The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shapes and Shadows, by Madison Cawein

High on the world did our fathers of old,
Under the stars and stripes,
Blazon the name that we now must uphold,
Under the stars and stripes.
Vast in the past they have builded an arch
Over which Freedom has lighted her torch.
Follow it! Follow it! Come, let us march
Under the stars and stripes!

We in whose bodies the blood of them runs,
Under the stars and stripes,
We will acquit us as sons of their sons,
Under the stars and stripes.
Ever for justice, our heel upon wrong,
We in the light of our vengeance thrice strong!
Rally together! Come tramping along
Under the stars and stripes!

Out of our strength and a nation's great need,
Under the stars and stripes,
Heroes again as of old we shall breed,
Under the stars and stripes.
Broad to the winds be our banner unfurled!
Straight in Spain's face let defiance be hurled!
God on our side, we will battle the world
Under the stars and stripes!

SHAPES

and

SHADOWS

Poems by Madison Cawein

New York : R. H. Russell

MDCCCXCVIII

Copyright, 1898, by R. H. Russell

HARRISON S. MORRIS

A Table of Contents

The Dedication

Shapes & Shadows

By Madison Cawein

The Evanescent Beautiful.

D ay after Day, young with eternal beauty,
Pays flowery duty to the month and clime;
Night after night erects a vasty portal
Of stars immortal for the march of Time.

But where are now the Glory and the Rapture,
That once did capture me in cloud and stream?
Where now the Joy that was both speech and silence?
Where the beguilance that was fact and dream?

I know that Earth and Heaven are as golden
As they of olden made me feel and see;
Not in themselves is lacking aught of power
Through star and flower—something's lost in me.

Return! Return! I cry, O Visions vanished,
O Voices banished, to my Soul again! —
The near Earth blossoms and the far Skies glisten,
I look and listen, but, alas! in vain.

August.

III

The Higher Brotherhood.

Gramarye.

T here are some things that entertain me more
Than men or books; and to my knowledge seem
A key of Poetry, made of magic lore
Of childhood, opening many a fabled door
Of superstition, mystery, and dream
Enchantment locked of yore.

For, when through dusking woods my pathway lies,
Often I feel old spells, as o'er me flits
The bat, like some black thought that, troubled, flies
Round some dark purpose; or before me cries
The owl that, like an evil conscience, sits
A shadowy voice and eyes.

Then, when down blue canals of cloudy snow
The white moon oars her boat, and woods vibrate
With crickets, lo, I hear the hautboys blow
Of Elf-land; and when green the fireflies glow,
See where the goblins hold a Fairy Fête
With lanthorn row on row.

Strange growths, that ooze from long-dead logs and spread
A creamy fungus, where the snail, uncoiled,
And fat slug feed at morn, are Pixy bread
Made of the yeasted dew; the lichens red,
Besides these grown, are meat the Brownies broiled
Above a glow-worm bed.
[6]

The smears of silver on the webs that line
The tree's crook'd roots, or stretch, white-wove, within
The hollow stump, are stains of Faëry wine
Spilled on the cloth where Elf-land sat to dine,
When night beheld them drinking, chin to chin,
O' the moon's fermented shine.

What but their chairs the mushrooms on the lawn,
Or toadstools hidden under flower and fern,
Tagged with the dotting dew!—With knees updrawn
Far as his eyes, have I not come upon
Puck seated there? but scarcely 'round could turn
Ere, presto! he was gone.

And so though Science from the woods hath tracked
The Elfin; and with prosy lights of day
Unhallowed all his haunts; and, dulling, blacked
Our eyesight, still hath Beauty never lacked
For seers yet; who, in some wizard way,
Prove Fancy real as Fact.

Dreams.

M y thoughts have borne me far away
To Beauties of an older day,
Where, crowned with roses, stands the Dawn ,
Striking her seven-stringed barbiton
Of flame, whose chords give being to
The seven colours, hue for hue;
The music of the colour-dream
She builds the day from, beam by beam.

My thoughts have borne me far away
To Myths of a diviner day,
Where, sitting on the mountain, Noon
Sings to the pines a sun-soaked tune
Of rest and shade and clouds and skies,
Wherein her calm dreams idealize
Light as a presence, heavenly fair,
Sleeping with all her beauty bare.

My thoughts have borne me far away
To Visions of a wiser day,
Where, stealing through the wilderness,
Night walks, a sad-eyed votaress,
And prays with mystic words she hears
Behind the thunder of the spheres,
The starry utterance that's hers,
With which she fills the Universe.
[8]

The Old House.

Q uaint and forgotten, by an unused road,
An old house stands: around its doors the dense
Blue iron-weeds grow high;
The chipmunks make a highway of its fence;
And on its sunken flagstones slug and toad
Silent as lichens lie.

The timid snake upon its hearth's cool sand
Sleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof;
And in the clapboard sides
Of closets, dim with many a spider woof,
Like the uncertain tapping of a hand,
The beetle-borer hides.

Above its lintel, under mossy eaves,
The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floor
Of its neglected porch
The black bees nest. Through each deserted door,
Vague as a phantom's footsteps, steal the leaves,
And dropped cones of the larch.

But come with me when sunset's magic old
Transforms the ruin of that ancient house;
When windows, one by one,—
[9] Like age's eyes, that youth's love-dreams arouse,—
Grow lairs of fire; and glad mouths of gold
Its wide doors, in the sun.

Or let us wait until each rain-stained room
Is carpeted with moonlight, pattened oft
With the deep boughs o'erhead;
And through the house the wind goes rustling soft,
As might the ghost—a whisper of perfume—
Of some sweet girl long dead.

The Rock.

H ere, at its base, in dingled deeps
Of spice-bush, where the ivy creeps,
The cold spring scoops its hollow;
And there three mossy stepping-stones
Make ripple murmurs; undertones
Of foam that blend and follow
With voices of the wood that drones.

The quail pipes here when noons are hot;
And here, in coolness sunlight-shot
Beneath a roof of briers,
The red-fox skulks at close of day;
And here at night, the shadows gray
Stand like Franciscan friars,
With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.

Here yawns the ground-hog's dark-dug hole;
And there the tunnel of the mole
Heaves under weed and flower;
A sandy pit-fall here and there
The ant-lion digs and lies a-lair;
And here, for sun and shower,
The spider weaves a silvery snare.

The poison-oak's rank tendrils twine
The rock's south side; the trumpet-vine,
[11] With crimson bugles sprinkled,
Makes green its eastern side; the west
Is rough with lichens; and, gray-pressed
Into an angle wrinkled,
The hornets hang an oblong nest.

The north is hid from sun and star,
And here,—like an Inquisitor
Of Faëry Inquisition,
That roots out Elf-land heresy,—
Deep in the rock, with mystery
Cowled for his grave commission,
The Owl sits magisterially.

Rain.

A round, the stillness deepened; then the grain
Went wild with wind; and every briery lane
Was swept with dust; and then, tempestuous black,
Hillward the tempest heaved a monster back,
That on the thunder leaned as on a cane;
And on huge shoulders bore a cloudy pack,
That gullied gold from many a lightning-crack:
One great drop splashed and wrinkled down the pane,
And then field, hill, and wood were lost in rain.

At last, through clouds,—as from a cavern hewn
Into night's heart,—the sun burst, angry roon;
And every cedar, with its weight of wet,
Against the sunset's fiery splendour set,
Frightened to beauty, seemed with rubies strewn;
Then in drenched gardens, like sweet phantoms met,
Dim odours rose of pink and mignonette;
And in the East a confidence, that soon
Grew to the calm assurance of the Moon.

Standing-Stone Creek.

A weed-grown slope, whereon the rain
Has washed the brown rocks bare,
Leads tangled from a lonely lane
Down to a creek's broad stair
Of stone, that, through the solitude,
Winds onward to a quiet wood.

An intermittent roof of shade
The beech above it throws;
Along its steps a balustrade
Of beauty builds the rose;
In which, a stately lamp of green
At intervals the cedar's seen.

The water, carpeting each ledge
Of rock that runs across,
Glints 'twixt a flow'r-embroidered edge
Of ferns and grass and moss;
And in its deeps the wood and sky
Seem patterns of the softest dye.

Long corridors of pleasant dusk
Within the house of leaves
It reaches; where, on looms of musk,
The ceaseless locust weaves
[14] A web of summer; and perfume
Trails a sweet gown from room to room.

Green windows of the boughs, that swing,
It passes, where the notes
Of birds are glad thoughts entering,
And butterflies are motes;
And now a vista where the day
Opens a door of wind and ray.

It is a stairway for all sounds
That haunt the woodland sides;
On which, boy-like, the southwind bounds,
Girl-like, the sunbeam glides;
And, like fond parents, following these,
The oldtime dreams of rest and peace.

The Moonmen.

I stood in the forest on Huron Hill
When the night was old and the world was still.

The Wind was a wizard who muttering strode
In a raven cloak on a haunted road.

The Sound of Water, a witch who crooned
Her spells to the rocks the rain had runed.

And the Gleam of the Dew on the fern's green tip
Was a sylvan passing with robe a-drip.

The Light of the Stars was a glimmering maid
Who stole, an elfin, from glade to glade.

The Scent of the Woods in the delicate air,
A wildflower shape with chilly hair.

And Silence, a spirit who sat alone
With a lifted finger and eyes of stone.

And it seemed to me these six were met
To greet a greater who came not yet.

And the speech they spoke, that I listened to,
Was the archetype of the speech I knew.
[16]

For the Wind clasped hands with the Water's rush,
And I heard them whisper, Hush, oh, hush!

The Light of the Stars and the Dew's cool gleam
Touched lips and murmured, Dream, oh dream!

The Scent of the Woods and the Silence deep
Sighed, bosom to bosom, Sleep, oh, sleep!

And so for a moment the six were dumb,
Then exulted together, They come, they come!

And I stood expectant and seemed to hear
A visible music drawing near.

And the first who came was the Captain Moon
Bearing a shield in God's House hewn.

Then an Army of glamour, a glittering Host,
Beleaguered the night from coast to coast.

And the world was filled with spheric fire
From the palpitant chords of many a lyre,

As out of the East the Moonmen came
Smiting their harps of silver and flame.
[17]

More beauty and grace did their forms express
Than the Queen of Love's white nakedness.

More chastity too their faces held
Than the snowy breasts of Diana swelled.

Translucent-limbed, I saw the beat
In their hearts of pearl of the golden heat.

And the hair they tossed was a crystal light,
And the eyes beneath it were burning white.

Their hands that lifted, their feet that fell,
Made the darkness blossom to asphodel.

And the heavens, the hills, and the streams they trod
Shone pale with th' communicated God.

A placid frenzy, a waking trance,
A soft oracular radiance,

Wrapped forms that moved as melodies move,
Laurelled with god-head and halo'd with love.

So there in the forest on Huron Hill
The Moonmen camped when the world was still....
[18]

What wonder that they who have looked on these
Are lost to the earth's realities!

That they sit aside with a far-off look
Dreaming the dreams that are writ in no book!

That they walk alone till the day they die,
Even as I, yea, even as I!

The Old Man Dreams.

T he blackened walnut in its spicy hull
Rots where it fell;
And, in the orchard, where the trees stand full,
The pear's ripe bell
Drops; and the log-house in the bramble lane,
From whose low door
Stretch yellowing acres of the corn and cane,
He sees once more.

The cat-bird sings upon its porch of pine;
And o'er its gate,
All slender-podded, twists the trumpet-vine,
A leafy weight;
And in the woodland, by the spring, mayhap,
With eyes of joy
Again he bends to set a rabbit-trap,
A brown-faced boy.

Then, whistling, through the underbrush he goes,
Out of the wood,
Where, with young cheeks, red as an Autumn rose,
Beneath her hood,
His sweetheart waits, her school-books on her arm;
And now it seems
Beside his chair he sees his wife's fair form—
The old man dreams.

Since Then.

I found myself among the trees
What time the reapers ceased to reap;
And in the berry blooms the bees
Huddled wee heads and went to sleep,
Rocked by the silence and the breeze.

I saw the red fox leave his lair,
A shaggy shadow, on the knoll;
And, tunnelling his thoroughfare
Beneath the loam, I watched the mole—
Stealth's own self could not take more care.

I heard the death-moth tick and stir,
Slow-honeycombing through the bark;
I heard the crickets' drowsy chirr,
And one lone beetle burr the dark—
The sleeping woodland seemed to purr.

And then the moon rose; and a white
Low bough of blossoms—grown almost
Where, ere you died, 'twas our delight
To tryst,—dear heart!—I thought your ghost....
The wood is haunted since that night.

Comrades.

D own through the woods, along the way
That fords the stream; by rock and tree,
Where in the bramble-bell the bee
Swings; and through twilights green and gray
The red-bird flashes suddenly,
My thoughts went wandering to-day.

I found the fields where, row on row,
The blackberries hang black with fruit;
Where, nesting at the elder's root,
The partridge whistles soft and low;
The fields, that billow to the foot
Of those old hills we used to know.

There lay the pond, still willow-bound,
On whose bright surface, when the hot
Noon burnt above, we chased the knot
Of water-spiders; while around
Our heads, like bits of rainbow, shot
The dragonflies without a sound.

The pond, above which evening bent
To gaze upon her rosy face;
Wherein the twinkling night would place
A vague, inverted firmament,
[22] In which the green frogs tuned their bass,
And firefly sparkles came and went.

The oldtime woods we often ranged,
When we were playmates, you and I;
The oldtime fields, with boyhood's sky
Still blue above them!—Naught was changed!
Nothing!—Alas, then tell me why
Should we be? whom long years estranged.

Waiting.

C ome to the hills, the woods are green—
The heart is high when Love is sweet —
There is a brook that flows between
Two mossy trees where we can meet,
Where we can meet and speak unseen.

I hear you laughing in the lane—
The heart is high when Love is sweet —
The clover smells of sun and rain
And spreads a carpet for our feet,
Where we can sit and dream again.

Come to the woods, the dusk is here—
The heart is high when Love is sweet —
A bird upon the branches near
Sets music to our hearts' glad beat,
Our hearts that beat with something dear.

I hear your step; the lane is passed;—
The heart is high when Love is sweet —
The little stars come bright and fast,
Like happy eyes to see us greet,
To see us greet and kiss at last.

Contrasts.

In June .

After long Grief and Pain.

Can I Forget?

The House of Fear.

At Dawn.

Storm.

Memories.

Which?

T he wind was on the forest,
And silence on the wold;
And darkness on the waters,
And heaven was starry cold;
When Sleep, with mystic magic,
Bade me this thing behold:

This side, an iron woodland;
That side, an iron waste;
And heaven, a tower of iron,
Wherein the wan moon paced,
Still as a phantom woman,
Ice-eyed and icy-faced.

And through the haunted tower
Of silence and of night,
My Soul and I went only,
My Soul, whose face was white,
Whose one hand signed me listen,
One bore a taper-light.

For, lo! a voice behind me
Kept sighing in my ear
The dreams my flesh accepted,
My mind refused to hear—
Of one I loved and loved not,
Whose spirit now spake near.
[33]

And, lo! a voice before me
Kept calling constantly
The hopes my mind accepted,
My flesh refused to see—
Of one I loved and loved not,
Whose spirit spake to me.

This way the one would bid me;
This way the other saith:—
Sweet is the voice behind me
Of Life that followeth;
And sweet the voice before me
Of Life whose name is Death .

Sunset in Autumn .

B lood-coloured oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass;
Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras,
And broom-sedge strips of smoky pink and pearl-gray clumps of grass,
In which, beneath the ragged sky, the rain-pools gleam like glass.

From West to East, from wood to wood, along the forest-side,
The winds,—the sowers of the Lord ,—with thunderous footsteps stride;
Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed,
Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide.

The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds rings a faint fairy bell;
And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed's windy shell
Glimmers; while wrapped in withered dreams, the wet autumnal smell
Of loam and leaf, like some sad ghost, steals over field and dell.
[35]

The oaks against a copper sky—o'er which, like some black lake
Of Dis , dark clouds, like surges fringed with sullen fire, break—
Loom sombre as Doom's citadel above the vales, that make
A pathway to a land of mist the moon's pale feet shall take.

Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a Limbo-litten pane,
Within its wall of storm, the West opens to hill and plain,
On which the wild geese ink themselves, a far triangled train;
And then the shuttering clouds close down—and night is here again.

The Legend of the Stone.

T he year was dying, and the day
Was almost dead;
The West, beneath a sombre gray,
Was sombre red.
The gravestones in the ghostly light,
'Mid trees half bare,
Seemed phantoms, clothed in glimmering white,
That haunted there.

I stood beside the grave of one,
Who, here in life,
Had wronged my home; who had undone
My child and wife.
I stood beside his grave until
The moon came up—
As if the dark, unhallowed hill
Lifted a cup.

No stone was there to mark his grave,
No flower to grace—
'T was meet that weeds alone should wave
In such a place.
I stood beside his grave until
The stars swam high,
And all the night was iron still
From sky to sky.
[37]

What cared I if strange eyes seemed bright
Within the gloom!
If, evil blue, a wandering light
Burnt by each tomb!
Or that each crookèd thorn-tree seemed
A witch-hag cloaked!
Or that the owl above me screamed,
The raven croaked!

For I had cursed him when the day
Was sullen red;
Had cursed him when the West was gray,
And day was dead;
And now when night made dark the pole,
Both soon and late
I cursed his body, yea, and soul,
With the hate of hate.

Once in my soul I seemed to hear
A low voice say,—
'T were better to forgive,—and fear
Thy God,—and pray.
I laughed; and from pale lips of stone
On sculptured tombs
A mocking laugh replied alone
Deep in the glooms.
[38]

And then I felt, I felt—as if
Some force should seize
The body; and its limbs stretch stiff,
And, fastening, freeze
Down, downward deeper than the knees
Into the earth—
While still among the twisted trees
That voice made mirth.

And in my Soul was fear, despair,—
Like lost ones feel,
When knotted in their pitch-stiff hair,
They feel the steel
Of devils' forks lift up, through sleet
Of hell's slant fire,
Then plunge,—as white from head to feet
I grew entire.

A voice without me, yet within,
As still as frost,
Intoned: Thy sin is thrice a sin,
Thrice art thou lost.
Behold, how God would punish thee!
For this thy crime—
Thy crime of hate and blasphemy—
Through endless time!
[39]

O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive,
Record what good
He did on earth! and let him live
Loved, understood!
Be memory thine of all the worst
He did thine own!
There at the head of him I cursed
I stood—a stone.

Time and Death and Love.

Passion.

When the Wine-Cup at the Lip.

Art.

[ A Phantasy. ]

I know not how I found you
With your wild hair a-blow,
Nor why the world around you
Would never let me know:
Perhaps 't was Heaven relented,
Perhaps 't was Hell resented
My dream, and grimly vented
Its hate upon me so.

In Shadowland I met you
Where all dim shadows meet;
Within my heart I set you,
A phantom bitter-sweet:
No hope for me to win you,
Though I with soul and sinew
Strive on and on, when in you
There is no heart or heat!

Yet ever, aye, and ever,
Although I knew you lied,
I followed on, but never
Would your white form abide:
[44] With loving arms stretched meward,
As Sirens beckon seaward
To some fair vessel leeward,
Before me you would glide.

But like an evil fairy,
That mocks one with a light,
Now near, you led your airy,
Now far, your fitful flight:
With red-gold tresses blowing,
And eyes of sapphire glowing,
With limbs like marble showing,
You lured me through the night.

To some unearthly revel
Of mimes, a motley crew,
'Twixt Angel-land and Devil,
You lured me on, I knew,
And lure me still! soft whiling
The way with hopes beguiling,
While dark Despair sits smiling
Behind the eyes of you!

A Song for Old Age.

Tristram And Isolt.

The Better Lot.

Dusk in the Woods.

T hree miles of hill it is; and I
Came through the woods that waited, dumb,
For the cool Summer dusk to come;
And lingered there to watch the sky
Up which the gradual sunset clomb.

A tree-toad quavered in a tree;
And then a sudden whip-poor-will
Called overhead, so wildly shrill,
The startled woodland seemed to see
How very lone it was and still.

Then through dark boughs its stealthy flight
An owl took; and, at sleepy strife,
The cricket turned its fairy fife;
And through the dead leaves, in the night,
Soft rustlings stirred of unseen life.

And in the punk-wood everywhere
The inserts ticked, or bored below
The rotted bark; and, glow on glow,
The gleaming fireflies here and there
Lit up their Jack-o'-lantern show.
[49]

I heard a vesper-sparrow sing,
Withdrawn, it seemed, into the far
Slow sunset's tranquil cinnabar;
The sunset, softly smouldering
Behind gaunt trunks, with its one star.

A dog barked; and down ways, that gleamed,
Through dew and clover faint the noise
Of cow-bells moved. And then a voice,
That sang a-milking, so it seemed,
Made glad my heart as some glad boy's.

And then the lane; and full in view
A farmhouse with a rose-grown gate,
And honeysuckle paths, await
For night's white moon and love and you—
These are the things that made me late.

At the Ferry.

O h, dim and wan came in the dawn,
And gloomy closed the day;
The killdee whistled among the weeds,
The heron flapped in the river reeds,
And the snipe piped far away.

At dawn she stood—her dark gray hood
Flung back—in the ferry-boat;
Sad were the eyes that watched him ride,
Her raider love, from the riverside,
His kiss on her mouth and throat.

Like some wild spell the twilight fell,
And black the tempest came;
The heavens seemed filled with the warring dead,
Whose batteries opened overhead
With thunder and with flame.

At night again in the wind and rain,
She toiled at the ferry oar;
For she heard a voice in the night and storm,
And it seemed that her lover's shadowy form
Beckoned her to the shore.
[51]

And swift to save she braved the wave,
And reached the shore and found
His riderless horse, with head hung low,
A blur of blood on the saddle-bow,
And the empty night around.

Her Violin.

III

Her Vesper Song.

T he Summer lightning comes and goes
In one pale cloud above the hill,
As if within its soft repose
A burning heart were never still—
As in my bosom pulses beat
Before the coming of his feet.

All drugged with odorous sleep, the rose
Breathes dewy balm about the place,
As if the dreams the garden knows
Took immaterial form and face—
As in my heart sweet thoughts arise
Beneath the ardour of his eyes.

The moon above the darkness shows
An orb of silvery snow and fire,
As if the night would now disclose
To heav'n her one divine desire—
As in the rapture of his kiss
All of my soul is drawn to his.

The cloud, it knows not that it glows;
The rose knows nothing of its scent;
Nor knows the moon that it bestows
Light on our earth and firmament—
So is the soul unconscious of
The beauties it reveals through Love .

At Parting.

W hat is there left for us to say,
Now it has come to say good-by?
And all our dreams of yesterday
Have vanished in the sunset sky—
What is there left for us to say,
Now different ways before us lie?

A word of hope, a word of cheer,
A word of love, that still shall last,
When we are far to bring us near
Through memories of the happy past;
A word of hope, a word of cheer,
To keep our sad hearts true and fast.

What is there left for us to do,
Now it has come to say farewell?
And care, that bade us once adieu,
Returns again with us to dwell—
What is there left for us to do,
Now different ways our fates compel?

Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,
And look the love that shall remain—
When severed so by many a mile—
The sweetest balm for bitterest pain;
Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,
And trust in God to meet again.

Carissima Mea.

I look upon my lady's face,
And, in the world about me, see
No face like hers in any place:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

It is not made, as others sing
Of their dear loves, like ivory,
But like a wild rose in the spring:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her brow is low and very fair,
And o'er it, smooth and shadowy,
Lies deep the darkness of her hair:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Beneath her brows her eyes are gray,
And gaze out glad and fearlessly,
Their wonder haunts me night and day:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,
Twin curves of pencilled ebony,
Within their spans contain my fate:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
[57]

Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,
So small and sweet, it well may be
That it for me is yet reserved:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Between her hair and rounded chin,
Calm with her soul's calm purity,
There lies no shadow of a sin:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Of perfect form, she is not tall,
Just higher than the heart of me,
Where'er I place her, all in all:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

She is not shaped, as some have sung
Of their dear loves, like some slim tree,
But like the moon when it is young:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her hands, that smell of violet,
So white and fashioned gracefully,
Have woven round my heart a net:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.
[58]

Yea, I have loved her many a day;
And though for me she may not be,
Still at her feet my love I lay:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Albeit she be not for me,
God send her grace and grant that she
Know nought of sorrow all her days:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Margery.

III

Constance.

B eyond the orchard, in the lane,
The crested red-bird sings again—
O bird, whose song says, Have no care.
Should I not care when Constance there,—
My Constance , with the bashful gaze,
Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—
If I declare my love, just says
Some careless thing as if in mock?
Like— Past the orchard, in the lane,
How sweet the red-bird sings again !

There, while the red-bird sings his best,
His listening mate sits on the nest—
O bird, whose patience says, All's well ,
How can it be with me, now tell?
When Constance , with averted eyes,—
Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—
If I speak marriage, just replies
With some such quaint irrelevancy,
As, While the red-bird sings his best,
His loving mate sits on the nest .

What shall I say? what can I do?
Would such replies mean aught to you,
O birds, whose gladness says, Be glad ?
Have I not reason to be sad
[62] When Constance , with demurest glance,
Her face a-poppy with distress,
If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,
And answers so in waywardness?—
What shall I say? what can I do?
My meaning should be plain to you!

Gertrude.

Lydia.

A Southern Girl.

A Daughter of the States.

An Autumn Night .

S ome things are good on Autumn nights,
When with the storm the forest fights,
And in the room the heaped hearth lights
Old-fashioned press and rafter:
Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat,
A mug of cider, sharp and sweet,
And at your side a face petite,
With lips of laughter.

Upon the roof the rolling rain,
And tapping at the window-pane,
The wind that seems a witch's cane
That summons spells together:
A hand within your own awhile;
A mouth reflecting back your smile;
And eyes, two stars, whose beams exile
All thoughts of weather.

And, while the wind lulls, still to sit
And watch her fire-lit needles flit
A-knitting, and to feel her knit
Your very heartstrings in it:
Then, when the old clock ticks 'tis late ,
To rise, and at the door to wait,
Two words, or at the garden gate,
A kissing minute.

Lines.

The Blind God.

A Valentine.

A Catch.

W hen roads are mired with ice and snow,
And the air of morn is crisp with rime;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And bells ring in the Christmas time:—
It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride away,
To the sweet-faced girl with the eyes of gray!
Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring—
A man's strong love and a wedding-ring—
It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride!

When vanes veer North and storm-winds blow,
And the sun of noon is a blur o'erhead;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And the Christmas service is sung and said:—
It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait awhile,
Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,
For the gifts that the church now gives to you—
A woman's hand and a heart that's true.
It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait!

When rooms gleam warm with the fire's glow,
And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And Christmas revels begin again:—
It's—Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!
[72] And her happy breast to your own held fast;
A song to sing and a tale to tell,
A good-night kiss, and all is well.
It's—Home, O my Heart, and love!

The New Year.

L ift up thy torch, O Year, and let us see
What Destiny
Hath made thee heir to at nativity!

Doubt, some call Faith; and ancient Wrong and Might,
Whom some name Right;
And Darkness, that the purblind world calls Light.

Despair, with Hope's brave form; and Hate, who goes
In Friendship's clothes;
And Happiness, the mask of many woes.

Neglect, whom Merit serves; Lust, to whom, see,
Love bends the knee;
And Selfishness, who preacheth charity.

Vice, in whose dungeon Virtue lies in chains;
And Cares and Pains,
That on the throne of Pleasure hold their reigns.

Corruption, known as Honesty; and Fame
That's but a name;
And Innocence, the outward guise of Shame.

And Folly, men call Wisdom here, forsooth;
And, like a youth,
Fair Falsehood, whom some worship for the Truth.
[74]

Abundance, who hath Famine's house in lease;
And, high 'mid these,
War, blood-black, on the spotless shrine of Peace.

Lift up thy torch, O Year! assist our sight!
Deep lies the night
Around us, and God grants us little light!

Then and Now.

Epilogue.

B eyond the moon, within a land of mist,
Lies the dim Garden of all Dead Desires,
Walled round with morning's clouded amethyst,
And haunted of the sunset's shadowy fires;
There all lost things we loved hold ghostly tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

Sad are the stars that day and night exist
Above the Garden of all Dead Desires;
And sad the roses that within it twist
Deep bow'rs; and sad the wind that through it quires;
But sadder far are they who there hold tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

There, like a dove, upon the twilight's wrist,
Soft in the Garden of all Dead Desires,
Sleep broods; and there, where never a serpent hissed,
On the wan willows music hangs her lyres,
Æolian dials by which phantoms tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

There you shall hear low voices; kisses kissed,
Faint in the Garden of all Dead Desires,
By lips the anguish of vain song makes whist;
[77] And meet with shapes that art's despair attires;
And gaze in eyes where all sweet sorrows tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

Thither we go, dreamer and realist,
Bound for the Garden of all Dead Desires,
Where we shall find, perhaps, all Life hath missed,
All Life hath longed for when the soul aspires,
All Earth's elusive loveliness at tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

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The Evanescent Beautiful	1
August	2
The Higher Brotherhood	4
Gramarye	5
Dreams	7
The Old House	8
The Rock	10
Rain	12
Standing-Stone Creek	13
The Moonmen	15
The Old Man Dreams	19
Since Then	20
Comrades	21
Waiting	23
Contrasts	24
In June	25
After long Grief and Pain	26
Can I forget?	27
The House of Fear	28
At Dawn	29
Storm	30
Memories	31
Which	32
Sunset in Autumn	34
The Legend of the Stone	36
Time and Death and Love	40
Passion	41
When the Wine-Cup at the Lip	42
Art	43
A Song for Old Age	45
Tristram and Isolt	46
The Better Lot	47
Dusk in the Woods	48
At the Ferry	50
Her Violin	52
Her Vesper Song	54
At Parting	55
Carissima Mea	56
Margery	59
Constance	61
Gertrude	63
Lydia	64
A Southern Girl	65
A Daughter of the States	66
An Autumn Night	67
Lines	68
The Blind God	69
A Valentine	70
A Catch	71
The New Year	73
Then and Now	75
Epilogue	76