.' ^^'io ' ■ *!*' %/ .• 4 1?^*. '. .4far. And, bright and soft as any glimmering star, Eyes holy as a prayer. 102 DOWN HOME Down home to-night the moonshine falls Across a hill with daisies pied, The pear tree by the garden gate Beckons with white arms like a bride. A savor as of trampled fern Along the whispering meadow stirs, And, beacon of immortal love, A light is shining through the firs. To my old gable window creeps The night wind with a sigh and song. And, weaving ancient sorceries. Thereto the gleeful moonbeams throng. Beside the open kitchen door My mother stands all lovingly. And o'er the pathways of the dark She sends a yearning thought to me. It seeks and finds my answering heart Which shall no more be peace-possessed Until I reach her empty arms And lay my head upon her breast. 103 THE CHOICE Life, come to me in no pale guise and ashen, I care not for thee in such placid fashion! I would share widely, Life, In all thy joy and strife, Would sound thy deeps and reach thy highest passion, With thy delight and with thy suffering rife. Whether I bide with thee in cot or palace, I would drink deeply. Life, of thy great chalice, Even to its bitter lees — Yea, shrinking not from these, Since out of bitterness come strength and solace And wisdom is not won in slumberous ease. Wan peace, uncolored days, were a poor favor ; To lack great pain and love were to lack savor. Life, take the heart of me And fill it brimmingly, No matter with what poignant brew or flavor. So that it may not shrunk and empty be. Yea, Life, thus would I live, nor play at living. The best of me for thy best gladly giving. With an unfaltering cheer. Greeting thee year by year. Even in thy dourest mood some good achieving. Until I read thy deep-hid meaning clear. 104 TWILIGHT IN THE GARDEN The scent of the earth is moist and good In the dewy shade Of the tall, dark poplars whose slender tops Against the sunset bloom are laid, And a robin is whistling in the copse By the dim spruce wood. The west wind blowing o'er branch and flower Out of the wold, Steals through the honeysuckle bower And bears away on its airy wings Odors that breath of paradise; Dim are the poppies' splendid dyes, But many a pallid primrose swings Its lamp of gold. A white moth flits from tree to tree Like a wandering soul; Deep in the lily a muffled boom Tells of a honey-drunken bee Wildered with sweets in that ivory bowl; Many a subtle melody, Many a rare sound all unknown To the lusty daylight's fuller tone Threads with its magic this hush and gloom. K)i5 Many a dear thought deep in the heart, Many a memory, dulcet and fine. Wakes as we walk in the garden to-night. In this soft kissing of dark and light. When the world has drawn itself apart From our spirit's shrine. 106 MY LEGACY My friend has gone away from me From shadow into perfect light, But leaving a sweet legacy. My heart shall hold it long in fee — A grand ideal, calm and bright, A song of hope for ministry, A faith of unstained purity, A thought of beauty for delight — These did my friend bequeath to me ; And, more than even these can be, The worthy pattern of a white, Unmarred life lived most graciously. Dear comrade, loyal thanks to thee Who now hath fared beyond my sight, My friend has gone away from me. But leaving a sweet legacy. 107 GRATITUDE I THANK thee, friend, for the beautiful thought That in words well chosen thou gavest to me, Deep in the life of my soul it has wrought With its own rare essence to ever imbue me, To gleam like a star over devious ways, To bloom like a flower on the drearest days — Better such gift from thee to me Than gold of the hills or pearls of the sea. For the luster of jewels and gold may depart, And they have in them no life of the giver. But this gracious gift from thy heart to my heart Shall witness to me of thy love forever; Yea, it shall always abide with me As a part of my immortality ; For a beautiful thought is a thing divine. So I thank thee, oh, friend, for this gift of thine. 108 FANCIES Surely the flowers of a hundred springs Are simply the souls of beautiful things ! The poppies aflame with gold and red Were the kisses of lovers in days that are fled. The purple pansies with dew-drops pearled Were the rainbow dreams of a youngling world. The lily, white as a star apart, Was the first pure prayer of a virgin heart. The daisies that dance and twinkle so Were the laughter of children in long ago. The sweetness of all true friendship yet Lives in the breath of the mignonette. To the white narcissus there must belong The very delight of a maiden's song. And the rose, all flowers of the earth above, Was a perfect, rapturous thought of love. Oh! surely the blossoms of all the springs Must be the souls of beautiful things. 109 ONE OF THE SHEPHERDS We were out on the hills that night To watch our sheep ; Drowsily by the fire we lay Where the waning flame did flicker and leap, And some were weary and half asleep, And some talked low of their flocks and the fright Of a lion that day. But I had drawn from the others apart; I was only a lad, And the night's great silence so filled my heart That I dared not talk and I dared not jest; The moon had gone down behind the hill And even the wind of the desert was still ; As the touch of death the air was cold. And the world seemed all outworn and old ; Yet a poignant delight in my soul was guest. And I could not be sad. Still were my thoughts the thoughts of youth Under the skies: I dreamed of the holy and tender truth That shone for me in my mother's eyes; Of my little sister's innocent grace. And the mirthful lure in the olive face Of a maid I had seen at the well that day, Singing low as I passed that way, And so sweet and wild were the notes of her song, That I listened long. 110 Was it the dawn that silvered and broke Over the hill? Each at the other looked in amaze, And never a breathless word we spoke. Fast into rose and daffodil Deepened that splendor; athwart its blaze That pierced like a sword the gulf of night We saw a form that was shaped of the light, And we veiled our faces in awe and dread To hearken the tidings the Bright One told — Oh! wonderful were the words he said — Of a Child in Bethlehem's manger old. The stars were drowned in that orient glow ; The sky was abloom like a meadow in spring; But each blossom there was a radiant face And each flash of glory a shining wing; They harped of peace and great good will, And such was their music that well I know There can never again in my soul be space For a sound of ill. The light died out as the sunset dies In the western skies; Swift went we to the Bethlehem khan, Many our questions laughed to scorn, But one, a gray and wrinkled man, With strange, deep eyes that searched the heart, Led us down to the child new-born In a dim-lighted cave apart. Ill There on the straw the mother lay Wan and white, But her look was so holy and rapt and mild That it seemed to shed a marvellous light, Faint as the first rare gleam of day. Around the child. It was as other children are Saving for something in the eyes, Starlike and clear and strangely wise — Then came a sudden thought to me Of a lamb I had found on the waste afar ; Lost and sick with hunger and cold, I had brought it back in my arms to the fold For tender ministry. Dawn had flooded the east as a wave When we left the cave; All the world suddenly seemed to be Young and pure and joyous again; The others lingered to talk with the men, Full of wonder and rapture still; But I hastened back to the fold on the hill To tend the lamb that had need of me. 112 IF MARY HAD KNOWN If Mary had known When she held her Babe's hands in her own — Little hands that were tender and white as a rose, - All dented with dimples from finger to wrist, Such as mothers have kissed — ' That one day they must feel the fierce blows Of a hatred insane, Must redden with holiest stain. And grasp as their guerdon the boon of the bitterest pain, Oh, I think that her sweet, brooding face Must have blanched with its anguish of knowledge above her embrace. But — if Mary had known. As she held her Babe's hands in her own. What a treasure of gifts to the world they would bring; What healing and hope to the hearts that must ache. And without him must break; Had she known they would pluck forth death's sting And set open the door Of the close, jealous grave evermore. Making free who were captives in sorrow and dark- ness before. Oh, I think that a gracious sunrise Of rapture had broken across the despair of her eyes! 113 If Mary had known As she sat with her baby alone, And guided so gently his bare little feet To take their first steps from the throne of her knee, How weary must be The path that for them should be meet ; And how it must lead To the cross of humanity's need. Giving hissing and shame, giving blame and reproach for its meed. Oh, I think that her tears would have dewed Those dear feet that must walk such a hard, starless way to the Rood! But — if Mary had known. As she sat with her Baby alone. On what errands of mercy and peace they would go. How those footsteps would ring through the years of all time With an echo sublime. Making holy the land of their woe. That the pathway they trod Would guide the world back to its God, And lead ever upward away from the grasp of the clod, She had surely forgot to be sad And only remembered to be most immortally glad ! 114 If Mary had known, As she held him so closely, her own, Cradling his shining, fair head on her breast, Sunned over with ringlets as bright as the morn, That a garland of thorn On that tender brow would be pressed Till the red drops would fall Into eyes that looked out upon all, Abrim with a pity divine over clamor and brawl, Oh, I think that her lullaby song Would have died on her lips into wailing impassioned and long! But — if Mary had known. As she held him so closely, her own. That over the darkness and pain he would be The Conqueror hailed in all oncoming days. The world's hope and praise. And the garland of thorn. The symbol of mocking and scorn Would be a victorious diadem royally worn. Oh, I think that ineffable joy Must have flooded her soul as she bent o'er her won- derful Boy! 115 AT THE LONG SAULT ("Searching the pile of corpses the victors found four French- men still breathing. Three had scarcely a spark of life . the fourth seemed likely to survive and they reserved him for future torments." Parkman's History.) A PRISONER under the stars I lie, With no friend near; To-morrow they lead me forth to die, The stake is ready, the torments set, They will pay in full their deadly debt ; But I fear them not ! Oh, none could fear Of those who stood by Daulac's side — While he prayed and laughed and sang and fought In the very reek of death — and caught The martyr passion that flamed from his face As he died ! Where he led us we followed glad. For we loved him well; Some there were that held him mad. But we knew that a heavenly rage had place In that dauntless soul; the good God spake To us through him ; we had naught to do Save only obey; and when his eyes Flashed and kindled like storm-swept skies, And his voice like a trumpet thrilled us through, We would have marched with delight for his sake To the jaws of hell. 116 The mists hung blue and still on the stream At the marge of dawn ; The rapids laughed till we saw their teeth Like a snarling wolf's fangs glisten and gleam; Sweetly the pine trees underneath The shadows slept in the moonlight wan; Sweetly beneath the steps of the spring The great, grim forest was blossoming ; And we fought, that springs for other men Might blossom again. Faint, thirst-maddened we prayed and fought By night and by day ; Eyes glared at us with serpent hate — Yet sometimes a hush fell, and then we heard naught Save the wind's shrill harping far away. The piping of birds, and the softened calls Of the merry, distant water-falls; Then of other scenes we thought — Of valleys beloved in sunny France, Purple vineyards of song and dance, Hopes and visions roseate; Of many a holy festal morn. And many a dream at vesper bell — But anon the shuddering air was torn By noises such as the fiends of hell Might make in holding high holiday! Once, so bitter the death-storm hailed. We shrank and quailed. 117 Daulac sprang out before us then, Shamed in our fears; Glorious was his face to see, The face of one who listens and hears Voices unearthly, summonings high — Rang his tone like a clarion, "Men, See yonder star in the golden sky. Such a man's duty is to him, A beacon that will not flicker nor dim, Shining through darkness and despair. Almost the martyr's crown is yours! Thinking the price too high to be paid. Will you leave the sacrifice half made? I tell you God will answer the prayer Of the soul that endures! '^Comrades, far in the future I see A mighty land ; Throned among the nations of earth. Noble and happy, calm and free ; As a veil were lifted I see her stand, And out of that future a voice to me Promises that our names shall shine On the page of her story with lustre divine Impelling to visions and deeds of worth. 118 "Ever thus since the world was begun, When a man hath given up his Hfe, Safety and freedom have been won By the holy power of self-sacrifice ; For the memory of your mother's kiss Valiantly stand to the breach again. Comrades, blench not now from the strife, Quit you like men !" Oh, we rushed to meet at our captain's side Death as a bride! All our brave striplings bravely fell. I, less fortunate, slowly came Back from that din of shot and yell Slowly and gaspingly, to know A harder fate reserved for me Than that brief, splendid agony. Through many a bitter pang and throe My spirit must to-morrow go To seek my comrades; but I bear The tidings that our desperate stand By the Long Sault has saved our land. And God has answered Daulac's prayer. 119 THE EXILE We told her that her far off shore was bleak and dour to view, And that her sky was dull and mirk while ours was smiling blue. She only sighed in answer, "It is even as ye say, But oh, the ragged splendor when the sun bursts through the gray!" We brought her dew-wet roses from our fairest sum- mer bowers, We bade her drink their fragrance, we heaped her lap with flowers; She only said, with eyes that yearned, "Oh, if ye might have brought The pale, unscented blossoms by my father's lowly cot!" We bade her listen to the birds that sang so madly sweet. The lyric of the laughing stream that dimpled at our feet; "But, O," she cried, "I weary for the music wild that stirs When keens the mournful western wind among my na- tive firs!" 120 We told her she had faithful friends and loyal hearts anear, We prayed her take the fresher loves, we prayed her be of cheer; "Oh, ye are kind and true," she wept, "but woe's me for the grace Of tenderness that shines upon my mother's wrinkled face!" 121 THE THREE SONGS The poet sang of a battle-field Where doughty deeds were done, Where stout blows rang on helm and shield And a kingdom's fate was spun With the scarlet thread of victory, And honor from death's grim revelry Like a flame-red flower was won! So bravely he sang that all who heard With the sting of the fight and the triumph were stirred. And they cried, *'Let us blazon his name on high, He has sung a song that will never die!" Again, full throated, he sang of fame And ambition's honeyed lure, Of the chaplet that garlands a mighty name, Till his listeners fired with the god-like flam.e To do, to dare, to endure! The thirsty lips of the world were fain The cup of glamor he vaunted to drain. And the people murmured as he went by, "He has sung a song that will never die !" And once more he sang, all low and apart, A song of the love that was born in his heart, Thinking to voice in unfettered strain Its sweet delight and its sweeter pain; m Nothing he cared what the throngs might say Who passed him unheeding from day to day, For he only longed with his melodies The soul of the one beloved to please. The song of war that he sang is as naught, For the field and its heroes are long forgot. And the song he sang of fame and power Was never remembered beyond its hour! Only to-day his name is known By the song he sang apart and alone, And the great world pauses with joy to hear The notes that were strung for a lover's ear. 123 IN AN OLD TOWN GARDEN Shut from the clamor of the street By an old wall with lichen grown, It holds apart from jar and fret A peace and beauty all its own. The freshness of the springtime rains And dews of morning linger here; It holds the glow of summer noons And ripest twilights of the year. Above its bloom the evening stars Look down at closing of the day, And in its sweet and shady walks Winds spent with roaming love to stray,' Upgathering to themselves the breath Of wide-blown roses white and red. The spice of musk and lavender Along its winding alleys shed. Outside are shadeless, troubled streets And souls that quest for gold and gain. Lips that have long forgot to smile And hearts that burn and ache with pain. 124 But here is all the sweet of dreams, The grace of prayer, the boon of rest, The spirit of old songs and loves Dwells in this garden blossom-blest. Here would I linger for a space. And walk herein with memory; The world will pass me as it may And hope will minister to me. 125 THE SEEKER I SOUGHT for my happiness over the world, Oh, eager and far was my quest; I sought it on mountain and desert and sea, I asked it of east and of west. I sought it in beautiful cities of men, On shores that were sunny and blue. And laughter and lyric and pleasure were mine In palaces wondrous to view; Oh, the world gave me much to my plea and my prayer But never I found aught of happiness there! Then I took my way back to a valley of old And a little brown house by a rill. Where the winds piped all day in the sentinel firs That guarded the crest of the hill ; I went by the path that my childhood had known Through the bracken and up by the glen. And I paused at the gate of the garden to drink The scent of sweet-briar again ; The homelight shone out through the dusk as of yore And happiness waited for me at the door! 126 THE POETS THOUGHT It came to him in rainbow dreams, Blent with the wisdom of the sages, Of spirit and of passion born; In words as lucent as the morn He prisoned it, and now it gleams A jewel shining through the ages. 127 THE CALL Mother of her who is close to my heart Cease to chide! For no small thing must I wander afar From the tender arms and lips of my bride — My love with eyes like the glowing star In the twilight sky apart. Coulds't thou have seen Him standing there Ere the day was born, With the mild high look that was like a prayer, Thou woulds't not marvel that I must leave all I hold most dear to answer the call Of that wonderful morn. We were casting our nets in the sea, Andrew and I; Over the mountains a young wind came To kiss the waters of Galilee, And in the calm blue northern sky The gleaming crest of old Hermon rose Girt with its diadem of snows. And the east was smit with flame. All our thoughts were simple and glad As toilers' should be; Andrew, that careless, dark-eyed lad Sang a song right merrily, Joyous of melody and word, As he worked with oar and net and sail, 128 But I dreamed of the face that would bkish and pale When my step should be heard ! Then, as we lifted heedless eyes, We saw Him there. Where the silver waters curled on the shore ; Behind Him the radiance of the skies Shining over His long, fair hair Wreathed it as with a crown of light ; And oh, the grandeur and the grace Of that pale and kingly face — We were weary and hungered with toil of the night But we thought not of it more ! He looked upon us with eyes that must see Far in bur hearts past mortal ken ; All the delights of the world grew dim — Sweeter is seemed to suffer pain And wander, outcast of men with Him, Than share in another's joy and gain; Spake He thus royally, ''Come with me ; I will make you fishers of men." Mother of her who weeps at my side Cease to chide! Thou knowest not how that one word rings Ever by day and by night in my ear, I cannot hearken to olden things I cannot listen to hope or fear; Mother of her who is dearest of all, I must follow the Nazarene's call! 129 THE OLD HOME CALLS Come back to me, little dancing feet that roam the wide world o'er, I long for the lilt of your flying steps in my silent rooms once more; Come back to me, little voices gay with laughter and with song, Come back, little hearts beating high with hopes, I have missed and mourned you long. My roses bloom in my garden walks all sweet and wet with the dew, My lights shine down on the long hill road the waning twilights through, The swallows flutter about my eaves as in the years of old. And close about me their steadfast arms the lisping pine trees fold. But I weary for you at morn and eve, O, children of my love. Come back to me from your pilgrim ways, from the seas and plains ye rove, Come over the meadows and up the lane to my door set open wide, And sit ye down where the red light shines from my welcoming fireside. 130 I keep for you all your childhood dreams, your glad- ness and delights, The joy of days in the sun and rain, the sleep of care- free nights, All the sweet faiths ye have lost and sought again shall be your own, Darlings, come to my empty heart — I am old and still and alone! 131 GENIUS A HUNDRED generations have gone into its making, With all their love and tenderness, with all their dreams and tears; Their vanished joy and pleasure, their pain and their heart-breaking, Have colored this rare blossom of the long-unfruit- ful years. Their victory and their laughter for this have strong men given, For this have sweet, dead women paid in patience which survives — That a great soul might bring the world, as from the gate of heaven, All that was rich and beautiful in those forgotten lives. 132 LOVE'S PRAYER Beloved, this the heart I offer thee Is purified from old idolatry, From outworn hopes, and from the lingering stain Of passion's dregs, by penitential pain. Take thou it, then, and fill it up for me With thine unstinted love, and it shall be An earthy chalice that is made divine By its red draught of sacramental wine. 133 THE PRISONER I LASH and writhe against my prison bars, And watch with sullen eyes the gaping crowd . . Give me my freedom and the burning stars, The hollow sky, and crags of moonlit cloud ! Once I might range across the trackless plain, And roar with joy, until the desert air And wide horizons echoed it amain : I feared no foe, for I was monarch there ! I saw my shadow on the parching sand. When the hot sun had kissed the mountain's rim ; And when the moon rose o'er long wastes of land, I sought my prey by some still river's brim ; And with me my fierce love, my tawny mate, \ Meet mother of strong cubs, meet lion's bride . . We made our lair in regions desolate. The solitude of wildernesses wide. They slew her . . . and I watched the life-blood flow From her torn flank, and her proud eyes grow dim : I howled her dirge above her while the low, Red moon clomb up the black horizon's rim. 134 Me, they entrapped . . . cowards ! They did not dare To fight, as brave men do, without disguise. And face my unleashed rage ! The hidden snare Was their device to win an untamed prize. I am a captive . . . not for me the vast, White dome of sky above the Winding sand. The sweeping rapture of the desert blast Across long ranges of untrodden land! Yet still they fetter not my thought ! In dreams I, desert-born, tread the hot wastes once more. Quench my deep thirst in cool, untainted streams. And shake the darkness with my kingly roar! 135 COMPANIONED I WALKED to-day, but not alone, Adown a windy, sea-girt lea, For memory, spendthrift of her charm, Peopled the silent lands for me. The faces of old comradeship In golden youth were round my way. And in the keening wind I heard The songs of many an orient day. And to me called, from out the pines And woven grasses, voices dear. As if from elfin lips should fall The mimicked tones of yesteryear. Old laughter echoed o'er the leas And love-lipped dreams the past had kept, From wayside blooms like honeyed bees To company my wanderings crept. And so I walked, but not alone. Right glad companionship had I, On that gray meadow waste between Dim-litten sea and winnowed sky. 136 YOU Only a long, low-lying lane That follows to the misty sea, Across a bare and russet plain Where wild winds whistle vagrantly; I know that many a fairer path With lure of song and bloom may woo, But oh! I love this lonely strath Because it is so full of you. Here we have walked in elder years. And here your truest memories wait, This spot is sacred to your tears, That to your laughter dedicate; Here, by this turn, you gave to me A gem of thought that glitters yet. This tawny slope is graciously By a remembered smile beset. Here once you lingered on an hour When stars were shining in the west, To gather one pale, scented flower And place it smiling on your breast; And since that eve its fragrance blows For me across the grasses sere. Far sweeter than the latest rose, That faded bloom of yesteryear. 137 For me the sky, the sea, the wold, Have beckoning visions wild and fair, The mystery of a tale untold, The grace of an unuttered prayer. Let others choose the fairer path That winds the dimpling valley through, I gladly seek this lonely strath Companioned by my dreams of you. 138 UNRECORDED I LIKE to think of the many words The Master in his early days Must have spoken to them of Nazareth — Words not freighted with Hfe and death, Piercing through soul and heart like swords. But gracious greeting and grateful phrase, The simple speech That plain folk utter each to each. Ere over him too darkly lay The prophet shadow of Calvary, I think he talked in very truth With the innocent gayety of youth, Laughing upon some festal day, Gently, with sinless boyhood's glee. I think if he had ever said To a mother apart. Cradling her baby's shining head, 'Thy man-child is strong of limb and heart,'* She must have been from that gladsome day Thrilled with enduring pride alway, Fearless of any future dread. Knowing the son upon her knee Worthy her pain and love would be. 139 Or if by the dusty wayside well, From the glare and heat Of the burning noon a wayfarer sought A moment's rest where the palm shade fell, And he said to him, 'The day is hot, And your road is rough for wandering feet," Then I think on his way the pilgrim went As one who has shared in a sacrament, Feeling no longer on him press The burden of his weariness. If he said to a maid, "The sunset lies Redly on Nazareth hills to-night," Each sunset of her life would bring A benedictive memory Of his haunting face and holy eyes ; Or if to a bridegroom thus in spring, "The wife of thy youth is fair and wise," So would she ever have seemed to be In her husband's sight. If he but bade a passing guest His meal to share. Would not the one so honored deem Himself of all most highly blessed. The food he ate heaven's manna rare? Or when he to a friend addressed A word of thanks for service done. Or homely, familiar favor, none Of richer recompense could dream. 140 No evangelist's golden pen Wrote them for us — The words of the Master to those he might meet By the carpenter's bench or in Nazareth street — But in them I think there well might be — It is surely sweet to fancy thus — All of the benediction for men All of the tender humanity, That leaven the words of his later age On the holy page. 141 WITH TEARS THEY BURIED YOU TO-DAY With tears they buried you to-day, But well I knew no turf could hold Your gladness long beneath the mould, Or cramp your laughter in the clay; I smiled while others wept for you Because I knew. And now you sit with me to-night Here in our old, accustomed place; Tender and mirthful is your face. Your eyes with starry joy are bright — Oh, you are merry as a song For love is strong ! They think of you as lying there Down in the churchyard grim and old ; They think of you as mute and cold, A wan, white thing that once was fair, With dim, sealed eyes that never may Look on the day.. But love cannot be coffined so In clod and darkness; it must rise And seek its own in radiant guise, With immortality aglow, Making of death's triumphant sting A little thing. 142 Ay, we shall laugh at those who deem Our hearts are sundered! Listen, sweet, The tripping of the wind's swift feet Along the by-ways of our dream. And hark the whisper of the rose Wilding that blows. Oh, still you love those simple things, And still you love them more with me ; The grave has won no victory ; It could not clasp your shining wings. It could not keep you from my side, Dear and my bride! 143 IN MEMORY OF "MAGGIE" A pussy-cat who was the household pet for seventeen years. Naught but a little cat, you say; Yet we remember her, A creature loving, loyal, kind, With merry, mellow purr; The faithful friend of many years, Shall we not give her meed of tears? Sleek-suited in her velvet coat. White-breasted and bright-eyed, Feeling when she was praised and stroked A very human pride; A quiet nook was sure to please Where she might take her cushioned ease. Little gray friend, we shall not feel Ashamed to grieve for you; Many we know of human-kind Are not so fond and true; Dear puss, in all the years to be We'll keep your memory loyally. 144 REALIZATION I SMILED with skeptic mocking where they told me you were dead, You of the airy laughter and lightly twinkling feet ; "They tell a dream that haunted a chill gray dawn," I said, "Death could not touch or claim a thing so vivid and so sweet!" I looked upon you coffined amid your virgin flowers, But even that white silence could bring me no belief : "She lies in maiden sleep," I said, "and in the young- ling hours Her sealed dark eyes will open to scorn our foolish grief." But when I went at moonrise to our ancient trysting place And, oh, the wind was keening in the fir-boughs overhead ! . . . . And you came never to me with your little gypsy face. Your lips and hands of welcome, I knew that you were dead! 145 10 THE GARDEN IN WINTER Frosty-white and cold it lies Underneath the fretful skies; Snowflakes flutter where the red Banners of the poppies spread, And the drifts are wide and deep Where the lilies fell asleep. But the sunsets o'er it throw Flame-like splendor, lucent glow, And the moonshine makes it gleam Like a wonderland of dream, And the sharp winds all the day- Pipe and whistle shrilly gay. ^ Safe beneath the snowdrifts lie Rainbow buds of by-and-by; In the long, sweet days of spring Music of bluebells shall ring. And its faintly golden cup Many a primrose will hold up. Though the winds are keen and chill Roses' hearts are beating still, And the garden tranquilly Dreams of happy hours to be — In the summer days of blue All its dreamings will come true. 146 THE DIFFERENCE When we were together, heart of my heart, on that un forgotten quest, With your tender arm about me thrown and your head upon my breast, There came a grief that was bitter and deep and straitly dwell with me, And I shunned it not, so sweet it was to suffer and be with thee. And now when no more against mine own is beating thine eager heart. When thine eyes are turned from the glance of mine and our ways are far apart, A dear and long-sought joy has come my constant guest to be. And I love it not, so bitter it is, unfelt, unshared, by thee. 147 THE POET There was strength in him and the weak won freely from it, There was an infinite pity, and hard hearts grew soft thereby. There was truth so unshrinking and starry-shining, Men read clear by its light and learned to scorn a lie. His were songs so full of a wholesome laughter Those whose courage was ashen found it once more aflame, His was a child-like faith and wandering feet were guided. His was a hope so joyous despair was put to shame. His was the delicate insight and his the poignant vi- sion Whereby the world might learn what wine-lipped roses know. What a drift of rain might lisp on a gray sea-dawn- ing. Or a pale spring of the woodland babble low. 148 He builded a castle of dream and a palace of rainbow fancy, And the starved souls of his fellows lived in them and grew glad; — And yet — there were those who mocked the gifts of his generous giving, And some — but he smiled and forgave them — who deemed him wholly mad! 149 THE MOTHER Here I lean over you, small son, sleeping Warm in my arms, And I con to my heart all your dew-fresh charms, As you lie close, close in my hungry hold . . . Your hair like a miser's dream of gold. And the white rose of your face far fairer, Finer, and rarer Than all the flowers in the young year's keeping; Over lips half parted your low breath creeping Is sweeter than violets in April grasses ; Though your eyes are fast shut I can see their blue. Splendid and soft as starshine in heaven. With all the joyance and wisdom given From the many souls who have stanchly striven Through the dead years to be strong and true. Those fine little feet in my worn hands holden . . Where will they tread ? Valleys of shadow or heights dawn-red? And those silken fingers, O, wee, white son. What valorous deeds shall by them be done In the future that yet so distant is seeming To my fond dreaming? What words all so musical and golden With starry truth and poesy olden 150 Shall those lips speak in the years on-coming? O, child of mine, with waxen brow, Surely your words of that dim to-morrow Rapture and power and grace must borrow From the poignant love and holy sorrow Of the heart that shrines and cradles you now ! Some bitter day you will love another. To her will bear Love-gifts and woo her . . . then must I share You and your tenderness ! Now you are mine From your feet to your hair so golden and fine, And your crumpled finger-tips . . . mine com- pletely, Wholly and sweetly; Mine with kisses deep to smother. No one so near to you now as your mother ! Others may hear your words of beauty, But your precious silence is mine alone; Here in my arms I have enrolled you. Away from the grasping world I fold you. Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone ! 151 TO ONE HATED "Hate is only Love that has missed its way." Had it been when I came to the valley where the paths parted asunder, Chance had led my feet to the way of love, not hate, I might have cherished you well, have been to you fond and faithful. Great as my hatred is, so might my love have been great. Each cold word of mine might have been a kiss im- passioned, Warm with the throb of my heart, thrilled with my pulse's leap, And every glance of scorn, lashing, pursuing, and stinging. As a look of tenderness would have been wondrous and deep. Bitter our hatred is, old and strong and unchanging. Twined with the fibres of life, blent with body and soul. But as its bitterness, so might have been our love's sweetness Had it not missed the way — strange missing and sad ! — to its goal. 152 WHILE THE FATES SLEEP Come, let us to the sunways of the west, Hasten, while crystal dews the rose-cups fill. Let us dream dreams again in our blithe quest O'er whispering wold and hill. Castles of air yon wimpling valleys keep Where milk-white mist steals from the purpling sea, They shall be ours in the moon's wizardry, While the fates, wearied, sleep. The viewless spirit of the wind will sing In the soft starshine by the reedy mere. The elfin harps of hemlock boughs will ring Fitfully far and near; The fields will yield their trove of spice and musk. And balsam from the glens of pine will fall. Till twilight weaves its tangled shadows all In one dim web of dusk. Let us put tears and memories away, While the fates sleep time stops for revelry ; Let us look, speak, and kiss as if no day Has been or yet will be ; Let us make friends with laughter 'neath the moon, With music on the immemorial shore. Yea, let us dance as lovers danced of yore — The fates will waken soon! 153 THE FAREWELL He rides away with sword and spur, Garbed in his warlike blazonry, With gallant glance and smile for her Upon the dim-lit balcony. Her kiss upon his lips is warm, Upon his breast he wears her rose. From her fond arms to stress and storm Of many a bannered field he goes. He dreams of danger, glory, strife. His voice is blithe, his hand is strong, He rides perchance to death from life And leaves his lady with a song; But her blue-brimmed eyes are dim With her deep anguish standing there. Sending across the world with him The dear, white guerdon of her prayer. For her the lonely vigil waits When ashen dawnlights come and go, Each bringing through the future's gates Its presages of fear and woe; For her the watch with soul and heart Grown sick with dread, as women may, Yet keeping still her pain apart From the wan duties of the day. 154 *Tis hers to walk when sunsets yield Their painted splendors to the skies, And dream on some far battlefield Perchance alone, unwatched, he dies; Tis hers to kneel in patient prayer When midnight stars keep sentinel. Lest the chill death-dews damp the hair Upon the brow she loves so well. So stands she, white and sad and sweet, Upon the latticed balcony, From golden hair to slender feet No lady is so fair as she ; He loves her true, he holds her dear. But he must ride on dangerous quest, With gallant glance and smile of cheer, And her red rose upon his breast. 155 THE OLD MAN'S GRAVE Make it where the winds may sweep Through the pine boughs soft and deep, And the murmur of the sea Come across the orient lea, And the falling raindrops sing Gently to his slumbering. Make it where the meadows wide Greenly lie on every side. Harvest fields he reaped and trod, Westering slopes of clover sod, Orchard lands where bloom and blow Trees he planted long ago. Make it where the starshine dim May be always close to him, And the sunrise glory spread Lavishly around his bed. And the dewy grasses creep Tenderly above his sleep. Since these things to him were dear Through full many a well-spent year. It is surely meet their grace Should be on his resting-place. And the murmur of the sea Be his dirge eternally. 156 FOREVER I With you I shall ever be; Over land and sea My thoughts will companion you; With yours shall my laughter chime, And my step keep time In the dusk and dew With yours in blithesome rhyme; In all of your joy shall I rejoice, On my lips your sorrow shall find a voice, And when your tears in bitterness fall Mine shall mingle with them all ; With you in waking and dream I shall be. In the place of shadow and memory. Under young springtime moons. And on harvest noons, And when the stars are withdrawn From the white pathway of the dawn. II O, my friend, nothing shall ever part My soul from yours, yours from my heart ! I am yours and you mine, in silence and in speech, Death will only seal us each to each. Through the darkness we shall fare with fearless jest, Starward we shall go on a joyous new quest; There be many worlds, as we shall prove. Many suns and systems, but only one love! 157 BY AN AUTUMN FIRE Now at our casement the wind is shrilling, Poignant and keen And all the great boughs of the pines between It is harping a lone and hungering strain To the eldritch weeping of the rain; And then to the wild, wet valley flying It is seeking, sighing, Something lost in the summer olden. When night was silver and day was golden; But out on the shore the waves are moaning With ancient and never fulfilled desire. And the spirits of all the empty spaces. Of all the dark and haunted places, With the rain and the wind on their death-white faces. Come to the lure of our leaping fire. But we bar them out with this rose-red splendor From our blithe domain. And drown the whimper of wind and rain With undaunted laughter, echoing long, Cheery old tale and gay old song; Ours is the joyance of ripe fruition, Attained ambition. Ours is the treasure of tested loving. Friendship that needs no further proving; 158 W14 7 No more of springtime hopes, sweet and uncertain, Here we have largess of summer in fee — Pile high the logs till the flame be leaping, At bay the chill of the autumn keeping, While pilgrim-wise, we may go a-reaping In the fairest meadow of memory! 159 Warwick Bro's & Rutter, Limited, Printers and Bookbinders, Toronto, Canada. V' »•••' '3 »fi *' 4 4* ♦wj;^' %, c^ •" ^«" .*J^!. \ iV jP-n^. • ** ** . ♦^o* IP-^ft . *"»°* ^*^\ '.. Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: June 2009 . * • * . "^^ * * * /O^ 4 • • • . %>** PreservationTechnologies WiIIj^^* T1#. jl^ %*<^^!SI^'* ^ ' A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION mma^ft!* *\*»r\» ** ffiV^^IlL^ '* **5^ I? IHIhomson Park Drive ■^^»* ^ *^S0SWl^i* Op Cranberry Township, PA 16066 WERT BOOKBINDINC Crantville, Pa Sepi —Oct 196-