Poems

Front matter

BY

ILLVSTRATED

ROBERTS·BROTHERS

A Christmas Symphony

We are but humble, so we On through the night, sheep, And with the stars. Between us and the east, No wall, no tree, no cloud, lifts bar. We know the sunrise. Not one least Of all its tokens can escape Our eyes that watch. But all days are As nights, and nights as days, In our still ways. We have no dread of any shape Which darkness can assume or fill; We are not weary; we can wait; God's hours are never late. The wise men say they will return, Revealing unto us the things they learn. Mayhap! Meantime the Star stands still; And, having that, we have the Sign. If we mistake, God is divine!

<>II.

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, Oh, not alone because Judea waits This man-child for her King, the Star stands still. Its glory reinstates, Beyond humiliation's utmost ill, On peerless throne, which she alone can fill, Each earthly woman. Motherhood is priced Of God, at price no man may dare To lessen, or misunderstand. The motherhood which came To virgin sets in vestal flame,

Fed by each new-born infant's hand, With Heaven's air, With Heaven's food, The crown of purest purity revealed, Virginity eternal signed and sealed Upon all motherhood!

<>III.

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, Oh, not alone because Judea waits This man-child for her King, the Star stands still. The Babe has mates. Childhood shall be forever on the earth; And no man who has hurt or lightly priced So much as one sweet hair On one sweet infant's head, But shall be cursed! Henceforth all things fulfil Protection to each sacred birth. No spot shall dare Refuse a shelter. Beasts shall tread More lightly; and distress, And poverty, and loneliness, Yea, and all darkness, shall devise To shield each place wherein an infant lies. And wisdom shall come seeking it with gift, And worship it with myrrh and frankincense; And kings shall tremble if it lift Its hand against a throne. But mighty in its own Great feebleness, and safe in God's defence, No harm can touch it, and no death can kill, Without its Father's will!

<>IV.

Oh, not alone because His name is Christ, Oh, not alone because Judea waits This man-child for her King, the Star stands still. The universe must utter, and fulfil The mighty voice which states, The mighty destiny which holds, Its key-note and its ultimate design. Waste places and the deserts must perceive That they are priced, No less than gardens in the Heart Divine. Sorrow her sorrowing must leave, And learn one sign With joy. And Loss and Gain Must be no more. And all things which have gone before, And all things which remain, And all of Life, and all of Death be slain In mighty birth, whose name Is called Redemption! Praise! Praise to God! The same To-day and yesterday, and in all days Forever! Praise!

<>V.

Oh, Christmas stars! Your pregnant silentness, Mute syllabled in rhythmic light, Fills all the night. No doubt, on all your golden shores, Full music rings Of Happiness As sweet as ours.

Midway in that great tideless stream which pours, And builds its shining road through trackless space, From you to us, and us to you, must be Some mystic place, Where all our voices meet, and melt Into this solemn silence which is felt, And sense of sound mysterious brings Where sound is not. This is God's secret. He Sits centred in his myriads of skies, Where seas of sound and seas of silence rise, And break together in one note and key, Divinely limitless in harmony!

Spinning

I know wild storms And fear that I Shall fall; but dare not try to find A safer place, since I am blind.

I know not why, but I am sure That tint and place, In some great fabric to endure Past time and race My threads will have; so from the first, Though blind, I never felt accurst.

I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung From one short word Said over me when I was young,— So young, I heard It, knowing not that God's name signed My brow, and sealed me his, though blind.

But whether this be seal or sign Within, without, It matters not. The bond divine I never doubt. I know he set me here, and still, And glad, and blind, I wait His will;

But listen, listen, day by day, To hear their tread Who bear the finished web away, And cut the thread, And bring God's message in the sun, "Thou poor blind spinner, work is done."

My Legacy

I heard men name his name in many ways; I saw his temples plainly; But they who named him most gave me no sign To find him by, or prove the heirship mine.

And when at last I stood before his face, I knew him by no token Save subtle air of joy which filled the place; Our greeting was not spoken; In solemn silence I received my share, Kneeling before my brother and "joint heir."

My share! No deed of house or spreading lands, As I had dreamed; no measure Heaped up with gold; my elder brother's hands Had never held such treasure. Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are fed: My brother had not where to lay his head.

My share! The right like him to know all pain Which hearts are made for knowing; The right to find in loss the surest gain To reap my joy from sowing In bitter tears; the right with him to keep A watch by day and night with all who weep.

My share! To-day men call it grief and death; I see the joy and life to-morrow; I thank our Father with my every breath, For this sweet legacy of sorrow; And through my tears I call to each, "Joint heir With Christ, make haste to ask him for thy share."

Love's Largess

More true and sure Each man's heart seems, more firm for right; Each man I hold more strong in fight, Since he stands ever in my sight, So brave, so pure.

More of sun's fire Than days can use, and more than nights Can name, of stars with rhythmic lights, And sweetest singing flocks, whose flights Can never tire,—

More bloom than eyes Can reach, or hands to grasp may dare,— More music in the constant air, Than each round wave can hold and bear, Before it dies,—

And more of life For living, than all death can kill, More good than evil's utmost will Can thwart, and peace to more than still The fiercest strife—

All these I find In service of this gracious king; From goods we spare, such alms I fling; And pray swift days more hours to bring, More bonds to bind.

O happiness! To utter thee, in vain our eyes Seek tears; and vainly all speech tries; This thing alone our king denies In Love's largess.

My Days

Beyond this honoring, no wage I ask. Then, ere I know, sweet night slips in her stead, And, while by sunset fires I rest and bask, Warm to her faithful breast she folds my head.

My Lighthouses

Some secret of that meeting, which no sign Can show to eyes so far and dim as mine.

More ships than I can count build mast by mast Gay lattice-work with waving green and red Across my window-panes. The voyage past, They crowd to anchorage so glad, so fast, Gliding like ghosts, with noiseless breath and tread, Mooring like ghosts, with noiseless iron and lead.

"O ships and patient men who fare by sea," I stretch my hands and vainly questioning cry, "Sailed ye from west? How many nights could ye Tell by the lights just where my dear and free And lovely land lay sleeping? Passed ye by Some danger safe, because her fires were nigh?"

Ah me! my selfish yearning thoughts forget How darkness but a hand's-breadth from the coast With danger in an evil league is set! Ah! helpless ships and men more helpless vet, Who trust the land-lights' short and empty boast: The lights ye bear aloft and prayers avail ye most.

But I—ah, patient men who fare by sea, Ye would but smile to hear this empty speech,— I have such beacon-lights to burn for me, In that dear west so lovely, new, and free, That evil league by day, by night, can teach No spell whose harm my little bark can reach.

ppoem| start=stanza| No towers of stone uphold those beacon-lights; No distance hides them, and no storm can shake; In valleys they light up the darkest nights, They outshine sunny days on sunny heights; They blaze from every house where sleep or wake My own who love me for my own poor sake.

Each thought they think of me lights road of flame Across the seas; no travel on it tires My heart. I go if they but speak my name; From Heaven I should come and go the same, And find this glow forestalling my desires. My darlings, do you hear me? Trim the fires!

{sm}Genoa, November 30.

The Prince is dead

They dare not look where the cradle is set; They hate the sunbeam which plays on the floor, But will make the baby laugh out no more; They feel as if they were turning to stone, They wish the neighbors would leave them alone. The Prince is dead.

A Funeral March

Is justified. Oh, why did they abide This time, these restless ghosts, which glide, Accompanying him? Can they go in Unquestioned, and confront him in the grave, And answers win From dead lips which the live lips never gave? Will they return across the churchyard gate With us, weeping with us, "Too late! too late!" Or are they dead, as he is dead? And when the burial rites are said, Will they lie down, the resurrection to await?

<>III.

With dumb, pathetic look the poor beasts go At unaccustomed pace to suit our woe; Uncomprehending equally Or what a grief or what a joy may be. House after house where life makes glad We bear him past, who all of life has had. And men's and women's wistful eyes Look out on us in sorrow and surprise, For all men are of kin to one who dies.

<>IV.

Eager the light grass bends To let us pass, but springs again and waves To hide our footsteps; not a flower saves Its blossoming, or sends One odor less, as we go by; And never seemed the shining sky

So full of birds and songs before. Whole tribes of yellow butterflies Dart mockingly and wheel and soar, Making it only seem the more Impossible, this human death which lies Silent beneath their dance who live One day and die. Noiseless and swift, Winged seeds come through the air, and drift Down on the dead man's breast. They shall go with him into rest, And in the resurrection of the Spring To his low grave shall give The beauty of some green and flowering thing.

<>V.

The glittering sun moves slowly overhead, It seems in rhythmic motion with our tread, Confronting us with its relentless, hot, Unswerving, blinding ray; Then, sparing not One subtle torture, it makes haste to lay A ghastly shadow all along the way Of formless, soundless wheel and lifeless plume, All empty shapes in semblance of our gloom, Creeping along at our slow pace, Not for one moment nor in any place Forsaking us, nor ceasing to repeat In taunting lines the faltering of our feet; Laying, lifting, in a mocking breath, Mocking shadows of the shadow of Death.

<>VI.

But now comes silent joy, anointing With sudden, firm, and tender hand Our eyes; anointed with this clay Of burial earth, we see how stand Around us, marshalled under God's appointing, Such shining ones as on no other day Descend. We see, with a majestic face, Of love ineffable, One walking in chief place Beside the dead,—High Priest Of his salvation, King Of his surrender, comrade till life ceased, Saviour from suffering,— O sweet, strong, loving Death! With yearning, pitying breath, He looks back from his dead to us, and saith, "O mine who love me not, what filled Your hearts with this strange fear? Could ye but hear The new voice of this man whom I have willed To set so free, to make Him subject in my kingdom, for the sake Of being greater king than I, Reigning with Christ eternally!"

<>VII.

Closer and closer press the shining ones; Clearer and clearer grow the notes Of music from the heavenly throats. We see the gleaming of the precious stones

Which set the Gate of Life. King's Sons Throng out to meet the man we bring; We hear his voice in entering: "Oh! see how all these weep Who come with me! Must they return? Oh! send swift messenger to Christ, and see If He will bid you keep Them too!" Scarce we discern From distant Heaven where Christ sits and hears, The tender whispered voice, in which he saith, "My faithful servant, Death, is Lord of death: My days must be a thousand years."

<>VIII.

The Gate of Life swings close. All have gone in; Majestic Death, his freedman following; And all those ghostly shapes, the next of kin, Their deeds, which were and were not, rendering; And tender Joy and Grief, Bearing in one pale sheaf Their harvest; and the shining ones who come And go continually. Alone and silently, We take the road again that leads us home. The mother has no more a son; The wife no husband; and the child No father. Yet around the woman's days Immortal loverhood lights blaze

Of deathless fires; and never mother smiled Like her who smiles forever, seeing one Immortal child, for whom immortal fatherhood Beseeches and receives eternal good. And days that were not full are filled; And with triumphant breath, Mighty to cheer and save, The voices ring which once were stilled, The pulses beat which once were chilled, "Life is the victory of the grave, Christ is Lord of the Lord of Death!"

Joy

No soul could be At peace when it had entered in my house, If the foundations it could touch or see, Which stay the pillars of my house!

"Spoken"

In instant comes the sun and lights The ship with fire; Each mast creeps up to dizzy heights, A blazing spire; One faint "Ahoy," then all in vain We look; we are alone again.

I have forgotten bells and lights, And waves which drank Their jewels up; those days and nights Which rose and sank Have turned like other pasts, and fled, And carried with them all their dead.

But every day that fire ship lights My distant blue, And every day glad wonder smites My heart anew, How in that instant each could heed And hear the other's swift God-speed.

Counting by hours thy days and nights In weariness, O patient soul, on godlike heights Of loneliness, I passed thee by; tears filled our eyes; The loud winds mocked and drowned our cries.

The hours go by, with bells and lights; We sail, we drift; Our souls in changing tasks and rites, Find work and shrift. But this I pray, and praying know 'Till faith almost to joy can grow.

That hour by hour the bells, the lights Of sound of flame Weave spell which ceaselessly recites To thee a name, And smiles which thou canst not forget For thee are suns which never set.

The Way to sing

By snatches through his weary brain To help him rest; When next he goes that road again, An empty nest On leafless bough will make him sigh, "Ah me! last spring Just here I heard, in passing by, That rare bird sing!"

But while he sighs, remembering How sweet the song, The little bird on tireless wing, Is borne along In other air, and other men With weary feet, On other roads, the simple strain Are finding sweet. The birds must know. Who wisely sings Will sing as they; The common air has generous wings, Songs make their way.

The True Ballad of the King's Singer

When sunset turned the hills all red, The royal hunt went still and slow; The king's great horse with weary tread Plunged ankle-deep in snow.

Sudden a strain of music sweet, Unearthly sweet, came through the wood; Up sprang the king, and on both feet Straight in his saddle stood.

"Now, by our lady, be it bird, Or be it man or elf who plays, Never before my ears have heard A music fit for praise!"

Sullen and tired, the royal hunt Followed the king, who tracked the song, Unthinking, as is royal wont, How hard the way and long.

Stretched on a rock the shepherd lay And dreamed and piped, and dreamed and sang, And careless heard the shout and bay With which the echoes rang.

"Up, man! the king!" the hunters cried. He slowly stood, and, wondering, Turned honest eyes from side to side: To him, each looked like king.

Strange shyness seized the king's bold tongue; He saw how easy to displease This savage man who stood among His courtiers, so at ease.

But kings have silver speech to use When on their pleasure they are bent; The simple shepherd could not choose; Like one in dream he went.

O hear! O hear! The ringing sound Of twenty trumpets swept the street, The king a minstrel now has found, For royal music meet.

With cloth of gold, and cloth of red, And woman's eyes the place is bright. "Now, shepherd, sing," the king has said, "The song you sang last night!"

One faint sound stirs the perfumed air, The courtiers scornfully look down; The shepherd kneels in dumb despair, Seeing the king's dark frown.

The king is just; the king will wait. "Ho, guards! let him be gently led, Let him grow used to royal state,— To being housed and fed."

All night the king unquiet lay, Racked by his dream's presentiment; Then rose in haste at break of day, And for the shepherd sent.

"Ho now, thou beast, thou savage man, How sound thou sleepest, not to hear!" They jeering laughed, but soon began To louder call in fear.

They wrenched the bolts; unrumpled stood The princely bed all silken fine, Untouched the plates of royal food, The flask of royal wine!

The costly robes strewn on the floor, The chamber empty, ghastly still; The guards stood trembling at the door, And dared not cross the sill.

All night the sentinels their round Had kept. No man could pass that way. The window dizzy high from ground; Below, the deep moat lay.

They crossed themselves. "The foul fiend lurks In this," they said. They did not know The miracles sweet Freedom works, To let her children go.

It was the fiend himself who took That shepherd's shape to pipe and sing; And every man with terror shook, For who would tell the king!

The heads of men all innocent Rolled in the dust that day; And east and west the bloodhounds went, Baying their dreadful bay;

Safe on a snow too far, too high, For scent of dogs or feet of men, The shepherd watched the clouds sail by, And dreamed and sang again;

And crossed himself, and knelt and cried, And kissed the holy Edelweiss, Believing that the fiends had tried To buy him with a price.

The king rides fast, the king rides well; The summer hunts go loud and gay; The courtiers, who this tale can tell, Are getting old and gray.

But still they say it was a fiend That took a shepherd's shape to sing, For still the king's heart is not weaned To care for other thing.

Great minstrels come from far and near, He will not let them sing or play, But waits and listens still to hear The song he heard that day.

Œnone

"Sweet love, lost love, I know now why I live And could not die, the days I wished me dead; O love, all strength of life and joy I give Thee back! Ah me, that I have dared to strive With fates that bore me to this one sure bliss, Thou couldst not rob me, O lost love, of this?"—

Hadst thou said this, Œnone, though he went Bounding with life, thy life, and left thee there Dying and glad, such sudden pain had rent His heart, that even beating in the fair White arms of Helen, hid in her sweet hair, It had made always moan, in strange unrest, "Œnone's love was greater love, was best."

["Paris, the son of Priam, was wounded by one of the poisoned arrows of Hercules that Philoctetes bore to the siege of Troy, whereupon he had himself borne up into Ida, that he might see the nymph Œnone, whom he once had loved, because she who knew many secret things alone could heal him; but when he had seen her and spoken with her, she would deal with the matter in no wise, whereupon Pans died of that hurt."]

The Loneliness of Sorrow

But through all crowds of strangers and of friends, Among all voices of good-will and cheer, Walks Sorrow, silently, and does not hear. Like hermit whom mere loneliness defends; Like one born deaf, to whose still ear sound sends No word of message; and like one born dumb, From whose sealed lips complaint can never come.

Majestic in its patience, and more sweet Than all things else that can of souls have birth, Bearing the one redemption of this earth Which God's eternities fulfil, complete, Down to its grave, with steadfast, tireless feet It goes uncomforted, serene, alone, And leaves not even name on any stone.

A Ballad of the Gold Country

"Comrades, your dreams have many shapes," Said one who, thoughtful, sat apart: "But I six nights have dreamed of grapes, One dream which fills my heart.

"A woman meets me, crowned with vine; Great purple clusters fill her hands; Her eyes divinely smile and shine, As beckoning she stands.

"I follow her a single pace; She vanishes, like light or sound, And leaves me in a vine-walled place, Where grapes pile all the ground."

The comrades laughed: "We know thee by This fevered, drunken dream of thine." "Ha, ha," cried he, "never have I So much as tasted wine!

"Now, follow ye your luring shapes Of gold that clinks and gold that shines; I shall await my maid of grapes, And plant her trees and vines."

All through the hills the gold sand burned; All through the lands ran yellow streams; To right, to left, the seekers turned, Led by the golden gleams.

The ruddy hills were gulfed and strained; The rocky fields were torn and trenched; The yellow streams were drained and drained, Until their sources quenched.

The gold came fast; the gold came free: The seekers shouted as they ran, "Now let us turn aside, and see How fares that husbandman!"

"Ho here! ho there! good man," they cried, And tossed gold nuggets at his feet; "Serve us with wine! Where is thy bride That told thee tales so sweet?"

"No wine as yet, my friends, to sell; No bride to show," he smiling said: "But here is water from my well; And here is wheaten bread."

"Is this thy tale?" they jeering cried; "Who was it followed luring shapes? And who has won? It seems she lied, Thy maid of purple grapes!"

"When years have counted up to ten," He answered gayly, smiling still, "Come back once more, my merry men, And you shall have your fill

"Of purple grapes and sparkling wine, And figs, and nectarines like flames, And sweeter eyes than maids' shall shine In welcome at your names."

In scorn they heard; to scorn they laughed The water and the wheaten bread; "We'll wait until a better draught For thy bride's health," they said.

The years ran fast. The seekers went All up, all down the golden lands: The streams grew pale; the hills were spent; Slow ran the golden sands.

And men were beggars in a day, For swift to come was swift to go; What chance had got, chance flung away On one more chance's throw.

And bleached and seamed and riven plains, And tossed and tortured rocks like ghosts, And blackened lines and charred remains, And crumbling chimney-posts,

For leagues their ghastly records spread Of youth, and years, and fortunes gone, Like graveyards whose sad living dead Had hopeless journeyed on.

The years had counted up to ten: One night, as it grew chill and late, The husbandman marked beggar-men Who leaned upon his gate.

"Ho here! good men," he eager cried, Before the wayfarers could speak; "This is my vineyard. Far and wide, For laborers I seek.

"This year has doubled on last year; The fruit breaks down my vines and trees; Tarry and help, till wine runs clear, And ask what price you please."

Purple and red, to left, to right, For miles the gorgeous vintage blazed; And all day long and into night The vintage song was raised.

And wine ran free all thirst beyond, And no hand stinted bread or meat; And maids were gay, and men were fond, And hours were swift and sweet.

The beggar-men they worked with will; Their hands were thin and lithe and strong; Each day they ate good two days' fill, They had been starved so long.

The vintage drew to end. New wine From thousand casks was dripping slow, And bare and yellow fields gave sign For vintagers to go.

The beggar-men received their pay, Bright yellow gold,—twice their demand; The master, as they turned away, Held out his brawny hand,

And said: "Good men, this time next year My vintage will be bigger still; Come back, if chance should bring you near, And it should suit your will."

The beggars nodded. But at night They said: "No more we go that way: He did not know us then; he might Upon another day!"

At Last

Had whispered to each other softly, ere It yet Was dawn, what now in noonday heat and fear We both forget,—

If all of this had given its completeness, Love, To every hour would it be added sweetness, Love? Could I know sooner whether it were well Or ill With thee? One wish could I more surely tell, More swift fulfil?

Ah! vainly thus I sit and dream and ponder, Love, Losing the precious present while I wonder, Love, About the days in which you grew and came To be So beautiful, and did not know the name Or sight of me.

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven will all earth's little pain Make good, Together there we can begin again In babyhood.

Our Angels

But they do come and go continually, Our blessed angels, no less ours than His; The blessed angels whom we think we miss; Whose empty graves we weep to name or see, And vainly watch, as once in Galilee One, weeping, watched in vain, Where her lost Christ had lain.

Whenever in some bitter grief we find, All unawares, a deep, mysterious sense Of hidden comfort come, we know not whence; When suddenly we see, where we were blind; Where we had struggled, are content, resigned; Are strong where we were weak,— And no more strive nor seek,—

Then we may know that from the far glad skies, To note our need, the watchful God has bent, And for our instant help has called and sent, Of all our loving angels, the most wise And tender one, to point to us where lies The path that will be best, The path of peace and rest.

And when we find on every sky and field A sudden, new, and mystic light, which fills Our every sense with speechless joy, and thrills Us, till we yield ourselves as children yield Themselves and watch the spells magicians wield, With tireless, sweet surprise, And rapture in their eyes,—

Then we may know our little ones have run Away for just one moment, from their play In heavenly gardens, and in their old way Are walking by our side, and one by one, At all sweet things beneath the earthly sun, Are pointing joyfully, And calling us to see!

Ah! when we learn the spirit sound and sign, And instantly our angels recognize, No weariness can tire, no pain surprise Our souls rapt in the intercourse divine, Which God permits, ordains, across the line, The changeless line which bars Our earth from other stars.

"When the Tide comes in"

When the tide goes out, The hearts are wrung with fear and doubt: All trace of joy seems lost. Will the tide return? In restless questioning they yearn, With hands unclasped, uncrossed, They weep, on separate ways. Ah! darling, shall we ever learn Love's tidal hours and days?

Burnt Ships

Thee nothing now thy faiths, thy braveries; There is no sun, no bloom; a cold wind strips The bitter foam from off the wave where dips No more thy prow; the eyes are hostile eyes; The gold is hidden; vain thy tears and cries; O Love, poor Love, why didst thou burn thy ships?

Resurgam

Scarce echoes with my cry. Grief comes and passes by, And Joy comes hand in hand With Grief, each bearing crowns with buds of snow, Both laying crowns upon my head. Soon as the buds are open, it were vain To try to separate or understand— No sense of mine can feel or know— Which flowers the hand of Joy has shed, And which the hand of Pain. Therefore I do not choose; Fearing, desiring equally from each, I wait. I do not dare refuse. Only one sound can reach Me where I lie, can stir my veins, Or make me lift my eyes. That sound drops from the skies, A still small voice,—round it great silence lies: "Not one of all these things remains. Thou shalt arise!"