Wet winds that flap the sodden leaves!
Wet leaves that drop and fall!
Unhappy, leafless trees the wind bereaves!
Poor trees and small!
All of a color, solemn in your green;
All of a color, sombre in your brown;
All of a color, dripping gray between
When leaves are down!
O for the bronze-green eucalyptus spires
Far-flashing up against the endless blue!
Shifting and glancing in the steady fires
Of sun and moonlight too.
Dark orange groves! Pomegranate hedges bright,
And varnished fringes of the pepper trees!
And O that wind of sunshine! Wind of light!
Wind of Pacific seas!
ON THE PAWTUXET.
Broad and blue is the river, all bright in the sun;
The little waves sparkle, the little waves run;
The birds carol high, and the winds whisper low;
The boats beckon temptingly, row upon row;
Her hand is in mine as I help her step in.
Please Heaven, this day I shall lose or shall win—
Broad and blue is the river.
Cool and gray is the river, the sun sinks apace,
And the rose-colored twilight glows soft in her face.
In the midst of the rose-color Venus doth shine,
And the blossoming wild grapes are sweeter than wine;
Tall trees rise above us, four bridges are past,
And my stroke’s running slow as the current runs fast—
Cool and gray is the river.
Smooth and black is the river, no sound as we float
Save the soft-lapping water in under the boat.
The white mists are rising, the moon’s rising too,
And Venus, triumphant, rides high in the blue.
I hold the shawl round her, her hand is in mine,
And we drift under grape-blossoms sweeter than wine—
Smooth and black is the river.
A MOONRISE.
The heavy mountains, lying huge and dim,
With uncouth outline breaking heaven’s brim;
And while I watched and waited, o’er them soon,
Cloudy, enormous, spectral, rose the moon.
THEIR GRASS!
A PROTEST FROM CALIFORNIA.
They say we have no grass!
To hear them talk
You’d think that grass could walk
And was their bosom friend,—no day to pass
Between them and their grass.
“No grass!” they say who live
Where hot bricks give
The hot stones all their heat and back again,—
A baking hell for men.
“O, but,” they haste to say, “we have our parks,
Where fat policemen check the children’s larks;
And sign to sign repeats as in a glass,
‘Keep off the grass!’
We have our cities’ parks and grass, you see!”
Well—so have we!
But ’tis the country that they sing of most. “Alas,”
They sing, “for our wide acres of soft grass!—
To please us living and to hide us dead—”
You’d think Walt Whitman’s first was all they read!
You’d think they all went out upon the quiet
Nebuchadnezzar to outdo in diet!
You’d think they found no other green thing fair,
Even its seed an honor in their hair!
You’d think they had this bliss the whole year round,—
Evergreen grass!—and we, ploughed ground!
But come now, how does earth’s pet plumage grow
Under your snow?
Is your beloved grass as softly nice
When packed in ice?
For six long months you live beneath a blight,—
No grass in sight.
You bear up bravely. And not only that,
But leave your grass and travel; and thereat
We marvel deeply, with slow western mind,
Wondering within us what these people find
Among our common oranges and palms
To tear them from the well-remembered charms
Of their dear vegetable. But still they come,
Frost-bitten invalids! to our bright home,
And chide our grasslessness! Until we say,
“But if you hate it so, why come? Why stay?
Just go away!
Go to—your grass!”
THE PROPHETS.
Time was we stoned the Prophets. Age on age,
When men were strong to save, the world hath slain them.
People are wiser now; they waste no rage—
The Prophets entertain them!
SIMILAR CASES.
There was once a little animal,
No bigger than a fox,
And on five toes he scampered
Over Tertiary rocks.
They called him Eohippus,
And they called him very small,
And they thought him of no value—
When they thought of him at all;
For the lumpish old Dinoceras
And Coryphodon so slow
Were the heavy aristocracy
In days of long ago.
Said the little Eohippus,
“I am going to be a horse!
And on my middle finger-nails
To run my earthly course!
I’m going to have a flowing tail!
I’m going to have a mane!
I’m going to stand fourteen hands high
On the psychozoic plain!”
The Coryphodon was horrified,
The Dinoceras was shocked;
And they chased young Eohippus,
But he skipped away and mocked.
Then they laughed enormous laughter,
And they groaned enormous groans,
And they bade young Eohippus
Go view his father’s bones.
Said they, “You always were as small
And mean as now we see,
And that’s conclusive evidence
That you’re always going to be.
What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast,
With hoofs to gallop on?
Why! You’d have to change your nature!”
Said the Loxolophodon.
They considered him disposed of,
And retired with gait serene;
That was the way they argued
In “the early Eocene.”
There was once an Anthropoidal Ape,
Far smarter than the rest,
And everything that they could do
He always did the best;
So they naturally disliked him,
And they gave him shoulders cool,
And when they had to mention him
They said he was a fool.
Cried this pretentious Ape one day,
“I’m going to be a Man!
And stand upright, and hunt, and fight,
And conquer all I can!
I’m going to cut down forest trees,
To make my houses higher!
I’m going to kill the Mastodon!
I’m going to make a fire!”
Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes
With laughter wild and gay;
They tried to catch that boastful one,
But he always got away.
So they yelled at him in chorus,
Which he minded not a whit;
And they pelted him with cocoanuts,
Which didn’t seem to hit.
And then they gave him reasons
Which they thought of much avail,
To prove how his preposterous
Attempt was sure to fail.
Said the sages, “In the first place,
The thing cannot be done!
And, second, if it could be,
It would not be any fun!
And, third, and most conclusive,
And admitting no reply,
You would have to change your nature!
We should like to see you try!”
They chuckled then triumphantly,
These lean and hairy shapes,
For these things passed as arguments
With the Anthropoidal Apes.
There was once a Neolithic Man,
An enterprising wight,
Who made his chopping implements
Unusually bright.
Unusually clever he,
Unusually brave,
And he drew delightful Mammoths
On the borders of his cave.
To his Neolithic neighbors,
Who were startled and surprised,
Said he, “My friends, in course of time,
We shall be civilized!
We are going to live in cities!
We are going to fight in wars!
We are going to eat three times a day
Without the natural cause!
We are going to turn life upside down
About a thing called gold!
We are going to want the earth, and take
As much as we can hold!
We are going to wear great piles of stuff
Outside our proper skins!
We are going to have Diseases!
And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!”
Then they all rose up in fury
Against their boastful friend,
For prehistoric patience
Cometh quickly to an end.
Said one, “This is chimerical!
Utopian! Absurd!”
Said another, “What a stupid life!
Too dull, upon my word!”
Cried all, “Before such things can come,
You idiotic child,
You must alter Human Nature!”
And they all sat back and smiled.
Thought they, “An answer to that last
It will be hard to find!”
It was a clinching argument
To the Neolithic Mind!
A CONSERVATIVE.
The garden beds I wandered by
One bright and cheerful morn,
When I found a new-fledged butterfly
A-sitting on a thorn,
A black and crimson butterfly,
All doleful and forlorn.
I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise,
While sadly with his waving wing
He wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I, “What can the matter be?
Why weepest thou so sore?
With garden fair and sunlight free
And flowers in goodly store—”
But he only turned away from me
And burst into a roar.
Cried he, “My legs are thin and few
Where once I had a swarm!
Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view—
Once kept my body warm,
Before these flapping wing-things grew,
To hamper and deform!”
At that outrageous bug I shot
The fury of mine eye;
Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
In rage and anger high,
“You ignominious idiot!
Those wings are made to fly!”
“I do not want to fly,” said he,
“I only want to squirm!”
And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
But still his voice was firm;
“I do not want to be a fly!
I want to be a worm!”
O yesterday of unknown lack!
To-day of unknown bliss!
I left my fool in red and black,
The last I saw was this,—
The creature madly climbing back
Into his chrysalis.
AN OBSTACLE.
I was climbing up a mountain-path
With many things to do,
Important business of my own,
And other people’s too,
When I ran against a Prejudice
That quite cut off the view.
My work was such as could not wait,
My path quite clearly showed,
My strength and time were limited,
I carried quite a load;
And there that hulking Prejudice
Sat all across the road.
So I spoke to him politely,
For he was huge and high,
And begged that he would move a bit
And let me travel by.
He smiled, but as for moving!—
He didn’t even try.
And then I reasoned quietly
With that colossal mule:
My time was short—no other path—
The mountain winds were cool.
I argued like a Solomon;
He sat there like a fool.
Then I flew into a passion,
I danced and howled and swore.
I pelted and belabored him
Till I was stiff and sore;
He got as mad as I did—
But he sat there as before.
And then I begged him on my knees;
I might be kneeling still
If so I hoped to move that mass
Of obdurate ill-will—
As well invite the monument
To vacate Bunker Hill!
So I sat before him helpless,
In an ecstasy of woe—
The mountain mists were rising fast,
The sun was sinking slow—
When a sudden inspiration came,
As sudden winds do blow.
I took my hat, I took my stick,
My load I settled fair,
I approached that awful incubus
With an absent-minded air—
And I walked directly through him,
As if he wasn’t there!
THE FOX WHO HAD LOST HIS TAIL.
The fox who had lost his tail found out
That now he could faster go;
He had less to cover when hid for prey,
He had less to carry on hunting day,
He had less to guard when he stood at bay;
He was really better so!
Now he was a fine altruistical fox
With the good of his race at heart,
So he ran to his people with tailless speed,
To tell of the change they all must need,
And recommend as a righteous deed
That they and their tails should part!
Plain was the gain as plain could be,
But his words did not avail;
For they all replied, “We perceive your case;
You do not speak for the good of the race,
But only to cover your own disgrace,
Because you have lost your tail!”
Then another fox, of a liberal mind,
With a tail of splendid size,
Became convinced that the tailless state
Was better for all of them, soon or late.
Said he, “I will let my own tail wait,
And so I can open their eyes.”
Plain was the gain as plain could be,
But his words did not avail,
For they all made answer, “My plausible friend,
You talk wisely and well, but you talk to no end.
We know you’re dishonest and only pretend,
For you have not lost your tail!”
THE SWEET USES OF ADVERSITY.
In Norway fiords, in summer-time,
The Norway birch is fair:
The white trunks shine, the green leaves twine,
The whole tree groweth tall and fine;
For all it wants is there,—
Water and warmth and air,—
Full fed in all its nature needs, and showing
That nature in perfection by its growing.
But follow the persistent tree
To the limit of endless snow
There you may see what a birch can be!
The product showeth plain and free
How nobly plants can grow
With nine months’ winter slow.
’Tis fitted to survive in that position,
Developed by the force of bad condition.
See now what life the tree doth keep,—
Branchless, three-leaved, and tough;
In June the leaf-buds peep, flowers in July dare creep
To bloom, the fruit in August, and then sleep.
Strong is the tree and rough,
It lives, and that’s enough.
“Dog’s-ear” the name the peasants call it by—
A Norway birch—and less than one inch high!
That silver monarch of the summer wood,
Tall, straight, and lovely, rich in all things good,
Knew not in his perversity
The sweeter uses of adversity!
CONNOISSEURS.
“No,” said the Cultured Critic, gazing haughtily
Whereon some untrained brush had wandered naughtily,
From canons free;
“Work such as this lacks value and perspective,
Has no real feeling,—inner or reflective,—
Does not appeal to me.”
Then quoth the vulgar, knowing art but meagrely,
Their unbesought opinions airing eagerly,
“Why, ain’t that flat?”
Voicing their ignorance all unconcernedly,
Saying of what the Critic scored so learnedly,
“I don’t like that!”
The Critic now vouchsafed approval sparingly
Of what some genius had attempted daringly,
“This fellow tries;
He handles his conception frankly, feelingly.
Such work as this, done strongly and appealingly,
I recognize.”
The vulgar, gazing widely and unknowingly,
Still volunteered their cheap impressions flowingly,
“Oh, come and see!”
But all that they could say of art’s reality
Was this poor voice of poorer personality,
“Now, that suits me!”
TECHNIQUE.
Cometh to-day the very skilful man;
Profoundly skilful in his chosen art;
All things that other men can do he can,
And do them better. He is very smart.
Sayeth, “My work is here before you all;
Come now with duly cultured mind to view it.
Here is great work, no part of it is small;
Perceive how well I do it!
“I do it to perfection. Studious years
Were spent to reach the pinnacle I’ve won;
Labor and thought are in my work, and tears.
Behold how well ’tis done!
“See with what power this great effect is shown;
See with what ease you get the main idea;
A master in my art, I stand alone;
Now you may praise,—I hear.”
And I, “O master, I perceive your sway,
I note the years of study, toil, and strain
That brought the easy power you wield to-day,
The height you now attain.
“Freely your well-trained power I see you spend,
Such skill in all my life I never saw;
You have done nobly; but, my able friend,
What have you done it for?
“You have no doubt achieved your dearest end:
Your work is faultless to the cultured view.
You do it well, but, O my able friend,
What is it that you do?”
THE PASTELLETTE.
“The pastelle is too strong,” said he.
“Lo! I will make it fainter yet!”
And he wrought with tepid ecstasy
A pastellette.
A touch—a word—a tone half caught—
He softly felt and handled them;
Flavor of feeling—scent of thought—
Shimmer of gem—
That we may read, and feel as he
What vague, pale pleasure we can get
From this mild, witless mystery,—
The pastellette.
THE PIG AND THE PEARL.
Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!
Tasteless, and hard, and dry—
Get out of my sty!
Glittering, smooth, and clean,
You only seek to be seen!
I am dirty and big!
A virtuous, valuable pig.
For me all things are sweet
That I can possibly eat;
But you—how can you be good
Without being fit for food?
Not even food for me,
Who can eat all this you see,
No matter how foul and sour;
I revel from hour to hour
In refuse of great and small;
But you are no good at all,
And if I should gulp you, quick,
It would probably make me sick!”
Said the Pig to the Pearl, “Oh, fie!”
And she rooted her out of the sty.
A Philosopher chancing to pass
Saw the Pearl in the grass,
And laid hands on the same in a trice,
For the Pearl was a Pearl of Great Price.
Said he, “Madame Pig, if you knew
What a fool thing you do,
It would grieve even you!
Grant that pearls are not just to your taste,
Must you let them run waste?
You care only for hogwash, I know,
For your litter and you. Even so,
This tasteless hard thing which you scorn
Would buy acres of corn;
And apples, and pumpkins, and pease,
By the ton, if you please!
By the wealth which this pearl represents,
You could grow so immense—
You, and every last one of your young—
That your fame would be sung
As the takers of every first prize,
For your flavor and size!
From even a Pig’s point of view
The Pearl was worth millions to you.
Be a Pig—and a fool—(you must be them)
But try to know Pearls when you see them!”
POOR HUMAN NATURE.
I saw a meagre, melancholy cow,
Blessed with a starveling calf that sucked in vain;
Eftsoon he died. I asked the mother how—?
Quoth she, “Of every four there dieth twain!”
Poor bovine nature!
I saw a sickly horse of shambling gait,
Ugly and wicked, weak in leg and back,
Useless in all ways, in a wretched state.
“We’re all poor creatures!” said the sorry hack.
Poor equine nature!
I saw a slow cat crawling on the ground,
Weak, clumsy, inefficient, full of fears,
The mice escaping from her aimless bound.
Moaned she, “This truly is a vale of tears!”
Poor feline nature!
Then did I glory in my noble race,
Healthful and beautiful, alert and strong,
Rejoicing that we held a higher place
And need not add to theirs our mournful song,—
Poor human nature!
OUR SAN FRANCISCO CLIMATE.
Said I to my friend from the East,—
A tenderfoot he,—
As I showed him the greatest and least
Of our hills by the sea,
“How do you like our climate?”
And I smiled in my glee.
I showed him the blue of the hills,
And the blue of the sky,
And the blue of the beautiful bay
Where the ferry-boats ply;
And “How do you like our climate?”
Securely asked I.
Then the wind blew over the sand,
And the fog came down,
And the papers and dust were on hand
All over the town.
“How do you like our climate?”
I cried with a frown.
On the corner we stood as we met
Awaiting a car;
Beneath us a vent-hole was set,
As our street corners are—
And street corners in our San Francisco
Are perceptible far.
He meant to have answered, of course,
I could see that he tried;
But he had not the strength of a horse,
And before he replied
The climate rose up from that corner in force,
And he died!
San Francisco, 1895.
CRITICISM.
The Critic eyed the sunset as the umber turned to gray,
Slow fading in the somewhat foggy west;
To the color-cultured Critic ’twas a very dull display,
“’Tis n’t half so good a sunset as was offered yesterday!
I wonder why,” he murmured, as he sadly turned away,
“The sunsets can’t be always at their best!”
ANOTHER CREED.
Another creed! We’re all so pleased!
A gentle, tentative new creed. We’re eased
Of all those things we could not quite believe,
But would not give the lie to. Now perceive
How charmingly this suits us! Science even
Has naught against our modern views of Heaven;
And yet the most emotional of women
May find this creed a warm, deep sea to swim in.
Here’s something now so loose and large of fit
That all the churches may come under it,
And we may see upon the earth once more
A church united,—as we had before!
Before so much of precious blood was poured
That each in his own way might serve the Lord!
All wide divergence in sweet union sunk,
Like branches growing up into a trunk!
And in our intellectual delight
In this sweet formula that sets us right;
And controversial exercises gay
With those who still prefer a differing way;
And our glad effort to make known this wonder
And get all others to unite thereunder,—
We, joying in this newest, best of creeds,
Continue still to do our usual deeds!
THE LITTLE LION.
It was a little lion lay—
In wait he lay—he lay in wait.
Came those who said, “Pray come my way;
We joy to see a lion play,
And laud his, gait!”
The little lion mildly came—
In wait for prey—for prey in wait.
The people all adored his name,
And those who led him saw the same
With hearts elate.
The little lion grew that day,—
In glee he went—he went in glee.
Said he, “I love to seek my prey,
But also love to see the way
My prey seek me!”
A MISFIT.
O Lord, take me out of this!
I do not fit!
My body does not suit my mind,
My brain is weak in the knees and blind,
My clothes are not what I want to find—
Not one bit!
My house is not the house I like—
Not one bit!
My church is built so loose and thin
That ten fall out where one falls in;
My creed is buttoned with a pin—
It does not fit!
The school I went to wasn’t right—
Not one bit!
The education given me
Was meant for the community,
And my poor head works differently—
It does not fit!
I try to move and find I can’t—
Not one bit!
Things that were given me to stay
Are mostly lost and blown away,
And what I have to use to-day—
It does not fit!
What I was taught I cannot do—
Not one bit!
And what I do I was not taught
And what I find I have not sought;
I never say the thing I ought—
It does not fit!
I have not meant to be like this—
Not one bit!
But in the puzzle and the strife
I fail my friend and pain my wife;
Oh, how it hurts to have a life
That does not fit!
ON NEW YEAR’S DAY.
On New Year’s Day he plans a cruise
To Heaven straight—no time to lose!
Vowing to live so virtuously
That each besetting sin shall flee—
Good resolutions wide he strews
On New Year’s Day.
A while he minds his p’s and q’s,
And all temptations doth refuse,
Recalling his resolves so free
On New Year’s Day.
But in the long year that ensues,
They fade away by threes and twos—
The place we do not wish to see
Is paved with all he meant to be,
When he next year his life reviews—
On New Year’s Day.
OUR EAST.
Our East, long looking backward over sea,
In loving study of what used to be,
Has grown to treat our West with the same scorn
England has had for us since we were born.
You’d think to hear this Eastern judgment hard
The West was just New England’s back yard!
That all the West was made for, last and least,
Was to raise pork and wheat to feed the East!
A place to travel in, for rest and health,
A place to struggle in and get the wealth,
The only normal end of which, of course,
Is to return to its historic source!
Our Western acres, curving to the sun,
The Western strength whereby our work is done,
All Western progress, they attribute fair
To Eastern Capital invested there!
New England never liked old England’s scorn.
Do they think theirs more easy to be borne?
Or that the East, Britain’s rebellious child,
Will find the grandson, West, more meek and mild?
In union still our sovereignty has stood,
A union formed with prayer and sealed with blood.
We stand together. Patience, mighty West!
Don’t mind this scolding from your last year’s nest!
UNMENTIONABLE.
There is a thing of which I fain would speak,
Yet shun the deed;
Lest hot disgust flush the averted cheek
Of those who read.
And yet it is as common in our sight
As dust or grass;
Loathed by the lifted skirt, the tiptoe light,
Of those who pass.
We say no word, but the big placard rests
Frequent in view,
To sicken those who do not with requests
Of those who do.
“Gentlemen will not,” the mild placards say.
They read with scorn.
“Gentlemen must not”—they defile the way
Of those who warn.
On boat and car the careful lady lifts
Her dress aside;
If careless—think, fair traveller, of the gifts
Of those who ride!
On every hall and sidewalk, floor and stair,
Where man’s at home,
This loathsomeness is added to the care
Of those who come.
As some foul slug his trail of slime displays
On leaf and stalk,
These street-beasts make a horror in the ways
Of those who walk.
We cannot ask reform of those who do—
They can’t or won’t.
We can express the scorn, intense and true,
Of those who don’t.
AN INVITATION FROM CALIFORNIA.
Aren’t you tired of protection from the weather?
Of defences, guards, and shields?
Aren’t you tired of the worry as to whether
This year the farm land yields?
Aren’t you tired of the wetness and the dryness,
The dampness, and the hotness, and the cold?
Of waiting on the weather man with shyness
To see if the last plans hold?
Aren’t you tired of the doctoring and nursing,
Of the “sickly winters” and the pocket pills,—
Tired of sorrowing, and burying, and cursing
At Providence and undertakers’ bills?
Aren’t you tired of all the threatening and doubting,
The “weather-breeder” with its lovely lie;
The dubiety of any sort of outing;
The chip upon the shoulder of the sky?
Like a beaten horse who dodges your caresses,
Like a child abused who ducks before your frown,
Is the northerner in our warm air that blesses—
O come and live and take your elbow down!
Don’t be afraid; you do not need defences;
This heavenly day breeds not a stormy end;
Lay down your arms! cut off your war expenses!
This weather is your friend!
A friendliness from earth, a joy from heaven,
A peace that wins your frightened soul at length;
A place where rest as well as work is given,—
Rest is the food of strength.