 | Along the trail |  |
81
IV
83
THE FAUN
(A Fantasy of the Washington Woodlands.)
I will go out to grass with that old King,
For I am weary of clothes and cooks.
I long to paddle with the throats of brooks,
To lie down with the clover
Tickling me all over,
And watch the boughs above me sway and swing.
Come, I will pluck off custom's livery,
Nor longer be a lackey to old Time.
Time shall serve me, and at my feet shall fling
The spoil of listless minutes. I shall climb
The wild trees for my food, and run
Through dale and upland as a fox runs free,
Laugh for cool joy and sleep! i' the warm sun,—
And men will call me mad, like that old King.
For I am weary of clothes and cooks.
I long to paddle with the throats of brooks,
To lie down with the clover
Tickling me all over,
And watch the boughs above me sway and swing.
Come, I will pluck off custom's livery,
Nor longer be a lackey to old Time.
Time shall serve me, and at my feet shall fling
The spoil of listless minutes. I shall climb
The wild trees for my food, and run
Through dale and upland as a fox runs free,
Laugh for cool joy and sleep! i' the warm sun,—
And men will call me mad, like that old King.
For I am woodland-natur'd, and have made
Dryads my bedfellows,
And I have played
With the sleek Naiads in the splash of pools
And made a mock of gowned and trousered fools.
And I am half Faun now, and my heart goes
Out to the forest and the crack of twigs,
The drip of wet leaves, and the low soft laughter
Of brooks that chuckle o'er old mossy jests
And say them over to themselves, the nests
Of squirrels, and the holes the chipmunk digs,
Where through the branches the slant rays
Dapple with sunlight the leaf-matted ground,
And th' wind comes with blown vesture rustling after,
And through the woven lattice of crisp sound
A bird's song lightens like a maiden's face.
Dryads my bedfellows,
And I have played
With the sleek Naiads in the splash of pools
And made a mock of gowned and trousered fools.
And I am half Faun now, and my heart goes
Out to the forest and the crack of twigs,
The drip of wet leaves, and the low soft laughter
Of brooks that chuckle o'er old mossy jests
And say them over to themselves, the nests
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Where through the branches the slant rays
Dapple with sunlight the leaf-matted ground,
And th' wind comes with blown vesture rustling after,
And through the woven lattice of crisp sound
A bird's song lightens like a maiden's face.
O wildwood Helen, let them strive and fret,
Those goggled men with their dissecting knives!
Let them in charnel-houses pass their lives
And seek in death life's secret! And let
Those hard-faced worldlings, prematurely old,
Gnaw their thin lips with vain desire to get
Portia's fair fame or Lesbia's carcanet,
Or crown of Cæsar or Catullus,
Apicius' lampreys or Crassus' gold!
For these consider many things—but yet
By land nor sea
They shall not find the way to Arcadie,
The old home of the awful heart-dear Mother,
Whereto child-dreams and long rememberings lull us,
Far from the cares that overlay and smother
The memories of old woodland outdoor mirth
In the dim first life-burst centuries ago,
The sense of the freedom and nearness of Earth—
Nay, this they shall not know;
For who goes thither
Leaves all the cark and clutch of his soul behind,
The doves defiled and the serpents shrined,
The hates that wax and the hopes that wither;
Nor does he journey, seeking where it be,
But wakes and finds himself in Arcadie.
Those goggled men with their dissecting knives!
Let them in charnel-houses pass their lives
And seek in death life's secret! And let
Those hard-faced worldlings, prematurely old,
Gnaw their thin lips with vain desire to get
Portia's fair fame or Lesbia's carcanet,
Or crown of Cæsar or Catullus,
Apicius' lampreys or Crassus' gold!
For these consider many things—but yet
By land nor sea
They shall not find the way to Arcadie,
The old home of the awful heart-dear Mother,
Whereto child-dreams and long rememberings lull us,
Far from the cares that overlay and smother
The memories of old woodland outdoor mirth
In the dim first life-burst centuries ago,
The sense of the freedom and nearness of Earth—
Nay, this they shall not know;
For who goes thither
Leaves all the cark and clutch of his soul behind,
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The hates that wax and the hopes that wither;
Nor does he journey, seeking where it be,
But wakes and finds himself in Arcadie.
Hist! there 's a stir in the brush.
Was it a face through the leaves?
Back of the laurels a scurry and rush
Hillward, then silence, except for the thrush
That throws one song from the dark of the bush
And is gone; and I plunge in the wood, and the swift soul cleaves
Through the swirl and the flow of the leaves,
As a swimmer stands with his white limbs bare to the sun
For the space that a breath is held, and drops in the sea;
And the undulant woodland folds round me, intimate, fluctuant, free,
Like the clasp and the cling of waters, and the reach and the effort is done;—
There is only the glory of living, exultant to be.
Was it a face through the leaves?
Back of the laurels a scurry and rush
Hillward, then silence, except for the thrush
That throws one song from the dark of the bush
And is gone; and I plunge in the wood, and the swift soul cleaves
Through the swirl and the flow of the leaves,
As a swimmer stands with his white limbs bare to the sun
For the space that a breath is held, and drops in the sea;
And the undulant woodland folds round me, intimate, fluctuant, free,
Like the clasp and the cling of waters, and the reach and the effort is done;—
There is only the glory of living, exultant to be.
Oh, goodly damp smell of the ground!
Oh, rough sweet bark of the trees!
Oh, clear sharp cracklings of sound!
Oh, life that's a-thrill and a-bound
With the vigor of boyhood and morning and the noontide's rapture of ease!
Was there ever a weary heart in the world?
A lag in the body's urge, or a flag of the spirit's wings?
Did a man's heart ever break
For a lost hope's sake?
For here there is lilt in the quiet and calm in the quiver of things.
Ay, this old oak, grey-grown and knurled,
Solemn and sturdy and big,
Is as young of heart, as alert and elate in his rest,
As the oriole there that clings to the tip of the twig
And scolds at the wind that it buffets too rudely his nest.
Oh, rough sweet bark of the trees!
Oh, clear sharp cracklings of sound!
Oh, life that's a-thrill and a-bound
With the vigor of boyhood and morning and the noontide's rapture of ease!
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A lag in the body's urge, or a flag of the spirit's wings?
Did a man's heart ever break
For a lost hope's sake?
For here there is lilt in the quiet and calm in the quiver of things.
Ay, this old oak, grey-grown and knurled,
Solemn and sturdy and big,
Is as young of heart, as alert and elate in his rest,
As the oriole there that clings to the tip of the twig
And scolds at the wind that it buffets too rudely his nest.
Hear! hear! hear!
Listen! the word
Of the mocking-bird!
Hear! hear! hear!
I will make all clear;
I will let you know
Where the footfalls go
That through the thicket and over the hill
Allure, allure.
How the bird-voice cleaves
Through the weft of leaves
With a leap and a thrill
Like the flash of the weaver's shuttle, swift and sudden and sure!
And lo, he is gone—even while I turn
The wisdom of his runes to learn.
He knows the mystery of the wood,
The secret of the solitude;
But he will not tell, he will not tell
—For all he promises so well.
Listen! the word
Of the mocking-bird!
Hear! hear! hear!
I will make all clear;
I will let you know
Where the footfalls go
That through the thicket and over the hill
Allure, allure.
How the bird-voice cleaves
Through the weft of leaves
With a leap and a thrill
Like the flash of the weaver's shuttle, swift and sudden and sure!
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The wisdom of his runes to learn.
He knows the mystery of the wood,
The secret of the solitude;
But he will not tell, he will not tell
—For all he promises so well.
Oh, what is it breathes in the air?
Oh, what is it touches my cheek?
There 's a sense of a presence that lurks in the branches. But where?
Is it far, is it far to seek?
Oh, what is it touches my cheek?
There 's a sense of a presence that lurks in the branches. But where?
Is it far, is it far to seek?
Brother, lost brother!
Thou of mine ancient kin!
Thou of the swift will that no ponderings smother!
The dumb life in me fumbles out to the shade
Thou lurkest in.
In vain—evasive ever through the glade
Departing footsteps fail;
And only where the grasses have been pressed
Or by snapt twigs I follow a fruitless trail.
So—give o'er the quest!
Sprawl on the roots and moss!
Let the lithe garter squirm across my throat!
Let the slow clouds and leaves above me float
Into mine eyeballs and across,—
Nor think them further! Lo, the marvel! now,
Thou whom my soul desireth, even thou
Sprawl'st by my side, who fled'st at my pursuit.
I hear thy fluting; at my shoulder there
I see the sharp ears through the tangled hair,
And birds and bunnies at thy music mute.
Thou of mine ancient kin!
Thou of the swift will that no ponderings smother!
The dumb life in me fumbles out to the shade
Thou lurkest in.
In vain—evasive ever through the glade
Departing footsteps fail;
And only where the grasses have been pressed
Or by snapt twigs I follow a fruitless trail.
So—give o'er the quest!
Sprawl on the roots and moss!
Let the lithe garter squirm across my throat!
Let the slow clouds and leaves above me float
Into mine eyeballs and across,—
Nor think them further! Lo, the marvel! now,
Thou whom my soul desireth, even thou
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I hear thy fluting; at my shoulder there
I see the sharp ears through the tangled hair,
And birds and bunnies at thy music mute.
Cool! cool! cool!
Cool and sweet
The feel of the moss at my feet!
And sweet and cool
The touch of the wind, of the wind!
Cool and sweet
The feel of the moss at my feet!
And sweet and cool
The touch of the wind, of the wind!
Cool wind out of the blue,
At the touch of you
A little wave crinkles and flows
All over me down to my toes.
At the touch of you
A little wave crinkles and flows
All over me down to my toes.
“Cool-loo! Coo-loo!”
Hear the doves in the tree tops croon!
“Coo-loo! Coo-loo!”
Love comes soon.
Hear the doves in the tree tops croon!
“Coo-loo! Coo-loo!”
Love comes soon.
“June! June!”
The veery sings,
Sings and sings,
“June! June!”
A pretty tune!
The veery sings,
Sings and sings,
“June! June!”
A pretty tune!
Wind with your weight of perfume,
Bring me the bluebells' bloom!
Bring me the bluebells' bloom!
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Ah, too much charmed I seek thee, and again
Thou meltest in the shadows. Now the breath
Of evening comes, and at the word she saith
I rise and turn back toward the streets of men.
First up the hill to where the trees are few,
To pause halfway between the wood and town
And, strengthened with the Faun's delight, look down
Upon the roofs I am returning to.
Thou meltest in the shadows. Now the breath
Of evening comes, and at the word she saith
I rise and turn back toward the streets of men.
First up the hill to where the trees are few,
To pause halfway between the wood and town
And, strengthened with the Faun's delight, look down
Upon the roofs I am returning to.
The fervid breath of our flushed Southern May
Is sweet upon the city's throat and lips,
As a lover's whose tired arm slips
Listlessly over the shoulder of a queen.
Far away
The river melts in the unseen.
Oh, beautiful Girl-City, how she dips
Her feet in the stream
With a touch that is half a kiss and half a dream!
Her face is very fair,
With flowers for smiles and sunlight in her hair.
Is sweet upon the city's throat and lips,
As a lover's whose tired arm slips
Listlessly over the shoulder of a queen.
Far away
The river melts in the unseen.
Oh, beautiful Girl-City, how she dips
Her feet in the stream
With a touch that is half a kiss and half a dream!
Her face is very fair,
With flowers for smiles and sunlight in her hair.
My westland flower-town, how serene she is!
Here on this hill from which I look at her,
All is still as if a worshipper
Left at some shrine his offering.
Soft winds kiss
My cheek with a slow lingering.
A luring whisper where the laurels stir
Wiles my heart back to woodland-ward again.
But lo,
Across the sky the sunset couriers run,
And I remain
To watch the imperial pageant of the sun
Mock me, an impotent Cortez here below,
With splendors of its vaster Mexico.
Here on this hill from which I look at her,
All is still as if a worshipper
Left at some shrine his offering.
Soft winds kiss
My cheek with a slow lingering.
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Wiles my heart back to woodland-ward again.
But lo,
Across the sky the sunset couriers run,
And I remain
To watch the imperial pageant of the sun
Mock me, an impotent Cortez here below,
With splendors of its vaster Mexico.
O Eldorado of the templed clouds!
O golden city of the western sky!
Not like the Spaniard would I storm thy gates;
Not like the babe stretch chubby hands and cry
To have thee for a toy; but, far from crowds,
Like my Faun-brother in the ferny glen,
Peer from the wood's edge while thy glory waits,
And in the darkening thickets plunge again.
O golden city of the western sky!
Not like the Spaniard would I storm thy gates;
Not like the babe stretch chubby hands and cry
To have thee for a toy; but, far from crowds,
Like my Faun-brother in the ferny glen,
Peer from the wood's edge while thy glory waits,
And in the darkening thickets plunge again.
1894
SWALLOW SONG
(From the Greek)
Hurrah, the swallow, the swallow is come,
Bringing the spring from his southern home,
The beautiful hours, the beautiful year!
Hurrah, the swallow is back from his flight,
With his back of jet and his breast of white,
The Summer's earliest harbinger!
Bringing the spring from his southern home,
The beautiful hours, the beautiful year!
Hurrah, the swallow is back from his flight,
With his back of jet and his breast of white,
The Summer's earliest harbinger!
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Come, roll out some figs from your cellar, old fellow!
Bring a beaker of wine that is ruddy and mellow,
And a wicker crate heaped up with cheeses!
Be it bread of pulse or bread of wheat,
The swallow will not disdain to eat.
Oh, the swallow and spring and the buds and the breezes!
Bring a beaker of wine that is ruddy and mellow,
And a wicker crate heaped up with cheeses!
Be it bread of pulse or bread of wheat,
The swallow will not disdain to eat.
Oh, the swallow and spring and the buds and the breezes!
Will you send us away, or shall we receive
The best that your larder is able to give?
We warn you—be generous, for if you say nay,
Your gate shall be torn from its hinge and destroyed,
Or your wife, who is sitting within, be decoyed,—
She is small, we can easily bear her away.
The best that your larder is able to give?
We warn you—be generous, for if you say nay,
Your gate shall be torn from its hinge and destroyed,
Or your wife, who is sitting within, be decoyed,—
She is small, we can easily bear her away.
Bring your gifts to the swallow, but if you bring aught,
Bring all that you can, bring more than is sought;
Open your doors for his welcoming;
For we are not grey old men, not we,
But children who laugh in juvenile glee,
And sing in life's springtide this song of the spring.
Bring all that you can, bring more than is sought;
Open your doors for his welcoming;
For we are not grey old men, not we,
But children who laugh in juvenile glee,
And sing in life's springtide this song of the spring.
1883
A HEALTH. TO E. C. S.
Here's your health in BurgundyAnd here 's your health in rye,
Until our betters drink your health
In nectar by and bye.
1897
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THE DRAMATIST. TO M. K.
Not to reveal one mysteryThat lurks beneath life's garment-hem—
Alas, I write of human hearts
Because I cannot fathom them.
1898
DELSARTE
As at the altar of the unknown GodEven so we stood before the shrine of Art.
Ignorant, we worshipped—till the hill was trod
By the Apostle. Whom but thee, Delsarte?
1893
WORLD AND POET
“Sing to us, Poet, for our hearts are broken;Sing us a song of happy, happy love,
Sing of the joy that words leave all unspoken,—
The lilt and laughter of life, oh sing thereof!
Oh, sing of life, for we are sick and dying;
Oh, sing of joy, for all our joy is dead;
Oh, sing of laughter, for we know but sighing;
Oh, sing of kissing, for we kill instead!”
How should he sing of happy love, I pray,
Who drank love's cup of anguish long ago?
How should he sing of life and joy and day,
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And yet the Poet took his lyre and sang,
Till all the dales with happy echoes rang.
1891
THE SOUTH
Ah, where the hot wind with sweet odors ladenAcross the roses faintly beats his wings,
Lifting a lure of subtle murmurings
Over the still pools that the herons wade in,
Telling of some far sunset-bowered Aidenn,
And in an orange-tree an oriole sings,
Whereunder lies, dreaming of unknown things,
With orange-blossoms wreathed, a radiant maiden,—
There is the poet's land, there would I lie
Under magnolia blooms and take no care,
And let my eyes grow languid and my mouth
Glow with the kisses of the amorous air,
And breathe with every breath the luxury
Of the hot-cheeked, sweet, heavy-lidded South.
1883
A CAPRICE OF OGAROW. TO M. P.
It is a sweet coquetting. I can seeAbove the fan the rogue eyes' merry leer,
The fitful feigned retreatings that appear
To court pursuit, the cheeks that dimple with glee
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A little way and wait as if for fear
Light love should yield the chase,—so sweet and clear
The violin speech tells its tale to me.
O art's rose lady, such themes have their part
In beryl-wrought rare delicate interludes;
But give not unto these thy queenlier art.
Rather shouldst thou unsphinx the rarer moods
Of Chopin passioning in a star's red heart,
Of Schubert sighing in the solitudes.
1887
THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS
The maiden knew the hero was divine,—For when she saw him, was she not content?
So in the satisfaction of the heart
We find his praise, nor with too noisy art
Proclaim the beauty past all ornament
Of his precise and unsuperfluous line.
1892
BEETHOVEN'S THIRD SYMPHONY.
Passion and pain, the outcry of despair,The pang of unattainable desire,
And youth's delight in pleasures that expire,
And sweet high dreamings of the good and fair
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Uplifted stays the destined death-stroke dire!
Then through a mighty sorrowing as through fire
The soul burnt pure yearns forth into the air
Of the dear earth and, with the scent of flowers
And song of birds refreshed, takes heart again,
Made cheerier with this drinking of God's wine,
And turns with healing to the world of men;
And high above a sweet strong angel towers
And Love makes life triumphant and divine.
1888
AUGUST
The white sky and the white sea runTheir twin pearl-splendors into one,
Nor can the eye distinguish these,
Enchanted by the diableries
The mist-witch conjures in the sun.
Landward a white birch, like a nun,
Whispers her leafy rosaries.
Beyond, where the still woodland is,
The blue west leadens into dun,
Close to the dark tops of the trees.
1886
96
A BALLADE OF MYSTERIES
Doctor, I pray you, do no more wrong
To the drugged dog there in the horrid room.
Come, unmuzzle; disclose how the stars prolong
Thin lines of light through the infinite gloom,
And how life sprang in the primal spume.
Then I'll tell you how the bells' ding-dong
Holds sweet talk with the birds i' the broom,
And the poet's heart is astir with song.
To the drugged dog there in the horrid room.
Come, unmuzzle; disclose how the stars prolong
Thin lines of light through the infinite gloom,
And how life sprang in the primal spume.
Then I'll tell you how the bells' ding-dong
Holds sweet talk with the birds i' the broom,
And the poet's heart is astir with song.
Sage, who discernest in winter's thong
The thought at the heart of June's perfume,
Say, how grows the weak babe wise and strong,
And how is Thought born, and by whom
May the Fates be lured from the pitiless loom,
And what is Right and what is Wrong?
Then I'll tell you why the breakers boom,
And the poet's heart is astir with song.
The thought at the heart of June's perfume,
Say, how grows the weak babe wise and strong,
And how is Thought born, and by whom
May the Fates be lured from the pitiless loom,
And what is Right and what is Wrong?
Then I'll tell you why the breakers boom,
And the poet's heart is astir with song.
Priest, tell me now, ere the even-song,
How God lay hid in the Virgin's womb,
Who filleth the depth and the height of the long
Sky-reaches, and how men's mouths consume
His flesh that rose from the sacred tomb.
Then I'll tell you how the clouds give tongue
To a message from God of a grand sweet doom,
And the poet's heart is astir with song.
Princess, say how the heart makes room
For love, where the cares of a kingdom throng.
Then I'll tell you why the roses bloom
And the poet's heart is astir with song.
How God lay hid in the Virgin's womb,
Who filleth the depth and the height of the long
Sky-reaches, and how men's mouths consume
His flesh that rose from the sacred tomb.
Then I'll tell you how the clouds give tongue
To a message from God of a grand sweet doom,
And the poet's heart is astir with song.
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For love, where the cares of a kingdom throng.
Then I'll tell you why the roses bloom
And the poet's heart is astir with song.
1887
THE SHADOWS
Dumb as the dead, with furtive tread,
Unseen, unheard, unknown,—
And never a Gloom that turns his head
As they stride where I crouch alone!
Unseen, unheard, unknown,—
And never a Gloom that turns his head
As they stride where I crouch alone!
For this is the grisliest horror there
As the brutal bulks go by;
Right on they fare, with a stony stare,
Nor heed me where I lie.
As the brutal bulks go by;
Right on they fare, with a stony stare,
Nor heed me where I lie.
Though I strain my eyes as I freeze and cringe
Till the sockets sizzle dry,
And the eyeball shrieks like a rusty hinge,
They will never impinge mine eye.
Till the sockets sizzle dry,
And the eyeball shrieks like a rusty hinge,
They will never impinge mine eye.
I shall see nought but the silver darks
Of the sky and the dim sea,
Where horrid silver loops and arcs
Foam phosphorent at me.
Of the sky and the dim sea,
Where horrid silver loops and arcs
Foam phosphorent at me.
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But the cliff, the cliff! Lo, where thereon
Their silent shadows file,
One after one, one after one,
Mile on remorseless mile.
Their silent shadows file,
One after one, one after one,
Mile on remorseless mile.
Dull red, like embers in a grate,
Against the sulphur crag,
They play about the feet of Fate
Their awful game of tag.
Against the sulphur crag,
They play about the feet of Fate
Their awful game of tag.
1893
ANGRO-MAINYUS
I am the Most High God;
Worship thou me!
Put not up vain prayers to avert my wrath,
For my wrath shall fall like the thunderbolt
And thou shalt be cleft asunder as an oak.
Worship thou me!
Put not up vain prayers to avert my wrath,
For my wrath shall fall like the thunderbolt
And thou shalt be cleft asunder as an oak.
I am Angro-mainyus, the Most High God.
Cry not unto me for mercy, for I am merciless.
Sin and Death are my ministers,
And my ways are ways of torture and the shedding of blood.
I am the Lord thy God.
Cry not unto me for mercy, for I am merciless.
Sin and Death are my ministers,
And my ways are ways of torture and the shedding of blood.
I am the Lord thy God.
I am the Destroyer.
My sword is as fire in the forest;
My feet are inexorable.
Ask me not to deliver thee from evil.
I am Evil.
My sword is as fire in the forest;
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Ask me not to deliver thee from evil.
I am Evil.
Ahura-mazda is God too,
The beneficent one, the savior!
He dwelleth in the Sun,
But I in the terror of tempests.
There are two thrones, but one God.
The beneficent one, the savior!
He dwelleth in the Sun,
But I in the terror of tempests.
There are two thrones, but one God.
The waves of the sea war mightily,
But in the deeps there is calm.
Ahura-mazda and I are one God;
There is war between our legions,
But in us peace.
Behold, he knoweth my thoughts and I his,
And there is no discord in us.
But in the deeps there is calm.
Ahura-mazda and I are one God;
There is war between our legions,
But in us peace.
Behold, he knoweth my thoughts and I his,
And there is no discord in us.
He worketh in light
And I in darkness;
His ways and my ways are asunder.
But blaspheme not, calling me “Devil,”
Neither saying, “There are two Gods;”
I am the Most High God,
And I and Ahura-mazda are one.
And I in darkness;
His ways and my ways are asunder.
But blaspheme not, calling me “Devil,”
Neither saying, “There are two Gods;”
I am the Most High God,
And I and Ahura-mazda are one.
1888
100
IMMANENCE
Enthroned above the world although he sit,Still is the world in him and he in it;
The selfsame power in yonder sunset glows
That kindled in the lords of Holy Writ.
1893
TRANSCENDENCE
Though one with all that sense or soul can see,Not prisoned in his own creations he,
His life is more than stars or winds or angels—
The sun doth not contain him nor the sea.
1893
VISITATION
Was it a dream, or did I see him there,
That quiet presence in my easy-chair?
Surely a sacred hush was in the room,
And a dim sense of legends made the gloom
Of unlit tapers and a dying fire
Rich with the grace of wonderland drawn nigher—
And there across the table, who but he?
That quiet presence in my easy-chair?
Surely a sacred hush was in the room,
And a dim sense of legends made the gloom
Of unlit tapers and a dying fire
Rich with the grace of wonderland drawn nigher—
And there across the table, who but he?
I cannot think but that he thought of me,
Far off, in some diviner atmosphere,
And, thinking so,—if he did not appear
Indeed, as I half fancied then, and now
Still sometimes dream, so clear the wide calm brow,
Shadowed with a sweet seriousness, I see
Across the table in my reverie—
Yet, thinking so, his loving thought had power
To make me feel his presence like a flower
That sends a heavy odor through the air,
To make me see him, though he was not there.
Far off, in some diviner atmosphere,
And, thinking so,—if he did not appear
101
Still sometimes dream, so clear the wide calm brow,
Shadowed with a sweet seriousness, I see
Across the table in my reverie—
Yet, thinking so, his loving thought had power
To make me feel his presence like a flower
That sends a heavy odor through the air,
To make me see him, though he was not there.
O gentle ghost! I would that I could deem
That I were worthy of that passing dream.
I would that I could think that my poor song
Had reached thee where thou walkest with the throng
Of gracious poets in their glory crowned,
Shakespeare and Burns and Shelley laurel-bound,
And pleased thee but so much as thou shouldst turn
And yield one sigh for those who still must mourn
On this harsh earth, one sigh for him whose line
Were too much graced in that one thought of thine.
That I were worthy of that passing dream.
I would that I could think that my poor song
Had reached thee where thou walkest with the throng
Of gracious poets in their glory crowned,
Shakespeare and Burns and Shelley laurel-bound,
And pleased thee but so much as thou shouldst turn
And yield one sigh for those who still must mourn
On this harsh earth, one sigh for him whose line
Were too much graced in that one thought of thine.
1891
IN EXCELSIS
I saw a man alone upon a height,With face toward heaven. I asked what did he there.
“For thirty years I have known the stars; to-night,”
He said, “I see the angels and despair.”
1896
102
THE VEILED LADY
Whoso hath seen her brow displayed,
Keeps silence of its bloom or blight.
She passeth through our streets arrayed
In weeds that screen her from men's sight.
None knoweth if in that veil bedight
Lurk loathsome hag or lovesome maid.
Whoso hath seen her brow displayed
Keeps silence of its bloom or blight.
Keeps silence of its bloom or blight.
She passeth through our streets arrayed
In weeds that screen her from men's sight.
None knoweth if in that veil bedight
Lurk loathsome hag or lovesome maid.
Whoso hath seen her brow displayed
Keeps silence of its bloom or blight.
Men pass her daily undismayed,
Yet often in the sleepless night
Cry “Grace or Gorgon?” sore afraid;
But no word comes from any wight.
Whoso hath seen her brow displayed,
Keeps silence of its bloom or blight.
Yet often in the sleepless night
Cry “Grace or Gorgon?” sore afraid;
But no word comes from any wight.
Whoso hath seen her brow displayed,
Keeps silence of its bloom or blight.
1888
THE MESSENGER
(For the Picture by G. F. Watts)
Strong angel of the peace of God,
Not wholly undivined thy mien;
Along the weary path I trod
Thou hast been with me though unseen.
Not wholly undivined thy mien;
Along the weary path I trod
Thou hast been with me though unseen.
103
My hopes have been a mad turmoil,
A clutch and conflict all my life,
The very craft I loved a toil,
And love itself a seed of strife.
A clutch and conflict all my life,
The very craft I loved a toil,
And love itself a seed of strife.
But sometimes in a sudden hour
I have been great with Godlike calm,
As if thy tranquil world of power
Flowed in about me like a psalm.
I have been great with Godlike calm,
As if thy tranquil world of power
Flowed in about me like a psalm.
And peace has fallen on my face,
And stillness on my struggling breath;
And, living, I have known a space
The hush and mastery of Death.
And stillness on my struggling breath;
And, living, I have known a space
The hush and mastery of Death.
Stretch out thy hand upon me, thou
Who comest as the still night comes!
I have not flinched at buffets; now
Let Strife go by, with all his drums.
Who comest as the still night comes!
I have not flinched at buffets; now
Let Strife go by, with all his drums.
1894
HENRY GEORGE
(Died October 29, 1897)
Oh, be his death a clarion
To hearten, not dismay!
Fight on!
We have not lost the day. ...
To hearten, not dismay!
Fight on!
We have not lost the day. ...
104
Ay, if the day be lost, what then?
The cause, the cause endures.
Be men—
The triumph yet is yours,
The cause, the cause endures.
Be men—
The triumph yet is yours,
The triumph every cause has won
That called men to be free!
Fight on,
Indomitable as he—
That called men to be free!
Fight on,
Indomitable as he—
As he, our captain without stain,
The Bayard of the poor.
Be men!
Flinch no man in this hour.
The Bayard of the poor.
Be men!
Flinch no man in this hour.
Remember him that knew no fear,
And craved no diadem.
A cheer!
Be that his requiem.
And craved no diadem.
A cheer!
Be that his requiem.
1897
| Along the trail | |