A GOLDEN LAD

(D. V. M.)

"Golden lads and lasses must Like chimney-sweepers come to dust." —SHAKESPEARE.

So young, but already the splendor Of genius robed him about— Already the dangerous, tender Regard of the gods marked him out—

(On whom the burden and duty They bind, at his earliest breath, Of showing their own grave beauty, They love and they crown with death.)

We were of one blood, but the olden Rapt poets spake out in his tone; We were of one blood, but the golden Rathe promise was his, his alone.

And ever his great eye glistened With visions I could not see, Ever he thrilled and listened To voices withholden from me.

Young lord of the realms of fancy, The bright dreams flocked to his call Like sprites that the necromancy Of a Prospero holds in thrall—

Quick visions that served and attended, Elusive and hovering things, With a quiver of joy in the splendid Wild sweep of their luminous wings;

He dwelt in an alien glamor, He wrought of its gleams a crown,— But the world, with its cruelty and clamor, Broke him and beat him down;

So he passed; he was worn, he was weary, He was slain at the touch of life;— With a smile that was wistful and eerie He passed from the senseless strife;—

So he ceased (is their humor satiric, These gods that make perfect and blight?)— He ceased like an exquisite lyric That dies on the breast of night.

THE SAGE AND THE WOMAN

'TWIXT ancient Beersheba and Dan Another such a caravan Dazed Palestine had never seen As that which bore Sabea's queen Up from the fain and flaming South To slake her yearning spirit's drouth At wisdom's pools, with Solomon.

With gifts of scented sandalwood, And labdanum, and cassia-bud, With spicy spoils of Araby And camel-loads of ivory And heavy cloths that glanced and shone With inwrought pearl and beryl-stone She came, a bold Sabean girl.

And did she find him grave, or gay? Perchance his palace breathed that day With psalters sounding solemnly— Or cymbals' merrier minstrelsy— Perchance the wearied monarch heard Some loose-tongued prophet's meddling word;— None knows, no one—but Solomon!

She looked—with eyne wherein were blent All ardors of the Orient; She spake—all magics of the South Were compassed in the witch's mouth;— He thought the scarlet lips of her More precious than En Gedi's myrrh, The lips of that Sabean girl;

By many an amorous sun caressed, From lifted brow to amber breast She gleamed in vivid loveliness— And lithe as any leopardess— And verily, one blames thee not If thine own proverbs were forgot, O Solomon, wise Solomon!

She danced for him, and surely she Learnt dancing from some moonlit sea

Where elfin vapors swirled and swayed While the wild pipes of witchcraft played Such clutching music 'twould impel A prophet's self to dance to hell— So spun the light Sabean girl.

He swore her laughter had the lilt Of chiming waters that are spilt In sprays of spurted melody From founts of carven porphyry, And in the billowy turbulence Of her dusk hair drowned soul and sense— Dark tides and deep, O Solomon!

Perchance unto her day belongs His poem called the Song of Songs, Each little lyric interval Timed to her pulse's rise and fall;— Or when he cried out wearily That all things end in vanity Did he mean that Sabean girl?

The bright barbaric opulence, The sun-kist Temple, Kedar's tents,—

How many a careless caravan 'Twixt Beersheba and ruined Dan, Within these forty centuries, Has flung their dust to many a breeze, With dust that was King Solomon!

But still the lesson holds as true, O King, as when she lessoned you: That very wise men are not wise Until they read in Folly's eyes The wisdom that escapes the schools, That bids the sage revise his rules By light of some Sabean girl!

NEWS FROM BABYLON

"Archaeologists have discovered a love-letter among the ruins of Babylon." —Newspaper report.

The world hath just one tale to tell, and it is very old, A little tale—a simple tale—a tale that's easy told: "There was a youth in Babylon who greatly loved a maid!" The world hath just one song to sing, but sings it unafraid, A little song—a foolish song—the only song it hath: "There was a youth in Ascalon who loved a girl in Gath!"

Homer clanged it, Omar twanged it, Greece and Persia knew!— Nimrod's reivers, Hiram's weavers, Hindu, Kurd, and Jew— Crowning Tyre, Troy afire, they have dreamed the dream; Tiber-side and Nilus-tide brightened with the gleam—

Oh, the suing, sighing, wooing, sad and merry hours, Blisses tasted, kisses wasted, building Babel's towers! Hearts were aching, hearts were breaking, lashes wet with dew, When the ships touched the lips of islands Sappho knew; Yearning breasts and burning breasts, cold at last, are hid Amid the glooms of carven tombs in Khufu's pyramid— Though the sages, down the ages, smile their cynic doubt, Man and maid, unafraid, put the schools to rout; Seek to chain love and retain love in the bonds of breath, Vow to hold love, bind and fold love even unto death!

The dust of forty centuries has buried Babylon, And out of all her lovers dead rises only one; Rises with a song to sing and laughter in his eyes, The old song—the only song—for all the rest are lies!

For, oh, the world has just one dream, and it is very old— 'Tis youth's dream—a silly dream—but it is flushed with gold!

A RHYME OF THE ROADS

PEARL-SLASHED and purple and crimson and fringed with gray mist of the hills, The pennons of morning advance to the music of rock-fretted rills, The dumb forest quickens to song, and the little gusts shout as they fling A floor-cloth of orchard bloom down for the flashing, quick feet of the Spring.

To the road, gipsy-heart, thou and I! 'Tis the mad piper, Spring, who is leading; 'Tis the pulse of his piping that throbs through the brain, irresistibly pleading; Full-blossomed, deep-bosomed, fain woman, light-footed, lute-throated and fleet, We have drunk of the wine of this Wanderer's song; let us follow his feet!

Like raveled red girdles flung down by some hoidenish goddess in mirth The tangled roads reach from rim unto utter-most rim of the earth— We will weave of these strands a strong net, we will snare the bright wings of delight,— We will make of these strings a sweet lute that will shame the low wind-harps of night.

The clamor of tongues and the clangor of trades in the peevish packed street, The arrogant, jangling Nothings, with iterant, dissonant beat, The clattering, senseless endeavor with dross of mere gold for its goal, These have sickened the senses and wearied the brain and straitened the soul.

"Come forth and be cleansed of the folly of strife for things worthless of strife, Come forth and gain life and grasp God by foregoing gains worthless of life"—

It was thus spake the wizard wildwood, low-voiced to the hearkening heart, It was thus sang the jovial hills, and the harper sun bore part.

O woman, whose blood as my blood with the fire of the Spring is aflame, We did well, when the red roads called, that we heeded the call and came— Came forth to the sweet wise silence where soul may speak sooth unto soul, Vine-wreathed and vagabond Love, with the goal of Nowhere for our goal!

What planet-crowned Dusk that wanders the steeps of our firmament there Hath gems that may match with the dew-opals meshed in thine opulent hair? What wind-witch that skims the curled billows with feet they are fain to caress Hath sandals so wing'd as thine art with a god-like carelessness?

And dare we not dream this is heaven?—to wander thus on, ever on. Through the hush-heavy valleys of space, up the flushing red slopes of the dawn?— For none that seeks rest shall find rest till he ceaseth his striving for rest, And the gain of the quest is the joy of the road that allures to the quest.

THE LAND OF YESTERDAY

AND I would seek the country town Amid green meadows nestled down If I could only find the way Back to the Land of Yesterday!

How I would thrust the miles aside, Rush up the quiet lane, and then, Just where her roses laughed in pride, Find her among the flowers again. I'd slip in silently and wait Until she saw me by the gate, And then … read through a blur of tears Quick pardon for the selfish years.

This time, this time, I would not wait For that brief wire that said, Too late!— If I could only find the way Into the Land of Yesterday.

I wonder if her roses yet Lift up their heads and laugh with pride, And if her phlox and mignonette Have heart to blossom by their side; I wonder if the dear old lane Still chirps with robins after rain, And if the birds and banded bees Still rob her early cherry-trees….

I wonder, if I went there now, How everything would seem, and how— But no! not now; there is no way Back to the Land of Yesterday.

OCTOBER

CEASE to call him sad and sober, Merriest of months, October! Patron of the bursting bins, Reveler in wayside inns, I can nowhere find a trace Of the pensive in his face; There is mingled wit and folly, But the madcap lacks the grace Of a thoughtful melancholy. Spendthrift of the seasons' gold, How he flings and scatters out Treasure filched from summer-time!— Never ruffling squire of old Better loved a tavern bout When Prince Hal was in his prime. Doublet slashed with gold and green; Cloak of crimson; changeful sheen, Of the dews that gem his breast; Frosty lace about his throat;

Scarlet plumes that flaunt and float Backward in a gay unrest— Where's another gallant drest With such tricksy gaiety, Such unlessoned vanity? With his amber afternoons And his pendant poets' moons— With his twilights dashed with rose From the red-lipped afterglows— With his vocal airs at dawn Breathing hints of Helicon— Bacchanalian bees that sip Where his cider-presses drip— With the winding of the horn Where his huntsmen meet the morn— With his every piping breeze Shaking from familiar trees Apples of Hesperides— With the chuckle, chirp, and trill Of his jolly brooks that spill Mirth in tangled madrigals Down pebble-dappled waterfalls— (Brooks that laugh and make escape Through wild arbors where the grape

Purples with a promise of Racy vintage rare as love)— With his merry, wanton air, Mirth and vanity and folly Why should he be made to bear Burden of some melancholy Song that swoons and sinks with care? Cease to call him sad or sober,— He's a jolly dog, October!

CHANT OF THE CHANGING HOURS

THE Hours passed by, a fleet, confused crowd; With wafture of blown garments bright as fire, Light, light of foot and laughing, morning-browed, And where they trod the jonquil and the briar Thrilled into jocund life, the dreaming dells Waked to a morrice chime of jostled bells;— They danced! they danced! to piping such as flings The garnered music of a million Springs Into one single, keener ecstasy;— One paused and shouted to my questionings: "Lo, I am Youth; I bid thee follow me!"

The Hours passed by; they paced, great lords and proud, Crowned on with sunlight, robed in rich attire; Before their conquering word the brute deed bowed, And Ariel fancies served their large desire;

They spake, and roused the mused soul that dwells In dust, or, smiling, shaped new heavens and hells, Dethroned old gods and made blind beggars kings: "And what art thou," I cried to one, "that brings His mistress, for a brooch, the Galaxy?"— "I am the plumed Thought that soars and sings: Lo, I am Song; I bid thee follow me!"

The Hours passed by, with veiled eyes endowed Of dream, and parted lips that scarce suspire, To breathing dusk and arrowy moonlight vowed, South wind and shadowy grove and murmuring lyre;— Swaying they moved, as drows'd of wizard spells Or tranc'd with sight of recent miracles, And yet they trembled, down their folded wings Quivered the hint of sweet withholden things, Ah, bitter-sweet in their intensity! One paused and said unto my wonderings: "Lo, I am Love; I bid thee follow me!"

The Hours passed by, through huddled cities loud With witless hate and stale with stinking mire:

So cowled monks might march with bier and shroud Down streets plague-spotted toward some cleansing pyre;— Yet, lo! strange lilies bloomed in lightless cells, And passionate spirits burst their clayey shells And sang the stricken hope that bleeds and clings: Earth's bruised heart beat in the throbbing strings, And joy still struggled through the threnody! One stern Hour said unto my marvelings: "Lo, I am Life; I bid thee follow me!"

The Hours passed by, the stumbling hours and cowed, Uncertain, prone to tears and childish ire,— The wavering hours that drift like any cloud At whim of winds or fortunate or dire,— The feeble shapes that any chance expells; Their wisdom useless, lacking the blood that swells The tensed vein: the hot, swift tide that stings With life. Ah, wise! but naked to the slings Of fate, and plagued of youthful memory! A cracked voice broke upon my pityings: "Lo, I am Age; I bid thee follow me!"

Ah, Youth! we dallied by the babbling wells Where April all her lyric secret tells;— Ah, Song! we sped our bold imaginings As far as yon red planet's triple rings;— O Life! O Love! I followed, followed thee! There waits one word to end my journeyings: "Lo, I am Death; I bid thee follow me!"

DREAMS AND DUST