IN A SILENCE.Heart to heart!And the stillness of night and the moonlight, like hushed breathingSilently, stealthily moving across thy hair!O womanly face!Tender and strong and lucent with infinite feeling,Shrinking with startled joy, like wind-struck water,And yet so frank, so unashamed of love!Ay, for there it is, love--that's the deepest.Love's not love in the dark.Light loves wither i' the sun, but Love endureth,Clothing himself with the light as with a robe.I would bare my soul to thy sight--Leave not a secret deep unsearched,Unrevealing its shame or its glory.Love without Truth shall die as a soul without God.A lying love is the love of a dayBut the brave and true shall love forever.Build Love a house;Let the walls be thick;Shut him in from the sight of men;But hide not Love from himself.Ah, the summer night!The wind in the trees and the moonlight!And my kisses on thy throatAnd thy breathing in my hair!Silent, lips to lips!But our souls have held speech, thought answering echoing thought,Though the only words were kisses.
IN A SILENCE.
Heart to heart!And the stillness of night and the moonlight, like hushed breathingSilently, stealthily moving across thy hair!
O womanly face!Tender and strong and lucent with infinite feeling,Shrinking with startled joy, like wind-struck water,And yet so frank, so unashamed of love!
Ay, for there it is, love--that's the deepest.Love's not love in the dark.Light loves wither i' the sun, but Love endureth,Clothing himself with the light as with a robe.
I would bare my soul to thy sight--Leave not a secret deep unsearched,Unrevealing its shame or its glory.Love without Truth shall die as a soul without God.A lying love is the love of a dayBut the brave and true shall love forever.
Build Love a house;Let the walls be thick;Shut him in from the sight of men;But hide not Love from himself.
Ah, the summer night!The wind in the trees and the moonlight!And my kisses on thy throatAnd thy breathing in my hair!
Silent, lips to lips!But our souls have held speech, thought answering echoing thought,Though the only words were kisses.
THE BATHER.I saw him go down to the water to bathe;He stood naked upon the bank.His breast was like a white cloud in the heaven,that catches the sun;It swelled with the sharp joy of the air.His legs rose with the spring and curve of young birches;The hollow of his back caught the blue shadows:With his head thrown up to the lips of the wind;And the curls of his forehead astir with the wind.I would that I were a man, they are so beautiful;Their bodies are like the bows of the Indians;They have the spring and the grace of bows of hickory.I know that women are beautiful, and that I am beautiful;But the beauty of a man is so lithe and alive and triumphant,Swift as the night of a swallow and sure as thepounce of the eagle.
THE BATHER.
I saw him go down to the water to bathe;He stood naked upon the bank.
His breast was like a white cloud in the heaven,that catches the sun;It swelled with the sharp joy of the air.
His legs rose with the spring and curve of young birches;The hollow of his back caught the blue shadows:
With his head thrown up to the lips of the wind;And the curls of his forehead astir with the wind.
I would that I were a man, they are so beautiful;Their bodies are like the bows of the Indians;They have the spring and the grace of bows of hickory.
I know that women are beautiful, and that I am beautiful;But the beauty of a man is so lithe and alive and triumphant,Swift as the night of a swallow and sure as thepounce of the eagle.
NOCTURNE: IN ANJOUI dreamed of Sappho on a summer night.Her nightingales were singing in the treesBeside the castled river; and the windFell like a woman's fingers on my cheek.And then I slept and dreamed and marked no change;The night went on with me into my dream.This only I remember, that I cried:"O Sappho! ere I leave this paradise,Sing me one song of those lost books of yoursFor which we poets still go sorrowing;That when I meet my fellows on the earthI may rejoice them more than many pearls;"And she, the sweetly smiling, answered me,As one who dreams, "I have forgotten them."
NOCTURNE: IN ANJOU
I dreamed of Sappho on a summer night.Her nightingales were singing in the treesBeside the castled river; and the windFell like a woman's fingers on my cheek.And then I slept and dreamed and marked no change;The night went on with me into my dream.This only I remember, that I cried:"O Sappho! ere I leave this paradise,Sing me one song of those lost books of yoursFor which we poets still go sorrowing;That when I meet my fellows on the earthI may rejoice them more than many pearls;"And she, the sweetly smiling, answered me,As one who dreams, "I have forgotten them."
NOCTURNE: IN PROVENCE.The blue night, like an angel, came into the room,--Came through the open window from the silent skyDown trellised stairs of moonlight into the dear roomAs if a whisper breathed of some divine one nigh.The nightingales, like brooks of song in Paradise,Gurgled their serene rapture to the silent sky--Like springs of laughter bubbling up in Paradise,The serene nightingales along the riversidePurled low in every tree their star-cool melodiesOf joy--in every tree along the riverside.Did the vain garments melt in music from your side?Did you rise from them as a lily flowers i' the air?--But you were there before me like the Night's own bride--I dared not call you mine. So still and tall you were,I never dreamed that you were mine--I never dreamedI loved you--I forgot I loved you. You were airAnd music, and the shadows that you stood in, seemedLike priests that keep their sombre vigil round a shrine--Like sombre priests that watch about a glorious shrine.And then you stepped into the moonlight and laid bareThe wonder of your body to the night, and stoodWith all the stars of heaven looking at you there,As simply as a saint might bare her soul to God--As simply as a saint might bathe in lakes of prayer--Stood with the holy moonlight falling on you thereUntil I thought that in a glory unawareI had seen a soul stand forth and bare itself to God--A saintly soul lay bare its innocence to God.
NOCTURNE: IN PROVENCE.
The blue night, like an angel, came into the room,--Came through the open window from the silent skyDown trellised stairs of moonlight into the dear roomAs if a whisper breathed of some divine one nigh.The nightingales, like brooks of song in Paradise,Gurgled their serene rapture to the silent sky--Like springs of laughter bubbling up in Paradise,The serene nightingales along the riversidePurled low in every tree their star-cool melodiesOf joy--in every tree along the riverside.
Did the vain garments melt in music from your side?Did you rise from them as a lily flowers i' the air?--But you were there before me like the Night's own bride--I dared not call you mine. So still and tall you were,I never dreamed that you were mine--I never dreamedI loved you--I forgot I loved you. You were airAnd music, and the shadows that you stood in, seemedLike priests that keep their sombre vigil round a shrine--Like sombre priests that watch about a glorious shrine.
And then you stepped into the moonlight and laid bareThe wonder of your body to the night, and stoodWith all the stars of heaven looking at you there,As simply as a saint might bare her soul to God--As simply as a saint might bathe in lakes of prayer--Stood with the holy moonlight falling on you thereUntil I thought that in a glory unawareI had seen a soul stand forth and bare itself to God--A saintly soul lay bare its innocence to God.
JUNE NIGHT IN WASHINGTON.The scent of honeysuckle,Drugging the twilightWith its sweet opiate of lovers' dreams!The last red glow of the setting sunOn the red brick wallOf the neighboring house,And the scramble of red roses over it!Slowly, slowlyThe night smokes up from the city to the stars,The faint foreshadowed stars;The smouldering nightBreathes upward like the breathOf a woman asleepWith dim breast rising and fallingAnd a smile of delicate dreams.Softly, softlyThe wind comes into the garden,Like a lover that fears lest he waken his love,And his hands drip with the scent of the rosesAnd his locks weep with the opiate odor of honeysuckle.Sighing, sighingAs a lover that yearns for the lips of his love,In a torment of bliss,In a passionate dreaming of bliss,The wind in the trees of the garden!How intimate are the trees,--Rustling like the secret darkness of the soul!How still is the starlight,--Aloof in the placidity of dream!Outside the gardenA group of negroes passing in the streetSing with ripe lush voices,Sing with voices that swimLike great slow gliding fishesThrough the scent of the honeysuckle:My love's waitin',Waitin' by the river,Waitin' till I come along!Wait there, child; I'm comin'.Jay-bird tol' me,Tol' me in the mornin',Tol' me she'd be there to-night.Wait there, child; I'm comin'.Waves of dream!Spell of the summer night!Will of the grass that stirs in its sleep!Desire of the honeysuckle!And further away,Like the plash of far-off waves in the fluid night,The negroes, singing:Whip-po'-will tol' me,Tol' me in the evenin',"Down by the bend where the cat-tails grow."Wait there, child; I'm comin'.Lo, the moon,Like a galleon sailing the night;And the wash of the moonlight over the roofs and the trees!Oh, my bride,Come down from yonder lattice where you bideLike a charmed princess in a Persian song!I look up at your yellow window-panes,Set in the night with far-off wizardry.Come down, come down; the night is fain of you,The garden waits your footstep on its walks.Lo, the moon,Like a galleon sailing the night;And the wash of the moonlight over the red brick wall and the roses!A gleam of lamplight through an open door!A footfall like the wind's upon the grass!A rustle like the wind's among the leaves!...Dim as a dream of pale peach blooms of light,Blue in the blue soft pallor of the moon,She comes between the trees as a faint tuneFalls from a flute far off into the night....So Death might come to one who knew him Love.
JUNE NIGHT IN WASHINGTON.
The scent of honeysuckle,Drugging the twilightWith its sweet opiate of lovers' dreams!The last red glow of the setting sunOn the red brick wallOf the neighboring house,And the scramble of red roses over it!
Slowly, slowlyThe night smokes up from the city to the stars,The faint foreshadowed stars;The smouldering nightBreathes upward like the breathOf a woman asleepWith dim breast rising and fallingAnd a smile of delicate dreams.
Softly, softlyThe wind comes into the garden,Like a lover that fears lest he waken his love,And his hands drip with the scent of the rosesAnd his locks weep with the opiate odor of honeysuckle.Sighing, sighingAs a lover that yearns for the lips of his love,In a torment of bliss,In a passionate dreaming of bliss,The wind in the trees of the garden!
How intimate are the trees,--Rustling like the secret darkness of the soul!How still is the starlight,--Aloof in the placidity of dream!
Outside the gardenA group of negroes passing in the streetSing with ripe lush voices,Sing with voices that swimLike great slow gliding fishesThrough the scent of the honeysuckle:
My love's waitin',Waitin' by the river,Waitin' till I come along!Wait there, child; I'm comin'.
Jay-bird tol' me,Tol' me in the mornin',Tol' me she'd be there to-night.Wait there, child; I'm comin'.
Waves of dream!Spell of the summer night!Will of the grass that stirs in its sleep!Desire of the honeysuckle!And further away,Like the plash of far-off waves in the fluid night,The negroes, singing:
Whip-po'-will tol' me,Tol' me in the evenin',"Down by the bend where the cat-tails grow."Wait there, child; I'm comin'.
Lo, the moon,Like a galleon sailing the night;And the wash of the moonlight over the roofs and the trees!
Oh, my bride,Come down from yonder lattice where you bideLike a charmed princess in a Persian song!I look up at your yellow window-panes,Set in the night with far-off wizardry.Come down, come down; the night is fain of you,The garden waits your footstep on its walks.
Lo, the moon,Like a galleon sailing the night;And the wash of the moonlight over the red brick wall and the roses!
A gleam of lamplight through an open door!A footfall like the wind's upon the grass!A rustle like the wind's among the leaves!...Dim as a dream of pale peach blooms of light,Blue in the blue soft pallor of the moon,She comes between the trees as a faint tuneFalls from a flute far off into the night....So Death might come to one who knew him Love.
A SONG FOR MARNA.Dame of the night of hairLike blue smoke blown!World yet undreamed-of thereLurks to be known.Dame of the dizzy eyes,Lure of dim quests!World of what midnights liesUnder thy breasts!Dame of the quench of love,Give me to quaff!There's all the world's made ofUnder thy laugh.Dame of the dare of gods,Let the sky lower!Time, give the world for odds,--I choose this hour.
A SONG FOR MARNA.
Dame of the night of hairLike blue smoke blown!World yet undreamed-of thereLurks to be known.
Dame of the dizzy eyes,Lure of dim quests!World of what midnights liesUnder thy breasts!
Dame of the quench of love,Give me to quaff!There's all the world's made ofUnder thy laugh.
Dame of the dare of gods,Let the sky lower!Time, give the world for odds,--I choose this hour.
SEPTEMBER WOODLANDS.This is not sadness in the wood;The yellowbirdFlits joying through the solitude,By no thought stirredSave of his little duskier mateAnd rompings jolly.If there's a Dryad in the wood,She is not sad.Too wise the spirits are to brood;Divinely glad,They dream with countenance sedateNot melancholy.
SEPTEMBER WOODLANDS.
This is not sadness in the wood;The yellowbirdFlits joying through the solitude,By no thought stirredSave of his little duskier mateAnd rompings jolly.
If there's a Dryad in the wood,She is not sad.Too wise the spirits are to brood;Divinely glad,They dream with countenance sedateNot melancholy.
NANCIBEL.The ghost of a wind came over the hill,While day for a moment forgot to die,And stirred the sheavesOf the millet leaves,As Nancibel went by.Out of the lands of Long Ago,Into the land of By and By,Faded the gleamOf a journeying dream,As Nancibel went by.
NANCIBEL.
The ghost of a wind came over the hill,While day for a moment forgot to die,And stirred the sheavesOf the millet leaves,As Nancibel went by.
Out of the lands of Long Ago,Into the land of By and By,Faded the gleamOf a journeying dream,As Nancibel went by.
A VAGABOND SONG.There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood--Touch of manner, hint of mood;And my heart is like a rhyme,With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cryOf bugles going by.And my lonely spirit thrillsTo see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;We must rise and follow her,When from every hill of flameShe calls and calls each vagabond by name.
A VAGABOND SONG.
There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood--Touch of manner, hint of mood;And my heart is like a rhyme,With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cryOf bugles going by.And my lonely spirit thrillsTo see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.
There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;We must rise and follow her,When from every hill of flameShe calls and calls each vagabond by name.
THREE OF A KIND.Three of us without a careIn the red SeptemberTramping down the roads of Maine,Making merry with the rain,With the fellow winds a-fareWhere the winds remember.Three of us with shocking hats,Tattered and unbarbered,Happy with the splash of mud,With the highways in our blood,Bearing down on Deacon Platt'sWhere last year we harbored.We've come down from Kennebec,Tramping since last Sunday,Loping down the coast of Maine,With the sea for a refrain,And the maples neck and neckAll the way to Fundy.Sometimes lodging in an inn,Cosey as a dormouse--Sometimes sleeping on a knollWith no rooftree but the Pole--Sometimes halely welcomed inAt an old-time farmhouse.Loafing under ledge and tree,Leaping over boulders,Sitting on the pasture bars,Hail-fellow with storm or stars--Three of us alive and free,With unburdened shoulders!Three of us with hearts like pineThat the lightnings splinter,Clean of cleave and white of grain--Three of us afoot again,With a rapture fresh and fineAs a spring in winter!All the hills are red and gold;And the horns of visionCall across the crackling airTill we shout back to them there,Taken captive in the holdOf their bluff derision.Spray-salt gusts of ocean blowFrom the rocky headlands;Overhead the wild geese fly,Honking in the autumn sky;Black sinister flocks of crowSettle on the dead lands.Three of us in love with life,Roaming like wild cattle,With the stinging air a-reelAs a warrior might feelThe swift orgasm of the knifeSlay him in mid-battle.Three of us to march abreastDown the hills of morrow!With a clean heart and a fewFriends to clench the spirit to!--Leave the gods to rule the rest,And good-by, sorrow!
THREE OF A KIND.
Three of us without a careIn the red SeptemberTramping down the roads of Maine,Making merry with the rain,With the fellow winds a-fareWhere the winds remember.
Three of us with shocking hats,Tattered and unbarbered,Happy with the splash of mud,With the highways in our blood,Bearing down on Deacon Platt'sWhere last year we harbored.
We've come down from Kennebec,Tramping since last Sunday,Loping down the coast of Maine,With the sea for a refrain,And the maples neck and neckAll the way to Fundy.
Sometimes lodging in an inn,Cosey as a dormouse--Sometimes sleeping on a knollWith no rooftree but the Pole--Sometimes halely welcomed inAt an old-time farmhouse.
Loafing under ledge and tree,Leaping over boulders,Sitting on the pasture bars,Hail-fellow with storm or stars--Three of us alive and free,With unburdened shoulders!
Three of us with hearts like pineThat the lightnings splinter,Clean of cleave and white of grain--Three of us afoot again,With a rapture fresh and fineAs a spring in winter!
All the hills are red and gold;And the horns of visionCall across the crackling airTill we shout back to them there,Taken captive in the holdOf their bluff derision.
Spray-salt gusts of ocean blowFrom the rocky headlands;Overhead the wild geese fly,Honking in the autumn sky;Black sinister flocks of crowSettle on the dead lands.
Three of us in love with life,Roaming like wild cattle,With the stinging air a-reelAs a warrior might feelThe swift orgasm of the knifeSlay him in mid-battle.
Three of us to march abreastDown the hills of morrow!With a clean heart and a fewFriends to clench the spirit to!--Leave the gods to rule the rest,And good-by, sorrow!
WOOD-FOLK LORE.To T. B. M.For every oneBeneath the sun,Where Autumn walks with quiet eyes,There is a word,Just overheardWhen hill to purple hill replies.This afternoon,As warm as June,With the red apples on the bough,I set my earTo hark and hearThe wood-folk talking, you know how.There comes a "Hush!"And then a "Tush,"As tree to scarlet tree responds,"Babble away!He'll not betrayThe secrets of us vagabonds."Are we not all,Both great and small,Cousins and kindred in a joyNo school can teach,No worldling reach,Nor any wreck of chance destroy?"And so we are,However farWe journey ere the journey ends,One brotherhoodWith leaf and budAnd everything that wakes or wends.The wind that blowsMy autumn roseWhere Grand Pré looks to Blomidon,--How great must beThe companyOf roses he has leaned upon,Since first he shedTheir petals redThrough Persian gardens long ago,When Omar heardHis muttered wordRumoring things we may not know!Our brother ghost,He is a mostIncorrigible wanderer;And still to-dayHe takes his wayAbout my hills of spruce and fir;Will neither bideBy the great tide,In apple lands of Acadie,Nor in the leavesAbout your eaves,Where Scituate looks out to sea.
WOOD-FOLK LORE.To T. B. M.
For every oneBeneath the sun,Where Autumn walks with quiet eyes,There is a word,Just overheardWhen hill to purple hill replies.
This afternoon,As warm as June,With the red apples on the bough,I set my earTo hark and hearThe wood-folk talking, you know how.
There comes a "Hush!"And then a "Tush,"As tree to scarlet tree responds,"Babble away!He'll not betrayThe secrets of us vagabonds.
"Are we not all,Both great and small,Cousins and kindred in a joyNo school can teach,No worldling reach,Nor any wreck of chance destroy?"
And so we are,However farWe journey ere the journey ends,One brotherhoodWith leaf and budAnd everything that wakes or wends.
The wind that blowsMy autumn roseWhere Grand Pré looks to Blomidon,--How great must beThe companyOf roses he has leaned upon,
Since first he shedTheir petals redThrough Persian gardens long ago,When Omar heardHis muttered wordRumoring things we may not know!
Our brother ghost,He is a mostIncorrigible wanderer;And still to-dayHe takes his wayAbout my hills of spruce and fir;
Will neither bideBy the great tide,In apple lands of Acadie,Nor in the leavesAbout your eaves,Where Scituate looks out to sea.
AT MICHAELMAS.About the time of Michael's feastAnd all his angels,There comes a word to man and beastBy dark evangels.Then hearing what the wild things sayTo one another,Those creatures first born of our grayMysterious Mother,The greatness of the world's unrestSteals through our pulses;Our own life takes a meaning guessedFrom the torn dulse's.The draft and set of deep sea-tidesSwirling and flowing,Bears every filmy flake that rides,Grandly unknowing.The sunlight listens; thin and fineThe crickets whistle;And floating midges fill the shineLike a seeding thistle.The hawkbit flies his golden flagFrom rocky pasture,Bidding his legions never lagThrough morning's vasture.Soon we shall see the red vines rampThrough forest borders,And Indian summer breaking campTo silent orders.The glossy chestnuts swell and burstTheir prickly housesAgog at news which reached them firstIn sap's carouses.The long noons turn the ribstons red,The pippins yellow;The wild duck from his reedy bedSummons his fellow.The robins keep the underbrushSongless and wary,As though they feared some frostier hushMight bid them tarry;Perhaps in the great North they heardOf silence fallingUpon the world without a word,White and appalling.The ash-tree and the lady-fern,In russet frondage,Proclaim 'tis time for our returnTo vagabondage.All summer idle have we kept;But on a morning,Where the blue hazy mountains slept,A scarlet warningDisturbs our day-dream with a start;A leaf turns over;And every earthling is at heartOnce more a rover.All winter we shall toil and plod,Eating and drinking;But now's the little time when GodSets folk to thinking."Consider," says the quiet sun,"How far I wander;Yet when had I not time on oneMore flower to squander?""Consider," says the restless tide,"My endless labor;Yet when was I content besideMy nearest neighbor?"So wander-lust to wander-lure,As seed to seasonMust rise and wend, possessed and sureIn sweet unreason.For doorstone and repose are good,And kind is duty;But joy is in the solitudeWith shy-heart beauty.And Truth is one whose ways are meekBeyond foretelling;And far his journey who would seekHer lowly dwelling.She leads him by a thousand heights,Lonelily faring,With sunrise and with eagle flightsTo mate his daring.For her he fronts a vaster fogThan Leif of yore did,Voyaging for continents no logHas yet recorded.He travels by a polar star,Now bright, now hidden,For a free land, though rest be farAnd roads forbidden,Till on a day with sweet coarse breadAnd wine she stays him,Then in a cool and narrow bedTo slumber lays him.So we are hers. And, fellows mineOf fin and feather,By shady wood and shadowy brine,When comes the weatherFor migrants to be moving on,By lost indentureYou flock and gather and are gone:The old adventure!I too have my unwritten date,My gypsy presage;And on the brink of fall I waitThe darkling message.The sign, from prying eyes concealed,Is yet how flagrant!Here's ragged-robin in the field,A simple vagrant.
AT MICHAELMAS.
About the time of Michael's feastAnd all his angels,There comes a word to man and beastBy dark evangels.
Then hearing what the wild things sayTo one another,Those creatures first born of our grayMysterious Mother,
The greatness of the world's unrestSteals through our pulses;Our own life takes a meaning guessedFrom the torn dulse's.
The draft and set of deep sea-tidesSwirling and flowing,Bears every filmy flake that rides,Grandly unknowing.
The sunlight listens; thin and fineThe crickets whistle;And floating midges fill the shineLike a seeding thistle.
The hawkbit flies his golden flagFrom rocky pasture,Bidding his legions never lagThrough morning's vasture.
Soon we shall see the red vines rampThrough forest borders,And Indian summer breaking campTo silent orders.
The glossy chestnuts swell and burstTheir prickly housesAgog at news which reached them firstIn sap's carouses.
The long noons turn the ribstons red,The pippins yellow;The wild duck from his reedy bedSummons his fellow.
The robins keep the underbrushSongless and wary,As though they feared some frostier hushMight bid them tarry;
Perhaps in the great North they heardOf silence fallingUpon the world without a word,White and appalling.
The ash-tree and the lady-fern,In russet frondage,Proclaim 'tis time for our returnTo vagabondage.
All summer idle have we kept;But on a morning,Where the blue hazy mountains slept,A scarlet warning
Disturbs our day-dream with a start;A leaf turns over;And every earthling is at heartOnce more a rover.
All winter we shall toil and plod,Eating and drinking;But now's the little time when GodSets folk to thinking.
"Consider," says the quiet sun,"How far I wander;Yet when had I not time on oneMore flower to squander?"
"Consider," says the restless tide,"My endless labor;Yet when was I content besideMy nearest neighbor?"
So wander-lust to wander-lure,As seed to seasonMust rise and wend, possessed and sureIn sweet unreason.
For doorstone and repose are good,And kind is duty;But joy is in the solitudeWith shy-heart beauty.
And Truth is one whose ways are meekBeyond foretelling;And far his journey who would seekHer lowly dwelling.
She leads him by a thousand heights,Lonelily faring,With sunrise and with eagle flightsTo mate his daring.
For her he fronts a vaster fogThan Leif of yore did,Voyaging for continents no logHas yet recorded.
He travels by a polar star,Now bright, now hidden,For a free land, though rest be farAnd roads forbidden,
Till on a day with sweet coarse breadAnd wine she stays him,Then in a cool and narrow bedTo slumber lays him.
So we are hers. And, fellows mineOf fin and feather,By shady wood and shadowy brine,When comes the weather
For migrants to be moving on,By lost indentureYou flock and gather and are gone:The old adventure!
I too have my unwritten date,My gypsy presage;And on the brink of fall I waitThe darkling message.
The sign, from prying eyes concealed,Is yet how flagrant!Here's ragged-robin in the field,A simple vagrant.
THE MOTHER OF POETS.To H. F. H.The typewriter ticketh no more in the twilight;The mother of poets is sitting alone;Only the katydid teases the noonday;Where are the good-for-naught wanderbirds flown?Tom's in the North with his purple impressions;Dickon's in London a-building his fame;Fred's in the mountains a-minding his cattle;Kavanagh's teaching and preaching and game.Over in Kingscroft a toiler is writing,The boyish Old Man whom no fate ever floored;Karl's in New York with his briefs and his logic,That subtile mind like a velvet-sheathed sword.Blomidon welcomes his brother in silence;Grand Pré is luring him back to her breast;Faint and far off are the cries of the city,There in the country of infinite rest.All of them turn in their wide vagabondage,Halt and remember a place they have known,Where the typewriter ticketh no more in the twilight,And the mother of poets is sitting alone.There they will surely some April forgather,Drink once together before they depart,One by one over the threshold of silence,On the long trail of the wandering heart.Fear not, little mother, there may be a regionWhere poets have only to smile and keep still.The tick of the typewriter there will be useless,But there will be need of a motherkin still.
THE MOTHER OF POETS.To H. F. H.
The typewriter ticketh no more in the twilight;The mother of poets is sitting alone;Only the katydid teases the noonday;Where are the good-for-naught wanderbirds flown?
Tom's in the North with his purple impressions;Dickon's in London a-building his fame;Fred's in the mountains a-minding his cattle;Kavanagh's teaching and preaching and game.
Over in Kingscroft a toiler is writing,The boyish Old Man whom no fate ever floored;Karl's in New York with his briefs and his logic,That subtile mind like a velvet-sheathed sword.
Blomidon welcomes his brother in silence;Grand Pré is luring him back to her breast;Faint and far off are the cries of the city,There in the country of infinite rest.
All of them turn in their wide vagabondage,Halt and remember a place they have known,Where the typewriter ticketh no more in the twilight,And the mother of poets is sitting alone.
There they will surely some April forgather,Drink once together before they depart,One by one over the threshold of silence,On the long trail of the wandering heart.
Fear not, little mother, there may be a regionWhere poets have only to smile and keep still.The tick of the typewriter there will be useless,But there will be need of a motherkin still.
A GOOD-BY.For love of the roving footAnd joy of the roving eye,God send you store of morrows fairAnd a good rest by and by!
A GOOD-BY.
For love of the roving footAnd joy of the roving eye,God send you store of morrows fairAnd a good rest by and by!
IN A COPY OF BROWNING.Browning, old fellow,Your leaves grow yellow,Beginning to mellowAs seasons pass.Your cover is wrinkled,And stained and sprinkled,And warped and crinkledFrom sleep on the grass.Is it a wine stain,Or only a pine stain,That makes such a fine stainOn your dull blue,--Got as we numberedThe clouds that lumberedSouthward and slumberedWhen day was through?What is the dear markThere like an earmark,Only a tear markA woman let fall?--As bending overShe bade me discover,"Whoplaysthe lover,He loses all!"With you for teacherWe learned love's featureIn every creatureThat roves or grieves;When winds were brawling,Or bird-folk calling,Or leaf-folk falling,About our eaves.No law must straitenThe ways they wait in,Whose spirits greatenAnd hearts aspire.The world may dwindle,And summer brindle,So love but kindleThe soul to fire.Here many a red line,Or pencilled headline,Shows love could wed lineTo golden sense;And something betterThan wisdom's fetterHas made your letterDense to the dense.No April robin,Nor clacking bobbin,Can make of DobbinA Pegasus;But Nature's pleadingTo man's unheeding,Your subtile readingMade clear to us.You made us farersAnd equal sharersWith homespun wearersIn home-made joys;You made us princesNo plea convincesThat spirit wincesAt dust and noise.When Fate was nagging,And days were dragging,And fancy lagging,You gave it scope,--When eaves were drippy,And pavements slippy,--From Lippo LippiTo Evelyn Hope.When winter's arrowPierced to the marrow,And thought was narrow,You gave it room;We guessed the warderOn Roland's border,And helped to orderThe Bishop's Tomb.When winds were harshish,And ways were marshish,We found with KarshishEscape at need;Were bold with WaringIn far seafaring,And strong in snaringBen Ezra's creed.We felt the menaceOf lovers pen us,Afloat in VeniceDevising fibs;And little matteredThe rain that pattered,While Blougram chatteredTo Gigadibs.And we too waitedWith heart elatedAnd breathing bated,For Pippa's song;Saw Satan hover,With wings to coverPorphyria's lover,Pompilia's wrong.Long thoughts were started,When youth departedFrom the half-heartedRiccardi's bride;For, saith your fable,Great Love is ableTo slip the cableAnd take the tide.Or truth compels usWith Paracelsus,Till nothing else isOf worth at all.Del Sarto's visionIs our own mission,And art's ambitionIs God's own call.Through all the seasons,You gave us reasonsFor splendid treasonsTo doubt and fear;Bade no foot falter,Though weaklings palter,And friendships alterFrom year to year.Since first I sought you,Found you and bought you,Hugged you and brought youHome from Cornhill,While some upbraid you,And some parade you,Nine years have made youMy master still.
IN A COPY OF BROWNING.
Browning, old fellow,Your leaves grow yellow,Beginning to mellowAs seasons pass.Your cover is wrinkled,And stained and sprinkled,And warped and crinkledFrom sleep on the grass.
Is it a wine stain,Or only a pine stain,That makes such a fine stainOn your dull blue,--Got as we numberedThe clouds that lumberedSouthward and slumberedWhen day was through?
What is the dear markThere like an earmark,Only a tear markA woman let fall?--As bending overShe bade me discover,"Whoplaysthe lover,He loses all!"
With you for teacherWe learned love's featureIn every creatureThat roves or grieves;When winds were brawling,Or bird-folk calling,Or leaf-folk falling,About our eaves.
No law must straitenThe ways they wait in,Whose spirits greatenAnd hearts aspire.The world may dwindle,And summer brindle,So love but kindleThe soul to fire.
Here many a red line,Or pencilled headline,Shows love could wed lineTo golden sense;And something betterThan wisdom's fetterHas made your letterDense to the dense.
No April robin,Nor clacking bobbin,Can make of DobbinA Pegasus;But Nature's pleadingTo man's unheeding,Your subtile readingMade clear to us.
You made us farersAnd equal sharersWith homespun wearersIn home-made joys;You made us princesNo plea convincesThat spirit wincesAt dust and noise.
When Fate was nagging,And days were dragging,And fancy lagging,You gave it scope,--When eaves were drippy,And pavements slippy,--From Lippo LippiTo Evelyn Hope.
When winter's arrowPierced to the marrow,And thought was narrow,You gave it room;We guessed the warderOn Roland's border,And helped to orderThe Bishop's Tomb.
When winds were harshish,And ways were marshish,We found with KarshishEscape at need;Were bold with WaringIn far seafaring,And strong in snaringBen Ezra's creed.
We felt the menaceOf lovers pen us,Afloat in VeniceDevising fibs;And little matteredThe rain that pattered,While Blougram chatteredTo Gigadibs.
And we too waitedWith heart elatedAnd breathing bated,For Pippa's song;Saw Satan hover,With wings to coverPorphyria's lover,Pompilia's wrong.
Long thoughts were started,When youth departedFrom the half-heartedRiccardi's bride;For, saith your fable,Great Love is ableTo slip the cableAnd take the tide.
Or truth compels usWith Paracelsus,Till nothing else isOf worth at all.Del Sarto's visionIs our own mission,And art's ambitionIs God's own call.
Through all the seasons,You gave us reasonsFor splendid treasonsTo doubt and fear;Bade no foot falter,
Though weaklings palter,And friendships alterFrom year to year.
Since first I sought you,Found you and bought you,Hugged you and brought youHome from Cornhill,While some upbraid you,And some parade you,Nine years have made youMy master still.
SHAKESPEARE HIMSELF: FOR THE UNVEILING OF MR. PARTRIDGE'S STATUE OF THE POET.The body is no prison where we lieShut out from our true heritage of sun;It is the wings wherewith the soul may fly.Save through this flesh so scorned and spat upon,No ray of light had reached the caverned mind,No thrill of pleasure through the life had run,No love of nature or of humankind,Were it but love of self, had stirred the heartTo its first deed. Such freedom as we find,We find but through its service, not apart.And as an eagle's wings upbear him higherThan Andes or Himalaya, and chartRivers and seas beneath; so our desire,With more celestial members yet, may soarInto the space of empyrean fire,Still bodied but more richly than before.The body is the man; what lurks behindThrough it alone unveils itself. ThereforeWe are not wrong, who seek to keep in mindThe form and feature of the mighty dead.So back of all the giving is divinedThe giver, back of all things done or saidThe man himself in elemental speechOf flesh and bone and sinew utterèd.This is thy language, Sculpture. Thine to reachBeneath all thoughts, all feelings, all desires,To that which thinks and lives and loves, and teachThe world the primal selfhood of its sires,Its heroes and its lovers and its gods.So shall Apollo flame in marble fires,The mien of Zeus suffice before he nods,So Gautama in ivory dream outThe calm of Time's untrammelled periods,So Sigurd's lips be in themselves a shout.Mould us our Shakespeare, sculptor, in the formHis comrades knew, rare Ben and all the routThat found the taproom of the Mermaid warmWith wit and wine and fellowship, the faceWherein the men he chummed with found a charmTo make them love him; carve for us the graceThat caught Anne Hathaway in Shottery-side,The hand that clasped Southampton's in the daysEre that dark dame, of passion and of prideBurned in his heart the brand of her disdain,The eyes that wept when little Hamnet died,The lips that learned from Marlowe's and againTaught riper lore to Fletcher and the rest,The presence and demeanor sovereignAt last at Stratford calm and manifest,That rested on the seventh day and scannedHis work and knew it good, and left the questAnd like his own enchanter broke his wand.No viewless mind! The very shape, no less,He used to speak and smile with, move and stand!God is most God not in his loneliness,Unfellowed, discreationed, unrevealed,Nor thundering on Sinai, pitiless,Nor when the seven vials are unsealed,But when his spirit companions with our thoughtAnd in his fellowship our pain is healed;And we are likest God when we are broughtMost near to all men. Bring us near to him,The gentle, human soul whose calm might wroughtImperious Lear and made our eyes grow dimFor Imogen,--who, though he heard the spheres"Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim,"Could laugh with Falstaff and his loose compeersAnd love the rascal with the same big heartThat o'er Cordelia could not stay its tears.For still the man is greater than his art.And though thy men and women, Shakespeare, riseLike giants in our fancy and depart,Thyself art more than all their masteries,Thy wisdom more than Hamlet's questioningsOr the cold searching of Ulysses' eyes,Thy mirth more sweet than Benedick's flouts and flings,Thy smiling dearer than Mercutio's,Thy dignity past that of all thy kings,And thy enchantment more than Prospero's.For thou couldst not have had Othello's flaw,Not erred with Brutus,--greater, then, than thoseFor all their nobleness. Oh, albeit with awe,Leave we the mighty phantoms and draw nearThe man that fashioned them and gave them law!The Master Poet found with scarce a peerIn all the ages his domain to share,Yet of all singers gentlest and most dear!Oh, how shall words thy proper praise declare,Divine in thy supreme humanityAnd near as the inevitable air?So he that wrought this image deemed of thee;So I, thy lover, keep thee in my heart;So may this figure set for men to seeWhere the world passes eager for the mart,Be as a sudden insight of the soulThat makes a darkness into order start,And lift thee up for all men, fair and whole,Till scholar, merchant farmer, artisan,Seeing, divine beneath the aureoleThe fellow heart and know thee for a man.
SHAKESPEARE HIMSELF: FOR THE UNVEILING OF MR. PARTRIDGE'S STATUE OF THE POET.
The body is no prison where we lieShut out from our true heritage of sun;It is the wings wherewith the soul may fly.Save through this flesh so scorned and spat upon,No ray of light had reached the caverned mind,No thrill of pleasure through the life had run,No love of nature or of humankind,Were it but love of self, had stirred the heartTo its first deed. Such freedom as we find,We find but through its service, not apart.And as an eagle's wings upbear him higherThan Andes or Himalaya, and chartRivers and seas beneath; so our desire,With more celestial members yet, may soarInto the space of empyrean fire,Still bodied but more richly than before.
The body is the man; what lurks behindThrough it alone unveils itself. ThereforeWe are not wrong, who seek to keep in mindThe form and feature of the mighty dead.So back of all the giving is divinedThe giver, back of all things done or saidThe man himself in elemental speechOf flesh and bone and sinew utterèd.
This is thy language, Sculpture. Thine to reachBeneath all thoughts, all feelings, all desires,To that which thinks and lives and loves, and teachThe world the primal selfhood of its sires,Its heroes and its lovers and its gods.So shall Apollo flame in marble fires,The mien of Zeus suffice before he nods,So Gautama in ivory dream outThe calm of Time's untrammelled periods,So Sigurd's lips be in themselves a shout.
Mould us our Shakespeare, sculptor, in the formHis comrades knew, rare Ben and all the routThat found the taproom of the Mermaid warmWith wit and wine and fellowship, the faceWherein the men he chummed with found a charmTo make them love him; carve for us the graceThat caught Anne Hathaway in Shottery-side,The hand that clasped Southampton's in the daysEre that dark dame, of passion and of prideBurned in his heart the brand of her disdain,The eyes that wept when little Hamnet died,The lips that learned from Marlowe's and againTaught riper lore to Fletcher and the rest,The presence and demeanor sovereignAt last at Stratford calm and manifest,That rested on the seventh day and scannedHis work and knew it good, and left the questAnd like his own enchanter broke his wand.
No viewless mind! The very shape, no less,He used to speak and smile with, move and stand!God is most God not in his loneliness,Unfellowed, discreationed, unrevealed,Nor thundering on Sinai, pitiless,Nor when the seven vials are unsealed,But when his spirit companions with our thoughtAnd in his fellowship our pain is healed;And we are likest God when we are broughtMost near to all men. Bring us near to him,The gentle, human soul whose calm might wroughtImperious Lear and made our eyes grow dimFor Imogen,--who, though he heard the spheres"Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim,"Could laugh with Falstaff and his loose compeersAnd love the rascal with the same big heartThat o'er Cordelia could not stay its tears.
For still the man is greater than his art.And though thy men and women, Shakespeare, riseLike giants in our fancy and depart,Thyself art more than all their masteries,Thy wisdom more than Hamlet's questioningsOr the cold searching of Ulysses' eyes,Thy mirth more sweet than Benedick's flouts and flings,Thy smiling dearer than Mercutio's,Thy dignity past that of all thy kings,And thy enchantment more than Prospero's.
For thou couldst not have had Othello's flaw,Not erred with Brutus,--greater, then, than thoseFor all their nobleness. Oh, albeit with awe,Leave we the mighty phantoms and draw nearThe man that fashioned them and gave them law!The Master Poet found with scarce a peerIn all the ages his domain to share,Yet of all singers gentlest and most dear!Oh, how shall words thy proper praise declare,Divine in thy supreme humanityAnd near as the inevitable air?
So he that wrought this image deemed of thee;So I, thy lover, keep thee in my heart;So may this figure set for men to seeWhere the world passes eager for the mart,Be as a sudden insight of the soulThat makes a darkness into order start,And lift thee up for all men, fair and whole,Till scholar, merchant farmer, artisan,Seeing, divine beneath the aureoleThe fellow heart and know thee for a man.
AT THE ROAD-HOUSE: IN MEMORY OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.You hearken, fellows? Turned asideInto the road-house of the past!The prince of vagabonds is goneTo house among his peers at last.The stainless gallant gentleman,So glad of life, he gave no trace,No hint he even once beheldThe spectre peering in his face;But gay and modest held the road,Nor feared the Shadow of the Dust;And saw the whole world rich with joy,As every valiant farer must.I think that old and vasty innWill have a welcome guest to-night,When Chaucer, breaking off some taleThat fills his hearers with delight,Shall lift up his demure brown eyesTo bid the stranger in; and allWill turn to greet the one on whomThe crystal lot was last to fall.Keats of the more than mortal tongueWill take grave Milton by the sleeveTo meet their kin, whose woven wordsHad elvish music in the weave.Dear Lamb and excellent Montaigne,Sterne and the credible Defoe,Borrow, DeQuincey, the great Dean,The sturdy leisurist Thoreau;The furtive soul whose dark romance,By ghostly door and haunted stair,Explored the dusty human heartAnd the forgotten garrets there;The moralist it could not spoil,To hold an empire in his hands;Sir Walter, and the brood who sprangFrom Homer through a hundred lands,Singers of songs on all men's lips,Tellers of tales in all men's ears,Movers of hearts that still must beatTo sorrows feigned and fabled tears;Horace and Omar, doubting stillWhat mystery lurks beyond the seen,Yet blithe and reassured beforeThat fine unvexed Virgilian mien;These will companion him to-night,Beyond this iron wintry gloom,When Shakespeare and Cervantes bidThe great joy-masters give him room.No alien there in speech or mood,He will pass in, one traveller more;And portly Ben will smile to seeThe velvet jacket at the door.
AT THE ROAD-HOUSE: IN MEMORY OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
You hearken, fellows? Turned asideInto the road-house of the past!The prince of vagabonds is goneTo house among his peers at last.
The stainless gallant gentleman,So glad of life, he gave no trace,No hint he even once beheldThe spectre peering in his face;
But gay and modest held the road,Nor feared the Shadow of the Dust;And saw the whole world rich with joy,As every valiant farer must.
I think that old and vasty innWill have a welcome guest to-night,When Chaucer, breaking off some taleThat fills his hearers with delight,
Shall lift up his demure brown eyesTo bid the stranger in; and allWill turn to greet the one on whomThe crystal lot was last to fall.
Keats of the more than mortal tongueWill take grave Milton by the sleeveTo meet their kin, whose woven wordsHad elvish music in the weave.
Dear Lamb and excellent Montaigne,Sterne and the credible Defoe,Borrow, DeQuincey, the great Dean,The sturdy leisurist Thoreau;
The furtive soul whose dark romance,By ghostly door and haunted stair,Explored the dusty human heartAnd the forgotten garrets there;
The moralist it could not spoil,To hold an empire in his hands;Sir Walter, and the brood who sprangFrom Homer through a hundred lands,
Singers of songs on all men's lips,Tellers of tales in all men's ears,Movers of hearts that still must beatTo sorrows feigned and fabled tears;
Horace and Omar, doubting stillWhat mystery lurks beyond the seen,Yet blithe and reassured beforeThat fine unvexed Virgilian mien;
These will companion him to-night,Beyond this iron wintry gloom,When Shakespeare and Cervantes bidThe great joy-masters give him room.
No alien there in speech or mood,He will pass in, one traveller more;And portly Ben will smile to seeThe velvet jacket at the door.
VERLAINE.Avid of life and love, insatiate vagabond,With quest too furious for the graal he would have won,He flung himself at the eternal sky, as oneWrenching his chains but impotent to burst the bond.Yet under the revolt, the revel, the despond,What pools of innocence, what crystal benison!As through a riven mist that glowers in the sun,A stretch of God's blue calm glassed in a virgin pond.Prowler of obscene streets that riot reek along,And aisles with incense numb and gardens mad with rose,Monastic cells and dreams of dim brocaded lawns,Death, which has set the calm of Time upon his song,Surely upon his soul has kissed the same reposeIn some fair heaven the Christ has set apart for Fauns.
VERLAINE.
Avid of life and love, insatiate vagabond,With quest too furious for the graal he would have won,He flung himself at the eternal sky, as oneWrenching his chains but impotent to burst the bond.
Yet under the revolt, the revel, the despond,What pools of innocence, what crystal benison!As through a riven mist that glowers in the sun,A stretch of God's blue calm glassed in a virgin pond.
Prowler of obscene streets that riot reek along,And aisles with incense numb and gardens mad with rose,Monastic cells and dreams of dim brocaded lawns,
Death, which has set the calm of Time upon his song,Surely upon his soul has kissed the same reposeIn some fair heaven the Christ has set apart for Fauns.
DISTILLATION.They that eat the uncrushed grapeWalk with steady heels:Lo, now, how they stare and gapeWhere the poet reels!He has drunk the sheer divineConcentration of the vine.
DISTILLATION.
They that eat the uncrushed grapeWalk with steady heels:Lo, now, how they stare and gapeWhere the poet reels!He has drunk the sheer divineConcentration of the vine.
A FRIEND'S WISH.To C. W. S.Give me your lastAloha,When I go out of sight,Over the dark rim of the seaInto the Polar night!And all the Northland give youSkoalfor the voyage begun,When your bright summer sail goes downInto the zones of sun!
A FRIEND'S WISH.To C. W. S.
Give me your lastAloha,When I go out of sight,Over the dark rim of the seaInto the Polar night!
And all the Northland give youSkoalfor the voyage begun,When your bright summer sail goes downInto the zones of sun!
LAL OF KILRUDDEN.Kilrudden ford, Kilrudden dale,Kilrudden fronting every galeOn the lorn coast of Inishfree,And Lal's last bed the plunging sea.Lal of Kilrudden with flame-red hair,And the sea-blue eyes that rove and dare,And the open heart with never a care;With her strong brown arms and her ankles bare,God in heaven, but she was fair,That night the storm put in from sea?The nightingales of Inishkill,The rose that climbed her window-sill,The shade that rustled or was still,The wind that roved and had his will,And one white sail on the low sea-hill,Were all she knew of love.So when the storm drove in that day,And her lover's ship on the ledges lay,Past help and wrecking in the gray,And the cry was, "Who'll go down the bay,With half of the lifeboat's crew away?"Who should push to the front and say,"I will be one, be others who may,"But Lal of Kilrudden, born at sea!The nightingales all night in the rain,The rose that fell at her window-pane,The frost that blackened the purple plain,And the scorn of pitiless disdainAt the hands of the wolfish pirate main,Quelling her great hot heart in vain,Were all she knew of death.Kilrudden ford, Kilrudden dale,Kilrudden ruined in the galeThat wrecked the coast of Inishfree,And Lal's last bed the plunging sea.
LAL OF KILRUDDEN.
Kilrudden ford, Kilrudden dale,Kilrudden fronting every galeOn the lorn coast of Inishfree,And Lal's last bed the plunging sea.
Lal of Kilrudden with flame-red hair,And the sea-blue eyes that rove and dare,And the open heart with never a care;With her strong brown arms and her ankles bare,God in heaven, but she was fair,That night the storm put in from sea?
The nightingales of Inishkill,The rose that climbed her window-sill,The shade that rustled or was still,The wind that roved and had his will,And one white sail on the low sea-hill,Were all she knew of love.
So when the storm drove in that day,And her lover's ship on the ledges lay,Past help and wrecking in the gray,And the cry was, "Who'll go down the bay,With half of the lifeboat's crew away?"Who should push to the front and say,"I will be one, be others who may,"But Lal of Kilrudden, born at sea!
The nightingales all night in the rain,The rose that fell at her window-pane,The frost that blackened the purple plain,And the scorn of pitiless disdainAt the hands of the wolfish pirate main,Quelling her great hot heart in vain,Were all she knew of death.
Kilrudden ford, Kilrudden dale,Kilrudden ruined in the galeThat wrecked the coast of Inishfree,And Lal's last bed the plunging sea.
HUNTING-SONG: FROM "KING ARTHUR."Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle:Tarantara!With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,And a ten-tined buck to kill!Before the sun goes down, goes down,We shall slay the buck of ten; (Bugle:Tarantara!And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison,When we come home again.Let him that loves his ease, his ease,Keep close and house him fair; (Bugle:Tarantara!He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of dangerAnd the joy of the open air.But he that loves the hills, the hills,Let him come out to-day! (Bugle:Tarantara!For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,And the hunt's up, and away!
HUNTING-SONG: FROM "KING ARTHUR."
Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle:Tarantara!With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,And a ten-tined buck to kill!
Before the sun goes down, goes down,We shall slay the buck of ten; (Bugle:Tarantara!And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison,When we come home again.
Let him that loves his ease, his ease,Keep close and house him fair; (Bugle:Tarantara!He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of dangerAnd the joy of the open air.
But he that loves the hills, the hills,Let him come out to-day! (Bugle:Tarantara!For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying,And the hunt's up, and away!
BUIE ANNAJOHN.Buie Annajohn was the king's black mare,Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!Satin was her coat and silk was her hair,Buie Annajohn,The young king's own.March with the white moon, march with the sun,March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!Buie Annajohn, when the dew lay hoar,(Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!)Down through the meadowlands went to war,--Buie Annajohn,The young king's own.March by the river road, march by the dune,March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!Buie Annajohn had the heart of flame,Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!First of the hosts to the hostings cameBuie Annajohn,The young king's own.March till we march the red sun down,March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!Back from the battle at the close of day,(Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!)Came with the war cheers, came with a neigh,Buie Annajohn,The young king's own.Oh, heavy was the sword that we laid on;But half of the heave was Buie Annajohn,Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!
BUIE ANNAJOHN.
Buie Annajohn was the king's black mare,Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!Satin was her coat and silk was her hair,Buie Annajohn,The young king's own.March with the white moon, march with the sun,March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!
Buie Annajohn, when the dew lay hoar,(Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!)Down through the meadowlands went to war,--Buie Annajohn,The young king's own.March by the river road, march by the dune,March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!
Buie Annajohn had the heart of flame,Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!First of the hosts to the hostings cameBuie Annajohn,The young king's own.March till we march the red sun down,March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn!
Back from the battle at the close of day,(Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!)Came with the war cheers, came with a neigh,Buie Annajohn,The young king's own.Oh, heavy was the sword that we laid on;But half of the heave was Buie Annajohn,Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!
MARY OF MARKA.Eric of Marka holds the knife:"A nameless death for a nameless life."--"Mary of Marka, bid him stay,And the morrow shall be our wedding-day."--"Will the blessing of priest give back my faith,Or life to the child you left to death?"--Eric of Marka holds the knife,And turns to the mother that is no wife:"Mary of Marka, have your will!Shall I spare him, or shall I kill?"--"He wrought me wrong when the days were sweet,And he'll get no more but a winding-sheet."
MARY OF MARKA.
Eric of Marka holds the knife:"A nameless death for a nameless life."--
"Mary of Marka, bid him stay,And the morrow shall be our wedding-day."--
"Will the blessing of priest give back my faith,Or life to the child you left to death?"--
Eric of Marka holds the knife,And turns to the mother that is no wife:
"Mary of Marka, have your will!Shall I spare him, or shall I kill?"--
"He wrought me wrong when the days were sweet,And he'll get no more but a winding-sheet."
PREMONITION.He said, "Good-night, my heart is light,To-morrow morn at dayWe two together in the dewShall forth and fare away."We shall go down, the halls of dawnTo find the doors of joy;We shall not part again, dear heart."And he laughed out like a boy.He turned and strode down the blue roadAgainst the western skyWhere the last line of sunset glowedAs sullen embers die.The night reached out her kraken armsTo clutch him as he passed,And for one sudden momentMy soul shrank back aghast.
PREMONITION.
He said, "Good-night, my heart is light,To-morrow morn at dayWe two together in the dewShall forth and fare away.
"We shall go down, the halls of dawnTo find the doors of joy;We shall not part again, dear heart."And he laughed out like a boy.
He turned and strode down the blue roadAgainst the western skyWhere the last line of sunset glowedAs sullen embers die.
The night reached out her kraken armsTo clutch him as he passed,And for one sudden momentMy soul shrank back aghast.
THE HEARSE-HORSE.Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,"What the devil have you there?I may trot from court to square,Yet it neither swears nor groans,When I jolt it over stones."Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,"Bones!"Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,"What the devil have you there,With that purple frozen stare?Where the devil has it beenTo get that shadow grin?"Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,"Skin!"Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,"What the devil have you there?It has fingers, it has hair;Yet it neither kicks nor squirmsAt the undertaker's terms."Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,"Worms!"
THE HEARSE-HORSE.
Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,"What the devil have you there?I may trot from court to square,Yet it neither swears nor groans,When I jolt it over stones."Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,"Bones!"
Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,"What the devil have you there,With that purple frozen stare?Where the devil has it beenTo get that shadow grin?"Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,"Skin!"
Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,"What the devil have you there?It has fingers, it has hair;Yet it neither kicks nor squirmsAt the undertaker's terms."Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,"Worms!"
THE NIGHT-WASHERS.Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!We are the brothers of ghouls, and whoIn the name of the Crooked Saints are you?We are the washers of shrouds whereinThe lovers of beauty who sainted sinSleep till the Judgment Day begin.When the moon is drifting overhead,We wash the linen of the dead,Stained with yellow and stiff with red.Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!We are the foul night-washers, and who,By the Seven Lovely sins are you?Here we sit by the river reeds,Rinsing the linen that reeks and bleeds,And craving the help our labor needs.Come, Sir Fop, fall to, fall to!Show us for once what you can do!One day there'll be washing enough for you.Wade in, wade in, where the river runsClear in the moonlight over the stones!It'll wash the ache from your scrofulous bones.Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!We are the gossips of fame, and whoBy the Sinners' Litany are you?Wade in, wade in! The water is cold,The stains are deep, and the linen is old;But surely the sons of the town are bold!Work for us here till the break of dayAt washing the stains of the dead away,And you shall be merry, come what may!From now till your ninetieth year begins,You shall sin the Seven Lovely sins,While wearing the virtue a cardinal wins.Refuse, and your arms shall be broken and wried,To dangle like fenders over the sideOf an empty ship on the harbor tide!They shall gather a waist in their grip no more,As you wander the wide world over and o'er,With the curs at your heels from door to door.With only a stranger to cover your face,You shall die in the streets of an outcast race,And your linen be washed in the market-place!Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!We are the Scavenger Saints, but whoIn the name of the Shadowy Kin are you?
THE NIGHT-WASHERS.
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!We are the brothers of ghouls, and whoIn the name of the Crooked Saints are you?
We are the washers of shrouds whereinThe lovers of beauty who sainted sinSleep till the Judgment Day begin.
When the moon is drifting overhead,We wash the linen of the dead,Stained with yellow and stiff with red.
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!We are the foul night-washers, and who,By the Seven Lovely sins are you?
Here we sit by the river reeds,Rinsing the linen that reeks and bleeds,And craving the help our labor needs.
Come, Sir Fop, fall to, fall to!Show us for once what you can do!One day there'll be washing enough for you.
Wade in, wade in, where the river runsClear in the moonlight over the stones!It'll wash the ache from your scrofulous bones.
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!We are the gossips of fame, and whoBy the Sinners' Litany are you?
Wade in, wade in! The water is cold,The stains are deep, and the linen is old;But surely the sons of the town are bold!
Work for us here till the break of dayAt washing the stains of the dead away,And you shall be merry, come what may!
From now till your ninetieth year begins,You shall sin the Seven Lovely sins,While wearing the virtue a cardinal wins.
Refuse, and your arms shall be broken and wried,To dangle like fenders over the sideOf an empty ship on the harbor tide!
They shall gather a waist in their grip no more,As you wander the wide world over and o'er,With the curs at your heels from door to door.
With only a stranger to cover your face,You shall die in the streets of an outcast race,And your linen be washed in the market-place!
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!We are the Scavenger Saints, but whoIn the name of the Shadowy Kin are you?
MR. MOON: A SONG OF THE LITTLE PEOPLE.O Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?Down on the hilltop,Down in the glen,Out in the clearin',To play with little men?Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Mr. Moon,Hurry up your stumps!Don't you hear BullfrogCallin' to his wife,And old black CricketA-wheezin' at his fife?Hurry up your stumps,And get on your pumps!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Mr. Moon,Hurry up along!The reeds in the currentAre whisperin' slow;The river's a-wimplin'To and fro.Or you'll miss the song!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Mr. Moon,We're all here!Honey-bug, Thistledrift,White-imp, Weird,Wryface, Billiken,Quidnunc, Queered;We're all here,And the coast is clear!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Mr. Moon,We're the little men!Dewlap, Pussymouse,Ferntip, Freak,Drink-again, Shambler,Talkytalk, Squeak;Three times tenOf us little men!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Mr. Moon,We're all ready!Tallenough, Squaretoes,Amble, Tip,Buddybud, Heigho,Little black Pip;We're all ready,And the wind walks steady!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Mr. Moon,We're thirty score;Yellowbeard, Piper,Lieabed, Toots,Meadowbee, Moonboy,Bully-in-boots;Three times moreThan thirty score.Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Mr. Moon,Keep your eye peeled;Watch out to windward,Or you'll miss the fun,Down by the acreWhere the wheat-waves run;Keep your eye peeledFor the open field.Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Mr. Moon,There's not much time!Hurry, if you're comin',You lazy old bones!You can sleep to-morrowWhile the Buzbuz drones;There's not much timeTill the church bells chime.Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Mr. Moon,Just see the clover!Soon we'll be goingWhere the Gray Goose wentWhen all her moneyWas spent, spent, spent!Down through the clover,When the revel's over!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?O Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?Down where the Good FolkDance in a ring,Down where the Little FolkSing?Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
MR. MOON: A SONG OF THE LITTLE PEOPLE.
O Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?Down on the hilltop,Down in the glen,Out in the clearin',To play with little men?Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Mr. Moon,Hurry up your stumps!Don't you hear BullfrogCallin' to his wife,And old black CricketA-wheezin' at his fife?Hurry up your stumps,And get on your pumps!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Mr. Moon,Hurry up along!The reeds in the currentAre whisperin' slow;The river's a-wimplin'To and fro.Or you'll miss the song!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Mr. Moon,We're all here!Honey-bug, Thistledrift,White-imp, Weird,Wryface, Billiken,Quidnunc, Queered;We're all here,And the coast is clear!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Mr. Moon,We're the little men!Dewlap, Pussymouse,Ferntip, Freak,Drink-again, Shambler,Talkytalk, Squeak;Three times tenOf us little men!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Mr. Moon,We're all ready!Tallenough, Squaretoes,Amble, Tip,Buddybud, Heigho,Little black Pip;We're all ready,And the wind walks steady!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Mr. Moon,We're thirty score;Yellowbeard, Piper,Lieabed, Toots,Meadowbee, Moonboy,Bully-in-boots;Three times moreThan thirty score.Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Mr. Moon,Keep your eye peeled;Watch out to windward,Or you'll miss the fun,Down by the acreWhere the wheat-waves run;Keep your eye peeledFor the open field.Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Mr. Moon,There's not much time!Hurry, if you're comin',You lazy old bones!You can sleep to-morrowWhile the Buzbuz drones;There's not much timeTill the church bells chime.Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Mr. Moon,Just see the clover!Soon we'll be goingWhere the Gray Goose wentWhen all her moneyWas spent, spent, spent!Down through the clover,When the revel's over!Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
O Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?Down where the Good FolkDance in a ring,Down where the Little FolkSing?Moon, Mr. Moon,When you comin' down?
HEM AND HAW.Hem and Haw were the sons of sin,Created to shally and shirk;Hem lay 'round and Haw looked onWhile God did all the work.Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,For both had the dull, dull mind;And whenever they found a thing to do,They yammered and went it blind.Hem was the father of bigots and bores;As the sands of the sea were they.And Haw was the father of all the tribeWho criticise to-day.But God was an artist from the first,And knew what be was about;While over his shoulder sneered these two,And advised him to rub it out.They prophesied ruin ere man was made:"Such folly must surely fail!"And when he was done, "Do you think, my Lord,He's better without a tail?"And still in the honest working world,With posture and hint and smirk,These sons of the devil are standing byWhile Man does all the work.They balk endeavor and baffle reform,In the sacred name of law;And over the quavering voice of HemIs the droning voice of Haw.
HEM AND HAW.
Hem and Haw were the sons of sin,Created to shally and shirk;Hem lay 'round and Haw looked onWhile God did all the work.
Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,For both had the dull, dull mind;And whenever they found a thing to do,They yammered and went it blind.
Hem was the father of bigots and bores;As the sands of the sea were they.And Haw was the father of all the tribeWho criticise to-day.
But God was an artist from the first,And knew what be was about;While over his shoulder sneered these two,And advised him to rub it out.
They prophesied ruin ere man was made:"Such folly must surely fail!"And when he was done, "Do you think, my Lord,He's better without a tail?"
And still in the honest working world,With posture and hint and smirk,These sons of the devil are standing byWhile Man does all the work.
They balk endeavor and baffle reform,In the sacred name of law;And over the quavering voice of HemIs the droning voice of Haw.
ACCIDENT IN ART.That painter has not with a careless smutchAccomplished his despair?--one touch revealingAll he had put of life, thought, vigor, feeling,Into the canvas that without that touchShowed of his love and labor just so muchRaw pigment, scarce a scrap of soul concealing!What poet has not found his spirit kneelingA sudden at the sound of such or suchStrange verses staring from his manuscript,Written he knows not how, but which will soundLike trumpets down the years? So AccidentItself unmasks the likeness of Intent,And ever in blind Chance's darkest cryptThe shrine-lamp of God's purposing is found.
ACCIDENT IN ART.
That painter has not with a careless smutchAccomplished his despair?--one touch revealingAll he had put of life, thought, vigor, feeling,Into the canvas that without that touchShowed of his love and labor just so muchRaw pigment, scarce a scrap of soul concealing!What poet has not found his spirit kneelingA sudden at the sound of such or suchStrange verses staring from his manuscript,Written he knows not how, but which will soundLike trumpets down the years? So AccidentItself unmasks the likeness of Intent,And ever in blind Chance's darkest cryptThe shrine-lamp of God's purposing is found.
IN A GARDEN.Thought is a garden wide and oldFor airy creatures to explore,Where grow the great fantastic flowersWith truth for honey at the core.There like a wild marauding beeMade desperate by hungry fears,From gorgeousIfto darkPerhapsI blunder down the dusk of years.
IN A GARDEN.
Thought is a garden wide and oldFor airy creatures to explore,Where grow the great fantastic flowersWith truth for honey at the core.
There like a wild marauding beeMade desperate by hungry fears,From gorgeousIfto darkPerhapsI blunder down the dusk of years.
AT THE END OF THE DAY.There is no escape by the river,There is no flight left by the fen;We are compassed about by the shiverOf the night of their marching men.Give a cheer!For our hearts shall not give way.Here's to a dark to-morrow,And here's to a brave to-day!The tale of their hosts is countless,And the tale of ours a score;But the palm is naught to the dauntless,And the cause is more and more.Give a cheer!We may die, but not give way.Here's to a silent morrow,And here's to a stout to-day!God has said: "Ye shall fail and perish;But the thrill ye have felt to-nightI shall keep in my heart and cherishWhen the worlds have passed in night."Give a cheer!For the soul shall not give way.Here's to the greater to-morrowThat is born of a great to-day!Now shame on the craven trucklerAnd the puling things that mope!We've a rapture for our bucklerThat outwears the wings of hope.Give a cheer!For our joy shall not give way.Here's in the teeth of to-morrowTo the glory of to-day!
AT THE END OF THE DAY.
There is no escape by the river,There is no flight left by the fen;We are compassed about by the shiverOf the night of their marching men.Give a cheer!For our hearts shall not give way.Here's to a dark to-morrow,And here's to a brave to-day!
The tale of their hosts is countless,And the tale of ours a score;But the palm is naught to the dauntless,And the cause is more and more.Give a cheer!We may die, but not give way.Here's to a silent morrow,And here's to a stout to-day!
God has said: "Ye shall fail and perish;But the thrill ye have felt to-nightI shall keep in my heart and cherishWhen the worlds have passed in night."Give a cheer!For the soul shall not give way.Here's to the greater to-morrowThat is born of a great to-day!
Now shame on the craven trucklerAnd the puling things that mope!We've a rapture for our bucklerThat outwears the wings of hope.Give a cheer!For our joy shall not give way.Here's in the teeth of to-morrowTo the glory of to-day!
THIS BOOK WAS PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, DURING OCTOBER,1896.