The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
POEMS OF PASSION | 1 |
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS | 1 |
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS | 1 |
POEMS OF PASSION | 1 |
Love’s Language
Impatience
Communism
The Common Lot
Individuality
Friendship after Love
Queries
Upon the Sand
Reunited
What Shall We Do?
“The Beautiful Blue Danube”
Answered
Through the Valley
But One
Guilo
The Duet
Little Queen
Wherefore?
Delilah
Love Song
Time and Love
Change
Desolation
Isaura
The Coquette
Not Quite the Same
New and Old
From the Grave
A Waltz-Quadrille
Beppo
Tired
The Speech of Silence
Conversion
Love’s Coming
Old and New
Perfectness
Attraction
Gracia
Ad Finem
Bleak Weather
An Answer
You Will Forget Me
The Farewell of Clarimonde
The Trio
The Lost Garden
Art and Heart
Mockery
As by Fire
If I Should Die
Mesalliance
Response
Drought
The Creed
Progress
My Friend
Creation
Red Carnations
Life is Too Short
A Sculptor
Beyond
The Saddest Hour
Show Me the Way
My Heritage
Resolve
At Eleusis
Courage
Solitude
The Year Outgrows the Spring
The Beautiful Land of Nod
The Tiger
Only a Simple Rhyme
I Will Be Worthy of It
Sonnet
Regret
Let Me Lean Hard
Penalty
Sunset
The Wheel of the Breast
A Meeting
Earnestness
A Picture
Twin-Born
Floods
A Fable
[Illustration: LOVE AND MEMORY]
The Poets Song
Love and Memory
Rejoice and Men Will Seek You
Loves Language
Love’s Impatience
The Common Lot
Love Triumphant
Cool, Verdant Vales
The Old Delight that We Cast Away
They Drift Down the Hall Together
Answered
But One
A June Rose
I Love Thee; Thee Alone
The Duet
Happiest Days in Our Lives
A Dream
Delilah
The Milky Way
Time and Love
Desolation
Tired of the Oft-read Story
From the Grave
Silver Bell in Steeple
The Waltz-Quadrille
The Burden of Dear Human Ties
The Sea of Silence
Across the Ocean
Conversion
Love’s Coming
Love and Life
Attraction
Bleak Weather
Woodlands and Meadows
Two Warm Hearts Together
Love is Cold
The Trio
The Path I Longed to Climb
Recollections
Mesalliance
Day-Dreams
Came, Desired and Welcomed, into Life
Creation
Red Carnations
Beyond
Across the Sea of Silence
Solitude
Light and Beauty Blessed the Land
Beautiful Land of Nod
Only a Simple Rhyme
The Strife that Is Wearying Me
Sunset
The Wheel of the Breast
A Picture
A Fable
[Illustration: “REJOICE, AND MEN WILL SEEK YOU”]
LOVE’S LANGUAGE.
How
does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon
the tell-tale cheek,
And in the pallor that
succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of
an averted eye—
The smile that proves
the patent to a sigh—
Thus
doth Love speak.
How
does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs,
and the freak
Of bounding pulses that
stand still and ache,
While new emotions,
like strange barges, make
Along vein-channels
their disturbing course;
Still as the dawn, and
with the dawn’s swift force—
Thus
doth Love speak.
How
does Love speak?
In the avoidance of
that which we seek—
The sudden silence and
reserve when near—
The eye that glistens
with an unshed tear—
The joy that seems the
counterpart of fear,
As the alarmed heart
leaps in the breast,
And knows and names
and greets its godlike guest—
Thus
doth Love speak.
How
does Love speak?
In the proud spirit
suddenly grown meek—
The haughty heart grown
humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that
floods the world with splendor;
In the resemblance which
the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to
one beloved face;
In the shy touch of
hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that
can no more dissemble—
Thus
doth Love speak.
How
does Love speak?
In the wild words that
uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed
to silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with
glance, swift flashing high and higher
Like lightnings that
precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful
stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that
sweeps through throbbing veins
Between the shores of
keen delight and pains;
In the embrace where
madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive
rapture of a kiss—
Thus
doth Love speak.
[Illustration: LOVE’S LANGUAGE]
IMPATIENCE.
How can I wait until
you come to me?
The once
fleet mornings linger by the way,
Their sunny smiles touched
with malicious glee
At my unrest;
they seem to pause, and play
Like truant
children, while I sigh and say,
How
can I wait?
How can I wait?
Of old, the rapid hours
Refused
to pause or loiter with me long;
But now they idly fill
their hands with flowers,
And make
no haste, but slowly stroll among
The summer
blooms, not heeding my one song,
How
can I wait?
How can I wait?
The nights alone are kind;
They reach
forth to a future day, and bring
Sweet dreams of you
to people all my mind;
And time
speeds by on light and airy wing.
I feast
upon your face, I no more sing,
How
can I wait?
How can I wait?
The morning breaks the spell
A pitying
night has flung upon my soul.
You are not near me,
and I know full well
My heart
has need of patience and control;
Before we
meet, hours, days, and weeks must roll.
How
can I wait?
How can I wait?
Oh, love, how can I wait
Until the
sunlight of your eyes shall shine
Upon my world that seems
so desolate?
Until your
hand-clasp warms my blood like wine;
Until you
come again, oh, love of mine,
How
can I wait?
COMMUNISM.
When my blood flows
calm as a purling river,
When my
heart is asleep and my brain has sway,
It is then that I vow
we must part forever,
That I will
forget you, and put you away
Out of my life, as a
dream is banished
Out of the
mind when the dreamer awakes;
That I know it will
be, when the spell has vanished,
Better for
both of our sakes.
When the court of the
mind is ruled by Reason,
I know it
is wiser for us to part;
But Love is a spy who
is plotting treason,
In league
with that warm, red rebel, the Heart.
They whisper to me that
the King is cruel,
That his
reign is wicked, his law a sin;
And every word they
utter is fuel
To the flame
that smoulders within.
And on nights like this,
when my blood runs riot
With the
fever of youth and its mad desires,
When my brain in vain
bids my heart be quiet,
When my
breast seems the centre of lava-fires,
Oh, then is the time
when most I miss you,
And I swear
by the stars and my soul and say
That I will have you
and hold you and kiss you,
Though the
whole world stands in the way.
And like Communists,
as mad, as disloyal,
My fierce
emotions roam out of their lair;
They hate King Reason
for being royal;
They would
fire his castle, and burn him there.
Oh, Love! they would
clasp you and crush you and kill you,
In the insurrection
of uncontrol.
Across the miles, does
this wild war thrill you
That is
raging in my soul?
THE COMMON LOT.
It is a common fate—a
woman’s lot—
To waste
on one the riches of her soul,
Who takes the wealth
she gives him, but cannot
Repay the
interest, and much less the whole.
As I look up into your
eyes and wait
For some
response to my fond gaze and touch,
It seems to me there
is no sadder fate
Than to
be doomed to loving overmuch.
Are you not kind?
Ah, yes, so very kind—
So thoughtful
of my comfort, and so true.
Yes, yes, dear heart;
but I, not being blind,
Know that
I am not loved as I love you.
One tenderer word, a
little longer kiss,
Will fill
my soul with music and with song;
And if you seem abstracted,
or I miss
The heart-tone
from your voice, my world goes wrong.
And oftentimes you think
me childish—weak—
When at
some thoughtless word the tears will start;
You cannot understand
how aught you speak
Has power
to stir the depths of my poor heart.
I cannot help it, dear,—I
wish I could,
Or feign
indifference where I now adore;
For if I seemed to love
you less you would,
Manlike,
I have no doubt, love me the more.
’Tis a sad gift,
that much applauded thing,
A constant
heart; for fact doth daily prove
That constancy finds
oft a cruel sting,
While fickle
natures win the deeper love.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration: COMMON LOT]
INDIVIDUALITY.
O yes, I love you, and
with all my heart;
Just as
a weaker woman loves her own,
Better than I love my
beloved art,
Which, till
you came, reigned royally, alone,
My king, my master.
Since I saw your face
I have dethroned it,
and you hold that place.
I am as weak as other
women are:
Your frown
can make the whole world like a tomb;
Your smile shines brighter
than the sun, by far.
Sometimes
I think there is not space or room
In all the earth for
such a love as mine,
And it soars up to breathe
in realms divine.
I know that your desertion
or neglect
Could break
my heart, as women’s hearts do break.
If my wan days had nothing
to expect
From your
love’s splendor, all joy would forsake
The chambers of my soul.
Yes, this is true.
And yet, and yet—one
thing I keep from you.
There is a subtle part
of me, which went
Into my
long pursued and worshipped art;
Though your great love
fills me with such content
No other
love finds room now, in my heart.
Yet that rare essence
was my art’s alone.
Thank God, you cannot
grasp it; ’tis mine own.
Thank God, I say, for
while I love you so,
With that vast love,
as passionate as tender,
I feel an exultation
as I know
I have not made you
a complete surrender.
Here is my body; bruise
it, if you will,
And break my heart;
I have that something still.
You cannot grasp it.
Seize the breath of morn
Or bind
the perfume of the rose, as well.
God put it in my soul
when I was born;
It is not
mine to give away, or sell,
Or offer up on any altar
shrine.
It was my art’s;
and when not art’s, ’tis mine,
For love’s sake
I can put the art away,
Or anything
which stands ’twixt me and you.
But that strange essence
God bestowed, I say,
To permeate
the work He gave to do:
And it cannot be drained,
dissolved, or sent
Through any channel
save the one He meant.
FRIENDSHIP AFTER LOVE.
After the fierce midsummer
all ablaze
Has
burned itself to ashes, and expires
In
the intensity of its own fires,
There come the mellow,
mild, St. Martin days,
Crowned with the calm
of peace, but sad with haze.
So
after Love has led us, till he tires
Of
his own throes and torments and desires,
Comes large-eyed friendship:
with a restful gaze
He beckons us to follow,
and across
Cool,
verdant vales we wander free from care.
Is
it a touch of frost lies in the air?
Why are we haunted with
a sense of loss?
We
do not wish the pain back, or the heat;
And
yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
QUERIES.
Well, how has it been
with you since we met
That last
strange time of a hundred times?
When we met to swear
that we could forget—
I your caresses,
and you my rhymes—
The rhyme of my lays
that rang like a bell,
And the rhyme of my
heart with yours, as well?
How has it been since
we drank that last kiss,
That was
bitter with lees of the wasted wine,
When the tattered remains
of a threadbare bliss,
And the
worn-out shreds of a joy divine,
With a year’s
best dreams and hopes, were cast
Into the rag-bag of
the Past?
Since Time, the rag-buyer,
hurried away,
With a chuckle
of glee at a bargain made,
Did you discover, like
me, one day,
That, hid
in the folds of those garments frayed,
Were priceless jewels
and diadems—
The soul’s best
treasures, the heart’s best gems?
Have you, too, found
that you could not supply
The place
of those jewels so rare and chaste?
Do all that you borrow
or beg or buy
Prove to
be nothing but skilful paste?
Have you found pleasure,
as I found art,
Not all-sufficient to
fill your heart?
Do you sometimes sigh
for the tattered shreds
Of the old
delight that we cast away,
And find no worth in
the silken threads
Of newer
fabrics we wear to-day?
Have you thought the
bitter of that last kiss
Better than sweets of
a later bliss?
What idle queries!—or
yes or no—
Whatever
your answer, I understand
That there is no pathway
by which we can go
Back to
the dead past’s wonderland;
And the gems he purchased
from me, from you,
There is no rebuying
from Time, the Jew.
[Illustration: “THE OLD DELIGHT THAT WE CAST AWAY”]
UPON THE SAND.
All love that has not
friendship for its base
Is like
a mansion built upon the sand.
Though brave
its walls as any in the land,
And its tall turrets
lift their heads in grace;
Though skilful and accomplished
artists trace
Most beautiful
designs on every hand,
And gleaming
statues in dim niches stand,
And fountains play in
some flow’r-hidden place:
Yet, when from the frowning
east a sudden gust
Of adverse
fate is blown, or sad rains fall,
Day in,
day out, against its yielding wall,
Lo! the fair structure
crumbles to the dust.
Love, to
endure life’s sorrow and earth’s woe,
Needs friendship’s
solid mason-work below.
REUNITED.
Let us begin, dear love,
where we left off;
Tie up the
broken threads of that old dream,
And go on
happy as before, and seem
Lovers again, though
all the world may scoff.
Let us forget the graves
which lie between
Our parting
and our meeting, and the tears
That rusted
out the gold-work of the years,
The frosts that fell
upon our gardens green.
Let us forget the cold,
malicious Fate
Who made
our loving hearts her idle toys,
And once
more revel in the old sweet joys
Of happy love.
Nay, it is not too late!
Forget the deep-ploughed
furrows in my brow;
Forget the
silver gleaming in my hair;
Look only
in my eyes! Oh! darling, there
The old love shone no
warmer then than now.
Down in the tender deeps
of thy dear eyes
I find the
lost sweet memory of my youth,
Bright with
the holy radiance of thy truth,
And hallowed with the
blue of summer skies.
Tie up the broken threads
and let us go,
Like reunited
lovers, hand in hand,
Back, and
yet onward, to the sunny land
Of our To Be, which
was our Long Ago.
WHAT SHALL WE DO?
Here now forevermore
our lives must part.
My path
leads there, and yours another way.
What shall we do with
this fond love, dear heart?
It grows
a heavier burden day by day.
Hide it? In all
earth’s caverns, void and vast,
There is
not room enough to hide it, dear;
Not even the mighty
storehouse of the past
Could cover
it from our own eyes, I fear.
Drown it? Why,
were the contents of each ocean
Merged into
one great sea, too shallow then
Would be its waters
to sink this emotion
So deep
it could not rise to life again.
Burn it? In all
the furnace flames below,
It would
not in a thousand years expire.
Nay! it would thrive,
exult, expand, and grow,
For from
its very birth it fed on fire.
Starve it? Yes,
yes, that is the only way.
Give it
no food, of glance, or word, or sigh;
No memories, even, of
any bygone day;
No crumbs
of vain regrets—so let it die.
“THE BEAUTIFUL BLUE DANUBE.”
They drift down the
hall together;
He smiles
in her lifted eyes;
Like waves of that mighty
river,
The strains
of the “Danube” rise.
They float on its rhythmic
measure
Like leaves
on a summer-stream;
And here, in this scene
of pleasure,
I bury my
sweet, dead dream.
Through the cloud of
her dusky tresses,
Like a star,
shines out her face,
And the form his strong
arm presses
Is sylph
like in its grace.
As a leaf on the bounding
river
Is lost
in the seething sea,
I know that forever
and ever
My dream
is lost to me.
And still the viols
are playing
That grand
old wordless rhyme;
And still those two
ate swaying
In perfect
tune and time.
If the great bassoons
that mutter,
If the clarinets
that blow,
Were given a voice to
utter
The secret
things they know,
Would the lists of the
slam who slumber
On the Danube’s
battle-plains
The unknown hosts outnumber
Who die
’neath the “Danube’s” strains?
Those fall where cannons
rattle,
’Mid
the rain of shot and shell;
But these, in a fiercer
battle,
Find death
in the music’s swell.
With the river’s
roar of passion
Is blended
the dying groan;
But here, in the halls
of fashion,
Hearts break,
and make no moan.
And the music, swelling
and sweeping,
Like the
river, knows it all;
But none are counting
or keeping
The lists
of these who fall.
[Illustration: “THEY DRIFT DOWN THE HALL TOGETHER”]
ANSWERED.
Good-bye—yes,
I am going.
Sudden?
Well, you are right;
But a startling truth
came home to me
With sudden
force last night.
What is it? Shall
I tell you?
Nay, that
is why I go.
I am running away from
the battlefield
Turning
my back on the foe.
Riddles? You think
me cruel!
Have you
not been most kind?
Why, when you question
me like that,
What answer
can I find?
You fear you failed
to amuse me,
Your husband’s
friend and guest,
Whom he bade you entertain
and please—
Well, you
have done your best.
Then why am I going?
A friend
of mine abroad,
Whose theories I have
been acting upon,
Has proven
himself a fraud.
You have heard me quote
from Plato
A thousand
times no doubt;
Well, I have discovered
he did not know
What he
was talking about.
You think I am speaking
strangely?
You cannot
understand?
Well, let me look down
into your eyes,
And let
me take your hand.
I am running away from
danger;
I am flying
before I fall;
I am going because with
heart and soul
I love you—that
is all.
There, now you are white
with anger;
I knew it
would be so.
You should not question
a man too close
When he
tells you he must go.
[Illustration:]
THROUGH THE VALLEY.
[AFTER JAMES THOMSON.]
As I came through the
Valley of Despair,
As I came
through the valley, on my sight,
More awful
than the darkness of the night,
Shone glimpses of a
Past that had been fair,
And memories
of eyes that used to smile,
And wafts
of perfume from a vanished isle,
As I came through the
valley.
As I came through the
valley I could see,
As I came
through the valley, fair and far,
As drowning
men look up and see a star,
The fading shore of
my lost Used-to-be;
And like
an arrow in my heart I heard
The last
sad notes of Hope’s expiring bird,
As I came through the
valley.
As I came through the
valley desolate,
As I came
through the valley, like a beam
Of lurid
lightning I beheld a gleam
Of Love’s great
eyes that now were full of hate.
Dear God!
Dear God! I could bear all but that;
But I fell
down soul-stricken, dead, thereat,
As I came through the
valley.
BUT ONE.
The year has but one
June, dear friend;
The year
has but one June;
And when that perfect
month doth end,
The robin’s song,
though loud, though long,
Seems never
quite in tune.
The rose, though still
its blushing face
By bee and
bird is seen,
May yet have lost that
subtle grace—
That nameless spell
the winds know
Which makes
it garden’s queen.
Life’s perfect
June, love’s red, red rose,
Have burned
and bloomed for me.
Though still youth’s
summer sunlight glows;
Though thou art kind,
dear friend, I find
I have no
heart for thee.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration: A JUNE ROSE]
GUILO.
Yes, yes! I love
thee, Guilo; thee alone.
Why dost
thou sigh, and wear that face of sorrow?
The sunshine is to-day’s,
although it shone
On yesterday,
and may shine on to-morrow.
I love but thee, my
Guilo! be content;
The greediest
heart can claim but present pleasure.
The future is thy God’s.
The past is spent.
To-day is
thine; clasp close the precious treasure.
See how I love thee,
Guilo! Lips and eyes
Could never
under thy fond gaze dissemble.
I could not feign these
passion-laden sighs;
Deceiving
thee, my pulses would not tremble.
“So I loved Romney.”
Hush, thou foolish one—
I should
forget him wholly wouldst thou let me;
Or but remember that
his day was done
From that
supremest hour when first I met thee.
“And Paul?”
Well, what of Paul? Paul had blue eyes,
And Romney
gray, and thine are darkly tender!
One finds fresh feelings
under change of skies—
A new horizon
brings a newer splendor.
As I love thee
I never loved before;
Believe
me, Guilo, for I speak most truly.
What though to Romney
and to Paul I swore
The self-same
words; my heart now worships newly.
We never feel the same
emotion twice:
No two ships
ever ploughed the self-same billow;
The waters change with
every fall and rise;
So, Guilo,
go contented to thy pillow.
THE DUET.
I was smoking a cigarette;
Maud, my
wife, and the tenor, McKey,
Were singing together
a blithe duet,
And days it were better
I should forget
Came suddenly
back to me—
Days when life seemed
a gay masque ball,
And to love and be loved
was the sum of it all.
As they sang together,
the whole scene fled,
The room’s
rich hangings, the sweet home air,
Stately Maud, with her
proud blond head,
And I seemed to see
in her place instead
A wealth
of blue-black hair,
And a face, ah! your
face—yours, Lisette;
A face it were wiser
I should forget.
We were back—well,
no matter when or where;
But you
remember, I know, Lisette.
I saw you, dainty and
debonair,
With the very same look
that you used to wear
In the days
I should forget.
And your lips, as red
as the vintage we quaffed,
Were pearl-edged bumpers
of wine when you laughed.
Two small slippers with
big rosettes
Peeped out
under your kilt skirt there,
While we sat smoking
our cigarettes
(Oh, I shall be dust
when my heart forgets’)
And singing
that self-same an,
And between the verses,
for interlude,
I kissed your throat
and your shoulders nude.
You were so full of a subtle file,
You were so warm and so sweet, Lisette;
You were everything men admire,
And there were no fetters to make us tire,
For you were—a pretty grisette.
But you loved, as only such natures can,
With a love that makes heaven or hell for a man.
* * * * *
They have ceased singing that
old duet,
Stately Maud and the tenor, McKey.
“You are burning your coat with your cigarette,
And qu’ avez vous, dearest, your
lids are wet,”
Maud says, as she leans o’er me.
And I smile, and lie to her, husband-wise,
“Oh, it is nothing but smoke in my eyes.”
[Illustration: “I LOVE THEE; THEE ALONE”]
[Illustration:]
LITTLE QUEEN.
Do you remember the
name I wore—
The old
pet-name of Little Queen—
In the dear, dead days
that are no more,
The happiest
days of our lives, I ween?
For we loved with that
passionate love of youth
That blesses
but once with its perfect bliss—
A love that, in spite
of its trust and truth,
Seems never
to thrive in a world like this.
I lived for you, and
you lived for me;
All was
centered in “Little Queen;”
And never a thought
in our hearts had we
That strife
or trouble could come between.
What utter sinking of
self it was!
How little
we cared for the world of men!
For love’s fair
kingdom and love’s sweet laws
Were all
of the world and life to us then.
But a love like ours
was a challenge to Fate;
She rang
down the curtain and shifted the scene;
Yet sometimes now, when
the day grows late,
I can hear
you calling for Little Queen;
For a happy home and
a busy life
Can never
wholly crowd out our past;
In the twilight pauses
that come from strife,
You will
think of me while life shall last.
And however sweet the
voice of fame
May sing
to me of a great world’s praise,
I shall long sometimes
for the old pet-name
That you
gave to me in the dear, dead days;
And nothing the angel
band can say,
When I reach
the shores of the great Unseen,
Can please me so much
as on that day
To hear
your greeting of “Little Queen.”
[Illustration: “THAT BLESSES BUT ONCE WITH ITS PERFECT BLISS”]
WHEREFORE?
Wherefore in dreams
are sorrows borne anew,
A healed
wound opened, or the past revived?
Last night in my deep
sleep I dreamed of you;
Again the
old love woke in me, and thrived
On looks of fire, and
kisses, and sweet words
Like silver
waters purling in a stream,
Or like the amorous
melodies of birds:
A
dream—a dream!
Again upon the glory
of the scene
There settled
that dread shadow of the cross
That, when hearts love
too well, falls in between;
That warns
them of impending woe and loss.
Again I saw you drifting
from my life,
As barques
are rudely parted in a stream;
Again my heart was torn
with awful strife:
A
dream—a dream!
Again the deep night
settled on me there,
Alone I
groped, and heard strange waters roll,
Lost in that blackness
of supreme despair
That comes
but once to any living soul.
Alone, afraid, I called
your name aloud—
Mine eyes,
unveiled, beheld white stars agleam,
And lo! awake, I cried,
“Thank God, thank God!
A
dream—a dream!”
[Illustration:]
DELILAH.
In the midnight of darkness
and terror,
When I would
grope nearer to God,
With my back to a record
of error
And the
highway of sin I have trod,
There come to me shapes
I would banish—
The shapes
of the deeds I have done;
And I pray and I plead
till they vanish—
All vanish
and leave me, save one.
That one with a smile
like the splendor
Of the sun
in the middle-day skies—
That one with a spell
that is tender—
That one
with a dream in her eyes—
Cometh close, in her
rare Southern beauty,
Her languor,
her indolent grace;
And my soul turns its
back on its duty,
To live
in the light of her face.
She touches my cheek,
and I quiver—
I tremble
with exquisite pains;
She sighs—like
an overcharged river
My blood
rushes on through my veins’,
She smiles—and
in mad-tiger fashion,
As a she-tiger
fondles her own,
I clasp her with fierceness
and passion,
And kiss
her with shudder and groan.
Once more, in our love’s
sweet beginning,
I put away
God and the World;
Once more, in the joys
of our sinning,
Are the
hopes of eternity hurled.
There is nothing my
soul lacks or misses
As I clasp
the dream shape to my breast;
In the passion and pain
of her kisses
Life blooms
to its richest and best.
O ghost of dead sin
unrelenting,
Go back
to the dust and the sod!
Too dear and too sweet
for repenting,
Ye stand
between me and my God.
If I, by the Throne,
should behold you,
Smiling
up with those eyes loved so well,
Close, close in my arms
I would fold you,
And drop
with you down to sweet Hell!
[Illustration: DELILAH]
LOVE SONG.
Once in the world’s
first prime,
When nothing
lived or stirred—
Nothing but new-born
Time,
Nor was
there even a bird—
The Silence spoke to
a Star;
But I do
not dare repeat
What it said to its
love afar,
It was too
sweet, too sweet.
But there, in the fair
world’s youth,
Ere sorrow
had drawn breath,
When nothing was known
but Truth,
Nor was
there even death,
The Star to Silence
was wed,
And the
Sun was priest that day,
And they made their
bridal-bed
High in
the Milky Way.
For the great white
star had heard
Her silent
lover’s speech;
It needed no passionate
word
To pledge
them each to each.
Oh, lady fair and far,
Hear, oh,
hear and apply!
Thou, the beautiful
Star—
The voiceless
Silence, I.
[Illustration:]
TIME AND LOVE.
Time flies. The
swift hours hurry by
And speed
us on to untried ways;
New seasons ripen, perish,
die,
And yet
love stays.
The old, old love—like
sweet, at first,
At last
like bitter wine—
I know not if it blest
or curst
Thy life
and mine.
Time flies. In
vain our prayers, our tears!
We cannot
tempt him to delays;
Down to the past he
bears the years,
And yet
love stays.
Through changing task
and varying dream
We hear
the same refrain,
As one can hear a plaintive
theme
Run through
each strain.
Time flies. He
steals our pulsing youth;
He robs
us of our care-free days;
He takes away our trust
and truth:
And yet
love stays.
O Time! take love!
When love is vain,
When all
its best joys die—
When only its regrets
remain—
Let love,
too, fly.
[Illustration: TIME AND LOVE]
CHANGE.
Changed? Yes, I
will confess it—I have changed.
I do not
love in the old fond way.
I am your friend still—time
has not estranged
One kindly
feeling of that vanished day.
But the bright glamour
which made life a dream,
The rapture
of that time, its sweet content,
Like visions of a sleeper’s
brain they seem—
And yet
I cannot tell you how they went.
Why do you gaze with
such accusing eyes
Upon me,
dear? Is it so very strange
That hearts, like all
things underneath God’s skies
Should sometimes
feel the influence of change?
The birds, the flowers,
the foliage of the trees,
The stars
which seem so fixed and so sublime,
Vast continents and
the eternal seas—
All these
do change with ever-changing time.
The face our mirror
shows us year on year
Is not the
same; our dearest aim or need,
Our lightest thought
or feeling, hope or fear,
All, all
the law of alteration heed.
How can we ask the human
heart to stay
Content
with fancies of Youth’s earliest hours?
The year outgrows the
violets of May,
Although,
maybe, there are no fairer flowers.
And life may hold no
sweeter love than this,
Which lies
so cold, so voiceless, and so dumb.
And shall I miss it,
dear? Why, yes, we miss
The violets
always—till the roses come!
DESOLATION.
I think that the bitterest
sorrow or pain
Of love
unrequited, or cold death’s woe,
Is sweet
compared to that hour when we know
That some grand passion
is on the wane;
When we see that the
glory and glow and grace
Which lent
a splendor to night and day
Are surely
fading, and showing the gray
And dull groundwork
of the commonplace;
When fond expressions
on dull ears fall,
When the
hands clasp calmly without one thrill,
When we
cannot muster by force of will
The old emotions that
came at call;
When the dream has vanished
we fain would keep,
When the
heart, like a watch, runs out of gear,
And all
the savor goes out of the year,
Oh, then is the time—if
we can—to weep!
But no tears soften
this dull, pale woe;
We must
sit and face it with dry, sad eyes.
If we seek
to hold it, the swifter joy flies—
We can only be passive,
and let it go.
ISAURA.
Dost thou not tire,
Isaura, of this play?
“What
play?” Why, this old play of winning hearts!
Nay, now, lift not thine
eyes in that feigned way:
’Tis
all in vain—I know thee and thine arts.
Let us be frank, Isaura.
I have made
A study
of thee; and while I admire
The practised skill
with which thy plans are laid,
I can but
wonder if thou dost not tire.
Why, I tire even of
Hamlet and Macbeth!
When overlong
the season runs, I find
Those master-scenes
of passion, blood, and death,
After a
time do pall upon my mind.
Dost thou not tire of
lifting up thine eyes
To read
the story thou hast read so oft—
Of ardent glances and
deep quivering sighs,
Of haughty
faces suddenly grown soft?
Is it not stale, oh,
very stale, to thee,
The scene
that follows? Hearts are much the same;
The loves of men but
vary in degree—
They find
no new expressions for the flame.
Thou must know all they
utter ere they speak,
As I know
Hamlet’s part, whoever plays.
Oh, does it not seem
sometimes poor and weak?
I think
thou must grow weary of their ways.
I pity thee, Isaura!
I would be
The humblest
maiden with her dream untold
Rather than live a Queen
of Hearts, like thee,
And find
life’s rarest treasures stale and old.
I pity thee; for now,
let come what may,
Fame, glory,
riches, yet life will lack all.
Wherewith can salt be
salted? And what way
Can life
be seasoned after love doth pall?
[Illustration: TIRED OF THE OFT-READ STORY]
THE COQUETTE.
Alone she sat with her
accusing heart,
That, like
a restless comrade frightened sleep,
And every thought that
found her, left a dart
That hurt
her so, she could not even weep.
Her heart that once
had been a cup well filled
With love’s
red wine, save for some drops of gall
She knew was empty;
though it had not spilled
Its sweets
for one, but wasted them on all.
She stood upon the grave
of her dead truth,
And saw
her soul’s bright armor red with rust,
And knew that all the
riches of her youth
Were Dead
Sea apples, crumbling into dust.
Love that had turned
to bitter, biting scorn,
Hearthstones
despoiled, and homes made desolate,
Made her cry out that
she was ever born,
To loathe
her beauty and to curse her fate.
NEW AND OLD.
I and new love, in all
its living bloom,
Sat vis-a-vis,
while tender twilight hours
Went softly
by us, treading as on flowers.
Then suddenly I saw
within the room
The old love, long since
lying in its tomb.
It dropped
the cerecloth from its fleshless face
And smiled
on me, with a remembered grace
That, like the noontide,
lit the gloaming’s gloom.
Upon its shroud there
hung the grave’s green mould,
About it
hung the odor of the dead;
Yet from
its cavernous eyes such light was shed
That all my life seemed
gilded, as with gold;
Unto the
trembling new love ’"Go,” I said
“I do not need
thee, for I have the old.”
NOT QUITE THE SAME.
Not quite the same the
spring-time seems to me,
Since that
sad season when in separate ways
Our paths
diverged. There are no more such days
As dawned for us in
that lost time when we
Dwelt in
the realm of dreams, illusive dreams;
Spring may
be just as fair now, but it seems
Not
quite the same.
Not quite the same is
life, since we two parted,
Knowing
it best to go our ways alone.
Fair measures
of success we both have known,
And pleasant hours,
and yet something departed
Which gold,
nor fame, nor anything we win
Can all
replace. And either life has been
Not
quite the same.
Love is not quite the
same, although each heart
Has formed
new ties that are both sweet and true,
But that
wild rapture, which of old we knew,
Seems to have been a
something set apart
With that
lost dream. There is no passion, now,
Mixed with
this later love, which seems, somehow,
Not
quite the same.
Not quite the same am
I. My inner being
Reasons
and knows that all is for the best.
Yet vague
regrets stir always in my breast,
As my soul’s eyes
turn sadly backward, seeing
The vanished
self that evermore must be,
This side
of what we call eternity,
Not
quite the same.
FROM THE GRAVE.
When the first sere leaves of
the year were falling,
I heard, with a heart that was strangely thrilled,
Out of the grave of a dead Past calling,
A voice I fancied forever stilled.
All through winter and spring
and summer,
Silence hung over that grave like a pall,
But, borne on the breath of the last sad comer,
I listen again to the old-time call.
It is only a love of a by-gone
season,
A senseless folly that mocked at me
A reckless passion that lacked all reason,
So I killed it, and hid it where none could
see.
I smothered it first to stop its
crying,
Then stabbed it through with a good sharp blade,
And cold and pallid I saw it lying,
And deep—ah’ deep was the
grave I made.
But now I know that
there is no killing
A thing
like Love, for it laughs at Death.
There is no hushing,
there is no stilling
That which
is part of your life and breath.
You may bury it deep,
and leave behind you
The land,
the people, that knew your slain;
It will push the sods
from its grave, and find you
On wastes
of water or desert plain.
You may hear but tongues
of a foreign people,
You may
list to sounds that are strange and new;
But, clear as a silver
bell in a steeple,
That voice
from the grave shall call to you.
You may rouse your pride,
you may use your reason.
And seem
for a space to slay Love so;
But, all in its own
good time and season,
It will
rise and follow wherever you go.
You shall sit sometimes,
when the leaves are falling,
Alone with
your heart, as I sit to-day,
And hear that voice
from your dead Past calling
Out of the
graves that you hid away.
[Illustration:]
A WALTZ-QUADRILLE.
The band was playing
a waltz-quadrille,
I felt as
light as a wind-blown feather,
As we floated away,
at the caller’s will,
Through
the intricate, mazy dance together.
Like mimic armies our
lines were meeting,
Slowly advancing, and
then retreating,
All decked
in their bright array;
And back and forth to
the music’s rhyme
We moved together, and
all the time
I knew you
were going away.
The fold of your strong
arm sent a thrill
From heart
to brain as we gently glided
Like leaves on the wave
of that waltz-quadrille;
Parted,
met, and again divided—
You drifting one way,
and I another,
Then suddenly turning
and facing each other,
Then off
in the blithe chasse,
Then airily back to
our places swaying,
While every beat of
the music seemed saying
That you
were going away.
I said to my heart,
“Let us take our fill
Of mirth
and music and love and laughter;
For it all must end
with this waltz-quadrille,
And life
will be never the same life after.
Oh, that the caller
might go on calling,
A clamor, a crash, and
the band was still;
’Twas
the end of the dream, and the end of the measure:
The last low notes of
that waltz-quadrille
Seemed like
a dirge o’er the death of Pleasure.
You said good-night,
and the spell was over—
Too warm for a friend,
and too cold for a lover—
There was
nothing else to say;
But the lights looked
dim, and the dancers weary,
And the music was sad,
and the hall was dreary,
After you
went away.
BEPPO.
Why art thou sad, my
Beppo? But last eve,
Here at
my feet, thy dear head on my breast,
I heard thee say thy
heart would no more grieve
Or feel
the olden ennui and unrest.
What troubles thee?
Am I not all thine own?—
I, so long
sought, so sighed for and so dear?
And do I not live but
for thee alone?
“Thou
hast seen Lippo, whom I loved last year!”
Well, what of that?
Last year is naught to me—
’Tis
swallowed in the ocean of the past.
Art thou not glad ’twas
Lippo, and not thee,
Whose brief
bright day in that great gulf was cast.
Thy day is all
before thee. Let no cloud,
Here in
the very morn of our delight,
Drift up from distant
foreign skies, to shroud
Our sun
of love whose radiance is so bright.
“Thou art not
first?” Nay, and he who would be
Defeats
his own heart’s dearest purpose then.
No truer truth was ever
told to thee—
Who has
loved most, he best can love again.
If Lippo (and not he
alone) has taught
The arts
that please thee, wherefore art thou sad?
Since all my vast love-lore
to thee is brought,
Look up
and smile, my Beppo, and be glad.
TIRED.
I am tired to-night,
and something,
The wind
maybe, or the rain,
Or the cry of a bird
in the copse outside,
Has brought
back the past and its pain.
And I feel, as I sit
here thinking,
That the
hand of a dead old June
Has reached out hold
of my heart’s loose strings,
And is drawing
them up in tune.
I am tired to-night,
and I miss you,
And long
for you, love, through tears;
And it seems but to-day
that I saw you go—
You, who
have been gone for years.
And I seem to be newly
lonely—
I, who am
so much alone;
And the strings of my
heart are well in tune,
But they
have not the same old tone.
I am tired; and that
old sorrow
Sweeps down
the bed of my soul,
As a turbulent river
might sudden’y break
way from
a dam’s control.
It beareth a wreck on
its bosom,
A wreck
with a snow-white sail;
And the hand on my heart
strings thrums away,
But they
only respond with a wail.
[Illustration: “THE BURDEN OF DEAR HUMAN TIES”]
[Illustration:]
THE SPEECH OF SILENCE.
The solemn Sea of Silence
lies between us;
I know thou
livest, and them lovest me,
And yet I wish some
white ship would come sailing
Across the
ocean, beating word from thee.
The dead calm awes me
with its awful stillness.
No anxious
doubts or fears disturb my breast;
I only ask some little
wave of language,
To stir
this vast infinitude of rest.
I am oppressed with
this great sense of loving;
So much
I give, so much receive from thee;
Like subtle incense,
rising from a censer,
So floats
the fragrance of thy love round me.
All speech is poor,
and written words unmeaning;
Yet such
I ask, blown hither by some wind,
To give relief to this
too perfect knowledge,
The Silence
so impresses on my mind.
How poor the love that
needeth word or message,
To banish
doubt or nourish tenderness!
I ask them but to temper
love’s convictions
The Silence
all too fully doth express.
Too deep the language
which the spirit utters;
Too vast
the knowledge which my soul hath stirred.
Send some white ship
across the Sea of Silence,
And interrupt
its utterance with a word.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
CONVERSION.
I have lived this life
as the skeptic lives it;
I have said
the sweetness was less than the gall;
Praising, nor cursing,
the Hand that gives it,
I have drifted
aimlessly through it all.
I have scoffed at the
tale of a so-called heaven;
I have laughed
at the thought of a Supreme Friend;
I have said that it
only to man was given
To live,
to endure; and to die was the end.
But I know that a good
God reigneth,
Generous-hearted
and kind and true;
Since unto a worm like
me he deigneth
To send
so royal a gift as you.
Bright as a star you
gleam on my bosom,
Sweet as
a rose that the wild bee sips;
And I know, my own,
my beautiful blossom,
That none
but a God could mould such lips.
And I believe, in the
fullest measure
That ever
a strong man’s heart could hold,
In all the tales of
heavenly pleasure
By poets
sung or by prophets told;
For in the joy of your
shy, sweet kisses,
Your pulsing
touch and your languid sigh
I am filled and thrilled
with better blisses
Than ever
were claimed for souls on high.
And now I have faith
in all the stories
Told of
the beauties of unseen lands;
Of royal splendors and
marvellous glories
Of the golden
city not made with hands
For the silken beauty
of falling tresses,
Of lips
all dewy and cheeks aglow,
With—what
the mind in a half trance guesses
Of the twin
perfection of drifts of snow;
Of limbs like marble,
of thigh and shoulder
Carved like
a statue in high relief—
These, as the eyes and
the thoughts grow bolder,
Leave no
room for an unbelief.
So my lady, my queen
most royal,
My skepticism
has passed away;
If you are true to me,
true and loyal,
I will believe
till the Judgment-day.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
LOVE’S COMING.
She had looked for his
coming as warriors come,
With the
clash of arms and the bugle’s call:
But he came instead
with a stealthy tread,
Which she
did not hear at all.
She had thought how
his armor would blaze in the sun,
As he rode
like a prince to claim his bride:
In the sweet dim light
of the falling night
She found
him at her side.
She had dreamed how
the gaze of his strange, bold eye
Would wake
her heart to a sudden glow:
She found in his face
the familiar grace
Of a friend
she used to know.
She had dreamed how
his coming would stir her soul,
As the ocean
is stirred by the wild storm’s strife:
He brought her the balm
of a heavenly calm,
And a peace
which crowned her life.
OLD AND NEW.
Long have the poets
vaunted, in their lays,
Old times,
old loves, old friendship, and old wine.
Why should the old monopolize
all praise?
Then let
the new claim mine.
Give me strong new friends
when the old prove weak
Or fail
me in my darkest hour of need;
Why perish with the
ship that springs a leak
Or lean
upon a reed?
Give me new love, warm,
palpitating, sweet,
When all
the grace and beauty leave the old;
When like a rose it
withers at my feet,
Or like
a hearth grows cold.
Give me new times, bright
with a prosperous cheer,
In place
of old, tear-blotted, burdened days;
I hold a sunlit present
far more dear,
And worthy
of my praise.
When the old deeds are
threadbare and worn through,
And all
too narrow for the broadening soul,
Give me the fine, firm
texture of the new,
Fair, beautiful,
and whole!
PERFECTNESS.
All perfect things are
saddening in effect.
The autumn
wood robed in its scarlet clothes,
The matchless
tinting on the royal rose
Whose velvet leaf by
no least flaw is flecked,
Love’s supreme
moment, when the soul unchecked
Soars high
as heaven, and its best rapture knows—
These hold
a deeper pathos than our woes,
Since they leave nothing
better to expect.
Resistless change, when
powerless to improve,
Can only
mar. The gold will pale to gray;
Nothing
remains tomorrow as to-day;
The lose will not seem
quite so fait, and love
Must find
its measures of delight made less.
Ah, how
imperfect is all Perfectness!
[Illustration: LOVE AND LIFE]
ATTRACTION.
The meadow and the mountain
with desire
Gazed on
each other, till a fierce unrest
Surged ’neath
the meadow’s seemingly calm breast,
And all the mountain’s
fissures ran with fire.
A mighty river rolled
between them there.
What could
the mountain do but gaze and burn?
What could
the meadow do but look and yearn,
And gem its bosom to
conceal despair?
Their seething passion
agitated space,
Till, lo!
the lands a sudden earthquake shook,
The river
fled, the meadow leaped and took
The leaning mountain
in a close embrace.
GRACIA.
Nay, nay, Antonio! nay,
thou shalt not blame her,
My Gracia,
who hath so deserted me.
Thou art my friend,
but if thou dost defame her
I shall
not hesitate to challenge thee.
“Curse and forget
her?” So I might another,
One not
so bounteous-natured or so fair;
But she, Antonio, she
was like no other—
I curse
her not, because she was so rare.
She was made out of
laughter and sweet kisses;
Not blood,
but sunshine, through her blue veins ran
Her soul spilled over
with its wealth of blisses;
She was
too great for loving but a man.
None but a god could
keep so rare a creature:
I blame
her not for her inconstancy;
When I recall each radiant
smile and feature,
I wonder
she so long was true to me.
Call her not false or
fickle. I, who love her,
Do hold
her not unlike the royal sun,
That, all unmated, roams
the wide world over
And lights
all worlds, but lingers not with one.
If she were less a goddess,
more a woman,
And so had
dallied for a time with me,
And then had left me,
I, who am but human,
Would slay
her and her newer love, maybe.
But since she seeks
Apollo, or another
Of those
lost gods (and seeks him all in vain)
And has loved me as
well as any other
Of her men
loves, why, I do not complain.
AD FINEM.
On the white throat
of the’ useless passion
That scorched
my soul with its burning breath
I clutched my fingers
in murderous fashion,
And gathered
them close in a grip of death;
For why should I fan,
or feed with fuel,
A love that
showed me but blank despair?
So my hold was firm,
and my grasp was cruel—
I meant
to strangle it then and there!
I thought it was dead.
But with no warning,
It rose
from its grave last night, and came
And stood by my bed
till the early morning,
And over
and over it spoke your name.
Its throat was red where
my hands had held it;
It burned
my brow with its scorching breath;
And I said, the moment
my eyes beheld it,
“A
love like this can know no death.”
For just one kiss that
your lips have given
In the lost
and beautiful past to me
I would gladly barter
my hopes of Heaven
And all
the bliss of Eternity.
For never a joy are
the angels keeping,
To lay at
my feet in Paradise,
Like that of into your
strong arms creeping,
And looking
into your love-lit eyes.
I know, in the way that
sins are reckoned,
This thought
is a sin of the deepest dye;
But I know, too, if
an angel beckoned,
Standing
close by the Throne on High,
And you, adown by the
gates infernal,
Should open
your loving arms and smile,
I would turn my back
on things supernal,
To lie on
your breast a little while.
To know for an hour
you were mine completely—
Mine in
body and soul, my own—
I would bear unending
tortures sweetly,
With not
a murmur and not a moan.
A lighter sin or a lesser
error
Might change
through hope or fear divine;
But there is no fear,
and hell has no terror,
To change
or alter a love like mine.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
BLEAK WEATHER.
Dear Love, where the
red lilies blossomed and grew
The white
snows are falling;
And all through the
woods where I wandered with you
The loud
winds are calling;
And the robin that piped
to us tune upon tune,
Neath the
oak, you remember,
O’er hill-top
and forest has followed the June
And left
us December.
He has left like a friend
who is true in the sun
And false
in the shadows;
He has found new delights
in the land where he’s gone,
Greener
woodlands and meadows.
Let him go! what care
we? let the snow shroud the lea,
Let it drift
on the heather;
We can sing through
it all: I have you, you have me.
And we’ll
laugh at the weather.
The old year may die
and a new year be born
That is
bleaker and colder:
It cannot dismay us;
we dare it, we scorn,
For our
love makes us bolder.
Ah, Robin! sing loud
on your far distant lea,
You friend
in fair weather!
But here is a song sung
that’s fuller of glee,
By two warm
hearts together.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
AN ANSWER.
If all the year was
summer time,
And all
the aim of life
Was just to lilt on
like a rhyme,
Then I would
be your wife.
If all the days were
August days,
And crowned
with golden weather,
How happy then through
green-clad ways
We two could
stray together!
If all the nights were
moonlit nights,
And we had
naught to do
But just to sit and
plan delights,
Then I would
wed with you.
If life was all a summer
fete,
Its soberest
pace the “glide,”
Then I would choose
you for my mate,
And keep
you at my side.
But winter makes full
half the year,
And labor
half of life,
And all the laughter
and good cheer
Give place
to wearing strife.
Days will grow cold,
and moons wax old.
And then
a heart that’s true
Is better far than grace
or gold—
And so,
my love, adieu!
I cannot
wed with you.
YOU WILL FORGET ME.
You will forget me.
The years are so tender,
They bind
up the wounds which we think are so deep;
This dream of our youth
will fade out as the splendor
Fades from
the skies when the sun sinks to sleep;
The cloud of forgetfulness,
over and over
Will banish
the last rosy colors away,
And the fingers of time
will weave garlands to cover
The scar
which you think is a life-mark to-day.
You will forget me.
The one boon you covet
Now above
all things will soon seem no prize;
And the heart, which
you hold not in keeping to prove it
True or
untrue, will lose worth in your eyes.
The one drop to-day,
that you deem only wanting
To fill
your life-cup to the brim, soon will seem
But a valueless mite;
and the ghost that is haunting
The aisles
of your heart will pass out with the dream.
You will forget me;
will thank me for saying
The words
which you think are so pointed with pain.
Time loves a new lay;
and the dirge he is playing
Will change
for you soon to a livelier strain.
I shall pass from your
life—I shall pass out forever,
And these
hours we have spent will be sunk in the past.
Youth buries its dead;
grief kills seldom or never,
And forgetfulness
covers all sorrows at last.
THE FAREWELL OF CLARIMONDE.
(Suggested by the “Clarimonde” OF Theophile Gautier.)
Adieu, Romauld!
But thou canst not forget me.
Although
no more I haunt thy dreams at night,
Thy hungering heart
forever must regret me,
And starve
for those lost moments of delight.
Naught shall avail thy
priestly rites and duties,
Nor fears
of Hell, nor hopes of Heaven beyond:
Before the Cross shall
rise my fair form’s beauties—–
The lips,
the limbs, the eyes of Clarimonde.
Like gall the wine sipped
from the sacred chalice
Shall taste
to one who knew my red mouth’s bliss,
When Youth and Beauty
dwelt in Love’s own palace,
And life
flowed on in one eternal kiss.
Through what strange
ways I come, dear heart, to reach thee,
From viewless
lands, by paths no man e’er trod!
I braved all fears,
all dangers dared, to teach thee
A love more
mighty than thy love of God.
Think not in all His
Kingdom to discover
Such joys,
Romauld, as ours, when fierce yet fond
I clasped thee—kissed
thee—crowned thee my one lover:
Thou canst
not find another Clarimonde.
I knew all arts of love:
he who possessed me
Possessed
all women, and could never tire;
A new life dawned for
him who once caressed me;
Satiety
itself I set on fire.
Inconstancy I chained:
men died to win me;
Kings cast
by crowns for one hour on my breast:
And all the passionate
tide of love within me
I gave to
thee, Romauld. Wert thou not blest?
Yet, for the love of
God, thy hand hath riven
Our welded
souls. But not in prayer well conned,
Not in thy dearly-purchased
peace of Heaven,
Canst thou
forget those hours with Clarimonde.
[Illustration:]
THE TRIO.
We love but once.
The great gold orb of light
From dawn
to even-tide doth cast his ray;
But the full splendor
of his perfect might
Is reached
but once throughout the livelong day.
We love but once.
The waves, with ceaseless motion,
Do day and
night plash on the pebbled shore;
But the strong tide
of the resistless ocean
Sweeps in
but one hour of the twenty-four.
We love but once.
A score of times, perchance,
We may be
moved in fancy’s fleeting fashion—
May treasure up a word,
a tone, a glance;
But only
once we feel the soul’s great passion.
We love but once.
Love walks with death and birth
(The saddest,
the unkindest of the three);
And only once while
we sojourn on earth
Can that
strange trio come to you or me.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration:]
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE LOST GARDEN.
There was a fair green
garden sloping
From the
south-east side of the mountain-ledge;
And the earliest tint
of the dawn came groping
Down through
its paths, from the day’s dim edge.
The bluest skies and
the reddest roses
Arched and
varied its velvet sod;
And the glad birds sang,
as the soul supposes
The angels
sing on the hills of God.
I wandered there when
my veins seemed bursting
With life’s
rare rapture and keen delight,
And yet in my heart
was a constant thirsting
For something
over the mountain-height.
I wanted to stand in
the blaze of glory
That turned
to crimson the peaks of snow,
And the winds from the
west all breathed a story
Of realms
and regions I longed to know.
I saw on the garden’s
south side growing
The brightest
blossoms that breathe of June;
I saw in the east how
the sun was glowing,
And the
gold air shook with a wild bird’s tune;
I heard the drip of
a silver fountain,
And the
pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee
But still I looked out
over the mountain
Where unnamed
wonders awaited me.
I came at last to the
western gateway,
That led
to the path I longed to climb;
But a shadow fell on
my spirit straightway,
For close
at my side stood gray-beard Time.
I paused, with feet
that were fain to linger,
Hard by
that garden’s golden gate,
But Time spoke, pointing
with one stern finger;
“Pass
on,” he said, “for the day groes late.”
And now on the chill
giay cliffs I wander,
The heights
recede which I thought to find,
And the light seems
dim on the mountain yonder,
When I think
of the garden I left behind.
Should I stand at last
on its summit’s splendor,
I know full
well it would not repay
For the fair lost tints
of the dawn so tender
That crept
up over the edge o’ day.
I would go back, but
the ways are winding,
If ways
there are to that land, in sooth,
For what man succeeds
in ever finding
A path to
the garden of his lost youth?
But I think sometimes,
when the June stars glisten,
That a rose
scent dufts from far away,
And I know, when I lean
from the cliffs and listen,
That a young
laugh breaks on the air like spray.
ART AND HEART.
Though critics may bow
to art, and I am its own true lover,
It is not art, but heart,
which wins the wide world over.
Though smooth be the
heartless prayer, no ear in Heaven will mind it,
And the finest phrase
falls dead if there is no feeling behind it.
Though perfect the player’s
touch, little, if any, he sways us,
Unless we feel his heart
throb through the music he plays us.
Though the poet may
spend his life in skilfully rounding a measure,
Unless he writes from
a full, warm heart he gives us little pleasure.
So it is not the speech
which tells, but the impulse which goes
with
the saying;
And it is not the words
of the prayer, but the yearning back of
the
praying.
It is not the artist’s
skill which into our soul comes stealing
With a joy that is almost
pain, but it is the player’s feeling.
And it is not the poet’s
song, though sweeter than sweet bells chiming,
Which thrills us through
and through, but the heart which beats under
the
rhyming.
And therefore I say
again, though I am art’s own true lover,
That it is not art,
but heart, which wins the wide world over.
[Illustration: RECOLLECTIONS]
MOCKERY.
Why do we grudge our
sweets so to the living
Who, God
knows, find at best too much of gall,
And then with generous,
open hands kneel, giving
Unto the
dead our all?
Why do we pierce the
warm hearts, sin or sorrow,
With idle
jests, or scorn, or cruel sneers,
And when it cannot know,
on some to-morrow,
Speak of
its woe through tears?
What do the dead care,
for the tender token—
The love,
the praise, the floral offerings?
But palpitating, living
hearts are broken
For want
of just these things.
AS BY FIRE.
Sometimes I feel so
passionate a yearning
For spiritual
perfection here below,
This vigorous frame,
with healthful fervor burning,
Seems my
determined foe,
So actively it makes
a stern resistance,
So cruelly
sometimes it wages war
Against a wholly spiritual
existence
Which I
am striving for.
It interrupts my soul’s
intense devotions;
Some hope
it strangles, of divinest birth,
With a swift rush of
violent emotions
Which link
me to the earth.
It is as if two mortal
foes contended
Within my
bosom in a deadly strife,
One for the loftier
aims for souls intended,
One for
the earthly life.
And yet I know this
very war within me,
Which brings
out all my will-power and control,
This very conflict at
the last shall win me
The loved
and longed-for goal.
The very fire which
seems sometimes so cruel
Is the white
light that shows me my own strength.
A furnace, fed by the
divinest fuel,
It may become
at length.
Ah! when in the immortal
ranks enlisted,
I sometimes
wonder if we shall not find
That not by deeds, but
by what we’ve resisted,
Our places
are assigned.
IF I SHOULD DIE.
RONDEAU.
If I should die, how
kind you all would grow!
In that strange hour
I would not have one foe.
There
are no words too beautiful to say
Of
one who goes forevermore away
Across that ebbing tide
which has no flow.
With what new lustre
my good deeds would glow!
If faults were mine,
no one would call them so,
Or
speak of me in aught but praise that day,
If
I should die.
Ah, friends! before
my listening ear lies low,
While I can hear and
understand, bestow
That
gentle treatment and fond love, I pray,
The
lustre of whose late though radiant way
Would gild my grave
with mocking light, I know,
If
I should die.
MESALLIANCE.
I am troubled to-night
with a curious pain;
It is not of the flesh,
it is not of the brain,
Nor yet
of a heart that is breaking:
But down still deeper,
and out of sight—
In the place where the
soul and the body unite—
There lies
the scat of the aching.
They have been lovers
in days gone by;
But the soul is fickle,
and longs to fly
From the
fettering mesalliance:
And she tears at the
bonds which are binding her so,
And pleads with the
body to let her go,
But he will
not yield compliance.
For the body loves,
as he loved in the past,
When he wedded the soul;
and he holds her fast,
And swears
that he will not loose her;
That he will keep her
and hide her away
For ever and ever and
for a day
From the
arms of Death, the seducer.
Ah! this is the strife
that is wearying me—
The strife ’twixt
a soul that would be free
And a body
that will not let her.
And I say to my soul,
“Be calm, and wait;
For I tell ye truly
that soon or late
Ye surely
shall drop each fetter.”
And I say to the body,
“Be kind, I pray;
For the soul is not
of thy mortal clay,
But is formed
in spirit fashion.”
And still through the
hours of the solemn night
I can hear my sad soul’s
plea for flight,
And my body’s
reply of passion.
[Illustration:]
[Illustration: DAY DREAMS]
RESPONSE.
I said this morning,
as I leaned and threw
My shutters
open to the Spring’s surprise,
“Tell me, O Earth,
how is it that in you
Year after
year the same fresh feelings rise?
How do you keep your
young exultant glee?
No more those sweet
emotions come to me.
“I note through
all your fissures how the tide
Of healthful
life goes leaping as of old;
Your royal dawns retain
their pomp and pride;
Your sunsets
lose no atom of their gold.
How can this wonder
be?” My soul’s fine ear
Leaned, listening, till
a small voice answered near:
“My days lapse
never over into night;
My nights
encroach not on the rights of dawn.
I rush not breathless
after some delight;
I waste
no grief for any pleasure gone.
My July noons burn not
the entire year.
Heart, hearken well!”
“Yes, yes; go on; I hear.”
“I do not strive
to make my sunsets’ gold
Pave all
the dim and distant realms of space.
I do not bid my crimson
dawns unfold
To lend
the midnight a fictitious grace.
I break no law, for
all God’s laws are good.
Heart, hast thou heard?”
“Yes, yes; and understood.”
DROUTH.
Why do we pity those
who weep? The pain
That finds
a ready outlet in the flow
Of salt
and bitter tears is blessed woe,
And does not need our
sympathies. The rain
But fits the shorn field
for new yield of grain;
While the
red, brazen skies, the sun’s fierce glow,
The dry,
hot winds that from the tropics blow
Do parch and wither
the unsheltered plain.
The anguish that through
long, remorseless years
Looks out
upon the world with no relief
Of sudden tempests or
slow-dripping tears—
The still,
unuttered, silent, wordless grief
That evermore doth ache,
and ache, and ache—
This is the sorrow wherewith
hearts do break.
THE CREED.
Whoever was begotten
by pure love,
And came desired and
welcome into life,
Is of immaculate conception.
He
Whose heart is full
of tenderness and truth,
Who loves mankind more
than he loves himself,
And cannot find room
in his heart for hate,
May be another Christ.
We all may be
The Saviours of the
world if we believe
In the Divinity which
dwells in us
And worship it, and
nail our grosser selves,
Our tempers, greeds,
and our unworthy aims,
Upon the cross.
Who giveth love to all;
Pays kindness for unkindness,
smiles for frowns;
And lends new courage
to each fainting heart,
And strengthens hope
and scatters joy abroad—
He, too, is a Redeemer,
Son of God.
[Illustration: “CAME DESIRED AND WELCOMED INTO LIFE”]
PROGRESS.
Let there be many windows
to your soul,
That all the glory of
the universe
May beautify it.
Not the narrow pane
Of one poor creed can
catch the radiant rays
That shine from countless
sources. Tear away
The blinds of superstition;
let the light
Pour through fair windows
broad as Truth itself
And high as God.
Why
should the spirit peer
Through some priest-curtained
orifice, and grope
Along dim corridors
of doubt, when all
The splendor from unfathomed
seas of space
Might bathe it with
MY FRIEND.
When first I looked
upon the face of Pain
I shrank
repelled, as one shrinks from a foe
Who stands
with dagger poised, as for a blow.
I was in search of Pleasure
and of Gain;
I turned aside to let
him pass: in vain;
He looked
straight in my eyes and would not go.
“Shake
hands,” he said; “our paths are one, and
so
We must be comrades
on the way, ’tis plain.”
I felt the firm clasp
of his hand on mine;
Through
all my veins it sent a strengthening glow.
I straightway
linked my arm in his, and lo!
He led me forth to joys
almost divine;
With God’s
great truths enriched me in the end:
And now
I hold him as my dearest friend.
[Illustration:]
CREATION.
The impulse of all love
is to create.
God was
so full of love, in his embrace
He clasped
the empty nothingness of space,
And low! the solar system!
High in state
The mighty sun sat,
so supreme and great
With this
same essence, one smile of its face
Brought
myriad forms of life forth; race on race,
From insects up to men.
Through
love, not hate,
All that is grand in
nature or in art
Sprang into
being. He who would build sublime
And lasting
works, to stand the test of time,
Must inspiration draw
from his full heart.
And he who
loveth widely, well, and much,
The secret
holds of the true master touch.
[Illustration:]
RED CARNATIONS.
One time in Arcadie’s
fair bowers
There met
a bright immortal band,
To choose their emblems
from the flowers
That made
an Eden of that land.
Sweet Constancy, with
eyes of hope,
Strayed
down the garden path alone
And gathered sprays
of heliotrope,
To place
in clusters at her zone.
True Friendship plucked
the ivy green,
Forever
fresh, forever fair.
Inconstancy with flippant
mien
The fading
primrose chose to wear.
One moment Love the
rose paused by;
But Beauty
picked it for her hair.
Love paced the garden
with a sigh
He found
no fitting emblem there.
Then suddenly he saw
a flame,
A conflagration
turned to bloom;
It even put the rose
to shame,
Both in
its beauty and perfume.
He watched it, and it
did not fade;
He plucked
it, and it brighter grew.
In cold or heat, all
undismayed,
It kept
its fragrance and its hue.
“Here deathless
love and passion sleep,”
He cried,
“embodied in this flower.
This is the emblem I
will keep.”
Love wore
carnations from that hour.
[Illustration:]
LIFE IS TOO SHORT.
Life is too short for
any vain regretting;
Let dead
delight bury its dead, I say,
And let us go upon our
way forgetting
The joys
and sorrows of each yesterday
Between the swift sun’s
rising and its setting
We have no time for
useless tears or fretting:
Life
is too short.
Life is too short for
any bitter feeling;
Time is
the best avenger if we wait;
The years speed by,
and on their wings bear healing;
We have
no room for anything like hate.
This solemn truth the
low mounds seem revealing
That thick and fast
about our feet are stealing:
Life
is too short.
Life is too short for
aught but high endeavor—
Too short
for spite, but long enough for love.
And love lives on forever
and forever;
It links
the worlds that circle on above:
’Tis God’s
first law, the universe’s lever.
In His vast realm the
radiant souls sigh never
“Life
is too short.”
A SCULPTOR.
As the ambitious sculptor,
tireless, lifts
Chisel and
hammer to the block at hand,
Before my
half-formed character I stand
And ply the shining
tools of mental gifts.
I’ll
cut away a huge, unsightly side
Of selfishness, and
smooth to curves of grace
The angles of ill-temper.
And
no trace
Shall my
sure hammer leave of silly pride.
Chip after chip must
fall from vain desires,
And the
sharp corners of my discontent
Be rounded
into symmetry, and lent
Great harmony by faith
that never tires.
Unfinished
still, I must toil on and on,
Till the
pale critic, Death, shall say, “’Tis done.”
BEYOND.
It seemeth such a little
way to me
Across to
that strange country—the Beyond;
And yet, not strange,
for it has grown to be
The home
of those of whom I am so fond,
They make it seem familiar
and most dear,
As journeying friends
bring distant regions near.
So close it lies that
when my sight is clear
I think
I almost see the gleaming strand.
I know I feel those
who have gone from here
Come near
enough sometimes to touch my hand.
I often think, but for
our veiled eyes,
We should find Heaven
right round about us lies.
I cannot make it seem
a day to dread,
When from
this dear earth I shall journey out
To that still dearer
country of the dead,
And join
the lost ones, so long dreamed about.
I love this world, yet
shall I love to go
And meet the friends
who wait for me, I know.
I never stand above
a bier and see
The seal
of death set on some well-loved face
But that I think, “One
more to welcome me
When I shall
cross the intervening space
Between this land and
that one ‘over there’;
One more to make the
strange Beyond seem fair.”
And so for me there
is no sting to death,
And so the
grave has lost its victory.
It is but crossing—with
a bated breath
And white,
set face—a little strip of sea
To find the loved ones
waiting on the shore,
More beautiful, more
precious than before.
[Illustration:]
THE SADDEST HOUR.
The saddest hour of
anguish and of loss
Is not that
season of supreme despair
When we
can find no least light anywhere
To gild the dread, black
shadow of the Cross;
Not in that luxury of
sorrow when
We sup on
salt of tears, and drink the gall
Of memories
of days beyond recall—
Of lost delights that
cannot come again.
But when,
with eyes that are no longer wet,
We look out on the great,
wide world of men,
And, smiling, lean toward
a bright to-morrow,
Then backward
shrink, with sudden keen regret,
To find
that we are learning to forget:
Ah! then we face the
saddest hour of sorrow.
[Illustration: ACROSS THE SEA OF SILENCE]
SHOW ME THE WAY.
Show me the way that
leads to the true life.
I do not
care what tempests may assail me,
I shall be given courage
for the strife;
I know my
strength will not desert or fail me;
I know that I shall
conquer in the fray:
Show
me the way.
Show me the way up to
a higher plane,
Where body
shall be servant to the soul.
I do not care what tides
of woe or pain
Across my
life their angry waves may roll,
If I but reach the end
I seek, some day:
Show
me the way.
Show me the way, and
let me bravely climb
Above vain
grievings for unworthy treasures;
Above all sorrow that
finds balm in time;
Above small
triumphs or belittling pleasures;
Up to those heights
where these things seem child’s-play:
Show
me the way.
Show me the way to that
calm, perfect peace
Which springs
from an inward consciousness of right;
To where all conflicts
with the flesh shall cease,
And self
shall radiate with the spirit’s light.
Though hard the journey
and the strife, I pray,
Show
me the way.
MY HERITAGE.
I into life so full
of love was sent
That all
the shadows which fall on the way
Of every
human being could not stay,
But fled before the
light my spirit lent.
I saw the world through
gold and crimson dyes:
Men sighed
and said, “Those rosy hues will fade
As you pass
on into the glare and shade!”
Still beautiful the
way seems to mine eyes.
They said, “You
are too jubilant and glad;
The world
is full of sorrow and of wrong.
Full soon
your lips shall breathe forth sighs—not
song.”
The day wears on, and
yet I am not sad.
They said, “You
love too largely, and you must,
Through
wound on wound, grow bitter to your kind.”
They were
false prophets; day by day I find
More cause for love,
and less cause for distrust.
They said, “Too
free you give your soul’s rare wine;
The world
will quaff, but it will not repay.”
Yet in the
emptied flagons, day by day,
True hearts pour back
a nectar as divine.
Thy heritage! Is
it not love’s estate?
Look to
it, then, and keep its soil well tilled.
I hold that
my best wishes are fulfilled
Because I love so much,
and cannot hate.
RESOLVE.
Build on resolve, and
not upon regret,
The structure
of thy future. Do not grope
Among the shadows of
old sins, but let
Thine own
soul’s light shine on the path of hope
And dissipate the darkness.
Waste no tears
Upon the blotted record
of lost years,
But turn the leaf and
smile, oh, smile, to see
The fair white pages
that remain for thee.
Prate not of thy repentance.
But believe
The spark
divine dwells in thee: let it grow.
That which the upreaching
spirit can achieve
The grand
and all-creative forces know;
They will assist and
strengthen as the light
Lifts up the acorn to
the oak tree’s height.
Thou hast but to resolve,
and lo! God’s whole
Great universe shall
fortify thy soul.
AT ELEUSIS.
I, at Eleusis, saw the
finest sight,
When early
morning’s banners were unfurled.
From high
Olympus, gazing on the world,
The ancient gods once
saw it with delight.
Sad Demeter had in a
single night
Removed
her sombre garments! and mine eyes
Beheld a
’broidered mantle in pale dyes
Thrown o’er her
throbbing bosom. Sweet and clear
There fell the sound
of music on mine ear.
And from
the South came Hermes, he whose lyre
One time
appeased the great Apollo’s ire.
The rescued maid, Persephone,
by the hand
He led to waiting Demeter,
and cheer
And light and beauty
once more blessed the land.
COURAGE.
There is a courage,
a majestic thing
That springs
forth from the brow of pain, full-grown,
Minerva-like,
and dares all dangers known,
And all the threatening
future yet may bring;
Crowned with the helmet
of great suffering;
Serene with
that grand strength by martyrs shown,
When at
the stake they die and make no moan,
And even as the flames
leap up are heard to sing:
A courage so sublime
and unafraid,
It wears
its sorrows like a coat of mail;
And Fate,
the archer, passes by dismayed,
Knowing his best barbed
arrows needs must fail
To pierce a soul so
armored and arrayed
That Death
himself might look on it and quail.
[Illustration:]
SOLITUDE.
Laugh, and the world
laughs with you;
Weep, and
you weep alone;
For the sad old earth
must borrow its mirth,
But has
trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills
will answer;
Sigh, it
is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to
a joyful sound,
But shrink
from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will
seek you;
Grieve,
and they turn and go;
They want full measure
of all your pleasure,
But they
do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends
are many;
Be sad,
and you lose them all;
There are none to decline
your nectar’d wine,
But alone
you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls
are crowded;
Fast, and
the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and
it helps you live,
But no man
can help you die.
There is room in the
halls of pleasure
For a large
and lordly train,
But one by one we must
all file on
Through
the narrow aisles of pain.
THE YEAR OUTGROWS THE SPRING.
The year outgrows the
spring it thought so sweet,
And clasps
the summer with a new delight,
Yet wearied, leaves
her languors and her heat
When cool-browed
autumn dawns upon his sight.
The tree outgrows the
bud’s suggestive grace,
And feels
new pride in blossoms fully blown.
But even this to deeper
joy gives place
When bending
boughs ’neath blushing burdens groan.
Life’s rarest
moments are derived from change.
The heart
outgrows old happiness, old grief,
And suns itself in feelings
new and strange;
The most
enduring pleasure is but brief.
Our tastes, our needs,
are never twice the same.
Nothing
contents us long, however dear.
The spirit in us, like
the grosser frame,
Outgrows
the garments which it wore last year.
Change is the watchword
of Progression. When
We tire
of well-worn ways we seek for new.
This restless craving
in the souls of men
Spurs them
to climb, and seek the mountain view.
So let who will erect
an altar shrine
To meek-browed
Constancy, and sing her praise.
Unto enlivening Change
I shall build mine,
Who lends
new zest and interest to my days.
[Illustration: “...AND LIGHT AND BEAUTY BLESSED THE LAND”]
THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD.
Come, cuddle your head
on my shoulder, dear,
Your head
like the golden-rod,
And we will go sailing
away from here
To the beautiful
Land of Nod.
Away from life’s
hurry and flurry and worry,
Away from
earth’s shadows and gloom,
To a world of fair weather
we’ll float off together,
Where roses
are always in bloom.
Just shut your eyes
and fold your hands,
Your hands
like the leaves of a rose,
And we will go sailing
to those fair lands
That never
an atlas shows.
On the North and the
West they are bounded by rest,
On the South
and the East, by dreams;
’Tis the country
ideal, where nothing is real,
But everything
only seems.
Just drop down the curtains
of your dear eyes
Those eyes
like a bright bluebell,
And we will sail out
under starlit skies,
To the land
where the fairies dwell.
Down the river of sleep
our barque shall sweep,
Till it
reaches that mystical Isle
Which no man hath seen,
but where all have been,
And there
we will pause awhile.
I will croon you a song
as we float along
To that
shore that is blessed of God,
Then, ho! for that fair
land, we’re off for that rare land,
That beautiful
Land of Nod.
[Illustration:]
THE TIGER.
In the still jungle
of the senses lay
A tiger soundly sleeping,
till one day
A bold young hunter
chanced to come that way.
“How calm,”
he said, “that splendid creature lies!
I long to rouse him
into swift surprise.”
The well aimed arrow
shot from amorous eyes,
And lo! the tiger rouses
up and turns,
A coal of fire his glowing
eyeball burns,
His mighty frame with
savage hunger yearns.
He crouches for a spring;
his eyes dilate—
Alas! bold hunter, what
shall be thy fate?
Thou canst not fly;
it is too late, too late.
Once having tasted human
flesh, ah! then,
Woe, woe unto the whole
rash world of men.
The wakened tiger will
not sleep again.
ONLY A SIMPLE RHYME.
Only a simple rhyme
of love and sorrow,
Where “blisses”
rhymed with “kisses,” “heart,”
with “dart:”
Yet, reading it, new
strength I seemed to borrow,
To live
on bravely and to do my part.
A little rhyme about
a heart that’s bleeding—
Of lonely
hours and sorrow’s unrelief:
I smiled at first; but
there came with the reading
A sense
of sweet companionship in grief.
The selfishness of my
own woe forsaking,
I thought
about the singer of that song.
Some other breast felt
this same weary aching;
Another
found the summer days too long.
The few sad lines, my
sorrow so expressing,
I read,
and on the singer, all unknown,
I breathed a fervent
though a silent blessing,
And seemed
to clasp his hand within my own.
And though fame pass
him and he never know it,
And though
he never sings another strain,
He has performed the
mission of the poet,
In helping
some sad heart to bear its pain.
[Illustration:]
I WILL BE WORTHY OF IT.
I may not reach the
heights I seek,
My untried
strength may fail me,
Or, half-way up the
mountain peak,
Fierce tempests
may assail me.
But though that place
I never gain,
Herein lies comfort
for my pain—
I
will be worthy of it.
I may not triumph in
success,
Despite
my earnest labor;
I may not grasp results
that bless
The efforts
of my neighbor;
But though my goal I
never see,
This thought shall always
dwell with me—
I
will be worthy of it.
The golden glory of
Love’s light
May never
fall on my way;
My path may always lead
through night,
Like some
deserted by-way;
But though life’s
dearest joy I miss
There lies a nameless
strength in this—
I
will be worthy of it.
SONNET.
Methinks ofttimes my
heart is like some bee
That goes
forth through the summer day and sings.
And gathers
honey from all growing things
In garden plot or on
the clover lea.
When the long afternoon
grows late, and she
Would seek
her hive, she cannot lift her wings.
So heavily
the too sweet bin den clings,
From which she would
not, and yet would, fly free.
So with my full, fond
heart; for when it tries
To lift
itself to peace crowned heights, above
The common
way where countless feet have trod,
Lo! then, this burden
of dear human ties,
This growing
weight of precious earthly love,
Binds down
the spirit that would soar to God.
REGRET.
There is a haunting
phantom called Regret,
A shadowy
creature robed somewhat like Woe,
But fairer
in the face, whom all men know
By her sad mien and
eyes forever wet.
No heart would seek
her; but once having met,
All take
her by the hand, and to and fro
They wander
through those paths of long ago—
Those hallowed ways
’twere wiser to forget.
One day she led me to
that lost land’s gate
And bade
me enter; but I answered “No!
I will pass on with
my bold comrade, Fate;
I have no
tears to waste on thee—no time;
My strength
I hoard for heights I hope to climb:
No friend art thou for
souls that would be great.”
[Illustration: “...THE STRIFE THAT IS WEARYING ME”]
LET ME LEAN HARD.
Let me lean hard upon
the Eternal Breast:
In all earth’s
devious ways I sought for rest
And found it not.
I will be strong, said I,
And lean upon myself.
I will not cry
And importune all heaven
with my complaint.
But now my strength
fails, and I fall, I faint:
Let
me lean hard.
Let me lean hard upon
the unfailing Arm.
I said I will walk on,
I fear no harm,
The spark divine within
my soul will show
The upward pathway where
my feet should go.
But now the heights
to which I most aspire
Are lost in clouds.
I stumble and I tire:
Let
me lean hard.
Let me lean harder yet.
That swerveless force
Which speeds the solar
systems on their course
Can take, unfelt, the
burden of my woe,
Which bears me to the
dust and hurts me so.
I thought my strength
enough for any fate,
But lo! I sink
beneath my sorrow’s weight:
Let
me lean hard.
PENALTY.
Because of the fullness
of what I had
All that
I have seems void and vain.
If I had not been happy
I were not sad;
Though my
salt is savorless, why complain?
From the ripe perfection
of what was mine,
All that
is mine seems worse than naught;
Yet I know as I sit
in the dark and pine,
No cup could
be drained which had not been fraught.
From the throb and thrill
of a day that was,
The day
that now is seems dull with gloom;
Yet I bear its dullness
and darkness because
’Tis
but the reaction of glow and bloom.
From the royal feast
which of old was spread
I am starved
on the diet which now is mine;
Yet I could not turn
hungry from water and bread,
If I had
not been sated on fruit and wine.
SUNSET.
I saw the day lean o’er
the world’s sharp edge
And peer
into night’s chasm, dark and damp;
High in
his hand he held a blazing lamp,
Then dropped it and
plunged headlong down the ledge.
With lurid splendor
that swift paled to gray,
I saw the
dim skies suddenly flush bright.
’Twas
but the expiring glory of the light
Flung from the hand
of the adventurous day.
[Illustration:]
THE WHEEL OF THE BREAST.
Through rivers of veins
on the nameless quest
The tide
of my life goes hurriedly sweeping,
Till it reaches that
curious wheel o’ the breast,
The human heart, which
is never at rest.
Faster,
faster, it cries, and leaping,
Plunging, dashing, speeding
away,
The wheel and the river
work night and day.
I know not wherefore,
I know not whither,
This strange
tide rushes with such mad force:
It glides on hither,
it slides on thither,
Over and
over the selfsame course,
With never
an outlet and never a source;
And it lashes itself
to the heat of passion
And whirls the heart
in a mill-wheel fashion.
I can hear in the hush
of the still, still night,
The ceaseless
sound of that mighty river;
I can hear it gushing,
gurgling, rushing,
With a wild, delirious,
strange delight,
And a conscious pride
in its sense of might,
As it hurries
and worries my heart forever.
And I wonder oft as
I lie awake,
And list
to the river that seethes and surges
Over the wheel that
it chides and urges—
I wonder oft if that
wheel will break
With the
mighty pressure it bears, some day,
Or slowly
and wearily wear away.
For little by little
the heart is wearing,
Like the wheel of the
mill, as the tide goes tearing
And plunging
hurriedly through my breast,
In a network
of veins on a nameless quest,
From and forth, unto
unknown oceans,
Bringing its cargoes
of fierce emotions,
With never
a pause or an hour for rest.
A MEETING.
Quite carelessly I turned
the newsy sheet;
A song I
sang, full many a year ago,
Smiled up at me, as
in a busy street
One meets
an old-time friend he used to know.
So full it was, that
simple little song,
Of all the
hope, the transport, and the truth,
Which to the impetuous
morn of life belong,
That once
again I seemed to grasp my youth.
So full it was of that
sweet, fancied pain
We woo and
cherish ere we meet with woe,
I felt as one who hears
a plaintive strain
His mother
sang him in the long ago.
Up from the grave the
years that lay between
That song’s
birthday and my stern present came
Like phantom forms and
swept across the scene,
Bearing
their broken dreams of love and fame.
Fair hopes and bright
ambitions that I knew
In that
old time, with their ideal grace,
Shone for a moment,
then were lost to view
Behind the
dull clouds of the commonplace.
With trembling hands
I put the sheet away;
Ah, little
song! the sad and bitter truth
Struck like an arrow
when we met that day!
My life
has missed the promise of its youth.
EARNESTNESS.
The hurry of the times
affects us so
In this
swift rushing hour, we crowd and press
And thrust each other
backward as we go,
And do not
pause to lay sufficient stress
Upon that
good, strong, true word, Earnestness.
In our impetuous haste,
could we but know
Its full, deep meaning,
its vast import, oh,
Then might
we grasp the secret of success!
In that receding age
when men were great,
The bone
and sinew of their purpose lay
In this
one word. God likes an earnest soul—
Too earnest to be eager.
Soon or late
It leaves
the spent horde breathless by the way,
And stands
serene, triumphant at the goal.
A PICTURE.
I strolled last eve
across the lonely down;
One solitary
picture struck my eye:
A distant
ploughboy stood against the sky—
How far he seemed above
the noisy town!
Upon the bosom of a
cloud the sod
Laid its
bruised cheek as he moved slowly by,
And, watching
him, I asked myself if I
In very truth stood
half as near to God.
[Illustration:]
TWIN-BORN.
He who possesses virtue
at its best,
Or greatness
in the true sense of the word,
Has one
day started even with that herd
Whose swift feet now
speed but at sin’s behest.
It is the same force
in the human breast
Which makes
men gods or demons. If we gird
Those strong
emotions by which we are stirred
With might of will and
purpose, heights unguessed
Shall dawn
for us; or if we give them sway
We can sink down and
consort with the lost.
All virtue is worth
just the price it cost.
Black sin
is oft white truth that missed its way
And wandered off in
paths not understood.
Twin-born I hold great
evil and great good.
FLOODS.
In the dark night, from
sweet refreshing sleep
I wake to
hear outside my window-pane
The uncurbed
fury of the wild spring rain,
And weird winds lashing
the defiant deep,
And roar of floods that
gather strength and leap
Down dizzy,
wreck-strewn channels to the main.
I turn upon
my pillow and again
Compose myself for slumber.
Let
them sweep;
I once survived
great floods, and do not fear,
Though ominous planets
congregate, and seem
To foretell strange
disasters.
From
a dream—
Ah! dear
God! such a dream!—I woke to hear,
Through the dense shadows
lit by no star’s gleam,
The rush
of mighty waters on my ear.
Helpless, afraid, and
all alone, I lay;
The floods
had come upon me unaware.
I heard
the crash of structures that were fair;
A FABLE.
Some cawing Crows, a
hooting Owl,
A Hawk, a Canary, an
old Marsh-Fowl,
One day
all meet together
To hold a caucus and
settle the fate
Of a certain bird (without
a mate),
A bird of
another feather.
“My friends,”
said the Owl, with a look most wise,
“The Eagle is
soaring too near the skies,
In a way
that is quite improper;
Yet the world is praising
her, so I’m told,
And I think her actions
have grown so bold
That some
of us ought to stop her.”
“I have heard
it said,” quoth Hawk, with a sigh,
“That young lambs
died at the glance of her eye,
And I wholly
scorn and despise her.
This, and more, I am
told they say,
And I think that the
only proper way
Is never
to recognize her.”
“I am quite convinced,”
said Crow, with a caw,
“That the Eagle
minds no moral law,
She’s
a most unruly creature.”
“She’s an
ugly thing,” piped Canary Bird;
“Some call her
handsome—it’s so absurd—
She hasn’t
a decent feature.”
Then the old Marsh-Hen
went hopping about,
She said she was sure—she
hadn’t a doubt—
Of the truth
of each bird’s story:
And she thought it a
duty to stop her flight,
To pull her down from
her lofty height,
And take
the gilt from her glory.
But, lo! from a peak
on the mountain grand
That looks out over
the smiling land
And over
the mighty ocean,
The Eagle is spreading
her splendid wings—
She rises, rises, and
upward swings,
With a slow,
majestic motion.
Up in the blue of God’s
own skies,
With a cry of rapture,
away she flies,
Close to
the Great Eternal:
She sweeps the world
with her piercing sight;
Her soul is filled with
the infinite
And the
joy of things supernal.
Thus rise forever the
chosen of God,
The genius-crowned or
the power-shod,
Over the
dust-world sailing;
And back, like splinters
blown by the winds,
Must fall the missiles
of silly minds,
Useless
and unavailing.