Chapter 4

Up from the South come the birds that were banished, Frightened away by the presence of frost. Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished, Back to the forest the leaves that were lost. Over the hillside the carpet of splendour, Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again; Along the horizon, the tints that were tender, Lost hues of Summer-time, burn bright as then.

Only the mountains’ high summits are hoary, To the ice-fettered river the sun gives a key. Once more the gleaming shore lists to the story Told by an amorous Summer-kissed sea. All things revive that in Winter time perished, The rose buds again in the light o’ the sun, All that was beautiful, all that was cherished, Sweet things and dear things and all things—save one.

Late, when the year and the roses were lying Low with the ruins of Summer and bloom, Down in the dust fell a love that was dying, And the snow piled over it, and made it a tomb. Lo! now the roses are budded for blossom— Lo! now the Summer is risen again. Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom? Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then?

Life without love is a year without Summer, Heart without love is a wood without song. Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer: Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long? Rise! ah, thou can’st not! the rose-tree that sheddest Its beautiful leaves, in the Springtime may bloom, But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest, Love buried once, rises not from the tomb. Green things may grow on the hillside and heather, Birds seek the forest and build there and sing. All things revive in the beautiful weather, But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring.

MIDSUMMER

After the May time, and after the June time, Rare with blossoms and perfumes sweet, Cometh the round world’s royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat. When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.

Unto my heart has come that season, O my lady, my worshipped one, When over the stars of Pride and Reason Sails Love’s cloudless, noonday sun. Like a great red ball in my bosom burning With fires that nothing can quench or tame. It glows till my heart itself seems turning Into a liquid lake of flame.

The hopes half shy, and the sighs all tender, The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide’s royal splendour, Droop like roses and wither away. From the hills of doubt no winds are blowing, From the isle of pain no breeze is sent. Only the sun in a white heat glowing Over an ocean of great content.

Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory, Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon, For the Autumn must come with its mournful story, And Love’s midsummer will fade too soon.

A REMINISCENCE

I saw the wild honey-bee kissing a rose A wee one, that grows Down low on the bush, where her sisters above Cannot see all that’s done As the moments roll on. Nor hear all the whispers and murmurs of love.

They flaunt out their beautiful leaves in the sun, And they flirt, every one, With the wild bees who pass, and the gay butterflies. And that wee thing in pink— Why, they never once think That she’s won a lover right under their eyes.

It reminded me, Kate, of a time—you know when! You were so petite then, Your dresses were short, and your feet were so small. Your sisters, Maud-Belle And Madeline—well, They _both_ set their caps for me, after that ball.

How the blue eyes and black eyes smiled up in my face! ’Twas a neck-and-neck race, Till that day when you opened the door in the hall, And looked up and looked down, With your sweet eyes of brown, And _you_ seemed so tiny, and _I_ felt so tall.

Your sisters had sent you to keep me, my dear, Till they should appear. Then you were dismissed like a child in disgrace. How meekly you went! But your brown eyes, they sent A thrill to my heart, and a flush to my face.

We always were meeting some way after that. You hung up my hat, And got it again, when I finished my call. Sixteen, and _so_ sweet! Oh, those cute little feet! Shall I ever forget how they tripped down the hall?

Shall I ever forget the first kiss by the door, Or the vows murmured o’er, Or the rage and surprise of Maud-Belle? Well-a-day, How swiftly time flows, And who would suppose That a _bee_ could have carried me so far away.

A GIRL’S FAITH

Across the miles that stretch between, Through days of gloom or glad sunlight, There shines a face I have not seen Which yet doth make my world more bright.

He may be near, he may be far, Or near or far I cannot see, But faithful as the morning star He yet shall rise and come to me.

What though fate leads us separate ways, The world is round, and time is fleet. A journey of a few brief days, And face to face we two shall meet.

Shall meet beneath God’s arching skies, While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam, And looking in each other’s eyes Shall hold the past but as a dream.

But round and perfect and complete, Life like a star shall climb the height, As we two press with willing feet Together toward the Infinite.

And still behind the space between, As back of dawns the sunbeams play, There shines the face I have not seen, Whose smile shall wake my world to-day.

TWO

One leaned on velvet cushions like a queen— To see him pass, the hero of an hour, Whom men called great. She bowed with languid mien, And smiled, and blushed, and knew her beauty’s power.

One trailed her tinselled garments through the street, And thrust aside the crowd, and found a place So near, the blooded courser’s prancing feet Cast sparks of fire upon her painted face.

One took the hot-house blossoms from her breast, And tossed them down, as he went riding by, And blushed rose-red to see them fondly pressed To bearded lips, while eye spoke unto eye.

One, bold and hardened with her sinful life, Yet shrank and shivered painfully, because His cruel glance cut keener than a knife, The glance of him who made her what she was.

One was observed, and lifted up to fame, Because the hero smiled upon her! while One who was shunned and hated, found her shame In basking in the death-light of his smile.

SLIPPING AWAY

Slipping away—slipping away! Out of our brief year slips the May; And Winter lingers, and Summer flies; And Sorrow abideth, and Pleasure dies; And the days are short, and the nights are long; And little is right, and much is wrong.

Slipping away is the Summer time; It has lost its rhythm and lilting rhyme— For the grace goes out of the day so soon, And the tired head aches in the glare of noon, And the way seems long to the hills that lie Under the calm of the western sky.

Slipping away are the friends whose worth Lent a glow to the sad old earth: One by one they slip from our sight; One by one their graves gleam white; Or we count them lost by the crueller death Of a trust betrayed, or a murdered faith.

Slipping away are the hopes that made Bliss out of sorrow, and sun out of shade, Slipping away is our hold on life; And out of the struggle and wearing strife, From joys that diminish, and woes that increase, We are slipping away to the shores of Peace.

IS IT DONE?

It is done! in the fire’s fitful flashes, The last line has withered and curled. In a tiny white heap of dead ashes Lie buried the hopes of your world. There were mad foolish vows in each letter, It is well they have shrivelled and burned, And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter, It was better removed and returned.

But ah, is it done? In the embers Where letters and tokens were cast, Have you burned up the heart that remembers, And treasures its beautiful past? Do you think in this swift reckless fashion To ruthlessly burn and destroy The months that were freighted with passion, The dreams that were drunken with joy?

Can you burn up the rapture of kisses That flashed from the lips to the soul, Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses In spite of its strength of control? Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers That thrilled through each pulse and each vein, Or the sound of a voice that still lingers And hurts with a haunting refrain?

Is it done? is the life drama ended? You have put all the lights out, and yet, Though the curtain, rung down, has descended, Can the actors go home and forget? Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping With a strange restless pain in their hearts, And in darkness, and anguish, and weeping, Will dream they are playing their parts.

A LEAF

Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve, That you were married, or soon to be. I have not thought of you, I believe, Since last we parted. Let me see: Five long Summers have passed since then— Each has been pleasant in its own way— And you are but one of a dozen men Who have played the suitor a Summer day.

But, nevertheless, when I heard your name, Coupled with some one’s, not my own, There burned in my bosom a sudden flame, That carried me back to the day that is flown. I was sitting again by the laughing brook, With you at my feet, and the sky above, And my heart was fluttering under your look— The unmistakable look of Love.

Again your breath, like a South wind, fanned My cheek, where the blushes came and went; And the tender clasp of your strong, warm hand Sudden thrills through my pulses sent. Again you were mine by Love’s own right— Mine for ever by Love’s decree: So for a moment it seemed last night, When somebody mentioned your name to me.

Just for the moment I thought you mine— Loving me, wooing me, as of old. The tale remembered seemed half divine— Though I held it lightly enough when told. The past seemed fairer than when it was near, As “blessings brighten when taking flight;” And just for the moment I held you dear— When somebody mentioned your name last night.

ÆSTHETIC

In a garb that was guiltless of colours She stood, with a dull, listless air— A creature of dumps and of dolours, But most undeniably fair.

The folds of her garment fell round her, Revealing the curve of each limb; Well proportioned and graceful I found her, Although quite alarmingly slim.

From the hem of her robe peeped one sandal— “High art” was she down to her feet; And though I could not understand all She said, I could see she was sweet.

Impressed by her limpness and languor, I proffered a chair near at hand; She looked back a mild sort of anger— Posed anew, and continued to stand.

Some praises I next tried to mutter Of the fan that she held to her face; She said it was “utterly utter,” And waved it with languishing grace.

I then, in a strain quite poetic, Begged her gaze on the bow in the sky, She looked—said its curve was “æsthetic.” But the “tone was too dreadfully high.”

Her lovely face, lit by the splendour That glorified landscape and sea, Woke thoughts that were daring and tender: Did _her_ thoughts, too, rest upon me?

“Oh, tell me,” I cried, growing bolder, “Have I in your musings a place?” “Well, yes,” she said over her shoulder: “I was thinking of nothing in space.”

POEMS OF THE WEEK

SUNDAY

Lie still and rest, in that serene repose That on this holy morning comes to those Who have been burdened with the cares which make The sad heart weary and the tired head ache. Lie still and rest— God’s day of all is best.

MONDAY

Awake! arise! Cast off thy drowsy dreams! Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams. “As Monday goes, so goes the week,” dames say. Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day. And see! thy neighbour Already seeks his labour.

TUESDAY

Another morning’s banners are unfurled— Another day looks smiling on the world. It holds new laurels for thy soul to win; Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin, Nor sad, away, Send it to yesterday.

WEDNESDAY

Half-way unto the end—the week’s high noon. The morning hours do speed away so soon! And, when the noon is reached, however bright, Instinctively we look toward the night. The glow is lost Once the meridian cross’d.

THURSDAY

So well the week has sped, hast thou a friend, Go spend an hour in converse. It will lend New beauty to thy labours and thy life To pause a little sometimes in the strife. Toil soon seems rude That has no interlude.

FRIDAY

From feasts abstain; be temperate, and pray; Fast if thou wilt; and yet, throughout the day, Neglect no labour and no duty shirk: Not many hours are left thee for thy work— And it were meet That all should be complete.

SATURDAY

Now with the almost finished task make haste. So near the night thou hast no time to waste. Post up accounts, and let thy Soul’s eyes look For flaws and errors in Life’s ledger-book. When labours cease, How sweet the sense of peace!

GHOSTS

There are ghosts in the room. As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there They come out of the gloom, And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.

There’s the ghost of a Hope That lighted my days with a fanciful glow. In her hand is the rope That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

But her ghost comes to-night, With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes, And it stands in the light, And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

There’s the ghost of a Joy, A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much, And the hands that destroy Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

There’s the ghost of a Love, Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest, But he towers above All the others—this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.

I am weary, and fain Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host Make my struggle in vain, In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.

FLEEING AWAY

My thoughts soar not as they ought to soar, Higher and higher on soul-lent wings; But ever and often, and more and more They are dragged down earthward by little things, By little troubles and little needs, As a lark might be tangled among the weeds.

My purpose is not what it ought to be, Steady and fixed, like a star on high, But more like a fisherman’s light at sea; Hither and thither it seems to fly— Sometimes feeble, and sometimes bright, Then suddenly lost in the gloom of night.

My life is far from my dream of life— Calmly contented, serenely glad; But, vexed and worried by daily strife, It is always troubled, and ofttimes sad— And the heights I had thought I should reach one day Grow dimmer and dimmer, and farther away.

My heart finds never the longed-for rest; Its worldly striving, its greed for gold, Chilled and frightened the calm-eyed guest, Who sometimes sought me in days of old; And ever fleeing away from me Is the higher self that I long to be.

ALL MAD

“He is mad as a hare, poor fellow, And should be in chains,” you say. I haven’t a doubt of your statement, But who isn’t mad, I pray? Why, the world is a great asylum, And people are all insane, Gone daft with pleasure or folly, Or crazed with passion and pain.

The infant who shrieks at a shadow, The child with his Santa Claus faith, The woman who worships Dame Fashion, Each man with his notions of death, The miser who hoards up his earnings, The spendthrift who wastes them too soon, The scholar grown blind in his delving, The lover who stares at the moon.

The poet who thinks life a pæan, The cynic who thinks it a fraud, The youth who goes seeking for pleasure, The preacher who dares talk of God, All priests with their creeds and their croaking, All doubters who dare to deny, The gay who find aught to wake laughter, The sad who find aught worth a sigh, Whoever is downcast or solemn, Whoever is gleeful and glad, Are only the dupes of delusions— We are all of us—all of us mad.

HIDDEN GEMS

We know not what lies in us, till we seek; Men dive for pearls—they are not found on shore, The hillsides most unpromising and bleak Do sometimes hide the ore.

Go, dive in the vast ocean of thy mind, O man! far down below the noisy waves, Down in the depths and silence thou mayst find Rare pearls and coral caves.

Sink thou a shaft into the mine of thought; Be patient, like the seekers after gold; Under the rocks and rubbish lieth what May bring thee wealth untold.

Reflected from the vastly Infinite, However dulled by earth, each human mind Holds somewhere gems of beauty and of light Which, seeking, thou shalt find.

BY-AND-BYE

“By-and-bye,” the maiden sighed—“by-and-bye He will claim me for his bride, Hope is strong and time is fleet; Youth is fair, and love is sweet, Clouds will pass that fleck my sky, He will come back by-and-bye—by-and-bye.”

“By-and-bye,” the soldier said—“by-and-bye, After I have fought and bled, I shall go home from the wars, Crowned with glory, seamed with scars. Joy will flash from some one’s eye When she greets me by-and-bye—by-and-bye.”

“By-and-bye,” the mother cried—“by-and-bye, Strong and sturdy at my side, Like a staff supporting me, Will my bonnie baby be. Break my rest, then, wail and cry— Thou’lt repay me by-and-bye—by-and-bye.”

Fleeting years of time have sped—hurried by— Still the maiden is unwed: All unknown the soldier lies, Buried under alien skies; And the son, with blood-shot eye, Saw his mother starve and die. God in Heaven! dost Thou on high, Keep the promised “by-and-bye”—by-and-bye?

OVER THE MAY HILL

All through the night time, and all through the day time, Dreading the morning and dreading the night, Nearer and nearer we drift to the May time Season of beauty and season of blight, Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow, Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere, Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow, Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair.

Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery, Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens, Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary— Too well I know what that weariness means. But how could I know in the crisp winter weather (Though sometimes I noticed a catch in your breath), Riding and singing and dancing together, How could I know you were racing with death?

How could I know when we danced until morning, And you were the gayest of all the gay crowd— With only that shortness of breath for a warning, How could I know that you danced for a shroud? Whirling and whirling through moonlight and starlight. Rocking as lightly as boats on the wave, Down in your eyes shone a deep light—a far light, How could I know ’twas the light to your grave?

Day by day, day by day, nearing and nearing, Hid under greenness, and beauty and bloom, Cometh the shape and the shadow I’m fearing, “Over the May hill” is waiting your tomb. The season of mirth and of music is over— I have danced my last dance, I have sung my last song, Under the violets, under the clover, My heart and my love will be lying ere long

FOES

Thank Fate for foes! I hold mine dear As valued friends. He cannot know The zest of life who runneth here His earthly race without a foe.

I saw a prize. “Run,” cried my friend; “’Tis thine to claim without a doubt.” But ere I half-way reached the end, I felt my strength was giving out.

My foe looked on the while I ran; A scornful triumph lit his eyes. With that perverseness born in man, I nerved myself, and won the prize.

All blinded by the crimson glow Of sin’s disguise, I tempted Fate. “I knew thy weakness!” sneered my foe, I saved myself, and balked his hate.

For half my blessings, half my gain, I needs must thank my trusty foe; Despite his envy and disdain, He serves me well where’er I go.

So may I keep him to the end, Nor may his enmity abate: More faithful than the fondest friend, He guards me ever with his hate.

FRIENDSHIP

Dear friend, I pray thee, if thou wouldst be proving Thy strong regard for me, Make me no vows. Lip-service is not loving; Let thy faith speak for thee.

Swear not to me that nothing can divide us— So little such oaths mean. But when distrust and envy creep beside us Let them not come between.

Say not to me the depths of thy devotion Are deeper than the sea; But watch, lest doubt or some unkind emotion Embitter them for me.

Vow not to love me ever and for ever, Words are such idle things; But when we differ in opinions, never Hurt me by little stings.

I’m sick of words: they are so lightly spoken, And spoken, are but air. I’d rather feel thy trust in me unbroken Than list thy words so fair.

If all the little proofs of trust are heeded, If thou art always kind, No sacrifice, no promise will be needed To satisfy my mind.

TWO SAT DOWN

Two sat down in the morning time, One to sing and one to spin. All men listened the song sublime— But no one listened the dull wheel’s din.

The singer sat in a pleasant nook, And sang of a life that was fair and sweet, While the spinner sat with a steadfast look, Busily plying her hands and feet.

The singer sang on with a rose in her hair, And all men listened her dulcet tone; And the spinner spun on with a dull despair Down in her heart as she sat alone.

But lo! on the morrow no one said Aught of the singer or what she sang. Men were saying: “Behold this thread,” And loud the praise of the spinner rang.

The world has forgotten the singer’s name— Her rose is faded, her songs are old; But far o’er the ocean the spinner’s fame Yet is blazoned in lines of gold.

BOUND AND FREE

Come to me, Love! Come on the wings of the wind! Fly as the ring-dove would fly to his mate! Leave all your cares and your sorrows behind! Leave all the fears of your future to Fate! Come! and our skies shall be glad with the gold That paled into gray when you parted from me. Come! but remember that, just as of old, You must be bound, Love, and I must be free.