Strange little spring, by channels past our telling,Gentle, resistless, welling, welling, welling;Through what blind ways, we know not whenceYou darkling come to dance and dimple—Strange little spring!Nature hath no such innocence,And no more secret thing—So mysterious and so simple;Earth hath no such fairy daughterOf all her witchcraft shapes of water.When all the land with summer burns,And brazen noon rides hot and high,And tongues are parched and grasses dry,Still are you green and hushed with ferns,And cool as some old sanctuary;Still are you brimming o'er with dewAnd stars that dipped their feet in you.
And I believe when none is by,Only the young moon in the sky—The Greeks of old were right about you—A naiad, like a marble flower,Lifts up her lovely shape from out you,Swaying like a silver shower.
So in old years dead and goneBrimmed the spring on Helicon,Just a little spring like you—Ferns and moss and stars and dew—Nigh the sacred Muses' dwelling,Dancing, dimpling, welling, welling.
Noon like a naked sword lies on the grass,Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse;The little stream, too indolent to pass,Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs,That build amid the glare a shadowy house,And with a Paradisal freshness brimsAmid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade;The antic water-fly above it skims,And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade,Or knee-deep in the grassy glimmer wade.
The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies,Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves,Nor bird, nor bee; and even the butterflies,Languid with noon, forget their painted loves,Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves.Only at times a little breeze will stir,And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream,Or run its fingers through the willows' hair,And sway the rushes momently agleam—Then all fall back again into a dream.
The beauty of this rainy day,All silver-green and dripping gray,Has stolen quite my heart awayFrom all the tasks I meant to do,Made me forget the resolute blueAnd energetic gold of things . . .So soft a song the rain-bird sings.
Yet am I glad to miss awhileThe sun's huge domineering smile,The busy spaces mile on mile,Shut in behind this shimmering screenOf falling pearls and phantom green;As in a cloister walled with rain,Safe from intrusions, voices vain,And hurry of invading feet,Inviolate in my retreat:Myself, my books, my pipe, my fire—So runs my rainy-day desire.
Or I old letters may con o'er,And dream on faces seen no more,The buried treasure of the years,Too visionary now for tears;Open old cupboards and exploreSometimes, for an old sweetheart's sake,A delicate romantic ache,Sometimes a swifter pang of painTo read old tenderness again,As though the ink were scarce yet dry,And She still She and I still I.What if I were to write as thoughHer letter came an hour ago!An hour ago!—This post-mark says . . .But out upon these rainy days!Come tie the packet up again,The sun is back—enough of rain.
Away from the silent hills and the talkingof upland waters,The high still stars and the lonely moonin her quarters,I fly to the city, the streets, the faces, the towers;And I leave behind me the hush and the dewsand the flowers,The mink that steals by the stream a-shimmeramong the rocks,The hawk o'er the barn-yard sailing, the little cub-bearand the fox,The woodchuck and his burrow, and the little snake at noon,And the house of the yellow-jacket, and the cricket'sendless tune.
And what shall I find in the city that shall takethe place of these?O I shall find my love there, and fall at her silken knees,And for the moon her breast, and for the stars her eyes,And under her shadowed hair the gardens of Paradise.
I bring a message from the streamTo fan the burning cheeks of town,From morning's towerOf pearl and roseI bring this cup of crystal down,With brimming dews agleam,And from my lady's garden closeI bring this flower.
O walk with me, ye jaded brows,And I will sing the song I foundMaking a lonely rippling soundUnder the boughs.The tinkle of the brook is there,And cow-bells wandering through the fern,And silver callsFrom waterfalls,And echoes floating through the airFrom happiness I know not where,And hum and drone where'er I turnOf little lives that buzz and die;And sudden lucent melodies,Like hidden strings among the treesRoofing the summer sky.
The soft breath of the briar I bring,And wafted scents of mint and clover,Rain-distilled balms the hill-winds fling,Sweet-thoughted as a lover;Incense from lilied urns a-swaying,And the green smell of grassWhere men are haying.
As through the streets I pass,With their shrill clatter,This largesse from the hills and streams,This quietude of flowers and dreams,Round me I scatter.
Morn hath a secret that she never tells:'Tis on her lips and in her maiden eyes—I think it is the way to Paradise,Or of the Fount of Youth the crystal wells.The bee hath no such honey in her cellsSweet as the balm that in her bosom lies,As in her garden of the budding skiesShe walks among the silver asphodels.
He that is loveless and of heart forlorn,Let him but leave behind his haunted bed,And set his feet toward yonder singing star,Shall have for sweetheart this same secret morn;She shall come running to him from afar,And on her cool breast lay his lonely head.
Water in hidden glensFrom the secret heart of the mountains,Where the red fox hath its densAnd the gods their crystal fountains;Up runnel and leaping cataract,Boulder and ledge, I climbed and tracked,Till I came to the top of the world and the fenThat drinks up the clouds and cisterns the rain,And down through the floors of the deep morassThe procreant woodland essences drain—The thunder's home, where the eagles screamAnd the centaurs pass;But, where it was born, I lost my stream.
'Twas in vain I said: "'Tis here it springs,Though no more it leaps and no more it sings;"And I thought of a poet whose songs I knewOf morning made and shining dew—I remembered the mire of the marshes too.
The sad nights are here and the sad mornings,The air is filled with portents and with warnings,Clouds that vastly loom and winds that cry,A mournful prescienceOf bright things going hence;Red leaves are blown about the widowed sky,And late disconsolate bloomsDankly bestrewThe garden walks, as in deserted roomsThe parted guest, in haste to bid adieu,Trinklets and shreds forgotten left behind,Torn letters and a ribbon once so brave—Wreckage none cares to save,And hearts grow sad to find;And phantom echoes, as of old foot-falls,Wander and weary out in the thin air,And the last cricket calls—A tiny sorrow, shrilling "Where? ah! where?"
When last I saw this opening roseThat holds the summer in its hand,And with its beauty overflowsAnd sweetens half a shire of land,It was a black and cindered thing,Drearily rocking in the cold,The relic of a vanished spring,A rose abominably old.
Amid the stainless snows it grinned,A foul and withered shape, that castRibbed shadows, and the gleaming windWent rattling through it as it passed;It filled the heart with a strange dread,Hag-like, it made a whimpering sound,And gibbered like the wandering deadIn some unhallowed burial-ground.
Whoso on that December dayHad seen it so deject and lorn,So lone a symbol of decay,Had dreamed of it this summer morn?Divined the power that should relumeA flame so spent, and once more bringThat blackened being back to bloom,—Who could have dreamed so strange a thing?
Stream that leapt and dancedDown the rocky ledges,All the summer long,Past the flowered sedges,Under the green rafters,With their leafy laughters,Murmuring your song:Strangely still and tranced,All your singing ended,Wizardly suspended,Icily adream;When the new buds thicken,Can this crystal quicken,Now so strangely sleeping,Once more go a-leapingDown the rocky ledges,All the summer long,Murmuring its song?
Winter that hath few friends yet numbers thoseOf spirit erect and delicate of eye;All may applaud sweet Summer, with her rose,And Autumn, with her banners in the sky;But when from the earth's cheek the colour goes,Her old adorers from her presence fly.
So cold her bosom seems, such icy glareIs in her eyes, while on the frozen mereThe shrill ice creaks in the congealing air;Where is the lover that shall call her dear,Or the devotion that shall find her fair?The white-robed widow of the vanished year.
Yet hath she loveliness and many flowers,Dreams hath she too and tender reveries,Tranced mid the rainbows of her gleaming bowers,Or the hushed temples of her pillared trees;Summer has scarce such soft and silent hours,Autumn has no such antic wizardries.
Yea! he that takes her to his bosom knows,Lost in the magic crystal of her eyes,Upon her vestal cheek a fairer rose,What rapture and what passionate surpriseAwaits his kiss beneath her mask of snows,And what strange fire beneath her pallor lies.
Beauty is hers all unconfused of sense,Lustral, austere, and of the spirit fine;No cloudy fumes of myrrh and frankincenseDrug in her arms the ecstasy divine;But stellar awe that kneels in high suspense,And hallowed glories of the inner shrine.
And, for the idle summer, in our bloodPleasures hath she of rapid tingling joy,With ruddy laughter 'neath her frozen hood,Purging our mortal metal of alloy,Stern benefactress of beatitude,Turning our leaden age to girl and boy.
When winter comes and takes away the rose,And all the singing of sweet birds is done,The warm and honeyed world lost deep in snows,Still, independent of the summer sun,In vain, with sullen roar,December shakes my door,And sleet upon the paneThreatens my peace in vain,While, seated by the fire upon my knee,My love abides with me.
For he who, wise in time, his harvest yieldsReaped into barns, sweet-smelling and secure,Smiles as the rain beats sternly on his fields,For wealth is his no winter can make poor;Safe all his waving goldShut in against the cold,Treasure of summer grass—So sit I with my lass,My harvest sheaves of all her garnered charmsSafe in my happy arms.
Still fragrant in the garden of her breast,The flowers that fled with summer softly bloom,The birds that shook with song each empty nestStill, when she speaks, fill all the listening room,Deep-sheltered from the stormWithin her blossoming form.Flower-breathed and singing sweetIs she from head to feet;All summer in my sweetheart doth abide,Though winter be outside.
So all the various wonder of the world,The wizard moon and stars, the haunted sea,In her small being mystically furled,She brings as in a golden cup to me;Within no other bookMy eyes for wisdom look,That have her eyes for lore;And when the flaming doorOpens into the dark, what shall I fearAdventuring with my dear?
With laughter always on the darkest day,She danced before the very face of dread,Starry companion of my mortal way,Pre-destined merrily to be my mate,With eyes as calm, she met the eyes of Fate:"For this it was that you and I were wed—What else?" she smiled and said.
Fair-weather wives are any man's to find,The pretty sisters of the butterfly,Gay when the sun is out, and skies are kind;The daughters of the rainbow all may win—Pity their lovers when the sun goes in!Hersmiles are brightest 'neath the stormiest sky—Thrice blest and all unworthy I!
When the musicians hide away their faces,And all the petals of the rose are shed,And snow is drifting through the happy places,And the last cricket's heart is cold and dead;O Joy, where shall we find thee?O Love, where shall we seek?For summer is behind thee,And cold is winter's cheek.
Where shall I find me violets in December?O tell me where the wood-thrush sings to-day!Ah! heart, our summer-love dost thou rememberWhere it lies hidden safe and warm away?When woods once more are ringingWith sweet birds on the bough,And brooks once more are singing,Will it be there—thinkst thou?
When Autumn came through bannered woodlands sighing,We found a place of moonlight and of tears,And there, with yellow leaves for it to lie in,Left it to dream, watched over by the spheres.It lies like buried treasureBeneath the winter's cold,The love beyond all measure,In heaps of living gold.
When April's here, with all her sweet adorning,And all the joys steal back December hid,Shall we not laughing run, some happy morning,And of our treasure lift the leafy lid?Again to find it dreaming,Just as we left it still,Our treasure far out-gleamingCrocus and daffodil.
Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed,God give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting,Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud,And all about it ever the birds sing.
Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mineThat sowed there stars along with good white grain,But reaped thereof—be better fortune thine—Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain.
Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance,Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil,Till I sowed poppies 'gainst remembrance,And took to other furrows my laughing toil.
And other men as I that ploughed beforeShall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reapWhere we have sown, and on your threshing floorHave honest grain within thy barns to keep.
Paths that windO'er the hills and by the streamsI must leave behind—Dawns and dews and dreams.Trails that goThrough the woods and down the slopesTo the vale below;Done with fears and hopes,I must wander onTill the purple twilight ends,Where the sun has gone—Faces, flowers and friends.
The gods are there, they hide their lordly facesFrom you that will not kneel—Worship, and they reveal,Call—and 'tis they!They have not changed, nor moved from their high places,The stars stream past their eyes like drifted spray;Lovely to look on are they as bright gold,They are wise with beauty, as a pool is wise.Lonely with lilies; very sweet their eyes—Bathed deep in sunshine are they, and very cold.
A woman! lightly the mysterious wordFalls from our lips, lightly as though we knewIts meaning, as we say—a flower, a bird,Or say the moon, the stream, the light, the dew,Simple familiar things, mysterious too;Or as a star is set down on a chart,Named with a name, out yonder in the blue:A woman—and yet how much more thou art!
So lightly spoken, and so lightly heard,And yet, strange word, who shall thy sense construe?What sage hath yet fit designation dared?Yet I have sought the dictionaries through,And of thy meaning found me not a clue;Blessing and breaking still the firmest heart,So fairy false, yet so divinely true:A woman—and yet how much more thou art!
Mother of God, and Circe, bosom-bared,That nursed our manhood, and our manhood slew;First dream, last sigh, all the long way we fared,Sweeter than honey, bitterer than rue;Thou fated radiance sorrowing men pursue,Thou art the whole of life—the rest but partOf thee, all things we ever dream or do;A woman—and yet how much more thou art!
Princess, that all this craft of moonlight threwAcross my path, this deep immortal smartShall still burn on when winds my ashes strew:A woman—and yet how much more thou art!
You bear a flower in your hand,You softly take it through the air,Lest it should be too roughly fanned,And break and fall, for all your care.
Love is like that, the lightest breathShakes all its blossoms o'er the land,And its mysterious cousin, Death,Waits but to snatch it from your hand.
O some day, should your hand forget,Your guardian eyes stray otherwhere,Your cheeks shall all in vain be wet,Vain all your penance and your prayer.
God gave you once this creature fair,You two mysteriously met;By Time's strange streamThere stood this Dream,This lovely ImmortalityGiven your mortal eyes to see,That might have been your darling yet;But in the placeOf her strange faceSorrow will stand forever more,And Sorrow's hand be on your brow,And vainly you shall watch the doorFor her so lightly with you now,And all the world be as before.Ah; Spring shall sing and Summer bloom,And flowers fill Life's empty room,And all the singers sing in vain,Nor bring you back your flower again.
O have a care!—for this is all:Let not your magic blossom fall.
Had I the gold that some so vainly spend,For my lost loves a temple would I raise,A shrine for each dear name: there should ascendIncense for ever, and hymns of golden praise;And I would live the remnant of my days,Where hallowed windows cast their painted gleams,At prayer before each consecrated face,Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.
And each fair altar, like a priest, I'd tend,Trimming the tapers to a constant blaze,And to each lovely and beloved friendGarlands I'd bring, and virginal soft spraysFrom April's bodice, and moon-breasted May's,And there should be a sound for ever of streamsAnd birds 'mid happy leaves in that still place,—Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.
O'er missals of hushed memories would I bend,And thrilling scripts of bosom-scented phrase,Telling of love that never hath an end,And sacred relics of wonder-working grace,Strands of bright hair, and tender webs of lace,Press to my lips—until the Present seemsThe Past again to my ensorcelled gaze,—Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.
Princesses unforgot, your lover laysHis heart upon your altars, and he deemsHe treads again the fair love-haunted ways—Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.
I was reading a letter of yours to-day,The date—O a thousand years ago!The postmark is there—the month was May:How, in God's name, did I let you go?What wonderful things for a girl to say!And to think that I hadn't the sense to know—What wonderful things for a man to hear!O still beloved, O still most dear.
"Duty" I called it, and hugged the wordClose to my side, like a shirt of hair;You laughed, I remember, laughed like a bird,And somehow I thought that you didn't care.Duty!—and Love, with her bosom bare!No wonder you laughed, as we parted there—Then your letter came with this last good-by—And I sat splendidly down to die.
Nor Duty, nor Death, would have aught of me:"He is Love's," they said, "he cannot be ours;"And your laugh pursued me o'er land and sea,And your face like a thousand flowers."Tis her gown!" I said to each rustling tree,"She is coming!" I said to the whispered showers;But you came not again, and this letter of yoursIs all that endures—all that endures.
These aching words—in your swift firm hand,That stirs me still as the day we met—-That now 'tis too late to understand,Say "hers is the face you shall ne'er forget;"That, though Space and Time be as shifting sand,We can never part—we are meeting yet.This song, beloved, where'er you be,Your heart shall hear and shall answer me.
Too late I bring my heart, too late 'tis yours;Too late to bring the true love that endures;Too long, unthrift, I gave it here and there,Spent it in idle love and idle song;Youth seemed so rich, with kisses all to spare—Too late! too long!
Too late, O fairy woman; dreams and dustAre in your hair, your face is dimly thrustAmong the flowers; and Time, that all forgets,Even you forgets, and only I prolongThe face I love, with ache of vain regrets—Too late! too long!
Too long I tarried, and too late I come,O eyes and lips so strangely sealed and dumb:My heart—what is it now, beloved, to you?My love—that doth your holy silence wrong?Ah! fairy face, star-crowned and chrismed with dew—Too late! too long!
My door is always left ajar,Lest you should suddenly slip through,A little breathless frightened star;Each footfall sets my heart abeat,I always think it may be you,Stolen in from the street.
My ears are evermore attent,Waiting in vain for one blest sound—The little frock, with lilac scent,That used to whisper up the stair;Then in my arms with one wild bound—Your lips, your eyes, your hair.Never the south wind through the rose,Brushing its petals with soft hand,Made such sweet talking as your clothes,Rustling and fragrant as you came,And at my aching door would stand—Then vanish into flame.
Little chipmunk, do you knowAll you mean to me?—She and I and Long Ago,And you there in the tree;With that nut between your paws,Half-way to your twittering jaws,Jaunty with your stripèd coat,Puffing out your furry throat,Eyes like some big polished seed,Plumed tail curved like half a lyre . . .
We pretended not to heed—You, as though you would inquire"Can I trust them?" . . . then a jerk,And you'd skipped three branches higher,Jaws again at work;Like a little clock-work elf,With all the forest to itself.
She was very fair to see,She was all the world to me,She has gone whole worlds away;Yet it seems as though to-day,Chipmunk, I can hear her say;"Get that chipmunk, dear, for me——"Chipmunk, you can never knowAll she was to me.That's all—it was long ago.
The peril of fair faces all his daysNo man shall 'scape: be it for joy or woe,Each is the thrall of some predestined faceDivinely doomed to work his overthrow,Transiently fair, as flowers in gardens blow,Then fade, and charm no more our listless eyes;But some fair faces ever fairer grow—Beware of the dead face that never dies.
No snare young beauty for thy manhood lays,No honeyed kiss the girls of Paphos know,Shall hold thee as the silent smiling waysOf her that went—yet only seemed to go—With April blossoms and with last year's snow;Each year she comes again in subtler guise,And beckons us to her green bed below—Beware of the dead face that never dies.
The living fade before her lunar gaze,Her phantom youth their ruddy veins out-glow,She lays cold fingers on the lips that praiseAught save her lovely face of long ago;Oblivious poppies all in vain we sowBefore the opening gates of Paradise;There shalt thou find her pacing to and fro—Beware of the dead face that never dies.
Prince, take thy fill of love, for even soSad men grow happy and no other wise;But love the quick—and as thy mortal foeBeware of the dead face that never dies.
O never laugh again!Laughter is dead,Deep hiding in her grave,A sacred thing.O never laugh again,Never take hands and runThrough the wild streets,Or sing,Glad in the sun:For she, the immortal sweetness of all sweets,Took laughter with herWhen she went awayWith sleep.
O never laugh again!Ours but to weep,Ours but to pray.
Songs I sang of lordly matters,Life and death, and stars and sea;Nothing of them now remainsBut the song I sang for thee.
Vain the learned elaborate metres,Vain the deeply pondered line;All the rest are dust and ashesBut that little song of thine.
Bring not your dreams to me—Blown dust, and vapour, and the running stream—Saying, "He, too, doth dream,Touched of the moon."
Nay! wouldst thou vanish seeThy darling phantoms,Bring them then to me!For my hard business—though so soft it seems—Was ever dreams and dreams.
And as some stern-eyed broker smiles disdain,Valuing at noughtHer bosom's locket, with its little chain,Love's all that Love hath brought;So must I weigh and measureThy fading treasure,Sighing to see it goAs surely as the snow.
For I have such sad knowledge of all thingsThat shine like dew a little, all that singsAnd ends its song in weeping—Such sowing and such reaping!—There is no cure but sleeping.
(To the Memory of Austin Dobson)
Master of the lyric innWhere the rarer sort so longDrew the rein, to 'scape the dinOf the cymbal and the gong,Topers of the classic bin,—Oporto, sherris and tokay,Muscatel, and beaujolais—Conning some old Book of Airs,Lolling in their Queen Anne chairs—Catch or glee or madrigal,Writ for viol or virginal;Or from France some courtly tune,Gavotte, ridotto, rigadoon;(Watteau and the rising moon);Ballade, rondeau, triolet,Villanelle or virelay,Wistful of a statelier day,Gallant, delicate, desire:Where the Sign swings of the Lyre,Garlands droop above the door,Thou, dear Master, art no more.
Lo! about thy portals throngSorrowing shapes that loved thy song:TasteandEleganceare there,The modish Muses of Mayfair,Wit,Distinction,FormandStyle,Humour, too, with tear and smile.
Fashion sends her butterflies—Pretty laces to their eyes,Ladies from St. James's thereStep out from the sedan chair;Wigged and scented dandies tooTristely wear their sprigs of rue;Country squires are in the crowd,And little Phyllida sobs aloud.
Then stately shades I seem to see,Master, to companion thee;Horace and Fielding here are comeTo bid thee to Elysium.Last comes one all golden: FameCalls thee, Master, by thy name,On thy brow the laurel lays,Whispers low—"In After Days."
Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair,Had I a god's re-animating breath,Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim airLethean and the eyeless halls of death,Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair,Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom,And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom.
Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust,Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire;Thy face amid our timid counsels thrustWould light us back to glory and desire,And swords flash forth that now ignobly rust;Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame.Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame.
Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mouldThat lies on by-gone traffickings of state,Transformed a moment by that head of gold,Touching the paltry hour with splendid Fate;To "write the Constitution!" 'twere a cold,Dusty and bloomless immortality,Without that last wild dying thought of thee.
(To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hinton)
Say not—"She once was fair;" because the yearsHave changed her beauty to a holier thing,No girl hath such a lovely face as hers,That hoards the sweets of many a vanished spring,Stealing from Time what Time in vain would steal,Culling perfections as each came to flower,Bearing on each rare lineament the sealOf being exquisite from hour to hour.
These eyes have dwelt with beauty night and morn,Guarding the soul within from every stain,No baseness since the first day she was bornBehind those star-lit brows could access again,Bathed in the light that streamed from all things fair,Turning to spirit each delicate door of sense,And with all lovely shapes of earth and airFeeding her wisdom and her innocence.
Life that, whate'er it gives, takes more awayFrom those that all would take and little give,Enriched her treasury from day to day,Making each hour more wonderful to live;And touch by touch, with hands of unseen skill,Transformed the simple beauty of a girl,Finding it lovely, left it lovelier still,A mystic masterpiece of rose and pearl.
Her grief and joy alike have turned to gold,And tears and laughter mingled to one end,With alchemy of living manifold:If Life so wrought, shall Death be less a friend?Nay, earth to heaven shall give the fairest face,Dimming the haughty beauties of the sky;Would I could see her softly take her place,Sweeping each splendour with her queenly eye!
TO LUCY HINTON: December 19, 1921
O loveliest face, on which we look our last—Not without hope we may again beholdSomewhere, somehow, when we ourselves have passedWhere, Lucy, you have gone, this face so dear,That gathered beauty every changing year,And made Youth dream of some day being old.
Some knew the girl, and some the woman grown,And each was fair, but always 'twas your wayTo be more beautiful than yesterday,To win where others lose; and Time, the doomOf other faces, brought to yours new bloom.Now, even from Death you snatch mysterious grace,This last perfection for your lovely face.
So with your spirit was it day by day,That spirit unextinguishably gay,That to the very border of the shadeLaughed on the muttering darkness unafraid.We shall be lonely for your lovely face,Lonely for all your great and gracious ways,But for your laughter loneliest of all.
Yet in our loneliness we think of oneLonely no more, who, on the heavenly stair,Awaits your face, and hears your step at last,His dreamer's eyes a glory like the sun,Again in his sad arms to hold you fast,All your long honeymoon in heaven begun.
Thinking on that, O dear and loveliest friend,We, in that bright beginning of this end,Must bate our grief, and count our mortal lossOnly as his and your immortal gain,Glad that for him and you it is so well.
Lucy, O Lucy, a little while farewell.
(Ballade à double refrain)
Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer,Comrade at arms, on your bronzed cheek we pressThe soldier's kiss, and drop the soldier's tear;Brother by brother fought we in the stressOf the locked steel, all the wild work that fellFor our reluctant doing; we that stormed hellAnd smote it down together, in the sunStand here once more, with all our fighting done,Garlands upon our helmets, sword and lanceQuiet with laurel, sharing the peace they won:Soldier that saved the world in saving France.
Soldier that saved the world in saving France,France that was Europe's dawn when light was none,Clear eyes that with eternal vigilancePierce through the webs in nether darkness spun,Soul of man's soul, his sentinel uponThe ramparts of the world: Ah! France, 'twas wellThis soldier with the sword of GabrielWas yours and ours in all that dire duresse,This soldier, gentle as a child, that hereStands shy and smiling 'mid a world's caress—Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer.
Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer,True knight and succourer of the world's distressHis might and skill we laurel, but more dearOur soldier for that "parfit gentlenesse"That ever in heroic hearts doth dwell,That soul as tranquil as a vesper bell,That glory in him that would glory shun,Those kindly eyes alive with Gascon fun,D'Artagnan's brother—still the old romanceRuns in the blood, thank God! and still shall run:Soldier that saved the world in saving France.
Soldier that saved the world in saving France,Foch, to America's deep heart how near;Betwixt us twain shall never come mischance.Warrior that fought that war might disappear,Far and for ever far the unborn yearThat turns the ploughshare back into the spear—But, must it come, then Foch shall lead the dance:Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer.
We are with France—not by the tiesOf treaties made with tongue in cheek,The ancient diplomatic lies,The paper promises that seekTo hide the long maturing guile,Planning destruction with a smile.
We are with France by bonds no sealOf the stamped wax and tape can make,Bonds no surprise of ambushed steelWith sneering devil's laughter break;Nor need we any plighted speechFor our deep concord, each with each.
As ancient comrades tried and trueNo new exchange of vows demand,Each knows of old what each will do,Nor needs to talk to understand;So France with us and we with France—Enough the gesture and the glance.
In a shared dream our loves began,Together fought one fight and won,The Dream Republican of Man,And now as then our dream is one;Still as of old our hearts uniteTo dream and battle for the Right.
Nor memories alone are ours,But purpose for the Future strong,Across the seas two signal towers,Keeping stern watch against the Wrong;Seeking, with hearts of deep accord,A better wisdom than the Sword.
We are with France, in brotherhoodNot of the spirit's task alone,But kin in laughter of the blood:Where Paris glitters in the sun,A second home, like boys, we find,And leave our grown-up cares behind.
I read there is a man who sits apart,A sort of human spider in his den,Who meditates upon a fearful art—The swiftest way to slay his fellow men.Behind a mask of glass he dreams his hell:With chemic skill, to pack so fierce a dustWithin the thunderbolt of one small shell—Sating in vivid thought his shuddering lust—Whole cities in one gasp of flame shall die,Swept with an all-obliterating rainOf sudden fire and poison from the sky;Nothing that breathes be left to breathe again—And only gloating eyes from out the airWatching the twisting fires, and ears attentFor children's cries and woman's shrill despair,The crash of shrines and towers in ruin rent.
High in the sun the sneering airmen glide,Glance at wrist-watches: scarce a minute goneAnd London, Paris, or New York has died!Scarce twice they look, then turn and hurry on.And, far away, one in his quiet roomDreams of a fiercer dust, a deadlier fume:The wireless crackles him, "Complete success";"Next time," he smiles, "in half a minute less!"To this the climbing brain has won at last—A nation's life gone like a shrivelled scroll—And thus To-Day outstrips the dotard Past!I envy not that man his devil's soul.
The fight I loved—the good old fight—Was clear as day 'twixt Might and Right;Satrap and slave on either hand,Tiller and tyrant of the land;One delved the earth the other trod,The writhing worm, the thundering god.Lords of an earth they deemed their own,The tyrants laughed from throne to throne,Scattered the gold and spilled the wine,And deemed their foolish dust divine;While, 'neath their heel, sublimely stroveThe martyred hosts of Human Love.
Such was the fight I dreamed of old'Twixt Labour and the Lords of Gold;I deemed all evil in the king,In Demos every lovely thing.But now I see the battle set—Albeit the same old banners yet—With no clear issue to decide,With Right and Might on either side;Yet small the rumour is of Right—But the bared arms of Might and MightBrandish across the hate-filled lands,With blood alike on both their hands.
O spirit of Life, by whatsoe'er a nameKnown among men, even as our fathers bentBefore thee, and as little children cameFor counsel in Life's dread predicament,Even we, with all our lore,That only beckons, saddens and betrays,Have no such key to the mysterious doorAs he that kneels and prays.
The stern ascension of our climbing thought,The martyred pilgrims of the soaring soul,Bring us no nearer to the thing we sought,But only tempt us further from the goal;Yea! the eternal planDarkens with knowledge, and our weary skillBut makes us more of beast and less of man,Fevered to hate and kill.
Loves flees with frightened eyes the world it knew,Fades and dissolves and vanishes away,And the sole art the sons of men pursueIs to out-speed the slayer and to slay:And lovely secrets wonFrom radiant nature and her magic lawsServe but to stretch black deserts in the sun,And glut destruction's jaws.
Life! is it sweet no more? the same blue skyArches the woods; the green earth, filled with trees,Glories with song, happy it knows not why,Painted with flowers, and warm with murmurous bees;This earth, this golden home,Where men, like unto gods, were wont to dwell,Was all this builded, with the stars for dome,For man to make it hell?
Was it for this life blossomed with fair arts,That for some paltry leagues of stolen land,Or some poor squabble of contending marts,Murder shall smudge out with its reeking handMan's faith and fanes alike;And man be man no more—but a brute brain,A primal horror mailed and fanged to strike,And bring the Dark again?
Fool of the Ages! fitfully wise in vain;Surely the heavens shall laugh!—the long long climbUp to the stars, to dash him down again!And all the travail of slow-moving TimeAnd birth of radiant wings,A dream of pain, an agony for naught!Highest and lowest of created things,Man, the proud fool of thought.
To Man in haste, flushed with impatient dreamsOf some great thing to do, so slowly done,The long delay of Time all idle seems,Idle the lordly leisure of the sun;So splendid his design, so brief his span,For all the faith with which his heart is burning,He marvels, as he builds each shining plan,That heaven's wheel should be so long in turning,And God more slow in righteousness than Man.
Evil on evil mock him all about,And all the forces of embattled wrong,There are so many devils to cast out—Save God be with him, how shall Man be strong?With his own heart at war, to weakness prone,And all the honeyed ways of joyous sinning,How in this welter shall he hold his own,And, single-handed, e'er have hopes of winning?How shall he fight God's battle all alone?
He hath no lightnings in his puny hand,Nor starry servitors to work his will,Only his soul and his strong purpose planned,His dream of goodness and his hate of ill;He, but a handful of the eddying dust,At the wind's fancy shaped, from nowhere blowing;A moment man—then, with another gust,A formless vapour into nowhere going,Even as he dreams back into darkness thrust.
O so at least it seems—if life were hisA little longer! grant him thrice his years,And God should see a better world than this,Pure for the foul, and laughter for the tears:So fierce a flame to burn the dross awayDreams in his spark of life so swiftly fleeing:If Man can do so much in one short day,O strange it seems that an Eternal BeingShould in his purposes so long delay.
Easy to answer—lo! the unfathomed timeGone ere each small perfection came to flower,Ere soul shone dimly in the wastes of slime;Wouldst thou turn Hell to Heaven in an hour?Easy to say—God's purposes are long,His ways and wonders far beyond our knowing,He hath mysterious ministers even in wrong,Sure is His harvest, though so long His sowing:So say old poets with persuasive tongue.
And yet—and yet—it seems some swifter doomFrom so august a hand might surely fall,And all earth's rubbish in one flash consume,And make an end of evil once for all . . .But vain the questions and the answers vain,Who knows but Man's impatience is God's doing?Who knows if evil be so swiftly slain?Be sure none shall escape, with God pursuing.Question no more—but to your work again!
God of the Wine List, roseate lord,And is it really then good-by?Of Prohibitionists abhorred,Must thou in sorry sooth then die,(O fatal morning of July!)Nor aught hold back the threatened hourThat shrinks thy purple clusters dry?Say not good-by—butau revoir!
For the last time the wine is poured,For the last toast the glass raised high,And henceforth round the wintry board,As dumb as fish, we'll sit and sigh,And eat our Puritanic pie,And dream of suppers gone before,With flying wit and words that fly—Say not good-by—butau revoir!
'Twas on thy wings the poet soared,And Sorrow fled when thou wentst by,And, when we said "Here's looking toward" . . .It seemed a better world, say I,With greener grass and bluer sky . . .The writ is on the Tavern Door,And who would tipple on the sly? . . .'Tis not good-by—butau revoir!
Gay God of Bottles, I denyThose brave tempestuous times are o'er;Somehow I think, I scarce know why,'Tis not good-by—but au revoir!
Friends whom to-night once more I greet,Most glad am I with you to be,And, as I look around, I meetMany a face right good to see;But one I miss—ah! where is he?—Of merry eye and sparkling jest,Who used to brim my glass for me;I drink—in what?—the Absent Guest.
Low lies he in his winding-sheet,By organized hypocrisyHurled from his happy wine-clad seat,Stilled his kind heart and hushed his glee;His very name daren't mention we,That good old friend who brought such zest,And set our tongues and spirits free:I drink—in what?—the Absent Guest.
No choice to-night 'twixt "dry" or "sweet,"'Twixt red or white, 'twixt Rye,—ah! me—Or Scotch—and think! we live to see't—No whispered word, nor massive fee,Nor even influenza plea,Can raise a bubble; but, as bestWe may, we make our hollow spree:I drink—in what?—the Absent Guest.
Friends, good is coffee, good is tea,And water has a charm unguessed—And yet—that brave old deity!I drink—in tears—the Absent Guest.
They took away your drink from you,The kind old humanizing glass;Soon they will take tobacco too,And next they'll take our demi-tasse.Don't say, "The bill will never pass,"Nor this my warning word disdain;You said it once, you silly ass—Don't make the same mistake again.
We know them now, the bloodless crew,We know them all too well, alas!There's nothing that they wouldn't doTo make the world a Bible class;Though against bottled beer or BassI search the sacred text in vainTo find a whisper—by the Mass!Don't make the same mistake again.
Beware these legislators blue,Pouring their moral poison-gasOn all the joys our fathers knew;The very flowers in the grassAre safe no more, and, lad and lass,'Ware the old birch-rod and the cane!Here comes our modern Hudibras!—Don't make the same mistake again.
Prince, vanished is the rail of brass,So mark me well and my refrain—Tobacco next! you silly ass,Don't make the same mistake again.
In vain with whip and knotted cordThe hirelings of hypocrisyWould make us comely for the Lord:Think ye God works through such as ye—Paid Puritan, plump Pharisee,And lobbyist fingering his fat bill,Reeking of rum and bribery:God needs not you to work His will.
We know you whom you serve, abhorredTraducers of true piety,What tarnished gold is your rewardIn Washington and Albany;'Tis not from God you take your fee,Another's purpose to fulfil,You that are God's worst enemy:God needs not you to work His will.
Not by the money-changing horde,Base traders in the sanctuary,Nor by fanatic fire and sword,Shall man grow as God wills him be;In his own heart a voice hath heThat whispers to him small and still;God gives him eyes His good to see:God needs not you to work His will.
Dear Prince, a sinner's honestyIs more to God, much nearer still,Than the bribed hypocritic knee:God needs not you to work His will.
When the embalmer closed my eyes,And all the family went in black,And shipped me off to Paradise,I had no thought of coming back;I dreamed of undisturbed reposeUntil the Judgment Day went crack,Tucked safely in from top to toes.
"I've done my bit," I said. "I've earnedThe right to take things at my ease!"When folk declared the dead returned,I called it all tomfooleries."They are too glad to get to bed,To stretch their weary limbs in peace;Done with it all—the lucky dead!"
But scarcely had I laid me down,When comes a voice: "Is that you, Joe?I'm calling you from Williamstown!Knock once for 'yes,' and twice for 'no.'"Then, hornet-mad, I knocked back two—The table shook, I banged it so—"Not Joe!" they said, "Then tell us who?
"We're waiting—is there no one here,No friend, you have a message for?"But I pretended not to hear."Perhaps he fell in the great war?""Perhaps he's German?" someone said;"How goes it on the other shore?""That's no way to address the dead!"
And so they talked, till I got sore,And made the blooming table rock,And ribald oaths and curses swore,And strange words guaranteed to shock."He's one of those queer spooks they callA poltergeist—the ghosts that mock,Throw things—" said one, who knew it all.
"I wish an old thigh-bone was roundTo break your silly head!" I knocked."A humourist of the burial-ground!"A bright young college graduate mocked.Then a young girl fell in a trance,And foamed: "Get out—we are deadlocked—And give some other ghost a chance!"
Such was my first night in the tomb,Where soft sleep was to hold me fast;I little knew my weary doom!It even makes a ghost aghastTo think of all the years in store—The slave, as long as death shall last,To ouija-boards forevermore.
For morning, noon, and night they call!Alive, some fourteen hours a dayI worked, but now I work them all.No sooner down my head I lay,A lady writer knocks me upAbout a novel or a play,Nor gives me time for bite or sup.
I hear her damned typewriter clickWith all the things she says I say,You'd think the public would get sick;And that's my only hope—some day!Then séances, each night in dozensI must attend, their parts to playFor dead grandpas and distant cousins.
O for my life to live again!I'd know far better than to die;You'd never hear me once complain,Could I but see the good old sky,For here they work me to the bone;"Rest!"—don't believe it! Well, good-by!That's Patience Worth there on the phone!