The Congo, and Other Poems

   Thou wilt not sentence to eternal life
   My soul that prays that it may sleep and sleep
   Like a white statue dropped into the deep,
   Covered with sand, covered with chests of gold,
   And slave-bones, tossed from many a pirate hold.

   But for this prayer thou wilt not bind in Hell
   My soul, that shook with love for Fame and Truth—
   In such unquenched desires consumed his youth—
   Let me turn dust, like dead leaves in the Fall,
   Or wood that lights an hour your knightly hall—
                                           Amen.

       I

     The Hope of the Resurrection

   Though I have watched so many mourners weep
   O'er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep—
   Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days
   That passed and left me in the sun's bright rays.
   Now though you go on smiling in the sun
   Our love is slain, and love and you were one.
   You are the first, you I have known so long,
   Whose death was deadly, a tremendous wrong.
   Therefore I seek the faith that sets it right
   Amid the lilies and the candle-light.
   I think on Heaven, for in that air so clear
   We two may meet, confused and parted here.
   Ah, when man's dearest dies, 'tis then he goes
   To that old balm that heals the centuries' woes.
   Then Christ's wild cry in all the streets is rife:—
   "I am the Resurrection and the Life."

       II

     We meet at the Judgment and I fear it Not

   Though better men may fear that trumpet's warning,
   I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning,
   With golden hope my spirit still adorning.

   Our God who made you all so fair and sweet
   Is three times gentle, and before his feet
   Rejoicing I shall say:—"The girl you gave
   Was my first Heaven, an angel bent to save.
   Oh, God, her maker, if my ingrate breath
   Is worth this rescue from the Second Death,
   Perhaps her dear proud eyes grow gentler too
   That scorned my graceless years and trophies few.
   Gone are those years, and gone ill-deeds that turned
   Her sacred beauty from my songs that burned.
   We now as comrades through the stars may take
   The rich and arduous quests I did forsake.
   Grant me a seraph-guide to thread the throng
   And quickly find that woman-soul so strong.
   I dream that in her deeply-hidden heart
   Hurt love lived on, though we were far apart,
   A brooding secret mercy like your own
   That blooms to-day to vindicate your throne.

   I would be one with the dark, dark earth:—
   Follow the plough with a yokel tread.
   I would be part of the Indian corn,
   Walking the rows with the plumes o'erhead.

   I would be one with the lavish earth,
   Eating the bee-stung apples red:
   Walking where lambs walk on the hills;
   By oak-grove paths to the pools be led.

   I would be one with the dark-bright night
   When sparkling skies and the lightning wed—
   Walking on with the vicious wind
   By roads whence even the dogs have fled.

   I would be one with the sacred earth
   On to the end, till I sleep with the dead.
   Terror shall put no spears through me.
   Peace shall jewel my shroud instead.

   I shall be one with all pit-black things
   Finding their lowering threat unsaid:
   Stars for my pillow there in the gloom,—
   Oak-roots arching about my head!

   Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth,
   Acorns fall round my breast that bled.
   Children shall weave there a flowery chain,
   Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed:—

   Fruit of the traveller-heart of me,
   Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped:
   Sweet with the life of my sunburned days
   When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red.

   The North Star whispers:  "You are one
   Of those whose course no chance can change.
   You blunder, but are not undone,
   Your spirit-task is fixed and strange.

   "When here you walk, a bloodless shade,
   A singer all men else forget.
   Your chants of hammer, forge and spade
   Will move the prairie-village yet.

   "That young, stiff-necked, reviling town
   Beholds your fancies on her walls,
   And paints them out or tears them down,
   Or bars them from her feasting-halls.

   "Yet shall the fragments still remain;
   Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong
   That ivy-vines will not disdain,
   Haunted and trembling with your song.

   "Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn,
   Flame high in storms, flame white and clear;
   Your ghost in gleaming robes return
   And burn a deathless incense here."

   This section is a Christmas tree:
   Loaded with pretty toys for you.
   Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks,
   The popguns painted red and blue.
   No solemn pine-cone forest-fruit,
   But silver horns and candy sacks
   And many little tinsel hearts
   And cherubs pink, and jumping-jacks.
   For every child a gift, I hope.
   The doll upon the topmost bough
   Is mine.  But all the rest are yours.
   And I will light the candles now.

   "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy,
   Or else he would wither and die.
   "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy,
   "For strength to climb up through the sky.
   He leans on invisible angels,
   And Faith is his prop and his rod.
   The sky is his crystal cathedral.
   And dawn is his altar to God."

     I. The Lion

   The Lion is a kingly beast.
   He likes a Hindu for a feast.
   And if no Hindu he can get,
   The lion-family is upset.

   He cuffs his wife and bites her ears
   Till she is nearly moved to tears.
   Then some explorer finds the den
   And all is family peace again.

     II.  An Explanation of the Grasshopper

   The Grasshopper, the grasshopper,
   I will explain to you:—
   He is the Brownies' racehorse,
   The fairies' Kangaroo.

     III.  The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies

   In fairyland the little boys
   Would rather fight than eat their meals.
   They like to chase a gauze-winged fly
   And catch and beat him till he squeals.
   Sometimes they come to sleeping men
   Armed with the deadly red-rose thorn,
   And those that feel its fearful wound
   Repent the day that they were born.

     IV.  The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down

   The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down
   Began his task in early life.
   He kept so busy with his teeth
   He had no time to take a wife.

   He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain
   When the ambitious fit was on,
   Then rested in the sawdust till
   A month of idleness had gone.

   He did not move about to hunt
   The coteries of mousie-men.
   He was a snail-paced, stupid thing
   Until he cared to gnaw again.

   The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down,
   When that tough foe was at his feet—
   Found in the stump no angel-cake
   Nor buttered bread, nor cheese, nor meat—
   The forest-roof let in the sky.
   "This light is worth the work," said he.
   "I'll make this ancient swamp more light,"
   And started on another tree.

     V.  Parvenu

   Where does Cinderella sleep?
   By far-off day-dream river.
   A secret place her burning Prince
   Decks, while his heart-strings quiver.

   Homesick for our cinder world,
   Her low-born shoulders shiver;
   She longs for sleep in cinders curled—
   We, for the day-dream river.

     VI.  The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly

   Once I loved a spider
   When I was born a fly,
   A velvet-footed spider
   With a gown of rainbow-dye.
   She ate my wings and gloated.
   She bound me with a hair.
   She drove me to her parlor
   Above her winding stair.
   To educate young spiders
   She took me all apart.
   My ghost came back to haunt her.
   I saw her eat my heart.

     VII.  Crickets on a Strike

   The foolish queen of fairyland
   From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell,
   Gave command to her cricket-band
   To play for her when the dew-drops fell.

   But the cold dew spoiled their instruments
   And they play for the foolish queen no more.
   Instead those sturdy malcontents
   Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor.

   Oh, cabaret dancer, I know a dancer,
   Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain.
   I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
   Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain:
   Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer,
   With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.

   Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer,
   Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain,
   I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
   Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain,
   A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel,
   With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain.

   Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus,
   Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain:
   I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia,
   A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein:—
   The music of God is her innermost brooding,
   The whispering angels her footsteps sustain.

   Oh, proud Russian dancer:  praise for your dancing.
   No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign.
   You dance for Apollo with noble devotion,
   A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane.
   But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit
   More white than Apollo and all of his train.

   I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead,
   Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain.
   I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
   Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain:
   Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer,
   With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.

   Ah, they are passing, passing by,
   Wonderful songs, but born to die!
   Cries from the infinite human seas,
   Waves thrice-winged with harmonies.
   Here I stand on a pier in the foam
   Seeing the songs to the beach go home,
   Dying in sand while the tide flows back,
   As it flowed of old in its fated track.
   Oh, hurrying tide that will not hear
   Your own foam-children dying near:
   Is there no refuge-house of song,
   No home, no haven where songs belong?
   Oh, precious hymns that come and go!
   You perish, and I love you so!

   Factory windows are always broken.
   Somebody's always throwing bricks,
   Somebody's always heaving cinders,
   Playing ugly Yahoo tricks.

   Factory windows are always broken.
   Other windows are let alone.
   No one throws through the chapel-window
   The bitter, snarling, derisive stone.

   Factory windows are always broken.
   Something or other is going wrong.
   Something is rotten—I think, in Denmark.
   End of the factory-window song.

     Moving-picture Actress

   Mary Pickford, doll divine,
   Year by year, and every day
   At the moving-picture play,
   You have been my valentine.

   Once a free-limbed page in hose,
   Baby-Rosalind in flower,
   Cloakless, shrinking, in that hour
   How our reverent passion rose,
   How our fine desire you won.
   Kitchen-wench another day,
   Shapeless, wooden every way.
   Next, a fairy from the sun.

   Once you walked a grown-up strand
   Fish-wife siren, full of lure,
   Snaring with devices sure
   Lads who murdered on the sand.
   But on most days just a child
   Dimpled as no grown-folk are,
   Cold of kiss as some north star,
   Violet from the valleys wild.
   Snared as innocence must be,
   Fleeing, prisoned, chained, half-dead—
   At the end of tortures dread
   Roaring cowboys set you free.

   Fly, O song, to her to-day,
   Like a cowboy cross the land.
   Snatch her from Belasco's hand
   And that prison called Broadway.

   All the village swains await
   One dear lily-girl demure,
   Saucy, dancing, cold and pure,
   Elf who must return in state.

     Moving-picture Actress

   Beauty has a throne-room
   In our humorous town,
   Spoiling its hob-goblins,
   Laughing shadows down.
   Rank musicians torture
   Ragtime ballads vile,
   But we walk serenely
   Down the odorous aisle.
   We forgive the squalor
   And the boom and squeal
   For the Great Queen flashes
   From the moving reel.

   Just a prim blonde stranger
   In her early day,
   Hiding brilliant weapons,
   Too averse to play,
   Then she burst upon us
   Dancing through the night.
   Oh, her maiden radiance,
   Veils and roses white.
   With new powers, yet cautious,
   Not too smart or skilled,
   That first flash of dancing
   Wrought the thing she willed:—
   Mobs of us made noble
   By her strong desire,
   By her white, uplifting,
   Royal romance-fire.

   Though the tin piano
   Snarls its tango rude,
   Though the chairs are shaky
   And the dramas crude,
   Solemn are her motions,
   Stately are her wiles,
   Filling oafs with wisdom,
   Saving souls with smiles;
   'Mid the restless actors
   She is rich and slow.
   She will stand like marble,
   She will pause and glow,
   Though the film is twitching,
   Keep a peaceful reign,
   Ruler of her passion,
   Ruler of our pain!

   The sun gives not directly
    The coal, the diamond crown;
   Not in a special basket
    Are these from Heaven let down.

   The sun gives not directly
    The plough, man's iron friend;
   Not by a path or stairway
    Do tools from Heaven descend.

   Yet sunshine fashions all things
    That cut or burn or fly;
   And corn that seems upon the earth
    Is made in the hot sky.

   The gravel of the roadbed,
    The metal of the gun,
   The engine of the airship
    Trace somehow from the sun.

   And so your soul, my lady—
    (Mere sunshine, nothing more)—
   Prepares me the contraptions
    I work with or adore.

   Within me cornfields rustle,
    Niagaras roar their way,
   Vast thunderstorms and rainbows
    Are in my thought to-day.

   Ten thousand anvils sound there
    By forges flaming white,
   And many books I read there,
    And many books I write;

   And freedom's bells are ringing,
    And bird-choirs chant and fly—
   The whole world works in me to-day
    And all the shining sky,

   Because of one small lady
    Whose smile is my chief sun.
   She gives not any gift to me
    Yet all gifts, giving one....
                            Amen.

   Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire,
   The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire.
   It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small,
   And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all.
   And so my blood grows cold.  I say, "The bottle held but ink,
   And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think."
   And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor,
   The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more.
   O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way—
   All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day,
   And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom,
   And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom.
   And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night,
   And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite,
   My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine
   Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line.
   I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair,
   They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air.
   The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew,
   O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew!

   He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour
   Just to invent a fancy style
   To spread the celebration paint
   So it would show at least a mile.

   Some things they did I will not tell.
   They're not quite proper for a rhyme.
   But I WILL say Yim Yonson Swede
   Did sure invent a sunflower time.

   One thing they did that I can tell
   And not offend the ladies here:—
   They took a goat to Simp's Saloon
   And made it take a bath in beer.

   That ENTERprise took MANagement.
   They broke a wash-tub in the fray.
   But mister goat was bathed all right
   And bar-keep Simp was, too, they say.

   They wore girls' pink straw hats to church
   And clucked like hens.  They surely did.
   They bought two HOtel frying pans
   And in them down the mountain slid.

   They went to Denver in good clothes,
   And kept Burt's grill-room wide awake,
   And cut about like jumping-jacks,
   And ordered seven-dollar steak.

   They had the waiters whirling round
   Just sweeping up the smear and smash.
   They tried to buy the State-house flag.
   They showed the Janitor the cash.

   And old Dan Tucker on a toot,
   Or John Paul Jones before the breeze,
   Or Indians eating fat fried dog,
   Were not as happy babes as these.

   One morn, in hills near Cripple-creek
   With cheerful swears the two awoke.
   The Swede had twenty cents, all right.
   But Gassy Thompson was clean broke.

     I.  The Doll upon the Topmost Bough

   This doll upon the topmost bough,
   This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress,
   Was taken down and brought to me
   One sleety night most comfortless.

   Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash
   Was gray brocade, most good to see.
   The dear toy laughed, and I forgot
   The ill the new year promised me.

     II.  On Suddenly Receiving a Curl Long Refused

   Oh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk—
   Impudent, intimate, delicate treasure:
   A noose for my heart and a ring for my finger:—
   Here in my study you sing me a measure.

   Whimsy and song in my little gray study!
   Words out of wonderland, praising her fineness,
   Touched with her pulsating, delicate laughter,
   Saying, "The girl is all daring and kindness!"

   Saying, "Her soul is all feminine gameness,
   Trusting her insights, ardent for living;
   She would be weeping with me and be laughing,
   A thoroughbred, joyous receiving and giving!"

     III.  On Receiving One of Gloriana's Letters

   Your pen needs but a ruffle
   To be Pavlova whirling.
   It surely is a scalawag
   A-scamping down the page.
   A pretty little May-wind
   The morning buds uncurling.
   And then the white sweet Russian,
   The dancer of the age.

   Your pen's the Queen of Sheba,
   Such serious questions bringing,
   That merry rascal Solomon
   Would show a sober face:—
   And then again Pavlova
   To set our spirits singing,
   The snowy-swan bacchante
   All glamour, glee and grace.

     IV.  In Praise of Gloriana's Remarkable Golden Hair

   The gleaming head of one fine friend
   Is bent above my little song,
   So through the treasure-pits of Heaven
   In fancy's shoes, I march along.

   I wander, seek and peer and ponder
   In Splendor's last ensnaring lair—
   'Mid burnished harps and burnished crowns
   Where noble chariots gleam and flare:

   Amid the spirit-coins and gems,
   The plates and cups and helms of fire—
   The gorgeous-treasure-pits of Heaven—
   Where angel-misers slake desire!

   O endless treasure-pits of gold
   Where silly angel-men make mirth—
   I think that I am there this hour,
   Though walking in the ways of earth!

   Girl with the burning golden eyes,
   And red-bird song, and snowy throat:
   I bring you gold and silver moons
   And diamond stars, and mists that float.
   I bring you moons and snowy clouds,
   I bring you prairie skies to-night
   To feebly praise your golden eyes
   And red-bird song, and throat so white.

   I.  Euclid

   Old Euclid drew a circle
   On a sand-beach long ago.
   He bounded and enclosed it
   With angles thus and so.
   His set of solemn greybeards
   Nodded and argued much
   Of arc and of circumference,
   Diameter and such.
   A silent child stood by them
   From morning until noon
   Because they drew such charming
   Round pictures of the moon.

   II.  The Haughty Snail-king

     (What Uncle William told the Children)

   Twelve snails went walking after night.
   They'd creep an inch or so,
   Then stop and bug their eyes
   And blow.
   Some folks... are... deadly... slow.
   Twelve snails went walking yestereve,
   Led by their fat old king.
   They were so dull their princeling had
   No sceptre, robe or ring—
   Only a paper cap to wear
   When nightly journeying.

   This king-snail said:  "I feel a thought
   Within....  It blossoms soon....
   O little courtiers of mine,...
   I crave a pretty boon....
   Oh, yes... (High thoughts with effort come
   And well-bred snails are ALMOST dumb.)
   "I wish I had a yellow crown
   As glistering... as... the moon."

   III.  What the Rattlesnake Said

   The moon's a little prairie-dog.
   He shivers through the night.
   He sits upon his hill and cries
   For fear that I will bite.

   The sun's a broncho.  He's afraid
   Like every other thing,
   And trembles, morning, noon and night,
   Lest I should spring, and sting.

   IV.  The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky

     (What the Little Girl Said)

   The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
   He bites it, day by day,
   Until there's but a rim of scraps
   That crumble all away.

   The South Wind is a baker.
   He kneads clouds in his den,
   And bakes a crisp new moon that... greedy
   North... Wind... eats... again!

   V.  Drying their Wings

     (What the Carpenter Said)

   The moon's a cottage with a door.
   Some folks can see it plain.
   Look, you may catch a glint of light,
   A sparkle through the pane,
   Showing the place is brighter still
   Within, though bright without.
   There, at a cosy open fire
   Strange babes are grouped about.
   The children of the wind and tide—
   The urchins of the sky,
   Drying their wings from storms and things
   So they again can fly.

   VI.  What the Gray-winged Fairy Said

   The moon's a gong, hung in the wild,
   Whose song the fays hold dear.
   Of course you do not hear it, child.
   It takes a FAIRY ear.

   The full moon is a splendid gong
   That beats as night grows still.
   It sounds above the evening song
   Of dove or whippoorwill.

   VII.  Yet Gentle will the Griffin Be

     (What Grandpa told the Children)

   The moon?  It is a griffin's egg,
   Hatching to-morrow night.
   And how the little boys will watch
   With shouting and delight
   To see him break the shell and stretch
   And creep across the sky.
   The boys will laugh.  The little girls,
   I fear, may hide and cry.
   Yet gentle will the griffin be,
   Most decorous and fat,
   And walk up to the milky way
   And lap it like a cat.

   I.  Prologue.  A Sense of Humor

   No man should stand before the moon
   To make sweet song thereon,
   With dandified importance,
   His sense of humor gone.

   Nay, let us don the motley cap,
   The jester's chastened mien,
   If we would woo that looking-glass
   And see what should be seen.

   O mirror on fair Heaven's wall,
   We find there what we bring.
   So, let us smile in honest part
   And deck our souls and sing.

   Yea, by the chastened jest alone
   Will ghosts and terrors pass,
   And fays, or suchlike friendly things,
   Throw kisses through the glass.

   II.  On the Garden-wall

   Oh, once I walked a garden
   In dreams.  'Twas yellow grass.
   And many orange-trees grew there
   In sand as white as glass.
   The curving, wide wall-border
   Was marble, like the snow.
   I walked that wall a fairy-prince
   And, pacing quaint and slow,
   Beside me were my pages,
   Two giant, friendly birds.
   Half-swan they were, half peacock.
   They spake in courtier-words.
   Their inner wings a chariot,
   Their outer wings for flight,
   They lifted me from dreamland.
   We bade those trees good-night.
   Swiftly above the stars we rode.
   I looked below me soon.
   The white-walled garden I had ruled
   Was one lone flower—the moon.

   III.  Written for a Musician

   Hungry for music with a desperate hunger
   I prowled abroad, I threaded through the town;
   The evening crowd was clamoring and drinking,
   Vulgar and pitiful—my heart bowed down—
   Till I remembered duller hours made noble
   By strangers clad in some surprising grace.
   Wait, wait, my soul, your music comes ere midnight
   Appearing in some unexpected place
   With quivering lips, and gleaming, moonlit face.

   IV.  The Moon is a Painter

   He coveted her portrait.
   He toiled as she grew gay.
   She loved to see him labor
   In that devoted way.

   And in the end it pleased her,
   But bowed him more with care.
   Her rose-smile showed so plainly,
   Her soul-smile was not there.

   That night he groped without a lamp
   To find a cloak, a book,
   And on the vexing portrait
   By moonrise chanced to look.

   The color-scheme was out of key,
   The maiden rose-smile faint,
   But through the blessed darkness
   She gleamed, his friendly saint.

   The comrade, white, immortal,
   His bride, and more than bride—
   The citizen, the sage of mind,
   For whom he lived and died.

   V.  The Encyclopaedia

   "If I could set the moon upon
   This table," said my friend,
   "Among the standard poets
   And brochures without end,
   And noble prints of old Japan,
   How empty they would seem,
   By that encyclopaedia
   Of whim and glittering dream."

   VI.  What the Miner in the Desert Said

   The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg,
   A wondrous water-feast.
   If I could climb the ridge and drink
   And give drink to my beast;
   If I could drain that keg, the flies
   Would not be biting so,
   My burning feet be spry again,
   My mule no longer slow.
   And I could rise and dig for ore,
   And reach my fatherland,
   And not be food for ants and hawks
   And perish in the sand.

   VII.  What the Coal-heaver Said

   The moon's an open furnace door
   Where all can see the blast,
   We shovel in our blackest griefs,
   Upon that grate are cast
   Our aching burdens, loves and fears
   And underneath them wait
   Paper and tar and pitch and pine
   Called strife and blood and hate.

   Out of it all there comes a flame,
   A splendid widening light.
   Sorrow is turned to mystery
   And Death into delight.

   VIII.  What the Moon Saw

   Two statesmen met by moonlight.
   Their ease was partly feigned.
   They glanced about the prairie.
   Their faces were constrained.
   In various ways aforetime
   They had misled the state,
   Yet did it so politely
   Their henchmen thought them great.
   They sat beneath a hedge and spake
   No word, but had a smoke.
   A satchel passed from hand to hand.
   Next day, the deadlock broke.

   IX.  What Semiramis Said

   The moon's a steaming chalice
    Of honey and venom-wine.
   A little of it sipped by night
    Makes the long hours divine.
   But oh, my reckless lovers,
    They drain the cup and wail,
   Die at my feet with shaking limbs
    And tender lips all pale.
   Above them in the sky it bends
    Empty and gray and dread.
   To-morrow night 'tis full again,
    Golden, and foaming red.

   X.  What the Ghost of the Gambler Said

   Where now the huts are empty,
   Where never a camp-fire glows,
   In an abandoned canyon,
   A Gambler's Ghost arose.
   He muttered there, "The moon's a sack
   Of dust."  His voice rose thin:
   "I wish I knew the miner-man.
   I'd play, and play to win.
   In every game in Cripple-creek
   Of old, when stakes were high,
   I held my own.  Now I would play
   For that sack in the sky.
   The sport would not be ended there.
   'Twould rather be begun.
   I'd bet my moon against his stars,
   And gamble for the sun."

   XI.  The Spice-tree

   This is the song
   The spice-tree sings:
   "Hunger and fire,
   Hunger and fire,
   Sky-born Beauty—
   Spice of desire,"
   Under the spice-tree
   Watch and wait,
   Burning maidens
   And lads that mate.

   The spice-tree spreads
   And its boughs come down
   Shadowing village and farm and town.
   And none can see
   But the pure of heart
   The great green leaves
   And the boughs descending,
   And hear the song that is never ending.

   The deep roots whisper,
   The branches say:—
   "Love to-morrow,
   And love to-day,
   And till Heaven's day,
   And till Heaven's day."

   The moon is a bird's nest in its branches,
   The moon is hung in its topmost spaces.
   And there, to-night, two doves play house
   While lovers watch with uplifted faces.
   Two doves go home
   To their nest, the moon.
   It is woven of twigs of broken light,
   With threads of scarlet and threads of gray
   And a lining of down for silk delight.
   To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves,
   Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;—
   And one is the kiss I took from you,
   And one is the kiss you gave to me.

   XII.  The Scissors-grinder

     (What the Tramp Said)

   The old man had his box and wheel
   For grinding knives and shears.
   No doubt his bell in village streets
   Was joy to children's ears.
   And I bethought me of my youth
   When such men came around,
   And times I asked them in, quite sure
   The scissors should be ground.
   The old man turned and spoke to me,
   His face at last in view.
   And then I thought those curious eyes
   Were eyes that once I knew.

   "The moon is but an emery-wheel
   To whet the sword of God,"
   He said.  "And here beside my fire
   I stretch upon the sod
   Each night, and dream, and watch the stars
   And watch the ghost-clouds go.
   And see that sword of God in Heaven
   A-waving to and fro.
   I see that sword each century, friend.
   It means the world-war comes
   With all its bloody, wicked chiefs
   And hate-inflaming drums.
   Men talk of peace, but I have seen
   That emery-wheel turn round.
   The voice of Abel cries again
   To God from out the ground.
   The ditches must flow red, the plague
   Go stark and screaming by
   Each time that sword of God takes edge
   Within the midnight sky.
   And those that scorned their brothers here
   And sowed a wind of shame
   Will reap the whirlwind as of old
   And face relentless flame."

   And thus the scissors-grinder spoke,
   His face at last in view.
   And there beside the railroad bridge
   I saw the wandering Jew.

   XIII.  My Lady in her White Silk Shawl

   My lady in her white silk shawl
    Is like a lily dim,
   Within the twilight of the room
    Enthroned and kind and prim.

   My lady!  Pale gold is her hair.
    Until she smiles her face
   Is pale with far Hellenic moods,
    With thoughts that find no place

   In our harsh village of the West
    Wherein she lives of late,
   She's distant as far-hidden stars,
    And cold—(almost!)—as fate.

   But when she smiles she's here again
    Rosy with comrade-cheer,
   A Puritan Bacchante made
    To laugh around the year.

   The merry gentle moon herself,
    Heart-stirring too, like her,
   Wakening wild and innocent love
    In every worshipper.

   XIV.  Aladdin and the Jinn

   "Bring me soft song," said Aladdin.
   "This tailor-shop sings not at all.
   Chant me a word of the twilight,
   Of roses that mourn in the fall.
   Bring me a song like hashish
   That will comfort the stale and the sad,
   For I would be mending my spirit,
   Forgetting these days that are bad,
   Forgetting companions too shallow,
   Their quarrels and arguments thin,
   Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:"—
   "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

   "Bring me old wines," said Aladdin.
   "I have been a starved pauper too long.
   Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell,
   Serve them with fruit and with song:—
   Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans
   Digged from beneath the black seas:—
   New-gathered dew from the heavens
   Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees,
   Cups from the angels' pale tables
   That will make me both handsome and wise,
   For I have beheld her, the princess,
   Firelight and starlight her eyes.
   Pauper I am, I would woo her.
   And—let me drink wine, to begin,
   Though the Koran expressly forbids it."
   "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

   "Plan me a dome," said Aladdin,
   "That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON,
   When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains,
   Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon."
   "Build me a dome," said Aladdin,
   "That shall cause all young lovers to sigh,
   The fullness of life and of beauty,
   Peace beyond peace to the eye—
   A palace of foam and of opal,
   Pure moonlight without and within,
   Where I may enthrone my sweet lady."
   "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.