Front matter (continued 2)

Lord of the summer sea, Whose tides are in thy hand, Into immensity The vision at thy command

Fades now, and leaves no sign,— No light nor bell nor buoy,— Only the faint low line Of dangerous Monomoy.

Through the street of St. Germain March the tattered hosts of rain,

While the wind with vagrant fife Whips their chilly ranks to life.

From the window I can see Their ghostly banners blowing free,

As they pass to where the ships Crowd about the wharves and slips.

There at day's end they embark To invade the realms of dark,

And the sun comes out again In the street of St. Germain.

They say that he is dead, and now no more The reedy syrinx sounds among the hills, When the long summer heat is on the land. But I have heard the Catskill thrushes sing, And therefore am incredulous of death, Of pain and sorrow and mortality.

In these blue cañons, deep with hemlock shade, In solitudes of twilight or of dawn, I have been rapt away from time and care By the enchantment of a golden strain As pure as ever pierced the Thracian wild, Filling the listener with a mute surmise.

At evening and at morning I have gone Down the cool trail between the beech-tree boles, And heard the haunting music of the wood Ring through the silence of the dark ravine, Flooding the earth with beauty and with joy And all the ardors of creation old.

And then within my pagan heart awoke Remembrance of far-off and fabled years In the untarnished sunrise of the world, When clear-eyed Hellas in her rapture heard A slow mysterious piping wild and keen Thrill through her vales, and whispered, "It is Pan!"

These things I remember Of New England June, Like a vivid day-dream In the azure noon, While one haunting figure Strays through every scene, Like the soul of beauty Through her lost demesne.

Gardens full of roses And peonies a-blow In the dewy morning, Row on stately row, Spreading their gay patterns, Crimson, pied and cream, Like some gorgeous fresco Or an Eastern dream.

Nets of waving sunlight Falling through the trees; Fields of gold-white daisies Rippling in the breeze; Lazy lifting groundswells, Breaking green as jade On the lilac beaches, Where the shore-birds wade.

Orchards full of blossom, Where the bob-white calls And the honeysuckle Climbs the old gray walls; Groves of silver birches, Beds of roadside fern, In the stone-fenced pasture At the river's turn.

Out of every picture Still she comes to me With the morning freshness Of the summer sea,— A glory in her bearing, A sea-light in her eyes, As if she could not forget The spell of Paradise.

Thrushes in the deep woods, With their golden themes, Fluting like the choirs At the birth of dreams. Fireflies in the meadows At the gate of Night, With their fairy lanterns Twinkling soft and bright.

Ah, not in the roses, Nor the azure noon, Nor the thrushes' music, Lies the soul of June. It is something finer, More unfading far, Than the primrose evening And the silver star;

Something of the rapture My beloved had, When she made the morning Radiant and glad,— Something of her gracious Ecstasy of mien, That still haunts the twilight, Loving though unseen.

When the ghostly moonlight Walks my garden ground, Like a leisurely patrol On his nightly round, These things I remember Of the long ago, While the slumbrous roses Neither care nor know.

Behold, now, where the pageant of high June Halts in the glowing noon! The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill; The bannered hosts are still, While over forest crown and mountain head The azure tent is spread.

The song is hushed in every woodland throat; Moveless the lilies float; Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea Sighs only fitfully; The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade; Peace on the world is laid.

It is the hour when Nature's caravan, That bears the pilgrim Man Across the desert of uncharted time To his far hope sublime, Rests in the green oasis of the year, As if the end drew near.

Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise For these fleet halcyon days?— No courage to uplift thee from despair Born with the breath of prayer? Then turn thee to the lilied field once more! God stands in his tent door.

The black ash grows in the swampy ground, The white ash in the dry; The thrush he holds to the woodland bound, The hawk to the open sky.

The trout he runs to the mountain brook, The swordfish keeps the sea; The brown bear knows where the blueberry grows. The clover calls the bee.

The locust sings in the August noon, The frog in the April night; The iris loves the meadow-land, The laurel loves the height.

And each will hold his tenure old Of earth and sun and stream, For all are creatures of desire And children of a dream.

We are the roadside flowers, Straying from garden grounds,— Lovers of idle hours, Breakers of ordered bounds.

If only the earth will feed us, If only the wind be kind, We blossom for those who need us, The stragglers left behind.

And lo, the Lord of the Garden, He makes his sun to rise, And his rain to fall with pardon On our dusty paradise.

On us he has laid the duty,— The task of the wandering breed,— To better the world with beauty, Wherever the way may lead.

Who shall inquire of the season, Or question the wind where it blows? We blossom and ask no reason. The Lord of the Garden knows.

This is a holy refuge, The garden of Saint Rose, A fragrant altar to that peace The world no longer knows.

Below a solemn hillside, Within the folding shade Of overhanging beech and pine Its walls and walks are laid.

Cool through the heat of summer, Still as a sacred grove, It has the rapt unworldly air Of mystery and love.

All day before its outlook The mist-blue mountains loom, And in its trees at tranquil dusk The early stars will bloom.

Down its enchanted borders Glad ranks of color stand, Like hosts of silent seraphim Awaiting love's command.

Lovely in adoration They wait in patient line, Snow-white and purple and deep gold About the rose-gold shrine.

And there they guard the silence, While still from her recess Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down In mellow loveliness.

She seems to say, "O stranger, Behold how loving care That gives its life for beauty's sake, Makes everything more fair!

"Then praise the Lord of gardens For tree and flower and vine, And bless all gardeners who have wrought A resting place like mine!"

I heard the summer sea Murmuring to the shore Some endless story of a wrong The whole world must deplore.

I heard the mountain wind Conversing with the trees Of an old sorrow of the hills, Mysterious as the sea's.

And all that haunted day It seemed that I could hear The echo of an ancient speech Ring in my listening ear.

And then it came to me, That all that I had heard Was my own heart in the sea's voice And the wind's lonely word.

Here all night on the dunes In the rocking wind we sleep, Watched by sentry stars, Lulled by the drone of the deep.

Till hark, in the chill of the dawn A field lark wakes and cries, And over the floor of the sea We watch the round sun rise.

The world is washed once more In a tide of purple and gold, And the heart of the land is filled With desires and dreams untold.

Lord of morning, light of day, Sacred color-kindling sun, We salute thee in the way,— Pilgrims robed in rose and dun.

For thou art a pilgrim too, Overlord of all our band. In thy fervor we renew Quests we do not understand.

At thy summons we arise, At thy touch put glory on. And with glad unanxious eyes Take the journey thou hast gone.

Before the night-blue fades And the stars are quite gone, I lift my head At the noiseless tread Of the angel of dawn.

I hear no word, yet my heart Is beating apace; Then in glory all still On the eastern hill I behold his face.

All day through the world he goes, Making glad, setting free; Then his day's work done, On the galleon sun He sinks in the sea.

When earth was finished and fashioned well, There was never a musical note to tell How glad God was, save the voice of the rain And the sea and the wind on the lonely plain And the rivers among the hills. And so God made the marvellous birds For a choir of joy transcending words, That the world might hear and comprehend How rhythm and harmony can mend The spirits' hurts and ills.

He filled their tiny bodies with fire, He taught them love for their chief desire, And gave them the magic of wings to be His celebrants over land and sea, Wherever man might dwell. And to each he apportioned a fragment of song— Those broken melodies that belong To the seraphs' chorus, that we might learn The healing of gladness and discern In beauty how all is well.

So music dwells in the glorious throats Forever, and the enchanted notes Fall with rapture upon our ears, Moving our hearts to joy and tears For things we cannot say. In the wilds the whitethroat sings in the rain His pure, serene, half-wistful strain; And when twilight falls the sleeping hills Ring with the cry of the whippoorwills In the blue dusk far away.

In the great white heart of the winter storm The chickadee sings, for his heart is warm, And his note is brave to rally the soul From doubt and panic to self-control And elation that knows no fear. The bluebird comes with the winds of March, Like a shred of sky on the naked larch; The redwing follows the April rain To whistle contentment back again With his sturdy call of cheer.

The orioles revel through orchard boughs In their coats of gold for spring's carouse; In shadowy pastures the bobwhites call, And the flute of the thrush has a melting fall Under the evening star. On the verge of June when peonies blow And joy comes back to the world we know, The bobolinks fill the fields of light With a tangle of music silver-bright To tell how glad they are.

The tiny warblers fill summer trees With their exquisite lesser litanies; The tanager in his scarlet coat In the hemlock pours from a vibrant throat His canticle of the sun. The loon on the lake, the hawk in the sky, And the sea-gull—each has a piercing cry, Like outposts set in the lonely vast To cry "all's well" as Time goes past And another hour is gone.

But of all the music in God's plan Of a mystical symphony for man, I shall remember best of all— Whatever hereafter may befall Or pass and cease to be— The hermit's hymn in the solitudes Of twilight through the mountain woods, And the field-larks crying about our doors On the soft sweet wind across the moors At morning by the sea.

Said a traveller by the way Pausing, "What hast thou to say, Flower by the dusty road, That would ease a mortal's load?"

Traveller, hearken unto me! I will tell thee how to see Beauties in the earth and sky Hidden from the careless eye. I will tell thee how to hear Nature's music wild and clear,— Songs of midday and of dark Such as many never mark, Lyrics of creation sung Ever since the world was young.

And thereafter thou shalt know Neither weariness nor woe.

Thou shalt see the dawn unfold Artistries of rose and gold, And the sunbeams on the sea Dancing with the wind for glee. The red lilies of the moors Shall be torches on the floors, Where the field-lark lifts his cry To rejoice the passer-by, In a wide world rimmed with blue Lovely as when time was new.

And thereafter thou shalt fare Light of foot and free from care.

I will teach thee how to find Lost enchantments of the mind All about thee, never guessed By indifferent unrest. Thy distracted thought shall learn Patience from the roadside fern, And a sweet philosophy From the flowering locust tree,— While thy heart shall not disdain The consolation of the rain.

Not an acre but shall give Of its strength to help thee live.

With the many-wintered sun Shall thy hardy course be run. And the bright new moon shall be A lamp to thy felicity. When green-mantled spring shall come Past thy door with flute and drum, And when over wood and swamp Autumn trails her scarlet pomp, No misgiving shalt thou know, Passing glad to rise and go.

So thy days shall be unrolled Like a wondrous cloth of gold.

When gray twilight with her star Makes a heaven that is not far, Touched with shadows and with dreams, Thou shalt hear the woodland streams Singing through the starry night Holy anthems of delight. So the ecstasy of earth Shall refresh thee as at birth, And thou shalt arise each morn Radiant with a soul reborn.

And this wisdom of a day None shall ever take away.

What the secret, what the clew The wayfarer must pursue? Only one thing he must have Who would share these transports brave. Love within his heart must dwell Like a bubbling roadside well, For a spring to quicken thought, Else my counsel comes to naught. For without that quickening trust We are less than roadside dust.

This, O traveller, is my creed,— All the wisdom of the weed!

Then the traveller set his pack Once more on his dusty back, And trudged on for many a mile Fronting fortune with a smile.

I see the great blue heron Rising among the reeds And floating down the wind, Like a gliding sail With the set of the stream.

I hear the two-horse mower Clacking among the hay, In the heat of a July noon, And the driver's voice As he turns his team.

I see the meadow lilies Flecked with their darker tan, The elms, and the great white clouds; And all the world Is a passing dream.

Shining, shining children Of the summer rain, Racing down the valley, Sweeping o'er the plain!

Rushing through the forest, Pelting on the leaves, Drenching down the meadow With its standing sheaves;

Robed in royal silver, Girt with jewels gay, With a gust of gladness You pass upon your way.

Fresh, ah, fresh behind you, Sunlit and impearled, As it was in Eden, Lies the lovely world!

The hilltop trees are bowing Under the coming of storm. The low, gray clouds are trailing Like squadrons that sweep and form, With their ammunition of rain.

Then the trumpeter wind gives signal To unlimber the viewless guns; The cattle huddle together; Indoors the farmer runs; And the first shot lashes the pane.

They charge through the quiet orchard; One pear tree is snapped like a wand; As they sweep from the shattered hillside, Ruffling the blackened pond, Ere the sun takes the field again.

When morning is high o'er the hilltops, On river and stream and lake, Wherever a young breeze whispers, The sun-clad dancers wake.

One after one up-springing, They flash from their dim retreat. Merry as running laughter Is the news of their twinkling feet.

Over the floors of azure Wherever the wind-flaws run, Sparkling, leaping, and racing, Their antics scatter the sun.

As long as water ripples And weather is clear and glad, Day after day they are dancing, Never a moment sad.

But when through the field of heaven The wings of storm take flight, At a touch of the flying shadows They falter and slip from sight.

Until at the gray day's ending, As the squadrons of cloud retire, They pass in the triumph of sunset With banners of crimson fire.

Lo, now, the journeying sun, Another day's march done, Kindles his campfire at the edge of night! And in the twilight pale Above his crimson trail, The stars move out their cordons still and bright.

Now in the darkening hush A solitary thrush Sings on in silvery rapture to the deep; While brooding on her best, The wandering soul has rest, And earth receives her sacred gift of sleep.

All day long beneath the sun Shining through the fields they run,

Singing in a cadence known To the seraphs round the throne.

And the traveller drawing near Through the meadow, halts to hear

Anthems of a natural joy No disaster can destroy.

All night long from set of sun Through the starry woods they run,

Singing through the purple dark Songs to make a traveller hark.

All night long, when winds are low, Underneath my window go

The immortal happy streams, Making music through my dreams.

Here all the forces of the wood As one converge, To make the soul of solitude Where all things merge.

The sun, the rain-wind, and the rain, The visiting moon, The hurrying cloud by peak and plain, Each with its boon.

Here power attains perfection still In mighty ease, That the great earth may have her will Of joy and peace.

And so through me, the mortal born Of plasmic clay, Immortal powers, kind, fierce, forlorn, And glad, have sway.

Eternal passions, ardors fine, And monstrous fears, Rule and rebel, serene, malign, Or loosed in tears;

Until at last they shall evolve From griefs and joys Some steady light, some firm resolve, Some Godlike poise.

Now the stars have faded In the purple chill, Lo, the sun is kindling On the eastern hill.

Tree by tree the forest Takes the golden tinge, As the shafts of glory Pierce the summit's fringe.

Rock by rock the ledges Take the rosy sheen, As the tide of splendor Floods the dark ravine.

Like a shining angel At my cabin door, Shod with hope and silence, Day is come once more.

Then, as if in sorrow That you are not here, All his magic beauties Gray and disappear.

Now the fire is lighted On the chimney stone, Day goes down the valley, I am left alone.

Now the misty purple Floods the darkened vale, And the stars come out On the twilight trail.

The mountain river murmurs In his rocky bed, And the stealthy shadows Fill the house with dread.

Then I hear your laughter At the open door,— Brightly burns the fire, I need fear no more.

At the end of the road through the wood I see the great moon rise. The fields are flooded with shine, And my soul with surmise.

What if that mystic orb With her shadowy beams, Should be the revealer at last Of my darkest dreams!

What if this tender fire In my heart's deep hold Should be wiser than all the lore Of the sages of old!

Mortal, mortal, have you seen In the scented summer night, Great Astarte, clad in green With a veil of mystic light, Passing on her silent way, Pale and lovelier than day?

Mortal, mortal, have you heard, On an odorous summer eve, Rumors of an unknown word Bidding sorrow not to grieve,— Echoes of a silver voice Bidding every heart rejoice?

Mortal, when the slim new moon Hangs above the western hill, When the year comes round to June And the leafy world is still, Then, enraptured, you shall hear Secrets for a poet's ear.

Mortal, mortal, come with me, When the moon is rising large, Through the wood or from the sea, Or by some lone river marge. There, entranced, you shall behold Beauty's self, that grows not old.

In the world's far edges Faint and blue, Where the rocky ledges Stand in view,

Fades the rosy, tender Evening light; Then in starry splendor Comes the night.

So a stormy lifetime Comes to close, Spirit's mortal strifetime Finds repose.

Faith and toil and vision Crowned at last, Failure and derision Overpast,—

All the daylight splendor Far above, Calm and sure and tender Comes thy love.

When all the stars are sown Across the night-blue space, With the immense unknown, In silence face to face.

We stand in speechless awe While Beauty marches by, And wonder at the Law Which wears such majesty.

How small a thing is man In all that world-sown vast, That he should hope or plan Or dream his dream could last!

O doubter of the light, Confused by fear and wrong, Lean on the heart of night And let love make thee strong!

The Good that is the True Is clothed with Beauty still. Lo, in their tent of blue, The stars above the hill!

The sleeping tarn is dark Below the wooded hill. Save for its homing sounds, The twilit world grows still.

And I am left to muse In grave-eyed mystery, And watch the stars come out As sandalled dusk goes by.

And now the light is gone, The drowsy murmurs cease, And through the still unknown I wonder whence comes peace.

Then softly falls the word Of one beyond a name, "Peace only comes to him Who guards his life from shame,—

"Who gives his heart to love, And holding truth for guide, Girds him with fearless strength, That freedom may abide."

Time out of mind I have stood Fronting the frost and the sun, That the dream of the world might endure, And the goodly will be done.

Did the hand of the builder guess, As he laid me stone by stone, A heart in the granite lurked, Patient and fond as his own?

Lovers have leaned on me Under the summer moon, And mowers laughed in my shade In the harvest heat at noon.

Children roving the fields With early flowers in spring, Old men turning to look, When they heard a bluebird sing,

Have seen me a thousand times Standing here in the sun, Yet never a moment dreamed Whose likeness they gazed upon.

Ah, when will ye understand, Mortals who strive and plod,— Who rests on this old gray wall Lays a hand on the shoulder of God!

If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all things laid, The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade, When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hush of its glory now, That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift and the head to bow.

I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness, too,— The touch of wonder transcending science, the solace escaping from line and hue; I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earth of ours, Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit with all her powers.

See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside of hardwood trees, A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries. A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion and dun, Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue of the sun!

The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves are Etruscan gold, And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for a signal bold; The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring is brought to pass.

Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another and softer picture lies, As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dream of paradise,— Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and luring the mind With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap are left behind.

So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and endless joy, Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine employ, Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear, Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides—our privilege here.

Dare we dispel a single transport, neglect the worth that is here and now, Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance in the by-and-by somewhere, somehow? I heard the wind on the hillside whisper, "They ill prepare for a journey hence Who waste the senses and starve the spirit in a world all made for spirit and sense.

"Is the full stream fed from a stifled source, or the ripe fruit filled from a blighted flower? Are not the brook and the blossom greatened through many a busy beatified hour? Not in the shadow but in the substance, plastic and potent at our command, Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart; this is the kingdom of heaven at hand."

So I will pass through the lovely world, and partake of beauty to feed my soul. With earth my domain and growth my portion, how should I sue for a further dole? In the lift I feel of immortal rapture, in the flying glimpse I gain of truth, Released is the passion that sought perfection, assuaged the ardor of dreamful youth.

The patience of time shall teach me courage, the strength of the sun shall lend me poise. I would give thanks for the autumn glory, for the teaching of earth and all her joys. Her fine fruition shall well suffice me; the air shall stir in my veins like wine; While the moment waits and the wonder deepens, my life shall merge with the life divine.

Now come the rosy dogwoods, The golden tulip-tree, And the scarlet yellow maple, To make a day for me.

The ash-trees on the ridges, The alders in the swamp, Put on their red and purple To join the autumn pomp.

The woodbine hangs her crimson Along the pasture wall, And all the bannered sumacs Have heard the frosty call.

Who then so dead to valor As not to raise a cheer, When all the woods are marching In triumph of the year?

"He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul."

"My tent stands in a garden Of aster and goldenrod, Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, And sown by the hand of God,— An old New England pasture Abandoned to peace and time, And by the magic of beauty Reclaimed to the sublime.

About it are golden woodlands Of tulip and hickory; On the open ridge behind it You may mount to a glimpse of sea,— The far-off, blue, Homeric Rim of the world's great shield, A border of boundless glamor For the soul's familiar field.

In purple and gray-wrought lichen The boulders lie in the sun; Along its grassy footpath The white-tailed rabbits run. The crickets work and chirrup Through the still afternoon; And the owl calls from the hillside Under the frosty moon.

The odorous wild grape clambers Over the tumbling wall, And through the autumnal quiet The chestnuts open and fall. Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, Part of the earth's great soul, Here man's spirit may ripen To wisdom serene and whole.

Shall we not grow with the asters— Never reluctant nor sad, Not counting the cost of being, Living to dare and be glad? Shall we not lift with the crickets A chorus of ready cheer, Braving the frost of oblivion, Quick to be happy here?

Is my will as sweet as the wild grape, Spreading delight on the air For the passer-by's enchantment, Subtle and unaware? Have I as brave a spirit, Sprung from the self-same mould, As this weed from its own contentment Lifting its shaft of gold?

The deep red cones of the sumach And the woodbine's crimson's sprays Have bannered the common roadside For the pageant of passing days. These are the oracles Nature Fills with her holy breath, Giving them glory of color, Transcending the shadow of death.

Here in the sifted sunlight A spirit seems to brood On the beauty and worth of being, In tranquil, instinctive mood; And the heart, filled full of gladness Such as the wise earth knows, Wells with a full thanksgiving For the gifts that life bestows:

For the ancient and virile nurture Of the teeming primordial ground, For the splendid gospel of color, The rapt revelations of sound; For the morning-blue above us And the rusted gold of the fern, For the chickadee's call of valor Bidding the faint-heart turn;

For fire and running water, Snowfall and summer rain; For sunsets and quiet meadows, The fruit and the standing grain; For the solemn hour of moonrise Over the crest of trees, When the mellow lights are kindled In the lamps of the centuries;

For those who wrought aforetime, Led by the mystic strain To strive for the larger freedom, And live for the greater gain; For plenty of peace and playtime, The homely goods of earth, And for rare immaterial treasures Accounted of little worth;

For art and learning and friendship, Where beneficent truth is supreme,— Those everlasting cities Built on the hills of dream; For all things growing and goodly That foster this life, and breed The immortal flower of wisdom Out of the mortal seed.

But most of all for the spirit That cannot rest nor bide In stale and sterile convenience, Nor safety proven and tried, But still inspired and driven, Must seek what better may be, And up from the loveliest garden Must climb for a glimpse of sea.

When the leaves are flying Across the azure sky, Autumn on the hill top Turns to say good-by;

In her gold-red tunic, Like an Eastern queen, With untarnished courage In her wilding mien.

All the earth below her Answers to her gaze, And her eyes are pensive With remembered days.

Yet, with cheek ensanguined, Gay at heart she goes On the great adventure Where the north wind blows.

I love the stony pasture That no one else will have. The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year. Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there, For buttercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace.

There in the early springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors, When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And there October passes In gorgeous livery,— In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter Their bugle blasts begin, The snowy hosts of heaven arrive And pitch their tents therein.

Now when the time of fruit and grain is come, When apples hang above the orchard wall, And from the tangle by the roadside stream A scent of wild grapes fills the racy air, Comes Autumn with her sunburnt caravan, Like a long gypsy train with trappings gay And tattered colors of the Orient, Moving slow-footed through the dreamy hills. The woods of Wilton at her coming wear Tints of Bokhara and of Samarcand: The maples glow with their Pompeian red, The hickories with burnt Etruscan gold; And while the crickets fife along her march, Behind her banners burns the crimson sun.

Now Winter at the end of day Along the ridges takes her way,

Upon her twilight round to light The faithful candles of the night.

As quiet as the nun she goes With silver lamp in hand, to close

The silent doors of dusk that keep The hours of memory and sleep.

She pauses to tread out the fires Where Autumn's festal train retires.

The last red embers smoulder down Behind the steeples of the town.

Austere and fine the trees stand bare And moveless in the frosty air,

Against the pure and paling light Before the threshold of the night.

On purple valley and dim wood The timeless hush of solitude

Is laid, as if the time for some Transcending mystery were come,

That shall illumine and console The penitent and eager soul,

Setting her free to stand before Supernal beauty and adore.

Dear Heart, in heaven's high portico It is the hour of prayer. And lo,

Above the earth, serene and still, One star—our star—o'er Lonetree Hill!

When the first silent frost has trod The ghost-yard of the goldenrod,

And laid the blight of his cold hand Upon the warm autumnal land,

And all things wait the subtle change That men call death, is it not strange

That I—without a care or need, Who only am an idle weed—

Should wait unmoved, so frail, so bold, The coming of the final cold!

Now soon, ah, very soon, I know The trumpets of the north will blow, And the great winds will come to bring The pale, wild riders of the snow.

Darkening the sun with level flight, At arrowy speed, they will alight, Unnumbered as the desert sands, To bivouac on the edge of night.

Then I, within their somber ring, Shall hear a voice that seems to sing, Deep, deep within my tranquil heart, The valiant prophecy of spring.

When winter comes along the river line And Earth has put away her green attire, With all the pomp of her autumnal pride, The world is made a sanctuary old, Where Gothic trees uphold the arch of gray, And gaunt stone fences on the ridge's crest Stand like carved screens before a crimson shrine, Showing the sunset glory through the chinks. There, like a nun with frosty breath, the soul, Uplift in adoration, sees the world Transfigured to a temple of her Lord; While down the soft blue-shadowed aisles of snow Night, like a sacristan with silent step, Passes to light the tapers of the stars.

Over the rim of a lacquered bowl, Where a cold blue water-color stands, I see the wintry breakers roll And heave their froth up the freezing sands.

Here in immunity safe and dull, Soul treads her circuit of trivial things. There soul's brother, a shining gull, Dares the rough weather on dauntless wings.

Now the little rivers go Muffled safely under snow,

And the winding meadow streams Murmur in their wintry dreams,

While a tinkling music wells Faintly from there icy bells,

Telling how their hearts are bold Though the very sun be cold.

Ah, but wait until the rain Comes a-sighing once again,

Sweeping softly from the Sound Over ridge and meadow ground!

Then the little streams will hear April calling far and near,—

Slip their snowy bands and run Sparkling in the welcome sun.

Along the wintry skyline, Crowning the rocky crest, Stands the bare screen of hardwood trees Against the saffron west,— Its gray and purple network Of branching tracery Outspread upon the lucent air, Like weed within the sea.

The scarlet robe of autumn Renounced and put away, The mystic Earth is fairer still,— A Puritan in gray. The spirit of the winter, How tender, how austere! Yet all the ardor of the spring And summer's dream are here.

Fear not, O timid lover, The touch of frost and rime! This is the virtue that sustained The roses in their prime. The anthem of the northwind Shall hallow thy despair, The benediction of the snow Be answer to thy prayer.

And now the star of evening That is the pilgrim's sign, Is lighted in the primrose dusk,— A lamp before a shrine. Peace fills the mighty minster, Tranquil and gray and old, And all the chancel of the west Is bright with paling gold.

A little wind goes sifting Along the meadow floor,— Like steps of lovely penitents Who sighingly adore. Then falls the twilight curtain, And fades the eerie light, And frost and silence turn the keys In the great doors of night.

It is the bitter time of year When iron is the ground, With hasp and sheathing of black ice The forest lakes are bound, The world lies snugly under snow, Asleep without a sound.

All the night long in trooping squares The sentry stars go by, The silent and unwearying hosts That bear man company, And with their pure enkindling fires Keep vigils lone and high.

Through the dead hours before the dawn, When the frost snaps the sill, From chestnut-wooded ridge to sea The earth lies dark and still, Till one great silver planet shines Above the eastern hill.

It is the star of Gabriel, The herald of the Word In days when messengers of God With sons of men conferred, Who brought the tidings of great joy The watching shepherds heard;

The mystic light that moved to lead The wise of long ago, Out of the great East where they dreamed Of truths they could not know, To seek some good that should assuage The world's most ancient woe.

O well, believe, they loved their dream, Those children of the star, Who saw the light and followed it, Prophetical, afar,— Brave Caspar, clear-eyed Melchior, And eager Balthasar.

Another year slips to the void, And still with omen bright Above the sleeping doubting world The day-star is alight,— The waking signal flashed of old In the blue Syrian night.

But who are now as wise as they Whose faith could read the sign Of the three gifts that shall suffice To honor the divine, And show the tread of common life Ineffably benign?

Whoever wakens on a day Happy to know and be, To enjoy the air, to love his kind, To labor, to be free,— Already his enraptured soul Lives in eternity.

For him with every rising sun The year begins anew; The fertile earth receives her lord, And prophecy comes true, Wondrously as a fall of snow, Dear as a drench of dew.

Who gives his life for beauty's need, King Caspar could no more; Who serves the truth with single mind Shall stand with Melchior; And love is all that Balthasar In crested censer bore.

Halleluja! What sound is this across the dark While all the earth is sleeping? Hark! Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!

Why are thy tender eyes so bright, Mary, Mary? On the prophetic deep of night Joseph, Joseph, I see the borders of the light, And in the day that is to be An aureoled man-child I see, Great love's son, Joseph.

Halleluja! He hears not, but she hears afar, The Minstrel Angel of the star. Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!

Why is thy gentle smile so deep, Mary, Mary? It is the secret I must keep, Joseph, Joseph,— The joy that will not let me sleep, The glory of the coming days, When all the world shall turn to praise God's goodness, Joseph.

Halleluja! Clear as the bird that brings the morn She hears the heavenly music borne. Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!

Why is thy radiant face so calm, Mary, Mary? His strength is like a royal palm, Joseph, Joseph; His beauty like the victor's psalm. He moves like morning o'er the lands And there is healing in his hands For sorrow, Joseph.

Halleluja! Tender as dew-fall on the earth She hears the choral of love's birth. Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!

What is the message come to thee, Mary, Mary? I hear like wind within the tree, Joseph, Joseph, Or like a far-off melody His deathless voice proclaiming peace, And bidding ruthless wrong to cease, For love's sake, Joseph.

Halleluja! Moving as rain-wind in the spring She hears the angel chorus ring. Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!

Why are thy patient hands so still, Mary, Mary? I see the shadow on the hill, Joseph, Joseph, And wonder if it is God's will That courage, service, and glad youth Shall perish in the cause of truth Forever, Joseph.

Halleluja! Her heart in that celestial chime Has heard the harmony of time. Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!

Why is thy voice so strange and far, Mary, Mary? I see the glory of the star, Joseph, Joseph; And in its light all things that are, Made glad and wise beyond the sway Of death and darkness and dismay, In God's time Joseph.

Halleluja! To every heart in love 'tis given To hear the ecstasy of heaven. Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja.

Above the weary waiting world, Asleep in chill despair, There breaks a sound of joyous bells Upon the frosted air. And o'er the humblest rooftree, lo, A star is dancing on the snow.

What makes the yellow star to dance Upon the brink of night? What makes the breaking dawn to glow So magically bright,— And all the earth to be renewed With infinite beatitude?

The singing bells, the throbbing star, The sunbeams on the snow, And the awakening heart that leaps New ecstasy to know,— They all are dancing in the morn Because a little child is born.

Why were the Wise Men three, Instead of five or seven?" They had to match, you see, The archangels in Heaven.

God sent them, sure and swift, By his mysterious presage, To bear the threefold gift And take the threefold message.

Thus in their hands were seen The gold of purest Beauty, The myrrh of Truth all-clean, The frankincense of Duty.

And thus they bore away The loving heart's great treasure, And knowledge clear as day, To be our life's new measure.

They went back to the East To spread the news of gladness. There one became a priest To the new word of sadness;

And one a workman, skilled Beyond the old earth's fashion; And one a scholar, filled With learning's endless passion.

God sent them for a sign He would not change nor alter His good and fair design, However man may falter.

He meant that, as He chose His perfect plan and willed it, They stood in place of those Who elsewhere had fulfilled it;

Whoso would mark and reach The height of man's election, Must still achieve and teach The triplicate perfection.

For since the world was made, One thing was needed ever, To keep man undismayed Through failure and endeavor—

A faultless trinity Of body, mind, and spirit, And each with its own three Strong angels to be near it;

Strength to arise and go Wherever dawn is breaking, Poise like the tides that flow, Instinct for beauty-making;

Imagination bold To cross the mystic border, Reason to seek and hold, Judgment for law and order;

Joy that makes all things well, Faith that is all-availing Each terror to dispel, And Love, ah, Love unfailing.

These are the flaming Nine Who walk the world unsleeping, Sent forth by the Divine With manhood in their keeping.

These are the seraphs strong His mighty soul had need of, When He would right the wrong And sorrow He took heed of.

And that, I think, is why The Wise Men knelt before Him, And put their kingdoms by To serve Him and adore Him;

So that our Lord, unknown, Should not be unattended, When He was here alone And poor and unbefriended;

That still He might have three (Rather than five or seven) To stand in their degree, Like archangels in Heaven.

In a far Eastern country It happened long of yore, Where a lone and level sunrise Flushes the desert floor, That three kings sat together And a spearman kept the door.

Caspar, whose wealth was counted By city and caravan; With Melchior, the seer Who read the starry plan; And Balthasar, the blameless, Who loved his fellow man.

There while they talked, a sudden Strange rushing sound arose, And as with startled faces They thought upon their foes, Three figures stood before them In imperial repose.

One in flame-gold and one in blue And one in scarlet clear, With the almighty portent Of sunrise they drew near! And the kings made obeisance With hand on breast, in fear.

"Arise," said they, "we bring you Good tidings of great peace! To-day a power is wakened Whose working must increase, Till fear and greed and malice And violence shall cease."

The messengers were Michael, By whom all things are wrought To shape and hue; and Gabriel Who is the lord of thought; And Rafael without whose love All toil must come to nought.

Then Rafael said to Balthasar, "In a country west from here A lord is born in lowliness, In love without a peer. Take grievances and gifts to him And prove his kingship clear!

"By this sign ye shall know him; Within his mother's arm Among the sweet-breathed cattle He slumbers without harm, While wicked hearts are troubled And tyrants take alarm."

And Gabriel said to Melchior, "My comrade, I will send My star to go before you, That ye may comprehend Where leads your mystic learning In a humaner trend."

And Michael said to Gaspar, "Thou royal builder, go With tribute of thy riches! Though time shall overthrow Thy kingdom, no undoing His gentle might shall know."

Then while the kings' hearts greatened And all the chamber shone, As when the hills at sundown Take a new glory on And the air thrills with purple, Their visitors were gone.

Then straightway up rose Gaspar, Melchior and Balthasar, And passed out through the murmur Of palace and bazar, To make without misgiving The journey of the Star.

The word of the Lord of the outer worlds Went forth on the deeps of space, That Michael, Gabriel, Rafael, Should stand before his face, The seraphs of his threefold will, Each in his ordered place.

Brave Michael, the right hand of God, Strong Gabriel, his voice, Fair Rafael, his holy breath That makes the world rejoice,— Archangels of omnipotence, Of knowledge, and of choice;

Michael, angel of loveliness In all things that survive, And Gabriel, whose part it is To ponder and contrive, And Rafael, who puts the heart In every thing alive.

Came Rafael, the enraptured soul, Stainless as wind or fire, The urge within the flux of things, The life that must aspire, With whom is the beginning, The worth, and the desire;

And Gabriel, the all-seeing mind, Bringer of truth and light, Who lays the courses of the stars In their stupendous flight, And calls the migrant flocks of spring Across the purple night;

And Michael, the artificer Of beauty, shape, and hue, Lord of the forges of the sun, The crucible of the dew, And driver of the plowing rain When the flowers are born anew.

Then said the Lord: "Ye shall account For the ministry ye hold, Since ye have been my sons to keep My purpose from of old. How fare the realms within your sway To perfections still untold?"

Answered each as he had the word. And a great silence fell On all the listening hosts of heaven To hear their captains tell,— With the breath of the wind, the call of a bird. And the cry of a mighty bell.

Then the Lord said: "The time is ripe For finishing my plan, And the accomplishment of that For which all time began. Therefore on you is laid the task Of the fashioning of man;

"In your own likeness shall he be, To triumph in the end. I only give him Michael's strength To guard him and defend, With Gabriel to be his guide, And Rafael his friend.

"Ye shall go forth upon the earth, And make there Paradise, And be the angels of that place To make men glad and wise, With loving-kindness in their hearts, And knowledge in their eyes.

"And ye shall be man's counsellors That neither rest nor sleep, To cheer the lonely, lift the frail, And solace them that weep. And ever on his wandering trail Your watch-fires ye shall keep;

"Till in the far years he shall find The country of his quest, The empire of the open truth, The vision of the best, Foreseen by every mother saint With her new-born on her breast."

First all the host of Raphael In liveries of gold, Lifted the chorus on whose rhythm The spinning spheres are rolled,— The Seraphs of the morning calm Whose hearts are never cold.

He shall be born a spirit, Part of the soul that yearns, The core of vital gladness That suffers and discerns, The stir that breaks the budding sheath When the green spring returns,—

The gist of power and patience Hid in the plasmic clay, The calm behind the senses, The passionate essay To make his wise and lovely dream Immortal on a day.

The soft, Aprilian ardors That warm the waiting loam Shall whisper in his pulses To bid him overcome, And he shall learn the wonder-cry Beneath the azure dome.

And though all-dying nature Should teach him to deplore, The ruddy fires of autumn Shall lure him but the more To pass from joy to stronger joy, As through an open door.

He shall have hope and honor, Proud trust and courage stark, To hold him to his purpose Through the unlighted dark, And love that sees the moon's full orb In the first silver arc.

And he shall live by kindness And the heart's certitude, Which moves without misgiving In ways not understood, Sure only of the vast event,— The large and simple good.

Then Gabriel's host in silver gear And vesture twilight blue, The spirits of immortal mind, The warders of the true, Took up the theme that gives the world Significance anew.

He shall be born to reason, And have the primal need To understand and follow Wherever truth may lead,— To grow in wisdom like a tree Unfolding from a seed.

A watcher by the sheepfolds, With wonder in his eyes, He shall behold the seasons, And mark the planets rise, Till all the marching firmament Shall rouse his vast surmise.

Beyond the sweep of vision, Or utmost reach of sound, This cunning fire-maker, This tiller of the ground, Shall learn the secrets of the suns And fathom the profound.

For he must prove all being Sane, beauteous, benign, And at the heart of nature Discover the divine,— Himself the type and symbol Of the eternal trine.

He shall perceive the kindling Of knowledge, far and dim, As of the fire that brightens Below the dark sea-rim, When ray by ray the splendid sun Floats to the world's wide brim.

And out of primal instinct, The lore of lair and den, He shall emerge to question How, wherefore, whence, and when, Till the last frontier of the truth Shall lie within his ken.

Then Michael's scarlet-suited host Took up the word and sang; As though a trumpet had been loosed In heaven, the arches rang; For these were they who feel the thrill Of beauty like a pang.

He shall be framed and balanced For loveliness and power, Lithe as the supple creatures, And colored as a flower, Sustained by the all-feeding earth, Nurtured by wind and shower,

To stand within the vortex Where surging forces play, A poised and pliant figure Immutable as they, Till time and space and energy Surrenders to his sway.

He shall be free to journey Over the teeming earth, An insatiable seeker, A wanderer from his birth, Clothed in the fragile veil of sense, With fortitude for girth.

His hands shall have dominion Of all created things, To fashion in the likeness Of his imaginings, To make his will and thought survive Unto a thousand springs.

The world shall be his province, The princedom of his skill; The tides shall wear his harness, The winds obey his will; Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost, Shall work to do him ill.

A creature fit to carry The pure creative fire, Whatever truth inform him, Whatever good inspire, He shall make lovely in all things To the end of his desire.

In the pure solitude of dusk One star is set to shine Above the sundown's dying rose, A lamp before a shrine. It is the star of Michael lit In the minster of the sun, That every toiling hand may give Thanks for the day's work done.

For when the almighty word went forth To bid creation be,— The glimmering star-tracks on the blue, The tide-belts on the sea,— Perfect as planned, from Michael's hand The lasting hills arose, Their bases on the poppied plain, Their peaks in bannered snows.

Cedar and thorn and oak were born; Green fiddleheads uncurled In the spring woods; gold adder-tongues Came forth to glad the world;— The magic of the punctual seeds, Each with its pregnant powers, As the lord Michael fashioned them To keep their days and hours.

Frail fins to ride the monstrous tide, Soft wings to poise and gleam, He formed the pageant tribe by tribe As vivid as a dream. And still must his beneficence Renew, create, sustain, Sorcery of the wind and sun, Alchemy of the rain.

Teeming with God, the kindly sod Yearns through the summer days With the mute eloquence of flowers, Its only means of praise. At dusk and dawn the tranquil hills Throb to the song of birds, And all the dim blue silence thrills To transport not of words.

For earth must breed to spirit's need, Clay to the finer clay, That soul through sense find recompense And rapture on her way. And man, from dust and dreaming wrought, To all things must impart The trend and likeness of his thought, The passion of his heart.

The love and lore he shall acquire To word and deed must dare; Resemblances of God his sire His voice and mien must bear. His children's children shall portray The skill which he bestows On living; and what life must mean His craftsman's instinct knows.

Line upon line and tone by tone, The visioned form he gives To sound and color, wood and stone, Takes loveliness and lives. He sees his project's soaring hope Grow substance, and expand To measure a diviner scope Beneath his patient hand.

To pencil, brush, and burnisher His wizardry he lends, And to the care of lathe and loom His secret he commends. In hues and forms and cadences New beauty he instills, A brother by the right of craft To Michael of the hills.

Charlemagne with knight and lord, In the hill at Ingelheim, Slumbers at the council board, Seated waiting for the time.

With their swords across their knees In that chamber dimly lit, Chin on breast life effigies Of the dreaming gods, they sit.

Long ago they went to sleep, While great wars above them hurled. Taking counsel how to keep Giant evil from the world.

Golden-armored, iron-crowned, There in silence they await The last war,—in war renowned, Done with doubting and debate.

What is all our clamor for? Petty virtue, puny crime, Beat in vain against the door Of the hill at Ingelheim.

When at last shall dawn the day For the saving of the world, They will forth in war array, Iron-armored, golden-curled.

In the hill at Ingelheim, Still, they say, the Emperor, Like a warrior in his prime, Waits the message at the door.

Shall the long enduring fight Break above our heads in vain, Plunged in lethargy and night, Like the men of Charlemagne?

Comrades, through the Council Hall Of the heart, inert and dumb, Hear ye not the summoning call, "Up, my lords, the hour is come!"

This is the story Of Santo Domingo, The first established Permanent city Built in the New World.

Miguel Dias, A Spanish sailor In the fleet of Columbus, Fought with a captain, Wounded him, then in fear Fled from his punishment.

Ranging the wilds, he came On a secluded Indian village Of the peace-loving Comely Caguisas. There he found shelter, Food, fire, and hiding,— Welcome unstinted.

Over this tribe ruled— No cunning chieftain Grown gray in world-craft, But a young soft-eyed Girl, tender-hearted, Loving, and regal Only in beauty, With no suspicion Of the perfidious Merciless gold-lust Of the white sea-wolves,— Roving, rapacious, Conquerors, destroyers. Strongly the stranger Wooed with his foreign Manners, his Latin Fervor and graces; Beat down her gentle, Unreserved strangeness;

Made himself consort Of a young queen, all Loveliness, ardor, And generous devotion. Her world she gave him, Nothing denied him, All, all for love's sake Poured out before him,— Lived but to pleasure And worship her lover.

Such is the way Of free-hearted women, Radiant beings Who carry God's secret; All their seraphic Unworldly wisdom Spent without fearing Or calculation For the enrichment Of—whom, what, and wherefore?

Ask why the sun shines And is not measured, Ask why the rain falls Aeon by aeon, Ask why the wind comes Making the strong trees Blossom in springtime, Forever unwearied! Whoever earned these gifts, Air, sun, and water? Whoever earned his share In that unfathomed Full benediction,

Passing the old earth's Cunningest knowledge, Greater than all The ambition of ages, Light as a thistle-seed, Strong as a tide-run, Vast and mysterious As the night sky,— The love of woman? Not long did Miguel Dias abide content With his good fortune. Back to his voyaging Turned his desire, Restless once more to rove With boon companions, Filled with the covetous Thirst for adventure,— The white man's folly.

Then poor Zamcaca, In consternation Lest she lack merit Worthy to tether His wayward fancy, Knowing no way but love, Guileless, and sedulous Only to gladden, Quick and sweet-souled As another madonna, Gave him the secret Of her realm's treasure,— Raw gold unweighed, Stored wealth unimagined; Decked him with trappings Of that yellow peril; And bade him go Bring his comrades to settle In her dominion.

Not long the Spaniards Stood on that bidding. Gold was their madness, Their Siren and Pandar. Trooping they followed Their friend the explorer, Greed-fevered ravagers Of all things goodly, Hot-foot to plunder The land of his love-dream. They swooped on that country, Founded their city, Made Miguel Dias Its first Alcalde,— Flattered and fooled him, Loud in false praises For the great wealth he had By his love's bounty.

Then the old story, Older than Adam,— Treachery, rapine, Ingratitude, bloodshed, Wrought by the strong man On unsuspecting And gentler brothers. The rabid Spaniard, Christian and ruthless (Like any modern Magnate of Mammon), Harried that fearless, Light-hearted, trustful folk Under his booted heel. Tears (ah, a woman's tears,— The grief of angels,—) Fell from Zamcaca, Sorrowing, hopeless, Alone, for her people.

Sick from injustice, Distraught, and disheartened, Tortured by sight and sound Of wrong and ruin, When the kind, silent, Tropical moonlight, Lay on the city, In the dead hour When the soul trembles Within the portals Of its own province, While far away seem

All deeds of daytime, She rose and wondered; Gazed on the sleeping Face of her loved one, Alien and cruel; Kissed her strange children, Longingly laying a hand In farewell on each, Crept to the door, and fled Back to the forest.

Only the deep heart Of the World-mother, Brooding below the storms Of human madness, Can know what desolate Anguish possessed her.

Only the far mind Of the World-father, Seeing the mystic End and beginning, Knows why the pageant Is so betattered With mortal sorrow.

One August day I sat beside A café window open wide To let the shower-freshened air Blow in across the Plaza, where In golden pomp against the dark Green leafy background of the Park, St. Gaudens' hero, gaunt and grim, Rides on with Victory leading him.

The wet, black asphalt seemed to hold In every hollow pools of gold, And clouds of gold and pink and gray Were piled up at the end of day, Far down the cross street, where one tower Still glistened from the drenching shower.

A weary, white-haired man went by, Cooling his forehead gratefully After the day's great heat. A girl, Her thin white garments in a swirl Blown back against her breasts and knees, Like a Winged Victory in the breeze, Alive and modern and superb, Crossed from the circle of the curb.

We sat there watching people pass, Clinking the ice against the glass And talking idly—books or art, Or something equally apart From the essential stress and strife That rudely form and further life, Glad of a respite from the heat, When down the middle of the street, Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay In spite of the dull-stifling day, Three street-musicians came. The man, With hair and beard as black as Pan, Strolled on one side with lordly grace, While a young girl tugged at a trace Upon the other. And between The shafts there walked a laughing queen, Bright as a poppy, strong and free. What likelier land than Italy Breeds such abandon? Confident And rapturous in mere living spent Each moment to the utmost, there With broad, deep chest and kerchiefed hair, With head thrown back, bare throat, and waist Supple, heroic and free-laced, Between her two companions walked This splendid woman, chaffed and talked, Did half the work, made all the cheer Of that small company.

No fear Of failure in a soul like hers That every moment throbs and stirs With merry ardor, virile hope, Brave effort, nor in all its scope Has room for thought or discontent, Each day its own sufficient vent And source of happiness.

Without A trace of bitterness or doubt Of life's true worth, she strode at ease Before those empty palaces, A simple heiress of the earth And all its joys by happy birth, Beneficent as breeze or dew, And fresh as though the world were new And toil and grief were not. How rare A personality was there!

We painters sometimes strangely keep These holidays. When life runs deep And broad and strong, it comes to make Its own bright-colored almanack. Impulse and incident divine Must find their way through tone and line; The throb of color and the dream Of beauty, giving art its theme From dear life's daily miracle, Illume the artist's life as well. A bird-note, or a turning leaf, The first white fall of snow, a brief Wild song from the Anthology, A smile, or a girl's kindling eye,— And there is worth enough for him To make the page of history dim. Who knows upon what day may come The touch of that delirium Which lifts plain life to the divine, And teaches hand the magic line No cunning rule could ever reach, Where Soul's necessities find speech? None knows how rapture may arrive To be our helper, and survive Through our essay to help in turn All starving eager souls who yearn Lightward discouraged and distraught. Ah, once art's gleam of glory caught And treasured in the heart, how then We walk enchanted among men, And with the elder gods confer! So art is hope's interpreter, And with devotion must conspire To fan the eternal altar fire. Wherefore you find me here to-day, Not idling the good hours away, But picturing a magic hour With its replenishment of power.

Conceive a bleak December day, The streets all mire, the sky all gray, And a poor painter trudging home Disconsolate, when what should come Across his vision, but a line On a bold-lettered play-house sign, A Persian Sun Dance.

In he turns. A step, and there the desert burns Purple and splendid; molten gold The streamers of the dawn unfold, Amber and amethyst uphurled Above the far rim of the world; The long-held sound of temple bells Over the hot sand steals and swells; A lazy tom-tom throbs and dones In barbarous maddening monotones; While sandal incense blue and keen Hangs in the air. And then the scene Wakes, and out steps, by rhythm released, The sorcery of all the East, In rose and saffron gossamer,— A young light-hearted worshipper Who dances up the sun. She moves Like waking woodland flower that loves To greet the day. Her lithe, brown curve Is like a sapling's sway and swerve Before the spring wind. Her dark hair Framing a face vivid and rare, Curled to her throat and then flew wild, Like shadows round a radiant child. The sunlight from her cymbals played About her dancing knees, and made A world of rose-lit ecstasy, Prophetic of the day to be.

Such mystic beauty might have shone In Sardis or in Babylon, To bring a Satrap to his doom Or touch some lad with glory's bloom. And now it wrought for me, with sheer Enchantment of the dying year, Its irresistible reprieve From joylessness on New Year's Eve.

Here hangs at last, you see, my row Of sketches,—all I have to show Of one enchanted summer spent In sweet laborious content, At little 'Sconset by the moors, With the sea thundering by its doors, Its grassy streets, and gardens gay With hollyhocks and salvia.

And here upon the easel yet, With the last brush of paint still wet, (Showing how inspiration toils), Is one where the white surf-line boils Along the sand, and the whole sea Lifts to the skyline, just to be The wondrous background from whose verge Of blue on blue there should emerge This miracle.

One day of days I strolled the silent path that strays Between the moorlands and the beach From Siasconset, till you reach Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land That fronts the ocean, lone and grand As when the Lord first bade it be For a surprise and mystery. A sailless sea, a cloudless sky, The level lonely moors, and I The only soul in all that vast Of color made intense to last! The small white sea-birds piping near; The great soft moor-winds; and the dear Bright sun that pales each crest to jade, Where gulls glint fishing unafraid.

Here man, the godlike, might have gone With his deep thought, on that wild dawn When the first sun came from the sea, Glowing and kindling the world to be, While time began and joy had birth,— No wilder sweeter spot on earth!

As I sat there and mused (the way We painters waste our time, you say!) On the sheer loneliness and strength Whence life must spring, there came at length Conviction of the helplessness Of earth alone to ban or bless. I saw the huge unhuman sea; I heard the drear monotony Of the waves beating on the shore With heedless, futile strife and roar, Without a meaning or an aim.

And then a revelation came, In subtle, sudden, lovely guise, Like one of those soft mysteries Of Indian jugglers, who evoke A flower for you out of smoke. I knew sheer beauty without soul Could never be perfection's goal, Nor satisfy the seeking mind With all it longs for and must find One day. The lovely things that haunt Our senses with an aching want, And move our souls, are like the fair Lost garments of a soul somewhere. Nature is naught, if not the veil Of some great good that must prevail And break in joy, as woods of spring Break into song and blossoming.

But what makes that great goodness start Within ourselves? When leaps the heart With gladness, only then we know Why lovely Nature travails so,— Why art must persevere and pray In her incomparable way. In all the world the only worth Is human happiness; its dearth The darkest ill. Let joyance be, And there is God's sufficiency,— Such joy as only can abound Where the heart's comrade has been found.

That was my thought. And then the sea Broke in upon my revery With clamorous beauty,—the superb Eternal noun that takes no verb But love. The heaven of dove-like blue Bent o'er the azure, round and true As magic sphere of crystal glass, Where faith sees plain the pageant pass Of things unseen. So I beheld The sheer sky-arches domed and belled, As if the sea were the very floor Of heaven where walked the gods of yore In Plato's imagery, and I Uplifted saw their pomps go by.

The House of space and time grew tense As if with rapture's imminence, When truth should be at last made clear, And the great worth of life appear; While I, a worshipper at the shrine, For very longing grew divine, Borne upward on earth's ecstasy, And welcomed by the boundless sky.

A mighty prescience seemed to brood Over that tenuous solitude Yearning for form, till it became Vivid as dream and live as flame, Through magic art could never match, The vision I have tried to catch,— All earth's delight and meaning grown A lyric presence loved and known.

How otherwise could time evolve Young courage, or the high resolve, Or gladness to assuage and bless The soul's austere great loneliness, Than by providing her somehow With sympathy of hand and brow, And bidding her at last go free, Companioned through eternity?

So there appeared before my eyes, In a beloved, familiar guise, A vivid, questing human face In profile, scanning heaven for grace, Up-gazing there against the blue With eyes that heaven itself shone through; The lips soft-parted, half in prayer, Half confident of kindness there; A brow like Plato's made for dream In some immortal Academe, And tender as a happy girl's; A full dark head of clustered curls Round as an emperor's, where meet Repose and ardor, strong and sweet, Distilling from a mind unmarred The glory of her rapt regard.

So eager Mary might have stood, In love's adoring attitude, And looked into the angel's eyes With faith and fearlessness, all wise In soul's unfaltering innocence, Sure in her woman's supersense Of things only the humble know. My vision looks forever so.

In other years when men shall say, "What was the painter's meaning, pray? Why all this vast of sea and space, Just to enframe a woman's face?" Here is the pertinent reply, "What better use for earth and sky?"

The great archangel passed that way Illuming life with mystic ray. Not Lippo's self nor Raphael Had lovelier, realer things to tell Than I, beholding far away How all the melting rose and gray Upon the purple sea-line leaned About that head that intervened.

How real was she? Ah, my friend, In art the fact and fancy blend Past telling. All the painter's task Is with the glory. Need we ask The tulips breaking through the mould To their untarnished age of gold, Whence their ideals were derived That have so gloriously survived? Flowers and painters both must give The hint they have received, to live,— Spend without stint the joy and power That lurk in each propitious hour,— Yet leave the why untold—God's way.

My sketch is all I have to say.

Thou dear and most high Victory, Whose home is the unvanquished sea, Whose fluttering wind-blown garments keep The very freshness, fold, and sweep They wore upon the galley's prow, By what unwonted favor now Hast thou alighted in this place, Thou Victory of Samothrace?

O thou to whom in countless lands With eager hearts and striving hands Strong men in their last need have prayed, Greatly desiring, undismayed, And thou hast been across the fight Their consolation and their might, Withhold not now one dearer grace, Thou Victory of Samothrace!

Behold, we, too, must cry to thee, Who wage our strife with Destiny, And give for Beauty and for Truth Our love, our valor and our youth. Are there no honors for these things To match the pageantries of kings? Are we more laggard in the race Than those who fell at Samothrace?

Not only for the bow and sword, O Victory, be thy reward! The hands that work with paint and clay In Beauty's service, shall not they Also with mighty faith prevail? Let hope not die, nor courage fail, But joy come with thee pace for pace, As once long since in Samothrace.

Grant us the skill to shape the form And spread the color living-warm, (As they who wrought aforetime did), Where love and wisdom shall lie hid, In fair impassioned types, to sway The cohorts of the world to-day, In Truth's eternal cause, and trace Thy glory down from Samothrace.

With all the ease and splendid poise Of one who triumphs without noise, Wilt thou not teach us to attain Thy sense of power without strain, That we a little may possess Our souls with thy sure loveliness,— That calm the years cannot deface, Thou Victory of Samothrace?

Then in the ancient, ceaseless war With infamy, go thou before! Amid the shoutings and the drums Let it be learned that Beauty comes, Man's matchless Paladin to be, Whose rule shall make his spirit free As thine from all things mean or base, Thou Victory of Samothrace.

Ah, who will build the city of our dream, Where beauty shall abound and truth avail, With patient love that is too wise for strife, Blending in power as gentle as the rain With the reviving earth on full spring days? Who now will speed us to its gate of peace, And reassure us on our doubtful road?

Three centuries ago a fearless man, Yearning to set his people in the way, Threw all his royal might into a plan To found an ideal city that should give Freedom to every instinct for the best, From humblest impulse in his own domain To rumored wisdom from the world's far ends. Strengthened with ardor from a high resolve, Beneath the patient smile of Indian skies This fair dream flourished for a score of years, Until the blight of evil touched its bloom With fading, and transformed its vivid life Into a ghost-flower of its fair design.

Now ruined nursery tower and gay boudoir, A sad custodian of sacred tombs, And scattered feathers from the purple wings Of doves who reign in undisputed calm Over this Eden of hope and fair essay, Recall the valor of this ancient quest.

Great Akbar,—grandfather of Shah Jehan, The artist Emperor of India Who built the Taj for love of one held dear Beyond all other women in the world, And left that loveliest memorial, The most supreme of wonders wrought by man, To move for very joy all hearts to tears Beholding how great beauty springs from love,— Akbar the wisest ruler over Ind, Grandson of Babar in whose veins were mixed The blood of Tamerlane and Chinghiz Khan, Who beat the Afghans and the Rajputs down At Paniput and Buxar in Bengal, Making himself the lord of Hindustan, And with his restless Tartars founded there The Mogul empire with its Moslem faith, Its joyousness, enlightenment, and art,— Akbar of all the sovereigns of the East Is still most deeply loved and gladly praised.

For he who conquered with so strong a hand Cabul, Kashmir, and Kandahar, and Sind, Oudh and Orissa, Chitor and Ajmir, With all their wealth to weld them into one, Upholding justice with his sovereignty Throughout his borders and imposing peace, Was first and last a seeker after truth.

No craven unlaborious truce he sought, But that great peace which only comes with light, Emerging after chaos has been quelled In some long struggle of enduring will, To be a proof of order and of law, Which cannot rest on falsehood nor on wrong, But spreads like generous sunshine on the earth When goodness has been gained and truth made clear, At whatsoe'er incalculable cost. Returning once with his victorious arms And war-worn companies on the homeward march To Agra and his court's magnificence, From a campaign against some turbulent folk, He came at evening to a quiet place Near Sikri by the roadside through the woods, Where there were many doves among the trees.

There Salim Chisti a holy man had made His lonely dwelling in the wilderness, Seeking perfection. And the solitude Was sweet to Akbar, and he halted there And went to Salim in his lodge and said, "O man and brother, thy long days are spent In meditation, seeking for the path Through this great world's impediments to peace, Here in the twilight with the holy stars Or when the rose of morning breaks in gold; Tell me, I pray, whence comes the gift of peace With all its blessings for a people's need, And how may true tranquillity be found On which man's restless spirit longs to rest?"

And Salim answered, "Lord, most readily In Allah's out-of-doors, for there men live More truly, being free from false constraint, For learning wisdom with a calmer mind. For they who would find peace must conquer fear And ignorance and greed,—the ravagers Of spirit, mind, and sense,—and learn to live Content beneath the shade of Allah's hand. Who worships not his own will shall find peace."

Then Akbar answered, "I have set my heart On making beauty, truth, and justice shine As the ordered stars above the darkened earth. Are not these also things to be desired, And striven for with no uncertain toil? And save through them whence comes the gift of peace?"

Then Salim smiled, and with his finger drew In the soft dust before his door, and said, "O king, thy words are true, thy heart most wise. Thou also shalt find peace, as Allah wills, Through following bravely what to thee seems best. When any question, 'What is peace?' reply, 'The shelter of the Gate of Paradise, The shadow of the archway, not the arch, Within whose shade at need the poor may rest, The weary be refreshed, the weak secure, And all men pause to gladden as they go.'"

And Akbar pondered Salim Chisti's words. Then turning to his ministers, he said, "Here will I build my capital, and here The world shall come unto a council hall, And in a place of peace pursue the quest Of wisdom and the finding out of truth, That there be no more discord upon earth, But only knowledge, beauty, and good will."

And it was done according to Akbar's word. There in the wilderness as by magic rose Futtehpur Sikri, the victorious city, Of marble and red sandstone among the trees, A rose unfolding in the kindling dawn. Palace and mosque and garden and serai, Bazaars and baths and spacious pleasure grounds, By favor of Allah to perfection sprang.

Thus Akbar wrought to make his dream come true. From the four corners of the world he brought His master workmen, from Iran and Ind, From wild Mongolia and the Arabian wastes; Masons from Bagdad, Delhi, and Multan; Dome builders from the North, from Samarkand; Cunning mosaic workers from Kanauj; And carvers of inscriptions from Shiraz; And they all labored with endearing skill, Each at his handicraft, to make beauty be.

When the first ax-blade on the timber rang, The timid doves, as if foreboding ill, Had fled from Sikri and its quiet groves.

But as he promised, Akbar sent and bade The wise men of all nations to his court, Brahman and Christian, Buddhist and Parsee, Jain and stiff Mohammedan and Jew, All followers of the One with many names, Bringing the ghostly wisdom of the earth.

And so they came of every hue and creed. From the twelve winds of heaven their caravans Drew into Sikri as Akbar summoned them, To spend long afternoons in council grave, Sifting tradition for the seed of truth, In the great mosque in Futtehpur at peace. And Salim Chisti lived his holy life, Beloved and honored there as Akbar's friend.

But light and changeable are the hearts of men. Soon in that city dedicate to peace Dissensions spread and rivalries grew rife, Envy and bitterness and strife returned Once more, and truth before them fled away. Then Salim Chisti, coming to Akbar spoke, "Lord, give thy servant leave now to depart And follow where the fluttered wings have gone, For here there is no longer any peace, And truth cannot prevail where discord dwells."

"Nay then," said Akbar, "'tis not thou but I Who am the servant here and must go hence. I found thee master of this solitude, Lord of the princedom of a quiet mind, A sovereign vested in tranquillity, And I have done thee wrong and stayed thy feet From following perfection, with my horde Of turbulent malcontents; and my loved dream To build a city of abiding peace Was but a vain illusion. Therefore now This foolish people shall be driven forth From this fair place, to live as they may choose In disputance and wrangling longer still, Until they learn, if Allah wills it so, To lay aside their folly for the truth."

And as the king commanded, so it was. More quickly than he came, with all his court And hosts of followers he went away, Leaving the place to solitude once more,— A rose to wither where it once had blown.

To-day the all-kind unpolluted sun Shines through the marble fret-work with no sound; The winds play hide and seek through corridors Where stately women with dark glowing eyes Have laughed and frolicked in their fluttering robes; The rose leaves drop with none to gather them, In gardens where no footfall comes with eve, Nor any lovers watch the rising moon; And ancient silence, truer than all speech, Still holds the secrets of the Council Hall, Upon whose walls frescoes of many faiths Attest the courtesy of open minds.

Before the last camp-follower was gone, The doves returned and took up their abode In the main gate of those deserted walls. And in their custody this "Gate of Peace" Bears still the grandeur of its origin, Firing anew the wistful hearts of men To brave endeavor with replenished hope, Though since that time three hundred years ago, The magic hush of those forsaken streets And empty courtyards has been undisturbed Save by the gentle whirring of grey wings, With cooing murmurs uttered all day long, And reverent tread of those from near and far, Who still pursue the immemorial quest.

When all my writing has been done Except the final colophon,

And I must bid beloved verse Farewell for better or for worse,

Let me not linger o'er the page In doubting and regretful age;

But as an unknown scribe in some Monastic dim scriptorium,

When twilight on his labour fell At the glad-heard refection bell,

Might add poor Body's thanks to be From spiritual toils set free,

Let me conclude with hearty zest Laus Deo! Nunc bibendum est!