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One day & another : a lyrical eclogue / Madison Cawein. Cawein, Madison Julius, 1865-1914. 400dpi TIFF G4 page images University of Kentucky, Electronic Information Access & Management Center Lexington, Kentucky 2002 b92-184-30604775 Electronic reproduction. 2002. (Beyond the shelf, serving historic Kentuckiana through virtual access (IMLS LG-03-02-0012-02) ; These pages may be freely searched and displayed. Permission must be received for subsequent distribution in print or electronically. One day & another : a lyrical eclogue / Madison Cawein. Cawein, Madison Julius, 1865-1914. Richard G. Badger, Boston : c1901. 108,  p. ; 15 cm. Coleman Microfilm. Atlanta, Ga. : SOLINET, 1994. 1 microfilm reel ; 35 mm. (SOLINET/ASERL Cooperative Microfilming Project (NEH PS-20317) ; SOL MN04378.02 KUK) Printing Master B92-184. IMLS This electronic text file was created by Optical Character Recognition (OCR). No corrections have been made to the OCR-ed text and no editing has been done to the content of the original document. Encoding has been done through an automated process using the recommendations for Level 1 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Digital page images are linked to the text file. ONE DAY AND ANOTHER A Lyrical Eclogue This page in the original text is blank. ONE DAY A N O T H E R A Lyrical Ec/ogue S MADISON CAWEIN S THE LYRIC LIBRARY B O S T O N RICHARD G BADGER COMPANY (Incorporated) I 901 I1 I I'i I 4 I -.1 i I I 1 '4 -I ,., . , v I -- - I -- I .1 i ,I r -1 I I lI Copyright 1901 by RICHARD G BADGER CO. (Incorporated) The poem herewith presented was first pub- lished some ten years ago in a volume entitled Days and Dreams. The original verses have been re-written throughout and extensively added to, making it comparatively a new poem. L -KEVIEW PRES8, SOUTH FRAMINGUAM, MASS. TO G. F. M. THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED IN MEMORY OF MANY DAYS. This page in the original text is blank. What though I dreamed of mountain heights, Of peaks, the barriers of the world, Around chose tops the Northern Lights And tempests are unfurled. Mine are the footpaths leading through Life's lowly fields and woods,-with rifts, Above, of heaven's Eden blue,- By which the violet lifts Its shy appeal; and holding up Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine, Along the hillside, cup on cup, Blooms bright the celandine. Where soft upon each flowering stock The butterfly spreads damask wings; And under grassy loawn and rock The cottage cricket sings. Where overhead eve blooms with fire, In which the new moon bends her bow, And, arrow-like, one white star by her Burns through the afterglow. 7 I care not, so the sesame I find; the magic fiower there, Whose touch unseals each mystery In water, earth and air. That in the oak tree lets me hear Its heart's deep speech, its soul's wise words; And to my mind makes crystal clear The melodies of birds. Why should I care, who live aloof Beyond the din of life and dust, While dreams still share my humble roof, And love makes sweet my crust 8 ONE DAY AND ANOTHER A Lyrical Eclogue PART I LATE SPRING The mottled moth at eventide Beats glimmering wings against the pane; The slow, sweet lily opens wide, White in the dusk like some dim stai; The garden dreams on every side And breathes faint scents of rain. Among the flowering stocks they stand: A crimson rose is in his hand. 1 Outside her garden. He waits mu-sing. Herein the dearness of her is; The thirty perfect days of June Made one, in maiden loveliness Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss, With love not more in tune. Ah me! I think she is too true, Too spiritual for life's rough way; For in her eyes her soul looks new- 9 Two bluet blossoms, watchet-blue, Are not so pure as they. So good, so beautiful is she, So soft and white, so fond and fair, Sometimes my heart fears she may be Not long for me, and secretly A sister of the air. 2 Dusk deepens. A whippoorwill calls. The whippoorwills are calling where The golden west is graying; c'Tis time," they say, "to meet him there- Why are you still delaying "He waits you where the old beech throws Its gnarly shadow over Wood-violet and the bramble rose, Frail maiden-fern and clover. "Where elder and the sumach creep Above your garden's paling, Whereon at noon the lizards sleep Like lichens on the railing. "Come! ere the early rising moon's Gold floods the violet valleys; 10 Where mists, like phantom picaroons Anchor their stealthy galleys. "Come! while the deepening amethyst Of dusk above is falling- 'Tis time to tryst! 'tis time to tryst!" The whippoorwills are calling. They call you to these twilight ways With dewy odor dripping- Ah, girlhood, through the rosy haze Come like a moonbeam slipping. 3 He enters her garden, speaking dreamily: There is a fading inward of the day, And all the pansy heaven clasps one star; The dwindling acres eastward glimmer gray, While all the world to westward smoulders far. Now to your glass will you pass for the last time Pass! humming some ballad, I know,- Here where I wait it is late and is past time- Late! and the moments are slow, are slow. 11 There is a drawing downward of the night; The bridegroom Heaven bends down to kiss the moon; Above, the heights hang silver in her light; Below, the woods stretch purple, deep in June. There in the dew is it you hiding lawny You, or a moth in the vines- You! -by your hand, where the band twinkles tawny! You!-by your ring, like a glowworm, that shines! 4 She approaches, laughing. She speaks,- You'd given up hope HE Believe me. SHE Why, is your love so poor HE I knew you'd not deceive me. 12 SIIE As many a girl before,- Ah, dear, you will forgive me HE Say no more, sweet, say no more! SHE Love trusts, and that's enough, my dear. Trust wins to trust; whereof, my dear, Love holds to love; and love, my dear, Is-well, that's all my lore. HE Come, pay me or I'll scold you.- Give me the kiss you owe.- You fly when I'd enfold you SHE No! no! I say! now, no! How often have I told you, You must not treat me so HE More sweet the dusk for this is, For lips that meet in kisses.- 13 Come! come! why run from blisses As from a mortal foe 5 She stands smiling at him. She speaks: How many words in the asking! How easily I can grieve you! My "no" in a "yes" was a-masking, Nor thought, dear, to deceive you.-- A kiss-the humming-bird happiness here In my heart consents . . But what are words, When the thought of two souls in speech ac- cords Affirmative, negative-what are they, dear I wished to say "yes," but somehow said "no." The woman within me thought you would know Thought that your heart would hear. He speaks: So many hopes in a wooing! Therein you could not deceive me; Some things are sweeter for the pursuing- I knew what you meant, believe me.- Bunched bells of the blush pomegranate, to fix At your throat . . six drops of fire they are . . Will you look where the moon and its following star Rise silvery over yon meadow ricks 14 While I hold-while I lean your head back, so- For I know it is"yes"though you whisper "no," And my kisses, sweet, are six. 6 Moths flutter around them. She speaks: Look!-where the fiery Glow-worm in briery Blanks of the moon-mellowed bowers Sparkles-how hazily Pinioned and arily Delicate, warily, Drowsily, lazily, Flutter the moths to the flowers. White as the dreamiest Bud of the creamiest Rose in the garden that dozes, See how they cling to them! Held in the heart of their Hearts like a part of their Perfume they swine to them Wings that are soft as the roses. Dim as the forming of Dew in the warming of Moonlight, they light on the petals; All is revealed to them; All-from the sunniest Tips to the honiest 15 Heart, whence they yield to them Spice through the darkness that settles. So to our tremulous Souls come the emulous Spirits of love; through whose power All that is best in us, All that is beautiful, All that is dutiful, Is made confessed in us, Even as the scent of a flower. 7 Taking her hand, he says: What makes you beautiful Answer., now, answer !- Is it that dutiful Souls are all beautiful Is't that romance or Beauty of spirit, Which souls of merit Of heaven inherit - Have you no answer She roguishly: What makes you lovable Answer, dear, answer !- 16 Is it not provable That man is lovable Just because chance or Nature makes woman Love him-Her human Part's to illumine.- Have you no answer 8 Then, regarding him seriously, she continues: Could I recall every joy that befell me There in the past with its anguish and bliss, Here in my heart it has whispered to tell me, Those were no joys like this. Were it not well if our love could forget them Veiling the was with the dawn of the is Dead with the pastwe should neverregret them, Being no joys like this. When they were gone and the Present stood speechful, Ardent in word and in look and in kiss, What though we know that their eyes are be- seechful, Those were no joys like this. Is it not well to have more of the spirit, Living for Futures where naught is amiss, 17 Less of the flesh with the Past pining near it Is there a joy like this 9 Leaving the garden for the lane. He, with lightness of heart. We will leave reason, Sweet, for a season; Reason were treason Now that the nether Spaces are clad, oh, In silvery shadow- We will be glad, oh, Glad as this weather! She, responding to his mood: Heart unto heart, where the moonlight is slanted, Let us believe that our souls are enchanted:- I in the castle-keep; you are the airy Prince who comes seeking me; Love is the Fairy Bringing our hearts together. HIE Starlight in masses Over us passes; 18 And in the grass is Many a flower: Now will you tell me iHow'd you enspell me What once befell me There in your bower9 SHE Soul unto soul-in the moon's wizard glory, Let us believe we are parts in a story:- I am. a poem; a poet you hear it WAhispered in star and in flower; a Spirit, Love, puts my soul in your power. 10 He, suddently and very earitestly: Perhaps we lived in the days Of the Khalif Haroun er Reshid; And loved, as the story says Did the Sultan's favorite one And the Persian Emperor's son, Ali ben Bekkar, he Of the Kisra dynasty. Do you know the story Well, You were Haroun's Sultana. When night on the palace fell, A slave through a secret door, 19 Low-arched on the Tigris' shore,- By a hidden winding stair Brought me to your bower there. Then there was laughter and mirth, And feasting and singing together, In a chamber of wonderful worth; In a chamber vaulted high On columns of ivory; Its dome, like the irised skies, Mooned over with peacock eyes; Its curtains and furniture, Damask and juniper. Ten slave girls-like unto blooms-- Stand, holding tamarisk torches, Silk-clad from the Irak looms; Ten handmaidens serve the feast, Each girl like a star in the east; Ten lutanists, lutes a-tune, Wait, each like the Ramadan moon. For you in a stuff of Merv Blue-clad, unveiled and jewelled, No metaphor known may serve: Scarved deep with your raven hair, The jewels like fireflies there, Blossom and moon and star, The Lady Shemsennehar. The zone that girdles your waist Would ransom a Prince and Emeer; 20 In your coronet's gold enchased, And your bracelet's twisted bar, Burn rubies of Istakhar; And pearls of the Jamshid race Hang looped on your bosom's lace. You stand like the letter I; Dawn-faced, with eyes that sparkle Black stars in a rosy sky; Mouth like a cloven peach, Sweet with your smiling speech; Cheeks that the blood presumes To make pomegranate blooms. With roses of Rocknabad, Hyacinths of Bokhara,- Creamily cool and clad In gauze,-girls scatter the floor From pillar to cedarn door. Then a poppy-bloom at each ear, Come the dancing girls of Kashineer. Kohl in their eyes, down the room,- That opaline casting-bottles Have showered with rose perfume,- They glitter and drift and swoon To the dulcimer's languishing tune; In the liquid light like stars, And moons and nenuphars. 21 Carbuncles, tragacanth-red, Smoulder in armlet and anklet; Gleaming on breast and on head Bangles of coins, that are angled, Tinkle; and veils, that are spangled, Flutter from coiffure and wrist Like a star-bewildered mist. Each dancing-girl is a flower Of the Tuba from vales of El Liwa.- How the bronzen censers glower! And scents of ambergris pour And myrrh brought of Lahore, And musk of Khoten! how good Is the scent of the sandal-wood! A lutanist smites her lute; Sings loves of Mejnoon and Leila- Her voice is a houri flute;- While the fragrant flambeaux wave Barbaric o'er free and slave, O'er fabrics and bezels of gems And roses in anadems. Sherbets in ewers of gold, Fruits in salvers carnelian; Flagons of grotesque mold, Made of a sapphire glass, Brimmed with wine of Shiraz; 22 Shaddock and melon and grape On plate of an antique shape. Vases of frosted rose, Of limpid alabaster, Filled with the mountain snows; Goblets of mother-of-pearl, One filigree silver-swirl; Vessels of gold foamed up With spray of spar on the cup. Then a slave bursts in with a cry: "The eunuchs! the Khalif's eunuchs!- With scimitars bared draw nigh! Wesif and Afif and he, Chief of the hideous three, Mesrour!-the Sultan's seen 'Mid a hundred weapons' sheen!" Did we part when we heard this No! It seems that my soul remembers How I clasped you and kissed you, so. When they came they found us-dead On the flowers our blood dyed red; Our lips together, and The dagger in my hand. 23 11 She, musingly: How it was I cannot tell, For I know not where nor why; But perhaps we loved too well In some world that does not lie East or west of where we dwell, And beneath no mortal sky. WAas it in the golden ages Or the iron-I had heard,- In the prophecy of sages,- Haply, how had come a bird, Underneath whose wing were pages Of an unknown lover's word. I forget. You may remember How the earthquake shook our ships; How our city, one huge ember, Blazed within the thick eclipse. When you found me-deep December Sealed my icy eyes and lips. I forget. No one may say That such things can not be true:- Here a flower dies to-day, And to-morrow blooms anew . . Death is silent.-Tell me, pray, Why men doubt what God can do 24 12 He, with conviction. As to that, nothing to tell, You being all my belief; Doubt may not enter or dwell Here where your image is chief; Here where your name is a spell, Potent in joy and in grief. Is it the glamor of spring Working in us so we seem Aye to have loved that we cling Even to some fancy or dream, Rainbowing everything Here in our souls with its gleam See! how the synod is met There of the heavens to preach us- Freed from the earth's oubliette, See how the blossoms beseech us- Were it not well to forget Winter and night as they teach us Dew and a bud and a star, These,-like a beautiful thought, Over man's wisdom how far!- God for some purpose has wrought; And though they're that which they are, What are the thoughts they have brought 25 Stars and the moon; and they roll Over our way that is white. Here shall we end the long stroll Here shall I kiss you good-night Or, for a while, soul to soul, Linger and dream of delight 13 Thcy enter the garden again... She, somnewhat pensively. Myths tell of walls and cities that arose To melody. But I would build with tone, Had I that harp, a world for us alone, A world of love, and joy, and deep repose. A land of lavender light, of blue-bell skies; Pale peaks that rise against the gold of eve,; And on one height, the splendors never leave, Ouir castled home o'er which the wild swan flies. There, pitiless, the ruined hand of death Should never reach. No bud, no thing should fade; All should be perfect, pure, and unafraid; And life serener than an angel's breath. The days should move to music; wildly tame The nights should move to music and the stars; 26 And morn and evening in their opal cars, Like heralds, banner God's eternal name. o world! 0 life! desired and to be! How shall we reach thee -dark the way and dim. -Give me your hand, love, let us follow him, Love with the mystery and the melody. 14 le, observing the various flowers around them: Violets and anemnones The surrendered hours Pour, as handsets, round the knees Of the Spring, who to the breeze Flings her myriad flowers. Like to coins the sumptuous day Strews with blossoms golden Every furlong of his way,- Like a Sultan gone to pray At a Kaaba olden. And the night, with spark on spark, Clad in dim attire, Dots with Stars the haloed dark,- As a priest around the Ark Lights his lamps of fire. 27 These are but the cosmic strings To the harp of Beauty, To that instrument which sings In our souls of love that brings Peace and faith and duty. 15 She, seriously: Duty -Comfort of the sinner And the saint!-when grief and trial Weigh us, and within our inner Selves,-responsive to love's viol,- Hope's soft voice grows thin and thinner, It is kin to self-denial. Self-denial !-through whose feeling Wae are gainer though we're loser; All the finer force revealing Of our natures. No accuser Is the conscience then, but healing Of the wound of which we're chooser. Some one said no flower knoweth Of the fragrance it revealeth; Song, its soul that overfloweth, Never nightingale's heart feeleth- Such the love the spirit groweth, Love unconscious if it healeth. 28 16 He, af ter a pause, lightly: An elf there is who stables the hot Red wasp that stings on the apricot; An elf who rowels his spiteful bay Like a mote on a ray, away, away; An elf who saddles the hornet lean To din i' the ear o' the swinging bean; Who straddles, with cap cocked all awry, The bottle-blue back o' the dragon-fly. And this is the elf who sips and sips From clover-horns whence the perfume drips; And, drunk with dew, in the glimmering gloam Awaits the wild-bee's coming home; In ambush lies, where none may see, And robs the caravan bumble-bee- Gold bags of honey the bees must pay To the bandit elf of the fairy way. Another ouphen the butterflies know, Who paints their wings with the hues that glow On blossoms.-Squeezing from tubes of dew Pansy colors of every hue On his bloom's pied pallet, he paints the wings Of the butterflies, moths, and other things. This is the elf that the hollyhocks hear, Who dangles a brilliant in each one's ear; 29 Teases at noon the pane's green fly, And lights at night the glow-worm's eye. But the dearest elf, so the poets say, Is the elf who hides in an eye of gray; Who curls in a dimple and slips along The strings of a lute to a lover's song; Who smiles in her smile, and frowns in her frown, And dreams in the scent of her glove or gown; Hides and beckons as all may note In the bloom or the bow of a mnaiden's throat. 17 She, staiiding among the flowers: Soft through the trees the night wind sighs, And swoons and dies. Above, the stars hang wanly white; Here, through the dark, A drizzled gold, the fireflies Rain mimic stars in spark on spark.- 'Tis time to part, to say good-night. Good-night. From fern to flower the night-moths cross At drowsy loss. The moon drifts veiled through clouds of white; And pearly pale, A silver blur, through beds of moss, Their tiny moons the oglTw-worms trail.- 30 'Tis time to part, to say good-night. Good-night. 18 He, at parting, as they proceed down the garden: You say you cannot wed me, now That roses and the June are here To your decision I must bow.- Ah, well! 'tis just as well, my dear: We'll swear again each old love vow, And wait another year. Another year of love with you! Of dreams and doubts, of sun and rain! When field and forest bloom anew, And locust clusters pelt the lane, When all the song-birds wed and woo, I'll not take "no" again. Oft shall I lie awake and mark The hours by no clanging clock, But in the dim and distant dark The crowing of some punctual cock; Then up as early as the lark To meet you by our rock. The rock where first we met at tryst; Where first I wooed and won your love- 31 Remember how the moon and mist Made mystery of the heaven above As now to-night-How first I kissed Your lips, you trembling like a dove So, then, you cannot wed me inow That roses and the June are here, That warmth and fragrance weigh each bough And yet your reason is not clear. Ah, well! We'll swear anew each vow, And wait another year. 32 PART II EARLY SUMMER The cricket in the rose-bush hedge Sings by the vine-entangled gate; The slim moon slants a timid edge Of pearl through one low cloud of slate; Around dark door and trindow-ledge Like dreams the shadows weait. And through the sum'Mer dusk she goes, On her white breast a crimson rose. I She delays, meditating. A rainy afternoon. Gray skies and the foggy rain Dripping from sullen eaves; Over and over again Dull drop of the trickling leaves; And the woodward-winding lane, And the hill with its shocks of sheaves One scarce perceives. Shall I go in such wet weather By the lane or over the hill- Wphere the blossoming milkweed's feather The drops like diamonds fill; 33 Where, draggled and drenched together, The ox-eyes rank the rill, To the old corn-mill. The creek by now is swollen, And its foaming cascades sound; And the lilies, smeared with pollen, In the darn look dull and drowned. 'Tis a path I oft have stolen To the bridoe that rambles round With willows bound. Through a valley wild with berry, Packed thick with the iron-weeds, And elder.-washed and very Fragrant,-the fenced path leads; Past oak and wilding cherry To a place of flags and reeds, That the water bredes. The sun through the sad sky bleaches- Is that a thrush that calls That bird who so beseeches And see! on the balsam's balls, And leaves of the water-beeches- One blister of wart-like galls- No raindrop falls. My Shawl instead of a bonnet! . . Though the woods be soaking yet, Through the wet to the rock I'll run it,- 34 How sweet to meet i' the wet! Our rock with the vine upon it,- Each flower a fiery jet- Where oft we've met! 2 Theyi meet. He speakls. How fresh the purple clover Smells in its veil of rain! And where the leaves brimn over How fragrant is the lane! See, bow the sodden acres, Forlorn of all their rakers, Their hay and harvest makers, Look green as spring again. Drops from the trumpet flowers Rain on us as we pass; And every zephyr showers, From tilted leaf or grass, Clear beads of moisture, seeming Pale, pointed emeralds gleaming; Where, through the green boughs streaming, The daylight strikes like glass. Ale speaks. How dewy, clean and fragrant Look now the green and gold!- 35 And breezes trailing vagrant Spill all the spice they hold. The west begins to glimmer; And shadows, stretching slimmer, Crouch on the ways; and dimmer Grow field and forest old. Beyond those rainy reaches Of woodland, far and lone, A whi ppoorwill beseeches; And now an owvl's vague moan Strikes faint upon the hearing.- These say the dusk is nearing. And, see, the heavens clearing lake on a tender tone. How feebly chirps the cricket! How thin the tree-toads cry! Blurred in the wild-rose thicket Gleams wet the firefly.- This way toward home is nearest; Of weeds and briars clearest . . . We'll meet to-morrow. dearest; Till then, dear heart, good-bye. q They mleet again untder the greenwcood tree. He speaks: Here at last! And do you know That again you've kept me waiting 36 Wondering, anticipating. If your "yes" meant "no." .Now you're here we'll have our day Let us take this daisied hollow, And beneath these beeches follow This wild strip of way Towards the streamn: wherein are seen Stealing gar and darting minnow; Over which snake-feeders winnow Wings of black and green. Like a cactus flames the sun; And the mighty weaver, Even. Tenuous colored, there in heaven, His rich weft's begun . How I love you! from the time- You remember, do you not- When, within your orchard-plot, I was reading rhyme, As I told you. And 't was thus- "Bv the blue Trinacrian sea, Far in pastoral Sicily With Theocritus"- That I answered you who asked. But the curious part was this:- 37 That the whole thing was amiss; That the Greek but masked Tales of old Boccaccio- Tall Decameronian maids Strolled among Italian glades, Smiling, sweet and slow. And when you approached,-my book Dropped in wonder,-seemingly To myself I said, " 'Tis she!" And arose to look In Lauretta's eyes and-true! Found them yours.-You shook your head. Laughing at me, as you said, "Did I frighten you" You had come for cherries; these Dreamily I climbed for while You still questioned with a smile, And still tried to tease. Ah, love, just two years have gone Since then. I remember, you Wore a dress of billowy blue Muslin, or of lawn. And that apron still I see,- White, with cherry-juice red-staiiled,- 38 Which you held; wherein I rained Ripeness from the tree. And I asked you-for, you know, To my eyes your serious eyes Spoke such sweet philosophies,- If you'd read Rousseau. You remember how a chance, Somewhat like to mine, one June Happened him at castle Toune, Over there in France And a cherry dropping fair On your cheek I, envying it, Said-remembering Rousseau's wit- "Would my lips were there!" How you laughed and blushed, I know.- Here's the stream. The west has narrowed To a streak of gold, deep arrowed.- There's a skiff. Let's row. 4 Entering the skiff, she speaks: Waters, flowing dark and bright In the sunlight or the moon, Seize my soul with such delight 39 As a visible music might; As some slow, majestic tune Made material to the sight. Blossoms colored like the skies, Sunset-hued and tame or wild, Fill my soul with such surmise As the mind might realize If our thoughts, all undefiled, Should take torm before our eyes. So to me do these appeal; So they sway me every hour: Letting all their beauty steal On mv soul to make it feel, Through a rivulet or flower, More than any words reveal. 5 He speaks, rowcing. See, sweetheart, how the lilies lay Their lambent leaves about our way; Or, pollen-dusty, nod and float Their moon-like flowers around our boat.- The middle of the stream we've reached Three strokes from where our boat was beached. Look up. You scarce can see the sky, Through trees that lean, dark, deep, and high; And coiled with grape and trailing vine 40 Build a vast roof of shade and shine; A house of leaves, where shadows walk, And whispering winds and waters talk. There is no path. The saplings choke The trunks they spring from. There an oak Lies rotting; and that sycamore, Which lays its bulk fron shore to shore,- Uprooted by the floods,-perchance, May be the bridge to some romance. Now opening through a willow fringe The waters creep, one tawny tinge Of sunset; and on either marge The cottonwoods make walls of shade; And, near, the gradual hills loom large Within its mnirror. Herons wade, Or fly,, like Faery birds, from grass That mats the shore by which we pass. She speaki7s. On we pass; we rippling pass, On sunset waters still as glass. A vesper-sparrow flies above Soft twittering to its woodland love. A whippoorwill now calls afar; And 'gainst the west, like some swift star, A glittering jay flies screaming. Slim The sand-snipes and king-fishers skim Before us; and some evening thrush- 41 Who may discover where such sing-- The silence rinses with a gush Of mellow music bubbling. lie speakos. On we pass.- Now let us oar To yonder strip of ragged shore, Where, from a rock with lichens hoar, A ferny spring wells. Gliding by The sulphur-colored firefly Lights its pale lamp where inallows gloom, And wild-bean and wild-mustard bloom.- Some hunter there within the woods Last fall encamped those ashes say And campfire boughs.-The solitudes Grow dreamy with the death of day. 6 She sings. Over the fields of millet A young bird tries its wings; And sweet as a woodland rillet, Its first wild music rings- Soul of my soul, where the meadows roll What is the song it sings "Love, and a glad good-morrow, Heart where the rapture is! 42 Good-morrow, good-morrow! Adieu to sorrow! here is the road to bliss: Where all day long you may hearken my song And kiss, kiss, kiss!" Over the fields of clover, Where the wild bee drones and sways, The wind, like a shepherd lover, Flutes on the fragrant ways- Heart of my heart, where the blossoms part, What is the air he plays "Love, and a song to follow, Soul with the face a-gleam! Co-lme follow, come follow, O'er hill and o'er hollow, To the land o' the bloom and beamer; Where under the flowers you may listen for hours, And dream, (dream, dlearn!" 7 le specks, letting the boat drift. Here the shores are irised. Grasses Chuimp the water dark that glasses Broken wood and deepened distance. Far the musical persistence Of a field-lark lingers low In the west where tulips blow. 43 White before us flames one pointed Star; and Day hath Night anointed King; from out her azure ewer Pouring starry fire, truer Than pure gold. Star-crowned he stands With the star-light in his hands. Will the moon bleach through the ragged Tree-tops ere we reach yon jagged Rock, that rises gradually, Pharos of our homeward valley- All the west is smouldering red; Embers are the stars o'erhead. At my soul some Protean elf is; You're Simaetha; I am Delphis. You are Sappho and your Phaon, I.-We love.-There lies a ray on All the Dark LEolian seas 'Round the violet Lesbian leas. On we drift. I love you. Nearer Looms our island. Rosier, clearer, The Leucadian cliff we follow, Where the temple of Apollo Shines-a pale and pillared fire . . . Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre! While in Hellas still we seem, Let us sing of that we dream. 44 8 Landing he sings. Night, night, 'tis night. The moon drifts low above us, And all its gold is tangled in the stream: Love, love, my love, and all the stars, that love l's, Tithe stars smile down and every star's a dream. In odorous purple, where the falling warble Of water cascades and the plunged foam glows, A columned ruin lifts its sculptured marble Friezed with the chiselled rebeck and the rose. She sings. Sleep, Sleep, sweet Sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller, And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain-- Love, love, May love. ah, bid thy heart be stiller, And. hark! the music of the resonant main. WYhat flowers are those that blow their balm unto us From mouths of wild aroma, each a flame- That breathe of love, of love we know that drew us, That kissed our eyes, so we might see the same. 45 He speaks. Night, night, 'tis night!-no dream is this to banish; The temple and the nightingale are there! Our love has made them, nevermore to vanish, Real as yon moon, this wild-rose in your hair. Night, night, 'tis night!-and love's own star's before us, Its bright reflection in the starry strean- Yes, yes, ah, yes! its presence shall watch o'er us, Night, night, to-night, and every night we dream. 9 Homeward through flo'wers; she speaks: Behold the offerings of the common hills! Whose lowly names have made them three times dear: The evening-primrose and dim multitudes Of violets that sky the mossy dells With heaven's ambrosial blue; dew-dripping plumes Of mauve lobelias; and the red-stained cups Of blackberry-lilies all along the creek, Where, lulled, the freckled silence sleeps, and vague 46 The water flows; where, at high noon, the cows Wade knee-deep, and the heat is honied with The drone of drowsy bees. The fleur-de-lis, Blue, streaked with crystal like a sumnier dayi, The monkey-flower and the touch-me-not, All frailly scented and familiar as Fair baby faces and soft infant eyes. Simple suggestions of a life inost fair! You whisper me of love and untaught faith, Whose habitation is within the soul, Not of the Earth, yet for the Earth indeed. What is it halcyons my heart makes calm, With calmness not of wisdom, all my soul To-night -Is't love or faith or both - The lore of all the world is less than these Simple suggestions of a life most fair, And love most sweet, that I have learned to know! 10 He Sp)C(als, /fi.USgi)7iy. Yes, I have known its being so; Long ago was I seeing so- Beckoning on to a fairer land, Out of the flowers it waved its hand; Bidding me on to life and love; Life with the hope of the love thereof. 47 What is the value of knowing it, If you are shy in showing it- Need of the earth unfolds the flower, Dewy sweet at the proper hour; And in the world of the human heart Love is the flower's counterpart. So when the soul is heedable, Then is the heart made readable- I in the book of your heart have read Words that are truer than truth has said; Measures of love, the spirit's song, Writ of your soul to haunt me long. Love can hear each laudable Thought of the loved made audible, Spoken in wonder, or bliss, or pain, And re-echo it back again; Ever responsive, ever awake, Ever replying with ache for ache. 11 She speaks, dreamily. Earth gives its flowers to us And heaven its stars. Indeed, These are as lips that woo us, Those are as lights that lead, With love that doth pursue us, With hope that still doth speed. 48 Yet shall the flowers lie riven, And lips forget to kiss; The stars fade out of heaven, And lights lead us amniss- As love for which we've striven; As hope that promises. 12 He laughs, wishing to dispel hver seriousness: If love I have had of you, you had of me, Then doubtless our loving were over; One would be less than the other, you see; Since what you. returned to your lover Were only his own; and- 13 She interr'upts him, speaking impetuously: But if I lose you, if you part with me, I will not love vou less Loving so much now. If there is to be A parting and distress,- What will avail to comfort or reprieve The soul that's anguished most- The knowledge that it once possessed, perceive, The love that it has lost. You must acknowledge, under sun and moon All that we feel is old; 49 Let morning flutter from night's brown cocoon Wide wings of flaxen gold; The moon split through the darkness, soaring o'er, Like some great moth and white, These have been seen a myriad times before And with the same delight.- So 'tis with love-how old yet new it is !- This only should we heed,- To once have known, to once have felt love's bliss, Is to be rich indeed.- XWhether we win or lose, we lose or win, Within our gain or loss Some purpose lies, some end unseen of sin, Beyond our crown or cross. 14 Nearing home, he speaks. True, true!-Perhaps it would be best To be that star within the west; Above the earth, within the skies, Yet shining in your own blue eyes. Or, haply, better here to blow A flower beneath your window low; That, brief of life and frail and fair, Finds yet a heaven in your hair. 50 Or well, perhaps, to be the breeze That sighs its soul out to the trees; A voice, a breath of rain or drouth, That has its wild will with your mouth. These thingI long to be. I long To be the burthen of some song You love to sing; a melody, Sure of sweet immortality. 15 At the gate. She speaks. Sunday shall we ride together - Not the root-rough, rambling way Through the wood we went that day, In last summer's sultry weather. Past the Methodist caminp-meeting, Where religion helped the hyiin Gather volume; and a slim Minister, with textful greeting Welcomed us and still expounded.- From the service on the hill We had gone three hills and still Very near the singing sounded. Nor that road through weed and berry Drowsy days led me and you 51 To the old-time barbecue, Where the country-side made merry. Dusty vehicles together; Darkies with the horses near Tied to trees; the atmosphere Redolent of bark and leather. As we went the homeward journey You exclaimed,-"They intermix Pleasure there with politics. It reminds me of a tourney." And the fiddles! -through the thickets, How the wind brought from the hill Remnants of the old quadrille!- It was like the drone of crickets . . . Neither road. The shady quiet Of that path by beech and birch, Winding to the ruined church Near the stream that sparkles by it. Where the silent Sundays listen For the preacher-Love-we bring In our hearts to preach and sing Week-day shade to Sabbath glisten. 16 He, at parting: Yes, to-morrow. Early morn.- When the House of Day uncloses Portals that the stars adorn,- WV\hence Light's golden presence throws his Fiery lilies, burning roses On the world,-how good to ride With one's sweetheart at one's side! So to-morrow we will ride To the wood's cathedral places; Where the prayer-like wildflowxers hide, Sweet religion in their faces; Where, in truest, untaught phrases, Worship in each rhythmic word, God is praised by many a bird. Look above you.-Pearly white, Star on star now crystallizes Out of darkness; and the night Hangs them round her like devices Of strange jewels. Vapour rises, Glimmering, from each wood and dell- Till to-morrow, then, farewell. 53 PART III LATE SUMMER Heat lightning flickers in one cloud, As in a flow'r a firefly; Sonic rain-drops, that the rose-bush bowed, Jar through the leaves and dimly lie; Among the trees, now low, now loud, The whispering breezes sigh. The place is lone; the night is hushed; Upon the path a rose lies crushed. I Musing he strolls among the quiet lanes by farm and field. Now rests the season in forgetfulness, Careless in beauty of maturity; The ripened roses 'round brown temples, slhe Fulfils completion in a dreamy guess. Now Time grants night the more an( day the less; The gray decides; and brown Dim golds and drabs in dulling green express Themselves and redden as the year goes down. Sadder the fields where, thrusting hoary high Their tasseled heads, the Lear-like corn-stocks die, And, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie.- 54 Deeper to tenderness, Sadder the blue of hills that lounge along The lonesome west; sadder the song Of the wild red-bird in the leafage yellow.- Deeper and dreamier, ay! Than woods or waters, leans the languid sky Above lone orchards where the cider-press Drips and the russets mellow. Nature grows liberal: from the beechen leaves The beech-nuts' burs their little pockets thrust, Bulged with the copper of the nuts that rust; Above the grass the spendthrift spider weaves A web of silver for which Dawn designs Thrice twenty rows of pearls; beneath the oak, That rolls old roots in many gnarly lines,- The polished acorns, from their saucers broke, Strew wildwood agates.-On sonorous pines The far wind organs, but the forest near Is silent; and the blue-white smoke Of burning brush, beyond that field of hay, Hangs like a pillar in the atmosphere; B-Lit now it shakes-it breaks; and all the vines And tree-tops tremble;-see! the wind is here! Billowing and boisterous; and the smiling (lay Rejoices with its clamor. Earth and sky Resound with glory of its majesty, Impetuous splendor of its rushing by.- But on those heights the forest yet is still, Expectant of its coming. Far away Each anxious tree upon each waiting hill 55 Tingles anticipation, as in gray Surmise of rapture. Now the first gusts play, Like little laughs, about their rippling spines; And now the wildwood, one exultant sway, Shouts-and the light at each tumultuous pause, The light that glooms and shines, Seems hands in wild applause. How glows that garden! though the white mists keep The vagabonding flowers reminded of Decay that comes to slay in open love, When the full moon hangs cold and night is deep; Unheeding still, their happy colors leap And laugh encircled of the scythe of death,- Like lovely children he prepares to reap,- Staying his blade a breath To mark their beauty ere, with one last sweep, He lays them dead and turns away to wlveep.- Let me admire,- Ere yet the sickle of the coming cold Has mown them down,-their beauties mani- fold:- How like to spurts of fire That scarlet salvia lifts its blooms, which heap Yon space of sunlight. And, as sparkles creep Through charring parchment, up that window's screen The cypress dots with crimson all its green, 56 The haunt of many bees. And, showering down cascaded lattices, That nightshade bleeds with berries; drops of blood, In clusters hanging 'mid the blue monk's-hood. There in the garden old The bright-hued clumps of zinnias unfold Their formal flowers; and the marigold Lifts its pinched shred of orange sunset caught And elfed in petals. The nasturtium, All pungent leaved and bitter of perfume, Hangs up its goblin bonnet, fairy bought From Gnomeland. There, predominant, red, And arrogant the dahlia lifts its head, Beside the balsam's rosy horns of honey, Within the murmuring, sunny Dry wildness of the weedy flower bed; Where crickets and the weed-bugs, noon and night, Sing dirges for the flowers that soon wvill die, For flowers already dead.- I seem to hear the passing Summer sigh; A voice. that seems to weep, "Too soon, too soon the Beautiful passes by!"- If I perchance might peep Beneath those leaves of podded hollyhocks, That the bland wind with odorous whispers rocks, I might behold her,-white And Weary,-Summer, 'mid her flowers asleep, 67 Her drowsy flowers asleep, The withered poppies knotted in her locks. 2 He is reminded of another day with her. The hips were reddening on this rose, Those haws were hung with fire, That day we went this way that goes Up hills of bough and brier. This hooked thorn caught her gown and seemed Imploring her to linger; Upon her hair a sun-ray streamed Like some baptizing finger. This false-foxglove, so golden now With yellow blooms like bangles, Was fading then. But yonder bough,- The sumach's plume entangles,- Was like an Indian's painted face; And, like a squaw, attended That bush, in vague vermilion grace With beads of berries splendid. And here we turned to mount that hill, Down which the wild brook tumbles; And, like to-day, that day was still, And soft winds swayed the umbles Of these wild carrots lawny gray; And there, deep-dappled o'er us, 58 An orchard stretched; and in our way Dropped ripened fruit before us. A muffled thud the pippin fell, And at our feet rolled dusty; A hornet clinging to its bell, The pear lay bruised and rusty. 'the smell of pulpy peach and plum, From which the juice oozed yellow, Around which bees made sleepy hum, Filled warm the air and mellow. And then we came where, many hued, The wet wild-morning-glory Hung its balloons in shadows dewed For dawning's offertory. With bush and bramble, far away, B3eneath us stretched the valley, Cleft of one creek, as clear as dav, That bickered mussically. Tile brown, the bronze, the green, the re(l Of weed and brier ran riot To walls of woods, whose vistas led To shadowy nooks of quiet. Long waves of feathering golden-rod Ran through the gray in patches; As in a cloud the gold of God Burns, that the sunset catches. 59 And there, above the blue hills, rolled, Like some vast conflagration, The sunset, flaming rose and gold, WVe watched in exultation. Then turning homeward, she and I Went in love's sweet derangement- How different now seem earth and sky, Since this undreamed estrangement! 3 He enters the woods. He sits down despondently. Here where the day is dimmest, And silence company, Some might find sympathy For loss, or grief the grimmest, In each great-hearted tree- Here where the day is dimmest- But, ah, there's none for me! In leaves might find communion, Returning sigh for sigh, For love the heavens deny; The love that yearns for union, Yet parts and knows not why.- In leaves might find communion- But, ah, not I, not I! 60 My eyes with tears are aching.- Why has she written me And will no longer see - My heart with grief is breaking, With grief that this should be- My eyes with tears are aching- Why has she written me 4 He proceeds in the direction of a shears. Better is death than sleep, Better for tired eyes.- WX hy do we weep and weep When near us the solace lies There in that stream, that, deep,- Reflecting woods and skies,- Could comfort all our sighs. The mystery of things, Of dreams, philosophies, 'Round which the mortal clings, That can unriddle these.- What is't the water sings What is't it promises- End to all miseries! 61 5 le seats himself on a rock and gazes steadily into the stream. And here alone I sit and it is so!- 0 vales and hills! 0 valley lands and knobs! What cure have you for woe None that my heart may know! - The wearying sameness !-yet this thing is so!- This thing is so, and still the waters flow., The leaves drop slowly down; the daylight throbs With sun and wind, and yet this thing is so!- Here, at this culvert's mouth, The shadowy water, flowing towards the south, Seems deepest, stagnant-stayed.- What is there yonder that makes me afraid- Of my own self afraid -what is't below What power draws me to the striate stream What evil or what dream- Me, dropping pebbles in the quiet wave, That echoes, strange as music in a cave, Hollow and thin; vibrating in the shade Like sound of tears-the shadow of some woe, An ailing phantom that will not be laid, Since this is so, since this sad thing is so. There, in the water, how the lank green grass Mats its rank blades, each blade a crooked kris, 62 Making a marsh; 'mid which the currents miss Their rock-born melodies. But there, and there one sees The wide-belled mallow, as within a glass, 1Long-pistiled, leaning o'er Tile root-contorted shore, ASif it own pink image it would kiss. And there the tangled wild-potato vine Lifts conical blossoms, each a cup of wine, As pale as moonlight is. And there tall gipsy lilies, all a-sway, Their savage, coppery faces, fierce of hue, Dull purple-streaked, bend in inverted view.- And where the stream around those rushes creeps, The dragon-fly, in endless error, keeps Sewing the pale gold gown of day With tangled stitches of a burning blue: Its brilliant body seems a needle fine, A thread of azure ray. But here below me where my pensive shade Looks up at me, the stale stream stagnant lies, Deep, dark, but clear and silent; save the hiss Of bursting bubbles in the spawny ooze.- All flowers here refuse To grow or blossom; beauties, too, are few, That haunt its depths: no glittering minnows braid Its languid crystal; and no gravels strew 63 With colored orbs its bottom. Half afraid I shrink from my own eyes There in its cairngorm skies- I know not why, and yet it seems 'tis this:- I know not what-but where the kildees wade Slim in the foamy scum, From that direction hither doth it come, And makes my heart afraid. Nearer it draws to where those low rocks ail, Warm rocks on which some water-snake hath clomb To bask its spotted body, coiling numb.- At first it seemed a prism on the grail, A bubble's prism yonder; then a trail, An angled sparkle in a shadow, swayed Frog-like through deeps, to crouch a flaccid, pale, Squat bulk below. . Reflected trees and skies, And breeze-blown clouds that lounge at sunny loss, Seem in its stolid eyes, Deep down-the dim disguise Of something ghoulish there, whose features fail, Then come again in rhythmic waviness, With arms like tentacles that seem to press Up towards me. Limbs that writhe, and fade, And clench-tough limbs, that twist and cross Through flabby hair like smoky moss. 64 How horrible to see this thing at night! Or when the sunset slants its brimstone light Above the water! when, in phantom flight, The will-o'-the-wisps, perhaps, above it reel. Then. haply would it rise, a rotting green, Up, up, and gather me with arms of steel, Soft steel, and drag me where the wave is white, Beneath that boulder there, that plants a keel Atainst the ripple there, a shoulder lean.- No! no! I must away before 'tis night! Before the fire-flies dot The dusk with sulphur blurrings bright! Before ipon yon height The -white wild-carrots vanish from the sight; And boneset blossoms, tossing there in clusters, Fade to a ridge, a streak of ghostly hustres. And in yon sunlit spot, That cedar tree is not!- But a huge cap instead, that, half-asleep, Some giant dropped while driving home his sheep. And 'mid those fallow browns And russet grays, the fragrant peak Of yonder timothy stack, Is not a stack, but somnething hideous, black, That threatens and, grotesquely demon, frowns. I intust away from here.- Already dusk draws near. The owlet's dolorous hoot Sounds quavering as a gnome's wild flute; 65 The toad, within the wet, Begins to tune its goblin flageolet. The slow sun sinks behind Those hills; and like a withered cheek, Distorted there, the spectral moon's defined Above those trees; above that mass of vines That, like a wrecked appentice, roofs those pines.- Oh, I am faint and weak.- I must away, away, Before the close of day!- Already at my back I feel the woods grow black; And sense the evening wind, Guttural and gaunt and blind, Snarling behind me like a were-wolf pack.- When will it cease to pierce, This anguish dull and fierce, At heart and soul when will it let me go - At last, with footsteps slow, With half averted cheek, I've reached this woodland creek, Far from that place of fear; And still I seem to hear A dripping footstep near; A gurgling voice dim glimmering at my ear. I try to fly!-I can not!-yes, and no!- What horror holds me !-God! that obscene, slow, Sure mastering chimera there 66 Has yet some horrible feeler round my neck, Or in mv scattered hair !- Off! off! thou devil's coil!- The waters, thrashing, boil- Once more I'm free! once more I'm free! Glad of that firefly fleck, That, like a lamp of golden fairy oil, Lights me the way I flee.- No more I stare, magnetic-fixed; nor reck, Nor little care to foil The madness there! the murder there! that slips Back to its lair of slime, that seeps and drips, That; sought in vain to fasten on my lips. 6 Taking a letter from, his pocket, he hurries away. What can it mean for me What have I done to her I, in our season of love as a sun to her: She, all its heaven of silvery, numberful Stars and its moon shining golden and slum- berful ; Who on my life, that was thorny and lowery, Gazed-and made beautiful; smiled-and made flowery. She, to my heart and my soul a divinity! She, who-I dreamed !-seemed my spirit's affinity !- What have I done to her what have I done 67 What can she mean by this -what have I said to her! I, who have idolized, worshipped, and pled to her; Sung for her, laughed for her, sorrowed and sighed for her; Lived for her only; would gladly have died for her! See !-she has written me thus! she has written me . . . . . Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me! - Would you had shriveled ere ever you'd read of it, Eyes, that are wide to the bitterest dread of it!- What have I said to her what have I said What shall I make of it I who am trembling, Dreading to lose her.-A moth, the dissembling Flame of the candle attracts with its guttering, Flattering on till its body lies fluttering, Scorched in the summer night.-Foolish, in portunate, Whlly did'st thou leave the cool flowers, unfor- tunate! - Such has she been to me making me such to her, Slaying me, saying I never was much to her !- What shall I make of it what can I make 68 Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motion- less, Look, I have fallen; the evil is Motionless. I,-with no thought but the heav'n that did lock us in,- Set naked feet 'mid the cottonmouth, moccasin, Under the roses, the Cherokee, eyeing me.- 1,-in the sky with the egrets that, flying me, Loosened like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderly, White and pale pink; where the mocking-bird tenderly Sang, making vistas of mosses melodious; Wandered unheeding my steps in the odioits Ooze and thle venom. I followed the wiry Violet curve of thy star falling fiery- So wcas I lost in night! thus am undone! Have I not told to her-living alone for her- PurposedL unfoldments of deeds I had sown for her Here in the soil of my soul their variety Endless-and ever she answered with piety. See! it has come to this-all the tale's suavity At the ninth chapter grows wretched to gravity; Cruel as death all our beautiful history- Close it! -the finis is more than a mystery.- Yes, I will go to her; yes, I will speak. 69 7 After the last meeting; the day following. I seem to see her still; to see That dim blue room. Her perfume comes From lavender folds draped dreamily- One blossom of brocaded blooms- Some stuff of orient looms. I seem to hear her speak; and back Where lies the sun on books and piles Of porcelain and bric-a-brac, A tall clock ticks above the tiles, Where Love's framed profile smiles. I hear her say, "Ah, had I known!- I suffer too for what has been- For what must be."-A wild ache shone In her sad eyes that seemed to lean On something far, unseen. And as in sleep my own self seems Outside my suffering self.-I flush 'Twixt facts and undetermined dreams, And wait as silent as that hush Of lilac light and plush. Smiling, but suffering, I feel, Beneath that face, so sweet and sad, In those pale temples, thoughts like steel 70 Pierce burningly.-I had gone mad Had I once deemed her glad.- Unconsciously, with eyes that yearn To look beyond the present far For some faint future hope, I turn- Above her garden, day's fierce star, Vermilion at the window bar, Sank sullenly-like love's own sun- An omen of our future life.- And then the memory of one Rich day she'd said she'd be my wife Set heart and brain at strife. Again amid the heavy hues, Soft crimson, seal, and satiny gold Of flowers there, I stood 'mid dews With her; deep in her garden old, While sunset fires uprolled. And now . . . It can not be! and yet To feel 'tis so!-In heart and brain To know 'tis so!-while warm and wet I seem to smell those scents again, Verbena-scents and rain. I turn, in hope she'll bid me stay. Again her cameo beauty mark Set in that smile.-She turns away. 71 No word of love! not even a spark Of hope to cheer the dark! That sepia sketch-conceive it so- A jaunty head with mouth and eyes Tragic beneath a rose-chapeau, Silk-masked, unmasking-it denies The look we half surmise, We know is there. 'Tis thus we read The true beneath the false; perceive The smile that hides the ache.-Indeed! Whose soul unrnasks . . . .Not mine !-I grieve,- Oh God!-but laugh and leave .... 8 He Calks aimlessly on. Beyond those twisted apple-trees, That partly hide the old brick-barn, Its tattered arms and tattered knees A scare-crow tosses to the breeze Among the shocks of corn. My heart is gray as is the day, In which the rain-wind drearily Makes all the sounding branches sway, And in the hollows far away The dry leaves rustle wearily. '72 And soon we'll hear the far wild-geese Honk in frost-bitten heavens under Arcturus; when my walks must cease, And by the fireside's log-heaped peace I'll sit and nod and ponder.- When every fall of this loud creek Is architeetured ice; and hinted Brown acres of yon corn stretch bleak, XVhite-sculpt-ared with the snows, that streak The hillsides bitter-tinted, I'll sit and dream of that glad morn We went down ways where blooms were blowing; That dusk we strolled through flower and thorn, By tasseled meads of cane and corn, To where the stream was flowing. Again I'll oar our boat anmonc, The lily-pads that dot the river; And reach her hat the grape-vine long Strikes in the stream; we'll sing that son, And then . . . . I'll wake and shiver. Why is it that my mind reverts To that sweet past while full of parting The present is; so full of hurts And heartache, that what it asserts Adds only to the smarting. 73 How often shall I sit and think Of that sweet past! through lowered lashes What-might-have-been trace link by link; Then watch it gradually sink And crumble into ashes. Outside I'll hear the sad wind weep Like some lone spirit, grieved, forsaken; Then shuddering to bed shall creep And lie awake, or haply sleep A sleep by visions shaken. Dreams of the past that paint and draw The present in a hue that's wanting; A scare-crow thing of sticks and straw,- Like that just now I, passing, saw,- Its empty tatters flaunting. 9 He compares the present day with a past one. The sun a splintered splendor was In trees, whose waving branches blurred Its disc, that day we went together, 'Mid wild-bee hum and whirring buzz Of insects, through the fields that purred With Summer in the perfect weather. So sweet it was to look and lean To her young face and feel the light 74 Of eyes that met my own unsaddened! Her laugh, that left lips more serene; Her speech, that blossomed like the white Life-everlasting there and gladdened. Maturing Summer! you were fraught With more of beauty then than now Parades the pageant of September: Where what-is-now contrasts in thought With what-was-once; that bloom and bough Can only help me to remember. 10 Hie pauses before a deserted house by the 'roadside. Through iron-weeds and roses And ancient beech and oak, Old porches it discloses Above the weeds and roses, The drizzling raindrops soak. Neglected walks a-tangle With dodder-strangled grass; And every mildewed angle Heaped with dead leaves that spangle The paths that round it pass. The creatures there that bury Ail hide within its rooms, And spidered closets-very Dim with gray webs-will hurry Out when the twilight glooms. Owls roost in room and basement; Bats haunt its hearth and porch, And through some paneless casement Flit, in the moon's enlacement, Or firefly's twinkling torch. There is a sense of frost here, And gusts that sigh away.-- What was it that was lost here Long, long ago was lost here- Can anybody say SMy foot perhaps would startle Some bird that mopes within; Some owl above its portal, That stares upon the mortal As on a thing of sinl. The riatty road winds by it This side the dusty toll.- Why do I stop to eye it My heart can not deny it- The house is like my soul. 76 11 He proceeds on his way. I bear a burden-look not therein! Naught will you find but sorrow and sin; Sorrow and sin that wend with me Wberever I go. And misery, A gaunt companion, a wretched bride, Goes always with me, side by side. Sick of myself and all the Earth., I ask my soul now-is life worth The little pleasure that we gain For all our sorrow and our pain The love, to which we gave our best, That turns a mockery and a jest 12 Antoing the twilight fields. The things we love, the loveliest things we cherish, Pass from us soonest, vanish utterly. Diist are our deeds, and dust our dreams that perish Ere we can say they be! 77 I have loved man and learned we are not brothers- Within myself, perhaps, may lie the cause; Then set one woman high above all others, And found her full of flaws. M\Iade unseen stars my keblahs of devotion; Aspired to knowledge and remained a clod: With heart and soul, led on by blind emotion, The way to failure trod. Chance, say, or fate that works through good and evil; Or destiny, that nothing may retard, That to some end, above life's empty level, Perhaps withholds reward. 78 PART IV LATE AUTUMN They who die young are blest.- Should we not envy such They are Earth's happiest, God-loved and favored much !- They who die young are blest. I Sick and sad, propped amiong pillows, she sits at her window. 'Though the dog-tooth violet come With April showers, And the wild-bees' music hunm About the flowers, We shall never wend as when Love laughed leading us from men Over violet vale and Hlen, Where the bobwhite piped for hours, And we heard the rain-crow's drum. Now November heavens are gray; Autumn kills Every joy-like leaves of May In the rills.- Still I sit and lean and listen To a voice that has arisen In my heart-with eyes that glisten 79 Looking at the happy hills Fading dark-blue far away. 2 Sche gazes out upon the dying garden. There rank death clutches at the flowers And drags them down and stamps in earth. At morn the thin, malignant hours, Shrill-miouthed among the windy bowers, Clamor a bitter mirth.- Or is it heart-break that, forlorn, Would so conceal itself in scorn At noon the weak, white sunlight crawls, Like feeble feet once beautiful, Fromn mildewed walks to mildewed walls, Down which the oozing moisture falls Upon the cold toadstool.- Faint on the leaves it drips and creeps- Or is it tears of one who weeps At night a misty blur of moon Slips through the trees,-pale as a face Of melancholy marble hewn; And, like the phantom of some tune, Winds whisper in the place.- Or is it love come back again, Seeking its perished joy in vain 80 3 She muses upon the past. When in her cloudy chiton, Spring freed the frozen rills, And walked in rainbowed light on The forests, fields, and hills; Beyond the world's horizon, That no such glory lies on, And no such hues bedizen, Love led us far from ills. WVhen Summer came, a sickle Stuck in her sheaf of gleams, And let the honey trickle FFrom out the beehives' seams; Within the violet-blotted Sweet book to us alloted,- Whose linies are starry dotted,- Love rea(l us still his dreams. Then Autumn canme,-a liar, A fair-faced heretic;- In gypsy garb of fire, Throned on a harvest rick.- Our lives, that fate had thwarted, Stood pale and broken hearted,- Though smiling when we parted,- Where love to death lay sick. 81 Nowv is the Winter waited, The tyrant hoar and old, With death and hunger mated, XWho counts his crimes like gold.- Once more before forever We part-once more, then never- Once more before we sever Must I his face behold! 4 She takes up a book and reads. What little things are those That hold our happiness! A smile, a glance, a rose Dropped from her hair or dress; A word, a look, a touch,- These are so much, so much. An air we can't forget; A sunset's gold that gleams; A spray of migonette, Will fill the soul with dreams lore than all history says, Or romance of old days. For of the human heart, Not brain, is memory; These things it makes a part Of its own entity; 82 The joys, the pains whereof Are the very food of love. 5 She lays down the book. How true! how true ! -but words are weak In sympathy they give the soul, To mnusic-miusic, that can speak All the heart's pain and dole; Still making us remember most The love we've lost, the love we've lost. So weary am I, and so fain To see his face, to feel his kiss Thrill rapture through my soul again, There is no hell like this.- Ali, God! mny God, were it not best To give me rest, to give mie rest 6 She writes to him to comne to her. Dead lie the dreams we cherished, The dreams we loved so well; Like forest leaves they perished, Like autumn leaves they fell. Alas! that dreams so soon should pass! Alas! Alas! 83 The stream lies bleak and arid That once Tent singing on; The flowers once that varied Its banks are dead and gone: Where these were once are thorns and thirst- The place is curst. Come to me; I am lonely: Forgive what you have heard.- Come to me; if for only One last sad parting word: For one last word before the pall Falls over all. The day and hour are suite(I For what I'd say to you Of love that I uprooted- But I have suffered too! Come to me- I would s-Ay good-by Before I die. 7 The wind rises; the trees are ag7tated. WoodIs, that beat the hind with frantic Gestures and drop darkly 'round Acorns gnarled and leaves that antic XWildly on the rustling ground! 84 Is it tragic grief that saddens Through your souls this autumn day Or the joy of death that gladdens In exultance of decay Arrogant you lift defiant Boughs against the moaning blast, That, like some invisible giant, WX rapped in tumult, thunders past. Is it that in such insurgent Fury tossed from tree to tree, You would quench the fiercely urgent Pangs of some old memory As in toil and violent action, That still help them to forget, Moritals drown the dark distraction And insistence of regret. 8 She mnuses in the gathering twilight. Last night I slept till midnight; then woke, and far away A cock crowed; lonely and distant came mourn- ful a watch-dog's bay: But lonelier, sadder the tedious, old clock ticked on towards day. 85 And what a day ! -remember those morns of suIlmmler and spring, That bound our lives together! each morn a wedding-ring Of dew, aroma and sparkle, and flowers and birds a-wing. Sweet morns when I strolled my garden await- ing him, the rose Expected too, with blushes-the Giant-of-Battle that grows A bank of radiance and fragrance where the gate its shadow throws. Not in vain did I wait, departed sumnuer, amild your phlox! The .powdery crystal and crimson of your hollow hollyhocks; Your fairy-bells and poppies and the bee that in them rocks. Cool-clad 'neath the pendulous purple of the morning-glory vine, By the jewel-mine of the pansies and the snap- dragons in line, I waited, and there he met me whose heart was one with mine. How warm was the breath of the garden when he met me there that day! 86 How the burnished beetle and butterfly flew past us,each a ray! The memory of those meetings still bears me far away. Ah, me! when I think of the handfuls of little gold coins a-mass My bachelor's-buttons scattered over the garden grass, And the marigolds that boasted their bits of burning brass; More bitter I feel the autumn tighten 'round spirit and heart; And regret the days remembered as lost-that stand apart, A chapter holy and sacred, I read with eves that smart. Again to the woods a-trysting by the water- mill I steal, Where the lilies tumble together, the madcap wind at heel; And meet him amona the blossoms that the rocks and the trees conceal. Or the wild-cat grey of the meadows that the ox-eyed daisies dot; Fawn-eyed and tiger-yellowv, that tangle a tawny spot Of languid leopard beauty that dozes fierce and hot .. . 87 Ah! back again with the present! with winds that pinch and twist The leaves in their peevish passion, and whirl wherever they list; With the autumn, hoary and nipping, whose mausolean mist Builds wan a tomb for the daylight;-each morning shaggy with fog, That fits grey wigs to the cedars, and furs with frost each log; That carpets with pearl the meadow, and mar- bles brook and bog,- Alone at dawn-indifferent: alone at eve-I sigh: And wait, like the wind complaining: coin- plain and know not why: But ailing and longing and pining because I (1o not die. How dull is that sunset! dreary and cold, and hard and dead! The ghost of the one last August that, deeply rich and red, Like the wine of God's own vintage, poured purple overhead. But now I sit with the sighing dead dreams of a dying year; 88 Like the fallen leaves and the acorns, am worthless and feel as sear, With a withered soul and body whose heart is one big tear. As I stare from my window the daylight, like a bravo, its cloak puts on. The moon, like a cautious lanthorn, glitters and then is gone.- Will he come to-night will he answer-Oh, God! would it were dawn! 9 He enters. Taking her in his armbs he speaks. They said you were dying- You shall not die! . . . Why are you crying Why do you sigh- Cease that sad sighing!- Love, it is I. All is forgiven!- Love is not poor; Though he was driven Once from your door, Back he has striven, To part nevermore! 89 WVill you remember WVhat I forget- WYords, each an ember, That you regret Now in November, Now we have met What if love wept once! What though you knew! What if he crept once Pleading to you!- He never slept once, Nor was untrue. Often forgetful, Love may forget; Froward and fretful, Dear, lie will fret; Ever regretful, He hill regret. Life is completer Through his control; Living made sweeter Even through dole, Hearing Love's metre Sing in the soul. Flesh may not hear it, Being impure; And mind may fear it, 90 May not endure; But in the spirit- There we are sure. So when to-morrow Ceases, and we Quit this we borrow, Mortality, Love chastens sorrow So it can see .... Still you are weeping! Why do you weep - Are tears in keeping With joy so deep Gladness so sweeping- Are you asleep Speak to me, dearest! Say it is true!- That I am nearest, Dearest to vou.- Smnile with those clearest Eyes of grey blue. 91 10 She smiles through her tears; holding his hands she speaks. They did not say I could not live beyond this weary night, But now I know that I shall die before the morning's light. How weak I am! -but you'll forgive me when I tell you how I loved you-love you; and the pain it is to leave you now WAe could not marry! -See, the flesh, that clothes the soul of me, Ordained at birth a sacrifice to this heredity, Denied, forbade.-Ah, you have seen the bright spots in my cheeks Flush hectic, as before the night the west burns blood-red streaks Consumption.-"But I promised you my hand" -a thing forlorn Of life; diseased ! -Oh, God ! -and so, far better so, forsworn !- Oh, I was jealous of your love. But think: if I had died Ere babe of mine had come to be a solace at your side! 92 Had it been little then-your grief, when Heaven had made us one In everything that's good on earth and then the good undone No! no! and had I had a child, what grief and agony To know that blight born in him, too, against all help of me! Just when we cherish him the most, and youth- ful, sunny pride Sits on his curly front, to see him die ere we have died.- Whose fault -Ah, God !.-not mine! but his, that ancestor who gave Escutcheon to our humble house-a Death's- head and a, Grave. Beneath the pomp of those grim arms I live and may not move; Nor faith, nor truth, nor wealth avail to hurl them down, nor love! How could I tell you this-not then! when all the world was spun Of morning colors for our love to walk and dance upon. I could not tell you how disease hid here a hideous germ, Precedence slowly claiming and so slowly fixing firm. 93 And when I broke our plighted troth and would not tell you why, I loved you, thinking, "time enough when I have come to die." Draw off my rings, and let my hands rest so the wretched cough Will interrupt my feeble speech and will not be put off. Ah, anyhow my anodyne is this-to know that you Are near me, love me !-Kiss me now,as you were wont to do. And tell me you forgive me all; and say you will forget The sorrow of that breaking-off, the fever and the fret.- Now set those roses near my face and tell me death's a lie- Once it was hard for me to live . . . now it is hard to die. 94 PART V W I N T E R We, whom God sets a task, Striving, who ne'er attain, We are the curst !-who ask Death, and stilt ask in vain. We, whom God sets a task. 1 In the silence of his room. After many days. All, all are shadows. All must pass As writing in the sand or sea; Reflections in a looking-glass Are not less permanent than we. The days that mould us-w-hat are they That break us on their whirling wheel What but the potters! we the clay They fashion and yet leave unreal. Linked through the ages, one and all, In long anthroponmorphous chain, The human and the animal Inseparably must remain. Within us still the monster shape That shrieked in air and howled in slime, 95 What are we-partly man and ape- The tools of fate, the toys of time! 2 The bitterness of his bereavement speaks in him. Vased in her bedroom window, white As her chaste girlhood, never lost, I smelt the roses-and the night Outside was fog and frost. What though I claimed her dying there! God nor one angel understood Nor cared, who from sweet feet to hair Had changed to snow her blood. She had been mine so long, so long! Our harp of life was one in word- Why did death thrust his hand among The chords and break one chord! A placid lily was the face., A sad pale rose the mouth I kissed That morn, when filled with Heaven's own grace She passed into the mist. 96 3 Her dead face seems to rise up before him. The face that I said farewell to, Pillowed a flower on flowers, Comes back with its eyes to tell to My soul what its lips would spell too- Comes back to me at hours!- Dear, is your heart still daggered There by something amiss Love-is he still a laggard Hope-is her face still haggard Tell me what it is! You, who are done with To-morrow! Done with these worldly skies! Done with our pain and sorrow! Done with the griefs we borrow! Prayers and tears and sighs! Must we say "gone forever' Or will it all come true Shall I attain to you ever And, o'er the doubts that sever, Rise to the truth that's you Love, in my flesh so fearful, Medicine me this pain!- Love, -with the eyes so tearful, 97 How can my soul be cheerful, Seeing its joy is slain! Gone!-'twas only a vision!- Gone! like a thought, a gleam!- Such to our indecision Utter no empty mission, Truer than that they seem. 4 He silks into deep thought. There are shadows that compel us, There are voices that control; More than substance these can tell us, Speaking to the human soul. In the moonlight, when it glistened On my window, white as snow, Once I woke and, leaning, listened To a voice that sang below. Full of gladness, full of yearning, Strange with dreamy melody, Like a bird whose heart is burning, Wildly sweet it sang to me. I arose; and by the starlight, Pale beneath the mystic sky, 98 I have seen it full of far light,- My dead joy gro singing by. In the darkness, when the gliminer Of. the storm was on the pane, I have sat and heard a dimmer Vhoice lamenting in the rain. Full of parting and unspoken Heartbreak, faint with agony, Like a bird whose heart is broken, Sadly low it cried to me. I arose; and in the darkness Wan beneath the haunted sky, I have seen it, cold to starkness,- Mly dead love go weeping by. 5 He arouses frowe his abstraction. So long it seenis since last I saw her face, So long ago it seems, Like some sad soul in unconjectured space Still seeking happiness through perished grace And unrealities,-a little while Illusions lead me, ending in the smile Of Death triumphant in a thorny place Among Love's ruined roses and dead dreams. 99 Since she is gone, no more I see the light,- Since she has left all dark,- Cleave like a revelation through the night. I wander blindly, filled with fear and fright, Among the fragments and the wrecks and stones Of life, where Hope, amid the skulls and bones, Vith wxeary face, disheartened, wild and white, Trims her pale lamp with its expiring spark. Now she is dead, the Soul, naught can o'erawe,- Now she has passed from me, Questions God's justice that seems full of flaw As is His world, where misery is law, And men but fools too willing to be slaves.- lMy House of Faith, built up on dust of graves, The wind of doubt sweeps dowvn as made of straw, And all is night, and I no longer see. 6 He looks from his window toward the sombre west. Ridged and bleak the gray forsaken Twilight at the night has guessed; And no star of dusk has taken Flame unshaken in the west. 100 All day long the woodlands dying Moaned, and drippings as of grief Tossed from barren boughs with sighing Death of flying twig and leaf. Ah, to live a life unbroken, Scornful of the worst of fate! Like that tree . . . vith branches oaken Joy's unspoken intimate.- Who can say that man has never Lived the life of plants and trees Not so wide the lines that sever Us forever here from these. Colors, odors, that are cherished, Haply hint we once were flowers; Memory alone has perisled In this garished world of ours. Music,-that all things expresses, All for which we've loved or sinned,- Haply in our treey tresses Once was guesses of the wind .... But I dream!-The dusk, upbraiding, Deepens without moon or star; Darkness and my sorrow aiding, We but fading phantoms are. 101 And within me doubt keeps saying- "What is wrong and what is right Hear the cursing! hear the praying! All are straying on in night." 7 He turns fronm the 'window, takes up a book and reads. The Soul, like Earth, hath silences Which speak not, yet are heard- The voices mute of memories Are louder than a word. Theirs is a speech which is not speech; A language that is bound To soul-vibrations vague that reach Deeper than any sound. No words are theirs. They speak through things, A visible utterance Of thoughts-like those some sunset brings Or withered rose perchance. The heavens that once, in purple and flame, Spake to two hearts as one, In after years may speak the same To one sad heart alone. 102 'Litrough it the vanished face and eyes Of her, the sweet and fair, Of her the lost, again shall rise To comfort his despair. And so the love that led him long From golden scene to scene, Within the sunset is a tongue To tell him what has been.- How loud it speaks of that dead day, The rose whose bloom is fled! Of her who died; who, clasped in clay, Lies numbered with the dead. The dead are dead; with them 'tis well Within their narrow room; No memories haunt their hearts who dwell Within the grave and tomb. But what of those-the dead who live! The living dead, whose lot Is still to love-ah, God forgive!- To live and love, forgot!- 103 8 The storme is heard sounding wildly with wind and hail. The night is wild with rain and sleet. Each loose-warped casement claps and groans. I hear the plangent forest beat The tempest with long blatant moans As of despair, defeat. And sitting here beyond the storm, Alone within the lonely house, It seems that some mesmeric charm Hangs over all.-Why, even the mouse, That gnawed, has come to harm. And in the silence, stolen o'er All things, I strangely seem to fear Myself-that, opening yon door, I'd find my dead self drawing near, With face that once I wore. The stairway creaks with ghostly gusts. The flue moans-'tis a gorgon throat Of wailing winds. Ancestral dusts,- That yonder Indian war-gear coat With gray and spectral crusts,- 104 Are trembled down.-Or can it be, That he who wore it in the dance, Or battle, now fills shadowy Its wampumed skins And shakes his lance And warrior plume at me- Mere fancy!-Yet those curtains toss Mysteriously as if some dark Hand moved them.-And I'd fear to cross The shadow there where lies that spark- A glow-worm sunk in moss. Outside 'twere better!-Yes, I yearn To walk the waste where sway and dip The dark December boughs-where burn Somne late last leaves, that drip and drip No matter where you turn. Where sodden soil, you scarce have trod, Fills oozy footprints-but the blind Night there, tho' like the frown of God, Presents no phantoms to the mind, Like these that have o'erawed.- The months I count: how long it seems Since summer! summer, when with her, There on her porch, in rainy gleams We watched the flickering lightning stir In heavens gray as dreams. 105 When all the west, a sheet of gold, Flared,-like some Titan's opened forge,- With storm; revealing manifold Vast peaks of clouds with crag and gorge, Where thunder torrents rolled. Then came the wind; again, again The lightning lit the world-and how The tempest roared with rushing rain! . . . We could not read.-Where is it now, That tale of Charlemagne That old romance, ah me! that we Were reading till we heard the plunge Of summer thunder sullenly, And left to watch the lightning lunge, And winds bend down each tree.- That summer! how it built us there A world of love and necromance! A spirit-world, where all was fair; An island, sleeping in a trance Of lilied light and air. Where every flower was a thought; And every bird, a melody; And every fragrance, zephyr brought, WVas but the rainbowed drapery Of some sweet dream long sought. 106 () land of shadows! slhadow-home, Within wv world of memories! Around whose ruins sweeps the foam Of sorrow's immemorial seas, By whose dark shores I roamti! HowJ long in your wrecked halls alone With ghosts of joys must I remain Between the unknown and the knownn, Still listening to the wind and rain. And my own heart's wild moan. 9 He sits by the slowzly dying fire. The storm2 is heard with incrcased violence. Wild weather. The lash of the sleet On the gusty casement tapping- The sound of the storm like a sheet My soul and senses wrapping. Wild weather. And how is she, Now the rush of the rain falls serried Over the turf anid the tree Of the place where she is buried Wild weather. How black and deep Is the night where the mnad winds scurrv !- Do I sleep do I dream in my sleep That I hear her footsteps hurry 107 Hither they come like flowers- And I see her raiment glisten, Like the robe of one of the hours Where the stars to the angels listen. Before me, behold, how she stands! With lips high thoughts have weighted, And testifying hands, And eyes with glory sated. I have spoken and I have kneeled; I have kissed her feet in wonder- But lo! her lips-they are sealed, God-sealed, and will not sunder. Though I sob, "Your stay was long! You are come,-but your feet were laggard ! - With mansuetude and song, For the soul your death has daggered." Never a word replies, Never to all my weeping- Only a sound of sighs, And raiment past me sweeping . . .. I wake; and a clock strikes three- And the night and the storm beat serried Over the turf and the tree Of the place where she is buried. 108 THE LYRIC LIBRARY POEMS OF THE TOWN Ernest MeGaffey SONG-SURF Cale Young Rice ONE DAY AND ANOTHER Madison Cawein FOR THINE\KING HEARTS John Vance Cheney IN THE HARBOR OF HOPE Mary Elizabeth Blake Other volumes in preparation. 16i mo. Flexible Leather. 1.23. RICHARD G BADGER COMPANY (Incorporated) Publishers, Boston A book of poetry worth while. POEMS OF THE TOWN By ERNEST McGAFFEY 16 mo. Flexible Leather. 1.25 The following are but a few extracts from many reviews received on Poems of the Town. Among this chorus of praise there has not been one dis- senting voice. "For terse English, for picturesque and appro- priate imagery, for keen and faithful portraiture MNr. McMGaffey has no superior. And there will be many to say that this book entitles hinm to rec- ognition as the interpreter of his age."-Chicago lter-Ocean. "It is doubtful if any American poet has writ- ten a finer, mnore huminane, more nobly and right- eously wrathful outburst against the maladies of civrilization than the poenm in this collection en- titled Laocoon of the Toiwn."-St. Louis Mirror. "His lyrics have that touch of universality which distinguishes true poetry fromn mere verse. It is not too much to say that Poems of the Townit are certain to take a place among the best exam- ples of American poetry." -Editorial Chicago Chronicle. RICHARD G BADGER COMPANY (Incorporated) Publishers, Boston IRISH MIST AND SUNSHINE BALLADS AND LYRICS BY REV. JAMES B. DOLLARD (Sliav-na-mon) XWith an introduction by Willianm O'Brien, AI. P. With frontispiece. Small qua rto. Cloth ornamental. 1.50 This is a book of ringing Irish ballads that will stir the heart of every lover of true poetry. "Here and there a verse may be as frankly unadorned as the peasant cabins themselves in their homely cloaks of thatch, but every line rings true to life and home and with the tone, as heartmovino' as the Angrelhs which holds Millet's peasants in its spell," from Mr. O'Brien's introduction. "Father Dollard's ballads have all the fire and dash of Kipling's, with a firmer poetic touch" says Mr. Nathan Haskell Dole. RICHARD G BADGER COMPANY (Incorporated) Publishers, Boston FOUR DAYS OF GOD BY HARRUET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD With about 90 illustrations in color. Bound in white and gold and purple. Small 4 to. (Probably) 1.00. It is quite impossible to describe adequately the surpassing charm of this book. We can say sim- ply that it will appeal to every lover of nature who sees in her manifold beauties the living glories of the work of God. No one can write more beautiful or sparkling prose than Mrs. Spofford and never has she been so absolutely charming as in Four Days of God. The book has about 90 illustrations by Miss A. C. Tomlinson which catch the spirit of the text to perfection and with the harmonious print and paper and binding make the book a little gem. RICHARD G BADGER COMPANY (Incorporated) Publishers, Boston