There are shadows that compel us,There are voices that control;More than substance these can tell us,Speaking to the human soul.In the moonlight, when it glistenedOn my window, white as snow,Once I woke and, leaning, listenedTo a voice that sang below.Full of gladness, full of yearning,Strange with dreamy melody,Like a bird whose heart is burning,Wildly sweet it sang to me.I arose; and by the starlight,Pale beneath the mystic sky,I have seen it full of far light,—My dead joy go singing by.In the darkness, when the glimmerOf the storm was on the pane,I have sat and heard a dimmerVoice lamenting in the rain.Full of parting and unspokenHeartbreak, faint with agony,Like a bird whose heart is broken,Sadly low it cried to me.I arose; and in the darknessWan beneath the haunted sky,I have seen it, cold to starkness,—My dead love go weeping by.
There are shadows that compel us,There are voices that control;More than substance these can tell us,Speaking to the human soul.
In the moonlight, when it glistenedOn my window, white as snow,Once I woke and, leaning, listenedTo a voice that sang below.
Full of gladness, full of yearning,Strange with dreamy melody,Like a bird whose heart is burning,Wildly sweet it sang to me.
I arose; and by the starlight,Pale beneath the mystic sky,I have seen it full of far light,—My dead joy go singing by.
In the darkness, when the glimmerOf the storm was on the pane,I have sat and heard a dimmerVoice lamenting in the rain.
Full of parting and unspokenHeartbreak, faint with agony,Like a bird whose heart is broken,Sadly low it cried to me.
I arose; and in the darknessWan beneath the haunted sky,I have seen it, cold to starkness,—My dead love go weeping by.
So long it seems since last I saw her face,So long ago it seems,Like some sad soul in unconjectured spaceStill seeking happiness through perished graceAnd unrealities,—a little whileIllusions lead me, ending in the smileOf Death triumphant in a thorny placeAmong Love's ruined roses and dead dreams.Since she is gone, no more I see the light,—Since she has left all dark,—Cleave like a revelation through the night.I wander blindly, filled with fear and fright,Among the fragments and the wrecks and stonesOf life, where Hope, amid the skulls and bones,With weary face, disheartened, wild and white,Trims her pale lamp with its expiring spark.Now she is dead, the Soul, naught can o'erawe,—Now she has passed from me,—Questions God's justice that seems full of flawAs is His world, where misery is law,And men but fools too willing to be slaves.—My House of Faith, built up on dust of graves,The wind of doubt sweeps down as made of straw,And all is night, and I no longer see.
So long it seems since last I saw her face,So long ago it seems,Like some sad soul in unconjectured spaceStill seeking happiness through perished graceAnd unrealities,—a little whileIllusions lead me, ending in the smileOf Death triumphant in a thorny placeAmong Love's ruined roses and dead dreams.
Since she is gone, no more I see the light,—Since she has left all dark,—Cleave like a revelation through the night.I wander blindly, filled with fear and fright,Among the fragments and the wrecks and stonesOf life, where Hope, amid the skulls and bones,With weary face, disheartened, wild and white,Trims her pale lamp with its expiring spark.
Now she is dead, the Soul, naught can o'erawe,—Now she has passed from me,—Questions God's justice that seems full of flawAs is His world, where misery is law,And men but fools too willing to be slaves.—My House of Faith, built up on dust of graves,The wind of doubt sweeps down as made of straw,And all is night, and I no longer see.
Ridged and bleak the gray forsakenTwilight at the night has guessed;And no star of dusk has takenFlame unshaken in the west.All day long the woodlands dyingMoaned, and drippings as of griefTossed from barren boughs with sighingDeath of flying twig and leaf.Ah, to live a life unbroken,Scornful of the worst of fate!Like that tree ... with branches oaken....Joy's unspoken intimate.—Who can say that man has neverLived the life of plants and trees?Not so wide the lines that severUs forever here from these.Colors, odors, that are cherished,Haply hint we once were flowers;Memory alone has perishedIn this garished world of ours.Music,—that all things expresses,All for which we've loved or sinned,—Haply in our treey tressesOnce was guesses of the wind....But I dream!—The dusk, upbraiding,Deepens without moon or star;Darkness and my sorrow aiding,We but fading phantoms are.And within me doubt keeps saying—"What is wrong? and what is right?Hear the cursing! hear the praying!All are straying on in night."
Ridged and bleak the gray forsakenTwilight at the night has guessed;And no star of dusk has takenFlame unshaken in the west.
All day long the woodlands dyingMoaned, and drippings as of griefTossed from barren boughs with sighingDeath of flying twig and leaf.
Ah, to live a life unbroken,Scornful of the worst of fate!Like that tree ... with branches oaken....Joy's unspoken intimate.—
Who can say that man has neverLived the life of plants and trees?Not so wide the lines that severUs forever here from these.
Colors, odors, that are cherished,Haply hint we once were flowers;Memory alone has perishedIn this garished world of ours.
Music,—that all things expresses,All for which we've loved or sinned,—Haply in our treey tressesOnce was guesses of the wind....
But I dream!—The dusk, upbraiding,Deepens without moon or star;Darkness and my sorrow aiding,We but fading phantoms are.
And within me doubt keeps saying—"What is wrong? and what is right?Hear the cursing! hear the praying!All are straying on in night."
The Soul, like Earth, hath silencesWhich speak not, yet are heard—The voices mute of memoriesAre louder than a word.Theirs is a speech which is not speech;A language that is boundTo soul-vibrations vague that reachDeeper than any sound.No words are theirs. They speak through things,A visible utteranceOf thoughts—like those some sunset bringsOr withered rose perchance.The heavens that once, in purple and flame,Spake to two hearts as one,In after years may speak the sameTo one sad heart alone.Through it the vanished face and eyesOf her, the sweet and fair,Of her the lost, again shall riseTo comfort his despair.And so the love that led him longFrom golden scene to scene,Within the sunset is a tongueTo tell him what has been.—How loud it speaks of that dead day,The rose whose bloom is fled!Of her who died; who, clasped in clay,Lies numbered with the dead.The dead are dead; with them 'tis wellWithin their narrow room;—No memories haunt their hearts who dwellWithin the grave and tomb.But what of those—the dead who live!The living dead, whose lotIs still to love—ah, God forgive!—To live and love, forgot!—
The Soul, like Earth, hath silencesWhich speak not, yet are heard—The voices mute of memoriesAre louder than a word.
Theirs is a speech which is not speech;A language that is boundTo soul-vibrations vague that reachDeeper than any sound.
No words are theirs. They speak through things,A visible utteranceOf thoughts—like those some sunset bringsOr withered rose perchance.
The heavens that once, in purple and flame,Spake to two hearts as one,In after years may speak the sameTo one sad heart alone.
Through it the vanished face and eyesOf her, the sweet and fair,Of her the lost, again shall riseTo comfort his despair.
And so the love that led him longFrom golden scene to scene,Within the sunset is a tongueTo tell him what has been.—
How loud it speaks of that dead day,The rose whose bloom is fled!Of her who died; who, clasped in clay,Lies numbered with the dead.
The dead are dead; with them 'tis wellWithin their narrow room;—No memories haunt their hearts who dwellWithin the grave and tomb.
But what of those—the dead who live!The living dead, whose lotIs still to love—ah, God forgive!—To live and love, forgot!—
The night is wild with rain and sleet.Each loose-warped casement claps and groans.I hear the plangent forest beatThe tempest with long blatant moansAs of despair, defeat.And sitting here beyond the storm,Alone within the lonely house,It seems that some mesmeric charmHangs over all.—Why, even the mouse,That gnawed, has come to harm.And in the silence, stolen o'erAll things, I strangely seem to fearMyself—that, opening yon door,I'd find my dead self drawing near,With face that once I wore.The stairway creaks with ghostly gusts.The flue moans—'tis a gorgon throatOf wailing winds. Ancestral dusts,—That yonder Indian war-gear coatWith gray and spectral crusts,—Are trembled down.—Or can it be,That he who wore it in the dance,Or battle, now fills shadowyIts wampumed skins? And shakes his lanceAnd warrior plume at me?—Mere fancy!—Yet those curtains tossMysteriously as if some darkHand moved them.—And I'd fear to crossThe shadow there where lies that spark—A glow-worm sunk in moss.Outside 'twere better!—Yes, I yearnTo walk the waste where sway and dipThe dark December boughs—where burnSome late last leaves, that drip and dripNo matter where you turn.Where sodden soil, you scarce have trod,Fills oozy footprints—but the blindNight there, tho' like the frown of God,Presents no phantoms to the mind,Like these that have o'erawed.—The months I count: how long it seemsSince summer! summer, when with her,There on her porch, in rainy gleamsWe watched the flickering lightning stirIn heavens gray as dreams.When all the west, a sheet of gold,Flared,—like some Titan's opened forge,—With storm; revealing manifoldVast peaks of clouds with crag and gorge,Where thunder torrents rolled.Then came the wind; again, againThe lightning lit the world—and howThe tempest roared with rushing rain!...We could not read.—Where is it now,That tale of Charlemagne?That old romance, ah me! that weWere reading? till we heard the plungeOf summer thunder sullenly,And left to watch the lightning lunge,And winds bend down each tree.—That summer! how it built us thereA world of love and necromance!A spirit-world, where all was fair;An island, sleeping in a tranceOf lilied light and air.Where every flower was a thought;And every bird, a melody;And every fragrance, zephyr brought,Was but the rainbowed draperyOf some sweet dream long sought.O land of shadows! shadow-home,Within my world of memories!Around whose ruins sweeps the foamOf sorrow's immemorial seas,By whose dark shores I roam!How long in your wrecked halls aloneWith ghosts of joys must I remain?Between the unknown and the known,Still listening to the wind and rain,And my own heart's wild moan.
The night is wild with rain and sleet.Each loose-warped casement claps and groans.I hear the plangent forest beatThe tempest with long blatant moansAs of despair, defeat.
And sitting here beyond the storm,Alone within the lonely house,It seems that some mesmeric charmHangs over all.—Why, even the mouse,That gnawed, has come to harm.
And in the silence, stolen o'erAll things, I strangely seem to fearMyself—that, opening yon door,I'd find my dead self drawing near,With face that once I wore.
The stairway creaks with ghostly gusts.The flue moans—'tis a gorgon throatOf wailing winds. Ancestral dusts,—That yonder Indian war-gear coatWith gray and spectral crusts,—
Are trembled down.—Or can it be,That he who wore it in the dance,Or battle, now fills shadowyIts wampumed skins? And shakes his lanceAnd warrior plume at me?—
Mere fancy!—Yet those curtains tossMysteriously as if some darkHand moved them.—And I'd fear to crossThe shadow there where lies that spark—A glow-worm sunk in moss.
Outside 'twere better!—Yes, I yearnTo walk the waste where sway and dipThe dark December boughs—where burnSome late last leaves, that drip and dripNo matter where you turn.
Where sodden soil, you scarce have trod,Fills oozy footprints—but the blindNight there, tho' like the frown of God,Presents no phantoms to the mind,Like these that have o'erawed.—
The months I count: how long it seemsSince summer! summer, when with her,There on her porch, in rainy gleamsWe watched the flickering lightning stirIn heavens gray as dreams.
When all the west, a sheet of gold,Flared,—like some Titan's opened forge,—With storm; revealing manifoldVast peaks of clouds with crag and gorge,Where thunder torrents rolled.
Then came the wind; again, againThe lightning lit the world—and howThe tempest roared with rushing rain!...We could not read.—Where is it now,That tale of Charlemagne?
That old romance, ah me! that weWere reading? till we heard the plungeOf summer thunder sullenly,And left to watch the lightning lunge,And winds bend down each tree.—
That summer! how it built us thereA world of love and necromance!A spirit-world, where all was fair;An island, sleeping in a tranceOf lilied light and air.
Where every flower was a thought;And every bird, a melody;And every fragrance, zephyr brought,Was but the rainbowed draperyOf some sweet dream long sought.
O land of shadows! shadow-home,Within my world of memories!Around whose ruins sweeps the foamOf sorrow's immemorial seas,By whose dark shores I roam!
How long in your wrecked halls aloneWith ghosts of joys must I remain?Between the unknown and the known,Still listening to the wind and rain,And my own heart's wild moan.
Wild weather. The lash of the sleetOn the gusty casement tapping—The sound of the storm like a sheetMy soul and senses wrapping.Wild weather. And how is she,Now the rush of the rain falls serriedOver the turf and the treeOf the place where she is buried?Wild weather. How black and deepIs the night where the mad winds scurry!—Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleepThat I hear her footsteps hurry?Hither they come like flowers—And I see her raiment glisten,Like the robe of one of the hoursWhere the stars to the angels listen.Before me, behold, how she stands!With lips high thoughts have weighted,And testifying hands,And eyes with glory sated.I have spoken and I have kneeled;I have kissed her feet in wonder—But lo! her lips—they are sealed,God-sealed, and will not sunder.Though I sob, "Your stay was long!You are come,—but your feet were laggard!—With mansuetude and songFor the soul your death has daggered."Never a word replies,Never to all my weeping—Only a sound of sighs,And raiment past me sweeping....I wake; and a clock strikes three—And the night and the storm beat serriedOver the turf and the treeOf the place where she is buried.
Wild weather. The lash of the sleetOn the gusty casement tapping—The sound of the storm like a sheetMy soul and senses wrapping.
Wild weather. And how is she,Now the rush of the rain falls serriedOver the turf and the treeOf the place where she is buried?
Wild weather. How black and deepIs the night where the mad winds scurry!—Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleepThat I hear her footsteps hurry?
Hither they come like flowers—And I see her raiment glisten,Like the robe of one of the hoursWhere the stars to the angels listen.
Before me, behold, how she stands!With lips high thoughts have weighted,And testifying hands,And eyes with glory sated.
I have spoken and I have kneeled;I have kissed her feet in wonder—But lo! her lips—they are sealed,God-sealed, and will not sunder.
Though I sob, "Your stay was long!You are come,—but your feet were laggard!—With mansuetude and songFor the soul your death has daggered."
Never a word replies,Never to all my weeping—Only a sound of sighs,And raiment past me sweeping....
I wake; and a clock strikes three—And the night and the storm beat serriedOver the turf and the treeOf the place where she is buried.
POEMS OF THE TOWNErnest McGaffeySONG-SURFCale Young RiceONE DAY AND ANOTHERMadison CaweinFOR THINKING HEARTSJohn Vance CheneyIN THE HARBOR OF HOPEMary Elizabeth Blake
The following are but a few extracts from many reviews received onPoems of the Town. Among this chorus of praise there has not been one dissenting voice."For terse English, for picturesque and appropriate imagery, for keen and faithful portraiture Mr. McGaffey has no superior. And there will be many to say that this book entitles him to recognition as the interpreter of his age."—Chicago Inter-Ocean."It is doubtful if any American poet has written a finer, more humane, more nobly and righteously wrathful outburst against the maladies of civilization than the poem in this collection entitledLaocoon of the Town."—St. Louis Mirror."His lyrics have that touch of universality which distinguishes true poetry from mere verse. It is not too much to say thatPoems of the Townare certain to take a place among the best examples of American poetry."—Editorial Chicago Chronicle.
The following are but a few extracts from many reviews received onPoems of the Town. Among this chorus of praise there has not been one dissenting voice.
"For terse English, for picturesque and appropriate imagery, for keen and faithful portraiture Mr. McGaffey has no superior. And there will be many to say that this book entitles him to recognition as the interpreter of his age."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.
"It is doubtful if any American poet has written a finer, more humane, more nobly and righteously wrathful outburst against the maladies of civilization than the poem in this collection entitledLaocoon of the Town."—St. Louis Mirror.
"His lyrics have that touch of universality which distinguishes true poetry from mere verse. It is not too much to say thatPoems of the Townare certain to take a place among the best examples of American poetry."—Editorial Chicago Chronicle.
This is a book of ringing Irish ballads that will stir the heart of every lover of true poetry. "Here and there a verse may be as frankly unadorned as the peasant cabins themselves in their homely cloaks of thatch, but every line rings true to life and home and with the tone, as heartmoving as the Angelus which holds Millet's peasants in its spell," from Mr. O'Brien's introduction."Father Dollard's ballads have all the fire and dash of Kipling's, with a firmer poetic touch" says Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole.
This is a book of ringing Irish ballads that will stir the heart of every lover of true poetry. "Here and there a verse may be as frankly unadorned as the peasant cabins themselves in their homely cloaks of thatch, but every line rings true to life and home and with the tone, as heartmoving as the Angelus which holds Millet's peasants in its spell," from Mr. O'Brien's introduction.
"Father Dollard's ballads have all the fire and dash of Kipling's, with a firmer poetic touch" says Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole.
It is quite impossible to describe adequately the surpassing charm of this book. We can say simply that it will appeal to every lover of nature who sees in her manifold beauties the living glories of the work of God.No one can write more beautiful or sparkling prose than Mrs. Spofford and never has she been so absolutely charming as inFour Days of God.The book has about 90 illustrations by Miss A. C. Tomlinson which catch the spirit of the text to perfection and with the harmonious print and paper and binding make the book a little gem.
It is quite impossible to describe adequately the surpassing charm of this book. We can say simply that it will appeal to every lover of nature who sees in her manifold beauties the living glories of the work of God.
No one can write more beautiful or sparkling prose than Mrs. Spofford and never has she been so absolutely charming as inFour Days of God.
The book has about 90 illustrations by Miss A. C. Tomlinson which catch the spirit of the text to perfection and with the harmonious print and paper and binding make the book a little gem.