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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/17619-8.txt b/17619-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..55105c3 --- /dev/null +++ b/17619-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3906 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Jongleur Strayed, by Richard Le Gallienne + + +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: A Jongleur Strayed + Verses on Love and Other Matters Sacred and Profane + + +Author: Richard Le Gallienne + + + +Release Date: January 29, 2006 [eBook #17619] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JONGLEUR STRAYED*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +Transcriber's note: + + The word "beloved" appears in this book several times, in various + upper and lower case combinations. Whatever the combination, in + some cases, the second E in "beloved" is e-accent (é) and sometimes + it is e-grave (è). Since I had no way of telling if this was what + the author intended, or a typesetting error, or some other reason, + I have left each exactly as it appears in the original book. + + + + + +A JONGLEUR STRAYED + +Verses on Love and Other Matters Sacred and Profane + +by + +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE + +With an Introduction by Oliver Herford + + + + + + + +Garden City ---------- New York +Doubleday, Page & Company +1922 +Copyright, 1922, by +Doubleday, Page & Company +All Rights Reserved, Including That of Translation +into Foreign Languages, Including the Scandinavian +Printed in the United States +at +The Country Life Press, Garden City, N. Y. +First Edition + + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENT + +The writer desires to thank the editors of _The Atlantic Monthly, +Harper's, Life, Judge, Leslie's, Munsey's, Ainslee's, Snappy Stories, +Live Stories, The Cosmopolitan_, and _Collier's_ for their kind +permission to reprint the following verses. + +He desires also to thank the editor of _The New York Evening Post_ for +the involuntary gift of a title. + + +The Catskills, + +June, 1922. + + + + +TO + +THE LOVE + +OF + +ANDRÉ AND GWEN + + + + + _If after times + Should pay the least attention to these rhymes, + I bid them learn + 'Tis not my own heart here + That doth so often seem to break and burn-- + O no such thing!-- + Nor is it my own dear + Always I sing: + But, as a scrivener in the market-place, + I sit and write for lovers, him or her, + Making a song to match each lover's case-- + A trifling gift sometimes the gods confer!_ + + (After STRATO) + + + + + CONTENTS + + + I + + An Echo from Horace + Ballade of the Oldest Duel in the World + Sorcery + The Dryad + May is Back + Moon-Marketing + Two Birthdays + Song + The Faithful Lover + Love's Tenderness + Anima Mundi + Ballade of the Unchanging Beloved + Love's Arithmetic + Beauty's Arithmetic + The Valley + Ballade of the Bees of Trebizond + Broken Tryst + The Rival + The Quarrel + Lovers + Shadows + After Tibullus + A Warning + Primum Mobile + The Last Tryst + The Heart on the Sleeve + At Her Feet + Reliquiae + Love's Proud Farwell + The Rose Has Left the Garden + + + II + + The Gardens of Adonis + Nature the Healer + Love Eternal + The Loveliest Face and the Wild Rose + As in the Woodland I Walk + To a Mountain Spring + Noon + A Rainy Day + In the City + Country Largesse + Morn + The Source + Autumn + The Rose in Winter + The Frozen Stream + Winter Magic + A Lover's Universe + To the Golden Wife + Buried Treasure + The New Husbandman + Paths that Wind + The Immortal Gods + + + III + + Ballade of Woman + The Magic Flower + Ballade of Love's Cloister + An Old Love Letter + Too Late + The Door Ajar + Chipmunk + Ballade of the Dead Face that Never Dies + The End of Laughter + The Song that Lasts + The Broker of Dreams + + + IV + + At the Sign of the Lyre + To Madame Jumel + To a Beautiful Old Lady + To Lucy Hinton; December 19, 1921 + + + V + + OTHER MATTERS, SACRED AND PROFANE + + The World's Musqueteer: To Marshal Foch + We Are With France + Satan: 1920 + Under Which King? + Man, the Destroyer + The Long Purposes of God + Ballade to a Departing God + Ballade of the Absent Guest + Tobacco Next + Ballade of the Paid Puritan + The Overworked Ghost + The Valiant Girls + Not Sour Grapes + Ballade of Reading Bad Books + Ballade of the Making of Songs + Ballade of Running Away with Life + To a Contemner of the Past + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +One Spring day in London, long before the invention of freak verse and +Freudism, I was standing in front of the Cafe Royal in Regent Street +when there emerged from its portals the most famous young writer of the +day, the Poet about whose latest work "The Book Bills of Narcissus" all +literary London was then talking. + +Richard Le Gallienne was the first real poet I had ever laid eyes upon +in the flesh and it seemed to my rapt senses that this frock-coated +young god, with the classic profile and the dark curls curving from the +impeccable silk "tile" that surmounted them as curve the acanthus +leaves of a Corinthian capital, could be none other than Anacreon's +self in modern shape. + +I can see Le Gallienne now, as he steps across the sunlit sidewalk and +with gesture Mercurian hails the passing Jehu. I can even hear the +quick clud of the cab doors as the smartly turning hansome snatches +from my view the glass-dimmed face I was not to behold again until +years later at the house of a mutual friend in New York. + +In another moment the swiftly moving vehicle was dissolved in the +glitter of Regent Street and I fell to musing upon the curious +interlacement of parts in this picture puzzle of life. + +Here was a common Cabby, for the time being combining in himself the +several functions of guide-book, chattel-mortgage and writ of habeas +corpus on the person of the most popular literary idol of the hour and +all for the matter of maybe no more than half a crown, including the +_pourboire_! + +Who would not have rejoiced to change places with that cabman! And how +might not Pegasus have envied that cab-horse! + + * * * * * * + +Now after all these years it has come to pass that I am to change +places with the cabman. + +Perched aloft in the driver's seat of the First Person Singular, it is +my proud privilege to crack the prefatory whip and start this newest +and best Le Gallienne Vehicle upon its course through the garlanded Via +Laurea to the Sign of the Golden Sheaf. + +Look at it well, Dear People, before it starts, this golden vehicle of +Richard Le Gallienne. + +Consider how it is built on the authentic lines of the best +workmanship, made to last for generations, maybe for ever. + +Take note of its springs so perfectly hung that the Muse may ride in +luxurious ease, unjarred by metrical joltings as befits the Queen. + +Mark the mirror smooth surface of the lacquer that only time and +tireless labour can apply. + +Before this Master Coach of Poesy the rattle-jointed Tin Lizzie of Free +Verse and the painted jazz wagon of Futurism and the cheap imitation of +the Chinese palanquin must turn aside, they have no right of way, these +literary road-lice on the garlanded Via Laurea. + +With angry thumb, the traffic cop Time will jerk them back to the side +streets and byways where they belong, to make way for the Golden Coach +of Richard Le Gallienne. + + +OLIVER HERFORD + + + + + I + + + AN ECHO FROM HORACE + + _Lusisti est, et edisti, atque bibisti; + Tempus abire, tibi est._ + + Take away the dancing girls, quench the lights, remove + Golden cups and garlands sere, all the feast; away + Lutes and lyres and Lalage; close the gates, above + Write upon the lintel this; _Time is done for play! + Thou hast had thy fill of love, eaten, drunk; the show + Ends at last, 'twas long enough--time it is to go._ + + Thou hast played--ah! heart, how long!--past all count were they, + Girls of gold and ivory, bosomed deep, all snow, + Leopard swift, and velvet loined, bronze for hair, wild clay + Turning at a touch to flame, tense as a strung bow. + Cruel as the circling hawk, tame at last as dove,-- + Thou hast had thy fill and more than enough of love. + + Thou hast eaten; peacock's tongues,--fed thy carp with slaves,-- + Nests of Asiatic birds, brought from far Cathay, + Umbrian boars, and mullet roes snatched from stormy waves; + Half thy father's lands have gone one strange meal to pay; + For a morsel on thy plate ravished sea and shore; + Thou hast eaten--'tis enough, thou shalt eat no more. + + Thou hast drunk--how hast thou drunk! mighty vats, whole seas; + Vineyards purpling half a world turned to gold thy throat, + Falernian, true Massic, the gods' own vintages, + Lakes thou hast swallowed deep enough galleys tall to float; + Wildness, wonder, wisdom, all, drunkenness divine, + All that dreams within the grape, madness too, were thine. + + Time it is to go and sleep--draw the curtains close-- + Tender strings shall lull thee still, mellow flutes be blown, + Still the spring shall shower down on thy couch the rose, + Still the laurels crown thine head, where thou dreamest alone. + Thou didst play, and thou didst eat, thou hast drunken deep, + Time at last it is to go, time it is to sleep. + + + + + BALLADE OF THE OLDEST DUEL IN THE WORLD + + A battered swordsman, slashed and scarred, + I scarce had thought to fight again, + But love of the old game dies hard, + So to't, my lady, if you're fain! + I'm scarce the mettle to refrain, + I'll ask no quarter from your art-- + But what if we should both be slain! + I fight you, darling, for your heart. + + I warn you, though, be on your guard, + Nor an old swordsman's craft disdain, + He jests at scars--what saith the Bard? + Love's wounds are real, and fierce the pain; + If we should die of love, we twain! + You laugh--_en garde_ then--so we start; + Cyrano-like, here's my refrain: + I fight you, darling, for your heart. + + If compliments I interlard + Twixt feint and lunge, you'll not complain + Lacking your eyes, the night's un-starred, + The rose is beautiful in vain, + In vain smells sweet--Rose-in-the-Brain, + Dizzying the world--a touch! sweet smart!-- + Only the envoi doth remain: + I fight you, darling, for your heart. + + + ENVOI + + Princess, I'm yours; the rose-red rain + Pours from my side--but see! I dart + Within your guard--poor pretty stain! + I fight you, darling, for your heart. + + + + + SORCERY + + Face with the forest eyes, + And the wayward wild-wood hair, + How shall a man be wise, + When a girl's so fair; + How, with her face once seen, + Shall life be as it has been, + This many a year? + + Beautiful fearful thing! + You undulant sorcery! + I dare not hear you sing, + Dance not for me; + The whiteness of your breast, + Divinely manifest + I must not see. + + Too late, thou luring child, + Moon matches little moon; + I must not be beguiled, + With the honied tune: + Yet O to lay my head + Twixt moon and moon! + 'Twas so my sad heart said, + Only last June. + + + + + THE DRYAD + + My dryad hath her hiding place + Among ten thousand trees. + She flies to cover + At step of a lover, + And where to find her lovely face + Only the woodland bees + Ever discover, + Bringing her honey + From meadows sunny, + Cowslip and clover. + + Vainly on beech and oak I knock + Amid the silent boughs; + Then hear her laughter, + The moment after, + Making of me her laughing-stock + Within her hidden house. + + The young moon with her wand of pearl + Taps on her hidden door, + Bids her beauty flower + In that woodland bower, + All white like a mortal girl, + With moonshine hallowed o'er. + + Yet were there thrice ten thousand trees + To hide her face from me, + Not all her fleeing + Should 'scape my seeing, + Nor all her ambushed sorceries + Secure concealment be + For her bright being. + + Yea! should she by the laddered pine + Steal to the stars on high, + Her fairy whiteness, + Hidden in brightness, + Her hiding-place would so out-shine + The constellated sky, + She could not 'scape the eye + Of my pursuing, + Nor her fawn-foot lightness + Out-speed my wooing. + + + + + MAY IS BACK + + May is back, and You and I + Are at the stream again-- + The leaves are out, + And all about + The building birds begin + To make a merry din: + May is back, and You and I + Are at the dream again. + + May is back, and You and I + Lie in the grass again,-- + The butterfly + Flits painted by, + The bee brings sudden fear, + Like people talking near; + May is back, and You and I + Are lad and lass again. + + May is back, and You and I + Are heart to heart again,-- + In God's green house + We make our vows + Of summer love that stays + Faithful through winter days; + May is back, and You and I + Shall never part again. + + + + + MOON-MARKETING + + Let's go to market in the moon, + And buy some dreams together, + Slip on your little silver shoon, + And don your cap and feather; + No need of petticoat or stocking-- + No one up there will think it shocking. + + Across the dew, + Just I and you, + With all the world behind us; + Away from rules, + Away from fools, + Where nobody can find us. + + + + + TWO BIRTHDAYS + + Your birthday, sweetheart, is my birthday too, + For, had you not been born, + I who began to live beholding you + Up early as the morn, + That day in June beside the rose-hung stream, + Had never lived at all-- + We stood, do you remember? in a dream + There by the water-fall. + + You were as still as all the other flowers + Under the morning's spell; + Sudden two lives were one, and all things "ours"-- + How we can never tell. + Surely it had been fated long ago-- + What else, dear, could we think? + It seemed that we had stood for ever so, + There by the river's brink. + + And all the days that followed seemed as days + Lived side by side before, + Strangely familiar all your looks and ways, + The very frock you wore; + Nothing seemed strange, yet all divinely new; + Known to your finger tips, + Yet filled with wonder every part of you, + Your hair, your eyes, your lips. + + The wise in love say love was ever thus + Through endless Time and Space, + Heart linked to heart, beloved, as with us, + Only one face--one face-- + Our own to love, however fair the rest; + 'Tis so true lovers are, + For ever breast to breast, + On--on--from star to star. + + + + + SONG + + My eye upon your eyes-- + So was I born, + One far-off day in Paradise, + A summer morn; + I had not lived till then, + But, wildered, went, + Like other wandering men, + Nor what Life meant + Knew I till then. + + My hand within your hand-- + So would I live, + Nor would I ask to understand + Why God did give + Your loveliness to me, + But I would pray + Worthier of it to be, + By night and day, + Unworthy me! + + My heart upon your heart-- + So would I die, + I cannot think that God will part + Us, you and I; + The work he did undo, + That summer morn; + I lived, and would die too, + Where I was born, + Beloved, in you. + + + + + THE FAITHFUL LOVER + + All beauty is but thee in echo-shapes, + No lovely thing but echoes some of thee, + Vainly some touch of thy perfection apes, + Sighing as fair as thou thyself to be; + Therefore, be not disquieted that I + On other forms turn oft my wandering gaze, + Nor deem it anywise disloyalty: + Nay! 'tis the pious fervour of my eye, + That seeks thy face in every other face. + As in the mirrored salon of a queen, + Flashes from glass to glass, as she walks by, + In sweet reiteration still--the queen! + So is the world for thee to walk in, sweet; + But to see thee is all things to have seen. + And, as the moon in every crystal lake, + Walking the heaven with little silver feet, + Sees each bright copy her reflection take, + And every dew-drop holds its little glass, + To catch her loveliness as she doth pass, + So do all things make haste to copy thee. + I, then, to see thee thus over and over, + Am wistful too all lovely shapes to see, + For each thus makes me more and more thy lover. + + + + + LOVE'S TENDERNESS + + Deem not my love is only for the bloom, + The honey and the marble, that is You; + Tis so, Belovéd, common loves consume + Their treasury, and vanish like the dew. + Nay, but my love's a thing that's far more true; + For little loves a little hour hath room, + But not for us their brief and trivial doom, + In a far richer soil our loving grew, + From deeper wells of being it upsprings; + Nor shall the wildest kiss that makes one mouth, + Draining all nectar from the flowered world, + Slake its divine unfathomable drouth; + And, when your wings against my heart lie furled, + With what a tenderness it dreams and sings! + + + + + ANIMA MUNDI + + Let all things vanish, if but you remain; + For if you stay, beloved, what is gone? + Yet, should you go, all permanence is vain, + And all the piled abundance is as none. + + With you beside me in the desert sand, + Your smile upon me, and on mine your hand, + Oases green arise, and camel-bells; + For in the long adventure of your eyes + Are all the wandering ways to Paradise. + + Existence, in your being, comes and goes; + What were the garden, love, without the rose? + In vain were ears to hear, + And eyes in vain, + Lacking your ordered music, sphere to sphere, + Blind, should your beauty blossom not again. + + The pulse that shakes the world with rhythmic beat + Is but the passing of your little feet; + And all the singing vast of all the seas, + Down from the pole + To the Hesperides, + Is but the praying echo of your soul. + + Therefore, beloved, know that this is true-- + The world exists and vanishes in you! + Tis not a lover's fancy; ask the sky + If all its stars depend not, even as I, + Upon your eyelids, when they open or close; + And let the garden answer with the rose. + + + + + BALLADE OF THE UNCHANGING BÉLOVED + + (TO I----a) + + When rumour fain would fright my ear + With the destruction and decay + Of things familiar and dear, + And vaunt of a swift-running day + That sweeps the fair old Past away; + Whatever else be strange and new, + All other things may go or stay, + So that there be no change in you. + + These loud mutations others fear + Find me high-fortressed 'gainst dismay, + They trouble not the tranquil sphere + That hallows with immortal ray + The world where love and lovers stray + In glittering gardens soft with dew-- + O let them break and burn and slay, + So that there be no change in you. + + Let rapine its republics rear, + And murder its red sceptre sway, + Their blood-stained riot comes not near + The quiet haven where we pray, + And work and love and laugh and play; + Unchanged, our skies are ever blue, + Nothing can change, for all they say,-- + So that there be no change in you. + + + ENVOI + + Princess, let wild men brag and bray, + The pure, the beautiful, the true. + Change not, and changeless we as they-- + So that there be no change in you. + + + + + LOVE'S ARITHMETIC + + You often ask me, love, how much I love you, + Bidding my fancy find + An answer to your mind; + I say: "Past count, as there are stars above you." + You shake your head and say, + "Many and bright are they, + But that is not enough." + + Again I try: + "If all the leaves on all the trees + Were counted over, + And all the waves on all the seas, + More times your lover, + Yea! more than twice ten thousand times am I." + "'Tis not enough," again you make reply. + + "How many blades of grass," one day I said, + "Are there from here to China? how many bees + Have gathered honey through the centuries? + Tell me how many roses have bloomed red + Since the first rose till this rose in your hair? + How many butterflies are born each year? + How many raindrops are there in a shower? + How many kisses, darling, in an hour?" + Thereat you smiled, and shook your golden head; + "Ah! not enough!" you said. + Then said I: "Dear, it is not in my power + To tell how much, how many ways, my love; + Unnumbered are its ways even as all these, + Nor any depth so deep, nor height above, + May match therewith of any stars or seas." + "I would hear more," you smiled . . . + + "Then, love," I said, + "This will I do: unbind me all this gold + Too heavy for your head, + And, one by one, I'll count each shining thread, + And when the tale of all its wealth is told . . ." + "As much as that!" you said-- + "Then the full sum of all my love I'll speak, + To the last unit tell the thing you ask . . ." + Thereat the gold, in gleaming torrents shed, + Fell loose adown each cheek, + Hiding you from me; I began my task. + + "'Twill last our lives," you said. + + + + + BEAUTY'S WARDROBE + + My love said she had nought to wear; + Her garments all were old, + And soon her body must go bare + Against the winter's cold. + + I took her out into the dawn, + And from the mountain's crest + Unwound long wreaths of misty lawn, + And wound them round her breast. + + Then passed we to the maple grove, + Like a great hall of gold, + The yellow and the red we wove + In rustling flounce and fold. + + "Now, love," said I, "go, do it on! + And I would have you note + No lovely lady dead and gone + Had such a petticoat." + + Then span I out of milkweeds fine + Fair stockings soft and long, + And other things of quaint design + That unto maids belong. + + And beads of amber and of pearl + About her neck I strung, + And in the bronze of her thick hair + The purple grape I hung. . . . + + Then led her to a glassy spring, + And bade her look and see + If any girl in all the world + Had such fine clothes as she. + + + + + THE VALLEY + + I will walk down to the valley + And lay my head in her breast, + Where are two white doves, + The Queen of Love's, + In a silken nest; + And, all the afternoon, + They croon and croon + The one word "Rest!" + And a little stream + That runs thereby + Sings "Dream!" + Over and over + It sings-- + "O lover, + Dream!" + + + + + BALLADE OF THE BEES OF TREBIZOND + + There blooms a flower in Trebizond + Stored with such honey for the bee, + (So saith the antique book I conned) + Of such alluring fragrancy, + Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree; + Thither the maddened feasters fly, + Yet--so alas! is it with me-- + To taste that honey is to die. + + Belovèd, I, as foolish fond, + Feast still my eyes and heart on thee, + Asking no blessedness beyond + Thy face from morn till night to see, + Ensorcelled past all remedy; + Even as those foolish bees am I, + Though well I know my destiny-- + To taste that honey is to die. + + O'er such a doom shall I despond? + I would not from thy snare go free, + Release me not from thy sweet bond, + I live but in thy mystery; + Though all my senses from me flee, + I still would glut my glazing eye, + Thou nectar of mortality-- + To taste that honey is to die. + + + ENVOI + + Princess, before I cease to be, + Bend o'er my lips so burning dry + Thy honeycombs of ivory-- + To taste that honey is to die. + + + + + BROKEN TRYST + + Waiting in the woodland, watching for my sweet, + Thinking every leaf that stirs the coming of her feet, + Thinking every whisper the rustle of her gown, + How my heart goes up and up, and then goes down and down. + + First it is a squirrel, then it is a dove, + Then a red fox feather-soft and footed like a dream; + All the woodland fools me, promising my love; + I think I hear her talking--'tis but the running stream. + + Vowelled talking water, mimicking her voice-- + O how she promised she'd surely come to-day! + There she comes! she comes at last! O heart of mine rejoice-- + Nothing but a flight of birds winging on their way. + + Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world; + Day's bright banners in the west one by one are furled, + Sadly sinks the lingering sun that like a lover rose, + One by one each woodland thing loses heart and goes. + + Back along the woodland, all the day is dead, + All the green has turned to gray, and all the gold to lead; + O 'tis bitter cruel, sweet, to treat a lover so: + If only I were half a man . . . I'd let the baggage go. + + + + + THE RIVAL + + She failed me at the tryst: + All the long afternoon + The golden day went by, + Until the rising moon; + But, as I waited on, + Turning my eyes about, + Aching for sight of her, + Until the stars came out,-- + Maybe 'twas but a dream-- + There close against my face, + "Beauty am I," said one, + "I come to take her place." + + And then I understood + Why, all the waiting through, + The green had seemed so green, + The blue had seemed so blue, + The song of bird and stream + Had been so passing sweet, + For all the coming not + Of her forgetful feet; + And how my heart was tranced, + For all its lonely ache, + Gazing on mirrored rushes + Sky-deep in the lake. + Said Beauty: "_Me_ you love, + You love her for my sake." + + + + + THE QUARREL + + Thou shall not me persuade + This love of ours + Can in a moment fade, + Like summer flowers; + + That a swift word or two, + In angry haste, + Our heaven shall undo, + Our hearts lay waste. + + For a poor flash of pride, + A cold word spoken, + Love shall not be denied, + Or long troth broken. + + Yea; wilt thou not relent? + Be mine the wrong, + No more the argument, + Dear love, prolong. + + The summer days go by, + Cease that sweet rain, + Those angry crystals dry, + Be friends again. + + So short a time at best + Is ours to play, + Come, take me to thy breast-- + Ah! that's the way. + + + + + LOVERS + + Why should I ask perfection of thee, sweet, + That have so little of mine own to bring? + That thou art beautiful from head to feet-- + Is that, beloved, such a little thing, + That I should ask more of thee, and should fling + Thy largesse from me, in a world like this, + O generous giver of thy perfect kiss? + + Thou gavest me thy lips, thine eyes, thine hair; + I brought thee worship--was it not thy due? + If thou art cruel--still art thou not fair? + Roses thou gavest--shalt thou not bring rue? + Alas! have I not brought thee sorrow too? + How dare I face the future and its drouth, + Missing that golden honeycomb thy mouth? + + Kiss and make up--'tis the wise ancient way; + Back to my arms, O bountiful deep breast! + No more of words that know not what they say; + To kiss is wisdom--folly all the rest. + Dear loveliness so mercifully pressed + Against my heart--I shake with sudden fear + To think--to losing thee I came so near. + + + + + SHADOWS + + Shadows! the only shadows that I know + Are happy shadows of the light of you, + The radiance immortal shining through + Your sea-deep eyes up from the soul below; + Your shadow, like a rose's, on the grass + Where your feet pass. + + The shadow of the dimple in your chin, + The shadow of the lashes of your eyes, + As on your cheek, soft as a moth, it lies; + And, as a church, I softly enter in + The solemn twilight of your mighty hair, + Down falling there. + + These are Love's shadows, Love knows none but these: + Shadows that are the very soul of light, + As morning and the morning blossom bright, + Or jewelled shadows of moon-haunted seas; + The darkest shadows in this world of ours + Are made of flowers. + + + + + AFTER TIBULLUS + + _Illius est nobis lege colendus amor_ + + On her own terms, O lover, must thou take + The heart's beloved: be she kind, 'tis well, + Cruel, expect no more; not for thy sake + But for the fire in thee that melts her snows + For a brief spell + She loves thee--"loves" thee! Though thy heart should break, + Though thou shouldst lie athirst for her in hell, + She could not pity thee: who of the Rose, + Or of the Moon, asks pity, or return + Of love for love? and she is even as those. + Beauty is she, thou Love, and thou must learn, + O lover, this: + Thine is she for the music thou canst pour + Through her white limbs, the madness, the deep dream; + Thine, while thy kiss + Can sweep her flaming with thee down the stream + That is not thou nor she but merely bliss; + The music ended, she is thine no more. + + In her Eternal Beauty bends o'er thee, + Be thou content; + She is the evening star in thy hushed lake + Mirrored,--be glad; + A soul-less creature of the element, + Nor good, nor bad; + That which thou callest to in the far skies + Comes to thee in her eyes; + That thou mayst slake + Thy love of lilies, lo! her breasts! Be wise, + Ask not that she, as thou, should human be, + She that doth smell so sweet of distant heaven; + Pity is mortal leaven, + Dews know it not, nor morning on the hills, + And who hath yet found pity of the sea + That blesses, knowing not, and, not knowing, kills; + And sister unto all of these is she, + Whose face, as theirs, none reads; whose heart none knows; + Whose words are as the wind's words, and whose ways, + O lover, learn, + Swerve not, or turn + Aside for prayers, or broken-hearted praise: + The young moon looks not back as on she goes. + On their own terms, O lover!--Girl, Moon, Rose. + + + + + A WARNING + + We that were born, beloved, so far apart, + So many seas and lands, + The gods, one sudden day, joined heart to heart, + Locked hands in hands, + Distance relented and became our friend, + And met, for our sakes, world's end with world's end. + The earth was centred in one flowering plot + Beneath thy feet, and all the rest was not. + + Now wouldst thou rend our nearness, and again + Bring distance back, and place + Poles and equators, mountain range and plain, + Between me and thy face, + Undoing what the gods divinely planned; + Heart, canst thou part? hand, loose me from thy hand? + Not twice the gods their slighted gifts bestow; + Bethink thee well, beloved, ere thou dost go. + + + + + PRIMUM MOBILE + + When thou art gone, then all the rest will go; + Mornings no more shall dawn, + Roses no more shall blow, + Thy lovely face withdrawn-- + Nor woods grow green again after the snow; + For of all these thy beauty was the dream, + The soul, the sap, the song; + To thee the bloom and beam + Of flower and star belong, + And all the beauty thine of bird and stream. + + Thy bosom was the moonrise, and the morn + The roses of thy cheek, + No lovely thing was born + But of thy face did speak-- + How shall all these endure, of thee forlorn? + The sad heart of the world grew glad through thee, + Happy, men toiled and spun + That had thy smile for fee; + So flowers seek the sun, + So singing rivers hasten to the sea. + + Yet, though the world, bereft, should bleakly bloom, + And wanly make believe + Against the general doom, + For me the earth you leave + Shall be for ever but a haunted room; + Yea! though my heart beat on a little space, + When thou art strangely gone + To thy far hiding-place, + Soon shall I follow on, + Out-footing Death to over-take thy face. + + + + + THE LAST TRYST + + The cowbells wander through the woods, + 'Neath arching boughs a stream slips by, + In all the ferny solitude + A chipmunk and a butterfly + Are all that is--and you and I. + + This summer day, with all its flowers, + With all its green and gold and blue, + Just for a little while is ours, + Just for a little--I and you: + Till the stars rise and bring the dew. + + One perfect day to us is given; + Tomorrow--all the aching years; + This is our last short day in heaven, + The last of all our kisses nears-- + Then life too arid even for tears. + + Here, as the day ends, we two end, + Two that were one, we said, for ever; + We had Eternity to spend, + And laughed for joy to know that never + Two so divinely one could sever. + + A year ago--how rich we seemed! + Like piles of gold our kisses lay, + Enough to last our lives we dreamed, + And lives to come, we used to say-- + Yet are we at the last to-day. + + The last, I say, yet scarce believe + What all my heart is black with knowing; + Doomed, I yet watch for some reprieve, + But know too well that love is going, + As sure as yonder stream is flowing. + + Look round us how the hot sun burns + In plots of glory here and there, + Pouring its gold among the ferns: + So burned my lips upon your hair, + So rained our kisses, love, last year. + + We saw not where a shadow loomed, + That, from its first auroral hour, + Our happy paradise fore-doomed; + A Fate within whose icy power + Love blooms as helpless as a flower. + + Its shadow by the dial stands, + The golden moments shudder past, + Soon shall he smite apart our hands, + In vain we hold each other fast, + And the last kiss must come at last. + + The last! then be it charged with fire, + With sacred passion wild and white, + With such a glory of desire, + We two shall vanish in its light, + And find each other in God's sight. + + + + + THE HEART ON THE SLEEVE + + I wore my heart upon my sleeve, + Tis most unwise, they say, to do-- + But then how could I but believe + The foolish thing was safe with you? + Yet, had I known, 'twas safer far + With wolves and tigers, the wild sea + Were kinder to it than you are-- + Sweetheart, how you must laugh at me! + + Yet am I glad I did not know + That creatures of such tender bloom, + Beneath their sanctuary snow, + Were such cold ministers of doom; + For had I known, as I began + To love you, ere we flung apart, + I had not been so glad a man + As holds his lady to his heart. + + And am I lonely here to-night + With empty eyes, the cause is this, + Your face it was that gave me sight, + My heart ran over with your kiss. + Still do I think that what I laid + Before the altar of your face, + Flower of words that shall not fade, + Were worthy of a moment's grace; + + Some thoughtless, lightly dropped largesse, + A touch of your immortal hand + Laid on my brow in tenderness, + Though you could never understand. + And yet with hungered lips to touch + Your feet of pearl and in your face + To look a little was over-much-- + In heaven is no such fair a place + As, broken-hearted, at your feet + To lie there and to kiss them, sweet. + + + + + AT HER FEET + + My head is at your feet, + Two Cytherean doves, + The same, O cruel sweet, + As were the Queen of Love's; + They brush my dreaming brows + With silver fluttering beat, + Here in your golden house, + Beneath your feet. + + No man that draweth breath + Is in such happy case: + My heart to itself saith-- + Though kings gaze on her face, + I would not change my place; + To lie here is more sweet, + Here at her feet. + + As one in a green land + Beneath a rose-bush lies, + Two petals in his hand, + With shut and dreaming eyes, + And hears the rustling stir, + As the young morning goes, + Shaking abroad the myrrh + Of each awakened rose; + So to me lying there + Comes the soft breath of her,-- + O cruel sweet!-- + There at her feet. + + O little careless feet + That scornful tread + Upon my dreaming head, + As little as the rose + Of him who lies there knows + Nor of what dreams may be + Beneath your feet; + Know you of me, + Ah! dreams of your fair head, + Its golden treasure spread, + And all your moonlit snows, + Yea! all your beauty's rose + That blooms to-day so fair + And smells so sweet-- + Shoulders of ivory, + And breasts of myrrh-- + Under my feet. + + + + + RELIQUIAE + + This is all that is left--this letter and this rose! + And do you, poor dreaming things, for a moment suppose + That your little fire shall burn for ever and ever on, + And this great fire be, all but these ashes, gone? + + Flower! of course she is--but is she the only flower? + She must vanish like all the rest at the funeral hour, + And you that love her with brag of your all-conquering thew, + What, in the eyes of the gods, tall though you be, are you? + + You and she are no more--yea! a little less than we; + And what is left of our loving is little enough to see; + Sweet the relics thereof--a rose, a letter, a glove-- + That in the end is all that remains of the mightiest love. + + Six-foot two! what of that? for Death is taller than he; + And, every moment, Death gathers flowers as fair as she; + And nothing you two can do, or plan or purpose or dream, + But will go the way of the wind and go the way of the stream. + + + + + LOVE'S PROUD FAREWELL + + I am too proud of loving thee, too proud + Of the sweet months and years that now have end, + To feign a heart indifferent to this loss, + Too thankful-happy that the gods allowed + Our orbits cross, + Beloved and lovely friend; + And though I wend + Lonely henceforth along a road grown gray, + I shall not be all lonely on the way, + Companioned with the attar of thy rose, + Though in my garden it no longer blows. + + Thou canst not give elsewhere thy gifts to me, + Or only seem to give; + Yea, not so fugitive + The glory that hath hallowed me and thee, + Not thou or I alone that marvel wrought + Immortal is the paradise of thought, + Nor ours to destroy, + Born of our hearts together, where bright streams + Ran through the woods for joy, + That heaven of our dreams. + + There shall it shine + Under green boughs, + So long as May and June bring leaves and flowers, + Couches of moss and fern and woven bowers, + Still thine and mine, + A golden house; + And, perchance, e'er the winter that takes all, + I, there alone in the deep listening wood, + Shall hear thy lost foot-fall, + And, scarce believing the beatitude, + Shall know thee there, + Wild heart to wild heart pressed, + And wrap me in the splendour of thine hair, + And laugh within thy breast. + + + + + THE ROSE HAS LEFT THE GARDEN + + The Rose has left the garden, + Here she but faintly lives, + Lives but for me, + Within this little urn of pot-pourri + Of all that was + And never more can be, + While her black berries harden + On the wind-shaken tree. + Yet if my song a little fragrance gives, + 'Tis not all loss, + Something I save + From the sweet grave + Wherein she lies, + Something she gave + That never dies, + Something that may still live + In these my words + That draw from her their breath, + And fain would be her birds + Still in her death. + + + + + II + + + THE GARDENS OF ADONIS + + Belovèd, I would tell a ghostly thing + That hides beneath the simple name of Spring; + Wild beyond hope the news--the dead return, + The shapes that slept, their breath a frozen mist, + Ascend from out sarcophagus and urn, + Lips that were dust new redden to be kissed, + Fires that were quenched re-burn. + + The gardens of Adonis bloom again, + Proserpina may hold the lad no more, + That in her arms the winter through hath lain; + Up flings he from the hollow-sounding door, + Where Love hath bruised her rosy breast in vain: + Ah! through their tears--the happy April rain-- + They, like two stars aflame, together run, + Then lift immortal faces in the sun. + + A faint far music steals from underground, + And to the spirit's ear there comes the sound, + The whisper vague, and rustle delicate, + Of myriad atoms stirring in their trance + That for the lifted hand of Order wait, + Taking their stations in the cosmic dance, + Mate linked to mystic mate. + + And perished shapes rebuild themselves anew, + Nourished on essences of fire and dew, + And in earth's cheek, but now so wistful wan, + The colour floods, and from deep wells of power + Rises the sap of resurrection; + The dead branch buds, the dry staff breaks in flower, + The grass comes surging on. + + These ghostly things that in November died, + How come they thus again adream with pride? + I saw the Red Rose lying in her tomb, + Yet comes she lovelier back, a redder rose; + What paints upon her cheek this vampire bloom? + Belovéd, when to the dark thy beauty goes, + Thee too will Spring re-lume? + + Verily, nothing dies; a brief eclipse + Is all; and this blessed union of our lips + Shall bind us still though we have lips no more: + For as the Rose and as the gods are we, + Returning ever; but the shapes we wore + Shall have some look of immortality + More shining than before. + + Make we our offerings at Adonis' shrine, + For this is Love's own resurrection day, + Bring we the honeyed cakes, the sacred wine, + And myrtle garlands on his altars lay: + _O Thou, beloved alike of Proserpine + And Aphrodite, to our prayers incline; + Be thou propitious to this love of ours, + And we, the summer long, shall bring thee flowers._ + + + + + NATURE THE HEALER + + When all the world has gone awry, + And I myself least favour find + With my own self, and but to die + And leave the whole sad coil behind, + Seems but the one and only way; + Should I but hear some water falling + Through woodland veils in early May, + And small bird unto small bird calling-- + O then my heart is glad as they. + + Lifted my load of cares, and fled + My ghosts of weakness and despair, + And, unafraid, I raise my head + And Life to do its utmost dare; + Then if in its accustomed place + One flower I should chance find blowing, + With lovely resurrected face + From Autumn's rust and Winter's snowing-- + I laugh to think of my disgrace. + + A simple brook, a simple flower, + A simple wood in green array,-- + What, Nature, thy mysterious power + To bind and heal our mortal clay? + What mystic surgery is thine, + Whose eyes of us seem all unheeding, + That even so sad a heart as mine + Laughs at the wounds that late were bleeding?-- + Yea! sadder hearts, O Power Divine. + + I think we are not otherwise + Than all the children of thy knee; + For so each furred and winged one flies, + Wounded, to lay its heart on thee; + And, strangely nearer to thy breast, + Knows, and yet knows not, of thy healing, + Asking but there awhile to rest, + With wisdom beyond our revealing-- + Knows and yet knows not, and is blest. + + + + + LOVE ETERNAL + + The human heart will never change, + The human dream will still go on, + The enchanted earth be ever strange + With moonlight and the morning sun, + And still the seas shall shout for joy, + And swing the stars as in a glass, + The girl be angel for the boy, + The lad be hero for the lass. + + The fashions of our mortal brains + New names for dead men's thoughts shall give, + But we find not for all our pains + Why 'tis so wonderful to live; + The beauty of a meadow-flower + Shall make a mock of all our skill, + And God, upon his lonely tower + Shall keep his secret--secret still. + + The old magician of the skies, + With coloured and sweet-smelling things, + Shall charm the sense and trance the eyes, + Still onward through a million springs; + And nothing old and nothing new + Into the magic world be born, + Yea! nothing older than the dew, + And nothing younger than the morn. + + Delight and Destiny and Death + Shall still the mortal story weave, + Man shall not lengthen out his breath, + Nor stay when it is time to leave; + And all in vain for him to ask + His little meaning in the Whole, + Done well or ill his tiny task, + The mystic making of his soul. + + Ah! love, and is it not enough + To have our part in this romance + Made of such planetary stuff, + Strange partners in the cosmic dance? + Though Life be all too swift a dream, + And its fair rose must fade and fall, + Life has no sorrow in its scheme + As never to have lived at all. + + This fire that through our being runs, + When our two hearts together beat, + Is one with yonder burning sun's, + Two atoms that in glory meet; + What unimagined loss it were, + If that dread power in which we trust + Had left your eyes, your lips, your hair, + Nought but un-animated dust. + + Unknown the thrilling touch divine + That sets our magic clay aflame, + That wrought your beauty to be mine, + And joy enough to speak your name; + Thanks be to Life that did this thing, + Unsought, beloved, for you and me, + Gave us the rose, and birds to sing, + The golden earth, the blue-robed sea. + + + + + THE LOVELIEST FACE AND THE WILD ROSE + + The loveliest face! I turned to her + Shut in 'mid savage rocks and trees;-- + 'Twas in the May-time of the year, + And our two hearts were filled with ease-- + And pointed where a wild-rose grew, + Suddenly fair in that grim place: + "We should know all, if we but knew + Whence came this flower, and whence--this face." + + The loveliest face! My thoughts went around: + "Strange sister of this little rose, + So softly 'scaped from underground; + O tell me if your beauty knows, + Being itself so fair a thing, + How came this lovely thing so fair, + How came it to such blossoming, + Leaning so strangely from the air? + + "The wonder of its being born, + So lone and lovely--even as you-- + Half maiden-moon, half maiden-morn, + And delicately sad with dew; + How came it in this rocky place? + Or shall I ask the rose if she + Knows how this marvel of your face + On this harsh planet came to be?" + + Earth's bluest eyes gazed into mine, + And on her head Earth's brightest gold + Made all the rocks with glory shine-- + But still the secret went untold; + For rose nor girl, no more than I, + Their own mysterious meaning knew, + Save that alike from earth and sky + Each her enchanted being drew. + + Both from deep wells of wonder sprang, + Both children of the cosmic dream, + Alike with yonder bird that sang, + And little lives that flit and gleam; + Sparks from the central rose of fire + That at the heart of being burns, + That draws the lily from the mire + And trodden dust to beauty turns. + + Strange wand of Beauty--that transforms + Old dross to dreams, that softly glows + On the fierce rainbowed front of storms, + And smiles on unascended snows, + That from the travail of lone seas + Wrests sighing shell and moonlit pearl, + And gathers up all sorceries + In the white being of one girl. + + + + + AS IN THE WOODLAND I WALK + + As in the woodland I walk, many a strange thing I learn-- + How from the dross and the drift the beautiful things return, + And the fires quenched in October in April reburn; + + How foulness grows fair with the stern lustration + of sleets and snows, + And rottenness changes back to the breath and the cheek + of the rose, + And how gentle the wind that seems wild to each blossom + that blows; + + How the lost is ever found, and the darkness the door + of the light, + And how soft the caress of the hand that to shape + must not fear to smite, + And how the dim pearl of the moon is drawn from the gulf + of the night; + + How, when the great tree falls, with its empire + of rustling leaves, + The earth with a thousand hands its sunlit ruin receives, + And out of the wreck of its glory each secret artist weaves + + Splendours anew and arabesques and tints on his swaying loom, + Soft as the eyes of April, and black as the brows of doom, + And the fires give back in blue-eyed flowers the woodland + they consume; + + How when the streams run dry, the thunder calls on the hills, + And the clouds spout silver showers in the laps + of the little rills, + And each spring brims with the morning star, + and each thirsty fountain fills; + + And how, when the songs seemed ended, and all the music mute, + There is always somewhere a secret tune, some string + of a hidden lute, + Lonely and undismayed that has faith in the flower + and the fruit. + + So I learn in the woods--that all things come again, + That sorrow turns to joy, and that laughter is born of pain, + That the burning gold of June is the gray of December's rain. + + + + + TO A MOUNTAIN SPRING + + Strange little spring, by channels past our telling, + Gentle, resistless, welling, welling, welling; + Through what blind ways, we know not whence + You darkling come to dance and dimple-- + Strange little spring! + Nature hath no such innocence, + And no more secret thing-- + So mysterious and so simple; + Earth hath no such fairy daughter + Of all her witchcraft shapes of water. + When all the land with summer burns, + And brazen noon rides hot and high, + And tongues are parched and grasses dry, + Still are you green and hushed with ferns, + And cool as some old sanctuary; + Still are you brimming o'er with dew + And stars that dipped their feet in you. + + And I believe when none is by, + Only the young moon in the sky-- + The Greeks of old were right about you-- + A naiad, like a marble flower, + Lifts up her lovely shape from out you, + Swaying like a silver shower. + + So in old years dead and gone + Brimmed the spring on Helicon, + Just a little spring like you-- + Ferns and moss and stars and dew-- + Nigh the sacred Muses' dwelling, + Dancing, dimpling, welling, welling. + + + + + NOON + + Noon like a naked sword lies on the grass, + Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse; + The little stream, too indolent to pass, + Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs, + That build amid the glare a shadowy house, + And with a Paradisal freshness brims + Amid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade; + The antic water-fly above it skims, + And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade, + Or knee-deep in the grassy glimmer wade. + + The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies, + Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves, + Nor bird, nor bee; and even the butterflies, + Languid with noon, forget their painted loves, + Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves. + Only at times a little breeze will stir, + And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream, + Or run its fingers through the willows' hair, + And sway the rushes momently agleam-- + Then all fall back again into a dream. + + + + + A RAINY DAY + + The beauty of this rainy day, + All silver-green and dripping gray, + Has stolen quite my heart away + From all the tasks I meant to do, + Made me forget the resolute blue + And energetic gold of things . . . + So soft a song the rain-bird sings. + + Yet am I glad to miss awhile + The sun's huge domineering smile, + The busy spaces mile on mile, + Shut in behind this shimmering screen + Of falling pearls and phantom green; + As in a cloister walled with rain, + Safe from intrusions, voices vain, + And hurry of invading feet, + Inviolate in my retreat: + Myself, my books, my pipe, my fire-- + So runs my rainy-day desire. + + Or I old letters may con o'er, + And dream on faces seen no more, + The buried treasure of the years, + Too visionary now for tears; + Open old cupboards and explore + Sometimes, for an old sweetheart's sake, + A delicate romantic ache, + Sometimes a swifter pang of pain + To read old tenderness again, + As though the ink were scarce yet dry, + And She still She and I still I. + What if I were to write as though + Her letter came an hour ago! + An hour ago!--This post-mark says . . . + But out upon these rainy days! + Come tie the packet up again, + The sun is back--enough of rain. + + + + + IN THE CITY + + Away from the silent hills and the talking + of upland waters, + The high still stars and the lonely moon + in her quarters, + I fly to the city, the streets, the faces, the towers; + And I leave behind me the hush and the dews + and the flowers, + The mink that steals by the stream a-shimmer + among the rocks, + The hawk o'er the barn-yard sailing, the little cub-bear + and the fox, + The woodchuck and his burrow, and the little snake at noon, + And the house of the yellow-jacket, and the cricket's + endless tune. + + And what shall I find in the city that shall take + the place of these? + O I shall find my love there, and fall at her silken knees, + And for the moon her breast, and for the stars her eyes, + And under her shadowed hair the gardens of Paradise. + + + + + COUNTRY LARGESSE + + I bring a message from the stream + To fan the burning cheeks of town, + From morning's tower + Of pearl and rose + I bring this cup of crystal down, + With brimming dews agleam, + And from my lady's garden close + I bring this flower. + + O walk with me, ye jaded brows, + And I will sing the song I found + Making a lonely rippling sound + Under the boughs. + The tinkle of the brook is there, + And cow-bells wandering through the fern, + And silver calls + From waterfalls, + And echoes floating through the air + From happiness I know not where, + And hum and drone where'er I turn + Of little lives that buzz and die; + And sudden lucent melodies, + Like hidden strings among the trees + Roofing the summer sky. + + The soft breath of the briar I bring, + And wafted scents of mint and clover, + Rain-distilled balms the hill-winds fling, + Sweet-thoughted as a lover; + Incense from lilied urns a-swaying, + And the green smell of grass + Where men are haying. + + As through the streets I pass, + With their shrill clatter, + This largesse from the hills and streams, + This quietude of flowers and dreams, + Round me I scatter. + + + + + MORN + + Morn hath a secret that she never tells: + 'Tis on her lips and in her maiden eyes-- + I think it is the way to Paradise, + Or of the Fount of Youth the crystal wells. + The bee hath no such honey in her cells + Sweet as the balm that in her bosom lies, + As in her garden of the budding skies + She walks among the silver asphodels. + + He that is loveless and of heart forlorn, + Let him but leave behind his haunted bed, + And set his feet toward yonder singing star, + Shall have for sweetheart this same secret morn; + She shall come running to him from afar, + And on her cool breast lay his lonely head. + + + + + THE SOURCE + + Water in hidden glens + From the secret heart of the mountains, + Where the red fox hath its dens + And the gods their crystal fountains; + Up runnel and leaping cataract, + Boulder and ledge, I climbed and tracked, + Till I came to the top of the world and the fen + That drinks up the clouds and cisterns the rain, + And down through the floors of the deep morass + The procreant woodland essences drain-- + The thunder's home, where the eagles scream + And the centaurs pass; + But, where it was born, I lost my stream. + + 'Twas in vain I said: "'Tis here it springs, + Though no more it leaps and no more it sings;" + And I thought of a poet whose songs I knew + Of morning made and shining dew-- + I remembered the mire of the marshes too. + + + + + AUTUMN + + The sad nights are here and the sad mornings, + The air is filled with portents and with warnings, + Clouds that vastly loom and winds that cry, + A mournful prescience + Of bright things going hence; + Red leaves are blown about the widowed sky, + And late disconsolate blooms + Dankly bestrew + The garden walks, as in deserted rooms + The parted guest, in haste to bid adieu, + Trinklets and shreds forgotten left behind, + Torn letters and a ribbon once so brave-- + Wreckage none cares to save, + And hearts grow sad to find; + And phantom echoes, as of old foot-falls, + Wander and weary out in the thin air, + And the last cricket calls-- + A tiny sorrow, shrilling "Where? ah! where?" + + + + + THE ROSE IN WINTER + + When last I saw this opening rose + That holds the summer in its hand, + And with its beauty overflows + And sweetens half a shire of land, + It was a black and cindered thing, + Drearily rocking in the cold, + The relic of a vanished spring, + A rose abominably old. + + Amid the stainless snows it grinned, + A foul and withered shape, that cast + Ribbed shadows, and the gleaming wind + Went rattling through it as it passed; + It filled the heart with a strange dread, + Hag-like, it made a whimpering sound, + And gibbered like the wandering dead + In some unhallowed burial-ground. + + Whoso on that December day + Had seen it so deject and lorn, + So lone a symbol of decay, + Had dreamed of it this summer morn? + Divined the power that should relume + A flame so spent, and once more bring + That blackened being back to bloom,-- + Who could have dreamed so strange a thing? + + + + + THE FROZEN STREAM + + Stream that leapt and danced + Down the rocky ledges, + All the summer long, + Past the flowered sedges, + Under the green rafters, + With their leafy laughters, + Murmuring your song: + Strangely still and tranced, + All your singing ended, + Wizardly suspended, + Icily adream; + When the new buds thicken, + Can this crystal quicken, + Now so strangely sleeping, + Once more go a-leaping + Down the rocky ledges, + All the summer long, + Murmuring its song? + + + + + WINTER MAGIC + + Winter that hath few friends yet numbers those + Of spirit erect and delicate of eye; + All may applaud sweet Summer, with her rose, + And Autumn, with her banners in the sky; + But when from the earth's cheek the colour goes, + Her old adorers from her presence fly. + + So cold her bosom seems, such icy glare + Is in her eyes, while on the frozen mere + The shrill ice creaks in the congealing air; + Where is the lover that shall call her dear, + Or the devotion that shall find her fair? + The white-robed widow of the vanished year. + + Yet hath she loveliness and many flowers, + Dreams hath she too and tender reveries, + Tranced mid the rainbows of her gleaming bowers, + Or the hushed temples of her pillared trees; + Summer has scarce such soft and silent hours, + Autumn has no such antic wizardries. + + Yea! he that takes her to his bosom knows, + Lost in the magic crystal of her eyes, + Upon her vestal cheek a fairer rose, + What rapture and what passionate surprise + Awaits his kiss beneath her mask of snows, + And what strange fire beneath her pallor lies. + + Beauty is hers all unconfused of sense, + Lustral, austere, and of the spirit fine; + No cloudy fumes of myrrh and frankincense + Drug in her arms the ecstasy divine; + But stellar awe that kneels in high suspense, + And hallowed glories of the inner shrine. + + And, for the idle summer, in our blood + Pleasures hath she of rapid tingling joy, + With ruddy laughter 'neath her frozen hood, + Purging our mortal metal of alloy, + Stern benefactress of beatitude, + Turning our leaden age to girl and boy. + + + + + A LOVER'S UNIVERSE + + When winter comes and takes away the rose, + And all the singing of sweet birds is done, + The warm and honeyed world lost deep in snows, + Still, independent of the summer sun, + In vain, with sullen roar, + December shakes my door, + And sleet upon the pane + Threatens my peace in vain, + While, seated by the fire upon my knee, + My love abides with me. + + For he who, wise in time, his harvest yields + Reaped into barns, sweet-smelling and secure, + Smiles as the rain beats sternly on his fields, + For wealth is his no winter can make poor; + Safe all his waving gold + Shut in against the cold, + Treasure of summer grass-- + So sit I with my lass, + My harvest sheaves of all her garnered charms + Safe in my happy arms. + + Still fragrant in the garden of her breast, + The flowers that fled with summer softly bloom, + The birds that shook with song each empty nest + Still, when she speaks, fill all the listening room, + Deep-sheltered from the storm + Within her blossoming form. + Flower-breathed and singing sweet + Is she from head to feet; + All summer in my sweetheart doth abide, + Though winter be outside. + + So all the various wonder of the world, + The wizard moon and stars, the haunted sea, + In her small being mystically furled, + She brings as in a golden cup to me; + Within no other book + My eyes for wisdom look, + That have her eyes for lore; + And when the flaming door + Opens into the dark, what shall I fear + Adventuring with my dear? + + + + + TO THE GOLDEN WIFE + + With laughter always on the darkest day, + She danced before the very face of dread, + Starry companion of my mortal way, + Pre-destined merrily to be my mate, + With eyes as calm, she met the eyes of Fate: + "For this it was that you and I were wed-- + What else?" she smiled and said. + + Fair-weather wives are any man's to find, + The pretty sisters of the butterfly, + Gay when the sun is out, and skies are kind; + The daughters of the rainbow all may win-- + Pity their lovers when the sun goes in! + _Her_ smiles are brightest 'neath the stormiest sky-- + Thrice blest and all unworthy I! + + + + + BURIED TREASURE + + When the musicians hide away their faces, + And all the petals of the rose are shed, + And snow is drifting through the happy places, + And the last cricket's heart is cold and dead; + O Joy, where shall we find thee? + O Love, where shall we seek? + For summer is behind thee, + And cold is winter's cheek. + + Where shall I find me violets in December? + O tell me where the wood-thrush sings to-day! + Ah! heart, our summer-love dost thou remember + Where it lies hidden safe and warm away? + When woods once more are ringing + With sweet birds on the bough, + And brooks once more are singing, + Will it be there--thinkst thou? + + When Autumn came through bannered woodlands sighing, + We found a place of moonlight and of tears, + And there, with yellow leaves for it to lie in, + Left it to dream, watched over by the spheres. + It lies like buried treasure + Beneath the winter's cold, + The love beyond all measure, + In heaps of living gold. + + When April's here, with all her sweet adorning, + And all the joys steal back December hid, + Shall we not laughing run, some happy morning, + And of our treasure lift the leafy lid? + Again to find it dreaming, + Just as we left it still, + Our treasure far out-gleaming + Crocus and daffodil. + + + + + THE NEW HUSBANDMAN + + Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed, + God give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting, + Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud, + And all about it ever the birds sing. + + Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mine + That sowed there stars along with good white grain, + But reaped thereof--be better fortune thine-- + Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain. + + Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance, + Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil, + Till I sowed poppies 'gainst remembrance, + And took to other furrows my laughing toil. + + And other men as I that ploughed before + Shall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reap + Where we have sown, and on your threshing floor + Have honest grain within thy barns to keep. + + + + + PATHS THAT WIND . . . + + Paths that wind + O'er the hills and by the streams + I must leave behind-- + Dawns and dews and dreams. + Trails that go + Through the woods and down the slopes + To the vale below; + Done with fears and hopes, + I must wander on + Till the purple twilight ends, + Where the sun has gone-- + Faces, flowers and friends. + + + + + THE IMMORTAL GODS + + The gods are there, they hide their lordly faces + From you that will not kneel-- + Worship, and they reveal, + Call--and 'tis they! + They have not changed, nor moved from their high places, + The stars stream past their eyes like drifted spray; + Lovely to look on are they as bright gold, + They are wise with beauty, as a pool is wise. + Lonely with lilies; very sweet their eyes-- + Bathed deep in sunshine are they, and very cold. + + + + + III + + + BALLADE OF WOMAN + + A woman! lightly the mysterious word + Falls from our lips, lightly as though we knew + Its meaning, as we say--a flower, a bird, + Or say the moon, the stream, the light, the dew, + Simple familiar things, mysterious too; + Or as a star is set down on a chart, + Named with a name, out yonder in the blue: + A woman--and yet how much more thou art! + + So lightly spoken, and so lightly heard, + And yet, strange word, who shall thy sense construe? + What sage hath yet fit designation dared? + Yet I have sought the dictionaries through, + And of thy meaning found me not a clue; + Blessing and breaking still the firmest heart, + So fairy false, yet so divinely true: + A woman--and yet how much more thou art! + + Mother of God, and Circe, bosom-bared, + That nursed our manhood, and our manhood slew; + First dream, last sigh, all the long way we fared, + Sweeter than honey, bitterer than rue; + Thou fated radiance sorrowing men pursue, + Thou art the whole of life--the rest but part + Of thee, all things we ever dream or do; + A woman--and yet how much more thou art! + + + ENVOI + + Princess, that all this craft of moonlight threw + Across my path, this deep immortal smart + Shall still burn on when winds my ashes strew: + A woman--and yet how much more thou art! + + + + + THE MAGIC FLOWER + + You bear a flower in your hand, + You softly take it through the air, + Lest it should be too roughly fanned, + And break and fall, for all your care. + + Love is like that, the lightest breath + Shakes all its blossoms o'er the land, + And its mysterious cousin, Death, + Waits but to snatch it from your hand. + + O some day, should your hand forget, + Your guardian eyes stray otherwhere, + Your cheeks shall all in vain be wet, + Vain all your penance and your prayer. + + God gave you once this creature fair, + You two mysteriously met; + By Time's strange stream + There stood this Dream, + This lovely Immortality + Given your mortal eyes to see, + That might have been your darling yet; + But in the place + Of her strange face + Sorrow will stand forever more, + And Sorrow's hand be on your brow, + And vainly you shall watch the door + For her so lightly with you now, + And all the world be as before. + Ah; Spring shall sing and Summer bloom, + And flowers fill Life's empty room, + And all the singers sing in vain, + Nor bring you back your flower again. + + O have a care!--for this is all: + Let not your magic blossom fall. + + + + + BALLADE OF LOVE'S CLOISTER + + Had I the gold that some so vainly spend, + For my lost loves a temple would I raise, + A shrine for each dear name: there should ascend + Incense for ever, and hymns of golden praise; + And I would live the remnant of my days, + Where hallowed windows cast their painted gleams, + At prayer before each consecrated face, + Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams. + + And each fair altar, like a priest, I'd tend, + Trimming the tapers to a constant blaze, + And to each lovely and beloved friend + Garlands I'd bring, and virginal soft sprays + From April's bodice, and moon-breasted May's, + And there should be a sound for ever of streams + And birds 'mid happy leaves in that still place,-- + Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams. + + O'er missals of hushed memories would I bend, + And thrilling scripts of bosom-scented phrase, + Telling of love that never hath an end, + And sacred relics of wonder-working grace, + Strands of bright hair, and tender webs of lace, + Press to my lips--until the Present seems + The Past again to my ensorcelled gaze,-- + Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams. + + + ENVOI + + Princesses unforgot, your lover lays + His heart upon your altars, and he deems + He treads again the fair love-haunted ways-- + Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams. + + + + + AN OLD LOVE LETTER + + I was reading a letter of yours to-day, + The date--O a thousand years ago! + The postmark is there--the month was May: + How, in God's name, did I let you go? + What wonderful things for a girl to say! + And to think that I hadn't the sense to know-- + What wonderful things for a man to hear! + O still beloved, O still most dear. + + "Duty" I called it, and hugged the word + Close to my side, like a shirt of hair; + You laughed, I remember, laughed like a bird, + And somehow I thought that you didn't care. + Duty!--and Love, with her bosom bare! + No wonder you laughed, as we parted there-- + Then your letter came with this last good-by-- + And I sat splendidly down to die. + + Nor Duty, nor Death, would have aught of me: + "He is Love's," they said, "he cannot be ours;" + And your laugh pursued me o'er land and sea, + And your face like a thousand flowers. + "Tis her gown!" I said to each rustling tree, + "She is coming!" I said to the whispered showers; + But you came not again, and this letter of yours + Is all that endures--all that endures. + + These aching words--in your swift firm hand, + That stirs me still as the day we met--- + That now 'tis too late to understand, + Say "hers is the face you shall ne'er forget;" + That, though Space and Time be as shifting sand, + We can never part--we are meeting yet. + This song, beloved, where'er you be, + Your heart shall hear and shall answer me. + + + + + TOO LATE + + Too late I bring my heart, too late 'tis yours; + Too late to bring the true love that endures; + Too long, unthrift, I gave it here and there, + Spent it in idle love and idle song; + Youth seemed so rich, with kisses all to spare-- + Too late! too long! + + Too late, O fairy woman; dreams and dust + Are in your hair, your face is dimly thrust + Among the flowers; and Time, that all forgets, + Even you forgets, and only I prolong + The face I love, with ache of vain regrets-- + Too late! too long! + + Too long I tarried, and too late I come, + O eyes and lips so strangely sealed and dumb: + My heart--what is it now, beloved, to you? + My love--that doth your holy silence wrong? + Ah! fairy face, star-crowned and chrismed with dew-- + Too late! too long! + + + + + THE DOOR AJAR + + My door is always left ajar, + Lest you should suddenly slip through, + A little breathless frightened star; + Each footfall sets my heart abeat, + I always think it may be you, + Stolen in from the street. + + My ears are evermore attent, + Waiting in vain for one blest sound-- + The little frock, with lilac scent, + That used to whisper up the stair; + Then in my arms with one wild bound-- + Your lips, your eyes, your hair. + Never the south wind through the rose, + Brushing its petals with soft hand, + Made such sweet talking as your clothes, + Rustling and fragrant as you came, + And at my aching door would stand-- + Then vanish into flame. + + + + CHIPMUNK + + Little chipmunk, do you know + All you mean to me?-- + She and I and Long Ago, + And you there in the tree; + With that nut between your paws, + Half-way to your twittering jaws, + Jaunty with your stripèd coat, + Puffing out your furry throat, + Eyes like some big polished seed, + Plumed tail curved like half a lyre . . . + + We pretended not to heed-- + You, as though you would inquire + "Can I trust them?" . . . then a jerk, + And you'd skipped three branches higher, + Jaws again at work; + Like a little clock-work elf, + With all the forest to itself. + + She was very fair to see, + She was all the world to me, + She has gone whole worlds away; + Yet it seems as though to-day, + Chipmunk, I can hear her say; + "Get that chipmunk, dear, for me----" + Chipmunk, you can never know + All she was to me. + That's all--it was long ago. + + + + + BALLADE OF THE DEAD FACE THAT NEVER DIES + + The peril of fair faces all his days + No man shall 'scape: be it for joy or woe, + Each is the thrall of some predestined face + Divinely doomed to work his overthrow, + Transiently fair, as flowers in gardens blow, + Then fade, and charm no more our listless eyes; + But some fair faces ever fairer grow-- + Beware of the dead face that never dies. + + No snare young beauty for thy manhood lays, + No honeyed kiss the girls of Paphos know, + Shall hold thee as the silent smiling ways + Of her that went--yet only seemed to go-- + With April blossoms and with last year's snow; + Each year she comes again in subtler guise, + And beckons us to her green bed below-- + Beware of the dead face that never dies. + + The living fade before her lunar gaze, + Her phantom youth their ruddy veins out-glow, + She lays cold fingers on the lips that praise + Aught save her lovely face of long ago; + Oblivious poppies all in vain we sow + Before the opening gates of Paradise; + There shalt thou find her pacing to and fro-- + Beware of the dead face that never dies. + + + ENVOI + + Prince, take thy fill of love, for even so + Sad men grow happy and no other wise; + But love the quick--and as thy mortal foe + Beware of the dead face that never dies. + + + + + THE END OF LAUGHTER + + O never laugh again! + Laughter is dead, + Deep hiding in her grave, + A sacred thing. + O never laugh again, + Never take hands and run + Through the wild streets, + Or sing, + Glad in the sun: + For she, the immortal sweetness of all sweets, + Took laughter with her + When she went away + With sleep. + + O never laugh again! + Ours but to weep, + Ours but to pray. + + + + + THE SONG THAT LASTS + + Songs I sang of lordly matters, + Life and death, and stars and sea; + Nothing of them now remains + But the song I sang for thee. + + Vain the learned elaborate metres, + Vain the deeply pondered line; + All the rest are dust and ashes + But that little song of thine. + + + + + THE BROKER OF DREAMS + + Bring not your dreams to me-- + Blown dust, and vapour, and the running stream-- + Saying, "He, too, doth dream, + Touched of the moon." + + Nay! wouldst thou vanish see + Thy darling phantoms, + Bring them then to me! + For my hard business--though so soft it seems-- + Was ever dreams and dreams. + + And as some stern-eyed broker smiles disdain, + Valuing at nought + Her bosom's locket, with its little chain, + Love's all that Love hath brought; + So must I weigh and measure + Thy fading treasure, + Sighing to see it go + As surely as the snow. + + For I have such sad knowledge of all things + That shine like dew a little, all that sings + And ends its song in weeping-- + Such sowing and such reaping!-- + There is no cure but sleeping. + + + + + IV + + + AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE + + (To the Memory of Austin Dobson) + + Master of the lyric inn + Where the rarer sort so long + Drew the rein, to 'scape the din + Of the cymbal and the gong, + Topers of the classic bin,-- + Oporto, sherris and tokay, + Muscatel, and beaujolais-- + Conning some old Book of Airs, + Lolling in their Queen Anne chairs-- + Catch or glee or madrigal, + Writ for viol or virginal; + Or from France some courtly tune, + Gavotte, ridotto, rigadoon; + (Watteau and the rising moon); + Ballade, rondeau, triolet, + Villanelle or virelay, + Wistful of a statelier day, + Gallant, delicate, desire: + Where the Sign swings of the Lyre, + Garlands droop above the door, + Thou, dear Master, art no more. + + Lo! about thy portals throng + Sorrowing shapes that loved thy song: + _Taste_ and _Elegance_ are there, + The modish Muses of Mayfair, + _Wit_, _Distinction_, _Form_ and _Style_, + _Humour_, too, with tear and smile. + + Fashion sends her butterflies-- + Pretty laces to their eyes, + Ladies from St. James's there + Step out from the sedan chair; + Wigged and scented dandies too + Tristely wear their sprigs of rue; + Country squires are in the crowd, + And little Phyllida sobs aloud. + + Then stately shades I seem to see, + Master, to companion thee; + Horace and Fielding here are come + To bid thee to Elysium. + Last comes one all golden: Fame + Calls thee, Master, by thy name, + On thy brow the laurel lays, + Whispers low--"In After Days." + + + + + TO MADAME JUMEL + + Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair, + Had I a god's re-animating breath, + Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim air + Lethean and the eyeless halls of death, + Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair, + Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom, + And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom. + + Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust, + Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire; + Thy face amid our timid counsels thrust + Would light us back to glory and desire, + And swords flash forth that now ignobly rust; + Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame. + Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame. + + Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mould + That lies on by-gone traffickings of state, + Transformed a moment by that head of gold, + Touching the paltry hour with splendid Fate; + To "write the Constitution!" 'twere a cold, + Dusty and bloomless immortality, + Without that last wild dying thought of thee. + + + + + TO A BEAUTIFUL OLD LADY + + (To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hinton) + + Say not--"She once was fair;" because the years + Have changed her beauty to a holier thing, + No girl hath such a lovely face as hers, + That hoards the sweets of many a vanished spring, + Stealing from Time what Time in vain would steal, + Culling perfections as each came to flower, + Bearing on each rare lineament the seal + Of being exquisite from hour to hour. + + These eyes have dwelt with beauty night and morn, + Guarding the soul within from every stain, + No baseness since the first day she was born + Behind those star-lit brows could access again, + Bathed in the light that streamed from all things fair, + Turning to spirit each delicate door of sense, + And with all lovely shapes of earth and air + Feeding her wisdom and her innocence. + + Life that, whate'er it gives, takes more away + From those that all would take and little give, + Enriched her treasury from day to day, + Making each hour more wonderful to live; + And touch by touch, with hands of unseen skill, + Transformed the simple beauty of a girl, + Finding it lovely, left it lovelier still, + A mystic masterpiece of rose and pearl. + + Her grief and joy alike have turned to gold, + And tears and laughter mingled to one end, + With alchemy of living manifold: + If Life so wrought, shall Death be less a friend? + Nay, earth to heaven shall give the fairest face, + Dimming the haughty beauties of the sky; + Would I could see her softly take her place, + Sweeping each splendour with her queenly eye! + + + + + TO LUCY HINTON: December 19, 1921 + + O loveliest face, on which we look our last-- + Not without hope we may again behold + Somewhere, somehow, when we ourselves have passed + Where, Lucy, you have gone, this face so dear, + That gathered beauty every changing year, + And made Youth dream of some day being old. + + Some knew the girl, and some the woman grown, + And each was fair, but always 'twas your way + To be more beautiful than yesterday, + To win where others lose; and Time, the doom + Of other faces, brought to yours new bloom. + Now, even from Death you snatch mysterious grace, + This last perfection for your lovely face. + + So with your spirit was it day by day, + That spirit unextinguishably gay, + That to the very border of the shade + Laughed on the muttering darkness unafraid. + We shall be lonely for your lovely face, + Lonely for all your great and gracious ways, + But for your laughter loneliest of all. + + Yet in our loneliness we think of one + Lonely no more, who, on the heavenly stair, + Awaits your face, and hears your step at last, + His dreamer's eyes a glory like the sun, + Again in his sad arms to hold you fast, + All your long honeymoon in heaven begun. + + Thinking on that, O dear and loveliest friend, + We, in that bright beginning of this end, + Must bate our grief, and count our mortal loss + Only as his and your immortal gain, + Glad that for him and you it is so well. + + Lucy, O Lucy, a little while farewell. + + + + + V + + OTHER MATTERS, SACRED AND PROFANE + + + THE WORLD'S MUSQUETEER: TO MARSHAL FOCH + + (_Ballade à double refrain_) + + Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer, + Comrade at arms, on your bronzed cheek we press + The soldier's kiss, and drop the soldier's tear; + Brother by brother fought we in the stress + Of the locked steel, all the wild work that fell + For our reluctant doing; we that stormed hell + And smote it down together, in the sun + Stand here once more, with all our fighting done, + Garlands upon our helmets, sword and lance + Quiet with laurel, sharing the peace they won: + Soldier that saved the world in saving France. + + Soldier that saved the world in saving France, + France that was Europe's dawn when light was none, + Clear eyes that with eternal vigilance + Pierce through the webs in nether darkness spun, + Soul of man's soul, his sentinel upon + The ramparts of the world: Ah! France, 'twas well + This soldier with the sword of Gabriel + Was yours and ours in all that dire duresse, + This soldier, gentle as a child, that here + Stands shy and smiling 'mid a world's caress-- + Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer. + + Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer, + True knight and succourer of the world's distress + His might and skill we laurel, but more dear + Our soldier for that "parfit gentlenesse" + That ever in heroic hearts doth dwell, + That soul as tranquil as a vesper bell, + That glory in him that would glory shun, + Those kindly eyes alive with Gascon fun, + D'Artagnan's brother--still the old romance + Runs in the blood, thank God! and still shall run: + Soldier that saved the world in saving France. + + + ENVOI + + Soldier that saved the world in saving France, + Foch, to America's deep heart how near; + Betwixt us twain shall never come mischance. + Warrior that fought that war might disappear, + Far and for ever far the unborn year + That turns the ploughshare back into the spear-- + But, must it come, then Foch shall lead the dance: + Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer. + + + + + WE ARE WITH FRANCE + + We are with France--not by the ties + Of treaties made with tongue in cheek, + The ancient diplomatic lies, + The paper promises that seek + To hide the long maturing guile, + Planning destruction with a smile. + + We are with France by bonds no seal + Of the stamped wax and tape can make, + Bonds no surprise of ambushed steel + With sneering devil's laughter break; + Nor need we any plighted speech + For our deep concord, each with each. + + As ancient comrades tried and true + No new exchange of vows demand, + Each knows of old what each will do, + Nor needs to talk to understand; + So France with us and we with France-- + Enough the gesture and the glance. + + In a shared dream our loves began, + Together fought one fight and won, + The Dream Republican of Man, + And now as then our dream is one; + Still as of old our hearts unite + To dream and battle for the Right. + + Nor memories alone are ours, + But purpose for the Future strong, + Across the seas two signal towers, + Keeping stern watch against the Wrong; + Seeking, with hearts of deep accord, + A better wisdom than the Sword. + + We are with France, in brotherhood + Not of the spirit's task alone, + But kin in laughter of the blood: + Where Paris glitters in the sun, + A second home, like boys, we find, + And leave our grown-up cares behind. + + + + + SATAN: 1920 + + I read there is a man who sits apart, + A sort of human spider in his den, + Who meditates upon a fearful art-- + The swiftest way to slay his fellow men. + Behind a mask of glass he dreams his hell: + With chemic skill, to pack so fierce a dust + Within the thunderbolt of one small shell-- + Sating in vivid thought his shuddering lust-- + Whole cities in one gasp of flame shall die, + Swept with an all-obliterating rain + Of sudden fire and poison from the sky; + Nothing that breathes be left to breathe again-- + And only gloating eyes from out the air + Watching the twisting fires, and ears attent + For children's cries and woman's shrill despair, + The crash of shrines and towers in ruin rent. + + High in the sun the sneering airmen glide, + Glance at wrist-watches: scarce a minute gone + And London, Paris, or New York has died! + Scarce twice they look, then turn and hurry on. + And, far away, one in his quiet room + Dreams of a fiercer dust, a deadlier fume: + The wireless crackles him, "Complete success"; + "Next time," he smiles, "in half a minute less!" + To this the climbing brain has won at last-- + A nation's life gone like a shrivelled scroll-- + And thus To-Day outstrips the dotard Past! + I envy not that man his devil's soul. + + + + + UNDER WHICH KING . . . ? + + The fight I loved--the good old fight-- + Was clear as day 'twixt Might and Right; + Satrap and slave on either hand, + Tiller and tyrant of the land; + One delved the earth the other trod, + The writhing worm, the thundering god. + Lords of an earth they deemed their own, + The tyrants laughed from throne to throne, + Scattered the gold and spilled the wine, + And deemed their foolish dust divine; + While, 'neath their heel, sublimely strove + The martyred hosts of Human Love. + + Such was the fight I dreamed of old + 'Twixt Labour and the Lords of Gold; + I deemed all evil in the king, + In Demos every lovely thing. + But now I see the battle set-- + Albeit the same old banners yet-- + With no clear issue to decide, + With Right and Might on either side; + Yet small the rumour is of Right-- + But the bared arms of Might and Might + Brandish across the hate-filled lands, + With blood alike on both their hands. + + + + + MAN, THE DESTROYER + + O spirit of Life, by whatsoe'er a name + Known among men, even as our fathers bent + Before thee, and as little children came + For counsel in Life's dread predicament, + Even we, with all our lore, + That only beckons, saddens and betrays, + Have no such key to the mysterious door + As he that kneels and prays. + + The stern ascension of our climbing thought, + The martyred pilgrims of the soaring soul, + Bring us no nearer to the thing we sought, + But only tempt us further from the goal; + Yea! the eternal plan + Darkens with knowledge, and our weary skill + But makes us more of beast and less of man, + Fevered to hate and kill. + + Loves flees with frightened eyes the world it knew, + Fades and dissolves and vanishes away, + And the sole art the sons of men pursue + Is to out-speed the slayer and to slay: + And lovely secrets won + From radiant nature and her magic laws + Serve but to stretch black deserts in the sun, + And glut destruction's jaws. + + Life! is it sweet no more? the same blue sky + Arches the woods; the green earth, filled with trees, + Glories with song, happy it knows not why, + Painted with flowers, and warm with murmurous bees; + This earth, this golden home, + Where men, like unto gods, were wont to dwell, + Was all this builded, with the stars for dome, + For man to make it hell? + + Was it for this life blossomed with fair arts, + That for some paltry leagues of stolen land, + Or some poor squabble of contending marts, + Murder shall smudge out with its reeking hand + Man's faith and fanes alike; + And man be man no more--but a brute brain, + A primal horror mailed and fanged to strike, + And bring the Dark again? + + Fool of the Ages! fitfully wise in vain; + Surely the heavens shall laugh!--the long long climb + Up to the stars, to dash him down again! + And all the travail of slow-moving Time + And birth of radiant wings, + A dream of pain, an agony for naught! + Highest and lowest of created things, + Man, the proud fool of thought. + + + + + THE LONG PURPOSES OF GOD + + To Man in haste, flushed with impatient dreams + Of some great thing to do, so slowly done, + The long delay of Time all idle seems, + Idle the lordly leisure of the sun; + So splendid his design, so brief his span, + For all the faith with which his heart is burning, + He marvels, as he builds each shining plan, + That heaven's wheel should be so long in turning, + And God more slow in righteousness than Man. + + Evil on evil mock him all about, + And all the forces of embattled wrong, + There are so many devils to cast out-- + Save God be with him, how shall Man be strong? + With his own heart at war, to weakness prone, + And all the honeyed ways of joyous sinning, + How in this welter shall he hold his own, + And, single-handed, e'er have hopes of winning? + How shall he fight God's battle all alone? + + He hath no lightnings in his puny hand, + Nor starry servitors to work his will, + Only his soul and his strong purpose planned, + His dream of goodness and his hate of ill; + He, but a handful of the eddying dust, + At the wind's fancy shaped, from nowhere blowing; + A moment man--then, with another gust, + A formless vapour into nowhere going, + Even as he dreams back into darkness thrust. + + O so at least it seems--if life were his + A little longer! grant him thrice his years, + And God should see a better world than this, + Pure for the foul, and laughter for the tears: + So fierce a flame to burn the dross away + Dreams in his spark of life so swiftly fleeing: + If Man can do so much in one short day, + O strange it seems that an Eternal Being + Should in his purposes so long delay. + + Easy to answer--lo! the unfathomed time + Gone ere each small perfection came to flower, + Ere soul shone dimly in the wastes of slime; + Wouldst thou turn Hell to Heaven in an hour? + Easy to say--God's purposes are long, + His ways and wonders far beyond our knowing, + He hath mysterious ministers even in wrong, + Sure is His harvest, though so long His sowing: + So say old poets with persuasive tongue. + + And yet--and yet--it seems some swifter doom + From so august a hand might surely fall, + And all earth's rubbish in one flash consume, + And make an end of evil once for all . . . + But vain the questions and the answers vain, + Who knows but Man's impatience is God's doing? + Who knows if evil be so swiftly slain? + Be sure none shall escape, with God pursuing. + Question no more--but to your work again! + + + + + BALLADE TO A DEPARTING GOD + + God of the Wine List, roseate lord, + And is it really then good-by? + Of Prohibitionists abhorred, + Must thou in sorry sooth then die, + (O fatal morning of July!) + Nor aught hold back the threatened hour + That shrinks thy purple clusters dry? + Say not good-by--but _au revoir_! + + For the last time the wine is poured, + For the last toast the glass raised high, + And henceforth round the wintry board, + As dumb as fish, we'll sit and sigh, + And eat our Puritanic pie, + And dream of suppers gone before, + With flying wit and words that fly-- + Say not good-by--but _au revoir_! + + 'Twas on thy wings the poet soared, + And Sorrow fled when thou wentst by, + And, when we said "Here's looking toward" . . . + It seemed a better world, say I, + With greener grass and bluer sky . . . + The writ is on the Tavern Door, + And who would tipple on the sly? . . . + 'Tis not good-by--but _au revoir_! + + + ENVOI + + Gay God of Bottles, I deny + Those brave tempestuous times are o'er; + Somehow I think, I scarce know why, + 'Tis not good-by--but au revoir! + + + + + BALLADE OF THE ABSENT GUEST + + Friends whom to-night once more I greet, + Most glad am I with you to be, + And, as I look around, I meet + Many a face right good to see; + But one I miss--ah! where is he?-- + Of merry eye and sparkling jest, + Who used to brim my glass for me; + I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest. + + Low lies he in his winding-sheet, + By organized hypocrisy + Hurled from his happy wine-clad seat, + Stilled his kind heart and hushed his glee; + His very name daren't mention we, + That good old friend who brought such zest, + And set our tongues and spirits free: + I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest. + + No choice to-night 'twixt "dry" or "sweet," + 'Twixt red or white, 'twixt Rye,--ah! me-- + Or Scotch--and think! we live to see't-- + No whispered word, nor massive fee, + Nor even influenza plea, + Can raise a bubble; but, as best + We may, we make our hollow spree: + I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest. + + + ENVOI + + Friends, good is coffee, good is tea, + And water has a charm unguessed-- + And yet--that brave old deity! + I drink--in tears--the Absent Guest. + + + + + TOBACCO NEXT + + They took away your drink from you, + The kind old humanizing glass; + Soon they will take tobacco too, + And next they'll take our demi-tasse. + Don't say, "The bill will never pass," + Nor this my warning word disdain; + You said it once, you silly ass-- + Don't make the same mistake again. + + We know them now, the bloodless crew, + We know them all too well, alas! + There's nothing that they wouldn't do + To make the world a Bible class; + Though against bottled beer or Bass + I search the sacred text in vain + To find a whisper--by the Mass! + Don't make the same mistake again. + + Beware these legislators blue, + Pouring their moral poison-gas + On all the joys our fathers knew; + The very flowers in the grass + Are safe no more, and, lad and lass, + 'Ware the old birch-rod and the cane! + Here comes our modern Hudibras!-- + Don't make the same mistake again. + + + ENVOI + + Prince, vanished is the rail of brass, + So mark me well and my refrain-- + Tobacco next! you silly ass, + Don't make the same mistake again. + + + + + BALLADE OF THE PAID PURITAN + + In vain with whip and knotted cord + The hirelings of hypocrisy + Would make us comely for the Lord: + Think ye God works through such as ye-- + Paid Puritan, plump Pharisee, + And lobbyist fingering his fat bill, + Reeking of rum and bribery: + God needs not you to work His will. + + We know you whom you serve, abhorred + Traducers of true piety, + What tarnished gold is your reward + In Washington and Albany; + 'Tis not from God you take your fee, + Another's purpose to fulfil, + You that are God's worst enemy: + God needs not you to work His will. + + Not by the money-changing horde, + Base traders in the sanctuary, + Nor by fanatic fire and sword, + Shall man grow as God wills him be; + In his own heart a voice hath he + That whispers to him small and still; + God gives him eyes His good to see: + God needs not you to work His will. + + + ENVOI + + Dear Prince, a sinner's honesty + Is more to God, much nearer still, + Than the bribed hypocritic knee: + God needs not you to work His will. + + + + + THE OVERWORKED GHOST + + When the embalmer closed my eyes, + And all the family went in black, + And shipped me off to Paradise, + I had no thought of coming back; + I dreamed of undisturbed repose + Until the Judgment Day went crack, + Tucked safely in from top to toes. + + "I've done my bit," I said. "I've earned + The right to take things at my ease!" + When folk declared the dead returned, + I called it all tomfooleries. + "They are too glad to get to bed, + To stretch their weary limbs in peace; + Done with it all--the lucky dead!" + + But scarcely had I laid me down, + When comes a voice: "Is that you, Joe? + I'm calling you from Williamstown! + Knock once for 'yes,' and twice for 'no.'" + Then, hornet-mad, I knocked back two-- + The table shook, I banged it so-- + "Not Joe!" they said, "Then tell us who? + + "We're waiting--is there no one here, + No friend, you have a message for?" + But I pretended not to hear. + "Perhaps he fell in the great war?" + "Perhaps he's German?" someone said; + "How goes it on the other shore?" + "That's no way to address the dead!" + + And so they talked, till I got sore, + And made the blooming table rock, + And ribald oaths and curses swore, + And strange words guaranteed to shock. + "He's one of those queer spooks they call + A poltergeist--the ghosts that mock, + Throw things--" said one, who knew it all. + + "I wish an old thigh-bone was round + To break your silly head!" I knocked. + "A humourist of the burial-ground!" + A bright young college graduate mocked. + Then a young girl fell in a trance, + And foamed: "Get out--we are deadlocked-- + And give some other ghost a chance!" + + Such was my first night in the tomb, + Where soft sleep was to hold me fast; + I little knew my weary doom! + It even makes a ghost aghast + To think of all the years in store-- + The slave, as long as death shall last, + To ouija-boards forevermore. + + For morning, noon, and night they call! + Alive, some fourteen hours a day + I worked, but now I work them all. + No sooner down my head I lay, + A lady writer knocks me up + About a novel or a play, + Nor gives me time for bite or sup. + + I hear her damned typewriter click + With all the things she says I say, + You'd think the public would get sick; + And that's my only hope--some day! + Then séances, each night in dozens + I must attend, their parts to play + For dead grandpas and distant cousins. + + O for my life to live again! + I'd know far better than to die; + You'd never hear me once complain, + Could I but see the good old sky, + For here they work me to the bone; + "Rest!"--don't believe it! Well, good-by! + That's Patience Worth there on the phone! + + + + + THE VALIANT GIRLS + + The valiant girls--of them I sing-- + Who daily to their business go, + Happy as larks, and fresh as spring; + They are the bravest things I know. + At eight, from out my lazy tower, + I watch the snow, and shake my head; + But yonder petticoated flower + Braves it alone, with aery tread; + Nor wind, nor rain, nor ice-fanged storm, + Frightens that valiant little form. + + Strange! she that sweetens all the air, + The New York sister of the rose, + To a grim office should repair, + With picture-hat and silken hose, + And strange it is to see her there, + With powder on her little nose; + And yet how business-like is she, + With pad and pencil on her knee. + + Changed are the times--no stranger sign, + If you but think the matter over, + Than she, the delicate, the divine, + Whose lot seemed only love and lover, + Should to Life's rough and muddy wheel + So gravely set her pretty shoulder;-- + (What would her dead grandmother feel, + If someone woke her up and told her!) + Yet bate not, through her dreary duty, + One jot of womanhood or beauty. + + A woman still--yes! still a girl, + She changes, yet she does not change, + A moon-lit creature made of pearl + And filled with music sad and strange: + The while she takes your gruff dictation, + Who knows her secret meditation! + Most skilled of all our new machines, + She sits there at the telephone, + Prettier far than fabled queens; + Yea! Greece herself has never known, + Nor Phidias wrought, nor Homer sung, + Girls fairer than the girls that throng, + So serious and so debonair, + At morn and eve, the Subway stair; + A bright processional of faces, + So valiant--for all their laces. + + The girls that work! that take their share + In Life's grim battle, hard and rough, + Wearing their crowns of silken hair, + Armed only with a powder-puff: + These, not the women of old time, + Though, doubtless, they were fair enough, + Shall be the theme for modern rhyme. + Nay! never shall our hearts forget + The flower face of Juliet, + Or Helen on her golden throne; + But there shall come a Homer yet, + A Shakespeare still to fame unknown, + To sing among the stars up there + Fair Helen, the stenographer, + Sweet Juliet of the telephone. + + + + + NOT SOUR GRAPES + + I'm not sorry I am older, love--are you? + Over all youth's fuss and flurry, + All its everlasting hurry, + All its solemn self-importance and to-do. + Perhaps we missed the highest reaches of high art; + Love we missed not, and the laughter, + Seeing both before and after-- + Life was such a serious business at the start! + + We've lost nothing worth the keeping--do you think? + You are just as slim and elfish, + And I've grown a world less selfish; + We look back on life together--and we wink. + Over all those old misgivings of the heart, + Growing pains of love and lover; + Life's fun begins, its fevers over-- + Life was such a serious business at the start! + + Garners full, life's grain and chaff we have sifted; + Youth went by in idle tasting, + Now we drink the cup, unhasting, + Spill not a drop, brimful and high uplifted; + And we watch now, calm and fearless, the years depart, + Knowing nothing can now sever + Two that life made one forever-- + Life was _such_ a serious business at the start! + + + + + BALLADE OF READING BAD BOOKS + + O sad-eyed man who yonder sits, + Face in a book from morn till night, + Who, though the world should go to bits, + Pores on right through the waning light; + O is it sorrow or delight + That holds you, though the sun has set? + "I read," he said, "what these fools write, + Not to remember--but forget." + + "Man drinks or gambles, woman knits, + To put their sorrow out of sight, + From folly unto folly flits + The weary mind, or wrong or right; + My melancholy taketh flight + Reading the worst books I can get, + The worst--yet best! such is my plight-- + Not to remember--but forget." + + "'Tis not alone the immortal wits, + The lords of language, pens of might, + Past masters of the word that fits + In their mosaic true and bright, + That aid us in our mortal fight, + And heal us of our wild regret, + But books that humbler pens indite, + Not to remember--but forget." + + ENVOI + + "O Prince, 'tis but the neophyte + Who scorns this humble novelette + You watch me reading, un-contrite-- + Not to remember--but forget." + + + + + BALLADE OF THE MAKING OF SONGS + + Bees make their honey out of coloured flowers, + Through the June day, with all its beam and scent, + Heather of breezy hills, and idle bowers, + Brushing soft doors of every blossoming tent, + Filling gold thighs in drowsy ravishment, + Pillaging vines on the hot garden wall, + Taking of each small bloom its little rent-- + Poets must make their honey out of gall. + + Singers, not so this craven life of ours, + Our honey out of bitter herbs is blent; + The songs that fall as soft as April showers + Came of the whips and scorns of chastisement, + From smitten lips and hearts in sorrow bent, + Distilled of blood and wormwood are they all-- + Idly you heard, indifferent what they meant: + Poets must make their honey out of gall. + + You lords and ladies sitting high in towers, + Scarcely attending the sweet instrument + That lulls you 'mid your cruel careless hours, + Melodious minister of your content; + Think you this music was from Heaven sent? + Nay, Hell hath made it thus so musical. + And to its making thorns and nettles went-- + Poets must make their honey out of gall. + + + ENVOI + + Prince of this world, enthroned and insolent, + Beware, lest with a song your towers fall, + Your pride sent blazing up the firmament-- + Poets must make their honey out of gall. + + + + + BALLADE OF RUNNING AWAY WITH LIFE + + O ships upon the sea, O shapes of air, + O lands whose names are made of spice and tar, + Old painted empires that are ever fair, + From Cochin-China down to Zanzibar! + O Beauty simple, soul-less, and bizarre! + I would take Danger for my bosom-wife, + And light our bed with some wild tropic star-- + O how I long to run away with Life! + + To run together, Life and I! What care + Ours if from Duty we may run so far + As to forget the daily mounting stair, + The roaring subway and the clanging car, + The stock that ne'er again shall be at par, + The silly speed, the city's stink and strife, + The faces that to look on leaves a scar: + O how I long to run away with Life! + + Fling up the sail--all sail that she can bear, + And out across the little frightened bar + Into the fearless seas alone with her, + The great sail humming to the straining spar, + Curved as Love's breast, and white as nenuphar, + The spring wind singing like a happy fife, + The keen prow cutting like a scimitar: + O how I long to run away with Life! + + + ENVOI + + Princess, the gates of Heaven are ajar, + Cut we our bonds with Freedom's gleaming knife,-- + Lo! where Delight and all the Dancers are! + O how I long to run away with Life! + + + + + _TO A CONTEMNER OF THE PAST_ + + _You that would break with the Past, + Why with so rude a gesture take your leave? + None hinders, go your way; but wherefore cast + Contempt and boorish scorn + Upon the womb from which even you were born? + Begone in peace! Forbear to flout and grieve, + Vulgar iconoclast, + Those of a faith you cannot comprehend, + To whom the Past is as a lovely friend + Nobly grown old, yet nobly ever young; + The temple and the treasure-house of Time, + With gains immortal stored + Of dream and deed and song, + Since man from chaos first began to climb, + His lonely soul for sword._ + + _O base and trivial tongue + That dares to mock this solemn heritage, + And foul this sacred page! + Sorry the future that hath you for sire! + And happy we who yet + Can bear the golden chimes from tower and spire + In the old heaven set, + And link our hands and hearts with the great dead + That lived with God for friend, + And drew strange sustenance from overhead, + And knew a bright beginning in life's end; + For all their earthly days + Were filled with meaning deeper than the hour._ + + _Leave us our simple faith in star and flower, + And all our simple ways + Of prayer and praise, + And ancient virtues of humility, + Honour and reverence and the bended knee, + Old tenderness and gracious courtesies, + From Time so hardly won: + But you that no more have content in these, + From out our sanctuaries + Begone--and gladly gone!_ + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JONGLEUR STRAYED*** + + +******* This file should be named 17619-8.txt or 17619-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/6/1/17619 + + + +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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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/17619-8.zip b/17619-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5904a81 --- /dev/null +++ b/17619-8.zip diff --git a/17619.txt b/17619.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a52fdc9 --- /dev/null +++ b/17619.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3906 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Jongleur Strayed, by Richard Le Gallienne + + +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: A Jongleur Strayed + Verses on Love and Other Matters Sacred and Profane + + +Author: Richard Le Gallienne + + + +Release Date: January 29, 2006 [eBook #17619] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JONGLEUR STRAYED*** + + +E-text prepared by Al Haines + + + +Transcriber's note: + + The word "beloved" appears in this book several times, in various + upper and lower case combinations. Whatever the combination, in + some cases, the second E in "beloved" is e-accent (e) and sometimes + it is e-grave (e). Since I had no way of telling if this was what + the author intended, or a typesetting error, or some other reason, + I have left each exactly as it appears in the original book. + + + + + +A JONGLEUR STRAYED + +Verses on Love and Other Matters Sacred and Profane + +by + +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE + +With an Introduction by Oliver Herford + + + + + + + +Garden City ---------- New York +Doubleday, Page & Company +1922 +Copyright, 1922, by +Doubleday, Page & Company +All Rights Reserved, Including That of Translation +into Foreign Languages, Including the Scandinavian +Printed in the United States +at +The Country Life Press, Garden City, N. Y. +First Edition + + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENT + +The writer desires to thank the editors of _The Atlantic Monthly, +Harper's, Life, Judge, Leslie's, Munsey's, Ainslee's, Snappy Stories, +Live Stories, The Cosmopolitan_, and _Collier's_ for their kind +permission to reprint the following verses. + +He desires also to thank the editor of _The New York Evening Post_ for +the involuntary gift of a title. + + +The Catskills, + +June, 1922. + + + + +TO + +THE LOVE + +OF + +ANDRE AND GWEN + + + + + _If after times + Should pay the least attention to these rhymes, + I bid them learn + 'Tis not my own heart here + That doth so often seem to break and burn-- + O no such thing!-- + Nor is it my own dear + Always I sing: + But, as a scrivener in the market-place, + I sit and write for lovers, him or her, + Making a song to match each lover's case-- + A trifling gift sometimes the gods confer!_ + + (After STRATO) + + + + + CONTENTS + + + I + + An Echo from Horace + Ballade of the Oldest Duel in the World + Sorcery + The Dryad + May is Back + Moon-Marketing + Two Birthdays + Song + The Faithful Lover + Love's Tenderness + Anima Mundi + Ballade of the Unchanging Beloved + Love's Arithmetic + Beauty's Arithmetic + The Valley + Ballade of the Bees of Trebizond + Broken Tryst + The Rival + The Quarrel + Lovers + Shadows + After Tibullus + A Warning + Primum Mobile + The Last Tryst + The Heart on the Sleeve + At Her Feet + Reliquiae + Love's Proud Farwell + The Rose Has Left the Garden + + + II + + The Gardens of Adonis + Nature the Healer + Love Eternal + The Loveliest Face and the Wild Rose + As in the Woodland I Walk + To a Mountain Spring + Noon + A Rainy Day + In the City + Country Largesse + Morn + The Source + Autumn + The Rose in Winter + The Frozen Stream + Winter Magic + A Lover's Universe + To the Golden Wife + Buried Treasure + The New Husbandman + Paths that Wind + The Immortal Gods + + + III + + Ballade of Woman + The Magic Flower + Ballade of Love's Cloister + An Old Love Letter + Too Late + The Door Ajar + Chipmunk + Ballade of the Dead Face that Never Dies + The End of Laughter + The Song that Lasts + The Broker of Dreams + + + IV + + At the Sign of the Lyre + To Madame Jumel + To a Beautiful Old Lady + To Lucy Hinton; December 19, 1921 + + + V + + OTHER MATTERS, SACRED AND PROFANE + + The World's Musqueteer: To Marshal Foch + We Are With France + Satan: 1920 + Under Which King? + Man, the Destroyer + The Long Purposes of God + Ballade to a Departing God + Ballade of the Absent Guest + Tobacco Next + Ballade of the Paid Puritan + The Overworked Ghost + The Valiant Girls + Not Sour Grapes + Ballade of Reading Bad Books + Ballade of the Making of Songs + Ballade of Running Away with Life + To a Contemner of the Past + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +One Spring day in London, long before the invention of freak verse and +Freudism, I was standing in front of the Cafe Royal in Regent Street +when there emerged from its portals the most famous young writer of the +day, the Poet about whose latest work "The Book Bills of Narcissus" all +literary London was then talking. + +Richard Le Gallienne was the first real poet I had ever laid eyes upon +in the flesh and it seemed to my rapt senses that this frock-coated +young god, with the classic profile and the dark curls curving from the +impeccable silk "tile" that surmounted them as curve the acanthus +leaves of a Corinthian capital, could be none other than Anacreon's +self in modern shape. + +I can see Le Gallienne now, as he steps across the sunlit sidewalk and +with gesture Mercurian hails the passing Jehu. I can even hear the +quick clud of the cab doors as the smartly turning hansome snatches +from my view the glass-dimmed face I was not to behold again until +years later at the house of a mutual friend in New York. + +In another moment the swiftly moving vehicle was dissolved in the +glitter of Regent Street and I fell to musing upon the curious +interlacement of parts in this picture puzzle of life. + +Here was a common Cabby, for the time being combining in himself the +several functions of guide-book, chattel-mortgage and writ of habeas +corpus on the person of the most popular literary idol of the hour and +all for the matter of maybe no more than half a crown, including the +_pourboire_! + +Who would not have rejoiced to change places with that cabman! And how +might not Pegasus have envied that cab-horse! + + * * * * * * + +Now after all these years it has come to pass that I am to change +places with the cabman. + +Perched aloft in the driver's seat of the First Person Singular, it is +my proud privilege to crack the prefatory whip and start this newest +and best Le Gallienne Vehicle upon its course through the garlanded Via +Laurea to the Sign of the Golden Sheaf. + +Look at it well, Dear People, before it starts, this golden vehicle of +Richard Le Gallienne. + +Consider how it is built on the authentic lines of the best +workmanship, made to last for generations, maybe for ever. + +Take note of its springs so perfectly hung that the Muse may ride in +luxurious ease, unjarred by metrical joltings as befits the Queen. + +Mark the mirror smooth surface of the lacquer that only time and +tireless labour can apply. + +Before this Master Coach of Poesy the rattle-jointed Tin Lizzie of Free +Verse and the painted jazz wagon of Futurism and the cheap imitation of +the Chinese palanquin must turn aside, they have no right of way, these +literary road-lice on the garlanded Via Laurea. + +With angry thumb, the traffic cop Time will jerk them back to the side +streets and byways where they belong, to make way for the Golden Coach +of Richard Le Gallienne. + + +OLIVER HERFORD + + + + + I + + + AN ECHO FROM HORACE + + _Lusisti est, et edisti, atque bibisti; + Tempus abire, tibi est._ + + Take away the dancing girls, quench the lights, remove + Golden cups and garlands sere, all the feast; away + Lutes and lyres and Lalage; close the gates, above + Write upon the lintel this; _Time is done for play! + Thou hast had thy fill of love, eaten, drunk; the show + Ends at last, 'twas long enough--time it is to go._ + + Thou hast played--ah! heart, how long!--past all count were they, + Girls of gold and ivory, bosomed deep, all snow, + Leopard swift, and velvet loined, bronze for hair, wild clay + Turning at a touch to flame, tense as a strung bow. + Cruel as the circling hawk, tame at last as dove,-- + Thou hast had thy fill and more than enough of love. + + Thou hast eaten; peacock's tongues,--fed thy carp with slaves,-- + Nests of Asiatic birds, brought from far Cathay, + Umbrian boars, and mullet roes snatched from stormy waves; + Half thy father's lands have gone one strange meal to pay; + For a morsel on thy plate ravished sea and shore; + Thou hast eaten--'tis enough, thou shalt eat no more. + + Thou hast drunk--how hast thou drunk! mighty vats, whole seas; + Vineyards purpling half a world turned to gold thy throat, + Falernian, true Massic, the gods' own vintages, + Lakes thou hast swallowed deep enough galleys tall to float; + Wildness, wonder, wisdom, all, drunkenness divine, + All that dreams within the grape, madness too, were thine. + + Time it is to go and sleep--draw the curtains close-- + Tender strings shall lull thee still, mellow flutes be blown, + Still the spring shall shower down on thy couch the rose, + Still the laurels crown thine head, where thou dreamest alone. + Thou didst play, and thou didst eat, thou hast drunken deep, + Time at last it is to go, time it is to sleep. + + + + + BALLADE OF THE OLDEST DUEL IN THE WORLD + + A battered swordsman, slashed and scarred, + I scarce had thought to fight again, + But love of the old game dies hard, + So to't, my lady, if you're fain! + I'm scarce the mettle to refrain, + I'll ask no quarter from your art-- + But what if we should both be slain! + I fight you, darling, for your heart. + + I warn you, though, be on your guard, + Nor an old swordsman's craft disdain, + He jests at scars--what saith the Bard? + Love's wounds are real, and fierce the pain; + If we should die of love, we twain! + You laugh--_en garde_ then--so we start; + Cyrano-like, here's my refrain: + I fight you, darling, for your heart. + + If compliments I interlard + Twixt feint and lunge, you'll not complain + Lacking your eyes, the night's un-starred, + The rose is beautiful in vain, + In vain smells sweet--Rose-in-the-Brain, + Dizzying the world--a touch! sweet smart!-- + Only the envoi doth remain: + I fight you, darling, for your heart. + + + ENVOI + + Princess, I'm yours; the rose-red rain + Pours from my side--but see! I dart + Within your guard--poor pretty stain! + I fight you, darling, for your heart. + + + + + SORCERY + + Face with the forest eyes, + And the wayward wild-wood hair, + How shall a man be wise, + When a girl's so fair; + How, with her face once seen, + Shall life be as it has been, + This many a year? + + Beautiful fearful thing! + You undulant sorcery! + I dare not hear you sing, + Dance not for me; + The whiteness of your breast, + Divinely manifest + I must not see. + + Too late, thou luring child, + Moon matches little moon; + I must not be beguiled, + With the honied tune: + Yet O to lay my head + Twixt moon and moon! + 'Twas so my sad heart said, + Only last June. + + + + + THE DRYAD + + My dryad hath her hiding place + Among ten thousand trees. + She flies to cover + At step of a lover, + And where to find her lovely face + Only the woodland bees + Ever discover, + Bringing her honey + From meadows sunny, + Cowslip and clover. + + Vainly on beech and oak I knock + Amid the silent boughs; + Then hear her laughter, + The moment after, + Making of me her laughing-stock + Within her hidden house. + + The young moon with her wand of pearl + Taps on her hidden door, + Bids her beauty flower + In that woodland bower, + All white like a mortal girl, + With moonshine hallowed o'er. + + Yet were there thrice ten thousand trees + To hide her face from me, + Not all her fleeing + Should 'scape my seeing, + Nor all her ambushed sorceries + Secure concealment be + For her bright being. + + Yea! should she by the laddered pine + Steal to the stars on high, + Her fairy whiteness, + Hidden in brightness, + Her hiding-place would so out-shine + The constellated sky, + She could not 'scape the eye + Of my pursuing, + Nor her fawn-foot lightness + Out-speed my wooing. + + + + + MAY IS BACK + + May is back, and You and I + Are at the stream again-- + The leaves are out, + And all about + The building birds begin + To make a merry din: + May is back, and You and I + Are at the dream again. + + May is back, and You and I + Lie in the grass again,-- + The butterfly + Flits painted by, + The bee brings sudden fear, + Like people talking near; + May is back, and You and I + Are lad and lass again. + + May is back, and You and I + Are heart to heart again,-- + In God's green house + We make our vows + Of summer love that stays + Faithful through winter days; + May is back, and You and I + Shall never part again. + + + + + MOON-MARKETING + + Let's go to market in the moon, + And buy some dreams together, + Slip on your little silver shoon, + And don your cap and feather; + No need of petticoat or stocking-- + No one up there will think it shocking. + + Across the dew, + Just I and you, + With all the world behind us; + Away from rules, + Away from fools, + Where nobody can find us. + + + + + TWO BIRTHDAYS + + Your birthday, sweetheart, is my birthday too, + For, had you not been born, + I who began to live beholding you + Up early as the morn, + That day in June beside the rose-hung stream, + Had never lived at all-- + We stood, do you remember? in a dream + There by the water-fall. + + You were as still as all the other flowers + Under the morning's spell; + Sudden two lives were one, and all things "ours"-- + How we can never tell. + Surely it had been fated long ago-- + What else, dear, could we think? + It seemed that we had stood for ever so, + There by the river's brink. + + And all the days that followed seemed as days + Lived side by side before, + Strangely familiar all your looks and ways, + The very frock you wore; + Nothing seemed strange, yet all divinely new; + Known to your finger tips, + Yet filled with wonder every part of you, + Your hair, your eyes, your lips. + + The wise in love say love was ever thus + Through endless Time and Space, + Heart linked to heart, beloved, as with us, + Only one face--one face-- + Our own to love, however fair the rest; + 'Tis so true lovers are, + For ever breast to breast, + On--on--from star to star. + + + + + SONG + + My eye upon your eyes-- + So was I born, + One far-off day in Paradise, + A summer morn; + I had not lived till then, + But, wildered, went, + Like other wandering men, + Nor what Life meant + Knew I till then. + + My hand within your hand-- + So would I live, + Nor would I ask to understand + Why God did give + Your loveliness to me, + But I would pray + Worthier of it to be, + By night and day, + Unworthy me! + + My heart upon your heart-- + So would I die, + I cannot think that God will part + Us, you and I; + The work he did undo, + That summer morn; + I lived, and would die too, + Where I was born, + Beloved, in you. + + + + + THE FAITHFUL LOVER + + All beauty is but thee in echo-shapes, + No lovely thing but echoes some of thee, + Vainly some touch of thy perfection apes, + Sighing as fair as thou thyself to be; + Therefore, be not disquieted that I + On other forms turn oft my wandering gaze, + Nor deem it anywise disloyalty: + Nay! 'tis the pious fervour of my eye, + That seeks thy face in every other face. + As in the mirrored salon of a queen, + Flashes from glass to glass, as she walks by, + In sweet reiteration still--the queen! + So is the world for thee to walk in, sweet; + But to see thee is all things to have seen. + And, as the moon in every crystal lake, + Walking the heaven with little silver feet, + Sees each bright copy her reflection take, + And every dew-drop holds its little glass, + To catch her loveliness as she doth pass, + So do all things make haste to copy thee. + I, then, to see thee thus over and over, + Am wistful too all lovely shapes to see, + For each thus makes me more and more thy lover. + + + + + LOVE'S TENDERNESS + + Deem not my love is only for the bloom, + The honey and the marble, that is You; + Tis so, Beloved, common loves consume + Their treasury, and vanish like the dew. + Nay, but my love's a thing that's far more true; + For little loves a little hour hath room, + But not for us their brief and trivial doom, + In a far richer soil our loving grew, + From deeper wells of being it upsprings; + Nor shall the wildest kiss that makes one mouth, + Draining all nectar from the flowered world, + Slake its divine unfathomable drouth; + And, when your wings against my heart lie furled, + With what a tenderness it dreams and sings! + + + + + ANIMA MUNDI + + Let all things vanish, if but you remain; + For if you stay, beloved, what is gone? + Yet, should you go, all permanence is vain, + And all the piled abundance is as none. + + With you beside me in the desert sand, + Your smile upon me, and on mine your hand, + Oases green arise, and camel-bells; + For in the long adventure of your eyes + Are all the wandering ways to Paradise. + + Existence, in your being, comes and goes; + What were the garden, love, without the rose? + In vain were ears to hear, + And eyes in vain, + Lacking your ordered music, sphere to sphere, + Blind, should your beauty blossom not again. + + The pulse that shakes the world with rhythmic beat + Is but the passing of your little feet; + And all the singing vast of all the seas, + Down from the pole + To the Hesperides, + Is but the praying echo of your soul. + + Therefore, beloved, know that this is true-- + The world exists and vanishes in you! + Tis not a lover's fancy; ask the sky + If all its stars depend not, even as I, + Upon your eyelids, when they open or close; + And let the garden answer with the rose. + + + + + BALLADE OF THE UNCHANGING BELOVED + + (TO I----a) + + When rumour fain would fright my ear + With the destruction and decay + Of things familiar and dear, + And vaunt of a swift-running day + That sweeps the fair old Past away; + Whatever else be strange and new, + All other things may go or stay, + So that there be no change in you. + + These loud mutations others fear + Find me high-fortressed 'gainst dismay, + They trouble not the tranquil sphere + That hallows with immortal ray + The world where love and lovers stray + In glittering gardens soft with dew-- + O let them break and burn and slay, + So that there be no change in you. + + Let rapine its republics rear, + And murder its red sceptre sway, + Their blood-stained riot comes not near + The quiet haven where we pray, + And work and love and laugh and play; + Unchanged, our skies are ever blue, + Nothing can change, for all they say,-- + So that there be no change in you. + + + ENVOI + + Princess, let wild men brag and bray, + The pure, the beautiful, the true. + Change not, and changeless we as they-- + So that there be no change in you. + + + + + LOVE'S ARITHMETIC + + You often ask me, love, how much I love you, + Bidding my fancy find + An answer to your mind; + I say: "Past count, as there are stars above you." + You shake your head and say, + "Many and bright are they, + But that is not enough." + + Again I try: + "If all the leaves on all the trees + Were counted over, + And all the waves on all the seas, + More times your lover, + Yea! more than twice ten thousand times am I." + "'Tis not enough," again you make reply. + + "How many blades of grass," one day I said, + "Are there from here to China? how many bees + Have gathered honey through the centuries? + Tell me how many roses have bloomed red + Since the first rose till this rose in your hair? + How many butterflies are born each year? + How many raindrops are there in a shower? + How many kisses, darling, in an hour?" + Thereat you smiled, and shook your golden head; + "Ah! not enough!" you said. + Then said I: "Dear, it is not in my power + To tell how much, how many ways, my love; + Unnumbered are its ways even as all these, + Nor any depth so deep, nor height above, + May match therewith of any stars or seas." + "I would hear more," you smiled . . . + + "Then, love," I said, + "This will I do: unbind me all this gold + Too heavy for your head, + And, one by one, I'll count each shining thread, + And when the tale of all its wealth is told . . ." + "As much as that!" you said-- + "Then the full sum of all my love I'll speak, + To the last unit tell the thing you ask . . ." + Thereat the gold, in gleaming torrents shed, + Fell loose adown each cheek, + Hiding you from me; I began my task. + + "'Twill last our lives," you said. + + + + + BEAUTY'S WARDROBE + + My love said she had nought to wear; + Her garments all were old, + And soon her body must go bare + Against the winter's cold. + + I took her out into the dawn, + And from the mountain's crest + Unwound long wreaths of misty lawn, + And wound them round her breast. + + Then passed we to the maple grove, + Like a great hall of gold, + The yellow and the red we wove + In rustling flounce and fold. + + "Now, love," said I, "go, do it on! + And I would have you note + No lovely lady dead and gone + Had such a petticoat." + + Then span I out of milkweeds fine + Fair stockings soft and long, + And other things of quaint design + That unto maids belong. + + And beads of amber and of pearl + About her neck I strung, + And in the bronze of her thick hair + The purple grape I hung. . . . + + Then led her to a glassy spring, + And bade her look and see + If any girl in all the world + Had such fine clothes as she. + + + + + THE VALLEY + + I will walk down to the valley + And lay my head in her breast, + Where are two white doves, + The Queen of Love's, + In a silken nest; + And, all the afternoon, + They croon and croon + The one word "Rest!" + And a little stream + That runs thereby + Sings "Dream!" + Over and over + It sings-- + "O lover, + Dream!" + + + + + BALLADE OF THE BEES OF TREBIZOND + + There blooms a flower in Trebizond + Stored with such honey for the bee, + (So saith the antique book I conned) + Of such alluring fragrancy, + Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree; + Thither the maddened feasters fly, + Yet--so alas! is it with me-- + To taste that honey is to die. + + Beloved, I, as foolish fond, + Feast still my eyes and heart on thee, + Asking no blessedness beyond + Thy face from morn till night to see, + Ensorcelled past all remedy; + Even as those foolish bees am I, + Though well I know my destiny-- + To taste that honey is to die. + + O'er such a doom shall I despond? + I would not from thy snare go free, + Release me not from thy sweet bond, + I live but in thy mystery; + Though all my senses from me flee, + I still would glut my glazing eye, + Thou nectar of mortality-- + To taste that honey is to die. + + + ENVOI + + Princess, before I cease to be, + Bend o'er my lips so burning dry + Thy honeycombs of ivory-- + To taste that honey is to die. + + + + + BROKEN TRYST + + Waiting in the woodland, watching for my sweet, + Thinking every leaf that stirs the coming of her feet, + Thinking every whisper the rustle of her gown, + How my heart goes up and up, and then goes down and down. + + First it is a squirrel, then it is a dove, + Then a red fox feather-soft and footed like a dream; + All the woodland fools me, promising my love; + I think I hear her talking--'tis but the running stream. + + Vowelled talking water, mimicking her voice-- + O how she promised she'd surely come to-day! + There she comes! she comes at last! O heart of mine rejoice-- + Nothing but a flight of birds winging on their way. + + Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world; + Day's bright banners in the west one by one are furled, + Sadly sinks the lingering sun that like a lover rose, + One by one each woodland thing loses heart and goes. + + Back along the woodland, all the day is dead, + All the green has turned to gray, and all the gold to lead; + O 'tis bitter cruel, sweet, to treat a lover so: + If only I were half a man . . . I'd let the baggage go. + + + + + THE RIVAL + + She failed me at the tryst: + All the long afternoon + The golden day went by, + Until the rising moon; + But, as I waited on, + Turning my eyes about, + Aching for sight of her, + Until the stars came out,-- + Maybe 'twas but a dream-- + There close against my face, + "Beauty am I," said one, + "I come to take her place." + + And then I understood + Why, all the waiting through, + The green had seemed so green, + The blue had seemed so blue, + The song of bird and stream + Had been so passing sweet, + For all the coming not + Of her forgetful feet; + And how my heart was tranced, + For all its lonely ache, + Gazing on mirrored rushes + Sky-deep in the lake. + Said Beauty: "_Me_ you love, + You love her for my sake." + + + + + THE QUARREL + + Thou shall not me persuade + This love of ours + Can in a moment fade, + Like summer flowers; + + That a swift word or two, + In angry haste, + Our heaven shall undo, + Our hearts lay waste. + + For a poor flash of pride, + A cold word spoken, + Love shall not be denied, + Or long troth broken. + + Yea; wilt thou not relent? + Be mine the wrong, + No more the argument, + Dear love, prolong. + + The summer days go by, + Cease that sweet rain, + Those angry crystals dry, + Be friends again. + + So short a time at best + Is ours to play, + Come, take me to thy breast-- + Ah! that's the way. + + + + + LOVERS + + Why should I ask perfection of thee, sweet, + That have so little of mine own to bring? + That thou art beautiful from head to feet-- + Is that, beloved, such a little thing, + That I should ask more of thee, and should fling + Thy largesse from me, in a world like this, + O generous giver of thy perfect kiss? + + Thou gavest me thy lips, thine eyes, thine hair; + I brought thee worship--was it not thy due? + If thou art cruel--still art thou not fair? + Roses thou gavest--shalt thou not bring rue? + Alas! have I not brought thee sorrow too? + How dare I face the future and its drouth, + Missing that golden honeycomb thy mouth? + + Kiss and make up--'tis the wise ancient way; + Back to my arms, O bountiful deep breast! + No more of words that know not what they say; + To kiss is wisdom--folly all the rest. + Dear loveliness so mercifully pressed + Against my heart--I shake with sudden fear + To think--to losing thee I came so near. + + + + + SHADOWS + + Shadows! the only shadows that I know + Are happy shadows of the light of you, + The radiance immortal shining through + Your sea-deep eyes up from the soul below; + Your shadow, like a rose's, on the grass + Where your feet pass. + + The shadow of the dimple in your chin, + The shadow of the lashes of your eyes, + As on your cheek, soft as a moth, it lies; + And, as a church, I softly enter in + The solemn twilight of your mighty hair, + Down falling there. + + These are Love's shadows, Love knows none but these: + Shadows that are the very soul of light, + As morning and the morning blossom bright, + Or jewelled shadows of moon-haunted seas; + The darkest shadows in this world of ours + Are made of flowers. + + + + + AFTER TIBULLUS + + _Illius est nobis lege colendus amor_ + + On her own terms, O lover, must thou take + The heart's beloved: be she kind, 'tis well, + Cruel, expect no more; not for thy sake + But for the fire in thee that melts her snows + For a brief spell + She loves thee--"loves" thee! Though thy heart should break, + Though thou shouldst lie athirst for her in hell, + She could not pity thee: who of the Rose, + Or of the Moon, asks pity, or return + Of love for love? and she is even as those. + Beauty is she, thou Love, and thou must learn, + O lover, this: + Thine is she for the music thou canst pour + Through her white limbs, the madness, the deep dream; + Thine, while thy kiss + Can sweep her flaming with thee down the stream + That is not thou nor she but merely bliss; + The music ended, she is thine no more. + + In her Eternal Beauty bends o'er thee, + Be thou content; + She is the evening star in thy hushed lake + Mirrored,--be glad; + A soul-less creature of the element, + Nor good, nor bad; + That which thou callest to in the far skies + Comes to thee in her eyes; + That thou mayst slake + Thy love of lilies, lo! her breasts! Be wise, + Ask not that she, as thou, should human be, + She that doth smell so sweet of distant heaven; + Pity is mortal leaven, + Dews know it not, nor morning on the hills, + And who hath yet found pity of the sea + That blesses, knowing not, and, not knowing, kills; + And sister unto all of these is she, + Whose face, as theirs, none reads; whose heart none knows; + Whose words are as the wind's words, and whose ways, + O lover, learn, + Swerve not, or turn + Aside for prayers, or broken-hearted praise: + The young moon looks not back as on she goes. + On their own terms, O lover!--Girl, Moon, Rose. + + + + + A WARNING + + We that were born, beloved, so far apart, + So many seas and lands, + The gods, one sudden day, joined heart to heart, + Locked hands in hands, + Distance relented and became our friend, + And met, for our sakes, world's end with world's end. + The earth was centred in one flowering plot + Beneath thy feet, and all the rest was not. + + Now wouldst thou rend our nearness, and again + Bring distance back, and place + Poles and equators, mountain range and plain, + Between me and thy face, + Undoing what the gods divinely planned; + Heart, canst thou part? hand, loose me from thy hand? + Not twice the gods their slighted gifts bestow; + Bethink thee well, beloved, ere thou dost go. + + + + + PRIMUM MOBILE + + When thou art gone, then all the rest will go; + Mornings no more shall dawn, + Roses no more shall blow, + Thy lovely face withdrawn-- + Nor woods grow green again after the snow; + For of all these thy beauty was the dream, + The soul, the sap, the song; + To thee the bloom and beam + Of flower and star belong, + And all the beauty thine of bird and stream. + + Thy bosom was the moonrise, and the morn + The roses of thy cheek, + No lovely thing was born + But of thy face did speak-- + How shall all these endure, of thee forlorn? + The sad heart of the world grew glad through thee, + Happy, men toiled and spun + That had thy smile for fee; + So flowers seek the sun, + So singing rivers hasten to the sea. + + Yet, though the world, bereft, should bleakly bloom, + And wanly make believe + Against the general doom, + For me the earth you leave + Shall be for ever but a haunted room; + Yea! though my heart beat on a little space, + When thou art strangely gone + To thy far hiding-place, + Soon shall I follow on, + Out-footing Death to over-take thy face. + + + + + THE LAST TRYST + + The cowbells wander through the woods, + 'Neath arching boughs a stream slips by, + In all the ferny solitude + A chipmunk and a butterfly + Are all that is--and you and I. + + This summer day, with all its flowers, + With all its green and gold and blue, + Just for a little while is ours, + Just for a little--I and you: + Till the stars rise and bring the dew. + + One perfect day to us is given; + Tomorrow--all the aching years; + This is our last short day in heaven, + The last of all our kisses nears-- + Then life too arid even for tears. + + Here, as the day ends, we two end, + Two that were one, we said, for ever; + We had Eternity to spend, + And laughed for joy to know that never + Two so divinely one could sever. + + A year ago--how rich we seemed! + Like piles of gold our kisses lay, + Enough to last our lives we dreamed, + And lives to come, we used to say-- + Yet are we at the last to-day. + + The last, I say, yet scarce believe + What all my heart is black with knowing; + Doomed, I yet watch for some reprieve, + But know too well that love is going, + As sure as yonder stream is flowing. + + Look round us how the hot sun burns + In plots of glory here and there, + Pouring its gold among the ferns: + So burned my lips upon your hair, + So rained our kisses, love, last year. + + We saw not where a shadow loomed, + That, from its first auroral hour, + Our happy paradise fore-doomed; + A Fate within whose icy power + Love blooms as helpless as a flower. + + Its shadow by the dial stands, + The golden moments shudder past, + Soon shall he smite apart our hands, + In vain we hold each other fast, + And the last kiss must come at last. + + The last! then be it charged with fire, + With sacred passion wild and white, + With such a glory of desire, + We two shall vanish in its light, + And find each other in God's sight. + + + + + THE HEART ON THE SLEEVE + + I wore my heart upon my sleeve, + Tis most unwise, they say, to do-- + But then how could I but believe + The foolish thing was safe with you? + Yet, had I known, 'twas safer far + With wolves and tigers, the wild sea + Were kinder to it than you are-- + Sweetheart, how you must laugh at me! + + Yet am I glad I did not know + That creatures of such tender bloom, + Beneath their sanctuary snow, + Were such cold ministers of doom; + For had I known, as I began + To love you, ere we flung apart, + I had not been so glad a man + As holds his lady to his heart. + + And am I lonely here to-night + With empty eyes, the cause is this, + Your face it was that gave me sight, + My heart ran over with your kiss. + Still do I think that what I laid + Before the altar of your face, + Flower of words that shall not fade, + Were worthy of a moment's grace; + + Some thoughtless, lightly dropped largesse, + A touch of your immortal hand + Laid on my brow in tenderness, + Though you could never understand. + And yet with hungered lips to touch + Your feet of pearl and in your face + To look a little was over-much-- + In heaven is no such fair a place + As, broken-hearted, at your feet + To lie there and to kiss them, sweet. + + + + + AT HER FEET + + My head is at your feet, + Two Cytherean doves, + The same, O cruel sweet, + As were the Queen of Love's; + They brush my dreaming brows + With silver fluttering beat, + Here in your golden house, + Beneath your feet. + + No man that draweth breath + Is in such happy case: + My heart to itself saith-- + Though kings gaze on her face, + I would not change my place; + To lie here is more sweet, + Here at her feet. + + As one in a green land + Beneath a rose-bush lies, + Two petals in his hand, + With shut and dreaming eyes, + And hears the rustling stir, + As the young morning goes, + Shaking abroad the myrrh + Of each awakened rose; + So to me lying there + Comes the soft breath of her,-- + O cruel sweet!-- + There at her feet. + + O little careless feet + That scornful tread + Upon my dreaming head, + As little as the rose + Of him who lies there knows + Nor of what dreams may be + Beneath your feet; + Know you of me, + Ah! dreams of your fair head, + Its golden treasure spread, + And all your moonlit snows, + Yea! all your beauty's rose + That blooms to-day so fair + And smells so sweet-- + Shoulders of ivory, + And breasts of myrrh-- + Under my feet. + + + + + RELIQUIAE + + This is all that is left--this letter and this rose! + And do you, poor dreaming things, for a moment suppose + That your little fire shall burn for ever and ever on, + And this great fire be, all but these ashes, gone? + + Flower! of course she is--but is she the only flower? + She must vanish like all the rest at the funeral hour, + And you that love her with brag of your all-conquering thew, + What, in the eyes of the gods, tall though you be, are you? + + You and she are no more--yea! a little less than we; + And what is left of our loving is little enough to see; + Sweet the relics thereof--a rose, a letter, a glove-- + That in the end is all that remains of the mightiest love. + + Six-foot two! what of that? for Death is taller than he; + And, every moment, Death gathers flowers as fair as she; + And nothing you two can do, or plan or purpose or dream, + But will go the way of the wind and go the way of the stream. + + + + + LOVE'S PROUD FAREWELL + + I am too proud of loving thee, too proud + Of the sweet months and years that now have end, + To feign a heart indifferent to this loss, + Too thankful-happy that the gods allowed + Our orbits cross, + Beloved and lovely friend; + And though I wend + Lonely henceforth along a road grown gray, + I shall not be all lonely on the way, + Companioned with the attar of thy rose, + Though in my garden it no longer blows. + + Thou canst not give elsewhere thy gifts to me, + Or only seem to give; + Yea, not so fugitive + The glory that hath hallowed me and thee, + Not thou or I alone that marvel wrought + Immortal is the paradise of thought, + Nor ours to destroy, + Born of our hearts together, where bright streams + Ran through the woods for joy, + That heaven of our dreams. + + There shall it shine + Under green boughs, + So long as May and June bring leaves and flowers, + Couches of moss and fern and woven bowers, + Still thine and mine, + A golden house; + And, perchance, e'er the winter that takes all, + I, there alone in the deep listening wood, + Shall hear thy lost foot-fall, + And, scarce believing the beatitude, + Shall know thee there, + Wild heart to wild heart pressed, + And wrap me in the splendour of thine hair, + And laugh within thy breast. + + + + + THE ROSE HAS LEFT THE GARDEN + + The Rose has left the garden, + Here she but faintly lives, + Lives but for me, + Within this little urn of pot-pourri + Of all that was + And never more can be, + While her black berries harden + On the wind-shaken tree. + Yet if my song a little fragrance gives, + 'Tis not all loss, + Something I save + From the sweet grave + Wherein she lies, + Something she gave + That never dies, + Something that may still live + In these my words + That draw from her their breath, + And fain would be her birds + Still in her death. + + + + + II + + + THE GARDENS OF ADONIS + + Beloved, I would tell a ghostly thing + That hides beneath the simple name of Spring; + Wild beyond hope the news--the dead return, + The shapes that slept, their breath a frozen mist, + Ascend from out sarcophagus and urn, + Lips that were dust new redden to be kissed, + Fires that were quenched re-burn. + + The gardens of Adonis bloom again, + Proserpina may hold the lad no more, + That in her arms the winter through hath lain; + Up flings he from the hollow-sounding door, + Where Love hath bruised her rosy breast in vain: + Ah! through their tears--the happy April rain-- + They, like two stars aflame, together run, + Then lift immortal faces in the sun. + + A faint far music steals from underground, + And to the spirit's ear there comes the sound, + The whisper vague, and rustle delicate, + Of myriad atoms stirring in their trance + That for the lifted hand of Order wait, + Taking their stations in the cosmic dance, + Mate linked to mystic mate. + + And perished shapes rebuild themselves anew, + Nourished on essences of fire and dew, + And in earth's cheek, but now so wistful wan, + The colour floods, and from deep wells of power + Rises the sap of resurrection; + The dead branch buds, the dry staff breaks in flower, + The grass comes surging on. + + These ghostly things that in November died, + How come they thus again adream with pride? + I saw the Red Rose lying in her tomb, + Yet comes she lovelier back, a redder rose; + What paints upon her cheek this vampire bloom? + Beloved, when to the dark thy beauty goes, + Thee too will Spring re-lume? + + Verily, nothing dies; a brief eclipse + Is all; and this blessed union of our lips + Shall bind us still though we have lips no more: + For as the Rose and as the gods are we, + Returning ever; but the shapes we wore + Shall have some look of immortality + More shining than before. + + Make we our offerings at Adonis' shrine, + For this is Love's own resurrection day, + Bring we the honeyed cakes, the sacred wine, + And myrtle garlands on his altars lay: + _O Thou, beloved alike of Proserpine + And Aphrodite, to our prayers incline; + Be thou propitious to this love of ours, + And we, the summer long, shall bring thee flowers._ + + + + + NATURE THE HEALER + + When all the world has gone awry, + And I myself least favour find + With my own self, and but to die + And leave the whole sad coil behind, + Seems but the one and only way; + Should I but hear some water falling + Through woodland veils in early May, + And small bird unto small bird calling-- + O then my heart is glad as they. + + Lifted my load of cares, and fled + My ghosts of weakness and despair, + And, unafraid, I raise my head + And Life to do its utmost dare; + Then if in its accustomed place + One flower I should chance find blowing, + With lovely resurrected face + From Autumn's rust and Winter's snowing-- + I laugh to think of my disgrace. + + A simple brook, a simple flower, + A simple wood in green array,-- + What, Nature, thy mysterious power + To bind and heal our mortal clay? + What mystic surgery is thine, + Whose eyes of us seem all unheeding, + That even so sad a heart as mine + Laughs at the wounds that late were bleeding?-- + Yea! sadder hearts, O Power Divine. + + I think we are not otherwise + Than all the children of thy knee; + For so each furred and winged one flies, + Wounded, to lay its heart on thee; + And, strangely nearer to thy breast, + Knows, and yet knows not, of thy healing, + Asking but there awhile to rest, + With wisdom beyond our revealing-- + Knows and yet knows not, and is blest. + + + + + LOVE ETERNAL + + The human heart will never change, + The human dream will still go on, + The enchanted earth be ever strange + With moonlight and the morning sun, + And still the seas shall shout for joy, + And swing the stars as in a glass, + The girl be angel for the boy, + The lad be hero for the lass. + + The fashions of our mortal brains + New names for dead men's thoughts shall give, + But we find not for all our pains + Why 'tis so wonderful to live; + The beauty of a meadow-flower + Shall make a mock of all our skill, + And God, upon his lonely tower + Shall keep his secret--secret still. + + The old magician of the skies, + With coloured and sweet-smelling things, + Shall charm the sense and trance the eyes, + Still onward through a million springs; + And nothing old and nothing new + Into the magic world be born, + Yea! nothing older than the dew, + And nothing younger than the morn. + + Delight and Destiny and Death + Shall still the mortal story weave, + Man shall not lengthen out his breath, + Nor stay when it is time to leave; + And all in vain for him to ask + His little meaning in the Whole, + Done well or ill his tiny task, + The mystic making of his soul. + + Ah! love, and is it not enough + To have our part in this romance + Made of such planetary stuff, + Strange partners in the cosmic dance? + Though Life be all too swift a dream, + And its fair rose must fade and fall, + Life has no sorrow in its scheme + As never to have lived at all. + + This fire that through our being runs, + When our two hearts together beat, + Is one with yonder burning sun's, + Two atoms that in glory meet; + What unimagined loss it were, + If that dread power in which we trust + Had left your eyes, your lips, your hair, + Nought but un-animated dust. + + Unknown the thrilling touch divine + That sets our magic clay aflame, + That wrought your beauty to be mine, + And joy enough to speak your name; + Thanks be to Life that did this thing, + Unsought, beloved, for you and me, + Gave us the rose, and birds to sing, + The golden earth, the blue-robed sea. + + + + + THE LOVELIEST FACE AND THE WILD ROSE + + The loveliest face! I turned to her + Shut in 'mid savage rocks and trees;-- + 'Twas in the May-time of the year, + And our two hearts were filled with ease-- + And pointed where a wild-rose grew, + Suddenly fair in that grim place: + "We should know all, if we but knew + Whence came this flower, and whence--this face." + + The loveliest face! My thoughts went around: + "Strange sister of this little rose, + So softly 'scaped from underground; + O tell me if your beauty knows, + Being itself so fair a thing, + How came this lovely thing so fair, + How came it to such blossoming, + Leaning so strangely from the air? + + "The wonder of its being born, + So lone and lovely--even as you-- + Half maiden-moon, half maiden-morn, + And delicately sad with dew; + How came it in this rocky place? + Or shall I ask the rose if she + Knows how this marvel of your face + On this harsh planet came to be?" + + Earth's bluest eyes gazed into mine, + And on her head Earth's brightest gold + Made all the rocks with glory shine-- + But still the secret went untold; + For rose nor girl, no more than I, + Their own mysterious meaning knew, + Save that alike from earth and sky + Each her enchanted being drew. + + Both from deep wells of wonder sprang, + Both children of the cosmic dream, + Alike with yonder bird that sang, + And little lives that flit and gleam; + Sparks from the central rose of fire + That at the heart of being burns, + That draws the lily from the mire + And trodden dust to beauty turns. + + Strange wand of Beauty--that transforms + Old dross to dreams, that softly glows + On the fierce rainbowed front of storms, + And smiles on unascended snows, + That from the travail of lone seas + Wrests sighing shell and moonlit pearl, + And gathers up all sorceries + In the white being of one girl. + + + + + AS IN THE WOODLAND I WALK + + As in the woodland I walk, many a strange thing I learn-- + How from the dross and the drift the beautiful things return, + And the fires quenched in October in April reburn; + + How foulness grows fair with the stern lustration + of sleets and snows, + And rottenness changes back to the breath and the cheek + of the rose, + And how gentle the wind that seems wild to each blossom + that blows; + + How the lost is ever found, and the darkness the door + of the light, + And how soft the caress of the hand that to shape + must not fear to smite, + And how the dim pearl of the moon is drawn from the gulf + of the night; + + How, when the great tree falls, with its empire + of rustling leaves, + The earth with a thousand hands its sunlit ruin receives, + And out of the wreck of its glory each secret artist weaves + + Splendours anew and arabesques and tints on his swaying loom, + Soft as the eyes of April, and black as the brows of doom, + And the fires give back in blue-eyed flowers the woodland + they consume; + + How when the streams run dry, the thunder calls on the hills, + And the clouds spout silver showers in the laps + of the little rills, + And each spring brims with the morning star, + and each thirsty fountain fills; + + And how, when the songs seemed ended, and all the music mute, + There is always somewhere a secret tune, some string + of a hidden lute, + Lonely and undismayed that has faith in the flower + and the fruit. + + So I learn in the woods--that all things come again, + That sorrow turns to joy, and that laughter is born of pain, + That the burning gold of June is the gray of December's rain. + + + + + TO A MOUNTAIN SPRING + + Strange little spring, by channels past our telling, + Gentle, resistless, welling, welling, welling; + Through what blind ways, we know not whence + You darkling come to dance and dimple-- + Strange little spring! + Nature hath no such innocence, + And no more secret thing-- + So mysterious and so simple; + Earth hath no such fairy daughter + Of all her witchcraft shapes of water. + When all the land with summer burns, + And brazen noon rides hot and high, + And tongues are parched and grasses dry, + Still are you green and hushed with ferns, + And cool as some old sanctuary; + Still are you brimming o'er with dew + And stars that dipped their feet in you. + + And I believe when none is by, + Only the young moon in the sky-- + The Greeks of old were right about you-- + A naiad, like a marble flower, + Lifts up her lovely shape from out you, + Swaying like a silver shower. + + So in old years dead and gone + Brimmed the spring on Helicon, + Just a little spring like you-- + Ferns and moss and stars and dew-- + Nigh the sacred Muses' dwelling, + Dancing, dimpling, welling, welling. + + + + + NOON + + Noon like a naked sword lies on the grass, + Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse; + The little stream, too indolent to pass, + Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs, + That build amid the glare a shadowy house, + And with a Paradisal freshness brims + Amid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade; + The antic water-fly above it skims, + And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade, + Or knee-deep in the grassy glimmer wade. + + The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies, + Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves, + Nor bird, nor bee; and even the butterflies, + Languid with noon, forget their painted loves, + Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves. + Only at times a little breeze will stir, + And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream, + Or run its fingers through the willows' hair, + And sway the rushes momently agleam-- + Then all fall back again into a dream. + + + + + A RAINY DAY + + The beauty of this rainy day, + All silver-green and dripping gray, + Has stolen quite my heart away + From all the tasks I meant to do, + Made me forget the resolute blue + And energetic gold of things . . . + So soft a song the rain-bird sings. + + Yet am I glad to miss awhile + The sun's huge domineering smile, + The busy spaces mile on mile, + Shut in behind this shimmering screen + Of falling pearls and phantom green; + As in a cloister walled with rain, + Safe from intrusions, voices vain, + And hurry of invading feet, + Inviolate in my retreat: + Myself, my books, my pipe, my fire-- + So runs my rainy-day desire. + + Or I old letters may con o'er, + And dream on faces seen no more, + The buried treasure of the years, + Too visionary now for tears; + Open old cupboards and explore + Sometimes, for an old sweetheart's sake, + A delicate romantic ache, + Sometimes a swifter pang of pain + To read old tenderness again, + As though the ink were scarce yet dry, + And She still She and I still I. + What if I were to write as though + Her letter came an hour ago! + An hour ago!--This post-mark says . . . + But out upon these rainy days! + Come tie the packet up again, + The sun is back--enough of rain. + + + + + IN THE CITY + + Away from the silent hills and the talking + of upland waters, + The high still stars and the lonely moon + in her quarters, + I fly to the city, the streets, the faces, the towers; + And I leave behind me the hush and the dews + and the flowers, + The mink that steals by the stream a-shimmer + among the rocks, + The hawk o'er the barn-yard sailing, the little cub-bear + and the fox, + The woodchuck and his burrow, and the little snake at noon, + And the house of the yellow-jacket, and the cricket's + endless tune. + + And what shall I find in the city that shall take + the place of these? + O I shall find my love there, and fall at her silken knees, + And for the moon her breast, and for the stars her eyes, + And under her shadowed hair the gardens of Paradise. + + + + + COUNTRY LARGESSE + + I bring a message from the stream + To fan the burning cheeks of town, + From morning's tower + Of pearl and rose + I bring this cup of crystal down, + With brimming dews agleam, + And from my lady's garden close + I bring this flower. + + O walk with me, ye jaded brows, + And I will sing the song I found + Making a lonely rippling sound + Under the boughs. + The tinkle of the brook is there, + And cow-bells wandering through the fern, + And silver calls + From waterfalls, + And echoes floating through the air + From happiness I know not where, + And hum and drone where'er I turn + Of little lives that buzz and die; + And sudden lucent melodies, + Like hidden strings among the trees + Roofing the summer sky. + + The soft breath of the briar I bring, + And wafted scents of mint and clover, + Rain-distilled balms the hill-winds fling, + Sweet-thoughted as a lover; + Incense from lilied urns a-swaying, + And the green smell of grass + Where men are haying. + + As through the streets I pass, + With their shrill clatter, + This largesse from the hills and streams, + This quietude of flowers and dreams, + Round me I scatter. + + + + + MORN + + Morn hath a secret that she never tells: + 'Tis on her lips and in her maiden eyes-- + I think it is the way to Paradise, + Or of the Fount of Youth the crystal wells. + The bee hath no such honey in her cells + Sweet as the balm that in her bosom lies, + As in her garden of the budding skies + She walks among the silver asphodels. + + He that is loveless and of heart forlorn, + Let him but leave behind his haunted bed, + And set his feet toward yonder singing star, + Shall have for sweetheart this same secret morn; + She shall come running to him from afar, + And on her cool breast lay his lonely head. + + + + + THE SOURCE + + Water in hidden glens + From the secret heart of the mountains, + Where the red fox hath its dens + And the gods their crystal fountains; + Up runnel and leaping cataract, + Boulder and ledge, I climbed and tracked, + Till I came to the top of the world and the fen + That drinks up the clouds and cisterns the rain, + And down through the floors of the deep morass + The procreant woodland essences drain-- + The thunder's home, where the eagles scream + And the centaurs pass; + But, where it was born, I lost my stream. + + 'Twas in vain I said: "'Tis here it springs, + Though no more it leaps and no more it sings;" + And I thought of a poet whose songs I knew + Of morning made and shining dew-- + I remembered the mire of the marshes too. + + + + + AUTUMN + + The sad nights are here and the sad mornings, + The air is filled with portents and with warnings, + Clouds that vastly loom and winds that cry, + A mournful prescience + Of bright things going hence; + Red leaves are blown about the widowed sky, + And late disconsolate blooms + Dankly bestrew + The garden walks, as in deserted rooms + The parted guest, in haste to bid adieu, + Trinklets and shreds forgotten left behind, + Torn letters and a ribbon once so brave-- + Wreckage none cares to save, + And hearts grow sad to find; + And phantom echoes, as of old foot-falls, + Wander and weary out in the thin air, + And the last cricket calls-- + A tiny sorrow, shrilling "Where? ah! where?" + + + + + THE ROSE IN WINTER + + When last I saw this opening rose + That holds the summer in its hand, + And with its beauty overflows + And sweetens half a shire of land, + It was a black and cindered thing, + Drearily rocking in the cold, + The relic of a vanished spring, + A rose abominably old. + + Amid the stainless snows it grinned, + A foul and withered shape, that cast + Ribbed shadows, and the gleaming wind + Went rattling through it as it passed; + It filled the heart with a strange dread, + Hag-like, it made a whimpering sound, + And gibbered like the wandering dead + In some unhallowed burial-ground. + + Whoso on that December day + Had seen it so deject and lorn, + So lone a symbol of decay, + Had dreamed of it this summer morn? + Divined the power that should relume + A flame so spent, and once more bring + That blackened being back to bloom,-- + Who could have dreamed so strange a thing? + + + + + THE FROZEN STREAM + + Stream that leapt and danced + Down the rocky ledges, + All the summer long, + Past the flowered sedges, + Under the green rafters, + With their leafy laughters, + Murmuring your song: + Strangely still and tranced, + All your singing ended, + Wizardly suspended, + Icily adream; + When the new buds thicken, + Can this crystal quicken, + Now so strangely sleeping, + Once more go a-leaping + Down the rocky ledges, + All the summer long, + Murmuring its song? + + + + + WINTER MAGIC + + Winter that hath few friends yet numbers those + Of spirit erect and delicate of eye; + All may applaud sweet Summer, with her rose, + And Autumn, with her banners in the sky; + But when from the earth's cheek the colour goes, + Her old adorers from her presence fly. + + So cold her bosom seems, such icy glare + Is in her eyes, while on the frozen mere + The shrill ice creaks in the congealing air; + Where is the lover that shall call her dear, + Or the devotion that shall find her fair? + The white-robed widow of the vanished year. + + Yet hath she loveliness and many flowers, + Dreams hath she too and tender reveries, + Tranced mid the rainbows of her gleaming bowers, + Or the hushed temples of her pillared trees; + Summer has scarce such soft and silent hours, + Autumn has no such antic wizardries. + + Yea! he that takes her to his bosom knows, + Lost in the magic crystal of her eyes, + Upon her vestal cheek a fairer rose, + What rapture and what passionate surprise + Awaits his kiss beneath her mask of snows, + And what strange fire beneath her pallor lies. + + Beauty is hers all unconfused of sense, + Lustral, austere, and of the spirit fine; + No cloudy fumes of myrrh and frankincense + Drug in her arms the ecstasy divine; + But stellar awe that kneels in high suspense, + And hallowed glories of the inner shrine. + + And, for the idle summer, in our blood + Pleasures hath she of rapid tingling joy, + With ruddy laughter 'neath her frozen hood, + Purging our mortal metal of alloy, + Stern benefactress of beatitude, + Turning our leaden age to girl and boy. + + + + + A LOVER'S UNIVERSE + + When winter comes and takes away the rose, + And all the singing of sweet birds is done, + The warm and honeyed world lost deep in snows, + Still, independent of the summer sun, + In vain, with sullen roar, + December shakes my door, + And sleet upon the pane + Threatens my peace in vain, + While, seated by the fire upon my knee, + My love abides with me. + + For he who, wise in time, his harvest yields + Reaped into barns, sweet-smelling and secure, + Smiles as the rain beats sternly on his fields, + For wealth is his no winter can make poor; + Safe all his waving gold + Shut in against the cold, + Treasure of summer grass-- + So sit I with my lass, + My harvest sheaves of all her garnered charms + Safe in my happy arms. + + Still fragrant in the garden of her breast, + The flowers that fled with summer softly bloom, + The birds that shook with song each empty nest + Still, when she speaks, fill all the listening room, + Deep-sheltered from the storm + Within her blossoming form. + Flower-breathed and singing sweet + Is she from head to feet; + All summer in my sweetheart doth abide, + Though winter be outside. + + So all the various wonder of the world, + The wizard moon and stars, the haunted sea, + In her small being mystically furled, + She brings as in a golden cup to me; + Within no other book + My eyes for wisdom look, + That have her eyes for lore; + And when the flaming door + Opens into the dark, what shall I fear + Adventuring with my dear? + + + + + TO THE GOLDEN WIFE + + With laughter always on the darkest day, + She danced before the very face of dread, + Starry companion of my mortal way, + Pre-destined merrily to be my mate, + With eyes as calm, she met the eyes of Fate: + "For this it was that you and I were wed-- + What else?" she smiled and said. + + Fair-weather wives are any man's to find, + The pretty sisters of the butterfly, + Gay when the sun is out, and skies are kind; + The daughters of the rainbow all may win-- + Pity their lovers when the sun goes in! + _Her_ smiles are brightest 'neath the stormiest sky-- + Thrice blest and all unworthy I! + + + + + BURIED TREASURE + + When the musicians hide away their faces, + And all the petals of the rose are shed, + And snow is drifting through the happy places, + And the last cricket's heart is cold and dead; + O Joy, where shall we find thee? + O Love, where shall we seek? + For summer is behind thee, + And cold is winter's cheek. + + Where shall I find me violets in December? + O tell me where the wood-thrush sings to-day! + Ah! heart, our summer-love dost thou remember + Where it lies hidden safe and warm away? + When woods once more are ringing + With sweet birds on the bough, + And brooks once more are singing, + Will it be there--thinkst thou? + + When Autumn came through bannered woodlands sighing, + We found a place of moonlight and of tears, + And there, with yellow leaves for it to lie in, + Left it to dream, watched over by the spheres. + It lies like buried treasure + Beneath the winter's cold, + The love beyond all measure, + In heaps of living gold. + + When April's here, with all her sweet adorning, + And all the joys steal back December hid, + Shall we not laughing run, some happy morning, + And of our treasure lift the leafy lid? + Again to find it dreaming, + Just as we left it still, + Our treasure far out-gleaming + Crocus and daffodil. + + + + + THE NEW HUSBANDMAN + + Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed, + God give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting, + Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud, + And all about it ever the birds sing. + + Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mine + That sowed there stars along with good white grain, + But reaped thereof--be better fortune thine-- + Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain. + + Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance, + Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil, + Till I sowed poppies 'gainst remembrance, + And took to other furrows my laughing toil. + + And other men as I that ploughed before + Shall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reap + Where we have sown, and on your threshing floor + Have honest grain within thy barns to keep. + + + + + PATHS THAT WIND . . . + + Paths that wind + O'er the hills and by the streams + I must leave behind-- + Dawns and dews and dreams. + Trails that go + Through the woods and down the slopes + To the vale below; + Done with fears and hopes, + I must wander on + Till the purple twilight ends, + Where the sun has gone-- + Faces, flowers and friends. + + + + + THE IMMORTAL GODS + + The gods are there, they hide their lordly faces + From you that will not kneel-- + Worship, and they reveal, + Call--and 'tis they! + They have not changed, nor moved from their high places, + The stars stream past their eyes like drifted spray; + Lovely to look on are they as bright gold, + They are wise with beauty, as a pool is wise. + Lonely with lilies; very sweet their eyes-- + Bathed deep in sunshine are they, and very cold. + + + + + III + + + BALLADE OF WOMAN + + A woman! lightly the mysterious word + Falls from our lips, lightly as though we knew + Its meaning, as we say--a flower, a bird, + Or say the moon, the stream, the light, the dew, + Simple familiar things, mysterious too; + Or as a star is set down on a chart, + Named with a name, out yonder in the blue: + A woman--and yet how much more thou art! + + So lightly spoken, and so lightly heard, + And yet, strange word, who shall thy sense construe? + What sage hath yet fit designation dared? + Yet I have sought the dictionaries through, + And of thy meaning found me not a clue; + Blessing and breaking still the firmest heart, + So fairy false, yet so divinely true: + A woman--and yet how much more thou art! + + Mother of God, and Circe, bosom-bared, + That nursed our manhood, and our manhood slew; + First dream, last sigh, all the long way we fared, + Sweeter than honey, bitterer than rue; + Thou fated radiance sorrowing men pursue, + Thou art the whole of life--the rest but part + Of thee, all things we ever dream or do; + A woman--and yet how much more thou art! + + + ENVOI + + Princess, that all this craft of moonlight threw + Across my path, this deep immortal smart + Shall still burn on when winds my ashes strew: + A woman--and yet how much more thou art! + + + + + THE MAGIC FLOWER + + You bear a flower in your hand, + You softly take it through the air, + Lest it should be too roughly fanned, + And break and fall, for all your care. + + Love is like that, the lightest breath + Shakes all its blossoms o'er the land, + And its mysterious cousin, Death, + Waits but to snatch it from your hand. + + O some day, should your hand forget, + Your guardian eyes stray otherwhere, + Your cheeks shall all in vain be wet, + Vain all your penance and your prayer. + + God gave you once this creature fair, + You two mysteriously met; + By Time's strange stream + There stood this Dream, + This lovely Immortality + Given your mortal eyes to see, + That might have been your darling yet; + But in the place + Of her strange face + Sorrow will stand forever more, + And Sorrow's hand be on your brow, + And vainly you shall watch the door + For her so lightly with you now, + And all the world be as before. + Ah; Spring shall sing and Summer bloom, + And flowers fill Life's empty room, + And all the singers sing in vain, + Nor bring you back your flower again. + + O have a care!--for this is all: + Let not your magic blossom fall. + + + + + BALLADE OF LOVE'S CLOISTER + + Had I the gold that some so vainly spend, + For my lost loves a temple would I raise, + A shrine for each dear name: there should ascend + Incense for ever, and hymns of golden praise; + And I would live the remnant of my days, + Where hallowed windows cast their painted gleams, + At prayer before each consecrated face, + Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams. + + And each fair altar, like a priest, I'd tend, + Trimming the tapers to a constant blaze, + And to each lovely and beloved friend + Garlands I'd bring, and virginal soft sprays + From April's bodice, and moon-breasted May's, + And there should be a sound for ever of streams + And birds 'mid happy leaves in that still place,-- + Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams. + + O'er missals of hushed memories would I bend, + And thrilling scripts of bosom-scented phrase, + Telling of love that never hath an end, + And sacred relics of wonder-working grace, + Strands of bright hair, and tender webs of lace, + Press to my lips--until the Present seems + The Past again to my ensorcelled gaze,-- + Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams. + + + ENVOI + + Princesses unforgot, your lover lays + His heart upon your altars, and he deems + He treads again the fair love-haunted ways-- + Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams. + + + + + AN OLD LOVE LETTER + + I was reading a letter of yours to-day, + The date--O a thousand years ago! + The postmark is there--the month was May: + How, in God's name, did I let you go? + What wonderful things for a girl to say! + And to think that I hadn't the sense to know-- + What wonderful things for a man to hear! + O still beloved, O still most dear. + + "Duty" I called it, and hugged the word + Close to my side, like a shirt of hair; + You laughed, I remember, laughed like a bird, + And somehow I thought that you didn't care. + Duty!--and Love, with her bosom bare! + No wonder you laughed, as we parted there-- + Then your letter came with this last good-by-- + And I sat splendidly down to die. + + Nor Duty, nor Death, would have aught of me: + "He is Love's," they said, "he cannot be ours;" + And your laugh pursued me o'er land and sea, + And your face like a thousand flowers. + "Tis her gown!" I said to each rustling tree, + "She is coming!" I said to the whispered showers; + But you came not again, and this letter of yours + Is all that endures--all that endures. + + These aching words--in your swift firm hand, + That stirs me still as the day we met--- + That now 'tis too late to understand, + Say "hers is the face you shall ne'er forget;" + That, though Space and Time be as shifting sand, + We can never part--we are meeting yet. + This song, beloved, where'er you be, + Your heart shall hear and shall answer me. + + + + + TOO LATE + + Too late I bring my heart, too late 'tis yours; + Too late to bring the true love that endures; + Too long, unthrift, I gave it here and there, + Spent it in idle love and idle song; + Youth seemed so rich, with kisses all to spare-- + Too late! too long! + + Too late, O fairy woman; dreams and dust + Are in your hair, your face is dimly thrust + Among the flowers; and Time, that all forgets, + Even you forgets, and only I prolong + The face I love, with ache of vain regrets-- + Too late! too long! + + Too long I tarried, and too late I come, + O eyes and lips so strangely sealed and dumb: + My heart--what is it now, beloved, to you? + My love--that doth your holy silence wrong? + Ah! fairy face, star-crowned and chrismed with dew-- + Too late! too long! + + + + + THE DOOR AJAR + + My door is always left ajar, + Lest you should suddenly slip through, + A little breathless frightened star; + Each footfall sets my heart abeat, + I always think it may be you, + Stolen in from the street. + + My ears are evermore attent, + Waiting in vain for one blest sound-- + The little frock, with lilac scent, + That used to whisper up the stair; + Then in my arms with one wild bound-- + Your lips, your eyes, your hair. + Never the south wind through the rose, + Brushing its petals with soft hand, + Made such sweet talking as your clothes, + Rustling and fragrant as you came, + And at my aching door would stand-- + Then vanish into flame. + + + + CHIPMUNK + + Little chipmunk, do you know + All you mean to me?-- + She and I and Long Ago, + And you there in the tree; + With that nut between your paws, + Half-way to your twittering jaws, + Jaunty with your striped coat, + Puffing out your furry throat, + Eyes like some big polished seed, + Plumed tail curved like half a lyre . . . + + We pretended not to heed-- + You, as though you would inquire + "Can I trust them?" . . . then a jerk, + And you'd skipped three branches higher, + Jaws again at work; + Like a little clock-work elf, + With all the forest to itself. + + She was very fair to see, + She was all the world to me, + She has gone whole worlds away; + Yet it seems as though to-day, + Chipmunk, I can hear her say; + "Get that chipmunk, dear, for me----" + Chipmunk, you can never know + All she was to me. + That's all--it was long ago. + + + + + BALLADE OF THE DEAD FACE THAT NEVER DIES + + The peril of fair faces all his days + No man shall 'scape: be it for joy or woe, + Each is the thrall of some predestined face + Divinely doomed to work his overthrow, + Transiently fair, as flowers in gardens blow, + Then fade, and charm no more our listless eyes; + But some fair faces ever fairer grow-- + Beware of the dead face that never dies. + + No snare young beauty for thy manhood lays, + No honeyed kiss the girls of Paphos know, + Shall hold thee as the silent smiling ways + Of her that went--yet only seemed to go-- + With April blossoms and with last year's snow; + Each year she comes again in subtler guise, + And beckons us to her green bed below-- + Beware of the dead face that never dies. + + The living fade before her lunar gaze, + Her phantom youth their ruddy veins out-glow, + She lays cold fingers on the lips that praise + Aught save her lovely face of long ago; + Oblivious poppies all in vain we sow + Before the opening gates of Paradise; + There shalt thou find her pacing to and fro-- + Beware of the dead face that never dies. + + + ENVOI + + Prince, take thy fill of love, for even so + Sad men grow happy and no other wise; + But love the quick--and as thy mortal foe + Beware of the dead face that never dies. + + + + + THE END OF LAUGHTER + + O never laugh again! + Laughter is dead, + Deep hiding in her grave, + A sacred thing. + O never laugh again, + Never take hands and run + Through the wild streets, + Or sing, + Glad in the sun: + For she, the immortal sweetness of all sweets, + Took laughter with her + When she went away + With sleep. + + O never laugh again! + Ours but to weep, + Ours but to pray. + + + + + THE SONG THAT LASTS + + Songs I sang of lordly matters, + Life and death, and stars and sea; + Nothing of them now remains + But the song I sang for thee. + + Vain the learned elaborate metres, + Vain the deeply pondered line; + All the rest are dust and ashes + But that little song of thine. + + + + + THE BROKER OF DREAMS + + Bring not your dreams to me-- + Blown dust, and vapour, and the running stream-- + Saying, "He, too, doth dream, + Touched of the moon." + + Nay! wouldst thou vanish see + Thy darling phantoms, + Bring them then to me! + For my hard business--though so soft it seems-- + Was ever dreams and dreams. + + And as some stern-eyed broker smiles disdain, + Valuing at nought + Her bosom's locket, with its little chain, + Love's all that Love hath brought; + So must I weigh and measure + Thy fading treasure, + Sighing to see it go + As surely as the snow. + + For I have such sad knowledge of all things + That shine like dew a little, all that sings + And ends its song in weeping-- + Such sowing and such reaping!-- + There is no cure but sleeping. + + + + + IV + + + AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE + + (To the Memory of Austin Dobson) + + Master of the lyric inn + Where the rarer sort so long + Drew the rein, to 'scape the din + Of the cymbal and the gong, + Topers of the classic bin,-- + Oporto, sherris and tokay, + Muscatel, and beaujolais-- + Conning some old Book of Airs, + Lolling in their Queen Anne chairs-- + Catch or glee or madrigal, + Writ for viol or virginal; + Or from France some courtly tune, + Gavotte, ridotto, rigadoon; + (Watteau and the rising moon); + Ballade, rondeau, triolet, + Villanelle or virelay, + Wistful of a statelier day, + Gallant, delicate, desire: + Where the Sign swings of the Lyre, + Garlands droop above the door, + Thou, dear Master, art no more. + + Lo! about thy portals throng + Sorrowing shapes that loved thy song: + _Taste_ and _Elegance_ are there, + The modish Muses of Mayfair, + _Wit_, _Distinction_, _Form_ and _Style_, + _Humour_, too, with tear and smile. + + Fashion sends her butterflies-- + Pretty laces to their eyes, + Ladies from St. James's there + Step out from the sedan chair; + Wigged and scented dandies too + Tristely wear their sprigs of rue; + Country squires are in the crowd, + And little Phyllida sobs aloud. + + Then stately shades I seem to see, + Master, to companion thee; + Horace and Fielding here are come + To bid thee to Elysium. + Last comes one all golden: Fame + Calls thee, Master, by thy name, + On thy brow the laurel lays, + Whispers low--"In After Days." + + + + + TO MADAME JUMEL + + Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair, + Had I a god's re-animating breath, + Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim air + Lethean and the eyeless halls of death, + Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair, + Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom, + And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom. + + Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust, + Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire; + Thy face amid our timid counsels thrust + Would light us back to glory and desire, + And swords flash forth that now ignobly rust; + Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame. + Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame. + + Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mould + That lies on by-gone traffickings of state, + Transformed a moment by that head of gold, + Touching the paltry hour with splendid Fate; + To "write the Constitution!" 'twere a cold, + Dusty and bloomless immortality, + Without that last wild dying thought of thee. + + + + + TO A BEAUTIFUL OLD LADY + + (To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hinton) + + Say not--"She once was fair;" because the years + Have changed her beauty to a holier thing, + No girl hath such a lovely face as hers, + That hoards the sweets of many a vanished spring, + Stealing from Time what Time in vain would steal, + Culling perfections as each came to flower, + Bearing on each rare lineament the seal + Of being exquisite from hour to hour. + + These eyes have dwelt with beauty night and morn, + Guarding the soul within from every stain, + No baseness since the first day she was born + Behind those star-lit brows could access again, + Bathed in the light that streamed from all things fair, + Turning to spirit each delicate door of sense, + And with all lovely shapes of earth and air + Feeding her wisdom and her innocence. + + Life that, whate'er it gives, takes more away + From those that all would take and little give, + Enriched her treasury from day to day, + Making each hour more wonderful to live; + And touch by touch, with hands of unseen skill, + Transformed the simple beauty of a girl, + Finding it lovely, left it lovelier still, + A mystic masterpiece of rose and pearl. + + Her grief and joy alike have turned to gold, + And tears and laughter mingled to one end, + With alchemy of living manifold: + If Life so wrought, shall Death be less a friend? + Nay, earth to heaven shall give the fairest face, + Dimming the haughty beauties of the sky; + Would I could see her softly take her place, + Sweeping each splendour with her queenly eye! + + + + + TO LUCY HINTON: December 19, 1921 + + O loveliest face, on which we look our last-- + Not without hope we may again behold + Somewhere, somehow, when we ourselves have passed + Where, Lucy, you have gone, this face so dear, + That gathered beauty every changing year, + And made Youth dream of some day being old. + + Some knew the girl, and some the woman grown, + And each was fair, but always 'twas your way + To be more beautiful than yesterday, + To win where others lose; and Time, the doom + Of other faces, brought to yours new bloom. + Now, even from Death you snatch mysterious grace, + This last perfection for your lovely face. + + So with your spirit was it day by day, + That spirit unextinguishably gay, + That to the very border of the shade + Laughed on the muttering darkness unafraid. + We shall be lonely for your lovely face, + Lonely for all your great and gracious ways, + But for your laughter loneliest of all. + + Yet in our loneliness we think of one + Lonely no more, who, on the heavenly stair, + Awaits your face, and hears your step at last, + His dreamer's eyes a glory like the sun, + Again in his sad arms to hold you fast, + All your long honeymoon in heaven begun. + + Thinking on that, O dear and loveliest friend, + We, in that bright beginning of this end, + Must bate our grief, and count our mortal loss + Only as his and your immortal gain, + Glad that for him and you it is so well. + + Lucy, O Lucy, a little while farewell. + + + + + V + + OTHER MATTERS, SACRED AND PROFANE + + + THE WORLD'S MUSQUETEER: TO MARSHAL FOCH + + (_Ballade a double refrain_) + + Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer, + Comrade at arms, on your bronzed cheek we press + The soldier's kiss, and drop the soldier's tear; + Brother by brother fought we in the stress + Of the locked steel, all the wild work that fell + For our reluctant doing; we that stormed hell + And smote it down together, in the sun + Stand here once more, with all our fighting done, + Garlands upon our helmets, sword and lance + Quiet with laurel, sharing the peace they won: + Soldier that saved the world in saving France. + + Soldier that saved the world in saving France, + France that was Europe's dawn when light was none, + Clear eyes that with eternal vigilance + Pierce through the webs in nether darkness spun, + Soul of man's soul, his sentinel upon + The ramparts of the world: Ah! France, 'twas well + This soldier with the sword of Gabriel + Was yours and ours in all that dire duresse, + This soldier, gentle as a child, that here + Stands shy and smiling 'mid a world's caress-- + Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer. + + Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer, + True knight and succourer of the world's distress + His might and skill we laurel, but more dear + Our soldier for that "parfit gentlenesse" + That ever in heroic hearts doth dwell, + That soul as tranquil as a vesper bell, + That glory in him that would glory shun, + Those kindly eyes alive with Gascon fun, + D'Artagnan's brother--still the old romance + Runs in the blood, thank God! and still shall run: + Soldier that saved the world in saving France. + + + ENVOI + + Soldier that saved the world in saving France, + Foch, to America's deep heart how near; + Betwixt us twain shall never come mischance. + Warrior that fought that war might disappear, + Far and for ever far the unborn year + That turns the ploughshare back into the spear-- + But, must it come, then Foch shall lead the dance: + Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer. + + + + + WE ARE WITH FRANCE + + We are with France--not by the ties + Of treaties made with tongue in cheek, + The ancient diplomatic lies, + The paper promises that seek + To hide the long maturing guile, + Planning destruction with a smile. + + We are with France by bonds no seal + Of the stamped wax and tape can make, + Bonds no surprise of ambushed steel + With sneering devil's laughter break; + Nor need we any plighted speech + For our deep concord, each with each. + + As ancient comrades tried and true + No new exchange of vows demand, + Each knows of old what each will do, + Nor needs to talk to understand; + So France with us and we with France-- + Enough the gesture and the glance. + + In a shared dream our loves began, + Together fought one fight and won, + The Dream Republican of Man, + And now as then our dream is one; + Still as of old our hearts unite + To dream and battle for the Right. + + Nor memories alone are ours, + But purpose for the Future strong, + Across the seas two signal towers, + Keeping stern watch against the Wrong; + Seeking, with hearts of deep accord, + A better wisdom than the Sword. + + We are with France, in brotherhood + Not of the spirit's task alone, + But kin in laughter of the blood: + Where Paris glitters in the sun, + A second home, like boys, we find, + And leave our grown-up cares behind. + + + + + SATAN: 1920 + + I read there is a man who sits apart, + A sort of human spider in his den, + Who meditates upon a fearful art-- + The swiftest way to slay his fellow men. + Behind a mask of glass he dreams his hell: + With chemic skill, to pack so fierce a dust + Within the thunderbolt of one small shell-- + Sating in vivid thought his shuddering lust-- + Whole cities in one gasp of flame shall die, + Swept with an all-obliterating rain + Of sudden fire and poison from the sky; + Nothing that breathes be left to breathe again-- + And only gloating eyes from out the air + Watching the twisting fires, and ears attent + For children's cries and woman's shrill despair, + The crash of shrines and towers in ruin rent. + + High in the sun the sneering airmen glide, + Glance at wrist-watches: scarce a minute gone + And London, Paris, or New York has died! + Scarce twice they look, then turn and hurry on. + And, far away, one in his quiet room + Dreams of a fiercer dust, a deadlier fume: + The wireless crackles him, "Complete success"; + "Next time," he smiles, "in half a minute less!" + To this the climbing brain has won at last-- + A nation's life gone like a shrivelled scroll-- + And thus To-Day outstrips the dotard Past! + I envy not that man his devil's soul. + + + + + UNDER WHICH KING . . . ? + + The fight I loved--the good old fight-- + Was clear as day 'twixt Might and Right; + Satrap and slave on either hand, + Tiller and tyrant of the land; + One delved the earth the other trod, + The writhing worm, the thundering god. + Lords of an earth they deemed their own, + The tyrants laughed from throne to throne, + Scattered the gold and spilled the wine, + And deemed their foolish dust divine; + While, 'neath their heel, sublimely strove + The martyred hosts of Human Love. + + Such was the fight I dreamed of old + 'Twixt Labour and the Lords of Gold; + I deemed all evil in the king, + In Demos every lovely thing. + But now I see the battle set-- + Albeit the same old banners yet-- + With no clear issue to decide, + With Right and Might on either side; + Yet small the rumour is of Right-- + But the bared arms of Might and Might + Brandish across the hate-filled lands, + With blood alike on both their hands. + + + + + MAN, THE DESTROYER + + O spirit of Life, by whatsoe'er a name + Known among men, even as our fathers bent + Before thee, and as little children came + For counsel in Life's dread predicament, + Even we, with all our lore, + That only beckons, saddens and betrays, + Have no such key to the mysterious door + As he that kneels and prays. + + The stern ascension of our climbing thought, + The martyred pilgrims of the soaring soul, + Bring us no nearer to the thing we sought, + But only tempt us further from the goal; + Yea! the eternal plan + Darkens with knowledge, and our weary skill + But makes us more of beast and less of man, + Fevered to hate and kill. + + Loves flees with frightened eyes the world it knew, + Fades and dissolves and vanishes away, + And the sole art the sons of men pursue + Is to out-speed the slayer and to slay: + And lovely secrets won + From radiant nature and her magic laws + Serve but to stretch black deserts in the sun, + And glut destruction's jaws. + + Life! is it sweet no more? the same blue sky + Arches the woods; the green earth, filled with trees, + Glories with song, happy it knows not why, + Painted with flowers, and warm with murmurous bees; + This earth, this golden home, + Where men, like unto gods, were wont to dwell, + Was all this builded, with the stars for dome, + For man to make it hell? + + Was it for this life blossomed with fair arts, + That for some paltry leagues of stolen land, + Or some poor squabble of contending marts, + Murder shall smudge out with its reeking hand + Man's faith and fanes alike; + And man be man no more--but a brute brain, + A primal horror mailed and fanged to strike, + And bring the Dark again? + + Fool of the Ages! fitfully wise in vain; + Surely the heavens shall laugh!--the long long climb + Up to the stars, to dash him down again! + And all the travail of slow-moving Time + And birth of radiant wings, + A dream of pain, an agony for naught! + Highest and lowest of created things, + Man, the proud fool of thought. + + + + + THE LONG PURPOSES OF GOD + + To Man in haste, flushed with impatient dreams + Of some great thing to do, so slowly done, + The long delay of Time all idle seems, + Idle the lordly leisure of the sun; + So splendid his design, so brief his span, + For all the faith with which his heart is burning, + He marvels, as he builds each shining plan, + That heaven's wheel should be so long in turning, + And God more slow in righteousness than Man. + + Evil on evil mock him all about, + And all the forces of embattled wrong, + There are so many devils to cast out-- + Save God be with him, how shall Man be strong? + With his own heart at war, to weakness prone, + And all the honeyed ways of joyous sinning, + How in this welter shall he hold his own, + And, single-handed, e'er have hopes of winning? + How shall he fight God's battle all alone? + + He hath no lightnings in his puny hand, + Nor starry servitors to work his will, + Only his soul and his strong purpose planned, + His dream of goodness and his hate of ill; + He, but a handful of the eddying dust, + At the wind's fancy shaped, from nowhere blowing; + A moment man--then, with another gust, + A formless vapour into nowhere going, + Even as he dreams back into darkness thrust. + + O so at least it seems--if life were his + A little longer! grant him thrice his years, + And God should see a better world than this, + Pure for the foul, and laughter for the tears: + So fierce a flame to burn the dross away + Dreams in his spark of life so swiftly fleeing: + If Man can do so much in one short day, + O strange it seems that an Eternal Being + Should in his purposes so long delay. + + Easy to answer--lo! the unfathomed time + Gone ere each small perfection came to flower, + Ere soul shone dimly in the wastes of slime; + Wouldst thou turn Hell to Heaven in an hour? + Easy to say--God's purposes are long, + His ways and wonders far beyond our knowing, + He hath mysterious ministers even in wrong, + Sure is His harvest, though so long His sowing: + So say old poets with persuasive tongue. + + And yet--and yet--it seems some swifter doom + From so august a hand might surely fall, + And all earth's rubbish in one flash consume, + And make an end of evil once for all . . . + But vain the questions and the answers vain, + Who knows but Man's impatience is God's doing? + Who knows if evil be so swiftly slain? + Be sure none shall escape, with God pursuing. + Question no more--but to your work again! + + + + + BALLADE TO A DEPARTING GOD + + God of the Wine List, roseate lord, + And is it really then good-by? + Of Prohibitionists abhorred, + Must thou in sorry sooth then die, + (O fatal morning of July!) + Nor aught hold back the threatened hour + That shrinks thy purple clusters dry? + Say not good-by--but _au revoir_! + + For the last time the wine is poured, + For the last toast the glass raised high, + And henceforth round the wintry board, + As dumb as fish, we'll sit and sigh, + And eat our Puritanic pie, + And dream of suppers gone before, + With flying wit and words that fly-- + Say not good-by--but _au revoir_! + + 'Twas on thy wings the poet soared, + And Sorrow fled when thou wentst by, + And, when we said "Here's looking toward" . . . + It seemed a better world, say I, + With greener grass and bluer sky . . . + The writ is on the Tavern Door, + And who would tipple on the sly? . . . + 'Tis not good-by--but _au revoir_! + + + ENVOI + + Gay God of Bottles, I deny + Those brave tempestuous times are o'er; + Somehow I think, I scarce know why, + 'Tis not good-by--but au revoir! + + + + + BALLADE OF THE ABSENT GUEST + + Friends whom to-night once more I greet, + Most glad am I with you to be, + And, as I look around, I meet + Many a face right good to see; + But one I miss--ah! where is he?-- + Of merry eye and sparkling jest, + Who used to brim my glass for me; + I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest. + + Low lies he in his winding-sheet, + By organized hypocrisy + Hurled from his happy wine-clad seat, + Stilled his kind heart and hushed his glee; + His very name daren't mention we, + That good old friend who brought such zest, + And set our tongues and spirits free: + I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest. + + No choice to-night 'twixt "dry" or "sweet," + 'Twixt red or white, 'twixt Rye,--ah! me-- + Or Scotch--and think! we live to see't-- + No whispered word, nor massive fee, + Nor even influenza plea, + Can raise a bubble; but, as best + We may, we make our hollow spree: + I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest. + + + ENVOI + + Friends, good is coffee, good is tea, + And water has a charm unguessed-- + And yet--that brave old deity! + I drink--in tears--the Absent Guest. + + + + + TOBACCO NEXT + + They took away your drink from you, + The kind old humanizing glass; + Soon they will take tobacco too, + And next they'll take our demi-tasse. + Don't say, "The bill will never pass," + Nor this my warning word disdain; + You said it once, you silly ass-- + Don't make the same mistake again. + + We know them now, the bloodless crew, + We know them all too well, alas! + There's nothing that they wouldn't do + To make the world a Bible class; + Though against bottled beer or Bass + I search the sacred text in vain + To find a whisper--by the Mass! + Don't make the same mistake again. + + Beware these legislators blue, + Pouring their moral poison-gas + On all the joys our fathers knew; + The very flowers in the grass + Are safe no more, and, lad and lass, + 'Ware the old birch-rod and the cane! + Here comes our modern Hudibras!-- + Don't make the same mistake again. + + + ENVOI + + Prince, vanished is the rail of brass, + So mark me well and my refrain-- + Tobacco next! you silly ass, + Don't make the same mistake again. + + + + + BALLADE OF THE PAID PURITAN + + In vain with whip and knotted cord + The hirelings of hypocrisy + Would make us comely for the Lord: + Think ye God works through such as ye-- + Paid Puritan, plump Pharisee, + And lobbyist fingering his fat bill, + Reeking of rum and bribery: + God needs not you to work His will. + + We know you whom you serve, abhorred + Traducers of true piety, + What tarnished gold is your reward + In Washington and Albany; + 'Tis not from God you take your fee, + Another's purpose to fulfil, + You that are God's worst enemy: + God needs not you to work His will. + + Not by the money-changing horde, + Base traders in the sanctuary, + Nor by fanatic fire and sword, + Shall man grow as God wills him be; + In his own heart a voice hath he + That whispers to him small and still; + God gives him eyes His good to see: + God needs not you to work His will. + + + ENVOI + + Dear Prince, a sinner's honesty + Is more to God, much nearer still, + Than the bribed hypocritic knee: + God needs not you to work His will. + + + + + THE OVERWORKED GHOST + + When the embalmer closed my eyes, + And all the family went in black, + And shipped me off to Paradise, + I had no thought of coming back; + I dreamed of undisturbed repose + Until the Judgment Day went crack, + Tucked safely in from top to toes. + + "I've done my bit," I said. "I've earned + The right to take things at my ease!" + When folk declared the dead returned, + I called it all tomfooleries. + "They are too glad to get to bed, + To stretch their weary limbs in peace; + Done with it all--the lucky dead!" + + But scarcely had I laid me down, + When comes a voice: "Is that you, Joe? + I'm calling you from Williamstown! + Knock once for 'yes,' and twice for 'no.'" + Then, hornet-mad, I knocked back two-- + The table shook, I banged it so-- + "Not Joe!" they said, "Then tell us who? + + "We're waiting--is there no one here, + No friend, you have a message for?" + But I pretended not to hear. + "Perhaps he fell in the great war?" + "Perhaps he's German?" someone said; + "How goes it on the other shore?" + "That's no way to address the dead!" + + And so they talked, till I got sore, + And made the blooming table rock, + And ribald oaths and curses swore, + And strange words guaranteed to shock. + "He's one of those queer spooks they call + A poltergeist--the ghosts that mock, + Throw things--" said one, who knew it all. + + "I wish an old thigh-bone was round + To break your silly head!" I knocked. + "A humourist of the burial-ground!" + A bright young college graduate mocked. + Then a young girl fell in a trance, + And foamed: "Get out--we are deadlocked-- + And give some other ghost a chance!" + + Such was my first night in the tomb, + Where soft sleep was to hold me fast; + I little knew my weary doom! + It even makes a ghost aghast + To think of all the years in store-- + The slave, as long as death shall last, + To ouija-boards forevermore. + + For morning, noon, and night they call! + Alive, some fourteen hours a day + I worked, but now I work them all. + No sooner down my head I lay, + A lady writer knocks me up + About a novel or a play, + Nor gives me time for bite or sup. + + I hear her damned typewriter click + With all the things she says I say, + You'd think the public would get sick; + And that's my only hope--some day! + Then seances, each night in dozens + I must attend, their parts to play + For dead grandpas and distant cousins. + + O for my life to live again! + I'd know far better than to die; + You'd never hear me once complain, + Could I but see the good old sky, + For here they work me to the bone; + "Rest!"--don't believe it! Well, good-by! + That's Patience Worth there on the phone! + + + + + THE VALIANT GIRLS + + The valiant girls--of them I sing-- + Who daily to their business go, + Happy as larks, and fresh as spring; + They are the bravest things I know. + At eight, from out my lazy tower, + I watch the snow, and shake my head; + But yonder petticoated flower + Braves it alone, with aery tread; + Nor wind, nor rain, nor ice-fanged storm, + Frightens that valiant little form. + + Strange! she that sweetens all the air, + The New York sister of the rose, + To a grim office should repair, + With picture-hat and silken hose, + And strange it is to see her there, + With powder on her little nose; + And yet how business-like is she, + With pad and pencil on her knee. + + Changed are the times--no stranger sign, + If you but think the matter over, + Than she, the delicate, the divine, + Whose lot seemed only love and lover, + Should to Life's rough and muddy wheel + So gravely set her pretty shoulder;-- + (What would her dead grandmother feel, + If someone woke her up and told her!) + Yet bate not, through her dreary duty, + One jot of womanhood or beauty. + + A woman still--yes! still a girl, + She changes, yet she does not change, + A moon-lit creature made of pearl + And filled with music sad and strange: + The while she takes your gruff dictation, + Who knows her secret meditation! + Most skilled of all our new machines, + She sits there at the telephone, + Prettier far than fabled queens; + Yea! Greece herself has never known, + Nor Phidias wrought, nor Homer sung, + Girls fairer than the girls that throng, + So serious and so debonair, + At morn and eve, the Subway stair; + A bright processional of faces, + So valiant--for all their laces. + + The girls that work! that take their share + In Life's grim battle, hard and rough, + Wearing their crowns of silken hair, + Armed only with a powder-puff: + These, not the women of old time, + Though, doubtless, they were fair enough, + Shall be the theme for modern rhyme. + Nay! never shall our hearts forget + The flower face of Juliet, + Or Helen on her golden throne; + But there shall come a Homer yet, + A Shakespeare still to fame unknown, + To sing among the stars up there + Fair Helen, the stenographer, + Sweet Juliet of the telephone. + + + + + NOT SOUR GRAPES + + I'm not sorry I am older, love--are you? + Over all youth's fuss and flurry, + All its everlasting hurry, + All its solemn self-importance and to-do. + Perhaps we missed the highest reaches of high art; + Love we missed not, and the laughter, + Seeing both before and after-- + Life was such a serious business at the start! + + We've lost nothing worth the keeping--do you think? + You are just as slim and elfish, + And I've grown a world less selfish; + We look back on life together--and we wink. + Over all those old misgivings of the heart, + Growing pains of love and lover; + Life's fun begins, its fevers over-- + Life was such a serious business at the start! + + Garners full, life's grain and chaff we have sifted; + Youth went by in idle tasting, + Now we drink the cup, unhasting, + Spill not a drop, brimful and high uplifted; + And we watch now, calm and fearless, the years depart, + Knowing nothing can now sever + Two that life made one forever-- + Life was _such_ a serious business at the start! + + + + + BALLADE OF READING BAD BOOKS + + O sad-eyed man who yonder sits, + Face in a book from morn till night, + Who, though the world should go to bits, + Pores on right through the waning light; + O is it sorrow or delight + That holds you, though the sun has set? + "I read," he said, "what these fools write, + Not to remember--but forget." + + "Man drinks or gambles, woman knits, + To put their sorrow out of sight, + From folly unto folly flits + The weary mind, or wrong or right; + My melancholy taketh flight + Reading the worst books I can get, + The worst--yet best! such is my plight-- + Not to remember--but forget." + + "'Tis not alone the immortal wits, + The lords of language, pens of might, + Past masters of the word that fits + In their mosaic true and bright, + That aid us in our mortal fight, + And heal us of our wild regret, + But books that humbler pens indite, + Not to remember--but forget." + + ENVOI + + "O Prince, 'tis but the neophyte + Who scorns this humble novelette + You watch me reading, un-contrite-- + Not to remember--but forget." + + + + + BALLADE OF THE MAKING OF SONGS + + Bees make their honey out of coloured flowers, + Through the June day, with all its beam and scent, + Heather of breezy hills, and idle bowers, + Brushing soft doors of every blossoming tent, + Filling gold thighs in drowsy ravishment, + Pillaging vines on the hot garden wall, + Taking of each small bloom its little rent-- + Poets must make their honey out of gall. + + Singers, not so this craven life of ours, + Our honey out of bitter herbs is blent; + The songs that fall as soft as April showers + Came of the whips and scorns of chastisement, + From smitten lips and hearts in sorrow bent, + Distilled of blood and wormwood are they all-- + Idly you heard, indifferent what they meant: + Poets must make their honey out of gall. + + You lords and ladies sitting high in towers, + Scarcely attending the sweet instrument + That lulls you 'mid your cruel careless hours, + Melodious minister of your content; + Think you this music was from Heaven sent? + Nay, Hell hath made it thus so musical. + And to its making thorns and nettles went-- + Poets must make their honey out of gall. + + + ENVOI + + Prince of this world, enthroned and insolent, + Beware, lest with a song your towers fall, + Your pride sent blazing up the firmament-- + Poets must make their honey out of gall. + + + + + BALLADE OF RUNNING AWAY WITH LIFE + + O ships upon the sea, O shapes of air, + O lands whose names are made of spice and tar, + Old painted empires that are ever fair, + From Cochin-China down to Zanzibar! + O Beauty simple, soul-less, and bizarre! + I would take Danger for my bosom-wife, + And light our bed with some wild tropic star-- + O how I long to run away with Life! + + To run together, Life and I! What care + Ours if from Duty we may run so far + As to forget the daily mounting stair, + The roaring subway and the clanging car, + The stock that ne'er again shall be at par, + The silly speed, the city's stink and strife, + The faces that to look on leaves a scar: + O how I long to run away with Life! + + Fling up the sail--all sail that she can bear, + And out across the little frightened bar + Into the fearless seas alone with her, + The great sail humming to the straining spar, + Curved as Love's breast, and white as nenuphar, + The spring wind singing like a happy fife, + The keen prow cutting like a scimitar: + O how I long to run away with Life! + + + ENVOI + + Princess, the gates of Heaven are ajar, + Cut we our bonds with Freedom's gleaming knife,-- + Lo! where Delight and all the Dancers are! + O how I long to run away with Life! + + + + + _TO A CONTEMNER OF THE PAST_ + + _You that would break with the Past, + Why with so rude a gesture take your leave? + None hinders, go your way; but wherefore cast + Contempt and boorish scorn + Upon the womb from which even you were born? + Begone in peace! Forbear to flout and grieve, + Vulgar iconoclast, + Those of a faith you cannot comprehend, + To whom the Past is as a lovely friend + Nobly grown old, yet nobly ever young; + The temple and the treasure-house of Time, + With gains immortal stored + Of dream and deed and song, + Since man from chaos first began to climb, + His lonely soul for sword._ + + _O base and trivial tongue + That dares to mock this solemn heritage, + And foul this sacred page! + Sorry the future that hath you for sire! + And happy we who yet + Can bear the golden chimes from tower and spire + In the old heaven set, + And link our hands and hearts with the great dead + That lived with God for friend, + And drew strange sustenance from overhead, + And knew a bright beginning in life's end; + For all their earthly days + Were filled with meaning deeper than the hour._ + + _Leave us our simple faith in star and flower, + And all our simple ways + Of prayer and praise, + And ancient virtues of humility, + Honour and reverence and the bended knee, + Old tenderness and gracious courtesies, + From Time so hardly won: + But you that no more have content in these, + From out our sanctuaries + Begone--and gladly gone!_ + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JONGLEUR STRAYED*** + + +******* This file should be named 17619.txt or 17619.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/6/1/17619 + + + +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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