Poems and Sonnets
THE OLD DOG IRONS
Oh, the old, old dog irons! How the picture thrills my soul,
As I stir the ashes of the past and find this living coal:
When I blow the breath of memory it flashes into flame,
That seems to me far brighter than the most undying fame.
Will you listen to the story of my early childhood days
When I read the mystic symbols in the embers and the blaze
Of the old wide-open fireplace, where the backlog, all aglow
With its shifting scenes of fancy, was a motion picture show?
I know about your natural gas, your stoves and anthracite,
Your phonograph and telephone and incandescent light;
I've heard about the comforts and the use of gasoline,
And the educative value of a Pathe photo-scene;
The future of the biplane and the wonders of the press,
And the blessings of the wireless when a ship is in distress.
I marvel at invention and its all but magic art,
But the things that make for happiness concern the human heart.
Then why not praise the tallow dip, the dog irons and the crane,
The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain?
The children gathered round the hearth to hear of early days—
The wildcat and the panther, the redman's sneaking ways;
The bravery of our fathers, the scalping knife and gun,
The courage of the women folks; I tell you, boys, 'twas fun.
We roasted sweet potatoes and we talked of Marion's men,
How they routed all the redcoats, or slew them in the fen.
We learned to love our country and we swore to tell the truth,
And do no deed of treachery and never act uncouth;
To guard the honor of our name, and shield a virtuous home,
To read the Proverbs and the Psalms and love the sacred tome.
I know our home was humble then—rag carpet on the floor—
But the stranger found a welcome there, the latch-string on the door.
The well-sweep and the woodpile and the ox team in the shed,
Dried apples hung around the walls, and pumpkins overhead—
Not sanitary, I'll admit, nor stylish-like, nor rich,
But health and comfort and content; now tell me, which is which?
Then who can blame me that I love the good old dog iron days,
When men had hearts and character that fortune couldn't faze;
The years before the slitted skirts and the Turkish cigarettes,
When women wove their linsey clothes instead of devilish nets;
When children did the chores at night, nor ever heard of gym,
Or movements such as boy scouts, yet kept in health and trim.
We spent our evenings all at home, and read and sang and played,
Or talked of work and feats of strength, or what our crops had made;
And when we mentioned quilting bees and apple-peeling time,
We had in mind our sweethearts and we sometimes made a rhyme:
'Twas then I read my future in the embers and the blaze,
And this is why I celebrate the good old dog iron ways.
THE AGE ELECTRIC
The glory of the good old days has passed from earth away,
The lumbering loom, the spinning wheel, Maud Muller raking hay;
The old rail fence, the moldboard plough, the scythe and reaping hook,
Corn shuckings, and Virginia reel, and young folks' bashful look.
Now poor old father limps behind his motorcycle son
And sees the world go whizzing by and knows his race is run.
With rheumatism in his joints and crotchets in his brain,
He finds that he can hardly catch th' accommodation train.
Two dozen bottles of the oil of Dr. Up-To-Date
Would put to flight the rheumatiz and straighten out his pate;
But fogy folks don't have the faith, nor interest in the race,
They'd rather drive a slow coach horse than go at such a pace.
Efficiency! efficiency! In business, church and school,
Where Culture in a dunce's cap sits grinning on a stool,
And wondering where the thing will end, and what the prize will be,
When Intellect, all geared and greased, is mere machinery.
Old Homer and the Iliad, the Trojan and the Greek,
The Parthenon and Phidias, not ancient, but antique.
Great Cæsar and the Gallic War and Virgil with his rhyme,
And Cicero have all gone down beneath the wheel of time.
And Dante now lies buried deep beneath the art debris,
Where Michael Angelo once wrought for immortality.
The Swan of Avon's not in school, but on the movie screen,
The Prince of Denmark can not talk but still he may be seen.
All history and literature, philosophy and truth
Would take about three evenings off of any modern youth
To master through the picture art if he the time could spare,
From vaudeville shows and joy rides and tango with the fair.
The problem is to find an hour so busy is the age,
And so important is the work and tempting is the wage.
Then what's the use of poetry or history anyhow?
Best turn your back upon the past and face the present now!
Get busy, and be on the job, the world will pay for skill.
It says: "Deliver me the goods, and then present your bill."
The family circle and the talk around the old hearth stone,
The sage advice, when backlogs glowed and grease lamps dimly shone,
Are mouldy pictures of the past, mere myths of long ago,
When grandsires had found out some things that children didn't know.
How many bushels can you raise upon your plot of ground?
How many blades of grass now grow where once just one was found?
Oh! Nature is the proper theme, but better Wordsworth drop,
San Jose scale and coddling moth will get your apple crop.
Ben Johnson and Will Shakespeare and Goldsmith all are dead.
Put nodules in alfalfa roots not dramas in your head.
Tomato canning's orthodox if done with due dispatch,
Don't let your daughter dream of fame, just show her how to patch.
The laws of sanitation soon will put the fly to flight,
Then stop tuberculosis next and win the hookworm fight.
If man could live a century it may be in the strife,
He'd learn to make a living if he didn't make a life!
What matter if the primrose is beside the river's brim,
A yellow primrose growing there and nothing more to him,
He's caught the trick of sustenance (but lost his taste for rhyme),
Though the oxen in the clover fields have had that all the time!
GRANDMOTHER DAYS
Ah, Grandmother Young was wrinkled and old
When she sat by the mantelpiece;
And she wore a cap with many a fold
Of ribbon and lace, as rich as gold,
And worked in many a crease:
And the billowy clouds of smoke that rolled
From her little stone pipe whenever she told
Of the quest of the Golden Fleece,
Wrought me to think that Grandmother Young
Was shriveled and gray when Homer sung
Of the gods of ancient Greece.
But all of her marvelous mythical lore
Was naught to her magical power—
Transforming a house with a puncheon floor
To a palace of wealth with a golden door
That lead to a castle tower—
An attic loft with a wonderful store
Of things that we feared, but longed to explore—
Our grandmother's ancient dower.
Oh, grandmother's charm could change but a base
Rude vessel of clay to a Haviland vase,
A weed to a royal flower.
Ah, grandmother's home was a temple of grace
And my child-heart worshipped there,
When Balm-of-Gilead around the place,
Like incense, for a mile of space,
Perfumed the glorious air;
And the song that came from the feathered race
In the boughs of the tangled interlace
Of apple and peach and pear,
Enthralled me like the magic spell
Of siren music when it fell
On old Ulysses' ear.
Last summer I passed where the palace once stood
Whose beauty my life beguiled;
It's a cabin now; and the charmed wood
Of sugar and oak, in brotherhood
Of walnut and hickory, aisled
For gathering nuts and the merry mood
That only our childhood understood,
By man has been defiled.
Oh, how can I ever cease to praise
The fairy enchantment of grandmother days
When I was a little child!
JUST TO DREAM
Just to dream when sapphire skies
Are as blue as maidens' eyes;
Just to dream when petals sow
All the earth with pink and snow;
Just to sit by youth's bright stream,
Gazing at its crystal gleam—
Listening to the wren and dove—
Hearing only songs of love—
Just to dream.
Just to dream of sabre's flash
When the lines of battle clash;
See the army put to rout—
Hear the world's triumphant shout;
Just to dream our name supreme—
Hero of a poet's theme,
First among the sons of men,
Master of the sword or pen—
Just to dream.
Just to dream when skies grow gray,
Just to dream the days away—
Living over childhood's joys,
Sorrow that no longer cloys;
Just to muse of days that seem
Like the sunlight's golden beam,
Summer nights and winter's snow.
Just to dream of long ago—
Just to dream.
AMNEMON
"Dear, the struggle has been hard and long—
The wine-press I have trodden,
Paved with flint and shard;
And many times my feet have stained
The flagstones of the street with blood.
Out yonder in the park where life's rich chalice
Sparkles with the wine of happiness and love
The world was always dull and dark to me.
Hours I have stood upon the beach
And watched the whitecaps glinting
In the sunlight and listened to the breakers
Booming on the sinuous shore,
While little children clapped their hands
And shouted out across the waters,
And gray-haired men and women shook their heads
In silence and looked toward the sunset.
But everything was always meaningless to me.
Season after season I have watched the butterflies
By millions come and go
And katydids each year have sung
The song monotonous and passed away.
Yesterday the sun arose upon another world.
Gray skies have turned to brilliant blue;
The droning hum of beetles on the breeze
Is like an orchestra of lovely music.
The air is sweet and fresh as dewdrops in convolvuli.
For two bright hours I have strolled
Among the flowering shrubbery near the seashore,
Listening to a song I had not heard for years.
And now once more that I am happy,
May I not confess it all?
I did you wrong, great wrong.
There was no stain upon my life,
No taint of blood within my veins.
I came of Pilgrim stock, vigorous and strong.
I did not understand my heart,
And knowing all the stress you placed upon heredity,
I told a falsehood, partly as a test of love,
And part for self-protection.
I have suffered much, but justly.
You said my story broke your heart,
And left me where I stood,
Pondering on the sin I had committed.
I had proved your love, but all too late.
Your talent meant a brilliant future,
And I knew your great ambition.
For years I scanned the periodicals
Where names of most renown in literature are found,
Expecting always to see my lover's there,
But always doomed to disappointment.
And yet I now rejoice
That you have not achieved great fame,
For otherwise I could not write this letter.
Perhaps 'twere best that I should never send it;
If so, it will not find its way to you.
It may be that you think me dead,
Or worse—I may have been forgotten.
This is April twenty-first;
The hillsides now are pink with peach and apple bloom.
I will arrive in Salt Lake City, May the third,
And be at Hotel Utah.
If your heart, through all these years,
Like mine, has hungered, you will be there too.
Geraldine."
Alfred Milner read this letter
While great drops of perspiration
Stood upon his brow and trembling hand.
For seven winters he had tried
To bury in oblivion a face and form
That always with the dogwood blossoms
Came again, and each time seemed more fair.
He had tried for fame and failed.
But now his book that bore a pen name only
Was selling daily by the thousands
And fame and fortune, latter-day twin saints,
Were building him a shrine.
But did she know of his success,
And was her conduct
Years before base cowardice?
Had she only told the cruel tale
Because she knew his theory of insane blood,
And hid her lack of faith
By taking refuge in his prejudice?
Or was her story true?
If true or false, why had she kept it back
Until she knew red passion
Was a-riot in his heart?
He tore the letter into strips
And blew them fiercely through the air.
He had suffered much himself,
But she was not concerned.
What if this letter had been sent
To open healing wounds,
To win some wager with another man
To whom she boasted of her power?
He would not go!
The air was growing foul and stuffy
In his suite of rooms,
And Alfred threw the window open.
The subway in the distance
Rumbled like a gathering storm;
The palisades across the Hudson
Now were darkling in the falling shadows.
April thirtieth at noon.
The Rocky Mountains looked like towers
On the Chinese Wall a hundred miles away.
Would he make connection at Pueblo?
The gray monotony of grass and cacti
Had begun to wear upon his nerves.
He longed to see the Royal Gorge—
The steep and jagged heights of hills.
They spoke of giant strength
He needed for the coming struggle.
It might be that the air
From off eternal snows
Would cool the fever in his brain.
"May second, and yonder lies the Great Salt Lake,
Or else a mirage on the desert's rim."
Alfred put his pen upon the register
Of Hotel Utah,
And read the list of names above.
She was there, "Geraldine Mahaffy."
Finally he scrawled a signature,
But wrote his nom de plume.
The clerk thrust out his hand and beamed.
Two porters swooped upon his grips,
And soon the lobby hummed.
But Alfred Milner sat alone within his room
Battling with emotions he could neither
Overcome nor understand.
He did not know the stir his name upon the register
Had made below, or knew what name he wrote.
At last: "Geraldine Mahaffy:
This is May the third and I am here."
Thoughtfully he creased the sheet
And rang: "Room ten, and answer, please."
The smell of brine was heavy on the air
That blew across the lake.
The mountains to the north were white with snow above
And dogwood petals on the southern slopes.
But winter was forgotten in the plains,
For rivulets imprisoned long in cataracts
Were leaping over waterfalls
And shouting like a red bird,
In an April cedar tree.
Milner drew a long deep breath of spring
And walked into the parlor.
"Alfred!"
"Geraldine!"
"Last night I dreamed of Cornell days,
And saw the redbuds blooming in the hills
Behind the cliffs of Ithaca!"
"The ice in Cascadilla Creek is gone.
All night I heard the roaring of the falls!"
"The call of flickers sounded through the canyons
Of Old Buttermilk, and peckerwoods were beating
Reveilles before the sun was up!"
"Two blue birds built a mansion
In a dead oak trunk
And called the world to witness!"
"Alfred!"
"Geraldine!"
"The train for California leaves at nine!"
Some hours out from Great Salt Lake,
The sand dunes stretching southward
O'er a waste of shrubbery and alkali
Were shimmering in the sunshine
Like copper kettles on a field of bronze.
"Dear Alfred, can you still recall
Those afternoons upon the cliffs above Cayuga Lake?
The little city, Ithaca,
Was like a jewel on the breast of Nature.
The lake a band of silver, stretching northward.
A hundred waterfalls were visible
From where we used to sit.
We often thought the lime-washed houses
Far to west, resembled whited decks
Upon a sea of emerald;
And wondered if our own good ship
Would one day cast its anchor in the harbor.
Over to the right the Cornell towers,
Like mediæval castles beetling o'er the precipice,
Were keeping silent watch above it all.
The memory of those blessed days alone
Has kept my heart alive."
"But Geraldine, our vessel richly laden
Has at last come in
Nor ever will put out to sea again.
Happy as those moments were,
Forget the past, so fraught with bitterness to me."
The desert now a hundred miles behind
Was fading like a crescent sea beach
In the setting sun.
Slowly like a giant serpent
The Sunset Limited climbed the great Sierras
And started down the western slope at dawn.
The valley of the Sacramento
Never bloomed so beautiful before.
The blue Pacific through the haze
Was like a canvas sea.
Peace permeated all the earth.
The sun at last was resting on the ocean's rim.
The turquoise waters turned to liquid gold.
"Life, O my beloved, is like eternal seas—
Emerald in the morning, changing into opal,
Amethyst and pearl, but ruby red at last.
Behold the Golden Gate!
The seas beyond are all like that!"
Morning in the Sacramento!
Petals, dew and fragrance—indescribable!
Plumage, song and sunshine,
And over all a California sky!
"O Alfred, could it only be like this forever!
Back yonder in New York,
The world is built of brick and mortar,
And men forget the handiwork of God.
How can a poet hope to win a name
Where men are mad for gold?"
"A name! Why Geraldine! I had forgot
To tell the story of my fame.
The ecstacy of these three days
Had blotted all earthly fortune from my memory.
I am Ralph Nixon, author of the Topaz Mystery."
"Ralph Nixon! You! Then who am I?"
A heavy tide of blood swept over
All the tracery of the bitter past,
And in a moment more
She lay unconscious on a bed of thorny cactus.
The City Argentina blew a long loud blast
And anchored in the bay.
The woman opened wondering eyes
And looked at Milner.
"Why do you call me Geraldine?
My Christian name's Amnemon.
We never met before.
I am Major Erskine's wife.
We live in Pasadena.
I do not know your name or face,
Nor how I came to be with you.
I never saw this place before,
But those are California hills
And yonder is the great Pacific.
The mystery of who you are,
And where I am, I can not solve.
I only know I wish to see my home and child;
Little Alfred never has been left alone,
And may be calling for his mother now.
You seem to be a gentleman.
Please show me to the nearest train
That goes to Pasadena."
Half in fright and half in rage
Milner looked at Geraldine and tried to speak.
The mountains reeled and pitched into the sea.
A clevage in the brain! But whose?
This was insanity, but whether his
Or hers he was unable to decide.
The memory of the Cornell days came back—
The cliffs above the lake, the emerald farms,
The gorges and the waterfalls,
And finally the wild, weird light
That played in iridescent eyes
That last day on the hills—
The story of the tainted blood and what it meant
For future generations.
Milner saw an eagle soaring high above the park
And then he heard a scream
As though a ball had pierced its heart.
The bird careened and dropped a hundred feet,
Then spreading broad its wings again,
Shot upward to the heights.
The train for Pasadena speeded onward
Toward its destination.
A poet sat within his room
That opened on the Golden Gate
And as the sun dropped into the wave,
He wrote a Requiem to Hope,
That filled the earth with fame.
A ROMANCE OF THE CUMBERLAND
Early in the day they passed the pinnacle,
And now the shadow of each human form
Was lengthening backwards like Lombardy poplars
Fallen toward the east.
For days the fairest maiden of the caravan
Had fevered—whether from malaria and fatigue,
Or more because of one whom they had left behind,
Beyond the wooded mountains,
Neither sire nor matron could agree.
But Martha Waters, as they laid her stretcher down
And prepared the camp for coming night,
Declared unless they rested here for days to come,
Her bones must bleach beside the trail
That led into the Dark and Bloody Ground.
And so they waited for the fever to abate,
But when they thought her strong enough,
A score of hardy pioneers trudged down
The slope and launched canoes and dug-outs
And a flatboat in the turgid waters
Of the Cumberland, for heavy rains had fallen
And all the mountain streams were swollen
In these early days of June.
But the air was sweet with the odor
Of wild honeysuckle and the ivy
With its starry clusters fringed
The milky way of elder bloom
That filled each sheltered cove
Like constellations on a summer night.
But now the rains had ceased, the air
Was fresh and bracing, and each glorious day
Out-rivaled all the rest in beauty.
Lying on her pallet on the flatboat,
The maiden breathed the fragrant atmosphere,
And drank refreshing whiffs of air
That drove the fever from her blood
And wakened dreams of conquest
In the wilderness toward which
Her life was drifting rapidly.
But how could she find heart for conquest?
Why seek this new land anyway, where only
And forever to card the wool and spin the flax
Would be the woman's portion?
Would ever in the forest or beyond it
In the rolling bluegrass,
Return the vision that was hers,
When only a few brief months ago
She watched the sea gulls battling with the storm
Above the waves of Chesapeake Bay?
Oh, how that day was filled with meaning
For her now! For as the birds disported
With the whirlpools of the air,
A lover's magic words were whispered in her ear,
How that storm and stress of life to those that love
Are little more than winds to swallows of the sea.
But now, if hardship meant so little,
Why had he remained behind, when she
Was forced to go upon the long and weary journey?
Ah! Could it be he cared no longer for her love?
His arm was strong. Then was his heart
Not brave enough to conquer this new world,
Where savage lurked and wild beast made
The darkness dreaded by the most courageous soul?
For days the fleet had drifted down the river,
But now her boat was anchored to a tree
That grew upon an island in the Cumberland,
And every man and woman but the convalescent
Had gone ashore to stalk a deer or gather berries
That everywhere were found along the river bank.
But Martha Waters lay upon her bed and pondered—
Dreaming day dreams, as she watched
A golden oriole who fed her young
In boughs that overhung the water,
And a vague unhappiness arose
Within her heart, until she tossed
Again in fever on her couch.
She could hear the roaring falls
A mile below, but she thought the sounding
Cataract the sickness booming in her ears again.
When she looked to eastward where the mountain
Rose a thousand feet, she saw a crown of wealth
Upon its crest of which no pioneer yet had dreamed.
Long she lay and marveled at its beauty,
Wondering how many ages would elapse before
The god of Mammon would transport its treasures
To his marts beside the sea.
Feverish she mused and pondered until at last she slept.
And then upon the little island,
A city rose as from the ocean wave—
A city of a thousand streets, and every house
Was made from trees that grew upon the mountain.
Many were the palaces of wealth and beauty,
But those who dwelt therein she did not recognize.
Strange were their faces and their manners haughty,
And while they lived in luxury and ease,
Others toiled at mill and furnace. Oh! The awful din
Of sledge and hammer, beating in her ears.
She woke. A storm seemed just about to burst in fury,
So loud and terrible was the roaring!
But the sky was clear. It is the booming
Of the falls, for her boat has broke its moorings,
And now is rapidly drifting toward the cataract,
But four hundred yards away!
She leaped upon her feet and screamed for help.
It was impossible for her to swim ashore,
And her fever-wasted frame could find no strength
With which to steer the boat.
Again she saw the crown of wealth
Upon the mountain top, untouched by human hands.
But the island city now had faded from her vision,
The mountain lowered and the world grew dark.
Onward the boat shot faster toward the roaring falls.
But look! A race is on! A birch canoe,
Driven by as swift a hand as ever gripped
An oar, is leaping o'er the waves in mad pursuit.
With every stroke the Indian bark is gaining twenty feet.
Will it reach the flatboat soon enough to save the girl?
But who is he that rides the fleet canoe?
No red man ever had an arm like that,
For already he has reached the speeding raft,
And with gigantic strength he steers it toward the shore.
But no! The current is too swift!
A moment more and all will be engulfed within
The swirling flood. It is too late! Too late?
But love is swifter than the angry tide,
For like a mighty porpoise, wallowing in the wave,
The valiant hero leaps into the stream,
And holding Martha Waters in his strong right arm
High above the water, reaches shore
A hundred feet above the deadly precipice.
The air was growing chilly even on this summer night,
And the emigrants had gathered round a crackling fire,
Discoursing of the past, and listening to a modest tale of love.
Simply and unfaltering James Hunt related
How his heart had hungered back beside the old Potomac,
Till he found he could no longer brook the passion
That grew stronger as the days of summer lengthened.
At last he started, and following every night
The blazing dogstar, and resting through the day till evening,
In just three weeks he reached the river
Where he found the birch canoe that rode
The seething waters like a greyhound of the ocean.
Then the maiden told her vision of the island city,
How its palaces and mansions, rich as gold and beautiful as crystal,
Were constructed by her people, toiling hundreds,
Sore and weary, of times cold and hungry.
She had seen them fell the forests,
Hew and mill and dress the lumber,
Till the soil and reap the harvests, gathering into others' garners.
Stalwart were these men and women, pure of heart
And strong of muscle, fitted for the tasks before them.
She had seen her brothers laboring at the forge and sounding anvil;
Sisters toiling at the wheel and distaff, heard them at the loom
While flying shuttle threaded warp with web of beauty;
Watched them till they fell asleep with weariness,
While the sons of leisure feasted.
Thus the maiden told her story, saying:
"Shall we undertake the journey? Plows are waiting
In the furrows back in Maryland, my people,
Back beyond the rugged mountain. There are harvests
Yet ungarnered, waiting for scythe and sickle.
Calculate the cost, and weigh it, for my vision is prophetic.
For my part, I choose this lover, for my guide and valiant leader.
He shall point the way forever,
Though he take the road that's darkest."
Then James Hunt, the hero lover,
Who had never quailed at danger,
Trembling for his happy passion,
Rose and pointed toward the westward,
Toward the Pleiades descending,
Deep behind the gloomy forest.
"Let us face toward dark Kentucky, fell its forests,
Build its roads and bridge its rivers,
Give our children to the nation.
What though others reap our harvests,
Hoard the wealth we have created?
Ours shall be the nobler portion.
Blessed is the one that suffers,
If he spends himself for others.
Should the toiling millions falter,
Though they work for others' comfort,
Building homes they can not enter?
Christ was born within a manger,
May we not produce a leader,
Who shall save our nation's honor?
At to-morrow morning's dawning,
Ere the sunrise gild the treetops,
Let us take the darkling pathway."
Still the Pleiades are circling,
Still the dogstar glows in heaven,
But the oak and pine and poplar
All have gone from off the mountain—
Passed into the marts of Mammon,
By the hands of toil and labor.
Silent are the loom and distaff,
In the cabin and the cottage,
And the songs of scythe and sickle
Gathering in the golden harvests.
But the pain of drudgery lingers,
And the heart still longs and hungers
For the fruitage it shall gather,
Yet beyond the wooded westward.
MORNING GLORIES.
A roguish laugh, a rustling vine,
I turn my eager eye;
Big drops of dew in bells of blue
And red convolvuli.
But nothing more; I hold my breath
And strain my eager eye;
A yellow crown, two eyes of brown,
And pink convolvuli!
The golden curls, the elfish laugh,
Rose cheeks and glittering eye
Are glories, too, like bells of blue
And red convolvuli.
CHRISTMASTIDE
Evergreen and tinsel'd toys,
Drums and dolls, and bursting joys—
Blessed little girls and boys!
Holly, bells, and mistletoe,
Tinkling sledges, here we go—
Youth and maiden o'er the snow.
Chilling winds and leaden days,
Vesper songs and hymns of praise
Silver hair and dying blaze!
Christmas morn and yuletide eve,
Dear Lord, help us to believe—
Naught but blessings we receive.
KINSHIP
Oh, little children, ye who watch the trains go by,
With yearning faces pressed against the window panes,
You do not know the reason why
Your lingering image dims my eye
Though I have passed beyond the hills into the rolling plains.
Dear little children, I once watched the trains go by,
And hungered, much as when I feel the silent stars;
And then I saw the cold gray skies,
And felt the warm tears in my eyes,
When far beyond the distant hills I heard the rumbling cars.
PRECOCITY
"Oh, grandfather, what are the stars?
Stones on the hand of God?
I heard you call that red one Mars
And those three Aaron's rod;
And these are great Orion's band!"
"My child, you are too young to understand!"
"Oh, grandfather, what are the winds
That sough and moan and sigh?
Does God grow angry for men's sins
He lifts the waves so high?
And blows his breath o'er sea and land?"
"My boy, you are too young to understand!"
"Oh, grandfather, what are the clouds
In yonder sunset sky?
They look to me like winding shrouds
For men about to die!
Dear grandfather, your trembling hand!"
"My son, you are too young to understand!"
THE SECRET
Old Santa Claus came with his pack
On his back
Right down the chimney flue;
His long flowing beard was ghostlike and weird
But his cheeks had a ruddy hue;
And his jacket was as red as a woodpecker's head
But his breeches, I think, were blue.
I heard a soft step like a hoof
On the roof,
And I closed my outside eye;
Then played-like I slept, but the other eye kept
A watch on the jolly old guy;
And I caught him in the act with his bundles all unpacked,
But I'm not going to tell, not I.
When Santa comes again this year
With his deer
And a sled full of toys for me,
I don't mean to keep either eye from its sleep
While he climbs my Christmas tree;
For I don't think it's right to the happy old wight
To spy on his mystery.
A RHYMELESS SONNET
Sardonic Death, clothed in a scarlet shroud,
Salutes his minions on the crumbling thrones
Of Tyranny, and with malicious leer,
He points a fleshless finger toward the fields
Of Belgium: "No harvest since the days
Of Bonaparte and Waterloo hath filled
My flagons with a wine of such a taste;
Your crowns ye hold by rights divine indeed!"
But One has entered in at lowly doors
And sits by every hearthstone where they will:
"My Word enthron-ed in Democracy
Has twined the holly round Columbia's brow—
A crown of 'Peace on earth, good will to men.'
I am the Resurrection and the Life!"
AMBITION
I covet not the warrior's flashing steel
That drives the dreaded foe to headlong flight;
I envy not the czar his ruthless might
That grinds a state beneath an iron heel;
I do not ask that I may ever feel
The thrill that follows fame's uncertain light;
And in the game of life I do not quite
Expect always to hold a winning deal.
Grant me the power to help my fellow man
To bear some ill that he may not deserve;
Give me the heart that I may never swerve,
In scorn of Death, to do what good I can;
But most of all let me but light the fires
Upon the altar of the youth's desires.
OPPORTUNITY
I often met her in the days of youth
Along the highway where the world goes by;
And sometimes when I caught her wistful eye
I wondered that it seemed so filled with ruth.
She was a modest maiden, plain, in truth,
And unattractive, and I thought, "Now why
Should one seek her companionship; not I—
At least, until I've had my fling, forsooth!"
And so I passed her by and had my day,
And met a thousand whom I thought more fair
In tinsel gowns beneath electric glare—
A thousand, but they went their primrose way.
Now she's a queen, and boasts a score of sons—
Her consort he who shunned my charming ones!
HOLIDAY THOUGHTS
The night was like some monster omen ill,
Whose shrieking froze the marrow of my bones;
But day dawned calm, though white as polar zones,
The bluebird shouting "Spring!" from every hill.
The world lay parching in the noonday grill,
And blades of corn were twisting into cones;
But night brought rain, and now, like golden thrones,
The fruited shocks deride October's chill.
Dear Lord, I would that we might live by faith,
However cold and dark the day may seem,
And trust that every cloud is just a wraith,
And every shadow but a fading dream.
Oh, grant our eyes may see the beacon lights
That blaze forever on the peaks and heights!
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW
Good-bye, Old Year; our journey has been brief;
I'm sorry now to leave thee dying here,
For thou hast borne my burdens with good cheer,
And never murmured, but assuaged my grief.
When buds of promise never came to leaf;
When broken resolutions, doubt, and fear
Did mock at my defeat, O good Gray Year,
Thy reassuring smile restored belief.
Good-bye—farewell! I trust thy dear young child,
Who greets me at the gateway of the dawn,
Will deal as gently with me and my friends,
And lead our footsteps through the springtime mild,
O'er summer's lawn, down autumn's slopes, and on
To where the path of chill December ends.
FELLOW TRAVELERS
Old comrade, must we separate to-day?
Sometimes my feet have faltered, sore and tired,
And sometimes in the sloughs and quicksands mired,
But it has always helped to hear you say,
"The road is fine a little further on."
Your optimism and your hearty cheer
Have made the journey pleasant, good Old Year,
And I, in truth, regret to see you gone.
Young New Year whom you leave me as a guide,
In doubt, would have me pledge a lot of things
Before we start, and make some offerings
To gods whose love, I fear, will not abide.
And yet I like my new companion's face.
Old Year, lend him your wisdom and your grace.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Beloved Poet, thou hast taught our heart
A sympathy it hardly knew before—
A yearning kinship and a spirit lore
Of humble folk, a love transcending art!
The pulse of brotherhood throbs in thy song.
No mystic, blindly groping on the shore
Of dark uncertainty; unlike Tagore,
Thy faith is pure and definite and strong.
Consumpted Jim and thriftless Coon-dog Wess,
The Girly Girl with eyes of limpid blue,
The Raggedy Man that Orphant Annie knew;
The Little Cripple, glad, though motherless;
Poor hare-lip Joney and the Wandering Jew—
All these thy pen doth glorify and bless!
CALE YOUNG RICE
He loves the boom of breakers on the shore,
And winds that lash the billows into foam;
He loves the placid seas beneath the dome
Of blue infinitudes—not less, but more;
He loves to brood upon the mystic lore
Of silent stars above the silent seas,
And feel the passion of infinities
Beyond, where only Faith would dare explore.
Thus groping after God has helped him find
Divinity in man (where only sin
And brutal lusts have seemed to hedge him in),
And taught his heart that Fate is never blind.
That somehow, somewhere, now beyond our ken,
One day we'll understand the wrongs of men.
PILATE'S MONOLOGUE
[This monologue of Pilate to Herod takes place a few days after the resurrection at the home of Pontius Pilate. Pilate and Herod are standing on the east porch of the Governor's mansion in Jerusalem, looking toward the Mount of Olives. The time is just at sunset.]
Oh! Herod, couldst thou find no fault in Him—
The Man of Galilee? Clearly He
Belonged within thy jurisdiction. Didst
Thou fear to do thy duty? Still I blame
Thee not—the mob was clamorous for blood!
I questioned Him, but like a lamb before
His shearers He was dumb and answered me
No word. Was not His silence proof of guilt?
But even then I offered to release
Him, till the rabble shouted, "Crucify
This Man: set free Barabbas, if thou wilt,
But we demand the life of Jesus whom
They call the Christ." Oh! dost thou think His blood
Can be upon my head? I washed my hands
Before the multitude and told them I
Was innocent of any crime toward Him.
I scourged Him, it is true, but that was all.
They stripped Him and bedecked Him with a robe
Of scarlet cloth, and placed a crown of thorns
Upon His head, and then they mocked and jeered
And spat upon Him, hailing Him as King!
I can not think that this was right, but still
They say He blasphemed and deserved to die.
But what Is blasphemy?
Oh, Herod, I
Can never rid my dreams of Jesus' look.
He turned His eyes upon me as I dipped
My fingers in the bowl—a glance that seemed
More fraught with love and pity than with hate.
He blessed the people as He hung upon
The cross in agony of pain, and prayed
His God to pardon them because they knew
Not what they did. Thou canst not, Herod, think
This Nazarene was more than man? It can't
Be possible that He whom Pilate scourged
Was Christ indeed! But could a man forgive
His murderers? They say the tomb is burst
And that His body is no longer there!
I might endure His curse. My pen has stabbed
To death a thousand men and never felt
Compunction for the deed, because I knew
They hated me. But now the voice that haunts
My sleep asks only blessings on my head.
They say He wept for men because of sin,
And yet no guile was found in Him. If I
Could close my eyes and see that face no more
I might find peace again.
Three nights I have
Not slept. I hear that Judas hanged himself!
And now no guard that watched before
The sepulchre can anywhere be found.
Had I but set the Galilean free!
But did he not insult my majesty?
He must have known I ruled in Cæsar's stead.
What if my wife was troubled in a dream
And suffered many things on His account?
A Roman governor must be a man!
They say the temple's veil was rent in twain—
The sky was darkened and the sun was hid.
He said I had no power to crucify
Except that it be given from above.
He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm!
'Tis said He cried, "My God, my God, why hast
Thou now forsaken me?" The earth did quake,
The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded dead
Stalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets!
Look! Look! What is yon robe of shining white?
Behold the Man—the Man of Galilee!
With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet,
The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane.
I hear Him cry in agony of soul,
"How often would I, O Jerusalem,
Have gathered unto Me thy children as
A hen her brood beneath her wing, but ye
Would not come." Herod, canst thou hear His voice?
It is impossible! It can not be!
He must not know that I am Pilate! Still
He calls my name! I can not, dare not go!
What would the people think? I will
Be free. There is no blood upon my hands.
See, I wash them clean and am myself
Again. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though not
The king, I am governor of the Jews!
THE VIRILE SPIRIT
[Written after reading a letter in which the writer said: "I covet for our country a great war—one that will stir our virile spirits and send forth our youth to fight and die for our country."]
What is courage? To face the bursting shell
When rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfs
Of death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart;
When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight,
Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road,
To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned Alps
Sing only martial airs that stir the blood!
It is a noble thing to die in war—
To sacrifice the breath of life; to feel
The pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinch
Not that one's country may be great or free.
Many a generation yet unborn
Will bless the name of Valley Forge, and hold
In reverence the field of Gettysburg.
But war is not the only thing that tries
The bravest soul. To live does sometimes take
More courage than to close with death; and oft
The coward shrinks from living when the brave
Man scorns to die. We need no bugle note
To rouse our manhood's strength. The call to men
Is clear and strong. It is not to repel
The Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yet
To drive the Yellow Peril from the seas.
We must send forth our men to live, not die—
We need to save, not kill our fellow man,
To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stop
The tribute greater now than all the tolls
Of war. The beast in man is ravenous
And must be slain. He feeds upon the fruits
Of toil, and blights the home with poverty;
He drags the innocent to dens of shame
To satisfy his brute carnality.
No fiery dragon in the days of myth
Laid waste a land or blasted life with breath
More foul or appetite insatiate.
This is the enemy that we must fight.
No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines,
No legions that may ever bivouac on
Our shores, no Zeppelins disgorging fire
Portend the dire disasters wrought upon
Our nation's strength by Avarice and Lust.
The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade,
The arm of Beowulf not strong enough
To battle with Cupidity and Sin.
We need the breastplate of a righteous life,
Our loins must be girt about with truth,
The heart protected by the shield of faith,
And in the right hand there must ever be
The spirit's sword, which is the Word of God!
And even clothed and weaponed thus it takes
A heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane's
To strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness—
To grapple with this Grendel that invades
The mead-halls still and ravishes our youth.
BLUEBIRD.
Bluebird in the cedar bush—
Fresh and clean as the evergreen,
Through a rift of leaves,
Or my eye deceives.
But silent! Hush!
He calls, he calls!
The first spring note
From a feathered throat
My heart enthralls;
And my pulses leap
As a child from sleep
On Christmas morn, at the blast of horn,
To meet, to greet,
The choral sweet
From bluebird in the cedar bush:
At last, at last
The snow and sleet
Of winter's blast
Have passed, have passed,
And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!
The call comes ringing in to me
From Bluebird in the cedar tree.
AN AUTUMN MINOR
Russet and amber and gold,
Crimson and yellow and green,
And far away the blue and gray,
A twinkling silver sheen.
Violet, scarlet and red,
Purple and dark maroon,
And over it all the music of fall—
A weird prismatic tune.
An opera serious and grand,
An orchestra mystic and sad—
A symphony alone of color and tone
To drive a mortal mad.
SLABS AND OBELISK
Hollyhocks were blooming in the backyard near the barn,
Proud as rhododendrons by a regal mountain tarn,
Purple, white and yellow, blue and velvet red—
Humble little cottage, but a royal flower bed.
Pink and crimson roses and carnations took your breath—
Dark-eyed little pansies looking like the Head of Death;
Golden-rayed sunflowers, lifting discs of hazel brown,
Filled the heart with wonder and the garden with renown.
Little Harold, born a poet, watched the petals blow,
Read the mystic cryptographs his elders didn't know;
Heard the music in the wind like sirens on the shore,
Far beyond the sunset in the land Forevermore.
Oft the village sages saw him lying in the shade,
Gazing where the sun and vapor wrought a strange brocade—
Tapestries of gold and silver on a field of blue,
Heard him murmur softly riddles no one ever knew.
All the people pitied Harold, thinking of the end
In the cold, unfeeling world he couldn't comprehend—
Seeing nothing else but lilies, living in a trance,
In an age of facts and figures, dreaming wild romance.
But the sages now are sleeping on the little hill,
Modest slabs are keeping watch with rue and daffodil.
Harold has an obelisk that towers toward the sky,
Hollyhocks upon his mound to bless and glorify.
ON BROADWAY
Even as to-night on Broadway
Long ago I wandered down
The Great White Way of childhood,
Mystified, enchanted, as I watched
The million butterflies
That tilted through the air in rhythmic flight,
And pulsed above the petaled sweets,
And sipped the nectar of the purple thistle bloom,
Until at last they staggered down the dusty Road to Death.