FOREWORD

Adelaide Crapsey, daughter of Algernon Sidney and Adelaide Trowbridge Crapsey, was born on the ninth of September, 1878. She died in her thirty-sixth year on October the eighth, 1914. Her young girlhood was spent in Rochester, New York, where her eminent father was rector of St. Andrew's Parish. At fourteen she entered the preparatory school of Kemper Hall, Kenosha, Wisconsin, from which school she graduated at the head of her class, in 1897. She entered Vassar College the same year, graduating with the class of 1901.

Two years after her graduation she began her work as a teacher of History and Literature, in Kemper Hall. In 1905 she went abroad and became a student in the School of Archaeology in Rome. The following year she assumed the position of instructor in Literature and History in Miss Lowe's Preparatory School in Stamford, Conn., but in 1908 on account of failing health she was compelled to abandon teaching for a time. The two succeeding years she spent in Italy and England, working on her Analysis of English Metrics—an exhaustive scientific thesis relating to accent—which years before she had planned to accomplish as her serious life work.

In 1911 she returned to America and became instructor in Poetics at Smith College. The double burden of teaching and writing proved too much for her frail constitution, and in 1913, gravely ill, she was obliged to abandon definitely and finally both activities. The rest is a silence broken only by the remarkable verses of her last poetic phase.

These are the bare biographical facts in the life of Adelaide Crapsey, but it would be an injustice to the reader not to attempt to render some sense of her personality, all compounded of beauty, mystery and charm. I remember her as fair and fragile, in action swift, in repose still; so quick and silent in her movements that she seemed never to enter a room but to appear there, and on the stroke of some invisible clock to vanish as she had come.

Although in Meredith's phrase "a man and a woman both for brains," she was an intensely feminine presence. Perfection was the passion of her life, and as one discerns it in her verse, one marked it also in her raiment. In the line

"And know my tear-drenched veil along the grass"

I see again her drooping figure with some trail of gossamer bewitchment clinging about or drifting after her. Although her body spoke of a fastidious and sedulous care in keeping with her essentially aristocratic nature, she was merciless in the demands she made upon it, and this was the direct cause of her loss of health. The keen and shining blade of her spirit too greatly scorned its scabbard the body, and for this she paid the uttermost penalty.

Her death was tragic. Full of the desire of life she yet was forced to go, leaving her work all unfinished. Her last year was spent in exile at Saranac Lake. From her window she looked down on the graveyard—"Trudeau's Garden," she called it, with grim-gay irony. Here, forbidden the work her metrical study entailed, these poems grew—flowers of a battlefield of the spirit. But of her passionate revolt against the mandate of her destiny she spared her family and friends even a sign. When they came to cheer and comfort her it was she who brought them cheer and comfort. With magnificent and appalling courage she gave forth to them the humor and gaiety of her unclouded years, saving them even beyond the end from knowledge of this beautiful and terrible testament of a spirit all unreconciled, flashing "unquenched defiance to the stars."

This collection of her verse is of her own choosing, arranged and prepared by her own hand. She wrote gay verse in the earlier days before the shadow fell upon her, but her rigorous regard for unity banished it from this record of the fearful questioning of her spirit.

This "immortal residue" is full of poignancy and power. The heart is stricken with her own terror at the approach of

"The despot of our days the lord of dust."

The book which is her funeral urn will be found to hold more than the ashes of a personal passion, it contains

"Infinite passion, and the pain of finite hearts that yearn."

Claude Bragdon. Rochester, N.Y. October 1915.

PREFACE

Adelaide Crapsey was, over a term of many years, an eager student of the technical aspects of English poetry. She died on October eighth 1914, after having completed two-thirds of her Analysis of English Metrics—an exhaustive scientific thesis relating to accent—which, years before, she had planned to accomplish as her serious life work. Though her mind was intensely preoccupied with the technical and analytical aspects of prosody, still the creative, artistic side of her nature was so spontaneously alive, that she accomplished a very considerable volume of original poetry—almost as a by-product of her study in metrics.

In the gay and somewhat insouciant period of her early days, she could write finished verse with the ease and readiness that the majority of people reserve only for the most commonplace of prose. I have actually known her to produce the book of an acceptable operetta over the week-end! That early work is gone. It lives only in the memory of those who happened to be near her at the time. She tossed it off as the fleeting expression of a moment, and took no slightest care to preserve it. But several of those early poems stick persistently in my mind over the years, and though I have no copy and cannot quote them accurately, I still believe them worthy of a permanent form. That delightful quality of camaraderie, her quick, bubbling humor she retained to the end in conversation; the sadder, sombre questioning of her inner life attained expression only in the poetry she has left.

These poems, of a gossamer delicacy and finish, are the stronger for the technical knowledge behind them. Likewise, her technical work possessed the more vigor because it was not the result of mere theoretical analysis, but also of the first-hand knowledge gained through her own creative achievement. In each field she spoke with the authority that experience in the other gave. Her studies in prosody were too technical for comprehension by the lay reader. It is through her creative work that she will be remembered, though she herself considered this the slightest part of her accomplishment.

As her study in metrics was astoundingly objective and coldly unreflective of any emotional mood, so her own poems were at the other extreme, astoundingly subjective and descriptive of a mental state that found expression in no other form. They are heart-breakingly sombre; but they are true.

Adelaide Crapsey, by nature as vivid and joyous and alive a spirit as ever loved the beauty of life, like Keats and Stevenson, worked doggedly for many years against the numbing weight of a creeping pitiless disease. In her last year, spent in exile at Saranac Lake, forbidden the strength-sapping work that her metrical study entailed, she was forced to lie and look into space—and these poems grew. Her window looked down upon the Saranac graveyard, "Trudeau's garden," she gaily called it; but its meaning struck home. "To the Dead in the Graveyard Underneath my Window," was among the papers she left behind.

The verse form which she calls "Cinquain" she originated herself. It is an example of extremest compression. She reduces an idea to its very lowest terms—and presents it in a single sharp impression.

In spite of the fact that many of these poems were left only in their first rough draft, they are marvelously perfect. A fastidious distinction marks all of her work—all of her life—it was the most characteristic feature of a very rare nature.

Jean Webster. Vassar Miscellany March 1915

CONTENTS

PART I

BIRTH-MOMENT THE MOTHER EXULTANT JOHN KEATS

CINQUAINS

NOVEMBER NIGHT RELEASE TRIAD SNOW ANGUISH TRAPPED MOON-SHADOWS SUSANNA AND THE ELDERS YOUTH THE GUARDED WOUND WINTER NIGHT WINDS ARBUTUS ROMA AETERNA "HE'S KILLED THE MAY . . ." AMAZE SHADOW MADNESS THE WARNING SAYING OF IL HABOUL FATE DEFIED LAUREL IN THE BERKSHIRES NIAGARA THE GRAND CANYON NOW BARABBAS WAS A ROBBER FOR LUCAS CRANACH'S Eve THE SOURCE BLUE HYACINTHS

PART II

TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE PLEDGE HYPNOS, GOD OF SLEEP EXPENSES ON SEEING WEATHER-BEATEN TREES ADVENTURE OH, LADY, LET THE SAD TEARS FALL DIRGE THE SUN-DIAL OLD LOVE AH ME . . . ALAS PERFUME OF YOUTH RAPUNZEL VENDOR'S SONG AVIS DOOMSDAY GRAIN FIELD SONG PIERROT THE MONK IN THE GARDEN TO THE DEAD IN THE GRAVEYARD UNDERNEATH MY WINDOW THE MOURNER NIGHT ROSE-MARY OF THE ANGELS ANGÉLIQUE CHIMES MAD-SONG MY BIRDS THAT FLY NO LONGER THE WITCH CRY OF THE NYMPH TO EROS CRADLE-SONG TO MAN WHO GOES SEEKING IMMORTALITY, BIDDING HIM LOOK NEARER HOME THE LONELY DEATH LO, ALL THE WAY AUTUMN THE ELGIN MARBLES THE CRUCIFIXION THE FIDDLING LAD THE IMMORTAL RESIDUE

PART ONE

BIRTH-MOMENT

Behold her, Running through the waves, Eager to reach the land: The water laps her, Healthy, brine-drenched and young, Behold Desire new-born;— Desire on first fulfilment's radiant edge, Love at miraculous moment of emergence, This is she, Who running, Hastens, hastens to the land.

Look . . . Look . . . Her brown gold hair and lucent eyes of youth, Her body rose and ivory in the sun . . . Look, How she hastens, Running, running to the land.

Her hands are yearning and her feet are swift To reach and hold She knows not what, Yet knows that it is life; Need urges her, Self, uncomprehended but most deep divined, Unwilled but all-compelling, drives her on. Life runs to life. She who longs, But hath not yet accepted or bestowed, All virginal dear and bright, Runs, runs to reach the land.

And she who runs shall be Married to blue of summer skies at noon, Companion to green fields, Held bride of subtle fragrance and of all sweet sound, Belovéd of the stars, And wanton mistress to the veering winds.

Oh, breathless space between: Womb-time just passed, Dark-hidden, chaotic-formative, unpersonal, And individual life of fresh-created force Not yet begun: One moment more Before desire shall meet desire And new creation start: Oh breathless space, While she, Just risen from the waves, Runs, runs to reach the land.

(Ah, keenest personal moment When mouth unkissed turns eager-slow and tremulous Towards lover's mouth, That tremulous and eager-slow Droops down to it: But breathless space of breath or two Lies in between Before the mouth upturned and mouth down-drooped Shall meet and make the kiss.)

Look . . . Look . . . She runs . . . Love fresh-emerged, Desire new-born . . . Blown on by wind, And shone on by the sun, She rises from the waves And running, Hastens, hastens to the land.

Belovéd and Belovéd and Belovéd, Even so right And beautiful and undenied Is my desire; Even so longing-swift I run to your receiving arms. O Aphrodite! O Aphrodite, hear! Hear my wrung cry flame upward poignant-glad. . . . This is my time for me. I too am young; I too am all of love!

1905.

THE MOTHER EXULTANT

Joy! Joy! Joy! The hills are glad, The valleys re-echo with merriment, In my heart is the sound of laughter, And my feet dance to the time of it; Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder, Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days, For this is the hour of the vintage, When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.

Look, little son, look; The grapes are translucent and ripe, They are heavy and fragrant with juice, They wait for the hands of the vintagers; For a long time the grapes were not, And were in the womb of the earth, Then out of the heavens came the rain, The sun sent down his warmth from the sky, At the touch of life, life stirred, And the earth brought forth her fruits in due season.

I was a maid and alone, When, behold, there came to me a vision; My heart cried out within me, And the voice was the voice of God. Yea, a virgin I dreamed of love, And I was troubled and sore afraid, I wept and was glad, For the word of my heart named me blesséd, My soul exalted the might of creation. I was a maid and alone, When, behold, my lover came to me, My belovéd held me in his arms.

Joy! Joy! Joy! Now is the vision fulfilled: I have conceived, I have carried in my womb, I have brought forth The life of the world; Out of my joy and my pain, Out of the fulness of my living Hath my son gained his life.

Look, little son, look; The grapes are ripe for the gathering, The fresh, deep earth is in them, And clean water from the clouds. And golden, golden sun is in the heart of the grapes. Look, little son, look; The earth, your mother, And the touch of life who is your father, They have provided food for you That you also may live.

The vineyards are planted on the hillside, They are the vineyards of my belovéd, He chose a favorable spot, His hands prepared the soil for the planting: He set out the young vines And cared for them till the time of their bearing. Now is his labour fulfilled who worked with God. The fruit of the vineyard is ripe, The vintagers laugh in the sun, They sing while they gather the grapes, For the vintage is a good one, The wine vats are pressed down and running over.

Joy! Joy! Joy! Now is the wonder accomplished; Out of the heart of the living grape Hath the hand of my belovéd Wrung the wine of the dream of life.

Belovéd, My little son's father, Together we have given life, And the vision of life; Shall we not rejoice Who have made eternal The days of our living?

Look, little son, look: The grapes glow with rich juice, The juice of the grape hath in it The substance of the earth, And the air's breath; It hath in it the soul of the vintage. Put forth your hand, little son, And take for yourself the life That your father and your mother Have provided for you.

Joy! Joy! Joy! The hills are glad, The valleys re-echo with merriment, In my heart is the sound of laughter, And my feet dance to the time of it; Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder, Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days, For this is the hour of the vintage, When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard.

1905.

JOHN KEATS

Meet thou the event And terrible happening of Thine end: for thou art come Upon the remote, cold place Of ultimate dissolution and With dumb, wide look Thou, impotent, dost feel Impotence creeping on Thy potent soul. Yea, now, caught in The aghast and voiceless pain Of death, thyself doth watch Thyself becoming naught. Peace . . . Peace . . . for at The last is comfort. Lo, now Thou hast no pain. Lo, now The waited presence is Within the room; the voice Speaks final-gentle: "Child, Ever thy careful nurse, I lift thee in my arms For greater ease and while Thy heart still beats, place my Cool fingers of oblivion on Thine eyes and close them for Eternity. Thou shalt Pass sleeping, nor know When sleeping ceases. Yet still A little while thy breathing lasts, Gradual is faint and fainter; I Must listen close—the end."

Rest. And you others . . . All. Grave-fellows in Green place. Here grows Memorial every spring's Fresh grass and here Your marking monument Was built for you long, long Ago when Caius Cestius died.

CINQUAINS 1911-1913

NOVEMBER NIGHT

Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

RELEASE

With swift Great sweep of her Magnificent arm my pain Clanged back the doors that shut my soul From life.

TRIAD

These be Three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one Just dead.

SNOW

Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and scent The snow!

ANGUISH

Keep thou Thy tearless watch All night but when blue-dawn Breathes on the silver moon, then weep! Then weep!

TRAPPED

Well and If day on day Follows, and weary year On year . . . and ever days and years . . . Well?

MOON-SHADOWS

Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.

SUSANNA AND THE ELDERS

"Why do You thus devise Evil against her?" "For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore."

YOUTH

But me They cannot touch, Old Age and death . . . the strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!

THE GUARDED WOUND

If it Were lighter touch Than petal of flower resting On grass, oh still too heavy it were, Too heavy!

WINTER

The cold With steely clutch Grips all the land . . . alack, The little people in the hills Will die!

NIGHT WINDS

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

ARBUTUS

Not Spring's Thou art, but her's, Most cool, most virginal, Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snows Rose-tinged.

ROMA AETERNA

The sun Is warm to-day, O Romulus, and on Thine olden Palatine the birds Still sing.

"HE'S KILLED THE MAY . . ."

"He's killed the May and he's laid her by To bear the red rose company."

Not thou, White rose, but thy Ensanguined sister is The dear companion of my heart's Shed blood.

AMAZE

I know Not these my hands And yet I think there was A woman like me once had hands Like these.

SHADOW

A-sway, On red rose, A golden butterfly . . . And on my heart a butterfly Night-wing'd.

MADNESS

Burdock, Blue aconite, And thistle and thorn . . . of these, Singing, I wreathe my pretty wreath O'death.

THE WARNING

Just now, Out of the strange Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . . A white moth flew. Why am I grown So cold?

SAYING OF IL HABOUL

Guardian of the Treasure of Solomon And Keeper of the Prophet's Armour

My tent A vapour that The wind dispels and but As dust before the wind am I Myself.

FATE DEFIED

As it Were tissue of silver I'll wear, O fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.

LAUREL IN THE BERKSHIRES

Sea-foam And coral! Oh, I'll Climb the great pasture rocks And dream me mermaid in the sun's Gold flood.

NIAGARA

Seen on a Night in November

How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumnal, evanescent, wan, The moon.

THE GRAND CANYON

By Zeus! Shout word of this To the eldest dead! Titans, Gods, Heroes, come who have once more A home!

NOW BARABBAS WAS A ROBBER

No guile? Nay, but so strangely He moves among us. . . . Not this Man but Barabbas! Release to us Barabbas!

FOR LUCAS CRANACH's EVE

Oh me, Was there a time When Paradise knew Eve In this sweet guise, so placid and So young?

THE SOURCE

Thou hast Drawn laughter from A well of secret tears And thence so elvish it rings,—mocking And sweet:

BLUE HYACINTHS

In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sighing Of Greece.

PART TWO

TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Ah, Walter, where you live I rue These days come all too late for me; What matter if her eyes are blue Whose rival is Persephone?

Fiesole, 1909.

THE PLEDGE

White doves of Cytherea, by your quest Across the blue Heaven's bluest highest air, And by your certain homing to Love's breast, Still to be true and ever true—I swear.

HYPNOS, GOD OF SLEEP

The shadowy boy of night Crosses the dusking land; He sows his poppy-seeds With steady gentle hand.

The shadowy boy of night, Young husbandman of dreams, Garners his gracious blooms By far and moonlit streams.

EXPENSES

Little my lacking fortunes show For this to eat and that to wear; Yet laughing, Soul, and gaily go! An obol pays the Stygian fare.

London, 1910.

ON SEEING WEATHER-BEATEN TREES

Is it as plainly in our living shown, By slant and twist, which way the wind hath blown?

ADVENTURE

Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly. . . . Where be bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me!

OH, LADY, LET THE SAD TEARS FALL

Oh, Lady, let the sad tears fall To speak thy pain, Gently as through the silver dusk The silver rain.

Oh, let thy bosom breathe its grief In such a soft sigh As hath the wind in gardens where Pale roses die.

DIRGE

Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still Tap at thy window-sill, Though ever love call and call Thou wilt not hear at all, My dear, my dear.

THE SUN-DIAL

Every day, Every day, Tell the hours By their shadows, By their shadows.

OLD LOVE