Chapter 8

Shy violets among the tangled grass; Red robin, to thine own mate blithely singing, Among the elm-tree boughs so gayly swinging; My love, my true love, down this way will pass.

How shall you know her? By her sunny hair, Her grave, sweet eyes, all pure, no evil knowing: Oh, robin! thou wilt turn to watch her going; There is no maid in all the land so fair.

Shy violets among the tangled grass, Shed forth your richest perfumes 'neath her feet! And gallant robin, when thou seest her pass, Trill out thy merriest lay her ears to greet; And elm-tree branches, drooping low above her, Whisper to her that I came by and love her.

LOUISE R. LOOMIS. _Wellesley Magazine._

~"A White Morning"~

Many a morning the trees' slim fingers Lift to the blue their frosted tips; Winter has paused beside them, passing, And blown upon them, through icy lips.

After the day has dawned in earnest, Comes a blaze from the soul of things. Some small snow-bird, beneath the window, Beats out life, from his restless wings.

Never trust to the cold and silence; Suns will rise, and the day climb higher. Under the snows are resurrections; Under the frost is hidden fire.

GRACE W. LEACH. _Madisonensis_.

V. IN SERIOUS MOOD

~Verses.~

What must be must be, little one, The dark night follow the day, And the ebbing tide to the seaward glide Across the moonlit bay.

What must be must be, little one, The winter follow the fall, And the prying wind an entrance find Through the chinks of the cottage wall.

What must be must be, little one, The brown hair turn to gray, And the soul like the light of the early night Slip gently far away.

FORSYTH WICKES. _Yale Literary Magazine._

~A Little Parable.~

Just beyond the toiling town I saw a child to-day, With busy little hands of brown Making toys of clay.

Working there with all his heart, Beneath the spreading trees, He moulded with unconscious art Whatever seemed to please.

Men and fortress, plates and pies, All out of clay he made, Then rubbed with chubby fists his eyes, And slumbered in the shade.

JOHN CLAIR MINOT. _Bowdoin Quill_.

~When Morning Breaks.~

When morning breaks, what fortune waits for me? What ships shall rise from out the misty sea? What friends shall clasp my hand in fond farewell? What dream-wrought castles, as night's clouds dispel, Shall raise their sun-kissed towers upon the lea?

To-night the moon-queen shining wide and free, To-night the sighing breeze, the song, and thee; But time is brief. What cometh, who can tell, When morning breaks?

To-night, to-night, then happy let us be! To-night, to-night, life's shadowy cares shall flee! And though the dawn come in with chime or knell, When night recalls its last bright sentinel, I shall, at least, have memories left to me, When morning breaks.

EDWARD A. RALEIGH. _Cornell Magazine_.

~A Lost Memory.~

Listening in the twilight, very long ago, To a sweet voice singing very soft and low.

Was the song a ballad of a lady fair, Saved from deadly peril by a bold corsair,

Or a song of battle and a flying foe? Nay, I have forgotten, 'tis so long ago.

Scarcely half remembered, more than half forgot, I can only tell you what the song was not.

Memory, unfaithful, has not kept that strain, Heard once in the twilight, never heard again.

Every day brings twilight, but no twilight brings To my ear that music on its quiet wings.

After autumn sunsets, in the dreaming light, When long summer evenings deepen into night,

All that I am sure of, is that, long ago, Some one sang at twilight, very sweet and low.

PHILIP C. PECK. _Yale Literary Magazine_.

~The Truth-Seekers.~

They who sought Truth since dawn And sought in vain, Now, at the close of day. Come with slow step and faces drawn With nameless pain, To meet the night half-way.

"She whom we love is not! Of her no sight Had we, nor faintest trace!" "Nay, here am I ye sought!"-- Beyond the night They met her, face to face.

FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD. _Nassau Literary Monthly_.

~To-morrow.~

There is a day which never comes To light the morning sky, But in our thoughts alone it lives, And there may never die; It holds our hopes of future bliss, Our aspirations high, And life itself is but a point In that eternity-- To-morrow.

Each sunset brings us nearer that Which earth shall not behold, Where, far away beyond the hills And through the clouds of gold, We see a glimpse of brighter hours Than tongue of bard has told, When marks of time will be effaced, When men will not grow old-- To-morrow.

WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER. _Dartmouth Literary Monthly._

~From My Window.~

I sit within my little room And see the world pass by, The merry, youthful, thoughtless world, That knows not I am I.

I watch it from my window ledge Below me, at its play-- It makes an end of foolish things, And thinks the sad ones gay.

And there above I sit, alone, Behind my curtains long, And I but peep, and mock a bit, And sing a bit of song.

EDITH THEODORA AMES. _Smith College Monthly._

~To a Friend.~

Your eyes are--but I cannot tell Just what's the color of your eyes, I only know therein doth dwell A something that can sympathize, When selfish love would fail to see The depths revealed alone to me.

JOHN GOWDY. _Wesleyan Literary Monthly._

~Love and Death.~

_Love and death_ is all of poets' singing, What sounds else can stir the heavenly breath? What save these can set the lyre-strings ringing: Love and death? What things else in maiden spirit springing? What words else in all the preacher saith? What thoughts else in God, the world forthbringing?

In the moon's pulse and the sea's slow swinging, Death that draws, and love that sighs beneath: Yea, life's wine is mingled; sweet, and stinging,-- Love and death.

GEORGIANA GODDARD KING. _Bryn Mawr Lantern._

~Opportunity.~

I know not what the future holds-- But this I know, Youth is a guest, who on his way Too soon will go.

Once gone we call to deafened ears. All prayers are vain! For tears of blood, he will not come Back once again.

Then spread the board of Life, with wine And roses drest, Drink deep and long, greet Joy and Love While Youth is guest!

ARTHUR KETCHUM. _Williams Literary Monthly,_

~To Austin Dobson.~

Not unto you the gods gave wings, To scale the far Olympic height, But made content with simpler things, Your Pegasus takes lower flight.

Yet while into oblivion float Those vaster songs, sublimely grand-- All men are listening to your note, And as they listen, understand.

Sing on, then, while the heart of youth In glad accordance answ'ring thrills, And life and love have still their truth, As spring has still its daffodils.

ARTHUR KETCHUM. _Williams Literary Monthly._

~With a Copy of Keats.~

Like listless lullabies of sail-swept seas Heard from still coves, and dulcet-soft as these, Such is the echo of his perfect song, It lives, it lingers long!

We love him more than all his wonder tales, Sweeter his own song than his nightingale's; No voice speaks, in the century that has fled, So deathless from the dead!

How many stately epics have been tossed Rudely against Time's shore, and wrecked and lost, While Keats, the dreaming boy, floats down Time's sea His lyric argosy!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. _Wesleyan Literary Monthly._

~George Du Maurier.~

"Ah, if we knew; if we only knew for certain."

"Ah, if we only _knew_!" he said, The master--now laid cold and dead-- Under the sweetest song joy sang This, like a burden, ever rang--

"Ah, if we only _knew_!" can we, Now death shows him the certainty, Now he has won his peace thro' pain, Wish him back to the doubt again?

Nay, pass! thou great prince Gentle Heart! Crowned with the deathless days of Art-- To that far country--old, yet ever new-- The land where all the dreams are true.

ARTHUR KETCHUM. _Williams Literary Monthly._

~Lizy Ann.~

"My darter?" Yes, that's Lizy Ann Ez full o' grit ez any man 'T you ever see! She does the chores Days when I can't git out-o'-doors 'Account o' this 'ere rheumatiz, And sees to everything there is To see to here about the place, And never makes a rueful face At housework, like some women do, But does it well--and cheerful, too.

There's mother--she's been bedrid now This twenty year. And you'll allow It takes a grist o' care and waitin' To tend on _her_. But I'm a-statin' But jest the facts when this I say: There's never been a single day That gal has left her mother's side Except for meetin', or to ride Through mud and mire, through rain or snow, To market when I couldn't go.

"She's thirty-five or so?" Yes, more Than that. She's mighty nigh twoscore. But what's the odds? She's sweet and mild To me and mother as a child. There doesn't breathe a better than Our eldest darter, Lizy Ann!

"Had offers?" Wal, I reckon; though She ne'er told me nor mother so. I mind one chap--a likely man-- Who seemed clean gone on Lizy Ann, And yet she let the feller slide, And he's sence found another bride.

The roses in her cheeks is gone, And left 'em kinder pale and wan. Her mates is married, dead, or strayed To other places. Youth nor maid No longer comes to see her. Yet You'll hear no murmur of regret. "My life's a part o' heaven's own plan," She often says. Thet's Lizy Ann.

EDGAR F. DAVIS. _Bowdoin Quill_.

~Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.~

Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar Out of thy wilderness, Till earth grows less and less, Heaven, more and more.

Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing, Till all the earth shall be Vibrant with ecstasy Beneath thy wing.

Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come, That through the pathless air Thou shalt find otherwhere Unerring, home.

A.G.C. _Kansas University Weekly._

~God's Acre.~

Oh, so pure the white syringas! Oh, so sweet the lilac bloom In the Arboretum growing Near a granite tomb! By the arching pepper-branches Let us tender silence keep; We have come into God's Acre, Where the children sleep.

In the trees the quail are calling To the rabbits at their play, While the little birds, unknowing, Sing their lives away; In the night-time through the branches Wistfully the young stars peep, But, with all these playmates round them, Still the children sleep.

Once within that leafy shelter Some one hid herself, to rest, With another little dreamer Folded to her breast; And a sense of consolation Stealeth unto them that weep, While that mother-heart lies sleeping Where the children sleep.

Year by year the Christmas berries Redden in the quiet air,-- Year by year the vineyard changes, Buds and ripens there; We give place to other faces, But the years' relentless sweep Cometh not into God's Acre, Where the children sleep.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. _Four-Leaved Clover._

~Unique.~

His presence makes the Spring to blush. He shines in ample Summer's glow, He kindles Autumn's burning-bush, And flings the Winter's fleece of snow.

_Hamilton Literary Monthly._

~A Letter.~

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!" _The Chambered Nautilus._

* * * * *

Self, Soul & Co., Architects:

_Dear Sirs;_ I find Your "ad." in the _Nautilus_ quite to my mind. Pray build me a mansion (for plans see below) More stately and lofty than this that I know. Dig deep the foundations in reason and truth; I want no pavilion--a fortress forsooth, Secure against windstorms of doctrine and doubt; In style--Emersonian--inside and out. It should, sir, be double, with rooms on each side, For justice and mercy, for meekness and pride; For heating and lighting, it only requires Faith's old-fashioned candles, and Love's open fires. Write me minimum charges in struggle and stress, And extras in suffering. Yours truly,

C.S. _Kalends_.

~The Record of a Life.~

He lived and died, and all is passed away That bound him to his so-soon-darkened day. He is forgotten in time's sweeping tide; This is his history: He lived--and died!

HENRY DAVID GRAY. _Madisonensis_.

~Who Knows?~

If when the day has been sped with laughter, Mirth and song as the light wind blows, A sob and a sigh come quickly after-- Who knows?

If eyes that smile till the day's completeness Droop a little at evening's close, And tears cloud over their tender sweetness-- Who knows?

If lips that laugh while the sun be shining, Curved as fair as the leaf of a rose, Quiver with grief at day's declining-- Who knows?

If the heart that seems to know no aching While the fair, gold sunlight gleams and glows, Under the stars be bitterly breaking-- Who knows?

JESSIE V. KERR. _Kalends_.

~Inconstancy.~

I sighed as the soul of April fled, And a tear on my cheek Told of the love I had borne the dead-- And I signed the cross, and bowed my head-- And was sad for a week.

With a carol and catch the May came in With her wonderful way-- And I saucily chucked her under the chin, And tuned me the strings of my violin-- And was glad for a day.

FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD. _Nassau Literary Monthly._

~Yesterday.~

Thou art to me like all the days-- They ebb and flow with punctual tides, Leave driftwood--wreckage on the sands, Perhaps a shell besides; Swift, incommunicable, vast, They poise--then perish in the past.

And yet I have not all forgot Those years when every day seemed long, A separate age of joys and play, Of wonder-tales and song; I marvel, Yesterday, to know Thou still art childhood's Long Ago!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. _Harvard Advocate._

~The Last Word.~

Life is a boat that is drifting, Riding high, rocking low, While the tide turns. Love is the sands that are shifting In and out, to and fro, While the tide turns,

Let the boat drift, no oar to lift, Clear sky above, calm sea below, Till the tide turns. Dream on the shore, wander it o'er; Gold gleam the sands 'neath the sun's glow. Till the tide turns.

Time enough, love, to be lifting 'Gainst the waves, then, thy oar When the tide turns. Dreams are sweet, love, e'er the shifting Shows how false is the shore, When the tide turns.

ELIZABETH SANDERSON. _University of California Magazine._

"_Whence all these verses?" you ask me. Would that I knew! "How came they written?"--You task me, Who can tell, who! Stripping a butterfly's pinions To learn how they grew; Wasting a violet's dominions To search for the dew; Spoiling the odor, the juices, The flavor, the hue; Rifling the haunts of the Muses, For secrets and clue!

All one can say is: "Sir Quibbler, Once on a time, Songs in the heart of the scribbler Sang into rhyme; Latin lost all its enchantment; Logic was worse; Joy claimed its rights; the result is Just 'college verse_.'"

End of Project Gutenberg's Cap and Gown, Selected by Frederic Knowles