Chapter 4

Thick dappled by circles of sunshine and fluttering shade. Your bright, naked body advances, blown over by leaves, Half-quenched in their various green, just a point of you showing, A knee or a thigh, sudden glimpsed, then at once blotted into The filmy and flickering forest, to start out again Triumphant in smooth, supple roundness, edged sharp as white ivory, Cool, perfect, with rose rarely tinting your lips and your breasts, Swelling out from the green in the opulent curves of ripe fruit, And hidden, like fruit, by the swift intermittence of leaves. So, clinging to branches and moss, you advance on the ledges Of rock which hang over the stream, with the wood-smells about you, The pungence of strawberry plants and of gum-oozing spruces, While below runs the water impatient, impatient to take you, To splash you, to run down your sides, to sing you of deepness, Of pools brown and golden, with brown-and-gold flags on their borders, Of blue, lingering skies floating solemnly over your beauty, Of undulant waters a-sway in the effort to hold you To keep you submerged and quiescent while over you glories The summer. Oread, Dryad, or Naiad, or just Woman, clad only in youth and in gallant perfection, Standing up in a great burst of sunshine, you dazzle my eyes Like a snow-star, a moon, your effulgence burns up in a halo, For you are the chalice which holds all the races of men. You slip into the pool and the water folds over your shoulder, And over the tree-tops the clouds slowly follow your swimming, To behold the way they act. And the scent of the woods is sweet on this hot summer morning.

AMY LOWELL

LEPRECHAUNS AND CLURICAUNS

Over where the Irish hedges Are with blossoms white as snow, Over where the limestone ledges Through the soft green grasses show— There the fairies may be seen In their jackets of red and green, Leprechauns and cluricauns, And the other ones, I ween.

And, bedad, it is a wonder To behold the way they act. They’re the lads that seldom blunder, Wise and wary, that’s the fact. You may hold them with your eye; Look away and off they fly; Leprechauns and cluricauns, Bedad, but they are sly!

They have heaps of golden treasure Hid away within the ground, Where they spend their days in leisure, And where fairy joys abound; But to mortals not a guinea Will they give-no, not a penny. Leprechauns and cluricauns, Their gold is seldom found.

Maybe of a morning early As you pass a lonely rath, You may see a little curly— Headed fairy in your path. He’ll be working at a shoe, But he’ll have his eye on you— Leprechauns and cluricauns, They know just what to do.

Visions of a life of riches Surely will before you flash; (You’ll no longer dig the ditches, You’ll be well supplied with cash.) And you’ll seize the little man, And you’ll hold him—if you can; Leprechauns and cluricauns, ’Tis they’re the slipp’ry clan!

DENIS A. MCCARTHY

L’ENVOI

When the time for parting comes, and the day is on the wane, And the silent evening darkens over hill and over plain, And earth holds no more sorrow, no more grief, and no more pain, Shall we weary for the battle and the strife?

When at last the trail is ending, and the stars are growing near, And we breathe the breath of conquest, and the voices that we hear Are the great companions’ voices that have hallowed year on year, Shall we know an instant’s grieving as we pass?

Shall we pause a fleeting moment ere we grasp the eager hands, Take one last long look of wonder at the dimming of the lands, Love the earth one glowing moment ere we pass from its demands, Cull all beauty in its essence as we gaze?

Or with not one backward longing shall we leap the last abyss, Scale the highest crags glad-hearted, fearful only lest the bliss Of an earth-remembering instant should delay the great sun’s kiss— Consuming us within the flame?

DOROTHEA LAWRENCE MANN

TO IMAGINATION SUGGESTED BY MAXFIELD PARRISH’S “AIR CASTLES”

O beauteous boy a-dream, what visions sought Of pictures magical thy eyes unfold, What triumphs of celestial wonders wrought, What marvels from a breath of beauty rolled! Skyward and seaward on the clouds are scrolled, A mystic imagery of castled thought, A thousand worlds to lose,—or win and mould— A radiant iridescence swiftly caught Of ever-changing glory, fancy-fraught.

Blue wonder of the sea and luminous sky, A thousand wonders in thy dreamlit face,— Eyes that behold afar the turrets high Of Ilium, and the transient mortal grace Of Deirdre’s sadness, all the conquering race Of Athens,—eyes that saw Eden’s beauty lie In passionate adoration—visions trace Across the tender brooding of the sigh That wrecked a city and made chieftains die.

Forward not backward turns the mystic shine Of those far-seeing orbs that track the gleam— The fleecy marvel of the cloud is line On line the wizard tracery of a dream. O lad, who buildest not of things that seem, Beyond what bounds of visioning divine Came that far smile, from what long-strayed sun-beam Caught thou the radiance, from what fostering vine The power to build and mould the deep design?

Knowest thou the secret that thy brush would tell, Is all the dream a bubbled splendor white, Beyond those castles cloud-bound, does there dwell The eternal silence of the dark—or light? Will thy hand hold the pen which shall indict The symboled mystery-write the final knell Of rainbow fancy-is the distant sight A nothingless encircled by a spell Of gleaming bubbles wrought of beauty’s shell?

In vain to question, where the mystery Of Youth’s short golden dream is lord and king. The eyes that farthest gaze in ecstasy, Were never meant to paint the immortal thing They see, nor understand the joy they bring. The misty baubles of the sky and sea Sail on. Dream still, bright-visioned boy, and fling The glittering mantle of thy thoughts that flee, Weaving us evermore thy shining pageantry.

DORTHEA LAWRENCE MANN

DRAGON

Some saw a dragon eating up the light, Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho! Some heard a lost bird riding out the night, Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!

But I saw: A low dark hill with its twisted back Two wings of flame from the green cloud rack, A sprawling flank overlaid with leaf Glitter and gleam and shine like steel, Crackle and lash like a serpent’s tail!

And I heard: The wind draw out of the west and wail, Dance and stagger and jig and reel! With the long low sound of a life in grief!

I saw a life in grief Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho Dance and stagger and jig and reel! Oho! Oho! Oho, ho, ho!

JEANNETTE MARKS “THE BOOKMAN.”

GREEN GOLDEN DOOR

Green golden door, swing in, swing in! Fanning the life a man must live, Echoes and airs and minstrelsies, Love and hope that he called his, Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin Casting them forth and sucking them in, Green golden door, swing out, swing out!

Green golden door, swing in, swing in! Show me the youth that will not die, Tell me the dream that has not waked, Seek me the heart that never ached, Green golden door, swing out, swing out!

Green golden door, swing in, swing out! Long is the wailing of man’s breath, Short is the wail of death.

JEANNETTE MARKS

SLEEPY HOLLOW, CONCORD

Four graves there are upon the wooded crest, Each one a shrine to pilgrims ever dear. Uncovered, mute, are those who tarry here. Romance’s dreaming master lies at rest Beneath the cedars. Near is one whose breast Held Mother Nature’s lore. Beyond, the seer And sage. There, one who saw her duty clear, Her name by little men and women blessed.

Four friends who walked in Concord’s pleasant ways Long years ago. They dwelt and worked apart, But now the world has crowned them with its bays, And holds them close forever to its heart. O, sacred hill! There Genius, guarding stays, And from its slopes shall never Love depart!

JOHN CLAIR MINOT

THE SWORD OF ARTHUR

A castle stands in Yorkshire (Oh, the hill is fair and green!) And far beneath it lies a cave No living man has seen.

It is the cave enchanted (Oh, seek it ere ye die!) And there King Arthur and his knights In dreamless slumber lie.

One time a peasant found it (Oh, the years have hurried well!) It was the day of fate for him, And this is what befell:

Upon a couch of crystal (Oh, heart be pure and strong!) He saw the King, and, close beside, The armored knights athrong.

And all of them were sleeping (Praise God, who sendeth rest!) The sleep that comes when strife is done And ended every quest.

Beside the good King Arthur (How high is your desire?) His sword within its scabbard lay, The sword with blade of fire.

Now had the peasant known it (Oh, if we all could know!) He should have drawn that wondrous blade Before he turned to go.

If but his hand had touched it (The sword still lieth there!) He would have felt in every vein A lofty purpose thrill.

If but his hand had drawn it (The sword still lieth there!) A kingly way he would have walked, Wherever he might fare.

But no; he fled affrighted (Oh, pitiful the cost!) And then he knew; but lo! the way Into the cave was lost.

He searched forever after (All this was long ago!) But nevermore that crystal cave His eager eyes could know.

Pray God ye have the vision (Oh, search in every land!) To seize the sword that Arthur bore When it lies at your hand.

JOHN CLAIR MINOT

THE DIVINE FOREST

If there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more, If trunks of trees seem sentinels, For what their vigil no man tells. And if you clasp these guardian trees Nothing there is to hurt or please; Only the dead roof of the forest drops Gently down and never stops And roofs you in and roofs you under, Mute and away from life’s dim thunder; And if there come eternal spring It is but more disheartening, For Autumn takes the Spring and Summer— Autumn that is the latest comer— With the Springtime’s misty wonder And the Summer’s yield of gold, Weighs you down and weighs you under To where the blackened leaves are mold. . . The lone gift of the forest is ever new: Eternity where dwell not you. The forest, accepting, heeds you not; Accepting all-you are forgot. If there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more.

Once the forest spoke but now is silent, Save in the skyward branches whence no sound Seems to touch ear of any man below— Or else no longer the man knows how to hear. Such men build roofs to keep the forest out, Yet all their roofs are built of the forest’s self; Only they make the dead tree a shield against the living. Such lapsing of the forest then they use And turn it into countless lowly dwellings; Sometimes they even cut the living down To leaven the dead roofs they would erect. Though some of these low roofs are lovely there Beneath the guardianship of forest trees, And some yearn upward as with thought of wings, Yet the eyes of the dwellers therein are dark To the upper forest and they Fearful of the windy freedom of its top. They have forgotten That the greatest roof is but a banner And that it was a tree that made a Cross.

CHARLES R. MURPHY

MAGIC

TO W.S.B.

I ran into the sunset light As hard as I could run: The treetops bowed in sheer delight As if they loved the sun: And all the songs of little birds Who laughed and cried in silver words Were joined as they were one.

And down the streaming golden sky A lark came circling with a cry Of wonder-weaving joy: And all the arch of heaven rang Where meadowlands of dreaming hang As when I was a boy.

And through the ringing solitude In pulsing lovely amplitude A mist hung in a shroud, As though the light of loneliness Turned pure delight to holiness, And bathed it in a cloud.

I stripped my laughing body bare And plunged into that holy air That washed me like a sea, And raced against its silver tide That stroked my eager glancing side And made my spirit free.

Across the limits of the land The wind and I swept hand and hand Beyond the golden glow. We danced across the ocean plain Like thrushes singing in the rain A song of long ago.

And on into the silver night We strove to win the race with light And bring the vision home, And bring the wonder home again Unto the sleeping eyes of men Across the singing foam.

And down the river of the world Our glowing, limbs in glory swirled As spring within a flower, And stars in music of delight Streamed gayly down our shoulders white Like petals in a shower.

And tears of awful wonder ran Adown my cheeks to hear the clan Of beauty chaunting white The prayer too deep for living word, Or sight of man or winging bird, Or music over forest heard At falling of the night.

And dropping slowly as the dew On grasses that the winds renew In urge of flooding fire, And softly as the hushing boughs The gentle airs of dawn arouse To cradle morning’s quire.

The murmur of the singing leaves Around the secret Flame, Like mating swallows ’neath the eaves In rustling silence came, And flowing through the silent air Creation fluttered in a prayer Descending on a spiral stair, And calling me by name.

It nestled in my dreaming eyes Like heaven in a lake, And softened hope into surprise For very beauty’s sake, And silence blossomed into morn, Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn Could scarcely bear to break.

I sang into the morning light As loud as I could sing, The treetops bowed in sheer delight Before the slanting wing. And all the songs of little birds Who laughed and cried in silver words Adored the Risen Spring.

EDWARD J. O’BRIEN

MICHAEL PAT

TO ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

Old Michael Pat he said to me He saw an angel in a tree. He knew I’d never, never doubt him, For what would heaven be without them. The angel laughed for very glee And sang out loud: “Heigh! come with me!” Old Michael felt a creeping kind Of wonder in his humble mind, And, hardly knowing what to say, Ran where the angel showed the way. The lambs were running on the hills, Glad laughter echoed from the rills, And many hidden little birds Talked pleasant things in singing words. He followed up a mountain then And saw a crowd of singing men Approaching to a Crown of Light Wherein they took a fresh delight. He danced and sang and whooped and crew To see the Lord of all he knew Surrounded by the living songs Of stars and men in countless throngs, And then he died to life again, And shovelled with the strength of ten. He taught me how to say my letters, And take my hat off to my betters, And when I asked for fairy stories, He told me of angelic glories. He was a lovely farmer, he Had seen an angel in a tree.

EDWARD J. O’BRIEN

SONG

FROM “FLESH: A GEOGORIAN ODE”

Ebb on with me across the sunset tide And float beyond the waters of the world, The light of evening slipping from my side, Thy softened voice in waves of silence furled.

Flow on into the flaming morning wine, Drowning the land in color. Then on high Rise in thy candid innocence and shine Like to a poplar straight against the sky.

EDWARD J. O’BRIEN

IN MEMORIAM: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE (Killed in action, July 31, 1917)

Soldier and singer of Erin, What may I fashion for thee? What garland of words or of flowers? Singer of sunlight and showers, The wind on the lea;

Of clouds, and the houses of Erin, Wee cabins, white on the plain, And bright with the colours of even, Beauty of earth and of heaven Outspread beyond Slane!

Slane, where the Easter of Patrick Flamed on the night of the Gael, Guard both the honor and story Of him who has died for the glory That crowns Innisfail.

Soldier of right and of freedom, I offer thee song and not tears. With Brian, and Red Hugh O’Donnell, The chiefs of Tyrone and Tryconnell, Live on through the years!

NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR

EVENSONG

A shepherd piping, herald of the Night Who comes with Silence up the coloured vale, Treading low gently, clad in greyish white, Poignantly piping, sound your reedy wail! For Day departed moves in funeral train Tended by Twilight and, in deepest rose, The splendid Sunset melts beneath the main While sweet the Sea-wind with cool softness blows. As when a mother gathers to her breast The child who frets for Dad’s remembered smart, Now Light fades quickly in the ashen west, And Night-Peace falls across my troubled heart. Flutes, for the night through let my mind be still, And God keep safe with Him my stubborn will!

NORREYS JEPHSON O’CONOR

THE PROPHET

All day long he kept the sheep:— Far and early, from the crowd, On the hills from steep to steep, Where the silence cried aloud; And the shadow of the cloud Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.

Where he dipped the water’s cool, Filling boyish hands from thence, Something breathed across the pool Stir of sweet enlightenments; And he drank, with thirsty sense, Till his heart was brimmed and full.

Still, the hovering Voice unshed, And the Vision unbeheld, And the mute sky overhead, And his longing, still withheld! —Even when the two tears welled, Salt, upon that lonely bread.

Vaguely blessed in the leaves, Dim-companioned in the sun, Eager mornings, wistful eyes, Very hunger drew him on; And To-morrow ever shone With the glow the sunset weaves.

Even so, to that young heart, Words and hands and Men were dear; And the stir of lane and mart After daylong vigil here. Sunset called, and he drew near, Still to find his path apart.

When the Bell, with gentle tongue, Called the herd-bells home again, Through the purple shades he swung, Down the mountain, through the glen; Towards the sound of fellow-men,— Even from the light that clung.

Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, Came that silent flock of his: Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, After homing twos and threes; With the longing memories Of all white things dreamed and vowed.

Through the fragrances, alone, By the sudden-silent brook, From the open world unknown, To the close of speech and book; There to find the foreign look In the faces of his own.

Sharing was beyond his skill; Shyly yet, he made essay: Sought to dip, and share, and fill Heart’s-desire, from day to day. But their eyes, some foreign way, Looked at him; and he was still.

Last, he reached his arms to sleep, Where the Vision waited, dim, Still beyond some deep-on-deep. And the darkness folded him, Eager heart and weary limb.— All day long, he kept the sheep.

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

HARVEST-MOON: 1914

Over the twilight field, The overflowing field,— Over the glimmering field, And bleeding furrows with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe, After the scythe; The teeming field and darkly overstrewn With all the garnered fulness of that noon— Two looked upon each other. One was a Woman men called their mother; And one, the Harvest-Moon.

And one, the Harvest-Moon, Who stood, who gazed On those unquiet gleanings where they bled; Till the lone Woman said: “But we were crazed… We should laugh now together, I and you, We two. You, for your dreaming it was worth A star’s while to look on and light the Earth; And I, forever telling to my mind, Glory it was, and gladness, to give birth To humankind! Yes, I, that ever thought it not amiss To give the breath to men, For men to slay again: Lording it over anguish but to give My life that men might live For this. You will be laughing now, remembering I called you once Dead World, and barren thing, Yes, so we named you then, You, far more wise Than to give life to men.”

Over the field, that there Gave back the skies A shattered upward stare From blank white eyes,— Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune Of throbbing clay, but dumb and quiet soon, She looked; and went her way— The Harvest-Moon.

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEAODY

HORSEMAN SPRINGING FROM THE DARK: A DREAM

“Horseman, springing from the dark, Horseman, flying wild and free, Tell me what shall be thy road Whither speedest far from me?”

“From the dark into the light, From the small unto the great, From the valleys dark I ride O’er the hills to conquer fate!”

“Take me with thee, horseman mine! Let me madly rode with thee!” As he turned I met his eyes, My own soul looked back at me!

LILLA CABOT PERRY

THREE QUATRAINS

THE CUP

She said, “Lift high the cup!” Of her arm’s weariness she gave no sign, But, smiling, raised it up That none might see or guess it held no wine.

FORGIVE ME NOT!

Forgive me not! Hate me and I shall know Some of Love’s fire still burns within your breast! Forgiveness finds its home in hearts at rest, On dead volcanoes only lies the snow.

THE ROSE

One deep red rose I dropped into his grave, So small a thing to give so great a friend! Yet well he knew it was my heart I gave And must fare on without it to the end,

LILLA CABOT PERRY

A VALENTINE, UNSENT

Stay, flaming rose, ’twould grieve her heart To see you fade away, Unloved, unwelcome and apart From every joy to-day.

Once long ago your tale was new, Days distant yet so dear; Why say her lover still is true, When that is all her fear?

Why thus recall another’s pain, Her tender heart to fret? Best let her think he loves again, Who never can forget!

MARGARET PERRY

SHIPBUILDERS

The German people reared them An idol made of wood; And Hindenburg before them Lifelike and stupid stood.

To clothe him all in iron And thus his soul express, With nails and spikes they covered His wooden nakedness.

And when they, thus had clothed him All in a suit of mail, Still came they, wild-eyed, looking For space to drive a nail.

Whenever Teuton airmen Slay boys and girls at play, Or U-boats, drowning babies, Create a holiday.

Then, gathering round their statue, A happy German throng Drive nails into the idol To make him still more strong.

Avenge the babes, shipbuilders, That on the seas have died; Avenge the little children Murdered for Wilhelm’s pride.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And let your hammers ring, For more than ships and cargoes Waits on your fashioning.

Come, gather at the shipyards; With every bolt you drive Bethink you ’tis the Kaiser Whose brutish head you rive.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And swing with might and main; ’Tis Tirpitz and the Crown Prince That you to-day have slain.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And heat the metal hot, For it is Bethmann Hollweg You’re boiling in the pot.

Come, gather at the shipyards,— And when the day is done, You’ve spent it in driving spikes, In Hindernburg the Hun.

Come, gather at the shipyards, And toil with healthy hate, For only you can save the world, The Hun is at the gate.

ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER

UNFADING PICTURES

(“The air from the sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers…. The old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my aunt’s inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries, the old china … and, wonderfully out of keeping with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything.” —“David Copperfield,” Chapter XIII.)

How many are the scenes he limned, With artist strokes, clear-cut and free— Our Dickens; time shall not efface Their charm, and they will ever grace The halls of memory.

Oft and again we turn to them, To contemplate in pleased review; And like some picture on the screen Comes now to mind a favorite scene His master-pencil drew:—

Upon a sofa, stretched in sleep, I see a small lad, spent and worn, And by the window, stern and grim, A silent figure watching him, So dusty, ragged, torn.

Ah, now she rises from behind The round green fan beside her chair; “Poor fellow!” croons-and pity lends Her voice new softness-and she bends And brushes back his hair.

Then in his sleep he softly stirs. Was that a dream, these murmured words? He wakes! There by the casement sat Miss Trotwood still; close by, her cat And her canary birds.

The peaceful calm of that quaint room, Its marks of comfort everywhere— Old china and mahogany And blowing in, fresh from the sea, The perfume-laden air.

Poor little pilgrim so bereft, So weary at his journey’s end! What joy must then have filled his soul To reach at last such happy goal— To find—oh, such a friend!…