Ah, Grandmother Young was wrinkled and oldWhen she sat by the mantelpiece;And she wore a cap with many a foldOf ribbon and lace, as rich as gold,And worked in many a crease:And the billowy clouds of smoke that rolledFrom her little stone pipe whenever she toldOf the quest of the Golden Fleece,Wrought me to think that Grandmother YoungWas shriveled and gray when Homer sungOf the gods of ancient Greece.But all of her marvelous mythical loreWas naught to her magical power—Transforming a house with a puncheon floorTo a palace of wealth with a golden doorThat lead to a castle tower—An attic loft with a wonderful storeOf things that we feared, but longed to explore—Our grandmother's ancient dower.Oh, grandmother's charm could change but a baseRude vessel of clay to a Haviland vase,A weed to a royal flower.Ah, grandmother's home was a temple of graceAnd my child-heart worshipped there,When Balm-of-Gilead around the place,Like incense, for a mile of space,Perfumed the glorious air;And the song that came from the feathered raceIn the boughs of the tangled interlaceOf apple and peach and pear,Enthralled me like the magic spellOf siren music when it fellOn old Ulysses' ear.Last summer I passed where the palace once stoodWhose beauty my life beguiled;It's a cabin now; and the charmed woodOf sugar and oak, in brotherhoodOf walnut and hickory, aisledFor gathering nuts and the merry moodThat only our childhood understood,By man has been defiled.Oh, how can I ever cease to praiseThe fairy enchantment of grandmother daysWhen I was a little child!JUST TO DREAMJust to dream when sapphire skiesAre as blue as maidens' eyes;Just to dream when petals sowAll the earth with pink and snow;Just to sit by youth's bright stream,Gazing at its crystal gleam—Listening to the wren and dove—Hearing only songs of love—Just to dream.Just to dream of sabre's flashWhen the lines of battle clash;See the army put to rout—Hear the world's triumphant shout;Just to dream our name supreme—Hero of a poet's theme,First among the sons of men,Master of the sword or pen—Just to dream.Just to dream when skies grow gray,Just to dream the days away—Living over childhood's joys,Sorrow that no longer cloys;Just to muse of days that seemLike the sunlight's golden beam,Summer nights and winter's snow.Just to dream of long ago—Just to dream.AMNEMON"Dear, the struggle has been hard and long—The wine-press I have trodden,Paved with flint and shard;And many times my feet have stainedThe flagstones of the street with blood.Out yonder in the park where life's rich chaliceSparkles with the wine of happiness and loveThe world was always dull and dark to me.Hours I have stood upon the beachAnd watched the whitecaps glintingIn the sunlight and listened to the breakersBooming on the sinuous shore,While little children clapped their handsAnd shouted out across the waters,And gray-haired men and women shook their headsIn silence and looked toward the sunset.But everything was always meaningless to me.Season after season I have watched the butterfliesBy millions come and goAnd katydids each year have sungThe song monotonous and passed away.Yesterday the sun arose upon another world.Gray skies have turned to brilliant blue;The droning hum of beetles on the breezeIs like an orchestra of lovely music.The air is sweet and fresh as dewdrops in convolvuli.For two bright hours I have strolledAmong the flowering shrubbery near the seashore,Listening to a song I had not heard for years.And now once more that I am happy,May I not confess it all?I did you wrong, great wrong.There was no stain upon my life,No taint of blood within my veins.I came of Pilgrim stock, vigorous and strong.I did not understand my heart,And knowing all the stress you placed upon heredity,I told a falsehood, partly as a test of love,And part for self-protection.I have suffered much, but justly.You said my story broke your heart,And left me where I stood,Pondering on the sin I had committed.I had proved your love, but all too late.Your talent meant a brilliant future,And I knew your great ambition.For years I scanned the periodicalsWhere names of most renown in literature are found,Expecting always to see my lover's there,But always doomed to disappointment.And yet I now rejoiceThat you have not achieved great fame,For otherwise I could not write this letter.Perhaps 'twere best that I should never send it;If so, it will not find its way to you.It may be that you think me dead,Or worse—I may have been forgotten.This is April twenty-first;The hillsides now are pink with peach and apple bloom.I will arrive in Salt Lake City, May the third,And be at Hotel Utah.If your heart, through all these years,Like mine, has hungered, you will be there too.Geraldine."Alfred Milner read this letterWhile great drops of perspirationStood upon his brow and trembling hand.For seven winters he had triedTo bury in oblivion a face and formThat always with the dogwood blossomsCame again, and each time seemed more fair.He had tried for fame and failed.But now his book that bore a pen name onlyWas selling daily by the thousandsAnd fame and fortune, latter-day twin saints,Were building him a shrine.But did she know of his success,And was her conductYears before base cowardice?Had she only told the cruel taleBecause she knew his theory of insane blood,And hid her lack of faithBy taking refuge in his prejudice?Or was her story true?If true or false, why had she kept it backUntil she knew red passionWas a-riot in his heart?He tore the letter into stripsAnd blew them fiercely through the air.He had suffered much himself,But she was not concerned.What if this letter had been sentTo open healing wounds,To win some wager with another manTo whom she boasted of her power?He would not go!The air was growing foul and stuffyIn his suite of rooms,And Alfred threw the window open.The subway in the distanceRumbled like a gathering storm;The palisades across the HudsonNow were darkling in the falling shadows.April thirtieth at noon.The Rocky Mountains looked like towersOn the Chinese Wall a hundred miles away.Would he make connection at Pueblo?The gray monotony of grass and cactiHad begun to wear upon his nerves.He longed to see the Royal Gorge—The steep and jagged heights of hills.They spoke of giant strengthHe needed for the coming struggle.It might be that the airFrom off eternal snowsWould cool the fever in his brain."May second, and yonder lies the Great Salt Lake,Or else a mirage on the desert's rim."Alfred put his pen upon the registerOf Hotel Utah,And read the list of names above.She was there, "Geraldine Mahaffy."Finally he scrawled a signature,But wrote hisnom de plume.The clerk thrust out his hand and beamed.Two porters swooped upon his grips,And soon the lobby hummed.But Alfred Milner sat alone within his roomBattling with emotions he could neitherOvercome nor understand.He did not know the stir his name upon the registerHad made below, or knew what name he wrote.At last: "Geraldine Mahaffy:This is May the third and I am here."Thoughtfully he creased the sheetAnd rang: "Room ten, and answer, please."The smell of brine was heavy on the airThat blew across the lake.The mountains to the north were white with snow aboveAnd dogwood petals on the southern slopes.But winter was forgotten in the plains,For rivulets imprisoned long in cataractsWere leaping over waterfallsAnd shouting like a red bird,In an April cedar tree.Milner drew a long deep breath of springAnd walked into the parlor."Alfred!""Geraldine!""Last night I dreamed of Cornell days,And saw the redbuds blooming in the hillsBehind the cliffs of Ithaca!""The ice in Cascadilla Creek is gone.All night I heard the roaring of the falls!""The call of flickers sounded through the canyonsOf Old Buttermilk, and peckerwoods were beatingReveilles before the sun was up!""Two blue birds built a mansionIn a dead oak trunkAnd called the world to witness!""Alfred!""Geraldine!""The train for California leaves at nine!"Some hours out from Great Salt Lake,The sand dunes stretching southwardO'er a waste of shrubbery and alkaliWere shimmering in the sunshineLike copper kettles on a field of bronze."Dear Alfred, can you still recallThose afternoons upon the cliffs above Cayuga Lake?The little city, Ithaca,Was like a jewel on the breast of Nature.The lake a band of silver, stretching northward.A hundred waterfalls were visibleFrom where we used to sit.We often thought the lime-washed housesFar to west, resembled whited decksUpon a sea of emerald;And wondered if our own good shipWould one day cast its anchor in the harbor.Over to the right the Cornell towers,Like mediæval castles beetling o'er the precipice,Were keeping silent watch above it all.The memory of those blessed days aloneHas kept my heart alive.""But Geraldine, our vessel richly ladenHas at last come inNor ever will put out to sea again.Happy as those moments were,Forget the past, so fraught with bitterness to me."The desert now a hundred miles behindWas fading like a crescent sea beachIn the setting sun.Slowly like a giant serpentThe Sunset Limited climbed the great SierrasAnd started down the western slope at dawn.The valley of the SacramentoNever bloomed so beautiful before.The blue Pacific through the hazeWas like a canvas sea.Peace permeated all the earth.The sun at last was resting on the ocean's rim.The turquoise waters turned to liquid gold."Life, O my beloved, is like eternal seas—Emerald in the morning, changing into opal,Amethyst and pearl, but ruby red at last.Behold the Golden Gate!The seas beyond are all like that!"Morning in the Sacramento!Petals, dew and fragrance—indescribable!Plumage, song and sunshine,And over all a California sky!"O Alfred, could it only be like this forever!Back yonder in New York,The world is built of brick and mortar,And men forget the handiwork of God.How can a poet hope to win a nameWhere men are mad for gold?""A name! Why Geraldine! I had forgotTo tell the story of my fame.The ecstacy of these three daysHad blotted all earthly fortune from my memory.I am Ralph Nixon, author of theTopaz Mystery.""Ralph Nixon! You! Then who am I?"A heavy tide of blood swept overAll the tracery of the bitter past,And in a moment moreShe lay unconscious on a bed of thorny cactus.TheCity Argentinablew a long loud blastAnd anchored in the bay.The woman opened wondering eyesAnd looked at Milner."Why do you call me Geraldine?My Christian name's Amnemon.We never met before.I am Major Erskine's wife.We live in Pasadena.I do not know your name or face,Nor how I came to be with you.I never saw this place before,But those are California hillsAnd yonder is the great Pacific.The mystery of who you are,And where I am, I can not solve.I only know I wish to see my home and child;Little Alfred never has been left alone,And may be calling for his mother now.You seem to be a gentleman.Please show me to the nearest trainThat goes to Pasadena."Half in fright and half in rageMilner looked at Geraldine and tried to speak.The mountains reeled and pitched into the sea.A clevage in the brain! But whose?This was insanity, but whether hisOr hers he was unable to decide.The memory of the Cornell days came back—The cliffs above the lake, the emerald farms,The gorges and the waterfalls,And finally the wild, weird lightThat played in iridescent eyesThat last day on the hills—The story of the tainted blood and what it meantFor future generations.Milner saw an eagle soaring high above the parkAnd then he heard a screamAs though a ball had pierced its heart.The bird careened and dropped a hundred feet,Then spreading broad its wings again,Shot upward to the heights.The train for Pasadena speeded onwardToward its destination.A poet sat within his roomThat opened on the Golden GateAnd as the sun dropped into the wave,He wrote a Requiem to Hope,That filled the earth with fame.A ROMANCE OF THE CUMBERLANDEarly in the day they passed the pinnacle,And now the shadow of each human formWas lengthening backwards like Lombardy poplarsFallen toward the east.For days the fairest maiden of the caravanHad fevered—whether from malaria and fatigue,Or more because of one whom they had left behind,Beyond the wooded mountains,Neither sire nor matron could agree.But Martha Waters, as they laid her stretcher downAnd prepared the camp for coming night,Declared unless they rested here for days to come,Her bones must bleach beside the trailThat led into the Dark and Bloody Ground.And so they waited for the fever to abate,But when they thought her strong enough,A score of hardy pioneers trudged downThe slope and launched canoes and dug-outsAnd a flatboat in the turgid watersOf the Cumberland, for heavy rains had fallenAnd all the mountain streams were swollenIn these early days of June.But the air was sweet with the odorOf wild honeysuckle and the ivyWith its starry clusters fringedThe milky way of elder bloomThat filled each sheltered coveLike constellations on a summer night.But now the rains had ceased, the airWas fresh and bracing, and each glorious dayOut-rivaled all the rest in beauty.Lying on her pallet on the flatboat,The maiden breathed the fragrant atmosphere,And drank refreshing whiffs of airThat drove the fever from her bloodAnd wakened dreams of conquestIn the wilderness toward whichHer life was drifting rapidly.But how could she find heart for conquest?Why seek this new land anyway, where onlyAnd forever to card the wool and spin the flaxWould be the woman's portion?Would ever in the forest or beyond itIn the rolling bluegrass,Return the vision that was hers,When only a few brief months agoShe watched the sea gulls battling with the stormAbove the waves of Chesapeake Bay?Oh, how that day was filled with meaningFor her now! For as the birds disportedWith the whirlpools of the air,A lover's magic words were whispered in her ear,How that storm and stress of life to those that loveAre little more than winds to swallows of the sea.But now, if hardship meant so little,Why had he remained behind, when sheWas forced to go upon the long and weary journey?Ah! Could it be he cared no longer for her love?His arm was strong. Then was his heartNot brave enough to conquer this new world,Where savage lurked and wild beast madeThe darkness dreaded by the most courageous soul?For days the fleet had drifted down the river,But now her boat was anchored to a treeThat grew upon an island in the Cumberland,And every man and woman but the convalescentHad gone ashore to stalk a deer or gather berriesThat everywhere were found along the river bank.But Martha Waters lay upon her bed and pondered—Dreaming day dreams, as she watchedA golden oriole who fed her youngIn boughs that overhung the water,And a vague unhappiness aroseWithin her heart, until she tossedAgain in fever on her couch.She could hear the roaring fallsA mile below, but she thought the soundingCataract the sickness booming in her ears again.When she looked to eastward where the mountainRose a thousand feet, she saw a crown of wealthUpon its crest of which no pioneer yet had dreamed.Long she lay and marveled at its beauty,Wondering how many ages would elapse beforeThe god of Mammon would transport its treasuresTo his marts beside the sea.Feverish she mused and pondered until at last she slept.And then upon the little island,A city rose as from the ocean wave—A city of a thousand streets, and every houseWas made from trees that grew upon the mountain.Many were the palaces of wealth and beauty,But those who dwelt therein she did not recognize.Strange were their faces and their manners haughty,And while they lived in luxury and ease,Others toiled at mill and furnace. Oh! The awful dinOf sledge and hammer, beating in her ears.She woke. A storm seemed just about to burst in fury,So loud and terrible was the roaring!But the sky was clear. It is the boomingOf the falls, for her boat has broke its moorings,And now is rapidly drifting toward the cataract,But four hundred yards away!She leaped upon her feet and screamed for help.It was impossible for her to swim ashore,And her fever-wasted frame could find no strengthWith which to steer the boat.Again she saw the crown of wealthUpon the mountain top, untouched by human hands.But the island city now had faded from her vision,The mountain lowered and the world grew dark.Onward the boat shot faster toward the roaring falls.But look! A race is on! A birch canoe,Driven by as swift a hand as ever grippedAn oar, is leaping o'er the waves in mad pursuit.With every stroke the Indian bark is gaining twenty feet.Will it reach the flatboat soon enough to save the girl?But who is he that rides the fleet canoe?No red man ever had an arm like that,For already he has reached the speeding raft,And with gigantic strength he steers it toward the shore.But no! The current is too swift!A moment more and all will be engulfed withinThe swirling flood. It is too late! Too late?But love is swifter than the angry tide,For like a mighty porpoise, wallowing in the wave,The valiant hero leaps into the stream,And holding Martha Waters in his strong right armHigh above the water, reaches shoreA hundred feet above the deadly precipice.The air was growing chilly even on this summer night,And the emigrants had gathered round a crackling fire,Discoursing of the past, and listening to a modest tale of love.Simply and unfaltering James Hunt relatedHow his heart had hungered back beside the old Potomac,Till he found he could no longer brook the passionThat grew stronger as the days of summer lengthened.At last he started, and following every nightThe blazing dogstar, and resting through the day till evening,In just three weeks he reached the riverWhere he found the birch canoe that rodeThe seething waters like a greyhound of the ocean.Then the maiden told her vision of the island city,How its palaces and mansions, rich as gold and beautiful as crystal,Were constructed by her people, toiling hundreds,Sore and weary, of times cold and hungry.She had seen them fell the forests,Hew and mill and dress the lumber,Till the soil and reap the harvests, gathering into others' garners.Stalwart were these men and women, pure of heartAnd strong of muscle, fitted for the tasks before them.She had seen her brothers laboring at the forge and sounding anvil;Sisters toiling at the wheel and distaff, heard them at the loomWhile flying shuttle threaded warp with web of beauty;Watched them till they fell asleep with weariness,While the sons of leisure feasted.Thus the maiden told her story, saying:"Shall we undertake the journey? Plows are waitingIn the furrows back in Maryland, my people,Back beyond the rugged mountain. There are harvestsYet ungarnered, waiting for scythe and sickle.Calculate the cost, and weigh it, for my vision is prophetic.For my part, I choose this lover, for my guide and valiant leader.He shall point the way forever,Though he take the road that's darkest."Then James Hunt, the hero lover,Who had never quailed at danger,Trembling for his happy passion,Rose and pointed toward the westward,Toward the Pleiades descending,Deep behind the gloomy forest."Let us face toward dark Kentucky, fell its forests,Build its roads and bridge its rivers,Give our children to the nation.What though others reap our harvests,Hoard the wealth we have created?Ours shall be the nobler portion.Blessed is the one that suffers,If he spends himself for others.Should the toiling millions falter,Though they work for others' comfort,Building homes they can not enter?Christ was born within a manger,May we not produce a leader,Who shall save our nation's honor?At to-morrow morning's dawning,Ere the sunrise gild the treetops,Let us take the darkling pathway."Still the Pleiades are circling,Still the dogstar glows in heaven,But the oak and pine and poplarAll have gone from off the mountain—Passed into the marts of Mammon,By the hands of toil and labor.Silent are the loom and distaff,In the cabin and the cottage,And the songs of scythe and sickleGathering in the golden harvests.But the pain of drudgery lingers,And the heart still longs and hungersFor the fruitage it shall gather,Yet beyond the wooded westward.MORNING GLORIES.A roguish laugh, a rustling vine,I turn my eager eye;Big drops of dew in bells of blueAnd red convolvuli.But nothing more; I hold my breathAnd strain my eager eye;A yellow crown, two eyes of brown,And pink convolvuli!The golden curls, the elfish laugh,Rose cheeks and glittering eyeAre glories, too, like bells of blueAnd red convolvuli.CHRISTMASTIDEEvergreen and tinsel'd toys,Drums and dolls, and bursting joys—Blessed little girls and boys!Holly, bells, and mistletoe,Tinkling sledges, here we go—Youth and maiden o'er the snow.Chilling winds and leaden days,Vesper songs and hymns of praiseSilver hair and dying blaze!Christmas morn and yuletide eve,Dear Lord, help us to believe—Naught but blessings we receive.KINSHIPOh, little children, ye who watch the trains go by,With yearning faces pressed against the window panes,You do not know the reason whyYour lingering image dims my eyeThough I have passed beyond the hills into the rolling plains.Dear little children, I once watched the trains go by,And hungered, much as when I feel the silent stars;And then I saw the cold gray skies,And felt the warm tears in my eyes,When far beyond the distant hills I heard the rumbling cars.PRECOCITY"Oh, grandfather, what are the stars?Stones on the hand of God?I heard you call that red one MarsAnd those three Aaron's rod;And these are great Orion's band!""My child, you are too young to understand!""Oh, grandfather, what are the windsThat sough and moan and sigh?Does God grow angry for men's sinsHe lifts the waves so high?And blows his breath o'er sea and land?""My boy, you are too young to understand!""Oh, grandfather, what are the cloudsIn yonder sunset sky?They look to me like winding shroudsFor men about to die!Dear grandfather, your trembling hand!""My son, you are too young to understand!"THE SECRETOld Santa Claus came with his packOn his backRight down the chimney flue;His long flowing beard was ghostlike and weirdBut his cheeks had a ruddy hue;And his jacket was as red as a woodpecker's headBut his breeches, I think, were blue.I heard a soft step like a hoofOn the roof,And I closed my outside eye;Then played-like I slept, but the other eye keptA watch on the jolly old guy;And I caught him in the act with his bundles all unpacked,But I'm not going to tell, not I.When Santa comes again this yearWith his deerAnd a sled full of toys for me,I don't mean to keep either eye from its sleepWhile he climbs my Christmas tree;For I don't think it's right to the happy old wightTo spy on his mystery.A RHYMELESS SONNETSardonicDeath, clothed in a scarlet shroud,Salutes his minions on the crumbling thronesOf Tyranny, and with malicious leer,He points a fleshless finger toward the fieldsOf Belgium: "No harvest since the daysOf Bonaparte and Waterloo hath filledMy flagons with a wine of such a taste;Your crowns ye hold by rights divine indeed!"ButOnehas entered in at lowly doorsAnd sits by every hearthstone where they will:"MyWordenthron-ed in DemocracyHas twined the holly round Columbia's brow—A crown of 'Peace on earth, good will to men.'I am theResurrectionand theLife!"AMBITIONI covet not the warrior's flashing steelThat drives the dreaded foe to headlong flight;I envy not the czar his ruthless mightThat grinds a state beneath an iron heel;I do not ask that I may ever feelThe thrill that follows fame's uncertain light;And in the game of life I do not quiteExpect always to hold a winning deal.Grant me the power to help my fellow manTo bear some ill that he may not deserve;Give me the heart that I may never swerve,In scorn of Death, to do what good I can;But most of all let me but light the firesUpon the altar of theyouth'sdesires.OPPORTUNITY
Ah, Grandmother Young was wrinkled and oldWhen she sat by the mantelpiece;And she wore a cap with many a foldOf ribbon and lace, as rich as gold,And worked in many a crease:And the billowy clouds of smoke that rolledFrom her little stone pipe whenever she toldOf the quest of the Golden Fleece,Wrought me to think that Grandmother YoungWas shriveled and gray when Homer sungOf the gods of ancient Greece.But all of her marvelous mythical loreWas naught to her magical power—Transforming a house with a puncheon floorTo a palace of wealth with a golden doorThat lead to a castle tower—An attic loft with a wonderful storeOf things that we feared, but longed to explore—Our grandmother's ancient dower.Oh, grandmother's charm could change but a baseRude vessel of clay to a Haviland vase,A weed to a royal flower.Ah, grandmother's home was a temple of graceAnd my child-heart worshipped there,When Balm-of-Gilead around the place,Like incense, for a mile of space,Perfumed the glorious air;And the song that came from the feathered raceIn the boughs of the tangled interlaceOf apple and peach and pear,Enthralled me like the magic spellOf siren music when it fellOn old Ulysses' ear.Last summer I passed where the palace once stoodWhose beauty my life beguiled;It's a cabin now; and the charmed woodOf sugar and oak, in brotherhoodOf walnut and hickory, aisledFor gathering nuts and the merry moodThat only our childhood understood,By man has been defiled.Oh, how can I ever cease to praiseThe fairy enchantment of grandmother daysWhen I was a little child!
Ah, Grandmother Young was wrinkled and oldWhen she sat by the mantelpiece;And she wore a cap with many a foldOf ribbon and lace, as rich as gold,And worked in many a crease:And the billowy clouds of smoke that rolledFrom her little stone pipe whenever she toldOf the quest of the Golden Fleece,Wrought me to think that Grandmother YoungWas shriveled and gray when Homer sungOf the gods of ancient Greece.
But all of her marvelous mythical loreWas naught to her magical power—Transforming a house with a puncheon floorTo a palace of wealth with a golden doorThat lead to a castle tower—An attic loft with a wonderful storeOf things that we feared, but longed to explore—Our grandmother's ancient dower.Oh, grandmother's charm could change but a baseRude vessel of clay to a Haviland vase,A weed to a royal flower.
Ah, grandmother's home was a temple of graceAnd my child-heart worshipped there,When Balm-of-Gilead around the place,Like incense, for a mile of space,Perfumed the glorious air;And the song that came from the feathered raceIn the boughs of the tangled interlaceOf apple and peach and pear,Enthralled me like the magic spellOf siren music when it fellOn old Ulysses' ear.
Last summer I passed where the palace once stoodWhose beauty my life beguiled;It's a cabin now; and the charmed woodOf sugar and oak, in brotherhoodOf walnut and hickory, aisledFor gathering nuts and the merry moodThat only our childhood understood,By man has been defiled.Oh, how can I ever cease to praiseThe fairy enchantment of grandmother daysWhen I was a little child!
Just to dream when sapphire skiesAre as blue as maidens' eyes;Just to dream when petals sowAll the earth with pink and snow;Just to sit by youth's bright stream,Gazing at its crystal gleam—Listening to the wren and dove—Hearing only songs of love—Just to dream.Just to dream of sabre's flashWhen the lines of battle clash;See the army put to rout—Hear the world's triumphant shout;Just to dream our name supreme—Hero of a poet's theme,First among the sons of men,Master of the sword or pen—Just to dream.Just to dream when skies grow gray,Just to dream the days away—Living over childhood's joys,Sorrow that no longer cloys;Just to muse of days that seemLike the sunlight's golden beam,Summer nights and winter's snow.Just to dream of long ago—Just to dream.
Just to dream when sapphire skiesAre as blue as maidens' eyes;Just to dream when petals sowAll the earth with pink and snow;Just to sit by youth's bright stream,Gazing at its crystal gleam—Listening to the wren and dove—Hearing only songs of love—Just to dream.
Just to dream of sabre's flashWhen the lines of battle clash;See the army put to rout—Hear the world's triumphant shout;Just to dream our name supreme—Hero of a poet's theme,First among the sons of men,Master of the sword or pen—Just to dream.
Just to dream when skies grow gray,Just to dream the days away—Living over childhood's joys,Sorrow that no longer cloys;Just to muse of days that seemLike the sunlight's golden beam,Summer nights and winter's snow.Just to dream of long ago—Just to dream.
"Dear, the struggle has been hard and long—The wine-press I have trodden,Paved with flint and shard;And many times my feet have stainedThe flagstones of the street with blood.Out yonder in the park where life's rich chaliceSparkles with the wine of happiness and loveThe world was always dull and dark to me.Hours I have stood upon the beachAnd watched the whitecaps glintingIn the sunlight and listened to the breakersBooming on the sinuous shore,While little children clapped their handsAnd shouted out across the waters,And gray-haired men and women shook their headsIn silence and looked toward the sunset.But everything was always meaningless to me.Season after season I have watched the butterfliesBy millions come and goAnd katydids each year have sungThe song monotonous and passed away.Yesterday the sun arose upon another world.Gray skies have turned to brilliant blue;The droning hum of beetles on the breezeIs like an orchestra of lovely music.The air is sweet and fresh as dewdrops in convolvuli.For two bright hours I have strolledAmong the flowering shrubbery near the seashore,Listening to a song I had not heard for years.And now once more that I am happy,May I not confess it all?I did you wrong, great wrong.There was no stain upon my life,No taint of blood within my veins.I came of Pilgrim stock, vigorous and strong.I did not understand my heart,And knowing all the stress you placed upon heredity,I told a falsehood, partly as a test of love,And part for self-protection.I have suffered much, but justly.You said my story broke your heart,And left me where I stood,Pondering on the sin I had committed.I had proved your love, but all too late.Your talent meant a brilliant future,And I knew your great ambition.For years I scanned the periodicalsWhere names of most renown in literature are found,Expecting always to see my lover's there,But always doomed to disappointment.And yet I now rejoiceThat you have not achieved great fame,For otherwise I could not write this letter.Perhaps 'twere best that I should never send it;If so, it will not find its way to you.It may be that you think me dead,Or worse—I may have been forgotten.This is April twenty-first;The hillsides now are pink with peach and apple bloom.I will arrive in Salt Lake City, May the third,And be at Hotel Utah.If your heart, through all these years,Like mine, has hungered, you will be there too.Geraldine."Alfred Milner read this letterWhile great drops of perspirationStood upon his brow and trembling hand.For seven winters he had triedTo bury in oblivion a face and formThat always with the dogwood blossomsCame again, and each time seemed more fair.He had tried for fame and failed.But now his book that bore a pen name onlyWas selling daily by the thousandsAnd fame and fortune, latter-day twin saints,Were building him a shrine.But did she know of his success,And was her conductYears before base cowardice?Had she only told the cruel taleBecause she knew his theory of insane blood,And hid her lack of faithBy taking refuge in his prejudice?Or was her story true?If true or false, why had she kept it backUntil she knew red passionWas a-riot in his heart?He tore the letter into stripsAnd blew them fiercely through the air.He had suffered much himself,But she was not concerned.What if this letter had been sentTo open healing wounds,To win some wager with another manTo whom she boasted of her power?He would not go!The air was growing foul and stuffyIn his suite of rooms,And Alfred threw the window open.The subway in the distanceRumbled like a gathering storm;The palisades across the HudsonNow were darkling in the falling shadows.April thirtieth at noon.The Rocky Mountains looked like towersOn the Chinese Wall a hundred miles away.Would he make connection at Pueblo?The gray monotony of grass and cactiHad begun to wear upon his nerves.He longed to see the Royal Gorge—The steep and jagged heights of hills.They spoke of giant strengthHe needed for the coming struggle.It might be that the airFrom off eternal snowsWould cool the fever in his brain."May second, and yonder lies the Great Salt Lake,Or else a mirage on the desert's rim."Alfred put his pen upon the registerOf Hotel Utah,And read the list of names above.She was there, "Geraldine Mahaffy."Finally he scrawled a signature,But wrote hisnom de plume.The clerk thrust out his hand and beamed.Two porters swooped upon his grips,And soon the lobby hummed.But Alfred Milner sat alone within his roomBattling with emotions he could neitherOvercome nor understand.He did not know the stir his name upon the registerHad made below, or knew what name he wrote.At last: "Geraldine Mahaffy:This is May the third and I am here."Thoughtfully he creased the sheetAnd rang: "Room ten, and answer, please."The smell of brine was heavy on the airThat blew across the lake.The mountains to the north were white with snow aboveAnd dogwood petals on the southern slopes.But winter was forgotten in the plains,For rivulets imprisoned long in cataractsWere leaping over waterfallsAnd shouting like a red bird,In an April cedar tree.Milner drew a long deep breath of springAnd walked into the parlor."Alfred!""Geraldine!""Last night I dreamed of Cornell days,And saw the redbuds blooming in the hillsBehind the cliffs of Ithaca!""The ice in Cascadilla Creek is gone.All night I heard the roaring of the falls!""The call of flickers sounded through the canyonsOf Old Buttermilk, and peckerwoods were beatingReveilles before the sun was up!""Two blue birds built a mansionIn a dead oak trunkAnd called the world to witness!""Alfred!""Geraldine!""The train for California leaves at nine!"Some hours out from Great Salt Lake,The sand dunes stretching southwardO'er a waste of shrubbery and alkaliWere shimmering in the sunshineLike copper kettles on a field of bronze."Dear Alfred, can you still recallThose afternoons upon the cliffs above Cayuga Lake?The little city, Ithaca,Was like a jewel on the breast of Nature.The lake a band of silver, stretching northward.A hundred waterfalls were visibleFrom where we used to sit.We often thought the lime-washed housesFar to west, resembled whited decksUpon a sea of emerald;And wondered if our own good shipWould one day cast its anchor in the harbor.Over to the right the Cornell towers,Like mediæval castles beetling o'er the precipice,Were keeping silent watch above it all.The memory of those blessed days aloneHas kept my heart alive.""But Geraldine, our vessel richly ladenHas at last come inNor ever will put out to sea again.Happy as those moments were,Forget the past, so fraught with bitterness to me."The desert now a hundred miles behindWas fading like a crescent sea beachIn the setting sun.Slowly like a giant serpentThe Sunset Limited climbed the great SierrasAnd started down the western slope at dawn.The valley of the SacramentoNever bloomed so beautiful before.The blue Pacific through the hazeWas like a canvas sea.Peace permeated all the earth.The sun at last was resting on the ocean's rim.The turquoise waters turned to liquid gold."Life, O my beloved, is like eternal seas—Emerald in the morning, changing into opal,Amethyst and pearl, but ruby red at last.Behold the Golden Gate!The seas beyond are all like that!"Morning in the Sacramento!Petals, dew and fragrance—indescribable!Plumage, song and sunshine,And over all a California sky!"O Alfred, could it only be like this forever!Back yonder in New York,The world is built of brick and mortar,And men forget the handiwork of God.How can a poet hope to win a nameWhere men are mad for gold?""A name! Why Geraldine! I had forgotTo tell the story of my fame.The ecstacy of these three daysHad blotted all earthly fortune from my memory.I am Ralph Nixon, author of theTopaz Mystery.""Ralph Nixon! You! Then who am I?"A heavy tide of blood swept overAll the tracery of the bitter past,And in a moment moreShe lay unconscious on a bed of thorny cactus.TheCity Argentinablew a long loud blastAnd anchored in the bay.The woman opened wondering eyesAnd looked at Milner."Why do you call me Geraldine?My Christian name's Amnemon.We never met before.I am Major Erskine's wife.We live in Pasadena.I do not know your name or face,Nor how I came to be with you.I never saw this place before,But those are California hillsAnd yonder is the great Pacific.The mystery of who you are,And where I am, I can not solve.I only know I wish to see my home and child;Little Alfred never has been left alone,And may be calling for his mother now.You seem to be a gentleman.Please show me to the nearest trainThat goes to Pasadena."Half in fright and half in rageMilner looked at Geraldine and tried to speak.The mountains reeled and pitched into the sea.A clevage in the brain! But whose?This was insanity, but whether hisOr hers he was unable to decide.The memory of the Cornell days came back—The cliffs above the lake, the emerald farms,The gorges and the waterfalls,And finally the wild, weird lightThat played in iridescent eyesThat last day on the hills—The story of the tainted blood and what it meantFor future generations.Milner saw an eagle soaring high above the parkAnd then he heard a screamAs though a ball had pierced its heart.The bird careened and dropped a hundred feet,Then spreading broad its wings again,Shot upward to the heights.The train for Pasadena speeded onwardToward its destination.A poet sat within his roomThat opened on the Golden GateAnd as the sun dropped into the wave,He wrote a Requiem to Hope,That filled the earth with fame.
"Dear, the struggle has been hard and long—The wine-press I have trodden,Paved with flint and shard;And many times my feet have stainedThe flagstones of the street with blood.Out yonder in the park where life's rich chaliceSparkles with the wine of happiness and loveThe world was always dull and dark to me.Hours I have stood upon the beachAnd watched the whitecaps glintingIn the sunlight and listened to the breakersBooming on the sinuous shore,While little children clapped their handsAnd shouted out across the waters,And gray-haired men and women shook their headsIn silence and looked toward the sunset.But everything was always meaningless to me.Season after season I have watched the butterfliesBy millions come and goAnd katydids each year have sungThe song monotonous and passed away.Yesterday the sun arose upon another world.Gray skies have turned to brilliant blue;The droning hum of beetles on the breezeIs like an orchestra of lovely music.The air is sweet and fresh as dewdrops in convolvuli.For two bright hours I have strolledAmong the flowering shrubbery near the seashore,Listening to a song I had not heard for years.And now once more that I am happy,May I not confess it all?I did you wrong, great wrong.There was no stain upon my life,No taint of blood within my veins.I came of Pilgrim stock, vigorous and strong.I did not understand my heart,And knowing all the stress you placed upon heredity,I told a falsehood, partly as a test of love,And part for self-protection.I have suffered much, but justly.You said my story broke your heart,And left me where I stood,Pondering on the sin I had committed.I had proved your love, but all too late.Your talent meant a brilliant future,And I knew your great ambition.For years I scanned the periodicalsWhere names of most renown in literature are found,Expecting always to see my lover's there,But always doomed to disappointment.And yet I now rejoiceThat you have not achieved great fame,For otherwise I could not write this letter.Perhaps 'twere best that I should never send it;If so, it will not find its way to you.It may be that you think me dead,Or worse—I may have been forgotten.This is April twenty-first;The hillsides now are pink with peach and apple bloom.I will arrive in Salt Lake City, May the third,And be at Hotel Utah.If your heart, through all these years,Like mine, has hungered, you will be there too.Geraldine."
Alfred Milner read this letterWhile great drops of perspirationStood upon his brow and trembling hand.For seven winters he had triedTo bury in oblivion a face and formThat always with the dogwood blossomsCame again, and each time seemed more fair.He had tried for fame and failed.But now his book that bore a pen name onlyWas selling daily by the thousandsAnd fame and fortune, latter-day twin saints,Were building him a shrine.But did she know of his success,And was her conductYears before base cowardice?Had she only told the cruel taleBecause she knew his theory of insane blood,And hid her lack of faithBy taking refuge in his prejudice?Or was her story true?If true or false, why had she kept it backUntil she knew red passionWas a-riot in his heart?He tore the letter into stripsAnd blew them fiercely through the air.He had suffered much himself,But she was not concerned.What if this letter had been sentTo open healing wounds,To win some wager with another manTo whom she boasted of her power?He would not go!
The air was growing foul and stuffyIn his suite of rooms,And Alfred threw the window open.The subway in the distanceRumbled like a gathering storm;The palisades across the HudsonNow were darkling in the falling shadows.
April thirtieth at noon.The Rocky Mountains looked like towersOn the Chinese Wall a hundred miles away.Would he make connection at Pueblo?The gray monotony of grass and cactiHad begun to wear upon his nerves.He longed to see the Royal Gorge—The steep and jagged heights of hills.They spoke of giant strengthHe needed for the coming struggle.It might be that the airFrom off eternal snowsWould cool the fever in his brain.
"May second, and yonder lies the Great Salt Lake,Or else a mirage on the desert's rim."
Alfred put his pen upon the registerOf Hotel Utah,And read the list of names above.She was there, "Geraldine Mahaffy."Finally he scrawled a signature,But wrote hisnom de plume.The clerk thrust out his hand and beamed.Two porters swooped upon his grips,And soon the lobby hummed.But Alfred Milner sat alone within his roomBattling with emotions he could neitherOvercome nor understand.He did not know the stir his name upon the registerHad made below, or knew what name he wrote.At last: "Geraldine Mahaffy:This is May the third and I am here."Thoughtfully he creased the sheetAnd rang: "Room ten, and answer, please."
The smell of brine was heavy on the airThat blew across the lake.The mountains to the north were white with snow aboveAnd dogwood petals on the southern slopes.But winter was forgotten in the plains,For rivulets imprisoned long in cataractsWere leaping over waterfallsAnd shouting like a red bird,In an April cedar tree.
Milner drew a long deep breath of springAnd walked into the parlor."Alfred!""Geraldine!"
"Last night I dreamed of Cornell days,And saw the redbuds blooming in the hillsBehind the cliffs of Ithaca!"
"The ice in Cascadilla Creek is gone.All night I heard the roaring of the falls!"
"The call of flickers sounded through the canyonsOf Old Buttermilk, and peckerwoods were beatingReveilles before the sun was up!"
"Two blue birds built a mansionIn a dead oak trunkAnd called the world to witness!"
"Alfred!""Geraldine!"
"The train for California leaves at nine!"
Some hours out from Great Salt Lake,The sand dunes stretching southwardO'er a waste of shrubbery and alkaliWere shimmering in the sunshineLike copper kettles on a field of bronze.
"Dear Alfred, can you still recallThose afternoons upon the cliffs above Cayuga Lake?The little city, Ithaca,Was like a jewel on the breast of Nature.The lake a band of silver, stretching northward.A hundred waterfalls were visibleFrom where we used to sit.We often thought the lime-washed housesFar to west, resembled whited decksUpon a sea of emerald;And wondered if our own good shipWould one day cast its anchor in the harbor.Over to the right the Cornell towers,Like mediæval castles beetling o'er the precipice,Were keeping silent watch above it all.The memory of those blessed days aloneHas kept my heart alive."
"But Geraldine, our vessel richly ladenHas at last come inNor ever will put out to sea again.Happy as those moments were,Forget the past, so fraught with bitterness to me."
The desert now a hundred miles behindWas fading like a crescent sea beachIn the setting sun.Slowly like a giant serpentThe Sunset Limited climbed the great SierrasAnd started down the western slope at dawn.The valley of the SacramentoNever bloomed so beautiful before.The blue Pacific through the hazeWas like a canvas sea.Peace permeated all the earth.The sun at last was resting on the ocean's rim.The turquoise waters turned to liquid gold.
"Life, O my beloved, is like eternal seas—Emerald in the morning, changing into opal,Amethyst and pearl, but ruby red at last.Behold the Golden Gate!The seas beyond are all like that!"
Morning in the Sacramento!Petals, dew and fragrance—indescribable!Plumage, song and sunshine,And over all a California sky!
"O Alfred, could it only be like this forever!Back yonder in New York,The world is built of brick and mortar,And men forget the handiwork of God.How can a poet hope to win a nameWhere men are mad for gold?"
"A name! Why Geraldine! I had forgotTo tell the story of my fame.The ecstacy of these three daysHad blotted all earthly fortune from my memory.I am Ralph Nixon, author of theTopaz Mystery."
"Ralph Nixon! You! Then who am I?"A heavy tide of blood swept overAll the tracery of the bitter past,And in a moment moreShe lay unconscious on a bed of thorny cactus.
TheCity Argentinablew a long loud blastAnd anchored in the bay.The woman opened wondering eyesAnd looked at Milner."Why do you call me Geraldine?My Christian name's Amnemon.We never met before.I am Major Erskine's wife.We live in Pasadena.I do not know your name or face,Nor how I came to be with you.I never saw this place before,But those are California hillsAnd yonder is the great Pacific.The mystery of who you are,And where I am, I can not solve.I only know I wish to see my home and child;Little Alfred never has been left alone,And may be calling for his mother now.You seem to be a gentleman.Please show me to the nearest trainThat goes to Pasadena."
Half in fright and half in rageMilner looked at Geraldine and tried to speak.The mountains reeled and pitched into the sea.A clevage in the brain! But whose?This was insanity, but whether hisOr hers he was unable to decide.The memory of the Cornell days came back—The cliffs above the lake, the emerald farms,The gorges and the waterfalls,And finally the wild, weird lightThat played in iridescent eyesThat last day on the hills—The story of the tainted blood and what it meantFor future generations.Milner saw an eagle soaring high above the parkAnd then he heard a screamAs though a ball had pierced its heart.The bird careened and dropped a hundred feet,Then spreading broad its wings again,Shot upward to the heights.
The train for Pasadena speeded onwardToward its destination.A poet sat within his roomThat opened on the Golden GateAnd as the sun dropped into the wave,He wrote a Requiem to Hope,That filled the earth with fame.
Early in the day they passed the pinnacle,And now the shadow of each human formWas lengthening backwards like Lombardy poplarsFallen toward the east.For days the fairest maiden of the caravanHad fevered—whether from malaria and fatigue,Or more because of one whom they had left behind,Beyond the wooded mountains,Neither sire nor matron could agree.But Martha Waters, as they laid her stretcher downAnd prepared the camp for coming night,Declared unless they rested here for days to come,Her bones must bleach beside the trailThat led into the Dark and Bloody Ground.And so they waited for the fever to abate,But when they thought her strong enough,A score of hardy pioneers trudged downThe slope and launched canoes and dug-outsAnd a flatboat in the turgid watersOf the Cumberland, for heavy rains had fallenAnd all the mountain streams were swollenIn these early days of June.But the air was sweet with the odorOf wild honeysuckle and the ivyWith its starry clusters fringedThe milky way of elder bloomThat filled each sheltered coveLike constellations on a summer night.But now the rains had ceased, the airWas fresh and bracing, and each glorious dayOut-rivaled all the rest in beauty.Lying on her pallet on the flatboat,The maiden breathed the fragrant atmosphere,And drank refreshing whiffs of airThat drove the fever from her bloodAnd wakened dreams of conquestIn the wilderness toward whichHer life was drifting rapidly.But how could she find heart for conquest?Why seek this new land anyway, where onlyAnd forever to card the wool and spin the flaxWould be the woman's portion?Would ever in the forest or beyond itIn the rolling bluegrass,Return the vision that was hers,When only a few brief months agoShe watched the sea gulls battling with the stormAbove the waves of Chesapeake Bay?Oh, how that day was filled with meaningFor her now! For as the birds disportedWith the whirlpools of the air,A lover's magic words were whispered in her ear,How that storm and stress of life to those that loveAre little more than winds to swallows of the sea.But now, if hardship meant so little,Why had he remained behind, when sheWas forced to go upon the long and weary journey?Ah! Could it be he cared no longer for her love?His arm was strong. Then was his heartNot brave enough to conquer this new world,Where savage lurked and wild beast madeThe darkness dreaded by the most courageous soul?For days the fleet had drifted down the river,But now her boat was anchored to a treeThat grew upon an island in the Cumberland,And every man and woman but the convalescentHad gone ashore to stalk a deer or gather berriesThat everywhere were found along the river bank.But Martha Waters lay upon her bed and pondered—Dreaming day dreams, as she watchedA golden oriole who fed her youngIn boughs that overhung the water,And a vague unhappiness aroseWithin her heart, until she tossedAgain in fever on her couch.She could hear the roaring fallsA mile below, but she thought the soundingCataract the sickness booming in her ears again.When she looked to eastward where the mountainRose a thousand feet, she saw a crown of wealthUpon its crest of which no pioneer yet had dreamed.Long she lay and marveled at its beauty,Wondering how many ages would elapse beforeThe god of Mammon would transport its treasuresTo his marts beside the sea.Feverish she mused and pondered until at last she slept.And then upon the little island,A city rose as from the ocean wave—A city of a thousand streets, and every houseWas made from trees that grew upon the mountain.Many were the palaces of wealth and beauty,But those who dwelt therein she did not recognize.Strange were their faces and their manners haughty,And while they lived in luxury and ease,Others toiled at mill and furnace. Oh! The awful dinOf sledge and hammer, beating in her ears.She woke. A storm seemed just about to burst in fury,So loud and terrible was the roaring!But the sky was clear. It is the boomingOf the falls, for her boat has broke its moorings,And now is rapidly drifting toward the cataract,But four hundred yards away!She leaped upon her feet and screamed for help.It was impossible for her to swim ashore,And her fever-wasted frame could find no strengthWith which to steer the boat.Again she saw the crown of wealthUpon the mountain top, untouched by human hands.But the island city now had faded from her vision,The mountain lowered and the world grew dark.Onward the boat shot faster toward the roaring falls.But look! A race is on! A birch canoe,Driven by as swift a hand as ever grippedAn oar, is leaping o'er the waves in mad pursuit.With every stroke the Indian bark is gaining twenty feet.Will it reach the flatboat soon enough to save the girl?But who is he that rides the fleet canoe?No red man ever had an arm like that,For already he has reached the speeding raft,And with gigantic strength he steers it toward the shore.But no! The current is too swift!A moment more and all will be engulfed withinThe swirling flood. It is too late! Too late?But love is swifter than the angry tide,For like a mighty porpoise, wallowing in the wave,The valiant hero leaps into the stream,And holding Martha Waters in his strong right armHigh above the water, reaches shoreA hundred feet above the deadly precipice.The air was growing chilly even on this summer night,And the emigrants had gathered round a crackling fire,Discoursing of the past, and listening to a modest tale of love.Simply and unfaltering James Hunt relatedHow his heart had hungered back beside the old Potomac,Till he found he could no longer brook the passionThat grew stronger as the days of summer lengthened.At last he started, and following every nightThe blazing dogstar, and resting through the day till evening,In just three weeks he reached the riverWhere he found the birch canoe that rodeThe seething waters like a greyhound of the ocean.Then the maiden told her vision of the island city,How its palaces and mansions, rich as gold and beautiful as crystal,Were constructed by her people, toiling hundreds,Sore and weary, of times cold and hungry.She had seen them fell the forests,Hew and mill and dress the lumber,Till the soil and reap the harvests, gathering into others' garners.Stalwart were these men and women, pure of heartAnd strong of muscle, fitted for the tasks before them.She had seen her brothers laboring at the forge and sounding anvil;Sisters toiling at the wheel and distaff, heard them at the loomWhile flying shuttle threaded warp with web of beauty;Watched them till they fell asleep with weariness,While the sons of leisure feasted.Thus the maiden told her story, saying:"Shall we undertake the journey? Plows are waitingIn the furrows back in Maryland, my people,Back beyond the rugged mountain. There are harvestsYet ungarnered, waiting for scythe and sickle.Calculate the cost, and weigh it, for my vision is prophetic.For my part, I choose this lover, for my guide and valiant leader.He shall point the way forever,Though he take the road that's darkest."Then James Hunt, the hero lover,Who had never quailed at danger,Trembling for his happy passion,Rose and pointed toward the westward,Toward the Pleiades descending,Deep behind the gloomy forest."Let us face toward dark Kentucky, fell its forests,Build its roads and bridge its rivers,Give our children to the nation.What though others reap our harvests,Hoard the wealth we have created?Ours shall be the nobler portion.Blessed is the one that suffers,If he spends himself for others.Should the toiling millions falter,Though they work for others' comfort,Building homes they can not enter?Christ was born within a manger,May we not produce a leader,Who shall save our nation's honor?At to-morrow morning's dawning,Ere the sunrise gild the treetops,Let us take the darkling pathway."Still the Pleiades are circling,Still the dogstar glows in heaven,But the oak and pine and poplarAll have gone from off the mountain—Passed into the marts of Mammon,By the hands of toil and labor.Silent are the loom and distaff,In the cabin and the cottage,And the songs of scythe and sickleGathering in the golden harvests.But the pain of drudgery lingers,And the heart still longs and hungersFor the fruitage it shall gather,Yet beyond the wooded westward.
Early in the day they passed the pinnacle,And now the shadow of each human formWas lengthening backwards like Lombardy poplarsFallen toward the east.For days the fairest maiden of the caravanHad fevered—whether from malaria and fatigue,Or more because of one whom they had left behind,Beyond the wooded mountains,Neither sire nor matron could agree.But Martha Waters, as they laid her stretcher downAnd prepared the camp for coming night,Declared unless they rested here for days to come,Her bones must bleach beside the trailThat led into the Dark and Bloody Ground.
And so they waited for the fever to abate,But when they thought her strong enough,A score of hardy pioneers trudged downThe slope and launched canoes and dug-outsAnd a flatboat in the turgid watersOf the Cumberland, for heavy rains had fallenAnd all the mountain streams were swollenIn these early days of June.But the air was sweet with the odorOf wild honeysuckle and the ivyWith its starry clusters fringedThe milky way of elder bloomThat filled each sheltered coveLike constellations on a summer night.But now the rains had ceased, the airWas fresh and bracing, and each glorious dayOut-rivaled all the rest in beauty.Lying on her pallet on the flatboat,The maiden breathed the fragrant atmosphere,And drank refreshing whiffs of airThat drove the fever from her bloodAnd wakened dreams of conquestIn the wilderness toward whichHer life was drifting rapidly.But how could she find heart for conquest?Why seek this new land anyway, where onlyAnd forever to card the wool and spin the flaxWould be the woman's portion?Would ever in the forest or beyond itIn the rolling bluegrass,Return the vision that was hers,When only a few brief months agoShe watched the sea gulls battling with the stormAbove the waves of Chesapeake Bay?Oh, how that day was filled with meaningFor her now! For as the birds disportedWith the whirlpools of the air,A lover's magic words were whispered in her ear,How that storm and stress of life to those that loveAre little more than winds to swallows of the sea.But now, if hardship meant so little,Why had he remained behind, when sheWas forced to go upon the long and weary journey?Ah! Could it be he cared no longer for her love?His arm was strong. Then was his heartNot brave enough to conquer this new world,Where savage lurked and wild beast madeThe darkness dreaded by the most courageous soul?
For days the fleet had drifted down the river,But now her boat was anchored to a treeThat grew upon an island in the Cumberland,And every man and woman but the convalescentHad gone ashore to stalk a deer or gather berriesThat everywhere were found along the river bank.But Martha Waters lay upon her bed and pondered—Dreaming day dreams, as she watchedA golden oriole who fed her youngIn boughs that overhung the water,And a vague unhappiness aroseWithin her heart, until she tossedAgain in fever on her couch.She could hear the roaring fallsA mile below, but she thought the soundingCataract the sickness booming in her ears again.When she looked to eastward where the mountainRose a thousand feet, she saw a crown of wealthUpon its crest of which no pioneer yet had dreamed.Long she lay and marveled at its beauty,Wondering how many ages would elapse beforeThe god of Mammon would transport its treasuresTo his marts beside the sea.Feverish she mused and pondered until at last she slept.And then upon the little island,A city rose as from the ocean wave—A city of a thousand streets, and every houseWas made from trees that grew upon the mountain.Many were the palaces of wealth and beauty,But those who dwelt therein she did not recognize.Strange were their faces and their manners haughty,And while they lived in luxury and ease,Others toiled at mill and furnace. Oh! The awful dinOf sledge and hammer, beating in her ears.She woke. A storm seemed just about to burst in fury,So loud and terrible was the roaring!But the sky was clear. It is the boomingOf the falls, for her boat has broke its moorings,And now is rapidly drifting toward the cataract,But four hundred yards away!
She leaped upon her feet and screamed for help.It was impossible for her to swim ashore,And her fever-wasted frame could find no strengthWith which to steer the boat.Again she saw the crown of wealthUpon the mountain top, untouched by human hands.But the island city now had faded from her vision,The mountain lowered and the world grew dark.Onward the boat shot faster toward the roaring falls.But look! A race is on! A birch canoe,Driven by as swift a hand as ever grippedAn oar, is leaping o'er the waves in mad pursuit.With every stroke the Indian bark is gaining twenty feet.Will it reach the flatboat soon enough to save the girl?But who is he that rides the fleet canoe?No red man ever had an arm like that,For already he has reached the speeding raft,And with gigantic strength he steers it toward the shore.But no! The current is too swift!A moment more and all will be engulfed withinThe swirling flood. It is too late! Too late?But love is swifter than the angry tide,For like a mighty porpoise, wallowing in the wave,The valiant hero leaps into the stream,And holding Martha Waters in his strong right armHigh above the water, reaches shoreA hundred feet above the deadly precipice.
The air was growing chilly even on this summer night,And the emigrants had gathered round a crackling fire,Discoursing of the past, and listening to a modest tale of love.Simply and unfaltering James Hunt relatedHow his heart had hungered back beside the old Potomac,Till he found he could no longer brook the passionThat grew stronger as the days of summer lengthened.At last he started, and following every nightThe blazing dogstar, and resting through the day till evening,In just three weeks he reached the riverWhere he found the birch canoe that rodeThe seething waters like a greyhound of the ocean.Then the maiden told her vision of the island city,How its palaces and mansions, rich as gold and beautiful as crystal,Were constructed by her people, toiling hundreds,Sore and weary, of times cold and hungry.She had seen them fell the forests,Hew and mill and dress the lumber,Till the soil and reap the harvests, gathering into others' garners.Stalwart were these men and women, pure of heartAnd strong of muscle, fitted for the tasks before them.She had seen her brothers laboring at the forge and sounding anvil;Sisters toiling at the wheel and distaff, heard them at the loomWhile flying shuttle threaded warp with web of beauty;Watched them till they fell asleep with weariness,While the sons of leisure feasted.Thus the maiden told her story, saying:"Shall we undertake the journey? Plows are waitingIn the furrows back in Maryland, my people,Back beyond the rugged mountain. There are harvestsYet ungarnered, waiting for scythe and sickle.Calculate the cost, and weigh it, for my vision is prophetic.For my part, I choose this lover, for my guide and valiant leader.He shall point the way forever,Though he take the road that's darkest."
Then James Hunt, the hero lover,Who had never quailed at danger,Trembling for his happy passion,Rose and pointed toward the westward,Toward the Pleiades descending,Deep behind the gloomy forest."Let us face toward dark Kentucky, fell its forests,Build its roads and bridge its rivers,Give our children to the nation.What though others reap our harvests,Hoard the wealth we have created?Ours shall be the nobler portion.Blessed is the one that suffers,If he spends himself for others.Should the toiling millions falter,Though they work for others' comfort,Building homes they can not enter?Christ was born within a manger,May we not produce a leader,Who shall save our nation's honor?At to-morrow morning's dawning,Ere the sunrise gild the treetops,Let us take the darkling pathway."
Still the Pleiades are circling,Still the dogstar glows in heaven,But the oak and pine and poplarAll have gone from off the mountain—Passed into the marts of Mammon,By the hands of toil and labor.Silent are the loom and distaff,In the cabin and the cottage,And the songs of scythe and sickleGathering in the golden harvests.But the pain of drudgery lingers,And the heart still longs and hungersFor the fruitage it shall gather,Yet beyond the wooded westward.
A roguish laugh, a rustling vine,I turn my eager eye;Big drops of dew in bells of blueAnd red convolvuli.But nothing more; I hold my breathAnd strain my eager eye;A yellow crown, two eyes of brown,And pink convolvuli!The golden curls, the elfish laugh,Rose cheeks and glittering eyeAre glories, too, like bells of blueAnd red convolvuli.
A roguish laugh, a rustling vine,I turn my eager eye;Big drops of dew in bells of blueAnd red convolvuli.
But nothing more; I hold my breathAnd strain my eager eye;A yellow crown, two eyes of brown,And pink convolvuli!
The golden curls, the elfish laugh,Rose cheeks and glittering eyeAre glories, too, like bells of blueAnd red convolvuli.
Evergreen and tinsel'd toys,Drums and dolls, and bursting joys—Blessed little girls and boys!Holly, bells, and mistletoe,Tinkling sledges, here we go—Youth and maiden o'er the snow.Chilling winds and leaden days,Vesper songs and hymns of praiseSilver hair and dying blaze!Christmas morn and yuletide eve,Dear Lord, help us to believe—Naught but blessings we receive.
Evergreen and tinsel'd toys,Drums and dolls, and bursting joys—Blessed little girls and boys!
Holly, bells, and mistletoe,Tinkling sledges, here we go—Youth and maiden o'er the snow.
Chilling winds and leaden days,Vesper songs and hymns of praiseSilver hair and dying blaze!
Christmas morn and yuletide eve,Dear Lord, help us to believe—Naught but blessings we receive.
Oh, little children, ye who watch the trains go by,With yearning faces pressed against the window panes,You do not know the reason whyYour lingering image dims my eyeThough I have passed beyond the hills into the rolling plains.Dear little children, I once watched the trains go by,And hungered, much as when I feel the silent stars;And then I saw the cold gray skies,And felt the warm tears in my eyes,When far beyond the distant hills I heard the rumbling cars.
Oh, little children, ye who watch the trains go by,With yearning faces pressed against the window panes,You do not know the reason whyYour lingering image dims my eyeThough I have passed beyond the hills into the rolling plains.
Dear little children, I once watched the trains go by,And hungered, much as when I feel the silent stars;And then I saw the cold gray skies,And felt the warm tears in my eyes,When far beyond the distant hills I heard the rumbling cars.
"Oh, grandfather, what are the stars?Stones on the hand of God?I heard you call that red one MarsAnd those three Aaron's rod;And these are great Orion's band!""My child, you are too young to understand!""Oh, grandfather, what are the windsThat sough and moan and sigh?Does God grow angry for men's sinsHe lifts the waves so high?And blows his breath o'er sea and land?""My boy, you are too young to understand!""Oh, grandfather, what are the cloudsIn yonder sunset sky?They look to me like winding shroudsFor men about to die!Dear grandfather, your trembling hand!""My son, you are too young to understand!"
"Oh, grandfather, what are the stars?Stones on the hand of God?I heard you call that red one MarsAnd those three Aaron's rod;And these are great Orion's band!""My child, you are too young to understand!"
"Oh, grandfather, what are the windsThat sough and moan and sigh?Does God grow angry for men's sinsHe lifts the waves so high?And blows his breath o'er sea and land?""My boy, you are too young to understand!"
"Oh, grandfather, what are the cloudsIn yonder sunset sky?They look to me like winding shroudsFor men about to die!Dear grandfather, your trembling hand!""My son, you are too young to understand!"
Old Santa Claus came with his packOn his backRight down the chimney flue;His long flowing beard was ghostlike and weirdBut his cheeks had a ruddy hue;And his jacket was as red as a woodpecker's headBut his breeches, I think, were blue.I heard a soft step like a hoofOn the roof,And I closed my outside eye;Then played-like I slept, but the other eye keptA watch on the jolly old guy;And I caught him in the act with his bundles all unpacked,But I'm not going to tell, not I.When Santa comes again this yearWith his deerAnd a sled full of toys for me,I don't mean to keep either eye from its sleepWhile he climbs my Christmas tree;For I don't think it's right to the happy old wightTo spy on his mystery.
Old Santa Claus came with his packOn his backRight down the chimney flue;His long flowing beard was ghostlike and weirdBut his cheeks had a ruddy hue;And his jacket was as red as a woodpecker's headBut his breeches, I think, were blue.
I heard a soft step like a hoofOn the roof,And I closed my outside eye;Then played-like I slept, but the other eye keptA watch on the jolly old guy;And I caught him in the act with his bundles all unpacked,But I'm not going to tell, not I.
When Santa comes again this yearWith his deerAnd a sled full of toys for me,I don't mean to keep either eye from its sleepWhile he climbs my Christmas tree;For I don't think it's right to the happy old wightTo spy on his mystery.
SardonicDeath, clothed in a scarlet shroud,Salutes his minions on the crumbling thronesOf Tyranny, and with malicious leer,He points a fleshless finger toward the fieldsOf Belgium: "No harvest since the daysOf Bonaparte and Waterloo hath filledMy flagons with a wine of such a taste;Your crowns ye hold by rights divine indeed!"ButOnehas entered in at lowly doorsAnd sits by every hearthstone where they will:"MyWordenthron-ed in DemocracyHas twined the holly round Columbia's brow—A crown of 'Peace on earth, good will to men.'I am theResurrectionand theLife!"
SardonicDeath, clothed in a scarlet shroud,Salutes his minions on the crumbling thronesOf Tyranny, and with malicious leer,He points a fleshless finger toward the fieldsOf Belgium: "No harvest since the daysOf Bonaparte and Waterloo hath filledMy flagons with a wine of such a taste;Your crowns ye hold by rights divine indeed!"
ButOnehas entered in at lowly doorsAnd sits by every hearthstone where they will:"MyWordenthron-ed in DemocracyHas twined the holly round Columbia's brow—A crown of 'Peace on earth, good will to men.'I am theResurrectionand theLife!"
I covet not the warrior's flashing steelThat drives the dreaded foe to headlong flight;I envy not the czar his ruthless mightThat grinds a state beneath an iron heel;I do not ask that I may ever feelThe thrill that follows fame's uncertain light;And in the game of life I do not quiteExpect always to hold a winning deal.Grant me the power to help my fellow manTo bear some ill that he may not deserve;Give me the heart that I may never swerve,In scorn of Death, to do what good I can;But most of all let me but light the firesUpon the altar of theyouth'sdesires.
I covet not the warrior's flashing steelThat drives the dreaded foe to headlong flight;I envy not the czar his ruthless mightThat grinds a state beneath an iron heel;I do not ask that I may ever feelThe thrill that follows fame's uncertain light;And in the game of life I do not quiteExpect always to hold a winning deal.
Grant me the power to help my fellow manTo bear some ill that he may not deserve;Give me the heart that I may never swerve,In scorn of Death, to do what good I can;But most of all let me but light the firesUpon the altar of theyouth'sdesires.