Chapter 4

If Time's footprint from my brow is driven, Canst thou, too, take with thy subtle powers The burden of thinking, and let me go drinking The careless pleasures of youth's bright hours? If silver threads from my tresses vanish, If a glow once more in my pale cheek gleams, Wilt thou slay duty and give back the beauty Of days untroubled by aught but dreams?

When the soft, fair arms of the siren Summer Encircle the earth in their languorous fold. Will vast, deep oceans of sweet emotions Surge through my veins as they surged of old? Canst thou bring back from a day long vanished The leaping pulse and the boundless aim? I will pay thee double for all thy trouble, If thou wilt restore all these, good dame.

CONFESSION

I

How shall a maid make answer to a man Who summons her, by love's supreme decree, To open her whole heart, that he may see The intricate strange ways that love began. So many streams from that great fountain ran To feed the river that now rushes free, So deep the heart, so full of mystery; How shall a maid make answer to a man?

If I turn back each leaflet of my heart, And let your eyes scan all the records there, Of dreams of love that came before I KNEW, Though in those dreams you had no place or part, Yet, know that each emotion was a stair Which led my ripening womanhood to YOU.

II

Nay, I was not insensate till you came; I know man likes to think a woman clay, Devoid of feeling till the warming ray Sent from his heart lights her with sudden flame. You asked for truth; I answer without shame; My human heart pulsed blood by night and day, And I believed that Love had come my way Before he conquered with your face and name.

I do not know when first I felt this fire That lends such lustre to my hopes and fears, And burns a pathway to you with each thought. I think in that great hour when God's desire For worlds to love flung forth a million spheres, This miracle of love in me was wrought.

An open door, a moonlit sky, A child-like maid with musing eye, A manly footstep passing by.

Light as a dewdrop falls from space Upon a rosebud's folded grace, A kiss fell on her girlish face.

"Good-night, good-bye," and he was gone. And so was childhood; it was dawn In that young heart the moon shone on.

His name? his face? dim memories; I only know in that first kiss Was prophesied this later bliss.

The dreams within my bosom grew; Nay, grieve not that my tale is true, Since all those dreams led straight to you.

One time when Autumn donned her robes of splendour And rustled down the year's receding track, As I passed dreaming by, a voice all tender Haled me with youth's soft call to linger back. I turned and listened to a golden story! A wondrous tale, half human, half divine-- A page from bright September's book of glory, To memorise and make forever mine. Strange argosies from passion's unknown oceans Cruised down my veins, a vague elusive fleet, With foreign cargoes of unnamed emotions, While wafts of song blew shoreward, dim and sweet, And sleeping still (because unwaked by you) I dreamed and dreamed, and thought my visions true. I woke when all the crimson colour faded And wanton Autumn's lips and cheeks were pale; And when the sorrowing year had slowly waded, With failing footsteps, through the snow-filled vale. I woke and knew the glamour of a season Had lent illusive lustre to a dream, And looking in the clear calm eyes of Reason, I smiled and said, "Farewell to things that seem." 'Twas but a red leaf from a lush September The wind of dreams across my pathway blew, But oh! my love! the whole round year remember, With all its seasons I bestow on you. The red leaf perished in the first cold blast The full year's harvests at your feet I cast.

L'ENVOI

Absolve me, prince; confession is all over. But listen and take warning, oh! my lover. You put to rout all dreams that may have been; You won the day, but 'tis not all to win; GUARD WELL THE FORT, LEST NEW DREAMS ENTER IN.

A MARRIED COQUETTE

Sit still, I say, and dispense with heroics! I hurt your wrists? Well, you have hurt me. It is time you found out that all men are not stoics, Nor toys to be used as your mood may be. _I will not_ let go of your hands, nor leave you Until I have spoken. No man, you say, Dared ever so treat you before? I believe you, For you have dealt only with _boys_ till to-day.

You women lay stress on your fine perception, Your intuitions are prated about; You claim an occult sort of conception Of matters which men must reason out. So then, of course, when you ask me kindly "To call again soon," you read my heart. I cannot believe you were acting blindly; You saw my passion for you from the start.

You are one of those women who charm without trying; The clay you are made of is magnet ore, And I am the steel; yet, there's no denying You led me to loving you more and more. You are fanning a flame that may burn too brightly, Oft easily kindled, but hard to put out; I am not a man to be played with lightly, To come at a gesture and go at a pout.

A brute you call me, a creature inhuman; You say I insult you, and bid me go. And you? Oh, you are a saintly woman, With thoughts as pure as the drifted snow. Pah! you are but one of a thousand beauties Who think they are living exemplary lives: They break no commandments, and do all their duties As Christian women and spotless wives.

But with drooping of lids, and lifting of faces, And baring of shoulders, and well-timed sighs, And the devil knows what other subtle graces, You are mental wantons, who sin with the eyes. You lure love to wake, yet bid it keep under, You tempt us to fall, but bid reason control; And then you are full of an outraged wonder When we get to wanting you, body and soul.

Why, look at yourself! You were no stranger To the fact that my heart was already on fire. When you asked me to call you knew my danger, Yet here you are, dressed in the gown I admire; For half of the evil on earth is invented By vain, pretty women with nothing to do But to keep themselves manicured, powdered, and scented, And seek for sensations amusing and new.

But when I play at love at a lady's commanding, I always am certain to win one game; So there--there--there! I will leave my branding On the lips that are free now to cry "Shame, shame!" You hate me? Quite likely! It does not surprise me, Brute force? I confess it; _but still you were kissed_; And one thing is certain--you cannot despise me For having been played with, controlled, and dismissed.

And the next time you see that a man is attracted By the beauty and graces that are not for him, Don't lead him on to be half distracted; Keep out of deep waters although you can swim. For when he is caught in the whirlpool of passion, Where many bold swimmers are seen to drown, A man will reach out and, in desperate fashion, Will drag whoever is nearest him down.

Though the strings of his heart may be wrenched and riven By a maiden coquette who has led him along, She can be pardoned, excused, and forgiven, For innocence blindfolded walks into wrong. But she who has willingly taken the fetter That Cupid forges at Hymen's command-- Well, she is the woman who ought to know better; She needs no mercy at any man's hand.

In the game of hearts, though a woman be winner, The odds are ever against her, you know; The world is ready to call her a sinner, And man is ready to make her so. Shame is likely, and sorrow is certain, And the man has the best of it, end as it may. So now, my lady, we'll drop the curtain, And put out the lights. We are through with our play.

FORBIDDEN SPEECH

The passion you forbade my lips to utter Will not be silenced. You must hear it in The sullen thunders when they roll and mutter: And when the tempest nears, with wail and din, I know your calm forgetfulness is broken, And to your heart you whisper, "He has spoken."

All nature understands and sympathises With human passion. When the restless sea Turns in its futile search for peace, and rises To plead and to pursue, it pleads for me. And with each desperate billow's anguished fretting. Your heart must tell you, "He is not forgetting."

When unseen hands in lightning strokes are writing Mysterious words upon a cloudy scroll, Know that my pent-up passion is inditing A cypher message for your woman's soul; And when the lawless winds rush by you shrieking, Let your heart say, "Now his despair is speaking."

Love comes, nor goes, at beck or call of reason, Nor is love silent--though it says no word; By day or night, in any clime or season, A dominating passion must be heard. So shall you hear, through Junes and through Decembers, The voice of Nature saying, "He remembers."

THE SUMMER GIRL

She's the jauntiest of creatures, she's the daintiest of misses, With her pretty patent leathers or her alligator ties, With her eyes inviting glances and her lips inviting kisses, As she wanders by the ocean or strolls under country skies.

She's a captivating dresser, and her parasols are stunning; Her fads will take your breath away, her hats are dreams of style; She is not so very bookish, but with repartee and punning She can set the savants laughing and make even dudelets smile.

She has no attacks of talent, she is not a stage-struck maiden; She is wholly free from hobbies, and she dreams of no "career"; She is mostly gay and happy, never sad or care-beladen, Though she sometimes sighs a little if a gentleman is near.

She's a sturdy little walker and she braves all kinds of weather, And when the rain or fog or mist drive rival crimps a-wreck, Her fluffy hair goes curling like a kinked-up ostrich feather Around her ears and forehead and the white nape of her neck.

She is like a fish in water; she can handle reins and racket; From head to toe and finger-tips she's thoroughly alive; When she goes promenading in a most distracting jacket, The rustle round her feet suggests how laundresses may thrive.

She can dare the wind and sunshine in the most bravado manner, And after hours of sailing she has merely cheeks of rose; Old Sol himself seems smitten, and at most will only tan her, Though to everybody else he gives a danger-signal nose.

She's a trifle sentimental, and she's fond of admiration, And she sometimes flirts a little in the season's giddy whirl; But win her if you can, sir, she may prove your life's salvation, For an angel masquerading oft is she, the Summer Girl.

THE GHOST

Through the open door of dreamland Came a ghost of long ago, long ago. When I wakened, all unheeding Was the phantom to my pleading; For he would not turn and go, But beside me all the day, In my work and in my play, Trod this ghost of long ago, long ago.

Not a vague and pallid phantom Was this ghost that came to me, followed me: Though he rose from regions haunted, Though he came unbid, unwanted, He was very fair to see. Like the radiant sun in space Was the halo round the face Of that ghost that came to me, followed me.

And he wore no shroud or cere-cloth As he wandered at my side, close beside: He was clothed in royal splendour And his eyes were deep and tender, While he walked in stately pride; And he seemed like some great king, Not afraid of anything, As he wandered at my side, close beside.

Then I turned to him commanding That he go the way he came, whence he came. But he answered me in sorrow, "May the Past not seek to borrow From the Present without blame-- Just one memory from its store, Ere it goes to come no more, Back the pathway that it came, whence it came?"

Then ashamed of my full coffers, I gave forth from Memory's hold (wondrous hold!) All I owed of tax and duty For remembered hours of beauty, Which I paid in thoughts of gold; Yet my present seemed to be Richer still for all the fee I gave forth from Memory's hold (wondrous hold!).

THE SIGNBOARD

I will paint you a sign, rumseller, And hang it above your door; A truer and better signboard Than ever you had before. I will paint with the skill of a master, And many shall pause to see This wonderful piece of painting, So like the reality.

I will paint yourself, rumseller, As you wait for that fair young boy, Just in the morning of manhood, A mother's pride and joy. He has no thought of stopping, But you greet him with a smile, And you seem so blithe and friendly, That he pauses to chat awhile.

I will paint you again, rumseller, I will paint you as you stand, With a foaming glass of liquor Extended in your hand. He wavers, but you urge him-- Drink, pledge me just this one! And he takes the glass and drains it, And the hellish work is done.

And next I will paint a drunkard-- Only a year has flown, But into that loathsome creature The fair young boy has grown. The work was sure and rapid. I will paint him as he lies In a torpid, drunken slumber, Under the wintry skies.

I will paint the form of the mother As she kneels at her darling's side, Her beautiful boy that was dearer Than all the world beside. I will paint the shape of a coffin, Labelled with one word--"Lost" I will paint all this, rumseller, And will paint it free of cost.

The sin and the shame and the sorrow, The crime and the want and the woe That are born there in your workshop, No hand can paint, you know. But I'll paint you a sign, rumseller, And many shall pause to view This wonderful swinging signboard, So terribly, fearfully true.

A MAN'S REPENTANCE (Intended for recitation at club dinners.)

To-night when I came from the club at eleven, Under the gaslight I saw a face-- A woman's face! and I swear to heaven It looked like the ghastly ghost of--Grace!

And Grace? why, Grace was fair; and I tarried, And loved her a season as we men do. And then--but pshaw! why, of course, she is married, Has a husband, and doubtless a babe or two.

She was perfectly calm on the day we parted; She spared me a scene, to my great surprise. "She wasn't the kind to be broken-hearted," I remember she said, with a spark in her eyes.

I was tempted, I know, by her proud defiance, To make good my promise there and then. But the world would have called it a mesalliance! I dreaded the comments and sneers of men.

So I left her to grieve for a faithless lover, And to hide her heart from the cold world's sight As women do hide them, the wide earth over; My God! _was_ it Grace that I saw to-night?

I thought of her married, and often with pity, A poor man's wife in some dull place. And now to know she is here in the city, Under the gaslight, and with _that_ face!

Yet I knew it at once, in spite of the daubing Of paint and powder, and she knew me; She drew a quick breath that was almost sobbing And shrank in the shade so I should not see.

There was hell in her eyes! She was worn and jaded Her soul is at war with the life she has led. As I looked on that face so strangely faded I wonder God did not strike me dead.

While I have been happy and gay and jolly, Received by the very best people in town, That girl whom I led in the way to folly, Has gone on recklessly down and down.

* * * * *

Two o'clock, and no sleep has found me; That face I saw in the street-lamp's light Peers everywhere out from the shadows around me-- I know how a murderer feels to-night.

ARISTARCHUS (THE NAME OF THE MOUNTAIN IN THE MOON)

It was long and long ago our love began; It is something all unmeasured by time's span: In an era and a spot, by the Modern World forgot, We were lovers, ere God named us, Maid and Man.

Like the memory of music made by streams, All the beauty of that other love life seems; But I always thought it so, and at last I know, I know, We were lovers in the Land of Silver Dreams.

When the moon was at the full, I found the place; Out and out, across the seas of shining space, On a quest that could not fail, I unfurled my memory's sail And cast anchor in the Bay of Love's First Grace.

At the foot of Aristarchus lies this bay, (Oh! the wonder of that mountain far away!) And the Land of Silver Dreams all about it shines and gleams, Where we loved before God fashioned night or day.

We were souls, in eerie bodies made of light; We were winged, and we could speed from height to height; And we built a nest called Hope, on the sheer Moon Mountain Slope, Where we sat, and watched new worlds wheel into sight.

And we saw this little planet known as Earth, When the mighty Mother Chaos gave it birth; But in love's conceit we thought all those worlds from space were brought, For no greater aim or purpose than our mirth.

And we laughed in love's abandon, and we sang, Till the echoing peals of Aristarchus rang, As hot hissing comets came, and white suns burst into flame, And a myriad worlds from out the darkness sprang.

I can show you, when the Moon is at its best, Aristarchus, and the spot we made our nest, Oh! I always wondered why, when the Moon was in the sky, I was stirred with such strange longing, and unrest.

And I knew the subtle beauty and the force Of our love was never bounded by Earth's course. So with Memory's sail unfurled, I went cruising past this world, And I followed till I traced it to its source.

DELL AND I

In a mansion grand, just over the way Lives bonny, beautiful Dell; You may have heard of this lady gay, For she is a famous belle. I live in a low cot opposite-- You never have heard of me; For when the lady moon shines bright, Who would a pale star see? But ah, well! ah, well! I am happier far than Dell, As strange as that may be.

Dell has robes of the richest kind-- Pinks and purples and blues; And she worries her maid and frets her mind To know which one to choose. Which shall it be now, silk or lace? In which will I be most fair? She stands by the mirror with anxious face, And her maid looks on in despair. Ah, well! ah, well! I am not worried, you see, like Dell, For I have but one to wear.

Dell has lovers of every grade, Of every age and style; Suitors flutter about the maid, And bask in her word and smile. She keeps them all, with a coquette's art, As suits her mood or mirth, And vainly wonders if in _one_ heart Of all true love has birth. Ah, well! ah, well! I never question myself like Dell, For I _know_ a true heart's worth.

Pleasure to Dell seems stale and old, Often she sits and sighs; Life to me is a tale untold, Each day is a glad surprise. Dell will marry, of course, some day, After her belleship is run; She will cavil the matter in worldly way And wed Dame Fortune's son But, ah, well! sweet to tell, I shall not dally and choose like Dell, For I love and am loved by--_one_.

ABOUT MAY

One night Nurse Sleep held out her hand To tired little May. "Come, go with me to Wonderland," She said, "I know the way. Just rock-a-by--hum-m-m, And lo! we come To the place where the dream-girls play."

But naughty May, she wriggled away From Sleep's soft arms, and said: "I must stay awake till I eat my cake, And then I will go to bed; With a by-lo, away I will go." But the good nurse shook her head.

She shook her head and away she sped, While May sat munching her crumb. But after the cake there came an ache, Though May cried: "Come, Sleep, come, And it's oh! my! let us by-lo-by"-- All save the echoes were dumb.

She ran after Sleep toward Wonderland, Ran till the morning light; And just as she caught her and grasped her hand, A nightmare gave her a fright. And it's by-lo, I hope she'll know Better another night.

VANITY FAIR

In Vanity Fair, as we bow and smile, As we talk of the opera after the weather, As we chat of fashion and fad and style, We know we are playing a part together. You know that the mirth she wears, she borrows; She knows you laugh but to hide your sorrows; We know that under the silks and laces, And back of beautiful, beaming faces, Lie secret trouble and grim despair, In Vanity Fair.

In Vanity Fair, on dress parade, Our colours look bright and our swords are gleaming; But many a uniform's worn and frayed, And most of the weapons, despite their seeming, Are dull and blunted and badly battered, And close inspection will show how tattered And stained are the banners that float above us. Our comrades hate, while they swear to love us; And robed like Pleasure walks gaunt-eyed Care, In Vanity Fair.

In Vanity Fair, as we strive for place, As we rush and jostle and crowd and hurry, We know the goal is not worth the race-- We know the prize is not worth the worry; That all our gain means loss for another; That in fighting for self we wound each other; That the crown of success weighs hard and presses The brow of the victor with thorns--not caresses; That honours are empty and worthless to wear, In Vanity Fair.

But in Vanity Fair, as we pass along, We meet strong hearts that are worth the knowing 'Mong poor paste jewels that deck the throng, We see a solitaire sometimes glowing. We find grand souls under robes of fashion, 'Neath light demeanours hide strength and passion; And fair fine honour and godlike resistance In halls of pleasure may have existence; And we find pure altars and shrines of prayer In Vanity Fair.

THE GIDDY GIRL

[This recitation is intended to be given with an accompaniment of waltz music, introducing dance-steps at the refrain "With one, two, three," etc.]

A giddy young maiden with nimble feet, Heigh-ho! alack and alas! Declared she would far rather dance than eat, And the truth of it came to pass. For she danced all day and she danced all night; She danced till the green earth faded white; She danced ten partners out of breath; She danced the eleventh one quite to death; And still she redowaed up and down-- The giddiest girl in town. With one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three--kick; Chassee back, chassee back, whirl around quick. The name of this damsel ended with E-- Heigh-ho; alack and a-day! And she was as fair as a maiden need be, Till she danced her beauty away. She danced her big toes out of joint; She danced her other toes all to a point; She danced out slipper and boot and shoe; She danced till the bones of her feet came through. And still she redowaed, waltzed, and whirled-- The giddiest girl in the world. With one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three--kick; Chassee back, chassee back, whirl around quick.

Now the end of my story is sad to relate-- Heigh-ho! and away we go! For this beautiful maiden's final fate Is shrouded in gloom and woe. She danced herself into a patent top; She whirled and whirled till she could not stop; She danced and bounded and sprang so far, That she stuck at last on a pointed star; And there she must dance till the Judgment Day, And after it, too, for she danced away Her soul, you see, so she has no place anywhere out of space, With her one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three--kick; Chassee back, chassee back, whirl about quick.

A GIRL'S AUTUMN REVERIE

We plucked a red rose, you and I, All in the summer weather; Sweet its perfume and rare its bloom, Enjoyed by us together. The rose is dead, the summer fled, And bleak winds are complaining; We dwell apart, but in each heart We find the thorn remaining.

We sipped a sweet wine, you and I, All in the summer weather. The beaded draught we lightly quaffed, And filled the glass together. Together we watched its rosy glow, And saw its bubbles glitter; Apart, alone we only know The lees are very bitter.