o > » • * <^*'\ . ►^•y' %.'^-'%o^ v^^*y %**^--*^ TVi* A ^^a.9^ O • 4 « • 7VV* A off* k > • .4.^ Q. *.:«t:i^f',* ^ ^'^ ^^ >^^^ ^5 * V**' •• „r ... ■"<> • • •<»* m o ,4Q, • • o I'-. V** -^ 0^ t-l^J* ^ . ^^^ ^ - ^.lift her head And stare aghast at me ! THE OLD SOUL Pure and bewildered spirit, what do you here to-day ? Yours was a simpler country, a time more far away. Where the old gods were shattered there you upraised your Lord Stark on His cross a buckler betwixt red sword and sword, Where your strong abbeys towered and your wide harvests smiled You kept the ward for Heaven, an outpost in the w^ild : On those long-perished uplands your sandaled foot- steps trod, You knew of seed and harvest, of fire and sword and God: You have known prayer and battle, bondage and sovereignties. But not this life's impassioned and sad complexities. Though where your meadows rippled and swung their heavy grain The twisted paven roadways a thousand years have lain, 131 132 The Old Soul Yet here, where no god conquers, where no firm foot- steps stand. Your eyes seek that lost Saviour and that old Father- land. Where the old saints stand singing, there does your soul belong, In Christ's fair jeweled Heaven of ecstasy and song. Or slaying with great laughter down the red endless morn In the old wild Valhalla of your strong gods forsworn ; But you stand here, a stranger, 'mid souls you cannot know. Meshed in their thoughts, and 'wildered with many paths to go. . . . What net of sense ensnared you from your hard purity And set you lost and seeking down this sad century? Surely for that dim sinning this exile must atone ! Rise, white and wandered spirit! Return unto thine own! THE LOST FRIEND I WISH there could have been, Strong, loyal, innocent, For one short hour alone. The You I dreamed to be : High watch on things unseen. Grave honor, pure intent — Where is the white soul flown Who gave all these to me? I would have made a grave For that immortal hour. For that immortal friend Still through the long years mine ; Purple and gold should wave Thought-flower, passion-flower. Above it, to the end Comforting-place and shrine. But where that image stood Oh, there was never you! (My heart, whence it is gone Knows a tired, empty pain) You were a dream, a mood. Dim, wavering, untrue, A ghost that passed at dawn And will not come again. 133 THE WONDERFUL COUNTRY I WISH that I might turn back On the Wonderful Country's track Where all o' the folk were wonder-wise And all o' the world was new, . . . Where apple-trees swept the moon And long as a year was June And just beyond the yellow road's rise Anything might come true! Your little red gate swung free From Home to the Endless Lands Where you always could find a Dream a-rhyrae In azure or gold or blue, Where the Lady that You Would Be Stood waving her gold-ringed hands From out afar in that gracious time Where everything waited you ! Where any thrilled hour might show. Dim-framed in the river-glass, Shivering gleam of silver mail, (Lids half-low in the wood!) Spear upon spear arow. As swift as a shadow pass iThe glimmering Knights of the Holy Grail, Come succoring Robin Hood ! 134 The Wonderful Country 135 (Robin Hood? ... He was gone Just only a moment past ! Still you could hear the dreaming horn From over a neighbor's hill ; Out from the Sherwood-lawn Afar and more sweet the blast Over the towers of Lincoln borne. Whispering silver-still !) Then was an easy way Through the reddening gates of Day : To the golden house of the Sun and Moon Was only an hour or so, Where the Sun and the Moon sat lone Great lords on their turquoise throne. And swift for the sake of a song you spun Would tell you the way to go : Where the curtseying Stars bent fair. And each from her silver chair ('Twas all for the love of a tale you told Or a little earth-gift you gave) Would give to you brazen shoon And counseling birds of gold And even the Ivory Key for boon, That opened the Crystal Cave. . . . (There was only enchanted water To cross, and the Witch's Daughter 136 The Wonderful Country To bribe with the golden egg o' the Sun And silver nuts o' the Moon : And a little old song to sing And a tear — and your toiling done And wide awake the Enchanted King And the sorrowing over siDon). . . . For any strange land to find By magical night or noon You had only to leap on the Red Fox's back And be over the green hill's brow More fast than the whistling wind. . . . Oh, I wish I could follow the track That leads by way of the Sun or the Moon To the Wonderful Country now I RECOMPENSE O WHAT is the gold wreath winding fair Just beyond Heaven-Gate f " That is a wreath of days you wove In an earth-life late." O what is the silver -flower that shines Making all Heaven more sweet f " That is the day when you laid your joys At another's feet." O what is the heartsease gleaming brave, Purple and white and gold? " The day when you laid your heart's desire In another's hold." And what is the great red rose that burns Brighter than all beside? " That is the day when they broke your heart, And your warm youth died." But why do you sigh at Heaven- Gate, Spirit enthroned, forgiven ? *' There is no fairer wreath than this In the fields of Heaven ! " 137 138 Recompense Ay, the wreath is fair for a saint to wear Through Heaven in joyful wise. . . . Yet, oh to have had one leaf on earth From my Paradise ! THE ESTRAY I HAVE seen many things ; My soul is an old soul now ; My soul is tired. Rulers of Life and Death, I have lived many lives; I should be fast asleep Where my old gods dream white With the souls I knew. Rulers of Life and Death, What did my tired soul do, Back in those friended times When I was with my own. That it must come again Here where no friend-soul is? For I have had dreams; Hushing, remembering. . . . Faces I knew. That left me, wakened. Rulers of Life and Death, I have atoned for all. All the forgotten sins, All of that long-dead wrong, 139 140 The E stray Here in the loneliness, In the stranger-ways. . . . Rulers of Life and Death, Let me go sleep! THERE IS NOTHING DEAD They say that the child is dead : It seems so strange to say, Though her mother has knelt and cried Where a Something white has slept In a coffin all to-day. . . . And here in the ordered gloom Of the heavy-scented room We have all of us looked and v^rept. . . . But just as the dark day cleared An instant at sunsetting And the wind blew fresh and wet From the rose-gold-rifted sky We heard a strange bird sing : Out on the lawn, leaf-piled, Thrillingly sweet we heard Rapturous, ceaseless, wild, A voice . . . like the yellow bird She mourned when last June was through And we rose up languidly From our grief in the dark, to see What bird could sing so late At our sorrow's very gate ! Over the withered leaves The child ran flashingly, 14T 142 There is Nothing Dead Laughing with living eyes Under her flying hair: And we heard her voice. She said : " There is nothing dead! " And forgotten butterflies Of an old June gleamed and swung, Wheeling about her hair. . . . And the dead bird sang on her hand (Only he was not dead) And the dry brown leaves flashed green Under her brushing tread An instant . . . but we had seen. . . . She was gone — or our eyes were blind — Only . . . far off . . . there cried Bird-song along the wind For a quivering instant more. . . . And the sound from out the door Of her mother's sobbing crept, For the Something white, that lay In its coflin all to-day — " She is dead ! She is dead ! " it wept. . . . But it seemed so strange to say ! THE FORGOTTEN SOUL TwAS I that cried against the pane on All Souls' Night — (O pulse o' my heart's life, how could you never hear?) You filled the room I knew with yellow candle-light And cheered the lass beside you when she prayed in fear. Twas I that touched your shoulder in the gray wood- mist — (O core o' my heart's heart, how could you never know ?) You only frowned and shuddered as you bent and kissed The lass hard by you, handfast, where I used to go. 'Twas I that stood to greet you on the churchyard pave — (O fire o' my heart's grief, how could you never see?) You smiled in pleasant dreaming as you crossed my grave. And crooned a little love-song where they buried me! 143 THE FORGETFUL PEOPLE I AM sick with the sorrows and the long complainings And the small fierce joys between; I will go to the place of the Forgetful People And make my tired heart clean. There's no hand of heaviness the heart is knowing, Where shadow-glimmering The careless feet of the Forgetful People Fall ever in a ring ; I shall not know what mournfulness the winds are crying To-night when dusk-winds rise; For the sleepy veils of the Forgetful People Will blow across my eyes ; My sorrows shall not dash me like a wave returning, With the sick morrow's mom — There's no hope or grief with the Forgetful People, Nor any love nor scorn. I shall wander and laugh alone in empty places And watch on the wet ground The silent wind of the Forgetful People Whirling the brown leaves round; 144 The Forgetful People 14^ And I shall feel no pain of all my wild heart's crying. Nor hurt of memory; For the stealing hands of the Forgetful People Will take my past from me. JEANNE D'ARC AT RHEIMS God and Saint Michael and Saint Catherine, Saint Raphael and white Saint Margaret, They are great Heaven-folk, and do not come From their clean golden thrones to this soiled earth For any little thing. They came to me. Ah, once indeed they came — and France is freed. . . . I wish that I were freed, and spinning now Beside my mother in the door at home. I thought I might go home again and spin When I had done the task they set for me. The great white saints and angels, with their robes That shone like skies and water in the sun, And heavy jeweled aureoles that swung Behind their hair. . . . There is a little place, A smooth brown ground to dance a distaff on. Locked round by trees, hid thick from eyes that pass ; A still green sunny corner far away From crownings and from cities and from praise. Far too from my old Oak still memoried With cryings and with cryings out at dark. . . . Not Angels' voices — Angels send you forth On long, long roads, to spur unwilling folk Who mock or worship, but are never friends, Yet Angels speak you graciously, like Lords. They would not be there now, nor anywhere. 146 Jeanne D^Arc at Rheims 147 Only the mocking evil Other Folk, Green-clad and swift, might wheel and cry to me, The Dancing People. I would never clance. Not even in broad day, lest one should call. And whisper me to come. ... So many folk Not of this earth, cross softly at the dusk And cry to one to answer if one hears. " We of the Borderlands shall hold you fast Till you are given away to some of us, Come then to us who are the Dancing Folk, And will not hurt your heart with sorrowings ! " She cried so to me once across the dusk. Swaying and beckoning at the wood's edge, The green-clad girl who swung against the wind Like a leaf -screen in moonlight and black shade: " We of the Borderlands shall hold you thrall To your days' ending. Never think for you There shall be common carelessness nor peace. Come — all this troubled world that wearies you Because it is so great, shall only be A little dancing-green for your swift feet Through many thousand turnings of the moon. You shall have mirth and music and still joy. And where your heart weighs there shall be a hush. A cool light silence that has all forgot But dancing and white moonrays ! " Oh, I screamed And clutched to find the crucifix I wore : I knew that what she willed to take from me 148 Jeanne D^Arc at Rheims Was that earth-grief that is the human soul, The soul that aches so at the locking flesh, And suffers to be free. '' Mary ! " I prayed, " Mary and Jesus ! " And the green-clad girl Cried out as if a knife had struck at her, " The Woman and her Son of the gray Sorrowings ! The Sorrows fly above their heads like birds, More sorrows and more sorrows for your heart That is too heavy now to care for joy! " I cried more loud to Mary and the Saints; She moaned like a hurt child, and filmed like mist, Gone. . . . And I heard the Voices I obey. The ringing voice of Michael of the Sword, The gracious voice of grave Saint Catherine, That I have followed. ... Do they all forget? A thousand years up there is like a day, The priest said once. And then a peasant-lass The more or less to such great Saints as they — " Can she not stay alone," perhaps they said, " One little hour without our whisperings ? " For all the harps of Heaven ring merrily. And time is swift when one has joy to know ; The Voices are all gone. . . . First I was glad When the last echo faded. High and clear And silver-certain as a bugle-call They sped me, and I followed — ay, and France, France follows too ! And now my King is crowned. But now how shall I follow — oh, how guide, Jeanne D'Arc at Rheims 149 With only wavering clatter of these lords Who keep me here to be a tool for them? I sought to bring before my eyes last night, That were so tired with glinting gold and steel, A picture of some pleasant year to come When I should be forgotten, and let go, And my own people had forgotten too. And let me move among them as of old : (" Ay, a good girl," they said, " and scrupulous To do her daily work. Too still, maybe. And more a dreamer than is good for maids. But not too light-heart nor too pert of tongue." I used to wish my tongue and heart more light — Light hearts bring common friends and common ways, The gossip on the green, and marrying. The hearth-fire, and small children at the knee.) I tried to vision it as the night slid : The fire on some known hearth, and some man's head Shadowy in the corner, half-asleep. And small brown eager faces listening, And little hands shut fast on mine, intent While I told stories of the gentlefolk, The rose and blue and golden of their robes. And how their tall white horses galloped past — All should have faded then to a child's tale. I tried to see it all to make sleep come. But all was wavering and not to hold, 150 Jeanne D'Jrc at Rheims The eager brown dream-children, questioning, The spindle whirling as I told the tale: Only the hearth-fire, scarlet, sinister. Rose high against the eyeballs of my mind, Lashing around me in a tide of flame That thickened into yellow bitter smoke. Sinking all through the air and hiding me. I wish I did not think of her to-night. The green-clad girl who feared my crucifix And laughed out echoless to the light cry Of little flutes. Her voice calls in my ear, " How have your great white angels guerdoned you Now you have followed them ? '^ O Mary, Christ, I am remembering too much to-night. . . . '* Mother ! " they would have pleaded in the glow, " Mother, another tale ! . . . " But I must sleep : To-morrow I must ride along the lines Lance high and voice made brave, to speak my men Blithely for France. I am so tired to-night, So tired of all! O Mary and O Christ, Mary and Jesus of the Sorrowings, All Your gray birds of grief are on my heart: My Voices have been gone so long, so long, And I am only a tired peasant-lass Far off from the safe shadows of the woods. Far off from any silence. . . . Mary, Christ, Once you were peasants too! You know, you know. WIND-LITANY In this world I shall not find Any comforter like Wind, Any friend to so endure, Any love so strong, so sure. I was born when Wind with Star Linked its magic, and from far Whispered out my destiny. . . . And the Winds have brothered me. Strong young hill-winds roistering Up the steep with me and Spring, Wild wet thrilling ocean-gales Flinging out my swelling sails. Or the little dawning-airs Rising pure as baby -prayers — These have loved me since my birth On the wind-swept swinging earth. Rose-perfumed night-air that slips Like a kiss across my lips, Smoke-tanged wood-breath — they can sweep All old childhood from its sleep Underneath thick-fallen days Heaped and dun across my ways ; For until the end shall be, Scent o' wind is Memory. 151 152 Wind-Litany I remember when befell Heartbreak fierce, intolerable, And no voice or touch but bound Deeper torment on the wound : Yet a little wind could rise Stroking cheek and tear-wet eyes, Breathing, " Hush ! All pain shall pass ! Still are winds, and skies, and grass ! " God, when all of earth shall lie Stripped and new beneath Thine eye, And Thy gold stars fall unstrung, And Thy curtain-sky down-flung. And Thy seas are lifted up Whole from out their empty cup. Grant me still, in Heaven's place Sweet swift winds across my face ! THE PASSING What did you see, whose glad wide eyes looked up- ward while the night was passing? Was it great angels in the skies where we saw gray clouds massing? Did you see jeweled gates unfold and rosy glories round you flowing, Or some dear saint-face ringed with gold, when you were going? Oh, once I saw a cloud gleam rose, where through a pane was dawn delaying, And once I saw a dear face close grow sad for my not staying. And far above, away from me, where green the forest trees were growing, A wakened bird sang piercingly, when I was going. What did you think of, when you lay and smiled through all the sobbing round you? Was it of debts that Heaven should pay, or gifts that earth had found you? And did you see sweet deeds behind, or those new joys before you lying Or dream of faces you should find, when you were dying ? IS3 154 The Passing Oh, once I thought of an old friend, and once I thought of an old lover, And once 1 wondered of the end, and why my days were over. And your loud world seemed far from me, far off the praying and the crying. . . . And a gray tide rose sleepily, when I was dying. What did you know, you who were gone before our day on earth was breaking? Was there a trumpet- ringing dawn greeted your Heaven-awaking ? Were there gold paths and gem-set walls, with priest and prophet triumph-crying To greet you in Heaven's shining halls, after your dying ? Nay, there was peace and silentness, and a still happi- ness enfolding, And I forgot old weariness, and old pain ceased its holding, And old child-visions came to he, and lost child-hopes and joys came Hying, And all was very well with me, after my dying! RO BERT FROST "An authentic original voice in literature." — The Atlantic Monthly. MOUNTAIN INTERVAL "A remarkable work touched with prophecy and poetic pas- sion." — Brooklyn Eagle, "A poetic art almost classical in its restraint." — Review of Revienvs. "The same distinguished and distinctive features as its pred- ecessors, with perhaps still finer finish, color, mellowness, deli- cacy and half-hid humor." — Chicago Herald NORTH OF BOSTON "The poet had the Insight to trust the people with the book of people and the people replied 'Man, what is your name?'" — Neixj York Evening Sun. "The first poet for half a century to express New England life completely with a fresh, original and appealing way of his own." — Boston Transcript. A BOY'S WILL Mr. Frost's First Volume of Poetry "We have read every line with that amazement and delight which are too seldom evoked by books of modern verse." — The Academy (London): MOUNTAIN INTERVAL. Cloth. ^1.^5 net. NORTH OF BOSTON. Cloth. P.^5 net A BOY'S WILL. Cloth. $1.00 net. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY Publishers New York THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE "A collection so complete and distinguished that it is difficult to find any other approaching it sufficiently for comparison." — N. y. Times Book Revieiv. Compiled by BURTON E. STEVENSON Collects the best short poetry of the English language — not only the poetry everybody says is good, but also the verses that everybody reads. {3742 pages,' India paper, complete author, title and first line indices.) The most comprehensive and representative collection of American and English poetry ever published, including 3,120 unabridged poems from some 1,100 authors. It brings together in one volume the best short poetry of the English language from the time of Spenser, with especial atten- tion to American verse. The copyright deadline has been passed, and some three hundred recent authors are included, very few of whom appear in any other general anthology, such as Lionel Johnson, Noyes, Housman, Mrs. Meynell, Yeats, Dobson, Lang, Watson, Wilde, Francis Thompson, Gilder, Le Gallienne, Van Dyke, Wood- berry, Riley, etc., etc. The poems are arranged by subject, and the classification is unusually close and searching. Some of the most comprehen- sive sections are: Children's rhymes (300 pages) ; love poems (800 pages) ; nature poetry (400 pages) ; humorous verse (500 pages) ; patriotic and historical poems (600 pages) ; reflective and descriptive poetry (400 pages). No other collection con- tains so many popular favorites and fugitive verses. India Paper Editions Cloth, one volume, $8.00 net. Cloth, two 'volumes, $10.00 net. Half Morocco, one volume, $12.50 net. Three-quarters Morocco, two volumes, $18.00 net. EIGHT VOLUME EDITION ON REGULAR BOOK PAPER. SOLD IN SETS ONLY. $12.00 NET. HENRY Publishers HOLT AND COMPANY New York M 29 • ao £?^'^^. ^o ' J> % ^ •1'=^^ 4. '. i^'^'\* ^ o • * • • • ■ jO "^ '« . . • A ,v %'^*To' aO' ^^.