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Title: Sylvia
Author: Adeline Adams
Release date: August 20, 2026 [eBook #79408]
Language: English
Original publication: US:
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79408
Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIA ***
SYLVIA
NEW YORK
PRIVATELY PRINTED
MCMXII
COPYRIGHT, 1912
BY ADELINE ADAMS
DEDICATION
TO ELEANOR
Oft has the Old World traveler seen,
In ashes of Pompeii pressed,
Immortal, beautiful, serene,
A maiden’s shoulder and young breast.
Yet whoso sees aye walks apart,
At footfall of the passer-by;
With something welling in his heart,
Because she too, she too, should die;
And oft thereafter, that same day,
As people fresh from dreams will do,
In dream-continuance, he will say,
“The others--nay, but not she too!”
Oh, if those hostile tongues of fire
A tale so tender-true might bring,
May not perchance a loving lyre
Likewise its dear remembrance sing?
And if the constant lava hold
The body’s fairness--ah, no less
These singing leaves would fain unfold
To tell the spirit’s loveliness!
CONTENTS
PAGE
Dedication ix
A MOTHER’S HEART
Ad te, Domine 3
Love’s Memorial 4
Loveliness 5
O Rose-Tree 7
Remembering Thee 8
Ballad 10
Not Here, but Risen 13
A Little Brother’s Thought 14
The Soul’s Opportunity 15
SYLVAN LEAVES
The Sylvan Sparkle 19
The Sylvan Magazine 20
Riding Song 23
A Sylvan Saying 24
The Wanderer 28
O Busy Pine 29
Some One is Coming 30
The Dryad 32
SEVEN SONNETS
In His Own Image 37
Revelation 38
Like as a Father 39
Companionship at Twilight 40
The Changed Garden 41
Ascutney 42
To-day 43
LYRICS FROM SYLVIA’S MASQUE TO-MORROW LAND
Closed Eyes 47
Call o’ the Rain 49
Call o’ the Wee People 51
The Silver Knight 54
Slumber Song 55
Travel Song 56
Chipmunk Ahoy 57
Lady Robin 58
Song Sparrow 60
Hermit Thrush 61
Poplar Tree 62
THE IVORY PORTRAIT AND OTHER VERSES
The Ivory Portrait 65
Betsinda 79
To Sylvia’s Eyes 81
The Fairer Flower 82
Vision of Childhood 83
They that Mourn 84
Of Little Things 85
The Blue Mantle 87
ENVOY
Sylvan Voices 93
A MOTHER’S HEART
AD TE, DOMINE
She stood before the olden maze
Each soul must tread alone;
She knew these were the unseen ways
That lead to things unknown:
She knew hers was a road apart,
No one of us had trod;
Then unafraid, and strong of heart,
A little girl sought God.
LOVE’S MEMORIAL
Whether my Love be near,
Or whether, the vision gone,
My faltering feet shall fear
The road that stretches on;
Whether with throngs I pace
The street, the busy mart,
Or hide me for a space
In my most secret heart;
Matins, in one shrin’d room;
At pensive evensong;
In gladness as in gloom;
Or brief my task, or long;
Lord, order now my days,
That all my living shall,
In living, loving ways,
Build Love’s Memorial!
LOVELINESS
Duty was ne’er so sweetly dight
For me, blue sky was ne’er so near,
And Beauty ne’er has bloomed so bright
As now, in this my sorrowing year.
Fair daffodils, and singing brooks,
And children, rosy from their play
Have never given me starrier looks
Than now, on this my saddest day.
The Godward hymn of hermit thrush
Now thrills, beyond my past belief;
Lovely the lilac, leaf and flush,
In this the Springtime of my grief.
Gray things are golden now and grand;
No blight is here that may not bless;
And tasks low-lying ’neath my hand
Transfigured are to holiness.
Now that her wing must mourning go,--
O miracle,--my struggling soul
Is grown more swift and strong to know
Which thing is stain, which aureole.
Since thou didst see the thorns entwirled,
O Mary, o’er that shining Head,
Hath not each rose-heart in the world
For thee, a deeper fragrance shed?
O ROSE-TREE
O rose-tree, like a person, thou
Whose pulsing presence at my gate
Oft startles me to wonder now
If thou be one for whom I wait,
The Westwind flings thy shade a-dance
Oft, oft across my echoing floor,
And all my heart cries out, “Perchance--”
And leaps to open wide the door!
What if, we being unaware
That miracles once more might be,
An angel-shape were standing there,
And no one, no one turned to see--
What if a little golden head
Looked lonely ’gainst the far blue sky,
And shining steps, uncomforted
And all unwatched, went wandering by!
O Rose-tree, that is why I start,
Whene’er thy shadows flit and pass
To dance a moment on my heart,
Then vanish through the window glass.
REMEMBERING THEE
Remembering thee, my life’s clear song,
Psalm of my soul, my heart’s full roundelay,
Remembering thee, alway!
Ever with love I list, when cometh Spring,
All birds that sing;
But when yon sparrowy one, with chant divine,
Brings her small spray, her secret nest to twine,
Beside my door, and lingers long
As fearing hurt or wrong,
I pine, I pine,
Remembering thee!
Remembering thee, my life’s fair flower,
Thou lily of my soul, rose of my heart,
Remembering thee, apart!
No less I love all blossoms of the earth
Where thou hadst birth;
But when I see the orange wreath adorn
Pure foreheads even as thine, mine own firstborn,
In that brave consecrated hour
Of ring and marriage bower,
I mourn, I mourn,
Remembering thee!
Remembering thee, my roundelay, my psalm,
My rose that was, my lily wholly star--
Nay, but how sadder far
Were thy forgetting! Days, how darker yet,
Could I forget!
What sobbing moonlights, what heartbreaking dawns
Would then steal far, over these lovely lawns
That now await, in dayspring’s balm,
At noon, at curfew calm,
A footfall like the fawn’s,
Remembering thee!
BALLAD
A wind went wailing through the wood,
Went wailing without tears,
As one who in that same hour should
Face hostile ghosts of years:
And if a wind may clasp the trees,
Nor bring them gift of rain,
In change for their sweet listening ease,
Where shall I ease my pain?
Therefore it was my flowers I sought,
For look or word from them;
The evening’s tears a broidery wrought
On my sad garment’s hem;
But like the wind, I could not weep--
No tears came to my eyes,
Save in some strange and snatchèd sleep
My soul they might surprise.
O all ye kindred growing things,
If roses, or if rue,
Show me the blessed sign that brings
To earth, the holy dew!
Or pale in pall of purity,
Or glowing from your moss,
Ye make no sign at all to me
Of sorrow, or the cross?
And will ye not by any spell
That’s in your bud or leaf,
A sorrowing soul a moment tell
What ye may know of grief?
All silent, all so calm to see,
And radiant, dry-eyed!
Nay, now, one turning spake to me,
And of the Crucified.
Of the four flowerets she bore,
One westward waned, one east;
And one, sky-pointing, looked her lore
Of the Ascension feast.
And even as she looked, I heard--
(Nay, who spake, if not she?)
As to the wind, one only word,
Saying, Gethsemane.
Far in the deep and shadowy wood,
Hark, hark, the tender rain:
O Wind, for thee and me it could
Perchance bring ease again!
NOT HERE, BUT RISEN
“Not here, but risen,” so reply
The Shining Ones, still standing by
The holy place where God was laid,
And holy women, unafraid,
Seek Him whom men did crucify.
So are the nestlings I could spy
Once in this nest, now bare, awry,
And very silent in the shade!--
Not here, but risen.
Home of my heart, where often I
Shall list her footsteps, sometimes nigh,
Yet sometimes--oh, how far they fade!--
Will not the music once they made
Send back in echo, one soft sigh,
“Not here, but risen?”
A LITTLE BROTHER’S THOUGHT
Oh, she who was so good and glad
Would never take from us the cheer,
The lovely pleasantness we had
While she was here.
And it would hurt her heart to know
That no one sings here any more;
We must not all too stilly go
By her dear door.
Since it would grieve her overmuch
To think of us as otherwise
Than valiant, let us then be such,
And lift our eyes.
But oh, we know that she will guess
How sorrowful and strange we are,
Around the fire, with one chair less,
And one child far!
THE SOUL’S OPPORTUNITY
Father, when from the deeps thy children call,
In grief resigning all,
We touch once more thy hand, O Infinite,
And haply take from it,
To wear, a little space, Infinity,
Which as a wing shall be:
For Grief shall rise on exaltation’s wing,
When in her throbbing Spring,
No less than Joy. O’er daily things of earth,
Grief soars aloft at birth;
The stricken heart, quickened with heavenly power,
Rebounds from earth’s dark hour.
But when the changing year is fully sped,
With Spring and Summer fled,
With gold and purple of October heaths
Hidden in silver wreaths;
When the white snow-drift shall dissolve its snows
Into the Whitsun rose;
When once again from the flush bough is heard
The oriole’s promised word;
When once again gay garlands are begun,
Blithe tasks for all save one;
When festal footsteps to the dance are pressed
Once more, save those loved best;
Ah, then Grief’s pinion, from that ether far,
Droops, as a falling star
To earth. The soul shall doff her wings, those days,
Yet not her glory rays,
To walk, with children of the earth, their road,
To dwell in their abode;
Days dark and difficult to share with them,
Trailing her starry hem
In lowlier confines, realms less seeming-fair
Than those of upper air.
And if to earth returning Summer’s feet
May bring a message sweet,
No less, O Soul, may thy returning pace
Hallow this dwelling-place
With something of the love and light that glow
Where lately thou didst go;
O Soul, in thy returning, thou shalt see
Glad opportunity!
SYLVAN LEAVES
THE SYLVAN SPARKLE
“Let not the immemorial May-Day mirth
Of jocund Pan desert the needy earth--”
Is there a rumour of it?
Behold now Sylvia’s eyebrow, firm and fine,
Lift up at will its merry mountain line,
For that’s the humour of it--
And sweetly risen, lo, that line shall then
Return to lovely gravity again,
As ’twere in choosing of it,
The while a sylvan sparkle, underneath,
Flashes unbidden from the eyelid’s sheath,
In plain refusing of it!
THE SYLVAN MAGAZINE
Sylvia Brown-Eyes, Sylvia Blue-Eyes,
Editresses wise (not too wise)
Will offer shortly, in the sweet o’ the year,
The promised literary treat o’ the year,
Something quite new and unforeseen,
The Sylvan Magazine!
The bright romance, the timely article
Will there be found, without a particle
Of overweening would-be-greatness,
Or yet of prune-and-prism sedateness;
Halfway ’twixt saucy and serene
Is the Sylvan Magazine!
The pine boughs, in their style seigniorial,
Will chant for us an editorial;
Our printer’s devil is a rabbit
Far-noted for his clerkly habit;
The hermit thrush will be our dean,
In the Sylvan Magazine.
Out of the pens of babes and sucklings
Is food for thought and pensive chucklings;
Our essays on “Advice to Mothers”
Are widely known; then there are others,
As, “When Should Parents Intervene?”
In the Sylvan Magazine.
We print a serial, thrilling, forceful,
On “Janet Olyphant,” resourceful
Heroine of rides on trolleys;
A ballad called “Louise’s Follies;”
“The Porter Diamond” sheds a sheen
On the Sylvan Magazine.
Also, we serve for your refection.
In continuity collection,
R. P.’s “Adventures of a Cowboy:”
We have a “Poem on a Plowboy,”
And there’ll be limericks on the green,
In the Sylvan Magazine.
Our hand-wrought types, our ample marges
Are given you at lowest charges
Consistent with our great initial
Expense--something quite sacrificial!
It offers lines to read between,
The Sylvan Magazine!
We sell no copies; we’ve consented
One fair copy may be rented,
Weekly, for a dime and nickel;
We wish no clients false or fickle,
Or who have hands at all unclean,
For the Sylvan Magazine.
The proceeds go to help a movement
Now on foot, our own improvement,
Often mentioned to the heedful
As something lacking, yet most needful:
A fact we hope you will not glean
From the Sylvan Magazine.
RIDING SONG
I
(THE TWO SYLVIAS)
As we ride and we ride on our high, high horses
To Windsor town, where the Merry Wives dwell,
The maiden-fern spangles the banks where our course is,
And squirrel-scamps scamper, to wish us well;
The jewel-bird, out of the elm he’s adorning,
Flings down for our favor his jewels of song,
As we ride far and fast in the dews of the morning,
And Blow-Me-Down runs to the river along.
II
(THE TWO MOTHERS)
As they ride and they ride on their proud, proud ponies
By Beaver’s ways, or by Blow-Me-Down,
Our hearts beat rejoicing since neither alone is,
And blue eyes ride close to the eyes of brown:
Paired and abreast, twin angels are winging
By cardinal’s flag or by partridge hen,
And safe in the sunset, with chatter and singing,
Twin angels on horseback ride homeward again!
A SYLVAN SAYING
I
Gentles, if it be fit for you
To sport in simple way,
Read me this riddle, Eyes-of-Blue,
Brown-Eyes, and Eyes-of-Gray:
“What is the bravest sight on earth
For girl or boy or man,
In magic, wit, or work, or worth,
Come answer, you who can!”
II
Cried Brown-Eyes quick, “Of course, of course,
I know the very thing--
It is my marvel Goldie-horse,
Just watch him on the wing!
“His golden mail-coat splashes
All the highroad with its glow,
And where his fine foot flashes,
There the lightnings come and go;
“For a sky-thing you’d mistake him,
Since he stole the stars for eyes;
It was Heaven and earth to make him,
With his nostril wide and wise;
“His nostril is a red, red rose,
And very proud his crest;
Of all brave shows this brave world knows,
I count a horse the best!”
III
“Not so,” sweet Eyes-of-Gray replied,
“The bravest sight, for me,
Who dwell these wonder-hills beside,
Is oh, the far-off sea!
“And how could any horse at all,
With rider or without,
Compare with waves that rise and fall,
And pace with mighty shout?
“Behold, the breakers toss their manes
At call of Lady Moon,
Who, though she waxes, though she wanes,
Still guides them, night and noon:
“And when her moonbeams all come forth
To lead the waves a dance,
A lordlier pageant, south or north,
I know will never chance!”
IV
“If you, Brown-Eyes, a realm would give
Your horse to have and hold,
If you, Gray-Eyes, would love and live
Beside the ocean old,
“Then Eyes-of-Blue, lift up your voice!
Of all brave shows there are--
Would steed or statue be your choice,
Or brook or hill or star?
V
“What, Eyes-of-Blue, so pensive still?
Beneath your sylvan arch
A light-foot fancy flits at will,
Whether in dance or march;”
“Far lovelier,” says that sylvan look,
“Than aught that’s for the riding--
Deeper than sea, fairer than brook--
The thought my heart is hiding!
“For oh, I see, and very plain,
The sight I hold most dear--
My mother walking up the lane,
Coming to meet me here.”
THE WANDERER
I Asked the Dandelion’s ghost,
Or should I go, or should I stay, O?
Full well I knew what I wished most;
I asked the Dandelion’s ghost,
And all her little wingèd host
Blew off, flew off, and far away, O!
I asked the Dandelion’s ghost,
Or should I go, or should I stay, O?
The Dandelion’s ghost was right,
My Mother wanted me at home, so!
Almost I knew, believed it quite,
The Dandelion’s ghost was right;
But farther off were flowers more bright,
And Will-o’-the-Wisp guides those that roam so!
The Dandelion’s ghost was right,
My Mother wanted me at home, so!
O BUSY PINE
O busy Pine, like Mother of mine,
And do you never rest
Your fingers fine, that weave and twine
Above the sparrow’s nest?
I see your face, from this my place;
Here at your feet I lie,
And dreaming, trace your dim rich lace
Far-off, against the sky.
From morn till eve, your branches weave
Those wondrous waving webs,
That fall and heave, that lure and leave,
As sea-tide flows and ebbs.
You swing to me, you bring to me
Old tales, thoughts new-unfurled,
That cling to me, that sing to me,
As from another world:
Almost I know I am to go
A journey, land and main;
O Pine, bend low, and tell me so,
Whisper it, very plain!
SOME ONE IS COMING WHO NEVER WILL COME
(SYLVIA’S WORDS)
O Pine-tree, singing and whispering low,
“Some one is coming who never will come,”
And is it a music from long ago,
O Pine-tree, singing and whispering low,
Or is it a message that Mother must know,
The same, perhaps, that the brown bees hum,
O Pine-tree, singing and whispering low,
“Some one is coming who never will come?”
Oh, is it a tale of the seas and the ships,
“Some one is coming who never will come,”
Wing’d words, all pearly from pixies’ lips,
Oh, is it a tale of the seas and the ships,
Tall masts, bright sails, and starry trips,
Or a drooping flag and a muffled drum,
Oh, is it a tale of the seas and the ships,
“Some one is coming who never will come?”
It is told in the books on the high, high shelves,
“Some one is coming who never will come;”
O Pine-tree, your story that came from the elves,
It is told in the books on the high, high shelves,
It is something we long ago dreamed, ourselves!
True are the words that said by the dumb,
It is told in the books on the high, high shelves,
“Some one is coming who never will come!”
THE DRYAD
O Sylvia, loved of the leaves,
Thy spirit forever is free!
No longer a dryad who grieves,
O Sylvia, loved of the leaves,
Thy spirit her prison now cleaves:
Alas, still imprison’d are we!
O Sylvia, loved of the leaves.
Thy spirit forever is free!
Fair Fia, fare home in the gloaming,
Thy footfall the ring-fairies know!
Thy heart is a leal heart for homing,
Fair Fia, fare home in the gloaming,
And whisper us tales of thy roaming,
When lamps of the fireflies glow:
Fair Fia, fare home in the gloaming,
Thy footfall the ring-fairies know!
And wilt thou not stay till the starlight
Shall silver thy grove and its floor?
Behold now that lone star afar, light,
And wilt thou not stay till the starlight
Call elves, light as only elves are light,
To dance out their gossamer lore?
And wilt thou not stay till the starlight
Shall silver thy grove and its floor?
Sweet Sylvia, loved past our telling,
Thy wing-time knows Here, and Beyond:
No longer a dryad, tree-dwelling,
Sweet Sylvia, loved past our telling,
All pathways are thine for compelling,
While we, alas, still wear our bond:
Sweet Sylvia, loved past our telling,
Thy wing-time knows Here, and Beyond!
SEVEN SONNETS
IN HIS OWN IMAGE
O broad-brow’d thinker, thou hast oft unroll’d
The laws and prophets as of small avail,
And Genesis as but an old-wives’ tale
To check some grandchild, late grown overbold!
Yet when, in brimming epic, all is told
Of human hearts bleeding beneath their mail,
Of human hands pierc’d by the pitiless nail
Of sharpest sorrow: when thou shalt behold
How godlike is this Woman who doth grieve,
How kingly, too, this Man beneath the rod,
How high their glance who with stretch’d hands receive
The bitter cup, pouring upon the sod
The sweeter drink: shalt thou not then believe
That these were made in likeness of their God?
REVELATION
When unto that last jeweled Book I turn,
Groping, in my dark hour, for some bright creed
To save me, self from self,--alas, what heed
Have I, familiar with the gems that burn
In these my many tears, what heed to learn
Of jasper, sapphire, chrysoprase indeed?
Stones are they all! Not stones, but bread, my need!
A cup, a loaf, a staff--for these I yearn.
Yet hark! In that high tale the heralds bring
Of vial, vision, pomp of precious stone,
Paving the paths of Heaven, my spirit hears
Twin messages for human comforting:
“Her child was caught up unto God, His throne;”
“God from their eyes shall wipe away all tears.”
LIKE AS A FATHER
A strong star sweeps illimitable space;
One star of many, it shall fall and die,
And there is no bewildering in the sky,
No frown upon the firmament’s fair face:
One wave of many, this wide wave shall pace,
Ever irrevocable drawing nigh
Heart-breaking boom and doom, yet scarce a sigh
Shall stir the gray sea in his resting-place.
Not so man’s griefs, unnumbered though they be,
E’en as the stars and waves, and lovely leaves
That give glad holiday! Fear not, for He
Who counts the sparrows twittering from your eaves
May not unmoved His myriad mourners see:
Fear not, in each child’s grief a Father grieves!
COMPANIONSHIP AT TWILIGHT
O twilight, in thy magic robe of gray,
The gray that in its deeps doth all-enfold
Heart-chosen hues of sky and rose and gold!
Speed now the ritual of closing Day,
Nor welcome yet the radiant Night’s array,
But linger with me! Let mine eyes behold
A Shape more dear than morrows will have told,
Or dreams of yesteryear might ever say:
For with thy trailing garment I see pass
The glory of my lost love’s shining hair;
The singing silver of the fountain’s glass
Shows me once more the eyes I knew most fair;
And in the orchard, the mysterious grass
Whispers the waiting trees, some one is there.
THE CHANGED GARDEN
Let there be flowers where my love hath passed;
Nay, never a mournful blossom, nor the shade
Of any weeping tree! In yon glad glade,
Star-whispering pines hold her bright memory fast,
And echoes of her lovely laughter last:
Let no sad vine, distraught and disarrayed,
Cling sobbing to the garden gods for aid,
Nor brow of jocund Pan be overcast:
Rather in sunlit space a fountain rear,
Where white doves dwell, delighting in its dews;
Let spangled Columbine and Pansy here,
In turn with Rose and Lily, smile, sing, pray;
And passers-by shall pause awhile and muse,
“What maiden beautiful once came this way?”
ASCUTNEY
(THE NAME IS DERIVED FROM INDIAN WORDS MEANING THREE BROTHERS)
Fair guardian mount, beneath whose azure hold
Our large yet lyric landscape seek its ends!
Thou southward hill, in thee the far East blends
With West, since thou, our Fuji, dost enfold
In Orient outline, triple towers old,
Traditional of Indian deed that lends
For aye thy name, Three Brothers, or Three Friends;
And me these oft have gladdened and consoled!
But if, O dear and distant Brothers, ye
Have wrought me magic, standing there apart
In summer splendour and in winter stress,
How tell what gifts these other brothers three,
Far nearer kindred of my house and heart,
Have brought of comforting and loveliness!
TO-DAY
Leonardo--Luther--Lincoln--when we praise
A name like theirs, illumed on Time’s vast scroll,
We ponder; sighing, envious of their goal,
“Alas, Fate’s high occasion never stays!”
Let not the worshipper of vanished days
Forget, the Present dwells beside the whole
Of beauty’s truth; the Present still must roll
From many a tomb, the stone that hides God’s rays!
What angels’ task for men and women too,
Ere Life’s immured irradiance shall rise,
Ere all the soul’s dark chains be broken through,
And all her freedom gained, with a great price!--
Belovèd, while mine own brief part I do,
Would thou wert here to-day, in earthly guise!
LYRICS FROM SYLVIA’S MASQUE TO-MORROW LAND
CLOSED EYES
Sweet Mother, when I close my eyes,
Why are the sights I see
More strange than when, all wide and wise,
They look outside of me?
(Rest now, rest now, little child!)
I wish that I could tell you true
What wondrous shapes there are
Behind my eyes! What colors, too!
But speaking sends them far,
(Too far, too far, little child!)
Yes, far, far off! Sometimes one word
Will seem to give them wings,
And each is like a sparrow-bird
That hears some frightening things,
(Fear not, fear not, little child!)
And flies so high and swift away,
Over the hill and hollow;
Sometimes, those sights that never stay,
I wish that I might follow,
(Nay, follow not, little child!)
But if the lamps at home were lit,
And it was night, and stars were few,
Would I not be afraid of it,
And very lonely if I flew?
(And lonely we, little child!)
And if I feared some strange dark cloud
And strange dark noises seemed to be--
Then Mother, if I called aloud,
O Mother, could you come to me?
(Oh, if, and if, little child!)
CALL O’ THE RAIN
Call o’ the rain, again, so plain,
Dashing and splashing athwart the pane:
“Fia, Fia, flee away now,
Away with us, off in the rain!
Robin Goodfellow and Nimbletoes,
Look how they laugh at their spattered hose!
Bends the bough, bows the rose,
Rose that under your casement blows;
Fia, Fia, flee away now,
Away with us, off in the rain!”
“I’m watching the rain from my window-seat;
All in the open is misty and sweet;
Nimble and Robin are playfellows meet,
But were I away with them, Mother would greet!
“I bend my eyes but to broidered rose,
That silkily under my needle glows--
Silkily, sulkily, ah, who knows--
Satin-stitch, brier-stitch--all of those?”
Call o’ the rain once more, once more,
And blithe it batters the wide white door:
“Fia, Fia, for love of the leaves,
Away with us now in the mist!
The great god Pan is tuning his stops;
Behold him now tossing the diamond drops
From his ears and his nose and his grapes and his hops,
And look at the pearls on the poppy-tops!
Fia, Fia, for love of the leaves,
Away with us now in the mist!”
“The great god Pan must wipe his own tears,
Now, as ever for thousands of years;
Good is the rain for his nose and his ears,
For his grapes and his hops, there’s nobody fears!
“And I, as before, I must do as I’ve tried,
Though it’s little I like in my bower to bide,
And liever I’d range by the dim brookside,
And ho, for a high horse to ride astride!”
CALL O’ THE WEE PEOPLE
I
“Fair Fia, gird thy kirtle green,
To fare afar, our Faery Queen;
Fair Fia, gird thy kirtle green,
So silken-fine, of magic sheen:
“Let all thy golden hair fall down,
For wearing o’ the Faery Crown,
And swift slip on thy silver shoon,
To fare away with us eftsoon!
“All we, Wee People o’ the Wood,
We watched thy merry maidenhood;
All we, Wee People o’ the Wood,
We waited in thy neighborhood,
“That we might lead thee by the hand
To our bright realm, To-morrow Land:
And ho, the forest green for us,
And thou, the only Queen for us!”
II
“No crown of faery gold I’ll dree--
My brothers bold weave wreaths for me;
No crown of faery gold I’ll dree,
Howe’er I love ye, People Wee!
“I love mine own true kinsfolk more,
I love our own house, roof to door,
“And oh, my mother’s tears would fall,
And aye I’d hear my father call!
“Oh hark, no sounds of raindrops, these,
Borne hither on a faery breeze--
Oh hark, no sounds of raindrops, these,
But Mother, sobbing ’neath the trees!
“The horn my little brother blows
Is ringing now, in sport I chose
“For him: that light there in the gloom
Is shining from my father’s room!”
III
“Nay, little Queen, what thou dost see
Is elfin firelight for thy glee:
Nay, Faery Queen, what thou dost see
Is fireflies’ joy in greeting thee:
And Elfland’s horns thou hearest, those
Of Flitterwing and Nimbletoes;
Of sobs and raindrops, not at all,
Save flung from faery waterfall!”
THE SILVER KNIGHT
“Sylvia Fia, the Silver Knight,
On faery charger, dazzling-white,
Awaits thee here in the still moonlight!”
“Better I love my good red roan,
To ride and to ride by my maiden lone,
Or off with my brother to Rocking Stone!”
“Sylvia Fia, a Faery Queen
May ride at her liking, or morn, or e’en,
Or sma’ hours, ’a hours, by and between!
“Sacred and safe in the harvest moon
Ride golden crown and silver shoon;
Then up and away by the sailing moon!”
SLUMBER SONG
The Bumblebees far from the Larkspur spurred;
The Honeybees flew from the Foxgloves, their loves,
And sang with the Bumblebees, word for word,
(The Bumblebees, far from the Larkspur spurred!)
They all sang the slumber song Sylvia heard,
Commingling their notes with the little gray dove’s:
The Bumblebees far from the Larkspur spurred,
The Honeybees flew from the Foxgloves, their loves.
O Honeybees, hum it--let Sylvia slumber;
And hum it and drum it, as low as ye may!
O Bumblebees, gold bees, and bees all in umber,
O Honeybees, hum it--let Sylvia slumber,
Let naught but fair dreaming her eyelids encumber,
Till we to To-morrow Land bear her away--
O Honeybees, hum it--let Sylvia slumber,
And hum it and drum it, as low as ye may!
TRAVEL SONG
I dreamed of journeys all the night;
Com’st thou, or shall I go, sweet Love?
Rough roads, far glens, ways wild and bright--
I dreamed of journeys all the night,
Of tangled travel, faery flight!
This morn, I weep to find thy glove;
I dreamed of journeys all the night;
Com’st thou, or shall I go, sweet Love?
What viewless voyage might be meant
For thee, or me, or for us twain?
Low sings my soul, almost content,
“What viewless voyage might be meant
By those far voices, faintly blent?”
To know, to go, my soul were fain--
What viewless voyage might be meant
For thee, or me, or for us twain?
CHIPMUNK AHOY
(ROBIN GOODFELLOW’S SONG)
Chipmunk ahoy there! Hi there! Ho!
Tell us thy joy there, aloft and alow!
Hast thou no pockets at all in thy breeks,
Must stuff my butternuts all in thy cheeks?
Trim now thy sail to the windward, O!
Thou find’st in me no chipmunk foe--
Thy bugle eyes, and thy plume I know;
I know thy sallies, scampers, squeaks,
Chipmunk ahoy!
From Summer sun to Winter snow
O Chipmunk, thou and I must go!
Then nab my nuts, or loot my leeks,
Take as thou wilt for the dreary weeks!
Next Spring, thy merry striped jacket show,
Chipmunk ahoy!
LADY ROBIN
Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, lass,
What’s that great wriggling rope you tug
Out of the heartstrings of the grass--
Indeed, no common or garden slug!
A veritable dragon, he,
And you, a tiny Saint Georgette;
Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, we
Stand by! Fair play! You’ll have him yet!
So far beyond our senses five,
What wondrous robin-sense have you,
To find ’neath turf the griffin’s hive?
Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, do!
Your tail is worn, your chest shows thin
From lengthy sittings on blue eggs,
But you’ve the race of life to win,
On valiant little yellow legs!
Your big-beaked moon-calf of a son,
Since all his mind is in his mouth,
Still follows where your game is won,
And calls for food from north to south;
He’s stouter, too, than you, my dear,
But little thought is his, I trow,
To fight the foe while you are near--
Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, now!
Again, again, with might and main,
You teach your son the robin-trick,
But oh, he loses all, ’tis plain!
Yeave ho, my Lady Robin, quick!
Have at that big one, then, yeave ho!
Too bad your son is such a dunce!
Dear me, you let that big one go?
Well, let the moral go, for once!
SONG SPARROW
Song Sparrow, safe in a Spiræa,
Close beside the garden gate,
Still trilling, “Oh, what joy to be a
Song Sparrow, safe in a Spiræa!”
May no unkindly eye e’er see a
Nest there, eggs, or mate,
Song Sparrow, safe in a Spiræa,
Close beside the garden gate.
Because no sparrow ever falls,
Without our Heavenly Father’s will,
How sweetly now Song Sparrow calls,
“Because no sparrow ever falls,
My birdlings, rest within these walls
I builded; little hearts, lie still;
Because no sparrow ever falls,
Without our Heavenly Father’s will!”
HERMIT THRUSH
I am the bird of God;
I sing for Him;
From forest far, upon His nod,
I wing for Him:
You seldom spy my wings,
Or win my nest;
You wonder oft, what manner of things
Are in my nest:
You list my lay, and say
My name again;
Hearing my song, you cannot stay
The same again;
Because God’s singer’s voice,
Caressing the air,
Still moves your heart, without your choice,
To confessing, and prayer;
Because I am God’s bird,
And wing to Him,
Finding on earth, a heavenly word
To bring to Him!
POPLAR TREE
Better not ask a poplar tree, what weather for your Maying,
For rain, rain, rain, and showers she forever will be saying!
Far better ask the birds and skies
To tell you true how the land lies,
What time ’twill be when Robinettes are really out and straying,
Or when the little long-legged lambs will show some grace in playing,
What hope the slim young moon holds out, what new of neighbors’ haying!
Oh, brooks will tell, or cloud that flies,
Better not ask the poplar tree!
Better not ask,
Better not!
When lover and a loveress walk lagging and delaying,
Beneath a wagging poplar tree, that listens while a-swaying,
All you who would be weather-wise
In questions quick and slow replies,
Speak to the breeze, the other trees,--the briar-rose hears all praying,--
Better not ask the poplar tree!
Better not ask,
Better not!
THE IVORY PORTRAIT
AND
OTHER VERSES
THE IVORY PORTRAIT
I
This tender profile that you scan--
And oh, it breathes of beauty’s dower!--
A woman’s fingers well may span--
So small its space within her bower!--
The golden circlet that enfolds it.
Heart of a child, brain of a man
And many a perfect summer hour
Kept tryst for you, in loving plan
To consecrate this ivory flower,
As your dear thought to-day beholds it.
II
THE SCULPTOR
In the North, not the cruelly northernmost North,
But close to the voice of bright rills
And the beckoning hands of great hills,
A child was in gladness brought forth:
And he said to himself, as the heart of a man-child may say things,
“I take me this earth and these beautiful rocks for my playthings.
“I will pinch up the rocks that are nearest the sky,
And make of them rabbits and men
And maybe an angel, and then--
When the Sunday people pass by,
Some morning quite still, except for the organ playing,
The rabbits and men will hear what the angel is saying.”
And as others, the man kept a part of the word
Of the child. In brave bronze and fair stone
His hand ever wrought to make known
Whatsoever his heart had heard
Of beauty or truth; in homely or foreign places,
Interpreting ever the wonderful message of faces.
III
ON THE TERRACE
On the terrace, a marvelous flower uncloses;
It dances, it glances, it sways
In a thousand bright ways:
It reminds you of stars, yet of roses!
Come see!
On the terrace, a lovely new blossom is showing;
’Tis twining, and shining, and oh,
Did ever you hear or know
Of a blossom with golden hair growing?
Come see!
Were ever you told of a floweret, singing?
With chatter, and pattering feet,
And dowered with dimple sweet,
With laughter like faery-bells ringing?
Come see!
IV
THE MAIDEN
Since first I saw your golden head,
Full ten fleet years, O flower, have fled,
Bitter and bright together sped!
Dear child, now to the maiden grown,
Could I but loose from some fair stone
An angel-likeness, all your own!
Yet marble were too cold for you,
And bronze were dark and old for you;
In ivory, then, I mould for you
Your portrait, flower-child, now maiden grown.
V
IVORY
I
The shining rose called Pearl-and-Gold
Shall never show
In highest light,
Dissolving into softest fold
A purer glow
Of warmer white:
O ivory, ivory,
The glimmering robe of cloistered nun,
Kneeling in bliss
At vesper bells,
No fairer radiance hath won
Than even this
The ivory tells:
O ivory, ivory,
And so the beasts whereof we speak
May still possess--
Ah me, who knows?
The very loveliness we seek
In nun’s white dress,
In glowing rose!
O ivory, ivory.
II
In the far eastern East,
They say,
A vast forest beast
Went mad, one day:
Nor was he among beast mere catlike King,
But rather Councillor, a kindlier thing;
Yet mad, March-mad was he
As hare or man might be;
Else why, all uncontrollable, assail
With fierce trunk flying as a flail,
The sacred person of her Majesty’s Mail?
Ah, who shall guess what dim far eastern spells
Had traitorous crept to slime the mighty cells
Of that large brain, routing forever thence
Its recent tenant, mild Obedience?
Was it long-smouldering, sudden-flaming hate
For Man, the master of the dumb brute’s fate?
We only know,
That day, before the dusk,
Man laid him low,
Hide, trump, and tusk.
III
And now, this monarch means, for you and me,
But this, a hand’s breadth of fine ivory,
In tint and texture exquisite indeed,
Responding to the cunning carver’s need
To shape a tale of saints on missal cover,
To celebrate the Mourning Mother’s grace,
To mould forever for some eager lover
The perfect flower of his lady’s face;
Nay more, for love of father, mother, friend,
To frame a fond remembrance; to enscroll
A fleeting glimpse, a vista without end,
That mortal mystery, a maiden’s soul.
VI
IN THE STUDIO
How Leonardo would have loved to paint
This profile of young saint
Within its aureole of tender gold;
To search each petal-fold
Of lips, for paler or for deeper rose,
To draw the straight, fine nose,
To linger musing on this broad-arched brow,
Even as I do now!
In this mysterious modelling of the cheek,
His watchful eye would seek
These half-tints delicate, roses and pearls
That are a little girl’s;
And many a sculptor of the time, as he,
Named “of Fiesole,”
Or he whose living, breathing “Singing Boys”
Still make their joyful noise;
Or he, far-famed, whose unforgotten hands
Wrought for all lands
To know and love in warm Carrara stone,
A Lady called “Unknown,”--
Large craftsmen of the re-born centuries--
How passionately these
Had told their vision of this little head,
Sweetly interpreted!
And if those liberal golden yesterdays
Would well have sung the praise
Of this pure candid profile’s lovely line,
No less, these days of mine:
For oh, that godlike sculptor lately here,
He whom these hills hold dear,
Would fain have shaped from it, as coin of Greece,
Another masterpiece;
But ere the perfect moment of these things,
Night came, and the dark wings;
And what he might have wrought of loveliness
We know not, we but guess!
II
Meanwhile, the maiden from her model’s throne
Lists the brown bees intone,
Antiphonal to lady-wasps that pass
Across the north-light’s glass;
A squirrel quarrels with the elm-tree’s leaves;
Beneath the studio eaves
The circling swifts dispute, in serried flight
The bluebirds’ manor right;
Within, high images of knight and priest,
Girded for old-time feast,
And warriors of to-day, and lights o’ the law
Contrive their air of awe;
Damsels fair-filleted, in chiton trim,
Advance with symbols dim,
While Fia parts wide silences to speak,
“Are all the virtues Greek?”
The sculptor, pacing, plies his antique art
As in a world apart,
Since many a message yet must go and come
’Twixt master eye and thumb;
And artists aye must meditate at ease
Their chosen mysteries,
While only little sitters ever know
That sitter’s hour, how slow!
Ah, guiled by gazing into purple hills,
And saying “Daffodils,”
Or sweet short story of the Lucy-star,
Or tale of “Lochinvar,”
That hour, an earthly hour, not long will stay!
Fia will flee away
Into the sunset, carolling, “Oh when,--
When shall I come again?”
VII
GOLD
I
At the edge of the uttermost West,
Where the worst may brother the best,
Far, far in the West, behold,
Men said there were pots of the gold:
Obeying an ancient behest,
A cry of the blood in their veins,
Men marched to the uttermost West,
All for gold:
In the sun and the snow and the rains,
They sang and shivered and burned,
Nor faltered at peaks or plains,
All for gold:
And whether men died, or returned
With a tale of their wealth or their woe,
There were always others who yearned
Unceasingly, Westward Ho!
II
Gold, gold, what is your hold,
Untold by the sages?
Have you stolen, to master men’s dreams,
From the sun, his far-shining beams?
Have you gathered the questioned glow
Of the buttercups, long ago?
Are you strong because you may wear
Spun brightness of children’s hair?
Gold, gold, what is your hold
On the heart of the ages?
III
If gold be strong like iron, yet may wear
Spun radiance, as of a child’s bright hair,
Then bid the tender craft of Florentine
Choose golden strands from Californian river,
And weld and wind them as for crown of queen,
To crown this carven ivory forever,
Framing it,
Nor shaming it,
Since gold is strong like iron, yet may wear
Spun radiance, as of remembered hair.
VIII
A man might hide beneath two hands
Held close and closer side by side
This ivory portrait as it stands,
With what it owns of grace or pride:
But all the memories it imparts
Of Sylvia--all these, we know,
Could ne’er be hidden in two hearts,
And who, ah, who would wish them so?
BETSINDA
I saw thee in thy little shift,
And why I grieved I knew not then;
How should I know
Thou wert to go,
Yea, even so,
After a while, among the stars again?
And when I viewed thee girded thus,
With coronal of shining hair,
Did I surmise,
Such is the guise,
In Paradise,
Of new souls choosing garlands they shall wear?
I saw thee in thy little shift;
How guessed I that such vesture white
Was sign to tell,
And passing well,
Like a clear bell,
Of travel-garment, and of lonely flight?
Yet after I beheld thee, too,
My soul had sorrow all that day;
All night I dreamed,
Weeping, meseemed;
Something I deemed
Most beautiful had made me weep and pray.
I saw thee in thy little shift;
Adown my cheek ran rain of tears;
“The old, old pain,”
My heart was fain
So to explain:
My heart knew not, ’twas pain of coming years.
TO SYLVIA’S EYES
Hear now my song to Sylvia’s eyes,
Pure as God’s mercies glowing,
That shine on me from Paradise.
So deep, like seas! So blue, like skies!
With mirth and love o’erflowing!
Hear now my song to Sylvia’s eyes.
And oh, their look of bright surprise,
Like look of stars, fresh-growing,
That shine on me from Paradise!
Fringed pools, holding nor lures nor lies,
Yet wistful with foreknowing;
Hear now my song to Sylvia’s eyes.
Fair eyelids fall; fair Springtime flies;
And fairer stars are showing,
That shine on me from Paradise.
O fairer stars, in angel-wise
Ye watch me, coming, going:
Hear now my song to Sylvia’s eyes,
That shine on me from Paradise!
THE FAIRER FLOWER
Would I knew the fairer flower--
Rose or lily, lily or rose,
Here to hold in my heart’s bower!
Rose-Marie has world-old power;
Sovranly her bright blush shows:
Would I knew the fairer flower!
Sylvia’s lily look would shower
All my soul with grace that grows,
Here to hold in my heart’s bower:
Each most blest! In each, her dower
Of loveliness or gleams or glows:
Would I knew the fairer flower--
Ah, but never shall my tower
Watch that fairer bloom unclose,
Here to hold in my heart’s bower!
Clouds shall lift, as clouds shall lower;
I chose not--the heavens chose.
Would I knew the fairer flower
Here to hold in my heart’s bower!
VISION OF CHILDHOOD
I saw God in His sky,
I spoke with Him;
The shape was beautiful, and very great and dim:
I saw God in His sky,
I spoke with Him;
There was no passer-by.
And I had no more fear,
He bent His head,
He listened tenderly unto the prayer I said:
And I had no more fear,
He bent His head,
That I might know Him near.
Oh, it was long ago,
And I was small;
I have not, every day, always remembered all:
Oh, it was long ago,
And I was small;
Nor more could ever know.
THEY THAT MOURN
Sisters twain are Grief and Bliss:
“Blessed are they that mourn,” ’twas said,
And, “For they shall be comforted:”
Yet blessed not alone for this!
But oh, enriched by gift of Grief,
By treasure out of Sorrow’s store,
They shall distil from Pain’s long lore
Balm for another’s sweet relief.
By falling waters, roses stray;
Thou, whose heart’s garden knoweth rue,
Shalt find therein, in season due,
The perfect rose to give away.
OF LITTLE THINGS
They are little, but oh, they are near,
These things unforgotten and dear,
Now writ, for remembering here:
The daily and dutiful grace
Of a delicate flower face,
And the dimple, its hiding-place;
A tress and a glance and a glove,
A lilting of laughter and love,
And the silvery wing of a dove;
Yet these have their reason and rhyme
No less than the bluebird’s song,
Though frail as a bluebell’s chime,
Once heard as we happened along.
Things frail as a bluebell’s chime--
How often they last a long time--
For we lay them away on high shelves
That the great world may seldom behold,
And we leave still a part of ourselves
With our love in each white, white fold.
There is nothing of large intent,
Except as you know what is meant;
The way that an eyebrow went,
With a merry or pensive air,
And the light that played over her hair
As she stood one day by your chair;
And writ for remembering here,
These things unforgotten and dear;
They are little, but oh, they are near!
THE BLUE MANTLE
O little lonely cavalier,
I met thee in the deepening day,
Riding the road where yesteryear
Thou and thy namesake oft would stray.
Thy mantle blue wore pensive fold;
There lacked but gleam of helm and lance
To bid mine eyes in thee behold
Again the sainted Maid of France:
For thine was look of those who face
An unexpected destiny;
Around thee in that woodland place
Lay aureole of reverie.
And steadfastly thy pony kept
The russet path ’neath russet boughs,
Nor fretted when the squirrel swept
Aloft his plume of high carouse.
Almost, almost I wondered then
If this were tapestry, or dream,
Or if I walked the ways of men,
And verily by woodland stream.
O rider, thou who rid’st beside
The autumn hush, thou art young to know
What stillness comes when one shall ride
Where two were lately wont to go.
The Voices that thy spirit heard
Borne on the autumn’s tender breeze
Were ne’er the notes of autumn bird
Revisiting past revelries.
The heart’s quick dew was in thine eyes
That overflowed ere thou couldst speak;
Nor shall those holy drops chastise
The rose of morning from thy cheek:
But rather shall thy maiden look
Henceforth a deeper radiance wear,
As if it more immediate took
Its sweetness, from a purer air;
As if with grief thou couldst not dwell
All unacquainted as before,
As if Hope’s rose-wreath held as well
Some lovely leaf from Memory’s lore.
And they who dream of voices flown,
And they who dwell with Voices near,
Shall nevermore ride all alone,
Though solitary, cavalier!
ENVOY
SYLVAN VOICES
In robes of laughter and of song,
In duffle gray of daily word,
Or borne on radiant plumes along,
The Sylvan Voices still are heard.
You hear them when the throstles sing,
And when the shimmering rain-drops dance
By flowery marges of your spring,
To catch the Naiad’s captive glance.
I hear them in the Clara-call,
The Sylvia-note, the Ellen-name,
When ringing echoes rise and fall,
And Youth rides lilting, “Hey for hame!”
Sometimes you know not they are near,
Until your sudden tear shall start,
To list them, quiring silver-clear
Within the lily’s golden heart.
Perchance, fleetfoot, at pearl of dawn
They leave a dimple in the grass,
A little laughter on the lawn;
Then light as thistledown, they pass.
They gather in cathedral aisle
To kneel with you upon the stones;
They whisper with your prayers awhile,
Then soar aloft in organ-tones.
To-day they sing dear dooryard things--
The branch, the bird, the honeybee;
To-morrow sees them spread their wings
August, in God’s immensity:
And oh, however far they fly,
The Voices come--they never fail--
When the rapt rainbow rides the sky
Past Dingleton, past Maryvale!
CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE
MCMXII
[Illustration]
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