There are shadows that compel us,
There are voices that control;
More than substance these can tell us,
Speaking to the human soul.
There are voices that control;
More than substance these can tell us,
Speaking to the human soul.
In the moonlight, when it glistened
On my window, white as snow,
Once I woke and, leaning, listened
To a voice that sang below.
On my window, white as snow,
Once I woke and, leaning, listened
To a voice that sang below.
Full of gladness, full of yearning,
Strange with dreamy melody,
Like a bird whose heart is burning,
Wildly sweet it sang to me.
Strange with dreamy melody,
Like a bird whose heart is burning,
Wildly sweet it sang to me.
I arose; and by the starlight,
Pale beneath the mystic sky,
I have seen it full of far light,—
My dead joy go singing by.
Pale beneath the mystic sky,
I have seen it full of far light,—
My dead joy go singing by.
In the darkness, when the glimmer
Of the storm was on the pane,
I have sat and heard a dimmer
Voice lamenting in the rain.
Of the storm was on the pane,
I have sat and heard a dimmer
Voice lamenting in the rain.
Full of parting and unspoken
Heartbreak, faint with agony,
Like a bird whose heart is broken,
Sadly low it cried to me.
Heartbreak, faint with agony,
Like a bird whose heart is broken,
Sadly low it cried to me.
I arose; and in the darkness
Wan beneath the haunted sky,
I have seen it, cold to starkness,—
My dead love go weeping by.
Wan beneath the haunted sky,
I have seen it, cold to starkness,—
My dead love go weeping by.
5
He arouses from his abstraction.
So long it seems since last I saw her face,
So long ago it seems,
Like some sad soul in unconjectured space
Still seeking happiness through perished grace
And unrealities,—a little while
Illusions lead me, ending in the smile
Of Death triumphant in a thorny place
Among Love's ruined roses and dead dreams.
So long ago it seems,
Like some sad soul in unconjectured space
Still seeking happiness through perished grace
And unrealities,—a little while
Illusions lead me, ending in the smile
Of Death triumphant in a thorny place
Among Love's ruined roses and dead dreams.
Since she is gone, no more I see the light,—
Since she has left all dark,—
Cleave like a revelation through the night.
I wander blindly, filled with fear and fright,
Among the fragments and the wrecks and stones
Of life, where Hope, amid the skulls and bones,
With weary face, disheartened, wild and white,
Trims her pale lamp with its expiring spark.
Since she has left all dark,—
Cleave like a revelation through the night.
I wander blindly, filled with fear and fright,
Among the fragments and the wrecks and stones
Of life, where Hope, amid the skulls and bones,
With weary face, disheartened, wild and white,
Trims her pale lamp with its expiring spark.
Now she is dead, the Soul, naught can o'erawe,—
Now she has passed from me,—
Questions God's justice that seems full of flaw
As is His world, where misery is law,
And men but fools too willing to be slaves.—
My House of Faith, built up on dust of graves,
The wind of doubt sweeps down as made of straw,
And all is night, and I no longer see.
Now she has passed from me,—
Questions God's justice that seems full of flaw
As is His world, where misery is law,
And men but fools too willing to be slaves.—
My House of Faith, built up on dust of graves,
The wind of doubt sweeps down as made of straw,
And all is night, and I no longer see.
6
He looks from his window toward the sombre west.
Ridged and bleak the gray forsaken
Twilight at the night has guessed;
And no star of dusk has taken
Flame unshaken in the west.
Twilight at the night has guessed;
And no star of dusk has taken
Flame unshaken in the west.
All day long the woodlands dying
Moaned, and drippings as of grief
Tossed from barren boughs with sighing
Death of flying twig and leaf.
Moaned, and drippings as of grief
Tossed from barren boughs with sighing
Death of flying twig and leaf.
Ah, to live a life unbroken,
Scornful of the worst of fate!
Like that tree ... with branches oaken....
Joy's unspoken intimate.—
Scornful of the worst of fate!
Like that tree ... with branches oaken....
Joy's unspoken intimate.—
Who can say that man has never
Lived the life of plants and trees?
Not so wide the lines that sever
Us forever here from these.
Lived the life of plants and trees?
Not so wide the lines that sever
Us forever here from these.
Colors, odors, that are cherished,
Haply hint we once were flowers;
Memory alone has perished
In this garished world of ours.
Haply hint we once were flowers;
Memory alone has perished
In this garished world of ours.
Music,—that all things expresses,
All for which we've loved or sinned,—
Haply in our treey tresses
Once was guesses of the wind....
All for which we've loved or sinned,—
Haply in our treey tresses
Once was guesses of the wind....
But I dream!—The dusk, upbraiding,
Deepens without moon or star;
Darkness and my sorrow aiding,
We but fading phantoms are.
Deepens without moon or star;
Darkness and my sorrow aiding,
We but fading phantoms are.
And within me doubt keeps saying—
"What is wrong? and what is right?
Hear the cursing! hear the praying!
All are straying on in night."
"What is wrong? and what is right?
Hear the cursing! hear the praying!
All are straying on in night."
7
He turns from the window, takes up a book and reads.
The Soul, like Earth, hath silences
Which speak not, yet are heard—
The voices mute of memories
Are louder than a word.
Which speak not, yet are heard—
The voices mute of memories
Are louder than a word.
Theirs is a speech which is not speech;
A language that is bound
To soul-vibrations vague that reach
Deeper than any sound.
A language that is bound
To soul-vibrations vague that reach
Deeper than any sound.
No words are theirs. They speak through things,
A visible utterance
Of thoughts—like those some sunset brings
Or withered rose perchance.
A visible utterance
Of thoughts—like those some sunset brings
Or withered rose perchance.
The heavens that once, in purple and flame,
Spake to two hearts as one,
In after years may speak the same
To one sad heart alone.
Spake to two hearts as one,
In after years may speak the same
To one sad heart alone.
Through it the vanished face and eyes
Of her, the sweet and fair,
Of her the lost, again shall rise
To comfort his despair.
Of her, the sweet and fair,
Of her the lost, again shall rise
To comfort his despair.
And so the love that led him long
From golden scene to scene,
Within the sunset is a tongue
To tell him what has been.—
From golden scene to scene,
Within the sunset is a tongue
To tell him what has been.—
How loud it speaks of that dead day,
The rose whose bloom is fled!
Of her who died; who, clasped in clay,
Lies numbered with the dead.
The rose whose bloom is fled!
Of her who died; who, clasped in clay,
Lies numbered with the dead.
The dead are dead; with them 'tis well
Within their narrow room;—
No memories haunt their hearts who dwell
Within the grave and tomb.
Within their narrow room;—
No memories haunt their hearts who dwell
Within the grave and tomb.
But what of those—the dead who live!
The living dead, whose lot
Is still to love—ah, God forgive!—
To live and love, forgot!—
The living dead, whose lot
Is still to love—ah, God forgive!—
To live and love, forgot!—
8
The storm is heard sounding wildly with wind and hail.
The night is wild with rain and sleet.
Each loose-warped casement claps and groans.
I hear the plangent forest beat
The tempest with long blatant moans
As of despair, defeat.
Each loose-warped casement claps and groans.
I hear the plangent forest beat
The tempest with long blatant moans
As of despair, defeat.
And sitting here beyond the storm,
Alone within the lonely house,
It seems that some mesmeric charm
Hangs over all.—Why, even the mouse,
That gnawed, has come to harm.
Alone within the lonely house,
It seems that some mesmeric charm
Hangs over all.—Why, even the mouse,
That gnawed, has come to harm.
And in the silence, stolen o'er
All things, I strangely seem to fear
Myself—that, opening yon door,
I'd find my dead self drawing near,
With face that once I wore.
All things, I strangely seem to fear
Myself—that, opening yon door,
I'd find my dead self drawing near,
With face that once I wore.
The stairway creaks with ghostly gusts.
The flue moans—'tis a gorgon throat
Of wailing winds. Ancestral dusts,—
That yonder Indian war-gear coat
With gray and spectral crusts,—
The flue moans—'tis a gorgon throat
Of wailing winds. Ancestral dusts,—
That yonder Indian war-gear coat
With gray and spectral crusts,—
Are trembled down.—Or can it be,
That he who wore it in the dance,
Or battle, now fills shadowy
Its wampumed skins? And shakes his lance
And warrior plume at me?—
That he who wore it in the dance,
Or battle, now fills shadowy
Its wampumed skins? And shakes his lance
And warrior plume at me?—
Mere fancy!—Yet those curtains toss
Mysteriously as if some dark
Hand moved them.—And I'd fear to cross
The shadow there where lies that spark—
A glow-worm sunk in moss.
Mysteriously as if some dark
Hand moved them.—And I'd fear to cross
The shadow there where lies that spark—
A glow-worm sunk in moss.
Outside 'twere better!—Yes, I yearn
To walk the waste where sway and dip
The dark December boughs—where burn
Some late last leaves, that drip and drip
No matter where you turn.
To walk the waste where sway and dip
The dark December boughs—where burn
Some late last leaves, that drip and drip
No matter where you turn.
Where sodden soil, you scarce have trod,
Fills oozy footprints—but the blind
Night there, tho' like the frown of God,
Presents no phantoms to the mind,
Like these that have o'erawed.—
Fills oozy footprints—but the blind
Night there, tho' like the frown of God,
Presents no phantoms to the mind,
Like these that have o'erawed.—
The months I count: how long it seems
Since summer! summer, when with her,
There on her porch, in rainy gleams
We watched the flickering lightning stir
In heavens gray as dreams.
Since summer! summer, when with her,
There on her porch, in rainy gleams
We watched the flickering lightning stir
In heavens gray as dreams.
When all the west, a sheet of gold,
Flared,—like some Titan's opened forge,—
With storm; revealing manifold
Vast peaks of clouds with crag and gorge,
Where thunder torrents rolled.
Flared,—like some Titan's opened forge,—
With storm; revealing manifold
Vast peaks of clouds with crag and gorge,
Where thunder torrents rolled.
Then came the wind; again, again
The lightning lit the world—and how
The tempest roared with rushing rain!...
We could not read.—Where is it now,
That tale of Charlemagne?
The lightning lit the world—and how
The tempest roared with rushing rain!...
We could not read.—Where is it now,
That tale of Charlemagne?
That old romance, ah me! that we
Were reading? till we heard the plunge
Of summer thunder sullenly,
And left to watch the lightning lunge,
And winds bend down each tree.—
Were reading? till we heard the plunge
Of summer thunder sullenly,
And left to watch the lightning lunge,
And winds bend down each tree.—
That summer! how it built us there
A world of love and necromance!
A spirit-world, where all was fair;
An island, sleeping in a trance
Of lilied light and air.
A world of love and necromance!
A spirit-world, where all was fair;
An island, sleeping in a trance
Of lilied light and air.
Where every flower was a thought;
And every bird, a melody;
And every fragrance, zephyr brought,
Was but the rainbowed drapery
Of some sweet dream long sought.
And every bird, a melody;
And every fragrance, zephyr brought,
Was but the rainbowed drapery
Of some sweet dream long sought.
O land of shadows! shadow-home,
Within my world of memories!
Around whose ruins sweeps the foam
Of sorrow's immemorial seas,
By whose dark shores I roam!
Within my world of memories!
Around whose ruins sweeps the foam
Of sorrow's immemorial seas,
By whose dark shores I roam!
How long in your wrecked halls alone
With ghosts of joys must I remain?
Between the unknown and the known,
Still listening to the wind and rain,
And my own heart's wild moan.
With ghosts of joys must I remain?
Between the unknown and the known,
Still listening to the wind and rain,
And my own heart's wild moan.
9
He sits by the slowly dying fire. The storm is heard with increased violence.
Wild weather. The lash of the sleet
On the gusty casement tapping—
The sound of the storm like a sheet
My soul and senses wrapping.
On the gusty casement tapping—
The sound of the storm like a sheet
My soul and senses wrapping.
Wild weather. And how is she,
Now the rush of the rain falls serried
Over the turf and the tree
Of the place where she is buried?
Now the rush of the rain falls serried
Over the turf and the tree
Of the place where she is buried?
Wild weather. How black and deep
Is the night where the mad winds scurry!—
Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleep
That I hear her footsteps hurry?
Is the night where the mad winds scurry!—
Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleep
That I hear her footsteps hurry?
Hither they come like flowers—
And I see her raiment glisten,
Like the robe of one of the hours
Where the stars to the angels listen.
And I see her raiment glisten,
Like the robe of one of the hours
Where the stars to the angels listen.
Before me, behold, how she stands!
With lips high thoughts have weighted,
And testifying hands,
And eyes with glory sated.
With lips high thoughts have weighted,
And testifying hands,
And eyes with glory sated.
I have spoken and I have kneeled;
I have kissed her feet in wonder—
But lo! her lips—they are sealed,
God-sealed, and will not sunder.
I have kissed her feet in wonder—
But lo! her lips—they are sealed,
God-sealed, and will not sunder.
Though I sob, "Your stay was long!
You are come,—but your feet were laggard!—
With mansuetude and song
For the soul your death has daggered."
You are come,—but your feet were laggard!—
With mansuetude and song
For the soul your death has daggered."
Never a word replies,
Never to all my weeping—
Only a sound of sighs,
And raiment past me sweeping....
Never to all my weeping—
Only a sound of sighs,
And raiment past me sweeping....
I wake; and a clock strikes three—
And the night and the storm beat serried
Over the turf and the tree
Of the place where she is buried.
And the night and the storm beat serried
Over the turf and the tree
Of the place where she is buried.
THE LYRIC LIBRARY
POEMS OF THE TOWN
Ernest McGaffey
SONG-SURF
Cale Young Rice
ONE DAY AND ANOTHER
Madison Cawein
FOR THINKING HEARTS
John Vance Cheney
IN THE HARBOR OF HOPE
Mary Elizabeth Blake
Other volumes in preparation.
16 mo. Flexible Leather. $1.25.
A book of poetry worth while.
POEMS OF THE TOWN
By ERNEST McGAFFEY
16 mo. Flexible Leather. $1.25
The following are but a few extracts from many reviews received on Poems of the Town. Among this chorus of praise there has not been one dissenting voice.
"For terse English, for picturesque and appropriate imagery, for keen and faithful portraiture Mr. McGaffey has no superior. And there will be many to say that this book entitles him to recognition as the interpreter of his age."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.
"It is doubtful if any American poet has written a finer, more humane, more nobly and righteously wrathful outburst against the maladies of civilization than the poem in this collection entitled Laocoon of the Town."—St. Louis Mirror.
"His lyrics have that touch of universality which distinguishes true poetry from mere verse. It is not too much to say that Poems of the Town are certain to take a place among the best examples of American poetry."—Editorial Chicago Chronicle.
IRISH MIST AND SUNSHINE
BALLADS AND LYRICS BY
REV. JAMES B. DOLLARD
(Sliav-na-mon)
With an introduction by William O'Brien, M. P. With frontispiece. Small quarto. Cloth ornamental. $1.50
This is a book of ringing Irish ballads that will stir the heart of every lover of true poetry. "Here and there a verse may be as frankly unadorned as the peasant cabins themselves in their homely cloaks of thatch, but every line rings true to life and home and with the tone, as heartmoving as the Angelus which holds Millet's peasants in its spell," from Mr. O'Brien's introduction.
"Father Dollard's ballads have all the fire and dash of Kipling's, with a firmer poetic touch" says Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole.
FOUR DAYS OF GOD
By Harriet Prescott Spofford
With about 90 illustrations in color. Bound in white and gold and purple. Small 4 to. (Probably) $1.00.
It is quite impossible to describe adequately the surpassing charm of this book. We can say simply that it will appeal to every lover of nature who sees in her manifold beauties the living glories of the work of God.
No one can write more beautiful or sparkling prose than Mrs. Spofford and never has she been so absolutely charming as in Four Days of God.
The book has about 90 illustrations by Miss A. C. Tomlinson which catch the spirit of the text to perfection and with the harmonious print and paper and binding make the book a little gem.