Poems

Front matter

S

BY

SARA BEAUMONT KENNEDY

Sweet o' The Day

S

The Dream Road

There's never a hill it does not climb To catch at the purple mist, And never a vale where the twilights fail Where it has not held a tryst.

The road to my Dreams is a gypsy trail With a campfire under the sky, And the patteran laid, in shadow and shade, Lest One should pass me by.

The road to my Dreams? 'Tis a city street Where, out in the surging throng, I glimpse a face with a luring grace And the day is set to a song!

Oh, the paths of the whole wide world are yours, O'er mountains and valleys and streams, But you may not dare to follow where I travel to reach my Dreams.

For at every bend of the Wander-Way I set up a trespass sign, And I hold the road by the royal code That what I have staked is mine!

Alien of The Centuries

The buried city sleeps and sleeps Just as you see it in your dreams Here in the Louvre. The clouds like golden chariots drift, And in their wake a sea bird screams, Venus de Milo.

Jack o' Lantern

tpp|JACK O'LANTERNS| OUT of the lush of the lowlands

Where the dark lies cool and dank

It comes— And dips and veers, and re-appears Like a vagrant ghost or a spirit lost—

The jack o' lantern's flame.

And we?—

We follow—{follow—{follow

Far out through the jagged night

The beck of its drifting light,

And come at last in the faint first dawn To a melting mist with the glamour gone

And the spell of its magic lost.

Out of the glooms and the shadows

That curtain the cycles of time

They come— And slip away, the dreams astray That tempt our souls to gleaming goals

On star-crowned heights.

|end=stanza

And we?— We follow—follow—follow In eager, endless quest The lure of a mad unrest; And come at last where the life lines part With empty hands and an empty heart, And the mock of a memory!

Runaways

May o' the year, and any old where Away from the city's reach— On the windswept hill where the stars stand still, Or racing the wave-wet beach; Filling our souls with the soul of the rose, Laughing at sorrow and care, With a shepherd's crook and a well-thumbed book On the road to Any Old Where!

Left Behind

Two set out in the amethyst dawning Dreaming of love that was never to fail; One was caught up to its radiant fruition, One left behind on the desolate trail.

In April Days

tpp|IN APRIL DAYS| {sm}<>(KATHERINE—APRIL 17)

IN April days she came to live with us;

So pure her heart, so calm her eyes

It seemed she had not lost the angel touch

That sped her baby feet from Paradise.

And through the Aprils of her fair young life,

Which slipped on time's slim thread like golden beads,

She kept the faith sublime of perfect truth—

The holiest of all the written creeds.

In April days she has gone back to God,

(Oh, are his mandates always just and wise!)—

Not April lilies whiter than her soul,

Not stars more steadfast than her brave, calm eyes!

Venus

For sorceries of the summer night The souls of men unbar When Venus draws the whole world's heart At wheels of her bright car— The chariot that our eyes behold And call the Evening Star.

An Old Valentine

Your portrait's there in the parlor, In a queer short-waisted gown And tortoiseshell comb that held your hair Like a carven, royal crown But, oh, the Lurlei lure of the eyes That tempt with a mock disdain, And oh, the smile of ripe, red lips, "Sweetheart, Belinda Jane!"

Lover and maiden are sleeping In the years' unbroken trance, And here in this valentine I find The ghost of their old romance. There's no rustle of silken garments, No faintest sigh's refrain, But I feel your unseen presence, "Sweetheart, Belinda Jane."

Are you laughing there in the shadows, You with your coquetry creed? He loved you truly, Belinda; 'Tis written where all may read; But the hearts of the painted roses That never knew wind or rain. Hold ever your untold secret, "Sweetheart, Belinda Jane."

What was the message you sent him On that long dead winter's day? Did your teasing end in loving? Did you break his heart with "nay"?

Ah, this valentine is partial, Its witness is all in vain Since it gives no clue to your answer, "Sweetheart, Belinda Jane."

Canst Thou Forget

tpp|CANST THOU FORGET!| {sm}<>(SONG)

AMID the crowd we met today,

We passed and spake no word,

But like a light within my heart

A hidden memory stirred—

Thoughts of a day

Now far away;

O Love, hast thou forgot,

Forgot?

O Love, hast thou forgot?

The primrose path sloped to the rocks,

Beyond were beach and sea;

Ye drifting tides, ye could not snatch

My dream of joy from me.

Our words were soft,

Our lips met oft;

O Love, canst thou forget,

Forget—

O Love, canst thou forget?

The Lost Train

Not e'en the Bobolinks were gay, And shells had lost their minstrelsy. And all my heart cried out for you, For, ah, my sweet, at last I knew Alone, one may not find the clew Where runs the road to Arcady!

The Country Road

Where halts the trail at the clear, brown brook A way-farer stops to rest, While high on the hills, free-reined and fleet, A horseman rides on his quest.

Ah, hither and thither the travelers go, Together or else alone, Drifting away to haunts unseen Like leaves in a tempest blown— Meeting and passing as shadows cross Or clouds a-sail in the sun, Some with the tryst of life far spent, Some with it just begun.

A truant wind, like a troubadour, Sings an untranslated song As it follows the unforgotten track The night and the whole day long. Or does it echo, that wordless sigh, The mingled laughter and tears Of the countless hosts who have trod that way Through the dusk of the yester-years?

For the long, lone road that stretches away— A backward and onward line— Must end somewhere out under the stars In a hut or a gilded shrine; But whither it leads in its ceaseless flow The pilgrims only may see— Or to the woe of the great, sad world, Or straight into Arcady!

The Prayer Rug

On which to build a wonder-dream Of that far town which, half asleep And half a myth, Lies 'neath the crescent's golden gleam.

I see Bokhara's minarets Like sentries o'er the house-tops stand, And far away the dropping sky Melt in the desert's rippled sand. Through silence born of noonday heat And swooning radiance of the air I hear, from high muezzin tower Like conscience-cry, The Moslem's solemn call to prayer.

And quick unrolling this bright rug I see its owner spread it down Where'er he stands—in porch or street— And turn his face toward Mecca's town. On this straight line of woven flame His knees by Allah's law must rest; His feet and hands these squares must touch, And in this niche Of softened hues his brow be pressed.

And prostrate thus, he makes his plea To Allah five times e'er the sun, A flaming chariot through the sky, Its course from dawn to dusk has run. This much I see with half-shut eyes,

Caught in the wierd rug's thralling snare, But, ah! I cannot catch the drift Of mystic signs That fashioned forth the Moslem's prayer.

Prayed he that to his aged woes The Prophet's helping hand be lent, As answering the muezzin's call His wing-ed words to Allah went? Or yet—or yet, not old, but young— Young, with his pagan blood on fire With life and love's eternal quest, Prayed he instead To gain the port of Heart's Desire?

The while—his face set toward the East— He wore the rug smooth with his knees, Did he recall some harem girl Whose eyes flashed him love's dear decrees? I cannot tell; the rug gives back No faintest whisper of his prayer; He may have asked his rival's blood On whetted blade, Or yielded him to love's despair.

I only know that o'er the leagues Of sand that's gold and sea that's brown A subtle thread spins in my brain To far Bokhara's sunlit town. And visions haunt me like dim dreams

Whose baffling veil may ne'er be rent; I only know, or rich or poor, I hold in fief Four square feet of the Orient.

Roses

tpp|ROSES| {sm}<>(VALENTINE SONG)

IT was just a rose I sent her,

Just a half-blown rose,

And the message that it carried

Everybody knows.

|end=stanza

Each petal bore a greeting For my lady fair, And, oh, the whole wide world might read What was written there.

For roses are Love's servitors— Roses red as wine. "I love you, love you, love you, sweet," Is their mystic sign.

It was just a rose I sent her, Just a fragrant rose, But that it carried all my heart Everybody knows!

Song and Singer

Awake or half a-dream, I catch each note As soft as coo of dove, For the song is sung straight into my heart, And the name of the singer is Love!

Scuppernong Wine

tpp|SCUPPERNONG WINE| {sm}<>(SONG)

TIS prisoned here in my lifted glass,

The amber shine of the sun

That glowed to wine as the days went by

Ere the summer's reign was done.

It wove the story of morns and eves

Like ebon and silver bars,

But ever it holds the light of the sun

And not of the cold white stars.

Then fill the glass to the crystal brim

And let sweet memories rise,

As we toast a friend of the long ago

Or drink to a sweetheart's eyes.

The rare, red wine that the mad world quaffs

Warms the pulse to a quick, fierce beat,

But the liquid gold in the goblet there

Is keeper of fancies sweet.

And a dream comes out of the misty years

With a rare, insistent grace

|end=follow

Of a grapevine swing in a leafy dell And a girl who had your face!

Then fill the glass to the crystal brim And let sweet memories rise, As we toast a friend of the long ago Or drink to a sweetheart's eyes.

Old Letters

So I read on, breathless with interest, Turning the torn leaves back And find—(O Plato, Plato, you rascal!) "Ever your true lover, Jack."

In this he upbraids her for teasing, Confesses the theft of her glove, And then in a passion of pleading: "Belinda, I love you! I love!" And then—Ah, what came between them, What sad misfortune befell? For here in the last of the letters He is bidding Belinda "farewell."

Ah, I'll never piece out the whole story, For no more letters are here, And—Is grandpa out there in the garden Calling: "Belinda, my dear!" And listen—is that fluting treble My grandma answering back Like a dove to its love-mate calling: "Coming, my sweetheart Jack!"

I fold up the yellowing pages With a feeling of odd regret— Just to think that my staid little grandma Was once such a gay coquette! For in the meeting down in the garden I read with a single glance The story from where the letters broke off— The end of the old romance.

Goodbye Road

But oh, we know who wait beyond The Goodbye Road, the Goodbye Road, And the years are slow and the days are long Ere we catch the step and learn the song That end in the Last Abode.

Day by Day

Beaten, discouraged with failure, Forsaken, betrayed— Yet I ask for no help and no quarter, I yield neither banner nor blade.

For he who is armed, though defeated, May yet hold his post, And a flag still unfurled is the signal That hope is not lost.

And the night is but truce to day's struggle, A rift in the pain; I must keep my high place on the ramparts— For tomorrow we fight again.

Fragments

And forth they fared, his chosen ones, Who late had served the famished host, And gleaned, and came again weighed down With fragments that aside were tossed; And not a crumbled crust was lost.

Down all the ages men have read The frugal lesson that He taught; And yet—if it was only crumbs He meant— The wasted bits the baskets caught— The miracle were but half wrought.

For other fragments we must seek While in life's wilderness we bide; Yea, broken faiths we loved and lost, And shattered creeds our sins denied, And shards of hope o'er which we cried!

From out the chaos of some grief That wrecked our idols as it passed, The fragments must be gathered up And in a fairer molding cast, And given back to God at last.

Pilgrim Thoughts

tpp|SEA GULLS| {sm}<>(BILOXI)

THREE gulls flying in over the gulf,

Gray, as the waters are gray,

On their out-spread wings the glancing light,

On their breasts the up-tossed spray.

Out of the foam-white reaches they come

Heading straight into the shore,

Weary with glorious circles of flight

Where the wind-born billows roar.

And two in the lead fly wing-and-wing,

With the joy of living elate,

But the one that lags so far behind—

It has lost its life long mate.

And to gull of the sea or man of the shore

Who the joy of loving has known

The way is long and the way is dark

When it's traveled alone, alone.

Sea Gulls

There stalks the incipient murder dream, And envy and malice and pain Crowd close behind with a selfish leer Like the links of an unwound chain.

But, ah! the beautiful thoughts come, too, The thought of a love that is pure, The clean, high thought of a conquering soul, And the rose-sweet hopes that lure.

And we sit forever beside the road Keeping the pilgrim score, But only the thoughts come into our hearts To which we open the door.

Chimney Tops

A dull, disheartening scene; and yet This lesson we may learn: Far down the chimneys' blackened throats The hearth fires softly burn. From stair to stair, down every flight, They keep the secret fast Of burned-out ash or ruddy glow— Starved hearts or love at last.

And blackened roofs are shield'ng tents Where hide from passing ken The primrose joys of hope and peace Or sins of soul-wrecked men Who, like the caravans of old, Rest in their tents a-day, And then o'er time's uncharted sands Slip silently away.

Ah, sordid roofs and chimney tops Up there in silhouette, You keep a thousand loves and lies And ghosts of old regrets! The while the pigeons on the eaves With snowy, folded wings, Bear witness that mid soil and grime May live the cleaner things.

Ship Wrecked

Only a voice clear-toned with hope, Only a hand with faith made strong Can lift them from the slough of wrong And set them on the upward slope— These derelicts of life and love.

Charity

Is it to clothe a naked child Or freezing man against the storm, With worn-out garments which have ceased To keep our pampered bodies warm?

Is this, then, all of charity, These carnal gifts of man to man? Nay; these were but the outer husks In Christ's revivifying plan.

To stop thine ears 'gainst evil tales Of slander and of shame; To say, "judge not," when wanton tongues Befoul with sneers a once fair name—

To guard thy lips close-shut lest they Join in the hounding, coward cry With which a horde of censurers Drives forth a lonely soul to die—

To hold thyself too pure and true To trample on another's woe, Believing what thou hast not seen, Condemning what thou canst not know—

To do these things is best to use The charity that Christ decreed, For transient are the body's wants, Eternal is the spirit's need.

Thou canst not read another heart Nor probe the mysteries of life; Thou knowest not 'gainst what deadly odds Was waged the bitter, long-drawn strife.

Nor canst thou tell what ground was held, How near the triumph was complete; One postern lost, the world condemns And on the banner writes "Defeat."

If we slay man, his brother man Extorts of us the murderer's dole; God judges when, with word unjust, We thrust aside a stricken soul!

So owe we it to Christ himself To judge with his sweet charity Those who, half hid in censure's cloud, Walk in their dread Gethsemane!

Building Anew

And cities of a strange and ancient build— Palmyra, marbled-columned, purple-domed, Dido's old Carthage, and famed Babylon, Where men have reigned and untamed beasts have roamed—

These rose from chaos and went back to dust, And Progress, phoenix-natured, kept her state In conclave of the swiftly moving years And built anew that which was desolate.

And to myself, still half a-dream, I said Here was but symbol of a human life— So press we ever toward the widening dawn, So tread upon the shards of death and strife.

And Love and Hope are architects to build Above our failures never faith and trust, As states and peopled cities rise and shine High o'er the ruins of the old world's dust.

Tomorrow

The day that's gone— That Yesterday that comes not back, But goes like peddler 'neath its pack Of failures, hopes and fears— That day to Memory belongs; Its whimpered griefs, its cadenced songs Are chattels of the years.

Tomorrow? Ah!— A field untilled, a rose unblown, Tomorrow is God's very own To test your truth and power. 'Tis yours to spoil or spend it well, To fill with peace or curse of hell Each wondrous, wingèd hour.

Self-Conquest

And so, heart-sick, I have come back— Back to the parting of the ways.

And here, where hot rebellion dies And selfishness has paid its dole, I see, far down the path abhorred, The gleaming white light of my goal!

For primrose paths lead not to joy, 'Tis reached across the shards of pride; And he who'd find his better self Must go back where the paths divide.

Lagniappe

These are the largess that we take of fate, Take royally, as we were thrice crowned kings, Nor stop to ask—the glimpse of higher goals, The dreams that send our hearts on upward wings!

Flying South

Yet who would follow if they could? The soul grows strong through strife; The bravest hearts ask no surcease— 'Tis only cowards, like the geese, Who fly from storms of life.

Two Who Prayed

The other man boasted of things achieved, Of gold piled up through the years; But under the words God caught the drip Of an ill-paid woman's tears.

And he told also how he built the shops, Where was work for the hungry horde; And he plumed himself on his charities, "Confessing" them to the Lord.

But he said no word how he drove and skimped The poor of their honest due; How children cried in his cruel mills, But the pitiful God, He knew.

When the prayers were done and the two came forth, Where the sunset spilled its sheaf, The people bowed, but the angels knew The gentleman from the thief.

The Creepers

And hear the whir of great events, The sweep of mighty deeds go past, And feel within our souls the thrill; and yet From sharing in them holden fast By bonds of fate.

We dream of greatness day by day, And day by day do petty things; We know that we could fly, but must Quiescent stand with folded wings At duty's side.

And yet—how can we know but in the end, When life blooms to eternity, We may not find the little deeds Rose-bright with immortality Because of love?

For it may chance that in the plan Of life and death and after-days, God counts the hourly tasks well done Greater than hero deeds of praise That shake the world.

The Open Road

And what is that wide open grave With all its weighting clods? Is it a door from life's wide hall That opens into God's?

We cannot tell, but this we pray Beside that close-shut door; Death must be sweet, since those who die Come back no more, no more.

Life may itself be but a sleep, A mystery supreme, And that low whisper at the end May wake us from a dream.

When my call comes I shall not need The urge of biting goad, Like pilgrim I will fare me forth— Upon Death's Open Road.

Death

For it may be That end of life is but the opening wide Of some shut door through which there flows The muted music of the universe— The breath of Eden, perfumed like a rose.

What we call death May be in truth the swift and sure escape As from some loathsome prison-keep— The touching of a light-spring in the dark— The waking from a troubled, anxious sleep.

Dread not to grope And linger in some darkened sphere; A single step, and leagues of space And whirling worlds may be o'er sped, And God and soul stand face to face.

The hand which slips Nerveless and chill from earthly clasp— The pulseless hand your living friends must yield— May be caught up (Oh, sweet and blessed hope!) By some dear lost one waiting unrevealed.

Therefore, be comforted, O ye who've traveled to the end of life And stand, foot-sore, upon its crumbling brink; The onward journey is not long nor lone, The Realm of Rest lies nearer than we think. Therefore, be comforted!

Manumission

Today we are stranded in shallows, Cast up in a ruck of the lea, But tomorrow, with lift of the flood-tide, We may sail the limitless sea.

Today we grope low in the valley 'Mid silence and darkness forlorn; Tomorrow, high up on the hill top, We'll sing the clear hymn of the dawn.

And no man may shun the disaster, And no man may speed his release; For today is but life and its heartache, Tomorrow, God's infinite peace.

Open Your Door

Suppose that you should one day come, Devoid of hope and starved and numb, And cry for love, and get a crumb? Open your door.

Open the door of your soul; Hide not the spark of faith divine, The sweet, pure hope that is the sign Of God-head tender and benign, That man retains. Suppose one came in sorest plight, Came groping through the spirit's night And lost his way for lack of light Because you hid your lamp from sight? Open your door!

Recompense

Could I complain if this should be? Nay, still I'd owe no grudge to fate, No bitter grievance could I prate— For joys of earth would compensate! For what if I had never known The surge of life, its thrill divine, The strength of strife, hope's star-white sign, The bitter-sweet of love's red wine? Ah, what if, through some trick of destiny, I'd missed this wondrous sweet mortality!

The Story Hour

They fight with Bruce, or hide with him in cave Where spider's gossamer draperies cling; Tell's arrow thrills them in its dizzy flight, With captive Richard they hear Blondel sing.

They learn the story of the Pleiades And shining constellations as they pass, With fairies that hold tryst, or dance with her Who wore the magic slippers made of glass.

From history's page or legendary lore The story-teller draws her varied theme, And straight there springs to vivid life once more Some long dead fact, some poet's golden dream;

For Old and New and Past and Present lend A silver thread, a glowing jeweled bead To weave into the fabric of a tale That laughs with joy or teaches some high creed.

Confucius to Christ

tpp|CONFUCIUS TO CHRIST| {sm}(China asks the prayers of the Christian world for success in her new political life.) >><< OUT of the Orient echoes a call,

Out of the distance there reaches a hand,

And the keen cry bridges the chasm deep

'Twixt the creeds of our own and that far-off land.

|end=stanza

"We're fighting a fight for a new, clean life, For truth and right we are waging our war, Oh, give us your prayers, ye Christian men Who read your faith by the Bethlehem Star!"

They have prayed their gods—the gods they have known Since world's were star-dust hurled into space— For the strength they need, but dumb and afar In dim Nirvana these hold their place.

They have threaded the years with varying faiths, Bowing to Buddha, and worshipping Joss; Now, in the stress of their newer need They're reaching out for the Calvary Cross.

Out of the Orient comes the appeal, The land of the old ancestral dream— Confucius is crying at last to Christ, And Buddha is hailing the Lord supreme.

Second Samuel

Have something more to justify your word Than that old thread-bare line, "they say," Or "I have heard," or that vampire "'tis said"— Those thieves that steal the truth away.

For these are subterfuges, scapegoats all, That scandal-mongers hide behind, And if you use them to speed on your tale You are the scandal-monger kind.

For honest men will set their honest names To accusations they believe; 'Tis only cowards (who may rend you next!) Who hide from blame they should receive.

So if you dare not justify your tale, Recall the text of centuries gone, And tell it not in Gath, nor publish it Within the streets of Askelon!

Ships at Sea

And one of my ships is a radiant Hope, And a rainbow arches the mast; And one is a Memory, drifting away From the purple ports of the past.

But my treasure-ship is a ship of Prayer, And it's winged with a white, white sail, And I know in my soul that the God of all dreams Will temper the tide and the gale;

And that some sweet day, from the silver mists Where the sky meets rock-a-by sea, My straining eyes shall glimpse the sails Of my ships come home from sea.

And the radiant Hope shall bloom to a Joy, And the Memory shall lose its pain, And the answered Prayer, transfigured with faith, Make of life a glory again.

And this do I know, for the God of all dreams Has whispered my heart it was so; Then what care I if the heavens be fair Or the wide-winged tempests shall blow!

Vignettes

Somewhere the gray gulls lonesomely Against the azure float, And somewhere on the sunlit sea There sails a fisher's boat.

Somewhere high up upon the cliff A woman's straining eyes See just beyond the fore-doomed boat A whip of wind arise.

Somewhere within the city's stir The guarded feet run safe, And somewhere on the cruel curb There strays the sordid waif.

Somewhere beneath the softened light A woman wears love's crown, And somewhere in the shadow's lust Another's soul goes down.

For storms at sea will rock and wreck The fisher's cockleshell. And on the heartless city's streets Are spread the snares of hell.

Wanderlust

While far beyond in the marts of men The quest of the world goes by. 'Mid the deadening calm they long for stress, For bugles, for banners unfurled; They'd slip their anchors today if they could To sail the ports of the world!

With Little Boy Blue

tpp|WITH LITTLE BOY BLUE| {sm}<>(Answer to Eugene Field)

SILENT he watched them, the soldier and dog,

Tin toys on the little arm chair,

Keeping their tryst through the slow-going years

For the hand that stationed them there;

And he said that perchance the dust and the rust

Hid the griefs that the toy friends knew,

And his heart watched with them all the dark years,

Yearning ever for Little Boy Blue.

Three mourners they were for Little Boy Blue,

Three ere the cold wings had begun;

Now two are left watching—the soldier and dog—

But for him the vigil is done;

For him, too, the angel has chanted a song,

A song that is lulling and true—

He has seen the white gates of the mansions of rest

Thrown wide by his Little Boy Blue.

|end=stanza

God sent not the Angel of Death for his soul— Not the Reaper who cometh for all— But out of the shadows that curtained the day He heard his lost little one call; Heard the voice that he loved, and following fast, Passed on to the Far-away strand, And he walks the streets of the City of Peace, With Little Boy Blue by the hand!

Reincarnation

Or in a room of guests one speaks of Rome, The room fades out, and in a breath In crowded Coliseum we have turned Our thumbs to signal life or death. Or else again in thought of storied Greece We feel a wind like fanning flame, And know that once we ran a panting race In long forgot Olympic game.

Or coming closer to our daily life— Sometimes we reach a stranger's door And recognize it through mysterious sense And say: "We have been here before," Though we are sure we never trod the path Nor saw the house until that hour; Yet there is etched upon our consciousness The merest detail of a fragile flower.

What can it be, this submerged other self, This surety of having seen And been a vital part of those lost years That time's relentless sickles glean? Have we lived other lives than this today, Recast each time in varied mold, And are these prescient instincts memories, In very truth, of days long told?

Wild Oats

This is the hectic creed of the years, The damning lie that parents preach To ease their conscience of the blame For higher goals they failed to reach. Immune, these sowers of wild-oat tares? There's never a single garnered field Where sickles of sorrow have cut their swarths But tells its tale of a misery yield.

Go, look in the wards where the maniacs rave, Their brain cells brimmed with liquid fire Through mad misrule of uncurbed wills Or the blight of a foul desire. And count, if you can, the blameless hosts— The waifs unfathered and unnamed— Who, under the light of God's blue sky, Must live their cheated lives ashamed.

And, ah! the "drunks" and the derelicts Lined day by day at the judge's bar, And the man who limps on a shriveled limb— A horrible, visible moral scar! And the frightened girl with her shame revealed Leaping down where the moonbeams quiver, Her epitaph but the scornful line: "A floater dragged from the river."