PROEM (AKA "Afterwhiles")

Where are they— the Afterwhiles— Luring us the lengthening miles Of our lives? Where is the dawn With the dew across the lawn Stroked with eager feet the far Way the hills and valleys are? Were the sun that smites the frown Of the eastward-gazer down? Where the rifted wreaths of mist O'er us, tinged with amethyst, Round the mountain's steep defiles? Where are the afterwhiles? Afterwhile— and we will go Thither, yon, and too and fro— From the stifling city streets To the country's cool retreats— From the riot to the rest Were hearts beat the placidest: Afterwhile, and we will fall Under breezy trees, and loll In the shade, with thirsty sight Drinking deep the blue delight Of the skies that will beguile Us as children— afterwhile. Afterwhile— and one intends To be gentler to his friends—, To walk with them, in the hush Of still evenings, o'er the plush Of home-leading fields, and stand Long at parting, hand in hand: One, in time, will joy to take New resolves for some one's sake, And wear then the look that lies Clear and pure in other eyes—

We will soothe and reconcile His own conscience— afterwhile. Afterwhile— we have in view A far scene to journey to—, Where the old home is, and where The old mother waits us there, Peering, as the time grows late, Down the old path to the gate—. How we'll click the latch that locks In the pinks and hollyhocks, And leap up the path once more Where she waits us at the door—! How we'll greet the dear old smile, And the warm tears— afterwhile! Ah, the endless afterwhiles—! Leagues on leagues, and miles on miles, In distance far withdrawn, Stretching on, and on, and on, Till the fancy is footsore And faints in the dust before The last milestone's granite face, Hacked with: Here Beginneth Space. O far glimmering worlds and wings, Mystic smiles and beckonings, Lead us through the shadowy aisles Out into the afterwhiles.

Herr Weiser

Herr Weiser—! Three-score-years-and-ten—, A hale white rose of his country-men, Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam, And blossomy as his German home— As blossomy and as pure and sweet As the cool green glen of his calm retreat, Far withdrawn from the noisy town Where trade goes clamoring up and down, Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife, May not trouble his tranquil life! Breath of rest, what a balmy gust—! Quite of the city's heat and dust, Jostling down by the winding road, Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode—. Tether the horse, as we onward fare Under the pear-trees trailing there, And thumping the wood bridge at night With lumps of ripeness and lush delight, Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn, Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon. Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face, And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace Of unassuming honesty, Be there to welcome you and me! And what though the toil of the farm be stopped And the tireless plans of the place be dropped, While the prayerful master's knees are set In beds of pansy and mignonette

And lily and aster and columbine, Offered in love, as yours and mine—? What, but a blessing of kindly thought, Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not—! What, but a spirit of lustrous love White as the aster he bends above—! What, but an odorous memory Of the dear old man, made known to me In days demanding a help like his—, As sweet as the life of the lily is— As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise Born of a lily in paradise.

The Beautiful City

The Beautiful City! Forever Its rapturous praises resound; We fain would behold it— but never A glimpse of its dory is found: We slacken our lips at the tender White breasts of our mothers to hear Of its marvellous beauty and splendor—; We see— but the gleam of a tear! Yet never the story may tire us— First graven in symbols of stone— Rewritten on scrolls of papyrus And parchment, and scattered and blown By the winds of the tongues of all nations, Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled Down the rack of a hundred translations, From the earliest lisp of the world. We compass the earth and the ocean, From the Orient's uttermost light, To where the last ripple in motion Lips hem of the skirt of the night—, But the Beautiful City evades us— No spire of it glints in the sun— No glad-bannered battlement shades us When all our Journey is done. Where lies it? We question and listen; We lean from the mountain, or mast, And see but dull earth, or the glisten Of seas inconceivably vast: The dust of the one blurs our vision, The glare of the other our brain,

Nor city nor island Elysian In all of the land or the main! We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders Of organs tumultuous roll, And the longing heart listens and wonders, And the eyes look aloft from the soul: But the chanson grows fainter and fainter, Swoons wholly away and is dead; AND our eyes only reach where the painter Has dabbled a saint overhead. The Beautiful City! O mortal, Fare hopefully on in thy quest, Pass down through the green grassy portal That leads to the Valley of Rest; There first passed the One who, in pity Of all thy great yearning, awaits To point out The Beautiful City, And loosen the trump at the gates.

Lockerbie Street

Such a dear little street it is, nestled away From the noise of the city and heat of the day, In cool shady coverts of whispering trees, With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the breeze Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie street! There is such a relief, from the clangor and din Of the heart of the town, to go loitering in Through the dim, narrow walks, with the sheltering shade Of the trees waving over the long promenade, And littering lightly the ways of our feet With the gold of the sunshine of Lockerbie street. And the nights that come down the dark pathways of dusk, With the stars in their tresses, and odors of musk In their moon-woven raiments, bespangled with dews, And looped up with lilies for lovers to use In the songs that they sing to the tinkle and beat Of their sweet serenadings through Lockerbie street. O my Lockerbie street! You are fair to be seen— Be it noon of the day, or the rare and serene Afternoon of the night— you are one to my heart, And I love you above all the phrases of art,

For no language could frame and no lips could repeat My rhyme-haunted raptures of Lockerbie street.

Das Krist Kindel

I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night; And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne—" The old split-bottomed rocker— and was musing all alone. I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor; But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream. Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar, With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star—; And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh. And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure, of a man with frosty hair— A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard. He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth;

And at a magic signal of his stubbly little thumb, I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium. And looking there, I marvelled as I saw a mimic stage Alive with little actors of a very tender age; And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked. And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew, And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through; And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable. And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy, Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy; And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee, And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see. 'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double-chin And chubby-cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in; And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds, As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.

And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh; And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the air Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer—: By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee. Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and gone As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn; And in kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon. You have given us a shepherd— You have given us a guide, And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent him from Your side—, But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wide To welcome his returning when his works are glorified. By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee—,

We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee. Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain, Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window-pane; And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel Who brings the world good tidings—, "It is Christmas— all is well!"

Anselmo

Years did I vainly seek the good Lord's grace—, Prayed, fasted, and did penance dire and dread; Did kneel, with bleeding knees and rainy face, And mouth the dust, with ashes on my head; Yea, still with knotted scourge the flesh I flayed, Rent fresh the wounds, and moaned and shrieked insanely; And froth oozed with the pleadings that I made, And yet I prayed on vainly, vainly, vainly! A time, from out of swoon I lifted eye, To find a wretched outcast, gray and grim, Bathing my brow, with many a pitying sigh, And I did pray God's grace might rest on him—. Then, lo! A gentle voice fell on mine ears— "Thou shalt not sob in suppliance hereafter; Take up thy prayers and wring them dry of tears, And lift them, white and pure with love and laughter!" So is it now for all men else I pray; So is it I am blest and glad alway.

A Home-Made Fairy Tale

Bud, come here to your uncle a spell, And I'll tell you something you mustn't tell— For it's a secret and shore-'nuf true, And maybe I oughtn't to tell it to you—! But out in the garden, under the shade Of the apple-trees, where we romped and played Till the moon was up, and you thought I'd gone Fast asleep—, That was all put on! For I was a-watchin' something queer Goin' on there in the grass, my dear—! 'Way down deep in it, there I see A little dude-Fairy who winked at me, And snapped his fingers, and laughed as low And fine as the whine of a mus-kee-to! I kept still— watchin' him closer— and I noticed a little guitar in his hand, Which he leant 'ginst a little dead bee— and laid His cigarette down on a clean grass-blade, And then climbed up on the shell of a snail— Carefully dusting his swallowtail— And pulling up, by a waxed web-thread, This little guitar, you remember. I said! And there he trinkled and trilled a tune—, "My Love, so Fair, Tans in the Moon!" Till presently, out of the clover-top He seemed to be singing to, came k'pop!

The purtiest, daintiest Fairy face In all this world, or any place! Then the little ser'nader waved his hand, As much as to say, "We'll excuse you!" and I heard, as I squinted my eyelids to, A kiss like the drip of a drop of dew!

The South Wind and the Sun

O The South Wind and the Sun! How each loved the other one Full of fancy—- full folly— Full of jollity and fun! How they romped and ran about, Like two boys when school is out, With glowing face, and lisping lip, Low laugh, and lifted shout! And the South Wind— he was dressed With a ribbon round his breast That floated, flapped and fluttered In a riotous unrest, And a drapery of mist From the shoulder and the wrist Flowing backward with the motion Of the waving hand he kissed. And the Sun had on a crown Wrought of gilded thistle-down, And a scarf of velvet vapor, And a ravelled-rainbow gown; And his tinsel-tangled hair, Tossed and lost upon the air, Was glossier and flossier Than any anywhere. And the South Wind's eyes were two Little dancing drops of dew, As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips, And blew and blew and blew! And the Sun's— like diamond-stone, Brighter yet than ever known, As he knit his brows and held his breath, And shone and shone and shone! And this pair of merry fays Wandered through the summer days; Arm-in-arm they went together

Over heights of morning haze— Over slanting slopes of lawn They went on and on and on, Where the daisies looked like star-tracks Trailing up and down the dawn. And where'er they found the top Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop They chucked it underneath the chin And praised the lavish crop, Till it lifted with the pride Of the heads it grew beside, And then the South Wind and the Sun Went onward satisfied. Over meadow-lands they tripped, Where the dandelions dipped In crimson foam of clover-bloom, And dripped and dripped and dripped; And they clinched the bumble-stings, Gauming honey on their wings, And bundling them in lily-bells, With maudlin murmurings. And the humming-bird that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle-horns, They mesmerized, and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And with whispered laughter, slipped away, And left him hanging there. And they braided blades of grass Where the truant had to pass; And they wriggled through the rushes And the reeds of the morass, Where they danced, in rapture sweet,

O'er the leaves that laid a street Of undulant mosaic for The touches of their feet. By the brook with mossy brink Where the cattle came to drink. They trilled and piped and whistled With the thrush and bobolink, Till the kine in listless pause, Switched their tails in mute applause, With lifted heads and dreamy eyes, And bubble-dripping jaws. And where the melons grew, Streaked with yellow, green and blue These jolly sprites went wandering Through spangled paths of dew; And the melons, here and there, They made love to, everywhere Turning their pink souls to crimson With caresses fond and fair. Over orchard walls they went, Where the fruited boughs were bent Till they brushed the sward beneath them Where the shine and shadow blent; And the great green pear they shook Till the sallow hue forsook Its features, and the gleam of gold Laughed out in every look. And they stroked the downy cheek Of the peach, and smoothed it sleek, And flushed it into splendor; And with many an elfish freak, Gave the russet's rust a wipe— Prankt the rambo with a stripe,

And the wine-sap blushed its reddest As they spanked the pippins ripe. Through the woven ambuscade That the twining vines had made, They found the grapes, in clusters, Drinking up the shine and shade— Plumpt like tiny skins of wine, With a vintage so divine That the tongue of fancy tingled With the tang of muscadine. And the golden-banded bees, Droning o'er the flowery leas, They bridled, reigned, and rode away Across the fragrant breeze, Till in hollow oak and elm They had groomed and stabled them In waxen stalls oozed with dews Of rose and lily-stem. Where the dusty highway leads, High above the wayside weeds They sowed the air with butterflies Like blooming flower-seeds, Till the dull grasshopper sprung Half a man's height up, and hung Tranced in the heat, with whirring wings, And sung and sung and sung! And they loitered, hand in hand, Where the snipe along the sand Of the river ran to meet them As the ripple meets the land, Till the dragon-fly, in light Gauzy armor, burnished bright, Came tilting down the waters In a wild, bewildered flight. And they heard the killdee's call,

And afar, the waterfall, But the rustle of a falling leaf They heard above it all; And the trailing willow crept Deeper in the tide that swept The leafy shallop to the shore, And wept and wept and wept! And the fairy vessel veered From its moorings— tacked and steered For the centre of the current Sailed away and disappeared: And the burthen that it bore From the long-enchanted shore— "Alas! The South Wind and the Sun!" I murmur evermore. For the South Wind and the Sun, Each so loves the other one, For all his jolly folly And frivolity and fun, That our love for them they weigh As their fickle fancies may, And when at last we love them most, They laugh and sail away.

The Lost Kiss

I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, Writes on—, "Had I words to complete it, Who'd read it, or who'd understand?" But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over it all. So I gather it up— where was broken The tear-faded thread of my theme, Telling how, as one night I sat writing, A fairy broke in on my dream, A little inquisitive fairy— My own little girl, with the gold Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy Blue eyes of the fairies of old. 'Twas the dear little girl that I scolded— "For was it a moment like this," I said, "when she knew I was busy, To come romping in for a kiss—? Come rowdying up from her mother, And clamoring there at my knee For 'One 'ittle kiss for my dolly, And one 'ittle uzzer for me!" God pity, the heart that repelled her, And the cold hand that turned her away, And take, from the lips that denied her, This answerless prayer of to-day! Take Lord, from my mem'ry forever That pitiful sob of despair,

And the patter and trip of the little bare feet, And the one piercing cry on the stair! I put by the half-written poem, While the pen, idly trailed in my hand Writes on—, "Had I words to complete it Who'd read it, or who'd understand?" But the little bare feet on the stairway, And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, Cry up to me over it all.

The Sphinx

I know all about the Sphinx— I know even what she thinks, Staring with her stony eyes Up forever at the skies. For last night I dreamed that she Told me all the mystery— Why for aeons mute she sat—: She was just cut out for that!