^1^ir^:^,^:^!V<1iiilC^,i^>iix9ir^in^>ftt^l^^^ Lode Star larv Cromwell Low r«'?**«*'^*'rtf5««srfc>!WKt5«'5!f2^^ Odss TS 3^ CO o Bodc__i?!il__ ' ( (simMW. CDEffilGHT DEPOSIT. THE LODE STAR THE LODE STAR BY MARY CROMWELL LOW w NEW YORK JAMES T. WHITE & CO, 1920 Copyright, 1919 By Jame§ T. White & Co. JAN 27 ,'322 FOREWORD Acclaimed by all the glories of the sky — those lovely tinted "Greeting Cards," with their unforget- able sentiments, issued by Dutton & Co. — comes Mary C. Low with another and lovelier gift, in this Collec- tion of poems gathered under the title of "The Lode Star." In addition to the touch of the artist. Miss Low has woven into her poems the optimism of her helpful, human philosophy, with all the delicacy and beauty of technique, which so distinguished her Cards; and, more, she has brought to them the vision of the mystic, while her poetic fancy has been given a wider flight. Her vision is that of one at the foot of the altar, who looks out upon the world with a divine desire. She has realized the truth of the saying of William T. Richards, the painter, that nothing great has been done in the world except from the attitude of the knees ; and, perhaps because of this very realiza- tion, her verse sounds the triumphant note of joy. Maeterlinck says, " Mystic truths have strange privi- leges; they can never age or die"; so these poems voice truths which are as deep as life. Sculpture and art express only the moments in life; poetry is life itself. And this is the feeling which is brought home to the heart upon reading Miss Low's verses. She has found the ineffable joy; but forgetting herself, she finds in her own eyes the tears of another. 5 Miss Low's verse has been said to suggest the style, the simplicity of imagery of Matthew Arnold. Her art is exquisitely delicate and is elusive of analysis, so much depending upon the intuitive sense which one brings to it. She has great power of interpretation, the rare gift of simple, direct expression, and a sure touch of personal sympathy. She has presented her poems in the following sequence : " HE LOOKS FOR THEE BOUND IN A FRAG- MENT" is love's search through human affection, through unsatisfied longings, for the hidden things of the soul. " ON THE ROAD OF THE MANY " intimates the winding paths of life's aspirations, and the devious roads of the soul's wanderings. In "TILL UNDER EACH FORM HE FINDS THEE, THE FORMLESS," Love finds that the road of many gleams and many allurements must come back to the one road that leads to God. It is an exquisite conception wrought out in tender- ness and tears, but which brings one face to face with the deep things of the spirit, into which are inex- tricably woven the realities of life. This Cycle of Love embodies the thoughts that have made her " Greetings " so admired and sought after, and it will be read and reread with a hushed heart and with a feeling that the reader is standing on hallowed ground. James Terry White. 6 CONTENTS PAGE PROEM " HE LOOKS FOR THEE BOUND IN A FRAG- MENT 13 THE AWAKENING IS MATIN SONG ^6 IF I COULD KNOW ^7 WHEN EYES HAVE MET I8 MERTENSIA 19 ON GANNETT HILL 20 THE SUNSET HOUR 21 POETS SUPREME LOVERS ARE 22 GIPSY FIRE 24 MY GIFT 25 A WISH 26 FOREBODING . . . . i 26 WHY? 27 THE HARP UNSTRUNG 28 AN ANSWER 29 SONG ^ ..... 30 WHEN SHADOWS FALL 3^ A SONG-SPARROW SINGS » . 3^ ON THE AVENUE 32 AFTER MANY YEARS 34 ON THE ROAD OF THE MANY 35 THE WAY IS DARK Z7 FACING EAST 38 who'll tell? 39 7 PAGE EXTERNALS 4^ AS WE FOLLOW 4^ IN RETROSPECT 43 ANOTHER CHANCE 44 HARLEQUIN 44 TEMPTATION 45 RESOLUTION 45 THE PESSIMISTIC POETS 4^ THE WILL TO DIE 4^ AFTER SEEING " THE TROJAN WOMEN " . . . -50 HORLORGER — BIJOUTIER 53 " NOT IN THE ABUNDANCE OF THINGS " . . . • S^ FIFTH AVENUE AT 42ND STREET 5^ WILLIE RUGH 6l THE OLD MAN SPEAKS 63 THE SCISSORS GRINDER 67 WHERE THE BLAME? 7^ THE PERUVIAN TAPESTRY 7^ THE WONDERSMITHS 7^ SINGIN' PAYS 78 ON THE BEACH AT SOUTHAMPTON 79 BERYLUNE 81 SESTINA 84 FIREFLIES ON MIDSUMMER NIGHT 86 SIC TRANSIT 89 THE DARK HOUR pO BECAUSE I KNOW 9^ AT EVENING TIME 92 UNDER EACH FORM HE FINDS THEE . . 93 MY WINDOW TO THE SKY 95 BEYOND 96 BACK OF THE SUNSET 97 HE KNOWS 98 8 PAGE THE GIFTS 99 ONE SPRINGTIME 100 THE ONLY ROAD 101 EVERYMAN 102 IN MEMORIAM 103 THE LOTUS SEED IO4 BENEATH ARCTURUS 105 MY GARDEN WALK I06 INTO HIS HOUSE IO7 MY OFFERING I08 HIGHWAY AND BYWAY IO9 SONG OF THE WINGED SOUL IH L'enVOI 112 SONNETS 113 THE WINE OF LIFE II5 LOVE PLAYS FOR THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND . , .1X6 A DIM REMEMBRANCE STIRS 117 I LEARNED TO KNOW II8 THE THOUGHT OF YOU II9 I LOVE THEE 120 THE LOVE I SING 121 I SING BECAUSE I MUST 122 YOU WROUGHT THE JOY, NOT I 123 IMMUNITY 124 THE BATTLE IS NOT YOURS 125 BY PATHWAY OF THE EVENING STAR . . . . I26 LIEP'S LODE STAR 127 PROEM LOVE the inscrutable, nameless, the formless, Love that is older than sands of the earth, Renewer, transformer, the bringer of blossoms. Love that can lead even death to re-birth — How man has sought thee, how he has lost thee, Blinded by tinsel a-shine in the sun! He sets up his altars in world-windy places. ON THE ROAD OF THE MANY, he seeks Thee the One. He knows not, unwitting, through all things he seeks thee. Lured by the call of impassable streams. He gropes through each pleasure, unsatisfied, longing, For^ Something that's nearer than breath of his dreams. He sees not, HE LOOKS FOR THEE BOUND IN A FRAGMENT; He travels all pathways resting on none, Till UNDER EACH FORM HE FINDS THEE, THE FORMLESS, AND THE ROAD OF THE MANY, GLEAMS — EVERYWHERE, ONE. II ONWARD, ever onward, through unknown ways, the Traveler moves, blindly searching for some- thing he knows not what; impelled by a power he can- not explain — Love, the Lode Star, drawing him even as he searches until, in some strange pass of the way, the veil drops down; seeker and sought meet; and, in the light of clear understanding, all the shadows of the Road grow radiant with beauty, all the silence be- comes song. 12 HE LOOKS FOR THEE BOUND IN A FRAGMENT ?3 A few years more — or a few years less — And life had sung from the blossomed bough, "No more road through the wilderness, Paradise opens, and here and now." A fezv years less — or a few years more — With love to travel from year to year. And there'd be no need of the other shore. Heaven were ours, and now and here! H THE AWAKENING DEEP in the heart of an ancient wood I heard a white-throat sing Of bud and blossom and ultimate good, One life through everything. And under the shade of the forest-tree Where the delicate hare-bells grew, I heard the wonderful Voice of Life — The cry of my heart for you! 15 MATIN SONG OLOVE, what would you say if you but knew How all my days are lifted by the thought That, as Ionian maidens one time brought Their offerings of wine and flowers which grew In myrtle groves, beneath Ionian blue, To deck one shrine; so all my life-work, wrought With broidery, my best, someday up-caught In golden glory may be given you ! And for that great, glad hour which yet may be, I strive through every part of every day To weave the pattern fair; in purity Of outline, stainless thought and high, alway, Till, through the finished fabric, men shall trace In threads all gold, your influence, your place. l6 IF I COULD KNOW IF I could know that someday you would come Across the fields — though late, when all the air Was filled with harvest home and even-song; If I could know that you would come to me, And walk with me the darkening path toward home, I know I should not care how hard the day, I know I should not reck how rough the steep. Nay, rather, would I gather every fliower Of purity, of beauty and of worth The passing hours might scatter on my way. As miser hoards his gold, I'd treasure them For you, against that time when you would come — If I but knew ! 17 WHEN EYES HAVE MET WHEN eyes have met (As yours and mine) And meeting, felt A breath divine Had sudden touched The grey old earth, And called all fair Sweet things to birth; When, standing thus, And each by each. There was no need Of fuller speech — Each knew the other Understood That life was great. And God was good. Oh, tell me this. When eyes have met (As yours and mine) Can eyes forget? i8 MERTENSIA IN a secret place of the far-away, Where the sunshine glances through The budding green of the hickory bough, And the spring makes all things new, Is an isle where the faerie flower-bells nod. Like bits of the heaven's own blue. And hidden away in the heart of the dell Is a day all gold, in-wrought With a matchless music, a mystic spell, From the charm of the blue-bells caught; Or was it a glory no word could tell From the heart's unspeakable thought? Or was it some song which the oriole sung From the branch of the tasseled tree? Or the robin's trill? Or the wild-wood stream Which wrought the wonder for me? Or was it a something deeper still — A note of life's mystery? Be that as it may in the far-away Where the twilight shadows sleep, And the west winds play with the blue-bell spray, A day lies buried deep. And none may molest its place of rest For the woods their secret keep. 19 ON GANNETT HILL IF all the world were wind and trees And clouds and bits of sky, And everywhere were flowers and bees, And only you and I Were there to watch the wind at play, And find the hidden song — Though days were whole eternities, They'd not seem long. If all the world were green with May, And every branch a bower Of budding bloom and leafy spray; If through the day, each hour Were not inwrought with thought of you To wing its flying feet — In spite of bird and bud and bloom, It were not sweet. But were the whole world wilderness With storm and wintry weather. Could you and I each other bless. And read the years together. We still would find our bit of gleam. Our birds, our sky of blue. The world would hold no starless night. If I had you! 20 THE SUNSET HOUR I SEND my thought across the world To find you in the distant west. The sunset, on my poplar trees Awakens restless memories Of other hours of rest. And distance dies. In spite of miles, In spite of circumstance and place, My comrade, I can feel you near Each time I whisper God, to hear My prayer for His rich grace; His strength to keep you steadfast, sure, However dark the hour appears; His light to lead you up the miles Of hill-road to the Afterwhiles Where waits the sunrise of the years. Good-night, my comrade, loyal friend! The day drops toward the waiting west, One great fire-flower with leaves unfurled. I send my thought across the world To whisper you my wish, — God's best. 21 POETS SUPREME LOVERS ARE POETS . supreme lovers are, Fashioned of all-vibrant clay, And responsive. When love's star Sheds its radiance on their way, Naught they lack; they have life's best. Naught transcends it, naught compares. Even untoward circumstance. Like a royal robe, love wears. And the poet, love's acolyte, Burning still with astral fire, Moves amid the commonplace. As through glories which inspire. Finding in the shadow, light; Seeing weary things a-gleam With rare joy, unspeakable, Grown more beautiful than dream — Traveler on imperial road, Though it lead through wilderness. In his song he twines a rose And an added tenderness. This I knew by others' joy. And I traveled long and far, Following the voice which called, Seeking still the poet's star. Sudden, by a thorn-set hedge, In the gardens of desire, I saw the minstrel, and my heart Wreathing lilies for his lyre. Songs I've heard, but this was Song. Perfect, matchless, all-complete. All the little hoped-for joys Blossomed at the minstrel's feet. And his song ? It breathed my name ; It had called me through the years ; And I knew my heart would find . . . But I never thought of tears. Dark between us rose the hedge, And I could not pass beyond; Nor could the minstrel come to me — However sweet his song and fond. I could not linger; Life denied. I could not even touch one rose Or stainless lily-flower a-bloom Within that happy garden-close. And none could change the written scroll. But as I go from hill to hill, The echo of that strange, sweet song — The minstrel song, is round me still. 23 And through it all, a triumph rings. My heart, unchallenged, had passed through The briar hedge. And I go on, Leaving there my heart . . . and you. GIPSY FIRE AS wood, in burning, holds a flame — A silent beauty of its own, Through simple mention of your name, My heart all leaping light has grown. The shadows dance, and laugh, and play, That were so dark and fierce and strong. And winter sudden turns to May — The thought of you brings back the SonjT* MY GIFT I AM thinking of you, wishing I had gold to buy to-day, Just the thing to make you happy. Wishing I might drive away All the care and all the worry. All the heart-ache, all the fears. I have only love to send you — Faithful love for all the years. Yet a line of ancient story, Half-remembered, writ in rhyme, Comes to tell me love casts glory Over every hour of time. Take my gift, then, take and wear it! Let me feel that in some way I have cast a gleam of gladness Over all your path to-day. 25 A WISH MAY your trees be nesting places For the singing birds of spring, And everywhere the traces Of happiest happening. And yet I would not wish you Everywhere, the skies Of shining summer brightness; More deep my wishing lies. There's a greater, richer blessing — The power to know, to see That, sometimes, shaded pathways Are lanes to Arcady. FOREBODING THERE was ever foreboding somewhere. My thought always ran to you, Welcoming, laughing, expectant; But often it brought back rue. It often returned half-saddened; But it never would disclose — Perhaps it never discovered — Why rue should displace the rose! 26 WHY? I HAVE failed — failed — failed! But when and where and how? Was it because I longed to see The laurel on your brow? Was it because I stepped aside — All other things forgot — That you might take the upper path Where thorns are not? Was it because I tried to plant Within your garden close, One blue, blue flower, where yellow bee Might house and home? God knows. 27 THE HARP UNSTRUNG IT isn't because a friend lies dead; It's because one proves untrue, That the gold of the crocus is dimmed to-day — The sky of a sullen hue. Each flower in my garden droops its head, But not from the touch of frost; Each shares my wonder, uncomforted — A trusted friend is lost. Dear God, is it true? Do honor and faith Count naught in the scheme of things? Does confidence always bear dark fruit? Does kindliness break its wings? Is friendship mere fancy of poet-dream? In this world of change and chance Is there always a rat, which gnaws at the root Of happy circumstance? Or is there somewhere, sometime, some place, A something sincere and true. Where the flower and the ripened fruit are sweet As the bud from which they grew? 28 AN ANSWER YOU ask what to do with our dead — The living we love no more, Who, somewhere, have dealt us a terrible wrong Which stabbed to the very core? Times are when they poison the days, They shadow God's stainless blue. Whatever the reason, forgive them; forgive, And life will its best renew. The ghosts who have haunted us long. The dead who never have died. May not, as of old, walk the yesterday paths Where once they walked by our side; But skies will regain their own blue; The rose hold its gold, once more; Because of the living — these women and men, Forgiven, and loved as before. 29 SONG WHAT matter your friendship has strayed Into byways and hedges of bloom; What matter winds easterly drive From caves where the grey riders loom. I still can be friends with the grass And the bird and the blossoming tree. I can — oh ! I know I can pass On the highroad, uncaring and free. I know I can go through the years With my eye on the ultimate goal. I know I can — God! — but these tears And the hurt of the iron in my soul! For wherever I turn me or look, In quest of a something that's new, I find an invisible veil Of memory woven — and you! 30 WHEN SHADOWS FALL ti l" X OW will it be," I have often said 1. JL " When I'm told that forever the light has flown? When the day which held my joy lies dead. And I face the infinite dark alone?" I know at last, for the sun has set. I know what you do when the shadows fall. You just go on, and try to forget When you know you must always remember — that's all! A SONG-SPARROW SINGS A SONG-SPARROW sings from the elder-spray; I'm glad to hear him — and yet, As I listen and listen the trouble stirs, And wakens a vague regret. His song is of gladness, of gladness and cheer. But why are my lashes wet? Why shouldn't a song-sparrow sing alway? A bird has no grief to forget! 31 ON THE AVENUE I SAW you on the street to-day — The years have passed and you are old. Your step has lost the spring of May. I saw you on the street to-day; No trace remains that yesterday Held hours of honor, days of gold. I saw you on the street to-day; The years have passed and you are old. I wish there might have been some mark To show the triumph of your way; Some gleam to strike against the dark. I wish there might have been some mark — Some glow of inner fire, one spark To shine all through your house of clay. I wish there might have been some mark To show the triumph of your way. As up the Avenue you passed, And I passed down the other side, I wondered. We had met at last. As up the Avenue you passed, I thanked God; on his loom re-cast, My grey grows gold through time and tide, As up the Avenue you passed And I passed down the other side. 32 You once were free of wing — not I. Now I'm the free, beyond a doubt. Unchained, I soar beyond the cry. You once were free of wing, not I ; But now bring gift or gift deny. Life's best I've learned — to do without. You once were free of wing, not I; Now I'm the free, beyond a doubt. 33 AFTER MANY YEARS HOW changed thou art who changed the world for me ! How changed is all the world! How changed am I That, face to face at last, no slightest cry From heart or soul awakes one song for thee! And memory? It seemed it could not be That memory could change ; and yet, so high Above regret for things that pass and die She climbed through pain, she out-reached misery. Oh, can it be the heart is traitor-born, That, unconcerned, it sees the fast closed door, The rusted lock, the key forever gone? Nay, rather count it facing toward the morn. Experience hath served, and evermore The soul, by the soul's law, must up and on! 34 ON THE ROAD OF THE MANY 35 All the way ivinds upward, upivard, Rough and steep the climb; But I hear the hill-wind music Flung from all the heights of time. Faint and far behind the ridges, Hear the echoes breathe and blow : - " Joy is waiting, somewhere — find her! Go and find her, quickly! Go!" ?6 THE WAY IS DARK THE way is dark? Keep cheer, my heart. From the next height May gleam a light; And far faint music Steals across the starless night. The way seems long; But farther on — A little farther on — Thou'lt find the Song! 17 FACING EAST SOMEWHERE beyond — I know not where, Beneath what fair unclouded skies; I only know beyond — somewhere, The Land of Fulfilled Promise lies. I hear the call, I see the Light — A sure clear gleam upon the way; And up the steep, across the night, I go to meet the certain Day. 38 WHO'LL TELL? WHO'LL tell What spell Makes dull earth dream Through night, Of light And morning gleam ? Who knows Whence blows The wind, which brings To earth New birth — Fresh blossomings? From north? From south? From east? From west? Who knows Whence blows The wind that's best? Who knows? The rose — Aye, it might tell. It holds At heart The secret spell 39 Of dark Turned brig'ht; Of light from gloom; The rain Of pain Changed to perfume. All things That are At heart, it knows. But who'll Find out? ... " Who knows the rose " ? 40 EXTERNALS HOUSES of brick and of stone, Dwellings where men abide. How little we know As we come and we go, Of the lives of the folks inside ! Fashioned of flesh and of bone, Houses where souls abide. How little we guess, In the throng and the press. Of the life that is lived inside ! Houses and houses and houses. We see as we walk or we ride. And often we ask. As we look at the mask, "Lurks devil, or saint inside?" 41 AS WE FOLLOW WE travel this tanglewood. Why? We asked not to come — but we're here. And blind is the trail; we descry No sign of a blaze far or near. We call out for guidance in fear Of dangers which lurk, lest we fall. But only the fen-lights appear. We shall know as we follow . . . that's all. On every side rings the same cry, "Whence came we, and why are we here? To agonize, wither and die? To lose everything we hold dear? Will never the mystery clear? Must always the shadow appall As into the future we peer? We shall know as we follow . . . that's all. We question — but never reply. We grope our way, year after year, Through lanes where the fallen leaves lie- And a sigh and a jest and a tear. Though round us the fickle winds veer, And storm-clouds hang dark like a pall, We hope with the old pagan seer, We shall know as we follow . . . that's all. 42 What's this, O my heart, do I hear A troublesome doubt to forestall? I thought yours the confident cheer, We shall know as we follow . . . that's all. IN RETROSPECT I TOOK me back to the day when dreams And the world and I were young. I opened the window and dusted the beams Where cobwebs long had hung. The light shone in on the withered flowers. Youth wore at its carnival; And the dreams were hags in faded rags. Muttering "Child's play, all!" 43 ANOTHER CHANCE IF I could but re-live those years, And have another chance, I know. In spite of aftermath of tears, And all the vain regrets and fears Which mock the onward way of men; If I could but re-live those years — I'd play the fool again! HARLEQUIN DESPAIR once taught him how to smile, And Sorrow gave the cloak of Joy. Then people said, " His days are bright, His happiness, without alloy." O blinded eyes ! O surface sight ! If cloak and smile could make men glad, They'd always mask, nor let folks know How hollow were the joys they had. 44 TEMPTATION I FED the beast again to-day ; And now, its hideous form, Ferocious, holds the very way I thought to take by storm. There is no compromise with beasts; The only, only way When they come fawning down the path, Is up, and smite, and slay. RESOLUTION i*T WILL be strong to bear life's pain . . . some- X day " I said ; and even as I made the vow, A something close beside me whispered, " Nay — Say not, 'someday'! Be strong — but here and now!" 45 THE PESSIMISTIC POETS WE ask for a song of the Spirit ; You give us a stone instead. What are your quibble and doubting To men who are hungry for bread? Your word is an unending question, An end in an unending night; "The Veil of thick darkness," your answer. To men who are crying for light. You say, when a Sicily's shaken. And cities in ruin o'erthrown, A monster lies back of creation — A monster who sports with his own. You jest, and you smile in derision At creeds of the soul, new and old ; You look — but your looking lacks vision; You laugh — but your laughter runs cold. We're men in the thick of the battle; God knows that we need them — the songs; But rank us as men, not as cattle; Place spirit where spirit belongs. Have we climbed through the ages no higher Than level of earth-worm or brute? Is there nothing of worth to aspire? No height with its vision to suit? 46 Shall the next age from this age inherit — When the rage of this age is past — A torch that's inverted and blackened Where the blaze was enkindled to last? Shall it find painted shadow for substance? A jest, at the center of things? Shall it peer in the eyes of the serpent, As it drinks from the nethermost springs? No ! Give us some word of the spirit, With the faith and the courage it brings ; Let us hear at our sense-darkened windows, The beat of invisible wings ! Point the path that shall end in the endless ! Sing — more than man's power to endure — The Power over all things eternal. And the goal of the soul which is sure! 47 THE WILL TO DIE (Rupert Brooke — Scyros, 1915) HE stood among the cities of the plain, A youth, with passionate desire of life, With gift of song and longing great to be A master builder. " These, not these," he cried. " My city — it shall ' beacon the world's night ' ; Each tower shall gleam a light against the dark, And men who come and go shall know that work Has been, love-crowned with song and golden hours, Adventurous days and glint of holier things. Through all the years that lie ahead, I'll build . . . God, how I'll build!" Ere yet the light had faded from his dream, When all was splendor, youth and fire and morn, From out the very blue there came a call — The call of country . . . and of sacrifice. The longing, eager, fierce desire to live Clamored insistent . . . And then ... he saw The great white shining hopes of all the years, The towers of dream, the glorious might-have-been. The city never builded, unlived days. And all the measure of life's loveliness; These, these were his ... to give. 48 He turned To face the shadow, dauntless, unafraid. An instant . . . one quick flash . , . the test supreme; His very love of life, transcending life, To white heat fused,, became the zuill to die. Thereby his soul stands proved. He is, through time, A Master Builder of towers invisible, Whose measure no man knows . . . but only God. Today he sleeps, untroubled, unforgot, With all the vision splendid unfulfilled; And yet, grown great, complete though incomplete. One more unfinished city of the plain; One more unfinished dream; another singer Mute . . . What gain? . . . Another Hfe Gone out in this stupendous sacrifice. And God alone who knows why such things be, Knows how it is, that, losing all, he gained His immortality. 49 AFTER SEEING " THE TROJAN WOMEN " (At the Stadium, 1915) HOW man has made his heritage a hell To satisfy ambition and desire! What havoc wrought! Where laughing loves have been, And Joy and Gladness broidering the screen, Sits Sorrow old as earth, nurtured by man Whose life no more than shadow is, a span, Woven of light and dark, of human hopes And fears and the unalterable years. " This babe! 'Twas a strange murder for brave men! Marked ye? Heard ye? The crash of towers that fall! Thou of the Ages wherefore Ueest thou?" Is this the voice of ancient Troy across The centuries? Or cry of frenzied lands Across the troubled water? Lo! ages Are as nothing; past and present, night And dawn, laughter of children, tears, and the great Mis-shapen years, beneath the sun, are one ! The air is thronged with presences unseen; And back of all, the eternal mystery Of One Supreme, who holds the years as grains Of sand within the hollow of his hand. 50 Conquering days, which had their triumph, call To this red-handed year. No skill of arms They sing — not war and power and glory. They show What lies behind — cruelty and woe, The cry of helpless women, children slain, Cities smouldering where the curse has been ; And lust and shame and sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, And all the aftermath of hate which springs To-morrow and to-morrow. " Gifts of war Are dearth and desolation," loud they cry. " We, too, were children in the lap of Time. But we have tasted triumph, and we know That war no glory is, but hell and woe ! " So real, and almost more than life can bear, This ancient sorrow rends the modern air. Oh, shame! thrice shame! that war in any land Should make our day so quick to understand ! But God ! the year is mad ! It cannot hear ! Drunk with rage and fury, hot with lust And hate, insatiate, it reels — a beast! Blear-eyed, it cannot see; and all the hounds Of hell, unleashed, complete its savagery! How long, O Lord, how long shall these things be? Has there not been enough to make men heed? 51 Great Soul behind the Universe, to Thee, In utter need and helplessness we call. " What way? " we cry, and groping cry, " What way? " But all is dark. There must be some path out. Though men find none. Thou Father of us all, For all this needless waste, to Thee we cry! For all the pitiless to-morrow, all The ruined heritage, the bitter sorrow, The toil and burden of our children's way, Stay Thou the curse ! And for the unshaped day, (Fair fruitage of these sacrificial tears) Grant this war be the last ! Cleanse Thou our thought ! From darkness, bring forth light to make men see How glory most inglorious is when built On misery! So shall this broken age, Throughout all time, torch-bearer be to nations; And nevermore, on land or air or sea. Shall man, red-branded with his brother's blood Acclaimed be. 52 HORLORGER — BIJOUTIER (True incident of a Park Avenue Shop) <4TT ORLORGER — Bijoutier" A X Is the sign above the door. A little bell rings as you enter in, And a board creaks in the floor. It's a musty, rusty, dusty shop, With watches hung in a row. And clocks which dispute all time of day "You're fast "— tick-tock — " You're slow!" On the shelf with one — a veteran clock Which has out-lived many a storm, Is a photograph — the pictured face Of a lad in uniform. The horlorger sits at his window-desk, Mending a broken spring. Snapping a crystal back in place. Re-setting a jeweled ring. " Good-day, Madame." He rises at once ; His keen eye follows your glance. " The boy ? — My lad — on the fighting line — By a trick of circumstance! 53 "He reached Australia — a homesick one. In Sidney, he joined the Guard For the fun, the dancing. The war broke out — And . . . Madame ... it is hard! " But he was right. * There's nothing else That the man in me can do.' Here . . . read . . . it's his letter . . . ' I can't hack out When the fun's all gone! Could you?' " Madame . . . my boy . . . he's a splendid lad ! Out there, at the Dardanelles, What can he do against German guns And the bombs and the bursting shells ? " The old voice quavers, " Never a word Have we had this many a day. There's naught we can do, his mother and I, As we work, but pray, pray, pray. " Except . . . Madame . . . will you come and see ? " He leads through a narrow door, To an inner room where a pile of lint Lies white upon the floor. " This way, we follow him. See, Madame "... And he points to the pile of white. " We pick lint here . . . it's all we can do . . . We pick, pick, night by night. 54 Perhaps . . . who knows? It may reach the boy If he's hurt on the battle-line. Or others may need it — the lads out there, God help them ! — more than mine." There's nothing to say, but you clasp his hand; Then out, where nobody knows How, back of the sign, " Bijoutier . . ." A lint-pile grows and grows. 55 " NOT IN THE ABUNDANCE OF THINGS " HER home — a common city flat, You know the kind, the rent's not high; Four flights of dingy stairs she climbs To reach her place beneath the sky. Sometimes I go; I tread them all — The dusty halls, the narrow stairs; And marvel that such place can house A soul so seeming-free from cares. Until I reach her living-room; A square front space, an open door. An alcove, prints, selected books ; Some simple covering on the floor ; A chair or two, a window-seat . . . And yet what contemplation breathes! What quiet calm ! One block away The many-peopled city seethes With passing " L " trains* rush and roar. With noisy clang of motor car, With sounds innumerable which make The city life of jolt and jar. But here two windows overlook A wide free space of sky and park; A place of calm when toil is done, A star-lit road beneath the dark- 56 The great deep night, the far faint dawn, The light wind in the poplar trees, Forsythia with its Hving gold Brought from what hidden treasuries ; These call her out beyond the house, Beyond this body-house of time. By larger ways invisible She learns to soar, she learns to climb. At morn, a song, the flash of wing, A greening branch against the blue. And toil becomes a friendly thing. The " What-so-e'er thy hand may do." At eventide, the sunset light, Capella flashing golden fire; And life out-leaps the candle flame, Grown great as night with large desire. The town — a prison or a shrine. As one is held, or freed by strife — Finds here a place where simple things Throw wide the vast estates of life. Hers is a kingdom without bound, A King to whom each king defers. God keeps his gift unspeakable For lesser folk with soul like hers. 57 FIFTH AVENUE AT FORTY-SECOND STREET I STOOD at the busy corner Under a sunset sky. Everywhere rush and bustle Of the thousands hurrying by. From east and west on the side-walk, From north and south of the town, Everywhere, everywhere people. And the sun-gold splashing down. They waited their turn at the crossing. They watched for the green and the red ; Women in rags and in velvets, Men with eyes like the dead. "Have they no retreat?" I questioned — " No place where the bluebird sings ? Have they lost life's light in the dazzle Of greed and material things? " Or is it because of the struggle. Just working and ' getting a start * They move unmoved through the splendor With never a song at heart?" I stood at the busy corner Under the sunset sky, 58 Thinking my thoughts of the people Like blown leaves driven by. Sudden where bus and auto Were crowded by hansom and hack, Apart from the others — what was she? Madonna, or woman — in black? With a face that was . . . how shall I name it? Radiant, simple and strong. I found myself thinking of lilies And blossoming orchards and song. Out of the crowd like a vision, Back in the throng again; Her way was the way of the angels Who speak to the souls of men. And a bird in my spirit woke singing: " Amid all this turmoil of things, Down deeper than discord, God's purpose; At the heart of the world it sings. " This hurrying throng of the thousands. Like so many shuttles at play, Is constantly weaving His pattern, His definite meaning alway." 59 And sudden that busiest corner With hansoms and buses and cars, I saw, with new vision, God's highroad From earth to the outermost stars. A city within the city, A highway within the way; The infinite, shot through the finite; Luminous light, through the gray. And in it, the everyday people Were walking with shining feet; Life in the glow of the Presence Made inexpressibly sweet. And I turned to the Lord of the sunset, There in the market place . . . " Thank God for the gift of the highway, And the Light in a human face ! " 60 WILLIE RUGH (True incident of Gary, Indiana) THE motor had skidded and overturned; A girl was still under when something caught fire. There came the odor of varnish and flesh. They found her unconscious, and horribly burned. The doctor stood in the hospital hall As they carried her in. His face was grave. " There's only a chance, poor child," he said, " If we'd skin to graft . . . but where could we call ! " " She's a stranger here, there's no one to give." He spoke like a man whose word is prayer, As he turned and led down the corridor. " It's a chance, a chance ; but I think she'd live ! " Willie the newsboy stood at the door, He heard and smiled, then hobbled away After the doctor, humming a song. He never had been so happy before. " Perhaps you can use it — my withered leg." He said, as he panted the reason why He had come so fast, "And she need not go. " I'll manage as well on a wooden peg." 6i Pain ran wild, but the lad endured. They had taken the leg just below the hip. Seven weeks woven of restless nights, And the girl's burned body at last was cured. But Willie, the cripple, so frail, alas ! Too frail for the ether, drooped like the flower His hot hand held. The nurses knew The brave little hero-soul must pass. And the call? It came at the sunset hour, When all the windows were touched with gold. The Shadow silently opened the door. And the light fell full on the white, white flower. He whispered to those beside his bed, " I never 'mounted to nothin' before. "Don't cry, Mammy." He stroked her hair. " I done sompin ' now for someone," he said. Whispering faint came the voice of the lad, As the white rose fell from his stiffening hand. " Tell her, Mammy, it's jes' all right. Tell her that I . . . that I'm . . . jes' . . . glad." The mother knelt, sobbing, beside the bed. The doctors and nurses turned away To hide their tears; but Willie Rugh, The " newsie," was crowned where there are no dead. 62 THE OLD MAN SPEAKS (Time, late afternoon. Scene, a rugged hillside overlooking a sordid mill village. On blackened areas, left by some forest fire are patches of fire-weed in brilliant bloom. Above these, and nearer the hill-top, an old man sits alone. A little later, a young lad joins him. The old man speaks). YOU wonder at me, lad? Nay, wonder not! I muse upon this hillside all alone By choice and happy memory led apart From rushing ways of this too busy world. For here I face reality, the calm, The bigness of the silence and the peace. And I have many things to think upon — Such thoughts as well may come to one grown old. The evening, as the morning, has its gleam; And night, the deep of heaven and the stars. Your way, the way of youth, is toward the noon. I traveled that road once; I know its call — The many-tinted splendor of its dream. And I — no, lad, I did not tread the halls Of fullest day; but I have had one glimpse. One perfect glimpse of dawn, so radiant, So passing wonderful, that even now My eyes grow dazzled at the mere remembrance 63 Of such beauty. Flower and light and Song — Such song I have not heard in any land, From any grove, embattlement or height — A melody my sense shall never feed Upon again, this side of heaven. I pass Along the high-road now, and toward the outer Bound where life slopes down to meet the sea. New thoughts new fancies weave; new mornings throw New light across my path ; and many things Are lost, aye, many more forgotten ; bits Of broken music float about my days. But one great deathless memory remains To walk beside me fair, unchanged, as pure As on that morn, when hope and love grown strong. Through all my being moved, and flung life's window wide. The day? Nay, lad, I never saw the day. Before the noon, I found a blinding dark — The burning bush where man may meet his God. But I have known the wonder of the dawn. Triumphant, radiant with promise, glad. And many souls there are, who wait and watch Through long, long years, yet never catch one gleam Of all the glory I have seen. Enough. God's finger closed the window; let it stay. 64 I praise Him for the light of that great hour, And for His gift of memory which keeps, Through all the strangeness of these after-ways, The full remembrance of those earlier days When life was song and love a perfect flower. And you, you pity, lad? Nay, pity not! I come not here to mourn a withered rose. To nurse an hour of unforgotten joy; Such task were meet for women not for men. I come to think, beside the sacred fire. Till thought, grown strong, shall make me strong to be, And from the height, go down to help the world. You see those houses huddled in the vale, Half-hid by factory smoke and dark with soot? — The sordid huts of men who grind and toil Through all the sunlit hours of every day Without one chance to breathe the free fresh air ; And who, for wage as scarce will buy enough To keep the hungry body, give their all. Within those wretched homes I've seen such sights As fain would move a stone to pity. God! That greed and gain, twin vampires of the age, Should feed their wine-presses with human blood! There, want and grim necessity join hands ; And everywhere there's cry for fuller light. There's suffering in the scheme; and since I've known The deeps of life, there's much for me to give. 6S And there I minister from day to day, Happy if I can serve, by word or deed, Through little thing, or great, God's greater plan. I've found my part to play, and you'll find yours. My way of life led through Jerusalem, Even to the hill beyond the city gate. But yours, perchance, may lead beside the springs Of human happiness. My blessing take, For all the sunshine of the open road ! But if someplace upon the path, your eyes Are called to look upon the dark abyss. Remember this: — Look long, look deep; the dark Grows dazzling with a light beyond all word, When one can face it. Larger ways of life Unfold; God's hill appears; and on the slope, Eternal faerie meadows bright with flower. When God sees fit to take away our best, His taking is a gift ; there's beauty in it. The evening, as the morning, has its gleam; And night, the deep of heaven and the stars. 06 THE SCISSORS GRINDER (A True Incident) HE was poor, and his coat thin and tattered ; Old age held his feet on the stair. In his voice was a quaver, a question; In his eye lurked the light of despair. And yet there was something about him Which spoke of the culture of things — An air, as when woods in the winter Show traces of past blossomed springs. " Have you work, lady ? Knives to be sharpened. Or scissors or tools to be ground? If you have, let me take them ! " God's pity ! The eyes pleaded more than the sound. "You have ... a few knives? May I do them Outside on the chair in the hall? I'll put a good edge on, I promise, Right here within reach of your call. " What, lady ! You thought I was hungry ! You've brought me some food on a tray ! With dishes, clean napkin; such service I've not seen this many a day. Time was when I lived with them daily, But years change the things in our lives. And now — well, I'm just a poor grinder Of scissors, a sharpener of knives. 67 " I was all but beat out and discouraged. I thought of the God in one breath, And the next, I was courting the devil, And praying and longing for death. But you, lady, you have shown pity; You've not called me ' beggar ' and * shirk.' For the first time this day in the city You give what I ask — chance to work. "Have I children or wife who're dependent? No, lady; the wife is no more; And the child, my poor boy, he died fighting; He was shot in the Philippine War. I've given my boy to my country ; He died like a hero, I'm told. There's comfort, you know, in remembering, When the world and its ways are too cold. " You know not — God grant you may never Know doors that are closed in your face; Know jeers when you ask for employment; — One would think that to work were disgrace ! Is white hair a menace, I wonder, That men pass it by in disdain? God pity them all who have passed me! God save them from hunger and pain! " Ah lady, you've treated me handsome ! " The voice faltered. "All the long day I have tramped through the streets of the city, I have knocked at all doors on my way. But think you was any place opened? Was I given the chance to earn bread ? No. When I asked work I was flouted; Was I smiled at? No, kicked at, instead. "Ah, sometimes they have taken notice. They've spoken, in words that were ' nice,* Of trust in the God of the helpless. But that's all they gave, their advice. Advice to a man who is starving! Who's asking for work to buy bread ! ' Excuse me — I'm having my luncheon I've no time to bother,' one said. " I'm just a poor man but I'm thinking, If God in his creatures is found, Some folks must have lost him entirely. Or hid him away safe and sound. I don't ask their charity money; I don't ask cold-blooded advice; But the soul and the heart of me's hungry. I'm asking for work — at their price! " But, lady, your knives are all sharpened. And the price? Well, you see it's this way. I can't charge you anything, lady; You've given me better than pay. 69 For you, lady, you have shown pity; You've given me strength for the fight. Now I can go through the city, And somehow the burden seems light. " Ah lady, you've treated me handsome ! Thank God I was led to your door ! You've given me work and new courage ; You've given me food, aye, and more. But pay me ? No ! lady, you've paid me. Paid better perhaps than you knew. You've fed me in soul and in body, And I am the debtor, not you ! " 70 WHERE THE BLAME? THOU Builder and Ruler of Worlds ! Thou Maker of Rock and of Wave! If the Ship thy Hand launched on the Deep Encounter false winds, If she keep to her course till strength fail, Then break on a Rock in the gale And reach not the end thy Word gave — Rests the blame With the Rock? Or the Ship? Or the Wave ? 71 THE PERUVIAN TAPESTRY (In the Museum of Natural History, New York. The only piece extant with the Inca flower upon it) I LIFT the ancient fabric with a reverential touch; I look long and close upon it; I cannot look too much On the old unfaded colors, on the curious design. By some human fingers fashioned in an Age remote from mine. I can hear the colors singing, in a measured undertone, Of the strange destructive touch of Time, the changes they have known. I understand imperfectly; I cannot grasp it all; But I hear the colors singing, and they hold my soul in thrall. Till I slip back through the Ages to the Thousand- Years-Ago. Back, through all the thousand years I drift, till clear and sweet and low, Like the wind which moves at evening beneath the corn-flowers' blue, I can hear the sound of singing in the Desert of Peru. It is a woman singing as she weaves a web so fine I wonder how her shuttle keeps the intricate design. Yet, with touch akin to magic, deft she plies it to and fro; Like the flight of darting swallows do her fingers come and go. Back and forth the shuttle flies, unwearied hour by hour, Until at last, beneath her hand, the Inca's sacred flower, Imperial blossom, springs to life, all fragrant through and through. With memory of a woman's song in the Desert of Peru. It is an outer garment which the woman weaves so fine With royal flower upon it, for one of princely line; For one who comes across the hills his love-tryst to re- new ; And I hear of promised feasting in the Desert of Peru. But faint and far another sound, by night-winds borne along, Strikes deep and sure across the chords. All broken lies the Song; The princely lover comes not. A Shadow hides the blue ; And I hear a woman weeping in the Desert of Peru. Her work stays not, it waits not, though the desert burns like flame As the hot breath of the noontide gives day another name. 73 Strange thoughts, grave doubts are woven in; dark spots, a tawny ground. Oh, can it be that it was he the spotted jaguar found? A woman works and questions, as she plies the slender thread, In hope of one sure word from him the spearmen left for dead. A woman waits and wonders, as a woman's heart must do; For love and trust and faith and hope are met in old Peru. But the minor chord is changing, and a deeper music flows, As, when at end, a dull grey day burns like a royal rose, So light breaks through the midnight, and a woman's heart beats fast With love and hope and high desire in perfect flower at last. For down the hills a warrior comes . . . not springing as of old, But bent and worn with many a scar and sufferings manifold. Set free at last from captive bonds, down wild, dark ways, he's come To keep the love-tryst, and to find those eyes whose light is home. 74 What matter that dread days have been, and weary years have flown! In spite of time and change and grief, the heart must know its own. What matter that Time's records show, if life to life beats true . . . And I hear a wonder music in the Desert of Peru. It knows no time, it knows no space; no near, no far- away. Through all the years we turn to hear that song of yesterday — The triumph-song of Hfe and love, till faint the last notes fall, And a silence and a vastness and a mystery cover all. But a strange light fills the desert, as that deathless wonder-dream Steps back among the vanished loves which haunt life's border-stream. And only this — the work — remains to tell how beauty grew, Through stainless days, for all men's praise in the Desert of Peru. 75 THE WONDERSMITHS WHAT do we care for the ways and the praise of the thing men call the world? In her silken rags, the wanton drags her standard in dust, unfurled To the variant winds of blind desire, by the heat of its breath upcurled. What do we care for the name and the fame and the minted coin of earth? Our wealth stands sure; its ways endure. From the great highroad of Birth To the Gate of Death, with our latest breath, we'll praise its changeless worth. Our joy is one with star and sun, the wind and the sapphire sea. The birds which fly through the far deep sky are not more blithe than we. The deathless springs of the Inner Things are the theme of our minstrelsy. With the gift of song, no way winds long; and we travel the old, old trail Be it dark or bright through a starless night, with a joy that can never fail. For the glad at heart, no worldly mart or fashion or power prevail. 76 Our one abode, a hut by the Road on the trail with never an end. While the world wags by, whatever the sky, our simple way we tend. And our notes of song, when the night is long, the sor- rows of earth do mend. We travel, or rest, with peace as guest on the long, long road of the miles. Let other folks hold their minted gold, their fashions and courtly styles; To us belong the Hills of Song, the Gleam and the Afterwhiles. n SINGIN' PAYS THERE'S singing in the kitchen; Black Anna's at the washtub. She mixes up her every task With little songs of light. " For it's jes' this way, Miss Mary, The rubbin' goes the faster. There's somethin' gets into the does. An' somehow makes 'em white. "An' maybe it's jes' seemin', But the singin' turns to color ; An' there's somethin' on the co'n-patch, There's somethin' in the breeze, Lak the thing you feel at sunset When the Katy-did's a-callin'. An' the sun goes splashin' gold an' red On all the apple trees. "An' there's a happy feelin' Roun' my heart when I keeps singin'. I jes' forgets the misery. When I keeps shoutin* praise. This plain old sudsy kitchen Is the place of Kingdom Glory. An* I does my work befor' the Lawd. I tells you, singin' pays." 78 ON THE BEACH AT SOUTHAMPTON IT was high tide once, And dawn and noon and sunset; And all the ocean vast was stirred Beneath the filling moon. Deep called to deep Across the line of shadow, And every foam-flower bore the print Of dancing fairy shoon. The white feet of the moonlight Touched the waters till they trembled With joy new-born — a something strange — Desire unknown before ; They heard the white moon calling, And they listened till they yielded. And rose and rose in mad delight, To swoon upon the shore. It was high tide once; But now the tide's retreated. The sand in ragged wavy lines Is fixed upon the beach; And here and there a sea-shell With story all completed, Lies high and dry beside the sea Tide-borne beyond its reach. Spiders weave their lace webs In open windy places. 79 The sea-pale sand-flies jump about; The sea-weed, brown and dried, Sports with the little breezes, Or with the wild wind races. Where sun-burned yellow pebbles bleach There once has been high tide. It was high tide once; But lo ! the tide is turning. The waves come nearer, nearer now, With little longer reach. And now, they've found the sea-shell. The story's not completed. The tides of life have come again To lift it from the beach; And all the bits of sea-weed Are dipping, dancing, floating. The yellow pebbles everywhere. Along the ocean side. Are moving out exultant; A new song is beginning; From shore to shore the triumph rings, " Again, again high tide ! " 80 BERYLUNE MUSIC in the waterfall, Music in the trees; Music in the robin's call, Music in the breeze. Music, music everywhere — Through the summer night, A thousand thousand little folk Come trooping into sight. Fairies, fairies, Little Folk, 'Neath the silver moon. Have you anywhere, perchance. Met with Berylune? Berylune who comes disguised To many a restless heart. Alas! for those who never know The healing of her art. Once she came to visit me; But I called her old. Ugly, bent, a withered hag; Scorned her when she told Of her beauties one by one ; Laughed; her lack of tress Looked repulsive; I could see Naught but ugliness. 8i I spurned her hateful old-hag gift Left beside my door — A branch of sharp and prickly thorn, The like ne'er seen before. Beneath the thorn, a hickory stick Hard as malachite. And she smiled a strange, slow smile As she left my sight. I looked at her with scornful eyes. I did not know the way Of fairy folk, the dark disguise They wear in common day. I did not know my visitor Came from the fairy hill ; I did not know the priceless gift She wrapped in husk of ill. But lo! the thorn in royal leaf Bears blossom, fragrant white. Such flower would make of any bower A garden of delight. The hickory stick? A staff it proves For every rugged way. The tough and weathered wood bears bud And bloom and fruit to-day. Fairies, fairies, Little Folk *Neath the silver moon, 82 Prithee somewhere try to find The fairy Berylune. Be she in the bosky dell, Or the moon-flecked wood, Bring her hither, let me tell My word of gratitude. At last I see. Or late, or soon. Fairies, find me Berylune. I would have her bide and rest. Withered? No, a royal guest, A being wonderful and fair. With seeing eyes and golden hair. Who somewhere in the fairy mart Finds healing balsam for the heart. Fairies, fairies, late, or soon. Bring me matchless Berylune ! 83 SESTINA (Italian legend of the Fireflies) WHAT time the silent footsteps of the Night Stole darkling through the valley, in the shade And cool of evening, 'neath Soracte's height, A Tuscan lady and her lover strayed. Her simple grace and charm were his delight; His paradise, her gentle presence made. The wind which tripped across the grasses made A compact with the mysteries of Night; And everything, which could the sense delight, Allured, enticed, until the fragrant shade Grew eloquent ; and they, who therein strayed. Talked — not of Rome when Rome was at its height, But rather of the breadth and depth and height Of all this wondrous world; of all things made; How some lone star, that from its orbit strayed, Illumed with meteor flash the gloom of Night; And after brilliant glow, how deep the shade; How chill the day succeeding lost delight. " But need our magic Garden of Delight Grow chill," the lover mused, "because this height We may not always tread ? Into the shade Must pass the greatest glory ever made; Yet memories are beautiful . . . and Night." And all his words were love, as on they strayed. 84 Adown the blue star-mead an angel strayed ; And, as she paused a moment, in delight. The lover's burning words fell on the night. She heard, and bending earthward from the height, She caught the words, transmuted each, and made A thousand winged lights flit through the shade. Long years ago, this chanced. Yet, still, the shade Of that old Garden where the lovers strayed, By dancing, quivering fire-fly light, is made A wonder-world inwrought with all delight. And never dark or voiceless is the height; These tiny, flashing stars illume each night. Forever walks the Night through twinkling shade; New songs are made; yet ever old delight. Immortal, crowns each height where love has strayed. 85 FIREFLIES ON MIDSUMMER NIGHT OH, the beauty of the meadow In the early summer evening, A-flashing and a-gleaming with a thousand tiny stars ! Oh, the something in the silence Of the fire-embroidered darkness Which holds a mortal soul enthralled beside the meadow bars ! Oh, the magic of the meadow. Of the fairy-haunted meadow, A-glitter in the gloaming with twinkling bits of light ! Oh, the swaying of the grasses. As from the woodland passes. The little folk come gathering to keep mid-summer night ! With black thorn from the hollow, With ash and oak they follow ; Across the scented fern they come and o'er the red- top grass. And when the planet Venus Drops low behind the pine-trees, The dance begins within the ring no mortal foot may pass. There's Cobweb and Peaseblossom, And close beside them, resting 86 For a moment on the umbel of a yellow parsnip weed, With glistening wings a-shimmer, In the darkling glow and glimmer, Sit mischief-maker Master Puck and little Mustard Seed. And the things they've brought for feasting As they rest between the dances! There's pollen bread and cricket-wing both sunbrowned to a turn ; And in tiny bee-leg baskets, There is fern-seed wrapped in magic, And ripe and rich such globes of wine as on the cur- rants burn. On ancient toad-stool tables, There are cheeses from the mallow, And tiny candelabra from the staghorn and the pine ; And from the hidden cellars Of the fairy market-places, Where glow-worms bask, a thousand casks of old and mellow wine. Their wine-glasses are goblets From the Elf-king's silver lichens. Each filled to over-flowing with a something clear like dew . . . But it isn't; it is nectar 87 From a thousand honied blossoms, Well-mixed and made into such drink as only fairies brew. Oh, the magic of the meadow! Oh, the wonder and the beauty, The mystery of little lights that set the world aglow ! And oh, the dull-eyed mortal A-peering through the shadow For a sight of things he cannot know ... of course he cannot know ! But I'm told, mid-summer evening, If he'll seek an upland pasture, If he'll wait and watch and listen till the night-sounds all grow still, If he's the friend of fairies, He'll be given double vision. He too shall see the lanterns flash across the fairy hill. 88 SIC TRANSIT THE moment goes. Oh! to detain it; Hold it fast in all its rapture; Break its wings, if need be; chain it! But let go, and then recapture. Such a task! The gods might do it. But we mortals? Winged, elusive Flies the bright thing. We pursue it, Led by some fond hope, delusive. That next minute we may hold it, Clasp it to our souls forever; In our longing arms enfold it ! Catch it? Keep it? Hold it? . . . Never! 89 THE DARK HOUR THE house is hushed, and I catch my breath, As from hall to stair I creep. It's a lonely thing to be about When the folks have gone to sleep. The world is wide, but the sun has set, And the gloom of night grows deep. It's a lonely thing to live, and live. When the folks have gone to sleep ! go BECAUSE I KNOW WHY don't you take to the Open Road? This pathway is hard at best ! " "But this is the way I was told to go. Would I find a place to rest." " And it's ill you're faring ! How can you go On and on toward the west ? " " There's a place just over the sunset rim Where I'm told tired folks may rest." " But the way is so long, and it ends in Night. You'll find it a fruitless quest." "No. Somewhere beyond the last great height, I know that my heart shall rest." 91 AT EVENING TIME Zechariah xiv : 7 ** A T evening time it shall be light." ^ ^ Upon our grief and darkened sight The promise flashed ; and every shade Of doubt, of question, quick essayed To pass in judgment, "Wrong or Right?" Then we remembered yesternight. How, shot with sun-fire warm and bright, Each cloud in glory was arrayed, At evening time. What matter, then, the chill, the blight? The God who planned will guide aright. Our Pilot knows. And unafraid, Unshaken, fearless, undismayed, We'll meet what comes. It shall be light At evening time. 92 UNDER EACH FORM HE FINDS THEE, THE FORMLESS — AND THE ROAD OF THE MANY, GLEAMS, EVERYWHERE, ONE. 93 A few years more, or a few years less — What matter the time on a timeless way, If love that is Love is ours to bless; If the shining Comrade has come to stay; If the fellowship grows; and, more and more, The rapture deepens from year to year — There is no need of the other shore. Heaven is ours, and now and here. 94 MY WINDOW TO THE SKY I CARE not what the world may say, If I know that, on high. My life is known, and so I keep A window for the sky. And be the day or dark or bright, If clouds the sun deny. One place I know is always light — My window to the sky. 95 BEYOND YOU cannot hurt me now; I've passed beyond The fret of lesser things, the little fears Which dog the footsteps of the restless years, When all is young and hearts are over-fond. I've passed beyond, into a wonder-land, With lily-flower a-bloom and bird a-wing; More beautiful than ever earthly spring Devised. Some day your soul may understand. I've passed beyond the hurt. Immortal breath Of flame has swept my life, and left it free. I go triumphant. All the minstrelsy Of joy is theirs, who once have tasted death. 96 BACK OF THE SUNSET BACK of the sunset, Back of the shadow, Back of the sea and the stars and the moon, Back of the night-wind. Back of the morning. Ever the throb of the unwritten rune. Deeper than discord, Deeper than pleasure, Deeper than sorrow or hatred or wrong; Under the semblance Of life, life's full measure; Deep through the heart of earth, unwritten song. What is the message? What is the meaning? Deeper than word runs the wonderful theme. But barken and listen. The gleam of the Vision, The song of the triumph, past shadow and dream! Ever it calls us, Through midnight, through morning, Over the daisies with petals uncurled; — "Under all evil. An ultimate blessing." The Voice of the God in His garden, the World. 97 HE KNOWS HE knows. He knows Each path which goes Across the height, The lack of light; He knows each step Of all the way; He knows the burden Of each day; He knows each question, Each despair. The cross alone We could not bear. He knows each struggle, Each defeat; Each Vale of Baca He makes sweet. His love lies back Of all the ways. And since he portions Out the days. My only way. The way He goes. My sweetest song " He knows. He knows." 98 THE GIFTS GOD gave us tears, that we might find The voice of joy on every wind; The gift of shade, that every one Might find at last his gift of sun. And finding, know, by lighted mind, The changeless gleam which lurks behind Our simple days and simple morrows. For human joys and human sorrows Are all bound round with harmonies, For ear that hears and eye that sees. The merry Mays where robins nest, The Junes with garden roses dressed. Though royal rich, are not more sweet Than winter's frost and snow and sleet. Nor better here nor better there, For lighted soul, all things are fair. And all the birds on all the trees. The dawn, the moon, the singing seas, The sound which to the storm belongs, Are many notes of many songs. But many songs in many keys At heart are one — God's melodies. 99 ONE SPRINGTIME THE robins were nesting the first weeks I knew you; The oriole sang from the trees; The buds of the maple were reddening daily; The elm boughs bent to the breeze. And springtime passed by us, all beauty, all rapture, The cherry bloom whitened like snow. The year was at morn; it was ours, to recapture The secret, spring whispered long ages ago. But tell me, I pray thee, what word can translate it — The magic which hides in the song of a bird? The charm of the blossom, what language can mate it? Yet who can behold it with pulses unstirred? And we, as we listened and looked, all responsive, In simple good comradeship found, dew-empearled, One gleam of that jewel which holds lustre forever, A joy never found in the marts of the world; A something too fine for the dust and confusion ; A something too sweet for the crowd and the throng; A something defined by no speech ; one glad fusion Of notes for the soul, color, fragrance and song. We felt it — the Infinite Life underlying The blossom, the brook-song, the call of the bird; A something ineflFable, changeless, undying — God's Thought taking form at the Voice of His Word. 100 THE ONLY ROAD ONE road there is that stretches far Beneath earth's ever changing skies; One sure straight Road of all that are. And yet with dark world-blinded eyes, We pass the simple gateway by, Till, some day, bound by black despair, Bowed, breathless, spent, " Help Thou," we cry. And hear the Voice : — "Thy peace lies there! There blooms the fairest flower of life; Earth's noble great that way have trod. Back — to the Road of Sacrifice, The only road that leads to God ! " lOI EVERYMAN HE looked ahead — Gethsemane. The great road of the day- Lay through the garden dim discerned; There was no other way. He entered his Gethsemane; Beneath the crushing load Of woe unspeakable he bowed; Such gift had God bestowed. But in the holy world-freed hush, He heard new songs arise, And all the air grew strangely sweet With bloom of sacrifice. He passed beyond Gethsemane. Lo! like a shining track Across the way, a radiance lay. Gethsemane — looking back, He saw the gate of Paradise — The entrance to that land Where values change, where vision clears. And life can understand. 102 IN MEMORIAM LORD of the garnered grain, Thou God of men, From even-star to morning star, thy sun Is never lost. It sets, to rise again. And life, thy gracious gift, Thou Lord of Life, Though far its light be borne beyond our ken, Still is — imperishable life forevermore; It sinks to rise again. Thine eye keeps watch both sides the viewless screen This land of Time and thy great Timeless Land. Thy love annuls the space which lies between, Until, beyond our power to understand, We know — the comfort comes — or there, or here In thine unchanging love, the loved are near. 103 THE LOTUS SEED \ LOTUS seed lay a thousand years ^ •*• In the dark of a Pharaoh's tomb. Unnoted it slept while the veiled days crept Ghost-footed, in stealth, through the gloom; Blown breath of the gods, a shadowy line, They fed on the sacred flower; Generations of men, they turned to dust; But the seed awaited its hour. Another thousand — till four, till five Mysterious cycles had passed; And the dust of a dim dead yesterday Was blown to the light at last. The sun and the rain and the withered seed Met in the quickening earth. And the germ which had slept five-thousand years Awoke to a second birth. A lotus flower of marvelous bloom Crept up from the silent sod — A word of the deathless life and love Of the Infinite beauty, God. 104 BENEATH ARCTURUS THROUGH the years, all time, we seek Him. Him we see not; yet we find Everywhere some wordless message From the timeless land. Behind Flower and fruit and fragrant grasses, Ever speaks the Master Mind. On all sides the speechless language. When the western evening breeze Shows the temple star, Arcturus, Flashing through the waving trees. Like some burnished lamp and golden, Hung between eternities. A strange hush falls on the spirit. Countless races, born to die As flowers fade, like song forgotten, Once looked up beneath the sky Where the temple star, Arcturus, Nightly flashed its light on high. I must pass, as those before me; Other men must pass as I. Friendly stars shall watch the passing. Shining in the quiet sky — Harbor-lights to that far haven Where all earth-born questions die. 105 While the temple star, Arcturus Hung between eternities With its flashing lamp and golden, Lights the changing centuries, We shall find Him. He will lead us Through the changeless verities. MY GARDEN WALK MY garden walk is narrow, but the boundaries are wide; My garden walk is narrow, but the arch above is high; In wealth of bloom, Contentment grows; and proof 'gainst time and tide. My garden owns far reaches to the sky. io6 INTO HIS HOUSE T NTO His house when the leaves were green, -*• Into His House of Life I came. The sunsets burned like a yellow flame. And the night and the day were hung between. Far and wide through His house I roam. He sets no bounds for the rich or poor; His gifts, his bounty are everywhere, And prince or pauper may feel at home. Never an hour but I seek my Host. I call Him; I search; I know He is here, By the strange awareness of someone near; But I turn to look, and the form is lost. Yet ever I feel an impulse stir, A nameless something which lures me forth On trackless ways, as a bird wings north. By the primal instinct which governs her. Someday, in snow, or when leaves are green. What time I know not — or soon, or late — When I pass out through the darker gate, Will He meet me, the One I have never seen? Shall I find Him beside the open door? Or beyond, somewhere, on the road of the miles 107 Which leads through the blossoming Afterwhiles? Shall I see Him then? Or mayhap before? I know but this : — I have heard His voice, It speaks me oft in the trysting place; And the Voice hath said, " Thou shalt see His face. Fare forth; thou shalt find Him!" I go, and rejoice. MY OFFERING MASTER of all gardens, Lord of mine, Offering of toil-filled days I bring, And seeds of thousand flowers to deck Thy shrine. Haply they may bud and put forth leaf Before the altar stone, in breath of praise. For which the whole of life were all too brief. So shall it fragrant grow, my offering — A-bloom with flower of song, for tired hearts. That travelers of the way may hear, and sing. And something sweet shall be through all the strife Of living. Help me, Thou of the Overword, To do my best with my small plot of life ! io8 HIGHWAY AND BYWAY I LIVE to serve. Lord, show me how to serve. My center, Thee, the source from which I draw All strength to serve, all willingness to dare, All joy, all peace, supply for every need. And if so be thy path of learning lead Along the darkened ways of life, through loss, Or pain, or weakened human strength, may each Thy teacher be of holier ministry! Grant, Lord, thy peace, thy gift unspeakable! Not that my tower of life may be for me Alone, a place of rest, a sheltered room. From which unhappy thought and dull-eyed pain And cry of anguish from a struggling world Have entrance barred. Not this my prayer. But rather, Calm and peace, abundant, housed within — To meet each need, should traveler come to find. The grace to stoop, if stooping I may lift; And joy, abiding joy, that I may give To every joyless one who seeks my door. And if, perchance, my sympathies grow weak. Through suffering, let me learn what suffering 109 That I may know the burden others bear! Enlarge my vision till I understand, And understanding, share my wine of life With other souls athirst with human need! So would I serve. Lord show me how to serve ! And if so be thy path of learning lead Along the darkened ways of life, through loss Or pain or weakened human strength, may each Thy teacher be of holier ministry! IIO SONG OF THE WINGED SOUL TRIUMPHANT, exultant I ride On the tide of the worlds. Over lines of the pines Where the pale moonlight shines; Through aisles of the grove, I ride and I ride. I rove over fields of white clover And myrtle and ilex and rose; I go to the desolate lands Where the red flower of sacrifice grows, To find offering meet For His shrine — The shrine of the Perfect, The all things in one. What matter the night without star, Or the grey of a day without sun! There is ever, immortal, the gleam, As forth on His errands I run. I run or I ride — Triumphant, exultant and free. I know neither discord nor dole, For the One in the many is mine; His purpose, the breath of my soul. Ill L'ENVOI ON the road I hear this music Where it turns to climb the hill: — " You, who bend beneath life's burden. Weary, toiling, seeking still — Know, in all things, you can Hud me. Love the Lode Star, seeker, guide. Day and night, all time, unfailing, I am ever by your side. I, who made the meadow lilies, I, who gave the bird its wing, I can make your thorn-tree blossom. And all life a singing thing. Singing, though the twilight deepens Into darkness on the Hill Of World's Ending. Through all shadows, I am Love zvho leads you still." 112 SONNETS "3 THE WINE OF LIFE THE wine of life lies all across each page, A pulsing tide ; and rich, so rich, no gold Could buy; new-pressed from blood-red blossoms, sold In but one market-place — love's heritage. Like some rare vintage from the golden age, Time-mellowed; warm as color rubies fold About their hearts, and hoard and hold. Against some sun-lit hour of privilege ; So this, life's wine, close guarded through the years, And kept all pure, all sweet, lies spilt at last, For you, Beloved. Take it, let it lie To cover up that other stain, my tears Once made . . . God saw, when first the Shadow passed. If this, too, stains the pages, pass it by. "5 LOVE PLAYS FOR THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND /^ NE reads to-day of spiritless desire, ^^^ Of cold possession and a dearth of song; A god of love who listless limps along, Or prostrate lies on his own funeral pyre. I half believed it truth until Love's lyre Across my lonely pathway sounded long And clear and sweet, and one from out life's throng Stepped sudden forth. Flame from burnt out fire Leaps not more unexpected. All life grew. That hour, in joyance, great with hope and trust. A master spirit held me by the hand, And drew me onward, upward, till I knew In one clear flash the truth. O hearts of dust. Love plays . . . and sweet, for those who understand. ii6 A DIM REMEMBRANCE STIRS A DIM remembrance stirs ; and yet there lies Some veil upon the sense ; we cannot see Clear-eyed, with open vision ; memory, At best, but half-awake, gives vague replies To all our questions ; but ... I met your eyes Three years ago, and all came back to me — The old old halcyon days; the mystery Of things not all forgotten; starry skies, And wind-swept midnights rose; a strange sweet sense Of having known you, always, flashed across My work-day world; and, instant, all the drear Dull outlook changed to gold — a recompense Well worth for all the trial and grief and loss. For all the long long way from year to year. 117 I LEARNED TO KNOW BUT "three brief years"! Beloved, is it so? Such words are but a semblance of the truth. For somewhere, ages gone, in this world's youth, In times which men forget, I learned to know Your voice, your eyes ; the soul which stirs below Those pulsing depths ; which rises swift, forsooth, To call my own, past all the wrong and ruth, To higher levels than the World can show. Aye, you were mine ere Babylon was built; Ere Rome and Carthage lay beneath the sun. Some Shape, in passing near us, sudden spilt The sacred wine; we tasted and grew one. Grew one, aye, one forevermore became In that dim land past sight, past date, past name. ii8 THE THOUGHT OF YOU AS oft, in passing by a dewy spray Of garden roses, lightest touch will shake A shower of pearly drops, which, falling, break In wondrous beauty on the dusty way; So just the thought of you — and yesterday, Strikes swift across my soul, and doth awake A thousand high resolves which, for your sake, Would hold all things 'neath one imperious sway. Oh, great is God, and good to let us know How perfect is the cup for those who love ! Some hearts thirst always — never taste the wine. But God is good! He let us meet, to show How life on earth might match the life above, And daily sound new depths of the divine. 119 I LOVE THEE I LOVE thee? Yes! How much? I cannot say. Go ask the wave how much it loves the sea, The garden lily how it loves the bee, The amorous day-star how it loves the day. Go ask all things that are. Perchance, the way To measure love some know with certainty. Not I ! Such loves combined, with mine to thee Compared, are frail as foam-flecked ocean spray. But this I know: my soul strange music hears. Since, on the way, I met with thee and love. Through everything there runs sweet undertone. The joy of knowing thee, through these brief years. Stands, God alone all other things above, — The greatest thing my life has ever known. 120 THE LOVE I SING THE love I sing, is not the common weed Of mere acceptance with its root of gain, Its flower of selfish interest, its grain Of fruitful discontent — a dangerous seed. I sing that other love — the world has need, Great need, of such to still life's restless pain. The love of loving Service, fresh as rain Upon a parched land, and sweet indeed. And I, who sing, sing on because my love, Grown great enough to serve, seeks only ways To serve, Beloved. Simply as a flower Gives of its fragrance to the air above, So I would give my best, through all my days. To help, to cheer, to bless you, hour by hour. 121 I SING BECAUSE I MUST SUCH love as this were not unworthy love! I know it as I write ; and yet, at times, I feel myself less worthy, writing rhymes To fit my mood. Like one who wears above His deed the blazoned record of it, wove With scarlet — his own choice, and as he climbs, Holds the device so all must see, lest chimes Of bells and ringing rhymes forget to prove His prowess, men his praise to speak. For sacred as some Delphic shrine, I hold The miracle of love. I only sing. As sings the lark at morn, when mountain peak Throws off its mantling mist, and shows all gold Because I must when love lights everything. 122 YOU WROUGHT THE JOY, NOT I IF someday, near God's throne, a radiant thing, In angel guise, should meet you, and should say The while with puzzled eyes, as dreamers may. You struggle vainly to recall — " You bring No recollection? No remembering? Have you so soon forgot the darkened day, The load another bore, the dusty way, The help, the joy you gave?" H wondering At lack of memory, you should disclaim All knowledge of this deed, or hold untrue. Oh, take the laurel, dear; do not deny; For I — I had the chance — and in your name I gave; at every turn I helped. But you Were in my heart; you wrought the joy, not I! 1:^3 IMMUNITY tt'lT 7 HO once has supped with me," a low Voice VV said, " Has naught to fear ; I free from petty ills. No change of time or tide, no frost that kills, No blight, no power of living thing, or dead, Henceforth shall bind him; no, nor any dread Of one grim shape. But, free as air that fills The empyrean vast, wherever spirit wills, He goes, unbound, untrammeled, comforted." The low Voice ceased. I raised my eyes to see What thing of chance or fate beside me stood. Lo ! Grief, with wine which Grief Supreme distils, Did bid me drink. Oh, strange immunity! Who quaffs such wine, I slowly understood, Forever strikes the blow to lesser ills. 124 THE BATTLE IS NOT YOURS * <' I ''HE battle is not yours, but God's," I heard -i» The preacher say. "And not alone ye fight! Be not afraid, nor yet dismayed! In might Just cause shall be established." The great word Of faith triumphant echoed till it stirred Responsive faith, and in the hush of night, I left my life with God, assured the right. The best, would come — in his own time preferred. Since when, in waiting just God's time — God's way — God's marking for the path — like some small child All confident, I work with mind at rest. Fearless, when noon turns midnight — for the day Lies somewhere, just beyond. However wild, The storm will clear at last. And God knows best! 125 BY PATHWAY OF THE EVENING STAR I CANNOT mingle with the crowd to-night, And idly sit and watch the Jersey Shore, Though dusk grows warm with beauty as, once more, Night's gipsy comes to spell with darkling light The river-tide. I cannot bear the sight Of noisy people passing evermore With laugh and jest. For lo! the spirit door In my clay-shuttered house is sudden bright. And I must out, down purpling lanes afar, To find the trysting place, lest shadow fall Upon the road with half its length untrod. I go by pathway of the evening star. To-night I cannot heed a lesser call — I need the silence and the touch of God. 126 LIFE'S LODE STAR HOU great Unseen, Life's Lode Star, from my heart Through vales of endless silence rings the cry, I love Thee! Thought of Thee can glorify The dusty ways of earth, and change the chart Of all the universe, each smallest part Reflecting still thy loveliness. And I, Companioned by strange joy, would magnify Thy name, till every note of praise should start Another song, more perfect, more complete. Than any rose-crowned year has sung by land Or moonlit sea. No song of love, confest Beneath compelling eyes, could be as sweet As this, the miracle. I understand — And love life most, when loving Thee the best. 127