Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Nay, sun is but a bubble,
Earth is a whiff of foam—
To my caves on the coast of Thule
Each night I call them home.
Thence Faiths blow forth to angels
And loves blow forth to men—
They break and turn to nothing
And I make them whole again.
On the crested waves of chaos
I ride them back reborn:
New stars I bring at evening
For those that burst at morn;
My soul is the wind of Thule
And evening is the sign—
The sun is but a bubble,
A fragile child of mine.”

198

GHOSTS IN LOVE

“Tell me, where do ghosts in love
Find their bridal veils?”

“If you and I were ghosts in love
We'd climb the cliffs of Mystery,
Above the Sea that Wails,
I'd trim your gray and streaming hair
With veils of Fantasy
From the tree of Memory.
'Tis there the ghosts that fall in love
Find their bridal veils.”

COLD SUNBEAMS

The Question:

“Tell me, where do fairy queens
Find their bridal veils?”

The Answer:

“If you were now a fairy queen
Then I, your faithless page and bold
Would win the realm by winning you.
Your veil would be transparent gold
White magic spiders wove for you
At cold gray dawn, from sunbeams cold
While robins sang amid the dew.”

199

SWEETHEARTS OF THE YEAR

Sweetheart Spring

Our Sweetheart, Spring, came softly,
Her gliding hands were fire,
Her lilac breath upon our cheeks
Consumed us with desire.

By her our God began to build,
Began to sow and till.
He laid foundations in our loves
For every good and ill.
We asked Him not for blessing,
We asked Him not for pain—
Still, to the just and unjust
He sent His fire and rain.

Sweetheart Summer

We prayed not, yet she came to us,
The silken, shining one,
On Jacob's noble ladder
Descended from the sun.
She reached our town of Every Day,
Our dry and dusty sod—
We prayed not, yet she brought to us
The misty wine of God.

Sweetheart Autumn

The woods were black and crimson,
The frost-bit flowers were dead,

200

But Sweetheart Indian Summer came
With love-winds round her head.
While fruits God-given and splendid
Belonged to her domain:
Baskets of corn in perfect ear
And grapes with purple stain,
The treacherous winds persuaded her
Spring Love was in the wood
Altho' the end of love was hers—
Fruition, Motherhood.

Sweetheart Winter

We had done naught of service
To win our Maker's praise.
Yet Sweetheart Winter came to us
To gild our waning days.
Down Jacob's winding ladder
She came from Sunshine Town,
Bearing the sparkling mornings
And clouds of silver-brown;
Bearing the seeds of Springtime.
Upon her snowy seas
Bearing the fairy star-flowers
For baby Christmas trees.

SWEET BRIARS OF THE STAIRWAYS

We are happy all the time
Even when we fight:
Sweet briars of the stairways,
Gay fairies of the grime;
We, who are playing to-night.

201

“Our feet are in the gutters,
Our eyes are sore with dust,
But still our eyes are bright.
The wide street roars and mutters—
We know it works because it must—
We, who are playing to-night!

“Dirt is everlasting.—We never, never fear it.
Toil is never-ceasing.—We will play until we near it.
Tears are never-ending.—When once real tears have come;

“When we see our people as they are—
Our fathers—broken, dumb—
Our mothers—broken, dumb—
The weariest of women and of men;
Ah—then our eyes will lose their light—
Then we will never play again—
We, who are playing to-night.”

THE SORCERESS!

I asked her, “Is Aladdin's lamp
Hidden anywhere?”
“Look into your heart,” she said,
“Aladdin's lamp is there.”

She took my heart with glowing hands.
It burned to dust and air
And smoke and rolling thistledown
Blowing everywhere.

“Follow the thistledown,” she said,
“Till doomsday, if you dare,
Over the hills and far away.
Aladdin's lamp is there.”

202

THE AMARANTH

Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here. ...
Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns
And the tremendous Amaranth descends
Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns?

Does it not mean my God would have me say:—
“Whether you will or no, O city young,
Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you,
Flash and loom greatly all your marts among”?

Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep.
Such things I see, and some of them shall come,
Though now or streets are harsh and ashen-gray,
Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb.
Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise.
Naught can delay it. Though it may not be
Just as I dream, it comes at last I know,
With streets like channels of an incense-sea.

AN APOLOGY FOR THE BOTTLE VOLCANIC

Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire,
The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire.
It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small,
And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all.
And so my blood grows cold. I say, “The bottle held but ink,
And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think.”
And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor,
The bottle says, “Fe, fi, fo, fum,” and steams and shouts some more.

203

O sad, deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way—
All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day,
And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom,
And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom.
And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night,
And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite,
My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine
Ten thousands troops from fairyland come riding in a line.
I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair,
They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air.
The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew,
O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew!

THE VILLAGE IMPROVEMENT PARADE

Guns salute, and crowds and pigeons fly,
Bronzed, Homeric bards go striding by,
Shouting “Glory” amid the cannonade:—
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

Actors, craftsmen, builders, join the throng,
Painters, sculptors, florists tramp along,
Farm-boys prance, in tinsel tin and jade:—
It is the cross-roads
Love and Laughter
Crusade.

The sun is blazing big as all the sky,
The mustard-plant with the sunflower climbing high,

204

With the Indian corn in fiery plumes arrayed:—
It is the cross-roads
Love and Beauty
Crusade.

Free and proud and mellow jamboree,
Roar and foam upon the prairie sea,
Tom turkeys sing the sun a serenade:—
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

Our sweethearts dance, with wands as white as milk,
With veils of gold and robes of silver silk,
Their caps in velvet pansy-patterns made:—
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

Wandering round the shrines we understand,
Waving oak-boughs cheap and close at hand,
And field-flowers fair, for which no man has paid:—
It is the cross-roads
Love and Beauty
Crusade.

Hieroglyphic marchers here we bring.
Rich inscriptions strut and talk and sing.
A scroll to read, a picture-word brigade:—
It is the cross-roads
Love and Laughter
Crusade.

Swans for symbols deck the banners rare,
Mighty acorn-signs command the air,

205

For hearts of oak, by flying beauty swayed:—
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

The flags are big, like rainbows flashing round,
They spread like sails, and lift us from the ground,
Star-born ships, that have come in masquerade:—
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

THE FAIRY FROM THE APPLE-SEED

O apple-seed I planted in a silly shallow place
In a bowl of wrought silver, with Sangamon earth within it,
O baby tree that came, without an apple or it,
A tree that grew a tiny height, but thickened on apace,
With bossy glossy arms, and leaves of trembling lace.

One night the trunk was rent, and the heavy bowl rocked round,
The boughs were bending here and there, with a curious locust sound,
And a tiny dryad came, from out the doll tree,
And held the boughs in ivory hands,
And waved her black hair round,
And climbed, and ate with merry words
The sudden fruit it bore.
And in the leaves she hides and sings
And guards my study door.

She guards it like a watchdog true
And robbers run away.

206

Her eyes are lifted spears all night,
But dove-eyes in the day.

And she is stranger, stronger
Than the funny human race.
Lovelier her form, and holier her face.
She feeds me flowers and fruit
With a quaint grace.
She dresses in the apple-leaves
As delicate as lace.
This girl that came from Sangamon earth
In a bowl of silver bright
From an apple-seed I planted in a silly shallow place.

DANCING FOR A PRIZE

Three fairies by the Sangamon
Were dancing for a prize.
The rascals were alike indeed
As they danced with drooping eyes.
I gave the magic acorn
To the one I loved the best,
The imp that made me think of her
My heart's eternal guest,
My lady of the tea-rose, my lady far away,
Queen of the fleets of No-Man's-Land
That sail to old Cathay.
How did the trifler hint of her?
Ah, when the dance was done
They begged me for the acorn,
Laughing every one.
Two had eyes of midnight,
And one had golden eyes,
And I gave the golden acorn

207

To the scamp with golden eyes.
Confessor Dandelion,
My priest so gray and wise,
Whispered when I gave it
To the girl with golden eyes:
“She is like your Queen of Glory
On China's holy strand
Who drove the coiling dragons
Like doves before her hand.”

THE SOUL OF THE CITY RECEIVES THE GIFT OF THE HOLY SPIRIT

(A broadside distributed in Springfield, Illinois)

Censers are swinging
Over the town;
Censers are swinging,
Look overhead!
Censers are swinging,
Heaven comes down.
City, dead city,
Awake from the dead!

Censers, tremendous,
Gleam overhead.
Wind-harps are ringing,
Wind-harps unseen—
Calling and calling:—
“Wake from the dead.
Rise, little city,
Shine like a queen.”

Soldiers of Christ
For battle grow keen.

208

Heaven-sent winds
Haunt alley and lane.
Singing of life
In town-meadows green
After the toil
And battle and pain.

Incense is pouring
Like the spring rain
Down on the mob
That moil through the street.
Blessed are they
Who behold it and gain
Power made more mighty
Thro' every defeat.

Builders, toil on.
Make all complete.
Make Springfield wonderful.
Make her renown
Worthy this day,
Till, at God's feet,
Tranced, saved forever,
Waits the white town.

Censers are swinging
Over the town,
Censers gigantic!
Look overhead!
Hear the winds singing:—
“Heaven comes down.
City, dead city,
Awake from the dead.”

209

THE ANGEL AND THE CLOWN

I saw wild domes and bowers
And smoking incense towers
And mad exotic flowers
In Illinois.
Where ragged ditches ran
Now springs of Heaven began
Celestial drink for man
In Illinois.

There stood beside the town
Beneath its incense-crown
An angel and a clown
In Illinois.
He was as Clowns are:
She was snow and star
With eyes that looked afar
In Illinois.

I asked, “How came this place
Of antique Asian grace
Amid our callow race
In Illinois?”
Said Clown and Angel fair:
“By laughter and by prayer,
By casting off all care
In Illinois.”

THE SONG OF THE STURDY SNAILS

Gristly bare-bone fingers
On my window-pane—
The drumbeat of a ghost
Louder than the rain!

210

Oh frail, storm-shaken hut—
No candle, not a spark
Of fire within the grate.
Oh the lonely dark!

Trembling by the window
I watched the lightning flash
And saw the little villains
Upon the outer sash

And other small musicians
Upon the window-pane—
Garden snails, a-dragging
Their shells amid the rain!

The thunder blew away.
My happiness began.
Over the dripping darkness
Rills of moonlight ran.

In the silence rich
The scratching of the shells
Became a crooning music
A lazy peal of bells.

So fearless in the night
My sluggard brothers bold!
Your fancies swift and glowing;
Your footsteps slow and cold!

My happy beggar brothers
Tuning all together
Playing on the pane
Praise of stormy weather!

211

Upon a ragged pillow
At last I laid my head
And watched the sparkling window,
And the wan light on my bed.

Through the glass came flying
Dream snails, with leafy wings—
Glided on the moonbeams—
And all the snails were kings!

With crowns of pollen yellow
And eyes of firefly gold
Behold—to crooning music
Their coiling wings unrolled!

These tiny kings I saw
Reigning over white
Bisque jars of fairy flowers
In sturdy proud delight.

These jars in fairyland
Await good snails that keep
Vigils on the windows
Of beggars fast asleep.

THE WEDDING OF THE ROSE AND THE LOTUS

[_]

(A poem distributed to both houses of Congress by Secretary Franklin K. Lane on the opening day of the Panama-Pacific Exposition.)

Flags of the Pacific
And the Atlantic meet,
Captain calls to captain,
Fleet makes cheer with fleet.

212

Above the drownèd ages
A wind of wooing blows:—
The red rose woos the lotus,
The lotus woos the rose ...

The lotus conquered Egypt.
The rose was loved in Rome.
Great India crowned the lotus:
(Britain the rose's home).
Old China crowned the lotus,
They crowned it in Japan.
But Christendom adored the rose
Ere Christendom began ...

The lotus speaks of slumber:
The rose is as a dart.
The lotus is Nirvana:
The rose is Mary's heart.
The rose is deathless, restless,
The splendor of our pain:
The flush and fire of labor
That builds, not all in vain. ...

The genius of the lotus
Shall heal earth's too-much fret.
The rose, in blinding glory,
Shall waken Asia yet.
Hail to their loves, ye peoples!
Behold, a world-wind blows,
That aids the ivory lotus
To wed the red, red rose!

213

THE TREE OF LAUGHING BELLS, OR THE WINGS OF THE MORNING

A Poem for Aviators

How the Wings Were Made

From many morning-glories
That in an hour will fade,
From many pansy buds
Gathered in the shade,
From lily of the valley
And dandelion buds,
From fiery poppy-buds
Are the Wings of the Morning made.

The Indian Girl Who Made Them

These, the Wings of the Morning,
An Indian Maiden wove,
Intertwining subtlely
Wands from a willow grove
Beside the Sangamon—
Rude stream of Dreamland Town.
She bound them to my shoulders
With fingers golden-brown.
The wings were part of me;
The willow-wands were hot.
Pulses from my heart
Healed each bruise and spot
Of the morning-glory buds,
Beginning to unfold
Beneath her burning song of suns untold.

214

The Indian Girl Tells the Hero Where to Go to Get the Laughing Bell

“To the farthest star of all,
Go, make a moment's raid.
To the west—escape the earth
Before your pennons fade!
West! west! o'ertake the night
That flees the morning sun.
There's a path between the stars—
A black and silent one.
Oh, tremble when you near
The smallest star that sings:
Only the farthest star
Is cool for willow wings.

“There's a sky within the west—
There's a sky beyond the skies
Where only one star shines—
The Star of Laughing Bells—
In Chaos-land it lies;
Cold as morning-dew,
A gray and tiny boat
Moored on Chaos-shore,
Where nothing else can float
But the Wings of the Morning strong
And the lilt of laughing song
From many a ruddy throat:

“For the Tree of Laughing Bells
Grew from a bleeding seed
Planted mid enchantment
Played on a harp and reed:

215

Darkness was the harp—
Chaos-wind the reed;
The fruit of the tree is a bell, blood-red—
The seed was the heart of a fairy, dead.
Part of the bells of the Laughing Tree
Fell to-day at a blast from the reed.
Bring a fallen bell to me.
Go!” the maiden said.
“For the bell will quench our memory,
Our hope,
Our borrowed sorrow;
We will have no thirst for yesterday,
No thought for to-morrow.”

The Journey Starts Swiftly

A thousand times ten thousand times
More swift than the sun's swift light
Were the Morning Wings in their flight
On—On—
West of the Universe,
Thro' the West
To Chaos-night.

He Nears the Goal

How the red bells rang
As I neared the Chaos-shore!
As I flew across to the end of the West
The young bells rang and rang
Above the Chaos roar,
And the Wings of the Morning
Beat in tune

216

And bore me like a bird along—
And the nearing star turned to a moon—
Gray moon, with a brow of red—
Gray moon with a golden song.
Like a diver after pearls
I plunged to that stifling floor.
It was wide as a giant's wheat-field
An icy, wind-washed shore.
O laughing, proud, but trembling star!
O wind that wounded sore!

He Climbs the Hill Where the Tree Grows

On—
Thro' the gleaming gray
I ran to the storm and clang—
To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed—
And scattered bells like autumn leaves.
How the red bells rang!
My breath within my breast
Was held like a diver's breath—
The leaves were tangled locks of gray—
The boughs of the tree were white and gray,
Shaped like scythes of Death.
The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway—
Sway like scythes of Death.
But it was beautiful!
I knew that all was well.
A thousand bells from a thousand boughs
Each moment bloomed and fell.
On the hill of the wind-swept tree
There were no bells asleep;
They sang beneath my training wings

217

Like rivers sweet and steep.
Deep rock-clefts before my feet
Mighty chimes did keep
And little choirs did keep.

He Receives the Bells

Honeyed, small and fair,
Like flowers, in flowery lands—
Like little maiden's hands—
Two bells fell in my hair,
Two bells caressed my hair.
I pressed them to my purple lips
In the strangling Chaos-air.

He Starts on the Return Journey

On desperate wings and strong,
Two bells within my breast,
I breathed again, I breathed again—
West of the Universe—
West of the skies of the West.
Into the black toward home,
And never a star in sight,
By Faith that is blind I took my way
With my two bosomed blossoms gay
Till a speck in the East was the Milky Way:
Till starlit was the night.
And the bells had quenched all memory—
All hope—
All borrowed sorrow:
I had no thirst for yesterday,
No thought for to-morrow.

218

Like hearts within my breast
The bells would throb to me
And down the siren stars
That sang enticingly;
My heart became a bell—
Three bells were in my breast,
Three hearts to comfort me.
We reached the daytime happily—
We reached the earth with glee.
In an hour, in an hour it was done!
The wings in their morning flight
Were a thousand times ten thousand times
More swift than beams of light.

He Gives What He Won to the Indian Girl

I panted in the grassy wood;
I kissed the Indian Maid
As she took my wings from me:
With all the grace I could
I gave two throbbing bells to her
From the foot of the Laughing Tree.
And one she pressed to her golden breast
And one, gave back to me.

From Lilies of the valley—
See them fade.
From poppy-blooms all frayed,
From dandelions gray with care,
From pansy-faces, worn and torn,
From morning-glories—
See them fade—
From all things fragile, faint and fair
Are the Wings of the Morning made!

219

Note: My painting of The Tree of Laughing Bells is hung on the mezzanine floor of the Davenport Hotel, Spokane, Washington, in the midst of the one thousand famous singing birds brought from all over the world by Louis M. Davenport. This recent honor I count a singularly fortunate interpretation of the symbolism of the painting.

THE SPIDER AND THE GHOST OF THE FLY

Once I loved a spider
When I was born a fly,
A velvet-footed spider
With a gown of rainbow-dye.
She ate my wings and gloated.
She bound me with a hair.
She drove me to her parlor
Above her winding stair.
To educate young spiders
She took me all apart.
My ghost came back to haunt her.
I saw her eat my heart.

CRICKETS ON A STRIKE

The foolish queen of fairyland
From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell,

220

Gave command to her cricket-band
To play for her when the dew-drops fell.

But the cold dew spoiled their instruments
And they play for the foolish queen no more.
Instead those sturdy malcontents
Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor.

THE VISIT TO MAB

When glad vacation time began
A snail-king said to his dear spouse,
“Come, let us lock our birch-bark house
And visit some important man.

“Each summer we have hoped to go
To see the sultan Gingerbread
Who wears chopped citron on his head
And currant love-locks in a row.

“And see his vizier Chocolate Bill
And Popcorn Man, his pale young priest.
They live twelve inches to the east
Behind the lofty brown-bread hill.”

His wife said: “Simple elegance
Is what we want. It is the mode
To take the little western road
To where the blue-grass fairies dance.

“I think the queen will recognize
Our atmosphere of wealth and ease.
My steel-gray shell is sure to please,
And she will fear your fiery eyes.”

221

And so they visited proud Mab.
The firs were laughing overhead,
The chattering roses burned deep-red.
The snails were queer and dumb and drab.

The contrast made them quite the thing.
A setting spells success at times.
Mab gave the queen a book of rhymes.
A tissue-cap she gave the king.

Like caps the children wear for sport.
And vainer than he well could say
He called gay Mab his “pride and stay,”
With pompous speeches to the court.

They journeyed home, made young indeed,
But opening the book of song
Each poem looked so deep and long
They could not bear to start to read.

TO LADY JANE

(Written for Miss Jane Brown on her birthday)

Romance was always young.
You come to-day
Just eight years old
With marvellous dark hair.
Younger than Dante found you
When you turned
His heart into the way
That found the heavenly stair.

Perhaps we must be strangers.
I confess

222

My soul this hour is Dante's,
And your care
Should be for dolls
Whose painted hands caress
Your marvellous dark hair.

Romance, with moonflower face
And morning eyes,
And lips whose thread of scarlet prophesies
The canticles of a coming king unknown,
Remember, when you join him
On his throne,
Even me, your far-off troubadour,
And wear
For me some trifling rose
Beneath your veil,
Dying a royal death,
Happy and pale,
Choked by the passion,
The wonder and the snare,
The glory and despair
That still will haunt and own
Your marvellous dark hair.

INDIAN SUMMER.

LITTLE LEAVES ARE BURNING IN THE STREET:
AND LITTLE FLAMES LIE HEARTS UPON THEM BEAT.
THE SMOKE GOES HIGH ABOVE THE TREE-TOPS BARE.
WHITE SMOKE AND GREY NOW MAKE THE CITY FAIR.

OH SPICY SMOKE, THE LITTLE BOYS DELIGHT!
YOU BLESS HIS DAYS. AND MAKE HIM HOPE FOR NIGHT.
FOR NIGHT-FIRES OF THE GUTTERS, BURNING BRIGHT.

AN INDIAN SUMMER DAY ON THE PRAIRIE

In the Beginning

The sun is a huntress young,
The sun is a red, red joy,
The sun is an Indian girl,
Of the tribe of the Illinois.

223

Mid-Morning

The sun is a smoldering fire,
That creeps through the high gray plain,
And leaves not a bush of cloud
To blossom with flowers of rain.

Noon

The sun is a wounded deer,
That treads pale grass in the skies,
Shaking his golden horns,
Flashing his baleful eyes.

Sunset

The sun is an eagle old,
There in the windless west.
Atop of the spirit-cliffs
He builds him a crimson nest.

QUEEN MAB IN THE VILLAGE

Once I loved a fairy,
Queen Mab it was. Her voice
Was like a little Fountain
That bids the birds rejoice.
Her face was wise and solemn,
Her hair was brown and fine.
Her dress was pansy velvet,
A butterfly design.

To see her hover round me
Or walk the hills of air,
Awakened love's deep pulses

224

And boyhood's first despair;
A passion like a sword-blade
That pierced me thro' and thro':
Her fingers healed the sorrow
Her whisper would renew.
We sighed and reigned and feasted
Within a hollow tree,
We vowed our love was boundless,
Eternal as the sea.
She banished from her kingdom
The mortal boy I grew—
So tall and crude and noisy,
I killed grasshoppers too.
I threw big rocks at pigeons,
I plucked and tore apart
The weeping, wailing daisies,
And broke my lady's heart.
At length I grew to manhood,
I scarcely could believe
I ever loved the lady,
Or caused her court to grieve,
Until a dream came to me,
One bleak first night of Spring,
Ere tides of apple blossoms
Rolled in o'er everything,
While rain and sleet and snowbanks
Were still a-vexing men,
Ere robin and his comrades
Were nesting once again.

I saw Mab's Book of Judgment—
Its clasps were iron and stone,
Its leaves were mammoth ivory,
Its boards were mammoth bone,—
Hid in her seaside mountains,

225

Forgotten or unkept,
Beneath its mighty covers
Her wrath against me slept.
And deeply I repented
Of brash and boyish crime,
Of murder of things lovely
Now and in olden time.
I cursed my vain ambition,
My would-be worldly days,
And craved the paths of wonder,
Of dewy dawns and fays.
I cried, “Our love was boundless,
Eternal as the sea,
O Queen, reverse the sentence,
Come back and master me!”

The book was by the cliff-side
Upon its edge upright.
I laid me by it softly,
And wept throughout the night.
And there at dawn I saw it,
No book now, but a door,
Upon its panels written,
“Judgment is no more.”
The bolt flew back with thunder,
I saw within that place
A mermaid wrapped in seaweed
With Mab's immortal face,
Yet grown now to a woman,
A woman to the knee.
She cried, she clasped me fondly,
We soon were in the sea.

Ah, she was wise and subtle,
And gay and strong and sleek,

226

We chained the wicked swordfish,
We played at hide and seek.
We floated on the water,
We heard the dawn-wind sing,
I made from ocean-wonders,
Her bridal wreath and ring.
All mortal girls were shadows,
All earth-life but a mist,
When deep beneath the maelstrom,
The mermaid's heart I kissed.

I woke beside the church-door
Of our small inland town,
Bowing to a maiden
In a pansy-velvet gown,
Who had not heard of fairies,
Yet seemed of love to dream.
We planned an earthly cottage
Beside an earthly stream.

Our wedding long is over,
With toil the years fill up,
Yet in the evening silence,
We drink a deep-sea cup.
Nothing the fay remembers,
Yet when she turns to me,
We meet beneath the whirlpool,
We swim the golden sea.

THE MYSTERIOUS CAT

[_]

(A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture painted by George Mather Richards)

I saw a proud, mysterious cat,
I saw a proud, mysterious cat,

227

Too proud to catch a mouse or rat—
Mew, mew, mew.

But catnip she would eat, and purr,
But catnip, she would eat, and purr.
And goldfish she did much prefer—
Mew, mew, mew.

I saw a cat—'twas but a dream,
I saw a cat—'twas but a dream
Who scorned the slave that brought her cream—
Mew, mew, mew.

Unless the slave were dressed in style,
Unless the slave were dressed in style,
And knelt before her all the while—
Mew, mew, mew.

Did you ever hear of a thing like that?
Did you ever hear of a thing like that?
Did you ever hear of a thing like that?
Oh, what a proud mysterious cat.
Oh, what a proud mysterious cat.
Oh, what a proud mysterious cat.
Mew ... mew ... mew.

228

THE HUMBLE BUMBLE BEE.

THE WEATHER-MAN HAS PROMISED SNOW AND SLEET.
NOW BUMBLE-BEE. WHERE WILL YOU WARM YOUR FEET?

“BESIDE THE SANGAMON A HOLLOW OAK
HAS BEEN MY WINTER WIGWAM; 'TIS THE CLOAK
THAT SHIELDS THE INDIAN FAIRIES AND THEIR KING:
THEY SLEEP ON MOUSE-HIDES IN A RAINBOW RING
OF BEES IN WAR-PAINT. CROUCHED IN THICK ARRAY.
WHO SCARE THE CUT-WORMS AND THE ANTS AWAY.
I LEAD THOSE BRAVES COMMANDING THEM TO KNEEL
AND BUZZ, AS ON THEIR WINGS I PUT MY HEEL.
IN WINTER, FAIRYLAND BELONGS TO ME.
IN SUMMER I'M A HUMBLE BUMBLE-BEE.