PS 35 03 "KH3 a Pap anb tlfjirtp "\7ersSes Ctjarks ^tUtam prackctt QJornell Hniiieraty ffiihtanj Stliaca. Netn Dnrk BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE 1891 „ Cornell University Library PS 3503.R113J6 Jo CjBl V n : A pj ay and thirty verses /by Ch 3 1924 022 279 958 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022279958 JOCELYN: A PLAY JOCELYN A Play and Thirty Verses CHARLES WILLIAM BRACKETT BOSTON RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS All Rights Reserved For permission to use poems in this volume ac- knowledgments are due to the National Magazine, Boston, Massachusetts, and to The Williams Liter- ary Monthly and the New Coffee Club, of Wil- Hamstown, Massachusetts. The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. CONTENTS Jocelyn, A Play 7 The New Muse 49 A Lament for Gwethalyn 53 Carnival Night 56 Unrealized 59 Mid- June 60 As When a Hungry Man Dreameth 61 Potter's Fields 62 De Gyarden 63 To Cleopatra 64 The Watcher's Story 65 Twilight Songs 67 The Departure 69 In a Boudoir 71 The Home Coming 72 The Prisoner 74 A Night Thought at Sea 76 At a Play 78 The Sanctuary 79 Two Memories 80 The Little House Forgotten 81 Marie Stuart's Mirror 83 Enchantment . . ' 84 CONTENTS Bravado 85 When You Are Gone 86 Aspecta Belli ; 87 The Dancing Girl in Prison 88 Lights and Shadows 89 A Song of Ladies' Names 90 An Explanation 92 Nineteen Hundred Fourteen 93 JOCELYN: A PLAY Cast of Characters John Dickson, Caretaker of the ruin of Rossmar Castle. Mrs. Dickson, his wife. Alice, their little daughter. John, their son. Jocelyn, Mr. Dickson's daughter by his first wife. Justin Wilkinson, a tourist. Mrs. Wilkinson, his wife. Marian Wilkinson, their daughter. Place, Rossmar Castle. Time, the Present. JOCELYN Scene i The stage represents the courtyard of an old cas- tle which closes the back of the scene, its mossy gray walls against a clear blue sky. A little to the left of the centre there is a wide door, above it the faded traces of armorial bearings carved on the stone, to the left a circular tower the upper half of which has been broken or fallen away. On the left the stage can only be entered by a gate in an uneven wall which hangs open in an indolent, dilapidated way. The right of the stage is shut off with bushes, but toward the front there is a pool on which a few water lilies are dancing. The stage itself is a gar- den, but not such a garden as one might expect be- low an old castle; a cottage garden, with a row of high rose bushes crowded against the wall, just in full white bloom. There is a daring orange sunflower too, and a great cluster of larkspur, in front of them mignonette and daisies. Inside the door of the castle one catches a glimpse of a very humble room, and Mrs. Dickson some- times passes across the line of vision, at her ironing. In an invalid's chair near the pool Jocelyn lies asleep, so placed that the audience cannot see her 9 JOCELYN face, while her little half-sister Alice sits on the ground looking at her, her chin resting meditatively in her hands, her brother John is near by, flat on his stomach, his feet swinging in the air, as he bur- rows aimlessly with a jack-knife. After a few mo- ments spent in contemplating her sister, Alice speaks. Alice. Isn't she lovely there asleep, her face So flowery fragile? See the place Where the long lashes touch her cheek. Do you suppose I'll be as pretty ever? As she is a very tousle-headed, round, little per- son with few pretences to pulchritude, her brother bursts into a roar of laughter at the question. John. Why your nose Turns up like a cock when he drinks, And you're all freckledy. Exceedingly enraged by this somewhat tactless frankness, Alice falls upon her brother with intent to torture. John. Ow! you minx, Don't pull my hair. You asked me, didn't you? Alice. You mean thing. John. Well, it's so. Alice. It isn't true. John. It is; don't be a silly. Alice. {tearfully) Anyway, IO JOCELYN You n — needn't tell me so. She weeps with the abandon of youthful rage. Her brother ignores her as long as his nerves hold out. Then at last: John. Oh, say Ally, you're really not quite such a fright. She weeps on unpacified. He tries another ma- neuvre. John. Did you hear 'em creep down the hall last night? Alice. Hear who? John. Hear them, the old ones. Alice. No, did you? John. Yes. Alice. {glancing at Jocelyn). Will you tell her? John. No, I'm frightened to. She's friends with them. Dad says it isn't good To be friends with dead people. If she should — Should go away with them — Alice. Don't. I'm afraid. Let's run and play something. John. Let's wade. Alice. Oh, goody, yes. John. There's someone coming, look. Down by the gate. II JOCELYN Alice. Oh! Hurry. John. Beat you down the brook. They pull off their stockings quickly, step into the pool and wade away. They are hardly out of sight when three people appear at the gate. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkinson, of whom no more needs be said than that they are tourists and deserving of the utmost stigma attach- ing to that term, and their daughter Marian, who though she is a tourist, shares none of the stigma but makes of touring an art — and a very graceful one. She comes in before the others, sees the courtyard and turns. Marian. Mamma, White roses! Oh, you dear, dear things, How did you know you looked so love- ly there? It brings A sort of strange new beauty, just that trace Of humbler sweetness to this stately place, Beneath the crumbled splendor of that wall A clump of cottage blossoms — Mr. W. {impatiently) Call, Marian, see if there's not some sort of guide To show us 'round — we haven't long. Mrs. W. Inside 12 JOCELYN There seems to be someone. Mr. Wilkinson taps on the ground with his stick. Mrs. Dickson, who is frantically trying to take off her apron, calls, Mrs. D. One moment, sir, Just till I lay my iron by. Things are in such a stir. I'm ironing and of course my man's away. Mr. W. How long'll it take to do the place? Mrs. W. Oh! What a day! (She sinks down on a bench.") I simply can't go farther; I'll stay here. While you go on. Marian. Then I'll stay with you, dear. Mr. W. Don't be absurd, child. Why, when people ask How you like Rossmar, what'll you say? Mrs. W. This task Of seeing things is killing me. You two Go on. I'll wait; it's lovely here. Marian, (picking a spray of azure larkspur) What blue! What color! it seems flaming every- where. Mrs. D. I'd ask you in the house, but it's so hot in there. Mrs. W. That's very kind, I'm sure. 13 JOCELYN Mr. W. Is all this old Or just fixed up to look so? Mrs. D. (bridling) Why, it's told The castle stood here these six hundred years. The Staers Have owned it three at least. Marian. Who cares How old it is? It's beautiful. Mrs. W. What's over there Beside the pond, in the old cripple's chair? Mrs. D. That's Jocelyn, she's my husband's eld- est, she's not strong Mrs. W. Is it contagious? Justin, we've been here too long Already. Let's leave. Where's my bag? Mrs. D. Don't be afraid, It isn't catching. She's a little maid Born weakly like, but no disease. She won't be here long. Jocelyn! Marian. Please. Don't wake her. Jocelyn. I am awake; I only shut my eyes To rest them. Mrs. W. Justin, I advise — Justin, will you please listen! It's too late 14 JOCELYN To dawdle, you two go right on; I'll wait. Mrs. D. Jocelyn will tell you everything right here. Marian. That certainly should please you, dear, Sight-seeing, comfort, travel while you sit — A la the movies. Mrs. W. I'd like seeing it But my poor feet, you know. Mr. W. You've some ghosts, I suppose. Marian. There are ghosts everywhere one goes, — The phantoms of dead poets' minds: Shakespeare Peopled all silent places; Guenevere, Mallory's Guenevere, haunts every an- cient room Where once queens lived. The bloom Of such great dreams never quite fades Between the pillars of white colonnades ; Electra lingers still — Not ghosts Of people dead, but those that long to be, white hosts Of dreams. They haunt all places With their dim forms and misty faces. Mr. W. When you've done rhapsodizing, let's be off. Mrs. W. (to her husband) Justin, come here! (In a whisper) 15 JOCELYN If I hear that girl cough, I leaver — she looks tubercular to me, Notice her lashes. Mrs. D. This way please. Marian. Just see That panelling. Mrs. D. It's been time out of mind Just as — {their voices are heard no long- er) Mrs. W. Is there a legend of some kind About the castle? Jocelyn. Yes ; there are quite a lot. Mrs. W. Well, could you tell me some. Oh, I forgot You're ill. If you're too tired, don't say a word But rest. And I'll pretend I've heard Everything that you have to tell When they come out. Jocelyn. Oh, I'm quite well, But you are good to think of me. I — I love All the old stories, so I'll gladly tell you of— Mrs. W. Everything please. Jocelyn. (in the conventional manner pointing to the tower) This part, dad says, Was built — 16 JOCELYN Mrs. W. Not dates. My mind's a maze Of dates and periods. Is there iio story of some sort, The kind there should be, all about this court And that old tower? Jocelyn. You hate them. Oh, I'm glad. Dates are such sombre things. Mrs. W. It's quite as bad As my expense account to keep them straight. Jocelyn. Well, once long, long ago — Mrs. W. (with a kind of old-lady sentimental- ity.) No, wait, Say once upon a time. Jocelyn. There was a lord of Rossmar who Married a Lady Jocelyn — Mrs. W. But that's your name too, Isn't it? Jocelyn. Yes, my mother had lived here Since she was just a girl, the name was — was very dear To her, she had dreamed over it so long. She died when I was born. She was not strong. They say that I am like her. When she heard Her baby was a girl, she said some word 17 JOCELYN So very low they could not hear until they bent Above her little faded smile. She meant Or seemed to mean that they should name Her baby Jocelyn. That is how it came That I am called by such a lovely word ; you see It is the only gift that she could leave for me, A word. Mrs. 'W. Poor child! If there is anything that I can do, — Jocelyn. Oh, pardon me, I had almost forgot- ten you And Lady Jocelyn's story. Did I say That she was very fair in that old way Of beauty, tall and straight, With filmy, sunny hair, whose weight Fell on her shoulders, as the dusty gold Of pollen falls on lilies. It is told She was so beautiful her husband * did not dare Take her to court. Mrs. W. But I should think that there She would have shone. Jocelyn. She would, — too much, he feared The king was — was — kind of a Blue 18 JOCELYN Beard, Too fond of pretty ladies, and — and he Her husband — Mrs. W. He didn't trust her— Oh, I see, With golden hair — I've known the sort, And a blonde moral sense. She'd not have done at court. Jocelyn. Oh, no, she wasn't like that, people say, But good, not just great lady good — Each day She used to ride the circuit of her lands Seeing her people. Once she burned her hands Saving a little girl whose pinafore Had taken fire. She always bore The scars of it on her white skin. The people worshipped her. The Inn Is called the Lady Jocelyn still.. When the plague came, She fought it with them as she had the flame, Careless about herself. Oh, can't you see How good she must have been, how carelessly He must have judged her, for to him She had a fault — her womanhood, being so fair and slim 19 JOCELYN And tender. He could not understand, He wished a plaything fashioned to his hand, Not a heart's comrade. Yet he put some trust in her Or else he'd not have sent the prisoner. Mrs. W. What prisoner? Jocelyn. Haven't I told you that one day After her Lord had been some months away At court, a cavalcade rode to the gate, Bringing a letter in the form of state From the Lord Rossmar — and a tall young man Of whom the letter told. "My Lady,-" so it ran "This youth has been entrusted to my care By His Imperial Highness. An affair (Of which you may know nothing), one of some import, Makes it imperative he shall not be at court. Shut him in some safe place and see That he is guarded well." Ungracious- ly The letter stopped, for that was all He thought that she should know. A seneschal 20 JOCELYN He would have thought was worthy of more trust, But she — she was a woman. For the dust And grime she could not see the prison- er, whose name Was given Richard Guerdonlais. But when he came Later into her presence, her chaplain used to tell How fright came to her eyes, how her fan fell From the slim hand that stole up to her heart And how she turned her face away. He played a part Perhaps, if he had known her, for he drooped his eyes Submissively, and said at last, when it seemed wise Since she did not, that he should speak, "I am your prisoner. No bonds are weak With which your ladyship is pleased to bind." Then she looked in his face, quite blind It seemed, to any memories, and bowed And answered, "I am very proud So gallant a fine gentleman should stay 21 JOCELYN Under my care, Richard — " "De Guerdonlais? "Was it not so the letter said ?" he asked And then for the first time she smiled, but masked The smile behind her fan, and bid her servants place The prisoner in this tower, a pleasant place And yet a safe one. From whose case- ment, duly barred He could peer down into this inner yard Which was her garden. Down whose prim clipped ways She wandered every day, for many days, Ignoring little notes that fluttered down, Freighted with what? Gay gossip of the town? Or love? Or fragrant memories? Who knows? They lay unread, wept over by the rose That happened to be fullest blown. A song Would float down to her sometimes, but for long At the first hearing of his voice she turned and fled To her own panelled room. 22 JOCELYN Mrs. W. (disappointedly) And is it said She never saw him? Jocelyn. After a wait Of several months there galloped to the gate A second cavalcade with a new letter that ran thus: "The King has changed his mind, cap- tives are dangerous, Turn over to this messenger straight- way Your prisoner, Richard Guerdonlais." The note and the man's face seemed to spell death At once "Tomorrow," she said, — held her breath Lest he, the messenger, had been fore- warned ; He did not speak, it seemed he had not been, she turned Less fearfully, "Tomorrow you will bring The prisoner to my lord." The ring She wore trembled against his lips; then she withdrew To her own room. The whole day through She waited — and I think she must have prayed 23 JOCELYN Mrs. W, JOCELYN. Mrs. W. JOCELYN. Mrs. W. JOCELYN. Mrs. W. Marian Marian. Until the night came, silent to her aid, And must have trembled as she waited there. At midnight through the castle every- where Was heard the sound of beating on the gate— The lord of Rossmar had returned. He did not wait When they admitted him, but asked which was the prisoner's cell — They told him. He went instantly. Well? Well? The prisoner was gone. And she, go on ! The Lady Jocelyn too was gone. He never found them, though he tried and tried All through his life. I wonder if she died. I want to know the end. Make up one. Do. Say what came next. I can't, you see, it's true. Oh, what an irritating thing the truth is. If you can Make up one, I'll believe it. runs from the house joyously. Mamma, see what I've found — a fan 24 JOCELYN And such a fan, all lace and ivory Behind a swarthy tapestry It has lain years, and just by chance My fingers felt it there. A glance Showed what it was, and father gave it me. Mr. W. It cost a pretty penny, too. Marian. But see The past itself speaks through such fra- gile things As this, not through the chronicle that sings A crashing battle psalm, but through some tiny bit of bravery Fashioned of lace and silk, of coquetry Itself. It speaks of gallants' plumes and cloaks of vair, Of candlelight, white throats and dusky hair, The sweep and song of satins and ve- lours, The laughter and the tears of old am- ours Mr. W. All this about a fan! Marian. It isn't just a fan to me, It is a symbol. Mrs. W. Let me see It is quite charming. Marian. I never felt that magic thing 25 JOCELYN the past Until I took it in my hand. Just think, the last, The very last who touched it, did it so long ago She is just dust and echoes now. Mr. W. Oh, I don't know Perhaps some tourist laid it down. Mrs. W. Justin! Marian. There lingers About its sticks the warmth of lovely fingers. Mr. W. How can you be so sure? Mrs. W. Justin, don't tease, It's getting late, we'd best be going — Joceyn. Please Please may I see the fan? Mrs. D. Jocelyn! Marian. Of course you may. She gives it to her. Jocelyn takes it, spreads it out, puts it against her cheek very lightly. Jocelyn. It may have been her fan. Perhaps that day She went away she left it there. Oh, speak, You lovely thing, did your breath touch her cheek So tenderly, so softly. Did you rest Your ivory whiteness in her white young 26 JOCELYN Mr. W. Mrs. W. JOCELYN. Mr.W. Marian Marian. Jocelyn. Mrs. D. Jocelyn. Marian. Mrs. W. Mr. W. Marian. Mr. W. Mrs. W. Mrs . D. Mr. W. Mrs. D. breast ? What are we waiting for? Oh, Heaven knows. Once, after all the flowers had gone, a tardy rose Came to the garden. Well, it's late, come, Marian. holding out her hand to Jocelyn. I'm sorry. Oh, your lovely fan. It has told me so many faded things. Why, Jocelyn, it can't talk. No, for it sings. Good-bye, the later Jocelyn Shall I give her a tip? Of course. Don't put your finger to your lip, Marian, these people all expect their fees. Not this one, please don't, mother, please. All right. {graciously to Mrs. Dickson) It is well worth the trip from town. I thank you, ma'am. A bit run down, But paying still. Well, come on, both of you. Good day. There's one thing about folks like him, 27 JOCELYN — they pay. Jocelyn. The girl was oh! so pretty, wasn't she? Mrs. D. And dressed real stylish too, — that or- gandie Would have been nice for you. They paid Enough for that old fan to buy you wine. Jocelyn. Oh, I'm afraid I couldn't drink the wine. Mrs. D. Why, it ain't liquor, dear, Not when you take it for your health. Jocelyn. Dad won't be here Tonight ? Mrs. D. Not anyway till late. He must have missed the train. Well, we won't wait Till he comes back to go to bed. He can just knock Until he wakes us up. It must be sev- en o'clock. He can't get back now until twelve, at least. Jocelyn. The shadow has come to the pool. Like a gray beast Timid but thirsty. Do you hear the last wild bee? (She goes and kneels beside the pool, bending over it.) 28 JOCELYN They are the weariest flowers, the water lilies, see How their cool miser fingers close About their slender gold — it seems the lily knows Her sister stars will scatter shinier gold, And so she hides her own. Mrs. D. Oh, you'll take cold If you stay kneeling there. Marian comes to the gate. Marian. I came, I couldn't help but come to — to Mrs. D. You want your money back. Marion holds out the fan to Jocelyn. Marian. To give this you. Jocelyn. The fan! — Her lovely fan! Mrs. D. Oh, Miss, I can't allow! Marian. You cannot help it — for I've done it now. Jocelyn. Oh, girl, what is your name. Marian. An ugly one — just Marian. Jocelyn. I want to try — Marian. No, don't. She turns at the gate and throws Jocelyn a kiss. Jocelyn still kneeling with the fan in her hands, croons to herself. Jocelyn. Her fan — her fan. Curtain. JOCELYN Scene II Inside the castle. The stage represents the hall at the foot of the tower staircase. There is a stove toward the back at the left, behind which the pan- elled walls have been whitewashed, still farther to the left a bench littered with tin kitchen utensils. A door leads off left to the sleeping rooms. On the extreme right at the back of the stage, is the entrance to the tower stair, a yawning space filled in former times with a door which has long since disappeared. Through this opening one can see the staircase wind- ing up; but its uselessness is apparent, for the tower is fallen away so far that one can catch even from the interior of the room a fugitive glimpse of a space of sky stitched with stars. The right hand side of the room is filled with two great panels of exquisite old oak, and toward the front there is a door by which the room is reached from outside. A little to the left of the centre is a kitchen table on which is a lamp and two candlesticks, and Mrs. Dickson's darning materials. Mrs. Dickson sits at the left of this table at work, Jocelyn at the right in her chair. The children are kneeling be- side her. As the curtain rises, Jocelyn has just fin- ished a story, there is a moment of expectancy on the part of the children, then they begin to plead. John. Just one more, Jocelyn. Alice. Oh, yes. Please, just one. 30 JOCELYN John. About the twisted dwarf. Alice. About the nun With the red rose. Mrs. D. Not one. It's time for bed. Send them off, Jocelyn. JOCELYN. It's too late now, dears, instead I'll tell you one tomorrow, — one quite new. John. With fighting in it? JOCELYN. (nodding her assent). And a princess, too. Alice. It seems as if I just can't wait. JOCELYN. You'll never know you're waiting. Mrs. D. And it's late For Heaven's sake, be off. Alice. The princesses have oh! such lovely names, Blanchefleur and Elsinore. JOCELYN. Like windy flames, Aren't they? Alice. And Melisande and Guenevere. Mrs. D. How do you think 'em up? Jocelyn. They're ones I hear. Sometimes the visitors speak them. Mrs. D. Look, John has drooped his head He's quite asleep. John. (hearing his name.) But I don't want to go to bed. Jocelyn takes his hand and little Alice's, mho 31 JOCELYN is murmuring very sleepily. Alice. Tomorrow is the loveliest Princess's name always, it seems. Jocelyn. Perhaps you'll meet the Princess some where in your dreams. She leads them out. Mrs. D. watches them plac- idly, then turns to her work again. As she looks over the stockings, she says, Mrs. D. There never were such children to wear holes. (She takes up a pair.) Heels, those are John's. Alice kicks out the soles. That's as it should be, a boy's heavy tread Comes down more firmly, hers trips where she^s led And lighter like. (Counting the re- maining stockings.) Heavens, there's three more pairs! Well, I can't finish. Enter Jocelyn. Jocelyn. I've heard their prayers, And then I kissed them, blew the can- dle out, And said the fairy light must go to sleep. Mrs. D. Without Their crying! You're a hand with chil- 33 JOCELYN dren, Jocelyn. Why, I always say the things I think that I Would like to have had said when I was little too. Mrs. D. I never said 'em. Well, I never knew, I guess. (She goes and puts her arm around Jocelyn) I'm sorry. Jocelyn. Oh, you were good, so good, And I am such a weakly thing. You knew I never could — Could help you much. But aren't the things one wanted so And never had just good because you know Through them what others want ? Mrs. D. I never wanted much Excepting clothes and food and such. And to hold up my head with decent folk Of course I should have liked a hand- some cloak With jet — Jocelyn. How strange, never to know desire ! Never to want till wanting grew a fire That burned your soul. Why I would give my life for things To wear and see and hold. For rings 33 JOCELYN And silken furs — things that you've just admired I've wanted and I've had them too — yes all that I desired Holding the longing close. Mrs. D. {working sleepily has not heard her). I guess I'll put these things away And go to bed myself. What did you say? Jocelyn. Nothing — "nothing" — the frightened word We say when we think someone's heard The things we really mean. Mrs. D. I don't suppose Your father'll come tonight. But Heaven only knows. If he does, since you're near the door, Will you just let him in. Jocelyn. Of course, before His knocking wakes the children. Mrs. D. I hope that we shan't hear The haunts tonight. Jocelyn. I always listen, dear, But I have never heard them. I should be so glad I know them all so well. Geoffrey, Conrad, And that poor crippled Hugh. 34 JOCELYN Mrs. D. That awful Hugh It's him I'm scared of. Jocelyn. Lady Jocelyn, too, If I could hear her light step on the stairs — Mrs. D. Lord, Jocelyn, don't. Why, in my prayers That's what I beg the Lord to spare me most. Jocelyn. You'd be afraid! Her tender little ghost ! She never comes. I sit here in my chair Just hoping. Mrs. D. I hear 'em everywhere All through the castle. I don't see how you dare to stay Here of all places where they say She comes back every night to call to him And he comes down the stair. And it's so dim And dreadful. Don't you know the fear? Jocelyn. The wind and all the stars are very near And the dear Garden's just behind that wall. Mrs. D. (nervously) Well — well — good night. If they 35 JOCELYN come, you might call, Though I shan't answer. Still you'd best. Good night. Jocelyn. Will you please light the taper? Mrs. D. What? A light? Why, aren't you going to sleep? Jocelyn. Please leave it here Burning beside me. Mrs. D. Ah ! So you do know the fear. Jocelyn. No, not of them, and yet — I am afraid I am afraid that I might die. Mrs. D. Why, little maid! Jocelyn. Here in the darkness, I hate darkness so. My soul would be afraid — afraid, I know. It would be dreadful to meet Death afraid. To die Choked with the blackness. Mrs. D. Oh, you've made me cry. You won't die, little maid. Jocelyn. Not long, It won't be long. Mrs. D. Jocelyn! Jocelyn. You are so strong I seem to feel the life, here in your breast In your strong arms. Life ! that is best Of all the gifts ! and I have never known 36 JOCELYN it yet. Mrs. D. Good night. Don't think such thoughts. Don't fret. JoCELYN. Good night. (Mrs. Dickson goes) It is a solemn thing to say Even "Good night." Sleep is so far away From everything we know, a kind of miracle, and yet We have grown used to it, and so for- get. We have forgotten many miracles — waking and light The miracles of silence and of song, the night That blossoms like a great blue tree, in gold. Yet that we see so often we stay cold And do not wonder. Yet a few still keep Their ancient strangeness. Death and dreams, not sleep. (She leans back wearily and closes her eyes; then opens them again.) Will you come back, in a sweet dream, girl of to-day Who reached across the distance — young and gay And beautiful, to touch my hand and 37 JOCELYN give me this This gift of gifts. (She takes the fan from her dress and strokes it) How beautiful it is! Made out of dreams. She leans back in her chair, leaving the fan in her lap, her eyes close. In the intense stillness one can hear a restless breeze that has found its way into the castle, burdened with the murmurs of gar- ments, with forgotten sighs, with all the mysterious little sounds that breezes treasure up for silent times and memory haunted places. Something rattles on the bench where the tin utensils were. Glancing toward the sound, one sees that the tins are no longer there; in their place is a cloak flung over a carved chest, on which gleams the thin shaft of a sword. The stove is gone, too, and the walls, instead of being roughly whitewashed, are hung with deep toned tapestries. Jocelyn is not sitting in a cripple's chair, but in a high seat, and the candle beside her rests in a massive candelabrum on a huge table. Her humble clothes have changed to a long robe of green with a heavy golden girdle. Only the fan in her lap remains the same. Her hand slips from the arm of her chair and touches it. The snap of its open- ing seems to waken her, she rises, no touch of the old feebleness in her action. She walks up and down; one can see that she is troubled. She brushes across her forehead with the back of her hand. At last she 38 JOCELYN speaks in the voice of one who is almost decided on a course. Jocelyn. I do not dare, I am afraid, My lord, what would you say? That I — that I had played The traitor. Or did you know this when you sent him. And is it just a test? And if I fail in this, what then? Is it not best To fail when failure is the price of good? I am ashamed That I should pause. (She starts toward the staircase, which is now hidden by a heavy door, but as she goes another thought seems to stop her.) Jocelyn of Rossmar named A wanton. No ! Oh, God of troubled hearts, show me the way. I know It is not right that he should die. Long, long ago In a lost time of sunlight, God, I saw His heart as you must see men's hearts — no law Blinding my eyes, only love lighting them. We were So very young. You must have smiled — the stir Of life was just a whisper in our ears, 39 JOCELYN and such a whisper — fair And frail as a bird's song at sundown. Everywhere We looked was youth and joy to be. And then — Ah, God, can women know the hearts of men? If so, I knew his heart. The wind crept frightenedly Along the rose walk when he came to me That night. We wore no masks that wild night of good-bye And yet there was no sin. I think that I— I might have sinned. His was the stronger soul And so we parted — and I stole Back to my father's house in tears. Honor, on your high shrine We laid a sacrifice, his love and mine, All beautiful and young, stained with the bitterness of tears This we have given, given through the years. I cannot sacrifice again. Not this — not this Your empty name's not worth a life like his (She runs to the door of the tower unlocks it 40 JOCELYN flings it open and calls) Richard, Richard. Come, you must go away. A letter's come from Rossmar. One more day And it would be too late. Why don't you come? I'll have a horse made ready. Are you dumb That you don't answer? Won't you come to me? The wind has risen. As she speaks these ivords, a gust blows out the thin flame of the candle, and the room is in total darkness. Jocelyn. Make haste, make haste. The frightened voice of little Alice cries, Alice. The ghosts! Oh, Jocelyn! Just then there is a thundering knock at the gate. Jocelyn screams Hear! It's he, Rossmar's returned. Richard, don't wait! I love you so — Thank God. It's not too late. Take the sword on that chest, and the cloak too, and this (She screams as though to a gate keeper) Don't let him in. Behind the tapestry there is 41 JOCELYN A swinging panel. Wait, wait! I used to know The secret spring. There! Little John's voice, Jocelyn, don't go! Alice. Don't go with them. The beating on the door comes again. Jocelyn fiercely. Jocelyn. Listen! Just hear Hear how he beats the door. It is the fear, The fear that's on him. He don't trust us. Well, He does well not to trust me. Hide! There is a noise of someone falling. From the left comes a voice — Mrs. Dickson's: Mrs. D. What fell? What is the knocking at the door? She comes in carrying a lamp. The tapestry and the rich furnishings are gone — it is the same hall transformed back to a hovel. Only the panel at the right of the stairs has swung away and before the opening lies Jocelyn's little crumpled figure. Little Alice is cowering against the wall; John is kneeling behind the table. Mrs. D. What's happened? Jocelyn, are you hurt? Run, John, and let your father in. Jocelyn. (still half asleep.) My skirt Caught in the door — won't open. JOCELYN Mrs. D. You're asleep- Wake up, dear. Jocelyn. I'm very tired. Please may I keep The light beside me. John has opened the door and let Mr. Dickson in. Mr. D. What happened? John, why didn't you Or some one let me in. I'm chilled clear through. It's gotten cold. Little Alice stands staring at the opening from which the panel has slid away. Alice. Where have they gone? Why did they go? Mrs. D. Who's gone? What are you talking of ? Alice. Why, don't you know? Didn't you see them? Didn't you see them stand Just for a moment in that place? He held her hand Against his lips and they were dressed like pictures. Why! Why, there's his sword! You came and then they went — but I I saw them. Mr. Dickinson realizes that something very strange has happened. Mr. D. Is the child hurt? 43 JOCELYN JOCELYN. No, Only I am a little tired. Dad, hold me. He takes her in his arms. Mrs. Dickson feels her pulse. Mrs. D. It's very slow. Jocelyn. Hold me up, father, toward the stars. Her father stands at the foot of the broken stair- way and holds her as high as he can. Jocelyn. Wasn't it beautiful — the scars Never quite left her hand, they were like roses Always. One last bee — then the flower closes Sleepily. Mrs. D. She's dying. It's the end. Jocelyn. Yes, yes, you in the sky, You broken lights of stars — lighten my soul — I do not want to die Life is so beautiful. Father! Mr. D. Yes. Mrs. D. Yes, little maid. Jocelyn. To die is — Her voice has been frightened; suddenly it changes to almost a song. — is beautiful. I'm not afraid. The darkness — is — so — bright. Her head droops back, her arms stiffen a little about her father's neck. Mrs. D. She is dead. 44 JOCELYN John. She's gone with them, Dad, like you said. Mr. D. Her body was a little lamp and her soul flamed too high And shattered it. Mrs. Dickson, goes and smoothes out the blank- et of the invalid's chair, then turns to her husband who still is holding the little body. Mrs. D. Here, where she used to lie. Together they put it very tenderly in the chair. Little Alice who is sobbing sees something on the floor and picks it up. Alice. The lovely fan is broken. John has gone to the open panel, he takes out the sword. He tries to talk about "something else" as children do when they suffer. John. It's very heavy — see the rust. Alice. (stoops down and peers in too.) Look, John, a golden girdle. John. And what else? Alice. Dust. 45 POEMS THE NEW MUSE In Praise of the Movies Her shrine is a narrow darkened room, A gleam of light through a powerful glass, A speeding wheel and a smooth white screen Where her pageants of shadows pass, — Shadows, but filled with a fire of life, Treading the measures she bids them dance Mirth, Adventure, and Love, and Death, The forms of a new Romance. And though they are tawdry and dim at times, Their robes but pitifully fine, This muse can number more worshippers Than all the haughtier nine, This wonderful lady, this high Romance Stepped down from the ivory hall To give herself to the humble folk For almost nothing at all. To give herself — the best of herself, Renouncing the gaud of that bright word Art For a place in the temple of Everyday And the shrine of the humble heart. There she has found what the others have lost Through the fault of the pride they have learned through the years 49 The incense of honest laughter, The grace of unquestioning tears. Her watchers are one with the listeners To Homer's stories of Troy, And the ardor of Paris for Helen Thrills through the butcher's boy. At the sight of the frail fair picture girl With her pale sweet face and her hair blown down, And youth, his heart, bends low to kiss The hem of her beauty's gown. Then that freckled Miss with the leaf-brown eyes, She knows, and however else could she hear Of the magic of Juliet's moonlit face, And the passion of Guenevere — Of the great high pathos of sweet Jeanne d'Arc, Of the Lady of Coventry: She has passed through the gate of the land of the stars All for a five cent fee. She has left her world of the shop and town Though the dust is still on her skirt, And her heart is filled with the wonderment, The age-old beautiful hurt, And the cheap and tawdry fades unseen While the beauty shines and gleams, And the only dust that her spirit knows Is the dust of the stars and of dreams. 50 Beside her a man, an old, old man Has his wrinkled hands clasped over a cane, And a vivid light in his time-dimmed eyes As though he were young again, As though he had youth and strength and love, .As though he were playing the picture play For to him the shadowy mimic love Shines with the glamor of yesterday. To him that girl in the picture play Is a sort of ghost of the girl he knew In that wistful, miserable, thoughtless time When the city held some of youth's magic too, When even his grim old office desk Was less of a task than a shrine, Because when a star hangs over a pool, The murkiest waters shine. To him, to all of them sitting there, The plays are a spirit's fire For the burning to dust of the common things, Pain and care and desire, For a moment's loss in forgetfulness Of the strife that each one strives, For the merging of lives grown over-tired Into young unwearied lives. 5» At last the pictures flicker out, The audience sighs and rises, And each man hides his self of dream Under his old disguises, But each returns to the trudging life Of the little everyday, With a soul that droops less wearily For the glimpse of far away. For there never comes to our high walled, streets Some wind that has known the plain, That treasures still the sunny scent It has caught from the miles of grain, As it came on its careless trackless path No wearier feet than the wind's could have trod, But it breathes a word of the good in the world. And the Peace in the heart of God. So, though this muse has left the halls For a cheap, sweet, mortal fame, She has builded a holier temple And lighted a shining flame: She gives great gifts to her worshippers, Merciful gifts without cease — To the weary the gift of forgetfulness To the troubled the gift of peace. 53 A LAMENT FOR GWETHALYN A crumbling corridor wherein Grave waters seep Treasures the Lady Gwethalyn And the long stillness of her sleep. The spun late sunlight of her hair Frames between two straight folds her face And an unrippled shroud of vair Hides all her miracle of grace. Her slender hands that wrought so well, Enchanter potent each white hand, Lie underneath a deeper spell Than Merlin in Broceliande. And from them they have stripped her rings Her emeralds carven cabusson Her rubies — all the shining things And they lie waxenly and wan. The nuns who robed her for her fete Granted no bit of bravery — It is not proudly one must wait That strange hour called eternity. 53 Yet sure she was not formed for this To be so solemnly attired — Desireful as Semiramis Where are the beauties she desired? I wonder can she quite forget — She loved them so! — though lying there No sultry opals heavy set Caught in her bright Venetian hair? No drowsy attars subtly pressed From roses blown in far Shiraz Upon the coarse cloth on her breast In the strait resting place she has. No gold of Ophir wraps her round Nor woven silks from Samarcand Only the youngest sister found And hid one white rose in her hand. She was so very young and vain It seems they might have granted her Some little gift of jewelled chain Or little grace of myrrh. For she was one, this Gwethalyn, Who knew the garden at all hours Who drank all living beauty in Were it of song or dusk or flowers. 54 Why, I have sometimes seen her pale In a sheer wonder of delight To see a flaunting peacock's tail Rose-window-like against the light. And I have known her in her room Just for the joy of something fair To wind all kind of forest-bloom In that bright auriflamme her hair. Does it not then seem somehow strange That she who loved things earthly so Should fall upon this sudden change And know not all she used to know? 55 CARNIVAL NIGHT A Song to Aphrodite We who have scorned you are done with the scorn- ing; We crawl to your fair white feet to night. Morning may bring the gods of the morning; These are your hours and your old delight. Aphrodite, white bosomed and slender, Coral and ivory carven slim, It is to you that we make surrender Never remembering Him. Creed of the beautiful sensuous form, Creed of the dancing soul that forgets, Here, where desire is a blinding storm That no man battles, that none regrets ; Here, in the blindness to aeons of morrows After the lapse of the dragging years, While the weary face of the Man of Sorrows, Whose eyes peer dim, through a mist of tears, Is forgotten before the light of your splendor, The light of your careless, carnal face We render you, what you would have us render Youth's red lips, and youth's mad young grace. We who have hearkened your voice — sensation, Till our souls reel drunk with our pulses' beating. This is our tribute — our adoration This that we dance while the night is fleeting, This we give for the gifts you have brought us, 56 This for the gifts of roses and wine, This for Nepenthe, and Lethe and lotus — We who are drugged with your anodyne. We have made an end of the gods that we prayed to, We have forgotten their pageantried numbers, We, whose ancient passions once made you, Wake you this night from your passionless slumbers, Wake you with song and with dancing and feting Wine of the vineyard and garden's red bloom. Ah, have you waited as we have been waiting There in the dusk of your silent tomb? We have been bowed to the Carpenter's Son, Pressing our lips to his garment's hem, Mammon, and Buddah — Ah, one by one We have gilded our idols and shattered them. Yet I think that none of them ever has died, For the soul of man has a thousand creeds, And the soul is not proud with the body's pride — Our needs have sought them, our poor men's needs, And each of the Gods has a shrine for man Where his soul may bow as the moment slips, Man's soul, whose freedom is greater than 57 The broken faith he swears with his lips. So to-night it is not we have wakened you sleeping But we have spoken your praise aloud; Oh, we were weary of weeping, and weeping, Our souls were weary of being bowed, So we came to you — lover with weary lover, For your long slim throat, and your blue veined breast, For the dusk where your slumbrous eyelids hover; It is best, perhaps, in the end — it is best. It is over — the night with its dazzle of faces — It is grown as gray as the lips of the dead. The dancers are gone from their shining places, There is red on the floor — spilled wine's dull red. There is only one girl of them all who lingers Here in abandon's ruins — dumb, Her rouged face hid by her frightened fingers — The dawn of the Galilean is come. 58 UNREALIZED They pass, the powerless dreams, Of things that never may be, Pass into time as the weary streams That merge in the heart of a tideless sea, Each a languid, regretful maiden, Frail as a lily's slender stem, And the winds of the world are laden With the tears men shed for them. Their sister dreams being strong, Have fashioned beautiful things Out of men's hopeless passions song, Peace from the sorrowing hearts of kings; But they — no blossom nor fruit nor bud Falls from their fragile hands, it seems, Yet the thorns of the world are red with blood From the torn white feet of dreams. 59 MID-JUNE The filmy Queen Ann's lace is bent, That reared its fragile head so high, Beneath the black and azure wings Of a sombre butterfly, And a summer scent is over the woods And a new deep blue in the sky. The dust has powdered all the heads Of the buttercups and the grasses; The clover yields its honeyed heart To every bee that passes; And the daisies wander over the hills In trembling moon-white masses. The Poppy's flowers are crumpled Under the soft June rain ; But the Iris shines in the border, And the lupines in the lane, And the blossoms blown from the locust trees Drift on the pool again. 6c AS WHEN A HUNGRY MAN DREAMETH Last night I dreamed again. No strange new place, No shadowed pleasance, no moon-drenched parterre, Was, in my dream, the setting for your face, But you knelt, with your loose bound, sunny hair In your own little garden — as you used Among the flowers you loved ; heartsease With tiny faces whimsically amused, Poppies, and iris blooms, and peonies. And while you worked, you sang, beneath your breath, The notes of some forgotten, happy air. But at your side an angel stood named Death, An angel — yet you did not know him there. I tried to say to you that he was near Wearily, as in dreams one tries. You — though my words seemed not to reach your ear — Glanced up, with glad, sweet questioning eyes, As one who hears but fails to understand. And, since that stately form you did not see, Smiling, you raised one grimy little hand, Kissed it — and blew the kiss to me. I woke. Outside were hurried feet, The petty thunder of the city's dawn. But from the murmur of that restless street You, and your garden face, — were gone. 61 POTTER'S FIELDS They are so sad, those level wind-swept places, Under the sodden grass and rain-drenched bough, That sameness that one sees in beggars' faces Haunting their narrow houses now. Some flowers — a few crushed handfuls here and there — Wild blossoms, free to gather for the tearing. And yet so few have even paused to care, And all the rest gone past uncaring. h2 DE GYARDEN Crocus, shinin' in de snow, Tulips tryin' hard to blow, O'l Miss Piny, blushin' red Puttin' out her sturdy head Like a bird dat's gwine to sing, — Dat's de gyarden in de spring. Rose o' Canterbury bells, Clumps o' foxgloves, spicy smells, Grassy paths between the beds Overhung by lilies' heads, Hollyhocks a-swingin' high, — Dat's de gyarden in July. Spots where yo' can see the ground, Tufts o' greeny grass around, Flauntin' chrysys, 'bout to die, Wavin' to de yeah "good-bye," — Sometimes think it's best of all, Is de gyarden in de fall. 63 TO CLEOPATRA Did you thrid poppies in your hair, That Caesar dreamed in your embrace? Or was it that your face was fair? That haunting memories lingering there \our Lethe lips might quite efface, Did you thrid poppies in your hair? Or was there in the scented air Of lotos fragrance just a trace? Or was it that your face was fair? That Antony forgot despair, And in your kiss forgot disgrace, Did you thrid poppies in your hair? Ah, was it that your face was fair That emperors loved your lips a space? Or were there poppies in your hair, And deep oblivion in your face? 64 THE WATCHER'S STORY When the)' had gone, a long, long time she did not stir; Her weary breathing throbbing through the room was all I heard. The faint marked hollow cuddled close to her, Where she had held her baby, grew all blurred — It was so long. Once her thin hand wandered across the shabby sheet As though she had forgotten — then her eyes When she remembered, looked quite colorless, yet sweet ; And she turned from me, and her arms crept circle- wise About the little hollow space, and so I think she fell asleep. It grew quite dusk, then, just before the thin light failed, The caged canary I had brought ventured the lit- tle happy "cheep" ; He always trilled as prelude — and the cool notes trailed A little slippery song across the silence. She sat up in bed Quite suddenly, smiling her wistful twisted way I had not hoped to see again. The red Came back into her parted lips, that had so long seemed gray. 65 And in her cheeks a febrile, wild-rose tint Blossomed again — it seemed her eyes came from be- hind the cloud. Hers was a Saint's frail vision-haunted face. The print Of Mary pinned above the bed showed no such ten- der awe. Then half aloud But only to herself, she said his name, his fine for- bidden name, And one hand loosed her hair so it fell all about her like a cloak And her soul found some words, not gray with shame, Like her long prayers to God — but when she spoke, Her face was filled with such a miracle of light It seemed the Saint had seen a great God's angel stand Close to her humbleness. And so she died, that night, Her fingers seeking for his worshipped hand. 66 TWILIGHT SONG A frail little lady lives in our street (On the opposite side, two doors below) I never have chanced to see her face, And her name I do not know, But I know that her spirit inhabits the heights Where the souls of the angels go. For a violin is the voice of her soul, And these summer nights when the air grows hot Through my open windows I hear its songs Whether I listen or not, And the songs are songs I have heard in dreams And only have half forgot. A sorcery lies in the lady's hand, For she can — when she wishes to play, Build a shining path from the stifling town To the meadows and far away And some of the songs are of dreams to be And some are of yesterday. As she softly fingers her violin, Its happiness sings in her ears, For peace has a home in the lady's heart And the ceasing of pain and of fears. Yet I think, though none of the others know, She has passed through a valley of tears. 67 For though the music is filled with peace, The peace that her soul possesses, One dreams of a hungering mother touch On a tousel of baby tresses And a hand that is bringing a song to life But longing for other caresses. Then, when the music trembles out, The silence that steals through the gloom Seems like the falling into dust Of a fragile lily bloom, And the dusk becomes a holier place For the breath of that sweet perfume. A frail little lady lives in our street {On the opposite side, two doors below) I never have chanced to see her face, And her name I do not know, But I know that her spirit inhabits the heights Where the souls of the angels go. 68 THE DEPARTURE Paris, August, 1914 Last night the sound of motors ceaselessly Taking the troops away, a desolate monotony Of leaving vehicles, that lasted the night through Now it is morning, sunlight, and we too Must go frQm Paris. Down our little street Almost deserted save for some few neat Busy Parisians walking worriedly, Women mostly, and old, into the Champs Elysee. Every tree Is brown this year from the June snow, dribbling brown leaves across The sunny pavements. One is at a loss To recognize this still and austere place As Paris. No smart turnout, no gay face Not a wild taxi. Then one sees, nailed up against a tree, a sign, All the old Paris in it. Just a line Of people laughing recklessly, their heads Flung back in glad abandon, greens and reds And yellows in it, a bright lithograph Catching a moment's wild half-drunken laugh Flashing it in one's face, a glaring ruse To hold the eyes. Written beneath is "On s' amuse Follement au Magic City" posted there In that deserted splendid thoroughfare 69 It seems the echo of a laugh, the laugher being dead Quite horrible in the new stillness. We go on. See far ahead The great crowd of the breadline, restlessly Waiting for food. We pass that, pause to see Our sunny Paris once again, then plunge into The anxious crowd before the Gare du Nord. Get through Somehow and find our train, then as we wait Think of that sign again, and how of late The laughter of that magic city, Paris, has been stilled, Surely one once found pleasure madly there, and one is filled With an old, superstitious fear. Was it too madly without pause, The laughing? Must the Magic City too, bend to old laws? Must silence fall upon its gaiety? The train Is moving out. Our thoughts do not go on We have escaped the judgment — we are gone. 70 IN A BOUDOIR A Villanelle of Vanities Vanities, ivory and lace and gold, Crystal boxes, vermilion within — Jocelyn the beauty is growing old. Powders and pencils of tints untold Scents as alluring as whispered sin Vanities, ivory and lace and gold. Drops to light fires in her eyes grown cold Rouge where the curve of her cheek is thin — - Jocelyn the beauty is growing old. Rose silk hangings in fold on fold Lend their glamour to Jocelyn's skin — Vanities, ivory and lace and gold. Jocelyn the beauty is growing old. The delicate lines at her eyes and chin Art cannot hide for time grows bold. The lines are the threads that the Parcae spin. 7i THE HOME COMING I did not know how it could be But there I walked unweariedly Behind the child who guided me. The men lay in strange heaps around Some dead and some who had not found Such peace upon the battle ground. There was one boy who called upon God for a drink. I would have gone Only the strange child led me on. We left the field and took the road No one to hinder us — I strode As one unburdened of a load. I walked as one to whom God gives That ardor of the primitives, The knowledge that he really lives. And still we did not speak, we two, Then the child turned and led me through A little gateway that I knew. Then it was I who ran ahead, Leaving the dying and the dead, Knowing how near we were, I sped. 72 I never found the path so long Yet all the way was like a song My footsteps beat out, firm and strong. Then came the lighted window where You liked to sit, and you were there The lamplight on your sunny hair. You were asleep, I think. Your eyes Were fallen shut, night-lily-wise. I paused. I could not realize You were so near. I tapped the pane. You did not hear. I knocked again, Louder this time, — but quite in vain. Then I grew frightened, for you were So very still and would not stir. I turned. 'Will you not waken her?' I asked. The strange child raised his head, His eyes were pitiful. He said, "Did you not know that you are dead?" 73 THE PRISONER In the house of Hate that is old, is prisoned Love that is young; Willow and wind and dusk are not more faint than she, And her soul is great with words unsaid and with songs she has never sung, And her lips that may not speak her heart sing sometimes wistfully. This is the song of Love that is young in the house of Hate that is old — The terrible house in the wood of the gnarled and twisted trees, Beneath whose wall is a pool under a scum of mold That knows no moon's pale face, and no sun's ar- gosies. This is the song of love that leans from the wall of the house of hate As a wall-flower leans from a shadowed wall sun- thirsty and stifled there, That the hours may pass more speedily, for each seems bound with the weight Of the things that never may be, and that never were. 74 "My heart is like a bended bough — Wealth weary weighed with orchard blow — And none may pluck of it but thou Who may not come — or know." "Will not some wind unfreight the stem — The blossoms hang so Lethe sweet — And fling a fragrant drift of them Lightly across thy wayward feet?" But there comes no wind to the house of Hate for the trees crowd jealously; No wind to tremble the lightest branch or to make the heaviest blossom sway. They must hang until they wither and die of their own unseen maturity, And he for whom the song is sung may never know the way. 75 A NIGHT THOUGHT AT SEA Night and the fog, and the foghorn's bellowings Keeping sleep off — and the old Titanic ghost, And ashamed and unspoken questionings; What year and what month and most What time? Night of course like this, Full of fog and cold, and the engines thrum Repeating with metrical emphasis "We are safe — we are safe." And that to come! Was there music, some nervous sensuous air Like this that our orchestra plays? And what was the shock when it came, and where? Was it all quite sudden, a kind of daze Or slow and unutterably terrible ? The women — they lived; but the men — what of them? Did they suffer anguish unspeakable? Was it a hell of restraint to stem The tide of desire for a chance to fight To try for their lives — or was it quick And proud, as sacrifice should be, and slight Almost — in the greatness of things that were crowd- ing thick. 76 The waves dishevelled hierarchies, And under the muffled stars and the ravelled lace of foam Death — and the icy agonies — What is that? Not the sea nor the foghorn's boom Far away — do you hear? A voice, "All's well" And the fog is settling — one need not chafe And turn and seem so miserable We are safe at least. We are safe. 77 AT A PLAY Too many years beyond fourteen Had marred the brow of Juliet; Too often Romeo had been Beneath strange balconies — and yet There was a tragedy between Their listless speeches of regret — A tragedy quite unforeseen By each outwearied marionette — That poor and common tragedy Tense purposes grown slack and loose, Romance from whose wings every day Has stripped their plumage heartlessly And golden words through over-use Transmuted into things of clay. 78 THE SANCTUARY Outside the church the rush of the wind, Now chant, now shriek, now wild fanfare, Beaten against the pictured glass, Swept in gusts by the wind, the rain Quivering down in shadowy streams, Distorting the forms on each painted pane; Within, half drowned by the voice of the wind, The voice of the priest in prayer. 79 TWO MEMORIES Memories are woven of little things: Fragrance of Jacqueminot, The wild-bird song a street girl sings. Blown flowers of love's young burgeonings, Lost gardens swept with snow: Memories are woven of little things. Sweet echoing voice on youth's brave wings, Notes, memory-thridded, low: The wild-bird song a street girl sings. Frail white-moth hands unsmirched with rings, Fresh red flower lips aglow: Memories are woven of little things. The wild-bird song a street girl sings — Ah, close-barred gate named "Long Ago"! Memories are woven of little things, Fragrance of Jacqueminot. So THE LITTLE HOUSE FORGOTTEN Do you forget the house that you and I Builded together, very small and straight, And the twin poplars splendid quakerly With silvered leaves — that sentinel the gate. The gray walls where the starry clematis Curls like white foam about the balconies The tea things shining where the firelight is, Have you forgotten all of these? And your two swans Oswald and Vivian, And "Munch" the rabbit in the tall sweet grass, And our old gardener you nicknamed "Pan" With goodies for the children when they pass, f And the- good law we made that nothing new Should creep into our house among our flowers Except sometimes a book — but that these too Should oftenest be old and friends of ours. Do you forget the patient little house That waits and knows it never may come true ? When you were gone among the poplars' boughs There was a sound of sorrowing for you. 81 The two swans drooped their white patrician throats And even Munch forgot to gnaw his grass, And it was with a sound like broken notes That those whom you had dreamed of saw you pass. Why do you wait, for you it is not far, And oh your old dreams miss you very much? Shall we not go together where they are? The very gate is hungry for your touch. 62 MARIE STUART'S MIRROR Could I bring you the gift I would, From a panelled chamber in Holyrood, It would be a mirror to suit your mood. Yes, the mirror of Marie Stuart there, A shadow and silver misted glass, Where frail ghosts, brave in satin and vair, Seem to linger and laugh and pass. Then when your glance, however fleet, Fell in that memory haunted space, Perhaps your pale cruel face might meet Another cruel and worshipped face In a dim kiss of sisterhood. Could I bring you the gift I would, From a panelled chamber in Holyrood. 83 ENCHANTMENT Enchantress say what sorcery- Conjures thy thought? So pale Thou art A filmy web of subtlety Lies on thy beauty as a veil. Sweet-heart Do you plot out some Arcady? Some Arcady of punished wrong Or slight revenged, which planned of, sings Behind Thy curtained eyes a song Of treacheries and torturings? Oh blind Of spirit — yet so strong! Just let me rest against thy knees And let thy fingers stroke a while My hair. What while you tell the mysteries Beneath thy cool malicious smile, And stare With Borgian eyes across the seas. 84 BRAVADO She comes down the gilded, mirrored room Through the crowded tables' revelry, With an indolent languorous smile on her face, And the grace of a wind-swept fleur de lys. Her lips are as red as poppies are In a poppy field where the sunlight lies, Her skin is as white as the moon on the mist, There's a careless passion a-dream in her eyes. It is New Year's eve, there is holly, wine, Crimson poinsettas, amber champagne; Confetti and serpentine, flung through the air, Drift down in a little gossamer rain. She passes by with her studied laugh, So debonair and so cavalier, With the ghost of a dread hid deep in her heart For the spectre she's feting — another year. 85 WHEN YOU ARE GONE They will go on — the things we knew, Sunset and night and dawn. The sky will change from blue to deeper blue, The dandelions will blossom in the lawn, Your lilac bush will bloom again for you, When you are gone — are gone. The stars will peer again down through the pine, Your borders will be gay with ismene, With bleeding-hearts and painted columbine, And in a tangled filigree The flowers will come to your clematis vine But not for me — for me. 86 ASPECTA BELLI I have not heard the fanfare or the shout The starry glory of the battle cries, But I have seen the fear and pain and doubt Steal ghostlike to a woman's haunted eyes And, all ashamed and pitiful, peer out. I have not seen the flash of fighting where A tattered oriflamme floats red with blood, But, sitting crumpled in Trafalgar Square Grey with new suffering, ancient motherhood The poor unsculptured statue of despair. I have not seen the proud and courtly side, The kingly passions, anger and desire, But in a street a girl who walked beside Her tremulous, heroic, boyish squire With tenderness too agonized for pride, I know the splendid passions waken there The stars of war — but these I did not meet; The little people feel but one — despair, And there is sorrowing in every street And hunger and sad eyes are everywhere. 87 THE DANCING GIRL IN PRISON The beast that was your passion stole in to me at dawn, When wine and lust from fettered truth had loosed their golden net, When glamour with its dusky cloak and scented hair was gone, And looking in your face I knew that bitter thing regret. Regret, as ever, came too late, and with it loathing came, And that is why I hid my face with hands your kisses struggled through, Then drew the little knife and struck, mad-blind with fear and shame, And fled across the ashen dawn; because at last I knew. 88 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS She was a faded woman gowned in gray, Seeming as little vivid as her gown. In the dull background of the busy town It seemed she walked alone a loveless way. But once a careless word I chanced to say Woke a far dreaming in her eyes' soft brown: The past came back — the dreary mask was down, And she was very beautiful that day. She had that beauty that the sunlight has When it falls softly on the withered grass, Or some forgotten, ancient tomb, Or that a tear has on a rouge-stained face, Or that frail youth has in dark death's embrace, Or red flowers in a convent room. 89 A SONG OF LADIES' NAMES There are words that tread with a stately grace Through the miry ways where men's words meet; With the holiness of a saint's pale face In the din and glare of a market street. There are pitiful words — the helpless ones Men freight with hope in their wistful songs; Sad as regret in the eyes of nuns, Fettered to earth with Time's great thongs. But, of men's words, most fair are those That shine with the gleaming of windy flames, That breathe of the scent of the fallen rose; The fragile music of ladies' names. Elaine is a word like a fallen cloak That treasures the moulding of slender shoulders, And Eloise like the blown gray smoke From a dust where passion smoulders. Beatrice is a song's last note Echoing faintly, lingering; Thais the stain at a pheasant's throat; Blanchefleur a fragrance at dusk, in spring. 90 Iseult and Deirdre and Guenevere Whisper the splendor of vanished queens; Vivian breathes of a haunted mere; Circe of sorcery's dim demesnes. Sappho, Poppea, and Melisande, And Helen, whose scourge was strong men's lust- The words are winds from a distant land; Red roses blossomed from beauty's dust. 91 IN EXPLANATION Eileen — The flower white hyacinth Is cursed with a most alluring scent, And your mouth was just the scarlet plinth Fashioned for such a monument. 92 NINETEEN HUNDRED FOURTEEN Across the pages of time the words were written at last: The creature, come from the grime in the hidden depths of the past, Had struggled up through the years, age climbing on what dead ages had known And written at last in blood and tears the words — "Man has flown; Man has aspired and bestirred him, no longer quite a thing of the clay From the day when desire first spurred him — he has worked: and he flies today." Was it not a thing to fulfill, a task to perform to have bended The will of the winds to his will? And must the record be ended With these words "Man flying has fought, as he fought in the days when he crawled. Was all that the generations taught a legend that madmen scrawled? And the work that inspired them a sinning, a pre- lude for other words, The terrible words beginning "Man winged himself as the birds And giving unto his body wings gave wings to the soul of the beast And stained his godliest purposings with the mire of his worst and his least?" 93 .' ■"■ ■'-■- ■ ' ■ ■ . . .■■. ■