The hopes of full three hundred lives-- Aye, babes unborn, and promised wives! "The odds are dread," He must have said, "Here, God, is one poor life instead."
No time for praying overmuch-- No time for tears, or woman's touch Of tenderness, Or child's caress-- His last "God bless them!" stopped at "bless"--
Thus man and engine, nerved with steel, Clasped iron hands for woe or weal, And so went down Where dark waves drown All but the name of William Brown.
WHY
Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? I catch faint perfumes of the blossoms white That maidens drape their tresses with at night, And, through dim smiles of beauty and the din Of the musicians' harp and violin, I hear, enwound and blended with the dance, The voice whose echo is this utterance,-- Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes?
Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? I see but vacant windows, curtained o'er With webs whose architects forevermore Race up and down their slender threads to bind The buzzing fly's wings whirless, and to wind The living victim in his winding sheet.-- I shudder, and with whispering lips repeat, Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes?
Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes? What will you have for answer?--Shall I say That he who sings the merriest roundelay Hath neither joy nor hope?--and he who sings The lightest, sweetest, tenderest of things But utters moan on moan of keenest pain, So aches his heart to ask and ask in vain, Why are they written--all these lovers' rhymes?
THE TOUCH OF LOVING HANDS
IMITATED
Light falls the rain-drop on the fallen leaf, And light o'er harvest-plain and garnered sheaf-- But lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.
Light falls the dusk of mild midsummer night, And light the first star's faltering lance of light On glimmering lawns,--but lightlier loving hands.
And light the feathery flake of early snows, Or wisp of thistle-down that no wind blows, And light the dew,--but lightlier loving hands.
Light-falling dusk, or dew, or summer rain, Or down of snow or thistle--all are vain,-- Far lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.
A TEST
'Twas a test I designed, in a quiet conceit Of myself, and the thoroughly fixed and complete Satisfaction I felt in the utter control Of the guileless young heart of the girl of my soul.
So--we parted. I said it were better we should-- That she could forget me--I knew that she could; For I never was worthy so tender a heart, And so for her sake it were better to part.
She averted her gaze, and she sighed and looked sad As I held out my hand--for the ring that she had-- With the bitterer speech that I hoped she might be Resigned to look up and be happy with me.
'Twas a test, as I said--but God pity your grief, At a moment like this when a smile of relief Shall leap to the lips of the woman you prize, And no mist of distress in her glorious eyes.
A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS
Chant me a rhyme of Christmas-- Sing me a jovial song,-- And though it is filled with laughter, Let it be pure and strong.
Let it be clear and ringing, And though it mirthful be, Let a low, sweet voice of pathos Run through the melody.
Sing of the hearts brimmed over With the story of the day-- Of the echo of childish voices That will not die away.--
Of the blare of the tasselled bugle, And the timeless clatter and beat Of the drum that throbs to muster Squadrons of scampering feet.--
Of the wide-eyed look of wonder, And the gurgle of baby-glee, As the infant hero wrestles From the smiling father's knee.
Sing the delights unbounded Of the home unknown of care, Where wealth as a guest abideth, And want is a stranger there.
But O let your voice fall fainter, Till, blent with a minor tone, You temper your song with the beauty Of the pity Christ hath shown:
And sing one verse for the voiceless; And yet, ere the song be done, A verse for the ears that hear not, And a verse for the sightless one:
And one for the outcast mother, And one for the sin-defiled And hopeless sick man dying, And one for his starving child.
For though it be time for singing A merry Christmas glee, Let a low, sweet voice of pathos Run through the melody.
SUN AND RAIN
All day the sun and rain have been as friends, Each vying with the other which shall be Most generous in dowering earth and sea With their glad wealth, till each, as it descends, Is mingled with the other, where it blends In one warm, glimmering mist that falls on me As once God's smile fell over Galilee. The lily-cup, filled with it, droops and bends Like some white saint beside a sylvan shrine In silent prayer; the roses at my feet, Baptized with it as with a crimson wine, Gleam radiant in grasses grown so sweet, The blossoms lift, with tenderness divine, Their wet eyes heavenward with these of mine.
WITH HER FACE
With her face between his hands! Was it any wonder she Stood atiptoe tremblingly? As his lips along the strands Of her hair went lavishing Tides of kisses, such as swing Love's arms to like iron bands.-- With her face between his hands!
And the hands--the hands that pressed The glad face--Ah! where are they? Folded limp, and laid away Idly over idle breast? He whose kisses drenched her hair, As he caught and held her there, In Love's alien, lost lands, With her face between his hands?
Was it long and long ago, When her face was not as now, Dim with tears? nor wan her brow As a winter-night of snow? Nay, anointing still the strands Of her hair, his kisses flow Flood-wise, as she dreaming stands, With her face between his hands.
MY NIGHT
Hush! hush! list, heart of mine, and hearken low! You do not guess how tender is the Night, And in what faintest murmurs of delight Her deep, dim-throated utterances flow Across the memories of long-ago! Hark! do your senses catch the exquisite Staccatos of a bird that dreams he sings? Nay, then, you hear not rightly,--'tis a blur Of misty love-notes, laughs and whisperings The Night pours o'er the lips that fondle her, And that faint breeze, filled with all fragrant sighs,-- That is her breath that quavers lover-wise-- O blessed sweetheart, with thy swart, sweet kiss, Baptize me, drown me in black swirls of bliss!
THE HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN
The hour before the dawn! O ye who grope therein, with fear and dread And agony of soul, be comforted, Knowing, ere long, the darkness will be gone, And down its dusky aisles the light be shed; Therefore, in utter trust, fare on--fare on, This hour before the dawn!
GOOD-BY, OLD YEAR
Good-by, Old Year! Good-by! We have been happy--you and I; We have been glad in many ways; And now, that you have come to die, Remembering our happy days, 'Tis hard to say, "Good-by-- Good-by, Old Year! Good-by!"
Good-by, Old Year! Good-by! We have seen sorrow--you and I-- Such hopeless sorrow, grief and care, That now, that you have come to die, Remembering our old despair, 'Tis sweet to say, "Good-by-- Good-by, Old Year! Good-by!"
FALSE AND TRUE
One said: "Here is my hand to lean upon As long as you may need it." And one said: "Believe me true to you till I am dead." And one, whose dainty way it was to fawn About my face, with mellow fingers drawn Most soothingly o'er brow and drooping head, Sighed tremulously: "Till my breath is fled Know I am faithful!" ... Now, all these are gone And many like to them--and yet I make No bitter moan above their grassy graves--
Alas! they are not dead for me to take Such sorry comfort!--but my heart behaves Most graciously, since one who never spake A vow is true to me for true love's sake.
A BALLAD FROM APRIL
I am dazed and bewildered with living A life but an intricate skein Of hopes and despairs and thanksgiving Wound up and unravelled again-- Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping, I am wondering ever the while At a something that smiles when I'm weeping, And a something that weeps when I smile.
And I walk through the world as one dreaming Who knows not the night from the day, For I look on the stars that are gleaming, And lo, they have vanished away: And I look on the sweet-summer daylight, And e'en as I gaze it is fled, And, veiled in a cold, misty, gray light, The winter is there in its stead.
I feel in my palms the warm fingers Of numberless friends--and I look, And lo, not a one of them lingers To give back the pleasure he took; And I lift my sad eyes to the faces All tenderly fixed on my own, But they wither away in grimaces That scorn me, and leave me alone.
And I turn to the woman that told me Her love would live on until death-- But her arms they no longer enfold me, Though barely the dew of her breath Is dry on the forehead so pallid That droops like the weariest thing O'er this most inharmonious ballad That ever a sorrow may sing.
So I'm dazed and bewildered with living A life but an intricate skein Of hopes and despairs and thanksgiving Wound up and unravelled again-- Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping, I am wondering ever the while At a something that smiles when I'm weeping, And a something that weeps when I smile.
BRUDDER SIMS
Dah's Brudder Sims! Dast slam yo' Bible shet An' lef' dat man alone--kase he's de boss Ob all de preachahs ev' I come across! Day's no twis' in dat gospil book, I bet, Ut Brudder Sims cain't splanify, an' set You' min' at eaze! W'at's Moses an' de Laws? W'at's fo'ty days an' nights ut Noey toss Aroun' de Dil-ooge?--W'at dem Chillen et De Lo'd rain down? W'at s'prise ole Joney so In dat whale's inna'ds?--W'at dat laddah mean Ut Jacop see?--an' wha' dat laddah go?-- Who clim dat laddah?--Wha' dat laddah lean?-- An' wha' dat laddah now? "Dast chalk yo' toe Wid Faith," sez Brudder Sims, "an' den you know!"
DEFORMED
Crouched at the corner of the street She sits all day, with face too white And hands too wasted to be sweet In anybody's sight.
Her form is shrunken, and a pair Of crutches leaning at her side Are crossed like homely hands in prayer At quiet eventide.
Her eyes--two lustrous, weary things-- Have learned a look that ever aches, Despite the ready jinglings The passer's penny makes.
And, noting this, I pause and muse If any precious promise touch This heart that has so much to lose If dreaming overmuch--
And, in a vision, mistily Her future womanhood appears,-- A picture framed with agony And drenched with ceaseless tears--
Where never lover comes to claim The hand outheld so yearningly-- The laughing babe that lisps her name Is but a fantasy!
And, brooding thus, all swift and wild A daring fancy, strangely sweet, Comes o'er me, that the crippled child That crouches at my feet--
Has found her head a resting-place Upon my shoulder, while my kiss Across the pallor of her face Leaves crimson trails of bliss.
FAITH
The sea was breaking at my feet, And looking out across the tide, Where placid waves and heaven meet, I thought me of the Other Side.
For on the beach on which I stood Were wastes of sands, and wash, and roar, Low clouds, and gloom, and solitude, And wrecks, and ruins--nothing more.
"O, tell me if beyond the sea A heavenly port there is!" I cried, And back the echoes laughingly "There is! there is!" replied.
THE LOST THRILL
I grow so weary, someway, of all thing That love and loving have vouchsafed to me, Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasy Am I possessed of: The caress that clings-- The lips that mix with mine with murmurings No language may interpret, and the free, Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrily Feasting in swarms on honeyed blossomings Of passion's fullest flower--For yet I miss The essence that alone makes love divine-- The subtle flavoring no tang of this Weak wine of melody may here define:-- A something found and lost in the first kiss A lover ever poured through lips of mine.
AT DUSK
A something quiet and subdued In all the faces that we meet; A sense of rest, a solitude O'er all the crowded street; The very noises seem to be Crude utterings of harmony, And all we hear, and all we see, Has in it something sweet.
Thoughts come to us as from a dream Of some long-vanished yesterday; The voices of the children seem Like ours, when young as they; The hand of Charity extends To meet Misfortune's, where it blends, Veiled by the dusk--and oh, my friends, Would it were dusk alway!
ANOTHER RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX
We sprang for the side-holts--my gripsack and I-- It dangled--I dangled--we both dangled by. "Good speed!" cried mine host, as we landed at last-- "Speed?" chuckled the watch we went lumbering past; Behind shut the switch, and out through the rear door I glared while we waited a half hour more.
I had missed the express that went thundering down Ten minutes before to my next lecture town, And my only hope left was to catch this "wild freight," Which the landlord remarked was "most luckily late-- But the twenty miles distance was easily done, If they run half as fast as they usually run!"
Not a word to each other--we struck a snail's pace-- Conductor and brakeman ne'er changing a place-- Save at the next watering-tank, where they all Got out--strolled about--cut their names on the wall, Or listlessly loitered on down to the pile Of sawed wood just beyond us, to doze for a while.
'Twas high noon at starting, but while we drew near "Arcady" I said, "We'll not make it, I fear! I must strike Aix by eight, and it's three o'clock now; Let me stoke up that engine, and I'll show you how!" At which the conductor, with patience sublime, Smiled up from his novel with, "Plenty of time!"
At "Trask," as we jolted stock-still as a stone, I heard a cow bawl in a five o'clock tone; And the steam from the saw-mill looked misty and thin, And the snarl of the saw had been stifled within: And a frowzy-haired boy, with a hat full of chips, Came out and stared up with a smile on his lips.
At "Booneville," I groaned, "Can't I telegraph on?" No! Why? "'Cause the telegraph-man had just gone To visit his folks in Almo"--and one heard The sharp snap of my teeth through the throat of a word, That I dragged for a mile and a half up the track, And strangled it there, and came skulkingly back.
Again we were off. It was twilight, and more, As we rolled o'er a bridge where beneath us the roar Of a river came up with so wooing an air I mechanic'ly strapped myself fast in my chair As a brakeman slid open the door for more light, Saying: "Captain, brace up, for your town is in sight!"
"How they'll greet me!"--and all in a moment--"chewang!" And the train stopped again, with a bump and a bang. What was it? "The section-hands, just in advance." And I spit on my hands, and I rolled up my pants, And I clumb like an imp that the fiends had let loose Up out of the depths of that deadly caboose.
I ran the train's length--I lept safe to the ground-- And the legend still lives that for five miles around They heard my voice hailing the hand-car that yanked Me aboard at my bidding, and gallantly cranked, As I grovelled and clung, with my eyes in eclipse, And a rim of red foam round my rapturous lips.
Then I cast loose my ulster--each ear-tab let fall-- Kicked off both my shoes--let go arctics and all-- Stood up with the boys--leaned--patted each head As it bobbed up and down with the speed that we sped; Clapped my hands--laughed and sang--any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix we rotated and stood.
And all I remember is friends flocking round As I unsheathed my head from a hole in the ground; And no voice but was praising that hand-car divine, As I rubbed down its spokes with that lecture of mine. Which (the citizens voted by common consent) Was no more than its due. 'Twas the lecture they meant.
IN THE HEART OF JUNE
In the heart of June, love, You and I together, On from dawn till noon, love, Laughing with the weather; Blending both our souls, love, In the selfsame tune, Drinking all life holds, love, In the heart of June.
In the heart of June, love, With its golden weather, Underneath the moon, love, You and I together. Ah! how sweet to seem, love, Drugged and half aswoon With this luscious dream, love, In the heart of June.
DREAMS
"Do I sleep, do I dream, Do I wonder and doubt-- Are things what they seem Or is visions about?"