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.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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.
All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.
Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
CONTENTS. | 1 |
Barter | 16 |
Song | 18 |
A Dream, 1 Dream-Song, 8 Doubt, 9 Song, 13 Anticipation, 14 Song, 18 Misunderstanding, 19 Shadow-Song, 23 Revulsion, 24 A Song of Dawn, 27 Weariness, 28 A Song of Rest, 31 Death, 33 Battle-Song, 38 Content, 39 Sea-Song, 42 Gratitude, 44 Song, 48 Prayer, 49 Song, 53 Loneliness, 54 Sea-Song, 57 Incompleteness, 59 Song, 65 Life’s Joys, 65 Song, 70 Barter, 72 Song, 76 To-morrow, 78 Song, 82
A Dream.
I stood far off above the
haunts of men
Somewhere, I know
not, when the sky was dim
From some worn
glory, and the morning hymn
Of the gay oriole echoed from
the glen.
Wandering, I felt
earth’s peace, nor knew I sought
A visioned face,
a voice the wind had caught.
I passed the waking things
that stirred and gazed,
Thought-bound,
and heeded not; the waking flowers
Drank in the morning
mist, dawn’s tender showers,
And looked forth for the Day-god
who had blazed
His heart away
and died at sundown. Far
In the gray west
faded a loitering star.
It seemed that I had wandered
through long years,
A life of years,
still seeking gropingly
A thing I dared
not name; now I could see
In the still dawn a hope,
in the soft tears
Of the deep-hearted
violets a breath
Of kinship, like
the herald voice of Death.
Slow moved the morning; where
the hill was bare
Woke a reluctant
breeze. Dimly I knew
My Day was come.
The wind-blown blossoms threw
Their breath about me, and
the pine-swept air
Grew to a shape,
a mighty, formless thing,
A phantom of the
wood’s imagining.
And as I gazed, spell-bound,
it seemed to move
Its tendril limbs,
still swaying tremulously
As if in spirit-doubt;
then glad and free
Crystalled the being won from
waiting grove
Into a human likeness.
There he stood,
The vine-browed
shape of Nature’s mortal mood.
“Now have I found thee,
Vision I have sought
These years, unknowing;
surely thou art fair
And inly wise,
and on thy tasselled hair
Glows Heaven’s own light.
Passion and fame are naught
To thy clear eyes,
O Prince of many lands,—
Grant me thy joy,”
I cried, and stretched my hands.
No answer but the flourish
of the breeze
Through the black
pines. Then, slowly, as the wind
Parts the dense
cloud-forms, leaving naught behind
But shapeless vapor, through
the budding trees
Drifted some force
unseen, and from my sight
Faded my god into
the morning light.
Again alone. With wistful,
straining eyes
I waited, and
the sunshine flecked the bank
Happy with arbutus
and violets where I sank
Hearing, near by, a host of
melodies,
The rapture of
the woodthrush; soft her mood
The love-mate,
with such golden numbers woo’d.
He ceased; the fresh moss-odors
filled the grove
With a strange
sweetness, the dark hemlock boughs
Moved soft, as
though they heard the brooklet rouse
To its spring soul, and whisper
low of love.
The white-robed
birches stood unbendingly
Like royal maids,
in proud expectancy.
Athwart the ramage where the
young leaves press
It came to me,
ah, call it what you will
Vision or waking
dream, I see it still!
Again a form born of the woodland
stress
Grew to my gaze,
and by some secret sign
Though shadow-hid,
I knew the form was thine.
The glancing sunlight made
thy ruddy hair
A crown of gold,
but on thy spirit-face
There was no smile,
only a tender grace
Of love half doubt. Upon
thy hand a rare
Wild bird of Paradise
perched fearlessly
With radiant plumage
and still, lustrous eye.
And as I gazed I saw what
I had deemed
A shadow near
thy hand, a dusky wing,
A bird like last
year’s leaves, so dull a thing
Beside its fellow; as the
sunshine gleamed
Each breast showed letters
bright as crystalled rain,
The fair bird
bore “Delight,” the other “Pain.”
Then came thy voice:
“O Love, wilt have my gift?”
I stretched my
glad hands eagerly to grasp
The heaven-blown
bird, gold-hued, and longed to clasp
It close and know it mine.
Ere I might lift
The shining thing
and hold it to my breast
Again I heard
thy voice with vague unrest.
“These are twin birds
and may not parted be.”
Full in thine
eyes I gazed, and read therein
The paradox of
life, of love, of sin,
As on a night of cloud and
mystery
One darting flash
makes bright the hidden ways,
And feet tread
knowingly though thick the haze.
Thy gift, if so I chose,—no
other hand
Save thine.—I
reached and gathered to my heart
The quivering,
sentient things.—Sometimes I start
To know them hidden there.—If
I should stand
Idly, some day,
and one,—God help me!—breast
A homing breeze,—my
brown bird knows its nest.
Dream-Song.
Cam’st thou not nigh
to me
In that one glimpse of thee
When thy lips, tremblingly,
Said:
“My Beloved.”
’Twas but a moment’s
space,
And in that crowded place
I dared not scan thy face
O!
my Beloved.
Yet there may come a time
(Though loving be a crime
Only allowed in rhyme
To
us, Beloved),
When safe ’neath sheltering
arm
I may, without alarm,
Hear thy lips, close and warm,
Murmur:
“Beloved!”
Doubt.
I do not know if all the fault
be mine,
Or why I may not
think of thee and be
At peace with
mine own heart. Unceasingly
Grim doubts beset me, bygone
words of thine
Take subtle meaning,
and I cannot rest
Till all my fears
and follies are confessed.
Perhaps the wild wind’s
questioning has brought
My heart its melancholy,
for, alone
In the night stillness,
I can hear him moan
In sobbing gusts, as though
he vainly sought
Some bygone bliss.
Against the dripping pane
In storm-blown
torrents beats the driving rain.
Nay I will tell thee all,
I will not hide
One thought from
thee, and if I do thee wrong
So much the more
must I be brave and strong
To show my fault. And
if thou then shouldst chide
I will accept
reproof most willingly
So it but bringeth
peace to thee and me.
I dread thy past. Phantoms
of other days
Pursue my vision.
There are other hands
Which thou hast
held, perchance some slender bands
That draw thee still to other
woodland ways
Than those which
we have known, some blissful hours
I do not share,
of love, and June, and flowers.
I dread her most, that woman
whom thou knewest
Those years ago,—I
cannot bear to think
That she can say:
“My lover praised the pink
Of palm, or ear,” “The
violets were bluest
In that dear copse,”
and dream of some fair day
When thou didst
while her summer hours away.
I dread them too, those light
loves and desires
That lie in the
dim shadow of the years;
I fain would cheat
myself of all my fears
And, as a child watching warm
winter fires,
Dream not of yesterday’s
black embers, nor
To-morrow’s
ashes that may strew the floor.
I did not dream of this while
thou wert near,
But now the thought
that haunts me day by day
Is that the things
I love, the tender way
Of mastery, the kisses that
are dear
As Heaven’s
best gifts, to other lips and arms
Owe half their
blessedness and all their charms.
Tell me that I am wrong, O!
Man of men,
Surely it is not
hard to comfort me,
Laugh at my fears
with dear persistency,
Nay, if thou must, lie to
me! There, again,
I hear the rain,
and the wind’s wailing cry
Stirs with wild
life the night’s monotony.
Song.
If I had known
That when the morrow dawned the roses would be dead
I would have filled my hands with blossoms white and red.
If I had known!
If I had known
That I should be to-day deaf to all happy birds
I would have lain for hours to listen to your words.
If I had known!
If I had known
That with the morning light you would be gone for aye
I would have been more kind;—sweet Love had won his way
If I had known.
Anticipation.
Let us peer forward through the
dusk of years
And force the silent future to reveal
Her store of garnered joys; we may not kneel
For ever, and entreat our bliss with tears.
Somewhere on this drear earth the sunshine lies,
Somewhere the air breathes Heaven-blown harmonies.
Some day when you and I have
fully learned
Our waiting-lesson,
wondering, hand in hand
We shall gaze
out upon an unknown land,
Our thoughts and our desires
forever turned
From our old griefs,
as swallows, home warding,
Sweep ever southward
with unwearied wing.
We shall fare forth, comrades
for evermore.
Though the ill-omened
bird Time loves to bear
Has brushed this
cheek and left an impress there
I shall be fierce and dauntless
as of yore,
Free as a bird
o’er the wide world to rove,
And strong and
fearless, O my Love, to love.
What have we now? The
haunting, vague unrest
Of incompleted
measures; and we dream
Vainly, of the
Musician and His theme,
How the great Master in a
day most blest
Shall strike some
mighty chords in harmony,
And make an end,
and set the music free!
We snatch from Fate our moments
of delight,
Few as, in April
hours, the wooing calls
Of orioles, or
when the twilight falls
First o’er the forest
ere the approach of night
The eyes of evening;—and
Love’s song is sung
But once, Dear
Heart, but once, and we are young.
Over the seas together, you
and I,
’Neath blue
Italian skies, or on the hills
Of storied Greece,—where
the warm sunlight fills
Spain’s mellow vineyards,—wandering
reverently
O’er the
green plains of Palestine,—our days
A golden holiday
in Old World ways.
Yet would we linger not by
southern shores;
The bracing breath
of Scandinavian snows
Would draw us
from our dreams. The North wind blows
Upon thy cheek, my Norseman,
and the roars
Of the wild Baltic
sound within my ears
When to my dreams
thy stalwart form appears.
This will the future bring.
See! Thou hast given
From out the fulness
of thy strength and will
This courage to
me. Though the rugged hill
Looms high, and fronts our
vision, yet our heaven
(I see it when
I sleep) with portals wide
And shining towers,
gleams on the farther side.
Song.
“Tshirr!” scolds
the oriole
Where the elms
stir,
Flaunting her gourd-like nest
On the tree’s swaying
crest:
“May’s here, I
cannot rest,
Go away; tshirr!”
“Tshirr!” scolds
the oriole
Where the leaves
blur,
Giving her threads a jerk,
Spying where rivals lurk,
“May’s here, and
I’m at work.
Go away, tshirr!”
Misunderstanding.
Spring’s face is wreathed
in smiles. She had been driven
Hither and thither
at the surly will
Of treacherous
winds till her sweet heart was chill.
Into her grasp the sceptre
has been given
And now she touches
with a proud young hand
The earth, and
turns to blossoms all the land.
We catch the smile, the joyousness,
the pride,
And share them
with her. Surely winter gloom
Is for the old,
and frost is for the tomb.
Youth must have pleasure,
and the tremulous tide
Of sun-kissed
waves, and all the golden fire
Of Summer’s
noontide splendor of desire.
I have forgotten,—for
the breath of buds
Is on my temples,
if in former days
I have known sorrow;
I remember praise,
And calm content, and joy’s
great ocean-floods,
And many dreams
so sweet that, in their place,
We would not welcome
even Truth’s fair face.
O Man to whom my heart hast
leaned, dost know
Aught of my life?
Sometimes a strong despair
Enters my soul
and finds a lodging there;
Thou dost not know me, and
the years will go
As these last
months have gone, and I shall be
Still far, still
a strange woman unto thee.
I do not blame thee.
If there is a fault
Let it be mine,
for surely had I tried
The door of my
heart’s home to open wide
No need had been for even
Love’s assault.
And yet, methinks,
somewhere there is a key
Thou mightest
have found, and entered happily.
I am no saint niched in a
hallowed wall
For men to worship,
but I would compel
A level gaze.
You teachers who would tell
A woman’s place I do
defy you all!
While justice
lives, and love with joy is crowned
Woman and man
must meet on equal ground.
The deepest wrong is falsehood.
She who sells
Her soul and body
for a little gain
In ease, or the
world’s notice, has a stain
Upon her soul no lighter for
the bells
Of marriage rites,
and purer far is she
Who gives her
all for love’s sad ecstasy.
Canst thou not understand
a nature strong
And passionate,
with impulses that sway,
With yearning
tenderness that must have way,
Yet knows no ill desire, no
touch of wrong?
If thou canst
not then in God’s name I pray
See me no more
forever from this day.
Shadow Song.
The night is long
And there are
no stars,—
Let
me but dream
That
the long fields gleam
With sunlight and song,
Then I shall not long
For the light
of stars.
Let me but dream,—
For there are
no stars,—
Dream
that the ache
And
the wild heart-break
Are but things that seem.
Ah! let me dream
For there are
no stars.
Revulsion.
I see the starting buds, I
catch the gleam
In the near distance
of a sun-kissed pool,
The blessed April
air blows soft and cool,
Small wonder if all sorrow
grows a dream,
And we forget
that close around us lie
A city’s
poor, a city’s misery.
Of every outward vision there
is some
Internal counterpart.
To-day I know
The blessedness
of living, and the glow
Of life’s dear spring-tide.
I can bid thee come
In thought and
wander where the fields are fair
With bursting
life, and I, rejoicing, there.
Yet have I passed, Beloved,
through the vale
Of dark dismay,
and felt the dews of death
Upon my brow,
have measured out my breath
Counting my hours of joy,
as misers quail
At every footfall
in the quiet night
And clutch their
gold and count it in affright.
I learned new lessons in that
school of fear,
Life took a fresh
perspective; sad and brave
The view is from
the threshold of the grave.
In that long, backward glance
I saw her clear
From fogs of gathering
night, and all the show
Of small things
that seemed great a while ago.
Our dreams of fame, the stubborn
power we call
Our self-respect,
our hopes of worldly good,
Our jealousies
and fears, how in the flood
Of this new light they faded,
poor and small;
Showing our pettiness
beside God’s truth,
Besides His age
our poor, unlearned youth.
The earth yearns forth, impatient
for the days
Of its maturity,
the ample sweets
Of Summer’s
fulness; and its great heart beats
With a fierce restlessness,
for Spring delays
Seeing her giddy
reign end all too soon,
Her bud-crown
ravished by the hand of June.
And I,—I shall
be happy,—promise me
This one small
thing, Beloved, for I long
For happiness
as the caged bird for song.
Not where four walls close
in the melody
I want the fresh,
sweet air, the water’s gush,
The strong, sane
life with thee, the summer hush.
A Song of Dawn.
In the east a lightening;
Where the woods are chill
Moves an unseen finger,
Wakes a sudden thrill;
In my soul a glimmer,
Hush! no words are heard!
In heart-ambush hidden
Chirrup of a bird;
Tremble heart and forest
Like a frightened fawn,
Gleam the distant tree-tops,
Hither comes the dawn!
Weariness.
This April sun has wakened
into cheer
The wintry paths
of thought, and tinged with gold
These threadbare
leaves of fancy brown and old.
This is for us the wakening
of the year
And May’s
sweet breath will draw the waiting soul
To where in distance
lies the longed-for goal.
The summer life will still
all questioning,
The leaves will
whisper peace, and calm will be
The wild, vast,
blue, illimitable sea.
And we shall hush our murmurings,
and bring
To Nature, green
below and blue above,
A whole life’s
worshipping, a whole life’s love.
We will not speak of sometime
fretting fears,
We will not think
of aught that may arise
In future hours
to cloud our golden skies.
Some souls there are who love
their woes and tears,
Gaining their
joy by contrast, but for thee
And me, Beloved,
peace is ecstasy.
It was not always so, there
was a time
When I would choose
the rocky mountain way,
And climb the
hills of doubt to find the day.
Fresh effort brought fresh
zest, and winter’s rime
Chilled not but
crowned endeavor, and the heat
Of summer thrilled,
and made the pulses beat.
But now I am so weary that
I turn
From labor with
a shudder, and from pain
As from an enemy;
I see no gain
In suffering, and cleansing
fires must burn
As keenly as desire,
so let me know
Quiet with thee,
and twilight’s afterglow.
I, who have boasted of my
strength and will,
And ventured daring
flights, and stood alone
In fearless, flushed
defiance, I have grown
Humble, and seek another hand
to fill
Life’s cup,
and other eyes to pierce the skies
Of Wisdom’s
dear, sad, mighty mysteries.
Ah! I will lie so quiet
in thine arms
I will not stir
thee; and thy whisperings
Shall teach me
patience, and so many things
I have not learned as yet.
And all alarms
Will melt in peace
when, safe from tempest’s rage
My wind-tossed
ship has found its anchorage.
A Song of Rest.
The world may rage without,
Quiet
is here;
Statesmen may toil and shout,
Cynics
may sneer;
The great world—let
it go—
June warmth be March’s
snow,
I care not—be it
so
Since
I am here.
Time was when war’s
alarm
Called
for a fear,
When sorrow’s seeming
harm
Hastened
a tear;
Naught care I now what foe
Threatens, for scarce I know
How the year’s seasons
go
Since
I am here.
This is my resting-place
Holy
and dear,
Where Pain’s dejected
face
May
not appear.
This is the world to me,
Earth’s woes I will
not see
But rest contentedly
Since
I am here.
Is’t your voice chiding,
Love,
My
mild career?
My meek abiding, Love,
Daily
so near?
“Danger and loss”
to me?
Ah, Sweet, I fear to see
No loss but loss of Thee
And
I am here.
Death.
If days should pass without
a written word
To tell me of
thy welfare, and if days
Should lengthen
out to weeks, until the maze
Of questioning fears confused
me, and I heard.
Life-sounds as
echoes; and one came and said
After these weeks
of waiting: “He is dead!”
Though the quick sword had
found the vital part,
And the life-blood
must mingle with the tears,
I think that,
as the dying soldier hears
The cries of victory, and
feels his heart
Surge with his
country’s triumph-hour, I could
Hope bravely on,
and feel that God was good.
I could take up my thread
of life again
And weave my pattern
though the colors were
Faded forever.
Though I might not dare
Dream often of thee, I should
know that when
Death came to
thee upon thy lips my name
Lingered, and
lingers ever without blame.
Aye, lingers ever. Though
we may not know
Much that our
spirits crave, yet is it given
To us to feel
that in the waiting Heaven
Great souls are greater, and
if God bestow
A mighty love
He will not let it die
Through the vast
ages of eternity.
But if some day the bitter
knowledge swept
Down on my life,—bearing
my treasured freight
To founder on
the shoals of scorn,—what Fate
Smiling with awful irony had
kept
Till life grew
sweeter,—that my god was clay,
That ’neath
thy strength a lurking weakness lay;
That thou, whom I had deemed
a man of men
Faulty, as great
men are, but with no taint
Of baseness,—with
those faults that shew the saint
Of after days, perhaps,—wert
even then
When first I loved
thee but a spreading tree
Whose leaves shewed
not its roots’ deformity;
I should not weep, for there
are wounds that lie
Too deep for tears,—and
Death is but a friend
Who loves too
dearly, and the parting end
Of Love’s joy-day a
paltry pain, a cry
To God, then peace,—beside
the torturing grief
When honor dies,
and trust, and soul’s belief.
Travellers have told that
in the Java isles
The upas-tree
breathes its dread vapor out
Into the air;
there needs no hand about
Its branches for the poison’s
deadly wiles
To work a strong
man’s hurt, for there is death
Envenomed, noisome,
in his every breath.
So would I breathe thy poison
in my soul,
Till all that
had been wholesome, pure, and true
Shewed its decay,
and stained and wasted grew.
Though sundered as the distant
Northern Pole
From his far sister,
I should bear thy blight
Upon me as I passed
into the night.
Didst dream thy truth and
honor meant so much
To me, Dear Heart?
Oh! I am full of tears
To-night, of longing,
love and foolish fears.
Would I might see thee, know
thy tender touch,
For Time is long,
and though I may not will
To question Fate,
I am a woman still.
Battle Song.
Clear sounds the call on high:
“To arms and victory!”
Brave hearts that win or die,
Dying,
may win;
Proudly the banners wave,
What though the goal’s
the grave?
Death cannot harm the brave,—
Through
death they win.
Softly the evening hush
Stilling strife’s maddened
rush
Cools the fierce battle flush,—
See
the day die;
A thousand faces white
Mirror the cold moonlight
And glassy eyes are bright
With
Victory.
Content.
I have been wandering where
the daisies grow,
Great fields of
tall, white daisies, and I saw
Them bend reluctantly,
and seem to draw
Away in pride when the fresh
breeze would blow
From timothy and
yellow buttercup,
So by their fearless
beauty lifted up.
Yet must they bend at the
strong breeze’s will,
Bright, flawless
things, whether in wrath he sweep
Or, as oftimes,
in mood caressing, creep
Over the meadows and adown
the hill.
So Love in sport
or truth, as Fates allow,
Blows over proud
young hearts, and bids them bow.
So beautiful is it to live,
so sweet
To hear the ripple
of the bobolink,
To smell the clover
blossoms white and pink,
To feel oneself far from the
dusty street,
From dusty souls,
from all the flare and fret
Of living, and
the fever of regret.
I have grown younger; I can
scarce believe
It is the same
sad woman full of dreams
Of seven short
weeks ago, for now it seems
I am a child again, and can
deceive
My soul with daisies,
plucking one by one
The petals dazzling
in the noonday sun.
Almost with old-time eagerness
I try
My fate, and say:
“un peu,” a soft “beaucoup,”
Then, lower, “passionement,
pas du tout;”
Quick the white petals fall,
and lovingly
I pluck the last,
and drop with tender touch
The knowing daisy,
for he loves me “much.”
I can remember how, in childish
days,
I deemed that
he who held my heart in thrall
Must love me “passionately”
or “not at all.”
Poor little wilful ignorant
heart that prays
It knows not what,
and heedlessly demands
The best that
life can give with out-stretched hands!
Now I am wiser, and have learned
to prize
Peace above passion,
and the summer life
Here with the
flowers above the ceaseless strife
Of armed ambitions. They
alone are wise
Who know the daisy-secrets,
and can hold
Fast in their
eager hands her heart of gold.
Sea-Song.
A dash of spray,
A weed-browned way,—
My ship’s in the bay,
In the glad blue bay,—
The wind’s from the
west
And the waves have a crest,
But my bird’s in the
nest
And my ship’s in the
bay!
At dawn to stand
Soft hand to hand,
Bare feet on the sand,—
On the hard brown sand,—
To wait, dew-crowned,
For the tarrying sound
Of a keel that will ground
On the scraping sand.
A glad surprise
In the wind-swept skies
Of my wee one’s eyes,—
Those wondering eyes.
He will come, my sweet,
And will haste to meet
Those hurrying feet
And those sea-blue eyes.
I know the day
Must weary away,
And my ship’s in the
bay,—
In the clear, blue bay,—
Ah! there’s wind in
the west,
For the waves have a crest,
But my bird’s in the
nest
And my ship’s in the
bay!
Gratitude.
There are some things, dear
Friend, are easier far
To say in written
words than when we sit
Eye answering
eye, or hand to hand close knit.
Not that there is between
us any bar
Of shyness or
reserve; the day is past
For that, and
utter trust has come at last.
Only, when shut alone and
safe inside
These four white
walls,—hearing no sound except
Our own heart-beatings,
silences have crept
Stealthily round us,—as
the incoming tide
Quiet and unperceived
creeps ever on
Till mound and
pebble, rock and reef are gone.
Or out on the green hillside,
even there
There is a hush,
and words and thoughts are still.
For the trees
speak, and myriad voices fill
With wondrous echoes all the
waiting air.
We listen, and
in listening must forget
Our own hearts’ murmur,
and our spirits’ fret;
Even our joys,—thou
knowest;—when the air
Is full to overflowing
with the sense
Of hope fulfilled
and passion’s vehemence.
There is no place for words;
we do not dare
To break Love’s
stillness, even though the power
Were ours by speech
to lengthen out the hour.
But here in quietness I can
recall
All I would tell
thee, how thou art to me
Impulse and inspiration,
and with thee
I can but smile though all
my idols fall.
I wait my meed
as others who have known
Patience till
to their utmost stature grown.
As when the heavens are draped
in gloomy gray
And earth is tremulous
with a vague unrest
A glory fills
the tender, troubled West
That glads the closing of
November’s day,
So breaks in sun-smiles
my beclouded sky
When day is over
and I know thee nigh.
Thou art so much, all this
and more, to me,
And what am I
to thee? Can I repay
These many gifts?
Is there no royal way
Of recompense, so I may proudly
see
The man my heart
delights to praise renowned
For wealth and
honor, and with rapture crowned?
Ah! though there is no recompense
in love
Yet have I paid
thee, given these gifts to thee,
Joy, riches, worship.
Thou hast joy in me,
Is it not so, Beloved?
Who shall prove
No worship of
thee by my soul confessed?
And riches?
Ah! a wealth of love is best.
Song.
I have known a thousand pleasures,—
Love is best—
Ocean’s songs and forest treasures,
Work and rest,
Jewelled joys of dear existence,
Triumph over Fate’s resistance,
But to prove, through Time’s wide distance,
Love is best.
Prayer.
I stood upon a hill, and watched
the death
Of the day’s turmoil. Still the glory
spread
Cloud-top to cloud-top, and each rearing head
Trembled to crimson. So a mighty breath
From some wild Titan in a rising ire
Might kindle flame in voicing his desire.
Soft stirred the evening air;
the pine-crowned hills
Glowed in an answering
rapture where the flush
Grew to a blood-drop,
and the vesper hush
Moved in my soul, while from
my life all ills
Faded and passed
away. God’s voice was there
And in my heart
the silence was a prayer.
There was a day when to my
fearfulness
Was born a joy,
when doubt was swept afar
A shadow and a
memory, and a star
Gleamed in my sky more bright
for the distress.
The stillness
breathed thanksgiving, and the air
Wafted, methought,
the incense of a prayer.
Heaven sets no bounds of bead-roll
or appeal;
And when the fiery
heart with mute embrace
Bends, tremblingly,
but for a moment’s space
It needs no words that cry,
no limbs that kneel.
As meteors flash,
so, in a moment’s light,
Life, darting
forth, touches the Infinite.
All my prayers wordless?
Nay, I can recall
A night not so
long past but that each thought
Lives at this
hour, and throbs again unsought
When Silence broods, and Night’s
chill shadows fall;
Then Darkness’
thousand pulses thrilled and stirred
With the dear
grace of a remembered word;
And I was still, thy voice
enshrouding me.
Like the strong
sweep of ocean-breath the power
Of one resistless
thought transformed my hour
Of love-dreams to a fear.
All hopelessly
I knew love’s
impotence, and my despair
Stretched soul-hands
forth, and quivered to a prayer.
My passionate heart cried
out: “If his dear life
Through stress
of keen temptation merits aught
Of penance or
requital, be it wrought
Upon my life.
If only through the strife
Is won the peace,
through drudgery the gain,
Give him the issue,
and to me the pain!”
Some day, in our soul’s
course o’er trackless lands,
Swayed oft by
adverse winds, or swept along
In Fate’s
wild current with the fluttering throng
Towards Sin’s engulfing
maelstrom, spirit hands
Will brace our
trembling wings, and through the night
Point and upbear
in our last trembling flight.
Song.
Red gleams the mountain ridge,
Slow the stream
creeps
Under the old bent bridge,
And labor sleeps.
There are no restless birds,
No leaves that
stir,
Dusk her gray mantle girds,
Night’s
harbinger.
The storm-soul’s change
and start
Pause, lull, and
cease;
In my unquiet heart
Is born a peace.
Loneliness.
Dear, I am lonely, for the
bay is still
As any hill-girt
lake; the long brown beach
Lies bare and
wet. As far as eye can reach
There is no motion. Even
on the hill
Where the breeze
loves to wander I can see
No stir of leaves,
nor any waving tree.
There is a great red cliff
that fronts my view
A bare, unsightly
thing; it angers me
With its unswerving-grim
monotony.
The mackerel weir, with branching
boughs askew
Stands like a
fire-swept forest, while the sea
Laps it, with
soothing sighs, continually.
There are no tempests in this
sheltered bay,
The stillness
frets me, and I long to be
Where winds sweep
strong and blow tempestuously,
To stand upon some hill-top
far away
And face a gathering
gale, and let the stress
Of Nature’s
mood subdue my restlessness.
An impulse seizes me, a mad
desire
To tear away that
red-browed cliff, to sweep
Its crest of trees
and huts into the deep;
To force a gap by axe, or
storm, or fire,
And let rush in
with motion glad and free
The rolling waves
of the wild wondrous sea.
Sometimes I wonder if I am
the child
Of calm, law-loving
parents, or a stray
From some wild
gypsy camp. I cannot stay
Quiet among my fellows; when
this wild
Longing for freedom
takes me I must fly
To my dear woods
and know my liberty.
It is this cringing to a social
law
That I despise,
these changing, senseless forms
Of fashion!
And until a thousand storms
Of God’s impatience
shall reveal the flaw
In man’s
pet system, he will weave the spell
About his heart
and dream that all is well.
Ah! Life is hard, Dear
Heart, for I am left
To battle with
my old-time fears alone
I must live calmly
on, and make no moan
Though of my hoped-for happiness
bereft.
Thou wilt not
come, and still the red cliff lies
Hiding my ocean
from these longing eyes.
Sea-Song.
It sings to me, it sings to
me,
The shore-blown voice of the
blithesome sea!
Of its world of
gladness all untold,
Of its heart of
green, and its mines of gold,
And desires that leap and
flee.
It moans to me, it moans to
me!
The storm-stirred voice of
the restive sea!
Of the vain dismay
and the yearning pain
For hopes that
will never be born again
From the womb of the wavering
sea.
It calls to me, it calls to
me,
The luring voice of the rebel
sea!
And I long with
a love that is born of tears
For the wild fresh
life, and the glorying fears,
For the quest and the mystery.
It wails to me, it wails to
me,
Of the deep dark graves in
the yawning sea;
And I hear the
voice of a boy that is gone.
But the lad sleeps
sound till the judgment-dawn
In the heart of the wind-swept
sea.
Incompleteness.
Since first I met thee, Dear,
and long before
I knew myself
beloved, save by the sense
All women have,
a shadowy confidence
Half-fear, that feels
its bliss nor asks for more,
I have learned
new desires, known Love’s distress
Sounded the deepest
depths of loneliness.
I was a child at heart, and
lived alone,
Dreaming my dreams,
as children may, at whiles,
Between their
hours of play, and Earth’s broad smiles
Allured my heart, and ocean’s
marvellous tone
Woke no strange
echoes, and the woods’ complain
Made chants sonorous,
stirred no thoughts of pain.
And if, sometimes, dear Nature
spoke to me
In tones mysterious,
I had learned so much
Dwelling beside
her daily, that her touch
Made me discerning. Though
I might not see
Her purpose nor
her meaning, I had part
In the proud throbbing
of that mighty heart.
But now the earth has put
a tiring-cloth
About her face;
even in the mountains’ cheer
There is a lack,
and in the sea a fear,
The glad, rash sea, whose
every mood, if wroth
Or soothing mild,
is dear to me as are
Joy’s new-born
kisses on the lips of Care.
Since I have known thee, Dear,
all life has grown
An expectation.
As the swelling grain
Trembles to harvesting,
and earth in pain
Travails till Spring is born,
so felt alone
Is the dumb reaching
out of things unborn,
The night’s
gray promise of the amber morn.
I long to taste my pleasures
through thy lips,
To sail with thee
o’er foaming waves and feel
Our spirits rise
together with the reel
Of waters and the wavering
land’s eclipse;
To see thy fair
hair damp with salt sea-spray
And in thine eyes
the wildness of the way.
I long to share my woods with
thee, to fly
To some black-hearted
forest where the trail
Of mortals lingers
not,—to hear the gale.
Sweep round us with a shuddering
ecstasy,
To feel, night’s
tumult passed, the cool soft hand
Of the untroubled
dawn move o’er the land.
To swim with thee far out
into the bay,
A trembling glitter
on the waves, the shore
Glowing with noontide
fervor, nevermore
To fear the treacherous depths,
though long the way.
Sweet beyond words
the sighs that breathe and blow,
The moist salt
kisses, and the glad warm glow.
And when the unrest, the vague
desires that rush
Over our lives
and may not be denied,—
Gone in the tasting,—lure
us where the tide
Of men sweeps on, let us forget
the hush
Together, and
in city madness drain
Our cup of pleasure
to its dregs of pain.
Ever I need thee. Incomplete
and poor
This life of mine.
Yet never dream my soul
Craves the old
peace. Till I may have the whole
My joy is my abiding, and
what more
Of dreams and
waking bliss the Fates allow
Comes as a gift
of Love’s great overflow.
Song.
Deep in the green bracken
lying,
Close by the welcoming
sea,
Dream I, and let all my dreaming
Drift as it will,
Love, to thee.
Sated with splendid caresses
Showered by the
sun in his pride,
Scorched by his passionate
kisses
Languidly ebbs
the tide.
Life’s Joys.
I have been pondering what
our teachers call
The mystery of
Pain; and lo! my thought
After it’s
half-blind reaching out has caught
This truth and held it fast.
We may not fall
Beyond our mounting;
stung by life’s annoy,
Deeper we feel
the mystery of Joy.
Sometimes they steal across
us like a breath
Of Eastern perfume
in a darkened room,
These joys of
ours; we grope on through the gloom
Seeking some common thing,
and from its sheath
Unloose, unknowing,
some bewildering scent
Of spice-thronged
memories of the Orient.
Sometimes they dart across
our turbid sky
Like a quick flash
after a heated day.
A moment, where
the sombrous shadows lay
We see a glory. Though
it passed us by
No earthly power
can filch that dazzling glow
From memory’s
eye, that instant’s shine and show.
Life is so full of joys.
The alluring sea,
This morning clear
and placid, may, ere night,
Toss like a petulant
child, and when the light
Of a new morning dawns sweep
grand and free
A mighty power.
If fierce, or mild, or bright,
With every tide
flows in a fresh delight.
I can remember well when first
I knew
The fragrance
of white clover. There I lay
On the warm July
grass and heard the play
Of sun-browned insects, and
the breezes blew
To my drowsed
sense the scent the blossoms had;
The subtle sweetness
stayed, and I was glad.
Nor passed the gladness.
Though the years have gone
(A many years,
Beloved, since that day,)
Whenever by the
roadside or away
In radiant summer fields,
wandering alone
Or with glad children,
to my restless sight
Shows that pale
head, comes back the old delight.
Oh! the dark water, and the
filling sail!
The scudding like
a sea-mew, with the hand
Firm on the tiller!
See, the red-shored land
Receding, as we brave the
hastening gale!
White gleam the
wave-tops, and the breakers’ roar
Sounds thunderingly
on the far distant shore.
This mad hair flying in the
breeze blows wild
Across my face.
See, there, the gathering squall,
That dark line
to the eastward, watch it crawl
Stealthily towards us o’er
the snow-wreaths piled
Close on each
other! Ah! what joy to be
Drunk with salt
air, in battle with the sea!
So many joys, and yet I have
but told
Of simple things,
the joys of air and sea!
Not all these
things are worth one hour with thee,
One moment, when thy daring
arms enfold
My body, and all
other, meaner joys,
Fade from me like
a child’s forgotten toys.
One thought is ever with me,
glorying all
Life’s common
aims. Surely will dawn a day
Bright with an
unknown rapture, when thy way
Will be my journey-road,
and I can call
These joys our
joys, for thou wilt walk with me
Down budding pathways
to the abounding sea.
Song.
Low laughed the Columbine,
Trembled her petals fine
As the breeze
blew;
In her dove-heart there stirred
Murmurs the dull bee heard,
And Love, Life’s wild
white bird,
Straightway she
knew.
Resting her lilac cheek
Gently, in aspect meek,
On the gray stone,
The morning-glory, free,
Welcomed the yellow bee,
Heard the near-rolling sea
Murmur and moan.
Calm lay the tawny sand
Stretching a long wet hand
To the far wave.
Swift to her warm waiting
breast
Longing to be possessed
Leaps ’neath his billowy
crest
Her Lover brave.
There is a long thin line
of fading gold
In the far West,
and the transfigured leaves
On some slight,
topmost bough that sways and heaves
Hang limp and tremulous.
Nor warm, nor cold
The pungent air,
and, ’neath the yellow haze,
Show flushed and
glad the wild, October ways.
There is a soft enchantment
in the air,
A mystery the
Summer knows not, nor
The sturdy, frost-crowned
Winter. Nature wore
Her blandest smile to-day,
as here and there
I wandered, elf-beset,
through wood and field
And gleaned the
glories of the autumn yield.
A bunch of purple aster, golden-rod
Darkened by the
first frost, a drooping spray
Of scarlet barberry,
and tall and gray
The silk-cored cotton with
its bursting pod,
Some tarnished
maple-boughs, and, like a flash
Of sudden flame,
a branch of mountain ash.
She smiled, but it was not
the welcoming smile
Of frank surrender.
As a witching maid
In gorgeous garments
cunningly arrayed
Might smile and draw them
closer, hers the guile
To let men hope,
pray, labor in love’s stress
Ere they her hidden
beauties may possess.
Deep in the heart of earth
where the springs rise,
Down with the
sweet linnaea and the moss,
In the brown thrush’s
throat, where the pines toss
In Winter’s harrying
storms her secret lies.
Ours the chill
night-dews and the waiting pain
Ere we her fairy
wealth may hope to gain.
’Tis so with knowledge.
Eagerly we turn
Great Wisdom’s
page, and when our clear eyes grow
Dim in the dusk
of years, and heads bend low
Weary at last, the truth we
strove to learn
Is ours forever.
But its joy of sight
Is dearly bought,
methinks, with Youth’s delight.
Fate, too, with chaffering
voice and beckoning hand
Doles out our
happiness; we snatch at wealth
And pay with anxious
care and fading health.
We call for Love, and dream
that we shall stand
On ground enchanted,
but, though sweet the way,
The rocks are
sharp, and grief comes with the Day.
Even in love, Dear Heart,
there is exchange
Of gifts and griefs,
and so I render thee
Vows for thy vows,
and pay unfalteringly
What love demands, nor ever
deem it strange.
And when the snow
drifts fast, and north-winds sting
I make no murmur,
but await the Spring.
Song.
Joy came in youth as a humming-bird,
(Sing hey! for
the honey and bloom of life!)
And it made a home in my summer
bower
With the honeysuckle and the
sweet-pea flower.
(Sing hey! for
the blossoms and sweets of life!)
Joy came as a lark when the
years had gone,
(Ah! hush, hush
still, for the dream is short!)
And I gazed far up to the
melting blue
Where the rare song dropped
like a golden dew.
(Ah! sweet is
the song tho’ the dream be short!)
Joy hovers now in a far-off
mist,
(The night draws
on and the air breathes snow!)
And I reach, sometimes, with
a trembling hand
To the red-tipped cloud of
the joy-bird’s land.
(Alas! for the
days of the storm and the snow!)
To-Morrow.
But one short night between
my Love and me!
I watch the soft-shod
dusk creep wistfully
Through the slow-moving
curtains, pausing by
And shrouding with its spirit-fingers
free
Each well-known
chair. There is a growing grace
Of tender magic
in this little place.
Comes through half-opened
windows, soft and cool
As Spring’s
young breath, the vagrant evening air,
My day-worn soul
is hushed. I fain would bear
No burdens on my brain to-night,
no rule
Of anxious thought;
the world has had my tears,
My thoughts, my
hopes, my aims these many years;
This is Thy hour, and I shall
sink to sleep
With a glad weariness,
to know that when
The new day dawns
I shall lay by my pen
Needed no more. If I,
perchance, should weep
A few quick tears,
so doing, who would guess
’Twas the
last throb of my soul’s loneliness?
Not even thou, Dear Heart,
canst ever know
How I have yearned
these many months, these years
For love, for
thee. As the calm boatman steers
His slender shallop where
he fain would go,
Tempests and rocks
before, so through the dark
To this dim, far-off
day has set my bark.
To-morrow! I can hear
the quick-closed door,
The approaching
steps, my pained heart’s fluttering,
Thy voice, then
Thee! And all the storm and sting
Of bygone griefs are passed
forevermore,
Swept from my
life as the resistless wind
Scatters the chaff,
nor leaves a mote behind.
As long-imprisoned captives
reach the light,
And gaze with
greedy eyes on field and tree,
Drinking the beauties
of the sky and sea
Half fearful of their bliss;
so from the night
Of dreams and
shades, half doubting, we awake
And grasp the
joy we almost fear to take.
Thou hidest in thy warm ones
my cold hand,
Reading my soul
in these unwavering eyes.
Nay, thou hast
known my hopes, my agonies
Through written words, and
thou canst understand.
I have kept nothing
back of all the streams
Of my heart-flowings—doubts,
nor fears, nor dreams.
So long my life has followed
no control
But mine own impulse;
now, I pray thee, bend
My will to thine,
and so, unhindered, tend
My soul’s wild garden.
I have laid the whole
Bare to thy sowing;
and life’s precious wine
Is of thy pouring,
and thy way is mine.
Where is the waiting-time?
Where are the
fears?
Gone with the winter’s
rime,
The bygone years.
O’er life’s plain,
lone and vast,
Slow treads the
morn,
Night shades have moved and
passed,
Joy’s day
is born.
THE END.