MUSE AND MINT

BY

WALTER S. PERCY

BOSTON
SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY
1914

Copyright, 1914
Sherman, French & Company

TO

MY DEAR MOTHER AND WIFE

WHO BEST LOVED MY MUSE
AND WHOSE LOVE WAS THE
MINT THAT EVER MADE IT
AN INSPIRATION AND JOY

MUSE AND MINT

I mused upon the strangeness of all things,

So different from the dream

Whereof the morning mounted up on wings

Above the world agleam

With light that trembled into life and love

As when a censer swings

And joy of promise sings—

“The dream whereof

The gleam above

The world is love!”

Oh, bitterness to muse and neither find

The beauty of the Muse

Nor yet the music which the soul divined

Ere set the rosy hues

In sombre lines that disenchant and fret

The heart with growing grief

Which struggles for relief—

“O Muse, but let

My spirit yet

The rue forget!”

As if to answer me a little child,

To whom the sunshine’s glint

Was gloom forever, on the corner smiled

And vended sprigs of mint,

As though there were in blindness still a bloom

And fragrance which could reach

The passer-by and teach—

“In glint or gloom

There’s mint in bloom

To earth perfume!”

CONTENTS

NATURE

FIREFLIES

The murky night hung dank and dark

The Summer shower after;

A distant dog’s staccato bark

Disturbed the strollers’ laughter;

The mournful whip-poor-will’s lament,

The frogs’ and crickets’ chorus

A weird, sepulchral feeling lent

To meadow-lot and morass.

A thousand insect-lanterns flashed

Their phosphorescent signals

Of living sparks that dot-and-dashed

Out swift electric riddles;

For scarcely was the eye upon

A single tiny glowlight

When wink, it flitted and was gone

Like prankish imp on show-night!

And while one guessed its next surprise

Afar from where it dwindled

A myriad others to the eyes

All intercrossed and kindled

Until the ghostly gloom became

Illumined with manœuvres

As though of fairies fanning flame

Within a park of lovers.

And thus does fancy people night

With fugitive creations

Of phantom-folk whose fitful light

Yet feeds our inspirations

And teaches us there is no dark

But fellowships the presence

Of every soul that sheds its spark

Of humble incandescence.

BO-PEEP

Everywhere I ramble

In the ides of May,

Through the boughs and bramble

The wood-nymphs play.

Where the sunshine dapples

Shadows all a-creep

Beneath the budding apples,

Dances Bo-Peep.

Over where the mosses

Make a coverlet

Which the Spring embosses

With a green fret,

From the long hibernal

Dreaminess of sleep

Wakes with dimples vernal

Little Bo-Peep.

Violets and bluets

Mischievously peek;

Monks like pigmy druids

Play at hide-and-seek;

O’er each stump a picket

Spies with cunning deep,

And in every thicket

Beckons Bo-Peep.

PEEP-OF-DAWN

The tallyho of slumber’s on

The last relay of dreams;

Posthaste it rides with ribbons drawn

O’er curvetting gray teams.

The wayside house just left behind

Was Where-the-Cock-Crew Inn;

The road ahead with rose is lined

And known as Work-to-Win.

Intoxicated senses sink

In visions of delight;

And Venus’ eye begins to wink

Where it outrides the night.

Sly fingers lift the window-shades,

But ere espied are gone;

And on the drowsy milking-maids

Tiptoes the Peep-of-Dawn.

Dame Nature in abandon lies

With skirts in disarray,

And overtaken with surprise

Is kissed by stealthy Day;

The coverts rub their eyes and wake,

And dreaming Love anon

Goes forth on Rosy Road to make

A tryst with Peep-of-Dawn.

THE RILLY RIVER

The cold and turbid flood of Spring

Has melted to the Summer shallow,

And now the vivid greeneries cling

Along the margin lush and fallow,

And where were sombre deeps and chills

Are silver trills of rippling rills.

The loiterer upon the bridge

Which o’er the eddying river poises

Salutes the island’s sandy ridge

That reappears; the eye rejoices

In all the old familiar frills

And saucy spills of rippling rills.

The rod and reel the rapture feel

And from the boat take finny chances,

But less for luck than with the keel

To be a part of runic dances;

For thus the river’s music thrills

Like joy that fills the rippling rills.

CHERRIES

Cherries! Cherries! Cherries!

The robins are excited and delighted

To change the fare at last;

For ’twas bugs and grubs and slugs

Over two months past.

Now it’s cherries till the berries

Ripen full and fast.

Cherries! Cherries! Cherries!

The robins are excited and affrighted;

There’s a man up the tree

In a big wig and rig

That would scare a chickadee—

But a robin—see him bobbin’

In a solemn colloquy!

Cherries! Cherries! Cherries!

The scare-crow is indicted and requited

With a pocketful of eggs

Baby-blue, with ’em too

Gettin’ ready bill and legs

For the Summer that’s a comer

When the cherry-season begs.

Cherries! Cherries! Cherries!

The robins are excited and delighted—

Not the redbreast but the kind

That eclipse with cherry lips

And are not a whit behind

Robin Jerries stealin’ cherries

When the dummy’s but a blind.

A SNOWFLAKE

Million-needled star of hoar,

Parachuting little kite

Sailing by my cottage-door,

Flurried, jostled, fairy-light—

Whither, whither, whence and why

Comest thou of crystal

From the welkin, hasting by

Like a lost epistle?

Softly did the snowflake sigh

“Read me as I rest awhile!”

So I read the whence and why;

For the snowflake is a smile,

Melting Heaven-dew congealed

Lest we miss its beauty,

Love in miracle revealed

On the wings of duty!

THE BLIZZARD

The whited pumice of the storm

Is over house and hill

Or drifted into shroudlike form

About the ruined mill.

The fences hide beneath the drifts;

The snowy terraces

Ascend to where the hemlock lifts

Its virgin-broidered dress.

The trackless highway challenges

The sweltered caravan

Of traffic and in fastnesses

Of chalk imprisons man.

The wind-wolves howl at cottage-door

Or down the chimney leap;

The windows all are rimed with hoar

Where frozen fingers creep.

The house-frame groans at blast and frost

Like quarry of the pack

O’ertaken, but though torn and tossed

Still stout of heart and back;

Still stout of heart like us secure

By ruddy fire warm,

Too humbly thankful to be poor

While sheltered from the storm.

SUGARING OFF

Essence of all that’s sweet, what joy

To watch thy amber flow

And sip thy nectar till it cloy

Or waxen it on snow!

What joy to watch the trickling veins

Of our old maple-friend

And know the vernal Odin reigns

As heir of Winter’s end!

Drink to the earnest of the Spring,

The ichor of the bud,

To all the rising hopes that sing

Of life and loverhood!

Drink to the sweetness in thee hid

By softer airs distilled;

Let Nature sugar off and bid

Her kindlier cup be filled!

THE CHRYSALIS

Come out of your Winter shell, old grub

Of horns and crusty twist,

And with your fellows elbows rub

More like a humanist!

A spiral armor’s very well

For its eccentric curve,

But not a gloomy hermit-cell

Of cynical reserve.

Come out of your Winter shell, old slug

Of dormant sense and soul!

You’re far too round and hard and smug;

Your Summer self unroll

And show you’ve got some nature left

That sprouts an airy wing;

The man of humus is bereft

Who can’t respond to Spring.

Come out of your Winter shell, old worm

Of wrapped-up gossamer,

If you would burst your scaly derm

And let the spirit stir;

For after all, for better things

A man created is

Than lying with imprisoned wings

A half-dead chrysalis.

WHEN I SURVEY

’Tis midnight and I am in the country!

The world is still and all the lights are out

Save for the ones which stud the firmament

With diamond clusters everywhere about.

Like royal David pondering the Heaven

I stand uncovered, torn and battle-spent

And from my flocking meditations driven

By spectral bears and lions; but not as he

Victorious, for the raveners I smote

Were modern pride and doubt which stalked my faith

For its ewe-lamb of trust and by the throat

Dragged it away from me to bleating death.

My staff is broken and the scroll I read

A thousand nights like this lies crumpled where

I flung it as with fevered brow I fled

In mocking disillusion and despair

From burnt-out wicks still sputtering in the oil

Of self-illumination with the quizz

“What am I? What the infinite I Am?”

God! If the answer were in spirit-toil

Or as the echo of Whatever Is!

The stars smile down on me undimmed and calm.

My soul! Have I so many years been blind

To all the glories wheeling o’er my head

And starry with the challenge of my quest?

Orion jewel-girdled and behind

Coursing his dogs, in mighty combat strange

With red-eyed Taurus!

And the Charioteer

Flashing toward the goal in full career!

The thrice-immortal Twins the chase abreast,

Cheering the race but keeping out of range

Of Ursa’s long, lean paws where his huge frame

Looms in the Polar Circle!

Farther south

The Lion’s crouching form, with gleaming eyes

And shadowy mouth!

The Plowman of the skies,

Proud of Arcturus’ fame!

And Hercules

Setting his giant heel upon the fang

Of the unwieldy Dragon; while beyond

The Serpent’s Crown makes mockery of the deed!

Far over by a handful of degrees

Imperial Vega rides the horizon,

Harped on by Lyra, as when morning sang

The genesis of systems God-decreed.

Already shines afar the Northern Cross

Where else were only dreariness and dark,

Like flaming symbol of a holy Cause

Which bore its ensign up the Winter arc

And more divinely glowed with sacred fire

Than the tiaraed Lady of the Chair

With dazzling looks, or than her daughter whom

Impetuous Perseus, thinking her so fair,

Delivered by the right of passion from

The Beast with jaws of grossness open wide.

Nor would I miss the Eagle, argus-eyed

And swift on wings of night.

What! Call this Night,

With thousand thousand suns in timeless space

So vast that distance gives no parallax

And centuries untold would pass ere light

From the remotest wanderer could burn!

So vast yon fires are a hundred-fold

More luminous than ours to them in turn,

And it in lost direction would dissolve

From Earth’s own lode-star here yclept the Pole!

So vast that hosts so numberless revolve

In unison as no assembled whole

Of man’s most perfect mechanism moves,

Yet by the which he boasts perpetual noon

As though the elements he late improves

And plays them in a more triumphant tune.

What! Call this Night and our small dial Day

Because by it we see ourselves and then

As mere automatons! Such is the way

Of over-conscious men; why, even I

An hour since called light a flickering lamp,

Philosophy the palimpsest of pedants,

The universe a papier-mache script,

While on it egotism’s ink was still too damp

And speculation dript.

But as I mount the Great Highway of Pearl

Which turns to diamonds where its steeds strike hoof

And chariot-wheels o’er the arena whirl

Until the course is flashing flint and fire—

How my soul thrills with this real vision of

The truth no lips can utter—with desire

To feel, not name, the Maker!

Night is Day

To eyes which earth’s diurnal sun had blinded

But now see glory, majesty, design,

Love eternal-minded, Will divine,

Swinging out censers, filling space with throne-rooms,

Ordering the times of destiny,

Making music and revealing purpose

Perfect but unthinkable, yet in man

Tuning a chord of nature in response

To fugitive notes of a melodious plan,

To stray scintillas of a Master-spell,

That we might have sufficient just of sense

To throb with feeling of theophany,

Just awe enough of the Ineffable

Out of our pinpoint nothingness to cry

“What is man that Thou art mindful of him?

And what is he that he should give a Name

Which we with lips vainglorious can laud,

A shape of Person to the Great I AM

Before we deign to worship Him as God?”

PAUPACK

Whither waters, gently flowing

In thy rocky channel-race,

Yet anon more noisy growing

O’er the stones which stay thy pace—

Gentle waters, whither going?

Laughing louder as they hurried,

Making music as they ran,

Deeper still the rock they furrowed

And a stolen run began

Half in cliffs and chasms buried.

Through the narrows flung they churning,

Leaped they in a mad cascade

And a bedded boulder spurning

They a misty iris made,

Spray to fitful spectrum turning.

Wildling waters thus romancing

Through the gorge in joy’s career,

Wooded witchery enhancing,

Paupack picturesque and dear,

Haste thee onward ever dancing!

Let thy pilgrimage and laughter

Quicken an Algonquin vein

Till the lure I follow after

Flushes every sense again

Like the freshet of the water;

Till, O Paupack, each erosion

Of my nature is at flood

With a primitive emotion,

With an impulse of the blood,

Singing on towards the ocean!

FIRESIDE

MOTHER

Only one link is to us all

A never-failing bond,

Only one thought of time’s recall

Makes all the world respond.

Dear ties there are that knit us close

As parent, friend or brother;

But God a universal chose

In the dear name of “Mother!”

Only one face no stranger is

Sometime at every side,

Only one love whose holy kiss

To few has been denied;

And whether we it treasure up

Or its affection smother,

Yet still the world’s communion-cup

Is the dear name of “Mother!”

Only one touch of nature makes

Us feel alike at best,

Only one gift for our sakes

Outbalances the rest;

And whether good or evil, we

Are human to each other

When our most sacred memory

Is the dear name of “Mother!”

CHATTERBOX

Miss Chatterbox, come here and tell

Me all about the fairies’ spell

So new to you but strange to me

Till you revive its mystery!

I, too, delight in Summer bowers

But you bewitch the birds and flowers;

I, too, rejoice in sunny nooks

But you make music of the brooks!

Miss Chatterbox, the secret share

Of all the magic of the air!

How comes the woodland’s passing breeze

To be the whisper of the trees?

How come the echoes through their screen

To be the pranks of elves unseen?—

The bushy tails and beadlike eyes

The wizard and the kewpie spies?

Miss Chatterbox, the riddle read

Of yonder fence-side hearts that bleed,

Of yonder riot in the field

Where buttercups to daisies yield;

Where drowsy sprites sip clover-sweets

And bobolink with Cupid meets;

Where brownies over on the knoll

The puff-balls of the pasture roll.

Miss Chatterbox, how happens it

That you in all this witchcraft fit;

That in your feet the fairies dance

And from your eyes the sun-sprites glance;

That in your curls are elfin kinks

And in your cheek a cupid winks;

The wood-nymphs clap their hands with thine

And thou art nature’s countersign?

LITTLE STOCKING

Cunningly, patiently I knit you,

Little stocking,

Counting the stitches the while;

Lovingly in thought I fit you

While rocking

Back and forth, back and forth, with a smile,

On the baby-feet I kiss

Or in slumber absent miss,

Dreams flocking, little stocking,

Like this.

Skilfully, wistfully I weave you,

Interlocking

The strands in and out and around;

Tenderly in mind I leave you,

Little stocking,

As the woolen thread’s unwound,

And I think of baby feet

You will cover when complete,

Half-mocking, little stocking,

So sweet.

Artfully I toe and heel you,

Little stocking,

Clicking the needle ends;

Fondly I fashion and feel you,

Heart a-talking

As the tapering fabric spends;

Will the baby-feet be true

To the dreams I wove in you?

Little stocking, little stocking,

Adieu!

ELFIN FACES

Round me gather Rosycheeks,

Clean and fresh as peaches,

Smiling daughters of the Greeks,

Golden-tongued with speeches.

“Papa, tell your little girls

All about the fairies!”

Bless my soul! they all had curls

And Cupid-lips like cherries.

Yes, indeed, and starry eyes

And merry little dimples

Something like a sly surprise

Hid in cunning wimples.

Yes, and twinkling baby-feet

Dancing midst the flowers,

Gathering the honey sweet

Through the morning hours.

But at twilight is the time

Each becomes a brownie,

Murmuring a sleepy rhyme,

Growing soft and downy

Till—say, I declare there springs

Up from either shoulder

Fluffy little angel-wings

That at first enfold her,—

Then I have to rub my eyes

All alert and scarey,

For right out the window flies

Every single fairy

And I’m left there all alone,

Peering in the corners.

Little elfin-faces gone

Leave behind them mourners.

SWEET ’STEEN

Little outgrown pinafore

Hanging there behind the door,

Seldom seen,

Sprigged all over full of buds

Like the yesterdays whose suds

Only partly washed you out—

What d’you mean

By reviving such a time

Like a phantom put to rout

Till it runs to rue and rhyme?

Ah, ’tis sad to think of it—

Missy that you used to fit

Till between

Top and bottom was a glance,

Now is wearing styles of France;

For alas, she’s grown to be

Sweet sixteen,

With young ladyship’s conceit

And its sprouting vanity—

Sixteen, pinafore, and sweet!

BOY

Boy, thou art the work of ages,

Disporting by creation’s glades and streams—

Laughing at the sages

And filling all the pages

Of time eternal with thy hopes and dreams!

Boy, thou art the work of nature,

Commingling of earth and air and fire—

In consciousness and feature

A juvenescent creature

With active mind and limbs that never tire.

Boy, thou art the work of gladness

And meant to fill the world with lusty shout,

With laughter, not with sadness,

With goodness, not with badness,

With eager confidence and not with doubt!

Boy, thou art the work of Heaven,

A thought to give the world a bonnie heir—

A living joyous leaven,

A spirit nobly driven

To try the future and divinely dare!

A CHILD’S LIFTED CROSS

How are we taught by childhood’s simple plea

Our greatest need and poor deformity

When such a child each vesper hour could pray,

“Lord, make me well and take my cross away!

“That I may share in joy and love return,

That I may live to labor and to learn

And that to-morrow may redeem to-day,

Lord, make me well and take my cross away!”

The help came down not as the cry went up,

Not as the thirst the giving of the cup;

Poor little one, if only we could say

God made him well and took his cross away!

’Tis thus we bring our own distorting grief

To our beloved Physician for relief;

And as our burden at thy feet we lay,

Lord, say ’tis well and take our cross away!

Thus too we bring our sin-misshapen soul

To our great Healer, who can make us whole,

And there beside His cross, not ours, we pray,

“Lord, make me well and take my sins away!”

Ah, time may hold surcease from pain and care;

Who knows what is the answering of prayer

Or why the Potter breaks the faulty clay?

Lord, make us beautiful in Thine own way!

THE BOY MILLIONAIRE

Boy, I’m worth a hundred million

And I’m sixty seasons old,

But you’re worth about a billion

In another kind of gold!

I’ve the money, you’ve the treasure,

You’ve the future, I’ve the past,

I’ve the power, you’ve the pleasure,

Mine is fleeting, yours will last.

When you whistle through the clover,

Capturing the bumble-bee,

When the brook is running over

And the trout-line craftily

Feels the eddy—who can offer

You a kingdom more divine?

I’ve an overflowing coffer

But would trade it all for thine.

A LULLABY

Little birdie, fold thy wings,

Snuggle in thy nest;

While the wind thy cradle swings,

Baby-birdie, rest!

Oh, so wee and warm and near

To thy mamma’s breast!

Oh, so free from harm and fear!

Go to rest, go to rest!

Little flower, hide thy face,

For ’tis eventide!

In the sleepy night’s embrace,

Little flower, hide!

Oh, so wee and fair and still

On thy mamma’s breast!

Oh, so free from care and ill!

Be at rest, be at rest!

Little baby, close thine eyes;

Fairies come for thee

From the land of lullabys,

Where my baby’ll be

Oh, so blissful while she sleeps

On her mamma’s breast!

And I kiss her smiling lips;

She’s at rest, she’s at rest!

THE LAST SONG

Just one more little song, mother,

Before I go to sleep;

For thou hast often hushed my heart

To slumber soft and deep.

Before ’tis dark I long, mother,

For thy dear voice, which seems

To make thy gentle face a part

Of childhood’s golden dreams.

Just one more little song, mother,

Before I sink to rest;

For thou hast often stilled my fears

Upon thy tender breast.

Thy love so great was strong, mother,

With childhood’s safe repose

On lips that kissed away its tears,

In arms that held it close.

Just one more little song, mother,

Before I dream of skies

Where stars and flowers smile and shine

And angel-harps surprise.

But not in Heaven’s throng, mother,

Is there a dearer face,

A sweeter song or soul than thine

The Gloryland to grace.

YOUTH

A vision of morning,

A sparkle of dew,

With roses adorning

Life’s pilgrimage through;

All joy and no sorrow,

No trouble to borrow,

An endless to-morrow,

And love ever true.

AGE

To sit in the gloaming

And muse by the fire

Till the spirit of homing

Takes wings of desire;

And the might-have-beens lighten

And the things-to-be brighten

And the heavenlies heighten

And the holies inspire.

SENTIMENT

A CORONATION

Dear, on thy brow I set a crown,

Invisible yet rare;

Not jewelled gold, which burdens down

With royalty and care.

I bring thee nothing but my love

And what my hands can win,

And yet I crown thee, dear, above

A kingdom’s proudest queen.

I kiss each gleaming tress of thine

Coiled lightly round thy head,

And woman’s glory grows divine

With love’s aurora shed.

If thou canst but forget the rest,

The gems I cannot bring,

This jewel doth become thee best

To me, thy lover-king.

Dear, in my soul thou hast a throne

All white and heavengold,

And on thy brow I set a crown

That doth my heart infold.

I’LL BE WATCHING ON THE SHORE

She kissed me when we parted,—

I to sail the stormy main,

She to keep the little cottage

Snug until I come again;

And well do I remember

What she promised o’er and o’er:—

“When you come sailing from the ocean

I’ll be watching on the shore!”

So I was a jolly skipper,

Coiling rope or reefing sail;

Many a distant port I entered,

Many a homebound ship did hail.

If I sent or got a message,

Always it the promise bore:—

“When you come sailing from the ocean

I’ll be watching on the shore!”

Death came yawning in the tempest;

Wild and high the spindrift flew,

And from dizzy deck and masthead

Oft I thought my hour was due;

Till her dear prophetic promise

Sang above the billows’ roar:—

“When you come sailing from the ocean

I’ll be watching on the shore!”

But alas! One time I harbored

She was sleeping white and still

Where the ivy made a trellis

Of the lookout on the hill;

And the cold engraven marble

Yet the farewell promise bore:—

“When you come sailing from the ocean

I’ll be watching on the shore!”

I GIVE THEE MY PROMISE

I give thee my promise, sweetheart,

With thy dear lips to mine,

That nothing shall keep from us

The sealing of this sign;

As o’er the world I wander

By hope of fortune sped,

My heart will grow the fonder

For thy promise me to wed.

I give thee the token, sweetheart,

Whose circle on thy hand

God grant may ne’er be broken,

However far the land!

For where it pleaseth Heaven

To lead my errant feet,

This little token given

Will keep the promise sweet.

I give thee the keeping, sweetheart,

Of my own heart that pleads

For love’s immediate reaping

And with the parting bleeds;

But I with arms that hold thee

Must labor for thee, too;

And so I fast enfold thee

And bid thee, love, adieu!

CHAMBERED ROSES

Over in Dolorosa Hall,

Romantic memories breathing,

There’s a quaint old room with flowered wall

Of roses interwreathing,

The key on golden chain I wear

To guard the sacred chamber,

For as a bride demure and fair

My sainted Mary came there.

’Twas her dear self arranged it so

And helped to match the roses,

As she, alas, the ones which grow

O’er walls where she reposes.

I nurture these, the others seal

For subtler necromancy

Where Mary’s loving roses steal

Around the room of fancy.

They ramble from each corner to

The border o’er the moulding

And on in buds and tendrils through

The ceiling’s faded golding.

No hand shall ever tear them down

With cheap artistic violence,

For Mary wreathed the roses on,

Still fragrant with her silence.

TWO FRAMES

In the gallery of remembrance

Down on Unforgotten Street

Hangs a picture of two lovers

After they the vows repeat;

Lovely—handsome—picture—lovers—

Golden-framed against the wall,

Love in rich and stately setting—

Revenue and manor-hall.

And beside it hangs another,

Limned again with lovers’ pose,

Just as lovely on the canvas

Till the golden in it glows;

But ’tis framed in white enamel

Whereon lilies intertwine—

Love in sweet and simple setting—

Virtue and a cottage-vine.

Love-in-woman stands before them

With reflected gold and grace

But with struggling decision

On her dew-and-flower face;

Eyes are drawn to frame of yellow,

Heart to canvas set in white:

Rich man, poor man? Love-in-woman

Chose and lilies turned to light.

PARS SUMMAE

I did not think that love was mine

Because I toiled;

But if I caught its every line

And not despoiled

More perfect love to grace my own,

Then might I feel

That I at love’s supremest throne

Could rightly kneel.

I veiled my face when glory shed

Its trembling light;

Nor would I lift my humbled head

Till I as white

Could show the pureness of a soul

That doth reveal

Love which before the sacred whole

Can rightly kneel.

My altar was her blessing-place

Whence she bestowed

The gifts divinely of her grace

On worship bowed;

For as my adoration rose

To love’s ideal

She lifted me as one of those

Who rightly kneel.

A VISION

Tall and fair and azure-eyed,

Covert glances ’neath the drooping lash

Like Cupid’s arrows in an artful quiver—

She is this and much beside,

Which to tell in detail would be rash

By any but the beggar to the giver.

If I gathered, if she gave,

I could put it better into art,

By countless little charming things elated—

Silken tresses in a wave,

Cheek with stolen pigment from the heart,

And mouth the most inviting e’er created.

Still I’m short of total truth

Just to feature forth her lovely face

Wreathed in rebel-locked or coiffured limbus;

Yet the highest charm of youth

Is the soft inimitable grace

That bathes a woman with a glowing nimbus.

And this my goddess hath improved

By every feminine instinct of taste,

And still the deeper charm of spiritism—

Which, if it were the soul and loved

Some kindred soul in this world of love-waste,

Would laugh at every selfish catechism

Of worldly wisdom and its creed

And tremble to the fate which love revealed,

Flushed at its glimpse of Paradise, delirious

That life was not all craft and greed

But underneath its shallows half-concealed

Lay passion grand, transfiguring, imperious!

THE AFTERMATH

Lovers making foolish vows,

Thinking love is deathless

When ’tis fiercest to espouse

What it sings so breathless;

Now caressing, now confessing

In romantic stanza—

Such is passion and its fashion

Of extravaganza.

But the love that’s worth a throne

Is the kind that later

More than sentiment alone

Proves and heavens greater

Than a frenzy of the fancy

Or a creed of nature,

Or the praises in fine phrases

Of a charming creature.

Oh, the happy aftermath

When the mating’s over

And ordeals of life and death

Teach the whilom lover

That the woman, though for human

Charms he did enshrine her,

Is the essence of a presence

Sweeter and diviner!

PROOF-WORDS

There was a face—I loved it;

There was a pulse—I felt it;

There was a soul—I sensed it

And made it mine for aye.

There was a heart—I proved it;

There was a word—I spelt it;

Yet scarcely had commenced it

When called from dreams away.

There was a hope—I wreathed it;

There was a prayer—I sped it;

There was a seal—I gave it,

Then bade my love adieu.

There was a sigh—I breathed it;

There was a tear—I shed it;

There was a gift—I save it

To know my love is true.

MEMORIES

ADIEUS

When we from the ship or shore

Bid farewell—Oh, fare thee well!

Though the voyage may be o’er

Ocean-vasts and none can tell

Whether we shall evermore

Meet again, yet fare-thee-well

Means a hope whose accents spell

Till we greet again—farewell!

When we over sea or land