They would take the hill next day—the order, he knew,
And the kind of hell the “taking” would be, he had seen;
So he spent the night awake and the hours flew,
As he pondered on the sort of man he had been,
And wondered what dying and doing it bravely would mean.
“The Eighty-second’s coming along tonight!”
He remembered then. There were men in that regiment knew
His Island home. Men that were going to fight
For the moors he loved and the pines where arbutus grew.
Well—he thought he would like to pass them a word or two.
And the kind of hell the “taking” would be, he had seen;
So he spent the night awake and the hours flew,
As he pondered on the sort of man he had been,
And wondered what dying and doing it bravely would mean.
“The Eighty-second’s coming along tonight!”
He remembered then. There were men in that regiment knew
His Island home. Men that were going to fight
For the moors he loved and the pines where arbutus grew.
Well—he thought he would like to pass them a word or two.
He thought he would like to see them, to talk of the hill
By Polpis Harbor, the grey little farm roofs slant;
Of the way the sunset flared through the fans of the Mill,
And the rolling moorland hiding the plover and brant,
And the scallopers sailing their boats through Autumnal chill.
By Polpis Harbor, the grey little farm roofs slant;
Of the way the sunset flared through the fans of the Mill,
And the rolling moorland hiding the plover and brant,
And the scallopers sailing their boats through Autumnal chill.
He thought he would like to talk of the gilded dome
Of the Unitarian Church, of the cobbled square;
And speak with others sea-faring names of home,
Wondering, “Do they hear of the fighting there
Where Sankaty Light stands guard with its solemn flare?”
Of the Unitarian Church, of the cobbled square;
And speak with others sea-faring names of home,
Wondering, “Do they hear of the fighting there
Where Sankaty Light stands guard with its solemn flare?”
So he stood all night, on those dark hours of the earth,
Calling to men slogging by to heroic ends,
[A]Shouting: “Nantucket,” little grey town of his birth;
Palely he stood there, anxious as one who sends
S. O. S. scanning the night for friends.
Calling to men slogging by to heroic ends,
[A]Shouting: “Nantucket,” little grey town of his birth;
Palely he stood there, anxious as one who sends
S. O. S. scanning the night for friends.
“Nantucket!” he hailed—but the river of men rolled by,
Every eye set grim towards its Mecca of bloody drench;
No answering Island voice took up his cry
But his own soul answered. He went back to his trench
Resolving how a Nantucket man would die!
Every eye set grim towards its Mecca of bloody drench;
No answering Island voice took up his cry
But his own soul answered. He went back to his trench
Resolving how a Nantucket man would die!
[A] A true incident.
FISHING ON STEAMBOAT WHARF.
High all our prisons,
We can no more out;
Words meant to free us,
Compass us about;
And a sigh means a laugh
And a hymn a battle shout.
We can no more out;
Words meant to free us,
Compass us about;
And a sigh means a laugh
And a hymn a battle shout.
But here silence mellows
Starved being into life;
With these dreamy fellows—
Rod, reel and jack-knife—
Even the caught fish are blithe.
Starved being into life;
With these dreamy fellows—
Rod, reel and jack-knife—
Even the caught fish are blithe.
Green water laps the spiles,
The silence is golden;
Every little whiles
I am beholden
To a sea captain
Of a time olden.
The silence is golden;
Every little whiles
I am beholden
To a sea captain
Of a time olden.
He puts on the bait
Of quahog, that gets me
A bright little flipper,
Or a plaice fish nets me;
That I’ll haul in a whale
He occasionally bets me.
Of quahog, that gets me
A bright little flipper,
Or a plaice fish nets me;
That I’ll haul in a whale
He occasionally bets me.
Silence and fishing,
Sun, understanding;
Fun to see off-islanders
Tack in and miss their landing.
Quiet winks exchanged
While tobacco you’re handing.
Sun, understanding;
Fun to see off-islanders
Tack in and miss their landing.
Quiet winks exchanged
While tobacco you’re handing.
No boasting here,
No meanness with minnows;
Commonwealth of Bait
Debts only finn-owes;
And a great quiet kindness
And much color blindness.
No meanness with minnows;
Commonwealth of Bait
Debts only finn-owes;
And a great quiet kindness
And much color blindness.
Maybe it comes from
Looking down so deep,
Where much is hidden
And much lies asleep;
With your eyes on the line,
Given you to keep.
Looking down so deep,
Where much is hidden
And much lies asleep;
With your eyes on the line,
Given you to keep.
THE WALLACE DAISY FIELD.
Slim pointed pickets guard the summer dream,
Glimpsing behind their lichen-scrolléd bars;
Young shapes of white that in ethereal stream
Toss starry incense to the summer stars.
Ranked slender acolytes in harbor lane,
Communion bear to many a churchless breast;
Processional in falling summer rain,
Recessional to gold and Gothic West.
Glimpsing behind their lichen-scrolléd bars;
Young shapes of white that in ethereal stream
Toss starry incense to the summer stars.
Ranked slender acolytes in harbor lane,
Communion bear to many a churchless breast;
Processional in falling summer rain,
Recessional to gold and Gothic West.
Only a daisy field—yet one man’s care
Enshrines it in immaculate gated reach;
Inviolate flowers veil them mistily there,
Spreading like moonlight to the moonlit beach ...
Where the white patens disk the tabled green
Is read the sacred Word of sea and skies;
Chapelled within this occult daisy screen
Is Sacrament for beauty-loving eyes.
Enshrines it in immaculate gated reach;
Inviolate flowers veil them mistily there,
Spreading like moonlight to the moonlit beach ...
Where the white patens disk the tabled green
Is read the sacred Word of sea and skies;
Chapelled within this occult daisy screen
Is Sacrament for beauty-loving eyes.
YOUTH AND THE OLD MILL.
YOUTH
Old Mill, grind me corn
For my house by the thorn,
For I’m with the old folk,
Where the pigs in the poke
And the cows in the barn
And the peat’s on the stone
And the latchstring out-thrown....
Old Mill, grind me corn
For the winter morn.
For my house by the thorn,
For I’m with the old folk,
Where the pigs in the poke
And the cows in the barn
And the peat’s on the stone
And the latchstring out-thrown....
Old Mill, grind me corn
For the winter morn.
OLD MILL
YOUTH
Turn me a dream then, doughty Mill,
Flaring there on your windy hill
With your rickety arms spread on the sky;
Black crows from the cornfields passing you by,
Near the burying-ground where the Quakers sleep,
And the sailors home from the ranging deep
Turn me a dream, you strange old Mill,
Keeping your watch on the windy hill.
Flaring there on your windy hill
With your rickety arms spread on the sky;
Black crows from the cornfields passing you by,
Near the burying-ground where the Quakers sleep,
And the sailors home from the ranging deep
Turn me a dream, you strange old Mill,
Keeping your watch on the windy hill.
OLD MILL
Shall I turn you a dream of the Town Crier calling
His news ’gainst the tempest bawling?
Shall I turn you a dream of Three Vikings sailing
The rim of a low lying island hailing ...?
Turn you a dream of a Smuggler grim
And the underground path for his mates and him?
Of Three forms walking a midnight road
To a lonely farmhouse where one light showed
And a paper signed with a white quill pen
That helped bring freedom to slave-born men?
Of a man who made a telescope
And lassoed the stars with a mental rope—
Of the woman who worked in a cottage small,
Whose name in science leads them all?
Of a knight who came and built a school?
Of a woman who broke a cast iron rule?
Of the Quaker forms and the gentle ways
That ruled all war out of the ways?
Of the Indians, watching the sun go down?
Of the whalers and gold seekers of renown?
His news ’gainst the tempest bawling?
Shall I turn you a dream of Three Vikings sailing
The rim of a low lying island hailing ...?
Turn you a dream of a Smuggler grim
And the underground path for his mates and him?
Of Three forms walking a midnight road
To a lonely farmhouse where one light showed
And a paper signed with a white quill pen
That helped bring freedom to slave-born men?
Of a man who made a telescope
And lassoed the stars with a mental rope—
Of the woman who worked in a cottage small,
Whose name in science leads them all?
Of a knight who came and built a school?
Of a woman who broke a cast iron rule?
Of the Quaker forms and the gentle ways
That ruled all war out of the ways?
Of the Indians, watching the sun go down?
Of the whalers and gold seekers of renown?
YOUTH
Nay, Old Mill, I laugh in your face;
Turn me no dream of a Quaker past,
Turn me no dream of the tranquil ways,
Turn me a dream for my own tense days,
Turn me a dream for my cherishing—
A dream for believing;
A dream for my strength!
Turn me no dream of a Quaker past,
Turn me no dream of the tranquil ways,
Turn me a dream for my own tense days,
Turn me a dream for my cherishing—
A dream for believing;
A dream for my strength!
OLD MILL
Shall I turn you a dream for your loneliness?
A dream of the star-scattered faces about you,
And the plans and pleasures and pains that flout you?
Shall I tell of the voices that you must hear
Before some one Voice calls you clear?
(But whatever it be—for joy and sadness
Or triumph, defeat, or grief or gladness—
That I cannot know,
Said the Old Mill very low.)
A dream of the star-scattered faces about you,
And the plans and pleasures and pains that flout you?
Shall I tell of the voices that you must hear
Before some one Voice calls you clear?
(But whatever it be—for joy and sadness
Or triumph, defeat, or grief or gladness—
That I cannot know,
Said the Old Mill very low.)
YOUTH
Nay, Old Mill, if you know the voices
That make for a bold life’s chance and choices,
Turn me that dream!
That make for a bold life’s chance and choices,
Turn me that dream!
OLD MILL
Only the sound of one voice, you shall hear,
A Voice that has known your soul forever;
A Voice that has called you and kept you wherever
You failed or won in your high endeavor—
The Voice of your Dream!
A Voice that has known your soul forever;
A Voice that has called you and kept you wherever
You failed or won in your high endeavor—
The Voice of your Dream!
YOUTH
O Mill, give me no mystery;
I know the way of human history—
Turn me true dreams!
I know the way of human history—
Turn me true dreams!
OLD MILL
Only the dream of Beauty, I know,
The long sky paved with the afterglow;
The moonlaced bog and the shimmering seas,
The floating mist through moorland trees;
The quiet color of twilight dunes,
The night heron croaking its ebb-tide runes;
The black-walled sky and the star-strung vines,
The pooling spread of the Island pines.
And the Sea’s voice borne on the salt mist breath,
Where the chained arbutus wandereth....
The strange glad swerve of the moorland road
And the great black shoulder of the wood....
(Only these things I know,
Said the Old Mill very low.)
The long sky paved with the afterglow;
The moonlaced bog and the shimmering seas,
The floating mist through moorland trees;
The quiet color of twilight dunes,
The night heron croaking its ebb-tide runes;
The black-walled sky and the star-strung vines,
The pooling spread of the Island pines.
And the Sea’s voice borne on the salt mist breath,
Where the chained arbutus wandereth....
The strange glad swerve of the moorland road
And the great black shoulder of the wood....
(Only these things I know,
Said the Old Mill very low.)
YOUTH
Then Old Mill, since no dream you grind me
A dream of my own I will surely find me!
A dream of my own I will surely find me!
But as Youth weaves and catches the threads
Of a hundred human joys and dreads,
Youth sees the Old Mill standing there,
High on the hill with the West aflare ...
And dark as it looms on the sky, it seems
The Old Mill steadily turns out dreams—.
“All’s well,” grinds the grave Old Mill;
“All’s well,” grinds the brave Old Mill;
“If your eyes and your heart hold loveliness,
And your mind and your soul know faithfulness,
And your eyes and your hands know steadiness....
You shall walk straight over the rim of the years
To the Vivid Land of all conquered fears;
With your heart set true and your eyes set straight,
You will grind good dreams from the grist of fate.”
(But that’s all I know,
Said the Old Mill very low.)
Of a hundred human joys and dreads,
Youth sees the Old Mill standing there,
High on the hill with the West aflare ...
And dark as it looms on the sky, it seems
The Old Mill steadily turns out dreams—.
“All’s well,” grinds the grave Old Mill;
“All’s well,” grinds the brave Old Mill;
“If your eyes and your heart hold loveliness,
And your mind and your soul know faithfulness,
And your eyes and your hands know steadiness....
You shall walk straight over the rim of the years
To the Vivid Land of all conquered fears;
With your heart set true and your eyes set straight,
You will grind good dreams from the grist of fate.”
(But that’s all I know,
Said the Old Mill very low.)
SCISSORS GRINDER.
“’Twas long ago” they said
Of the country whence I came,
“Greece is a dream that is dead,
Athens only a name!”
Yet on this April day
As I go through the towns,
I see soft Thessaly
On these New England downs.
I see the lilied plains
Where the white cranes droop their bills;
And the moving cattle trains
Winding into the hills;
While the farmer drums his bees,
And the donkey shakes his bells
Under the olive trees
Where the Bay of Corinth swells,
To great blue-silver gate
Where the sea-bound temples wait,
And the Eleusinian way
Mistily winds the bay.
On Knossos’ shady knolls
I see the columned tiers;
And the cool Ionic scrolls
Throb to Olympian cheers.
I see a gravelled stream
Winding Olympian reeds;
Again the Scythian dream
Its wagoned people leads.
The river-god drifts on,
Raising a poppied head;
A pipe sounds halcyon—
Nothing of Greece is dead ...!
Of the country whence I came,
“Greece is a dream that is dead,
Athens only a name!”
Yet on this April day
As I go through the towns,
I see soft Thessaly
On these New England downs.
I see the lilied plains
Where the white cranes droop their bills;
And the moving cattle trains
Winding into the hills;
While the farmer drums his bees,
And the donkey shakes his bells
Under the olive trees
Where the Bay of Corinth swells,
To great blue-silver gate
Where the sea-bound temples wait,
And the Eleusinian way
Mistily winds the bay.
On Knossos’ shady knolls
I see the columned tiers;
And the cool Ionic scrolls
Throb to Olympian cheers.
I see a gravelled stream
Winding Olympian reeds;
Again the Scythian dream
Its wagoned people leads.
The river-god drifts on,
Raising a poppied head;
A pipe sounds halcyon—
Nothing of Greece is dead ...!
WHISPERS.
What was it the wind said,
Blowing from the Orient
To the Cross on the hill,
And the fans of the Mill?
What was it the wind said,
Blowing at twilight,
To New England?
Blowing from the Orient
To the Cross on the hill,
And the fans of the Mill?
What was it the wind said,
Blowing at twilight,
To New England?
The wind that blew from the East
Blew dreamily,
A low song and strange song had the sea.
The Islanders sought each other’s eyes,
And young men dreamed enterprise;
Then sails put from the shores,
And wives stood alone at the doors;
For the old world, the strange world, called
To New England!
Blew dreamily,
A low song and strange song had the sea.
The Islanders sought each other’s eyes,
And young men dreamed enterprise;
Then sails put from the shores,
And wives stood alone at the doors;
For the old world, the strange world, called
To New England!
White sails stole out
On the silver sound,
They ran into storms
Outward bound;
They could not stay home
And they would not turn back,
For the Old World,
The dim world,
Called to New England!
On the silver sound,
They ran into storms
Outward bound;
They could not stay home
And they would not turn back,
For the Old World,
The dim world,
Called to New England!
Now, in the old house
Where the chimneys stretch wide,
Young wives talk by the fireside;
On the walls there is Delft,
And the lacquered trays,
Jades, teak and teapots,
Fans of gallant days;
China, tortoise and pearl,
Ivory carved like lace;
Chuddah, Cashmere, Sandal,
In some secret place....
And what say the young wives,
The frank young wives,
To the stranger’s face?
Where the chimneys stretch wide,
Young wives talk by the fireside;
On the walls there is Delft,
And the lacquered trays,
Jades, teak and teapots,
Fans of gallant days;
China, tortoise and pearl,
Ivory carved like lace;
Chuddah, Cashmere, Sandal,
In some secret place....
And what say the young wives,
The frank young wives,
To the stranger’s face?
“No one guessed how they knew,
Nor what the wind said,
And the sailors are gone
And the merchants are dead;
But the toppling summer sea,
And the pale blue winter world,
Came often and oft again,
And the years like sails furled.
Men died on the ships
And were buried at sea,
Men languished on wild coasts,
Lost in mystery....”
Nor what the wind said,
And the sailors are gone
And the merchants are dead;
But the toppling summer sea,
And the pale blue winter world,
Came often and oft again,
And the years like sails furled.
Men died on the ships
And were buried at sea,
Men languished on wild coasts,
Lost in mystery....”
NOT THE GIFT BUT THE GIVER.
Suppose that o’er the blue thin circling line
Where low clouds sleep, some figure-head should shine;
White swelling sails spread out on fan-streaked skies,
And a new vessel in the west should rise.
Suppose this vessel, from untraveled zones,
Through savage suns and fierce Eurocyldons
Should bring me deeply buried in its hold
A mystic gift of jewels and blazing gold.
And, having safely brought the precious thing,
Should spread its sail, augment each shining wing,
And calmly, like a night-bird through the stars,
Speed on again, crossing the distant bars;
Then through the mists go out before my eyes,
Leaving me standing there beside the prize.
I, left on lonely shores, would ever mourn
The messenger that sailed beyond the bourne;
I, left on lonely shores, would only pray
To see again the ship that sailed away.
I, searching the horizon’s purple round,
Would follow ships, hither and thither bound,
Longing for this—to see the dim prow lift,
That brought to me my longing with my gift.
Where low clouds sleep, some figure-head should shine;
White swelling sails spread out on fan-streaked skies,
And a new vessel in the west should rise.
Suppose this vessel, from untraveled zones,
Through savage suns and fierce Eurocyldons
Should bring me deeply buried in its hold
A mystic gift of jewels and blazing gold.
And, having safely brought the precious thing,
Should spread its sail, augment each shining wing,
And calmly, like a night-bird through the stars,
Speed on again, crossing the distant bars;
Then through the mists go out before my eyes,
Leaving me standing there beside the prize.
I, left on lonely shores, would ever mourn
The messenger that sailed beyond the bourne;
I, left on lonely shores, would only pray
To see again the ship that sailed away.
I, searching the horizon’s purple round,
Would follow ships, hither and thither bound,
Longing for this—to see the dim prow lift,
That brought to me my longing with my gift.
THE BALL.
How do we see our world—
Formless? Vague?
A rude sphere hurled through space?
A green kaleidoscope of trees,
And the flash of seas?
And life and movement in every place?
Formless? Vague?
A rude sphere hurled through space?
A green kaleidoscope of trees,
And the flash of seas?
And life and movement in every place?
I see my world with color wet;
With the golden sap
Pushing the green to the ardent sky.
I see the ripeness, the warmth of fruits,
Round to the sun, plumed melody,
The clasp and the subtleties of roots;
I see gods walk on the morning hills,
Up the dappled brooks and the secret lanes
And vistas leading to ferny haunts,
Where the vivid crimson cardinal flaunts
In calm of tree-pillared fanes.
With the golden sap
Pushing the green to the ardent sky.
I see the ripeness, the warmth of fruits,
Round to the sun, plumed melody,
The clasp and the subtleties of roots;
I see gods walk on the morning hills,
Up the dappled brooks and the secret lanes
And vistas leading to ferny haunts,
Where the vivid crimson cardinal flaunts
In calm of tree-pillared fanes.
I see my world star-fretted, caught
In the web of enchained eternities—
With the age-old moon on her stair, cloud wrought,
Climbing the night-sky’s precipice;
I see the silver wheel of tides,
The night spell hid in the forest breast,
The gold splashed dawn that gravely glides
Over grey mountain crest.
In the web of enchained eternities—
With the age-old moon on her stair, cloud wrought,
Climbing the night-sky’s precipice;
I see the silver wheel of tides,
The night spell hid in the forest breast,
The gold splashed dawn that gravely glides
Over grey mountain crest.
O World, whirling out with the sun,
And holding us, everyone,
When the golden skies twilighted lean
To the purple hills—What have they seen,
Who were born, still blind, in a web of days,
To thy lessons written in simple ways?
Dull streets choked with dusty forms?
Crowds and houses and groups and swarms
Who strive, and lose, and are gone again?
A world of sordid women and men?
A crowd of petty and dull and mean?
Not a flower face nor a splash of green—
Unless—O world, they have seen it all—
The miracle of thy Wonder-Ball!
And holding us, everyone,
When the golden skies twilighted lean
To the purple hills—What have they seen,
Who were born, still blind, in a web of days,
To thy lessons written in simple ways?
Dull streets choked with dusty forms?
Crowds and houses and groups and swarms
Who strive, and lose, and are gone again?
A world of sordid women and men?
A crowd of petty and dull and mean?
Not a flower face nor a splash of green—
Unless—O world, they have seen it all—
The miracle of thy Wonder-Ball!
THE TOWN CLOCK GIVES ADVICE TO THE TOURIST.
If you walk on Main Street,
Turn your fancy loose,
Out of lace and lacquer
You may pick and choose;
Poetry of race and clan,
Demure maid and solemn man,
All the lore is stored away
In these houses brick and grey.
Puritan and worldly wise
Trod these stones that meet your eyes;
Hoary old aristocrats,
Old chairs, parrots, lace and cats;
Old umbrellas, ivory canes,
Whale and ship for weather vanes;
Soldiers’ Monument and bank,
Shops and studios in rank;
New sails spread or old sails furled....
Main Street’s where you meet the World!
Turn your fancy loose,
Out of lace and lacquer
You may pick and choose;
Poetry of race and clan,
Demure maid and solemn man,
All the lore is stored away
In these houses brick and grey.
Puritan and worldly wise
Trod these stones that meet your eyes;
Hoary old aristocrats,
Old chairs, parrots, lace and cats;
Old umbrellas, ivory canes,
Whale and ship for weather vanes;
Soldiers’ Monument and bank,
Shops and studios in rank;
New sails spread or old sails furled....
Main Street’s where you meet the World!
If you turn in Salem Street,
Better have a care;
The Law is on your left
And the red jail is there.
They don’t burn witches
But you’d better beware!
Better have a care;
The Law is on your left
And the red jail is there.
They don’t burn witches
But you’d better beware!
If you walk on Whale Street,
Roll some in your gait;
Make believe that caravels
For your coming wait;
Square-rigged and clipper-built,
Wind jammer and schooner,
Will bear you off on cruises
If not later, sooner!
Roll some in your gait;
Make believe that caravels
For your coming wait;
Square-rigged and clipper-built,
Wind jammer and schooner,
Will bear you off on cruises
If not later, sooner!
On North Water Street
Salt creeps into speech;
Looking down the little lanes
You will see the beach.
All along North Water Street,
Please to make a note,
All that’s worth saying
Is said about a boat.
Salt creeps into speech;
Looking down the little lanes
You will see the beach.
All along North Water Street,
Please to make a note,
All that’s worth saying
Is said about a boat.
If you walk on Milk Street,
Keep your wits about you;
Don’t let any saucy star
On Vestal Street scout you.
Curtsey to the Old Mill,
Snatch a rose from arbor;
Milk Street’s a nice street
To come in harbor.
Keep your wits about you;
Don’t let any saucy star
On Vestal Street scout you.
Curtsey to the Old Mill,
Snatch a rose from arbor;
Milk Street’s a nice street
To come in harbor.
If you walk through Pleasant Street,
You are sure to see
Many brilliant knockers
Shine reflectingly;
Gardens full of spicy bloom,
And real ladies taking tea.
You are sure to see
Many brilliant knockers
Shine reflectingly;
Gardens full of spicy bloom,
And real ladies taking tea.
If you go through Orange Street,
You will have a glance
At Japanese poetry
And English romance;
You’ll smell paint, hear some radio,
And see among the wise
A scholar with a Christian’s face,
And two great grey eyes.
You will have a glance
At Japanese poetry
And English romance;
You’ll smell paint, hear some radio,
And see among the wise
A scholar with a Christian’s face,
And two great grey eyes.
If you walk through Centre Street,
You will surely meet
A true, true, woman
With voice and manner sweet;
And there the windows fairly talk,
And the fences are so neat.
You will surely meet
A true, true, woman
With voice and manner sweet;
And there the windows fairly talk,
And the fences are so neat.
If you walk through Lily Street
The sunset’s at the end
Honeysuckle claims you
Like an old friend;
And quaintly blocked upon the skies
Old houses on “Gull Island” rise.
The sunset’s at the end
Honeysuckle claims you
Like an old friend;
And quaintly blocked upon the skies
Old houses on “Gull Island” rise.
If you walk through Quince Street,
Never stand and stare,
Hollyhocks will ask you
To go otherwhere;
Apples growing you may see,
Raspberry and pear tree;
Wisdom and a pretty wit
If you know where to look for it.
Never stand and stare,
Hollyhocks will ask you
To go otherwhere;
Apples growing you may see,
Raspberry and pear tree;
Wisdom and a pretty wit
If you know where to look for it.
If you walk through Joy Street,
Take a little heed
To keep a fairly sober air,
Dignity you’ll need;
There’s something about Joy Street
Goes to the head indeed.
Take a little heed
To keep a fairly sober air,
Dignity you’ll need;
There’s something about Joy Street
Goes to the head indeed.
And when you are in Gay Street
Choose a sober pace,
Clematis along the fence,
Shakes its stars like lace;
And twinkling little cups of flowers
Toss in a sheltered place.
Choose a sober pace,
Clematis along the fence,
Shakes its stars like lace;
And twinkling little cups of flowers
Toss in a sheltered place.
If you look for money,
There’s New Dollar Lane,
And Mill Street, another street
With a pirate pointing vane;
Consulting maps and other code
You’ll find the Thousand Dollar Road!
There’s New Dollar Lane,
And Mill Street, another street
With a pirate pointing vane;
Consulting maps and other code
You’ll find the Thousand Dollar Road!
And last of all, wherever you walk,
Stagger through Stone Alley,
Slip along the cobbled stone,
Slide methodically;
Honeysuckle may evade,
Birds shilly-shally,
But a good place to meet a maid
Is in Stone Alley.
Stagger through Stone Alley,
Slip along the cobbled stone,
Slide methodically;
Honeysuckle may evade,
Birds shilly-shally,
But a good place to meet a maid
Is in Stone Alley.
CUP.
I walked among them with my cup of blue;
It was aflame sometimes, and sometimes trembled
With sweet of all the exquisite things I knew.
Yet was I feared to tell the draught, dissembled,
My wish to have these strangers taste the brew
That to my lip all sky and sun resembled.
It was aflame sometimes, and sometimes trembled
With sweet of all the exquisite things I knew.
Yet was I feared to tell the draught, dissembled,
My wish to have these strangers taste the brew
That to my lip all sky and sun resembled.
I walked among them, holding up my grail;
Holding it steady, bidding to the drinking.
It was the best I knew; luminous, pale,
Changeful and fiery in its bubbled winking;
I watched its vital depth grow warm and sunny,
Ethereal-bitter—sometimes sweet as honey.
Holding it steady, bidding to the drinking.
It was the best I knew; luminous, pale,
Changeful and fiery in its bubbled winking;
I watched its vital depth grow warm and sunny,
Ethereal-bitter—sometimes sweet as honey.
I walked among them with my cup of blue;
They laughed and turned to chatter at my rapture.
“What cup is this,” they asked, “of simple brew?
What un-sure Wine, what grail of dullard’s capture?
This is no drink to slake our fevered dryness;
This mead for us would hold but acid wryness.”
They laughed and turned to chatter at my rapture.
“What cup is this,” they asked, “of simple brew?
What un-sure Wine, what grail of dullard’s capture?
This is no drink to slake our fevered dryness;
This mead for us would hold but acid wryness.”
TO ABRAM QUARY
(The Last Indian on Nantucket)
When the long shadows fell across the wind,
And the dense sheep moved grayly on the moor,
How was it with you, Island Amerind,
Sitting dream-bound beside your Shimmo door?
Did tides that curved the ripples to that shore
Remind you that somewhere the Source must be
That sent you, outward ripple of a race half spent—
Bewildered son of hidden continent?
And the dense sheep moved grayly on the moor,
How was it with you, Island Amerind,
Sitting dream-bound beside your Shimmo door?
Did tides that curved the ripples to that shore
Remind you that somewhere the Source must be
That sent you, outward ripple of a race half spent—
Bewildered son of hidden continent?
Dark, dying Indian, with grave hand bowed
In untaught dreaming of dark ancestry,
Saw’st coast and vineyard and the stalwart crowd
Of young red men embarking on the sea?
Or up great rivers in some land of rain,
In swift canoes chasing the brilliant feather,
Or dancing God-thoughts in the harvest weather?
In untaught dreaming of dark ancestry,
Saw’st coast and vineyard and the stalwart crowd
Of young red men embarking on the sea?
Or up great rivers in some land of rain,
In swift canoes chasing the brilliant feather,
Or dancing God-thoughts in the harvest weather?
All gone? No trail? No scrolléd birch barks sign
To hand the tale from father down to son?
What meaning was in totems’ reptiled line?
What old taboo in crest and trophy won?
What mightiest Chieftain led the hunting bout
Or what dark Sachem fathered all the swarms
Of circled fire lights’ solemn squatting forms?
To hand the tale from father down to son?
What meaning was in totems’ reptiled line?
What old taboo in crest and trophy won?
What mightiest Chieftain led the hunting bout
Or what dark Sachem fathered all the swarms
Of circled fire lights’ solemn squatting forms?
Maybe the Outward Trail was marked with stars
That shone of old in ancient weather book;
Perhaps old campfires lit old forest scars,
Or in the sky where some Great Spirit shook
A mighty spear: perhaps thy brothers stayed
To welcome thee, when stern and unafraid
Thy moccasined feet fared those mysterious trails
That Aqueous Time like clear brook water veils.
That shone of old in ancient weather book;
Perhaps old campfires lit old forest scars,
Or in the sky where some Great Spirit shook
A mighty spear: perhaps thy brothers stayed
To welcome thee, when stern and unafraid
Thy moccasined feet fared those mysterious trails
That Aqueous Time like clear brook water veils.
3 A. M.
He came and sat with me, that One
Whom we so fear. And as I looked
Closer upon him, lo! I felt
Myself unfearing. “Death,” I asked,
“Why is it that no man hath read,
Nor understood thee?” Then he gazed
With that dark glory of his eyes,
Answering: “If men could know
How I yearn toward them; if they saw
The things that I would show them; Yea,
Could trust, accept, come to me kind,
Like little children! It were well!
’Twere well, indeed, if this could be.
“I am afraid of Life,” said Death, and smiled at me.
Whom we so fear. And as I looked
Closer upon him, lo! I felt
Myself unfearing. “Death,” I asked,
“Why is it that no man hath read,
Nor understood thee?” Then he gazed
With that dark glory of his eyes,
Answering: “If men could know
How I yearn toward them; if they saw
The things that I would show them; Yea,
Could trust, accept, come to me kind,
Like little children! It were well!
’Twere well, indeed, if this could be.
“I am afraid of Life,” said Death, and smiled at me.
ON THE JETTY.
Still the old rage, O Sea?
Blue lightnings buried under snowy shock
Of white foam-bodies dying on the rock;
Such sobbing passion to be still more free—
Still the old yearning ... Sea?
Blue lightnings buried under snowy shock
Of white foam-bodies dying on the rock;
Such sobbing passion to be still more free—
Still the old yearning ... Sea?
Still the old secret ... Sky?
Cloud galleons sailing for some coast of Dream,
And robber winds a-gallop for the gleam
Of Western gold where purple banners fly—
Still the old questing ... Sky?
Cloud galleons sailing for some coast of Dream,
And robber winds a-gallop for the gleam
Of Western gold where purple banners fly—
Still the old questing ... Sky?
WINDROW.
Old figures in a lane,
Toward the grey church going;
Vines tapping on a pane,
Strong wind blowing.
Toward the grey church going;
Vines tapping on a pane,
Strong wind blowing.
Old comers by a lane,
Heads bowed and hoary;
Stiff knees and tapping cane,
Wind knows the story.
Heads bowed and hoary;
Stiff knees and tapping cane,
Wind knows the story.
Old patterns in a lane,
Toward the grey church going;
Follow through veils of rain,
Brown leaves blowing.
Toward the grey church going;
Follow through veils of rain,
Brown leaves blowing.
THE SWIMMER.
Tonight the ocean calls,
The stars respond, wide-scattered through the skies;
Swift through the cool of curling wave he hies,
Who swims far out, nor sees the shore receding—
Only his strength, his long bold measures heeding.
The stars respond, wide-scattered through the skies;
Swift through the cool of curling wave he hies,
Who swims far out, nor sees the shore receding—
Only his strength, his long bold measures heeding.
Proud in his power, strong,
From hateful touch of hands that haunt him, free
He plunges forward through dark wastes of sea,
Passionate in the careless joy of roaming
Through billowed gulfs, forgetful of his homing.
From hateful touch of hands that haunt him, free
He plunges forward through dark wastes of sea,
Passionate in the careless joy of roaming
Through billowed gulfs, forgetful of his homing.
Tranced in the summer night,
Lying far out on the high-breasted deep,
He dreams alone. Lo! In illumined sleep,
White Naiads gleam in dim sea-groves and hollows,
Under the tide-drawn heaving path he follows.
Lying far out on the high-breasted deep,
He dreams alone. Lo! In illumined sleep,
White Naiads gleam in dim sea-groves and hollows,
Under the tide-drawn heaving path he follows.
IN THE ANTIQUE SHOP.
All day the silver-headed craftsman bends
Over the broken chain, the gemless rings,
The voiceless clock, the fragile fan, and mends
With delicate fingers rare broken things.
I gaze on him, on gems and glimmering gold,
See light restoring touches, magic skill;
Till to my heart come strange imaginings
Of ruined lives I know, shattered and still.
O Craftsman! Here is mettle, dull and old;
Look on these broken lives. Can’st thou remold?
Can’st thou, with color, love designs refill—
Bring beauty out of sorrow’s patternings?
Over the broken chain, the gemless rings,
The voiceless clock, the fragile fan, and mends
With delicate fingers rare broken things.
I gaze on him, on gems and glimmering gold,
See light restoring touches, magic skill;
Till to my heart come strange imaginings
Of ruined lives I know, shattered and still.
O Craftsman! Here is mettle, dull and old;
Look on these broken lives. Can’st thou remold?
Can’st thou, with color, love designs refill—
Bring beauty out of sorrow’s patternings?
THE CARDINAL FLOWER.
Wrapped in his crimson gown and cowl,
Beside her slender form he stood;
There by the grassy brook they strayed,
And sun-rise thrush and moonlight owl
Knew that she listened while he wooed.
Beside her slender form he stood;
There by the grassy brook they strayed,
And sun-rise thrush and moonlight owl
Knew that she listened while he wooed.
So blue her eyes, so golden fell
The sunny hair about her face;
She stepped with delicate sweet pride
Along the grasses, close beside
The brook’s cool lily-shadowed place.
The sunny hair about her face;
She stepped with delicate sweet pride
Along the grasses, close beside
The brook’s cool lily-shadowed place.
“It was a shame that they should go
Thus side by side, at last to part,”
Earth said: “Mine all this color now,
Her soft blue eyes, gold hair and brow,
The red blood in his ardent heart.”
Thus side by side, at last to part,”
Earth said: “Mine all this color now,
Her soft blue eyes, gold hair and brow,
The red blood in his ardent heart.”