VI.

Be sure he walks, in shadowy buff and blue,Where those dim lilacs wave,He bends his head to bless, as dreams come true,The promise of that grave,Then with a vaster hope than thought can scan,Touching his ancient sword,Prays for that mightier realm of God in man,"Hasten Thy Kingdom, Lord."VI."Land of new hope, land of the singing stars,Type of the world to be,The vision of a world set free from warsTakes life, takes form, from thee,Where all the jarring nations of this earth,Beneath the all-blessing sun,Bring the new music of mankind to birth,And make the whole world one."VII.And those old comrades rise around him there,Old foemen, side by side,With eyes like stars upon the brave night-air,And young as when they died,To hear your bells, O beautiful Princeton towers,Ring for the world's release.They see you, piercing like gray swords through flowers,And smile from hearts at peace.BEETHOVEN IN CENTRAL PARK(After a glimpse of a certain monument in New York, during the Victory Celebration)THE thousand-windowed towers were all alight.Throngs of all nations filled that glittering way;And, rich with dreams of the approaching day,Flags of all nations trampled down the night.No clouds, at sunset, die in airs as bright.No clouds, at dawn, awake in winds as gay;For Freedom rose in that august array,Crowned with the stars and weaponed for the right.Then, in a place of whispering leaves and gloom,I saw, too dark, too dumb for bronze or stone,One tragic head that bowed against the sky;O, in a hush too deep for any tombI saw Beethoven, dreadfully aloneWith his own grief, and his own majesty.SONGS OF THE TRAWLERS AND SEA POEMSTHE PEOPLE'S FLEETOUT of her darkened fishing-ports they go,A fleet of little ships, whose every name—Daffodil,Sea-lark,RoseandSurfandSnow,Burns in this blackness like an altar-flame;Out of her past they sail, three thousand strong,The people's fleet that never knew its worth,And every name is a broken phrase of songTo some remembered loveliness on earth.There'sBarbara Cowie,Comely BankandMay,Christened, at home, in worlds of dawn and dew:There'sRuthandKindly LightandRobin GrayWithMizpah. (May that simple prayer come true!)Out of old England's inmost heart they sail,A fleet of memories that can never fail.KILMENYDARK, dark lay the drifters against the red West,As they shot their long meshes of steel overside;And the oily green waters were rocking to restWhen Kilmeny went out, at the turn of the tide;And nobody knew where that lassie would roam,For the magic that called her was tapping unseen.It was well-nigh a week ere Kilmeny came home,And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.She'd a gun at her bow that was Newcastle's best,And a gun at her stern that was fresh from the Clyde,And a secret her skipper had never confessed,Not even at dawn, to his newly-wed bride;And a wireless that whispered above, like a gnome,The laughter of London, the boasts of Berlin....O, it may have been mermaids that lured her from home;But nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.It was dark when Kilmeny came home from her questWith her bridge dabbled red where her skipper had died;But she moved like a bride with a rose at her breast,AndWell done Kilmeny!the Admiral cried.Now, at sixty-four fathom a conger may comeAnd nose at the bones of a drowned submarine;But—late in the evening Kilmeny came home,And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.There's a wandering shadow that stares at the foam,Though they sing all the night to old England, their queen.Late, late in the evening, Kilmeny came home;And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.CAP'N STORM-ALONGTHEY are buffeting out in the bitter grey weather,Blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!Sea-larksinging toGolden Feather,And burly blue waters all swelling aroun'.There'sThunderstonebutting ahead as they wallow,With death in the mesh of their deep-sea trawl;There'sNight-Hawkswooping by wildSea-swallow;And old Cap'n Storm-along leading 'em all.Bashing the seas to a welter of white,Look at the fleet that he leads to the fight.O, they're dancing like witches to open the ball;And old Cap'n Storm-along's lord of 'em all.Now, where have you seen such a bully old sailor?His eyes are as blue as the scarf at his throat;And he rolls on the bridge of his broad-beamed whaler,In yellow sou'wester and oil-skin coat.In trawler and drifter, in dinghy and dory,Wherever he signals, they leap to his call;They batter the seas to a lather of glory,With old Cap'n Storm-along leading 'em all.You'll find he's from Devon, the sailor I mean,Look at his whaler now, shipping it green.O, Fritz and his "U" boat must crab it and crawlWhen old Cap'n Storm-along sails to the ball.Ay, there is the skipper that knows how to scare 'em.Blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!Look at the sea-wives he keeps in his harem,Wicked young merry-maids, buxom and brown:There'sRosalind, the sea-witch, andGipsyso lissom,All dancing like ducks in the teeth of the squall,With a bright eye for Huns, and a Hotchkiss to kiss 'em;For old Cap'n Storm-along's lord of 'em all.Look at him, battering darkness to light!Look at the fleet that he leads to the fight!O, hearts that are mighty, in ships that are small,Your old Cap'n Storm-along's lord of us all.THE BIG BLACK TRAWLERTHE very best ship that ever I knew,—Ah-way O, to me O—Was a big black trawler with a deep-sea crew—Sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.There was one old devil with a broken nose—Ah-way O, to me O—He was four score years, as I suppose—But, sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.We was wrecked last March, in a Polar storm—Ah-way O, to me O—And we asked the old cripple if his feet was warm—Sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.And the old, old devil (he was ninety at the most)—Ah-way O, to me O—Roars, "Ay, warm as a lickle piece of toast"—So sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run."For I soaked my sea-boots and my dungarees—Ah-way O, to me O—In the good salt water that the Lord don't freeze"—Oh, sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.NAMESAKESBUT where's the brown drifter that went out alone?—Roll and go, and fare you well—Was her name Peggy Nutten? That name is my own.Fare you well, my sailor.They sang in the dark, "Let her go! Let her go!"And she sailed to the West, where the broad waters flow;And the others come back, but ... the bitter winds blow.Ah, fare you well, my sailor.The women, at evening, they wave and they cheer.—Roll and go, and fare you well—They're waiting to welcome their lads at the pier.Fare you well, my sailor.They're all coming home in the twilight below;But there's one little boat.... Let her go! Let her go!She carried my heart, and a heart for the foe.Ah, fare you well, my sailor.TheNelland theMaggie, theRuthand theJoan,—Roll and go, and fare you well—They come to their namesakes, and leave me alone.Fare you well, my sailor.And names are kep' dark, for the spies mustn't know;But they'll look in my face, an' I think it will show;Peggy Nutten's my name. Let her go! let her go!Ah, fare you well, my sailor.WIRELESSNOW to those who search the deep,Gleam of HopeandKindly Light,Once, before you turn to sleep,Breathe a message through the night.Never doubt that they'll receive it.Send it, once, and you'll believe it.Wrecks that burn against the stars,Decks where death is wallowing green,Snare the breath among their spars,Hear the flickering threads between,Quick, through all the storms that blind them,Quick with words that rush to find them.Think you these aërial wiresWhisper more than spirits may?Think you that our strong desiresTouch no distance when we pray?Think you that no wings are flying'Twixt the living and the dying?Inland, here, upon your knees,You shall breathe from urgent lips,Round the ships that guard your seas,Fleet on fleet of angel ships;Yea, the guarded may so bless themThat no terrors can distress them.You shall guide the darkling prow,Kneeling thus—and far inland—You shall touch the storm-beat browGently as a spirit-hand.Even a blindfold prayer may speed them,And a little child may lead them.FISHERS OF MENLONG, long ago He said,He who could wake the dead,And walk upon the sea—"Come, follow Me."Leave your brown nets and bringOnly your hearts to sing,Only your souls to pray,Rise, come away."Shake out your spirit-sails,And brave those wilder gales,And I will make you thenFishers of men."Was this, then, what He meant?Was this His high intent,After two thousand yearsOf blood and tears?God help us, if we fightFor right, and not for might.God help us if we seekTo shield the weak.Then, though His heaven be farFrom this blind welter of war,He'll bless us, on the seaFrom Calvary.AN OPEN BOATOWHAT is that whimpering there in the darkness?"Let him lie in my arms. He is breathing, I know.Look. I'll wrap all my hair round his neck."—"The sea's rising,The boat must be lightened. He's dead. He must go."See—quick—by that flash, where the bitter foam tosses,The cloud of white faces, in the black open boat,And the wild pleading woman that clasps her dead loverAnd wraps her loose hair round his breast and his throat."Come, lady, he's dead." "No, I feel his heart beating.He's living, I know. But he's numbed with the cold.See, I'm wrapping my hair all around him to warm him"———"No. We can't keep the dead, dear. Come, loosen your hold."Come. Loosen your fingers."—"O God, let me keep him!"O, hide it, black night! Let the winds have their way!For there are no voices or ghosts from that darkness,To fret the bare seas at the breaking of day.PEACE IN A PALACEYOU were weeping in the night," said the Emperor,"Weeping in your sleep, I am told.""It was nothing but a dream," said the Empress;But her face grew gray and old."You thought you saw our German God defeated?""Oh, no!" she said. "I saw no lightnings fall.I dreamed of a whirlpool of green water,Where something had gone down. That was all."All but the whimper of the sea gulls flying,Endlessly round and round,Waiting for the faces, the faces from the darkness,The dreadful rising faces of the drowned."It was nothing but a dream," said the Empress."I thought I was walking on the sea;And the foam rushed up in a wild smother,And a crowd of little faces looked at me.They were drowning! They were drowning," said the Empress,"And they stretched their feeble arms to the sky;But the worst was—they mistook me for their mother,And cried as my children used to cry."Nothing but a whimper of the sea-gulls flying,Endlessly round and round,With the cruel yellow beaks that were waiting for the faces,The little floating faces of the drowned.""It was nothing but a dream," said the Emperor,"So why should you weep, dear, eh?"—"Oh, I saw the red letters on a life beltThat the green sea washed my way!"—"What were they?" said the Emperor. "What were they?"—"Some of them were hidden," said the Empress,"But I plainly saw the L and the U!""In God's name, stop!" said the Emperor."You told me that it was not true!"Told me that you dreamed of the sea gulls flying,Endlessly round and round,Waiting for the faces, and the eyes in the faces,The eyes of the children that we drowned."Kiss me and forget it," said the Emperor,"Dry your tears on the tassel of my sword.I am going to offer peace to my people,And abdicate, perhaps, as overlord.I shall now take up My Cross as Count of Prussia—Which is not a heavy burden, you'll agree.Why, before the twenty million dead are rottenThere'll be yachting days again for you and me.Cheer up!It would mean a rope for anyone but Me.""Oh, take care!" said the Empress. "They are flying,Endlessly round and round.They have finished with the faces, the dreadful little faces,The little eyeless faces of the drowned."THE VINDICTIVEHOW should we praise those lads of the oldVindictiveWho looked Death straight in the eyes,Till his gaze fell,In those red gates of hell?England, in her proud history, proudly enrolls them,And the deep night in her remembering skiesWith purer gloryShall blazon their grim story.There were no throngs to applaud that hushed adventure.They were one to a thousand on that fierce emprise.The shores they soughtWere armoured, past all thought.O, they knew fear, be assured, as the brave must know it,With youth and its happiness bidding their last good-byes;Till thoughts, more dearThan life, cast out all fear.For if, as we think, they remembered the brown-roofed homesteads,And the scent of the hawthorn hedges when daylight dies,Old happy places,Young eyes and fading faces;One dream was dearer that night than the best of their boyhood,One hope more radiant than any their hearts could prize.The touch of your hand,The light of your face, England!So, age to age shall tell how they sailed through the darknessWhere, under those high, austere, implacable stars,Not one in tenMight look for a dawn again.They saw the ferry-boats,IrisandDaffodil, creepingDarkly as clouds to the shimmering mine-strewn bars,Flash into light!Then thunder reddened the night.The wild white swords of the search-lights blinded and stabbed them,The sharp black shadows fought in fantastic wars.Black waves leapt whitening,Red decks were washed with lightning.But, under the twelve-inch guns of the black land-batteriesThe hacked bright hulk, in a glory of crackling spars,Moved to her goalLike an immortal soul;That, while the raw rent flesh in a furnace is tortured,Reigns by a law no agony ever can shake,And shines in powerAbove all shocks of the hour.O, there, while the decks ran blood, and the star-shells lightenedThe old broken ship that the enemy never could break,Swept through the fireAnd grappled her heart's desire.There, on a wreck that blazed with the soul of England,The lads that died in the dark for England's sakeKnew, as they died,Nelson was at their side;Nelson, and all the ghostly fleets of his island,Fighting beside them there, and the soul of Drake!—Dreams, as we knew,Till these lads made them true.How should we praise you, lads of the old Vindictive,Who looked death straight in the eyes,Till his gaze fellIn those red gates of hell?MISCELLANEOUS POEMSTHE CHIMNEY-SWEEPS OF CHELTENHAMWHEN hawthorn buds are creaming white,And the red foolscap all stuck with may,Then lasses walk with eyes alight,And it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.For the chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham town,Sooty of face as a swallow of wing,Come whistling, singing, dancing downWith white teeth flashing as they sing.And Jack-in-the green, by a clown in blue,Walks like a two-legged bush of may,With the little wee lads that wriggled up the flueEre Cheltenham town cried "dancing day."For brooms were short and the chimneys tall,And the gipsies caught 'em these blackbirds cheap,So Cheltenham bought them, spry and small,And shoved them up in the dark to sweep.For Cheltenham town was cruel of old,But she has been gathering garlands gay,And the little wee lads are in green and gold,For it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.And red as a rose, and blue as the sky,With teeth as white as their faces are black,The master-sweeps go dancing by,With a gridiron painted on every back.But when they are ranged in the market-place,The clown's wife comes with an iron spoon,And cozens a penny for her sweet faceTo keep their golden throats in tune.Then, hushing the riot of that mad throng,And sweet as the voice of a long-dead May,A wandering pedlar lifts 'em a song,Of chimney-sweepers' dancing day;And the sooty faces, they try to recall....As they gather around in their spell-struck rings....But nobody knows that singer at allOr the curious old-time air he sings:—Why are you dancing, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,And where did you win you these may-coats so fine;For some are red as roses, and some are gold as daffodils,But who, ah, who remembers, now, a little lad of mine?Lady, we are dancing, as we danced in old EnglandWhen the may was more than may, very long ago:As for our may-coats, it was your white hands, lady,Filled our sooty hearts and minds with blossom, white as snow.It was a beautiful face we saw, wandering through Cheltenham.It was a beautiful song we heard, very far away,Weeping for a little lad stolen by the gipsies,Broke our hearts and filled 'em with the glory of the may.Many a little lad had we, chirruping in the chimney-tops,Twirling out a sooty broom, a blot against the blue.Ah, but when we called to him, and when he saw and ran to her,All our winter ended, and our world was made anew.Then she gave us may-coats of gold and green and crimson,Then, with a long garland, she led our hearts away,Whispering, "Remember, though the boughs forget the hawthorn,Yet shall I return to you, that was your lady May."—But why are you dancing now, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,And why are you singing of a May that is fled?—O, there's music to be born, though we pluck the old fiddle-strings,And a world's May awaking where the fields lay dead.And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautifulThat shall walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day,And call to us gently, "O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,I am looking for my children. Awake, and come away."TO A SUCCESSFUL MAN(What the Ghosts Said)AND after all the labour and the pains,After the heaping up of gold on gold,After success that locked your feet in chains,And left you with a heart so tired and old,Strange—is it not?—to find your chief desireIs what you might have had for nothing then—The face of love beside a cottage fireAnd friendly laughter with your fellow-men?You were so rich when fools esteemed you poor.You ruled a field that kings could never buy;The glory of the sea was at your door;And all those quiet stars were in your sky.The nook of ferns below the breathless woodWhere one poor book could unlock Paradise ...What will you give us now for that lost good?Better forget. You cannot pay the price.You left them for the fame in which you trust.But youth, and hope—did you forsake them, too?Courage! When dust at length returns to dust,In your last dreams they may come back to you.THE OLD GENTLEMAN WITH THE AMBER SNUFF-BOXTHE old gentleman, tapping his amber snuff-box(A heart-shaped snuff-box with a golden clasp)Stared at the dying fire. "I'd like them allTo understand, when I am gone," he muttered."But how to do it delicately! I can'tApologize. I'll hint at it ... in verse;And, to be sure that Rosalind reads it through,I'll make it an appendix to my will!"—Still cynical, you see. He couldn't help it.He had seen much, felt much. He snapped the snuff box,Shook his white periwig, trimmed a long quill pen,And then began to write, most carefully,These couplets, in the old heroic style:—O, had I known in boyhood, only knownThe few sad truths that time has made my own,I had not lost the best that youth can give,Nay, life itself, in learning how to live.This laboring heart would not be tired so soon,This jaded blood would jog to a livelier tune:And some few friends, could I begin again,Should know more happiness, and much less pain.I should not wound in ignorance, nor turnIn foolish pride from those for whom I yearn.I should have kept nigh half the friends I've lost,And held for dearest those I wronged the most.Yet, when I see more cunning men evadeWith colder tact, the blunders that I made;Sometimes I wonder if the better partIs not still mine, who lacked their subtle art.For I have conned my book in harsher schools,And learned from struggling what they worked by rules;Learned—with some pain—more quickly to forgiveMy fellow-blunderers, while they learn to live;Learned—with some tears—to keep a steadfast mind,And think more kindly of my own poor kind.He read the verses through, shaking his wig."Perhaps ... perhaps"—he whispered to himself,"I'd better leave it to the will of God.They might upset my own. I do not thinkThey'd understand. Jocelyn might, perhaps;And Dick, if only they were left alone.But Rosalind never; nor that nephew of mine,The witty politician. No. No. No.They'd say my mind was wandering, I'm afraid."So, with a frozen face, reluctantly,He tossed his verses into the dying fire,And watched the sparks fly upward.There, at dawn,They found him, cold and stiff by the cold hearth,His amber snuff-box in his ivory hand."You see," they said, "he never needed friends.He had that curious antique frozen way.He had no heart—only an amber snuff-box.He died quite happily, taking a pinch of snuff."His nephew, that engaging politician,Inherited the snuff-box, and remarkedHis epitaph should be "Snuffed Out." The clubsLaughed, and the statesman's reputation grew.WHAT GRANDFATHER SAID(An epistle from a narrow-minded old gentleman to a young artist of superior intellect and intense realism.)YOUR thoughts are for the poor and weak?Ah, no, the picturesque's your passion!Your tongue is always in your cheekAt poverty that's not in fashion.You like a ploughman's rugged face,Or painted eyes in Piccadilly;But bowler hats are commonplace,And thread-bare tradesmen simply silly.The clerk that sings "God save the King,"And still believes his Tory paper,—You hate the anæmic fool? I thoughtYou loved the weak! Was that all vapour?Ah, when you sneer, dear democrat,At such a shiny-trousered ToryBecause he doffs his poor old hatTo what he thinks his country's glory,To you it's just a coloured rag.You hate the "patriots" that bawl so.Well, my Ulysses, there's a flagThat lifts men in Republics also.No doubt his thoughts are cruder far;And, where those linen folds are shaking,Perhaps he sees a kind of starBecause his eyes are tired and aching.Banal enough! Banal as truth!But I'm not thinking of his banners.I'm thinking of his pinched white youthAnd your disgusting "new art" manners.His meek submission stirs your hate?Better, my lad, if you're so fervent,Turn your cold steel against the StateInstead of sneering at the servant.He does his job. He draws his pay.You sneer, and dine with those that pay him;And then you write a snobbish playFor democrats, in which you play him.Ah, yes, you like simplicityThat sucks its cheeks to make the dimple.But this domestic bourgeoisieYou hate,—because it's all too simple.You hate the hearth, the wife, the child,You hate the heavens that bend above them.Your simple folk must all run wildLike jungle-beasts before you love them.You own a house in Cheyne Walk,(You say it costs three thousand fully)Where subtle snobs can talk and talkAnd play the intellectual bully.Yes. I say "snobs." Are names aloneFree from all change? Your word "Victorian"Could bite and sting in ninety oneBut now—it's deader than the saurian.You think I live in yesterday,Because I think your way the wrong one;But I have hewed and ploughed my way,And—unlike yours—it's been a long one.I let Victoria toll her bell,And went with Strindberg for a ride, sir.I've fought through your own day as well,And come out on the other side, sir,—The further side, the morning side,I read free verse (the Psalms) on Sunday.But I've decided (you'll decide)That there is room for song on Monday.I've seen the new snob on his way,The intellectual snob I mean, sir,The artist snob, in book and play,Kicking his mother round the scene, sir.I've heard the Tories talk like fools;And the rich fool that apes the Tory.I've seen the shopmen break your rulesAnd die like Christ, in Christ's own glory.But, as for you, that liberal sneerReminds me of the poor old Kaiser.He was a "socialist," my dear.Well, I'm your grandson. You'll grow wiser.MEMORIES OF THE PACIFIC COASTIKNOW a land, I, too,Where warm keen incense on the sea-wind blows,And all the winter long the skies are blue,And the brown deserts blossom with the rose.Deserts of all delight,Cactus and palm and earth of thirsty gold,Dark purple blooms round eaves of sun-washed white,And that Hesperian fruit men sought of old.O, to be wandering there,Under the palm-trees, on that sunset shore,Where the waves break in song, and the bright airIs crystal clean; and peace is ours, once more.There Beauty dwells,Beauty, re-born in whiteness from the foam;And Youth returns with all its magic spells,And the heart finds its long-forgotten home,—Home—home! Where is that land?For, when I dream it found, the old hungering cryAches in the soul, drives me from all I planned,And sets my sail to seek another sky.NIPPONLAST night, I dreamed of Nippon....I saw a cloud of whiteDrifting before the sunsetOn seas of opal light.Beyond the wide PacificI saw its mounded snowMiraculously changingIn that deep evening glow,To rosy rifts and hillocks,To orchards that I knew,To snows of peach and cherry,And feathers of bamboo.I saw, on twisted bridges,In blue and crimson gleams,The lanterns of the fishers,Along the brook of dreams.I saw the wreaths of incenseLike little ghosts arise,From temples under Fuji,From Fuji to the skies.I saw that fairy mountain....I watched it form and fade.No doubt the gods were singing,When Nippon isle was made.THE HUMMING BIRDSGREEN wing and ruby throat,What shining spell, what exquisite sorcery,Lured you to floatAnd fight with bees round this one flowering tree?Petulant imps of light,What whisper or gleam or elfin-wild perfumesThrilled through the nightAnd drew you to this hive of rosy bloom?One tree, and one alone,Of all that load this magic air with spice,Claims for its ownYour brave migration out of Paradise;Claims you, and guides you, too,Three thousand miles across the summer's wasteOf blooms ye knewLess finely fit for your ethereal taste.To poets' youthful hearts,Even so the quivering April thoughts will fly,—Those irised darts,Those winged and tiny denizens of the sky.Through beaks as needle-fine,They suck a redder honey than bees know.Unearthly wineSleeps in this bloom; and, when it falls, they go.LINES FOR A SUN-DIALWITH shadowy pen I write,Till time be done,Good news of some strange light,Some far off sun.THE REALMS OF GOLD(Written after hearing a line of Keats repeated by a passing stranger under the palms of Southern California.)UNDER the palms of San DiegoWhere gold-skinned Mexicans loll at ease,And the red half-moons of their black-pipped melonsDrop from their hands in the sunset seas,And an incense, out of the old brown missions,Blows through the orange trees;I wished that a poet who died in EuropeHad found his way to this rose-red West;That Keats had walked by the wide PacificAnd cradled his head on its healing breast,And made new songs of the sun-burned sea-folk,New poems, perhaps his best.I thought of him, under the ripe pomegranatesAt the desert's edge, where the grape-vines grow,In a sun-kissed ranch between grey-green sage-brushAnd amethyst mountains, peaked with snow,Or watching the lights of the City of AngelsGlitter like stars below.He should walk, at dawn, by the lemon orchards,And breathe at ease in that dry bright air;And the Spanish bells in their crumbling cloistersOf brown adobe would sing to him there;And the old Franciscans would bring him their basketsOf apple and olive and pear.And the mandolins, in the deep blue twilight,Under that palm with the lion's mane,Would pluck, once more, at his golden heart-strings,And tell him the old sea-tales of Spain;And there should the daughters of Hesperus teach himTheir mystical songs again.Then, the dusk blew sweet over seas of peach-bloom;The moon sailed white in the cloudless blue;The tree-toads purred, and the crickets chirruped;And better than anything dreamed came true;For, under the murmuring palms, a shadowPassed, with the eyes I knew;A shadow, perhaps, of the tall green fountainsThat rustled their fronds on that glittering sky,A hungering shadow, a lean dark shadow,A dreaming shadow that drifted by;But I heard him whisper the strange dark musicThat found it so "rich to die."And the murmuring palms of San DiegoShook with stars as he passed beneath.The Paradise palms, and the wild white orchards,The night, and its roses, were all one breath,Bearing the song of a nightingale seaward,A song that had out-soared death.COMPENSATIONS

Be sure he walks, in shadowy buff and blue,Where those dim lilacs wave,He bends his head to bless, as dreams come true,The promise of that grave,Then with a vaster hope than thought can scan,Touching his ancient sword,Prays for that mightier realm of God in man,"Hasten Thy Kingdom, Lord."

Be sure he walks, in shadowy buff and blue,

Where those dim lilacs wave,

He bends his head to bless, as dreams come true,

The promise of that grave,

Then with a vaster hope than thought can scan,

Touching his ancient sword,

Prays for that mightier realm of God in man,

"Hasten Thy Kingdom, Lord."

"Land of new hope, land of the singing stars,Type of the world to be,The vision of a world set free from warsTakes life, takes form, from thee,Where all the jarring nations of this earth,Beneath the all-blessing sun,Bring the new music of mankind to birth,And make the whole world one."

"Land of new hope, land of the singing stars,

Type of the world to be,

The vision of a world set free from wars

Takes life, takes form, from thee,

Where all the jarring nations of this earth,

Beneath the all-blessing sun,

Bring the new music of mankind to birth,

And make the whole world one."

And those old comrades rise around him there,Old foemen, side by side,With eyes like stars upon the brave night-air,And young as when they died,To hear your bells, O beautiful Princeton towers,Ring for the world's release.They see you, piercing like gray swords through flowers,And smile from hearts at peace.

And those old comrades rise around him there,

Old foemen, side by side,

With eyes like stars upon the brave night-air,

And young as when they died,

To hear your bells, O beautiful Princeton towers,

Ring for the world's release.

They see you, piercing like gray swords through flowers,

And smile from hearts at peace.

THE thousand-windowed towers were all alight.Throngs of all nations filled that glittering way;And, rich with dreams of the approaching day,Flags of all nations trampled down the night.No clouds, at sunset, die in airs as bright.No clouds, at dawn, awake in winds as gay;For Freedom rose in that august array,Crowned with the stars and weaponed for the right.Then, in a place of whispering leaves and gloom,I saw, too dark, too dumb for bronze or stone,One tragic head that bowed against the sky;O, in a hush too deep for any tombI saw Beethoven, dreadfully aloneWith his own grief, and his own majesty.

THE thousand-windowed towers were all alight.

Throngs of all nations filled that glittering way;

And, rich with dreams of the approaching day,

Flags of all nations trampled down the night.

No clouds, at sunset, die in airs as bright.

No clouds, at dawn, awake in winds as gay;

For Freedom rose in that august array,

Crowned with the stars and weaponed for the right.

Then, in a place of whispering leaves and gloom,

I saw, too dark, too dumb for bronze or stone,

One tragic head that bowed against the sky;

O, in a hush too deep for any tomb

I saw Beethoven, dreadfully alone

With his own grief, and his own majesty.

OUT of her darkened fishing-ports they go,A fleet of little ships, whose every name—Daffodil,Sea-lark,RoseandSurfandSnow,Burns in this blackness like an altar-flame;Out of her past they sail, three thousand strong,The people's fleet that never knew its worth,And every name is a broken phrase of songTo some remembered loveliness on earth.There'sBarbara Cowie,Comely BankandMay,Christened, at home, in worlds of dawn and dew:There'sRuthandKindly LightandRobin GrayWithMizpah. (May that simple prayer come true!)Out of old England's inmost heart they sail,A fleet of memories that can never fail.

OUT of her darkened fishing-ports they go,

A fleet of little ships, whose every name—

Daffodil,Sea-lark,RoseandSurfandSnow,

Burns in this blackness like an altar-flame;

Out of her past they sail, three thousand strong,

The people's fleet that never knew its worth,

And every name is a broken phrase of song

To some remembered loveliness on earth.

There'sBarbara Cowie,Comely BankandMay,

Christened, at home, in worlds of dawn and dew:

There'sRuthandKindly LightandRobin Gray

WithMizpah. (May that simple prayer come true!)

Out of old England's inmost heart they sail,

A fleet of memories that can never fail.

DARK, dark lay the drifters against the red West,As they shot their long meshes of steel overside;And the oily green waters were rocking to restWhen Kilmeny went out, at the turn of the tide;And nobody knew where that lassie would roam,For the magic that called her was tapping unseen.It was well-nigh a week ere Kilmeny came home,And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.She'd a gun at her bow that was Newcastle's best,And a gun at her stern that was fresh from the Clyde,And a secret her skipper had never confessed,Not even at dawn, to his newly-wed bride;And a wireless that whispered above, like a gnome,The laughter of London, the boasts of Berlin....O, it may have been mermaids that lured her from home;But nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.It was dark when Kilmeny came home from her questWith her bridge dabbled red where her skipper had died;But she moved like a bride with a rose at her breast,AndWell done Kilmeny!the Admiral cried.Now, at sixty-four fathom a conger may comeAnd nose at the bones of a drowned submarine;But—late in the evening Kilmeny came home,And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.There's a wandering shadow that stares at the foam,Though they sing all the night to old England, their queen.Late, late in the evening, Kilmeny came home;And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.

DARK, dark lay the drifters against the red West,

As they shot their long meshes of steel overside;

And the oily green waters were rocking to rest

When Kilmeny went out, at the turn of the tide;

And nobody knew where that lassie would roam,

For the magic that called her was tapping unseen.

It was well-nigh a week ere Kilmeny came home,

And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.

She'd a gun at her bow that was Newcastle's best,

And a gun at her stern that was fresh from the Clyde,

And a secret her skipper had never confessed,

Not even at dawn, to his newly-wed bride;

And a wireless that whispered above, like a gnome,

The laughter of London, the boasts of Berlin....

O, it may have been mermaids that lured her from home;

But nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.

It was dark when Kilmeny came home from her quest

With her bridge dabbled red where her skipper had died;

But she moved like a bride with a rose at her breast,

AndWell done Kilmeny!the Admiral cried.

Now, at sixty-four fathom a conger may come

And nose at the bones of a drowned submarine;

But—late in the evening Kilmeny came home,

And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.

There's a wandering shadow that stares at the foam,

Though they sing all the night to old England, their queen.

Late, late in the evening, Kilmeny came home;

And nobody knew where Kilmeny had been.

THEY are buffeting out in the bitter grey weather,Blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!Sea-larksinging toGolden Feather,And burly blue waters all swelling aroun'.There'sThunderstonebutting ahead as they wallow,With death in the mesh of their deep-sea trawl;There'sNight-Hawkswooping by wildSea-swallow;And old Cap'n Storm-along leading 'em all.Bashing the seas to a welter of white,Look at the fleet that he leads to the fight.O, they're dancing like witches to open the ball;And old Cap'n Storm-along's lord of 'em all.Now, where have you seen such a bully old sailor?His eyes are as blue as the scarf at his throat;And he rolls on the bridge of his broad-beamed whaler,In yellow sou'wester and oil-skin coat.In trawler and drifter, in dinghy and dory,Wherever he signals, they leap to his call;They batter the seas to a lather of glory,With old Cap'n Storm-along leading 'em all.You'll find he's from Devon, the sailor I mean,Look at his whaler now, shipping it green.O, Fritz and his "U" boat must crab it and crawlWhen old Cap'n Storm-along sails to the ball.Ay, there is the skipper that knows how to scare 'em.Blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!Look at the sea-wives he keeps in his harem,Wicked young merry-maids, buxom and brown:There'sRosalind, the sea-witch, andGipsyso lissom,All dancing like ducks in the teeth of the squall,With a bright eye for Huns, and a Hotchkiss to kiss 'em;For old Cap'n Storm-along's lord of 'em all.Look at him, battering darkness to light!Look at the fleet that he leads to the fight!O, hearts that are mighty, in ships that are small,Your old Cap'n Storm-along's lord of us all.

THEY are buffeting out in the bitter grey weather,

Blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!

Sea-larksinging toGolden Feather,

And burly blue waters all swelling aroun'.

There'sThunderstonebutting ahead as they wallow,

With death in the mesh of their deep-sea trawl;

There'sNight-Hawkswooping by wildSea-swallow;

And old Cap'n Storm-along leading 'em all.

Bashing the seas to a welter of white,

Look at the fleet that he leads to the fight.

O, they're dancing like witches to open the ball;

And old Cap'n Storm-along's lord of 'em all.

Now, where have you seen such a bully old sailor?

His eyes are as blue as the scarf at his throat;

And he rolls on the bridge of his broad-beamed whaler,

In yellow sou'wester and oil-skin coat.

In trawler and drifter, in dinghy and dory,

Wherever he signals, they leap to his call;

They batter the seas to a lather of glory,

With old Cap'n Storm-along leading 'em all.

You'll find he's from Devon, the sailor I mean,

Look at his whaler now, shipping it green.

O, Fritz and his "U" boat must crab it and crawl

When old Cap'n Storm-along sails to the ball.

Ay, there is the skipper that knows how to scare 'em.

Blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!

Look at the sea-wives he keeps in his harem,

Wicked young merry-maids, buxom and brown:

There'sRosalind, the sea-witch, andGipsyso lissom,

All dancing like ducks in the teeth of the squall,

With a bright eye for Huns, and a Hotchkiss to kiss 'em;

For old Cap'n Storm-along's lord of 'em all.

Look at him, battering darkness to light!

Look at the fleet that he leads to the fight!

O, hearts that are mighty, in ships that are small,

Your old Cap'n Storm-along's lord of us all.

THE very best ship that ever I knew,—Ah-way O, to me O—Was a big black trawler with a deep-sea crew—Sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.There was one old devil with a broken nose—Ah-way O, to me O—He was four score years, as I suppose—But, sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.We was wrecked last March, in a Polar storm—Ah-way O, to me O—And we asked the old cripple if his feet was warm—Sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.And the old, old devil (he was ninety at the most)—Ah-way O, to me O—Roars, "Ay, warm as a lickle piece of toast"—So sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run."For I soaked my sea-boots and my dungarees—Ah-way O, to me O—In the good salt water that the Lord don't freeze"—Oh, sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.

THE very best ship that ever I knew,

—Ah-way O, to me O—

Was a big black trawler with a deep-sea crew—

Sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.

There was one old devil with a broken nose

—Ah-way O, to me O—

He was four score years, as I suppose—

But, sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.

We was wrecked last March, in a Polar storm

—Ah-way O, to me O—

And we asked the old cripple if his feet was warm—

Sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.

And the old, old devil (he was ninety at the most)

—Ah-way O, to me O—

Roars, "Ay, warm as a lickle piece of toast"—

So sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.

"For I soaked my sea-boots and my dungarees

—Ah-way O, to me O—

In the good salt water that the Lord don't freeze"—

Oh, sing, my bullies, let the bullgine run.

BUT where's the brown drifter that went out alone?—Roll and go, and fare you well—Was her name Peggy Nutten? That name is my own.Fare you well, my sailor.They sang in the dark, "Let her go! Let her go!"And she sailed to the West, where the broad waters flow;And the others come back, but ... the bitter winds blow.Ah, fare you well, my sailor.The women, at evening, they wave and they cheer.—Roll and go, and fare you well—They're waiting to welcome their lads at the pier.Fare you well, my sailor.They're all coming home in the twilight below;But there's one little boat.... Let her go! Let her go!She carried my heart, and a heart for the foe.Ah, fare you well, my sailor.TheNelland theMaggie, theRuthand theJoan,—Roll and go, and fare you well—They come to their namesakes, and leave me alone.Fare you well, my sailor.And names are kep' dark, for the spies mustn't know;But they'll look in my face, an' I think it will show;Peggy Nutten's my name. Let her go! let her go!Ah, fare you well, my sailor.

BUT where's the brown drifter that went out alone?

—Roll and go, and fare you well—

Was her name Peggy Nutten? That name is my own.

Fare you well, my sailor.

They sang in the dark, "Let her go! Let her go!"

And she sailed to the West, where the broad waters flow;

And the others come back, but ... the bitter winds blow.

Ah, fare you well, my sailor.

The women, at evening, they wave and they cheer.

—Roll and go, and fare you well—

They're waiting to welcome their lads at the pier.

Fare you well, my sailor.

They're all coming home in the twilight below;

But there's one little boat.... Let her go! Let her go!

She carried my heart, and a heart for the foe.

Ah, fare you well, my sailor.

TheNelland theMaggie, theRuthand theJoan,

—Roll and go, and fare you well—

They come to their namesakes, and leave me alone.

Fare you well, my sailor.

And names are kep' dark, for the spies mustn't know;

But they'll look in my face, an' I think it will show;

Peggy Nutten's my name. Let her go! let her go!

Ah, fare you well, my sailor.

NOW to those who search the deep,Gleam of HopeandKindly Light,Once, before you turn to sleep,Breathe a message through the night.Never doubt that they'll receive it.Send it, once, and you'll believe it.Wrecks that burn against the stars,Decks where death is wallowing green,Snare the breath among their spars,Hear the flickering threads between,Quick, through all the storms that blind them,Quick with words that rush to find them.Think you these aërial wiresWhisper more than spirits may?Think you that our strong desiresTouch no distance when we pray?Think you that no wings are flying'Twixt the living and the dying?Inland, here, upon your knees,You shall breathe from urgent lips,Round the ships that guard your seas,Fleet on fleet of angel ships;Yea, the guarded may so bless themThat no terrors can distress them.You shall guide the darkling prow,Kneeling thus—and far inland—You shall touch the storm-beat browGently as a spirit-hand.Even a blindfold prayer may speed them,And a little child may lead them.

NOW to those who search the deep,

Gleam of HopeandKindly Light,

Once, before you turn to sleep,

Breathe a message through the night.

Never doubt that they'll receive it.

Send it, once, and you'll believe it.

Wrecks that burn against the stars,

Decks where death is wallowing green,

Snare the breath among their spars,

Hear the flickering threads between,

Quick, through all the storms that blind them,

Quick with words that rush to find them.

Think you these aërial wires

Whisper more than spirits may?

Think you that our strong desires

Touch no distance when we pray?

Think you that no wings are flying

'Twixt the living and the dying?

Inland, here, upon your knees,

You shall breathe from urgent lips,

Round the ships that guard your seas,

Fleet on fleet of angel ships;

Yea, the guarded may so bless them

That no terrors can distress them.

You shall guide the darkling prow,

Kneeling thus—and far inland—

You shall touch the storm-beat brow

Gently as a spirit-hand.

Even a blindfold prayer may speed them,

And a little child may lead them.

LONG, long ago He said,He who could wake the dead,And walk upon the sea—"Come, follow Me."Leave your brown nets and bringOnly your hearts to sing,Only your souls to pray,Rise, come away."Shake out your spirit-sails,And brave those wilder gales,And I will make you thenFishers of men."Was this, then, what He meant?Was this His high intent,After two thousand yearsOf blood and tears?God help us, if we fightFor right, and not for might.God help us if we seekTo shield the weak.Then, though His heaven be farFrom this blind welter of war,He'll bless us, on the seaFrom Calvary.

LONG, long ago He said,

He who could wake the dead,

And walk upon the sea—

"Come, follow Me.

"Leave your brown nets and bring

Only your hearts to sing,

Only your souls to pray,

Rise, come away.

"Shake out your spirit-sails,

And brave those wilder gales,

And I will make you then

Fishers of men."

Was this, then, what He meant?

Was this His high intent,

After two thousand years

Of blood and tears?

God help us, if we fight

For right, and not for might.

God help us if we seek

To shield the weak.

Then, though His heaven be far

From this blind welter of war,

He'll bless us, on the sea

From Calvary.

OWHAT is that whimpering there in the darkness?"Let him lie in my arms. He is breathing, I know.Look. I'll wrap all my hair round his neck."—"The sea's rising,The boat must be lightened. He's dead. He must go."See—quick—by that flash, where the bitter foam tosses,The cloud of white faces, in the black open boat,And the wild pleading woman that clasps her dead loverAnd wraps her loose hair round his breast and his throat."Come, lady, he's dead." "No, I feel his heart beating.He's living, I know. But he's numbed with the cold.See, I'm wrapping my hair all around him to warm him"———"No. We can't keep the dead, dear. Come, loosen your hold."Come. Loosen your fingers."—"O God, let me keep him!"O, hide it, black night! Let the winds have their way!For there are no voices or ghosts from that darkness,To fret the bare seas at the breaking of day.

OWHAT is that whimpering there in the darkness?

"Let him lie in my arms. He is breathing, I know.

Look. I'll wrap all my hair round his neck."—"The sea's rising,

The boat must be lightened. He's dead. He must go."

See—quick—by that flash, where the bitter foam tosses,

The cloud of white faces, in the black open boat,

And the wild pleading woman that clasps her dead lover

And wraps her loose hair round his breast and his throat.

"Come, lady, he's dead." "No, I feel his heart beating.

He's living, I know. But he's numbed with the cold.

See, I'm wrapping my hair all around him to warm him"——

—"No. We can't keep the dead, dear. Come, loosen your hold.

"Come. Loosen your fingers."—"O God, let me keep him!"

O, hide it, black night! Let the winds have their way!

For there are no voices or ghosts from that darkness,

To fret the bare seas at the breaking of day.

YOU were weeping in the night," said the Emperor,"Weeping in your sleep, I am told.""It was nothing but a dream," said the Empress;But her face grew gray and old."You thought you saw our German God defeated?""Oh, no!" she said. "I saw no lightnings fall.I dreamed of a whirlpool of green water,Where something had gone down. That was all."All but the whimper of the sea gulls flying,Endlessly round and round,Waiting for the faces, the faces from the darkness,The dreadful rising faces of the drowned."It was nothing but a dream," said the Empress."I thought I was walking on the sea;And the foam rushed up in a wild smother,And a crowd of little faces looked at me.They were drowning! They were drowning," said the Empress,"And they stretched their feeble arms to the sky;But the worst was—they mistook me for their mother,And cried as my children used to cry."Nothing but a whimper of the sea-gulls flying,Endlessly round and round,With the cruel yellow beaks that were waiting for the faces,The little floating faces of the drowned.""It was nothing but a dream," said the Emperor,"So why should you weep, dear, eh?"—"Oh, I saw the red letters on a life beltThat the green sea washed my way!"—"What were they?" said the Emperor. "What were they?"—"Some of them were hidden," said the Empress,"But I plainly saw the L and the U!""In God's name, stop!" said the Emperor."You told me that it was not true!"Told me that you dreamed of the sea gulls flying,Endlessly round and round,Waiting for the faces, and the eyes in the faces,The eyes of the children that we drowned."Kiss me and forget it," said the Emperor,"Dry your tears on the tassel of my sword.I am going to offer peace to my people,And abdicate, perhaps, as overlord.I shall now take up My Cross as Count of Prussia—Which is not a heavy burden, you'll agree.Why, before the twenty million dead are rottenThere'll be yachting days again for you and me.Cheer up!It would mean a rope for anyone but Me.""Oh, take care!" said the Empress. "They are flying,Endlessly round and round.They have finished with the faces, the dreadful little faces,The little eyeless faces of the drowned."

YOU were weeping in the night," said the Emperor,

"Weeping in your sleep, I am told."

"It was nothing but a dream," said the Empress;

But her face grew gray and old.

"You thought you saw our German God defeated?"

"Oh, no!" she said. "I saw no lightnings fall.

I dreamed of a whirlpool of green water,

Where something had gone down. That was all.

"All but the whimper of the sea gulls flying,

Endlessly round and round,

Waiting for the faces, the faces from the darkness,

The dreadful rising faces of the drowned.

"It was nothing but a dream," said the Empress.

"I thought I was walking on the sea;

And the foam rushed up in a wild smother,

And a crowd of little faces looked at me.

They were drowning! They were drowning," said the Empress,

"And they stretched their feeble arms to the sky;

But the worst was—they mistook me for their mother,

And cried as my children used to cry.

"Nothing but a whimper of the sea-gulls flying,

Endlessly round and round,

With the cruel yellow beaks that were waiting for the faces,

The little floating faces of the drowned."

"It was nothing but a dream," said the Emperor,

"So why should you weep, dear, eh?"—

"Oh, I saw the red letters on a life belt

That the green sea washed my way!"—

"What were they?" said the Emperor. "What were they?"—

"Some of them were hidden," said the Empress,

"But I plainly saw the L and the U!"

"In God's name, stop!" said the Emperor.

"You told me that it was not true!

"Told me that you dreamed of the sea gulls flying,

Endlessly round and round,

Waiting for the faces, and the eyes in the faces,

The eyes of the children that we drowned.

"Kiss me and forget it," said the Emperor,

"Dry your tears on the tassel of my sword.

I am going to offer peace to my people,

And abdicate, perhaps, as overlord.

I shall now take up My Cross as Count of Prussia—

Which is not a heavy burden, you'll agree.

Why, before the twenty million dead are rotten

There'll be yachting days again for you and me.

Cheer up!

It would mean a rope for anyone but Me."

"Oh, take care!" said the Empress. "They are flying,

Endlessly round and round.

They have finished with the faces, the dreadful little faces,

The little eyeless faces of the drowned."

HOW should we praise those lads of the oldVindictiveWho looked Death straight in the eyes,Till his gaze fell,In those red gates of hell?England, in her proud history, proudly enrolls them,And the deep night in her remembering skiesWith purer gloryShall blazon their grim story.There were no throngs to applaud that hushed adventure.They were one to a thousand on that fierce emprise.The shores they soughtWere armoured, past all thought.O, they knew fear, be assured, as the brave must know it,With youth and its happiness bidding their last good-byes;Till thoughts, more dearThan life, cast out all fear.For if, as we think, they remembered the brown-roofed homesteads,And the scent of the hawthorn hedges when daylight dies,Old happy places,Young eyes and fading faces;One dream was dearer that night than the best of their boyhood,One hope more radiant than any their hearts could prize.The touch of your hand,The light of your face, England!So, age to age shall tell how they sailed through the darknessWhere, under those high, austere, implacable stars,Not one in tenMight look for a dawn again.They saw the ferry-boats,IrisandDaffodil, creepingDarkly as clouds to the shimmering mine-strewn bars,Flash into light!Then thunder reddened the night.The wild white swords of the search-lights blinded and stabbed them,The sharp black shadows fought in fantastic wars.Black waves leapt whitening,Red decks were washed with lightning.But, under the twelve-inch guns of the black land-batteriesThe hacked bright hulk, in a glory of crackling spars,Moved to her goalLike an immortal soul;That, while the raw rent flesh in a furnace is tortured,Reigns by a law no agony ever can shake,And shines in powerAbove all shocks of the hour.O, there, while the decks ran blood, and the star-shells lightenedThe old broken ship that the enemy never could break,Swept through the fireAnd grappled her heart's desire.There, on a wreck that blazed with the soul of England,The lads that died in the dark for England's sakeKnew, as they died,Nelson was at their side;Nelson, and all the ghostly fleets of his island,Fighting beside them there, and the soul of Drake!—Dreams, as we knew,Till these lads made them true.How should we praise you, lads of the old Vindictive,Who looked death straight in the eyes,Till his gaze fellIn those red gates of hell?

HOW should we praise those lads of the oldVindictive

Who looked Death straight in the eyes,

Till his gaze fell,

In those red gates of hell?

England, in her proud history, proudly enrolls them,

And the deep night in her remembering skies

With purer glory

Shall blazon their grim story.

There were no throngs to applaud that hushed adventure.

They were one to a thousand on that fierce emprise.

The shores they sought

Were armoured, past all thought.

O, they knew fear, be assured, as the brave must know it,

With youth and its happiness bidding their last good-byes;

Till thoughts, more dear

Than life, cast out all fear.

For if, as we think, they remembered the brown-roofed homesteads,

And the scent of the hawthorn hedges when daylight dies,

Old happy places,

Young eyes and fading faces;

One dream was dearer that night than the best of their boyhood,

One hope more radiant than any their hearts could prize.

The touch of your hand,

The light of your face, England!

So, age to age shall tell how they sailed through the darkness

Where, under those high, austere, implacable stars,

Not one in ten

Might look for a dawn again.

They saw the ferry-boats,IrisandDaffodil, creeping

Darkly as clouds to the shimmering mine-strewn bars,

Flash into light!

Then thunder reddened the night.

The wild white swords of the search-lights blinded and stabbed them,

The sharp black shadows fought in fantastic wars.

Black waves leapt whitening,

Red decks were washed with lightning.

But, under the twelve-inch guns of the black land-batteries

The hacked bright hulk, in a glory of crackling spars,

Moved to her goal

Like an immortal soul;

That, while the raw rent flesh in a furnace is tortured,

Reigns by a law no agony ever can shake,

And shines in power

Above all shocks of the hour.

O, there, while the decks ran blood, and the star-shells lightened

The old broken ship that the enemy never could break,

Swept through the fire

And grappled her heart's desire.

There, on a wreck that blazed with the soul of England,

The lads that died in the dark for England's sake

Knew, as they died,

Nelson was at their side;

Nelson, and all the ghostly fleets of his island,

Fighting beside them there, and the soul of Drake!—

Dreams, as we knew,

Till these lads made them true.

How should we praise you, lads of the old Vindictive,

Who looked death straight in the eyes,

Till his gaze fell

In those red gates of hell?

WHEN hawthorn buds are creaming white,And the red foolscap all stuck with may,Then lasses walk with eyes alight,And it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.For the chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham town,Sooty of face as a swallow of wing,Come whistling, singing, dancing downWith white teeth flashing as they sing.And Jack-in-the green, by a clown in blue,Walks like a two-legged bush of may,With the little wee lads that wriggled up the flueEre Cheltenham town cried "dancing day."For brooms were short and the chimneys tall,And the gipsies caught 'em these blackbirds cheap,So Cheltenham bought them, spry and small,And shoved them up in the dark to sweep.For Cheltenham town was cruel of old,But she has been gathering garlands gay,And the little wee lads are in green and gold,For it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.And red as a rose, and blue as the sky,With teeth as white as their faces are black,The master-sweeps go dancing by,With a gridiron painted on every back.But when they are ranged in the market-place,The clown's wife comes with an iron spoon,And cozens a penny for her sweet faceTo keep their golden throats in tune.Then, hushing the riot of that mad throng,And sweet as the voice of a long-dead May,A wandering pedlar lifts 'em a song,Of chimney-sweepers' dancing day;And the sooty faces, they try to recall....As they gather around in their spell-struck rings....But nobody knows that singer at allOr the curious old-time air he sings:—Why are you dancing, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,And where did you win you these may-coats so fine;For some are red as roses, and some are gold as daffodils,But who, ah, who remembers, now, a little lad of mine?Lady, we are dancing, as we danced in old EnglandWhen the may was more than may, very long ago:As for our may-coats, it was your white hands, lady,Filled our sooty hearts and minds with blossom, white as snow.It was a beautiful face we saw, wandering through Cheltenham.It was a beautiful song we heard, very far away,Weeping for a little lad stolen by the gipsies,Broke our hearts and filled 'em with the glory of the may.Many a little lad had we, chirruping in the chimney-tops,Twirling out a sooty broom, a blot against the blue.Ah, but when we called to him, and when he saw and ran to her,All our winter ended, and our world was made anew.Then she gave us may-coats of gold and green and crimson,Then, with a long garland, she led our hearts away,Whispering, "Remember, though the boughs forget the hawthorn,Yet shall I return to you, that was your lady May."—But why are you dancing now, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,And why are you singing of a May that is fled?—O, there's music to be born, though we pluck the old fiddle-strings,And a world's May awaking where the fields lay dead.And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautifulThat shall walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day,And call to us gently, "O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,I am looking for my children. Awake, and come away."

WHEN hawthorn buds are creaming white,

And the red foolscap all stuck with may,

Then lasses walk with eyes alight,

And it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.

For the chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham town,

Sooty of face as a swallow of wing,

Come whistling, singing, dancing down

With white teeth flashing as they sing.

And Jack-in-the green, by a clown in blue,

Walks like a two-legged bush of may,

With the little wee lads that wriggled up the flue

Ere Cheltenham town cried "dancing day."

For brooms were short and the chimneys tall,

And the gipsies caught 'em these blackbirds cheap,

So Cheltenham bought them, spry and small,

And shoved them up in the dark to sweep.

For Cheltenham town was cruel of old,

But she has been gathering garlands gay,

And the little wee lads are in green and gold,

For it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.

And red as a rose, and blue as the sky,

With teeth as white as their faces are black,

The master-sweeps go dancing by,

With a gridiron painted on every back.

But when they are ranged in the market-place,

The clown's wife comes with an iron spoon,

And cozens a penny for her sweet face

To keep their golden throats in tune.

Then, hushing the riot of that mad throng,

And sweet as the voice of a long-dead May,

A wandering pedlar lifts 'em a song,

Of chimney-sweepers' dancing day;

And the sooty faces, they try to recall....

As they gather around in their spell-struck rings....

But nobody knows that singer at all

Or the curious old-time air he sings:—

Why are you dancing, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,

And where did you win you these may-coats so fine;

For some are red as roses, and some are gold as daffodils,

But who, ah, who remembers, now, a little lad of mine?

Lady, we are dancing, as we danced in old England

When the may was more than may, very long ago:

As for our may-coats, it was your white hands, lady,

Filled our sooty hearts and minds with blossom, white as snow.

It was a beautiful face we saw, wandering through Cheltenham.

It was a beautiful song we heard, very far away,

Weeping for a little lad stolen by the gipsies,

Broke our hearts and filled 'em with the glory of the may.

Many a little lad had we, chirruping in the chimney-tops,

Twirling out a sooty broom, a blot against the blue.

Ah, but when we called to him, and when he saw and ran to her,

All our winter ended, and our world was made anew.

Then she gave us may-coats of gold and green and crimson,

Then, with a long garland, she led our hearts away,

Whispering, "Remember, though the boughs forget the hawthorn,

Yet shall I return to you, that was your lady May."—

But why are you dancing now, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,

And why are you singing of a May that is fled?—

O, there's music to be born, though we pluck the old fiddle-strings,

And a world's May awaking where the fields lay dead.

And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautiful

That shall walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day,

And call to us gently, "O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham,

I am looking for my children. Awake, and come away."

AND after all the labour and the pains,After the heaping up of gold on gold,After success that locked your feet in chains,And left you with a heart so tired and old,Strange—is it not?—to find your chief desireIs what you might have had for nothing then—The face of love beside a cottage fireAnd friendly laughter with your fellow-men?You were so rich when fools esteemed you poor.You ruled a field that kings could never buy;The glory of the sea was at your door;And all those quiet stars were in your sky.The nook of ferns below the breathless woodWhere one poor book could unlock Paradise ...What will you give us now for that lost good?Better forget. You cannot pay the price.You left them for the fame in which you trust.But youth, and hope—did you forsake them, too?Courage! When dust at length returns to dust,In your last dreams they may come back to you.

AND after all the labour and the pains,

After the heaping up of gold on gold,

After success that locked your feet in chains,

And left you with a heart so tired and old,

Strange—is it not?—to find your chief desire

Is what you might have had for nothing then—

The face of love beside a cottage fire

And friendly laughter with your fellow-men?

You were so rich when fools esteemed you poor.

You ruled a field that kings could never buy;

The glory of the sea was at your door;

And all those quiet stars were in your sky.

The nook of ferns below the breathless wood

Where one poor book could unlock Paradise ...

What will you give us now for that lost good?

Better forget. You cannot pay the price.

You left them for the fame in which you trust.

But youth, and hope—did you forsake them, too?

Courage! When dust at length returns to dust,

In your last dreams they may come back to you.

THE old gentleman, tapping his amber snuff-box(A heart-shaped snuff-box with a golden clasp)Stared at the dying fire. "I'd like them allTo understand, when I am gone," he muttered."But how to do it delicately! I can'tApologize. I'll hint at it ... in verse;And, to be sure that Rosalind reads it through,I'll make it an appendix to my will!"—Still cynical, you see. He couldn't help it.He had seen much, felt much. He snapped the snuff box,Shook his white periwig, trimmed a long quill pen,And then began to write, most carefully,These couplets, in the old heroic style:—O, had I known in boyhood, only knownThe few sad truths that time has made my own,I had not lost the best that youth can give,Nay, life itself, in learning how to live.This laboring heart would not be tired so soon,This jaded blood would jog to a livelier tune:And some few friends, could I begin again,Should know more happiness, and much less pain.I should not wound in ignorance, nor turnIn foolish pride from those for whom I yearn.I should have kept nigh half the friends I've lost,And held for dearest those I wronged the most.Yet, when I see more cunning men evadeWith colder tact, the blunders that I made;Sometimes I wonder if the better partIs not still mine, who lacked their subtle art.For I have conned my book in harsher schools,And learned from struggling what they worked by rules;Learned—with some pain—more quickly to forgiveMy fellow-blunderers, while they learn to live;Learned—with some tears—to keep a steadfast mind,And think more kindly of my own poor kind.He read the verses through, shaking his wig."Perhaps ... perhaps"—he whispered to himself,"I'd better leave it to the will of God.They might upset my own. I do not thinkThey'd understand. Jocelyn might, perhaps;And Dick, if only they were left alone.But Rosalind never; nor that nephew of mine,The witty politician. No. No. No.They'd say my mind was wandering, I'm afraid."So, with a frozen face, reluctantly,He tossed his verses into the dying fire,And watched the sparks fly upward.There, at dawn,They found him, cold and stiff by the cold hearth,His amber snuff-box in his ivory hand."You see," they said, "he never needed friends.He had that curious antique frozen way.He had no heart—only an amber snuff-box.He died quite happily, taking a pinch of snuff."His nephew, that engaging politician,Inherited the snuff-box, and remarkedHis epitaph should be "Snuffed Out." The clubsLaughed, and the statesman's reputation grew.

THE old gentleman, tapping his amber snuff-box

(A heart-shaped snuff-box with a golden clasp)

Stared at the dying fire. "I'd like them all

To understand, when I am gone," he muttered.

"But how to do it delicately! I can't

Apologize. I'll hint at it ... in verse;

And, to be sure that Rosalind reads it through,

I'll make it an appendix to my will!"

—Still cynical, you see. He couldn't help it.

He had seen much, felt much. He snapped the snuff box,

Shook his white periwig, trimmed a long quill pen,

And then began to write, most carefully,

These couplets, in the old heroic style:—

O, had I known in boyhood, only known

The few sad truths that time has made my own,

I had not lost the best that youth can give,

Nay, life itself, in learning how to live.

This laboring heart would not be tired so soon,

This jaded blood would jog to a livelier tune:

And some few friends, could I begin again,

Should know more happiness, and much less pain.

I should not wound in ignorance, nor turn

In foolish pride from those for whom I yearn.

I should have kept nigh half the friends I've lost,

And held for dearest those I wronged the most.

Yet, when I see more cunning men evade

With colder tact, the blunders that I made;

Sometimes I wonder if the better part

Is not still mine, who lacked their subtle art.

For I have conned my book in harsher schools,

And learned from struggling what they worked by rules;

Learned—with some pain—more quickly to forgive

My fellow-blunderers, while they learn to live;

Learned—with some tears—to keep a steadfast mind,

And think more kindly of my own poor kind.

He read the verses through, shaking his wig.

"Perhaps ... perhaps"—he whispered to himself,

"I'd better leave it to the will of God.

They might upset my own. I do not think

They'd understand. Jocelyn might, perhaps;

And Dick, if only they were left alone.

But Rosalind never; nor that nephew of mine,

The witty politician. No. No. No.

They'd say my mind was wandering, I'm afraid."

So, with a frozen face, reluctantly,

He tossed his verses into the dying fire,

And watched the sparks fly upward.

There, at dawn,

They found him, cold and stiff by the cold hearth,

His amber snuff-box in his ivory hand.

"You see," they said, "he never needed friends.

He had that curious antique frozen way.

He had no heart—only an amber snuff-box.

He died quite happily, taking a pinch of snuff."

His nephew, that engaging politician,

Inherited the snuff-box, and remarked

His epitaph should be "Snuffed Out." The clubs

Laughed, and the statesman's reputation grew.

YOUR thoughts are for the poor and weak?Ah, no, the picturesque's your passion!Your tongue is always in your cheekAt poverty that's not in fashion.You like a ploughman's rugged face,Or painted eyes in Piccadilly;But bowler hats are commonplace,And thread-bare tradesmen simply silly.The clerk that sings "God save the King,"And still believes his Tory paper,—You hate the anæmic fool? I thoughtYou loved the weak! Was that all vapour?Ah, when you sneer, dear democrat,At such a shiny-trousered ToryBecause he doffs his poor old hatTo what he thinks his country's glory,To you it's just a coloured rag.You hate the "patriots" that bawl so.Well, my Ulysses, there's a flagThat lifts men in Republics also.No doubt his thoughts are cruder far;And, where those linen folds are shaking,Perhaps he sees a kind of starBecause his eyes are tired and aching.Banal enough! Banal as truth!But I'm not thinking of his banners.I'm thinking of his pinched white youthAnd your disgusting "new art" manners.His meek submission stirs your hate?Better, my lad, if you're so fervent,Turn your cold steel against the StateInstead of sneering at the servant.He does his job. He draws his pay.You sneer, and dine with those that pay him;And then you write a snobbish playFor democrats, in which you play him.Ah, yes, you like simplicityThat sucks its cheeks to make the dimple.But this domestic bourgeoisieYou hate,—because it's all too simple.You hate the hearth, the wife, the child,You hate the heavens that bend above them.Your simple folk must all run wildLike jungle-beasts before you love them.You own a house in Cheyne Walk,(You say it costs three thousand fully)Where subtle snobs can talk and talkAnd play the intellectual bully.Yes. I say "snobs." Are names aloneFree from all change? Your word "Victorian"Could bite and sting in ninety oneBut now—it's deader than the saurian.You think I live in yesterday,Because I think your way the wrong one;But I have hewed and ploughed my way,And—unlike yours—it's been a long one.I let Victoria toll her bell,And went with Strindberg for a ride, sir.I've fought through your own day as well,And come out on the other side, sir,—The further side, the morning side,I read free verse (the Psalms) on Sunday.But I've decided (you'll decide)That there is room for song on Monday.I've seen the new snob on his way,The intellectual snob I mean, sir,The artist snob, in book and play,Kicking his mother round the scene, sir.I've heard the Tories talk like fools;And the rich fool that apes the Tory.I've seen the shopmen break your rulesAnd die like Christ, in Christ's own glory.But, as for you, that liberal sneerReminds me of the poor old Kaiser.He was a "socialist," my dear.Well, I'm your grandson. You'll grow wiser.

YOUR thoughts are for the poor and weak?

Ah, no, the picturesque's your passion!

Your tongue is always in your cheek

At poverty that's not in fashion.

You like a ploughman's rugged face,

Or painted eyes in Piccadilly;

But bowler hats are commonplace,

And thread-bare tradesmen simply silly.

The clerk that sings "God save the King,"

And still believes his Tory paper,—

You hate the anæmic fool? I thought

You loved the weak! Was that all vapour?

Ah, when you sneer, dear democrat,

At such a shiny-trousered Tory

Because he doffs his poor old hat

To what he thinks his country's glory,

To you it's just a coloured rag.

You hate the "patriots" that bawl so.

Well, my Ulysses, there's a flag

That lifts men in Republics also.

No doubt his thoughts are cruder far;

And, where those linen folds are shaking,

Perhaps he sees a kind of star

Because his eyes are tired and aching.

Banal enough! Banal as truth!

But I'm not thinking of his banners.

I'm thinking of his pinched white youth

And your disgusting "new art" manners.

His meek submission stirs your hate?

Better, my lad, if you're so fervent,

Turn your cold steel against the State

Instead of sneering at the servant.

He does his job. He draws his pay.

You sneer, and dine with those that pay him;

And then you write a snobbish play

For democrats, in which you play him.

Ah, yes, you like simplicity

That sucks its cheeks to make the dimple.

But this domestic bourgeoisie

You hate,—because it's all too simple.

You hate the hearth, the wife, the child,

You hate the heavens that bend above them.

Your simple folk must all run wild

Like jungle-beasts before you love them.

You own a house in Cheyne Walk,

(You say it costs three thousand fully)

Where subtle snobs can talk and talk

And play the intellectual bully.

Yes. I say "snobs." Are names alone

Free from all change? Your word "Victorian"

Could bite and sting in ninety one

But now—it's deader than the saurian.

You think I live in yesterday,

Because I think your way the wrong one;

But I have hewed and ploughed my way,

And—unlike yours—it's been a long one.

I let Victoria toll her bell,

And went with Strindberg for a ride, sir.

I've fought through your own day as well,

And come out on the other side, sir,—

The further side, the morning side,

I read free verse (the Psalms) on Sunday.

But I've decided (you'll decide)

That there is room for song on Monday.

I've seen the new snob on his way,

The intellectual snob I mean, sir,

The artist snob, in book and play,

Kicking his mother round the scene, sir.

I've heard the Tories talk like fools;

And the rich fool that apes the Tory.

I've seen the shopmen break your rules

And die like Christ, in Christ's own glory.

But, as for you, that liberal sneer

Reminds me of the poor old Kaiser.

He was a "socialist," my dear.

Well, I'm your grandson. You'll grow wiser.

IKNOW a land, I, too,Where warm keen incense on the sea-wind blows,And all the winter long the skies are blue,And the brown deserts blossom with the rose.Deserts of all delight,Cactus and palm and earth of thirsty gold,Dark purple blooms round eaves of sun-washed white,And that Hesperian fruit men sought of old.O, to be wandering there,Under the palm-trees, on that sunset shore,Where the waves break in song, and the bright airIs crystal clean; and peace is ours, once more.There Beauty dwells,Beauty, re-born in whiteness from the foam;And Youth returns with all its magic spells,And the heart finds its long-forgotten home,—Home—home! Where is that land?For, when I dream it found, the old hungering cryAches in the soul, drives me from all I planned,And sets my sail to seek another sky.

IKNOW a land, I, too,

Where warm keen incense on the sea-wind blows,

And all the winter long the skies are blue,

And the brown deserts blossom with the rose.

Deserts of all delight,

Cactus and palm and earth of thirsty gold,

Dark purple blooms round eaves of sun-washed white,

And that Hesperian fruit men sought of old.

O, to be wandering there,

Under the palm-trees, on that sunset shore,

Where the waves break in song, and the bright air

Is crystal clean; and peace is ours, once more.

There Beauty dwells,

Beauty, re-born in whiteness from the foam;

And Youth returns with all its magic spells,

And the heart finds its long-forgotten home,—

Home—home! Where is that land?

For, when I dream it found, the old hungering cry

Aches in the soul, drives me from all I planned,

And sets my sail to seek another sky.

LAST night, I dreamed of Nippon....I saw a cloud of whiteDrifting before the sunsetOn seas of opal light.Beyond the wide PacificI saw its mounded snowMiraculously changingIn that deep evening glow,To rosy rifts and hillocks,To orchards that I knew,To snows of peach and cherry,And feathers of bamboo.I saw, on twisted bridges,In blue and crimson gleams,The lanterns of the fishers,Along the brook of dreams.I saw the wreaths of incenseLike little ghosts arise,From temples under Fuji,From Fuji to the skies.I saw that fairy mountain....I watched it form and fade.No doubt the gods were singing,When Nippon isle was made.

LAST night, I dreamed of Nippon....

I saw a cloud of white

Drifting before the sunset

On seas of opal light.

Beyond the wide Pacific

I saw its mounded snow

Miraculously changing

In that deep evening glow,

To rosy rifts and hillocks,

To orchards that I knew,

To snows of peach and cherry,

And feathers of bamboo.

I saw, on twisted bridges,

In blue and crimson gleams,

The lanterns of the fishers,

Along the brook of dreams.

I saw the wreaths of incense

Like little ghosts arise,

From temples under Fuji,

From Fuji to the skies.

I saw that fairy mountain....

I watched it form and fade.

No doubt the gods were singing,

When Nippon isle was made.

GREEN wing and ruby throat,What shining spell, what exquisite sorcery,Lured you to floatAnd fight with bees round this one flowering tree?Petulant imps of light,What whisper or gleam or elfin-wild perfumesThrilled through the nightAnd drew you to this hive of rosy bloom?One tree, and one alone,Of all that load this magic air with spice,Claims for its ownYour brave migration out of Paradise;Claims you, and guides you, too,Three thousand miles across the summer's wasteOf blooms ye knewLess finely fit for your ethereal taste.To poets' youthful hearts,Even so the quivering April thoughts will fly,—Those irised darts,Those winged and tiny denizens of the sky.Through beaks as needle-fine,They suck a redder honey than bees know.Unearthly wineSleeps in this bloom; and, when it falls, they go.

GREEN wing and ruby throat,

What shining spell, what exquisite sorcery,

Lured you to float

And fight with bees round this one flowering tree?

Petulant imps of light,

What whisper or gleam or elfin-wild perfumes

Thrilled through the night

And drew you to this hive of rosy bloom?

One tree, and one alone,

Of all that load this magic air with spice,

Claims for its own

Your brave migration out of Paradise;

Claims you, and guides you, too,

Three thousand miles across the summer's waste

Of blooms ye knew

Less finely fit for your ethereal taste.

To poets' youthful hearts,

Even so the quivering April thoughts will fly,—

Those irised darts,

Those winged and tiny denizens of the sky.

Through beaks as needle-fine,

They suck a redder honey than bees know.

Unearthly wine

Sleeps in this bloom; and, when it falls, they go.

WITH shadowy pen I write,Till time be done,Good news of some strange light,Some far off sun.

WITH shadowy pen I write,

Till time be done,

Good news of some strange light,

Some far off sun.

UNDER the palms of San DiegoWhere gold-skinned Mexicans loll at ease,And the red half-moons of their black-pipped melonsDrop from their hands in the sunset seas,And an incense, out of the old brown missions,Blows through the orange trees;I wished that a poet who died in EuropeHad found his way to this rose-red West;That Keats had walked by the wide PacificAnd cradled his head on its healing breast,And made new songs of the sun-burned sea-folk,New poems, perhaps his best.I thought of him, under the ripe pomegranatesAt the desert's edge, where the grape-vines grow,In a sun-kissed ranch between grey-green sage-brushAnd amethyst mountains, peaked with snow,Or watching the lights of the City of AngelsGlitter like stars below.He should walk, at dawn, by the lemon orchards,And breathe at ease in that dry bright air;And the Spanish bells in their crumbling cloistersOf brown adobe would sing to him there;And the old Franciscans would bring him their basketsOf apple and olive and pear.And the mandolins, in the deep blue twilight,Under that palm with the lion's mane,Would pluck, once more, at his golden heart-strings,And tell him the old sea-tales of Spain;And there should the daughters of Hesperus teach himTheir mystical songs again.Then, the dusk blew sweet over seas of peach-bloom;The moon sailed white in the cloudless blue;The tree-toads purred, and the crickets chirruped;And better than anything dreamed came true;For, under the murmuring palms, a shadowPassed, with the eyes I knew;A shadow, perhaps, of the tall green fountainsThat rustled their fronds on that glittering sky,A hungering shadow, a lean dark shadow,A dreaming shadow that drifted by;But I heard him whisper the strange dark musicThat found it so "rich to die."And the murmuring palms of San DiegoShook with stars as he passed beneath.The Paradise palms, and the wild white orchards,The night, and its roses, were all one breath,Bearing the song of a nightingale seaward,A song that had out-soared death.

UNDER the palms of San Diego

Where gold-skinned Mexicans loll at ease,

And the red half-moons of their black-pipped melons

Drop from their hands in the sunset seas,

And an incense, out of the old brown missions,

Blows through the orange trees;

I wished that a poet who died in Europe

Had found his way to this rose-red West;

That Keats had walked by the wide Pacific

And cradled his head on its healing breast,

And made new songs of the sun-burned sea-folk,

New poems, perhaps his best.

I thought of him, under the ripe pomegranates

At the desert's edge, where the grape-vines grow,

In a sun-kissed ranch between grey-green sage-brush

And amethyst mountains, peaked with snow,

Or watching the lights of the City of Angels

Glitter like stars below.

He should walk, at dawn, by the lemon orchards,

And breathe at ease in that dry bright air;

And the Spanish bells in their crumbling cloisters

Of brown adobe would sing to him there;

And the old Franciscans would bring him their baskets

Of apple and olive and pear.

And the mandolins, in the deep blue twilight,

Under that palm with the lion's mane,

Would pluck, once more, at his golden heart-strings,

And tell him the old sea-tales of Spain;

And there should the daughters of Hesperus teach him

Their mystical songs again.

Then, the dusk blew sweet over seas of peach-bloom;

The moon sailed white in the cloudless blue;

The tree-toads purred, and the crickets chirruped;

And better than anything dreamed came true;

For, under the murmuring palms, a shadow

Passed, with the eyes I knew;

A shadow, perhaps, of the tall green fountains

That rustled their fronds on that glittering sky,

A hungering shadow, a lean dark shadow,

A dreaming shadow that drifted by;

But I heard him whisper the strange dark music

That found it so "rich to die."

And the murmuring palms of San Diego

Shook with stars as he passed beneath.

The Paradise palms, and the wild white orchards,

The night, and its roses, were all one breath,

Bearing the song of a nightingale seaward,

A song that had out-soared death.

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