heart; a heart that laughs and weeps, and most of all, a heart that
loves. Were I asked the one essential of the poet, that essential
which includes all minor requisites, I should answer, Love. “A Poet
without Love,” says Carlyle, “were a physical and a metaphysical
impossibility.” It is the dominating element of all great poets. What
poet is greater, or what one has loved more deeply than Burns?
Love often reveals itself in sorrow and in humor. Though the poet need
not be a humorist, must not be at all times, as the term is used, it
is nevertheless essential that he have a lively appreciation of the
ludicrous, lest he fall into grave errors of thought and expression.
But the humor must not be the all-pervading element of his poetry; it
should be simply a check, a guide, or sometimes a spur. A keen sense
of humor should be to him the lash that whips thought out of its
self-constituted morbid glooms, in which it appears ridiculous, into
a lively harmony with things as they really are to the hearts of men.
It were, indeed, a nice question to determine how far the grave or
the humorous should enter poetic composition to the exclusion of the
other. Certainly the most felicitous poetry is not all rain nor all
shine, but the iris of Ulloa struck out of the depths of tears by the
happy, hopeful shine of laughter.
But if the poet laugh, he must also love; for he laughs because he
loves. This is the divine law. The man who hates never laughs; he may
mock. Well may we ponder that. Indeed, tears and laughter, sometimes
blended, are but forms of love. If laughter is music, certainly love,
that divine gift in the human heart, love of the good, the beautiful,
and the true, love of home, of country, of mankind, of God, or of
a beautiful image of God, the one who is the heart’s ideal, divine
immortal love, is perfect harmony. If the poet’s theme is of the good,
the beautiful, and the true, so must his love be. If these dwell not in
his heart, he shall search the world and the ages through and not find
them; and if love dwell not there with them, his themes shall never
touch our hearts.
But the poet, to be appreciated, is not the only one that must possess
these qualities. It is the beauty and the love in the soul of him who
is touched by the statue, the painting, the melody, the poem, that
makes it beautiful to him. It is thus that we help the poet make the
poem. Love makes poets of us all.
With our hearts thus tuned to the touch of the Maker’s hand, we may
often hold sweet communion with our poet-friends whose love still
reaches out to us through the mists of ages and beckons us to the
Valhalla of the happy. We may stand alone in the stern, inquisitorial
presence of self under the eye of Almighty God, and think thoughts our
tongues can never tell.
Strolling arm in arm with good Dan Chaucer as
“... fiery Phœbus riseth up so bright
That all the orient laugheth of the light,”
we may meet and join company with immortal Shakespeare, where
“... the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o’er the dew of yond high eastern hill”;
and then with them both we may pass down the slope to the sea-shore
where we clasp hands with Laureate Tennyson and, as we listen to the
_break, break, break_ upon the sands, say in our hearts with him,
“And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.”
With Milton we may plunge to the lowest depths and rise to the greatest
heights, and stand with him at last in a Paradise regained. With Dryden
we may shout from the golden-tipped top of the mount of lyric song to
the battling brave below,
“If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying”;
and hear the reverberant echoes along the channeled valleys of the soul
of Gray,
“The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”
With Whittier, longing to do and doing the greatest good of which we
are capable, we may often question,
“What, my soul, was thy errand here?”
Listening to the Preacher Kingsley, we may learn to
“Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;
And so, make life and death and that vast forever
One grand, sweet song.”
In our sadder moods we may, with Cowper, look across the dark,
Cimmerian tide and recall the face and the kiss and the touch of a
mother gone. In our gayer hours, with Burns we may gather sweet field
flowers and garland them in love; and, whether in field or shop or
kirk, learn somewhat
“To see oursels as others see us.”
With Wordsworth, receiving those faint intimations of immortality from
recollections of early childhood, we may realize
“That there has passed away a glory from the earth.”
With Lowell we may feel that
“Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not.”
If in the pursuit of life we shall have been drawn onwards by that
divine link called conscience; if we shall have heeded the advice to
the Divinity within us,
“... To thine own self be true;
And it must follow as the night the day
Thou canst not then be false to any man”;
if within us daily we shall have said with dear old Dr. Oliver Wendell
Holmes,
“Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea”;
if we shall have done all this, I say, and followed God: then, when at
last with white-haired Bryant each of us
“lies down to pleasant dreams,”
the Sun shall go down with a golden halo of glory; Beauty, eternal
Beauty, wedded to immortal Love, shall reign forever in the heart;
“And the night shall be filled with music;
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.”
USELESS?
Flowers are poetry; poetry, flowers:
Each is a clod of earth in bloom.
Useful? Aye, to the heart!--to illume
The rain-drop drip from the wing of the hours.
Both are the love of the great dear God
Set in the sod of the new child-earth,
Set in the heart at the earth-child’s birth,
Soul of the clay, and bloom of the clod.
Flowers and poetry--blossoms of Love
Sweetest and purest the heart can know,
Breathing their perfumes up from below,
Lifting us back to the God above.
A MORTAL.
Do the goddesses, I wonder,
Ever come to mortal earth,
Ever throw a wild enchantment
Round the heart of mortal birth?
Does the goddess Venus wander
Ever from her realms above,
Liveried in the rarest raiment
Stolen from the courts of Love?
Are _her_ eyes of witching azure,
Curtained o’er with rosy light;
And a golden sunset halo
Round a smiling brow of white?
Oh I wonder if the roses
Ever blush upon _her_ cheeks
When the scented kiss of morning
For the rarest flower seeks.
Ah, ye purest gems of ocean,
Set in ruby rays serene,
Does your light fall down in worship
When those pearl-dight lips are seen?
Aye, I wonder if the heavens
And the flowers of the earth,
As they smile upon each other,
Have the hundredth of her worth?
Do the ripples of the zephyr,
Or the waves to music wed
Have the poetry of motion
That attends her airy tread?
Do the Orphic orbs of æther,
With a lyric hand divine,
Draw the wandering planets round them
As her words this heart of mine?
Surely, surely not a goddess,
’Tis a mortal I have seen;
Never goddess wore such features,
Never goddess such of mien.
She’s the rarest of the fairest,
She’s the light of every eye;
She’s the smile of earth and ocean
And the glory of the sky.
Hers the lid with golden lashes
Raised above the Morning’s eye;
Hers the smile of wave and flower
Caught from out the blushing sky.
Oh her cheeks are rose of sunset,
And her eyes the stars of night;
Opening dawn, her lips half parted,
Laced with gleams of iv’ry light.
Lydian music in her being
An enchanted spirit dwells,
Caught from out the hands of angels,
Hands that swing the hallowed bells.
Love--the purest love of heaven--
Had its birth upon her lips;--
E’en the flowers toss her kisses
From their tiny finger-tips.
Oh the winds enfold the mountains
And the seas draw down the stars;
Still they sigh and murmur ever,
“Never love so pure as hers.”
And the notes forever rising
To the planetary seas
Echo back in spheric music,
“Never mortals loved as these.”
* * * * *
Heart to heart I clasped my Darling,
Drew her down from angel hands,
With my head in God’s own presence,
And my feet upon the sands.--
Drew her to me from the angels,
As the silent summer night
Sweetest scent of all the roses
To its loving bosom might.
Day by day her sister angels
Sing to me her rarest worth;
For she’s drawing me toward heaven
As I drew her down to earth.
TO MORPHEUS.
Like the star
That afar
Throws its silver-wrought beams
As it peacefully dreams
On the cradle-swung crest
Of the billows of blue,
Oh on thy breast
So let me rest,
Oh rest,
Rest,
Till the kiss of the morning dew.
A DREAMY APRIL EVENING IN THE WOODS.
Oh sweet the sounds I hear, the sights I see,--
The vocal air, the blooming clod;
But sweeter far the thoughts that rise in me,
So farther earth, so nearer God.
TO THEE ABOVE.
Up from the gray of earth,
Over the hills of blue,
Out in the purpling west,
I come, my love, to you.
Oh not in the busy marts
Nor yet in the crowded throng;
No, not ’neath the parlor lights
Does my heart forget its song.
But bound by the fetters there,
I cannot choose but stay;
Like a restive steed bound fast,
I fret the hours away.
’Tis only when alone
I find my soul at rest;
’Tis then I rise to thee
Amid the purpling west.
And sitting thus this eve
Atop my house’s tower,
I send my soul in love
To dwell with thee this hour.
Oh ever thus I stand,
A crag ’mid noisy crowds,--
My feet upon the sands,
My head amid the clouds.
My heart to all is cold
Save but to thee, Sweet Heart!
For Death my requiem tolled
When thou and I didst part.
I know nor rest nor peace,
I find nor life nor love
Save but the silent hour
I fly to thee above.
CHORUS.
(By nymphs and naiads, sylphs and dryads.)
Tripping away,
Blithesome and gay,
Light as the ether above,
Breathing our words
Sweet as the birds,
Sing we the power of love.
Love in its power
Bindeth the flower
Unto the common clod,
Lifting the low
Out of its woe
Up to the bosom of God.
Love in its might
Bindeth the light
Unto the shadow of day,
Flushing the clouds
Whitened like shrouds
Red with the last dying ray.
Love in its dream
Bindeth the stream
Unto the channels of earth,
Lifting the trees
Kissed by the breeze
Into a purer birth.
Heart unto heart
Never to part
Joining the gentle and strong,
Love’s dreaming lyre
Lifts ever higher
Finding responsive a song.
Every one,
Happy or lone,
Deep in the hills of the soul
Sometime shall find
Horn that shall wind
Echoes that endless shall roll.
THE LURLEI.
Only a moment! The Lurlei staid
Only a moment with me:
“Only a moment! I’ll sell,” I said,
“Only a moment to thee.”
Bartered I then with the Lurlei gay
Only a moment of time,
Selling the flowers of the valley gray,
Buying the mountain-top’s rime.
Only a moment! The Lurlei smiled;
“Sell me thy birth-right,” she saith.
Oh, and I sold it, innocent child,
Buying the pottage of death!
“’Tis but a moment: thy honor, my dear.”
She layeth her hand on my head.
I cannot choose but heed as I hear;
She giveth me lust in its stead.
“Give me, I pray thee, thy will for a time,
I shall reward thee right well.”
She beckons me whither the cloud-peaks climb,
She hath me under her spell.
“Rosy thy cheek with the bloom of health,
Fair is thy long brown hair;
Here I give premature age for thy wealth,
Here the pure snows thou must wear.”
“Firm is thy tread with the boldness of youth.”
She holdeth my will at command;
She bendeth my form in age without ruth,
Placeth a staff in my hand.
“Farewell, for thy moment has lengthened to years;
I kiss thee a withering curse:
Thou hast bought with thy soul-wealth a valley of tears,
Tears of eternal remorse.”
“Give me, I pray thee, my Lurlei lone,
Something to quiet my soul.”
Conscience doth slide from my heart like a stone,
Clouds of remorse from me roll.
“Purity hath not a place in the heart
Reft of all conscience,” Lurlei:
Legions of Pleasures around me upstart,
Licentiousness pointing the way.
“Prayer from the wicked availeth not, friend:”
She placeth a curse in mine eye;
“Heaven nor Hell is thy destine or end:”
She speareth my soul with the lie.
“The sun shineth not; the moon and stars grope:”
Night, sable-robed, _doth_ upstart;
“Love ruleth not, nor Pity, nor Hope:”
Hissing-tongued Hate gnaws my heart.
Only a moment I bartered with her,
Only a moment of time,
Selling the good, the true, and the pure,
Buying the glitter of crime!
I sold her my soul for a moment of pleasure,
That moment _has_ lengthened to years:
I sold her my soul for bliss without measure,
I bought all Eternity’s tears!
_L’Envoy._
The Lurlei sits on the mountain’s top,
Combing her golden hair;
Her voice is sirenic, and all must stop
Who pass down the river there.
TOUGH MUTTON, PERHAPS.
We are having atrocious _tough wether_,
(To hear the _sheep-tenders_ tell it)
But they are responsible for it
If that is the way they spell it.
TO MISS ----.
Upon that radiant brow of thine
May love and truth forever shine,
Like stars that light the welkin dome
And tint the billowy ocean’s foam.
Upon life’s desert, wild and broad,
Oh may’st thou walk that peaceful road
Which leads us on to heaven above
Where all is joy and peace and love.
Around thy soul so pure and white
May Heaven shed celestial light,
Life’s ocean wild to guide thee o’er,
And waft thee to its golden shore.
[Written in youth one July in a hay-field, on a piece of paper
that had contained my dinner, with an axle-grease box for my
table, while lazily reclining under the wagon in the shade of
the willows.]
SHUT YOUR EYES AND GO TO SLEEP.
A KYRIELLE.
Dear, your heart is tired to-night,
And the waning watches creep;
All too soon the morn will come,--
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
While the stars in heaven dream
And the angels vigils keep,
Lay your head upon my arm,
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Yes, I know that fevered care
Trembles on your troubled lip;
Dreams of love will heal the heart,--
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Let your heart forget to pain,
And your eyes forget to weep;
Dream of home, and hope, and love,
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Heavy drags the wounded hour
Over Sorrow’s restless deep,
Heaving up the tide of tears,--
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Oh the heaving, stifling sigh
Through the night its pain will keep
For the pillow waking prest,--
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
With a touch like woman’s own,
Touch of Love’s own finger-tip,
I will smooth your throbbing brow,--
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
Gently I will soothe your heart
And still your restless pulse’s leap;
Lay your head upon my arm,
Shut your eyes and go to sleep.
BROWNING.
(BY W. A. BACK, FARMER.)
Browning may be a right smart of a poet,
Some thinks him so;
But if he is he’s not anxious to show it,
’R else _I_ don’t _know_.
Give me a singer of songs ’at sings ’em
With lots of soul;
Whose tweedle-um-twangles whenever he twings ’em
Jist fill you full.
I caint endoor of a poet ’at dribbles
His honey in straw,
An’ hate none the less the blame ijit that scribbles
In styles all raw.
Make your own poem an’ label it “Browning”:
The sum an’ gross;
Tho’ nothin’s in his weedy rankness,--Stop frownin’!
Take ’nother dose!
My advice, you say?--Let Browning go pipin’
In an ivy leaf;
Don’t hold his sack like a fool a-snipin’,
This life’s too brief.
MADRIGAL.
Darling, here within this lyric,
Free from other mortal sight,
Free from aught but dearest day-dreams,
Hidden in the song I write,
Sits a happy, happy lover
In a heaven of the bliss
Born, in Love’s deep-breathing silence,
Of the rapturous sweet kiss.
Silently he clasps his radiant
Blooming bride with loving arms,
Hears the sweet, bell-like alarums
(Rung by Cupid and the angels)
Of sweet Passion’s inward storms
As her arms, so soft, climb upwards
And entwine themselves enwrapt,
Round about his neck in rarest
Angel-love e’er being kept.
--Darling, if you know the dear girl
That I think thus ever on,
I can hope you’ll find this poem
Ever shrines you as my own.
WORDS AND THOUGHTS.
Words are vases
Shaped to thought
Culled in places
Blossom-fraught;
Thoughts are laces
Finely wrought
From the graces
Bloom has caught:--
In sherds
Our words
We break as we do vases;
In shreds
The threads
Of thought we tear as laces.
REX FUGIT.
“_Rex fugit_,--The king flees.”--Thus read
A dignified, tall Latin student.
“Try ‘has,’” the usually prudent
Professor said.
He rose with confidence and ease;
But the whole class roared with laughter
When he read a moment after,
“_The king has fleas_.”
THE SICKLE OF FLOWERS.
The last sad rites of death performed,
The sickle lies upon the grave;
The sickle made of blooming flowers
That the ruthless reaper clave.
Withered lie the flowers gathered,
Rusts the sickle on the ground;
Dead the blossoms now decaying,--
And the form within the mound!
Oh the flowers of the sickle
And the blooms upon its blade
Are decaying daily, daily--
Sweetest flowers soonest fade!
Oh the sickle is death’s emblem
And the flowers on it, rust!--
Emblem of the end of mortals,
Earth to earth, and dust to dust!
[Scribbled in about five minutes on the back of an old
envelope while sitting by a new-made grave on which was a
sickle of flowers.]
THIS TOUCH OF AN ANGEL’S HAND.
Happiness is the realization of longings,--
Of hope and fond desire,--
That enter the heart like angel-throngings
Bearing celestial fire.
Like the peace that follows a benediction
Is the painless rest it gives,
Lething forever the heart’s affliction
In the endless joy it leaves.
’Tis the acme of life and the end of living,
This touch of an angel’s hand,
And it falls on the heart like the holy shriving
Of the Priest of the Better Land.
LIFE’S PHILOSOPHY.
AN ALLEGORY.
How builds this budding flower, my child?
“It lies all wrapped in icy snows
Until the Suns of Spring have smiled
And kissed it, blushing, to a rose.”
* * * * *
How doth the tree, fair youth, the tree?
“Year by year it adds a round
And reaches up by slow degree,
Keeping firm foot on the ground.”
The vine, sweet maid, how doth the vine?
“By the tree’s support it lifts its head
And round the tree its arms doth twine;
Thus the two in love are wed.”
The two, aged sire and dame, how they?
“The tree protects the tender vine,
The vine in turn binds firm the tree:
The two are one in shade and shine.”
* * * * *
What of the plant, O man, the plant?
“Adream in life’s fair sleep it lies
Until the Autumn Suns aslant
Shoot gleaming thwart the glowing skies!”
JUST AS USUAL.
The sun rose bright at morn,
The sun sank sad at night;
The moon’s faint golden horn
Waxed fair with mellow light.
All night around the fold
The polar bears kept prowl;
Their shining eyes gleamed cold
And danced to the wind’s mad howl.
Clear blew the shepherd’s horn,
Fair flushed the eastern main;
The bears slunk back: ’twas morn,
The sun arose again!
Sweet Love rose bright at Morn,
Sad Love went down at Night;
Fair Hope’s faint golden horn
Waxed sweet with mellow light.
All night around my mind
My jealous fears kept prowl;
Cold blew the willing wind
That chilled my very soul.
Clear wound Dan Cupid’s horn,
As sweet as rapture’s pain;
My fears slunk back: ’twas morn,
And Love arose again!
A DEPLORATION.
We do often think ourselves not worth.--_Anonymous._
Cold is the night, and my heart is cold,
Bleak as yon peak of the rockies old;
Chill like the hill
At the mountain’s foot,
Still as the rill
That lies frozen and mute.
White is the mountain-top, gleaming with snow,
Cov’ring the rocks and the mould below:
So seems the snow
That my heart doth enfold,
Tho’ down below
Lie the rocks and the mould.
Deep in the hill neath the binding cold
Never yet found may be veins of gold.
And of the sand
And the quartz in my heart
Hand has not panned,
Maybe gold is a part.
Oh ’neath the crystal and ice-bound stream
Drifts every gleam of a gold-digger’s dream;
So neath the floe
Of my heart’s frozen stream
Slowly I know
Drifts the gold of love’s dream.
I LOVE YOU, KATE.
Dreaming rapturously,
Dearest Kate,
Full elate
I seek your side to-night.
Long, weary hours I wait
Each day,
Each day,
To see the glorious light
Of your face,--
To me, earth’s rarest boon,
That makes my night
A summer’s day,
The summer’s day
A bright and vernal noon,
The noon eternity.
Oh, sitting beauteously
Upon Love’s throne aboon
With sceptered sway
O’er all my way,
Still of my night
Make one eternal sun
To shine thro’ space
With life and love and light
For aye
And aye;
Nor longer bid me wait,
But say me “yes” to-night;
Because, by fate
I love you, Kate!--
Oh will you marry me!
[In the above, first rhymes with last, second with second from
last, and so on.]
THE DEAD MAN’S LIFE.
(_That is, practically dead._)
Day after day have I secretly prayed
From the morn thro’ noon till night
That my life might discover some port in the west
Like the haven of sweet heaven’s Light.
Eve after eve as the sun has gone down,
With my eyes still turned to the west
I have prayed to the irised Pacific profound
For even its restful unrest.
Night after night in my bed full awake
I have dreamed myself weeping alone
In a silence as deep as the stars of the night
O’er a corse that I knew was my own.
Morn after morn have I risen from bed
With the fear and the hope of its truth,
Only to find that the death of the Dead
Is bought at the dream-god’s booth.
PITY THE POOR.
I pity the poor for I myself am poor,
Though I wear starched cuffs and collars;
But the brainless poor in rags I pity far more,
For they’ve neither _sense_ nor dollars.
I pity as much the hare-brained spendthrift wretch
With a wealth of only money;
The “sassiety” dude likewise whose droning speech
Smacks only of bumble-bee honey.
I pity all those at whom Poverty throws her dart
As they joust thro’ the world with each other;
But I pity the most of all the bankrupt heart
With no love for a human brother.
LIFE’S LOST SKIFF.
WRITTEN ON LAKE MICHIGAN.
_Prelude._
Green as emerald is Michigan;
And the waves,
Like ghosts from hungry graves,
Are tossing up my infant boat amain,
And kissing wild
The orphan ocean-child,
The rarest that has ever been,
The fairest that was ever seen.
_Morning._
Up drives the great red sun aslant,
The sea-gulls flap, and scream, and fly;
A score of sails the sun’s rays paint
Upon the burning western sky.
_Noon._
How silently and slow they steer!
Are the waves as wild out there the day,
And do the ships careen and veer
As she that drives so fast away?
_Night._
Dim shadows haunt the eastern steep,
The sun creeps up the glooming tower;
The sea-birds scream in winged sleep,
The ghostly billows wail the hour!
_Finale._
Green as emerald is Michigan;
And the waves,
Like ghosts in yawning graves,
Are tossing o’er my infant boat again,
Embracing wild
The orphan ocean-child,
The rarest that has ever been,
The fairest that was ever seen!
A CLOSE ATTACHMENT.
STRANGE STORY OF AMOS QUITO.
I have swept the airy heavens,
I have skimmed the rivers o’er;
I have slept upon the cloud-wing,
I have entered heaven’s door.
But in my peregrinations
Thro’ this world of ups and downs,
None have loved and none have sought me,
None have offered aught but frowns.
I have drunk the sweetest rain-drop
On its heaven-mission sent;
I have danced upon the rainbow
Where its colors fairest blent.
I have laughed and skipped and frolicked,
I have hummed my sweetest songs;
But I’ve never found the attachment
That I think to me belongs.
Ah, the world’s appreciation
Of my endless wealth and worth
Is a desiccated desert,
Is a sterile, arid dearth!
I’m the fairest of my fellows,
And the most affectionate;
Hence the world’s indifference to me
On my mighty soul doth grate.
I have kissed the blushing maiden,
I have lullabied to babies;
I have feasted on the features
Of a million lords and ladies.
’Tis the lover’s same old story--
Disappointment everywhere!
None have loved--except to hate me,
None have hated--save to spare!
Now at length my weary pinions,
Out of reach of mortal kind,
Rest from all men’s scorns and buffets,
And their first attachment find,
And I cannot choose but stay here
Where I’ll always stay to hum,
For I’ve reached life’s golden acme,--
I am stuck on chewing gum!
I am sleepy now, and happy,
Let profane hands not disturb;
Let none mar my wildest dreamings,
Nor ecstatic tumblings curb.
Since ’twas not in life permitted
That his blood I s-i-p,
May mankind write:
+--------------+
| AMOS QUITO! |
| LET HIM EVER |
| R.-I.-P. |
+--------------+
THE DEMONIAC.
Great God! and must I, must I live,
And can I never die,
I whom the press of sorrow’s hand
Hurled headlong from the sky?
How long, O Lord, must I thus wait,
How long in blasting blight,
Each idle day imploring death,
And dreaming death each night?