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diff --git a/20373.txt b/20373.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dbddeae --- /dev/null +++ b/20373.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2341 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dreamers, by Theodosia Garrison + +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: The Dreamers + And Other Poems + +Author: Theodosia Garrison + +Release Date: January 15, 2007 [EBook #20373] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DREAMERS *** + + + + +Produced by Jeffrey Johnson and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + THE DREAMERS + AND OTHER POEMS + + BY + + THEODOSIA GARRISON + + NEW YORK + GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY + + + COPYRIGHT, 1917, + BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY + + + + + TO + + F. J. F. + + _September_, 1917 + + + + + For the privilege of reprinting the poems included in this + volume the author thanks the Editors of Scribner's, Harper's + Magazine, Harper's Bazar, McClure's, Collier's Weekly, The + Delineator, The Designer, Ainslee's, Everybody's, The Smart Set, + The Cosmopolitan, Lippincott's, Munsey's, The Rosary, The + Pictorial Review, The Bookman, and the Newark Sunday Call. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + THE DREAMERS + + THREE SONGS IN A GARDEN + + THE RETURN + + BLACK SHEEP + + MONSEIGNEUR PLAYS + + UNBELIEF + + THE SILENT ONE + + THE ROSE + + THE SONG OF THE YOUNG PAGE + + THE NEW SPRING + + THE BURDEN + + THE BRIDE + + THE SEER OF HEARTS + + THE UNSEEN MIRACLE + + THE APRIL BOUGHS + + TRANSIENTS + + THE MOTHER + + WHEN PIERROT PASSES + + THE POET + + MAGDALEN + + A SALEM MOTHER + + THE DAYS + + THE CALL + + THE PARASITE + + YOUTH + + THE EMPTY HOUSE + + THE BROKEN LUTE + + ORCHARDS + + TWILIGHT + + A LOVE SONG + + OLD BOATS + + BEAUTY + + A SONG + + MOTHERS OF MEN + + LOVELACE GROWN OLD + + SHADE + + THE VAGABOND + + DISTANCE + + THE GYPSYING + + GOOD-BYE, PIERETTE + + THE AWAKENING + + THE WEDDING GOWN + + THE DISCIPLES + + THE UNKNOWING + + HEART OF A HUNDRED SORROWS + + THE RETURNING + + THE INLANDER + + AD FINEM + + A SONG OF HELOISE + + THE RETURN + + THE POPLARS + + THE LITTLE JOYS + + + SONGS OF HIMSELF + + HIMSELF + + THE FAIR + + THE DANCING DAYS + + SHEILA + + THE GRIEF + + THE INTRODUCTION + + THE STAY-AT-HOME + + + + + THE DREAMERS + + + The gypsies passed her little gate-- + She stopped her wheel to see,-- + A brown-faced pair who walked the road, + Free as the wind is free; + And suddenly her tidy room + A prison seemed to be. + + Her shining plates against the walls, + Her sunlit, sanded floor, + The brass-bound wedding chest that held + Her linen's snowy store, + The very wheel whose humming died,-- + Seemed only chains she bore. + + She watched the foot-free gypsies pass; + She never knew or guessed + The wistful dream that drew them close-- + The longing in each breast + Some day to know a home like hers, + Wherein their hearts might rest. + + + + + THREE SONGS IN A GARDEN + + + I + + White rose-leaves in my hands, + I toss you all away; + The winds shall blow you through the world + To seek my wedding day. + Or East you go, or West you go + And fall on land or sea, + Find the one that I love best + And bring him here to me. + And if he finds me spinning + 'Tis short I'll break my thread; + And if he finds me dancing + I'll dance with him instead; + If he finds me at the Mass-- + (Ah, let this not be, + Lest I forget my sweetest saint + The while he kneels by me!) + + + II + + My lilies are like nuns in white + That guard me well all day, + But the red, red rose that near them grows + Is wiser far than they. + Oh, red rose, wise rose, + Keep my secret well; + I kiss you twice, I kiss you thrice + To pray you not to tell. + My lilies sleep beneath the moon, + But wide awake are you, + And you have heard a certain word + And seen a dream come true. + Oh, red rose, wise rose, + Silence for my sake, + Nor drop to-night a petal light + Lest my white lilies wake. + + + III + + Will the garden never forget + That it whispers over and over, + "Where is your lover, Nanette? + Where is your lover--your lover?" + Oh, roses I helped to grow, + Oh, lily and mignonette, + Must you always question me so, + "Where is your lover, Nanette?" + Since you looked on my joy one day, + Is my grief then a lesser thing? + Have you only this to say + When I pray you for comforting? + Now that I walk alone + Here where our hands were met, + Must you whisper me every one, + "Where is your lover, Nanette?" + + I have mourned with you year and year, + When the Autumn has left you bare, + And now that my heart is sere + Does not one of your roses care? + Oh, help me forget--forget, + Nor question over and over, + "Where is your lover, Nanette? + Where is your lover--your lover?" + + + + + THE RETURN + + + I lost Young Love so long ago + I had forgot him quite, + Until a little lass and lad + Went by my door to-night. + + Ah, hand in hand, but not alone, + They passed my open door, + For with them walked that other one + Who paused here Mays before. + + And I, who had forgotten long, + Knew suddenly the grace + Of one who in an empty land + Beholds a kinsman's face. + + Oh, Young Love, gone these many years, + 'Twas you came back to-night, + And laid your hand on my two eyes + That they might see aright, + + And took my listless hand in yours + (Your hands without a stain), + And touched me on my tired heart + That it might beat again. + + + + + BLACK SHEEP + + + _"Black Sheep, Black Sheep,_ + _Have you any wool?"_ + _"That I have, my Master,_ + _Three bags full."_ + + One is for the mother who prays for me at night-- + A gift of broken promises to count by candle-light. + + One is for the tried friend who raised me when I fell-- + A gift of weakling's tinsel oaths that strew the path to hell. + + And one is for the true love--the heaviest of all-- + That holds the pieces of a faith a careless hand let fall. + + _Black Sheep, Black Sheep,_ + _Have you ought to say?_ + _A word to each, my Master,_ + _Ere I go my way._ + + A word unto my mother to bid her think o' me + Only as a little lad playing at her knee. + + A word unto my tried friend to bid him see again + Two laughing lads in Springtime a-racing down the glen. + + A word unto my true love--a single word--to pray + If one day I cross her path to turn her eyes away. + + + + + MONSEIGNEUR PLAYS + + + Monseigneur plays his new gavotte-- + Within her gilded chair the Queen + Listens, her rustling maids between; + A very tulip-garden stirred + To hear the fluting of a bird; + Faint sunlight through the casement falls + On cupids painted on the walls + At play with doves. Precisely set + Awaits the slender legged spinet + Expectant of its happy lot, + The while the player stays to twist + The cobweb ruffle from his wrist. + A pause, and then--(Ah, whisper not) + Monseigneur plays his new gavotte. + + Monseigneur plays his new gavotte-- + Hark, 'tis the faintest dawn of Spring, + So still the dew drops whispering + Is loud upon the violets; + Here in this garden of Pierrettes' + Where Pierrot waits, ah, hasten Sweet, + And hear; on dainty, tripping feet + She comes--the little, glad coquette. + "Ah thou, Pierrot?" "Ah thou, Pierrette?" + A kiss, nay, hear--a bird wakes, then + A silence--and they kiss again, + "Ah, Mesdames, have you quite forgot--" + (So laughs his music.) "Love's first kiss? + Let this note lead you then, and this + Back to that fragrant garden-spot." + Monseigneur plays his new gavotte. + + Monseigneur plays his new gavotte-- + Ah, hear--in that last note they go + The little lovers laughing so; + Kissing their finger-tips, they dance + From out this gilded room of France. + Adieu! Monseigneur rises now + Ready for compliment and bow, + Playing about his mouth the while + Its cynical, accustomed smile, + Protests and, hand on heart, avers + The patience of his listeners. + "A masterpiece? Ah, surely not." + A grey-eyed maid of honour slips + A long stemmed rose across her lips + And drops it; does he guess her thought? + Monseigneur plays his new gavotte. + + + + + UNBELIEF + + + Your chosen grasp the torch of faith--the key + Of very certainty is theirs to hold. + They read Your word in messages of gold. + Lord, what of us who have no light to see + And in the darkness doubt, whose hands may be + Broken upon the door, who find but cold + Ashes of words where others see enscrolled, + The glorious promise of Life's victory. + + Oh, well for those to whom You gave the light + (The light we may not see by) whose award + Is that sure key--that message luminous, + Yet we, your people stumbling in the night, + Doubting and dumb and disbelieving--Lord, + Is there no word for us--no word for us? + + + + + THE SILENT ONE + + + The moon to-night is like the sun + Through blossomed branches seen; + Come out with me, dear silent one, + And trip it on the green. + + "Nay, Lad, go you within its light, + Nor stay to urge me so-- + 'Twas on another moonlit night + My heart broke long ago." + + Oh loud and high the pipers play + To speed the dancers on; + Come out and be as glad as they, + Oh, little Silent one. + + "Nay, Lad, where all your mates are met + Go you the selfsame way, + Another dance I would forget + Wherein I too was gay." + + But here you sit long day by day + With those whose joys are done; + What mates these townfolk old and grey + For you dear Silent one. + + "Nay, Lad, they're done with joys and fears. + Rare comrades should we prove, + For they are very old with years + And I am old with love." + + + + + THE ROSE + + + I took the love you gave, Ah, carelessly, + Counting it only as a rose to wear + A little moment on my heart no more, + So many roses had I worn before, + So lightly that I scarce believed them there. + + But, Lo! this rose between the dusk and dawn + Hath turned to very flame upon my breast, + A flame that burns the day-long and the night, + A flame of very anguish and delight + That not for any moment yields me rest. + + And I am troubled with a strange, new fear, + How would it be if even to your door + I came to cry your pitying one day, + And you should lightly laugh and lightly say, + "That was a rose I gave you--nothing more." + + + + + THE SONG OF THE YOUNG PAGE + + + All that I know of love I see + In eyes that never look at me; + All that I know of love I guess + But from another's happiness. + + A beggar at the window I, + Who, famished, looks on revelry; + A slave who lifts his torch to guide + The happy bridegroom to his bride. + + My granddam told me once of one + Whom all her village spat upon, + Seeing the church from out its breast + Had cast him cursed and unconfessed. + + An outcast he who dared not take + The wafer that God's vicars break, + But dull-eyed watched his neighbours pass + With shining faces from the Mass. + + Oh thou, my brother, take my hand, + More than one God hath blessed and banned + And hidden from man's anguished glance + The glory of his countenance. + + All that I know of love I see + In eyes that never look at me; + All that I know of love I guess + But from another's happiness. + + + + + THE NEW SPRING + + + The long grief left her old--and then + Came love and made her young again + As though some newer, gentler Spring + Should start dead roses blossoming; + Old roses that have lain full long + In some forgotten book of song, + Brought from their darkness to be one + With lilting winds and rain and sun; + And as they too might bring away + From that dim volume where they lay + Some lyric hint, some song's perfume + To add its beauty to their bloom, + So love awakes her heart that lies + Shrouded in fragrant memories, + And bids it bloom again and wake + Sweeter for that old sorrow's sake. + + + + + THE BURDEN + + + The burden that I bear would be no less + Should I cry out against it; though I fill + The weary day with sound of my distress, + It were my burden still. + + The burden that I bear may be no more + For all I bear it silently and stay + Sometimes to laugh and listen at a door + Where joy keeps holiday. + + I ask no more save only this may be-- + On life's long road, where many comrades fare, + One shall not guess, though he keep step with me, + The burden that I bear. + + + + + THE BRIDE + + + I + + Though other eyes were turned to him, + He turned to look in mine; + Though others filled the cup abrim, + He might not taste the wine. + + I am so glad my eyes were first + In which his own might sink; + I am so glad he went athirst + Until I bade him drink. + + + II + + The Well-Beloved took my hand + And led me to his fair abode, + The home that Love and he had planned. + (Strange that so well I knew the road.) + + And through the open door we went, + And at our feet the hearth-light fell, + And I--I laughed in all content, + Seeing I knew the place so well. + + Ah, to no stranger Love displayed + Its every nook, its every grace, + This was the House of Dreams I made + Long, long before I saw his face. + + + III + + I jested over-much in days of old, + I looked on sorrow once and did not care, + Now Love hath crowned my head with very gold, + I will be worthy of the joy I wear. + + There is not one a-hungered or a-cold + Shall seek my door but that he too shall share + Something of this vast happiness I hold; + I will be worthy of the joy I wear. + + For I was hungered and Love spread the feast, + Cold--and He touched my heart and warmed it there, + Yea, crowned me Queen--I neediest of His least, + I will be worthy of the joy I wear. + + + + + THE SEER OF HEARTS + + + For mocking on men's faces + He only sees instead + The hidden, hundred traces + Of tears their eyes have shed. + + Above their lips denying, + Through all their boasting dares, + He hears the anguished crying + Of old unanswered prayers. + + And through the will's reliance + He only sees aright + A frightened child's defiance + Left lonely in the night. + + + + + THE UNSEEN MIRACLE + + + The Angel of the night when night was gone + High upon Heaven's ramparts, cried, "The Dawn!" + + And wheeling worlds grew radiant with the one + And undiminished glory of the sun. + + And Angel, Seraph, Saint and Cherubim + Raised to the morning their exultant hymn. + + All Heaven thrilled anew to look upon + The great recurring miracle of dawn. + + And in the little worlds beneath them--men + Rose, yawned and ate and turned to toil again. + + + + + THE APRIL BOUGHS + + + It was not then her heart broke-- + That moment when she knew + That all her faith held holiest + Was utterly untrue. + + It was not then her heart broke-- + That night of prayer and tears + When first she dared the thought of life + Through all the empty years. + + But when beneath the April boughs + She felt the blossoms stir, + The careless mirth of yesterday + Came near and smiled at her. + + Old singing lingered in the wind, + Old joy came close again, + Oh, underneath the April boughs, + I think her heart broke then. + + + + + TRANSIENTS + + + They are ashamed who leave so soon + The Inn of Grief--who thought to stay + Through many a faithful sun and moon, + Yet tarry but a day. + + Shame-faced I watch them pay the score, + Then straight with eager footsteps press + Where waits beyond its rose-wreathed door + The Inn of Happiness. + + I wish I did not know that here, + Here too--where they have dreamed to stay + So many and many a golden year + They lodge but for a day. + + + + + THE MOTHER + + + So quietly I seem to sit apart; + I think she does not know or guess at all, + How dear this certain hour to my old heart, + When in our quiet street the shadows fall. + + She leans and listens at the little gate. + I sit so still, not any eye might see + How watchfully before her there I wait + For that one step that brings my world to me. + + She does not know that long before they meet + (So eagerly must go a love athirst), + My heart outstrips the flying of her feet, + And meets and greets him first--and greets him first. + + + + + WHEN PIERROT PASSES + + + High above his happy head + Little leaves of Spring were spread; + And adown the dewy lawn + Soft as moss the young green grass + Wooed his footsteps, and the dawn + Paused to watch him pass. + Even so he seemed in truth + Dancing between Love and Youth; + And his song as gay a thing + Still before him seemed to go + Light as any bird awing, + Blithe as jonquils in the Spring, + And we laughed and said, "Pierrot, + 'Tis Pierrot." + + "Oh," he sang, "Her hands are far + Sweeter than white roses are; + When I hold them to my lips, + Ere I dare a finer bliss, + Petal-like her finger-tips + Tremble 'neath my kiss. + And the mocking of her eyes + Lures me like blue butterflies + Falling--lifting--of their grace, + And her mouth--her mouth is wine." + And we laughed as though her face + Suddenly illumed the place, + And we said, "'Tis Columbine, + Columbine." + + + + + THE POET + + + He made him a love o' dreams-- + He raised for his heart's delight-- + (As the heart of June a crescent moon) + A frail, fair spirit of light. + + He gave her the gift of joy-- + The gift of the dancing feet-- + He made her a thing of very Spring-- + Virginal--wild and sweet. + + But when he would draw her near + To his eager heart's content, + As a sunbeam slips from the finger-tips + She slipped from his hold and went. + + Virginal--wild--and sweet-- + So she eludes him still-- + The love that he made of dawn and shade + Of dominant want and will. + + For ever the dream of man + Is more than the dreamer is; + Though he form it whole of his inmost soul, + Yet never 'tis wholly his. + + Only is given to him + The right to follow and yearn + The loveliness he may not possess, + The vision that may not turn. + + Never to hold or to bind-- + Only to know how fleet + The dream that is and yet is not his,-- + Virginal--wild--and sweet. + + + + + MAGDALEN + + + My father took me by the hand + And led me home again; + (He brought me in from sorrow + As you'd bring a child from rain). + The child's place at the hearth-stone, + The child's place at the board, + And the picture at the bed's head + Of wee ones wi' the Lord. + + It's just a child come home he sees + To nestle at his arm; + (He brought me in from sorrow + As you'd bring a child from harm). + And of the two of us who sit + By hearth and candle-light, + There's just one hears a woman's heart + Break--breaking in the night. + + + + + A SALEM MOTHER + + + I + + They whisper at my very gate, + These clacking gossips every one, + "We saw them in the wood of late, + Her and the widow's son; + The horses at the forge may wait, + The wool may go unspun." + + I spread the food he loves the best, + I light the lamp when day is done, + Yet still he stays another's guest-- + Oh, my one son, my son. + I would it burned in mine own breast + The spell he may not shun. + + She hath bewitched him with her eyes. + (No goodly maid hath eyes as bright.) + Pale in the morn I watch him rise, + As one who wanders far by night. + The gossips whisper and surmise-- + I hide me from the light. + + + II + + Her hair is yellow as the corn, + Her eyes are bluer than the sky; + Behind the casement yester-morn, + I watched her passing by. + My son not yet had broken bread, + Yet from the table did he rise, + She said no word nor turned her head, + What then the spell that bade him stir, + Nor heeding any word I said, + Put by my hands and follow her. + + + III + + He was so strong and wise and good-- + Was there no other she might take, + Nor other mothers' hearts to break? + + What though she bade the harvest fail, + What though she willed the cattle die, + So my son's soul was spared thereby. + + My cattle fill the pasture-land, + The ripe fruit thickens on the tree, + My son, my son is lost to me. + + + IV + + They burned a witch in our town, + On hangman's hill to-day; + And black the ashes drifted down, + Ashes black and grey, + Not white like those o' martyred folk + Whose souls are clean as they. + + They burned a witch in our town, + Upon a windy hill, + For that she made the wells sink down + And wrought a young man ill, + The smoke rose black against the sky, + And hangs before it still. + + They burned a witch in our town, + And sure they did but right, + _And yet I would the rain could drown_ + _That blackened hill from sight,_ + _And some great wind might drive that cloud_ + _'Twixt God and me this night._ + + + + + THE DAYS + + + I call my years back, I, grown old, + Recall them day by day; + And some are dressed in cloth o' gold + And some in humble grey. + + And those in gold glance scornfully + Or pass me unawares; + But those in grey come close to me + And take my hands in theirs. + + + + + THE CALL + + + I must be off where the green boughs beckon-- + Why should I linger to barter and reckon? + The mart may pay me--the mart may cheat me, + I have had enough of the huckster's din, + The calm of the deep woods waits to greet me, + (Heart of the high hills, take me in.) + + I must be off where the brooks are waking, + Where birds are building and green leaves breaking. + Why should the hold of an old task bind me? + I know of an eyrie I fain would win + Where a wind of the West shall seek me and find me, + (Heart of my high hills, take me in.) + + I must be off where the stars are nearer, + Where feet go swifter and eyes see clearer, + Little I heed what the toilers name me-- + I have heard the call that to miss were sin, + The April voices that clamour and claim me, + (Heart of my high hills, take me in.) + + + + + THE PARASITE + + + They brought to the little Princess, from her earliest hour of birth, + The lovely things, the beautiful things, the soft things of earth. + + They covered her floor with crimson, they wrapped her in eiderdown; + They hung the windows with cloth of gold, lest her eyes look down; + (Lest the highway show an unlovely thing + And her eyes look down.) + + They brought rare toys to her cradle, rich gems to her maidenhood; + All that she saw was beautiful, all that she heard was good. + + When tumult rose in the city they bade her minstrels sing; + They drowned with the sound of music a people's clamouring; + (Lest she turn and hark to the highway, + And hear an unlovely thing.) + + But there came a day of terror, when a cry too sharp and long + Tore through the streets of the city, through the soft, sweet song. + + She bade her singers be silent--silent they stood in awe; + She raised the gold from the window; she looked down and saw. + (She leaned and looked on the highway, + She looked down and saw.) + + She saw men driven like cattle, she heard the woman's cry, + She saw the white-faced children toil, and the weaklings die. + + She saw the bound and the beaten beneath her like shifting sands, + And--she dropped the cloth on her window with her own white hands, + (She shut out her people's crying + With her own white hands.) + + As a child may turn from a picture that he may not understand, + She turned to fragrance and music,--to soft things and bland. + + _If the Princess is blind to anguish, if the Princess is deaf to woe,_ + _If the streets of her city may run with blood, and she not know,_ + _Now theirs is the blame who have closed her in ease as in + folded wings,_ + _Who have barred the doors and windows, what time her minstrel sings,_ + _Lest her eyes look down on the highway,_ + _And look on unlovely things._ + + + + + YOUTH + + + What do they know of youth, who still are young? + They but the singers of a golden song + Who may not guess its worth or wonder--flung + Like largesse to the throng. + We only,--young no longer,--old so long + Before its harmonies, stand marvelling-- + Oh! we who listen--never they who sing. + + Not for itself is beauty, but for us + Who gaze upon it with all reverent eyes; + And youth which sheds its glory luminous, + Gives ever in this wise:-- + Itself the joy it may not realise. + Only we know, who linger overlong + Youth that is made of beauty and of song. + + + + + THE EMPTY HOUSE + + + April will come to the quiet town + That I left long ago, + Scattering primroses up and down-- + Row upon happy row. + (Oh, little green lane, will she come your way, + To a certain path I know?) + + April will pause by cottage and gate + In the wild, sweet evening rain, + Where the garden borders run brown and straight, + To coax them to bloom again. + (Oh, little sad garden that once was gay, + Must she call to you all in vain?) + + April will come to cottage and hill, + Laughing her lovers awake. + (Oh, little closed house, so cold and still, + Will she find you for old joy's sake, + And leave one primrose beside your door, + Lest the heart of your garden break?) + + + + + THE BROKEN LUTE + + + Good-bye, my song--I, who found words for sorrow, + Offer my joy to-day a useless lute. + In the deep night I sang me of the morrow; + The sun is on my face and I am mute. + + Good-bye, my song, in you was all my yearning, + The prayer for this poor heart I wore so long. + Now love heaps roses where the wounds were burning; + What need have I for song? + + Long since I sang of all one loves and misses; + How may I sing to-day who know no wrong? + My lips are all for laughter and for kisses. + Good-bye, my song. + + + + + ORCHARDS + + + Orchards in the Spring-time! Oh, I think and think of them,-- + Filmy mists of pink and white above the fresh, young green, + Lifting and drifting,--how my eyes could drink of them, + _I'm staring at a dirty wall beyond a big machine._ + + Orchards in the Spring-time! Deep in soft, cool shadows,-- + Moving all together when the west wind blows + Fragrance upon fragrance over road and meadows-- + _I'm smelling heat and oil and sweat, and thick, black clothes._ + + Orchards in the Spring-time! The clean white and pink of them + Lifting and drifting with all the winds that blow. + Orchards in the Spring-time! Thank God I still can think of them! + _You're not docked for thinking,--if the foreman doesn't know._ + + + + + TWILIGHT + + + Below them in the twilight the quiet village lies, + And warm within its holding, the old folks and the wise, + But here within the open fields the paths of Eden show, + And, hand in hand, across them the little lovers go. + + Below them in the village are peaceful folk and still, + They gossip of old yesterdays, of merry times or ill. + But here beyond the twilight stray two who only see + The promise of to-morrow--the dawn that is to be. + + Below them in the village the quiet hearth-flames glow, + With friendly word and greeting the neighbours come and go, + But here the silence folds them together, each to each, + And lights within the mating eyes the dream beyond their speech. + + Below them in the village stay honest toil and truth,-- + They rest there who adventured the road of love and youth. + Smile out, old hearts, when once again two take the path you know, + And, hand in hand, at twilight the little lovers go. + + + + + A LOVE SONG + + + My love it should be silent, being deep-- + And being very peaceful should be still-- + Still as the utmost depths of ocean keep-- + Serenely silent as some mighty hill. + + Yet is my love so great it needs must fill + With very joy the inmost heart of me, + The joy of dancing branches on the hill, + The joy of leaping waves upon the sea. + + + + + OLD BOATS + + + I saw the old sea captain in his city daughter's house, + Shaved till his chin was pink, and brushed till his hair was flat, + In a broadcloth suit and varnished boots and a collar up to his ears. + (I'd seen him last with a slicker on and a tied down oilskin hat.) + + And it happened that I went home last June, and saw in Mallory's yard + The old red dory that sprung a leak a couple of years ago, + Dragged out of good salt water and braced to stand in the grass + And be filled with dirt from stem to stern, where posies and such + could grow. + + Painted to beat the band, with vines strung over the sides + And red geraniums in the bow,--a boat that was built for water + Made into a flower garden. I looked, but I didn't laugh, + For I thought of the old sea captain living in town with his daughter. + + + + + BEAUTY + + + Sometimes, slow moving through unlovely days, + The need to look on beauty falls on me + As on the blind the anguished wish to see, + As on the dumb the urge to rage or praise; + Beauty of marble where the eyes may gaze + Till soothed to peace by white serenity, + Or canvas where one master hand sets free + Great colours that like angels blend and blaze. + + O, there be many starved in this strange wise-- + For this diviner food their days deny, + Knowing beyond their vision beauty stands + With pitying eyes--with tender, outstretched hands, + Eager to give to every passer-by + The loveliness that feeds a soul's demands. + + + + + A SONG + + + I am as weary as a child + That weeps upon its mother's breast + For joy of comforting. But I + Have no such place to rest. + + I am as weary as a bird + Blown by wild winds far out to sea + When it regains its nest. But, Oh, + There waits no nest for me. + + What think you may sustain the bird + That finds no housing after flight? + And what the little child console + Who weeps alone at night? + + + + + MOTHERS OF MEN + + + Mothers of men--the words are good indeed in the saying, + Pride in the very sound of them, strength in the sense of them, then + Why is it their faces haunt me, wistful faces as praying + Ever some dear thing vanished and ever a hope delaying, + Mothers of Men? + + Mothers of Men, most patient, tenderly slow to discover + The loss of the old allegiance that may not return again. + You give a man to the world, you give a woman a lover-- + Where is your solace then when the time of giving is over, + Mothers of Men? + + Mothers of Men, but surely, the title is worth the earning. + You who are brave in feigning must I ever behold you then + By the door of an empty heart with the lamp of faith still burning, + Watching the ways of life for the sight of a child returning, + Mothers of Men? + + + + + LOVELACE GROWN OLD + + + I + + My life has been like a bee that roves + Through a scented garden close, + And 'tis I who have kept the honey of love, + The hoarded sweetness and scent thereof, + For all I forget the rose. + + Oh, exquisite gardens long forgot + That have made my store complete, + Though winter fall upon blossom and bee, + Yet the kisses I garnered remain with me + Forever and ever sweet. + + + II + + The Priest hath had his word and said his say-- + A word i' faith more honest than beguiling-- + But now he turns upon his gloomy way-- + Good soul, he leaves me smiling. + + I may not ponder much on future wrath; + Of all those loves of mine, some six or seven, + Surely ere this have climbed that thorny path + That leads at last to Heaven. + + My bold, brown beauties, eh, my delicate + And golden damsels with uncensuring eyes, + Not long once did you make your Lovelace wait + Outside of Paradise. + + Much am I minded of a certain night-- + A night of moon and drifting clouds that hid + The convent wall from overmuch of light + Whereby one watched forbid. + + Watched, till he heard within the trembling sound + Of white, girl fingers on the rusting key + That turned her heart as well, till each unbound + Let in felicity. + + Ah well, I have small fear--her eyes were blue; + Blue eyes remember though it cost them tears. + Who knows but that same hand shall lead me through + Another Gate of Fears. + + In the same fashion, brave, yet most afraid, + Bold for her love yet trembling for her sin-- + So, Saints were tricked before. My blue-eyed maid, + Be there to let me in. + + + III + + Since I loved you for a day--Ah, a day, the fleetest-- + Since I sighed and rode away when our love was sweetest, + So shall you remember me, now that youth is over, + Fairly, of your courtesy, as your fondest lover. + + Since I turned and said good-bye when my heart was truest, + Since we parted, you and I, when our joy was newest, + Love might never turn to doubt and from doubt to scorning. + We but lived his sweetness out twixt a night and morning. + + So shall you remember me, eager in pursuing, + Faithful as a man must be in his time o' wooing. + Greater loves but stay and pine so, now youth is over, + Smiling shall you think of mine--mine, your fondest lover. + + + + + SHADE + + + The kindliest thing God ever made, + His hand of very healing laid + Upon a fevered world, is shade. + + His glorious company of trees + Throw out their mantles, and on these + The dust-stained wanderer finds ease. + + Green temples, closed against the beat + Of noontime's blinding glare and heat, + Open to any pilgrim's feet. + + The white road blisters in the sun; + Now, half the weary journey done, + Enter and rest, Oh weary one! + + And feel the dew of dawn still wet + Beneath thy feet, and so forget + The burning highway's ache and fret. + + This is God's hospitality, + And whoso rests beneath a tree + Hath cause to thank Him gratefully. + + + + + THE VAGABOND + + + The little dream she had forgot + Oh, long and long ago, + Came back across the April fields + And touched her garment so + (As might a wind-blown primrose cling + And one scarce guess or know.) + + A little beggared outcast dream + Forgot of Love and men, + And all because a fiddler played + An old song in the glen, + And two Young Lovers hand in hand, + Sent back its tune again. + + The little dream she had forgot + Crept near and clung and stayed-- + A roving, ragged vagabond + Half daring, half afraid, + And all because young love went by + And one old fiddler played. + + + + + DISTANCE + + + A hundred miles between us + Could never part us more + Than that one step you took from me + What time my need was sore. + + A hundred years between us + Might hold us less apart + Than that one dragging moment + Wherein I knew your heart. + + Now what farewell is needed + To all I held most dear, + So far and far you are from me + I doubt if you could hear. + + + + + THE GYPSYING + + + I wish we might go gypsying one day the while we're young-- + On a blue October morning + Beneath a cloudless sky, + When all the world's a vibrant harp + The winds o' God have strung, + And gay as tossing torches the maples light us by; + The rising sun before us--a golden bubble swung-- + I wish we might go gypsying one day the while we're young. + + I wish we might go gypsying one day before we're old-- + To step it with the wild west wind + And sing the while we go, + Through far forgotten orchards + Hung with jewels red and gold; + Through cool and fragrant forests where never sun may show, + To stand upon a high hill and watch the mist unfold-- + I wish we might go gypsying one day before we're old. + + I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care-- + The while we've heart for hazarding, + The while we've will to sing, + The while we've wit to hear the call + And youth and mirth to spare, + Before a day may find us too sad for gypsying, + Before a day may find us too dull to dream and dare-- + I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care. + + + + + GOOD-BYE, PIERRETTE + + + Good-bye, Pierrette. The new moon waits + Like some shy maiden at the gates + Of rose and pearl, to watch us stand + This little moment, hand in hand-- + Nor one red rose its watch abates. + + The low wind through your garden prates + Of one this twilight desolates. + Ah, was it this your roses planned? + Good-bye, Pierrette. + + Oh, merriest of little mates, + No sadder lover hesitates + Beneath this moon in any land; + Nor any roses, watchful, bland, + Look on a sadder jest of Fate's. + Good-bye, Pierrette. + + + + + THE AWAKENING + + + When the white dawn comes + I shall kneel to welcome it; + The dread that darkened on my eyes + Shall vanish and be gone. + I shall look upon it + As the parched on fountains, + _Yet it was the blinding night_ + _That taught the joy of dawn._ + + When the first bird sings, + Oh, I shall hear rejoicing, + And all my life shall thrill to it + And all my heart draw near. + I shall lean to listen + Lest a note elude me, + _Yet it was the fearsome night_ + _That taught me how to hear._ + + When the sun comes up + I shall lift my arms to it; + The fear of fear shall fall from me + As shackles from a slave. + I shall run to hail it, + Free and unbewildered, + _Yet it was the silent night_ + _That taught me to be brave._ + + + + + THE WEDDING GOWN + + + She put her wedding-gown away + As tenderly as one might close, + With kissing lips and finger-tips, + The petals of a rose + Still held for the Beloved's sake-- + The loveliest that blows. + + She put her wedding-gown away-- + The quiet place was all astir + With vague perfume that filled the room, + Cedar and lavender, + Yet sweeter still about it clung + The fragrant thoughts of her. + + She put her wedding-gown away-- + Yet lingered where its whiteness gleamed + As one above a sleeping Love, + Oh, thus it was she seemed, + Reluctant still to turn and go + And leave him as he dreamed. + + + + + THE DISCIPLES + + + A great king made a feast for Love, + And golden was the board and gold + The hundred, wondrous gauds thereof; + Soft lights like roses fell above + Rare dishes exquisite and fine; + In jeweled goblets shone the wine-- + A great king made a feast for Love. + + _Yet Love as gladly and full-fed hath fared_ + _Upon a broken crust that two have shared;_ + _And from scant wine as glorious dreams drawn up_ + _Seeing two lovers kissed above the cup._ + + A great king made for Love's delight + A temple wonderful wherein + Served jeweled priest and acolyte; + There fell no darkness day or night + Since there his highest altar shone + With flaming gems as some white sun, + A temple made for Love's delight. + + _Yet Love hath found a temple as complete_ + _In some bare attic where two lovers meet;_ + _And made his altar by one candle's flame_ + _Seeing two lovers burned it in his name._ + + + + + THE UNKNOWING + + + They do not know the awful tears we shed, + The tender treasures that we keep and kiss; + They could not be so still--our quiet dead + In knowing this. + + They do not know what time we turn to fill + Love's empty chalice with a cheaper bliss; + They could not be so still--so very still + In knowing this. + + + + + HEART OF A HUNDRED SORROWS + + + Oh, Heart of a Hundred Sorrows, + Whose pity is great therefore, + The gift that thy children bring thee + Is ever a sorrow more. + + Sure of thy dear compassion, + Concerned for our own relief, + Ever and ever we seek thee, + And each with his gift of grief. + + Oh, not to reprove my brothers, + Yet I, who am less than less, + Would bring thee my joy of being + The rose of my happiness. + + The spirit that makes my singing + The gladness without alloy, + Oh, Heart of a Hundred Sorrows, + I bring thee a little joy. + + + + + THE RETURNING + + + I said I will go back again where we + Were glad together. But my dear, my dear, + Where are the roses we were wont to see + The songs we used to hear? + + I said the hearth-flame that once burned for us + I will renew with all the cheer of old, + Yet here within the circle luminous + Our very hearts are cold. + + That was a barren garden that we found, + This was an empty house we came to meet, + We, who for all our longing, hear no sound + Of Love's returning feet. + + + + + THE INLANDER + + + I never climb a high hill + Or gaze across the lea, + But, Oh, beyond the two of them, + Beyond the height and blue of them, + I'm looking for the sea. + + A blue sea--a crooning sea-- + A grey sea lashed with foam-- + But, Oh, to take the drift of it, + To know the surge and lift of it, + And 'tis I am longing for it as the homeless long for home. + + I never dream at night-time + Or close my eyes by day, + But there I have the might of it, + The wind-whipped, sun-drenched sight of it, + That calls my soul away. + + Oh, deep dreams and happy dreams, + Its dreaming still I'd be, + For still the land I'm waking in, + 'Tis that my heart is breaking in, + And 'tis far where I'd be sleeping with the blue waves over me. + + + + + AD FINEM + + + I like to think this friendship that we hold + As youth's high gift in our two hands to-day + Still shall we find as bright, untarnished gold + What time the fleeting years have left us grey. + I like to think we two shall watch the May + Dance down her happy hills and Autumn fold + The world in flame and beauty, we grown old + Staunch comrades on an undivided way. + + I like to think of Winter nights made bright + By book and hearth-flame when we two shall smile + At memories of to-day--we two content + To count our vanished dawns by candle-light + Seeing we hold in our old hands the while + The gift of gold youth left us as she went. + + + + + A SONG OF HELOISE + + + God send thee peace, Oh, great unhappy heart-- + A world away, I pray that thou mayst rest + Softly as on the Well-Beloved's breast, + Where ever in her wistful dreams thou art. + + At dawn my prayer is all for thee, at noon + My very heart and, Oh, at night my tears + For all we walk alone the empty years + Nor meet neath any sun--neath any moon. + + Yet must my love go with thee--all apart + From this the life I lend to lesser things; + God send to thee this night beneath its wings, + A little peace, Oh, great unhappy heart. + + + + + THE RETURN + + + I come to you grown weary of much laughter, + From jangling mirth that once seemed over-sweet, + From all the mocking ghosts that follow after + A man's returning feet; + Give me no word of welcome or of greeting + Only in silence let me enter in, + Only in silence when our eyes are meeting, + Absolve me of my sin. + + I come to you grown weary of much living, + Open your door and lift me of your grace, + I ask for no compassion, no forgiving, + Only your face, your face; + Only in that white peace that is your dwelling + To come again, before your feet to sink, + And of your quiet as of wine compelling + Drink as the thirsting drink. + + Be kind to me as sleep is kind that closes + With tender hands men's fever-wearied eyes, + Your arms are as a garden of white roses + Where old remembrance lies, + I, who am bruised with words and pierced with chiding, + Give me your silence as a Saint might give + Her white cloak for some hunted creature's hiding, + That he might rest and live. + + + + + THE POPLARS + + + My poplars are like ladies trim, + Each conscious of her own estate; + In costume somewhat over prim, + In manner cordially sedate, + Like two old neighbours met to chat + Beside my garden gate. + + My stately old aristocrats-- + I fancy still their talk must be + Of rose-conserves and Persian cats, + And lavender and Indian tea;-- + I wonder sometimes as I pass + If they approve of me. + + I give them greeting night and morn, + I like to think they answer, too, + With that benign assurance born + When youth gives age the reverence due, + And bend their wise heads as I go + As courteous ladies do. + + Long may you stand before my door, + Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green, + And bend with rustling welcome o'er + The many friends who pass between; + And where the little children play + Look down with gracious mien. + + + + + THE LITTLE JOYS + + + My little joys went by me + As little children run + Across the fields at sunset + When playing time is done. + + And now alone at twilight + What is there may content + The heart that loved their laughter + And frolic merriment? + + Ah well, who knows but still may dawn + Another fairer day + Wherein my little joys may come + A-dancing out to play. + + + + + SONGS OF HIMSELF + + + + + HIMSELF + + + The houseful that we were then, you could count us by the dozens, + The wonder was that sometimes the old walls wouldn't burst: + Herself (the Lord be good to her!), the aunts and rafts of cousins, + The young folks and the children,--but Himself came first. + + _Master of the House he was, and well for them that knew it:_ + _His cheeks like winter apples and his head like snow;_ + _Eyes as blue as water when the sun of March shines through it._ + _And steppin' like a soldier with his stick held so._ + + Faith, but he could tell a tale would serve a man for wages, + Sing a song would put the joy of dancin' in two sticks; + But Saints between themselves and harm that saw him in his rages, + Blazin' and oratin' over chess and politics. + + _Master of the House he was, and that beyond all sayin',_ + _Eh, the times I've heard him exhortin' from his chair_ + _The like of any Bishop, yet snappin' off his prayin'_ + _To put the curse on Phelan's dog for howlin' in the prayer._ + + The times I've seen him walkin' out like Solomon in glory, + Salutin' with great elegance the gentry he might meet; + An eye for every pretty girl, an ear for every story, + And takin' as his just deserts the middle of the street. + + _Master of the House, with much to love and be forgiven,--_ + _Yet, thinkin' of Himself to-day--Himself--I see him go_ + _With that old light step of his, across the Courts of Heaven,_ + _His hat a little sideways and his stick held so._ + + + + + THE FAIR + + + The pick o' seven counties, so they're tellin' me, was there, + Horses racin' on the track, and fiddles on the green, + Flyin' flags and blowin' horns and all that makes a fair, + I'm hearin' that the like of it was something never seen. + + So it is they're tellin' me, + Girl dear, it may be true-- + I only know the bonnet strings + Beneath your chin were blue. + + I'm hearin' that the cattle came that thick they stood in rows, + And Doolan's Timmy caught the pig and Terry climbed the pole, + They're tellin' me they showed the cream of everything that grows, + And never man had eyes enough for takin' in the whole. + + So it is they're tellin' me, + Girl dear, it may be so, + I only know your little gown + Was whiter than the snow. + + They're tellin' me the gentry came from twenty miles about, + And him that came from Ballinsloe sang limpin' Jamesey down, + And 'twas Himself, no less, stood by to give the prizes out, + They're tellin' me you'd hear the noise from here to Dublin town. + + So it is they're tellin' me, + Girl dear, the same may be, + I only know that comin' home + You gave your word to me. + + + + + HIS DANCING DAYS + + + Never did I find me mate for charmin' an' delightin', + Never one that had me bate for courtin' an' for fightin';-- + (A white moon at the crossroads then, and Denny with the fiddle; + The parish round admirin', when I danced down the middle.) + Up the earth and down again, me like you'd not discover; + Arrah! for the times before me dancin' days were over! + + Never was a moon so low it didn't find me courtin', + Never blade I couldn't show a wilder way of sportin'. + (Is it at the fair I'd be, the gentry'd troop to talk with me; + Leapin' with delight was she,--the girl I'd choose to walk with me.) + 'Twas I could win the pick of them from any lad or lover; + Arrah! for the times before me dancin' days were over! + + What's come to all the lads to-day,--these mournful ways + they're keepin', + Grudgin' any hour to play and wastin' nights in sleepin'. + (Readin' be the chimney-place,--that dacent in their habits, + You'd sooner get a fight or song be callin' upon rabbits.) + Faith, I'd change the lot for one rejoicin', rantin' rover, + _The like of me, myself, before me dancin' days were over._ + + + + + SHEILA + + + Katie had the grand eyes and Delia had a way with her, + And Mary had the Saints' face and Maggie's waist was neat, + But Sheila had the merry heart that travelled all the day with her, + That put the laughing on her lips and dancing in her feet. + + I've met with martyrs in my time, and Faith! they make the best of it, + But 'tis the uncomplaining ones that wear a sorrow long, + 'Twas Sheila had the better way and that's to make a jest of it, + To call her trouble out to dance and step it with a song. + + Eh, but Sheila had the laugh the like of drink to weary ones, + (I've never heard the beat of it for all I've wandered wide.) + _And out of all the girls I knew the tender ones--the dreary ones,--_ + _'Twas only Sheila of the laugh that broke her heart and died._ + + + + + THE GRIEF + + + The heart of me's an empty thing, that never stirs at all + For Moon-shine or Spring-time, or a far bird's call. + I only know 'tis living by a grief that shakes it so,-- + Like an East wind in Autumn, when the old nests blow. + + Grey Eyes and Black Hair, 'tis never you I blame. + 'Tis long years and easy years since last I spoke your name. + And I'm long past the knife-thrust I got at wake or fair. + Or looking past the lighted door and fancying you there. + + Grey Eyes and Black Hair--the grief is never this; + I've long forgot the soft arms--the first, wild kiss. + But, Oh, girl that tore my youth,--'tis this I have to bear,-- + _If you were kneeling at my feet I'd neither stay nor care._ + + + + + THE INTRODUCTION + + + I'm askin' you'll be easy for a bit, Sir, + The lad's had little but a thrush's schoolin', + The blue skies and the fields, the little whipster, + 'Tis time enough for something more--(But whisper) + He'll go the better for an easy rulin'. + + Herself was always for the bit of readin' + But Denny here, he's great for growin' things, + There's not a primrose that he'd not be heedin' + Herself is right 'tis graver things he's needin' + The thrush is tamer when you clip his wings. + + I'd never have you spare him with the learnin', + (And, Faith, 'tis little that the lad has had), + But if above his task you'll see him turnin' + To watch the fields--'tis just the thrush's yearnin'-- + I'm askin' you'll be easy with the lad. + + + + + THE STAY-AT-HOME + + + Comin' or goin' still they spread the news, + About America how grand it is, + The wonders that are waitin' you to choose + And gold that common that like sand it is. + "And here you stick," says they. "Like some old tree + Stuck in the bog belaboured by all seasons. + What's ailin' ye?" says they. Well, leave them be, + I have me reasons. + + There's Cormac's Hugh come back with all his talk, + Spreadin' and spendin' like a king he is. + The people flockin' down the way he'll walk, + Till in the middle of a ring he is. + But where's that one whose face was like a rose + The day he went, betwixt her tears and teasin's? + Married these five years--gone where no man knows, + Faith, I've me reasons. + + "A likely lad," they say. "What's ailin' you, + The gold and riches over there it is." + Sure, I'm not doubtin' what they say is true + They have me leave to hurry where it is. + 'Tis I will hold the treasure that endures, + The while I'm listenin' to their talks and treasons. + _Oh, Sheila girl, those two blue eyes of yours,_ + Faith, I've me reasons. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dreamers, by Theodosia Garrison + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DREAMERS *** + +***** This file should be named 20373.txt or 20373.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/0/3/7/20373/ + +Produced by Jeffrey Johnson and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +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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