Madison Julius Cawein

Here, from the heights, among the rocks and pines, The sea and shore seem some tremendous page Of some vast book, great with our heritage,

Why speak of Rajah rubies, And roses of the South? I know a sweeter crimson

Summer may come, in sun-blonde splendor, To reap the harvest that Springtime sows; And Fall lead in her old defender,

The "happy year" of 1914 An hour from dawn: The snow sweeps on

One tree, storm-twisted, like an evil hag, The sea-wind in its hair, beside a path Waves frantic arms, as if in wild-witch wrath

Lay but a finger on That pallid petal sweet, It trembles gray and wan

It's out and away at break of day, To frolic and run in the sun-sweet hay: It's up and out with a laugh and shout

A Broken rainbow on the skies of May, Touching the dripping roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds its scattered glories lost:

Why speak of Giamschid rubies Whence rosy starlight drips? I know a richer crimson,

When roads are mired with ice and snow, And the air of morn is crisp with rime; When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,

I. Some drink to Friendship, some to Love, Through whom the world is fair, perdie!

He lived beyond us and we stood As pygmies to his every mood, Mere pupils at his beck and nod,

The hills hang woods around, where green, below Dark, breezy boughs of beech-trees, mats the moss, Crisp with the brittle hulls of last year's nuts;

These are the facts: - I was to blame: I brought her here and wrought her shame: She came with me all trustingly.

Though Summer walks the world to-day With corn-crowned hours for her guard, Her thoughts have clad themselves in gray,

She has the eyes of some barbarian Queen Leading her wild tribes into battle; eyes, Wherein th' unconquerable soul defies,

I The South had saluted her mouth Till her mouth was sweet with the South.

I. Life has fled; she is dead, Sleeping in the flow'ry vale

With moon-white hearts that held a gleam I gathered wild-flowers in a dream, And shaped a woman, whose sweet blood

He lived beyond men, and so stood Admitted to the brotherhood Of beauty: dreams, with which he trod

He lived beyond men, and so stood Admitted to the brotherhood Of beauty: - dreams, with which he trod

By a mushroom in the moon, White as bud from budded berry, Silver buckles on my shoon, -

Nevermore at doorways that are barken Shall the madcap wind knock and the moonlight; Nor the circle which thou once didst darken,

Bee-Bitten in the orchard hung The peach; or, fallen in the weeds, Lay rotting, where still sucked and sung

There is a place I search for still, Sequestered as the world of dreams, A bushy hollow, and a hill

I Heard a reed among the hills, A woodland reed of music where, Like madcap children, ran the rills,

I. Beneath an old beech-tree They sat together,

Rain will fall on the fading flowers, Winds will blow through the dripping tree, When Fall leads in her tattered Hours

There is a house beside a way, Where dwells a ghost of Yesterday: The old face of a beauty, faded,

I. Long vollies of wind and of rain And the rain on the drizzled pane,

Sullen gold down all the sky, In the roses sultry musk; Nightingales hid in the dusk

I. White moons may come, white moons may go, She sleeps where wild wood blossoms blow,

Oh, for some cup of consummating might, Filled with life's kind conclusion, lost in night! A wine of darkness, that with death shall cure

Not for thyself, but for the sake of Song, Strive to succeed as others have, who gave Their lives unto her; shaping sure and strong

Pale as a star that shines through rain Her face was seen at the window-pane, Her sad, frail face that watched in vain.

Rain and wind and candlelight And let us pray a prayer to-night: For every soul, since life is brief,

I. It's a long, long way to the country, where I wade and splash in the creek;

I. In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleep The twilight comes like a little goose-girl,

In samite sark yclad was she; And that fair glimmerish band of gold Which crowned long, savage locks of hair

Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn, That life has carved with care and doubt! So weary waiting, night and morn,

Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn, That life has carved with care and doubt! So weary waiting, night and morn,

I. Winds that cavern heaven and the clouds And canyon with cerulean blue,

What magic through your snowy crystal gleams! Your hollow spar, Spring brims with fragrancy; That, like the cup of Comus, drugs with dreams

I. There be Fairies bright of eye, Who the wild-flowers warders are;

The locust gyres; the heat intensifies' The rain-crow croaks from hot-leafed tree to tree: The butterfly, a flame-fleck, aimlessly

Bowed hearts that hold the saddest memories Are the most beautiful; and such make sweet Light happy moods of alien natures which

I. To-night he sees their star burn, dewy-bright, Deep in the pansy, eve hath made for it,

I It is not early spring and yet Of bloodroot blooms along the stream,

I. It is not early spring and yet Of bloodroot blooms along the stream,

I. White as a lily moulded of Earth's milk That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;

The hoar-frost hisses 'neath the feet, And the worm-fence's straggling length, Smote by the morning's slanted strength,

Life was unkind to him; All things went wrong: Fortune assigned to him

I know a pool, whose crystalline repose Sleeps under walls of granite, whence the pine Leans looking at its image, line for line

I. These are the things which I would ask of Time: When I am old,

An intimation of some previous life, Or dark dream, in the present dim-divined, Of some uncertain sleep - or lived or dreamed

I. Not for you and me the path Winding through the shadowless

It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one With a vagabond foot that follows! And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon

It's - Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one With a vagabond foot that follows! And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon

The hills look down on wood and stream, On orchard-land and farm; And o'er the hills the azure-gray

On southern winds shot through with amber light, Breathing soft balm and clothed in cloudy white, The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hills,

A rollicking song for the morn, my boy, A rollicking song for the morn: It's up and out with a laugh and shout,

I. Oh, the morning meads, the dewy meads, Where he ploughs and harrows and sows the seeds,

Now nights grow cold and colder, And North the wild vane swings, And round each tree and boulder

I Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way, And the bells peal out, 'Tis Christmas Day;

I. When in the wind the vane turns round, And round, and round;

Cheer, though you part at morn! Cheer, though you never part: Sigh not, nor look forlorn;

Be of good cheer, and have no fear Of Fortune or Tomorrow: To Hope's low whisper lend an ear

I. Whatever the path may be, my dear, Let us follow it far away from here,

I. Roaring winds that rocked the crow, High in his eyrie,

Serious but smiling, stately and serene, And dreamier than a flower; A girl in whom all sympathies convene

1 Soul of my body! what a death For such a day of envious gloom,

The drowsy day, with half-closed eyes, Dreams in this quaint forgotten street, That, like some old-world wreckage, lies,

White clouds, like thistledown at fault, That drift through heaven's azure vault. The sun beams down; the weedy ground

Wide in the west, a lake Of flame that seems to shake As if the Midgard snake

And I have thought of youth which strains Nearer its God to rise, - What were ambition and its pains

I. The rainy smell of a ferny dell, Whose shadow no sunray flaws,

A friend for you and a friend for me, A friend to understand; To cheer the way and help the day

All day the primroses have thought of thee, Their golden heads close-haremed from the heat; All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly

Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on her state Of gold and purple in the marbled west, Thou comest forth like some embodied trait,

My life is grown a witchcraft place Through gazing on thy form and face. Now 't is thy Smile's soft sorcery

I. She walks with the wind on the windy height When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,

I She walks with the wind on the windy height When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,

Dark, drear, and drizzly, with vapor grizzly, The day goes dully unto its close; Its wet robe smutches each thing it touches,

That day we wandered 'mid the hills,'so lone Clouds are not lonelier,'the forest lay In emerald darkness 'round us. Many a stone

White moons may come, white moons may go She sleeps where early blossoms blow; Knows nothing of the leafy June,

White moons may come, white moons may go - She sleeps where early blossoms blow; Knows nothing of the leafy June,

The old gate clicks, and down the walk, Between clove-pink and hollyhock, Still young of face though gray of lock,

War and Disaster, Famine and Pestilence, Vaunt-couriers of the Century that comes, Behold them shaking their tremendous plumes

The hornets build in plaster-dropping rooms, And on its mossy porch the lizard lies; Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies,

The hornets build in plaster-dropping rooms, And on its mossy porch the lizard lies; Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies,

We went by ways of bygone days, Up mountain heights of story, Where lost in vague, historic haze,

With triumphs gay of old romance. - KEATS. PRELUDE. Why, dreams from dreams in dreams remembered! naught

Hold to the rapture: let it work Inward till founts of being fill, And all is clear that once was murk,

He held himself splendidly forward Both early and late; The aim of his purpose was starward,

Seemingly over the hill-tops, Possibly under the hills, A tireless wing that never drops,

A barren field o'ergrown with thorn and weed It stays for him who waits for help from God: Only the soul that makes a plough of Need

The rain made ruin of the rose and frayed The lily into tatters: now the Morn Looks from the hopeless East with eyes forlorn,

The hillside smokes With trailing mist around the rosy oaks; While sunset builds

There is a place hung o'er of summer boughs And dreamy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps; Where water flows, within whose lazy deeps,

There is a place hung o'er of summer boughs And dreamy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps; Where water flows, within whose lazy deeps,

There is a place hung o'er with summer boughs And drowsy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps; Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps,

Behold the blossom-bosomed Day again, With all the star-white Hours in her train, Laughs out of pearl-lights through a golden ray,

Great clouds of sullen seal and gold Bar bleak the tawny west, From which all day the-thunder rolled,

What vague traditions do the golden eves, What legends do the dawns Inscribe in fire on Heaven's azure leaves,

The old enthusiasms Are dead, quite dead, in me; Dead the aspiring spasms

I. I hear a song the wet leaves lisp When Morn comes down the woodland way;

Across the world she sends me word, From gardens fair as Falerina's, Now by a blossom, now a bird,

Athwart a sky of brass long welts of gold; A path of gold the wide Ohio lies; Beneath the sunset, billowing manifold,

Where the violet shadows brood Under cottonwoods and beeches, Through whose leaves the restless reaches

From "Beltenebros at Miraflores" O sunset, from the springs of stars, Draw down thy cataracts of gold;

From "Beltenebros at Miraflores" O sunset, from the springs of stars Draw down thy cataracts of gold;

Now to my lips lift then some opiate Of black forgetfulness! while in thy gaze Still lures the loveless beauty that betrays,

The barberry burns, the rose-hip crimsons warm, And haw and sumach hedge the hill with fire, Down which the road winds, worn of hoof and tire,

Like some sad spirit from an unknown shore Thou comest with two children in thine arms: Flushed, poppied Sleep, whom mortals aye adore,

"Teach me the wisdom of thy beauty, pray, That, being thus wise, I may aspire to see What beauty is, whence, why, and in what way

Mildewed and gray the marble stairs Rise from their balustraded urns To where a chiseled satyr glares

Some things are good on Autumn nights, When with the storm the forest fights, And in the room the heaped hearth lights

I. There was a man rode into town one day, Barefooted, hatless, and without a coat.

He was a boy, sun-burned and brown, And she a girl from a neighboring town: Dark were her eyes and dark her hair,

Here is a tale for men and women teachers: There was a girl who'd ceased to be a maiden; Who walked by night with heart like Lilith's laden;

I. They who maintained their rights, Through storm and stress,

It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one With a vagabond foot that follows! And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon

From the terrace here, where the hills indent, You can see the uttermost battlement Of the castle there; the Cliffords' home;

Old days, old ways, old homes beside the sea; Old gardens with old-fashioned flowers aflame, Poppy, petunia, and many a name

The night is loud with reeds of rain Rejoicing at my window-pane, And murmuring, "Spring comes again!"

Do you remember how that night drew on? That night of sorrow, when the stars looked wan As eyes that gaze reproachful in a dream,

I. Then up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced the crescent, Up and far up and over, the heaven grew erubescent,

I Then up the orient heights to the zenith, that balanced the crescent,-- Up and far up and over,--the heaven grew erubescent,

Windy the sky and mad; Surly the gray March day; Bleak the forests and sad,

I. While sunset burns and stars are few, And roses scent the fading light,

Apollo never smote a lovelier strain, When swan-necked Hebe paused her thirsty bowl A-sparkle with its wealth of nectar-draughts

Before I found her I had found Within my heart, as in a brook, Reflections of her: now a sound

Before I found her I had found Within my heart, as in a brook, Reflections of her: now a sound

How often in our search for joy below Hoping for happiness we chance on woe.

I. Come with me where April twilights Wigwam blue the April hills;

Earth hath her images of utterance, Her hieroglyphic meanings which elude; A symbol language of similitude,

With argosies of dawn he sails, And triremes of the dusk, The Seas of Song, whereon the gales

With argosies of dawn he sails, And triremes of the dusk, The Seas of Song, whereon the gales

A Phantasy. I know not how I found you With your wild hair a-blow,

Oft of the hiding Oread wast thou seen At earliest morn, a tall imperial shape, High-buskined, dew-dripped, and on close, chaste curls,

Come! look in the shadowy water here, The stagnant water of Ashly Mere: Where the stirless depths are dark but clear,

God knows I strive against low lust and vice, Wound in the net of their voluptuous hair; God knows that all their kisses are as ice

I A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood: A mile of shadow and the odorous lane:

I. A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood: A mile of shadow and the odorous lane:

Far off I heard dark waters rush; The sky was cold; the dawn broke green; And wrapped in twilight and strange hush

What shall be said to him, Now he is dead? Now that his eyes are dim,

At midnight in the trysting wood I wandered by the waterside, When, soft as mist, before me stood

Pale faces looked up at me, up from the earth, like flowers; Pale hands reached down to me, out of the air, like stars, As over the hills, robed on with the twilight, the Hours,

Written for my friend Walter S. Mathews. There was a princess once, who loved the slave Of an Assyrian king, her father; known

What is there left for us to say, Now it has come to say good-by? And all our dreams of yesterday

Into the sunset's turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge Enchantment sails through magic seas

Into the sunset's turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge Enchantment sails through magic seas

To Don Odora says Donna De Vine: "I yield to thy long endeavor! At my balcony be on the stroke of nine,

This is the truth as I see it, my dear, Out in the wind and the rain: They who have nothing have little to fear,

One bright star in the firmament, One wild rose in the dew, And a girl, like the sparkling two,

Oh, dim and wan came in the dawn, And gloomy closed the day; The killdee whistled among the weeds,

I. No more to strip the roses from The rose-boughs of her porch's place!

It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!" With every man in this life below But the things of this world are a fleeting show.

Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her, Over the stile the stars a-winking; He thought it was Mary, 't was Mary's sister

The rosy hills of her high breasts, Whereon, like misty morning, rests The breathing lace; her auburn hair,

High up in the organ-story A girl stands slim and fair; And touched with the casement's glory

I Saw the daughters of the Dawn come dancing o'er the hills; The winds of Morn danced with them, oh, and all the sylphs of air: I saw their ribboned roses blow, their gowns, of daffodils,

Awake! the dawn is on the hills! Behold, at her cool throat a rose, Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes,

Awake! the dawn is on the hills! Behold, at her cool throat a rose, Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes,

I. Clad on with glowing beauty and the peace, Benign, of calm maturity, she stands

The unpretentious flowers of the woods, That rise in bright and banded brotherhoods, Waving us welcome, and with kisses sweet

The bitter-sweet and red-haw in her hands, And in her hair pale berries of the bay, She haunts the coves and every Cape Ann way,

I. Morning Her rain-kissed face is fresh as rain,

Ah me! too soon the autumn comes Among these purple-plaintive hills! Too soon among the forest gums

Ah me! too soon the autumn comes Among these purple-plaintive hills! Too soon among the forest gums

The wind is rising and the leaves are swept Wildly before it, hundreds on hundreds fall Huddling beneath the trees. With brag and brawl

Like colored lanterns swung in Elfin towers, Wild morning-glories light the tangled ways, And, like the rosy rockets of the Fays,

I Dreamed my soul went wandering in An island dim with mystery; An island that, because of sin,

TO LITTLE M. E. C. G. Deep in baby Mary's eyes, Baby Mary's sweet blue eyes,

Once a rabbit crossed my road When I went to see my aunt; And another time a toad

John-a-dreams and Harum-Scarum Came a-riding into town: At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum

John-A-Dreams and Harum-Scarum Came a-riding into town: At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum

O Heart, that beat the bird's blithe blood, The blithe bird's strain, and understood The song it sang to leaf and bud,

O heart, - that beat the bird's blithe blood, The blithe bird's strain, and understood The song it sang to leaf and bud, -

Be glad, just for to-day! O heart, be glad! Cast all your cares away!

I. Beautiful-bosomed, O Night, in thy noon Move with majesty onward! soaring, as lightly

I Beautiful-bosomed, O Night, in thy noon Move with majesty onward! soaring, as lightly

High as a star, yet lowly as a flower, Unknown she takes her unassuming place At Earth's proud masquerade the appointed hour

High as a star, yet lowly as a flower, Unknown she takes her unassuming place At Earth's proud masquerade--the appointed hour

The gods are dead; but still for me Lives on in wildwood brook and tree Each myth, each old divinity.

The gods are dead; but still for me Lives on in wildwood brook and tree Each myth, each old divinity.

The wild oxalis Among the valleys Lifts up its chalice

I. There's a bug at night that goes Drowsily down the garden ways;

How does the Autumn in her mind conclude The tragic masque her frosty pencil writes, Broad on the pages of the days and nights,

Before the rain, low in the obscure east, Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray; Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased,

I. All desolate she sate her down Upon the marble of the temple's stair.

The way went under cedared gloom To moonlight, like a cactus bloom, Before the entrance of her tomb.

Against each prince now she had held her own, An easy victor for the seven years O'er kings and sons of kings; Eddetma, she

Below the sunset's range of rose, Below the heaven's deepening blue, Down woodways where the balsam blows,

Below the sunset's range of rose, Below the heaven's deepening blue, Down woodways where the balsam blows,

I. The quickening East climbs to yon star, That, cradled, rocks herself in morn;

I. My love went berrying Where brooks were merrying

Knight and Troubadour, to his Lady the Beautiful Maenz of Martagnac The burden of the sometime years, That once my soul did overweigh,

1 Hangs stormed with stars the night, Deep over deep,

The day, all fierce with carmine, turns An Indian face towards Earth and dies; The west, like some gaunt vase, inurns

Wine-warm winds that sigh and sing, Led me, wrapped in many moods, Thro' the green sonorous woods

O Days that hold us; and years that mold us! And dreams and mem'ries no time destroys! Where lie the islands, the morning islands,

(In Memoriam) There it lies broken, as a shard, What breathed sweet music yesterday;

We tightened stirrup; buckled rein; Looked to our saddle-girths again; Shook hands all round; then mounted.

As I went through the wood, the wood, Through fern and pimpernel, A water fell, a water stood,

A Far bell tinkles in the hollow, And heart and soul are fain to follow: Gone is the rose and gone the swallow:

Sunlight and shrill cicada and the low, Slow, sleepy kissing of the sea and shore, And rumor of the wind. The morning wore

I. Green, watery jets of light let through The rippling foliage drenched with dew;

Can I forget how LOVE once led the ways Of our two lives together, joining them; How every hour was his anadem,

Meseemed that while she played, while lightly yet Her fingers fell, as roses bloom by bloom, I listened dead within a mighty room

I look upon my lady's face, And, in the world about me, see No face like hers in any place:

La Gitanilla! tall dragoons In Andalusian afternoons, With ogling eye and compliment

Blow high, blow low! No longer borrow Care of tomorrow:

I. Misty are the far-off hills And misty are the near;

Written Of Colossal Cave, Kentucky Aisles and abysses; leagues no man explores, Of rock that labyrinths and night that drips;

I. And the boy that lives next door Said to me one day, There's more

Ever since man was man a Fiend has stood Outside his House of Good, War, with his terrible toys, that win men's hearts

1 Vent all your coward's wrath Upon me so! -

A Little child, one night, awoke and cried, "Oh, help me, father! there is something wild Before me! help me!" Hurrying to his side

Then up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced a crescent, - Up and far up and over, - a warm erubescence liquescent Rioted roses and rubies; eruptions of opaline gems,

Christmas Eve is here at last. And I'm happy as can be. Going to have a Christmas-tree,

The sunlight that makes of the heaven A pathway for sylphids to throng; The wind that makes harps of the forests

Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks, The pleated crimson hollyhocks Are bending;

Clouds of the autumn night, Under the hunter's moon,-- Ghostly and windy white,--

All through the tepid Summer night The starless sky had poured a cool Monotony of pleasant rain

A mist that froze beneath the moon and shook Minutest frosty fire in the air. All night the wind was still as lonely Care

Who knows the things they dream, alas! Or feel, who lie beneath the ground? Perhaps the flowers, the leaves, and grass

Yea, whom He loves the Lord God chasteneth With disappointments, so that this side death, Through suffering and failure, they know Hell

With eyes hand-arched he looks into The morning's face; then turns away With truant feet, all wet with dew,

With eyes hand-arched he looks into The morning's face; then turns away With truant feet, all wet with dew,

Down through the woods, along the way That fords the stream; by rock and tree, Where in the bramble-bell the bee

The songs Love sang to us are dead: Yet shall he sing to us again, When the dull days are wrapped in lead,

Within the soul are throned two powers, One, Love; one, Hate. Begot of these, And veiled between, a presence towers,

I. This is the place where visions come to dance, Dreams of the trees and flowers, glimmeringly;

Beyond the orchard, in the lane, The crested red-bird sings again - O bird, whose song says, Have no care.

When I behold how some pursue Fame, that is Care's embodiment Or fortune, whose false face looks true,

Among the meadows of Life's sad unease In labor still renewing her soul's youth With trust, for patience, and with love, for peace,

No eve of summer ever can attain The gladness of that eve of late July, When 'mid the roses, filled with musk and rain,

An Oldham-County Weather Philosopher. "Who is Corncob Jones?" you say. Beateningest man and talkingest:

Under mossy oak and pine Whispering falls the fountained stream; In its pool the lilies shine

The waters leap, The waters roar; And on the shore

I. Mist on the mountain height Silvery creeping;

The days that clothed white limbs with heat, And rocked the red rose on their breast, Have passed with amber-sandaled feet

The days that clothed white limbs with heat, And rocked the red rose on their breast, Have passed with amber-sandaled feet

He dreamed of hills so deep with woods Storm-barriers on the summer sky Are not more dark, where plunged loud floods

Leaves fall and flowers fade, Days come and go: Now is sweet Summer laid

I I wot well o' his going To think in flowers fair; -

Out of it all but this remains: I was with one who crossed wide chains Of the Cordilleras, whose peaks

He rode adown the autumn wood, A man dark-eyed and brown; A mountain girl before him stood

All things have power to hold us back. Our very hopes build up a wall Of doubt, whose shadow stretches black

Through some strange sense of sight or touch I find what all have found before, The presence I have feared so much,

Here is a tale for any man or woman: A fool sought Death; and braved him with his bauble Among the graves. At last he heard a hobble,

Within my veins it beats And burns within my brain; For when the year is sad and sear

I.    SPRING ON THE HILLS Ah, shall I follow, on the hills, The Spring, as wild wings follow?

I. Spring On The Hills Ah, shall I follow, on the hills,

Ah, God! were I away, away, By woodland-belted hills! There might be more in Thy bright day

No personal; a God divinely crowned With gold and raised upon a golden throne Deep in a golden glory, whence he nods

Demeter sad! the wells of sorrow lay Eternal gushing in thy lonely path. Methinks I see her now - an awful shape

Es gibt im Menschenleben Augenblicke, Wo er dem Weltgeist n'her ist als sonst. - SCHILLER. He? why, a tall Franconian strong and young,

A broken rainbow on the skies of May Touching the sodden roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost:

Shut in with phantoms of life's hollow hopes, And shadows of old sins satiety slew, And the young ghosts of the dead dreams love knew,

Not all the bravery that day puts on Of gold and azure, ardent or austere, Shall ease my soul of sorrow; grown more dear

How shall it be with them that day When God demands of Earth His pay? With them who make a god of clay

I. There is a little girl I know Who takes her time to come and go.

The day is dead; and in the west The slender crescent of the moon-- Diana's crystal-kindled crest--

The day is dead; and in the west The slender crescent of the moon Diana's crystal-kindled crest

"O Dionysos! Dionysos! the ivy-crowned! O let me sing thy triumph ere I die!" Within my sleep a Maenad came to me:

What shall her silence keep Under the sun? Here, where the willows weep

What is it now that I shall seek Where woods dip downward, in the hills? - A mossy nook, a ferny creek,

What is it now that I shall seek Where woods dip downward, in the hills; A mossy nook, a ferny creek,

Hush! She is dead! Tread gently as the light Foots dim the weary room. Thou shalt behold. Look: - In death's ermine pomp of awful white,

Those unrequited in their love who die Have never drained life's chief illusion dry.

I. I dreamed last night once more I stood Knee-deep in purple clover leas;

I TEMPEST Wrapped round of the night, as a monster is wrapped of the ocean,

I A molten ruby clear as wine Along the east the dawning swims;

Far as the eye can see the land is grey, And desolation sits among the stones Looking on ruin who, from rocks like bones,

I Over the bay as our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine,

On receiving a bottle of Sherry Wine of the same name What "blushing Hippocrene" is here! what fire Of the"warm South" with magic of old Spain!

Made a face of biscuit-dough, Which our black cook gave me once; And this girl named So-and-So

Ye have ploughed the field like cattle, Ye have sown the dragon-seed, Are ye ready now for battle?

I took the road again last night On which my boyhood's hills look down; The old road leading from the town,

They mock the present and they haunt the past, And in the future there is naught agleam With hope, the soul desires, that at last

My thoughts have borne me far away To Beauties of an older day, Where, crowned with roses, stands the DAWN,

I The hot sunflowers by the glaring pike Lift shields of sultry brass; the teasel tops,

I. The hot sunflowers by the glaring pike Lift shields of sultry brass; the teasel tops,

Gnarled acorn-oaks against a west Of copper, cavernous with fire; A wind of frost that gives no rest

Corn-colored clouds upon a sky of gold, And 'mid their sheaves, where, like a daisy-bloom Left by the reapers to the gathering gloom,

Corn-colored clouds upon a sky of gold, And 'mid their sheaves, - where, like a daisy-bloom Left by the reapers to the gathering gloom,

Three miles of trees it is: and I Came through the woods that waited, dumb, For the cool summer dusk to come;

Three miles of trees it is: and I Came through the woods that waited, dumb, For the cool summer dusk to come;

I Saw the day like some great monarch die, Gold-couched, behind the clouds' rich tapestries. Then, purple-sandaled, clad in silences

Dweller in hollow places, hills and rocks, Daughter of Silence and old Solitude, Tip-toe she stands within her cave or wood,

The white moth-mullein brushed its slim Cool, faery flowers against his knee; In places where the way lay dim

The white moth-mullein brushed its slim Cool, faery flowers against his knee; In places where the way lay dim

I. When wildflower blue and wildflower white The wildflowers lay their heads together,

The eve was a burning copper, The night was a boundless black Where wells of the lightning crumbled

I My soul goes out to her who says, "Come, follow me and cast off care!"

I. My soul goes out to her who says, "Come, follow me and cast off care!"

The deep seclusion of this forest path, - O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy; Along which bluet and anemone

The deep seclusion of this forest path, O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy, Along which bluet and anemone

To help our tired hope to toil, Lo! have we not the council here Of trees, that to all hope appear

I. O Life! O Death! O God! Have we not striven?

Beyond the moon, within a land of mist, Lies the dim Garden of all Dead Desires, Walled round with morning's clouded amethyst,

There is nothing that eases my heart so much As the wind that blows from the purple hills; 'Tis a hand of balsam whose healing touch

I Why do I love you, who have never given My heart encouragement or any cause?

From out the hills where twilight stands, Above the shadowy pasture lands, With strained and strident cry,

From out the hills where twilight stands, Above the shadowy pasture lands, With strained and strident cry,

Three memories hold us ever With longing and with pain; Three memories Time has never

Dead! and all the haughty fate Fair on throat and face of wax, White, calm hands crossed still and lax,

I. The winds are whist; and, hid in mist, The moon hangs o'er the wooded height;

No ray, no will-o'-wisp, no firefly gleam; Nothing but night around The only sound the sobbing of a stream

There are some souls Whose lot it is to set their hearts on goals That adverse Fate controls.

There's a little fairy who Peeps from every drop of dew: You can see him wink and shine

On the tremulous coppice, From her plenteous hair, Large golden-rayed poppies

The night is hung above us, love, With heavy stars that love us, love, With clouds that curl in purple and pearl,

Sad-hearted spirit of the solitudes, Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods! Gray-gowned with fog, gold-girdled with the gloom

A Mile of lane, hedged high with iron-weeds And dying daisies, white with sun, that leads Downward into a wood; through which a stream

'T was Fiddledeedee who put to sea With a rollicking buccaneer Bumblebee: An acorn-cup was their hollow boat

There is a field, that leans upon two hills, Foamed o'er with flowers and twinkling with clear rills; That in its girdle of wild acres bears

I There is a field, that leans upon two hills, Foamed o'er of flowers and twinkling with clear rills;

So let it be. Thou wilt not say 't was I! Here in life's temple, where thy soul may see, Look how the beauty of our love doth lie,

I THE GLADIOLAS. As tall as the lily, as tall as the rose,

I. The cactus and the aloe bloom Beneath the window of your room;

Oh, why for us the blighted bloom! The blossom that lies withering! The Master of Life's changeless loom

These are the things I pray Heaven send us still, To blow the ashes of the years away, Or keep aglow forever 'neath their gray

'T is n't long till Christmas now. First thing that you'll know, it's here. Nurse can tell it, don't know how,

I. Green, watery jets of light let through The rippling foliage drenched with dew;

I O heart that vainly follows The flight of summer swallows,

In the first rare spring of song, In my heart's young hours, In my youth 't was thus I sang,

And one, perchance, will read and sigh: "What aimless songs! Why will he sing Of nature that drags out her woe

Within the hollowed hand of God, Blood-red they lie, the dice of fate, That have no time nor period,

Fortune may pass us by: Follow her flying feet. Love, all we ask, deny:

In soft sad nights, when all the still lagoon Lolls in a wealth of golden radiance, I sit like one enchanted in a trance,

With lips that were hoarse with a fury Of foam and of winds that are strewn, Of storm and of turbulent hurry,

The fields of space gleam bright, as if some ancient giant, old As the moon and her extinguished mountains, Had dipped his fingers huge into the twilight's sea of gold

Down through the woods, along the way That fords the stream; by rock and tree, Where in the bramble-bell the bee

Down through the woods, along the way That fords the stream; by rock and tree, Where in the bramble-bell the bee

I heard the toads and frogs last night When snug in bed, and all was still; I lay and listened there until

The road leads up a hill through many a brake, Blueberry and barberry, bay and sassafras, By an abandoned quarry, where, like glass,

Why come ye here to sigh that I, Who with crossed wrists so peaceless lie Before ye, am at rest, at rest!

Magician he, who, autumn nights, Down from the starry heavens whirls; A harlequin in spangled tights,

March set heel upon the flowers, Trod and trampled them for hours: But when April's bugles rang,

White artist he, who, breezeless nights, From tingling stars jocosely whirls, A harlequin in spangled tights,

Yes, there are some who may look on these Essential peoples of the earth and air That have the stars and flowers in their care

I. One night when trees were tumbled down, And wild winds shook at sea the sail,

To weed the Garden of the Mind Of all rank growths of doubt and sin, And let faith's flowers thrive and win

Thin, chisel-fine a cricket chipped The crystal silence into sound; And where the branches dreamed and dripped

Thin, chisel-fine a cricket chipped The crystal silence into sound; And where the branches dreamed and dripped

"Succinctae sacra Dianae". - OVID I

"Succinct' sacra Dian'." Ovid I.

I What wood-god, on this water's mossy curb, Lost in reflections of earth's loveliness,

I. What deity for dozing laziness Devised the lounging coziness of this

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, That night of love, when first we met, You have forgotten, Geraldine -

Geraldine, Geraldine, Do you remember where The willows used to screen

When first I gazed on GERTRUDE'S face, Beheld her loveliness and grace; Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair,

When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill, At twelve o'clock when the night is still, And pale on the pools, where the creek-frogs croon,

Was it the strain of the waltz that, repeating "Love," so bewitched me? or only the gleam There of the lustres, that set my heart beating,

Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon The sea-mists swoon: Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow

I. There's a scent of pungent wood smoke in the chill October air, And a jack-o'-lantern glare, a wild and dusky glare,

With fall on fall, from wood to wood, The brook pours mossy music down Or is it, in the solitude,

I. Out, out in the open fields, Where the great, green book of God,

I. The juice-big apples' sullen gold, Like lazy Sultans laughed and lolled

There are some things that entertain me more Than men or books; and to my knowledge seem A key of Poetry, made of magic lore

I. Dull, dimly gleaming, The dawn looks downward

It is not well For me to dwell On what upon that day befell,

When down the Hartz the echoes swarm He rides beneath the sounding storm With mad "halloo!" and wild alarm

Febrile perfumes as of faded roses In the old house speak of love to-day, Love long past; and where the soft day closes,

It was down in the woodland on last Hallowe'en, Where silence and darkness had built them a lair, That I felt the dim presence of her, the unseen,

All hushed of glee, The last chill bee Clings wearily

Around its mountain many footpaths wind, But only one unto its top attains; Not he who searches closest, takes most pains,

There is a voice that calls to me; a voice that cries deep down; That calls within my heart of hearts when Summer doffs her crown: When Summer doffs her crown, my dear, and by the hills and streams

I can't get up with the chickens; I can't get up at dark: And what do I care for the early worm?

I. NOON. The tanned and sultry noon climbs high

When grave the twilight settles o'er my roof, And from the haggard oaks unto my door The rain comes, wild as one who rides before

There are haunters of the silence, ghosts that hold the heart and brain: I have sat with them and hearkened; I have talked with them in vain: I have shuddered from their coming, yet have run to meet them there,

I. I see them still, when poring o'er Old volumes of romantic lore,

For him God's birds each merry morn Make of wild throats melodious flutes To trill such love from brush and thorn

Here where the season turns the land to gold, Among the fields our feet have known of old, When we were children who would laugh and run,

Nor time nor all his minions Of sorrow or of pain, Shall dash with vulture pinions

I. Now is it as if Spring had never been, And Winter but a memory and dream,

Heaped in raven loops and masses Over temples smooth and fair, Have you marked it, as she passes,

In the frail hepaticas, - That the early Springtide tossed, Sapphire-like, along the ways

In the frail hepaticas, That the early Springtide tossed, Sapphire-like, along the ways

In her dark eyes dreams poetize; The soul sits lost in love: There is no thing in all the skies,

There is no Paradise like that which lies Deep in the heavens of her azure eyes: There is no Eden here on Earth that glows

The gladness of our Southern spring; the grace Of summer; and the dreaminess of fall Are parts of her sweet nature. Such a face

Were I an artist, Lydia, I Would paint you as you merit, Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry;

She kneels with haggard eyes and hair Unto the Christ upon the Cross: Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.

To me not only does her soul suggest Palms and the peace of tropic shore and wood, But, oceaned far beyond the golden West,

The Summer lightning comes and goes In one pale cloud above the hill, As if within its soft repose

I Her violin! - Again begin The dream-notes of her violin;

Her Vivien eyes, - beware! beware! Though they be stars, a deadly snare They set beneath her night of hair.

The path that winds by wood and stream Is not the path for me to-day; The path I take is one of dream,

I. Hey, little boy, little boy, come to me! Hey, little boy, little boy, Andy!

There is a place among the Cape Ann hills That looks from fir-dark summits on the sea, Whose surging sapphire changes constantly

I. Who is she, like the spring, who comes down From the hills to the smoke-huddled town?

Hills of the west, that gird Forest and farm, Home of the nestling bird,

The frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring, Year after year, about the forest tossed, The magic touch of the enchanter, Frost,

I dream again I 'm in the lane That leads me home through night and rain; Again the fence I see and, dense,

Far down the lane A window pane Gleams 'mid the trees through night and rain.

Among the fields the camomile Seems blown steam in the lightning's glare. Unusual odors drench the air.

If heart be tired and soul be sad As life goes on in homespun clad, Drab, colorless, with much of care,

She mutters and stoops by the lone bayou The little green leaves are hushed on the trees An owl in an oak cries"Who-oh-who,"

Within the world of every man's desire Two things have power to lift the soul above: The first is Work, who dons a mean attire;

Hope on, dear Heart, and you will see The walls of worry fade and flee; And sane of soul and sound of mind,

During the siege of Bryan's Station, Kentucky, August 16, 1782, Nicholas Tomlinson and Thomas Bell, two inhabitants of the Fort, undertook to ride through the besieging Indian and Tory lines to Lexington, Ky., for aid. It happened also during this siege that the pioneer women of the Fort, when the water supply was exhausted, heroically carried water from a spring, at a considerable distance outside the palisades of the Station, to its inmates, under the very guns of the enemy. With saddles girt and reins held fast, Our rifles well in front, at last

The cuckoo-sorrel paints with pink The green page of the meadow-land Around a pool where thrushes drink

I Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers Breathed on the eyelids of love by music that slumbers,

I. Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers Breathed on the eyelids of Love by music that slumbers,

I Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers Breathed on the eyelids of Love by music that slumbers,

Not as the eye hath seen, shall we behold Romance and beauty, when we've passed away; That robed the dull facts of the intimate day

The pink rose drops its petals on The moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn; The moon, like some wide rose of white,

The pink rose drops its petals on The moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn; The moon, like some wide rose of white,

I Stood upon a height and listened to The solemn psalmody of many pines, And with the sound I seemed to see long lines

Old phantoms haunt it of the long ago; Old ghosts of old-time lovers and of dreams: Within the quiet sunlight there, meseems,

The Autumn pines and fades Upon the withered trees; And over there, a choked despair,

I remember, when a child, How within the April wild Once I walked with Mystery

I remember, when a child, How within the April wild Once I walked with Mystery

I. Sunflowers wither and lilies die, Poppies are pods of seeds;

The hush of death is on the night. The corn, That loves to whisper to the wind; the leaves, That dance with it, are silent: one perceives

Here went a horse with heavy laboring stride Along the woodland side; Deep in the clay his iron hoof-marks show,

Deep in the West a berry-coloured bar Of sunset gleams; against which one tall fir Is outlined dark; above which - courier

Such days as break the wild bird's heart; Such days as kill it and its songs; A death which knows a sweeter part

I. When you and I in the hills went Maying, You and I in the bright May weather,

I When you and I in the hills went Maying, You and I in the sweet May weather,

When the fields are rolled into naked gold, And a ripple of fire and pearl is blent With the emerald surges of wood and wold

'Neath saffron stars and satin skies, dark-blue, Between dim sylvan isles, a happy two. We sailed, and from the siren-haunted shore,

No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine, No windy white but low and sodden gray, That holds the melancholy skies and kills

When pearl and gold, o'er deeps of musk, The moon curves, silvering the dusk, As in a garden, dreaming,

I. The hurl and hurry of the winds of March, That tore the ash and bowed the pine and larch,

When in dry hollows, hilled with hay, The vesper-sparrow sings afar; And, golden gray, dusk dies away

Amber and emerald, cairngorm and chrysoprase, Stream through the autumn woods, scatter the beech-wood ways: Ways where the wahoo-bush brightens with scarlet;

What sighed the Forest to the nest? "So young, so old, Love,

One well might deem, among these miles of woods, Such were the Forests of the Holy Grail, Broceliand and Dean; where, clothed in mail,

When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock, And the brown bee drones i' the rose, And the west is a red-streaked four-o'-clock,

When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock, And the brown bee drones i' the rose; And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock,

I. Land-Marks The way is rock and rubbish to a road

In the shadow of the beeches, Where the fragile wildflowers bloom; Where the pensive silence pleaches

In the shadow of the beeches, Where the fragile wildflowers bloom; Where the pensive silence pleaches

The dim verbena drugs the dusk With heavy lemon odors rare; Wan heliotropes Arabian musk

I. Over heaven clouds are drifted; In the trees the wind-witch cries;

The waterfall, deep in the wood, Talked drowsily with solitude, A soft, insistent sound of foam,

The waterfall, deep in the wood, Talked drowsily with solitude, A soft, insistent sound of foam,

I. When black frosts pluck the acorns down, And in the lane the waters freeze;

The dawn is a warp of fever, The eve is a woof of fire; And the month is a singing weaver

She is so dear the wildflowers near Each path she passes by, Are over fain to kiss again

Long are the days, and three times long the nights. The weary hours are a heavy chain Upon the feet of all Earth's dear delights,

It seems that dawn will never climb The eastern hills; And, clad in mist and flame and rime,

All who have toiled for Art, who've won or lost, Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost; Only the chrism and sacrament of flame,

What magic shall solve us the secret Of beauty that's born for an hour? That gleams like the flight of an egret,

I. Is it uneasy moonlight On the restless field, that stirs?

I. The hills are full of prophecies And ancient voices of the dead;

I The hills are full of prophecies And ancient voices of the dead;

I. O Life! O Death! O God! Have I not striven?

Ismael, the Sultan, in the Ramazan, Girdled with guards and many a yataghan, Pachas and amins, viziers wisdom-gray,

I Beyond the Northern Lights, in regions haunted Of twilight, where the world is glacier planted,

What were this life without her? Joy, whose young face is sweet With dreams that flit about her,

One with the Heaven above Am I its bliss: Part of its truth and love,

Joy's is the magic sweet, That makes Youth's pulses beat, Puts music in young feet,

Now 'tis the time when, tall, The long blue torches of the bellflower gleam Among the trees; and, by the wooded stream,

I. Hotly burns the amaryllis With its stars of red;

I. Summer evenings, when it's warm, In the yard we sit and swing:

You, who are met to remember Kentucky and give her praise; Who have warmed your hearts at the ember

I. There is no flower of wood or lea, No April flower, as fair as she:

Onward he gallops through enchanted gloom. The spectres of the forest, dark and dim, And shadows of vast death environ him

We have sent him seeds of the melon's core, And nailed a warning upon his door: By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.

We have sent him seeds of the melon's core, And nailed a warning upon his door: By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.

I. With bloodshot eyes the morning rose Upon a world of gloom and tears;

What were sweet life without her Who maketh all things sweet With smiles that dream about her,

Aye! heartbreak of the tattered hills, And mourning of the raining sky! Heartbreak and mourning, since God wills,

I. Morning Deep in her broom-sedge, burs and iron-weeds,

Clumped in the shadow of the beech, In whose brown top the crows are loud, Where, every side, great briers reach

Ah, haughty hills, sardonic solitudes, What wizard touch hath, crowning you with gold, Cast Tyrian purple o'er broad-shouldered woods,

In her vast church of glimmering blue, Gray-stoled from feet to chin, Her dark locks beaded with the dew,

I. Brows wan thro' blue-black tresses Wet with sharp rain and kisses;

I. There is a scent of roses and spilt wine Between the moonlight and the laurel coppice;

I. Pessimist There is never a thing we dream or do

Of our own selves God makes a glass, wherein Two shadows image them as might a breath: And one is Life, whose other name is Sin;

I When all the world was Mayday, And all the skies were blue,

Where, through the myriad leaves of forest trees, The daylight falls, beryl and chrysoprase, The glamour and the glimmer of its rays

Where, through the myriad leaves of forest trees, The daylight falls, beryl and chrysoprase, The glamour and the glimmer of its rays

Yea, there are some who always seek The love that lasts an hour; And some who in love's language speak,

I. White art thou, O Lilith! as the foam that glimmers and quivers, Glitters and clingingly silvers and snows from the balm

Can I forget how, when you stood 'Mid orchards whence spring bloom had fled, Stars made the orchards seem a-bud,

I. Yea, this is he, whose name is synonym Of all that's noble, though but lowly born;

Within the world of every man's desire Three things have power to lift his soul above, Through dreams, religion, and ecstatic fire,

If GOD should say to me, Behold! - Yea, who shall doubt? - They who love others more than me,

I. A Little bird sits in our cottonwood tree, And perks his head and sings;

My nurse she tells me stories, too, To make me good, she says; but I She scares me so! I want to cry:

Little boy sleepy won't go to bed, Though the Sand Man came an hour ago, And sand all under his eyelids spread:

Little Girlie Good Enough Lives right there across the street; Neater than a powder-puff,

I. Take Heart Take heart again. Joy may be lost awhile.

When rathe wind-flowers many peer All rain filled at blue April skies, As on one smiles one's lady dear

I came upon a pool that shone, Clear, emerald-like, among the hills, That seemed old wizards round a stone

I. In girandoles of gladioles The day had kindled flame;

Loss molds our lives in many ways, And fills our souls with guesses; Upon our hearts sad hands it lays

Love one day, in childish anger, Tired of his divinity, Sick of rapture, sick of languor,

All were in league to capture Love The rock, the stream, the tree; The very Month was leader of

Can one resolve and hunt it from one's heart? This love, this god and fiend, that makes a hell Of many a life, in ways no tongue can tell,

I. Between the rose's and the canna's crimson, Beneath her window in the night I stand;

The spring may come in her pomp and splendor, And Summer follow with rain and rose, Or Fall lead in that old offender,

Thou art the music that I hear in sleep, The poetry that lures me on in dreams; The magic, thou, that holds my thought with themes

Over the roar of cities, Over the hush of the hills, Mounts ever a song that never stops,

How good it is, when overwrought, To seek the woods and find a thought, That to the soul's attentive sense

I. When I fare forth to kiss the eyes of Spring, On ways, which arch gold sunbeams and pearl buds

John-A-Dreams and Harum-Scarum Came a-riding into town: At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum

To Friendship drink, and then to Love, And last to Loyalty! The first of these were not enough

What will you send her, What will you tell her, That shall unbend her,

When Autumn's here and days are short, Let LYDIA laugh and, hey! Straightway 't is May-day in my heart,

At the moon's down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.. . The red-rock road of the underbush,

At the moon's down-going let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree. The red-rock road of the underbrush,

This is the tomboy month of all the year, March, who comes shouting o'er the winter hills, Waking the world with laughter, as she wills,

This is the tomboy month of all the year, March, who comes shouting o'er the winter hills, Waking the world with laughter, as she wills,

I When Spring is here and MARGERY Goes walking in the woods with me,

"There, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana." Shakespeare. The sunset-crimson poppies are departed,

A beardless crew we launched our little boat; Laughed at its lightness; joyed to see it float, Veer in the wind, and, with the freshening gale,

Lying alone I dreamed a dream last night: Methought that Joy had come to comfort me For all the past, its suffering and slight,

Death rides black-masked to-night; and through the land Madness beside him brandishes a torch. The peaceful farmhouse with its vine-wreathed porch

The nuns sing, "ora pro nobis," The lancets glitter above; And the beautiful Virgin whose robe is

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed, That spangle the woods and dance No gleam of gold that the twilights hold

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed, That spangle the woods and dance - No gleam of gold that the twilights hold

I. When from the tower, like some sweet flower, The bell drops petals of the hour,

A tranquil bar Of rosy twilight under dusk's first star. A glimmering sound

Through ferns and moss the path wound to A hollow where the touchmenots Swung horns of honey filled with dew;

With shadowy immortelles of memory About her brow, she sits with eyes that look Upon the stream of Lethe wearily,

Here where LOVE lies perish'd, Look not in upon the dead; Lest the shadowy curtains, shaken

Bleak, in dark rags of clouds, the day begins, That passed so splendidly but yesterday, Wrapped in magnificence of gold and gray,

Bleak, in dark rags of clouds, the day begins, That passed so splendidly but yesterday, Wrapped in magnificence of gold and gray,

I. Behold! we have gathered together our battleships near and afar; Their decks they are cleared for action, their guns they are shotted for war:

The wind, that gives the rose a kiss With murmured music of the south, Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this,

The memory of what we've lost Is with us more than what we've won; Perhaps because we count the cost

All day the clouds hung ashen with the cold; And through the snow the muffled waters fell; The day seemed drowned in grief too deep to tell,

I The mellow smell of hollyhocks And marigolds and pinks and phlox

I. The mellow smell of hollyhocks And marigolds and pinks and phlox

The dew-drop from the rose that slips Hath not the sparkle of her lips, My lady's lips.

Oh, Mignon's mouth is like a rose, A red, red rose, that half uncurls Sweet petals o'er a crimson bee:

I. Through leafy windows of the trees The full moon shows a wrinkled face,

There lives a goddess in the West, An island in death-lonesome seas; No towered towns are hers confessed,

Scene, the Arizona Desert, its most desolate part. He closed his eyes, yet still could see The leprous hills loom thirstily;

White clouds and buds and birds and bees, Low wind-notes piped from southern seas, Brought thee a rose-white offering,

In classic beauty, cold, immaculate, A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands, Upon her brow deep-chiselled love and hate,

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings A head of sultry slumber and aroma; And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings A head of sultry slumber and aroma; And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings

I. The last rose falls, wrecked of the wind and rain; Where once it bloomed the thorns alone remain:

The moon, a circle of gold, O'er the crowded housetops rolled, And peeped in an attic, where,

How long we had hid there and listened, Where the trees let in winks o' the sun, 'Fore their Winchesters glittered and glistened

In dim samite was she bedight, And on her hair a hoop of gold, Like fox-fire in the tawn moonlight,

FROM "THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC." ... Fresh from bathing in orient fountains, In wells of rock water and snow,

Where rise the brakes of bramble there, Wrapped with the trailing rose; Through cane where waters ramble, there

Oh, I am going home again, Back to the old house in the lane, And mother! who still sits and sews,

Since Fancy taught me in her school of spells I know her tricks--These are not moths at all, Nor fireflies; but masking Elfland belles

O voice of ecstasy and lyric pain, Divinely throated and divinely heard Among old England's songsters! Sprite or bird,

For the mountains' hoarse greetings came hollow From stormy wind-chasms and caves, And I heard their wild cataracts wallow

Oh, let me die in Music's arms, Clasped by some milder melody Than that which thrills with soft alarms

God-born before the Sons of God, she hurled, With awful symphonies of flood and fire, God's name on rocking Chaos world by world

White roses, like a mist Upon a terraced height, And 'mid the roses, opal, moonbeam-kissed,

These have a life that hath no part in death; These circumscribe the soul and make it strong; Between the breathing of a dream and song,

I. Thou sit'st among the sunny silences Of terraced hills and woodland galleries,

I Thou sit'st among the sunny silences Of terraced hills and woodland galleries,

The soul of love is harmony; as such All melodies, that with wide pinions beat Elastic bars, which mew it in the flesh,

Inspiration. All who have toiled for Art, who've won or lost, Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost;

I. The Fool Here is a tale for children and their grannies:

Here among the beeches Winds and wild perfume, That the twilight pleaches

It all comes back as the end draws near; All comes back like a tale of old! Shall I tell you all? Will you lend an ear?

If it so befalls that the midnight hovers In mist no moonlight breaks, The leagues of the years my spirit covers,

If it so befalls that the midnight hovers In mist no moonlight breaks, The leagues of the years my spirit covers,

Faith! the Dandelion is To my mind too lowly; Then the winsome Violet

Soft and silken and silvery brown, In shoes of lichen and leafy gown, Little blue butterflies fluttering around her,

I When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring, Just at the time of opening apple-buds,

I When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring, Just at the time of opening apple-buds,

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her. WORDSWORTH. 1883-1886

The season of the rose and peace is past: It could not last. There's heartbreak in the hills and stormy sighs

Love hath no place in her, Though in her bosom be Love-thoughts and dreams that stir

Out of the East, as from an unknown shore, Thou comest with thy children in thine arms, Slumber and Dream, whom mortals all adore,

The night has set her outposts there Of wind and rain; And to and fro, with ragged hair,

I heard the wind last night that cried and wept Like some old skipper's ghost outside my door; And on the roof the rain that tramped and tore

Lo! where the car of Day down slopes of flame On burnished axle quits the drowsy skies! And as his snorting steeds of glowing brass

O day, so sicklied o'er with night! O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk! A Circe orange, golden-bright,

I. The slanted storm tossed at their feet The frost-nipped Autumn leaves;

No'ra, when sad Fall Has grayed the fallow; Leaf-cramped the wood-brook's brawl

A disc of violet blue, Rimmed with a thorn of fire, The new moon hangs in a sky of dew;

No'ra, when sad Fall Has grayed the fallow; Leaf-cramped the wood-brook's brawl

Don't know what to do to-day. Got so many things to do I can't do them. Want to play,

I The shivering wind sits in the oaks, whose limbs, Twisted and tortured, nevermore are still;

I. The shivering wind sits in the oaks, whose limbs, Twisted and tortured, nevermore are still;

From the idyll "Wild Thorn and Lily" O Maytime woods! O Maytime lanes and hours! And stars, that knew how often there at night

From the idyll "Wild Thorn and Lily" O Maytime woods! O Maytime lanes and hours! And stars, that knew how often there at night

Unto the soul's companionship Of things that only seem to be, Earth points with magic fingertip

Far off a wind blew, and I heard Wild echoes of the woods reply - The herald of some royal word,

Far off a wind blew, and I heard Wild echoes of the woods reply The herald of some royal word,

Red-Faced as old carousal, and with eyes A hard, hot blue; her hair a frowsy flame, Bold, dowdy-bosomed, from her widow-frame

An Ode to be read on the laying of the foundation stone of the new Oglethorpe University, January, 1915, at Atlanta, Georgia I. As when with oldtime passion for this Land

Clove-spicy pinks and phlox that fill the sense With drowsy indolence; And in the evening skies

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock fences, that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock fences, that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;

Last night we were kept awake. Could n't sleep for Old Jack Frost; Wandering round like some old ghost.

Old Man Rain at the windowpane Knocks and fumbles and knocks again: His long-nailed fingers slip and strain:

There is nothing at all to do to-day. I can't go out and run and play; For it's raining and snowing and sleeting, too;

Bald, with old eyes a blood-shot blue, he comes Into the Boar's-Head Inn: the hot sweat streaks His fulvous face, and all his raiment reeks

Old Sis Snow, with hair ablow, Down the road now see her go! Her old gown pulled back and pinned

I. Once I found an ant-lion's hole And an ant-lion in it: nippers

Sad o'er the hills the poppy sunset died. Slow as a fungus breaking through the crusts Of forest leaves, the waning half-moon thrusts,

1 To-morrow and to-morrow Is but to-day:

I Thought of the road through the glen, With its hawk's nest high in the pine; With its rock, where the fox had his den,

I. All the poppies in their beds Nodding crumpled crimson heads;

I. Annisquam Old days, old ways, old homes beside the sea;

I had forgot how, in my day The Sabine fields around me lay In amaranth and asphodel,

They hold their own, they have no peers In gloom and glow, in hopes and fears, In love and terror, hovering round

Down all the lanterned Bagdad of our youth He steals, with golden justice for the poor: Within his palace you shall know the truth!

I. He sang a song as he sowed the field, Sowed the field at break of day:

There is no inspiration in the view. From where this acorn drops its thimbles brown The landscape stretches like a shaggy frown;

TO MY FRIEND, JOHN FOX, JR. You remember, the deep mist, - Climbing to the Devil's Den -

Let us bid the world good-by, Now while sun and cloud's above us, While we've nothing to deny,

TO J. FOX, JR. You remember how the mist, When we climbed to Devil's Den,

Part I Late Spring The mottled moth at eventide

Part I - Late Spring Part I Late Spring

Part II Early Summer The cricket in the rose-bush hedge

Part III Late Summer Heat lightning flickers in one cloud,

Part IV Late Autumn They who die young are blest. -

Part V Winter We, whom God sets a task,

With her 't is well now. She died young, With all her hope and faith unmarred, Nor lived to see the pearls, Love strung,

I He was not learned in any art; But Nature led him by the hand;

I. He was not learned in any art; But Nature led him by the hand;

On reading De Quincey's "Confessions of an Opium Eater." I seemed to stand before a temple walled From shadows and night's unrealities;

Behold a hag whom Life denies a kiss As he rides questward in knighterrant-wise; Only when he hath passed her is it his

On nights like this, when bayou and lagoon Dream in the moonlight's mystic radiance, I seem to walk like one deep in a trance

I. Beyond lost seas of summer she Dwelt on an island of the sea,

I Beyond lost seas of summer she Dwelt on an island of the sea,

I. In mail of black my limbs I girt, Angelica!

Here I have heard on hills the battle clash Roar to the windy sea that roared again: When, drunk with wrath, upon the clanking plain

Spare us our Dreams, O God! The dream we dreamed When we were children and dwelt near the Land Of Faery, which our Childhood often planned

I. Let me forget her face! So fresh, so lovely! the abiding place

Non numero horas nisi serenas When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems In soul I am a part of it;

Non numero horas nisi serenas When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems In soul I am a part of it;

The gods, who could loose and bind In the long ago, The gods, who were stern and kind

1 Haunter of green intricacies, Where the sunlight's amber laces

The wine-loud laughter of indulged Desire Upon his lips, and, in his eyes, the fire Of uncontrol, he takes in reckless hands, -

Here where the coves indent the shore and fall And fill with ebb and flowing of the tides; Whereon some barge rocks or some dory rides,

I What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well? -

I. What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?

So sick of dreams! the dreams, that stain The aisle, along which life must pass, With hues of mystic colored glass,

1 Her violets in thine eyes The Springtide stained I know,

Baroque, but beautiful, between the lunes, The valves of nacre of a mussel-shell, Behold, a pearl! shaped like the burnished bell

I am a part of all you see In Nature; part of all you feel: I am the impact of the bee

I am a part of all you see In Nature; part of all you feel: I am the impact of the bee

Above his misered embers, gnarled and gray, With toil-twitched limbs he bends; around his hut, Want, like a hobbling hag, goes night and day,

What am I, and what is he Who can cull and tear a heart, As one might a rose for sport

O Hades! O false gods! false to yourselves! O Hades, 'twas thy brother gave her thee Without a mother's sanction or her knowledge!

High on a throne of noisome ooze and heat, 'Mid rotting trees of bayou and lagoon, Ghastly she sits beneath the skeleton moon,

This was her home; one mossy gable thrust Above the cedars and the locust trees: This was her home, whose beauty now is dust,

This was her home; one mossy gable thrust Above the cedars and the locust trees: This was her home, whose beauty now is dust,

This is the face of her I've dreamed of long; Here in my heart's despair,

The vat-like cups of the fungus, filled With the rain that fell last night, Are casks of wine that the elves distilled

Upon the summit of his Century He reared a Palace of enduring Art, From whose wild windows never more depart

Who hath beheld the goddess face to face, Blind with her beauty, all his days shall go Climbing lone mountains towards her temple place,

Out of the past the dim leaves spoke to me The thoughts of Pindar with a voice so sweet Hybl'an bees seemed swarming my retreat

Summer met Sleep at sunset, Dreaming within the south, Drugged with his soul's deep slumber,

Let us go far from here! Here there is sadness in the early year: Here sorrow waits where joy went laughing late:

Above the world a glare Of sunset guns and spears; An army, no one hears,

Low belts of rushes ragged with the blast; Lagoons of marish reddening with the west; And o'er the marsh the water-fowl's unrest

She bewitched me in my childhood, And the witch's charm is hidden - Far beyond the wicked wildwood

I. There is no rhyme that is half so sweet As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;

I There is no rhyme that is half so sweet As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;

I saw the Summer through her garden go, A marigold hung in her auburn hair, Her brown arms heaped with harvest, and the lair

How often hope's fair flower blooms richest where The soul was fertilized with black despair.

Man's are the learnings of his books - What is all knowledge that he knows Beside the wit of winding brooks,

Man's are the learnings of his books What is all knowledge that he knows Beside the wit of winding brooks,

Universes are the pages Of that book whose words are ages; Of that book which destiny

Oh, for a soul that fulfills music like that of a bird! thrilling with rapture the hills,

There is no rhyme that is half so sweet As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat; There is no metre that's half so fine

There is a poetry that speaks Through common things: the grasshopper, That in the hot weeds creaks and creaks,

What loveliness the years contrive To rob us of! what exquisite Beliefs, in which thought chanced to hit

There is a poetry that speaks Through common things: the grasshopper, That in the hot weeds creaks and creaks,

Whether it be that we in letters trace The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain, And name it song; or with the brush attain

Whether it be that we in letters trace The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain, And name it song; or with the brush attain

Now when wan winter sunsets be Canary-colored down the sky; When nights are starless utterly,

A Log-Hut in the solitude, A clapboard roof to rest beneath! This side, the shadow-haunted wood;

From the lyrical eclogue "One Day and Another" Now rests the season in forgetfulness, Careless in beauty of maturity;

From the lyrical eclogue"One Day and Another" Now rests the season in forgetfulness, Careless in beauty of maturity;

It is as if imperial trumpets broke Again the silence on War's iron height; And C'sar's armored legions marched to fight,

I. There's a boy that you must know, Always ragged, dirty too;

I. Around, the stillness deepened; then the grain Went wild with wind; and every briery lane

Around, the stillness deepened; then the grain Went wild with wind; and every briery lane Was swept with dust; and then, tempestuous black,

I hear the hoofs of horses Galloping over the hill, Galloping on and galloping on,

When on the leaves the rain persists, And every gust brings showers down; When all the woodland smokes with mists,

The locust builds its are of sound And tops it with a spire; The roadside leaves pant to the ground

I Yea, why I love thee let my heart repeat: I look upon thy face and then divine

Listen, dearest! you must love me more, More than you did before! Hark, what a beating here of wings!

I. When April comes, and pelts with buds And apple-blooms each orchard space,

High in the place of outraged liberty, He ruled the world, an emperor and god His iron armies swept the land and sea,

I. I shall not soon forget her and her eyes, The haunts of hate, where suffering seemed to write

Here in the dusk I see her face again As then I knew it, ere she fell asleep; Renunciation glorifying pain

I No more for him, where hills look down, Shall Morning crown

I. No more for him, where hills look down, Shall Morning crown

The roses mourn for her who sleeps Within the tomb; For her each lily-flower weeps

There is a music of immaculate love, That beats within the virgin veins of Spring, And trillium blossoms, like the stars that cling

Under the brindled beech, Deep in the mottled shade, Where the rocks hang in reach

Dear heart and love! what happiness to sit And watch the firelight's varying shade and shine On thy young face; and through those eyes of thine--

A sense of sadness in the golden air; A pensiveness, that has no part in care, As if the Season, by some woodland pool,

A Sense of sadness in the golden air, A pensiveness, that has no part in care, As if the Season, by some woodland pool,

What ogive gates from gold of Ophir wrought, What walls of Pariah, whiter than a rose, What towers of crystal, for the eyes of thought,

It was beneath a waning moon when all the woods were sear, And winds made eddies of the leaves that whispered far and near, I met her on the old mill-bridge we parted at last year.

What mines the morning heavens unfold! What far Alaskas of the skies! That, veined with elemental gold,

I. Masks Death rides black-masked to-night; and through the land

His Birthday, October the 7th, 1912 Riley, whose pen has made the world your debtor, Whose Art has kept you young through sixty years,

Master of human harmonies, where gong And harp and violin and flute accord; Each instrument confessing you its lord,

Thus have I pictured her: - In Arden old A white-browed maiden with a falcon eye, Rose-flushed of face, with locks of wind-blown gold,

Oh, go not to the lonely hill, That from its heart pours one clear well! There is a witch who haunts it still,

"I rode to death, for I fought for shame-- The Lady Maurine of noble name, "The fair and faithless!--Though life be long

Above the circus of the world she sat, Beautiful and base, a harlot crowned with pride: Fierce nations, upon whom she sneered and spat,

All the roses now are gone, All their glories shed: Here's a rose that grows not wan,

I had the strangest dream last night: I dreamed the poppies, red and white, That over-run the flower-bed,

See how the rose leaves fall The rose leaves fall and fade: And by the wall, in dusk funereal,

Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay; Around her, flowers scattered earth with gold, Or down the path in insolence held sway--

When my mother is n't here, And I just won't go to bed, And it's cold outside and near

Miranda-like, above the world she waves The wand of Prospero; and, beautiful, Ariel the airy, Caliban the dull,

I. Oh, to see in the night in a May moon's light A nymph from siren caves,

I. I heard the forest's green heart beat As if it heard the happy feet

They lean their faces to me through Green windows of the woods; Their white throats sweet with honey-dew

It came to me in my sleep, And I rose from my sleep and went Out in the night to weep,

A Sufi debauchee of dreams Spake this: From Sodomite to Peri Earth tablets us; we live and are

1 Hold up thy head and crush Thy heart's despair;

An agate-black, your roguish eyes Claim no proud lineage of the skies, No starry blue; but of good earth

An agate black thy roguish eyes Claim no proud lineage of skies, No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth,

The partridge-berry flecks with flame the way That leads to ferny hollows where the bee Drones on the aster. Far away the sea

The bubbled blue of morning-glory spires, Balloon-blown foam of moonflowers, and sweet snows Of clematis, through which September goes,

The pink rose drops its petals on The moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn; The moon, like some wide rose of white,

By the burnished laurel line Glimmering flows the singing stream; Oily eddies crease and shine

Here is a tale for proper men and virgins: There was a woman once who had a daughter, A fair-faced wench, as stable as is water,

I passed a cottage 'twixt the town and wood, And marked its garden, blossoming bright and bold, And breathing many a scent. Awhile I stood

The doubtful dawn came dim and wan, And dimmer grew the day: The kildee whistled among the weeds,

1 Ha! help! - 'twas palpable! A ghost that thronged

She is so much to me, to me, And, oh! I love her so, I look into my soul and see

Dark in the west the sunset's sombre wrack Unrolled vast walls the rams of war had split, Along whose battlements the battle lit

There is a legend of an old Hartz tower That tells of one, a noble, who had sold His soul unto the Fiend; who grew not old

I found myself among the trees What time the reapers ceased to reap; And in the sunflower-blooms the bees

I found myself among the trees What time the reapers ceased to reap; And in the sunflower-blooms the bees

The dim verbena drugs the dusk With lemon-heavy odours where The heliotropes breathe drowsy musk

Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits, Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits; From out her form a pearly light is shed,

The moon, like a round device On a shadowy shield of war, Hangs white in a heaven of ice

Deep-hearted roses of the purple dusk And lilies of the morn; And cactus, holding up a slender tusk

The face of the world is a homely face, And the look of the world unkind, When harsh on your arm a hand it lays

The ant is busy with its house, The bee is at its tree; And by its nest among the boughs

Some reckon time by stars, And some by hours: Some measure days by dreams,

Unto the portal of the House of Song, Symbols of wrong and emblems of unrest, And mottoes of despair and envious jest,

I. When the poppies, with their shields, Sentinel

It's up and out with the bat and owl! We ride by night in fair and foul; In foul and fair we take the pike,

I. Wafted o'er purple seas, From gold Hesperides,

I Far over the summer sea, Ere the white-eyed stars wax pale,

Death takes her hand and leads her through the waste Of her own soul, wherein she hears the voice Of lost Love's tears, and, famishing, can but taste

I. Often, when I wake at night, I can hear the strangest sounds,

Little leaves, that lean your ears From each branch and bough of spring, What is that your rapture hears?

I Where hast thou folded thy pinions, Spirit of Dreams?

(After the German of Goethe, Faust, II) When on the mountain tops ray-crowned Apollo Turns his swift arrows, dart on glittering dart,

First Came the rain, loud, with sonorous lips; A pursuivant who heralded a prince: And dawn put on her livery of tints,

Ah, shall I follow, on the hills, The Spring, as wild wings follow? Where wild-plum trees make wan the hills,

The sun set late; and left along the west A belt of furious ruby, o'er which snows Of clouds unrolled; each cloud a mighty breast

I Dizzily round On the elf-hills white in the yellow moonlight

A weed-grown slope, whereon the rain Has washed the brown rocks bare, Leads tangled from a lonely lane

The sun sinks scarlet as a barberry. Far off at sea one vessel lifts a sail, Hurrying to harbor from the coming gale,

Against the pane the darkness, wet and cold, Pressed a wild face and raised a ragged arm Of cloud, clothed on with thunder and alarm

I looked into the night and saw GOD writing with tumultuous flame Upon the thunder's front of awe, -

Craft's silent sister and the daughter deep Of Contemplation, she, who spreads below A hostile tent soft comfort for her foe,

I. We have no castles, We have no vassals,

Hear you r o music in the creaks Made by the sallow grasshopper, Who in the hot weeds sharply breaks

How some succeed who have least need, In that they make no effort for! And pluck, where others pluck a weed,

Success allures us in the earth and skies: We seek to win her, but, too amorous, Mocking, she flees us. Haply, were we wise,

I. Hang out your loveliest star, O Night! O Night! Your richest rose, O Dawn!

The slender snail clings to the leaf, Gray on its silvered underside; And slowly, slowlier than the snail, with brief

I. Now Lucifer ignites her taper bright To greet the wild-flowered Dawn,

The spring is coming! hear it blow! The rain and wind have cleared the snow; And I am going to play my fill

Deep with divine tautology, The sunset's mighty mystery Again has traced the scroll-like west

Deep with divine tautology, The sunset's mighty mystery Again has traced the scroll-like West

Low clouds, the lightning veins and cleaves, Torn from the forest of the storm, Sweep westward like enormous leaves

The moth and beetle wing about The garden ways of other days; Above the hills, a fiery shout

The moth and beetle wing about The garden ways of other days; Above the hills, a fiery shout

Blood-Coloured oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass; Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras, And broom-sedge strips of smoky-pink and pearl gray clumps of grass

I. A Sea of onyx are the skies, Cloud-islanded with fire;

In the waste places, in the dreadful night, When the wood whispers like a wandering mind, And silence sits and listens to the wind,

Under the boughs of spring She swung in the old rope-swing. Her cheeks, with their happy blood,

"Lydia, dic, per omnes Te deos oro!" I

The little tents the wildflowers raise Are tabernacles where Love prays And Beauty preaches all the days.

Take heart again. Joy may be lost awhile. It is not always Spring. And even now from some far Summer Isle

With helms of lightning, glittering in the skies, On steeds of thunder, cloudy form on form, Terrific beauty in their hair and eyes,

The trees took on fantastic shapes That night when I came to the grange; The very bushes seemed to change;

(Battleship, launched March 24, 1898.) I Here's to her who bears the name

The clouds that tower in storm, that beat Arterial thunder in their veins; The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,

The clouds that tower in storm, that beat Arterial thunder in their veins; The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,

The times they had kissed and parted That night were over a score; Each time that the cavalier started,

When to that house I came which, long ago, My heart had builded of its joy and woe, Upon its threshold, lo! I paused again,

Here is a tale for maidens and for mothers: There was an ape, a very prince of monkeys, Who capered in the world of fools and flunkies,

In story books, when I was very young, I knew you first, one of the Fairy Race; And then it was your picture took its place,

Here is a tale for artists and for writers: There was an ass, in other words, a critic, Who brayed and balked and kicked most analytic,

Night and the sea, and heaven overhead Cloudless and vast, as 'twere of hollowed spar, Wherein the facets gleamed of many a star,

God made that night of pearl and ivory, Perfect and holy as a holy thought Born of perfection, dreams, and ecstasy,

Here is a tale for poets and for players: There was a bagpipe once, that wheezed and whistled, And droned vile discords, notes that fairly bristled,

Booted and spurred he rode toward the west, A rose, from the woman who loved him best, Lay warm with her kisses there in his breast,

Black clouds hung low and heavy, Above the sunset glare; And in the garden dimly

Here is a tale for sportsmen when at table: There was a boar, like that Atalanta hunted, Who gorged and snored and, unmolested, grunted,

MORN. Down silver precipices drawn The red-wine cataracts of dawn

With soul self-blind Do n't struggle on merely at last to find The best of life, the dream, is left behind.

Her life was bound to crutches: pale and bent, But smiling ever, she would go and come: For of her soul GOD made an instrument

Had a birthday yesterday. First one for, I think, a year. Won't have one again, they say,

I had not found the road too short, As once I had in days of youth, In that old forest of long ruth,

I had not found the road too short, As once I had in days of youth, In that old forest of long ruth,

I know not if she be unkind, If she have faults I do not care; Search through the world - where will you find

And thus it came my feet were led To wizard walls that hairy hung Old as their rock the moss made dead;

From morn till noon upon the window-pane The tempest tapped with rainy finger-nails, And all the afternoon the blustering gales

This is the path he used to take, That ended at a rose-porched door: He takes it now for oldtime's sake;

And he had mused on lands each bird, That winged from realms of Falerina, O'er seas of the Enchanted Sword,

Sodden and shivering, in mud and rain, Half in the light that serves but to reveal The blackness of an alley and the reel

I. There's a boy who lives next door; And this boy is just as bad

Out in Oldham County once Met a boy who showed me how He could milk an old red cow.

Youth, with an arrogant air, Passes me by: Age, on his tottering staff,

It seemed the listening forest held its breath Before some vague and unapparent form Of fear, approaching with the wings of death,

To it the forest tells The mystery that haunts its heart and folds Its form in cogitation deep, that holds

Not far from here, it lies beyond That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take This unused lane where brambles make

I. Ere wild haws, looming in the glooms, Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms;

I. In some glad way I know thereof: A garden glows down in my heart,

I. Ere wild-haws, looming in the glooms, Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms;

Here is a tale for any one who wishes: There grew a cabbage once among the flowers, A plain, broad cabbage a good wench, whose hours

April calling, April calling, April calling me! I hear the voice of April there

I. The tufted gold of the sassafras, And the gold of the spicewood-bush,

I The tufted gold of the sassafras, And the gold of the spicewood-bush,

I. The tufted gold of the sassafras, And the gold of the spicewood-bush,

I There were Fa'ries two or three, And a high moon white as wool,

Once a charcoal wagon passed, And an old black charcoalman, "Blacker than a midnight blast,"

Deep in a valley, green with ancient beech, And wandered through of one small, silent stream, Whose bear-grassed banks bristled with brush and burr,

The sunset was a sleepy gold, And stars were in the skies When down a weedy lane he strolled

I. He makes a roadway of the crumbling fence, Or on the fallen tree, brown as a leaf

I He makes a roadway of the crumbling fence, Or on the fallen tree, - brown as a leaf

Christmas is just one week off, And Old Santa's in the house; In the attic heard a cough

Wide-walled it stands in heathen lands Beside a mystic sea, With streets strange-trod of many a god,

The melancholy of the woods and plains When summer nears its close; the drowsy, dim, Unfathomed sadness of the mists that swim

The wild-plum tree, whose leaves grow thin, Has strewn the way with half its fruit: The grasshopper's and cricket's din

Shut it out of the heart this grief, O Love, with the years grown old and hoary! And let in joy that life is brief,

There, from its entrance, lost in matted vines, Where in the valley foams a water-fall, Is glimpsed a ruined mill's remaining wall;

He found the road so long and lone That he was fain to turn again. The bird's faint note, the bee's low drone

Come in, old Ghost of all that used to be! You find me old, And love grown cold,

Calling, the heron flies athwart the blue That sleeps above it; reach on rocky reach Of water sings by sycamore and beech,

O cheerly, cheerly by the road And merrily down the billet; And where the acre-field is sowed

Here is a tale for those who sing with reason: There was a cricket, troubadouring fellow, Who chirped his lay, or zoomed it like a 'cello,

I. First of the insect choir, in the spring We hear his faint voice fluttering in the grass,

Here is a tale for all who wish to listen: There was a thief who, in his cut-throat quarter, Was hailed as chief; he had a way of barter,

The cross I bear no man shall know No man can ease the cross I bear! Alas! the thorny path of woe

The Season speaks this year of life Confusing words of strife, Suggesting weeds instead of fruits and flowers

The Nights of song and story, With breath of frost and rain, Whose locks are wild and hoary,

Let us mix a cup of Joy That the wretched may employ, Whom the Fates have made their toy.

Summer, gowned in catnip-gray, Goes her weedy wildwood way, Where with rosehip-buttoned coat,

The West builds high a sepulchre Of cloudy granite and of gold, Where twilight's priestly hours inter

The west builds high a sepulcher Of cloudy granite and of gold, Where twilight's priestly hours inter

Between the darkness and the day As, lost in doubt, I went my way, I met a shape, as faint as fair,

Her heart is still and leaps no more With holy passion when the breeze, Her whilom playmate, as before,

Her heart is still and leaps no more With holy passion when the breeze, Her whilom playmate, as before,

So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old! And in the sorrow of our hearts' hushed halls A lute lies broken and a flower falls;

So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old! And in the sorrow of our hearts' hushed halls A lute lies broken and a flower falls;

Ah, not for us the Heavens that hold GOD'S message of Promethean fire! The Flame that fell on bards of old

Woman's a star, a rose; Man but a moth, a bee: High now as heaven she glows,

Devil's Race-Horse seems to me Strangest thing I ever saw: Up in our old maple-tree

The scent of dittany was hot. Its smell intensified the heat: Into his brain it seemed to beat

This was my dream: It seemed the afternoon Of some deep tropic day; and yet the moon

There is a place (I know it well) Where beech trees crowd into a gloom, And where a twinkling woodland well

The beauty of the day put joy, Unbounded, in the woodland's breast, Through which the wind,like some wild boy,

I saw her twins of eyelids listless swoon Mesmeric eyes, Like the mild lapsing of a lulling tune

I have lain for an hour or twain Awake, and the tempest is beating On the roof, and the sleet on the pane,

Below, the tawny Tagus swept Past royal gardens, breathing balm; Upon his couch the monarch slept;

Even as a child he loved to thrid the bowers, And mark the loafing sunlight's lazy laugh; Or, on each season, spell the epitaph

I have seen her limpid eyes Large with gradual laughter rise Through wild-roses' nettles,

Far as the eye can see, in domes and spires, Buttress and curve, ruins of shifting sand, In whose wild making wind and sea took hand,

Through woods the Spanish moss makes gray, With deeps the daylight never reaches, The water sluices slow its way,

I saw the spirit of the pines that spoke With spirits of the ocean and the storm: Against the tumult rose its tattered form,

I. Where thronged poppies with globed shields Of fierce red

I. I do not love you now, O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride!

Pods are the poppies, and slim spires of pods The hollyhocks; the balsam's pearly bredes Of rose-stained snow are little sacs of seeds

Pods the poppies, and slim spires of pods The hollyhocks; the balsam's pearly bredes Of rose-stained snow are little sacs of seeds

There are moments when, as missions, God reveals to us strange visions; When, within their separate stations,

"To arms!" the battle bugles blew. The daughter of their Earl was she, Lord of a thousand swords and true;

Day after Day, young with eternal beauty, Pays flowery duty to the month and clime; Night after night erects a vasty portal

1. This is the tale they tell, Of an Hallowe'en;

Woods of wonder, wonder ways, Where the Faery Piper plays, Bidding all to up and follow

I. Ai me! why stood I on the bent When Summer wept o'er dying June!

A wall of crumbling stones doth keep Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep, Old chronicled grave-stones of its dead,

Yes, I love the homestead. There In the spring the lilacs blew Plenteous perfume everywhere;

There is a hall in every house, Behind whose wainscot gnaws the mouse; Along whose sides are empty rooms,

Written February 24, 1898, on reading the latest news concerning the battleship Maine, blown up in Havana harbor, February 15th. I. The fathers of our fathers they were men!