Class _Jia_.ii51U. 
 Book. I H W 4 
 
 Gop)Tight }^° 
 
 COF/RIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
WESTERN WATERS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH SEWELL HILL 
 
 0^ 
 
 THE ROADSIDE PRESS 
 CHICAGO 
 
 1917 
 

 COPYRIGHT 1917 
 
 BY THE ROADSIDE PRESS 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 DEC 24 1917 
 
 ©C1.A481U)2 
 
TO 
 
 MR, WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE 
 
 FRIEND OF POETS 
 
I 
 WESTERN WATERS 
 
 II 
 PEACE AND WAR 
 
 III 
 MEMORIES 
 
 IV 
 
 GOD'S WEATHER 
 
WESTERN WATERS 
 
 COMING HOME 
 
 GOOD-BYE 
 
 LIFE ON THE LAKES 
 
 CONVOY 
 
 INTO THE FOG 
 
 DARIEN 
 
COMING HOME 
 
 They have hauled in the gang-plank. The breast-line crawls back. 
 It is "Port, and hard over!" and out through the black 
 Of the storm and the night, and across to the mouth 
 Of the harbor, where stretching far out to the south, 
 Run the lights of the town. 
 
 Swinging slowly we turn. 
 Pointing out for mid-lake, past the long pier where burn 
 The red harbor-lights, where the great billows churn 
 Blow on blow on the spiles, spilling down the white foam — 
 But I've written the home-folks that I'm coming home. 
 
 And I'm coming; huddled close by the slow-falling rail. 
 Blinking red through the mist and the spray, while the hail 
 Rattles down the wet decks lifting high, with the wail 
 Up the wind of the fog-horn and behind on our trail, 
 And we nose straight out in the teeth of the gale, 
 I know by the throb that the engines prevail. 
 And — steady, my courage — unless the stars fail. 
 We'll make it. 
 
 But tell me, O gray eyes and blue, 
 Did you know in your watching, O dim eyes and true. 
 In that black night's wild fury while the storm-signals flew, 
 While the storm beat us back and the hoarse whistles blew — 
 Did you know, O my dear ones, I was coming to you? 
 
 The silence of midnight; the hiss of the swell; 
 The creaking of timbers ; the close cabin smell ; 
 The slow-swaying shadows; the jar of the screw; 
 The wind at the shutter; the feet of the crew; 
 The cry of a child — is he coming home too? 
 
 There's a rent in the night and a star glimmers through. 
 The skies clear above us; the west banks up brown; 
 
 9 
 
The wind dies across us ; the sea's running down ; 
 And across the dim water, still breaking in foam, 
 Stretches out the far shore-line — and I'm coming home. 
 
 The hills smile a welcome ; the long night is past ; 
 And the ship's turning into the harbor at last. 
 The engines slow down ; we steal through the slip. 
 Past the low burning lamp and with quivering lip 
 Call down to the life-savers cheering us on. 
 
 The weary throb sends us straight into the dawn, 
 Fair and white up the bay, half asleep, all adream. 
 In its translucent purple and pearl. Just a gleam 
 Out there of the earliest sail; here the curl 
 Of the first lazy smoke from a cabin — a girl 
 Loops up the long vines at the doorway. A swirl 
 Of white water behind us; then a stir at the dock. 
 Steam slowly! The head-line — the stern-line — the shock 
 As we swing alongside, and across the plank flock 
 Wan faces, with breath still a-quiver, the roar 
 Of the night still above and about them, the floor 
 Still uncertain; but over the grateful brown loam 
 We crowd to the shore-boat — and I'm coming home. 
 
 And away to the north over depths of cool green 
 From the bluffs overhead, where the deep-set ravine 
 Digs down to the heart of the wood, while a stream 
 Trickles out over sands drifting white, and the pier 
 Reaches out through the water to meet us. We're here! 
 
 From the pier to the boat-house and away down the shore 
 Flutters back to the group at the old farm-house door 
 The word that I'm coming. And from wrinkled old hands. 
 As the dear old feet toil through the weary white sands. 
 Bringing welcome and welcome, from boat-house and strand, 
 
 10 
 
The hurrying, white-winged signals all come — 
 God pity the mortal who has never come home! 
 
 And I? I'm not worth it. But gray eyes and blue, 
 While the storms beat about me, O dear hearts and true, 
 Or the fogs flinging far, blot the stars from the blue. 
 If the pole star leads on or the rudder swings true. 
 It's not Heaven I'm after, I am coming to you. 
 
 But Heaven it will be when down the blue dome 
 Flutter out the white signals that I'm coming home. 
 
 GOOD-BYE 
 
 The orchards hang heavy to the top of the slope — 
 
 God's peace on it all ! — and the lagging feet grope 
 
 Back thro' flecked shade and sunshine to the gate-way's pent scope 
 
 Of all life holds dearest: the path pulling thro' 
 
 Hushed clover and grasses with first fruits astrew 
 
 Up the wind, past the brown grace of gardens — the blue 
 
 Bending warm — thro' the bushes, by the well-house, up to 
 
 The shed with the grapevine; up thro' doors swinging wide 
 
 To the dooryard beyond — there and there! — Oh, the pride 
 
 Of it all, the soft radiance, the glory, the crown ; 
 
 The hands long since patient; the back bending down. 
 
 Soft splendors of dreams on the memories lie — 
 
 Heart of me! Life of mine! Hail and good-bj'^e. 
 
 The banked blossoms blur and the path loiters now 
 
 For the tired feet, time-weathered brave old bare brow. 
 
 Embattled, eyes steady, breath clogged, — my heart, how 
 
 The throbs hurt!— God's patience; as He sends, or fallow or plow. 
 
 Toil, pain or privation. So with the pale prow 
 
 Pushing out from the brink only God's peace. 
 
 11 
 
And now 
 The first call from the boat; and down from the mow 
 With its smell of new hay, from the ripening bough, 
 Come the tributes of forced fun, and eager feet ply 
 From garden to pantrj\ 
 
 Then the long lane's far cry: 
 "God keep you — Be good to yourself — so — Good-bye." 
 
 God keep you! The road bends. The lagging footfalls 
 
 Hush back into silence — the forced fun — the calls. 
 
 Does the door beckon white? Does the brave old brow wait 
 
 Embattled still, bare, just beside the old gate. 
 
 Eyes steady, this way? 
 
 My priest and my king! 
 How the dust hazes out — blurs and blots — and a-wing 
 The song of the thrush. 
 
 From the bars rattling down 
 In their shadow and sunshine, the pasture, tramped brown, 
 Stretches warm past the grapes, pausing green by the mound 
 With the chestnuts ; across to the washout's old wound 
 With its clumps of sand grass ; up the soft swinging slopes 
 To the woods coming down in massed phalanx to cope 
 With all comers. The birches gleam white where the crest 
 Wanders up thro' the wooddamps and wood smells to rest 
 In the sweep of the uplands. — God's sun always shines 
 On the upland. 
 
 And the beech-woods beyond, with the shrine 
 In its heart ; the cathedral with the star reaching lift. 
 All pillar'd, green, misty, with the shadow's deep drift 
 Down dim aisles, with the pent sun's one striking red note 
 Thro' the heart of it all. 
 
 12 
 
That call from the boat! 
 One sweep of the slopes swinging breathlessly by, 
 Lifting wistful as dreams in the late sun. Good-bye! 
 
 We plunge down the long hill, go zigzagging down 
 
 Under pines black with shadow — here the bank breaks out brown, 
 
 Breaks sheer from the roadway, clean up and sheer down — 
 
 Veering out under oaks that at outermost edge 
 
 Of the roadway grip down thro' the undergrowth's hedge 
 
 And across to the main hill, the big roots spreading bare 
 
 While the tough fibers catch at the flying feet where 
 
 The loam gullies out; down where gnarled apples stand. 
 
 Boughs bending, wide spreading, deep in white drifted sand, 
 
 Bearing brave as in first fruit. 
 
 Here the hill breaks out fair 
 From the chill of the shadow, running swiftly down where 
 The wild grape bells over the last pine and where 
 The blackberries catch and the junipers dare 
 The oncoming surge down the breast of the dune. 
 Drifting white down the sweep of the shore, overstrewn 
 With the half-buried drift; while wet and fresh piled 
 Lifts and falls the fenced drift from the last storm beguiled — 
 A bit of torn siding — It is green paint — a mast — 
 God pity the sea-folk ere that blow should be past. 
 
 The boat grows impatient — there goes the last call. 
 The sped engine rocks and the leased hausers fall 
 Splashing into clear water as the long pier moves back 
 With a rush of white water all down the green track. 
 And white faces beyond, all hushed now; fine and high 
 Flutter out the last signals — God keep you! Good-bye! 
 
 Swinging into the south, dipping low, piling high, 
 The hushed sunset glories a-swim ; with the sky, 
 
 13 
 
Clouds, bluffs, boat below us, and broad at our feet 
 The path to the low-hanging crumpled west beat 
 Into flame and crisp fire, at whose uttermost marge 
 Sinks, tawny thro' fog-banks, the splendid lit targe 
 Of the sun. 
 
 Lo, the star! 
 
 Now the gray mists creep down 
 As the long piers run out from the lights of the town 
 And the bay, where, impatient, the great steamers wait 
 For their share of the cargo, while laggard and late 
 We creep down the slip, and the hurried trucks fly 
 Down the wet rocking gangways. The searchlight swings high 
 And the last line is off. The sea widens. Good-bye. 
 
 Thro' the black of the night and the bay, with the far 
 Ranging lights twinkling out thro' the sea-mists; the jar 
 Of wet decks — Our light picks up the buoy — with the damp 
 Breathing fresh, blowing chill; slowing down for the lamp; 
 We're out under the stars — 
 
 There's a tinkle of bells 
 Thro' the mists of the meadows ; there are fine fragrant smells 
 From the kitchen's fed fire while the kept supper waits. 
 And the lighted pane calls to the feet' that stray late. 
 The path from the doorway lies warm to the gate 
 And beyond. 
 
 And beyond? Ah, the pathway lies straight 
 Thro' the world to my feet, and the homing feet fly 
 And I kneel there tonight. Dear, there is no Good-bye. 
 
 14 
 
LIFE ON THE LAKES 
 
 Down on the Beach 
 
 The storm-light fades from the cloud-banked west, 
 
 While the waves sing low; 
 A chill creeps down thro' the vague unrest, 
 
 And the pines stir slow. 
 
 The timbers drift high up the shore's broad breast 
 Where the piled sands blow. 
 
 And scant grasses climb in their wandering quest 
 Where the headboards show. 
 
 To their lonel}' watch by the stranger guest. 
 
 The moon hangs low. 
 An eagle floats high to his hemlock nest. 
 The far lamp glows. 
 
 Orders 
 
 It is in or out as the orders send, 
 Or hearthfires lure or risks attend. 
 
 The orders had come to the grey old town 
 
 From the upper camps with their corded browns 
 
 On the bare north hills where the blue lights drown — 
 
 By shanty and woodcamp winding down. 
 
 With door agape, while the broken pump 
 
 Leans out thro' the clearing's ragged clumps 
 
 Growing rank round the rotting and charred old stumps; 
 
 While the blossoms and berries and briers spread 
 
 From the sunny side of the fallen dead; 
 
 On down the sunny slopes where red 
 
 The sumach glows in the late sunshine 
 
 15 
 
With the sassafras, while the wild grapevine 
 Bells down each sapling. A gaunt old pine 
 Lifts high, overlooked, on the blue skyline. 
 From bushes and bracken and scanty sod 
 Blaze black-eyed-Susans and goldenrod. 
 
 The woodroad curves thro' the arching green, 
 Then skirts round the edge of the big ravine, 
 Where hemlock and maple and oak still vie 
 In their upward lift to the bending sky; 
 Where the great grey boles of the taller beech 
 Gleam bare thro' the forest's twilight reach 
 In cathedral hush, while mists of green 
 Peep under and over and out between. 
 
 Then turning, we dip to the bridge and crawl 
 Thro' the bedded sands of the creek that sprawls 
 Round rushy clumps while the waters call ; 
 Past the swamp's rank growth to the wooded wall 
 Of the creek's steep side where the needles fall. 
 
 Then up and out where the ploughed fields spread, 
 The corn's shocked gold, and the orchard's red; 
 And the bank stands sheer where the hummocks swell. 
 Starred with fall daisy and immortelle. 
 
 And so on down to the river's mouth 
 With its jam of logs, while, working south, 
 The great rafts swim as the cables reel 
 With the convoy passing — the smothered keel 
 Dipping low up the bay in the dying foam 
 To its berth in the slip, and so, safe home. 
 
 Thus the orders had come to the grey old town ; 
 By copsewood and clearing winding down — 
 
 16 
 
The loose-swung wires swinging overhead 
 
 To the wayside cross leading on ahead — 
 
 Past the shanty dumb and the woodcamp dead, 
 
 The bridge, and the ploughed fields and so on down 
 
 To the weathered wharves of the grey old town. 
 
 Outward Bound 
 
 The waters lap by the pier's green side 
 
 From the rippled bay; 
 Great hausers creak in the lifting tide, 
 
 Getting under weigh. 
 The shouts come quick and the last trucks slide 
 
 DoM'n the slippery way, 
 Thro' the heaped-up gangway spreading wide. 
 
 In the twilight grey 
 The rudder swings as the lines creep home. 
 
 And the old boat turns, 
 Heading out for the mouth with its glimpse of foam 
 
 Where the great lamp burns. 
 
 The storm flag flies at the channel's end 
 
 In the leaden sky; 
 The storm light's creviced warning spends 
 
 As the colors die; 
 The lamp's red gleams at the pier's far end 
 
 On the ripples lie; 
 The spans leap far in their backward trend 
 
 To the white sand's cry. 
 
 "Coming!" "Coming!" "Coming!" The hoarse call wends 
 
 Where the hills fling high. 
 "Salute!" "We Salute!" "You!" The siren sends 
 
 So, going by. 
 And in or out, or force or fend. 
 
 The orders lie, 
 
 17 
 
Or far or near, or risks attend, 
 Or signals fly. 
 
 "Coming!" "Coming!" "Coining!" Where the courses bend 
 
 Rounding handily, 
 Heading into the north at the outer bar. 
 
 Lying grim beneath, 
 Settling into the course with a muflHed jar — 
 
 The bone in her teeth. 
 
 The dimming moon and the fading star 
 
 Touch the white foam-wreath. 
 The lamp swims fainter. The hills loam far 
 
 In ghostly sheath. 
 
 Storm 
 
 A chill creeps over the waters wide 
 
 As the night grows thick. 
 A roar swells down on the mist-bound tide 
 
 And ice flakes flick 
 At the pane as the red lure flits outside. 
 
 The fresh-trimmed wick 
 Peers out from the long decks battered sides 
 
 As the first weaves lick 
 At the ragged keel, storm-blenched, wave-dyed. 
 
 The throbs come quick 
 As the storm swings down with mighty stride ; 
 
 The ice glares thick 
 On gunwhale and railing, on cover and side, 
 
 On snug-lashed rick 
 Out on deck, up on top, piling high, spreading wide. 
 
 While the lashed spray pricks, 
 
 18 
 
Blowing in from the deeps where the white caps ride, 
 
 And bare hands stick 
 Where, white tho' the drifted frosts deride. 
 
 The metals click. 
 
 Straining out — beaten back — tacking fresh — drifting wide- 
 She falters fixed. 
 Driving back on the bar while the foam sheets slide; 
 
 But the blurred rudder kicks 
 A safe channel back from the bar's wounded side 
 
 While the calls come quick 
 As the crew bend, braced, to the lines close-tied. 
 
 And numb hands pick 
 At ice-buried knots ere bare decks gleam wide 
 
 At the sailor trick. 
 And the gunwale lifts over the breaking tide 
 
 While the spent spray slicks 
 Down the treacherous way where the lookout guides. 
 
 Lo! A far star pricks, 
 And new snow flurries in pomp and pride 
 
 Where the light reels sick. 
 
 Forging out thro' the lift of the inner tide 
 
 With its deafening roar. 
 Pushing up round the Point, easing off, straining wide, 
 
 Where the great lamp scores; 
 "Coming!" "Coming!" "Coming!" Hark! The hills deride 
 
 Up the lonely shore. 
 
 Hold ! The old boat reels as the trough yawns wide. 
 
 From the hull's great core, 
 Crash! Crash! Cra-ash! And the seams start wide 
 
 While the spent shaft gores 
 19 
 
Thro' the splintering rihs of the battered old side 
 
 And ragged floods pour 
 Splashing up thro' the gloom where the piled cargo hides. 
 
 The fast-flooded floor 
 Flushes back thro' the firelight where the old engine rides 
 
 With its open-flung door. 
 "Coming, coming, coming, coming!" The hurt cry rings wide, 
 
 The hurt call sounds four! 
 
 Derelict 
 
 Driving back thro' the night on the lonely last ride 
 
 Swinging face to the fore, 
 "Coming — coming — coming" — 
 
 Tell how the brave old call died, 
 
 How the hushed minutes wore ! 
 
 Passing out to the deeps, keeping there solemn tryst. 
 
 Going slowly by, 
 The lights gleam out thro' the murk and the mist. 
 
 Shining cheerily. 
 The ice flashes back from the white, snow-blocked lips, 
 
 Drifting dreamily, 
 And the piled decks blanch white as the red port-light dips, 
 
 Swaying heavily, 
 Or the wounded side gapes where the sated maw drips. 
 
 Lifting wearily. 
 
 Now the lights falter out as the great billows trip. 
 
 Fading mistily. 
 And the white mists close in as the spent spectre slips 
 
 Tired and trustingly. 
 Lingering by, lifting high thro' the storms white eclipse, 
 
 Hushed and wistfully. 
 
 20 
 
Alongshore 
 
 The storm swings over the waters wide; 
 
 The whitecaps wheel on the surging tide; 
 
 While old ports wait grey, sea-swept and storm blown — 
 
 Fair harbors lie hidden while brave boats go down — 
 
 Wearing wearily out the blurring blind blast, 
 
 Waiting dumb for the morrow when the blow shall be past. 
 
 "Give me this" — "Ca7i you get?" — "This is" — Click! cutting short, 
 Flashing back — "So and so — just arrived — safe — in port — 
 Says she spoke such and so, such an hour, and just where." 
 Calling loud, "Answer port, any news from up there?" 
 And the port answers back, "No news yet — wires down." 
 Swinging in from upshore, "Such an one gone aground 
 Just off such and such — breaking up — try to pick 
 Off the men — running high — going fast — getting thick." 
 
 Ay, Ay, Sir ! 
 
 The wires lead back from the grey old town 
 
 By brier and bracken up the hillslopes brown; 
 
 Singing back thro' the pines to the creek that calls ; 
 
 Crooning soft thro' the woodland where the dead leaves fall; 
 
 Humming low thro' the clearing where the sap creeps numb, 
 
 Past the woodcamps dead and the shanty dumb; 
 
 Singing back up the slopes with their fallen dead. 
 
 To the wayside cross leading on ahead. 
 
 Of the simple courage that does not die, 
 
 That has kept the faith, and the orders lie. 
 
 Down on the Beach 
 
 The glory floats up the radiant west 
 
 While the ripples lisp low; 
 The colors swim on the sea at rest 
 
 As the children row 
 
 21 
 
Laughing into the sunset on a joyous quest 
 With their nets in tow. 
 
 The wrecked timbers drift up the shore's broad breast- 
 How the gnarled spikes show! 
 
 A torn ship's side rears its ragged crest 
 As the gaunt ribs throw 
 
 Aslant up the beach from the surges' wrest, 
 Where the great whins grow. 
 
 The scant grasses climb in their wandering quest 
 
 Where the headboards show, 
 To their lonely watch by the stranger guest. 
 
 The colors faint slow. 
 The moon looks down from the hemlock nest. 
 
 The far lamp glows. 
 
 Requiem 
 
 There's a far wet way to the journey's end, 
 
 A wide wild way ere the storm's spew spend. 
 
 There's a black blind way where the starred course bends, 
 
 There's a choked, charred way should the fanned fires rend, 
 
 A jagged, jutted way where the gaunt drifts trend — 
 
 But the sands lie soft and the grasses bend 
 
 Where the headboards show — Sleep well, my friend! 
 
 CONVOY 
 
 The smoke hung low on the sand-duned shore 
 
 And mist-bound tide; 
 No sun was there as the daylight wore 
 
 Nor light to guide, 
 And the lake lay hushed where the grain fleet bore 
 
 At eventide. 
 22 
 
Signals sounded far out at sea 
 
 Thro' the merciless greys; 
 Foghorns bayed back lustily 
 
 Over truant ways — 
 But safety rode on that one — two — three! 
 
 And lengthened days. 
 
 The big barge forged on till the clamor stilled 
 
 Out of widening greys, 
 And only the far-off echoes spilled 
 
 Thro' the silences, 
 While the blind stars, safe in their courses, willed 
 
 Down the distances. 
 
 The Point juts far in its final throe 
 
 Toward the evening star; 
 And shallows spread wide ere the sea breaks snow 
 
 On the outer bar. 
 (It is three blasts for warning, and four blasts for woe- 
 
 So the signals are.) 
 
 'Twas double the ferry loomed, gliding in to 
 
 The lights of the town ; 
 And double the lights ranged the waiting slip thro' 
 
 Where the moorings drown; 
 And the pattern dissolves to be fashioned anew, 
 
 Looking down. 
 
 The big ferry turned at the outer bar, 
 
 Swinging wide to sea. 
 Steaming into the south, calling long, sounding far, 
 
 Sending "One — two — three!" 
 To the sister ship where the shallows are. 
 
 Looming fixedly. 
 
 23 
 
A message sounding far out at sea 
 
 As the long night wore ; 
 A summons, sounding incessantly, 
 
 Sounding close inshore; 
 And out of the mists it was — "One — two — three!" 
 
 And back from the shallows — ^"Four!" 
 
 But 'twas blind thro' the greys of the starless sea, 
 
 While the long hours wore, 
 The big ferry sounded insistently. 
 
 Edging close inshore. 
 Sounded "Coming — coming — coming!" 
 
 So — "One — two — three !" 
 And nearer the answer — "Four!" 
 
 Now Danger, drunken with 'larums at sea. 
 
 On even keel 
 Skirts in toward the hulk looming heavily. 
 
 While the cables reel 
 Down the bar's long side, breathing sleepily, 
 
 As the shadows steal. 
 And it's "Hand across!" and the barge breaks free 
 
 Under straining wheel. 
 
 And it's double the lights on the homeward way, 
 
 Gleaming mistily; 
 Throb answering throb thro' the melting greys, 
 
 Humming drowsily; 
 While hearthfires beckon, and bounteous days 
 
 Bend luringlj^ 
 
 So, slow and slower — there the breakers creep 
 
 And dumb — 
 To the Limp's great heart, past the span's far leap 
 
 They come 
 
 24 
 
Down the ranging lights where the moorings sleep, 
 Safe home! 
 
 Dear heart, if someday, somewhere, in the greys 
 
 Of life's further sea, 
 While the signals clamor down lengthened days 
 
 Hoarse minstrelsy. 
 As I grope toward the star, seeking sun-kissed bays- 
 
 Or shallows be, 
 Or the signal sound over truant ways, 
 
 Will you come to me? 
 
 Should the mists spreading far, grow strangely chill 
 
 And dumb, 
 While the changing vVheel, half round, strains still 
 
 And numb. 
 And the bar, breast on, down the silence spills, 
 
 Will you come? 
 
 If out in the winding, wearying pall 
 
 The signal score. 
 Or in where the lamp's blurred message falls, 
 
 Sounding close inshore — 
 My friend, shall you answer should my soul's call 
 
 Sound four? 
 
 THRO' THE FOG 
 
 Down thro' the hills winding wearily down — 
 Nightmists and twilight and murk. 
 
 Breath of wet downlands where fallen gods frown, 
 Shadows that loiter and lurk. 
 
 Out from the hills rounding down, gullied deep — 
 Uplands of sumach and fern, 
 
 25 
 
Whippoorwills calling from meadows asleep, 
 Dim, haunted vistas that turn. 
 
 White lift the walls clogged with bracken and log, 
 
 Winding on down to the sea; 
 Thro' the white glen drifting down thro' the fog 
 
 To a voice that is calling to me. 
 
 A stir thro' the mists and a freshening sea-chill, 
 White sands that whisper and moan, 
 
 Dark whins and sand-grass and drift-wood a-spill, 
 A light in the window, and home! 
 
 White grow the years, drift and rubble a-clog, 
 Wearing on down to the sea; 
 
 Nightmists and white drifting in with the fog, 
 And voices are calling to me. 
 
 Murmurous drifts and a freshening chill, 
 Lingering breath of brown loam. 
 
 Memories dear, dream-haunted, a-spill, 
 Light in the v/indow — and home! 
 
 DARIEN 
 
 1513 
 
 The waves swing hushed to the blue sky-line, 
 A deeper blue. The headwind lags 
 To the foam a-lee, and the worn sheet runs 
 To the ventured top at the leap of the sun 
 Over the rim of the good round world 
 And its burst of shore ; while bluff and fine 
 The hills fall back and the spent sea fags 
 
 26 
 
At the rushy deeps, its slow wash curled 
 Up the soft salt ooze ; with stray' kelp-rags 
 A-Iift on the green tide, rotting, a-scum, 
 Splotched with wandering sea-moss and stag, 
 Bleached and barnacled, shaggy, a-crumb, 
 A-stench up the wind where, mossy and burled, 
 The swamp's forest glooms, its deck heart a-thrum 
 With wild wings shot with flame. 
 
 Nosing back in, we come 
 Up the hushed channel-groove where the sky-line sags 
 In the blistering sun, and the dead sails lay 
 Their wrinkled length down the yard's pleached grey 
 Where the river widens to meet the bay. 
 
 Oh, the good brown shore, where the world stands still, 
 
 Stands, nor blenches for wind or sea; 
 
 Sovereign, girt, immovable, 
 
 Upreared, gripped, impregnable ; 
 
 Where granite and rubble and good brown loam 
 
 Hurl back the embattled foam. 
 
 The good brown shore! And the world grows still; 
 
 Still, with murmurous wings and song 
 
 And odors drifting out, pungent and fine, 
 
 Out to the dip of the blue sky-line 
 
 From the deepening hill-slope's blessed stain 
 
 A length away by the anchor-chain 
 
 A-creak in the sun at the tide's in-fill. 
 
 The good brown shore — and for the three moons long 
 
 But the welter of winds and flux of sea 
 
 Over the rim of the new round world ; 
 
 With creak of cordage and mast a-strain. 
 
 The tug of the storm, and the anchor-chain 
 
 Down the scarr'd side running out, steady and slow, 
 
 To the anchor answering far below. 
 
 27 
 
And ever and alway by compass and star, 
 
 Under scud of cloud or a fleckless sky, 
 
 Bleach of moon and scorch of sun; 
 
 And the dead round wears to a new day won 
 
 Out to the rim of the new round world. 
 
 And "On!" from the bridge; and ever there be 
 
 But welter of winds and flux of sea. 
 
 Oh, the call of the shore and the brave sail furled — 
 The brave worn sail and mast and yard 
 
 And the gallant crew — 
 
 Oh, the ranging world 
 
 And the glad sky's blue, 
 
 With the wild crowds swirled 
 At the jetty's brink, with banners a-swing 
 In the outfilling breeze, with tossing plumes curled 
 Round the roadstead's white rim — O gay Spanish World! — 
 And the gold-throated trumpets the battle-lines fling 
 Up the massing, thronged quay for the King — for the King! 
 
 It is knee to the deck while the colors dip low; 
 There's the sword's blessed hilt — and the bellying sail 
 With all hands aloft to the yard's rich despoil, 
 Running out fold on fold to the rope's sure un-coil ; 
 Drawing back, swinging out with the heartening gale 
 From the long cheer's far intone, the drawn undertow. 
 
 It is bowsprit and yard-arm ; it is ratline and top ; 
 
 It is mizzen and mainsail, top gallant and jib; 
 
 And our brave galleon bourgeons full-winged, prow a-lift 
 
 To the sweep of the surge, with the passing foam's drift 
 
 Fading shoreward ; with deep-running shadows that lie 
 
 Close a-lee; while from taut-thridded mast-head thrown high, 
 
 Fly the pennons of Spain. 
 
 Straining on out, we top 
 The world's surer seas and, hull down, we drop 
 
 28 
 
To new worlds far out-stationed, over far seas out-run, 
 Under far skies new-fashioned, in the lee of all time. 
 
 It is brave prow and swelling; it is crossbeam and rib; 
 It is sheet to the yard-arm, the rope's quick in-reel, 
 The call from the mast-head, the hand at the wheel, 
 The pull of the anchor — and beyond us the stars. 
 With the sure deck a-lift. 
 
 The swept sea's salt rime, 
 The sail's shadowed blue, the cloud's trailing dun. 
 For the eye color-worn ; with the boats weathered scars. 
 And the shroud's patterned rest down the ratlines runged bars; 
 And the give of timbers, the wash of waves, 
 Or the long dead lift of the slow swell laves 
 The rudder, blind to the helmsman's cry. 
 And the stars beckon out to far seas that ring 
 New worlds and a world's work — great gifts for the King. 
 
 Three moons — and "Land!" and "Land!" and "Land!" 
 Oh, the good brown, warm brown, soft brown loam 
 And the welcoming kiss — or ever vows were, 
 The mother-heart, somnolent, never a stir 
 In the scorch of the noon. 
 
 The stirred dust floats high 
 From fretted feet crowding the long slope to stand 
 Breathing short, looking out from the swelling hill-comb ; 
 Up from wicked wings whistling, fanged wet lands that try 
 At the sweating lines; up thro' marsh grasses a-foam 
 At mailed loins; out from fresh haunted shadows that call, 
 Perfumed, wistful, couchant; up thro' jungles a-clomb 
 Forward — bushed, barbed, embrangled. 
 
 And "On!" to the wall 
 Of the rubble-strewn steep, where the cropped boulders die 
 In red granite, a-ridge, a-spur, seamed and scarred, 
 A-scale, toiling upward. 
 
 29 
 
And "On!" So the quest 
 Upreared, flings defiance; and the red Divide rests, 
 Stops on guard, looking out, halting Time's spurred on-wrest; 
 Yields, reluctant, encompassed. 
 
 And, crest breaking crest — 
 Her centuried secret outblazoned, confessed — 
 The old world swings, double ! 
 
 And down the wide West 
 
 Sinks untrod and unworn. 
 
 Spreads uncloven, untorn, 
 To the waiting white sands rimmed below, and a-lee, 
 Hangs new-born, uncradled, the limitless sea ; 
 Waits the uncharted, the unsailed, the unwakened sea; 
 Sweeps again the enchanted, the fair sunset sea. 
 
 It is brave view and swelling, and the colors up-flung; 
 
 It is proud stroke and compelling, and the brave swords up-swung; 
 
 And known world or guessed. 
 
 Or worn world or west 
 To the uttermost shore, elfin islands a-nest, 
 While the sister shores ever the sister seas ring; 
 So fair worlds and fruited — our gift to the King! 
 
 1913-1914 
 
 There's the creak of cordage and mast a-strain. 
 With urgency swinging the breaking load 
 A-clomb, forward ; so the great strides go. 
 With the sweating lines toiling far below 
 To the Plan's hard pace at the Cut's in-fill. 
 
 So the work. While, the circuited seas to gain. 
 
 The world sits foreshortened, the focal road 
 
 Down the waiting world-rim, fore-shadowed, fore-run. 
 
 30 
 
So the work wears idle and the day grows still ; 
 Still, with wash of waters that run 
 Under world-banners massing in line 
 Out to the dip of the blue sky-line. 
 
 It is gun speak gun — and sea meets sea; 
 The trumpet's throat — and sea greets sea; 
 (Or dreamed this dream, Balboa's men?) 
 And the ranging hills swing ajar, and then, 
 The double world grows one — at Darien ! 
 
 31 
 
PEACE AND WAR 
 
 THE PATH OF GOLD 
 
 PEACE AND WAR 
 
 THE LONG TRAIL 
 
 NEWARK 
 
 TO THE MASTERS OF 1917 
 
 TO YOU WHO WENT 
 
 33 
 
THE PATH OF GOLD 
 
 Dawn on the world's new shores. The path 
 Of rippled gold runs straight, runs fine, 
 In from the sun-touched, lifting water-line ; 
 Straight in across the waking dawn-burst sweet, 
 To break at last at eager flying feet 
 Threading the uplands wild, uncloistered, free. 
 
 Dawn on the world's new shores. The path 
 Of gold runs straight, runs rippled and runs fine, 
 In from the cold, dark, moving water-line ; 
 Runs under white sails coming with the dawn, 
 In to the new shores beckoning on 
 To Freedom's right and opportunity. 
 
 Dawn on the new world-shores. A path 
 Of gold runs straight, runs steady, and runs fine 
 Straight back across the threatened water-line ; 
 Back under the star-served, waiting battle-line ; 
 Runs minted, red, out to the new world-dawn, 
 Out to a new world-dream and beckoning on 
 To Freedom's right and opportunity — 
 O path o| gold to human destiny ! 
 
 PEACE AND WAR 
 
 Peace upon the wide-flung country-side. 
 Peace upon the rain-washed, spring-flushed tide 
 Of soft baby-grasses unafraid, untrod. 
 Lifting to the long hill's up-turned sod ; 
 The little crooning country-roads that wind at will 
 To meet the stately highway. From the upper hill 
 The call to prayer. Soft and sweet and south 
 The breath of morning. At the gully's mouth 
 The bank slopes warm to the ringed-in pool 
 35 
 
Where the stallion whinnies and the first black foal 
 
 Nuzzles for food. The sun shines down 
 
 On the bare wet woods banked deep in browns 
 
 Where the dead twig snaps and the first birds call 
 
 To the weathered rick at the further wall 
 
 Where the pasture ends, and the orchard trees 
 
 Beckon back home. The hum of bees 
 
 Comes from the long shed. The wood-smoke's blue 
 
 Twists over grey roofs calling to 
 
 The barn's red warmth, swept clean, swung wide — 
 
 Peace upon the whole sweet countryside. 
 
 Peace upon the spring-flushed, the smoke-grimed town ; 
 
 Fringed and feathered column'd smoke, the portentous frown 
 
 Of Toil rapt, busied, giving heart and brain — 
 
 Back from the black mouths the red fires stain ; 
 
 The long deep wet shaft, gloom on gloom ; 
 
 The shining whirling mad machines, loom on loom ; 
 
 But, back from forge and furnace comes the sure release, 
 
 And over shaft and over whirring bobbins, peace. 
 
 Peace upon the wave-swept, the tide-swung sea. 
 
 Peace upon the white sails spreading merrily. 
 
 Peace upon the great deeps. The tide's long flume 
 
 Flushes up the channel. The white salt spume 
 
 Eddies to the grey pier's wounded, weathered side; 
 
 Slips along the great hulls, sailing with the tide; 
 
 The heaving rocking merchantmen getting under weigh; 
 
 The little boats that slip between and scurry up the bay. 
 
 Peace upon the headlands with the sea-winds blowing free, 
 
 Peace upon the harbor-side and peace upon the sea. 
 
 Borne upon the dewy breath of early morning. War! 
 Crashing from the swift white wires comes the summons, War! 
 The stately highway rolling back to meet the little towns, 
 Calling up the hillslopes, the bare woodland browns, 
 
 36 
 
The silent little country roads, the startled upper hill, 
 Across the straight black furrows to worn feet standing still — 
 The fallen plough at the furrough's end — the barn's wide store, 
 The stallion's plunge and whinney, the white face at the door! 
 
 Men — men — wanted — men ! 
 Cavalry, infantry, scouts and spies; 
 Gunners, sappers — the mine's surprise; 
 JVagon-men and the sure supplies; 
 Wanted — men! 
 
 Bursting thro' the colum'd smoke, breaks the message. War! 
 
 Forge and furnace fires redden with the summons, War! 
 
 Down the long deep wet shaft darkens, gloom on gloom ; 
 
 Swift the whirling sick machines rush, loom on loom ; 
 
 Weft and shine of trappings, fittings — woof and dun of stress; 
 
 Plate, projectile, bore and pivot, volatile duress; 
 
 Lead and sulphur, rubber, copper, iron's molten crown — 
 
 Ugly, cruel, cataclysmic War upon the town. 
 
 Men — men — wanted — men! 
 Lever and level, flight and range; 
 Ejigineer, mechanician, charge and change; 
 Surveyor, signal-man, flash and exchange; 
 Wan t ed — m en! 
 
 Sounding down the great deeps, calling, calling, War! 
 Breaking from the harbor side comes the summons. War! 
 Calling from the wave-swept, the tide-swung sea, 
 Calling to the white sails spreading hastily; 
 Calling to the battle-fleets massing line on line. 
 Sister ships far over sea, trimming fit and fine; 
 Calling from the grey piers wounded, weathered side — 
 Dark hulls stored with contraband coming with the tide ; 
 Fast war-loaded merchantmen getting under weigh ; 
 
 37 
 
Mine, torpedo, submarine, out and down the bay. 
 
 War upon the headlands with the sea-winds blowing free, 
 
 War upon the harbor-side and war upon the sea. 
 
 And, 
 
 Men — men — wanted — men! 
 Young men, clean men, the call's parade; 
 Dash and danger and the game up-played; 
 Swift, sufficient, and unafraid — 
 Wanted — men! 
 
 THE LONG TRAIL 
 
 Outward Bound 
 
 Out on the long trail. The foam drifts back 
 With the dim shore-line down the out-bound track 
 Over greener waters lifting on ahead 
 To the watching bridge and the plunging lead ; 
 To the wheel's sure turn and the answering screw, 
 With the chart's new stars lifting on the blue; 
 Out to fair new shores with their fathers' God, 
 To tread out new paths as their fathers trod — 
 These pioneers. 
 
 The Pioneers 
 
 Thro' the breaking wood 
 The road crawls slow to the clearing's rood. 
 The roof-tree bends by the forest spring 
 While the axes glance and the rifles ring. 
 The garden smiles and the posies blow 
 Down prim straight paths, turf-set, that go 
 Thro' the brave new pickets' low cloistering 
 Out to wood-paths shyly adventuring; 
 Or to the stile's loud hail while the swift surprise 
 Leaps wMth the welcome to tear-dim eyes 
 And eager glad hands — for folks have come! 
 
 38 
 
Clatter of kettles; the laugh and hum 
 
 Of news and views; and the hollow throat 
 
 Of the chimney roars to a glad new note. 
 
 The table calls to thicket and hive, 
 
 To rafter and shelf. So the glad tongues give 
 
 To the hushed afternoon. To the further field 
 
 The idle feet move ; the proper yield 
 
 Duly apportioned, these silent men 
 
 Retrace to the sheds, the barns; and then 
 
 Quiet feet turn to the sheltered lane 
 
 That leads to the churchyard. The shadows strain 
 
 Down the breaking road. The sunlight falls 
 
 On headstones guarding the years' recall, 
 
 And the wild-rose blows in the scented air 
 
 With the bending, lifting grasses there 
 
 Warm, soft and sweet. — Ah, the j^ars are long 
 
 Since they went away! 
 
 But sure and strong 
 The new years beckon. It is haste and good-bye; 
 Hand and hand, heart to heart, lip and lip, eye and eye, 
 And the folks are gone. 
 
 But the forest spring 
 Answers gay voices re-echoing 
 Where the children call, while book and pail 
 Speak of spent sessions — a hungry hail 
 ' Sounds at the doorway. It is water and wood. 
 The feeding, the milking, for litter and brood 
 Sure care and protection. The low roof bends 
 Above the home-circle ; the steaming food sends 
 Its call thro' the evening, the perfume, the dew, 
 To shadows at twilight — grey shapes stealing thro' 
 Forest deeps, with the collie at bay. Timbered bars 
 Drop into strong sockets; evening prayers; and the stars 
 Drift above — thro' the years resting not, swinging on ; 
 Evenings' rest, midnights' dreams, daybreak, and the dawn 
 With its call to new days. 
 
 39 
 
The Mountain Wall 
 
 The long trail calls! 
 It is out and over the mountain wall. 
 Stubborn the fight for the crowded pass — 
 The sheer swift fall, the boulder's mass; 
 The night's sick howl, the sleepless tread ; 
 The blue wood-smoke and the campfire's red, 
 With the covered wagon drawn near the blaze, 
 The harness at hand, while the halter plays 
 A length away where the restless feet 
 Startle the thickets and, sudden and fleet. 
 Small woodland wild things scurry. Afar 
 The hoot of the owl. Thro' the treetops a star. 
 
 So the pass is won; and the ridges leap 
 
 Away below into sv/ing and sweep, 
 
 With cradled valleys rich and warm 
 
 Whose festal promise out-weighs the storm. 
 
 New walls lift fair and home-lights glow ; 
 
 Marigolds bourgeon and touch-me-nots blow 
 
 From the open door. The orchards swing 
 
 Up the nearer slopes and the harvests ring 
 
 With gold the valley. The long-drawn sheds 
 
 Murmur of comfort, the majestic tread 
 
 Of lordly stallions, of herds that pass, 
 
 Where the slopes sink down to the long blue grass. 
 
 But the snows come soon and the snows lie late. 
 The corn stands nipt and the blazing grate 
 Speaks of black frost. The cattle low 
 In the scanty stalks and the spent ricks show 
 The huddled sheep; while far and white 
 The snows drift deep thro' the closing night. 
 
 40 
 
The Corn Lands 
 
 And the corn-lands call ! The long, long trail 
 
 Leads down to the flat-boat's clumsy flail 
 
 And the river-floods carry with broadening sweep 
 
 To the corn-belt's rim, with, dense and deep, 
 
 The slough's rank growth where the prairie-grass 
 
 Waves above horse and rider, and the mud morass 
 
 Sinks black, hub-deep. So mile on mile 
 
 The long trail flounders. But the prairies smile 
 
 From the dawn of day to the setting sun 
 
 And day on day till the weeks are run. 
 
 And ever the winds blow strong that pass 
 
 The bending, lifting prairie grass, 
 
 Starred and thick-set with blossom of weed. 
 
 Barbed and edged ranks of spike and reed. 
 
 Till the healing breath steals far and fine 
 
 From the soft blue haze of the timber line. 
 
 The Timber 
 
 Hickory and walnut, the thicket's mass. 
 
 Pennyroyal and sassafras; 
 
 And giant boles lift to a bluer sky 
 
 Near hidden waters running by. 
 
 Where great oaks hold the demesne in fee 
 
 And the wild grape swings out fitfully. 
 
 Wild plums climb up the bank's steep fall 
 
 To the creek's clear ford, and woodbirds call 
 
 With the woodland breath, loam-fresh, sun-sweet. 
 
 Thro' open glades to splashing feet. 
 
 The Prairie Fire 
 
 So the summer is done. Then high and higher 
 The flame and roar of the prairie fire 
 Swifter than wings, with, charred and black, 
 
 41 
 
The mad wild flight ; while the dry roots crack 
 
 Incessantly in the creeping blaze 
 
 Left far behind the plunging plays 
 
 Of wind-tossed grass, till the ditches meet 
 
 The back-fire's stifling, scarred retreat. 
 
 The Prairie Farm 
 
 Under the lifting ridges of smoke 
 
 The fields stretch black. But the prairie-folk 
 
 Year-wise, regardful, provident, see 
 
 The promise ; and the whistling plough breaks free 
 
 Thro' the swelling sod breaking wet and black 
 
 In the autumn rains, while the burnt roots crack, 
 
 And the turned new earth, black row on row. 
 
 Springs stript for service. The glad hopes grow 
 
 Thro' winter drifts. With a new year born, 
 
 Stretches mile on mile on mile of corn. 
 
 The farmhouse stands and the roses blow 
 In the world-wide way that roses know, 
 Under cherry-trees. The flower-beds swarm 
 Knee-deep round the enclosure, guarded and warm. 
 Where the garden is. The orchard trees 
 Hang full to the pasture. The hum of bees 
 Speaks from the clover. The pasture bars 
 Fall with the dusk. Under early stars 
 Bare feet come slowly up the long home lane 
 In the soft warm dust, while the cows complain 
 Of thirst and need at the barnyard gate 
 Wliile the watering-trough spills and the milk-stools wait. 
 Faint thro' the late dusk, parched and brown. 
 The church-bells come from the distant town; 
 And from up at the tank, a luminous star. 
 The headlight roars down with its thundering jar. 
 42 
 
The chores and the day's work are done at last 
 And sleep, toil-won, deep-breathed, dream-fast. 
 Is come — Is come! 
 
 The Gold Rush 
 
 Now it's gold and gold! 
 In the rocks, in the sands, in the grass-roots' hold. 
 Where the canyons gape and the mountains stand; 
 And the long trail leads to a rich new land. 
 Thro' wind-swept spaces, scant of beast or bird. 
 Thro' sage-brush and cactus — the shy wild herd 
 In mad flight swinging to the sheltering butte — 
 And the great plains pass. The chosen route 
 Breaks into foothills where the fresh springs run 
 By the prairie-schooner, and the camp is won. 
 
 It is pocket and placer, lode and lead, 
 
 The miner's kit and the miner's creed: — 
 
 "Fair to your neighbor; the claim close-drawn; 
 
 Help to the needy and pass it on." 
 
 And ever the lonely cabin goes 
 
 Up the gorge, down the gulch, where the mineral shows 
 
 And we strike it rich. 
 
 The Range 
 
 Or the dull gaze lifts 
 To the mountain valleys, where fine and swift 
 Leap visions of wealth and home and pride. 
 Where the great slopes call and the cow-boys ride 
 To the herd's stampede ; or the wider range 
 Of slope on slope winding steep and strange 
 To newer lands, till the peaks fall free 
 To warmer crests with their glimpse of sea. 
 
 43 
 
The Summer Sea 
 
 And the long trail sleeps by the summer sea, 
 Where summer fruitage hangs endlessly 
 Thro' somnolent years, and the perfumed breeze 
 Calls to new harbors world-argosies. 
 
 Calling the Children Home 
 
 So the long trail sleeps. But fast and far 
 Reverberates "War!" and "War!" and "War!" 
 Rumours and reckonings and summons that come — 
 Mother-mine calling the children home! 
 
 Answer 
 
 From the clearing's scope in the breaking wood, 
 
 The sunny lane where the headstones brood, 
 
 From the mountain valley's scarr'd retreat, 
 
 Rallies the sure roll of marching feet. 
 
 Over the prairie's miles of corn 
 
 The mountain sky line, jagged and torn, 
 
 The sweep of range, the summer sea, 
 
 The long trail swings back endlessly. 
 
 Back from treading new paths as their fathers trod, 
 
 Back from new shores with their fathers' God, 
 
 The sons swing back, blood of pioneer ! 
 
 Silent men marching, war-trapt, severe, 
 
 Facing the dawn, unafraid, they come — 
 
 The motherland is calling the children home! 
 
 44 
 
NEWARK 
 
 1666 
 
 Sunset on the hills; with dark below, 
 The wooded slopes. The evening glow 
 Blinds where the river-flood runs wide, 
 Lifts pink and pearl from the other side; 
 And the woods run down to the splendid stain 
 Of the river-brim to live again. 
 
 One lone canoe drifts idly by 
 
 With the sure stroke sweeping back fitfully, 
 
 Presaging portents dire and black 
 
 From the tangled reaches of Hackensack. 
 
 The slopes stand bare on the darker side 
 Where the clearing spreads, brave, clean and wide. 
 And the timbers pile in close redoubt 
 Near where the home-lights twinkle out. 
 
 The new post held, the new vows sworn 
 In the old, old faith — and the town is born. 
 
 How the spirit kindles, how greatly goes 
 Thro' urgent years, the Passaic knows. 
 
 1766 
 
 A flame thro' the whole great countryside. 
 The spirit carries as the news runs wide. 
 Unhurried news of wind and tide — 
 A feathered prow passes the wharf's long bar 
 Where the crowded masts of the shipping are — 
 Of orders coming from oversea. 
 Of imposts levied wrongfully, 
 Of tribute demanded of loyalty. 
 
 45 
 
Lo, patriot, rebel and mutineer; 
 Muster of sloop and privateer; 
 And, deaf to the urge of amity, 
 To the arts and crafts of diplomacy, . 
 It is "Tyranny — tyranny — tyranny!" 
 
 How the spirit blazes, how greatly goes 
 Thro' troubled years, the Passaic knows; 
 Grappling the issue with immortal peers, 
 O little town of one hundred years ! 
 
 1866 
 
 The dying roar of artillery. 
 A nation, torn, in her agony; 
 One nation, smiling in her agony. 
 
 The long grey lines have all swung south. 
 Worn, proud, unbroken. From river-mouth. 
 From inlet, from roadstead, the boats go by. 
 One flag flies in the freedman's sky. 
 Blue lines passing, mute and worn have come 
 Home to the peace of the north hills — home. 
 
 The shipping crowds the lower bay. 
 New duties call — the greater play 
 Of Love's great heart of forgivingness ; 
 Wrongs that Right must needs redress; 
 And civic growth and righteousness. 
 
 How the spirit carries, how greatly go 
 The earnest years, we and the Passaic know; 
 Scanning the stars, blood of elder seers, 
 O city of two hundred years! 
 46 
 
1916 
 
 Sheeted gas flaring down the hard-fought field, 
 Gouts of white lead, tuns of bursting steel, 
 Chaos of shells. The thunders sound 
 Fainter thro' caverns deep underground 
 Where the trenches hold. Time's conquests fall. 
 Smashed back and back with each interval. 
 It is hell gone mad; nor shift of grace 
 Rallies the hurt cry of helplessness. 
 
 Merciful seas cool the hurts that drown ; 
 Unarmed non-combatants homew^ard bound, 
 Liner and transport going down. 
 
 And 
 
 For wanton display of efficiency. 
 
 For craven insistence of urgency, 
 
 There is "Butchery!" "Butchery!" "Butchery!" 
 
 World-thunders threaten down untrod ways, 
 Banners are flying thro' anxious days. 
 How the years shall carry the spirit's spell 
 Down abysmal years, the years will tell. 
 
 O city of visions memorial. 
 Back thro' the years, perennial, 
 Or dark or light — 
 
 How the common tongue 
 Swung glib the name of Washington, 
 Knew Talleyrand, spoke LaFayette; 
 Cornwallis spits anathema yet! 
 
 The nation born, the common mass 
 Knew royalty, saw statesmen pass; 
 Guessed trouble brewed, applauded France, 
 Appraised the heir of circumstance. 
 
 47 
 
Now the nation grown past her infancy, 
 Argued of party, of polity; 
 Or suspicion scotched into bitter hate — 
 Delinquency made desperate — 
 Answered Lincoln and measured Lee 
 Where Gettysburg grappled with destiny. 
 
 You, too, have seen in a larger dawn 
 
 A world-empire wheel up San Juan, 
 
 Break into foam as the seas spurt red 
 
 Were it Sampson or Schley or Dewey led. 
 
 Now world-thunders threaten down untrod ways, 
 
 Banners are flying thro' anxious days. 
 
 City of visions memorial. 
 
 Back thro' the years perennial; 
 
 You who have heard with your ships at sea. 
 
 The rattle and roar of artillery; 
 
 Who have heard in the thunders, north or south, 
 
 Your heroes named by the cannon's mouth ; 
 
 Name now your glorious company, 
 
 And name the glorious company 
 
 That Peace has linked with liberty. 
 
 City of visions! What dreams shall glow. 
 Shall live, the Passaic may not know- 
 Where just beyond, the future dips 
 To the nations' dream-apocalypse, 
 O city of vision, whose spirit steers 
 Thro' fifty and two hundred years! 
 
 48 
 
TO THE MASTERS OF 1917 
 
 The task is done. The student look 
 
 Bends anxiously to a newer book, 
 
 Where the torn and blotted page runs red, 
 
 And each stamped line runs stark with dead, 
 
 As a world's wounds gape in agony 
 
 And the spent current drips out slenderly. 
 
 And the new task waits where fire-lit lands 
 
 Wait sore the touch of master hands; 
 
 Wait sore the spirit of Galilee, 
 
 The Master's touch and sympathy. 
 
 The new task, masters. Yours to be 
 
 Of the world-work; chrism of agony 
 
 Or the spirit's touch and sympathy, 
 
 Till dreams lift fair over dumb, charred lands — 
 
 Fabric that speaks of master hands — 
 
 Till the page glows white where the page runs red, 
 
 With the stars' requiem for the line's stark dead, 
 
 And the blue bends hushed, brave and comforted. 
 
 This the task, O masters new-panoplied. 
 By the touch of the Master sanctified. 
 
 TO YOU WHO WENT 
 
 Out on the quest, O you who went, 
 
 Out on the quest magnificent. 
 
 Out to the call and faring on 
 
 Up far wide fields in the great white dawn 
 
 Of a world's new day; with the student look 
 
 Lifted but late from the half-thumbed book — 
 
 The clean young page and the thought unsaid. 
 
 The leaf uncut and the page gone red. 
 
 Out to the call, O you who went, 
 
 And the call's dear cost, we who are sent — 
 
 49 
 
The call's dear cost should ignorance guide, 
 
 Courting a fall should incompetence ride. 
 
 We, too, have dreams and we give them all 
 
 As we give them once does the splendid call. 
 
 And splendid the wash of ripe young blood ; 
 
 And splendid the petty borne bravely, the mud ; 
 
 And splendid the failing high faith. Hark, the drum ! 
 
 Marching a million strong, we come 
 
 Out on the quest, we who are sent. 
 
 With our faith and our dreams to you who went. 
 
 And thine the call, O Humanity, 
 
 As thine the sweat and the agony. 
 
 And we shall win, so right is right 
 
 And God is God. And each hurt flight, 
 
 Each hell-swept field, each gulping sea 
 
 Is spelling out "Victory!" "Victory!" 
 
 By each white dawn's ooze, each death-sweat thin 
 
 Is building the blood-song, "We win!" "We ivin!" 
 
 So good our cause, O you who went ! 
 So fine the quest, we who are sent! 
 
 50 
 
MEMORIES 
 
 VIGNETTE FROM MEMORY 
 
 THE ROCK PILE 
 
 VICARIOUS 
 
 FATHER'S GOOD SON 
 
 I WISH YOU JOY 
 
 I GIVE YOU PEACE 
 
 SPRING WILL COME 
 
 THE FUMFAY AND THE MOON 
 
 THE OLD FARM 
 
 53 
 
VIGNETTE FROM MEMORY 
 
 The late dusk settles heavy thro' 
 
 The hushed hot air, 
 Down thro' the tall, tall treetops to 
 
 The dark nook where 
 The ivy sobs across the night; 
 
 Nor lingers there. 
 But creeps along the grasses — white 
 
 The blossoms wear. 
 
 And heavy hang the odours in 
 
 The closing day, 
 As phlox and pale petunias win 
 
 The right of way 
 Across the flower-beds' tangled brim 
 
 And winning, stray 
 Along the path in broadening sweep 
 
 And circle by 
 The open door where thick vines sleep 
 
 And, sleeping, sigh 
 At wing of humming-bird or leap 
 
 Of dragon-fly. 
 
 Dark grey the walls have settled, of 
 
 Weathered pine ; 
 And grey the low roof bends above, 
 
 But dipping fine 
 As need is, where, with frantic shove 
 
 The old chain swing 
 Gloats high — to die in sudden shrove's 
 
 Hushed whispering! 
 
 The shadows gather dark along 
 
 The yielding floor 
 Where Toil waits, heavy-eyed, among 
 
 54 
 
The household store 
 For hush of pain-wracked silence wrung 
 
 From struggle sore. 
 But the fine faith clings thro' the changes rung: 
 
 The day is o'er — 
 
 The sapping noon, the fretted way, 
 
 And dusk's faint rim; 
 The blurring field, the girding stay, 
 
 And twilight dim ; 
 The far clear call, the years' prepay, 
 
 Lo, the guerdon grim — 
 The spear's upthrust, the thorn's crowned play. 
 
 The chalice brim. 
 But the fine faith sings down the dusk's far way 
 
 Through the evening dim, 
 "Or the cup, or the call, or the thorn's crowned play, 
 
 Lead after Him." 
 
 The odours wander dreaming thro' 
 
 The hushed, hot air, 
 • Across the greying grasses to 
 
 The doorstep where 
 The damp curls left to the upturned cup 
 
 Of the long, long day; 
 The troubled wonder looking up 
 
 The starlit way — 
 The hushing grey and the greying hush 
 
 Of long grey years; 
 The call of the night and the slow blind rush 
 
 Of hushed, hot tears; 
 The glimmering gleam of days that dream 
 
 And nights that sob; 
 The pride that prompts, the hopes that teem. 
 
 The hurts that throb. 
 55 
 
The odours dream thro' the grim grey flush 
 
 Where the great white Death 
 Keeps watch within the shadows. Hushed 
 
 The sobbing breath 
 Of clinging, frightened dreamer crushed 
 
 To cheek fresh wet, 
 With the falling sleeve, slow swaying, brushed 
 
 By draped jaconet. 
 
 In the shadow's hush the calm pale brow 
 
 Its vigil keeps; 
 And, "Father's resting quiet, now. 
 
 And Baby sleeps. 
 The poor, poor feet are tired, too. 
 
 Are they clean, all clean? 
 Mother's waiting now for you — 
 
 Come, child, come in." 
 The night hangs close by the curtain's bars 
 
 To wait the dawn ; 
 While, arched above, the waiting stars 
 
 Are shining on. 
 
 The years fade out in the winding greys 
 
 Of life's far rim, 
 With the upthrust's scar, the thorn's crowned play. 
 
 The chalice brim, 
 With the call of the fields, the years' prepay — 
 
 And Night sets in. 
 
 The odours dream by the curtained bars 
 
 For break of dawn ; 
 In the arching hush the shining stars 
 
 Are waiting on. 
 The throbbing hurt of the silences 
 
 Its vigil keeps; 
 56 
 
And, "Is my father resting? Does 
 
 The baby sleep?" 
 A grey roof bends by the starlit way — 
 
 "Oh, they're clean still, clean- 
 But Mother, O my Mother, may 
 
 I come in?" 
 
 THE ROCK PILE 
 
 Here, is the rock-pile ; so, blow on blow. 
 Crevice and cleavage, and the new rock row. 
 Over us breathes out the heart of the spring. 
 Earth-smells and wood-calls and wood-cries a-wing, 
 Fresh rain and warm sun. In the uppermost reach 
 A bobolink calls from a topping bare beech. 
 
 This is the rock-pile; the new rock row. 
 
 Into the thick of it, blow on blow! 
 
 The joy of the working — swing and swing — 
 
 The heave and lift, and the shock and ring. 
 
 As sledge strikes steel ; how the piled blocks show ! 
 
 High and higher lifts the new rock row. 
 
 The joy of the working — yea — blow and blow; 
 Lo, the sweep of the far flung new rock row! 
 The upward sweep and the downcast eye — 
 The voice of authority going by. 
 What does it matter — swing and swing — 
 While the sun shines warm and the bluebirds sing, 
 Who gets the praise? Ho, blow on blow, 
 Sweep and swing for a new rock row! 
 
 Here comes the new load — steady — so — 
 Into the thick of it, blow and blow! 
 Force and fit to the flung new line. 
 Crevice and cleavage, fronted and fine. 
 57 
 
Tired ? Come closer — so — two and two ; 
 Into it, swing for it, batter it thro'! 
 Steady — we're coming — now, blow and blow; 
 Courage, dear heart, we know — we know — 
 How brave and fine sweeps the flung rock row. 
 
 Passing, they're passing where the highways run, 
 And the shadows chill with the setting sun. 
 More loads ? And more loads ? The strokes swing slow. 
 Do the birds sing? I do not know. 
 
 VICARIOUS 
 
 The price? Youth laughs and life is very good — 
 World-dreams and beckoning; what has been, may be done; 
 And work, and work, and work, and greatly won 
 And fine, man's great achievements. Ah, but could 
 The wings out-spread to the vision's sweep, then would 
 Proud Time stand reverent, and the gladdened sun. 
 Rich in new quests, so tell them, every one. 
 
 Dreams! And the call for whom the call has stood 
 Arming and armed. The breaking way and dim; 
 Hewing a highway, making straight for him 
 Who rides to dreams, the conqueror faring on — 
 Daybreak, high noon, and eve at Babylon. 
 
 Here in the roadside's wash, your hewers of wood 
 Demand of you, our great one, that you make good. 
 
 58 
 
FATHER'S GOOD SON 
 
 The wheat hangs heavy to the further hill. 
 
 The corn stands clean along the level land. 
 
 The ditches run. The orchard's full demand 
 
 Of brave new wood is met, and the trimmed boughs spill 
 
 Their summer fragrance, with the thwarted will 
 
 Fruited to purpose; and all the low rebel land 
 
 Subdued. 
 
 And he has come. On the tan-brown hand 
 The ring of sonship. The sobbing throat has skill 
 To charm the old man's soul and eager brain, 
 This Prodigal, lapped round in robes of state. 
 It is burning sands, thronged streets, and tropic stains, 
 Dark eyes and breath of perfume. 
 
 The idle laugh 
 Runs around the spit where turns the fatted calf. 
 
 I WISH YOU JOY 
 
 I wish you joy — the little things that go 
 To fleck with foam the happy cup, to thrill 
 The swelling brim and sweet in flood to spill 
 In bubbles down ; the way the cherries know 
 Up black bare boughs, the new corn row on row. 
 The vagrant path, cloud-shadows on the hill. 
 The lighted pane, the closing day and still, 
 Larkspurs and dew, the blue lights on the snow. 
 
 I wish you joy — the deeper stir at call : 
 The vision's gleam and white souls measured up 
 Flare back and back from shining, ringing wall 
 In sacrament — a chalice be your cup! 
 Nor lees there be; but alabaster's sweet 
 Shall pour in deathless odours at your feet. 
 59 
 
I GIVE YOU PEACE 
 
 I give you peace; sunset and afterglow, 
 The moon above the meadows, homing feet 
 Of little ones at the gate, a quiet street 
 And late October — soft the red leaves go 
 Above a coffin'd face. 
 
 I do not know 
 That life shall call where hushed the currents meet, 
 That skies shall smile, and warm banks passing sweet, 
 A grey roof and the stars. 
 
 It may be so 
 That shores shall beckon far and in the west 
 The stormlight's red above a sullen sea, 
 The troubled waves out-breaking endlessly. 
 So it but be back from the storm-king's wrest 
 The brave bare poles shall sing thro' the dying foam 
 To the grey pier's side, the waiting lamp, and home. 
 
 SPRING WILL COME 
 
 The sun called down to the northwind "Back!" 
 
 Now spring will come. 
 The prairie sprawls big, wet, and black, 
 Oh, spring will come! 
 Who cares now for winter's snowing? 
 There's a smell of green things growing; 
 Soon the blossoms will be blowing down the ice-king's track- 
 When spring has come. 
 
 There's a flash of red from that tall tree top; 
 
 Oh, spring will come. 
 A tiny gleam of purest white — the first snow-drop; 
 Oh, spring will come! 
 Who cares now for winter's sleighing? 
 Early mud means early Maying; 
 
 60 
 
Father and the boys are praying that this rain will stop 
 Ere spring does come. 
 
 The frogs croak hoarse over in the big slough; 
 
 Oh, spring will come! 
 A dash of rain and the sun breaks through ; 
 Oh, spring will come! 
 Who cares now for hailstones skirling? 
 The rushes bend to the eddies curling; 
 A breath — and lo! the flag uncurling its petals blue 
 Oh, spring will come! 
 
 There's a flirt of rain and a drift of light; 
 
 Oh, Spring will come! 
 The cherries have burst green, waxen, white ; 
 Ah, Spring has come! 
 Who cares now for March winds roaring? 
 Dews and moonlight round her pouring, 
 April, teary, love-imploring, stands a bride tonight, 
 And Spring has come ! 
 
 The bluebirds are building in the big front gate. 
 
 Now Spring has come; 
 And some one whistling up the lane calls "Kate" ! 
 Ah, Spring has come! 
 Who cares now for east wind fretting? 
 "Co, Boss, co! How late it's getting"! 
 But the world bursts pink for Robin letting down the bars, says, 
 "Wait"! 
 
 And Spring has come! 
 
 61 
 
THE FUMFAY AND THE MOON 
 
 A little fumfay fell in love with the moon — 
 With the august, the glorious, the only moon ; 
 While his radiant glory filled 
 Sky and cloud and softly spilled 
 Thro' the twilight, 
 Thro' the starlight, 
 Down thro' dews and dreams of midnight. 
 The shadows shrank close to the hill's dense side, 
 And the winds blew soft o'er the silver tide 
 Of the meadows a-ring 
 With the blue-bells a-swing — 
 It was all for the fumfay, for she, poor thing, 
 For she was in love with the moon. 
 
 The elves trooped down from the hill's dense side. 
 And the fays whirled aglee o'er the meadows wide ; 
 While the breath of blossoms swung 
 Sank and eddied, rose and flung 
 O'er the upland, 
 Down the fenland, 
 Perfume — magic balm of elfland. 
 Oh, prince of good fellows was Robin, who wooed 
 In the wildest, the maddest, most fantastic mood, 
 The little fumfay, 
 But she answered him nay. 
 With a toss of her wee head for she, so they say, 
 For she was in love with the moon. 
 
 The fair, stately river swept down to the sea ; 
 Resistless the current — "My love, come to me"! 
 Hark! The salt sea's welcome roar. 
 Wait! The sandbars stretch before. 
 And the ebb-tide 
 From the bar's side 
 
 62 
 
Rolled defiance — there, that hope died! 
 But the river, heart-broken, wore still in her breast 
 Love's likeness, love's token, while far in the west 
 Set the moon, sad and old; 
 Had his love then grown cold 
 For the fair stately river? For she, I am told. 
 For she zuas adored by the moon. 
 
 A loyal old fellow was Robin the Good ; 
 The shadows swept out from the still, solemn wood ; 
 Hope's mirage, fast fading, swung 
 O'er the meadows; Mem'ry flung 
 O'er the upland, 
 Down the fenland, 
 Odors from a far-off dreamland. 
 But the fumfay, heart-broken, saw only the moon — 
 The desolate, dying, all unconscious moon. 
 "My great love, my own. 
 My" — There, he was gone! 
 And life's lonely pathway stretched darkly, I own — 
 But she'd been in love with the moon! 
 
 THE OLD FARM 
 
 Oh, the old, old farm, and the old farm's joys! 
 
 Its meadows and its pastures where we played when we were boys; 
 Its garden-patch that kept us pulling weeds and hoeing corn — 
 And retiring to the river, bruised by stone and pierced by thorn. 
 
 Oh, the old barnyard and the barnyard gate, 
 Where with breath all clover-laden, the milk-cows used to wait ; 
 Where the horses wheeling from it, sent them back a lusty neigh, 
 And the chickens cackled thro* the dust to get out of the way. 
 
 63 
 
Oh, the old gray barn and the old barn door, 
 
 That swung upon its iron hinges, forty years or more ; 
 
 That ope'd before the sunrise and closed at twilight's fall. 
 
 As the milk-cows moved sedately to the milk maid's call. 
 
 Oh, the old hay-mow and the old straw stack. 
 
 With the hickory sapling stripped across its great broad back; 
 
 With the young calves cuddled in the sun, but which refused to stay 
 
 While the children hunted for the nests the hens would hide away. 
 
 Oh, the old farmhouse on the long, long lane, 
 Down which the children wandered and ne'er came back again ; 
 With its trees and bushes 'round it, its vines and flower-beds. 
 Where the maiden-blush blushed faintest pink, the poppies furious red. 
 
 And the orchard — oh, the orchard, with its wealth of blossom sweet, 
 Its cherries and its berries and its shade in July's heat. 
 When the butterflies were chasing other butterflies as fleet. 
 And the honey-bee and hornet claimed the clover at your feet. 
 
 And the broad cornfields and the corncribs high, 
 With their manifest temptations to the pig-pens nigh ; 
 The farmer's implements and tools all lying round at will 
 In the barnyard, barn and meadow; in the yard the cider-mill. 
 
 Twilight settles down upon it. Dews are falling; silence reigns; 
 And night's mighty, haunting sorrow pulsates thro' the halting strains 
 Of the katydids and crickets to the great gold star of eve. 
 As the farmer's children seated on the hayrack softly weave 
 All those glorious, golden fancies, only hope and childhood can 
 As they wrestle with the problem, "What I'll do when I'm a man." 
 But the evening chores are finished and Father, gaunt and thin, 
 Rises from the open doorway, calling, "Come now, boys, come in"! 
 
 64 
 
Father by the rocker yonder; Mother just across the room; 
 With the moonlight falling softly, oh, so softly, thro' the gloom. 
 As they kneel to ask God's blessing on the dear group kneeling there, 
 On the loved ones long since scattered, on God's people everywhere. 
 
 Oh, that moonlight hushed and holy; oh, the prayers each night; 
 
 the tears 
 When the boys rode down the long, long lane. Thro' the haze of 
 
 vanished years 
 God's peace still rests upon the farm and father, gaunt and thin, 
 Across the twilight's dusk and grey, still calls, "Come, boys, come in" ! 
 
 65 
 
GOD'S WEATHER 
 
 67 
 
JANUARY 
 
 Up the whitening blue, as the day-star grows dimmer, 
 The big sun bursts breathless, a boisterous swimmer. 
 While pallid and vibrant the grouped sun-dogs glimmer. 
 
 The forest branch snaps where the forest path darkens; 
 
 The hunted breath whitens as forest ears hearken; 
 
 And the piled snow, leaning over, the great boughs outweighing, 
 
 Puffs out thro' the dim woods, jarr'd down by our sleighing. 
 
 The great snowfields creak over deep-crusted heather, 
 Across to my high-pillar'd hearth-fire's sure tether. 
 And life wells as sleighbells and joybells together 
 Whip out a mad peal to just weather — God's weather. 
 
 FEBRUARY 
 
 The hid sun strikes red thro' the low eaves' slow dripping, 
 
 Thro' the long day's dark downpour to the rain-butt's full lipping; 
 
 On leaning limp trellis, on long wet boughs dipping. 
 
 On lee ice a-wash, on the spent snow's swift slipping. 
 
 On the barques in the ditches the bubbles outstripping. 
 
 In the chill of the twilight, the clumped grasses listen. 
 
 In the glitter of starlight the white hoarfrost glistens. 
 
 And a new earth, white, waxen, thro' the purple dawn spaces, 
 
 Lifts crystal and Stardust in gossamer graces — 
 
 All elfland and gnomeland and homeland together — 
 
 God's breath in the night and His weather, God's weather. 
 
 MARCH 
 
 A wild whir of wings thro' the woodland's browns hieing; 
 A scurry of furry things, tossed windrows flying; 
 A flurry of raindrops ; the far wild geese crying — 
 First-fruits of the spring time. 
 
 69 
 
The whirling gust billows 
 Dead drifts over logs deep in hushed mossy pillows, 
 Whips across the black pools with their banked sodden willows. 
 And furred thing and whirred wing and woodcries together, 
 The windrow and we — all the wild things together — 
 Blow on thro' the woods and the weather, God's weather. 
 
 APRIL 
 
 The shadows fall soft down the haw-whitened hillside; 
 The south wind blows soft over blossoms at full tide ; 
 With the evensong out from the thicket's throat thrilling, 
 With the fragrance of springtime and pink petals spilling 
 .From the orchard's heart ever, with orchard boughs lifting 
 Above baby grasses, with cloud blossoms drifting 
 Over limbs bare and black. 
 
 Down thro' long aisles high arching 
 Go light gusts and ripples of breathless loves marching — 
 The warm light, the young night, the soft flight — out, whether 
 Or springtime, or ringtime or wingtime, or whether 
 The wooing soft south of His weather, God's weather. 
 
 MAY 
 
 There's a blurr'd roll of drumbeats. The soft south wind straying 
 
 In to fresh whitewashed walls, in thro' clean curtains swaying; 
 
 Stealing warm over birdbills, honeysuckles a-Maying, 
 
 Over piled baskets swinging from plied knockers' playing; 
 
 Past peonies, trilliums, syringas, outstaying 
 
 The first flush of spring; in from gardens fresh growing, 
 
 Clean swept ; 
 
 On where, close-ranged, the head-stones are showing, 
 Enwreathed and enshrined in love's full-tide outflowing, 
 Starr'd Avith flags under battle-shot, stained banners streaming 
 
 70 
 
Down the long aisles' new shadows — the enfilading fifes screaming 
 To drumbeats. 
 
 And slow feet, as the last salute flashes, 
 Step softly — rapt dreamers — down the ranked graves' heal'd gashes, 
 Back with Duty's shocked call while the war-fury lashes — 
 The Call's cause, the conflict, war's upper and nether; 
 The Call's cause and Fame's upmost, or ungratefulest nether, — 
 With the futile fife's screaming, the drumbeat's worn leather, 
 Halting back down the long dusty street — back together, 
 With the wearisome years, thro' the evening, together, 
 With the sigh of the southwind, the balm of God's weather. 
 
 JUNE 
 
 In the west pile the stormclouds, and bluegrass and roses 
 
 Bend low in the grey of the west wind while closes 
 
 Each loud-slamming shutter. By the hurrying flashes 
 
 The coops clatter down and the sheeted rain slashes 
 
 Ere the wind-tumbled flock finds the home-roost, while crying 
 
 Up the gale, go glad children on wild pinions flying. 
 
 The gulfed heavens darken and black thunder, sending 
 Its vivid light, shows where the cherry-trees, bending. 
 Snap under young fruit; bushes prostrated, pending 
 The onslaught of swift serried rainsheets, storm-driven ; 
 While the outbuildings give in the wind. 
 
 Scotched and scriven 
 The etched lightning dies. Above garrulous gutters 
 The tall hill-crown's arched promise its radiant hope utters 
 While, purple, the heart of the orchard still mutters. 
 The waters, clear, rippled, in the sunset light falling, 
 Spread out to the big ditch; from the ridgepole's perch calling, 
 The robin, the rainbow foretelling, forestalling. 
 The last gusts the grasses enfringe and enfeather, 
 Beaten prone in the wet fragrant weather, God's \Aeather. 
 
 71 
 
JULY 
 
 The heavy shade bends to tall clover and grasses. 
 The fleet bare feet burn where the warped boardwalk passes. 
 The cherries gleam black under dark branches bending; 
 The berries hang heavy at the long path's tired ending. 
 
 With the phlox and petunias their lavish gifts flinging, 
 With the larkspurs, the zinnias, the hollyhocks bringing 
 Their pride and their comfort, the paling gate, swinging, 
 Leads the path thro' the perfume and early stars peeping 
 To the vine-covered door, that, a weathered watch keeping. 
 Opens back thro' the hush of the prayer and the sleeping. 
 
 The lifting corn cracks thro' the dark in high feather. 
 Growing, grateful for grace of hot weather, God's weather. 
 
 AUGUST 
 
 God's peace and the moon on the meadow's dead clover. 
 Dawn's hush and the fresh breath of morn spilling over 
 Down the long dusty lane from the thicket's close cover. 
 The dust clouds fly hot from the sober hoofs hieing 
 Across the scorched prairies from far fields outlying; 
 Plodding out thro' brown grasses and wayside weeds drying. 
 With the wayside wings whirring — slow poising — far flying; 
 Trailing out to the blue timber line's cool inbreathing. 
 To the spring with the wagons their blue smoke enwreathing. 
 And the ranging white tents the encampment ensheathing. 
 
 The fresh dews at nightfall breathe fragrant and bearing 
 
 New straw and new lumber, with the tall torches flaring 
 
 Above hurrying feet over God's upland faring. 
 
 Tired faces uplifted ; while the rolling hymns wearing 
 
 Away thro' the woods, touch the restless tired tether, 
 
 The clanking of harness, the creak of worn leather, 
 
 With the mists and the moon and the weather — God's weather. 
 
 72 
 
SEPTEMBER 
 
 All gold! Down the hillside peep clumped daisies golden. 
 Thro' the shimmering sunlight by the warm valley holden, 
 Flaunting feathered gold fleece by the wood curves enfolden 
 Toss across the young pines, foam to spoke, hub and felloe 
 At the road's ragged rim with the Autumn's first yellow. 
 
 The yellow haze fades to the hillside's faint gloaming, 
 
 The peace of the evening, the halting bells homing; 
 
 With the east lifting low and the harvest moon spilling 
 
 Over fenced field and fold. Swinging white floods outfiUing 
 
 Crest-high, valley wide, lip the forest brim, embossing 
 
 The wood-balm's hushed healing, the wood-road's tired tossing; 
 
 Filter faint thro' the tree-trunks, past the hemlock's black blotches. 
 
 Splashing white against birches spurting wide silvered splotches. 
 
 And moonset and shadow. In the purple dawn-watches 
 
 From the farmyard's close corner, the fence-row's gnarled notches, 
 
 Comes the plaintive first call from chilled fleece and feather. 
 
 With frost on the immortelles ; or ewe-lamb or wether 
 
 Wakes the echoes, while on tiptoes, chanticleer in high feather 
 
 Sends a cheer down the year to just weather — God's weather. 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 The cold late rain drips from the low clouds close palling 
 The gullied road winding thro' far woodbirds' calling. 
 And wet woods, dark, dripping, with sodden leaf falling. 
 
 The sharp west wind gives chase to lightened clouds flying. 
 Swinging south, sweeping soft over long hill-slopes drying, 
 While the warmer sun spills down thro' reek of things dying. 
 
 The blue haze blurs soft, the horizon outlining; 
 
 Hangs warm on the woodland with the summer sun shining 
 
 Down woodroad, thro' woodcries, down thro' oaks carnadining; 
 
 73 
 
While fine spinning cobwebs from the deep blue sky reaches 
 Web the sumach's sure red, trail from coppered gold beeches, 
 Catch the sassafras scarlet, thread the gold of young maple, 
 Dip to bursting burrs dropping — the squirrels' cramm'd staple. 
 
 The home-call : whether cobweb, or beeches' gold tether, 
 Wet woodroad, or woodcries, or red upland, or whether 
 The haze on the home hill and weather, God's weather. 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 But bleak blows the wand from the northeast ; in drifting 
 The sleeted snow clings to the grey woods and, lifting, 
 Whirls across the shock'd fields, the grey roofs, and, sifting 
 In thro' cranny and crevice, blurs the fold's safe enclosure, 
 Bridges up the bushed breastwork to the storm's sure exposure. 
 Beckons blind thro' the swinging barn-door's safe embrasure 
 To the long lane's fenced bleat and the orchard's erasure. 
 
 The loosened vines lean down, their dead tendrils swinging, 
 
 To the flitting red lure from the fragrant fire's singing. 
 
 To the arm chair's charmed circle, the wet storm-wraps steaming, 
 
 To the wide hearth's clean comfort, the collie's worn dreaming; 
 
 To the flick of the snow as the panes fleck and feather; 
 
 To the hush of the long prayer, that — kneeling together — 
 
 Wells out with the wind and the weather, God's weather. 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 The dusk of the evening, with winter stars growing 
 Out from blue, breaking thro' hanging low cloud banks snowing; 
 With the long dark street hush'd under banked branches bowing 
 Over walks waiting deep under blind paths' blurr'd strowing; 
 With the red lamplight under high-pitched grey roofs, growing 
 Dim, distant. 
 
 74 
 
The old mill-front frowning, blank, glooming 
 Down on glad revels glimpsed thro' the swung door's swift looming; 
 On the appeal of the windows, with gay pageant gleaming. 
 And child-faces pressed to the pane — drifting — dreaming. 
 Past today's tender thankfulness, child-longings borrow 
 High hopes and fair dreams for God's perfect tomorrow 
 And love's perfect round. 
 
 Trailing, hushed snowflakes clinging 
 To the pickets' piled points, past the low-hung gate swinging, 
 Lead the homing feet back as the long hushed street darkens 
 Under low-hanging stars ; and waiting hearts hearken, 
 Circled close round the fireside flanked by massed greens arboral, 
 Over loves cradled sacrament; while earth's mighty choral 
 Sweeps — the song of the angels, the dawn-burst auroral. 
 The star and the manger — down the white night; and, together. 
 With His promise. His peace, His good gifts — together — 
 We wait with the stars thro' His weather, God's weather. 
 
immm 
 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS