Part 2

This was the garden that Grandmother made, Here in the filtering sunlight and shade. Here grew the delicate, old-fashioned posies, Columbine, larkspur, cinnamon roses, Balsam and lavender, briar and box, Pale mignonette and chintz hollyhocks; Neatest of paths for the tiniest feet, Wandering, wavering, all through the sweet. And there, quite the prettiest blossom of all, Mother went tiptoeing when she was small.

This is the garden that Grandmother made— New buds to open as older ones fade. With her wee waterpot making the showers, _My_ mother dallied with _her_ mother’s flowers; Quaint little figure with cheeks like a rose, Starched pantalettes and slippers with bows; Bonny brown hair and a bonnet of straw, And the merriest eyes that the sun ever saw. But for Grandmother’s garden and all that was in it, Why, where should _I_ be this blessed minute?

THE FRIGHTENED PATH

The wood grew very quiet As the road made a sudden turn; Then a wavering, furtive path crept out From the tangled briar and fern.

“Where does it lead?” I asked the child; She shivered and shook her head. “It doesn’t _lead_ to any place. It is running away!” she said.

“It is running away on tiptoe Through the untrodden grass, To join the cheerful highroad, Where real, live people pass.

“It runs from a heap of ruins Where a home stood in old days; But nothing living goes there now, And—Nothing Living stays!”

DEVIL’S GOLD

A HAMPTON LEGEND

The General rolled in a coach-and-four, His head held high in pride; And Mary, who should have married me, Cowered in silk at his side.

The mud of the General’s chariot-wheels Grimed me, plodding by; But I saw a doom on his pallid face, And met the fear in her eye.

For well she knew—as I know now, As neighbors guessed full well— He had sold his soul for a bootful of gold To the Devil himself from Hell.

· · · · ·

He called from the hearth of his paneled hall To the Fiend on the chimney-crown; His jack-boot stood in the chimney-place, And the gold came pouring down.

The gold poured down in a tinkling flood, And covered the great hall floor; But the General roared to the Devil above— “Nay! more! and more! and more!”

For the great jack-boot was never filled Till the gold lay three-foot thick; The bargainer had cut the toe, And fooled the Fiend by the trick.

But the lady shivered in the dark At the roar of the General’s mirth; While brimstone flashes seared the roof, And the Fiend’s wrath shook the earth.

· · · · ·

I read in the face of the smitten man As he passed me on that day, And in the haunted lady’s eye— That his hour was near to _pay_.

And when we bore the General’s bier To his proud tomb up the road, Ten of the sturdiest lads in town Staggered beneath the load.

Ten of the sturdiest lads in town Turned pale as lime-bleached bones When their burden dropped and the cover loosed; The coffin was filled with stones!

My Mary fled from the haunted house To toil as a poor man’s wife; For not one pound of her widow’s wealth Would I suffer to curse our life.

The only dower she brought away Was the terrible tale she told; And our children bred in a humble home Are marked with the hate of gold.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE

Upon a little rise it stands alone, Dark and forbidding, where three crossroads meet; The dim, fierce windows frown upon the street From walls with mould and mosses overgrown.

Pink hollyhocks group idly at the door, And bend above the latch with prying eyes, Or shake their heads and whisper, gossipwise, Secrets that trouble living hearts no more.

The rusty hinges give a warning scream; The jealous panels shudder as they swing. About my face the dusty cobwebs cling, Soft as the shadow-fingers of a dream.

There is a window looking to the sea; The small, cracked panes are blurred as if with tears. Here long ago a young bride felt the fears That even now creep coldly over me.

Here trembling still she sat, yet made no moan, But felt an unseen presence fill the door, And heard a light step steal across the floor, And shrank beneath a touch that chilled her own....

Once more I pass the hall, the dim oak stair. A sudden gust breathes down, a tremulous sigh; A silken rustle lightly whispers by; A fragrance as of roses fills the air.

ROSE PERENNIAL

The worn gray slab yet lies before What once was a thrifty farmer’s door; Now roofless cellar and scattered stones Show skeleton hopes with time-picked bones. Here backed against a crumbling wall Still blooms at bay, unpruned and tall, A soil-disdaining moss-rose bush, The delicate buds in faintest flush, Clutched by the brambles and woodbine, Whose envious fingers tear and twine.

There was the huge barn; here the yard, Where the grim farmer labored hard From dawn to dark, and never knew A dream beyond the crops he grew, The stock he raised, the silver store Under the loose board in the floor.

To and fro, to and fro, The feet of his little wife would go, All day long and half the night, Up a flight and down a flight; Pantry to kitchen, pen to barn, Cellar to garret with loom of yarn; In to the babies, out to the men, Down to the pasture and back again. Farms were never planned, you find, To save the steps of womenkind.

One can trudge and drudge through a long life’s course, If she discover a hidden source To seek when the spirit is faint and dry.

Here was her rosebush growing high, That he never knew—for he never cared; This was her joy no mortal shared. Her hands were never too stiff or tired To foster beauty the soul desired; The first shy green, the venturesome shoot, Flushing sap from the sturdy root, Moss-veiled bud and passionate bloom; Scarlet hips for the winter gloom. Never too worn the busy feet, Never too dull the old heart’s beat, For a furtive trip to the little shrine That made the moment a pause divine.

Here by the bush one glimpsed the Hills, Where forests crooned and ran free rills; One breathed deep draughts from a windswept sky, Sunset, moonglow, mystery.

This was her rosebush by the wall. Gone is the farmer, farm and all; Gone herd and crops and silver store. The children grown return no more To the hearth deserted, the loveless place, Haunted by one enduring grace; A dream of beauty, torn with briar, Clutched in vain as it reaches higher.

SCARECROW

Rags and tags of what he was, Topped with straw and stuffed with hay; Balanced tipsily askew, It grins to scare the crows away.

I saw _Him_ first in that old hat— It seemed the crown of a king to me. I liked his careless swagger then; Lord! He was straight and fine to see.

He courted me in that same coat— He couldn’t meet it now, I guess. That gay vest was the one he wore When I walked bride in my silver dress.

He seemed as proud as I, those days. I never dreamed, when we were wed, I’d think the Scarecrow a better man, With a broom for a spine and a pumpkin head.

Rags and tags of what he seemed, Mocking me in the field all day. What can I make a scarecrow of, To drive the hungry thoughts away?

INSPIRATION

Life—Death in a drop of dew; And a prism to sift a sunbeam through.

Fragile, perfect, briefly bright, A tremulous miracle of light;

Beauty poised on a flower-tip; A whole round world for a Thrush to sip!

A WASTED MORNING

I wasted a morning! Where? And why? I let swift hours go silently by, As I lay at the foot of an ancient tree, And let God’s universe talk to me.

Wind and shadow, cloud and bird, Spoke each to my heart a musical word. The little brown cone that fell on my cheek, The squirrel who mocked with an impudent squeak, The golden mushroom brimmed with death, The twin-flower blessing the air with its breath; Old spider spinning above my head A magical dream with her rainbow thread; The liliput vases of moss below; The sudden caw of a picket crow; The rhythmical green of a supple snake Quivering into a lair of brake; The grumbling bee, the whispering pine— What need had they for a word of mine? They lived the poem; they wove the spell No tongue could utter, no phrases tell; And a human voice could but disgrace The eloquent stillness of the place.

So I lay at the foot of the ancient tree, And let God’s free verse sing to me.

CIPHERS

Oh, to be a wonder-child And read the cipher of the wild!

A starry-splintered alphabet In the ancient rocks is set, Spelling, if one held the key, All creation’s history. Cryptic messages I trace Etched on many a flower-face; Graven symbols score the pines, The birches wear mysterious signs— Perhaps the wistful diary Of the Dryad in her tree.

On the open page of snow Curious hieroglyphics show, Dots and dashes, twist and thrust, Carven in the crystal crust; Marks of furred and feathered things With furtive feet or startled wings— Comic secrets of the dark, Silent tragedy and stark.

Ciphers, ciphers everywhere, In the sky, the wave, the air! On the faces that one meets Adrift upon the eddying streets; On the near and dear, that change With lines inscrutable and strange— Palimpsests that time has wrought With the signs of hidden thought, Dreams unguessed and griefs unsaid, Passionate yearning unbetrayed.

Ah, could Love but find and own Nature’s old Rosetta Stone!

PINE MUSIC

A hundred years I seek the stars Through tempest, heat, and cold; My body scarred by many scars, My spirit wisely old.

Yet the eternal song I sing, From sun and shadow made, Is lisped as sweetly every spring By the least flowers that fade.

MAIDS AND MUSHROOMS

Oddly fashioned, quaintly dyed, In the wood the mushrooms hide; Rich and meaty, full of flavor, Made for man’s delicious savor. But he shudders and he shrinks At the piquant mauves and pinks. Who is brave enough to dare Curious shapes and colors rare, Dainties in peculiar dresses, Fairy-rings and inky messes? Something sinister must be In the strange variety. It is better not to know; Safer but to peer—and go.

So the mushrooms dry and fade, Like full many a blooming maid, With her dower of preciousness Hid too well for men to guess. But the toadstools bright and yellow Tempt and poison many a fellow, With their flaunting beauty bright, The bold promise of delight. Taste and suffer, ache and burn; Generations do not learn!

Nay, a little mushroom study Would not injure anybody.

IN THE DARK

In the dark I lie and think Of the glory in a day; Of the sunshine and the shade, All the color soft or gay.

I can see it better now As I lie with curtained eyes. Oh, the rainbow and the moon; Oh, the opal of the skies!

How the poppies glow and thrill, How the pigeon-feathers shine! I will weave them into dreams, I will make them ever mine.

All the wonder of a wave, All the magic of a tree— I shall wear them in my soul When these eyes no longer see.

GARDEN THOUGHTS

Some of us are roses, Some of us are weeds; All of us began in clay, Silent little seeds.

Some of us are flaunting, Some of us are shy; All of us have roots in earth, Faces to the sky.

Some give joy by living, Some leave fragrance, dead; Thorns and spines and ugliness May yield balm or bread.

Twisted, seared and stunted, Radiant, sweet and glad; Who shall say that one is “good” And another “bad”?

THE PASSER-BY

In the fragrant, moonlit night, Without a thought of fear, I wakened in my seaward room And felt a Presence near.

The open window glowed, And suddenly I knew That Some One was out walking Above the summer dew.

The tall pines held their breath, And the little cedar trees, With all the grasses in the field, Were kneeling on their knees.

Beyond the dunes the sea Was like a silver floor, For Some One’s holy feet to cross Out of a foreign shore.

Then lo! Above the trees A halo, round and bright! No more I saw of One who passed All silent in the night.

FROST

Hark to a call in the late September night, From the little garden-close crying—crying! As the cold stars watch from their safe, untroubled height, Faintly breathes the scented prayer—“Help! We are dying!”

Who would invade the sisterhood of flowers, In their cloistered innocence fresh and gently gay? What so cruel foe would dare profane the hours, To fright the tender sleeping buds and steal their peace away?

Hark! The wistful cry again! Wafted o’er the grasses Comes the trembling fragrance, a sigh from hearts of gold. Something sly and sinister in the shadow passes; Shivering draw the covers close, the blood runs cold!

Lo, in the morning, the bleak and hoary morning. Desolate the garden where the white foe crept; Wall or moat no bar to him, come without a warning. Capturing the pretty ones helpless where they slept.

Cruel was the touch of him, blighting was his breath. Beauty shrank before him, but found no place to hide. Fragile, piteous martyrs coldly done to death, Was there none to answer when your sweet souls cried?

WINTER SONG

Because I sang in April With magic in the air. Must I be sad and silent now When winter boughs are bare?

My heart is not a songster That waits upon the spring, But while there is a blessèd sky And friendly earth, I sing!

For evergreen my joy is, Like any cedar tree; It makes a tune of ice and snow And whispers it to me.

TANAGER

Scarlet bird! Whence have you fluttered into my green gloom, My sleepy solitude, on quiet wing, Your voice unheard? Why do you linger there upon the tree. And still forbear to sing, As if your message were a silent doom? O torch of fire; Enkindled at the flame of heart’s desire. In some enchanted land! O wingèd rose. Blown from the living garden of delight! O flash of joy Deliriously bright. Escaping from the heart of some fierce boy, Or girl who thrills and glows! O dream incarnadine Out of the jeweled past; red rapture that was mine! Why sent to torture me? You cut the shadow like an open wound; The forest bleeds with your intensity, In a mysterious anguish unrelieved by sound.

And when you flit away, Back to your radiant realm, your vivid day, And shivering I shall gaze Down the dim alley empty of your blaze, The darkness will be darker evermore, The silence stiller than it was before. Then faded peace will brood— A moment stirred In the transfigured wood, O scarlet bird!

SONG

Oh, yes, I love you still, my lad, For that is woman’s way; A whole life long of tenderness For the fancy of a day.

I gave you golden loyalty And starry faith to wear. You gave me pearls that were my tears, And silver in my hair.

You gave me something less than good, I gave the best I had. But yes—the man I thought you were, I love him still, my lad.

THE KNOCK

Did you knock at the door, my Dear? Knock, and I fail to hear?

Was I so eager to bind my hair, And fasten a flower to make me fair; Study a book that I might be wise, Or make you a song for a sweet surprise? Mixing a cake, Saying a prayer, All for your sake, All for your care— So busily happy I did not hear When you knocked, my Dear!

Will you pass to another door, And knock at my own no more?

Shall I listen and wait and long, No more laughter, no more song? But still with the faded rose in my hair, Still on my lips the tremulous prayer; Till the fire goes out To a single spark. Ending the doubt; And in empty dark, Shall I sit and hear The knock, knock, knock of my heart? My Dear!

AN OLD-WORLD CONVENT GARDEN

Walled quiet from the din. So near, of worldly strife; A cloistered peace within, A life apart from life. Shrines bowered in roses sweet, And in a hidden dell Worn by accustomed feet, A holy well.

Along the ancient wall Fruit basking in the sun; Flowers radiant and tall— A coquette every one. Bees busy on the stalks, Birds mating in the weeds— Here a pale Sister walks, Telling her beads.

High walls to shut aside The world’s dear bliss and care! O Birds, your nestlings hide In sanctuary there. High walls to her, to me— But ah! to wings, how low; Blest little Birds, quite free To come—and go!

A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY

FOR C. N. B.

Who counts the foolish years? This Brittany of ours, With all her gathered hopes and fears, Her scroll of smiles and tears, Is young, amid her sweet, perennial flowers. About the lone, deserted shrines Carol melodious songsters of to-day; Weaving their modern spell Through Carnac’s mighty lines The sun-burned children play, Knowing, perchance, the ancient secret well. Above the buried Ys, Stout fishers in their rainbow shallops ply; Gazing into the azure depths they sigh, Dreaming of fair Dahut, and brighter realms than this, Longing to feel her kiss. But homely love is waiting them ashore; Soon they will sigh no more. Joy of the present, full of light and life, Faith of the future years, with promise rife— Belovèd of the sea, How young is Brittany!

Who marks the months’ retreat? It is not fall when roses are abloom, When strawberries are sweet, And snowy, great magnolias breathe perfume. This bright September day, With radiant sky and balmy airs at play, Renewing joy in every living thing, Is Spring! Is Spring!

And so with you, dear Mother! Heart of youth, Wise in your dreaming, soul of mystery, Tender in faith and truth. Lo, in your gentle hands you hold the key Of Spring eternal, of the spirit’s prime; You make a slave of time. With his malicious fears, And as this _spring_ day brightly Clasps like a gem the threaded years You wear so lightly, Who shall seek to sum them, Admiring still how sweetly you become them?

_Vitré September 3, 1913_

THE BLAZED TRAIL

Just when the path is lost to me, Bewildered wanderer in the maze, Upon some unexpected tree I spy the Woodman’s blaze;

A mystic rune of sight or sound, A message quick from sense to soul, That lifts the spirit from the ground And speeds it to the goal.

A wind-flower nodding by an oak Has given assurance from afar; Once in the dark a fragrance spoke, And once it was a star.

The silver fluting of a thrush; The bursting of a sunken flame; A sigh of wind, a sudden hush— Out of the depths I came.

A burning challenge to despair Flashed from an idly-open book; A small dumb creature’s silent prayer, A friend’s revealing look;