Chapter 7

Years have flown since I knew thee first, And I know thee as water is known of thirst: Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight, And thou art strange to me, Love, to-night.

R.W. GILDER.

To A Dead Woman.[7]

Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end, I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee. Through long years keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend! At the gate of Silence give it back to me.

H.C. BUNNER.

[7] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Destiny.

Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down Each with its loveliness as with a crown, Drooped in a florist's window in a town.

The first a lover bought. It lay at rest, Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast.

The second rose, as virginal and fair, Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair.

The third, a widow, with new grief made wild, Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.

T.B. ALDRICH.

The Kings.

A man said unto his angel: "My spirits are fallen thro', And I cannot carry this battle; O brother! what shall I do?

"The terrible Kings are on me, With spears that are deadly bright, Against me so from the cradle Do fate and my fathers fight."

Then said to the man his angel: "Thou wavering, foolish soul, Back to the ranks! What matter To win or to lose the whole,

"As judged by the little judges Who hearken not well, nor see? Not thus, by the outer issue, The Wise shall interpret thee.

"Thy will is the very, the only, The solemn event of things; The weakest of hearts defying Is stronger than all these Kings.

"Tho' out of the past they gather, Mind's Doubt and bodily Pain, And pallid Thirst of the Spirit That is kin to the other twain,

"And Grief, in a cloud of banners, And ringletted Vain Desires, And Vice with the spoils upon him Of thee and thy beaten sires,

"While Kings of eternal evil Yet darken the hills about, Thy part is with broken sabre To rise on the last redoubt;

"To fear not sensible failure, Nor covet the game at all, But fighting, fighting, fighting, Die, driven against the wall!"

L.I. GUINEY.

Triumph.[8]

The dawn came in through the bars of the blind,-- And the winter's dawn is gray,-- And said, "However you cheat your mind, The hours are flying away."

A ghost of a dawn, and pale, and weak,-- "Has the sun a heart," I said, "To throw a morning flush on the cheek Whence a fairer flush has fled?"

As a gray rose-leaf that is fading white Was the cheek where I set my kiss; And on that side of the bed all night Death had watched, and I on this.

I kissed her lips, they were half apart, Yet they made no answering sign; Death's hand was on her failing heart, And his eyes said, "She is mine."

I set my lips on the blue-veined lid, Half-veiled by her death-damp hair; And oh, for the violet depths it hid And the light I longed for there!

Faint day and the fainter life awoke, And the night was overpast; And I said, "Though never in life you spoke Oh, speak with a look at last!"

For the space of a heart-beat fluttered her breath, As a bird's wing spread to flee; She turned her weary arms to Death, And the light of her eyes to me.

H.C. BUNNER.

[8] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Evening Song.[9]

Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands. Ah! longer, longer, we.

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done, Love, lay thine hand in mine.

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. O night! divorce our sun and sky apart, Never our lips, our hands.

S. LANIER.

[9] From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

"The Woods That Bring the Sunset Near."

The wind from out the west is blowing, The homeward-wandering cows are lowing, Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear,-- The woods that bring the sunset near.

When o'er wide seas the sun declines, Far off its fading glory shines, Far off, sublime, and full of fear,-- The pine-woods bring the sunset near.

This house that looks to east, to west, This, dear one, is our home, our rest; Yonder the stormy sea, and here The woods that bring the sunset near.

R.W. GILDER.

At Night.

The sky is dark, and dark the bay below Save where the midnight city's pallid glow Lies like a lily white On the black pool of night.

O rushing steamer, hurry on thy way Across the swirling Kills and gusty bay, To where the eddying tide Strikes hard the city's side!

For there, between the river and the sea, Beneath that glow,--the lily's heart to me,-- A sleeping mother mild, And by her breast a child.

R.W. GILDER.

"Still in Thy Love I Trust."

Still in thy love I trust, Supreme o'er death, since deathless is thy essence; For, putting off the dust, Thou hast but blest me with a nearer presence.

And so, for this, for all, I breathe no selfish plaint, no faithless chiding; On me the snowflakes fall, But thou hast gained a summer all-abiding.

Striking a plaintive string, Like some poor harper at a palace portal, I wait without and sing, While those I love glide in and dwell immortal.

A.A. FIELDS.

The Future.

What may we take into the vast Forever? That marble door Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor, No fame-wreathed crown we wore, No garnered lore.

What can we bear beyond the unknown portal? No gold, no gains Of all our toiling: in the life immortal No hoarded wealth remains, Nor gilds, nor stains.

Naked from out that far abyss behind us We entered here: No word came with our coming, to remind us What wondrous world was near, No hope, no fear.

Into the silent, starless Night before us, Naked we glide: No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us, No comrade at our side, No chart, no guide.

Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow, Our footsteps fare: The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow-- His love alone is there, No curse, no care.

E.R. SILL.

Prescience.

The new moon hung in the sky, The sun was low in the west, And my betrothed and I In the churchyard paused to rest-- Happy maiden and lover, Dreaming the old dream over: The light winds wandered by, And robins chirped from the nest.

And lo! in the meadow-sweet Was the grave of a little child, With a crumbling stone at the feet, And the ivy running wild-- Tangled ivy and clover Folding it over and over: Close to my sweetheart's feet Was the little mound up-piled.

Stricken with nameless fears, She shrank and clung to me, And her eyes were filled with tears For a sorrow I did not see: Lightly the winds were blowing, Softly her tears were flowing-- Tears for the unknown years And a sorrow that was to be!

T.B. ALDRICH.

In August.

All the long August afternoon, The little drowsy stream Whispers a melancholy tune, As if it dreamed of June And whispered in its dream.

The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom, And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster-flowèrs look With eyes of tender gloom.

The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit. Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute.

There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A song of Summer dead.

W.D. HOWELLS.

That Day You Came.

Such special sweetness was about That day God sent you here, I knew the lavender was out, And it was mid of year.

Their common way the great winds blew, The ships sailed out to sea; Yet ere that day was spent I knew Mine own had come to me.

As after song some snatch of tune Lurks still in grass or bough, So, somewhat of the end o' June Lurks in each weather now.

The young year sets the buds astir, The old year strips the trees; But ever in my lavender I hear the brawling bees.

L.W. REESE.

Negro Lullaby.

Bedtimes' come fu' little boys, Po' little lamb. Too tiahed out to make a noise, Po' little lamb. You gwine t' have to-morrer sho'? Yes, you tole me dat, befo', Don't you fool me, chile, no mo', Po' little lamb.

You been bad de livelong day, Po' little lamb. Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way, Po' little lamb. My, but you's a-runnin' wild, Look jes' lak some po' folks' chile; Mam' gwine whup you atter while, Po' little lamb.

Come hyeah! you mos' tiahed to def, Po' little lamb. Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref, Po' little lamb. See dem han's now,--sich a sight! Would you ever b'lieve dey's white! Stan' still 'twell I wash dem right, Po' little lamb.

Jes' caint hol' yo' haid up straight, Po' little lamb. Hadn't oughter played so late, Po' little lamb. Mammy do' know whut she'd do, Ef de chillun's all lak you; You's a caution now fu' true, Po' little lamb.

Lay yo' haid down in my lap, Po' little lamb. Y'ought to have a right good slap, Po' little lamb. You been runnin' roun' a heap. Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep, Dah now, dah now, go to sleep, Po' little lamb.

P.L. DUNBAR.

A Woman's Thought.

I am a woman--therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!

And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: Still as a stone-- All silent and cold. If my heart riot-- Crush and defy it! Should I grow bold-- Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, Cling to him-- What to atone Is enough for my sinning! This were the cost to me, This were my winning-- That he were lost to me. Not as a lover At last if he part from me, Tearing my heart from me-- Hurt beyond cure,-- Calm and demure Then must I hold me-- In myself fold me-- Lest he discover; Showing no sign to him By look of mine to him What he has been to me-- How my heart turns to him, Follows him, yearns to him, Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me, Thou God above me!

R.W. GILDER.

The Flight.

Upon a cloud among the stars we stood. The angel raised his hand and looked and said, "Which world, of all yon starry myriad Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude Became a harp whereon his voice and mood Made spheral music round his haloed head. I spake--for then I had not long been dead-- "Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood A moment on these orbs ere I decide ... What is yon lower star that beauteous shines And with soft splendor now incarnadines Our wings?--_There_ would I go and there abide." He smiled as one who some child's thought divines: "That is the world where yesternight you died."

L. MIFFLIN.

Childhood.

Old Sorrow I shall meet again, And Joy, perchance--but never, never, Happy Childhood, shall we twain See each other's face forever!

And yet I would not call thee back, Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me, Thine old companion, on the rack Of Age, should sadden even thee.

J.B. TABB.

Little Boy Blue.[10]

The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new And the soldier was passing fair, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So toddling off to his trundle-bed He dreampt of the pretty toys. And as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue,-- Oh, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true.

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.

E. FIELD.

[10] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Strong as Death.[11]

O death, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow.

Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, And soundless step, and clammy hand-- Lo, I am now no less alone Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;

But with that sweet and subtle scent That ever clung about her (such As with all things she brushed was blent); And with her quick and tender touch.

With the dim gold that lit her hair, Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread So light that I may dream her there, And turn upon my dying bed.

And through my chilling veins shall flame My love, as though beneath her breath; And in her voice but call my name, And I will follow thee, O Death.

H.C. BUNNER.

[11] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896 by Charles Scribner's Sons.

The White Jessamine.

I knew she lay above me, Where the casement all the night Shone, softened with a phosphor glow Of sympathetic light, And that her fledgling spirit pure Was pluming fast for flight.

Each tendril throbbed and quickened As I nightly climbed apace, And could scarce restrain the blossoms When, anear the destined place, Her gentle whisper thrilled me Ere I gazed upon her face.

I waited, darkling, till the dawn Should touch me into bloom, While all my being panted To outpour its first perfume, When, lo! a paler flower than mine Had blossomed in the gloom!

J.B. TABB.

The House of Death.

Not a hand has lifted the latchet Since she went out of the door-- No footstep shall cross the threshold, Since she can come in no more.

There is rust upon locks and hinges, And mold and blight on the walls, And silence faints in the chambers, And darkness waits in the halls--

Waits as all things have waited Since she went, that day of spring, Borne in her pallid splendor To dwell in the Court of the King:

With lilies on brow and bosom, With robes of silken sheen, And her wonderful, frozen beauty, The lilies and silk between.

Red roses she left behind her, But they died long, long ago 'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom That seemed through the dusk to glow.

The garments she left mock the shadows With hints of womanly grace, And her image swims in the mirror That was so used to her face.

The birds make insolent music Where the sunshine riots outside, And the winds are merry and wanton With the summer's pomp and pride.

But into this desolate mansion, Where Love has closed the door, Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter, Since she can come in no more.

L.C. MOULTON.

A Tropical Morning at Sea.

Sky in its lucent splendor lifted Higher than cloud can be; Air with no breath of earth to stain it, Pure on the perfect sea.

Crests that touch and tilt each other, Jostling as they comb; Delicate crash of tinkling water, Broken in pearling foam.

Plashings--or is it the pinewood's whispers, Babble of brooks unseen, Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms, Brushing aside the green?

Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle; Foam-wreaths slipping by, Soft as a snow of broken roses Afloat over mirrored sky.

Off to the east the steady sun-track Golden meshes fill Webs of fire, that lace and tangle, Never a moment still.

Liquid palms but clap together, Fountains, flower-like, grow-- Limpid bells on stems of silver-- Out of a slope of snow.

Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets-- Blue as a summer sky, When you blink at its arch sprung over Where in the grass you lie.

Dimly an orange bit of rainbow Burns where the low west clears, Broken in air, like a passionate promise Born of a moment's tears.

Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver, Clouds in the distance dwell, Clouds that are cool, for all their color, Pure as a rose-lipped shell.

Fleets of wool in the upper heavens Gossamer wings unfurl; Sailing so high they seem but sleeping Over yon bar of pearl.

What would the great world lose, I wonder-- Would it be missed or no-- If we stayed in the opal morning, Floating forever so?

Swung to sleep by the swaying water, Only to dream all day-- Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting, Scatter such dreams away!

E.R. SILL.

Memory.

My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour-- 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May-- The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

T.B. ALDRICH.

A Mood.

A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness-- Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness; A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence; A tense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence; A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken-- Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.

T.B. ALDRICH.

The Way to Arcady.[12]

_Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_ _To Arcady, to Arcady;_ _Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_ _Where all the leaves are merry?_

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? The spring is rustling in the tree-- The tree the wind is blowing through-- It sets the blossoms flickering white. I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light. They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread.

_Oh, I am bound for Arcady,_ _And if you but keep pace with me_ _You tread the way to Arcady._

And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be?

_Ah, that_ (quoth he) _I do not know--_ _Across the clover and the snow--_ _Across the frost, across the flowers--_ _Through summer seconds and winter hours._ _I've trod the way my whole life long,_ _And know not now where it may be;_ _My guide is but the stir to song._ _That tells me I can not go wrong,_ _Or clear or dark the pathway be_ _Upon the road to Arcady._

But how shall I do who cannot sing? I was wont to sing, once on a time-- There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

_'Tis strange you cannot sing_ (quoth he), _The folk all sing in Arcady._

But how may he find Arcady Who hath not youth nor melody?

_What, know you not, old man_ (quoth he)-- _Your hair is white, your face is wise--_ _That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes_ _Who hopes to see fair Arcady?_ _No gold can buy you entrance there;_ _But beggared Love may go all bare--_ _No wisdom won with weariness;_ _But Love goes in with Folly's dress--_ _No fame that wit could ever win;_ _But only Love may lead Love in_ _To Arcady, to Arcady._

Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.

There was a time, when life was new-- But far away, and half forgot-- I only know her eyes were blue; But Love--I fear I knew it not. We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old. All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.

_Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he), _My way's for Love and Arcady_.

But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair. What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady?

_Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;_ _My true companion's Memory._ _With Love he fills the Spring-time air;_ _With Love he clothes the Winter tree._ _Oh, past this poor horizon's bound_ _My song goes straight to one who stands--_ _Her face all gladdening at the sound--_ _To lead me to the Spring-green lands,_ _To wander with enlacing hands._ _The songs within my breast that stir_ _Are all of her, are all of her._ _My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he), _She waits for me in Arcady._

_Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_ _To Arcady, to Arcady;_ _Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,_ _Where all the leaves are merry._

H.C. BUNNER.

[12] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Eve's Daughter.

I waited in the little sunny room: The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play, The white rose on the porch was all in bloom, And out upon the bay I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.

"Such an old friend,--she would not make me stay While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo, Danaë in her shower! and fit to slay All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow: Gold hair, that streamed away As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow. "She would not make me wait!"--but well I know She took a good half-hour to loose and lay Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

E.R. SILL.

On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva.

Beneath the warrior's helm, behold The flowing tresses of the woman! Minerva, Pallas, what you will-- A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.

Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx In cousin's helmet masquerading; If not--then Wisdom was a dame For sonnets and for serenading!

I thought the goddess cold, austere, Not made for love's despairs and blisses: Did Pallas wear her hair like that? Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?

The Nightingale should be her bird, And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: How very fresh she looks, and yet She's older far than Trajan's Column!

The magic hand that carved this face, And set this vine-work round it running, Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.

Who was he? Was he glad or sad, Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he graved the dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his passion.

Perchance, in some still garden-place, Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, He flung the jewel at the feet Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Laïs.

But he is dust; we may not know His happy or unhappy story: Nameless, and dead these centuries, His work outlives him--there's his glory!

Both man and jewel lay in earth Beneath a lava-buried city; The countless summers came and went With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.

Years blotted out the man, but left The jewel fresh as any blossom, Till some Visconti dug it up-- To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!

O nameless brother! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded: See how your loving, patient art Has come, at last, to be rewarded.