Part 2

Here day by day men come who knew Your steadfast ways and loved you well; And every comer with regret Has some new thing of praise to tell.

The poet old, whose lyric heart Is fresh as dew and bright as flame, Longs for “his boy,” and finds you not, And goes the wistful way he came.

Here where you toiled without reproach, Builded and loved and dreamed and planned, At every door, on every page, Lurks the tradition of your hand.

And if to you, like reverie, There comes a thought of how they fare Whose footsteps go the round you went Of noisy street and narrow stair,

Know they have learned a new desire, Which puts unfaith and faltering by; And triumph fills their dream because One life was leal, one hope was high.

HENRY GEORGE

We are only common people, And he was a man like us. But he loved his fellows before himself; And he died for me and you, To redeem the world anew From cruelty and greed-- For love the only creed, For honor the only law.

There once was a man of the people, A man like you and me, Who worked for his daily bread, And he loved his fellows before himself. But he died at the hands of the throng To redeem the world from wrong, And we call him the Son of God, Because of the love he had.

And there was a man of the people, Who sat in the people’s chair, And bade the slaves go free; For he loved his fellows before himself. They took his life; but his word They could not take. It was heard Over the beautiful earth, A thunder and whisper of love.

And there is no other way, Since man of woman was born, Than the way of the rebels and saints, With loving and labor vast, To redeem the world at last From cruelty and greed; For love is the only creed, And honor the only law.

ILICET

Friends, let him rest In midnight now. Desire has gone On the weary quest With aching brow; Until the dawn, Friends, let him rest.

With a boy’s desire He set the cup To his lips to drink; The ruddy fire Was lifted up At day’s cool brink, With a boy’s desire.

The heart of a boy! He tasted life, And the bitter sting Of sorrow in joy, Failure in strife, Was pain to wring The heart of a boy.

In a childish whim, He spilled the wine Upon the floor,-- In beads on the brim Was a glitter of brine,-- Then, out at the door In a childish whim!

Out of the storm, In the flickering light, A broken glass Lies on our warm Hearthstone to-night, While shadows pass Out of the storm.

Friends, let him rest In midnight now. Desire has gone On the weary quest With aching brow: Until the dawn, Friends, let him rest.

In sorrow and shame For the craven heart, In manhood’s breast With valor’s name, Let him depart Unto his rest In sorrow and shame.

In after years God, who bestows Or withholds the valor, Shall wipe all tears-- Haply, who knows?-- From his face’s pallor In after years.

He could not learn To fight with his peers In sturdier fashion; Let him return Through the night with tears, Stung with the passion He could not learn.

All-bountiful, calm, Where the great stars burn, And the spring bloom smothers The night with balm, Let him return To the silent Mother’s All-bountiful calm.

Friends, let him rest In midnight now. Desire has gone On the weary quest With aching brow: Until the dawn, Friends, let him rest.

TO RAPHAEL

Master of adored Madonnas, What is this men say of thee? Thou wert something less than honor’s Most exact epitome?

Yes, they say you loved too many, Loved too often, loved too well. Just as if there could be any Over-loving, Raphael!

Was it, “Sir, and how came this tress, Long and raven? Mine are gold!” You should have made Art your mistress, Lived an anchorite and old!

Ah, no doubt these dear good people On familiar terms with God, Could devise a parish steeple Built to heaven without a hod.

You and Solomon and Cæsar Were three fellows of a kind; Not a woman but to please her You would leave your soul behind.

Those dead women with their beauty, How they must have loved you well,-- Dared to make desire a duty, With the heretics in hell!

And your brother, that Catullus, What a plight he must be in, If those silver songs that lull us Were result of mortal sin!

If the artist were ungodly, Prurient of mind and heart, I must think they argue oddly Who make shrines before his art.

Not the meanest aspiration Ever sprung from soul depraved Into art, but art’s elation Was the sanctity it craved.

Oh, no doubt you had your troubles, Devils blue that blanched your hope. I dare say your fancy’s bubbles, Breaking, had a taste of soap.

Did your lady-loves undo you In some mediæval way? Ah, my Raphael, here’s to you! It is much the same to-day.

Did their tantalizing laughter Make your wisdom overbold? Were you fire at first; and after, Did their kisses leave you cold?

Did some fine perfidious Nancy, With the roses in her hair, Play the marsh-fire to your fancy Over quagmires of despair?

My poor boy, were there more flowers In your Florence and your Rome, Wasting through the gorgeous hours, Than your two hands could bring home?

Be content; you have your glory; Life was full and sleep is well. What the end is of the story, There’s no paragraph to tell.

TO P. V.

So they would raise your monument, Old vagabond of lovely earth? Another answer without words To Humdrum’s, “What are poets worth?”

Not much we gave you when alive, Whom now we lavishly deplore,-- A little bread, a little wine, A little caporal--no more.

Here in our lodging of a day You roistered till we were appalled; Departing, in your room we found A string of golden verses scrawled.

The princely manor-house of art, A vagrant artist entertains; And when he gets him to the road, Behold, a princely gift remains.

Abashed, we set your name above The purse-full patrons of our board; Remind newcomers with a nudge, “Verlaine took once what we afford!”

The gardens of the Luxembourg, Spreading beneath the brilliant sun, Shall be your haunt of leisure now When all your wander years are done.

There you shall stand, the very mien You wore in Paris streets of old, And ponder what a thing is life, Or watch the chestnut blooms unfold.

There you will find, I dare surmise, Another tolerance than ours, The loving-kindness of the grass, The tender patience of the flowers.

And every year, when May returns To bring the golden age again, And hope comes back with poetry In your loved land across the Seine,

Some youth will come with foreign speech, Bearing his dream from over sea, A lover of your flawless craft, Apprenticed to your poverty.

He will be mute before you there, And mark those lineaments which tell What stormy unrelenting fate Had one who served his art so well.

And there be yours, the livelong day, Beyond the mordant reach of pain, The little gospel of the leaves, The _Nunc dimittis_ of the rain!

A NORSE CHILD’S REQUIEM

Sleep soundly, little Thorlak, Where all thy peers have lain, A hero of no battle, A saint without a stain!

Thy courage be upon thee, Unblemished by regret, For that adventure whither Thy tiny march was set.

The sunshine be above thee, With birds and winds and trees. Thy way-fellows inherit No better things than these.

And silence be about thee, Turned back from this our war To front alone the valley Of night without a star.

The soul of love and valor, Indifferent to fame, Be with thee, heart of vikings, Beyond the breath of blame.

Thy moiety of manhood Unspent and fair, go down, And, unabashed, encounter Thy brothers of renown.

So modest in thy freehold And tenure of the earth, Thy needs, for all our meddling, Are few and little worth.

Content thee, not with pity; Be solaced, not with tears; But when the whitethroats waken Through the revolving years,

Hereafter be that peerless And dirging cadence, child, Thy threnody unsullied, Melodious, and wild.

Then winter be thy housing, Thy lullaby the rain, Thou hero of no battle, Thou saint without a stain.

IN THE HEART OF THE HILLS

In the warm blue heart of the hills My beautiful, beautiful one Sleeps where he laid him down Before the journey was done.

All the long summer day The ghosts of noon draw nigh, And the tremulous aspens hear The footing of winds go by.

Down to the gates of the sea, Out of the gates of the west, Journeys the whispering river Before the place of his rest.

The road he loved to follow When June came by his door, Out through the dim blue haze Leads, but allures no more.

The trailing shadows of clouds Steal from the slopes and are gone; The myriad life in the grass Stirs, but he slumbers on;

The inland wandering tern Skreel as they forage and fly; His loons on the lonely reach Utter their querulous cry;

Over the floating lilies A dragon-fly tacks and steers; Far in the depth of the blue A martin settles and veers;

To every roadside thistle A gold-brown butterfly clings; But he no more companions All the dear vagrant things.

The strong red journeying sun, The pale and wandering rain, Will roam on the hills forever And find him never again.

Then twilight falls with the touch Of a hand that soothes and stills, And a swamp-robin sings into light The lone white star of the hills.

Alone in the dusk he sings, And a burden of sorrow and wrong Is lifted up from the earth And carried away in his song.

Alone in the dusk he sings, And the joy of another day Is folded in peace and borne On the drift of years away.

But there in the heart of the hills My beautiful weary one Sleeps where he laid him down; And the large sweet night is begun.

AN AFTERWORD

_To G. B. R._

Brother, the world above you Is very fair to-day, And all things seem to love you The old accustomed way.

Here in the heavenly weather In June’s white arms you sleep, Where once on the hills together Your haunts you used to keep.

The idling sun that lazes Along the open field And gossips to the daisies Of secrets unrevealed;

The wind that stirs the grasses A moment, and then stills Their trouble as he passes Up to the darkling hills,--

And to the breezy clover Has many things to say Of that unwearied rover Who once went by this way;

The miles of elm-treed meadows; The clouds that voyage on, Streeling their noiseless shadows From countries of the sun;

The tranquil river reaches And the pale stars of dawn; The thrushes in their beeches For reverie withdrawn;

With all your forest fellows In whom the blind heart calls, For whom the green leaf yellows, On whom the red leaf falls;

The dumb and tiny creatures Of flower and blade and sod, That dimly wear the features And attributes of God;

The airy migrant comers On gauzy wings of fire, Those wanderers and roamers Of indefinite desire;

The rainbirds and all dwellers In solitude and peace, Those lingerers and foretellers Of infinite release;

Yea, all the dear things living That rove or bask or swim, Remembering and misgiving, Have felt the day grow dim.

Even the glad things growing, Blossom and fruit and stem, Are poorer for your going Because you were of them.

Yet since you loved to cherish Their pleading beauty here, Your heart shall not quite perish In all the golden year;

But God’s great dream above them Must be a tinge less pale, Because you lived to love them And make their joy prevail.

SEVEN WIND SONGS

_Now these are the seven wind songs For Andrew Straton’s death, Blown through the reeds of the river, A sigh of the world’s last breath,_

_Where the flickering red auroras Out on the dark sweet hills Follow all night through the forest The cry of the whip-poor-wills._

_For the meanings of life are many, But the purpose of love is one, Journeying, tarrying, lonely As the sea wind or the sun._

I

Wind of the Northern land, Wind of the sea, No more his dearest hand Comes back to me.

Wind of the Northern gloom, Wind of the sea, Wandering waifs of doom Feckless are we.

Wind of the Northern land, Wind of the sea, I cannot understand How these things be.

II

Wind of the low red morn At the world’s end, Over the standing corn Whisper and bend.

Then through the low red morn At the world’s end, Far out from sorrow’s bourne, Down glory’s trend,

Tell the last years forlorn At the world’s end, Of my one peerless born Comrade and friend.

III

Wind of the April stars, Wind of the dawn, Whether God nears or fars, He lived and shone.

Wind of the April night, Wind of the dawn, No more my heart’s delight Bugles me on.

Wind of the April rain, Wind of the dawn, Lull the old world from pain Till pain be gone.

IV

Wind of the summer noon, Wind of the hills, Gently the hand of June Stays thee and stills.

Far off, untouched by tears, Raptures or ills, Sleeps he a thousand years Out on the hills.

Wind of the summer noon, Wind of the hills, Is the land fair and boon Whither he wills?

V

Wind of the gulfs of night, Wind of the sea, Where the pale streamers light My world for me,--

Breath of the wintry Norns, Frost-touch or sleep,-- He whom my spirit mourns Deep beyond deep

To the last void and dim Where ages stream-- Is there no room for him In all this dream?

VI

Wind of the outer waste, Threne of the outer world, Leash of the stars unlaced, Morning unfurled,

Somewhere at God’s great need, I know not how, With the old strength and speed He is come now;

Therefore my soul is glad With the old pride, Tho’ this small life is sad Here in my side.

VII

Wind of the driven snow, Wind of the sea, On a long trail and slow Farers are we.

Wind of the Northern gloom, Wind of the sea, Shall I one day resume His love for me?

Wind of the driven snow, Wind of the sea, Then shall thy vagrant know How these things be.

_These are the seven wind songs For Andrew Straton’s rest, From the hills of the Scarlet Hunter And the trail of the endless quest._

_The wells of the sunrise harken, They wait for a year and a day: Only the calm sure thrushes Fluting the world away!_

_For the husk of life is sorrow; But the kernels of joy remain, Teeming and blind and eternal As the hill wind or the rain._

ANDREW STRATON

Andrew Straton was my friend, With his Saxon eyes and hair, And his loyal viking spirit, Like an islesman of the North With his earldom on the sea.

At his birth the mighty Mother Made of him a fondling one, Hushed from pain within her arms, With her seal upon his lips;

And from that day he was numbered With the sons of consolation, Peace and cheer were in his hands, And her secret in his will.

Now the night has Andrew Straton Housed from wind and storm forever In a chamber of the gloom Where no window fronts the morning, Lulled to rest at last from roving To the music of the rain.

And his sleep is in the far-off Alien villages of the dusk, Where there is no voice of welcome To the country of the strangers, Save the murmur of the pines.

And the fitful winds all day Through the grass with restless footfalls Haunt about his narrow door, Muttering their vast unknown Border balladry of time, To the hoarse rote of the sea.

There he reassumes repose, He who never learned unrest Here amid our fury of toil, Undisturbed though all about him To the cohorts of the night Sound the bugles of the spring; And his slumber is not broken When along the granite hills Flare the torches of the dawn.

More to me than kith or kin Was the silence of his speech; And the quiet of his eyes, Gathered from the lonely sweep Of the hyacinthine hills, Better to the failing spirit Than a river land in June: And to look for him at evening Was more joy than many friends.

As the woodland brooks at noon Were his brown and gentle hands, And his face as the hill country Touched with the red autumn sun

Frank and patient and untroubled Save by the old trace of doom In the story of the world. So the years went brightening by.

Now a lyric wind and weather Breaks the leaguer of the frost, And the shining rough month March Crumbles into sun and rain; But the glad and murmurous year Wheels above his rest and wakens Not a dream for Andrew Straton.

Now the uplands hold an echo From the meadow lands at morn; And the marshes hear the rivers Rouse their giant heart once more,--

Hear the crunching floe start seaward From a thousand valley floors; While far on amid the hills Under stars in the clear night, The replying, the replying, Of the ice-cold rivulets Plashing down the solemn gorges In their arrowy blue speed, Fills and frets the crisp blue twilight With innumerable sound,-- With the whisper of the spring.

But the melting fields are empty, Something ails the bursting year.

Ah, now helpless, O my rivers, Are your lifted voices now! Where is all the sweet compassion Once your murmur held for me? Cradled in your dells, I listened To your crooning, learned your language, Born your brother and your kin.

When I had the morn for revel, You made music at my door; Now the days go darkling on, And I cannot guess your words. Shall young joy have troops of neighbors, While this grief must house alone?

O my brothers of the hills, Who abide through stress and change, On the borders of our sorrow, With no part in human tears, Lift me up your voice again And put by this grievous thing!

Ah, my rivers, Andrew Straton Leaves me here a vacant world!

I must hear the roar of cities And the jargon of the schools, With no word of that one spirit Who was steadfast as the sun And kept silence with the stars. I must sit and hear the babble Of the worldling and the fool, Prating know-alls and reformers Busy to improve on man, With their chatter about God; Nowhere, nowhere the blue eyes, With their swift and grave regard, Falling on me with God’s look.

I have seen and known and loved One who was too sure for sorrow, Too serenely wise for haste, Too compassionate for scorn, Fearless man and faultless comrade, One great heart whose beat was love.

In a thousand thousand hollows Of the hills to-day there twinkle Icy-blue handbreadths of April, Where the sinking snows decay In the everlasting sun; And a thousand tiny creatures Stretch their heart to fill the world.

Now along the wondrous trail Andrew Straton loved to follow Day by day and year on year, The awaited sure return Of all sleeping forest things Is reheralded abroad, Till the places of their journey,-- Wells the frost no longer hushes, Ways no drift can bury now, Wood and stream and road and hillside,-- Hail their coming as of old.

But my beautiful lost comrade Of the golden heart, whose life Rang through April like a voice Through some Norland saga, crying _Skoal_ to death, comes not again; Time shall not revive that presence More desired than all the flowers, Longer wished for than the birds.

April comes, but April’s lover Is departed and not here.

Sojourning beyond the frost, He delays; and now no more,-- Though the goldenwings are come With their resonant tattoo, And along the barrier pines Morning reddens on the hills Where the thrushes wake before it,-- No more to the summoning flutes Of the forest Andrew Straton Gets him forth afoot, light-hearted, On the unfrequented ways With companionable Spring.

Only the old dreams return. So I shape me here this fancy, Foolish me! of Andrew Straton; How the lands of that new kindred Have detained him with allegiance, And some far day I shall find him, There as here my only captain, Master of the utmost isles In the ampler straits of sea.

Out of the blue melting distance Of the dreamy southward range Journey back the vagrant winds, Sure and indolent as time; And the trembling wakened wood-flowers Lift their gentle tiny faces To the sunlight; and the rainbirds From the lonely cedar barrens Utter their far pleading cry.

Up across the swales and burnt lands Where the soft gray tinges purple, Mouldering into scarlet mist, Comes the sound as of a marching, The low murmur of the April In the many-rivered hills.

Then there stirs the old vague rapture, Like a wanderer come back, Still desiring, scathed but deathless, From beyond the bourne of tears, Wayworn to his vacant cabin, To this foolish fearless heart.

Soon the large mild stars of springtime Will resume the ancient twilight And restore the heart of earth To unvexed eternal poise; For the great Will, calm and lonely, Can no mortal grief derange, No lost memories perturb; And the sluices of the morning Will be opened, and the daybreak Well with bird-calls and with brook-notes, Till there be no more despair In the gold dream of the world.

THE GRAVE-TREE

Let me have a scarlet maple For the grave-tree at my head, With the quiet sun behind it, In the years when I am dead.

Let me have it for a signal, Where the long winds stream and stream, Clear across the dim blue distance, Like a horn blown in a dream;

Scarlet when the April vanguard Bugles up the laggard Spring, Scarlet when the bannered Autumn, Marches by unwavering.

It will comfort me with honey When the shining rifts and showers Sweep across the purple valley And bring back the forest flowers.

It will be my leafy cabin, Large enough when June returns And I hear the golden thrushes Flute and hesitate by turns.

And in fall, some yellow morning, When the stealthy frost has come, Leaf by leaf it will befriend me As with comrades going home.

Let me have the Silent Valley And the hill that fronts the east, So that I can watch the morning Redden and the stars released.

Leave me in the Great Lone Country, For I shall not be afraid With the shy moose and the beaver There within my scarlet shade.

I would sleep, but not too soundly, Where the sunning partridge drums, Till the crickets hush before him When the Scarlet Hunter comes.

That will be in warm September, In the stillness of the year, When the river-blue is deepest And the other world is near.