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WHEN YESTERDAY WAS YOUNG 
 
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 WHEN YESTERDAY 
 WAS YOUNG 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 MILDRED I. MCNEAL-SWEENEY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 ROBERT GRIER COOKE 
 
 INCORPORATED 
 MDCDVI 
 
 ^'irlrii^'irir^rk-k^'irir'iririririrl^ 
 
LIBRARY of OONSRCSS 
 Two CoDlec Recolved 
 
 DEC 89 1906 
 
 ^^Copyrljfht Entry 
 CLASS a. XXc, No. 
 COPY B. 
 
 I 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY 
 ROBERT GRIER COOKE, INC. 
 
TO 
 
 MARGARET HALL SWEENEY 
 
 THE DEAR NEW-COMER 
 
Little hand warm in my hand. 
 
 Frail as the flower of a lily. 
 
 Sweet as the whitest, sweetest rose in the Iand» 
 
 *Tis a little, fairy space 
 
 To hold so much that is love — 
 
 All of a woman's heart for all her days* 
 
 Btit she has no more to seek 
 
 After one look of her eyes 
 
 And one brief, wonderftil tottch of you at her cheek* 
 
 Strange that we never knew 
 
 Until you were here, what store 
 
 Of love and rapture and dream we had for you, — 
 
 Dear, little, gentle hand 
 
 Close in shelter of mine — 
 
 And my hand, too, in a stronger, tenderer hand* 
 
FOR permission to include many of the 
 poems contained in the present vol- 
 ume^ the author desires to express her 
 acknowledgfment to the editors of Har- 
 per's Magfazine^The Century^ Lippincott's 
 Ma§:azine, Success, Smart Set, the Pall 
 Mall Magazine, and others^ 
 
 ^ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BRACELET 
 
 
 • • 
 
 3 
 
 THE WEAVING OF THE FAN . 
 
 • 
 
 
 . 9 
 
 WHEN YESTERDAY WAS YOUNG 
 
 
 
 
 The Painted Cup 
 
 
 
 J5 
 
 At the Road's Turning . 
 
 • 
 
 
 . J5 
 
 Absence • • • 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 A June Song . , ♦ 
 
 • 
 
 
 • J7 
 
 The Temple in the Field 
 
 
 
 18 
 
 To Her Whom I ShaU Win 
 
 • 
 
 
 . 19 
 
 My Day in April 
 
 
 
 20 
 
 Dear Young Unwearying Wind 
 
 • 
 
 
 . 2J 
 
 Our Dead . . • 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 The Taskmaster • • 
 
 • 
 
 
 . 23 
 
 The Poem • . . , 
 
 
 
 25 
 
 With a Gift 
 
 • 
 
 
 . 26 
 
 Respite • • • « 
 
 
 
 26 
 
 Misfortune 
 
 • 
 
 
 . 27 
 
 A Song for the Living 
 
 • 
 
 
 27 
 
 Thou Canst Not Make the Linnet's 
 
 Shining Wing 
 
 . 28 
 
 Temptation • ♦ • 
 
 • 
 
 • • 
 
 29 
 
 Tomorrow . • • 
 
 • 
 
 * 
 
 . 30 
 
 Peyre de Ruer to his Rivals • 
 
 • 
 
 • • 
 
 30 
 
 My Love Hath Gone a Journey • 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 . 3J 
 
 The Spring of Life . 
 
 • 
 
 • • 
 
 32 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 VHEN YESTERDAY WAS YOUNG— Continued 
 
 One More Sweet Soul . » * • 
 
 A Manhattan Spring • . . • 
 
 The Immortal Poem .... 
 
 My Spirit and the May . • • 
 
 "White Hands ..... 
 
 My Friendly Rain .... 
 
 The Storm and I . • . . . 
 
 The Clay and the Spirit 
 
 By the Blue Valley all an Afternoon . . 
 
 A Hymn for all the Living ... 
 
 The April Child and I . • . . 
 
 The Letter ..... 
 
 With the Gift of a Book Mark . 
 
 Yet Must Thou Still, My Soul, be Often Solitary 
 
 When Great Winds Come . . . 
 
 The Singing Child .... 
 
 Reality ...... 
 
 At the Little Gate .... 
 THE SONG OF THE HEART THAT DARES 
 ROLAND BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS SWORD 
 I TOO HAVE BEEN A WANDERER 
 
 I 
 
 In the Chapel of Kings College . . 
 
 The Caiion of the Yellowstone . • . 
 
 To an Alpine Violet .... 
 A Chance of the Morning . 
 
 The Sea Cave .... 
 
 Sunset on Lake Lehman .... 
 Villa Torricella .... 
 
 n 
 
 Looking South Across the Grand Pre Meadows 
 The Tide Creeps in Past Blomidon • • 
 
 PAGE 
 
 32 
 34 
 35 
 35 
 36 
 37 
 38 
 39 
 40 
 4J 
 42 
 43 
 44 
 45 
 47 
 47 
 48 
 49 
 55 
 6) 
 
 69 
 70 
 7J 
 73 
 
 74 
 75 
 75 
 
 77 
 77 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I TOO HAVE BEEN A WAND'EKEK— Continued page 
 
 Twilight — Lake Champlain . • . ♦ 78 
 
 Bonne Baie ,...., 79 
 
 Sunrise at Fabyan's • , , , .79 
 
 Le Azzore ...••• 80 
 
 Dawn on the Mississippi . . , • Sj 
 
 Bells of Amalfi ..... 81 
 
 The First Coming to Rome • . . .82 
 
 At Waterloo ...... 83 
 
 New York Bay at Dusk . . . . 83 
 
 LOVE AND HER FLOWERS . . . • 87 
 
 A COUNTRY JOURNEY 
 
 Arbutus ...... 93 
 
 The Mating Time 94 
 
 A Ballad of the May 95 
 
 Snow in May . . . • . .97 
 
 The Voyager ...... 97 
 
 There's a Brook * . . • • .98 
 
 Bird Loves ...... 99 
 
 The Blue Violets 100 
 
 The Wind JOO 
 
 In June ....... 103 
 
 The Dawn Child ..... 103 
 
 The Fields of Toil J03 
 
 The Clover ...... 104 
 
 Shall I Climb Yonder Hill . . . .105 
 
 Dreams ...... J07 
 
 The King's Couriers ..... JOS 
 
 The Wood and I JJO 
 
 Afterglow . . . . . . JU 
 
 My Wilderness 112 
 
 The Autumn Flower . . . . .114 
 
 The Frost King US 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 A COUNTRY JOURNEY— Cbnfmaed page 
 
 October * . . . • • » il6 
 
 The Flame Berry . . . . . JJ? 
 
 Early Winter . . . . . .US 
 
 The Flock in the Meadow . • . . JJS 
 
 The Year's End . . , . .119 
 
 A HYMN FOR THE NEW CENTURY . . J23 
 
 MY FRIEND THE SEA 
 
 Storm Song of the Norsemen . . • J29 
 
 My Friend the Sea . , * . . J33 
 
 The South Sea — Calling , , , . J35 
 
 The Ocean Cry . . ♦ • . 136 
 
 THE RIDE OF THE WALKYRIES . . . J43 
 
 ^ 
 
THE BRACELET. 
 
THE BRACELET, 
 
 I will wear it at my tryst 
 With the last invisible friend^ 
 Clasped upon my qttiet wrist — 
 
 A band of gold to shine and bend, 
 
 Yellow as October fern 
 
 And jewelled through from end to end 
 
 "With lights that mirror sweet concern 
 And love and faith and friendliness 
 Whichever way the circle turn. 
 
 II 
 
 A singte dewy tracery, sptin 
 From clearest diamonds of Brazil 
 Along its lustrous length shall run; 
 
 And any sweet gift that I will 
 Out of the hand of motherhood, 
 Like lights upon an evening hill, 
 
 3 
 
Shall blossom in thenit and the blood 
 Shall run its old gay courses, come 
 Where never age nor death pursued. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Of my hundred jewels, these 
 
 Are most precious. Take the three 
 
 Forth with care. My gem of ease, 
 
 The topaz, at the left shall be — 
 That loved spirit, all alight 
 With inward, deep felicity. 
 
 How he holds, in Fate's despite — 
 Golden hearted and serene — 
 All desire, all delight. 
 
 IV 
 
 Midway shall the pearl be set 
 
 To mark the unfading day when you 
 
 Came to me amid the wet 
 
 Tears of loss we greeted through. 
 Like a simple, beautiful book. 
 Turning openly to my view. 
 
The sweetest sotti that ever took 
 Life's btjrden ttp, your ruggedness 
 Had even its lowly, loving look. 
 
 Put this radiant, restless stone. 
 
 The opal, at the right of it — 
 
 A tall maid, fashioned from her own 
 
 Unstained day, as exquisite 
 In nature as a morning choir; — 
 For any spirit touches fit 
 
 Of star or space, she may require 
 Invisible ministering for her 
 Serenity and change and fire. 
 
 VI 
 
 The clasped circle has no end — 
 
 It is a little paradise 
 
 Of constancy for friend and friend* 
 
 With every turn the unbroken ties 
 "Win newer excellence. Austere 
 Spaces and times and silences 
 
 5 
 
Have no domain when hearts are dear* 
 Why need I crave to touch the hand? 
 I love the soul and it is here. 
 
 vn 
 
 The jewelling's done? The latest gem 
 Is stirely set? Then bring it me 
 And let me take the love in them* 
 
 Oh little kindly company, 
 
 I can go down, even with a song 
 
 Into the place of mystery. 
 
 Nor think the passing strange or long 
 If yoxi be with me. Let the pearl 
 Be uppermost — and now — the song* 
 
 ^ 
 
THE WEAVING OF THE FAN. 
 
THE WEAVING OF THE FAN. 
 
 Oh, the <wmd on the marshy shaltolvs. 
 Tossing, trembling f dancing, dying! 
 Oh, the sun on the April fallo')i?s. 
 Shining, shimmering, faltering, flying! 
 
 Oh, the call of the <wild sea plo'ber 
 Come a thousand of <windy miles ! 
 Oh, the glee 'when the geese fly aver. 
 Shrill and stormy in long defiles ! 
 
 Out in the stin on the billowy prairie 
 Toils the maiden, the dtfsky-skinned 
 Daughter of sagamores, humble, merry. 
 Her black hair blown in the rushing wind* 
 
 Toils untired when the noons are mellow. 
 And bravely toils when the winds are chill. 
 Up to her knees in the rippling yellow 
 Over running valley and plain and hill. 
 
 And with the coming of night she passes 
 Home to the villages, wearily. 
 Bent with her burden of fragrant grasses 
 And yellow starwort and barberry* 
 
And oK the twilight is <zv(Id and lonely I 
 
 Ne^er a. camp fire among the pines — 
 
 Ne'ver a light in the open— only 
 
 A gleam in the <west <where the first star shines,— 
 
 And the distant drone of the <water falling 
 
 By cliff and chasm and Tvild recess. 
 
 And the short strange note of the night bird calling 
 
 Its old perpetual loneliness* 
 
 All day and patiently they sit weaving- 
 Meek dark maiden and withered dame. 
 Intent and diligent, never leaving 
 The bright hay piled at the drying frame* 
 
 And the sweet of the northern summer lingers 
 In every corner and plait and fold 
 Slipping from under the flying fingers 
 In lustrous veinings of green and gold* 
 
 If one be comely and happy spoken 
 They seat her out by the cool green wares — 
 Fan and snow shoe and wampum token 
 And moccasins fine as a princess wears. 
 
 And there she dreams of her idle lover 
 Or new-wed husband, or softly croons 
 To the black- eyed baby she watches over 
 The little store of her Indian tunes — 
 
 10 
 
And bends her meek head and serves with smiling 
 The tallf fair lords of her ancient lands. 
 And cownts their generous silver, piling 
 Coin by coin in her dttsky hands* 
 
 Oh the call of the Tvitd sea. ptcyver. 
 Come a thousand of ivtndy mites I 
 Oh the glee %>hen the geese fly o'ver. 
 Shrill and stormy in long defiles I 
 
 Oh the moan of the great gray river. 
 Over its burden of sa'vage deeds! 
 Oh the sigh <when the ripples quiver. 
 Troubling dully among the reeds I 
 
 Camping now by the great sweet water, 
 Now where the Ottawa laughed and ran. 
 How her proud tribe would flout their daughter 
 For weaving of basket and belt and fan. 
 
 Lost from her eyes is their old wild longing 
 For camp and carnage and all the dire 
 Paint and hate of the young braves thronging 
 Forth to war from the council fire! 
 
 Forgotten the dances, the shouts, the drumming 
 In furious triumph o'er them they slew — 
 Forgotten the joy of the hunt's home-coming 
 And the glad straight flight of the swift canoel 
 
 II 
 
Strange tatl ships on the great gray ri'ver! 
 Strange ne<w boasting of%>orthy deeds; 
 But stilt the sigh <where the ripples quiver 
 Wondering dully among the reeds I 
 
 And always the moan in the <witdemesses — 
 Afar— at dusk — as for something lost! — 
 Always the sighing in grassy places 
 For the s%ift, dark march of the Indian host! 
 
 H 
 
 12 
 
WHEN YESTERDAY WAS YOUNG* 
 
THE PAINTED CUP* 
 
 Along the common way 
 Where, in the drifting dust and white sttnshine. 
 
 The green thrives as it may. 
 There lifts all day 
 The scarlet beauty of the painted ctip — 
 We almost see the sparkle of the wine. 
 
 And when the road is steep 
 And very long, and day is at the noon, 
 
 And the first zest that comes from sleep 
 Is hard to keep, 
 We break the long miles at the scarlet cups 
 And drink oar draughts of color and trudge on. 
 
 AT THE ROAD'S TURNING. 
 
 Here at the further verge of youth 
 Where the cool road I know 
 Forsakes the lovely, idle green 
 For the long hill whose height no man has seen 
 Turning away from morning and the south: — 
 Here in the little precious no<Wf ah, why. 
 Before I go, 
 
 15 
 
Shall I not step aside and live awhile — 
 
 Live for the dew in the grass, the dear friend^s smile. 
 
 The tranquil glory of ttncotinted days — 
 
 For the stars and silence and Jane dawns aglow? 
 
 Oht strange, dear place — 
 Oh, dear, strange, changing sky — 
 Oh, lovely fleeting hour and hastening stream: 
 There will be no revisiting when I 
 Am gone away to follow deed arid dream 
 And brave desire, calling many ways. 
 And so — no wrong 
 If, with the sun in my face. 
 The song at my lip and heart divinely young 
 I tarry this last wondering, stinny mile 
 Ottt of my youth, and tarrying, live awhile. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 When yesterday 
 Was yoting I was not here — 
 
 Bttt at your side 
 I sat like one who opens wide 
 A dear familiar book; 
 And being wise 
 And long in love I found my story clear 
 And sweet as is the May, 
 And took 
 My morning and my message from your eyes. 
 
 i6 
 
** Today/' we said — 
 A word too sweet to lose — 
 
 And lifted up 
 Its beauty like a costly cttp 
 
 To hold otir wine of joy. 
 
 Oh, time of pare 
 And unreserved delight! Who would not choose 
 
 To cage yotj ere you fled? 
 
 Happy as girl and boy 
 Were we, to think oar treasury secure. 
 
 But now — today — 
 The widening miles between 
 
 Do dumbly lie, 
 I search my erring thoughts to try 
 
 If once I touched your hand 
 
 And had your smile; 
 And did 1 really learn what your eyes mean? 
 
 Man must be bold to say 
 
 He understands — 
 And, love, it was a very little while* 
 
 A JUNE SONG, 
 
 The world runs on with its mellow song 
 And its subtly woven rhymes; 
 
 Bright April breaks and the violet wakes 
 And May comes many times; 
 
 17 
 
The young lark sings for his mate-to-be 
 
 And his wooing is ever new, 
 But there's no love, dear, like the first dear love- 
 
 The love I bore for you. 
 
 The world runs on with a latigh and song 
 
 And with merrily moving rhymes; 
 The wild flowers blow and the bltie waves flow 
 
 And each loves many times; 
 With every blooming the wild bird wins 
 
 A mate for himself anew. 
 But there's no love, dear, like the first dear love- 
 
 The love I bore for yotj* 
 
 THE TEMPLE IN THE FIELD. 
 
 How often, worshipping, have I 
 From toil, desire, and care 
 Gone far aloof. 
 
 Under the blue and solemn roof 
 Men call the sky* 
 The very air 
 
 Was sweet sometimes with promises. 
 And a divine content. 
 Passing from flower and field, 
 Tattght me again to yield 
 My spirit, doubting-spent. 
 To heaven's clear way, and try 
 The summons calling from I knew not where. 
 
 i8 
 
The rose, at coming of the sun. 
 
 Lifts an adoring face. 
 
 There is for her 
 
 No sharp distrust of time, no stir 
 
 Of joys soon done. 
 
 And shall the faith I praise 
 
 Be then a shadowy, fairy thing. 
 
 Spun of a wish? Much more 
 
 Am I than any rose* 
 
 For me there doth tmclose 
 
 A distant, shining door. 
 
 Whereto my hope may run 
 
 Past the last narrow bound of time and space. 
 
 n 
 
 TO HER WHOM I SHALL WIN. 
 
 I'm thy wooer. 
 
 My rose, my flower, my maid! 
 Dost hear? 
 
 The arm's gentle enfolding 
 
 Is not yet mine, nor even the divine 
 Hand touch; but I am near. 
 And thou canst not evade 
 
 My rapture of beholding. 
 
 19 
 
I'm thy wooer. 
 
 My love, my maid, my flower I 
 
 Dost hear? 
 And 'tis no windy lover 
 To brttise thy bloom, seeking his heart's home 
 
 In haste. I'd never wear 
 
 A **Yes" won in an hour — 
 It must be lingered over. 
 
 I'm thy wooer. 
 
 My maid, my flower, my rose 
 
 Dost hear? 
 Stinlike, I revel, holding 
 Thee still in btid, thy yoting heart's fragrant good 
 
 Leaf hidden. Delay is dear. 
 
 Not dull, to one who knows 
 Thy sweet way of unfolding. 
 
 MY DAY IN APRIL* 
 
 It is a day in April 
 And the mist of green doth run 
 With the mist of rain 
 Through field and lane 
 And merrily forward and back again 
 And hand in hand and here and yon. 
 With the dewy bloom of the cowslip bed 
 About the path and overhead 
 A promise of the sun. 
 
 20 
 
It is a morn in April 
 And the fotir winds arc at play; 
 But every hour 
 Some lovelier flower^ 
 However low the gray clouds lower. 
 Comes on its qtfiet fragrant way. 
 And drinks the dark wet ttp like wine 
 And thrives for all the scant sunshine. 
 As none hut flowers may. 
 
 And 'tis my day in April! 
 For one I love passed by — 
 And was it for me — 
 His radiancy 
 
 Of look — and was it indeed for me — 
 The appeal, the joy, the uncertainty? 
 Oh, never a day of mine was spent 
 In such sweet perilous content. 
 Under the April sky. 
 
 DEAR YOUNG UNWEARYING WIND. 
 
 Bright wind. 
 
 Dear wind. 
 
 Coming so gallantly 
 
 The untrodden nameless way 
 
 No other ever will find. 
 
 21 
 
It is a brave 
 
 Untroubled heart yott have — 
 One not too dull to sing 
 On your long journeying 
 Of how the earth is bright 
 With the delights men crave. 
 
 White peaks — 
 
 White, shining peaks 
 
 Dwelling in clearer airs 
 
 Than oars — the companies of stars — 
 
 The tempest as it speaks — 
 
 All these 
 
 And the great seas 
 
 And fair, innumerable dawns 
 
 Are your companions 
 
 In the unchanging realm whereof we dream. 
 
 While grave Time gathers oar unwilling fees. 
 
 Dear wind — 
 
 Dear, young, unwearying wind 
 
 Passing so gallantly! 
 
 You seem in truth 
 
 My lost, sweet, hopeful youth 
 
 Upon its ardent way — 
 
 The shining way 
 
 I never again shall find. 
 
 22 
 
OUR DEAD. 
 
 Not lost to as arc they, though no response 
 
 From eye or lip or once caressing hand 
 
 Can bridge the distance on a sadden set 
 
 Between their life and ours. Though heart to heart. 
 
 Arms linked and voices blent, we meet no more. 
 
 They are not lost — For in the lonely night. 
 
 The heart dt noonday and amid o«r toil, 
 
 A quiet presence, half unrecognized 
 
 By our untrained soul at first, lays gentle claim 
 
 To our continued and exalted love 
 
 In holier communion than of earth. 
 
 We feel, somehow, our spirit's bond unloosed. 
 
 Learn friendship's finer sense and find that death 
 
 Is but a higher form of sweet possession. 
 
 THE TASKMASTER. 
 
 All day do we — 
 Women and anxious men — 
 Sit at the mercy of the tireless loom. 
 Threads bright as sun on sea 
 And gray as rain 
 Slip from the restless skein 
 Into a pattern that we do not see. 
 Our narrow room 
 
 23 
 
Echoes to flashing shuttle and whirling wheeL 
 The deafened so«I has little leave to feel 
 How fair the fair world is 
 With sun and bloom. 
 
 The Taskmaster 
 ■ Sits watchfully alone. 
 Bear this : and the frail dame ptits smile on cheek 
 To hide the grief in her. 
 Do this: and soon 
 
 The rotfgh drtidge braves the noon. 
 And this : and men plod on with no demur. 
 
 They who are weak 
 Fit strength to task and labor as they may. 
 Having no other choice than to obey 
 The Will which is so stern 
 And far to seek. 
 
 Yet even this, 
 Oht Life, — the pain, the cry. 
 The stress — do often flower into some pure 
 Rare thing that he would miss 
 Who travelled by 
 Idly and happily. 
 Hearts will fulfill themselves and find their bliss, 
 
 And we endure 
 In soul and mind and body the strait toil. 
 And wear the loom dust and the stain of the soil 
 With an arising faith that grows 
 Daily more sure. 
 
 24 
 
THE POEM, 
 
 Once upon a cramblmg tower. 
 By the lady's ancient seat. 
 
 Came an early flower. 
 
 Frail and brief its blossoming — 
 A flower has hut a day in spring- 
 But its breath is live and sweet 
 
 With me to this hoar. 
 
 And once a singer with a strain 
 Of heavenly beauty wandered by. 
 
 Chanting once again. 
 
 And the shadowy melody 
 Dwelling secretly in me. 
 Makes a joy so strange that I 
 
 Almost deem it pain. 
 
 There's a bird the traveller hears 
 Singing in the April wood 
 
 Ere the green appears. 
 Every sense is exquisite 
 With the youthful lilt of it— 
 A heritance of morning mood 
 
 Through many and many years. 
 
 25 
 
And to-day I come upon 
 
 This poem — simple as the dew 
 
 Trembling forth at dawn. 
 
 Tears and sunshine in its heart 
 Play the old unfailing part — 
 Each as old and each as new 
 
 As in ages gone. 
 
 Past and present harbor both 
 In the beattty of the rhyme* 
 
 It avails to soothe 
 
 Every trottble^ and belongs 
 With the blossom and the songs 
 In some ttnforgotten time 
 
 Of immortal youth. 
 
 WITH A GIFT, 
 
 'Twill bid thee, dear heart, pause a while, 
 I know, and dream and sigh and smile. 
 
 For thou and I can ne'er forget 
 The happy howr — the happy isle — 
 
 Where first we met, 
 
 RESPITE, 
 
 Come, kindly sleep, from thy far home of peace 
 And help me steal a little time from life 
 
 For happiness. The storm encroaches not 
 Where thou art, nor the ugliness of strife, 
 
 26 
 
They war till deaths these two strange souls of mine. 
 
 Their hate hath blackened yesterday — to-day. 
 Give me good Lethe*s c«p, thrice blessed sleep — 
 
 I will forget to-morrow while I may* 
 
 MISFORTUNE. 
 
 Her hands are rotfgh, ungentle to the totich^ 
 Yielding no love, no healing exquisite. 
 
 We dread her voiceless summons — and how strange- 
 She hath her leading from the infinite. 
 
 A SONG FOR THE LIVING. 
 
 Let thyself be in tune! 
 Life is so sweet and goes so very sooni 
 Miss not a single change or charm it has- 
 Bend to it and dance with it as the grass 
 Plays with the sun in June. 
 So rare and brief a thing 
 For happiness was meant 
 And all delight. 
 Time only for a song — 
 A smile — a blossoming, 
 With now and then an hour 
 For silence and content. 
 Live like the flower — 
 
 27 
 
Under the sun by day. 
 
 The stars by night. 
 
 Life is a gift and gifts are sweet alway, 
 
 BtJt even the sweetest passes very soon — 
 
 Then put thyself in tone! 
 
 THOU CANST NOT MAKE THE LINNET'S 
 SHINING WING. 
 
 Among all creatures ever God conceived 
 
 The most superb and strange, far in the van 
 
 Of all that has been, wearing like a prince 
 
 The native glory of the heavenly plan. 
 
 He comes, straight-limbed, white-browed, the master, 
 
 Man, 
 With his prottd rallying word — **1 have achieved/' 
 
 ** Mankind owes this to me* This /have done/' 
 So takes the merit of the town or tower 
 Or little system christened with his name, 
 Harvests the quick brief worship of the hour, 
 And sets a wistful record of his power 
 In pomp of golden blazonry and stone. 
 
 Thy works I This unlearned law — this faulty creed I 
 This fragment of a half truth, illy seen! 
 Thy works, when this, thy boast — all boasts of man 
 And every shining glory he can glean. 
 Ere time's first dawn lay perfect and serene 
 Waiting for thee and brooding on thy need! 
 
 28 
 
Thy fairest work is hut a following 
 Afar toward an end thou wilt not find — 
 A frail and finite thing, soon to be lost 
 In the vast brightness of the initial mind. 
 Thou canst not span the stars nor rule the wind 
 Nor make one little linnet's shining wing. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 What is the hero's part — 
 
 To stand before the qtiick, insidious foe 
 
 And fight again and fail? 
 
 Or were it better to turn heel about, 
 
 Play the poor craven for the unthinking world 
 
 And live with soul unstained? 
 
 Speak, you long tempted I In your crying need. 
 How fought they then, the scars of your lost con- 
 flicts? 
 Were they for wine to you — spurring your flagging 
 
 zeal — 
 Or did they aid you as false friends are wont. 
 Stealing your little strength with cruel skill 
 To arm your over-strong foe? 
 
 Well had it been 
 With your poor coward courage, had you dared 
 To shun this battle. 
 
 29 
 
TO-MORROW, 
 
 A dream-craft, rose hued as the dawn, 
 Glad ferry for far Lotus land, 
 It barely greets to-day's dull strand- 
 Then slips its moorings and is gone. 
 
 PEYRE DE RUER TO HIS RIVALS. 
 
 A long season's flowers, your trifles, yottr songs — 
 
 Add too, if yott dare, 
 A jewel to beckon and shine like a star 
 
 In the night of her hair: 
 
 All these and all else that will make for delight 
 
 Lay down at her feet, 
 A.nd dream you are pleasing her — giving, we know. 
 
 To the lover is sweet. 
 
 Bttt how fast and how far yott have run past the tjse 
 
 Of otjr old, surer thrift! 
 What maiden has ever loved lover more dearly 
 
 For sake of his gift? 
 
 Or opened to any the innermost secret 
 
 And sweetness of hers. 
 Save to him with the secret that mates it — most wise 
 
 Of her worshippers! 
 
 30 
 
And here it is minct and I care not, you rivals, 
 
 What smiling she spares. 
 For the one rose she takes with my love from my 
 hand 
 
 Is the rose that she wears* 
 
 MY LOVE HATH GONE A JOURNEY* 
 
 How moves the merry wind to-day. 
 Along the land — along the sea? 
 
 Oh, winds, be gentle in your play — 
 My love hath gone a journey* 
 
 Bend as yoa will the glowing corn, 
 Ran riot through the summer trees. 
 But oh, blow softly where the seas 
 
 Bear yonder ship to meet the morn* 
 
 And was there then no eye to see 
 What evil chance that day befell? 
 The sad winds strive in vain to tellj 
 
 The sunlight hides its face from me* 
 
 Somehow, amid the fair sunshine 
 And kindly winds, that single bark 
 
 Stole out beyond their ken and mine 
 Upon a long, long journey* 
 
 31 
 
THE SPRING OF LIFE. 
 
 Beside it none hath ever set his foot 
 
 Saying **'Tis here. *Tis this/* The interval 
 From not-being to being baffles all 
 
 Man's thought with barriers fast and absolute; 
 
 And from beyond them^ shadowy lying and mtite. 
 With never effort or doubt the veiled powers call 
 Father and son and son^ and king and thrall 
 
 And the strange round of seed and flower and fruit. 
 
 But now comes one facing the infinite 
 
 With open mind. Our riddle still he tries. 
 
 Patiently and for years, until his wit 
 
 Finds out the way we missed. Life is his prize 
 
 And he creates it, keeps it, making of it 
 A fair, continual promise for men's eyes* 
 
 To Prof essor Jacques Loeb* 
 
 ONE MORE SWEET SOUL. 
 
 One more sweet soul 
 Has lent its sweetness to the great unknown. 
 They missed its beauty there, perchance, and called: 
 
 And we are left alone. 
 
 No happy voice, 
 No tender words and doubly tender eyes — 
 No heart that loved to pour its loving out 
 
 In eager services — 
 
 32 
 
No mated soul 
 To bid life's welling joys to overbrim 
 Or steal the bitterness away from grief 
 
 If ever our eyes grow dim! 
 
 So much of love 
 Has passed forever with this passing breath I 
 Ottr tender words must be unspoken now — 
 
 There is no bridge for death. 
 
 Nor he, nor we 
 Can ever span this voiceless silence o'er— 
 Nor titmost love or longing give or take 
 
 Its loving answer more. 
 
 No smile comes back, 
 The old well-Ioving and well-Ioved reply. 
 For any smile of oars, or thought of him. 
 
 Or tender ministry^ 
 
 One link the less 
 Now binds us to the world we call our own* 
 One love the more has rendered dear to us 
 
 The great unknown, 
 
 33 
 
A MANHATTAN SPRING. 
 
 Sweet breath, and tears and smiling, 
 
 And a deepening of the blue! 
 Here in the anxious city, 
 
 April, can this be you! 
 There's never a nodding blossom. 
 
 Sweet one, for your passing by, — 
 Nor ttfrf for your foot's soft pressing — 
 
 And we're missing them — yoti and I. 
 Btit we know a land where the robins come- 
 
 We two — and the stinlight spills 
 Its morning gold through the violets 
 
 Abloom on the country hills. 
 
 Ail of your showers, sweet April, 
 
 And never a bud to show! 
 It's the tramp of the rough cart horses 
 
 Where the daffodils used to grow — 
 Trade hums in the sweet old meadows. 
 
 The rippling spring is dry, — 
 No oriole dares its nesting, — 
 
 And we're missing them — you and I. 
 We step with the marching of Mammon's 
 men. 
 
 And we v/atch how the long purse fills. 
 But our hearts are away with the violets 
 
 Abloom on the country hills. 
 
 34 
 
THE IMMORTAL POEM. 
 
 I take the book, I part the uncut leaves. 
 And pause and turn and weigh and criticise. 
 
 Even as the wagoner, casting up the sheaves 
 For harvest, marks the color and the size. 
 
 This is profound and stirs strange depths of thought. 
 Troubling the simple beauty of the rhyme; 
 
 This is more musical and this has caught 
 The vigorous doubting spirit of the time. 
 
 But this — listen as I read — can this be new? 
 
 Into its light I come like one exiled 
 Finding the home he always journeyed to. 
 
 Surely I loved it as a little child. 
 
 MY SPIRIT AND THE MAY. 
 
 Aloft within 
 
 My soul's wide windowed tower 
 
 This morn of May I sit. 
 To lip, to brow, to breath, the exquisite 
 Young beauty of the time comes in, 
 
 And every sunny mile 
 
 Of wood and field doth smile 
 
 Forth into early flower. 
 
 35 
 
Hast ever known 
 
 Such skyt sttch plain, such shine 
 
 Of sun and answering sea? 
 No stir of this dumb life hut gladdens me 
 With inarticulate song — its one 
 
 Pure utterance of praise — 
 
 A song that runs apace 
 
 To mate itself with mine. 
 
 No body I — 
 
 Bttt spirit — spirit — come 
 
 To tryst with life this day* 
 In titter youth of soul I slip away 
 From my gray brows — they shall not tie 
 
 This soul of mine to earth, — 
 
 *Tis part of the May mirth, 
 
 And owns no dearer home. 
 
 WHITE HANDS. 
 
 The very snowiest hand that ever 
 The lip of true man kissed. 
 
 Soft as a flower and with faint veining 
 Of May-blue toward the wrist — 
 
 So fine, so frail it is we ponder 
 The drudgery it has missed. 
 
 36 
 
My own is white, too, lying beside it; 
 
 But there's a trace of horn 
 In the inner palm — work's mark» Canst see 
 
 Her little look of scorn 
 At hearing of the hundred guises 
 
 My busy hand has worn? 
 
 Her*s is for jeweling and gloving, 
 
 Innocent of all price. 
 Mine has the strength of striving in it — 
 
 White as it is — weighs twice 
 In the world's affairs — for gentle color. 
 
 And unspoiled energies. 
 
 MY FRIENDLY RAIN. 
 
 The rain? 
 
 Who cavils at the rain? 
 
 From kind gray skies 
 
 It comes — calm touch of heaven — 
 
 Upon my lips. 
 
 My hair, my eyes, — 
 
 And slips 
 
 About me like a garment woven of love 
 
 And broidered with the seven 
 
 Sweet virtues of a maid. 
 
 Who would not be content. 
 
 Even with his last wish spent. 
 
 Taking the simple joys of such a day? 
 
 So, guided by some strain 
 
 37 
 
Of hidden song it hath, and unafraid 
 
 Of any evil, forth I move 
 
 Upon my still, glad way* 
 
 Smiles for the rain! 
 
 Love for the rain! 
 
 My friendly rain! 
 
 THE STORM AND I. 
 
 Come, kind storm. 
 Thou and I are friends, 
 Thoti and I are merry, 
 Travelling solitary 
 Save for each and each. 
 Leaving thought and speech 
 Back as things forgotten 
 Where the dull world ends. 
 Come, kind storm. 
 Thou and I are friends. 
 
 Come, glad storm. 
 Let us slip away — 
 Thou and I together — 
 By tangled broom and heather. 
 By rainy-purple lakes 
 Where the eagle makes — 
 Beating up the north wind — 
 Such speed as he may. 
 Come, glad storm 
 Let us slip away. 
 38 
 
Comet fierce storm. 
 Come away from all 
 Lifers old restless tenants- 
 Hating and its penance. 
 Loving and its pain; 
 Toil and greed and gain 
 Keep no empire yonder 
 Over any thralL 
 Come, fierce storm. 
 Let tts leave them all* 
 
 Come, brave storm! 
 "We two and no more 
 Know the path of peril 
 Leading past the sterile 
 Country of regret* 
 Heaven's v/ind and wet 
 Stir a spirit in me 
 Never risen before. 
 Come, brave storm. 
 We two and no more! 
 
 THE CLAY AND THE SPIRIT, 
 
 Still doth the old world, after her thousand years. 
 Try daily what new grace is best to wear: 
 
 But man, with heaven's breath in him, bends his head, 
 And trails his glories through the weeds of care* 
 
 39 
 
BY THE BLUE VALLEY ALL AN AFTERNOON. 
 
 Come forth with me. 
 Sweet book. 
 Nor think the sober world will care to find 
 How we are gone. 
 Or whither, so it keep 
 Its dull way past our steep* 
 Come forth 
 To my great stone 
 Here on the open hill where dwells the wind. 
 And we will try 
 The joys of the good brown earth — 
 And read and dream again and look 
 Down the bitie valley all an afternoon. 
 
 The bright wind 
 At otir side. 
 Touches my lips with love and turns your leaves 
 Showing me soon — 
 Set very safely by for this — 
 A page I could not miss. 
 And here. 
 In the wind and sun, 
 Heart full of the sweetest ever a heart receives, 
 I dream how you 
 Heard too the immortal song come near 
 On a green open, high and wide. 
 One other unforgotten afternoon. 
 
 40 
 
A HYMN FOR ALL THE LIVING. 
 
 Be brave! 
 
 Thy ctip will have 
 
 Mtich that thott dost not guess. 
 
 Ecstasies and distress. 
 
 Strange strains of good and ill — 
 
 Btjt qttaff it none the less, 
 
 And with a smile, 
 
 And let none ever say 
 
 **He feared — and turned away/' 
 
 Keep thy heart sweet! 
 Love comes with certain feet 
 To where love lives, and takes 
 From the bright mottth that makes 
 Its happiness, that kiss 
 Without a peer. 
 The first — most dear — 
 Life's sunny summit of bliss. 
 
 The whole world moves 
 
 Song-like, henceforth, for him 
 
 Who hopefully loves 
 
 One other in the supreme 
 
 Sweet way* 
 
 And for all those 
 
 Who long had fallen quite 
 
 Without his circle of delight 
 
 41 
 
His heart finds kindly roonit 
 Even as the light of day 
 Generously makes bloom 
 The weed flower — and the rose. 
 
 Then keep a joyous face 
 
 Set toward the dawn! 
 
 She comes the earlier on 
 
 For him who faithfully stays 
 
 Watching before the gates 
 
 Of her dark citadel. 
 
 Not counting how he waits* 
 
 Be brave — love well! 
 
 It is a simple creed 
 
 And leaves no unfilled need. 
 
 THE APRIL CHILD AND L 
 
 Oh sweett sweet April, 
 How stilly are you come! 
 Gray field 
 And sullen flood 
 And even the wide and silent wood. 
 
 All are dumb. 
 Hearing not yet the fall of your bright foot 
 Through the trees and so it is 
 I who am first to yield 
 To the promise in your eyes. 
 Shining as you come. 
 42 
 
Years since and long ago 
 Aprilt yotj and I 
 In the shine 
 With yellow hair 
 And lips of latjghter sported where 
 
 Winds were high. 
 Singing again in face of the keen rain. 
 Each a wild, wise forest child — 
 And the meanest flower was fine 
 And the bitterest air was mild 
 For otir passing by. 
 
 Still is your blowing hair 
 Yellow as early sun 
 And yotj still 
 With merry feet 
 Make the path you choose most sweet* 
 
 But she is gone 
 Who ran with yott through the fields asheen with dew 
 And anywhere sweet yottth may dare, 
 For to-day I walk the hill 
 With no morning in my hair. 
 And yott play, dear child, alone. 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 Little guest come in the rain 
 This sweet day out of the seveni 
 Safe for a thousand miles 
 — And the miles were long and gray — 
 Faithful to this one day, 
 43 
 
Fair in face of the rain, 
 
 I take yo« and touch you again, 
 
 And bend to yott, page by page. 
 
 Thinking how each has Iain 
 
 Under a hand I know 
 
 And how strange lives may grow 
 
 To kinship sweet as heaven. 
 
 Love many times dear with age 
 
 And the open-hearted truth 
 
 Yoti wear like the year's first flower. 
 
 Yours is no laggard foot 
 
 Or fear of the travel stain* 
 
 Bringing your uttermost 
 
 And gathering the good light lost 
 
 In all of the rainy miles, 
 
 You come to me glad and mute 
 
 And sit with me many an hour: 
 
 And if there be pain you soothe 
 
 And you know the way of the smiles. 
 
 My faithful guest of the rain. 
 
 WITH THE GIFT OF A BOOK MARK. 
 
 — But now and then as I read, 
 I pause and caress the leaves — 
 Pause and caress the friendly leaves 
 
 And smile and linger and dream 
 Of gold in the upland harvest sheaves 
 
 And dawn on the mountain stream: — 
 
 44 
 
Dream how the land is sweet 
 
 And how sweet the look of the sun — 
 
 How strangely sweet the look of the sun 
 
 On great white hills may be: 
 And tottch with wonder this redwood cone. 
 
 Sweet with the mystery. 
 
 Brown and little and live. 
 
 It comes from its windy height — 
 
 Comes from its windy heavenly height. 
 
 Bringing the mighty seed: 
 And I feel the lure of the dusky light 
 
 And smile and dream as I read. 
 
 VET MUST THOU STILL, MY SOUL, BE 
 OFTEN SOLITARY. 
 
 Through my wide-open gates 
 
 And very near 
 
 What spirit-sweet companions come,- 
 
 The morning, wearing still that dear 
 
 Look of a loving face — 
 
 The green of Mays 
 
 Like yotfth returning many times — 
 
 The red rose where it climbs — 
 
 The lark that waits 
 
 45 
 
And sings tintil I hear 
 
 And sing again — 
 
 The wind and rain 
 
 Whose stimmons clear 
 
 And strange, the heart straightway obeys — 
 
 Fond hands whose touch is home — 
 
 And many friends* 
 
 Yet mtist thou still, my sotil. 
 
 Be often solitary. 
 
 And in thy last and innermost 
 
 Still sancttiary. 
 
 Hidden from loving sight. 
 
 Sit quite alone. 
 
 What dearest friend 
 
 Avails, when thott dost bend. 
 
 Grief stricken, white brow on knee? 
 
 And when thou dost. 
 
 Shaming the morn, arise. 
 
 That rapture in thine eyes 
 
 A poor world craves to see. 
 
 What hand has pressed 
 
 The open hands of thine 
 
 Held forth to meet thy glad, invisible guest ? 
 
 Not any one 
 
 Enters the silences of thy delight. 
 
 Ah, thou wert less divine. 
 
 My soul, 
 
 Wert thou not — often and often — solitary. 
 
 46 
 
WHEN GREAT WINDS COME. 
 
 When the great gray winds come 
 
 I can forget 
 
 How narrow is my room — 
 
 How bleakt sometimes, the city*s loveless mask. 
 
 And how my spirit, building elysiams yet, 
 
 Dtills slowly to the task. 
 
 With the great wind I dream myself away 
 
 On the rough hills of the north 
 
 Where the young fern comes forth 
 
 Greenly and line by line — 
 
 Where the dull levels end 
 
 And the white storms sweep and shine 
 
 Up the dark climbing wood — 
 
 And there is joy to spend. 
 
 What more were there to ask 
 
 If I might stay 
 
 With sun and cloud, 
 
 Unchidden and all day long 
 
 On the open hills where often the great wind passes. 
 
 Itself my friend and no bed but the grasses 
 
 And for my guest the May thrush and his song. 
 
 THE SINGING CHILD. 
 
 I know a little maiden, fair to see 
 
 As an anemone, blossoming in the rain. 
 
 And from her heaven of hope comes many a strain. 
 
 Which all day long she sings light-heartedly. 
 
 47 
 
** Lvving is joy! Oh, iune thine head to hear 
 This music of God's making at thine ear* ' ' 
 
 Like fall of brook in spring time, through the dim 
 Deep-streeted city comes her singing: gay 
 With the sttnlight on her beautiful head, how may 
 
 She heed the soil upon her sandaFs rim? 
 
 ** I could not kno<iv a friend's heart ivas so high 
 And STveet a home, tilt sorroTv bade me try/' 
 
 She roams the blossoming hills when they are wet 
 With new-fallen dew, making the same sweet stir 
 Of song, when briars hurt and hinder her 
 
 As when she bends to pluck the violet* 
 
 " Though thou and Iha've felt the press of sin. 
 It shall not harm the holiness ^thin, " 
 
 Come close, fair child — your smile is one that clears 
 The heart of troubles. Oh, lift up the blue 
 May morning of your eyes and let me view 
 
 A happiness that has no room for tears. 
 
 REALITY* 
 
 A dream and morning and mystery I 
 And the dear truth of my dream proves ill 
 Here in face of the truth men see* 
 
 Oh, hark I What say the <wind and rain ? 
 48 
 
Yet IS the white hill in the cloud 
 
 Dear to the lover at her foot. 
 
 Who dreams his dream and sings alotid. 
 
 Oh, keep my treasury, ivind and rain! 
 
 For I knew my sweet truth on a day. 
 Knew in my heart and without a word 
 Of all the dear words you will say. 
 
 Men travail abroad in mjind and rain I 
 
 But love tarries with me, through all time — 
 Warm in the heart — sweet in the thought — 
 And I wreathe my garland and chant my rhyme. 
 
 AT THE LITTLE GATE. 
 
 For yout dear, coming on the long, long road. 
 With little, glad, unweary heart, knowing not any load. 
 
 For you, dear, coming, and dearer every hour, 
 I have been spending many a wish and wearing many 
 a flower. 
 
 The land of the long road is very kind and green — 
 And there are glad days there, with starry nights 
 between. 
 
 49 
 
Gentle Thowght dwells there, and Beattty of the Day. 
 Ah! How we think of them, with pain, these long 
 years away! 
 
 Some vision stays of that lost time — some strain of 
 vanishing song, 
 
 3iddin^ the exile follow and dream, nor count his wan- 
 dering long. 
 
 Though the gray morning move to darkening noon 
 
 and the empty wind 
 Gather and sheave the lingering glories, leaving the 
 
 heart half blind. 
 
 Oh a grave world ! A strange world ! And yoti mtjst 
 
 travel through! 
 But I am at the Little Gate to watch and wish for you. 
 
 And all day long and into the golden, over-clouded 
 
 west, 
 I lean out toward you, coming, sweet and warm, to lie 
 
 at my breast, 
 
 Making my best wish twice and thrice, longing for you 
 
 to bring 
 From out that lovely, unremembered land some 
 
 precious thing — 
 
 50 
 
Faith in the dulU uncertain world, a Heart of Kind 
 
 Desire, 
 The Beattty of Willing Feet, Love that will not tire — 
 
 Some joy Otis, perfect, precious thing, lost long ago 
 
 when I 
 Had barely left the Little Gate with all the world to 
 
 try» 
 
 Oh yotjng, divine, wndarkening eyes to shine in the 
 
 face of care I 
 Oh youth of yotjth! Oh sweetest love of all loves I 
 
 May yoxi wear 
 
 Always, in spite of sorrow and change and toil, and 
 
 the greed of time — 
 Always the look of your first coming, sweet as an old, 
 
 sweet rhyme* 
 
 All day, idly, with heart far off, and quiet hand at my 
 
 knee, 
 I mttse and hope, and love the little child yoa are to he* 
 
 Can yott be coming, dear one, indeed? The way is 
 
 hidden and long; 
 And often I think it is a dream — this wishing — and 
 
 the song« 
 
 51 
 
THE SONG OF THE HEART THAT DARES. 
 
THE SONG OF THE HEART THAT DARES. 
 
 Oh, the stirring and rough and impetuotis song — 
 
 The song of the heart that dares. 
 That keeps to its creed and gives no heed 
 
 To the faces that fortune wears! 
 The heart that laughs when the foe is met 
 And thrives and fires at taunt and threat 
 And finds no toiling or travelling long 
 
 For the sake of the good it bears. 
 
 No power is strong as the one strong souL 
 
 And be he soldier or serf or king 
 Who dares to mock with his lion look 
 
 The timid counsel the doubters bring. 
 Sooner or later from all who pass — 
 So great is the puissance the spirit has — 
 The faith that is in him will take its toll. 
 
 He is sure of his following. 
 
 Heedless of peril and martyrdoms. 
 
 Alone and aidless and strange, he wears 
 
 A look as bright as a prophet might 
 Into a compassing host of fears. 
 
 55 
 
**Take sight and speech and body and breath. 
 But this one faith is mine/' he saith. 
 And the world makes way for the heart that comes 
 Not once in a hundred years. 
 
 Oh, mighty Caesar and Charlemagne, 
 
 Oh, Alfred and Knut and the Conqueror, 
 You moved among us with sword and song 
 
 And nourished the world with the grime of war; 
 And Huss, Pitt, Bismarck, heroes and seers. 
 We keep undaunted these many years 
 Your way of progress and power and pain 
 And the armor of strength you wore. 
 
 You Pilgrims, facing a nameless sea — 
 
 You grave priests daring the wilderness. 
 With no fears save for a fallen faith — 
 
 And you, beloved of a stolen race. 
 Casting the old worn statecraft by — 
 We dream of you and we wake to try 
 How glad the heart of a man may be 
 On your hopeful, perilous ways. 
 
 Hail, all, to the might of the champions. 
 The bright, invincible hearts that dare! 
 
 Else had we still lived hedged and hived. 
 Rudely amid our first fenny lairs, 
 
 56 
 
Htiddling, hating, hounding each other. 
 Deeming one dull day poor as another. 
 Sullenly living, and come not once 
 To the glory of hitman cares* 
 
 Oh, sons of the morning, you who will be 
 
 Defenders in crises strange and new, 
 To the trial at length you will come with strength, 
 
 We leave the weal of the world with you* 
 Dowered with the heartening blood of your sires. 
 For you is the guerdon of great desires. 
 Brave speed on the way of the spirit free 
 And the deeds that brave men do* 
 
 ^ 
 
 57 
 
i 
 
ROLAND BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS SWORD^ 
 
ROLAND BIDS FAREWELL TO HIS SWORD. 
 
 My swordt my comradct Darandal, 
 So comes the untimely hoar to all! 
 The strife is vain, the glories end. 
 
 My strength avails no more. 
 Even the one dear cause to defend — 
 Even for the great king and the state. 
 Thy light, bright length seems stich a weight 
 
 As mortal never bore. 
 
 Denying all the knights and men 
 Who crave the foremost places when 
 The charge calls, I have chosen thee 
 
 To be at my right hand: 
 For thott art fierce and trustworthy 
 And hast the valiant heart to stay 
 When the last friend has slipped away 
 
 From my renowned band. 
 
 He lies who dares to say I feel 
 Naught to my hand but jewels and steel! 
 Thou who dost hardily shield and save 
 My holiest purposes, 
 6i 
 
Art such a friend as few men have, 
 More dear than a new promised bride, 
 Unfaltering, unafraid and tried 
 In all adversities* 
 
 And now we stretch here, useless both. 
 On the heaped field, and bitter wroth 
 Is heaven with the fair cause of France* 
 
 Hark to their «gly shotitl 
 Ah, woe — woe — when the strong heart wants 
 Brute strength in war! And thott, my own 
 True sword, canst not fare on alone 
 
 And brave the battle out! 
 
 Mad with the fary and the press 
 The wild array of heathenesse 
 Swarms ap anew from camp and town 
 
 With sharp, shrill battle cry! 
 And I must drop my bright blade down, 
 Nurse my weak arms and cool my blood 
 That leaps to the war, and let the flood 
 
 Beat on me as I lie! 
 
 A strange, gray day, this — after those 
 That saw the mighty squadrons close 
 In vain about us — saw them hewed 
 
 And shattered and undone! 
 Oh, the wild joy when we pursued. 
 Flashed on their startled, shivering flanks 
 Storm-like, and left their fallen ranks 
 
 To whiten in the sun. 
 62 
 
We have fowght well in many a fight, 
 
 SottI linked with soul and might with might! 
 
 And we have faced the dark hosts down 
 
 However strong they came! 
 There lay hut one road toward renown. 
 And that we took together and bttilt 
 On this sweet clasp of hand and hilt 
 
 Otjr frail and passing fame^ 
 
 Dost mind the fields of Lombardy — 
 Of Poitou and gray Normandy — 
 Brave days those — and the lusty boat 
 
 The Piedmontese sing? 
 And how we p«t the Swiss to rout. 
 Teuton and Latin overbore 
 And lay down realm on realm, before 
 
 Our white-haired, glorious king! 
 
 All day, till dusk came, how we strove 
 In those grim battles for pure love 
 Of the scarce compassed victory. 
 
 And laughed when it was won. 
 Nor could the futile enemy see 
 How every fierce and odious boast 
 And every touch of true steel crossed 
 
 Set all our vigor on. 
 
 Oh, look and listen again! The Gods 
 Are kind that vouchsafe men these odds! 
 Favor and honor to him that keeps 
 That full, sweet tide at bay! 
 
 63 
 
I can no more — a languor creeps 
 Like some dull drug across my will 
 And hatefully delays me while 
 My bright strength ebbs away. 
 
 What is*t my blind hand feels? A rock? 
 Out then and up — with sweep and shock! 
 What I Art unspoiled and shining still? 
 
 AlaSt my strength is fled! 
 Again! Again! Woe*s me — thy will 
 Towers over mine. Would I could break 
 Thy glory e*er the heathen make 
 
 Thee traitor to the dead! 
 
 ThouVt long and pitiless and keen! 
 Thy valiant radiance floods between 
 My closed lids like the summer morn! 
 
 Shame on my doubt of thee! 
 I know thy fierce and trenchant scorn 
 At any touch of craven or foe* 
 With them thou wilt forget the blow 
 
 Of might thou gavest for me. 
 
 Woe and alas! The hour of change 
 
 Is come! My sands run quickly! Strange- 
 
 To lie thus, prone, in battle, weak 
 
 As dull fear is — unmanned. 
 Sight, hearing, even the wish to speak 
 Follow my lost, beloved strength 
 And leave this brutish, cloddish length 
 
 Across the shelving sand. 
 64 
 
Oh, for one hotir morel I wotjid beat 
 To dust this Moor's pomp! I would seat 
 My great king surely — and then — die! 
 
 But the couriers should tell 
 My task was finished. Ho, stand by! 
 Ho, Dtirandal! Straight tip the pass 
 They come — and I am thtis — alas! 
 
 Sword of my spirit, farewell. 
 
 ^ 
 
 65 
 
I TOO HAVE BEEN A WANDERER. 
 
L 
 
 IN THE CHAPEL OF KINGS COLLEGE, 
 
 If 'twere a htiman face^ 
 
 Then would I hesitate 
 
 To stand so long 
 
 And look and love and look again. 
 
 Since often brave love is fain 
 
 To have too generous place. 
 
 And often with all her precious gifts must wait 
 
 Somewhat in vain. 
 
 But here — with you — 
 Here have I look for look and song for song — 
 The lovely flower-lined roof 
 Above my head — 
 The windows, each arrayed 
 Fairly in heaven's light of gold 
 Yet standing not aloof — 
 The deep choirs chanting to some larger soul 
 That may be mine! 
 Oh, it is new 
 
 And strange with all delight 
 Simply to hold 
 
 My full joy forth to meet the exquisite 
 And instant answer where your deep glooms shinel 
 
 69 
 
THE CANON OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 
 
 End of the path, of the long wood, of the gloom — 
 
 End of my weariness! 
 My body sings with my sotil — my soul flies straight 
 As a glad bird out of a darkened room, 
 Into this silent, generous, golden place, 
 
 Here, in the sun, to assume 
 
 The early, innocent state 
 
 It wore, methinks, before 
 It ever looked the gray world in the face. 
 
 No Titian spread 
 The fair perpetual morning of this color: 
 The depths and distances. 
 The shadows and the lights. 
 The glory and the dream. 
 Rose from no Angelo's laborious chisel. 
 
 Following one quiet, potent Will 
 The snows of winter and the suns of June, 
 The river and the winds. 
 Moving in harmony and without haste 
 On their appointed way, 
 Wrought out the shining wonder. 
 
 Oh! One hath been here from whom men must learn! 
 
 He set the splendid pledge 
 And bade us read the glory out of it. 
 
 All day I sit. 
 Content with being at the cliff's bright edge. 
 
 Desiring no return. 
 
 70 
 
TO AN ALPINE VIOLET. 
 
 Fairer than all telling 
 
 Is thy dwelling — 
 Yonder amid the dawns, where ever welling. 
 
 Comes the bright wind released 
 
 From the harmonious east^ 
 
 Upward it drifts and dallies 
 With thy chalice, 
 
 Hting like a Itiminotts jewel over vaUeys 
 Misty with depth, and blue 
 With heaven's own blossoming hue* 
 
 Soft melodies set playing 
 
 By the straying 
 Of upland herds, the steep brook's stilly spraying. 
 
 And plaint of mountain horn 
 
 Attend thy glorious morn* 
 
 Oh, hast thou never missed her — 
 
 Thy dark sister. 
 Hidden where yon bright noon hath never blessed her- 
 
 Maiden of solitude. 
 
 The sweet nun of the wood? 
 
 She loves the dusky hollow 
 
 Where the swallow 
 Bends not his lightsome wing* *Tis thine to follow 
 
 71 
 
The first ttplifting gray 
 Of the new radiant day* 
 
 The wanderer who passes 
 
 Through the grasses — 
 Thy lowly throne — mttst smile for these bloom masses 
 
 Born into flame by one 
 
 Bright benison of the sun. 
 
 Pass the long plains — and higher — 
 
 Brave heart, nor tire. 
 For baptism, bloom and the undying fire 
 
 Await me still 
 
 On yonder heavenly hill. 
 
 As for a friend belated. 
 
 Snowy gated 
 And sweet with youth, this lovely land hath waited, 
 
 With cloud and flower and call 
 
 Of little tremulous fall, 
 
 Till I, a favored comer 
 
 From the summer 
 Of purple glooms below, forsake the number 
 
 Of ripening days, and climb 
 
 Back into April time. 
 
 72 
 
A CHANCE OF THE MORNING. 
 
 Somewhere the wide, kind world has kept a place. 
 Islanded by still hours and happy weather. 
 
 Where, like two April children, yott and I 
 May have ottr will of wandering together. 
 
 Twice, like a sweet wish granted, twice yott came — 
 Too briefly tarrying, even for common ends — 
 
 But yotirs was not a heart I cotild forget. 
 
 Or spare from place among my secret friends* 
 
 And now a single day has given so mttch — 
 My golden-browed cathedral of the morn. 
 
 The Italian sky, and soon your dreamed-of face. 
 Wearing the look no other has ever worn. 
 
 My place of memories henceforth will hold 
 The eyes wherein yottr spirit smiles and sings 
 
 With Giotto's flowery, heaven-soaring tower. 
 And morning and the sea and all fair things. 
 
 And we shall often meet, for when I pass 
 Across my fields of song, — the times-to-be. 
 
 The blue, the distances shall hear my call 
 And send yott back to give me company. 
 
 1Z 
 
THE SEA CAVE. 
 
 One trophy more 
 There is to bring away 
 When to the fragrant, gently ragged shore 
 Of this bright island in the winning south 
 Another Jason comes and has his day* 
 
 The shadowy arch 
 Is sinister and strong 
 Where watchfully, hour by hour, the gray tides march : 
 They know the cavern's inner glory well 
 And love the secret and have kept it long. 
 
 Daring the wave. 
 Periling life and limb. 
 Come, now and then, in quick frail craft, the brave 
 Lithe rowers of the isle, and slip their way 
 Under the cliff and where the spray is dim. 
 
 Their late return 
 Is marvellous with tales — 
 A blue the heaven-soaring lark might crave to learn, 
 A blue the spring may lend her gentians, 
 A blue to tempt away a thousand sails. 
 
 But none of them. 
 Faring however well. 
 Brings in his dripping, sinewy hand the gem, 
 The thread of luster or the sheeny dye 
 That has in all the earth no parallel. 
 
 74 
 
SUNSET ON LAKE LEHMAN* 
 
 The sweet day passes on and gentle night 
 
 Ne'er left her rest in lovelier garb than this. 
 Bright crowned with the yotjng moon's crescent light. 
 
 The evening star a jewel at her wrist, 
 In palely pttrple robes adream she strays 
 
 Down the last silver pathway from the west. 
 The doves of even drift about her breast 
 
 And darkening mountains guard her qtiiet ways. 
 
 Here too, amid the cypresses and vines 
 
 Lies lovely Chillon with her walls of snow. 
 Where yet, methinks, a dauntless spirit pines 
 
 For liberty as in the long ago. 
 And the slow moonlight, lingering down the floor, 
 
 Marks time's reluctant passing toward that sweet 
 Calm future of our dreams when passion's heat. 
 
 Oppression, strife and wrong will be no more. 
 
 VILLA TORRICELLA. 
 
 I too have been a wanderer! 
 By many a dreamy height 
 And many a sea 
 There shine in the morn my brief, invisible homes. 
 Frail things to set the heart astir — 
 A swift delight, 
 
 75 
 
A wondering memory — 
 No more — 
 Yet never is any wanderer poor 
 Having these dwellings where his heart may be ! 
 Nor poor am I — 
 For at the wish my spirit comes 
 
 Fleet and ttnseen and like a lover 
 To one green cliff spot looking over 
 A bittet bitte harbor in Italy. 
 
 A little island in the south 
 And one white-towered home 
 Whereof the key 
 Is kept in kindly hands* Oh, mist and shine 
 And breeze across that day of youth, 
 After we two had come 
 The steep path wearily! 
 When, many a day, 
 Tiberius* cliff puts on its luminous gray. 
 What other, strange and glad as I, will see. 
 And lifting high 
 The joyous Torricella wine. 
 
 Will quaff the sweet cup like a lover 
 To that green terrace looking over 
 The blue, blue harbor in Italy. 
 
 76 
 
LOOKING SOUTH ACROSS THE GRAND PRE 
 
 MEADOWS. 
 
 Here sweet content comes, folding her simple wings, 
 
 And nature lies and cons her loveliest page; 
 Here, in the noon, the I«sty insect sings 
 
 For very joy of his broad heritage. 
 And see what charm the modest plain assumes! 
 
 Green as the May it is and misted over 
 With veils of yellow and white, the maiden blooms, 
 
 Whom following comes the gay west wind, their 
 lover. 
 Yonder across the south the upland lies, 
 
 A costly ribbon with broidery all revealed 
 Of spires and orchards and white granaries. 
 
 And pleasant neighboring of field and field. 
 Here love is twice itself, and hate, the gray 
 And baneful shadow, droops and creeps away. 
 
 THE TIDE CREEPS IN PAST BLOMIDON. 
 
 From where the northward mountain broods and 
 
 smiles 
 It is a summery reach of blossoming plain — 
 A land of fruit and dew, wearing for miles 
 
 17 
 
Lights gold and green and ptirple as spring rain. 
 Set in its April rim, the empty bay 
 Toward the green line of dyke across the east 
 Trails shallow flat on flat of barren day. 
 Smooth and warm colored as the robin's breast. 
 And over these the early tide comes on, 
 Ripple by ripple, a still and silvery field. 
 There is a flooding of channels to the stin, 
 A brimming of bays, gay as a yotmg knight's shield, 
 And through the plain a brightness, line on line, 
 Where the returning rivers widen and shine. 
 
 TWILIGHT— LAKE CHAMPLAIN. 
 
 The western hills are purpling with mist; 
 Their summits, half unveiled, lie all remote 
 Like blessed, undiscovered isles afloat 
 
 On tranquil seas of dusky amethyst. 
 
 A quiet charm, too gentle to resist. 
 
 Of hour and scene and hill bird's vesper note 
 Borne from afar, wins out our little boat 
 
 Into the borderway of silver mist. 
 
 The smiling eastern shore that bends and greets 
 Her own fair face in seas of lambent light. 
 Soon feels the wand of twilight at her eyes. 
 Turns from her sweet reflection, sighs and meets 
 With folding lids the coming of the night 
 
 And dreams again under the darkening skies. 
 
 78 
 
BONNE BAIE* 
 
 The keen winds chortised all their strident glees; 
 
 Rain, in quick varying gray smote sharp along 
 The ridgy tamult of the outer seas. 
 
 And wearying, we approached our port with song. 
 Lovely even in tempest, — the bonne bate 
 
 Of twenty fisher races, like a flower 
 Set in its hundred cloudy heights it lay, 
 
 A refuge utterly hidden and secure* 
 Among the sentrying of dark hills, as bright 
 
 As any dewy morn of June, rose one 
 At the bay's green, misty end, whereon the light 
 
 Seemed fallen from an unseen spiritual sun, 
 And shone for me out of the dull drear rain, — 
 **Here is thy harbor, and thy ease from pain/* 
 
 SUNRISE AT FABYAN'S* 
 
 Into the valley as an emerald cup. 
 
 Held high between the prairies and the sea^ 
 Sparkling again with life's first ecstasy. 
 
 The sunlight-wine comes spilling, drop by drop* 
 
 It rims in gold the ancient mountain top. 
 Points radiantly every dark and mighty tree^ 
 And gives up to my hand the golden key 
 
 Of the great wood where all my cool paths stop. 
 
 79 
 
Down singing ledges where the green, sweet shade 
 Listening — lonely — is chanting soft reply, 
 The lovely matins come from many streams. 
 Every fleet bird his orison has made. 
 Glad and adoring in the tipper sky. 
 
 And in my heart is morning and its dreams. 
 
 n 
 
 LE AZZORRE. 
 
 No sail — only the wild wind on its way 
 Back for a thousand waste and restless miles- 
 Blue hurrying hills and fields of vanishing spray. 
 The open sea and then — the lonely isles. 
 How wise were they who gave their whole heart's 
 
 store 
 Of simple joys to the good sea to keep. 
 The white httt sheltering on the windy shore. 
 The bright and climbing fields across the steep. 
 If ever for me the world^s delight shall end. 
 Here will I hasten past the horizon dim. 
 And take the winter storm to be my friend 
 And the fleet gull for messenger to him. 
 And let the loving calling of the sea 
 Be father and son, lover and friend to me. 
 
 80 
 
DAWN ON THE MISSISSIPPI, 
 
 She lies dreaming before tjs, Oftenwhiles 
 
 Torn veils of mist float past the brightening wood. 
 The far dawn ptits a wonder in ottr mood 
 
 And tempts our following with all her wiles* 
 
 Languorous and wide, bathed deep in breaking smiles. 
 Her thousand thousandth dawn is soon renewed 
 And love laughs in our hearts and calls aloud 
 
 To greet her joyous troop of willowed isles* 
 
 Once was another dawn when from the mute 
 And solemn wood first pressed the stranger foot. 
 And 'merging high upon the dark hill crest, 
 The Spaniard saw these radiant empires traced 
 Far north in mist, exulting claimed them his, 
 Nor dreamed them held for holier destinies. 
 
 BELLS OF AMALFL 
 
 Even in our sleep the soft rush of the sea 
 On the low sand came up to soothe our dreams. 
 The blue, blue south lay her dear spell on me 
 Whereto the steep shore lent her song of streams* 
 But early in the starry cool of dawn 
 From the high spires, a tremor of great bells 
 Came calling — wondering — answering, on and on, 
 Like one who, grieving, soothes the grief he tells. 
 
 8i 
 
No marble roof, no proudly lingering mast 
 Shows where the ancient navies went and came ; 
 But still the invisible city of the past 
 Wearing the glories of her lustrous name — 
 
 Night wears one star so, when her hour declines- 
 Sits on the lovely hills among her vines. 
 
 THE FIRST COMING TO ROME, 
 
 The sentinel hills unbarred our northern way 
 
 At dusk, and as the home-flying petrel sings. 
 
 So sang our hearts to the mighty plain that lay. 
 
 Veiled in the colors of its hundred kings. 
 
 For us the lovely distance shall unclose 
 
 And yield again, like some lost, marvellous flower. 
 
 Upon these purple levels spun with rose. 
 
 Itself, the wonder of a vanished hour. 
 
 Akin in vision and dream to that bright mood 
 
 Of time across which ruin crept too soon. 
 
 Surely — for us — ! But ah! What home-coming 
 
 could 
 Be strange as this? Only a brave young moon 
 
 And gaunt, high, broken and wild, a shadowy 
 flight 
 
 Of arches darkening back against the night. 
 
 82 
 
AT WATERLOO. 
 
 The hills were dark that day with hostile hosts. 
 
 Thrice hurrying murder swept the astonished field. 
 
 Valor bled long and died btrt would not yield 
 And glory flang to the stars her fevered boasts. 
 From hill to hill and down the farthest coasts, 
 
 Women were weeping for hearts they could not shield. 
 
 And 'twas a piteous victory that pealed 
 From their proud towers when kings dared count the 
 
 Now the dire time of strife is long gone by. 
 The fields are golden with harvest, and the sky. 
 
 Blue as a maid's eyes, bends above the grain: 
 But blood-red poppies through the sighing wheat 
 Droop to the sacred ashes at their feet 
 
 And weep again the long lamented slain. 
 
 NEW YORK BAY AT DUSK. 
 
 Now comes the fragrant night in from the sea 
 
 And all her flowery purples soon unfolds. 
 Like April-countries, violet-sown, where we 
 
 May have the hush the eager time withholds. 
 Methinks heaven sometimes takes the world aside 
 
 And lends a happy ear to all it says — 
 Soothing its great unrest, and for its pride 
 
 Showing again the simple fields of praise. 
 
 83 
 
This starry-lighted island is no more 
 
 The quick and restless city of my task: 
 It dreams with me and what may be in store 
 For either, we do neither care nor ask, 
 Leaving the dear fulfilment of otir youth 
 In the safe care of thought and time and truth. 
 
 ^ 
 
 84 
 
LOVE AND HER FLOWERS* 
 
LOVE AND HER FLOWERS, 
 
 Flower of the rose! 
 
 Tell me in trttth what is this love, my gtiest — 
 
 I have been questioning far and no man knows. 
 
 Flower of the rye! 
 
 Only a guest? A g«est is one who takes 
 
 **Good welcome** and **God speed** and so goes by* 
 
 Flower of the fern! 
 
 But here is one come in withotrt a word 
 
 Of any going, absence or return. 
 
 Flower of the quince! 
 
 He took my perfect love when first he held 
 
 My hand clasped strongly in his own, months since. 
 
 Flower of the corn! 
 
 And from that day the little there or here 
 
 Of one face marks my twilight and my morn. 
 
 Flower of the pine! 
 
 How strange, how strange it is that any soul 
 
 Has power so to possess and sweeten mine! 
 
 Flower of the grass! 
 
 And since his coming what has been the same? 
 
 A new world smiles and gives me all it has. 
 
 87 
 
Flower of the rose! 
 
 Love greets a maid a hundred happy ways: 
 
 And each one of the hundred ways she knows. 
 
 Flower of the spice! 
 
 But none — not the confession or the kiss — 
 
 Speaks like the constant love look in the eyes. 
 
 Flower of the peach! 
 
 The eyes are hers all day and in her dreams^ 
 
 But very fleeting is the joy of speech. 
 
 Flower of the clove! 
 
 And yet how sweet the world is when two say. 
 
 Tenderly, each to each, **I love,'* **1 love.* 
 
 tf 
 
 Flower of the heath! 
 
 Needs but the one swift saying and thenceforth 
 
 Love is secure alway and keeps her faith. 
 
 Flower of the May! 
 
 They tell of one who left the words unsaid 
 
 And wearing his glad youth, took the distant way. 
 
 Flower of the yew! 
 
 And she has missed those dear words all her life ! 
 
 Oh, heart, dear heart, and if it had been you? 
 
Flower of the broom! 
 
 For me then, silence, always, with no right 
 
 To throne you visibly in my heart's great room. 
 
 Flower of the thyme! 
 
 Oh, love, the words, the words — lest Death and Change 
 
 Come soon and cheat us of them for all time* 
 
 n 
 
 89 
 
A COUNTRY JOURNEY* 
 
ARBUTUS. 
 
 Sweetest breath of wood and pine 
 All are thine. 
 Thou crimson-tintedt April-scented blossom. 
 Joyous was thy day of birth 
 When the earth 
 Held thee trembling and nestling on her bosom. 
 
 Spirit of the early year. 
 Sweet with cheer. 
 From Winter's arms thou rtinnest, all confiding; 
 All the windy sky and sea 
 Welcome thee 
 And sunbeams draw thee from thy snowy hiding. 
 
 Come the beauties of the spring 
 Following, 
 Come the violets of azure and of yellow; 
 Comes the sweetest song of bird 
 Ever heard. 
 Comes the buoyant green of elm and oak and willow. 
 
 *Tis the wonder-time of bloom 
 And perfume, 
 
 93 
 
And merry May r«ns riot in her splendor. 
 Bttt we miss that breath of thine. 
 Faint and fine. 
 Thy soul ablossom, brave and sweet and tender. 
 
 THE MATING TIME. 
 
 Have yoti heard how the wood birds woo — and woo- 
 
 Hid in the leaves and the bitte — 
 How their light, sweet calls as the soft wind falls. 
 
 Come trembling down like the dew? 
 When the morning wakes on the inland lakes 
 
 'Tis the first glad song we hear 
 All faint and sweet from the loves* retreat 
 So tenderly stealing near! 
 
 ** Come — come — come to me ** 
 
 And again — more brave and clear — 
 **Come — love — come to me.** 
 
 Through all of the spring they woo — and woo — 
 
 Warm little hearts and true — 
 Btit to each wee pair in the sunny air 
 
 The story is ever new. 
 The limpid notes from the fluted throats 
 
 Toss merrily to and fro. 
 And the message thrills over woods and hills 
 And away where the rivers flow! 
 ** Come — come — come to me ** 
 
 And again — more sweet and low — 
 **Come — love — come to me." 
 94 
 
A BALLAD OF THE MAY. 
 
 Oh, sweet is the wind on the blossoming hill, 
 
 The briar is bright with dew. 
 And the mill stream rtms frolicking on to the mill 
 
 And frolicking flashes through. 
 The huntsman winds on his echoing horn • 
 
 For the hounds that are gone astray: 
 He is off I ween for a tryst this morn — 
 
 A tryst with the maiden May* 
 
 Over the plains where the grassy tides 
 
 Are billowing cool and sweet 
 And into the shadowy wood he rides — 
 
 Oh, his charger is fine and fleet! 
 He knows by the dew that the fern has worn 
 
 That his lady has passed this way 
 And he spurs him on through the merry morn 
 
 To the tryst with the maiden May* 
 
 Waiting alone in the fragrant gloom^ 
 
 Gentle and fair and shy. 
 She brushes the leaves from the buried bloom 
 
 Where the tangling violets lie; 
 And the heart of the hunter afar is torn 
 
 With sweetest desire straightway. 
 And he hastens on through the merry morn 
 
 To the tryst with the maiden May. 
 
 95 
 
The maiden harks to the harrying hoof — 
 
 Oh, loving hath taught her well — 
 And shyly she stands in the mosses aloof 
 
 Nor heeds where her violets fell* 
 And the huntsman, bright in a happy scorn 
 
 Of all that would make delay, 
 Rides up to his wooing this merry morn 
 
 And whispers the maiden May^ 
 
 Oh, brave is the huntsman in garbing of green 
 
 And the plume of the snowy hue. 
 And fair is his bride in her white, I ween. 
 
 With the dew of the dawn spun through, 
 There*s a gleam of a hand on the saddle horn. 
 
 And a laugh as they ride away. 
 And they'll tryst no more in the merry morn. 
 
 My lord and the maiden May^ 
 
 Oh, love is abroad on the blossoming hill — 
 
 Sweet love — and he beckons far 
 Past briar and thicket and bustling mill 
 
 To the land where the violets are. 
 And I dream of your hand on my saddle horn. 
 
 Sweet Elinor, long away. 
 But you meet me not and I ride alone 
 
 Out of the realm of May. 
 
 96 
 
SNOW IN MAY. 
 
 She kisses lovingly the cfoctjs* lip. 
 Seeks out the violet by its mossy stone. 
 
 And fondles, while she may, the early ferns — 
 This childless mother, longing for her own* 
 
 THE VOYAGER* 
 
 This little cloud doth float away 
 With all its snowy sails in trim. 
 
 Across the bl«e and far away — 
 
 From heaven's brim to heaven's brim. 
 
 Its native clime no pennon tells — 
 No signal from the silent crew. 
 
 Nor is there any sound of bells 
 
 To mark a watch the long day through. 
 
 Upon the airy, azure sea 
 
 A stranger craft it lightly lies, 
 
 Afreight with some sweet mystery. 
 Bound for the ports of paradise. 
 
 97 
 
THERE'S A BROOK. 
 
 There's a brook i* a wood — 
 
 Just which ane I winna tell, 
 But an* gien ye are wise. 
 
 Ye may find it oot yoursef. 
 It is merry a* the day 
 
 An' its voice is fa' o' glee. 
 An' o' a' the singin' waters 
 
 'Tis the dearest ane to me. 
 
 There's a nook by the brook — 
 
 Where it is I winna tell, 
 Tho' perhaps ane happy day 
 
 Ye may wander there yoursel'. 
 Wi' the lo'e songs o' the robin 
 
 An' the buzzin' o' the bee, 
 The spot is aye the dearest ane 
 
 I' a' the world to me. 
 
 There my laddie whispered me— 
 
 "What he said I winna tell, 
 Tho' ony bonny lassie 
 
 Might be hearin' it hersel' — 
 An' the flowers crept roun' to listen 
 
 An' the trees bent doon to see. 
 An' o' a' the happy secrets 
 
 'Tis the dearest ane to me* 
 98 
 
BIRD LOVES. 
 
 High and far in the tree. 
 
 Where the soft sttmmer music is glowing and flowing. 
 Singing from mountain to sea 
 The sweet bird lover is calling and calling 
 **Here am I — here am I — ** 
 And far in the tree 
 The little mate answers **Here/* 
 
 High in the autumn tree 
 
 Where the gold bells softly are swinging and ringing, 
 Far o'er the wood and lea 
 
 The plaintive summons is stealing and stealing — 
 **Here am I — here am I—** 
 But still on the lea 
 Is the tender and answering **Here/* 
 
 My heart is calling away 
 
 Where the skies and the future are meeting in greeting ; 
 It lingers and listens alway 
 
 For my other heart's tremulous sighing, replying 
 **Here am I — here am I — ** 
 But silent for aye 
 Is the loving — beloved **Here.** 
 
 LOF . 
 
THE BLUE VIOLETS. 
 
 Bonny blue violett waif of the sky, 
 Nestling down in the old brown leaves, winsome and 
 shy I 
 Why are yotj wandering, hiding away — 
 Half unseen in yottr pale green wreaths — all out of 
 the day? 
 Who is your mother and where does she dwell — 
 Bonny blue blossom I pray of you telL 
 
 The sky is my mother — my father a star. 
 Thro* the evening mist he kissed her face, all blushing 
 afar; 
 And I am the child of that moment*s delight* 
 On the warm winds tossed, to this warm mossy place 
 I flew in the night 
 To blossom a bit of the heavens for you 
 From out of the sky and the leaves and the dew. 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 0*er beds of purple thyme 
 
 It blows 
 
 And inly glows 
 With faint and fragrant rhyme* 
 
 The rose 
 
 Scent too, it knows. 
 From tarrying where they climb 
 
 In sweet hedge rows. 
 
 100 
 
It haants the heart anew 
 
 With dreams 
 
 Of heathery hills, and gleams 
 Of gold gorse, glowing through; 
 
 And teems 
 
 With dttsky beams 
 Of bending ferns that grew 
 
 By laughing streams. 
 
 Alilt on lustrous wing, 
 
 Again 
 
 Through dew-lit lane. 
 It wanderSt pleasuring. 
 
 And fain 
 
 Would tempt the strain 
 Yon heaven voiced thrushes sing 
 
 In far refrain* 
 
 The salt breath of the sea 
 
 0*er miles 
 
 Of moor, beguiles 
 The longing memory; 
 
 And smiles 
 
 Of the sunny spray like the wiles 
 Of a girl, come happily 
 
 From storm-throned isles. 
 
 lOI 
 
In search of fresh retreats 
 
 Astray, 
 
 The rippling bay 
 It follows far, and meets 
 
 Each day 
 
 In gentle way — 
 The bright home-coming fleets 
 
 From far away* 
 
 And often in idle mood 
 
 It strips 
 
 The poppy tips 
 Of bloom, and through the wood 
 
 It slips, 
 
 Where coolly drips 
 The brook, and leaves it strewed 
 
 With satin lips. 
 
 It touches, too, I know. 
 
 The worn 
 
 Wood path — the corn — 
 The lilacs bending low 
 
 Each morn. 
 
 And sets the thorn 
 About the door aglow. 
 
 Where I was born. 
 
 102 
 
IN JUNE. 
 
 Yottng color in the bttoyancy of yottth — 
 Winds from a far, fair cotintry — 
 
 A silence turning ever into song 
 With overtones of fragrance. 
 
 THE DAWN CHILD. 
 
 With gold hair lighting all the wind, 
 With pearl shod feet and liquid eyes 
 
 Where morning finds her chiefest joy. 
 The dawn runs down the eastern skies. 
 
 Her white arms part the laggard clottds. 
 Her gold and purple garments, torn 
 
 In her bright speed, flow far and wide 
 And herald in the splendid morn. 
 
 THE FIELDS OF TOIL. 
 
 The hills are all a-sea with yellow grain 
 
 That meets each merry impulse of the wind 
 With dances light as dearest wish can find. 
 
 And laughter like the mellow rush of rain. 
 
 The ripening corn flaunts far across the plain. 
 Its glorious abundance scarce confined. 
 And through the lowlands sunny rivers wind 
 
 Thick bordered by the sumac's amber stain. 
 
 103 
 
From thist the loftiest height, the long road runs 
 
 Far down the golden hillsides toward the west. 
 Follows the raptured journeys of the suns, 
 
 And seeks, with them, the purple realms of rest. 
 B«t I love best the bright and windy hill 
 "Where joyous labor holds her empire still* 
 
 THE CLOVER. 
 
 My lady stands out in the clover — 
 Knee deep in the red and white clover — 
 And the blossoms smile up in the glad sweet face 
 Of my lady fair. 
 They cover her slippers all over — 
 Ah! the saucy, the spicy white clover! 
 And they sleep on her breast in the snowy lace 
 And nod in her hair. 
 
 Ah me, and were I but a clover — 
 A nodding and bending white clover — 
 I could lay my heart at the dimpling feet 
 Of my lady fair; 
 And my lady should know that I love her. 
 If I were a bonny white clover; 
 For I'd breathe in her ears the old story so sweet 
 While kissing her hair. 
 104 
 
SHALL I CLIMB YONDER HILL? 
 
 Craggy and steep it stands, 
 Shrotjded in dusky pines. 
 And its hoary flanks are seamed 
 With a hundred hollowing lines. 
 Tempests scatter their wrath 
 On the torttjoits, root-ridged path. 
 But the trees on the shining summit 
 Lord it o'er many lands. 
 
 Whirling flood at the foot — 
 Sunlit cloud at the brow! 
 Whatever may lie between 
 We'll tarry no more below* 
 Torrents have rise in springs. 
 The briar bears sweeter things 
 Than thorn, and the throstle's music 
 In the wilderness is not mute. 
 
 Out of the level sun 
 And into the dusky cool 
 Of the slanting wood we climb 
 To the gloom of the mossy pool. 
 Oh, why has the world forsook 
 The way of this mountain brook- 
 The blossoms that grow along it- 
 The bridging of scattered stone? 
 
 105 
 
The trail runs lost in the bed 
 
 Of a trembling, rain-born fall. 
 
 And the wood springs straight and wild 
 
 In the teeth of the motintain wall. 
 
 Now is the hoar to try 
 
 The courage of hand and eye, 
 
 When the moaning midnight darkens 
 
 In the pine boughs overhead. 
 
 There's a rapture in battling! 
 
 Little the truth he knows 
 
 Who holds that the wine of the day 
 
 Is drunk at its jaded close. 
 
 The yielding to hardihood 
 
 Quickens the idle blood, 
 
 The limbs grow lusty with toiling 
 
 And the lagging pulses sing. 
 
 Climbing again! And the sweet 
 Of the summer hill blows down! 
 Climbing! And we shall wear 
 The cool of noon for a crown. 
 Turn ye arear and look 
 What cliff -ways your daring took,— 
 Turn to the front and follow 
 Where the cloud and the hill-top meet 
 
 Oh, how the world is wide! 
 The green of the morning plain. 
 The distances sown with hills 
 Are fled into blue again. 
 io6 
 
Here where the motintains speak, 
 Royallyt peak to peak. 
 Well is it worth the climbing! 
 My spirit is satisfied. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 Every bwbble, rainbow crested, on the stream 
 
 Half doth seem — 
 Snowy-winged and silver breasted, like a dream, 
 
 A passing dream* 
 Even the wave, whereon it rested. 
 Heavy, hollow and tmqtiiet. 
 Breaks in rushing and in riot. 
 Parts in many a purple gleam. 
 Passes on, and is a dream* 
 
 Every bttd and blossom lifted at o«r feet 
 
 Is full sweet. 
 Tremulous and perfume gifted, dewy sweet, 
 
 Dreamy sweet — 
 Yet its petals soon are drifted 
 Far away in airy vagrance. 
 And the faint and misty fragrance 
 'Mid the grasses at our feet 
 Seemed a dream, it was so sweet. 
 
 107 
 
Larks and thrushes lightly winging up the skies 
 ^ As they rise, 
 
 Vent their prisoned souls in singing rhapsodies* 
 
 Swift they fly, — 
 All the strains of silver singing 
 Over wood and hill and river, — 
 Echo briefly, fall and quiver — 
 Till this mttsic of the skies 
 Seems a dream — so soon it dies* 
 
 Doth life's charm then never linger save in dreams. 
 
 Passing dreams? 
 Nay for aye it lists and lingers, be it dream 
 
 Or more than dream — 
 Like the rose scent at ottr fingers 
 When the rose is past its blowing: 
 *Tis the inner spirit growing 
 Into beatity unforeseen — 
 Too divine to be a dream. 
 
 THE KING'S COURIERS. 
 
 When the Stin King in his journeys 
 Leaves the myrtle and the vine 
 
 And comes riding bravely northward 
 Through the realm of snow and pine. 
 
 O'er the meadows and the forests 
 How the sunny heralds fly, 
 io8 
 
Brightening the very shadows 
 With their shining livery! 
 
 Up the valley and the hillside 
 And across the spreading plain, 
 
 Swinging, swaying, nodding, playing- 
 Comes the fair and smiling train. 
 
 There are biittercitps and daisies 
 
 In the fields of early spring. 
 And the cowslip bells of yellow 
 
 All along the marshes ring. 
 While the marguerites in J«ne-time 
 
 *Mid the grasses shyly peep — 
 Loyal little hearts of sunshine 
 
 That the snowy petals keep! 
 And the saucy black-eyed Susan 
 
 Flaunts her fluted yellow frill 
 Down the river's rippling borders. 
 
 Up the crowning of the hilL 
 
 Then the goldenrod comes riding. 
 
 Doughty guardsman in the rear 
 When the King his way retraces 
 
 In the waning of the year. 
 How the plumes of yellow, floating, 
 
 Mingle on the sunny breeze 
 With the gold and crimson mantles 
 
 Of the pages* liveries! 
 109 
 
One by one they pass before us 
 Until all the smiling train 
 
 Sweeping slowly to the southward 
 Passes from ottr view again. 
 
 THE WOOD AND I. 
 
 Lonely is the forest lying 
 
 'Mid the falling of the night. 
 Listening oft and often sighing 
 
 As for some divine delight. 
 Calling — calling — calling ever 
 To the bitie hills and the river; 
 To the purple-misted plain. 
 To the stars, and yet again 
 Calling, listening and sighing 
 For the one heart that can ever 
 Weave in music every mood 
 Of its unvoiced solitude. 
 
 Like the wood my soul is waiting 
 
 In the misty twilight hour. 
 For the spirit's subtle mating. 
 
 For the secret of its power — 
 Calling — calling — calling ever 
 To the blue hills and the river; 
 Calling to the infinite 
 O'er the starry seas of night, 
 no 
 
Callingt listening and waiting 
 Half unconsciotjslyt forever 
 For the spirit that alone 
 Can give answer to its own. 
 
 AFTERGLOW, 
 
 Oh, the cool, fragrant beauty of the time — 
 
 The glow, the gloom, the bright mist tip the passes I 
 
 Hand in hand with the morn am I and climb 
 The long slopes where the yellow violets glisten. 
 And lie down looking valley-ward and listen 
 To the soft song of the wind among the grasses 
 
 While the great stin sweeps upward toward his 
 prime* 
 
 The long path narrows back how very soon 
 When one gay foot keeps measure with another! 
 
 *Twas so with tts — but now the maid is gone — 
 Gone with the bloom of flower and flight of swallow 
 Into the shining west where none may follow. 
 Oh, tell me not at all of any other — 
 
 Be what she may. For me there is but one. 
 
 Forever since, when I muse on the days. 
 They seem each one a fair and ministering woman, 
 Eloquent of all love, full of all grace; 
 
 III 
 
And each one smiles upon me at her coming 
 And tarries while she may beside me, stmiming 
 All sympathy, all delight, in the sweet human 
 Impulse that forbids her go her ways. 
 
 My memory jewels in the hour when 
 
 My one maid went away, for she passed slowly 
 
 Within the gates of night, and turned again 
 To hold her warm flower-face up for its kissing 
 At the last step, lest I perchance be missing 
 Farewell's one pleasure; so departed wholly 
 
 Past any love or following of men. 
 
 MY WILDERNESS. 
 
 A little, idle, leafy way 
 By the cool brink of the river. 
 Wild and sweet and far away; 
 Set with hill and brake and hollow 
 Never careless foot can follow 
 To the reach of murmuring beach, 
 Or the little rippling shallow 
 Where the lilies always quiver 
 In the light of early day. 
 
 A step — a grassy turn, at most, 
 Up the shining of the hill. 
 And the traveller is lost — 
 
 112 
 
Lost ere he has time to tire. 
 In the yellowing fern and briar, 
 At his breast the nodding crest 
 Of the sumac's crimson fire, 
 And above — beyond him — still 
 The old forest, bright with frost. 
 
 At his side and all along. 
 Welcoming the lonely comer. 
 Little winds do rtm and throng — 
 Merry as a morning lover 
 Coming forth to tarry over 
 Some sweet path his lady hath — 
 And anon in copse and cover 
 Sighing for the vanished summer. 
 Like the closing of a song* 
 
 Here the dark pine doth assume 
 
 State as master of the realm, 
 
 Palaced in his ancient gloom; 
 
 And each vassal and defender 
 
 At the deep rock comes to render 
 
 All the gold that it will hold, 
 
 Heaped and piled in blossomy splendor, 
 
 As in some gigantic helm. 
 
 Shorn of favor and of plume» 
 
 Even the laughing of the spring. 
 In the joyousness of climbing 
 Grows a half forgotten thing; 
 
 113 
 
Like a far-off plaintive flute 
 At the great hill's bowery foot, 
 Chanting in the one soft tone 
 Till the distance makes it m«te. 
 The sweet sound of simple rhyming 
 Sings what nothing else can sing. 
 
 Often my spirit slips away 
 
 From the heat of worldly places 
 
 For an hour in Arcady: 
 
 And the joy of it is worth 
 
 All the penalties of birth — 
 
 Merely to lie in reverie 
 
 A little hour on God's green earth 
 
 In that most dear of wildernesses. 
 
 Thrice a thousand miles away* 
 
 THE AUTUMN FLOWER. 
 
 This fleeting mist of sunshine set abloom. 
 In shining clusters and deep yellow sprays. 
 
 Loves well the dying summer to illume 
 With something of the charm of other days. 
 
 The noon's rich breath incarnate, light it sways- 
 Its warmth atoning for withheld perfume. 
 
 Along the wood's edge and the dull highways — 
 A fleeting mist of sunshine set abloom. 
 
 114 
 
THE FROST KING. 
 
 Ottt of the Northland the Frost King comes. 
 
 Riding away — riding away — 
 Oat of the wild land the Frost King comes. 
 
 Riding away — away, — 
 Up through the wood and the mountain pass, 
 Down o'er the plain and the dim morass. 
 On through the meads and the marshes gray. 
 
 Riding away — away* 
 
 Clad is he like a knight of old. 
 Riding away — riding away — 
 He fears not storm and he fears not cold. 
 
 Riding away — away. 
 The north wind edges the sword he wields. 
 The snowflakes crystal his curving shield. 
 And his ice spurs speed for the coming fray. 
 Riding away — away. 
 
 Fearless he comes with his lance in rest. 
 
 Riding away — riding away — 
 With shining helmet and mailed breast. 
 
 Riding away — away. 
 And every foeman in all the land 
 Shrinks from the touch of his iron hand 
 But he gives no heed and he makes no stay. 
 
 Riding away — away. 
 
 115 
 
OCTOBER. 
 
 In the falling of the year — 
 
 In the falling of the year — 
 Nature sets her fires flaming 
 
 On the hillsides far and near; 
 And their gleams of red and gold 
 Come athwart the growing cold, 
 With the robin's farewell calling 
 
 In the falling of the year. 
 
 In the falling of the year — 
 
 In the falling of the year — 
 Runs the river's crisping current 
 
 Crystal tttned and crystal clear; 
 And its end is hid in mist, 
 Dusky blue and amethyst — 
 And its shores are ruddy tinted 
 
 In the falling of the year. 
 
 In the falling of the year — 
 
 In the falling of the year — 
 There's a subtle spur and stinging 
 
 As of wine in all the air; 
 And it pricks the sluggish blood 
 To an early hardihood, 
 All our eager youth recalling 
 
 In the falling of the year. 
 ii6 
 
THE FLAME BERRY. 
 
 Yonder it is 
 Bidding us still be merry 
 In spite of cold and the rain! 
 Set like a bright and windy torch 
 Over each empty porch 
 When sorrowing summer left her palaces. 
 
 It gallantly 
 Hails welcome still to every passer by, 
 bidding him enter and fare heartily. 
 Look, where the white frost is. 
 Yonder it glows again 
 The brave flame berry* 
 
 ** Come hither,** it cries. 
 ** Here will the brave heart tarry. 
 Here will the yotmg heart sing 
 For pare joy of the wine-bright air 
 Like dawn blown everywhere. 
 And for love of the wide unhidden skies.* 
 
 And none can stay 
 Hearing the call to listen and come away 
 Down many a path for many and many a day! 
 And glad are we and wise 
 Who hear the summoning. 
 Oh, brave flame berry! 
 117 
 
EARLY WINTER* 
 
 *Twas in red gold we walked yestereen. 
 
 Red gold and leafy fine — 
 Its brightness brushed otir lingering feet 
 
 And filled the air like wine* 
 From many a maple's flaming bough 
 
 Its richness fell away — 
 The yellow arches roofed the road 
 
 In glory — yesterday. 
 
 To-day the early gold of dawn 
 
 Creeps through a frosty pane, 
 Though faint the gleams of morning red 
 
 Woo summer back again. 
 There is no favor in the air. 
 
 The arching trees are gray. 
 And snow-hid lie the shining paths 
 
 We followed — yesterday* 
 
 THE FLOCK IN THE MEADOW. 
 
 Is this not Palestine, the ancient country. 
 And are not these the shepherds in the fields. 
 Watching their flocks by night? 
 
 See how the quiet sheep come gathering 
 In gentle shadowy companies. 
 Stirring often, like fields of innocent flowers 
 In the soft Orient wind, 
 
 ii8 
 
Appealing, one to another, silently 
 Against the mysteries of the falling dark, 
 Until the starry quiet comes over them 
 And deepens, and the wind dies, and they sleep. 
 
 Upon us, lying in the fields in all the dim 
 
 Strange beauty of the night, there comes, 
 
 Out of its time, like a lily in the dark, 
 
 A little promise of dawn. 
 
 Increasing wonderfully into the very west. 
 
 Exquisitely growing and soon fulfilling itself 
 
 In the full tranquil glory of a star 
 
 That trembles with some unannounced joy. 
 
 Surely it is the ancient, sacred country. 
 And the dark shepherds in their dewy cloaks. 
 And the gray flocks, arisen, are looking forth 
 For the Nativity. 
 
 THE YEAR'S END. 
 
 When the snow falls. 
 Hushed are the bird calls; 
 The silvery brook falls 
 Locked in their cold walls. 
 Give back no singing. 
 The gentle winging 
 
 Of the white snow 
 
 Stills all below. 
 119 
 
Green branch and round nest 
 Where tender birds rest. 
 Soft hills to east and west 
 Bttd girded to the crest. 
 Now lone are lying 
 Mid the winds* sighing 
 
 And the white snow 
 
 Stills all below* 
 
 Blithe as the day long, 
 Came in a glad throng 
 Choruses, sweet, strong. 
 Too soon the year song 
 Bears back to heaven 
 The melody given, 
 
 And the white snow 
 
 Stills all below. 
 
 Bleak grows the world and drear. 
 
 But to the souFs ear 
 
 Still the song of the year. 
 
 Delicate, sweet, clear. 
 
 Soft is intoning 
 
 With the wind's moaning 
 
 And the white snow 
 
 Keeps all beIow» 
 
 120 
 
A HYMN FOR THE NEW CENTURY. 
 
A HYMN FOR THE NEW CENTURY, 
 
 Oh, let the wars be done! 
 Need of them is no more. 
 The causes are bravely won 
 Btit the heart of the world is sore* 
 Alas for the crown that wears 
 The jewels of blood and tears — 
 Alas for the fallen peoples! 
 Oh, let the wars be done! 
 
 For love of the creeds they hold. 
 For pride in a country's name, 
 For the luster and sheen of gold 
 And the zest of the royal game, 
 For quarrels of knights and kings 
 And the glamour of baser things. 
 For the beckoning meed of glory — 
 Battle the men of old* 
 
 Marshalling forth with song 
 And the laughing of fife and drum — 
 Out from the dark these long 
 Ranks of the ages come. 
 123 
 
"Warring and bloodshed needs 
 The saving of goodly deeds. 
 The shining of shield and banner^ 
 The confidence of the strong. 
 
 Hand clasp and tearftil eye — 
 
 Heart break and not a sign! 
 
 Waiting is womanly. 
 
 And praying before the shrine* 
 
 Wifehood is yielding up 
 
 The wine from her precious cup. 
 
 And motherhood listens, tearless. 
 
 To hear how her sons will die* 
 
 The heart of the world's aweight 
 Though her bravery makes no moan. 
 And sorrow too long hath sate 
 Aloft on her iron throne* 
 Back with ye, dogs of war! 
 Daring may run too far* 
 Your tyrannous day is passing 
 Here at the century's gate* 
 
 For the poor and oppressed we must 
 Still match us with greed and shame, 
 But the bayonet's point will rust 
 And battle be but a, name; 
 124 
 
And heroes of sterner mold 
 
 Than ever was knight of old 
 
 Mtjst wear the sword of the spirit. 
 
 With hearts kept pure for the trust. 
 
 Then cotiraget good hearts, and roll 
 The weight of the years aside: 
 Death mttst be denied his toll 
 And struggle be glorified. 
 No more of the mad array- 
 That charmed us yesterday! 
 Heart to heart must we battle. 
 And valiantly — soul to soul. 
 
 Oh, the sorrowful aftermath 
 
 Of evil when love is dead! 
 
 They travel a weary path — 
 
 These races fallen faint for bread. 
 
 These children shut from the sun. 
 
 These laborers, never done. 
 
 This struggling creature that hath not 
 
 Watching the man who hath. 
 
 Woe be to us who heap 
 The open gifts of the Lord 
 Under our hands — but weep. 
 Perchance, at a piteous word! 
 
 125 
 
The fray will be fierce and long 
 When justice shall match with wrong, 
 But the old-time wearer of iron 
 Will never have watch to keep. 
 
 Then forth to the virgin war, 
 Yoti knights of a virgin time! 
 They wait yoti by pass and tor 
 And their prowess is in its prime* 
 We hail the desired good 
 To flower in your honest blood — 
 And oppressed and oppressor question 
 What manner of men yoti are. 
 
 ^ 
 
 126 
 
MY FRIEND THE SEA» 
 
STORM SONG OF THE NORSEMEN, 
 
 The Aegir*s gone abroad to-night; 
 
 He calls yoti all, my merry men. 
 And ttines afar his mocking flight 
 
 O'er watery moor and fen. 
 Why bide ye in the drowsy bay. 
 
 The home of sloth and dttll delight? 
 Heave yo! Heave yo! My merry men. 
 
 And follow we away! 
 
 The beetling cliffs grow black amain. 
 
 The stormy west gleams redly through. 
 And roaring surges plunge again 
 
 Across the startled view* 
 The little craft, the harbor round. 
 
 Fret at their fetters in disdain 
 As we, along the roughening blue. 
 
 Slip past them, seaward bound* 
 
 Now ho for the mirth of a moving ship! 
 
 And ho for the white sails blowing wide! 
 And ho for the salt wine on the lip 
 
 And the rush of the mellow tide ! 
 129 
 
More faintly comes the breakers* boom, 
 And far arear the home lights slip. 
 
 And fast the thundering jetty-side 
 Runs back athwart the gloom. 
 
 Oh, the prow is ttp and the wind is on! 
 
 The Aegir comes with rttsh of rain 
 And greetings as in years agone 
 
 From all his stormy train. 
 What fire flames the exalting blood 
 
 As we with them fare on and on! 
 What madness moves in every vein. 
 
 And merry hardihood. 
 
 In tumbling mountains with the wind, 
 
 The shivering sea runs dully white, 
 And dizzy valleys drift behind, 
 
 Agleam with dusky light; 
 And far along the windy lea 
 
 We watch with rapture unconfined 
 The shadowy glories of the night 
 
 Upon the storming sea. 
 
 Along the beam the bright foam runs. 
 
 And fumes and hisses through the dark, 
 And flaunts a myriad mimic suns 
 
 About our flying bark. 
 Aloft the great sails beat and blow 
 
 Like rout and roar of hungry guns. 
 And bend to brush their eager mark 
 
 Along the hills of snow. 
 
 130 
 
Oh, Aegir, take my hands in thine — 
 
 Soft ease and safety are bttt vain; 
 We'll qttaff with thee the windy wine 
 
 And dare the farthest main. 
 Thy breath is round tis, wild and warm, 
 
 And bright along the rushing brine 
 We sweep with all thy shining train 
 
 On pitimed wings of storm. 
 
 The wet winds whip the wintry spray 
 
 To whirling fury in our path. 
 And toss afar their shattered prey 
 
 And roar in hardy wrath. 
 Like hotinds upon a hurrying trail. 
 
 Their baying blows from far away. 
 And echoes up the foaming strath 
 
 Upon the angry gale. 
 
 Now from the rolling mists there come 
 
 The wraiths of stately ships that swept 
 In years agone the fretting foam. 
 
 E'er wives and babes had wept. 
 Young hearts sang then in hardy glee 
 
 But e'er the winds wore sobbing home, 
 And mate and manful master slept 
 
 Beneath the wintry sea. 
 
 They speed upon us, pale and high. 
 And rock along the rushing blast. 
 
 Nor comes there moan, nor call, nor cry. 
 As they run stilly past. 
 131 
 
Wild is the wind, the sea is gray. 
 But cotirage glows in every eye. 
 
 And cottrage sends them faring fast 
 Adown the flying spray. 
 
 One day, while yet the storm rtins new 
 
 In rapture rottnd a thousand lands, 
 This bright-browed comrade will undo 
 
 The clinging of these hands, 
 And there will be for me no more 
 
 The sheltering cliffs, the bay's soft blue, 
 No more the low htit on the sands. 
 
 Or cheery call ashore. 
 
 Oh, Aegir, friend, thy years are fleet — 
 
 Soon comes the time of couch and staff; 
 We follow thee with earnest feet. 
 
 Nor dream thy joys in half. 
 The hurrying wine of living strife 
 
 Upon the eager lip is sweet. 
 And to the jeweled brim we'll quaff 
 
 The glorious cup of life. 
 
 The Aegir's gone abroad to-night; 
 
 He calls you all, my merry men, 
 And tunes afar his mocking flight 
 
 0*er watery moor and fen. 
 Why bide ye in the drowsy bay. 
 
 The home of sloth and dull delight? 
 Heave yo! Heave yol My merry men. 
 
 And follow we away! 
 
 132 
 
MY FRIEND, THE SEA. 
 
 In all the years of less and more — 
 
 Less of abandon, of delight, 
 
 Less of the ardent grace youth wore. 
 
 More of the stern, quick stress the bright 
 
 Strange world for brave hearts has in store 
 
 In dottbtftil times when scarce a hair 
 
 Sways between laughing and despair. 
 
 When all the splendid proofs of sight 
 
 Fail to a tissue spun of air 
 
 And much I love is lost to me. 
 
 Still shall I have my friend, the sea. 
 
 She wears the sun upon her breast 
 
 As I, a woman, wear my joy — 
 
 Yet moves, withal, in brave unrest. 
 
 Longing forever to enjoy 
 
 A dream forever unpossessed. 
 
 "Was it some far, mortal thing that cried? 
 
 The gray winds darken the eager tide 
 
 And this soul, too, seems but a toy 
 
 Of mockeries and loves denied. 
 
 As she links vanishing hands with me 
 
 In sorrow and hope, — my friend, the sea. 
 
 Oh, it is thou and I who know 
 Deep in the heart of our desire 
 Whither the old, lost visions go. 
 And ever when Joy is proven a liar 
 We still delay to think him so: 
 
 133 
 
A passionate pleasure, passionate pain, 
 
 A bright goal never to attain, 
 
 — The sotifs old-time, divine attire — 
 
 Lares us the forward road again. 
 
 We give all, all, to the mystery 
 
 Of one fair morrow that shall be. 
 
 They are for all of time, good friend. 
 The quest, the striving and the dream — 
 (And time is very long to end) 
 Only ottr own hearts to redeem 
 This Little-to-gain and All-to-spend* 
 Always the morrow we reach is not 
 The lovely final time we sought; 
 Only a fragrance, a promise, a gleam 
 Which we are happy if we caught. 
 Thrice happy if we keep a day, 
 Profits our long expectancy* 
 
 O dear, defiant, caressing heart! 
 O never-despairing soul, be near! 
 Divide with us the trouble and smart 
 Of living! Give no tribute fear 
 To Shadow, waiting ever to thwart 
 The briefest rapture we may win. 
 Mighty in love — mighty in sin — 
 — But ever holding sin less dear — 
 We daily falter, daily begin 
 Anew the unending road, and seize 
 In spirit, and strangely girt with cheer. 
 The soul's long-cherished certainties. 
 
 134 
 
THE SOUTH SEA— CALLING. 
 
 Down to the cool, glad sea 
 
 One more of the many times. 
 
 Where the sail go beckoning far and goldenly 
 
 And the white surf laughs and climbs. 
 
 And the great, bright wind, round breast and knee 
 
 Qasps me straightway and lightheartedly. 
 
 Its swift, strange singing rhyming wild 
 
 With the passionate joy in me* 
 
 Came strains of it, sweet with pain. 
 
 In my dreams as a little child. 
 
 When the sea, a-waste and gray, and the wandering 
 
 rain 
 Were calling the long-exiled 
 Quick blood of my race in my every vein, 
 And found me harkening, very fain 
 For perilous distance and venture dim 
 And the ancient life again. 
 
 And the wraith of my shadowy sire. 
 
 The bearded and great of limb. 
 
 Came fearless as winter storm and fleet as fire 
 
 To summon me forth with him 
 
 By lure and dream and the old desire 
 
 To the wild, sweet toil with the sweeter hire — 
 
 Speed and the stars and the windy morn 
 
 And the heart no storm can tire* 
 
 135 
 
We sailed with the golden sails — 
 
 Red ripe as the brightening corn. 
 
 The chosen and favored of hasty, anfearing gales, 
 
 Otir shimmering webs ttntorn. 
 
 And we sail — we two — and what avails 
 
 The sea's white wrath and old men's tales? 
 
 The rough, rare spoil is ours to take 
 
 Who sail with the yellow sails. 
 
 THE OCEAN CRY. 
 
 Have yotj the ears for hearing 
 
 The sea cry virile and wild — 
 Shrilled when the salt storm gathers. 
 
 Crooned when the time is mild 
 A fickle, felicitous thing 
 
 That is tossed abroad in all weathers. 
 Stern as the peal of a trumpet. 
 
 Sweet as the laugh of a child ? 
 
 ** Come forth and be young with me,'* 
 
 It calls with the morn, ** I fill 
 The sunniest cups of pleasure. 
 
 The vials of direst ill. 
 No fears — but trust and take heart — 
 
 My favor can alter the measure. 
 Come, and your hand in my hand. 
 
 For I am your comrade still.'' 
 
 136 
 
It takes its way like a triumph 
 
 From twenty successive seas, 
 Sweeping tip wild and tinweary 
 
 In passionate melodies — 
 A cry of surpassing rhythm. 
 
 Piercing and solitary — 
 Troubling the soul with questioning — 
 
 Stealing the heart from its ease! 
 
 And with a laugh, through it all 
 
 The mighty riddle of old 
 Comes on, mocking and hollow 
 
 In windy weather and cold — 
 That uttermost ancient power 
 
 Of tempest and wave, which follow 
 On wave and tempest and storm 
 
 For the wrecking of hearts too bold, 
 
 ** Come out! Be brave as you choose,* 
 
 It calls, ** but I keep my will. 
 Set forth your frail devices. 
 
 Try all your little skill! 
 Mine is the proving of strength 
 
 And the parting of all disguises* 
 Taunt me — try me — toy with me — 
 
 I am your master still/* 
 
 The sound of wind upon waters 
 Is herald of chill, strange harms* 
 
 Even the sweet eyes of summer 
 Darken with old alarms 
 
 137 
 
When at her side there pauses 
 The wraith of another comer. 
 
 With gray hand beckoning backward 
 To summon his train of storms. 
 
 Blithe and obedient they — 
 
 And they come like the four dire winds, 
 Each close after his fellow. 
 
 And strike with a spite that blinds. 
 Clamoring, quivering, hissing — 
 
 Fretting the sea to a yellow 
 Fury of perilous frenzy: 
 
 And man takes what death he finds! 
 
 He who has suffered the sting of it 
 
 Hopes no more to be free. 
 Since there is no forgiving 
 
 The evil greed of the sea* 
 The taunt of the ancient wind 
 
 And the haste of the waves toward living 
 Mothers and men and babes 
 
 Are tyrants of memory* 
 
 ** Come out! Be bold as you list. 
 So be you cross not my will! 
 All ways lie here for your choosing 
 But trust not your idle skill — 
 
 138 
 
Yo«r treastiries lie in my hands, 
 Yotir thrones are for my disposing, — 
 
 And prince or trader or lover, 
 You are my bondsmen still/* 
 
 A cry that knocks at the heart's door 
 
 And quickens the breath with fear I 
 Sudden and shrill with peril. 
 
 It beats on the listening ear 
 With chants of forgotten storms 
 
 On coasts that were wild and sterile- 
 Of tempests upon their way! — 
 
 Oh, what does the heart not hear 
 
 Of the times when men were men 
 
 And robed in their hundred prides 
 Throve up in stormy places. 
 
 Sought and bore off their brides, 
 Villaged the empty wastes 
 
 And left for the dower of races 
 That first fine courage of theirs. 
 
 Wild as the will of the tides. 
 
 And the swift and resolute rush of it 
 Takes us in fierce control* 
 
 We turn as we are to listen 
 And question no tithe or toll, 
 
 139 
 
Btit wait for the sweep of the waters 
 And watch how the long lights glisten 
 
 Like sun on the steel of armor 
 And yield to it, body and sotil. 
 
 ** Come forth and be young with me/' 
 
 'Tis the call at dusk. ** I fill 
 The sunniest cups of pleasure. 
 
 The vials of direst ilL 
 No fear — I love the strong heart 
 
 And my favor shall alter the measure! 
 Come — and your hand in my hand — 
 
 For I am your comrade still/' 
 
 H 
 
 140 
 
THE RIDE OF THE WALKYRIES. 
 
THE RIDE OF THE WALKYRIES. 
 
 Oh, the tempests are gathering fast and the night is 
 
 wild. 
 And the level rain drives ruthlessly out of the gloom, 
 And the wind has a moan like the wail of a little child. 
 And the rivers are restless, and fret, and clamor for 
 
 room* 
 Down from the leafless wood on the mountain sweeps 
 A roar that answers the thundering of the deeps. 
 
 And all of the sweet fields darken 
 
 And tremble and harken 
 The swift oncoming of wrath and the time of doom. 
 
 Do you not hear, mid the charge of the hurrying 
 
 winds. 
 The rushing of shadowy hoofs and a snatch of song. 
 Shrill with the rapture that never a mortal finds 
 Till the blood runs red in his veins and his hand is 
 
 strong ? 
 Reveling in the chaos and in the black 
 Dismay of the heavens, her sisters close at her back. 
 
 Triumphing she rides and unweary. 
 
 The fatal Walkyrie, 
 Wherever the battle is hard and the strife is long. 
 
 143 
 
up from the rainy cast and the moaning sca^ 
 
 They comct nine strong, the maidens of cruel might, 
 
 On shaggy horses of cloud that are fearftti to see. 
 
 Riding extiltingly up the steep hills of night. 
 
 O'er gap and chasm and fiord, where the tide Is gray. 
 
 With never a pause in all of the perilous way. 
 
 Stern is their speed as fire 
 
 And faster and higher 
 Comes flashing of spear and shield in the fitful light. 
 
 It is rain and wind, and tempest and wind and rain. 
 And light and shadow in turn as the clouds run past. 
 And stormy mystery out on the open plain. 
 And trees stript bare and bent and torn in the blast. 
 And weak things, helpless and piteous, whirled out 
 Into the angry void with a mocking shout. 
 
 And wild skies meeting together 
 
 And riotous weather. 
 And always the clatter of swift hoofs following fast. 
 
 Straining sinew and fierce unfaltering eye. 
 Hurrying pulse and tumultuous, combative breath I 
 Quick for the battle, a thousand are come to try 
 The old, heroic issue of life and death. 
 Forth and back in a struggle that has no end. 
 With red heel marring the body of foe and friend. 
 
 No room is there for the coward 
 
 Amid such untoward 
 
 Qashing of strength with strength as the conflict 
 
 hath. 
 
 144 
 
There comes a day when the trustiest weapon lies 
 Shattered and lost, and the armor is pierced through, 
 But never a time when the heart of the warrior dies. 
 And he slips away from the work he is promised to. 
 Striving, even with naked breast, to reach 
 The fierce onset at the last wide, ruinous breach^ 
 
 N'er doth Despair's cold pallor 
 
 Creep over his valor! 
 Confident he as a king in his power to do. 
 
 Wherever the battle is hard and the strife is long, 
 Some shall falter and slip from the bright array, 
 Hear with a quickening ear the Walkyrie song. 
 And the close, quick rush of their horses into the fray* 
 The last stern blow shall fall harmless, the foe go free, 
 And the lights shall go out, and the passion for vic- 
 tory! 
 
 But can there be ever a spirit 
 
 So base as to fear it — 
 The final charge and the final riding away? 
 
 Living is sweet but death may be sweeter still. 
 Drunk like a cup to the health of a cause we love. 
 Strong to the uttermost, meeting with valorous will 
 The mightiest odds, it will be joy to move 
 Forth in the glow and pride of the silent host 
 Caring no more if the battle be won or lost. 
 
 Heeding no more the clamor 
 
 Of ax or of hammer. 
 Warriors that Wotan hath chosen and doth approve. 
 
 145 
 
Let it be in the thick of it, quickly and gloriotjsly. 
 Not as the knave dies, veiled and trembling, 
 Btit facing the wrack and terror, watching to see 
 The maidens coming, listening to hear them fling 
 Their furious war shout over the raging field, 
 Sharp as any weapon the fighters wield: 
 ** Walhalla, ye men, Walhalla, 
 Ho-yo-he, Walhalla! '' 
 A rapturous song of triumph and rallying. 
 
 That strange, cold kiss that only a hero wins — 
 Oh, hasten, Hilde, to give it ! And come ye, Hrist 
 And Thrud and Gondul! The rank of the battle 
 
 thins! 
 Into the fleet serenity of the mist. 
 Like the weird beam that streams in the glimmering 
 
 north. 
 Comrade following comrade, marshal them forth! 
 Speed your impatient horses 
 Up their dark courses! 
 The wild troop rides at your bidding wherever ye list. 
 
 It is rain and wind, and silence and wind and rain. 
 And a piteous hush where the men of the battle lie. 
 With a thrill of ecstasy following, when the train 
 Of warriors and mailed maidens comes splendidly by! 
 A dull, brief gleam from the shields, and a sober light 
 From faces of stern men, glance through the shadowy 
 night — 
 
 146 
 
Men gold-haircd and hoary. 
 Each one with the glory 
 Of battle upon him and armed in valiancy. 
 
 The way to Walhalla is open and wild and fleet. 
 Past unquiet rivers and meadows sodden and gray — 
 Slipt back, storm-veiled and dim, at their flying feet. 
 With the gaunt and peering shapes of the awful 
 
 fray,— 
 Past ruddy brook and grim trench opening wide, 
 And cliff and chasm and toss of the raging tide. 
 
 Past pines, wide-armed, giant-footed. 
 
 Fallen vast and uprooted. 
 The shadowy line sweeps out and up and away. 
 
 ^ 
 
 147 
 
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