Part 2

Like some gigantic forest fire, His mighty anger sweeps; An eager flame of awful ire, At every wrong it leaps,-- Still, lasting peace he doth desire.

Then, swift as flies the meteor’s spark, His anger disappears; Born for the hour it met its mark,-- He sootheth now love’s fears, While wrong sits trembling in the dark!

SUNSET.

Two giants meet upon the hills And one is day, the other night; The trees draw near, the sky leans down To watch their test of might.

I cannot see them struggling there, But soon I know that one is dead, For lo! the trees and hills and sky Are suddenly splashed with red!

RONDEAU OF EVENTIDE.

At eventide when we are prest By shadows and seek any rest That twilight brings at waning day, Ah, well with us if we can say For aye we sought and found the best.

God’s hand all nature has caressed Till beauty is his love confessed, Till bud and bloom his love display Through eventide.

Why should we not pursue our quest For such good things as bear the test The things worth loving bear alway? “Full life, full life,” we sometimes pray, _Full life to higher life addressed_, Till eventide!

A PRINCE’S TREASURE.

[To His Royal Highness, Russell Fortune.]

Our little prince can’t understand That this is one of many springs; He thinks these days for him are planned, And that for him the robin sings.

All wonder-eyed he walks afield And makes an invoice of the joys God strews around for little boys, And thinks for him they’re first revealed.

It is a solemn thing to him! He wonders if it’s alright to pull The little wild flowers beautiful That in the sea of grasses swim.

More gentle than the violet, He studies o’er those eyes of blue-- Blue as his eyes are brown, and wet As _his_, sometimes, are wet with dew!

Appreciative eyes are his! Into his apron takes he all The flowers that to his hand may fall-- The poorest weed so precious is!

His feet leave but the vaguest hints Of steps along the shadows where The knightly trees bend down and swear Allegiance to their little prince.

O gentle, princely lad of ours, May nature ever hold your heart, And knowledge of her ways impart Through lessons of the spring-time flowers;

May spring itself pass ever on And never lead to summer’s dust, But make your life an endless dawn, With endless love, and faith, and trust!

DIEU VOUS GARDE.

May Allah in thy heart unfold Perpetual-blooming roses; May His sweet peace to thee increase Until the evening closes.

And may tall palms before thee rise, Hot sand to gardens turning; May dates and wine be always thine, Amid the desert’s burning.

Let enemies be put to flight, Before thy spear uplifted, And may thy way be as a day From starry vistas drifted.

Oh, Allah watches through the night, His trustful children viewing; His love is deep, but he will keep Renewing and renewing.

SWEETHEART TIME.

I.

It is a time before the rose Has blossomed to its form complete; Before the hidden fragrance knows How rare it is, and sweet.

A time it is when hearts are light, And shadows are a thing as far Away as darkness from the sight Of evening’s brightest star.

There is an undertone of song Vague, like the mists of early day; An undertone that steals along, Forever far away.

II.

The walls that guard King Love’s fair home Are tall and strong; yet cannot hold From those who by the gateway roam Some share of hoarded gold.

So youth and maiden wandering near In straying beams of light are caught. Their eyes serene know not the tear Through fuller loving wrought.

It lasts for just a little while; It is love’s playtime, one brief hour With tender sighing to beguile-- A bud before the flower;

It is a time before the rose Attains its fairest form complete; Before the subtle fragrance knows How rare it is, and sweet.

THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS.

Here’s the path our feet shall press To the land of happiness; There are guide-posts by the way That we may not go astray; Spots there are where we may rest, Of King Happiness the guest; Basking in the sunshine’s glow, While the joyous pilgrims go Ever onward to the gates Where the Queen of Joy awaits Those recruits her king shall gain On the way to his domain.

Such a joyous army this! Banners leaping for a kiss From the winds that sweep along Beating songs that well belong To a road whose glory lies Always under sunny skies.

By this road no toll gate stands With its ever-barring hands, Yet of every passing soul There is asked a certain toll. It is this--that we shall share, As we tread the thoroughfare, All we have with those who lose What they gain, or who refuse To accept what is bestowed By the master of the road.

What a simple engineer Marked this path! It is so clear That to miss it is to turn And its cooling shadows spurn.

Any road our feet may press Is a road to happiness, And that land is anywhere That we turn away from care To the army of a king Who is ever journeying To the city, by whose gates, His fair queen of Joy awaits.

GUARDING SHADOWS.

Grim watchmen are the jealous trees Above their moon-born shadows--Thus May foolish men guard mysteries Which they have made mysterious.

ART’S LESSON.

O glorious marble statue, What gain I looking at you? Your beauty is so old, You are a form so cold I can not understand you Nor feel for him who planned you. I easier lessons seek Than those in chiseled Greek.

I turn to you my fragrant; Bedewed and straggling vagrant, You are a simple flower, And scarce live out the hour Here in the garden by-way (That still is Nature’s highway!) Yet utter from the grass Lessons from Phidias!

IN THE SHADOW.

I would not have thee otherwise, O cloudy skies; I would not change the night to day Nor drive away The shadows that are hanging o’er My hearth and door.

There is some good that lurketh where The lightnings flare; There is a peace that bideth in The fiercest din; A vernal light doth look upon Fields winter-won.

If God were not the Overheart, Nor had a part In all the wounds that hurt us so! But He doth know And doth in patience see and bless In gentleness.

How sturdy and how great, O earth! Within thy girth Thou wieldst what passion and what pain O’er man’s domain; And yet within thy shadows blest Is perfect rest.

Turn not unto the light too long Friend, with thy song! Thou hast not need to look afar For hill or star; Here in the shadow rest is found Deep and profound.

“LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT.”

“Lead, kindly light,” I heard the glad bells ring, And thought how God existeth everywhere. ’Twas in a city strange that, sweetest thing! “Lead, kindly light,” I heard the glad bells ring, And Summer stole into the early spring, For where the kind light leadeth all is fair. “Lead, kindly light,” I heard the glad bells ring, And thought how God existeth everywhere.

SONG AND WORDS.

I.

The songs you sing, the songs you sing, They are such songs as need not words, They are the songs that soar and ring Like utterance of wildwood birds. The ear is puzzled at the sound-- They are so far from common art That what is best in them is found By simply listening with the heart!

II.

The words you speak, the words you speak, Have little of philosophy; They voice not things that wise men seek, They have no hint of poetry, And yet each syllable that slips Up from your soul and bubbles o’er The yielding gateway of your lips A gracious meaning holds in store.

III.

The songs you sing are simple songs, Your words are words that children use To tell of love, complain of wrongs; You may the guiding notes confuse, (If any notes e’er met your eyes!) They rise, and live, and lingering, Each song and word alternate dies In words you speak, in songs you sing.

FOR A NEW YEAR’S MORN.

Like some tired reader who has put aside His book a little while, sick of the tale, Careless a moment how the plot may run, Indifferent to the part he has perused, Then with new interest going back to find How fared it with the story’s people, so Here at the gate of this new year I stand. Weary we grew long since, my Comrade soul! So tired we are of all our eyes have found, So strong our yearning for new sights and sounds! Yet on this morn the world is fair again,-- Ah, very fair, and full of light and joy; And holding forth new hope that comes of faith, And adding to our faith that lies in God. Now, like some traveler in a desert lost, Straining his eyes across the wastes of sand, Then, sudden, finding tracks but freshly made That give new courage to the wanderer,-- So now, my Comrade soul, we turn away From dreary wastes, we see the tracks that show Where others have gone on and found the way As we can find it. Come, old Comrade,--friend! Give me your hand, we must march on again!

THREE FRIENDS.

[Paul Hamilton Hayne, Sidney Lanier and Robert Burns Wilson]

Three noble friends the South has given me, Two biding now beyond the farthest gate, One living still, great-hearted, soul elate, From trammeling passions free.

The twain now unbeholden to our eyes, Were soldiers for a cause they thought was right-- They were such men as set the torch alight That marks our destinies;

Yet, with a song that rings above the din Of battle, and with brows where there might rest The victor’s crown, or singer’s wreath, more blest, Through hymns of peace to win.

I read one morning, in a day long gone, The songs of Hayne, all odorous of the pines; The heart of Nature throbbed along the lines-- Her joy was in his dawn.

The hills and streams to him were never dumb, They gave their secrets to his own heart’s keeping; Grand music in the oaks and pines was sleeping Waiting for him to come!

And you, Lanier, cut down like some tall tree By an insidious foe--upright and strong Until the last, and with your parting song From Deathland floating free!

Sweet dawns were yours, bright noons and starry nights; Your heart lay on the bosoms of the hills-- Clear was your soul as dew that God distills Upon His sacred heights!

And you are gone, and only one remains Of the three Southern singers loved so well; To-night the wind in sympathy would quell The grief of woods and plains--

Saying: “They were our friends, they understood The messages we spoke into their ears; Now they have passed beyond our hopes and fears Unto a higher Good.”

But he who still is here, he well has caught The spirit that is Nature’s, and is hers Only for her most loved interpreters-- Ah, nobly he has wrought!

And Southern winds that to the northward roam, And misty stars that shine above us dim, Each evening bring me utterance of him To my far Northern home!

A RHYME OF LITTLE GIRLS.

Prithe tell me, don’t you think Little girls are dearest With their cheeks of tempting pink, And their eyes the clearest? Don’t you know that they are best And of all the loveliest?

Of all girls with roguish ways They are surely truest; Sunshine gleams through all their days, They see skies the bluest, And they wear a diadem Summer has bestowed on them.

Lydia doesn’t care a cent For the newest dances; She is not on flirting bent, Has no killing glances, But without the slightest art She has captured many a heart.

Older sisters cut you dead, Little sisters never; They don’t giggle when they’ve said Something very clever,-- They just get behind a chair, Frowning, smiling at you there.

Florence, Lydia, Margaret Or a gentle Mary, They form friendships that, once set, Never more can vary,-- Stanch young friends they are and true Always clinging close to you.

Buds must into blossoms blow, (Morn so early leaves us!) Maids must into women grow, (There’s the thing that grieves us!) Psyche knots of flying curls, That’s good-bye to little girls!

THE BATTLES GRANDSIRE MISSED.

Come, boy, and sit upon my knee, And turn to me your eyes, That I, down in their depths may see A hint of those blue skies Beneath which once my father fought (Your grandsire! and I am not old!) What time our banner’s stars were caught In treason’s eager hold.

A boy, as you are now a boy, I did not understand That traitors could their flag destroy And cut in twain their land; I heard the tramp of marching men, So long ago that seems! You can not know what times were then Though you may guess, in dreams.

And then my father went away; How would it be if I Should leave you, boy of mine, to-day-- Should leave you and should die? Your eyes are wet; O closer come! There is no more of war; Peace long has shown that there are some Kind things to struggle for.

You “wonder whether grandpa got In all the fights?” Well, lad, It was Bull Run where he was shot, The first big fight they had! But let us, you and I, insist That this of him be said: The only battles that he missed Were fought when he was dead.

“He would have fought, had he been there?” You ask of me, my child; He never would have ceased to dare Those who our flag defiled. And always, in the spring, keep tryst With Memory by the head Of one who not a battle missed Except when he was dead.

BARRED.

One cheerless night when winter winds were sowing Over the world their cold, white seeds of snow, While from my window pane the fire was throwing Taunts to the elements with its bright glow,

A poor, storm-driven bird, its lost way winging, Paused when it saw the flame’s reflected light; Unto the window for a moment clinging, Then downward fell, forever lost to sight.

And so it is, I thought, that poor hearts yearning For more of life, charmed by its outward sheen, Must backward fall, the truth too quickly learning, That death, cold and unyielding, stands between.

A SLUMBER SONG.

Baby, you stand by a gate that leads Into a land of dreams; There’s a drowsy watchman here who heeds Never the straggling gleams Of light that stray from the far-off sun-- Always for him it’s twilight begun-- And we stand by the gate, And watch and wait, And watch--and wait!

Little one, hear what the stream sings of, Here in this quiet land; It sings of the joy of mother love-- Sings to birds in the sand-- To the strange, tall birds with dreamy eyes, That look at you, dear, in mute surprise, While we stand by the gate, And watch and wait, And watch--and wait!

If you open the gate, no one will know; The guard will never guess. You must open it gently, slowly--so! No one has heard, unless Those dreamful birds, or the dreamland sheep, Heard you stealing through their land of sleep While I stood by the gate, To watch and wait, And watch--and wait!

Oh, strange are the birds and the sheep that dwell Here in the land of dreams! But you must not see, and you must not tell, However strange it seems, Or they’ll never let you in again, And it would not please you, baby, then, Just to stand by the gate, And watch, and wait, And watch--and wait!

BEFORE THE FIRE.

The winds go riding down the wold, And back the forest legions throw; A winter day the hours has told On rosaries of drops of snow. Through close-drawn blinds the lamplight falls, And on a drifted whiteness lies, Here within these cottage walls The flames make stars of baby’s eyes.

Rude fingers tap upon the pane And entrance at the door demand; The storm king and his lusty train Go rushing o’er the land; But homes where love a vigil keeps Know not that summer ever dies, Know not that summer even sleeps, When flames make stars of baby’s eyes.

The father to the mother reads, The mother busy at his side; He reads a tale of noble deeds, Of men who for a nation died, But oft they turn and fondly look Upon the hero whom they prize Beyond the people of the book, Where flames make stars of baby’s eyes.

Fierce winds may ride across the night, And storms prevail o’er flood and field, But where one lamp throws out its light, A happy picture is revealed Of two, who by the fireside sit, And watch the glowing flames, while rise Quick shadows that around them flit And mock the stars in baby’s eyes.

OCTOBER.

The year is getting older, day by day; Last night I heard a fierce wind riding by, Rattling my western window, and no ray Of moon or star illumined the black sky.

Older the year has grown; the wind that came Across the changing world last night to ride, Passed here a year ago; it is the same That rose before and summer’s strength defied.

Ah, it is you, my old, familiar friend October, come to pitch your tents awhile, Madly descending from the earth’s far end Over the farthest seas for many a mile.

Yet your fierce advent and your winds severe Are but the bluster of a friend we love; Though you are winter’s neighbor you bring here Rich gifts, and hang your bluest skies above.

To-morrow you will tame your restless steeds And drive the water-freighted clouds away; Then you will scatter far the wild-flower’s seeds At intervals throughout a peaceful day.

Still, though your skies may be the summer’s own, Of all your moods I like the wildest best; I love the wind and its mad, warring tone, Its anger, and its yearning and unrest;

For in man’s soul there is an answering mood, A passionate storm with wind and driving rain All through a night--love by dull pain pursued, Then days when skies are kind and blue again,--

Blue, but they shed their bitter, biting frost, And the sun burns with but a mocking heat, While ghost-like zephyrs seek for something lost, Like followers in the summer’s slow retreat.

“IN WINTER I WAS BORN.”

In winter I was born, So all my years I’ve loved the frost and snow And the strong tireless winds that, passing, blow A battle note forlorn.

I love the year’s long night. The tumult of great storms, the biting air Make my heart’s summer time, when days are fair And yield me true delight.

In winter I was born, And as I came so let me pass away, Out from the world on a December day When the delaying morn

In the far East shall creep Last time for me; then let the winds I love Come from their far-off homes and play above The place where I shall sleep.

GOOD NIGHT AND PLEASANT DREAMS.

Good-night and pleasant dreams! Forgotten all that play-day world of yours, Kind angels lead you now by distant shores; Dear childish hands clasped lightly o’er your breast, Dear eyes with lids that keep the dark away, What sweet content is now by you possessed! I feel your breath against my cheek and say Good-night, good-night! Good-night and pleasant dreams!

Good-night and pleasant dreams! The children’s lives so different are from ours, Is there not made for them a land of flowers,-- A childhood’s land of sleep where they are taken,-- Where dreams are only dreams of childish toys And only sounds of childish voices waken The quiet ways, and say to girls and boys Good-night, good-night! Good-night and pleasant dreams!

Good-night and pleasant dreams! Go to your quiet land of sleep and dreaming, Beyond the darkness, passed the stars a-gleaming. The plains of your sleep-land are green and fair; Out of the night they make a land of morning From which is banished even childish care; Stay on, sleep on, dear child, the night world scorning,-- Good-night, good-night! Good-night and pleasant dreams!

Good-night and pleasant dreams! Good-bye, and gentle angels guard your sleep, Good-night, and angels watch above you keep. Ah, if we could our childish days prolong-- If sleep would always come as sweet as this, Shielding us from the world of dark and wrong, Just by the magic of a mother’s kiss, And her good-night! Good-night and pleasant dreams!

WHERE LOVE WAS NOT.

Once in a dream I saw a blackened world Hung high in space, by bitter winds o’erblown; And there no forests were, no flowers grew, No river flowed, but all was sad and drear. And on that smoke-encircled sphere there were No cities full of life; no children spent Glad hours in play; there, laughter ne’er was heard, And day was endless day, and night ne’er came With tired husband seeking home and wife, And “home” was but a mocking echo there.

And walking o’er that world I met a man, Or ghost of what was man, wan, staring-eyed, And bowed as though with age, albeit his locks Were fair, and seeming youthful was his face; And unto him I said in question: “Why This waste and desolation, and where are The people that once dwelt upon this world?” And slow he made reply: “But yesterday Did Love remove his court from this drear globe, Which was as fair a world as ever came From the Creator’s hand, and now, so soon, That Love is flown has come this awful change-- The cheerlessness, the people dead and gone.”

He turned from me, it seemed, and I awoke-- Back in a world that is controlled by Love.

DOWN THE AISLES.

Lone here in vague cathedral gloom I sit, Far from the busy city’s noise and jar. Such calm! It seems God might just now have writ A new, sweet song of peace and whispered it From star to star.

I almost hear a sacred anthem pealing, As o’er the quiet aisles I turn my eyes; It seems I hear soft prayers to heaven stealing Up rays that lead unto the Light-revealing In Paradise.

I think: “How oft have feet of mourners led Down these long aisles where perfect silence reigns! How oft have heart-uniting words been said There at the altar, whither flowers were spread From Love’s fair plains!”

Yes, Death and Love have hither come and gone, With slow, sad songs, with anthems glad and free; And still, without, the world treads on and on In aisles that lead to darkness--or the Dawn, O God, and Thee!

RUIN.

The slowly crumbling wall, the broken gate, O’er which soft silvery threads of Time are spun; Through turrets tall, once grim and stern as Fate, Now unresisted steals the changeless sun.