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diff --git a/old/16776.txt b/old/16776.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 14985c1..0000000 --- a/old/16776.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3629 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems of Passion, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - - - - -Title: Poems of Passion - - -Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox - - - -Release Date: September 30, 2005 [eBook #16776] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF PASSION*** - - -E-text prepared by Chuck Greif and Pat Saumell - - - -Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this - file which includes the original illustrations. - See 16776-h.htm or 16776-h.zip: - (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/7/7/16776/16776-h/16776-h.htm) - or - (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/7/7/16776/16776-h.zip) - - - - - -POEMS OF PASSION - -Illustrated - -by - -ELLA WHEELER WILCOX - -W. B. Conkey Company -Publishers--Chicago - -1883 - - - - - - - -[Illustration: Picture of Ella Wheeler Wilcox] - - - - * * * * * * - - - -OTHER BOOKS -by -Ella Wheeler Wilcox - -THREE WOMEN -POEMS OF POWER -MAURINE -POEMS OF PASSION -POEMS OF PLEASURE -KINGDOM OF LOVE AND OTHER POEMS -AN ERRING WOMAN'S LOVE -EVERY-DAY THOUGHTS -MEN WOMEN AND EMOTIONS -AN AMBITIOUS MAN -THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD -AROUND THE YEAR WITH ELLA -WHEELER WILCOX A Birthday Book - - - - * * * * * * - - - - - _Oh, you who read some song that I have sung_, - _What know you of the soul from whence it sprung_? - - _Dost dream the poet ever speaks aloud_ - _His secret thought unto the listening crowd_? - - _Go take the murmuring sea-shell from the shore_: - _You have its shape, its color and no more_. - - _It tells not one of those vast mysteries_ - _That lie beneath the surface of the seas_. - - _Our songs are shells, cast out by-waves of thought_; - _Here, take them at your pleasure; but think not_ - - _You've seen beneath the surface of the waves_, - _Where lie our shipwrecks and our coral caves_. - -[Illustration: THE POET'S SONG] - - - - -PREFACE - -Among the twelve hundred poems which have emanated from my too prolific -pen there are some forty or fifty which treat entirely of that emotion -which has been denominated "the grand passion"--love. A few of those are -of an extremely fiery character. - -When I issued my collection known as "Maurine, and Other Poems," I -purposely omitted all save two or three of these. I had been frequently -accused of writing only sentimental verses; and I took pleasure and -pride in presenting to the public a volume which contained more than one -hundred poems upon other than sentimental topics. But no sooner was the -book published than letters of regret came to me from friends and -strangers, and from all quarters of the globe, asking why this or that -love poem had been omitted. These regrets were repeated to me by so many -people that I decided to collect and issue these poems in a small volume -to be called "Poems of Passion." By the word "Passion" I meant the -"grand passion" of love. To those who take exception to the title of the -book I would suggest an early reference to Webster's definitions of the -word. - -Since this volume has caused so much agitation throughout the entire -country, and even sent a tremor across the Atlantic into the Old World, -I beg leave to make a few statements concerning some of the poems. - -The excitement of mingled horror and amaze seems to center upon four -poems, namely: "Delilah," "Ad Finem," "Conversion," and "Communism." - -"Delilah" was written and first published in 1877. I had been reading -history, and became stirred by the power of such women as Aspasia and -Cleopatra over such grand men as Antony, Socrates, and Pericles. Under -the influence of this feeling I dashed off "Delilah," which I meant to -be an expression of the powerful fascination of such a woman upon the -memory of a man, even as he neared the hour of death. If the poem is -immoral, then the history which inspired it is immoral. I consider it my -finest effort. - -"Ad Finem" was written in 1878. I think there are few women of strong -character and affections who cannot, from either experience or -observation, understand the violent intensity of regret and despair -which sometimes takes possession of the human heart after the loss by -death, fate, or the force of circumstances, of some one very dear. - -In "Ad Finem" I intended to give voice to this very common experience of -almost every heart. Many noble women have since told me that the poem -was true to life. It is not, as many people have wilfully or stupidly -construed it, a bit of poetical advice to womankind to "barter the joys -of Paradise" for "just one kiss." It is simply an illustration of a -moment of turbulent anguish and vehement despair, such moments of -unreasoning and overwhelming sorrow as the most moral people may -experience during a lifetime. - -In "Communism" I endeavored to use a new simile in illustrating that -somewhat hackneyed theme of the supremacy of Love over Reason; and -simply to carry out my idea I represented the violent uprising of the -Communist emotions against King Reason. - -"Conversion" was suggested to me by the remark of a gentleman friend. In -speaking to me of the woman he loved, he said: "I have always been a -skeptic regarding the existence of heaven, but I am so much happier in -my love for this woman than I ever supposed it possible for me to be on -earth that I begin to believe that the tales of heavenly raptures may be -true." - -I embodied his idea in the poem which has brought, with a few others, so -much censure and criticism upon this volume, although it contains nearly -seventy-five other selections quite irreproachable in character, however -faulty they may be in construction. - -It is impossible to pursue a successful literary career and follow the -advice of all one's "best friends." I have received severe censure from -my orthodox friends for writing liberal verses. My liberal friends -condemn my devout and religious poems as "aiding superstition." My early -temperance verses were pronounced "fanatical trash" by others. - -With all due thanks and appreciation for the kind motives which interest -so many dear friends in my career, I yet feel compelled to follow the -light which my own intellect and judgment cast upon my way, rather than -any one of the many conflicting rays which other minds would lend me. - -ELLA WHEELER. - -[Illustration:] - -[Illustration:] - - - - -CONTENTS - -POEMS OF PASSION - -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 - -MISCELLANEOUS POEMS - -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] - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - -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 - - - - -POEMS OF PASSION - -[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, - Oh, that the music might go on falling - Like a shower of silver spray, - While we whirled on to the vast Forever, - Where no hearts break, and no ties sever, - And no one goes away." - - 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 the golden waves of Love? - Sweep up the debris of decaying faiths; - Sweep down the cobwebs of worn-out beliefs, - And throw your soul wide open to the light - Of Reason and of Knowledge. Tune your ear - To all the wordless music of the stars - And to the voice of Nature, and your heart - Shall turn to truth and goodness as the plant - Turns to the sun. A thousand unseen hands - Reach down to help you to their peace-crowned heights. - And all the forces of the firmament - Shall fortify your strength. Be not afraid - To thrust aside half-truths and grasp the whole. - - - - - 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; - The bridges of fond hopes were swept away - By great salt waves of sorrow. In dismay - I saw by the red lightning's lurid glare - That on the rock-bound island of despair - I had been cast. Till the dim dawn of day - I heard my castles falling, and the roll - Of angry billows bearing to the sea - The broken timbers of my very soul. - Were all the pent-up waters from the whole - Stupendous solar system to break free, - There are no floods that now can frighten me. - - - - - 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. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF PASSION*** - - -******* This file should be named 16776.txt or 16776.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/7/7/16776 - - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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