Chapter 2
And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own, Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear, On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown Hither and thither and everywhere-- With its keen little sinister eyes of gray, And nose like the beak of a bird of prey!
_Our Kind of a Man_
1 The kind of a man for you and me! He faces the world unflinchingly, And smites, as long as the wrong resists, With a knuckled faith and force like fists: He lives the life he is preaching of, And loves where most is the need of love; His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears, And his face sublime through the blind man's tears; The light shines out where the clouds were dim, And the widow's prayer goes up for him; The latch is clicked at the hovel door And the sick man sees the sun once more, And out o'er the barren fields he sees Springing blossoms and waving trees, Feeling as only the dying may, That God's own servant has come that way, Smoothing the path as it still winds on Through the golden gate where his loved have gone.
2 The kind of a man for me and you! However little of worth we do He credits full, and abides in trust That time will teach us how more is just. He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds Of querulous and uneasy minds, And sympathizing, he shares the pain Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain; And knowing this, as we grasp his hand We are surely coming to understand! He looks on sin with pitying eyes-- E'en as the Lord, since Paradise--, Else, should we read, Though our sins should glow As scarlet, they shall be white as snow--? And feeling still, with a grief half glad, That the bad are as good as the good are bad, He strikes straight out for the Right-- and he Is the kind of a man for you and me!
_The Harper_
Like a drift of faded blossoms Caught in a slanting rain, His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp In a tremulous refrain:
Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip! Ah! But the chords were rainy sweet! And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip, As he played there in the street.
Patter, and drip, and tinkle! And there was the little bed In the corner of the garret, And the rafters overhead!
And there was the little window-- Tinkle, and drip, and drip--! The rain above, and a mother's love, And God's companionship!
_Old Aunt Mary's_
Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine, In those old days of the lost sunshine Of youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through, And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen too, And we went visiting, "me and you," Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
It all comes back so clear to-day! Though I am as bald as you are gray-- Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, We patter along in the dust again, As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
We cross the pasture, and through the wood Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry, And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing" sky And lolled and circled, as we went by Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And then in the dust of the road again; And the teams we met, and the countrymen; And the long highway, with sunshine spread As thick as butter on country bread, Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Why, I see her now in the open door, Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me! Wasn't it good for a boy to see-- And wasn't it good for a boy to be Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade, And the cherry and quince "preserves'' she made! And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--! And the more we ate was the more to spare, Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept-- Where the cream in a golden languor slept While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept-- Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And O my brother, so far away, This is to tell you she waits to-day To welcome us--: Aunt Mary fell Asleep this morning, whispering-- "Tell The boys to come!" And all is well Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
_Illileo_
Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales-- The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales; The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails, And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.
Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone So mystically, musically mellow as your own.
You whispered low, Illileo-- so low the leaves were mute, And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit; And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute: And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.
Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this--? Let them reeling reach to win me-- even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward--! I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss.
And blossoms should grow odorless-- and lilies all aghast-- And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last--. So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.
IIlileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.
_The King_
They rode right out of the morning sun-- A glimmering, glittering cavalcade Of knights and ladies and every one In princely sheen arrayed; And the king of them all, O he rode ahead, With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red That spurted about in the breeze and bled In the bloom of the everglade.
And they rode high over the dewy lawn, With brave, glad banners of every hue That rolled in ripples, as they rode on In splendor, two and two; And the tinkling links of the golden reins Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains As the castanets in a dream of Spain's Intensest gold and blue.
And they rode and rode; and the steeds they neighed And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides Flickered and lightened and glanced and played Like the moon on rippling tides;
And their manes were silken, and thick and strong, And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long, And jostled in time to the teeming throng, And their knightly song besides.
Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur, And the fluttering sash of the queen went wild In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her As one at a wilful child--, And as knight and lady away they flew, And the banners flapped, and the falcon too, And the lances flashed and the bugle blew, He kissed his hand and smiled.
And then, like a slanting sunlit shower, The pageant glittered across the plain, And the turf spun back, and the wildweed flower Was only a crimson stain. And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast, As he blends these words with the wailing blast: "It is the King of the Year rides past!" And Autumn is here again.
_A Bride_
"O I am weary!" she sighed, as her billowy Hair she unloosed in a torrent of gold That rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy, Graceful and fair as a goddess of old: Over her jewels she flung herself drearily, Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast, Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearily Clung in her hair like a dove in its nest--. And naught but her shadowy form in the mirror To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her!
"Weary--?" Of what? Could we fathom the mystery--? Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tears And wash with their dews one white face from her history, Set like a gem in the red rust of years? Nothing will rest her-- unless he who died of her Strayed from his grave, and in place of the groom, Tipping her face, kneeling there by the side of her, Drained the old kiss to the dregs of his doom--. And naught but that shadowy form in the mirror To heel in dumb agony down and weep near her!
_The Dead Lover_
Time is so long when a man is dead! Some one sews; and the room is made Very clean; and the light is shed Soft through the window-shade.
Yesterday I thought: "I know Just how the bells will sound, and how The friends will talk, and the sermon go, And the hearse-horse bow and bow!"
This is to-day; and I have no thing To think of-- nothing whatever to do But to hear the throb of the pulse of a wing That wants to fly back to you.
_A Song_
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear; There is ever a something sings alway: There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. The sunshine showers across the grain, And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; And in and out, when the eaves dip rain, The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair, There is ever a song that our hearts may hear-- There is ever a song somewhere, my dear There is ever a song somewhere!
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue: The robin pipes when the sun is here, And the cricket chirrups the whole night through. The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow, And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear; But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the skies above or dark or fair, There is ever a song that our hearts may hear-- There is ever a song somewhere, my dear-- There is ever a song somewhere!
_When Bessie Died_
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; If the white feet into the grave had tripped--"
When Bessie died-- We braided the brown hair, and tied It just as her own little hands Had fastened back the silken strands A thousand times-- the crimson bit Of ribbon woven into it That she had worn with childish pride-- Smoothed down the dainty bow-- and cried When Bessie died.
When Bessie died-- We drew the nursery blinds aside, And as the morning in the room Burst like a primrose into bloom, Her pet canary's cage we hung Where she might hear him when he sung-- And yet not any note he tried, Though she lay listening folded-eyed.
When Bessie died-- We writhed in prayer unsatisfied: We begged of God, and He did smile In silence on us all the while; And we did see Him, through our tears, Enfolding that fair form of hers, She laughing back against His love The kisses had nothing of-- And death to us He still denied, When Bessie died-- When Bessie died.
_The Shower_
The landscape, like the awed face of a child, Grew curiously blurred; a hush of death Fell on the fields, and in the darkened wild The zephyr held its breath.
No wavering glamour-work of light and shade Dappled the shivering surface of the brook; The frightened ripples in their ambuscade Of willows thrilled and shook.
The sullen day grew darker, and anon Dim flashes of pent anger lit the sky; With rumbling wheels of wrath came rolling on The storm's artillery.
The cloud above put on its blackest frown, And then, as with a vengeful cry of pain, The lightning snatched it, ripped and flung it down In ravelled shreds of rain:
While I, transfigured by some wondrous art, Bowed with the thirsty lilies to the sod, My empty soul brimmed over, and my heart Drenched with the love of God.
_A Life Lesson_
There! Little girl; don't cry! They have broken your doll, I know; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house too, Are things of the long ago; But childish troubles will soon pass by--. There! Little girl; don't cry!
There! Little girl; don't cry! They have broken your slate, I know; And the glad, wild ways Of your school-girl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by--. There! Little girl; don't cry!
There! Little girl; don't cry! They have broken your heart, I know; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But heaven holds all for which you sigh--. There! Little girl; don't cry!
_A Scrawl_
I want to sing something-- but this is all-- I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull As though they were damp, and the echoes fall Limp and unlovable.
Words will not say what I yearn to say-- They will not walk as I want them to, But they stumble and fall in the path of the way Of my telling my love for you.
Simply take what the scrawl is worth-- Knowing I love you as sun the sod On the ripening side of the great round earth That swings in the smile of God.
_Away_
I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead--. He is just away!
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand He has wandered into an unknown land,
And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you-- O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return--,
Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here;
And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes--.
Mild and gentle, as he was brave--, When the sweetest love of his life he gave
To simple things--: Where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to,
The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed:
When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;
And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain--.
Think of him still as the same, I say: He is not dead-- he is just away!
_Who Bides His Time_
Who bides his time, and day by day Faces defeat full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay, However poor his fortunes be--, He will not fail in any qualm Of poverty-- the paltry dime It will grow golden in his palm, Who bides his time.
Who bides his time-- he tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltest tear; And though he fares with slowest feet, Joy runs to meet him, drawing near; The birds are heralds of his cause; And like a never-ending rhyme, The roadsides bloom in his applause, Who bides his time.
Who bides his time, and fevers not In the hot race that none achieves, Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought With crimson berries in the leaves; And he shall reign a goodly king, And sway his hand o'er every clime, With peace writ on his signet-ring, Who bides his time.
_From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay_
A troth, and a grief, and a blessing, Disguised them and came this way--, And one was a promise, and one was a doubt, And one was a rainy day.
And they met betimes with this maiden, And the promise it spake and lied, And the doubt it gibbered and hugged itself, And the rainy day-- she died.
_Laughter Holding Both His Sides_
Ay, thou varlet! Laugh away! All the world's a holiday! Laugh away, and roar and shout Till thy hoarse tongue lolleth out! Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine eyes Unto bursting; pelt thy thighs With thy swollen palms, and roar As thou never hast before! Lustier! Wilt thou! Peal on peal! Stiflest? Squat and grind thy heel-- Wrestle with thy loins, and then Wheeze thee whiles, and whoop again!
_Fame_
1 Once, in a dream, I saw a man, With haggard face and tangled hair, And eyes that nursed as wild a care As gaunt Starvation ever can; And in his hand he held a wand Whose magic touch gave life and thought Unto a form his fancy wrought And robed with coloring so grand, It seemed the reflex of some child Of Heaven, fair and undefiled-- A face of purity and love-- To woo him into worlds above: And as I gazed with dazzled eyes, A gleaming smile lit up his lips As his bright soul from its eclipse Went flashing into Paradise. Then tardy Fame came through the door And found a picture-- nothing more.
2 And once I saw a man alone, In abject poverty, with hand Uplifted o'er a block of stone That took a shape at his command And smiled upon him, fair and good-- A perfect work of womanhood, Save that the eyes might never weep, Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep, Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist, Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. And as in awe I gazed on her, I saw the sculptor's chisel fall-- I saw him sink, without a moan, Sink life less at the feet of stone, And lie there like a worshipper. Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, And found a statue-- that was all.
3 And once I saw a man who drew A gloom about him like cloak, And wandered aimlessly. The few Who spoke of him at all, but spoke Disparagingly of a mind The Fates had faultily designed: Too indolent for modern times-- Too fanciful, and full of whims-- For talking to himself in rhymes, And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, The idle life to which he clung Was worthless as the songs he sung! I saw him, in my vision, filled With rapture o'er a spray of bloom The wind threw in his lonely room; And of the sweet perfume it spilled He drank to drunkenness, and flung His long hair back, and laughed and sung And clapped his hands as children do At fairy tales they listen to, While from his flying quill there dripped Such music on his manuscript That he who listens to the words May close his eyes and dream the birds Are twittering on every hand A language he can understand. He journeyed on through life unknown, Without one friend to call his own; He tired. No kindly hand to press The cooling touch of tenderness Upon his burning brow, nor lift To his parched lips God's freest gift-- No sympathetic sob or sigh Of trembling lips-- no sorrowing eye Looked out through tears to see him die. And Fame her greenest laurels brought To crown a head that heeded not.
And this is Fame! A thing indeed, That only comes when least the need: The wisest minds of every age The book of life from page to page Have searched in vain; each lesson conned Will promise it the page beyond-- Until the last, when dusk of night Falls over it, and reason's light Is smothered by that unknown friend Who signs his nom de plume, The End.
_The Ripest Peach_
The ripest peach is highest on the tree-- And so her love, beyond the reach of me, Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes bow Her heart down to me where I worship now!
She looms aloft where every eye may see The ripest peach is highest on the tree. Such fruitage as her love I know, alas! I may not reach here from the orchard grass.
I drink the sunshine showered past her lips As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips. The ripest peach is highest on the tree, And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly.
Why-- why do I not turn away in wrath And pluck some heart here hanging in my path--? Lover's lower boughs bend with them-- but, ah me! The ripest peach is highest on the tree!
_A Fruit Piece_
The afternoon of summer folds Its warm arms round the marigolds,
And with its gleaming fingers, pets The watered pinks and violets
That from the casement vases spill, Over the cottage window-sill,
Their fragrance down the garden walks Where droop the dry-mouthed hollyhocks.
How vividly the sunshine scrawls The grape-vine shadows on the walls!
How like a truant swings the breeze In high boughs of the apple-trees!
The slender "free-stone" lifts aloof, Full languidly above the roof,
A hoard of fruitage, stamped with gold And precious mintings manifold.
High up, through curled green leaves, a pear Hangs hot with ripeness here and there.
Beneath the sagging trellisings, In lush, lack-lustre clusterings,
Great torpid grapes, all fattened through With moon and sunshine, shade and dew,
Until their swollen girths express But forms of limp deliciousness--
Drugged to an indolence divine With heaven's own sacramental wine.
_Their Sweet Sorrow_
They meet to say farewell: Their way Of saying this is hard to say--. He holds her hand an Instant, wholly Distressed-- and she unclasps it slowly,
He lends his gaze evasively Over the printed page that she Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder Glimpsed from the lace-mists that infold her.
The clock, beneath its crystal cup, Discreetly clicks-- "Quick! Act! Speak up!" A tension circles both her slender Wrists-- and her raised eyes flash in splendor,
Even as he feels his dazzled own--. Then blindingly, round either thrown, They feel a stress of arms that ever Strain tremblingly-- and "Never! Never!"
Is whispered brokenly, with half A sob, like a belated laugh--, While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes--, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.
_John McKeen_
John McKeen, in his rusty dress, His loosened collar, and swarthy throat, His face unshaven, and none the less, His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, And the wealth of a workman's vote!
Bring him, O Memory, here once more, And tilt him back in his Windsor chair By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er And the light of the hearth is across the floor, And the crickets everywhere!
And let their voices be gladly blent With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And old-time fiddle-tunes!
Tick the clock with a wooden sound, And fill the hearing with childish glee Of rhyming riddle, or story found In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound Old book of the Used-to-be!
John McKeen of the Past! Ah John, To have grown ambitious in worldly ways--! To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don A broadcloth suit, and forgetful, gone Out on election days!
John ah, John! Did it prove your worth To yield you the office you still maintain--? To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth Of all the happier things on earth To the hunger of heart and brain?
Under the dusk of your villa trees, Edging the drives where your blooded span Paw the pebbles and wait your ease--, Where are the children about your knees, And the mirth, and the happy man?
The blinds of your mansion are battened to; Your faded wife is a close recluse; And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do Dutifully all that is willed of you, And marry as you shall choose--!
But O for the old-home voices, blent With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, And the motherly chirrup of glad content, And neighborly gossip and merriment, And the old-time fiddle-tunes!
_Out of Nazareth_
"He shall sleep unscathed of thieves Who loves Allah and believes." Thus heard one who shared the tent, In the far-off Orient, Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz-- Nobler never loved the stars Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim Dawn his courser neighed to him!
He said: "Let the sands be swarmed With such thieves as I, and thou Shalt at morning rise unharmed, Light as eyelash to the brow Of thy camel amber-eyed, Ever munching either side, Striding still, with nestled knees, Through the midnight's oases."
"Who can rob thee an thou hast More than this that thou hast cast At my feet-- this dust of gold? Simply this and that, all told! Hast thou not a treasure of Such a thing as men call love?"
"Can the dusky band I lead Rob thee of thy daily need Of a whiter soul, or steal What thy lordly prayers reveal? Who could be enriched of thee By such hoard of poverty As thy niggard hand pretends To dole me-- thy worst of friends? Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless One indeed who blesses thee: Robbing thee, I dispossess But myself--. Pray thou for me!"
He shall sleep unscathed of thieves Who loves Allah and believes.
_September Dark_
1 The air falls chill; The whippoorwill Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill: The dusk grows dense, The silence tense; And lo, the katydids commence.
2 Through shadowy rifts Of woodland lifts The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, While left and right The fireflies' light Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.
3 O Cloudland gray And level lay Thy mists across the face of Day! At foot and head, Above the dead O Dews, weep on uncomforted!
_We To Sigh Instead of Sing_