Part 1

BLUE AND PURPLE

BLUE AND PURPLE

FRANCIS NEILSON

NEW YORK: B. W. HUEBSCH MCMXX

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY B. W. HUEBSCH

SONGS TO A WIFE

_My love is beautiful and sweet; she is like a pale pink rose full of the glory of dew and sun. Sharon’s garden knows not a bloom so fair as she. Persia holds not a fragrance so heavenly in its perfumed bowers. Oh, my wondrous love, pour thy scented charm into the chalice of my longing heart; fill with thy fresh splendour the air I breathe; and give me youth to spend on thee, my well-beloved. I am the gardener, born to tend one flower. My flower is the radiance of a dawn in June. Like a veil of glowing pearls my love spreads her light; she is my morning, my joy of perfect hours. I will sing to her the song fresh roses raise from their delicious petals when night departs and they rejoice, sun-kissed, when all the east is rich in gold. Lovely is my bloom. Her soul is the first blossom given by Him who made the loveliness of Spring._

BLUE AND PURPLE

IN BLUE AND PURPLE CLAD

A pearl set in the hollow of a stone, Wrought deftly by an artist of great skill; A sapphire ’twas that bore the pearl so still Within its bosom; taking from its tone

Those fires of deep delight to Asia known. Blent in an amethyst, the priceless twain Enthronèd were, o’er glowing worlds to reign, In gladness richer than the morn has shown.

She, like a regal lily of the field, On which the sunset colours softly lay, Forgot that life was sometime dark and sad; She smiled, and bade all sorrow’s wounds be healed; Then she was lovelier than heav’n’s best day-- Ethereal, in blue and purple clad.

FAR HORIZONS

We stand upon the barren shore, And look far out to sea, The crooning waves their burden pour On you and me.

Our longing eyes, full of our mind, On far horizons lie-- There, where our joy we hope to find Before we die.

How fair the tempting journey seems-- Smooth lake of mystery-- How frail the craft, our forethought deems, For such a sea!

For you and me, my lovely one, And all our mighty hopes; One step, dear love, and we have done, And--cut the ropes?

Lashed to the past we stand, and fear To leave our ties and pain; Though (speaks the soul, if we would hear) Our loss is gain.

Fear blurs the vision of our dream, Fear fills our hearts with dread, Soon we shall find upon life’s stream Our souls are dead.

We stand upon the shore and mourn; We grieve, despairingly, To leave the fetters we have borne-- So patiently.

Or, do we grieve that we are weak, Lack courage to be free, And spurn the liberty we seek For slavery?

Doubts lie--like pebbles on this strand-- In our sad souls, my mate. Before us lies the promised land, Behind us--fate.

Then, let us here together bide, With faces toward the sea, And hope that some fair morning’s tide Take you and me.

HEBE’S EYES

The light of Hebe’s eyes Gives colour to the skies, It makes the azure dome A radiant place, Where love might find a home, Sweet as her face.

Ethereal are the hues Where birds a-wing would lose Themselves in heavenly bliss; As I would do-- If I might soar to kiss Her eyes so blue!

SWEET FACE, I SEE THEE SHINE

Sweet face, I see thee shine Out of the bosom of the east at morn; Thy tenderness, divine, Lies mirrored in the pearly dew at dawn.

The flower that smiles at me, Holds in its cup the picture of your face; In rivulets I see The flowing charm of your abiding grace.

The sapling tells me how Your body’s symmetry grows strong and straight; The winds which whisper now, Tell me your love and trust will not abate.

The steadfast stars above Reflect the fervour of your constant mind, Your deep unwav’ring love-- The rarest jewel eager man can find!

In nature’s soul thou art-- I see thee, hear thee, feel thee, ever near; Dear love, thou art the heart Of those eternal joys our souls revere.

TWO FLOWERS

I saw a bloom, So beautiful, My sad heart lost its gloom, And cares that dull The senses, soon passed far away-- The bloom brought joy into the day.

I saw her face When she bent down And kissed the bloom. Then grace Was Hebe’s crown Of loveliness, and there! upon Her brow the light of heaven shone!

THE MUSIC OF MY HEART

The soft night, like a silent child Before some wondrous thing, Withholds its breath, as if beguiled By songs the fairies sing.

It seems to stand and listen, still As statue in a grove-- Perhaps it hears a fairy trill A strain Titania wove.

Ah, no, the night hears not her song, For it would then be glad; And I have listened here so long, I know the night is sad.

Now if it be a song that keep The hour when night should part, Then night must hear from my soul’s deep, The music of my heart.

THE TRYST

My love is coming through green fields to me-- Why does she tarry so? She knows I wait on cliffs above the sea, And dare not to her go; For I am prisoned to the spot where love Has chained my feet, and must not call or move.

My love is gath’ring harebells, where the mead Is starred with flowers to kiss Her ling’ring feet; there sedges intercede, And whisper runes of bliss-- Beseeching her to stay and heed me not-- For she can make a heaven of any spot!

My love is list’ning to the skylark’s song, Delight is in her ears. She cannot know her lover yearns so long, And drinks his salty tears To quench his thirst for all her winsome grace-- Her absence makes a desert of the place.

My love is drinking in the air which blows The perfumes of the sea, The journeying breeze wafts past me--well she knows-- Though me she cannot see!

Her lovely eyes, the yearning west would woo, Look not on me while blooms in green fields sue.

She knows ’tis deathless love that holds me fast, Chained to this rock so grim; That I shall wait for her, until the last Sun sets o’er ocean’s rim. That flowers shall die and green fields fade and sear, Ere I forsake the tryst to greet her here.

NATURE’S LOVELINESS

Yes, everywhere I go I see the constant flow Of nature’s loveliness-- But, oh, if I could see These scenes, my love, with thee, How bright would be their dress!

I can no more rejoice Without your gracious voice Exulting in my ear, And nature, too, requires Your soulful, ardent fires, To beautify the year.

The tender blooms turn pale When I, alone, through vale And gully, searching pass; They seem to say to me, “Where is your mate? for we Bloom only for your lass.”

My worship in the glen Goes up for naught, dear, when I stand alone in prayer; The sea, the dunes, the trees, Chide me, and every breeze Sings lamentation there.

No, nothing in this world Where gales and snows have whirled A joyous tempest down-- Which spread a carpet fine For thee to tread, can shine As your belovèd crown.

They do not envy you, They love the sweet, the true-- They know you are sincere As morning’s spark of light In dew orbs shining bright, When heaven is blue and clear.

They want your merry laugh, Like rain for them to quaff; They want to kiss your feet; They want to see your eyes-- Full glory of blue skies-- Your smile they yearn to greet.

Come to the woods, my own, With every blessing known To man, which you can bring; Here is your royal goal, Come, with your joyous soul, And make all nature sing!

YOU

What is this mystery? This subtle wonder--you? Which fills my soul with ecstasy, My eyes with dew? What are you, influence, so mild? As subtle as the air which sways The stalwart pine. What child Of nature are you? Soul obeys your slightest motion. Mind is set in deep commotion-- By your presence-- By your absence-- Being thrills beneath your glance! A smile will all my thought enhance. Touch my lips, and every bliss Seeks heaven’s glory in a kiss! You! sweet influence, what art God used in fashioning you apart From His renownèd mould, In the marvellous days of old? Why, all the elements combined In making you The dearest mystery refined, The ages through! Yet, what are you? with power So great to bind my will, Fast in strong chains each hour; And every action fill With echoes of one name, Resounding in love’s hall of fame? You! Unlike your kind-- An essence of God’s mind. An attribute of His deep joy, When in his toil of love He fashioned you without alloy, The masterpiece to prove, With every splendid gift--replete. You--complete! My earth, sky, sea, and air; My fruit, flower, jewel rare; My every need of day and night-- Sun, moon, stars, space; my soul’s delight! Your name whose syllables are wings Which waft me high, Above the fragrant air which brings Faint eastern aromatics to the sky. Ever a mystery of art to be, A subtle influence subjecting me. Like, fair Hamadryad, created anew-- Ineffable, mystical, wonderful--you!

THE LAST LIGHT

The foothills of Nebraska shine In a disc of sunset gold; The cornstalks glisten like pale wine-- But the wind is bitter cold.

Around my love a radiance lies, ’Tis the glow of her soul’s sun; ’Twill light a vision in my eyes-- When the long day’s work is done.

WHEN YOU WERE BORN

Love stirred the spheres, The groves rang mirth-- There were no tears-- At my love’s birth!

A dancing star In revel flashed; Then leaped afar-- And earthward dashed.

In bliss it showered A million joys-- Sweet wishes flowered In girls and boys.

Then back it went, With soaring dance, And darkness rent In merry prance.

The dawn’s grey spires Cleft night’s blue deep, Then golden fires Consumed dawn’s keep.

A lark then flew With joy on high-- With pearly dew-- Up to the sky.

And gave its kiss To its dear mate, In flutt’ring bliss, At heaven’s gate.

So rosy morn Subdued the night, When you were born, My joy’s delight!

FORTUNE, YOU HAVE NAUGHT I NEED

Fortune, you have naught I need; Fame cannot appease me; Flowery beds grow but a weed; Laughter cannot please me. Lovely roses win no smile, From my drooping spirit; Larks a song may sing the while, I will never hear it. Music rich, on which I throve, Leaves me worn and weary; Softest tunes of vernal grove Seem so trite and dreary. I am hard to please, I know, Nothing wins my pleasure; Let the golden rivers flow, I disdain their treasure. Heaven itself may shine in vain, It will cheer me never, Let it glow, or blow, or rain, Crack, and timbers sever. Let me seek the fallow way, Hating mirth and sorrow, Wanting not this dreary day, Give me bright tomorrow! Day is dark as longest night, Hours are without number; Wakeful night in its slow flight, Rids me of my slumber. Weary, weary world, ah! me, What is that I cry for? Only love to come to me-- That is what I sigh for! Only Hebe, lovely one, She of loves the rarest-- Give me my beloved sun, Light to me the fairest!

LET US MAKE A GARDEN

Come, let us make a garden, mate of mine, A patch of rich brown earth the Spring will green; I, with a spade and fork; you, with a line And plan, will set it out for heaven’s bright sheen

To cover, when the warm days come again. Come, now the snows are melting, and the soil Is drinking down the draughts of winter’s pain; Let us dig in our hopes with jocund toil!

The smell of fresh-turned loam will give us strength, The work will brace our souls for greater tasks; Our plan will bring us days of happy length, And take from us the tribute summer asks.

Come, now the stubborn frost is yielding fast, And bathe our bodies in the softer airs, Which blow from kinder climes now winter’s past, And sleet and hail are gone to their white lairs.

With hopes of lovely blooms to gather soon, Come, make a garden, mate of mine, with me, So we may go rejoicing in warm June, And all the glories of God’s bounty see.

Come, mate of mine, and make a garden bright In my sad heart, for snows are melting there, Bring to it all your joys of warmth and light, And bid it bloom, and never more be bare.

SANCTUARY

Where the peace of even lies, And the low’ring purples rest, Under amethystine skies, Is the mystery of the West.

In the colour-blending shroud Of the glories of the heat, Where the myriad tones of cloud Glow and fade in their retreat,

There the soul of peace lies still, In the secret of the eve, In the shadows of the hill, Where the colours spin and weave

All the textures for the skies, All the yearnings of the heart, All the gleams in lovely eyes-- In the wonder-colour part

Lies the soul of peace. And thou! Dearest mystery of my life, With thy colours me endow, In the murk and gloom of strife.

Radiant! Clothe me in thy soul-- Sanctuary of my rest. Let thy mingling colours roll, Deep, around me in thy West.

STARS

Ten thousand lights were gleaming there, A million stars were bright-- But, oh, my darling’s face was fair On that entrancing night.

The world looked up and saw the skies, In lovely colour shine-- I looked into my darling’s eyes, And all the world was mine.

REJUVENATION

Are you the wondrous joy of Spring, Sent coursing through the woods, With chorals for the birds to sing, And colors for the buds?

Or are you some supreme delight, Which morn set free with mirth, To carry gladness in your flight All o’er the meads of earth?

What are you, Hebe, nymph or maid? You start Spring in my heart With blooms that time can never fade-- Rejuvenating art.

What witchery, like Spring, is this You hold o’er me, sweet one? You set me glowing with a kiss With warmth of summer sun.

As winter thaws when spring comes in With claims to warmth and growth, So you from cold my soul doth win-- Pour in it best of both.

I rise from dreary hours and smile At sorrow when you call, And thrill with youthful yearnings while Your blisses on me fall.

’Tis magic! ’Tis the art of joy, Transforming way of Spring; Her methods, Hebe, you employ To make my young heart sing.

A SONG

I love her for her tenderness, Her sweet abiding grace, Her gentle spirit’s loveliness, Her earnest, winsome face!

I love her for her happy ways, Her body’s wondrous bloom, Her smiles which light the heavy days, And straight dispel my gloom!

I love her for her honest speech-- Her constant soul’s delight-- Her honeyed lips the gods would teach To kiss their loves aright!

I love her for she kept for me, Those lips where perfect bliss Awaits in reddening ecstasy Her lover’s eager kiss!

HEBE

Hebe is a mystery, Moving in a woman’s guise, Through a silent sacristy-- Holy as her lovely eyes.

Hebe is a magnet strong, Drawing strength from strength each day, She is like a glorious song, Growing sweeter in its sway;

Melting mind and heart at first, Thrilling all the senses whole, ’Til in its melodic burst, Leaps triumphant o’er the soul.

Hebe is enchanting when All the world seems most awry; She smiles brightly o’er me, then Earth is gone and heaven is nigh.

Hebe is both pro and con-- She is understanding’s own. Was there ever paragon Such as she to scholars known?

She is younger than her youth, She is older than her race, She is clearer than the truth, Tender as her winsome face.

Nature’s contradiction she, Turning science upside down; She is Love’s own mystery, From her heel up to her crown.

Hebe is all things of joy: She is joy--joy was forgot ’Til she came, here to employ Lover’s arts the Greeks knew not.

She is supple, strong, and sweet; She is full of gentle mirth-- Happy are her splendid feet, They are worthy of the earth.

She is sportive as a child, She is wise as she is kind, With a temper firm yet mild, She controls her earnest mind.

Tears may fall as drenching rain, She will make each tear a pearl, And the heart when full of pain, She can set in joyful whirl.

Who records this maid of bliss? I, who love her every act. Greater myst’ry yet is this: Hebe is a splendid fact.

SPRING

Let us go While Spring’s delicious breezes blow, And see the dunes and sedges grow Green, white, and red-- Now Winter’s sped-- And all the moorland is aglow.

Let us feel The magic breath of springtime steal On us, and everywhere reveal The joyous strife Of bursting life, And hear the bells of heaven peal.

Let us see The busy songsters’ ecstasy, And hear them pipe their songs of glee-- For all the day They seem to say, The soul is happy that is free!

Love, divine, Art thou not Spring, and give me wine To quaff? For in this heart of mine A new life grows, And yields a rose For thee--the fragrance of it thine!

Hebe, dear, The message of this Spring day hear; See, love, the glory of the year: The Spring is free, So Summer be The season in which joy is clear!

THE FAY

In blue, cerise, and grey, A dainty, bonnie thing-- No mortal--just a fay, From elfin glades astray, With joys the swallows bring When they come back with spring.

She came with lovely mien-- The charms of fairy’s art-- No winsomer was seen, Not Titania, her queen. She flew into my heart To rest, and ne’er depart.

My heart is beating high-- The fay is singing there. Blest tenant, tell me why, Of mortals, why am I The happy one to dare Make captive, fay so rare?

She answered in a song,-- So soft and sweet the tune-- “Pray, why? Have I done wrong To hide in heart so strong? Where I may place the boon Of all the joys of June?”

Oh, winsome, witching sprite, Who like a mortal came, In robe of tender light, To make my hours so bright; Who brought me Love’s dear fame, To warm me at its flame.

A SONG

My love is morning’s fragrance blown From blossoms fair in golden June; Her footstep’s rhythm is in tune With melodies by Springtime known. Her misty locks are like the May, On pearly hedges lightly thrown; A sweeter face was never shown To man that he might face the day! O beauty, tender, like the moon Of summer nights, which gently lay On lovers when their hearts were gay, And deep desire was at its noon.

THE GARDENER

I see her in the blooming field, Where winds sport in the grass, And petals of the Summer yield Sweet perfumes to my lass.

I see her gather flowers so bright, They almost match her face, Whose rapture is my soul’s delight-- There I shall find God’s grace.

Ah, grace of mercy to me flows When I look in her eyes; Her soul of love and beauty glows, And my life sanctifies.

She is so simple in her joys, So childlike in her ways; When she the golden hour employs, In off’ring nature praise.

She lifts the roots to plant again, In some sequestered spot, Where they may know a fairer reign, And beautify her plot--

There, thrive from culture of her hand, Aim to engage her smile, Delight in blooming o’er the land Where she will tread the while.

So God His wonders has revealed Through her, what growth can be, And in the process I am healed Of blindness, and can see

That all the fields and woods are full, Of glories rich and rare-- When she a little flower will pull, And set it in her hair.

REVELATION

I see no beauty shining in the east At dawn, nor when the glowing sun has risen, And shot a million rays into night’s prison-- No lovely scene on which my eyes would feast. And in the west at eve I see no light That enters my whole being like a flash Of bursting joy--swift sky rent ere the crash Of kissing clouds acclaim their passion’s might.

My eyes have seen the marvel of the world, All joys transfigured into mighty bliss-- The great creative moment, sight divine, When earth, and sky, and sea, were torn and hurled Apart, to yield her soul’s ecstatic kiss, Which shed all beauty ’neath one glance of mine.

THE KEEPER OF THE KISSES

The keeper of the kisses sleeps-- No sigh of mine can wake her; In slumber all my joy she keeps-- My eyes will not forsake her!

All night I wait and watch her rest, And yearn for those deep blisses, Which are withheld from those unblest, By her who keeps the kisses.

Oh, keeper of the kisses, rise And now, at morn, uprender The key which locks your lips and eyes, And give me kisses tender.

The birds are waiting, and the flowers-- All spring your kisses needing; The burning stars, the fainting hours, The earth for joy is pleading.

See, her soft couch is moss and blooms, All sweet with perfumes blowing; And lover like myself assumes, The flowers for her are growing.

Now if she wake with rosy dawn, When all the east be singing, Will every nightingale be drawn To her with bluebells ringing?

She sleeps, and knows not how we yearn, For bliss she only grants us; For her the sun and sky doth burn! The lark is up, and chants thus:

“Oh, keeper of the kisses, wake! Unlock your lips by smiling, And let adoring mortals take The joys of your beguiling.

“For what is love without your lips? A life that is not merry. The bee that every honey sips, Prefers the dimpled cherry.”

MUSIC IN HADES

The blackbird’s note on Spring’s first morn, Is not so sweet as my love’s voice, Her music, like a song re-born, For great Eurydice’s own choice--

Nay, Orpheus gave not to the shades, To win his love, such minstrelsy, As my dear love, whose song pervades The hell from which she set me free.

THE DREAM

Beauty waking from a vivid dream, All warm, and soft, and tender, Her eyes with happiness agleam-- Outstretched her arms, so slender. Her face a picture full of wonder-- Her lips of gushing love asunder. My lovely mistress, then ensouled, Wrapped in the gown of rosy sleep, Thrust back the curtained haze, and rolled Aside the mists of slumber deep.

Sweetly she murmured to her lover: “Boy, I dreamed a dream all joy! There, in a thicket, caught by thorns, A bird, which morning’s glow adorns, (It was not hurt, but tangled there, And struggled to be free) A yellow bright canary! It whistled sweet to me-- I thought it was a fairy. In golden robes so rare, Until I stretched my hand, And saw it spread its wings. Then, not in fairyland, I thought an elf (though each one sings) Could thrill so blithe a song, Or fly away so fast. I gave it liberty, To live a life of joys both bright and long, In one warm summer of days unsurpassed. This dream of freedom came to me.”

Joy tinted every feature of her face, Warm blushes spread beneath the lace Of her fine robe, and pure delight Sang in the phrases of her speech; She lay, and told the story bright In throbbing tones of happiness, So wonderful was she, I would beseech Such exquisite dear tenderness-- Soft as the morning sun’s serenest beams-- Would come from all her dreams, And make my love so rosy, So warm, so soft and cosy; So clinging in her kisses, Resplendent in those blisses Of trust, and hope, and courage fine, Which shone in her like gleams of deep red wine! My soul was never thrilled, As it was then by her; My eyes with tears were filled, For joys so rare! Love surged like a sun-shaft up, To drink deep bliss from heaven’s cup! ’Twas like the poet’s joy I feel, As if her lovely soul were bare, And mine with it was there To touch and heal Itself, and all those blessings gain Which God sends down on her like sweet, refreshing rain.

Blest be her gracious head, Smooth be her smiling brow! May Spring and Summer wed For Hebe now, And shower-- Aye! every hour-- The fairest blossoms of the trees On every fragrant gentle breeze, To make soft paths for her dear feet, When she would in her sweet dreams greet Her fond, adoring mate, At dreamland’s gate.

THE BOON

What is the dearest wish my soul can make? What great desire can all this world bestow? What is the very height of boon I know? What gift immeasurable I can take? Is there some precious thing for its own sake My mind doth crave to make it strong and glow? Is there some priceless treasure I might show, And make men from their rosy dreams awake?

No treasure this deep world can give I need. My dearest wish no mighty king can give; My great desire--no bauble that will cloy! I seek no gains on which ambitions feed! Far more I seek; always to move and live And have my being in my Hebe’s joy.

JACK O’LANTERN