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YOUTH 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
 by 
 CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 
 
 author of ' The ^uift Sin^t;//" 
 and ^'Manhattan " 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 
 MCMXI 
 
Copyright IQI I by Mitchell Kemicrley 
 
 nil 
 
 The frontispiece is from a d7-awirj{^ hy 
 Thomas Fogarty 
 
 £C1.A31401^3 
 
(7 
 
 To my Friend 
 
 Richard Lf Gallienne 
 
 a poor pciymrnt of many literary Jebis 
 
For tlie privilege of reprinting the lyrics in- 
 cluded in this volume, the author thanks the 
 editors of Harper's Magazine, The Forum, The 
 Bookman, Lippincott's, Ainslee's, The Crafts- 
 man, Collier's Weekly, Harper's Bazar, The 
 Cosmopolitan, Munsey's, Hampton's, and ^Fhe 
 Smart Set. Youth has not appeared elsewhere. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 YOUTH 9 
 
 SHELLEY'S SKYLARK 55 
 
 A SONG IN APRIL 58 
 
 KNOIVLEDGE 59 
 
 AFTER THE QUARREL 60 
 
 NIGHT 61 
 
 SLOW PARTING 6z 
 
 OF A FRIEND WHO DIED IN THE SPRING 63 
 
 EASTER IN THE CITY 64 
 
 SMOKE 66 
 
 MIDSUMMER gg 
 
 THE DAYS REBUKED ME 69 
 WHEN A GREAT MAN DIES 
 THREADS OF SONG 
 
 70 
 
 7« 
 AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER 72 
 
 A WOMAN'S PARTING 
 
 SONG 
 
 BONDAGE 
 
 TRIUMPHANT 
 
 IN THE YEAR'S DUSK 
 
 LOVE'S RITUAL 
 
 79 
 SLEEP 80 
 
 OF DEATH 8, 
 
YOUTH 
 
YOUTH 
 
 I 
 
 ' I 'HEIR studio was up among the stars, 
 •*■ And there they worked, and dreamed, and 
 found Life good. 
 The shouting City roared far, far below, 
 The Elevated thundered at their feet, 
 And the vast marts of Trade sent up faint sounds 
 When the loud whirlwind of the morning shook 
 The tired world, and brought its ancient news. 
 
 His name was Donald Kent, and he was young 
 
 With the fine strength of manhood; but a boy 
 
 Forever in his simple joyfulness; 
 
 He was an architect, and strove to make 
 
 Each simple home he reared a home indeed, 
 
 A symbol of the beauty that he knew 
 
 Should flourish in the meanest neighborhoods. 
 
 Yet there were days when he would dream his dream 
 
 Of fabled cities by a Grecian sea 
 
 [9] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 With columns shining in the Summer sun; 
 
 He had his visions of a perfect town 
 
 That one day he would come to build tor men, 
 
 Where every dome should have a meaning; each 
 
 Tall temple have a deep significance, 
 
 And every street lead to some quiet trees. 
 
 Here Beauty should be not an accident, 
 
 But the great keynote and the cornerstone, 
 
 The one inevitable, holy thing. 
 
 He thought no structure lasts that is not built 
 
 Upon the airy fabric of a dream; 
 
 And every day amid his busy life 
 
 He found some hour to rear within his heart 
 
 The fairy city that would surely rise. 
 
 Fairy no longer, but a tiling of steel, 
 
 Mighty with marble, powerful with stone. 
 
 [lo] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 II 
 
 Though Donald dreamed, there were realities 
 
 Within his life that seemed too good to be; 
 
 And sometimes when the starlight pierced the glass 
 
 Above his crowded working-room, he paused 
 
 In the conception of some curious plan 
 
 To marv-el at the Love that wrapped him round. 
 
 How young she was, how beautiful and good, 
 
 Lucy, his wife, who wove his days with gold 
 
 And silver threads, his nights with unguessed joys! 
 
 How sweetly at his side she often stood, 
 
 Silent, maybe, if the hushed hour was late 
 
 And he was busy at his sketching-board. 
 
 And when she waited, patient, till he turned 
 
 To press a kiss upon her lips, he knew 
 
 How much she cared for him and for his work, 
 
 And would not interrupt him in his toil 
 
 Unless she deemed it was not good for him 
 
 To drag his labor far into the night. 
 
 "Come, Donald," she would say, her tender tone 
 Like a soft bell in the dim studio, 
 
 [II] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 "This is not right, for now the moon has gone, 
 iVnd I have heard the tower clock strike two. 
 Put by your blue-prints and those dizzy plans, 
 And rest with me, for it is very late. 
 Your brain is tired, and if you will sleep. 
 The morning will bring clearer thoughts, I know." 
 Then she would kiss his brow, brush back his hair, 
 And lead him to the quiet that he loved, 
 The haven of her arms — that little world 
 Which held the ultimate meaning of all things. 
 And every truth that any man need learn. 
 
 Few men are ever loved as he was loved. 
 
 Or, being thus adored, can understand 
 
 The wonder of a woman's priceless gift. 
 
 But Donald, though sometimes when he was lost 
 
 In devious hopes and fears, seemed to forget 
 
 The part that Lucy played in his young life, 
 
 Remembered always that it was to her 
 
 He owed his sure reliance in himself; 
 
 And he would tell her so, confessing all 
 
 His boyish weaknesses — his indolence. 
 
 His love for loitering in the teeming Square 
 
 When she might need him for some trivial thing; 
 
 [12] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 His quickness to forget to send to her 
 The daily word when absent from her side. 
 And she forgave him always, though her heart 
 Was sometimes almost breaking for the sign 
 Of the affection that all women need. 
 Yes, always she forgav^e, as women will 
 Until the Judgment Day. 
 
 Forgiveness kills 
 The old-time ache, and covers up our wounds; 
 Forgiveness cleanses like a spiritual flame, 
 And hushes all the heartbreak of the world. 
 It is a flower that nevxr can decay, 
 It is a star whose wonder never fails; 
 Its beauty, springing from a woman's breast, 
 Thrice glorifies the heart it gives release. 
 And makes the hour thrice sweet wherein it blooms. 
 
 [13] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 III 
 
 Those good young days of theirs were gladly lived; 
 Yet who can not be happy in one's youth? 
 Well, add to youth ambition, health and love, 
 And you have quite the sum of happiness. 
 
 Donald had known that Lucy must be his 
 The moment that he saw her on a day 
 When Spring had jubilantly come to town. 
 He wooed her ardently, yet boyishly, 
 In just the manner, half dependable. 
 Half masterful, that every dreaming girl 
 Deems wonderful and perfect beyond hope. 
 He rushed into her heart and stormed her soul — 
 That citadel which had not been dismayed 
 By such a flaming lover. Here at last, 
 He told her, was the woman he must love 
 Now and for all eternity. She smiled. 
 And then he poured out all his need of her. 
 And, to a woman, that one argument 
 Is worth a world of passionate appeal. 
 
 [14] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 They wed that very Summer; and although 
 They were so poor in everything save Love, 
 Donald was certain he could make a home 
 Sufficient to their simple needs. His wife, 
 (O magic word to him!) was surer still 
 When bravely they talked over what the years 
 Might hold for them; and so, without a fear. 
 Together they took up their happy lives 
 Amid the seething City's frantic roar. 
 And Donald planned a little room for her 
 Behind the chambers where his former days 
 Had studiously been spent — a little room 
 Made all of grey birch-bark, with tiny stairs 
 Leading upon the building's spacious roof. 
 There were low lines of shelves to hold their 
 
 books — 
 Volumes they both had long since learned to love — 
 Omar and Epictetus, Shelley, Keats, 
 Marcus Aurelius, and R. L. S., 
 Rossetti, Browning, Ruskin, and some good 
 Old architectural sets that Donald knew 
 Almost by heart; yet dearer than the rest 
 Was Richard Feverel that Lucy read 
 Again and still again, because somehow 
 
 [15] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 The Lucy there seemed so much like herself, 
 And Donald like the Richard of that tale, 
 Manly and big, but always such a child. 
 They called the contents of their little shelves 
 Their "attic crumbs"; but what a feast it was 
 For two young mice to nibble day by day! 
 
 One stepped from out this room upon the roof, 
 
 And though the busy City hummed below 
 
 And all around, this spot seemed close to heaven. 
 
 So far removed it was from the loud voice 
 
 Of the tumultuous town. Here Quiet breathed 
 
 Her benediction at the sunset hour; 
 
 And through that first sweet Summer, Lucy served 
 
 Their golden dinners underneath the sky, 
 
 The stars and moon their lanterns; her bright 
 
 flowers 
 A screen to hide them from strange neighbors' eyes. 
 
 [i6] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 IV 
 
 Those were the loveliest evenings of the world! 
 At least, so thought young Donald and his bride, 
 That Summer as they loitered in the town, 
 While other unimaginative folk 
 Fled to some distant shore or crowded inn. 
 But Love is where you make it, Donald knew. 
 And though the City baked beneath the sun 
 Through the July and August days, the nights 
 Upon their roof were swept by cooling winds. 
 And Lucy's rows of bright geraniums 
 Nodded their scarlet faces in the breeze; 
 And often their unshielded candles blew 
 Suddenly out. 
 
 Then Donald used to say. 
 What need had they of any far-off spot. 
 High in the mountains or by any coast. 
 When here the winds of heaven were as kind, 
 And the same stars seemed even kinder yet. 
 
 Youth sadly learns that even honeymoons, 
 However happy, cannot always last; 
 
 [17] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 And Donald found he had to earn his bread, 
 
 And seek new work, if but the common joys. 
 
 The casual blessings of their level days 
 
 Were to endure. But happily for him 
 
 Fortune was kind indeed ; and he would know 
 
 His proudest moments when to Lucy's room 
 
 He rushed with face aglow, to tell the news 
 
 Of fresh important plans; and they would laugh, 
 
 Enthusiastic children that they were. 
 
 "I knew it," she would say; "success will come 
 
 To you, my Donald — it is coming fast. 
 
 And O, how happv I am for your sake!" 
 
 Then always he would kiss her, and their eyes 
 
 Would meet in comprehension; in that bliss 
 
 That only lovers know. Then he would say, 
 
 "To-night, to celebrate, a taxicab 
 
 Shall take a certain princess for a ride! 
 
 To-night a garden restaurant I know 
 
 Shall be transfigured by her presence there. 
 
 A great repast, with sparkling Burgundy, 
 
 Shall tempt her where a tinkling fountain plays. 
 
 And a far band pours out the tunes we love. 
 
 So, will the princess wear that light lace gown 
 
 [i8] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 Her poor prince loves, and deign to come with 
 
 him?" 
 "Now, Donald," always Lucy's sense of thrift 
 Began protesting, "why do this to-night? 
 Such wild extravagance — such — " 
 
 "Never mind, 
 Dear little hermit of this city cave. 
 You know how futile your New England qualms 
 Will ever be with me ! So come along, 
 The steedless coach is waiting at the gate. 
 And though we are the poorest of the poor, 
 I mean to give my wife a glorious time!" 
 
 Who could resist his sweet commanding? Who 
 Would wish to? Lucy in her heart of hearts 
 Said softly to herself. And so they went, 
 Young, radiantly young, to steal one night. 
 One jeweled night from Time's sealed treasury. 
 
 [19] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 There is a love that never can embrace 
 Friendship, the while its passion it expands; 
 A love that locks all others from its doors 
 Save the one creature of its worshipping, 
 The accident divine that gave it life. 
 
 There is another love that, loving much, 
 
 Would learn to love the world and friendship more, 
 
 Counting the ancient links not useless now. 
 
 But dearer, more desired than of old; 
 
 A love that of its strength would seek to aid 
 
 The weak and the forgotten; of its warmth 
 
 To kindle fires on hearths still desolate, 
 
 And cherish those that know not Love's white name. 
 
 So high a love was Donald's — Lucy's, too; 
 Each had a friend, and their joy could not shut 
 Those friends from out the circle of their bliss. 
 They used to talk of them incessantly, 
 Donald like this: "Lll send for Michael, dear; 
 He is alone to-night, and doubtless tired 
 
 [20] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 With grinding out his copy for the press; 
 
 I wish he could rehnquish that dull work, 
 
 And only write the things he dreams to write — 
 
 The songs that come too seldom from his pen. 
 
 I need him, Lucy. You know what I mean — 
 
 That's why I love you so. Two men can talk 
 
 Over a pipe and over a mug of beer 
 
 As man and woman never yet have talked!" 
 
 And then when Michael, their young poet, came, 
 His mop of tawny hair all disarranged, 
 Lucy would often say good-night to them. 
 And in the little birch-bark room sit down 
 And write long letters to her old schoolmate 
 Who lived in the far West, and tell her all 
 The happiness now hers, and wish that she 
 Might find a portion of this same great joy. 
 And while she wrote she might look up and read 
 Those lines that good old Michael sent to them 
 The day that she and Donald had been wed. 
 Yes, there it was, in his distinguished hand. 
 Framed simply, as his pocket could afford. 
 Yet worth to them more than all other gifts, 
 Because it was from him — their "Wedding Song." 
 
 [21] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 Now a new life is yours.' 
 
 New dreams, new seas, neiv shores 
 
 Reveal their golden gifts 
 
 To you, dear friends. Note drifts 
 
 Into your young glad days 
 
 That perfect love that slays 
 
 All base, despised things — 
 
 That perfect love that brings 
 
 A peace more priceless far 
 
 Than heaven's most perfect star; 
 
 That love that should outlast 
 
 Earth's mornings ; love so vast 
 
 The uorld itself seems small — 
 
 Since you hold All in All. 
 
 Dear friends, I only pray 
 That every new ivhite day 
 Aiay hold the shining bliss 
 That comes to you ivith this; 
 That you zvho have learned well 
 Love's matchless miracle, 
 May be thrice good, thrice kind 
 To those still dumb and blind : 
 And if outside your gate 
 A lonely friend should icait, 
 
 [22] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 A beggar in the dark. 
 You both should pause and hark. 
 And give from your great light 
 A torch for his dim night! 
 
 Shut Michael from their gate ! So might they shut 
 Each other out! Their love were not the same, 
 If he were wholly absent from their side. 
 And Lucy missed him quite as much as Don 
 When he withdrew from their companionship, 
 Feeling sometimes they saw too much of him. 
 
 [23] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 VI 
 
 Just as two lovers quarrel bitterly, 
 Loving each other all the painful while, 
 Michael and Donald craved their intimate talks, 
 Yet when they met, argued with highest words, 
 Until it seemed the rafters must fall down 
 At their excited scenes ! 
 
 If you had heard, 
 As Lucy did, their passionate dialogue, 
 You would have said they must be enemies, 
 Not friends ; but patient Lucy knew so well 
 Their deep affection, that she had no fears, 
 But only smiled when riotously they talked. 
 As if the weight of all the centuries 
 Were on their shoulders, and as if mankind 
 Must solve, through them, its deepest riddles ! So 
 Youth deems it reads the destiny of things, 
 The final answer to perplexing ills, 
 And goes on settling questions with a word. 
 Dismissing Life's great problems with a smile! 
 
 But the strange thing in all their talks was this: 
 That one had thought the wild poetic fire 
 
 [24] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 Would leap with more persistence. Donald, though, 
 Was always the aggressor, flaring up 
 With rumpled hair, and flushes on his cheeks, 
 While Michael calmly smiled and filled his pipe 
 And puffed away, or sipped his stein of beer, 
 Keeping his peace until some sudden word 
 Cleverly planned by Donald, stirred his blood. 
 Then quietly yet strongly he proclaimed 
 His attitude; and Donald, all aglee 
 At having finally brought on the storm. 
 Shot out the lightning of his bitter gibes. 
 And rolled the thunder of his mockery. 
 
 How they enjoyed these verbal tourneys! — each 
 
 When once aroused, in fine trim for the fray! 
 
 But let a third friend take, say, Donald's side 
 
 In any argument, and try to push 
 
 Poor Michael to the wall, and Don would leap 
 
 Into the other train of thought, and hurl 
 
 His sudden ally forth, surprised, perplexed! 
 
 [25] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 VII 
 
 The Summer passed, with Michael often there 
 At those roof-garden feasts, a quiet guest 
 When he and Donald were not arguing, 
 Too tired sometimes from his day's iron tasks, 
 To be the brilliant talker; still he ga\e 
 So much in his strange, simple, boyish way, 
 That he was always eagerly desired; 
 One of those friends who need not say a word, 
 His presence and his silence ample joy. 
 
 The Winter came, with talks beside the fire. 
 And cozy dinners in the birch-bark room, 
 While the loud wind howled on the very roof 
 Where only a few months ago the sun 
 Beat down in Summer fury. Then Spring came 
 As only Spring can come to sad New York. 
 The joy they knew seemed greater than before, 
 If this could be — a joy so glorious 
 That Lucy sometimes wakened in the night, 
 A strange uneasiness within her heart. 
 And reached out wildly in the dark to know 
 
 [26] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 If Donald really rested at her side. 
 
 Then she would smile at her own fear, and fall 
 
 Asleep again, still smiling in her dreams. 
 
 Too good the gods had been to her, she felt. . . . 
 
 Could the dream last, and could Life thus endure? 
 
 When ruddy, mild October brought to town 
 
 The European voyagers, and the folk 
 
 Who spent their Summers by the sea, and all 
 
 The City took its fresh, clean note again, 
 
 Lucy told Donald she would ask her friend, 
 
 Mary, who never yet had seen New York, 
 
 To come with them while Autumn's crisp, cool days 
 
 Made the streets lovely. So the word was sent, 
 
 With the young husband and his wife alert 
 
 For every post, and not content until 
 
 The answer came, and Mary blest them both. 
 
 And thanked her friend for such kind thoughts of 
 
 her. 
 Of course she'd come! That need not be discussed; 
 She'd pack her trunk and stay till Christmastime, 
 As Lucy had suggested. And what fun 
 To see the shops, the crowds, to hear the noise 
 That only in her dreams she yet had heard ! 
 
 [27] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 Her prairie town was lovely — but New York, 
 With its great theatres and its opera, 
 Its art museums and superb hotels, 
 Its Subway and its Elevated Road, 
 Its taxicabs and famed Fifth avenue — 
 Well, she could hardly wait to see them all, 
 And, better still, see Lucy once again ! 
 
 That was a letter to make warm one's heart; 
 And Donald, who had never met this friend. 
 Was quite agog when Lucy read the note 
 Telling of Mary's visit. 
 
 But one thing 
 Disturbed him when a few more days went by, 
 Though to his wife he never gave a sign, 
 Nor once took Michael in his confidence. 
 There came into his eyes a far-off look, 
 A strange abstraction in his conduct, too. 
 And Lucy, ever quick to note a change 
 In his demeanor, asked him what it meant; 
 But he laughed off her fears, and went to work 
 With a new zeal. 
 
 At this time Mary came. 
 
 [28] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 VIII 
 
 On their sight-seeing tramps, Donald went, too, 
 
 Saying that any draughting well could wait. 
 
 Mary's arrival caused his spirits to change, 
 
 And once again he seemed his old, wild self. 
 
 He loved to watch the prairie girl's surprise 
 
 Say, at the Hippodrome, or at the play; 
 
 And her first glimpse of Brooklyn bridge! — the joy 
 
 Was quite as great for Lucy and for Don 
 
 As for their friend. She never seemed to tire 
 
 Of looking at sky-soaring towers, there 
 
 Seeing the terrible beauty of the town — 
 
 A city wonderful for those who look. 
 
 But ugly for the blind who will not see. 
 
 Donald delighted in her reverence 
 
 For the mad buildings of a modern age. 
 
 Even as a poet rejoices in a heart 
 
 That loves the songs the noblest singers weave 
 
 For the world's added beauty. 
 
 So he told 
 Her many things of columns and facades, 
 
 [ 29 ] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 The Renaissance and Florentine designs, 
 That made her understand more fully still 
 The principles that shape each climbing tower, 
 Each massive wall, and blazing, sun-kissed dome. 
 
 And once he told her of his own far hope — 
 
 That city he would come to build for men. 
 
 And Mary thought how good it was to know 
 
 A man who built such fancies; one who dreamed 
 
 The highest dreams, and kept his valiant faith. 
 
 Here in this mighty City things were done. 
 
 And men were rising on its seething tide 
 
 To push the world to greater glory yet. 
 
 O it was good to be a part of this, 
 
 Though but a fragment of the wondrous woof, 
 
 A thread entangled through an accident 
 
 In the whole clear design ! How must it seem 
 
 To be a figure of the pattern made, 
 
 A necessary portion of the scheme ! 
 
 [30] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 IX 
 
 Always young Michael, on his holidays, 
 Was made the fourth in any joyful plan; 
 They needed him at dinner, Don would say. 
 Quite as they needed salt to season bread! 
 So Michael came, as often as might be, 
 Glad to play any part that suited them. 
 
 His dry, strange humor, and his curious moods, 
 
 The contrast from one evening's merriment 
 
 To the abstraction of another night. 
 
 Were just the things to interest a girl 
 
 Of Mary's worth. She never was quite sure 
 
 Of Michael Deane, and this uncertainty 
 
 Made every meeting more to be desired; 
 
 For women always like elusive men. 
 
 Whose very mystery is their strength and charm. 
 
 She liked his firm reliability; 
 The fact that when he said, "I shall be there," 
 He meant it, and would keep his given word. 
 She liked his candor, and a way he had 
 
 [31] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 Of always quietly remembering 
 Each trivial anniversary that came. 
 "Two years ago," he'd say to Lucy, "yes. 
 Two years ago, Donald and you first met. 
 Suppose you dine with me at that French place, 
 And we'll take Mary too, if she will go." 
 
 Then at the little table d'hote he'd read 
 
 A glowing rhyme occasioned by the date; 
 
 And Donald, who had meant so well to be 
 
 The first to recollect this very day. 
 
 Would feel ashamed at his remiss young ways, 
 
 And toast his wife, his friend, and in his heart 
 
 Bless the kind gods that made old Michael quick 
 
 To do the things that he himself was lax 
 
 In doing for the woman whom he loved. 
 
 [32] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 X 
 
 Christmas brings always thoughts of carnival; 
 
 And Donald and Lucy planned, with Michael's aid, 
 
 A dance for Mary in their studio; 
 
 But not a word of this delightful scheme 
 
 Must reach her ears, they said. Surprise is half 
 
 Of joy, and all of life; and so the place 
 
 Where Donald wrought designs was cleared one day, 
 
 While Mary, all unknowing, cozy sat 
 
 With Lucy in the little birch-bark room. 
 
 Talking of nothing, and of everything; 
 
 Telling her how the City thrilled her soul, 
 
 And she must spend the whole long Winter here, 
 
 Their neighbor in a street not far away; 
 
 And meanwhile she would diligently work 
 
 At the great art school where she longed to be. 
 
 And while she told of her ambitious hopes, 
 Unknown to her, only two walls between, 
 Donald and Michael hung a room with ropes 
 Of holly, and prepared the studio floor 
 For the gay evening that they had in mind. 
 
 [33] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 "We'll have the three musicians sit in here," 
 Don said; "this little alcove's just the place. 
 And when the draughting-boards are moved away 
 I think you'll see the room's of ample size 
 To hold a dance — ten couples on the floor. 
 In every cranny we'll put sprigs of green, 
 And over all those metal lanterns hang 
 A spray of mistletoe ! I want the place 
 To look its best, not only for Mary's sake, 
 But — well — of course, old man, of course I've asked 
 My friend from JFilloiv Brook whose house I've 
 planned . . ." 
 
 [34] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 XI 
 
 The glad night came — a night of wind and snow; 
 
 And every guest that bustled to the dance 
 
 Brought in a coat powdered with silver flakes, 
 
 And ears and fingers chilled by the cold blast; 
 
 For few of these young friends were folk who rode 
 
 In carriages and motors; trolley-cars 
 
 Came nearer to the limits of each purse ! 
 
 But no one minded, for the glowing fire 
 
 And Christmas punch soon warmed the fine young 
 
 blood; 
 And when the revel of the dance began 
 There was no memory of the storm without. 
 
 Lucy had never seemed so beautiful; 
 
 She wore a simple frock of white and pink, 
 
 And in her belt a cluster of violets 
 
 That matched the purple wonder of her eyes. 
 
 Always she was her best, as true folk are. 
 
 When she dispensed glad hospitality 
 
 In her own simple way, in her own home. 
 
 [35] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 And jMar)'! No girl ever knew such joy 
 
 When first she came Into that green-filled room, 
 
 And Donald and Lucy and Michael said at once, 
 
 "It Is for you — yes, all of It — for you!" 
 
 Her eyes lit up, and then were veiled with 
 
 tears 
 These were her friends — how rich she was to-night ! 
 
 The music sang the waltzes that they loved — 
 The true, old-fashioned waltzes; those that make 
 Young feet trip lighter on the polished floor. 
 In those old measures, and with those they loved, 
 How brightly sped the hours of Chrismas Eve ! 
 
 Donald was his gay self; his happiness 
 Was that full joy a kindly host must know; 
 The dance was swinging to success; the punch 
 Was excellent; the girls were radiant; 
 And all the men acclaimed the fine cigars 
 When they retired to another room 
 To talk the man-talk and Indulge In smoke. 
 
 But Lucy watched Don with a little fear; 
 She saw — as wifely eyes are quick to see — 
 Beneath his smiles a lurking sense of pain; 
 And her swift intuition knew the cause. 
 
 [36] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 The hour had almost come when they had planned 
 
 To spread the supper in the studio, 
 
 And one chief guest was strangely unannounced. 
 
 "It is the storm — I'm sorry for Don's sake," 
 Thought Lucy, as she climbed the tiny stairs 
 To the birch room on some brief errand; then 
 She heard the telephone, and hurried on 
 To answer the sharp tinkle of the bell. 
 
 When she rejoined the guests she touched Don's 
 
 arm, 
 A smile upon her lips. Quickly he turned, 
 And in that movement Lucy felt his nerves 
 Vibrate to her; his tingling energy 
 Flash through the fingers that had pressed his sleeve. 
 
 "It's all right, Donald. She is coming now. 
 I'm so glad for your sake. She telephoned 
 The storm, you know." 
 
 She paused, for Don was white. 
 "You did not call me, Lucy, so that I 
 Might speak to her?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, Donald, no; 
 
 [37] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 Why should I wish to take you from your guests, 
 When I was there to answer? . . . Come — 
 
 that waltz — 
 You've hardly asked your wife to dance at all!" 
 
 A half-hour later, and she came to them, 
 
 Mysteriously lovely. She it was, 
 
 In Donald's eyes, who made the night supreme; 
 
 And she it was who, in an untold way. 
 
 Filled the big studio with those ancient dreams. 
 
 Her presence was to him the dream itself. 
 
 For she had told him, in the few brief times 
 When they had met, of her desire to be 
 His helper in the distant hope he kept 
 Forever in his heart; she too had dreamed, 
 And she could see, in dimmest outlines yet. 
 That city he would come to build for men. 
 
 She turned to Lucy with a wondrous smile, 
 And kissed her. 
 
 "This, then, is the little wife 
 Of the wild boy who rears his castles in Spain — 
 And also in the country round New York! 
 
 [38] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 I like you, dear — I like your violet eyes, 
 
 Your hair, your smile ! You must be good to him, 
 
 Wild dreamer who shall realize his dream. 
 
 And when my house is done — at JFillow Brook — 
 
 You two shall be the first guests I shall ask 
 
 To sleep beneath the roof his brain conceived." 
 
 The dance went on — with nothing quite the same; 
 It was as if a queen had graced a board 
 Where simple folk, sufficient to themselves. 
 Were happy till the moment when she came. 
 Then everything grew formal, cold, opaque. 
 And conversation that had lightly tripped 
 From casual lips, grew stiff and meaningless. 
 
 There were bright toasts at suppertime to all — 
 To Mary first, to Don and Michael too; 
 And then at last the wondrous guest proposed 
 The deepest goblet — "to young Lucy's health!" 
 And each one said, "God bless her!" as he drank. 
 
 The lights were out, and the last guest had gone. 
 Mary was staying with the Kents to-night, 
 And when Don, pleading utter weariness, 
 
 [39] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 Went to his room, the two girls sat awhile 
 Before the open fire. No word was said 
 For a long time. Then Mary, on the floor 
 At Lucy's feet, reached for her old friend's hand. 
 And pressed it in her own; yet still no word 
 Was spoken, and the only sound was that 
 Of the snow heating on the glass ahove, 
 Anti the sharp snapping of the dying flames. 
 
 "Lucy . . ." At last her friend's name crossed 
 
 her lips; 
 "Lucy, I am more happy, dear, to-night, 
 Than I had ever thought a girl could he. 
 Michael has told me that he loves me — yes. 
 And I have told him that I love him too! 
 
 Here in your home the words were said that seal 
 My destiny; that's why I am so glad 
 Lucy, lean down and kiss me." 
 
 Lucy brushed 
 The heavy hair back from the other's face, 
 And with a heavenly beauty in her eyes, 
 Leaned down and kissed her friend, and held her 
 there 
 
 [40] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 Close in a trembling ecstasy of joy. 
 
 "O Mary, I am glad — so glad for you!" 
 
 How strange Life was — ^Mary found Love to-night, 
 While she stood swaying on the dizzy verge 
 Where her young dreams seemed falling down the 
 dark ! 
 
 [41] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 XII 
 
 It was not Lucy's nature to cry out 
 
 From the high house-tops her fast-growing grief; 
 
 Rather she hid beneath serenest smiles 
 
 Her secret sorrow through those Winter days, 
 
 Donald was always busy with his plans, 
 
 And now the joy she knew he still must feel 
 
 In greater work was never shared with her. 
 
 And yet she knew his every mood so well 
 
 That she was certain he expressed his hopes 
 
 To someone; for expression was to him 
 
 The breath of Life. 
 
 There came those ceaseless calls 
 To fVillozv Brook; beyond the Palisades 
 The bright new city would one day be built, 
 And there were countless schemes to be worked 
 
 out — 
 Plans and designs that left her quite alone 
 Through the long Winter evenings. 
 
 Mary was full 
 Of her affairs with Michael — here and there 
 
 [42] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 On little jaunts or dinners just for two — 
 The happy trysts that all true lovers know. 
 
 But one cold night Michael and Mary went 
 To see their friends high in their birch-bark nest, 
 And found poor Lucy sitting there alone, 
 A copy of Richard Fever el in her hand, 
 
 "Why, where is Don?" they both exclaimed at once. 
 "At JVillow Brook — as usual," Lucy said; 
 "The new house must be started in the Spring, 
 And there is much to do." 
 
 They said no more; 
 But Mary always after that took pains, 
 Without her friend suspecting her intent, 
 To telephone at twilight; then if Don 
 Were absent still, she said that they would come, 
 Or else urge Lucy out to some bright place 
 Where music made the happy hours sing by. 
 
 [43] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 XIII 
 
 When the first rumors started, Lucy laughed . . . 
 
 It could not be — O no! it could not be! 
 
 But secretly she wept — looked in the glass — 
 
 And kissed a glove Donald had lately worn. 
 
 She still had charms to hold him, that she knew; 
 
 They were vile tongues that so defiled his name — 
 
 Donald could never be a man so base. 
 
 Well, if it were the truth, then she would show 
 
 Her little world how worthy she could be, 
 
 Not of its sympathy or cold respect. 
 
 Its pity or its tears, but of its love. 
 
 She gave bright dinners for the very one 
 
 Whose name was linked with Donald's in those days, 
 
 And smiled as bravely as if no foul word 
 
 Flad reached her ears. She was too proud to lose 
 
 With bitter sobs the love she needed so; 
 
 Always she laughed — and laughter was her sword. 
 
 And then one day when folk almost believed 
 That they had quite misjudged a thoughtless boy, 
 Lucy learned joyfully that heaven was kind, 
 And whispered in her husband's ears the words 
 That tell the happiest secret two may know. 
 
 [44] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 XIV 
 
 Michael and Mary married in the Spring; 
 And while they sojourned in the distant West, 
 Lucy, in her new happiness, wove dreams 
 Of them and of her own approaching joy. 
 Beneath her lamp she sewed with loving hands 
 The little garments that so soon would fold 
 The child she thought of every waking hour. 
 And saw in every vision while she slept. 
 But Donald, his first jubilance gone by. 
 Dreamed somehow with new wonder of his work; 
 While Lucy thought his silence was a sign 
 Of his engrossed delight in what must be 
 Equally dear to him. And so time passed. 
 
 Lucy was never lonely now, though Don 
 Was absent often in the days that saw 
 The house at JFiUow Brook progressing fast. 
 She had the benison of peace with her, 
 She held the hope of ages in her heart; 
 And her long days were one long ceaseless prayer, 
 Filled with high thoughts too wonderful to 
 name 
 
 [45] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 XV 
 
 He leaned above his wife — above his child, 
 
 Awkward in this great moment of his life, 
 
 Not knowing how to voice his manly pride. 
 
 His young heart beating with a new delight. 
 
 To-night he reached the ultimate peaks of joy, 
 
 The summits where the soul, almost afraid, 
 
 Dares not look down upon the level road 
 
 That stretches through the valley whence it came. 
 
 How could he ever walk those ways again, 
 
 The common highroads, having found this height? 
 
 This, then, was Life, lived utterly at last. 
 
 This teeming rapture in his wakened heart. 
 
 This flood of thoughts too deep for utterance, 
 
 August and strange beyond his dreamed desire — 
 
 The splendid miracle of fatherhood. 
 
 How beautiful she looked — how pale and wise. 
 Wise with mysterious knowledge — his young wife, 
 A mother now, exalted in her hour. 
 Yet humble through the God-like grace she 
 
 knew 
 He kissed her, but no word could pass his lips. 
 
 [46] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 XVI 
 
 Their little daughter lived two golden months, 
 
 Scarce longer than the fragile silver moon, 
 
 Less than the blooms that star the meadow-grass, 
 
 Less than the time the Spring is in the world. 
 
 No one can tell why April goes away; 
 
 We simply know that sometimes all too soon 
 
 The beautiful must perish, and the lamp 
 
 Be lighted, only instantly to fail. 
 
 A breath blows down the darkness, and the spark 
 
 That lit our little ring of happiness 
 
 Goes out, and leaves us lonely in the dark. 
 
 So Mary thought that morning when she sat 
 Beside the tiny coffin of the child 
 Whose hands had clutched at life so eagerly, 
 And then in helplessness gone on to death. 
 
 Was this the room, this place of sorrow now. 
 
 Where only a few months ago she knew 
 
 The greatest joy a woman ever knows? 
 
 Was this the room where, at the Christmas dance, 
 
 [47] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 The shouts of laughter and the speeding feet 
 Made the walls ring and hushed the Winter winds? 
 Here hope was born — and swiftly died again; 
 Once more our poor affairs, like lantern-slides, 
 Moved gaily or moved sadly on the screen, 
 And we were weeping even while we smiled 
 
 [48] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 XVII 
 
 He came to her one evening, tired and worn; 
 And Lucy, having lost the child she loved. 
 Drew this great child to her, and stroked his hair — 
 Defeated motherhood triumphant now. 
 
 But neither spoke. She knew this time would come, 
 This hour when his large need of her would break 
 All barriers down. Their mutual joy had been 
 Not strong enough to mend the severed threads, 
 But in the instant of their common pain 
 He learned that he loved Lucy more than life, 
 More than the dream that was a shadow now. 
 
 "Lucy," he said, "can you forgive me, dear? 
 I have no right to ask, no right, I know. 
 For I have forfeited all claims with you; 
 And yet, that old compassion in your eyes 
 Still makes me brave to come to you to-night. 
 Can you forgive me, Lucy, knowing all?" 
 
 [49] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 She stroked his hair in the old tender way. 
 
 "Donald, I can forgive you— knowing all. 
 
 I am the Lucy of a certain tale 
 
 We both have loved — and you are Richard now. 
 
 Do you remember how, one solemn night, 
 
 He came to her, confessing all his fault? 
 
 Do you remember . . . ?" 
 
 ''Lucy! Lucy, my wife!'' 
 Donald cried out, and hid his shameful head 
 Between his hands. "O you are wonderful, 
 Too wonderful to me ! I cannot hope 
 Ever again to be quite worthy of you. 
 You, knowing all, say this?" 
 
 "Yes, knowing all. 
 Dear Donald, for you knew not what you did. 
 If you had ceased to love me, I had known. 
 You loved your dream — and she was part of it; 
 But always, though you never told me so, 
 I knew you loved me still; and in that hour 
 When our child died I knew you loved me more. 
 
 You left me for your dream , . ." 
 
 "I followed it 
 All, all for you, and if it had come true — 
 
 [50] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 If I had built that city that I loved — 
 
 You should have been the empress of its walls, 
 
 You should have been . . ." 
 
 "I know what you would say; 
 But Donald, I would rather be your wife, 
 Here in this little birch-bark room than there, 
 A lonely queen high on a city hill ! 
 I want but you — you and a child again; 
 I want the old-time lover — that Is all." 
 
 "And I want you, O Lucy, my young wife!" — 
 The tears were streaming from his blinded eyes — 
 "I want you more than dreams of glittering towers 
 In that new city which my fancy built. 
 I shall conceive a city of content 
 For you alone, and me; and heaven may send 
 Us other children for the one we lost 
 To make our dwelling perfect. Better far 
 The firm reality than some remote 
 Pale wonder set upon the windy heights. 
 O Lucy, let me build your days for you, 
 Full of wide windows looking to the light. 
 Full of great corridors which we may tread 
 Untroubled by the clamor of the world. 
 
 [5-] 
 
YOUTH 
 
 And I shall build one sumptuous place for 
 
 you . . ." 
 "Like this," she said, and laughingly gazed round 
 The little birch-bark room. "This is enough, 
 With you, my Donald! . . . Listen! what is 
 
 that? 
 Michael and Mary are coming up the stairs!^' 
 
 [52] 
 
OTHER POEMS 
 
SHELLEY'S SKYLARK 
 
 jMMORTALbird, 
 
 Whose song God's purest poet long since heard, 
 And caught within the golden chains of rhyme, 
 Our captive for all time! 
 
 O tender tones. 
 
 That none who, hearing, ever can forget. 
 
 Even when the city's thunder crashes and groans. 
 
 And the wood's whisper moans — 
 
 How wonderful that thou art with us yet! 
 
 High on the Hills of Song thy song is set, 
 
 Within the very blue where first thy voice 
 
 Made his young heart rejoice; 
 
 And from empyrean heights forever shall fall 
 
 Thy silver madrigal. 
 
 Drenching the world with thine enraptured stream, 
 
 Thy heavenly dream. 
 
 Cleansing us as in fires angelical. 
 
SHELLEY'S SKYLARK 
 
 Sweeping us to the mountain-peaks of morn 
 Where beauty and love were born. 
 
 He loved thee; and we love thee for his sake: 
 
 And sometimes when the heart is like to break 
 
 With ancient sorrows that wake 
 
 In the still darkness of some desolate night, 
 
 We hear thee too as he once heard thee sing 
 
 On a white morn of Spring; 
 
 And all our soul is flooded with the light 
 
 Thy melody, and thine alone, can bring. 
 
 We hear thee — yes; but only through his song! 
 Our ears were empty of thy fluted trills 
 Until he snatched thee from thy splendid hills, 
 And gave the wonder of thy joy to us, 
 O bird miraculous ! 
 
 We hear thee now — through him; 
 
 And we rejoice that as thy date grows dim. 
 
 He, and not we, first heard that lovely sound 
 
 Which all his spirit drowned 
 
 In a wild ecstasy beyond our ken. 
 
 And if thy voice now fills heaven's leafiest glen, 
 
 [56] 
 
SHELLEY'S SKYLARK 
 
 Singing again, 
 
 Flinging its silver cataract of bliss 
 
 Down many a sheer abyss, 
 
 Be glad, O bird, that when thou earnest here, 
 
 Thy song fell on his ear, 
 
 And he was thy divine interpreter ! 
 
 [57] 
 
A SONG IN APRIL 
 
 CUX! — and the rush of the rain 
 Swift through the lilac lane; 
 The joy o' the world and the grief o' the world 
 Beat at my window-pane. 
 
 Love! — and the ancient tears; 
 Hope ! — and a hundred fears. 
 
 The light o' the world and the dark o' the world, 
 They follow us down the years. 
 
 [58] 
 
KNOWLEDGE 
 
 CO many Aprils went away 
 
 Before I learned one little part 
 Of all the joy each fragile day 
 Hid in its heart. 
 
 So many Summers hastened by 
 
 Before I caught their secret spell, 
 
 And read in bloom and leaf and sky 
 Life's miracle. 
 
 Would that Youth's eye could see the grace 
 And wonder of the drifting years 
 
 Grown old, their loveliness we trace 
 Through blinding tears. 
 
 [59] 
 
AFTER THE QUARREL 
 
 \X7'E leaped upon the battle-field 
 
 And struck our verbal blows; 
 And neither you nor I would yield — 
 Once friends, now deadly foes. 
 
 We fought the fight, then o'er the grave 
 
 Of that which we had slain 
 We two clasped hands and strove to save 
 
 Some shred of love — in vain. 
 
 For the pale ghost of that we slew 
 
 Rose up in all its might; 
 I lost the faith I had in you, 
 
 You lost your trust that night. 
 
 And something stalks between us now: 
 
 I look in your sad eyes, 
 You see the wounds upon my brow — 
 
 Poor fools, who once were wise ! 
 
 [60] 
 
NIGHT 
 
 XX/HEREFORE should darkness terrify my soul? 
 
 Night is the hope of Day, the scabbard deep 
 
 Wherein the sword of sunlight fain would creep 
 
 After the warring shouts that round us roll. 
 
 Dawn hath its glamour, like pearls upon a shoal; 
 Noon hath its wonder when it climbs the steep 
 Blue hills of Light; and yet we fall asleep 
 
 Afraid sometimes with tears beyond control. 
 
 O let the shadows fold us in their wings. 
 
 And when one long, unstarlit Night shall come, 
 Let us not go like poor sheep driven and dumb, 
 
 But with a spirit that exultant sings; 
 
 For where the darkness trails the desolate sod. 
 He walks before — Night is the shadow of God. 
 
 [6i] 
 
SLOW PARTING 
 
 '' I "'HERE was no certain hour 
 
 Wherein we said good-bye; 
 But day by day, and year by year 
 
 We parted — you and I ; 
 And ever as we met, each felt 
 
 The shadow of a he. 
 
 It would have been too hard 
 
 To say a swift farewell; 
 You could not goad your tongue to name 
 
 The words that rang my knell ; 
 But better that quick death than this 
 
 Glad heaven and mad hell! 
 
 [62] 
 
OF A FRIEND WHO DIED IN THE 
 SPRING 
 
 (M. J. F.) 
 
 CHE who was like a flower, 
 Why should she go away 
 When all the world was jubilant 
 With hawthorn-bloom and May? 
 
 I cannot think of her as one 
 
 Who sleeps the Sleep profound, 
 For her light laughter mocked our tears — 
 
 Hushed now that golden sound. 
 
 Once more the lark ascends the sky 
 
 To utter his glad song; 
 To-day the Spring's old miracle 
 
 Revnles the ancient wrong. 
 
 And she — I think I see her face 
 
 In every starry bloom, 
 And hear her laughter when the breeze 
 
 Sings through the Earth's great room. 
 [63] 
 
I 
 
 EASTER IN THE CITY 
 
 I 
 
 DID not know by the reviving grass 
 That the old miracle had come to pass; 
 Nor by the hawthorn trembling in the lane, 
 Or the light laughter of the country rain. 
 I, in the fevered city's thundering mart, 
 Heard not the sounds that quicken the dull heart. 
 I hardly knew the Spring was on her way, 
 So desolate and empty passed each day, 
 With never a tree or fragrant cherry-bloom 
 To haunt my spirit like an old perfume. 
 I did not hear the breathing of the flowers 
 Amid the tumult of the hurrying hours; 
 I did not sec the ancient beauty come 
 Unheralded by fife or bell or drum. 
 
 . II 
 
 But I knew by the bells in the clamoring towers, 
 And the faces of children that blossomed like 
 flowers; 
 
 [64] ■ 
 
EASTER IN THE CITY 
 
 I knew by a rose at the end of the street, 
 
 And the glad, martial moving of thousands of feet. 
 
 That the old, lovely April, ancient yet new, 
 
 Had come to the city, to me and to you ; 
 
 And the seed of His sowing had wakened again 
 
 In the hearts and the souls of a million of men; 
 
 I knew by the look in the eyes of the old. 
 
 That the grass of His growing had covered the 
 
 mold ; 
 I knew by the wonder that came to the town. 
 The stern, iron city, with sorrow weighed down, 
 That One had arisen who once had been dead. 
 And the white Easter message again had been said. 
 
 1:65] 
 
SMOKE 
 
 T HAVE watched the smoke ascending from the 
 work-shops of the world, 
 Blowing in an endless spiral as it soared. 
 Till it seemed to reach high heaven when it valiantly 
 upcurled — 
 Labor's incense (whispered Mammon) to the 
 Lord. 
 
 But I sazv, as in a vision, the wan profiles of the 
 poor 
 In the outline of the smoke against the sky; 
 And I sazv their anguished bodies that no longer 
 could endure, 
 Sweeping upward — and I thought I heard them 
 sigh. 
 
 Yet the mighty lords of labor, they who prosper in 
 the sun , 
 While the darkness of the engine-room is deep, 
 Tell us this is their grey tribute for another day's 
 work done. 
 This the token of their thanks before they sleep. 
 [66] 
 
SMOKE 
 
 But I know it is the breath of them who labor in the 
 mills, 
 I know it is a portion of each soul 
 JVho has known the stifling, chained-iip years, the 
 grind that slowly kills. 
 As I watch the velvet columns upward roll. 
 
 Thick and thicker swings the whirlwind up the lad- 
 der of the night, 
 Dense and denser sweeps the twilight's punctual 
 cloud; 
 If this be Toil's great censer swung with Wealth's 
 tumultuous might, 
 Then with shame, O Lord, with shame my head 
 is bowed. 
 
 For Thy children in our keeping lose a little by day, 
 Thin and thinner toward high heaven blows their 
 breath. 
 And I know that from the chimneys that are black 
 and tall and grey. 
 Each sunset moves an army unto Death! 
 
 [67] 
 
MIDSUMMER 
 
 "DENEATH the blue pavilion of the sky 
 ■*-' I watch the Summer pageantry drift by, 
 Miraculous beauty, green and gold and grey. 
 And Silence the one trumpet through the day. 
 
 O lavish loveliness, and velvet hours. 
 Stay with me longer than your opulent flowers; 
 But if you must depart, leave, leave behind 
 Your memory when I am Winter blind. 
 
 [68] 
 
THE DAYS REBUKED ME 
 
 '' I "'HE days rebuked me, saying: "Honor and 
 •*■ praise, 
 Wisdom and high endeavor, fame and peace 
 Are in our keeping as the dawns increase; 
 Not fame alone, but fame's immortal bays 
 We hold, and all thy youth's great strength, which 
 slays 
 Fear and her cohorts when they seek release. 
 What hast thou done to gain even one of these, 
 
 young, wild heart?" Thus spake the patient days. 
 
 1 heard their voices in the dusk and dawn; 
 
 I listened, and my soul, a coward, wept. 
 Then put Youth's mighty armor bravely on, 
 
 And from the Camps of Quiet proudly swept. 
 I fought with Life, I knew the pain that sears . . . 
 The days rebuked me — days that soon are years ! 
 
 [69] 
 
WHEN A GREAT MAN DIES 
 
 I HE Hags are hung half-mast to-day, 
 But they'll all be high to-morrow! 
 This is the big world's cruel way, 
 Ah ! this is how we sorrow ! 
 
 A moment's grief, a brief delay 
 
 From plough and field and furrow — 
 
 The flags are hung half-mast to-day, 
 But they'll all be high to-morrow! 
 
 We mourn one hour, we pause to pray, 
 (Sad prayers that we must borrow!) 
 
 One little while we softly say 
 
 Poor words of pain and sorrow; 
 
 The flags are hung half-mast to-day. 
 But they'll all be high to-morrow! 
 
 [70] 
 
THREADS OF SONG 
 
 .OD made a wondrous tapestry, 
 
 And called it Life. To you and me 
 
 He gave the coarse, dark threads to spin, 
 The common fabric, out and in 
 
 To weave by day and in the night, 
 In sorrow and in candlelight. 
 
 But in one sunlit, glowing room. 
 Untouched of terror or of gloom, 
 
 He placed, to do their labor long. 
 His glad, imperial Lords of Song. 
 
 And they the golden threads are given 
 To weave in fancy up to heaven, 
 
 O, theirs the pure, exalted hours, 
 
 Whose shuttles spin such deathless flowers; 
 
 But vain their toil miraculous, 
 Without the background made by us ! 
 
 [71] 
 
AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER 
 
 I SAW the abundant beauty of the world 
 One full day hurled 
 In bank on bank of crimson and of gold; 
 It was as if Life's rosary had been told, 
 And no more prayers 
 And no more cares 
 
 Need follow us beyond those gates empearled 
 That opened in the sky when twilight came 
 With wonderful red flame. 
 
 All beauty fainted in the purple dusk, 
 
 And lay quite still 
 
 Upon each towering hill, 
 
 Lay in the arms of evening like a child 
 
 After the Summer, wild 
 
 With hum and joy and madness and delight. 
 
 There was no word to say; 
 
 It seemed to me the day 
 
 With tasseled corn already in the husk, 
 
 [72] 
 
THE END OF SEPTEMBER 
 
 And with its horn of plenty, the young moon, 
 
 Wished only now to swoon 
 
 Into the darkness, ere there came one sound 
 
 To break the spell that wrapped her sweetly round. 
 
 This was the hour of utter beauty; this 
 
 The royal moment when the Year fulfilled 
 
 Her marvellous slow march. Such bliss 
 
 Must havx been known by those 
 
 Who went where no one knows, 
 
 Seeking a matchless prize 
 
 Where only danger rose — - 
 
 Pale pilgrims with a strength that could not fail. 
 
 In their long journey for the Holy Grail. 
 
 [73] 
 
A WOMAN'S PARTING 
 
 T HAVE forgotten you ! Wherefore my days 
 Run gladly, as in those white hours gone by 
 Before I learned to love you. Now have I 
 
 Returned to that old freedom, where the rays 
 
 Of your strange wonder no more shall amaze 
 My spirit. How remote the rich hours lie 
 Wherein our hearts were one ! Eternity 
 
 Is not so distant to my youthful gaze. 
 
 I have forgotten — yea, and more than this, 
 I nevermore shall need you at my side; 
 New love, new days, new friends shall swiftly 
 glide 
 
 Into my life, to bring my heart new bliss. 
 
 (Hush! On my lips I feel a ghost-like kiss.) 
 I have forgotten? . . . O, I lied, I lied! 
 
 [74] 
 
SONG 
 
 A DEAD girl stirred beneath the grass, 
 
 And lo ! a blossom blew ; 
 And we who watched the Spring's old joy 
 
 A double wonder knew 
 Flowers are the voices of the dead 
 Calling to me and you. 
 
 O living language, fragrant still. 
 Though Winter hushed your sound, 
 
 How magical your old words seem 
 As the glad years wheel round! 
 
 If from our lips such perfume flows, 
 Who fears the quiet ground? 
 
 [75] 
 
BONDAGE 
 
 THE poet is a prisoner for all time; 
 But, captive in the shining House of Song, 
 Life, Love and Sorrow round about him throng, 
 And sweet are his enchanted chains of rhyme! 
 
 [76] 
 
TRIUMPHANT 
 
 T LOVE that face the best, 
 
 That, lined and seared and scarred 
 
 After the journey hard. 
 Shows in each token of life's awful test 
 A sign of victory from the fields of pain; 
 Tracings that prove it braved the stinging rain 
 
 Undaunted, undismayed. 
 
 Valiantly unafraid. 
 Glad of its grief, yet glad now of its rest. 
 I love that face the best. 
 
 [77] 
 
IN THE YEAR'S DUSK 
 
 T ET me be glad 
 
 These Autumn days are sad. 
 Lest I, too long familiar with the May, 
 Forget, in darkness, how to find my way. 
 
 Let me rejoice 
 
 To hear the lone wind's voice, 
 So that, when breaks again the April song, 
 This heedless heart of mine shall listen long. 
 
 [78] 
 
LOVE'S RITUAL 
 
 13 REATHE me the ancient words when I shall find 
 
 Your spirit mine; if, seeking you, life wins 
 New wonder, with old splendor let us bind 
 
 Our hearts when Love's high sacrament begins. 
 
 Exalt my soul with pomp and pageantry, 
 Sing the eternal songs all lovers sing; 
 
 Yea, when you come, gold let our vestments be, 
 And lamps of silver let us softly swing. 
 
 But If at last, (hark how I whisper. Love!) 
 
 You from my temple and from me should turn,. 
 
 I pray you chant no psalm my grief above, 
 Over the body of Pain let no light burn. 
 
 Go forth in silence, quiet as a dove, 
 
 Drift, with no sign, from our exultant place; 
 We need no he at the death of Love, 
 
 And none should come to look on Love's white 
 face. 
 
 [79] 
 
SLEEP 
 
 CLEEP seals our tired eyes, 
 '^ And heals our burning ills 
 How swift the spirit flies 
 To her deep-bosomed hills ! 
 
 Sleep gives — O gift supreme!— 
 Silence that sings, "Forget!" 
 
 Or happily a dream — 
 
 Remembrance dearer yet. 
 
 [80] 
 
OF DEATH 
 
 (To Michael Monahan) 
 
 TX 7HY should I fear that ultimate thing — 
 ' '^ The Great Release of clown and king? 
 
 Why should I dread to take my way 
 Through the same shadowed path as they? 
 
 But can it be a shadowy road 
 
 Whereon both Youth and Genius strode? 
 
 Can it be dark, since Shakespeare trod 
 Its unknown length, to meet our God; 
 
 Since Shelley, with his valiant youth. 
 Fared forth to learn the final Truth; 
 
 Since Milton in his blindness went 
 With wisdom and a high content; 
 
 And Angelo lit with white flame 
 The pathway when God called his name; 
 
 [8i] 
 
OF DEATH 
 
 And Dante, seeking Beatrice, 
 Marched fearless down the deep abyss? 
 
 Where Plutarch went, and Socrates, 
 Browning and Keats, and such as these. 
 
 Homer, and Sappho with her song 
 That echoes still for the vast throng; 
 
 Lincoln and strong Napoleon, 
 And calm, courageous Washington; 
 
 Great Alexander, Nero — names 
 
 That swept the world with deathless flames — 
 
 I need not fear that I shall fall 
 
 When the Lord God's great Voice shall call; 
 
 For I shall find the roadway bright 
 When I go forth some quiet night. 
 
 [82] 
 
APR 30 1912 
 
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