FRANKLYN 
 
Dreamy Hours 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANKLYN W. LEE. 
 
 I 
 
 3 
 
 "Ah, what is not a dream by day 
 To him whose eyes are cast 
 On things around him, with a ray 
 Turned back upon the past." 
 
 —Poe. 
 
 __ 
 
 
 
 DEC 30" 
 
 1890. 
 
 Sunshine Publishing Company, 
 
 St. Paul, Minn. 
 
.Esa.H't 
 
 Copyriglit, 1890, 
 
 BY 
 
 Feanklyn W. L,ee. 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 D. RAMALEY & SON, 
 
 ST. PAUL, 
 
TO THE WIFE AND BABIES. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 DREAMERS. 
 
 True, they are fools who idly dream 
 
 Of unborn years, 
 When time for each holds back some stream 
 
 Of unshed tears. 
 
 They love to picture sunny skies 
 
 And happy hours, — 
 The earth a second paradise 
 
 Of rarest flow' rs ; 
 
 When sunshine is a transient guest, 
 
 Joy dies in gloom 
 And all the plants on Nature's breast 
 
 Soon lose their bloom. 
 
 Their optimism makes each maid 
 
 An angel fair, 
 When angels prone to change or fade 
 
 Are verv rare. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 They dream of wealth while at the gates 
 
 Of Want's domain, 
 
 And o'er broad, mythical estates 
 
 Hold kingly reign. 
 
 < 
 
 And yet these fools, who idly dream, 
 
 Are happier far 
 Than those who judge, with pride supreme. 
 
 Things as they are. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 BEFORE SHE CAME. 
 
 Before you came, my sweet colleen, 
 
 We knew not what this life was worth ; 
 But lived in fancied happiness 
 
 In our small paradise on earth, 
 Where Love held both in sweet duress, 
 Nor dreamed that greater joy had been — 
 Before you came. 
 
 Before you came — a child most fair — 
 
 There was no sunshine such as now 
 To light our way ; nor such sweet flow'rs 
 
 To stud the path and it endow 
 With beauty new to eyes like ours, 
 That sought these beauties everywhere — 
 Before you came. 
 
 Before you came, sweet babe of mine, 
 
 We dreamed of you (yet knew you not,) 
 Still wondering if, out of space, 
 
 Some unborn ray, by Love begot, 
 Would shine and show your cherub face 
 To us — so watched we for the sign — 
 Before you came. 
 
 Before you came ? Ah ! was it thus ? 
 
 Were you not always with us, dear ? 
 Methinks (it may have been a dream) 
 
 That you were never far from here ; 
 But found us out, like some star-gleam, 
 In years gone by, to gladden us— 
 Before you came. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 A CYNICISM. 
 
 If you would win the world's good will. 
 
 Conceal your thoughts, save those veneered 
 With honeyed words. Or, better still, 
 
 Think not at all ; for he is feared, 
 Despised and vilified who dares 
 
 To weigh the evil of to-day, 
 To separate the -wheat and tares 
 
 And draw each cunning veil awav. 
 
 'a 
 
 The wolf who roams in fleecy guise 
 
 Denies his fangs and is believed ; 
 The leper, pure to blinded eyes, 
 
 Is honored by the self-deceived ; 
 The moths that on the ermine feed 
 
 Destroy the robe, with none to check, 
 And fools who follow knaves who lead 
 
 Are left to die amid the wreck. 
 
 But woe to fearless ones who speak, 
 
 And lay the world's shortcomings bare; 
 Who criticise some foolish freak 
 
 Or warn the insects of the glare. 
 Society can do no wrong, 
 
 Save when to some good deed it bends, — 
 To thoughts humane, which scarce belong 
 
 Where man to licensed castes pretends. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 A LEGEND OF MINNETONKA. 
 
 'Tis a rare and wondrous story, 
 Brought from ages dim and hoary, 
 And old Homer must have sung it as he blindly 
 groped his way ; 
 'Tis a tale of love and passion, 
 Showing us that 'twas the fashion 
 Then, as now, for lovely woman to engage in cruel 
 play 
 And lay jealousy's sharp lash on 
 Those who bowed before her glory, 
 While with swift and coy evasion she kept lovers 
 all at bay. 
 
 'Twas a fair and radiant morning 
 When, her couch of roses scorning, 
 Venus soared through ambient ether 'neath Apollo's 
 car of fire, 
 And a Titan — brawny giant ! — 
 Watched that form, so sweet and pliant, 
 Till his fierce soul raged within him at the touch of 
 wild desire ; 
 But the goddess, half defiant, 
 Heeded not and took no warning 
 As she gaily laughed at him who dared to Beauty's 
 Queen aspire. 
 
 This enraged the huge beholder, 
 Who, grown confident and bolder, 
 Gave pursuit and vowed to master that fair mocker 
 of his love— 
 
10 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 Love to which she was no stranger — 
 E'en though dire and dreadful danger 
 Might await him should she summon her immortals 
 from above. 
 Surely passion soon would change her 
 Could his arms but once enfold her ! 
 And that one embrace would nerve him when he 
 faced the -wrath of Jove. 
 
 On the goddess sped, and faster 
 Came the one who fain would master. 
 Then the Queen of Beauty trembled, half in anger, 
 half in fear ; 
 As the Titan, surely gaining, 
 Soon would mock her proud disdaining, 
 For the giant's labored breathing fell upon her 
 straining ear 
 And she felt her powers waning — 
 Vainly pra}^ed she they might last her 
 Till the hunter grew aweary, till some rescuer drew 
 near. 
 
 But, alas! her sad repining 
 
 And the tears of sorrow shining 
 Mattered naught to her pursuer, who, with heavy, 
 uncouth hand, 
 
 Sought with brutal force to grasp her, 
 
 Hoping then to freely clasp her 
 To his heaving, brawny bosom ; but he merely 
 clutched a strand — 
 
 Made of sapphires, gold and jasper — 
 
 Of the girdle 'round her twining, 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 11 
 
 And it yielded to the tension, which the giant had 
 not planned. 
 
 When it broke he saw too plainly 
 That his massive form, ungainly, 
 Could not follow Venus further through the sunlit 
 realms of space ; 
 So he watched her as she gladly 
 Left the one who loved her madly, 
 Soaring on to old Olympus, swift as roebuck in the 
 chase ; 
 And he grieved, this giant, sadly, 
 That pursuit had ended vainly, 
 For 'twere worth the universe itself to own that 
 form and face. 
 
 But as she her fate evaded 
 And in friendly distance faded, 
 Down the sapphires fell, despairing, till they lay on 
 Nature's breast, 
 Where, with dew and sunshine blending 
 And through woodland shadows wending 
 They became a chain of sunlit lakes, the wonders 
 of the West. 
 And their beauties, all transcending, 
 Have some dreamers oft persuaded 
 That the Queen of Beauty seeks them when she 
 longs for peace and rest. 
 
 Thus — the lakes of Minnetonka, 
 Loved by Chippewa and Ponca, 
 Owe their birth to matchless sapphires Venus wore 
 upon her breast. 
 
12 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 LITTLE MOCCASINED FEET. 
 
 Two little moccasined feet I heard — 
 Heard while I reveled in fancies quaint — 
 
 Treading unsteadily through the room, 
 
 Pattering soft in the twilight's gloom 
 There by the door. As the curtains stirred, 
 
 Soft came the sound of her laughter faint — 
 Clear as the ring of the tinkling chain, 
 Sweet as the nightingale's sweetest strain. 
 
 Two little moccasined feet that brought 
 Thoughts I'd been seeking an hour or more; 
 
 Seeking in vain, for my fickle muse. 
 
 True to her sex, would her gifts refuse. 
 Giving the caller the smile she sought, 
 
 Kissing her flower-lips o'er and o'er, 
 Up to my lap then I lifted her — 
 Muse who inspired without demur. 
 
 Wonderful moccasined feet were they, 
 
 Guiding me into Elysian fields ; 
 Wonderful, too, was that baby hand, 
 Leading me thither to fairy land ; 
 
 Potent as well were her eyes blue-gray, 
 Casting the spell that a siren wields. 
 
 Where was there ever a muse like this, 
 
 Bringing a charm with her baby kiss ? 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 13 
 
 Two little moccasined feet — ah, me! 
 
 Where will they stray in the coming years ? 
 Shall it be into a time less fair, 
 Marring her life with a cloud of care ? 
 
 God give her strength for what is to be, 
 Robbing her sky of its rain of tears, 
 
 Leading the trend of her simple life 
 
 Far from the world and its vulgar strife. 
 
14 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 GRANT. 
 
 The sad and solemn roll of muffled drums, 
 The mournful dirge that softly swells, 
 
 Will die away before the twilight comes, 
 Amid the requiems of bells. 
 
 The form that held a hero's soul for years 
 Will then have passed beyond our sight, 
 
 Beyond a nation's grief and tears, 
 
 In which both Blue and Gray unite. 
 
 Let mankind, then, deal justly with the dead. 
 
 Not all are faultless in this day. 
 For errors that unthinking clay has made 
 
 Blame not the spirit, but the clay. 
 
 The one who loves his flag should blush with shame 
 Who, when he thinks of Lincoln's days, 
 
 Will add not to Grant's pyramid of fame 
 One small rough stone of honest praise. 
 
 Memorial Day, August 8, 1885. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 15 
 
 A WOMAN'S SMILE. 
 
 The happiness that man desires 
 
 Is cheaply bought, if in his heart 
 Some woman's smile a thought inspires 
 
 Of nobler things — a higher part 
 Than that which men too often plajr; 
 
 As if no future held in store 
 The discontent that takes away 
 
 The charm ere their life farce is o'er. 
 
16 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 IN THE SHADOW BY THE GATE. 
 
 We were young and ardent and knew no guile, 
 
 In the golden long ago, 
 When we kissed and quarreled and sang the while, 
 
 And old Time was never slow. 
 How your father raved and your mother frowned ! 
 
 But we mocked grim-visaged fate — 
 You were always there when I stole around 
 
 In the shadow by the gate. 
 
 It was years agone, but it seems to me 
 
 That it happened yesterday ; 
 When we lived on love and our lives were free 
 
 And the skies were never gray. 
 But the day is past and the dream has flown 
 
 With the girl who used to wait 
 For the lad who worshiped the eyes that shone 
 
 In the shadow by the gate. 
 
 I recall each kiss and each warm embrace, 
 
 And they bring the old time thrill ; 
 I can see the glow of your piquant face, 
 
 And your smile is -with me still ; 
 And again I hear that low, mournful sigh, 
 
 As the fleeting hours grew late, 
 When we wondered what made the moments fly 
 
 In the shadow by the gate. 
 
 I can see the shadow your father cast 
 
 When he came in search of you ; 
 While we shrank and trembled and stood aghast, 
 
 With each face of ashen hue. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 17 
 
 But he found us not in those days of yore 
 
 And we fear no dreadful strait, 
 For the lad and lassie are seen no more 
 
 In the shadow by the gate. 
 
 For there came a time when we said good-by, 
 
 And our eyes were wet with tears, 
 As we pledged ourselves by the stars on high 
 
 To be true through all the years. 
 Then I left you there in your misery, 
 
 With a burden new and great, 
 And your sad, sweet features were lost to me 
 
 In the shadow by the gate. 
 
 But the childish dream, like a fragile plant, 
 
 Could not live in Winter's frost, 
 And the lonely years served to disenchant 
 
 Till the old-time love was lost. 
 Yet I turn anon to those halcyon days, 
 
 As I sit and meditate, 
 And I stand again where the rose-vine strays 
 
 In the shadow by the gate. 
 
 And I wonder oft as I sit and think, 
 
 With my sweet girl on my knee, 
 If your boy will ever repair the link 
 
 That was broken — well, by me; 
 If they e'er will linger, true heart to heart, 
 
 With no haunting fear of fate, 
 And conceal life's roughness with Cupid's art 
 
 In the shadow by the gate. 
 
18 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 THE BROWNIES OF SLEEP. 
 
 What have you seen in the Land of N,od, 
 
 Colice, my own, with your sleep-laden eyes ? 
 Where, in your dreams, have your little feet trod — 
 
 Into a land with more beautiful skies ? 
 Surely the brownies were with you at play, 
 
 There in the fairyland found in your drowse ; 
 Did not the little folk bear you away,— 
 
 You as a queen, with a crown on your brows ? 
 
 Ne'er had the elves such a sweet little queen, 
 
 Though too despotic a ruler for them ; 
 Yet they were loyal and loving, I ween, 
 
 Bringing you flowers and kissing your hem. 
 And, when the eerie-toned orchestra played, 
 
 You joined the rest in their innocent sport, 
 Dancing away in the sun and the shade, 
 
 Followed by those of your quaint little court. 
 
 Oh ! I can tell why you cried when your eyes 
 
 Looked once again on this old world of ours. 
 There were no fairies and no wondrous skies, 
 
 No happy brownies to crown you with flow'rs. 
 Gone was your kingdom, the throne 'neath the trees; 
 
 Vanished the wee little courtiers you knew ; 
 Dead, too, the melody thrown to the breeeze ; 
 
 Gone, the crown jewels of sunshine and dew. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 19 
 
 You will not find them, I fear me, again, 
 
 Save when you drift to the elf-land of Sleep ; 
 Those little brownies ne'er grow to be men ; 
 
 Fairies find human paths stony and steep. 
 Drowse when you can, then, my fair little maid ; 
 
 Life will grow less of a dream with the years ; 
 Reign o'er your brownies in some poppied glade, 
 
 Ere they are frightened by sorrow and tears. 
 
20 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 UNCERTAINTY. 
 
 A trembling step, — and then we pause 
 To contemplate, with bated breath, 
 
 Eternity, the end, because 
 
 We fear the mystery of Death. 
 
 The charnel brings no childish fears ; 
 
 But when we seek to lift the veil 
 And look beyond this life of tears, 
 
 We meet chaotic gloom, and quail. 
 
 The soul, uncertain, dare not leap, 
 Lest it should perish by the hand 
 
 Of Night, whose dark slaves vigil keep 
 Upon the mystic border-land. 
 
 In vain man's creeds! A nameless dread,- 
 The burden of Doubt's iron crown, — 
 
 Destroys the spark that Hope has fed 
 And slowly drags the spirit down. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 21 
 
 AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Without, sweet Silence, wooed by Night, 
 
 Was queen of earth, and 'neath her sway 
 Men found in dreams a new delight 
 
 And mourned th' approach of noisy da}'; 
 The zephyr turned and shunned the trees, 
 
 Amid whose leaves it loved to sigh, 
 Lest they should murmur in the breeze 
 
 And cause the quietude to die. 
 
 The watch dog slept and gave the moon 
 
 No greeting as it rose on high 
 In splendor, and the night's pale noon 
 
 In beauty clothed the earth and sky ; 
 The cricket's chirp, the insect's hum 
 
 Were silenced by the sanctity 
 Of Quiet's reign, — all things were dumb 
 
 And lost in voiceless ecstasv. 
 
22 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 MUTABILITY. 
 
 A song is finished, and a chapter read ; 
 
 A task completed and a day 
 Passed on ; a heart beats quickly and is dead ; 
 
 A pleasant day-dream fades away. 
 
 The thrones upbuilded soon in ruins fall ; 
 
 The shaft of marble topples o'er; 
 The waves of time tear down each mighty wall 
 
 And strew its fragments on the shore. 
 
 We place an idol in the bosom's shrine 
 And unseen powers cast it down ; 
 
 We dream, and on a regal throne recline, 
 But wake to mourn a missing crown. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 23 
 
 A SMOKER TO HIS PIPE. 
 
 When the circling rings of azure, 
 Full of fancies without measure, 
 Fill the room and linger o'er me with a strangely 
 potent spell, 
 All my will and sense of being 
 With my gloomy sorrow fleeing, 
 I am lost to things around me, and with phantom 
 fancies dwell. 
 
 Thou, my pipe, so brown and golden, 
 With thy rude inscriptions olden, 
 Art the mystic necromancer who, with old Cagl- 
 iostro's skill, 
 Oft hath conjured many a vision 
 Of the past's domain Elysian, 
 Like a modern meerschaum Merlin, who commands 
 the soul at will. 
 
 There are pictures, old and faded, 
 In thy mist, by dreams pervaded, 
 That arrest my soul and send it on a pilgrimage o 
 years, 
 Back of time, and back of sorrow, 
 And forebodings of the morrow, 
 When bold Childhood mocked Misfortune and her 
 chalice filled with tears. 
 
 On the veil my spirit traces, 
 Shadow forms of phantom faces, 
 And among them there's a maiden's that I loved to 
 think more fair, — 
 
24 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 In my boyish adoration, — 
 Than the genius-born creation 
 Of a Raphael or a Titian, in its coloring so rare. 
 
 Now thine art a view discloses 
 Of the by-ways strewn with roses, 
 Leading to the broader highway, where each foot- 
 step found a thorn ; 
 Of the brooklet's sunny quiver 
 And the ripple of the river, 
 As they flowed to meet an ocean, — restless, vast, 
 and tempest-torn. 
 
 There's a balm for disappointment, 
 And for care a soothing ointment, 
 In the dreaminess arising with the smoke from out 
 thy bowl, 
 And thy fair attendant specter 
 Brings a cup of charmed nectar 
 That annihilates the shadows hanging darkly o'er 
 my soul. 
 
 Ah, my pipe, so brown and golden, 
 With thy quaint inscriptions olden, 
 There's a witchery entrancing in the azure of thy 
 rings ; 
 For no sorrow brewed in malice 
 Finds a place within thy chalice, 
 And the draught no grisly demon to my quiet 
 chamber brings. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 25 
 
 THE DREAM CHILD. 
 
 My hand broke the spell which 1 he silence of years 
 Had cast o'er the soul of the strings ; 
 
 My fingers were trembling, mine e}res filled with 
 tears 
 Up-welling from Memory's springs. 
 
 A melody olden, a quaint lullaby, 
 
 Rose softly, and, filling the room, 
 Stole out of the door way and floated on high, 
 
 Far into the night's sullen gloom. 
 
 A golden haired child clambered up on my knee ; 
 
 Her hand stroked my tear stained cheek ; 
 And wistful her look as she gazed up at me — 
 
 The tongue chained, the eyes must needs speak. 
 
 I read there her wish, as in days long gone by; 
 
 Again the sweet melody rose ; 
 I heard the low moan and the old, tired sigh, 
 
 And saw the pale waxen lids close. 
 
 The herb-scented night breeze that lovingly stole 
 
 A kiss from the fast dying leaves 
 Re-echoed the sadness supreme in my soul 
 
 In moans 'neath the shadowy eaves. 
 
 She slept with her head on my breast, as of yore ; 
 
 The music had charmed pain away ; 
 The mute, chained tongue spoke unheard, chained 
 no more, 
 
 And talked with the angels at play. 
 
26 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 I lowered my head to the sweet, childish face, 
 To kiss the dear lips as they smiled ; 
 
 Some beautiful vision— some angel of grace— 
 The lips into smiling beguiled. 
 
 But lips there were none to give pleasure to mine ; 
 
 My poor heart seemed turned into stone ; 
 Ah ! vainly indeed might the dreamer repine — 
 
 The child and the music had flown ! 
 
 And then I returned to the dead, cheerless years 
 And saw our sweet nestling once more : 
 
 The rose-laden casket, the torrents of tears. 
 The mound by the surf-beaten shore. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 27 
 
 TWO CREEDS. 
 
 "I worship God in ivied cloister cell, 
 Or kneel in some cathedral aisle, 
 
 Where glaring golden sunbeams never dwell 
 And priestly ban excludes a smile. 
 
 From dusty tomes I learn the better way, 
 
 To emulate the saints of old, 
 To pray, to scourge, to fast, while others stray 
 
 Outside the wall, to pleasure sold." 
 
 "Ah! sweeter far," the other said, "to roam 
 In God's great temples, where each blade 
 
 Of grass excels in eloquence the tome — 
 'Twas there the lowly Master prayed. 
 
 My task, to lift some brother from the mire 
 And guide a sunbeam to his heart ; 
 
 To strip his life of all its dark attire, 
 Until it seems of heav'n a part." 
 
28 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 FOREVER. 
 
 " Forever? " he asked, with his ardent glance 
 To love in her dear eyes appealing. 
 
 "Forever! " she said, with a look askance, 
 A blush o'er her damask cheek stealing. 
 
 Two barks floated on with the river Time ; 
 
 Two stars chose an orbit together; 
 Two songsters, aroused by the matin chime, 
 
 In melody joined in the heather. 
 
 " Forever ? " The clods as they harshly fell, 
 
 Her bier in dull echo replying, 
 Gave gloomier tone to the old church bell 
 
 And pain to the heart o'er her sighing. 
 
 The barks floated on, but one went before, 
 To enter the mists of the ocean ; 
 
 One bright star fell swiftly, its glory o'er — 
 A bird missed its sweet mate's devotion. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 29 
 
 A THANKSGIVING TOAST. 
 
 Oh, the dear old absent faces, 
 With their sunniness and graces — 
 How we rciiss them when we gather in the gloomy 
 after days ! 
 For the circle of our friendship 
 Loses half its loving kinship 
 In the thought that they have left us, gone for aye 
 upon their ways. 
 
 The wheels revolve and turn the glass; 
 The sands of life too quickly pass; 
 The pitcher breaks; the silver cord 
 Is loosed, and all have their reward. 
 
 There were some whose happy smiling 
 Conquered Time with sweet beguiling; 
 There were others whose soft touches made us all 
 forget Life's pain ; 
 There were those with fancies teeming, 
 Who entranced us with their dreaming, 
 And the witty and the thoughtful, who will ne'er 
 return again. 
 
 The wheels revolve and turn the glass; 
 The sands of life too quickly pass ; 
 We are but driftwood and we glide, 
 Each to his channel, with the tide. 
 
30 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 Ah ! those mute and empty places — 
 All suggestive of dear faces — 
 How they fill the soul with longing and the aching 
 heart with woe ! 
 For we love those who have left us, 
 Of whom destiny bereft us, 
 And their spirits linger near us, wheresoe'er the clay 
 may go. 
 
 The wheels revolve and turn the glass; 
 The sands of life are doomed to pass; 
 True friends ne'er part, though oceans vast 
 Divide the piesent from the past. 
 
 So, in every hour of pleasure, 
 Let each true heart beat in measure 
 With the rhythmic strains which Memory can 
 conjure up at will. 
 Give to Death a tear of sorrow 
 And for Life some sweet phase borrow, 
 Ne'er forget the dead and living, who, though gone, 
 are near us still. 
 
 The wheels revolve and turn the glass; 
 The sands of life soon cease to pass; 
 The curse of man — unhappy lot — 
 Is that he is too soon forgot. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 31 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 " Is marriage a failure ? " Well, let me see — 
 A curious question to put to me! 
 I'll look in my sweet baby's eyes of blue 
 And seek there an answer to give to you ; 
 And into her mother's large eyes of gray, — 
 The stars of my night and my suns by day, 
 Perfecting the joys of my quiet life — 
 So hark to the answer of babe and wife. 
 
 The one cannot speak in a learned strain, 
 But still her soft cooing to us is plain, 
 And infantile Sanscrit does just as well, 
 For old is the story her accents tell. 
 Her dear little fingers are on my face 
 And fondle my cheek with a baby grace ; 
 And there in her eyes is the answer true : 
 " Is marriage a failure ? Well, not with you." 
 
 The little one's mother sits near the while, 
 Regarding us both with a happy smile, 
 And laughs at the oracle's wise reply ; 
 Then kisses her flower-like lips. While I 
 Gaze into the depths of those eyes of gray 
 That look up at me in their loving way, 
 And see in their shining the answer true : 
 "Is marriage a failure? Well, not with you," 
 
32 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 What more would you have? That is proof enough 
 
 To me that your words are the merest stuff; 
 
 For marriage is just what 'tis made, I hold, — 
 
 An Eden of bliss or a dungeon cold. 
 
 So hence with your skeptical sophistry ; 
 
 For this is a truth that I always see 
 
 In eyes like the dawn and in eyes of blue: 
 
 " Is marriage a failure ? Well, not with you." 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 33 
 
 LES S1RENES. 
 
 Waldteufel's strains were so dreamy — Alas! 
 
 Fitter indeed that a requiem stole 
 Over the heads of the gaily-robed mass, 
 
 Into the nook where you played with a soul. 
 Waldteufel's strains were enchanting — Ah me! 
 
 So were your eyes and the touch of your hand, 
 Fettering one who had ever been free. 
 
 Leaving him shivering, guilty, unmanned. 
 
 Was it the waltz that affected me so ? 
 
 Nay, 'twas the unholy power you had — 
 Power that Phrynes and Cyprians know, 
 
 Stealing mj manhood and making me mad. 
 What did it matter to you that my wife 
 
 Watched you askance with her sorrowful eyes ? 
 Mutely appealing for pity, that life 
 
 Might not be shorn of what some women prize. 
 
 You were a wife, too, and wore in your hair 
 
 Jewels that came from a long noble line ; 
 Yet who suspected that you, lady fair, 
 
 Cast off your honor and sought to take mine ? 
 Men are not always seducers and knaves ; 
 
 Women will sometimes lay traps for their prey; 
 Men are too often the fools and the slaves — 
 
 Tempted, charm-ridden, and then led astray. 
 
34. DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 You were "the Edelweiss," so someone said. 
 
 Rather a bud from the dread upas tree, 
 Blooming so fair in the poison you shed, 
 
 Charming the dull eyes that gazed foolishly ; 
 Killing a woman who asked for relief; 
 
 Robbing a saint, first of peace then of breath ; 
 Clouding the days of a man with a grief 
 
 Not to be lifted, not even by death. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 35 
 
 MARIER'S BABY. 
 
 Why, Marier— thet's my daughter— haint the gal 
 
 she used to be, 
 When her husband, proud 'n manly, kem to ask 
 
 her hand of me ; 
 Fer she's lost her old-time color, 'n grown pitiful, 
 
 'n sad. 
 'N she's lost the trick o' singin', too, thet used to 
 
 make us glad ; 
 'N she goes about her little hum with weery, lag- 
 gin' step — 
 Like ez ef she had a burden, like ez ef she hed n't 
 
 slep' — 
 While we never hear her laugh no more, ner 
 
 hardly see her smile, 
 But we often ketch her cryin' all alone down by the 
 
 stile. 
 
 What's the matter? Well, I'll tell yer. It wuz 
 
 nigh two year ago 
 Thet a little angel kem to them— a sunbeam sent 
 
 below 
 Jest to brighten up our lives a bit, — 'n my old wife 
 
 'n me 
 Thought the world moved 'round thet baby; 'n 
 
 her father! — well, sir, he 
 Could 'nt bear to leave it nohow when he went to 
 
 do his work, 
 Fer he loved to set 'n hold it, 'n a happy smile 'd 
 
 lurk 
 
36 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 In the sunshine of his han'some face when we'd all 
 
 laugh 'n say 
 Thet the baby give him some excuse fer loafin' 
 
 through the day. 
 
 But Marier, while she loved it, did n't relish bein' 
 
 tied 
 'N she grew to kinder weery of her happy fire side; 
 Fer she longed fer other pleasures thet were seldom 
 
 met with there — 
 Like the huskins, 'n donations, 'n the shindigs here 
 
 'n there. 
 She wus alius sich a lively chit, 'n liked her share of 
 
 fun, 
 'N she hed it till the parson made the gal 'n Simon 
 
 one. 
 Then the pleasures sorter drapped away, ez alius 
 
 is the case 
 When a sparkin couple settles down 'n trots a 
 
 slower pace. 
 
 But the comin' of the baby brought some greater 
 
 changes still ; 
 'N Marier felt ill-treated, 'n her road seemed all 
 
 up-hill ; 
 Ez the youngster warn 't chipper — never hed been 
 
 since the start — 
 'N it held her all the tighter. Well, it nigh broke 
 
 Simon's heart 
 Jest to listen to her railin' ez she sot 'n held the 
 
 child : 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 How it alius wuz contrairey ; how its father hed 
 
 it spiled ; 
 How she never hed no freedom from the time it 
 
 woke et morn ; 
 'N I've heerd her say-God help her!-thet she 
 
 wisht it wuz n't born. 
 
 Well, we could n't reason with her, fer Marier's 
 
 kinder sot 
 'N she flares up when ye chide her,— its a childish 
 
 way she's got— 
 So we tried to comfort Simon, but he'd look et us 
 
 'n say : 
 " What's the use of consolation when she talks 'n 
 
 acts that way?" 
 Then the baby sickened, sudden-like, 'n pined away 
 
 n' died, 
 'N a shadder kern 'n hovered 'bout thet happy 
 
 fireside ; 
 
 But 'twuz nothin'to the shadder in Marier's empty 
 
 life, 
 Fer neglect hed killed her baby 'n made Simon hate 
 
 his wife. 
 
 But he could n't help fergivin' when she rallied 
 
 from the blow 
 'N the fever thet hed follered, when we thought 
 
 she, too, would go ; 
 Fer she warn't like herself et all, but quiet-like. 
 
 'n white, 
 
38 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 So he tried to cheer her up a bit, 'n make her days 
 
 more bright. 
 But she goes about her little hum with weery, 
 
 laggin' step — 
 Like ez ef she hed a burden, like ez,ef she hed n't 
 
 slep' — 
 'N we never hear her laugh no more, ner seldom see 
 
 her smile ; 
 But we often ketch her kneelin' at the grave down 
 
 by the stile. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 39 
 
 A CHILD'S KISS. 
 
 Have you felt the kiss of a sweet-faced child ? 
 
 God made it and smiled. 
 'Tis the scented breath of a balmy day, 
 
 The touch of a rose ; 
 Or a sunbeam lighting a shadowed way 
 Till the path a by-way of Eden grows. 
 
 Have you felt the kiss of a sweet-faced child ? 
 
 Has none e'er beguiled 
 Some consuming care from the heart domain 
 
 With infinite skill 
 When the world seemed naught but a desert plain 
 And the soul in trammels grew faint and ill ? 
 
 When you feel the kiss of a sweet-faced child— 
 
 A benison mild— 
 There's a newer strength in the saddened heart, 
 
 The spirit is free, 
 And the barb is torn from each venomed dart, 
 While a calm spreads over life's troubled sea. 
 
40 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 COLICE. 
 
 One night a ship with cargo fair 
 
 Came o'er the seas, its voyage done; 
 
 A bright star pierced the throbbing air 
 And paled the glory of the sun. 
 
 A fair, sweet stranger, loth to roam, 
 In passing paused to rest the while ; 
 
 An angel blessed one happy home 
 
 And won us with her gentle smile. 
 
 A royal guest, a queen — a child ! — 
 So beautiful, with blue-gray eyes 
 
 (Her mother's eyes) that swift beguiled 
 The lookers-on, e'en old and wise. 
 
 A babe she was, from heaven sent 
 
 To bind hearts tighter in the strife 
 
 Of earth — each childish blandishment 
 A sunbeam in the gloom of life. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 41 
 
 HER TAM O' SHANTER. 
 
 Her eyes of gray with mischief shine 
 And cause my thoughts to canter, 
 
 As they with laughing lips combine 
 
 And look up shyly into mine 
 
 From 'neath her Tarn o' Shanter. 
 
 Her voice, so musical and rich, 
 
 Is full of playful banter ; 
 Yet I am dumb and turn and twitch 
 Beneath her spell, for she's a witch 
 
 And I'm her Tarn o' Shanter. 
 
 She holds me fast within that spell ; 
 
 There's naught I would not grant her; 
 For priest with candle, book and bell 
 Could not resist the charms which dwell 
 
 Beneath her Tarn o' Shanter. 
 
 But there's a charm that lovers wield 
 
 With which I may enchant her, 
 And when to mine her powers yield 
 My witch may lead me far afield, 
 A willing Tarn o' Shanter. 
 
 No maid of clay in beauty's guise 
 Could in my heart supplant her, 
 
 For there no rival queen can rise 
 
 To break the power of the eyes 
 Beneath that Tarn o' Shanter. 
 
42 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 THE ABSENT WIFE. 
 
 I stroll about through the town at will 
 
 In the gloom of a winter night, 
 Or sit and dream in our chamber still 
 
 And in peace woo my muse and write; 
 I give no heed how the ashes fall 
 
 From my pipe to the clean-swept floor ; 
 I sit in state as the king of all, 
 
 For the reign of the wife is o'er. 
 I laugh as I have not laughed for days, 
 
 At the loss of domestic ties 
 And lighten care in a hundred ways 
 
 In the freedom I dearly prize. 
 
 But ah, the town seems a narrow tomb 
 
 Where the sunshine forgets to dwell ; 
 My muse a specter that fills the room 
 
 With the gloom of an evil spell. 
 The ashes fall on Contentment's bier 
 
 And I boast but a thorny crown, 
 For Joy is dead save when she is here 
 
 And her smile mocks Misfortune's frown. 
 The laugh is hollow and hurts my ears, 
 
 And the burden is heavier still 
 Than when we mingled our joy and tears 
 
 Or together faced good and ill. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 43 
 
 Away, such freedom ! Return, my queen, 
 
 To my heart and your empty throne 
 And make my days what they were, serene, 
 
 With a skill that is all your own. 
 It is not bondage to serve a wife 
 
 With a soul like the stars on high, 
 With heart of gold and the light of life 
 
 In the love that is in her eye. 
 She smoothes the road to the quiet grave 
 
 And her kiss robs the mind of care ; 
 In toil or pain she is always brave 
 
 And her touch makes a hut seem fair. 
 
44 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 WHILE THE FLOWER CREPT. 
 
 I leaned o'er a casket, small and white, 
 Where a sweet child slept; * 
 And I sighed and wept 
 To think that the darling had felt the blight 
 Of some silent angel's chilling kiss. 
 For 'twas sad that doom should end life's 
 bliss 
 While the flower crept. 
 
 I stood near a bride in spotless white ; 
 And I sighed and wept 
 As the music crept, 
 To think that the years would bring a blight 
 And her married life be all amiss, 
 Till she yearned to feel the angel's kiss 
 While in peace she slept. 
 
 Alas for the bride in starless night ! 
 Though I sighed and wept 
 While the sweet child slept, 
 She went where her days would know no blight, 
 And the silent angel's chilling kiss 
 Might have called the other home to bliss 
 While the flower crept. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 45 
 
 A BIT OF LACE. 
 
 Mother is knitting, there by the door, 
 
 Where sunset tints gleam in her hair ; 
 Plying the needle, as o'er and o'er 
 
 She fashions the fabric so fair. 
 Thoughtful her face, and her sweet blue eyes, 
 
 That shine in the fast-fading glow, 
 Glisten with tears as old dreams arise 
 
 And, phantom-like, flit to and fro. 
 
 Time takes the needle. While on the wing 
 
 He works on her life's snowy thread, 
 Weaving a fabric — a wondrous thing!— 
 
 That floats in the air overhead. 
 Scenes of her childhood are pictured there, 
 
 And, wrought in an intricate maze, 
 Joy knit with Sorrow and Love with Care, 
 
 The tangles of life's winding ways. 
 
 Wreaths for the living, shrouds for the dead, 
 
 Once formed by her motherly hands, 
 Quicken remembrance of dear ones fled 
 
 To homes in the far shadow-lands ; 
 Days when the stitches were rudely torn 
 
 And broken by fingers unkind ; 
 Days that awoke in a summer morn 
 
 And died in the bleak winter wind ; 
 
46 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 Thoughts, hopes and visions, caught up by Time, 
 
 Bedewed with a Niobe's tears ; 
 Phantoms that come from a spirit clime 
 
 Through mists of her sorrowful years; 
 Beautiful castles that fell to earth 
 
 Before they were wholly complete ; 
 Dreams that were dead in an hour from birth 
 
 And made Fancy seem but a cheat. 
 
 Time drops the needle; the work is done; 
 
 The phantoms have vanished at last; 
 Mother is watching the sinking sun 
 
 And bids an revoir to the past. 
 Knitting forgotten, her thoughtful eyes 
 
 Are dreamily scanning the West, 
 Looking for something bej^ond the skies — 
 
 For heaven, re-union and rest. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. ±7 
 
 WHAT MOCKERY ! 
 
 What mockery ! The costly lace 
 That contrasts with the sombre pall ; 
 
 Those flowers near the cold, gray face; 
 The idle tears that freely fall ; 
 
 The moan, and sigh, and drooping head — 
 
 They are not noticed by the dead. 
 
 But when life's fabric, now lain down, 
 Was yet in hand, how ruthlessly 
 
 The threads were torn ! How black the frown 
 O'erhanging eyes which could not see 
 
 That her life path was brown and bare 
 
 And no sweet flowers blossomed there. 
 
 There were no tears and kisses then, 
 No gentle hands with loving touch ; 
 
 And they but mock the sleeper when 
 The kindness does not matter much : 
 
 For she is deaf, and dumb and blind, 
 
 And does not know that you are kind. 
 
48 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 BABY JEROME. 
 
 Out of the twilight came Baby Jerome — 
 Baby Jerome, like a star from the blue. 
 
 And the soft, happy wind 
 Bearing him to our home 
 
 Had the tones of a coo 
 
 With its music combined. 
 
 Close to our hearts nestled Baby Jerome- 
 Baby Jerome, like an innocent rose. 
 
 And so fragile he seemed 
 
 That we feared he might roam 
 
 Back to heaven — God knows 
 Of the sorrow we dreamed. 
 
 Clasping a scepter, lies Baby Jerome — 
 Bab}' Jerome, like a king of the elves ; 
 
 Yet His Majesty's crow 
 
 Calls no minikin gnome, 
 
 For his subjects, ourselves, 
 Full obedience know. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 49 
 
 A MADDENING MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN. 
 
 Just another whirl to the airs of Strauss, 
 
 And a walk in the silver night ; 
 Just another hour in her father's house, 
 
 Where she reigned by a sovereign right ; 
 Just another dream in a sunlit time 
 
 And a stroll by the crested sea, 
 Or another dash o'er the moonlit rime, — 
 
 But, alas ! it can never be. 
 
 For it once befell that the music died 
 
 And Diana was clouded o'er, 
 And the house bereft of its joy and pride — 
 
 When she reigned as its queen no more. 
 Then I dreamed alone in a sunless hour 
 
 As I walked on the shifting sands ; 
 And I sighed anon at the soft, white show'r 
 
 As it fell from the frost-elves' hands. 
 
 Ah, the marriage chimings were out of tune, 
 
 And the flowers were swift to fade ; 
 While the roses fled from her cheeks too soon 
 
 And her feet to a Marah strayed. 
 For the h an d that roughly destroyed the bloom 
 
 Was a pitiless one at best, 
 And it thrust her into a hell of gloom, 
 
 Where she yielded and sank to rest. 
 
50 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 So I sit and dream, as I dry my eyes, 
 
 Of a maddening might-have-been; 
 Of the deadened hues of my Paradise 
 
 And the woman I failed to win. 
 Had she listened then — hut what matters now, 
 
 Since my castles were those of Spain ? 
 For the fates are cruel and men must bow 
 
 To decrees they avoid in vain. 
 
 Yet the thought will come, as it ever must, 
 
 That the fates might have been more kind 
 And withheld the apple that turned to dust 
 
 On my lips. Had she been less blind 
 She would living be in an Eden fair, 
 
 As a queen with a loving slave, 
 And my lips would utter no empty prayer, 
 
 Nor appeal to a silent grave. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 51 
 
 LET US GIVE THANKS. 
 
 Let us give thanks ; for where is he 
 
 Upon whose path no ray benign 
 Has often shone ; who cannot see 
 
 In each fair day some smile divine ; 
 Who boasts that he created all 
 
 The happiness which was his lot — 
 In brief, who owns himself no thrall 
 
 Of One who frequents every spot ? 
 
 Let us give thanks, I say ; for none 
 
 Are there who do not always owe 
 Some joy that came 'twixt sun and sun, 
 
 Some rose that lingered 'neath the snow, 
 Some heart-throb in a happy hour, 
 
 Some smile that cleared away a mist, 
 Some sweet that mingled with the sour, 
 
 Some patch of sky by sunbeams kissed. 
 
 Let us give thanks — to whom you will ; 
 Save that it be the God we see 
 
 In every flow'r that studs the hill, 
 In every blade that decks the lea ; 
 
 For God is Nature, after all, 
 
 And Nature God. He lights the way 
 
 Which Nature forms, lest we should fall- 
 He errs who would this truth gainsay. 
 
52 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 Let us give thanks. It is but right, 
 
 Since dogs lack not a gratitude 
 For kindnesses. And where's the wight 
 
 Who'd care to have it understood 
 That he was lower than a brute— 
 
 A thing beneath the human grade, — 
 In that his stubborn lips were mute 
 
 While others murmured thanks and 
 prayed. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 MARILLA. 
 
 No, she haint got all the larnin' of a literary set, 
 'N she don't waste time a-dawdlin' with "a pesky 
 
 cigarette ; 
 But M'rilly's got a suthin' in the dawnlight of her 
 
 eyes 
 That'd alius make a feller think his hum a paradise. 
 
 I'll allow she don't know nothin' of Bee-thoven 'n 
 
 the rest, 
 'Ner about the blamed sky-rockets some calls music; 
 
 but I'm blest 
 Ef them tony gals kin tech her when she sets 'n 
 
 plays 'n sings, 
 Fer her old guitar seems happy when her fingers 
 
 wake the strings. 
 
 She hez never wrote a poem, 'n the language that 
 
 she speaks 
 Hez a smack of old Nerbraskythet is seldom larned 
 
 in weeks ; 
 But her eyes air noble poems sich ez poets never 
 
 made, 
 'N a furrin eddication would hev spiled her, I'm 
 
 afraid. 
 
 'N she don't wear low-necked dresses, don't M'rilly, 
 
 though she might, 
 Fer her form is jest ez perfect ez a statcher's, 'n ez 
 
 white ; 
 
54 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 'N I never seed her drinkin', tier kerousin with the 
 
 boys — 
 Though they seemed to like her, even when she kem 
 
 to share my joys. 
 
 Why, there's nary feller livin' ez kin say she broke 
 
 his heart 
 Jest fer fun, ez she would never stoop to play so 
 
 mean a part ; 
 'N the wimmin don't abuse her, fer no womern ever 
 
 heard 
 My M'rilly utter slander 'ginst another — not a 
 
 word. 
 
 She's old fashioned — haint she, stranger? — but I 
 
 love her all the more, 
 'N my heart begins a thumpin' when I see her at 
 
 the door 
 With the baby, smilin' brightly ez she ketches sight 
 
 of me, 
 While the youngster crows a welcome, 'n jumps up 
 
 'n down in glee. 
 
 So I wouldn't hevher diff'rent — like the ones I read 
 
 about. 
 They hev lost the art of livin', 'n their lamps '11 soon 
 
 burn out ; 
 While the eyes of sweet M'rilly, ez they look up into 
 
 mine, 
 Will be bright enough to hold me while the Lord'll 
 
 let 'em shine. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 55 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 I loved her in the sunlit time of youth ; 
 I loved her with a stripling's fire and truth ; 
 She won me with the soul-light in her eyes— 
 Those orbs which poet should immortalize — 
 And gave me love for love, laid bare a heart 
 In purity the snowflake's counterpart. 
 
 I found her what my fancy painted her; 
 The unschooled boy, in choosing, did not err; 
 For marriage did not spoil the old time dream, 
 But made the woman, wife and mother seem 
 So far above the girlish chrysalis 
 That oft I wondered at my boyhood's bliss. 
 
 And when the silver lingers on her hair, 
 'Twill be a well-earned crown of honor there; 
 When Time, with stylus keen, begins to trace 
 His record, 'twill not mar her gentle face ; 
 For I shall love her more than e'er before, 
 Nor cease to love her when this life is o'er. 
 
56 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 A REPORTER'S VALENTINE. 
 
 I've a pretty valentine, 
 
 Fairer yet than any made — 
 Sent to charm this heart of mine, 
 
 Sent to banish Sorrow's shade ; 
 Sent to make the skies benign 
 
 With the sunshine of her face 
 And with baby hands design 
 
 Brighter thoughts with childish grace. 
 Two years old — with eyes that shine 
 
 Like a blue-gray, sun-kissed lake — 
 Is my little valentine, 
 
 Who was sent for Love's sweet sake ; 
 And, like some emblossomed vine, 
 
 She has crept about my heart, 
 Wielding power I can't define 
 
 With a baby's perfect art. 
 So I keep her in a shrine — 
 
 In a holy shrine called Home — 
 Guarded there by love divine 
 
 From whatever ills may come. 
 And should she, years hence, incline 
 
 Toward a love-shrine of her own, 
 I shall miss my valentine — 
 
 Little girls are too soon grown. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 57 
 
 DEAD DREAMS. 
 
 In the song you sing there's a minor strain — 
 
 Tell me, are old dreams dead ? 
 
 A sob is drowned in your listless mirth, 
 
 Your smile is cold as the frozen earth, 
 
 And your eyes' bright glow has begun to wane ; 
 
 Tell me, are old dreams dead ? 
 
 On this scented page there's a half-told tale, 
 Telling how old dreams died. 
 The lines mean naught, but they serve to screen 
 The bitter truths that are found between, 
 And the phrase, ''We loved ! " is a hopeless wail, 
 Telling how old dreams died. 
 
 If a child had crept to your barren breast, 
 Tell me, would it be so ? 
 A fair young babe, whose uncertain hand 
 Could lead you out of your shadow-land, 
 Whose emollient kiss would have oft caressed— 
 Tell me, would it be so ? 
 
 But the child came not and the idol fell. 
 Thus do the old dreams die ! 
 The altar-mate is a thing of clay, 
 (He seemed a god only yesterday). 
 And a life with him is a living hell — 
 Thus do the old dreams die! 
 
58 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 So there come new dreams of the long ago — 
 Oft will these new dreams rise. 
 Your thoughts drift back to the halcyon days, 
 Your boy-knight comes from the peopled haze 
 And you cry : "We loved ! " Will he ever know 
 How oft these new dreams rise ? 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 59 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 They say man forgets, while a woman will treasure 
 The dreams given birth when love brightened 
 her eyes, 
 And still thrill her heart with a touch of the pleasure 
 The girl felt on seeing cloud-shapes in her skies. 
 But what would you say 
 If told of the vision I see in the azure 
 
 That rises tonight from my witch-bowl of clay ? 
 
 I own myself naught but a crust3^ old fellow, 
 
 And there sits my wife, singing someone to sleep, 
 While Time bears me on to the sere and the 3 7 ellow. 
 But bojrhood's fair memories ever will keep ; 
 And locked in my breast 
 Are some like old wine that the years have made 
 mellow, 
 Of which I partake with a connoisseur's zest. 
 
 Two loves has each man in the course of his drifting : 
 The first like the breath of an exquisite rose ; 
 
 The second more beautiful, hardy, uplifting — 
 A rose-vine that circles the heart as it grows ; 
 And one is so frail 
 
 That life's weary winds, in their merciless shifting, 
 Blow on till the petals are lost in the gale. 
 
 But, though it be fragile, the first is essential, 
 
 Since through it the manlier passion gains sway, 
 Expands 'neath the light of remembrance potential 
 
60 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 And finds newer strength in the other's decay. 
 
 The first is soon dead ; 
 Yet had it not lived, by decree providential, 
 
 The passion now prized were a poor thing 
 
 instead. 
 
 And so, when I see, in the smoke drifting 'round me, 
 The sweet, childish face of my "maid o' the mist," 
 Who came when the best years of life had not 
 found me, 
 I'm grateful to her, since love's pleasures exist. 
 For had she not flown 
 To loosen the trammels in which childhood bound 
 me, 
 The love I feel now I might never have known. 
 
 The wife understands, if she pauses to reason, 
 The love of the boy for the girl in the past — 
 
 The passion that came in youth's wonderful season, 
 When love's rosy flame burned too fiercely to last; 
 And she will confess, 
 
 With womanly trust, that she deems it not treason 
 If one gives a thought to the old happiness. 
 
 And I, while my heart feels the old thrill I treasure, 
 Look into the dark eyes that mirrored my love 
 
 When she whom I see in the circles of azure 
 
 Seemed one of the angels from regions above, 
 And throw her a kiss, 
 
 And thank her for sowing the seed of the pleasure 
 I reap in the Eden of marital bliss. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 61 
 
 A CHILDLESS HEARTH. 
 
 Tell me, my cynical, child-hating friend, 
 
 Where is the dungeon so drear as the home 
 
 Robbed of the sunlight a baby's eyes lend, 
 
 Lacking the tune of her feet as they roam ? 
 
 What gives the charm which her prattle would bring, 
 Filling the house with a melody rare ? 
 
 What like her smile gives the moments such wing, 
 What like the glint of the sun in her hair ? 
 
 Ask the fond mother who sings her to rest 
 
 What life would be if her darling were dead ; 
 
 Question the stricken whose brightest and best 
 Lies where the flowers are nodding o'er head. 
 
 Go to the ones who, in childless estate, 
 
 Live in the gloom of their imperfect days ; 
 
 Find, if you can, in their homes desolate, 
 
 That which I gain from my child's pretty ways. 
 
 Ah, when I bask in the light of her eyes 
 Joy at its highest is mocked by a sigh ; 
 
 Life would not be such a well-guarded prize 
 Were our sweet flower to wither and die. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 POST-NUPTIAL ICONOCLASM. 
 
 If he was e'er an idol in your eyes, 
 
 And you still love him, is it safe or wise 
 
 To lift the critic's chisel to the form 
 
 You fashioned when Love's dawning light 
 
 grew warm ? 
 Each criticism from your velvet lip 
 Unkindly strikes away a jagged chip 
 Which leaves a scar to mar the symmetry 
 You looked upon and deemed divinitj T ; 
 And scars, once made, forever must remain — 
 The perfect figure ne'er returns again ; 
 And you, who heedlessly destroyed your all, 
 Will mourn the demi-god who was your thrall. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 63 
 
 THE FIELD OF ARDATH. 
 
 I would that I might find that sterile plain 
 
 Whereon the tear-drops of the weary soul 
 Would fall and vitalize the soil again 
 
 And make each mound of sand a grassy knoll, 
 Wherefrom, upspringing 'neath the moon's fair rays, 
 
 Sweet flow'rs would rise, till seas of asphodel 
 Spread out before my tired and hungry gaze 
 
 And lulled me on their gentle, perfumed swell. 
 
 Ardath, 'tis called, and on its breast I'd lie, 
 
 Securely guarded there by unseen hands — 
 By Esdris' hands— till dream time had gone by, 
 
 And wake, perchance, in other, stranger lands. 
 In some Al-Kyris of the missing past, 
 
 My sandaled feet might wander till they brought 
 Me face to face and heart to heart at last, 
 
 With one for whom I long have sought. 
 
 My old, dead self!— my ancient self!— perhaps 
 
 My soul would find it as I slumb'ring lay 
 On Ardath's wondrous field, and span the lapse 
 
 Of centuries that lead to some fair day 
 Wherein some present loved one had a part 
 
 And schooled me for another, later stage 
 Of which I knew not, since my unschooled heart 
 
 Recked not of any future, modern age. 
 
64 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 Sometimes a vague and shadowy thought is mine — 
 
 As of some life in which I ran my race ; 
 A light, whose meanings mind will not define, 
 
 Breaks o'er me often -when I see a face. 
 And Reason has a theory evolved 
 
 With which my soul has labored long in vain — 
 My dead self's mystery will ne'er be solved 
 
 Until I lie on Ardath's charmed plain. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 65 
 
 AN ECHO OF "FAUST." 
 
 " Faust" was the theme of the singers that night; 
 
 Fair was the singer who played Marguerite ; 
 Darkly magnetic and richly bedight 
 
 He who had toyed with the blossom so sweet ; 
 But there was one — 
 Dazzlingly fair in the nebulous light — 
 
 Deaf to the music, and ere the strain died 
 She had gone, 
 Gone from the box where rare jewels had shone 
 On a millionaire's bride. 
 
 Back to a home like an antarctic plain, 
 
 Drawn by the peers of a Lorillard's stud ; 
 Back to Senility's touches again, 
 
 Giving for riches Youth's warm, leaping blood;— 
 Homeward she sped, 
 Striving to tear out the nettles of pain 
 
 Growing at will in the wastes of her heart, 
 While her head 
 Drooped at the rising of Love from the dead 
 And with shame for her part. 
 
 " She did not love him," she said, with a sneer, 
 Holding communion with self in her room. 
 
 " She did not love him," she sighed, and a tear 
 Fell to be caught in a rose's warm bloom. 
 "Had I been she 
 
66 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 I would have held Faust's affection most dear, 
 
 E'en though his soul had been black to the core; 
 J could see 
 Naught but the mantle of love that he wore 
 Were he faithful to me. 
 
 "What do these Marguerites know about love? 
 
 Do they find weakness in passion divine ? 
 Is it a thing to be worn like a glove ? 
 
 How would they bear such a burden as mine? — 
 Bought like a slave ; 
 Caged in a palace, like some restless dove 
 
 Torn from her mate ere the love-time had come; 
 In a grave ; 
 Forced to be passionless, taught to be dumb 
 When another would rave. 
 
 " Had I but known what the future would bring — 
 Dreamed what a futtire would be without him — 
 I would have suffered my pride to take wing 
 Ere I invited the curse of a whim. 
 Had I but known ! 
 God ! why is woman so heedless a thing? 
 
 Would I have tortured and spurned him that 
 night 
 
 Had I known — 
 Known that to love and Love's messenger smite 
 Is to suffer alone ? " 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 67 
 
 BOHEMIA — UTOPIA. 
 
 Oh, the land of Bohemia's fair — 
 
 Much fairer than any, save one — 
 And the joys that exist for you there 
 
 By some are ranked second to none ; 
 For the wine and the women and wit, 
 
 And soupcon of deviltry, too, 
 Tend to soften Society's bit, 
 
 Pulled hard on such fellows as you. 
 
 I remember Bohemia's wine, 
 
 The charm of the fair women's eyes; 
 The bouquet of the first was so fine, 
 
 The second was Love in disguise. 
 And the wine took the sting out of life, 
 
 Till Time seemed a ros3 r -cheeked boy, 
 While the eyes blinded ours to the strife, 
 
 To all save a possible joy. 
 
 But I live in a much fairer land — 
 
 Utopia, so it is called, 
 Where a woman's dear eyes hold command ■ 
 
 A land from the outer world walled. 
 And Bohemia holds not the bliss 
 
 Like that in Utopia found, 
 Where the wine is distilled from a kiss 
 
 And lips are too loving to wound. 
 
68 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 'Tis a land where the wife reigns supreme. 
 
 'Tis Home, by a babe made complete. 
 'Tis the land of which some ever dream 
 
 And often, alas! find a cheat. 
 So, I miss not Bohemia's wine, * 
 
 Nor long for its fair women's smiles ; 
 For this wife and these children of mine 
 
 Have charmed me with more potent wiles. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 69 
 
 BILL NYE. 
 
 He battles with Time in a curious war 
 
 And dulls the keen scythe with his wizard pen ; 
 
 While Time ages men till the smile comes no more, 
 His art brings them youth and its mirth again. 
 
 A monk in the cloister of some ancient pile 
 
 Would throw down his beads, Bill's humor to 
 quaff; 
 
 The erudite scholar who nods o'er Carlyle 
 
 Reads Nye and banishes sleep with a laugh. 
 
 Oh, where lies the charm of the weak platitudes 
 That burden the modern philosopher's page ? 
 
 We welcome the jester in sorrowful moods 
 
 And Mirth girds his brow with the crown of 
 the sage. 
 
70 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 GOLDEN BEADS. 
 
 If my heart's best drops could be petrified, 
 
 'Twere rubies I'd give to you — 
 My beloved bride, ever tender-eyed, 
 
 The truest of good wives true. 
 
 If the skies I wish for to light your days 
 Were changed by a wizard's skill, 
 
 Then the azure rays of the sapphire's glaze 
 Would please you — had I my will. 
 
 If the purest thoughts that have filled my mind 
 
 Were made into pearls, I ween 
 I'd a necklace find of the rarest kind 
 
 And give it to you, my queen. 
 
 But instead I bring you these beads of gold — 
 Love's rosary ! — take them, dear. 
 
 " Till the stars grow old, till the sun grows cold" 
 My love will be deep, sincere. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 71 
 
 CIGARETTES AND ROSEvS. 
 
 A withered rose and a cigarette 
 
 I found to-day in a pigeon-hole, 
 And gazed at them till my eyes were wet 
 
 With tears, as memory backward stole. 
 
 A girl's sweet lips and a girl's soft hand 
 Were mine alone in the dear, dead years, 
 
 And drew me on to the Beulah-land 
 
 Where lovers dwell in their hopes and fears. 
 
 The velvet lips were bedewed with wine 
 
 That filled my blood with a new-found life ; 
 
 The touch I felt when the hand met mine 
 My senses stirred into greater strife. 
 
 She kissed the rose ere she gave it me — 
 The rose I find with my treasures yet — 
 
 And led me, thralled, but from sorrow free, 
 Through azure mists from her cigarette. 
 
 We drifted on till the world was lost 
 
 And gave no thought to its stony ways ; 
 
 But, heart to heart and on smoke- waves tossed, 
 We sailed in bliss through the dreamy haze. 
 
 And once I took from her fair, white hand 
 This paper roll, by her lips made sweet, 
 
 To keep for love of the fairy-land 
 
 She lured me to in those moments fleet. 
 
72 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 She looked at me with her half-closed eyes, 
 
 And, laughing, said: " You will soon forget 
 
 When naught remains of the days we prize 
 But withered leaves and a cigarette." 
 
 And then — but ere I recall my speech, 
 
 My wife exclaims, and she seems provoked, 
 
 "Come, get these things out of Baby's reach, 
 And don't tell her that I ever smoked !" 
 
DREAMY HOUKS. 73 
 
 'TIS BETTER TO DIE. 
 
 'Tis better to die, leaving some one behind, 
 Than to live when the loved one is dead ; 
 
 For Memory's mission to such human-kind 
 Is to plant thorns in Love's crape-hung bed. 
 
 The one has no thought in death's mystical 
 trance 
 
 Of the leaden- winged moments of grief; 
 For Time, to the sleeper, is but a star's glance, 
 
 Just a stalk from Eternity's sheaf. 
 
 But Time to the other Eternity seems ; 
 
 'Tis an age ere the summons is sent 
 That brings soul to soul as in brief, empty 
 dreams 
 
 Which were bliss with dumb agony blent. 
 
74 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 A DREAM OF KARMA. 
 
 One night, beneath the fitful glare 
 
 Of some street lamp, I idly stood 
 And watched the crowd, which drew its share 
 
 Of venom from my morbid mood ; 
 For I was lonely then and knew 
 
 Not one in all that dreary place 
 Whom I called friend. What could I do 
 
 But pick and tear and scorn my race ? 
 But on my sight there dawned at last 
 
 A winsome face, with sparkling eyes 
 That scanned me archly as they passed ; 
 
 And, had I not known otherwise, 
 I could have sworn that, years before, 
 
 We two had met and loved, and known 
 Another day that lived no more 
 
 Save in this thought, now stronger grown. 
 
 One night a kindly angel came 
 
 And guided me to where you stood, 
 While someone, smiling, spoke your name 
 
 And mine. But I, a thing of wood 
 Or stone or senseless clay, was dumb. 
 
 The gas-lights danced, the room turned 
 'round; 
 So quickly had the answer come 
 
 To all my prayers — the lost was found ! 
 For I had lonely been — I knew 
 
 Not one in all that dreary place 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 75 
 
 Whom I called friend. What could I do 
 But think and dream of your fair face ? 
 
 And from that night, dear heart, I wooed 
 As tigers woo their jungle mates — 
 
 At times most gentle, oft times rude; 
 For mine were either loves or hates. 
 
 One night I took you in my arms 
 
 And held you fast while swift I told 
 The burning tale. No vague alarms 
 
 Bestirred you, but from hot to cold 
 And then to hot you passed, and hung 
 
 Your pretty head ; then gently drew 
 My face to yours, unchained your tongue 
 
 And bade me wait and hear you through. 
 A wondrous theme! How, when alone 
 
 That night we met, it seemed that we 
 Had met before and loved, and known 
 
 A day that long since ceased to be ; 
 That you had dreamed and seen my face 
 
 Long ere it came, and longed to greet 
 The one whose passionate embrace 
 
 Had made that ancient love-time sweet. 
 
76 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 TO A FEZ. 
 
 Oh, here's to my fez ! — such a wonderful cap 
 
 Xe'er was worn by old Merlin the wise ; 
 There's magic galore in its tassel and nap 
 
 And it banishes mists from my ej-es. 
 Its red lends a rose-tint to visions it brings. 
 
 And the Arabic letters inside 
 An abracadabra seem, one of those things 
 
 Which the conjurers cherish with pride. 
 
 But greater the potency gained from the fact 
 
 That it oft crowns a woman's dark hair, 
 And heightens the beauties that daily distract 
 
 The proud lover who places it there. 
 The color becomes her, brings out the rich tints 
 
 Of her face Oriental and sweet — 
 She looks like the daughter of some Eastern prince, 
 
 With a tow-headed bard at her feet. 
 
 The baby — God bless her! — has worn it at play, 
 
 And the tassel has mixed with the gold 
 Of tresses like sunshine, her eyes of mist-gray 
 
 Quick disarming me ere I could scold. 
 For no one could take it away from her then, 
 
 Such a quaint little picture she makes, 
 As, scampering from me, she steals back again 
 
 And with half-suppressed merriment shakes. 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 77 
 
 So, here's to my fez — 'tis a wonderful thing! 
 
 In the sad, lonely hours of the night, 
 When Fancy is dull and my muse will not sing, 
 
 I no stimulants seek in my plight ; 
 But go to the bookcase that stands in the room 
 
 And appeal to my charm-laden fez. 
 And lo ! as I don it I'm free from my gloom 
 
 And I revel 'mid fair images. 
 
78 
 
 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 VILLANELLE. 
 
 She wore a gown of heliotrope, — 
 
 A gown designed to deck a queen, — 
 And I did not presume, I hope. 
 
 I wondered if my horoscope 
 
 Disclosed her face, so fair, serene, — 
 She wore a gown of heliotrope. 
 
 I wondered if my love could cope 
 
 With anger, should it mar her mein, 
 And I did not presume, I hope. 
 
 I wondered if my words could ope 
 
 Her woman's heart, and comfort glean — 
 She wore a gown of heliotrope. 
 
 Through Doubt's dim maze I sought to grope 
 
 And clutched the future's heavy screen, — 
 And I did not presume, I hope. 
 
 But when I spoke she bade me " slope " — 
 
 An answer I had not forseen. 
 She wore a gown of heliotrope 
 
 And I did not presume, I hope 
 
DREAMY HOURS. 79 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I'AGE. 
 
 Dreamers 5 
 
 Before She Came 7 
 
 A Cynicism 8 
 
 A Legend of Minnetonka 9 
 
 Little Moccasined Feet 12 
 
 Grant 14 
 
 A Woman's Smile 15 
 
 In the Shadow by the Gate 16 
 
 The Brownies of Sleep 18 
 
 Uncertainty 20 
 
 At Midnight 21 
 
 Mutability 22 
 
 A Smoker to His Pipe 23 
 
 The Dream Child 25 
 
 Two Creeds 27 
 
 Forever 28 
 
 A Thanksgiving Toast 29 
 
 The Answer 31 
 
 Les Sirenes 33 
 
 Marier's Baby 35 
 
 A Child's Kiss J 39 
 
 Colice 40 
 
 Her Tarn o' Shanter 41 
 
 The Absent Wife 42 
 
 While the Flower Crept 44 
 
80 DREAMY HOURS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 A Bit of Lace 45 
 
 What Mockery! 47 
 
 Baby Jerome 48 
 
 A Maddening Might-Have-Been 49 
 
 Let Us Give Thanks % . 51 
 
 Marilla 53 
 
 The Wife 55 
 
 A Reporter's Valentine 56 
 
 Dead Dreams 57 
 
 The Philosophy of Remembrance 59 
 
 A Childless Hearth 61 
 
 Post-Nuptial Iconoclasm 62 
 
 The Field of Ardath 63 
 
 An Echo of "Faust" 65 
 
 Bohemia — Utopia 67 
 
 Bill Nye 69 
 
 Golden Beads 70 
 
 Cigarettes and Roses 71 
 
 'Tis Better to Die 73 
 
 A Dream of Karma 74 
 
 To a Fez 76 
 
 Yillanelle 78 
 
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