Part 3
But all of you who may not go To sail upon the sea,— Who wait upon another’s whim For hope of melody,— Oh, bless your hunger and your thirst, And give your spirit wings To speed beyond a narrow door The heart that sails and sings!
THE CHILD AND THE ANGEL.
Oh, is it you at evening, And near enough to speak? And early in the morning, Your breath upon my cheek?
And when the city noises Turn into clouds that sing, Is it your veil around me, Of hush, and wondering?
And is it you, at sunset, Who beckon me apart Till I am something golden, With petals in my heart?
Ah, Dearness, somewhere over! A happy child is this That with shut eyes uplifted, Waits for you with a kiss.
READING FOR THE POOR.
Young Pity passed us in the street. Her eyes were like a brook; And golden leaf and shadow bird Darkened and lit her look.
Her hair was like the meadow-marsh That reaches to the sea; And on her cheek a wild-rose glowed, The timely rose for me!
Young Pity never knew the word She gave to men in need, All clear and simple, in her face, For working ones to read.
THE BLIND ONE.
O hide your eyes, my maiden, And tell your heart to hush; For love is very bright to see, And louder than a thrush. And all adream you wander Alone in crowded ways, Where eyes of all the fools and wise Do follow, wide agaze!
Yet all in vain, my maiden, To shadow eyes like these; They shine behind your fingers Like starlight through the trees. So dream and shine among us, Unwitting of the boon,— How all the eyes, of fools and wise, Are grateful to the Moon.
HOLIDAY.
When I am far from joy of this, In yon thick world of men, O, save me—save me, world of blue!— That I shall thirst for then.
And when the little strength is spent And little hope burns low, Blow softly on that tortured flame, —Fresh air from long ago!
THE FOOL.
O what a Fool am I!—Again, again, To give for asking: yet again to trust The needy love in women and in men, Until again my faith is turned to dust By one more thrust.
How you must smile apart who make my hands Ever to bleed where they were reached to bless; —Wonder how any wit that understands Should ever try too near, with gentle stress, Your sullenness!
Laugh, stare, deny. Because I shall be true,— The only triumph slain by no surprise: True, true, to that forlornest truth in you. The wan, beleaguered thing behind your eyes, Starving on lies.
Build by my faith; I am a steadfast tool: When I am dark, begone into the sun. I cry, ‘Ah Lord, how good to be a Fool:— A lonely game indeed, but now all done; —And I have won!’
DRUDGE.
I waited long until the sky Should give me of its blue To weave and wear, and share, and weave The very stars into. The days they went, the years they went, And left my hands instead Another thing for wonderment, —The mending, and the bread.
Ah me, and one must set a hand To burnish up the task, And hush and hush the old demand A wakeful heart will ask. But with a star’s clear eye on me, O, I can hear it said, ‘What souls there be, that only see The mending, and the bread!’
THE YOUNGEST DRYAD.
What were you seeking? For my heart Woke at your step and heard; The farthest wakeful leaf of me, And the hidden nest of the midmost tree Hushed with its hidden bird. Ah, but the rune imprisoned me Till you should speak one word.
Why did you think the spell that drew Fell from the cedar there? You questioned pine and sister pine, Lingered near ash and wild-grape vine, —Doubted the maidenhair; Ever you missed these eyes of mine Too like the twilight air.
The Sun may call the dew to him, The waters call the deer; But O, my roots bind every limb To hold me hid, apart and dim And silent, and so near;— And every leaf of me abrim— With that you shall not hear.
COME BUY!
The flowers knew her through the frost, Their own true-lover. Rose crowding rose, the color crossed; The silver breath could hover Near and far, poor lover!
They wondered at her through the pane, And through December. And then she went her way again, —Eyes trying to remember. Have your day, December!
PRINCE CHARLIE.
O had you died upon the field That was so grim to plough, The tears had blinded every eye That sharpens on you now.
For death had been a glorious gift, With all you had to give, And kinder than we stay-at-homes; But ah, you had to live!
THE MEETING.
‘Good-morning to you, then.’ (O stricken heart of her! Silence, silence, breathe for me A little breath of myrrh.)
‘And so good-by again; Good-by, if you must go.’ (Go after, little shade of me, And tell her that I know.)
THE COBBLER.
A little cloud in a golden veil At setting of the sun: And I a cobbler working—working; Work is never done.
A little cloud in a golden veil; And I am mending shoes, Never a feathered sandal thing Such as a cloud may use.
A little cloud in a golden veil, Along the bright highway: And but for her, to-morrow were Another yesterday.
And this will stay, tho’ she melt away After the moon sets sail. For no man’s sky is always gray, —Cloud in a golden veil.
MIRACLE.
Love came by in bitter need. Oh, but I was sad! Love stood by in bitter need, And I nothing had.
Empty were the hands I held Silently to Love. Empty, as my heart of words, Stared the sky above.
Lo, Love took—and thankfully— All my wish for true; Then my hands gave back to me, Full of kisses too.
OPEN HOUSE.
My home is not so great; But open heart I keep. The sorrows come to me, That they may sleep.
The little bread I have I share, and gladly pray To-morrow may give more, To give away.
Yes, in the dark sometimes The childish fear will haunt: How long, how long, before I die of want?
But all the bread I have, I share, and ever say, To-morrow shall bring more To give away.
O SLEEP, SLEEP, SLEEP!
Do not dream of me. Nay, without mistake, Even for love’s sake And all heedfully; Do not dream of me.
All day long am I Leal to all you ask: Wish and care and task, Every need come nigh;— Still to serve and try.
But with my Good-night, O unrippled sleep! What is here, should keep This bewildered light From its skyward right?
Let me feel no need; Not a love that clings. Let me have my wings; Love my wings indeed: Give my wings godspeed!
Do not dream of me. Waking, I’ll be human;— Call it child or woman. Sleeping, I would be Only Something Free.
THE CLOUD.
The islands called me far away, The valleys called me home. The rivers with a silver voice Drew on my heart to come.
The paths reached tendrils to my hair From every vine and tree. There was no refuge anywhere Until I came to thee.
There is a northern cloud I know, Along a mountain crest. And as she folds her wings of mist, So I could make my rest.
There is no chain to bind her so Unto that purple height; And she will shine and wander, slow, Slow, with a cloud’s delight.
Would she begone? She melts away, A heavenly joyous thing. Yet day will find the mountain white, White-folded with her wing.
As you may see, but half aware If it be late or soon, Soft breathing on the day-time air, The fair forgotten Moon.
And though love cannot bind me, Love, —Ah no!—yet I could stay Maybe, with wings forever spread, —Forever, and a day.
THE RAVENS.
My eyes are blind with dust; My limbs are dull with pain: But my body shall up and after me, Again—again—again.
They hover and wheel above. Where I creep on, they fly; And with their call and vaunt of life, They tempt my soul to die.
And the numbness of my heart, The length I have to go, The dimness of my starving sight, They know, they know, they know!
But the little spark I hold Shall light me farther on After the gleam—like a far-off stream,— Until that, too, is gone.
_Mirage—mirage—mirage!_ But I say, I will not die For the hoarse Despairs that wait, that poise, —And I creep while they do fly.
No wonder they stoop so low; And no wonder they should scoff With Ah and Ah!—and beak and claw, As they let me beat them off.
For there is no path to see. But after the vanished flag My soul has gone; and after me, Body must strive and lag.
Up with you,—follow; come— Whither my face is set. They would have us dead: but I have said, Not yet,—not yet,—not yet!
NEIGHBORS.
‘Who found for you the waters that soothed your heart-break first?’ ‘Oh, who but these, my Sorrow, my Hunger and my Thirst!’
‘Who made your eyes the wiser to hail the farthest star?’ ‘Who but my Dark I thanked not,—the Dark where no lamps are!’
‘And I come singing, Neighbor, to tell you, where you grieve. And though my song bled, bled afresh,—yet would you not believe.’
THE MORNING SOUL.
O little cripple, with the lovely eyes, What have we done to thee?— For all our wisdom, putting out thy gleam, Crying, ‘Thou seest not, it is a dream!’ Against thy cry, ‘I see.’
O little cripple with the lovely eyes, What have we now to show? With vext perpetual ways past finding out, Teaching thee well the hundred things of doubt, Who saidest once, ‘I know.’
O little cripple with the lovely eyes, That music of the Sphere We only sought to bind for thee secure Some day, if it were true, for thee too sure Rejoicing with, ‘I hear!’
O little cripple with the lovely eyes, Flower of the broken stalk, Have pity on our need, for it is sore,— Of thee, thee only,—thee to go before; Rise up, rise up, and walk!
THE HILL-TOP.
‘Look down upon thy grief.’—O heart of mine, That path alone climbed here!
‘Look down upon thy fear.’—O heart of mine, That cloud-shadow, my fear!
‘Look down on thy desire.’—And could it shine, That sorry fallen ember?
‘Ah, in the valley yonder, child of mine, Wilt thou remember?’
THE DOVES.
The doves fly out, the doves fly in, Brighter than cloud above, From thee to me, and again to thee, Out of my heart, O Love.
My heart is troubled and hushed with wings From the deep, beneath, above; And the hovering flight of more white things Than Earth hath the gladness of.
After one call they follow, all;— Thy call to me, O Love: Lightning out of the blue, but mine In the likeness of the Dove.
FOUND.
O, when I saw your eyes, So old it was, so new, the hushed surprise: After a long, long search, it came to be, Home folded me.
And looking up, I saw The far, first stars like tapers to my awe, In the dim hands of hid, benignant Powers, At search long hours.
And did they hear us call, That they have found us children after all? And did you know, O Wonderful and Dear, That I was here?
ALL HAIL.
O, Blessed of the dark, we meet along an unknown sky; And here within the light of you, how beautiful am I!
The other worlds are dim around, beneficent with night. But I—I turn my face to you, and have no other sight.
So poising radiant, strong with joy, in desert air divine, One star doth to another call, and we belovèd shine.
We shine transfigured, shine, to know beyond all hope made wise, The echo, echo of All Hail, from new-illumined eyes.
Who know not what your glory is, nor why my looks are bright, I lean to you, I call to you, I shine with you, my light.
THE ANOINTED.
I was a little gleaner Of all the days would yield, When wonder overtook me At work within the field.
The stars they gathered round me Holding their torches high. They cried, ‘Behold the chosen!’ And it was none but I.
They hailed me royal, kindred, And made me understand With gifts of light and darkness They gave into my hand.
And here the wonder holds me Though voices all are gone, Here in the brimming silence, With this to think upon.
The kiss upon my forehead Forevermore is mine. The sweetness fills my heart up; The tears make all things shine.
EPILOGUE.
TO THE EVENING STAR.
Yes, and you come, you come. Soft piercing through The luminous fair pallor of the west; Budded in light and blooming manifest As that first lily of the field may do; Unshaken by the winds, that all for you Have made the pathway ready, loveliest, You come, you look upon us, shining Guest Of glories that the world is blind unto!
All hail, from us who work no more, but wait: From the worn furrows darkened after toil, And from the Sea; and from all eyes that are. Hallow our upward looks, and consecrate These thankful offered savors of the soil With the one lovingkindness of a Star.
TO HER BOOK.
I kiss you once for luck, That you may feel no care. I kiss you thrice for love That you must spend and share. Go now, and wheresoe’er A heart shall take you in, It is your very kin: Make music there.
=The Riverside Press= CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS U · S · A
=Josephine Preston Peabody=
(MRS. LIONEL MARKS)
THE WOLF OF GUBBIO: A Comedy in Three Acts. THE SINGING MAN. THE PIPER. THE BOOK OF THE LITTLE PAST. Illustrated in color. THE SINGING LEAVES. MARLOWE: A DRAMA. FORTUNE AND MEN’S EYES. OLD GREEK FOLK STORIES.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON AND NEW YORK
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.