PS 3535 
 .E2648 L8 
 
 1922 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 CONGRESS 
 

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Lyra 
 Levis 
 
 ^' -^ Edward 
 
 "Bliss .^ 
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LYRA LEVIS 
 
^y ^he Same Author 
 
 English Lyrical Poetry 
 Lyra Yalensis 
 Sea Moods 
 
j^YRA J^EVIS 
 
 By Edward Bliss Reed 
 
 New Haven 
 
 Tale University Press 
 
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Copyright 1922 by 
 Yale University Press 
 
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Contents 
 
 
 Preface 
 
 9 
 
 To the Reader 
 
 11 
 
 Ambition 
 
 12 
 
 In Oshorn Hall 
 
 
 I. Age 
 
 15 
 
 11. Youth 
 
 i6 
 
 Disillusion7nent 
 
 i8 
 
 Fatality 
 
 20 
 
 To Alumni Hall 
 
 22 
 
 Yale Station 
 
 24 
 
 Lines on the Destruction of an Elm 
 
 26 
 
 Jazz 
 
 28 
 
 The Wooden Spoon Prom 
 
 30 
 
 Penelope 
 
 32 
 
 After Herrick 
 
 34 
 
 Christmas Vacation 
 
 35 
 
 The Bluffer 
 
 37 
 
 General Information 
 
 39 
 
 Ignis Fatuus 
 
 42 
 
 In Absentia 
 
 44 
 
 The Lecture 
 
 46 
 
 The Match 
 
 48 
 
 The Insomniac 
 
 50 
 
 Ode on the Intimations of an Unexpected 
 
 
 Cut 
 
 54 
 
 To a Freshman 
 
 58 
 
Admonition 
 
 60 
 
 To a Senior 
 
 63 
 
 In Vacation 
 
 
 Poplars 
 
 71 
 
 Recompense 
 
 73 
 
 The Wife 
 
 75 
 
 Three Friends 
 
 78 
 
 The High Hills of Moab 
 
 80 
 
 Damascus 
 
 82 
 
 The Ending 
 
 84 
 
loOME of the poems in this little 
 volume have previously appeared in 
 ''Lyra Yalensis^'' the edition of which 
 is exhausted. A few have been printed 
 in ''Sea Moods^' the first edition of 
 which is not exhausted^ though the pub- 
 lisher' s patience is. I desire to thank 
 "Asia,'' "The Independent," "The Ox- 
 ford Magazine," the "Yale Alumni 
 Weekly" and the "Yale Review" for 
 permission to reprint certain of these 
 verses; but I wish to thank much more 
 heartily any one who cares to read them. 
 
 E.B.R. 
 
Preface 
 
 "Dulce est" — (elide one "e" ; 'twill scan) — 
 Desipere." Those words are true. 
 
 Horace is right ; it's good for man 
 To take time off and not get blue. 
 
 I cannot judge that person sane 
 Who seems to be afraid to smile. 
 
 It's wise at times to be inane, 
 
 To read books that are not worth while.* 
 
 We hear too much to make us wise, 
 We bolt it all — the wheat, the chaff. 
 
 We'd see more if we closed our eyes. 
 We'd learn more if we learned to laugh. 
 
 Then, Melancholy, you're not wanted; 
 
 Nor Wisdom, with her foolish frippery. 
 Black Care, home to your cave ghost-haunted ! 
 
 Here for brief moments we'll desipere. 
 
 * This is one. Authors Note. 
 
To the Reader 
 
 In a fine poem, Herrick said 
 
 When he would have his verses read. 
 
 He laid down the specific times 
 
 For men to seek his lyric rhymes. 
 
 Though I'm not quite so good as he, 
 
 My readers have more liberty. 
 
 No rules I'll place (for who would heed 
 
 them), 
 About these pages — only read them 
 At noon or night, in sun or rain, 
 In easy chair or on the train, 
 For every reader is my gain. 
 Yet to one evil I'm averse ; 
 Avoid it, and my poet's curse. 
 When you have glanced these verses through, 
 Refrain from what so many do — 
 Never, my reader, never lend them ; 
 Much better in the flames to send them, 
 For if you loan this book, I guess 
 The publishers will sell one less. 
 So now I speak in awful tones 
 The poet's curse that chills the bones : 
 Long may that man in darkness smother 
 Who lends these verses to another. 
 
 11 
 
Ambition 
 
 I delight in Harkness tower 
 With its beauty, new each hour, 
 When the dark-blue rain clouds lower 
 
 O'er its head ; 
 When the moonlight plays around it, 
 When the dazzling sunbeams crowned it, 
 Yes, a thing of joy I've found it 
 
 (As I've said.) 
 
 But I cannot help from thinking 
 Of one flaw — no use of blinking: 
 All those statues that are linking 
 
 Up the past 
 With our day, seem calling to us : 
 "You've no room here. Simply view us. 
 You'll be famous only through us" — 
 
 I'm aghast ! 
 
 Every tower place is taken, 
 All self-confidence is shaken 
 When we know we'll never waken 
 
 In a niche. 
 Does it mean that we are fated, 
 For oblivion all slated. 
 That our star-hitched Ford has skated 
 
 Down a ditch? 
 
 12 
 
Surely I've no wish to grumble 
 Yet no man is quite so humble 
 But he hopes some wall may crumble 
 
 And he'll rise. 
 Each one has an inclination 
 To climb out of his low station 
 To a fairer elevation 
 
 Near the skies. 
 
 Let me say in the beginning 
 We have little hope of winning 
 Some new form of cotton-ginning, 
 
 Lest you laugh. 
 And we know that it of course is 
 Quite absurd to think we've forces 
 That will equal Samuel Morse's 
 
 Telegraph. 
 
 It would be a work of super- 
 
 Erogation to think Cooper 
 
 We might rival — we can't dupe her, 
 
 Clear-eyed Fame. 
 And we have no mean ambition 
 To steal Calhoun's high position. 
 And to Webster's erudition 
 
 We've no claim. 
 
 13 
 
But on Harkness they've put creatures, 
 Some of them with women's features, 
 Moral, allegoric teachers. 
 
 Faith and Hope, 
 Science, Justice, always weighing. 
 On that tower forever staying. 
 Is that right? (You should be saying 
 
 Loudly, "Nope!") 
 
 Build a tower with empty places. 
 And we'll try to break our traces. 
 And we'll rush like one who races 
 
 Down a slant, 
 And we'll vow : "Soon with a grand air 
 Looking nobly o'er this land where 
 Once we lived, we too shall stand there.' 
 
 (But we shan't.) 
 
 H 
 
/;? Osborn Hall 
 
 I. AGE 
 
 I watch you to-day at the end of your row 
 (You came early to class once again), 
 
 By the way you are looking me over, I know 
 That we puzzle each other ; it's plain. 
 
 Your tastes, be it movies or books, I observe 
 Is Boeotian — that's primitive, rude — 
 
 And your judgment of things lacks all depth 
 that age brings ; 
 In a word, I might say you are crude. 
 
 When I see you stand there wildly pawing the 
 air 
 (Metaphorically), seeking a thought, 
 Do you never suspect it's not hard to detect 
 That you're bluffing — like others I've 
 taught *? 
 
 I know that you feel all my work is unreal. 
 And that books, when you live, are but 
 tame ; 
 That I'm stuck in the past while your life 
 moves on fast 
 With the thrill of a sharply fought game. 
 
 15 
 
You can't comprehend how my time I can 
 spend 
 
 In teaching what others have said ; 
 You think I'm benighted to get so excited 
 
 O'er Chaucer. Why bother^ He's dead» 
 
 But of course we're well-bred so we never 
 have said 
 What we think of each other. Alas ! 
 Still we know, you and I, that between us 
 must lie 
 A chasm that neither can pass. 
 
 Yet the gulf that would sever us both, it 
 may be, 
 
 Is not deep, as appears at first view. 
 For certainly you are as funny to me, 
 
 As I must seem funny to you. 
 
 11. YOUTH 
 
 In old days they say that Plato 
 Taught in quiet groves where all 
 
 Heard him question and debate. O 
 What a change from Osborn Hall. 
 
 16 
 
Hear the trolley wheels loud creaking, 
 
 Listen to that deafening bell ! 
 (That's not the Professor speaking; 
 
 Merely some young newsboy's yell.) 
 
 (Men on the front row reclining 
 Have not caught a word to-day, 
 
 Yet his forehead's moist and shining. 
 Sure he's working for his pay.) 
 
 That's a regimental band or 
 
 Minstrel show — they drum too much. 
 (He is lecturing on Landor, 
 
 And his quiet, classic touch.) 
 
 (Is that poetry he's reading?) 
 Siren screams a sounding shriek! 
 
 That's the fire-chief, and he's speeding. 
 One more fire sale this week. 
 
 On the Taft Hotel they're banging; 
 
 With a most infernal sound 
 Ring the iron girders, clanging 
 
 As they dump them on the ground. 
 
 Whistles blowing, tires bursting, 
 
 — Pandemonium's begun — 
 Soothe the mind for culture thirsting. 
 
 (What ? — he's gone ? — The lecture's done !) 
 
 17 
 
Disillusionment 
 
 I met him last vacation down in Maine, 
 A self-made man, a multi-millionaire. 
 Hearing I taught at Yale, he made it plain 
 He wished to know me ; hoped that I would 
 share 
 His speedy yacht with him. With friendly 
 
 mien 
 He gave me cushioned seat in limousine. 
 
 Quite free with his cigars (they were the 
 best) 
 He oft entreated me to set him right. 
 "Tell me what I must read," he plead with 
 zest, 
 "Just put me wise and I'll sit up all night. 
 Come, tip me off. What books should I enjoy? 
 Would you just coach me*?" Would I? 
 'Ataboy ! 
 
 There, while the fragrant smoke about him 
 curled, 
 I opened for him regions unexplored. 
 Told him of books that shaped our little 
 world ; 
 Eyes shut, he listened, silent, never bored, 
 
 18 
 
And when I ended, thinking 'twas enough. 
 He started up, "Don't stop, Prof, you're hot 
 
 stuff I" 
 
 Scarce had term opened when he wrote to me 
 
 (Cigars, I add, accompanied the letter). 
 He said he'd done the books and wished to see 
 
 Another list, the longer one, the better. 
 Let Sophomores yawn and sadly eye their 
 
 wrist 
 Watches. Here's one who knows what he has 
 missed. 
 
 To-day I found a letter in my box. 
 
 It bore his mark. How eagerly he sought 
 Wisdom. Yet on the Campus there are flocks 
 
 Of students fighting hard lest they be 
 taught. 
 I knew his old request — 'Twas not the same ! 
 He wished ten tickets for the Harvard game. 
 
 19 
 
Fatality 
 
 {Written on Seeing the new Fire Escapes of 
 Durfee Hall.) 
 
 Whene'er I walk the campus round 
 
 How much that's poor I see ; 
 What buildings desecrate the ground — 
 
 No plan, no symmetry — 
 And now it's worse ! A poet's curse 
 
 On those who spoiled Durfee. 
 
 All down its back, broad stairs of black, 
 
 Verandahs at each turn; 
 Why, in my time, we all could climb 
 
 Without the least concern 
 A simple ladder's iron rungs. 
 
 Such childish steps we'd spurn. 
 
 Can it be true the check I drew 
 
 For the Alumni Fund 
 Will help to pay for this display 
 
 Of ugliness ? I'm stunned. 
 My college pride, I fear, has died; 
 
 At least, it's moribund. 
 
 20 
 
Yet over there the Harkness square 
 Reveals new charm each day, 
 
 And beauty's power in Wrexham tower 
 Would make a pagan pray. 
 
 Then why must we deface Durfee*? 
 Because — it's just our way. 
 
 21 
 
T^o AlumjiiHall 
 
 Where once we rushed, like cattle sent 
 To slaughter, where the brave and good 
 
 Flunked, 'neath the massive battlement 
 Of painted wood. 
 
 Where Banjo Clubs would jog a rhythm 
 To make the very floors unstable; 
 
 Where Richards taught the logarithm, 
 From four place table. 
 
 Where once the Junior danced the German, 
 Or told the chaperon tales that shocked her. 
 
 As she sat yawning in her ermine. 
 Bored as a proctor. 
 
 Where each Commencement grads assembled 
 To hear the reverberate platitude. 
 
 And at the stalest jests dissembled 
 Great gratitude. 
 
 Alas, it goes ! though o'er it glory 
 
 Floats with the flag ; and yet, I grant it, 
 
 Better will be Wright dormitory 
 That shall supplant it. 
 
 22 
 
Where safely sheltered from the road or 
 Gay York Street, Freshmen at their will 
 
 May sniff up sanctity's fine odor 
 From Dwight Hall grill. 
 
 23 
 
Tale Station 
 
 He dodged a trolley, nearly tripping 
 
 In speeding past a crazy Ford. 
 No chance for him, had he been slipping; 
 
 He stands here, disappointed, bored. 
 
 Watching the clerks the mail distribute, 
 
 Idly he leans against the wall. 
 To this such frantic haste attribute : 
 
 He sought a letter — that was all. 
 
 I find my box and I'm despairing. 
 
 No luck. Here's mail that must be read. 
 "Committee meeting" — futile, wearing ; 
 
 "Five lectures" — why, they'll talk us dead. 
 
 "Will you subscribe?" — where's the waste 
 basket % 
 
 What next ; a fortune offered here ! 
 "We'll send the oil stocks if you ask it." 
 
 We're not such fools as we appear. 
 
 "A friend and I have made a wager. 
 
 Is it correct — " who cares, who knows*? 
 Why should I turn a single page, or 
 
 Work for a bet ? Bang ! there that goes. 
 
 24 
 
One letter more, just wait a minute; 
 
 Not possible ! It is, alack ! ! 
 My manuscript — with genius in it — 
 
 The editor has sent it back. 
 
 Still for his mail the student stays here. 
 
 I'll put — you could not do it better — 
 Two ages in a single phrase here : 
 
 "Youth seeks and Age avoids — the letter.' 
 
 25 
 
Lines on the Destruction of an 
 Elm 
 
 Lines written December 2, IQ12, on the destruction 
 of the elm long standing on the corner of Col- 
 lege and Chapel Streets. 
 
 Thy rugged form, thy proud, substantial 
 girth, 
 Thy branches — arms outstretched to greet 
 the sky, 
 Thy stubborn roots, entwisted deep in earth, 
 Could not avail. The sentinel must die. 
 
 In happier days, ere man defaced its realm, 
 It heard from hall and fence the college 
 glees ; 
 And when the moonlight touched it, this old 
 elm 
 Shook, like a child, for joy at every breeze. 
 
 Ah I heavy change I the gloomy, great white 
 way; 
 The Taft, that hides, unshamed, the sun- 
 set's glow ; 
 Osborn, where, mid the din. Professors pray 
 Their shrieks may carry far as the front 
 row. 
 
 26 
 
Osborn, that weird, fantastic dream in stone, 
 Perched like a squatting toad with open lip ; 
 
 Or like a ferry-boat — banged, battered, blown, 
 Bumping a blunted nose into the slip. 
 
 The Taft, that strange, uncouth, smoke- 
 clouded shape, 
 Dwarfing the college halls in senseless 
 pride; 
 Can brick and limestone set the crowd agape. 
 When all must see there is another side? 
 
 Hail and farewell, old friend ; 'tis thy last 
 Fall, 
 Take thy last cut ! Woodman, spare not this 
 tree. 
 Fated to watch the Taft and Osborn Hall, 
 Death is release — 'tis better not to be. 
 
 27 
 
Jazz 
 
 Thomas, it's very good in you 
 
 To ask me to your room. You knew 
 
 That I like music. Heaven preserve me 
 
 From screeching jazz, more will unnerve me. 
 
 From every open window here 
 
 Just jangling jazz jars jaded ear. 
 
 Fd kill it all ! ! You look perplexed. 
 
 You've brought me to hear jazz*? What next! 
 
 O, never mind. Get on; go to it. 
 
 But hear first how we used to do it. 
 
 I had this room once. 'Twas a treat, 
 Stretched on this Durfee window seat, 
 Down by that fence to hear them sing, 
 In the warm, starry nights of Spring. 
 The Glee Club gave us a rehearsal; 
 From windows came a universal 
 "More music." After every song 
 Each room applauded loud and long. 
 Why, I can almost hear again 
 The ocean bass of Noah Swayne. 
 When Runyon sang "Antigone" 
 'Twas wit — not jazz vulgarity. 
 We made our songs — but yours are gotten 
 From Broadway shows, and, Tom, they're 
 rotten. 
 
 28 
 
Thomas, you listen, meek and docile; 
 Deep in your heart you say "Old fossil." 
 But, Thomas, do not think I scold 
 Merely because I'm getting old. 
 Of course things change. What need to rave 
 
 or 
 Grieve for the past, and yet a flavor 
 That made this place once great, seems lack- 
 ing- 
 New York again ^ Keep right on packing — 
 And college songs — half dreams, half fun, 
 I hear no more ; their day is done, 
 And youths to midnight frolics run. 
 
 Well, Tom — he's gone! The movies claim 
 
 him. 
 He's been but once to-day; don't blame him. 
 
 29 
 
'The Wooden Spoon Prom 
 
 "On Wednesday evening, June iQth, Helms- 
 miillers Band, under the auspices of the Spoon 
 Committee, gave the usual Promenade Concert 
 at Music Hall. The attendance was larger than 
 it has been for many years. The hall had been 
 decorated with taste and elegance. The music 
 was bewitching, the ladies divine, 'and all went 
 merry as a marriage bell.' " Yale Literary Maga- 
 zine, July, 1865. 
 
 Up two narrow flights I have hastened 
 
 And here in the gallery row, 
 Dejected in spirit and chastened, 
 
 I gaze on the beauty below. 
 With flags for the war that has ended, 
 
 With bunting and wreaths, Music Hall 
 Is a vision entrancing and splendid — 
 
 I'm alone at the Wooden Spoon Ball. 
 
 First the concert; it's hard to live through it, 
 
 All the music they play is a bore. 
 What soul in the crowd listens to it*? 
 
 Not the guests promenading the floor. 
 I've heard William Tell till I'm weary; 
 
 Donizetti is trash; Meyerbeer 
 With his Huguenots simply is dreary ; 
 
 Were it Lohengrin — hush! She is here. 
 
 30 
 
White hoop-skirt, pink sash at her shoulder, 
 
 Pink rose at her breast, in her hair 
 With its dark Grecian curls — to behold her 
 
 I lean o'er the railing and stare. 
 Perhaps it's the heat makes me flighty — 
 
 As I look at her surely I see 
 Trojan Helen, divine Aphrodite, 
 
 Or the Empress of France, Eugenie. 
 
 She moves like a queen through the dancers, 
 
 Like a wave of the sea, never still. 
 Was there ever such grace in the lancers, 
 
 In the redowa, schottische, quadrille^ 
 The last time we met, I remember. 
 
 She was distant and cold as the moon ; 
 She froze me like ice, last December — 
 
 She sees me — she bows — this is June I 
 
 Fm down on the floor in a minute; 
 
 (The best waltz of Helmsmiiller's band) 
 "My dance. We lose time; let's begin it." 
 
 She smiles and she gives me her hand. 
 To-morrow she'll beam upon Harry, 
 
 Next week she'll be flirting with Tom, 
 And it's Jack that she'll probably marry — 
 
 Still, we'll dance at the Wooden Spoon 
 Prom. 
 
 31 
 
Penelope 
 
 Penelope, Penelope, 
 
 She sat in silence by the sea. 
 
 Far out she gazed with eager eye. 
 
 Naught but the gulls could she descry; 
 
 And her Odysseus, where was he? 
 
 Penelope, Penelope. 
 
 Penelope, Penelope, 
 
 Is this the end of constancy 
 
 Such as the world has never known, 
 
 Here by the sea to watch alone*? 
 
 And her Odysseus, where was he? 
 
 Penelope, Penelope. 
 
 "Ye gulls, as o'er the waves you flew, 
 Saw you Odysseus and his crew? 
 O clouds, O winds, O dancing foam, 
 Tell if his prow be pointed home." 
 No answer came, alas, to thee, 
 Penelope, Penelope. 
 
 Penelope, Penelope, 
 
 She sank into a reverie : 
 
 Odysseus seemed to tread the shore. 
 
 She heard his thrilling voice once more — 
 
 Who calls? who speaks? Can that be Death? 
 
 Nay, 'tis her maid all out of breath. 
 
 32 
 
"Please, Ma'am, will you come home with 
 
 me? 
 There's fifty suitors come to tea. 
 The cook has left, there ain't no meat, 
 There's nothing in the house to eat. 
 I'm overworked and underpaid. 
 You've got to get another maid !" 
 
 One long, last look out o'er the sea. 
 Then home she skipped, Penelope. 
 
 33 
 
After Her rick 
 
 (At some distance?) 
 
 Gather ye rosebugs while ye may 
 
 For they are still a-flying ; 
 And this same flower that smiles to-day 
 
 To-morrow may be dying. 
 
 The glorious vamp of heaven, the sun, 
 
 The higher it's a-getting 
 The more the rosebugs, one by one, 
 
 Their appetites are whetting. 
 
 That way is best that kills the first; 
 
 As days are getting warmer 
 They come in swarms, and worse, and worst 
 
 Will still succeed the former. 
 
 Then be not coy, but use your time; 
 
 Kill while you may — don't tarry, 
 Or else your roses, e'er their prime. 
 
 Will look like the old Harry. 
 
 34 
 
Christmas Vacation 
 
 Loud shouts are echoing up the stair; 
 
 Trunk-laden porters grunt and slip; 
 The janitors, with eager air, 
 
 Await the tip. 
 
 Long lines of sputtering taxis rush, 
 Filled to the brim to cut the fare, 
 
 Spattering the passer-by with slush 
 As on they tear. 
 
 All is confusion, clatter, din ; 
 
 Endure it, for the shouting dies. 
 And soon, like some deserted inn. 
 
 The campus lies. 
 
 From darkened halls no warm lights glow, 
 'Tis quiet as the sleeping sea. 
 
 "It must be pretty lonely." "No, 
 This just suits me." 
 
 No visitor to ask his mark; 
 
 No themeless themes to split the head ; 
 No poems, where there glows no spark, 
 
 Need now be read. 
 
 35 
 
No living by the chapel chime ; 
 
 What matter if I should be late^ 
 What luxury to know the time 
 
 Yet sleep till eight. 
 
 Now we may loiter o'er the meal, 
 (Mostly like hunted deer we feed) 
 
 And talk with friends, and best — may feel 
 We've time to read. 
 
 O pious founders, build anew; 
 
 Endow us with investments prudent 
 And see what faculties could do, — 
 
 Without one student. 
 
 36 
 
"The Bluffer 
 
 A COLLEGE LEGEND 
 
 "Don't work," the bluffer said, "it doesn't 
 
 pay; 
 In textbooks never once have I invested, 
 But when Professors speak, in every way 
 I try to show I'm deeply interested. 
 Look bright ; take notes ; be cheerful — never 
 
 scowl ; 
 Seem wise ; imagine you're Minerva's owl." 
 
 Sometimes when the Professor tried a joke 
 At which the class would hardly deign to 
 
 smile, 
 A jest (B. C.) that some poor half-wit spoke 
 In Nineveh or Thebes (upon the Nile), 
 Or labored, pointless pun not worth a straw, 
 You heard the bluffer's echoing guffaw. 
 
 He hung on every word as if entranced, 
 And questions after class he always had ; 
 From the instructor's face he never glanced 
 At Yale News, neatly folded on his pad. 
 When the clock struck and men leaped eager- 
 eyed 
 Doorward, he sat as loath to leave, and sighed. 
 
 37 
 
Judging 'twas time to see how matters lay, 
 He neared the desk. Then, with a friendly 
 
 smirk : 
 "This course is simply great ! Oh, by the way, 
 What is my stand ^ I hope it shows my work. 
 Really, I study hard enough to sap a 
 Prize fighter — but I want Phi Beta Kappa." 
 
 A weary smile crossed the Professor's face: 
 "We differentiate a flunk and bluffing. 
 When a man bluffs, a minus mark we place 
 Against his name. That knocks the very 
 
 stuffing 
 Out of his stand. Your mark? Shades of 
 
 Gervinus ! 
 (A German scholar) — you are eighty — 
 
 As an exhausted swimmer grasps a rope. 
 The bluffer clutched the desk, and changed 
 
 his tune: 
 Pleading he said : "I have a chance, I hope, 
 If I work like a dog from now till June — 
 (He stuck his chest out, every inch a hero) — 
 Give me a chance to raise that stand to zero !" 
 
 38 
 
General Information 
 
 for that warning voice, which he who saw 
 The Apocalypse heard cry in Heaven aloud. 
 Then when the Dragon, put to second rout. 
 Came furious down to be revenged on men, 
 Woe to the inhabitants on Earth! 
 
 Book IV, lines i-v. 
 
 These lines, as you may well surmise, 
 Are from a famous poem built on 
 Heroic plan, from "Paradise 
 Lost," epic written by John Milton. 
 
 Our text the hard parts would explain ; 
 For this, no single clue it gave them. 
 Here was a chance to try again 
 Could "general information" save them. 
 
 My moving finger wrote, with chalk, 
 (Their dull, dead stupor, who could draw it? 
 Seeing their hopes cut at the stalk) 
 "What was th' Apocalypse? Who saw it?" 
 
 They shook their heads in mute despair. 
 Amid the silence, I felt creeping. 
 Converging on my desk and chair, 
 Curses from anguished minds outseeping. 
 
 39 
 
That done, and with their minds relieved, 
 Each one his pencil slowly nibbled. 
 Then, like some criminal reprieved. 
 They all impetuously scribbled. 
 
 I took their papers; off I sped; 
 I barred my door so oft invaded. 
 You know each answer must be read 
 And, worse than that, it must be graded. 
 
 I read : "Th' Apocalypse you'll view 
 
 In heaven. They're stars ; I've never seen 
 
 them." 
 "The Testaments, one old, one new. 
 Hold the Apocalypse between them." 
 
 "Th' Apocalypse, — a monster feared. 
 But killed by Jason, classics tell us." 
 "It was a famous temple, reared 
 Upon a cliff in Athens, Hellas." 
 
 And written by a plodding lad 
 Who had not wit — his forte was bathos : 
 "A wild, weird dream St. Patrick had 
 When captured on the isle of Pathos!" 
 
 40 
 
Reader, with care this work I've done, 
 Their answers you have read verbatim; 
 Call at my office — twelve to one — 
 Their manuscripts, you can collate 'em. 
 
 I read no more on couch reclined, 
 I'd seen enough to feel omniscient, 
 For of the Sophomoric mind 
 This Revelation was sufficient. 
 
 41 
 
Ignis Fatuus 
 
 All through the college year a light is glow- 
 ing, 
 
 A hope that we may rise to heights sublime, 
 Shining before the world, our genius showing. 
 
 By work that we shall do in summer time. 
 
 O bitter jest of "Academic leisure"! 
 
 (Pronounce that "e" short) as we're rushed 
 and driven, 
 Still in our hearts a sacred hope we treasure: 
 
 In summer, in vacation we'll be given 
 
 Time to put down the thoughts we long to 
 utter, 
 To write the play, to build the lofty rhyme, 
 In fact, to show we're worth our bread and 
 butter — 
 A chance to work! 'Twill come in summer 
 time. 
 
 The term has ended ; off on our vacation 
 We find the first weeks that we need a 
 rest. 
 
 To try to work would be exasperation, 
 Man only soars when he is at his best. 
 
 42 
 
We had not dreamed that we were so depleted, 
 Though college terms are one continued 
 strain ; 
 
 At last we're ready, at our desk we're seated — 
 Too late ! Next week the term begins again ! 
 
 Unconquered, every year that dream comes to 
 us — 
 
 And every year it is not worth a dime — 
 And still that old ambition surges through us, 
 
 Of work we'll surely do in summer time. 
 
 When I retire upon a modest pension, 
 I'll seek some inexpensive, tropic isle, 
 
 (Not the South Seas — a place with more con- 
 vention) 
 Some spot where it is summer all the while. 
 
 I'll have no callers — there's the sea about it — 
 My life no more is set to Battell's chime. 
 
 Perhaps I can begin then — but I doubt it — 
 That work I meant to do in summer time. 
 
 43 
 
In Absentia 
 
 I say to you I hold it true 
 
 As axiom mathematical, 
 That he is blest above the rest 
 
 Who's off on his sabbatical. 
 
 He can explore each foreign shore 
 
 In manner autocratical ; 
 In Greece he dreams — (and we read themes !) 
 
 The man on his sabbatical. 
 
 He sings a paean o'er Bodleian, 
 
 In knowledge grows piratical. 
 We wear our mind on bluff and grind, 
 
 While he's on his sabbatical. 
 
 We toil each night; he can delight 
 
 In pleasures operatical, 
 Sleep late next day — and merely say: 
 
 "Why, I'm on my sabbatical." 
 
 No telephone can make him groan 
 
 By constant ring emphatical. 
 Beyond the pale of dunning mail, 
 
 The man on his sabbatical. 
 
 44 
 
When longed-for Spring but comes to brin^ 
 
 A laziness climatical, 
 He need harass no sleepy class, 
 
 The man on his sabbatical. 
 
 Millennium would surely come 
 And life would grow ecstatical, 
 
 Could we teach here the even year, 
 The odd one, take sabbatical ! 
 
 45 
 
T^he Lecture 
 
 College de France, a dingy room; 
 
 Bent o'er the desk, he turns his pages 
 Droning a lecture in the gloom 
 
 On "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 
 
 Outside, the world in May attire 
 
 Would make the dullest, calmest sages 
 
 Throw all their books into the fire — 
 Here's "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 
 
 First, he will take a "rapid view" ; 
 
 He ambles on in lengthy stages. 
 I might be walking at St. Cloud, 
 
 But — "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 
 
 To-night the woods of Fontainebleau — 
 Another theme his mind engages. 
 
 Another point we all must know 
 Of "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 
 
 Out in the street I hear a song; 
 
 We sit mute, captive birds in cages. 
 Our life is short, the lecture's long. 
 
 O "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 
 
 46 
 
Without, the sky with stars is sown. 
 
 Wisdom, is this your gift, your wages I 
 Poor man — his world a stick, a stone, 
 
 That's "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 
 
 Long years of study — this is all. 
 
 Anger, revolt within me rages. 
 "Le cinquieme point" — I leave the hall. 
 
 He died, lost in the Middle Ages. 
 
 47 
 
I^he Match 
 
 (Not after Swinburne.) 
 
 "Matches shall not be brought to the Library.^ 
 Bodleian Library Staff-Kalendar, 1Q12, p. 50. 
 
 One fatal day I wound my way 
 
 Up Bodley's steep ascent; 
 My shoulders showed the scholar's stoop, 
 
 Even my mind was bent 
 (On books) — I was no undergrad — 
 
 I knew what study meant. 
 
 As on I sped with decorous tread 
 
 Rare manuscripts to scan, 
 I drew a note from out my coat 
 
 And a match fell down ! What man 
 Confronts me there with fearful glare *? 
 
 'Tis the Librarian ! ! ! 
 
 My blood congealed, my senses reeled, 
 
 For the stern rule I'd read ; 
 I thought that every hair must rise 
 
 In terror on my head ; 
 Then I recalled I was quite bald 
 
 So I had a chill instead. 
 
 48 
 
There in the gloom I saw my doom — 
 
 Ejected by the staff! 
 I'd read no more on the upper floor 
 
 The German monograph; 
 For me no home 'neath Radcliffe's dome 
 
 I laughed a ghastly laugh. 
 
 'T swear 'tis true, I never knew 
 I owned that match." He sighed. 
 
 "Some knave, I wot, devised this plot 
 To ruin me." I cried. 
 
 "I never smoke" — no more I spoke, 
 For I saw he knew I lied. 
 
 He bent him down beneath his gown ; 
 
 Now my last hope was dead. 
 My sight grew dim as I gazed on him 
 
 Thrilled with a nameless dread. 
 I saw him snatch the accursed match — 
 
 'Tzuas a match without a head! 
 
 49 
 
The Insomniac 
 
 A NARRATIVE POEM IN TWO 
 CANTOS 
 
 Canto I 
 
 He could not sleep ! 'Twas undeserved. 
 
 Sleepless he watched the morning break, 
 Then went, all wearied and unnerved, 
 
 To keep an early class awake. 
 
 Life's tragic chance — Fate's bitter jest, 
 That he whose voice taught eyes to close 
 
 Should be deprived the gift of rest. 
 Yes, even one half-hour's doze. 
 
 Said he, "I teach at eight and two. 
 
 They're sleepiest just after lunch. 
 I shout until my face is blue, 
 
 I use up all my pep and punch. 
 
 "So when night comes, my wearied brain 
 Keeps plodding on, too tired to stop ; 
 
 Another week, I'll go insane. 
 I'm dying, like a tree, on top." 
 
 50 
 
I asked: "Do you to church resort^ 
 A sermon may invite to slumber ; 
 
 An educational report 
 
 Is very apt to get your number. 
 
 "The cure may seem worse than the ill, 
 
 Yet since your desperate case we're treating, 
 
 I think more soporific still 
 
 Would be the drawn-out fac'lty meeting." 
 
 "I've tried them all," he sadly said, 
 
 "I've plunged through many a German 
 thesis 
 
 To find, when I had gone to bed, 
 My old insomnia increases. 
 
 "I'll take to drugs!" "Stop that!" I cried, 
 "I'll make you slumber long and late." 
 
 I knew the cure he should have tried, 
 I sought an undergraduate. 
 
 51 
 
Canto II 
 
 "I know Professor X*? Some kid! 
 
 I took his course," he said. "And why*? 
 A chance to sleep — the whole class did ; 
 
 You know he's called the Tsetse Fly. 
 
 "If you should ever feel all in, 
 
 Attend his lecture — that's my hunch. 
 
 Not eight o'clock — that hour's a sin ; 
 Besides, he's sleepiest after lunch." 
 
 I hired then a good stenog- 
 
 Rapher each sleep-fraught word to take, 
 And lest his brain should slip a cog, 
 
 With coffee drugged him wide awake. 
 
 At five I had the lecture all 
 
 Typewritten. Then I sought his wife 
 And in a brief, five-minute call 
 
 I taught her how to save his life. 
 
 That evening when the clock struck ten 
 He paced his study, haggard, cowed. 
 
 Enter the wife ; he stopped ; she then 
 Suggested that she read aloud. 
 
 "Sit down," she bade, "and close your eyes; 
 
 I've found a paper you must hear." 
 She read, and to her glad surprise 
 
 A heavy breathing struck her ear. 
 
 52 
 
She yawned herself. The fire bells pealed; 
 
 Jangled the angry telephone ; 
 It thundered loud. Lightning revealed 
 
 Him sleeping still as any stone. 
 
 She tiptoed to her room, while there 
 Completely cured (such was the power 
 
 Of his own lecture) in that chair 
 
 He slept straight till the breakfast hour. 
 
 To see ourselves as others do 
 
 (So R. B. said) from pride would clear us. 
 A better plan — and that's my view — 
 
 To hear ourselves as others hear us. 
 
 53 
 
Ode on the Intimations of an Un- 
 expected Cut 
 
 There was a time when campus, hall and 
 tower, 
 The grass — a most pathetic sight — 
 
 To me did seem 
 Apparell'd in celestial light 
 If the professor, lagging, missed the hour. 
 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
 For now, an item in the News will say : 
 
 "Professor X no lecture gives to-day." 
 Or on a blackboard, read by all who pass : 
 "Instructor Grindhard cannot meet his 
 class." 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; 
 List as I will, 
 All is too still. 
 The cheers which once I heard I hear no 
 more. 
 
 Ye happy students, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make; I see 
 In my mind's eye, your hoist' rous jubilee; 
 The fullness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 
 A lecture's but a sleep and a forgetting 
 When trailing clouds of pipe-smoke do ye 
 come; 
 
 54 
 
And too much learning works the mind's up- 
 setting 
 And leaves the spirit dumb. 
 Whither has fled the shout that pierced the 
 ear 
 When in life's daily rut 
 Came the unhoped-for cut *? 
 Where (don't ask me), where are the elms of 
 yester-year ? 
 
 Him, haply slumbering o'er a ponderous 
 tome 
 In Whitney Avenue home 
 The clock arouses with its warning note. 
 With pallid face he's out upon the street, 
 Through lips in anguish set, 
 Mutt'ring, "I'll fool them yet," 
 And wishing that the hour would come with 
 leaden feet. 
 He waits with melancholy 
 The fast approaching trolley, 
 But who his wild despair can ever guess 
 
 When he beholds — a Waterb'ry express ! 
 Now must he run, on past the tennis courts 
 Where careless youth disports. 
 Now scarce he sees 
 Fair Hillhouse Avenue as on he flees; 
 
 55 
 
He notes not how the elm-beetled trees high 
 
 over-arched embower, 
 He looks but at the clock on Sheffield tower, 
 And wishes that his legs, now wobbling, had 
 more power. 
 Yet on he rushes past the dining hall 
 
 Whence odors fierce appall ; 
 On through the street ycleped Grub 
 
 And in his speed displaces 
 The groups of bootblacks with their shin- 
 ing faces 
 (Ay, their's the rub). 
 What recks he though his shine be three days 
 old? 
 Nor does he even stop 
 To gaze in the Co-op 
 To find if one more textbook has been sold. 
 (Auri sacra fames, 
 O get-rich-quick disease.) 
 He does not stay to draw from his postbox 
 Those circulars of fortune-bringing stocks ; 
 But faint, and scant of breath, 
 O'er Elm Street, 'scaping death, 
 He leaps. Now from Durfee the way is clear. 
 Sudden the chimes ring out, the students 
 
 cheer — 
 He utters low a word unmeet for lady's ear! 
 
 56 
 
Battell's chimes toll the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd wind slowly off to tea, 
 
 Professors homeward plod their weary way 
 And leave Yale's world to Weiser and to 
 me. 
 
 Thanks to their thirty cuts, the students live 
 Through tests and questionings with bluffs 
 and fears. 
 To me an unexpected cut would give 
 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 
 jeers. 
 
 57 
 
T'o a Freshman 
 
 They tell me that you start for Yale to-night ; 
 
 I trust it may not dull anticipation 
 To hear from me some homely maxims, quite 
 
 Horatian. 
 
 At college there are men who seek "great 
 place" 
 (So Bacon calls it) with much noise and 
 riot. 
 Remember shouting never won a race — 
 Keep quiet. 
 
 Life is a crowded course, the track is long, 
 The runner who would win is always 
 ready ; 
 Throw not away your strength in wine and 
 song — 
 Keep steady. 
 
 You'll hear much worldly wisdom, simon- 
 pure. 
 Look at Truth's sunlight calmly, without 
 blinking ; 
 Remember half the sure things are not sure — 
 Keep thinking. 
 
 58 
 
The mind must move or else it turns to rust; 
 
 You blunt its edge when you descend to 
 shirking. 
 Test what you hear; take little upon trust — 
 
 Keep working. 
 
 It is no mark of greatness to complain, 
 And wit is far removed from mere reviling. 
 
 Remember laughter clears a clouded brain — 
 Keep smiling. 
 
 When failure seems the end of bold desire, 
 Sit not, like shivering Age, forever groping 
 
 Over the whitening ashes of the fire — 
 Keep hoping. 
 
 You may have watched a swimmer, far from 
 shore, 
 Sink in a wave whose foaming crest is 
 breaking. 
 You hear his last cry in the ocean's roar, 
 (Mistaking.) 
 
 The wave recedes, an arm gleams in the light, 
 He plunges on; life's cup seems overbrim- 
 ming. 
 
 So when a breaker buries you from sight — 
 Keep swimming. 
 
 59 
 
Admonition 
 
 Thomas, it's always been my rule 
 In the Memorial Vestibule 
 As I pass by on either side 
 The names of those who fought and died, 
 To doff my hat. I. see that you 
 Without that gesture hurry through. 
 Those names, unnoticed and unknown. 
 Are in your eyes just so much stone. 
 Thomas, I think if you but knew, 
 You'd quickly change that point of view. 
 
 Those names, engraven on that wall, 
 
 Were men in love with life, with all 
 
 That makes this place, that thrills you here. 
 
 How often have I joined the cheer 
 
 For one as down the track he sped. 
 
 For one who drove his shell ahead. 
 
 One, the true Falstaff, I still see 
 
 Shaking his sides with jollity. 
 
 The wide Bowl seemed a flower of blue 
 
 For one as he went dashing through 
 
 The opposing line. In college room 
 
 I've talked with them. The twilight gloom 
 
 Stole in unnoticed. Books and art. 
 
 And music — all life's better part — 
 
 How much they meant, how much to plan 
 
 60 
 
In the long years before each man. 
 Cloud castles gleamed with magic light; 
 We read and talked far into night. 
 
 Little those names to you can tell, 
 You only know they fought and fell. 
 They died on land, on sea, in air, 
 They went to meet Death everywhere ; 
 They led the charge ; they met the end 
 In lonely outpost, far from friend. 
 They died while sheltering their men, 
 They fell in flames, one fighting ten. . . 
 Perhaps it's best for you and me 
 We know not their nobility, 
 For if we did, we might despise 
 Ourselves, and all that we now prize. 
 
 If we forget what they have done, 
 Better for us oblivion. 
 Better each hall and tower were drowned, 
 Buried beneath the engulfing Sound. 
 And if within these walls such men 
 Shall never work and play again. 
 If there's among us none who see 
 The dreams of life, the mystery. 
 
 61 
 
Or feel at times great winds rush by- 
 Lifting the spirit to the sky, 
 Better all Yale were swept away 
 And where it stood, no man could say. 
 
 Thomas, it is not much to do — 
 I'd doff my cap, if I were you. 
 
 62 
 
T'o a Senior 
 
 I can't believe that your four years are end- 
 ing; 
 I've caught brief glimpses of you, and you 
 
 go. 
 "Time flies" — I'll say no more. What use of 
 spending 
 Last moments in dull platitudes all know. 
 
 Surely no barrier has been between us; 
 Our friendship will outlast your course, I 
 trust. 
 I hope you've found the Professorial genus 
 Not half bad, when you get beneath the 
 crust. 
 
 Now for good-bye, no lecture I am giving, 
 (Though old didactic habits are quite 
 strong) 
 But some stray hints upon the "Art of Liv- 
 ing," 
 As Fielding calls it — I shall not be long. 
 
 63 
 
You've shown yourself a man of some dis- 
 cerning. 
 Out in the rush of life you'll quickly find 
 It does not matter much what you've been 
 learning ; 
 Your fate hangs on the temper of your 
 mind. 
 
 And five years hence, you'll have small recol- 
 lection 
 Of all you studied, all you hurried through. 
 It matters not, if, in the right direction, 
 (And we have tried) we may have pointed 
 you. 
 
 We've shown you the world's best, in thought, 
 in action ; 
 To what far heights the soul of man can 
 mount. 
 Climb high yourself. There's little satisfaction 
 In summing life up by a bank account. 
 
 Keep some bright dream. Don't end up dull 
 and sodden. 
 (So many do.) Often a poet's line 
 Can lift you from the ruts of life, deep- 
 trodden. 
 And Beauty change the brute to the divine. 
 
 64 
 
Never come back fat, fatuous at forty, 
 
 Thinking Yale's life is measured by a 
 game; 
 With prosperous air, a cynic, somewhat sporty, 
 The old fire gone — not even a quivering 
 flame. 
 
 We'll never solve this crux of education. 
 One year we make — the next, destroy our 
 plan; 
 But if you've caught here Truth's high in- 
 spiration, 
 Think of us all as kindly as you can. 
 
 65 
 
IN VACATION 
 
In term time we must flippant be, 
 
 Lest, brain-struck, we should grow deliri- 
 ous. 
 Vacation brings tranquillity. 
 
 And, for whole weeks, we dare be serious. 
 
 Read but these verses, written then. 
 
 (They're simple sketches, quite informal) 
 Yet they may prove we're average men 
 
 And — out of classrooms — fairly normal. 
 
Poplars 
 
 The poplar is a lonely tree. 
 It has no branches spreading wide 
 Where birds may sing or squirrels hide. 
 It throws no shadows on the grass 
 Tempting the wayfarers who pass 
 To stop and sit there quietly. 
 
 The poplar sees each neighbor tree 
 Loved by the birds. The oriole 
 Swings from the elm its home ; the bole 
 Of that rough oak, above, around, 
 Hears the woodpecker's rapid sound 
 As on he works industriously. 
 
 The poplar is a slender tree. 
 
 It has no boughs where children try 
 
 To climb far off into the sky. 
 
 To hold a swing it's far too weak, 
 
 Too small it is for hide-and-seek. 
 
 Friendless, forsaken it must be. 
 
 71 
 
The poplar is a restless tree. 
 
 At every breeze its branches bend 
 
 And signal to the child, "Come, friend. 
 
 Its leaves forever whispering 
 
 To thrush and robin, "Stay and sing." 
 
 They pass. It quivers plaintively. 
 
 Poplars are lonely. They must grow- 
 Close to each other in a row. 
 
 New Haven. 
 
 72 
 
Recompense 
 
 Where the green fir-tips meet the sapphire sky 
 
 A gull, cloud-white, 
 Careless of earth, floats insolently by 
 
 In the warm light. 
 
 Still, imperturbable, it holds a course 
 
 To lands unknown, 
 And scornful of the south wind's gathering 
 force 
 
 It sails alone. 
 
 Seeing unmoved the noon's exultant glow, 
 
 The evening's grief. 
 The wind-swept waves that crumble into 
 snow 
 
 Upon the reef. 
 
 The ships becalmed or scudding for the shore 
 
 In wind and rain, 
 Alluring isles — all these it passes o'er 
 
 In calm disdain. 
 
 Deep in the woods, the sea left far behind, 
 
 I listen long. 
 Searching in ambush, yet in vain, to find 
 
 Who sings that song. 
 
 73 
 
I know those notes pure as the brooks that 
 gush 
 
 Down Alpine vale ; 
 Enchantress of the woods, the hermit-thrush, 
 
 Our nightingale. 
 
 Its world a forest bough ; here in the shade 
 
 It sings unseen 
 The magic songs a yearning lover made 
 
 To charm a queen. 
 
 The ocean-wandering gull from all his quest 
 
 Can nothing bring. 
 You have the world within your throbbing 
 breast, 
 
 For you can sing. 
 
 Maine. 
 
 74 
 
T'he Wife 
 
 The day was fair, the wind blew steadily. 
 We raised the sails and headed straight to 
 
 sea, 
 Gay fugitives from that mad prison pen 
 The City; the new Moloch to whom men 
 Offer themselves a living sacrifice. 
 We had escaped. Sudden before our eyes 
 Unrolled the wind-tossed carpet of the seas, 
 The radiant fields of heaven shone. At ease, 
 Sprawling upon the deck, we watched on high 
 The lazy clouds, outstripped as we sped by; 
 Laughed as the spray flew over us, and now 
 Heard the waves singing round our eager 
 
 prow. 
 Like drowsy children, careless and content. 
 We looked, but questioned not what all this 
 
 meant. 
 
 Rousing us from this happy lethargy, 
 Our artist called us to awake and see 
 The ocean shadows drifting clouds had made. 
 With half the waves in light, and half in 
 
 shade. 
 His pipe in hand, he praised the skill of one 
 Whose brush could catch the waters, hold the 
 
 sun, 
 
 75 
 
And fix the heavens in a gilded frame. 
 Our poet spoke of one, assured of fame, 
 Whose verse swayed with the rhythm of the 
 
 tide 
 And foam-peaked waves, and dipping gulls. 
 
 He tried 
 To sing the ballad he had lately made. 
 From that we talked of music ; how one played 
 Until it seemed Nature herself had lent 
 All earthly tones to his small instrument. 
 At length we felt our day was incomplete, 
 Old Adam rose within us — we must eat. 
 
 Hot from the cabin, eagerly we took 
 
 The feast prepared by our much lauded cook; 
 
 Well fed, untroubled, what more could life 
 
 give*? 
 "Brothers," said one, "this is the way to live, 
 Feasting on chowder, nature, verse, and art." 
 "Here," said the skipper, "hand me up that 
 
 chart. 
 That sky looks angry. Luckily we planned 
 To sail no further ; now we'll make for land." 
 We found upon the chart our little bay 
 And all the reefs that barred our vessel's way. 
 The wind blew sharply as we went about. 
 "There's nasty weather coming, it's no doubt." 
 
 76 
 
As we drew near the harbor a small boat 
 Came bounding towards us. In tarpaulin coat 
 A fisher, all alone, stood at the wheel. 
 "Look," cried our skipper, "how would you 
 
 folks feel 
 To be there sailing headed out to sea*? 
 And that's a woman ; she's the kind for me. 
 It's do or die, her children must be fed, 
 And she must find the food, her man half 
 
 dead. 
 In a rough sea like this, it takes a lot 
 Of strength to pull in just one lobster pot; 
 And then, to hold your boat in wind and rain. 
 That's the best woman on the coast of Maine." 
 And now her boat shot past us, and we all 
 Raised a loud cheer, but if she heard our call, 
 She never turned nor waved to us her hand. 
 Against the darkening sky we saw her stand, 
 Holding her course, drenched by the driving 
 
 spray. 
 We watched her till she faded far away. 
 Abashed we stood, we who had played with 
 
 life, 
 Awed by the sudden glimpse of that lone 
 
 wife; 
 Like guilty men who silently confess. 
 Stunned by the thought of our own littleness. 
 
 Maine. 
 
 1 77 
 
T'hree Friends 
 
 Fate and hard foes are prevailing'? 
 
 Friends leave you stricken'? The three, 
 When was their strength ever failing, 
 
 The cliif, and the wind, and the sea ! 
 
 Steep climbs the path — never shun it — 
 Up where the hidden larks sing; 
 
 There is rest on the cliff when you've won it. 
 In the grass that is fragrant with ling. 
 
 No cry from the gulls, dipping, calling; 
 
 No voice from the boats far below ; 
 No sound from the waves, leaping, falling, 
 
 To edge the sand crescent with snow. 
 
 Here stilled is the scourging emotion. 
 And hushed is the Memory's sigh 
 
 In the limitless peace of the ocean. 
 In the moors rolling up to the sky. 
 
 Comes the wind; with a shout he is chasing 
 The crested waves — faster he flies. 
 
 The fishing fleet homeward is racing. 
 Cloud galleons speed down the skies. 
 
 78 
 
Sheer the cliff ; but your dauntless desiring 
 Through the high gates of Heaven shall 
 climb. 
 
 Your spirit, keen, quenchless, untiring, 
 Shall pass the gray mere-stones of Time. 
 
 Strong the wind ; now the far sails are filling. 
 
 Outstripping each bark shall you go 
 Through fathomless seas where the thrilling 
 
 Swift wind of the spirit shall blow. 
 
 The baffled waves, ceaselessly ranging, 
 Must find at the cliff their far goal ; 
 
 More resistless, onrushing, unchanging, 
 Sweep the measureless tides of the soul. 
 
 Man, are strong foes pressing near you"? 
 
 Seek out your friends — they are three. 
 Are they not waiting to cheer you, 
 
 The cliff, and the wind, and the sea ! 
 
 Sidmouth, Devon. 
 
 79 
 
•The High Hills of Moab 
 
 Over the deep valley where clings Siloam 
 
 town, 
 Eastward I'm gazing, dreaming, for Olivet 
 
 drops down 
 And there beyond the Dead Sea, clear wrought 
 
 against the sky, 
 A strange land of wonder, the Hills of Moab 
 
 lie. 
 
 From those bleak uplands to Bethlehem's 
 hillside green 
 
 Came Ruth broken-hearted in strange fields 
 to glean. 
 
 There John lay murdered for a Queen's de- 
 sire — 
 
 The sunset glow on Moab is a smouldering 
 fire. 
 
 When from her deserts Queen Cleopatra came 
 Luring proud Herod with her eyes of flame, 
 Silent she saw those hills of Moab stand 
 Like a dream, when the moonlight flooded all 
 the land. 
 
 80 
 
What should I find there if I scaled their 
 
 steep, 
 Black tents of Kedar and pastures for sheep, 
 Oleanders blooming by the swift running 
 
 stream *? 
 The far hills of Moab in the twilight gleam. 
 
 Homing rooks circle round their nests in the 
 
 wall. 
 Cool grow the wheat fields as the long 
 
 shadows fall ; 
 The day's work is ended, and yet I stand and 
 
 stare 
 At the high hills of Moab and wonder what 
 
 lies there. 
 
 Jerusalem. 
 
 8i 
 
Damascus 
 
 As I rode to Damascus, 
 
 Camels went lumbering by 
 With jangling bells and blue beads 
 
 To charm the evil eye. 
 With cloths and silks o'erburdened, 
 
 Swaying like ships at sea, 
 They plodded down the white road 
 
 That winds to Galilee. 
 
 As I rode to Damascus 
 
 Dazed by the noonday glow. 
 Wishing to climb to Hermon's peaks 
 
 And reach cool plains of snow; 
 Sudden the parched earth vanished, 
 
 In waving trees, thick set, 
 I saw blue domes arising 
 
 And slender minaret. 
 
 All Babylon's green gardens 
 
 Lie fathoms deep in sand. 
 But Damascus is a cool grove 
 
 On the edge of desert land. 
 The streams of bleak Judaea 
 
 Are dried up in the heat; 
 But rivers, in Damascus, 
 
 Run dancing through the street. 
 
 82 
 
O Damascus is a rare town 
 
 To one far journeying, 
 For there, through all the starlit night, 
 
 I heard the water sing. 
 
 Esh-Sham. 
 
 83 
 
T^Jie Ending 
 
 I stand at close of day 
 
 On Carmel's height; 
 Across the sapphire bay 
 
 Acre gleams bright. 
 
 The sea outshines the sky — 
 
 Blue, purple, green — 
 Where fleets from Tyre swept by 
 
 No sails are seen. 
 
 Birds sing on every side. 
 
 Without avail 
 Priests groveled here and cried, 
 
 "Hear us, O Baal." 
 
 Through all Esdraelon's plain 
 
 No camp fires gleam; 
 That armies here were slain 
 
 Is but a dream. 
 
 Where Barak put to flight, 
 
 As Deborah tells, 
 Sisera, the Canaanite, 
 
 The goatherd dwells. 
 
 84 
 
On far-stretched plain and sea 
 Shadows descend. 
 
 Pursuit, rout, victory- 
 Come to this end. 
 
 The sea bears from the moon 
 
 A golden fleece. 
 Though it be late or soon, 
 
 All ends in peace. 
 
 Mt. Carmel. 
 
 FINIS 
 
 85 
 
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