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."