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 SOME POSTHUMOUS POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 V. STANLEY MILLION 
 M 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND PREFATORY VERSES 
 
 BY ARTHUR UPSON AND WILLIAM 
 
 STANLEY BRAITHWAITE 
 
 providence: 
 townsend, f. h., printi 
 
 I9O7 
 
USRAHYaf CONGRESS 
 
 Two Gapies Received 
 
 JUL 17 »9or 
 /; C«i>ynjchi Entry 
 
 #USS a XXc„ No, 
 
 copy u. 
 
 
 Copyright, 1907 
 
 M. A. MILLIKIN 
 
V 
 
 I 
 
 c 
 
 Ufa Altri& 
 
 THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY 
 DEDICATED 
 
BORN JUNE II, 1879 
 
 LOST ON THE STEAMER LARCHMONT 
 
 FEBRUARY II, I9O7 
 
Sttfrobttrttfltt 
 
 TTO those into whose hands this little book may fall 
 there comes the visible sign of victory out of defeat. 
 After all it is by what man is able to leave behind him 
 that the world can tell whether he is still conquering life, 
 though he lie with the armour of speech and action folded 
 about him in the grave. Stanley Millikin had not a fair 
 chance in the conflict. The scheme of mortal affairs does 
 not intend the time of youth to be filled with the grim 
 laboriousness of doing the day's work within the day. 
 Youth is full of preparation and experiment, all touched 
 with wonder of the consciousness in trying the wings 
 which some day are to take one over the nearby tree-tops, 
 beyond the distant hills, up to the infinity of sun and stars. 
 The author of these poems was -in the midst of this very 
 spell when life is all intention, confidence, trial — to him 
 each dawn came up the sea-steps of the east as if for the 
 first time, each sunset went down the hill-stairs of the 
 west as if it had not done so for centuries — when there 
 came a sharp summons — and silence. 
 
 These poems have been gathered and published, since it 
 is what the author would have done had he lived. It is 
 regretted, however, that they did not receive his final 
 revision, for there are among them certain inconsistencies 
 and technical blemishes which he could have corrected 
 better than any one else. It was important, however, that 
 the spirit and aspiration of his song should be given to his 
 friends. Therefore the verses are printed very nearly as he 
 left them. As they are, they breathe a certain vagabond 
 quality — for Millikin was a nomad on spiritual quests. 
 Had he lived he would have found the land of his heart's 
 desire, and there, settled in some quiet bungalow, sung the 
 praises of his discovery. 
 
 WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE 
 May, iqoj 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Prefatory Poem by Arthur Upson - 9 
 
 Apologia - - - - 10 
 
 The Vagabond - - - - 11 
 
 The Vision - - - - 12 
 
 A Sea Song - - - - 15 
 
 Dolores - - - - 16 
 
 A Kentucky Rosary - - - 18 
 
 Let Us Go Back - - - 20 
 
 The Vanished Junes - - - 21 
 
 Remembrance - - - - 22 
 
 Lacrymae Rerum - - - 23 
 
 The Afterglow - - - 24 
 
 At St. Helena - - - 25 
 
 Hope - - - - 26 
 
 You _____ 27 
 
 Whence Go all Fair Things ? - 28 
 
 The Poet's Choice - 29 
 
 Dolores - - - - - 30 
 
 "Unto This Last" - 32 
 
 At Eventide - - - 33 
 
 Dies Praeterita - 34 
 
 To Tolstoi - - - - - 38 
 
 Sonnet - 39 
 
 On Reading an Old Book - - 41 
 
 Dreamland - - - - - 42 
 
 On Mount Beacon - 43 
 
 Lux Perpetua - - - - 44 
 
 The Girl Upon the Stairs - - 45 
 
 wonderings - - - - - 47 
 
 Sonnet ----- 48 
 
 Lines - - - - - 49 
 
 Pathos of the World - 50 
 
 In Lotus Land - - - - 51 
 
 Dawn - - - - - 53 
 
 Quatrains - - - - 54 
 
 The Nomad - 59 
 
 Doubting Jim - - - 61 
 
 Doggerel - - - - 62 
 
 Whitman's Wigwam - - 64 
 
BnhxMmn 
 
 ^IME, Change, I do salute, but not 
 surrender ! 
 The listening orbs of night have heard your 
 tread, 
 Down the vast halls of heaven, their fiery 
 splendor 
 Shrouding in titan dread. 
 
 But I, pale spark of momentary being, 
 
 Stamped out forever by your ruthless heels, 
 
 Nevertheless defy you, flashing, fleeing, 
 
 A memory ' twixt Memory's chariot wheels. 
 
 ARTHUR UPSON 
 
Apologia 
 
 TF you should ask me why I write 
 These faltering flights of weak-winged song, 
 
 They are the voices of the night 
 That perish when the day is born. 
 
 They come to me from some far shrine, 
 Where fancy rears her fadeless flowers, 
 
 Mingling the earthly and divine. 
 
 In this, a world of sweets and sours. 
 
 10 
 
Stye Bagahnttfc 
 
 QNLY a day when skies are blue, 
 
 And a beautiful world to wander through 
 
 A long white road that invites my feet, 
 Where the poppies bloom in the tall green wheat 
 
 To the waiting West and the sunset bars, 
 Where I journey on under alien stars : 
 
 Only the lure of the dying day, 
 
 And the things that call — and I must obey. 
 
 A calm, bright day when the skies are blue, 
 And a wonderful world to wander through. 
 
 1 1 
 
E\\t Ht0t0tt 
 
 " What has it all been for? For the knowledge that 
 makes life richer, for the friendship that makes life siveeter, 
 for the training that brings poiver to the task that is hard 
 and high, — for the Vision that shall light your ivay like a 
 pillar of fire, for the truth that shall make you free.'''' — 
 Dean Briggs. Baccalaureate Address at Wellesley, 1905. 
 Published in " Routine and Ideals.'''' 
 
 HP HE lights from the old red buildings still 
 
 gleam across the square, 
 And the sound of a banjo tumming awakens the 
 
 soft June air, 
 We stand at the transfer station, as we used to, 
 
 years ago, 
 And wait for the Subway trolley, bound down 
 
 town to the "show." 
 
 I think of the long, wise lectures, delivered in 
 
 years gone by, 
 When our hearts were big with promise, and 
 
 the pulse of life ran high, 
 The " phil " and the " math" and the English, 
 
 — tonight how far they seem, 
 For the only love that has lasted is the call to 
 
 follow the gleam. 
 
 I can't remember my Latin, nor the rules of 
 
 English A, 
 And the themes I wrote have mouldered since 
 
 many a long gone day, 
 
 12 
 
But the voice still thrills my manhood, as I think 
 
 of the days gone by, 
 That told us to seek the power for the task that 
 
 is hard and high. 
 
 Perhaps he'll never know how much those 
 
 words have given cheer, 
 To me at least they've brighter grown as seen 
 
 across the years, 
 " Follow the Vision," he told us, " The Vision 
 
 that shall be 
 A flaming pillar of fire, the truth that shall 
 
 make you free." 
 
 We've not been true to the Vision, sometimes 
 
 the pillar lead 
 Across the snow-capped mountains, and we 
 
 chose the plain instead ; 
 Yet tonight as I think of the years we spent in 
 
 old Holworthy Hall, 
 I am glad for all the college gave, but the Vision 
 
 most of all. 
 
 We haven't been sculptured angels, and most of 
 
 us agree 
 That we've tried the world's sad roses, they 
 
 were passing sweet to me ; 
 We've sung the songs of Omar and one or two 
 
 have lead 
 The way to where we'll join them, — a round 
 
 or two ahead. 
 
 *3 
 
There were days of disillusion, when the skies 
 
 were ashen grey, 
 And we cursed ourselves for wasting years on 
 
 rainbows far away, 
 We called for madder music, redder roses, 
 
 stronger wine, 
 But the Vision came in the morning, the slow, 
 
 grey dawn was Thine. 
 
 Where has the Vision led us ? Where Art 
 
 displays at large 
 On horizons of Eternity her never-gained 
 
 mirage ; 
 To the glint of unpathed waters, to the gleam 
 
 of an unlit fire, 
 Where the cold stars shine on dim dream pines 
 
 in the land of heart's desire. 
 ( 
 Where has the Vision led us ? To the truth 
 
 that makes us free, 
 To the friendship that makes life sweeter and 
 
 richer for you and me, 
 To the memories of dear, dead days, that dawn 
 
 for us no more, 
 To a strength to tell to a cynical world what it 
 
 has all been for. 
 
 H 
 
A £>m &tm$ 
 
 QUT from the glorious golden West, 
 
 Skirting the beaches low, 
 Following yonder sea-gull's quest, 
 
 As she circles smooth and slow, 
 We drift away at the end of day 
 
 To an old sweet tune we know. 
 
 O white wings, you never grow weary, 
 You carry me cheerily over the sea ; 
 
 Night comes, I long for my dearie, 
 
 I'll spread forth my white wings and sail 
 home to thee. 
 
 Behind, in wake of emerald fire, 
 
 The green sea leaps apace, 
 Slowly the great white moon mounts higher, 
 
 And on my lady's face 
 The light ne'er born on sea or land 
 
 Hath set its matchless grace. 
 
 15 
 
ifllnras 
 
 "DY your Eastern window, 
 Dreaming all the day, 
 
 In what lands, Dolores, 
 Do you stray ? 
 
 In your eyes the mystery, 
 Of the morning world, 
 
 All the dawns of history 
 There empearled : 
 
 Tell me, my Dolores, 
 
 Does the dim past call, 
 
 While you are the splendor 
 Of it all ? 
 
 All the untold ages, 
 
 Dreams that Helen knew. 
 Feet that kissed the early 
 
 Chaldean dew ; 
 
 Laugh of Lydian lovers, 
 Song of morning star, 
 
 All have met to make you 
 What you are. 
 
Fragrance from Greek altars, 
 O'er the iEgean curled, 
 
 Roses plucked in Springtime 
 Of the world ; 
 
 All the mystic meaning 
 
 Of the Delphic shrine, 
 
 All the purple gleaming 
 Lesbian wine ; 
 
 Beauty of Ionia, 
 
 Golden wealth of Tyre, 
 Fused in mad Anacreon's 
 
 Purple fire ; 
 
 Songs of dreamy Persia, 
 By the Tigris deep, 
 
 Where beneath rose petals 
 Omar sleeps ; 
 
 Joy of New World tidings, 
 
 Empire's Westward flight, 
 
 Dream that filled old Genoa's 
 Eyes with light ; 
 
 Visions of all ages, 
 
 All Time's perfect plan, 
 All the love of woman, 
 
 All the hope of man ; 
 
 All have lent their splendor, 
 Spirit, fire and dew, 
 
 All the years are mingled, 
 Dear, in You. 
 
 17 
 
A 20mtttrfuj Insane 
 I 
 
 Jessica Falconer 
 
 \A/"HITE rose, transplanted from Virginia's 
 wildwood, 
 To bloom on western wold with fragile grace, 
 With memories of your radiant Eastern child- 
 hood 
 And all the old-world longing in your face : 
 
 You met the tragic love that brooks no telling, 
 The small nobilities of Silence knew, 
 
 Upon your highland of the Spirit dwelling, 
 In all the loneliness of being true. 
 
 II 
 
 John Gray 
 
 Life led him blindfold where the ways divide 
 And snatched the bandage from his untried 
 eyes : 
 Here are the ways, each tragedy, she cried, 
 Choose here your path and make your 
 sacrifice. 
 
 18 
 
Ill 
 
 A Blue Grass Painting 
 
 Child of Kentucky, yet no age nor clime 
 
 Can claim you, one of Nature's offerings 
 With which she crowns our age from time to 
 time, 
 Drawn from the depths of womanhood's pure 
 springs. 
 
 IV 
 
 David 
 
 Across the fields of hemp he heard them calling, 
 Beyond the purple mountain's farthest rim, 
 
 Like distant waters in the dim woods falling, 
 He heard the great things calling, calling him. 
 
 19 
 
£*t la do lark 
 
 J^ET us go back — we've lost our way, 
 The sweet calm of an earlier day, 
 When life moved with a tranquil flow 
 In homes of fifty years ago. 
 We heard less then of business strife, 
 The vast machinery of life. 
 We think too much of piled up wealth, 
 Too little of love and rest and health, 
 Our towering buildings rise on high 
 Until their tops shut out the sky, 
 And we forget, weighed down with care, 
 The great eternal stars up there, 
 And far down, veiled in dewy wet, 
 The sweet and modest violet. 
 
Slj* Hants' Jtmas 
 
 TAf HERE have they gone, the vanished Junes ? 
 
 Those long gone, golden afternoons, 
 When over meadow, hill and wood, 
 The sunshine poured its sleepy flood, 
 Rich with the odors of the rose, 
 And twitter of bird at daylight's close, 
 Those wondrous nights, those mellow moons, 
 Ah, could we live again those Junes. 
 
 And somehow, as I sit and dream 
 Beside some silver woodland stream, 
 Watching the lights of setting sun 
 Yield to the shadows, one by one, 
 I cannot see the sweet day die, 
 And think in all eternity, 
 That perfect light on land and sea 
 Never again can shine for me. 
 
 Another dawn will rise, you say, 
 
 'Tis not the sweet light of today, 
 
 Somewhere, where earth eyes cannot pierce, 
 
 Far off in Love's vast universe, 
 
 (An idle fancy, fair and frail, 
 
 Yet who has seen beyond the veil ?) 
 
 I dimly feel those lights will burn 
 
 And all the vanished Junes return. 
 
 21 
 
Remembtwat 
 
 QNLY at night 
 
 When white stars rise, 
 Across the years 
 
 I see her eyes. 
 
 Bright in the dark 
 
 Her face appears, 
 
 In all the light 
 
 Of by-gone years, 
 
 And Memory brings 
 
 To life again 
 The old-time passion, 
 
 The eternal pain. 
 
ffiarrgmae 3to«m 
 
 Suggested by reading Walter Pater 's 
 11 Gaston de Latour" 
 
 RETHOUGHT I stood at twilight in a 
 
 wood, 
 The branches seemed like old war banners furled, 
 While afar off, through the multitudinous years, 
 I heard the falling of a stream of tears 
 Forever through the shadows of the world. 
 
 23 
 
^FTER the golden day has passed 
 
 In fiery state to the waiting west, 
 The dim, cool twilight falls at last, 
 
 The season of quiet and thoughtful rest : 
 And we sit and dream as the day burns low, 
 In the silent peace of the afterglow. 
 
 And so, when the noonday of life is high, 
 The way is hard to our weary feet, 
 
 And the road is long to the by and by, 
 
 Where we hope the dreams of our youth to 
 meet. 
 
 The long rough paths that wearied us so 
 
 Will smoother seem in the afterglow. 
 
 And when the shadows of twilight fall, 
 And we near the end of life's long way, 
 
 May we sit and wait for the sunset call 
 In the long, cool calm of the passing day. 
 
 While our eyes behold, as the day burns low, 
 
 The star of Hope in the afterglow. 
 
 24 
 
At #L i^tra 
 
 T AST night I heard the heart of yonder sea 
 
 Break in the dark upon this iron shore, 
 Grieving for empires it shall know no more, 
 And old, old dreams that nevermore can be ; 
 And on the night-wind came a voice to me, 
 The voice of France, my country, and her tone 
 Was full of heartbreak as the sea- tide's moan, 
 Mingling her grief with the sea's symphony. 
 
 Ah France, my country, you too broke your heart 
 Alone, against the cruel English squares, 
 I saw your Old Guard die, alone, for me : 
 The brain that plans, the heart that hopes and 
 
 dares, 
 What comfort these, not to be where thou art, 
 To feel and share your helpless misery. 
 
 25 
 
[ HOLD it truth with one of yore, 
 
 Who sang of life in every mood, 
 " Beauty is truth," the highest good, 
 
 "Beauty is truth' ' for evermore. 
 
 What more than this seek we to know ? 
 
 If but our darkened way we take, 
 Following Art for her dear sake, 
 
 This is her message. Be it so. 
 
 We know not on what far, cold height, 
 
 Is built her temple, white, serene, 
 We catch afar a struggling beam 
 
 By which we grope on to the light. 
 
 26 
 
T OVE and Life and Laughter, 
 Blossom on the bough, 
 
 Wait for no Hereafter, 
 Take them Now. 
 
 Sages croak like ravens, 
 Bidding us forbear, 
 
 Trading Now for havens 
 Over there. 
 
 All our heaven is round us, 
 All we know is now, 
 
 Let not aught confound us, 
 I and Thou. 
 
 Never yet has Preacher, 
 
 Brahmin, Turk or Jew, 
 
 Mystic, seer, or teacher, 
 Equalled You. 
 
 27 
 
pmr* <£fl All 3u\v EfyitiQB? 
 
 Written at Block Island Beach in September 
 
 W'HENCE go all fair things ? To some shore 
 
 divine, 
 Lulled by the songs of Circe and her wine, 
 Will they wait for us in a land of peace, 
 Where longings cease ? 
 
 So as I watch the rosy lord of day 
 Sink in the ruddy tinted West away, 
 Somehow I feel that at Life's great flood tide, 
 I shall be satisfied. 
 
 O Love, thy province cannot be of earth ; 
 Perchance in that dim land where was thy birth, 
 The loves that left us here with hearts of pain 
 May live again. 
 
 But 'tis not here, yet somehow still we must 
 Be glad that love will dream and faith will trust, 
 Till, when we pass beyond the twilight rim, 
 The tide comes in. 
 
 28 
 
0% p 0*f dtj[0tr^ 
 
 T^HERE are calm, ordered souls in God's 
 
 high plan, 
 Who coldly work the highest good of man ; 
 To him the chaos-mind is worthier far, 
 If thence be born, perchance, a dancing star. 
 
 29 
 
lolnrw 
 
 ^ONIGHT as you lie in your wonderful 
 beauty, 
 Close to my heart in a silent embrace, 
 While the soft Southern moonbeams fulfilling 
 their duty, 
 Peep through the lattice and fall on your face, 
 And your brown hair is touched with an infinite 
 glory, 
 The light that can shine but in story or song, 
 I would I forever might whisper Love's story, 
 If only the night were a century long. 
 
 They say, by the laws of the prophets and sages, 
 
 To lie in my arms is a sin on your soul, 
 Yet I would you were mine, through the 
 infinite ages 
 
 To keep as tonight, while the swift hours roll. 
 By day you belong by the side of another, 
 
 But tonight you are mine and will be till the 
 old 
 Old stars in their courses shall fly to each other, 
 
 And the Universe's weary long story is told. 
 
 30 
 
Why did you leave me, Dolores, my darling, 
 For one who could never your soul under- 
 stand, 
 When so long I had waited to claim you and 
 crown you 
 The queen of my castle in Love's golden 
 land. 
 And so, as the moonbeams fall soft on your 
 pillow, 
 And I hold you close, close in a longing 
 embrace, 
 Tonight you are mine, and if God reigns in 
 Heaven, 
 I know He forgives if He looks on your face. 
 
 31 
 
"Into Gtyia Skst" 
 
 A LL the world has vanished, 
 Nothing is that seems ; 
 
 Come to the haunted palace 
 Of my dreams. 
 
 With your arms around me, 
 
 All the years have met ; 
 
 Nothing can confound me, 
 
 Love me — and forget. 
 
 3 2 
 
At lEwttttfo 
 
 W/"E stand at evening where the ways divide ; 
 
 What shall we do, dear Heart, where 
 
 shall we go ? 
 
 Our path has arduous been, our hearts sore tried ; 
 
 There is no hope, too, for these fears are so. 
 
 So for a little journey we have walked 
 
 In rapt communion, sweet because so brief: 
 
 You are not mine, and you must now return 
 To your dull duties — I must face my grief. 
 
 We, too, have dreamed a little dream. Per- 
 chance 
 'Twas folly. Yet 'twas wondrous sweet to 
 know 
 Mid all the rush of cosmic circumstance, 
 
 We were both happy, just for one short Now. 
 
 33 
 
!t*0 iPrartmta 
 
 (~)FTEN there return sweet memories, scenes 
 which time cannot destroy, 
 
 Of the clover-scented meadows, where I wan- 
 dered as a boy, 
 
 When the years were large with promise and 
 the great things I should do 
 
 For the world was then my kingdom, — I would 
 conquer it for you. 
 
 You, the dear, old-fashioned mother, with the 
 
 quiet Southern grace, 
 And the calm of benediction on your tender, 
 
 vanished face. 
 
 Just a home of old New England, where my 
 
 childhood days were fair, 
 Where I walked among the daisies, drank the 
 
 sunshine, knew no care. 
 
 Oh those long gone days of childhood, rich with 
 
 light of other years, 
 Ere the days of disillusion dawned to blind our 
 
 eyes with tears. 
 
 34 
 
Silently the years have vanished, long has Heaven 
 
 known her face, 
 And we find no earthly treasure that can ever 
 
 fill her place. 
 
 Not in all the zest of living, in the press of 
 
 business strife, 
 Not in all the far ideals, beckoning through this 
 
 strong, brief life ; 
 
 Not in all the world's religions, bringing solace 
 
 to the heart, 
 Superstitions subsidized and all the pains and 
 
 reach of art, 
 
 Have we found the sweet contentment of our 
 
 childhood's happy sleep, 
 Or of feet that walked in grasses wet with dew 
 
 and green and deep. 
 
 Must I think in all the ages that shall ever pass 
 
 o'er men, 
 Through uncounted aeons I shall never see her 
 
 face again ? 
 
 Comes the whisper «' Evolution," with its 
 
 heartless chilling breath, 
 '■' Never can the sun of morning rise beyond 
 
 the gates of death." 
 
 35 
 
Careless of the life is Nature, but the type 
 
 preserved will be : 
 What care I for type or future, if it touch not 
 
 Me and Thee ? 
 
 What to me is Evolution, with its scientific 
 
 scope, 
 If in all the marching ages rests for me no ray 
 
 of hope ? 
 
 Yet we saw not royal Caesar sitting on his 
 
 throne of state, 
 And we had no part in history that has passed 
 
 behind the Gate. 
 
 Where were you and I when Helen lit the fires 
 
 of Trojan fray ? 
 Had we any place when Pompey marched along 
 
 the Appian Way ? 
 
 Yet we claim the gods will keep us conscious 
 
 parts of cosmic plan, 
 While the ever marching ages work their will 
 
 with future man. 
 
 And I, too, though Evolution brands as vain my 
 dream of dawn, 
 
 Blindly, fondly grope in darkness, hoping, wait- 
 ing for the morn. 
 
 36 
 
Far beyond the realm of logic, where the reason 
 
 cannot go, 
 Lies the heart's supreme conviction that it will 
 
 be, must be so — 
 
 Lies the dream of all the ages, which we fondly 
 hope and trust, 
 
 That beyond the mind's horizon, in some coun- 
 try, meet we must. 
 
 37 
 
ate (Jteinim 
 
 J^JORE light, more light, was Hugo's con- 
 stant theme ; 
 But thou, stern prophet of the Russias clear, 
 And sweet and far, like distant trumpet tone, 
 Dost sound thy clarion of the nobler day, 
 The herald of its dawn — more love, more love. 
 
Suggested by reading the Upton Letters 
 I 
 
 Last Night 
 
 T AST night, as we two sat beside the sea, 
 
 A stillness fell upon us, as the night, 
 The ancient, formless dark, sank in its might, 
 Filling our souls with its immensity ; 
 In which a thousand years are as a day, 
 The world-old silence, into which have flown 
 The good and fair of all the ages gone, 
 Leaving us only a sweet memory. 
 
 And although solemn, yet 't was not despair 
 To feel that in some high mysterious way 
 Something is wrought out in the silences ; 
 Behind the closest creed that mystery lies, 
 O cool and mighty thought, with power to stay 
 Our troubled spirits, when the days are drear. 
 
 39 
 
II 
 
 Autumn 
 
 Today a sense of mystery untold 
 Falls with its sad appeal upon my heart ; 
 The glowing summer hastens to depart, 
 And softly, tranquilly o'er wood and wold, 
 As if to compensate for August gold, 
 The banners of the autumntide are flung ; 
 A deep, sweet sadness seems to brood among 
 The immemorial elms and beeches old. 
 
 Thus may I, at the close of life's bright day, 
 With sober patience wait the twilight-tide ; 
 And so depart across the sunset sea, 
 Knowing that somewhere, in some unseen way, 
 Beyond the twilight's portals there must be 
 A port where we may anchor — satisfied. 
 
 40 
 
(§n Eeafcittg an (§ib lank 
 
 [ TURN again the mellow, sun-kissed pages, 
 Rich with the light of long gone afternoons, 
 With glint of gold and whispers from the ages 
 That Helen knew, and all the vanished 
 Junes. 
 
T AND of mild mystery, solemn, silent world, 
 Where Lethe flows o'er sands of memory, 
 Mid languid lotos-leaves in dark empearled, 
 Forgetting all life's care and misery ; 
 We enter caverns strange and palaces 
 More wondrous than Alladin built of old, 
 We drink nectarian wine from chalices 
 Of greenest emerald and richest gold. 
 Within thy ivory gates soft Silence keeps 
 Her courts of drowsy calm ; faint streaks of 
 
 morn 
 Forever blush upon thine eastern steeps, 
 Delicious promise never yielding dawn. 
 Land of all lovely things — 'tis sweet to be 
 Beside thy poppy plains and silent sea. 
 
 42 
 
(§n MX. fearxm 
 
 Overlooking the Hudson 
 
 A HUNDRED centuries thy stream has 
 
 rolled 
 In lordly grandeur over sands of gold, 
 From mountain country to the mighty sea, 
 Rolling in silent night eternally. 
 
 Three little centuries thy waves have sighed 
 About the Empire City's kingly pride, 
 That vast, high city, towering toward the sky, 
 Busy with life in its immensity. 
 
 A hundred centuries, and who may say, 
 Where are the towers that deck thy banks today ? 
 Gone, perchance, with the pomp of long ago, 
 Yet still thy waters move with peaceful flow. 
 
 43 
 
'"PHE earth lights die. O'er hills and streams 
 The great stars flash, calm, cold, and white ; 
 How brief seem our desires and dreams, 
 When measured in their long, long light. 
 
 44 
 
Efy (Itrl Upon i\\t £>tn\VB 
 
 [ WONDER where you are tonight, — 
 
 Dear Face I fain would view, 
 Those eyes still haunt me with a light, — 
 Nor sea nor land e'er knew. 
 
 thoughts and dreams on childhood streams 
 
 How can ye be so dear, 
 Across my life your rare light gleams 
 And fills each growing year. 
 
 Our paths have swerved, 'tis long ago, 
 When we each other knew, 
 
 1 know not whether joy or woe, 
 
 Has been in store for you. 
 I only know — a tired man, 
 
 World weary, full of cares, 
 I still can feel upon my cheek 
 
 That kiss upon the stairs. 
 
 Yet 'tis not loss — in many lands, 
 
 Among the haunts of men, 
 And out upon the boundless sea, 
 
 Your face would come again, 
 And often, when temptation came, 
 
 With its illusive snares, 
 I've been a stronger man, because 
 
 You kissed me on the stairs. 
 
 45 
 
I have not gained the world's renown, 
 
 Nor won the golden meed, 
 The lower path 'tis mine to tread, 
 
 To work — perchance succeed. 
 But if I ever gain the prize, 
 
 Which each man would attain, 
 I'd give it all, to know your eyes 
 
 Grew brighter at my name. 
 
 O chords that sound and will not die, 
 O words that breathe and burn, 
 Wounds that are far yet leave their scar— 
 
 memories that return. 
 Where'er you are, unto the night 
 
 1 breathe a single prayer, 
 
 May heaven crown your days with light, 
 Dear Girl upon the stairs. 
 
 4 6 
 
Hotthmngs 
 
 [ OFTEN wonder, at the close of day, 
 
 When the bright sun sinks glowing in the west, 
 Why old earth turns upon her weary way. 
 
 I often wonder, as the ebbing-tide 
 Slowly recedes and leaves the silent sands, 
 On life's Far Shore, shall we be satisfied? 
 
 And as each setting sun of friendship dies 
 And gloomy night close veils our earthly skies, 
 Will Orient morning at the last arise ? 
 
 What means the struggle, what avails the pain? 
 The calm night wraps its folds about the field, 
 And as things have been, so they will remain. 
 
 Oh ! trusting heart, in worlds untravelled yet 
 Shall dawn the stars that waning here have set ; 
 There shalt thou bind each link nor aught forget. 
 
 47 
 
Baxmtt 
 
 Sir Isaac Newton, the eminent scientist, ivas heard to 
 remark in his old age: " I have wandered on the shore of 
 truth? s wide ocean, and gathered here and there a feiv 
 pebbles, but the vast sea itself still lies before me unex- 
 plored.'''' 
 
 TJPON the shore of truth's wide ocean, I 
 Lone pilgrim for a little while have traced 
 My plodding footsteps, soon to be effaced 
 When on the wings of clearer light sweeps by 
 Fair Science's chariot. E'en now I descry 
 
 Her coming steeds, and lo! the tossing 
 
 waste 
 Reflects the beam from torch her hand 
 hath placed. 
 A few stray pebbles have I, too, put by, 
 Gathered upon the shore of yonder dark 
 
 And unknown ocean, that still unexplored 
 Rolls on forever. Ah! for some brave bark 
 » To put out boldly and steer onward 
 toward 
 The shadowy depth that yet no man may mark, 
 On whose dark bosom hath no light-ray 
 lowered. 
 
Written as a labour of love — -for old memories sake. 
 
 T AST night I passed at midnight hour, 
 
 The silent college halls : 
 Each dim red pile and mossy tower 
 
 Where dim the moonlight falls : 
 Down the deserted, moon-blanched street, 
 
 Alone, my thoughts and I, 
 We wandered, wrapped in memories sweet 
 
 Of other days gone by. 
 
 I wonder where they are tonight, 
 
 The dear old noisy throng, 
 Who passed with hearts and footsteps light 
 
 These ancient elms among. 
 Far down, deep in my heart there rings 
 
 An old time, sad refrain, 
 So sweet, so tender, yet it brings 
 
 Such sense of endless pain. 
 
 49 
 
"PODAY I feel the pathos of the world, 
 
 What one has called "the sense of tears 
 
 in things,' ' 
 A quiet retrospective sense that springs 
 From gazing at the Seniors' flags unfurled 
 In mournful beauty ; in the dark empearled, 
 The golden leaves are silver on the lake, 
 There hangs a sacred hush on wold and 
 brake. 
 
 E'en so when comes the twilight call for me, 
 With sober patience and unfaltering trust, 
 Like this calm afterglow of wood and wold, 
 
 Would I depart beyond the sunset sea, 
 
 Knowing that somewhere, somehow, meet 
 
 we must, 
 In God's great universe eternally. 
 
 50 
 
I 
 
 r T A HERE'S a wonderful isle in a far away sea 
 Where the soft, scented breezes blow 
 lazily free, 
 The kingly palm tree rears its sinewy stem, 
 Its tall branches crowned with a green diadem. 
 A soft golden haze 
 Fills the long sun-lit days 
 And sweet-scented zephyr in idleness plays ; 
 Mystic and bright 
 A magical light 
 Pervades the soft shades of the warm tropic night; 
 The sea's constant murmur is low on the strand, 
 And sweet the birds sing in that wonderful 
 land. 
 
 II 
 
 There are fruits that hang low on the wide 
 
 spreading trees, 
 And crystal streams hurrying on to the seas, 
 And wonderful flowers breathe on the air, 
 Whose colors are matchless and odors are rare. 
 
 With glances bright 
 
 Of silvery light 
 The glorious stars deck the short moonlit night. 
 
 Under the sheen 
 
 Of the moonlight's gleam 
 
 5« 
 
The nymphs of the murmuring brooklets are 
 
 seen ; 
 And their song of enchantment falls sweet on 
 
 the ear: 
 Eat once of our lotus and dwell with us here. 
 
 Ill 
 
 For a mystical charm has this island so fair, 
 To taste of her fruits bringeth surcease of care ; 
 To drink from her brooks is to quaff Lethe's 
 
 stream 
 And memories of homeland dissolve as a dream. 
 
 Wonderful isle! 
 
 Oh for a while 
 To steal to thy shores when our sorrows beguile ; 
 
 There at the brink 
 
 Of thy fountains to drink, 
 And never of homeland and trouble to think ; 
 To list 'neath thy trees to the sea's murmur 
 
 bland 
 And spend all our days in this fair Lotus-land! 
 
 52 
 
Sattm 
 
 T WISH I might climb the peaks of dawn, 
 That glow with so strange a light, 
 
 Their summits fair, where the day is born, 
 Their steep sides wrapped in night. 
 
 Is it only a fancy that far within 
 
 Their darkened depths I see 
 The burden of care and sorrow and sin, 
 
 Which on this day must be ? 
 
 Yet on your summits, calm, serene, 
 
 Behold a peaceful glow, 
 The night will pass, and morning gleam 
 
 Cold on your peaks of snow. 
 
 5 3 
 
($trafraittB 
 
 ' ,r JpHE way thereof is death," the Preacher 
 
 said, 
 "In these ten simple stanzas I have read, 
 There lurks an old-world poison. Pass them by 
 And feed on healthier spiritual bread." 
 
 That Sunday morning in the heart of June, 
 I listened to the perfect Persian rune, 
 And Fancy carried me unto a land 
 Where it was and shall aye be afternoon. 
 
 The lovely quatrains floated on the air 
 
 In all their Oriental beauty rare, 
 
 And what cared I for what the Preacher said — 
 
 His sermon had dissolved into the air. 
 
 Like Paole sitting, in the ancient lay, 
 Beside the fair Francesca, on that day 
 No droning preacher held my drowsy ear, 
 With Omar I was wandering far away. 
 
 54 
 
Again I heard his liquid numbers flow 
 
 In all the beauty of the long ago, 
 
 The songs of wine and love and summertide, 
 
 What matter if the bard were wise or no ? 
 
 And yet, dear Prophet of the Persian song, 
 Whose music has been dear to me so long, 
 Are we one penny wiser now than when 
 You flung your roses to the heedless throng ? 
 
 The same white stars their silent courses keep, 
 The same dumb silence hovers dark and deep, 
 We play the same vain game of nights and days, 
 No wiser than when Omar fell asleep. 
 
 Oh bear me to some country where the rose 
 Forever blushing in her garden grows, 
 Where the chill northern winds blow not at all, 
 And the rich vineyard by the water blows. 
 
 Where kissed by spicy laden Eastern breeze, 
 The lotos blows beside the purple seas, 
 And where we shrink not neath the chilling gaze 
 Of your cold Christ and tangled Trinities. 
 
 Where Pope and Galilean are forgot, 
 
 And all the jarring creeds that scheme and plot, 
 
 And one taste of the balmy lotos bears 
 
 Us, weary, to the land where griefs are not. 
 
 55 
 
There let us dream, beneath eternal June, 
 Throughout the long, long Eastern afternoon, 
 Until the great white Southern stars arise, 
 And we awake beneath the Orient moon. 
 
 The solemn centuries come, and silent go 
 Into the distance whither none may know, 
 Ah, Life and Wine are sweet and Love is long, 
 And then we sleep as Omar, is't not so ? 
 
 And so I pray, as he, when comes the call, 
 That I may sleep beside a garden wall, 
 Where the rose-petals in the Spring may blow, 
 And chilling blasts of Winter never fall. 
 
 Yet Omar, as I listen to thy song, 
 Thou, wondrous pagan, art not wholly wrong, 
 We long in these distracted days, for thee 
 To teach us, when the day is overlong. 
 
 Oh breathe upon our fevered age again 
 Thy mellow sweetness and thy old-world pain, 
 That we, in our mad rush for power and place, 
 May listen and become refreshed again. 
 
 O give us breathing space, in days like these, 
 To wander by the vales and pulsing seas, 
 To gather flowers and rest beside the way, 
 And catch the odor of the scented breeze : 
 
 56 
 
We are so weary sometimes with it all 
 We miss the peace within thy garden wall, 
 All that we need is but to laugh, to sing, 
 To love more, then to sleep where rose leaves fall. 
 
 Sometimes I think too in my wanton way, 
 If all the facts be as the preachers say, 
 I'd rather gather flowers in Nashaipur, 
 Than walk on weary golden streets that day. 
 
 I'd rather sir with thee, just as I am, 
 And hear the old sweet songs that liquid ran 
 From out thy lyre's golden strings, than rest 
 Unwilling, on the breast of Abraham. 
 
 And so I figure, though I know not why, 
 We need not fear the future, You and I, 
 Though Prophets prate of Hell and Paradise, 
 We with a smile may pass both gently by. 
 
 The world is very weary of the Priest, 
 Another dawn is purpling all the East, 
 The Age of Beauty, rising from the sea, 
 Bidding creed weary mortals to her feast. 
 
 * 'Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty," sang a Boy, 
 Whom Time cannot efface nor creeds alloy, 
 To whom the world was but one message, Love, 
 And but one mood to read that message, Joy. 
 
 57 
 
He sang the song you sang by Persia's stream, 
 Where you saw beauty, he too caught the gleam, 
 Through the long centuries your souls are one, 
 And he too sleeps the sleep that knows no dream. 
 
 "REST IN YOUR GRAVE BENEATH THE 
 
 PURPLE RAIN 
 OF HEART DESIRED ROSES. LIFE IS VAIN? 
 AND VAIN THE EMPTY LEGENDS WE MAY 
 
 TRACE 
 UPON THE OPEN BOOK THAT SHUTS 
 
 AGAIN." 
 
 58 
 
gETWEEN the night and morning, ere the 
 
 sky was streaked with grey, 
 I heard the Nomad calling to my soul from far 
 
 away; 
 And as the first far blushes of morning lit the 
 
 sky, 
 We passed out into the glory, the Nomad, my 
 
 soul and I. 
 
 I heard the Nomad calling as he oft had called 
 
 before, 
 I know I am in bondage to him for evermore, 
 I must follow where he leads me, as a father 
 
 leads a child, 
 Dreaming the dreams of the wanderlust, hearing 
 
 the call of the wild. 
 
 I to the dying glory of the red sun's ocean dip, 
 By many a floating island and many a phantom 
 
 ship, 
 Rudderless, compassless, helpless, drifting the 
 
 Eastern sea, 
 Knowing no port, no country, derelict, even 
 
 as we ; 
 
 59 
 
Yet when the broad night hastens from fields 
 
 beyond the bars 
 Of the glorious purple sunset and the bath of the 
 
 Western stars 
 When the great white stars burn silently in the 
 
 heart of the ebon sky, 
 And the silent seas surround us, the Nomad, my 
 
 soul and I ; 
 
 The world we leave behind us is a tale that has 
 
 long been told, 
 Beyond are the Happy Islands, the gleam of the 
 
 Gates of Gold, 
 The rare light dies on the ocean, there is a song 
 
 on the Way of the West, 
 We are dreamers of dreams forever in the Lure 
 
 of the endless Quest. 
 
 Between the night and morning, ere the sky was 
 
 streaked with grey, 
 I heard the Nomad calling to my soul from far 
 
 away, 
 And as the first far blushes of morning lit the 
 
 sky, 
 We passed out into the glory, the Nomad, my 
 
 soul and I. 
 
 60 
 
Iflttbtittg Jim 
 
 "gEEMS queer to me," said doubting Jim, 
 
 As he,sat in his door where the sun shone in, 
 "These religious fellers may be all right, 
 But, as I says to Bill Green t'other night, 
 There's jest one pint where they all agree 
 That looks like a bunco game to me : 
 The reward that's coming is in the sky, 
 And the melon ain't sliced until you die ; 
 Don't make no odds, Turk, Chinee, Jew, 
 Over there you git what's coming to you ; 
 Or, in other words, them parson folks 
 All pay in promissory notes ; 
 They say on earth we all ketch Hell, 
 But over Jordan all is well ; 
 Now where' s the pious chap as can 
 Say them air notes are worth a damn ? 
 When you see the parson, jest ask him, 
 This earth for mine," said Doubting Jim. 
 
 61 
 
gILL WILLIAMS sez to me, sez he, 
 
 My dog has got a pedigree. 
 And then he starts and talks awhile 
 In his big hifalutin style 
 About his Boston terrier, which 
 Has got a twisted tail and sich, 
 And then his fussy nose turns up 
 At sight of Skeets, my yaller pup. 
 
 Bill Williams sez to me, sez he, 
 That terrier's as fine's can be ; 
 His father licked ten dogs, y'know, 
 His ma was in the prize pup show ; 
 Won six blue ribbons, — that's his style, 
 Guess that will hold 'em for awhile. 
 And meanwhile Skeets, my yaller pup, 
 Was gittin ready to chaw him up. 
 
 Bill Williams sez to me, sez he, 
 
 I've had five hundred offered me 
 
 By one dog man, T. W. Lawson, 
 
 Who stirs things up down there in Boston. 
 
 And my dog Skeets, I seen him smile 
 
 An lick his lean chops all the while. 
 
 62 
 
An 'bout that time, my Skeets, he thought 
 He'd waited as long as he really ought, 
 An he made one jump an landed where 
 He grabbed that prize pup fair and square ; 
 He chawed one chaw and bit one bite, 
 It was an awful one-side fight, 
 And that there brindle hit the trail 
 With one ear gone and half his tail. 
 
 An Bill was awful mad an said 
 
 He'd a blame good mind to punch my head ; 
 
 "Yer dog goned miserable mongrel pup 
 
 Has purty nigh et my prize dog up, 
 
 Wot is he good for now ? ' ' sez he, 
 
 An I sez, jolly as could be, 
 
 "Shet up, he's got his pedigree." 
 
 63 
 
Wjttmatt'a Hfttgttmm 
 
 With apologies to Longfellow 
 
 'pHEN the little Johnny Whitman 
 Built a wigwam on the Union, 
 Raised a snow white tent of canvas, 
 For the cold and stormy weather ; 
 Firm and strong and tight he made it, 
 Lashed it firm upon the building, 
 And the Heron, the Shuh-Shuh-Gah, 
 Laughed among the South Bay seaweed, 
 At the tent of John P. Whitman. 
 
 Dead they found him in the wigwam, 
 
 He the strong and mighty actor, 
 
 Dead and cold and gone to Heaven (?) 
 
 Frozen in his robes of ermine, 
 
 Frozen in his sealskin mittens, 
 
 Icicles upon his forehead, 
 
 And big blocks of ice around him. 
 
 Thus departed Johnny Whitman, 
 
 In the darkness of the midnight, 
 
 To the kingdom of Ponemah, 
 
 To the Land of the Hereafter. 
 
 64 
 
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