The candlelight sweeps softly through the room,
        Filling dim surfaces with golden laughter,
        Touching with mystery each high hung rafter,
     Cutting a path of promise through the gloom.

     Slim little elves dance gently on each taper,
        Wistful, small ghosts steal out of shrouded
           corners—
        And, like a line of vague enchanted mourners,
     Great shadows sway like wind-blown sheets of paper.

     Gently as fingers drawn across your hair,
        I see the yellow flicker of it creep—
        And in a silence that is kin to sleep,
     I feel a world away from pain and care.

     Roads stretch like arms across the world outside,
        Roads reach to strife, to happiness, to fame—
        Here, in the candlelight, I speak your name,
     Here we are at life's cross way, side by side!

     OH, THERE ARE BROOKS THERE, AND FIELDS THERE AND NOOKS
              THERE—
        NOOKS WHERE A SEEKER MAY FIND FOREST FLOWERS;
     BLUE IS THE SKY THERE, AND SOFT WINDS CREEP BY THERE,
        SINGING A SONG THROUGH THE LONG SUMMER HOURS.

     The woods lay dreaming in a topaz dream,
        And we, who silently roamed hand in hand,
        Were pilgrims in a strange, enchanted land,
     Where life was love, and love was all a-gleam.

     And old remembered songs came back to greet
        Our ears, from other worlds of long ago,
        The worlds that we of earth may seldom know—
     And to those songs we timed our vagrant feet.

     We did not speak, we did not need to say
        The thought that lay so buried in our hearts—
        The thoughts as sweet as springtime rain, that
           starts
     The buds to blossoming in wistful May.

     We did not need to speak, we could not speak,
        The wonder words that we in silence knew—
        We walked, as very little children do,
     Who feel, but cannot tell, the thing they seek.

     Beyond a screen of bushes, bending low,
        We knew that fair Titania lay at rest,
        Her pillowed head upon her lover's breast,
     Her kisses swift as birds that come and go!

     And underneath a wall of mottled stone,
        We knew the sleeping beauty lay in state,
        Entangled in a mist of tears, to wait
     The prince whose kiss would raise her to a throne.

     Perhaps a witch with single flaming eye,
        Was watching from beneath the hemlock tree;
        And fairies that our gaze might never see,
     Laughed at us as we, hand in hand, crept by.

     Laughed at us? No, I somehow think they knew
        That you and I were kin to them that day!
        I think they knew that we were years away
     From everything but make-believe, come true.

     I think they knew that, singing through the air,
        There thrilled a vague, insistent, harp-like call—
        And that, where woodbine blazed against the wall,
     You held me close and kissed my wind-tossed hair!

     I took th' horses to th' brook—to water 'em you know,
        Th' air was cold with just a touch o' frost;
     And as we went a-joggin' down I couldn't help but
           think,
        O' city folk an' all the things they lost.

     O' cause they have their lighted streets—their Great
           White Way an' such,
        O' course they have their buildings large an' tall;
     But, my! they never know th' joy o' ridin' ter th'
           brook,
        An' somehow I don't envy 'em at all!

     Perhaps I'd like it—for awhile—to hear th' songs an'
           laughter,
        But somehow, I don't know exactly why;
     I'd feel th' country callin' me; I'd long again fer
           silence,
        An' fer God's mountains, blue against the sky.

     I took th' horses to th' brook—to water 'em you know,
        Th' day was pretty as a day can be;
     An' as we went a-joggin' down I couldn't help but
           think,
        O' city folk an' all they never see!

     I. THE CAVEMAN

     I live! And the scarlet sunrise is climbing the
        mountain steep,
     I live... And below, in the caverns, the rest
        of my clansmen sleep;
     But I—I am here, and chanting, I could slay a
        beast with my hand,
     And I thrill as the mist of the morning creeps up
        from the rock-strewn land!

     I live, I have strength for fighting—and courage to
        rend and slay,
     I live! And my eyes are lifting to gaze at the new-
        born day;
     And I pause, on the way to my hewn-out cave,
        though I know that she waits me there,
     My mate, with her eyes on the scarlet dawn, and the
        wind in her flame-like hair.

     I live—and the joy of living leaps up in my searching
        eyes,
     I live, and my soul starts forward, to challenge the
        waking skies!
     Far down are the torrents roaring, far up are the
        clouds, unfurled;
     And I stand on the cliff, exultant, akin to the waking
        world.

     The mists are gone, and an eagle sweeps down from
        the mountain high,
     And I wish that my arms were feathered and strong,
        that I, too, might fly;
     I live! I am one with the morning! Ah, I am a
        MAN, and free!
     And I shout aloud, and the scarlet dawn shouts back,
        on the gale, to me!

     I creep along, but silently,
        For, oh, the dawn is coming;
     I creep along, for I have heard
        A flint-tipped arrow, humming;
     And I have heard a snapping twig,
        Above the wind's low laughter;
     And I have known—and thrilled to know,
        That swift THEY followed after!

     The forest turns from black to grey,
        The leaves are silver-shining;
     But I have heard a far-off call—
        The war-whoop's sullen whining.
     And I have been a naked form,
        Among the tree trunks prowling;
     And I have glimpsed a savage face,
        That faded from me, scowling.

     A rosy color sweeps the sky,
        A vagrant lark is singing,
     But, as I steal along the trail,
        I know that day is bringing
     A host of red-skins in its train,
        Their tommy-hawks are gleaming—
     I SEE THEM NOW; or can it be
        The first pale sunlight beaming?

     I creep along, but stealthily,
        For, oh, the dawn is coming!
     I creep along—but I have heard
        A flint-tipped arrow, humming....
     And yet, my heart is light, inside,
        My soul, itself, is flying
     To greet the dawn! I AM ALIVE—
        AND WHAT IS DEATH—BUT DYING?

     The dawn is here! I climb the hill;
     The earth is young and strangely still;
     A tender green is showing where
     But yesterday my fields were bare....
     I climb and, as I climb, I sing;
     The dawn is here, and with it—spring!

     My oxen stamp the ground, and they
     Seem glad, with me, that soon the day
     Will bring new work for us to do!
     The light above is clear and blue;
     And one great cloud that swirls on high,
     Seems sent from earth to kiss the sky.

     The birds are coming back again,
     They know that soon the golden grain
     Will wave above this fragrant loam;
     The birds, with singing, hasten home;
     And I, who watch them, feel their song
     Deep in my soul, and nothing wrong,
     Or mean or small, can touch my heart....
     Down in the vale the smoke-wreaths start,
     To softly curl above the trees;
     The fingers of a vagrant breeze
     Steal tenderly across my hair,
     And toil is fled, and want, and care!

     The dawn is here!
                       I climb the hill;
     My very oxen seem to thrill—
     To feel the mystery of day.
     The sun creeps out, and far away
     From man-made law I worship God,
     Who made the light, the cloud, the sod;
     I worship smilingly, and sing!
                     *   *   *
     The dawn is here, and with it—spring!

     It stands neglected, silent, far from the ways of men,
     A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen;
     And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset's golden
        rays
     Had touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days.

     They say the house is haunted, and—well, it is, I
        guess,
     For every empty window just aches with loneliness;
     With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays;
     Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of other
        days.

     The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrow
        stair,
     And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayer
     Steals out, and then a love song, and then a bugle
        call,
     And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.

     The story of the old house that stands beside the
        glen?
     That story is forgotten by every one; but when
     The house is touched and softened by sunset's golden
        rays,
     I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts of
        sweeter days.

     Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
        Sorter thin an' worn;
     With th' fingers neatly darned,
        Like they had been torn.
     Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
        Not s' much ter see....
     Not a soul on earth can guess
        What they mean ter me!

     Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
        Sorter tossed aside;
     Limp an' quiet, folded up,
        Like their soul had died.
     Every finger seems ter look
        Lonely, an' my hand
     Trembles as it touches them—
        Who can understand?

     Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
        Ah, she tossed 'em there....
     Singin'-like, she turned ter go,
        Didn't have a care!
     Kissin' them? A prayer, a tear?
        God, my head WILL bow—
     Jus' a little pair o' gloves,
       .... Empty, now!

     A storm may rage in the world below,
        It may tear great trees apart;
     But here on the mountain top, I know
        That it cannot touch my heart.

     I have struggled up through the lightning's glare,
        I have walked where the cliffs fell sheer
     To a gorge below, but I breathed a prayer,
        And my soul passed doubt and fear!

     Here on the mountain top the air
        Is clear as a silver song;
     And the sun is warm on my unbound hair;
        AND WHAT THOUGH THE WAY WAS LONG?

     What though the way was steep and bleak,
        And what though the road was hard?
     I stand at last on the mountain peak,
        With my eyes upraised to God!

     A storm may sweep through the world below,
        It may rend great rocks apart;
     But here on the crest of the world I know
        That it cannot touch my heart.

     When th.' sunshine's golden-yeller
        Like th' curls upon his head,
     Then he wakes—th' lil' feller—
        An' he jumps up, outen bed;
     An' he scrambles fer his knickers
        Flung, perhaps, upon th' floor,
     An' he takes his hat (my old 'un),
        An' he races through th' door—
     An' I hear his voice, a-singin',
        In his odd, ole-fashioned way,
     'Cause he's glad—th' lil' feller—
        In th' mornin' o' the day.

     Kinder makes me feel, well, lazy,
        So I hurry up, outside,
     Where th' mountains smile down, friendly—
        And th' earth looks sorter wide;
     An' I hear his voice a-callin',
        Sayin', "Daddy, come an' see!"
     An' I find him makin' gardens
        Where a rock pile uster be—
     An' I shout, "How goes it, sonny?"
        An' my heart feels light an' gay,
     Fer he's singin'—lil' feller—
        In th' mornin' o' th' day.

     Lil' feller, an' his gardens!
        It don't matter much ter him,
     If th' hoein's hard an' tedgious,
        An' th' crop he grows is slim;
     Fer he loves ter be a-workin',
        An' he loves ter see things start
     Outer nothin'.... There's a garden
        In th' rock-bed o' my heart
     That he's planted, just by singin'
        In his odd, ole-fashioned way—
     'Cause he's glad, MY LIL' FELLER,
        In th' mornin' o' th' day!

     Down by the end of the lane it stands,
        Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch,
        Down where the sweet wild berry patch,
     Holds out a lure for eager hands.
     Down at the end of the lane, who knows
        The ghosts that sit at the well-scarred seats,
        When the moon is dark, and the gray sky meets
     With the dawn time light, and a chill wind blows?

     Ghosts—well not ghosts, perhaps, but dreams—
        Rather like wistful shades, that stand
        Waiting a look or an outstretched hand,
     To call them back where the morning gleams—
     Dreams of the hopes we had, that died,
        Dreams of the vivid youth we sold;
        Dreams of a pot of rainbow gold—
     Gold that we sought for, eager-eyed!

     Dreams of the plans we made, that sleep
        With the lesson books on the dusty rack,
        Of the joyous years that will not come back—
     That are drowned in the tears we have learned to
           weep.
     Ghosts did I call them! Sweet they are
        As a plant that grows in a desert place,
        Sweet as a dear remembered face—
     Sweet as a pale, courageous star.

     Where the sumac grows in a flaming wall,
        It stands, at the end of a little lane,
        And there do the children come again,
     Answering, still, the bell's shrill call,
     Just as we came, with their songs unsung,
        And their hopes all new, and their dreams dew
           kissed,
     Brave as the sun in a land of mist—
     JUST AS WE CAME WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG!

     I've crossed the bar at last, mates,
        My longest voyage is done;
     And I can sit here, peaceful,
        And watch th' setting sun
     A-smilin' kind of glad like
        Upon the waves so free.
     My longest voyage is done, mates,
        But oh, the heart of me,
     Is out where sea meets skyline!
        My longest voyage is done....
     But—can I sit, in peace, mates,
        And watch the settin' sun?

     For what's a peaceful life, mates,
        When every breeze so free,
     When every gale a-blowin',
        Brings messages to me?
     And is the sky so shinin',
        For all it's golden sun,
     To one who loves the sea, mates,
        And knows his voyage is done?
     And, can a year on land, mates,
        Match with one day—at sea?
     Ah, every wind a-singin'
        Brings memory to me!

     I've crossed the bar at last, mates,
        My longest voyage is past,
     And I must watch the sunset,
        Must see it fade, at last.
     My steps are not so light, mates,
        As they were, years ago;
     And sometimes, when I'm tired,
        My head droops kind of low—
     Yet, though I'm old and—weary,
        The waves that dance so free,
     Keep callin' to my soul, mates,
        And thrill the heart of me!

     "You are white and tall and swaying," sang the river
        to the tree,
     "And your leaves are touched with silver—but you
        never smile on me;
     For your branches murmur love songs to the sun-
        kissed turquoise sky,
     And you seem so far above me that I always hurry
        by!"

     "You are laughing in your shallows, you are somber
        in your deeps,
     And below your shining surface there's a heart that
        never sleeps;
     But all day you pass me, dancing, and at evening
        time you dream,
     And I didn't think you liked me," sang the birch-
        tree to the stream.

     So they got a bit acquainted on a glowing summer
        day,
     And they found they liked each other (which is often
        times the way);
     And the river got so friendly, and it ran so very slow,
     That the birch-tree shone reflected in the water down
        below!

     Let's go down the road together, you and I,
        Let's go down the road together,
        Through the vivid autumn weather;
     Let's go down the road together when the red leaves
           fly.
        Let's go searching, searching after
        Joy and mirth and love and laughter—
     Let's go down the road together, you and I.

     Let's go hunting for adventure, you and I,
        For the romance we are knowing
        Waits for us, alive and glowing,
     For the romance that has always passed us by.
        Let's have done with tears and sighing,
        What if summer-time IS dying?
     Let's go hunting for adventure, you and I.

     Let's go down the road together, you and I—
        And if you are frightened lest you
        Weary grow, my arms will rest you,
     As we take the road together when the red leaves fly.
        Springtime is the time for mating?
        Ah, a deeper love is waiting
     Down the autumn road that calls us, you and I!

THE CITY—
     TOWERS AND CANYONS, AND SLUMS,
     MAN BUILT....

     AND SOULS,
     GOD BUILT!

     The window box across the street
     Is filled with scarlet flowers;
     They glow, like bits of sunset cloud,
     Across the dragging hours.
     What though the mist be like a shroud
     What though the day be dreary?
     The window box across the street
     Is warm, and gay, and cheery!

     The window box across the street
     Is filled with scarlet flowers;
     I almost catch their perfume sweet....
     Above the sound of tramping feet,
     They sing of country bowers.
     Against the house that looms so gray,
     They smile in—well, a friendly way.

     A tired shop girl hurries by;
     Their color seems to catch her eye;
     She pauses, starts, and wistfully
     She gazes up. It seems to me
     That I can hear her longing sigh....
     A little shop girl hurries by.

     A newsboy stops to sell his wares;
     The crowds brush by him; no one cares
     To buy his papers. But above
     The scarlet flowers bravely grow
     In token of the Father's love....
     The crowds brush coldly by below.

     A blind man stumbles, groping past;
     He cannot see their scarlet shine;
     And yet some memory seems to twine
     About his soul.
                     For, oh, he turns
     As trusting as a child who yearns
     For some vague dream, and smilingly
     He lifts the eyes that cannot see....
     A blind man stumbles, groping past.

     The window box across the street
     Is filled with scarlet flowers;
     They tell a secret, tender, sweet,
     Through all the dreary hours.
     And folk who hurry on their way
     Dream of some other brighter day....
     The window box across the street
     Is filled with scarlet flowers.

     I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day
     (In the languid summertime everybody strolls down
        Fifth Avenue);
     And I passed women, dainty in their filmy frocks,
     And much bespatted men with canes.
     And great green busses lumbered past me,
     And impressive limousines, and brisk little 'lectrics.

     I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day,
     And the sunshine smiled at me,
     And something, deep in my heart, burst into song.
     And then, all at once, I saw her—
     A woman with painted lips and rouge-touched
        cheeks—
     Standing in front of a jeweler's window.
     She was looking at diamonds—
     A tray of great blue-white diamonds—
     And I saw a flame leap out of her eyes to meet them
     (Greedy eyes they were, and cold, like too-perfect
        jewels);
     And I realized, for the first time,
     That diamonds weren't always pretty.

     And then I SAW THE OTHER ONE:
     A thin little girl looking into a florist's shop
     At a fragrant mass of violets, dew-purple and fresh.
     She carried a huge box on her arm,
     And a man, passing, said loudly,
     "I guess somebody's hat'll be late today!"
     And the thin little girl flushed and hurried on,
     But not before I had seen the tenderness in her eyes—
     The tenderness that real women show
     When they look at vast rolling hills, or flowers, or
        very small pink babies.

     I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day.
     (All the world walks, leisurely, down Fifth Avenue
     in the summertime.)

     The dust is thick on the city street,
        The smoke on the city sky
     Hangs dense and gray at the close of day—
        And the city crowds surge by
     With heavy feet through the summer heat
        Like a sluggish sullen tide;...
     But hand in hand through a magic land
        We are wandering side by side.

     For somewhere, dear, there's a magic land
        On the shores of a silver sea;
     And there is a boat with turquoise sails—
        With sails that are wide and free;
     A boat that is whirling through the spray,
        That is coming for you and me!

     Somewhere, dear, there's a singing breeze
        That creeps through the laughing air
     To the wide-flung boughs of a blue-black tree—
        It touches your joyous hair;
     And the touch of it is as soft and light
        As a baby's lisping prayer.

     Somewhere, dear, there's a bit of beach
        Where the sand is warm and white;
     Where the sky seems close and the drifting clouds
        Are tenderly, warmly bright.
     And there is a ship with turquoise sails,
        With sails like a living light!

     Ah, the ship is bringing us dreams come true,
        And hopes that are all dew-kissed;
     It is bringing us days that are all aglow
        With scarlet and amethyst;...
     Bringing us faith to find our way
        Through a world that is wrapped in mist.

     Our window looks on the city street,
        We can glimpse the city sky;
     But our hearts are gay at the close of day,
        Though the tired crowds pass by
     With heavy feet through the blinding heat,
        Like a sullen, sluggish tide....
     For hand in hand through a magic land.
        We are wandering side by side.

     She only comes when night is near,
        And stands a moment quietly
     Beside her window, in the dusk—
        She lives across the court from me—
     And though I cannot see her eyes
        Because she is too far away,
     I somehow feel that they are kind,
        And very soft, and widely gray!

     Her hands are only dim white blurs,
        That rest against the window pane;
     And yet I know that they are firm,
        And cool and sweet as April rain.
     And, oh, I cannot help but wish
        As, through the dark, I go to bed,
     That they might rest a moment like
        A little prayer upon my head!

     She only comes when night is near,
        I do not know who she can be;
     I never see her anywhere
        But just across the court from me....
     I am so small the curtains hide
        The wistful smiles that I have smiled,
     And yet I, somehow, think she feels
        The love of me—a lonely child.