CQFnUGHT DKPOSm 
 
Devices and 
 Desires 
 
DEVICES AND DESIRES 
 
 BY 
 FRANCIS CHARLES MAC DONALD 
 
 PRINCETON 
 PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD 
 OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 1922 
 

 V 
 
 Copyright, 1922 
 Francis Charles MacDonald 
 
 Published, 1922 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
 m is 1322 
 
 ©C!.Afi74597 
 
To 
 Henry Welty Coulter 
 
 this after many yean. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Solillo 13 
 
 I 
 
 Optima Memoriae 14 
 
 Reminiscence 17 
 
 Mist 18 
 
 Reprieve 19 
 
 Notice 20 
 
 I. M 22 
 
 In the Graveyard, Princeton 24 
 
 Paganism 25 
 
 The Sweet-Meat Vender 26 
 
 The Native Christian, to his Forsaken God ... 29 
 
 A Garden Song for the North Country 30 
 
 Nocturne 31 
 
 Branch of Pahn 32 
 
 Mango Song 33 
 
 Among the Ruins 34 
 
 'There's Rosemary'' 2^^ 
 
 On the Caribbean, before Kingston 40 
 
 Dawn 44 
 
 Weather 45 
 
 Island Magic 46 
 
 The Sorrov/ful Dead 47 
 
 7 
 
PAGE 
 
 Royalty 50 
 
 Easter at Sano 52 
 
 April Afternoon 53 
 
 Memorials 54 
 
 Another Note of Spring 55 
 
 Reinanzaka : the Hill of Whispers 56 
 
 On the Fly-leaf of a Manual of Arms 57 
 
 The Wise Crow 58 
 
 The Spring Drive 59 
 
 Ginza in War-Time 60 
 
 Scenario 63 
 
 Vladivostok Harbour 68 
 
 The End of a British Seaman 69 
 
 To Sylvia, from Omsk 70 
 
 n 
 
 Of the Ambulance 75 
 
 France 76 
 
 Russia yj 
 
 Italy 78 
 
 America 79 
 
 She Sees the Departure of the Ships 80 
 
 "Dulce et Decorum" 81 
 
 The Difference '^'}) 
 
 191 7 — 1920 84 
 
 On a Certain American Soldier 88 
 
 Armistice 9^ 
 
 8 
 
PAGE 
 III 
 
 The Joke 91 
 
 An old Song of Spring 93 
 
 Inconstancy 95 
 
 Bob White 96 
 
 To an Alchemist 97 
 
 The Old Sail-boat 9^ 
 
 On an Uncertain Day in Winter 99 
 
 The Ecstatic Lover 100 
 
 The Cynical Lover loi 
 
 The Happy Bachelor 102 
 
 Song for Gay Music 104 
 
 In August 105 
 
 Inhibition 106 
 
 In the Lanes 107 
 
 ''Out of what Earth and Air" 108 
 
 The Quarry no 
 
 Finality 1 1 1 
 
 Advice 113 
 
 The Visitor 114 
 
 The Eternal Hope 115 
 
 -IV 
 
 The Daughter of Herodias 119 
 
 Black Dog Care 122 
 
 The Merry Life 123 
 
 Elemental 125 
 
The Nightmare 126 
 
 Spring Song 128 
 
 V 
 
 Nox Irae 1 30 
 
 Mood after Music 134 
 
 TO 
 
Devices and 
 
Solillo 
 
 (for Schuyler Jackson) 
 Solillo is not built of towers: 
 
 Narrow the dwellings here, and low ; 
 And slowly, slowly come the hours 
 To meet us, homing as we go 
 Along the streets of flowers. 
 
 Solillo knows a sky more fair 
 
 Than folds across the breast of earth 
 
 At night the generous stars prepare 
 The whole of all their golden worth 
 To pour upon the air. 
 
 And when the stars are lost in light, 
 And moons have melted into noon, 
 
 Solillo still and cool and white, 
 Turns to the shadow of the Moon 
 That haunts the gates of night. 
 
 Whatever season comes to pass, 
 Beauty is born each hour anew : 
 
 The lights that glow upon the grass 
 Summer nor winter can subdue : 
 Seasons and souls are true : 
 
 Season and soul together stand: 
 Poet and hero reign; and we, 
 
 Looking beyond what we have planned, 
 Descry in dim futurity 
 
 Our undiscovered land. . . . 
 
 13 
 
I 
 
 Optima Memoriae 
 
 Now if I could unlock the past 
 And all the tokens, duly set 
 With every circumstance, forget, — 
 The rubbish memory has amassed, — 
 These for her pride, these for regret. 
 These for her desperate penitence, — 
 Yet save in charity three things 
 Of good report, to be at last 
 My soul's immortal evidence: 
 
 What dreams I'd brush aside and cast 
 Away what wild imaginings! 
 Pleasure that stood me in ill stead ; 
 Love that prevailed not; hope that led 
 To no fulfilment; projects vast 
 That neither peace nor profit brought; 
 Vain purpose, and the vexing thought 
 Of heaven and hell, and all the fears 
 That haunted me, — how many years! 
 Of God hid in the shadow there 
 To catch me sinning, unaware, . . . 
 
 14 
 
However deep the shadows lay 
 
 Against my search, Fd know the way; 
 
 For childhood, leading like a star, 
 
 Would guess the rapture from afar: 
 
 The smile I saw upon my mother's face, 
 
 (So long ago, I have forgotten how 
 
 She looked then, and I would remember now!) 
 
 That said, "No matter what you do, however base 
 
 You may be, or however high you climb, — 
 
 Love if honour be yours, love if disgrace, — 
 
 My love shall follow you!" Ah, now, from Time, 
 
 If in God's providence such favours be, 
 
 Fd beg that guerdon for eternity! 
 
 Once was an hour ... so swift it came, 
 
 And touched me, passing like a flower, a flame, 
 
 A breath! . . . that thrilled my heart and gave a 
 
 voice 
 To all my yearnings, mute so long ; 
 That bade me see the glad world and rejoice 
 And sing! Untutored was the song, 
 Soon ended; but I was a poet then, 
 Crowned and anointed. Not again 
 The spirit came. I would recall 
 The song to-day, that I might sing once more 
 To myself only, for old sake, before 
 I come upon the silence of the night. 
 For when the shadows of the cypress fall 
 Thickly about me, and there is no light, 
 No voice, to guide, I would remember how 
 That day the laurel felt upon my brow! 
 
 I-; 
 
Once, within a desolate place, 
 
 Broken, I cried aloud for grace; 
 
 Silence and night surrounded me. 
 
 Immortal, in eternity. 
 
 I waited, desperate, for a space. 
 
 A light, a voice ! I slipped my fear 
 
 Back into time; my sight came clear 
 
 To heavenly vision, and I saw ! 
 
 And with the joy of comradeship 
 
 His name came bravely to my lip : 
 
 His, whom we name but do not know. 
 
 And have misjudged a fear, an awe, 
 
 A scourge ! I did not find him so ! 
 
 There is not very far to go 
 
 Before the grave shall cumber me : 
 
 I would remember now% against the day 
 
 I stand once more within the uncounted, slow, 
 
 And timeless pauses of eternity. 
 
 The light I saw, the voice I heard, the way 
 
 My soul, scarce knowing what befell, 
 
 Was lifted in a miracle! 
 
 I may not choose; but, Memory! 
 Befriend me in eternity! 
 
 i6 
 
Reminiscence 
 
 The grass is deep as ever on the hill ; 
 
 There lies the Kiskiminetas, agleam 
 
 With an old sunset; there the dusky stream 
 
 Of Loyalhanna whispers and is still; 
 
 There is the haunted house. The ghosts that fill 
 
 The shadows draw me to a school-boy dream, . . . 
 
 Was that Bob White? What made the hoot-owl 
 
 scream ? 
 What stirred the menace of the whippoorwill? 
 
 Among the trees glimmer the lights of school . . . 
 Why is the gang so late? When reckless Bob 
 Moved the adventure, every heart was bold : 
 Shall we waste midnight for a silly rule? 
 Come, ghosts, and gather here on Locust Knob; 
 Yonder's the moon, just half a century old! 
 
 1-7 
 
Mist 
 
 Where little Aughwick's deeper pools are spread 
 The white mist rises from the meadow-land, 
 Stealing from tree to tree, slow, sinuous, bland, 
 Till hedge and house are covered, shop and shed; 
 Then mellower with pale moonlight overhead 
 Crawls to the churchyard wall, where, like a band 
 Of Death's unsleeping, silent watchmen, stand 
 Broken, forgotten, gravestones of the dead. . . . 
 
 I know not why my fancy haunts the place : 
 Grandsire and grandam, whom I never knew, 
 
 Lie all neglected in their sunken plot 
 
 Over my shoulder is a gloomy space 
 
 Of shadows, with no starlight breaking through. . 
 
 I whisper, but the shadows answer me not. 
 
 j8 
 
Reprieve 
 
 Last night at midnight wakened by the shock 
 Of sudden sound within my room I heara 
 The quiet, measured steps of one who stirred 
 At watch about my bed. The fatal clock 
 That rang the hour could not outring the knock 
 Upon the door, the harsh, insistent word, 
 The struggle, the victory, the doom deferred 
 With sharp denial, and the straining lock. . , . 
 
 I beat my brain with question, while the hour 
 Before the dawn drew out the weary length 
 Of darkness, — till day's answer took my breath : 
 Here by my bedside power has striven with power, 
 And Death and Time have measured strength with 
 
 strength, 
 And Time held back my soul once more from Death ! 
 
 19 
 
Notice 
 
 This is the city of youth, — 
 Old grey -beard, get you gone! 
 Set your pack of threadbare truth 
 On your back, and let the dawn 
 Find you many a league away : 
 Youth awaits another day; 
 Woe is on you if you stay! 
 
 For this dawn about to break 
 Will so dazzle your old sight 
 That the sun you will mistake 
 For the very dead of night; 
 And the breath of it, the breeze 
 Blowing freshly pole to pole, 
 Clearing worlds of old disease. 
 Will be stifling to your soul. 
 
 You will never learn the way 
 Men must go from place to place; 
 What your old directions say 
 Will not help your feet to trace 
 Any dear, familiar track 
 Through the windings of the town; 
 Nor your ancient almanack 
 Tell when stars go up and down. . 
 
 20 
 
Yonder, see, they rise, — afar, 
 On the dim horizon's line : 
 Towers beneath a setting star : 
 City, that, of yours and mine. 
 Soon will break the alien dawn, — 
 We must pack and go, forsooth. . . 
 You are old now, — get you gone, 
 Grey-beard ! This is the city of youth 
 
 21 
 
I.M. 
 
 Deal bravely with him, Death! 
 
 He did not fear thee, 
 
 Nor cry with coward breath 
 
 When he came near thee. 
 
 Then he no more than we 
 
 Divined thy being : 
 
 We are more blind, but he 
 
 Sees with thy seeing. . . . 
 
 Why was it Death preferred 
 Him, the new-parted? 
 Listen ... I hear his word 
 Low and light-hearted 
 Lingering still, — the jest 
 But touched with laughter : 
 He did not tire, — but rest 
 Is his, hereafter. . 
 
 Tire? He? The plashy field, 
 His man to cover. . . 
 Mud-crusted, heavy-heeled. . . 
 O, valiant lover 
 
 Of Princeton ! Hear her name 
 All through the breathless 
 Long pauses of the game! 
 Now he is deathless. 
 
 22 
 
It was but yesterday 
 He met with sorrow, — 
 A bitter game to play 
 Through a long morrow^ : 
 No thousand friends to go 
 Mad with their cheering. ... 
 But surely praises flow 
 Now in God's hearing. . . 
 
 So clean of limb and soul, 
 So surely-minded ! 
 The years were his, the goal 
 His. . . . We are blinded 
 With too much grief, and vain 
 Our grieving o'er him : 
 Swiftly, out of brief pain. 
 Peace lay before him. . . 
 
 And of that peace we know- 
 Only the seeming: 
 Sleep, — and the deeper flow 
 Of truer dreaming. . . 
 But his a braver faith, — 
 He was no craven ! 
 Deal bravely with him, Death, 
 In thv far haven. . . . 
 
In the old Graveyard, Princeton 
 
 Now to this quiet place the living come 
 To make their question of the faithful dead. 
 Eager each name and epitaph is read; 
 And many a deed recorded, like the drum 
 Before a battle, stirs the blood, and dumb 
 White marble speaks for spirits long since fled. 
 "I served the State," and "I for freedom bled," 
 *'I taught the Word of God," some say; and some 
 In humbler fashion served the lives of men. . 
 But all of them have this as well to say : 
 "Let not our limits hold your ventures back! 
 Know that we come beyond the rest; and then 
 With higher aim upon the upward track 
 Leave us at greater distance every day. ." 
 
 24 
 
Paganism 
 
 The tide is coming from the sea, and brings 
 
 A cool sea-savoured breath of air. The cry 
 
 Of homeward boatmen flags as night draws nigh. 
 
 And each, forgetful of his traffic, sings 
 
 Low-toned, monotonous chants of happy things. . . 
 
 From far-off rice-fields, throng the dusky sky, 
 
 The crows are wheeling templewards, and fly 
 
 To shelter with the gods on reverent wings. . . . 
 
 High in the heavens, above my town of trees, 
 
 The stars flash forth. . . O, heart, — let sorrow go ! 
 
 To-night the gods of my lost mother-land 
 
 Are near me, — all her kindly deities 
 
 Of star and stream and wilderness. They know 
 
 The prayer I make, — they hear and understand ! 
 
 25 
 
The Sweet-Meat Vender 
 
 (Bangkok) 
 
 Above the town the terrible sun 
 Burned all the hours out, one by one; 
 The full-fed river marked them v^ell; 
 And with the changing of the tide 
 A sampan slipped from the farther side, 
 Heavy w^ith savoury things to sell ; 
 And shrill the vender's coaxing voice 
 Rose up above the harbour's noise: 
 
 ''Come and buy ! 
 
 Friend of the homing seaman I, — 
 
 Swatow, Amoy, Hailam, Hong Kong! — 
 
 Here is the cheer for which you long: 
 
 Confections of such mealy paste 
 
 As foreign countries never taste; 
 
 Sauce of the sea-fish, briny still; 
 
 And curries of a tropic will; 
 
 Syrops of old A3njthian brew, 
 
 And fruit the Sumray gardens grew. . . . 
 
 Ah, these cocoanuts of mine, 
 
 Packed wath meat and soaked with wine! 
 
 Sugar-cane from Kanburee, 
 
 Fresh and succulent, — buy of me! 
 
 None has better store than I, — 
 
 Come and buy!'* 
 
 !0 
 
The great pagoda stood intent 
 Before the final sacrament: 
 Circled in flame the last hour died ; 
 The crows, grown pious in their quest, 
 Came to the Buddha's roof for rest, — 
 So were the thieves beatified ! 
 Mingle(J still of honey and gall 
 Rose the same rich, persuasive call: 
 ''Come and buy, O, come and buy ! 
 Like the temple crows am I, 
 Going with the day to rest. . . 
 Good people, outland fare is best ! 
 . . Here are messes, China-made, 
 Rice and spices, green as jade; 
 And fish from the Singora shore, 
 Sun-dried upon a salty floor; 
 Wines that no local vintage gets, — 
 And long Manila cigarettes. . . . ! 
 From Singapore the Rajah sent 
 A fleet of such advertisement. . . 
 New-fangled things for kings to try. 
 Come and buy, O, come and buy!" 
 
 7 
 
Now, lo! the moon has builded high 
 A peacock-palace in the sky, 
 And in the magic of her hght 
 The trees He silvery in the stream. . . 
 Magnolias, moving in a dream, 
 OflFer their incense to the night. . . 
 While faint and far, half-lost among 
 The echoes, hear the new-set song! 
 
 "Worth w^as the toil, for such an hour. . 
 
 Out of the day has come the flower. . . 
 
 Richer the guerdon than the gold : 
 
 Now for the night which dawn foretold! 
 
 Night and rest, O, night and rest, — 
 
 Life is good, but love is best; 
 
 Life's a breath, but love's a song; 
 
 Life is short, but love is long; 
 
 Night is short, but love is fair; 
 
 Home is far, but love is there. . . 
 
 Night and rest, night and rest, — 
 
 Night and home and love are best!" 
 
 28 
 
The Native Christian to his Forsaken 
 God 
 
 Poor god, — would thou wert God, to shield my 
 
 Love, 
 Who loves not Christ! For me, strip body bare, 
 Whip soul abroad, leave neither heaven above, 
 Nor earth, nor ultimate hell, to be my share; 
 I care not for thy wrath : to me thy name 
 Is but the name of a forgotten god ; 
 Having denied thee, now I shall not shame 
 My soul with protests, to escape thy rod! 
 
 But, for my Love, hast thou no power to build 
 Another heaven, as beautiful, as high. 
 As God's, whom they have brought us over sea? 
 Earth has grow^n dark w^ith pity; heaven is filled 
 With presage. . . Now, low at thy feet I lie : 
 For her, be God ! Do what thou wilt with me ! 
 
 29 
 
A Garden Song for the North Country 
 
 (Siam) 
 
 Out in the Chieng Mai gardens, 
 
 When the night came on, 
 The air was Hke the air 
 
 Of an Eden dawn. 
 
 Out in the Chieng Mai gardens, 
 
 When the night was mute, 
 Floated the plaintive note 
 
 Of a beggar's flute. 
 
 Out in the Chieng Mai gardens, 
 
 When the moon was new, 
 Glimmered the Spirit of Palm, 
 
 The Soul of Bamboo. 
 
 Out in the Chieng Mai gardens, 
 
 In the branch of a Tree, 
 Orion was held by a dream 
 
 Of captivity. 
 
 Out in the Chieng Mai gardens, 
 
 sacred Tree! 
 
 By the light of thy branch of stars 
 
 1 found Charity! 
 
 30 
 
Nocturne 
 
 (Bangkok) 
 
 There's a jewelled cross hung low in the sky, 
 And a jewelled cross on the darkling tide; 
 
 A light breeze falls from the trees, to die 
 
 In the shadows that wait by the water-side. . . 
 But it scatters the jewels far and wide 
 
 From the cross in the tide as it trembles by. 
 
 In the cross of stars no loss is felt; 
 
 But the shadows that wait by the water shrink, 
 And the greater stars grow faint, and melt 
 
 In an eddy of stars, by the water's brink; 
 In the water beneath me swirl and sink 
 
 The three small stars of Orion's belt! 
 
 31 
 
Branch of Palm 
 
 (Northern Siam) 
 
 I have no way to guess 
 
 Whose is the mound 
 Here in the wilderness 
 
 My feet have found; 
 Tall stand the trees around, 
 
 Stately, sedate; 
 Old rituals abound 
 
 Inviolate. . . 
 
 Palm to the heart of palm, 
 
 Teak unto teak, 
 Breathe the authentic calm, 
 
 Superbly meek; 
 Waters, high-crested, seek 
 
 To vail their pride. 
 From lowly creek to creek 
 
 Pouring, full-tide. 
 
 Who in this place of peace, 
 
 Watery, dim, 
 Waits long for his release? 
 
 Unknown, for him 
 I break the budding limb 
 
 Of a young tree: 
 One grace, in all this grim 
 
 Sobriety. 
 
 32 
 
Mango Song 
 
 Smell o' mangoes, mellow in the tree, — 
 
 See them, hanging ready to fall, 
 Breaking with beauty, falling to me : 
 Mine are the mangoes, one and all ! 
 (Waiting, waiting, 
 Under the branches. .) 
 
 Mellow mangoes, dropping on the lawn, — 
 Hear them falling, all through the night; 
 Waking so early, out with the dawn, 
 Gather my mangoes, golden-bright! 
 (Gathering, gathering. 
 Under the green tree. . . .) 
 
 Drowsy mangoes, dropping in the stream,- 
 Hear them falling, all through the day; 
 Sleeping so early, far in a dream 
 I and my mangoes float away. . . 
 (Floating, floating, 
 Far from the low bank. . . .) 
 
 Flaming mangoes, dropping in the Deep, 
 
 Falling, floating, far from the Shore. . . 
 When shall I waken out of my sleep? 
 0,for the mangoes, mine no more! . . 
 (Searching, searching. 
 Hard by heaven-gate!) 
 
 33 
 
Among the Ruins 
 
 (Northern Siam, Winter, 1919) 
 I 
 
 Here is a temple, old, so old, 
 
 The country folk remember not 
 
 The years; Time shall the secret fold, — 
 
 For even History has forgot. 
 
 The bullock-driver whom I ask 
 For dates of founders wonders why 
 Strangers go mad, — resumes his task, 
 And drives his team unheeding by. 
 
 The yellow, time-encrusted priest 
 Shows one bleak tooth and says that he, 
 Deep in the wisdom of the East, 
 Cannot bephrase antiquity. . . . 
 
 II 
 
 The high towers crumble as I look; 
 And Buddhas rot in every niche: 
 It is not writ in any book 
 Oblivion could be so rich. . . 
 
 Gold of forgotten mines was here, 
 And ruby once with emerald flashed; 
 By altars, dull this many a year. 
 Cymbals and gongs of silver clashed; 
 
 34 
 
And kings went up by flowery stairs 
 
 To hear the holy oracle, — 
 
 Where now one priest, with toothless prayers. 
 
 Chants to a tinkling modern bell. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I climb from dragon-fended porch 
 
 By broken turrets to the roof, 
 
 From which of old, with gong and torch, 
 
 The evil world was held aloof. 
 
 The sacred tree has rooted there 
 And overturns a sacred shrine; 
 And here beside a shattered stair 
 A god is rescued, — by a vine! 
 
 Is this the lot of saint and knave? 
 Do good and evil take no heed? 
 A thieving creeper comes to save 
 A godhead in his hour of need ! 
 
 IV 
 
 For such as I, who ask a sign, 
 Must this the only answer be ? 
 And ever must the Buddha's shrine 
 Be ruined by the Buddha's tree? 
 
 3S 
 
Faith after faith has flourished here, 
 Nor wrath nor pity been preferred; 
 And still from fruitless year to year 
 Prayer shall be offered,— and unheard ! 
 
 Unheard? I may not say as much! 
 Near by I see the Christian cross : 
 Shall Buddha perish at the touch, 
 Nor Christ be poorer for the loss? 
 
 V 
 
 The light across the paddy-field 
 Fades in a glory, and I go,— 
 Glad of a mystery unrevealed. 
 Glad of a truth I may not know! 
 
 36 
 
"There's Rosemary*' 
 
 Like a white flower afloat on deep 
 Mysterious waters of the night, 
 Heavy and odorous, half -asleep, 
 Between the stream and the moonlight : 
 
 Such, now I fancy, such thou art, 
 O, long-lost city of my birth. 
 Still the fair city of my heart, — 
 One perfect city of the earth! 
 
 . . . Could I from usual modes escape 
 And of my love my skill inform, 
 Out of my memories I might shape 
 Temples and towers, white and warm. 
 
 With roofs resplendent in the sun; 
 And thatch a thousand cottages, 
 All bamboo-built, and every one 
 Embowered in richly-blossomed trees; 
 
 And grow palm-gardens by the flanks 
 Of many-branched, mighty streams, — 
 Dark, languorous waters, by whose banks 
 A universe is lost in dreams; 
 
 And set a fleet of boats afloat, 
 Giving to each a lazy oar, — 
 Fill them with mellow fruit and boat 
 My delicate cargoes, shore to shore; 
 
 Z7 
 
And fix a firmament of stars 
 In constellations new, and gay 
 Bedeck with planets all the bars 
 And tangles of the milky way; 
 
 And for Orion's belt emboss 
 A new design to dazzle night ; 
 And touch the symbol of the Cross 
 With deeper mysteries of light; 
 
 And show the way the Buddha went, — 
 By more than foot-prints in the stone. . 
 (Since the long way to His content. 
 To me, for ever is unknown. .) 
 
 ... Or nearer yet, of dearer days 
 And fonder memories far, I might 
 A broad-verandahed mansion raise, 
 And to its cordial rooms invite. . . . 
 
 Or to the lawns, beneath the shade 
 Of mango-branches, low with fruit, — 
 To many a flowery esplanade. . . . 
 And paradises, absolute! 
 
 There should magnolias be. The scent 
 
 Clings to my English fairy-tales, 
 
 As if from out the Orient 
 
 Came argosies of English sails. . . 
 
 38 
 
(O, could I listen once again! 
 There is a grave upon a hill, 
 Mournful in sunshine or in rain. . 
 No more : the magic tones are still. . ) 
 
 Go, dreams and memories, go ! I fain 
 Would waken, waken and forget; 
 Here are the grey skies and the rain, 
 Bare trees in windy gardens set; 
 
 And straight long streets where people pass, 
 Traffic and chatter, till they seem 
 Themselves but shadows in a glass. 
 Or figments of another dream. 
 
 Another dream! Ay, dreaming still! 
 . . . . Grey towers upon an autumn sky; 
 Dream-locked on an enchanted hill. 
 While yonder all the world goes by! 
 
 O, flower-like city of the past! 
 
 O, little town of towered halls! 
 
 Ye are the two where, first and last, 
 
 The day rose and the twilight falls. . . 
 
 The day rose on a sunny strand 
 Where joys at end were joy's increase; 
 The evening falls, and through the land 
 I hear the folding wings of peace. 
 
 39 
 
On the Caribbean Sea, Before Kingston 
 
 Two bars of cloud, 
 
 Long, level, angry browed, 
 
 Hang over Kingston as the sun 
 
 Touches the mountains, and the day is done, — 
 
 Kingston, that lies 
 
 Indifferent to the skies. 
 
 Warm, silent, beautiful, adream 
 
 In the late light that floods now like a stream 
 
 Of amber haze 
 
 Through all her dusty ways 
 
 Sad fading beauty, that will dim 
 
 When the sun sinks beyond the mountains' rim; — 
 
 Poor broken town 
 
 Of shattered houses, down 
 
 Whose melancholy vistas pass 
 
 Children of Fate, like figures in the glass 
 
 Of prophecy! 
 
 Destiny shadows thee : 
 
 Arisen as thou art to-day, 
 
 There stand the mountains still, there lies the bay. 
 
 Waiting the hour 
 
 When once again their power 
 
 Shall be unloosed, and all their might 
 
 Falling upon thee, sink thee in the night 
 
 40 
 
My head is bowed. . . . 
 
 But the two bars of cloud 
 
 Catch the sun's Hght that lowers nigh 
 
 And suddenly blaze across a brazen sky! 
 
 Blaze, glow, and melt 
 
 Into a radiant belt, 
 
 So greatly fashioned, shining bright, — 
 
 Archangel's girdle, thrown upon the night! 
 
 Strange jewels these 
 
 Upon what stranger seas! 
 
 Sapphire and amethyst and pearl 
 
 And opal, dropping in a ruddy whorl 
 
 Of gold, — a mine 
 
 Of fabulous design! 
 
 From which the poet or the king 
 
 Might figure crowns to wear or songs to sing 
 
 But more, yet more. 
 Beyond all jewel-lore. 
 The precious things before the bars 
 Of night are strewn and cover up the stars! 
 I have no name 
 For orange that is flame, 
 For flame that flakes to ashen gray 
 And trembles liquidly and fades away. . . 
 Such a high red 
 Befits the morning's bed; 
 Outreds the ruby and the rose; 
 And here the Tyrian splendour spreads and 
 grows. . . . 
 
 41 
 
Soul, on thy guard! 
 
 Lo, jasper here, and sard, 
 
 And emerald ! In the mass 
 
 Up-piled, the Rainbow and the Sea of Glass ! 
 
 The sea runs wine 
 
 Across this hand of mine 
 
 Falls blood, as from a cup. . . 
 
 I dare to lift my thirsting spirit up! 
 
 After such sight 
 
 Mine eyes long for the night. . . 
 
 Above the ship's unsteady mast 
 
 On toward the sunset, lo ! the moon has passed, 
 
 And opened there 
 
 Pale, patient, chary, rare. 
 
 Cold, cold, her quieter array, 
 
 Her humbler beauty and her tenderer sway 
 
 Of light ! O dream 
 
 Of God! The two clouds seem 
 
 The entrance now^ to high estate, 
 
 And bar, be sure, the way to the straight gate. 
 
 We may not pass ; 
 
 But here we may amass 
 
 Glories ; and we may gather here 
 
 Splendours : may praise and love and fear. 
 
 42 
 
Kingston, beyond 
 
 The bay, lies still and fond ; 
 
 Dies half the light at last, and stars 
 
 Newly-articulate shine by the cloud-bars. , . 
 
 Poor shattered town 
 
 Of houses broken down. . . . 
 
 By whom? Of age-old graves unsealed, . . 
 
 By whom? Why question love or wrath revealed? 
 
 Say, merely chance, 
 
 Or luckless circumstance : 
 
 Eternal struggle of sea and land : 
 
 Men perish so: we may not understand. 
 
 Another day 
 
 Shall come and pass away, 
 
 And all this blazonry and bloom. .... 
 
 Kingston, beneath the stars, awaits the doom. . . 
 
 43 
 
Dawn 
 
 (At sea, approaching Oahu) 
 
 Out of the sea 
 
 Uprise majestically 
 
 Precipitous peaks of cloud, afar, 
 
 Bleak and austere under a fading star. 
 
 Before the sun 
 
 Exhausted heralds run: 
 
 Stars die upon the stairs of dawn, 
 
 And the gray moon into gray day is drawn. 
 
 There is no sound 
 
 The serious earth around, 
 
 Save the grave music of the sea, 
 
 And the great winds that blow eternally! 
 
 44 
 
Weather 
 
 (Honolulu) 
 Manoa rains, Nuuanu rains, 
 Have joined against the window panes, 
 And down from Tantalus I see 
 Another rain rush rapidly. . . 
 And somewhere over Diamond Head 
 Hang heavier rains as yet unshed, 
 And desperate clouds go hurrying by 
 To break in rains on Waianae. . . 
 
 Manoa blooms in rainbows now; 
 Nuuanu drips from every bough; 
 And Honolulu in the sun 
 Is laughing that the rain is done. . . , 
 And as the final showers low^ 
 Across the farther w^aters go. 
 They catch the colours of the sun, — 
 Their solace for oblivion. 
 
 45 
 
Island Magic 
 
 (On Tantalus, Oahu) 
 Nymph nor faun has pastured here, 
 
 Satyr never came this way ; 
 In such groves for very fear 
 
 Pan himself had gone astray; 
 Nightingale was never heard, 
 
 Stag was never given chase; 
 Surely other Magic stirred 
 
 In the stillness of the place! 
 
 Winds that sweep the world away 
 
 Falter here and fall asleep; 
 Suns that lead the rains astray 
 
 Draw them here from all the Deep; 
 Stars that ever all the night 
 
 Keep their solemn stately pace; 
 Moons, fulfilled of long delight. . . . 
 
 Work their Magic in the place. 
 
 Hush ! I hear a whisper now : 
 
 Leaf on leaf is all astir; 
 Every blossom, every bough 
 
 Answers to the whisperer. . . . 
 Birds, enchanted, on spread wings, 
 
 Hang where branches interlace. . . 
 What invisible, holy things 
 
 Work their Magic in the place? 
 
 46 
 
Cloud and fog enfold the heights; 
 
 Rainbows droop across the vale. 
 Whence come all the radiant lights 
 
 Riding down the azure trail? 
 Sunset on Kaena Head? . . 
 
 Nay, — no sun gave such a grace! 
 Ghosts of gods for ages dead 
 
 Work their Magic in the place. . 
 
 Look! the night has fallen now; 
 
 Darkness deepens at my feet; 
 I, who have no magic, how 
 
 Shall I match them when we meet? 
 Winds are up and shake the world, — 
 
 Here I stand and pray a space. . . 
 Darkness upon Darkness hurled 
 
 Works black Magic in the place! 
 
 47 
 
The Sorrowful Dead 
 
 (Honolulu) 
 I 
 
 Over Leahi the night falls; 
 Far, far south Kahiki calls. 
 
 Shimmering water by the shore 
 Foams and breaks for evermore. 
 
 Pu-u Ohia, amethyst, 
 
 Droops and fades in rain and mist. 
 
 Awawaloa, hooded, pale, 
 
 Leans against the northern gale. 
 
 To Honolulu night-fall brings 
 Melancholy shades of kings. 
 
 Over the Pali wailing ghosts 
 Of slain men rise up in hosts. 
 
 Down Nu-u-anu hear the sound 
 Of dead feet on the wet ground. 
 
 2 
 
 ''What malihini goeth there, 
 White of skin, and false as fair?" 
 
 Out of the North Wind once he came, 
 Bearing gifts of death and shame. 
 
 48 
 
''What malihini passe th nozv, 
 With slant eye and sullen broKuf" 
 
 Out of the West Wind he was born, 
 Bearing gifts of pride and scorn. 
 
 ''Sons of our zvofiicn, arc there none 
 Worthy of the fame zve zvonf" 
 
 Are there no spirits in the gloom 
 Chanting their heroic doom? 
 
 "Shadozc of shadozv, ghost of ghost, 
 Of their death they make no boast!'' 
 
 All is forgotten but the name : 
 Let the gods allot the blame. 
 
 3 
 "Can the zvinds hear us on strong zvingsi 
 Men zvere zve, — heroes and kings T 
 
 Winds that are mighty sweep the skies, 
 But far south Kahiki lies. 
 
 "Let the zvinds bear us, star to star. 
 Where our great forefathers are. . . . 
 
 "Farezi'ell, Oahu, — ours no more!" 
 Winds blow^ strong above the shore. . . 
 
 Over Leahi the night falls; 
 Far, far south Kahiki calls. 
 
 49 
 
Royalty 
 
 (For Sarah Morris) 
 
 If I were the Queen of China, 
 
 Ever so great and grand, 
 I'd go to the Desert of Gobi, 
 
 And sit me down in the sand, 
 And call all the camels together 
 
 To eat from my queenly hand : 
 
 And I'd write to the Queen of Russia 
 To drop all her worries and cares 
 
 And pay me a royal visit 
 
 For the sake of the desert airs, — 
 
 Away from friends and family 
 
 And manners and fuss and chairs: 
 
 And as we'd be talking we'd notice 
 
 A runaway rickshaw-man. 
 Draw up with a silvery lady 
 
 Who carried an ivory fan : 
 And Fd cry to the Queen of Russia, 
 
 "It's the beautiful Queen of Japan!" 
 
 Fd order a thousand muffins. 
 
 And a hundred jars of jam, 
 And while we'd be licking our fingers, 
 
 And crying, "How neat I am!," 
 We'd see a big elephant coming. 
 
 Conveying the Queen of Siam ! — 
 
 50 
 
And we four queens together 
 
 Would gossip over our tea 
 Till the moon came up, and the camels 
 
 Were sleeping so peacefully! — 
 There in the Desert of Gobi, 
 
 Those three queens — and me! 
 
 51 
 
Easter at Sano 
 
 We came to Sano beaten by loud brawls 
 Of ugly weather. Over us in our flight 
 Dusk fell to darkness, and the hostile night 
 With rain enclosed us, as with watery walls ; 
 Through which our headlights bored, like starry 
 
 awls 
 Point-broken at the inch's end. The spite 
 Of Spirits was against us, and their might 
 Had monstrous voice in winds and waterfalls. . . . 
 
 The Spirits fled before the scouts of day. . . 
 
 I woke with windows open to the lawn : 
 
 White lay the plum-bloom on the springing sward. 
 
 I climbed the slopes, I saw the pall of grey 
 
 Lift from the plains, — and lo! the glass of dawn! 
 
 Fuji, perfect in victory, — Conqueror! Lord! 
 
 52 
 
April Afternoon 
 
 I can make rhymes about you, while the rain 
 Drips from the slate to little garden pools : 
 I can sit here and count the instant gain 
 Of one more syllable in a line for fools. . . . 
 Your shadow once was light upon the way 
 I walked, and my own shadow was as yours; 
 But neither shadow found a word to say, 
 And shadow-begot-and-born no love endures. 
 I might have flashed my winter into spring 
 With blossom and song in gardens of my heart: 
 Perhaps, — but since it were a terrible thing 
 Wrong-guessing of hearts and seasons, for my part 
 I chose to lift my shadow and begone. 
 Here the rain trails no shadows on the lawn. 
 
 53 
 
Memorials 
 
 Lovers may pipe a sentimental eye 
 
 When robin or thrush has startled memories; 
 
 Hearing the hungry grunting of a sty 
 
 I have been won to lost divinities : 
 
 It takes no flower to bear the odour here 
 
 Of flowers I have attended years ago : 
 
 A neighbour's orgy, reeking of stale beer, 
 
 Has agonized the savour of old woe; 
 
 I need no waning moon, nor stars' eclipse. 
 
 That I may dream of beauty gone to mould : 
 
 A dog may howl of broken fellowships, — 
 
 A crow call up more grief than heart can hold. 
 
 I saw an ugly gas-tank by a tree: 
 
 Oceans were drained and lands dissolved for me. 
 
 54 
 
Another Note of Spring 
 
 Fly down the March wind, with the yellow dust 
 
 Enfolding you! For what does Virtue here? 
 
 Sitting by winter fires, because I must, 
 
 I grudge you fellowship for all the year! 
 
 But now, but now, the warm soft rains have come; 
 
 And if a wind belated carries snow 
 
 We match his burden with the bending plum. 
 
 Fly down, dull Virtue, like the puritan crow, 
 
 Down the March wind, black in the yellow cloud, 
 
 And nest on some bleak island ofif the shore 
 
 Where for all months the virtuous winds are loud. 
 
 And through all seasons piety makes a roar! 
 
 I know a place for April : there's a tree 
 
 All blossomy, shadowy, dreamy, showery, free! 
 
 55 
 
Reinanzaka, the Hill of Whispers 
 
 (Tokyo) 
 (a sleepless night) 
 
 I see at midnight Reinanzaka climb 
 Her shadowy slope, and, as on mischief bent, 
 Pause in the moonlight, halving the ascent, 
 Herself to preen, herself with pantomime 
 To mock, grotesquely posing. All the time, 
 I hear the sinister echoes, never meant 
 For human ear, betraying the hill's intent 
 To masque herself for high fantastic crime. 
 
 What Reinanzaka does at last of ill 
 
 I dimly image. Palaces, I know, 
 
 She whispers to, through long-unopened gates; 
 
 And cottages she holds in confidence, to fill 
 
 With still conspiracies. . . The night is slow. . 
 
 Dawn, till these whisperings are done with, waits. 
 
 56 
 
On the Fly-leaf of a Manual of Arms 
 
 By a Soldier who never went to the War 
 
 When I have done with Time and need no more 
 Count the poor mintage of the current days, 
 Nor spend them miserly from a shrunken store, 
 Regretful of youth's large, extravagant ways; 
 When I have done with place, and shall not care 
 To close my gate against the going out 
 Or coming in of ghosts, nor touch the air 
 With incense lest there be old sins about; — 
 Shall I forego the seasons utterly 
 And hear no echo of the spring's acclaim? 
 Nor sigh for one closed house that used to be 
 High altar of my gods, when winter came? 
 . . . . And of this war shall I have then no sense ?- 
 Death grown improvident, obscene, immense! 
 
 57 
 
The Wise Crow 
 
 When will the winter go? — 
 *'Go, go!" mocks the old crow, 
 Perched in the cherry-tree over the snow; 
 ''Winter will go some day; 
 March winds will blow away 
 Plum-bloom as well as snow ; 
 Go, go !" mocks the old crow : 
 "Spring, summer, autumn, winter. 
 All go!" 
 
 When will the war have done? 
 ''Done, done," cries the black one, 
 High on the temple-roof, warm in the sun; 
 "War will have done some day; 
 Peace will have laid away 
 Soldier as well as gun; 
 Done, done!" cries the black one, — 
 "Strength, courage, honour, glory, — 
 All done!" 
 
 Why do you croak and caw ? — 
 "Caw, caw !" laughs the outlaw, 
 Smug in the market-cart, pecking the straw 
 "I too shall go some day 
 Ever so far away, — 
 Will you not follow^? Pshaw! 
 Caw, caw !" laughs the outlaw : 
 "What will you do for wisdom? 
 Caw, caw !" 
 
 58 
 
The Spring Drive 
 
 (1918) 
 
 I said to March : Who let you in 
 
 With your loud infernal din? 
 
 If you can't be quiet, go 
 
 To some bigger star and blow: 
 
 Here you take up so much room 
 
 The plums have no place left to bloom ! 
 
 I said to March : Why do you come 
 Army-like, with trump and drum? 
 With such circumstance, you wake 
 Man's bitter, immemorial ache : 
 Wounds remembered stir his rage 
 To fight for quieter heritage. 
 
 I said to March : For God's sake now, — 
 Shattered bush and broken bough, 
 Tokens of your prowess, lie 
 By every garden wall, to die : 
 Blowing high your victory, — cease! 
 Let April bring the word of peace ! 
 
 I said to March : Let April bring 
 Showers for a bowery blossoming; 
 Balm to mend the wounded boughs 
 Where birds may choose again to house; 
 .... Grass to cover with an arch 
 The boys who died ! I said to March. 
 
 59 
 
Ginza in War-Time 
 
 From Shimbashi to Nihonbashi 
 
 I walk the crowded mile, 
 And Ginza pours out all her stores 
 
 To dazzle and beguile. 
 
 So like a stream with ebb and flow 
 
 In counter currents mixed, 
 All day there rolls the flood of souls, 
 • Un fathomed and unfixed. . . 
 
 The little mother with her child 
 
 Upon her back, asleep : 
 What whim bears her a passenger 
 
 From deep to answerless deep? 
 
 The student with his spectacles. 
 
 His tablet and his book : 
 When learning fails, what then avails? 
 
 Prayer-wheels or Pentateuch? 
 
 The laughing geisha, — humming-bird 
 With star-embroidered wings: 
 
 When laughter dies, will crashing skies 
 Blot out such futile things? 
 
 60 
 
The tradesman bartering as he goes, — 
 
 The customer who waits : 
 They buy and sell, — who can foretell 
 
 Their bargain with the fates ? 
 
 And such as I who loiter by, — 
 
 Do not the voices call? 
 *Tt's home and home, , O ye who roam, 
 
 Dear God, I need you all ! 
 
 ''The eddies of the Boulevards 
 
 No longer surge and roar : 
 The gentle stir of a backwater 
 
 On a melancholy shore; 
 
 "The tides of Piccadilly 
 
 Flow not so full to-day; 
 The Corso bears a flood of tears; 
 
 The lights have left Broadway; 
 
 ''The Nevsky Prospect is a stream 
 Whose sources none may guess; 
 
 Nor what may be the final sea 
 
 Toward which the waters press. . . . 
 
 "Shall Ginza then pour out her store 
 
 Your fancy to beguile, 
 Who give your sighs for butterfiies,- 
 
 Go bankrupt for a smile? 
 
 6i 
 
''Come home and home, my sons who roam! 
 
 Dear God, I need you all !" 
 Over the gods of Ginza 
 
 I hear my own Gods call. . . 
 
 From Nihonbashi to Shimbashi 
 
 I walk a sorry mile : 
 Grim night comes down upon the town, — 
 
 Ginza ends here, meanwhile. 
 
 62 
 
Scenario 
 
 (Tokyo) 
 I 
 
 0, Tokyo lights are low to-night 
 Under the spring-struck cherry-trees; 
 
 Stars in far sconces flare, to light 
 The ghostly companies. 
 
 For now the dead are come again : 
 O happy night! O night of dread! 
 
 Half-sick of living, I am fain 
 Of commerce with the dead. 
 
 1, who have served, would serve once more 
 Nothing but words the new world needs : 
 
 I would the older day restore 
 When service lay in deeds! 
 
 My spirit goes among them, ay, — 
 Silent and reverent, even as they; 
 
 Once more I am a Samurai 
 Walking the Knightly Way! 
 
 63 
 
2 
 
 The pines shadow the moat. I see 
 The new raw city fade; I know 
 
 The music that I hear ; for me 
 The old shrill trumpets blow\ . . 
 
 For me the ages are withdrawn : 
 
 I must bear well the sword and sword ! 
 
 I have to do, before the dawn, 
 Rare service for my lord ! 
 
 They pass and pass. Calmly I wait 
 Till he shall bid me come away: 
 
 Now from the Shogun's amber gate 
 He calls ... I cannot stay. . . 
 
 I follow, and we go apart; 
 
 Above the trees the stars grow dim ; 
 There is no question in my heart : 
 
 I can but follow him. 
 
 Beyond, I see the shadows stir; 
 
 The pallor of a woman's face 
 Gleams in the darkness, and for her 
 
 Love hallows the dim place 
 
 64 
 
3 
 
 Thy spirit's worth, O lordly soul, 
 Is as a crown upon thy brow : 
 
 She waits thee with her brimming bowl 
 Under the cherries now; 
 
 The sake is her seal of will : 
 
 Drink, with her fingers clasped in thine; 
 The flawless cup she can but fill 
 
 Once with such dear-bought wine ! 
 
 Lo, now the spring is nearly spent : 
 The star-seared petals fade and fall : 
 
 O, drink the double sacrament 
 Before the trumpeters call ! 
 
 Then pass, before the length of days 
 Can turn thy heart aside, or tire ; 
 
 While yet the shadow of thy praise 
 Shelters her soul's desire. . . . 
 
 Nothing is she, and yet the host 
 Who lift the sword to follow thee 
 
 Will leave not such another boast 
 For immortality ! 
 
 O, dear, dear, of a maiden's worth, 
 Her life has come to answer thine: 
 
 She masks the dread of love with mirth, 
 And pours her grief as wine. . . 
 
 65 
 
O, light, light, have men reckoned her, 
 And light her laughter was to hear, — 
 
 But never again her heart shall stir 
 Either to love or fear. . . . 
 
 Nor joy shall shake her, nor the strain 
 Of music shall her spirit rouse. 
 
 Till the frail petals fall again 
 Under the cherry boughs. . . 
 
 Then shall she break all bonds and rise 
 To meet thee with the untarnished bowl 
 
 Thine be the lordlier sacrifice, — 
 Hers is the loftier soul ! 
 
 Edge of thy sword, strength of thy arm, 
 Faith of thy host, she may not be : 
 
 She weaves thee courage by a charm 
 And crowns thy loyalty. . 
 
 With sombre pomp the daimio sweeps 
 
 To die in battle at the dawn ; 
 The geisha bows her head and keeps 
 
 Her cloak about her drawn. ... 
 
 66 
 
4 
 
 Were they but ghost and ghost, the twain 
 Who pledged and parted here to-night? 
 
 Lovers of blossoms, come again 
 Down alleys of starlight? 
 
 How many centuries ago 
 
 They parted thus when love was new! 
 Doom sealed their youth, and better so, — 
 
 For doom has held them true ! 
 
 O, something longer let me wait: 
 The wine, the chalice, he and she, — 
 
 Once, — but love holds the solemn state 
 For all eternity ! 
 
 The dawn is grey, the clouds are low, 
 The branches sag with fruitless flower: 
 
 I call my spirit back. . We go 
 Thoughtfully, like the hour. . . . 
 
 67 
 
Vladivostok Harbour 
 
 (1919) 
 
 Here I lie on the windy hill 
 
 And, half in pity, half in scorn, 
 
 Watch the long streets of the city thrill 
 As night descends on the Golden Horn. 
 
 Row after row the lights come out; 
 
 Over the bay runs a starry trail : 
 The little boats all put about, 
 
 And scurry to port with shortened sail : 
 
 Beyond the island there, the sea 
 
 Dreams of the splendour of long suns : 
 
 Below, the gray ships silently 
 
 Sniff at the shadows with their guns. 
 
 The hard wind sweeps the barren stone; 
 
 The air grows cold. I must go down ; 
 Yet scarcely dare to hear, alone, 
 
 The heartless laughter of the town. 
 
 Thistles are gay, but bear no figs; 
 
 Grapes are not gathered from the thorn ; 
 Soldiers and prostitutes and pigs. . . . 
 
 Of such what destiny is born? 
 
 Deep in the heart of man and race 
 Purpose and faith must interlock : 
 
 Time will be tyrant for a space 
 And have his will of Vladivostok. 
 
 68 
 
The End of a British Seaman 
 
 (Vladivostok) 
 
 From dead-march to quickstep 
 
 Or ever the hour began ! 
 What was left on the hill-side 
 
 Was once a living man. 
 
 Whatever now the measures be, 
 
 He will not move again : 
 Dead marches of the winter wind, 
 
 Or quicksteps of the rain! 
 
 69 
 
To Sylvia, from Omsk 
 
 (August, 1919) 
 (In the time of Admiral Kolchak) 
 
 Sylvia, in the birchwood here 
 
 Only the trees abide ; 
 The nightingales are mute, the dear 
 
 White lilies all have died; 
 The elfin people, driven by fear. 
 
 Deep in the forest hide. 
 
 When I came up here yesterday 
 The world was grey with rain; 
 
 Green leaves were fallen about, and lay 
 Dead in the dripping lane ; 
 
 . . Whatever joy there was in May 
 August had slain ! . . . 
 
 But now, to-night, the uncertain hour 
 
 Swings in a poise of flight; 
 The sun leans from a flaming tower 
 
 To touch the edge of night; 
 Gardens of cloud, in perfect flower, 
 
 Are walled with light. . . 
 
 (Omsk uith her sqnalour fiercely zvr ought 
 
 To beauty^ only craves 
 Pleasure, hozvever dearly bought: 
 
 There, among fools and knaves, 
 The Hero fills with one great thought 
 
 How many graves! 
 
 70 
 
{Look, — nozv the futile street-lights gleam. 
 
 The AdmiraVs imndoiv still 
 Turns darkened panes upon the stream; 
 
 Let Omsk he gay at unll. . . . 
 He zt'ho is drunken zvith a dream 
 
 Must dream his fill. 
 
 (0, thou, by braggart circumstance 
 
 So bitterly beset! 
 So harried by the tricks of chance, 
 
 With treason darkly met! 
 Faith, courage, heavenly countenance, 
 
 Must serve thee yet!) 
 
 And as my feet crush through the grass, 
 
 The silvery, slender trees 
 Stop me with challenge : '*Who would pass 
 
 Into the mysteries? 
 I halt and answer them, — "Alas! 
 
 Someone who sees 
 
 "Only the track of those who went 
 
 Beneath a mid-May star 
 And took with them to banishment 
 
 The loveliest things that are : 
 The birds' song and the lilies' scent. . . 
 
 Have they fled far?'' 
 
The trees fall back and I am free; 
 
 The challengers are still; 
 Woodcraft or witchcraft now for me, — 
 
 Come of it good or ill ! 
 How far from Omsk a man must be 
 ' Astray . . . until. . . 
 
 Full floods the hour with sweet; I tell 
 The passion of early spring; 
 
 What is the bird that can so well 
 Regret and promise sing? 
 
 Can earthly lilies work this spell 
 By blossoming? 
 
 (0, m-adness to be taken thus! 
 
 Yonder the bugles blozv; 
 The August night is mutinous; 
 
 The Admiral's sentries go 
 With trusty guns . . or treacherous. . . 
 
 No one can know!) 
 
 The Omsky twilight dies at last; 
 
 The glimmering trees grow dim : 
 What was it brushed my arm and passed, 
 
 So gently, so swift of limb? 
 I cannot, though I follow fast. 
 
 Catch up with him. 
 
 72 
 
Is this the place where yesterday 
 
 The solemn birches stood 
 Under the rainy sky, in grey 
 
 Autumnal attitude? 
 Is August conjuror of May 
 
 For any good? 
 
 Was it the future I would know 
 That passed me and denied 
 
 My question? Must the surety go? 
 Only the doubt abide? 
 
 Can darkling faith in honour so 
 Be satisfied? 
 
 What, in the mystery of the wood, 
 
 Of healing could I find 
 Would turn a world's despair to good, 
 
 Or broken fealty bind ? 
 W'isdom, to deeper solitude, 
 
 Fled like the wind! 
 
 Past all discernment is the end 
 
 Set by the lords of fate; 
 The will of time can no man bend; 
 
 Impatient, we must wait 
 Till fortune fail at last, or mend. 
 
 Or mend too late. 
 
 IZ 
 
'T was but a child's enchantment. I 
 
 Have come too far astray! 
 August, lest childlike faith should die, 
 
 Has tried the charm of May. 
 Now, childlike, I have questioned why, 
 
 And none will say! 
 
 (Hero, whom men that know thee not 
 
 Have slain with hitter lies: 
 Thou, zvhom the Future has forgot: 
 
 Thou, whom the Past denies: 
 Still from thy window shines the light 
 
 That never dies!) 
 
 I reach the town; the night-hawks hoot; 
 
 Winds of the steppes blow cold; 
 The sullen sentry stamps his boot; 
 
 I touch his palm with gold : 
 ''Amerikansky, — hi! Don't shoot!", — 
 
 "Da, da!" Behold, 
 
 O, Sylvia, in the birchwood here 
 
 Only the trees abide ! 
 The marvels of the earlier year 
 
 Have fled away or died : 
 Only dark night and death are near. . . 
 
 And woe betide ! 
 
 74 
 
II 
 
 Of the Ambulance 
 
 Who brought the message f It was wrapped in flame 
 And no man brought it. Over sea it came 
 Swifter than death could come. High over head 
 The hot day reels and circles . . . Who is dead? 
 
 Where did he die? Somewhere there in France, 
 With wounded poilus in an ambulance; 
 Could no one help him? That I can not tell, — 
 They say they smashed the ambulance as well. 
 
 Who zvas he? Just a youngster in his. 'teens : 
 The day grows steady now ... I see ... It means 
 Another lover of the world has died, — 
 To save the world, . . . All are not crucified ! 
 
 75 
 
France 
 
 Honour against dishonour sets a lance, 
 
 And Heaven defend in this all knightly worth! 
 Kingdoms have vanished utterly from the earth, 
 
 So sure is fate, before a favourite's glance; 
 
 Empires have rotted for a fool's mischance; 
 
 But now the Republic, capped for a jester's mirth 
 In the day of peace, rides to the battle forth, 
 
 And Honour bears upon her banner the shield of 
 France ! 
 
 O, for the broken vineyard, trampled town, 
 For young lives ground in the red mill of war, 
 Make your lament and grant your gift of tears ! 
 
 But never needs be pity for renown; 
 And the Republic lives for evermore, 
 
 Purged in the fire of these unquenchable years! 
 
 76 
 
Russia 
 
 Here now is terror herself stricken with fear, 
 
 And Peace, gone mad, raises the cry for war; 
 
 While men, weary of hunger, and finding store, 
 Dole out starvation, niggardly, ear by ear; 
 And women, worn with watching, should they hear 
 
 Their children weep, know not the cause therefore, 
 
 But wake to watch again, and shut their door 
 Against all hope now% holding nothing dear. 
 Prophets fall out in rage to prophesy. 
 
 And bitter priests drop gall upon the Host; 
 
 Soldiers betray their fellows to the rope 
 The rack, the fire; patriots are glad to die 
 
 If dying they may but serve unreason most. 
 
 But the Dark People work and w^ait and hope. 
 
 71 
 
Italy 
 
 Through the new land the ancient virtues throng. 
 Forgetful now of beauty and of grace 
 Men raise their antique valour to the place 
 From which it fell, and of heroic song- 
 Make deeds heroic. To this hour belong 
 No folly of fear, no frenzy of disgrace : 
 Proper and sweet to die, — O, fair of face. 
 Beauty, no longer fatal, makes thee strong! 
 Tuscany calls to Naples, Genoa hears; 
 Sicily answers; Rome has not forgot; 
 Venice looks westward over the vexed sea, 
 Fearless; Milan remembers other years; 
 
 And Piedmont cries, lest the Hun remember not 
 Over the Alps there still lives Italy! 
 
 78 
 
America 
 
 O, if our hearts be broken, never say! 
 
 We have loved laughter, we have loved delight, 
 
 We have spun joy upon the wheel of night. 
 And woven pleasure upon the loom of day; 
 W^e have got much gold out of our child's-play 
 
 To spend on harlots' progress; for the right 
 
 To our own pride we have been eager to fight 
 With bitter words. . . . Now let no words betray. 
 We have loved honour as well, nor ever made 
 
 Our gain the purpose of our liberty; 
 
 We have been moved to pity, not to fear, 
 And met the scorn of nations, blade for blade : . 
 
 We loved the world so ! Does one doubt it ? See! 
 
 We never knew our own land was so dear ! 
 
 79 
 
She sees the Departure of the Ships 
 
 Did love lay a finger on my lips 
 
 And bid me be still? 
 I saw the sea, I saw the great ships, 
 
 And I had no will 
 To speak a word. Then I saw him go: 
 I never guessed it would happen so. 
 
 Did grief lay a charge upon my eyes 
 
 And bid me not weep? 
 I heard the farewells, I heard the cries, 
 
 And I could not keep 
 My face to the front! I could not stay: 
 Bewildered, tearless, I came away. 
 
 Did life set a fire within my heart 
 
 And bid me not burn? 
 Far out toward the sea the ships depart : 
 
 Wherever I turn 
 I am as one lost. No need had he 
 Of words or weeping; but what of me? 
 
 80 
 
**Dulce et Decorum . . . 
 
 19 
 
 Now it is done. Now let his name be graved 
 
 With many another name 
 Of those whom honourable death has saved 
 
 From life's inevitable shame. 
 Life would have been too strong for him. He braved 
 
 The lesser assault of fame. 
 
 I, who have seen him falter before the dawn 
 
 Of an uncertain day; 
 Cowering at crossroads, when he must begone, — 
 
 Confused, alarmed, astray, — 
 I know he must have laughed at doubts withdrawn, 
 
 Rejoicing to find his way. 
 
 I, who have seen him flush a falsehood, clear 
 
 From an unclouded eye, — 
 Making the truth a scarecrow for his fear, 
 
 And saving himself thereby; — 
 I know he must have thrilled to find how dear, 
 
 How true it was, to die ! 
 
 Not long, not long. A minute or two, perhaps. 
 
 Clear-thinking and clean and true, 
 He saw the endless length of time elapse 
 
 And eternity come in view. . . . 
 "At last I shall be worthy of those other chaps!" 
 
 . . . Death did the thing to do. 
 
 8i 
 
Now he is dead, — lost, yet I hold him saved ! 
 
 I cannot find death to blame. 
 All that he hated, all that he feared, he braved 
 
 In the swift escape from shame. . . . 
 In the roll of honour let his name be graved, 
 
 A most honourable name! 
 
 82 
 
The Difference 
 
 Death makes no difference. He who died 
 Was brave and generous. To say less 
 
 Were niggardliness : 
 Less would have pleased him, — such his pride ! 
 
 Now that so many die each day 
 This golden-hearted boy would want 
 
 His praises scant. 
 "Ah, but the others!" he would say. 
 
 But yesterday I got the news: 
 The boy is dead. How can it be 
 
 That here for me 
 There is no way that I may use 
 
 To question death? For, nothing said 
 Of this great lad w^ere niggardliness; 
 
 And words are less! 
 Death makes no difference, — to the dead. 
 
 83 
 
1917—1920 
 
 "A fellow's got to be honest-to-God, 
 
 And decent, I guess; 
 And have the nerve to shoot his wad, — 
 
 Like a man. . . . No less. . . 
 
 ''It's fifty-fifty, — the chance is bad: 
 
 I wouldn't like that ! 
 With Mother moping about, and Dad 
 
 Wearing crape on his hat. . . ." 
 
 The car tore up the dusty road 
 
 Between fence and fence. 
 Shaking off town like a heavy load 
 
 From our confidence ; 
 
 The moon hung low on the Cleveland Tower, 
 
 Sharp-edged as night came; 
 Then dropped into sunset, like a flower 
 
 Fallen into a flame ; 
 
 A cool wind ran down from the hill 
 
 And ruflled the lake. . . . 
 I could not answer, — my heart was still 
 
 For his honest sake. 
 
 ''And a fellow can't be sure, you know, 
 
 What it's all about : 
 He's got to get ready to go, — and go! — 
 
 Without finding out. . ." 
 
 84 
 
The car swung round by the Kingston bridge, 
 
 Wild, blatantly loud : 
 Above the stream rose the quarried ridge 
 
 Like a pillar of cloud. 
 
 ''A fellow might hate to go, like Hell ! — 
 
 And never let on : 
 For instance, this ! It's like breaking a spell, — 
 
 I wish I were gone !" 
 
 We struck a road that ran due north: 
 
 One cloud entire 
 Flared with the sunset and went forth 
 
 Like a pillar of fire. 
 
 ''And a fellow can't say much. It's not 
 
 The he-thing to do; 
 But somehow or other to-night I've got 
 
 To bicker with you. . . 
 
 ''Just a little. It's here, tied up in my chest, 
 
 And its got to come out : 
 I don't like this girl-stuff. Most of the rest 
 
 Go loving about. . . . 
 
 'T hate to think of the things there'll be, 
 
 Like crew and football 
 And dances and parties and things, — and me 
 
 Not in it at all! 
 
 85 
 
''And I have n't clone half I ought to, here: 
 
 When I think of it, — Lord !' 
 Of Latin and Math, it seems so queer 
 
 How I used to be bored ! 
 
 ''There's the fellows, of course, — but they'll be 
 there ! 
 
 Believe me, with gongs! 
 And the best ones sort o' get devil-may-care,^ 
 
 It somehow belongs. 
 
 "I've tried to be honest. I think I know 
 
 Myself pretty well; 
 And perhaps I really don't want to go ! 
 
 Don't it beat Hell ? 
 
 "That's just with myself alone. I ain't 
 
 Quite a hero yet. . . 
 And I never wanted to be a saint, — 
 
 And I might forget! 
 
 "But of course I'm going. The rest of the crowd 
 
 Have all of them signed : 
 But nobody says — at least not aloud — 
 
 What's in his mind! 
 
 "And, well, — I want to see what it's like! 
 
 To go for some town 
 While the shells fly round and the bullets strike, 
 
 And the planes go down. . . . 
 
 86 
 
*'But most, — how could you live, if the Hun 
 
 Got away w^ith this stuff? 
 It would make all the splendid things we've done 
 
 Seem like nothing but bluff. . . . 
 
 "That's it ! That's really the final test : 
 
 Those old boys were right, — 
 Washington and Lincoln and the rest, — 
 
 It's better to fight, — 
 
 *'And die, — than lose the right to these!" 
 
 We had come back again, 
 And the towers leaped up above the trees 
 
 Beyond Bayard Lane. 
 
 The lights were dim in the streets, — the stars 
 
 Prophetically bright; 
 He laughed, — *T wonder if one of 'em 's Mars ! 
 
 That red one! . . . Good-night!" 
 
 I shall not go by the Kingston w^ay : 
 
 I shall turn, instead. 
 To the Lawrenceville road for my walk to-day 
 
 With him, — who is dead. 
 
 87 
 
On a Certain American Soldier 
 
 (W. J. D.) 
 
 What Irish field 
 
 Rose to so great a yield? 
 
 Leinster nor Connaught grew such grain before, 
 
 Nor Munster held such harvest in her store ! 
 
 Not the Red Branch 
 
 Bragged of a soul more staunch; 
 
 Nor Brian, crowned in Tara, ever gave 
 
 Heroic spoils of war to one more brave ! 
 
 Boyne Water, red, 
 
 Among the vanquished dead 
 
 Swept no such lover of life; nor the employ 
 
 Of wilder geese predestined Fontenoy ! 
 
 Atlantic flood 
 
 Tempered the fiery blood; 
 
 And western winds, like mighty hammers, wrought, 
 
 Compounding faith with courage and clear thought. 
 
 America sent 
 
 To France this compliment : 
 
 "Take of my best and bravest: let thy star 
 
 Of honour guide him : such my children are. . . !" 
 
 88 
 
No subject he 
 
 For foreign minstrelsy: 
 
 No harp in Tara shall prolong his praise; 
 
 Nor wayside poet sing his length of days. 
 
 Rather shall he 
 
 Unsung, unhonoured be: 
 
 Till some new bard, for such high matter fit, 
 
 For his own folk shall make a psalm of it ! 
 
 Fame shall enroll 
 
 No more courageous soul; 
 
 Quebec and Eutaw Springs and Monterey 
 
 And Gettysburg rehallowed were that day. 
 
 Death could not claim 
 
 The meed of such a name: 
 
 But spirits, whom death encumbered, rise to tell 
 
 What one man did that day at Saint Mihiel. . . . 
 
 France has restored 
 
 Our gift, as our reward; 
 
 Ours is the need! Of such we can but lend! 
 
 And Irish folk zvere n'edded to this end! 
 
 89 
 
Armistice 
 
 Men may forget the slaughter that was done, — 
 
 Forget the slain, and, after all, forgive, 
 For, in the face of fortunes to be won, 
 
 Anger is brief, and grief is fugitive; 
 Women may soon forswear the tears they shed. 
 
 Deny the silent anguish of farewell, — 
 Schooling their easy lips to smile, instead, 
 
 At other stories of what once befel; 
 City may vie with city, race with race, 
 
 To cover up the ashes of this wrath; 
 And God himself come down from His high place 
 
 To make ripe grain the battle's aftermath; 
 But from my dust shall grief be bred anew, 
 And anger thrive. / shaU remember you 
 
 90 
 
Ill 
 
 The Joke 
 
 Ranald of the Islands, Kedzie of the Kyle, 
 
 Stuart of the royal line, — 
 Something in a bonnet off, something in a smile 
 Quaffed in a cup of wine, — 
 (Then the pretty Shilladay 
 On an Irish holiday 
 
 Rose to be kin of mine.) 
 
 Hihon of the Midlands, Forman of the Fens, 
 
 Dickson out of County Down, — 
 Laughter, for the women's share, — loving, for the 
 men's, — 
 King's blood running to clown. . 
 (Then a little Berkshire lass 
 With her luck and a looking-glass 
 Came up to London town.) 
 
 Martyrs for the Covenant, martyrs for the Crown, 
 
 Preaching conventicle or Mass; 
 Dying on the hill-sides, dancing in the town, — 
 So did the centuries pass : 
 
 ( Seeing right or wrong in it, — 
 Prayer or fight or song in it, — 
 Bible, or gun, or glass!) 
 
 91 
 
Then they struck it westward, sails upon the sea, — 
 
 Some fetching psalms to sing; 
 Some because the honour of their company 
 Was not requested by the King! 
 (Others, of a harder lot, 
 Steerage, a Cunarder brought, — 
 Shamrock seed on the wing!) 
 
 Some of them were gentlemen, some of them were 
 sots, 
 Some of them were middling folk, — 
 Mouldering- now in churches, or in weedy plots 
 Low under willow and oak. . . . 
 (Though they had no guess of me, 
 They have made the mess of me, — 
 Never laughing at the Joke!) 
 
 92 
 
An old Song of Spring 
 
 O, ye who love me so, 
 The same glad hours 
 Do I come bringing 
 That laughed a year ago, — 
 The same white flowers, 
 The same clear singing. 
 
 Robin shall now begin 
 His courting tune 
 And sing it sweetly, 
 That he his love may win 
 Ere cometh June 
 
 That cometh fleetly. . . 
 
 The water-sprites shall play 
 In pond and creek 
 
 With song and laughter,— 
 Dive madly in the spray 
 To hide and seek 
 
 And follow after. . . . 
 
 Now violets shall gleam 
 Across the grass 
 
 Fair-faced and slender. . 
 For lads to pick, and dream 
 Each of his lass, 
 
 And love grow tender. . 
 
 93 
 
Skies shall be clear at dawn, 
 And warm at noon; 
 Night shall be tragic 
 For little stars, withdrawn 
 While the wise moon 
 Makes fuller magic. 
 
 Ye who have loved me so! 
 The same frail hours 
 Do I come bringing 
 That died so long ago! 
 The same blue flowers. 
 The same clear singing. 
 
 94 
 
Inconstancy 
 
 I sighed as the soul of April fled, 
 
 And a tear on my cheek 
 Told of the love I had borne the dead; 
 And I signed the cross and bowed my head 
 
 And was sad for a week. 
 
 With a carol and catch the May came in, — 
 
 Such a wonderful way! 
 That I solemnly chucked her under the chin, 
 And tuned me the strings of my violin, — 
 
 x^nd was glad for a day. 
 
 95 
 
Bob White 
 
 At dawn when first the fluttering gleam 
 
 Of the new sun announced the day, 
 There reached me, through a broken dream, 
 This oft-repeated lay: 
 (Too sweet for cry, 
 Too brief for song, 
 'T was borne along 
 The reddening sky) 
 Bob White! 
 Daylight, Bob White! 
 Daylight! 
 
 When evening with the fading glow 
 Of setting sun foretold the night. 
 Another song came, soft and low. 
 Across the dying light : 
 (Too sweet for cry. 
 Too brief for song, 
 'T was but a long 
 Contented sigh) 
 Bob White! 
 Good-night, Bob White! 
 Good-night! 
 
 96 
 
To an Alchemist 
 
 (1500) 
 
 No ugly trifle do I bring 
 To beg thee turn to gold, 
 
 But that far dearer, priceless thing 
 Of which was Adam told. . 
 
 The love of her within my heart 
 Seems purest gold to me, 
 
 Yet much I fear lest still a part 
 Of baser metal be. 
 
 Do thou this treasure then behold, 
 And search with utmost care. 
 
 If there be dross amidst the gold 
 Which I have hidden there; 
 
 And if thou find an evil thing 
 I pray thee then to make 
 
 Thy crucible my harrowing. 
 Amen. For Jesu's sake. 
 
 97 
 
The Old Sailboat 
 
 Dismasted, rudderless, sides agape, 
 She lies upon the beach, a wreck, — 
 She that was wont, a lovely shape, 
 To sail with beauty on her deck. 
 
 Beneath the moon, before the wind 
 She sped, and floods of silvery speech 
 Poured over her; yet now I find 
 Only the hulk upon the beach. . . 
 
 For they are gone, the house is gone; 
 Beauty has faded, lips are still : 
 The old boat on the beach alone 
 Lies in the shadow of the hill. 
 
 98 
 
On an Uncertain Day in Winter 
 
 O purposeless dull day! — Gray Spring 
 Astray in wintry woods; 
 Or silvery Autumn borne on the black wing 
 Of laggard lifeless clouds! 
 
 motionless grim cloud ! Proud still 
 To fill a wintry sky; 
 
 Uncertain, though, to break upon the hill 
 Or blow a hurricane by ! 
 
 Bereft of passion and inert, — 
 
 Yet shall the torrents come 
 
 And tempests blow. O happy day, thou wert 
 
 But with thy purpose dumb ! 
 
 (And that my aimless life might break 
 Even in passion now!) 
 For lo, the winter has come back to take 
 Toll of the leafless bough; 
 
 To strike against the hill in sleet 
 And beat the world with rain : 
 
 1 see Gray Spring on silent feet retreat 
 Down the far southern plain; 
 
 The Autumn of the clouds is- torn 
 
 By passionate true wind; — 
 
 Would that such purpose might be lifted, borne 
 
 Into my heart and mind! 
 
 99 
 
The Ecstatic Lover 
 
 Thine eyes were made for Beauty's eyes to see 
 Therein the state to which she might attain ; 
 Thy Hps were made for song, that Song might be 
 Fain of perfection, knowing that less were vain; 
 Thy body was made for grace, that Grace might 
 
 come 
 To learn of thee how grace may gain in skill; 
 Thy mind was made for worth, lest Worth be dumb 
 Beyond thy silence, mute beyond thy will; 
 Thy youth was made for Youth, to be the door 
 That Age should pass through toward eternal youth ; 
 Thy love was made for Love, that evermore 
 Love might be one with constancy and truth: 
 Life, growing old, shall beg thy Hfe for breath. 
 And Death of thee shall learn the sting of death! 
 
 lOO 
 
The Cynical Lover 
 
 You will remember me in curious ways 
 
 When I am dead. Turning a letter aown 
 
 Upon your desk you will recall a phrase 
 
 I used once; or, in choosing a new gown 
 
 Of a gay pattern, you will suddenly turn 
 
 Saying, ''I never could endure that shade!"; 
 
 And clerks will wonder why your cheek should burn 
 
 So swiftly red. And sometimes, I'm afraid, 
 
 When your new lover praises you, his eyes 
 
 May show a light like mine, and if you wed 
 
 I shall be serpent in your paradise, — 
 
 Sharing incontinent in the bridal-bed. 
 
 Living I should be sorry to vex you so: 
 
 The chance is, being dead I shall not know. 
 
 lOI 
 
The Happy Bachelor 
 
 I am a fool and a bachelor, 
 I have loved them all my life; 
 
 But I could never settle down 
 And pick one for a wife. . . 
 
 I met a man with a wife of his own, 
 
 A wife and children dear; 
 As I went that day on my lonely way 
 
 I thought that I could hear : 
 
 ''O, he is a fool and a bachelor, 
 Would sweeten them to his taste; 
 
 Now the long run of his day is done, 
 And his youth has gone to waste!" 
 
 . . . There was a girl up-country . . 
 
 But she's been dead for years ! . . . 
 She looked for love with open eyes, 
 
 And listened with eager ears. . . 
 
 I knew a girl from the Cabins, 
 Rose-white and blue and gold: 
 
 She teaches her children now to pray, 
 And her face is growing old. . 
 
 102 
 
There was one with an eye for the soldiers, 
 
 And scorned a quiet Hfe. . . 
 God knows she's had her trouble enough 
 
 Since she was a soldier's wife. . 
 
 One was a tall dark lady. . . . 
 
 Let the years be many or few 
 That are due me yet, I shall never forget. . . 
 
 O, tall and dark were you ! 
 
 I am a fool and a bachelor, 
 
 I have loved them all my life. . , . 
 
 But after that could I settle down 
 And take one for a wife? 
 
 I met a man with a wife of his own, 
 
 A wife and children dear: 
 As I went that day on my lonely way 
 
 I thought that I could hear : 
 
 "O ! he is a fool and a bachelor ! 
 
 Would sweeten them to his taste !" 
 
 No: but Fd break my heart again, 
 
 And let my youth go waste. . . 
 
 10 ; 
 
Song for Gay Music 
 
 Never was my heart awake, — 
 
 Never for a fancy's sake 
 
 Would I play at give and take; 
 
 Once upon a ship at sea 
 
 I heard a bell sound mournfully. . . 
 
 Nearer life came not to me. 
 
 Of my youth I took no toll : 
 
 Got no usury for my soul, — 
 
 Now heart-bankrupt and heart-whole: 
 
 Once through frosty window-glass 
 
 I watched the storms of winter pass. . 
 
 Till the green came to the grass. 
 
 For my age a fire unlit, — 
 
 Fallow feeling, mouldy wit. 
 
 Empty spaces infinite; 
 
 Once I watched a summer go, 
 
 Days like ten-pins in a rows — 
 
 Till the hills were streaked with snow. 
 
 Would that for a whimsy's sake 
 I could get my heart to break ! 
 
 104 
 
In August 
 
 There may have been a time, 
 
 In March or May 
 
 Or last September, 
 When I could make a rhyme 
 
 At least half -gay 
 
 I don't remember. 
 
 Let me forget it : call : 
 *'Over and done, 
 June and December. . 
 
 Was there no joy at all ? 
 Yes, — there was one 
 I don't remember! 
 
 lo: 
 
Inhibition 
 
 I cannot read to-night, — 
 
 Little wild fancies haunt me. . 
 Who are they in the dim light 
 
 Crying they want me? 
 Ere I can rise to go 
 
 Swiftly to find them, 
 Vanish they all, and throw 
 
 Laughter behind them. . . 
 
 I cannot think to-night, — 
 
 Little sad memories flout me: 
 Where did she in her far flight 
 
 Fare to without me? 
 Over what sea she w^nt, 
 
 What welcome met her. . . . 
 I have been long content 
 
 So to forget her! 
 
 I cannot sleep to-night, — 
 
 Little fair dreams prevent me; 
 Why come they, exquisite, white, 
 
 Now to torment me? 
 Why should the season stir 
 
 Me to old sorrow? 
 I have forgotten her 
 
 After to-morrow! 
 
 1 06 
 
In the Lanes 
 
 In the lanes round Milnwood 
 
 In the new spring weather 
 I caught up with happiness, 
 
 And we walked together; 
 And we walked together 
 
 Half an April day; 
 Flying clouds made the weather 
 
 By the flow^ery way. 
 
 In the lanes round Milnwood 
 
 In the summer weather 
 I caught up with faithlessness, 
 
 And we walked together; 
 And we walked together 
 
 Half an August night; 
 Heavy clouds made the weather, 
 
 Hiding the starlight. 
 
 In the lanes round Milnw^ood 
 
 In whatever weather 
 Now I meet with loneliness, 
 
 And we walk together; 
 And we w-alk together, 
 
 Silent all the way, 
 ]\Iinding not of the weather, 
 
 Nor of night or day ! 
 
 107 
 
"Out of What Earth and Air" 
 
 Out of what earth and air 
 
 Can I fashion you? 
 For memory has no art 
 To bring back more than part 
 
 Of the one I knew. . . 
 
 And now I need you, all, 
 
 As in happier days; 
 Not just a tone, a touch, 
 Too little or too much 
 
 Of your words and ways. . . 
 
 God thought you, and his thought 
 
 Was our happiness : 
 A creature of His mind 
 Made manifest! . . . and, blind, 
 
 We have deemed you less. . 
 
 And so you passed at length 
 
 To a ditterent state : 
 He thought of you elsewhere: 
 And my thought, for all my care, 
 
 Cannot recreate! 
 
 1 08 
 
Only a touch, a tone, 
 
 And the vision fades; 
 To-night what secret star 
 Can tell me what you are? 
 . . Shade among shades! 
 
 In the deep skies, what Deep 
 Has encompassed you? 
 
 Less happy if you be, 
 
 Then better, Deity 
 
 Should forget you . . . too! 
 
 109 
 
The Quarn 
 
 Love, if you be true love, save you while you may: 
 The terrible hounds of Pride are on your scent 
 
 to-day ; 
 Run fleet and faint not, — take no time for breath : 
 Terrible Pride herself doth ride, to come in at the 
 
 death. 
 
 Love, if you be fond love, speed your flight away: 
 
 The ruthless hawks of Greed are in pursuit to-day; 
 
 Beak and claw are ready; they spare not weary 
 wing : 
 
 Ruthless Greed herself doth lead in such a flutter- 
 ing. 
 
 Love, if you be pure love, fold your heart and pray: 
 
 The treacherous mind of Lust hath set a snare to- 
 day; 
 
 Wary walk and whisper; falter not nor cry. . . . 
 
 God knows what will come of it if God should pass 
 you by. 
 
 no 
 
Finality 
 
 Into the city of silence I came with a song: 
 I shall forget now all sorrow, I cried, and all wrong; 
 I shall forget now all dread, — the length of the night, 
 The passing of love, and the terrible end of de- 
 light. . . 
 
 1 shall remember but joy: the coming of dawn, 
 The breath of the wind in the boughs when Winter 
 
 has gone; 
 The kiss of the girl of my heart when I thought 
 
 she was true; 
 The hand of my friend, and the wine, and the talk 
 
 of us two. ... 
 
 There came to me then the remonstrant host of the 
 
 dead. 
 You have broken our rest; be silent, or go! they 
 
 said; 
 We had forgotten all things till the noise of your 
 
 song 
 Awoke us to memory again and the sense of our 
 
 wrong. 
 
 Ill 
 
Here in the city of silence, if you would forget, 
 You needs must forget all things, and feel no regret ; 
 Your girl played you false, — and what matter her 
 
 lips were warm? 
 Day that came to you fair went out black with a 
 
 storm. . 
 
 Spring had followed on winter, but winter once 
 more 
 
 Fell on the heart of the earth and made you heart- 
 sore. . . 
 
 Death sprang up by night between wine and your 
 friend. . . 
 
 Love died at last, and delight had a terrible end! 
 
 Hush and forget, — for it gains you nothing to rave : 
 Quiet and rest may be had in the depth of the grave ; 
 Hush and forget. . . One by one they were silent 
 
 and crept 
 Into the graves. . . So I killed all remembrance. . 
 
 and slept. 
 
 112 
 
Advice 
 
 Seek not to number friend and friend, 
 Nor let their names by rote be said, 
 Lest ere thou comest to the end 
 One whom thou lovest most be dead! 
 
 I sat me down to muse, and count 
 Those whom the gods had granted me : 
 Writing his name, I paused : the fount 
 Of trust and fellowship was he. . . 
 
 My heart rose up: Thank God! I said; 
 Then wrote a dozen names beside. . 
 Ere I was done and gone to bed 
 They brought me word that he had died. 
 
 I say their names, but only one 
 Was he, my friend ! Ah, nevermore 
 The light of bright-returning sun 
 Shall lead my footsteps to his door! 
 
 II 
 
The Visitor 
 
 The door is closed, yet in you come; 
 The clock strikes late, you do not go; 
 I shut my eyes, my lips are dumb, — 
 I have no charity to show. . . 
 
 My eyes are shut, but you I see ; 
 My lips are dumb, with you I speak ; 
 My heart is yours for charity. . . 
 Go, go, now, for my soul is weak 
 
 With watching, and I fain would sleep! 
 My bed is here, my prayers are said, 
 And must I still at midnight keep 
 This long communion with the dead? 
 
 Nay! Sleeping, I should dream of you; 
 Should see the gladness in your face; 
 Should old acknowledgments renew 
 And hold you in the old embrace. . . 
 
 Then stay, friend! there is much to say. . 
 At best I can but think and rhyme 
 Of you, who died but yesterday 
 And have been dead so long a time! 
 
 114 
 
The Eternal Hope 
 
 forthright friend, 
 
 1 wish you well 
 World without end. 
 You broke the spell 
 Of grief : farewell! 
 
 Grief had undone 
 Me utterly : 
 
 They died, each one, — 
 Battle and sea 
 Unfriended me. 
 
 Only high pride 
 Maintained me whole ; 
 My lips denied 
 The clamorous dole 
 That filled my soul. 
 
 Indifferent 
 What fate designed, 
 No new content 
 Came to my mind : 
 My life was blind. 
 
 115 
 
My grief could brook 
 No condolence, — 
 Sad by the book, — 
 Remote, intense, 
 Courting offense. 
 
 Till, presently, — you! 
 They were no less 
 My own, and true ; 
 But you could bless 
 My loneliness. . . 
 
 Laughter again 
 Compelled me; earth 
 Grew starry then; 
 Suns proved the worth 
 Of natural mirth. 
 
 Midnight would fold 
 Darkly to hear 
 The things we told 
 Ear unto ear, 
 Ribald, severe. 
 
 Day made the sun 
 Our counsellor: 
 Wisdom would run 
 To fetch us more 
 Out of his store. 
 
 ii6 
 
Desperate of bound 
 Our fancies ran 
 The world around. . . 
 Free, without ban, 
 Friendship began. 
 
 Nothing untold. 
 Nothing withdrawn : 
 Faith, growing bold, 
 Held us till dawn 
 Tinctured the lawn. 
 
 Praise, promise, blame. 
 Lay beyond reach; 
 Silences came 
 Often to teach 
 And quicken speech. 
 
 Peculiar place 
 Of trust was yours : 
 Yours was the grace 
 Which truth ensures, 
 And ever endures. 
 
 Of all man's dust 
 Was this revealed : 
 Trust follows trust 
 In any field. 
 Fair, unconcealed. . . . 
 
 117 
 
Now by the shore 
 Your tall ship stays, 
 Calling once more 
 To your old ways. 
 Now end our days! 
 
 They shall not. Far 
 Your star may guide; 
 My destinies are 
 Dim, undescried; 
 But you abide. 
 
 Some day, where men 
 Forgather, we 
 Shall turn again 
 Unconsciously, 
 And hear, and see. 
 
 Friend, as we part 
 I need not tell 
 How all my heart 
 Wishes you well : 
 Good-bye ! Farewell ! 
 
 ii8 
 
IV 
 
 The Daughter of Herodias 
 
 Daughter of Herodias, dance, dance! 
 
 You shall have a prophet's head for your reward, 
 
 perchance, — 
 Head of John the Baptist, rolling on a tray, 
 Staring eye and sunken jaw, to catch and cart away ! 
 
 Nay, I want no prophet's head. 
 
 Nor any prophet, live or dead; 
 
 Bid me dance and I will dance, — give me but your 
 
 soul instead ! 
 Dance then, dance! and the soul you want 
 
 entrance ! 
 Daughter of Herodias, dance, dance! 
 
 Daughter of Herodias, dance, dance! 
 
 You shall have a saint's head. ... Do not look 
 
 askance ! 
 Head of Simon Peter, the traitor and the fighter, 
 His would be a fine head, with halo and with mitre! 
 
 Nay, I want no pale saint, 
 
 Arm rash, heart faint, 
 
 Give me but your soul. My Lord, and I will dance 
 
 without restraint! 
 
 Dance, then, dance! My soul will take a 
 
 chance. 
 Daughter of Herodias! Dance, dance! 
 
 119 
 
. . . . Daughter of Herodias, dance, dance! 
 You shall have a king's head, stuck upon a lance : 
 Saul, King of Jewry, anointed of the Lord, 
 Napoleon, with the world's blood red upon his 
 
 sword ! 
 
 Nay, I want no crown of gold, 
 
 Nor king of any story told, — 
 
 Just your soul shall be my bargain, as such things 
 
 are bought and sold ! 
 Dance, then, dance ! May the price of souls 
 
 advance, 
 Daughter of Herodias! Dance, dance! 
 
 Daughter of Herodias, dance, dance! 
 
 You shall have a poet's head, brimming with ro- 
 mance, — 
 
 Lay his fair world waste at will, kill the loves and 
 graces, 
 
 And shout the ruin you have made aloud in public 
 places ! 
 
 Nay, no poet! He were game 
 
 For a common woman's shame; 
 
 You're the poet, saint, and prophet, you're the king 
 I want to tame! 
 
 Dance then, dance! such a grace the devil 
 
 grants, 
 
 Daughter of Herodias! Dance, dance! 
 
 120 
 
Daughter of Herodias, dance, dance ! 
 Take the heads of all the fools in Italy and France, 
 All the fools in England, in Portugal and Spain, 
 Prussian fool and Russian fool, Hollander and 
 
 Dane ! 
 
 Nay, but just one motley fool, 
 
 Heaven's outcast, devil's tool, — 
 
 Head and soul, your head and soul, for this I went 
 
 to dancing-school ! 
 Dance! Then dance! Here's to Death 
 
 and . . . Dalliance! 
 Daughter of Herodias! Dance! Dance! 
 
 121 
 
Black Dog Care 
 
 Ho, shuffle along with shout and song 
 
 Into the starless night, 
 With a wary eye on the passer by 
 
 And the corners all in sight, 
 Lest unaware the Black Dog, Care, 
 
 Come up behind and bite! 
 
 You have spent your tin on the landlord's bin : 
 
 At the tables long and white 
 Was a merry gang whose laughter rang 
 
 To the jests you made to-night; 
 But yet, beware, lest the Black Dog, Care, 
 
 Come up behind and bite! 
 
 You have made your jest of life's poor best, — 
 
 God's faith and Love's delight; 
 You have turned your joke on hearts that broke. 
 
 (Like your mother's, in the night) 
 O watch, lest Care, in the gas-light's glare. 
 
 Come up behind and bite! 
 
 Run, run, I say, o'er the world away. . . 
 
 You have far to go to-night. 
 And jest and song may follow along 
 
 But this at least is right : 
 That Black Dog, Care, some time, some where, 
 
 Shall come behind and bite! 
 
 122 
 
The Merry Life 
 
 O, life is drink-and-bottoms-up, 
 
 And drink once more, my Hearty; 
 The end be but another cup 
 At such another party! 
 
 But 0, one Jmppy night gone by! 
 
 IV hat came of them, I zvonderf 
 Good fellozvs all, we can hut die, 
 And dozen we go, and under. 
 
 O, faith is whine-and-make-beheve, 
 
 And whine again, my Jocky! 
 Let parsons pule and mothers grieve, — 
 The road to Heaven is rocky: 
 But 0, it's gone for ever by: 
 
 What was it zvorth, I zvonderf 
 Time zvas zvhen God zms in the sky, 
 And I was happy under. 
 
 O, love is kiss-and-let-me-go, 
 
 And kiss again, my Beauty! 
 On starry nights when winds are low, 
 Such loving is but duty: 
 
 But O, one starry night gone by! 
 What came of her, I zvonderf 
 The earth is warm, the grasses high,- 
 May she sleep soundly under! 
 
 123 
 
O, death is dig-and-chuck-me-in, 
 
 And read the prayer-book after; 
 And never more the love and gin, 
 And never more the laughter! 
 But, O, if I should wake and cry 
 
 Would any hear, I wonder? 
 Would death relent and let me by,- 
 Or drag me deeper under? 
 
 124 
 
Elemental 
 
 Of moist and dry, of hot and cold, 
 Lo, Thou hast made us in Thy mould : 
 As Thou hast willed it, we must live; 
 As Thou gavest us, so we give. 
 
 Thus, hot and cold, we turn to Thee 
 With question of infinity: 
 But, measuring stars from zone to zone, 
 Are nothing nearer to Thy throne. 
 
 Thus, moist and dry, we ponder here. 
 Computing hours from year to year; 
 But, reaching Time's extreme degree, 
 Add nothing to eternity. 
 
 Though Thou the weight of Time withhold, 
 Eternity has made us old: 
 Though Thou hast given us vision, we 
 Grow blind before infinity. 
 
 Of hot and cold, of moist and dry, 
 Thou hast devised us, and we die : 
 Darkly we hope that this our breath 
 Is not the whole of Life and Death! 
 
 12 
 
The Nightmare 
 
 I went alone through lands unknown, 
 Companionless, and overhead 
 Were sallow skies, all tempest-blown, 
 While in the fields the corn lay dead. . 
 
 The grain lay dead, but growing still 
 In beauty and grace ... I cannot say 
 How it might be, such marvels fill 
 My memories of that curious way. . 
 
 For always in the sallow skies 
 ,The sun was red, and shadows fell 
 From stars and moon; but weather-wise 
 I was, and thought it very well. . . . 
 
 The hills were low, and towering high 
 Dead flowers were blossoming in the night; 
 And rivers silently ran by 
 Under great forests, ghastly white. . 
 
 Through fair familiar towns I passed; 
 By bridges crossed a flowery bank 
 An hundred times; and faces, massed 
 In open windows, rank on rank. 
 
 1.26 
 
Grinned at me hopelessly ... I knew 
 Each one, the living and the dead: 
 And one I loved stood forth, and drew 
 Her face awry, and laughed and fled. . . 
 
 Then to the journey's end I came; 
 Of phantoms there I saw but one, 
 Monstrous, in whose mad eyes the flame 
 Of murder blazed. . . I could not run. 
 
 Nor move my hand, nor cry for aid. . 
 I saw the long sharp sabre gleam: 
 I could not wait the stroke he made : 
 I never wakened from the dream. . . . 
 
 12' 
 
Spring Song 
 
 They buried me here by my dear. In spring 
 
 They buried me here, — in spring! 
 And I felt the ice melt in my heart, and the sting 
 Of the sap like a flood in my blood; and the ring 
 Of the roots lusty shoots came to startle me, still 
 In my bed with the dead; but the worms did me ill 
 
 As they wound round the Thing 
 
 That was I, — in spring 
 When they buried me here, — in spring! 
 
 They buried me here by my dear. In spring 
 
 They buried me here, — in spring! 
 And I heard every bird that was mating, wide-wing 
 On the delicate breeze ; and the trees were aswing 
 As the melody fell on the blossoming boughs ; 
 And the words of the birds were, ''How foolish to 
 house 
 
 In a grave, — like the Thing 
 
 That was he!" In spring 
 When they buried me here, — in spring! 
 
 128 
 
They buried me here by my dear. In spring 
 
 They buried me here, — in spring! 
 But my dear couldn't hear the sap flow, the birds 
 
 sing, 
 Nor the worms as they wound me around, nor could 
 
 fling 
 Me a sign she was mine in her death ; for the lid 
 Of her coflin was ofif, and she could not keep hid 
 
 What she was, — just a Thing 
 
 Worse than I, — in spring 
 W^hen they buried me here, — in spring. 
 
 129 
 
V 
 
 Nox Irae 
 
 Will not the struggle end before the dawn? 
 
 The rushing voice of all calamity 
 
 That has befallen since the world began 
 Foretells destruction to the world to-night : 
 Tense with all terror, all presentment drawn 
 Into the doom of earth and sky and sea, 
 Here I have waited while the dark hours ran 
 To ages, and life fought the long last fight. 
 
 I look upon the blackness of the lawn, 
 Thick-strewn with wreckage of frail hapless trees, — ■ 
 Where I was used to fable that great Pan 
 Met with the Dryads in the grey moonlight, — 
 And wonder what will show there, when the dawn 
 Makes clear at last the new- formed boundaries 
 Of life and death, well-knowing that no man. 
 No living creature, can endure the night. 
 
 The fatal influence of sun and star, 
 
 The hostile powers that fill the void of space, 
 
 Fall on my spirit, and I find no cry 
 
 So piercing as to reach beyond their power : 
 
 Across dark valleys, sweeping from the far 
 
 Terrible horizons, without name or place, 
 
 They come resistless, and the world must die, — 
 
 All the world's mortal travail in an hour ! 
 
 130 
 
By these to woful end was Eden brought : 
 Through a long age of unrecorded days 
 At the high gates the tireless watch was kept 
 That Adam nor his sons might walk within ; 
 But when death flashed among the stars and caught 
 The Labourer from his barren fields, the blaze 
 Of flaming swords across the garden swept, 
 Consuming all the beauty that had been. . . 
 
 By these at last, when men, grown ill-content 
 With too much favour, followed evil ways, 
 Were floods piled up against them, and their line, 
 Full of the gust of life, to nothing brought; 
 By these was ruin into Egypt sent : 
 Mothers of some made childless in those days, 
 And gardens fruitless of their corn and wine. . . 
 Reluctant dawn revealed what death had wrought. 
 
 By these did Sodom and Gomorrah fall, — 
 O, citizens of the plain, did any stand 
 By swaying windows, staring through the dark 
 On tortured gardens, perishing below? 
 Did any wonder whether dawn would call 
 Peace to the tumult and bring back the land 
 Her beauty ? But the day rose on the stark, 
 Unpeopled plain, too desolate for woe ! 
 
 I^T 
 
By these the terror unto Jewry came, 
 
 When the graves yawned and dead men walked 
 
 about, 
 And in the sky stood out the crosses three 
 On the bleak hill beyond Jerusalem : 
 Burst heaven and earth to-gether into flame; 
 King Solomon's temple fell before the rout; 
 Tall cedars crashed within Gethsemane: 
 The Rose of Sharon broke upon the stem. . 
 
 By these, Pompeii, arrogant, was turned 
 
 To ashes and long lines of crumbling stone; 
 
 And Lisbon, laughing, swallowed in the sea. 
 
 And the warm island cities, with their bloom 
 
 O, while a thousand palaces were burned, 
 
 And towers and temples like dead flowers were 
 
 blown, 
 What palmy gardens shared their destiny? . . 
 Pride borne with beauty to a common tomb? 
 
 From all the city late I heard the sound 
 Of music and of laughter, and the throng 
 Of men and women, drunken after wine, 
 Rushed out to do high honour to their lust; 
 Until the stars fell, and the midnight bound 
 Their feet with fear, and put an end to song, 
 While the walls rocked above them for a sign, — 
 And all my flowers were mingled with the dust ! 
 
 132 
 
I cry farewell to roses, those that sleep 
 Yet in the bud ; and so I cry farewell 
 To many an unborn generation now 
 Dead ere the bud ; and so, despairing, cry 
 Farewell to all my garden ! And I creep 
 Here to the window, heavy with dread, to tell 
 New sorrow over, as each bud, each bough 
 Breaks, till, at last, I too with them shall die! 
 
 Woe, woe, to all the earth on such a night! 
 The rushing voice of all calamities 
 That have befallen man since he was man 
 Cries out to me across the valley of woe. . . 
 There shall not come a dawn; never shall light 
 Shine on my garden, where tall hapless trees 
 Lie dead, — where I was used to talk with Pan 
 Among the flowers, now dead, — all dead, below ! 
 
 133 
 
Mood after Music 
 
 (For Aubrey Lee) 
 
 Go not, O dream of happiness, — not now, 
 O dream of my own house, of my own folk! 
 Here, though I am forsworn of every vow 
 Youth made for me. Music I dare invoke ! 
 For dreams to pass, the World is all too wide, 
 And fancy on the Deep must surely fail : 
 With those whose doom is ever to abide 
 In far lands, Music can alone avail. 
 Late in this far counry there came a sound 
 Of slow rivers, and the stir of dark trees 
 Was round me in dim starlight, and I found 
 My soul filled with unbroken loyalties! — 
 Go not, O Music-born! So strangely come! 
 Many a year now this Music will be dumb. 
 
 134 
 
; ' •I' ,h |S.