Part 2

I saw _Him_ first in that old hat— It seemed the crown of a king to me. I liked his careless swagger then; Lord! He was straight and fine to see.

He courted me in that same coat— He couldn’t meet it now, I guess. That gay vest was the one he wore When I walked bride in my silver dress.

He seemed as proud as I, those days. I never dreamed, when we were wed, I’d think the Scarecrow a better man, With a broom for a spine and a pumpkin head.

Rags and tags of what he seemed, Mocking me in the field all day. What can I make a scarecrow of, To drive the hungry thoughts away?

INSPIRATION

Life—Death in a drop of dew; And a prism to sift a sunbeam through.

Fragile, perfect, briefly bright, A tremulous miracle of light;

Beauty poised on a flower-tip; A whole round world for a Thrush to sip!

A WASTED MORNING

I wasted a morning! Where? And why? I let swift hours go silently by, As I lay at the foot of an ancient tree, And let God’s universe talk to me.

Wind and shadow, cloud and bird, Spoke each to my heart a musical word. The little brown cone that fell on my cheek, The squirrel who mocked with an impudent squeak, The golden mushroom brimmed with death, The twin-flower blessing the air with its breath; Old spider spinning above my head A magical dream with her rainbow thread; The liliput vases of moss below; The sudden caw of a picket crow; The rhythmical green of a supple snake Quivering into a lair of brake; The grumbling bee, the whispering pine— What need had they for a word of mine? They lived the poem; they wove the spell No tongue could utter, no phrases tell; And a human voice could but disgrace The eloquent stillness of the place.

So I lay at the foot of the ancient tree, And let God’s free verse sing to me.

CIPHERS

Oh, to be a wonder-child And read the cipher of the wild!

A starry-splintered alphabet In the ancient rocks is set, Spelling, if one held the key, All creation’s history. Cryptic messages I trace Etched on many a flower-face; Graven symbols score the pines, The birches wear mysterious signs— Perhaps the wistful diary Of the Dryad in her tree.

On the open page of snow Curious hieroglyphics show, Dots and dashes, twist and thrust, Carven in the crystal crust; Marks of furred and feathered things With furtive feet or startled wings— Comic secrets of the dark, Silent tragedy and stark.

Ciphers, ciphers everywhere, In the sky, the wave, the air! On the faces that one meets Adrift upon the eddying streets; On the near and dear, that change With lines inscrutable and strange— Palimpsests that time has wrought With the signs of hidden thought, Dreams unguessed and griefs unsaid, Passionate yearning unbetrayed.

Ah, could Love but find and own Nature’s old Rosetta Stone!

PINE MUSIC

A hundred years I seek the stars Through tempest, heat, and cold; My body scarred by many scars, My spirit wisely old.

Yet the eternal song I sing, From sun and shadow made, Is lisped as sweetly every spring By the least flowers that fade.

MAIDS AND MUSHROOMS

Oddly fashioned, quaintly dyed, In the wood the mushrooms hide; Rich and meaty, full of flavor, Made for man’s delicious savor. But he shudders and he shrinks At the piquant mauves and pinks. Who is brave enough to dare Curious shapes and colors rare, Dainties in peculiar dresses, Fairy-rings and inky messes? Something sinister must be In the strange variety. It is better not to know; Safer but to peer—and go.

So the mushrooms dry and fade, Like full many a blooming maid, With her dower of preciousness Hid too well for men to guess. But the toadstools bright and yellow Tempt and poison many a fellow, With their flaunting beauty bright, The bold promise of delight. Taste and suffer, ache and burn; Generations do not learn!

Nay, a little mushroom study Would not injure anybody.

IN THE DARK

In the dark I lie and think Of the glory in a day; Of the sunshine and the shade, All the color soft or gay.

I can see it better now As I lie with curtained eyes. Oh, the rainbow and the moon; Oh, the opal of the skies!

How the poppies glow and thrill, How the pigeon-feathers shine! I will weave them into dreams, I will make them ever mine.

All the wonder of a wave, All the magic of a tree— I shall wear them in my soul When these eyes no longer see.

GARDEN THOUGHTS

Some of us are roses, Some of us are weeds; All of us began in clay, Silent little seeds.

Some of us are flaunting, Some of us are shy; All of us have roots in earth, Faces to the sky.

Some give joy by living, Some leave fragrance, dead; Thorns and spines and ugliness May yield balm or bread.

Twisted, seared and stunted, Radiant, sweet and glad; Who shall say that one is “good” And another “bad”?

THE PASSER-BY

In the fragrant, moonlit night, Without a thought of fear, I wakened in my seaward room And felt a Presence near.

The open window glowed, And suddenly I knew That Some One was out walking Above the summer dew.

The tall pines held their breath, And the little cedar trees, With all the grasses in the field, Were kneeling on their knees.

Beyond the dunes the sea Was like a silver floor, For Some One’s holy feet to cross Out of a foreign shore.

Then lo! Above the trees A halo, round and bright! No more I saw of One who passed All silent in the night.

FROST

Hark to a call in the late September night, From the little garden-close crying—crying! As the cold stars watch from their safe, untroubled height, Faintly breathes the scented prayer—“Help! We are dying!”

Who would invade the sisterhood of flowers, In their cloistered innocence fresh and gently gay? What so cruel foe would dare profane the hours, To fright the tender sleeping buds and steal their peace away?

Hark! The wistful cry again! Wafted o’er the grasses Comes the trembling fragrance, a sigh from hearts of gold. Something sly and sinister in the shadow passes; Shivering draw the covers close, the blood runs cold!

Lo, in the morning, the bleak and hoary morning. Desolate the garden where the white foe crept; Wall or moat no bar to him, come without a warning. Capturing the pretty ones helpless where they slept.

Cruel was the touch of him, blighting was his breath. Beauty shrank before him, but found no place to hide. Fragile, piteous martyrs coldly done to death, Was there none to answer when your sweet souls cried?

WINTER SONG

Because I sang in April With magic in the air. Must I be sad and silent now When winter boughs are bare?

My heart is not a songster That waits upon the spring, But while there is a blessèd sky And friendly earth, I sing!

For evergreen my joy is, Like any cedar tree; It makes a tune of ice and snow And whispers it to me.

TANAGER

Scarlet bird! Whence have you fluttered into my green gloom, My sleepy solitude, on quiet wing, Your voice unheard? Why do you linger there upon the tree. And still forbear to sing, As if your message were a silent doom? O torch of fire; Enkindled at the flame of heart’s desire. In some enchanted land! O wingèd rose. Blown from the living garden of delight! O flash of joy Deliriously bright. Escaping from the heart of some fierce boy, Or girl who thrills and glows! O dream incarnadine Out of the jeweled past; red rapture that was mine! Why sent to torture me? You cut the shadow like an open wound; The forest bleeds with your intensity, In a mysterious anguish unrelieved by sound.

And when you flit away, Back to your radiant realm, your vivid day, And shivering I shall gaze Down the dim alley empty of your blaze, The darkness will be darker evermore, The silence stiller than it was before. Then faded peace will brood— A moment stirred In the transfigured wood, O scarlet bird!

SONG

Oh, yes, I love you still, my lad, For that is woman’s way; A whole life long of tenderness For the fancy of a day.

I gave you golden loyalty And starry faith to wear. You gave me pearls that were my tears, And silver in my hair.

You gave me something less than good, I gave the best I had. But yes—the man I thought you were, I love him still, my lad.

THE KNOCK

Did you knock at the door, my Dear? Knock, and I fail to hear?

Was I so eager to bind my hair, And fasten a flower to make me fair; Study a book that I might be wise, Or make you a song for a sweet surprise? Mixing a cake, Saying a prayer, All for your sake, All for your care— So busily happy I did not hear When you knocked, my Dear!

Will you pass to another door, And knock at my own no more?

Shall I listen and wait and long, No more laughter, no more song? But still with the faded rose in my hair, Still on my lips the tremulous prayer; Till the fire goes out To a single spark. Ending the doubt; And in empty dark, Shall I sit and hear The knock, knock, knock of my heart? My Dear!

AN OLD-WORLD CONVENT GARDEN

Walled quiet from the din. So near, of worldly strife; A cloistered peace within, A life apart from life. Shrines bowered in roses sweet, And in a hidden dell Worn by accustomed feet, A holy well.

Along the ancient wall Fruit basking in the sun; Flowers radiant and tall— A coquette every one. Bees busy on the stalks, Birds mating in the weeds— Here a pale Sister walks, Telling her beads.

High walls to shut aside The world’s dear bliss and care! O Birds, your nestlings hide In sanctuary there. High walls to her, to me— But ah! to wings, how low; Blest little Birds, quite free To come—and go!

A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY

FOR C. N. B.

Who counts the foolish years? This Brittany of ours, With all her gathered hopes and fears, Her scroll of smiles and tears, Is young, amid her sweet, perennial flowers. About the lone, deserted shrines Carol melodious songsters of to-day; Weaving their modern spell Through Carnac’s mighty lines The sun-burned children play, Knowing, perchance, the ancient secret well. Above the buried Ys, Stout fishers in their rainbow shallops ply; Gazing into the azure depths they sigh, Dreaming of fair Dahut, and brighter realms than this, Longing to feel her kiss. But homely love is waiting them ashore; Soon they will sigh no more. Joy of the present, full of light and life, Faith of the future years, with promise rife— Belovèd of the sea, How young is Brittany!

Who marks the months’ retreat? It is not fall when roses are abloom, When strawberries are sweet, And snowy, great magnolias breathe perfume. This bright September day, With radiant sky and balmy airs at play, Renewing joy in every living thing, Is Spring! Is Spring!

And so with you, dear Mother! Heart of youth, Wise in your dreaming, soul of mystery, Tender in faith and truth. Lo, in your gentle hands you hold the key Of Spring eternal, of the spirit’s prime; You make a slave of time. With his malicious fears, And as this _spring_ day brightly Clasps like a gem the threaded years You wear so lightly, Who shall seek to sum them, Admiring still how sweetly you become them?

_Vitré September 3, 1913_

THE BLAZED TRAIL

Just when the path is lost to me, Bewildered wanderer in the maze, Upon some unexpected tree I spy the Woodman’s blaze;

A mystic rune of sight or sound, A message quick from sense to soul, That lifts the spirit from the ground And speeds it to the goal.

A wind-flower nodding by an oak Has given assurance from afar; Once in the dark a fragrance spoke, And once it was a star.

The silver fluting of a thrush; The bursting of a sunken flame; A sigh of wind, a sudden hush— Out of the depths I came.

A burning challenge to despair Flashed from an idly-open book; A small dumb creature’s silent prayer, A friend’s revealing look;

And all the doubtful horrors fade, The weary heart leaps up again. Through tangled thickets in the shade, The Trail shows broad and plain.

BUT THERE ARE WINGS

“How big it is, the Blueness everywhere!” Between two seas, her playtime scarce begun, Trembles the shy, bewildered little one. Above her roll the shoreless depths of air Reflected in her azure eyes; and there Close to her feet in thunderous fury run The crowding waters, peacock in the sun, That fling a salty threat upon her hair.

“But there are wings!” They brood against the sky, A cloudy wonder; while upon the deep She sees them dip and flutter, far and near. “The same kind wings that shelter one asleep!” So, drawing reassurance in a sigh, She digs the treacherous sand without a fear.

SAFE?

If I but set my casement high Where none peer in at me, I shall look only at the sky And the fair top of the tree.

I shall forget the sorry things The swallows do not tell; I shall not see the wounded wings Of the little bird that fell.

And if below there crawls a road, Where dusty travelers go, Groaning beneath a weary load— Why, I shall never know.

I can pretend there is no sin, No pain and misery, If I gaze out where none look in To read the heart of me.

THE UP-HILL STREET

There’s a lane through grassy meadows, There’s a turnpike to the sea, There’s a trail across the mountain Which is very dear to me. There’s a shady, quiet roadway On the border of the town; There are footpaths going blithely Up the little hills and down. And oh! I love the highroads My happy feet have pressed. But walk at evening, walk at morn, There’s one I love the best.

It is a narrow city street That clambers with a will Between two ragged cliffs of brick Upon a windy hill. I see it from my window, I watch it every day Slope to the level sky-verge Whereon it melts away; While etched across the picture Stands straight and strong and tall, The oak tree that I planted When I was very small.

Above, a narrow sky-way The houses frame for me; Beyond, across the city— Though I can hardly see— I know the blue bay opens, With towering blocks between; I feel, I smell, I hear it When winds blow east and keen! And I have dwelt here always; A child I saw it climb, The quaint, forgotten byway, Unmarked by change or time.

How often have I trod it! Each brick and stone I know! Each little rise and hollow Though hidden under snow. And looking from my window I almost think to see A childish figure climbing— The little shade of Me. But as I watch her, smiling— The child who once was I— My Fancy climbs the little hill And merges in the sky.

CITY SMOKE

Oh, the smoke of the city! Pouring in columns black and thick; Swooping, a nightmare bird of prey, From a hideous eyrie of iron and brick, Obscuring the day; Sinister, greasy, noisome, vile, Spoiling the delicate, fouling the pure, Creeping like sorrowful sin or guile Through tiniest cranny and lock secure. The rosiest chamber reeks with its breath, And the dens already besmirched with death. It broods impartial, sullying all, Palace, tenement, hovel and hall; Beauty’s ruin and Nature’s ban, Price of the fierce, packed struggle of man. Grim smoke hovering without pity, Over the city.

Oh, the smoke of the city! Rising and rolling a magical stream, Spreading and wavering higher and higher; Bright with the opaline colors of dream, A torrent of beauty, a cloud of desire. Delicate gossamer rags float free, Drifting into eternity, Washed with radiance, purged and clean, All-escaping, ethereal, new; Vision of poets sublime, serene, Etching the blue; Life transfigured by hope again, Prize of the dear, near loving of men. Glorified smoke, like a halo of pity, Over the city.

GREEN CROSSES

At the back of the pompous houses, Above the beautiful river-way, A row of squalid barrels Blush at themselves in the morning light. From one grotesquely leaning, Dusty and scarred Amid the dead, forgotten slag and ashes, A fir-tree thrusts its live, protesting fingers— Crosses of green. About it still cling a few silver cobwebs, Rags of its brief splendor. It was the Christmas Tree That graced the cheerful drawing-room A little while; That blessed the comfortable house with its fragrance, And with its symbols of love, The small green crosses.

A pinched, pale child with hungry eyes, Ragged and wolfish, but with wisps of glory Still haloing her hair, Comes with her bag of rubbish. Her eyes brighten; She sets down her heavy burden, She forgets the cold as she picks at the little tree, Plucks eagerly at the fragile cobwebs; They are so silvery few! But they do not go into the heavy sack. Her thin, blue fingers snap one of the green crosses; She twists the tinsel thread about it, And sticks it in her breast. Then she shoulders her bundle of trash, And stumbles away, smiling.

The green crosses, alive in the dust! The Christmas Tree! The evergreen tree whose roots are cut— On the dump it will die!

The Christmas Tree! What if this ornament of brief holidays, This plaything of a favored few, This strong, slow-murdered creature of pure woods, With its green crosses, Were really growing! If it were rooted in the hearts Of Christendom! How different a world would see this sunny morning! No war; no hate; No want nor selfishness; No ragged children, starved for tinsel joys, Furtively clutching at rejected beauty On a forgotten cross, The green cross of Love.

THE MYSTIC CIRCLE

Eight lusty bell-ringers In the loft of the campanile; Eight quick-eyed, firm-muscled, clean-lipped lads, Forming a mystic circle, Poised a-tiptoe, Hands above heads, Waiting. Eight stout ropes mysteriously pending From the unrevealing, dusty rafters. The bells are poised for the peal, Though they remain unseen, Waiting.

The magic word is spoken by the leader— “_She_’s off!” (The unmistakable English accent.) The treble bell gives signal first, The racing merry scales descend. The cue is flashed from eye to eye; The Bob-major double, An intricate combination of sequences, A miracle of mathematics resolved into sound; A psalm of joy! While the sturdy arms pull in ordered eagerness, And the bright eyes shine.

The Bells! Their tongues are loosed. The charm of the mystic circle has made them animate, Has lifted the enchantment of silence And given sound to their joy. In the tower above the young men, (So near, unseen,) They shout till the rafters ring; A revel of frank, untrammeled spirits, Like innocent children with clear, full voices, Merry, unrestrained, irresponsible. A somersaulting group of eight, Praises God in mirth. Still farther above, High in the vault of the church, Revealed in ethereal, vibrating overtones, Like the whirring of great wings, The heavenly choir chanting Te Deum Join in the song; The Angels of the Bells, Tender intermediaries between earth and heaven, Breathing holy gladness, singing ineffable praise.

Above, above again, Far above the pointed spire, Above the seething city and the sinning world, Above the singing in the hearts of men, The clamor of bells, the choiring of angels— Silence. The eternal harmony of all sound, The caught-up commingled praises of creation, Blended into quiet, The Silence that is God: God listening; God approving; God the Father of Joy, Blessing His angels and His bells, Blessing the ringers with rapt faces, Tense, devotional, Who consummate the ritual of sound In a religious office.

Eight young men In a mystic circle, Whose center is the center of the universe, God.

SONG OF THE BOOKWORM

Who would long for wings to wander Over sea or mountains yonder? Who would hang on risky pinion, And become the breezes’ minion, When the spirit, birdlike, hovers, Borne between two leathern covers? These are wings a fay might sigh for, Or a chubby cherub cry for!

So the dusty Bookworm quivers Into life; the cocoon shivers, Bursts into a world of glory, Borne on tinted wings of story, Poesy, romance or fairy— Wings of book-leaves thin and airy; Floats and flutters off, away, To Avonside or far Cathay.

There is no land so strange, so far, From pole to pole, from star to star, But he may visit passage free, No duty, fare or grudging fee. Hey for Egypt! Ho for Arden! Mowgli’s jungle, Omar’s garden! None shall limit, none can stay, When the Bookworm flits away!

THE BOOKS I OUGHT TO READ

On dusty shelves in serried ranks they stand, Reproachful thousands, quaint, and grave and great. My guilty conscience hears their mute commands, Yet day by day—they wait.

Their army grows more deadly every year; Their captain-names I cannot call to mind. A friend amid the order would, I fear, Be very hard to find.

But to a corner shelf by most forgot, I steal, and to my conscience pay no heed, With boon companions dear. Yet these are not The books I ought to read!

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE

FEBRUARY 12, 1916

Wizard of youth! How many years, Since first we felt the story-spell, Your name has thrilled the childish ears That knew your magic well.

Dear noble head of snowy hair, Face with the sunglow; keen, kind eyes; Presence erect and debonair, Heart generous and wise.

No more our Poet walks the land! Your mellow voice no more is heard. Oh, for the warm clasp of your hand, The friendly, precious word!

But in the hearts whose love you share, In countless friends you never met, In the world’s childhood everywhere Your life is singing yet.

Your merry quips; your thought’s pure gold; Your knightly quest and champion cry; The songs you sang, the tales you told— Their echoes do not die.

They make a part of what we are, Of all the best we think and do. The land you loved is better far Because her youth loved you!

THE JOY-VENDER

Giovanni Carbone, lame and old, Has a struggling bunch of balloons to hold; Balloons like giant, luscious grapes, With shiny skins and the roundest shapes. They dodge and tug to get away, Like children, peevish at control.

Early and late the patient soul Smiling and nodding keeps his stand, On a corner where the breezes play, And the child-parade goes by each day; For windmills whirl in his other hand. Petaled windmills of every hue Known to his native, opal land, Busily, dizzily whiz and whir, Making rosettes of rainbow blur, Too bewildering to be true. Giovanni guards the corner well; A kindly wizard, ready to sell For a tiny bit of sordid money A gaudy joy, when the day is sunny. Flimsy joys! Just pretty toys, Fragile and useless anywhere; Except to little girls and boys Empty and meaningless as air!