PART V

WINTER

_We, whom God sets a task, Striving, who ne'er attain, We are the curst!--who ask Death, and still ask in vain. We, whom God sets a task._

1

_In the silence of his room. After many days._

All, all are shadows. All must pass As writing in the sand or sea; Reflections in a looking-glass Are not less permanent than we.

The days that mould us--what are they? That break us on their whirling wheel? What but the potters! we the clay They fashion and yet leave unreal.

Linked through the ages, one and all, In long anthropomorphous chain, The human and the animal Inseparably must remain.

Within us still the monster shape That shrieked in air and howled in slime, What are we?--partly man and ape-- The tools of fate, the toys of time!

2

_The bitterness of his bereavement speaks in him._

Vased in her bedroom window, white As her chaste girlhood, never lost, I smelt the roses--and the night Outside was fog and frost.

What though I claimed her dying there! God nor one angel understood Nor cared, who from sweet feet to hair Had changed to snow her blood.

She had been mine so long, so long! Our harp of life was one in word-- Why did death thrust his hand among The chords and break one chord!

A placid lily was the face, A sad pale rose the mouth I kissed That morn, when filled with Heaven's own grace She passed into the mist.

3

_Her dead face seems to rise up before him._

The face that I said farewell to, Pillowed a flower on flowers, Comes back with its eyes to tell to My soul what its lips would spell too-- Comes back to me at hours!--

Dear, is your heart still daggered There by something amiss? Love--is he still a laggard? Hope--is her face still haggard Tell me what it is!

You, who are done with To-morrow! Done with these worldly skies! Done with our pain and sorrow! Done with the griefs we borrow! Prayers and tears and sighs!

Must we say "gone forever"? Or will it all come true? Shall I attain to you ever? And, o'er the doubts that sever, Rise to the truth that's you?

Love, in my flesh so fearful, Medicine me this pain!-- Love, with the eyes so tearful, How can my soul be cheerful, Seeing its joy is slain!

Gone!--'twas only a vision!-- Gone! like a thought, a gleam!-- Such to our indecision Utter no empty mission, Truer than that they seem.

4

_He sinks into deep thought._

There are shadows that compel us, There are voices that control; More than substance these can tell us, Speaking to the human soul.

In the moonlight, when it glistened On my window, white as snow, Once I woke and, leaning, listened To a voice that sang below.

Full of gladness, full of yearning, Strange with dreamy melody, Like a bird whose heart is burning, Wildly sweet it sang to me.

I arose; and by the starlight, Pale beneath the mystic sky, I have seen it full of far light,-- My dead joy go singing by.

In the darkness, when the glimmer Of the storm was on the pane, I have sat and heard a dimmer Voice lamenting in the rain.

Full of parting and unspoken Heartbreak, faint with agony, Like a bird whose heart is broken, Sadly low it cried to me.

I arose; and in the darkness Wan beneath the haunted sky, I have seen it, cold to starkness,-- My dead love go weeping by.

5

_He arouses from his abstraction._

So long it seems since last I saw her face, So long ago it seems, Like some sad soul in unconjectured space Still seeking happiness through perished grace And unrealities,--a little while Illusions lead me, ending in the smile Of Death triumphant in a thorny place Among Love's ruined roses and dead dreams.

Since she is gone, no more I see the light,-- Since she has left all dark,-- Cleave like a revelation through the night. I wander blindly, filled with fear and fright, Among the fragments and the wrecks and stones Of life, where Hope, amid the skulls and bones, With weary face, disheartened, wild and white, Trims her pale lamp with its expiring spark.

Now she is dead, the Soul, naught can o'erawe,-- Now she has passed from me,-- Questions God's justice that seems full of flaw As is His world, where misery is law, And men but fools too willing to be slaves.-- My House of Faith, built up on dust of graves, The wind of doubt sweeps down as made of straw, And all is night, and I no longer see.

6

_He looks from his window toward the sombre west._

Ridged and bleak the gray forsaken Twilight at the night has guessed; And no star of dusk has taken Flame unshaken in the west.

All day long the woodlands dying Moaned, and drippings as of grief Tossed from barren boughs with sighing Death of flying twig and leaf.

Ah, to live a life unbroken, Scornful of the worst of fate! Like that tree ... with branches oaken.... Joy's unspoken intimate.--

Who can say that man has never Lived the life of plants and trees? Not so wide the lines that sever Us forever here from these.

Colors, odors, that are cherished, Haply hint we once were flowers; Memory alone has perished In this garished world of ours.

Music,--that all things expresses, All for which we've loved or sinned,-- Haply in our treey tresses Once was guesses of the wind....

But I dream!--The dusk, upbraiding, Deepens without moon or star; Darkness and my sorrow aiding, We but fading phantoms are.

And within me doubt keeps saying-- "What is wrong? and what is right? Hear the cursing! hear the praying! All are straying on in night."

7

_He turns from the window, takes up a book and reads._

The Soul, like Earth, hath silences Which speak not, yet are heard-- The voices mute of memories Are louder than a word.

Theirs is a speech which is not speech; A language that is bound To soul-vibrations vague that reach Deeper than any sound.

No words are theirs. They speak through things, A visible utterance Of thoughts--like those some sunset brings Or withered rose perchance.

The heavens that once, in purple and flame, Spake to two hearts as one, In after years may speak the same To one sad heart alone.

Through it the vanished face and eyes Of her, the sweet and fair, Of her the lost, again shall rise To comfort his despair.

And so the love that led him long From golden scene to scene, Within the sunset is a tongue To tell him what has been.--

How loud it speaks of that dead day, The rose whose bloom is fled! Of her who died; who, clasped in clay, Lies numbered with the dead.

The dead are dead; with them 'tis well Within their narrow room;-- No memories haunt their hearts who dwell Within the grave and tomb.

But what of those--the dead who live! The living dead, whose lot Is still to love--ah, God forgive!-- To live and love, forgot!--

8

_The storm is heard sounding wildly with wind and hail._

The night is wild with rain and sleet. Each loose-warped casement claps and groans. I hear the plangent forest beat The tempest with long blatant moans As of despair, defeat.

And sitting here beyond the storm, Alone within the lonely house, It seems that some mesmeric charm Hangs over all.--Why, even the mouse, That gnawed, has come to harm.

And in the silence, stolen o'er All things, I strangely seem to fear Myself--that, opening yon door, I'd find my dead self drawing near, With face that once I wore.

The stairway creaks with ghostly gusts. The flue moans--'tis a gorgon throat Of wailing winds. Ancestral dusts,-- That yonder Indian war-gear coat With gray and spectral crusts,--

Are trembled down.--Or can it be, That he who wore it in the dance, Or battle, now fills shadowy Its wampumed skins? And shakes his lance And warrior plume at me?--

Mere fancy!--Yet those curtains toss Mysteriously as if some dark Hand moved them.--And I'd fear to cross The shadow there where lies that spark-- A glow-worm sunk in moss.

Outside 'twere better!--Yes, I yearn To walk the waste where sway and dip The dark December boughs--where burn Some late last leaves, that drip and drip No matter where you turn.

Where sodden soil, you scarce have trod, Fills oozy footprints--but the blind Night there, tho' like the frown of God, Presents no phantoms to the mind, Like these that have o'erawed.--

The months I count: how long it seems Since summer! summer, when with her, There on her porch, in rainy gleams We watched the flickering lightning stir In heavens gray as dreams.

When all the west, a sheet of gold, Flared,--like some Titan's opened forge,-- With storm; revealing manifold Vast peaks of clouds with crag and gorge, Where thunder torrents rolled.

Then came the wind; again, again The lightning lit the world--and how The tempest roared with rushing rain!... We could not read.--Where is it now, That tale of Charlemagne?

That old romance, ah me! that we Were reading? till we heard the plunge Of summer thunder sullenly, And left to watch the lightning lunge, And winds bend down each tree.--

That summer! how it built us there A world of love and necromance! A spirit-world, where all was fair; An island, sleeping in a trance Of lilied light and air.

Where every flower was a thought; And every bird, a melody; And every fragrance, zephyr brought, Was but the rainbowed drapery Of some sweet dream long sought.

O land of shadows! shadow-home, Within my world of memories! Around whose ruins sweeps the foam Of sorrow's immemorial seas, By whose dark shores I roam!

How long in your wrecked halls alone With ghosts of joys must I remain? Between the unknown and the known, Still listening to the wind and rain, And my own heart's wild moan.

9

_He sits by the slowly dying fire. The storm is heard with increased violence._

Wild weather. The lash of the sleet On the gusty casement tapping-- The sound of the storm like a sheet My soul and senses wrapping.

Wild weather. And how is she, Now the rush of the rain falls serried Over the turf and the tree Of the place where she is buried?

Wild weather. How black and deep Is the night where the mad winds scurry!-- Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleep That I hear her footsteps hurry?

Hither they come like flowers-- And I see her raiment glisten, Like the robe of one of the hours Where the stars to the angels listen.

Before me, behold, how she stands! With lips high thoughts have weighted, And testifying hands, And eyes with glory sated.

I have spoken and I have kneeled; I have kissed her feet in wonder-- But lo! her lips--they are sealed, God-sealed, and will not sunder.

Though I sob, "Your stay was long! You are come,--but your feet were laggard!-- With mansuetude and song For the soul your death has daggered."

Never a word replies, Never to all my weeping-- Only a sound of sighs, And raiment past me sweeping....

I wake; and a clock strikes three-- And the night and the storm beat serried Over the turf and the tree Of the place where she is buried.

THE LYRIC LIBRARY

POEMS OF THE TOWN Ernest McGaffey

SONG-SURF Cale Young Rice

ONE DAY AND ANOTHER Madison Cawein

FOR THINKING HEARTS John Vance Cheney

IN THE HARBOR OF HOPE Mary Elizabeth Blake

_Other volumes in preparation._ 16 mo. Flexible Leather. $1.25.

_A book of poetry worth while._

POEMS OF THE TOWN

By ERNEST McGAFFEY

16 mo. Flexible Leather. $1.25

The following are but a few extracts from many reviews received on _Poems of the Town_. Among this chorus of praise there has not been one dissenting voice.

"For terse English, for picturesque and appropriate imagery, for keen and faithful portraiture Mr. McGaffey has no superior. And there will be many to say that this book entitles him to recognition as the interpreter of his age."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._

"It is doubtful if any American poet has written a finer, more humane, more nobly and righteously wrathful outburst against the maladies of civilization than the poem in this collection entitled _Laocoon of the Town_."--_St. Louis Mirror._

"His lyrics have that touch of universality which distinguishes true poetry from mere verse. It is not too much to say that _Poems of the Town_ are certain to take a place among the best examples of American poetry."--_Editorial Chicago Chronicle._

IRISH MIST AND SUNSHINE

BALLADS AND LYRICS BY REV. JAMES B. DOLLARD (Sliav-na-mon)

With an introduction by William O'Brien, M. P. With frontispiece. Small quarto. Cloth ornamental. $1.50

This is a book of ringing Irish ballads that will stir the heart of every lover of true poetry. "Here and there a verse may be as frankly unadorned as the peasant cabins themselves in their homely cloaks of thatch, but every line rings true to life and home and with the tone, as heartmoving as the Angelus which holds Millet's peasants in its spell," from Mr. O'Brien's introduction.

"Father Dollard's ballads have all the fire and dash of Kipling's, with a firmer poetic touch" says Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole.

FOUR DAYS OF GOD

BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD

With about 90 illustrations in color. Bound in white and gold and purple. Small 4 to. (Probably) $1.00.

It is quite impossible to describe adequately the surpassing charm of this book. We can say simply that it will appeal to every lover of nature who sees in her manifold beauties the living glories of the work of God.

No one can write more beautiful or sparkling prose than Mrs. Spofford and never has she been so absolutely charming as in _Four Days of God_.

The book has about 90 illustrations by Miss A. C. Tomlinson which catch the spirit of the text to perfection and with the harmonious print and paper and binding make the book a little gem.

RICHARD G BADGER & COMPANY (Incorporated) Publishers, Boston

End of Project Gutenberg's One Day & Another, by Julius Madison Cawein