THE TWO TWILIGHTS

BY

HENRY A. BEERS

BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER

TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED

Copyright 1917 by Henry A. Beers All Rights Reserved Made in the United States of America The Gorham Press, Boston, U.S.A.

PREFACE

The contents of this volume include selections from two early books of verse, long out of print; a few pieces from The Ways of Yale (Henry Holt & Co); and a handful of poems contributed of late years to the magazines and not heretofore collected.

For permission to use copyrighted material my thanks are due to Messrs. Henry Holt & Co., and to the publishers of Harper's Monthly Magazine and of the Yale Review.

HENRY A. BEERS.

THE TWO TWILIGHTS

THE THANKLESS MUSE

The muses ring my bell and run away. I spy you, rogues, behind the evergreen: You, wild Thalia, romper in the hay; And you, Terpsichore, you long-legged quean. When I was young you used to come and stay, But, now that I grow older, 'tis well seen What tricks ye put upon me. Well-a-day! How many a summer evening have ye been Sitting about my door-step, fain to sing And tell old tales, while through the fragrant dark Burned the large planets, throbbed the brooding sound Of crickets and the tree-toads' ceaseless ring; And in the meads the fire-fly lit her spark Where from my threshold sank the vale profound.

BLUE ROSES OF ACADEMUS

So late and long the shadows lie Under the quadrangle wall: From such a narrow strip of sky So scant an hour the sunbeams fall, They hardly come to touch at all This cool, sequestered corner where, Beside the chapel belfry tall, I cultivate my small parterre.

Poor, sickly blooms of Academe, Recluses of the college close, Whose nun-like pallor would beseem The violet better than the rose: There's not a bud among you blows With scent or hue to lure the bee: Only the thorn that on you grows— Only the thorn grows hardily.

Pale cloisterers, have you lost so soon The way to blush? Do you forget How once, beneath the enamored moon, You climbed against the parapet, To touch the breast of Juliet Warm with a kiss, wet with a tear, In gardens of the Capulet, Far south, my flowers, not here—not here?

THE WINDS OF DAWN

Whither do ye blow? For now the moon is low. Whence is it that ye come, And where is it ye go? All night the air was still, The crickets' song was shrill; But now there runs a hum And rustling through the trees. A breath of coolness wakes, As on Canadian lakes, And on Atlantic seas, And each high Alpine lawn Begin the winds of dawn.

ANACREONTIC

I would not be A voyager on the windy seas: More sweet to me This bank where crickets chirp, and bees Buzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies.

I would not bide On lonely heights where shepherds dwell. At twilight tide The sounds that from the valley swell, Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell, Are sweeter far Than music of cold mountain rills. The evening star Wakes love and song below, but chills With mist and breeze the gloomy hills.

I would not woo Some storm-browed Juno, queenly fair. Soft eyes of blue And sudden blushes unaware Do net my heart in silken snare.

I do not love The eyrie, but low woodland nest Of cushat dove: Not wind, but calm; not toil, but rest And sleep in grassy meadow's breast.

BUMBLE BEE

As I lay yonder in tall grass A drunken bumble-bee went past Delirious with honey toddy. The golden sash about his body Could scarce keep in his swollen belly Distent with honey-suckle jelly. Rose liquor and the sweet pea wine Had filled his soul with song divine; Deep had he drunk the warm night through: His hairy thighs were wet with dew. Full many an antic he had played While the world went round through sleep and shade. Oft had he lit with thirsty lip Some flower-cup's nectared sweets to sip, When on smooth petals he would slip Or over tangled stamens trip, And headlong in the pollen rolled, Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold. Or else his heavy feet would stumble Against some bud and down he'd tumble Amongst the grass; there lie and grumble In low, soft bass—poor maudlin bumble! With tipsy hum on sleepy wing He buzzed a glee—a bacchic thing Which, wandering strangely in the moon, He learned from grigs that sing in June, Unknown to sober bees who dwell Through the dark hours in waxen cell. When south wind floated him away The music of the summer day

Lost something: sure it was a pain To miss that dainty star-light strain.

WATER LILIES AT SUNSET

Mine eyes have seen when once at sunset hour White lily flocks that edged a lonely lake All rose and sank upon the lifting swell That swayed their long stems lazily, and lapped Their floating pads and stirred among the leaves. And when the sun from western gates of day Poured colored flames, they, kissed to ruddy shame, So blushed through snowy petals, that they glowed Like roses morning-blown in dewy bowers, When garden-walks lie dark with early shade. That so their perfumed chalices were brimmed With liquid glory till they overflowed And spilled rich lights and purple shadows out, That splashed the pool with gold, and stained its waves In tints of violet and ruby blooms. But when the flashing gem that lit the day Dropped in its far blue casket of the hills, The rainbow paintings faded from the mere, The wine-dark shades grew black, the gilding dimmed, While, paling slow through tender amber hues, The crimsoned lilies blanched to coldest white, And wanly shivered in the evening breeze. When twilight closed—when earliest dew-drops fell

All frosty-chill deep down their golden hearts, They shrank at that still touch, as maidens shrink, When love's first footstep frights with sweet alarms The untrod wildness of their virgin breasts; Then shut their ivory cups, and dipping low Their folded beauties in the gloomy wave, They nodded drowsily and heaved in sleep. But sweeter far than summer dreams at dawn, Their mingled breaths from out the darkness stole, Across the silent lake, the winding shores, The shadowy hills that rose in lawny slopes, The marsh among whose reeds the wild fowl screamed, And dusky woodlands where the night came down.

BETWEEN THE FLOWERS

An open door and door-steps wide, With pillared vines on either side, And terraced flowers, stair over stair, Standing in pots of earthenware Where stiff processions filed around— Black on the smooth, sienna ground. Tubers and bulbs now blossomed there Which, in the moisty hot-house air, Lay winter long in patient rows, Glassed snugly in from Christmas snows: Tuberoses, with white, waxy gems In bunches on their reed-like stems; Their fragrance forced by art too soon To mingle with the sweets of June. (So breathes the thin blue smoke, that steals From ashes of the gilt pastilles, Burnt slowly, as the brazier swings, In dim saloons of eastern kings.) I saw the calla's arching cup With yellow spadix standing up, Its liquid scents to stir and mix— The goldenest of toddy-sticks; Roses and purple fuchsia drops; Camellias, which the gardener crops To make the sickening wreaths that lie On coffins when our loved ones die. These all and many more were there; Monsters and grandifloras rare, With tropical broad leaves, grown rank, Drinking the waters of the tank

Wherein the lotus-lilies bathe; All curious forms of spur and spathe, Pitcher and sac and cactus-thorn, There in the fresh New England morn. But where the sun came colored through Translucent petals wet with dew, The interspace was carpeted With oriel lights and nodes of red, Orange and blue and violet, That wove strange figures, as they met, Of airier tissue, brighter blooms Than tumble from the Persian looms. So at the pontiff's feasts, they tell, From the board's edge the goblet fell, Spilled from its throat the purple tide And stained the pavement far and wide. Such steps wise Sheba trod upon Up to the throne of Solomon; So bright the angel-crowded steep Which Israel's vision scaled in sleep. What one is she whose feet shall dare Tread that illuminated stair? Like Sheba, queen; like angels, fair? Oh listen! In the morning air The blossoms all are hanging still— The queen is standing on the sill. No Sheba she; her virgin zone Proclaims her royalty alone: (Such royalty the lions own.) Yet all too cheap the patterned stone That paves kings' palaces, to feel

The pressure of her gaiter's heel. The girlish grace that lit her face Made sunshine in a dusky place— The old silk hood, demure and quaint, Wherein she seemed an altar-saint Fresh-tinted, though in setting old Of dingy carving and tarnished gold; Her eyes, the candles in that shrine, Making Madonna's face to shine. Lingering I passed, but evermore Abide with me the open door, The doorsteps wide, the flowers that stand In brilliant ranks on either hand, The two white pillars and the vine Of bitter-sweet and lush woodbine, And—from my weary paths as far As Sheba or the angels are— Between, upon the wooden sill, Thou, Queen of Hearts, art standing still.

AS YOU LIKE IT

Here while I read the light forsakes the pane; Metempsychosis of the twilight gray— Into green aisles of Epping or Ardenne The level lines of print stretch far away.

The book-leaves whisper like the forest-leaves; A smell of ancient woods, a breeze of morn, A breath of violets from the mossy paths And hark! the voice of hounds—the royal horn,

Which, muffled in the ferny coverts deep, Utters the three sweet notes that sound recall; As, riding two by two between the oaks, Come on the paladins and ladies all.

The court will rest from chase in this smooth glade That slopes to meet yon little rushy stream, Where in the shallows nod the arrow-heads, And the blue flower-de-luce's banners gleam.

The gamekeepers are coupling of the hounds; The pages hang bright scarfs upon the boughs; The new-slain quarry lies upon the turf Whereon but now he with the herd did browse.

The silk pavilion shines among the trees; The mighty pasties and the flagons strong Give cheer to the dear heart of many a knight, And many a dame whose beauty lives in song.

Meanwhile a staging improvised and rude Rises, whereon the masquers and the mimes Play for their sport a pleasant interlude, Fantastic, gallant, pointing at the times.

Their green-room is the wide midsummer wood; Down some far-winding gallery the deer— The dappled dead-head of that sylvan show— Starts as the distant ranting strikes his ear.

They use no traverses nor painted screen To help along their naked, out-door wit: (Only the forest lends its leafy scene) Yet wonderfully well they please the pit.

The plaudits echo through the wide parquet Where the fair audience upon the grass, Each knight beside his lady-love, is set, While overhead the merry winds do pass.

The little river murmurs in its reeds, And somewhere in the verdurous solitude The wood-thrush drops a cool contralto note, An orchestra well-tuned unto their mood.

As runs the play so runs the afternoon; The curtain and the sun fall side by side; The epilogue is spoke, the twilight come; Then homeward through the darkening glades they ride.

THE OLD CITY

Ancient city, down thy street Minstrels make their music sweet; Sound of bells is on the air, Fountains sing in every square, Where, from dawn to shut of day, Maidens walk and children play; And at night, when all are gone, The waters in the dark sing on, Till the moonrise and the breeze Whiten the horse-chestnut trees. Cool thou liest, leisured, slow, On the plains of long ago, All unvexed of fretful trades Through thy rich and dim arcades, Overlooking lands below Terraced to thy green plateau.

Dear old city, it is long Since I heard thy minstrels' song, Since I heard thy church-bells deep, Since I watched thy fountains leap. Yet, whichever way I turn, Still I see the sunset burn At the ending of the street, Where the chestnut branches meet; Where, between the gay bazaars, Maidens walk with eyes like stars, And the slippered merchants go On the pavements to and fro. Upland winds blow through my sleep, Moonrise glimmers, waters leap, Till, awaking, thou dost seem Like a city of a dream,— Like a city of the air, Builded high, aloof and fair,— Such as childhood used to know On the plains of long ago.

AMETHYSTS

Not the green eaves of our young woods alone Shelter new violets, by the spring rains kissed; In the hard quartz, by some old April sown, Blossoms Time's flower, the steadfast amethyst.

"Here's pansies, they're for thoughts"—weak thoughts though fair; June sees their opening, June their swift decay. But those stone bourgeons stand for thoughts more rare, Whose patient crystals colored day by day.

Might I so cut my flowers within the rock, And prison there their sweet escaping breath; Their petals then the winter's frost should mock, And only Time's slow chisel work their death.

If out of those embedded purple blooms Were quarried cups to hold the purple wine, Greek drinkers thought the glorious, maddening fumes Were cooled with radiance of that gem divine.

Might I so wed the crystal and the grape, Passion's red heart and plastic Art's endeavor, Delirium should take on immortal shape, Dancing and blushing in strong rock forever.

KATY DID

In a windy tree-top sitting, Singing at the fall of dew, Katy watched the bats a-flitting, While the twilight's curtains drew Closer round her; till she only Saw the branches and the sky— Rocking late and rocking lonely, Anchored on the darkness high. And the song that she was singing, In the windy tree-tops swinging, Was under the tree, under the tree The fox is digging a pit for me.

When the early stars were sparkling Overhead, and down below Fireflies twinkled, through the darkling Thickets she heard footsteps go— Voice of her false lover speaking, Laughing to his sweetheart new:— "Half my heart for thee I'm breaking: Did not Katy love me true?" Then no longer she was singing, But through all the wood kept ringing— Katy did, Katy did, Katy did love thee And the fox is digging a grave for me.

NARCISSUS

Where the black hemlock slants athwart the stream He came to bathe; the sun's pursuing beam Laid a warm hand upon him, as he stood Naked, while noonday silence filled the wood. Holding the boughs o'erhead, with cautious foot He felt his way along the mossy root That edged the brimming pool; then paused and dreamed. Half like a dryad of the tree he seemed, Half like the naiad of the stream below, Suspended there between the water's flow And the green tree-top world; the love-sick air Coaxing with softest touch his body fair A little longer yet to be content Outside of its own crystal element. And he, still lingering at the brink, looked down And marked the sunshine fleck with gold the brown And sandy floor which paved that woodland pool. But then, within the shadows deep and cool Which the close hemlocks on the surface made, Two eyes met his yet darker than that shade And, shining through the watery foliage dim, Two white and slender arms reached up to him. "Comest thou again, now all the woods are still, Fair shape, nor even Echo from the hill

Calls her Narcissus? Would her voice were thine, Dear speechless image, and could answer mine! Her I but hear and thee I may but see; Yet, Echo, thou art happy unto me; For though thyself art but a voice, sad maid, Thy love the substance is and my love shade. Alas! for never may I kiss those dumb Sweet lips, nor ever hope to come Into that shadow-world that lies somewhere— Somewhere between the water and the air. Alas! for never shall I clasp that form That mocks me yonder, seeming firm and warm; But if I leap to its embrace, the cold And yielding flood is all my arms enfold. All creatures else, save only me, can share My beauties, be it but to stroke my hair, Or hold my hand in theirs, or hear me speak. The village wives will laugh and clap my cheek; The forest nymphs will beg me for a kiss, To make me blush, or hide themselves by this Clear brook to see me bathe. But I must pine, Loving not me but this dear ghost of mine." Then, bending down the boughs, until they dipped Their broad green fronds, into the wave he slipped, And, floating breast-high, from the branches hung,

His body with the current idly swung. And ever and anon he caught the gleam Of a white shoulder swimming in the stream, Pressed close to his, and two young eyes of black Under the dimpling surface answered back His own, just out of kissing distance: then The vain and passionate longing came again Still baffled, still renewed: he loosed his hold Upon the boughs and strove once more to fold To his embrace that fine unbodied shape; But the quick apparition made escape, And once again his empty arms took in Only the water and the shadows thin. Thus every day, when noon lay bright and hot On all the plains, there came to this cool spot, Under the hemlocks by the deepening brook, Narcissus, Phoebus' darling, there to look And pore upon his picture in the flood: Till once a peeping dryad of the wood, Tracking his steps along the slender path Which he between the tree trunks trodden hath, Misses the boy on whom her amorous eyes Where wont to feed; but where he stood she spies A new-made yellow flower, that still doth seem To woo his own pale reflex in the stream;

Whom Phoebus kisses when the woods are still And only ceaseless Echo from the hill Unprompted cries Narcissus!

NUNC DIMITTIS

Highlands of Navesink, By the blue ocean's brink, Let your gray bases drink Deep of the sea. Tide that comes flooding up, Fill me a stirrup cup, Pledge me a parting sup, Now I go free.

Wall of the Palisades, I know where greener glades, Deeper glens, darker shades, Hemlock and pine, Far toward the morning lie Under a bluer sky, Lifted by cliffs as high, Haunts that are mine.

Marshes of Hackensack, See, I am going back Where the Quinnipiac Winds to the bay, Down its long meadow track, Piled with the myriad stack, Where in wide bivouac Camps the salt hay.

Spire of old Trinity, Never again to be Sea-mark and goal to me As I walk down; Chimes on the upper air, Calling in vain to prayer, Squandering your music where Roars the black town:

Bless me once ere I ride Off to God's countryside, Where in the treetops hide Belfry and bell; Tongue of the steeple towers, Telling the slow-paced hours— Hail, thou still town of ours— Bedlam, farewell!

BEAVER POND MEADOW

Thou art my Dismal Swamp, my Everglades: Thou my Campagna, where the bison wades Through shallow, steaming pools, and the sick air Decays. Thou my Serbonian Bog art, where O'er leagues of mud, black vomit of the Nile, Crawls in the sun the myriad crocodile. Or thou my Cambridge or my Lincoln fen Shalt be—a lonely land where stilted men Stalking across the surface waters go, Casting long shadows, and the creaking, slow Canal-barge, laden with its marshy hay, Disturbs the stagnant ditches twice a day. Thou hast thy crocodiles: on rotten logs Afloat, the turtles swarm and bask: the frogs, When come the pale, cold twilights of the spring, Like distant sleigh-bells through the meadows ring. The school-boy comes on holidays to take The musk-rat in its hole, or kill the snake, Or fish for bull-heads in the pond at night. The hog-snout's swollen corpse, with belly white, I find upon the footway through the sedge, Trodden by tramps along the water's edge. Not thine the breath of the salt marsh below Where, when the tide is out, the mowers go Shearing the oozy plain, that reeks with brine