?S 3531 .A697 ?3 1921 Pastels and Silhouettes MABLE HOLMES PARSONS Class Book. A^^^T^ GopightN" COPYRIGHT DEPOSm PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES A Book of Verse BY MABLE HOLMES PARSONS n Illustrations by Phyllis Muirden 1921 THE STRATFORD COMPANY PUBLISHEnS BOSTON, MASS f^^! Copyright 1921 The STRATFORD CO., Publishers Boston, Mass. The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. JUL 1871 ©G!.Ael7713 ACKNOWLEDGMENT We beg to thank Poet Lore, Munsey's and The Spectator for their kind per- mission to reprint in this volume certain poems which first appeared in their pages. Preface THOUGH haltingly and imperfectly be- spoken in the lines, a certain faith has lent to the verses such color and movement as they possess. Resting upon that faith, the versifier has sought to re-convey what have been felt to be the rhythms of nature, — the impersonal light- ness of greeting things, the buoyant fullness of motion in sea and ships, the redundant urge and crowding of humanity in cities, the slow-pulsed, reluctant charm of days-between ; to subdue ex- pression to that of the analogy itself, arrogat- ing no rights of pre-considered form ; in short, as nearly as possible to grant to each mood or emotion its peculiar image and rhythmic direc- tion. Moreover, part of the author's belief has been concerned with the perceptions that lie betAveen illusion and disillusion: she has not looked toward the realm where "fatuous fires and meteors take their birth," nor yet to dis- couraged regions of denial, but rather to that swift current with its inevitable impulses and reverses wherein life actually maintains and renews itself. From this angle or view she has more or less consciously proceeded, in the sin- cere persuasion that if there be aught for the artificer of words to celebrate, it must be found in the seldom confessed or praised What Is, rather than in What Should or What — more comfortably — Might Be. "The drawing will not be adequate, but I must continue to draw because of my belief in that perfect bridge we shall never build." M. H. P. To My Husband CONTENTS Late Spring 1 June 2 One Day in May 3 My Dear of All My Happy Spring . . 4 Days Between 5 Tomorrow ....... 6 Matins 7 Bells of the Morning 9 Mute ........ 11 Summer 12 Autumn 13 The Rose and You 15 The Star 16 Pitiful 17 Let Me Be Grateful 18 Pilgrims 20 Little Gray Mole 21 On the Mountains 22 Tapers 23 Youth 24 CONTENTS Winter Sketches . Fir Tree Mist .... Two Small Wings of Prayer Question Horizons The Sunshine on the Hills A Lover to His Lady My Neighbor If— . Beside the Road Two Paths . Alas, Poor Folly Song of the Winds Ships from the Sea Mother . Weary . Afterwards . L 'Art Absorbe Wounded Goodbye After Furlough A Prayer With the Dawn , 25 28 29 30 31 33 34 36 37 38 39 41 42 43 45 47 49 50 51 52 54 56 58 CONTENTS Little Old Man . A Japanese Garden To Roswell Dosch Individualism Waiting The Coast Speaks The Fantasy of Life Soul 's Pilgrimage Process Recalled Recessional . 60 62 66 67 69 71 73 79 84 85 87 Late Spring WHEN late is spring, Then do not sing The birds ; their notes Within their throats Are held. And joy, A pale alloy. Turns slow to pain. When late is spring, Each budding thing Is chilled ; the flower Within her bower, Alas, too late Awaits her mate — Death, again. . . . [I] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES June SIGH in the air, Kiss in the sun, Life and mystery, blended, one. Rapture of birth. Heaven, no dearth. . . . Vanish, care ! Bird on the bough, Bud in the green, Every conceivable wonder is seen. Over the earth. Magic, mirth. . . . Love, now. [2] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES One Day in May IT was one blithesome day in midmost May, We sought onr destined courses to discern In every bravely tinted bud or spray, In dandelion, violet, or fern. We deepened to the calling of the earth ; We laughed in pure, inconsequential joy The while our love was horning in our mirth ; We breathed, intent, lest one poor word des- troy The rapture brooding o'er the river's bank And rising from our throats in tender song. Deep, deep, of all the mystery we drank. — It was a fair and wondrous day, and long, — Long in memory. — You went away. I've never known another day in May. [3j PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES My Dear of All My Happy Spring I NEVER dreamed that I should grow so bold. Dear, my dear of all my happy spring, That I could 'mind you of the violets, — cold Are they, — and larks that do not pause to sing. A blossom blossoms only for the heart ; A bird 's a bird, while hands together cling ; But all the petals flutter far apart, And all the birds take flight on startled wing, When we from out our green wood mutely go And drift unto the colder paths of men. When lovers part, bird notes are faint and slow ; Flowers droop and dry. — My dear, ah then, If in the dark my thrilling hands you'll find, Hark, the wild sweet choral on the wind. [4] ^ PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Days Between SNOW in sodden patches on the ground, The slow drip-dropping of the eaves, Faint gossiping where rivulets be found, The prick of buds aspiring to be leaves. A wee bird winking in the willow tree Like some alert and wise and wary eye ; A hint of lightest laughter passing me, A clean and breathing balminess of sky. Why curb thy gladness till the glam'rous days Of May and May's free spilth of gold and green? These be the days of earth's most dear amaze That death's a dreaming, life and life be- tween. [5] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Tomorrow TODAY the swallows dipped beneath the eaves, Blithe re-embodied spirits of the spring, And oh, their coming all my pain relieves And coaxes e 'en my tightened lips to sing. Upon their choiring wings and in their quest They tender me the hope I 'd all but lost, And nestle to my need, and bring to rest The straining fears wherewith my soul was tossed. And now I know tomorrow I shall hear A singing bird, — how like to thee 'twill be ; And soon, in God's good time, shall buds appear And daffodils and nests within my tree. [6] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Matins MARK not too keenly on the city street That greetings oft be feelingless and fleet ; Come, follow me, where chill thoughts be denied, Along a road that rims the wide hill side, And whence, from out some eerie, you and I May catch the first rose ribbands of the sky When Morning mounts, and mounting, turns to look Upon the sleeping valley, waiting firs and brook. Ah, with her glancing eye she'll find us there Adoring her, enraptured as the air That breathes her kiss and whispers its delight Unto the last dim door-ways of the night. And there a-quiver in the valley's shell, — Lean forward, friend, and look you well Upon a miracle of fog and fire, Filmed inward fire, an opal of desire. [7] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Mid veiling filigrees of silver spume, It Day allures, until Day shall consume Its heart, and toss unto the thirsting sky A foaming nectar brimming noon-tide high. Oh, tarry not upon the city street Where greetings oft be feelingless and fleet; Come you with me, when Night has all but gone, Along a wind-sweet trail into the Dawn. [8] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Bells of the Morning OVER the mountains, Out of the sky, Bells of the morning. Floating by. Wake and a-wing. Bird, Joy has begun, Joy of the valley, Joy of the sun. Riding the ribbons Aurora has spread, Carol the day-bells, High overhead. Night was a-weary. Day-time is strong ; Night was a dreaming. Day is a song, — [9] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES A song for the sower And for him who reaps; A song to summon The heart that weeps; A song to open The eyes, and hark ! Mounting the zenith, Thrilling the dark, Over the mountains, Out of the sky. Bells of the morning. Floating by. fio] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Mute WHEN fleet Apollo wooed the first shy morn, Spurning the garment of her maiden mist ; When sense and soul and love, in one, were born. And everywhere bright bees and blossoms kissed ; When passion cooled, at dew-time, 'neath a cloud Wide flung upon pure pinnacles of air. And earth's high heart, restrained and rever- ence-bowed, Gave voice to lifted orisons and prayer; Ah, then, I know, a singer, stripped and white As ravished Dawn, uprose, and clear and long Did thrill the hushed and tender, trembling Night, Up to the very listening stars, with song. So might I sing, were I beyond the ken And call and smile of all life's little men. [II] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Summer SUMMER, Rapture full, Doth contemplate No cooling Fall, Of wooing, satiate. Summer, — With drowsing eyes And lessening thrill Beneath the burning of the skies,- Is yet more deeply stirred "With pride. As she sees A host of glowing blossoms At her knees. Summer Doth contemplate No barrenness ; No chilling irony of fate. Mother-proud, She knows herself to be Heaven-endowed. . . [12] '/— iTJfl 0. / 'X'>' ^ Ak PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Autumn FALLEN leaves of rose and gold Defy the creeping death of Winter's cold And wrap the shrinking earth In garments gay and warm That apprehend no dearth of life. Fallen leaves, turned brown and sere, Dead pall become upon the dying year. — They will not greet the Spring In lifted sap, with trees that sing A glad rebirth. And hark! A whispered ghost of plaint Along the dry lips of the leaves That died,— Brave offspring of the parent trees, — And gave their life, A sacrifice. Not knowing, in their first joyous showing. That they would die; Nor asking why [13] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES They alone should have no part Within the deep and bounding heart Of reerudescent earth. And far aloft, Sun-lover, Forgetting them, Has kissed the parent stem, And unto it accrue The leaf buds new. But hark! The whispered ghost of plaint Along the dead lips of the leaves, — Last year's offspring of the trees, — That died, not knowing. [14] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES The Rose and You THIS room, my world, and yonder red rose, you: Its ripened tint, a rapture to mine eyes ; Its scent — the ardent want within me tries To compass and to claim, as I do you. Its presence as a bud brought hope of bliss And love's most sacred office of sweet care From me it won; I longed, but ne'er did dare To shock its dew-chaste soul by e'en one kiss. But when in tender beauty forth it flamed, I plucked and pressed it to my eager breast. It dropped a leaf, a tear ; I bade it rest ; From joy too burning I myself reclaimed. That rose ? I love it in its prime, dear, And thank the gods who bring me such delight ; I '11 love it, too, when fades it ' fore my sight, — But when it dies, ah dies, my world how drear ! [15] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES The Star A CLIFF of jet, A lonely pine, A star ! But ah, the tree's sad undertone, An echo of the sea's low moan, — A rushing cadence, then a dying, A sobbing ending in a sighing, — And yet, and yet. Above the pine, The star! Above the soughing and the fret, Above the sombre silhouette, The star. The goal afar ! [i6] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Pitiful MIDNIGHT. Rain. Blurred lights. Night is chill. In the street, many feet Rush for cars. In the swirl Tiny girl ' ' Extra ' ' cries. Pitiful. . . In the street, many feet Rush for cars. [^7] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Let Me Be Grateful LET me be grateful. . . Like sunshine upon rain, Let me be grateful Even for the pain. Relenting promise of the skies, May my gratitude arise, A radiant span, From now unto that distant day, April or May, When life began. Let me be grateful. Let me forget the soil Turned daily upward As my meed of toil; Let me forget, but once. The need to give : From thee, thrice blessed is the hour When I receive. [i8] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Like the clear stars, Let me reflect the light Of day, at night, And know my Sun is yet the god And giver to the darkened sod. Let me but know myself the star Of thee, my Day, And I shall never mourn if far And lone, I stray. Let me be grateful. Like sunshine upon rain, Let me be grateful, Even for the pain. [19] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Pilgrims WAVES that kiss and nod and pass, Breezes o 'er the tall sweet grass, Fleeting, fleeting. Swift gray birds that call "Good morrow," Laughter daily learned of sorrow. You and I who smile and go With the dew-time and the snow. Greeting, greeting. [20] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Little Gray Mole LITTLE gray mole, Under my hill, Wh}^ don't you come out Into the light And recover your eyes? But then, I suppose. If you prefer to live under ground, And if you cannot tell Darkness from light. We should not blame you For not knowing You have great need of eyes. [21] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES On the Mountains WE live on the mountains, Clouds and I. I like mountains, For there I may run With bare feet And a single free garment, In the wind. I live in a small warm house. The clouds live under the sky. I am always meeting them, At my door, When I run out to play. They are always meeting me When they try to run in. They are jealous of me For having so snug a house. I am jealous of them For having a roof so high. [22] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Tapers THE trees are tapers, The grasses green flames, And petals are pointed In glowing acclaims. The mountains are burning, Yet higher and higher. And even the dew Is a tremulous fire. The earth is an altar, Peek, tree-top, and sod, A-light with the multiple Glory of God. [23] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Youth THE sun's path is a red path On the sea. . . Westward, I turn my prow. Strong at my oars I sit, Singing. . . I think I '11 reach the ruby Ere it sinks. . . [24] PASTELvS AND SILHOUETTES Winter Sketches 1 LIMNED with rose, the snow hills lie Along an ever-widening sky. A mist of frost o'er-hangs the trees That stiffen, stark, upon the knees Of rock, drawn up in pain and cold Beneath the soil. And ridges bold Cast shadows chill in valleys deep, Where stricken rivers crack and creep. 2 Three Fates WITH arms Borne down by snow, The crested winter firs Stand still and close, and wait Relief. The oaks. With stoic boughs, Bear winter's weight And tensely lift defiant arms Aloft. [25] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES A stump, Of arms deprived, Neath pallid cap and peak, Deep hides its frosted, shrinking roots And prays. . . . 3 My Winter Garden I DREAD to hear the snow-wind creep Upon my garden, locked in sleep ; I dread the sudden crisp lament From stalk on stalk, as cold and bent My rose trees murmur in the chill That grips the valley and the hill. I dread the creaking paths that rise. Full slow, to meet the sodden skies Whence soon the snow will wanly fall And be my garden's restless pall. But most of all, I dread the night That hides the sorry world from sight. For in the night, without restraint, My frosted garden makes complaint : Each tAvisted tree contrives to be A vocal torment unto me ; And if there be a stir of grass — The souls of my dead garden pass. [26] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES 4 Snowflakes fall o 'er the roof of my house, Seeking my window, they fly, Balance, totter, flutter, and fall. And yonder, alighting, they die. Snowflakes, snowflakes, delicate, white, What, I pray you, your gain — To be pure, to be light, to be chillingly fine. If at last you dissolve into rain? m PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Fir Tree FIR tree, outside my window, We have lived many days Side by side. We have grown to need each other. Often you look in and nod. And I send you smiles, From my heart. This morning, when I looked out. Everywhere was snow. . . Upon my roof lay your heavy hand. Shuddering, You lifted two brave free fingers To let me see you knew — I realized. m PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Mist IT is not night that covers me, But mist, perpetual promise of the morn, That lifts not, but swirls. Penetrating, chill, From cliff to cliff; Rolling, spuming. Drenching, infiltrating, Through the valley where I dwell. Opaque, Befouled with smoke, It rolls. — Children and souls Are sick for dawn. They cry and pray, And then • — are still. There is no dawn, Rose-strewn and warm. — Vague half lights on the road to day, Blurred and wet with tears That cling, Alone remain, the record of the years. It is not night that covers me, But mist, perpetual promise of the dawn. [29] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Two Small Wings of Prayer 1HAVE a locket tendrilled with pale gold, — Within a dusk Italian mart 'twas sold, Where peered a frowning, ancient man, and mark! His sunken eyes yet burned, though dim and dark. ■ — An ebon heart the locket old doth wear. Exposed to view, between two wings of prayer. He knew, I feel he knew, that ancient man, The cupping sorrow of my life 's due span ; Believe he, prescient, saw the treasured face I later hid within the jealous space; Believe his curious eyes did see The tendrils twining hungrily toward me. Pale and ever paler with the cold Of my wrought life, the changeful, curling gold; And ever deeper, deeper-strangely set. The midnight heart of mirthless, misting jet. . . . And all the day and all the night I bear The irony of two small wings of prayer. [30] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Question WHY may we never sing Our bitterness? Is life but Spring? Out of pain, The rainbows in the sky; Out of pain, The red, red roses That may never die. Why may we never sing Of death ? Who paints the lily and the hills? Why thrills The upward wing of bird. The wood anemone, The white-crowned chorister Who nightly fills my westward fir With song? Know you the grateful sense Of life that lasts not long? [31] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES We must have wept — Else life is but a tinkle and a spray, Not melody, or sea that seeks To make of ebb a grander surge Towards stars. And out beyond the darkened edge of world, Toward day. . . . [32] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Horizons THERE are clouds and peeping rain, And shadows penetrate Like breath of slow wolf's-bane, Or messengers of Fate. And I am quite alone, All roofed and walled around; Nor sing I, nor do moan ; Of rain — unceasing sound. But I've window and I've tree, — A square space filled and trimmed With green, green as can be, To misting blue depths dimmed. And in that tree there dwells A bird, unseen as I, Whose gem-like rapture swells In song, wide as the sky. [33] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES The Sunshine on the Hills I WOULD not lose the sunshine from the hills. — Why tell a tale of slow, relentless mills Of gods who grind against the grist of fate? They tell who spice their prophesies with hate ; They crowd the thoroughfares and shout and jeer, While women cower in their shawls with fear, And men grow pale and grim and fiercely set. I heard the bitter words they said, and yet. My stained, misshapen hands I would forget; Forget the ways that thwarted passion wills, And turn unto the sunshine on the hills. I labor mid the belching, sultry mills, Where dragging toil its daily portion kills Of my young need of keen, uncoarsened joy; I know the blurring belts and heat destroy The songs I 'd sing ; yet still I would believe That weary body may in soul retrieve. I still would smell the roses by my door ; [34] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES The notes of early-winging lark that pour As from a silver flute, I'd hear; and more — Forget I labor mid the blinding mills, And find the sunshine on the westward hills. I hear the tune-full bee who gay distills His sweets the while he works, and faintly thrills And wakes my heart ; yet at my outer gate There grows the flaming bush of crimson hate ; And crowding neighbor women beckon me My poverty and wretchedness to see. And when the Richest Woman courses by, They raise their clamor to a shrilling cry That shames and tortures me. And I should die, Did I not know that out beyond the mills, The sun still shines upon the westward hills. [35] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES A Lover to His Lady I'D like to garner all the stars for you And set them in an amber-rose-red crown. I 'd have you wear it all the long night thi-ough, And never bend your queenly head a-down. I'd ask of you but that you'd shine for me; I'd be a rug of blossoms to your feet, And if you'd tread on me, then bright and free My blood should run to meet you and to greet. Ah never, never, be my less than queen. Your star-crowned forehead warming to the skies ; For if you gracious to your subject lean, I ne'er can leash the yearning in my eyes. Unless you'd give me all yourself to love. Then keep your kinship with the skies above. [36] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES My Neighbor HE does not mind the rules. He sins Aloud; for with full-foul tirade He curses nature, when the work begins Of plough and seed, of horse and spade. I dare not listen as he sows : I'd be polluted as the air; And yet his garden greens and grows Grows tall and grateful — like a prayer. U7} PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES If — IF I might be noticed and found sweet, Gone the bitter heart beat Of tasteless nights. If you'd never turn your eyes away, Filled my days eternally. With dear delights. [38] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Beside the Road BESIDE the road I sit and watch The people going by, And all the folk they look at me And seem to wonder why I do not nod, I do not smile. Nor utter any cry. Within my reach I gather stones And fling them far away From underneath the crowding feet That neither pause nor stay. . . . I make my feeble throw, and then — I bend my head and pray: "O Master, ease the burning pain That only Thou dost see ; My weary body break and bruise, But let my soul go free. Oh, I would even lay me down Where all might tread on me ! ' ' [39] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES And those that pass, they speculate And "Dreamer" do they cry, And beckon me to join with them, Nor ever guessing why I sit beside the road and watch The people going by. [40] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Two Paths LIKE a jeweled carpet Is the pathway to the sun, And along the floor there run Children, with tiny hands outspread, Dancing children, with ruffled petticoats And pretty nods and smiles. . . . See, yonder, their sparkling tresses tossing gaily Above the shining floor of the morning sea. Like a snowy mane, A long, quivering, frosted mane, Is the moon's pathway, And along its light to a dark boundary Creep the very old. Who as a last resort — When eyes had grown too faint to bear the sun — Have gone out of safe paths with quaint rose borders. Out on the waters of night, Seeking stars. . . . [41] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Alas, Poor Folly FLEETING is Folly, never bird so fleet : However much his lordship may be wooed. However much his solace you entreat. You wake to find that quite in vain you sooed. Cruel is Folly : however keen the goad And lash of life, and deep your need of laughter. Folly's away; and greater is the load You're left to bear; for Doubt slips in there- after. Deceitful Folly, though feining to beguile Your grief by lissome leaps and freest pranc- ing, At length betrays the heart-ache in his smile. The sway of tears, in rhythm of his dancing. Oh, heart of me, why struggle to be jolly: If Folly grieves, we have no need of Folly. [42] w PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Song of the Winds HY chide the gale 1 — We live on a hill, Where winds and weather darken and chill : Where puiSng scouts of the buffeting breeze Rustle and stir the tops of trees ; Where earthward and skyward resound the alarms Of outcast, frenzied, cloud-driven storms; Where trailing tatters of riven spray Dampen and dim the rifts of Day ; Where loud the clatter of window-pane 'Neath the knock of our hands and the slap of the rain. We shout and we ride on the breast of the gale. And tied to the hoary witch-hair pale Of zigzag clouds that flout the earth, We're glad with the storm-king's scowling mirth, [43] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Ais he laughs and jeers at each torn tree That shivers and moans, unfree, unfree. And we are the souls of the things of sin That jibber at doors and there pry in ; The souls are we of all things wild, Of all things banished and defiled. Out, out, we cry on the niggard earth That woiild beat back our biting mirth ; Out, out, we cry, on wood and fen That shelter the shrinking bodies of men; Out, out, we cry, on all things smug, On women and preachers, safe and snug. Your shaken beings, defend, defend ! Despised, forbidden, we turn and rend. And deep in the heart of the weird, wet wind, We are the prayers of those who 've sinned ; Unbound, bedraggled, from tree tops high We toss our burden of sin to the sky. Hark, hark, our mad demoniac joy, As stoutly we chant, ' ' Destroy, destroy ! ' ' [44] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Ships from the Sea THE wild winds blow, Ajid blown is the snow Over the world and me, For it sweeps the swale On a boisterous gale And covers the ships at sea, — It covers the ships at sea. A veil of sleet Has hidden the fleet That was sailing to thee and me. The soul stands still In the wind, in the chill. And lost are the ships at sea. And lost are the ships at sea. Will there come a day, In June, in May, You'll come, my ships, to me? Will the gale sweep by. From my soul, from my sky, And leave me free to see? Oh, to be free to see ! [45] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES In the wail of the gale, The cheek grows pale, For the storms that beat upon thee. Oh, to keep thee warm. In the chill, in the storm. While waiting my ships from the sea ! While waiting my ships from the sea. [46] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Mother IS it old you are, my Mother, Is it old? There is frost upon your hair, And your cheeks, they are not fair As the rose. But whenever I draw near. You retreat as though in fear You'd disclose What you carry in your heart Far beneath the tender art Of your smile, or joy or smart. Is it old you are, my Mother, Is it old? Is it old you are, my Mother, Is it old? Does your laughter cover grief. Like the color of the leaf In the fall? Is it happiness or pain Lilting in your gay disdain Of us all? [47] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Be your spirit sad or free, — You are like a sun-lit tree Growing heavenward, to me. . . Is it old you are, my Mother, Is it old? [48] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Weary I LONG to feel thee smoothe away The frowns which here at close of day Have seamed all my heart. I long that thou shouldst breathe a word Tenderer far than aught yet heard, My listless ear to start. I'd ask of thee to pause and wake This weary woman, for thy sake To harken, burn, and be. I 'd have thee woo with all thyself, — I cannot wake for dregs or pelf And give a living me. [49] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Afterwards DO you believe dreams vanish in the night And leave no trace ? Miasmic is our sleep ? That, during night, the timid soul takes flight, Deserts the bodj' into chaos deep? Or do you deem the darkness but a fold Of needed lethal horror to a cheek That soon will start and glow to pulse more bold, And flush and square and never more be meek ? What though some chant emergence from the mire Of tyranny with song a-foul with hate ; That many would by blood and bomb and fire Destroy what is, — lo, mockery of fate ! I still believe these be wherefrom are born The staying ardours of a saner morn. [so] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES L'Art Absorbe A BROWN thrush pierced the heart of a star From a quiver of song. The brown thrush sang where the shadows are, Each waiting hour, the whole night long. I faintly followed the crystal dart In its luminous flight; I breathed a note, I lacked the art; My lips were old and dry with blight, — Blight of weariness, blight of fear, Blight of kissing, blight of tear ; And yet, I know, you, brown thrush, there, Awake from the chill of night to dare A song of faith to a far, cold star. . , I don't understand, but I know that you a/re. [51] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Wounded REMEMBER?— No, the day was murk. He reckoned — a shell or hellish dirk. Or was it retreat, — or another crop Of bloody Boches, as they swept the top ? ''Water, — here's water!" Who was it said? A voice that drifted along his bed. — Water — drifting — an aching sea That surged and beat toward home, maybe. A vision of tiger lilies red Haunted and stirred his fevered head ; Lilies midst dunes and marsh grass pale, Running before a scudding gale From a darkling sea a-fret with foam, — Dunes and ocean and wind of home. . . . If only his bunkie would bring a light And tuck his blanket warm and tight. . . . 'Twas such a gale as blew that day He blithely led Her far away Along the shore. He kissed Her there, — Their first, — her lips, and then her hair. PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Such pretty, wilful hair she had, His girl. — He was a lucky lad, . . . He held her close. And a glad shout. The wind ! — And lilies bloomed about. Yes, lilies, — lilies red, Torches flaming for the dead, , . . Water? Nay, — give Her to him, Her warm self, nor ever dim His day. — A draught of her sweet breath, And even death — were life, e 'en death. . . . Her breast, his boat, he'd rest and rise Beneath the sweetness of her eyes. Virgin clean — yes, — and clear, Would grow his soul. . . . Who spoke? — Nay, hear: "Want — nothing, — not even a prayer. . . . Look, — her face, — right here I wear On my heart. . . , She 's safely charted me For an,y crossing, or any sea, , . . Oh, no, — I'm not afraid to die. . . . She's here, beside. — God too. . . . Goodbye. ..." [53] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Goodbye After Furlough THIS hour I give, This hour of pain, gay pain. To laughter and to you. . . . Come, let us laugh again ! Let me look deep Within your eyes. For I would keep Them shining in my soul, The matchless goal, Beyond surprise of fate ; For soon or late. They shall arise Against my darker fears. . , . What, — tears in your eyes, tears! But hark • — From you, the melting cloud that floats nearby, The drops that drip and echo in the tone Of laughter mounting gaily in goodbye, Are like a rainbow o'er my gray heart thrown. [54] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES And know ■ — Beyond that bourne of hate some shall return To sip the cooling draught for which they yearn. And some — my God ! — and some — • They will not hear you when you come And blindly trip — trip — trip Upon the silent dead, who '11 never know You, as you weep and go. . . . Come, let us laugh again! We have need to deaden pain, • — For all the rainbows reaching over France Are crimson through their whole expanse. This hour I give, This hour of pain, gay pain, To laughter and to you. . . . Come, let us laugh again ! [55] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES A Prayer 1DARE not pray, God, do this or that As I may wish; I dare not hope surcease. Why should numb doubt of His wise Provi- dence, His ways which countless years have crowned as just, Enthrall my hope or make me even less Than now I am? For I, e'en I, but work To further all the march in things; to lay M}^ touch upon the mighty wheel, the world. And help, my mite, its roll from out that past, — Which alien mire is not, although beneath The high, star-studded still unalien ways The wheel must reach ere rests the Master Mind Which thought, and in that thought, conceived the whole. How can I say to Him or this or that I pray Thee give? I, who see seven stars, Where 'fore Him heave the breasts of endless worlds ? I suffer? Yes. And wherefore not? For have Not I, perhaps, — though knowing not, — be- trayed [56] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES His gracious plan, from which I sprang in joy? And though He promise me that what I seek, If I believe, is mine, what may I dare To ask save strength to live, and still more strength To say, "Thy plan is just, Lord;" and I Do pray that I may still be man enough To know the fault be mine and take my pay; And bless Him still for all transcendent joys That shall accrue to man through His just plan Of death in life or life from death fresh born. And so, for strength to suffer and forget That I may do, I pray ; may thrust aside The coward's part and smile above the pain; That I may see my spirit wing its yvay Unworn, unstained by weary plaint or fret. Straight to the God who called it forth and bade It sing and fly straight out; and though blood- dyed In flush of one day 's finished course, may trust, Not ask tomorrow 's golden sun ; and think God knows His own ways best with me and all. And so for strength, not bliss my eyes might seek, I pray. ... I still would dare Co-operate with God, — and thus my prayer. [57] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES With the Dawn WHEN day, ordained, mute darkness dis- sipates, There is a Something here which animates The pulsing bosom and the conscious brain That through long slumber, dull, inert, have lain. . . . I know, because this dawn its hold was slight; It had been questing elsewhere through the night. My dreams but reflex of my stumbling course. Heavy, unsouled, I'd deeply slept, perforce. While distant winged my Life, the thing called Soul. I sensed its slow return. At last I felt its whole Yet gradual seizure of my limbs and thought. Till I could meet the day-time as I ought. Could I but substitute thine eyes for mine, My Life, my Soul ! Oh, wherefore, the Divine Be bent to dust, and blinded, ordered days? [58] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES What didst thou see? What just and fine amaze Of wisdom, beauty, joy and saner power. That even my poor self thou canst endower With waiting hope and faith enough to be A proffered, eager tool, my Soul, to thee? Eager, yet self-betrayed. Distraught, inept From buffettings, sorrows unwisely wept. Imperfect, I ; a veil upon my eyes ; Halting, I miss thy paradisal skies; I can but nerveless note thy sure return. Yet with the morning do I wishful burn But once to find my being animate With thee, with thee on wing, made wise; my fate Thy dictate ; I, all glad, illuminate and free. To find the crucible would fuse my dross with thee! Yet, from the record of the dawn I may take heart. Live on: I know thou dost return; I know thou art. [59] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES L Little Old Man ITTLE old man of our town, Where are you going, little old man? You totter and halt and nod and smile, A faltering figure from days most strange. The filming veil in your gentle eyes Scarce covers the heaven just beneath From which your quaint untroubled soul Looks through. Your rent and rusty coat Is lightly worn, as though the winds Of earth had ceased to blow for you; As though your wistful dream sufficed For warmth and cheer and even love. Are there no fingers, then, to mend Your coat? Have all at length sped on, Wife, children, old-time friends. And left you here to smile upon The restless dallier in the streets? A single song, you are, old man, A single, trenchant, bell-clear song [60] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES That calls above the clang and roar ; And all the world must pause to hear A singing freed from dissonance. You reach the troubled heart of him, Who notes, world-hurt, your passing form, And longs, the once, to glimpse the heights You have attained. Ah, pass again ! Restore again the memory That hurts and heals ; and I shall go Singing my way beside you, strong In hope. Figure faint and old. Blessing the wasters with your smile, How swiftly now you slip from sight. . . Little old man of our town, Where are you going, little old man? [6i] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES A Japanese Garden BEAUTY, as of slumber, Odorous, brooding, Deep between two hills. Sultry with shade. . . . Fringed lids of iris move. Stirred by dreams. Their lips shape voiceless words For invisible ears. Tasseled braken breathe, listlessly, Up the hill sides, Seeking air. . . , Pathways lurch, drunkenly. Beside quaint rocks, moss-spread. That sleep, — long have they slept, — And skirt silken shrubs That crowd and whisper. Though no breeze blows .... Stone seats, tomb-white, Do not invite repose. But repel, consciously. . . . Rustic bridges reproach encroaching steps. [62] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES An open tea house, with mats and couch, Holds but not contains — Personality. And 3'onder, Avhere an elfin mite poises, Jestingly arrested, full-wing in flight. And turned to stone, Its pitiful smile straining for life, Lurks Fear, Which steals upward, restively, And touches the tangled branches of the oak Above my head and drooping. I crouch, recede, Resisting unseen touches. To where the path leads out and upward. Resistlessly, I look back. . . . A Somewhat pushes me upon the heart and laughs. Its exquisite fingers hold me. . . . I dare not look away from the creeping stream, ■ — Sounding in the bosomed garden Like the last gurgle of life, — Or its fringe of passive iris ; From spell-bound Things in leaf-lapped Green; From mocking bridges, swayed by soundless feet; From cavernous lanterns With their socketless eyes; [63] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Or the tea house, With roof that curls upward, Like a scornful lip. Too indolent or too malevolent to speak ; From the too tangible Feeling that nears me, If I stir or pause, Or the too cloying smells that drug and cling. . . . I suffocate .... Grow cold. ... I cry out sharply, close my eyes, run, — Pursued, half way, along my course. . . . Here, where day-winds blow. Here, in this tinted orchard, Where petals rain, reassuringly, I cannot see the garden. . . . But in my own breast Dwells — Fear. II. But yesterday, I did interrogate The flowers, — too odorous, alert, and still, — And the dread garden and the couchant hill ; But yesterday, when afternoon was late. Today, I know the place fore-warned that he Who wrought the joy that all but lived and smiled [64] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Would pass ; would be but brief beguiled With gardens and with clay, with roof and tree. I deem he ever knew he'd ne'er complete The iris row, the tea house, or the bridge. I deem he ever looked beyond the ridge To plans perfected with a skill thrice fleet. And out beyond the ridge we'd follow him. We'd rise from garden and from things begun In shade; tear-blind and numb, we'd find the sun He found above the perfect iris at Day's rim. [65] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES To Roswell Dosch WITHIN the vestibule of joy he sang The unstained promise of his soul, Of earth reborn, reconsecrate and free, All beautiful. — And doth there toll. Aloft, a bell, ere opened be the door? The joyous singer, where is he? The temple 's fraught with night and echoes shrill. Where he and his clear voice should be. And did the skies, all envious, dispatch The wind to bear him far away? Oh, was it not his own glad splendid song That speeded him — to utter Day. [66] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Individualism Boats on a wide green sea, Hope-winged, wind-driven. Thinking themselves free. Bound to sail a straight course Or to tack carefully, Passengers dodging the swinging boom. Green sea, grinning white, Mouth spitting ironic foam. Jealous sea, • — Jealous of passengers and ships. Pursuing, lashing, lying in wait. Passengers laughing, Caressing each other. Boasting glad passions and their sway. Boasting brawn, agility, deep breath, belief. Seeing only themselves and each other. Feeling the sting and clap-clangor of wind and sails. Exulting, exulting, exulting. Boats and passengers, in high glee, Running with the wind and with the sea. [67] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Believing to wish is to receive. Wishing the storm away. Wishing on the first dizzy star, Wrapt in each other's futile arms, Deaf to howl of hurricane and destiny's alarms. Star-gazers, self-lovers, drunk with joy. Hail the free ship of life ! Ahoy, ahoy ! Boats on a wide green sea, Hope-winged, wind-driven. Thinking themselves free. No other speeding sail has heard the cries. Or long, last shriek that cuts the alien air. Then dies, — dies. . . . * * * * White-darting, careening, passion-bosomed. Passenger laden. Sailing alone, apart, — Oh, not in fleets, never in fleets, Boats, boats, boats. . . . [68] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Waiting FOR me are faint the lighting skies And the new carollings of birds. I lie, prisoner of sleep. Today, as other days and days, My dawn comes slow. . , Though rides the sun, too probably, half high, my soul Wants energy. Something I wait. . . Adventure 's kiss, A thought, more bold, A song that only sings, A hope that holds, A body not so spent with reaching. It is those slip-in ghosts. Remembrances that do accuse, That draw my curtains 'gainst the dawn. I would — Be rested and hear the promised paean of free bells. [69] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Some glad, near, early morning, When sound those bells, May I not too sleep-bound be To throw my darkened windows wide. [70] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES The Coast Speaks I AM fell trapped within my body's snare. I would escape and ride the cool swift air As light as sun-kissed, breathing, ungirt foam That leaves the sea, and spirit-wide, doth roam, A cloud, made free from salt tears of the sea And earth's boun 'dries, and all things bleak that be. The passion of my waves I would defy. And all my hidden shoals and rocks that lie In wait for men ; 'tis never my desire To wreck the mariner, whose soul's on fire With courage and with great adventure's lure; Had I my way, I'd lead him to endure His course, unto his home-won, glorious day; Applaud his brave defiance of delay. I 'd see his sparkling sails blow full with faith. There should not stalk his decks the sullen wraith Of mine OAvn weeping, unassuaged despair. Alas, so many the gray lone days of care ; So few of sun. I may not be all fair. 'Tis not my destiny. Recumbent, bare, [71] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Sobbing yet weighted with its restless mate, My breast succumbs, the sated slave of fate. * * # * But yesterday, I saw a perfect star. Crannied and white, where never flowers are. Tomorrow, when my heart beats tempest-high, I '11 touch that tiny God-thing from the sky. [72] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES TTie Fantasy of Life OH, I would chant the fantasy of life, Eternal rondo. With hedonist 1 'envoi And return. . . . No more. ... My life and yours, my brother. I'd chant The impish, ivory laughter Of insensate gods of hope; The prayers of wax, bay candles. Bespeaking joys for which we yearn And burn. Dwindling ; The fat-bellied green idols To whom our incense leaps or creeps, — Incense that drugs our souls. I'd chant The pulsing touch of hand to hand, The two-fold bitter ennui [73] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES When lovers part; The disillusionment of friend with friend; The smiling, flesh-rending teeth Of men who chaff and greet Each other in the mart; The towering, gold-bedizened minarets That shout to unbending skies, — Cruel, triumphant shouts, — The shimmering defiance of man "Whose love of pelf And of his puny self Builds cities And great towers And ships carrying grain and guns; Of man who wins And man who loses all. Yea, bold and bare records, Without joy. These minarets, Of those who, — weird paradox, — Sought liberty, life and happiness for self, Then wrought, • — Nine hundred lives to one, — This massive magic for another, — For one who tireless mounts Upon befooled and squirming victims Of his will. [74] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Oh, I would chant The delicate "perfumes of Araby," With which to whiten weakened, self-stained hands ; I 'd chant the glowing, wishful soul of youth In bodies "taken in sin," — Pure beauty with a film of dust ; And yet again, The old, old sinful soul In others who stand brimming-still And jeer upon the sinning : Dust, — Pufie - f - ! No beauty underneath. I'd chant The tinny toys of art And all the gaping devotees Who grab the toys. Who smirk and talk And crowd the drawing rooms Up to the very seats of — Diamonds and furs and softest silks, And white shoulders And long, bare backs. Up to the very seats of these That masquerade as patrons of the arts. [75] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES And I would chant The whirling wheels in shops, And empty toilers at the looms Whose hrains whirl, too. Who drunkenly forget Birth rights. And lose themselves in revelry by night ; And yet, again, The Bureaus with bright signs, The sounding talk of "social service,"' — And ever, unconfessed. The wide-eyed, hidden thought Of individual prestige. I'd chant Opportunists And charlatans And children And strong men who die just when they see ,- These are the puppets of our rondo world: Men and men's women Consuming women and men; Their children flaunting Febrile wit and sumptuous whim; Strong men weeping in their hearts; All caught and carried In the crushing whirl [76] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Of life that is not life, But only strife And vain, ridiculous attempt To blow pretty bubbles, To lift high the glittering glass, To kill, And fatten And stagnate And suffer And grow stale. Verily, I'd chant Human nature's smothered soul. Self-deceived. ... Hark, the loud, rocking laughter! Look! God's face withdrawn, Heaven lowering. . . . On, on, the jigging world, In flight fantastic. Blind to control within unbounded space. Eternity's smitten, sardonic and most sad dis- grace ! Yet, ah yet, I'd chant the world, pitiable, Perblind, [77] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Denied ; Though dumb and lost, Out-crying still for light To scatter gray-beard mist and night, — E'en though it cry in noxious breathings Of gilded shut-in rooms Where purple curtains, faint with perfume Soft as spirit touch Caress and kindle and smother Beauty and youth, In love with life 's drugs ; E'en though it cry In breathings, body-stained. That mount to some great God-unknown, In impish, ivory laughter Of insensate gods of hope; In prayers of wax, bay candles Bespeaking joys for which we yearn And burn. Dwindling ; In trailing blue incense Before fat-bellied idols. ■ — This is nor diatribe Nor satirist-superior complaint; This is a sacramental chant. . . . [78] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Soul's Pilgrimage (^ ENTURIES it is J Since first I came Into the corridor called Life. Initially, 'twas evening-clad I came, My raiment dark, billowing, Like somnambulist arms Far spread for balance. mankind, my brothers. Ye welcomed me, As ye welcome night That hovers crimes. When clad in clouding gray 1 did return, I still had place, — Ye noted and complied. And then, at length, Adown the far dim years Somewhere I met a smile, love-honoring. And from some peak of glory Deemed God kissed and bade me [79] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Fly clean as sunlight to the world, Palms downward. My soul faintly recalls that flight And chill reception in the corridor. Among you, but obscure, alone, I wandered, Seeking other souls And somewhat of the light I'd lost. The more wistful, I, The more ye turned away And taunted me with smiles. My garments of brave June Ye tore, in disregard. Me ye denied, stripping from me, Fold by fold, my fine-spun covering, Until naked I stood. Trembling and despised, Myself not knowing. And soon I did forget That I had ever been that soul Which erstwhile thrust its flight Across the morning sky. But while I stood despised. Unclad and quivering, Sudden a beam of light Pierced the shadows. [80] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Aloud I cried, ''Look!" But none there, — so it did seem, — Cared. . . Then, wondering, I for the first time beheld Your eyes. Nor further marvelled, my brothers. That ye turned away. No longer fearful, 1 did set myself the task To catch that sunbeam. By single act of mine, And refract God, Your vision to compel. Alas, at once was gone the light, Snuffed out by mine own clumsiness. And I, stricken. Did know myself — presumptuous. So long the road. So varying and confused. By which a soul may find itself And know itself a soul. . . [8i] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES God's task, not mine, This corridor called Life. My head I bowed, acknowledging. My hand I raised, in token and acclaim. Eyes lifted to the clearstory light. Ah then, ah then, I saw My hand curved round the exquisite stem Of a goblet rare as — A slender lily holding dew at dawn. Within the goblet I beheld — Liquid sunlight with moonlight filtering in, Rainbow rimmed. . . . "See, see," I cried, "The gift, I've found the gift,— I bear it high. The Gift of God." Some shrugged and passed. Some looked and laughed. But one there was who eagerly did cry, "Where, where?" To him I made reply: "Look, look, 'tis thine as mine. Stretch forth thine hand. And thou too shalt receive." "I will not raise my hand," he said, [82] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Then gazed full long and dull Upon the place where glowed The goblet. . . "Nothing hast thou there," he said, Scorning me. Nor waited to hear more. And now I go, onward, All the strange days, Bearing my amber-torchan cup aloft, Far from my lips, . . If only unathirst remain my lips. The little light that is my portion. Which I hold high within my hand. May one day draw my soul To its own height. Oh, God forefend that some unblushing noon, When I look upward, I should find — My straining fingers clasping colorless air. [83] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Process WHAT say the features of a face' Greed and guile? Be they the record of disgrace Of souls on trial? Ah no, I deem they be the cry Of nature, blind And groping 'neath the darkened sky Of human kind. Not ugliness the twisted lip, But effort old Upon a bitter cup to sip Grown fixed and cold. And far beneath the bestial stare Of weakened eyes, The too great shadow of despair Where courage dies. Ah, pitiful the measure and all fine Wherewith we live; And He who formed us doth benign Regret, forgive. , [84] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Recalled SUNLIGHT, jeweling through blue Like sapphires on a woman's breast; Blue of blue waving flags, in young grass, That greet June days; Blue of trailing rainbows. The world's dome, And Someone's eyes. Blue of carpet, curtain, chair, Blue, free bits. Cool ecstasies Over parched earth. Anon, meshed orange films like prisoned flame From famed print or glazed bowl. Incense, with faint aspiration, Is finely interfused, — Sea-fog drifting through hushed firs, Through my soul 's reaching corridors. I was bowed and grieving in my heart From dust of loneliness [85] /^ PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES And for shattered things I had deemed mine, yet lost. At length, then, I return to thee, My singular roof and dwelling. The blue of thy faithfulness And thy filmed gold Irradiate the dust of loneliness. Thee I shall love. None wants my love elsewhere. My singular roof -world, Bound, yet cool and free, Earth and air and tempered light containing, Thou art the hurting thrill and sadness Of a joy that's healed. . . Paradise and thrall. Escape and cloister, A vision and a prayer. , . . [86] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Recessional UPON my kindling eyes I bound a thought, Age-old, hard-won. So close my fingers clung upon it, Numb were they. Compelled, My eyes drooped and hung upon Tricky traceries wherein appeared Similitudes or wrj^ logic. But yestereve, I sudden heard The singing of a fire-eyed bird. And then the fragile piping note Of fleeting flute, withdrawn, remote. And near the stream, a ruby gleam Of a god, a-piping, passed like dream. While cool and deep in the green of the dell Brimmed and flowed a fathomless well [87] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Of rainbow laughter, alluring me, That fled, ah whither, I fain would see ; Fled like the exquisite glimmer of truth From the quest and vision and soul of youth. Why not quaff of the fathomless well That gurgles and glees in the heart of the dell? Why not follow the glad gay beams Of beauty born at the call of dreams? Why, oh why, when once ye have heard The nesting note of the fire-eyed bird That thrills at your door, do ye turn away. And bury your faith as ye bury your play ? The fire-eyed bird and the slender reed Of shy good Pan are sped indeed : Dreams and ghosts have fear of day; Summer forswears the buds of May. Why grieve for Pan, whose music haunts the glen. Withdrawing at approach ? Let go. For know : Thy feet must tread the wonted ways of men, And hands touch hands that eager come and go. [88] PASTELS AND SILHOUETTES Oh, rather be companion to those feet, Or but a hand to stay a faltering hand, Or eye to kindle eye in glance most fleet. Or heart unbound to heart of all that band Than tear-stained poet of a dim rebound. Where solitude is plaintive with delight Of long gone days, quaint color and strange sound That first allure and then defeat the sight. For all thy wish, thou canst not turn aside For unreal flutes and all that vanished art ; And thine unsought reward, it may betide, A-throb within thy gift, some grateful heart. [89] LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 018 407 360 2