)M THE FOOTHILLS MAKY LINDABRADLEY Book_iZ22iL£V- t' COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. FROM THE FOOTHILLS FROM THE FOOTHILLS BY MARY LINDA BRADLEY PORTLAND MAINE THE MOSHER PRESS MDCCCCXIV COPYRIGHT MARY LINDA BRADLEY 1914 AUG 26 1914 CLA379249 TO MY FATHER WILLIAM HARRISON BRADLEY THIS BOOKLET IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED CONTENTS TO MY FATHER WEST MOUNTAIN . POLO PRACTICE AT LAKEWOOD MID-WOOD .... WINTER WOODS THE FORGE .... INCURABLE .... A RIDE IN THE NEW FOREST MONTREAL FROM MOUNT ROYAL WHITEFIELD, N. H. THE LOSS OF THE TITANIC . NORTHERN MARCH . . . A HAND THE WILD-CAT RIVER AT JACK SON, N. H THE HOUSE OF PAIN EARLY MORNING HOCKEY AT OGONTZ .... TO OGONTZ .... TO MRS. W. H. ... ATHLETES AT PRACTICE U GIVE US ... . DAILY BREAD' THE CARPENTER . THE ORCHARD-SEA 3 6 9 10 11 12 13 15 18 19 20 23 25 26 27 30 33 39 40 41 42 45 vn CONTENTS PAGB BERRY-BOY 46 RESOLUTION 47 MINE HABITATION .... 48 AN EVEN-SONG .... 50 EARTH-THOUGHT .... 52 MOON-GRIEF 53 TO H. R. H. THE DUKE OF CON- NAUGHT 54 THE KNOWER 56 THE CRUCIFIXION .... 57 EARTH-LOVE .... 59 HOUSE-OPENING .... 60 SONNET 62 SONNET 63 SONNET .64 OLD SONG 65 "THE PROSPERITY OF FOOLS SHALL DESTROY THEM" ... 66 MY MOTHER 67 CANOEING ON THE ALLEGHENY RIVER 68 TO GENERAL NOGHI ... 70 ECHOES 71 A WAKEFUL LUTANIST . . 72 PAVLOWA AND NOVIKOFF . . 75 A LETTER 76 Vlll CONTENTS PAGE TRAVELLERS 77 SKI-RUNNER'S SONG . 78 TO THE THOMAS ORCHESTRA . 79 DIVORCE 80 "AND THE WATERS PREVAILED EXCEEDINGLY" .... 81 ANNUAL TRAMP OF THE SNOW- SHOE CLUBS 82 FOUR STUDIES IN SCARLET . . 83 RODIN'S "LE PENSEUR" ... 84 RODIN'S "ADAM" .... 85 RODIN'S "PYGMALION AND GAL- ATEA" .... 86 LOWLY MIRACLES . . 87 IX FROM THE FOOTHILLS TO MY FATHER HOU hast gone on thy journey poet-eyed, With a brave strength that failed not for defeat. Thou hast, with reverent hands, as it was meet m Fingered the very soul of art and vied In Nature-love with that old host who cried To Bacchus ; or old Pan, whose blithe hoof-beat Coursed in familiar woods, who loved to greet, With voice of reeds, the wild things at his side. Ah ! thou hast richly in three score years grown, Seeing the master-work of man with wise Clear sight, feeling the touch of God and prone To call Life good with lips unstained with sighs. Nor ever hast thou garnered discontent, But shedst it as the spirit's cerement. II I scarcely knew thee with my childish brain. Shy as a dream, I saw in thee the spring Of god-like strength, maintained for me to bring The quivering, splintered finger and all pain For soothing cure; but of that gallant train Of magic souls I knew, of thought whose wing Brushed through my mind like April sun, no thing In faltering words from me didst thou obtain. The god was great. How should he care to see A child's vague images of mystery? But when I grew, the god became a man, And near this man-heart did I creep to scan Its stuff of deeds. And lo ! I found in it Places of dreams than mine more exquisite. Ill I mind me, in that land whence we are sprung, Through a great brick-walled garden we would stray, Where white-cupped fox-gloves nodded near our way Great flaming poppies listlessly o'er-hung The path, and the laburnum-blossoms swung Like slender, yellow lamps. The evening lay About us as we went, and drowsy day Was hushed to rest while throstle-songs were sung. Ve used to loiter near an aged wall, Brushed by the sun-touched leaves of one huge oak ; And thou didst show me how incorporate ^ith light those leaves had grown — till they seemed all Of brittle gold. . . There, through thee, Nature woke In me a passion grown inviolate. IV /hen thou art gone where I must also go, In quiet trust beyond the mighty sleep, To other dreams which thou wilt foremost reap, orget not those we fashioned here and know o have been good. And I, dear one, I trow Shall look to that fair time when we shall keep Again close comradeship, more fine and deep erchance, than here midst blunders such could grow. "hen thou shalt teach my childhood-of-the-sky 'he simplest knowledge of eternity ; So may we learn and love as aeons roll, Till we have earned the glory of the whole. nd all the trespasses of Death and Chance, fe knew on earth, have wise significance. WEST MOUNTAIN £ (*Y I THERE were, in that place, woods ! " 'twas thus JL I thought Of thee, my Ridgefield, when I was a child, — A child whose soul haunted the thought of woods, While little feet pattered on pavement stones. I knew thee in one Summer, at the age When every copse conceals a hidden brave — Perchance ! — when wall-side fruit is gathered in, The hiding outlaw's only sustenance — Till supper-time ! I wove thee, shaggy hill, Into my childhood's radiant pageantry Of Play, then bore afar the memory, The flavor of those guerdoned Summer days. There dwindled seven years. I claimed thee u home" Through many wanderings. And lo ! a house Sprang up, new-made, high on the massive breast Of the maternal mountain and my dream Lived in these timbered and these stucco walls. I see, as in a glass, how first we drove Within rude, paintless gates and eagerly I spurned the carriage and fled up the hill, Craving to lay my hands upon the door Of home. The keen fresh marvel of that Spring I see, the sudden life, so different To the slow birth of England's vernal brood. I found that all my mute imaginings Were but as fragments of the wealth that lay Hoarded in dim ravine, or sunny slope, Where the hot, fecund soil brought forth a mass Of frail, warm strawberries . . . and dog-wood trees Stood tangled in the green — a mesh of cloud ! The ruddy trillium and the violet Hemmed the slim reeds, while all that pliant green Was threaded blue with irises. The split Moss-mottled rocks cradled red columbine — Such fragile flames ! and through the last year's leaves Was blood-root sewn, a startled white against Old, rusty brown. Laurel ! I may not hail Thee like to this or that, for I have walked Where thou hast flanked the path and verily Been stunned with joy ... let it suffice to say : " Laurel, more lovely than thy singing name ! " I branded all renascense with the fire Of an unstinted, glad and watchful love. Most sacred, there I learned the speech of art From Nature's lips; I learned her ancient joy Fresh as pure water from a deep, cold well In August days. The Mountain-mother wrought With this wild, heedless, thirsting self, Taught me such spirit-lore that I am hers As though she bore me with the perfect trees And yearned above her one imperfect child. Down in the valley, girdled by three roads, Amid the matted grass and wayward shrub, Lie my forefathers in their decent rows. They kept their creeds and loved the village-street That steals below the urn-like elms. But I, Who love them too, those distant, curious dead, Could ne'er abide to be bound in by roads In that still city of thin, upright stones. Mother, strong mother of a restless child, Hold me in life with thy transcendent calm ; Touch me with thy relentless discipline Of time and change — for I am surely thine, Bone of thy rock, flesh of thy soil and dream Of those thy cloud-dreams, by the Sun invoked. When I must sleep, O Mother-mountain, thou Shalt bear my bones at last, as thou hast borne Anew my spirit to delight. Shrouded Between thy breasts, in rich soft mould, Deal with me as thou dealest with the leaves. POLO PRACTICE AT LAKEWOOD J nry IS the Spring, it is April comes riding the wind, A Stripping the oaks of their out-worn attire, Driving the leaves with a rollicking stroke Clear of the laborers, clear of their fire, Where the roots in the sod have their fibres close-twined. Out on the polo field, gauzy with smoke. On the green, like a draught of lithe, whimsical leaves, Wheeling, the ponies skim after the ball; Bay leaves and chestnut and brown in a flight ! They are keen as the click when a mallet achieves, Driving the ball in far-leaping delight Down 'twixt the post of the goal, standing tall. Clangs out the bell ; they are grouped for the game. For a moment they strain in a rough-jostling press, (Hear how the leather of saddle and bridle Mutters and squeaks as the steeds push and sidle !) Then the nucleus breaks. Like a star in recess, Shoots forth the ball toward the end of the frame. Oh the sound of the clean-flying feet on the turf ! (Beat of my heart in the beat of a hoof ! ) 'T is the noise of the rushing and roar of the surf, Warring of drums and the battle's grim proof ! Song of those Centaurs who harry and fly, Fast as the rack of a storm streaming by ! MID-WOOD THERE where the yellow heat hath seeped into The craving earth through every tree upon The mountain-side; where Eve hath won The very green to gold, I watched, and through The half-light and the sentient silence knew That stranger-dreams would pass me by. Anon. Would this dim, leafy-frescoed pantheon Disclose the secret that with it upgrew. The stir of branches brought the discus' sound, Kissing the air; some grasses breathed a sigh, — Apollo's anguish at the ruddy wound On dying Hyacinthus' brow ! And I, Merged in this fancy, saw him as he slept, Beheld the iris grow while Phcebus wept. 10 WINTER WOODS THE foot-hills wrap them with the winter's snow, And all the trees stand modestly and slim, Changed by the Autumn's skillful prism and whim To seven colors, then, in burnished glow, To patterned bronze, 'neath such device as grow The potter Massier's vases, rich and dim, — Luminous pigments, fading as they limn ! So shine these gentle steeps I love and know. And I, I follow Pan midst frozen mounds, Or, in a frame of silence, listen mute As he in plaintive musings from his lute, The sleep-song of a stricken Nature sounds; Weaving the ruthless hurt of centuries Into a god's lament for all that dies. 11 THE FORGE THE crippled god lay dead where he had wrought His many works beside the forge. He lay, His brown breast bared and all the muscle-play Of those two branch-like arms was still, and nought Of that great strength, of all the grieving thought Had Death sapped from his face. Not Jove this clay Could cleanse from such a harsh-hued pain. Alway The god had forged and failed in what he sought, — To form one perfect weapon ! Years ago Came to that lone, unhallowed grove a band Of men, and from the fallen Vulcan's hand They took the tools and with them toiled. And lo ! They fashioned them a cross and bore it thence . . . The dead god's face was touched with calm intense. 12 INCURABLE THEY tell me that I have the sickness, here Under this breathing bosom where the clear Smooth skin dresses the muscle and the bone. It is not death that makes my spirit groan With unpent bitterness in this bleak hour, Nor foiled ambitions of a nascent power, — But life, that I must face from this sheer brink Of swift decay ! (it makes the body shrink Like rye before the wind) — that rottenness Of flesh, of sinew and of strength, no less Than sure, embased corruption before death. And I — ah God! — have loved with every breath The straight limbs' beauty and the torso's build, And, at its play of shadows, I have thrilled With a pure artist-eye, ev'n as I thrill To see cloud-shadows cleave a sun-lit hill. I, dwelling in the high God's temple, must Feel the thing crumble to infectious dust, Behold the mouldering and the spreading stain, While the shamed spirit struggles in its chain. Would I had been a statue carved in stone, That all this manhood had in marble grown ! Bereft of wrong and sorrow, without will, Fashioned to senseless beauty 'neath the skill Of hammer guided by Praxiteles, 13 When Athens whitely starred bold, restless seas Or, deftly rent from old Carraran cave. Found immortality without a grave, Bruised from some block by Michael Angelo To brood upon the ages as they go, Until the Maker shatter His earth's crust And form be spent in unpolluted dust. 14 A RIDE IN THE NEW FOREST HOW we rode that gold October Through New Forest in old Hampshire, When the heath was brown and sober, When the tattered woods in glory Grew as in a fairy-story ! — Saw the oak-trees jut and mingle All their limbs in uncouth grandeur! Mighty hollies filled the dingle With their crimson fruitage spattered ; Streaks of light were birches scattered. Up the ford of Ipley river Rode we, crouching low from branches, Where the stream is but a sliver And the darkling silence hallows. How the hoofs spoke in the shallows ! Sudden, in a glade the conies Flipped their tails, were gone . . . and yonder Stared at us three forest-ponies. As th' Agister loudly shouted Fled the colts in panic routed. Then we left those pleasant places, Chequered grove and tangled coppice, Took a road that interlaces 15 Field and wood and manor-village; Pheasants flickered midst the tillage. Every hedge bore golden patching, And the fiery cottage-creepers Flamed up high toward sun-burnt thatching. Past an Inn, whose sign-board twinkled ! Toward the heath where far trails wrinkled ! 'Twixt the bogs and down the wheel-rut, — O thou lithe, light-footed Stella ! — How such gathering muscles feel, cut Clean for earth-flight in cool weather ! Fetlock deep in tarnished heather ! In the woods we paused and rested, Lay amidst the tawny bracken, Or through leaf-ceiled wood-gloom quested Ate our bread and watched the horses Near the yellow-sprinkled gorses. On beyond the church of Boldre, Where at Shirleyholmes the gipsies String their fires as shades grow colder ! Caravan and tent were blended With the wood's rough fringe extended. 16 And the cooking-pots were steaming; Some one strummed a blithe accordion, While the women's smiles were gleaming. There a Carmen smoked, lean-fingered, Blue, her cigarette-smoke lingered. So we passed midst curious glances, And one gipsy ran pursuant To foretell our lucky chances : " Pretty Sir, joys come, a'many ! " "Leave no tins? Well — here 's a penny ! Then the dusk and tired horses, By th' Agister's calls encouraged, On the home-trail spent their forces, — Fleeting shades, midst shades uncertain, For the wood wrapped like a curtain ! "Aw-i ! Aw-i!" — then the thunder Of the whip-lash cheered the gallop, While the soggy ground screamed under. Silver shoes in flight protracted Flashed like crescent-moons distracted. Gallant, gracious haunts of story ! Hill and heath and glade and forest ! How the Vert revealed its glory ! Lo ! the year was dying sober, But we lived that gold October. 17 MONTREAL FROM MOUNT ROYAL LOW, 'neath the Royal Mount the city spun Swift threads of wintry sun immaculate Amid the warp of clinging snows. The great Pale river spurned the builded banks to run And writhe toward sea below the ice, to shun The burden of the loaded craft of freight. Fair as a scroll in gold illuminate, Gleamed spires and roofs below the swooning sun. We stood amazed upon the mountain's flank, Felt the rich silence, only broidered by The restless sleigh-bells' quivering cry From far, that reached our haunt. Deep-breathed we drank The scene as wine and dimly recognised This town, — one thought of God materialised ! 18 WHITEFIELD, N. H. THIS place the goblet of the gods might be, Beaten and wrought from bronze and opal hills Shot with Autumnal red. When morning fills The cup with yellow wine and clouds hang free About the range's brim all foamily, Perchance Thor stoops his face to quaff, and spills The draught adown his throat — as freshet -rills Are lost in the loose roots of some huge tree ! High at the goblet's rim, I, watching dream — As men will dream of gods — I see Thor slake His mighty thirst on sun and cloud. 'T would seem My lips have touched the self-same wine, to wake An echo of immortals' joy. I wist Valhalla gleams beyond the wreathing mist. 19 THE LOSS OF THE TITANIC THE force that curbs, or urges on the sea, Flicked her surf-pinions, ruffled angrily, And sank the caravels of mighty Spain ; Then, as content with all that wasted gain, Abode an age or two with smaller prey, Till Man grew boastful of his vaunted sway. With stealthy cunning of a masked device, The Force then summoned fiefs of gnarled ice, And all that steel and all that steam attain Became as those lost caravels of Spain, — The swollen, rotted craft of times of yore, That spilled their gold upon the ocean's floor! They sift the colored fishes in still hordes Between their spongy ribs, whose casing-boards Are long since shed. How many a galleon Stirred in its sleepy ooze, when down upon The ocean-valley huge Titanic blurred? What war has Nature waged, what man has erred, That this great habitation from the sun Should falter down, a burial-pantheon, Bearing its thousand sacrificial souls To where eternal dimness wide unrolls? Two miles below the salt sea's scummy waste The mammoth Titan of our times doth taste 20 The utmost dregs of death. She has gone down With all her palace-pleasures and renown, The while that barren, spectral berg, — whose bulk Pressed in her bow and sent a reeling hulk To quake the greenish silence of the deep — Rides coldly on, a massive Keep, Grim-lowering to its foes ! She has gone down The lofty Titan with her living town; And, in our midst, lie hearts as crushed as she Who hides her horrid wound in mystery And cloaks her furnace-fires, that none may need, With hissing water and with alien weed. O gallant Souls, who reaped such death that those The Weak, might live ! The Titan's throes Are echoed in a stricken Nation's heart. The whole world bows its head and the long smart Of spirit-pain is laid upon us all. But they who kneel before an unseen pall, Who dream and wake to tremble in the day — Maker of Life and Death, their fragile clay Lies scarred, distorted in thy sentient hand, Blind suffering that cannot understand ! Stand by, since none stood by upon the sea, And heal the fever of their agony. The Titan has gone down. God keep her dead, As men shall keep the severed, brilliant thread 21 Of all the good, of all the valiant deeds Of loyal loving and of faithful creeds Those lost lives stood for in the crowded mart. And when their work is traced in noblest part, Oh ponder that great passing on the deep, — So god-like that we scarcely dare to weep ! 22 NORTHERN MARCH OH the month of March is waning, though the Winter will not go And I 'm yearning for the sodden-sounding rain, As it sweeps among the woodlands where the Spring 's begun to grow, Till the earth is draped with water from West Mountain to the plain. I can shut my eyes, beholding how the flicker- ing torrents shoot Down where August finds their trails as dry as bone. I can feel the frost-freed soil that would engulf the passing foot; Mark the runnels in the roadway where the careless flood has gone. 1 can hear the cedars soughing in the hill-side cedar-grove, With their water-tangled branches all a-drip; I can see the glossy laurel that through barren Winter throve And the earliest anemone with upturned, thirsty lip. 23* But here, sluggard March is waning, though the Winter will not wane, And the skies unloose their snow unlessening, — Endless idle, fluttering cohorts that have stilled an Autumn's pain, And caress one's cheek as coldly as a dead moth's dusty wing. Oh I crave the quick, warm contest of the rain, before whom flees Yonder pale, reluctant ice-king from the earth. I would feel the tender greeting of the drenched and shrouded trees Calling to me when their perfect life is almost at the birth. 24 A HAND COOL as the feel of shaded rock when June Places the seal of Summer on the land ; Firm as a sappling-stem, my lady's hand ! And smooth as breathless waters 'neath the moon ! Strong as the grasp of Fate, with mystic rune Spelt on the palm in lines that God has scanned ; With flesh and form in pure perfection planned To bear a burden or to grant a boon. Thy services are wise and manifold ; Both strength and gentleness are of thy realm; And in thy touch abides the power to stir Some dream of tender peace, or fires age-old. Thy hand lies in mine hand, as rests the helm Safe, in the clasp of the sure mariner. 25 THE WILD-CAT RIVER AT JACKSON, N. H. THE shattered clouds thou seizest from the height, To toss them down the crags in wild delight, Where weakling rills are lured unto thy might. Aye ! wild-cat, verily, whose cry may mock Gaunt winds, when writhing down from shock to shock Slips muscled water over bone of rock ! But thou canst also purr in drowsy pools, Elecked with some Autumn leaf whose shadow cools Unrippled stone below ; the high Sun tools With flawless lines each lightly drifting frond In dark reflection fluttering in the pond, Until the current coaxes it beyond ! What is it River, that thou dost pursue? The ocean-thought? some jewelled twig that flew Beyond thy clutch? some dream man never knew? Hush ! for an instant at this pool which keeps A listless pause from flight. The torrent reaps Herein its rest. The hunting Wild-Cat sleeps. 26 THE HOUSE OF PAIN TO L. B. BEFORE THE OPERATION MYSELF I went not to the House of Pain To bear the knife, or lie thus fever-spent As its pale-visaged company. I went Only to watch and wait and watch again With one much-loved; to see her face the wane Of unrelenting Time, who gave assent That one hour dawn with its accompaniment Of danger, awe, its heavy dreams of bane. The morning spoke aloud its vivid claim For each, of renewed life. Her courage knew No lessening, that we might scathless keep Our own from weakness and resultant shame . . They bore her through the dim, still hall into A glaring place of sickly, helpless sleep. 27 DURING THE OPERATION WE waited in some room, not silently, But with a talk of words that failed in thought. A dreary clock ticked off the time and wrought In us a subtly creeping misery, With thrusts of barb-like questioning. And we Could see the outer sunshine, rippling, caught Among the trees, spilled on the lawn and fraught With all the morning's wholesome ecstacy; Such joy we could nor share nor understand, For, Midas-like, it smote our hearts to cold, Hard-metalled things and dried life at the core. Then did I seek the hall and, listening scanned One entrance — barred ! Only might I behold Smooth-moving shadows through the parted door. 28 AFTER THE OPERATION I SAW her lying on the high, white bed, Still steeped in long unconsciousness ; upon Her face the mask of ether-sleep. Anon Came fitful knowledge and she moved her head, Loosely and heavily it turned. He said — (He whose firm, needful hands had wrought and won Her future strength) some gentle words that shone Into her wakening mind, past clouds of dread. She spoke — such struggling speech ! and one slow hand Groped with a burdened effort to her brow. I stood and saw her cross the borderland That leads to quickening realms where pain must grow. And I might only watch, nor go with her To taste in blackened hours the cup of myrrh. 29 EARLY MORNING HOCKEY AT OGONTZ TO M. T. S. OUT in the morning mists I leaped With quivering stick in hand, Out where the sunlight had not reaped The deep dews from the land ! The silent hockey field lay bare, Pale green ! the grasses' tears Were spread in softening, silver veil, And to invoke our fears Surrounding trees groped through the mist, With naked arms to plead ! Or swaying in the fog I wist Like strangely grown sea-weed. And there I found my Captain-girl, And we would stand, we twain Watched by some shy and curious merle, While the winds played amain With flying hair its pranks and quips ; We waited in the grey, Sucking the fog through parted lips, While eyes stared far away ! 30 For some few moments thus we stood, Before the friendly strife, Feeling our strength — and it was good ! And thanking God for life ! Then for the game — the quick hard game! The rush of the ball, As it sundered the troubled grass apart ! And a miniature waterfall A tossing fountain of early dew, Followed above ! And a long, dark lane denoted the path On which the ball did move ! Oh the bounding run on the dripping earth ! And the morning wind Blowing the shouts and the fog away Into a dim behind ! The click of the eager stick ! the throb As it sends the ball, Flying along with gathering might Under its waterfall ! The strength and truth of the girl are rife. Those shining mists of awakening day ! The joy, the exulting joy of life ! 31 The run and the eager, friendly strife ! What memories will stay ! When from these haunts the girl and I Have wandered far away ! 32 TO OGONTZ TO THE CLASS OF 1908 MY Ogontz, may I dare to write of thee? Take this sharp, scalpel-pen and, with its strokes Lay bare that pulsing Past? Lo ! thou art great In what thou art to each of us, and all Have found thee in some vital sense the same. Mother, soul-builder, thus thou art to me : THE SCHOOL Like some old palace of enchanted tales, Set in a mystic grove of green, thou art, Ogontz, thou guardian of things over gold! Thou hoardest Youth, with all its coronal Of unstained hope, of brave and curious heart ; Not only youth in fervent flesh, but old Sweet spirit-youth of those whose noon-day fails, Youth leaping out from stones in miracle ! 33 Youth and the search for knowledge and for growth ! Court of dead poets and the clearing-house Of kingdom-lore and vague, envisioned myth ! A way-side shrine of Music's soul- wrung creed ! A gift of good for alien kin and kith Who may not share these bounties God allows ! A vow that plights the future its sure troth ! The fecund ground for our weak, hope- ful seed ! "THE BEECHES" Dear home, from stranger-dread grown wholly kind, Thou clingest to the hem of the wood's robe; Nor can my thought of thee break into words. But thus I see thee : in the trailing night From that old wooden walk, dimly outlined ! To mark the haven of loved wisdom- sherds, 34 From two unshuttered windows, beams forth light. . . My heart throbs yet to see a lamp's green globe ! OGONTZ SPRING-TIME Spring in the green-drenched woods, and on the grass, Bird-shadows and blown blossoms fluttering! White hands cupped full of purple violets! New-broken burdens of magnolia- flower ! The red earth scented by the sun and shower ! From every tree-top, as from minarets, The Wind's hushed call to prayer, that Youth may bring Worship of joy e'er yet its moments pass. FRIENDS My friends, and thine and thine ! lift up the wine, The endless wine of love unto those few Whose eyes swear faith, whose hand-clasp brings us hope, Whose kiss but seals the bond of charity ! 35 Old room, old haunt, no memory may decline ! 'T was here we met with ancient screed to cope ; 'T was there, the test of service found us true; And yon, some wrong was shriven as should be. Oh steady flare of helpful constancy ! Oh loyal labor of clean comradeship In drill and game ! Oh hours of joy too close To be outspelled, or writ save on the hearts Of one or two who learned the selfsame parts, And made their testaments in deeds, not prose. This hardy toast springs to an eager lip: God keep old love and new, 'twixt ye and me ! WISE WOMEN And now I pause, bewildered in this task. I cannot sound deep thanks beyond its edge And cry: "Fair Mind, I am beholden, — so ! " 36 But from a strange-grown garden, I would cull Three handfuls for the three who made life full. To you, who many ages didst unmask, I humbly proffer grave papyrus-sedge, Reeds of old lore that in my garden grow ! And Bay, for all the poet-lands you sent My startled footsteps wandering captive through. For you, dear Leader, here is Palm and still More Bay. Palm, since it lay before Christ's feet, And you have made Jerusalem's vague street Real as the lawn that slopes down yonder hill. And Bay, because my faulty song upgrew To feel the heat of words 'neath your intent. For you — O Mother of the least of us, Whose life rests as a savor near my life, Whose words of trust cling warm, when I am cold, Lo ! I have searched some brook of June, that wove 37 This perfect iris-flower, all tremulous With beauty, purple-veined for sorrow's strife, And gleaming with the sun's remembered gold. Mother, it is my bloom of deepest love ! 38 TO MRS. W. H. IN a cold, northern land where things are new, Men boastful of their money's power, where few Teach a wide servitude to gold, I found A house where beauty as in gardens grew. And like loved gardens, which in their attire, Their light and shadow welcoming, inspire Joy at the maker's skill, so was I glad To see this home reflect its central fire. There came to me a voice God made to sing Our tired winter into verdant Spring ; It took me by the heart and led me where I found old scenes in dear imagining. — Old scenes, like the sweet Aften of thy song; And, 'gainst the gentle English sky, a throng Of rooks who drifted idly near their nests. . . Such close-loved sights as one remembers long ! So would I lay these verses at thy feet, Though they be feeble thanks and all unmeet Acknowledgment, — Lady, forbear thy scorn, And with another Wig my shrift complete. 39 ATHLETES AT PRACTICE ACROSS the booming road, clogged with its drift Of thrumming engine and uneasy cart, The wide, dim campus heals the heated smart Of eye and brain. The day draws on her shift Of shadows and, like vibrant moths that sift 'Twixt trees, the athletes stroll, or whitely dart, Cleaving the blackness in some winged start, Smooth as a slinger's stone — almost as swift! And while the passion seems all for the prize, 'T is but of motion's joy a sane disguise. Lithe as bold panthers whom the hunt alarms ! Mark how that jumper gathers at the flight, — One moment since, a level, shooting light! And at yon tape — -the toss of naked arms ! 40 "GIVE US ... . DAILY BREAD" THEY two had trod together tens of years, Earnest and steadfast, of sere, noble heart. And Death stood near to draw them far apart. One stooped her to the other, weeping tears, And told the Weary Spirit of her love, That had been always, like a hidden spring, But at life's simpler, daily questioning, Had claimed no swift reply its depth to prove. And as they clung together in their stress, The weary Spirit cried : u O Heart, if thou And I had greatly given, as we are giving now, We had not needed Death to teach love's tenderness." 41 THE CARPENTER NOT distant from the village was his home, A shingled cottage, set in dusty green Of lanky grasses and low apple-trees, Whose matted boughs provoked the pallid scale, Whose fruit was pebble-hard. (Ah ! the white snarl And incense of their earlier blossoming !) Our way lay past this place, whene'er we drove Into the village, dreaming 'neath its elms. We saw the Carpenter return from work, To find his boy crouched tensely by the brook, Launching a squadron of leaf-sailed ships, Driving them toward the current with his breath ! The father's cap was off, to greet our smiles, iEolus waved one muddy-streaked hand — • Thus condescending from his god-like toil. The woman on the porch held up her child, A baby, sweet as only babies are ! (I mind me how one eve I held her close And how her murmurs counselled and her hands Passed in capricious blessing o'er my face !) And life seemed in that cottage unafraid, Sturdy to joy in work and growth and love. 42 II We heard the Carpenter had gone to seek One who interpreted from look and line. Perused the body's meaning like a psalm, As some wise student scans a mystic book To trace within the tale of life or death. And this deep scholar of the flesh could read Here but the heavy screed of blotched pain, Dulled fainter to a page of nothingness. The Carpenter came home. There would he sit, His chair tipped back against an apple-tree, A shining pallor on his unshaved cheek, His eyes like wind-blown lights that meet the dark. And, if we paused to greet him, one slow hand Would motion gently to his head and fall In cordial hopelessness and a dim smile Moved on his lips a second and was gone. He sat there through the silken August days, The patient guest of inhospitable life. What did he think, those lethal Summer hours, Midst color and midst heat? (Red cardinals Sutured the scar-like stream ; on apple-boughs The flame-stroked Tanager startled the green. . .) Grudged he the misty dawns? the inevitable dark Vowing all life to silence and the stars? 43 And, seeing his boy at play upon the earth, And in the height, the airy-cushioned hawk Loll on the wind with wide and vital wings, Did he, too sick for strength, too tired for play, Forbear to mark his labor's end? — the while The harvesters went forth, the peddlers passed, The village-grocer-carts, the carriers Jogged on the road of hope, of things that last Their time appointed on the wholesome earth ! Dear God, what didst thou let him think? I passed And could have wept the soundness of my strength, To see him waiting for the whim of death, So quietly, so humbly in the shade. I had no myrrh to give, unless a prayer That Christ might bless his common calvary. Ill I read, some days ago, that he was gone. This Carpenter, who knew our lovely hills, Now knows the visioned vastnesses of death Now sees the Carpenter of Nazareth. 44 THE ORCHARD-SEA TO M. L. D. BERRIES are red at the orchard's far end, And the high, pleasant grasses caress the long hill. See, at the top how the strippling-trees bend, As their crests brush the cloud-webs that hover so still ! And through the long grasses that sway like the sea, Rideth my Baby-fair's craft to me. Hark ! as I work to ingather the fruit, I am hailed in a tongue that the fairies may spell ; Brave, the wee craft lurcheth over yon root ! — Should one call her a craft or a grass-ocean shell ? What matter? since breasting the wild orchard-sea, Fareth my white-and-gold Love to me ! 45 BERRY-BOY BERRY-BOY of August, with your shining pail, — Shining eyes and fruit-stained grin, Bare-foot, blue-shirt imp o' sin — Wander in the highway, byway and the dale. Where the old wall totters and the woods begin ! Berry-boy of August, whistling like a bird, (Tyrant of the toad and turtle, Skilled, from slings, the stone to hurtle !) Who but Pan, as playmate blew that music, heard Far away on dream-coasts in a grove of myrtle? Berry-boy of August, galliard at thy toil, Plucking atoms of the night From each bush where they alight, What a jewel-burden, what a pirate's spoil, Worth a speck o' silver and a glorious kite ! 46 RESOLUTION WHEN all the bulk of earth hath change incurred, — Been quickened into Life a space, to pass Back to such stuff as clouds the way-side grass — Remain the ghosts of Music and the Word Man tamed to poesie. Each age hath heard Each speak, in echoes from Time's dim crevasse, And in clear vatic rhythm, to touch the mass, With austere truth, when listless, it hath erred. So hath each great one left a little part Of what was nearer to him than the beat Of his own pulse — yea, even a speck of strong Sure immortality in the aged mart. Lord, when this planet writhes in final heat, What wilt thou do with all the earth's old song? 47 MINE HABITATION WHEN I have loved and worked and paid full score And see upon the threshold of Death's door The sombre-visaged host, all welcoming, I 'd not be tardy in mine entering, Nor shrink from unknown immortality ; Nay, though the spirit quail at what it see, — Warm from the body's close embrace and pent So lately in the weakness it has rent — From the familiar life of love and sin, To stranger death may I go bravely in ! This be my one regret ! — for we must hope That man meet man where none shall grope For truth — mine eyes shall never see again The place I foremost love. What though the strain Of rousing trump despoil each tomb and flesh Knit rotted bone to bone in life afresh, And we companions' faces do acclaim, My dwelling-place is not. Time owns the blame. A city gnawed with its encroaching streets My wood and hill. . . Years melt and the world meets Decrepitly its tasks, withered and shrunk. Perchance my cherished spot in slime has s'unk To the foul bottom of some sluggish sea As yet unborn ! — shorn of fertility And fruit, these fields ! 48 Alas ! the world is old, The seas grown sleepy and the Summers cold. And we, the Risen, quaffing renewed breath, Find earth as strange as erstwhile found we death. So shall the Great God look with gentle eyes, If I bear one sad thought to Paradise. 49 AN EVEN-SONG THE woodland's twilight radiance sinks in brown, The leaves have changed to greenish mist black-barred, While in the West, reluctant Day casts down Her tribute-stuffs to Evening, many-starred. Few moments since, the top-most twigs of oak, The very leaves, were frangible and gold, So brittle-thin, small wonder that some broke And fell before the breeze upon the mould. Night's purple ministers have stored away All treasure but one ultimate gold thread That loosely stitches heaven to earth's dull grey And seams the stars in clusters overhead. Ah ! now the aisles are tenantless no more ; Day's unbelief obscured the wood-gods' fane, But darkness can sweet mysteries restore, Bring from each shrub some dryad-sigh of pain. And every air reverberates with sound. The owl may spend his woeful note till dawn . . . A dead stick snaps ! what dim, suspicious ground ! This hand outstretched might touch a shrinking faun ! 50 My heart is watching from the covert's close, Its every sense laid bare to loveliness That deepens inly, as the open rose Cups all her richest color in recess. 51 EARTH-THOUGHT i iT MOUNT the vast and vacant lanes of light, A Oblivious of the fearful voids of space. And when the golden Power has bathed my face With rich, creative heat, I leave his sight To drift through misty silences of night, Lifting to warmth some day-forsaken place. ^Eons and aeons, midst the wheeling race, I spawn the mass apportioned to my might. "I bear unreckoned life, — things that are bold, Who curb my wanton waters and compel Their craft on vagrant winds. They war and lust Then slumber and return their borrowed dust ; Alway they grope to find the Power's spell — But die! and I endure, though I am old." 52 MOON-GRIEF THE cold, gaunt Moon looked on the distant earth, And somberly she mused : "I have no tears, No rains to weep ; no winds, these many years Sigh for mine aridness. My youngest birth Is all-consumed, my offspring dead to worth. Only, dumb-mouthed a crater-brood uprears A million gaping lips, to hail the spheres, That find no utterance to sound their dearth. Ah ! World, that gleams so far in the earth-shine, What if thine issue fester thy fair flanks With sordid cities? Though they stab each hill For gold and mingle blood with dust and brine, And drive the oceans through thy closed banks, Thou art life-bearer to the Great One still ! " 53 TO H. R. H. THE DUKE OF CONNAUGHT ON HIS APPOINTMENT AS GOVERNOR-GEN- ERAL TO THE DOMINION OF CANADA A SON to many sons hath England sent, From the old stronghold of true brotherhood, To this far younger gathering of her race. She sends him forth, the King's wise governor, Mature and fine, one of her goodly men. What shall he mean to us, this son of kings, England's Duke Arthur, come unto our shores? He is to guide the thought of multitudes, To touch the hands, in amity, of those Who thread the arteries of this North land, Who feed into the solemn solitudes Constructive life ! He is to learn the ways Of these his younger kinsmen, serving them (Men swiftly sprung to sudden eminence Without the gifts of brave inheritance) With his fair service, knowing if he stoop, He shall but rise the loftier anew. Ah Canada ! yet let him give us more, Heir of great Arthur whom the poets love, Whom young lads dream of with wide, wistful eyes ! Our giant land hath limbs that grow full strong, 54 Muscle and brawn and rich fertility. But still, O Brother, still the spirit sleeps. Lo ! some do mock at age and call it dust, Deriding custom and despoiling life Of veriest living, in their brain-warped hunt For gold, for change, for what another hath ! A man is valued, not by what his mind Hath ably garnered, but by what he holds Within the clenched fingers of his hand. Duke Arthur, thou hast come to us from where The good of Veneration still abides, Where seeping knowledge of a nation's spring, Gathers in frequent pools that flash before The world's astonishment — poets, heroes, Artists, Philosophers and manful kings ! Let us accept thee, Prince, to represent Not only our liege-lord, but all the great Broad spirit of the best that England hath. Let us believe that thou hast come to wake With that, our nation-soul into a high Humility — such as King Arthur wore! That this young Athlete, starting on the race, May bow his head for knighthood, to the Past. 55 THE KNOWER THE ageless One, amid the childish band, Thought as a child, and all fair life He scanned With simple, curious sight. Yea, He was one With the child-heart from the eternal land. The ageless One looked down on her who kneeled To bathe His feet with tears. Then was revealed No more, in Him, the child, but sentient love, Aware of life, of weakness' bitter yield. Toward Judah's city gazed the ageless One, Brooding, like some wise, watchful star upon Man's yearnings, linked to impotence and sin. And God, among the olives, wept alone. 56 THE CRUCIFIXION THE dauntless Christ of suffering Sags on the cumbered cross, Pure, bruised and slain — White, in His death of pain As drooping blood-root flung upon grey moss. And all around the King, The lowering clouds have come And wind about the hill in protest dumb, To hide the body of the Lord From the astonishment of Heaven's horde ; While ceaseless, in the apprehensive pause, Flickers the labored breath That Mary draws, In tearless love and grief before God's death ! And then the voice of startled Nature wakes. The passion of the outraged earth Abounds and breaks In threnody of dearth. Peels out the anguish of the air that fills The hollows of the moaning hills. But lo ! it rains not. While her Lord must sleep Nor Mary nor the earth find facile tears to weep. Vague darkness falters through the day. The hosts of men with curious eyes, Who came to stare upon the agonies 57 Of the serene Offender's late defeat, Have fled with loosened tongues away. And Mary stands beside His blood-marked feet, With lifted look to pierce the blackness, spun About harsh Calvary — And sees nor man, nor One in Trinity Upon that mighty cross — only her Son ! 58 EARTH-LOVE EARTH, above all, can make us best content, Who love her harvests and her fecund ground : The meek fields, lying hopeful neath the wound Of furtive plough ! new foliage, drooping spent And languid from its long embodiment Within the bud ! and fine, vague threads of sound — Limitless life, moving in a profound Simplicity of woodland incident ! Earth is the Healer, whose slow, kindly art Renews vitality, gives wine for myrrh ; Earth is the Teacher, with reward and rod, Offering her knowledge to man's wondering heart; Earth is the Lover and the Laborer Who bears and rears incessantly for God. 59 HOUSE-OPENING I FOUND the house all winter-bound and still ; As thick and fine as wool the soft dust clung ; Dark cobwebs bellied from the beams like jibs, When the damp, swollen sash was upward flung, Admitting April air to lathy ribs — It caused through the whole frame a sighing thrill ! The chairs were huddled white, like frightened sheep, The rooms gaped wide and strange, as though some trick Had changed them from their warm and homely size To clammy spaces, dreary, wan and sick. The books slouched on their shelves before my eyes. The house had slept a dumb, resentful sleep. Then the stout furnace fed the icy veins With heat, each shutter creaked back on its hinge ; The hot scent of the budding woods made stir, And sunlight grained the dust in golden tinge. The linen-shelves were sweet with lavender, And hearth-fires hummed their mezza-voce strains. Water and air and work ! A jocund task To deal such loving kindness to this place, So meek and loyal in long servitude ! Thus might one bathe a dear and soiled face, Smiling to find the labor glad and good — To see the face put off an ugly mask ! 60 Now in the silences of dusk, I rest Alone among the ordered books and brood On Life — connecting length by length — That gave this dwelling in the mountain-wood ; With wearied flesh, I find my Spirit's strength And feel the Builders' dreams most manifest. 61 SONNET I HAVE been sitting long, this afternoon, Trading a talk of tales — fair merchandise To barter while the passing day-light flies, Or purchase for the gold of wit's doubloon ! Now the gay company is gone, and soon Are spent the ghosts of laugh and mimicries — Indifferent gain at best, when more I prize This stillness with its meditation-boon. I turn from them ; even the thought of thee Is dearer and our wordlessness more worth. Thou knowest my mind's wares to thee belong, But speech unfolds flower-like in Arcady. So, close within the dusk, too glad for mirth, Beloved choose — my silence or my song ! 62 SONNET THAT I should work, I may not well deny; In truth, Beloved, I have sent to school Some stamm'ring rhymes, to bid them tread by rule, But all the while, the master-thoughts would fly To take each phase of our dear constancy And — spurning dogged effort for a tool, That drives set purpose toward a dunce's stool — Bourgeon the tale in careless rhapsody. Reason, I '11 leave a recluse in his cell, For heart is calling, and the hours pass. Let Wisdom's hermit hold deserted mass ! My love has gone among the fields to dwell, Now hawthorne-gay, now sad as asphodel, It lives untrammelled as the common grass. 63 SONNET I SOUGHT my garden on a windy eve, When heaven was grey and near and I — alone. A sudden gust of far-off moods, once-known Came on the scent of heliotrope to weave A startled questing in the heart, to leave Mere mind aloof. How red one bush had grown, Heavy with roses ! and white fox-gloves shone Like fadeless rockets, gleaming in reprieve. And there, when all my life was gathering The sense of beauty as one gathers flowers, Thy presence came, significant and close ; As though long weeks were dreamed and not one thing Divided us from all our loveliest hours. Dear, wast thou in my garden ? Ah ! God knows. 64 OLD SONG SORROW, Sorrow, Whence come ye? whither go? "I come from the dunes of pallid moons, And out on the tears of yester-years I pass on winds of woe." Sorrow, Sorrow, And wilt thou not abide? " When the sap of grief dries in the leaf When the shadows shrink at evening's brink, My barque must take the tide." Cling to me, kind Sorrow, No shadow giveth rest. Ah Jesu ! my Sweet hath silent feet, His eyes that were light are lidded night, His soul wakes in my breast — Sorrow ! 65 "THE PROSPERITY OF FOOLS SHALL DESTROY THEM " THE empty plains are ripe for useful yield, The trackless woodlands need a master-hand, The silent realms await some sturdy band Who fear their God and till the mellow field, — Men of old frontier-mould, whose living sealed Their tireless faith ; whose iron years were planned To forge a vital state and leave the land To such sound growth as vatic gaze revealed. But now the reign of steam a turgid horde, Oft-times of weaklings, strews upon the soil, That they who own the steam may grasp the spoil, Careless of future, so they reap reward ! What hybrid will this human mass afford To mar or make a nation by its toil ? 66 MY MOTHER SHE lays her life, a gentleness along Our lives, more rugged and, 'midst ceaseless strain Of illness that affronts her daily force, Bears with her kindness — like wood-shade in June ! She is the first to measure happiness By our content, to lavish motherhood On the grown children, who have greater need, Perchance than little ones, of solace sweet. She is the last to see our hopes laid by ; She feeds our joy with smiles and gives her tears To cool our sadness. Frail and human-faint, Her life reveals the courage of the Spring. 67 CANOEING ON THE ALLEGHENY RIVER SILENT as time, the river feels its way, With lines as supple as the curving throat That purely sweeps to meet a woman's breast. Mighty, the river stirs between the hills, Who fling rich tribute to their passing lord : Rain, that calls noisily from root and stone ; Shadows, that wing the current as a hawk, Dark-hovering, wings the upper, brilliant air. The Sun has withered at the touch of night, And languid mists creep up the mountain-sides, As though some hand had brimmed the valley o'er With great, sky-weary clouds. And there, beyond The shaggy outline of the hills, I see That monthly miracle, the ripened Moon, Stained by the drowsy fog, till it would seem To be a bleeding Moon, snared in the trees ; The while its substance trickles down the slope Onto the curious waters, till they flush In timorous pity with swift shudderings. An owl is calling in the wood ; some voice, Upon the further shore, dies in a laugh. The browsing cattle lilt their lazy bells In blur of sound from hidden pasturage. 68 Next dins a metalled clangor on the ear, Where man has bade the serviceable rock Yield him its hoarded oil ; and, in the night, That pulsing crash might well rise from the forge Of Vulcan toiling midst the massive cliffs. The cadence fades, as we float on, and dies Amid the endless wreathing of the stream, Until the very silence has grown dumb. And then the Moon swings free, far in the height Of gleaming, icy space and all the flow Of Allegheny rides in golden flood. 69 TO GENERAL NOGHI THE EAST WHY should the spirit keep its mortal dress, When Noghi's master shed mortality? The Prince divine he served through vital stress, Nor would outlast the glory of his lord ; His guerdon was death's honor — nothing less! THE WEST Blazon it forth to make the papers sell : "The Samurai's heroic sacrifice ! For suicide, preserved from shot and shell." " What heights of fame, what depth of crude belief ! Now should such action merit heav'n or hell ? " THE IDEALIST Brave, honest gentleman, who met the strife Of war and grief with a priest's faithfulness, Our lips may question love so strong and rife — Even thy mate's and thine, that wrought ye death ; But hearts acclaim that love purer than life ! 70 ECHOES DEAL gently with the past, let us not scorn That Dreamer whom this present self denies, Whose troubled paths are censured by these eyes Grown sapient with the times. The years have shorn For us Life's fleece of gold and nature, worn Of youth, restless to spend its energies And penetrate the mummer Fate's disguise, Is gone from all the beckonings of morn. So, in this customed round, if there should start Some long-forgotten stab of poignant grief, Some dead, essential joy we held in fief To youth, — accept the gleam with open heart, With-holding praise or blame till it depart, And warm our spirits at the old belief. 71 A WAKEFUL LUTANIST THE Moon hath moulted one long, silver plume Into the dimness of mine upper room ; Thus through my soul Thy love broke in and 'mong its shadows stole. The lute of dreams hath shining strings — alas ! They blacken where these fingers trace and pass. I strike the lute, And all the music of the dream is mute. Come to me in the fields, come in the sun, Follow me from the dark ! Where day's begun Heart, follow after, Till winds are wine and love is washed in laughter ! Here in the lonely night, all changeth shape, Like dangerous wine, pulped from the wholsome grape. Ah ! speak — speak now ! I touched the soul of thee, — are thou not thou ? Give me the cordial madder of thine hope To dye the shadows ruddy where I grope, And wipe with trust, From these taut nerves the doubt of humid rust. 72 Love, may I know thee in the pits of sleep ? Crush me the poppy's juice; I will drink deep And search the stars, Or craters with their baleful, muffled jars ! And if I faint and reel midst worlds uncouth, Ah wilt thou find and kiss me mouth to mouth ? E'er the Moon dips, Heal me the music of these fevered lips ? Repair the tangle that this head hath spun, With thy strong hands, and breathe : " Dear foolish One, I kept each tryst. Sleep on my breast in peace, wan lutanist. " We are of earth and know the faults of earth. We grow ; Beloved let us grow toward mirth. What hindereth That we may give, forgive and love till death ? " Ah ! follow to the light where wind is wine ! Thy love is cast in other mould than mine ; 1 was inept To lash my credence when it might have slept. Bring me such service as thy love affords, Forgetting ritual in fervent words ! And cheer my soul Before the flame within thy golden bowl. 73 Love, love, my bread were broken at thy need ; To warm thee, chilled, I 'd blow my fire's last gleed. Thou who art strong Shrink not beneath the shadows of my song ! Ah follow to the hills where nothing wars ! And when the leaves are fretting like close stars In winds above, We will nor touch nor speak, but know our love. 74 PAVLOWA AND NOVIKOFF DANCING "automne bacchanale" MOTION of ecstasy, whorled to us hither, Flesh light as leaves that the Autumn-frosts wither ! Creatures of myth, lo ! a turbulent Chance Fashioned your knees amidst musical reeds, Bred in your limbs the onrush of the wind, Rhymed ye and loosed ye to all Grace designed. Come, in a gust of wild bacchanal dance, Fury of joy, when the vine-fruit bleeds ! Stampeth the hoof of the Faun, while his mate Mocks neath the moon — as a rose wields her thorn ! Masterly springeth the male in his hate; Flies she, like ripples of shade on the corn ; — Turning to capture as Day turns to Night ! Seeking his breast from the pang of the flight ! Rapturous, quivering, beautiful twain ! Willows at rest from the gale, again ! 75 A LETTER A LETTER is a promise half-defined, Between some lives ; a hint of all fair thought From which its words are impotently wrought. A letter is the shadow of a mind, Unto whose very being eyes are blind ; A distant, vital hail, that time has brought Across its ground-swell, with old meanings fraught To fill the heart with what is but outlined. A letter has a body and a soul, It counts its value nor in length nor tale. Dear child, and if I send you but one page, Ink-veined with drifting fancies — feinting scroll ! — By less and less mine ardor doth not fade, Love handles clouds, forgetting to be sage. 76 TRAVELLERS i ill THERE hast thou strayed, old friend, V V these countless moons?" " My keel hath cleft a dozen battling seas, My vision probed forgotten verities, My foot-fall beaten on earth's boundaries. Where hast thou stayed, tell me, dear calm- eyed One?" " My dreams have laid their courses midst the stars, Mine eyes have read the rune of pain's slow scars, My watch-worn love has trembled near Heaven's bars." The wanderer looked humbly on the friend. " Thy moorings granted more than trade-winds' breath ; Thy sight hath found, where mine but ques- tioneth ; I reached the gates of dawn — but thou — of death ! " 77 SKI-RUNNER'S SONG TO P. F. J. THE cold North wind has bellied out The slack of all the clouds ; From the dipped mast-head of the evening sun Fall taut the slim gold shrouds. The World seems sliding down through space, Her canvas white unfurled, And my skis and I from the proud hill's top Come sliding down the world. The seas of snow are purple-grey And blue each billowed mound ! And I fly as swift as the strong wild duck, — As swift as falling sound ! Down, down, down the weltering snows That reel away like foam, Through the staring track on the hill's great flank Beneath a windy dome ! Both heart and nerve in close accord ! The earth a blur of things ! Until drunk with joy of the tempest-flight The lowlands steal my wings. 78 TO THE THOMAS ORCHESTRA THE orchestra was like a magic grove Of dark fraternal trees, whose singing leaves Were many hands that fluttered in the strong And febrile Morris of the music's storm; — Like green and mirthful leaves* who whirling strain At sturdy stems, eager to be released, Their faces pale with tremulous desire To ride the rushing gale high up to heaven ! But even as the trees clothe them in peace Anew, and weary joy, so all the leaves In this wise human grove have chimed on each The tale of glory felt within the sap, And the white tremor of their ecstasy Sinks in a languid, satisfied repose. 79 DIVORCE THINK of me love, think now each tenderness You thought of old, before the silver cord Of life be loosed. Ah ! let me feel thy word Anoint my tiring brow in pure caress ! If only in the yawning hour of stress I did not know such solace were outpoured, Granting the chrism my spirit has implored I could endure and count this strife success. But mite on mite, the earth unrolls between ; And who are they who may love much and keep? We clasp some hand, some broken message fling, And pass where labors will not let us weep. And Time deals out false balm, diminishing The noble hurt of Loss that Love had seen. 80 U AND THE WATERS PREVAILED EXCEEDINGLY" THE furious heavens have hoarded the rain ; From the mountainous winds the avalanche falls. The rivers are bloated And bay angry-throated, But still the cold torrents drum down on the plain, And the storm in the forest buffets and mauls. The cities are caught in a doom that appals, For the staggering streams have ruptured each scar ; There foaming and scudding And massively flooding The river heaves out, on the land, in its brawls, And enfolds a pale town as night wraps a star. Awake, O ye people, Death rides swift and far ! Where you feasted with mates and carolled your glees, There rages the river And laps, as you shiver ! No sound in the streets of a horse, or a car, But the cries of those trapped in terrible seas ! When human and cold-stricken fruit from the trees Drops to death in the current — God, heal the sight ! O pity forsaken, When fires must awaken To scorch a cracked cup to the sickening leas ! May the olive-leaf come with dawn to that night ! 81 ANNUAL TRAMP OF THE SNOW-SHOE CLUBS OF MONTREAL THROUGH the snowy, gusty storm, — White confetti tossed o'er all ! — See ! the snow-shoe clubs do form For their yearly carnival ! Light raquettes are shoulder-borne To the sounding drum and horn ! Grey-and-white dim ghosts of night, Wearing tuque and moccasin ! Blanket-coats now colored bright, Weird as old Arabian Jinn ! 'Neath their torches' windy flare Now they 're marching, pair on pair ! Thus they hold traditions old, And recall their hero-tales : How the simple "Coureurs" bold Ranged the forest without trails ! And the Priests, 'mid snows untrod Taught the Iroquois of God ! 82 FOUR STUDIES IN SCARLET THE blithe Spring winds beat on their tabret-leaves, Stretched taut and green upon each fibrous frame, And, redder than its heart, the Tanager Clings to a twig — a scrap of vocal flame ! The dim ravine is cool in August noon; There, arrogant and slim, the Cardinal-flow'rs Start like blood-vested butterflies, or glow Like sudden drops from Bacchus' winy show'rs. The pitying Cedar shelters on her breast A wisp of Autumn-vine, — belike, some thread The Norns spun richly in a Hero's cord That broke, and breaking loosed this stained shred ! The pallid Winter guards her glutted fires. The ruddy tides of Dawn and Eve draw nigh And strew their cloud-conchs, or their frail star-shells Upon the open beaches of the sky. 83 RODIN'S "LE PENSEUR" THIS man of thought has sundered all the bars That gaol his mighty spirit in the street, And like some fighter, senseless of defeat, Stabs with bold vision up among the stars. Sentry of science in relentless wars, He sifts the sham from truth yet incomplete, Taming construction from a lonely seat, Sunk in a selflessness no clamor jars. Type of new demi-gods who deftly fling A pulsing speech athwart the tangled airs ! They sever continents and blend for use The waters of the earth. With clouds they wing ! O Mind that grapples Fate, that dreams and dares Thou art a grim mortality's excuse. 84 RODIN'S "ADAM" HE stands, new-moulded from the drowsy dust, Full-grown to all life's savage mysteries ; Feeling the stuff of self in struggling knees And sagging limbs ; still burdened with slow lust, — Earth's dazed desire for nescience 'neath the crust Of earth ! His strength unfolds, ev'n as the trees Unfold their young, bewildered leaves; he sees Not yet, from heavy eyes, God's imposed trust. O Adam, myth-crowned father of our kind, I did not dream that thou couldst be so faint, Or feel humanity as some dull shame, That bound an eagle-spirit in restraint ! Who shall oppress that massive brow with blame. Although Jehovah's warning found the blind? 85 RODIN'S " PYGMALION AND GALATEA" O FORTUNATE Pygmalion, thou hast known The holy joy of thought and touch and form, And love's most tender and most desperate storm, Although the woman was but lustrous stone ! Then to thine haggard longing, change was shown : Deriding all the laws of Nature's norm, While Galatea's flesh grew soft and warm . . . She stood like some pure blood-root, April-blown. And there thou watchedst her in dumb amaze; That hand — once sure — now halting at her knee, While all thine hope is centered on her eyes, To find, within that lightly-petalled gaze Acceptance of her unborn entity, And love's first shock of tremulous surprise. 86 LOWLY MIRACLES COME, share with me this simple, fleeting joy ! A vase of iris-blooms before some books ! The late sun filters through fine, yellow sprays And limns a bud against Egyptian lore. The room is one with twilight, save this stroke Of amber gleam, that, even as I write, Restores to shadow all the shining flowers. "O thou whom my soul loveth" — thus I love, That I would take the day's most haunting change On some familiar, serviceable thing And lift it up unto thy curious gaze, That we may bare our hearts to self-same joy ; For I so need thee when the spirit draws The utmost miracle from sight and sound . . . And yet I need thee in the rude noon's stress. THREE HUNDRED COPIES OF THIS BOOK PRINTED ON VAN GELDER HAND-MADE PAPER AND THE TYPE DISTRIBUTED IN THE MONTH OF JULY MDCCCCXIV LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 018 603 534 3