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diff --git a/3238-0.txt b/3238-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9448e36 --- /dev/null +++ b/3238-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3828 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems of Cheer, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Poems of Cheer + + +Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox + + + +Release Date: July 13, 2014 [eBook #3238] +[This file was first posted on February 5, 2001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF CHEER*** + + +Transcribed from the 1914 Gay and Hancock edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + POEMS OF CHEER + + + BY + ELLA WHEELER WILCOX + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + GAY AND HANCOCK, LTD. + 12 and 13, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN + LONDON + 1914 + + [_All rights reserved_] + + * * * * * + +THIS Volume contains the poems published under the title “Poems of Life,” +with the exception of about half a dozen, which appear in my other +volumes. I have also added a few new verses. + +Any edition of my Poems published in Great Britain by any firm except +Messrs. Gay and Hancock is pirated and not authentic. + + ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. + +_April_ 12_th_, 1910. + + * * * * * + + _I step across the mystic border-land_, + _And look upon the wonder-world of Art_. + _How beautiful_, _how beautiful its hills_! + _And all its valleys_, _how surpassing fair_! + + _The winding paths that lead up to the heights_ + _Are polished by the footsteps of the great_. + _The mountain-peaks stand very near to God_: + _The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon_ + _Have talked with Him_, _and with the angels walked_. + + _Here are no sounds of discord—no profane_ + _Or senseless gossip of unworthy things—_ + _Only the songs of chisels and of pens_, + _Of busy brushes_, _and ecstatic strains_ + _Of souls surcharged with music most divine_. + _Here is no idle sorrow_, _no poor grief_ + _For any day or object left behind—_ + _For time is counted precious_, _and herein_ + _Is such complete abandonment of Self_ + _That tears turn into rainbows_, _and enhance_ + _The beauty of the land where all is fair_. + _Awed and afraid_, _I cross the border-land_. + _Oh_, _who am I_, _that I dare enter here_ + _Where the great artists of the world have trod—_ + _The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth_? + _Only the singer of a little song_; + _Yet loving Art with such a mighty love_ + _I hold it greater to have won a place_ + _Just on the fair land’s edge_, _to make my grave_, + _Than in the outer world of greed and gain_ + _To sit upon a royal throne and reign_. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + WORTH WHILE 1 + THE HOUSE OF LIFE 3 + A SONG OF LIFE 6 + PRAYER 8 + IN THE LONG RUN 10 + AS YOU GO THROUGH LIFE 12 + TWO SUNSETS 14 + UNREST 18 + ARTIST’S LIFE 20 + NOTHING BUT STONES 22 + INEVITABLE 24 + THE OCEAN OF SONG 26 + “IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN” 29 + MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER 30 + I DREAM 32 + THE SONNET 34 + THE PAST 35 + A DREAM 36 + USELESSNESS 37 + WILL 38 + WINTER RAIN 39 + LIFE 40 + BURDENED 41 + LET THEM GO 42 + FIVE KISSES 44 + RETROSPECTION 48 + HELENA 50 + NOTHING REMAINS 52 + COMRADES 54 + WHAT GAIN? 56 + TO THE WEST 58 + THE LAND OF CONTENT 60 + WARNING 62 + AFTER THE BATTLES ARE OVER 63 + AND THEY ARE DUMB 71 + NIGHT 73 + ALL FOR ME 75 + INTO SPACE 77 + THROUGH DIM EYES 79 + THE PUNISHED 81 + HALF FLEDGED 82 + THE YEAR 84 + THE UNATTAINED 85 + IN THE CROWD 87 + LIFE AND I 89 + GUERDON 91 + SNOWED UNDER 92 + “LEUDEMANNS-ON-THE-RIVER” 94 + LITTLE BLUE HOOD 97 + NO SPRING 99 + MIDSUMMER 101 + A REMINISCENCE 103 + A GIRL’S FAITH 105 + TWO 107 + SLIPPING AWAY 109 + IS IT DONE? 111 + A LEAF 113 + ÆSTHETIC 115 + POEMS OF THE WEEK 117 + GHOSTS 120 + FLEEING AWAY 122 + ALL MAD 124 + HIDDEN GEMS 126 + BY-AND-BYE 127 + OVER THE MAY HILL 129 + FOES 131 + FRIENDSHIP 133 + TWO SAT DOWN 135 + BOUND AND FREE 137 + AQUILEIA 139 + WISHES FOR A LITTLE GIRL 142 + ROMNEY 144 + MY HOME 146 + TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY? 148 + AN AFTERNOON 150 + RIVER AND SEA 152 + WHAT HAPPENS? 153 + POSSESSION 154 + + + + +WORTH WHILE + + + It is easy enough to be pleasant + When life flows by like a song, + But the man worth while is the one who will smile + When everything goes dead wrong. + For the test of the heart is trouble, + And it always comes with the years, + And the smile that is worth the praises of earth + Is the smile that shines through tears. + + It is easy enough to be prudent + When nothing tempts you to stray, + When without or within no voice of sin + Is luring your soul away; + But it’s only a negative virtue + Until it is tried by fire, + And the life that is worth the honour on earth + Is the one that resists desire. + + By the cynic, the sad, the fallen, + Who had no strength for the strife, + The world’s highway is cumbered to-day— + They make up the sum of life; + But the virtue that conquers passion, + And the sorrow that hides in a smile— + It is these that are worth the homage on earth, + For we find them but once in a while. + + + + +THE HOUSE OF LIFE + + + All wondering, and eager-eyed, within her portico + I made my plea to Hostess Life, one morning long ago. + + “Pray show me this great house of thine, nor close a single door; + But let me wander where I will, and climb from floor to floor! + + For many rooms, and curious things, and treasures great and small + Within your spacious mansion lie, and I would see them all.” + + Then Hostess Life turned silently, her searching gaze on me, + And with no word, she reached her hand, and offered up the key. + + It opened first the door of Hope, and long I lingered there, + Until I spied the room of Dreams, just higher by a stair. + + And then a door whereon the one word “Happiness” was writ; + But when I tried the little key I could not make it fit. + + It turned the lock of Pleasure’s room, where first all seemed so + bright— + But after I had stayed awhile it somehow lost its light. + + And wandering down a lonely hall, I came upon a room + Marked “Duty,” and I entered it—to lose myself in gloom. + + Along the shadowy halls I groped my weary way about, + And found that from dull Duty’s room, a door of Toil led out. + + It led out to another door, whereon a crimson stain + Made sullenly against the dark these words: “The Room of Pain.” + + But oh the light, the light, the light, that spilled down from above + And upward wound, the stairs of Faith, right to the Tower of Love! + + And when I came forth from that place, I tried the little key— + And lo! the door of Happiness swung open, wide and free. + + + + +A SONG OF LIFE + + + In the rapture of life and of living, + I lift up my heart and rejoice, + And I thank the great Giver for giving + The soul of my gladness a voice. + In the glow of the glorious weather, + In the sweet-scented, sensuous air, + My burdens seem light as a feather— + They are nothing to bear. + + In the strength and the glory of power, + In the pride and the pleasure of wealth + (For who dares dispute me my dower + Of talents and youth-time and health?), + I can laugh at the world and its sages— + I am greater than seers who are sad, + For he is most wise in all ages + Who knows how to be glad. + + I lift up my eyes to Apollo, + The god of the beautiful days, + And my spirit soars off like a swallow, + And is lost in the light of its rays. + Are you troubled and sad? I beseech you + Come out of the shadows of strife— + Come out in the sun while I teach you + The secret of life. + + Come out of the world—come above it— + Up over its crosses and graves, + Though the green earth is fair and I love it, + We must love it as masters, not slaves. + Come up where the dust never rises— + But only the perfume of flowers— + And your life shall be glad with surprises + Of beautiful hours. + Come up where the rare golden wine is + Apollo distills in my sight, + And your life shall be happy as mine is, + And as full of delight. + + + + +PRAYER + + + I do not undertake to say + That literal answers come from Heaven, + But I know this—that when I pray + A comfort, a support is given + That helps me rise o’er earthly things + As larks soar up on airy wings. + + In vain the wise philosopher + Points out to me my fabric’s flaws, + In vain the scientists aver + That “all things are controlled by laws.” + My life has taught me day by day + That it availeth much to pray. + + I do not stop to reason out + The why and how. I do not care, + Since I know this, that when I doubt, + Life seems a blackness of despair, + The world a tomb; and when I trust, + Sweet blossoms spring up in the dust. + + Since I know in the darkest hour, + If I lift up my soul in prayer, + Some sympathetic, loving Power + Sends hope and comfort to me there. + Since balm is sent to ease my pain, + What need to argue or explain? + + Prayer has a sweet, refining grace, + It educates the soul and heart. + It lends a lustre to the face, + And by its elevating art + It gives the mind an inner sight + That brings it near the Infinite. + + From our gross selves it helps us rise + To something which we yet may be. + And so I ask not to be wise, + If thus my faith is lost to me. + Faith, that with angel’s voice and touch + Says, “Pray, for prayer availeth much.” + + + + +IN THE LONG RUN + + + In the long run fame finds the deserving man. + The lucky wight may prosper for a day, + But in good time true merit leads the van + And vain pretence, unnoticed, goes its way. + There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate, + But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait, + In the long run. + + In the long run all godly sorrow pays, + There is no better thing than righteous pain, + The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days, + Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain. + Unmeaning joys enervate in the end, + But sorrow yields a glorious dividend + In the long run. + + In the long run all hidden things are known, + The eye of truth will penetrate the night, + And good or ill, thy secret shall be known, + However well ’tis guarded from the light. + All the unspoken motives of the breast + Are fathomed by the years and stand confess’d + In the long run. + + In the long run all love is paid by love, + Though undervalued by the hosts of earth; + The great eternal Government above + Keeps strict account and will redeem its worth. + Give thy love freely; do not count the cost; + So beautiful a thing was never lost + In the long run. + + + + +AS YOU GO THROUGH LIFE + + + Don’t look for the flaws as you go through life; + And even when you find them, + It is wise and kind to be somewhat blind, + And look for the virtue behind them; + For the cloudiest night has a hint of light + Somewhere in its shadows hiding; + It’s better by far to hunt for a star, + Than the spots on the sun abiding. + + The current of life runs ever away + To the bosom of God’s great ocean. + Don’t set your force ’gainst the river’s course, + And think to alter its motion. + Don’t waste a curse on the universe, + Remember, it lived before you; + Don’t butt at the storm with your puny form, + But bend and let it go o’er you. + + The world will never adjust itself + To suit your whims to the letter, + Some things must go wrong your whole life long, + And the sooner you know it the better. + It is folly to fight with the Infinite, + And go under at last in the wrestle. + The wiser man shapes into God’s plan, + As water shapes into a vessel. + + + + +TWO SUNSETS + + + In the fair morning of his life, + When his pure heart lay in his breast, + Panting, with all that wild unrest + To plunge into the great world’s strife + + That fills young hearts with mad desire, + He saw a sunset. Red and gold + The burning billows surged and rolled, + And upward tossed their caps of fire. + + He looked. And as he looked, the sight + Sent from his soul through breast and brain + Such intense joy, it hurt like pain. + His heart seemed bursting with delight. + + So near the Unknown seemed, so close + He might have grasped it with his hands + He felt his inmost soul expand, + As sunlight will expand a rose + + One day he heard a singing strain— + A human voice, in bird-like trills. + He paused, and little rapture-rills + Went trickling downward through each vein. + + And in his heart the whole day long, + As in a temple veiled and dim, + He kept and bore about with him + The beauty of that singer’s song. + + And then? But why relate what then? + His smouldering heart flamed into fire— + He had his one supreme desire, + And plunged into the world of men. + + For years queen Folly held her sway. + With pleasures of the grosser kind + She fed his flesh and drugged his mind, + Till, shamed, he sated, turned away. + + He sought his boyhood’s home. + That hour Triumphant should have been, in sooth, + Since he went forth, an unknown youth, + And came back crowned with wealth and power. + + The clouds made day a gorgeous bed; + He saw the splendour of the sky + With unmoved heart and stolid eye; + He only knew the West was red. + + Then suddenly a fresh young voice + Rose, bird-like, from some hidden place, + He did not even turn his face— + It struck him simply as a noise. + + He trod the old paths up and down. + Their rich-hued leaves by Fall winds whirled— + How dull they were—how dull the world— + Dull even in the pulsing town. + + O! worst of punishments, that brings + A blunting of all finer sense, + A loss of feelings keen, intense, + And dulls us to the higher things. + + O! penalty most dire, most sure, + Swift following after gross delights, + That we no more see beauteous sights, + Or hear as hear the good and pure. + + O! shape more hideous and more dread + Than Vengeance takes in creed-taught minds, + This certain doom that blunts and blinds, + And strikes the holiest feelings dead. + + + + +UNREST + + + In the youth of the year, when the birds were building, + When the green was showing on tree and hedge, + And the tenderest light of all lights was gilding + The world from zenith to outermost edge, + My soul grew sad and longingly lonely! + I sighed for the season of sun and rose, + And I said, “In the Summer and that time only + Lies sweet contentment and blest repose.” + + With bee and bird for her maids of honour + Came Princess Summer in robes of green. + And the King of day smiled down upon her + And wooed her, and won her, and made her queen. + Fruit of their union and true love’s pledges, + Beautiful roses bloomed day by day, + And rambled in gardens and hid in hedges + Like royal children in sportive play. + + My restless soul for a little season + Revelled in rapture of glow and bloom, + And then, like a subject who harbours treason, + Grew full of rebellion and grey with gloom. + And I said, “I am sick of the summer’s blisses, + Of warmth and beauty, and nothing more. + The full fruition my sad soul misses + That beauteous Fall-time holds in store!” + + But now when the colours are almost blinding, + Burning and blending on bush and tree, + And the rarest fruits are mine for the finding, + And the year is ripe as a year can be, + My soul complains in the same old fashion; + Crying aloud in my troubled breast + Is the same old longing, the same old passion. + O where is the treasure which men call rest? + + + + +“ARTIST’S LIFE” + + + Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote, + Mad with melody, rhythm—rife + From the very first to the final note. + Give me his “Artist’s Life!” + + It stirs my blood to my finger-ends, + Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest, + And all that is sweetest and saddest blends + Together within my breast. + + It brings back that night in the dim arcade, + In love’s sweet morning and life’s best prime, + When the great brass orchestra played and played, + And set our thoughts to rhyme. + + It brings back that Winter of mad delights, + Of leaping pulses and tripping feet, + And those languid moon-washed Summer nights + When we heard the band in the street. + + It brings back rapture and glee and glow, + It brings back passion and pain and strife, + And so of all the waltzes I know, + Give me the “Artist’s Life.” + + For it is so full of the dear old time— + So full of the dear old friends I knew. + And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme, + I am always finding—_you_. + + + + +NOTHING BUT STONES + + + I think I never passed so sad an hour, + Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night. + The edifice from basement to the tower + Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light. + Up through broad aisles the stylish crowd was thronging, + Each richly robed like some king’s bidden guest. + “Here will I bring my sorrow and my longing,” + I said, “and here find rest.” + + I heard the heavenly organ’s voice of thunder, + It seemed to give me infinite relief. + I wept. Strange eyes looked on in well-bred wonder. + I dried my tears: their gaze profaned my grief. + Wrapt in the costly furs, and silks, and laces, + Beat alien hearts, that had no part with me. + I could not read, in all those proud cold faces, + One thought of sympathy. + + I watched them bowing and devoutly kneeling, + Heard their responses like sweet waters roll + But only the glorious organ’s sacred pealing + Seemed gushing from a full and fervent soul. + I listened to the man of holy calling, + He spoke of creeds, and hailed his own as best; + Of man’s corruption and of Adam’s-falling, + But naught that gave me rest: + + Nothing that helped me bear the daily grinding + Of soul with body, heart with heated brain; + Nothing to show the purpose of this blinding + And sometimes overwhelming sense of pain. + And then, dear friend, I thought of thee, so lowly, + So unassuming, and so gently kind, + And lo! a peace, a calm serene and holy, + Settled upon my mind. + + Ah, friend, my friend! one true heart, fond and tender, + That understands our troubles and our needs, + Brings us more near to God than all the splendour + And pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds. + One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling, + Doth bring me closer to the Infinite + Than all that throng of worldly people kneeling + In blaze of gorgeous light. + + + + +INEVITABLE + + + To-day I was so weary and I lay + In that delicious state of semi-waking, + When baby, sitting with his nurse at play, + Cried loud for “mamma,” all his toys forsaking. + + I was so weary and I needed rest, + And signed to nurse to bear him from the room. + Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast, + And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom. + + For swift as lightning came the thought to me, + With pulsing heart-throes and a mist of tears, + Of days inevitable, that are to be, + If my fair darling grows to manhood’s years; + + Days when he will not call for “mamma,” when + The world, with many a pleasure and bright joy, + Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of men + And I shall lose the first place with my boy; + + When other homes and loves shall give delight, + When younger smiles and voices will seem best. + And so I held him to my heart to-night, + Forgetting all my need of peace and rest. + + + + +THE OCEAN OF SONG + + + In a land beyond sight or conceiving, + In a land where no blight is, no wrong, + No darkness, no graves, and no grieving, + There lies the great ocean of song. + And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholden + By any save gods, and their kind, + Are not blue, are not green, but are golden, + Like moonlight and sunlight combined. + + It was whispered to me that their waters + Were made from the gathered-up tears + That were wept by the sons and the daughters + Of long-vanished eras and spheres. + Like white sands of heaven the spray is + That falls all the happy day long, + And whoever it touches straightway is + Made glad with the spirit of song. + + Up, up to the clouds where their hoary + Crowned heads melt away in the skies, + The beautiful mountains of glory + Each side of the song-ocean rise. + Here day is one splendour of sky-light— + Of God’s light with beauty replete. + Here night is not night, but is twilight, + Pervading, enfolding, and sweet. + + Bright birds from all climes and all regions, + That sing the whole glad summer long, + Are dumb, till they flock here in legions + And lave in the ocean of song. + It is here that the four winds of heaven, + The winds that do sing and rejoice, + It is here they first came and were given + The secret of sound and a voice. + + Far down along beautiful beeches, + By night and by glorious day, + The throng of the gifted ones reaches, + Their foreheads made white with the spray, + And a few of the sons and the daughters + Of this kingdom, cloud-hidden from sight, + Go down in the wonderful waters, + And bathe in those billows of light. + + And their souls evermore are like fountains, + And liquid and lucent and strong, + High over the tops of the mountains + Gush up the sweet billows of song. + No drouth-time of waters can dry them. + Whoever has bathed in that sea, + All dangers, all deaths, they defy them, + And are gladder than gods are, with glee. + + + + +“IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN” + + + We will be what we could be. Do not say, + “It might have been, had not or that, or this.” + No fate can keep us from the chosen way; + He only might, who _is_. + + We will do what we could do. Do not dream + Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve. + I hold, all men are greatly what they seem; + He does, who could achieve. + + We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not + Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height. + What eagle ever missed the peak he sought? + He always climbs who might. + + I do not like the phrase, “It might have been!” + It lacks all force, and life’s best truths perverts + For I believe we have, and reach, and win, + Whatever our deserts. + + + + +MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER + + + Though with gods the world is cumbered, + Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered, + Never god was known to be + Who had not his devotee. + So I dedicate to mine, + Here in verse, my temple-shrine. + + ’Tis not Ares,—mighty Mars, + Who can give success in wars. + ’Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep + Guard above us while we sleep, + ’Tis not Venus, she whose duty + ’Tis to give us love and beauty; + Hail to these, and others, after + Momus, gleesome god of laughter. + + Quirinus would guard my health, + Plutus would insure me wealth; + Mercury looks after trade, + Hera smiles on youth and maid. + All are kind, I own their worth, + After Momus, god of mirth. + + Though Apollo, out of spite, + Hides away his face of light, + Though Minerva looks askance, + Deigning me no smiling glance, + Kings and queens may envy me + While I claim the god of glee. + + Wisdom wearies, Love has wings— + Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings, + Glory proves a thorny crown— + So all gifts the gods throw down + Bring their pains and troubles after; + All save Momus, god of laughter. + He alone gives constant joy. + Hail to Momus, happy boy. + + + + +I DREAM + + + Oh, I have dreams. I sometimes dream of Life + In the full meaning of that splendid word. + Its subtle music which few men have heard, + Though all may hear it, sounding through earth’s strife. + Its mountain heights by mystic breezes kissed + Lifting their lovely peaks above the dust; + Its treasures which no touch of time can rust, + Its emerald seas, its dawns of amethyst, + Its certain purpose, its serene repose, + Its usefulness, that finds no hour for woes, + This is my dream of Life. + + Yes, I have dreams. I ofttimes dream of Love + As radiant and brilliant as a star. + As changeless, too, as that fixed light afar + Which glorifies vast worlds of space above. + Strong as the tempest when it holds its breath, + Before it bursts in fury; and as deep + As the unfathomed seas, where lost worlds sleep, + And sad as birth, and beautiful as death. + As fervent as the fondest soul could crave, + Yet holy as the moonlight on a grave. + This is my dream of Love. + + Yes, yes, I dream. One oft-recurring dream + Is beautiful and comforting and blest, + Complete with certain promises of rest, + Divine content, and ecstasy supreme. + When that strange essence, author of all faith, + That subtle something, which cries for the light, + Like a lost child who wanders in the night, + Shall solve the mighty mystery of Death, + Shall find eternal progress, or sublime + And satisfying slumber for all time. + This is my dream of Death. + + + + +THE SONNET + + + Alone it stands in Poesy’s fair land, + A temple by the muses set apart; + A perfect structure of consummate art, + By artists builded and by genius planned, + Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand, + Beyond the ken of the untutored heart, + Like a fine carving in a common mart, + Only the favoured few will understand. + A _chef-d’œvre_ toiled over with great care, + Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by, + A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire, + An ancient bit of pottery, too rare + To please or hold aught save the special eye, + These only with the sonnet can compare. + + + + +THE PAST + + + Fling my past behind me, like a robe + Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. + I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep + And dwell up on its beauty, and its dyes + Of Oriental splendour, or complain + That I must needs discard it? I can weave + Upon the shuttles of the future years + A fabric far more durable. Subdued, + It may be, in the blending of its hues, + Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam + Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through, + While over all a fadeless lustre lies, + And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears, + My new robe shall be richer than the old. + + + + +A DREAM + + + That was a curious dream; I thought the three + Great planets that are drawing near the sun + With such unerring certainty begun + To talk together in a mighty glee. + They spoke of vast convulsions which would be + Throughout the solar system—the rare fun + Of watching haughty stars drop, one by one, + And vanish in a seething vapour sea. + + I thought I heard them comment on the earth— + That small dark object—doomed beyond a doubt. + They wondered if live creatures moved about + Its tiny surface, deeming it of worth. + And then they laughed—’twas such a singing shout + That I awoke and joined too in their mirth. + + + + +USELESSNESS + + + Let mine not be that saddest fate of all + To live beyond my greater self; to see + My faculties decaying, as the tree + Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall. + Let me hear rather the imperious call, + Which all men dread, in my glad morning time, + And follow death ere I have reached my prime, + Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life’s gall. + The lightning’s stroke or the fierce tempest blast + Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day + Is kinder than the calm that lets it last, + Unhappy witness of its own decay. + May no man ever look on me and say, + “She lives, but all her usefulness is past.” + + + + +WILL + + + There is no chance, no destiny, no fate, + Can circumvent or hinder or control + The firm resolve of a determined soul. + Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great; + All things give way before it, soon or late. + What obstacle can stay the mighty force + Of the sea-seeking river in its course, + Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait? + + Each well-born soul must win what it deserves. + Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate + Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves, + Whose slightest action or inaction serve. + The one great aim. + Why, even Death stands still, + And waits an hour sometimes for such a will. + + + + +WINTER RAIN + + + Falling upon the frozen world last + I heard the slow beat of the Winter rain— + Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain; + The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might, + Far better had the fixedness of white + And uncomplaining snows—which make no sign, + But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine— + Concealed its sorrow from all human sight. + Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years, + I learned the uselessness of uttered woe. + Though sinewy Fate deals her most skilful blow, + I do not waste the gall now of my tears, + But feed my pride upon its bitter, while + I look straight in the world’s bold eyes, and smile. + + + + +LIFE + + + Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee, + Doth bear us on his shoulder for a time. + There is no path too steep for him to climb. + With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free, + As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea, + By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime, + And all the world seems motion set to rhyme, + Till, tired out, he cries, “Now carry me!” + In vain we murmur; “Come,” Life says, “Fair play!” + And seizes on us. God! he goads us so! + He does not let us sit down all the day. + At each new step we feel the burden grow, + Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go, + Watching for Death to meet us on the way. + + + + +BURDENED + + + “Genius, a man’s weapon, a woman’s burden.”—Lamartine. + + Dear God! there is no sadder fate in life + Than to be burdened so that you can not + Sit down contented with the common lot + Of happy mother and devoted wife. + + To feel your brain wild and your bosom rife + With all the sea’s commotion; to be fraught + With fires and frenzies which you have not sought, + And weighed down with the wild world’s weary strife; + + To feel a fever always in your breast; + To lean and hear, half in affright, half shame, + A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name; + To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest, + And know, however great your meed of fame, + You are but a weak woman at the best. + + + + +LET THEM GO + + + Let the dream go. Are there not other dreams + In vastness of clouds hid from thy sight + That yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams, + And shoot the shadows through and through with light? + What matters one lost vision of the night? + Let the dream go!! + + Let the hope set. Are there not other hopes + That yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky? + Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropes + Before some light is lent it from on high; + What folly to think happiness gone by! + Let the hope set! + + Let the joy fade. Are there not other joys, + Like frost-bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom? + Severe must be the winter that destroys + The hardy roots locked in their silent tomb. + What cares the earth for her brief time of gloom + Let the joy fade! + + Let the love die. Are there not other loves + As beautiful and full of sweet unrest, + Flying through space like snowy-pinioned doves? + They yet shall come and nestle in thy breast, + And thou shalt say of each, “Lo, this is best!” + Let the love die! + + + + +FIVE KISSES + + +THE MOTHER’S KISS +I + + + Love breathed a secret to her listening heart, + And said “Be silent.” Though she guarded it, + And dwelt as one within a world apart, + Yet sun and star seemed by that secret lit. + And where she passed, each whispering wind ablow, + And every little blossom in the sod, + Called joyously to her, “We know, we know, + For are we not the intimates of God?” + Life grew so radiant, and so opulent, + That when her fragile body and her brain + By mortal throes of agony were rent, + She felt a curious rapture in her pain. + Then, after anguish, came the supreme bliss— + They brought the little baby, for her kiss! + + + +THE BETROTHAL +II + + + There was a little pause between the dances; + Without, somewhere, a tinkling fountain played. + The dusky path was lit by ardent glances + As forth they fared, a lover and a maid. + He chose a nook, from curious eyes well hidden— + All redolent with sweet midsummer charm, + And by the great primeval instinct bidden, + He drew her in the shelter of his arm. + The words that long deep in his heart had trembled + Found sudden utterance; she at first dissembled, + Refused her lips, and half withdrew her hand, + Then murmured “Yes,” and yielded, woman fashion, + Her virgin mouth to young love’s kiss of passion. + + + +THE BRIDAL KISS +III + + + As fleecy clouds trail back across the skies, + Showing the sweet young moon in azure space, + The lifted veil revealed her shining face— + A sudden wonder to his eager eyes. + In that familiar beauty lurked surprise: + For now the wife stood in the maiden’s place— + With conscious dignity, and woman’s grace, + And love’s large pride grown trebly fair and wise. + + The world receded, leaving them alone. + The universe was theirs, from sphere to sphere, + And life assumed new meaning, and new worth. + Love held no privilege they did not own, + And when they kissed each other without fear, + They understood why God had made the earth. + + + +DOMESTIC BLISS +IV + + + Sequestered in their calm domestic bower, + They sat together. He in manhood’s prime + And she a matron in her fullest flower. + The mantel clock gave forth a warning chime. + She put her work aside; his bright cigar + Grew pale, and crumbled in an ashen heap. + The lights went out, save one remaining star + That watched beside the children in their sleep. + She hummed a little song and nestled near, + As side by side they went to their repose. + His arm about her waist, he whispered “Dear,” + And pressed his lips upon her mouth’s full rose— + The sacred sweetness of their wedded life + Breathed in that kiss of husband and of wife. + + + +OLD AGE +V + + + The young see heaven—but to the old who wait + The final call, the hills of youth arise + More beautiful than shores of Paradise. + Beside a glowing and voracious grate + A dozing couple dream of yesterday; + The islands of a vanished past appear, + Bringing forgotten names and faces near; + While lost in mist, the present fades away. + The fragrant winds of tender memories blow + Across the gardens of the “Used-to-be!” + They smile into each other’s eyes, and see + The bride and bridegroom of the long ago. + And tremulous lips, pressed close to faded cheek + Love’s silent tale of deathless passion speak. + + + + +RETROSPECTION + + + I look down the lengthening distance + Far back to youth’s valley of hope. + How strange seemed the ways of existence, + How infinite life and its scope! + + What dreams, what ambitions came thronging + To people a world of my own! + How the heart in my bosom was longing, + For pleasures and places unknown. + + But the hill-tops of pleasure and beauty + Were covered with mist at the dawn; + And only the rugged road Duty + Shone clear, as my feet wandered on. + + I loved not the path and its leading, + I hated the rocks and the dust; + But a Voice from the Silence was pleading, + It spoke but one syllable—“Trust.” + + I saw, as the morning grew older, + The fair flowered hills of delight; + And the feet of my comrades grew bolder, + They hurried away from my sight. + + And when on the pathway I faltered, + And when I rebelled at my fate, + The Voice with assurance unaltered, + Again spoke one syllable—“Wait.” + + Along the hard highway I travelled + And saw, with dim vision, how soon + The morning’s gold locks were unravelled, + By fingers of amorous noon. + + A turn in the pathway of duty— + I stood in the perfect day’s prime, + Close, close to the hillside of beauty + The Voice from the Silence said “Climb” + + The road to the beautiful Regions + Lies ever through Duty’s hard way. + Oh ye who go searching in legions, + Know this and be patient to-day. + + + + +HELENA + + + Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise + Of late all men have sounded. She for whom + Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb + Rather than live without her all his days. + + Wise men go mad who look upon her long, + She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile + I find no fascination in her smile, + Although I make her theme of this poor song. + + “Her golden tresses?” yes, they may be fair, + And yet to me each shining silken tress + Seems robbed of beauty and all lustreless— + Too many hands have stroked Helena’s hair. + + (I know a little maiden so demure + She will not let her one true lover’s hands + In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands + So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.) + + “Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night? + Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?” that may be, + And yet they are not beautiful to me. + Too many hearts have sunned in their delight. + + (I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid + So underneath white curtains, and so veiled + That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed + To see more than the shyly lifted lid.) + + “Her perfect mouth so liked a carved kiss?” + “Her honeyed-mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?” + I would not taste its sweetness for a crown; + Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss. + + (I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried, + Lies like a young grape’s bloom, untouched and sweet, + And though I plead in passion at her feet, + She would not let me brush it if I died.) + + In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie + For thy rare smile, or die from loss of it, + Armoured by my sweet lady’s trust, I sit, + And know thou are not worth her faintest sigh. + + + + +NOTHING REMAINS + + + Nothing remains of unrecorded ages + That lie in the silent cemetery time; + Their wisdom may have shamed our wisest sages, + Their glory may have been indeed sublime. + How weak do seem our strivings after power, + How poor the grandest efforts of our brains, + If out of all we are, in one short hour + Nothing remains. + + Nothing remains but the Eternal Spaces, + Time and decay uproot the forest trees. + Even the mighty mountains leave their places, + And sink their haughty heads beneath strange seas + The great earth writhes in some convulsive spasms + And turns the proudest cities into plains. + The level sea becomes a yawning chasm— + Nothing remains. + + Nothing remains but the Eternal Forces, + The sad seas cease complaining and grow dry, + Rivers are drained and altered in their courses, + Great stars pass out and vanish from the sky. + Ideas die and old religions perish, + Our rarest pleasures and our keenest pains + Are swept away with all we hate or cherish— + Nothing remains. + + Nothing remains but the Eternal Nameless + And all-creative spirit of the Law, + Uncomprehended, comprehensive, blameless, + Invincible, resistless, with no flaw; + So full of love it must create for ever, + Destroying that it may create again, + Persistent and perfecting in endeavour, + It yet must bring forth angels, after men— + This, this remains! + + + + +COMRADES + + + I and my Soul are alone to-day, + All in the shining weather; + We were sick of the world, and put it away, + So we could rejoice together. + + Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky + Is mixing a rare, sweet wine, + In the burnished gold of this cup on high, + For me, and this Soul of mine. + + We find it a safe and royal drink, + And a cure for every pain; + It helps us to love, and helps us to think, + And strengthens body and brain. + + And sitting here, with my Soul alone, + Where the yellow sun-rays fall, + Of all the friends I have ever known + I find it the _best_ of all. + + We rarely meet when the world is near, + For the World hath a pleasing art + And brings me so much that is bright and dear + That my Soul it keepeth apart. + + But when I grow weary of mirth and glee, + Of glitter, glow, and splendour, + Like a tried old friend it comes to me, + With a smile that is sad and tender. + + And we walk together as two friends may, + And laugh and drink God’s wine. + Oh, a royal comrade any day + I find this Soul of mine. + + + + +WHAT GAIN? + + + Now, while thy rounded cheek is fresh and fair, + While beauty lingers, laughing, in thine eyes, + Ere thy young heart shall meet the stranger, “Care,” + Or thy blithe soul become the home of sighs, + Were it not kindness should I give thee rest + By plunging this sharp dagger in thy breast? + Dying so young, with all thy wealth of youth, + What part of life wouldst thou not claim, in sooth? + Only the woe, + Sweetheart, that sad souls know. + + Now, in this sacred hour of supreme trust, + Of pure delight and palpitating joy, + Ere change can come, as come it surely must, + With jarring doubts and discords, to destroy + Our far too perfect peace, I pray thee, Sweet, + Were it not best for both of us, and meet, + If I should bring swift death to seal our bliss? + Dying so full of joy, what could we miss? + Nothing but tears, + Sweetheart, and weary years. + + How slight the action! Just one well-aimed blow + Here, where I feel thy warm heart’s pulsing beat, + And then another through my own, and so + Our perfect union would be made complete: + So, past all parting, I should claim thee mine. + Dead with our youth, and faith, and love divine, + Should we not keep the best of life that way? + What shall we gain by living day on day? + What shall we gain, + Sweetheart, but bitter pain? + + + + +TO THE WEST + + +[In an interview with Lawrence Barrett, he said: “The literature of the +New World must look to the West for its poetry.”] + + Not to the crowded East, + Where, in a well-worn groove, + Like the harnessed wheel of a great machine, + The trammelled mind must move— + Where Thought must follow the fashion of Thought, + Or be counted vulgar and set at naught. + + Not to the languid South, + Where the mariners of the brain + Are lured by the Sirens of the Sense, + And wrecked upon its main— + Where Thought is rocked, on the sweet wind’s breath + To a torpid sleep that ends in death. + + But to the mighty West, + That chosen realm of God, + Where Nature reaches her hands to men, + And Freedom walks abroad— + Where mind is King, and fashion is naught, + There shall the New World look for thought + + To the West, the beautiful West, + She shall look, and not in vain— + For out of its broad and boundless store + Come muscle, and nerve, and brain. + Let the bards of the East and the South be dumb— + For out of the West shall the Poets come. + + They shall come with souls as great + As the cradle where they were rocked; + They shall come with brows that are touched with fire + Like the gods with whom they have walked; + They shall come from the West in royal state, + The Singers and Thinkers for whom we wait. + + + + +THE LAND OF CONTENT + + + I set out for the Land of Content, + By the gay crowded pleasure-highway, + With laughter, and jesting, I went + With the mirth-loving throng for a day; + Then I knew I had wandered astray, + For I met returned pilgrims, belated, + Who said, “We are weary and sated, + But we found not the Land of Content.” + + I turned to the steep path of fame, + I said, “It is over yon height— + This land with the beautiful name— + Ambition will lend me its light.” + But I paused in my journey ere night, + For the way grew so lonely and troubled; + I said—my anxiety doubled— + “This is not the road to Content.” + + Then I joined the great rabble and throng + That frequents the moneyed world’s mart; + But the greed, and the grasping and wrong, + Left me only one wish—to depart. + And sickened, and saddened at heart, + I hurried away from the gateway, + For my soul and my spirit said straightway. + “This is not the road to Content.” + + Then weary in body and brain, + An overgrown path I detected, + And I said “I will hide with my pain + In this byway, unused and neglected.” + Lo! it led to the realm God selected + To crown with His best gifts of beauty, + And through the dark pathway of duty + I came to the land of Content. + + + + +WARNING + + + High in the heavens I saw the moon this morning, + Albeit the sun shone bright; + Unto my soul it spoke, in voice of warning, + “Remember Night!” + + + + +AFTER THE BATTLES ARE OVER + + +[Read at Reunion of the G. A. T., Madison, Wis., July 4, 1872.] + + After the battles are over, + And the war drums cease to beat, + And no more is heard on the hillside + The sound of hurrying feet, + Full many a noble action, + That was done in the days of strife + By the soldier is half forgotten, + In the peaceful walks of life. + + Just as the tangled grasses, + In Summer’s warmth and light, + Grow over the graves of the fallen + And hide them away from sight, + So many an act of valour, + And many a deed sublime, + Fade from the mind of the soldier + O’ergrown by the grass of time + + Not so should they be rewarded, + Those noble deeds of old! + They should live for ever and ever, + When the heroes’ hearts are cold. + Then rally, ye brave old comrades, + Old veterans, reunite! + Uproot Time’s tangled grasses— + Live over the march, and the fight. + + Let Grant come up from the White House, + And clasp each brother’s hand, + First chieftain of the army, + Last chieftain of the land. + Let him rest from a nation’s burdens, + And go, in thought, with his men, + Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh, + And save the day again. + + This silent hero of battles + Knew no such word as defeat. + It was left for the rebels’ learning, + Along with the word—retreat. + He was not given to talking, + But he found that guns would preach + In a way that was more convincing + Than fine and flowery speech + + Three cheers for the grave commander + Of the grand old Tennessee! + Who won the first great battle— + Gained the first great victory. + His motto was always “Conquer,” + “Success” was his countersign, + And “though it took all Summer,” + He kept fighting upon “that line.” + + Let Sherman, the stern old General, + Come rallying with his men; + Let them march once more through Georgia + And down to the sea again. + Oh! that grand old tramp to Savannah, + Three hundred miles to the coast, + It will live in the heart of the nation, + For ever its pride and boast. + + As Sheridan went to the battle, + When a score of miles away, + He has come to the feast and banquet, + By the iron horse to-day. + Its pace is not much swifter + Than the pace of that famous steed + Which bore him down to the contest + And saved the day by his speed. + + Then go over the ground to-day, boys + Tread each remembered spot. + It will be a gleesome journey, + On the swift-shod feet of thought; + You can fight a bloodless battle, + You can skirmish along the route, + But it’s not worth while to forage, + There are rations enough without. + + Don’t start if you hear the cannon, + It is not the sound of doom, + It does not call to the contest— + To the battle’s smoke and gloom. + “Let us have peace,” was spoken, + And lo! peace ruled again; + And now the nation is shouting, + Through the cannon’s voice, “Amen.” + + O boys who besieged old Vicksburgh, + Can time e’er wash away + The triumph of her surrender, + Nine years ago to-day? + Can you ever forget the moment, + When you saw the flag of white, + That told how the grim old city + Had fallen in her might? + + Ah, ’twas a bold, brave army, + When the boys, with a right good will, + Went gaily marching and singing + To the fight at Champion Hill. + They met with a warm reception, + But the soul of “Old John Brown” + Was abroad on that field of battle, + And our flag did NOT go down. + + Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain, + Of Corinth and Donelson, + Of Kenesaw and Atlanta, + And tell how the day was won! + Hush! bow the head for a moment— + There are those who cannot come. + No bugle-call can arouse them— + No sound of fife or drum. + + Oh, boys who died for the country, + Oh, dear and sainted dead! + What can we say about you + That has not once been said? + Whether you fell in the contest, + Struck down by shot and shell, + Or pined ’neath the hand of sickness + Or starved in the prison cell, + + We know that you died for Freedom, + To save our land from shame, + To rescue a perilled Nation, + And we give you deathless fame. + ’Twas the cause of Truth and Justice + That you fought and perished for, + And we say it, oh, so gently, + “Our boys who died in the war.” + + Saviours of our Republic, + Heroes who wore the blue, + We owe the peace that surrounds us— + And our Nation’s strength to you. + We owe it to you that our banner, + The fairest flag in the world, + Is to-day unstained, unsullied, + On the Summer air unfurled. + + We look on its stripes and spangles, + And our hearts are filled the while + With love for the brave commanders, + And the boys of the rank and file. + The grandest deeds of valour + Were never written out, + The noblest acts of virtue + The world knows nothing about. + + And many a private soldier, + Who walks his humble way, + With no sounding name or title, + Unknown to the world to-day, + In the eyes of God is a hero + As worthy of the bays + As any mighty General + To whom the world gives praise. + + Brave men of a mighty army, + We extend you friendship’s hand + I speak for the “Loyal Women,” + Those pillars of our land. + We wish you a hearty welcome, + We are proud that you gather here + To talk of old times together + On this brightest day in the year. + + And if Peace, whose snow-white pinions + Brood over our land to-day, + Should ever again go from us, + (God grant she may ever stay!) + Should our Nation call in her peril + For “Six hundred thousand more,” + The loyal women would hear her, + And send you out as before. + + We would bring out the treasured knapsack, + We would take the sword from the wall, + And hushing our own hearts’ pleadings, + Hear only the country’s call. + For next to our God is our Nation; + And we cherish the honoured name + Of the bravest of all brave armies + Who fought for that Nation’s fame. + + + + +AND THEY ARE DUMB + + + I have been across the bridges of the years. + Wet with tears + Were the ties on which I trod, going back + Down the track + To the valley where I left, ’neath skies of Truth, + My lost youth. + + As I went, I dropped my burdens, one and all— + Let them fall; + All my sorrows, all my wrinkles, all my care, + My white hair, + I laid down, like some lone pilgrim’s heavy pack, + By the track. + + As I neared the happy valley with light feet, + My heart beat + To the rhythm of a song I used to know + Long ago, + And my spirits gushed and bubbled like a fountain + Down a mountain. + + On the border of that valley I found you, + Tried and true; + And we wandered through the golden Summer-Land + Hand in hand. + And my pulses beat with rapture in the blisses + Of your kisses. + + And we met there, in those green and verdant places, + Smiling faces, + And sweet laughter echoed upward from the dells + Like gold bells. + And the world was spilling over with the glory + Of Youth’s story. + + It was but a dreamer’s journey of the brain; + And again + I have left the happy valley far behind; + And I find + Time stands waiting with his burdens in a pack + For my back. + + As he speeds me, like a rough, well-meaning friend, + To the end, + Will I find again the lost ones loved so well? + Who can tell! + But the dead know what the life will be to come— + And they are dumb! + + + + +NIGHT + + + As some dusk mother shields from all alarms + The tired child she gathers to her breast, + The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms, + And hushes me to perfect peace and rest. + Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear + Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear. + O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art! + Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart. + + The day is full of gladness, and the light + So beautifies the common outer things, + I only see with my external sight, + And only hear the great world’s voice which rings. + But silently from daylight and from din + The sweet Night draws me—whispers, “Look within!” + And looking, as one wakened from a dream, + I see what _is_—no longer what doth seem. + + The Night says, “Listen!” and upon my ear + Revealed, as are the visions to my sight, + The voices known as “Beautiful” come near + And whisper of the vastly Infinite. + Great, blue-eyed Truth, her sister Purity, + Their brother Honour, all converse with me, + And kiss my brow, and say, “Be brave of heart!” + O holy three! how beautiful thou art! + + The Night says, “Child, sleep that thou may’st arise + Strong for to-morrow’s struggle.” And I feel + Her shadowy fingers pressing on my eyes: + Like thistledown I float to the Ideal— + The Slumberland, made beautiful and bright + As death, by dreams of loved ones gone from sight, + O food for souls, sweet dreams of pure delight, + How beautiful the holy hours of Night! + + + + +ALL FOR ME + + + The world grows green on a thousand hills— + By a thousand willows the bees are humming, + And a million birds by a million rills, + Sing of the golden season coming. + But, gazing out on the sun-kist lea, + And hearing a thrush and a blue-bird singing, + I feel that the summer is all for me, + And all for me are the joys it is bringing. + + All for me the bumble-bee + Drones his song in the perfect weather; + And, just on purpose to sing to me, + Thrush and blue-bird came North together. + Just for me, in red and white, + Bloom and blossom the fields of clover; + And all for me and my delight + The wild Wind follows and plays the lover. + + The mighty sun, with a scorching kiss + (I have read, and heard, and do not doubt it) + Has burned up a thousand worlds like this, + And never stopped to think about it. + And yet I believe he hurries up + Just on purpose to kiss my flowers— + To drink the dew from the lily-cup, + And help it to grow through golden hours. + + I know I am only a speck of dust, + An individual mite of masses, + Clinging upon the outer crust + Of a little ball of cooling gases. + And yet, and yet, say what you will, + And laugh, if you please, at my lack of reason, + For me wholly, and for me still, + Blooms and blossoms the Summer season. + + Nobody else has ever heard + The story the Wind to me discloses; + And none but I and the humming-bird + Can read the hearts of the crimson roses. + Ah, my Summer—my love—my own! + The world grows glad in your smiling weather; + Yet all for me, and me alone, + You and your Court came North together. + + + + +INTO SPACE + + + If the sad old world should jump a cog + Sometime, in its dizzy spinning, + And go off the track with a sudden jog, + What an end would come to the sinning, + What a rest from strife and the burdens of life + For the millions of people in it, + What a way out of care, and worry and wear, + All in a beautiful minute. + + As ’round the sun with a curving sweep + It hurries and runs and races, + Should it lose its balance, and go with a leap + Into the vast sea-spaces, + What a blest relief it would bring to the grief, + And the trouble and toil about us, + To be suddenly hurled from the solar world + And let it go on without us. + + With not a sigh or a sad good-bye + For loved ones left behind us, + We would go with a lunge and a mighty plunge + Where never a grave should find us. + What a wild mad thrill our veins would fill + As the great earth, like a feather, + Should float through the air to God knows where, + And carry us all together. + + No dark, damp tomb and no mourner’s gloom, + No tolling bell in the steeple, + But in one swift breath a painless death + For a million billion people. + What greater bliss could we ask than this, + To sweep with a bird’s free motion + Through leagues of space to a resting place, + In a vast and vapoury ocean— + To pass away from this life for aye + With never a dear tie sundered, + And a world on fire for a funeral pyre, + While the stars looked on and wondered? + + + + +THROUGH DIM EYES + + + Is it the world, or my eyes, that are sadder? + I see not the grace that I used to see + In the meadow-brook whose song was so glad, or + In the boughs of the willow tree. + The brook runs slower—its song seems lower + And not the song that it sang of old; + And the tree I admired looks weary and tired + Of the changeless story of heat and cold. + + When the sun goes up, and the stars go under, + In that supreme hour of the breaking day, + Is it my eyes, or the dawn, I wonder, + That finds less of the gold, and more of the gray + I see not the splendour, the tints so tender, + The rose-hued glory I used to see; + And I often borrow a vague half-sorrow + That another morning has dawned for me. + + When the royal smile of that welcome comer + Beams on the meadow and burns in the sky, + Is it my eyes, or does the Summer + Bring less of bloom than in days gone by? + The beauty that thrilled me, the rapture that filled me, + To an overflowing of happy tears, + I pass unseeing, my sad eyes being + Dimmed by the shadow of vanished years. + + When the heart grows weary, all things seem dreary; + When the burden grows heavy, the way seems long. + Thank God for sending kind death as an ending, + Like a grand Amen to a minor song. + + + + +THE PUNISHED + + + Not they who know the awful gibbet’s anguish, + Not they who, while sad years go by them, in + The sunless cells of lonely prisons languish, + Do suffer fullest penalty for sin. + + ’Tis they who walk the highways unsuspected, + Yet with grim fear for ever at their side, + Who hug the corpse of some sin undetected, + A corpse no grave or coffin-lid can hide— + + ’Tis they who are in their own chambers haunted + By thoughts that like unbidden guests intrude, + And sit down, uninvited and unwanted, + And make a nightmare of the solitude. + + + + +HALF FLEDGED + + + I feel the stirrings in me of great things. + New half-fledged thoughts rise up and beat their wings, + And tremble on the margin of their nest, + Then flutter back, and hide within my breast. + + Beholding space, they doubt their untried strength. + Beholding men, they fear them. But at length, + Grown all too great and active for the heart + That broods them with such tender mother art, + Forgetting fear, and men, and all, that hour, + Save the impelling consciousness of power + That stirs within them—they shall soar away + Up to the very portals of the Day. + + Oh, what exultant rapture thrills me through + When I contemplate all those thoughts may do; + Like snow-white eagles penetrating space, + They may explore full many an unknown place, + And build their nests on mountain heights unseen, + Whereon doth lie that dreamed-of rest serene. + Stay thou a little longer in my breast, + Till my fond heart shall push thee from the nest + Anxious to see thee soar to heights divine— + Oh, beautiful but half-fledged thoughts of mine. + + + + +THE YEAR + + + What can be said in New Year rhymes, + That’s not been said a thousand times? + + The new years come, the old years go, + We know we dream, we dream we know. + + We rise up laughing with the light, + We lie down weeping with the night. + + We hug the world until it stings, + We curse it then and sigh for wings. + + We live, we love, we woo, we wed, + We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead. + + We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear, + And that’s the burden of the year. + + + + +THE UNATTAINED + + + A vision beauteous as the morn, + With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming, + Slow glided o’er a field late shorn + Where walked a poet idly dreaming. + He saw her, and joy lit his face, + “Oh, vanish not at human speaking,” + He cried, “thou form of magic grace, + Thou art the poem I am seeking. + + “I’ve sought thee long! I claim thee now— + My thought embodied, living, real.” + She shook the tresses from her brow. + “Nay, nay!” she said, “I am ideal. + I am the phantom of desire— + The spirit of all great endeavour, + I am the voice that says, ‘Come higher,’ + That calls men up and up for ever. + + “’Tis not alone thy thought supreme + That here upon thy path has risen; + I am the artist’s highest dream, + The ray of light he cannot prison. + I am the sweet ecstatic note + Than all glad music gladder, clearer, + That trembles in the singer’s throat, + And dies without a human hearer. + + “I am the greater, better yield, + That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbour, + For me he bravely tills the field + And whistles gaily at his labour. + Not thou alone, O poet soul, + Dost seek me through an endless morrow, + But to the toiling, hoping whole + I am at once the hope and sorrow. + + “The spirit of the unattained, + I am to those who seek to name me, + A good desired but never gained: + All shall pursue, but none shall claim me.” + + + + +IN THE CROWD + + + How happy they are, in all seeming, + How gay, or how smilingly proud, + How brightly their faces are beaming, + These people who make up the crowd! + How they bow, how they bend, how they flutter, + How they look at each other and smile, + How they glow, and what _bon mots_ they utter! + But a strange thought has found me the while! + + It is odd, but I stand here and fancy + These people who now play a part, + All forced by some strange necromancy + To speak, and to act, from the heart. + What a hush would come over the laughter! + What a silence would fall on the mirth! + And then what a wail would sweep after, + As the night-wind sweeps over the earth! + + If the secrets held under and hidden + In the intricate hearts of the crowd + Were suddenly called to, and bidden + To rise up and cry out aloud, + How strange one would look to another! + Old friends of long standing and years— + Own brothers would not know each other, + Robed new in their sorrows and fears. + + From broadcloth, and velvet, and laces, + Would echo the groans of despair, + And there would be blanching of faces + And wringing of hands and of hair. + That man with his record of honour, + That lady down there with the rose, + That girl with Spring’s freshness upon her, + Who knoweth the secrets of those? + + Smile on, O ye maskers, smile sweetly! + Step lightly, bow low and laugh loud! + Though the world is deceived and completely, + I know ye, O sad-hearted crowd! + I watch you with infinite pity: + But play on, play ever your part, + Be gleeful, be joyful, be witty! + ’Tis better than showing the heart. + + + + +LIFE AND I + + + Life and I are lovers, straying + Arm in arm along: + Often like two children Maying, + Full of mirth and song, + + Life plucks all the blooming hours + Growing by the way; + Binds them on my brow like flowers, + Calls me Queen of May. + + Then again, in rainy weather, + We sit vis-à-vis, + Planning work we’ll do together + In the years to be. + + Sometimes Life denies me blisses, + And I frown or pout; + But we make it up with kisses + Ere the day is out. + + Woman-like, I sometimes grieve him, + Try his trust and faith, + Saying I shall one day leave him + For his rival, Death. + + Then he always grows more zealous, + Tender, and more true; + Loves the more for being jealous, + As all lovers do. + + Though I swear by stars above him, + And by worlds beyond, + That I love him—love him—love him; + Though my heart is fond; + + Though he gives me, doth my lover, + Kisses with each breath— + I shall one day throw him over, + And plight troth with Death. + + + + +GUERDON + + + Upon the white cheek of the Cherub Year + I saw a tear. + Alas! I murmured, that the Year should borrow + So soon a sorrow. + Just then the sunlight fell with sudden flame: + The tear became + A wondrous diamond sparkling in the light— + A beauteous sight. + + Upon my soul there fell such woeful loss, + I said, “The Cross + Is grievous for a life as young as mine.” + Just then, like wine, + God’s sunlight shone from His high Heavens down; + And lo! a crown + Gleamed in the place of what I thought a burden— + My sorrow’s guerdon. + + + + +SNOWED UNDER + + + Of a thousand things that the Year snowed under— + The busy Old Year who has gone away— + How many will rise in the Spring, I wonder, + Brought to life by the sun of May? + Will the rose-tree branches, so wholly hidden + That never a rose-tree seems to be, + At the sweet Spring’s call come forth unbidden, + And bud in beauty, and bloom for me? + + Will the fair green Earth, whose throbbing bosom + Is hid like a maid’s in her gown at night, + Wake out of her sleep, and with blade and blossom + Gem her garments to please my sight? + Over the knoll in the valley yonder + The loveliest buttercups bloomed and grew; + When the snow has gone that drifted them under, + Will they shoot up sunward, and bloom anew? + + When wild winds blew, and a sleet-storm pelted, + I lost a jewel of priceless worth; + If I walk that way when snows have melted, + Will the gem gleam up from the bare brown Earth? + I laid a love that was dead or dying, + For the year to bury and hide from sight; + But out of a trance will it waken, crying, + And push to my heart, like a leaf to the light? + + Under the snow lie things so cherished— + Hopes, ambitions, and dreams of men— + Faces that vanished, and trusts that perished, + Never to sparkle and glow again. + The Old Year greedily grasped his plunder, + And covered it over and hurried away: + Of the thousand things that he did, I wonder + How many will rise at the call of May? + O wise Young Year, with your hands held under + Your mantle of ermine, tell me, pray! + + + + +“LEUDEMANNS-ON-THE-RIVER.” + + + Toward even, when the day leans down + To kiss the upturned face of night, + Out just beyond the loud-voiced town + I know a spot of calm delight. + Like crimson arrows from a quiver + The red rays pierce the waters flowing, + While we go dreaming, singing, rowing + To Leudemanns-on-the-River. + + The hills, like some glad mocking-bird, + Send back our laughter and our singing, + While faint—and yet more faint is heard + The steeple bells all sweetly ringing. + Some message did the winds deliver + To each glad heart that August night, + All heard, but all heard not aright, + By Leudemanns-on-the-River. + + Night falls as in some foreign clime, + Between the hills that slope and rise. + So dusk the shades at landing-time, + We could not see each other’s eyes. + We only saw the moonbeams quiver + Far down upon the stream! that night + The new moon gave but little light + By Leudemanns-on-the-River. + + How dusky were those paths that led + Up from the river to the hall. + The tall trees branching overhead + Invite the early shades that fall. + In all the glad blithe world, oh, never + Were hearts more free from care than when + We wandered through those walks, we ten, + By Leudemanns-on-the-River. + + So soon, so soon, the changes came. + This August day we two alone, + On that same river, not the same, + Dream of a night for ever flown. + Strange distances have come to sever + The hearts that gaily beat in pleasure, + Long miles we cannot cross or measure— + From Leudemanns-on-the-River. + + We’ll pluck two leaves, dear friend, to-day. + The green, the russet! seems it strange + So soon, so soon, the leaves can change! + Ah me! so runs all life away. + This night-wind chills me, and I shiver; + The Summer-time is almost past. + One more good-bye—perhaps the last + To Leudemanns-on-the-River. + + + + +LITTLE BLUE HOOD + + + Every morning and every night + There passes our window near the street, + A little girl with an eye so bright, + And a cheek so round and a lip so sweet! + The daintiest, jauntiest little miss + That ever any one longed to kiss, + + She is neat as wax, and fresh to view, + And her look is wholesome, and clean, and good. + Whatever her gown, her hood is blue, + And so we call her our “Little Blue Hood,” + For we know not the name of the dear little lass, + But we call to each other to see her pass, + + “Little Blue Hood is coming now!” + And we watch from the window while she goes by, + She has such a bonny, smooth, white brow, + And a fearless look in her long-lashed eye! + And a certain dignity wedded to grace + Seems to envelop her form and face. + + Every morning, in sun or rain, + She walks by the window with sweet, grave air, + And never guesses behind the pane + We two are watching and thinking her fair; + Lovingly watching her down the street, + Dear little Blue Hood, bright and sweet. + + Somebody ties that hood of blue + Under the face so fair to see, + Somebody loves her, beside we two, + Somebody kisses her—why can’t we? + Dear Little Blue Hood fresh and fair, + Are you glad we love you, or don’t you care? + + + + +NO SPRING + + + Up from the South come the birds that were banished, + Frightened away by the presence of frost. + Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished, + Back to the forest the leaves that were lost. + Over the hillside the carpet of splendour, + Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again; + Along the horizon, the tints that were tender, + Lost hues of Summer-time, burn bright as then. + + Only the mountains’ high summits are hoary, + To the ice-fettered river the sun gives a key. + Once more the gleaming shore lists to the story + Told by an amorous Summer-kissed sea. + All things revive that in Winter time perished, + The rose buds again in the light o’ the sun, + All that was beautiful, all that was cherished, + Sweet things and dear things and all things—save one. + + Late, when the year and the roses were lying + Low with the ruins of Summer and bloom, + Down in the dust fell a love that was dying, + And the snow piled over it, and made it a tomb. + Lo! now the roses are budded for blossom— + Lo! now the Summer is risen again. + Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom? + Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then? + + Life without love is a year without Summer, + Heart without love is a wood without song. + Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer: + Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long? + Rise! ah, thou can’st not! the rose-tree that sheddest + Its beautiful leaves, in the Springtime may bloom, + But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest, + Love buried once, rises not from the tomb. + Green things may grow on the hillside and heather, + Birds seek the forest and build there and sing. + All things revive in the beautiful weather, + But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring. + + + + +MIDSUMMER + + + After the May time, and after the June time, + Rare with blossoms and perfumes sweet, + Cometh the round world’s royal noon time, + The red midsummer of blazing heat. + When the sun, like an eye that never closes, + Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, + And the winds are still, and the crimson roses + Droop and wither and die in its rays. + + Unto my heart has come that season, + O my lady, my worshipped one, + When over the stars of Pride and Reason + Sails Love’s cloudless, noonday sun. + Like a great red ball in my bosom burning + With fires that nothing can quench or tame. + It glows till my heart itself seems turning + Into a liquid lake of flame. + + The hopes half shy, and the sighs all tender, + The dreams and fears of an earlier day, + Under the noontide’s royal splendour, + Droop like roses and wither away. + From the hills of doubt no winds are blowing, + From the isle of pain no breeze is sent. + Only the sun in a white heat glowing + Over an ocean of great content. + + Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory, + Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon, + For the Autumn must come with its mournful story, + And Love’s midsummer will fade too soon. + + + + +A REMINISCENCE + + + I saw the wild honey-bee kissing a rose + A wee one, that grows + Down low on the bush, where her sisters above + Cannot see all that’s done + As the moments roll on. + Nor hear all the whispers and murmurs of love. + + They flaunt out their beautiful leaves in the sun, + And they flirt, every one, + With the wild bees who pass, and the gay butterflies. + And that wee thing in pink— + Why, they never once think + That she’s won a lover right under their eyes. + + It reminded me, Kate, of a time—you know when! + You were so petite then, + Your dresses were short, and your feet were so small. + Your sisters, Maud-Belle + And Madeline—well, + They _both_ set their caps for me, after that ball. + + How the blue eyes and black eyes smiled up in my face! + ’Twas a neck-and-neck race, + Till that day when you opened the door in the hall, + And looked up and looked down, + With your sweet eyes of brown, + And _you_ seemed so tiny, and _I_ felt so tall. + + Your sisters had sent you to keep me, my dear, + Till they should appear. + Then you were dismissed like a child in disgrace. + How meekly you went! + But your brown eyes, they sent + A thrill to my heart, and a flush to my face. + + We always were meeting some way after that. + You hung up my hat, + And got it again, when I finished my call. + Sixteen, and _so_ sweet! + Oh, those cute little feet! + Shall I ever forget how they tripped down the hall? + + Shall I ever forget the first kiss by the door, + Or the vows murmured o’er, + Or the rage and surprise of Maud-Belle? Well-a-day, + How swiftly time flows, + And who would suppose + That a _bee_ could have carried me so far away. + + + + +A GIRL’S FAITH + + + Across the miles that stretch between, + Through days of gloom or glad sunlight, + There shines a face I have not seen + Which yet doth make my world more bright. + + He may be near, he may be far, + Or near or far I cannot see, + But faithful as the morning star + He yet shall rise and come to me. + + What though fate leads us separate ways, + The world is round, and time is fleet. + A journey of a few brief days, + And face to face we two shall meet. + + Shall meet beneath God’s arching skies, + While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam, + And looking in each other’s eyes + Shall hold the past but as a dream. + + But round and perfect and complete, + Life like a star shall climb the height, + As we two press with willing feet + Together toward the Infinite. + + And still behind the space between, + As back of dawns the sunbeams play, + There shines the face I have not seen, + Whose smile shall wake my world to-day. + + + + +TWO + + + One leaned on velvet cushions like a queen— + To see him pass, the hero of an hour, + Whom men called great. She bowed with languid mien, + And smiled, and blushed, and knew her beauty’s power. + + One trailed her tinselled garments through the street, + And thrust aside the crowd, and found a place + So near, the blooded courser’s prancing feet + Cast sparks of fire upon her painted face. + + One took the hot-house blossoms from her breast, + And tossed them down, as he went riding by, + And blushed rose-red to see them fondly pressed + To bearded lips, while eye spoke unto eye. + + One, bold and hardened with her sinful life, + Yet shrank and shivered painfully, because + His cruel glance cut keener than a knife, + The glance of him who made her what she was. + + One was observed, and lifted up to fame, + Because the hero smiled upon her! while + One who was shunned and hated, found her shame + In basking in the death-light of his smile. + + + + +SLIPPING AWAY + + + Slipping away—slipping away! + Out of our brief year slips the May; + And Winter lingers, and Summer flies; + And Sorrow abideth, and Pleasure dies; + And the days are short, and the nights are long; + And little is right, and much is wrong. + + Slipping away is the Summer time; + It has lost its rhythm and lilting rhyme— + For the grace goes out of the day so soon, + And the tired head aches in the glare of noon, + And the way seems long to the hills that lie + Under the calm of the western sky. + + Slipping away are the friends whose worth + Lent a glow to the sad old earth: + One by one they slip from our sight; + One by one their graves gleam white; + Or we count them lost by the crueller death + Of a trust betrayed, or a murdered faith. + + Slipping away are the hopes that made + Bliss out of sorrow, and sun out of shade, + Slipping away is our hold on life; + And out of the struggle and wearing strife, + From joys that diminish, and woes that increase, + We are slipping away to the shores of Peace. + + + + +IS IT DONE? + + + It is done! in the fire’s fitful flashes, + The last line has withered and curled. + In a tiny white heap of dead ashes + Lie buried the hopes of your world. + There were mad foolish vows in each letter, + It is well they have shrivelled and burned, + And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter, + It was better removed and returned. + + But ah, is it done? In the embers + Where letters and tokens were cast, + Have you burned up the heart that remembers, + And treasures its beautiful past? + Do you think in this swift reckless fashion + To ruthlessly burn and destroy + The months that were freighted with passion, + The dreams that were drunken with joy? + + Can you burn up the rapture of kisses + That flashed from the lips to the soul, + Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses + In spite of its strength of control? + Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers + That thrilled through each pulse and each vein, + Or the sound of a voice that still lingers + And hurts with a haunting refrain? + + Is it done? is the life drama ended? + You have put all the lights out, and yet, + Though the curtain, rung down, has descended, + Can the actors go home and forget? + Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping + With a strange restless pain in their hearts, + And in darkness, and anguish, and weeping, + Will dream they are playing their parts. + + + + +A LEAF + + + Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve, + That you were married, or soon to be. + I have not thought of you, I believe, + Since last we parted. Let me see: + Five long Summers have passed since then— + Each has been pleasant in its own way— + And you are but one of a dozen men + Who have played the suitor a Summer day. + + But, nevertheless, when I heard your name, + Coupled with some one’s, not my own, + There burned in my bosom a sudden flame, + That carried me back to the day that is flown. + I was sitting again by the laughing brook, + With you at my feet, and the sky above, + And my heart was fluttering under your look— + The unmistakable look of Love. + + Again your breath, like a South wind, fanned + My cheek, where the blushes came and went; + And the tender clasp of your strong, warm hand + Sudden thrills through my pulses sent. + Again you were mine by Love’s own right— + Mine for ever by Love’s decree: + So for a moment it seemed last night, + When somebody mentioned your name to me. + + Just for the moment I thought you mine— + Loving me, wooing me, as of old. + The tale remembered seemed half divine— + Though I held it lightly enough when told. + The past seemed fairer than when it was near, + As “blessings brighten when taking flight;” + And just for the moment I held you dear— + When somebody mentioned your name last night. + + + + +ÆSTHETIC + + + In a garb that was guiltless of colours + She stood, with a dull, listless air— + A creature of dumps and of dolours, + But most undeniably fair. + + The folds of her garment fell round her, + Revealing the curve of each limb; + Well proportioned and graceful I found her, + Although quite alarmingly slim. + + From the hem of her robe peeped one sandal— + “High art” was she down to her feet; + And though I could not understand all + She said, I could see she was sweet. + + Impressed by her limpness and languor, + I proffered a chair near at hand; + She looked back a mild sort of anger— + Posed anew, and continued to stand. + + Some praises I next tried to mutter + Of the fan that she held to her face; + She said it was “utterly utter,” + And waved it with languishing grace. + + I then, in a strain quite poetic, + Begged her gaze on the bow in the sky, + She looked—said its curve was “æsthetic.” + But the “tone was too dreadfully high.” + + Her lovely face, lit by the splendour + That glorified landscape and sea, + Woke thoughts that were daring and tender: + Did _her_ thoughts, too, rest upon me? + + “Oh, tell me,” I cried, growing bolder, + “Have I in your musings a place?” + “Well, yes,” she said over her shoulder: + “I was thinking of nothing in space.” + + + + +POEMS OF THE WEEK + + +SUNDAY + + + Lie still and rest, in that serene repose + That on this holy morning comes to those + Who have been burdened with the cares which make + The sad heart weary and the tired head ache. + Lie still and rest— + God’s day of all is best. + + + +MONDAY + + + Awake! arise! Cast off thy drowsy dreams! + Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams. + “As Monday goes, so goes the week,” dames say. + Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day. + And see! thy neighbour + Already seeks his labour. + + + +TUESDAY + + + Another morning’s banners are unfurled— + Another day looks smiling on the world. + It holds new laurels for thy soul to win; + Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin, + Nor sad, away, + Send it to yesterday. + + + +WEDNESDAY + + + Half-way unto the end—the week’s high noon. + The morning hours do speed away so soon! + And, when the noon is reached, however bright, + Instinctively we look toward the night. + The glow is lost + Once the meridian cross’d. + + + +THURSDAY + + + So well the week has sped, hast thou a friend, + Go spend an hour in converse. It will lend + New beauty to thy labours and thy life + To pause a little sometimes in the strife. + Toil soon seems rude + That has no interlude. + + + +FRIDAY + + + From feasts abstain; be temperate, and pray; + Fast if thou wilt; and yet, throughout the day, + Neglect no labour and no duty shirk: + Not many hours are left thee for thy work— + And it were meet + That all should be complete. + + + +SATURDAY + + + Now with the almost finished task make haste. + So near the night thou hast no time to waste. + Post up accounts, and let thy Soul’s eyes look + For flaws and errors in Life’s ledger-book. + When labours cease, + How sweet the sense of peace! + + + + +GHOSTS + + + There are ghosts in the room. + As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there + They come out of the gloom, + And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair. + + There’s the ghost of a Hope + That lighted my days with a fanciful glow. + In her hand is the rope + That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago. + + But her ghost comes to-night, + With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes, + And it stands in the light, + And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs. + + There’s the ghost of a Joy, + A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much, + And the hands that destroy + Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch. + + There’s the ghost of a Love, + Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest, + But he towers above + All the others—this ghost: yet a ghost at the best. + + I am weary, and fain + Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host + Make my struggle in vain, + In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost. + + + + +FLEEING AWAY + + + My thoughts soar not as they ought to soar, + Higher and higher on soul-lent wings; + But ever and often, and more and more + They are dragged down earthward by little things, + By little troubles and little needs, + As a lark might be tangled among the weeds. + + My purpose is not what it ought to be, + Steady and fixed, like a star on high, + But more like a fisherman’s light at sea; + Hither and thither it seems to fly— + Sometimes feeble, and sometimes bright, + Then suddenly lost in the gloom of night. + + My life is far from my dream of life— + Calmly contented, serenely glad; + But, vexed and worried by daily strife, + It is always troubled, and ofttimes sad— + And the heights I had thought I should reach one day + Grow dimmer and dimmer, and farther away. + + My heart finds never the longed-for rest; + Its worldly striving, its greed for gold, + Chilled and frightened the calm-eyed guest, + Who sometimes sought me in days of old; + And ever fleeing away from me + Is the higher self that I long to be. + + + + +ALL MAD + + + “He is mad as a hare, poor fellow, + And should be in chains,” you say. + I haven’t a doubt of your statement, + But who isn’t mad, I pray? + Why, the world is a great asylum, + And people are all insane, + Gone daft with pleasure or folly, + Or crazed with passion and pain. + + The infant who shrieks at a shadow, + The child with his Santa Claus faith, + The woman who worships Dame Fashion, + Each man with his notions of death, + The miser who hoards up his earnings, + The spendthrift who wastes them too soon, + The scholar grown blind in his delving, + The lover who stares at the moon. + + The poet who thinks life a pæan, + The cynic who thinks it a fraud, + The youth who goes seeking for pleasure, + The preacher who dares talk of God, + All priests with their creeds and their croaking, + All doubters who dare to deny, + The gay who find aught to wake laughter, + The sad who find aught worth a sigh, + Whoever is downcast or solemn, + Whoever is gleeful and glad, + Are only the dupes of delusions— + We are all of us—all of us mad. + + + + +HIDDEN GEMS + + + We know not what lies in us, till we seek; + Men dive for pearls—they are not found on shore, + The hillsides most unpromising and bleak + Do sometimes hide the ore. + + Go, dive in the vast ocean of thy mind, + O man! far down below the noisy waves, + Down in the depths and silence thou mayst find + Rare pearls and coral caves. + + Sink thou a shaft into the mine of thought; + Be patient, like the seekers after gold; + Under the rocks and rubbish lieth what + May bring thee wealth untold. + + Reflected from the vastly Infinite, + However dulled by earth, each human mind + Holds somewhere gems of beauty and of light + Which, seeking, thou shalt find. + + + + +BY-AND-BYE + + + “By-and-bye,” the maiden sighed—“by-and-bye + He will claim me for his bride, + Hope is strong and time is fleet; + Youth is fair, and love is sweet, + Clouds will pass that fleck my sky, + He will come back by-and-bye—by-and-bye.” + + “By-and-bye,” the soldier said—“by-and-bye, + After I have fought and bled, + I shall go home from the wars, + Crowned with glory, seamed with scars. + Joy will flash from some one’s eye + When she greets me by-and-bye—by-and-bye.” + + “By-and-bye,” the mother cried—“by-and-bye, + Strong and sturdy at my side, + Like a staff supporting me, + Will my bonnie baby be. + Break my rest, then, wail and cry— + Thou’lt repay me by-and-bye—by-and-bye.” + + Fleeting years of time have sped—hurried by— + Still the maiden is unwed: + All unknown the soldier lies, + Buried under alien skies; + And the son, with blood-shot eye, + Saw his mother starve and die. + God in Heaven! dost Thou on high, + Keep the promised “by-and-bye”—by-and-bye? + + + + +OVER THE MAY HILL + + + All through the night time, and all through the day time, + Dreading the morning and dreading the night, + Nearer and nearer we drift to the May time + Season of beauty and season of blight, + Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow, + Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere, + Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow, + Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair. + + Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery, + Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens, + Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary— + Too well I know what that weariness means. + But how could I know in the crisp winter weather + (Though sometimes I noticed a catch in your breath), + Riding and singing and dancing together, + How could I know you were racing with death? + + How could I know when we danced until morning, + And you were the gayest of all the gay crowd— + With only that shortness of breath for a warning, + How could I know that you danced for a shroud? + Whirling and whirling through moonlight and starlight. + Rocking as lightly as boats on the wave, + Down in your eyes shone a deep light—a far light, + How could I know ’twas the light to your grave? + + Day by day, day by day, nearing and nearing, + Hid under greenness, and beauty and bloom, + Cometh the shape and the shadow I’m fearing, + “Over the May hill” is waiting your tomb. + The season of mirth and of music is over— + I have danced my last dance, I have sung my last song, + Under the violets, under the clover, + My heart and my love will be lying ere long + + + + +FOES + + + Thank Fate for foes! I hold mine dear + As valued friends. He cannot know + The zest of life who runneth here + His earthly race without a foe. + + I saw a prize. “Run,” cried my friend; + “’Tis thine to claim without a doubt.” + But ere I half-way reached the end, + I felt my strength was giving out. + + My foe looked on the while I ran; + A scornful triumph lit his eyes. + With that perverseness born in man, + I nerved myself, and won the prize. + + All blinded by the crimson glow + Of sin’s disguise, I tempted Fate. + “I knew thy weakness!” sneered my foe, + I saved myself, and balked his hate. + + For half my blessings, half my gain, + I needs must thank my trusty foe; + Despite his envy and disdain, + He serves me well where’er I go. + + So may I keep him to the end, + Nor may his enmity abate: + More faithful than the fondest friend, + He guards me ever with his hate. + + + + +FRIENDSHIP + + + Dear friend, I pray thee, if thou wouldst be proving + Thy strong regard for me, + Make me no vows. Lip-service is not loving; + Let thy faith speak for thee. + + Swear not to me that nothing can divide us— + So little such oaths mean. + But when distrust and envy creep beside us + Let them not come between. + + Say not to me the depths of thy devotion + Are deeper than the sea; + But watch, lest doubt or some unkind emotion + Embitter them for me. + + Vow not to love me ever and for ever, + Words are such idle things; + But when we differ in opinions, never + Hurt me by little stings. + + I’m sick of words: they are so lightly spoken, + And spoken, are but air. + I’d rather feel thy trust in me unbroken + Than list thy words so fair. + + If all the little proofs of trust are heeded, + If thou art always kind, + No sacrifice, no promise will be needed + To satisfy my mind. + + + + +TWO SAT DOWN + + + Two sat down in the morning time, + One to sing and one to spin. + All men listened the song sublime— + But no one listened the dull wheel’s din. + + The singer sat in a pleasant nook, + And sang of a life that was fair and sweet, + While the spinner sat with a steadfast look, + Busily plying her hands and feet. + + The singer sang on with a rose in her hair, + And all men listened her dulcet tone; + And the spinner spun on with a dull despair + Down in her heart as she sat alone. + + But lo! on the morrow no one said + Aught of the singer or what she sang. + Men were saying: “Behold this thread,” + And loud the praise of the spinner rang. + + The world has forgotten the singer’s name— + Her rose is faded, her songs are old; + But far o’er the ocean the spinner’s fame + Yet is blazoned in lines of gold. + + + + +BOUND AND FREE + + + Come to me, Love! Come on the wings of the wind! + Fly as the ring-dove would fly to his mate! + Leave all your cares and your sorrows behind! + Leave all the fears of your future to Fate! + Come! and our skies shall be glad with the gold + That paled into gray when you parted from me. + Come! but remember that, just as of old, + You must be bound, Love, and I must be free. + + Life has lost savour since you and I parted; + I have been lonely, and you have been sad. + Youth is too brief to be sorrowful-hearted— + Come! and again let us laugh and be glad. + Lips should not sigh that are fashioned to kiss— + Breasts should not ache that joy’s secrets have found. + Come! but remember, in spite of all this, + I must be free, Love, while you must be bound. + + You must be bound to be true while you live, + And I keep my freedom for ever, as now. + You must ask only for that which I give— + Kisses and love-words, but never a vow. + Come! I am lonely, and long for your smile, + Bring back the lost lovely Summer to me! + Come! but remember, remember the while, + That you must be bound, Love, and I must be free. + + + + +AQUILEIA + + +[On the election of the Roman Emperor Maximus, by the Senate, A.D. 238, a +powerful army, headed by the Thracian giant Maximus, laid siege to +Aquileia. Though poorly prepared for war, the constancy of her citizens +rendered her impregnable. The women of Aquileia cut off their hair to +make ropes for the military engines. The small body of troops was +directed by Chrispinus, a Lieutenant of the Senate. Apollo was the deity +supposed to protect them.—_Gibbon’s Roman History_.] + + “The ropes, the ropes! Apollo send us ropes,” + Chrispinus cried, “or death attends our hopes.” + Then panic reigned, and many a mournful sound + Hurt the cleft air; for where could ropes be found? + + Up rose a Roman mother; tall was she + As her own son, a youth of noble height. + A little child was clinging to her knee— + She loosed his twining arms and put him down, + And her dark eyes flashed with a sudden light. + + How like a queen she stood! her royal crown, + The rich dark masses of her splendid hair. + Just flecked with spots of sunshine here and there, + Twined round her brow; ’twas like a coronet, + Where gems of gold lie bedded deep in jet. + + She loosed the comb that held the shining strands, + And threaded out the meshes with her hands. + The purple mass fell to her garment’s hem. + A queen new clothed without her diadem + She stood before her subjects. + + “Now,” she cried, + “Give me thy sword, Julianus!” And her son + Unsheathed the blade (that had not left his side + Save when it sought a foeman’s blood to shed), + Awed by her regal bearing, and obeyed. + + With the white beauty of her firm fair hand + She clasped the hilt; then severed, one by one, + Her gold-flecked purple tresses. Strand on strand, + Free e’en as foes had fallen by that blade, + Robbed of its massive wealth of curl and coil, + Yet like some antique model, rose her head + In all its classic beauty. + + “See!” she said, + And pointed to the shining mound of hair; + “Apollo makes swift answer to thy prayer, + Chrispinus. Quick! now, soldiers, to thy toil!” + Forth from a thousand throats what seemed one voice + Rose shrilly, filling all the air with cheer. + “Lo!” quoth the foe, “our enemies rejoice!” + Well might the Thracian giant quake with fear! + For while skilled hands caught up the gleaming threads + And bound them into cords, a hundred heads + Yielded their beauteous tresses to the sword, + And cast them down to swell the precious hoard. + + Nor was the noble sacrifice in vain + Another day beheld the giant slain. + + + + +WISHES FOR A LITTLE GIRL + + + What would I ask the kindly fates to give + To crown her life, if I could have my way? + My strongest wishes would be negative, + If they would but obey. + + Give her not greatness. For great souls must stand + Alone and lonely in this little world: + Cleft rocks that show the great Creator’s hand, + Thither by earthquakes hurled. + + Give her not genius. Spare her the cruel pain + Of finding her whole life a prey for daws; + Of hearing with quickened sense and burning brain + The world’s sneer-tinged applause. + + Give her not perfect beauty’s gifts. For then + Her truthful mirror would infuse her mind + With love for self, and for the praise of men, + That lowers woman-kind. + + But make her fair and comely to the sight, + Give her more heart than brain, more love than pride. + Let her be tender-thoughted, cheerful, bright, + Some strong man’s star and guide. + + Not vainly questioning why she was sent + Into this restless world of toil and strife, + Let her go bravely on her way, content + To make the best of life. + + + + +ROMNEY + + + Nay, Romney, nay—I will not hear you say + Those words again: “I love you, love you sweet!” + You are profane—blasphemous. I repeat, + You are no actor for so grand a play. + + You love with all your heart? Well, that may be; + Some cups are fashioned shallow. Should I try + To quench my thirst from one of those, when dry— + I who have had a full bowl proffered me— + + A new bowl brimming with a draught divine, + One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips? + Think you I even care to bathe my lips + With this poor sweetened water you call wine? + + And though I spilled the nectar ere ’twas quaffed, + And broke the bowl in wanton folly, yet + I would die of my thirst ere I would wet + My burning lips with any meaner draught. + + So leave me, Romney. One who has seen a play + Enacted by a star cannot endure + To see it rendered by an amateur. + You know not what Love is—now go away! + + + + +MY HOME + + + This is the place that I love the best, + A little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest, + Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees, + Summer retreat of the birds and bees. + + The tenderest light that ever was seen + Sifts through the vine-made window screen— + Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls + On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls. + + All through June, the west wind free + The breath of the clover brings to me. + All through the languid July day + I catch the scent of the new-mown hay. + + The morning glories and scarlet vine + Over the doorway twist and twine; + And every day, when the house is still, + The humming-bird comes to the window-sill. + + In the cunningest chamber under the sun + I sink to sleep when the day is done; + And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed, + By a singing-bird on the roof o’erhead. + + Better than treasures brought from Rome + Are the living pictures I see at home— + My aged father, with frosted hair, + And mother’s face like a painting rare + Far from the city’s dust and heat, + I get but sounds and odours sweet. + Who can wonder I love to stay, + Week after week, here hidden away, + In this sly nook that I love the best— + The little brown house, like a ground-bird’s nest? + + + + +TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY? +A GIRL’S REVERIE + + + Mother says, “Be in no hurry, + Marriage oft means care and worry.” + + Auntie says, with manner grave, + “Wife is synonym for slave.” + + Father asks, in tones commanding, + “How does Bradstreet rate his standing?” + + Sister crooning to her twins, + Sighs, “With marriage care begins.” + + Grandma, near life’s closing days, + Murmurs, “Sweet are girlhood’s ways.” + + Maud, twice widowed (“sod and grass”) + Looks at me and moans “Alas!” + + They are six, and I am one, + Life for me has just begun. + + They are older, calmer, wiser: + Age should aye be youth’s adviser. + + They must know—and yet, dear me, + When in Harry’s eyes I see + + All the world of love there burning— + On my six advisers turning, + + I make answer, “Oh, but Harry + Is not like most men who marry. + + “Fate has offered me a prize, + Life with love means Paradise. + + “Life without it is not worth + All the foolish joys of earth.” + + So, in spite of all they say, + I shall name the wedding day. + + + + +AN AFTERNOON + + + I am stirred by the dream of an afternoon + Of a perfect day—though it was not June; + The lilt of winds, and the droning tune + That a busy city was humming. + + And a bronze-brown head, and lips like wine + Leaning out through the window-vine + A-list for steps that were maybe mine— + Eager steps that were coming. + + I can see it all, as a dreamer may— + The tender smile on your lips that day, + And the glow on your cheek as we rode away + Into the golden weather. + + And a love-light shone in your eyes of brown— + I swear there did!—as we drove down + The crowded avenue out of the town, + Through shadowy lanes, together: + + Drove out into the sunset-skies + That glowed with wonderful crimson dyes; + And with soul and spirit, and heart and eyes, + We silently drank their splendour. + + But the golden glory that lit the place + Was not alone from the sunset’s grace— + For I saw in your fair, uplifted face + A light that was wondrously tender. + + I say I saw it. And yet to-day + I ask myself, in a cynical way, + Was it only a part you had learned to play, + To see me act the lover? + + And I curse myself for a fool. And yet + I would willingly die without one regret + Could I bring back the day whose sun has set— + And you—and live it over. + + + + +RIVER AND SEA + + + We stood by the river that swept + In its glory and grandeur away; + But never a pulse o’ me leapt, + And you wondered at me that day. + + We stood by the lake as it lay + With its dimpled face turned to the light; + Was it strange I had nothing to say + To so fair and enchanting a sight? + + I look on your tresses of gold— + You are fair and a thing to be loved— + Do you think I am heartless and cold + That I look and am wholly unmoved? + + One answer, dear friend, I will make + To the questions your eyes ask of me: + “Talk not of the river or lake + To those who have looked on the sea” + + + + +WHAT HAPPENS? + + + When thy hand touches mine, through all the mesh + Of intricate and interlacèd veins + Shoot swift delights that border on keen pains: + Flesh thrills to thrilling flesh. + + When in thine eager eyes I look to find + A comrade to my thought, thy ready brain + Delves down and makes its inmost meaning plain: + Mind answers unto mind. + + When hands and eyes are hid by seas that roll + Wide wastes between us, still so near thou art + I count the very pulses of thy heart: + Soul speaketh unto soul. + + So every law, or human or divine, + In heart and brain and spirit makes thee mine. + + + + +POSSESSION + + + That which we had we still possess, + Though leaves may drop and stars may fall; + No circumstance can make it less, + Or take it from us, all in all. + + That which is lost we did not own; + We only held it for a day— + A leaf by careless breezes blown; + No fate could take our own away. + + I hold it as a changeless law + From which no soul can sway or swerve, + We have that in us which will draw + Whate’er we need or most deserve. + + Even as the magnet to the steel + Our souls are to our best desires; + The Fates have hearts and they can feel— + They know what each true life requires. + + We think we lose when we most gain; + We call joys ended ere begun; + When stars fade out do skies complain, + Or glory in the rising sun? + + No fate could rob us of our own— + No circumstance can make it less; + What time removes was but a loan, + For what was ours we still possess. + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + _Printed by Hazell_, _Watson & Viney_, _Ld._, _London and Aylesbury_. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF CHEER*** + + +******* This file should be named 3238-0.txt or 3238-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/2/3/3238 + + + +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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