Part 7

Flowers and poetry--blossoms of Love Sweetest and purest the heart can know, Breathing their perfumes up from below, Lifting us back to the God above.

A MORTAL.

Do the goddesses, I wonder, Ever come to mortal earth, Ever throw a wild enchantment Round the heart of mortal birth?

Does the goddess Venus wander Ever from her realms above, Liveried in the rarest raiment Stolen from the courts of Love?

Are _her_ eyes of witching azure, Curtained o’er with rosy light; And a golden sunset halo Round a smiling brow of white?

Oh I wonder if the roses Ever blush upon _her_ cheeks When the scented kiss of morning For the rarest flower seeks.

Ah, ye purest gems of ocean, Set in ruby rays serene, Does your light fall down in worship When those pearl-dight lips are seen?

Aye, I wonder if the heavens And the flowers of the earth, As they smile upon each other, Have the hundredth of her worth?

Do the ripples of the zephyr, Or the waves to music wed Have the poetry of motion That attends her airy tread?

Do the Orphic orbs of æther, With a lyric hand divine, Draw the wandering planets round them As her words this heart of mine?

Surely, surely not a goddess, ’Tis a mortal I have seen; Never goddess wore such features, Never goddess such of mien.

She’s the rarest of the fairest, She’s the light of every eye; She’s the smile of earth and ocean And the glory of the sky.

Hers the lid with golden lashes Raised above the Morning’s eye; Hers the smile of wave and flower Caught from out the blushing sky.

Oh her cheeks are rose of sunset, And her eyes the stars of night; Opening dawn, her lips half parted, Laced with gleams of iv’ry light.

Lydian music in her being An enchanted spirit dwells, Caught from out the hands of angels, Hands that swing the hallowed bells.

Love--the purest love of heaven-- Had its birth upon her lips;-- E’en the flowers toss her kisses From their tiny finger-tips.

Oh the winds enfold the mountains And the seas draw down the stars; Still they sigh and murmur ever, “Never love so pure as hers.”

And the notes forever rising To the planetary seas Echo back in spheric music, “Never mortals loved as these.”

* * * * *

Heart to heart I clasped my Darling, Drew her down from angel hands, With my head in God’s own presence, And my feet upon the sands.--

Drew her to me from the angels, As the silent summer night Sweetest scent of all the roses To its loving bosom might.

Day by day her sister angels Sing to me her rarest worth; For she’s drawing me toward heaven As I drew her down to earth.

TO MORPHEUS.

Like the star That afar Throws its silver-wrought beams As it peacefully dreams On the cradle-swung crest Of the billows of blue, Oh on thy breast So let me rest, Oh rest, Rest, Till the kiss of the morning dew.

A DREAMY APRIL EVENING IN THE WOODS.

Oh sweet the sounds I hear, the sights I see,-- The vocal air, the blooming clod; But sweeter far the thoughts that rise in me, So farther earth, so nearer God.

TO THEE ABOVE.

Up from the gray of earth, Over the hills of blue, Out in the purpling west, I come, my love, to you.

Oh not in the busy marts Nor yet in the crowded throng; No, not ’neath the parlor lights Does my heart forget its song.

But bound by the fetters there, I cannot choose but stay; Like a restive steed bound fast, I fret the hours away.

’Tis only when alone I find my soul at rest; ’Tis then I rise to thee Amid the purpling west.

And sitting thus this eve Atop my house’s tower, I send my soul in love To dwell with thee this hour.

Oh ever thus I stand, A crag ’mid noisy crowds,-- My feet upon the sands, My head amid the clouds.

My heart to all is cold Save but to thee, Sweet Heart! For Death my requiem tolled When thou and I didst part.

I know nor rest nor peace, I find nor life nor love Save but the silent hour I fly to thee above.

CHORUS.

(By nymphs and naiads, sylphs and dryads.)

Tripping away, Blithesome and gay, Light as the ether above, Breathing our words Sweet as the birds, Sing we the power of love.

Love in its power Bindeth the flower Unto the common clod, Lifting the low Out of its woe Up to the bosom of God.

Love in its might Bindeth the light Unto the shadow of day, Flushing the clouds Whitened like shrouds Red with the last dying ray.

Love in its dream Bindeth the stream Unto the channels of earth, Lifting the trees Kissed by the breeze Into a purer birth.

Heart unto heart Never to part Joining the gentle and strong, Love’s dreaming lyre Lifts ever higher Finding responsive a song.

Every one, Happy or lone, Deep in the hills of the soul Sometime shall find Horn that shall wind Echoes that endless shall roll.

THE LURLEI.

Only a moment! The Lurlei staid Only a moment with me: “Only a moment! I’ll sell,” I said, “Only a moment to thee.”

Bartered I then with the Lurlei gay Only a moment of time, Selling the flowers of the valley gray, Buying the mountain-top’s rime.

Only a moment! The Lurlei smiled; “Sell me thy birth-right,” she saith. Oh, and I sold it, innocent child, Buying the pottage of death!

“’Tis but a moment: thy honor, my dear.” She layeth her hand on my head. I cannot choose but heed as I hear; She giveth me lust in its stead.

“Give me, I pray thee, thy will for a time, I shall reward thee right well.” She beckons me whither the cloud-peaks climb, She hath me under her spell.

“Rosy thy cheek with the bloom of health, Fair is thy long brown hair; Here I give premature age for thy wealth, Here the pure snows thou must wear.”

“Firm is thy tread with the boldness of youth.” She holdeth my will at command; She bendeth my form in age without ruth, Placeth a staff in my hand.

“Farewell, for thy moment has lengthened to years; I kiss thee a withering curse: Thou hast bought with thy soul-wealth a valley of tears, Tears of eternal remorse.”

“Give me, I pray thee, my Lurlei lone, Something to quiet my soul.” Conscience doth slide from my heart like a stone, Clouds of remorse from me roll.

“Purity hath not a place in the heart Reft of all conscience,” Lurlei: Legions of Pleasures around me upstart, Licentiousness pointing the way.

“Prayer from the wicked availeth not, friend:” She placeth a curse in mine eye; “Heaven nor Hell is thy destine or end:” She speareth my soul with the lie.

“The sun shineth not; the moon and stars grope:” Night, sable-robed, _doth_ upstart; “Love ruleth not, nor Pity, nor Hope:” Hissing-tongued Hate gnaws my heart.

Only a moment I bartered with her, Only a moment of time, Selling the good, the true, and the pure, Buying the glitter of crime!

I sold her my soul for a moment of pleasure, That moment _has_ lengthened to years: I sold her my soul for bliss without measure, I bought all Eternity’s tears!

_L’Envoy._

The Lurlei sits on the mountain’s top, Combing her golden hair; Her voice is sirenic, and all must stop Who pass down the river there.

TOUGH MUTTON, PERHAPS.

We are having atrocious _tough wether_, (To hear the _sheep-tenders_ tell it) But they are responsible for it If that is the way they spell it.

TO MISS ----.

Upon that radiant brow of thine May love and truth forever shine, Like stars that light the welkin dome And tint the billowy ocean’s foam.

Upon life’s desert, wild and broad, Oh may’st thou walk that peaceful road Which leads us on to heaven above Where all is joy and peace and love.

Around thy soul so pure and white May Heaven shed celestial light, Life’s ocean wild to guide thee o’er, And waft thee to its golden shore.

[Written in youth one July in a hay-field, on a piece of paper that had contained my dinner, with an axle-grease box for my table, while lazily reclining under the wagon in the shade of the willows.]

SHUT YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP.

A KYRIELLE.

Dear, your heart is tired to-night, And the waning watches creep; All too soon the morn will come,-- Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

While the stars in heaven dream And the angels vigils keep, Lay your head upon my arm, Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

Yes, I know that fevered care Trembles on your troubled lip; Dreams of love will heal the heart,-- Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

Let your heart forget to pain, And your eyes forget to weep; Dream of home, and hope, and love, Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

Heavy drags the wounded hour Over Sorrow’s restless deep, Heaving up the tide of tears,-- Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

Oh the heaving, stifling sigh Through the night its pain will keep For the pillow waking prest,-- Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

With a touch like woman’s own, Touch of Love’s own finger-tip, I will smooth your throbbing brow,-- Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

Gently I will soothe your heart And still your restless pulse’s leap; Lay your head upon my arm, Shut your eyes and go to sleep.

BROWNING.

(BY W. A. BACK, FARMER.)

Browning may be a right smart of a poet, Some thinks him so; But if he is he’s not anxious to show it, ’R else _I_ don’t _know_.

Give me a singer of songs ’at sings ’em With lots of soul; Whose tweedle-um-twangles whenever he twings ’em Jist fill you full.

I caint endoor of a poet ’at dribbles His honey in straw, An’ hate none the less the blame ijit that scribbles In styles all raw.

Make your own poem an’ label it “Browning”: The sum an’ gross; Tho’ nothin’s in his weedy rankness,--Stop frownin’! Take ’nother dose!

My advice, you say?--Let Browning go pipin’ In an ivy leaf; Don’t hold his sack like a fool a-snipin’, This life’s too brief.

MADRIGAL.

Darling, here within this lyric, Free from other mortal sight, Free from aught but dearest day-dreams, Hidden in the song I write, Sits a happy, happy lover In a heaven of the bliss Born, in Love’s deep-breathing silence, Of the rapturous sweet kiss. Silently he clasps his radiant Blooming bride with loving arms, Hears the sweet, bell-like alarums (Rung by Cupid and the angels) Of sweet Passion’s inward storms As her arms, so soft, climb upwards And entwine themselves enwrapt, Round about his neck in rarest Angel-love e’er being kept. --Darling, if you know the dear girl That I think thus ever on, I can hope you’ll find this poem Ever shrines you as my own.

WORDS AND THOUGHTS.

Words are vases Shaped to thought Culled in places Blossom-fraught;

Thoughts are laces Finely wrought From the graces Bloom has caught:--

In sherds Our words We break as we do vases; In shreds The threads Of thought we tear as laces.

REX FUGIT.

“_Rex fugit_,--The king flees.”--Thus read A dignified, tall Latin student. “Try ‘has,’” the usually prudent Professor said.

He rose with confidence and ease; But the whole class roared with laughter When he read a moment after, “_The king has fleas_.”

THE SICKLE OF FLOWERS.

The last sad rites of death performed, The sickle lies upon the grave; The sickle made of blooming flowers That the ruthless reaper clave.

Withered lie the flowers gathered, Rusts the sickle on the ground; Dead the blossoms now decaying,-- And the form within the mound!

Oh the flowers of the sickle And the blooms upon its blade Are decaying daily, daily-- Sweetest flowers soonest fade!

Oh the sickle is death’s emblem And the flowers on it, rust!-- Emblem of the end of mortals, Earth to earth, and dust to dust!

[Scribbled in about five minutes on the back of an old envelope while sitting by a new-made grave on which was a sickle of flowers.]

THIS TOUCH OF AN ANGEL’S HAND.

Happiness is the realization of longings,-- Of hope and fond desire,-- That enter the heart like angel-throngings Bearing celestial fire.

Like the peace that follows a benediction Is the painless rest it gives, Lething forever the heart’s affliction In the endless joy it leaves.

’Tis the acme of life and the end of living, This touch of an angel’s hand, And it falls on the heart like the holy shriving Of the Priest of the Better Land.

LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY.

AN ALLEGORY.

How builds this budding flower, my child? “It lies all wrapped in icy snows Until the Suns of Spring have smiled And kissed it, blushing, to a rose.”

* * * * *

How doth the tree, fair youth, the tree? “Year by year it adds a round And reaches up by slow degree, Keeping firm foot on the ground.”

The vine, sweet maid, how doth the vine? “By the tree’s support it lifts its head And round the tree its arms doth twine; Thus the two in love are wed.”

The two, aged sire and dame, how they? “The tree protects the tender vine, The vine in turn binds firm the tree: The two are one in shade and shine.”

* * * * *

What of the plant, O man, the plant? “Adream in life’s fair sleep it lies Until the Autumn Suns aslant Shoot gleaming thwart the glowing skies!”

JUST AS USUAL.

The sun rose bright at morn, The sun sank sad at night; The moon’s faint golden horn Waxed fair with mellow light.

All night around the fold The polar bears kept prowl; Their shining eyes gleamed cold And danced to the wind’s mad howl.

Clear blew the shepherd’s horn, Fair flushed the eastern main; The bears slunk back: ’twas morn, The sun arose again!

Sweet Love rose bright at Morn, Sad Love went down at Night; Fair Hope’s faint golden horn Waxed sweet with mellow light.

All night around my mind My jealous fears kept prowl; Cold blew the willing wind That chilled my very soul.

Clear wound Dan Cupid’s horn, As sweet as rapture’s pain; My fears slunk back: ’twas morn, And Love arose again!

A DEPLORATION.

We do often think ourselves not worth.--_Anonymous._

Cold is the night, and my heart is cold, Bleak as yon peak of the rockies old; Chill like the hill At the mountain’s foot, Still as the rill That lies frozen and mute.

White is the mountain-top, gleaming with snow, Cov’ring the rocks and the mould below: So seems the snow That my heart doth enfold, Tho’ down below Lie the rocks and the mould.

Deep in the hill neath the binding cold Never yet found may be veins of gold. And of the sand And the quartz in my heart Hand has not panned, Maybe gold is a part.

Oh ’neath the crystal and ice-bound stream Drifts every gleam of a gold-digger’s dream; So neath the floe Of my heart’s frozen stream Slowly I know Drifts the gold of love’s dream.

I LOVE YOU, KATE.

Dreaming rapturously, Dearest Kate, Full elate I seek your side to-night. Long, weary hours I wait Each day, Each day, To see the glorious light Of your face,-- To me, earth’s rarest boon, That makes my night A summer’s day, The summer’s day A bright and vernal noon, The noon eternity. Oh, sitting beauteously Upon Love’s throne aboon With sceptered sway O’er all my way, Still of my night Make one eternal sun To shine thro’ space With life and love and light For aye And aye; Nor longer bid me wait, But say me “yes” to-night; Because, by fate I love you, Kate!-- Oh will you marry me!

[In the above, first rhymes with last, second with second from last, and so on.]

THE DEAD MAN’S LIFE.

(_That is, practically dead._)

Day after day have I secretly prayed From the morn thro’ noon till night That my life might discover some port in the west Like the haven of sweet heaven’s Light.

Eve after eve as the sun has gone down, With my eyes still turned to the west I have prayed to the irised Pacific profound For even its restful unrest.

Night after night in my bed full awake I have dreamed myself weeping alone In a silence as deep as the stars of the night O’er a corse that I knew was my own.

Morn after morn have I risen from bed With the fear and the hope of its truth, Only to find that the death of the Dead Is bought at the dream-god’s booth.

PITY THE POOR.

I pity the poor for I myself am poor, Though I wear starched cuffs and collars; But the brainless poor in rags I pity far more, For they’ve neither _sense_ nor dollars.

I pity as much the hare-brained spendthrift wretch With a wealth of only money; The “sassiety” dude likewise whose droning speech Smacks only of bumble-bee honey.

I pity all those at whom Poverty throws her dart As they joust thro’ the world with each other; But I pity the most of all the bankrupt heart With no love for a human brother.

LIFE’S LOST SKIFF.

WRITTEN ON LAKE MICHIGAN.

_Prelude._

Green as emerald is Michigan; And the waves, Like ghosts from hungry graves, Are tossing up my infant boat amain, And kissing wild The orphan ocean-child, The rarest that has ever been, The fairest that was ever seen.

_Morning._

Up drives the great red sun aslant, The sea-gulls flap, and scream, and fly; A score of sails the sun’s rays paint Upon the burning western sky.

_Noon._

How silently and slow they steer! Are the waves as wild out there the day, And do the ships careen and veer As she that drives so fast away?

_Night._

Dim shadows haunt the eastern steep, The sun creeps up the glooming tower; The sea-birds scream in winged sleep, The ghostly billows wail the hour!

_Finale._

Green as emerald is Michigan; And the waves, Like ghosts in yawning graves, Are tossing o’er my infant boat again, Embracing wild The orphan ocean-child, The rarest that has ever been, The fairest that was ever seen!

A CLOSE ATTACHMENT.

STRANGE STORY OF AMOS QUITO.

I have swept the airy heavens, I have skimmed the rivers o’er; I have slept upon the cloud-wing, I have entered heaven’s door. But in my peregrinations Thro’ this world of ups and downs, None have loved and none have sought me, None have offered aught but frowns.

I have drunk the sweetest rain-drop On its heaven-mission sent; I have danced upon the rainbow Where its colors fairest blent. I have laughed and skipped and frolicked, I have hummed my sweetest songs; But I’ve never found the attachment That I think to me belongs.

Ah, the world’s appreciation Of my endless wealth and worth Is a desiccated desert, Is a sterile, arid dearth! I’m the fairest of my fellows, And the most affectionate; Hence the world’s indifference to me On my mighty soul doth grate.

I have kissed the blushing maiden, I have lullabied to babies; I have feasted on the features Of a million lords and ladies. ’Tis the lover’s same old story-- Disappointment everywhere! None have loved--except to hate me, None have hated--save to spare!

Now at length my weary pinions, Out of reach of mortal kind, Rest from all men’s scorns and buffets, And their first attachment find, And I cannot choose but stay here Where I’ll always stay to hum, For I’ve reached life’s golden acme,-- I am stuck on chewing gum!

I am sleepy now, and happy, Let profane hands not disturb; Let none mar my wildest dreamings, Nor ecstatic tumblings curb. Since ’twas not in life permitted That his blood I s-i-p, May mankind write:

+--------------+ | AMOS QUITO! | | LET HIM EVER | | R.-I.-P. | +--------------+

THE DEMONIAC.

Great God! and must I, must I live, And can I never die, I whom the press of sorrow’s hand Hurled headlong from the sky?

How long, O Lord, must I thus wait, How long in blasting blight, Each idle day imploring death, And dreaming death each night?

Each hour I fill some heart with woe, And blast some heart with mine! To me ’tis living death to know My heart stills poisoned wine!

Ten million, million deaths I live Each wasting, poisoned hour; For, whom I love my presence damns-- I blight each blooming flower.

Oh that the grinning skeleton This faithless flesh doth hold Might lay its lying mantle off To dream on downs of mould!

The leaf must fade, the sun must set, The sweetest day must die; But Death, Decay, and Woe must live,-- And so, and so must I!

Oh days to me are lengthened years, The years like ages creep; I’ve tossed ten million centuries On life’s unfathomed deep!

I’ve seen the crawling sea-weed rot In slime upon that sea, And slimy things find birth therein To live in death, like me.

I find no peace, I know no rest, My very self I fly;-- Unfit to love, unfit to live, And far less fit to die!

THE WEATHER FIEND.

Of the weather Ask us whether We enjoy it thus and thus; If it suits us, What it boots us, If it matters much to us.

When it’s raining, Come complaining That “it’s muddy out today.” It will please us And will ease us Of the thing we’d like to say.

When a blizzard Like a lizard Wriggles up and down your spine, Don’t be fool-like, Just keep cool, like All green “pickles” on the vine.

If it’s cold out, Don’t be sold out When you tell somebody so If he says he ’S melting as he Gently mops his frigid brow.

If it’s snowing, With a knowing Wink within your “weather eye” It is sound to Say, “We’re bound to Have some sleighing by and by.”

If we _shiver_ When your clever Tongue remarks “_it’s hot as ’ile_,” It’s because of Those old _saws_ of Weather that you always _file_.

We can stand it-- Yes, demand it, That you be a weather bore, For we never Heard such clever _Originality_ before.

WHO KNOWS!