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VAGRANTS 
 
 Georaia £.Benmtt 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOUR 
 Publisher 
 
.'^Z 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1921 BY 
 RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOUR 
 
 JAN 20 1922 
 e).CI.A653660 
 
 ^ I 
 
VAGRANTS 
 
 Perhaps these vagrants, tattered as they are, 
 
 and torn, 
 May find some friendly lodging for the night; 
 If not, there are broom and bracken on the 
 
 kindly hills, 
 And winter snows fall soft and light. 
 
VAGRANTS 
 
 Craftsmen 5 
 
 Whom the Gods Love 6 
 
 The Vagrant 6 
 
 A Canoe Trip 7 
 
 On the Prairies 8 
 
 TwiHght 9 
 
 Evaneacence 10 
 
 "The Ultimate Futilities" 10 
 
 Broken Promises 11 
 
 Mnemosyne 12 
 
 The Three Merciless Ones 13 
 
 A Mexican Lullaby 14 
 
 When Night Comes 15 
 
 Tokens (To A. M. B.) 16 
 
 Down in the Pasture 21 
 
 Tomatoes 24 
 
 A Letter to C. W 26 
 
 A Regret 29 
 
 Margaret of Meriban 29 
 
 The Empty Room 33 
 
 Evening 34 
 
 Temperance 34 
 
 A Song for the Mourners 35 
 
 Good-by 37 
 
 Remembrance 37 
 
 Envy 38 
 
 Names 39 
 
 Forgotten 40 
 
 Fame 40 
 
 Retrospect 42 
 
 Delay 42 
 
 La Malquerida 43 
 
 Diabolarie 43 
 
 The Garden City 44 
 
 [1] 
 
Filetta 46 
 
 A Forest Pool 47 
 
 A Morning Star 47 
 
 An Evening Song 48 
 
 In the Valley of the Menonites 49 
 
 The Work-Shop 58 
 
 Refuge 59 
 
 Consolation 60 
 
 Criticism 60 
 
 Insistence 61 
 
 Change 61 
 
 Over the Wall 62 
 
 The Egoist 62 
 
 Asphodel 63 
 
 The Earth Lover 63 
 
 The End 64 
 
 [2] 
 
VAGRANTS 
 
 [3] 
 
CRAFTSMEN 
 
 The Work that his hands have made 
 Is the workman's dehght; 
 Touch after touch well laid 
 It grows in his sight; 
 A bit of his dreaming soul 
 Shows in the tool's control — 
 The soul of a lover. 
 
 The song that his notes have made 
 Is the singer's delight; 
 Careless and unafraid 
 He sings through the night; 
 Stray gleams and magic glints, 
 Lost dreams and hidden hints 
 His song can discover. 
 
 Mine be the singer's joy, 
 The craftsman's delight. 
 Though but an idle toy 
 Come into light; 
 Still in the framing it 
 My soul may beauty hit, 
 Calm, may recover. 
 
 [5] 
 
WHOM THE GODS LOVE— 
 
 The gods have loved me; they have given 
 
 Length of laborious days, 
 A road that winds through gray glooms after 
 
 The sun has spent its rays. 
 
 The gods have loved me; they have with-holden 
 
 The flowering of easy delight, 
 The pleasant run of shallow laughter, 
 
 Comfort that sleeps through the night. 
 
 The gods have loved me; they have given 
 
 Loneliness that stays, 
 Longing that lasts to the grave, not after, 
 
 Courage to walk their ways. 
 
 rfi tf. If, 
 
 THE VAGRANT 
 
 I looked in at the door of your heart :- 
 Incense and candles and prayer, 
 And shy little loves that start 
 In the tremulous fire-light there. 
 
 But the voice of the wind on the hills. 
 The sound of white feet by the sea. 
 The calm, that the star-meadows fills. 
 Stirred the vagrant soul of me. 
 
 Incense, and candles, and praye^' — 
 White feet on a sea-strown floor! 
 The wind and the star-meadows fair! 
 Softly I closed the door. 
 
 [6] 
 
A CANOE TRIP 
 
 Fourteen miles of lonely lakes! 
 
 The arrowy paddle dips 
 
 With the lithe arm's singing motion, 
 
 There is not the sound a keen thought makes 
 When silver-shafted, clean, it slips 
 Out of a sea of emotion. 
 
 Fourteen miles! How quiet they sleep. 
 
 My friendly fellows, the trees 
 
 Miles down in the placid blue! 
 Even so may a woman keep 
 Love in her heart, hidden so deep 
 That no eye ever knew. 
 
 Wind! a wandering wind that breaks 
 Into playful ripples the mirrowed show 
 Of shadows, lying at dream. 
 
 Just so when a ripple of feeling shakes 
 
 The face of a friend I know, 
 
 I catch of his heart, a gleam. 
 
 Flash! The flash of a striking steel! 
 
 A king-fisher sure of his sleeping prey 
 
 Darts down from the hanging leaf. 
 Pain like that poor mortals feel. 
 When droning along through life, they 
 Feel the dart of grief. 
 
 See! That snub-nosed otter slides 
 Right under my dripping prow 
 Sleek, and free from fear. 
 
 So I slip on from day to day 
 
 Living in a little now 
 
 Counting it choice and dear. 
 
 [7] 
 
Fourteen miles are left behind 
 Up to the wooden pier I go 
 Without the flicker of a breath. 
 So some other night I may find — 
 The new moon lying low — 
 That harbor men call death. 
 
 V v ^ 
 
 ON THE PRAIRIES 
 
 Before the wind the ripe grass bends, 
 Out from the swamp the red-wing sends 
 
 His raucous call. 
 Here in this sea of grass we lie 
 Beneath the blue cup of the sky 
 
 That covers all. 
 
 Your soft hand holds an arrow head 
 Chipped by some Indian long since dead 
 
 And fashioned true. 
 '"They fought.'* For what?" "That no-one 
 
 knows — 
 Like filmy spider-wort that blows 
 
 Your eyes are blue." 
 
 The grass will weave a coronal 
 
 For this wide plain, the red-wing call 
 
 A thousand years from now; 
 Then some old rusty bayonet 
 May make two lovers half forget 
 
 To seal their vow. 
 
 [8] 
 
Blue grows the filmy spider-wort, 
 Down in the swamp the red-wings flirt; 
 
 "You say 'tis true 
 They conquered?" "Yes — No — Who knows — 
 See the grass run when the wind blows — 
 
 I know — your eyes are blue!" 
 
 ilft Sfi tft 
 
 TWILIGHT 
 
 That time the musk-winged moths wheel round 
 the garden-close, 
 Where misty purple flowers 
 Make twilight, while a little wandering wind that 
 blows 
 South-west 
 Comes whispering, whispering all the sun-burned 
 hours 
 To rest. 
 A pink-flushed harvest moon climbs bringing 
 
 light, 
 And cool, dew-hushed content breathes through 
 the night. 
 
 White moths, my noon-tide passions flit the 
 garden-close, 
 Aimless among the flowers, 
 While o'er my heart a little wandering wind that 
 blows 
 South-west 
 Comes whispering, whispering all the aching 
 hours 
 To rest, 
 And in the east, benignant, clear and bright 
 Burns the one star that brings content and night. 
 
 [9] 
 
EVANESCENCE 
 
 I fashioned a house of desire and laughter 
 
 From ceiHng to floor; 
 The grapes of passion hung from the rafter 
 
 And curtained the door. 
 
 But the wind of that grape was bitter laughter 
 
 When desire had fled, 
 And the dust bit deep into the rafter, 
 
 Till it fell on my head. 
 
 Then I fashioned a house of rainbow delights 
 
 And butterfly wings, 
 Of odours and sounds from the summer nights 
 
 When one bird sings. 
 
 Sunbeam and moonbeam form the shining rafter; 
 
 And there apart, 
 The spent leaves of roses and the wind's pure 
 laughter 
 
 Fall on my heart. 
 
 "THE ULTIMATE FUTILITIES." 
 
 In a garden of paste-board and paper roses, 
 Under the light of a golden moon, 
 Made from the tinsel that encloses, 
 A lady's jewelled dancing shoon 
 Sang Pierrot and Pierrette. 
 
 [10] 
 
"Ages, aeons and cycles pass, 
 
 But a love-charmed moment will perish never; 
 
 An age is a shadow in a glass. 
 
 But moon-light and love will live forever. 
 
 Forgotten the glory of Babylon! 
 But roses still cling to the ruined wall, 
 For roses will bloom for aye in the sun 
 While earthly kingdoms rise and fall. 
 
 Those dutiful houses built on the rock 
 Totter and crumble in a day 
 Struck by the force of an earthquake shock. 
 But a castle of dreams endures alway. 
 
 Diamonds grow dim with the centuries flight. 
 But a dew-drop with every day is born; 
 A child's sweet laughter welcomes the night. 
 And a child's fresh laughter wakes the morn. 
 
 Then shake off your duties and moral alarms 
 That blink like bats in the gloom nocturnal; 
 Gather dew-drops and dreams and moon-light 
 
 charms. 
 For roses and laughter and love are eternal." 
 
 Sang Pierrot and Pierrette. 
 
 •t* •!• •!• 
 
 BROKEN PROMISES 
 
 A little maid is standing by my side; 
 Soft as low bells on floating buoys at sea 
 She speaks, sweet-lipped and ardent-eyed, 
 "You promised me." 
 
 [11] 
 
You promised me that with the climbing years 
 You would pluck beauty from the hill-tops down 
 And wear, as veiling darkness nears; 
 A starry crown; 
 
 That singing loves about your life should grow; 
 Like crocus in the springing April rain, 
 Sweet deeds fast hid beneath the snow 
 Should bloom again; 
 
 That all the little dreams we could invoke 
 To please our quaint desire should come to be 
 Before night fell, tall, gracious folk; 
 "You promised me." 
 
 "Oh, little, teasing maid, be still at last! 
 Broken with bitter frost our frail dreams are 
 Nor shows the night that creeps on fast 
 "A single star." 
 
 Yet still the pale hand clings to mine; 
 Reiterant as sunken bells at sea 
 The voice tolls on, the clear eyes shine 
 "You promised me." 
 
 •it* v "t* 
 
 MNEMOSYNE 
 
 I built a palace for my joy 
 With pillars shining white, 
 Where she and I without annoy 
 Should dream both day and night; 
 But or ever the evening fell. 
 
 [12] 
 
Ghosts, the ghosts of joys long fled 
 With silent paces wove a spell, 
 With hands unseen they rang a knell 
 And my beautiful joy lay dead. 
 
 I made a garden for my love 
 
 Where the rose and the lily grew. 
 
 And the humming-bird hung poised above 
 
 The swinging bells so blue; 
 
 But a brown bird sang, low, low, 
 
 A song of the vanished years, 
 
 The dead loves stood in a silent row 
 
 Watching the new with a look, still and slow, 
 
 And my love was drowned in tears. 
 
 Then for my sorrow I wrought a cell 
 
 In a barren place apart. 
 
 There with my sorrow I thought to dwell 
 
 And hold her to my heart; 
 
 But a wind from the desert came, 
 
 Parched and hot with the feverish breath 
 
 Of countless sorrows without a name 
 
 That on former days had laid their claim, 
 
 And my sorrow shrivelled to death. 
 
 fft ffi fft 
 
 THE THREE MERCILESS ONES 
 
 The three merciless ones went begging, 
 For their garments had worn very thin; 
 They sought the scraps of compassion 
 To wrap their cold bodies in. 
 
 [13] 
 
They came to the king's high castle; 
 "Your brothers we are," they said. 
 The king shook his sword. "No brothers 
 When your power and your pride are dead." 
 
 They knocked at the rich man's palace. 
 "Your splendor was ours!" they cried. 
 Silence their only answer. 
 In silence the echoes died. 
 
 They entered the desolate cottage 
 Of a man whom their laws had slain. 
 "We starve," The grief-broken woman 
 Softened at sight of their pain. 
 
 She kindled a fire for their warming, 
 She brought out her fine wheaten bread. 
 She gave them the robes of compassion 
 That had covered her husband's bed. 
 
 The three merciless ones went begging. 
 For their garments had worn very thin; 
 The king and the rich man denied them, 
 A poor woman took them in. 
 
 ^ 'p v 
 
 A MEXICAN LULLABY 
 
 Sleep little baby of mine 
 Safe on your mother's breast; 
 Sleep, little bud of the trumpet-vine, 
 Shut up your eyes and rest. 
 
 [14] 
 
Out of the desert my sweet one came, 
 
 With the sweep of the wind and the smell of the 
 
 rain, 
 When the river flooded the sandy plain, 
 Out of a night of stress and pain, 
 Came my bud of the trumpet-vine. 
 
 Here for a spell you can rest 
 
 Here beneath the shade of the vine, 
 
 With the past and the future all unguessed 
 
 And only this moment for thine. 
 
 Then out to the desert you go again, 
 And all the joy and all the pain 
 Are but as the sound of the passing rain 
 (That leaves the blue sky without a stain) 
 On the leaves of the trumpet-vine. 
 
 But here for a spell you can lie 
 
 Safe on your mother's breast, 
 
 Between the yellow sands and the azure sky; 
 
 So shut up your eyes and rest. 
 
 •I* v •** 
 WHEN NIGHT COMES 
 
 I shall be glad to see the friendly night 
 
 Enter, with quiet, shadowed feet, my room, 
 
 Brushing from lintels worn the morning bloom. 
 
 Sealing the noisy source of sound and sight. 
 
 I shall be glad when in the purple light 
 
 The ghosts of voices fade, like spent perfume 
 
 Of roses in old gardens where the gloom 
 
 Of autumn warns the swallows to their flight. 
 
 [15] 
 
For when the kindly darkness, like the hand 
 
 Of some fond mother smooths my brow for sleep, 
 
 And I, in peace I fail to understand 
 
 Sink softly down as through calm waters, deep. 
 
 Forgetting all the feverish dreams I had 
 
 By day's deceiving light, I shall be glad. 
 
 * 
 
 TOKENS (To A. M. B.) 
 
 (Bud, and bird, and blossom! April is here again! 
 Varnished leaves in the sunshine, children on 
 
 roller skates! 
 Life in the field and the city! Soft life-giving 
 
 rain! 
 The velvet feel of the evening and a memory that 
 
 waits 
 Like the lilac leaves in April 
 For a touch of the sun and the rain !) 
 
 Lilac Leaves! 
 
 On those dusky nights of April 
 
 When the lights were lighted 
 
 And the elder heads were bending 
 
 Over hem and book; 
 
 A boy and a girl played a game, 
 
 A game of adventure and dare. 
 
 And of being unafraid; 
 
 Each one in turn faring forth on a fearful journey. 
 
 [16] 
 
Along wandering paths 
 
 Past importunate giants of trees 
 
 Through the loamy garden where fresh buried 
 
 seeds 
 Lay waiting a resurrection, 
 To the Hlac bush at the farthest end of the 
 
 garden 
 Where we gathered the tokens of our journey, 
 We went. 
 
 To the end of the garden! 
 No, to the end of the world. 
 Through the cold, far-reaching sounds 
 And the narrow, unplumbed estuaries 
 Of an unknown ocean 
 We went. 
 
 Silently slipping from out the safe and well- 
 lighted harbor 
 
 Where the fat and snoozing merchant-men lay, 
 
 (Waiting a comfortable tide, or a wind in the 
 shoulder) 
 
 Pirates, soldiers of fortune, 
 
 Brave-handed free-booters, we sailed 
 
 In the teeth of the wind. 
 
 Alone; 
 
 While the other one waited 
 
 As Penelope once, too, waited, 
 
 Patient in Ithaca, the return 
 
 Of Ulysses. 
 
 Out in the dark, 
 
 Braving the vast unknown 
 
 Of filmy, half-shadowed lights 
 
 And trembling, half-lighted shadows 
 
 We fared. 
 
 [IT] 
 
Were those birds that stirred in the fir-trees, 
 
 Huddled from chill April winds 
 
 And the ravenous beak of the night-hawk, 
 
 Or the murmur of avenging Cicones 
 
 Gathering in thousands on the shore? 
 
 And sure in the top of the pine trees 
 
 The sirens 
 
 Sang of the blue-grey eyes washed blind 
 
 In the salt of the ocean. 
 
 And the beautiful sun-blanched bones 
 
 White as a snow-drop in April. 
 
 Through the lace-woven boughs of the per- 
 simmon, 
 The tree of magic, puckering fruit, 
 Circe was pouring a pale, enchanting liquor 
 From the crescent glass of the moon; 
 On the sweet-scented shores of the garden 
 Where the shy, earthy bulbs 
 Breathed a woodsy perfume of things growing, 
 A tired wind slept; 
 'Twas the land of the lotus-eaters. 
 
 And that cry. 
 
 Breath-shaking, despairing, out of the black; 
 
 No screech-owl that. 
 
 But Polyphemus lamenting 
 
 His one eye. 
 
 So we sailed in the dark. 
 
 And slipping again into the harbor. 
 
 Safe, well-lighted. 
 
 Brought as token to the comrade awaiting. 
 
 Gathered on the farthest shore of our journey. 
 
 Lilac leaves. 
 
 [18] 
 
You have set sail again, 
 
 Alone, 
 
 Out in the dark. 
 
 And I know you are not afraid; 
 
 While I, I stay in the harbor 
 
 And wait for a token; 
 
 For you have sailed far out past those western 
 
 straits 
 Where the golden bark of the sun 
 Stops to take tonnage 
 Ere he turn again east; 
 Out on the wide, unchartered waters. 
 
 Why do you linger? 
 
 Have you found in the circling sea-foam 
 
 Some island, dragon-haunted. 
 
 Where you have broken the serpent charm 
 
 That held the Egyptian maiden 
 
 Who has wandered down long ages 
 
 Seeking a knight, 
 
 Who, with three kisses. 
 
 Would free her? 
 
 Or have you joined the fleet of merry-hearted 
 
 coasters. 
 Gay buccaneers. 
 To sail the infinite seas. 
 Past Saturn, past Neptune, past Uranus, 
 On the track of some tail-stretching comet? 
 
 Perhaps the great tides have washed your bark 
 
 down, 
 Down in the purple-mouthed gulf of the waves, 
 Down to the quiet caves of the sea 
 Where the coral flowers bloom; 
 
 [19] 
 
There amid the dim, half-conscious Hfe 
 
 Of the ocean 
 
 You sleep 
 
 A deep, dreamless sleep; 
 
 While I wait for a token. 
 
 For lilac leaves. 
 
 And only a soft note in the wind, 
 
 Or that break in the sparrow's song 
 
 As it sang just now, 
 
 Or the swiftly changing sheen of the water 
 
 As the rolling clouds chase the flying sun. 
 
 Tell me that you, 
 
 A great-hearted lover of life. 
 
 Of adventure. 
 
 Of the delights to be garnered from defeat and 
 despair. 
 
 From joy, and clean, swift-running laughter; 
 
 A lover 
 
 Of the rich wine of earth, 
 
 Once rocked in the harbor, safe-sheltered, well- 
 lighted. 
 
 By my side; 
 
 And in my lap laid 
 
 Lilac leaves. 
 
 (Bud, and bird, and blossom! Showers of 
 
 laughter and pain! 
 Tokens of spring in the forest, tokens of spring 
 
 in the street! 
 (Dropped by whose hand ?) and a rain 
 Of flowers in the garden, of flowers that fleet 
 Like remembered evenings of April; 
 And lilac leaves in the rain!) 
 
 [20] 
 
DOWN IN THE PASTURE 
 
 We do not understand! 
 
 Or else too late we understand 
 
 Those who have walked beside us 
 
 On the way, and with an ample hand 
 
 Have reached us blessings — 
 
 Which we accept in idle thanklessness 
 
 And stow the unvalued thing away 
 
 With other rubbish; 
 
 Till with the years there comes another day 
 
 When we (like daughters of a mother, dead) 
 
 Rummage the musty chests of memory 
 
 To find among the clothes we once have worn, 
 
 The odds and ends of life, now dull and torn, 
 
 A dusty box that holds a shining gem 
 
 Treasured for us. 
 
 We prize its beauty through our tears; 
 
 We did not understand. 
 
 These autumn days! 
 
 The brown leaves drifting one by one 
 
 Down the Chicago streets where the warm sun 
 
 Makes golden lanes for feet have wandered far! 
 
 These days that drift like drifting leaves! 
 
 These jewelled days! 
 
 They make me search in that old, dusty chest 
 
 That holds my past, and finger once again 
 
 The riches treasured there. 
 
 A jewelled autumn day 
 
 Among the husks of other days! 
 
 (And was it yesterday or years ago?) 
 
 The pasture still was green 
 
 A dancing floor that fitted well the feet 
 
 Had trod it; all unseen, 
 
 [21] 
 
The night before, but left their fairy ring. 
 
 There while the sunny afternoon 
 
 Swung slowly by, 
 
 I watched my father shape a high well sweep, 
 
 Balance the beam and firmly fix the rope; 
 
 Pausing to throw a word at me, or sing, 
 
 In mellow, untaught voice with careless swing, 
 
 Lugubrious songs of battle, death and woe. 
 
 Black-haired, black-bearded as a pirate. 
 
 Strong, and facile of his fingers 
 
 Like those brave men who sailed with Drake 
 
 Around the world — 
 
 (Not one that fate could break) 
 
 He seemed to me that way 
 
 That autumn day. 
 
 And was it yesterday or was it years ago? 
 
 The browning willows by the pond — 
 
 Like some fair woman justly fond 
 
 Of her own beauty! One who loves it, 
 
 Till in her glass she sees the trace 
 
 Of time deep-etched on hair and face — 
 
 So did the browning willows brood 
 
 On their reflection. 
 
 (Just so the willows brood to-day along the still 
 
 lagoon.) 
 The blackbird peered, a brilliant fleck. 
 Charmed by the iridescence of his neck; 
 And sparrows — not the ones in early spring 
 Had tossed their song up to the skies — 
 But travelled birds 
 
 Whose two white feathers in the wing 
 Showed they had come from far-off lands, 
 Those lands to which the wild goose flies. 
 (I saw those sparrows in the park one day. 
 Ah, yesterday that was, not years ago!) 
 
 [22] 
 
Then when the sweep was mended 
 A/[y father drew the water 
 The bright bay mare with gentle eyes 
 Came trotting with her colt 
 That rubbed his cold nose 'gainst my cheek 
 The while his mother looked surprise 
 At such a colt as I — such lack of legs! 
 Though courteously she did not speak 
 But sniffed my father's hand for sugar-lumps. 
 And as I trotted home close by my father's side 
 Over the pasture that seemed so wide 
 'Twould take an hour to cross 
 He told the tale of Ali Baba and the forty 
 thieves. 
 
 Yes, it was years ago; 
 
 And then for years I did not understand, 
 
 For with the aftertime my father grew 
 
 To be — not that black-bearded play-mate that I 
 
 knew 
 That sunny, autumn afternoon — 
 But like a shaven parson, silent, scarred 
 With mis-adventures. 
 
 The hand that gave the bay mare sugar lumps 
 Could not keep gold; 
 The tongue that told 
 The secret of the Arabian cave 
 Had no pass-word to fortune. 
 And we, his children, thought it hard, 
 The life he gave us; 
 But now I know that generous hand 
 Gave better gifts than gold; 
 Now, I understand. 
 
 [23] 
 
TOMATOES 
 
 Tomatoes! They stand there in a row- 
 Inside the grocery! 
 At times they almost seem to wink 
 (Like red-cheeked boys whom one sees blink 
 Around the corners 
 On nights like Hollow-e'en; 
 Then run before they are scarcely seen.) 
 Some people say they are good to eat, 
 But that is not the reason why 
 I like tomatoes so. 
 
 For once upon a time a little, curly-headed child 
 
 Played in a low-ceiled kitchen. 
 
 There she saw 
 
 A row of red-cheeked rascals on the window-sill 
 
 That winked at her. Tomatoes! 
 
 Outside a gadding, scarlet vine running at will 
 
 Over the garden fence! 
 
 And scarlet, on the pantry shelf was stored 
 
 A wealth of jelly; apple, grape and plum; 
 
 Each shining glass a miser's hoard 
 
 Of summer sunshine. 
 
 Across the diamond window pane 
 
 A spotted, yellow spider spun its web, 
 
 A golden shield inlaid with rubies 
 
 Like Helen by its beauty it beguiled 
 
 The destroying hand. 
 
 (I saw that spider yesterday, again, I — 
 
 Not that little, curly-headed child.) 
 
 [24] 
 
She watched the myriad motes that played 
 
 And froliced in the level beams 
 
 Of those long, sunny streams 
 
 Which flowed from every window there; 
 
 While islanded in purple shade 
 
 The unfathomed depths of gloom were made 
 
 Vast continents still to be explored. 
 
 And moving swiftly to and fro 
 
 Now in the sun that pricked the glow 
 
 Of her red cheeks (tomatoes ?) 
 
 Now in the shade that purpled all her hair 
 
 And made her eyes as dark and deep 
 
 As wells where untold secrets sleep; 
 
 My mother in a yellow bowl, with a blue spoon 
 
 Mixed ginger cookies. 
 
 Singing the while old country songs, 
 
 Forgotten now, unknown to any lips of all the 
 
 throngs 
 That fill these city streets — 
 I wish that I could hear those songs again! 
 
 I hope that all these people — everyone who stops 
 To gaze in at the windows of the shops 
 Where ripe tomatoes nod and blink 
 Where cabbage, pumpkins seem to wink 
 And nudge each other in a row. 
 Can see such pictures as I saw 
 Once on a time — 
 Oh, long ago. 
 Tomatoes 1 
 
 [2o] 
 
A LETTER to C. W. 
 
 {Written from Cape Cod, by a garrulous friend.) 
 
 Some summer when you shake a swelling purse 
 And see the gold like scales of fishes shine, 
 Come where long, golden days will reimburse 
 A small expense of thine; 
 Come to Cape Cod! Pack then with prudent 
 
 care. 
 Close and compact, like smooth-skinned dates 
 
 that fare 
 To us on dromedaries; 
 But leave a little nook to tuck there-in 
 A blue-bound book, sweet as a nut, but thin. 
 
 Theocritus! That book would take the space 
 
 (The one that tells the sly, sea-faring man) 
 
 You else would need for linens and for lace. 
 
 — Much weight is under ban. — 
 
 The Odessey can give the ocean's spell; 
 
 Theocritus portrays the land as well; — 
 
 Hale, apple-cheeked, old men, 
 
 Brown youths who labor in the browning hay. 
 
 Sun-bonnet girls whose breath is sweet as bay. 
 
 Englished by Andrew Lang. Dear Andrew Lang ! 
 
 Do you remember how one winter day, 
 
 Seeking some tonic to renew life's tang, 
 
 We chanced to stray 
 
 Upon his picture.? Gaunt, marked with pride of 
 
 race; 
 Whimsical and rare, with wistful grace 
 Of dreams half-thwarted; 
 The face of one, who missing full success. 
 Still had the kindly power to cheer and bless. 
 
 [26] 
 
He brings to us whose rougher, western tongue 
 Has never learned the pure, smooth-voweled 
 
 Greek, 
 The music of the song that Circe sung 
 To charm Odysseus, sleek; 
 With him we see the pride of Ilion fall; 
 Weep with Andromeche upon the wall. 
 One perfect sonnet, his, 
 
 Haled from the shadowy groves of Proserpine, 
 Compounded of pale loves and salt sea brine. 
 
 Here on Cap Cod is old Greek life again. 
 
 For here are folk who drag the silent deep 
 
 For stores of moss, and grey, sea-gazing men 
 
 Whose careful memories keep 
 
 The ocean's love; an ancient, chattering crone 
 
 Who surely heard the flattering suitors drone 
 
 Around Penelope; 
 
 Young girls who show the slim, processional 
 
 grace 
 Of classic maidens on John Keats's vase. 
 
 Here, clean-limbed youths, who as they reap and 
 
 mow 
 Pass twisted jokes. On bright days women wear 
 Linens so snowy white they truly show 
 Nausicaa's house-wife care. 
 The landscape is one lovely pot-pourri 
 Of hills, and friendly dunes, and deep-wine sea. 
 Here we may take (as once before 
 Among the scattered lakes of Michigan) 
 The flavor of blue days, Sicilian. 
 
 [27] 
 
We will grow Pagan, (forget that curious god 
 Who ruled our fathers with a rod of fear) 
 Will learn our kinship to the sky and sod, 
 Things intimate and dear; 
 With laughing leaves will drink the rain-drop 
 
 up 
 And from the sea-shell's curved, rose-lined' cup, 
 Sip tranquility; 
 
 Rejoice with birds' and bees' and flowers' mirth. 
 Children and lovers of this rolling earth. 
 
 Delay not long! The stern hands of the Fates 
 
 Spin on, and when the thread at last has run 
 
 A deep and dreamless sleep for us awaits. 
 
 Death, I would not shun; 
 
 Yet sometimes I have grieved to think, ere long 
 
 I shall not hear the robin's homely song 
 
 That wakes the morning up; 
 
 Evening may fall; I, miss the fair delight 
 
 Of seeing the first star that brings the night. 
 
 The tide has turned; the waves roll into shore; 
 
 The dolorous voices sound from out the deep; 
 
 The gold sky darkens; I can write no more. 
 
 Last night I heard a Cyclops weep 
 
 His fickle nymph. 'Tis thus I long for you, 
 
 For your red bathing-cap out in the blue 
 
 Among the swimmers. 
 
 Come to Cap Cod where gods will reimburse. 
 
 With golden coin of joy, the poorest purse. 
 
 [28] 
 
A REGRET 
 
 'Tis not that I do greatly fear to die; 
 The countless sunsets fading into night, 
 The countless years in their unending flight 
 Pass silent on and cease without a sigh; 
 Yet all the pomp and pageantry of sky 
 And earth, the wealth and wizardry of light 
 And shade, the seasons' sumptuous, slow delight, 
 Die not, but stream in liquid splendor by. 
 There the regret and not the fear for death ! 
 To lie where no returning blue-bird brings 
 The thought that April with her scented breath 
 Is fashioning those fair and fragrant things 
 Of field and forest! Sleep, nor even hear 
 The last wild requiem for the dying year! 
 
 V T* •X* 
 
 MARGARET OF MERIBON 
 
 High on the hill the convent stands 
 And high are the ramparts of heaven, 
 Where slipping out from the singing bands 
 The tired angels lean at even. 
 
 They gaze far past this tumbling earth 
 Where their good and ill befell, 
 Far past the tides of death and birth 
 Down to the deeps of hell. 
 
 Step after step, clean out of sight. 
 
 The feet of the saints have trod; 
 
 By the weary steps of our convent height, 
 
 I climb to the feet of God. 
 
 [29] 
 
By prayer and fast, by fast and prayer, 
 I, Martha, the withered nun, 
 Atone for the sins I sinned down there 
 As Margaret of Meribon. 
 
 For I saw my husband fall 'neath the blow 
 
 Of Hugh, my handsome paramour. 
 
 Did I wring my hands, bow my head full low? 
 
 I donned my gems and danced on the floor 
 
 Of the banquet hall, where, (dregs in the wine) 
 
 The steel-eyed baron had planted fear 
 
 In this wild, laughing heart of mine 
 
 Till it hung like a yellow leaf, and sear. 
 
 Then it lay, a wayward, fluttering thing 
 In Hugh of Brittany's mailed hand. 
 Till he flung it far as the rich men fling 
 A leper — You understand.'' 
 
 Saying 
 
 "Your hair glooms black as the wings of night 
 While the locks of Clarice are gold in the sun; 
 And what man would leave the sweet delight 
 Of a love to win for a love that is won?" 
 
 Now he lies in his tower of Brittany 
 Wrapt in a cloud of golden hair, 
 While I ply the scourge and bend the knee 
 With prayer and fast, and fast and prayer. 
 
 I give the old abbess courtesies, 
 
 I play the organ and lead the choir. 
 
 And I sing the dreary litanies 
 
 Till my voice grows thin and my fingers tire. 
 
 [30] 
 
But when from the blue the evening falls 
 And the quiet winds of twilight blow 
 Over the hills, I gaze from the walls 
 On the purple and golden valley below. 
 
 And when at the sound of matin prayer 
 The sun climbs over the highest rim 
 Of the mountains, upright and fair 
 My poor worn spirit runs with him. 
 
 I follow the long roads up and down, 
 I kiss the very stones in the street 
 Of the winding gray-walled feudal town 
 Where once I walked with heedless feet. 
 
 And when at night the smooth earth slips 
 From under the mad stars' drunken rout 
 And the little crescent moon-shaving dips 
 In the flying winds that blow it about, 
 I gaze far down in the velvet deep 
 Where the steadfast lanterns shine 
 And happy peaceful folk are asleep 
 In pleasant bowers that once were mine. 
 
 I watch the cheering wine of the year 
 Into the mountain-rimmed valley poured, 
 A great, heart-easing wine, and clear. 
 And a cup well fit for the festal board ! 
 
 A cup for the hollow of God's own hand, 
 More beautiful by far 
 Than those curious silver cups that stand 
 On our high-built altars are! 
 
 [31] 
 
The fragrant valley I loved so well 
 Where Hugh of Brittany still can ride 
 (While I am bound by rule and bell) 
 With the bright-haired Clarice at his side. 
 
 He will die in his sins — but on my knees 
 Up the long and steepy stairs I'll climb, 
 And hear on a morning that knows no cease 
 The matin bells of heaven chime. 
 
 But Hugh shall sink as sinks a stone 
 In some quiet lake of a forest dell, 
 And his soul shall fare on its way alone 
 Down to the very depths of hell. 
 
 A fragrant robe of white will be mine, 
 And an aureole with a golden rim. 
 And I shall see the swords that shine 
 In the mighty hands of the seraphim. 
 
 To God will I render courtesies 
 And sing with the heavenly choir 
 All the wearisome — sweet litanies, 
 (Perchance I shall not tire.) 
 
 (When I to that heavenly choir shall win. 
 Will one of the angels begin too soon. 
 While one forgets when his notes come in 
 And one sing a little out of tune.'*) 
 
 It may be; but when no one will miss 
 My voice, to the buttressed walls I will go 
 And throw down the void a fluttering kiss 
 To the little valley here below 
 
 [32] 
 
Where the lights shine through the blue of even 
 And glad feet trip and bright cheeks glow 
 While blither than any chant of heaven 
 The revelers sing a tune I know. 
 
 When the angels, wearying at their song 
 Turn to smile at the pains in hell, 
 I will join the raptured, gazing throng 
 And look for that one that I know well. 
 
 I shall see from those cloud-built ramparts above 
 The soul in its agony 
 
 Of him whom I loved — loved ? Whom I love ! 
 (Would God that I were he.) 
 
 (Mary! to whom the sinners make moan. 
 
 Let them do as they will with me, 
 
 Those angels that guard with bright swords the 
 
 throne. 
 But save Hugh of Brittany!) 
 
 T* T* "tT 
 
 THE EMPTY ROOM 
 
 It seemed the room was empty 
 
 But I knew you had been there — 
 
 Was it an hour ago? 
 
 The time goes slow; 
 
 Like rows of patient nuns in prayer 
 
 The still days wear away my heart. 
 
 Yet when I entered, in the room the air 
 
 Was tremulous with a form that drew apart. 
 
 [33] 
 
And now the sunbeams flower upon the wall, 
 
 From that green vase the rose leaves fall 
 
 Softly down, by some breath stirred. 
 
 And truth, upon the stair I heard 
 
 Just now your step. 
 
 Ah, yes! I surely know 
 
 You have been here. 
 
 Was it an hour, or was it years ago? 
 
 •5r •T* •!• 
 
 EVENING 
 
 Ah, little house wherein I dwell 
 Where, with the happy dawn of day. 
 The golden light of morning fell, 
 How worn thy lintels are and gray! 
 
 The bird that sang above thy door 
 Has flown into the evening light; 
 Within, the shadows on the floor 
 With lengthning fingers point the night. 
 
 Ah, little house, so worn and gray! 
 Soon, soon I see that thou too, must 
 Upon the night wind pass away 
 Dissolved to ashes, strewn as dust. 
 
 •^ V ^ 
 
 TEMPERANCE? 
 
 Ask me not if I am drunk 
 With plenteous draughts of Coan wine; 
 I guafTed, this morn, a breakfast cup. 
 Three fingers, straight, of pure sunshine. 
 
 [34] 
 
At ten I lost my senses quite, 
 My silly head was all a-whirl 
 When in a foam of skirts, I saw 
 The silken stocking of a girl. 
 
 The blue-bells, in the afternoon, 
 Drained in a riotous drinking-bout 
 Immoderate cups of summer rain: 
 I joined their revels with a shout. 
 
 Like moths around a candle light. 
 Friends, by my evening fire are brought; 
 I drink a sparkling vintage then 
 Of rare, intoxicating thought. 
 
 Ask me not if I am drunk 
 When morn and night I sip the wine 
 The generous hand of life pours out 
 From bubbling beakers, large, divine. 
 
 •!• •*• V 
 
 A SONG FOR THE MOURNERS 
 
 Give us the greatest of griefs from the full-laden 
 
 sheaf of sorrows. 
 But give us to take as our own the fruit of the 
 
 tear-furrowed field; 
 Save us from cringing false hopes and the broken 
 
 coward endeavor 
 To stay with our tearful oblations the hand of a 
 
 pliable god. 
 
 [35] 
 
A woman dies in her prime and the dolorous 
 
 sound of lamenting 
 Fills all the house, till a breath from some 
 
 asphodel vale 
 Brings a fond hope of re-union by a deep and 
 
 clear-flowing river; 
 But who would this same woman be when her 
 
 various lovers would greet her? 
 
 For her mother would look for the child that she 
 
 left in the dawning; 
 Her lover would seek for his love with the sun on 
 
 her bright golden hair; 
 And her child for a face softly touched with the 
 
 fast-falling twilight; 
 And the woman, herself, for the one that she 
 
 knew, and she only. 
 
 Flowers that grow from this earth, those flowers 
 
 we would gather; 
 — Do they grow by the smooth-gliding stream 
 
 that flows through some valley of dreams? 
 Then give us our roses for joy and the jasmine 
 
 and rue for our mourning, 
 Give us the flowers of this earth, nor asphodel, 
 
 amaranth, nor moly. 
 
 We have drunk of the river of life and the waters 
 
 are bitter. 
 — But what do we know of those streams that 
 
 spring in some mythical world? 
 Phlegethon flows not for us nor the sweet, 
 
 oblivious Lethe — 
 Then give us to take of this cup and bravely to 
 
 drink it. 
 
 [36] 
 
GOOD-BY 
 
 That day you did not stop to say good-by, 
 But softly closed the door and went; 
 No song-bird stirred as you passed by, 
 Nor grasses to your foot-steps bent. 
 
 You did not stay to hold my hand, 
 Nor promise ever to return; 
 And to what far mysterious land 
 You passed, I cannot learn. 
 
 By day, no shadow flits across my sight. 
 No clear voice answers to my cry, 
 (But from the mothering womb of night 
 You came, and said "Good-by.") 
 
 T* T* V 
 
 REMEMBRANCE 
 
 I had forgotten 
 
 How in the April showers the clinging violets 
 
 — Shy lovers of unfooted nooks — 
 
 Bend with the rain-drops; 
 
 But the hill-side remembers and burns blue with 
 
 joy- 
 
 I had forgotten 
 
 How the single note of the blue-bird 
 
 — Like a single string of the first violin — 
 
 Preludes the full chorus. 
 
 But the mulberry tree in the orchard remembers 
 
 And prepares to pay its coming guests 
 
 With the coin of purple berries. 
 
 [37] 
 
I had forgotten 
 
 How rose petals float down the flood of summer, 
 
 Gold on the early wave of June, 
 
 Flushing from pink and crimson to ardent white; 
 
 But the moon remembers, every month 
 
 floating, 
 A curled, white rose-petal 
 In the silent skies. 
 
 I had forgotten 
 
 How in the deep heart of a woman 
 
 Memory, like the lily in the deep pond, blossoms; 
 
 But the heart of a woman cannot forget. 
 
 •!• V ^ 
 
 ENVY 
 
 It haunts my sunlit, waking dreams, 
 The yellow primrose of the night 
 That blooms so quietly it seems 
 A sweet, frail ghost of spent delight. 
 
 She feigns a friendly courtesy 
 That primrose one he calls his own 
 And stretches out pale hands to me; 
 Pale hands? Oh, primroses half-blown! 
 
 The color of the primrose shows 
 In her silk strands of yellow hair. 
 Rose burnt to crimson, my cheek glows; 
 Can he find primroses more fair? 
 
 It haunts my sunlit, waking hours 
 That pale primrose that smells of musk 
 And steals like ghosts of happier flowers 
 Quietly through the scented dusk. 
 
 [38] 
 
NAMES 
 
 In summer gardens the roses 
 
 Fall softly, one by one; 
 
 Nor with the death of their petals 
 
 Is the tale of their beauty done — 
 
 Beauty the ghost of a perfume, beauty a leaping 
 
 flame 
 Haunts the grey walks of dead gardens 
 And lives on in a name: — 
 Queen of the Prairie and Sweet Brier, 
 La France and Cherokee, 
 Wild Rose, Princesse de Sagen, 
 Cinnamon, Du Barry, 
 Red Rambler, proud De Wattville, 
 Penzance and Jacqueminot, 
 Bengal, Provence, Tea-rose, 
 Damask, Heart of Snow! 
 
 Lovers who walked in these gardens 
 
 Have come to a flowery death. 
 
 But their ghosts still haunt the memory 
 
 Sweet as the roses' breath; 
 
 For beauty and love live ever. 
 
 All things else are vain; 
 
 The light of their love burns softly 
 
 As I name them over again: — 
 
 Beatrice, Guinevere, Rosamund, 
 
 Iseult of the Irish Sea, 
 
 Pale Iseult of Brittian, 
 
 Heloise, Nimue, 
 
 Sappho, Phaedra, Helen, 
 
 Alcestes, Queen half divine, 
 
 Medea, Perdita, Juliet — 
 
 And mine — and mine! 
 
 [39] 
 
FORGOTTEN 
 
 I fingered over a forgotten love, 
 
 Untied the faded bow, 
 My hand hads bound the letters with — 
 — Oh, many years ago. — 
 
 A little ghost from that far past 
 
 Might frighten with its cry 
 The new love that had lived its time 
 
 But had forgot to die. 
 
 Not even a little, fluttering ghost 
 
 From those old letters came; 
 I thought to write a name, a date; 
 
 I wrote — another's name. 
 
 V V V 
 
 FAME 
 
 Why do you ask me now to that wide banquet 
 
 hall.? 
 The guests sit ivy-crowned .? 
 Laughter, jest and friendship, and love go 
 
 round ? 
 Ah! but the first lights of the morning fall 
 Through high-arched windows, 
 I hear the first bird sound his morning call. 
 Night's shadows slip away 
 Before the dawn of day, 
 It is late. 
 
 [40] 
 
Time was when gladly I had bound 
 
 My soft, brown hair with chickory, rose and 
 
 primrose 
 To feast with you. 
 — Crimson, gold and blue — 
 Time was when I had found your friendship fair 
 But now it is too late. 
 
 For I have found a place 
 
 Of peaceful meadows and wide pastures 
 
 Where through long, sunny afternoons 
 
 I watch the blossoms bud and bloom and fall, 
 
 — Crimson and rose and gold — 
 
 Bloom and fall. 
 
 Where one dead leaf burns brighter than a poppy 
 
 wreath 
 Grown in your sunshine; 
 
 My longing hands can scarcely hold the beauty 
 Of the flowers that grow in these still meadows 
 
 of my soul. 
 
 Friends, too, I have who gather round a board 
 
 as bright 
 As those quaint jewelled cloths 
 Are spun by long-legged spiders in the night; 
 Friends who smile with quiet lips 
 And drink from filmy goblets blown 
 By the master workman. 
 
 Why do you nake such haste to bring those gifts? 
 It is too late. 
 
 [41] 
 
RETROSPECT 
 
 An old bent woman cloaked in grey 
 Goes grumbling on her upland way, 
 Till 'neath a tree she slips her load 
 
 And through green leaves reviews the road 
 
 She sees with childlike wonderment 
 
 In places where her tired feet went, 
 
 Tulips deep red and golden bright. 
 
 Narcissus, like slim girls white, 
 
 Winged' daffodils arise. 
 
 Bluetts that smile up at the skies. 
 
 She sighs in musing wonderment, 
 
 "Is that the way by which I went?" 
 
 DELAY 
 
 When you were out at sea, I said 
 I know the path that we will tread, 
 
 With grass and clover overspread, 
 When you come back to me. 
 
 There yellow broom and sweet bay grow; 
 
 The scented air of twilight thrills 
 With the song the brown-thrush spills 
 
 Out to his mate below." 
 
 At last you came. The path we tread, 
 But no brown bird sings overhead; 
 
 The blossoms of the broom are shed; 
 My heart is out at sea. 
 
 [42] 
 
LA MALQUERIDA 
 
 Whether wilHngly or unwiUingly 
 
 I pluck the white, pellucid flowers that grow out 
 
 by my threshhold, 
 (faces blanched with passion) 
 it matters not; 
 or whether a strong, brown hand at twilight 
 
 tosses them through my window, 
 past the drifting curtains, 
 it matters not. 
 
 All night their perfume clings about my brow, 
 tangles up in dreamy slothfulness the songs that 
 else at dawn had flown out to the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 Whether willingly or unwillingly I lay these pale 
 
 flowers on my breast, 
 it matters not. 
 
 ' fft f^ ffi 
 DIABOLARIE 
 
 I would forget him and again be free, 
 But I am caught and hindered — 
 Not in the silken skein of memory — 
 But by his seeming presence in the room. 
 I cannot brush my hair 
 But what I feel the pressure of his hand 
 That rested there — was it last evening? 
 My purple dress still wears the flushed delight 
 It knew when his grey eyes 
 Turned black with pleasure at the sight 
 Of my slim throat above its folds, 
 [His eyes are grey. The berries of the bay 
 In that blue vase are such a grey.] 
 
 [43] 
 
Outside, upon the slant of April rain 
 
 Drifts down the breath of lilacs. 
 
 Lilacs! Once again I live that day 
 
 Of amorous sunshine touched with pain, 
 
 When in a sheltered vale I lay 
 
 And he piled lilacs, cool and sweet 
 
 Upon my sun-warmed breast and on my feet 
 
 Until I saw his face smile down on me — 
 
 Through lilacs! 
 
 Then how can I forget him, how be free, 
 When any straying, chance perfume still brings 
 His presence? 
 My soul is tangled in the invisible web of things. 
 
 •jT V V 
 
 THE GARDEN CITY 
 
 I 
 
 This city like a garden is 
 Where many lovely blossoms grow; — 
 Tulip, and rose, and fleur-de-lis, 
 Could one but truly know. 
 
 Though black as sin the soil may be. 
 And wet with tears for rain. 
 Year after year in their beauty. 
 The flowers bloom again. 
 
 My country neighbor talks of trees, 
 And golden bees, and birds on bough; 
 But here's a humming hive of bees, 
 And singing hearts enow. 
 
 [44] 
 
THE FLOWERS OF THE GARDEN 
 
 II 
 
 Rose Petals 
 In country lances at twilight hour, 
 The white moth from a white cup sips 
 The treasured wine of some sweet flower, 
 Then into darkness slips. 
 
 That magic of the twilight hour 
 
 My city garden also knows; — 
 
 Each shop-worn girl blooms out, a flower, 
 
 With beauty of a rose. 
 
 Oh pale with pride, with passion bright 
 Down glittering streets where arc-lights blind. 
 Flung from the hand of coming night, 
 Rose petals on the wind ! 
 
 One day for passion, one for pride. 
 And then — then dawns another day! 
 What thing of beauty can abide. ^ 
 They go the flower way. 
 
 The sunflower 
 With beer-flushed face and gleaming star, 
 And lordly air of high commands, 
 Ruling the traffic near and far. 
 This cop, my sun-flower stands. 
 
 fp fft Sft 
 
 Poppies 
 A drowsy, sun-warmed poppy glows 
 Among the heads of useful wheat. 
 Illumining the patient rows 
 With beauty, heedless, sweet. 
 
 [45] 
 
So through the streets where labor haunts, 
 Gilding the way with dusky sheen, 
 Insouciant and free, she flaunts. 
 This flaming gipsy queen. 
 
 EVENING IN THE GARDEN 
 III 
 
 God walks in gardens where the eve is cool, 
 
 So simple country people say; 
 By sheltered fragrant path and fringed' pool, 
 
 He passes on his way. 
 
 God walks in gardens where the twilight falls 
 On city streets, and arc-lights shine 
 
 And from the lake the fog-horn, homeless, calls? 
 Yes, then God walks in mine. 
 
 FILETTA 
 
 Filetta had such little feet 
 
 She should have walked on flowers. 
 
 A broken slipper lies now in the garden path 
 
 Out in the sleet. 
 
 Filetta had such little feet! 
 
 [46] 
 
A FOREST POOL 
 
 I am a deep, quiet pool, a blue eye shining 
 under the blue sky. The shepherd of those sky 
 pastures drives slow-trailing flocks over my sur- 
 face — and not one sheep bleats, for the leader 
 has lost his bell. When my lover, the wind, 
 stoops to kiss me, ripples of emotion wrinkle my 
 face. 
 
 Sometimes a bird dips a shy wing into my 
 waters; sometimes an irridescent fish flashes his 
 fins above me. 
 
 I am a quiet pool, deep with mystery. Down 
 in the dreaming heart of me grow strange, half- 
 guessed creatures which even the Master who 
 fashions the pools of the forests knows but 
 dimly. Perhaps the stars that peep into my 
 bosom at night are searching my secret. 
 
 Oh Master and Maker of pools, of little 
 deep-forest pools, lean over me that I may 
 mirror your face in my smooth waters. 
 
 •T* T* •ir 
 
 A MORNING STAR 
 
 Life stirs and kisses the face of the waters; 
 Love stirs and wakes the winds from their 
 
 dreaming. 
 And the three eternal comrades. 
 The sun, the wind, and the shower, 
 Go forth to their endless labor; 
 Shaping the clouds in the sky 
 And the ever-enduring mountains. 
 Painting both heaven and earth in the tiniest 
 
 dewdrop. 
 Forming the delicate rose-bud. 
 
My heart awakes from its dreaming 
 And loves, and looks on beauty; 
 Loving the rose-bud and rainbow, 
 The dewdrop and the mountain — 
 And the light of your eyes — 
 For life stirs and kisses the face of the waters, 
 Love stirs and wakes the winds from their 
 dreaming. 
 
 •5r* V V 
 
 AN EVENING SONG 
 
 Quiet are the waves of the waters, and quiet the 
 
 little winds of evening 
 That all day long have wandered over the earth, 
 Driven to and fro by desire; 
 Desiring the sweetness of the rose. 
 The deep delights of placid forest pools, 
 The freedom of the mountain tops 
 The passion of the desert sands; 
 But now the restless winds lie quiet in their 
 
 mother's lap. 
 
 Only my heart is like a troubled wave, 
 
 A restless wandering wind. 
 
 Driven by desire for gifts that never grow on 
 
 earth. 
 Hungry for the rose that blooms only in dreams; 
 But quiet are the waves of the waters, 
 And quiet the little winds of evening. 
 
 [48] 
 
IN THE VALLEY OF THE MENONITES 
 L The Valley 
 
 Friendly the wooded hills that stand 
 
 Guarding the folded vale, 
 Rounded, as though a mother's hand 
 Had smoothed a pillow for her child 
 And bending softly down, had smiled 
 
 To see it fall asleep. 
 
 Friendly the folk that plow and sow 
 
 And gather the grain to barn; 
 Like sleepy brooks that pause in their flow 
 The stream of life runs quiet there; 
 Lightly blown on the scented air, 
 
 Peace floats like thistle down. 
 
 A pious band in that vale had sought 
 
 Rest from the old world wars; 
 In the rich new world where their slow tongues 
 
 caught 
 At Indian names, they had turned the sod 
 And planted a seed from the word of God 
 
 That says, "Thou Shalt Not Kill." 
 
 For a page from some old bible torn 
 
 Had found in that valley its rest. 
 The word is read both night and morn 
 While the round of daily living there 
 Runs to the sound of murmured prayer, 
 
 A brook on well-worn stones. 
 
 The low-browed houses, trim and white 
 
 Elbow the big striped barns; 
 Neat-handed women from morn to night 
 Comfort the man and love. the child; 
 Martha, herself, might have looked and smiled 
 
 At the careful housewives there. 
 
 [49] 
 
Bearded men, like bearded wheat, 
 
 Bend in the yellow fields; 
 On the seventh day they set their feet 
 Towards the fingered spire where their leader 
 
 reads 
 The text that rules their human deeds: — 
 
 "Thou Shalt Not Kill." 
 
 "Thou Shalt Not Kill." The thrush sings free 
 
 Safe in the osage hedge; 
 The squirrel drops his nut from the tree; 
 Where the tired stream rests by the mill 
 The sleek-nosed otter slips at will 
 
 From under the hanging bank. 
 
 "Thou Shalt Not Kill." That is their creed 
 
 Wrought in the lives of them. 
 They had sought a peaceful land for their need, 
 But now past the hills that shut them in 
 Come rumors and echoes, shrill and thin, 
 
 Sounds from a world at war. 
 
 And the shadow of an unspoken fear 
 
 Darkens the sun of their peace. 
 They had learned to call that country dear, 
 But the single faith they owed to their God 
 War burned in their souls with a searing rod, 
 
 "Thou Shalt not kill." 
 
 Jesus walked in Galilee 
 
 Through fields of ripening grain; 
 Jesus in his agony 
 
 Suffered the length of the daylight hour, 
 When darkness, opening like a flower. 
 
 Made of his pain an end. 
 
 [50] 
 
II. The Lovers 
 
 Under the willows, hidden apart, 
 
 The miller's snug house stands. 
 Hilda, his daughter, stirs his heart 
 Almost as much as his swift wheels do, 
 The wheels he loved before he knew 
 
 The sound of Hilda's voice. 
 
 *'The mills of the gods grind slow," he sings, 
 
 "While mine run very fast — 
 Fast as a young girl's heart that swings 
 From the love of her home to the love of her 
 
 man — 
 But the mills of the gods in their turning can 
 
 Grind exceedingly line." 
 
 Hilda bends over her oaken chest 
 
 Carved with the delicate skill 
 Of some craft-man's hand, in time unguessed 
 That worked for love. Rich fantasy 
 Flowered in the embroidered cloth that she 
 
 Stored for her wedding day. 
 
 Fine beaten gold is not more fair 
 
 Under the gold-smith's hand 
 Than the burnished flow of her yellow hair 
 That slips from under her cap's white rim 
 And follows the line, where her throat, firm and 
 slim. 
 
 Is lost in the curve of her breast. 
 
 Dark in the windowed square of light 
 
 Shows Adolph's swarthy head; 
 A John the Baptist of impetuous might 
 Softens his glance as it hangs above 
 The bending head of his meek little love, 
 
 And softly, too, he speaks. 
 
 [51] 
 
"The ripening grain stands ready to reap, 
 
 I am a reaper, too." — 
 Then his eyes look out to the high well-sweep. 
 "Johanna and Joseph soon may know 
 How a mustard seed of love may grow 
 
 To shadow the heart's wide field" 
 
 For Johanna was holding a smooth, brown cup 
 
 To Joseph's thirsty lips. 
 The purple glooms in her braids tangled up 
 His mild blue eyes, while under his gaze 
 Her rich cheeks burned, a peach ablaze 
 
 In a warm September sun. 
 
 "The mills of the gods grind slow," the voice 
 
 Of the busy miller sings. 
 "A man and a maid have little choice 
 When the wheels of war call for ripened grain, 
 For love is a flower that withers in pain 
 
 When the whole world turns to war." 
 
 Bells! Over the valley, clear 
 
 Out from the spire they swing! 
 Did the wind in the willows whisper fear? 
 Was the shadow that of a floating cloud 
 Or a floating dread that might enshroud 
 
 The blossom of their love? 
 
 A shattered thing, the brown cup slips 
 From Johanna's frightened hands, 
 
 A fluttering prayer moistens Josef's lips, 
 
 Adolph's brow thunders to frown, 
 
 While Hilda hastily wrinkles down 
 The linen in her chest. 
 
 [o2] 
 
The clattering wheels of the mill stand still 
 
 With a whimper and a groan, 
 The miller, a dusty form on the sill, 
 Speaks, like a ghost, their clinging dread, 
 "The numbers are drawn, the names will be read 
 
 Of those who must go to war." 
 
 III. The Casting of The Lots 
 
 Bearded men like bearded wheat. 
 
 Grain for the reaper's hand ! 
 Smooth-haired women in bonnets neat, 
 The reiterant clang of the bells, a choir 
 That sings of death, and the fingered spire 
 
 That stains the sky's clean cup. 
 
 The slow clouds load in the deep blue sky, 
 
 Their shadows loaf on the green, 
 A heavy bee goes droning by 
 From clover fields where sleek cows graze 
 And lift their quiet eyes in amaze 
 
 At the sound of the noisy bells. 
 
 The church is filled with a sibilant sound 
 
 From lips that scarcely move; 
 For every pale-cheeked woman is bound 
 To ask for a lover, a husband, a son. 
 To ward off the lot to some other one 
 
 Not of her own household. 
 
 The pastor reads, "Thou shalt not kill. 
 
 That is our laws command; 
 And who shall the blood of his brother spill 
 That man is cursed. The country calls 
 The men to fight; and so Abel falls 
 
 Under the hand of Cain. 
 
 [53] 
 
"Here in our church once more we may pray 
 To strengthen our young men's hearts — 
 
 Our country we love, but we cannot slay 
 
 Our brother men, though the bloody scroll 
 
 Of suffering martyrs again unroll 
 And show our very names." 
 
 They pray, then out to the public square 
 
 The silent people press. 
 The sleek draft-master stands smiling there. 
 "See the muscles slide beneath that tan! 
 These are the boys we are wanting, man," 
 
 He says to his fellows there. 
 
 "Render to Caesar the things that are his," 
 
 A grey-beard elder spoke. 
 "And to God his own. Well, I know this, 
 My soul is God's." And Adolph's face 
 Glowed like some chief's of a fighting race 
 
 When the trumpets sound for war. 
 
 But Josef said, "This land is free. 
 
 We children of the land; 
 The fathers of the flock well see 
 That we have vowed, so cannot kill; 
 Then, come what may, we do God's will 
 
 And follow his command." 
 
 "The numbers are drawn; the lots are cast," 
 
 Slowly the pastor spoke. 
 "You Adolph and Josef hold you fast 
 To your spoken faith. You are called; You must 
 
 .go; 
 Here in our fold may we never know 
 
 Of sheep that were led astray. 
 
 [54] 
 
"We will never wear the clothes of war," 
 
 Both Josef and Adolph swear. 
 The draft-master smilingly forbore; 
 "Tell that tale to the Major when 
 You come to camp; He can deal with men, 
 
 He may listen to you." 
 
 Josef bent his head in prayer, 
 
 Then to Johanna he turned. 
 But Adolph stretched his hands in the air: — 
 "That man would be false to his marriage vow 
 Who would break his faith with his God, when 
 as now 
 
 It is put to the final test." 
 
 The miller stood, a Pagan head 
 
 Among that pious folk. 
 "The mills of the gods grind slow," he said, 
 "But how each little kernel fares. 
 As the water that turns my mill-wheel cares, 
 
 So care the gods for men." 
 
 "God marks each sparrow in its fall," 
 
 Sternly the pastor spoke. 
 "He cares for his children, one and all. 
 He tempers the wind for the tender sheep, 
 In the hollow of his hand he will keep 
 
 Those who serve him well." 
 
 IV. Hilda 
 
 They went. And long may Hilda wait 
 
 To hear her Adolph's step; 
 Johanna at milking may linger late. 
 But no song answers her clear song. 
 And no hand, eager, brown and strong. 
 
 Lightens the heavy pail. 
 
 [55] 
 
"In the hollow of his hand he will keep 
 Those who serve him well." 
 So Hilda murmured in her sleep. 
 But, well for her she could not see 
 The cell where Adolph bent his knee 
 And bowed his head in prayer. 
 
 And well she could not hear the scorn 
 
 Of the Major's curling lips: — 
 "Think it over till Sunday morn 
 And see if pattering prayers in the dark 
 Will kindle in that cell a spark 
 
 To light your pious feet." 
 
 "That uniform we will never wear," 
 
 Josef and Adolph said. 
 The Major spared no time to swear, 
 "Send them back to the dungeon cell 
 Without their clothes — Let them freeze a spell 
 
 Till they love a uniform." 
 
 Night and day! day and night 1 
 
 Cold and torture and dark, 
 Till Adolph's beard had turned sheer white, 
 And Josef's face in its agony 
 Looked like a monkly travesty 
 
 Of Christ, the man of woe. 
 
 Bodies that grow near the good brown earth 
 Are brown and supple and strong. 
 
 But men who have drunk of the broad sun's 
 mirth 
 
 As he pours out his wine in the ciup of the morn 
 
 Wither like flowers when they le forlorn 
 In a festering prison cell. 
 
 [--fi] 
 
"In the hollow of his hand he will keep" — 
 
 The waiting Hilda said. 
 While Johanna stood where the waters sleep 
 Above the weir, and the miller would sing, 
 "Winter and summer, they both must bring 
 
 The grain to my hungry wheels." 
 
 "They are coming home," Hilda's blue eyes 
 shine. 
 "I saw them in my dream." 
 And home they came — in a box of pine — 
 And in fighting clothes — thin, stiff lips will never 
 
 speak 
 The words that Hilda must ever seek 
 To ease the fear at her heart. 
 
 "I had his love for a little day. 
 
 And though that day has gone. 
 There is a joy that will light alway 
 The whirling years, while the wheels grind still 
 And break the human grain in the mill," 
 
 Johanna said — and smiled. 
 
 "That man would be false to his marriage vow 
 
 Who breaks his faith with his God. 
 Was he false,'*" but only the song 
 Of the wind in the oak answers Hilda's prayer 
 And the cry of a jay that has lingered there 
 Past the fall of the winter snow. 
 
 Jesus walked in Galilee 
 
 Through fields of ripening grain, 
 But Jesus in his agony 
 Suffered the length of the daylight hour. 
 Then darkness, opening like a flower, 
 
 Made of his pain an end. 
 
 [57] 
 
THE WORK-SHOP 
 
 I looked in at the door of the work-shop; 
 
 There stood the Master, 
 
 Skillful, imperturbable, quiet, 
 
 Bending over the work of his hands. 
 
 On the walls, on the benches, the floor, were the 
 tools 
 
 Curiously shaped and wrought with a 
 workman's true cunning; 
 
 No two alike, but each fitted for its own particu- 
 lar purpose. 
 
 There, in the work-shop, 
 
 [Filled with the sweet smell of shavings and of 
 
 beautiful things in the making] 
 I heard — not the Master, 
 But the various tools, talking and boasting. 
 
 The first was a child: 
 
 With his little, uncertain hands, he had built, 
 
 from a pile of wooden bricks, 
 A house with doors and windows and chimney. 
 He laughed, a shrill laugh. 
 
 Danced on the floor of the work-shop, shouting, 
 "See what I have made!" 
 
 The next was an artist: — 
 
 On a stretch of white canvas he had spread his 
 
 dreams 
 In subtle, magnificient reds, 
 Deep-hearted blues that glowed like the orient, 
 And yellows as pure and clean as the breath of 
 
 spring. 
 Then he lighted a cigarette, folded his arms in 
 
 triumph 
 And strode with long steps round the room, 
 
 chuckling, 
 "See what I have made!" 
 [58] 
 
Then a poet: — 
 
 He had woven a beautiful poem, 
 
 In pattern and color as curious as a Persian 
 
 rug 
 Into which the weaver has woven his life. 
 He read his lines and cried, 
 "See what I have made!" 
 
 A mother, 
 
 One who pointed with pride to her children. 
 Bright-haired, clean-limbed youngsters, 
 Struck a madonna pose and sighed, 
 "See what I have made!" 
 
 There were others, oh, many others. 
 For the workshop was filled with the boastful 
 din of the tools. 
 
 I looked at the Master, 
 He stood with his head turned to one side, 
 A smile on his lips, listening. 
 Skillful, imperturbable, quiet; 
 But he never opened his lips to cry, 
 "See what I have made!" 
 
 REFUGE 
 
 I dreamed of you as some great, spreading tree 
 Among whose leaves I could with certainty 
 
 Fashion my nest; 
 I thought to find safe shelter there 
 From storm, and flowering pleasure when the 
 day was fair. 
 
 You seemed to be 
 
 So wise and strong. 
 
 [59] 
 
But now 1 know you as a branch that sways 
 With every summer wind that round you plays, 
 
 Now I am blest; 
 Love for frail things exceeds in tenderness 
 The love for strong — attains to perfect lovliness 
 
 Through perilous ways, — 
 
 ^nd lasts as long. 
 
 •!• •5c* •!• 
 
 CONSOLATION 
 
 Now he is dead; 
 
 And you can weep, wear black and bow your 
 
 head, 
 Embalm your sorrow in pale, scented flowers. 
 Display it to your friends for countless hours. 
 Until you quite forget the face 
 Of him you mourn. 
 In all this show I have no place, 
 But I must smile and seem content the while. 
 
 Yet I am not forlorn ; 
 For when your treasured griefs shall fade away, 
 
 Like human beauty in decay, 
 
 A radiant gem remains to me, 
 Unchangeable and clear, — 
 My memory! 
 
 CRITICISM 
 
 You hold a mirror for your various friends. 
 To show their gross deformities — and grace. 
 We look therein to see — 
 Your face. 
 
 [GO] 
 
INSISTENCE 
 
 He will not come for any strident call, 
 
 Nor when the house, ablaze with noon-time light, 
 
 Is garnished bright; 
 But when at last the eager fingers fall 
 Tired, then with the night 
 
 Through cool, green meadows where the dew lies 
 sweet, 
 
 Love comes with quiet feet. 
 
 CHANGE 
 
 When our new day awoke you murmured, sad :- 
 "The light of yesterday was sweet to me; 
 I fear for what to-morrow's dawn may be; 
 Give me the well-known love that once I had." 
 
 The old earth spins around with endless change; 
 Never the same star brings the evening gloom. 
 Never the same flower for the spring's first 
 
 bloom. 
 But love is love although his face is strange. 
 
 Dear Heart, rejoice that with each April morn 
 A brighter radiance lies upon the hills. 
 And by the little brooks whose laughter fills 
 The listening ear, fresh violets are born. 
 
 [61] 
 
OVER THE WALL 
 
 The world swung quiet by 
 
 For nothing seemed to happen there 
 
 Nothing of joy nor grief, hope nor despair, 
 
 But I— 
 
 I stood on tip-toe, my chin level with the wall 
 
 Someone had built so tall around me. 
 
 I saw a truant path bordered by bitter sweet. 
 
 Would fit the feet of any wanderer, 
 
 Itself a wanderer up the hill. 
 
 Down in the thick-leaved mulberry tree 
 
 A rascal cat-bird took his fill 
 
 Of song, and purple berries. 
 
 That blue that lay so still along 
 
 The green horizon could but be 
 
 The eye of the blue sea. 
 
 Then one black night 
 
 When thieves had stolen all the light 
 
 A star leaned down and smiled at me. 
 
 •I* **• V 
 
 THE EGOIST 
 
 I carry a candle, so carefully, so carefully, 
 
 Climbing a long flight of stairs. 
 
 Shading the flame with my hand. 
 
 Watching with fear in my eyes lest the wind 
 
 should flicker it out — 
 With fear in my eyes — my eyes that do not see 
 
 the morning sun shining in through the 
 
 window, 
 I carry a candle, so carefully, so carefully. 
 
 [62] 
 
ASPHODEL 
 
 Beautiful you are, as the play, in spring of shade 
 
 beneath beech trees; 
 And grace you have, the grace of one long wave 
 
 breaking in calm, blue seas. 
 Laughter is yours, the laughter of green leaves 
 
 after an April rain. 
 But you are cold, as cold as starlight on ferns of 
 
 a frosted pane. 
 
 Therefore I bring you dream flowers, pale scent- 
 less blossoms that grow by a quiet stream. 
 
 White petals I spread for your feet, with white 
 petals crown you — 
 But, in a dream! 
 
 V V •!• 
 
 THE EARTH LOVER 
 
 My body died at twelve last night 
 
 And I, a naked soul. 
 Went through that dreadful pass of light 
 With a thousand more, who took their flight 
 
 While the midnight bell did toll. 
 
 As birds wing south when summer is past 
 And their cry through the night is born. 
 
 So on the wave of the wind's wild blast 
 We fled away; fast, so fast 
 
 To the gate of that other morn : — 
 
 Flames that burned with the fragrance of flowers, 
 
 Cardinal, emerald, blue, 
 Violet pure as April showers, 
 Yellow pale as sunset hours. 
 
 White, like frozen dew: — 
 [63] 
 
Singing they went, those flower-like bands, 
 
 With voices soft as rain; 
 But I, I hid my face in my hands, 
 And still I longed for the dear earth lands 
 
 And the grace of my body again. 
 
 My body died at twelve last night; 
 
 I fled, a naked soul. 
 And a wind from the south with perfume and 
 
 light 
 Went sighing the lost earth's green delight 
 While the midnight bell did toll. 
 
 rft ffi Ift 
 
 THE END 
 
 I am tired now and I shall go to bed, 
 
 Pull up the comforts right around my head, 
 
 (I hope they are made of eider-down) 
 
 And go to sleep. 
 
 And I shall dream neither of Satan's frown 
 
 Nor of a heavenly crown. 
 You poor, vexed souls who have more work 
 
 ahead. 
 Don't envy me and weep! 
 
 [64] 
 
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