Chapter 3
The knowledge hurt. Keen pain like that is dumb; And masks itself in smiles, lest men discover. But I was lonely; and the feeling grew The more I studied you. Into your shallow heart love could not come, But yet you loved my love; because it gave The prowess of a mistress o’er a slave. You showed your power In petty tyranny hour after hour, Day after day, year after lengthening years. My tasks, my pleasures, my pursuits were not Held near or dear, Or made to seem important in your thought. My friends were not your friends; you goaded me By foolish and ignoble jealousy, Till, through suggestion’s laws I gave you cause. The beauteous ideal Love had hung In my soul’s shrine, And worshipped as a something all divine, With wanton hand you flung Into the dust. And then you wondered why My love should die. My sins and derelictions cry aloud To all the world: my head is bowed Under its merited reproaches. Yours Is lifted to receive The sympathy the court’s decree insures. The world loves to believe In man’s depravity and woman’s worth; But I am one of many men on earth Whose loud resounding fall Is like the crashing of some well-built wall Which those who seek can trace To the slow work of insects at its base. . . . . . . . Be not afraid. The alimony will be promptly paid
A DIALOGUE
HE
Let us be friends. My life is sad and lonely, While yours with love is beautiful and bright. Be kind to me: I ask your friendship only. No Star is robbed by lending darkness light.
SHE
I give you friendship as I understand it, A sentiment I feel for all mankind.
HE
Oh, give me more; may not one friend command it?
SHE
Look in the skies, ’tis there the star you’ll find; It casts its beams on all with equal favour.
HE
I would have more than what all men may claim.
SHE
Then your ideas of friendship strongly savour Of sentiments which wear another name.
HE
May not one friend receive more than another?
SHE
Not man from woman and still remain a friend. Life holds but three for her, a father, brother, Lover—against the rest she must contend.
HE
Against the universe I would protect you, With my life even, nor hold the price too dear.
SHE
But not against _yourself_, should fate select you As Lancelot for foolish Guinevere.
HE
You would not tempt me?
SHE
That is undisputed. We put the question back upon the shelf. My point remains unanswered, unrefuted No man protects a woman from himself.
HE
I am immune: for once I loved with passion, And all the fires within me burned to dust. I think of woman but in friendly fashion: In me she finds a comrade safe to trust.
SHE
So said Mount Peelée to the listening ocean: Behold what followed! Let the good be wise. Though human hearts proclaim extinct emotion, Beware how high the tides of friendship rise.
A WISH
Great dignity ever attends great grief, And silently walks beside it; And I always know when I see such woe That Invisible Helpers guide it. And I know deep sorrow is like a tide, It cannot ever be flowing; The high-water mark in the night and the dark— Then dawn, and the outward going.
But the people who pull at my heart-strings hard Are the ones whom destiny hurries Through commonplace ways to the end of their days, And pesters with paltry worries. The peddlers who trudge with a budget of wares To the door that is slammed unkindly; The vendor who stands with his shop in his hands Where the hastening hosts pass blindly;
The woman who holds in her poor flat purse The price of her rent-room only, While her starved eye feeds on the comfort she needs To brighten the lot that is lonely; The man in the desert of endless work, Unsoftened by islands of leisure; And the children who toil in the dust and the soil, While their little hearts cry for pleasure;
The people who labour, and scrimp, and save, At the call of some thankless duty, And carefully hide, with a mien of pride, Their ravening hunger for beauty; These ask no pity, and seek no aid, But the thought of them somehow is haunting; And I wish I might fling at their feet everything That I know in their hearts they are wanting.
JUSTICE
However inexplicable may seem Event and circumstance upon the earth, Though favours fall on those who none esteem, And insult and indifference greet worth, Though poverty repays a life of toil, And riches spring where idle feet have trod, And storms lay waste the patiently tilled soil— Yet Justice sways the universe of God.
As undisturbed the stately stars remain Beyond the glare of day’s obscuring light, So Justice dwells, though mortal eyes in vain Seek it persistently by reason’s sight. But, when once freed, the illumined soul looks out— Its cry will be, ‘O God, how could I doubt?’
AN OLD SONG
_Two roadways lead from this land to That_, _and one is the road of Prayer_; _And one is the road of Old-time Songs_, _and every note is a stair_.
A shabby old man with a music machine on the sordid city street; But suddenly earth seemed Arcady, and life grew young and sweet. For the city street fled, and the world was green, and a little house stood by the sea; And she came singing a martial air (she who was peace itself); She brought back with her the old, strange charm, of mingled pathos and glee—
With her eyes of a child in a woman’s face, and her soul of a saint in an elf. She had been gone for many a year. They tell us it is not far— That silent place where the dear ones go, but it might as well be a star. Yes, it might as well be a distant star as a beautiful Near-by Land, If we hear no voice, and see no face, and feel no touch of a hand.
But now she had come, for I saw her there, and she looked so blithe and young; (Not white and still, as I saw her last) and the rose that she wore was red; And her voice soared up in a bird-like trill, at the end of the song she sung, And she mimicked a soldier’s warlike stride, and tossed back her dear little head.
She had gone for many a year, and never came back before; But I think she dwells in a Near-by Land, since song jarred open the door; Yes, I think it is surely a Near-by Land, that place where our loved ones are, For the song would never have reached her ear had she been on a distant star.
_Two roadways lead from this land to That_, _and one is the road of Prayer_, _And one is the road of Old-time Songs_, _and every note is a stair_.
OH, POOR, SICK WORLD
_Lord of all the Universe_, _when I think of YOU_, _Flinging stars out into space_, _moving suns and tides_; _Then this little mortal mind gets the larger view_, _And the carping self of me runs away and hides_.
_Then I see all shadowed paths leading out to Light_; _See the false things fade away_, _leaving but the True_; _See the wrong things slay themselves_, _leaving only Right_; _When this little mortal mind gets the larger view_.
_Cavillings at this and that_, _censure_, _doubt and fear_, _Fly_, _as fly before the dawn_, _insects of the night_; _Life and Death are understood_; _everything seems clear_, _All the wrong things slay themselves_, _leaving only Right_.
The World has walked with fever in its veins For many and many a day. Oh, poor, sick world! Not knowing all its dreams of greed and gain, Of selfish conquest and possession, were Disordered visions of a brain diseased.
Now the World’s malady is at its height And there is foul contagion in its breath. It raves of death and slaughter; and the stars Shake with reverberations of its cries, And the sad seas are troubled and disturbed. So must it rave—this sick and suffering world— Until the old secretions in its blood Are emptied out and purged away by war; And the deep seated cankers of the mind Begin the healing process. Then a calm Shall come upon the earth; and that loved word PEACE, shall be understood from shore to shore.
Shriek on, mad world. The great Physician sits Serenely conscious of the coming change, Nor seeks to check the fever; it must run Until its course is finished. He can wait.
In his vast Solar Systems he has seen So many other worlds as sick as this He feels but pity for his ailing charge, Not blame or anger. And he knows the hour Will surely dawn when that sick child shall wake Free from all frenzied fancies, and shall turn Clear-seeing eyes upon the face of God. Then shall begin the new millennium.
_Lord of all the Universe_, _when I think of YOU_, _Then this little mortal mind gets the larger view_; _Then I see all shadowed paths leading into Light_, _Where the wrong things slay themselves_, _leaving only Right_.
Oh, poor, sick world!
PRAISE DAY
Let us halt now for a space in our hurrying; Let us take time to look up and look out; Let us refuse for a spell to be worrying; Let us decline to both question and doubt. If one goes cavilling, Hair splitting, flaw hunting—ready for strife— All the best pleasure is missed in the travelling Onward through life.
Just for to-day we will put away sorrowing— Just for to-day not a tear shall be shed; Nor will we fear anything, or go borrowing Pain from the future by profitless dread. Thought shall go frolicking, Pleasuring, treasuring everything bright— Tasting the joy that is found just in rollicking On through the light.
Just for to-day all the ills that need bettering We will omit from our notebook of mind; All that is good we will mark by red-lettering;— Those things alone we are seeking to find. Things to be sad over, Pine over, whine over—pass them, I say! Nothing is noted save what we are glad over— This is Praise Day.
INTERLUDE
The days grow shorter, the nights grow longer; The headstones thicken along the way; And life grows sadder, but love grows stronger, For those who walk with us day by day.
The tear comes quicker, the laugh comes slower; The courage is lesser to do and dare; And the tide of joy in the heart falls lower, And seldom covers the reefs of care.
But all true things in the world seem truer; And the better things of earth seem best; And friends are dearer, as friends are fewer, And love is all, as our sun dips west.
Then let us clasp hands as we walk together, And let us speak softly in love’s sweet tone; For no man knows on the morrow whether We two pass on—or but one alone.
THE LAND OF THE GONE-AWAY-SOULS
Oh! that is a beautiful land I wis, The land of the Gone-Away Souls. Yes, a lovelier region by far than this (Though this is a world most fair), The goodliest goal of all good goals, Else why do our friends stay there? I walk in a world that is sweet with friends, And earth I have ever held dear; Yes, love with duty and beauty blends, To render the earth plane bright. But faster and faster, year on year My comrades hurry from sight.
They hurry away to the Over-There, And few of them say Farewell. Yes, they go away with a secret air As if on a secret quest. And they come not back to the earth to tell Why that land seems the best.
Messages come from the mystic sphere, But few know the code of that land; Yes, many the message, but few who hear In the din of the world below, Or hearing the message, can understand Those truths which we long to know.
But it must be the goal of all good goals, And I think of it more and more, Yes I think of that land of the Gone-Away-Souls And its growing host of friends Who will hail my bark when it touches shore Where the last brief journey ends.
THE HARP’S SONG
All day, all day in a calm like death The harp hung waiting the sea wind’s breath.
When the western sky flushed red with shame At the sun’s bold kiss, the sea wind came.
Said the harp to the breeze, Oh, breathe as soft As the ring-dove cooes from its nest aloft.
I am full of a song that mothers croon When their wee ones tire of their play at noon.
Though a harp may feel ’tis a silent thing Till the breeze arises and bids it sing.
Said the wind to the harp, Nay, sing for me The wail of the dead that are lost at sea.
I caught their cry as I came along, And I hurried to find you and teach you the song.
Oh, the heart is the harp, and love is the breeze, And the song is ever what love may please.
THE PENDULUM
[In Edgar Allan Poe’s story, ‘The Pit and the Pendulum,’ the victim is bound hand and foot, face upturned to a huge, knife-edged pendulum which swings back and forth across his body, the blade dropping closer to his heart at each swing.]
Bound hand and foot in the pit I lie, And the wall about me is strong and high; Stronger and higher it grows each day, With maximum labour and minimum pay; And there is no ladder whereon to climb To a fairer world and a brighter time. There is no ladder, there is no rope, But the devil of greed has given a hope. He swings before me the pendulum—Vice; I know its purpose and know its price, And the world’s good people all know it, too, And much they chatter and little they do. I have sent up my cry to the hosts of men Over and over and over again: But should I cry once to the devil, ah, he Would hurry to answer and set me free. For Virtue to Virtue must ever call thrice, But once brings an answer when Virtue calls Vice.
Bound hand and foot in the pit I lie While the pendulum swings and the days go by.
AN OLD-FASHIONED TYPE
For ‘Mabel Brown’ I never cared (My rightful name by birth), But when the name of Smith I shared, I seemed to own the earth, (I wrote it without ‘y’ or ‘e’— Plain ‘Mrs. Jack Smith’ suited me.)
My happiest hour, as I look back On times of great content, Was when folks called me ‘Mrs. Jack,’ Though ‘Mrs. Smith’ was meant. It was the pleasure of my life To hear them say: ‘That’s Jack Smith’s wife.’
One day I joined a club. They said That I must speak or write. So I did both. I wrote and read A speech one fateful night. It made a hit, but proved, alack, A death blow to poor ‘Mrs. Jack.’
As ‘Mrs. Mabel Smith’ I’m known Throughout my town and State; My heart feels widowed and alone; The case is intricate. Though darling Jack is mine, the same, I am divorced somehow in name.
Just ‘Mabel Smith’ I can endure; It leaves the world in doubt; But ‘Mrs.’ makes the marriage sure, Yet leaves the husband out. It sounds like Reno, or the tomb, And always fills me full of gloom.
They say the honours are all mine; Well, I would trade the pack For one sweet year in which to shine Again as ‘Mrs. Jack.’ That gave to life a core, a pith, Not found by ‘Mrs. Mabel Smith.’
For one suggests the chosen mate, And all the joy love brings; And one suggests a delegate To federated things. I’m built upon the old-time plan— I like to supplement a man.
If on each point of glory’s star My name shone like a pearl, I’d feel a pleasure greater far In being ‘Jack Smith’s girl.’ It is ridiculous, I know, But then, you see, I’m fashioned so.
THE SWORD
Amidst applauding cheers I won a prize. A cynic watched me, with ironic eyes; An open foe, in open hatred, sneered; I cared for neither. Then my friend appeared. Eager, I listened for his glad ‘Well done.’ But sudden shadow seemed to shroud my sun. He praised me: yet each slow, unwilling word Forced from its sheath base Envy’s hidden sword, Two-edged, it wounded me; but, worst of all, It thrust my friend down from his pedestal, And showed him as he was—so small, so small.
LOVE AND THE SEASONS
SPRING
A sudden softness in the wind; A glint of song, a-wing; A fragrant sound that trails behind, And joy in everything.
A sudden flush upon the cheek, The teardrop quick to start; A hope too delicate to speak, And heaven within the heart.
SUMMER
A riotous dawn and the sea’s great wonder; The red, red heart of a rose uncurled; And beauty tearing her veil asunder, In sight of a swooning world.
A call of the soul, and the senses blended; The Springtime lost in the glow of the sun, And two lives rushing, as God intended, To meet and mingle as one.
AUTUMN
The world is out in gala dress; And yet it is not gay. Its splendour hides a loneliness For something gone away.
(Laughter and music on the air; A shower of rice and bloom. Smiles for the fond departing pair— And then the empty room.)
WINTER
Two trees swayed in the winter wind; and dreamed The snowflakes falling about them were bees Singing among the leaves. And they were glad, Knowing the dream would soon come true.
Beside the hearth an aged couple rocked, And dozed; and dreamed the friends long passed from sight Were with them once again. They woke and smiled, Knowing the dream would soon come true.
A NAUGHTY LITTLE COMET
There was once a little comet who lived near the Milky Way! She loved to wander out at night and jump about and play. The mother of the comet was a very good old star— She used to scold her reckless child for venturing out too far; She told her of the ogre, Sun, who loved on stars to sup, And who asked no better pastimes than gobbling comets up.
But instead of growing cautious and of showing proper fear, The foolish little comet edged up near, and near, and near. She switched her saucy tail along right where the Sun could see, And flirted with old Mars and was bold as bold could be. She laughed to scorn the quiet stars, who never frisked about; She said there was no fun in life unless you ventured out.
She liked to make the planets stare, and wished no better mirth Than just to see the telescopes aimed at her from the Earth. She wondered how so many stars could mope through nights and days, And let the sickly faced old moon get all the love and praise. And as she talked and tossed her head and switched her shining trail, The staid old mother star grew sad, her cheek grew wan and pale.
For she had lived there in the skies a million years or more, And she had heard gay comets talk in just this way before. And by and by there came an end to this gay comet’s fun— She went a tiny bit too far—and vanished in the Sun! No more she swings her shining trail before the whole world’s sight, But quiet stars she laughed to scorn are twinkling every night.
THE LAST DANCE
WHEN LOVE FOR HIS MAKER AWOKE IN MAN, THE DANCE BEGAN
The wave of the ocean, the leaf of the wood, In the rhythm of motion proclaim life is good. The stars are all swinging to metres and rhyme, The planets are singing while suns mark the time. The moonbeams and rivers float off in a trance, The Universe quivers—on, on with the dance!
Our partners we pick from the best of the throng In the ballroom of Life and go lilting along; We follow our fancy, and choose as we will, For waltz or for tango or merry quadrille; But ever one partner is waiting us all At the end of the programme, to finish the ball.
Unasked, and unwelcome, he comes without leave And calls when he chooses, ‘My dance, I believe?’ And none may refuse him, and none may say no; When he beckons the dancer, the dancer must go. You may hate him, and shun him; and yet in life’s ball For the one who lives well ’tis the best dance of all.
A VAGABOND MIND
Since early this morning the world has seemed surging With unworded rhythm, and rhyme without thought. It may be the Muses take this way of urging The patience and pains by which poems are wrought. It may be some singer who passed into glory, With songs all unfinished, is lingering near And trying to tell me the rest of the story, Which I am too dull of perception to hear.
I hear not, I see not; but feel the sweet swinging And swaying of metre, in sunlight and shade, The still arch of Space with such music is ringing As never an audible orchestra made. The moments glide by me, and each one is dancing; Aquiver with life is each leaf on the tree, And out on the ocean is movement entrancing, As billow with billow goes racing with glee.
With never a thought that is worthy the saying, And never a theme to be put into song, Since early this morning my mind has been straying, A vagabond thing, with a vagabond throng, With gay, idle moments, and waves of the ocean, With winds and with sunbeams, and tree-tops and birds, It has lilted along in the joy of mere motion, To songs without music and verse without words.
MY FLOWER ROOM
My Flower Room is such a little place, Scarce twenty feet by nine; yet in that space I have met God; yea, many a radiant hour Have talked with Him, the All-Embracing-Cause, About His laws. And He has shown me, in each vine and flower Such miracles of power That day by day this Flower Room of mine Has come to be a shrine.
Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere Pale, tender shoots appear Rising to greet the light in that sweet room. One speeds to crimson bloom; One slowly creeps to unassuming grace; One climbs, one trails; One drinks the light and moisture; One exhales.
Up through the earth together, stem by stem Two plants push swiftly in a floral race; Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem; And one gives only fragrance In a seed So small it scarce is felt within the hand. Lie hidden such delights Of scents and sights, When by the elements of Nature freed, As Paradise must have at its command.
From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things What gorgeous beauty springs! Such infinite variety appears A hundred artists in a hundred years Could never copy from the floral world The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled. Nor could the most colossal mind of man Create one little seed of plant or vine Without assistance from the First Great Plan; Without the aid divine.
Who but a God Could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold, And fashion in earth’s mould, A multitude of blooms to deck one sod? Who but a God! Not one man knows Just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose Or how its tints were blent; Or why the white Camelia without scent Up through the same soil grows; Or how the daisy and the violet And blades of grass first on wild meadows met. Not one, not one man knows; The wisest but SUPPOSE.
This Flower Room of mine Has come to be a shrine; And I go hence Each day with larger faith and reverence.
MY FAITH
My faith is rooted in no written creed; And there are those who call me heretic; Yet year on year, though I be well or sick Or opulent, or in the slough of need, If, light of foot, fair Life trips by me pleasuring, Or, by the rule of pain, old Time stands measuring The dull, drab moments—still ascends my cry: ‘God reigns on high! He doeth all things well!’
Not much I prize, or one, or any brand Of theologic lore; nor think too well Of generally accepted heaven and hell. But faith and knowledge build at Love’s command A beauteous heaven; a heaven of thought all clarified Of hate and fear and doubt; a heaven of rarefied And perfect trust; and from the heaven I cry: ‘God reigns on high! Whatever is, is best.’