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Other documents randomly have
different content
 QUESTIONINGS
Forth from earth’s councils thou hast passed, O friend,
To those high circles where God’s angels are,
Angels that need no light of sun or star!
No eye may follow thee as thou dost wend
Thy lofty way where heaven’s pure heights ascend—
Above the reach of earthly fret or jar,
Where no rude touch the blissful peace can mar,
Where all harsh sounds in one soft concord blend.
What have ye seen, O beauty-loving eyes?
What have ye heard, O ears attuned to hear
And to interpret heaven’s high harmonies?
What problems hast thou solved, thou who with clear
Undaunted gaze didst search the farthest skies?
And dost thou still love on, O heart most dear?
 REMEMBRANCE
I do remind me how, when, by a bier,
I looked my last on an unanswering face
Serenely waiting for the grave’s embrace,
One who would fain have comforted said: “Dear,
This is the worst. Life’s bitterest drop is here.
Impartial fate has done you this one grace,
That till you go to your appointed place,
Or soon or late, there is no more to fear.”
It was not true, my soul! it was not true!
“Thou art not lost while I remember thee,
Lover and friend!” I cry, with bated breath.
What if the years, slow-creeping like the blue,
Resistless tide, should blot that face from me?
Not to remember would be worse than death!
 IN THE HIGH TOWER
Safe in the high tower of thy love I wait,
Secure and still whatever winds may blow,
Although no more thy banners, bending low,
Salute me from afar, when, all elate,
I haste to meet thee at the postern-gate.
No more I hear thy trumpet’s eager flow
Through the far, listening silence come and go
To greet me where I bide in lonely state.
Thy King hath sent thee on some high emprise,
Some lofty embassage, some noble quest,
To a strange land whence cometh sound nor sign.
Yet evermore I lift my tranquil eyes,
Knowing that Love but doeth Love’s behest—
Afar or near, my dear lord still is mine!
AFTERNOON SONGS
 FOUR-O’CLOCKS
It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago
Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn
It blew so gayly on the hills of morn,
And fainted in the noontide’s fervid glow.

Gone are the dew-drops from the rose’s heart—

Gone with the freshness of the early hours,
The songs that filled the air with silver showers,
The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.

Yet still in tender light the garden lies;

The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low;
Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro;
The peace of heaven is in the o’erarching skies.

And here be four-o’clocks, just opening wide

Their many colored petals to the sun,
As glad to live as if the evening dun
Were far away, and morning had not died!
A DREAM OF SONGS UNSUNG
Whence it came I did not know,
How it came I could not tell,
But I heard the music flow
Like the pealing of a bell;
Up and down the wild-wood arches,
Through the sombre firs and larches,
Long I heard it rise and swell;
Long I lay, with half-shut eyes,
Wrapped in dreams of Paradise!

Then the wondrous music poured

Yet a fuller, stronger strain,
Till my soul in rapture soared
Out of reach of toil and pain!
Then, oh then, I know not how,
Then, oh then, I know not where,
I was borne, serene and slow,
Through the boundless fields of air—
Past the sunset’s golden bars,
Past long ranks of glittering stars,
To a realm where time was not,
And its secrets were forgot!

Land of shadows, who may know

Where thy golden lilies blow?
Land of shadows, on what star
In the blue depths shining far,
Or in what appointed place
In the unmeasured realms of space,
High as heaven, or deep as hell,
Thou dost lie what tongue can tell?
Send from out thy mystic portals
With the holy chrism to-day,
One of all thy high immortals
Who shall teach me what to say!
O beloveds, all the air
Was a faint, ethereal mist
Touched with rose and amethyst—
Glints of gold, and here and there
Purple splendors that were gone,
Like the glory of the dawn,
Ere one caught them. Soft and gray,
Lit by many a pearly ray,
Were the low skies bending dim
To the far horizon’s rim;
And the landscape stretched away,
Fair, illusive, like a dream
Wherein all things do but seem!
There were mountains, but they rose
O’er the subtile vale’s repose,
Light as clouds that far and high
Soar to meet the untroubled sky.
There were trees that overhead
Wide their sheltering branches spread,
Yet were empty as the shade
By the quivering vine-leaves made.
There were roses, rich with bloom,
Swinging censers of perfume
Sweet as fragrant winds of May
Blowing through spring’s secret bowers;
Yet so phantom-like were they
That they seemed the ghosts of flowers.

Oh, the music sweet and strange

In that land’s enchanted range!
Like the pealing of the bells
When the brazen flowers are swinging
And the angelus is ringing,
Soaring, echoing, far and near,
Through the vales and up the dells—
Softly on the enraptured ear
So t y o t e e aptu ed ea
A melodious murmur swells!
As the rhythm of the river
Day and night goes on forever,
So that pulsing stream of song
Rolls its silver waves along.
Even silence is but sound,
Deeper, softer, more profound!

All the portals were thrown wide!

Stretching far on either side
Ran the streets, like silver mist,
By the moon’s pale splendor kissed;
And adown the shadowy way,
Forth from many a still retreat,
One by one, and two by two,
Or in goodly companies;
Gliding on in long array,
Light and fleet, with silent feet,
One by one, and two by two,
Phantoms that I could not number,
Countless as the wraiths of slumber,
Passed before my wondering eyes!

Then I grew aware of one

Standing by me in the dun,
Gray half-twilight. All the place
Grew softly radiant; but his face,
Albeit unveiled, I could not see
For the awe that compassed me.
Swift I spoke, by longings swayed
Deeper than my words betrayed:
“Master,” with clasped hands I prayed,
“Who are these? Are they the dead?”
“Nay, they never lived,” he said;
“Whence art thou? How camest thou here?”
Low I answered, then, in fear:
“Sir, I know not; as I lay
Dreaming at the close of day,
Wondrous music, thrilling through me,
To this land of phantoms drew me,
Though I knew not how or why,
Even as instinct draws the bird
Where Spring’s far-off voice is heard.
Tell me, Master, where am I?”
“Thou art in the border-land,
On the farthest, utmost strand
Of the sea that lies between
All that is and is not seen.
Thou art where the wraiths of song
Come and go, a phantom throng.
’Tis their heart’s melodious beat
Fills the air with whispers sweet!
These, O child, are songs unsung—
Songs unbreathed by human tongue;
These are they that all in vain
Mightiest masters wooed amain—
Children of their heart and brain
That they could not warm to life
By their being’s utmost strife.
Every bard that ever sung
Since the hoary earth was young
Knew the song he could not sing
Was his soul’s best blossoming,
Knew the thought he could not hold
Shrined his spirit’s purest gold.
Look!”
Where rose the city’s gate
In majestic, sculptured state,
From a far-off battle-plain,
Through the javelins’ silver rain
Bearing buckler, lance, and shield,
And their standard’s glittering field,
Eager, yet with shout nor din,
Came a great host trooping in.
Burned their eyes with martial fire,
And the glow of proud desire,
Such as gods and hero’s filled
When their mighty souls were thrilled
By old Homer’s golden lyre!

Under dim cathedral arches

Pacing sad, pacing slow,
As to beat of funeral marches
Or to music’s rhythmic flow—
With their solemn brows uplifted,
And their hands upon their breasts,
Where the deepest shadows drifted,
One by one pale phantoms pressed.
Lost in dreams of heights supernal,
Mystic dreams of Paradise,
Or of woful depths infernal,
Slow they passed before mine eyes.
Oh, the vision’s pallid splendor!
Oh, the grandeur of their mien—
Kin, by birthright proud and tender,
To the matchless Florentine!
In stately solitude,
Whereon might none intrude—
Majestic, grand and calm,
And bearing each the palm;
Dwelling, serene and fair,
In most enchanted air,
Where softest music crept
O’er harp-strings deftly swept,
And organ-thunders rolled
Like storm-winds through the wold,
They stood in strength sublime
Beyond the bounds of time—
Th h h db t
They who had been a part
Of Milton’s mighty heart!

And where, mysterious ones,

Are Shakespeare’s princely sons,
Bearing in lavish hands
The spoil of many lands?
From castles lifted far
Against the evening star,
Where royal banners float
O’er rampart, tower, and moat,
And the white moonlight sleeps
Upon the Donjon keeps;
From fairy-haunted dells
Among the lonely fells;
From banks where wild thyme grows
And the blue violet blows;
From caverns grim, and caves
Lashed by the deep sea-waves;
From darkling forest shade,
From busy haunts of trade,
From market, court, and camp,
Where folly rings her bells,
Or sorrow tolls her knells,
Or where in cloister cells
The scholar trims his lamp—
Wearing the sword, the gown,
The motley of the clown,
The beggar’s rags, the dole
Of the remorseful soul,
The wedding-robe, the ring,
The shroud’s white blossoming,
O myriad-minded man,
Thus thine immortal clan
Passed down the endless ways
Of the eternal days!
Then said I to my spirit:
“These are they who wore the crown;
Well the king’s sons may inherit
All his glory and renown.
Where are they—the songs unsung
By the humbler bards whose lyres
Through earth’s lowly vales have rung,
Like the notes of woodland choirs?
They whose silver-sandalled feet
Never climbed the clouds to meet?”

Where?—The air grew full of laughter

Low and sweet, and following after
Came the softest breath of singing
As if lily bells were ringing;
And from all the happy closes,
Crowned with daisies, crowned with roses,
Bearing woodland ferns for palm-boughs in their hands,
From the dim secluded places,
Through the wide enchanted spaces,
With their song-illumined faces
Swept the shadowy minstrel bands!

Songs unsung, the high and lowly,

Songs, the holy and unholy,
In that purest air grown wholly
Clean from every spot and stain!
And I knew as endless ages
Still were turning life’s full pages,
Each should find his own again—
Find the song he could not sing,
As his soul’s best blossoming!
QUESTIONING A ROSE
It was fair, it was sweet,
And it blossomed at my feet.
“O thou peerless rose!” I said,
“Art thou heir to roses dead—
Roses that their petals shed
In the winds of long ago?
Who bequeathed to thee the glow
Of thy perfect, radiant heart?
What proud queen of fire and snow
Lived to make thee what thou art?

Who gave thee thy nameless grace

And the beauty of thy face,
Touched thy lips with fragrant wine,
Pledging thee in cups divine?
On some long-forgotten day,
When earth kept glad holiday,
One bright rose was born, I think,
Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink—
Born, more blest than others are,
To be thy progenitor!

Oh, the roses that have died

In the unremembered Junes!
Oh, the roses that have sighed
Unto long-forgotten runes!
Dost thou know their secrets dear?
Have they whispered in thine ear
Mysteries of the rain and dew,
And the sunshine that they knew?
Have they told thee how the breeze
Wooed them, and the amorous bees?

Silent, art thou? Thy repose

Mocks me, yet I fain would know
Art thou kin to one rare rose
Art thou kin to one rare rose
Of a summer long ago?
It was sweet, it was fair;
Someone twined it in my hair,
When my young cheek, blushing red,
Shamed the roses, someone said.
Dust and ashes though it be,
Still its soul lives on in thee.”
THE FALLOW FIELD
The sun comes up and the sun goes down;
The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town;
But if it be dark or if it be day,
If the tempests beat or the breezes play,
Still here on this upland slope I lie,
Looking up to the changeful sky.

Naught am I but a fallow field;

Never a crop my acres yield.
Over the wall at my right hand
Stately and green the corn-blades stand,
And I hear at my left the flying feet
Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat.

Often while yet the morn is red

I list for our master’s eager tread.
He smiles at the young corn’s towering height,
He knows the wheat is a goodly sight,
But he glances not at the fallow field
Whose idle acres no wealth may yield.

Sometimes the shout of the harvesters

The sleeping pulse of my being stirs,
And as one in a dream I seem to feel
The sweep and the rush of the swinging steel,
Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain
As they heap their wains with the golden grain.

Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud,

Though on every tongue your praise is loud.
Our mother Nature is kind to me,
And I am beloved by bird and bee,
And never a child that passes by
But turns upon me a grateful eye.

Over my head the skies are blue;

I have my share of the rain and dew;
I bask like you in the summer sun
When the long bright days pass, one by one,
And calm as yours is my sweet repose
Wrapped in the warmth of the winter snows.

For little our loving mother cares

Which the corn or the daisy bears,
Which is rich with the ripening wheat,
Which with the violet’s breath is sweet,
Which is red with the clover bloom,
Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room.

Useless under the summer sky

Year after year men say I lie.
Little they know what strength of mine
I give to the trailing blackberry vine;
Little they know how the wild grape grows,
Or how my life-blood flushes the rose.

Little they think of the cups I fill

For the mosses creeping under the hill;
Little they think of the feast I spread
For the wild wee creatures that must be fed:
Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee,
And the creeping things that no eye may see.

Lord of the harvest, thou dost know

How the summers and winters go.
Never a ship sails east or west
Laden with treasures at my behest,
Yet my being thrills to the voice of God
When I give my gold to the golden-rod.
 OUT AND IN
A ship went sailing out to sea,
A gallant ship and gay,
When skies were bright as skies could be,
One sunny morn in May.
The light winds blew,
The white sails flew,
The pennants floated far;
No stain I saw,
Nor any flaw,
From deck to shining spar!
And from the prow, with eager eyes,
Hope gazed afar—to Paradise.

A ship came laboring in from sea,

One wild December night;
Ah! never ship was borne to lee
In sadder, sorrier plight!
Rent were her sails
By furious gales,
No pennants floated far;
Twisted and torn
And all forlorn
Were shuddering mast and spar!
But from the prow Faith’s steady eyes
Caught the near light of Paradise!
HER FLOWERS
 “Nay, nay,” she whispered low,
“I will not have these buds of folded snow,
Nor yet the pallid bloom
Of the chill tuberose, heavy with perfume,
Nor lilies waxen white,
To go with her into the grave’s dark night.

But now that she is dead

Bring ye the royal roses blushing red,
Roses that on her breast
All summer long, by these pale hands caressed,
Have lain in happy calm,
Breathing their lives away in bloom and balm!”

Roses for all the joy

Of perfect hours when life had no alloy;
When hope was glad and gay,
And young Love sang his blissful roundelay;
And to her eager eyes
Each new day oped the gates of Paradise.

But, for that she hath wept,

And over buried hopes long vigil kept,
Bring mystic passion-flowers,
To tell the tale of sacrificial hours
When, lifting up her cross,
She bore it bravely on through pain and loss!

Then at her blessèd feet,

That never more shall haste on errands sweet,
Lay fragrant mignonette
And fair sweet-peas in dainty garlands set,—
Dear humble flowers, that make
Each passer-by the gladder for their sake!

For she who lieth here

Trod not alone the high paths shining clear,
With light of star and sun
Falling undimmed her lofty place upon;
But stooped to lowliest ways,
Filling with fragrance all the passing days!
THREE LADDIES
O sailors sailing north,
Where the wild white surges roar,
And fierce winds and strong winds
Blow down from Labrador—
Have you seen my three brave laddies,
My merry red-cheeked laddies,
Three bold, adventurous laddies,
On some tempestuous shore?

O sailors sailing south,

Where the seas are calm and blue,
And light clouds and soft clouds
Are floating over you,
Say, have you seen my laddies,
My three bright, winsome laddies,
My brown-haired, smiling laddies,
With hearts so leal and true?

O sailors sailing east,

Ask the sea-gulls sweeping by;
O sailors sailing west,
Ask the eagles soaring high,
If they have seen my laddies,
My careless, heedless laddies,
Three debonair young laddies,
Beneath the wide, wide sky?

O sailors, if you find them,

Pray send them back to me;
For them the winds go sighing
Through every lonely tree—
For these three wandering laddies,
My tender, bright-eyed laddies,
The laughter-loving laddies,
Whom they no longer see.
There are three men who love me,
Three men with bearded lips;
But oh! ye gallant sailors
Who sail the sea in ships—
In elf-land, or in cloud-land,
Or on the dreamland shore,
Can you find the little laddies
Whom I can find no more?
Three quiet, thoughtful laddies,
Three merry, winsome laddies,
Three rollicking, frolicking laddies,
On any far-off shore?
 SUMMER, 1882

R. W. E.
O Summer, thou fair laggard, where art thou?
In what far sunlit land of balm and bloom,
What slumbrous bowers of beauty and perfume,
Are roses crowning thine imperial brow?

Where art thou, Summer? We should see thy feet

Even now upon the mountains. All the hills
Rise up to greet thee. Nature’s great heart thrills,
Faint with expectant joy. Where art thou, sweet?

And Summer answered: “Lo! I wait! I wait!

To the far North I bend my listening ear;
By day, by night, my soul keeps watch to hear
One high, clear strain that rises soon nor late!

Why should I haste where light and song have fled?

The ‘Woodnotes’ wake no more the Master’s lyre;
The ‘haughty day’ fills no ‘blue urn with fire’
When its great lover lieth cold and dead!”
 THORNLESS ROSES
“No rose may bloom without a thorn?”
Come down the garden paths and see
How brightly in the scented air
They bloom for you and me!

See how, like rosy clouds, they lie

Against the perfect, stainless blue!
See how they toss their airy heads,
And smile for me, for you!

No scanty largess, meanly doled—

No pallid blooms, by two, by three,
But a whole crowd of pink-white wings
Fluttering for you and me.

So fair they are I cannot choose;

I pluck the rich spoils here and there;
I heap them on your waiting arms;
I twine them in your hair.

There is no thorn among them all—

No sharp sting in the heart of bliss—
No bitter in the honeyed cup—
No burning in the kiss.

Nay, quote the proverb if you must,

And mock the truth you will not see;
Nathless, Love’s thornless roses blow
Somewhere for you and me.
TREASURE-SHIPS
O beautiful, stately ships,
Ye come from over the seas,
With every sail full spread
To the glad, rejoicing breeze!
Ye come from the dusky East,
Ye come from the golden West,
As birds that out of the far blue sky
Fly each to its sheltered nest.

All spoils of the earth ye bring;

From the isles of far Cathay,
From the fabled shores of the Orient,
The realms of eternal day.
The prisoned light of a thousand gems,
The gleam of the virgin gold,
Lustre of silver, and sheen of pearl,
Shut up in the narrow hold.

Shawls from the looms of Ispahan;

Ivory white as milk;
Shimmer of satin and rare brocade,
And fold upon fold of silk;
Gauzes that India’s maidens wear;
Spices, and rare perfumes;
Fruits that hold in their honeyed cups
The wealth of the summer blooms.

The blood of a thousand vines;

The cotton’s drifted snow;
The fragrant heart of the precious woods
That deep in the tropics grow;
The strength of the giant hills;
The might of the iron ore;
The golden corn, and the yellow wheat
From earth’s broad threshing-floor.
Yet, O ye beautiful ships!
There are ships that come not back,
With flying pennant and swelling sail,
Over yon shining track!
Who can reckon their precious stores,
Or measure the might have been?
Who can tell what they held for us—
The ships that will ne’er come in?
CHOOSING
Meadow-sweet or lily fair—
Which shall it be?
Clematis or brier-rose,
Blooming for me?
Spicy pink, or violet
With the dews of morning wet,
Sweet peas or mignonette—
Which shall it be?

Flowers in the garden-beds,

Flowers everywhere;
Blue-bells and yellow-bells
Swinging in the air;
Purple pansies, golden pied;
Pink-white daisies, starry-eyed;
Gay nasturtiums, deeply dyed,
Climbing everywhere!

Oh, the roses darkly red—

See, how they burn!
Glows with all the summer heat
Each crimson urn.
Bridal roses pure as snow,
Yellow roses all a-blow,
Sweet blush-roses drooping low,
Wheresoe’er I turn!

Life is so full, so sweet—

How can I choose?
If I gather this rose,
That I must lose!
All are not for me to wear;
I can only have my share;
Thorns are hiding here and there;
How can I choose?
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