Chapter II: Part 2

How have I lost them, the old powers of dream? I, who was so content with simple things-- With one bright Autumn leaf, wood murmurings, The near-spun grass, or one star’s far off gleam?

Now, I bear burdens with an ashen face. I count my gains, I clamor at my loss; I too have joined the tawdry pitch and toss, Who once walked trancéd, with illusioned pace.

Since they are dead to me, dear dreaming powers-- Dead, with their grail and magic, visions, wings-- I shall distil the attar sorrow brings, And lave them in the sweet of their own hours.

I shall their delicate bright figures lay Embalmed in gold, in so profound a rock, That no sharp-featured pain shall find a way To touch, and no smug knowledge come to mock.

TO A LONELY STAR

Once more we keep our tryst--I on the beach, Brooding in milky tides of Autumn moon, Watching the gold black water softly reach And fill the hollows of grass silvered dune; Till, far beyond the rim of a lagoon I see Thee in thy calm ascension tread A darkened way to thy cloud-cloistered rest; Hanging thy maiden lantern in the West, Where planet torches lie extinguishéd.

The world will never miss me when I go. These gossip ripples in the sedges there Will still be whispering of that Thing they know; The moon’s new milk will bathe the young and fair, Nourishing Youth and Passion with such care. But Thou, O Abbess Star! keep trimmed thy light, Taking thy warder-way across the moor. Yea, many a woman by her cottage door Will need thy comfort all the lonely night.

THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH

There comes the time when he who gathers grapes Must find his vineyard in the city street, Must press what wine he may from lobate shapes And globules clustered at his head and feet. The press he treads will be the city night-- Bubble and bloom and burst of heady wine; No fairer fresher grapes will meet his sight Than pallid fruit of the electric vine!

There comes the time when he who longs for song Must turn to monsters dreaming in the dark, That Science-incubated aeons long; Will give to music new heresiarch! But Harmonies of pride and lust and doubt Will greet the ear, that for some human hymn Longs bitterly, hearing the brassy shout Of engine songs, massive, superb and grim.

In those stark days new Lancelots shall pass Accoutered black, with the bi-colored plume. New Siegfrieds, armored in their steel and brass, Shall flash subseas in tunnelled ocean gloom. Woman and Science, gaunt with bold new brow, Shall say what shall be born, what thing shall cry Pioneer on its lurching, airdashed prow, Air-immigrant to harbors of the sky.

There comes the day when on the sea of stars Unspoken ships shall lay unsounded course, And looming shapes, outside uncharted bars, Shall dumbly signal with some speechless force. New worlds shall stare on other worlds that be, Sailing close by them on that starry sea, And know that all the Main that round them rolls Swells to new moons, new seas, new tides, new poles.

There comes the time, O patient Human heart, O Brave Pathetic--time when thou must see The old, the dear, the simple things depart, Who canst not love the strange new things to be. Yet by this New, shall not thy vision grow To some estate, some altitude of range, Where it is given thee that thou shalt know What Changeless ’tis, that underlies all change?

THE TRAMP

The ragged sun, the wind-filled sky, The wet track and the empty car; The night-hung woods, and, raised on high, The lighted candle of a star.

So reads his heraldry, who prowls On listless following of chance; Who, sullenly appraising, scowls On the rich dwelling’s circumstance.

The cloud of smoke upon the hill, The rag left on the highway’s beat, The light o’er a deserted sill-- These mark the passing of his feet.

No strenuous call of noontime bells Vibrates through ether of his dreams; For him no clock the hour tells; For him no church’s spire gleams.

Though from his thoughts undisciplined To warehouse and to street averse, He, in exchanges of his mind, Diverts him with a lavish purse--

Diverts him with his social schemes, His plan against the existing plot; And what he, of his justice, deems Would--justice practised--be his lot.

Of whence he comes, of where he goes-- These things no human record keeps. What black unwritten deed he does, What pure fair hope within him sleeps.

What strange mysterious power he wields, What undeveloped force to sway, None guess who see him cross the fields, Or plodding on his stealthy way.

Only dead fires attest his life, Only dumb trees his brothers stand; He knows not home nor child, nor wife, Nor friendly grasp of any hand,

Yet lays his scheme for daily food, Yet keeps him keen for filching pence For this ... o’er pipe and fire to brood-- Spending imagined affluence!

IN THE STRANGE COUNTRY

I speak your language very glibly now, Have all the countersigns and know the range Of all your boundaries; the streets I know.... And yet, your land is strange.

You ask me whence I came? I cannot tell. My Race? Ah! God forbid that you should see Others like me,--in this land where you dwell-- Not such as we.

“Do you have news?” you ask. My heart contracts. Do I have news?... Yea, messages do come, As if I had made wistful, faithful pacts With those ... back home....

This butterfly brought one, that errant vine Conveys a Word; the Sea, it would seem, knows.... Sweet tidings that I cannot quite divine The flowers disclose.

But since you ask me idly, let me say, I know not whence I am, nor why I come; Yet I sit with you in your inn today Devising speech--though dumb.

RAIN PICTURES

_First Picture_

MONOCHORD

The soft rain falls; the willow trees Throw silver tangle on the breeze, While Robin tunes his pipe and blows His joyance down the orchard-close. Amid the spraying crystal notes One irridescent bubble floats-- Bubble of music, that careens Adown the pasture’s mottled greens. How tell the rapture that he sings To beatings of his happy wings? Why praise the story that he tells, The message that his bosom swells ...? Ah! he is Robin, and he goes, Singing the only song he knows.

The sweet saps rise; the maple trees Drink deep and scatter crimson lees. I wander up and down the stream, Singing the music of my dream; Its cadence vague, its plaintive strain Attunes it to the Harp of Rain;

The muted branches softly play An obligato to my lay; The drooping willows pluck the stream With pensive touch that marks the theme, And all the trilling water-tune Accompanies my simple rune.

No heart have I to wake the green With joyous lilting loud and keen. I tune no pipe for jaunty snatch Like Robin’s loud ecstatic catch. I sing the song of wistful things, Dumb longings, blind imaginings.... And yet, why blame me that I stray, Crooning so poor a rondelay? Ah! I am Human, and I go Singing the only song I know.

_Second Picture_

OMEN

My tree-calf books; my seven branched candle-stick; The pine-knot’s bursting heart, flame-plethoric; My jug from old Fiesole; the rain, And the witch-vine that darkly taps the pane.

The witch-vine signals, and the rainy night Enters my heart; puts out its wan rush light, Like a chill blast of fore-writ doom and tears, Extinguishing the meaning of my years.

Then come the spectral tapping on the pane, Counting the unmarked graves of things as vain As that bright-bound, dumb company of books And worthless treasure of my chamber nooks.

Let be, O witch-vine fingers! I have grown So kindly used to living all alone. Let be, O furtive night! And I would fain Be unremarked of thee, O brooding rain!

Be unreminded, when the tendril taps Keep count of years--of the remorseless lapse Of time ... for I must tend my fire yet, And hear the storm, and see the window wet,

Thinking of some strange hour of frozen peace, When the reproach of wind and rain shall cease Thinking what Guest sits by ... when fires wane, And the witch-vine lies withered on the pane.

_Third Picture_

FANTASY

Down the black mountain The fairies come, I ween; Tarrying hither, Hurrying thither, Grey-bright, Phantom flight, Winging by the glass. Lo! spreads a green, Leaf-lattice screen.

In the stark valley The fairies riches feign; They fling, they sprinkle Tiny gems a-twinkle; Water gems, Flower gems Sparkle in the grass. Lo! in the lane, Blood-root again.

On the dull houses The fairies come to dance; They masque, they chatter, Elfin goblets shatter, “Health to Spring,” So they sing, Laughing in the eaves. Lo! like a lance, See sunlight glance!

From a poor spirit The fairies take the fears; They soothe, they flatter, They sing, “What matter?” “Oh! Life is good to try!” Lo! through my tears, All the sky clears.

WAR POEMS

“WE MUST MAKE THE WORLD SAFE FOR DEMOCRACY.” 1917.

Out on the prairies; Where rivers flow; On crests of mountains The stern words glow. “War,” say the rocks. The rails ring, “War.” From smoking chimneys The solemn clouds pour.

War in the khaki, War in the lace; On youthful forehead And stern old face. “War!” smiles the lips, Though the heart sobs “War.” A Nation’s eyes flash Like keen scimitar.

On all the houses The flags are like fires. East, West, arouses, West, East inspires. Light fills the banners Light tips the poles, The thrilled Stars and Stripes Slowly unrolls.

Doom of the nations, Doom of the brave. Now it breaks o’er us, War’s bitter wave; But we shall hold us Face toward the light.... We have enrolled us Now for the fight!

THE MEANING

Peace is not small white flowers Shining on a lawn. Peace is not youths and maidens wedded in their beauty. Peace is not silver sandals of a stainless dawn. Peace is the calm acceptance of heroic duty.

War is not bloody standards hung with crape. War is not murdered men and women’s sorrow. War, for our hearts and hands, is but a Shape, That once destroyed, leaves ghost-less the tomorrow.

THE MARCHING FAITH

I have seen the men go marching, Marching away from life; Away from love and children Into a bitter strife. I have seen the men go marching With strange high courage shod-- The old, old way of Crusaders Men who believe in God.

Brown eyes, blue eyes, grey eyes, Swing of the Highland kilt, Shoulders of English lordling, Slight form Eastern built, Chin of a New York lawyer, Head of a happy Greek. I have seen the men go marching, And I know the thing they seek.

I have seen the men go marching, And I have no word to say; They have read their hearts more truly Than I in my wistful way. They sprang to an instinct Action, Though they scorned the path they trod. Gold help us! we must follow-- Men who go forth for God.

Brown eyes, blue eyes, grey eyes, Eyes that have laughed with love, Eyes that have glowed with music, Indian eyes that rove, Jaw of a tall Italian, Teeth of the French Touraine, Faces full of the tide of life, That will not come back again.

I have seen the men go marching, And I know what I must do:-- Never to play them weak or false Though the news be false or true; Whatever the Great Endeavor For body or brain or pen, I must be true forever To the faith of the Marching Men!

HOME COMING

[A]"They will fight until the stolen and lost and scattered children return home.”

T’will be a great day for the Children, The lost and scattered Children, When they come home! I can see now the little faces smiling, Hear broken words, see baby hands beguiling, And watch the dear processions straggled filing, When the Children come.

In all the crushed, insulted, stricken households, In all the bare and desecrated households There will be joy. Mothers will rouse them from their haunted sorrow, Because their love has given the Tomorrow A pledge, on which posterity may borrow From girl and boy.

Mothers will rouse them from their stricken anguish, Daring to face the future in their anguish, Because the Children say, “We have no part in all the hopeless killing; We are your sacrament, your holy willing; We are your cups for the glad, new wine-filling Of a new Day.”

T’will be a great day for the Future, The dim and broken Future, When the Children come! They will bring back some clean, unlooted treasure; New hope in life, of love a higher measure; Unselfish aim, and purer, keener, pleasure When they come home.

I see them dazed, the little bare feet stumbling; I see them hasten, stunned, confused, and stumbling-- Yet unafraid. For one great People comes to bring them gladness; To take away the pitiful child-sadness; To heal the infant pain and baby madness-- Another People made.

On one side wait the agonizing mothers, The tearless, outraged, consecrated mothers, To see them come; The other side is lined with silent fathers, Dead, mutilated, tortured, murdered fathers, Sacred, elect, regenerated fathers, Who died for Home.

And with them march the gay and ready Strangers, The sunny, stern Americans, the Strangers, Who bid them come. Yea, though my eyes be blind with bitter crying, Yet do I count worth while the fearful dying; When dead men on a hundred red fields lying Send the children--Home!

[A] Editorial Leader of New York Times, July 21st, 1917.

FOR OUR MEN

Let us keep home safe for them-- Fires, laughter and song, The curtains close, the beds all smooth and white, The leisure long.

Let us make good things for them-- Sweet meats and bright conserves, Nourishing breads and all the dear delights Hunger deserves.

Let us lift high God for them, And like tall candles hold The straight white lights that in the trench they knew-- Were more than gold.

Let us grow up for them, And hold us to impassioned lofty thought-- So they shall never come to be ashamed Of that for which they fought.

Let us all work hard for them-- For such as live and come to us once more; To those that do not come. Ah! for those men-- Passionate love and honor, evermore!

WORLD FLOWER

On the Stem of the World A flower hangs blighted, Flower that plighted Its scarlet, uncurled, To Pageant of Kings And war-garlandings And banners unfurled.

On the Stalk of the World That flower hangs broken, Gold pollen-token, Nothingward hurled, Withered its fineness Its perfumed divineness, Petals far whirled!

On the Branch of the World, Bud of tomorrow, Watered by sorrow, Holds, all impearled, Blossom increase, Petals of peace In sunlight whorled.

Ye, who walk doubting, Care for this Flower! Not yet its hour, In all the shouting.... Only, soft hid in the stamens, is lying Pollen of souls that dared all the dying. They gave the seed. Wet from our crying Blooms the New World.

EPOCH, 1914

Morning broke on Fécamp shore. The sun rose from the sea. Along the stone digue, wooden shoes Clattered busily, And one glad, little Norman voice Carolled, “Sans Souci.” “_No care! no care! Tra-lal-la-la!_” The child’s glad voice sang on; A red-capped figure crossed the digue To where the great boats swung At peaceful anchor, with their nets Spread azure in the sun.

Evening came to the little town Where white cliffs wall the sea. A dark bell rang, “To arms! To arms!” The women on the quay Choked back the tears, when Jean and Pierre Marched forth gallantly.

And then no lift of little voice Singing, “Sans Souci.” “_Black care, Black care for home and hearth!_” _For children needing bread!_ Oh! the men’s faces! Oh! their eyes, That would be cold and dead Ere the new moon, all pitiless And smiling at her dreams, Took her strange way of battlefields And bloody battle-streams.

The ripe grain dies on Fécamp hills. Sails wither at the quay. Old people totter to the digue, And shiver ceaselessly, And in the pallid Gothic church The dead and wounded see To it that no Norman voice Carols “Sans Souci.” _Deep care, deep care, for us who try_ _To save and clothe and feed!_ _Men taunt us for our dream of Peace_ _Our hope of better breed!_ Courage! Let faith fight down the years Oh! let our battle be, That the world’s children some day sing Another, “Sans Souci!”

TO AMERICANS

Sooth, Citizens! there are few hours to dawn Of a red day and black gun-horrored night. The cities sleep not soundly mid, their spawn Of golden-balled and silver-webbed light. Tomorrow breaks the rancor and the spite-- To try our souls and test our bodies’ brawn.

Americans! How stand we? Does the Dream Still hold? Once more the robust States declare Against the Wrong, their Right. Where millions teem, Curious, thoughtful, fateful, do we share The same proud purpose to defend the Scheme, Under the flag our lofty standards bear?

Americans! Look we with fearless eyes Loyalty? Truth? Self-sacrifice? For Her, Our Country, now enringed by foreign spies, Will our set faces prove our calibre-- Our Destiny all penalties incur, So that we show us pledged and patriot-wise.

Countrymen! Rise, and let your ranks be formed For War, or Peace in solid moveless Race! We are not aliens, who for plunder swarmed To cover neath the glorious Freedom-Face. We are Souls, standing in our rightful place, Impregnable, unswerving, unalarmed.

Brothers! defend the gates! Upon us lowers Portentously the brooding Europe pall. Until it comes, the fateful hour of hours, When our World-Dream must either stand or fall-- Arm ye with Loyalty!--Hark, hear the call! Democracy still trumpets on the towers!

PENMARCH--BRITTANY

At the time of the “Pardon,” 1914.

The Penmarch roads are sandy white; By the old church the blue nets dry, Stretched to the sea. The poppies bright, Tremulous scarlet splashes high On tawny dunes. Small wooden shoes, Stiff snowy caps and ribbon hues Go clattering to the market place. ’Tis Pardon-day by Maries’ Grace, (And little Bretons form a ring, And pause to hear a Lady sing.)

What does she sing, this Lady, who Is like embodied song, her eyes, Clear with the light of faith where through Looks sweetness of her soul’s surmise? What are the words she sings, her smile So Mother-merry? What the wile That draws the small coifs nearer, near, And charms away the peasant fear (Shy little Bretons keep their ring, And stay to hear the Lady sing.)

Blue sky is part, blue sea is part; Flax, wheat, and poppies fill the strain; Her wide eyes deepen with her art Like gentian flowers after rain. ’Tis World-Dream in her simple lay-- Adventure, Faith, and Love and Play. No wonder wooden shoes keep time To magic of her lilting rhythm. (Gay little Bretons hold their ring, Shouting the Stranger-Lady, “Sing!”)

That was one summer. Now a dirge Breaks on that coast in bitter wail, And news told by the ocean surge Makes Breton-maids and mothers quail. O holy Fires of fisher-lights. Gleam out no more on Pardon nights! The great red sails hang listless, torn The empty blue nets trail forlorn. And yet I think that little feet Sometimes on Penmarch beaches meet, And Penmarch children cease their play To talk of how She sang that day, And that once more a happy ring Is formed to hear a Lady sing!

TO AN AMERICAN SOLDIER GOING INTO ACTION

_France, August, 1918._

Today’s your turn to take the road of fire; Your turn to rally at the gates of hell; Your turn for steel and gas and blood and mire, In shell-holes and through mazes of barbed wire, Where men before you fought and bled and fell.

And we go with you, we, who know your face-- Its dear and merry shining, and intent; Follow you blindly to this testing place. Breathless, with you at this, the ultimate pace Your fleet strong spirit takes for its ascent.

Whatever agony is yours is ours, Whatever thing the soul of you endures; We are the witness of your manhood’s powers; Not one of us who has your measure cowers-- What we know of you all our thought insures.

Go you, then, to the Front! May God be good! Whatever face you raise to Him will be The face of one, who for our Hope has stood, Manly and resolute, whose spirit would Be at the Front, and elsewhere could not be!

RESURGENCE

To C. L. B.

Down the glad morning lane a lucent veil Of dogwood wavers like a windblown screen Revealing vistas lit by golden trail Of netted water-brooks that intervene Where ferns their dewy plumage spread and preen; Soft, myriad breaths of budding boughs exhale On the spring world; a buoyant path of green Makes sign by leaf and foliate flower-grail Of exquisite re-capture of the frail Fresh renascence of all that fair has been. Nature survives. Lift then the haggard eyes That watch Life on its dark death-shuttled loom! Are ours the only forms that may not rise Out of the Dark to unfrustrated bloom? Nay--burst we forth out of the moment’s doom, Instinct toward suns of flowering destinies, Lifting glad lips to deep full-breasted skies, Branching like stars where radiant dreams resume.

GARDEN ADVENTURES

NO. 1--AERIAL.

Down the long garden path the message came, Borne by the breeze in a soft, wayward speed; “My petals spread, soft burns my blossom-flame, Yet do I know defeat and barren shame; Dost thou then fail me in my flower-need?”

A lily-bell hung in her curving spire; Sweet peas on pools of morning air set sail; Womanly roses opened; did this fire, This wordless furthering of deep desire Waft from their midst down to the meadow-rail?

Who took the message? Did the iris there, Masculine, bold, defy the grasses’ thralls. Mid the white lamps of daisies did one flare Concentrate light? Did a coarse mallow dare To think that it might answer to the call?

Up the blue garden air a wingèd ship, Humming with hurry, takes its zig-zag way, Hangs for a second where the poppies’ tip Shoots to the hare-bells, larkspurs, but to slip Impatiently from honeyed bud and spray.

Then ardent pansies warmer purple glow; Then poppies sigh for languor. Do they see The yellow tulip near them suddenly grow Quivering, tremulous? Does the tulip know What meadow-flower sent the pollen-bee?

NO. 2--INVASION.

In wooded depths the lilies grew, Nunlike in canopies of green. Hanging white bells of paladin In Gothic ferns beneath the yew-- A sanctuary, with the dew Telling its beads by leafy screen.

And where the dandelion ranks, Ranged Persian bright each blazing shield, Was far away in sedgy field-- Too dense with spears of thistle hordes To menace distant lily chords, Or chapel treasure all unsealed;

And all day nettle airships sail, And on the moonlight thistle swords Leap from their scabbards, flashing towards The priestly yew that guards the vale; Till haughty casquéd snowdrops quail, And violets rush borderwards.

Alas! By stealth th’ invader came, Intrenched near lily convents, where A startled fragrance fills the air. Green cells are pierced by nettle spike, And dandelions, shield and pike Ravish white bells that rang to prayer!

NO. 3--DIPLOMATS

Archippus, ambassador To the poppy emperor, Enters with his wings extended, Orange, black and samite blended, Bows o’er cups of columbines, And at taste of royal wines Flashes spangled semaphore Message--“To the end of the war.”

Philemon, black, green and pearl Wavers to syringa whirl; Lightly shod, his errant feet Win the white pavilions sweet; As he flits to salvia cells, Dipping into ruby wells His antennae, as he goes Wig-wag--“Beauty has no foes.”

Then bold Turnus, amber-fanned, Flutters to the brilliant band; He confers with larkspur sages, Loiters with the pansy pages, Tells his heraldry and crest To the rose’s burning breast; Soon doth Turnus flutter free, Wing-endorsing “Liberty.”

Protoparce, grey and blunt, Enters on his stealthy hunt; Tongue protuding from his head, Heavy wings and brutal tread, Bulging eyes and savage thirst, Crime’s nocturnal deed he durst; See him prowling, full of schemes, Subtle midst the flower-dreams! Valiant tulips, trust no more! Close your helmets. This is war!

NO. 4--SPIES

Ask me no questions. Fireflies last night Went over all the ground with searching light, And only found that, where the peony-head Hung erstwhile white, ’tis now disguised in red.

Tell me not why. I only know that since I paused at gaze beneath the flowering quince, A group of tents, some warlike grey, some white Cover the ground, pitched in a single night.

No explanation gives me peace of mind, When long battalioned caravans I find Crossing my garden walk; and when I see Under-ground trenches grow unceasingly.

Give me no reasons for squat forms that pass Lurking at twilight near the ribbon grass. Only the owl and I our vigil keep, With, “Who goes there?” While flower kingdoms sleep.

NO 5--RENDEZVOUS

Like a sea-flower, seen through waves of night, She spreads illumined petals, and her white Mystical raying disk spills frankincense From her stored sweet and balmy opulence.

Perfume of honey-flowers and purpled vines, Odors of Eastern wood and Tuscan wines, Sweetness compressed, smell of all blossoms blent, Breath of all lilies in one lily’s scent.

What secret doth she hold? What visions stir At the slow calm awakening of her? Lo! To the night is all her beauty spread, And to the encircling dark she leans her head.

Then, who can tell what fragrant message strays O’er dreaming trees and sleeping, leafy ways? To what green tent her sighing languors steal? What thrilled suspense of waiting she doth feel?

Till--Soft! A Spirit of dim-waving wings Floats from his moonlit forest wanderings, And by enchantment led, there plights his troth To the night’s Queen, a dew-crowned, milk-white Moth.

Now, while the garden drowses, and the cool Of passing midnight deepens in the pool, While all the flowers hang their heads, asleep-- Mysterious tryst two royal lovers keep.

The world rolls on; its load of hearts grown old; And all the simple forms and feasts are cold. But though men mock Love’s slowly fading wraith, The Forest knows,--the flowers keep their Faith.

CAMOUFLAGE

Here is the waving river line, and here A rail-road made (And here float lilies white as those that were Where Marsyas played.)

The thrilling sky is wild with wingéd planes For air ship raid (Yet--still steals up the hidden cirrus lanes The Huntress Maid!)

The country road is gashed with lurid signs Of commerce-gods: (Yet bitter-sweet and seeding eglantines Hang votive pods!)

The man who walks in front of me to work Has pointed ears (He speaks with modern emphasis and jerk _So it appears_)--

But where he toils the chimneys range their pipes In Syrinx form (Who knows what midnight Dancing? or what types Of dancers swarm?)

Ah! life is practical, the Moderns say “No one escapes----” (Ye Gods, _Who_ is that smiling such a way Among the grapes?)

HOME-SICK

He sees the white moon climb the city skies, Far over rank, black roofs and balconies, And with her spectral radiance anoint The slender lance of every steeple point.

Beneath his gaze, the brilliant streets converge, And through the avenues the people surge. Behind him are his walls where, numb and old His books and pictures seem aloof and cold.

Below, he hears the gong and shout and call; Sees the blank grief of many a plastered wall, And bows himself upon the window sill, In a communion motionless and still.

He leaves the temples where the merchants trade, Leaves bright bazaar and marble collanade, And hand and hand with the white moon he strays Away to leafy lanes and country ways.

He vizualizes green of plashy mead Of kneedeep grass, where lowing cattle feed, Of orchard slope, scalloped with rosy bloom And purple lilacs bursting into plume.

Electric beads may dot the cities plain, But in his heart old candles flare again; Old doors stand open, and beside old stiles He leans, and listens as in other whiles.

So dreams; so wanders back to youth and home, To swelling farms, to rich hill-breasted loam; So hand in hand with the young moon he strays Out of the city gates to the old days.

THE INTERPRETER

Last night I heard Masefield, Heard that voice cold as a moonlit tomb Reading old plays and masques And gipsy drama of old England.

I saw strange eyes flickering--sad, Set in a face recording vigils, Moody, unfellowed prowlings Vague contemplations and wanderings.

I saw his face, dream-magnetic, Pale, withheld, until he told Stories as odd as coins in a sailor’s chest; Then mischief, like leaves danced on his brow, And a smile like water shook on his face.

I heard the grind of creaking anchor chains Felt ropes bruise, and felt the capstan pull, Saw driven slanting masts, and saw the hoops Slink as some halliard parted, and was caught.

I heard dead seamen’s lips Recounting heaps of gold in sunken ships; I saw the dumb eyes of pathetic women, Horribly treated by wine-frenzied brutes.

Then as the lonely, chanting, stifled voice Droned on, I saw heart-breaking Peace, Green happy hedges, dreaming crofts and farms, England--before the War!

Last night I heard Masefield. He stood downcast on a little platform, While I careened, helm up, full canvassed Close-hauled on happy seas.

He stood limply on a little platform World-blind before the rows of set, still, faces, Absorbed in his faith of one maternal word “Beauty.”

KLEPHTIC

“It would be strange if with such ample survival of the ancient polytheism in modern law there were no reminiscence of the Fauns, the Satyrs, the Pans of the olden world."--RENNELL RODD.

Far in the mountains, The mountains of Greece, The cone fires burn. Mid the pines and rocks, And the tall shepherds wear The curly white fleece, And a man, with a beard, Like a horse’s mane, Plays a small pipe, A carvéd pipe, Till the goats come straggling in, And the bees come drowsing by, And the olives come dropping down; And he will be playing like that, And they will be coming like that, Long after our solemn mummings cease In the mountains, the mountains of Greece.

Far in the mountains, The mountains of Greece, The values are strange-- The worth of a tree, The strength of a rock, The health of a sheep, The length of a brook, The dip of a bird, The wisdom of mules. They will offer you grapes, Or a horn-spoon of curd, Or wine in a cup, Or honey and bread; And they will keep all these values, These dear simple values Long after our silly values cease, In the mountains, the mountains of Greece.

In the mountains, the mountains of Greece They lie in a cave, And hark to wood-sounds, Perhaps cross themselves, Saying, aghast! “There be wild things, Hidden things, dread things. Strange things, weird things, great things.” (They quake, and are not very brave,) But when they sleep and dream, They dream as far as they please. As grand and great as they please-- Of miles of red-fezzed Turks Done to death by one Greek, Of clouds that turn into men, Of fountains with golden rain, Of seas and golden ships, Of reveling women and maids, And hosts of little boys Dressed in skins of fur, Dancing and playing pipes;

And of Someone very strange, With horns perhaps, but a smile, A smile like hot sweet fire-- And they will be dreaming like that, And thinking like that, Long after our stupid teachings are dead. Yea--Yea--Yea-- Long after we are dead, In the mountains, The mountains of Greece.

AT THE FEAST OF LIFE

You, who sit opposite and move your lips, And toy with silver dish and graceful spoon, And touch your wine-glass with reluctant sips-- Why do you pause, for it is afternoon. What are your thoughts, that they should draw a mist Before your sweet eyes, as the hours creep? While others sing, and laugh and keep the feast, A fast you keep.

Where dwells who now should come and feast with you? Where fares he, years off--leagues off? Thirsts and prays For the one sign to make his life come true? For the one clue to lead him to your ways? Will the feast last till he shall gain the halls? Will fruits and wines still glow, will roses wait? What if, in vain your tender name he calls-- Entering late?

If he should fail, I see you still serene, Leaving the tables where the garlands die, Passing the fountained courts that intervene To the bright halls to bid the guests good-bye. O, Proud! O, Pure! Where weary stairs ascend I see you toil; your pallid candle shakes; The wan rose at your bosom, as you bend, Drops--faded flakes.

DEATH WITHIN DEATH

Thou wilt not smite him, Israfel? Prone on his little couch he lies, With the death-shadow in his eyes. He thirsts, for what, I cannot tell. Thou wilt not smite him, Israfel?

Thou must not smite him, Israfel. For all his race throbs in his fame, The sole hope of a noble name; That small hand like a tinted shell Holds high tradition, Israfel.

Thou canst not smite him, Israfel. He turns his asking eyes on me. I am his sun and moon and sea; My life tides in his life-tides swell. Thou canst not smite him, Israfel.

Since thou hast smitten, Israfel, Know this, thy sword so bitter keen Destroys a thing that might have been; Yet, smiting him, it was as well To kill my Soul, thou Israfel!

AT THE FLOWER-SHOW

A rosy haze misted the air, perfume Of flower-flesh, like flesh of white younglings, Fresh from a cool brook-bathing; gorse and broom, Spotted hibiscus, purple cyclamen-wings. Nimbus and halo floated in dewy gloom; Quirled chaliced orchids, jasmine’s jewelled strings Sprayed in warm aisles, in odorous room on room.

So quietly the human throng moved by, It had seemed tranced, and even the dullest face Was wistful, pensive, reverent of eye Wandering the trellised paths with dreamy pace; And there were soft communings, whispers shy-- Lovers at ease, seeing the leaves embrace. Thus was it that I witnessed rivalry, And rose-lipped envy in this blossom place.

“We are the most like you,” the young girls said. “Our bodies satin smooth have vernal dowers; Our hair gleams gold, our cheeks are sunshine fed; Like bud and calyx are our hidden powers.” Then was I, listening, rare astonished, Hearing disclaimer from the iris towers, Seeing demure, bright rose and lily head. “_You are not very like us_,” sighed the flowers.

Then there came women made of night and stars, Women of dusky eye and cirrus tress From whom men rush to wreckage and to wars, Frenzied of their inscrutable caress. “We are like you,” they said, “competitors For admiration; yea, in perfumed bowers” Negation from green-hooded councilors, “_You are not like us_,” soft condemned the flowers.

And then there drifted by hard graceless forms, Dull, rayless eyes, that looked, yet had no sense Of umbelled mysteries, of disks, and norms Of myriad seed-cells, witherings recompense; Unapprehending, they, of shining swarms, Of pollen flight from downcast petal showers, Nor guessed the Spell in seed-pod multiforms. “_These surely are not like us_” breathed the flowers.

Then came an old woman, worn and sorrow-wise. Creeping in slow persistance like a vine; And there were wells of light within her eyes; Her hair was milk-weed white. By every sign Of age, dried stalk of past fecundities. She was the silvern wraith of fair Design. “Yea, richly did I spend Life’s vivid hours; Mine has been Love and many children mine.” “_Verily, Sweet, thou’rt like us_,” smiled the flowers!

TALISMANS

Just now the Mother left me, and I stand Holding her trove, a sheaf of shining curl-- All that is left of “Once a little girl,” Alive and warm and glowing in my hand.

Like to a Seer gazing into space, I muse upon this silken treasure, where The coiled lights quicken, and I see the fair Woman-ward leaning of a childish face.

I see that face gaze down the crowded years, Quite unamazed, unchanged through all the stir To find the deep maternal heart of Her, Who gazes back all undeterred by tears.

I see the child eyes give their radiant speech Once more to mother-eyes that never failed; I see a heart that never yet has quailed Answer those eyes over the long years’ reach....

The Winter sun goes down; quick chills the air Outside my window.... While the West grows old, I stand in Sanctuary, for I hold Undying Faith, enshrined in golden hair.

SUBLIMINAL

I should like to be very lonely indeed-- Much lonelier than I am; With humbleness, like the humbleness of a weed, And simplicity like the sun, and no other need But to hold me free of pose and pretence and sham.

And then I should like to think such silent things, As only the flowers think; I should want the whole world to be greenly a wall of shine, And I, leaning over, swimming in dreams of mine, As a flower floats over a brink.

I should like to be very lonely indeed-- So the world would draw around me, Like a green cave flower lit, echo and shadow keyed, With a door that to naught but a path of clouds would lead, Or the bed in a blossoming tree.

And then I would pipe my thoughts so shyly out, And watch them dance, dryad dressed; I would talk to a bit of moss or an acorn sprout; I should drink all the stars and follow the darkness out, And bathe in the Sea of the West!

THE WALLED CITY

Here is the mass, you see it astray and astruggle, Deafened with noise, pushing and jestling along; Pleasure and envy and greed, in a feverish juggle, Outside the City of Song.

There are the Vapid, watching their hookah’s smoke-bubble; There are the slothful, drunk at the wells of wrong; At a scarlet booth is a Gypsy pleasing the rabble. Outside the City of Song.

Here are the credulous, cheated to death by a thimble; Here are the hungry stumbling on to the gong; Here stands a lover grasping a treacherous symbol, Outside the City of Song.

Whirl of pretense, of gilding, of tinsel, of glitter; Strange that its patter and laughter can keep up so long; Echo on echo of mocking and cat-call and twitter, Outside the City of Song.

Long is the road, that they travel and know not the turning; Black is the pit at the end, and the fear and the wrong; But bitterest, blackest, their last inescapable yearning For the lost City of Song.

While in its courts, where the fountains leap up to the zenith, Dreamers and poets and lovers go all the day long, Dazzled, and raptured with pondering all that it meaneth, To dwell in the City of Song.

ON LILY STREET, NANTUCKET

On Lily Street, where drowsy crickets hum, And two and two the summer lovers come, Straying so happily their island paths, Where the white candle flickers at a low-hung door, I see soft hooded figures cross a bit of moor-- Hurrying, eager, they-- To hear you play.

Now as the moonlight slants on whitened roof, And old New England still gives austere proof Of bygone things in narrowed window glass, The guests sit quiet in the panelled rooms Content with half lights and half tinted glooms, Because they know that they-- Shall hear you play.

And I who lean upon the leafy sill Feel moonlight dreaming change to vagrom thrill, And looking forth as on some lantern screen, See, flitting o’er the stark old house-wall nigh. Soft shadows of your vivid melody. So--in an eerie way I hear you play.

Till, on the house wall opposite my place I see wild Carmen’s bright poinsettia face; I see Grieg’s “Day break,” streaming up the sky. Upon the old Nantucket houses blank I watch Tannhouser’s Pilgrims climb in solemn rank, --Past windows grey--the while you play.

Long on the bare screen grieves the “Butterfly.” Then, as her Oriental sorrows die, Forth doth the “Earl King” ride; The Schumann “Warum” drops its pensive leaves, Macdowell’s “Sea” its toppling billow heaves, Chaminades, “Dancing Fay” Trips, as you play.

But ere your noble hands have given their gift Down on the town, the bells of Curfew drift, The candle gutters at the low-hung door. Yet, see; from this low window where I muse, All Lily Street doth spectrally suffuse, Glimmers each tiny pane. You call it “moonlight,” but I think that they The old Nantucketers, long passed away Peer forth to hear you play!

THE “BLIND” ROAD, NANTUCKET

If you would find Peace, and a lightened load, And wells of delicate, salt, sweet-fern air, And tranquil lines around you every where, Follow the “blind” Rut Road.

It leads to liberties of yellow gorse, To secret heather and to banks of bay; It winds along the ocean, and its course Is wet with wild sea-spray. It leads along the swamps, where honey-ball Hangs scented globes, where clethra scatters sweet, By holly hedge, where pheasants thread the tall Indigo plant, or flying sea-gulls meet.

It leads away from every fret and jar, From everything that hurts and stings and tries; Through green dwarf-pines, and hills of cinnebar, Marshaling grasses up to windswept skies.

If you would find Rest and forgetfulness and all things new, Take the Rut Road, and it will bring to you All dear forgotten things, things you see through, But that this road holds sacred, being “blind.”

THE END OF THE SEASON--NANTUCKET

The hotel building sees its doom, aghast, And all its windows fix in sullen stare, For no girl-voices ring on sunset air, And no bright-breasted youth goes speeding past. The latticed roses and the phlox have cast Their petals upon paths where lovers dreamed, And grey old streets, where gauzy figures streamed, Settle to lamp-lit quietness at last.

Yet there is endless romance on the moor; The hawks o’er wine-red hollows stretch their wings, Wild ducks loop Autumnward in ranging strings, And swallows balance round time-silvered door; High looms the bluff in castle like contour, And wear the beach the full white breasts of dunes Nourish sky-silence, while the sea communes With shells, a-quiver to the foam’s allure.

MOVING MILESTONES--NANTUCKET

Midnight, Black, and a wild sea of stars, A gold-white surf of stars whose sparkling foam Breaks into waves on occult ether bars, Where star-tides have their deep eternal home. All night the solemn Wonder sweeps me by; Arcturus, Vega, Spica cross the sky On one fixed path, by laws that do not change, Unfailing while all other laws derange.

Midnight, black; and a wild horde of fears, The brains half-knowledge and the hearts fierce pride Questions me cold and distant to my tears; Yet on my thought the old true Visions glide-- Tenderness, Truth, Unselfishness; their lights Travel the wastes and glimmer on the heights. So may I keep my way, whose avatars Gave me a path that leads beyond the Stars.

SOURCE

“If Beauty grows old, share it before it be gone, and if it abides, why fear to give away what thou dost keep?”

By the Alpheus, where the reeds are blown Aslant by winds that flick the tawny current, There runs a path that is all overgrown With low dwarf oaks and many a vine deterrent, Which leads past grain and broad mulberry trees To soft Olympia’s cool sanctities.

There, where the cypress makes a trancelike shade, White pillars gleam, and floors of old mosaic, Hold gemmy moss and tender bud and blade, In hints of bygone Pyrrhic and Trochic-- In those fresh petal rhythms which Nature keeps Like poems living where the poet sleeps.

And all about the place the Games go on. The buoyant clouds fly swift to wingéd races; One tall fir gives an Ode to Marathon, And down the temple paths young sunlight paces; And that strange rare Perfection, that is Greece, Here holds its happy spell of calm and Peace.

Dreaming Olympia, whose footpaths take Their secret way to temple and by column, Thou art so far away. The blue daybreak Is all war-reddened now, and the Vow solemn; Yet, incandescent in those aisles of pines, Thy same still tranquil beauty grayly shines.

And this is well, for after all the pain, And all the hate, and all the human blunder, How we shall need to bathe us once again In baths of pure Greek beauty! Ah! the wonder Hellas has ever held! Shall we not need That wonder to rebuke our shame and greed?

Sylvan Olympia, keep the untouched dream For years to come and for a noble future! Bind all thy classic pathways to one Theme Of Soaring Youth and starward high adventure! So shall thy dusks, when wistful feet come roaming; Mean always--world-pain healed, and spirits homing.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

Marks and the Palazzo Guistizia=>
Marks and the Palazzo Giustizia
{pg 13}

Giutsizia=>
Giustizia
{pg 19}

a wierd insistence=>
a weird insistence
{pg 20}

seista-hour=>
siesta-hour
{pg 22}

Wecome forestiere=>
Welcome forestiere
{pg 26}

war corrspondent=>
war correspondent
{pg 28}

scientic ways=>
scientific ways
{pg 47}

sends ship and men=>
sends ships and men
{pg 47}

fluttering Guidecca=>
fluttering Giudecca
{pg 60}

And gobules=>
And globules
{pg 76}

habors of the sky=>
harbors of the sky
{pg 76}

lilting rythm=>
lilting rhythm
{pg 99}

snowdorps quail=>
snowdrops quail
{pg 103}

Much lonlier=>
Much lonelier
{pg 119}