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The Heart of the 
 Singer 
 
 BY 
 
 FRED WHITNEY 
 
 PALO ALTO 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 1908 
 
LIBRARY of OONt^HSSS 
 ivfo (Jopies rtecujyyj 
 
 MAY 16 11908 
 
 jopyngfii entry 
 
 20S 3 7d 
 
 Copyright, 1908, 
 
 BY 
 
 Fred Whitney 
 
 ■^35^5 
 
 
 STANFORD UNIVERSITY 
 PRESS 
 
To her whom life's perversive zvill 
 Refused its promise to fulfill. 
 And held her soul in bondage strong, 
 Gave her the heart but hushed the song 
 Till failed the singer, this brief strain 
 With love is dedicated. The pain. 
 The hope, the strife, the call for art, 
 The worded song — all this her heart 
 Saw dumbly die, yet saiv begun — 
 She gave her talents to her son. 
 And with their tutored wealth he sings. 
 Raising the perished song on wings. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Water Bird 7 
 
 A Vale of Flowers 12 
 
 Light 14 
 
 Why, O Singer? 15 
 
 Hither 16 
 
 Lines to M. W 17 
 
 Cloudland 20 
 
 Yonderland 22 
 
 Aidenn . . . . . . . . .23 
 
 Shadow 25 
 
 The New 26 
 
 The Jolly Spring 27 
 
 Winter Song 29 
 
 Serenade 30 
 
 The Flower 31 
 
 The Oriole 32 
 
 Albia 33 
 
 The Chant of the Cataract . . . . .35 
 
 The Old Casa ..37 
 
 The New Sea 39 
 
 Blue Lakes 40 
 
 Irene, A Fragment 41 
 
SONNETS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 California 55 
 
 Argonauta 56 
 
 Interim ^y 
 
 The March of Light 58 
 
 Sleep 59 
 
 O Sea ! 60 
 
 . Youthtime . ♦ 61 
 
 After 62 
 
 The Greening Field 63 
 
 Wintered 64 
 
 Whence 65 
 
 Song Unheard 66 
 
 A Captive Hour 67 
 
 The Artist Hand 68 
 
 The Hope in To-morrow .... 69 
 
 Garners 70 
 
 The Day 71 
 
 Inspiration 72 
 
 The Three-fold Self 73 
 
 As One Whose Soul Accords . . . 74 
 
 The Dull-houred Realm 75 
 
 Two Powers 76 
 
 Service 77 
 
 The Wintered Spring 78 
 
 In Store 79 
 
 Triumph 80 
 
THE WATER BIRD 
 
 Whither away, whither away, 
 O water-haunting bird above the moor? 
 Thy pinions with the wide air play. 
 And call me toward thy winged way 
 In airy, yonward flight the sealand o'er. 
 
 For to my fettered soul thou criest, 
 
 Forever criest of the open way, 
 
 As through the endless air thou fliest. 
 Or on the boundless water liest ; 
 
 And may forever flee or ever stay. 
 
 The homeless wind is in thy wing, 
 And in thy wandering heart a spirit wild. 
 The waters, flowing, to thee sing. 
 And clouded skylands to thee bring 
 A luring call, from other hearts exiled. 
 
 [7] 
 
Sky unto sky, with note soul-haunting, 
 Thou tellest of the mystic land : Somewhere. 
 Forever of its knowledge vaunting. 
 Forever of its beauties chanting : 
 The haloed lyric land of my despair. 
 
 The land of my most inward dreams 
 Which goes before me ever wraith-like fleeing 
 That aery land of fitful gleams, 
 Of wavering tints where poetry teems : 
 Along the border line of real being. 
 
 A land of mists and waters gray, 
 Of whisper-haunted fens and zephyrs sighing, 
 Of wandering berg and iris ray, 
 Of enchanted, moving, endless way : 
 A land of mountains dim far, hazy lieing. 
 
 Thou knowest where its borders rise ; 
 
 The magic distance of its charmed dominion 
 As, through the nightward ocean skies, 
 Where rosy glow of sunset lies. 
 
 Thou passest like a cloud on snowy pinion ; 
 
 Or, in the golden-misted morn, 
 Arisest from the lake with glinting plume; 
 From off its emerald bosom torn. 
 By thine afflatus heavenward borne. 
 Thy farland, wending journey to resume ; 
 
 [8] 
 
Or, through the moon -illumined night, 
 As fleecy cloud to cloud thy way thou takest, 
 
 A shadow in the silvery light, 
 
 A passing bird in skyey flight 
 Which, crying down, the water spirit wakest ; 
 
 Or, as through the rack thou goest, 
 A gloomed image in the misty shroud 
 
 Which, waking from the air, outflowest ; 
 
 Whose birth and airy flight thou knowest, 
 And criest with the voice of night and cloud. 
 
 Thou knowest of that Somewhere world — 
 Forever of its dreamy vision telling — 
 
 And, stooping where the waters purled, 
 Are whispering to the sedges furled, 
 Thou hearest the secret of its far impelling. 
 
 It's in the half-ht shades of dawn 
 Which, gloaming, o'er the marshland reaches spread, 
 
 And in the gauzy veiling drawn 
 
 Along the moon-lit waters wan 
 Where pass thy trailing numbers seaward sped : 
 
 And in the flight-seen miraged lake ; 
 
 The distant river's azure- winding line ; 
 
 The plash y land where tide flows take 
 Their creeping way ; the misty brake ; 
 
 Which, dreaming, lie beneath the border line. 
 
 [9] 
 
Or, far from marish land or lea, 
 Upon thy pilgrim wingings unconfined. 
 Out o'er the foamy-waved sea, 
 Above the green-deeped mystery. 
 Thou hearest the secret in the passing wind. 
 
 Thou hearest : but doth the yearning 
 Which makes my seeking soul to flights aspire. 
 The insatiate spirit burning, 
 Forever to that Somewhere turning. 
 Come to thy tameless heart as Art desire? 
 
 Is that which sends my soul in flight, 
 Its inspiration and its strife renewing. 
 
 O'er misty shores or waters bright 
 
 The urger of thy far delight 
 From tarn to sea; of thy wild heart's pursuing? 
 
 Is that which shapes my nature's course. 
 Its genius and its whereward drift renewing, 
 The fountain of thy migrant course, 
 Its endless giver and its source? 
 Is't that which shapes thy ways, its form concealing, 
 
 As, on some nighted bayou flown. 
 Where pass the dreaming hours in downy gloom. 
 
 Thy Impulse comes to thee, alone 
 
 Upon the waters starry sown ; 
 And, in thy nature-spirit makest room? 
 
 [lo] 
 
The sprite of sedgy slu is thine, 
 The genius of the tided sea, the bay ; 
 
 And, breasting o'er the endless brine, 
 Thou foUowest the trend Divine 
 Which wafts thee on thy seeking journey-way. 
 
 And, with thy sky -traversing wing — 
 The rhythmed expresser of thy nature's ways — 
 Thou bringest to me, interpreting. 
 The soul of sea, of marsh, of spring, 
 Unto my nature's trend its harmonies. 
 
 And, where the lyric numbers flow, 
 Which tide and sky with spirit stress prolong, 
 I stand upon the marsh below 
 To mark thee where I may not go. 
 But feel the One Impulse which breaks in song. 
 
 ["] 
 
A VALE OF FLOWERS 
 
 I walked into a vale of flowers 
 
 Which idly dreamed, entuned with bees, 
 
 And round me hung the golden hours 
 
 Which whispered : '* Life's a thing of ease/' 
 
 "A Spring day dream, a scent, a song, 
 
 A vale Elysian trial free." 
 And down I sank these sweets among 
 
 Thinking to pay to life no fee. 
 
 I drank my idle spirit's fill 
 
 Of thoughtlessness from ease untold. 
 
 But as I lay the bee grew still. 
 
 And from the bright hours fled the gold. 
 
 Then I awoke with wounded sense, 
 And cried: "Is this, is this the ease 
 
 For which my spirit was lured hence? 
 Is this the lot will pleasure please ? ' ' 
 
 [12] 
 
Then straight a voice rose from the gloom 
 "The bee was toiHng while he sang; 
 
 'Twas effort filled the odorous bloom, 
 And every sweet from trial sprang." 
 
 ''The bee is now within his bower 
 Enriched by his tuned wing's employ ; 
 
 The stem is laboring at its flower. 
 Who will not toil may not enjoy." 
 
 [■3] 
 
LIGHT 
 
 On beams of light from heaven's sun 
 Men mount the skies and outward run 
 With burst of vision, seeing bright 
 What lay before in shadowy night. 
 Or whether with angel's acclaim 
 Light flood the gloom in savior flame 
 To light a world, or dimmer beams 
 Where someone idling vaguely dreams. 
 It's still the light, and from above ; 
 The guide of strife, of peace, of love. 
 It makes the teacher, poet, sage, 
 And burns men's hearts into the page. 
 
 [14] 
 
WHY, O SINGER? 
 
 Why, O singer, tell me why 
 Do you sing a song of sadness, 
 Dearth of hope and dearth of gladness? 
 Know you not that joy and sorrow 
 Each from other something borrow. 
 That Beauty makes its soul of white 
 Half of day and half of night? 
 From cold wet earth grow golden flowers. 
 Richest hearts from troubled hours. 
 Sigh not then nor sing sadly. 
 Know that life may treat you badly, 
 Or that it may meet you gladly. 
 Joy ever follows pain, 
 Sunshine always follows rain. 
 Round the world in low or high 
 Weeping, laughing life goes by. 
 
 [15] 
 
HITHER 
 
 Hither pray, wend away 
 
 In the golden-houred day. 
 
 Bees around the blooms are singing, 
 
 Butterflies Hke fairies winging 
 
 To the nectared cups are cHnging. 
 
 Blowing flowers everywhere 
 
 Sweets in everything 
 All in unison declare 
 
 They bring the happy Spring. 
 
 Every blitheless thing's forgot 
 Winter's sighs and frowns are not. 
 From the old the new is winning, 
 All's in the beginning. 
 Love and life in harmony 
 Sweet as ever they may be. 
 
 Hither, pray, 
 
 Wend away. 
 And, before their sweets depart, 
 Let them blow into your heart. 
 
 [i6] 
 
LINES TO M. W., IN MEMORY 
 
 Good-bye, dear friend of ripened years, 
 
 For you are gone. Gone through the peaceful night 
 
 To that bright dawn which Hes beyond Hfe's ills. 
 
 And with your passing comes the thoughts 
 
 Of times now worn away : 
 
 When you first came ; 
 
 And I, with childhood's blithesome will, 
 
 Was playmate of the fields and flowers ; 
 
 And how, long months, 'twas you and I alone 
 
 To do the homely tasks and share their bread, 
 
 To build the comfort kindlings on the hearth, 
 
 And hear the creature call of wintered winds. 
 
 But most, of all our builded friendship did, 
 
 I now recall, as I have done with you : 
 
 'Twas you who, from the careless blossom meads 
 
 Of halcyon dreams, urged my young course 
 
 Toward lettered shaping of the self within. 
 
 And, though you never understood just why, 
 
 Yet in your woman's heart you felt 
 
 The nearer lots of plod, the toiler's strife 
 
 [17] 
 
Were not my being's heritage. 
 
 That I'd a finer call than forge or field. 
 
 And so you planned that I should find my tasks 
 
 In other ways than use of years 
 
 But humbly with the sod at toil. 
 
 And when, in the unfolding months, 
 
 The argument of inconvenient change 
 
 Would seek to hush the tongue of better tales, 
 
 And sink the upward course in common lot, 
 
 'Twas you who, with persistent thought, 
 
 Strove for my tutored youth, and gained for me 
 
 A lengthened chance toward my unwakened light 
 
 Until was touched the tenor of my soul, 
 
 And dawned the nascent vision of my life. 
 
 And though you smiled when I told you my dreams, 
 
 How I should write, and of the visioned walls 
 
 Of castles in my rapture land before, 
 
 I counted sure that I should come and say : 
 
 This have I done to prove my prophet tongue. 
 
 And give a form to your instinctive thoughts ; 
 
 Here is the thing achieved. I've caught the dream. 
 
 But my slow feet, still struggling at the task, 
 
 Have missed the slipping years with glean of straw, 
 
 For all which men have reckoned as success. 
 
 And you are gone. 
 
 Gone out by life's wide change 
 
 With but the irised vapor of my dreams 
 
 [i8] 
 
To prove that what you felt was worth the while. 
 
 And so it is. With life before 
 
 We listen to our souls when they cry : '* Forth." 
 
 Nor understand, but follow out and in 
 
 In search of earthly spots in skyey realms, 
 
 Taking the evening wage of faith and fears, 
 
 Until death comes and locks the mortal house 
 
 And hides the key. And we may never know 
 
 If what we've felt and vainly striven for 
 
 Is well or ill. But, in a contra course 
 
 Strive on and think it well 
 
 Till someone come in after time and find it so. 
 
 But in this country, lit of gray-houred dawn 
 
 Or shined of stars, we find it cold and drear. 
 
 And I have sometimes wished I had not waked 
 
 From thoughtless seeing of the show of life. 
 
 But stayed behind, content 
 
 To take Hfe dull and own the bliss of souls 
 
 Not harrowed by the martyr-thoughts of men. 
 
 But I may not turn back ; the gleam leads on. 
 
 And, with the stronger thoughts of faith 
 
 Whose steps climb up, I ask for will like yours 
 
 Which knew to faint and fall and yet to strive, 
 
 To face the stubborn rise of my life's hills. 
 
 For still I lift my eyes to see 
 
 The castles on the mountains of my dreams. 
 
 [19] 
 
CLOUDLAND 
 
 Far-off Cloudland, beautiful rack ! 
 Which, waking from the planet's ether track 
 Along the vapor-breathing solitude, outpours 
 With gauzy hills and drifting slopes and shores, 
 With island images of earth 
 
 And crystal sands, 
 With floating vapor-peaks of viewless birth ; 
 Along thy strands 
 My waking spirit sweeps 
 A gossamer host of Thought's creations frail ; 
 Visual shapes of the ethereal Mind — 
 
 Brought forth of feeling's deeps — 
 Which, striking on my mind's ordered detail 
 
 In harmony, 
 Of its own form builds and of the Spirit's varied 
 kind. 
 
 [20] 
 
As, in the duller ways, the level-seeking stream 
 
 Upon its endless circling to the sea, 
 From misty ether dream 
 Of skies unto the scarce-translucent deep, 
 With limpid waves 
 The kindred margent laves, 
 And, from the contact of its reverb' rant sweep, 
 
 A throbbing melody awakes 
 Which is not only from the marge and from the 
 
 stream. 
 But from them both and of that Impress 
 
 Which, thrilling through them, music makes. 
 And, on the Spirit's stress. 
 Above the dull forms rise 
 An aery likeness of them twain unto the skies. 
 
 [21] 
 
YONDERLAND 
 
 Whither bound? I gaze and question. 
 
 Not that I feel not the soul's immortal, 
 The spirit's rich with that suggestion ; 
 
 But whence and where, what earthen portal 
 Shall open when this temple falls? 
 
 Or shall the air enfold the spirit, 
 
 Breathed out from this terrestrial form, 
 
 To touch no land, though wandering near it ; 
 A volt of force the ego's norm, 
 
 Or but a pulse where darkness palls? 
 
 Is't not that from this tarrying place 
 
 The form-freed soul takes spirit way. 
 Circling through yon world-hung space 
 
 Until it strikes affinitive clay, 
 To rise anew in other life. 
 And build beyond this earthly strife? 
 
 If it is not so, the ego hurls. 
 
 Then why this clay and why these worlds? 
 
 [22] 
 
AIDENN 
 
 What realm far yonder wending from, 
 White clouds of the traveling wind ? 
 
 What autumn azure is your home 
 In Aidenn dreamland far behind? 
 
 That skyey realm of magic dreams 
 You wander from. Where Fancies go 
 
 O'er vapory fields of yellow gleams 
 Where trees as golden shadows grow ; 
 
 Where ether waves on gauzy shores 
 Keep strains of music memory hears, 
 
 And the viewless soul of Passion soars 
 O'er mist- made hills and aery meres ; 
 
 Where wavering heights and snowy peaks 
 Look on the starry loiter vales, 
 
 And Poetry earthly robings seeks 
 
 'Mongst Reverie's haunting beauty tales. 
 
 [23] 
 
That realm of visual soul desire, 
 
 Of half- revealed mystery, 
 Of mist-hills Ht with flameless fire 
 
 Or dim with charms of yesterday. 
 
 Whither bound from that enchanted place 
 White wraiths of the landless blue? 
 
 Your charm is left in its embrace 
 
 When you this sky go wandering through. 
 
 [24] 
 
SHADOW 
 
 What matters it, my soul ? 
 Here is the blossom meadow. 
 
 And all around the sun is bright, 
 It is the day and not the night. 
 What matters it, my soul. 
 If you went down in the valley of the shadow ? 
 
 [25] 
 
THE NEW 
 
 What makes the hour, that we should say- 
 Here passes the old away? 
 Spanned by the width of a mortal day 
 We fix on a point in space sublime, 
 And run with the breath of human time, 
 In the course of the yonward range, 
 On through the fleeting change 
 Till we say it is sped, 
 There it lies old and dead. 
 
 Time flies 
 
 And the old year dies 
 In eternity whence it grew. 
 Then hail ! here is the New. 
 
 How vain was the soul with a dream afire 
 Which saw the transient hour expire. 
 How vain was the plan which arose 
 But to meet its close 
 In the chance to build temples unbid, 
 How vain the light by darkness hid ! 
 For we say it is sped. 
 There it lies old and dead. 
 
 Time flies 
 
 And the old year dies 
 In eternity whence it grew. 
 Then hail ! here is the New. 
 
 [26] 
 
THE JOLLY SPRING 
 
 It is the Spring, the jolly Spring, 
 Sweet and gay with flower and song. 
 Oh come with me a wandering 
 
 The happy vales among ! 
 
 For they're a tale a-telling, 
 
 A tale that's ever young. 
 
 The buds, the blades, the blushing blooms 
 Are tip-toe all a-listening 
 
 Upon the bashful meads. 
 The hairbell listens tremblingly, 
 The dandelion plumes. 
 The love vine round the rose is saying : *' Guess." 
 
 The cowslips hang their heads, 
 The lilacs whisper: "Yes." 
 
 And unto me and unto you, 
 The secret thought betraying. 
 
 The wooing breezes slip about and through 
 Aye coyly, sweetly saying : 
 
 [27] 
 
"The sky is blue above, 
 
 The bee is round the clover ; 
 Oh come and be my love, 
 And I will be your lover." 
 
 The leaflets clap their hands 
 
 As a breeze steals round their way, 
 And sweetly o'er them fans. 
 
 And there upon a spray 
 A little bird is singing 
 
 Unto his mate : 
 
 '' Sweet, oh sweet ! it never is too late. 
 Oh love is always winging ! " 
 
 Then ho for hearts a-loving ! 
 
 And ah for those who may ! 
 It is the jolly, jolly Spring. 
 
 It cannot pass away. 
 
 [28] 
 
WINTER SONG 
 
 A robin sat singing in a tollon tree : 
 
 Come back, O Springtime, come back to me. 
 
 'Twas Winter's days over field and hill. 
 
 But the sun was bright and the winds were still. 
 
 The sky was wide and blue overhead, 
 
 And he sang and said : 
 Here are the red blooms, but somehow it's late. 
 I sing on the bough without my mate. 
 
 Such beauty to see 
 
 With the sun in the tree ! 
 Come back, O Springtime, come back to me. 
 
 [29] 
 
SERENADE 
 
 It is the hour 
 When the night-blowing cereus flower, 
 As sweet as eventide in June, 
 Puts forth in beauty with the moon. 
 But hngering beside thy bower, 
 O lady mine, it wears thy sweets. 
 And with thy charms my presence greets. 
 
 But list ! 
 The evening moth its lips has kissed. 
 And, with the bliss of honeyed art. 
 He plunders sweetness from its heart. 
 And ah, my love ! they'll soon depart, 
 The moth be flown, the flower faded, 
 And with my love you unpersuaded. 
 Let not vain waiting be my fate. 
 Awake ! For you I wait. 
 
 [30] 
 
THE FLOWER 
 
 She stooped with languid grace 
 And a dreamy, glowing face, 
 And plucked a flower from its place. 
 She brushed its petals 'cross her lips 
 And touched them with her finger tips. 
 She asked not why 'twas there it grew, 
 Nor if it drank the morning dew, 
 Nor half its beauty saw nor knew. 
 Her lips would but repeat : 
 You are sweet, sweet. 
 
 [31] 
 
THE ORIOLE 
 
 Oh, who is it so sweetly sings, 
 Pouring from his gladdened throat 
 Liquid joy in fluting note? 
 Voicing all the sweets a-dreaming 
 In the season's early beaming, 
 
 What melodist Spring joy brings? 
 The oriole, the oriole ! 
 In the air, the trees among ; 
 
 Richest, sweetest singer soul. 
 Turning all his golden beauty into song. 
 
 Oh, who is it the buds among. 
 Drinking sweets and telling love, 
 Bearing bliss the earth above ? 
 What gladdened heart with music swelling, 
 To the skies in rapture telling 
 
 How beauty may be turned to song? 
 The oriole, the oriole ! 
 In the air, the trees among ; 
 
 Richest, sweetest singer soul, 
 Blythely carroling how beauty may be sung. 
 
 [32] 
 
ALBIA* 
 
 Albia is form most fair. 
 
 Her eyes are deeps of blue, 
 Sunbeams are her hair. 
 
 Her breath the breath of flowers new, 
 Her face Spring's witchery. 
 
 Her voice the murmur of the sea 
 And the sound of singing streams. 
 
 Of all her kind on earth may be 
 None else there is like her to me. 
 
 She's the weaver of my dreams, 
 The prompter of my fancies 
 i In the vernal days 
 And the golden Summertime. 
 Me she showeth glances 
 Rarest from her eyes, 
 Leadeth me where sweetest beauty lies. 
 
 *Albia : From New Albion, the name given California 
 by Sir Francis Drake. 
 
 [33] 
 
Telleth me tales wondrous 
 
 Beneath the starlight glorious, 
 
 Whispering in measures sweet with rhyme ; 
 
 Giveth me the poet's pen, 
 
 Filleth my heart with lire then, 
 
 Presenteth me with treasures fit for king ! 
 
 What may I but sing? 
 
 34 
 
THE CHANT OF THE CATARACT 
 
 I come from the mist-crowned mountain heights : 
 
 Ho ho-o ! Ho ho-o ! Ho ho-o ! 
 The giant of the rain and the snow. 
 And sing and shout as I take the flights 
 Which run to the sea below. 
 
 Hu ho ! Hu ho ! Hu ho ! 
 The voice of the canon it is mine. 
 I sing of the wind in the fir and the pine : 
 
 Hu ro, ho ho ! Hu ro ! 
 Of the storm in the wintry skies ; 
 Of the gurgHng rain and the spray which flies, 
 And shout through them all as I go : hu ho-o-o ! 
 
 Hu ro ! Hu ro ! Hu ro, ho ho ! 
 
 Hu ro, ho ho ! Hu ho-o ! 
 
 I sing of the towering mountain old : 
 
 Hu ro ! Hu ro ! Hu ro-o ! 
 Of the chasms deep and the precipice bold ; 
 Of the wild, gray dawn and the noon of gold : 
 
 Hu ro, ho ho ! Hu ro-o ! 
 
 [35] 
 
Of the stars which gHtter in the deep blue night, 
 Of the journeying moon and her silver light, 
 
 Of the iris bow, 
 
 And the shadows below : hu ho-o ! 
 For I carry them all in my breast as I flow. 
 
 Hu ro ! Hu ro ! Hu ro-o ! 
 I leap at the gorges below ; 
 And laugh at the boulders would hold me back, 
 For I am the great cataract: 
 
 Hu ro, ho ho-o ! Hu ro-o ! 
 I laugh and I sing as I go : 
 Ha ha ! Ho ho ! Ha ha 1 Ho ho ! Ho ho-o ! 
 The mountain' s above and the sea is below : ho ho ! 
 
 Hu ro, ho ho ! Hu ro, ho ho ! 
 
 Hu ro ! Hu ho ! Hu ho-o ! 
 
 [36 J 
 
THE OLD CASA 
 
 The full moon floods the balmy skies, 
 
 The same fair moon which shone of yore 
 
 When love-enkindled, dusky eyes 
 Looked forth upon their amador ; 
 
 When the guitar's sweet, plaintive measures 
 
 Were vibrant here with lover's treasures. 
 
 And up above the mesa brown 
 The lonely cliffs in silence bide 
 
 Where, in the olden, they looked down 
 Upon the casa's peopled pride. 
 
 But where the silvery moonlight falls 
 
 There linger now but ruined walls. 
 
 The Spaniard's soft, melodious voice 
 
 Sounds here no more, nor trips his feet • 
 
 Through the fandango's gallant joys ; 
 And gone the whispering lovers sweet. 
 
 The dashing troops of gay vaqueros 
 
 With sashes red and decked sombreros. 
 
 [37] 
 
The glad Senor's salute : *'Hola Don !" 
 
 And, "Welcome friend," which followed after. 
 
 The dark Senora too is gone — 
 
 The silvery peals of merry laughter. 
 
 The Senorita is no more, 
 
 And gone the singing amador. 
 
 No more he woos with his guitar. 
 
 His serenade has died away — 
 The horseman's shout faded afar 
 
 With merry din of dancers gay. 
 In jest and laughter careless hearted 
 These gallant guests have long departed. 
 
 Around the ruins but spectral shades 
 Frequent the moon-enchanted night 
 
 Where some old form half rising fades, 
 And voiceless tales take backward flight. 
 
 While to it all deep silence clings 
 
 Save when a mocker wakening sings. 
 
 [38] 
 
THE NEW SEA 
 
 Down the azure inlet, wending, 
 Let the winds blow as they list, 
 
 And the dark-faced sea, insending, 
 Plunge the lowlands all in mist ; 
 
 But my soul, upon a headland, 
 Holding presence with the sun, 
 
 Looks out o'er a new sea, hght-spanned, 
 And sees the full hours westward run. 
 
 P. A., 1902 
 
 [39] 
 
BLUE LAKES 
 
 O emerald tarn, who called thee blue ? 
 
 Thou mirror of the slopes and trees. 
 Thou holdest naught of the heaven's hue ; 
 
 But the green of the great Bard's seas. 
 
 Or from what welkin came the dye 
 
 That anyone in thee its tint should find ? 
 
 It's not the arch now bends on high. 
 Or, he who gazes, is he Bard blind? 
 
 [40] 
 
IRENE 
 
 A Fragment 
 
 Farewell, loved land of childtime ! 
 
 With memories dear to me. 
 Your violet beds and wild thyme 
 
 Cling to me lingeringly. 
 
 And you, broad hills and woodside, 
 Your sweets will never blow 
 
 Where I, on ebb and flood-tide, 
 Am tossing to and fro. 
 
 The martin calls as day breaks 
 From oak trees by the mill. 
 
 And morn each golden ray takes 
 From bursting hill to hill. 
 
 The bee is round the red bloom. 
 The oriole' s sweet with song ; 
 
 But now at eve the dead moon 
 Is eloquent of wrong. 
 
 [41] 
 
Ah, love 1 I've felt your blue eyes 
 
 Look faithfully into mine 
 Where bright at morn the dew lies, 
 
 And blows the eglantine. 
 
 But Spring will fade and wither ; 
 
 Your love is lost to me ; 
 And heart and hope together 
 
 Go down eternally. 
 
 The joy which youth-time brought me 
 
 Has found its yesterday ; 
 For, when at last I sought thee 
 
 To bear thy vows away, 
 
 I learned the years to nothing 
 Had brought my heart of love — 
 
 I've felt that still it must cling — 
 But no. 'Twould useless prove. 
 
 For you have found another, 
 And all is different, strange. 
 
 And I (O heart, turn whither ? ) 
 Am lonely in the change. 
 
 The words of our love's shaping 
 Are silent ; and their store 
 
 Is lost in the sweet day's 'scaping. 
 I may not love you more ! 
 
 [42] 
 
This, then, the end of long years ! 
 
 This, then, the end of all ! 
 I here alone in wrung tears, 
 
 And you to another's call? 
 
 Still I'll not blame you, sweetheart. 
 Although you bow my soul. 
 
 For love, despite its deep art, 
 May not aye love control. 
 
 Lo, it may gain from friendship 
 Itself in semblance dressed 
 
 Till hearts strike down the kinship. 
 And like's by Uke possessed. 
 
 But mine's the sad misfortune 
 
 To feel the riving blow 
 Which severs with distortion 
 
 My chilled heart from its flow. 
 
 Thus hopes in pleasure waiting 
 
 Have faded at the last ; 
 And bonds of love's debating 
 
 Have sunk into the past. 
 
 Ah ! sweet to my rapt hearing 
 The sounds of distant days 
 
 When we, our young hearts nearing. 
 Found love in children's ways ! 
 
 [43] 
 
When we, to prove if true love 
 Would be our happy end, 
 
 Gathered the vine which new love. 
 And, with a shut-eyed send, 
 
 Cast it to fortune's wild will. 
 
 And, so we fancied most. 
 On some green bough it smiled still. 
 
 And love would ne'er be lost. 
 
 And other ways with blind chance 
 
 We played at finding love 
 In innocent strife to find whence 
 
 Our future fortune' d move. 
 
 And to my mind how fresh still 
 Those ways we used to play ! 
 
 They for us would every wish fill 
 To pleasure time away. 
 
 Oft bending by the brook side 
 
 We sailed our leafy boats 
 Where, in the noon, some rook cried 
 
 While stilled were other throats. 
 
 Or, in the evening's dim light. 
 
 Along the dusty lane 
 We raced the swallow's trim flight 
 
 Till he came not again. 
 
 [44] 
 
And, as the dark night crept on, 
 And the hoot-owls raised their call 
 
 We cuddled on the step-st6ne, 
 Nor heard the Hght footfall 
 
 Which came, nor broke our sleeping, 
 
 And bore her to her home. 
 Nor, till the gray dawn's peeping, 
 
 Did we know bed-time had come. 
 
 And how once more we, when day 
 Was on with gladsome strain. 
 
 Would seek each other, and play 
 The hours all through again. 
 
 A-swing between the tall trees 
 On grapevines hung in loops. 
 
 Or, searching where the fall is. 
 We'd find the ferny troops 
 
 Which linger after Springtime, 
 And weave us crowns of green. 
 
 And, though no more 'twas berrying time, 
 We'd search where they had been. 
 
 Then, 'mongst the brush and vine, we 
 
 The bearing hazel marked. 
 There, in some sunny pine tree 
 
 The frisking squirrel barked. 
 
 [45] 
 
And so the Fall would pass by- 
 Till wintry grew the days, 
 
 And, from hill to hill, would fast fly 
 The clouds on stormy ways. 
 
 Then in beside the fire-place 
 We'd play from day to day, 
 
 Or watch the storm its ire trace 
 From tree-top's sway to sway ; 
 
 And fancy we were hearing 
 Men talk out in the storm. 
 
 When, through the window peering, 
 We'd see a shadowy form 
 
 Cast on the scudding cloud drift — 
 An old man dark and strange — 
 
 Which, in the flow, would shift 
 From view with transient change. 
 
 Then we would shout together 
 At that wild passing voice. 
 
 And scarcely we knew whether 
 'Twas men or tempest's noise. 
 
 And how I liked to hear her 
 When, with the chimney, she 
 
 Would sing in treble clearer 
 Its song of mystery ! 
 
 [46] 
 
And dear too was her sweet voice 
 When, beyond the river's marge, 
 
 She'd wake the echo's fleet voice 
 From out the frosty gorge. 
 
 But dearer was her halloo 
 
 When Spring was on the hills. 
 
 From 'mongst the cowslips yellow. 
 And gold the daisy spills. 
 
 No bloom of all the May-time 
 
 Was fairer than was she. 
 No voice in Nature's play-time 
 
 So full of witchery. 
 
 The meadows, hills and woodside 
 
 Would to her glee reply, 
 And not a sweet thing could hide 
 
 From her sylvan sorcery. 
 
 Her blythe way was their spirit, 
 And she their queen divine 
 
 With a soul which kept love near it 
 And I believed her mine ! 
 
 How this old slope clings to me 
 With its yellow and its gold ! 
 
 For still her voice sings to me 
 From living Springtimes old. 
 
 [47] 
 
Here, as one morning brightly 
 The sun broke through the mists, 
 
 Which, rising feathery, Hghtly, 
 Floated as their spirit lists. 
 
 She stood, and round her fair feet 
 
 The golden poppies spread, 
 While April's balmy air sweet 
 
 Played o'er her sunny head. 
 
 And I, from distant absence, 
 
 Just on that morn returned, 
 With glad, free feet a-dance hence, 
 
 Each joy anew discerned, 
 
 Hearing the mill-stream's fall free 
 
 At its young song of hope, 
 Beheld, and heard her call me 
 
 Adown this flowery slope. 
 
 And, with delight which thrilled me, 
 I sprang toward where she stood, 
 
 But stopped ; for thoughts which filled me 
 Were drowned in emotion's flood. 
 
 A new sensation 'd swept me; 
 
 A mingling strange and sweet 
 Of moods still hours had kept me 
 
 For dreams at nature's feet, 
 
 [48] 
 
With something stronger, new born, 
 
 An impulse and an awe ; 
 A joy from heart depths true borne, 
 
 But none which nature' d draw. 
 
 But childhood soon o'ercrowded 
 With other time delights, 
 
 And I, with gladness flooded, 
 Amidst the olden sights 
 
 Forgot all, save the sound of 
 Her voice in happy strain, 
 
 And things we had been fond of 
 In our old play domain. 
 
 Ah ! How we ran delighted 
 From place to place that day ! 
 
 The olden charms new sighted 
 Were riched with memory's play. 
 
 We climbed Beldeli's steep side, 
 And far out saw the lake — 
 
 Fair Wona's azure sweep wide 
 Where wild fowl, wintering, take 
 
 Their misty flight. We sought out 
 The home of bird and bee, 
 
 And their sweet secrets wrought out 
 With rising ecstacy. 
 
 [49] 
 
And up and down the mill stair 
 We played ; along this road, 
 
 And down this little rill where 
 The deserted cabin stood. 
 
 Thus all that day we played 
 
 'Mongst woods and songs and flowers 
 With a year's delights, delayed. 
 
 Poured in a few short hours. 
 
 And when at last night came — 
 Ah, fast the hours had sped ! 
 
 A sense of pleasure's flight came. 
 And she and I were sad. 
 
 For, in the morning's gray light. 
 
 Uncle Meed must ofl" again, 
 And I, to ship and spray flight 
 
 Amongst the sailor men. 
 
 So we two that eve parted 
 With all our pleasures ceased. 
 
 But, e'er the day had started 
 His light well in the east, 
 
 We were out again ; and meeting, 
 
 Down here beside the mill, 
 With joyous morning greeting, 
 
 She laughing gay, I still, 
 
 [50] 
 
Just here beneath this holly — 
 The birds were singing near — 
 
 She whispered to me, ' ' Roily, 
 I love you. Roily, dear!" 
 
 And, reaching o'er her head, she 
 Drew down a flowered spray. 
 
 And plucked a bloom from the red tree, 
 And, with a witching way. 
 
 She pinned it to my blue coat 
 
 Aye laughing, laughing still. 
 And through my heart the new note 
 
 Went singing with a thrill. 
 
 The tears would come to blind me 
 Though to keep them back I'd try, 
 
 Till Uncle Meed said, kindly : 
 
 " There now, my lad, don't cry." 
 
 But where now is this sweetness 
 Which clung so to my soul? 
 
 Where joy's old-time completeness? 
 Where love which sweetly stole 
 
 [51] 
 
From youth's fair days to manhood, 
 
 Seizing upon my heart? 
 Where she, O torture rude ! 
 
 Of me a hving part ? 
 
 Gone ! Gone ! For aye departed ! 
 
 O heart with pain o'er filled ! 
 O God ! that I were free-hearted, 
 
 With all my yearnings stilled ! 
 
 Free with but childhood's fancy, 
 A wind-tossed bud of joy 
 
 With but nature to entrance me, 
 A wild, delighted boy ! 
 
 * Ji< * >K 
 
 Farewell, loved land of childtime ! 
 
 Irene ! Farewell to thee ! 
 Forever o'er the wild brine 
 
 I'll sail and sail from thee. 
 
 P. A., 1902-03 
 
 [52] 
 
SONNETS 
 
CALIFORNIA 
 
 What land was that beside the sunset seas 
 
 Where dwelt the immortal bliss the Grecian 
 dreamed ? 
 What visioned country called Hesperides 
 
 Where eternal Spring and song and joy teemed? 
 A happy land not tried by sun nor cold, 
 
 But gently by the breath of Zephyrus kissed. 
 A land of fruits and flowers manifold 
 
 Where they who dwelt an endless joy possessed. 
 My Hesper land, within the seaside bowers, 
 
 Where beauty, song and bloom each past 
 redeem, 
 Where richly blessed is life with happy hours, 
 
 You've caught the earthly portion of this dream. 
 Sunlight and azure depths ; a land of gold 
 Where Summer never dies nor joy grows old. 
 
 [55] 
 
ARGONAUTA 
 
 Lo, like a wanderer down the wasted past 
 
 Of ruin centuries old, I sit agaze 
 On broken walls and desolation vast 
 
 Which breathe a sense of long- forgotten days. 
 As if, with backward look through ages gone, 
 
 One should behold the living waste of Tyre ; 
 Or, gazing on the walls of Babylon, 
 
 Should see the blackened wreckage of its pyre. 
 Save that the straggler there within its gates 
 
 Saw but its kingly form forever down, 
 While he who wanders here knows other fates, 
 
 And rises in his might the waste to crown. 
 And over him the visioned towers gleam — 
 The builded city of the golden dream. 
 
 S. F., May 6, 1906 
 
 [56] 
 
INTERIM 
 
 It is a hushed and quiet eve of Fall. 
 
 As silent, listless as the faded leaf 
 Upon the ground. And just as empty all 
 
 Of wish, of strife, of living joy or grief; 
 A voiceless hour not even tongued of Wind, 
 
 As storyless of what has gone before 
 As if't had left no finished strife behind, 
 
 Nor to a new-found hope would waken more. 
 But in the lull still holds the heavenward fate. 
 
 The triumph of pain and joy but stays its strife, 
 The shaping winds but pause, the buds but wait. 
 
 There is in life a death, in death a life. 
 The joy, the pain, the sun, the storm inures. 
 The blossom fades, the flower still endures. 
 
 [57] 
 
THE MARCH OF LIGHT 
 
 The sun wheels down the wide-enkindled west, 
 
 His glory speeding to some distant land. 
 And, from the mountain's erst-engoldened crest, 
 
 His light uplifts with night revealing hand. 
 And down upon the landscape fall the shades 
 With threat of gloom eternal wrapped in night. 
 
 But, as westward the last gold gleaming fades, 
 The starry heavens wake with beaming light. 
 From deep to deep illumes the spreading arch 
 
 Till every trailing shadow feels the thrill. 
 And owns the eternal triumph of the March. 
 
 E'en thus, O soul, thy lighted fires burn still. 
 And, gleaming with the one great Giving Ray, 
 Shine on above the shadows toward the Day. 
 
 [58] 
 
SLEEP 
 
 The flooding moon in beauty sails the deep 
 
 Beyond the gauzy curtains of the night ; 
 And, from the broken azure's farther sweep, 
 
 A deep sweet silence pinions earthward flight. 
 Upon the noiseless wings the wide blue cool 
 
 Floats down its slumber gift to mortal rest, 
 Created of the poise of strifeless rule 
 
 Along the marches of the deep's behest. 
 And in man's pausing soul breathes its calm force 
 
 For longer hours of the terrestrial way 
 Till morn, obedient to the nearer course, 
 
 Shall ope the flaming portals of the day ; 
 And, from the bosom of the nearer sky, 
 The downy robes of sleep put softly by. 
 
 [59] 
 
O SEA! 
 
 O Sea ! I stand upon this silent height 
 
 High here above the heads of hills and woods, 
 And sad, deep thoughts, with weary-winged flight, 
 
 Rise up from out thy distant solitudes. 
 For, when I think of all the years I've lost 
 
 Down in the chasm of dumb, benighted time. 
 My heart, against the blackened shore crags tossed 
 
 Along Life's sea, bleeds in the bitter brine. 
 Are there no depths within the all-spent past, 
 
 O Sea, which treasure up what was its store? 
 For I, agaze upon the empty vast, 
 
 But hear the waves which echo, sad, No more. 
 Cannot Time's surge cast on a yearning spot 
 One coral piece from some sunk isle forgot? 
 
 King's Mountain, April 1901 
 
 [60] 
 
YOUTHTIME 
 
 When, in the youthful Springtime of my strife 
 
 I first essayed the measures of my Art, 
 And dipped a tender pen in beauteous life 
 
 To sing the stirring music of my heart, 
 I came unto a place of still delay 
 
 Where young-houred Song, with flowers in his 
 hair. 
 Sang o'er the valley green. And my heart's way 
 
 Bent toward its own, care-free and debonair. 
 And then I dreamed the morn would on to noon 
 
 In happy sequence, sheening shadowed streams ; 
 And shades of early dawn would brighten soon. 
 
 But life is not so well as youthful dreams. 
 The unsophisticated pleasure pure 
 Of youth, along life's path may not endure. 
 
 [6i] 
 
AFTER 
 
 Ah, what may youth foreknow, sweet youth 
 a-dream 
 
 In golden gossamer of life's intent 
 Where morning lights the field with irist gleam. 
 
 Of how of sun and shadow life is blent ? 
 Of how, with visions of a captured ray, 
 
 Or chasing gorgeous- winged butterflies. 
 Its real will evanesce and fade away. 
 
 And rosy colors blot in tempest skies? 
 Of how a pit may catch the venturing foot. 
 
 Nor yet, sweet thought, how chance it may to 
 win, 
 From all the hungry strife of drear pursuit. 
 
 To find the vanished beauties stored within ; 
 But strangely barred and gleamed with shade and 
 
 sun, 
 An other-visioned light than that begun. 
 
 [62] 
 
THE GREENING FIELD 
 
 The lark is cheery in the greening field. 
 
 But, save his song, there is no note of Spring, 
 Not one sweet bud the hills or valleys yield ; 
 
 But few dead leaves to Fall-old branches cling. 
 With his lone call he stays the year all through 
 
 Like memory or joy which cannot die, 
 Holding the wasting old, calling the new ; 
 
 And green upon the vale young grasses lie. 
 And I, from journeys far, turned here again, 
 
 Hearing his note, am moved with memory's tale 
 How here I sang then long but called the strain 
 
 At last to see my call with song prevail. 
 And my heart's seasons in hill and vale are seen, 
 Its faded leaves, sunshine and hopeful green. 
 
 [63] 
 
WINTERED 
 
 When the flower maiden of the summery times 
 
 Withdraws her sweet dominion from the vales 
 Because her ardent lover no more climbs 
 
 The zenith hills, but far off southward fails, 
 It's then the blue-eyed Sky, with sad regret, 
 
 A shadowed veiHng draws across her face, 
 And trails it o'er the hills with weeping wet 
 
 That these fair loves no more the valleys grace. 
 The lonely breezes, robbed of sweet delight, 
 
 Go wandering o'er the barren vale in seek 
 Of some belated song or flower bright ; 
 
 And sigh upon the hills, in tree-tops bleak. 
 So I, of Spring of heart and song bereft, 
 Was desolate and drear, in Winter left. 
 
 [64] 
 
WHENCE 
 
 Sweet Najoqui, what cast of fate was this 
 
 That two, whose souls were fashioned by the 
 Muse, 
 Should in your realm their metric numbers lisp ? 
 
 That they should touch and then each other 
 lose? 
 That one from old and empty-numbered hours 
 
 Should travel hence and tarry with a song, 
 Aiding the poet pen with your sweet bowers. 
 
 The other-lyred music to prolong? 
 That the other your land should natal own. 
 
 And sing here joyous in a lyric youth, 
 Then travel hence, 'gainst life the dullard thrown, 
 
 To cease his song and learn the tongue uncouth. 
 Was it that they with song should pay you toll. 
 Then darkly drift to find your promised goal ? 
 
 [65] 
 
SONG UNHEARD 
 
 The matchless painter Day with glowing brush 
 
 Paints not the morning sky because it's seen ; 
 Nor do the gathered clouds with watery rush 
 
 Restore the barren earth for Beauty's green. 
 The luscious bough fruits not for plundering lips 
 
 Nor breathes the flower sweets to be inhaled. 
 The planless stem but takes its nature's tips, 
 
 Nor to a conscious death the blade is paled. 
 It's only feathered melodist who sings 
 
 From delight and delight a profit makes ; 
 Save man who pleasure unto profit brings, 
 
 And from dull plants and skies a beauty takes. 
 But beauty still unseen or song unheard 
 Are blank as space, half rich as singing bird. 
 
 [66] 
 
A CAPTIVE HOUR 
 
 A captive hour past I cry, I'm free ! 
 
 The ill-companioned task has slipped its leash, 
 And turn I to my own of high degree 
 
 To work the consummation of my wish. 
 My sweetened fancy swims in reveries, 
 
 Or, rousing, from the buskin slips the mask, 
 Or peeps at wit or mirth where humor is 
 
 The glad forgetter of an unloved task. 
 But, in the happy midst, the old returns 
 
 To drive the new-begotten from his pleasure. 
 Though old, a stranger it my heart discerns. 
 
 The pauper taker of a princely treasure. 
 And I am made the captive for no crime. 
 
 A muse-entrusted spirit serving time. 
 
 [67] 
 
THE ARTIST HAND 
 
 In hour too rare attending on that world 
 
 Where mimic life laughter and tears compels, 
 Seeing an end for pain or mirth unfurled, 
 
 Finding the hill of thought where poetry dwells, 
 I see that I of its own wisdom know 
 
 But vague report nor ken its knack of life ; 
 That though its sprites through my mind troop- 
 ing go 
 
 They lack the craftsman hand to stage their 
 strife. 
 Although I know but souls from simples sprung^ 
 
 Of humankind in art but vaguer bound, 
 I know the wonder tale from Nature's tongue, 
 
 And my own heart arisen from the ground. 
 And at some time will come the artist hand 
 To use this cruder store of its demand. 
 
 [68] 
 
THE HOPE IN TO-MORROW 
 
 Many I see with their Hfe's work before, 
 
 At one with what they are, for it's their choice ; 
 And hourly they add unto their store 
 
 What makes their lots content, their hearts 
 rejoice. 
 But I am absent from my luckless lyre 
 
 Till my heart's toil grows dull and strangely 
 cold 
 Like an outworn book from which has fled the fire 
 
 Through long-neglected page and conning old. 
 And then I wish I had been born for else, 
 
 Some useful work which brings a sure reward, 
 Nor builded hopes into a vapor melts, 
 
 Nor makes a toil a foreign cost afford. 
 Still, though ill gains the song my effort sings. 
 
 The hope that's in to-morrow a solace brings. 
 
 [69] 
 
GARNERS 
 
 Sometimes I think life is a farce, a cheat. 
 
 For so it seems at times when one must rise 
 By ways where few contend yet all compete 
 
 In ignorant strife against the rarer skies. 
 Life seems to grudge the soil where toil he must, 
 
 Unto the last to crowd him from the field ; 
 Then, like a fanning mill, blow into dust 
 
 The fruitless bundles of his labor's yield. 
 But, although few succeed where struggle many, 
 
 And with one's gain but ill another fares, 
 Within life's varied fields there is not any 
 
 Where one may not gold grain grow 'mongst 
 the tares. 
 Though I may not from life my garners swell 
 In her large plan she richly serves and well. 
 
 [70] 
 
THE DAY 
 
 Across the sky an eve of flaming rack 
 
 Bids glorious farewell to the spent day, 
 The far-off light from glinting ocean track 
 
 Flings back the golden splendor of his ray. 
 And in my soul I see an hour ago 
 
 When over eastern mountains sprang the sun 
 That all the earth rose singing from below, 
 
 And filled my heart with burning song begun; 
 Then, clouding o'er the song, came toil before 
 
 Till sank the noon. Now song takes heaven- 
 ward flight 
 To sound its notes and flame its fire once more 
 
 In one brief moment ere the space of night. 
 But in some day that ardent light will rise 
 To keep the morning's course till even dies. 
 
 [71] 
 
INSPIRATION 
 
 That hour my soul bids me to heights arise, 
 
 And clothes itself with shapes of its own fire, 
 And, with inspired vision, sweeps the skies. 
 
 The throned possessor of a great desire ; 
 Then high creations on my presence tend, 
 
 Then life and death lay tribute at my feet. 
 Then mind and heart their aiding forces lend, 
 
 Then world its wisdom brings to make complete. 
 But when the shaping hand would start to build. 
 
 And train the wished-for hour's later stay, 
 That humble need which long my time has filled 
 
 Dull-handed comes and takes the light away. 
 Then over sunken embers my heart bends 
 In effort to renew what my soul sends. 
 
 [72] 
 
THE THREE-FOLD SELF 
 
 A three- fold self my fate has worked with life ; 
 
 And each across the other striven in turn : 
 The artist soul, with ill gains in the strife, 
 
 Who sees base days his golden hours burn ; 
 The gentler one who still is but the boy, 
 
 And sees a harsh demean with sensitive fears, 
 Who dreamed Hfe bright and sweet, a lovely joy, 
 
 But finding it scarce so has smiled with tears ; 
 And then the other one who later came, 
 
 And rose above these twain with master sway. 
 Born of the strife in the survivor's game, 
 
 The man who came to fight and win the day. 
 Although some lose and some come greater through, 
 Who climbs by life' s hard course learns deep and true. 
 
 [73] 
 
AS ONE WHOSE SOUL ACCORDS 
 
 As one whose soul accords with music's soul 
 
 Gains from his instrument a sweetened pain 
 PVom mood disconsolate swollen o'er control, 
 
 And to his heart's deep treasure adds a gain ; 
 And, moving the sad-souled unhappy air 
 
 With consolation's heavenly harmony. 
 He takes some other heart dejected there, 
 
 And soothes its marring pain with melody ; 
 So I with feelings pent turn toward my muse. 
 
 And through its suing numbers free my heart ; 
 And gain thuswise a balm others refuse, 
 
 And add the softened wealth its strains impart. 
 Mayhap when from such song my pen has ceased 
 Someone, reading, will find his pain released. 
 
 [74] 
 
THE DULL-HOURED REALM 
 
 What time I from this dull-houred realm gain forth 
 
 In brief contact with world of my own tastes, 
 Of my own self to find that richer worth 
 
 In what my dull continuance but wastes ; 
 And feel one passing moment of that man 
 
 My inward eye beholds, but else unknown, 
 Built of a height immortal worlds to scan, 
 
 But humble servant to the baser throne ; 
 I then look on my draggled spirit's rags, 
 
 And ask myself: All this, what is it for? 
 Which makes worth cheap, and struggling height 
 down drags, 
 
 And sets my greater self with such at war. 
 Ah, well ! for every loss there is a gain. 
 And by this wise it is I'll rich through pain. 
 
 [75] 
 
TWO POWERS 
 
 Two powers there are to which I pay my tasks, 
 
 Two thrones, one greater, one of lesser worth ; 
 And each of me attendance on it asks, 
 
 One drawing to the skies, one down to the earth. 
 Upon the greater one high sits my Art, 
 
 And with a regal splendor hails my soul, 
 And owns the loving pledges of my heart ; 
 
 But few the hours of mine at her control. 
 And on the other one sits Humble Toil. 
 
 Him have I never loved. Yet not for pay 
 Have I served him alone, but in his moil 
 
 Put my own self with honest will alway. 
 Though I have paid him rich for his support 
 I've earned the purple still for my Art's court. 
 
 [76] 
 
SERVICE 
 
 Not unto his own self does any live, 
 
 The selfish holder of an unshared trust. 
 His own existence must receive and give ; 
 
 And whether with a will, still give he must. 
 The skies lend colors to the painter's oils. 
 
 And music has more hearts than the musician's. 
 The wealthy gains his wealth from thousand toils, 
 
 The poet's strong lines grow from small additions. 
 And thus great heart in lowly help may be. 
 
 Nor I forget the lesser riches paid, 
 But give in gratitude the common fee, 
 
 And own the forward worth in backward aid. 
 And, with the greater man, does great deserve, 
 I shall at last go free, go free — to serve. 
 
 [77] 
 
THE WINTERED SPRING 
 
 The sky is islanded with snowy clouds 
 
 Floating within a violet sea. And soft 
 The breezes wander 'mongst the golden crowds 
 
 Of ores nodding on the emerald croft. 
 The sun pours down his light in beams of glory, 
 
 And bright-winged insects pipe their infant joy ; 
 The lark's new-taken measure hints a story, 
 
 The linnet sings his heart in unalloy. 
 And I, a loiterer, look on the cast 
 
 Of sweet, unbounded joy in everything 
 Which hears no echoes of a wintered past, 
 
 Nor lets one note sound stranger to the Spring. 
 But with my heart Spring makes no joyous tryst. 
 I may not sing, but to the singer list. 
 
 [78] 
 
IN STORE 
 
 As one who toils against the needy hour, 
 
 Encumbering his present need, to store, 
 Thinking the store as well the less devour, 
 
 Each joy to make the hoarded joy more ; 
 And of the day fond dreams when from the vault 
 
 He shall withdraw what planning has laid by. 
 And to his heart's designs fit, nor with fault, 
 
 The pleasure-purchase of reality ; 
 So I some such. From dreaming on to-morrow, 
 
 I save in hope what now is poor and small ; 
 And, for that greater pay, with leases borrow — 
 
 Drawn up by dreams — till time shall pay it all. 
 Though he who saves may yet come pleasure-poor. 
 He still may be twice rich — in dreams and store. 
 
 [79] 
 
TRIUMPH 
 
 When I behold time pass without the light 
 
 My muse should raise in brightness toward the 
 noon, 
 And but the ray of hope shows in the night 
 
 Like slender crescent on the faded moon ; 
 And, from that orient land toward which my soul 
 
 Presses, the full-houred noon to overtake, 
 There comes a brightening gleam should day unroll, 
 
 But still the morn, delaying, does not break, 
 I yet can think : the all-prevailing day 
 
 A little while must stand the gloom, till lo! 
 A golden morning breaks with radiant ray, 
 
 And all the hindering shades dissolve and go. 
 And thus it is that triumph wakes to tend 
 On him who holds his course on to the end. 
 
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