THE JUNK-MAN and OTHER POEMS by Bicheird LeGallienne CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Cornell University Library PR4881.J9 The unk-man, and other poems, by Richard 3 1924 013 515 790 DATE DUE lfcfr«^ vouoW CAYLORD lli(S»«~— ■ rniNTcoiNu.s a. THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR Attitudes and Avowals; With Some Ret- Old Love Stories Retold rospective Reviews Omar Repentant Beautiful Lie of Rome Orestes: A Tragedy Book Bills of Narcissus Painted Shadows Book of Seven Existences Pieces of Eight English Poems Prose Fancies George Meredith: Some Characteristics Quest of the Golden Girl Highway to Happiness Religion of a Literary Man How to Get the Best Out of Books Retrospective Reviews If 1 Were God Robert Louis Stevenson: Elegy and Little Dinners With the Sphinx, and Other Poems Other Prose Fancies Romance of Zion Chapel Lonely Dancer; and Other Poems Romances of Old France Love Letters of the King Loves of the Poets Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam Rudyard Kipling: Criticism Maker of Rainbows, and Other Fairy Tales and Fables Sleeping Beauty, and Other Prose Fan- Modern Book of English Verse Silk Hat Soldier, and Other Poems New Poems Travels in England October Vagabonds Vanishing Roads, and Other Essays Odes from the Divan of Hafiz Worshipper of the Image Old Country House Young Lives THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY. PAGE & COMPANY 1920 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN TO SAM NICHOLSON WHO LOVES POETRY AS MOST MEN LOVE MONEY, AND ONLY LESS THAN HE LOVES HIS FRIENDf Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 351 5790 ACKNOWLEDGMENT The writer desires to thank the editors of Har- per's, Life, Puck, Judge, Munsey's, Ainslee's, Snappy Stories, Live Stories, The Smart Set, Col- lier's, The Delineator, and The Bookman for their kind permission to reprint the following verses. The Catskills, May, 1920 CONTENTS I PAGE Ballade of the Junk-man 3 Ballade of a Dead Lady 5 Ballade of the Sorrow of Young Hearts . . 7 Ballade of the Deaths of Kings .... 9 Ballade of the Unchanging Beauty ... 11 Ballade of the Beloved and the Vain Ones That Perish 13 Ballade of Annette 15 Ballade of the Breaking of Hearts ... 17 Ballade of Queen's Lace 19 Ballade of His Lady's Immortality ... 21 Ballade of the Singing Stream .... 23 Ballade of the Noisiness of the Times . . 25 Ballade of the Poet and the Moon ... 27 Ballade of Apollo's Garden 29 A Ballade-Catalogue of Lovely Things . . 31 Ballade of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon . 33 A Bookman's Ballade of "The Big Three" 35 Ballade of Pessimists 37 Ballade of Life's Dream 39 Ballade of Pot-Pourri 41 ix X CONTENTS PAGE Ballade of Amaryllis in the Shade ... 43 A New Ballade of Last Year's Snow . . 45 Ballade of the Road Unknown .... 47 Ballade of Old Laughter 49 Ballade to His Dead Lady, Bidding Her Sleep on 51 Ballade of the Things that Remain ... 53 II On Re- Reading Le Morte d' Arthur ... 57 III A Bahaman Love-Song 67 The Eternal Friends 70 Love's Mirror 72 Anniversary 74 Aubade 75 To a Celestial House-wife 76 Song for a Gown 77 When All the Dreams Are Over .... 78 IV The Palaces of the Rose 81 Sweet Lovers 86 The Wood Nymph 88 Immortality go CONTENTS XI PAGE The Everlasting Doors 92 Desiderium 93 Dream Tryst 95 Silencieux 97 Till We Forget 99 When I Go Walking in the Woods . . 10 1 Violin Music 103 Love and the World's End 104 Time 107 "The Rose Sing I . . ," 109 V The Ballad of Mary 113 From Generation to Generation . . . . 117 The Idol 119 To Narcissa — Dressing for the Theatre - . 121 Little Lady Echo 124 To a Young Girl 125 To a Boy, on the Death of His Sweetheart 127 If I Were Rich, Little Girl 129 Le Roi Faineant 131 Answer to an Invitation 132 Love's Philosophy 134 The Shadow of Knowledge 1 36 At Midsummer 1 38 The Wind's Way 140 Xll CONTENTS VI PACE The Eternal Play ■ . . . 143 To the Skunk Cabbage 147 The Snowdrop 149 Dogwood 150 Lady April 1 52 Wood Flower 153 The Little Rills 154 Sweetheart April 155 A Summer Day 157 To a Mountain Brook 1 59 The Secret of the Woods 161 The Last Song of the Nightingale to the Rose 163 September 165 Autumn 166 La Cigale 168 The Garden God 169 Pan 172 Sea-Sorcery 174 Elemental Comrades 176 Sailing 177 Morning at Sea 178 Coral Isles and Tropic Seas 180 Homeward Bound 182 CONTENTS Xlll PAGE Beatus Vir 183 A Walking Song 184 Recantation 186 The Cloister 187 VII Ballade Against the Enemies of France . . 191 After the War 193 Charles Frohman: May 25, 191 5 ... 195 A Merry Ballad of Christmas 198 The Human Sacrifice 202 Our Lady of Pity 206 Elixir Vitae 208 When I Am Very Old 209 The World Is Still a Song to Me ... 210 When I Am Gone 211 Two Lovers 212 On Growing Old 214 VIII The Poet 219 Old Safety 222 On Professors 225 The Real Books 227 Robert Browning 229 A Plea for the Old Music 230 XIV CONTENTS PAGB On the Passing of Greek and Latin . . .232 A Song of Dying Words 234 The Last Refuge 236 Leave Us the Stars 237 Beauty 239 The Eternal Way 242 BALLADE OF THE JUNK-^MAN UPON the summer afternoon, Wafted across the orchard trees, There comes a ghostly travelling tune, Blent with the sleepy drone of bees; Elfin, aerial it is. Like shaken bells of silver rain. And creepy as old melodies — The junk-man's coming down the lane. The ancient hat, the worn-out shoon, The broken-hearted fineries. The yellowed news, dead as the moon. The rust, the rubbish, and the lees. The tarnished trophy, gallantries Gone to the moth — this clouded cane ! This buckle brave! — for such as these The junk-man's coming down the lane. 3 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS O thou that wooest deep in June, Hearken ! and thou so fain to seize Joy, and to hoard it, late and soon. Thou lord of many locks and keys. Thick lies the dust — though no man sees — Upon thy dream; Time sees it plain On the bright wings, long ere it flies : The junk-man's coming down the lane. ENVOI Prince, 'tis a thought our veins to freeze : Time doth all hallowed things profane, And toss about the centuries — The junk-man's coming down the lane. BALLADE OF A DEAD LADY^ ALL old fair things are in their places, L I count them over, and miss but one; The April flowers are running races, The green world stretches its arms to the sun; The nuptial dance of the days is begun — The same young stars in the same old skies; And all that was lost again is won — But where have they hidden those great eyes? All have come back — dogwood and daisies — All things ripple and riot and run; Swallow and swallow in aery mazes, A fairy frolic of fire and fun ; The same old enchanted web is spun. With diamond dews, for the same old flies; Yet all is new, spite of Solomon — But where have they hidden those great eyes? 5 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Lovely as love are the new-born faces — God knows they are fair to look upon ; And my heart goes out to the young embraces. To the flight of the young to the young ; But, Time, what is it that thou hast done? For my heart 'mid all the blossom cries: " Roses are many, the Rose is gone — Ah! where have they hidden those great eyes?" ENVOI Prince, I bring you my April praises. But O on my heart a shadow lies ; For a face 1 see not all my gaze is — Ah ! where have they hidden those great eyes? BALLADE OF THE SORROW OF YOUNG HEARTS WHEN I behold the sorrow of young hearts. So innocently wild, so blindly true, Unschooled to Life and all its weary arts, (We that so differently wear our rue !) These tears so fresh, these mortal wounds so new, This loss no other heart hath ever known, This sky so black that was so madly blue, — In grief for this I quite forget my own. Ah ! when young lover from young lover parts, (When I, beloved, that day did part from you!) What balsam is there for that smart of smarts? Alas! Time shall assuage that sorrow too; On Young Despair there lingers still the dew, It knows not yet the grief of grief out-grown, That bitterest potion Time hath yet to brew — In grief for this I quite forget my own. 7 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Twin huntsmen Love and Death, twin poisoned darts, — Yet Time a leech-craft to out- wit them knew; Alas! the splendid pain too soon departs; That fearful labyrinth without a clue Familiar grows, and all in vain we strew New graves for Love and Death with mimic moan, We Life hath numbed with living through and through — In grief for this I quite forget my own. ENVOI Prince, would our lovely griefs were yet to do, — To be with our first dead again alone. Again for love to break our hearts in two ! — In grief for this 1 quite forget my own. BALLADE OF THE DEATHS OF KINGS THE tears of youth are even as the dew, Up runs the laughing sun and they are dry, Youth's broken heart breaks but a month or two. And all the rest is a poetic sigh; I have watched many a young perfection die, Maids in their bloom and songsters with their strings. But nothing half so sad beneath the sky As the great dying of great queens and kings. They dream on all the mighty world they knew. Throned still and crowned, while princelings pass them by, Strutting in brief magnificence of thew. Scorning the wisdom of that kingly eye; And some queen's waiting-maid, with honeyed thigh. Titters around these poor old withered things — I have heard nothing with so sad a cry As the great dying of great queens and kings. 9 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS But once I caught a glance the old queen threw To her old lord, so soft and sweet and shy. That seemed to say, " Beloved, they dream it new This world we have loved and fought in, you and I!" Thereon the old king drew her to him nigh. And — "Lovelier than April!" low he sings; "You more a king!" — nothing can Time defy As the great dying of great queens and kings. ENVOI Prince, does your wisdom know a sillier lie Than all these shallow modern vapourings. Or any loss to turn the world awry As the great dying of great queens and kings? lO BALLADE OF THE UNCHANGING BEAUTY ON EVERY wind there comes the dolorous cry Of change, and rumour vast of fair things sped. And old perfections loudly doomed to die ; Axes agleam and running torches red. And voices shrilling, "The old world is dead!" Yet little heed to all this noise I pay. But lift my eyes where, walking overhead, The moon goes silently upon her way. For what concern with all this change have 1, Knowing the same wild words of old were said? For change, too, changes not ; yea, this old sky Watches mankind the same vain pathway tread. So long ago thrones crashed, and nations bled. Yet the old world stole back at close of day. And on the morrow men rose up to wed — The moon goes silently upon her way. II THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Abbess of all yon cloistered worlds on high, Upon my heart your benediction shed. Help me to put the idle turmoil by. And on the changeless be my spirit fed ; O be my footsteps on that pathway led Where Beauty steals among the stars to pray; And, sorrowing earth, in this be comforted — The moon goes silently upon her way. ENVOI Prince, toss not too uneasy on your bed. Fearing your little crown be reft away; Wear this undying wreath 1 weave instead — The moon goes silently upon her way. 12 BALLADE OF THE BELOVED AND THE VAIN ONES THAT PERISH WHEN I behold the strutting pride Of little fames that take the air. Midget immortals, fain to stride As those the deathless laurel wear. Only of their poor selves aware, And of the little things they do. Nosing for incense everywhere, — I smile. Beloved, and think of you. Or when, divinely satisfied With her brief self that seems so fair. Turning her head from side to side. The solemn priestess of her hair, As she the Trojan Helen were, Fairer than Paris ever knew, 1 watch yon fleeting beauty there — I smile. Beloved, and think of you. «3 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Of you that laugh yourself aside. Nor for the common plaudits care. And neither advertise nor hide All that is you, with more to spare, So nonchalantly past compare, — You hear the vocal vain ones through. Nor ever dream to claim your share — ■ I smile, Beloved, and think of you. ENVOI Princess, not this nor yet next year Shall genius, mirth, and beauty too Be found in such conjunction rare — 1 smile, Beloved, and think of you. 14 BALLADE OF ANNETTE ''TpIS not for me to doubt her wonder, 1 I quite believe each word you say; In fact, I think you rather under- Than over-praise your "fiancee"; 'Tis no mere compliment I pay. In her, I see, all charms are met. As lovely as the month of May: But tell me — have you seen Annette? A beauty without blot or blunder, A thing of dew and dawn and spray; A dove high up against the thunder Were not so white and far away; Her face — well, you just want to pray! Too lovely to believe, and yet A woman — woman all the way: Ah ! tell me — have you seen Annette? 15 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS The wild bees, weighted down with plunder, Wise in all blossom, even they Find no flower like her lips asunder; And who should in her bosom stray. And taste that honey, falleth fey Forever — ne'er shall he forget The sweetness till his dying day: Ah ! tell me — have you seen Annette? ENVOI Prince, should you see her — lack-a-day! Deep in your castle's oubliette Were I — she is so fair a prey: Ah ! tell me — have you seen Annette? i6 BALLADE OF THE BREAKING OF HEARTS SINGERS and brothers learned in the lore Of loving of fair faces, and all ye That love one lady, and one lady more; Yea ! count not on two hands your gallantry, So moved to all of lovesome shape are ye. Ever with longing fain that finds no rest, I pray you answer this sad word for me: Why do we break the heart we love the best? Dead men had knowledge of this heretofore. Even the lords of Love's high chivalry Whose names still, darkened not, in heaven soar; Lancelot and Tristan knew this perfidy. Though never man had such immortal She; 'Twas not enough God gave His loveliest. To save their mortal eyes from glamory — Why do we break the heart we love the best? 17 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Yet true — one hallowed face we but adore. Of our heart's treasure hers alone the key, And, should God take her, ever at His door We knock with anguish through Eternity, In hell forever once her face to see. Seeking it ever in a fearful quest, 'Tis a strange riddle 1 propose, perdie, — Why do we break the heart we love the best? ENVOI God, that hath all sad mortal men in fee, O why, with witchcraft hair and lunar breast. Hast Thou encompassed us with sorcery? Why do we break the heart we love the best? i8 BALLADE OF QUEEN'S LACE GO NOT to marts of costly show To clothe those limbs so round and fair, But let us to the woodlands go — I'll find you prettier things to wear. Hung in a magic wardrobe there; Garlands to frame your fairy face. And misty lawns as fine as air. And for your petticoat Queen's Lace. Soft draperies of virgin snow. If you must hide that bosom rare, Whiter than Helen's long ago — 'Twere kinder, love, to leave it bare. Dimmed only by your falling hair, — Yet, if you must deny that grace, Lo ! veils of filmiest gossamer — And for your petticoat Queen's Lace. 19 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS And flounce and frill and furbelow. Quaint dimity and diaper, The fairy artists shape and sew; Here's silk-weed for your stomacher. And round that sweet diameter Yclept your waist this girdle place — Diana wore the same 1 swear! And for your petticoat Queen's Lace. ENVOI Princess, and ladies everywhere. Fashion but ill your form displays ; Nature's your best costumier — And for your petticoat Queen's Lace. 20 BALLADE OF HIS LADY'S IMMORTALITY | O SUMMER day, all hot with bee and rose. Heavy with honey, like a cup of gold A-brim with the wild wine that overflows The limits of the world — ah ! love, we hold The cup awhile and drink, as they of old Before us, drinking thus, 'neath the same sky; As we they laughed, then fell a-sudden cold — But you are far too beautiful to die. Fair face, wherein Life's colour softly glows. Flower that within your petals, fold on fold. Hoards from the sun your sanctuary snows, Dazzlingly hid from lovers over-bold; As the young moon, high up above the wold. Grants but a gleam of whiteness to the eye That fain would have her silver all unfold — But you are far too beautiful to die. 21 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS The moon will set, the fairest flower dose. This summer day be like a screed up-rolled. Or soon or late the lingering glory goes, Or soon or late the noblest tale is told ; Yours is a loveliness too manifold For sacrilegious death even to deny; All other fairness turns to fragrant mould — But you are far too beautiful to die. ENVOI Princess, fear not the passage to behold Of Beauty, living but in song or sigh. For others must the passing-bell be tolled — But you are far too beautiful to die. 22 BALLADE OF THE SINGING STREAM ^ WHEN June is back, and earth is kind, — 'Tis long, this winter day, perdie ! — And frost and snow are left behind, And leaves are green upon the tree. And happy lives of bird and bee Sport in the re-awakened beam. Love, I appoint a tryst with thee — At the Sign of the Singing Stream. O come upon the summer wind. And bring thy blue eyes like the sea. And all thy long bright hair unbind. Wafting its fragrance out to me. Leave all thy whiteness wild and free. And like a woodland dryad gleam — Love only shall be there to see. At the Sign of the Singing Stream. 23 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Then we the leafy grot shall find. The rose-embowered sanctuary, Where hangs the fruit with golden rind. And we shall eat right merrily, And as the immortal gods shall be. Glad children of the cosmic dream. Transfigured with felicity — At the Sign of the Singing Stream. ENVOI Princess, the solemn stars decree. As part of the celestial scheme. This tryst, whereof we keep the key At the Sign of the Singing Stream. 24 BALLADE OF THE NOISINESS OF THE TIMES OWHAT a noisy world it is ! Such shriek of news — yet nothing new; Or is it I that am amiss, Or does it seem the same to you? "If peace" meant only "quiet" too! Behind the times I know I am. But what is a tired man to do? I light my pipe, and read Charles Lamb. So small our gain, so much we miss. For still the old remains the true. And Solomon on novelties Spake even wiser than he knew; With all our feverish to-do, Air-ship and wireless telegram. Life's much the same, — and, entre nous, I light my pipe, and read Charles Lamb. 25 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Though names may change from That to This, The "historic times we're living through" Were writ in ancient histories; It is the same old human brew. With just a little change or two; Our progress is the same old sham — The same old ship, the same old crew — I light my pipe, and read Charles Lamb. ENVOI Prince, bide your time, be not too blue. Though you the "Soviets" bedamn, — The world is not quite all yahoo; Just light your pipe, and read Charles Lamb. 26 BALLADE OF THE POET AND THE MOON THE day has gone of lovely things, According to the modern bard ; Of dreariness and dross he sings. And hymns the homely and the hard. The sweat-shop and the engine yard; Of these he makes his doleful tune. And plenteous slang doth interlard — I still prefer to sing the moon. Dry are the Heliconian springs. And sere is Enna flower-bestarred ; Speak not of Pegasus his wings. For all such ancientry is barred, — Yea ! feathered shalt thou be and tarred For such old nonsense in thy rune, — By Heloise and Abelard, I still prefer to sing the moon. 27 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Nor dare to speak of queens and kings, Democracy is now the card; On the fair Past the poet flings The flint, the pebble and the shard; The gospels of the Savoyard Have wrought this sans-culottish boon, — for some frankincense and nard! 1 still prefer to sing the moon. ENVOI Ah! Prince — or rather I mean "pard" — Let's to our lotus and lagoon. And call for our Pretorian guard : 1 still prefer to sing the moon. 28 BALLADE OF APOLLO'S GARDEN FRIEND, in the storm and stress of things, Art thou aweary, even as I ? Wouldst flee the noisy fall of kings? From all the wrath and rabble fly? A shelter is forever nigh. Tranquil with dews and green to see, A place of songs that cannot die — The garden with the golden key. Here leap the Heliconian springs. The sacred fountains never dry; Apollo, with his golden strings, Over the grass goes wandering by; And wild-rose breast and marble thigh- Goddess, or nymph immortal, she — Haunt, fleeing the ensorcelled eye, The garden with the golden key. 29 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Needs but one charmed line that sings. Thou canst the roaring loom defy; For wide the magic portal swings. And Homer takes thee to his sky. And laughing Shakespeare bids thee lie Adream beneath his greenwood tree. Far from the hurrying hue and cry — The garden with the golden key. ENVOI Prince, dost thou seek to dulcify Thy bitter lot? Wouldst sanctuary And surcease find? 1 make reply, "The garden with the golden key." 30 A BALLADE-CATALOGUE OF LOVELY/, THINGS I WOULD make a list against the evil days Of lovely things to hold in memory : First, I set down my lady's lovely face, For earth has no such lovely thing as she; And next I add, to bear her company. The great-eyed virgin star that morning brings; Then the wild-rose upon its little tree — So runs my catalogue of lovely things. The enchanted dog-wood, with its ivory trays, ^ The water-lily in its sanctuary Of reeded pools, and dew-drenched lilac sprays, For these, of all fair flowers, the fairest be; Next write 1 down the great name of the sea. Lonely in greatness as the names of kings; Then the young moon that hath us all in fee — So runs my catalogue of lovely things. ^ 3' THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Imperial sunsets that in crimson blaze Along the hills, and, fairer still to me. The fireflies dancing in a netted maze Woven of twilight and tranquillity; Shakespeare and Virgil, their high poesy; Then a great ship, splendid with snowy wings. Voyaging on into eternity — So runs my catalogue of lovely things. ENVOI Prince, not the gold bars of thy treasury. Not all thy jewelled sceptres, crowns and rings, Are worth the honeycomb of the wild bee — So runs my catalogue of lovely things. 32 BALLADE OF THE HANGING GARDENS OF BABYLON THE fierce queen wearied, and she smote her hands: "Summon my lord, the King," she spake and sighed, "I sicken of these steaming shallow lands!" Nebuchadnezzar stood there by her side. Suppliant. She turned upon him, eagle-eyed; "O King, would thou and Babylon ne'er had been! I die for pines and storms." "Amytis, bride, There shall be hanging gardens for my queen." "O for Assyria, where each mountain stands. With pine-trees to the peak, and the great stride Of the north wind, voiced as a god's commands. Shakes forests into music far and wide. Iron and granite song; and horsemen ride By foam of torrents, laughing, lances keen — But I mid ooze and baking bricks must bide. . . ." "There shall be hanging gardens for my queen." 33 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Night fell, and morning rose with crimson bands, About her couch the tiring maidens glide. And one that wove her hair in shining strands Spake softly: "Vouch, great queen, to gaze outside, Beyond the curtains" — and Amytis cried. And laughed and wept for what her eyes had seen — Assyria at her window magnified ! — "There shall be hanging gardens for my queen." ENVOI "Queen," spake the King, "is thy heart satisfied? Unnumbered slaves and Night have wrought this scene — The rocks and pines of thy Assyrian pride : There shall be hanging gardens for my queen." 34 A BOOKMAN'S BALLADE OF "THE BIG THREE" HAVE you, as I, O Reader kind, Sometimes before your bookshelves stood, Seeking in vain some book to find. The proper and peculiar food For some un je-ne-sais-quot mood? — In other words, you know not what — May I advise, yet not intrude, Dickens, Dumas, or Walter Scott? With all fair fruitage of the mind. The beautiful, the wise, the good, Your shelves luxuriously are lined; And yet, O strange ingratitude! They bring you no beatitude. The charm they had this day is not : Try, then — if I were you, I should Dickens, Dumas, or Walter Scott. 35 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS For idle "vapours" undefined. For sickly Thought's distempered brood. Throw "psycho-analysts" behind The fire, and be all such eschewed: Let simple laughter stir your blood. And plot, and breathless counter-plot, And all Life's moving multitude — Dickens, Dumas, or Walter Scott. ENVOI Yea, gentle Reader, if we would Forget ourselves, our cares forgot. None else can equal, by the Rood, Dickens, Dumas, or Walter Scott. 36 BALLADE OF PESSIMISTS (Dedicated to the Little Masters of Decay) PESSIMISTS all, all ye that swear By Nietzsche, Freud, and Edgar Poe, Remy de Gourmont, Baudelaire, And Gabriele D'Annunzio, And other gentlemen of woe, — All that is nasty, "strange" and "new" — I'd like— and yet not like! — to know. If Life's all wrong, — what's wrong with you? You that pollute the wholesome air With nauseous pullulating flow From brains unclean and sick despair. Doting on dirt, and footing slow Where leprous-spotted fungi grow. Abhorring all the gold and blue Where morning sings and brave winds blow; If Life's all wrong — what's wrong with you? 37 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS O world that Shakespeare found so fair. This goodly and most gallant show. This bannered, flower-strewn thoroughfare Where Life and Love in glory go. And Courage Sorrow doth o'er-crow. And Wonder, with perpetual dew; For me the world is well enow: If Life's all wrong — what's wrong with you? ENVOI To Hades, Prince, these caitiffs throw. Rat-poison for the sickly crew That reap not, neither do they sow! If Life's all wrong — what's wrong with you? 38 BALLADE OF LIFE'S DREAM THE cry is that the world grows old, — Though I, for one, the charge gainsay ,- That every fairy-tale is told, And all Romance is passed away: Believe it not, this summer day, Better believe yon running stream That hath this wiser thing to say — Life's still the same old foolish dream. Yea! let the shrill reformers scold. And all our fond illusions flay. Our blood refuses to run cold. Our happy hearts know more than they. The splendid something in our clay Shrivels with fire their dusty theme; Come, sweetheart, kiss we while we may — Life's still the same old foolish dream. 39 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Still the old earth, with blue and gold. Laughs at the gospels of decay. Rings to the stars its challenge bold. And works its work, and plays its play. What though the devil be to pay; Living's a gay and gallant scheme, Tis only fools that say it nay — Life's still the same old foolish dream. ENVOI Lord of my Being, 1 humbly lay Thanks at Thy throne, how strange it seem. For life, that too brief holiday. Life — still the same old foolish dream. 40 BALLADE OF POT-POURRI ONCE more the garden leaps in fire, The lips of June how red, how red! But the young rose of my desire Blooms in the garden of the dead; Nor will she raise her dreaming head For any song, how sweet it be — Flame on, ye flowers in glory spread ! Bring me my jar of pot-pourri. With brimming cup and soaring spire. Glows and smells sweet each garden bed; The haughty tapestries of Tyre Never so many glories wed Into their pomp of royal thread; Nor ever yet hath honey-bee On such delirious nectar fed — Bi;ing me my jar of pot-pourri. 41 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Lover, that, with enamoured lyre. Love at thy side with aery tread, Singest in this garden, to a quire Of answering angels overhead. Long be it ere thy joy be sped ! Here is no fairer flower than she; Yet mine a lovelier thing instead — Bring me my jar of pot-pourri. ENVOI Prince of Life's Garden, hear it said: However rare thy rose — shall be More rare her hoarded petals shed: Bring me my jar of pot-pourri. 42 BALLADE OF AMARYLLIS IN THE SHADE *- WERE it not better done — the time being Spring- Grim poet, the iron of whose Cromwellian lyre Is sistered with so soft a lyric string. To cast dry wisdom crackling on the fire. And follow the green pathways of desire, Where April flutters like a flying maid; Though others to the topmost stars aspire — To sport with Amaryllis in the shade? To rule wouldst thou? — to be the sorry king Of this poor kingdom of the fool and liar We call the world ; or, a still stranger thing, Wouldst swink and sweat, and house thee in the mire, And sell thy strong soul for a captive's hire. While tyrants eat, and hear sweet music played? Were it not better done — who need inquire? — To sport with Amaryllis in the shade? 43 THE JUNK-MAI4 AND OTHER POEMS While all is still new blossom and young wing. And life's a flame still mounting higher and higher. While still Youth's gold is thine to flaunt and fling. Heed not dim counsels of some shrivelled sire; Spake he but sooth, upon the funeral pyre One dream shall linger as his ashes fade — Of Love's plumed feet aflame through brake and brier, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. ENVOI My Prince, what better dream should man require To close his eyes? And 1 have heard it said That Death's a garden where we but retire — To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. 44 A NEW BALLADE OF LAST YEAR'S SNOW VILLON, in French none may forget, "What has become of last year's snow?" You asked — nor is there answer yet ; And where did those dead ladies go With bosoms worn exceeding low. With hair of gold, and lips of red? It drifted — would you really know — Flake after flake upon my head. Ah ! suns may rise and suns may set, Catullus told us long ago. But, howsoe'er we fume and fret. The wind takes all our mortal show. And youth hath scarcely time to blow In Life's brief garden, ere 'tis fled — Yet why so early settle so Flake after flake upon my head? 45 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS But yesterday my locks were jet. Rival of raven and of crow. Yet, while 1 dined with Juliet, And passed the wine-cup to and fro. For all the glory and the glow. The gray was creeping thread by thread. Falling, a soft insidious foe. Flake after flake upon my head. ENVOI Ah ! Prince, the sorry overthrow ! A man might just as well be dead, When once the years begin to sow Flake after flake upon his head. 46 BALLADE OF THE ROAD UNKNOWN LET others keep the beaten track, The straight and narrow path of fears, Like timid travellers looking back At any sound that meets their ears; Shall 1, because some neighbour jeers, Follow the same dull road as he; Or steer the coward course he steers? — The lure of the road unknown for me. A hickory stick, a shouldered pack. Bread and a book, the wine that cheers. The sun and moon for almanack. The planets leaning on their spears, A bush for inn as twilight nears. And somewhere through it all the sea ; Afoot again as morning peers — The lure of the road unknown for me. 47 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS When comes the fatal dick and clack Of Time's relentless iron shears, When the thin ice of life goes crack. And the black gulf beneath uprears. And all the kind world disappears; Still, as of old, my cry shall be. Somewhere high up amid the spheres — ' The lure of the road unknown for me. ENVOI Dear Prince, the old romantic years Were filled with glory, girls and glee; But, though 1 love them through my tears — The lure of the road unknown for me. 48 BALLADE OF OLD LAUGHTER , WH EN I look back, as daylight closes, And count my gains and losses o'er, Rough with the smooth; the rue, the roses; The lost and lovely that no more Come when 1 knock upon the door, Or even answer when I call, I see, of all that went before. The laughter was the best of all. Man's life, some say, a thing of prose is; Not so his life — as mine of yore — Who on Miranda's breast reposes — Ah! God, that fragrant frock she wore! Hid honey still at the heart's core Her bosom like a hushed snow-fall — And yet, for all we kissed and swore, The laughter was the best of all. 49 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Truth after truth old Time discloses. But, as we hobble to fourscore, Each finds that not as he supposes The gains for which he travailed sore: Glory or gold, the wine we pour. The face that held our lives in thrall — Somehow the bravest grows a bore. The laughter was the best of all. ENVOI Prince, much of wisdom heretofore Time's patient pages doth bescrawl; This is the sum of all our lore — The laughter was the best of all. 50 BALLADE TO HIS DEAD LADY, BIDDING HER SLEEP ON THERE was a time, O fairest head That all too early sought repose. That I could not be comforted Until your face again arose, And the Lord Jesu well He knows If I have failed my troth to keep; But now, where the tall poppy grows, I only come to whisper "Sleep!" So few the years since you are sped Along the pathway of the snows. Still are you young amid the dead; But, since your going, the world goes A wild way, every wind that blows Whirls some old fairness to the deep. And Beauty flies before her foes — I only come to whisper "Sleep!" 51 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Glad am I of your quiet bed. Glad am 1 of the stream that flows. Murmuring to you its drowsihead. Glad am I of the punctual rose That over you its petals throws. Glad of the willow-leaves that weep Above us both, as, leaning close, I only come to whisper "Sleep!" ENVOI Princess, my heart its hope foregoes. All that we loved away they sweep, A world of carrion kites and crows — I only come to whisper "Sleep!" 52 BALLADE OF THE THINGS THAT REMAIN THE loveliness of water, its faery ways With cloud and wind, its myriad sorceries With morning and the moon, and stars agaze In its still glass, and the tranced summer trees; The vowelled rivers, the rough-throated seas, The tides that brim with silver the grassy plain. Or strew lone islands with lost argosies: We come and go — these things remain. Fire and its gnomes, soft-talking as it plays. Dream-like, amid its fretted imageries. Or melting the wild hills, and with its blaze Licking the very stars; and, even as these. The winds that blow through all the centuries, The falling snow, the shining April rain. Birds singing, and the far-oif Pleiades : We come and go — these things remain. 53 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS God's glory, and the march of nights and days. The seals upon the ancient mysteries Of rose and star and woman's magic face. That, seeing, man loves, yet knows not what he sees; The old sweet sins, the old sweet sanctuaries; War and long peace, then war and peace again ; The Dark and in Death's hands the dreadful keys: We come and go — these things remain. ENVOI Prince, save ourselves, there is but little flees That comes not back, even as this refrain ; 'Faith, 'tis a thought that doth me greatly please: We come and go — these things remain. 54 II ON RE-READING LE MORTE D' ARTHUR HERE learn who will the art of noble words, If he may snatch the secret the words keep Of speech like new-sprung grass to nibbling herds. Yet old as graves of long-forgotten sleep; Bright as young joy, yet with a heart as deep As those old wells of tears that never dry; Alike for those who laugh or those who weep Friendly of face as is the morning sky. Bannered with bloom-tipt clouds lullingly moving by. Like some green glade in middle of the wood. Buttressed with beech and oak and arched with bowers. Spreads the old tale in nature's amplitude. And many a grassy corner blue with flowers ; Anon uprears a castle grim with towers. Anon a horn is blown, in silken weeds A lovely lady, fairer far than ours. On a white palfrey rides, anon there speeds A knight with vizor down, intent on flaming deeds. 57 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Here, by a well — beware her woven charms — A faery woman sits and softly sings. White as shed blossom are her beckoning arms. And in her eyes a thousand vanished springs; She lies in wait to snare the youth of kings, On their fair strength is all her whiteness fed, A joy like honey in the mouth she brings, Yet whoso tasteth it is surely sped Down to the hollow halls of the dishonoured dead. Of all within this Forest Perilous Hight is the world, there is no thing to fear Deadly as she, no giant Orgulous, No Questing Beast, or no illustrious spear; Yea! though the Hundred Knights should draw anear, Better, with lance in rest, it were to fall Than to her lonely singing to give ear; Fame hath a voice more nobly musical, And thus to dare to die is scarce to die at all. Old book that still hath such a morning face, Dust are old eyes that read thee, yet no dust Is on the page they read; for thee no place Where dim Oblivion turneth all to rust. And later scrolls diurnally are thrust ; 58 ON RE-READING "L E MORTE D ARJHUR But thou of Youth art still the very friend. And Age grows Youth to read thee — such a gust Dwells in the glamoured page o'er which we bend. And still we sigh that the old tale, like life, must end. I read thee, like my fellows, in the morn, And now the westering sun begins to throw A pathos o'er the realm where 1 was born, Touching with fire old fanes of long ago. Re-animating with a charmed glow Memories dim and faces fled away — I hear again thy bannered trumpets blow. And fall a-dream on that heraldic day When I was a young knight and she a little may. Gone! and yet here forever still abide. Stored as in music, all the aching joy And glory of young hearts that, side by side. Beat on when she was girl and 1 was boy. And the Round Table, and the Siege of Troy, And Roland's Song, and the far wandering seas Round Jason's keel, and all the long employ Of Hercules, were our realities, — Nor had we doubt to find, we two, the Hesperides. 59 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Yea ! this old book, as others writ of old, And writ for ever, like a palimpsest. Is over-writ with other words of gold. Though marring not the meaning of the rest : The words low uttered when two lovers pressed Hot cheeks together o'er the tear-stained tale. And the long secret was at last confessed — And twilight wove for love a starry veil. And silence was all speech — save for the nightin- gale. Would we who write in this thought-burdened day Seek for our words endurance such as this. Have unborn lovers read us even as they That read of Launcelot — then dared to kiss. And blessed the magic book that wrought their bliss. Forgot a moment, but remembered ever — Somewhere in this old book the secret is: No more, perchance, though some shall find it never. Than — wouldst thou be immortal, be thou not too clever. 60 ON RE-READING LEMORTE D ARTHUR This too — the golden increment of Time — Mark in these noble books that never die : A mystic ripening, be it prose or rhyme. With deeper meanings, as the years go by. Something not there for the first reader's eye; As though even books were part of Nature's scheme. And, withthesuns, drew somethingfromthesky. Thrilling with subtler sense the simple theme, Broadening to vaster scope the artless early dream. So, he of Mancha on his sorry steed. Tilting at windmills, and his fellow fool. Seemed not at first as now for us who read, — For Man hath since so often gone to school^ And, as the weathering years make beautiful Old stone beyond the builder's first intent. An art of Time, past reach of skill or tool. Makes of his book more than its author meant. And a quaint tale becomes a people's monument. Yet, 'tis enough — the tale as first was told. Read with a boy's hot heart, or with a mind To watch the blazoned narrative unfold, And of the simple words the magic find, 6i THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Watching the art that leaves no clue behind : Sudden as sunshine on a grassy place, Mark how this pen, with art as undesigned. Writes but a name, and lo! the lovely face Of La Belle Isoud blooms with death-defying grace. Though Gawaine's skull, and the old Table Round, And Cradok's mantle, and Sir Launcelot His sword — beheld of Caxton — now be found No more at Winchester or Camelot ; And Arthur's seal, as Arthur's self, is not. And all the lovely queens are even as they. And Orkney hath no memory of King Lot ; And all the magic art of Nimud Be spent, and even Merlin's dust be blown away; Here live they still, as in that mirrored spring — With life's own colours on them, clear to see — Where Palamides, gazing, gan to sing Of Isoud, for whose sake all gaunt was he, 62 ON RE-READING 'LE MORTE D ARTHUR And dared to tell Sir Tristram love was free, And Isoud his to love, though ne'er to win, As any man's — though he Sir Tristram be. . . Ah! noble paynim, long since chrismed of sin, When Tristram to Christ's font brother-like, led thee in ! "Go," said Isoud, "and tell Queen Guenevere, That in the world there be true lovers four: She and Sir Launcelot, and Sir Tristram here, And I, Isoud, and on the earth no more" — Proud boast ensuing Time hath not out-wore, Still, like a rose upon her lips, you brave A world un-friend to lovers as of yore, — ■ Writ was the whole of love the hour you gave The golden cup to Tristram, golden to the grave. And, in the shock of times that shake the world, I hear no thunder in the wars men wage As when Sir Tristram on Sir Marhaus hurled — Writ is the whole of battle in that page; 63 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Yet, whatsoe'er of glory gilds the rage Of metal, soul-less, upon metal flung. Springs from this noble England's heritage. This book of England's knights in England's tongue. When her great speech and her great heart alike were young. Nor, when man's heart beneath the Unseen bows. And the dread holiness that hidden dwells In being bends the knee, and in God's house A light passes, and the sound of mystic bells, And man is ware of opening heavens and hells, Shall he such vision have as the pure lad Of whose hushed quest the old romancer tells, — All, all is here, all lovely good and bad; God too is in the book — with young Sir Galahad. 64 Ill A BAHAMAN LOVE-SONG THE morning like a river runs With feet of music through the palms, Come match your glory with the sun's, And breathe with me a thousand balms; The dawn is like an azure door Flung open wide for us to flee. And watch along the surf-ringed shore The heaving jewel of the sea. And we will find some coral cave, Where you shall doff your linen fair. By the foam-lipped up-running wave, And free the marvel of your hair. And match your whiteness with the spray, And match your strange eyes with the sea. And, like a nereid, you shall sway Cradled in lapis-lazuli; THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Then turn and, like a dolphin, glide Through hollow halls of glimmering jade. Where solemn gleaming fish abide For ever in a twilight glade; And 1 shall watch you sink and pass. Then dive, and mid-way we shall meet, Two dreams within a magic glass That join dim lips with sea-salt sweet. Then shall we hoist a snowy sail. And, in a boat with crystal floor. Gaze down on shapes in rainbow mail. Star-fish and branching madrepore. And peacock fans and faery flowers That in a mystic garden dream. Of moon-white sands and coral bowers. Tranced deep in the pellucid stream. There might I dwell as in your eyes, And never to the world return — But lo! another Paradise Of beckoning palms and tropic fern — Yon island ringed with sun-kissed foam: O let us there our boat careen. And 1 will build our hidden home. And you shall be the island queen. 68 A BAHAMAN LOVE-SONG And I will serve you, morn and eve. Of golden fruits shall be our fare, And garlands for your body weave, And dive for pearls, to deck your hair; And Love shall be the island laws. Love all its business, all its play. The world and all its silly saws A foolish legend far away. 69 THE ETERNAL FRIENDS _ IS IT not very strange that you and I, That once had never heard the other's name. Knowing not either lived beneath the sky. At last mysteriously to each other came. Suddenly close and near that were so far. Two grown to one as stalk and flower are? I was on earth before you, knew the spring While you still slept in heaven, the white bloom Of April, and all things that bud and sing — As though the world were making fair a room For you to step in from your cradling sphere. Nor find it too unlovely to be here. When your white feet first touched our earthly shore. Surely some shock of sweetness trembled through The leafy world, as morn the message bore Over the glittering gardens, singing — You; Yet heard I not — and the long years sped by, But of your lovely face no news had I . 70 THE ETERNAL FRIENDS O idle years that kept us thus apart, Walking, as in a maze, so late to find, That else had been one history, heart to heart; Yet not in vain perchance those years behind — For thus slow Time, 'gainst Love's impatience wise. Prepared our souls to meet each other's eyes. Beloved apparition, ghostly fair. Divinely new, and yet for ever known, So strangely come to me out of the air — How wondrously familiar hath Love grown Since that far day; yet ever stranger too The marvel of this magic life with you. Strange to know such a flower for very friend. With the young moon, day in, day out, to dwell, A shining comrade to the journey's end : End where it will, with her it must be well ; And, as she touches each small common thing Of life — Ah! how it learns to bloom and sing. Whether the road we tread be dust or dew. Menaced with storm, or lit with pearl and rose, 'Tis a good road together, and we two Follow it, singing — ^whither the road goes Content to know not, so, where'er it wends. We fare it always thus — immortal friends. 71 LOVE'S MIRROR BE THOU my mirror, love, that I may see Myself transfigured in the light of thee, — Ah ! 1 have need to see my face as thou Deemest it is — or feignest it to be. And I ! what can I bring? yet this will I : Out of my reverence 1 will build a dome. Where the wide sorrow of the world shall bow In prayer, and in the thought of thee find rest. And in thy smile the homeless find a home; The incense of the lilies of thy breast Shall be a balm upon them, and each caress Thou givest me shall all the nations bless. Out of our joy — lo ! I will build a dream Of lovely words, where all may enter in. And bathe their weariness as in a stream. And put away all sorrow and all sin. 72 love' s mirror Ah ! but the heart of it shall all be ours, Shut in amid a holiness of flowers, My heart to yours for ever, and my lips On yours for ever, as the base world slips Away from us — and nought but thou and I Alone, we two, with God, until we die. ■* 73 ANNIVERSARY THIS day of ours Is still our day; Immortal flowers, And fadeless bay, Crown it ; though tears Be on them now. The faithful years. The heart's own vow. Stand firm behind Us as of old — Still are you, love, My girl of gold ! Still shall the sun. Upon his way. Bring us his blessing On this day; And still the moon. With faery beams. Hallow the house We built of dreams. 74 AUBADE UNDER the roof in the valley yonder Lies the head all made of wonder. Sleeping yet, Dreaming yet: For why should she wake, when the dawn scarce stirs. With her star-crowned head still asleep as hers ; And only the birds and I are awake. To sing for her sake. O teach me a song, you morning bird. For me to take back to her, word for word. To sing as she lifts each mighty lid. Heavy with sleep as a pyramid : Put into the song all the love of my heart — A man's love, with a wild bird's art. 75 TO A CELESTIAL HOUSE-WIFE OH ILLS, I would that you might bathe her brows In your high balm; Too many little matters of the house Destroy her calm. She must be gay while others fume and fret, And, all day long. The business of her own deep soul forget. With merry tongue. Would that on her this brook, with morning spell. Might lay its hand. Talking with liquid lulling syllable Through the green land. She has sore need of these immortal things. So blue and still; To sit her down by the eternal springs. And drink her fill. 76 SONG FOR A GOWN 1WENT into the woods to make a song, Wherewith to buy with words my love a gown; And, scarce had I but entered, the wild rose Threw all her blossoms down. Yea ! April stripped her virgin body bare. Standing all naked in the morning shine. Robbed her sweet self of all her raiment fair. To clothe that love of mine. Then, lost in looking, almost I forgot My purpose coming to that woody place; Yea ! almost I forgot to make my song, Gazing on April's face. 77 WHEN ALL THE DREAMS ARE OVER WHEN all the dreams are over. And all the long day done, And we no longer heed the stern Reveille of the sun ; 1 wonder, love, if you will be A bird that skims and skims The grasses, or a little fish That swims and swims and swims. Or will you be a blue-eyed flower. And grow just over me. And we will talk together Of all that used to be. ». 78 IV THE PALACES OF THE ROSE A Valentine WHICH of my palaces? Gold one by one, Of all the splendid houses of my throne, This day in grave thought have I over-gone: Those roofs of stars where I have lived alone Gladly with God; those blue-encompassed bowers Hushed round with lakes, and guarded with still flowers. Where I have watched a face from eve till morn, Wondering at being born — Then on from morn again till the next eve, Still with strange eyes, unable to believe; And yet, though week and month and year went by. Incredulous of my ensorcelled eye. O had I thus in trance for ever stayed. Still were she there in the reed-girdled isle. And I there still — I who go treading now Eternity, a-hungered mile by mile : Because I pressed one kiss upon her brow, — 8i THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS After a thousand years that seemed an hour Of looking on my flower. After that patient planetary fast, One kiss at last ; One kiss — and then strange dust that once was she. Sayest thou, Rose, "What is all this to me?" This would I answer, if it pleaseth thee. Thou Rose and Nightingale so strangely one: That of my palaces, gold one by one, 1 fell a-thinking, pondering which to-day. The day of the Blessdd saint Saint Valentine, Which of those many palaces of mine, 1, with bowed head and lowly bended knee. Might bring to thee. O which of all my lordly roofs that rise. To kiss the starry skies. May with great beams make safe that golden head. With all that treasure of hair showered and spread. Careless as though it were not gold at all — Yet in the midnight lighting the black hall; And all that whiteness lying there, as though It were but driven snow. 82 THE PALACES OF THE ROSE Pondering on all these pinnacles and towers, That, as I come with trumpets, call me lord. And crown their battlements with girlhood flowers, I can but think of one. 'Twas not my sword That won it, nor was it aught 1 did or dreamed. But O it is a palace worthy thee! For all about it flows the eternal sea, A blue moat guarding an immortal queen ; And over it an everlasting crown That, as the moon comes and the sun goes down, Adds jewel after jewel, gem on gem, To the august appropriate diadem Of her, in whom all potencies that are Wield sceptres and with quiet hands control; Kind as that fairy wand the evening star. Or the strong angel that we call the soul. Thou splendid girl that seemest the mother of all. Dear Ceres-Aphrodite, with every lure That draws the bee to honey, with the call Of moth-winged night to sinners, yet as pure As the white nun that counts the stars for beads; Thou blest Madonna of all broken needs, 83 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Thou Melusine, thou sister of sorrowing men, Thou wave-Hke laughter, thou dear sob in the throat, Thou all-enfolding mercy, and thou song That gathers up each wild and wandering note. And takes and breaks and heals and breaks the heart With the omnipotent tenderness of art ; And thou Intelligence of rose-leaves made That makes that little thing the brain afraid. For thee my Castle of the Spring prepares : On the four winds are sped my couriers. For thee the towered trees are hung with green; Once more for thee, O queen. The banquet hall with ancient tapestry Of woven vines grows fair and still more fair. And ah ! how in the minstrel gallery Again there is the sudden string and stir Of music touching the old instruments. While on the ancient floor The rushes as of yore Nymphs of the house of spring plait for your feet — Ancestral ornaments. 84 THE PALACES OF THE ROSE And everywhere a hurrying to and fro. And whispers saying, "She is so sweet — so sweet"; O violets, be ye not too late to blow, O daffodils be fleet: For, when she comes, all must be in its place. All ready for her entrance at the door. All gladness and all glory for her face. All flowers for her flower-feet a floor; And, for her sleep at night in that great bed Where her great locks are spread, O be ye ready, ye young woodland streams. To sing her back her dreams, t 85 SWEET LOVERS (For Gwen and Andr^) SWEET lovers! Don't you think I know This is the hour — The dawn's aglow, The world's aflower, Sweet lovers ! Sweet lovers ! Listen, were 1 you, I'd be away Across the dew, This very day — - Sweet lovers ! Sweet lovers ! Swiftly comes the noon. And then, next thing, The night is soon — Fly, wing to wing. Sweet lovers! 86 SWEET LOVERS Sweet lovers! Waste no single minute, The rest of life Has nothing in it — Fly for your life, Sweet lovers! Sweet lovers! Mark the roses yonder. How soon they fall ; Don't plan and ponder, — You'll lose it all, Sweet lovers! Sweet lovers! Kiss you while you may; Love, like a bird. Soon flies away — Ah ! take my word. Sweet lovers! 87 THE WOOD NYMPH V THE others were all around you, Singing and dancing there, The wonderful night I found you With your forest eyes and hair. Lonely as all things fair. Then the room and the people faded As you turned your eyes on me. And the woods all leafy and shaded Grew round us tree by tree. Safe, with no eyes to see. And we knew we had found each other After a thousand years; Yea! You and 1 and no other, Mated by all the spheres A-gHtter like golden tears. 88 THE WOO D NYMPH And the wild-wood murmured above us. And all the wood-land things Came thronging there to love us. Each little throat that sings. And all the painted wings. O girl, made all of wood-lilies And starry cups of dew. Not the mirrored moon so still is Or wonder-hushed as you — My moon so divinely new. The raiment that rustled around you Was all of young leaves made. That wonderful night I found you Alone in the forest-glade. So white in the green shade. For the room they sang and danced in. Though the rest were unaware, Was the wood we were entranced in. And no one else was there — Because we two were there. 8q IMMORTALITY DREAM after dream, they come and go. Face after face, Smiting a fleeting music from the heart. Aflame for a brief space — How soon they pass, Breathing a little fugitive "alas!" But only one still keeps its ancient place. Proudly apart. The same brave glow And bloom still on its face. Face after face. Yet still one face for me. Year after year, spring after spring, Snow after snow; With magic freshness and persistency. It will not go: For, being gone so many an aching year. In vain it makes pretence of vanishing To some far sphere; Still strangely it is here, Never so near. 90 IMMORTALITY When I behold the dreams that still go on, Still to be touched and to be gazed on still, And see Time's writing on their weathered brows, And mark the long endurance of old vows, Valiantly withering; 1 am most glad that face of mine is gone. The ancient sting Abates — ^yea ! almost happy I grow. Because that lovely mortal shape of her Long since did go Beyond the limits of my famished eyes, Into the Paradise Of all things fair; And with stern Death 1 make my quarrel up — For all that bitter and heart-broken cup He to my lips one April morning set : For now I see It was his wizard touch upon her brow That saves her still for me. That, having met. We never can part now. She never fade, nor ever I forget. 91 THE EVERLASTING DOORS I KNOCKED at all the iron doors, crying your name. Across the ice-bound world I sped with feet of flame, But to my ears or to my eyes no answer came. I stood beside the doors of spring, watching each shape Of blue and gold that from the dark made soft escape. Till the wide world was filled with flowers from cape to cape; And all the doors of heaven and hell lay open wide. And to the dead, not without hope, the living cried. And faint and far, as in a dream, the dead replied. Yet in that resurrection vast and rendezvous Of parted souls that did old love renew, I watched with wild and weary eyes in vain for you. Q2 DESIDERIUM THERE was such sweetness in the wood, I thought you must be there, Such wreathing and such breathing Of blossom everywhere; But no ! it was not you, my love. It was the rose instead. The rose that blows and casts its snows Above your sleeping head. There was such laughter in the wood. All made of you it seemed. The singing and the ringing. The dew that gleamed and dreamed; Your soul sang on in every bird. In every flower your eyes, So blue, so true, and all so you, Gazed out of Paradise. 93 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Yea ! all the wonder of the wood Was you and you again. All the flowering, and the showering Of the bright April rain; Yea ! nought was there, however fair. But had been you before — Ah ! for the power to turn the flower Into the girl once more. 94 „ DREAM TRYST SHE was as lovely as a flower. And, like a flower, she passed away. And yet, as in that morning hour I saw her first, 1 still to-day Her unforgotten face behold. Tender as dew, and bright as gold. Shed from her gown the old perfume. She steals like blossom to my side. Sweetens my thoughts, and fills the room, And leaves me glad and sanctified ; She still about me comes and goes, Soft as the shadow of a rose. I know she only seemed to die, 'Tis all the happier for me That no one sees her face but 1 — So would we have it, 1 and she — That no one sees us meet and part, And hold each other heart to heart. 95 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS What trysts are ours, what moments rare, What happy laughter side by side, While no one dreams that she is there. Because they think that she has died — They'd call it dreams, were 1 to tell. And so we keep our secret well. And now it is this many a year Since they have missed her from her place. Healed is the wound, and dried the tear That fell once for her vanished face; And only 1 remember her. Once so beloved and once so fair. Once!— ah! beloved, if they could know! If they as 1 could see you still. And watch your beauty lovelier grow. And feast their eyes and drink their fill Of all that breath and bloom of you — Ah! 1 might lose you, if they knew. But now no eyes but mine can see. No hands can touch, no ears can hear. And none can come 'twixt you and me. No other lover hold you dear; And Time that other beauty mars Can reach you not among the stars. 96 SILENCIEUX ALWAYS it was the same — always the same ; L I called — she heeded not; my heart ached on; Then to my side, without a word, she came, Sat with me, and, without a word, was gone: All my poor supplication was in vain. And my life stopped until she came again. Once, a whole summer day beneath the trees, I drank her beauty with my famished eyes. My head at peace upon her quiet knees; The rustle of her gown was Paradise: An altar stands for ever in the place Where once all day I looked into her face. And then a year went by, nor sight, nor word, Had I to live on whose whole life was she, Till, like the sudden singing of a bird Once more she came, and stood and smiled on me, And took a little pity on my drouth. Lifting to me the mercy of her mouth. 97 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS One night she came — the stars were in her hair — She took my head, and kissed it into rest. And then the moon rose, white and unaware, The moon — or did I dream it was her breast? I think no moon that ever walked the night, Nor any lily, was ever half so white. Then came a hush of days like none before, A distance echoing and full of dread. That seemed to tell me she would come no more, A frozen whisper saying she was dead; Yet 1, whose life she is, and so well knew Her silent ways, would not believe it true. Nor will 1 yet — ^for ever was it sof , Silent so long — so long — would she remain. Then like a spirit softly come and go: So, on a sudden, shall she come again. Step, silver-footed, out of the still air. Finger on lip — for me to follow her. 98 TILL WE FORGET IF ALL we love and all we dream Must on the wind be swept away, And all that^s brave and all that's fair Be lost like music on the air. Like blossoms on a running stream. And all our wealth be Yesterday — Still would I love, still would I dream. What though the kiss that once she gave Be hidden with her in the grave, What though the life she once did bless Withers with a great weariness. What though not any hope have I Once more to see her when 1 die, Her hallowed lips, one summer day, Made the green world to fade away — That glory burns about me yet. It cannot go — till I forget. 99 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS ^ Not to forget ! Life's art is there: To vanished faces keep our word. Thus brighter grow they, year by year. Nearer they come, and clearlier heard The voices that we used to hear — Eyes of the dead, how soft ye shine ! — Nor can that beauty ever fade Which passed into the magic shade Where Memory dreams above her shrine. Enough it is if we can hold Still in our hands our ancient gold — Gold of great hours that could not last, Yet last for ever — holden fast By faith of heart that needs no more Or better than it had before. And deems the Past the Present yet. That cannot fade — till we forget. ICO WHEN I GO WALKING IN THE WOODS WHEN I go walking in the woods, I take one thought with me. And, unaware, I find it there Beside me in the sea; Yea ! could I fly, I doubt not I Would find it in the air: . Companion of all solitudes. It is the thought of her. And, when I fall asleep at night. But for one thing I pray : The power that stole Away her soul To bring it back some day; And all my dreams. Till morning gleams. That through the day console. Smell sweet of her, with her are bright, As with an aureole. lOI THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS And, sometimes in the afternoon, When all is strange and still, When sunshine sleeps In the sea's deeps. And loiters on the hill, 1 seem to hear A footstep near, A sound of one who creeps Softly, to listen — then, too soon. The sound of one who weeps. 1 02 VIOLIN MUSIC SOMEWHERE to-night among the hills of heaven She walks, with all her stars around her; And I who lost her here on earth Grow happy, knowing God has found her. So many days along all paths of radiance Made for her feet to tread I sought her, Through all the wide lagoons of dawn And mazy lanes of moonlit water. Now know I by the path of this strange music Beyond the world she went a-straying, Almost you bring me where she walks — Ah ! for the love of God, cease not your playing. 103 LOVE AND THE WORLD'S END LONG had the far sea lured me J And the eyes of the waste, But I said: " I must stay in the town With my beautiful face, Earning our bread together — Ah! sweet to the taste As honey, wild honey, dropping the rocks a-down, And kisses for every weather." But now that no more, each morning. We look in each other's eyes. Poor as our attic sparrows. But happy as Paradise — And she in her simple adorning The Queen of the Islands of Spice; What more is the town to me That 1 like a ghost should linger? So again comes the song of the sea. That luring and lordliest singer, 104 LOVE AND THE WORLD S END And again shine the eyes of the waste. And they say: "You shall find her no more. For all the long nights you have paced. Street after street, through the town, Street after street; Vainly you knock at each door, Vainly pray for the sound of her feet, For the tender talk of her gown — Fbr she dwells no more in the town." So I think I shall go far away. To the sky-line's loneliest ends. Where the ships leave the men every day That have no more need of friends. Nothing more to do or to say ; Where the sky and the sea are alone For ever, year after year. And the near is one with the far. And the far with the near. And perhaps in some sea-sung place. Where the sands are as white as her breast, I shall see, or dream that I see. Once more my beautiful face; 105 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS And think it is I and she In the town once more together. With kisses for every weather; Our bread to earn for the day, And earning for night our rest. And so I am going away Where the sands are as white as her breast. io6 TIME AS THE days go, and as some plan /v 'Mid all my wanderings I discern, Divinely hid when 1 began This curious pilgrimage of man, — Knowing it all, yet all to learn ! — With plumed feet on the flaming quest, I come to see that Time knew best. The loss that smote my heart in twain. The bitterness of young despair, The face 1 shall not see again : Glad grow 1 of that ancient pain ; Fair though that face, and still how fair ! I do not sorrow any more — Time kept a fairer face in store. 107 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Not to have lost were loss indeed ! I smile back on the frantic boy, Alight with hope, and flushed with speed, Who could not know his spirit freed, As, one by one. Time took each joy. Each cherished bauble of desire. And sternly cast them on the fire. Thus, eased of things of no avail. Wishes that burden, dreams that die, My light boat spreads a fearless sail. Laughing alike with sun and gale. Safe as a bird is in the sky — Her cargo now is nought but gold; Her port — I have not yet been told. io8 THE ROSE SING I THE Rose sing I — yet not for me she grows; I sing the Vine — yet all untasted goes The golden cup intoxicant with fire : Be thou my Vine, and O be thou my Rose. 109 THE BALLAD OF MARY SHE was a little girl who loved the town. She had no thought in the world But to kiss and drown; Joy was she all through and through. Wild as a bird was she, As a wild rose filled with dew; Work liked she not, nor had she wish to do Aught but to laugh and love right merrily, And watch the bubbles rising in the glass — Our little Mary — sweet little Mary — Alack! and alas! It was as though she were made but of eyes and hair. And a red red mouth; No thought had she in her sweet small head, Books read she not — ^she kissed instead. Like a desert aflame with drouth; i'3 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS For, though of kisses she drained a thousand score, She would laugh unappeased and cry out for more ; She counted neither kisses nor the cost. She was very young, and some who loved her well Said "Mary will be lost — Our little Mary will go down into deep hell, Unless we send her back to the country and the grass ; For there are many hawks in the town," said they, "For little birds like you, Mary, you must not stay; You must go back and be safe with good country folk, And say your prayers again and bear the yoke. And be a good girl, Mary," — and Mary went Home very sad and obedient. And I, for one. Am very sorry for Mary, and wish she had not gone. For I know right well That, being as God made her, caring nought for birds Or flocks or herds, U4 THE BALLAD OF MARY Humdrum work of the house. Pigs and chickens and cows. The country will help her not with its stars and flowers. She will be Mary there as she was Mary here; She will still be ours. That love as she loved them the shining streets At midnight more than the Milky Way, And stolen joys and forbidden sweets; And I dare to say She had been safer here with us in the town. Than by running streams or on daisied down. For, as birds are born for the air and fish for the sea, She was not born to be good as good people be. Not born for dulness and duty, but only glee; And we who can drink the cup with a steady hand Had taught our little Mary the way to be wise Even in folly, brought her to understand The half is more than the whole. And saved her innocent eyes. And saved her soul. But now for Mary a great fear have I : There in the country, with the pigs and cows And family Bibles, she shall fret and sigh, »i5 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS And all her prisoned thoughts dream and carouse In pleasures lost — till on a sudden day Mary shall up and out and far away Back to the town. And seize the cup once more, and drain it down And kiss . . . and this time drown. ii6 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION NEVER a lovelier lady Hallowed the eyes of men. It hardly seems that Nature Can make such a face again; She walked like the early morning Over the meadows of dew — Was there ever a lovelier lady?" And the three of us sighed " It is true." And we talked of her sorrowful going. And the blank she had left behind, And the ways of the wind past knowing, And the lost that we never find. Then lo !, as we spoke to each other There passed by the open door. Lovely as Eros' mother, A girl none had seen before; 117 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS And we sprang from our lonely talking, And gazed with regretful eyes On the marvellous way of her walking — Sad men that can never be wise ! — While she passed in her insolent glory, With never a look behind ! And again we sat down to our story Of the fairness of womankind. Then one of us said: " I am thinking That when twenty years have gone by, Some men will be sitting drinking. And dreaming as you and I Of that girl and her wonderful walking That went but now by the door — And the burden of all their talking: 'There are faces like that no more.'" ii8 THE IDOL DEAR lad, let go her eyes. They seem so blue, So young and true; Yet, if you only knew, Could you be wise! If you could only see Her half as dear as she Sees you ! And all this ivory. And all this gold, O is it possible You have not been told How often, how often. They were bought and sold; What hands have dared To touch this ivory. What vulgar fingers Wandered in this gold ! 119 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Dear lad, had you but heard From those red lips — One strange dishevelled word, How white your own soul would have seemed to you! Then had you known What sits upon the throne Made by your pure heart and adoring knee; That not in her But you the worshipper The wonder lives and all the mystery; That but a mound of scented dust Is she, Shaped by your dreaming eyes That cannot see, A lamia of lust In mask of Paradise, A withered foulness, a stale harlotry! 120 TO NARCISSA— DRESSING FOR THE THEATRE YOU are not half so lovely as you deem, I know a thousand things that are more fair — Poor child, whose looking-glass is all your dream, Holding the worshipped and the worshipper Tranced in a sort of visual embrace. No eyes will ever look into your eyes As your own face looks into your own face, Fair though it be — its fairness none denies; No lover's knee will bend so long or low As you bend to this image that is you : Have you not heard of faces long ago, — Helen's and Iseult's — that were lovely too? And have you thought that, when your face is gone. Lost like a faded garment too long worn, A shrouded thing the dust and moths devour, Of all the beauty men shall look upon, Those golden faces that are yet unborn. Waiting like buds upon the earth to flower? 121 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS But, even as now your face you dote upon, I think of many fairer things there are; I will not crush you with comparison Of the young moon or of the morning star. Nor even will I match you with the rose — What woman yet was ever fair as those? But I will take this shell into my hand. Ponder its shape in faery oceans wrought, Lonely and perfect, where the coral sand Spreads its white floor, and the sea sighs its thought. I know a fish within that turquoise sea That I had rather look on all the day — Mailed like a knight, yet like a flower is he — Yes! I would rather sit and watch him sway. With crusted jewels for his foolish eyes. Poised in that liquid lapis-lazuli. Than kiss the fairest woman 'neath the skies. 1 know a snake that glides among the rocks, — Not Aphrodite naked in the spray, Nor Aphrodite with a thousand frocks. Knows such a spell to steal my wits away. 122 DRESSING FOR THE THEATRE I know a beetle made of bronze and blue, With dusty gold about his armoured thighs, — Can you believe him lovelier than you? And shall I tell you of my butterflies? Nay! I will cease, I would not bring the frown That writes the wrinkle; I too much adore The face, Narcissa, that — you love still more. A butterfly might wear that evening gown. To-night my beetle pales, my fish grows dim. My snake — yea! I grow faithless even to him. But, dear, if in your glass you once could smile, Happy in your own beauty, yet knowing too — There are a thousand things more fair than you. And beauty is but for a little while. 123 LITTLE LADY ECHO SHE is such a pretty child, With her wistful delicate ways, Her veiled mock-mystic eyes. And her mimicking art of praise, Her lisping, silvery, lies; Saying over and over, Like some daft and dreaming lover. Our idlest phrase; Ah ! how one wearies, all unbeguiled. Of the duplicate things she says. 124 TO A YOUNG GIRL 1DARE not tell a creature young as thou. Thou innocent unfolding miracle 'Twixt girl and woman ; 'tis too early now For thee, and soon for me too late, to tell. In thee I sight another's promised land That with another's milk and honey flows; Alas ! not mine is the predestined hand That shall stretch forth some day and take thy rose. Only its shadow in the morning sun Falls on the westering path my feet must take; Of all thy petals, not for pity's sake Will thy rose-gatherer spare a single one. All will he have — yea! all thy sweetness hoard. Miser of thee, though starved go all the rest; Stern keeper of the garden of thy breast. Of all thy treasure absolute dread lord. 125 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS May he be good to thee, thou Httle flower That in the morning hath so sweet a smell ; If he should only wear thee for an hour — Then shall I wish that 1 had dared to tell. 126 TO A BOY, ON THE DEATH OF HIS SWEET- HEART YOU say she died last night, and was so fair — Come, let us sit and talk, and tell me all — But twenty was she, and such golden hair! And O to-morrow is her funeral. . . . Your life goes with her — you are twenty-two? — Come, drink this glass, and tell me more of her — Her hair was gold, you said, her eyes were blue; She was too young to die, she was too fair. And all the treasure of her heart and mind Rifled and wasted, lost and gone — ah ! where? And all her beauty scattered on the wind. Like rose-leaves on the garden here and there. And nought is left for you except to die, Or be her pilgrim, till you meet once more; Hers was the loveliest face under the sky. Time never made a face like hers before. 127 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Ah ! let me go with you, and kneel and pray. And take these flowers, sweet as her young breath; And then, at the sad ending of the day. Let you and I for her give thanks to Death — Death that was kind and loved her all too well To watch her beauty wither here away. But took her while she had so sweet a smell. All in her blossom, like a hawthorn spray. Death that was kind to her is kind to you: Though eighty years shall whiten on your head, She still shall be the morning and the dew. And live for ever lovely, being dead. 128 IF I WERE RICH, LITTLE GIRL IF I were rich, little girl, little girl, I'd build you a castle all of pearl, With towers that touched the tip of the moon; Girded about with a sea-like tune Of forests black with the star-kissed pine; And I should be yours and you should be mine For ever and ever, week in — week out ; And in the forests beasts should range. Unicorns With gilded horns, And other monsters fierce and strange, To keep the vulgar out. And we should ponder all the day On the blue lotus in the moat. Or hear the hidden minstrels play On strings of gold; Or some slim lad with honeyed throat 129 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Should sing and say, After the old Provenfal way, Our love that never can grow old; Or in the scutcheoned chapel pray — If 1 were rich; ah! well-a-day. And, when the evening star began To trim its silver lamp on high. Beloved of God, forgot of man, Up many a happy winding stair. We'd laughing run. And watch the sinking of the sun. And the wide meadows of the air Filling with flowers — And kiss and turn away and sigh; Till east and west and north and south Were nought but darkness and your mouth — While eagles on the topmost towers Guarded us from the sky. If I were rich, little girl, — said I. 130 LE ROI FAINEANT I WAS born idle, and meant for summer days. Where the sea is ever blue And the palm for ever sways,— how I hate winter and all his ways! 1 was born idle to sit upon a throne, With a queen for ever You, Like a lily scarcely blown. With your eyes carved out of a big moonstone. I was born idle to dream my life away. With a young moon ever new. And the world for ever May, And the sound of streams in my ears alway. I was bom idle to lie at last in state. While the royal trumpets blew O'er a royal head too great For a world so small — and so second-rate, 131 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION " YES! I will play, but it must be with fire, Though only for an hour should be the game — I care not if I burn, so you be flame; But bring me not the small change of desire. Yes! I will sail, if you fear not to drown. If you fear not to swim the unfathomed sea, To dive into its moonlit heart with me, Hand in my hand, down deep, and still deep down. Yes! I will fly, if you fear not the height. Nor yet the depth, of all that blue abyss, — Love spans it in the lightning of a kiss — For you and me be there no lesser flight. I will not make a toy of this strange thing That, at your touch, goes calling through my veins. The god each petty amorist profanes — Your little kisses to the winds I fling. 132 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION Nor of your beauty will 1 honey take. Sipping and tasting of you like a bee; Let other smaller folk their small love make — 'Tis a far other love for you and me. But if you come to me with wild lost lips, In a great darkness made of a great light, Then shall our wings mount in an equal flight. Nor fear, though all the firmament eclipse. Though from the zenith to the pit we fall, Breast against breast, and eyes adream on eyes. We shall be one with suns and seas and skies — The power and the glory of it all. 133 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY AH ! SWEETHEART, seek not to explain . Why grass is green and skies are blue, Nor mar, with small enquiring brain. What wiser heads than I and you Pondered, yet fathomed not — 'tis best To marvel, and to leave the rest. To worship, not to comprehend. You are as lovely as you are; And so it is, enchanted friend. With water-lily and with star; And — Love, what means it? Ask as soon The meaning of the rising moon. O is it not enough to draw This breath of being, you and 1, Girt round with loveliness and awe? Why should we ask the reason why? The gods gave us this summer day To love in — not explain away. J 34 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY lips as red as yonder rose, I kiss and question not — content ; Nor spoil such poesy with prose Of what the high immortals meant — To pack with such mysterious bliss The simple action of a kiss. Nor why this fury of delight, Blent so with pathos and with pain . Ah ! love, too soon draws on the night, Kiss — lest we never kiss again ! 1 cannot tell the reason why. But I shall love you till 1 die. 135 THE SHADOW OF KNOWLEDGE 1AM too sad with knowledge not to know A dream is but a dream : So many faces covered up with snow, That had so brave a gleam. Have gone with wind and stream. They might not stay for all their valiance; Nor shall this face 1 hold. Praying to keep it mine 'gainst Time and Chance, Flooding my heart with gold. Escape, even it, the cold. Even as this summer day so hot and sweet, So deep in flowers and grass. This marble that is you from head to feet. Like some frail bloom, shall pass. Or shadow in a glass. 136 THE SHADOW OF KNOWLEDGE In vain with desperate eyes I drink your eyes, In vain with desperate hands Fold you and love you; and, with desperate lies, Would cheat the running sands — Alas ! Love understands. Yea ! and Love understands a wiser thing Even than Wisdom knows: That Joy is Joy, albeit so swift of wing, And, though so soon it goes. The Rose — ah ! 'tis the Rose. '37 AT MIDSUMMER DO YOU remember how we used to go Into the woods at midsummer? — For, after all, 'twas not so long ago — And leave our horses tethered by the stream. And then steal farther in to kiss and dream — At midsummer. A hidden place it was of rock and pine. There would we eat our bread and drink our wine. And laugh — ah ! how we laughed the laugh divine, There in the woods at midsummer. Then on a sudden grave and strange we were. With joy, like anguish, holding fast our eyes. While 1 would frame your face in your deep hair Falling across the hills of Paradise; And start, for fear 'twas foot of some chance comer. There in the woods at midsummer. 138 AT MIDSUMMER The blossoms of the year had ceased to blow. Just a green palace shorn of ornament The July woods, and surely long ago Melted the last hid snow, sans argument; Yet I found both the blossoms and the snow, There in the woods at midsummer. 139 THE WIND'S WAY // THE winds of the world for a little season Blew us together heart to heart, But now, alas! with the wind's unreason. The winds of the world must blow us apart. And thou to the north, and I to the south. Must wander away into loveless lands. With a last long anguish of mouth on mouth. And a last despair of dissevered hands. O winds of the world that blew us together. Winds of the world that blow us apart, Will it ever again be lovers' weather. Shall we ever again be heart to heart? 140 VI THE ETERNAL PLAY (To Robert H. Davis) THIRD act of the eternal play! In poster-like emblazonries, "Autumn once more begins to-day" — 'Tis written all across the trees In yellow letters like Chinese. A classic of the antique school, Of which 'twere all in vain to tire, Writ to inexorable rule, And fed with stern dramatic fire — Ah ! Demiurgus of the lyre. Lovely as stern the art that wields The rock, the rainbow, and the rose. Scatters blue flowers along the fields. Alike the bolt of thunder throws. And from its hand lets fall the snows. 143 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS How many hundred centuries Hath run this play, with ne'er a pause! That which this living audience sees Thrilled all the dead to wild applause — And yet the strange old drama draws. No need to change the piece a whit — The audience changes all the time; New millions crowd to witness it. Each hour the clock beats out a chime: This ancient masterpiece of rhyme. For never rhyme was like to this. Since star matched star across the deep. Or sound with sound first learned to kiss. And Time was given this rhythm to keep Of song and sunshine, dreams and sleep. Not all alike adjudge the play : Some laugh, some weep, and some there be Deem the old classics's had its day, And some scarce any of it see. Nodding in witless apathy. 144 THE ETERNAL PLAY And Others more than all the rest One act out of the four prefer — Spring, in her wind-flower draperies drest. Or Summer, with her bosom bare; Winter than these some deem more fair. Some, mayhap melancholic, deem Autumn the meaning of the play — The smile that says, "Twas all a dream!" The sigh that says, " I can but stay A little while, and then away"; The rustling robe of joy that ends. The moon-cold kiss upon the brow, The fading sail of sea-sped friends, The love that is another's now. The voice that mourns, "Ah! where art thou?" For all her purple and her gold. Autumn hath such a tale to tell — The tale that tells us all is told; Yea ! but she tells it wondrous well. Weaving strange hope into her spell : 145 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS' The hope that, when we sit no more At this old play, and needs must go Through yonder shrouded exit door, The mystic impresario Hath still for us a stranger show. 146 TO THE SKUNK CABBAGE Wl LL no one sing thee? Then will 1 . The violet, though herself should die, Hath songs to keep her living still; The laureates of the daffodil Fill half the painted books of song; And, all the perfumed summer long, For every magic hour she blows, A thousand minstrels hath the rose. Ah ! what a pampered state is theirs. Nursed by soft rains and April airs. Spoiled darlings of the earth and sky; Whilst thou in fetid swamps must lie. Outcast from kindness, as from fame. Banned by an evil-smelling name. Yet, who, as thou, when all is drear, The dark beginning of the year. Lifts up so brave a torch on high. In boggy woodlands black with mire. Leaping with sudden urns of fire — •47 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS The only brightness in the world? And not another leaf uncurled In all the landscape far or near — Of all the glories of the year The mocked resplendent pioneer. 148 THE SNOWDROP THE snow and the rain are falling together. And there on my window-pane The frost makes pictures out of my sighs — As I watch for those everlasting eyes That I shall not see again, April or winter weather. Yet the snowdrop whispers under the snow: " 1 too am dwelling beneath the ground, But in spring you shall see me blow, Like a long-lost jewel found; And your two bright sleeping eyes Shall wake as they were before. And your long-lost face shall rise Through the soft green grave-yard floor. There is much music underground," Said the snowdrop under the snow. 149 DOGWOOD '/ IF EARTH had nothing else to speak for her. Her only lovely vindication thou. Thou in a cindered waste the sole thing fair. Framed in the dross and basalt of despair. But only thy dew-drenched siderial bough A lonely witchcraft there. If the great sea were not, with all its blue. And forests with green continents of dew; If all were wilderness, and brutish things. Travail of wallowing slime and shuddering stone, No plumage gay and happy flight of wings, But only thou alone — There 'mid fanged horror and abysmal storm. And boiling floods and drift of flaming sleet; Annunciation magically sweet. Thy frail triumphant form, A lovely spectre from the dark up-sent. Radiantly innocent ; 150 DOGWOOD It were enough assurance that some soul Of starry purpose through the blindness moved, And, 'mid the hard-wrung travail of the whole. That something dreamed and loved. One spray of dogwood, though the rest were hell. Were faith enough, enough of miracle. The heart and end of being to foretell. Eyes that in spring have seen the dogwood shine Need ask from earth no other seal or sign, Nor fear at last within that mould to lie That lifts such fairness from the darkling deep, Perfect against the singing April sky — Nor shrink in such a bed to fall asleep. i;i LADY APRIL SO, APRIL, here thou art again, Thou pretty pretty lady ! With broidered skirts of sun-kissed rain- A grown-up girl already ! Thy sister May Is on her way, And June, with tresses shady; But, of the three, I love best thee — Thou pretty pretty lady! Thou hauntest all the sobering year. With echoes of thy laughter; And life is nought till thou appear. And but remembrance after. Though Autumn's yield From garth and field Run o'er from floor to rafter. Thy wild-rose breast Haunts all the rest. And makes it poor with laughter. 152 WOOD FLOWER 1 FOUND a flower in the wood, Growing softly by some water; Had I plucked it when I could. The old wild-wood's fairy daughter — Not thus vainly had I sought her. So deep a spell was on me laid, I might not stretch my hand to take her. So fragile she, 1 was afraid Even my lightest touch would break her — And now, alas, what voice shall wake her! 153 THE LITTLE RILLS THE little rills That from the hills Come trickling down to feed the river. That sing unheard Save by poet and bird — Each little giver To the great river. The Seine and the Thames Have lordly fames, And the Rhine and the Po 'Neath laurels flow; But the little streams. With their whispered dreams. May sing forever. And no one know. Would I could make A song for their sake ! But I myself go singing unheard, Save once in a while by poet and bird. •54 SWEETHEART APRIL ^ IMMORTAL sweetheart of the year, April, old Winter's darling; The young frogs in the reedy mere. Long before 1, knew you were here; So did the starling. The old wood knew it long ago. For he had felt you stealing, To press your lips beneath the snow Where the arbutus creeps to blow. Shyly concealing. Still prisoned, too, the ice-hung stream. With half-heard laughing water. Sang low of you, as in a dream. To every Wandering breeze and beam, — Earth's dazzling daughter, «55 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS That now, like some young maenad flings Her flaming heart on gladness. Yet hath in all the songs she sings, 'Mid all the wildness and the wings. The ache of sadness. Sing to a younger heart than mine. Sweet April ! promise-maker, Dear sorceress of shower and shine. Duping us still with dreams divine, O April, promise-breaker! 156 A SUMMER DAY WORK? Not to-day! Ah! no— that were to do The gracious face of heaven a surly wrong, Bright day so manifestly made for song. And sweep of freedom's wings into the blue. Divinely idle, rather let us lie. And watch the lordly unindustrious sky. Nor trail the smoke of little busy cares Across its calm — Work? Not to-day! not I ! Work? Why, another year . . . one never knows But this the flowering last of all our years; Which of us can be sure of next year's rose? And 1, that have so loved them all my days. Not yet have learned the names of half the flowers. Nor half enough have listened to the birds. IS? THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Nay! while the marvel of the May is ours, Earth's book of lovely hieroglyphic words Let's read together, each green letter spell. And each illuminated miracle. Decking the mystic text with blue and gold — That Book of Beauty where all Truth is told. Let's watch the dogwood, holding silver trays Of blossom out across the woodland ways, Whiter than breast of any mortal girl's; And hark! yon bird flinging its song like pearls, Sad as all lovely things fore-doomed to die — Work? Not to-day! Ah! no — not you, not I. •58 TO A MOUNTAIN BROOK f/ YOU could not sing, nor yet could I, If all your path ran smooth as glass, A moving mirror of the sky, In a long frame of quiet grass, With fleur-de-lis and arrow-head. To grace you as you pass : You need rough pebbles for your bed. And the ledged rock to make you strong. Hurling you down from height to height In frenzied leaps of panic white, — To make you fierce for song; Boulders that dance you round and round With guttural jollities of sound, And gullies grim. And caverns dim. And floors of shale, and walls of slate; And many a time to lose your way, 'Mid snag and snarl and scummed morass. Making a dolorous delay 159 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS In your bright wayward travelling — Nothing to do but brim and wait. Till, like the opening of a gate. The valley comes, and down you fling, Knowing so many songs to sing. So many warbling ways of rhyme, Kissed sweet again with mint and thyme, Full throated with a thousand springs — A singing victor, proud and strong. That made of rocks his vowelled song. 1 60 THE SECRET OF THE WOODS THE secret of the woods lies close, Behind a thousand leafy doors; The mountain laurel and the rose Make fair the winding corridors Through which my frequent footstep goes Along the velvet mossy floors; The rustling arras swings aside. And swings behind me, as 1 fare; But still the woods their secret hide. Yet is it whispered everywhere. And every creature there, save I, Knows it by heart : the bee could tell. Had it a mind; the butterfly Floats with it painted on its wings; Even the woodchuck knows it well, And nothing else the cat-bird sings. Would I were as these soul-less things, i6i THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS These beings of the element. Soul-less, yet all of spirit blent. Wild essences of fire and dew — Then had mine ears been more attent. And I had known the secret too. 162 THE LAST SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE TO THE ROSE ERE thou must fade, and I must go Along the pathway of the snow. Divine companion, whom to praise I sang my secret roundelays Through all the golden nights of June, While stole the young eavesdropping moon To listen, and the night stood still To make a silence for my song; O Marvel, ere thy petals spill Upon the garden grass, my tongue To sing thee to thy sleep is fain — Till, as of old, thou comest again. So many ages thou and I Have bloomed and sung and seemed to die. Losing to find, finding to lose, — • Thou chalice of enchanted dews. Thou being born of the soft breath Of Beauty through a thousand springs. With bosom bared, flaunting at death ; 163 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Thou little shape that gathers up All colour in one magic cup, And to the eye a glory brings Past the magnificence of kings. Since I was bird, and thou wert rose. Constant across the gulfs of Time, Even as a poet shapes his rhyme Till with a perfect art it goes. So I thy beauty strove to sing In music lordlier each Spring- Yet shall my song forever be But as a shadow cast by thee. 1 go into the dark, as thou — For lo! the red leaf on the bough Signals the passage and decay Of Beauty's transitory day; Yet shall 1 ponder, as we lie Far from the summer-scented sky. Nearer to thee in song to climb. When I, with sure resurgent Time, At twilight, in some garden close. Am bird once more, and thou a rose. 164 SEPTEMBER I THAT loved Spring am Autumn's lover now, Impatient for the passing of the rose. And glad, I scarce know why, that Summer goes, With all her noisy splendours — ah ! but thou. Grey-eyed September, thee do 1 avow My mistress, till the last effacing snows — Thou passion that hast learned a queen's re- pose, I bring thee Youth grown Wisdom, Time knows how. For in thine heart, as in thy haunted eyes. Memory and youth in one enchantment blend. And, still more wonderful than thou art wise. Though fair as April — how much more a friend ! Not for the lips of an unlearned boy Is mingled thy strange cup of fearful joy. 165 AUTUMN THE autumn tints! ah! yes, I know — The glories of the afterglow! But who would give one day of spring For this fantastic motley thing? This tapestry is woven fair With yellow leaves and leaves blood-red — So on an Eastern sepulchre The gaudy patterned rugs are spread; This painted woodland — be it said — Bannered and blazoned with decay. Is like a minster, where the dead Lie laurelled, waiting Judgment Day, In scutcheoned vault and sculptured urn. With withered garlands dryly decked; In vain some random glories burn. Where all is woe-begone and wrecked. 166 AUTUMN 'Tis but a waving arras screen. Moved by the sad autumnal wind, Hiding, like some theatric scene. The final change that lurks behind. 'Tis but a vaunt of doomed things: The golden-rod all vainly blows, And, purple as the pall of kings. The aster vainly apes the rose. So spake I, dreary as the rain. Sobbing against the window pane. Sad as the wind that at my door Went crying "Never — Nevermore." 167 LA CIGALE (ForJ. R.) 1 FOUND him limping in the grass — Poor Httle shivering fellow! He had not many days, alas! For all the leaves were yellow. 1 took him in beside the stove, And fed him beads of honey. And brought a brother-singer's love — He never asked for money. And soon he gave a chirp or two. And seemed quite brave and jolly; And, as he sipped his golden brew, Sang — "Down with melancholy!" i68 THE GARDEN GOD MY GARDEN prospers not, unless 1 bring To the old garden god his offering. Each day at dawn, and then at eve again ; In vain 1 water, and 1 weed in vain. Am vainly suppliant to the sullen seed. Unless the god of gardens intercede. Far down the flickering orchard is his shrine, With canopy of every wandering vine Roofed in ; and rippling poplars, all day long, Bring him their delicately whispered song; While, in his leafy chancel comes and goes Incense of honeysuckle and wild rose; And the great candles of his altar are, Each day, the morning and the evening star. The thrush and blackbird are his choristers, And in his keeping all the little cares Of little lives, and little frightened prayers. 169 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS To him the firstlings of the flowering spring I, with a heart devout and jocund, bring: The infant snowdrop that the winter dares. The crocus that in sudden flame up-rears. The first shy violet, the first daffodil. Blowing his yellow trumpet on the hill; Cherry and apple bloom in hand bring 1, And fairy almond boughs so quick to die. Then, when the fury of the spring is spent. And bloom on fruit and berry is intent. The first red apple sweetening on the bough I bring, with happy heart and pious vow. And, all the summer and the autumn through. First flowers and fruits 1 bring, in order due. Till, with the yellow and the crimson leaves, The purple grapes are come and golden sheaves. Then 1 with ears of corn bedeck the shrine. And globed clusters of the gladdening vine; And, when the year grows to its sorrowing close, Nor on the earth is left a single rose. But the sad aster and the golden-rod Over the dying landscape dream and nod. 170 THE GARDEN GOD For his last garland weave 1 even these, 'Mid thinning bowers and sighing memories; Till the first snow-flakes come a-fluttering down And make of their cold flowers his winter crown. 171 PAN YE THAT have deemed of Pan as shepherds sing, With soft pipe fluting in some leafy dale. Know of the earthquake too is he the king. And where the violet-sloped volcanoes fling Their lovely unloved streams into the vale. Dear to his heart, no less than gentle rills Touching the whispering music from the reeds. The rainbowed lava flooding through the hills. Fairer by every faery thing it kills. And decked with flowers no poet plucks or heeds. Yea! of the winter, too, is he the lord, And for his pleasaunce and his mansion takes The pinnacled ice of polar wastes abhorred. Even as some brambled bower on a green sward; Alike the windflower and the mountain shakes, 172 PAN Hearirjg his tread; and, as some iron string. No less the pines vibrate than each soft dome Chimes in a maiden's breast when he doth sing- For from the lips of this rock-hearted king Falls sweetness as of honey from the comb. >73 SEA-SORCERY DI D you ever feel this about the sea. In her huge enfolding ecstasy Lost as you lay, Adream and asway — That you yourself were about to be Rock and sea-weed, and even as she? That you swayed and swung on the brink of a change, A wordless glory, a wild and strange Translation blindingly swift and sweet; That, a moment more. And a secret door. As it were, would open and take you in, ' And you and the sea be kin and kin, And the land nevermore be pressed of your feet. Ah! when your heart is filled full with the sea, And your body hangs poised, like a crystal sphere, In an infinite ether of mystical glee, 174 SEA-SORCERY Streamed through and through, Like the sunlit dew. With a glory of gold. And a glory of blue; With the delicate vastness of heaven as near And soft as a flower or a tear; Flesh no more, but a thing to hold Joy like a cup and song like a bird: Only in music is hidden the word For the height and the depth of your ecstasy. Lost in a palace of light, and alone. As a god is alone, with the sea. O then of the sea have a care! In that moment of high content Is the mystical snare; It was that the wise Greek meant By the sea-nymph and her hair. Call back your heart, lest it fill Too full of felicity. Your mortal heart, lest it break With too much of divinity. And the soul of waters enter in. And you and the sea be kin and kin ! Ah ! then shall you watch, as she sways and sings, The earth and its folk as alien things. 175 ELEMENTAL COMRADES WHEN you are sad, always remember this— The sea is blue forever. And nothing in the sky can go amiss; The promise of the stars was broken never. Always the tide is punctual to the weed. And to the little barnacle that waits. Sighing for love of it in its great need. Yea, great and small miraculously are mates. Calling and answering one unto the other: Why, therefore, sad? Something on sea or land Your lovely sister is, or your brave brother. Waiting mysteriously to take your hand. Thus, understanding that all things that are — Volcanoes and the yellow butterfly. The coral climbing to the evening star — Are one together, shall not you and I Be brave from all this wonder, and have faith That colour is man's comrade, and those forms Meaningless save for beauty that nothing saith? And know, long since, man was the friend of storms. 176 SAILING BLUE sea and white sail All day together. From moon-set to moon-rise, Not a sign of weather ! Hid like some deep-sea pearl, Deep in the heart a girl — ■ Like the sea singing. Foaming sea-laces — Ah ! for her breast, Ever a-stirring. Ever at rest ; Far-oflF sea-spaces Meeting the skies. All the world's distance Dwells in her eyes, All the world's sorrow At the heart lies — Like the sea sighing. 177 MORNING AT SEA OUT of the constant east the breeze Brings morning, like a wafted rose, Across the glimmering lagoon, And wakes the still palmetto trees. And blows adrift the phantom moon. That paler and still paler glows Up with the anchor — let's be going! O hoist the sail — and let's be going! Glory and glee Of the morning sea — Ah ! let's be going. Under our keel, a glass of dreams. Still fairer than the morning sky, A jewel shot with blue and gold. The swaying clearness streams and gleams; A crystal mountain smoothly rolled O'er magic gardens flowing by 178 MORNING AT SEA Over we go the sea-fans waving. Over the rainbow corals paving The deep-sea floor; No more, no more. Would I seek the shore To make my grave in— O sea-fans waving. 1^9 CORAL ISLES AND TROPIC SEAS THE dotted cays. With their little trees. Lie all about on the crystal floor; Nothing but beauty — Far ofl' is duty. Far off the folk of the busy shore. The mangroves stride In the coloured tide. With leafy crests that will soon be isles; And all is lonely — White sea sand only. Angel-pure for untrodden miles. In sunny bays The young shark plays. Among the ripples and nets of light ; And the conch-shell crawls Through the glimmering halls The coral builds for the Infinite. 180 CORAL ISLES AND TROPIC SEAS And every gem In His diadem, From flaming topaz to moon-hushed pearl. Glitters and glances In swaying dances Of waters adream like the eyes of a girl. The sea and the stars. And the ghostly bars Of the shoals all bright 'neath the feet of the moon ; The night that glistens. And stops and listens To the half-heard beat of a timeless tune. Here Solitude To itself doth brood. At the furthest verge of the reef-spilt foam ; And the world's lone ends Are met as friends. And the homeless heart is at last at home. i8i HOMEWARD BOUND ACROSS the scarce-awakened sea. With white sail flowing, And morning glowing, I come to thee — I come to thee. Past lonely beaches And gleaming reaches. And long reefs foaming, Homing — homing A-done with roaming, I come to thee. The moon is failing, A petal sailing, Down in the west That bends o'er thee; And the stars are hiding. As we go gliding Back to the nest — Ah! back to thee. 182 BEATUS VI R. ' HAPPY is the man who loves the woods and waters, Brother to the grass, and well-beloved of Pan; The earth shall be his, and all her laughing daugh- ters — Happy the man. Never grows he old, nor shall he taste of sorrow, Happy at the day's end as when the day began. Yesterday forgotten, unshadowed by To-morrow, — Happy the man. Fellowed by the mountains, ne'er his heart is lonely. Talked to all day by rivers as they ran. The earth is his love, as he who loves one only — Happy the man. His gossips are the stars, and the moon-rise his tavern ; He who seeks a better find it if he can — And O his sweet pillow in the ferny cavern ! Happy the man. 183 A WALKING SONG 7 WITH a Shakespeare in my pocket, and an English briar, With a brook to run beside me, and the morning at its spring, With the climbing road before me, and the moun- tains catching fire, 1 feel as 1 imagine it must feel to be a king. Be it April or October, wild-rose or silk-weed pod. The larch's tender green, or the maple's ban- nered gold. With my briar for my comrade, and my Shakes- peare for my god, I wonder what the people mean that talk of growing old. 184 A WALKING SONG "The Muses love the morning," wrote Erasmus long ago. And the only place to meet the gods is on the hills at morn ; There still the sacred asphodel, and mystic myrtle grow. And Memnon sings with joy, because another day is born. O up into the radiance, for ever on and on. Be it hoar-frost on the pasture, or blossom on the vine. With a briar breathing incense, and a song to lean upon, A song from "As You Like It" — is to lead the life divine. i«5 RECANTATION 1HAVE loved women's faces Time and again, But I would rather be Somewhere at sea. With the foaming sea-laces, The sea without stain, Than all the embraces. I would rather watch a river flowing. Or a wild-rose blowing. Or the swallows that skim. Or the fish as they swim ; I would rather watch the moon rise. Or the coming of morn, Than look in the eyes Of woman born. I would rather watch the wild bees All my days. And give God the praise. Than woman and her ways. 1 86 THE CLOISTER 1 WOULD be left alone with this great love That is upon me for eternal things; Come not between me and this passionate hour — 1 would not gather any mortal flower; I would stay thus all day, nor ever move Nearer to aught that limitation brings. I crave no friendly touch of outstretched hands. Nothing that loves again or understands. Almost too much of meaning hath this stream, Too near to music; yea, and yonder birds Too near to human loving for my dream. That hath not hands nor feet, nor thoughts, nor words. I would have nothing nearer me than trees. Nearer to understanding than the hills. Nearer to loving than the stars or seas. 187 VII BALLADE AGAINST THE ENEMIES OF FRANCE (Franfois Villon) OMAY he meet with dragons belching fire, Like Jason, he who sought the fleece of gold ; Or to a beast, till seven long years transpire, Like Nabugodonozor, king of old. Be changed; or smitten with as vast a woe As Helen's rape brought Troy-town long ago; Or swallowed be within those bogs of hell Where Tantalus and Proserpina dwell ; More than Job's sorrows be his evil chance. Close-snared as Daedalus of whom men tell. Who could wish evil to the realm of France ! Four months head-downward in the marsh's mire, Even as the bittern may he cry ; or, sold To the Grand Turk for cash, in harness dire, Toil like a bull; or, as the tale is told Of Magdalen, for thirty long years go Sans wool or linen — ^yea! unvestured so; igi THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Drowned like Narcissus be he; or, as befel To Absalom, hang by the hair; 'twere well Judas' dread end were his, or circumstance Of horror strange as Simon Magus' spell. Who could wish evil to the realm of France ! Were but Octavian king — runs my desire — With molten coin, so slowly growing cold. To fill his belly ; or might he expire Between revolving mill-stones crushed and rolled^ Like good Saint Victor; or in the choking flow Of ocean drown, fate worse than Jonah's know In the great whale; him from thy light expel, Phoebus; and, Venus — punishment more fell- Deny him thy sweet self; and ii outrance Curse him. High God, with curse ineffable Who could wish evil to the realm of France ! ENVOI Prince, may Eolus forth on winds compel His soul, where, sunk beneath the ocean's swell. The woods of Glaucus gloom, and never glance Of hope can fall — in him what good can dwell Who could wish evil to the realm of France ! 192 AFTER THE WAR AFTER the war — I hear men ask — ^what then? . As though this rock-ribbed world, sculptured with fire, And bastioned deep in the ethereal plan, Can never be its morning self again Because of this brief madness, man with man ; As though the laughing elements should tire. The very seasons in their order reel. As though indeed yon ghostly golclen wheel Of stars should cease from turning, or the moon Befriend the night no more, or the wild rose Forget the world, and June be no more June. How many wars and long-forgotten woes Unnumbered, nameless, made a like despair In hearts long stilled; how many suns have set On burning cities blackening the air, — Yet dawn came dreaming back, her lashes wet With dew, and daisies in her innocent hair. '93 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Nor shall, for this, the soul's ascension pause. Nor the sure evolution of the laws That out of foulness lift the flower to sun. And out of fury forge the evening star. Deem not Love's building of the world undone — Far Love's beginning was, her end is far; By paths of fire and blood her feet must climb. Seeking a loveliness she scarcely knows, Whose meaning is beyond the reach of Time. '94 CHARLES FROHMAN: MAY 25, 191 5 FRIEND of an art that is the whole world's friend, A whole world brings its laurels and its tears. And love amazing — love, the busy years. Inured to the long loss, that none may mend. Of the diurnal multitudinous dead. Pause but how seldom from their tasks to bring To any laurelled head. Surely to no mere king, Or cold achievement seated on a throne. Wearing the golden armour of its fame. Such sorrow ever came. Frohman, some nobler thing We mourn the loss of, mourning thus for you. Than any deed or any power to do. Something we hardly knew 195 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Till that last moment of your going hence. With those strange words so simply on your tongue. Words that aifirmed beyond all powers of song The soul's magnificence. O in a book 'twere wisdom easy said. Or in some poplar-whispering academe. Where all man's doings turn into a dream — "A beautiful adventure" — to be dead; Or, in long pauses of one's dying breath. To turn some splendid compliment to death. But you no leisure had, or warning given. The stable world yawned to an instant grave; You, looking on the gulf that hell had riven. First thought of little frightened lives to save, Then on the opening doors your quiet gaze You turned, and, like a player, took your call. Ah! he who said "the readiness is all," In all his tale of man's heroic breath. Hath no such readiness as this to tell Of any soul and death. "The beautiful adventure!" — to take leave Like that ! — ^we grieve, yet cannot grieve 196 CHARLES FROHMAN: MAY 25, I915 For that poised soul, who, through the common ways Of the world's business, carried all his days That thought eternal, ready all the while To greet the mystic summons with a smile. And you, O world that mourns him, bethink, too. That he who left that challenge there for you To make a bright beginning of the end. Was neither priest nor poet — but the friend Of player-folk, of many theatres lord, A play-house man, of piety abhorred. 197 A MERRY BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS // WITH old familiar sign, The festival divine Ruddies the snow-clogged way; Butchers and toy-shops flame, — Because the Lord Christ came To wash our sins away. Without 'tis merry, snowing, A-roaring and a-blowing; Within the wine is flowing. And men and maids are jolly. With mistletoe and holly— Because the Lord Christ gave Himself our souls to save. Yet, underneath the singing. The fiddling and the flinging, A thought I cannot still Stalks like a guest unbidden. Steals like a secret hidden, 198 A MERRY BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS Laying its fingers chill Upon the heart of mirth That laughs for Jesu's birth- (Fie on such melancholy, With mistletoe and holly !) From an old book 1 read. Somewhere within my head The story lingers Of a grim castle-hold. In dreaming days of old. And knights and singers. And ladies clad in vair. And a great feasting there. Torches and swords in air : Then, in some lull of mirth, From far beneath the earth. Came there a wailing — The wind was it? wailing — A voice of woe so vast It held the feasters fast: So might the lost in hell Pierce, for a little spell, The peace of Paradise With uncouth cries. . . . 199 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Once more the feasters laughed, Cozened their feres and quaffed, — 'Twas but the knaves that lay. Far from the light of day. Beneath their dancing feet. Rotting and raving. Chained down with rats and slime. Lost out of space and time — (Souls not worth saving !) So kept they Lord Christ's day. In the time fled away. What was my thought, though? Hearken the whispering snow Against the pane — Lord Christ ! the wind doth blow A wild refrain ; Louder, O music, play. Nimbler, O dancers, glide. . . . Nay! music cease to play. Dancers a space abide — Hearken yon wailing! The wind is it — wailing? 200 A MERRY BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS Nay 'tis the folk that lie Out in the night there. The men that starve and die Far from the light there; From oubliettes of pain. From wheel and rack and chain. Beneath your dancing feet. Tripping so fleet, so sweet. From folk that rave and rot. Forsaken and forgot. Comes the wild wind's refrain, Comes all that wailing — To-day, as long ago, Long as the wind shall blow. Long as the snow shall snow. . . . (But merry is the street. And merry is the hall. And a Merry Christmas, gentles all !) 201 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE: A NEW YORK PICTURE HIGH at a window on the nineteenth floor. We talked, my friend and I. Across the way, The iron frame of one new building more Grew as we watched it, with incessant scream Of hoisting engines, iron chirp and drone. Like giant crickets, 'mid the steel and stone. Of rivet-drivers, pounding shaft and beam; And through the mighty hubbub something gay Throbbed like a tune, and held one like a dream. Pipe in his mouth, with nonchalant sure feet. One stood above the roaring dizzy street. Back to the gulf, with careless jesting face. Waving directions to the engineer, Swinging a girder gently into place ; And from a smithy, glowing there in space. Another to a laughing lad below, 202 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE Straddling a narrow rib of the gaunt frame. Tossed rivets white and molten — like a game — Pitcher and catcher; cigarette on lip, A battered bucket — if his hand should slip ! — The lad holds out ; like two clowns at a show. Spinning their hats as though the skill were nought, The flaming bolts from one to the other go, Light as a feather in the bucket caught. So bees work 'mid the hum and roar of hives. Each at his task. My friend said : " Do you know For each such building men must lose their lives? It is as sure, almost as sure, as though. When the contractor figures out the cost. So many tons of pressure floor by floor. He wrote — 'So many lives of workmen lost.' Of course, the figures vary, less or more. But always some of these poor lads must die. Before the topmost story scrapes the sky." Silent, we watched again the man up there. Perched on the edge of nothing, like a fly, Jesting across his precipice of air. And wondered if he'd be the one to die. 203 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS We watched the bucket, in a kind of dream. Catch the candescent bolts the smithy flings. As though his fellow tossed him some ice-cream — He lights another cigarette, and sings. "Always the human sacrifice!" 1 said — And " 1 remember somewhere to have read How in old Greece and Rome, and later, too. When they would build a temple or a tower — Things that we go to gaze on, I and you. Still, in their ruins, lovely as a flower — In the foundations, that the work might thrive. Smiled on by gods above and gods below. They sometimes buried some poor soul alive — Much the same thing, though that was long ago! Yes! there's a bridge in France that spans the Rhone, With lordly arches of immortal stone. Repairing which, 'tis said, some workmen found A seated skeleton of crumbling bone. There in a little chamber in the ground, Guarding with eyeless eyes the bridge's gate; Thus was the bridge made safe, the augurs said. The Gods of Darkness thus propitiate. For feet of living wayfarers to tread. 204 THE HUMAN SACRIFICE The human sacrifice! Now, just as then, Here by the Hudson, as there by the Rhone, These haughty towers on bones of broken men. Climb to the sky, and glitter in the sun ; Beneath the ball-room floors dead workmen lie. Light feet above their nameless ashes glide. No one remembers when or how they died : A foot that slipped, a long despairing cry, A hurrying ambulance with icy clang, A muffling sheet, through which the warm blood drips — Ah! that young voice that from the girder sang. . . . This cigarette still smoking from his lips I" 205 OUR LADY OF PITY MAN of new wonders ever loves to tell : The ship that sails the air; the voice that flies Across a world, at touching of a bell ; The picture that shall flash for unborn eyes The deeds and dances mote-like in the sun Of us that live now, and so soon are gone — Each radiant step that from the dark ascends The star-lit ladder of the climbing brain; The patient will that to its purpose bends The dread immortals to a mortal gain. Turning old terrors into magic friends, Making a toy of thunder . . . . . . but most my thought Ponders on marvels man has half forgot — The far beginnings of these shining ends; And, chief of these, when pity first began — That strange, far moment when another's woe Stirred in the brutish clay yet scarcely man. And the first tear was shed — how long ago ! — 206 OUR LADY OF PITY And lips uncouth first stammered love's first word, Strange as the first far song of the first bird. Surely it was a woman, as she pressed. Unknowing why she loved it, to her breast The babe so strangely hers, so softly curled There in her arms; the little flickering flame That out of blackness into being came To her, 'mid all the welter of the world. And, maybe, looking on her tenderness, Man's fierceness stumbled to a rough caress; Till lo! this marvel through long ages grew — Man learned a kindness for the thing he slew. Mother divine! yea, even now as then Save us with pity from a world of men ; For, now as then, with war and weeping wild. Woman has still the whole sad world for child. 207 ELIXIR VIT/E SO MUCH must I forego that once did make A keen and racing music in my blood : No more at founts of passion may I slake The spirit's thirst, nor all fair things for food With appetite of youthful lust devour; Nor speed to fiery ends, nor soar in flame ; Nor crowd all gain and loss into an hour; Nor shake a universe to build a name. Age lays its muting fingers on the strings. Yet, in the silence, something inward sings. And something sees with strangely wakened eyes; Time, like a chemist, from the past distils An essence by whose might the spirit flies Swift as a shooting star along the hills. 208 WHEN I AM VERY OLD WHEN I am very old and none there is To lift their lips to mine, a flower's cup. When I have drunken all life's vintage up, And none shall find me good to see or touch. And only Death shall find me good to kiss ; I think I shall not sorrow overmuch. So long as April bares her flowering breast In secret woodlands, and, with eyes of dew, Lies to the others as once to me and you ! 209 THE WORLD IS STILL A SONG TO ME f THE world is still a song to me, A little sadder grown, Less of the lark in it, maybe, More of the undertone Of wind and sea. The surge of Time, the to and fro Of restless, radiant things. Flowing along as rivers flow. For ever taking wings. Eager to go. Yet no less sweet upon the tongue The words of the old tune. Though every May that comes along Is all too swiftly June — Still, still a song! 210 WHEN I AM GONE WHEN I am gone, over the silent sky The birds will fly— Ah ! how the birds will sing When I am gone; And the blue eye Of some unborn and beautiful young thing Will watch them fly, And her young heart will break to hear them sing- When 1 am gone. 211 TWO LOVERS (To Howard and Lucy Hinton) THE loveliest lovers that 1 know Wear on their heads two crowns of snow; It is a fashion of the hair Upon their heads both brave and fair. Their beauty, more from day to day, Time gave, but cannot take away. A girlish bloom her face still wears. But no girl in a thousand years Had ever yet a face like hers; Nor any youth at twenty's prime Glanced like this emperor of Time. Ah, girl, entranced before your glass. If but for you the years shall pass As for this twain, you need not fear For all this beauty now so dear; 212 TWO LOVERS For it shall grow a fairer thing. Now 'tis a blank unmeaning page. That doth Jjut callow boys engage; The nobler meanings Time shall bring, The lovely writing of the soul. As on some bright illumined scroll, Shall tell a golden story there; And lovelier still your face shall be, Of lasting sweets the honeyed hive. Though you should then be eighty-three. And he, your love, be eighty-five. 213 ON GROWING OLD GROWING old— did you say? Well, if years must be told, I suppose one is old ; For this surely is gray That as surely was gold, And one's years in the sun Grow fewer to run ; Where you dream, I have done. Where you fight, I have won — If that's to be old. But, is this to be old? To love like a boy. To drink all the joy Of the green and the blue Of the earth, like a toy Made of wonder and dew; 214 ON GROWING OLD To taste all things new, As the newest of moons. As the latest of tunes, As the brightest of spoons ; To find all things magic — Laughing or tragic — All marvel and mirth, Nothing else on the earth- Nothing common or stale; Life all nightingale. All rainbow and rose. All song and no prose; All dreaming of dreams. And running of streams; And death a new star Drawing near from afar — Is that to be old? 215 VIII THE POET T OVER of women and of words, L-rf Driven the wind's way north and south, Be-fooled by blossoms and by birds. He wanders with his singing mouth; Yet wanders not, nor yet is driven. Nor yet be-fooled in any wise. For unto him a chart is given Of all the stars in all the skies. What matters if his feet shall stray. Where small pedestrians keep the track. When, with light tread, And laughing head, He firmly walks the Zodiac, Going his own appointed way; For never ship upon the sea Was half so sure of port as he. 219 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Disaster and despair he drinks As men in taverns drinking wine, For him the lower the sun sinks So much the earlier shall it shine, And all the world be blue with morn. For this strange reason was he born: Out of his folly to be wise. Out of the bitter to bring sweet. To sing into a Paradise, And fill it full of dancing feet. The saddest heart, the blackest street. And striving always in a dream Word after word secure to place In the built music of his scheme. The mystic pattern of his verse; To match them with a woman's face, Or with the ghostly Universe. Always the words ! as he who tries. With his stern finger, string by string, The wood his bow shall make to sing. And with one stroke mount up the skies. Always the words — the words — the words. Lovelier to listen to than birds. And fairer in their shape and hue Than any flowers that April knew : 220 THE POET Always the woman and the words, And always folly. And melancholy. So poets born must, too, be made, And so their songs shall never fade. 221 OLD SAFETY DELIGHT and Danger hand in hand For ever dance with dizzy feet. Old Safety ever hugs the land. His only care to sleep and eat. To little gods that rule the mart He pays his dues and bows his knee. But gods that bless and break the heart — He scarcely knows that such gods be. What though with glory and with awe Man's little lot be magnified. He keeps the letter of the law, His skin is safe, whate'er betide. For him no rainbow of romance. No leap into the arms of joy. No dazzling partnership with chance. No Helen, and no burning Troy. 222 OLD SAFETY The hallowed dream, the flaming bliss, That fill the souls of those who dare, Though on the edge of the abyss. To love — and fall they know not where. The wildness that alone is wise. That swoops and takes, and asks no leave Of gods or men — all for the eyes More lovely far than morn or eve. All glories of the lonely deed Men do for dreams, and, dreaming, die; Heroes that for a country bleed. Or Freedom — ^like a starry sky. All souls that fling themselves on fire, Or on the gleaming lances run. Martyrs of some divine desire For others sought, for others won. Yea ! not as these is he who hides And hoards his being, safe and small. Far from the elemental tides ; And, living so lives not at all. 223 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Dust unto dust ! such dust as he Insults the procreative sod. That, sandy desert though it be. Somewhere with palms gives thanks to God. This dust shall never flame or flower. Nor answer to the kindly spring. Nor any resurrecting power Breathe life into this lifeless thing. Safe lived he — safe, being dead, he lies. Forgotten of life for evermore. One with the dead who do not rise. The souls God needs not any more. 224 ON PROFESSORS PROFESSORS, with their foolish brows, Pass and depart, LearnM in every lore besides The human heart. Laughed at by ever-living youth, Up discreet sleeves. Selling themselves to teach old lies No man believes. Poor dust, called men, that need not die To be forgot. That, even living, were as though They still were not. Fools stuffed with wisdom as a goose Is stuffed with spices. Yet cautious hypocrites, the while. Of furtive vices. 225 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS How long shall youth and strength be slaves To men like you — With wild-haired April in the land. All stars and dew! 226 THE REAL BOOKS OTAKE away these books that tell The hideous so-called truth of things, These little documents of hell ; Bring us the book that dreams and sings, And whispers "all is well". The beautiful is just as true. And truer, perhaps, when all is told. Than all this dross and dirt that you. With little maggot eyes, behold — Are there not roses too? Dull pedants of the seamy side Of Earth's fair robe of stars and flowers, — Life is a stream where glories ride 'Twixt singing banks a-gold with towers. Trumpets and pennoned pride. 227 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Give US the book that flowers and flames With Love and Youth and noble tears, Great Life, with all its laurelled games; Give us again the "Musqueteers" — And keep your Henry James. 228 ROBERT BROWNING SO MANY books are gone, lost in the mind. Nurture forgotten; once on fancy's tongue Sweet to the taste; many a honeyed song. Yea ! and deep-thoughted fruit with bitter rind : Browning goes not. As when a boy, I find Still the old magic master loved so long; Here still the strength that still can make me strong. Still the delight of mountains still behind; And still, among the rocks and stars of speech. The sudden silver singing of a bird. Perched on the craggy ridges of his thought. Too high 'twould seem to sing — still out of reach Of the world's ear, that hardly yet hath caught The music hidden in the gnarled word. 229 A PLEA FOR THE OLD MUSIC (To Andrd Polah) PLAY me some old gavotte, Or minuet — To-day I would forget, And live in the Forgot: I want to hear the dead folk dancing, I want to see the dead eyes glancing, I want dead ladies and dead lords, The wigs, the furbelows, the swords; I weary of the sansculotte. The unkempt northern hordes. That pour their muddy streams Across our dreams. Fouling the sacred fire With bestial desire. Knowing no law Only to glut the sensual appetite. Or cram the brutish maw. 230 A PLEA FOR THE OLD MUSIC Yea ! Master of the magic strings, Bring back the fair old-fashioned things, The gallant bows, the curtseys sweeping, Of that brave world that's gone a-sleeping. Where love was none the less a passion Because fine manners were the fashion. Play me some old gavotte, I weary of the carmagnole, I weary of the sansculotte. With his Pan-Slavic "soul"— Bring back pavane and rigadoon. And Watteau and the rising moon. 23! ON THE PASSING OF GREEK AND LATIN (To Michael Monahan) SO THE last strongholds fall, the mob sweeps on! The mock and scorn of small mechanic brains, Soon shall the solemn symbols all be gone. The vessels hoarding the long human gains. The stored elixirs out of chaos wrung. By the great dead who fought and dreamed and sung. For Man, half salesman grown and half machine. Of Homer's marble speech hath need no more. He knows not what those mighty accents mean Caught from the gods along the Attic shore. Nor of that Roman bronze which Virgil spake May his shrunk soul the large impression take. For him enough the language of the mart, The speech of hucksters wrangling o'er their trade; The lexicons of the deep human heart 232 ON THE PASSING OF GREEK AND LATIN Were for a mightier breed of manhood made, Men that lived history for Thucydides, Or at street corners talked with Socrates. Yea! it is well — for men so small as we Tongues so imperial have too large a style; What deeds to fill these robes of majesty, What thoughts have we, that know but to de- file The altars of our fathers, and to break Perfections Time so long hath toiled to make? Even the tongues we speak for our concerns, The paltry business of our little day. Too noble are — he knows enough who learns In "Esperanto" how to spell his way; What do we with the speech of gods and kings. Or tender talk of Heliconian springs? 233 A SONG OF DYING WORDS ALAS ! for the brave words that pass away, L That soon must lose their purple and their gold. Be on men's lips no more to sing or say. In no man's book be writ, tale that is told. Or poem decked, as a white hand with rings. With such forgotten words as "queens" and "kings". Soon to be gone like legendary birds. Flamingo-winged — O drab and desert sky! — No more shall "lady", loveliest of words. Answer to "lord": for these great words must die; Nor "gentleman", that had so brave a sound. In aught save mouldering lexicons be found. 234 A SONG OF DYING WORDS Or "manners", or good words of like intent, "Gentleness", "reverence", and "humility" — Yea! men shall ponder what such words once meant ; And even so staunch a word as "comrade" be Turned from its loyal use, itself to lend To every bloody and tyrannic end. And "vine" and "vineyard" and the purple "grape", That in their mention sooth our mortal lot. Shall be no merrier to the ear than crape. And kindly Dionysus be forgot ; And even the "pipe" that brings the spirit peace Seem antique and mysterious even as these. Yea ! all the words of glory and of cheer. To which the hearts of men were wont to dance. Shall fall no more upon the purged ear; Discrowned shall go the kingly word "romance", And glad am 1 that I was born in time Still to weave "love", not "lust", into my rhyme. 235 THE LAST REFUGE I BOUGHT a cave of late in a lone isle, With pillared dome of glittering stalagmite, Driven thereto, a lorn distracted wight. By men that earth and air and sea defile, A being whom the vulgar times compel To be a troglodyte — Leaving the noise and glare of things behind. Dim corridors far down to Hades wind: Perchance some gleaming fairy folk from hell May come a-singing up from underground. Naked as flowers, with silver asphodel And wreaths of laurel crowned. Lordly of limb and blinding fair of face. To banquet with me in that lonely place. There shall 1 sit and let the world go to. And sometimes, while yet sleeps the noisy crew. Ere the first air-ship blots the morning star, I shall steal softly up to my blue door. And gaze on my lost comrades from afar — Earth, sea and sky, once mine, but mine no more, 236 LEAVE US THE STARS ^/ (A propos the threatened communication with Mars) LEAVE US the stars! J This world has noise enough Without the roar of Mars — Rob not the holy spaces of their calm. Bring us no idle gossip of the spheres, Nor desecrate the psalm That on still nights into our burdened ears Pours its mysterious balm. Soon shall the air-ship blot the rising moon. With vulgar flight across the evening sky; In vain shall tortured ear and tortured eye Flee from pursuit of each last silly tune. And each new fashion of deformity • In vain seek sanctuary On dawn-kissed peaks of unascended snows. Or in some isle the sea Hath kept a secret from eternity. Hid in her bosom like a lover's rose. 237 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS Leave us the stars — O wizard, let them be! 'Tis not for thee Their white immortal signals to translate; Thinkst thou their beams tread all those million stairs For idle prate With us on our affairs? Nor strive to flash our foolishness to them : Leave them unstained the midnight to begem With astrologic gold, Leave them to sing at morning as of old — Yea! unless, verily, thy science dares Some better way to reach them with pur prayers. 238 BEAUTY WHAT meaning hath she — Beauty? like the moon Casting her magic with indifferent hands Alike on evil, and alike on good. Mysterious boon. Magic beatitude. Not all our hoarded wisdom understands; Hinting we know not what, still nothing telling, Alike in orchards and in charnels dwelling; Dowering with shapes of glory rose and girl. Alike, with feet of pearl. O'er pits of slime in iridescence dancing. Making of inward foulness outward fair. Lending to shapes of hell the morning grace Of innocence entrancing; Masking pollution with a woman's face, Hiding, with subtle snare. The crouching tiger 'neath a woman's hair. 239 THE JUNK-MAN AND OTHER POEMS In high cathedrals, where the god-head dwells. Staining hushed altar-steps with colours holy Of painted windows, and with hallowed bells. And mystic music, wholly Lifting the kneeling spirit to the skies. On blossoming gardens and on happy fields. On breasts of birds and wings of butterflies, On blood-red sunsets over broken shields. Her wand of wonder lies. No less than quiet dawns and rising moons, Volcanoes and typhoons Deck in her splendours, terribly adorn. Tenderly flame in all her softest hues; And corpse-sown battle-fields are hung with dews — Yea! death she makes as fair as being born. What meaning hath she? He who nearest stood To Beauty's throne hath named her one with Truth— "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty": holds it good. Think ye, this guess divine of priestly youth? Yea! is she not the mystic manual sign On all the works of the unknown Divine 240 BEAUTY That evermore mysteriously He makes — That evermore mysteriously He loves All vessels of His making; That in His Universe are no mistakes, And no forsaking? Even as some master potter in Cathay Fires in his finished masterpiece of clay His emblem there that he, the master, wrought it, And answers for his work till Judgment Day To him who, coming after, shall have bought it ; So Beauty — may it be? — Is like the potter's mark, the mystic sign God placed for man to see That all his work is one and all divine — Though that be mystery — Yea, Death as Life, and grief as joy, are fair, And wrong as right, the evil and the good. All gathered up in one beatitude — Beauty ! Lo ! there and there ! 241 THE ETERNAL WAY /TAKE no shame that still I sing the rose And the young moon, and Helen's face and spring; And strive to fill my song wiiti sound of streams And light of dreams; Choosing some beautiful eternal thing. That ever comes like April — and ever goes. I have no envy of those dusty themes Born of the sweat and clamour of the hour — Dust unto dust returning — nor any shame have I, 'Mid sack of towns, to ponder on a flower: For still the sorrow of Troy-town is mine. And the great Hector scarce is dead an hour. All heroes, and all lovers, that came to die Make pity's eyes with grief immortal shine; Yea! still my cheeks are wet For little Juliet, And many a broken-hearted lover's tale. Told by the nightingale. 242 THE ETERN AL WAY Nor have I shame to strive the ancient way, With rhyme that runs to meet its sister rhyme. Or in some metre that hath learnt from Time The heart's own chime. These ways are not mare old Than the unmeditated modern lay. And all those little heresies of song Already old when Homer still was young. THE END 243 THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y.