THE LAW
The tide of love swells in me with such force,
It sweeps away all hate and all distrust.
As eddying straws and particles of dust
Are lost by some swift river in its course.
So much I love my friends, my life, my art,
Each shadow flies; the light dispels the gloom.
Love is so fair, I find I have no room
For anything less worthy in my heart.
Love is a germ which we can cultivate—
To grace and perfume sweeter than the rose,
Or leave neglected while our heart soil grows
Rank with that vile and poison thistle, hate.
Love is a joyous thrush, that one can teach
To sing sweet lute-like songs which all may hear.
Or we can silence him and tune the ear
To caw of crows, or to the vulture’s
screech.
Love is a feast; and if the guests divide
With all who pass, though thousands swell the
van,
There shall be food and drink for every man;
The loaves and fishes will be multiplied.
Love is the guide. I look to heights above
So beautiful, so very far away;
Yet I shall tread their sunlit peaks some day,
Since close in mine I hold the hand of love.
Love is the law. But yield to its control
And thou shalt find all things work for the best,
And in the calm, still heaven of thy breast,
That God, Himself, sits talking with thy soul.
SPIRIT OF A GREAT CONTROL
Spirit of a Great Control,
Gird me with thy strength and might,
Essence of the Over-Soul—
Fill me, thrill me with thy light;
Though the waves of sorrow beat
Madly at my very feet,
Though the night and storm are near,
Teach me that I need not fear.
Though the clouds obscure the sky,
When the tempest sweeps the lands,
Still about, below, on high,
God’s great solar system stands.
Never yet a star went out.
What have I to fear or doubt?—
I, a part of this great whole,
Governed by the Over-Soul.
Like the great eternal hills,
Like the rock that fronts the wave,
Let me meet all earthly ills
With a fearless heart and brave;
Like the earth that drinks the rain,
Let me welcome floods of pain,
Till I grow in strength to be
Worthy of my source in Thee.
NOON
As some contented bird doth coo
She trilled a song of fond delight,
The while she spread the cloth of white,
And set the cups and plates for two.
She leaned beyond the window sill,
And looked along the busy street,
And listened for his coming feet.
The skies were calm, the winds were still.
‘O love, my love, why art thou late?
The kettle boils, the cloth is spread,
The clock points close to noon,’ she said.
O clock of time! O clock of fate!
She heard the moon’s glad sound of cheer;
(The hiss, the whirl, the crash, the creak,
Of maddened wheels, the awful shriek
Of awestruck men—she did not hear.)
She lightly tripped about the room,
And near the window, where his eyes
Might greet it with a pleased surprise,
She placed a pot of fragrant bloom.
Strange nervous steps were at the gate.
Why grew her heart so cold, so numb?
The clock struck twelve, the noon had come.
Ah! noon of time! O noon of fate!
A shattered vase beside the wall;
A young face grey with awful fear,
A rigid shape, a covered bier,
A shadowed life, and that is all.
THE SEARCH
The rain falls long, and the rain falls light,
With a desolate drip—drop, sad to hear.
But never a star shines through the night
As I sit afar, from the world anear.
Down in the parlour some one sings;
The children laugh in the nursery hall;
But my heart like a bird has spread its wings,
And leaves the music, and mirth, and all.
Out in the rain and the eerie night,
Into the darkness it speeds away.
Ah me! ah me! ’tis a gruesome flight,
Seeking for you till the dawn of day.
If it only knew which way to go;
Where you wander, or where you lie.
To valleys of sunshine, or hills of snow,
Thither at once my heart would fly.
Fly and follow wherever you led,
Over the desert and over the wave;
Or if it found you lying dead,
It would sit in the rain by your lonely grave.
Sit in the rain, and cover the grass
With passionate kisses above your face.
Sit there waiting till death should pass,
And bear it to you in his strong embrace.
But hither and thither all is vain,
It flies in the darkness, and seeks for you.
Back in the morning, drenched with rain,
The poor thing cometh with never a clue.
But all night long the rain falls down,
Like a poor crazed thing that has lost its way,
Through the forest and through the town
It searches for you till the break of day.
A MAN’S GOOD-BYE
Do you think, dear, as you say
Such a light good-bye to-day,
That this parting time may be
Mayhaps less to you, than me?
What a wonder of surprise
Looks out from your sunny eyes.
‘Just a nice acquaintance.’ So
We have called it, dear, I know.
Now you end it with a word,
While my inmost soul is stirred.
No—you cannot understand.
But, dear, as I touch your hand,
Listening to your light good-bye,
All a man’s roused passions cry
Like a tiger, stirred, at bay.
Oh! you draw your hand away.
‘I’ve no right to speak so?’ Pray
Was it your right day by day
By your sweet coquettish arts
To invade my heart of hearts?
It is death to let you go.
You will hate me, dear, I know;
But I swear, ere you go hence,
I will have some recompense.
For those fires you lit in vain,
Cheeks and lips shall bear the stain
Of my kisses till you die.
Go now! this is my good-bye.
AT THE HOP
’Tis time to dress. Dost hear the music surging
Like sobbing waves that roll up from the sea?
Yes, yes, I hear—I yield—no need of urging;
I know your wishes,—send Lisette to me.
I hate the ballroom; hate its gilded pleasure;
I hate the crowd within it, well you know;
But what of that? I am your lawful treasure—
And when you would display me I must go.
You bought me with a mother’s pain and trouble.
I’ve been a great expense to you alway.
And now, if you can sell me, and get double
The sum I cost—why, what have I to say?
You’ve done your duty: kept me in the fashion,
And shown me off at every stylish place.
’Twas not your fault I had a heart of passion;
’Twas not your fault I ever saw his
face.
The dream was brief, and beautiful, and tender,
(O God! to live those golden hours once more.
The silver moonlight, and his dark eyes’ splendour,
The sky above us, and the sea before.)
Come, come, Lisette, bring out those royal laces;
To-night must make the victory complete.
Among the crowd of masked and smiling faces,
I’ll move with laughter, and with smiles most
sweet.
Make me most fair! with youth and grace and beauty,
I needs must conquer bloated age and gold.
She shall not say I have not done my duty;
I’m ready now—a daughter to be sold!
MET
How odd and strange seems our meeting
Like a grim rendezvous of the dead.
All day I have sat here repeating
The commonplace things that we said.
They sounded so oddly when uttered—
They sound just as odd to me now;
Was it we, or our two ghosts who muttered
Last evening, with simper and bow?
I had grown used to living without you.
In revel and concert and ball,
I had flown from much thinking about you,
And your picture I turned to the wall.
For to call back the dream that was broken,
To fancy your hand on my hair,
To remember the words we had spoken,
Was madness, and gall, and despair.
I knew I could never forget you;
But I wanted to put you away.
And now, just to think how I met you—
It has seemed like a nightmare all day.
We two with our record of passion,
We two who have been as one heart,
To meet in that calm, quiet fashion,
And chat for a moment and part.
We two who remember such blisses
Not heaven itself can eclipse,
We two who had kissed with the kisses
That draw out the soul through the lips,
We two who have known the ideal,
The rare perfect love in its might—
Nay, nay, they were ghosts, and not real,
Who met, and who parted, last night.
They were ghosts, unprepared for the meeting;
’Twas a chance rendezvous of the dead;
And all day I sit here repeating
The odd sounding words that were said.
RETURNED BIRDS
My heart to-day is like a southern wood,
Through summer months it has been drunk with
heat;
And slumbered on unmindful of the beat
Of life beyond it: sleep alone seemed good.
Now milder Autumn’s tints are in the sky;
The fervid heats of summer noons depart;
And backward to the old haunts in my heart
The golden robins and the blue birds fly.
I hear the flutter of their airy wings,
They flock about the Spring’s deserted
nest,
And suddenly I feel within my breast
The stirring of sweet half-forgotten things.
Bright sunny mornings—golden growing hours—
The building of glad birds among the trees;
Wide open windows and the kindly breeze
Bringing the perfume of half-open flowers.
A blithe face at the window fair with truth;
A mellow laugh that falls like silver spray;
Down through the sunlight of the perfect day,
Ecstatic hopes, that bud with Spring and Youth.
The morning time grew rank with summer blight;
The birds flew northward, fresher fields to find;
And in our hearts we closed the folding blind,
While drooping blossoms withered in the light.
The fair face at the window could not stay;
The laugh grew weary, with a minor strain
That borders on the foreign realm of pain,
And hopes that blossomed, ripened to decay.
Come, happy birds, and sing of vanished joy,
Of that sweet Spring for ever passed away;
No winter lies between us and that day.
(But what is sadder than the sweets that cloy.)
My heart is green with leafage; come and wake
The old-time echoes with the songs of glee,
For only echoes now are left to me,
Though bloom and beauty cling to bush and brake.
A CRUSHED LEAF
An hour ago when the wind blew high
At my lady’s window a red leaf beat.
Then dropped at her door, where, passing by,
She carelessly trod it under her feet.
I have taken it out of the dust and dirt,
With a tender pity but half defined.
Ah! poor bruised leaf, with your stain and hurt,
‘A fellow-feeling doth make us
kind.’
On winds of passion my heart was blown,
Like an autumn leaf one hapless day.
At my lady’s window with tap and moan
It burned and fluttered its life away.
Bright with the blood of its wasting tide
It glowed in the sun of her laughing eyes.
What cared she though a stray heart died—
What to her were its sobs and sighs.
The winds of passion were spent at last,
And my heart like the leaf in her pathway lay;
And under her slender foot as she passed,
My lady she trod it and went her way.
So I picked the leaf from its dusty place,
With a tender pity—too well defined.
And I laid it here in this velvet case,
Ah! a fellow-feeling doth make us kind.
A CURIOUS STORY
I heard such a curious story
Of Santa Claus: once, so they say,
He set out to see what people were kind,
Before he took presents their way.
‘This year I will give but to givers,
To those who make presents themselves,’
With a nod of his head old Santa Claus said
To his band of bright officer-elves.
‘Go into the homes of the happy
Where pleasure stands page at the door.
Watch well how they live, and report what they give
To the hordes of God’s suffering poor.
Keep track of each cent and each moment;
Yes, tell me each word, too, they use:
To silver line clouds for earth’s suffering crowds,
And tell me, too, when they refuse.’
So into our homes flew the fairies,
Though never a soul of us knew,
And with pencil and book they sat by and took
Each action, if false, or if true.
White marks for the deeds done for others—
Black marks for the deeds done for self.
And nobody hid what he said or he did,
For no one, of course, sees an elf.
Well, Christmas came all in its season,
And Santa Claus, so I am told,
With a very light pack of small gifts on his back,
And his reindeers all left in the fold,
Set out on a leisurely journey,
And finished ere midnight, they say.
And there never had been such surprise and chagrin
Before on the breaking of day,
As there was on that bright Christmas morning
When stockings, and cupboards, and shelves
Were ransacked and sought in, for gifts that were not
in—
But wasn’t it fun for the elves!
And what did I get? You confuse me—
I got not one thing, and that’s
true;
But had I suspected my actions detected
I would have had gifts, wouldn’t you?
JENNY LIND
There was a something in your song, men say
No later singer voices: some strange power
Like to the essence in a rare June day,
Or like the subtle perfume of a flower.
Awed and inspired, your listeners turned away,
Baptized in your sweet music’s holy shower.
For through that music shone the glorious dower
Of your great soul: here all the secret lay.
Not for the honours of this earth you sang—
Not for its gold or glory, not for art,
Not for the fortunes at your fair feet hurled.
The love of God through all your measures rang,
And each pure note bespoke a noble heart.
When worth weds genius, lo! they rule the world.
LIFE’S KEY
The hand that fashioned me, tuned my ear
To chord with the major key,
In the darkest moments of life I hear
Strains of courage, and hope, and cheer
From choirs that I cannot see.
And the music of life seems so inspired
That it will not let me grow sad or tired.
Yet through and under the major strain,
I hear with the passing of years,
The mournful minor measure of pain,
Of souls that struggle and toil in vain
For a goal that never nears.
And the sorrowful cadence of good gone wrong,
Breaks more and more into earth’s glad song.
And oft in the dark of the night I wake
And think of sorrowing lives,
And I long to comfort the hearts that ache,
To sweeten the cup that is bitter to take,
And to strengthen each soul that strives.
I long to cry to them ‘Do not fear,
Help is coming and aid is near.’
However desolate, weird, or strange
Life’s melody sounds to you,
Before to-morrow the air may change,
And the Great Director of music arrange
A programme perfectly new.
And the dirge in minor may suddenly be
Turned into a jubilant song of glee.
BRIDGE OF PRAYER
The bridge of prayer from heavenly heights suspended
Unites the earth with spirit-realms in Space.
The interests of those separate worlds are blended
For those whose feet turn often toward that
place.
In troubled nights of sorrow and repining,
When joy and hope seem sunk in dark despair,
We still may see above the shadows shining,
The gleaming archway of the bridge of prayer.
From that fair height, our souls may lean and listen
To sounds of music from the farther shore,
And through the vapours, sometimes dear eyes glisten
Of loved ones who have hastened on before.
And angels come from their Celestial City—
And meet us half way on the bridge of prayer.
God sends them forth, full of divinest pity
To strengthen us for burdens we must bear.
Oh! you whose feet walk in some shadowed by-way,
Far from the scenes of pleasure and delight,
Still free to you hangs this suspended highway,
Where heavenly glories dawn upon the sight.
And common paths glow with a grace supernal,
And happiness walks hand in hand with care,
And faith becomes a knowledge fixed, eternal,
For those who often seek the bridge of prayer.
NEW YEAR
Know this! there is nothing can harm you
If you are at peace with your soul.
Know this, and the knowledge shall arm you
With courage and strength to the goal.
Your spirit shall break every fetter,
And love shall cast out every fear.
And grander, and gladder, and better
Shall be every added new year.
DECEITFUL CALM
The winds are still; the sea lies all untroubled
Beneath a cloudless sky; the morn is bright,
Yet, Lord, I feel my need of Thee is doubled;
Come nearer to me in this blaze of light;
The night must fall,—the storm will burst at length.
Oh! give me strength.
So well, so well, I know the treacherous seeming
Of days like this; they are too heavenly fair.
Those waves that laugh like happy children dreaming,
Are mighty forces brewing some despair
For thoughtless hearts, and ere the hour of need,
Let mine take heed.
Joy cannot last; it must give place to sorrow
As certainly as solar systems roll.
I would not wait till that time comes to borrow
The strength prayer offers to a suffering soul.
Here in the sunlight—yet undimmed by shade,
I cry for aid.
I dare not lightly drain the cup of pleasure,
Though Thine the hand that proffers me the
draught.
Such bitter lees lie lower in the measure,
I shall need courage, ere the potion’s
quaffed;
Then strengthen me before that time befall,
To drink the gall.
I need Thee in my joys and my successes,
To make me humble, grateful, and not vain.
I need Thee when the weight of sorrow presses
The tortured heart that cries aloud in pain,
So close great pleasures and great anguish lie.
Lord, Lord, come nigh.
UN RENCONTRE
Now ought we to laugh or to weep—
Was it comical, or was it grave?
When we who had waded breast deep
In passion’s most turbulent wave
Met out on an isle in Time’s ocean,
With never one thrill of emotion.
We had parted in sorrow and tears;
Our letters were frequent and wet;
We wrote about pitiless years,
And we swore we could never forget.
An angel you called me alway,
And I thought you a god gone astray.
We met in an everyday style;
Unmoved by a tremor or start;
Shook hands, smiled a commonplace smile;
(With a happy new love in each heart),
And I thought you the homeliest man
As you awkwardly picked up my fan!
And I know (or I haven’t a doubt)
Though you did not say so to my face,
That you thought I was growing too stout:
I, once your ideal of grace.
And ere the encounter was o’er
Each voted the other a bore.
What a proof that fond passion can die,
In this prosaic meeting we had!
Now, ought we to laugh or to cry—
Was it sorrowful, or was it sad?
’Tis a puzzle not worthy our time,
So let’s give it up—with this rhyme.
BURNED OUT
Blow out the light: there is no oil to feed it:
That dim blue light unworthy of the name.
Better to sit with folded hands, I say,
And wait for night to pass, and bring the day,
Than to depend upon that flickering flame.
Take back your vow: there is no love to bind it:
Take back this little shining, golden thing.
Better to walk on bravely all alone,
Than strive to hold up, or retain our own,
By soulless pledge, or fetter of a ring.
When first the lamp was lit, too high you turned it;
The oil was wasted in a blinding blaze.
Your passion was too ardent in the start—
Set by the lamp: farewell. God gird the heart
Through darkened hours, and lone and loveless
ways.
ONLY A GLOVE
Only a glove that has touched her fingers,
But it seems to me something half divine.
A delicate fragrance about it lingers,
And it stirs my blood like wine—
Yes, thrills and warms me like wine.
So well I remember the night she wore it—
How I held the hand in its dainty glove,
And whispered sweetly as I leaned o’er it—
Whispered a tale of love—
A story of my mad love.
There was mirth, and music, and light and laughter,
The viols played and the dancers whirled.
We were part of it all—but a moment after
Were alone in love’s fair world—
Alone in God’s own world.
But now of that night of glow and splendour,
Of happy hope and beautiful love,
Of youthful dreams that were sweetly tender,
There is nothing left but a glove,
Nothing but this one glove.
REMINDERS
When in the early dawn I hear the thrushes,
And like a flood of waters o’er my heart
The memory of another summer rushes,
How can I rise up, and perform my part?
When in the languid eve I hear the wailing
Of the uncomforted sad mourning dove,
Whose grief, like mine, seems deep as unavailing,
What will I do with all this wealth of love?
When the sweet rain falls over hills and meadows,
And the tall poplar’s silver leaves are
wet,
And, like my soul, the world seems draped in shadow,
How shall I hush this passionate regret?
When the wild bee is wooing the red clover,
And the fair rose smiles on the butterfly,
Missing thy smile and kiss, O love, my lover,
Who on God’s earth so desolate as I?
My tortured senses new despair will borrow
From those reminders of a vanished day,
That was as full of joy as this of sorrow—
O beautiful, sad summer keep away!
A DIRGE
Death and a dirge at midnight;
Yet never a soul in the house
Heard anything more than the throb and beat
Of a beautiful waltz of Strauss.
Dead, dead, dead, and staring,
With a ghastly smile on its face;
But the world saw only laughing eyes
And roses, and billows of lace.
Floating and whirling together,
Into the beautiful night,
How little you dreamed of the ghastly thing
I was hiding away from your sight.
Meeting your dark eyes’ splendour,
Feeling your warm, sweet breath,
How could you know that my passionate heart
Had died a horrible death?
Died in its fever and fervour,
Died in its beautiful bloom;
And that waltz of Strauss was a funeral dirge,
Leading the way to the tomb.
But you held my hand at parting,
And I smiled back a gay good night;
And you never knew of the ghastly corpse
I was hiding away from your sight.
Yet whenever I hear the Danube—
Under its pulsing strain,
I catch the wail of the funeral dirge,
And my heart dies over again.
NOT ANCHORED
My heart is like a ship that finds no rest,
Tossed here and there upon the stormy breast
Of loves of many hearts too oft conferred.
Thy love is like the harbour, safe and still,
Into whose calm that ship may glide at will,
Under the slope of God’s Eternal Will.
So near the perfect peace that knows no word;
Yet with an empty, white emotion stirred,
It folds its wings like some contented bird.
At rest, and yet not anchored; and some day
Out of the restful peace of this calm bay
The winds of Fate will drift it far away.
THE NEW LOVE
I thought my heart was death chilled,
I thought its fires were cold;
But the new love, the new love,
It warmeth like the old.
I thought its rooms were shadowed
With the gloom of endless night;
But the new love, the new love,
It fills them full of light.
I thought the chambers empty,
And proclaimed it unto men;
But the new love, the new love,
It peoples them again.
I thought its halls were silent,
And hushed the whole day long;
But the new love, the new love,
It fills them full of song.
Then here is to the new love,
Let who will sing the old;
The new love, the new love,
’Tis more than fame or gold.
For it gives us joy for sorrow,
And it gives us warmth for cold;
Oh! the new love, the new love,
’Tis better than the old.
AN EAST WIND
The glitter of wheels far down the street
(Ah me, and alack a day.)
And I heard the thud of his horse’s feet
Beating a roundelay.
And I felt a little song coming, coming
Over my lips as humming, humming,
I turned my eyes that way.
Somebody passed, who was wont to pause:
(Ah me, and alack a day.)
He bowed and smiled; yet for some cause
The mirth went out of my lay.
A wind from the east rose, sighing, sighing,
I felt my little song dying, dying,
She laughed as they rode away.
CHEATING TIME
Kiss me, sweetheart. One by one
Swift and sure the moments run.
Soon, too soon, for you and me
Gone for aye the day will be.
Do not let time cheat us then,
Kiss me often and again.
Every time a moment slips
Let us count it on our lips
While we’re kissing, strife and pain
Cannot come between us twain.
If we pause too long a space,
Who can tell what may take place?
You may pout, and I may scold,
Souls be sundered, hearts grow cold;
Death may come, and love take wings;
Oh! a thousand cruel things
May creep in to spoil the day,
If we throw the time away.
Let us time, the cheater, cheat,
Kiss me, darling, kiss me, sweet.
ONLY A SLIGHT FLIRTATION
’Twas just a slight flirtation,
And where’s the harm, I pray,
In that amusing pastime
So much in vogue to-day?
Her hand was plighted elsewhere
To one she held most dear,
But why should she sit lonely
When other men were near?
They walked to church together,
They sat upon the shore.
She found him entertaining,
He found her something more.
They rambled in the moonlight;
It made her look so fair.
She let him praise her beauty,
And kiss her flowing hair.
’Twas just a nice flirtation.
‘So sad the fellow died.
Was drowned one day while boating,
The week she was a bride.’
A life went out in darkness,
A mother’s fond heart broke,
A maiden pined in secret—
With grief she never spoke.
While robed in bridal whiteness,
Queen of a festal throng,
She moved, whose slight flirtation
Had wrought this triple wrong.
WHAT THE RAIN SAW
Winds of the summer time what are you saying,
What are ye seeking, and what do you miss?
Locks like the thistledown floating and straying,
Cheeks like the budding rose, tinted to kiss.
See ye yon mist rising up from the river?
That is the spirit of yesterday’s rain.
Go to it, fly to it, call to it, cry to it,
What did ye see when ye fell on the plain?
Rosewood, and velvet, and pansies, and roses,
Blossoms from loving hands tenderly cast.
Lids like the leaves of a lily that closes
After its brief little day-life is past.
Beautiful hands on a beautiful bosom,
Folded so quietly, folded in rest.
Mouth like the bud of a white-petalled blossom,
Creased where the lips of an angel had pressed.
Lower, and lower, and lower, and lower,
Dust unto dust—but a mound on the plain.
Left alone, lonely, this, and this only,
Saw we, and see we to-day, said the rain.
Winds of the summer time vain is your seeking,
Vain is your calling with sobs in your breath.
Lips that are tender, eyes full of splendour,
Wooed away, sued away, vanished with death.
AFTER
After the end that is drawing near
Comes, and I no more see your face
Worn with suffering, lying here,
What shall I do with the empty place?
You are so weary, that if I could
I would not hinder, I would not keep
The great Creator of all things good,
From giving his own belovéd sleep.
But over and over I turn this thought.
After they bear you away to the tomb,
And banish the glasses, and move the cot,
What shall I do with the empty room?
And when you are lying at rest, my own,
Hidden away in the grass and flowers,
And I listen in vain for your sigh and moan,
What shall I do with the silent hours?
O God! O God! in the great To Be
What canst Thou give me to compensate
For the terrible silence, the vacancy,
Grim, and awful, and desolate?
Passing away, my beautiful one,
Out of the old life into the new.
But when it is over, and all is done,
God of the Merciful, what shall I do?
Sweetest of slumber, and soundest rest,
No more sorrow, and no more gloom.
I am quite contented, and all is best,—
But the empty bed—and the silent
room!
OUR PETTY CARES
Our petty cares wear on us so,—
More cruel than our great despairs,
More rasping than a mighty woe,
Our petty cares.
Less need of strength hath he who bears
Courageously some stinging blow,
Of Fate which takes him unawares.
Not solitary griefs we know
Induce old age and whitening hairs;
But that malicious, endless row—
Our petty cares.
THE SHIP AND THE BOAT
In the great ship Life we speed along,
With sails and pennons spread.
And tethered, beside the great ship, glide
The mystic boats for the dead.
Over the deck of the ship of Life
Our loved and lost we lower.
And calm and steady, his small boat ready,
Death silently sits at the oar.
He rows our dead away from our sight—
Away from our hearing or ken.
We call and cry for a last good-bye,
But they never come back again.
The ship of Life bounds on and on;
The river of Time runs fast;
And yet more swift our dear dead drift
For ever back into the Past.
We do not forget those loved and lost,
But they fade away like a dream:
As we hurry along on the current strong
Of Time’s great turbulent stream.
On and on, and ever away,
Our sails are filled by the wind;
We see new places, we meet new faces,
And the dead are far behind.
Their boats have drifted into the sea
That laves God’s holy feet.
But the river’s course, too, seeks that source,
So the ship and the boat shall meet.
COME NEAR
Come near to me, I need Thy glorious presence.
Through the dense darkness of this troubled hour
Shine on my soul, and fill it with the essence
Of Thy pervading and uplifting power.
Come near, come near to me!
Come nearer yet, I have no strength to reach Thee;
My soul is like a bird with broken wings.
Lean down from Thy fair height of peace, and teach me
The balm Thy touch to mortal bruises brings.
Lean down, O God, lean down!
Come near, and yet if those eternal places
Hold greater tasks to occupy Thy hands,
Send Thy blest angels whose celestial faces
Smile sometimes on us from the spirit lands.
Send one, send one to me!
I must have help. I am so weak and broken
I cannot help myself. I know not how
That moral force of which so much is spoken
Will not sustain or fortify me now.
I must, I must have help!
Some outside aid, some strength from spirit Sources,
We all must have in hours like this, or die.
To one, or all of those mysterious Forces
Which men call God, I lift my voice and cry,
Come near, come near to me!
A SUGGESTION
As I go and shop, sir!
If a car I stop, sir!
Where you chance to sit,
And you want to read, sir!
Never mind or heed, sir!
I’ll not care a bit.
For it’s now æsthetic
To be quite athletic.
That’s our fad, you know.
I can hold the strap, sir!
And keep off your lap, sir!
As we jolting go.
If you read on blindly,
I shall take it kindly,
All the car’s not mine.
But, if you sit and stare, sir!
At my eyes and hair, sir!
I must draw the line.
If the stare is meant, sir!
For a compliment, sir!
As we jog through town,
Allow me to suggest, sir!
A woman oft looks best, sir!
When she’s sitting down.
A FISHERMAN’S BABY
Oh! hush little baby, thy Papa’s at sea,
The big billows rock him as Mama rocks thee.
He hastes to his dear ones o’er breakers of foam.
Then hush little darling till Papa comes home.
Sleep little baby, hush little baby,
Papa is coming, no longer to roam.
The shells and the pebbles all day tossed about
Are lulled into sleep by the tide ebbing out.
The weary shore slumbers, stretched out in the sand,
While the waves hurry off at mid ocean’s command.
Then hush little baby, sleep little darling,
Sleep baby, rocked by thy mother’s own hand.
The winds that have rollicked all day in the west
Are soothed into sleep on the calm evening’s breast.
The boats that were out with the wild sea at play
Are now rocked to sleep in the arms of the bay.
Then rest little baby, sleep little baby,
Papa will come at the break of the day.
CONTENT AND HAPPINESS
How is it that men pray their earthly lot
May be ‘content and happiness’?
Dire foes
Without one common trait which kinship shows
I hold these two. Contentment comes when sought,
While Happiness pursued was never caught.
But, sudden, storms the heart with mighty throes
Whenceforth, mild eyed Content affrighted goes,
To seek some calmer heart, less danger fraught.
Bold Happiness knows but one rival—Fear;
Who follows ever on his footsteps, sent
By jealous Fate who calls great joy a crime.
While in far ways ’mong leaves just turning sere,
With gaze serene and placid, walks Content.
No heart ere held these two guests at one time.
THE CUSINE
The woman who looks upon man as a sinner
Unsaved as to soul, and uncertain in heart,
Should learn how to cook, and prepare him a dinner,
And serve it with talent, refinement, and art.
Full many a question is solved by digestion.
Bad morals are caused, oftentimes by bad cooks,
And many a riot results from poor diet—
Conversion may lie in the leaves of cook books.
About the dull stalk of the thorntree of duty
Plant flowers of fragrance and vines of good taste.
Surround the coarse needs of the body with beauty,
Make common things noble, make vulgar things chaste.
Put art in housekeeping, nor think culture sleeping
Because the base animal, man, must be fed.
Delsarte should be able to speak in the table—
‘Expression’ may lie in a light loaf of bread.
Though hard be the labour, the end recompenses—
Though weary the journey, reward is the goal.
For the soul of a man must be reached through his senses,
As the senses of woman are reached through her soul.
Speak first to his spirit, he never will hear it;
Speak first to his body, his soul will reply;
The mortal man fare for, his appetites care for,
And lo! he will follow your footsteps on high.
Love born in the boudoir oft dies in the kitchen,
The failure of marriage oft starts in the soup.
The stomach appeal to, and men’s heart you steal
to—
Would you reach to the last? To the first you must
stoop.
I WONDER WHY
Do you remember that glorious June
When we were lovers, you and I?
Something there was in the robin’s tune,
Something there was in earth and sky,
That was never before, and never since then.
I wonder
why.
Do you remember the bridge we crossed,
And lingered to see the ships go by,
With snowy sails to the free winds tossed?
I never pass that bridge but I sigh
With a sense at my heart as of something lost.
I wonder
why.
Do you remember the song we sung,
Under the beautiful starlit sky?
The world was bright, and our hearts were young—
I cannot forget though I try and try.
How you smiled in my eyes while the echoes rung.
I wonder
why.
Do you remember how debonair
The new moon shone when we said good-bye?
How it listened and smiled when we parted there?
I shall hate the new moon until I die—
Hate it for ever, nor think it fair.
I wonder
why.
A WOMAN’S HAND
All day long there has haunted me
A spectre out of my lost youth-land.
Because I happened last night to see
A woman’s beautiful snow-white hand.
Like part of a statue broken away,
And carefully kept in a velvet case,
On the crimson rim of her box it lay;
The folds of the curtain hid her face.
Years had drifted between us two,
In another clime, in another land,
We had lived and parted, and yet I knew
That cruelly beautiful perfect hand.
The ringless beauty of fingers fine,
The sea-shell tint of their taper tips,
The sight of them stirred my blood like wine,
Oh, to hold them again to my lips!
To feel their tender touch on my hair,
Their mute caress, and their clinging hold;
Oh for the past that was green and fair,
With a cloudless sky, and a sun of gold!
But the sun has set, and a dead delight
Shadows my life with a dull despair,
Oh why did I see that hand of white,
Like a marble ornament lying there?
PRESENTIMENT
As unseen spheres cast shadows on the Earth
Some unknown cause depresses me to-night.
The house is full of laughter and sweet mirth,
The day has held but pleasure and delight.
Down in the parlour some one blithely sings;
A chime of laughter echoes in the hall;
But all unseen by other eyes, strange things
Rat-like do seem to glide along the wall.
I rise, and laugh, and say I will not care;
I call them idle fancies, one and all.
And yet, suspended by a single hair,
The sword of Fate seems trembling soon to fall.
I leave the house, and walk the lighted street;
And mingle with the pleasure-seeking throng.
And close behind me follow spectre feet
That pause with me, or with me move along.
I seek my room, and close and bolt the door;
I draw the curtain, and turn up the light;
But close beside me, closer than before,
This nameless something stands, but out of
sight.
Ye mystic messenger of woe to come,
Ye nameless nothing called
‘Presentiment,’
Take form and face me; be no longer dumb,
But tell who thou art, and wherefore sent.
TWO ROOMS
One room is full of luxury, and dim
With that soft moonlit radiance of light
That she best loves, who sits and dreams of him
Her heart has crowned as knight.
And one is bare, and comfortless, and dim
With that strange, fitful glimmer that is shed
By candles casting shadows weird and grim,
Above the sheeted dead.
In one, a round and beautiful young face
Is full of wordless rapture; and so fair
You know her breast is joy’s best dwelling-place;
You know sweet love is there.
In one, there lies a white and wasted face
Whereon is frozen such supreme despair,
You need but look to know what left the trace;
You know love has been there.
To one he comes! She leans her head of gold
Upon his breast and bids him no more roam.
Ah God! Ah God! and one lies stark and cold,
Because he ceased to come.
THREE AT THE OPERA
Last night the house was crowded. Were you there?
You thought our box held only two, maybe—
Myself and chaperon, a matron fair.
There was another whom you did not see.
Close, close beside me, sat a phantom form;
Above the music and loud cheer on cheer
That rose, and thundered like a sudden storm,
I heard his low voice whispering in my ear.
A dead man’s voice. You know when dead men
speak
There is no noise their least tone will not
drown.
His sweet soft words brought blushes to my cheek,
And made my happy eyelids flutter down.
There were so many glasses turned on me,
My chaperon was proud. She called me fair,
And said I drew their glances. Well, may be.
I think they saw that dead man sitting
there.
A dead man at an opera: how strange!
I know it must have seemed much out of place.
He smiled, and spoke, and there was little change
In the white pallor of his perfect face.
Yet he was dead. I knew it all the while,
I do not wonder people looked that way.
It seemed so odd to see a dead man smile;
Its strangeness never struck me till to-day.
He rose and went out when we left our stall;
Rose up, went out, and vanished in the night.
He always sits beside me in that hall,
But goes when goes the music and the light.
A STRAIN OF MUSIC
In through the open window
To the chamber where I lay,
There came the beat of merry feet,
From the dancers over the way.
And back on the wings of the music
That rose on the midnight air,
My rare youth came and spoke my name,
And lo! I was young and fair.
Once more in the glitter of gaslight
I stood in my life’s glad prime:
And heart and feet in a rhythm sweet
Were keeping the music’s time.
Like a leaf in the breeze of summer
I drifted down the hall,
On an arm that is cold with death and mould,
And is hidden under the pall.
Once more at a low voice’s whisper
(A voice that is long since stilled)
I felt the flush of a rising blush,
And my pulses leaped and thrilled.
Once more in a sea of faces,
I only saw one face;
And life grew bright with a new delight,
And sweet with a nameless grace.
A crash of passionate music,
A hush and a silence then;
The dancers rest in their pleasure quest,
And lo! I am old again.
Old and alone in my chamber,
While the night wears wearily on,
And the pallid wraith of a broken faith—
Keeps watch with me till the dawn.
SMOKE
Last summer, lazing by the sea,
I met a most entrancing creature,
Her black eyes quite bewildered me—
She had a Spanish cast of feature.
She often smoked a cigarette,
And did it in the cutest fashion.
Before a week passed by she set
My young heart in a raging passion.
I swore I loved her as my life,
I gave her gems (don’t tell my tailor).
She promised to become my wife,
But whispered, ‘Papa is my jailer.’
‘We must be very sly, you see,
For Papa will not list to reason.
You must not come to call on me
Until he’s gone from home a season.
‘I’ll send you word, now don’t forget,
Take this as pledge, I will remember.’
She gave me a perfumed cigarette,
And turned and left me with September.
To-day she sent her ‘cards’ to me.
‘My presence asked’ to see her marry
That millionaire old banker C---
She has my ‘presents,’ so
I’ll tarry.
And still I feel a keen regret
(About the jewels that I gave her)
I’ve smoked the little cigarette—
It had a most delicious flavour.
AN AUTUMN DAY
Leaden skies and a lonesome shadow
Where summer has passed with her gorgeous train;
Snow on the mountain, and frost on the meadow—
A white face pressed to the window pane;
A cold mist falling, a bleak wind calling,
And oh! but life seems vain.
Rain is better than golden weather,
When the heart is dulled with a dumb despair.
Dead leaves lie where they walked together,
The hammock is gone, and the rustic chair.
Let bleak snows cover the whole world over—
It will never again seem fair.
Time laughs lightly at youth’s sad
‘Never,’
Summer shall come again, smiling once more,
High o’er the cold world the sun shines for ever,
Hearts that seemed dead are alive at the core.
Oh, but the pain of it—oh, but the gain of it,
After the shadows pass o’er.
WISHES
Whatever you want, if you wish for it long,
With constant yearning and fervent desire,
If your wish soars upward on wings so strong
That they never grow languid and never
tire,—
Why, over the storm clouds and out of the dark
It shall come flying some day to you.
As the dove with the olive branch flew to the ark,
And the dream you have cherished—it shall come
true.
But lest much rapture shall make you mad,
Or too bright sunshine should strike you blind,
Along with your blessing a something sad
Shall come like a shadow that follows behind.
Something unwelcome and unforeseen,
Yet of your hope and your wish, a part,
Shall stand like a sentinel in between
The perfect joy and the human heart.
I wished for a cloudless and golden day;
It came, but I looked from my window to see
A giant shadow which seemed to say,
‘If you ask for the sunlight you must take
me.’
Oh! a wonderful thing is the human will,
When seeking one purpose, and serving one end;
But I think it is wiser to just sit still,
And accept whatever the gods may send.
THE PLAY
In the rosy light of my day’s fair morning,
Ere ever a storm cloud darkened the west,
Ere even a shadow of night gave warning
When life seemed only a pleasure quest,
Why then all humour and comedy scorning—
I liked high tragedy best.
I liked the challenge, the fierce fought duel,
With a death or a parting in every act.
I liked the villain to be more cruel
Than the basest villain could be in fact:
For it fed the fires of my mind with the fuel
Of the things that my life lacked.
But as time passed on, and I met real sorrow,
And she played at night on the stage—my
heart,
I found I could not forget on the morrow
The pain I had felt in her tragic part.
For alas! no longer I needed to borrow
My grief from the actor’s art.
And as life grows older, and therefore sadder
(Though sweeter maybe with its autumn haze),
I find more pleasure in watching the gladder
And lighter order of humorous plays.
Where the mirth is as mad, or maybe madder,
Than the mirth of my lost days.
I like to be forced to laugh and be merry,
Though the earth with sorrow and pain is rife:
I like for an evening at least to bury
All thoughts of trouble, or pain, or strife.
In sooth, I like to be moved to the very
Emotions I miss in life.
AS WE LOOK BACK (RONDEAU)
As we look back at our lost Used-to-Be,
‘The light that never was on land or sea’
Touches the distant mountain peaks with gold,
And through the glass of memory we behold
Such blossoms as grow not on any lea.
The double leaf upon the poplar tree
Turns up its silver side to you and me,
And glow-worm lanterns light the lonely wold
As we look back.
No sounds we hear but echoes of young glee;
No winds we feel but west winds blowing free,
From those fair isles that seem a thousandfold
More beautiful than in the days of old;
And all the clouds that hang above them flee,
As we look
back.
WHY
Why do eyes that were tender,
Averted, turn away?
Why has our dear love’s splendour
All faded into gray?
Why is it that lips glow not
That late were all aglow?
I know not, dear, I know not,
I only know ’tis so.
Why do you no more tremble
Now when I kiss your cheek?
Why do we both dissemble
The thoughts we used to speak?
Why is it that words flow not
That used to fondly flow?
I know not, dear, I know not,
I only know ’tis so.
Have we outlived the passion
That late lit earth and sky?
And is this but the fashion
A fond love takes to die?
Is it, that we shall know not
Again love’s rapture glow?
I trust not, sweet, I trust not—
And yet it may be so.
LISTEN
Whoever you are as you read this,
Whatever your trouble or grief,
I want you to know and to heed this,
The day draweth near with relief.
No sorrow, no woe, is unending;
Though heaven seems voiceless and dumb,
Remember your cry is ascending,
And an answer will certainly come.
Whatever temptation is near you,
Whose eyes on this simple verse fall,
Remember good angels will hear you,
And help you, so sure as you call.
Who stunned with despair, I beseech you,
Whatever your losses, your need,
Believe when these printed words reach you—
Believe you were born to succeed.
TOGETHER
We two in the fever, and fervour, and glow
Of life’s high tide have rejoiced together.
We have looked out over the glittering snow,
And known we were dwelling in summer weather.
For the seasons are made by the heart, I hold,
And not by the outdoor heat or cold.
We two in the shadows of pain and fear
Have journeyed together in dim, dark places,
Where black-robed sorrow walked to and fro,
And fear and trouble with phantom faces
Peered out upon us, and froze our blood,
Though June’s fair roses were all in bud.
We two have measured all depths, all heights;
We have bathed in tears, we have sunned in
laughter;
We have known all sorrow, and all delights,
They never could keep us apart hereafter.
Wherever your spirit was sent I know,
I would find my way in the dark, and go.
If they took my soul into Paradise,
And told me I must be content without you,
I would weary them so with my homesick cries,
And the ceaseless questions I asked about you,
They would open the gates and set me free,
Or else they would find you and bring you to me.
ONE NIGHT
Was it last summer, or ages gone,
That damp, dark night in the August dusk,
When I waited for you by the gate alone?
And the air was heavy with scents like musk.
Swiftly and silently shooting down
Like the lonesome light of a falling star,
I saw through the shadows dense and brown,
The dull red light of your fine cigar.
Like a king who taketh his own, you came
Through the lowering night and the falling dew.
Like one who yields to a rightful claim,
I waited there in the dusk for you.
Never again when the day grows late,
Never again in the years to be,
Shall I stand in the dark and dew, and wait,
And never again will you come to me.
But always and ever when high and far
The old moon hideth her troubled face,
I think how the light like a falling star
Lit all my world with a new strange grace.
The passionate glow of your splendid eyes
Shines into my heart as it shone that night,
And its slumberous billows surge and rise
As the ocean is stirred by the tempest’s
might.
LOST NATION
Oh! we are a lone, lost nation,
We, who sing your songs.
With his moods, and his desolation
The poet nowhere belongs.
We are not of the people
Who labour, believe, and doubt.
Like the bell that rings in the steeple,
We are in the world, yet out.
In the rustic town, or the city
We seek our place in vain;
And our hearts are starved for pity,
And our souls are sick with pain.
Yes, the people are buying, selling,
And the world is one great mart.
And woe for the thoughts that are dwelling
Up in the poet’s heart.
We know what the waves are saying
As they roll up from the sea,
And the weird old wind is playing
Our own sad melody.
We send forth a song to wander
Like a spirit of ill or good;
And here it is heard, and yonder,
But is nowhere understood.
For the world it lives for fashion,
For glory, and gain, and strife;
And what can it know of the passion
And pain of a poet’s life?
THE CAPTIVE
My lady is robed for the ball to-night,
All in a shimmer and silken sheen.
She glides down the stairs like a thing of light,
The ballroom’s beautiful queen.
Priceless gems on her bosom glow—
Half hid by laces a queen might wear.
Robed is she, as befits, you know,
The wife of a millionaire.
Gliding along at her liege lord’s side,
Out-shining all in that company,
Into the mind of the old man’s bride
There creeps a curious simile.
She thinks how once in the Long Ago,
A beautiful captive, all aflame
With jewels that weighed her down like woe,
Close in the wake of her captor came.
All day long in that mocking plight,
She followed him in a dumb despair;
And the people thought her a goodly sight,
Decked in her jewels rare.
And now at her lawful master’s side,
With a pain in her heart, as great as then
(So thinks this old man’s beautiful bride),
Zenobia walks again.
NO SONG
These summer days when all the poets sing
I have no voice for song.
I see the birds of summer taking wing,
And days so sweet and long,
Each seemed a little heaven with no end,
I know are gone for evermore, dear friend.
Nay, by and by comes another Spring;
And long, sweet, perfect days.
And by and by I shall have voice to sing
My old glad, happy lays.
More blithesome songs, more days that have no end;
More golden summers; but like thee no friend.
TWO FRIENDS
One day Ambition, in his endless round,
All filled with vague and nameless longings, found
Slow wasting Genius, who from spot to spot
Went idly grazing, through the Realms of Thought.
Ambition cried, ‘Come, wander forth with me;
I like thy face—but cannot stay with thee.’
‘I will,’ said Genius, ‘for I needs must own
I’m getting dull by being much alone.’
‘Your hands are cold—come, warm them at my
fire,’
Ambition said. ‘Now, what is thy desire?’
Quoth Genius, ‘’Neath the sod of yonder heather
Lie gems untold. Let’s plough them out
together.’
They bent like strong young oxen to the plough,
This done, Ambition questioned, ‘Whither now?
We’ll leave these gems for all the world to see!
New sports and pleasures wait for thee and me.’
Said Genius, ‘Yonder ghostly ruin stands
A blot and blemish on surrounding lands;
Let’s fling sweet, blooming fancies everywhere.’
Soon all the world in wonder came to stare.
‘Come, come!’ Ambition cried; ‘Pray, do be
gone
From this dull place: I would go further on.’
‘There lies,’ said Genius, ‘up on yonder
peak
A Prize, alone, I have not cared to seek.’
Up, up they went—as swift, as sure as Time,
They seemed to soar: (in truth they did but climb),
And there in sight of all the world beneath—
Ambition crowned fair Genius with a wreath.
All day they journeyed, swift from place to place;
Ambition led, and Genius joined the chase.
In every realm of fancy, or of thought,
All depths they sounded, and all heights they sought.
Now hand in hand for evermore they stray,
And if they part, or quarrel for a day,
You’ll find Ambition, aimless, reckless, wild,
And Genius moping, like an idle child.