op V \ - S • • , G°V' ^* "T-K A** ► A <> *< .. * ?^ \ &°* O *o„o • aV«^ - nIDI^ ° rS ^ '•••^A^ o A9* /\ ;* a <*» */?;«* .6^ >^ *••*• a <^ ♦'Tit* .o v • ' * ^ POEMS K&fixgo THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., Limited LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA MELBOURNE THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. TORONTO POEMS BY GLADYS CROMWELL WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY PADRAIC COLUM THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1919 All rights reserved y^S Copyright, 1919 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Set up and electrotyped. Published December, 1919. DEC 10 1919 ©CI.A536908 Thanks are due to the Editor of Poetry for courteous permission to reprint " The Fugi- tive," " The Crowning Gift," " Folded Power," "The Mould," "Autumn Communion" and " Star Song " ; also to the Editor of The New Republic for " Winter Landscape " and " Words," and to the Sunwise Turn for " The Scientist. 59 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from The Library of Congress http://www.archive.org/details/poemsOOcrom INTRODUCTION TO GLADYS CROMWELL'S POEMS The poetry of Gladys Cromwell was that of an out-dweller on modern life. In it there are no mannerisms, no novelties. Personality is expressed, but it is not exhibited. It is a poetry that has the accent of actuality, but of an actuality known to a noble heart and a dis- tinguished spirit. There is nothing facile in these poems. In- deed in certain of them the workmanship is halt- ing and unachieved. But in the poems that are the least fluent there are moments of mas- tery — moments when the words become alive with spirit. Such a poem as " Conflict " seems to come out of the silence and the dark like a living thing. And there is exquisite achieve- ment in "The Mould," "Folded Power," " Autumn Communion," " Star Song," " Def- inition," "Dominion," "The Crowning Gift." These are fine lyrics indeed — indubitably amongst the best that has been written in our day. Amongst many other distinctions this poetry has the distinction of being a woman's poetry. [vii] INTRODUCTION I do not mean that it has an obviously feminine interest. Again, one can say that personality is not exhibited. But the perceptions are -a woman's perceptions. The eagerness is a wom- an's eagerness. The renunciations are a wom- an's renunciations. The wit is a woman's wit. And yet, although it is assuredly a woman's poetry, its balance dips towards thought rather than to emotion. It is a poetry that comes out of impassioned thought. Indeed I think " thought " is the word most often used by Gladys Cromwell. She felt herself bound and laden, but like certain philosophical determin- ists she knew herself free in meditation and in- trospection. Out of this free and dearly ap- preciated thought she made her poems. In all she wrote there is an attempt to do a difficult thing — to say. What she writes is not a phrase, but a statement. Stripped of rime and rhythm these poems would have the interest of something written in a diary by a clear and a sincere soul. The world was dif- ficult for her, but it was intelligible, as she averred in her poem " The Audience " ; and this sense of intelligibility brought her to a deliber- ate and often to a finely achieved form. Most of her poems are touched by a tragic vision of life — [viii] INTRODUCTION " Trust not your hopes for all are vain, Trust not your happiness and pain, Trust not your storehouses of grain, Trust not your strength on land or sea, Trust not your loves that come and go, Trust only the hate of the common foe, War is the one reality." Her songs are to enfold her sorrow " like por- tions of a mellow sheath." The " age-bent " woman that she once saw lead the herd to pas- ture is made to typify a resignation that the young poet herself has striven for. She can never be off guard. She is proud that she has had the courage to oppose, and she knows that she has won illumination from conflict. There was one gay tune, however, that she wrote to triumphantly — the Elizabethan tune. When she struck it she became fluent with beau- tiful words and imagery. — As clouds lie in the west, My fairest pleasures rest In you, their element Of being. Loath to die They ornament your sky, Amassed, magnificent. The poems she has written to this measure have a smiling detachment. All that Gladys Cromwell had to say came out of a spiritual experience brooded over and made her own, and elevated hy an heroic quality [ix] INTRODUCTION of mind. She was steadily moving towards a more perfect achievement and the poems that she wrote in the last years and before the world's trouble drew her away were finer and more assured than those she had previously written. Behind the lines of battle her spirit showed as clearly and as beautifully as it does in her poetry. A year ago the soldiers in the Chalons section were speaking of herself and her sister (two beings indeed with a single soul) as " the Saints." The Government of France recognized their devotion and the worth of their service by the decoration it gave. These sis- ters were like twin spirits caught into an alien sphere, strangely beautiful and strangely apart, and the heavy and unimaginable weight of the world's agony became too great for them to bear. The one who was the articulate poet has left a triumphant stanza for our thought of them — I know that we exist, Two entities in Time. Our vital wills resist Enclosing night; our thoughts Command a Truth above All fear, in knowing Love. So an Iphigenia might speak in a play by an Euripides of our day. Padraic Colum. M LATER POEMS THE ACTOR-SOLDIER On the grass I'm lying, My blanket is the sky ; This feeling is called dying. No one will testify They saw me suffer this ; — There's no one passing by. The wonder of it is, I'm by myself at last With plain realities. No one is here to cast A part for me to play ; My term of life is past. No one is here to see How I can meet and take This end ; — how gallantly — Though the ice that binds a lake Must weigh less heavily Than Death to my soul awake. [3] LATER POEMS I must have thirsted, indeed, For pity, then love, then praise ; For to win them, in every deed, I endeavoured all my days. The Soldier and the Son Were my seductive parts ; But I could act the clown, — Draw laughter from dumb hearts. The Soldier part was my best, — 'Twas my last and my favourite. Every gift that I possessed I displayed for their benefit. Who are They ? On my breast Weighs the infinite. Ah, yes, I appeared heroic, Unflinching, true and brave ; I wore the look of a stoic ; — All hurts I forgave. But now on the grass I turn To ease a little the pain ; It is not too late to learn. Last night I lay in the rain Until my body was numb, Hearing like a refrain: [4] LATER POEMS " O Masquerader, come ! "- And even like a drum It beat into my brain : " O Masquerader, come ! " [5] AUTUMN COMMUNION This autumn afternoon My fancy need invent No untried sacrament. Man can still commune With Beauty as of old: The tree, the wind's lyre, The whirling dust, the fire — In these my faith is told. Beauty warms us all ; When horizons crimson burn, We hold heaven's cup in turn. The dry leaves, gleaming, fall, Crumbs of mystical bread ; My dole of Beauty I break, Love to my lips I take, And fear is quieted. The symbols of old are made new: I watch the reeds and the rushes ; The spruce trees dip their brushes In the mountain's dusky blue ; The sky is deep like a pool; A fragrance the wind brings over [6] LATER POEMS Is warm like hidden clover, Though the wind itself is cool. Across the air, between The stems and the grey things, Sunlight a trellis flings. In quietude I lean: I hear the lifting zephyr Soft and shy and wild; And I feel earth gentle and mild Like the eyes of a velvet heifer. Love scatters and love disperses. Lightly the orchards dance In a lovely radiance. Down sloping terraces They toss their mellow fruits. The rhythmic wind is sowing, Softly the floods are flowing Between the twisted roots. What Beauty need I own When the symbol satisfies? I follow services Of tree and cloud and stone. Color floods the world ; I am swayed by sympathy; Love is a litany In leaf and cloud unfurled. [7] THE BEGGAR Showing his ill-made frame And mumbling of troubles many, Along a public street, The cripple calls for a penny. Inviting sympathy, By his rags and his withered arm, He follows and frets till we argue A penny can do him no harm. Just now, in this intimate room, Sagacious, clever and witty, Exposing his hardships, a Beggar Beckoned his friends for pity. Ugh! By displaying his pains, By showing his heart was ashen, By revealing his twisted life, He played for a glance of compassion. Strange how I longed to laugh ; His feebleness was funny. I thought : " He's only a Beggar And affection is golden money. [8] LATER POEMS " Scorn will do for this Beggar, And a smile will send him away ; I will keep my love for One Who may need my love some day. " I will keep my love for One Who is brave and ashamed of tears The importunity Of silence reaches my ears ; — " Life on its lonely way Moving on lonely wings, And the mute mind, alone With dark imaginings." I thought, " I will keep my love, — I will keep my tenderness, For One who is piteous, Hiding his loneliness." [9] THE BREATH A trembling crest Of smoke, the winter sky Congeals to bloom, To please a poet's eye: A slender reed Arisen from some gold Recess or womb Of flame to spaces cold. Between the twigs, That for a nest are spun On flight's grey loom, A sapphire thread may run And so between the grey, The woven boughs of trees, A little plume Of mist the poet sees : It will suffice — Too scant a breath to name For him to whom It signifies a flame. [10] BY THE SEA Friend, we meet and feel as free As two young children. By the sea We sift the sand. From where we sit The line of shore seems infinite. The landward little dunes that lie In drifted shapes against the sky, Divide and sever and seclude Us from the scenes that could intrude Upon our chosen time of pleasure; In the ocean's louder measure, Speech is tempered and we dare To voice perplexities the air Transmutes to clearer truth for us. Our love is new and venturous, Permits veiled intervals and terms Of silence; in each pause affirms Implicit sympathies. Our words Take wing, float seaward, like the birds Upon the wind. The birds and love Are free to soar to climes above. But there are white waves tethered under Wanton wings. Are those, I wonder, Like our thoughts, — less fugitive, [ii] LATER POEMS Less free than love is, — tentative And groping, lest they touch and stir, On memories' mystic barrier, An unforgotten pain? Are we Then fettered, we who feel so free? We sift the sand. From where we sit The line of shore seems infinite. But waves into their tidal fold Obedient fall. Unto what mould Of wonted pain must you comply? tell me, are you bound as I With links of your own failure? Tell Me, do the crowded years compel And hinder you? What tyranny Distorted life, like an oak tree The wind has twisted? Long ago Youth was rebellious. Now we know Our thought is tethered like a wave, And strong compelling tides enslave Our spirits. No, we are not free. And still we almost seem to be — For since we newly love, our words Take wing, float seaward like the birds. [12] CHOICE Imperious Time, I must prefer Thy just necessity: Resign the silent, earlier Beliefs grown dear to me. The stillness left alternatives To youth, a freedom wide And dim as dreaming, but man lives, And must one day decide. There is a doom the years compel: I must approach the goal Decreed, where it behooves me dwell: I must declare my soul; Must speak and choose what stars pertain To me ; needs must I rest In their most intimate beams, remain Committed and confessed. I claim a tent of stars in place Of heaven's confusing dome: A tent of stars in a dark space — The sky must be my home. [13] LATER POEMS I must adopt a finer scope, A tent of stars in space — Affiliated flames, a hope Auroral creeds embrace. [14] THE CHRISTIAN I was free. But now in a net I am caught : In a delicate net of love I am taken ; I, the lonely, whom nobody sought, Can feel the poor and the sorrow-shaken Draw the line of their yearning taut ; I am held by experience. When I die Their net will draw me through fathoms of sky ; I can not evade immortality. [15] CHRISTMAS, MADISON SQUARE In dismal darkness stands the Christmas pine The Orthodox have put up for a sign Among the sombre trees that mark the Square. Oh, there are moral people everywhere Indulge the doctrine still of " doing good ; " They brought the tree uprooted from the wood. Like oranges or apples of warm gold Are bulbs of gleaming light the branches hold, And yet that golden fruit no languor drenches ! Below, the motley company Is like a shadow, neither spiced nor gay, That hovers wearily to huddled benches. On one of these a woman sits alone; More poor than thirsting youth for being older. She's leaning on her arm. Her slanted shoulder Says more clear than any word she's lonely. She yields the icy wind her neck and hair ; Her lids are closed. A foil of softer air Brings vision of the forest her first lover Wove into his Poetry. To-night her shivering fancy can recover The scene of a June world remote and free ; [16] LATER POEMS The tones of mist and of blue mirrored hills. A long-unheeded beauty pain distils. Like the earth under pines is the way where her memories pass : She sees old orchards stifled in fresh grass, The shapes of little apple trees Scared of the wind's gathering, on their knees ; The spires of larch rising in quiet skies ; The elm with parted stem and foliage droop- ing; The mothering willow stooping To kiss the stream ; And the companionable pine. Within the magic of the Christmas light, She hears hushed words of love, as in the night One hears on stones the flowing of a brook. But in the Square about the tree there's singing; And now the winter wind her cheek is stinging ; Her aching soul can feel the heavy frost. She could not live on what her craft was earn- ing; To satisfy the dream her youth kept burning, And she was ignorant of what love cost. To the blind strength of love her body shook, [17] LATER POEMS And to the joy of love her longing darted; Now she's lonely and she's broken-hearted. The Fate that still prevents her choice to-day Is Poverty, a Fate that mars The slow unfolding spirit; Born of a longing to inherit, Like the sweet thirst of tree tops for the stars. Her sin's identity is need ; Her thirst a thirst for God, reversed Until her slaved mortality is freed. Within the magic of the Christmas light, Her soul — like snow, blossoms, foam — is white ; And her desire is fine, Unswerving as the pine. After vision of those freer places, She fumbles to her feet. We lose her in a throng of faces. She drifts into the crevice of a street. The pine tree boughs divide In search of spaces wide ; Life unsatisfied Ascends. [18] THE CIRCLE My grief comes back after an interval Of years. How strong it seems ! Is my defeat Assured and final still? Shall I repeat My failure? Am I ever sorrow's thrall? Sometimes old griefs can loom again so tall We are afraid of kindness, and the sweet New truth of love we cannot bear to meet ; — Our past would seem to hold us after all. We know men go in circles when they're lost : My grief must prove that I have gone astray. I cross again the very path I crossed Before! I stand abreast of the old pain: I am not changed. I am as yesterday, And feel the weight of my old sorrow's chain. [19] THE CROWNING GIFT I have had courage to accuse; And a fine wit that could upbraid ; And a nice cunning that could bruise ; And a shrewd wisdom, unafraid Of what weak mortals fear to lose. I have had virtue to despise The sophistry of pious fools ; I have had firmness to chastise; And intellect to make me rules To estimate and exorcise. I have had knowledge to be true ; My faith could obstacles remove; But now my frailty I endue. I would have courage now to love, And lay aside the strength I knew. [20] THE DEEP I must have peace, increasing peace ; Oh, not a brave, A fleeting interval between Each breaking wave; Oh, not a treacherous pause between The gathering gales ; Nor rest in the white fleece of cloud Cold winter trails ; Oh, not a temporal winter, not A fitful sleep ; But such a lasting winter as Dark oceans keep. Beneath all tides there sleeps a depth Of cold fecundity, — A zone that spins and spins a fine Transparency. There must be such a wintry zone For teeming thought, Where forms the mildest ray would crush Are slowly wrought ; [21] LATER POEMS Where floating shapes of stars and leaves Are free to dwell, And feel the quietude of Life's Eternal spell. I must have peace, and so in some Dark peace I trust, Where thoughts like stars and leafage can Be spun from dust. [22] DELIVERANCE Deliverance? You mean this empty cup My days keep filling up ; You mean my future into which keeps flowing Forever without my knowing, The irresistible current of my past? [23] THE DESERTED SHRINE I was the temple for a people's need ; My columns and my towers lifted bright. Expressed the soaring ardours of their creed. My windows were the lanterns of their night ; My naves were golden solitudes for prayer ; My sepulchres enveloped those asleep ; And I concealed the living soul's despair, In vestibules with pious love replete. Through severed arch, the mournful wind I hear, And my lone pillars that will never hold Aught but the dome of heaven, stand darkly bold, Like the bare crags, that from ebb tides appear. The mellow, sheathing shadows droop to hide My sadness, and the voices hushed of birds, Lull my deep slumber, throbbing, like the words Of love that on forsaken hearts abide. [24] DISCIPLINE These forty days I fasted in My sorrow's wilderness : Hence I can feed with sorrow's thrift My tempted loneliness. [25] DISILLUSION Only a blunder, I mistook you for somebody else! Shall I tell you? I thought you were God, So beauteously you strode. Now I wonder; I pay for my folly with pain ! I must bury my faith. But all good Is not dead, though I misunderstood. [26] DOMINION Patrician overthrown, What lyric powers oppose The dogmas you intone ! You still would be of those Who rule by " willing " ? — No. Chaos within, I say, Compels your star to glow With fixed complacency. When a bright star shall dance, 'Twill be from lowly fires That sting your arrogance ! Among the patient choirs Of Heaven, old Earth maintains Her meaning. Dare to call Her measure prose! Her strains Are immemorial. Earth gives you patronage. Yes, you, who have surpassed Her human heritage Of wisdom, the meek past Enshrouds and swaddles. Are You free? The Master? — Yes- [27] LATER POEMS Imperial, titular ; — But Earth you can't possess ! — — Old Earth, — old, constant Earth, In whom is dancing thought And song and endless birth Of wonder — Earth, so old, Yet still so new with years That none her sway shall hold Except the lyric seers. [28] EARLY SNOW Above the forest line There's been a fall of snow At variance with autumn's ray ; Yet trees, the color of wine, Whispered hours ago : " Frost is on the way." Oh, past our narrow view, There comes a drift of Death, To love, anomalous and strange ; Yet whispering poets knew: They marked the dying breath, Divined the law of change. [29] EXPERIENCE There is no need for you to cheer or nerve My spirit forward; for the days advise; The years have counselled me. I recognize No change from joy to sadness. I observe No variation. Like the simple curve Earth follows, meeting Spring and Winter skies, My life is one experience, implies Continuous truth. When it appears to swerve, To mount from sadness into joy, or sink To sadness with a wayward cruelty, 'Tis only so to you who watch. You think That I must feel contrasting moods. You name Them joy and pain. You have not skill to see That where I stand all beauty is the same. [30] THE EXTRA Sheltered and safe we sit. Our chairs are opposite; We watch the warm fire burn In the dark. A log I turn. Across the covered floor I hear the quiet hush Of muffled steps ; the brush Of skirts ; — then a closing door. Close to you and me The clock ticks quietly. I know that we exist Two entities in Time. Our vital wills resist Enclosing night; our thoughts Command a Truth above All fear, in knowing Love. But a voice in the street draws near ; A wordless blur of sound Breaks like a flood around: " Trust not your hopes, for all are vain, Trust not your happiness and pain, Trust not your storehouses of grain, Trust not your strength on land or sea, [31] LATER POEMS Trust not your loves that come and go, Trust only the hate of the unknown foe,- War is the one reality." Are we awake or dreaming? On the hearth, the ashes are gleaming. Listen, dear: The clock ticks on in the quiet room, It's all a joke, a poor one, too. Or else I'm mad! This can't be true? I light the lamp to lift the gloom. My world's too good for such a doom. One fact, if nothing else, I know, I'll die sooner than have it so ! [32] FOLDED POWER Sorrow can wait, For there is magic in the calm estate Of grief ; lo, where the dust complies Wisdom lies. Sorrow can rest Indifferent, with her head upon her breast ; Idle and hushed, guarded from fears ; Content with tears. Sorrow can bide, With sealed lids and hands unoccupied. Sorrow can fold her latent might, Dwelling with night. But Sorrow will rise From her dream of sombre and hushed eternities. Lifting a Child, she will softly move With a mother's love. She will softly rise. Her embrace the dying will recognize, Lifting them gently through strange delight To a clearer light. [33] THE FOREST FIRE These pines could feel the wind, the snow, The April sun ; But through them now no changes flow. These pines could feel the grief and mirth Of quiet years ; But now they know unchanging dearth, And they can feel no mood of spring — Like certain souls Who find in flame their blossoming. [34] THE FUGITIVE Fool, Fool, They can hear thy frighted feet, And they poke fun at thee, Or pity thee, Or pity thee. They can hear thy steps retreat, Shuffling timidly. Thy gait is hobbling and uncouth, For stubborn is earth's clay ; There was a day, There was a day, When from the doom of its own youth, Thy spirit stole away. Do they not know thy spirit's home? Thy spirit, glancing, glides Beneath all tides, Beneath all tides. It is a coral under foam; In the cool deep it hides. For lo, the yielding element Of immortality [35] LATER POEMS Is like the sea, Is like the sea. Do they not hear, in wonderment. The tides enfolding thee? [36] THE GARDENER At evening, I have seen him wander in And out between the hedges ; On the moss he treads, where shadows spin A misty web. He skirts the edges Indistinct of heliotrope and jessamine. I wonder what he does, studious And furtive in the gloom. Is he covering the tremulous Young plants that have no spreading bloom When night is cool, to keep them young and luminous ? Or is he mutely speculating there Upon the flowers themselves ; His love observing them through the veiled air As plain as when he weeds and delves At noon, but with more secret and more wistful care ? I call the garden mine. This votary Who loves it makes it his ; A poet owns his legend. If I were To ask the garden whose it is, It would reply : "My master is this gardener." [37] GRIEF Exultant whirlwind wrung the branches ; And the weak leaves were loosed with power. I heard the pelting dissonances ; Anguish in the autumn shower. But living petals now take wing Like butterflies with dusky flashes ; April flutters her white ashes Inaudibly, remembering. [38] HANDICAPPED 'Tis in a measure easy not to plan But simply to lie still and brave all day A single discipline. I've put away Ambition. From a straight, a narrow span Of life, a lofty quietude I scan, And an unclouded beauty I survey. My hands are idle, but my thoughts can weigh And prove what has been true since earth began. By suffering released from self-endeavour, I view reality, that rainbow skein That is like sunlight and the sombre rain. Although my body must lie still forever, With vigorous will out of myself I lean And gather what my body has not seen. [89] IDLENESS I feel, the stress Of life's unmeaning days : Oh, how the vain past weighs My will — the vacant seasons numberless ! The clear device Intrepid thoughts define, — The glowing, brave design — Elude the weary shuttle twice and thrice. I lose the whole in shreds ; The sombre days unroll, And I must spend my dole Of time untwisting ravelled threads. [40] INDEPENDENCE I lie in wait that I may steal a view Of truth as lovely as the spires of larch Rising in limpid iskies. But wandering March Eludes me though I watch the swift year through July to June: all visions dawn from you. Though I look steadily across the arch Of my own youth; though many splendors parch My blood, your wisdom, Sweet, alone I listen to. Yet I would win a beauty all my own, Too fine for derivation or confiding, — Surprise a truth your love has never shown My servile glance ; my themes, by living them, Shall grow like laden branches from a stem, And I shall break them off at their dividing. [41] LAUGHTER Throughout his life men seldom spoke with him; They stood aloof. But he could overhear Their laughter hooting far away and near, With scornful intonations. It could dim Things lovely and beloved. Upon the rim Of his most hallowed griefs it could appear To mock with mirth and with unheeding cheer. He was afraid of laughter. Ah, how prim, How foolish, it could make his prayers ! He durst Not improvise a loving God. In cloak Of tenderness could laughter lash his soul: Until at last, with savage glee, it broke From his own trammelled breast. He felt it roll And surge to his own lips and quench his thirst. [42] LEISURE When I have nothing else to do, When I am free, the hour kind, I like to lift reflections from The pool of my mind. I'm thirsty, and I like to drink A wisdom cool and clear ; Standing precautionary, shy, As lion or as deer. [43] THE LION I feel the lines of yellow sunlight burn My body, alternating with each bar Of shadow. Captive in my cage, I yearn For the large river where somnambular I drank at twilight, listening lest some star Betray me quenching the salt blood. But far Is the cool river! Golden sun-streaks burn Athwart my body, in between each bar Of shadow. Now I range in circular Pursuit of my own power, now taciturn, I lie. My refluent sinews fetters are; And with reverberant fires, I lash, I spurn This body which the yellow sun-streaks burn: My passion mocks these lines of cinnabar. [44?] LOVE Hush, hush, O wind ! Between the leaves you creep, You grope like something blind. The tree tops as they sleep, The standing spears of grass, You'll touch them when you pass. Still, still, O love ! My need awaits your dower, My foolish heart your power; Though sorrow dawn anew I may not strive with you. [45] MANUMISSION Oh, you are free! When you are satisfied, When you have all my love can give you here, I shall not keep you. Go ! No faltering fear Of mine shall hinder you from searching wide Unguarded ways, forbid your spirit glide Beyond the harboured safety of each year In which I've loved you. Now you are so near That all your dreams are mine. You cannot hide The faintest dawning of your thought. How should You spare me when you go? Yet you are free, Oh, you are free, to change or to progress! So be it when you shall turn quietly Away from me, you have but understood Your love can leave no room for loneliness. [46] THE MOCKING WIND Wind, you will not break my house ; Though you come to my house in bodily form, Though you tramp on the doorstep and over the stone, Though you knock on my roof and my window with storm. O Wind, though you lift your mischievous hand, Rubbing your smooth palm over my door, Though your elbows nudge the wall of my room, Though you hum with contentment over my floor, — O Wind, you will not break my house ; Your mirth will not shake the resting beams ; For a slow and a careful Carpenter Built me my house, — my house of dreams. [47] THE MOULD No doubt this active will, So bravely steeped in sun, This will has vanquished Death And foiled oblivion. But this indifferent clay, This fine, experienced hand So quiet, and these thoughts That all unfinished stand, Feel death as though it were A shadowy caress ; And win and wear a frail Archaic wistfulness. [48] THE POET O tekl me, tell me, How did you drain Your song to drops Clear as rain? What labor, what sorrow, What sacrifice, Crystal'd your song To beryl ice? What burning gladness Warmed it again To a vapor sweet, Clear as rain? O tell me, tell me, Melody's price — Is it work, is it pain, Is it sacrifice? [49] THE QUEST You've been a wanderer, you! But I've been a wanderer, tool You've seen the fine smoke rising Like a fern uncoiled in spring; And through the shut blind gazing You've seen the white fire blazing ; But often I've knocked at your door For the love I've been asking for. You've borne, in the starlit expanses Of the hushed night sorrowfully lying, Gleams, like the furtive glances Over one who is dying. You've seen your sorrow enlarge Like a sphere to solitude's marge ; And you've gone in need of bread With thoughts in your heart instead. [50] LATER POEMS So you think I've been filled, to be sure? And you've never guessed how poor My leisured safety is ! How I slake my thirst with song To urge and lure me along, — How I look for your melodies ! [51] REALIZATION There is one syllable that stirs me : War ! I picture what the mortal strife must be Of Nations clad in youth and bravery. I hear the voice of human anguish more Compelling than it ever was before. Across the universe, beyond the sea, New life is spilled into infinity, And the waves tell it moaning on our shore. How comes it bleaker sorrow I can bear ; The combat starkly drawn, a street, a square Away? The souls intrenched in frigid line To fight for purposes no kings define ; — For purposes as grim to them as life? God, let me apprehend this nearer strife I [52] RELEASE O stars, they've left me with you here, For their conspiracy is ended. The mockery of men extended To the edge of this dark sphere. But now men cannot do us harm. O stars, they've left us now together; They cannot hurt us now, whether We feel them still across the calm Of thought, or seem to recognize The white hands of the flatterer In these white clouds that mildly stir The darkness here before our eyes. O stars, I can fear nothing more : With you there is no loneliness. With you, against the night, I press My quiet spirit and adore. [53] RENEWAL Can this be love men yield me in return For what I do? I hold a strange belief That love is not a tribute, nor a leaf Of laurel, nor a wage the soul can earn By any kind of doing. The concern Of love is need, and love is the spare sheaf We glean from pain — the fruit of patient grief. Can this be love men yield me? Nay. I spurn Their recompense who could so long refrain From giving. I myself will grant the gift And prove what loving is. I'll finer sift My sorrow, make new songs distilled from pain ; Above this hour of bitterness I'll lift My spirit up and taste my grief again ! [54] THE SCIENTIST With what fidelity and yearning care He must accommodate his glass ; in blind Huge darkness, till each star be clear defined ; At noon-day, till each point and leaf lies bare; Each crystal in each stone. He must not spare His days nor number years. His eye must find The inmost kernel. Lo, his hands grow kind With touching beauty, and his heart aware Of curious things ; of life in spiral shells, Of death in searching mould around each tree. Desiring truth, no lesser gift he owns. Upon the lonely summit where he dwells His soul delights in sifting stars and stones. He asks no grace except the grace to see. [55] SEPARATION When intervals of solitude are done, Or nearly done, what brimming utmost bliss ! My wings disturb my lonely chrysalis To go to thee ! I open one by one, To ease delight, thy casements to the sun ; Prepare thy chamber where thy follies miss Thee, too ; then tip-toe with my treasured kiss, And love that weighs my thrilling breast, I run To meet thy coming ; — pause in sweet sus- pense Too soon upon the doorstep — else delay ; I almost see thee — balm to aching sight ! What gladness, mingling with an equal sense Of soaring desolation, lest thou stay And leave the house and me deserted quite! [56] SONG I like to see the pebbles creep Into the ocean's hand. I like to see the water spread Wide fingers on the sand, And fumble for the emeralds The foaming ripples hold, Or grope among the seaweeds for A clasp of coral cold. I like to see the ocean stoop And gather shining things: Chrysolite or pearl or just A tiny shell with wings. [57] SONG Love is like a wind that passes Its fingers through the blades and grasses. Love itself is hidden from sight, But all we see is through its light ; Love is like a soft song sweeping The hills and valleys of its keeping; Love is like a white scythe gleaning Every meadow's happy meaning. Oh, the meadow's dream we saw there, Soft enough so ferns could grow there! Love is like a flame unfolding, Needs delight should wait its moulding, Needs delight should wait while sorrow Makes it pure for love to-morrow. Love is like a wind that passes Its fingers through the blades and grasses. [58] STAR SONG There are twisted roots that grow Even from a fragile white anemone. But a star has no roots : to and fro It floats in the light of the sky, like a water-lily, And fades on the blue flood of day. A star has no roots to hold it, No living lonely entity to lose. Floods of dim radiance fold it ; Night and day their silent aura transfuse, But no change a star can bruise. A star is adrift and free. When day comes, it floats into space and com- plies ; Like a spirit quietly, Like a spirit, amazed in a wider paradise At mortal tears and sighs. [59] TEMPTATION You feel the witchery of Life, the call Of a disturbing beauty ; you respond And view forbidden mysteries beyond The soul whose orbit seems to you so small. But I am not thus tempted: not by all Life's dear implied seductions. No, a bond Of thought subdues me ; rather am I fond Of quietness, of safeties which enthrall; Of self-enshrining loneliness. I fail To make the gesture Life awaits ; withhold A motion of the hand, a word, a kiss, A glance of plain avowal. Standing cold, Aloof, the tempered silences prevail, And steeped in dreams I lose authentic bliss. [60] THOUGHT Thought is fragrant like shining grass ; It makes for our spirits a lovely mead ; As animals taste the grass in shadow On pensive lawns, our spirits feed. There are seasons when thought lies hidden and cold, As in winter the grass lies under the snow ; But the springtime of thought is unforeseen, For our fitful need it seems to grow. Thought is most often like shining grass ; — But thought has a varied form and way ; It is like the round leaf of a violet, Or the feathery line of a fir-tree spray. [61] TO MY POET Dear Poet of the swift imperial ways, The overtones of thy melodious showers Are mine, and shadows of thy leaning flowers ; My thoughts are emulous of thy thought sprays. Thou art the shepherd of my humble days. The faint subsiding impulse of thy powers Reverberates and stirs my silent hours ; My partial words are thy remembered lays. When Jesus gave the loaves to the meek throng, They fared, and there were basketsful be- sides — The fragments fallen from his grace benign, Abundant — since, dear Poet, love divides, A portion of thy opulence is mine, I gather from thy plenitude of song. [62] TYRANNY This One I feared is powerless become. Shut lids conceal the leer, the lips are dumb, And the satiric laugh, that used to scare Delight away, is silent. Yes, I dare Consider him disabled, vincible. And yet, as though I were responsible, My will to blame for keeping him in bonds Of unrelenting frost, I fear, I fear Him still. This mould, marmoreal, austere, Assumed in death, needs love to read it, yes, Needs love. For love to the frail flesh responds, And pities even cruelty, when strife Has nurtured it. But sleeping powerless, Of all reproach or pardon unaware — It is as though my love were lying there. The taunt of silence takes my life — my life. [63] UNCERTAINTY Sometimes a phrase That Ariel sings Is audible. Though wings Make sighing music, fainter things Are Ariel's lays. I think I've known The gradual drift Of tones that pauses lift, As petals through a pleached rift Are softly blown. [64] THE VOICE I hear His voice and the sea's voice : Two melodies. His voice that melted long ago In spaces gold, Unanswered and unechoed, — and The soft sea-fold. Why did He always walk beside The singing sea, Where speech unheeded fades like foam In mystery? Is love in truth a spoken word, A cadence clear, A voice that lapses in loud space For none to hear? Then why His voice and the sea's voice : Two melodies? [65] THE WEAKLING Confined within the walls of a grey world, And never from that iron realm allowed, My powers were wasted ; I was broken, bowed ; Throughout the years my strength and will were furled. But later, when the force of time had hurled All barriers down, released me from the cloud That held my spirit, left me free, endowed With latitudes of love, my spirit whirled Bewildered round itself. In that clear field I had not strength nor will to stand revealed, Nor claim deliverance. Self-pity drew Me to my doom. I was beset anew; I was afraid — afraid that love would see What all those iron years had done to me. [66] WINTER POETRY Lovers think that they alone possess A sense of beauty. They ascribe all graces To their love ; seeing earth's wintry places Warmed and enchanted, they suppose and guess Their own illusion makes the loveliness. They dream their flame illumines the dim spaces Of the sky ; they think the earth embraces No charm but that their pleasure can express. Yet we, who shun romance, find beauty near; A stillness in the air when summer's gone ; On the fine winter stem hang subtle fruits; We like to see the slender willow spear ; We like red weeds and branches blackly drawn, And the white snow embroidered with brown roots. [67] WINTER SONG Through moveless pines I hear the air Rolling like a silken flood, And the clear note of a lonesome bird Piping a quiet word. Bowing shadows weigh the snows ; In every bush the sunshine flows. Winter, solemn though it is, Distils deep mysteries. We, who must grow poor and old, Since our loveliest hours in childhood were told, We, to whom visions in youth were shown Clear and crowning as dawn, Must sift and sift to a single theme, To a lyric line, the truth of our dream. When age and the winter night are long, We must simplify our song. [68] WORDS Words are the stones I use in building, My house will be strong without fillet or gilding ; I dig in the crypt of the centuries Where the earth is rich in ebonies. I burrow for words in the quarry of time, In the heart of the ancient hills for rhyme. There are veins of Beauty the sages have known : Milton worked where the marble shone ; Our Lincoln found what he liked in the clay Of the common fields where the stones are grey. So every spirit must find a way And delve for the treasure that seems its own. But you! what are words, what are words to you! Not stone nor metal precious and true, Nor blocks to serve in a hallowed shrine, But seductive jewels cut subtle and fine, Spangles you wear to glitter and shine; I know the worth of your words to you ! [69] POEMS FROM THE GATES OF UTTERANCE THE GATES OF UTTERANCE There is a throng within the gates, A pressing, diverse throng ; — Without, a peaceful throng awaits, To which I would belong. Within the gates the varied folk Advise discordantly ; — Without, the poet-crowds convoke To council harmony. Within the gates are all the heights And depths of serried powers ; But when a lyric theme invites, I reach outlying bowers Where dwell the bards of quiet years ; I join my song to theirs ; My glad, unfettered spirit hears The melody it shares. [73] THE RIDERS You look askance at me. Do you take my horse For Pegasus? Of course He steps like Poetry, But he's a quiet beast. I think I hear you say You don't like in the least His fleet-footed way. But your light flitting mare Skims the meadows too. Her nimble feet pursue The stony dales, dare The sloping pastures, leap The brooks. You do the things I do in dreams, asleep — (Pegasus has wings) ! You canter wide-awake. Your mare is real ; my steed Imaginary. Need You then suspect me? Take [74] EARLIER POEMS The cloud-rack by my side ! Partners, Life and Art, Adventurers, we ride To rhythms in heaven's heart. [75] COMPENSATION You never told me, never, yet I know You hold a sadness in disguise, unseen Behind the days and years that intervene Since you renounced ambition long ago. Whence comes the tender love that you bestow To feed our loves? Behind your self serene There burns a golden passion, — how you screen With radiant life the flame you must forego ! Then you assume our love is ample meed, Atonement, — oh, I wonder any deed Of ours can ease your spirit's lassitude, Or lift your lonely heart ! Our stars elude Your sun that made them bright — your soli- tude. Deprived, no boon avails to fill your need. [76] REALITY What things are real? This falling, falling rain, This garden where My flowers droop again? Or simply dreams, Dreams asleep in me Until I join Their silent company? [77] THE BAT Over the river of sorrow Spread thy drab wings wide. Cool is the river. Glide Between the trees. Borrow The prudent feet of the fleeing Beast. Thy pinions blend With leaves. thou All-Seeing, Be night's obedient friend! To a gloomy bat, all sorrow Is cool and sombre and sweet. So no wonder thou fearest to meet The feline light of to-morrow. When out from the east a glimmer Of twilight corals thy wings, Thy vision grows dimmer and dimmer, Thou dreamer of dusky things ! When morning comes out from the east, Advancing with stealthy ray, Thy wheeling wings betray Thy presence, Bird-and-Beast, Soaring to dismal bowers With smoke-like motion. Gladness, [78] EARLIER POEMS Flame-like, heaps through the hours Thine ashen sorrow and sadness. Blinded by noon-day splendor, Unseeing till darkness return, Thy cinereous pinions yearn For stone-colored night. Surrender Thy spirit. Is not the sighing Monotony sweet? Maybe Creation is what we call dying, As daylight is darkness to thee. [79] THE AUDIENCE Intently leans the avid sage We name The Audience. His mood Invites a vigorous prelude Of sound, the silence to assuage, — The silence in sequestered sources Of his being. (Albeit his mind And soul and heart may be like wind- Awakened rivers in their courses.) In clear, attenuated line, The violin a theme avers. It is this theme as it recurs That forms the plenary design, — This theme, which the composer's love Could never deal with twice the same ; Submissive cellos now proclaim It ; louder clarions above Now give it wise embellishment. In unsuspected ways, all strings And pipes resume it, altering Their rhythms to be more eloquent. [80] EARLIER POEMS The strange, concurrent harmonies Provoke The Audience to pleasure, Lead by phrase and clustered measure To the peace of cadences. The Audience thinks in terms of tone ; The curious intellect pursues The flowing lines and shadowy hues Of sound, akin to sculptured stone ; Mind estimates. But in between The mind and soul an interim Is brimmed with intonations dim : The soul itself is left serene. Who can express what music is To soul? A cloud becomes cascade And stirs a river winter-weighed With frost. The massive images Of mountains, on whose purple ground The falling water carves a line Of white, as narrow and as fine As winter floods when first unbound, Remind one of the soul when sound Traverses it. Music is spring To soul, April's awakening, A freedom and a peace profound. [81] EARLIER POEMS But what is music to the heart? A trouble, a vicissitude, A dream no cadence will conclude. In it the surging sounds of Art Stay ever unresolved. They are Beginning only, origin, Inchoate symphony within A symphony of sky and star. There is no answer, thus and thus, That present players can impart To the long-listening, searching heart; But answers multitudinous. The avid sage, The Audience, Is wrapped in his own silence dim. The mind, the soul, the heart in him Observe the circling consonance Of chords. These grow more intricate Each time they are resumed, and still One chosen theme the tones fulfill, One motion they delineate. So God reveals Himself to me. I am His audience ; I hear With mind and soul and heart His clear Progressive theme perpetually. [82] TO FRANCE Oh, still I dream of thee, my France ! The sun Irradiates thy meadows. Stalks of grain And aureate beams infusing them are one. There is a harmony that links thy plain To quiet skies ; that weaves a slender chain Of living vine with wavering light. Where cease Thy level spaces, hills dim clouds detain ; And in thy south, where seasons find increase, The sheaves, like kneeling women, praise thy peace. Unwilling and reluctant are my dreams, To recognize transforming destinies. I dream of thee, my France ; of mellow beams That ripen happiness; of ample skies That frame thy far perspectives. Meadows rise To them by poplar spans. Upon thy ways I see the cross. The gentle Saviour dies With arms athwart the cloud. As heavenly rays Touch earth, His love a sense of light conveys. [83] EARLIER POEMS Is happiness no more than disguise, A sheathing dream reality must wear? If so, away with joyful mockeries! My France, in desolation thou art fair. Thy trampled poppies and thy fields laid bare Express a beauty that prosperity Concealed. Thy joys are fallen; fate would spare No ornament of peace. But I can see The strange unfolding of thy destiny. I love thee, and would know thee as indeed Thou art. No scythe, a sword embraces wheat, The poplars on thy margin seem to heed No more the wind that made their stems throb sweet As lyre strings. The stars alone entreat. Thy vine is severed and thy grape is blood ; Thy sheaves are souls. Thy rising meadows meet The sky like surging waves of a dark flood, And shadow closes every quickening bud. My France, my France, in darkness I begin To know the light that only faith can shed Upon thy ways. As joy and beauty win Through death, so thou shalt win. Art thou not fed, [84] EARLIER POEMS Though fields are bare, with spiritual bread ? The star-strewn shadow crowns and dignifies Thy young, submissive God of the bowed head. How newly does thy sorrow harmonize With His, whose loving arms enfold the skies ! [85] APPROACH Apparelled in a mask of joy till now, I knew thee not. Asleep, I see thy face More simply. Sorrow's leisure lets me trace The nicer lines. Thy sealed lids, thy brow, Thy lasting posture, purposes avow; In thy spent form resides a moveless grace. A pageant was thy life, and in its place T find a truth to feed and to endow My heart. Thy wonted mask of joy belied The meaning death's bare attitude makes clear. From living gesture thought went often wide, And I was poor interpreter; but here, Where it would seem our thoughts anew divide, The steady silence draws thy spirit near. [86] DEFINITION As clouds lie in the west, My fairest pleasures rest In you, their element Of being. Loath to die, They ornament your sky, Amassed, magnificent. They shun the realms beyond. Are you not their fond, Fair dwelling by consent Of time? Why should they go And vanish quite, as though They were not all-content? My pleasures are not love, Else like the clouds above They swiftly would relent. They are mild beauty ; dim Resistless thought ; and whim, And idle blandishment. Love is a wilful power, More like the wind or shower In which the cloud is spent. [87] EARLIER POEMS My pleasures only screen The space of light serene In your deep firmament. [88] EMBLEMS Where sweet ferns blow, where hemlock shad- ows lie, Where peaks of pine o'er oak-twined branches reach, In groves where bend the poplar and the beech, Where emerald willows touch the emerald sky, They come to us, the Lost Ones. Far and high The winds among the trees lift muffled speech, And tell the hidden past ; we question each Entreating form those winds identify. Below the hill they huddle stone by stone, The lost ones and the loved ones we have known, Who followed, fearless, ways where beauty led ; But here upon the hilltop, winds intone The foregone past. Oh, let us think instead, The living trees are emblems of our dead ! [89] THE POET'S THRIFT My landscape only need comprise low hills, For these are eminent and limitless To me. They mean more than my dreams ex- press ; They mean more than my word or deed fulfils. The slender trees, the tuneless whip-poor-wills, Impart quite ample themes to loneliness. I find enough in scant elusiveness Of springs and little brooks. My spirit thrills To beauty, unprepared for the sublime. I wonder, though, when I shall be completed Even to transcribe these hills? Sometime This landscape in few lines will show to me The subtle mysteries I have entreated, In the simple realm of poetry. [90] SOLICITUDE To me jour transport is a dim surmise, A vague, imagined bliss. But I will brace Myself to life ; though languid for the chase, Will gird my grief. Where your swift pleasure flies — Beneath whatever mirth-alluring skies — I'll follow, lest you pause in darkling space. Oh, let me gather stars, and turn your face To these, lest, meeting night, you breathe faint sighs ! Is joy illusion? This, in sooth, is clear, — The pause of weariness ; and should I hear You drop a single sombre semitone From Paradise, I'd gather every star; For I divine what it must be to mar This wonder that my breast has never known. [91] ASPIRATION Though my frail soul should never touch again The semblance of reality like this ; Through periods of time should always miss The imprint of true life ; nor find the plain, Familiar mould of being; still not vain Are those desires that frame undying bliss. The sky is not a vanishing abyss To me, but steadfast beauty, sheathing pain. I live in confidence. As planets turn About the sun, continually I yearn To God. His interpenetrating fire Is all I need. Though heaven prove mockery, My life ascends by dint of sheer desire, Imbued with hopes of immortality. [92] JOY How shall I make of joy discovery? For is it not an orbit that enspheres The heart? Like misty heaven, as one nears, The circuit spreads ; and like the flowing sea Whose waves evolve a scroll of mystery, Its vague development eludes the seers. It is a garment like the shrouding years, — A dusky shield, a cloudy canopy, Illumined by the soul that stands beneath. It must forever amplify, deploy, Give spirit space, — that's all I know of joy. It is a hovering defence, a sheath, In which the spirit comes to flowering, A folding and a cool enfolded wing. [93] EDUCATION I had lived many years when first I met What men call Sorrow. I had long conceived A semblance of it, thought I had achieved That magnitude, when side by side I set My lonely days. I knew the alphabet Of Life's experience, and I believed That when I touched another's grief, I grieved ; — But when at last I was myself beset, I marvelled. Little had I known. They told Me and they showed me death, but finally, Like shifting clouds no foresight can explain, I felt the changeful years envelop me. I was not loath to meet at last with pain, But oh, to feel the youth my age could hold ! [94] PROGRESSION The resonance of wind and wave Is put to music by the tide; So passion modulates to verse, And moves in rhythm's quiet stride. The bards in realms enchanted hold Familiar converse, like the birds; Repeat emotion, improvise, Sustain the fundamental words, — Until, forsaking pastorals, They must pursue Life's ampler prose,- A continuity of song The heart's experience only knows. [95] INTUITION Rhythms of exultation flow In dusky regions far behind The formal meadows of the mind. Sighs waft syllables, as blow The winds the grasses to and fro. The shape of cloud, as thought effaces Dream, eclipses the moon's lustre. My winged stars, like swallows, cluster In the deep enchanted spaces That imagination traces. [96] KINDRED What inequality ! The apple trees and stones Are kindred. Love, the stormy aeons Have made my spirit bleak and grey. Like sun-emblazoned leaves Or blossoms in the spring, Your loveliness, o'ershadowing, A garland for my spirit weaves. [97] RESIGNATION The dark house yonder is my life ; It looms against the purple night; The windows are my stars ; I count Them all, — each window one delight. Oh ! there are many stars above, But mine in strong substantial woe Are framed; I cannot misconstrue Life's dark intent, joy's fitful glow. [98] SOLACE OF SEASONS Cold winter finds no word of condolence. I laid my grief where pastures bright in spring Bore panacea, with young life whispering; I laid my grief in summer by the side Of a deep sea that brought a healing tide ; When autumn came, I laid it in a cloud ; The strong wind bore it in that balmy shroud : Cold winter finds no word of condolence. When skies above are bleak, I will not care ; A flame I'll kindle for my chill despair, A flame within my heart, for condolence. [99] THE FOUNTAIN My garden fountain sings to-night, Its margin is all moist with spray, — That snow-white marble margin where A white rose dreams of drooping day. Upon the rose fall rhythmic drops, Snow-cool from the pale fountain's crest,- Drops cooler than the shadows when The sun leads day-spring to the west. Unto the rose, my fountain's rim Is ample joy, while I, through tears, Can see my garden growing dim, And dream of sorrow's girding spheres. [100] THE THRESHOLD I threaded endless aisles Of level trees, of spare, Undeviating wood ; I penetrated streets Of houses parallel; I crossed a common where My day paused sentinel ; At evenfall I stood Before the dim defiles Of dusk, where light retreats, Immured in sombre ward. The sheathed sun went down ; Opaque was heaven's frown; Mountains, looming grey, Framed the threshold — yea - The portal to the Lord. [101] THE HERMIT I mark the hermit's den, And ponder why he fled So far from other men ; Why chose to make his bed In lonely Nature's fen. For surely he must tread On yearnings even there; And he must see — outspread The vital branches bear The burden of Christ dead. [102] THE HYPOCRITE'S REWARD When came his final judgment, God gave him for his prize The crown, the single sceptre, He'd worn as his disguise. The crown, the single sceptre, A new, familiar shame ; For when he came to judgment, He wore them in God's name. [103] TESTIMONY OF HANDS Is every day the judgment day? A thousand mortals lift on high A throng of hands that plead and pray ; Beneath a space of quiet sky, Their several gestures testify. Oh, mark the wistful hand that holds A sorrow in its upturned palm ; The gentle hand that firmly folds Across the breast to make it calm ! Oh, mark the hand by which the balm Of youth was scattered, eloquent As the grey leaf upon the tree When summer's mellow joy is spent! Above that throng of hands, oh, see The Hand that plies eternity! [104?] TRANSMISSION A shell, expressed the verity In tones more limpid than the sea, — Distilled the sea's infinity. A mellow leaf disclosed the true In more than sun's pellucid hue, The sun was tinged in passing through. A wing revealed the sky unseen, Till motion made the air serene, — A wing — a soaring life, I mean. [105] PREPARATION A time will come when I shall breathe New melodies to soothe and fold, Like portions of a mellow sheath, My sorrow. While my songs withhold Their tones, I pause before the years ; I gaze on the grey world ; I strive To clear the mist of doubting tears. — My songs, what music you'll derive From silence in the time to come ! [106] EGYPT How still is Egypt, as a corpse's breast; Her power is muffled, stone on stone ; The sinews of her kingdom lie at rest ; Her deserts wake no pulse's moan. The Nile is like an adamantine sea ; Sky's cloud and star, like soundless flame ; The moon in silence mourns eternity, And calls blind man with magic claim. The hushed, impenetrable fear, the peace Of wings, the palm's inwoven spray, Are like death's pause before the soul's release Into another golden day! [107] DUSK As flowers at dusk their choicest perfumes hold, Some hearts hoard beauty when the body's old: I see an age-bent woman lead the herd To pasture, with no need of guiding word. While the dull beasts in the tall grasses browse, Inside her soul the earth's enchantments drowse ; The needles pause between her wasted hands, For light is always mellow where she stands. No motion marks her life's harmonious dream ; It is a part of Nature's quiet theme. Each day renews the uneventful past, Although her spirit nears a change at last. From the grey threshold of her silent home One night, her spirit, kin to evening's shade, Will float away from crevices life made, Like seaweed from a cliff into white foam. [108] CONFLICT Divided by the dark, Our foils converge. A spark You kindled not, My Enemy, A spark I never drew From bitter fires that sear me through and through, Gleams fitfully. That spark, that little light, Is lit where foils unite. It lives in spite of us, My Foe; In intervening space, This little eye that darts from place to place Sees clear, I know. Opinions are not one, And man's criterion Is not in us. Between, above, The cross that weapons frame, My Adversary, gleams a truth whose name Might still be Love. [109] TO THE CROWD When I hold a budding pleasure In my heart, can I diffuse it ? No ; you want the musk full-measure, Not the bud, — so you refuse it. When I hold an ebbing sorrow, Can I share the balm with you? No ; you want no lessening morrow, But meridian's deepest hue. Blossom of my joy completest, Zenith of my sorrow's hour, Yours. So I may keep the sweetest: Buds and lees — ambrosial power. [110] AUTUMN Capricious little poem and sapling rhyme Grew on the golden hillside of my youth. The stanzas were as crooked and uncouth As early things are wont to be. For time Was pressing and mid-summer's glowing prime Was ever imminent. Mysterious truth Was the warm soil thought sprouted from. Forsooth My songs were stem and filament to climb. But now, the memory of bud and fruit And flower is weariness. This present week In mid-September, wayward wild pursuit Is over; youth fulfilled. How shall they seek Beyond, unless from sunbeams in the skies These listless leaves take warmer harmonies ? cm] BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE Gladys and Dorothea Cromwell were so essen- tially one that any account of either must in- clude the other. Neither ever used the singular pronoun, and those who knew them fairly well often doubted to which sister they were speak- ing. Indeed when it was suggested to Gladys that " Gates of Utterance " should be dedicated to Dorothea, she answered that poets were not in the habit of dedicating their verse to them- selves. So in writing even a brief sketch it is necessary to think of them as they were, an identity expressed in two terms. They were born in November, 1885, and inherited posses- sions, talents, and an exquisite beauty strangely poignant because in the twin sisters the charm seemed more than doubled. There are a few men and women with whom one feels a sense of spiritual mystery: one walks with them always on the road to Emmaus. It was true of these two. They found their home in the unseen. In the outer, material world they existed only by an effort that cost them much, for they moved as spirits, untouched by crude desires ; bending with a shy longing to meet human needs ; search- ing for some solution that should justify their [113] BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE personal immunities, their money, and the grace and luxury to which they had been born. A delicate humility made them feel debtors to life. In their eyes existence was a bond given by the soul, to be redeemed at any cost. Both had written from childhood, and in 1915 Gladys published a volume of poems that promised no uncertain music. Slight as it was, endless toil lay back of it: she had the master's sense of workmanship, and every verse and stanza was the outcome of labor that had often covered years. " Gates of Utterance " was obviously a first book: but it was the first book of a poet. Dorothea was developing more slowly, experi- menting more cautiously. The short stories she left show at once more cleverness, a keener sense of epigram, of earth's hidden laughter, than any one could have guessed who saw only a grace- ful, fuchsia-like creature, eager to give her time and income to social experiment and investiga- tion. But of them more was asked than selfless generosity, or will to serve. In a picture taken at the Chalons Canteen, the two girls, veiled and habited in white working uniform, stand like conventual sisters serving a group of poilus ; Dorothea holds a slender pitcher from which she pours into the soldier's cup, while Gladys offers bread in a shallow basket. Clear of line like a classic bas-relief, the so fortunate and so [114] BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE casual photograph is strangely symbolic and recalls One who said, " Take, eat ; this is my body broken for you." Gladys and Dorothea Cromwell broke the bread of their bodies and poured out the wine of their spirits that others might live. When the war drew an inerasable line across all lives, the two girls began to prepare them- selves. They spent their summer months in a hospital ; they learned to run a motor ; they took canteen-efficiency lessons ; they held them- selves aloof from the over-heated speech of ex- citement, but their hearts burned within them. The world as they saw it demanded of them an heroic resolve. In January, 1918, the two sisters, having en- rolled in the Canteen Service of the Red Cross, sailed for France and were stationed at Chalons. For eight months they worked under fire on long day or night shifts ; their free time was filled with volunteer outside service; they slept in " caves " or under trees in a field ; they suf- fered from the exhaustion that is so acute to those who have never known physical labor ; yet no one suspected until the end came that for many months they had believed their work a failure, and their efforts futile. The Chalonais called them " The Saints " ; during dull even- ings, the poilus, who adored the " Twin An- [115] BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE gels," found amusement in effort, always unsuc- cessful, to distinguish them apart. The work- ers in the Canteen loved and admired them for their courage — that finest bravery which leads fear to intrepid action ; they loved them for their rare charm, but they gave them whole- souled appreciation for the tireless, efficient labor which made them invaluable as practical canteeners. In September, at their own re- quest, they were transferred to an Evacuation Hospital, for after the rest of a " permission " they longed to work with " our own boys." Eight months overwhelming strain and fatigue had made them more weary than they realized, and the horrors of conditions near the Front broke their already overtaxed endurance. In the diaries they left, signs of mental breakdown begin to show as early as October. After the Armistice, when they returned to Chalons as guests, they showed symptoms of nervous pros- tration, but years of self-control and considera- tion for others made them conceal the black horror in which they lived — the agony through which they saw a world which they felt contained no refuge for beauty and quiet thought. In such a world they conceived they had no place, and when on their way home they jumped from the deck of the Lorraine, it was in response to a vision that promised them fulfilment and [116] BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE peace. To those who loved them, their death was not only heart-breaking, but brought with it a terrible sense of that most profound trag- edy of war, — the bitter waste of spiritual promise. In everyday life they were of those to whom the senses carry a double message ; all of us have memories of moments when a driven leaf, a slant of afternoon light, send through avenue of sight or sound an anguish no physical cause can explain — to these sisters, life was continuously bought at such a price, and the undue strain broke the too frail physiques. It is almost a year since they died on the 19th of January, 1919. Three months later they were buried in France with military honors, and the French Government has awarded them the Croix de Guerre and the Medaille de Recon- naissance francaise. They gave to the world lives of shining promise and crystal purity, having followed Him who said to His other disciples : Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend. These pines could feel the wind, the snow, The April sun; But through them now no changes flow. These pines could feel the grief and mirth Of quiet years; But now they know unchanging dearth. [117] BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE And they can feel no mood of spring: Like certain souls Who find in flame their blossoming. Anne Dunn. [118] INDEX OF TITLES Actor-Soldier, The . 3 Emblems . . 89 Approach . 86 Experience . 30 Aspiration . 92 Extra, The . . . . 31 Audience, The . 80 Autumn 111 Folded Power . 33 Autumn Communion . 6 Forest Fire, The . . 34 Fountain, The . . . 100 Bat, The . . . . 78 Fugitive, The . . . 35 Beggar, The 8 Breath, The . . . 10 Gardener, The . 37 By the Sea . . . . 11 Gates of Utterance, The 73 Choice 13 Grief 38 Christian, The . 15 Christmas, Madison Handicapped 39 Square . 16 Hermit, The . . . 102 Circle, The . . . . 19 Hypocrite's Reward, Compensation . . 76 The 103 Conflict 109 Crowning Gift, The . 20 Idleness 40 Independence . . 41 Deep, The . . . . 21 Intuition .... 96 Definition . 87 Joy 93 Deliverance . 23 Deserted Shrine, The . 24 Kindred .... 97 Discipline . 25 Disillusion . 26 Laughter .... 42 Dominion .... 27 Leisure 43 Dusk 108 Lion, The .... 44 Love 45 Early Snow 29 Education . . . 94 Manumission 46 Egypt 107 Mocking Wind, The . 47 [119] INDEX OF TITLES Mould, The . . . . 48 Song . 58 Star Song . . 59 Poet, The . . . . 49 Poet's Thrift, The . 90 Temptation . . 60 Preparation . 106 Testimony of Hands . 104 Progression . 95 Thought .... . 61 Threshold, The 101 Quest, The . . . . 50 To France . . . 83 To My Poet . . . 62 Reality .... . 77 To the Crowd . . no Realization . . 52 Transmission 105 Release .... . 53 Tyranny 63 Renewal . 54 Resignation . 98 Uncertainty . 64 Riders, The . . . 74 Voice, The . . . . 65 Scientist, The . . . 55 Separation . . 56 Weakling, The . . 66 Solace of Seasons . nq Winter Poetry . 67 Solicitude . . . 91 Winter Song 68 Song . 57 Words .... 69 120] i INDEX OF FIRST LINES A shell expressed the verity 105 A time will come when I shall breathe .... 106 A trembling crest 10 Above the forest line 29 Apparelled in a mask of joy till now 86 As clouds lie in the west 87 As flowers at dusk their choicest perfumes hold . . 108 At evening, I have seen him wander in . . . .37 Can this be love men yield me in return .... 54 Capricious little poem and sapling rhyme . . . .111 Cold winter finds no word of condolence .... 99 Confined within the walls of a grey world .... 66 Dear Poet of the swift imperial ways 62 Deliverance? You mean this empty cup .... 23 Divided by the dark 109 Exultant whirlwind wrung the branches .... 38 Fool, Fool .35 How shall I make of joy discovery? 93 How still is Egypt, as a corpse's breast .... 107 Hush, hush, O wind! 45 I feel the lines of yellow sunlight burn .... 44 I feel the stress 40 I had lived many years when first I met ... 94 I have had courage to accuse 20 I hear His voice and the sea's voice ..... 65 I lie in wait that I may steal a view .... 41 I like to see the pebbles creep 57 I mark the hermit's den 102 I must have peace, increasing peace 21 I threaded endless aisles 101 I was free. But now in a net I am caught ... 15 I was the temple for a people's need 24 Imperious Time, I must prefer . 13 [121] INDEX OF FIRST LINES In dismal darkness stands the Christmas pine . . 16 Intently leans the avid sage 80 Is every day the judgment day? 104 Love is like a wind that passes 58 Lovers think that they alone possess 67 My garden fountain sings to-night 100 My grief comes back after an interval .... 19 My landscape only need comprise low hills ... 90 No doubt this active will 48 O Friend, we meet and feel as free 11 O stars, they've left me with you here .... 53 O tell me, tell me 49 O Wind, you will not break my house 47 Oh, still I dream of thee, my France! The sun . 83 Oh, you are free ! When you are satisfied ... 46 On the grass I'm lying 3 Only a blunder 26 Over the rivers of sorrow 78 Patrician overthrown 27 Rhythms of exultation flow 96 Sheltered and safe we sit 31 Showing his ill-made frame 8 Sometimes a phrase 64 Sorrow can wait 33 The dark house yonder is my life 98 The resonance of wind and wave 95 There are twisted roots that grow 59 There is a throng within the gates 73 There is no need for you to cheer or nerve ... 30 There is one syllable that stirs me: War! .... 52 These forty days I fasted in 25 These pines could feel the wind, the snow ... 34 This autumn afternoon 6 This One I feared is powerless become .... 63 Though my frail soul should never touch again . . 92 Thought is fragrant like shining grass 61 Through moveless pines I hear the air .... 68 Throughout his life men seldom spoke with him . . 42 [122] INDEX OF FIRST LINES 'Tis in a measure easy not to plan 39 To me, your transport is a dim surmise . . . .91 What inequality! 9? What things are real? 77 When came his final judgment 103 When I have nothing else to do 43 When I hold a budding pleasure . . . . . .110 When intervals of solitude are done ..... 56 Where sweet ferns blow, where hemlock shadows lie 89 With what fidelity and yearning care 55 Words are the stones I use in building .... 69 You feel the witchery of Life, the call .... 60 You look askance at me 74 You never told me, never, yet I know .... 76 You've been a wanderer, you! 50 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA [123] > 4> 'o • k N 9 ^ M o y V^v v^*> %wy.l V<^ ?^, : Jllfe /% ifp| : /^, : wBj .A O Sd* 1 aO Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process \/ f * • o* "*c> Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide j£$0foZ* eC> «. ►*^^„* "^ ^ * Tre atment Date: Sept. 2009 *% \t PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION OP- « * o - ^ <<&> ^ 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724) 779-2111 " * ^O ^ '.*'•« ^ (724,779-2111 N ^ >, * « / i • aV * e N «** ^V" s • • , ^ /V-lfiK* ; ***** r oK V-0 1 ,/^.