/.'i:;i^.*°o ,/,.aj;i',\ c°^c^.■^°o ;• #% '• - O « rir . \. .**■ '^O^ •^v^^^ 9 ^, bV OK -Ao^ ^°V V 4 O ^0" o > 0' -.V ^ *»«» a9 ^ "' a5>^ 'V *«"" iV^ The Little Bookfellow Series '^0 Estrays Estrays Thomas Kennedy George , Seymour Vincent ^tarrett Basil Thompson CHICAGO THE BOOKFELLOWS 1920 Of this second revised edition, three hundred copies have been printed in the month of March, 1920 u^'^ THE TORCH PRESS CEDAR RAPIDS IOWA To The Rhymers' Club .^lUSu^j^ CONTENTS THOMAS KENNEDY Resurrection Youth . Death . The Ships Moonlight The Emperor Star Child . Gethsemane , Master Chemist Spring Wind . The Goddess . The Trees to Winter Return . GEORGE SEYMOUR At the Bazaar Immortality . Moonlight on Salton Sea After the War . Where is Pan Beltane the Smith In Bagdad Money .... Fairy Gold . The Deserted House . 7 i» 11 13 13 13 14 15 16 17 17 18 19 19 20 23 24 25 25 27 28 28 29 29 30 Sonnet After Shakespeare ... 31 In Spite of Time 31 Light and Song 32 VINCENT STARRETT Villon Strolls at Midnight ... 35 Salom^ 35 Scheherezade 36 Don Quixote 36 D'Artagnan 37 Joseph 38 Encounter 38 Lament of the King's Son .... 39 Immortality 39 Changeling 40 Bagdad: 1917 41 Sepulture 41 Shop Windows in Winter .... 42 BASIL THOMPSON Beata Memoria 45 Preincarnation 45 Ego et Desiderium Meum .... 46 THOMAS KENNEDY I RESURRECTION I shall lie down some day to take my rest, I shall lie down and never rise again ; And men shall lay me in some quiet plain To sleep beneath tall elms, where robins nest ; Where great winds, roaring sudden from the west, Drive fugitive the cold and frightened rain ; But they shall beat upon my door in vain When I lie sleeping there, kind old Earth's guest. Until I wake . . . for I shall wake and live . . Not as before men named me with the dead, But in some newer, better guise. Who knows What ecstasy the future years may give ? These lips may paint some royal poppy red Or this hot breath be perfume for a rose. THE QUEST For days, amid the grieving hills I sought for him, in vain ; There was no presence by the rills ; No glory on the plain ; In beautiful solemnity The trees were sorrowful with me; The skies were sad with rain. 11 I listened while the billowed corn Revealed its mystery . . , I listened vainly for a horn In eadenced ecstasy; The thrushes sang with throbbing throats Across the fields of yellow oats . . . They could not sing for me. A haze of purple vistas lay On -pastures' slope and crest, Where mottled cattle dreamed away The afternoon in rest ; But though the land was Arcady, Its greater, deeper mysterj^ Rewarded not my quest. "Since he is gone awaj^" I cried, "From all who worship him. And since his comfort is denied To those whose eyes are dim, Perhaps they spoke the truth who said That Pan — the Great God Pan — is dead, With all his satyrs slim." Then — miracle ! — \ipon the breeze I heard his music run; I saw a glory through the trees Like lances in the sun : And O, the rapture in the air! » I knew, I knew that he was there ... ■ I knew my quest was done. 12 YOUTH You were a queen, more proudly insolent Than God, upon His throne of endless j'^ears. You ruled with yokes of iron ; but you went And left me mourning you with scalding tears. You were no tender mistress, and my feet In stony paths and brambled ways you led : But you were life — were magic — madly sweet . . . I mourn, I mourn you . . . now that you are dead. DEATH Wliy come with visage menacing and grim To give the only thing my heart desires ; Merciful sleep, forevermore to dim The torment of my being's inmost fires? 0, rather you should come with shining face, Like one who brings the glory of the moon To comfort some parched, gasping garden place After the hell of summer afternoon. THE SHIPS Fair in the hush of the morning, And fair beyond desire When the noonday sun with wastrel hand Scatters the blue with fire; But silent, alone in the gloaming. There waits the fairest sight, 13 When the long black ships steal out to sea As the day fades into night. There are yachts which hug the harbor, Launches which glide near by, But the long black ships go out and out Where the waves embrace the sky. Gone is the glare of mid-day. The sun sleeps in the west ; Gray is the sea and tranquil; The city sinks to rest. And the petty cares and the vain desires Have somehow lost their might When the long black ships creep out to sea As the gloaming fades to night. MOONLIGHT With glory of the moonlight on your face And tangled in the glamour of your hair, You sit and gaze across dim-silvered hills And purple-shadowed valleys, calm as death. But beautiful as life, for it is June. June night : swift shadows glance across the lawn Through silence murmurous and eloquent Of magic ; far away the lordly trees Stand black against a radiance of sky Like happy gods who watch a festival . . . Pale blossoms whisper tender fragrances To the shy breeze, which fears to kiss their lips But yields to longing and the spell of June. 14 You are caressed by moonlight ; I can see Answering flame-points smoulder in your eyes — Passions the night could kindle into fire To wrap you in a flame of deity — Fire crying unto fire across the void. You gaze upon the hills and do not see The terror of the glory of it all Which freezes me to silence, as you sit With glory of the moonlight on your face. THE EMPEROR "Long live the Emperor!" they cried; Then for his name and fame and glory They marched and starved, they fought and died, And that is all the story. All — save that in a million homes Around his golden palace domes, Sad mothers, weeping for their dead. Could nevermore be comforted. "Long live the Emperor ! ' ' they said ; Ah yes, he lived — to lose his power ; Vain, vain were all his million dead To stay that dreadful hour. Men say: "How great! He cannot die." And then they turn and pass him by . . . Thousands to praise, but none to bless His life of perfect selfishness. 15 STAR CHILD Child of the Evening Star, by what strange token Have I possessed you, pressed you to my heart And held you secret there, with ties unbroken Though War's grim whirl has flung us far apart? I have you now, your voice, your bliss of laughter, Your white arms, folding breast to throbbing breast. As ships embrace the heart of Ocean, after Soft winds have kissed the hurricane to rest. Child of the Evening Star — of fire and splendor — Soft flame, and exquisite as poppies wear. Holds and enfolds you, passionate and tender, Glories your face and shimmers in your hair. O, you may walk beside me thus, demurely, In quaint pretense you never dwelt afar. Telling yourself you have deceived me surely, And yet I know you. Child of elf and star, Moved by mad dreams which sometimes in your eye light To seek a drosser love than you have known Where yonder in the opalescent twilight Planet and sunset hail you as their own. What was it sought you, brought you hither flying, When out of that bright other-world you came To where the embers of my heart lay dying And quickened them into a rose of flame ? Child of the Evening Star, my own, forever. You heal the heartbreak of this lonely place. Bound to my heart with ties which will not sever. Bridging the twin, dread gulfs of time and space. . With thoughts more fragrant than your kisses are . . Child of the Evening Star. 16 GETHSEMANE But afterward, when He had won through death, Had overcome the grim, relentless tomb. And come forth to the fragrant morning breath Of that still Sabbath, from the narrow room ; When He had seen the mourners dry their tears, And in the upper chamber stilled the cry Of those sad watchers, wrung with doubts and fears, With calm assurance, "Fear not, it is I." I think He must have gone a little space To that dim garden of the Dreadful Night, Where He had watched alone, but on His face No drops of anguish now, but quiet light. How splendid must have seemed His triumph where He fought the fearful battle, all alone, Conquering sin, and sorrow, and despair — His place of anguish now become a throne. MASTER CHEMIST Do you sit deep in silence over all. Watching with calmly fixed, impersonal eye, These great retorts where suns flare up and die, Where sparkling drops of life distill and fall Each one a world, like this fantastic ball Of dreadful elements mixed? As ages fly, 17 Do you not smile, and do you never sigh, Compounding flame and dust, honey and gall? I am a child, and marvel as your hand Shapes bliss from pain, death from the beautiful Alike, with deft assurance and calm power. I tremble, for I dare not understand Your crushing souls in war's red crucible. And pausing then to shape this wistful flower. SPRING WIND Fey wind, gray wind. Laden with April rain, Over the roofs of the city Flinging the scent of the plain. Freeing the streams from their winter dreams And waking the flowers again. Why do you bring with the birth of the spring. Longing and tears and pain? Chill wind, ill wind, Why do you call to me, Breathing of fields and of forests. Singing of ways that are free, Telling a tale of the world-old trail Over the land and sea, Laying the thrall of the wander call Over the heart of me. 18 THE GODDESS Mid the rough clangor of the squalid street, I knew her by a shining in the air. Her shawl was torn, and half revealed her hair, And broken shoes the brightness of her feet ; A poor, worn dress could not deny the sweet And lyric form ; pausing in wonder there, The glory of her eyes I could not bear, But only knew she passed with footsteps fleet. Who was it called them, to what futile quest. That still the murky flood of men roared past And played at life, with staring eyes and dead ? They might have paused to worship and be blest — That crowd that cursed and laughed and sped so fas-t, And would not see the splendor round her head. THE TREES TO WINTER We were robed in purple and yellow. In crimson and much fine gold, For Earth was grown kind and mellow, The Summer was rich and old. The wine of Autumn flowed through our blood Making us kings with its fiery flood. Yea, we were well contented To dream in the still, warm light, In the blue haze, aster scented. In the star-bloomed mist of night . . . Where is our gold, our wine, our sun 1 Winter ! Winter ! What have you done ? 19 RETURN One told of footpaths leading unto rest In quiet fields by little, land-locked bays ; So I forsook the dance and wanton lays Life pipes for us, and gave me to the quest, I followed him who said that peace was best, But I am sad with walking desolate ways Through leafless thorn trees, toward a land which stays Ever beyond one hill which bars the west. Now I will turn from seeking that far shore ; Too long have I denied the sparkling flutes. 0, flutes of madness, notes of ancient fire, Pipe me some perfect sun to shine once more Where grow the trees with long-forbidden fruits . . . Yes, scarlet fruit in gardens of desire. 20 GEOKGE SEYMOUR AT THE BAZAAR The Bookseller Speaks Come into my shop, Grave ladies and gay ; Messieurs et Mesdames, Your favor I pray — Here are wonderful weaves From the looms of Louvain, And damask from China, And laces from Spain. This necklace a-glitter With opal and pearl Was torn from the neck Of an Ottoman girl ; 'Twas her lover who gave it, A youth from Cathay — How he fought when I went there To take it away ! Here 's the dagger that killed him, A beautiful blade. No forge in Damascus Its equal has made ; It has but one blemish — This tiny red stain That was made by the heart-blood Of him who was slain. 23 This girdle, 'twas worn by The Sultan's late pride; When she bore him a daughter He cast her aside. Here's the pillow that smothered Both mother and babe. Their hour was told By this gold astrolabe. The price — but a trifle ! No trickster am I. Salaam to your Worships! Who '11 buy ? Oh, who '11 buy ? IMMORTALITY A prince there was, than -whose no bolder pride Rang in bought praise or scarred the blushing stone ; In many a graven shaft his glory shone. And many a minstrel journeyed far and wide To sing his greatness. Art and genius vied To spread his tale of countless foes o'erthrown. While toiling thousands piled up stone on stone To seal him to the ages when he died. The prince is dead. Forgotten lies his grave. His very name the years have swept away And blotted every record of his race ; All save the fame of one immortal slave Who cried the anguish of his dreadful day In tones that thunder down the vault of space. 24 MOONLIGHT ON SALTON SEA Sagebrush and sand, and ever the long, long trail ; Never a burst of gladsome melody ; Never a herd, never a dancing sail ; Only the moon, shining on Salton Sea. Never the morning call, echoing wide. Never the ruddy glow of noon for me. Only the peace that comes with the eventide, Comes with the moon, shining on Salton Sea. Only the dream of a vanished happiness. Only a faded garland of memory, Onl}^ a lonely grave in the wilderness Under the moon, shining on Salton Sea. AFTER THE WAR I sing of now, today, The spent world's menopause, the end of wrath. The great storm's aftermath That we had come to think would never pass away. For we had tuned our hearts to savage things, The growing list of dead. The tithes, and waiting for the mail that brings The message we both glorify and dread. And now we slowlj^ rise as from a fever bed. Now darkness finds the city still and hard Save where the busy drabs have taken root, 25 Two soldiers beg along the boulevard, The roaring cliffs are mute, The night wind sallies forth like any prostitute And lays an icy hand upon his arm. Bidding the passer stay, But he has had enough of death and harm And so he shakes it off and goes his way. Leaving to fighting men what is for such as they. And eagerly they go Down to the place where youth may have its will. The common meeting ground of high and low For good or ill. So there is singing there when all the rest is still. Pale morning wears no friendlier guise — Greed, and the vengeful politician's vow. And everywhere the halting of emprise, For he who struck the foe, strikes his own country now. Beside the curb a sailor bids for gold And girls seek largess for some tawdry scheme. Both trading on the spirit that of old Poured forth a mighty stream — But now that this is past, how cheap and bold they seem ! A fellow just released from war's demands, In store-bought clothes, conspicuously new, With all day on his hands, Aimlessly drifts along the avenue. His heart aflame with the wild fires of life. 26 Somewhere he has a wife. Shall he go back and live with her again ? Or let her think him fallen in the strife And vanish from her ken? Slowly his footsteps turn to join the singing men. So life looms up today Like a white wall that glistens in the wind, And all unwitting what may lie behind, We stumble on our way. WHERE IS PAN ? (An answer to Thomas Kennedy's "The Quest") You have sought him, you say, In the hills up and down, In the dells far away, And the streets of the town — Have you looked in the camp of the soldiers ? Who pipes the trim figures in brown ? He is not in the glade Where the wildflowers grow ; Nor beneath the cool shade Of the boughs bending low — Who puts the green wreaths on the crosses. The crosses that stand in a row ? In the woods far and wide You have sought him in vain, And the sweet countryside Echoes not to his strain. satyrs and nymphs, would ye find him ? Go search in the houses of pain. 27 BELTANE THE SMITH I met Sir Beltane in the cool greenwood, The purest knight in all Pentavalon ; His milky crest, so fair to look upon, Ne'er led to combat save in quarrel good. Four trusty men-at-arms beside him stood. Sworn brothers in the enmity of wrongs, Brave with the beauty that to strength belongs, And none to match them in their lustihood. Framed in the golden panoply of youth, Thine honor shineth than thy sword more bright. More stout thy courage than thy coat of mail. The archetype of chivalry, forsooth. Methinks the world were better for this knight, Though he but be a figure in a tale. IN BAGDAD In Bagdad, when the world is still And night is overhead. The prison yard is damp and chill. The graves give up their dead, And he who walks on Gallows Hill Strange things will see, 'tis said. In Bagdad, when the summer sun His golden madness flings. The dusty ways with frolic run. The very desert sings; A revel-tide of mirth and fun O'erspreads the dullest things. 28 In Bagdad, when a lady fair Admits her lover's claim, It thrills him to each tingling hair, Each sense its sets aflame. In Bagdad — aye, and everywhere Methinks 'tis much the same. MONEY A heap of shining counters piled up high ; The price of virtue or the wage of sin ; A monarch in whose service many die ; A god whose favor many toil to win ; A mountebank in solemn motley clad. Treading a mirthless dance with feet inert ; A fairy, sometimes good, more often bad; Enfin — a pile of useless yellow dirt. Vagrant ! That men to you should vassals be, And lovers bow, and poets raise their song ! Around your throne in equal company Alike the meanest and the greatest throng. Mine be the grace your favor to forget. God send I serve you not. And yet — and yet — FAIRY GOLD There 's a crock o ' gold in the glade for me. Sheila, my Sheila ; It lies at the foot of the hawthorne tree. Sheila, Sheila-day. 29 There I'll delve by the moon's weird light, Sheila, my Sheila; And I '11 hear your song far off in the night, Sheila, Sheila-day. 0, but your body is wondrous fair ! Sheila, my' Sheila; And 0, the tawn of your tangled hair ! Sheila, Sheila-day. Smile on me with your winsome eyes, Sheila, my Sheila; Tell me now where the witch-geld lies. Sheila, Sheila-day. THE DESERTED HOUSE I saw an old house fallen to decay. Its courtyard bare, its great door gaping wide. And sad-eyed windows weeping side by side As old men weep for glories pass'd away. No more shall noisy children at their play Or lovers ' laughter make its broad hearth ring When summer from the twinkling lamps of spring Turns up a joyous flame, and all the world is gay. lonely house ! God grant it may not be That Love who tenants this my house of clay Depart while still I stand to breast the strife. And fleeting leave my barren frame, like thee, A melancholy warder by the way Where streams the heedless carnival of life ! 30 SONNET AFTER SHAKESPEARE As some wan pilgrim, staggering 'neath his load, Traces with wear^^ feet his forlorn way, Where only hideous shadows make abode, And night, more black but not more dread than they, Hoping that each new turning may disclose Some lowlj' cot where warmth and cheer abound. The toilsome journey o'er, to find repose And cast his galling burthen to the ground ; Even so my weary soul a-down would fling His pilgrim pack, and at thy feet enjoy Surcease from all this barren wandering To dwell with peace and thee, angelic Boy ! My heart a harp thy heart 's refrain to play. My lips a lute to pipe love 's roundelay. IN SPITE OF TIME My love for you, in spite of time and change. Grows ever upward like a mighty tree ; So certain 'tis, yet ever new and strange It seems to me. It seems among those fixed eternal things Deep in the bases of existence blent. Yet all unseen each passing moment brings Its increment. And the green growing branches of my love With myriad hands reach upward to the blue, 31 Lifting me all in all the world above In quest of you. While sturdy roots strike downward through the land, Holding to earthly base my reach sublime — Thus in my love unchanging I shall stand In spite of time. LIGHT AND SONG Over the brow of the hill White star-faces peep, And silently down the window-sill The lengthening shadows creep ; Over the earth the night Mastery seeks to win. But the house of my heart is ever bright Since you came in. Into the stillness of eve Fades the voice of day. And even the leafless aspens grieve For birds that have flown away; Hush'd is the whip-poor-will, Silent is chanticleer, But the song of my heart is never still When you are near. 32 VINCENT STARRETT VILLON STROLLS AT MIDNIGHT * ' There is an eerie music, Tabary, In the malevolence of the wind tonight : Think you the spirits of the damned make flight ' midnights ? Gad, a wench I used to see Heard all the ghosts of history ride past Her window on a shrieking gale like this . . . Look ! Where the moonlight and the shadows kiss ! Saw you aught move? . . . Poor jade, she died unmassed. See, where the gibbet rises, gaunt and slim ! (Curse me! The wind hath thrust my entrails through. ) It beareth fruit tonight — Not me, nor you ! . . . Hark to the clatter of tlie bones of him. They rattle like — Ah, do you catch your breath ? — Like castanets clapped in the hands of Death ! ' ' SALOME Princess that, wanton, danced before the king. In what red hell do you perform today ? Where now does your white body swing and swjay? To the mad music of what luring string 1 In a blue-flamed salon I see you fling Your shining limbs in amorous display. Seeking the very demons to betray And tempt the devil from his banqueting. 35 The galaxy of hell is there arrayed ; They surge and struggle like a crimson tide, By the lewd promise of your dance beguiled ; And, helpless in the fearful masquerade, I see the faces, pale and horrified, Of Aubrey Beardsley and of Oscar Wilde. SCHEHEREZADE Upon the wall the firelight 's black scarves frisk ; A gleam of ruby dances in the night ; A gleam of topaz, and the room glows bright Before a nude, bejeweled odalisque. She comes with genii and with copper slaves, Weaving again the golden tapestries Of lurid and fantastic lands and seas Across my sight ; she comes with droll, bronze knaves, White turbaned, bearing casks of ebony. Like some weird circus, black and gold and blue ; Dwarfs, eunuchs, caliphs, houris and a crew Chanting in wild, exotic minstrelsy . . . And with a shiver and an eager sigh We enter Bagdad — Scheherezade and I. DON QUIXOTE Behold him jog adown the countryside With sapient Sancho ambling at his heel. How brave a figure in his cast-off steel, This gaunt anachronism, stuffed with pride ! 36 And now with lance at rest behold him ride, A flying scarecrow whose mistaken zeal Contrives a giant from a windmill's wheel. Zounds ! What a shock as man and mill collide ! Beloved madman ! I am on yon shelf, And you are here ; you live across the way, And up the road, and over in the lane. You are my friends, my neighbors, and myself, And maj^hap we are all a trifle fey "Who tilt at castles in your native Spain! D'ARTAGNAN The road to Paris stretches broad ahead ; From side to side great trees their shadows throw Across the moon-bathed path. A hidden foe Lurks in the forest shade, mayhap, where spread The royal oaks. The world is still and dead, Save for a horseman, riding hard, bent low Upon his horse's lathered neck, as though On pilgrimage of life and death he sped. D 'Artagnan ! Gad, the name seems to enthrall ! Duellist, soldier, Gascon, I would give A year of life for just one hour's delight With you, in court or camp or tavern brawl ; But most — and always will the picture live — For one mad dash to Paris in the night. 37 JOSEPH {After reading Charles Wells' "Joseph and his Brethren.'") God's Heaven, what a man he must have been That could resist the arms of Phraxanor ! Preaching of honor while the open door Of Paradise called him to splendid sin ; Prating of duty while the gates of hell Groaned on their hinges at his stoic mould. ''Madam, your arm — pray move." "Cold, cold, still cold— " Here is a case to challenge parallel ! Thus is it writ. Conjecture slyly smiles — Was he, indeed, quite dead to all desire ? Think you not that with honey and with fire His veins ran hotly at the temptress ' wiles ? Ah, it is true that history sometimes errs — Seer, did he go his way in fact ? — or hers ? ENCOUNTER Along the dead white boulevards of Time, Littered with dying hopes and grinning fears, I thought I saw my Past stalk forth one day Upon adventure bent . , . and as it trod the years A smile of exquisite bitterness sat upon The cynic lips, and a low laugh maliciously Taunted the shattered dreams along the way. Erstwhile a part of its own ecstasy . . . 38 And then adown the months the other way, Stepping from misty darkness into light, A fearsome figure strode .... I saw my Future stand Upon the dim frontier of coming night With glittering eyes. And that first traveler Who scornfully the horrid way had trod Grew limp before the menace of its gaze And fell to shrieking for a spurned God. LAMENT OF THE KING'S SON My garden was so lovely yesterday — The roses were so dear, the trees so green ; I could not wish for any fairer scene — I was so glad, so glad that I might stay. The fountain splashed a joyful virelay, The sun fell softly through the blossom 'd screen; And through this bliss came one with solemn mien Who murmured, ' ' Sire, the King is dead, they say ! " And suddenly I saw the future rise, Sordid and shackled, fraught with shameful ease ; And I fell down with awful shuddering. And kissed the grass farewell with streaming eyes — And the sweet roses, and the fragrant trees — And whispered, brokenly, ' ' God save the King ! ' ' IMMORTALITY The beach curves like a golden scimitar. White hot from off the anvil of the sun. 39 Across its edge the hissing wavelets run ; In feathered insolence they stretch afar, Writing an occult language on the sand In futile foam. Their curling fingers yearn Toward the rising heights, but, pausing, spurn The emerald goal that sentinels the strand ; Recede, and then repeat the frantic whim. With crazy valor striving, day by day ; Twisting and coiling in their swift, mad play, To the lone music of their antique hymn . . . Thus have they played since sin from Eden fled They will be playing here when I am dead ! CHANGELING The gallows tree is tall and straight Save for the single jutting limb . . . And from a spot across the road I watched the tortured legs of him Who dangled there. The hangman laughed. So merry was the sight withal ; The hangman's daughter, standing near, Was lovely as a waterfall. Her yellow hair streamed over her ; Her symmetrj^ was starkly limned . . . I loathed and loved her, and it seemed Her scarlet roses glowed and dimmed As my wild eyes upon her fed ; Her glance was free and bold, I thought. Our tryst was secret, when the dark Had fallen . . . where the corpse hung taut 40 In the red moon . . . The cursed babe "Was hideous as hell, and we Shrieked as we knew the twisted face Of him who decked the gallows tree. BAGDAD : 1917 Haroun, thy troubled ghost walks forth tonight In streets by booted, Christian feet profaned ; Where in a far day gushing wineskins stained The parched mosaic ... that Allah's sight Should view Zobeide's dishevelment, Scheherezade's swart beauty pale before The blandishments of leering gods of war; Their hunted shadows roused from long content. Bismillah ! If 'tis writ that this must be, Grant then another chronicler arise, A new Millameron to immortalize — The love and passion of the soldiery ! Another thousand nights begin to lower, And days, and hours, and quarters of an hour SEPULTURE The crippled bookman 's shop was musty-gray ; But in a corner, near the crooked stair. Beneath a sallow candle's yellow flare, I thumbed the pages of an antique play, 41 And found between the leaves a mummied fly, Dead since — God knows how long the thing was dead! Across an inch of verse its stain was spread, And in the margin it had come to die . . . What swift emotion — joy or quick despair ? — Closed this strange marker, think you, in a book ! Lad of the Future, pray you gently look Into old volumes . . , Turn the leaves with care, Lest, heedless, browsing in some letter 'd gloom, You shall profane my lonely, secret tomb. SHOP WINDOWS IN WINTER Piled glory of sonorous pirate kings, Spoil of the seven looted, ravaged seas, Shimmering satins, kerchiefs, tapestries, Plunder of Egypt, Saracenic rings ; Shawls from the painted desert, gleaming gems Torn from the heart of mountains, fluted shells Out of the greenest depths of ocean wells ; Sinister gold from ravished diadems . . . What of the whirling tempest, then ? The gale Blows the perfume of island Zanzibar; Roving in colour through a vast bazaar, I am a figure in a splendid tale : In the hot Indies trading contraband. Trafficking in the streets of Samarcand! 42 BASIL THOMPSON BEATA MEMORIA Though long indeed, since I beheld thee last, Yet surely brief doth seem the space what time Thy beatific presence first was cast Upon my soul, memory sublime ! No sight, not even that of nude Diane, Which so delighted poor Acteon's eyes, Has, may I venture, visited a man With such a very glimpse of Paradise. Young Dante once did pace a rivered street Wliereon full many mortal maidens dwelt And chancing there an angel-maid to meet, Perhaps some whit the same he may have felt. But lo ! in what white song did he profess His love, and his dear lady's loveliness. PREINCARNATION Erewhile when on some gladder sphere You laughed your little span away, Not mindful to be weeping here As you are weeping here today, Did once you pause the while you joyed To ponder on a day to be. Which time, perchance, should be employed In Paradisal jubilee? 45 Did you desire a higher place Than that whereon you sang and played ? Did once you crave a braver grace Than that with which you were arrayed ? Did you not, rather, realize That you were then in Paradise? EGO ET DESIDERIUM MEUM Night-long thy silver voice did sound itself to me Adown the dim dream-vistas of the past, Remembering a life too fair to be, Relating of a love too rare to last — Oh, lithe, blithe, wondrous one, Mistress of Mystery, How I do passion thee I Sure, thou art that which is a blend of bliss and pain, A bond betwixt divinity and death ; An elfin sun-ray revelling in the rain ; A wistful waft of halcyon-scented breath. Which even felt is flown, and venturously vain To wish to win again. Still were it not for thee and that clear call of thine. The which will ever trumpet m.y desire, I think, indeed, this thirsty soul of mine Would very soon of mortal voices tire — Their words are merely words, while thine are God's own wine. My Mystery Divine 46 C 32 89 -i h.^^ ^^ "^ aT^ O^ *onO» -0 ''^