Class Oj£ ztr^n Book_ GopyrightU?. COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. POEMS POEMS BY ANTOINETTE QUINBY SCUDDER PRIVATELY PRINTED THE DEVINNE PRESS NEW YORK 1921 ^ i ft <\K Copyright, 1921, by Antoinette Quinby Scudder OEC 16 192 ©CLA630835 TO MY FATHER WALLACE McILVAINE SCUDDER CONTENTS POEMS PAGE Young Grandmother i Mussel-pearls 4 Sunset on the Marshes 5 A Shell 6 The Virgin's Lace 6 Beauty Triumphant 8 Yet, Once — 9 The Deserted Palace 10 Nasturtiums 12 August Eve 13 My Lady's Sampler 14 The Moors at Nantucket 15 Psyche's Sleeping 16 Northern Sunset 18 The Old Mirror 19 Via Della Madonetta . . . . . .21 Seashore Memories 23 Ursule's Missal 24 Fairy Song 25 Of Her 26 Aqua-marines 26 Azaleas 27 Sunset Near an Old Chateau .... 28 CONTENTS PAGE The Vinaigrette 30 A Find 3 2 The Moon-dial 32 Adoration 34 Jeanne and a City Garden 34 Angel-fish 35 The Chine 36 Two Little Ladies 37 Mystery 39 In My Love's Garden 42 The Swallow Vases 43 Old English 44 Her Ladyship's Fan 45 An Antique Earring 47 Corals 47 Hauviette's Prayer 48 A Provincetown Summer 49 My Lady's Vinaigrette 51 The Nereid 52 A Medieval Symphony 53 A "Nef" Jewel 54 SONNETS Old Jewelry 59 Avignon 59 Hollyhocks . 60 Antinous 61 CONTENTS TACE Rain in an English Garden 6 1 Marie de France 62 An Old Cameo 62 October Evening . . 63 Saint Nereid 63 The Bead Bag 64 Three Sonnets to Beatrice .... 64 A Chateau in the Aisne 66 California Poppies 66 Penthesilea 67 The Tuileries in March 67 The "Morning-glory" Geyser . . . .68 The Miracle 69 Venetian Vases 69 The Forest of Compiegne 70 A Princess of Egypt 72 The Sea Anemone 72 Deirdre 73 The Mother of Merovee 73 On the Mosaic of a Byzantine Empress . 74 Autumn 75 Narcissus 75 CINQUAINS Waiting 79 NlEGE 79 Esther 79 CONTENTS PAGE Midsummer Eve 79 The Humming Bird 80 The Apple 80 Dragon-flies 80 Mary Stuart 80 Sails 81 The Fountain 81 The Shell 81 Souls 81 Sirvente 82 The Priestess 82 An Old Garden 82 Jewels 83 on POEMS YOUNG GRANDMOTHER The summer that I spent with my grandfather In the white house the maple trees among Seems a faint nightmare now — the looming terror Of rooms that looked so wide and high and long The shallow mirrors reaching to the ceiling Their gilded grapes and vine-leaves tarnished all, The mantelpiece upborne by marble Satyrs, The dark old portraits frowning from the wall The chandeliers their thousand prisms dangling Like icicles upon a windless night, The cat-tail rushes standing up so stiffly From the huge jars of cloudy blue and white. Grandfather seldom noticed me; a silent Grey man was he, and always sitting by His tall carved desk beneath the oriel window That stared down at him like a great round eye. My two great-aunts — yes, both of them were maidens, — Stiff-waisted, thin, with locks of yellow-grey Looped smoothly over ears of shape patrician, And high cheekbones where withered rose-tints lay. I heard them sometimes talk of my grandmother Long dead — a tender creature April-souled For play and laughter meant, who feared the silence And gloom as flowers fear the winter cold. They said "Poor thing, she never had her girlhood, Scarcely sixteen when she became a bride, And then the children came so close together Till when the youngest one was born she died." To me she was a myth I rarely thought of, Unreal, for all grandmothers that I knew Were wrinkled white-haired ladies. So the time passed, And I was rather sad and lonely too Until one day at sunset I was going To fetch the croquet things off from the green And where the maples cast their deepest shadow I met a girl I ne'er before had seen. And she was very tall and very slender, With quaintly snooded locks of darkest brown, Beneath arched brows her eyes shone golden-hazel, She wore a crocus-tinted muslin gown And gathered high above her dainty ankles, Provokingly, a seashell gleam of flesh I glimpsed between the narrow, silken ribbons Criss-crossed upon her stockings' snowy mesh. 1*1 She did not speak, but from her eager glances And smile I guessed she wanted me to play. Lightly she touched my shoulder with her fingers, Then fleet as any fawn she sped away. I pelted after, but though quick and nimble, Not like that swift enchantress could I run. We circled the great bed where gladioli Stood up lance-straight in challenge to the sun. Past the low fence where coral-honeysuckle Glowed fiery sweet, and tall blue larkspurs peered Out of the yellow tangle of the cosmos, And always she'd evade me when I neared Her fluttering skirts. We scampered helter-skelter Across the croquet-lawn where balls still lay Between the lurching wickets. I remember How she looked back and laughed. And then, away Down to the lofty hedge along whose greenness Cherokee roses glimmered foamy white, And flashed around it. But when I had followed Through the small gateway she had vanished quite. I called and searched and called again, but nowhere That airy, flashing presence could I see — My great-aunts found me crying by the roadside When through the thickening dusk they sought for me. m But when I told them of my strange playfellow, Her hazel eyes and snooded locks of brown, And cheek like a white rose the sun has darkened, Her mauve-lined scarf and crocus-colored gown, I saw them both turn pale. They watched each other With furtive eyes, though not a word they said — They made me drink a glass of cherry cordial And eat a cooky ere I went to bed. My playmate did not come again. But only After long years had passed with joy and teen, I understood at last why I must never, No, never tell Grandfather what I'd seen. MUSSEL-PEARLS These frail, exquisite things, these changelings from the deep, My captives — at my will They lie, so pure, so still As trembling on the misty verge of sleep See how the tender dream-light comes and goes Lilac and silver, orange, palest rose So delicate that did the sweet Faint odors that arise From iris or moonflower to our eyes Take cloudy shape and fleet They might resemble these. Yet on them lies A shadow haunting, strange C4] Their likeness to the parent Sea, Mother of Sorrows she, Sister to Death and Change. And scarce my heart can bear the aching stress Of such remote and wistful loveliness. — Nor would I yield them even to the grace Of her whom I adore, My Lady of the Blessed Face, Were it not ancient lore That when the sea-sprites win a mortal's love They gain a soul thereby In guerdon from above. And when at last they lie Those foam-white breasts of hers between Something of her own spirit star-serene Must with a new More holy grace their elfin charm endue. SUNSET ON THE MARSHES No wind bends the yellowing grasses, But the small pools glitter and tremble As though the marsh-queen had broken her necklace Scattering far and wide Its garnets and spinel-rubies. Barbaric in color the mosses, Burnt orange, vermilion, umber — Yet here beside my foot Is a tiny patch that glimmers Like a constellation of fairy stars Carved each of pale emerald. m A SHELL You bit of draggled gossamer, Grey as my heart, grey as my sorrow- Yet now, when I hold you Between my eyes and the sun You are wondrously rayed and irised With lilac and pink and yellow. THE VIRGIN'S LACE Mary called her maidens all, Wheresoe'er they chanced to be — Margaret and Hildegarde, Called the sweet-voiced Cecily. From the mystic bower where Four bright streams of water meet, Where she taught the youngling birds Chant and hymn and carol sweet — Ah, the quaintly nodding heads, Ah the glossy, rounded throats — How they chirruped, piped and trilled, Mimicking her clearest notes. Agnes and Eulalia From the fragrant meadows sped Where the Holy Children played Weaving for each curly head Daisy-bud and violet With the golden crocus bound, Till the garland closely wreathed Hid the halo's shining round. [6] Mary quoth "Let all attend — 'Tis no time for song or play: We must toil at weaving lace Even to the close of day." All the sky a pillow made Smoothly folded for her knee, Azure velvet, and the pins Stars of purest crystal be. 'Twas grave Luke the artist-saint, Drew the patterns, tracing well, Twining stems of amaranth, Pointed leaves of asphodel. In a circle sat the fair Maidens all, and chanted low, While beneath their fingers light, Swift the shining web did grow. Once the heedless Magdalen Tore the dainty woof across — Straightway with her golden hair Did she mend the pattern's loss. Might the jewelled bobbins fall — Jasper, sardonyx — why then, Fleet the laughing cherubs ran, Prompt to pick them up again. So they toiled till eventide, And when every stitch was done, Hung it where its beauty showed Frail against the setting sun. m We have seen it oftentimes, Fragile wonder of the past — Whorl and spiral delicate And we deemed it would outlast Steel and granite — yet we know Brutal hands have torn the lace Wrought by Mary and her maids Ruined all its airy grace. — Michael of the Fiery Sword, Smite and fiercely smite again Those who rent the priceless web, Made the blest ones' labor vain. BEAUTY TRIUMPHANT Across the meadows swung the train By black roofed sheds and earth-cuts raw, And I half choked with dust and steam Peered through the blurring glass and saw How in great waves of grey and brown The smoke and salty fog were rolled. Heavily plunged the dying sun And blew a wrathful spume of gold. The monster signs that boast of soap, Chocolate, thread were hid each one; Between slant grass, the scattered pools Vivid as unset garnets shone. And where the rolling clouds would glow Vermeil or crimson angrily Rose in a cluster straight and tall The chimneys of a factory. They might be stamens grouped within The deep heart of that swarthy rose; Or shafts of rough pearl rising from Some dim haunt that the sea-king knows. And watching them I thought in spite Of dirt and ugliness and sin Beauty will never vanquished be — Triumphant still she enters in. YET, ONCE— Never again, my dear, shall we together Walk the long lanes in glory of the year, Through pearl and purple of the April twilight As once we did, my dear. And see the soft clouds blown like lilac petals — All things had such strange grace when you were near — Across a sky of palest honey color, As once we saw, my dear. Never again, I'll know that you are calling In the low voice that only I might hear Through darkness and the steady throb of rainfall, As once I knew, my dear. 191 It cannot be again — your strong arms round me, The full heart-surge and the exquisite fear — Never — till all the stars like dust are scattered- Yet — once it was, my dear. THE DESERTED PALACE The slender columns rising Above the dusky water Are pomegranate marble, The low archways between Are wreathed with drooping poppies And hundred-petalled daisies Each wrought in creamy stucco Dimmed by the shadows' green. But row on row above them Stare round-browed glassless windows From walls whose ancient whiteness The sun and rain have streaked With lemon, rose and lilac; And on the shallow stairway A thousand shells are lying With strangest colors freaked. For some of satin paleness Are flecked with deep carnation, And fragile, spiky Venus-combs Meant for the mermaids' hair, And brittle scallops mottled And rayed like pansy-petals, And tiny, pink-lipped conches — Who could have brought them there? The pavement's rare mosaics Are cruelly scarred and shattered, I guess a nymph, a triton, A writhing, scaly shape Each crowned with blue sea-lilies; Here fair-haired Ariadne Bewails her faithless Theseus, There's proud Europa's rape. The panelled ceilings likewise Though weather-stained and mouldy, Reveal in dim presentments Huge shapes, half god, half beast, Of gorgon, sphinx and titan — Now, should I have the courage To sleep in that great chamber That looks toward the east? What should I see at midnight Against the pale walls painted With clustered grapes and roses Quick flitting here and there? A ghostly cavaliere Superb in tawny velvet Wide ruffed and jewel cinctured, Or phantom lady fair? Or should I hear ere sunrise Slow climbing from the gateway, That low gate to the westward That fronts upon the sea, A Something upward dragging From step to step its heavy, Cold, glistening coils — and nearer — Oh, shrinking heart of me ! — Or should I sleep till wakened By crying of the sea-gulls, And looking toward Friuli, See all the broad lagoon O'erstrewn with faint cloud-petals Of hyacinth and primrose, With distant church-bells throbbing To drown the dead years' rune? NASTURTIUMS Poised on your sallow tendrils You witchlike, arrogant blossoms, You stare from your glass-walled prison, Alluringly insolent. Your smooth green leaves are rounded Like the leaves of water-lilies — But yours is no naive, tender Nymphean loveliness. Like a blare of fairy trumpets You shake and shatter the silence With a delicate fury of color, With scarlet, yellow, maroon. Perhaps you are elfin rockets All flaring in celebration Of some cruel triumph, unfurling Crisp petals of gauzy flame. D"3 AUGUST EVE Somewhere, beyond the fields whose smoke-grey slopes are haunted By timid ghosts of spring; the wild carrots' lacy clusters Thick among the mistlike drift and swirl of the asters Lavender-petalled Somewhere beyond the hill that rounds itself on the skyline With a curve as sweet as that of a dryad's shoulder, Farther — beyond the wood all black and mystic and silent, Somewhere, my dearest Lies the lake we know, with its deep, moon-haunted waters, Never a dusk-winged moth to trouble the lucid shadows, Never a wind to start the lisping speech of the rushes Sleepless and eager. Yet, since you are not here, my soul of spring and autumn, I shall not dare the soft, dark embrace of the wood- nymphs, Nor shall I seek the lake, but leave its lilies floating Still in the starlight. C>3] MY LADY'S SAMPLER Heigh-ho, my winsome Lady — You're striving hard, I know, To match your great-grandmother Who many years ago A sampler worked in cross-stitch; It hangs upon the wall In frame of polished walnut, Its hues scarce dimmed at all. She wore her dark hair parted In neat and glossy bands, The only jewel that ever Adorned her pretty hands Was just a wee gold thimble, Its rim set round with blue Forget-me-nots of turquoise, A gift of lover true. Your flying fingers sparkle With diamonds and pearls, And sure, I think the sun-sprites That haunt those gleaming curls, Unless they prove more wary Than they have been to-day, In such a golden tangle Are bound to go astray. She worked her sampler heedful Of every stitch and slow, With purple-breasted peacocks And fir-trees in a row — Such tiny trees o'ershadowed By crimson roses tall, And lastly, in one corner, A sprig of heartsease small. You work such dainty patterns Of bright-winged butterflies, Fantastic birds whose plumage Is of a hundred dyes, And lovers' knots entwining Of palest pink and blue, But ere you've finished, sweetheart, Oh, work a Heart's-ease, too. THE MOORS AT NANTUCKET FOR K. C. B. That evening before we started From Sconset, the afterglow Was like fiery-hearted opals That are brought from Mexico. For the sea was of darkest cobalt From your friend's porch looking down, Though it churned into molten garnet Where the red rock-mosses drown. And the great hydrangeas growing On the windy cottage lawn Were purple and madder-tinted By the hour we must be gone. Ds3 Then we drove over rolling moorlands Where fleeted along each slope The eeriest, softest colors, Fawn, daffodil, heliotrope. And the sky that waited the bashful Girl-moon and her bridesmaid star Was a clearer pink than the petals Of the swamp hibiscus are. How broad and sheeny and waveless The ocean lay in our view, Faint tints of nacre and beryl And of pale rose-jacinth too. And the little town that patterned So clear on the distant sky With the windmill sails outspreading Like the wings of a dragon-fly. And we dared not laugh or whisper Lest a word should be the death Of the fragile wonder that held us As frost holds a passing breath. — But do you remember, Kathie, How suddenly on our right A great owl soared from the bushes Ghost-grey in the waning light? PSYCHE'S SLEEPING Psyche's sleeping — For an hour lying still With her dark hair at the will H(>1 Of the restless breeze that fanned All its dimly purpling floss Hither, thither — one small hand Lies palm upward on the moss. No more wistful sweet to see Rosy-veined anemone In the woods March winds are sweeping. See you not Weary Psyche's gently sleeping? Hush. Psyche's sleeping — Look, a tiny butterfly Azure-tinted, hovers nigh Blossom of her lips half blown Then, a darting sunray gleams Over fast closed lids whereon Dusky-winged, the god of dreams Stealing all unknown, I wist Set his seal of amethyst. Did a shaggy faun come creeping, Would he not Leave her pure and fragrant sleeping? Hush. Psyche's sleeping — See, how motionless there rests 'Twixt her faintly heaving breasts Treasure Venus gave to guard, Casket wrought in ruddy gold, Ebony and priceless sard Direful magic doth it hold Fearsome spells that none may break — Did she from her slumbers wake 'Twere to woe and endless weeping. Know you not 'Tis the soul that lies here sleeping? Hush. NORTHERN SUNSET Steel with a thousand gilded ripples lined The broad sea glitters like a Viking's shield And o'er its rim the red Berserker wrath Of the fierce sun is vividly revealed. See how the fiery splendor upward streams Toward the zenith, slowly changing them To trembling filaments of purest gold Sweet Freya's tresses loved of gods and men. But are they cloud or mountain, those soft peaks With tints of pearl and amber sheening fair? Too delicate they seem for shapes of earth, And yet too tender for the forms of air. No swift Valkyrie winds are there to swoop And cry above the small grey sails that creep Into the harbor whose vast curve appears A giant's arm outflung in tranquil sleep. A single gull floats wide-winged in the light, But not a wave uplifts its shining crest, For sky and air and ocean hold the peace The wondrous peace of mighty strength at rest. THE OLD MIRROR Up in Grandmother's room there hung such a queer old mirror — The glass was blurred and streaked as by touch of unseen fingers, The gilded frame was carved with rosettes and twisting ribbons, And at the very top was set a curious painting. It showed a little girl with her dark hair smoothly braided Beside her rosy cheeks. She was wearing a dress of crimson, Kerchief and snowy apron and buckled shoes. She carried A basket on her arm and seemed to be slowly walking Down an ochre-yellow road bordered with stiff green pine-trees That hardly reached to her shoulder. Behind her glowed the sunset — I used to think its hues like those of the luscious ices, Strawberry, lemon, pistache we ate at children's parties. — Once, when I had been sick, I lay and watched her and wondered If she could ever speak, and what she had in her basket Huckleberries perhaps, or clusters of spicy currants — Wished I might follow her and find out where she was going. I thought the road would lead somewhere to a tiny cottage Guarded by huge sunflowers; behind its curtained windows Would peer a wrinkled face perhaps of a kind god- mother, Perhaps of a wicked witch. And still, I wish I could follow Follow and find it though the pinks and the tall sunflowers Were scentless, all of glass, the curling smoke from the chimney Would never rise with the wind, nor the stiff white curtains flutter, Nor the witch-godmother leave her place beside the window. In a world of painted glass there could be no deceiving, Shadows of present or past or tricksome lights of the future, Guileful curves to mislead, or hard, sharp angles to hurt me — All should be bright and smooth and thin as the dreams of childhood. C^o] VIA DELLA MADONETTA The dearest street in Venice lies Not to be found by careless eyes, A ribbon of the seaweed's green It turns and twists the walls between So narrow that one's elbow may The tinted plaster rub away, And if the swarthy gondolier Another plashing oar should hear He cries a warning, wailful, sweet, Lest the opposing prows should meet. See, there's a house all rosy white Around whose foot the tangled light And shadow whirling silently Are delicate as when we see The princess of a fairy dream Dipping her soft limbs in the stream: But yonder house of fawn and gold Is some proud courtesan of old, Tullia of Aragon arrayed In gown of amber-hued brocade, Nor doth she fear her shoon to wet With diamonds and topaz set, A princely lover's gift, nor wear The yellow veil to hide her hair. And here's a house whose vivid blue Shades to a luscious violet hue, And this I like the best of all, For in a niche against the wall The Madonetta's self doth stand, And scarcely taller than my hand, Of plaster shapen clumsily And crudely painted it may be, But still, I love her oval face, Her smooth dark hair, the plaintive grace Of drooping head and arm too frail To hold that heavy baby. Pale The cheek that once was painted pink, Faded the crimson mouth. I think So wistful sweet she is and small That I would dare to whisper all My littlest sins to her, for she Would never frown and frighten me. She is not proud and stiff and great Like the Madonna was who sate Above the altar looking down In cloth of gold and jewelled crown. I think of her each windy night, How by the smoking candles' light She watches with her patient eyes Such mimic storms as may arise Within the wee canal. Each day Do I salute her on my way Along the via, and I bring For her some dainty offering Two yellow marigolds as bright As are the gilded roses dight Upon her shoes, or sweeter yet, A tiny sprig of mignonette. C"] SEASHORE MEMORIES I shall return no more Until I have grown old — then I can see Without this sudden, clutching pain At heart and throat The long white curve of beach outlined Against twin depths of blue, So soft, so perfect like the creamy leaf Of a gigantic rose. The sea that trembles virgin like With the impatient kisses of the sun, Now wistful, tremulous Behind her silver-spangled veil, Then swooning in a vivid ecstasy Of purest sapphire light. The distant sails That slowly moving, seem to mock The grey-winged gulls who dart Hither and yon, so aimless and so swift. The long, dark wall where leaps the spray, And farther off, The clustered cottage-roofs of autumn hues, Orange and red and brown. Even the smallest things, the waxy green, Low-growing weeds that mark The threadlike course Where a brave streamlet strove to reach the sea, The fleet sand-spirals rising light As the pale yellow smoke From fairy signal fires — all make too keen The throbbing memories of days Not to be lived again. Oh, my first lover with the sea-blue eyes, Would I not give the rest Of youth and all the shrivelled years Of eld to see — Only to see once more The sunlight on that golden head of thine? URSULE'S MISSAL Ursule a dainty missal hath; Its pages smooth and bland Are white as lily-petals Or as our Lady's hand. But Ursule while she scans it peers Aside and tries to see If Colin's kneeling near the aisle Where he was wont to be. The letters scarlet, golden, blue Most quaintly shapen are, And in the margin of each leaf Are painted clear and fair Saint Michael in his gilded mail, Saint John in tunic green, Saint Helen robed in miniver, And rose-crowned Magdalene. But Ursule while she studies them Knows that her Colin wears A fine new cloak of velvet blue As fruit the plum-tree bears. Around the little pictures runs A charming fantasy [243 Of flower, leaf and budding vine — Oh, marvellous to see How finely wrought the hawthorn leaves, And ivy; finer yet The silver-berried mistletoe, Clove-pink and violet. But Ursule thinks of how her lad And she one blithe spring day Through field and meadow singing went To gather in the May. Of how they never reached her home Till dews began to fall, And how they found the year's first rose Beside the garden wall. The missal hath a golden clasp Set with a comely stone, But Ursule while she fingers it Hopes that when Mass is done Colin will wait beside the door To greet her — pretty fool — Perchance will try to kiss her hand — Oh, shame on thee, Ursule. FAIRY SONG Like a giant dandelion Shines the sun, so brave and bold With his thousand narrow rays Yellower than elfin gold. [253 Then, against the darkling sky Hangs the old moon large and frail As the dandelion spheres Flutter in a summer gale. Comes a lusty, romping wind Merry as a boy at play, Blows — and lo, on every side Faint star-clusters float away. OF HER The grace of her — Lily wind swayed. The touch of her — Rose in the dusk. The thought of her — Sun after rain. The heart of her — The unchanging star. AQUA-MARINES How by your chill transparency And timid color hints do ye Mock the earth-mother — for your name Was taken from the fostering sea Nor find I likeness to the flame That shaped you once. Unvarying round And tremulous cerulean ray Like milky bubbles of the spray That mid the crisp beach-weed are found. — Know ye the pools among the rocks Where gold-moss hangs like sirens' locks? — Know ye the sea-fays' palace hall Where the low sunlight lies between Fantastic columns of the green Rough chrysoprase, and where the small Barnacles build a mimic tower Beside a little lake where float Quaint likenesses of pleasure-boat And idling swans? Doth the rock-flower Display your blue and green and white While shrinking from the icy shower A wave flings o'er the boulders' height? I must believe if it be sooth That pearls the full moon's children are, The spirit of some vanished star Lost long ago in the world's youth Down the dark abyss of the years Now dwells within your shallow spheres. AZALEAS You take the trim lawn's centre, So confident each one, And spread with sleek complacency Your satins in the sun. Your amethysts and crimsons To palest coral shade While fawn and vivid orange To cream or amber fade. But though you look so haughty And never try to speak, Alack, a tiny freckle That spots each glossy cheek Betrays you as the dusk is Betrayed by one wee star — And you are of more hardy growth Than lady-flowers are. I know you, brilliant wantons That from the forest came To flaunt it in our gardens And put the rose to shame. SUNSET NEAR AN OLD CHATEAU Close-leaved quince and apple-tree Cluster in the long-dry moat While a milky sky above Curves and shimmers daintily As the white wood-pigeon's throat; Strikes the west a bolder note, Golden rose of Dijon's love, Poppy-gold or apricote. From the lindens torchlike burning Heart-shaped flakes of gold afloat Down the breeze are drifting, turning. — Heart of gold, oh, heart of gold — Where to find you? For, behold, Underneath the branches low Fairy realms unchanged, remote, Green as chrysoberyl glow. Green of hazel, green of brake, Green of changeling poplars souled By the argent sprites of lake Or of ocean. Heart of gold, I shall never find you there In the fern-choked paths, or where Lies the little white chateau Just beyond the forest brink Like a shell to mark the flow Of the upper tides and show Faint, quick pulses of the sea Throbbing mauve and golden pink Through its veinless purity. See the great sunflowers stooping By the sheer moat edge and drooping Each the massive chevelure Of her tawny yellow hair, Lithe and proud and fiercely fair, Nymph or dryad — who could say Which hath stranger, wilder lure On this verge of night and day? Now, a flight of swallows whirls Past the grey-walled chapel; swirls Swift as eddied soot-flakes through That low arch whose stones are wound With clematis heat-embrowned. Gold heart of the twilight, you Are too nearly spent, and I Grieve to see against the blue Of the darkling middle sky Moon of gossamer that shows Neither crescent nor full round, Kingcup nay, nor golden rose — But as mid the thickly growing Purple harebells breezeward blowing One of phantom white is found. THE VINAIGRETTE When I was a child I sometimes used to steal Within the parlor, tiptoe light across The darkly shining floor To where behind the wide brocaded couch Stood a small cabinet. I loved to rub my finger on the smooth Cold glass of the doors, and peer At all the pretty things upon the shelves. Three balls of solid crystal grasped Between the curving claws Of an ivory dragon, held the light Unchanging, purple, green and rose. Then, on its teakwood stand A bowl of Japanese Enamel of most dainty blue. Beneath A foaming cascade overhung By trailing willows golden fishes leapt — Their burnished scales Gleamed like the smoky orange flame In a fire-opal's heart. On either side Of such a wee chess-board inlaid With ebony and pearl, Two cupids knelt in fierce dispute; Each carved from alabaster. This I thought Most beautiful of all. I must speak very low — There lay within its narrow case Do] A jewelled vinaigrette. It looked so small and quaint and stiff, With its little golden head It made me think of a dead child Lying straight and still Within a coffin satin-lined. Fve heard that it belonged To a great-great-aunt of mine, Once famous for her beauty, but she died Young of a broken heart — Because she might not wed the man she loved. — One day, I even dared To turn the golden key and thrust A bold, impious hand Within the cabinet and take The vinaigrette from out its case. I pulled the tiny stopper — lo, Such a faint, keen perfume Greeted my nostrils. 'Twas as sweet As when the brier-roses lift Their shallow chalices Of silver, of pale coral to the rain. Just a torn, trembling film of fragrance blown On soft winds of the past. Tell me — you, who believe in ghosts, Was not this a strange sort of a ghost, A sweet little ghost indeed? do A FIND FOR DOROTHEA To-day I found a dainty bag Beside my garden-bed Of yellow cowslip petals sewn With finest spider-thread. I opened it, and there within — Of this say not a word — A fan of smallest size and made Of plumes of humming-bird. Claspt with a twinkling diamond A smelling-bottle too Carved from a single peridot To hold one drop of dew. A handkerchief of cobweb lace • And in one corner set The letter "T" in golden thread, Above, a coronet. And think you not that she who lost Such treasures must have been Someone of highest rank — perhaps, Titania the queen? THE MOON-DIAL A Moon-Dial I've fashioned Within a grot I know Where lilies-of-the-valley And frail-stemmed snowdrops grow. [32] 'Twas carven by enchantment From white chalcedony Upon a silver pillar And, wrought most cunningly Around its rim the symbols Of Night's twelve hours are set- The first an evening primrose, The next a violet. The third, a drowsy marigold, The fourth a heartsease dear, A heliotrope, a guelder rose And jasmine next appear. The Sleep-God's waxen poppy, And ghostly asphodel, A creamy-leaved magnolia, A delicate harebell. — While for that wistful hour That by the dawn is kissed A morning-glory opens Her eye of amethyst. And thus, my fair Moon-Dial Till rising of the sun Points with a phantom finger The hours every one. But she for whom I wrought it Alas, will never stray Beyond her virgin bower From dawn till break of day. [33] ADORATION The wave loves the Iris-Flower He winds his suppliant, tender Arms round her moveless feet. But she like a queen in armor Stands slim and ardent and fragile And lifts her face to the Sun. JEANNE AND A CITY GARDEN Often I thought of Jeanne the Maiden While I played in our garden all alone Where a thousand-flowered honeysuckle Climbed an old barn wall of creamy stone. Jeanne in the oak-wood of Domremy, Jeanne in her father's orchard-close Hearing the sweet, unearthly Voices — Oh, far and very far from those Seemed the little girl with tangled elf-locks In her knee-short frock of navy blue Who read and dreamed of the Hero-Virgin While the warm June days dragged slowly through. But I thought the eyes that Jeanne had visioned 'Mid the dim oak-boughs of Domremy Were looking down star-clear and tender Through the dark leaves of our tulip-tree. D4] And I heard faint voices through the clamor That over the neighbors' gardens came Past the high brick wall where yellow roses Clambered and crept like a tawny flame. And the tall dove-cote so oddly gabled Where a plump dove preened his moony breast Was a Gothic spire of grey and silver Clear outlined on the rosy west. And the flowers by the warm bricks growing Red, golden, violet — at a glance Were splendid knights and ladies riding To the crowning of the King of France. Still, when I read of green Domremy I can see that narrow garden plot Where I grew heartsease and ragged-sailors In a border of forget-me-not. Of its pebbled path and straggling laurels I think when I hear of Blessed Jeanne — Of its climbing, tawny yellow roses That smelled like honey and cinnamon. ANGEL-FISH Looking down over the edge of the rocks The dark green, moveless water Seemed solid as jade itself, As the lucent jade of Ceylon. A flicker — a palpitant curve of light, Elusive, vivid, serene As the wave of the mer-queen's crystal fan. [35] • Slow-gliding, luminous shapes, Spent meteors moving large and dim Past the thin gold disk of the sun-fish, past The rosy ocean-stars that lie Deep down on the cool, dim moss. Were an opal cloven through the heart Would it show such colors as these — Sheer, limpid green of the peridot, The blue of the moonstone's heart, Rose-purple of almandines. They are moonlight patterned through The jewelled oriels Of the mer-king's palace beneath Its low-arched, murmurous domes They are bubbles, pulsing, rounded, sleek The foam-sprite blows on a silvern pipe That would burst with a mortal's breath. Now they are gone, they have floated down, And the moveless, dark green water Seems solid and still as jade. THE CHINE Within the chine where we are summoned now By water tinkling airily and low We find no flower, orchis fleshy pale, Nor arbutus, nor hyacinths that frail Blossom the bare snow-haunted woods amid — The smallest veinings of a maiden's lid Are no more sweet of tint — but moss, yes moss, C36] That creeps and pringles like strong silver floss, Or lies in folds of ashen velvet cool, Or crowds the sloping margin of the pool With little eager stars, or poises still Its waxen spheres on stems invisible. And ferns — we get a sudden joy of green Poignant and pure as ever olivine Or carven chrysolite could show. One spreads In fairy benison above our heads From an unthought of cleft and lightly curls Its topmost strands to catch the water-pearls That patter from above. And hoary plumes Of fern we see no greener than the spumes The moon-wan water washes over rocks So lichen-fretted that they seem like blocks Of aged ivory each overwrought With script too fine for mortal eye or thought. The stream-bed's scarcely seen so thickly there The willow-witches shake their fading hair, And every birchling makes a plaintive stir As though a wind had clutched the locks of her. Till we shut in by all this gray and green Wonder indeed if we have ever seen Buttercups, roses, dahlias hundred-pied Or tiger-lilies — if our eyes beside Can ever from this dim enchantment break Or will they less love color for its sake? TWO LITTLE LADIES I know two dear little old-fashioned ladies — Sisters, I think — who live just round the corner In a small brick house with funny window boxes. [3711 I see them coming home each day from market In their soft silken dresses and quaint bonnets; Their profiles are clear-cut and delicate, They walk with little toddling steps like doves. — And I would love to follow them within Their house and see it all; the tiny parlor Whose walls I know are panelled in brocade Of softest gold and blue, while all around The fireplace are set tiles whose azure patterns Tell a forgotten legend. On the mantel Beside the tall gilt clock are peacock feathers Standing up straight in a vase of yellow porcelain. Then I would cross the narrow hallway; peer Into the dining-room that looks upon A high-walled garden — but the windows of it Are almost dark with tangled honeysuckle; And in the glass-doored cupboard there'd be plates And cups of china painted by themselves A trifle smudged — the work of amateurs. I often wonder what they have for supper — Such cream-white custards might be baked in thimbles, And cookies with sliced citron and burnt almonds, Plump cherries floating in a golden syrup, And tea of course — perhaps, on great occasions They dare to sip a cordial sharply fragrant As the heliotrope that blossoms in their garden. — Then, I would climb the winding stairway; see Their sleeping-chamber with the prim white beds That smell of lavender, and every piece Of furniture is carved of ancient rosewood. Perhaps, on the grey-patterned walls are hanging The family silhouettes each trimly framed In black and gilt; perhaps, a mirror like C38] You see in antique shops with greenish, wrinkled Glass — and above it is a queer old painting In boldest colors of the Bay of Naples. I wonder if they sit up late at night Reading — between them in its silver holder Burns a tall candle, and they nibble cakes, And sip each from a tiny gilded tumbler Of orange-flower water. Once I read In an old book of a tall gilded bottle Of orange-flower water — and the cool Sweet sound of it possessed me then and ever — Yes, I would love to follow the dear ladies And see their home — but I will never try it For fear things might not be just as I've dreamt them. MYSTERY Thus runs the legend. Once a king Had led a desert chase in hope Of prey — gazelle or antelope, Leopard or lion, doth not sing The perished bard who tells the thing — But that at noon the hunt was stayed Where in the ragged palm-trees' shade Babbled and purled a cooling spring. A bowshot off but full in view The ruins of a city showed Above the drifted sand and glowed In that fierce sun with every hue Of violet and vermeil and blue, Of carbuncle and cornelian And eastern lapis. And they knew A tale which made it the abode [39] Of monstrous beings whose sight would blast One who beheld them. But the king So dearly loved adventuring That with his following he passed The gates. Though obscene rubbish massed Its streets, he never recked the fall Of sagging roof or crumbling wall, And so unhurt, he gained at last The palace in its center set. Now, all around like molten glass The flat sand glared save where parched grass Or bristling cactus showed, and yet 'Twas plain in years the stars forget This palace stood beside the sea; Its walls were painted wondrously With shapes that underwave are met. Here lay a toppled column slim Of sea-green onyx and around Its shallow capital they found Lithe, springing dolphins carved. A dim Fresco showed wild white swans aswim, While over them an arching flight Of long-winged fish gleamed ghostly bright As splintered jewels along the rim Of the low cornice. Still, the king Pressed ever onward till he came To a small chamber where a name That none could read was glittering [40] Above the portal. Backward swing The heavy doors, and then they see Stretched on a couch of ivory In the room's midst a lovely thing — A woman young and strangely fair; A robe of rosy tissue fine As water thinly mixed with wine Scarce veiled her perfect body bare Beneath their eyes. Her golden hair Unto her feet went rippling down Below a richly jewelled crown. Her breast moved not, but rested there A flower wrought of gems and this Was shapen like to those that be In hollow caves beneath the sea, Of beauty weird and all amiss — And when the king had lifted this Her long stilled blood began to flow, The breath fought in her throat, and lo, Her red lips opened to his kiss. So then, in triumph did he take Her to his home. But when she strove To answer his soft words of love Sweet proffer of herself to make, In voice hoarse from disuse she spake Words of a language strange, uncouth Such as was heard in the world's youth. Then did the wise men for her sake on Plead with the king to have her taught The common speech that she might tell Of that old world where she did dwell Long centuries agone. What thought Her vanished race; what wars they fought; What gods they worshipped; what their lore Of earth and heaven, and much more Of learning that these scholars sought. But still the king denied. "Who knows Loses the bliss of Dream," quoth he, "Nor would I cleave the mystery Fragile and flawless that doth close My precious one, and strangely shows Her beauty red and white and gold As thinnest sheath of ice might hold The untouched beauty of a rose." IN MY LOVE'S GARDEN In my love's garden None but white flowers, Marguerites, lilies, Satin-leaved pansies, Hyacinths snow-belled, Hauntingly fragrant, Yea, and the starlike, Fragile narcissi. Flowers of silver, Flowers of sea foam, Made of the moon-dusk, Coolness and silence. — But oh for roses [42H Deep-hued, delicious, Flame-spirits troublous, Poignant and tender, Oh for the gorgeous Red-golden poppies, Passion-compelling, Regal, barbaric, Oh for the splendid Throbbing carnations Breathing the spicy- Heat of the southland, Drowning in color Moth-stir or wing-flash Of the bold sunbird, Stifling with perfume Bee-whir or vivid Butterfly wooing. — I yearn for color, Warmth, fiery fragrance — In my love's garden None but white flowers. THE SWALLOW VASES I remember those vases. Never Have I seen another two — They were up in the big north bedroom And were colored a lovely blue They stood at each end of the mantel On their solid gilt balls of feet, They were patterned with darting swallows Plump-breasted and lithe and sweet. £43 3 And a Delft clock stood between them It ticked and would never stop It was painted with stiff Dutch landscapes And a sailing ship on top. And the bed was an old four-poster And the sheets were always cold And once the hot water bottle Leaked right through the blanket's fold. And the dark green paint of the shutters Would blister whene'er it rained, And I poked the bumps with my fingers Till all of my nails were stained. And on winter nights down the chimney Would patter the wet grey snow, And the trolleys groaned and clattered As they toiled through the street below. Now, I think in my dying hour I shall see those vases two With their circling, darting swallows On a sky of palest blue And the squat Delft clock between them That ticked and would never stop All painted with queer Dutch landscapes And a sailing ship atop. OLD ENGLISH Talk of love to Kate and lo, How the startled blood doth glow Over brow and bosom C44H As when frolic winds at play Shake the folded buds of May Into sudden blossom. Soft words to Clorinda speak Lightly o'er her polished cheek Such faint colors hover As a pearly shell may wear When to it the mermaid fair Whispers of her lover. But doth Helen blush, her face Such enchanting hues do grace He who sees supposes 'Neath her eyes two cherubs sit, Each in mad and merry fit T'other pelts with roses. HER LADYSHIP'S FAN A sheath flower-slender Of nacre and gold — But dared I unfurl it What might I behold? A miniature garden Where under green trees Are pacing sedately Duchesse and marquise Displaying with studied And languorous grace Their moon-tinted satins And shimmering lace? C45] Or maybe, a laughing, Adorable girl Unveiling her shoulders' Peach-blossom and pearl To the kiss of a cupid Who hovers near by His azure-tipped winglets Scarce fitted to fly? A gondola gliding Behind a white swan Who harnessed with rosebuds Moves tranquilly on Reclining within it A lady most fair And seated beside her A youth debonair. A zither he touches While both seem to sing — Oh, her ladyship's fan Is an exquisite thing ! I'll summon up courage Sufficient for this — Each tiny gilt spangle I'll lovingly kiss Each whimsical spiral And fairy volute, Its filmy lace roses And strange colored fruit. [463 So when she unfurls it — Must needs be anear Her cheek, her red lips, or That maddening ear — My kisses undreamed of Will hover and cling — Oh, her ladyship's fan's an Adorable thing! AN ANTIQUE EARRING Look, here is an ancient earring In shape like a golden basket Crowded with poppies ; the blossoms carved From scarlet and white cornelians The leaves are of emerald. 'Twas worn by a Greek hetaira In Athens — her cheeks were painted With white and scarlet, her golden hair Twined in a hundred ringlets Each stiffened with burnished wire. Her eyes were as green as smaragd — They glittered and darkened with envy At talk of the great Aspasia Who was mistress to Pericles. CORALS What were the lace of Venice or Alengon To this of beaded pink and scarlet spun By all the mer-queen's winsome maids of honor With fleet white fingers flashing in the sun? HAUVIETTE'S PRAYER Brown Hauviette am I the elders call Of tongue too keen, of hazel eyes too soft, And I have left the dance to kneel alone In this grey chapel where she came so oft. My Jeanne. And dare I pray for her whose life In deeds of sweetest piety was spent — And yet she loved me so she could not bear To say farewell to me before she went. Black Robin caught me near the chapel door And kissed me ere I wrenched myself away. I was so angry with him when he laughed Because I bade him leave me here to pray. Saint Catherine with that great fiery wheel, Saint Margaret who gazing calm above Tramples that monstrous dragon under foot — Terrible saints, more meet for fear than love. Mild Agnes with her lamb clasped to her breast Were fitter patron for a pleader who Is but an humble, timid shepherd lass — Yet, since she loved you most I come to you, With such small gifts as I who am not rich Even among our peasant folk may bring Jeanne always brought you flowers. I have searched Forest and meadow for my offering. Wood-lilies, faintly scented violets, The blossoms of the wild strawberry vine, And honeysuckles tinged with pink as though They held the last lees of the fairies' wine. C48] I ask not for such mighty favor showed To me as once to her that ye appear Before me in angelic splendor clad — Indeed, I think I should go mad for fear. But guard her, keep her from all scathe and ill On that strange path she treads, and when all's o'er Let her return, the same dear, simple soul Tender and kindly as she was of yore. A PROVINCETOWN SUMMER FOR M. A. R. One summer I spent on old Cape Cod In a town where the "Portygees" Were at strife with the lean New England folk For the spoil of the cold North seas. I rented a room in a big white house — How the artists loved to paint The sulphur roses and hollyhocks That grew in its garden quaint. I would wake at dawn in the high white bed And gaze up the narrow street To the wee churchyard where the tall headstones Stood orderly, grave and sweet Though so few were straight and the most part leaned To each other in friendly way Like the sober greeting of Quaker dames In their russet and gentle grey. [493 And all through the leaves of chestnut and elm The sun made a cool green glow As it shone through smaragd tinted water Round the weedy piers below. And then I'd dress and go hurrying down To the rickety barn that we Called "our studio." I was often late, But the coffee kept hot for me. We were always sketching a red-roofed pier Where the seagulls whirled all day, Or a boat that turned on its helpless side Like an empty mussel lay. Or a rusty can that the shrinking tide Left glittering in our view With such tints of copper, garnet and rose That Titian would love it too. — One day I went to the upland moor And a thunder-shower came; But I braved the wet for I yearned to paint How the fireweed's rippling flame Went scorching through heather dust-brown and dead Till it quenched at last might be In a small round pool that stared at the sky Dead-blue as chalcedony. Well, the pictures we toiled so hard to make — They were crude affairs enough With the paint laid on in "daring" strokes, All ragged and thick and rough. — But oh, for the fearless eyes of my youth That were never afraid to see, And oh, for the glamour of summer days In an artists' colony. MY LADY'S VINAIGRETTE My lady's heart is set On a jewelled vinaigrette, It must be shaped with fantastic grace Like to some flow'ret's fragile vase With its curious curve and fret. And prisoned fast in the tiny space A perfume more precious yet. What jewels shall be set In my lady's vinaigrette? Chrysoprase green as a seamaid's eyes, Aqua-marine like the April skies Moon-flooded — or rarer yet, Amethyst hued like the drop that lies In the heart of a violet? What essence more dainty yet For my lady's vinaigrette Than the faint perfume of the brier rose Or the poignant sweet of the apple-blows By a Maytime shower wet, Or the scent that soft as a hushed prayer goes From the drowsy mignonette? Then, Dear here's your vinaigrette Of crystal more fragile yet Than the promise you gave, and all agleam With gems as bright as the rosy dream DO I cherished when first we met — It's sweet as the kiss you would not redeem, As the hours I can't forget. THE NEREID Topaz, ivory the sands, Sapphire, chrysoprase the sea, Turquoise all unflawed the sky, Witchery, aye, witchery. As I walked the beach alone, Can it be I really spied Lying there a Nereid Whom the slow retreating tide Left beyond the farthest verge Of the grey cliff-shadow cool, With her tresses loosely spread Shining like an amber pool, With her pale face strangely fair Where the faint blood rarely came As within the opal's heart Flickers the inconstant flame? When I looked again I saw Naught but in a narrow ring Glinting bubbles of the foam — Was the weird and lovely thing Throbbing with a life unknown, Soulless offspring of the sea, Sucked up by the hot sun's rays? Glamourie, aye, glamourie. A MEDIAEVAL SYMPHONY Could I write a symphony I would soon re-tell the old Tale so quaintly and so well By the wandering jongleur told. Violins should weave the spell Of a blue and silver night. Then, the cymbals clashing light Seem the faintly tinkling mail Of the youthful prince who wide Through the forest seeks his bride, His "sweete friende" without avail. Hark, the horn winds plaintive, thin, Quick he comes — bold Aucassin. Harps and viols thrillingly Upward weave and intertwine Like the rich wall-tracery Of that "bowere in the woodes," Leafy bough and branching vine Starred with rosy purple buds. Now, flute-tremors wildly sweet Seem those naked, tripping feet By whose whiteness dark with shame Showed the moon-drenched daisies all. Hear the wistful oboe call Low and clear the well loved name. Over grass all dewy wet Swift she comes — lithe Nicolette. [S3] A "NEF" JEWEL Tell me, little golden ship, Upon what fantastic trip Have you sailed o'er seas unknown? Slender shallop of the moon Might be wrecked by such fierce gales As you've met with those wee sails Each of purply tinted shell And your hull built strong and well Gold and coral, lapis blue, Anchor one huge pearl that's too Heavy for a maid to wear As a pendant at her ear. In what tiny harbor far On the coast line of a star By what city small and bright With its wall of chrysolite And its spires all jewel wrought Have you lain — what cargo brought From your strange adventurings — All the wealth of elfin kings, Or such gold as long ago Fair-haired Jason sought. And oh, Pretty pirate, did you dare Battle with the fleets of air, Spoil them of their freight, and then Tempt the vast cloud seas again, Going boldly, all sails set? Some strange perfume haunts you yet, Sweet as though you had for pelf The Rose-Peri's lovely self — [54] Scarcely sweeter did you rest On Dame Venus' foam-pale breast And ofttimes her winged son Leant his golden head thereon. Zssl SONNETS 4* OLD JEWELRY A NARROW band of velvet worn and frayed, Its two ends prisoned by a buckle set With yellowed seed-pearls, tiny cones of jet; A cluster of pink coral surely made To grace a dainty ear, though I'm afraid The dangling pendant's lost. More precious yet This massive golden brooch, its careful fret With mellow-tinted cairngorms all inlaid. What of the supple wrist the ribbon bound, Perhaps a lover's gift? The rosy ear That heard his plea? What of the "breste of snowe" That throbbed beneath the brooch's shining round The day she walked out bride? Alas, I fear Dust of the churchyard long and long ago. AVIGNON Sleepy Avignon — it was near the hour Of nones we crossed the long white bridge that lay A lily-garland over the green-grey, Wide-circling river; saw Sire Philip's tower A lily-stalk denuded of its flower, Against the dove-hued sky it seemed to sway And quiver in the pale heat of that day When all the spirits of the south had power. We found the convent. By its garden wall Ripe pears lay on the grass, while clear and bold From the pear-tree we heard a mavis sing. A Sister showed us — that was best of all — King Rene's altar-painting, black and gold As the queen-tulips of their southern spring. C59] HOLLYHOCKS These satin-skirted hollyhocks that lean Across the picket fence their weight of bloom Remind me somehow of the pleasant gloom Of an old parlor. Shades of cool leaf-green In rugs perhaps and curtains, with between The richer petal-tones of cardinal And ivory and citron. Rise and fall Of the hearth-flame as in a mirror seen On rosewood and gold-lacquer. But the slim Bayberry candles in their sconces wrought Of gilded silver scorn to shrink or flare With every humor of the passing draught, And there are hints of warm, spiced wine and rare Dainties in porcelain bowls heaped to the brim. But when I try to picture the wide sweep Of silken skirts on which the firelight glows In colors tender as a fading rose To image how the wavering shadows creep Along a rounded arm and sudden leap Over lace-hidden bosom and bare throat Dimming the ruby breastpin's vivid note To lose themselves among the fragrant deep Of close-massed curls — or when I think to see Glint of a gemmed shoe-buckle as she walks With such an indolent and swaying grace — Then, leaning forward on their glossy stalks These flowers seem to gaze into my face With such a grave and gentle mockery. [6o] ANTINOUS As forth he came into the frail starlight Which through huge bulks of tamarisk and palm But faintly glossed the unmoving ebon calm Of waters nearest shore, the lotus white Seemed girlish hands outflung in soft affright To clutch and hold him back. But well he knew His heart and ever steered the slight canoe On through the glamourous, moon-haunted night. On toward the cataracts' unceasing roar Past ruined palaces and gardens dim He flashed by startled watchers on the shore Like an embodied moon-ray white and slim — A flash, a plunge, a moan — and nothing more 'Twixt sky and foam-streaked water seen of him. RAIN IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN From shaken boughs of myrtle and of box Drop topaz, jacinth, peridot enough To pay an elf-king's ransom. Hollyhocks Each in deep-flouncing silks with pleated ruff Bend in the courtly fashion of old beaux And toss their diamonds of blinding sheen In the gold-lily's lap. The damask rose Droops jewel-fettered like a captive queen. Faint promise of the sun seems everywhere, Delicate rainbows flash — and perched aloft The quivering phlox that butterfly again To spread his drenched and tattered wings would dare — When, eerie-wild and mischievous and soft, The rush and teasing laughter of the rain. Z6rt MARIE DE FRANCE Of you, brave poetess, we've nothing more Than name and songs, and yet, I'm sure of you — A lonely, gallant spirit who all through A wandering life in costly silence bore With music and with laughter broidered o'er. Her heart as that sad lady of the tale Wrapped the crushed body of her nightingale In silk close-stitched with gules and vert and or. And though you've left us many a dainty lay Fresh as the branch of honeysuckle tossed By faithful Tristram on the dusty way To warn Isolda he whom she loved most Was close at hand; in this our dusty day Your keen and fragrant spirit's needed most. AN OLD CAMEO Within an oval of unshaded blue The figure of a dancing nymph is seen Moving with measured step and air serene In some enthralling dance that wood-folk knew In days when skies were of a softer hue And forests wore a deeper, richer green Than now. And nevermore such shape and mien Beneath the sun shall happy mortals view. Of less unearthly grace the forms appear The keen frost carves from crystal. We may bless The wind of time that froze this airy sprite To immobility and kept her here With all her fragile, glancing loveliness In these uncomely years for our delight. C62H OCTOBER EVENING From here I cannot see the ocean though I hear its muffled beating far away. The small roof-silhouettes of ashen grey Lie flat upon the failing sunset glow, As clearly etched, as delicately bold As filmy cinder-shapes before the fire. The dead leaves rising in a constant spire Are utter black upon the sky's blurred gold. Somewhere an owlet whoops. And now I see Down where the roadway's sweeping curve grows less A candle with its goblin eye of mirth From a low window winking eerily. There's nothing else except the loneliness Of a great wind between the sky and earth. SAINT NEREID An ancient legend of the Church doth tell Of how a hermit living in the wood Baptized a Satyr that the monster should Receive a soul, thereby the twain did dwell A many years within their forest cell Till both were reverenced as saints. I would There were another story of such good And blessing that upon a mermaid fell. Saint Nereid — to wear a halo dim Of silver wavy-patterned, robes of pale Azure and violet and beryl-green, To wait, a handmaid, moony-haired and slim, In service of the one whom seamen hail As "Stella Maris," ocean's holy Queen. C633 THE BEAD BAG Now, on the canvas doth she stitch with care Each glinting bead, some opal-shot, some rayed With faint star-gold, with ivory inlaid, And some are touched with scarlet poignant, rare As when in June the great poinsettias flare Against her garden wall. And some indeed, Dusk-hued as fuchsia-bells. And thus, a bead Of light she sews in every minute square. Nor can I tell what pattern's in her mind — Of flower-plot bird-haunted, or the sheer, Moon-frosted mountain-peaks, or tranquil stream With lilies rimmed — but of my life designed On coarse and flimsy fabric, she my dear, Fills every moment with the jewels of dream. THREE SONNETS TO BEATRICE And didst thou never plan to hold his gaze With girlish tricks — a loosened braid let slip The netted coif — or wistful curve of lip — Or flower-glimpse of half averted face? Didst never wonder if the clinging grace Of silks became thee better than the stiff Brocades peacock or primrose colored? If Sheer lawn faint-patterned as the silver haze Above the meadow daisies hid too much That tender hollow of thy throat where lay 1^4 3 The rosary's nacred spheres like beaded cream On milk — and didst thou never feel a touch Of anger when his glances dared not stray To cheek or mouth he only kissed in dream? II And didst thou never rise from midnight sleep Ere thou wert wedded to Simone — steal Barefoot across the chamber floor, and feel Chill petals of the moonlight drifting deep Between thy breasts' warm curves? Didst never sweep The curtain folds aside to gaze into The stillness of the night whose limpid blue Even as a wall of sapphire did thee keep From him who still wrought at his lovely rhymes Of thee and of the happy maids who were Thy comrades, by the slowly failing lamp Less glowing than his heart — and were there times When they who wakened thee at dawn would fear Flushed, tear-stained cheeks and maiden pillow damp? in And didst thou never feel a secret fear Lest one of thy girl friends — as Vanna blithe So sumptuous of bosom and so lithe Of limb, with that broad glory of her hair And winsome face, the quick smile woven there With pout or frown — such luscious mingling shows The inner petalled sweetness of a rose — Might more loveworthy in his eyes appear [65] Than thy pure fragile beauty scarce of earth, The wide Madonna-brows, the locks' pale fall? — Thy poet knew a jewel; he decrees More than the diamond or opal's worth The pearl whose trembling iris-lights recall The wonder and the terror of the seas. A CHATEAU IN THE AISNE This was the prettiest thing we saw — the wee Chateau that nestled lilywise beside Its moat a boy might cross with one bold stride Two towers double-spired peeped warily Where frail wistaria smokelike wreathed and clung A garden hid behind a privet hedge But sweeter far along the lakelet's edge The mauve and golden iris thickly clung. A wood there was of holly, larch and pine That tapered daintily as mosses fine Against the softly fading afterglow Peachbloom and amethyst — all might have been Painted in powdered gems upon a screen Of satin with rosewater by Watteau. CALIFORNIA POPPIES You crinkled, burnished shells of thinnest gold, Within your curves might nestle safe from harm A Venus of the western seas whose form More rounded-lithe, more lovesome to behold Than hers of Cyprus, shapen not from cold White foam, glows sweetly with the changeful, warm Tints of rose-pearl and amber. Never storm To shatter her frail refuge would be bold. — Or else, an Indian sprite with tawny cheek, With locks of fine-spun copper, and with eyes Of melting topaz might a shelter seek From fierce pursuit of tiger-butterflies. Such urgent loveliness as yours must speak Of beauty greater still that hidden lies. PENTHESILEA Achilles knelt beside the dying girl Unclasped her helm and lower stooped to note The spent breath fluttering in her lissome throat More vainly than a moth's wings beat and whirl Within the hollow, faintly veined pearl Of the moon-orchid — her fast glazing eyes And orbed therein those huge, unclouded skies — One hand outflung with fingertips acurl Against the glowing sand. The victor wept To think upon the slow and awful change That soon must overtake that golden head Nor marked he how the lean Thersites crept Nearer and mocked him — only thought what strange Intolerable joy to love the dead. THE TUILERIES IN MARCH Around the fountain's rim the stone gods wear A milder aspect. Even Father Nile Has smoothed his rugged features to a smile The sturdy godlings clutching at his hair C673 And brawny shoulder. See, how quickly there Across the steel-tinged water darts a boat By two bare-legged youngsters set afloat. Its pointed yellow sail in this light air Seems a belated autumn leaf. Behind, Yon granite nymph that races with the wind And never tires, has checked for once her stride. An unguessed softness in her eager face, She stoops to gather with a timid grace The white and golden pansies at her side. The folk who throng the paths are plainly dressed In sober colors, but the pigeons stalk So proudly up and down each sheltered walk And each displays on swelling throat and breast The season's latest shades for gown and vest Only the lindens — for sun-hours are brief, Reveal a glimmer of unfolding leaf — The other trees have spread against the west Their fan-shaped webs of black point-lace that veil With exquisite design a sky of pale Geranium and silver, daintily Brocaded. Yet, I watch where far away The obelisk from Egypt lifts its grey Lean finger pointed skyward warningly. THE "MORNING-GLORY" GEYSER Oh, monstrous flower huge and delicate As pure of color, exquisite of line As are the brittle stars of meadow-vine Or satin-sapphire gentians blooming late Among the meadow-grasses and the great C68] Soft, downy globes of wind-wooed dandelion Where fairy knights sit at their clover wine Until the afternoon's long heat abate. Do giant butterflies with wings rich-hued As sunset clouds, hang over thee in haste Thy thickly bubbling honey all to sip? Their great, vague beauty unguessed by our rude And blundering vision? Flower of the waste, What secret hovers on thy upcurled lip? THE MIRACLE Old Gregory of Tours relates with pride Of how within the royal chapel hung Above the tomb of one who died full young — Murdered, some thought — the grim king's gentle bride, A lamp swan-shapen of rock-crystal hard With eyes of sapphire. From the chains it fell — Nor was — oh, passing strange the miracle — The frail glass shattered, nor the marble marred. In my heart's chapel hangs above the tomb Of a slain love a lamp of tender ray; And may all pitying saints grant this to me — Unspilt its fragrant oil may warm the gloom, And may its fragile grace endure alway O'er the hard marble of Reality. VENETIAN VASES You float and poise with such fantastic grace Above the unseen tides of air as might A dolphin or sea-swallow or the white Swan-city of your birth. Against the rays [69H Of the waning lamp you shift from phase to phase Your rose-golds melting into silver blues And to all subtle, all bewildering hues, Crocus or apricot or chrysoprase. And now displaying in unbroken swirl Clear-edged, opaque, such polished bronze and pearl As the lagoon in stormy twilights shows. Now laced and globed and shot with tints that run Through the still water when the sinking sun Behind Saint George's of the Seaweed glows. THE FOREST OF COMPIEGNE Through the forest of old Compiegne we rode When all the ground was a shimmer of white, A glare, a dazzle, for it had snowed The whole of the long November night. Yet, the leaves were a flicker of palest gold On a sky of such faint and limpid blue As an aqua-marine unflawed might hold With a hint of the sea's green dullness too, — And I thought of Radegonde, Queen of Clotaire, With the gold of her pale Thuringian hair Bound smoothly over her forehead's snow, In silk and vair and in ermine clad, With her cold blue eyes of a saint that had No gleam of sorrow or wrath to show. Don II We rode through the forest of old Compiegne At Christmas tide when the bare boles stood Like jasper columns of richest grain; And all the leaves of the ancient wood Lay piled in sumptuous drifts between, Crimson and purple and deep wine-red Brocades and damasks of rarest sheen Fit to drape over a princeling's bed. — I thought how on many a sunlit morn With plume and banner and shrilling horn, When those noble trees were less gnarled and tall Gay cavalcades had wound past each spot, With Catherine, Francois and Mary the Scot To the winter feasting in Compiegne hall. in We rode through the forest of Compiegne old When the warm spring rains were seeping down Through misty leafage, and never a bold Violet peeped through the golden brown Deep clustering mosses; although the brink Of each clamoring stream and each hollow wet With forget-me-nots, turquoise and coral-pink Was in quaint and intricate pattern set. — And I thought of Joan the Blessed Maid, Riding on lissome and unafraid, Though she knew, saint-warned, of her coming fate — Riding on through a sun-flecked way To her capture in that fatal fray In the spring twilight near Compiegne gate. DO A PRINCESS OF EGYPT The sphinx-shaped crown now fallen to one side Reveals her stiffened locks of blue-black hair. Beneath her gilded mask the semblance fair Of girlhood to a leaf-brown husk hath dried. The scarab beads that row on row might hide Her slender throat, lie scattered here and there Turquoise and milky jade. Her breast doth bear The scarlet emblem of great Isis' pride. These jars of porphyry and agate tell How gracious and how fragrant was the youth Of what seems a frail horror to the sight — Of precious oils and essences they smell, Citron and myrrh — yea, she had "Oyntementes smoothe Of Lilyes in a Vase of Chrysolite." THE SEA ANEMONE To what faint-rhythmed cadence heard of none, What measured harmonies of limpid sound Are swayed the fragile rays that ring thee round Like the mist-halo of a vanquished sun? Milk-opal, crystal, cloudy selenite, Scarce through the veil of hueless water seen Against the lucent mosses, but with keen And sudden poignancies of frosty light. Of what vast wonder is thy beauty part? Of sunless gardens where the pendant fruits Gleam through the filmy dusk like the vague sphere Of the midday moon, of flowers that appear Bubbles held by a dream of stems and roots ? Or what the secret of thy dim sea-heart? [72] DEIRDRE A yearning wonder in the wind that kissed The shyly nodding sprays of blackthorn blossom, And terror in the sudden clinging mist A veil close drawn to hide a panting bosom. The plaintive crooning of the foamless water Grew to a voice that faintly sobbing cried "Naois brought the King of Scotland's daughter A white doe with her fawnling by her side." The low hills dappled mauve and dun and gold Deepened to violet, to crimson pale As though they knew her passing once again — That Rose of Sorrow, sweetest Rose of Old. And then beyond all suns I heard a wail, A cry of anguish for one lately slain. THE MOTHER OF MEROVEE As with both hands she backward drew the mass Of tawny hair that veiled her to the knee Heavy with wet, and forward leaned to see Mirrored as clear as in unwrinkled glass Shoulder and bosom smooth and rosy warm, And the sweet dimpling of her girlish throat, The blinding azure seemed to rise and float And dazzle toward her in a wondrous form Of ivory and gold and chrysoprase With fins that opalescent smote the spray, And locks that outward spreading hotly flamed Against the paler sunlight, and a face Of fierce inhuman beauty. Flee away? Too late — she waited shrinking and ashamed. C73 3 ON THE MOSAIC OF A BYZANTINE EMPRESS Dear little sovereign of long ago, Against the dusty background olive-gold Your purple robes hang rigid fold by fold, In faultless arcs their jade-green linings show How royal — from the long vermilion shoon That prove your rank up to the massive crown That hides your closely braided hair, if brown Or dark or flaxen. Like the youngling moon Each perfect brow of yours — and those wide eyes Deep-lashed and solemn. Such a haughty mouth Whose folded scarlet like a frost-nipt bud Will yield its hidden sweetness in no wise For all the coaxing of the light-winged south — I love you well for all your scornful mood. Anna or Theodora or Irene — Whatever sweet, majestic name be yours, A palace will I build for you with towers Frail as the dreaming sprays of lilac seen Against a twilit sky; with domes as light As sun-gilt bubbles on a woodland brook; With latticed casements triple-arched that look On tiny courtyards paved with malachite, Onyx or alabaster. There shall be Close-carven sandalwood that smites the sense Like clash of elfin cymbals. And I know That once I have you under lock and key Behind those jewelled doors you go not thence — My little Empress of the long ago. C74H AUTUMN As Lais, Corinth's fairest courtesan Knowing her beauty had begun to fade Lest any matron, any shrill-voiced maid Should mock her, straight renounced all love of man — And hung her polished silver mirror high On Venus' statue where it might reflect Only the clouds with changing colors decked, The azure, snow and opal of the sky — So now doth autumn turn away her head To hide the touch of frost on velvet-red Of dahlias, on the perfumed cream and pink Of garden-asters on the maples' gold, And dreading her own image to behold Fills every pool with dead leaves to the brink. NARCISSUS Frail gold of locks unbound the timid breeze Scarce moves at all, and wide blue eyes that seem To draw into their depths the misty gleam From drowning buds of iris. Now, he sees Star-poised against the sombre loom of trees Whiteness of brow and neck, red lips apart As though to tempt from the sweet-brier's heart A poolward swirl of over-daring bees. One elbow sunk in argent-beaded cress, He lies; nor heeds the glinting dragonfly That hangs above his drooping head so light — A silver shred from some brook-naiad's tress But wastes his being in sigh on perfumed sigh And dwindles to a flower starry white. C7S] CINOUAINS WAITING The long Bleached paths are strewn With poplar-leaves, the wind Stirs the dead lavender, but no One comes. NIEGE White lace Hides her white breast As mist may hide the sweet Love-moon of May — or the cold moon Of snow. ESTHER "And if I perish, I perish" Her ear A monstrous pearl Adorned, and rubies clasped Her throat — Ahasuerus, or King Death? MIDSUMMER EVE Among Cool breathing fern And mint the rain would hide Her long locks sleek with wind, her wet Grey eyes. C79] THE HUMMING BIRD A FLASH Of bronze, a whir Of tingling emerald And from that wounded rose the slow Leaves fall. THE APPLE "Its seeds Burn on my lips. Nor fig nor musky plum Nor berry half so fiercely sweet," Quoth Eve. DRAGON-FLIES Sapphire And amethyst They link above the pool Such fragile love-rings shattered by A breath. MARY STUART A RING- A casket carved With fleur-de-lis — and of The world's Red Lily nothing more Than these? SAILS The clustered sails Of ships there in the bay Are wings of monster butterflies that sip Strange honey from the blue and white Sea flowers. THE FOUNTAIN A WILD Snow wraith at dawn, At noon a crystal rose, A silver witch, at dusk the gray Norn's tears. THE SHELL A LIP Of pouting rose, A cheek of freckled pearl, Needs courage try to win a chill Sea-kiss. SOULS The scent Of flowers, you say, Is the soul of them — alack, My slim white iris hath sinned and lost Her soul. [Si] SIRVENTE This summer eve A sad coquette must be — She wears such dainty pink, and for the patch On a court-lady's cheek displays The crescent moon. And when she hears How loverlike the wind Goes sighing — then how slyly glimmers like The dimple near a maiden's lip One tiny star. THE PRIESTESS I BUILT My altar-fire With myrrh and sandalwood, Hoping some bright-haired god and strong Would come. There flew From night and storm And sank upon my breast Wet-winged and spent with aimless flight A dove — AN OLD GARDEN Foxgloves wax-white, Pale yellow columbines, African daisies with their velvet hearts Rimmed twice around with fiery gold, And peonies — That splash their snow Crimson and sunrise pink Quite recklessly, and tall sweet-flags and wee Button-shaped roses, and again, More peonies. JEWELS Hathor, the queen Of Night, her carcanet Of diamonds and sapphires hath enclasped With the twin pearls of dawn and eve, Pale gems of woe. But Ra, the lord Of Day, hath wrought his zone Of amber and of turquoise. For a clasp He wears the great Sun-ruby, stone Of love and joy.