Words

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Gray and low flew the heron wailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Naught was spoken. We watched the simpleGulls wing past. Your hat's white wimpleShadowed your eyes. And your lips, a-dimple,Smiled and seemed from your soul to weanAn inner beauty, an added sheen,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Red on the marshes the day flared, failingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it your thought, or the transitoryGold of the West, like a dreamy story,Bright on your brow, that I read? the gloryAnd grace of love, like a rose-crowned queenPictured pensive in mind and mien?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Wan on the waters the mist lay veilingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it the joy that begot the sorrow?—Joy that was filled with the dreams that borrowPrescience sad of a far To-morrow,—There in the Now that was all too keen,That shadowed the fate that might intervene?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,The marsh-hen cried and the tide was ailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—And so we parted. No vows were spoken.No faith was plighted that might be broken.But deep in our hearts each bore a tokenOf life and of love and of all they mean,Beautiful, thornless and ever green,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

St. Augustine, Fla.

I cannot tell what I would tell thee,What I would say, what thou shouldst hear:Words of the soul that should compell thee,Words of the heart to draw thee near.For when thou smilest, thou, who fillestMy life with joy, and I would speak,'T is then my lips and tongue are stillest,Knowing all language is too weak.Look in my eyes: read there confession:The truest love has least of art:Nor needs it words for its expressionWhen soul speaks soul and heart speaks heart.

I cannot tell what I would tell thee,What I would say, what thou shouldst hear:Words of the soul that should compell thee,Words of the heart to draw thee near.

For when thou smilest, thou, who fillestMy life with joy, and I would speak,'T is then my lips and tongue are stillest,Knowing all language is too weak.

Look in my eyes: read there confession:The truest love has least of art:Nor needs it words for its expressionWhen soul speaks soul and heart speaks heart.

Yea, why I love thee let my heart repeat:I look upon thy face and then divineHow men could die for beauty, such as thine,—Deeming it sweetTo lay my life and manhood at thy feet,And for a word, a glance,Do deeds of old romance.

Yea, why I love thee let my heart unfold:I look into thy heart and then I knowThe wondrous poetry of the long-ago,The Age of Gold,That speaks strange music, that is old, so old,Yet young, as when 't was born,With all the youth of morn.

Yea, why I love thee let my heart conclude:I look into thy soul and realizeThe undiscovered meaning of the skies,—That long have wooedThe world with far ideals that elude,—Out of whose dreams, maybe,God shapes reality.

Why do I love you, who have never givenMy heart encouragement or any cause?Is it because, as earth is held of heaven,Your soul holds mine by some mysterious laws?Perhaps, unseen of me, within your eyesThe answer lies, the answer lies.

From your sweet lips no word hath ever fallenTo tell my heart its love is not in vain—The bee that wooes the flow'r hath honey and pollenTo cheer him on and bring him back again:But what have I, your other friends above,To feed my love, to feed my love?

Still, still you are my dream and my desire;Your love is an allurement and a dareSet for attainment, like a shining spire,Far, far above me in the starry air:And gazing upward, 'gainst the hope of hope,I breast the slope, I breast the slope.

When you and I in the hills went Maying,You and I in the sweet May weather,The birds, that sang on the boughs together,There in the green of the woods, kept sayingAll that my heart was saying low,Love, as glad as the May's glad glow,—And did you know?When you and I in the hills went Maying.

There where the brook on its rocks went winking,There by its banks where the May had led us,Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows,Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinkingAll that my soul was thinking there,Love, as pure as the May's pure air,—And did you care?There where the brook on its rocks went winking.

Whatever befalls through fate's compelling,Should our paths unite or our pathways sever,In the Mays to come I shall feel foreverThe wildflowers thinking, the wildbirds tellingThe same fond love that my heart then knew,Love unspeakable, deep and true,—But what of you?Whatever befalls through fate's compelling.

In years to come, will you forget,Dear girl, how often we have met?And I have gazed into your eyesAnd there beheld no sad regretTo cloud the gladness of their skies,While in your heart—unheard as yet—Love slept, oblivious of my sighs?—In years to come, will you forget?Ah, me! I only pray that when,In other days, some man of menHas taught those eyes to laugh and weepWith joy and sorrow, hearts must kenWhen love awakens in their deep,—I only pray some memory then,Or sad or sweet, you still will keepOf me and love that might have been.

Ah, me! I only pray that when,In other days, some man of menHas taught those eyes to laugh and weepWith joy and sorrow, hearts must kenWhen love awakens in their deep,—I only pray some memory then,Or sad or sweet, you still will keepOf me and love that might have been.

Clouds of the autumn night,Under the hunter's moon,—Ghostly and windy white,—Whither, like leaves wild strewn,Take ye your stormy flight?Out of the west, where dusk,From her rich windowsill,Leaned with a wand of tusk,Witch-like, and wood and hillPhantomed with mist and musk.Into the east, where mornSleeps in a shadowy close,Shut with a gate of horn,'Round which the dreams she knowsFlutter with rose and thorn.Blow from the west, oh, blow,Clouds that the tempest steers!And with your rain and snowBear of my heart the tears,And of my soul the woe.Into the east then pass,Clouds that the night winds sweep!And on her grave's sear grass,There where she lies asleep.There let them fall, alas!

Clouds of the autumn night,Under the hunter's moon,—Ghostly and windy white,—Whither, like leaves wild strewn,Take ye your stormy flight?

Out of the west, where dusk,From her rich windowsill,Leaned with a wand of tusk,Witch-like, and wood and hillPhantomed with mist and musk.

Into the east, where mornSleeps in a shadowy close,Shut with a gate of horn,'Round which the dreams she knowsFlutter with rose and thorn.

Blow from the west, oh, blow,Clouds that the tempest steers!And with your rain and snowBear of my heart the tears,And of my soul the woe.

Into the east then pass,Clouds that the night winds sweep!And on her grave's sear grass,There where she lies asleep.There let them fall, alas!

There in the past I see her as of old,Blue-eyed and hazel-haired, within a roomDim with a twilight of tenebrious gold;Her white face sensuous as a delicate bloomNight opens in the tropics. Fold on foldPale laces drape her; and a frail perfume,As of a moonlit primrose brimmed with rain,Breathes from her presence, drowsing heart and brain.Her head is bent; some red carnations glowDeep in her heavy hair; her large eyes gleam;—Bright sister stars of those twin worlds of snow,Her breasts, through which the veinéd violets stream;—I hold her hand; her smile comes sweetly slowAs thoughts of love that haunt a poet's dream;And at her feet once more I sit and hearWild words of passion—dead this many a year.

Her head is bent; some red carnations glowDeep in her heavy hair; her large eyes gleam;—Bright sister stars of those twin worlds of snow,Her breasts, through which the veinéd violets stream;—I hold her hand; her smile comes sweetly slowAs thoughts of love that haunt a poet's dream;And at her feet once more I sit and hearWild words of passion—dead this many a year.

Deep-hearted roses of the purple duskAnd lilies of the morn;And cactus, holding up a slender tuskOf fragrance on a thorn;All heavy flowers, sultry with their musk,Her presence puts to scorn.For she is like the pale, pale snowdrop there,Scentless and chaste of heart;The moonflower, making spiritual the air,Like some pure work of art;Divine and holy, exquisitely fair,And virtue's counterpart.Yet when her eyes gaze into mine, and whenHer lips to mine are pressed,—Why are my veins all fire then? and thenWhy should her soul suggestVoluptuous perfumes, maddening unto men,And prurient with unrest?

Deep-hearted roses of the purple duskAnd lilies of the morn;And cactus, holding up a slender tuskOf fragrance on a thorn;All heavy flowers, sultry with their musk,Her presence puts to scorn.

For she is like the pale, pale snowdrop there,Scentless and chaste of heart;The moonflower, making spiritual the air,Like some pure work of art;Divine and holy, exquisitely fair,And virtue's counterpart.

Yet when her eyes gaze into mine, and whenHer lips to mine are pressed,—Why are my veins all fire then? and thenWhy should her soul suggestVoluptuous perfumes, maddening unto men,And prurient with unrest?

Dear heart and love! what happiness to sitAnd watch the firelight's varying shade and shineOn thy young face; and through those eyes of thine—As through glad windows—mark fair fancies flitIn sumptuous chambers of thy soul's chaste witLike graceful women: then to take in mineThy hand, whose pressure brims my heart's divineHushed rapture as with music exquisite!When I remember how thy look and touchSway, like the moon, my blood with ecstasy,I dare not think to what fierce heaven might leadThy soft embrace; or in thy kiss how muchSweet hell,—beyond all help of me,—might be,Where I were lost, where I were lost indeed!

Why should I pine? when there in SpainAre eyes to woo, and not in vain;Dark eyes, and dreamily divine:And lips, as red as sunlit wine;Sweet lips, that never know disdain:And hearts, for passion over fain;Fond, trusting hearts that know no stainOf scorn for hearts that love like mine.—Why should I pine?Because all dreams I entertainOf beauty wear thy form, Elain;And e'en their lips and eyes are thine:So though I gladly would resignAll love, I love, and still complain,"Why should I pine?"

Why should I pine? when there in SpainAre eyes to woo, and not in vain;Dark eyes, and dreamily divine:And lips, as red as sunlit wine;

Sweet lips, that never know disdain:And hearts, for passion over fain;Fond, trusting hearts that know no stainOf scorn for hearts that love like mine.—Why should I pine?

Because all dreams I entertainOf beauty wear thy form, Elain;And e'en their lips and eyes are thine:So though I gladly would resignAll love, I love, and still complain,"Why should I pine?"

When Lydia smiles, I seem to seeThe walls around me fade and flee;And, lo, in haunts of hart and hindI seem with lovely Rosalind,In Arden 'neath the greenwood tree:The day is drowsy with the bee,And one wild bird flutes dreamily,And all the mellow air is kind,When Lydia smiles.Ah, me! what were this world to meWithout her smile!—What poetry,What glad hesperian paths I findOf love, that lead my soul and mindTo happy hills of Arcady,When Lydia smiles!

Ah, me! what were this world to meWithout her smile!—What poetry,What glad hesperian paths I findOf love, that lead my soul and mindTo happy hills of Arcady,When Lydia smiles!

You have forgot: it once was redWith life, this rose, to which you said,—When, there in happy days gone by,You plucked it, on my breast to lie,—"Sleep there, O rose! how sweet a bedIs thine!—And, heart, be comforted;For, though we part and roses shedTheir leaves and fade, love cannot die.—"You have forgot.So by those words of yours I'm ledTo send it you this day you wed.Look well upon it. You, as I,Should ask it now, without a sigh,If love can lie as it lies dead.—You have forgot.

So by those words of yours I'm ledTo send it you this day you wed.Look well upon it. You, as I,Should ask it now, without a sigh,If love can lie as it lies dead.—You have forgot.

Summer may come, in sun-blonde splendor,To reap the harvest that Springtime sows;And Fall lead in her old defender,Winter, all huddled up in snows:Ever a-south the love-wind blowsInto my heart, like a vane aswayFrom face to face of the girls it knows—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.If Carrie smile or Maud look tender,Straight in my bosom the gladness glows;But scarce at their side am I all surrenderWhen Gertrude sings where the garden grows:And my heart is a bloom, like the red rose showsFor her hand to gather and toss away,Or wear on her breast, as her fancy goes—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.Let Laura pass, as a sapling slender,Her cheek a berry, her mouth a rose,—Or Blanche or Helen,—to each I renderThe worship due to the charms she shows:But Mary's a poem when these are prose;Here at her feet my life I lay;All of devotion to her it owes—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.Howcanmy heart of my hand dispose?When Ruth and Clara, and Kate and May,In form and feature no flaw disclose—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

If Carrie smile or Maud look tender,Straight in my bosom the gladness glows;But scarce at their side am I all surrenderWhen Gertrude sings where the garden grows:And my heart is a bloom, like the red rose showsFor her hand to gather and toss away,Or wear on her breast, as her fancy goes—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

Let Laura pass, as a sapling slender,Her cheek a berry, her mouth a rose,—Or Blanche or Helen,—to each I renderThe worship due to the charms she shows:But Mary's a poem when these are prose;Here at her feet my life I lay;All of devotion to her it owes—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

Howcanmy heart of my hand dispose?When Ruth and Clara, and Kate and May,In form and feature no flaw disclose—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

Were I an artist, Lydia, IWould paint you as you merit,Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry;Not in the flesh, but spirit.The canvas I would paint you onShould be a bit of heaven;My brush, a sunbeam; pigments, dawnAnd night and starry even.Your form and features to express,Likewise your soul's chaste whiteness,I'd take the primal essencesOf darkness and of brightness.I'd take pure night to paint your hair;Stars for your eyes; and morningTo paint your skin—the rosy airThat is your limbs' adorning.To paint the love-bows of your lips,I'd mix, for colors, kisses;And for your breasts and finger-tips,Sweet odors and soft blisses.And to complete the picture well,I'd temper all with woman,—Some tears, some laughter; heaven and hell,To show you still are human.

Were I an artist, Lydia, IWould paint you as you merit,Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry;Not in the flesh, but spirit.

The canvas I would paint you onShould be a bit of heaven;My brush, a sunbeam; pigments, dawnAnd night and starry even.

Your form and features to express,Likewise your soul's chaste whiteness,I'd take the primal essencesOf darkness and of brightness.

I'd take pure night to paint your hair;Stars for your eyes; and morningTo paint your skin—the rosy airThat is your limbs' adorning.

To paint the love-bows of your lips,I'd mix, for colors, kisses;And for your breasts and finger-tips,Sweet odors and soft blisses.

And to complete the picture well,I'd temper all with woman,—Some tears, some laughter; heaven and hell,To show you still are human.

Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way,And the bells peal out,'Tis Christmas Day;The world is better then by half,For joy, for joy;In a little while you will see it laugh—For a song's to sing and a glass to quaff,My boy, my boy.So here's to the man who never says nay!—Sing, Hey, a song of Christmas-Day!

Sing, Ho, when roofs are white with snow,And homes are hung with mistletoe;Old Earth is not half bad, I wis—What cheer! what cheer!How it ever seemed sad the wonder is—With a gift to give and a girl to kiss,My dear, my dear.So here's to the girl who never says no!Sing, Ho, a song of the mistletoe!

No thing in the world to the heart seems wrongWhen the soul of a man walks out with song;Wherever they go, glad hand in hand,And glove in glove,The round of the land is rainbow-spanned,And the meaning of life they understandIs love, is love.Let the heart be open, the soul be strong,And life will be glad as a Christmas song.

Their only thought religion,What Christmas joys had they,The stern, staunch Pilgrim Fathers whoKnew naught of holiday?—A log-church in the clearing'Mid solitudes of snow,The wild-beast and the wilderness,And lurking Indian foe.No time had they for pleasure,Whom God had put to school;A sermon was their Christmas cheer,A psalm their only Yule.They deemed it joy sufficient,—Nor would Christ take it ill,—That service to Himself and GodEmployed their spirits still.And so through faith and prayerTheir powers were renewed,And souls made strong to shape a World,And tame a solitude.A type of revolution,Wrought from an iron plan,In the largest mold of libertyGod cast the Puritan.A better land they founded,That Freedom had for bride,The shackles of old despotismStruck from her limbs and side.With faith within to guide them,And courage to perform,A nation, from a wilderness,They hewed with their strong arm.For liberty to worship,And right to do and dare,They faced the savage and the stormWith voices raised in prayer.For God it was who summoned,And God it was who led,And God would not forsake the loveThat must be clothed and fed.Great need had they of courage!Great need of faith had they!And lacking these—how otherwiseFor us had been this day!

Their only thought religion,What Christmas joys had they,The stern, staunch Pilgrim Fathers whoKnew naught of holiday?—

A log-church in the clearing'Mid solitudes of snow,The wild-beast and the wilderness,And lurking Indian foe.

No time had they for pleasure,Whom God had put to school;A sermon was their Christmas cheer,A psalm their only Yule.

They deemed it joy sufficient,—Nor would Christ take it ill,—That service to Himself and GodEmployed their spirits still.

And so through faith and prayerTheir powers were renewed,And souls made strong to shape a World,And tame a solitude.

A type of revolution,Wrought from an iron plan,In the largest mold of libertyGod cast the Puritan.

A better land they founded,That Freedom had for bride,The shackles of old despotismStruck from her limbs and side.

With faith within to guide them,And courage to perform,A nation, from a wilderness,They hewed with their strong arm.

For liberty to worship,And right to do and dare,They faced the savage and the stormWith voices raised in prayer.

For God it was who summoned,And God it was who led,And God would not forsake the loveThat must be clothed and fed.

Great need had they of courage!Great need of faith had they!And lacking these—how otherwiseFor us had been this day!

(After the German of Goethe,Faust, II)

When on the mountain tops ray-crowned ApolloTurns his swift arrows, dart on glittering dart,Let but a rock glint green, the wild goats followGlad-grazing shyly on each sparse-grown part.Rolled into plunging torrents spring the fountains;And slope and vale and meadowland grow green;While on ridg'd levels of a hundred mountains,Far fleece by fleece, the woolly flocks convene.With measured stride, deliberate and steady,The scattered cattle seek the beetling steep,But shelter for th' assembled herd is readyIn many hollows that the walled rocks heap:The lairs of Pan; and, lo, in murmuring places,In bushy clefts, what woodland Nymphs arouse!Where, full of yearning for the azure spaces,Tree, crowding tree, lifts high its heavy boughs.Old forests, where the gnarly oak stands regnantBristling with twigs that still repullulate,And, swoln with spring, with sappy sweetness pregnant,The maple blushes with its leafy weight.And, mother-like, in cirques of quiet shadows,Milk flows, warm milk, that keeps all things alive;Fruit is not far, th' abundance of the meadows,And honey oozes from the hollow hive.

When on the mountain tops ray-crowned ApolloTurns his swift arrows, dart on glittering dart,Let but a rock glint green, the wild goats followGlad-grazing shyly on each sparse-grown part.

Rolled into plunging torrents spring the fountains;And slope and vale and meadowland grow green;While on ridg'd levels of a hundred mountains,Far fleece by fleece, the woolly flocks convene.

With measured stride, deliberate and steady,The scattered cattle seek the beetling steep,But shelter for th' assembled herd is readyIn many hollows that the walled rocks heap:

The lairs of Pan; and, lo, in murmuring places,In bushy clefts, what woodland Nymphs arouse!Where, full of yearning for the azure spaces,Tree, crowding tree, lifts high its heavy boughs.

Old forests, where the gnarly oak stands regnantBristling with twigs that still repullulate,And, swoln with spring, with sappy sweetness pregnant,The maple blushes with its leafy weight.

And, mother-like, in cirques of quiet shadows,Milk flows, warm milk, that keeps all things alive;Fruit is not far, th' abundance of the meadows,And honey oozes from the hollow hive.

Within the world of every man's desireThree things have power to lift his soul above,Through dreams, religion, and ecstatic fire,The star-like shapes of Beauty, Truth, and Love.I never hoped that, this side far-off Heaven,These three,—whom all exalted souls pursue,—I e'er should see; until to me 't was given,Lady, to meet the three, made one, in you.

Within the world of every man's desireThree things have power to lift his soul above,Through dreams, religion, and ecstatic fire,The star-like shapes of Beauty, Truth, and Love.

I never hoped that, this side far-off Heaven,These three,—whom all exalted souls pursue,—I e'er should see; until to me 't was given,Lady, to meet the three, made one, in you.

It's "Sweet, good-bye," when pennants flyAnd ships put out to sea;It's a loving kiss, and a tear or twoIn an eye of brown or an eye of blue;—And you'll remember me,Sweetheart,And you'll remember me.

It's "Friend or foe?" when signals blowAnd ships sight ships at sea;It's clear for action, and man the guns,As the battle nears or the battle runs;—And you'll remember me,Sweetheart,And you'll remember me.

It's deck to deck, and wrath and wreckWhen ships meet ships at sea;It's scream of shot and shriek of shell,And hull and turret a roaring hell;—And you'll remember me,Sweetheart,And you'll remember me.

It's doom and death, and pause a breathWhen ships go down at sea;It's hate is over and love begins,And war is cruel whoever wins;—And you'll remember me,Sweetheart,And you'll remember me.

(Battleship, launched March 24, 1898.)

Here's to her who bears the nameOf our State;May the glory of her fameBe as great!In the battle's dread eclipse,When she opens iron lips,When our ships confront the shipsOf the foe,May each word of steel she utters carry woe!Here's to her!

Here's to her, who, like a knightMailed of old,From far sea to sea the RightShall uphold.May she always deal defeat,—When contending navies meet,And the battle's screaming sleetBlinds and stuns,—With the red, terrific thunder of her guns.Here's to her!

Here's to her who bears the nameOf our State;May the glory of her fameBe as great!Like a beacon, like a star,May she lead our squadrons far,—When the hurricane of warShakes the world,—With her pennant in the vanward broad unfurled.Here's to her!

Moths and Fireflies

Since Fancy taught me in her school of spellsI know her tricks—These are not moths at all,Nor fireflies; but masking Elfland bellesWhose link-boys torch them to Titania's ball.

Autumn Wild-Flowers

Like colored lanterns swung in Elfin towers,Wild morning-glories light the tangled ways,And, like the rosy rockets of the Fays,Burns the sloped crimson of the cardinal-flowers.

The Wind in the Pines

When winds go organing through the pinesOn hill and headland, darkly gleaming,Meseems I hear sonorous linesOf Iliads that the woods are dreaming.

Opportunity

Behold a hag whom Life denies a kissAs he rides questward in knighterrant-wise;Only when he hath passed her is it hisTo know, too late, the Fairy in disguise.

Dreams

They mock the present and they haunt the past,And in the future there is naught agleamWith hope, the soul desires, that at lastThe heart pursuing does not find a dream.

The Stars

These—the bright symbols of man's hope and fame,In which he reads his blessing or his curse—Are syllables with which God speaks His nameIn the vast utterance of the universe.

Beauty

High as a star, yet lowly as a flower,Unknown she takes her unassuming placeAt Earth's proud masquerade—the appointed hourStrikes, and, behold, the marvel of her face.

Universes are the pagesOf that book whose words are ages;Of that book which destinyOpens in eternity.There each syllable expressesSilence; there each thought a guess is;In whose rhetoric's cosmic runesRoll the worlds and swarming moons.There the systems, we call solar,Equatorial and polar,Write their lines of rushing lightOn the awful leaves of night.There the comets, vast and streaming,Punctuate the heavens' gleamingScroll; and suns, gigantic, shine,Periods to each starry line.There, initials huge, the LionLooms and measureless Orion;And, as 'neath a chapter done,Burns the Great-Bear's colophon.Constellated, hieroglyphic,Numbering each page terrific,Fiery on the nebular black,Flames the hurling zodiac.In that book, o'er which ChaldeanWisdom pored and many an eonOf philosophy long dead,This is all that man has read:—He has read how good and evil,—In creation's wild upheaval,—Warred; while God wrought terribleAt foundations red of Hell.He has read of man and woman;Laws and gods, both beast and human;Thrones of hate and creeds of lust,Vanished now and turned to dust.Arts and manners that have crumbled;Cities buried; empires tumbled:Time but breathed on them its breath;Earth is builded of their death.These but lived their little hour,Filled with pride and pomp and power;What availed them all at last?We shall pass as they have past.Still the human heart will dream onLove, part angel and part demon;Yet, I question, what securesOur belief that aught endures?In that book, o'er which ChaldeanWisdom pored and many an eonOf philosophy long dead,This is all that man has read.

Universes are the pagesOf that book whose words are ages;Of that book which destinyOpens in eternity.

There each syllable expressesSilence; there each thought a guess is;In whose rhetoric's cosmic runesRoll the worlds and swarming moons.

There the systems, we call solar,Equatorial and polar,Write their lines of rushing lightOn the awful leaves of night.

There the comets, vast and streaming,Punctuate the heavens' gleamingScroll; and suns, gigantic, shine,Periods to each starry line.

There, initials huge, the LionLooms and measureless Orion;And, as 'neath a chapter done,Burns the Great-Bear's colophon.

Constellated, hieroglyphic,Numbering each page terrific,Fiery on the nebular black,Flames the hurling zodiac.

In that book, o'er which ChaldeanWisdom pored and many an eonOf philosophy long dead,This is all that man has read:—

He has read how good and evil,—In creation's wild upheaval,—Warred; while God wrought terribleAt foundations red of Hell.

He has read of man and woman;Laws and gods, both beast and human;Thrones of hate and creeds of lust,Vanished now and turned to dust.

Arts and manners that have crumbled;Cities buried; empires tumbled:Time but breathed on them its breath;Earth is builded of their death.

These but lived their little hour,Filled with pride and pomp and power;What availed them all at last?We shall pass as they have past.

Still the human heart will dream onLove, part angel and part demon;Yet, I question, what securesOur belief that aught endures?

In that book, o'er which ChaldeanWisdom pored and many an eonOf philosophy long dead,This is all that man has read.

Days and DreamsCloth, gilt top,$1.00Moods and Memories" "1.00Red Leaves and Roses" "1.00Poems of Nature and Love" "1.00Intimations of the Beautiful" "1.00

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"I should like to praise the poetry of Madison Cawein, of Kentucky, which is as remote as Greece from the actual everyday life of his region; as remote from it as the poetry of Keats was from the England of his day, and which is yet so richly, so passionately true to the presence and essence of nature as she can be known only in the Southern West. I named Keats with no purpose of likening this young poet to him, but since he is named it is impossible not to recognize that they are of the same Hellenic race; full of like rapture in sky and field and stream, and of a like sensitive reluctance from whatever chills the joy of sense in youth, in love, in melancholy. I know Mr. Cawein has faults, and very probably he knows it, too; his delight in color sometimes plunges him into mere paint; his wish to follow a subtle thought or emotion sometimes lures him into empty dusks; his devotion to nature sometimes contents him with solitudes bereft of the human interest by which alone the landscape lives. But he is, to my thinking, a most genuine poet, and one of these few Americans, who, even in their over-refinement, could never be mistaken for Europeans; who perhaps by reason of it are only the more American."—William Dean HowellsinLiterature.

"From the poetry of our day I select that of Madison Cawein as an example of conspicuous merit. Many American readers have enjoyed Mr. Cawein's productions.... But the appreciation of his poetry has never been as great as its merits would indicate. His poems are rathertoo goodto be caught up on the babbling tongue and cast forth into mere popularity. They are caviare to the general; and yet they have in them the best elements of popular favor.

"Cawein is a classicist. He will have it that poems, however humble the theme, however tender the sentiment, shall wear a tasteful Attic dress. I do not intimate that Mr. Cawein's mind has been too much saturated with the classical spirit or that his native instincts have been supplanted with Greek exotics and flowers out of the renaissance, but rather that his own mental constitution is of a classical as well as a romantic mould.

"The themes of Cawein's poetry are generally taken from the world of romance. If there be any modern bard who can recreate a mediæval castle and give to its inhabitants the sentiments which were theirs in the twelfth century, Cawein is the poet who can. He takes delight in the East. He is the Omar Khayyam of the Ohio Valley. He is as much of a Mohammedan as a Christian. He knows the son of Abdallah better than he knows Cromwell; and has more sympathy with a Khalif than with a Colonel. He dwells in the romantic regions of life; but the romance is real. The hope is a true hope. The dream is a true dream. The picture is a painting, and not a chromo. The love is a passion, and not a dilettante episode. Cawein's art is a genuine art. His verse is exquisite. Out of the three hundred and thirteen poems in the fivevolumes under consideration there may be found hardly a false or broken harmony...."—John Clark Ridpath, LL.D., inThe Arena.

"The rattlesnake-weed and the bluet-bloom were unknown to Herrick and to Wordsworth, but such art as Mr. Cawein's makes them at home in English poetry. There is passion, too, and thought in his equipment...."—William Archerin thePall Mall Magazine.

"I find in the best pieces an intoxicating sense of beauty, a richness, that is rarely achieved, although every young poet nowadays strives after it. I find, too, a daring use of language which sometimes, nay often, conducts to genuine and startling felicities."—Edmund Gosse.

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