LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 T ^'^—^ — 
 
 Chap. Coi'Viio'lit No. 
 
 8helf..i.L0_ci. S 7 
 
 ■ Hr^a 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
 ^Jp^ 
 
^pdrfto <tttb ^(Xmtti 
 
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SPARKS AND 
 FLAMES 
 
 POEMS 
 
 By 
 Henry Wilson Stratton 
 
 With a Preface by Hezekiah Butterworth 
 
 M. F. Mansfield & A. Wessels 
 
 New York 
 
Copyright 
 
 1899 
 
 M. F. Mansfield & A. Wessels 
 
 TWO COPIES RECEIVED 
 
 Library of Cengr6f«» 
 
 •ary or uengreisi ^ r'^l 
 
 Offic* ©f th« \ O 3^ "^ I 
 
 Register of Copyrlghttr 
 
 47068 
 
 SECOND COPY, 
 
 
 ^'Jl 
 
To the Spirit of Poesy : which 
 warms and vivifies the cold 
 routine of daily life, and illumines 
 our minds, quickening perception 
 of inward truth : these poems are 
 dedicated. 
 
(Jprefoce. 
 
 In these days, when verses are almost 
 as thick as roses in June, it is only 
 poenis of distinct inspiration that have 
 a new field, and make an impression 
 and live. The poems in this collec- 
 tion may claim distinct inspiration 
 and to have the mission of inner sight. 
 The thought is occult ; it interprets ; 
 it deals not with effects, but with 
 causes. It seeks the Soul of things. 
 It interprets life. 
 
 It is said that there is nothing that 
 can be imagined, desired, or sought 
 that cannot be achieved. The writer 
 of these pooms has had to struggle 
 against dimness of outward vision. 
 But like the compensations that came 
 to Milton and Blacklock, and even 
 to old Homer, his inward vision has 
 been opened and his soul sees. 
 
 The poems express this inward light 
 and sight. They belong to the hidden 
 spiritual world. And yet their vocab- 
 ulary is large and unique ; and their 
 figures of speech not only beautiful, 
 but most happily chosen. Some of 
 the comparisons between the seen and 
 the unseen are like visions : they re- 
 move the veil, and afford glimpses of 
 the whole universe of life, that spirit- 
 ual sphere in which all things are one. 
 It gives one pleasure to commend a 
 
work of such rare literary and spiritual 
 qualities. It is a beautiful book of 
 the soul, and to those who live for 
 the soul it cannot fail to be a most 
 helpful revelation of new thought. As 
 music is the highest language of the 
 soul, so much of the thought of the 
 book is associated with themes of 
 this divine art of interpretation. The 
 writer himself is a musician, and so 
 has often made music the subject of 
 his poems. 
 
 Every one must wish such a volume 
 the largest success, for it has distinct 
 inspiration and makes clearer the light 
 of life and brighter the spiritual hori- 
 zons. It has a mission — may its 
 readers be many. 
 
 Hezekiah Butterworth. 
 
€onfent0. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To March 11 
 
 O Life I Thou Beauteous Fire 12 
 
 Sun-Blood, 13 
 
 To Life 15 
 
 The Sun-Christ, . 16 
 
 At Dawn 17 
 
 At Eve, 18 
 
 The Circle of Life, 19 
 
 The Peak of Night 20 
 
 Lyric to an April Morning, 21 
 
 The Angel's Mission, 22 
 
 True Music, 24 
 
 God's Organ, 25 
 
 The Army of the Grasses, ..... 26 
 
 Feathered Music, 29 
 
 June '31 
 
 To the Leaves, 32 
 
 To a Clover Blossom, 33 
 
 Strawberries, 34 
 
 Idyl, 35 
 
 Sun-Money, ....... 36 
 
 Alone, 39 
 
 June's Thunder Bell, 40 
 
 To a Rose, 42 
 
 Summer's Song, 43 
 
 Sunrise, 44 
 
 Reverie, 46 
 
 The Bell-Buoy 47 
 
 Her Voice, 49 
 
 Dead Sunlight, 51 
 
 Dead Soul-Light, 62 
 
PAGE 
 
 Hurrah, Boys ! 53 
 
 Sunbeam and Moonbeam, 54 
 
 Out in the Night, 55 
 
 The Death of Summer. 57 
 
 The Land of Silence, 58 
 
 Autumn Pictures, 61 
 
 A Bunch of Grapes 62 
 
 In a Factory, ........ 63 
 
 Silence, 65 
 
 The Fire of the Leaves, 67 
 
 Where Then is Music ? 68 
 
 Love's Freedom, 69 
 
 To an Autumn Leaf, 70 
 
 The Coming of Winter 71 
 
 Passion and Peace 74 
 
 Riddle of the Snow-Flakes, 75 
 
 The Snow-Cloth Makers, 76 
 
 Her Touch 78 
 
 Reversible Poem, 79 
 
 East and West 81 
 
 To My Love Across the Snow, . . . .83 
 
 Young Christmas, .84 
 
 Wrinkled Brow and Dimpled Chin, . . .85 
 
 Morn and Night, 87 
 
to (Slarc^. 
 
 Loud trumpeter cf Spring ! 
 Blowing the wintry notes 
 From out the tune of things, 
 That warmer tones may float 
 Through music's honeyed realm- 
 Soon to thy blare, so bleak, 
 The flower-flutes shall reply, 
 And up and down their stems 
 Sing forth their leaf-notes green ; 
 Then shall the 'cello bees 
 Buzz into unison 
 With piccolo of bird; 
 While zephyrs draw the bow 
 O'er strings of twig and bough, 
 Making sweet violins 
 Of all the budding trees. 
 Blow, trumpeter ! blow out 
 The frozen chords of sound ; 
 Blow in the warmth, the life, 
 The harmonies of heat. 
 
 ("By kind permission of " The Youth's Companion."} 
 
incendiary Spring ! 
 How at thy touch all life is set a-burning! 
 
 Thine is the power to bring 
 Anew to Matter's realm the spiritual yearning. 
 
 Behold each spire of grass I 
 A slender flame of greenest animation ! 
 
 The zephyrs as they pass 
 Fan the fresh fields to emerald conflagration. 
 
 Up fly those sparks so bright — 
 The bee and butterfly in showers exciting, 
 
 To wing their minute flight, 
 Oft in the green combustion re-alighting. 
 
 White-hot the daisies burn I 
 The brands of buttercup and dandelion 
 
 Each other's glow return, 
 While jets of color burst from many a scion. 
 
 The furnace-trees o'erflow 
 With molten verdure, fast their lives consuming; 
 
 While petalled pink and snow 
 The surge of leafy heat are bright-illuming. 
 
 With bluest fire of day, 
 Blazed o'er with gold, with fleecy smoke inblending, 
 
 Mark how the dome of May 
 O'er all this loveliness, in love is bending! 
 
 O Life ! thou beauteous fire I 
 Though unto few thine inner self revealing, 
 
 Thy color-sheaths inspire 
 The hearts of all with holiest thought and feeling. 
 
 CBjr kind perviissioH of " The Vouih's Companion.") 
 
Golden heart of Day I 
 Beating midst the blue, 
 
 Swung from gray to gray 
 Into mortal view. 
 
 How through arteries wide 
 
 Of uncharted sky, 
 Pours thy yellow tide 
 
 Surging silently. 
 
 How thy sun-blood warm 
 Thrills the veins of air, 
 
 Tingling Morn's fair form 
 Into rapture rare. 
 
 In the glory-flow, 
 
 Hark, the feathered throng I 
 Darting to and fro — 
 
 Corpuscles of song. 
 
 Hear the twigs and boughs — 
 Bones of Day they seem. 
 
 Stretch themselves or drowse 
 In ecstatic dream ; 
 
 Sucking up the gold 
 
 Streaming thickly down, 
 
 Flesh of green to hold 
 Forming on the brown. 
 
 See the grasses dip — 
 Nerves of Day, so fine, 
 
 Feeding, root and tip 
 On the ample shine. 
 
With papillaed reach 
 Feeling for the world, 
 
 Quivering forth the speech 
 Deep in ganglia curled. 
 
 List the breezes breathe — 
 Day's emotions large, 
 
 How they sigh and seethe 
 With her soul in charge ; 
 
 Blow her thought awake 
 Into scent and bloom, 
 
 And the life-pulse shake 
 From each seedy tomb. 
 
 Flow, O blood of flame, 
 Round your circuit sweep! 
 
 Till her quickened frame 
 Into beauty leap, — 
 
 Till your amber hue 
 
 With the earth-stains rife, 
 Sullied, passing through 
 
 All the forms of life, — 
 
 Changed to light unseen, 
 Darkened into heat. 
 
 To the sun-heart's sheen 
 Makes a glad retreat ; 
 
 Through night's purple vein 
 Pulsing large and free. 
 
 Eager to regain 
 All its purity. 
 
 Thus your ring complete, 
 Wondrous in its might — 
 
 Death of light in heat. 
 Birth of heat in light. 
 
O Life ! 'tis wondrous sweet to live for thee 
 
 And feed the soul upon thy liberty ! 
 
 Yea, gorge the soul and be an epicure, 
 
 Thy freedom's daintiest morsel to allure ! 
 
 Few fatten on thy rich, imperial food ; 
 
 Few are the banqueters at thy vast table ; 
 
 For most to be thy guests are still too rude. 
 
 Or deem the splendid banquet but a fable. 
 
 Most are but nibblers of the glorious fare 
 
 That thou hast spread for all with generous care ; 
 
 Their careless lips are strangers to thy wine ; 
 They never taste thy flavors so divine, 
 
 Nor smell the spicy odors that arise 
 
 In sprays of fragrance from thy fair supplies. 
 
 Most, with a hasty, undigested glance, 
 
 Swallow the mouldy bread of ignorance. 
 
 And grow dyspeptic on their discontent. 
 
 Some panacea e'er seeking to invent 
 
 That shall renew the stomach of their lot ; 
 
 Yet with its deathful diet quarrel not. 
 
 And who shall give these starving millions, eyes, 
 
 The leanness of their lives to realize ; 
 
 Their skeletons of spirit to behold. 
 
 And lack of that immortal, vital gold ? 
 
 Who shall awake their dumb, inert repose. 
 
 The deaf ears of indifference unclose ; 
 
 Teach them to touch and smell and taste at last, 
 
 The largess of thy bountiful repast ? 
 
 Who but the joyous, heaven-proclaiming poet? 
 
 For truth o 'erf ills him and he must o'erflow it — 
 
 List to the music of the muse of song ! 
 
 She sings of thee unto the deathward throng! 
 
 Now blow ! ye breezes, waft her theme along ! 
 
.^ 
 
 Now from the tomb of night, 
 
 Dawn rolls the cloud away ; 
 
 And wrapt in glory bright 
 
 Rises the Lord of day. 
 The essence of the dark awakes its primal pomp to claim ; 
 The east, all crimson-dappled, breaks m spray of golden flame ; 
 The morn, hid in the under world, now lifts the lid of gloom, 
 And poising for her blueward flight, unfolds her wings of bloom ; 
 Light, crucified in yester's sunset gore, its hue redeems; 
 The Sun-Christ, resurrected, shines with glad immortal beams. 
 
 Up from his twilight bier 
 
 His amber spirit springs, 
 
 While musics far and near 
 
 Unfold their raptured wings. 
 
 Mist-memories of his death 
 
 In scarlet scars and seams 
 
 Fade as the morning's breath 
 
 Blows in the purer beams. 
 
 'Tis nature's saviour, come 
 
 Her life-pulse to renew 
 
 And teach her soul so numb 
 
 To find the heavenward clue. 
 
®f ®ai»m 
 
 When twilight's rosy fringes 
 With stars are beaded round. 
 
 And from the nest of silence 
 Comes many a winged sound ; 
 
 When color-sprites are painting 
 The drowsy blooms awake, 
 
 Plying their dewy brushes 
 The fairest tints to make ; 
 
 When up the dawn, some zephyr 
 Comes searching for the sun. 
 
 Breathing the first beams onward 
 Until the mighty one — 
 
 The sun-heart of creation — 
 Throbs into glory bright, 
 
 Beating its golden rhythm 
 Through all the veins of night ; 
 
 Oh then how sweet to wander, 
 Companionless and free. 
 
 Careless of care, unthinking, 
 Wrapt in the things that be — 
 
 Lost unto self and sorrow. 
 Vanished from conscious sense. 
 
 Merged in the golden splendor — 
 Here, yet forever hence. 
 
^i (EDe. 
 
 When twilight's purple fringes 
 "With stars are beaded o'er, 
 
 And in the ear of silence 
 A thousand musics pour 
 
 Their soft, subduing measures; 
 
 When from the sleeping blooms 
 The spirit floats in fragrance 
 
 Across the shimmering glooms ; 
 
 When down the sky, some zephyr 
 Comes searching for the moon, 
 
 And blows the prelude glimmer 
 Into the full-orbed tune ; 
 
 When leaves like spirit voices 
 Call to the startled soul, 
 
 And whisper of those beauties 
 That through the ethers roll ; 
 
 Oh then how sweet to wander, 
 Companionless and free. 
 
 Careless of care unthinking, 
 Wrapt in the things that be ; 
 
 Lost unto self and sorrow, 
 
 Vanished from conscious sense, 
 
 Merged in the magic beauty — 
 Here, yet forever hence. 
 
t^c Circfe of £ife. 
 
 Life is coming, life is going, 
 
 'Midst the paths of peace and pain ; 
 
 Endlessly the blood is flowing 
 
 Back and forth in heart and brain. 
 
 To and fro the breeze is breathing 
 Through the niighty lungs of air ; 
 
 Up and down the sea is seething 
 Like a monster in his lair. 
 
 In and out the stars are stealing 
 'Tween the folds of day and night ; 
 
 Far and near the bells are pealing 
 In the depth or on the height. 
 
 Wings are somewhere always whirring, 
 
 Echo never is at rest, 
 Motion is forever spruring 
 
 Onward to some goal unguessed. 
 
 Love itself is ever changing. 
 Constant things to fickle turn, 
 
 God seems ever re-arranging. 
 Lest mankind His secret learn. 
 
 'Tis a race of endless running 
 For a prize unknown and far ; 
 
 'Tis a chain whose circuit, cunning, 
 None may imitate nor mar. 
 
 Ours it is, to simply follow 
 
 Round and round with willing feet, 
 Be it hill or be it hollow, 
 
 Trusting in His love complete. 
 
t^ (J^eaft of ()fliQ% 
 
 To climb ! 
 
 The time 
 
 Sublime! 
 
 Your heaven is here. 
 
 Of truth is near, 
 
 Now tier on tier 
 
 Awake your sleeping sight I 
 
 Your invitation bright — 
 
 Dawn? 'Tis the peak of night, 
 
 All things the call to rise obey. 
 
 Fragrance and music lead the way. 
 
 The dark slants up to find the day, 
 
 Why mount ye not the spirit's sunward slope ? 
 
 Starless and moonless, strangers unto hope — 
 
 What is your comfort as ye onward grope? 
 
 Whose cold nocturnity no spiritual ray illumes, 
 
 Shut in the silence dread, of self-created tombs 
 
 O ye who dwell amid the deep material gloomSj 
 
 {^Read frojn bottom tipivards^ 
 
fel^ric to an ($rpnf (gloming. 
 
 April morn ! blithe April morn ! 
 What though my life of joys is shorn, 
 Bleeding from discord's jagged wound, 
 The strings in Pleasure's harp untuned. 
 Given the staff, denied the strain, 
 Jarred by the piercing notes of pain. 
 Until my spirit worn and wrung 
 
 With eager music all unsung, 
 
 Sends forth a heavenward yearning cry 
 
 Claiming its need to sing or die — 
 
 Ah, me 1 what though all tossed and torn ! 
 
 With thee, 1 cannot feel forlorn. 
 
 Thy sunbeams flash through all my frame. 
 
 Re-kindling Hope's expiring flame, 
 
 Thy bird-songs ripple through my heart 
 
 And solace to my thoughts impart. 
 
 Thy zephyrs waft my night away. 
 
 And now I glimpse Joy's breaking day. 
 
 My pulses catch thy glowing mood 
 
 Quick-beating forth their gratitude. 
 
 The Spring that makes thy presence bright 
 
 So thrills me with its fresh delight, 
 
 That I am Spring — the Spring is I — 
 
 1 am the breeze^the birds — the sky — 
 O April morn ! blithe April morn I 
 With thee, my life anew is born. 
 
 (By permission of " The Youth's Companion,") 
 21 
 
t^c (^ngef (gtiseion. 
 
 An angel flew to earth one night 
 And paused in a star-illumined dell, 
 
 Where sat a youth whose soul was bright 
 With more of truth than books can tell. 
 
 But o'er the brightness of that soul 
 Deep yearning like a shadow lay, 
 
 And held within its dark control 
 His shining life, a helpless prey. 
 
 Oh, greenly fertile was his mind. 
 
 But parched and barren was his heart, 
 
 Minerva to his lot was kind 
 But Venus had forgot her part. 
 
 For knowledge, yea, he ever yearned, 
 He sought to lose himself in lore. 
 
 The while for love his spirit burned ; 
 
 But now his hope was scorched and sore. 
 
 The angel saw, then flew afar 
 
 To where a maiden knelt in prayer, 
 
 Her tresses bathed in moon and star, 
 Disordered by a drear despair. 
 
 Wild wept her spirit to its God — 
 " Father, how long this boon deny? 
 
 Alone, unloved, the way I've trod, 
 I pray Thee, now my need supply." 
 
 Between those wistful stranger souls 
 Love-threads of gold the angel wove. 
 
 Till in that web's resplendent folds 
 The sufferers felt each other's love. 
 
Led by that visitant divine, 
 
 At last each other's eyes they knew, 
 And o'er their lives through shade and shine 
 
 The angel bent, though hid from view. 
 
 O ye who oft for love have cried. 
 
 Be sure that God your need will meet. 
 
 Nor space nor time can e'er divide 
 The hearts that for each other beat. 
 
$irue (glueic. 
 
 True music dwells not in the outward notes, 
 But in the depth and silences between — 
 
 E'en as the flower is in the breath that floats 
 Among the petals, fragrant yet unseen. 
 
 For sound is but the wall, uncouth and plain. 
 Whereby the garden of the tune is known — 
 
 And all the rhythmic hushes of the strain 
 Are wickets in the barrier of tone. 
 
 'Tis through these narrow niches — nooks of rest — 
 That music's voice to ears attuned is brought; 
 
 Tis through these tiny gates of silence blessed 
 That deeper meanings from within are caught. 
 
 Let those too dull for music's finer charm 
 Extol the shell of song, the storm of sound, 
 
 But from the storm remove each lull and calm. 
 And where would then sweet melody be found? 
 
An organ is the Spring, 
 And May-days are the stops. 
 The sunbeams are the keys 
 That, yie ding to the touch 
 Of music's master — Him, 
 The great God-organist — 
 Unclose the frosty valves 
 Of bulb and root and seed. 
 The earth, as bellows, swells 
 Her juices rich with life 
 Through many a range of pipes- 
 From tiniest grassy stalk. 
 Flower-stem and fluty reed. 
 To diapasoned oak — 
 Till modulated forth 
 In mingling melodies 
 Of odor, form and hue, 
 Bright music blooms her way, 
 So ravishing the sense 
 That all her beauty rare, 
 Pulsing the inner life, 
 Enthrills the naked soul 
 With sweetest ecstasy. 
 
 25 
 
t^c (^rm^ of f ^e (Ktaeeee. 
 
 Serried spears of Spring 
 From the seed-sheaths drawn. 
 Driven to the hilt 
 Through the armor white 
 Of old Winter wan, 
 Till his frozen might 
 Melts in fear away. 
 How their eager blades, 
 Ground to sharpest green, 
 Tell the prowess large 
 Of their leader fair — 
 Gentle amazon, 
 Who with leafy shield, 
 Azure-helmeted, 
 Steps their ranks before — 
 Peerless, sweet, serene. 
 How her ensigns gay 
 Purple, white, and gold, 
 Flutter to the sun ; 
 By their fragrant folds 
 Charming dull routine 
 From the emerald march. 
 How her aides-de-camp. 
 Butterfly and bee. 
 Flit upon her will ; 
 Galling into line 
 Standard-bearers new. 
 Bidding tree and shrub 
 Bloom in " double quick " ; 
 While the courier breeze 
 Brings her balmy news 
 Of the foe's retreat. 
 
In the verdant van, 
 Sound the feathered fifes 
 And the drum-corps loud 
 Of the woodpeckers ; 
 While a-tween platoons 
 Of the plumy troops, 
 Many a cricket band 
 Shrills, in martial mood. 
 'Midst the dewy glooms, 
 Spring her tent unfolds 
 Wove of dusk and stars. 
 Then the firefly glows 
 On its zigzag beat — 
 Sentry vigilant, — 
 And the zephyry scouts 
 In their sinuous speed 
 Breathe the countersign. 
 See the camp-fires gleam 
 By the glow-worm lit I 
 List the rustling breath 
 Of the still brigades. 
 Sleeping on their arms I 
 Now, as o'er the host 
 Gropes the gradual dawn, 
 From the picket birds 
 Breaks a fusillade 
 Of ecstatic notes. 
 Music-pellets, hurled 
 At the stragglers white, 
 Rear-guard of the frost. 
 Then, as to the files 
 Of saluting spears 
 Dipped in glistening dew. 
 Bends the royal sun. 
 Bugler Lark with joy 
 Pipes the signal clear 
 For a fresh advance. 
 
Rank on rank they spread 
 Over field and fell, 
 Pressing back the white 
 From its prey, the brown. 
 But the King of Cold 
 Calls his cloud allies, 
 And with subtle skill, 
 Plans an ambuscade 
 Of defiant drifts. 
 Flaky legions whirl 
 On the beryl brave. 
 Till outflanked, they fall 
 'Neath the sudden charge. 
 Now lieutenant May 
 Hastens to her chief, 
 Bringing rich reserves ; 
 Armed with cartridge-pods 
 Shotted deep with seed, 
 And with pouches brimmed 
 By the dust of war. 
 Pollen-powder bright. 
 At her coming blithe, 
 Up the mountain side 
 Swift the foe retreats 
 To its native peaks ; 
 While in victory proud. 
 Winged warriors trill 
 Paeans unto Spring, 
 Clovers flaunt their flags 
 Of triumphant red. 
 Daisies, gay of heart. 
 Wave their pennons pure. 
 Sweet Arbutus glows 
 Forth in rapture pink. 
 And the dandelions 
 Sumptuously unfurl 
 Oriflammes of gold. 
 
Now the merry feathered pipers 
 Play the joyous Spring-time in, 
 
 Setting myriad feet a-dancing 
 With the fervor of their din. 
 
 Robin trills his tripping measure, 
 And the lark sings out its soul, 
 
 Soon the blue-jay joins the chorus, 
 And the crow with music droll. 
 
 Every leaf and twig is trembling 
 
 With the sweet aerial rune, 
 From their buds the eager blossoms 
 
 Hasten forth to hear the tune. 
 
 From its seed-house runs the plantlet. 
 Leaping greenly towards the sky ; 
 
 Flowers their petal-wings are spreading, 
 Tugging at their roots to fly. 
 
 Thrush and bobolink and cuckoo 
 Ripple on the blithe refrain ; 
 
 On their finger-tips the grasses 
 Catch the pulses of the strain. 
 
 Springs are bubbling up to listen. 
 Running out in rills of glee ; 
 
 Zephyrs waft the seeds of music 
 Far and wide o'er hill and lek. 
 
 May hath ope'd her ear to hearken. 
 Dancing o'er the vibrant earth ; 
 
 She hath loosed her leafy tresses 
 And her step is light with mirth. 
 
On her head a cloud-cap fleecy, 
 Sandals green upon her feet, 
 
 Blossoms bright upon her bosom— 
 Who to dance with her is meet ! 
 
 Play, ye merry feathered pipers I 
 Fill the air with sweetest din ! 
 
 Pipe your loudest ! pipe your clearest I 
 Pipe the dancing Spring-time in ! 
 
 (By kind permission of " The Youth's Companion,") 
 30 
 
Smc, 
 
 ^ 
 
 'Tis June once more in field and sky, 
 In grass and tree and flower, 
 
 In bee and bird and butterfly, 
 In shine and shade and shower. 
 
 The air is soft with lover's sighs 
 And sweet with scent and song, 
 
 A thousand tender lullabies 
 Drift Slumber's car along. 
 
 'Mid hum and whir and dulcet trill, 
 The dreaming Summer lies. 
 
 Awake with every throb and thrill, 
 Asleep with half-shut eyes. 
 
 The day delights to dally by 
 And drowse in golden light, 
 
 While with her silver-beaming sky 
 Loiters the lovely night. 
 
 'Tis June once more within my heart ; 
 
 Through all my life 'tis June, 
 And buds of thoughts discordant, part 
 
 To blossom into tune. 
 
 (By perniissio7i of '^ The Youth'' s Co7n f anion,'' } 
 31 
 
$0 f^e &eai^e0. 
 
 Ye leaves ! whose sound so greenly slakes 
 The thirsty silence of my thought, 
 
 With what a wealth of fragrant peace 
 Your murmurous cadences are fraught I 
 
 The soul of Summer to me speaks 
 Through all your modulations sweet ; 
 
 Soothed by your cool and lightsome song, 
 The day forgets its heavy heat. 
 
 Unrhythmed music of the trees I 
 
 Breathing of things unseen, unheard ; 
 
 Whispering of a world apart. 
 
 By dissonance and death unstirred. 
 
 Would like a bird that I might build 
 Amid your emerald shades my nest, 
 
 And trill away the haunting cares 
 That fill my spirit with unrest ! 
 
 (By permission of " The Youth'' s Coftt-^anion.*'} 
 32 
 
$0 a CfoDer (J$fo0eom. 
 
 Red beacon ! shining bright 
 
 For winged mariners 
 
 That sail the sea of air, — 
 
 What set thee thus ablaze ? 
 
 Didst bring these ruddy beams 
 
 With patient zeal, along 
 
 The stairway of thy cells 
 
 In some shut lantern hid. 
 
 Lit by the fire of life 
 
 Whose spark glowed in thy seed ? 
 
 Or did thine eager stem 
 
 Climb to the burning point 
 
 Which comes to pure desire ; 
 
 Up-pressing, till thy toil. 
 
 Impetuous with hope, 
 
 Burst into flame of bloom? 
 
 Then was thy light self-made, 
 
 Lustred from effort high. 
 
 And yet this cannot be. 
 
 For God must have I/'2s part. 
 
 Methinks thy striving reached 
 
 The limit of its power 
 
 And found, as striving must, 
 
 God's answering blossom there. 
 
 Ah, that each human bloom 
 
 Like thee would upward strive, 
 
 And at self's limit find 
 
 The answering help of God ! 
 
Nuggets of red sunbeam ; 
 
 Mined from ore of green ; 
 Dainty, ruby blushes 
 
 From earth's face serene. 
 
 Pyramids of perfume, 
 
 Painted appetite, 
 Hunger from the outward 
 
 Crimsoned into sight. 
 
 Into shape projected, 
 Reddened into taste, 
 
 Into smell translated 
 Or in touch encased. 
 
 Hunger mindward pressing. 
 Pushed by void intense 
 
 In the spaces dwelling, 
 Making stomach-sense. 
 
 Hearts aglow and burning 
 With the sun-blood warm 
 
 Music with red pulses 
 In the tune of form. 
 
 Ruddy rhythm, beating 
 
 Color into song; 
 Tangled notes of perfume. 
 
 Sweet sonorous throng ! 
 
JW- 
 
 'Twas hand in hand that star-strewn eve, 
 
 Adown the road we came, 
 The hilly road, the winding road, 
 
 That ruts and grasses clainn. 
 
 Tall hedges gloomed on either side, 
 But through their darkness green, 
 
 Anon a light, a cottage light, 
 Did send its streak of sheen. 
 
 The moon flung wide her silver scarf 
 
 Across the zephyry night. 
 We heard the neighboring brooklet laugh 
 
 In pebbly, pure delight. 
 
 Faint waves of martial music broke 
 
 Upon the strand of sense. 
 The voice of silence dumbly spoke 
 
 Our happiness intense. 
 
 We echoed back the dreamy mood 
 
 That hung o'er hill and sky. 
 Our spirits quaffed the quietude 
 
 With cup of ear and eye. 
 
 Love fanned us with his pinions fleet, 
 We heard his bow-string twang, 
 
 And through our hearts his arrow sweet 
 Pierced with a pleasant pang. 
 
^un^(t)|tonei?. 
 
 Glory of gold ! 
 
 Nor bought, nor sold, 
 Mined from the veins that lie in the air; 
 
 Coined into beam 
 
 Of yellowest gleam, 
 Fresh from the azure mint so fair. 
 
 From stained cloud-ore, 
 
 The golden store 
 By mining breezes is released, 
 
 And nugget rays 
 
 All brimmed with blaze, 
 Pour from the pockets of the east. 
 
 The bullion bright 
 
 Of sifted light. 
 By silent processes unseen. 
 
 Is swiftly cast. 
 
 Moulded and massed 
 From yellow into richest green. 
 
 On bush and tree, 
 
 To all so free. 
 The leaves are green-backed into view ; 
 
 Pledges are they 
 
 Made unto May, 
 Ever redeemed in the sun's own hue. 
 
 In lawns and lanes 
 
 The golden grains, 
 In many a petal purse are stored. 
 
 While pouch of pod 
 
 And safe of sod. 
 Rich legacies for summer hoard. 
 
 36 
 
From beryl banks, 
 
 In swelling ranks 
 The gold is drawn by seed and scion 
 
 'Tis wisely lent 
 
 At sweet per cent 
 To buttercup and dandelion. 
 
 Now backward swing 
 
 The doors of Spring — 
 Wide sesame to all the year ; 
 
 Old Winter halts, 
 
 Her treasure-vaults 
 Beholding with an envious fear. 
 
 In bulb and root. 
 
 Beyond compute 
 Her wondrous Eldorado lies ; 
 
 'Neath spade and plough. 
 
 In blade and bough, 
 He sees her garnered riches rise. 
 
 His form, cold-white 
 
 Shrinks at the sight, 
 Her beauties fast his being burn ; 
 
 On grassy pyre 
 
 Of emerald fire, 
 His flaky locks to daisies turn. 
 
 Sun-money large. 
 
 From marge to marge 
 Of glowing sky, profusely strewn — 
 
 Great capital 
 
 Reserved for all. 
 Yet e'er in circulation's noon. 
 
 No miser's hand 
 Nor corporate band, 
 The largess of its light restrains : 
 
No robber's scheme 
 Nor idler's dream, 
 For greed, its affluent amber gains. 
 
 To caste and creed 
 
 It pays no heed. 
 But yields its currency of shine 
 
 To want and wealth. 
 
 To pain and health — 
 Bright lesson of the law divine. 
 
Alone with the whispering trees. 
 With the song of the leaves 
 Which the gay zephyr weaves 
 Through the undulant boughs 
 That his greetings arouse, 
 With the rush and the gush 
 Of the leaves. 
 
 Alone with my whispering thoughts. 
 With the song that they sing 
 As they race in a ring 
 Round the circuit of mind 
 Some outlet to find, 
 With the whirl and the swirl 
 And the twist and the curl 
 Of my thoughts. 
 
 Alone with the plash of the oar. 
 As the boat gayly glides 
 Through the spray-tossing tides 
 That so silently gleam 
 In the moon's yellow beam. 
 With the dip and the slip 
 And the musical drip 
 Of the oars. 
 
 Alone with the throb of my heart. 
 With the hope and the dream 
 That sail its red stream 
 A harbor to gain 
 In the welcoming brain, 
 With the beat and the heat 
 And the musings so sweet 
 Of my heart. 
 
 (By kind courtesy of " The Youth's CompanioM,"} 
 
A mighty bell is the sky so blue ! 
 And now by the fingered lightning swung, 
 With roll and boom its thunder tongue 
 Goes throbbing all the spaces through ; 
 
 Ringing the earth up into tune, 
 Ringing the rain from cloud to cloud, 
 Ringing the hour when blossoms crowd, 
 Ringing the jubilee of June ; 
 
 Tolling far up in its airy throat 
 Peeans in praise of summer's queen. 
 Tolling from out the sod, the green, 
 Thrilling the ground with its triumph note. 
 
 Ring, great bell, from the heights of space 1 
 Calling the seeds with voice sublime. 
 Pushing the trees to leafy prime. 
 Bursting the buds with thy heavy bass. 
 
 A redder scent in the wild rose, ring, 
 Into the pink a dainti r hue. 
 Into the lake a deeper blue. 
 Gayer tints in the butterfly's wing. 
 
 Reflected in its dulcet hum 
 Thy welcome chime the bee has caught, 
 While many a bird of thee well taught 
 Is thrilling the news that June has come. 
 
 The surf its tribute-laces brings 
 To the silvery shining feet of June ; 
 And the sea replies to thy rumbling rune 
 In the surge of song it hoarsely sings 
 
 40 
 
Thy guttural glee, dull labor heeds, 
 And soon from desk to hammock turns ; 
 While all the din-hurt highway yearns 
 Some path to be o'er dewy meads. 
 
 Ring, great bass 1 while the tenor rain 
 Runs to earth with pattering feet 
 The mighty message to repeat, 
 Drop by drop, to valley and plain. 
 
 Thy chant it sings in softer tone, 
 Telling the floweret's petalled ear 
 The tidings sweet — that June is here, 
 Eager to mount her emerald throne. 
 
 Ring the rainbow into the heart, 
 Making it glow with hopes as fair ; 
 Ring the rifts from the clouds of care. 
 Showing that pain hath a brighter part. 
 
 Bell of the sky, swinging above ! 
 Swinging the silence into sound, 
 Tell us what clangor more profound, 
 Shall ring the June of human love. 
 
 That June where vice and virtue rhyme. 
 And life's uneven metre feels 
 The smoothing pulse of music-peals, 
 Pealing the world's redemption chime. 
 
Zo a (Rose. 
 
 Dear flower 
 On my lapel, 
 I pray you tell 
 In soft and fragrant speech 
 Of her my soul would reach. 
 Your petals are her parted lips 
 Whence unto me her sweet breath slips. 
 The glow upon her cheek was caught by you, 
 Her thought is in your form so fresh and new, 
 Rose of my own fair Rose, cradle of Cupid swung 
 Upon this heaving breast where her fond arms have clung. 
 What lavish memories at your bidding start! 
 June on my coat makes June within my heart. 
 As I behold your dewy red, 
 Through you our spirits seem to wed ; 
 Your luscious hue and scent 
 Are for our nuptials lent. 
 Badge of my bliss, 
 I joy in this 
 Sweet Hour. 
 
Rummer* ^ong. 
 
 Listen, my soul, to the sv/eet song of summer, 
 Rippled and cadenced from wing, wood, and wave, 
 
 Rhythmed so finely, 
 
 Chorused divinely, 
 Sunbeamed and moonbeamed, stave upon stave. 
 
 Hark I it comes pulsing from leaf, twig, and petal, 
 Tossing and sliding from spray, surf, and crest. 
 
 Humming and shrilling 
 
 And daintily trilling. 
 For music is now at its sweetest and best. 
 
 Many a nook holds a tiny musician 
 Tuning its treble or buzzing its bass ; 
 
 Each in its labor 
 
 Spurring its neighbor. 
 Vying to win in the resonant race. 
 
 Full is the chorus, but what is its burden ? 
 Why is the summer so blithe in her song? 
 
 'Tis her rejoicing 
 
 The music is voicing — 
 Sense of her freedom the joy-notes prolong. 
 
 Tune hath now burst from the bondage of discord, 
 Silence leaps up into fountains of sound. 
 
 Rest wakes to motion, — 
 
 Thrilled with devotion, 
 Earth unto God offers praises profound. 
 
Blown by the breath divine, 
 The sun-flag, purple-fringed, 
 With bars of crimson stained, 
 Its glory-folds unfurled. 
 Far o'er day's turrets blue. 
 The mighty banner swung 
 Its weight of majesty, 
 Till night with haggard eyes 
 Vanished in ragged haste ; 
 And all the universe 
 Was thrilled with ecstasy. 
 Beneath that ensign bright, 
 Green-breasted earth awoke ; 
 So raptured by the sight 
 Her joy took wing and sang 
 A thousand melodies 
 That blent in chorus sweet ; 
 And field and garden waved 
 In salutation glad 
 Their floral pennons fair, 
 From whose delicious folds 
 The playful zephyr sprites 
 Soft-scented music drew. 
 The brook-tune blithely broke 
 Its rippling strains of light 
 Adown the golden morn. 
 Over the verdant sea 
 Of glistening meadow-dew, 
 Bee-piloted, among 
 The happy isles of shade 
 Where dwelt the dreamy kine, 
 V/andered white fleets of sheep 
 
Whose wake of silvery sound 
 Tinkled through emerald waves 
 That sporting, tossed anon 
 Their spray of butterflies ; 
 While deep 'mid bladed dells 
 The merman-locust sang. 
 The wood — cool-corridored, 
 Librarian of earth, 
 Thick-memoried with the past, 
 Breathing of eldest time — 
 Unto the beauty bent 
 Its green-plumed reverence ; 
 As if it ne'er had glimpsed 
 Centuries of scenes as fair. 
 Nature ! ever new ! 
 Perpetual youth of God ! 
 When may we learn to poise 
 The gain and loss of life, 
 And deathless live like thee ? 
 
 (By kind permission of " The Youth's Companion.** ) 
 45 
 
(Retjerie. 
 
 With silver tanglement of stars 
 The dark climbs up the sky, 
 
 Its round moon-banner, fair and bright, 
 Unfurling from on high. 
 
 Now o'er the purple plains of air 
 
 Those folds of glory glide, 
 Till nooks of night give up their gloom, 
 
 And glows the welkin wide. 
 
 From stain of darkness purified, 
 
 The earth resplendent lies ; 
 While in that beauty's saving grace 
 
 The tides in worship rise. 
 
 So, 'mid a tanglement of thoughts. 
 
 The sky of mind we climb, 
 The pure soul-banner to unfold 
 
 From spiritual heights sublime. 
 
 Now, o'er the sorrow-darkened world, 
 
 Unfurl our light divine, 
 Till nooks of life give up their grief, 
 
 And sin's dark places shine. 
 
 46 
 
t^e (j$eff::(5$uo^. 
 
 Beacon of sound ! 
 
 Light for the ear ! 
 Tolling of danger from year to year ; 
 
 Pushing the keel 
 
 With vibrant touch 
 Far from the sunk reef's ragged clutch r 
 
 Telling the helm 
 
 In moon or sun 
 Whither the channel waters run ; 
 
 Giving the fog 
 
 So dumb, a voice, 
 Bidding the seaman's heart rejoice; 
 
 Tolling of wreck 
 
 That must not be, 
 Soothing the riotous surge of the sea, 
 
 Music above 
 
 The waves' wild will 
 Solemnly pealing, " Peace — be still." 
 
 Bell of the sea! 
 
 Bell of the seal 
 Swinging in Neptune's turret so free ; 
 
 Over the shades, 
 
 The shifting hues. 
 Of endless greens and foamy blues; 
 
 Over the plash, 
 The roar, the sweep. 
 Sending thy salt notes strong and deep — 
 Lonely as thou 
 
 47 
 
Our lives are cast. 
 Ringing upon life's sea so vast. 
 
 Like unto thee, 
 
 Our brain-bells toll 
 Omens of peril to the soul. 
 
 Wide and far 
 
 Our thought-notes go 
 Over the billows of joy and woe, 
 
 Over the shades, 
 
 The shifting sway 
 Of endless moods in grave or gay ; 
 
 Sounding through storms 
 
 Of love and hate, 
 Sounding in hours of watch and wait ; 
 
 Each in its place, 
 
 Ringing alone. 
 The self-same tune with changeless tone 
 
 Keeping time 
 
 Like thee with the tide, 
 That soul-ships may in safety glide. 
 
ger (poice. 
 
 I've heard the bells at even-tide 
 
 Their sweetness to the dusk confide 
 
 With silvery, lingering tenderness, 
 
 That did a wealth of love express ; 
 
 While echo's answering caress. 
 
 With equal sweetness underlaid. 
 
 Came gliding through the shadowy glade. 
 
 Where in melodious musing mood. 
 
 Companioned by the solitude, 
 
 My spirit-being oft hath stood. 
 
 I've heard the sweetest note of bird 
 By soft affection's motive stirred, 
 Steal through the slumb'rous, starry air 
 Amongst the dew and perfume rare, 
 Across the yellow moonlight fair, 
 Atween the lisping leaves to where 
 Some drowsy mate within its nest, 
 Feeling itself by love addressed. 
 With dulcet syllable replies 
 And quickly to its lover flies. 
 
 I've heard the pensive plash of wave; 
 The cricket chant his soothing stave ; 
 The rain its melody engrave 
 In dimples on the silent pool ; 
 The zephyr sing with accents cool, 
 By undiscovered rhythmic rule, 
 Unto the parching grass and flowers, 
 Unto the listless heated hours ; 
 The leaf, the breeze, the brook, the bee, 
 Unite in richest harmony,— 
 
But all the sweetness I have heard 
 From Nature's music ne'er has stirred 
 My inmost being to rejoice 
 As hath the sweetness of her voice. 
 
©ea^ ^unfig^t 
 
 Not a leaf so greenly waving 
 But is tomb for some poor sunbeam. 
 All its life, once shiny golden, 
 In that fluttering form lies buried. 
 Lost to light and dulled to freedom, 
 In the green the yellow slumbers. — 
 Nay the leaf itself is sunbeam, 
 Sunbeam moulded to a solid. 
 Every cell and vein and fibre 
 Is the light wove into substance ; 
 Golden ether greened in passing 
 Into palpable expression ; 
 Crowded into firmer tissue. 
 Hath the beam no final waking, 
 No release from leafy prison ? 
 Yea! for when the leaf is fading. 
 When again appears the yellow, 
 Like a spirit from its body 
 Softly glides the self-same sunbeam 
 Caught amid the emerald meshes. 
 
 ( By permission q/ " The Youth's Companion."} 
 51 
 
Not a face so sweetly smiling 
 But is tomb for some poor soul-beam ; 
 All its life once linked with spirit 
 Now in depths of flesh lies buried ; 
 Lost to light and dulled to freedom, 
 Soul, alas ! in body slumbers. — 
 Nay the very flesh is soul-light, 
 Soul-light moulded to a solid. 
 Every cell and vein and muscle 
 Is the light wove into substance ; 
 Fire of spirit, fleshed in passing 
 Into tangible expression — 
 Earthened by some great transgression. 
 Is there then no final waking, 
 From the body no redemption ? 
 Yea! for soul, through aspiration. 
 Of its tomb may make a palace. 
 Flesh is but our downward thinking, 
 Hope and faith and love redeem us, 
 Changing substance into spirit 
 Till the twain in one are blended. 
 
 (By permission of " The Yotith's Companion") 
 52 
 
With noise 
 
 Of shoot and shout, 
 
 The merry rout 
 
 In South lands, or in North 
 
 Gives greeting to the Fourth ! 
 
 No civic feuds of long ago 
 
 These Liliputian patriots know, 
 
 For them no war of color, class or creed; 
 
 One flag they love, one common impulse heed. 
 
 Impartial powder burns the same, for white and black ; 
 
 Both hold July's red fingers till they smoke and crack ; 
 
 Torpedoes have no bias in their snaps ; 
 
 One sulphurous glory all the children wraps. 
 
 Such union for their sires were vain 
 
 While pride and prejudice remain. 
 
 Then hail to happy youth, 
 
 So free, so near to truth ! 
 
 Long hath it stood, 
 
 This brotherhood 
 
 Of boys. 
 
^unfieam anb (gloonfieam. 
 
 In my yester life a maid I knew, 
 Whose soul was flashed with sunbeam ; 
 "What shafts of mirth from her bow of a mouth 
 Were shot by the merry archer I 
 
 What sudden javelins of jest 
 
 She threw in her mischievous glances I 
 
 The mimic warfare of her fun 
 
 No quarter gave, and asked none. 
 
 The sunbeams overflowed her heart 
 And rippled through her tresses. 
 Invading hand and foot and tongue, 
 Cascading through her laughter. 
 
 But now her sun of joy is set 
 Her soul is sad with twilight, 
 And in her firmament of mind 
 The stars of thought are glowing. 
 
 The moonbeam o'er her nature glides, 
 Its girlish angles smoothing, 
 The moonbeam silvers all her voice 
 And in her step it lingers. 
 
 It slumbers in her wistful eyes 
 Soft-sifted through their lashes, 
 It shines about her crescent lips 
 In smiles of tender sadness. 
 
 Ah, would I knew the maiden now 
 Suffused with moods of moonlight. 
 I loved the sunbeam in her soul, 
 Would I might love the moonbeam. 
 
fyui in f^e (ttig^t 
 
 O silver-purple night, 
 Thick-wove from dusk to dawn 
 With star-strung threads of dark I 
 Receive my panting soul 
 And slake its eager thirst 
 With draughts of silence pure 1 
 Fed through sonorous day 
 On diet large of sound, 
 It craves such nectar sweet. 
 Upon your azure airs 
 It yearns to be adrift 
 And feel the throb of things 
 Beat up and down the sky ; 
 To rock in riot sweet 
 With pulses of perfume 
 Rippled from heart of flower ; 
 To bend with balmy boughs 
 And tuneful tilt of leaves, 
 Or eddy with the breeze 
 In sudden dash and dip; 
 Chasing the stillness on 
 From brooding vale to vale. 
 Wooing with whimsic will 
 Soft hushes of the gloom ; 
 To flutter with the wings 
 That flit the dewy deeps, 
 Or float with yon pale cloud — 
 Dream-mist that hovers o'er 
 The cradle-tips of moon — 
 So yearns my stiffened soul. 
 Dwarfed to its cell of flesh, 
 Rigid from long restraint. 
 
Denied these motions free 
 Whose moods, voluptuous, might, 
 If unto it transferred. 
 Some supple sense unfold 
 Moulded to mate the truths 
 Hid from our common sight. 
 
t^c ®eaf of ^utntnet. 
 
 Autumn's lance hath wounded Summer, 
 ^ Piercing through her shield of green, 
 Till the leafy blood-drops trickle 
 All her armor-joints between. 
 
 On a bier of soft, brown mosses, 
 See, the bleeding Summer lies! 
 
 Gently breathing back the beauty 
 Drawn from dew and sunny skies. 
 
 Hark ! the pines with busy needles 
 Sew a 2hroud above the dead, 
 
 And the cones the breezes gather 
 For a tablet at the head ; 
 
 Singing dirges for the glory 
 
 Swiftly fading into dust. 
 Mourning o'er the ruthless rigor, 
 
 O'er the law of nature's must. 
 
 Autumn stands above the conquered, 
 
 In her russet sandals shod, 
 Sad, remorseful, proudly leaning 
 
 On her lance of golden-rod. 
 
 Musing on her fallen sister. 
 Musing how they quarrelled so 
 
 As to which in truth was fairer 
 And the stronger to o'erthrow. 
 
 Now she weeps, and all her tear-drops 
 With the soil are quickly wed, 
 
 Soon to spring in fragrant clusters 
 Of the checkerberry red. 
 
t^c £anb of ^ifence. 
 
 Oh, for a land of silence ! 
 
 Where sound is ever dumb, 
 And all the notes of music 
 
 Like spirit pulses come ; 
 
 Where song is but an echo 
 From out the spaces caught. 
 
 By loom of fancy woven 
 From feeling into thought ; 
 
 Where tongues forget to utter 
 The whisp'rings of the mind. 
 
 And speech by lips unspoken 
 Is by the eyes divined ; 
 
 A land of hue and fragrance 
 
 Afar from gong and bell, 
 Where sound is all transmuted, 
 
 Perceived through sight and smell. 
 
 Redeemed from crude expression, 
 Withdrawn from outward sign. 
 
 Known only as a motion, 
 Felt through a sense divine ; 
 
 Caught up to heights of color, 
 Revealed in state of bloom, 
 
 Tuned into touch with spirit. 
 Breathed in a rare perfume ; 
 
 Hidden in painted music, 
 
 Lost in the frozen brook. 
 Heard in the opening petal. 
 
 Voiced in the print of book. 
 
 S8 
 
The noise of falling star-beam, 
 
 Of fading sunset hue, 
 The impact of a shadow, 
 
 The glisten of the dew ; 
 
 The bird-note heard in impulse 
 Ere from the bill it slips. 
 
 The plash of oar suggested 
 Ere in the wave it dips ; 
 
 The leaf in act of lisping, 
 The wing about to hum, 
 
 The storm-god's arm uplifted 
 To beat his thunder-drum ; 
 
 The something \Qi\. to muse on, 
 
 A tale not wholly told, 
 A riddle of the ages 
 
 For spirit to unfold ; 
 
 The ghost of sounds that might be 
 
 But never can be free, 
 Wearing the chain of silence, 
 
 Stilled by its stern decree ; 
 
 Freer because of silence. 
 In fetters, yet unbound. 
 
 Denied the zone of matter, 
 
 Sound held aloof from sound ; — 
 
 Such is the realm I sigh for. 
 With hints of earth-land rife, 
 
 Or say this rudo existence 
 Hints at that higher life ; 
 
 For sound is but the shadow 
 By rays of silence shed, 
 
 And though our souls be lighted 
 Our feet in darkness tread. 
 
O silent land, and holy ! 
 
 Where is your kingdom fair? 
 Amid the pores of ocean, 
 
 Within the cells of air? 
 
 Where ears forget to listen, 
 And where sensations fail 
 
 To pierce with vibrant lances 
 The hardened, fleshly veil ? 
 
 Where nerves refuse to thicken 
 The thought-films into speech, 
 
 Or thin the outward musics 
 The inward sense to reach ? 
 
 Far in the deeps of feeling. 
 High on the steeps of mind ? 
 
 In dream? in death? Oh, tell me, 
 Where I your land may find. 
 
(§rtxiumn ^inttti* 
 
 .^ 
 
 I. 
 
 The roadway winds 'tween swaying rows of green and gold, 
 
 Whose boughs in friendship's arch entwined, display 
 
 The throne of Autumn, whence anon 
 
 Mute leaf- canaries fly 
 
 In fluttering flocks. 
 
 I lean 
 
 On mossy rocks 
 
 And view the pumpkins nigh. 
 
 That lie like golden nuggets on 
 
 The ground, well-guarded by a proud array 
 
 Of podded poles and corn-stalks, 'gainst the staring wold. 
 
 II. 
 
 Its yellow, yearning leaves to curl, the grape vine tries; 
 
 And now, I see alighting on its trellis-top, 
 
 A plump, red-breasted music sprite, 
 
 Who looks with lonesome air 
 
 Upon the view 
 
 Serene ; 
 
 His comrades flew 
 
 Ere he perchance was 'ware 
 
 To greet the South ; now in his flight 
 
 He sees a leaflet from its kindred drop, 
 
 And winging where it fell he chirps to sympathize. 
 
(^ Qgunc? of <Bra:pe0» 
 
 Tune with purple pulses 
 Pitched in key of light, 
 
 Clustered notes of fragrance, 
 Music heard through sight I 
 
 Cone of purple sunbeams 
 
 Nested in the vine, 
 Filled with joy of juices — 
 
 Light wove into wine ! 
 
 Life through matter moulded 
 
 Into roundest shape ; 
 Thought in globed expression, 
 
 Soul in form of grape 1 
 
 Family of planets, 
 
 Orbed from seed and bloom. 
 Stamped with spheral birthmark 
 
 From creation's womb 1 
 
 With a mighty meaning 
 
 Every globule swells, 
 For in form's deep language 
 
 God His purpose tells. 
 
 62 
 
3n a Sctcfori?. 
 
 The air goes round 
 
 With rims of sound, 
 
 Off-thrown from many a busy wheel ; 
 
 In curve and sphere 
 
 I seem to hear, 
 
 In circling grooves I think and feel. 
 
 My fancy curls, 
 
 My reason whirls, 
 
 My sense of straight hath lost its sway ; 
 
 A wheel am I 
 
 And round I fly 
 
 The outward impulse to obey. 
 
 What fragrance fine 
 
 Of oak and pine 
 
 Comes rolling from the screaming saw ! 
 
 What buzz and boom 
 
 Thrill through the room 
 
 And startle with a sudden awe ! 
 
 Each swift machine 
 
 With mighty spleen 
 
 Tears from the wood its soul of scent ; 
 
 While at the shock 
 
 Bodies of block 
 
 Turn into dust with loud lament. 
 
 Anon there slips 
 
 A rain of chips 
 
 From churring lathe or sliding log ; 
 
 And 'midst the roar 
 
 Of cut and bore 
 
 The workmen shout as in a fog. 
 
 63 
 
From rift to rift 
 
 Their voices drift 
 
 Across the strange sonorous mist, 
 
 Whose pulses throng 
 
 My nerves along 
 
 Like influence from a hypnotist. 
 
 My ear it charms, 
 
 My tongue it calms, 
 
 Its motion stills my power to think; 
 
 'Neath its control 
 
 My drowsy soul 
 
 Must soon slip o'er oblivion's brink. 
 
 But with a swirl 
 
 A shaving's curl 
 
 Upon my ample beard is caught ; 
 
 The spell it breaks, 
 
 My spirit wakes 
 
 To belt anew the wheels of thought. 
 
^ifence. 
 
 .^ 
 
 Have you ever stood 
 
 In the Autumn wood, 
 Alone with its crimson, gold, and umber, 
 
 When all was still 
 
 With a nameless thrill, 
 And the breeze was wrapt in fragrant slumber? 
 
 When naught befell 
 
 To break the spell 
 Save the snap of a leaf grown ripe for falling, 
 
 Or the hubbub harsh 
 
 From a far-off marsh, 
 Or din of crows in the distance calling ? 
 
 Did you ever bide 
 
 At the turn of the tide. 
 When from the ebb with eager wooing, 
 
 In sudden swirl 
 
 The waves did curl, 
 Unto the strand their vows renewing — 
 
 As if the deep 
 
 Awoke from its sleep 
 With a startled sense of its lonely being. 
 
 And surged through the kelp 
 
 With a cry for help 
 From the fear in its mighty bosom fleeing ? 
 
 Did you ever kneel 
 
 With a dumb appeal 
 By the shrouded bier when the flowers were springing, 
 
 And hear in your soul 
 
 The death-bell toll 
 Your loved one's curfew, ruthlessly ringing? 
 
 65 
 
When you and your doubt 
 
 Seemed all shut out 
 From the beauties of color and song around you, 
 
 And soothing words, 
 
 And cooing birds, 
 Seemed links in the chain of grief that bound you ? 
 
 Did you ever move 
 
 In the world-worn groove 
 Of streets with hoof and wheel sonorous, 
 
 Unseen, unknown, 
 
 No welcoming tone 
 Sounding for you in the clamorous chorus; 
 
 'Mong sleek and slim, 
 
 'Midst the vender's vim. 
 And the tongues of trade in ceaseless babble ; 
 
 One of the throng, 
 
 Yet thrust along 
 Alone, apart from the roar and rabble? 
 
 Then unto you 
 
 0, one of the few, 
 To know what silence is, 'tis given — 
 
 That hallowed hush, 
 
 Amid the crush 
 Of things by fate so rudely driven. 
 
 Your soul imbued 
 
 With solitude, 
 The dross of daily living loses, 
 
 'Till buoyant, free 
 
 The truth to see, 
 The paths of peace it gladly chooses. 
 
t^c Site of f ^e feeevtjee. 
 
 With her torch of golden-rod 
 
 Autumn sets the woods a-burning. 
 
 All the green of tree and sod 
 Into blaze of beauty turning. 
 
 See the flames of every hue 
 
 Dov/n the emerald arches sweeping, 
 Avalanching on the view 
 
 Like a rainbow tempest leaping. 
 
 How the leaf-sparks redly fly 
 'Midst the rustling conflagration, 
 
 Smoulder into brown and die 
 Out of shape and animation. 
 
 Through the furnace' crimson glow 
 Screams the jay so bluely winging, 
 
 While his answer harsh, the crow 
 From the topmost pine is flinging. 
 
 Creaks the wain, and barks the dog, 
 Rings the teamster's whoa emphatic, 
 
 Thuds the tune of axe and log, 
 
 Breaks some childish shout ecstatic : 
 
 As the tinted tide of heat 
 
 Bubbles redly from the mosses 
 
 Into checkerberry sweet, 
 Or in spray of thistle tosses. 
 
 Hark ! the seething of the leaves ! 
 
 Each a fiery pennon waving ; 
 While the eager forest weaves 
 
 To and fro with color-craving. 
 
 67 
 
Take the cadence from the streamlet, 
 
 Part the robin and its strain, 
 Rob the leaflets of their rustle 
 
 And the breeze from its refrain, — 
 Where then is music ? 
 
 Take the chiming from the steeple, 
 Take the tinkle from the sheep, 
 
 From the bee remove the buzzing, 
 
 From the chick the peep, peep, peep,— 
 Where then is music ? 
 
 From the organ take its pealing. 
 From the drum its hollow thump, 
 
 From the cannon take its booming, 
 Take the blare from fife and trump, — 
 Where then is music ? 
 
 From the voice take modulation, 
 From the ear the sense of tune, 
 
 From the mother's lips the love-phrase. 
 From the baby mouth the croon, — 
 Where then is music ? 
 
Now through the purple pores of night 
 My love to thee is stealing, 
 
 It touches out the way aright, 
 Its sight is in its feeling. 
 
 Along the tunnels of the air 
 
 By lamps of ether lighted, 
 It swiftly glides, anew to share 
 
 The vows between us plighted. 
 
 It pauses not for walls that rear 
 
 Their arrogant resistance. 
 It heeds not the surprise and fear 
 
 Of thwarted time and distance ; 
 
 To matter gives no countersign, 
 
 To earth no tie confesses ; 
 But filled with potency divine, 
 
 At once, through all, it presses. 
 
 'Tis here with me, 'tis there with thee, 
 It flames between our faces — 
 
 Soul-lightning, fetterless, and free. 
 It leaps across the spaces. 
 
 So through the azure cells of night. 
 
 My love a path is burning. 
 And quickened by its warming light, 
 
 Thy thought to mine is turning. 
 
$0 an ^utumn &eaf . 
 
 Red tongue 'tween the cheeks of October, 
 
 Telling of thoughts sublime 
 Uttered in tones of color, 
 
 Cadenced in rustly rhyme ; 
 
 Thoughts that the summer has whispered 
 
 Unto each fibre and cell, 
 Moulded to cone and acorn, 
 
 Shaped into kernel and shell ; 
 
 Thoughts to the breezes confided, 
 Breathed from the hemlock and pine, 
 
 Formed into fragrance and sifted 
 Through meshes of shadow and shine ; 
 
 Telling of woodland music. 
 
 The locust's needle-like lay, 
 The crow's jet-painted clamor 
 
 And the blue note of the jay ; 
 
 Chorus of hound and hunter, 
 
 The sudden echoing gun. 
 And the answering shriek of the engine 
 
 Upon its distant run. 
 
 But more than all these beauties, 
 
 Telling a deeper thought — 
 How with the autumn glory 
 
 A mighty truth is fraught. 
 
 How the great soul of the forest 
 
 In sheaths of color fine, 
 From every leaf is passing 
 
 To join the soul divine. 
 
 (By permission of " The Youth's Companion") 
 
J^e Coming of Winfer. 
 .^ 
 
 With drifting step old Winter comes apace, 
 
 His chin thick-hung with beard of icicles 
 
 Above his snowy breast. 
 
 Upon his staff, the tree-trunk brown, he leans, 
 
 His flaky locks in white confusion tost, 
 
 His breath sharp-drawn and chill. 
 
 From town to town, from field to field he goes, 
 
 Shedding anon his silver-curling hair 
 
 To warm the frosty sod. 
 
 How, at his soft and crystal-sandalled tread, 
 
 The sleigh-bell chorus tinkles glad salute. 
 
 And Frolic runs to see ! 
 
 Not so the brooklet ; for with sudden dread 
 
 It hugs its timid tune its banks between, 
 
 And gives to Winter's ear 
 
 Naught but the icy skeleton of song — 
 
 The rhythmic pulses of its cadence sweet 
 
 Detained in frozen sound. 
 
 Not less afraid, the feathered musics fly, 
 
 Leaving their trills upon the air to freeze 
 
 Till May the notes revive. 
 
 The flowers, — those birds who ne'er from earth escape 
 
 To flaunt their petal wings aloft, whose claws 
 
 Deep-rooted, hold them fast — 
 
 Have moulted long ago their plumage gay ; 
 
 Their fragrant voices, locked in Summer's heart. 
 
 Await her kind return. 
 
 Lapped in Lethean rest, the bat and bear 
 In Nature's mother-love have put their trust» 
 Sure of her waking call ; 
 
Dreaming perchance of some nocturnal deed 
 
 Of airy flight at eve, of cavern cool, 
 
 Or honey-filled retreat. 
 
 Haply, our human life, in truth, is sleep ; 
 
 And things that seem awake, in slumber's boat 
 
 Drift o'er the sea of dreams. 
 
 Would, like the brute, our souls might ever trust 
 
 The tender love of God that o'er us broods, 
 
 Sure of His call at last. 
 
 Pace on, thou hoary patriarch and friend 1 
 
 Thy cloak of ermine doff, and wrap the hills 
 
 Within its warming folds ; 
 
 O'er bulb and root, thy palms white-hot extend, 
 
 Flake-fingered, thickly charged with burning sleet, 
 
 With crystalled sunbeam fraught. 
 
 For, lo ! each fluttering fibre of thy form. 
 
 Each frozen drop of cloud-dew, blent with thee, 
 
 Is tinctured with the sun. 
 
 Thy garb, though white, is marrowed through with gold, 
 
 And with thy cold the threads of heat are wove 
 
 In shining web unseen. 
 
 Earth knows thy purpose well, and warms her seeds 
 
 Where'er thy footsteps shed their snowy heat, 
 
 Or fall thy fleecy sparks. 
 
 Tried by thy frozen fire and purified, 
 
 Anew shall she be born, brighter in hue, 
 
 Sweeter in scent and song. 
 
 As moved the prophets three 'mid furnace heats, 
 
 So thou, amid thy conflagrations white. 
 
 Unscathed dost wend thy way. 
 
 And when thy head of cloud is shorn of strength, 
 Like that of Agonistes, famed of old, 
 And fall thy locks no more ; 
 
When midst the snow-drop and the crocus gay, 
 Thy tattered ermine lies ; then lay thee down 
 To thy well-earned repose. 
 
 On Spring's green pyre of blade and leaf dissolve, 
 Till sun in snow and sun in verdure blend, 
 And heat with heat unite. 
 
Peace and passion, passion and peace — 
 When will your tilt, alternate, cease ? 
 Up with the one and down with the other, 
 Shifting about from smooth to smother ; 
 Here with the tempest, there with the calm, 
 Now with the bruises, then with the balm ; 
 First with pallor, next with flush, 
 Moments of tumult, moments of hush ; — 
 Ever the restless spirit ranges 
 Round the ring of endless changes ; 
 Till at last the touch of death 
 Breaks the circuit of the breath. 
 Stops the race of thought and feeling 
 Pulses from the nerve-wire stealing. 
 Yet the current floweth ever, 
 For its force is broken never. 
 What then is the final end ? 
 Must the struggle still extend? 
 Is it fever, is it frost, 
 Peace ne'er won, nor passion lost 
 Through the far eternity ? 
 Come I this riddle solve for me. 
 
(gi^^fe of t^e ^notw^SMes. 
 
 Seeds of heat that whitely burrow- 
 In each brown and frosty furrow, 
 Twirled and tangled, sifted, slanted, 
 By the eager breezes planted — 
 Spring in you her wealth is keeping, 
 In your white her green is sleeping. 
 In your frozen friendship, hearted, 
 All her blossoms sweet are started ; 
 And each flake that earthward settles 
 Is a nest for future petals. 
 Sunbeams into crystal moulded. 
 Fire in snow by Winter folded, 
 June entombed in January — 
 Paradox that cannot vary. 
 Who shall find the end or middle 
 Of this wondrous snow-flake riddle? 
 
 (By kind pennission of " T/ie Youth's Contpanion.'^ ) 
 75 
 
s 
 
 Falling lightly, 
 
 Falling whitely 
 Fronn the upper to the nether, 
 Now apart and nov/ together, 
 
 Turning, trailing. 
 
 Sinking, sailing, 
 Hide and seek with zephyr playing, 
 Then the call of earth obeying ; 
 
 Slow and agile, 
 
 Fibered, fragile ; 
 Cotton from the fields of vapor, 
 Snow-wool tossed in whirl and caper ; 
 
 Picked and folded. 
 
 Carded, moulded ; 
 By the wind-loom woven swiftly 
 Into snow-lace soft and drifty, 
 
 Curling, twisting 
 
 Swirling, misting, 
 Scarf and mantle spun and fashioned 
 By the storm-wheel's power impassioned ; 
 
 Clinging, winding 
 
 Stinging, blinding ; 
 Trunk and twig soon thickly flaking. 
 Sash and ribbon for them making ; 
 
 Pillar, picket, 
 
 Wall and wicket 
 Decking with a quaint designing 
 For the shivering vine entwining 
 
 Vesture pearly 
 
 Looped and curly ; — 
 Snow-threads we, that downward travel, 
 That from skeins of cloud unravel ; 
 
Oft capricious, 
 
 Gentle, vicious, 
 We the happy snow-cloth makers, 
 Carpeting Earth's barren acres, 
 
 Turn our duties 
 
 Into beauties, 
 Turn our tumult's wildest rushes 
 Into flashing, crystal hushes, 
 
 While all color 
 
 Darker, duller, 
 And all things now lost to brightness, 
 Find salvation in our whiteness. 
 
 (By kind courtesy of " The Youth's Companion." J 
 
Her touch is like the flutter 
 Of a rose-leaf on my cheek. 
 
 So timorous and tender, 
 So maiden-coy and meek. 
 
 Her touch is like the falling 
 Of a sunbeam on my heart, 
 
 So warm and bright with impulse, 
 So full of dance and dart. 
 
 Her touch is like the ripple 
 Of the breeze upon my brow, 
 
 So lingering and lulling 
 And breathing of the now. 
 
 Her touch is like the starbeam 
 That shivers down the night, 
 
 And chills where'er it falleth 
 With cold and frosty light. 
 
 Her touch is like the falling 
 Of fairy flakes of snow, 
 
 So innocent yet heedless 
 Of freezing all below. 
 
 Her touch with love is sweetened 
 Or soured with sudden hate, 
 
 Within her palm's pink hollow 
 There sits her lover's fate. 
 
 78 
 
(Reuet0t6fe ^oem. 
 
 The dark's in the light, 
 The hush in the sound 
 
 In the tumult of motion 
 Rest slumbers profound. 
 
 The sweet's in the sour, 
 The small's in the great, 
 
 The will's in the meshes 
 Of merciless fate. 
 
 The light's in the dark, 
 The sound's in the hush ; 
 
 In the heart of repose 
 Is motion's loud rush. 
 
 The sour's in the sweet. 
 
 The great's in the small ; 
 And fate ever answers 
 
 The will's lightest call. 
 
 The first's in the last. 
 The soon's in the late ; 
 
 Destroy hath its cold 
 In the heat of create. 
 
 The smile's in the tear, 
 The joy's in the pain, 
 
 The drought waiteth couchant 
 In each drop of rain. 
 
 The last's in the first, 
 The late's in the soon, 
 
 From the dry lips of drought 
 Rain learns its sweet tune. 
 
The tear's in the smile, 
 The pain's in the joy, 
 
 Create hath its stars 
 In the night of destroy. 
 
6a0f anb O5?e0f^ 
 
 The East called to the West, 
 "Where is your place of rest ? 
 Lo ! when I give you chase 
 Around the ring of space, 
 My grasp you still elude— 
 Phantom of distance, shrewd I 
 Is there no common ground 
 In all this weary round 
 Where we may hold our tryst 
 And twain as one exist ? 
 How from dawn's purple height 
 My fancy sends its sight 
 O'er the gold bridge of day 
 To your red plume so gay ; 
 Rising to greet the ken 
 Of earth's most under men, 
 Falling, alas, to me ! 
 And ah I how enviously, 
 Pursuing sight, my touch 
 Hobbles on Time's slow crutch 
 To feel your crimson heart 
 Ebb out the words, ' We part ' — 
 Ere the thick doors of night 
 Forbid such pure delight ! 
 In vain, too late I come — 
 Your voice to me is dumb. 
 Vanished your beckoning plume, 
 Sullen the gates of gloom ; 
 Where rested you, I rest — 
 But west no more is west. 
 Still with a lover's hope 
 Upon my quest I grope, 
 
Trusting there is an end 
 That shall our fragments mend- 
 A point, a timeless place 
 Shut from the maw of space, 
 Where east in west shall cease, 
 And west with east have peace.' 
 
to (^t fe<5t)e (^cro00 t^e ^not». 
 
 Over the white, under the blue, 
 I'm calling, love, to you, to youl 
 Through purple corridors of night 
 Echoes the note of my delight. 
 Distance ! 'tis but the ether wall 
 That unto you transmits my call. 
 Space lends her ear of crescent moon 
 To hear my heart beat out its tune. 
 Then runs to you with vibrant feet, 
 The tender cadence to repeat ; 
 Nor frosty air nor chill of snow 
 Retards that music's subtle flow. 
 Let tinkling tongues of pleasure tell 
 Their rhapsody from bell to bell. 
 Their dulcet din ne'er shuts from you 
 My voice between the white and blue ; 
 Into the pores of air I speak. 
 My sigh is wafted to your cheek ; 
 The kiss I press upon your lips 
 To you upon a moonbeam slips. 
 What need for nearer touch of flesh, 
 When through the coarse aerial mesh 
 Our spirits pure so freely range. 
 Love's tokens sweet to interchange? 
 
'Tis he ! 
 
 With toe a-tip 
 
 And laugh on lip, 
 
 With large, inquiring eyes 
 
 And shout of glad surprise! 
 
 The wild, white music of the snow, 
 
 Beating its rhythms to and fro. 
 
 The red tune snapping from the eager log, 
 
 The shadows, nestling soft in niche and jog — 
 
 He heeds them not, for all his soul is wide to see 
 
 The gifts that cluster there around the festal tree. 
 
 Wrapt in the moment of his pure delight, 
 
 He knows not past nor future, morn nor night ; 
 
 Asleep, awake, in heart and brain — 
 
 His pleasure strung to pitch of pain — 
 
 Yet neither. Ah, how blest 
 
 To find such point of rest, 
 
 At God's own poise 
 
 Of griefs and joys 
 
 To be! 
 
 84 
 
,^ 
 
 Wrinkled brow and dimpled chin 
 Sat amid the Christmas din, 
 Eager, each, v/ith glowing heart, 
 Gift and gladness to impart. 
 One looked down from height of years 
 On the scene, through mist of tears ; 
 One looked up from childhood's plane, 
 All untried in heart and brain. 
 
 Age in memory's fetters fast 
 Saw a yuletide of the past, 
 When Hope's sun high on its course 
 Knew no shadow of remorse. 
 And when Death's horizon lay 
 Wrapt in cloudland far away. 
 Youth in expectation's charm. 
 Tossing toys from palm to palm, 
 'Saw naught in the world amiss, 
 Felt no limit of his bliss. 
 
 Age looked through the book of yore- 
 Every page was wrinkled o'er. 
 Blotted oft, and thumbed with care, 
 Showing only here and there 
 Tender joys, like rose leaves pressed. 
 Breathing still their fragrance blest. 
 Youth with eye and ear attune. 
 Only knew December — June — 
 This with all its frosty fun, 
 That with scent and song and sun. 
 
 8s 
 
Dimpled chin and wrinkled brow, 
 Blending in the happy now — 
 Ah, how strange the man should gain 
 Happiness through gates of pain 
 And the bright, unthinking boy- 
 Find his woe through doors of joy. 
 
O morn ! that breaks in golden gleams 
 
 Over the eastern rim of night, 
 Kissing the flowerets from their dreams 
 
 Till from their petal lips so bright 
 The spirit of each blossom fair, 
 
 Enwrapped in perfume, softly steals 
 To sweeten all the amber air 
 
 And hover o'er the dewy fields, — 
 
 Immortal morn ! whose glorious beams 
 
 Break o'er the sombre ■^'•erge of death 
 Waking the soul from earthly dreams 
 
 Till from the lips, that vital breath. 
 That chord of unheard music floats 
 
 To swell the sweet, ethereal strain 
 And add another stave of notes 
 
 From life's great scale of joy and pain, — 
 
 O night 1 that creeps with silvery feet 
 
 Over the far funereal gray. 
 Breathing a requiem flowery sweet 
 
 Through all the twiUght tomb of day, — 
 O death I whose dread indelible stain 
 
 Blots out the spirit's golden shine, 
 Dark'ning our whitest joy with pain. 
 
 Hiding the page of life divine, — 
 
 The mystery that fills ye all, 
 
 Our reverent search must e'er invite ; 
 But though your names we loudly call — 
 
 What's death, or life, or morn, or night? 
 
 87 
 
NOV 17 1899 
 
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