PS 3507 
 .16 S5 
 1916 
 Copy 1 
 
 even Sonnets 
 
 and 
 
 Ode to 
 e Merry Moment 
 
*v 
 
s 
 
Seven Sonnets 
 
 and 
 
 Ode to the Merry Moment 
 
 By 
 Hiram Powers Dilworth 
 
• 
 
 &c& 
 
 
 / 
 
 Copyright 1916 
 
 By 
 
 Hiram Powers Dilworth 
 
 MM 15 1916 
 
 DCI.A428984 
 
TO my brother Homer, whose 
 interest is my encouragement 
 and whose life my inspiration, 
 I affectionately dedicate these poems. 
 
 H. P, D. May 1st, 1916 
 
/ 
 
On the Mummy of an 
 Egyptian Lady 
 
 The Angelus 
 
 Hiram Powers Greek Slave 
 
 Nydia 
 
 Yesterday 
 
 Dante 
 
 Mrs. Browning 
 
 Ode to the Merry Moment 
 
/ 
 
SEVEN SONNETS 
 
 On the Mummy of an 
 Egyptian Lady 
 
 (Wenu Hotep) 
 
 THE morning sands were radiant as gold, 
 And the young hour restless. Slender wrist 
 Rolling a palm with woman's trick and twist, 
 Parting a woman's forehead, high and cold, — 
 Ah! this is Egypt's daughter — she as old 
 As history! The sun has never kissed, 
 While sand-white blended into amethyst, 
 A face more fair or delicately bold. 
 What thinks my Lady of Antiquity? 
 She pauses, and the broad beams bathe her brow: 
 Thinks she of Isis and the mystery 
 Which veils Her name and strengthens every vow? 
 Or is it a quick thought of prophecy — 
 The ruptured mummy-sack before me now? 
 
/ 
 
SEVEN SONNETS 
 
 The Angelus 
 
 (Millet) 
 
 SWEET bells that call the simple hearts to God, 
 Soothe the harsh lips with gentleness of prayer, 
 Devotion's prelude, who shall hear, or where, 
 Bows his rude head, eyes humbles to the sod, — 
 Christ treads thy music lightly as He trod 
 Stormier waves, and consecrates the air; 
 The while a silver night is shutting there, 
 And day's exhausted hours pause — and nod. 
 Harvests may dull their sickles, famine blow 
 Her hungry breath over a season crossed 
 By summer ills : ever that sound is tossed 
 On evening's breast, the Christian bows him low. 
 Still is he waiting — waiting — even so 
 She waits, in holy meditation lost. 
 
/ 
 
SEVEN SONNETS 
 
 Hiram Powers Greek Slave 
 
 IT is a slender model of the grace 
 A breathing woman's hardly will excel: 
 A dream which is reality, wrought wett 
 And worthily; though in that sacred place, 
 Invisible, the Muse's hand will trace 
 No lines which are immortal, throw no spell 
 As when she worked through Scopas, and the shell 
 Became a soul and flashed a living face. 
 No sweet perfection there; but one may see 
 What quicker is than a perfection gone 
 Awry — destroyed by technic's fatal touch : 
 It is a patient God's eternal plea 
 To one who dares his God to look upon 
 And give response, scarce conscious it is such. 
 
/ 
 
SEVEN SONNETS 
 
 Nydia 
 
 Toy Kal Qavdrov <bi7i7)(ia EvTrpoodsurov 'Eern — Nydia. 
 
 SHE swayed a giddy moment in the street — 
 Silent — save for a whisper of despair! — 
 A wounded night-bird — hither tossed and there- 
 Forced from a love-nest she had found so sweet! 
 While he slept wondrously: his pulses beat 
 To happier scenes than sorrow's. — Everywhere 
 A fire of eyes and magnet of dark hair 
 Lighted his dream and drew his willing feet. 
 O broken blighted vine of Thessaly! 
 Nydia ! thou sting of blood upon pure clay ! 
 Thy sobs still shake that tragic century — 
 Bow us so lowly in wet grief today ! 
 Down, Glaucus, to thy knees ! Sharp tongues shall be 
 The nettles of thy grave will Justice say ! 
 
s 
 
SEVEN SONNETS 
 
 Yesterday 
 
 I HAVE awakened to a sense of day. 
 It is not night — for there another sun 
 Tells me of loss, of crushing cares begun, 
 Visions that vex, and Gorgon thoughts that slay! 
 Life's hideous hell is with me — now — alway! 
 Slow are the bitter moments — every one; 
 Quicker, indeed, these helpless tears that run, 
 Quicker by much these agonies than they! 
 And yet a calm as subtle as the pain 
 Falls with 'the last long sigh. — As strange and still 
 As the sweet sudden silence after rain, 
 A hollow hush nothing of mine may fill — 
 Except a clamoring memory which makes 
 One heart beat coldly while another breaks! 
 
X 
 
SEVEN SONNETS 
 
 Dante 
 
 GIVE me Italian lips that I may speak 
 Readily — worthily ! And let my eyes see where 
 The domes of ancient Florence rose in prayer, 
 When churchmen did unkindness to their meek! 
 Then let me cross the Ages and still seek 
 That sunny city. — Reverent is the air — 
 A happy hush is Dante spoken there — 
 No venom and no dust. Lone Mountain Peak! 
 Deathless Idealist ! What can I say 
 To you, of you, when Italy has said 
 What a World now is saying? — when thy head 
 Already bows with laurel? And today, 
 Tomorrow (and how much less yesterday!) 
 Give no fair voice. — Oh, tongues are poor instead ! 
 
y 
 
SEVEN SONNETS 
 
 Mrs. Browning 
 
 ALIGHT — a lead of shadow — this — and that — 
 And then a picture etched in woman's blood, 
 Cut deeply — carefully — though here a flood 
 Of tears had rusted the fair plate. Whereat, 
 Being in sorrow, underneath she sat 
 An arching willow, seeing neither bud 
 Nor tassel — only that fair thing of blood, 
 The rust, and droop of branches. Misery's mat 
 And shroud of sack-cloth mourn dead hopes as old 
 As love's eternity. Still does the rust 
 Blemish life's picture as a mark of dust 
 Lies upon happiness. And yet — behold 
 Each bit of dust a grain of choicest gold : 
 An alchemy of years benign and just! 
 
s 
 
ODE TO THE MERRY MOMENT 
 
 Ode to the Merry Moment 
 
 i 
 
 HAIL to a bright unfalt'ring sun, 
 No whit dismayed though storm distressed ;- 
 And health to the one who struggles on, 
 Whose soul as dauntless as the sun, 
 Endures its cataclysmic test! 
 The brow was soft whose bitter wet 
 Broke it with briny rivulet, 
 Dried it to harshness, grooved and set; 
 But over that bewildered brow 
 (Bewildered — but transcendent now!) 
 A mighty peace, a quiet vow 
 Rest on the frowning altar there, 
 Give grace and culture to despair. 
 Away with bats and things of night, 
 
 They wound where they do not destroy; 
 
 Across the heart's blue heaven's height 
 
 Flutter the simple birds of joy! 
 
 II 
 
 I stand upon a spirit's plane and see 
 
 The busy fields of my eternity. 
 
 Love — Faith — Hope — and the sainted numberless 
 
 Who come to me and lay a blessed palm 
 
 W r here other hands profaned — O sweet and calm 
 
 These virgin messengers of happiness! 
 
 They touch my beating brow and softly say: 
 
/ 
 
ODE TO THE MHRRY MOMENT 
 
 "Here is good magic ! Bring we peace today !" 
 Peace — peace — vital — and still ! stern quality 
 Unscrolled from pages of a life's despair: 
 The slow rift in a mist of misery 
 Where peeps a sky-god, passionless and fair! 
 And here they come — with sympathy and smile- 
 The gentle queens ! and pondering the while : 
 Splendid as morning when her merry beam 
 Drops from the east and breaks upon a world, 
 Each sparkling bit a promise folded three; 
 Hopeful as evening when the solemn stream, 
 Quiet for depth, moon-silvered or star-pearled, 
 Forgets its stress and moves into the sea. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Life says to me: "Be glad! 
 
 This is no day for grief ; 
 
 The blight, the bitterness, the bad 
 
 Lie with last year's leaf: 
 
 Lie where the frowning fall 
 
 Covered them with frost, 
 
 When snow and death were over all, 
 
 And summer lost." 
 Then Life brings Duty (and she is 
 A high and sainted soul), and Duty says: 
 "Earth's hand — and Heaven's — both are his 
 Who follow me, accept my solaces. 
 My child is Happiness." And quickly this 
 Gives sombre place to one whose brow 
 Winds of north roughness almost daily kiss — 
 
/ 
 
ODE TO THE MERRY MOMENT 
 
 Experience! — she speaketh now: 
 
 "I do not grieve — I am too old for grieving — 
 
 Philosophy's cool fingers close my feverish eyes; 
 
 They open to the sky where God is weaving 
 
 A starry web inwove with yellow of moonrise. 
 
 My daughter is Accomplishment, 
 
 Adown a toilsome path is sent, 
 
 The happiest far of all my happy brood ; 
 
 Be light — be merry for a day!" 
 
 And now I hear the others say: 
 
 "Yes, be as light and merry as you would!" 
 
 IV 
 
 Is it the ripe of thistle-down 
 A-sudden scatter through the air? 
 Or rise of snowy butterflies 
 A-wandering they know not where? 
 I thought I saw a little cloud, 
 It flashed its silver edge to me, 
 And vanished there amongst a crowd 
 Of sunbeams laughing joyously. 
 O ! it is good to see the sun — 
 The happy world to look upon! 
 And now it seems I hear a call 
 Of some sweet bird I do not know, 
 Along the woody margins tall 
 The singing raptures seem to flow. 
 Above the world in some blue space, 
 Nor near, nor far, but all around 
 The lively echoes toss and chase 
 
s 
 
ODE TO THE MBRRY MOMENT 
 
 The utter loveliness of sound. 
 
 O ! is it promise that I hear, 
 
 Or just the music of the year? 
 
 And now my mind grows thoughtful — quite 
 
 My soul is open, and my heart 
 
 Beats with the universe, and flight 
 
 And fancy have a solemn part. 
 
 God's mouth is in His sunny sky, 
 
 His grandeurs sweep it, lip to lip : 
 
 Here are the tongues of purity, 
 
 Here is the rose of fellowship! 
 
 O pure sweet rose of lasting birth! 
 
 O tongues the holiest of earth! 
 
 And where the ruby and the pearl 
 
 Run worthily along the gold, 
 
 And altar glistens, white as coral 
 
 In a lambent briny mould: 
 
 The white flames dance upon its edge, 
 
 An incense gathers near the sky, 
 
 And reaches quite the starry ledge 
 
 Where angels linger, passing by: 
 
 Treble the truthful throats which shout 
 
 God's pleas of joy the world about. 
 
 V 
 
 Back to my happy self! The great apocalypse 
 
 Is the broad life about me. — Cheerful flowers 
 
 Soft'ning each foot-press! — Or a worthy boat that dips 
 
 Neither time's ebb-tide of released hours 
 
 Nor the future's stretching sea; but under showers, 
 
s 
 
ODE TO THE MERRY MOMENT 
 
 Sunshine, moonlight of the good, glad, glorious now 
 
 Sailing a tranquil main. Ah! this is I 
 
 As God doth wish me! Dance with me and wreath thy 
 
 brow 
 With wistaria! Life is happy! Why 
 Walk about the valleys while the sunny hills are by? 
 I am content to let my busy feet lead on, 
 Unurged, unhindered ; for I know well what is gone 
 And what shall be have no voice in today. I live 
 In the sweet present: it is all that God can give. 
 Break me a crust of fertile earth. — Here is the dead 
 Of ages. — Heavy sacrament! Again 
 Crumble the sacred clod. — White fields and gardens red 
 And miracles of healthy-budded grain: — 
 Light sacrament as thought, and symbol of no pain ! 
 O I must thank Thee — thank Thee, gracious Hand which 
 
 lies 
 So giftfully o'er what were barren else! 
 Whose fingers stretch the vast infinitude of skies, 
 Whose cloudy palm not less sublimely tells 
 Of grateful toil that blesses and works holy spells. 
 
 VI 
 
 Soft gentle day with morning-sweetened air, 
 Shaken by breezes chilly with the hour, 
 To thy young sky I breathe a quiet prayer, 
 Conscious of purpose — and of peace — and power. 
 Give they wet cheek unto my eager lips, 
 The dew is cold and racy with the night; 
 Abide me while the merry moment trips 
 
X 
 
ODE TO THE MElRRY MOMENT 
 
 Across the hours of scarlet, green and white. 
 
 Firm as the front of Olive's fated brow, 
 
 Strong as the simple glory of her pain, 
 
 A goodly calm has fallen on me now, 
 
 My God has sent his angel not in vain. 
 
 I feel the sacred thrill of mastery, 
 
 The deep control Despair can never sound; 
 
 While the pure morning brightens momently, 
 
 And Duty walks with Pleasure on the ground. 
 
 VII 
 
 Sit with me, Mother Memory, a sunny silent while, 
 Where the years of childhood lengthen to the decades of 
 
 the man; 
 I would be disciplined by thee — a sharp frown or thy smile- — 
 Would backward look across my sky, its laughing jewels 
 
 scan. 
 Here rides the morning star! Fair day, sweet Lily of the 
 
 East! 
 Pure prophetess of home and love! Maternity's true own! 
 Whose leading light is guardian glitter both to man and 
 
 beast, 
 Whose music is the croon of care, the mother's trembling 
 
 tone. 
 The sire's shoulder lifts a mountain burden up the past 
 (A venerable man ! — I look a valley quite askance — ) : 
 He sets his heavy pack midway — a little rest at last — 
 His eyes will close — will shut the world from out their 
 
 kindly glance, 
 And kin — how many ! Friends — how rare ! Yet worthy as 
 
 are few: 
 A costly wristlet on the hand that hath a tender palm ! 
 
s- 
 
ODE TO THE MERRY MOMENT 
 
 O ! these I prize ! I know ! I love ! I worship well — I do ! 
 These are my stars — my earth — my tears — my eloquence — 
 
 my calm ! 
 Now, Memory, not an ingrate I — but you must go away: 
 You have fulfilled. My lady Present bids me out to play! 
 
 VIII 
 
 Let me keep my harp ! 
 
 The strings are neither golden nor secure, 
 
 My fingers are not skilled, my voice unsure, 
 
 Fire will make it warp. — 
 
 But it is mine! — the harp is mine! 
 
 I love it that it is my own, 
 
 It gives me happiness — it is a joy to sing. 
 
 O bird-cry of the moment! thine 
 
 A fault of song to hold a truth unknown 
 
 To any but who spreads a poet's wing! 
 
 And what is service but a thing we do in love? 
 
 The timbrels of the ancients otherwise had moved 
 
 No worlds to war and song, nor any powers proved : 
 
 A people's metal tongue — a nation's iron glove. 
 
 Pain worms its fiery way through crust and core, 
 
 Eating as cruel as cancer; but no part 
 
 Worthy falls to its burning greed for more, — 
 
 Only the dross which cheapens soul and heart. 
 
 It is, indeed, a truth — a saw's veracity — - 
 
 Graven in letters broad across our brows, 
 
 That infinite pain is infinite capacity, 
 
 The pregnant hollow suffering allows. 
 
 Let me keep my harp ! 
 
 For life must sing its duties daily done, 
 
 Whether the harp is struck in storm or sun — 
 
 Whether it break or warp. 
 
ODE TO THE ME1RRY MOMENT 
 
 IX 
 
 Into the moment I will leap while the spring 
 
 Trembles its season through; 
 
 Out of the moment I will fly while I sing 
 
 Merrily, madly, plucking thoughts on the wing 
 
 Out of the glorious blue! 
 
 Here is the sun and he laughs aloud 
 
 In ripples of child-song, fresh and dear; 
 
 Strange! I can scarcely believe a cloud 
 
 Has shadowed aught of the singing year. — 
 
 All so jolly, bright and merry, 
 
 Full of spring as the blushing cherry! 
 
 Break me twig 
 
 Of waking apple, 
 
 Happy glories hiding there, — 
 
 Tender sprig 
 
 Of color dapple, 
 
 Shaking odors on the air! 
 
 I will sit here and let the radiant hour 
 
 Be to itself sufficient — unto me 
 
 And all the world a reservoir of power, 
 
 Where each may dip and each contented be. 
 
 For there is nothing of the earth, 
 
 Of loss, or sorrow deadlier, 
 
 Can hold itself as something worth 
 
 A worry or a fear. 
 
 Bury the past and let no present prophesy, 
 
 The future does not live; 
 
 The simple moment, does it laugh or does it sigh, 
 
 Holds all that life can give.