ACANTHUS

Beneath the sculptured marble portico Of a Greek temple, white against the sky, Carved capitals on pillars rising high Gleam like great blossoms in the noonday's glow. Proudly each column in the stately row Its crown of beauty wears; the sunbeams die Among acanthus leaves that nestling lie Where they were carved two thousand years ago.

Eternal Beauty, thou wilt not be bound By time-forged fetters, but dost find a home Where Gothic pillars rise acanthus-crowned Beneath gray northern spires or southern dome, Eternal Beauty, Everlasting Truth, Thou hast the secret of undying youth.

Old gods are dead; their broken shrines are lying Profaned with blood and trampled to the ground; I see lost beauty with each sunset dying, I hear lost music in each echoing sound. Old gods are dead; triumphant stands the scoffer Beside old altars where our offerings lay,— False gods perhaps,—but what have you to offer Who batter down old temples in a day? Old gods are dead; but still the sunset lingers, The moonlight still its store of treasure yields, Dawn touches darkness with its magic fingers, And bluebirds wing their flight across green fields, The sea-tides ebb and flow, stars shine above, And human hearts still long for human love.

There rise the palace walls as fair to-day, As when with arms and banners gleaming bright, The pageantry of royal pomp and might Passed through the guarded gates and went its way. The blue, translucent beams of morning play On arch triumphal, veiled in silver light; And here, where blind red fury reached its height, An ancient column rises grim and gray.

Slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be, And dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago, Unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow About its feet of life's unresting sea; But 'mid the roar, I hear it murmur low: Poor fools, they know not all is vanity!

Gray birds of passage from another sky Are those long hours I sit and wait for you; Borne by strong wings across the sunlit blue They go—dark flecks of shadow drifting by. Sometimes they bring a song—a joyful cry, As morn and eve your coming used to do; But sometimes plaintive notes of sorrow too, Amid the joyful echoes wail and die.

Then as I watch the beating of the wings That seek a haven by far northern lakes, And catch the note of some bird-heart that sings, Or hear the plaintive cry of one that breaks, I turn once more to half-forgotten things, And the old longing in my heart awakes.

See how the agèd trembling hands of Day Spill over the white cloth and tea-cups blue, Red wine from his last goblet poured away; So let me by the window sit with you, And watch the sun drop down behind the trees, Or gleam across the snow—a crimson bar; For in still, mystic moments such as these Down unknown by-ways we may wander far. The crimson turns to purple on the snow, The orange sky grown gray, and glimmering lights Of scattered star-lamps through the darkness glow; But neither Night nor Death my soul affrights, For clear there gleams, all earthly dark above, The ever-burning star-lamp of your love.

Through a long cloister where the gloom of night Lingers in sombre silence all the day, Across worn pavements crumbling to decay We wandered, blindly groping for the light. A door swung wide, and splendour infinite Streamed through the painted glass, and drove away The lingering gloom from choir, nave and bay, And a great minster's glory met our sight.

Blindly along life's cloister do we grope, We seek a gate that leads to life immortal, We see it loom before us dim and vast, And doubt's dark shadow's veil the light of hope: When lo, Death's hand flings wide the sombre portal, And light unfading meets our gaze at last.

The gloom of night creeps down the shadowy choir, But through the great rose-window's gorgeous bloom Red shafts of sunset fall upon a tomb, And makes the gray stone burn—a crimson pyre. The creeping tide of darkness rises higher, Tall ghostly pillars through the shadows loom, And from dim altars through the minster's gloom, Pale yellow gleams the guttering candles' fire.

Sudden from out the shadow streams a song, —A sword of sound that cleaves the dark in twain— And rings and glows triumphant, swift and strong, Victorious over sorrow, death and pain; And golden visions pass before my soul As through dim arches the last echoes roll.

With silent feet in trailing robes of white They crept from shadowy temples, far beyond Tall bamboo groves, to seek the lotus-pond That gleamed like some dark jewel through the night Upon great Buddha's breast. The crimson height Echoed their chanting as the morning dawned, And each bud, breaking from its silver bond, Lifted its cup to catch the golden light.

And here beside this mist-bound northern lake, Encircled by tall spires of Gothic firs, The ancient beauty-worship wakes and stirs Within me, as I watch the morning break Upon white lily-buds, whose lips agleam Whisper the secret of the world-old dream.

It lies alone upon a tide-swept shore, Above a crescent beach of silver sand, Flung high upon the rocks by some great hand Stretched from the dark, whose fingers clutched and tore The main-mast from the ship. Above it soar White gulls, and near in wild-rose tangle stand Old twisted pines, where song-birds of the land Mingle soft singing with the ocean's roar.

And through long summer days it dreams old dreams Of far-off southern forests, and the sighing Of wind-blown boughs above bird-haunted streams; But when the storm sets the white spindrift flying It thrills and trembles with the old unrest, And shakes the wild-rose petals from its breast.

Her age-worn hands upon her apron lie Idle and still. Against the sunset glow Tall poplars stand, and silent barges go Along the green canal that wanders by. A lean, red finger pointing to the sky, The spire of Notre Dame. Above a row Of dim, gray arches where the sunbeams die, The ancient belfry guards the square below.

One August eve she stood in that same square And gazed and listened, proud beneath her tears, To see her soldier passing down the street. To-night the beat of drums and trumpets' blare With bursts of fiendish music smite her ears, And mingle with the tread of trampling feet.

AUGUST, 1915.

In royal splendour rose the house of prayer, Its mystic gloom arched over by the flight Of soaring vault; above the nave's dim night Rich gleamed the painted windows wondrous fair. Sweet chimes and chanting mingled in the air; Blue clouds of incense dimmed the vaulted height; And on the altar, like a beacon light, The gold cross glittered in the candles' glare.

To-day no bells, no choirs, no incense cloud, For thou, O Rheims art prey of evil powers; But with a voice a thousand times more loud Than siege-guns echoing round thy shattered towers, Do thy mute bells to all the world proclaim Thy martyred glory and thy foeman's shame.

JUNE, 1916.

The women stood and watched while thick, black night Enclosed the awful tragedy. Afar Three crosses stood, against a single bar Of crimson-glowing, black-encircled light. No hint of Easter dawn. In all the height Of that dark heaven, not a single star To whisper;—Love and Life the victors are. It seemed to them that wrong had conquered right.

O ye who watch and wait, the night is long. A curtain of spun fire and woven gloom Across the mighty tragedy is drawn. But soon your ears shall hear a triumph song, And golden light shall touch each sacred tomb, And voices shout at last—The Dawn! The Dawn.

AUGUST, 1916.

I do not think of them—our glorious dead— As laying tired heads upon the breast Of a kind mother to be lulled to rest; I do not see them in a narrow bed Of alien earth by their own blood dyed red, But see in their own simple phrase—Gone West— The words of knights upon a holy quest, Who saw the light and followed where it led.

Gone West! Scarred warrior hosts go marching by, Their longing faces turned to greet the light That glows and burns upon the western sky. Leaving behind the darkness of the night, The long day over and the battle won, They seek for rest beyond the setting sun.

Now Peace at last is hovering o'er the world On silver wings, and golden trumpets blow. Home from the long crusade the warriors go,— Victorious knights with banners wide unfurled, Bow down your head, for these have passed where swirled Great tides of darkness ebbing too and fro; Their eyes have seen, 'mid fiery tempests' glow, How youth at Death its dauntless challenge hurled.

And these are they who saw the Holy Grail, Brimming with youthful blood like ruddy wine Poured out in sacrifice. The light divine Before whose awful glow they did not quail Now beckons us; and shall our footsteps fail To follow where they set the blood-stained sign?

NOVEMBER, 1918.

O sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes, Do you see the blue of the summer skies? Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream, As it winds by the shore where the birches gleam? Then come, come away From the shadowy bay, And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play; For we are two pirates, fierce and bold, And we'll capture the hoard of the morning's gold.

A roving craft is our red canoe, O pirate chief with the eyes of blue; So hoist your flag with the skull on high, And out we'll sail where the treasures lie. For in days of old Came pirates bold, With a Spanish galleon's captured gold; And their boat was wrecked on the river strand, And its treasures strewn on the silver sand.

Now steady all as we dash along, The rapids are swift but our paddles are strong; And soon we'll drift with the water's flow Where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below. O, cool and dim, 'Neath its foam-flecked brim, Is the pool where the swallows dip and skim; So we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe For the treasure that lies in the quivering blue.

Now home once more to the shadowy bay, For we've captured the gold of the summer's day, And emeralds green from the banks along, And silver bars from the white-throat's song. No pirates bore Such a glittering store From the treasure ships of the days of yore, As the spoils we have won on the shining stream, While we drifted along in a golden dream.

Red sunlight fades from wood and town, The western sky is crimson-dyed, Gaunt shadow-ships drift silent down Upon the river's gleaming tide.

The hills' clear outlines melt away Or veil themselves in purple light, And burning thoughts that vexed the day Become fair visions of the night.

She shivered and crouched in the immigrant shed In the midst of the surging crowd; Her hands were warped with the years of toil, And her young form bent and bowed.

Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance At the throng that round her pressed; But her face was the face of the Mother of God As she looked at the babe on her breast.

Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass, From a jumble of curios quaint and rare; And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass The whole day long, through the ancient square.

Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade, Here by the window he patiently waits For the sound that the gongs and the conches made, In the days of old at the temple gates.

He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears, For his heart is bronze, and he does not know That his temple has been for a thousand years But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.

So here he sits through the nights and the days, And the sun goes up and down the sky; But he often looks with a wistful gaze At the crowds that always pass him by.

And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream Of his poppy-land of long ago, Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream And the kneeling throng he used to know.

But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd Of human folks that pass him by; Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,— And the sun once more goes down the sky.

Silver birch and dusky pine, Reaching up to find the light From the forest's gloomy night, From the thicket where entwine Stunted shrub and creeping vine, From the damp where witch-fire glows And the poison fungus grows, High you lift your heads, O trees, To the kisses of the breeze, To the far-off vaulted sky, To the clouds that pass you by, To the sun that shines on high.

From the dusk of earthly night Strive, O soul, to reach the light.

In a dream he seems to lie Gazing at the golden bowl, Where dim visions passing by Whisper vaguely to his soul.

Restless phantoms come and go Crowned with cypress or with bay; Sad or merry, swift or slow, Tread they down the winding way.

Still the pageant winds along,— Youth and age and love and lust, Till at last the motley throng Fades and crumbles into dust.

All in vain upon the bowl Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes; He shall read its hidden scroll Only when it shattered lies.

For a wondrous light shall gleam From the scattered fragments born. Boy, dream on, for life's a dream, Followed by a golden morn.

Lad, the mighty hills are calling, Hills of promise gleaming bright, And the floods of sunshine falling Fill their deepest vales with light.

There the young dawn's golden fire Beckons to a brighter day, Untrod paths of youth's desire, Heights unconquered far away.

Steep and dark and spectre-haunted Winds the pathway to the height; Sturdy youth with heart undaunted Deems the toiling short and light.

Short or long, an easy Master, Gives each tired toiler rest, Counts not failure or disaster If the striving be the best.

Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you, Mates of old must soothe their pain, Mindless of whate'er befalls you If but honour still remain.

They have made me a lovely garden With walls that are rugged and gray; They have filled it with pinks and roses And lilies that bloom but a day; But the walls are so high and frowning, And the paths are so smooth and straight, And even their smallest winding Leads straight to the chapel gate.

I have planted a bed of pansies Along by the chapel wall, But though I have watered and weeded They never have blossomed at all. The sunshine of God cannot fall there, For the chapel tower is too high; So under its cold, gray shadow My poor little blossoms die.

The Mother of God—in marble— Gleams white where the willows toss, And at the far end of the pathway The dear Christ hangs on the cross; And when the vespers are over, If I have not sinned all day, I may walk to the end of the garden And kneel by the cross and pray.

But oh, for the wild, wild garden That I knew in the days gone by, Where the birches and elms and maples Stretched up to the wind-swept sky; Where, murmuring silver music, The brook through the ferny dell Ran down to the fields of clover,— But hush, there's the vesper bell!

You went away in summertime When leaves and flowers were young, And birds still lingered in the fields With many songs unsung.

I'm glad it was in summertime When skies were clear and blue, I could not say good-bye to you And bear the winter too.

Why must you sing of sorrow When the world is so full of woe? Why must you sing of the ugly? For the ugly and sad I know. Why will you sing of railways, Of Iron and Steel and Coal, And the din of the smoky cities? For these will not feed my soul.

But sing to me songs of beauty To gladden my tired eyes,— The beauty of waving forest, Of meadows and sunlit skies; Sing me of childish laughter, Of cradles and painted toys, Of the sea and the brooks and the rivers, And the shouting of bathing boys.

For the earth has a store of beauty Deep hid from our blinded eyes, And only the true-born poet Knows just where the treasure lies. So lead me from paths that are ugly, From the dust of the city street. To paths that are fringed with flowers, Where the sky and the meadows meet.

And though Sorrow may walk beside me To the far, far end of the road, If Beauty but beckon me onward, Less heavy will seem my load; And led in the paths of beauty, The world from its strife will cease; For I know that the paths of beauty Lead on to the paths of peace.

The mystic sits by the sacred stream Watching the sun as it mounts the sky; And life to him is a haunting dream Or a motley pageant passing by.

Sorrow and joy go on their way, Passion and lust and love and hate; Only a band of mummers they, Blindly led by the hand of fate.

Though the pageant is real and himself the dream, Though men are born and strive and die, Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream Watching the sun go down the sky.

Here in the beautiful valley, here where the fair rivers meeting, Mingle their waters in silence and wander afar to the sea, Now does thy son returning offer thee homage and greeting, Now do my wandering footsteps turn, O Mother, to thee.

Gleam in the light of the sunset cross and turret and tower, Mirrored majestic and silent down by the willow-clad shore; Far through the valley resounding, telling the evensong hour, Echoes the old bell's tolling, calling me back once more.

Here in the halls where I lingered, there in the woods where I wandered, On campus and river and hillside other young lives are aglow, Dreaming the dreams that I dreamed, thinking the thoughts that I pondered Deeming the pathway long and the swift-footed hours slow.

Rejoice young hearts in your youth, morn is the time for gladness, Time to sow for a harvest which all too soon you must reap; Bright be the hour of your noontide with never a shadow of sadness, Golden the gleam of your evening with silence and rest and sleep.

Glows the west crimson and gold far down the glorious river, Cross and tower and turret fade in the gloom of the night; Yet will my heart remember both Mother and sons forever, Far though the pathway may lead me, swift though the years in their flight.

I'll sing you a song of the Homeland, Though the strains be of little worth, A song of our own loved Homeland, Of the noblest land upon earth; Where the tide of the sea from oceans three Beats high in its triple might, Where the winds are born in a southern morn And die in a polar night.

I'll sing you a song of the Eastland, Of the land where our fathers died, Where Saxon and Frank, their feuds long dead, Are sleeping side by side; Where their sons still toil on the hard-won soil Of the mighty river plain, Where the censer swings and the Angelus rings, And the old faith lives again.

I'll sing you a song of the Westland Where the magic cities rise, And the prairies clothed with their golden grain Stretch under the azure skies; Where the mountains grim in the clouds grow dim Far north in the arctic land, And the northern light in its mystic flight Flares over the golden strand.

And I'll sing of the men of the Homeland From the north and east and west, The men who went to the Homeland's call, (Ah, God, we have given our best!) But not in vain are our heroes slain If under the darkened skies, All hand in hand from strand to strand A sin-purged nation rise.

Your mirror, love, reflects your smile As morn-flushed skies the coming dawn, But oh, how blank the weary while When you are gone!

My life's a mirror; with you near 'Tis filled with joy the live-long day, But oh, how meaningless and drear With you away!

I made a little song to-day, And then I wandered down Broadway, And saw the strange mad people run And dance about me in the sun, Or dive into the Underground Like rabbits frightened by the sound Of their own scampering through the grass; I watched a thousand people pass, But not a one did I hear say— I made a little song to-day.

I made a little song to-day, It sang beside me all the way Until I reached the lower town, Where crowds went surging up and down. Their eyes were hard and faces white, But some of them looked glad and bright, Because the Bulls—or was it Bears?— Had brought them gold for worthless shares; But I was happier than they;— I made a little song to-day.

I lie beneath a dark green pine Where sunbeams scarcely ever shine, And if I'm still as still can be Shy forest birds come down to me.

Brown thrushes run along the ground, Goldfinches flit without a sound, And humming-birds with ruby throats Alight to smooth their emerald coats.

And when some day alone I lie Beneath the ever-changing sky, I'm glad to know the birds will come To welcome me to my new home.

For I will lie so still that they Will linger by me all the day, And lulled at evening by their song I shall not find the darkness long.

One day I saw the bluebird's wing Agleam upon a waving sea Of emerald-coloured timothy. We walked together—you and I— We saw the bluebird gliding by; He came so near—the mad, wild thing— We almost touched his sapphire wing, But ere across our path he flew He rose and vanished in the blue.

To-day I saw the bluebird's wing; I heard wood-thrushes round me sing; Wind-blown across the April sky, Great swelling cloud-sails drifted by; And on the sky-line's silver sheen White birches danced in frills of green, And all the world was mad with spring. But you were miles and miles away; The bluebird's wing was dull and gray.

Why do I lie upon the ground And listen to the silver sound Of water flowing from a spring? It sings a song I cannot sing.

Why am I gazing at the sky To watch the clouds go trailing by? —Pearl ships upon a sapphire sea— They seek a land unknown to me.

Why do I listen to the song Of pine-boughs singing all day long? The secret that their songs unfold Ten thousand bards have left untold.