spring The same birds sing; and in the twilight sky See old familiar stars, and from the woods nearby Hear undismayed, the owl's foreboding cry. My sun-dial amid old-fashioned flowers Basks all day long and counts the unclouded hours; While round its base in rustic letters writ We find the verse — this show of rustic wit. While the Sun shines clear and bright, Prepare a lantern for the night; If the day has brought Thee sorrow, Hope for better things tomorrow. But at least the evening spend With old Wine and with old Friend. Behold the Friend — the modest board is laid, Served by a neat and wholesome-looking maid. Your talk is of old times, your treasures you display. And as it waxes late, the more you urge delay, Opposing "Ought to go" with well-meant "Why not stay?" Then loan the oft-loaned lantern to light him on his way; However bidding him be sure to send it back next day. And now with mellowed mind you gaze upon the Stars, Observing stately Jupiter or ruddy Mars; Yet, — ^while admiring the Creator's power, — You likewise marvel at the unseemly hour! For there — before your astonished eye The first faint flush of Dawn pervades the sky ! So, somewhat shamed you hie you to your bed, A thousand fancies reeling through your head; And you sleep well — but wonder all next day. How late you kept it up — how late your Friend did stay. III. m ^Soctx on. r^ ouJtward. e)>btno ttcLe . ^nlo in.eVa$t 2i^ixk. Sea. outsidLc. b» IV. Mirage Before us lies a little pond And Happiness stands just beyond; We row across, — or swim, or skate. But reach the other side too late; For then we find that just beyond, There lies another little pond, Where Happiness stands as before. Beckoning from the other shore. V. Earth Bound How fondly round my heart are curled The clinging tendrils of this dear old World, — How beautiful its maidens fair and lithe, — How sweet their smiles, and dimpled laughter blithe. How good is Friendship's hug, — How fond Love's lingering kiss. And so I marvel much, what Heaven holds of bliss, To equal bliss I've known, with all its woe, In this dear, beautiful, old World below. VI. Humble Pie Dare do the thing you wish, — If it's your own. And then await your Humble pie, — And the first stone. Of Humble pie if need be. Eat your share. It's a wholesome, not a pleasing fare. Look on the sideboards of the Great,— You'll find it there! VII. Wind Blown Tresses Ah, how the wild wind once blew those soft tresses Against thy warm cheek in a tangle of curls: How in that confusion I found no delusion, As my lips met the lips of the sweetest of girls. Whenever I take from their hiding those tresses, Laid away with such love and such infinite pain, The breezes of Spring seem again to blow o'er me. And those loving blue eyes gaze on me again. But as well ask the wild wind that once waved those tresses To bring back the breezes of that distant Spring, As well ask the skies in whose blue depths I'm gazing To give back the blue of those eyes that I sing. Wherever I wander, I wonder and ponder If she still remembers that wonderful Spring, And the kisses and blisses, — the rapturous blisses, And the Wonder of Love in that far-away Spring. VIII. Fleeting Thoughts My thoughts are like the birds of passage So quick to come, so quick to go, Scarcely can I guess their message When their cry is — "Southward Ho." This fills me with a comic pain. The birds, at least, come back again. IX. Spring and the lusty voice of May That while she sows, goes singing — The rapture of a warm spring day, Sets lovers' hearts and voices ringing. 'Tis ever thus in Spring. Lovesickness comes, — but soon is cured; At worst its pains can be endured. They are the growing pains of Spring, And not at all a serious thing. 'Tis ever thus in Spring. So in the Spring while all things sing, This poor Faun set a-sorrowing, He'd sought the forest's deepest shade. And silent, mourned a fickle maid. 'Tis ever thus in Spring, "Why mourn that fickle maid?"- I said, "And hide you in this doleful glade, Thou knowest well another Spring, Another maid as sweet will bring 'Twas ever thus in Spring. Whom you will think of all the best, And with her while away the Spring, Until she leaves you like the rest. And then just as before you'll sing, — 'Twas ever thus in Spring. Perchance some owl out of the night, Echoing your sighs, will mock your plight, And with you seem to sing,— " 'Twas ever thus in Spring," Echo's voice diminishing, — "Ever thus in Spring." Faintly,"Thus in Spring," Finishing, — "In Spring." Strenuosity Those who think the 'Strenuous Life' is best Can only in a 'Rest-cure' take their rest, But not in Heaven, — for I am sure that there, There's too much Peace and likewise too much Prayer. For such hot-footed, hasty Folks as these. Another time I'll tell where they will take their ease. XI. Welsh Rabbits In ancient times Welsh Rabbits were Both pliable and tough. No dainty Feeders ate them then But Men of the right Stuff,— Men of the right Stuff, my Boys, Men who loved Good Cheer, Who ate until they'd had enough And washed all down with Beer. XII. When pleasant dreams by Horrors are replaced, And Love once warm seems cold, or fled in haste; When longed-for Sleep has fled, and longed-for Day With sluggard steps makes too prolonged delay; When Conscience summing up the long list of my Sins Most conscientiously again the list begins ; My mind in desperation cries, — "At last I have it !" And straightway lays the blame on — "That Welsh- Rabbit." XIII. You'll be remembered, never fear By men on earth who loved good cheer, Shades of Welsh-Rabbits dead and gone Will nightly sit your grave upon. And lightly sit, — for thin as air Shades make for Ghosts substantial fare ; And also by the Moon's pale beam Foaming mugs of Ale will gleam. For know, — that sure as Cheese is Cheese — What pleased on Earth, in Heaven will please. XIV. Libations In the time of the Ancients So all poets sing, Wine they poured over altars Or any old thing; 'Twas a horrible waste Of good stuff I should say, So I always keep mine To moisten my clay. The preachers all tell us, — But why I can't say — That the pleasantest things We had best throw away ; — Among them Libations. To this I must say I prefer keeping mine To moisten my clay. In Libations be modest, For the Good Book doth say That old Father Noah, Too fond of display, Undismayed by one Deluge, Invented a way. Not only to moisten But deluge his clay. A Thirst is most precious. 'Tis the nature of Clay To become dry as dust And like dust blow away. How to quench, yet retain it, I venture to say, Is to constantly moisten This poor thirsty Clay. Like these cups we are fragile And soon pass away. So do Love, Fame, and Fortune, And the light of the day. While this cup can hold Wine I will fill it I say. Not to muddle, — but merely To moisten my Clay. XV. T^ e Ti( V a. lit *i cl;^ .«<*B«» jSeem."\g in. »f(clrVftsl-v€)^tt*«sn\.a.tljini ^ic Sky f^^ |>oiixt lo ci>x«l. tf\e i\L""^«^»^Tl^»'^^- ^IQ -e-^ XVI. /VVEy^MMOM Sit inslleixce cw\^ cLxa^xlf *S->xVh V^e (xecort of on.e wfto ^So sl^ XVII. Posterity To us, Posterity seems dim And very undecided. We never know if we shall be Or praised, or else derided ; And what is worse, we cannot wait To learn what is to be our Fate. Then let Posterity go hang! What has it done for us? Could we but know what it will think, There'd be no need to fuss. We'd better do our little best And give Posterity a rest. But as we're now Posterity To all good folks of yore. We'd better take that "rest" ourselves. God knows we need it sore ! XVIII. The Empty Button-hole Ah! Could these poor, dumb mouths but tell Where Envy, Disappointment dwell. They'd say, — "In the empty button-hole And in the heart under the silk lapel," Without the approval of the wise or good. Unappreciated, or misunderstood, Quite frozen out, the disappointed Soul Peers sadly through the empty button-hole. Thus making an unseen decoration rare, Which many a man unwillingly must bear. XIX. In a Nut Shell Would you the difference Between Greatness and Genius know? Genius is a gleam. Greatness a steady glow. The gentle Shakespeare No such difference shows, For orbed in one. His wit and wisdom glows. XX. cSll wvi ters ^eciteci)^ rAeJlte. ^^fh.CoTn^oifta.\)lje)3iyjeOiCpJood cjq g.K'a tmcIiwecL To ojatnixism. cure-, (DL^ cloT.tUXe;S^ oil Haii-jfl^^ o-rej >\^ S«e are Vcv^ SeXclonv irvdclej ^tXn.cL iKcy ctre Vety ^lotlr. JrvcLeea. lb l^ a. Y>t«N^ *Wovl^ jdvjt \f^^ mslAt rfi^ahallts"bvi^AV; V^uUl kctVe vixc ballot cJbWfc Ciit\mjile •'^ /*3«^ __ ^ ./^ ^^, XXI. Old Cicala Outside, white walls and sun and glare, Inside, the cool room dark and bare Where Rita sits and combs her hair. Singing, combs her jet black hair; While high in the gray-green olive tree,- Tzee— Tzee— Tzee— Tzee— Hear old Cicala loud and dry. Sawing against the changeless sky. Hiding against the dazzling blue. You can't see him, — but he sees you. For now he stops his merry din, But only more sharply to begin. Surely Cicala knows no sin, Tzee— Tzee— Tzee— Tzee — He sings so heartily and free High in the gray-green olive tree. But even in the gathering gloom. From some unseen olive tree Hear him again his song resume. He seems singing in a tomb, Tzee — Tzee — Tzee— Tzee — Such is his never-ending glee. XXII. Eve's Senses When Eve before that famous tree Stood wild with curiosity, With throbbing blood and yearnings live She then discovered senses five. She saw the apple round and red Hanging enticingly o'er head. She smelt them on the fragrant breeze, — For odors can entrance and please ; She felt them. — Oh! how sleek and smooth! She tasted. — My but they were good! Then hearing one fall to the ground With growing cunning looked around. "Now let my senses be my school. 'Tis odds if I turn out a fool." So, testing apple, pear, and quince, She has been learning ever since. XXIII. To a Child A thousand joys his eyes could see, His eager hands could grasp but few; His only task a little play, Filled to the full his sunny day. And then that short-lived day was through, And now he rests, — his folded hands Holding a faded flower or two. XXIV. The Comic Infection When the comical microbe Once tickles your brain, You must write it all out Or you'll go quite insane; For your brain is like wheat With a great deal of chaff, So the great complications Turn off with a laugh; For the great complications Remain complicated. And solutions, if any. Arrive much belated. You will find these grave matters Are just as I've stated. XXV. In Lucca In the lovely town of Lucca One sunny afternoon, I stood sketching this old symbol, Trusting I would finish soon. But its many circlings endless Tired my eye and tired my brain, So I did no longer linger. Hoping to return again. But like many things projected, (Leaving as I did next day), The sketch unfinished and the puzzle Still unsolved I bore away. Solved is now that mazy puzzle. .But not solved is that of Fate. Can we ever living solve it? After, — is it then too late? XXVI. iTp©iFiiims (m"mmjmw\ V' fJ^u.['wr\Ab tCye Scekev can- tcs. rt^ero:; tovtell-erT-uUH- seems Itq l>e «^gl, |U/ wA."t tflc Seof^er Wills lb See ; hTj-\fl.re l?«? in^ see r(^cT3al- IrfteDwl , << f lTi« Sn«ke I'fi.e io<*ct anel rfw^gs n^oslfottl, / C^T see m it irvctxi^M^'VttV eJesJ:ev ^ui^wpt^ke. ^ 5W XXXIII. Neptune's Siesta A cloudless sky arches a sparkling sea Where sunny isles in purple fade away, While on the warm sands of a sheltered bay, Sleeping securely under his protecting eye The great sea-flocks of Father Neptune lie. In endless ranks they litter the long shore, Silent, save for the muffled, dull uproar Rising from hundreds who, drowsing, puff and snore. Even their guarding Mermen drowse, nor hear The faint, soft lapping of the Ocean near. The ancient god sits peacefully on high. His beard and hair stream white against the blue. But how his peaceful mien his thoughts belie, — He's dreaming of great tempests long gone by And of Ulysses and his faithful crew. Born of his teeming thoughts a vision doth arise Of fronting waves, and howling wind, and stormy skies Brooding portentous o'er a trackless main. Through which, urged on by Fate, the hero seeks in vain A something he is destined never to attain. Roused from his dreams by fast departing day. Mid muttering beasts old Neptune takes his way Where Triton grooms awake with twisted horn His wild sea-horses, splash the brine in scorn, As through the waves his shell-like throne is borne. Huge sea-snakes now their sliding coils unlace And furrow the brown sand with horrid grace. While seal-like creatures dive, scarce half-awake. In cooling tides their sun-baked hides to slake; Others, like galleys with foaming prows, their ways betake. With the last pallid gleam of dying day All traces disappear of Neptune's weird display, Leaving but twilight dim o'er beach and bay Where only deadly Sirens stay, — and the sea moans, While they sing and play with dead men's bones. XXXIV. Daybreak on the Campagna Dawn, from the Appennines descending To the dim plain below, and blending With fever-laden exhalations of the night, Sees still burning in the sky that Star, Once heavy with the destiny and doom, Of Rome's great Emperor whose desecrated tomb Glimmers afar. Now on the misty Appian Way she sees Phantasmal armies hasten to their homes, The labyrinthian catacombs ; Or perchance disturbs an ancient gatherer Of poisonous herbs, wet with malarial dews. That baleful planets still infuse ; But warned by a stirring in the trees And nesting birds that dream of day, Westward she turns her pallid face. And following her sad sister Night, Over the lone Mediterranean Sea, Fades out of sight. Now spreads the joyous day O'er miles of undulating land By broken arches spanned, While in the cloudless sky The glad lark sings, And on the stretching Appian Way The drowsy shepherds pipe all day. Where basking lizards lie. CNl>oiA!l»leA>olceel !:x» ^ef'-^'tfft.v'es' '^«^.>sl: %K5vy^^<»vtjfe 4.^^ocHi^^3 c