Above the shouting of the gale,The whipping sheet, the dashing spray,I heard, with notes of joy and wail,A piper play.
Along the dipping deck he trod,The dusk about his shadowy form;He seemed like some strange ancient godOf song and storm.
He gave his dim-seen pipes a skirlAnd war went down the darkling air;Then came a sudden subtle swirl,And love was there.
What were the winds that flailed and flayedThe sea to him, the night obscure?In dreams he strayed some brackened glade,Some heathery moor.
And if he saw the slanting spars,And if he watched the shifting track,He marked, too, the eternal starsShine through the wrack.
And so amid the deep sea din,And so amid the wastes of foam,Afar his heart was happy inHis highland home!
The Heart's Country. [Florence Wilkinson]
Hill people turn to their hills;Sea-folk are sick for the sea:Thou art my land and my country,And my heart calls out for thee.
The bird beats his wings for the open,The captive burns to be free;But I — I cry at thy window,For thou art my liberty.
Joyous-Gard. [Thomas S. Jones, Jr.]
Wind-washed and free, full-swept by rain and wave,By tang of surf and thunder of the gale,Wild be the ride yet safe the barque will sailAnd past the plunging seas her harbor brave;Nor care have I that storms and waters rave,I cannot fear since you can never fail —Once have I looked upon the burning grail,And through your eyes have seen beyond the grave.
I know at last — the strange, sweet mystery,The nameless joy that trembled into tears,The hush of wings when you were at my side —For now the veil is rent and I can see,See the true vision of the future years,As in your face the love of Him who died!
The Secret. [George Edward Woodberry]
Nightingales warble about it,All night under blossom and star;The wild swan is dying without it,And the eagle crieth afar;The sun he doth mount but to find it,Searching the green earth o'er;But more doth a man's heart mind it,Oh, more, more, more!
Over the gray leagues of oceanThe infinite yearneth alone;The forests with wandering emotionThe thing they know not intone;Creation arose but to see it,A million lamps in the blue;But a lover he shall be itIf one sweet maid is true.
The Nightingale unheard. [Josephine Preston Peabody]
Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-timeWe followed on, from moon to golden moon;From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon,And the far rose of Paestum once did climb.All the white way beside the girdling blue,Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime,We listened; — from the old year to the new.Brown bird, and where were you?
You, that Ravello lured not, throned on highAnd filled with singing out of sun-burned throats!Nor yet Minore of the flame-sailed boats;Nor yet — of all bird-song should glorify —Assisi, Little Portion of the blest,Assisi, in the bosom of the sky,Where God's own singer thatched his sunward nest,That little, heavenliest!
And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are,That beckon with white looks an endless way;Where, through the fair wet silverness of May,A lamb shines out as sudden as a star,Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale,The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far,And the red may-trees wear a shining veil.And still, no nightingale!
The one vain longing, — through all journeyings,The one: in every hushed and hearkening spot, —All the soft-swarming dark where you were not,Still longed for! Yes, for sake of dreams and wings,And wonders, that your own must ever makeTo bower you close, with all hearts' treasurings;And for that speech toward which all hearts do ache; —Even for Music's sake.
But most, his music whose beloved nameForever writ in water of bright tears,Wins to one grave-side even the Roman years,That kindle there the hallowed April flameOf comfort-breathing violets. By that shrineOf Youth, Love, Death, forevermore the same,Violets still! — When falls, to leave no sign,The arch of Constantine.
Most for his sake we dreamed. Tho' not as he,From that lone spirit, brimmed with human woe,Your song once shook to surging overflow.How was it, sovran dweller of the tree,His cry, still throbbing in the flooded shellOf silence with remembered melody,Could draw from you no answer to the spell?— O Voice, O Philomel?
Long time we wondered (and we knew not why): —Nor dream, nor prayer, of wayside gladness born,Nor vineyards waiting, nor reproachful thorn,Nor yet the nested hill-towns set so highAll the white way beside the girdling blue, —Nor olives, gray against a golden sky,Could serve to wake that rapturous voice of you!But the wise silence knew.
O Nightingale unheard! — Unheard alone,Throughout that woven music of the daysFrom the faint sea-rim to the market-place,And ring of hammers on cathedral stone!So be it, better so: that there should failFor sun-filled ones, one blessed thing unknown.To them, be hid forever, — and all hail!Sing never, Nightingale.
Sing, for the others! Sing; to some pale cheekAgainst the window, like a starving flower.Loose, with your singing, one poor pilgrim hourOf journey, with some Heart's Desire to seek.Loose, with your singing, captives such as theseIn misery and iron, hearts too meek,For voyage — voyage over dreamful seasTo lost Hesperides.
Sing not for free-men. Ah, but sing for whomThe walls shut in; and even as eyes that fade,The windows take no heed of light nor shade, —The leaves are lost in mutterings of the loom.Sing near! So in that golden overflowingThey may forget their wasted human bloom;Pay the devouring days their all, unknowing, —Reck not of life's bright going!
Sing not for lovers, side by side that hark;Nor unto parted lovers, save they beParted indeed by more than makes the Sea,Where never hope shall meet — like mounting lark —Far Joy's uprising; and no memoriesAbide to star the music-haunted dark:To them that sit in darkness, such as these,Pour down, pour down heart's-ease.
Not in Kings' gardens. No; but where there hauntThe world's forgotten, both of men and birds;The alleys of no hope and of no words,The hidings where men reap not, though they plant;But toil and thirst — so dying and so born; —And toil and thirst to gather to their want,From the lean waste, beyond the daylight's scorn,— To gather grapes of thorn!
. . . . .
And for those two, your pilgrims without tears,Who prayed a largess where there was no dearth,Forgive it to their human-happy ears:Forgive it them, brown music of the Earth,Unknowing, — though the wiser silence knew!Forgive it to the music of the spheresThat while they walked together so, the TwoTogether, — heard not you.
Only of thee and me. [Louis Untermeyer]
Only of thee and me the night wind sings,Only of us the sailors speak at sea,The earth is filled with wondered whisperingsOnly of thee and me.
Only of thee and me the breakers chant,Only of us the stir in bush and tree;The rain and sunshine tell the eager plantOnly of thee and me.
Only of thee and me, till all shall fade;Only of us the whole world's thoughts can be —For we are Love, and God Himself is madeOnly of thee and me.
When the Wind is low. [Cale Young Rice]
When the wind is low, and the sea is soft,And the far heat-lightning playsOn the rim of the west where dark clouds nestOn a darker bank of haze;When I lean o'er the rail with you that I loveAnd gaze to my heart's content;I know that the heavens are there above —But you are my firmament.
When the phosphor-stars are thrown from the bowAnd the watch climbs up the shroud;When the dim mast dips as the vessel slipsThrough the foam that seethes aloud;I know that the years of our life are few,And fain as a bird to flee,That time is as brief as a drop of dew —But you are Eternity.
Love Triumphant. [Frederic Lawrence Knowles]
Helen's lips are drifting dust;Ilion is consumed with rust;All the galleons of GreeceDrink the ocean's dreamless peace;Lost was Solomon's purple showRestless centuries ago;Stately empires wax and wane —Babylon, Barbary, and Spain; —Only one thing, undefaced,Lasts, though all the worlds lie wasteAnd the heavens are overturned.Dear, how long ago we learned!
There's a sight that blinds the sun,Sound that lives when sounds are done,Music that rebukes the birds,Language lovelier than words,Hue and scent that shame the rose,Wine no earthly vineyard knows,Silence stiller than the shoreSwept by Charon's stealthy oar,Ocean more divinely freeThan Pacific's boundless sea, —Ye who love have learned it true.Dear, how long ago we knew!
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream. [Trumbull Stickney]
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dreamThat over Persian roses flew to kissThe curled lashes of Semiramis.Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.Provence and Troubadour are merest lies,The glorious hair of Venice was a beamMade within Titian's eye. The sunsets seem,The world is very old and nothing is.Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake,Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart,But patter in the darkness of thy heart.Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owlBlind with the light of life thou'ldst not forsake,And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.
The Tears of Harlequin. [Theodosia Garrison]
To you he gave his laughter and his jest,His words that of all words were merriest,His glad, mad moments when the lights flared highAnd his wild song outshrilled the plaudits' din.For you that memory, but happier I —I, who have known the tears of Harlequin.
Not mine those moments when the roses layLike red spilled wine on his triumphant way,And shouts acclaimed him through the music's beat,Above the voice of flute and violin.But I have known his hour of sore defeat —I — I have known the tears of Harlequin.
Light kisses and light words, they were not mine —Poor perquisites of many a ColumbineBought with his laughter, flattered by his jest;But when despair broke through the painted grin,His tortured face has fallen on my breast —I — I have known the tears of Harlequin.
You weep for him, who look upon him dead,That joy and jest and merriment are fled;You weep for him, what time my eyes are dry,Knowing what peace a weary soul may winStifled by too much masking — even I —I, who have known the tears of Harlequin.
The Buried City. [George Sylvester Viereck]
My heart is like a city of the gayReared on the ruins of a perished oneWherein my dead loves cower from the sun,White-swathed like kings, the Pharaohs of a day.Within the buried city stirs no sound,Save for the bat, forgetful of the rod,Perched on the knee of some deserted god,And for the groan of rivers underground.
Stray not, my Love, 'mid the sarcophagi —Tempt not the silence, for the fates are deep,Lest all the dreamers, deeming doomsday nigh,Leap forth in terror from their haunted sleep;And like the peal of an accursed bellThy voice call ghosts of dead things back from hell.
The Ride to the Lady. [Helen Gray Cone]
"Now since mine even is come at last, —For I have been the sport of steel,And hot life ebbeth from me fast,And I in saddle roll and reel, —Come bind me, bind me on my steed!Of fingering leech I have no need!"The chaplain clasped his mailed knee."Nor need I more thy whine and thee!No time is left my sins to tell;But look ye bind me, bind me well!"They bound him strong with leathern thong,For the ride to the lady should be long.
Day was dying; the poplars fled,Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red;Out of the sky the fierce hue fell,And made the streams as the streams of hell.All his thoughts as a river flowed,Flowed aflame as fleet he rode,Onward flowed to her abode,Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face.(Viewless Death apace, apace,Rode behind him in that race.)
"Face, mine own, mine alone,Trembling lips my lips have known,Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyneUnder the kisses that make them mine!Only of thee, of thee, my need!Only to thee, to thee, I speed!"The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn;In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern.
Far behind had the fight's din died;The shuddering stars in the welkin wideCrowded, crowded, to see him ride.The beating hearts of the stars aloofKept time to the beat of the horse's hoof."What is the throb that thrills so sweet?Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!"But his own strong pulse the fainter fell,Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell.The flank of the great-limbed steed was wetNot alone with the started sweat.
Fast, and fast, and the thick black woodArched its cowl like a black friar's hood;Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein, —But the viewless rider rode to win.
Out of the wood to the highway's lightGalloped the great-limbed steed in fright;The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried,And the weight of the dead oppressed his side.
Fast, and fast, by the road he knew;And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew;And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue,As a garment worn of a wizard grim.He neighed at the gate in the morning dim.
She heard no sound before her gate,Though very quiet was her bower.All was as her hand had left it late:The needle slept on the broidered vine,Where the hammer and spikes of the passion-flowerHer fashioning did wait.
On the couch lay something fair,With steadfast lips and veiled eyne;But the lady was not there.On the wings of shrift and prayer,Pure as winds that winnow snow,Her soul had risen twelve hours ago.The burdened steed at the barred gate stood,No whit the nearer to his goal.Now God's great grace assoil the soulThat went out in the wood!
Evensong. [Ridgely Torrence]
Beauty calls and gives no warning,Shadows rise and wander on the day.In the twilight, in the quiet evening,We shall rise and smile and go away.Over the flaming leavesFreezes the sky.It is the season grieves,Not you, not I.All our spring-times, all our summers,We have kept the longing warm within.Now we leave the after-comersTo attain the dreams we did not win.O we have wakened, Sweet, and had our birth,And that's the end of earth;And we have toiled and smiled and kept the light,And that's the end of night.
Witchery. [Frank Dempster Sherman]
Out of the purple drifts,From the shadow sea of night,On tides of musk a moth upliftsIts weary wings of white.
Is it a dream or ghostOf a dream that comes to me,Here in the twilight on the coast,Blue cinctured by the sea?
Fashioned of foam and froth —And the dream is ended soon,And lo, whence came the moon-white mothComes now the moth-white moon!
Golden Pulse. [John Myers O'Hara]
Golden pulse grew on the shore,Ferns along the hill,And the red cliff roses boreBees to drink their fill;
Bees that from the meadows bringWine of melilot,Honey-sups on golden wingTo the garden grot.
But to me, neglected flower,Phaon will not see,Passion brings no crowning hour,Honey nor the bee.
Sappho. [Sara Teasdale]
The twilight's inner flame grows blue and deep,And in my Lesbos, over leagues of sea,The temples glimmer moonwise in the trees.Twilight has veiled the little flower faceHere on my heart, but still the night is kindAnd leaves her warm sweet weight against my breast.Am I that Sappho who would run at duskAlong the surges creeping up the shoreWhen tides came in to ease the hungry beach,And running, running, till the night was black,Would fall forespent upon the chilly sandAnd quiver with the winds from off the sea?Ah, quietly the shingle waits the tidesWhose waves are stinging kisses, but to meLove brought no peace, nor darkness any rest.I crept and touched the foam with fevered handsAnd cried to Love, from whom the sea is sweet,From whom the sea is bitterer than death.Ah, Aphrodite, if I sing no moreTo thee, God's daughter, powerful as God,It is that thou hast made my life too sweetTo hold the added sweetness of a song.There is a quiet at the heart of love,And I have pierced the pain and come to peace.I hold my peace, my Cleis, on my heart;And softer than a little wild bird's wingAre kisses that she pours upon my mouth.Ah, never any more when spring like fireWill flicker in the newly opened leaves,Shall I steal forth to seek for solitudeBeyond the lure of light Alcaeus' lyre,Beyond the sob that stilled Erinna's voice.Ah, never with a throat that aches with song,Beneath the white uncaring sky of spring,Shall I go forth to hide awhile from LoveThe quiver and the crying of my heart.Still I remember how I strove to fleeThe love-note of the birds, and bowed my headTo hurry faster, but upon the groundI saw two winged shadows side by side,And all the world's spring passion stifled me.Ah, Love, there is no fleeing from thy might,No lonely place where thou hast never trod,No desert thou hast left uncarpetedWith flowers that spring beneath thy perfect feet.In many guises didst thou come to me;I saw thee by the maidens while they danced,Phaon allured me with a look of thine,In Anactoria I knew thy grace,I looked at Cercolas and saw thine eyes;But never wholly, soul and body mine,Didst thou bid any love me as I loved.Now I have found the peace that fled from me;Close, close, against my heart I hold my world.Ah, Love that made my life a lyric cry,Ah, Love that tuned my lips to lyres of thine,I taught the world thy music, now aloneI sing for one who falls asleep to hear.
Harps hung up in Babylon. [Arthur Colton]
The harps hung up in Babylon,Their loosened strings rang on, sang on,And cast their murmurs forth uponThe roll and roar of Babylon:"~Forget me, Lord, if I forgetJerusalem for Babylon,If I forget the vision setHigh as the head of LebanonIs lifted over Syria yet,If I forget and bow me downTo brutish gods of Babylon.~"
Two rivers to each other runIn the very midst of Babylon,And swifter than their current fleetsThe restless river of the streetsOf Babylon, of Babylon,And Babylon's towers smite the sky,But higher reeks to God most highThe smoke of her iniquity:"~But oh, betwixt the green and blueTo walk the hills that once we knewWhen you were pure and I was true,~" —So rang the harps in Babylon —"~Or ere along the roads of stoneHad led us captive one by oneThe subtle gods of Babylon.~"
The harps hung up in BabylonHung silent till the prophet dawn,When Judah's feet the highway burnedBack to the holy hills returned,And shook their dust on Babylon.In Zion's halls the wild harps rang,To Zion's walls their smitten clang,And lo! of Babylon they sang,They only sang of Babylon:"~Jehovah, round whose throne of aweThe vassal stars their orbits drawWithin the circle of Thy law,Canst thou make nothing what is done,Or cause Thy servant to be oneThat has not been in Babylon,That has not known the power and painOf life poured out like driven rain?I will go down and find againMy soul that's lost in Babylon.~"
Live blindly. [Trumbull Stickney]
Live blindly and upon the hour. The Lord,Who was the Future, died full long ago.Knowledge which is the Past is folly. Go,Poor child, and be not to thyself abhorred.Around thine earth sun-winged winds do blowAnd planets roll; a meteor draws his sword;The rainbow breaks his seven-coloured chordAnd the long strips of river-silver flow:Awake! Give thyself to the lovely hours.Drinking their lips, catch thou the dream in flightAbout their fragile hairs' aerial gold.Thou art divine, thou livest, — as of oldApollo springing naked to the light,And all his island shivered into flowers.
Love's Springtide. [Frank Dempster Sherman]
My heart was winter-bound untilI heard you sing;O voice of Love, hush not, but fillMy life with Spring!
My hopes were homeless things beforeI saw your eyes;O smile of Love, close not the doorTo paradise!
My dreams were bitter once, and thenI found them bliss;O lips of Love, give me againYour rose to kiss!
Springtide of Love! The secret sweetIs ours alone;O heart of Love, at last you beatAgainst my own!
Wanderers. [George Sylvester Viereck]
Sweet is the highroad when the skylarks call,When we and Love go rambling through the land.But shall we still walk gayly, hand in hand,At the road's turning and the twilight's fall?Then darkness shall divide us like a wall,And uncouth evil nightbirds flap their wings;The solitude of all created thingsWill creep upon us shuddering like a pall.
This is the knowledge I have wrung from pain:We, yea, all lovers, are not one, but twain,Each by strange wisps to strange abysses drawn;But through the black immensity of nightLove's little lantern, like a glowworm's, bright,May lead our steps to some stupendous dawn.
Ballade of my Lady's Beauty. [Joyce Kilmer]
Squire Adam had two wives, they say,Two wives had he, for his delight,He kissed and clypt them all the dayAnd clypt and kissed them all the night.Now Eve like ocean foam was whiteAnd Lilith roses dipped in wine,But though they were a goodly sightNo lady is so fair as mine.
To Venus some folk tribute payAnd Queen of Beauty she is hight,And Sainte Marie the world doth swayIn cerule napery bedight.My wonderment these twain invite,Their comeliness it is divine,And yet I say in their despite,No lady is so fair as mine.
Dame Helen caused a grievous fray,For love of her brave men did fight,The eyes of her made sages feyAnd put their hearts in woeful plight.To her no rhymes will I indite,For her no garlands will I twine,Though she be made of flowers and lightNo lady is so fair as mine.
L'Envoi
Prince Eros, Lord of lovely might,Who on Olympus dost recline,Do I not tell the truth aright?No lady is so fair as mine.
Grieve not, Ladies. [Anna Hempstead Branch]
Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at nightYe wake to feel your beauty going.It was a web of frail delight,Inconstant as an April snowing.
In other eyes, in other lands,In deep fair pools, new beauty lingers,But like spent water in your handsIt runs from your reluctant fingers.
Ye shall not keep the singing larkThat owes to earlier skies its duty.Weep not to hear along the darkThe sound of your departing beauty.
The fine and anguished ear of nightIs tuned to hear the smallest sorrow.Oh, wait until the morning light!It may not seem so gone to-morrow!
But honey-pale and rosy-red!Brief lights that made a little shining!Beautiful looks about us shed —They leave us to the old repining.
Think not the watchful dim despairHas come to you the first, sweet-hearted!For oh, the gold in Helen's hair!And how she cried when that departed!
Perhaps that one that took the most,The swiftest borrower, wildest spender,May count, as we would not, the cost —And grow more true to us and tender.
Happy are we if in his eyesWe see no shadow of forgetting.Nay — if our star sinks in those skiesWe shall not wholly see its setting.
Then let us laugh as do the brooksThat such immortal youth is ours,If memory keeps for them our looksAs fresh as are the spring-time flowers.
Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at nightYe wake, to feel the cold December!Rather recall the early lightAnd in your loved one's arms, remember.
Of Joan's Youth. [Louise Imogen Guiney]
I would unto my fair restoreA simple thing:The flushing cheek she had before!Out-velvetingNo more, no more,On our sad shore,The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing.
Ah, say how winds in flooding grassUnmoor the rose;Or guileful ways the salmon passTo sea, disclose:For so, alas,With Love, alas,With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes.
I shall not care. [Sara Teasdale]
When I am dead and over me bright AprilShakes out her rain-drenched hair,Though you should lean above me broken-hearted,I shall not care.
I shall have peace as leafy trees are peaceful,When rain bends down the bough,And I shall be more silent and cold-heartedThan you are now.
Love came back at Fall o' Dew. [Lizette Woodworth Reese]
Love came back at fall o' dew,Playing his old part;But I had a word or twoThat would break his heart.
"He who comes at candlelight,That should come before,Must betake him to the nightFrom a barred door."
This the word that made us partIn the fall o' dew;This the word that brake his heart —Yet it brake mine, too.
There's Rosemary. [Olive Tilford Dargan]
O love that is not Love, but dear, so dear!That is not love because it goes full soon,Like flower born and dead within one moon,And yet is love, for that it comes too nearThe guarded fane where love alone may peer,Ere, like young spring by summer soon outshone,It trembles into death; yet comes anonAs thoughts of spring will come though summer's here.
O star prelusive to a dream more fair,Within my heart I'll keep a heaven for theeWhere thou mayst freely come and freely go,Touching with thy faint gold ere I am 'wareA twilight hope — a dawn I did not see —O love that is not Love, but nearly so!
Love's Ritual. [Charles Hanson Towne]
Breathe me the ancient words when I shall findYour spirit mine; if, seeking you, life winsNew wonder, with old splendor let us bindOur hearts when Love's high sacrament begins.
Exalt my soul with pomp and pageantry,Sing the eternal songs all lovers sing;Yea, when you come, gold let our vestments be,And lamps of silver let us softly swing.
But if at last, (hark how I whisper, Love!)You from my temple and from me should turn,I pray you chant no psalm my grief above,Over the body of Pain let no light burn.
Go forth in silence, quiet as a dove,Drift, with no sign, from our exultant place;We need no `Ite' at the death of Love,And none should come to look on Love's white face.
Grey Rocks, and Greyer Sea. [Charles G. D. Roberts]
Grey rocks, and greyer sea,And surf along the shore —And in my heart a nameMy lips shall speak no more.
The high and lonely hillsEndure the darkening year —And in my heart endureA memory and a tear.
Across the tide a sailThat tosses, and is gone —And in my heart the kissThat longing dreams upon.
Grey rocks, and greyer sea,And surf along the shore —And in my heart the faceThat I shall see no more.
"Grandmither, think not I forget". [Willa Sibert Cather]
Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town,An' wander the old ways again, an' tread them up and down.I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass,Wi'out I mind how good ye were unto a little lass;I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night throughWi'out I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you.An' if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme,Mayhap 't is that I'd change wi' ye, and gie my bed for thine,Would like to sleep in thine.
I never hear the summer winds among the roses blowWi'out I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so.Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score —I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more.Grandmither, gie me your still white hands that lie upon your breast,For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me rest;They grope among the shadows an' they beat the cold black air,They go seekin' in the darkness, an' they never find him there,They never find him there.
Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never seeHis own a-burnin' full o' love that must not shine for me.Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow,For mine be tremblin' wi' the wish that he must never know.Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hearMy lad a-singin' in the night when I am sick wi' fear;A-singin' when the moonlight over a' the land is white —Ah, God! I'll up and go to him, a-singin' in the night,A-callin' in the night.
Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart, that has forgot to ache,For mine be fire wi'in my breast an' yet it cannot break.Wi' every beat it's callin' for things that must not be, —So can ye not let me creep in an' rest awhile by ye?A little lass afeard o' dark slept by ye years agone —An' she has found what night can hold 'twixt sunset an' the dawn:So when I plant the rose an' rue above your grave for ye,Ye'll know it's under rue an' rose that I would like to be,That I would like to be.
When I am dead and Sister to the Dust. [Elsa Barker]
When I am dead and sister to the dust;When no more avidly I drink the wineOf human love; when the pale ProserpineHas covered me with poppies, and cold rustHas cut my lyre-strings, and the sun has thrustMe underground to nourish the world-vine, —Men shall discover these old songs of mine,And say: This woman lived — as poets must!
This woman lived and wore life as a swordTo conquer wisdom; this dead woman readIn the sealed Book of Love and underscoredThe meanings. Then the sails of faith she spread,And faring out for regions unexplored,Went singing down the River of the Dead.
Little Gray Songs from St. Joseph's. [Grace Fallow Norton]
With cassock black, baret and book,Father Saran goes by;I think he goes to say a prayerFor one who has to die.
Even so, some day, Father SaranMay say a prayer for me;Myself meanwhile, the Sister tells,Should pray unceasingly.
They kneel who pray: how may I kneelWho face to ceiling lie,Shut out by all that man has madeFrom God who made the sky?
They lift who pray — the low earth-born —A humble heart to God:But O, my heart of clay is proud —True sister to the sod.
I look into the face of God,They say bends over me;I search the dark, dark face of God —O what is it I see?
I see — who lie fast bound, who mayNot kneel, who can but seek —I see mine own face over me,With tears upon its cheek.
If my dark grandam had but known,Or yet my wild grandsir,Or the lord that lured the maid awayThat was my sad mother,
O had they known, O had they dreamedWhat gift it was they gave,Would they have stayed their wild, wild love,Nor made my years their slave?
Must they have stopped their hungry lipsFrom love at thought of me?O life, O life, how may we learnThy strangest mystery?
Nay, they knew not, as we scarce know;Their souls, O let them rest;My life is pupil unto pain —With him I make my quest.
My little soul I never saw,Nor can I count its days;I do not know its wondrous lawAnd yet I know its ways.
O it is young as morning-hours,And old as is the night;O it has growth of budding flowers,Yet tastes my body's blight.
And it is silent and apart,And far and fair and still,Yet ever beats within my heart,And cries within my will.
And it is light and bright and strange,And sees life far away,Yet far with near can interchangeAnd dwell within the day.
My soul has died a thousand deaths,And yet it does not die;My soul has broke a thousand faiths,And yet it cannot lie;
My soul — there's naught can make it less;My soul — there's naught can mar;Yet here it weeps with lonelinessWithin its lonely star.
My soul — not any dark can bind,Nor hinder any hand,Yet here it weeps — long blind, long blind —And cannot understand.
Irish Peasant Song. [Louise Imogen Guiney]
I try to knead and spin, but my life is low the while.Oh, I long to be alone, and walk abroad a mile;Yet if I walk alone, and think of naught at all,Why from me that's young should the wild tears fall?
The shower-sodden earth, the earth-colored streams,They breathe on me awake, and moan to me in dreams,And yonder ivy fondling the broke castle-wall,It pulls upon my heart till the wild tears fall.
The cabin-door looks down a furze-lighted hill,And far as Leighlin Cross the fields are green and still;But once I hear the blackbird in Leighlin hedges call,The foolishness is on me, and the wild tears fall!
The Prince. [Josephine Dodge Daskam]
My heart it was a cup of goldThat at his lip did long to lie,But he hath drunk the red wine down,And tossed the goblet by.
My heart it was a floating birdThat through the world did wander free,But he hath locked it in a cage,And lost the silver key.
My heart it was a white, white roseThat bloomed upon a broken bough,He did but wear it for an hour,And it is withered now.
Four Winds. [Sara Teasdale]
"Four winds blowing thro' the sky,You have seen poor maidens die,Tell me then what I shall doThat my lover may be true."Said the wind from out the south,"Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"And the wind from out the west,"Wound the heart within his breast,"And the wind from out the east,"Send him empty from the feast,"And the wind from out the north,"In the tempest thrust him forth;When thou art more cruel than he,Then will Love be kind to thee."
A West-Country Lover. [Alice Brown]
Then, lady, at last thou art sick of my sighing.Good-bye!So long as I sue, thou wilt still be denying?Good-bye!Ah, well! shall I vow then to serve thee forever,And swear no unkindness our kinship can sever?Nay, nay, dear my lass! here's an end of endeavor.Good-bye!
Yet let no sweet ruth for my misery grieve thee.Good-bye!The man who has loved knows as well how to leave thee.Good-bye!The gorse is enkindled, there's bloom on the heather,And love is my joy, but so too is fair weather;I still ride abroad though we ride not together.Good-bye!
My horse is my mate; let the wind be my master.Good-bye!Though Care may pursue, yet my hound follows faster.Good-bye!The red deer's a-tremble in coverts unbroken.He hears the hoof-thunder; he scents the death-token.Shall I mope at home, under vows never spoken?Good-bye!
The brown earth's my book, and I ride forth to read it.Good-bye!The stream runneth fast, but my will shall outspeed it.Good-bye!I love thee, dear lass, but I hate the hag Sorrow.As sun follows rain, and to-night has its morrow,So I'll taste of joy, though I steal, beg, or borrow!Good-bye!
A Winter Ride. [Amy Lowell]
Who shall declare the joy of the running!Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.Everything mortal has moments immortal,Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.So with the stretch of the white road before me,Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun,Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
Sic Vita. [William Stanley Braithwaite]
Heart free, hand free,Blue above, brown under,All the world to meIs a place of wonder.Sun shine, moon shine,Stars, and winds a-blowing,All into this heart of mineFlowing, flowing, flowing!
Mind free, step free,Days to follow after,Joys of life sold to meFor the price of laughter.Girl's love, man's love,Love of work and duty,Just a will of God's to proveBeauty, beauty, beauty!
Across the Fields to Anne. [Richard Burton]
How often in the summer-tide,His graver business set aside,Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed,As to the pipe of Pan,Stepped blithesomely with lover's prideAcross the fields to Anne.
It must have been a merry mile,This summer stroll by hedge and stile,With sweet foreknowledge all the whileHow sure the pathway ranTo dear delights of kiss and smile,Across the fields to Anne.
The silly sheep that graze to-day,I wot, they let him go his way,Nor once looked up, as who should say:"It is a seemly man."For many lads went wooing ayeAcross the fields to Anne.
The oaks, they have a wiser look;Mayhap they whispered to the brook:"The world by him shall yet be shook,It is in nature's plan;Though now he fleets like any rookAcross the fields to Anne."
And I am sure, that on some hourCoquetting soft 'twixt sun and shower,He stooped and broke a daisy-flowerWith heart of tiny span,And bore it as a lover's dowerAcross the fields to Anne.
While from her cottage garden-bedShe plucked a jasmine's goodlihede,To scent his jerkin's brown instead;Now since that love began,What luckier swain than he who spedAcross the fields to Anne?
The winding path whereon I pace,The hedgerow's green, the summer's grace,Are still before me face to face;Methinks I almost canTurn poet and join the singing raceAcross the fields to Anne!
The House and the Road. [Josephine Preston Peabody]
The little Road says, Go,The little House says, Stay:And O, it's bonny here at home,But I must go away.
The little Road, like me,Would seek and turn and know;And forth I must, to learn the thingsThe little Road would show!
And go I must, my dears,And journey while I may,Though heart be sore for the little HouseThat had no word but Stay.
Maybe, no other wayYour child could ever knowWhy a little House would have you stay,When a little Road says, Go.
The Path to the Woods. [Madison Cawein]
Its friendship and its carelessnessDid lead me many a mile,Through goat's-rue, with its dim caress,And pink and pearl-white smile;Through crowfoot, with its golden lure,And promise of far things,And sorrel with its glance demureAnd wide-eyed wonderings.
It led me with its innocence,As childhood leads the wise,With elbows here of tattered fence,And blue of wildflower eyes;With whispers low of leafy speech,And brook-sweet utterance;With bird-like words of oak and beech,And whisperings clear as Pan's.
It led me with its childlike charm,As candor leads desire,Now with a clasp of blossomy arm,A butterfly kiss of fire;Now with a toss of tousled gold,A barefoot sound of green,A breath of musk, of mossy mold,With vague allurements keen.
It led me with remembered thingsInto an old-time vale,Peopled with faery glimmerings,And flower-like fancies pale;Where fungous forms stood, gold and gray,Each in its mushroom gown,And, roofed with red, glimpsed far away,A little toadstool town.
It led me with an idle ease,A vagabond look and air,A sense of ragged arms and kneesIn weeds grown everywhere;It led me, as a gypsy leads,To dingles no one knows,With beauty burred with thorny seeds,And tangled wild with rose.
It led me as simplicityLeads age and its demands,With bee-beat of its ecstasy,And berry-stained touch of hands;With round revealments, puff-ball white,Through rents of weedy brown,And petaled movements of delightIn roseleaf limb and gown.
It led me on and on and on,Beyond the Far Away,Into a world long dead and gone, —The world of Yesterday:A faery world of memory,Old with its hills and streams,Wherein the child I used to beStill wanders with his dreams.
Sometimes. [Thomas S. Jones, Jr.]
Across the fields of yesterdayHe sometimes comes to me,A little lad just back from play —The lad I used to be.
And yet he smiles so wistfullyOnce he has crept within,I wonder if he hopes to seeThe man I might have been.
Renascence. [Edna St. Vincent Millay]
All I could see from where I stoodWas three long mountains and a wood;I turned and looked another way,And saw three islands in a bay.So with my eyes I traced the lineOf the horizon, thin and fine,Straight around till I was comeBack to where I'd started from;And all I saw from where I stoodWas three long mountains and a wood.Over these things I could not see;These were the things that bounded me;And I could touch them with my hand,Almost, I thought, from where I stand.And all at once things seemed so smallMy breath came short, and scarce at all.But, sure, the sky is big, I said;Miles and miles above my head;So here upon my back I'll lieAnd look my fill into the sky.And so I looked, and, after all,The sky was not so very tall.The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,And — sure enough! — I see the top!The sky, I thought, is not so grand;I 'most could touch it with my hand!And, reaching up my hand to try,I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and — lo! — InfinityCame down and settled over me;And, pressing of the UndefinedThe definition on my mind,Held up before my eyes a glassThrough which my shrinking sight did passUntil it seemed I must beholdImmensity made manifold;Whispered to me a word whose soundDeafened the air for worlds around,And brought unmuffled to my earsThe gossiping of friendly spheres,The creaking of the tented sky,The ticking of Eternity.I saw and heard, and knew at lastThe How and Why of all things, past,And present, and forevermore.The universe, cleft to the core,Lay open to my probing senseThat, sick'ning, I would fain pluck thenceBut could not, — nay! But needs must suckAt the great wound, and could not pluckMy lips away till I had drawnAll venom out. — Ah, fearful pawn!For my omniscience paid I tollIn infinite remorse of soul.All sin was of my sinning, allAtoning mine, and mine the gallOf all regret. Mine was the weightOf every brooded wrong, the hateThat stood behind each envious thrust,Mine every greed, mine every lust.And all the while for every grief,Each suffering, I craved reliefWith individual desire, —Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fireAbout a thousand people crawl;Perished with each, — then mourned for all!A man was starving in Capri;He moved his eyes and looked at me;I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,And knew his hunger as my own.I saw at sea a great fog-bankBetween two ships that struck and sank;A thousand screams the heavens smote;And every scream tore through my throat.No hurt I did not feel, no deathThat was not mine; mine each last breathThat, crying, met an answering cryFrom the compassion that was I.All suffering mine, and mine its rod;Mine, pity like the pity of God.Ah, awful weight! InfinityPressed down upon the finite Me!My anguished spirit, like a bird,Beating against my lips I heard;Yet lay the weight so close aboutThere was no room for it without.And so beneath the Weight lay IAnd suffered death, but could not die.
Long had I lain thus, craving death,When quietly the earth beneathGave way, and inch by inch, so greatAt last had grown the crushing weight,Into the earth I sank till IFull six feet under ground did lie,And sank no more, — there is no weightCan follow here, however great.From off my breast I felt it roll,And as it went my tortured soulBurst forth and fled in such a gustThat all about me swirled the dust.
Deep in the earth I rested now;Cool is its hand upon the browAnd soft its breast beneath the headOf one who is so gladly dead.And all at once, and over all,The pitying rain began to fall;I lay and heard each pattering hoofUpon my lowly, thatched roof,And seemed to love the sound far moreThan ever I had done before.For rain it hath a friendly soundTo one who's six feet underground;And scarce the friendly voice or face:A grave is such a quiet place.
The rain, I said, is kind to comeAnd speak to me in my new home.I would I were alive againTo kiss the fingers of the rain,To drink into my eyes the shineOf every slanting silver line,To catch the freshened, fragrant breezeFrom drenched and dripping apple-trees.For soon the shower will be done,And then the broad face of the sunWill laugh above the rain-soaked earthUntil the world with answering mirthShakes joyously, and each round dropRolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.How can I bear it; buried here,While overhead the sky grows clearAnd blue again after the storm?O, multi-colored, multiform,Beloved beauty over me,That I shall never, never seeAgain! Spring-silver, autumn-gold,That I shall never more behold!Sleeping your myriad magics through,Close-sepulchred away from you!O God, I cried, give me new birth,And put me back upon the earth!Upset each cloud's gigantic gourdAnd let the heavy rain, down-pouredIn one big torrent, set me free,Washing my grave away from me!
I ceased; and, through the breathless hushThat answered me, the far-off rushOf herald wings came whisperingLike music down the vibrant stringOf my ascending prayer, and — crash!Before the wild wind's whistling lashThe startled storm-clouds reared on highAnd plunged in terror down the sky,And the big rain in one black waveFell from the sky and struck my grave.
I know not how such things can beI only know there came to meA fragrance such as never clingsTo aught save happy living things;A sound as of some joyous elfSinging sweet songs to please himself,And, through and over everything,A sense of glad awakening.The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,Whispering to me I could hear;I felt the rain's cool finger-tipsBrushed tenderly across my lips,Laid gently on my sealed sight,And all at once the heavy nightFell from my eyes and I could see, —A drenched and dripping apple-tree,A last long line of silver rain,A sky grown clear and blue again.And as I looked a quickening gustOf wind blew up to me and thrustInto my face a miracleOf orchard-breath, and with the smell, —I know not how such things can be! —I breathed my soul back into me.Ah! Up then from the ground sprang IAnd hailed the earth with such a cryAs is not heard save from a manWho has been dead, and lives again.About the trees my arms I wound;Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;I raised my quivering arms on high;I laughed and laughed into the sky,Till at my throat a strangling sobCaught fiercely, and a great heart-throbSent instant tears into my eyes;O God, I cried, no dark disguiseCan e'er hereafter hide from meThy radiant identity!Thou canst not move across the grassBut my quick eyes will see Thee pass,Nor speak, however silently,But my hushed voice will answer Thee.I know the path that tells Thy wayThrough the cool eve of every day;God, I can push the grass apartAnd lay my finger on Thy heart!
The world stands out on either sideNo wider than the heart is wide;Above the world is stretched the sky, —No higher than the soul is high.The heart can push the sea and landFarther away on either hand;The soul can split the sky in two,And let the face of God shine through.But East and West will pinch the heartThat cannot keep them pushed apart;And he whose soul is flat — the skyWill cave in on him by and by.
Souls. [Fannie Stearns Davis]
My Soul goes clad in gorgeous things,Scarlet and gold and blue;And at her shoulder sudden wingsLike long flames flicker through.
And she is swallow-fleet, and freeFrom mortal bonds and bars.She laughs, because EternityBlossoms for her with stars!
O folk who scorn my stiff gray gown,My dull and foolish face, —Can ye not see my Soul flash down,A singing flame through space?
And folk, whose earth-stained looks I hate,Why may I not divineYour Souls, that must be passionate,Shining and swift, as mine!
Fiat Lux. [Lloyd Mifflin]
Then that dread angel near the awful throne,Leaving the seraphs ranged in flaming tiers,Winged his dark way through those unpinioned spheres,And on the void's black beetling edge, alone,Stood with raised wings, and listened for the toneOf God's command to reach his eager ears,While Chaos wavered, for she felt her yearsUnsceptered now in that convulsive zone.Night trembled. And as one hath oft beheldA lamp within a vase light up its gloom,So God's voice lighted him, from heel to plume:"Let there be light!" It said, and Darkness, quelled,Shrunk noiseless backward in her monstrous wombThrough vasts unwinnowed by the wings of eld!
The Dreamer. [Nicholas Vachel Lindsay]
"~Why do you seek the sun,In your Bubble-Crown ascending?Your chariot will melt to mist,Your crown will have an ending.~""Nay, sun is but a Bubble,Earth is a whiff of Foam —To my caves on the coast of ThuleEach night I call them home.Thence Faiths blow forth to angelsAnd Loves blow forth to men —They break and turn to nothingAnd I make them whole again:On the crested waves of chaosI ride them back reborn:New stars I bring at eveningFor those that burst at morn:My soul is the wind of ThuleAnd evening is the sign,The sun is but a Bubble,A fragile child of mine."
A Caravan from China comes. [Richard Le Gallienne]
(After Hafiz)
A caravan from China comes;For miles it sweetens all the airWith fragrant silks and dreaming gums,Attar and myrrh —A caravan from China comes.
O merchant, tell me what you bring,With music sweet of camel bells;How long have you been travellingWith these sweet smells?O merchant, tell me what you bring.
A lovely lady is my freight,A lock escaped of her long hair, —That is this perfume delicateThat fills the air —A lovely lady is my freight.
Her face is from another land,I think she is no mortal maid, —Her beauty, like some ghostly hand,Makes me afraid;Her face is from another land.
The little moon my cargo is,About her neck the PleiadesClasp hands and sing; Hafiz, 't is thisPerfumes the breeze —The little moon my cargo is.
As I came down from Lebanon. [Clinton Scollard]
As I came down from Lebanon,Came winding, wandering slowly downThrough mountain passes bleak and brown,The cloudless day was well-nigh done.The city, like an opal setIn emerald, showed each minaretAfire with radiant beams of sun,And glistened orange, fig, and lime,Where song-birds made melodious chime,As I came down from Lebanon.
As I came down from Lebanon,Like lava in the dying glow,Through olive orchards far belowI saw the murmuring river run;And 'neath the wall upon the sandSwart sheiks from distant Samarcand,With precious spices they had won,Lay long and languidly in waitTill they might pass the guarded gate,As I came down from Lebanon.
As I came down from Lebanon,I saw strange men from lands afar,In mosque and square and gay bazar,The Magi that the Moslem shun,And grave Effendi from Stamboul,Who sherbet sipped in corners cool;And, from the balconies o'errunWith roses, gleamed the eyes of thoseWho dwell in still seraglios,As I came down from Lebanon.
As I came down from Lebanon,The flaming flower of daytime died,And Night, arrayed as is a brideOf some great king, in garments spunOf purple and the finest gold,Outbloomed in glories manifold,Until the moon, above the dunAnd darkening desert, void of shade,Shone like a keen Damascus blade,As I came down from Lebanon.
The Only Way. [Louis V. Ledoux]
Memphis and Karnak, Luxor, Thebes, the Nile:Of these your letters told; and I who readSaw loom on dim horizons Egypt's deadIn march across the desert, mile on mile,A ghostly caravan in slow defileBetween the sand and stars; and at their headFrom unmapped darkness into darkness fledThe gods that Egypt feared a little while.
There black against the night I saw them loomWith captive kings and armies in arrayRemembered only by their sculptured doom,And thought: What Egypt was are we to-day.Then rose obscure against the rearward gloomThe march of Empires yet to pass away.
I looked in vision down the centuriesAnd saw how Athens stood a sunlit whileA sovereign city free from greed and guile,The half-embodied dream of Pericles.Then saw I one of smooth words, swift to please,At laggard virtue mock with shrug and smile;With Cleon's creed rang court and peristyle,Then sank the sun in far Sicilian seas.
From brows ignoble fell the violet crown.Again the warning sounds; the hosts engage:In Cleon's face we fling our battle gage,We win as foes of Cleon loud renown;But while we think to build the coming ageThe laurel on our brows is turning brown.
We top the poisonous blooms that choke the state,At flower and fruit our flashing strokes are made,The whetted scythe on stalk and stem is laid,But deeper must we strike to extirpateThe rooted evil that within our gateWill sprout again and flourish, branch and blade;For only from within can ill be stayedWhile Adam's seed is unregenerate.
With zeal redoubled let our strength be strainedTo cut the rooted causes where they hold,Nor spend our sinews on the fungus moldWhen all the breeding marshes must be drained.Be this our aim; and let our youth be trainedTo honor virtue more than place and gold.
A hundred cities sapped by slow decay,A hundred codes and systems proven vainLie hearsed in sand upon the heaving plain,Memorial ruins mounded, still and gray;And we who plod the barren waste to-dayAnother code evolving, think to gainSurcease of man's inheritance of painAnd mold a state immune from evil's sway.
Not laws; but virtue in the soul we need,The old Socratic justice in the heart,The golden rule become the people's creedWhen years of training have performed their partFor thus alone in home and church and martCan evil perish and the race be freed.
The Dust Dethroned. [George Sterling]
Sargon is dust, Semiramis a clod!In crypts profaned the moon at midnight peers;The owl upon the Sphinx hoots in her ears,And scant and sear the desert grasses nodWhere once the armies of Assyria trod,With younger sunlight splendid on the spears;The lichens cling the closer with the years,And seal the eyelids of the weary god.
Where high the tombs of royal Egypt heave,The vulture shadows with arrested wingsThe indecipherable boast of kings,As Arab children hear their mother's cryAnd leave in mockery their toy — they leaveThe skull of Pharaoh staring at the sky.
Kinchinjunga. [Cale Young Rice]
(Which is the next highest of mountains)