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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42668
   :PG.Title: Matins
   :PG.Released: 2013-05-08
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Francis Sherman
   :DC.Title: Matins
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1896
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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MATINS
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      MATINS

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      Francis Sherman

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      BOSTON
      COPELAND AND DAY
      MDCCCXCVI

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      COPYRIGHT 1896 BY COPELAND AND DAY

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      TO
      MY FATHER

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   CONTENTS

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   `At the Gate`_
   `A Life`_
   `At Matins`_
   `Ave`_
   `The Foreigner`_
   `Cadences`_
   `Easter-Song`_
   `The Rain`_
   `A Memory`_
   `Among the Hills`_
   `To Summer`_
   `The Path`_
   `The Last Flower`_
   `After Harvest`_
   `Heat in September`_
   `On the Hillside`_
   `Summer Dying`_
   `A November Vigil`_
   `Nunc Dimittis`_
   `Between the Battles`_
   `The Quiet Valley`_
   `The Kingfisher`_
   `The Conqueror`_
   `The King's Hostel`_
   `Between the Winter and the Spring`_
   `The Mother`_
   `The Window of Dreams`_
   `The Relief of Wet Willows`_
   `The Builder`_
   `Te Deum Laudamus`_

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.. _`AT THE GATE`:

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   AT THE GATE

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..

   |  Swing open wide, O Gate,
   |  That I may enter in
   |  And see what lies in wait
   |  For me who have been born!
   |  Her word I only scorn
   |  Who spake of death and sin.

   |  I know what is behind
   |  Your heavy brazen bars;
   |  I heard it of the wind
   |  Where I dwelt yesterday:
   |  The wind that blows alway
   |  Among the ancient stars.

   |  Life is the chiefest thing
   |  The wind brought knowledge of,
   |  As it passed, murmuring:
   |  Life, with its infinite strength,
   |  And undiminished length
   |  Of years fulfilled with love.

   |  The wind spake not of sin
   |  That blows among the stars;
   |  And so I enter in
   |  (Swing open wide, O Gate!)
   |  Fearless of what may wait
   |  Behind your heavy bars.

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.. _`A LIFE`:

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   A LIFE

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   \I.

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   |  *Let us rise up and live!*  Behold, each thing
   |  Is ready for the moulding of our hand.
   |  Long have they all awaited our command;
   |  None other will they ever own for king.
   |  Until we come no bird dare try to sing,
   |  Nor any sea its power may understand;
   |  No buds are on the trees; in every land
   |  Year asketh year some tidings of some Spring.
   |  Yea, it is time,—high time we were awake!
   |  Simple indeed shall life be unto us.
   |  What part is ours?—To take what all things give;
   |  To feel the whole world growing for our sake;
   |  To have sure knowledge of the marvellous;
   |  To laugh and love.—*Let us rise up and live!*


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   \II.

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   |  *Let us rule well and long*.  We will build here
   |  Our city in the pathway of the sun.
   |  On this side shall this mighty river run;
   |  Along its course well-laden ships shall steer.
   |  Beyond, great mountains shall their crests uprear,
   |  That from their sides our jewels may be won.
   |  Let all you toil!  Behold, it is well done;
   |  Under our sway all far things fall and near!
   |  All time is ours!  *Let us rule long and well!*
   |  So we have reigned for many a long, long day.
   |  No change can come....  What hath that slave to tell,
   |  Who dares to stop us on our royal way?
   |  "O King, last night within thy garden fell,
   |  From thine own tree, a rose whose leaves were gray."


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   \III.

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   |  *Let us lie down and sleep!*  All things are still,
   |  And everywhere doth rest alone seem sweet.
   |  No more is heard the sound of hurrying feet
   |  Athrough the land their echoes once did fill.
   |  Even the wind knows not its ancient will,
   |  For each ship floats with undisturbéd sheet:
   |  Naught stirs except the Sun, who hastes to greet
   |  His handmaiden, the utmost western hill.
   |  Ah, there the glory is!  O west of gold!
   |  Once seemed our life to us as glad and fair;
   |  We knew nor pain nor sorrow anywhere!
   |  O crimson clouds!  O mountains autumn-stoled!
   |  Across even you long shadows soon must sweep.
   |  We too have lived.  *Let us lie down and sleep!*


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   \IV.

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   |  *Nay, let us kneel and pray!*  The fault was ours,
   |  O Lord!  No other ones have sinned as we.
   |  The Spring was with us and we praised not thee;
   |  We gave no thanks for Summer's strangest flowers.
   |  We built us many ships, and mighty towers,
   |  And held awhile the whole broad world in fee:
   |  Yea, and it sometime writhed at our decree!
   |  The stars, the winds,—all they were subject-powers.
   |  All things we had for slave.  We knew no God;
   |  We saw no place on earth where His feet trod—
   |  This earth, where now the Winter hath full sway,
   |  Well shrouded under cold white snows and deep.
   |  We rose and lived; we ruled; yet, ere we sleep,
   |  O Unknown God,—*Let us kneel down and pray!*

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.. _`AT MATINS`:

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   AT MATINS

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   |  Because I ever have gone down Thy ways
   |  With joyous heart and undivided praise,
   |  I pray Thee, Lord, of Thy great loving-kindness,
   |  Thou'lt make to-day even as my yesterdays!"

   |  (At the edge of the yellow dawn I saw them stand,
   |  Body and Soul; and they were hand-in-hand:
   |  The Soul looked backward where the last night's blindness
   |  Lay still upon the unawakened land;

   |  But the Body, in the sun's light well arrayed,
   |  Fronted the east, grandly and unafraid:
   |  I knew that it was one might never falter
   |  Although the Soul seemed shaken as it prayed.)

   |  "O Lord" (the Soul said), "I would ask one thing:
   |  Send out Thy rapid messengers to bring
   |  Me to the shadows which about Thine altar
   |  Are ever born and always gathering.

   |  "For I am weary now, and would lie dead
   |  Where I may not behold my old days shed
   |  Like withered leaves around me and above me;
   |  Hear me, O Lord, and I am comforted!"

   |  "O Lord, because I ever deemed Thee kind"
   |  (The Body's words were borne in on the wind);
   |  "Because I knew that Thou wouldst ever love me
   |  Although I sin, and lead me who am blind;

   |  Because of all these things, hear me who pray!
   |  Lord, grant me of Thy bounty one more day
   |  To worship Thee, and thank Thee I am living.
   |  Yet if Thou callest now, I will obey."

   |  (The Body's hand tightly the Soul did hold;
   |  And over them both was shed the sun's red gold;
   |  And though I knew this day had in its giving
   |  Unnumbered wrongs and sorrows manifold,

   |  I counted it a sad and bitter thing
   |  That this weak, drifting Soul must alway cling
   |  Unto this Body—wrought in such a fashion
   |  It must have set the gods, even, marvelling.

   |  And, thinking so, I heard the Soul's loud cries,
   |  As it turned round and saw the eastern skies)
   |  "O Lord, destroy in me this new-born passion
   |  For this that has grown perfect in mine eyes!

   |  "O Lord, let me not see this thing is fair,
   |  This Body Thou hast given me to wear,—
   |  Lest I fall out of love with death and dying,
   |  And deem the old, strange life not hard to bear!

   |  "Yea, now, even now, I love this Body so—
   |  O Lord, on me Thy longest days bestow!
   |  O Lord, forget the words I have been crying,
   |  And lead me where Thou thinkest I should go!"

   |  (At the edge of the open dawn I saw them stand,
   |  Body and Soul, together, hand-in-hand,
   |  Fulfilled, as I, with strong desire and wonder
   |  As they beheld the glorious eastern land;

   |  I saw them, in the strong light of the sun,
   |  Go down into the day that had begun;
   |  I knew, as they, that night might never sunder
   |  This Body from the Soul that it had won.)

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.. _`AVE`:

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   AVE!

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..

   |  To-morrow, and a year is born again!
   |  (To-day the first bud wakened 'neath the snow.)
   |  Will it bring joys the old year did not know,
   |  Or will it burthen us with the old pain?
   |  Shall we seek out the Spring—to see it slain?
   |  Summer,—and learn all flowers have ceased to grow?
   |  Autumn,—and find it overswift to go?
   |  (The memories of the old year yet remain.)

   |  To-morrow, and another year is born!
   |  (Love liveth yet, O Love, we deemed was dead!)
   |  Let us go forth and welcome in the morn,
   |  Following bravely on where Hope hath led.
   |  (O Time, how great a thing thou art to scorn!)
   |  O Love, we shall not be uncomforted!

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.. _`THE FOREIGNER`:

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   THE FOREIGNER

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   |  He walked by me with open eyes,
   |  And wondered that I loved it so;
   |  Above us stretched the gray, gray skies;
   |  Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.

   |  Before us slept a dark, dark wood.
   |  Hemlocks were there, and little pines
   |  Also; and solemn cedars stood
   |  In even and uneven lines.

   |  The branches of each silent tree
   |  Bent downward, for the snow's hard weight
   |  Was pressing on them heavily;
   |  They had not known the sun of late.

   |  (Except when it was afternoon,
   |  And then a sickly sun peered in
   |  A little while; it vanished soon
   |  And then they were as they had been.)

   |  There was no sound (I thought I heard
   |  The axe of some man far away)
   |  There was no sound of bee, or bird,
   |  Or chattering squirrel at its play.

   |  And so he wondered I was glad.
   |  —There was one thing he could not see;
   |  Beneath the look these dead things had
   |  I saw Spring eyes agaze at me.

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.. _`CADENCES`:

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   CADENCES

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   (Mid-Lent)

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   |  The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill,
   |  Silent and all untenanted;
   |  From the trees also all glad sound hath fled,
   |  Save for the little wind that moaneth still
   |  Because it deemeth Earth is surely dead.

   |  For many days no woman hath gone by,
   |  Her gold hair knowing, as of old,
   |  The wind's caresses and the sun's kind gold;
   |  —Perchance even she hath thought it best to die
   |  Because all things are sad things to behold.

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   (Easter Morning)

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..

   |  She cometh now, with the sun's splendid shine
   |  On face and limbs and hair!
   |  Ye who are watching, have ye seen so fair
   |  A Lady ever as this one is of mine?
   |  Have ye beheld her likeness anywhere?

   |  See, as she cometh unrestrained and fleet
   |  Past the thrush-haunted trees,
   |  How glad the lilies are that touch her knees!
   |  How glad the grasses underneath her feet!
   |  And how even I am yet more glad than these!

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.. _`EASTER-SONG`:

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   EASTER-SONG

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   |  Maiden, awake!  For Christ is born again!
   |  And let your feet disdain
   |  The paths whereby of late they have been led.
   |  Now Death itself is dead,
   |  And Love hath birth,
   |  And all things mournful find no place on earth.

   |  This morn ye all must go another way
   |  Than ye went yesterday.
   |  Not with sad faces shall ye silent go
   |  Where He hath suffered so;
   |  But where there be
   |  Full many flowers shall ye wend joyfully.

   |  Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white,
   |  As if the ended night
   |  Were but your bridal-morn's foreshadowing.
   |  And ye must also sing
   |  In angel-wise:
   |  So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes.

   |  Maidens, arise!  I know where many flowers
   |  Have grown these many hours
   |  To make more perfect this glad Easter-day;
   |  Where tall white lilies sway
   |  On slender stem,
   |  Waiting for you to come and garner them;

   |  Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white,
   |  Which will Him well delight;
   |  And yellow buttercups, and growing grass
   |  Through which the Spring winds pass;
   |  And mosses wet,
   |  Well strown with many a new-born violet.

   |  All these and every other flower are here.
   |  Will ye not draw anear
   |  And gather them for Him, and in His name,
   |  Whom all men now proclaim
   |  Their living King?
   |  Behold how all these wait your harvesting!

   |  Moreover, see the darkness of His house!
   |  Think ye that He allows
   |  Such glory of glad color and perfume,
   |  But to destroy the gloom
   |  That hath held fast
   |  His altar-place these many days gone past?

   |  For this alone these blossoms had their birth,—
   |  To show His perfect worth!
   |  Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apace
   |  To that strange garden-place
   |  And gather all
   |  These living flowers for His high festival.

   |  For now hath come the long-desired day,
   |  Wherein Love hath full sway!
   |  Open the gates, O ye who guard His home,
   |  His handmaidens are come!
   |  Open them wide,
   |  That all may enter in this Easter-tide!

   |  Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing,
   |  And all your wild flowers bring
   |  And strew them on His altar; while the sun—
   |  Seeing what hath been done—
   |  Shines strong once more,
   |  Knowing that Death hath Christ for conqueror.

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.. _`THE RAIN`:

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   THE RAIN

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   |  O ye who so unceasing praise the Sun;
   |  Ye who find nothing worthy of your love
   |  But the Sun's face and the strong light thereof;
   |  Who, when the day is done,
   |  Are all uncomforted
   |  Unless the night be crowned with many a star,
   |  Or mellow light be shed
   |  From the ancient moon that gazeth from afar,
   |  With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth;
   |  O ye to whom the skies
   |  Must be forever fair to free your eyes
   |  From mortal pain;—
   |  Have ye not known the great exceeding worth
   |  Of that soft peace which cometh with the Rain?

   |  Behold! the wisest of you knows no thing
   |  That hath such title to man's worshipping
   |  As the first sudden day
   |  The slumbrous Earth is wakened into Spring;
   |  When heavy clouds and gray
   |  Come up the southern way,
   |  And their bold challenge throw
   |  In the face of the frightened snow
   |  That covereth the ground.
   |  What need they now the armies of the Sun
   |  Whose trumpets now do sound?
   |  Alas, the powerless Sun!
   |  Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past,
   |  Each morning drawing up his cohorts vast
   |  And leading them with slow and even paces
   |  To assault once more the impenetrable places,
   |  Where, crystal-bound,
   |  The river moveth on with silent sound?
   |  O puny, powerless Sun!
   |  On the pure white snow where are the lightest traces
   |  Of what thy forces' ordered ways have done?
   |  On these large spaces
   |  No footsteps are imprinted anywhere;
   |  Still the white glare
   |  Is perfect; yea, the snows are drifted still
   |  On plain and hill;
   |  And still the river knows the Winter's iron will.

   |  Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy face
   |  This day beneath the cloud's gray covering;
   |  Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgrace
   |  In which thy name is holden of the Spring.
   |  She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing,
   |  And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place;
   |  Knowing that with the clouds will come apace
   |  The Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king.
   |  A king?—Nay, queen!
   |  For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throne
   |  When first she cometh in the young Spring-season;
   |  Gentle and mild,
   |  Yet with no dread of any revolution,
   |  And fearing not a land unreconciled,
   |  And unafraid of treason.
   |  In her dark hair
   |  Lieth the snow's most certain dissolution;
   |  And in her glance is known
   |  The freeing of the rivers from their chainings;
   |  And in her bosom's strainings
   |  Earth's teeming breast is tokened and foreshown.

   |  Behold her coming surely, calmly down,
   |  Where late the clear skies were,
   |  With gray clouds for a gown;
   |  Her fragile draperies
   |  Caught by the little breeze
   |  Which loveth her!
   |  She weareth yet no crown,
   |  Nor is there any sceptre in her hands;
   |  Yea, in all lands,
   |  Whatever Spring she cometh, men know well
   |  That it is right and good for her to come;
   |  And that her least commands
   |  Must be fulfilled, however wearisome;
   |  And that they all must guard the citadel
   |  Wherein she deigns to dwell!

   |  And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly over
   |  The impressionable snow
   |  That vanisheth as woe
   |  Doth vanish from the rapt face of a lover,
   |  Who, after doubting nights, hath come to know
   |  His lady loves him so!
   |  (Yet not like him
   |  Doth the snow bear the signs of her light touch!
   |  It is all gray in places, and looks worn
   |  With some most bitter pain;
   |  As he shall look, perchance,
   |  Some early morn
   |  While yet the dawn is dim,
   |  When he awakens from the enraptured trance
   |  In which he, blind, hath lain,
   |  And knows that also he hath loved in vain
   |  The lady who, he deemed, had loved him much.
   |  And though her utter worthlessness is plain
   |  He hath no joy of his deliverance,
   |  But only asketh God to let him die,—
   |  And getteth no reply.)
   |  Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain!

   |  And while the rain is unabated,
   |  Well-heads are born and streams created
   |  On the hillsides, and set a-flowing
   |  Across the fields.  The river, knowing
   |  That there hath surely come at last
   |  Its freedom, and that frost is past,
   |  Gathereth force to break its chains;
   |  The river's faith is in the Spring's unceasing rains!

   |  See where the shores even now were firmly bound
   |  The slowly widening water showeth black,
   |  As from the fields and meadows all around
   |  Come rushing over the dark and snowless ground
   |  The foaming streams!
   |  Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tide
   |  Lift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crack
   |  Starts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams,
   |  Glad to be free.
   |  And now the uneven rift is growing wide;
   |  The breaking ice is fast becoming gray;
   |  It hears the loud beseeching of the sea,
   |  And moveth on its way.
   |  Surely at last the work of the rain is done!
   |  Surely the Spring at last is well begun,
   |  O unavailing Sun!

   |  O ye who worship only at the noon,
   |  When will ye learn the glory of the rain?
   |  Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grass
   |  Uplooking piteous at the burnished sky,
   |  And all in vain?
   |  Even in June
   |  Have ye not seen the yellow flowers swoon
   |  Along the roadside, where the dust, alas,
   |  Is hard to pass?
   |  Have ye not heard
   |  The song cease in the throat of every bird
   |  And know the thing all these were stricken by?

   |  Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer,
   |  O pitiless and uncompassionate!
   |  Yet should the sweeping
   |  Of Death's wide wings across your face unsleeping
   |  Be felt of you to-night,
   |  And all your hair
   |  Know the soft stirring of an alien breath
   |  From out the mouth of Death,
   |  Would ye not then have memory of these
   |  And how their pain was great?
   |  Would ye not wish to hear among the trees
   |  The wind in his great might,
   |  And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies?

   |  For when could death be more desired by us
   |  (Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!)
   |  Than when the night
   |  Is heavy with the wet wind born of rain?
   |  When flowers are yellow, and the growing grass
   |  Is not yet tall,
   |  Or when all living things are harvested
   |  And with bright gold the hills are glorious,
   |  Or when all colors have faded from our sight
   |  And all is gray that late was gold and red?
   |  Have ye not lain awake the long night through
   |  And listened to the falling of the rain
   |  On fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead?
   |  Have none of you,
   |  Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comforted
   |  And made forgetful of the day's live pain?
   |  Even *Thou*, who wept because the dark was great
   |  Once, and didst pray that dawn might come again,
   |  Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thing
   |  And night a thing not wholly desolate
   |  And Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising?
   |  Did not thy hearing strain
   |  To catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea,
   |  Where great tides be,
   |  And swift, white rain?
   |  Did not its far exulting teach thy soul
   |  That of all things the sea alone is free
   |  And under no control?
   |  Its liberty,—
   |  Was it not most desired by thy soul?

   |  I say,
   |  The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the sea
   |  Is glad alway
   |  When the rain cometh; either tranquilly
   |  As at the first dawn of a summer day
   |  Or in late autumn wildly passionate,
   |  Or when all things are all disconsolate
   |  Because that Winter has been long their king,
   |  Or in the Spring.
   |  —Therefore let now your joyful thanksgiving
   |  Be heard on Earth because the Rain hath come!
   |  While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb?
   |  Shall ye alone await the sun-shining?
   |  Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring;
   |  Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome;
   |  Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home,
   |  Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling,
   |  When ye seek out your homes because the night—
   |  The last, dark night—falls swift across your path,
   |  And on Life's altar your last day lies slain,
   |  Will ye not cry aloud with that new might
   |  One dying with great things unfinished hath,
   |  "O God! if Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain!"


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.. _`A MEMORY`:

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   A MEMORY

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..

   |  You are not with me though the Spring is here!
   |  And yet it seemed to-day as if the Spring
   |  Were the same one that in an ancient year
   |  Came suddenly upon our wandering.

   |  You must remember all that chanced that day.
   |  Can you forget the shy awaking call
   |  Of the first robin?—And the foolish way
   |  The squirrel ran along the low stone wall?

   |  The half-retreating sound of water breaking,
   |  Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breeze
   |  Told us the tumult many crows were making
   |  Amid innumerable distant trees;

   |  The certain presence of the birth of things
   |  Around, above, beneath, us,—everywhere;
   |  The soft return of immemorial Springs
   |  Thrilling with life the fragrant forest air;

   |  All these were with us then.  Can you forget?
   |  Or must you—even as I—remember well?
   |  To-day, all these were with me, there,—and yet
   |  They seemed to have some bitter thing to tell;

   |  They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to wait
   |  One's doubtful coming whom of old they knew;
   |  Till, seeing me alone and desolate,
   |  They learned how vain was strong desire of you.

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.. _`AMONG THE HILLS`:

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   AMONG THE HILLS

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..

   |  Far off, to eastward, I see the wide hill sloping
   |  Up to the place where the pines and sky are one;
   |  All the hill is gray with its young budding birches
   |  And red with its maple-tips and yellow with the sun.

   |  Sometimes, over it rolls a purple shadow
   |  Of a ragged cloud that wanders in the large, open sky,
   |  Born where the ploughed fields border on the river
   |  And melting into space where the pines are black and high.

   |  There all is quiet; but here where I am waiting,
   |  Among the firs behind me the wind is ill at ease;
   |  The crows, too, proclaim their old, incessant trouble,—
   |  I think there is some battle raging in the surging trees.

   |  And yet, should I go down beside the swollen river
   |  Where the vagrant timber hurries to the wide untrammelled sea,
   |  With the mind and the will to cross the new-born waters
   |  And to let the yellow hillside share its peace with me,

   |  —I know, then, that surely would come the old spring-fever
   |  And touch my sluggish blood with its old eternal fire;
   |  Till for me, too, the love of peace were over and forgotten,
   |  And the freedom of the logs had become my soul's desire.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TO SUMMER`:

.. class:: noindent large

   TO SUMMER

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  Summer!  I praise thee, who art glorious!
   |  For now the sudden promise of the Spring
   |  Hath been fulfilled in many ways to us,
   |  And all live things are thine.
   |  Therefore, while all the earth
   |  Is glad, and young, and strangely riotous
   |  With love of thee, whose blood is even as wine,
   |  *I* dare to sing,
   |  Worshipping thee, and thy face welcoming;
   |  I, also a lover of thy most wondrous worth.

   |  Yet with no scorn of any passed days
   |  Come I,—who even in April caught great pleasure,—
   |  Making of ancient woes the stronger praise;
   |  Nor build I this new crown
   |  For my new love's fair head
   |  Of flowers plucked in once oft-travelled ways,
   |  And then forgot and utterly cast down;
   |  But from the measure
   |  Of a strange, undreamt-of, undivided treasure
   |  I glean, and thus my love is garlanded.

   |  Yea, with a crown such as no other queen
   |  That ever ruled on earth wore round her hair,
   |  And garments such as man hath never seen!
   |  The beauty Heaven hath
   |  For thee was magnified;
   |  I think the least of thy bright gold and green
   |  Once lived along God's best-beloved path,
   |  And angels there

   |  Passed by, and gathered those He called most fair,
   |  And, at His bidding, dressed thee for Earth's bride.
   |  How at thy coming we were glad again!
   |  We who were nigh to death, awaiting thee;
   |  And fain of death as one aweary of pain.
   |  Life had grown burthensome,
   |  Till suddenly we learned
   |  The joy the old brown earth has, when the rain
   |  Comes, and the earth is glad that it has come:
   |  That ecstasy
   |  The buds have, when the worn snow sets them free,
   |  The sea's delight when storm-time has returned.

   |  O season of the strong triumphant Sun!
   |  Bringer of exultation unto all!
   |  Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run.
   |  Over thy growing grain
   |  How the winds rise and cease!
   |  Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun—
   |  There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain!
   |  Where trees are tall,
   |  Hear where young birds hold their high festival;
   |  And see where shallow waters know thy peace.

   |  Will any of these things ever pain thine eyes,
   |  Summer, that thou shouldst go another way
   |  Than ours, or shouldst our offerings despise?
   |  Come with me further still
   |  Where, in sight of the sea,
   |  This garden liveth under mellow skies;
   |  Of its dear odors drink thine utmost fill,
   |  And deign to stay
   |  A moment mid its colors' glad array,—
   |  Is not this place a pleasant one for thee?

   |  Yea, thou wilt ever stay, I know full well!
   |  Why do I fear that thou wilt pass from us?
   |  Is not this earth thy home wherein to dwell?
   |  The perfect ways thereof
   |  Are thy desired ones;
   |  Earth hath no voice but of thy worth to tell.
   |  Therefore, as one who loves might praise his love,
   |  So, even thus,
   |  I hail thee, Summer, who art glorious,
   |  And know thy reign eternal as the Sun's!


.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PATH`:

.. class:: noindent large

   THE PATH

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  Is this the path that knew your tread,
   |  Once, when the skies were just as blue
   |  As they are now, far overhead?
   |  Are these the trees that looked at you
   |  And listened to the words you said?

   |  Along this moss did your dress sweep?
   |  And is this broken stem the one
   |  That gave its flower to you to keep?
   |  And here where the grasses knew the sun
   |  Before a sickle came to reap
   |  Did your dear shadow softly fall?
   |  This place is very like, and yet
   |  No shadow lieth here at all;
   |  With dew the mosses still are wet
   |  Although the grass no more is tall.

   |  The small brown birds go rustling through
   |  The low-branched hemlock as of old;
   |  The tree-tops almost touch the blue;
   |  The sunlight falleth down like gold
   |  On one new flower that waiteth you.




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LAST FLOWER`:

.. class:: noindent large

   THE LAST FLOWER

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  O golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun!
   |  Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee?
   |  This meadow is a barren thing to see,
   |  For here the reapers' toil is over and done.
   |  Of all her many birds there is but one
   |  Left to assail the last wild raspberry;
   |  The buttercups and daisies withered be,
   |  And yet thy reign hath only now begun.
   |  O sign of power and sway imperial!
   |  O sceptre thrust into the hands of Fall
   |  By Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot's tread!
   |  O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas,
   |  Even the trees have let their glory pass,
   |  And now with thy gold hair are garlanded!




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AFTER HARVEST`:

.. class:: noindent large

   AFTER HARVEST

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  O Earth, O Mother, thou hast earned our praise!
   |  The long year through thou hast been good to us.
   |  Forgive us were we ever mutinous
   |  Or unbelieving in thy strange, sure ways.
   |  Sometimes, alas, we watched with wild amaze
   |  Thy passing, for thou wert imperious
   |  Indeed; and our estate seemed perilous,
   |  And we as grass the wind unseeing sways.
   |  Then, we were blind: the least among us sees,
   |  Now, in each well-stripped vine and barren field,
   |  Each garden that is fast a-perishing,
   |  The promise April surely had revealed
   |  Had we had grace to bend our stubborn knees
   |  Who seek thee now with humble thanksgiving.




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HEAT IN SEPTEMBER`:

.. class:: noindent large

   HEAT IN SEPTEMBER

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  And why shouldst thou come back to us, July,
   |  Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass?
   |  Where are thy sunflowers?  Where thine uncut grass?
   |  Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky?
   |  Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh;
   |  Only the wind that bloweth in, alas,
   |  Telleth of fire where many a green tree was;
   |  And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high.
   |  Must I, like him who, seeing once again
   |  The long-awaited face of his lost love,
   |  Hath little strength to thank the gods above
   |  (Remembering most the ancient passion's pain),
   |  Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,—
   |  Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain?




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE HILLSIDE`:

.. class:: noindent large

   ON THE HILLSIDE

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  October's peace hath fallen on everything.
   |  In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill,
   |  With red and purple yet the heavens thrill—
   |  The passing of the sun remembering.
   |  A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing,
   |  (In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!)
   |  Below, the little city lieth still;
   |  And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling.
   |  Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough,
   |  The cattle wander homeward slowly now;
   |  In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead.
   |  Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born;
   |  The maples will be desolate by morn.
   |  The last word of the summer hath been said.




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SUMMER DYING`:

.. class:: noindent large

   SUMMER DYING

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  Last night the heavy moaning wind
   |  Bore unto me
   |  Warning from Him who hath designed
   |  That change shall be.

   |  Beneath these mighty hills I lay,
   |  At rest at last,
   |  And thinking on the golden day
   |  But now gone past;

   |  When softly came a faint, far cry
   |  That night made clear,
   |  "*Thy reign is over, thou must die;*
   |  *Winter is near!*"

   |  "*Winter is near!*"  Yea, all night long
   |  Reëchoed far
   |  The burden of that weary song
   |  Of hopeless war.

   |  I prayed unto the fixéd King
   |  Of changing Time
   |  For longer life, till sun-rising
   |  And morning's prime,

   |  And while to-day I watched the sun
   |  Rise, slant, and die;
   |  And now is night the stronger one.
   |  Again the cry

   |  Comes, louder now,—"*Thy reign is o'er!*"
   |  Yes, Lord, I know;
   |  And here I kneel on Earth's cold floor
   |  Once, ere I go,

   |  And thank Thee for the long, long days
   |  Thou gavest me,
   |  And all the pleasant, laughing ways
   |  I walked with Thee.

   |  I have been happy since the first
   |  Glad day I rose
   |  And found the river here had burst
   |  Through ice and snows

   |  While I had slept.  Blue places were
   |  Amidst the gray,
   |  Where water showed; and the water
   |  Most quiet lay.

   |  Upon the ice great flocks of crows
   |  Were clamoring—
   |  Lest my blue eyes again should close—
   |  The eyes of Spring.

   |  I stepped down to the frozen shore—
   |  The snow was gone;
   |  And lo, where ice had been before,
   |  The river shone!

   |  With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birds
   |  To the tall pines;
   |  These were the first of Spring's faint words
   |  And Summer's signs.

   |  And now I hear Thee—"*Thou must die!*"
   |  Ah, might I stay,
   |  That I might hear one robin's cry
   |  Bringing the day;

   |  That I might see the new grass come
   |  Where cattle range;
   |  The maples bud, wild roses bloom,
   |  Old willows change;

   |  That I might know one night in June
   |  Two found most fair,
   |  And see again the great half-moon
   |  Shine through her hair;

   |  Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie,
   |  Where orchards are,
   |  And hear some glad child's laughing cry
   |  Ring loud and far;

   |  Or even, Lord, though near my end
   |  It surely be,
   |  Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and send
   |  One day to me,

   |  One day—October's brown and red
   |  Cover the hills,
   |  And all the brakes and ferns are dead,
   |  And quiet fills

   |  One place where many birds once sang?
   |  Then should I go
   |  Where heavy fir-trees overhang
   |  Their branches so,

   |  And slim white birches, quivering,
   |  Loose yellow leaves,
   |  And aspens grow, and everything
   |  For Summer grieves.

   |  Ah, there once more, ere day be done,
   |  To face the west,
   |  And see the sure and scarlet sun
   |  Sink to its rest

   |  Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheer
   |  Up to the sky;
   |  To feel the last light disappear
   |  And silent die;

   |  To see faint stars....  Yea, Lord, I come;
   |  I hear Thy call;
   |  Reach me Thy hand and guide me home,
   |  Lest I should fall....

   |  Back, Winter!  Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead,
   |  Now come to Thee;
   |  I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said
   |  "*Let Winter be!*"

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A NOVEMBER VIGIL`:

.. class:: noindent large

   A NOVEMBER VIGIL

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  I wonder why my love for him
   |  Should grow so much these last three days,
   |  While he but stares as if some whim
   |  Had been discovered to his gaze;

   |  Some foolish whim that brings but shame
   |  Whatever time he thinks thereof,—
   |  To him my name is now the name
   |  Of some old half-forgotten love.

   |  And yet I starve for his least kiss
   |  And faint because my love is great;
   |  I, who am now no more than this,—
   |  An unseen beggar at his gate....

   |  *She watched the moon and spake aloud.*
   |  *The moon seemed not to rise, but hung*
   |  *Just underneath the long straight cloud*
   |  *That low across the heavens swung,*

   |  *As if to press the old moon back*
   |  *Into its place behind the trees.*
   |  *The trees stood where the hill was black;*
   |  *They were not vexed by any breeze.*

   |  *The moon was not as it had been*
   |  *Before, when she had watched it rise;*
   |  *It was misshapen now, and thin,*
   |  *As if some trouble in the skies*

   |  *Had happened more than it could bear,*
   |  *Its color, too, was no more red;*
   |  *Nor was it like her yellow hair;—*
   |  *It looked as if its soul were dead.*

   |  I, who was once well-loved of him,
   |  Am as a beggar by his gate
   |  Whereon black carvéd things look grim
   |  At one who thinks to penetrate.

   |  I do not ask if I may stray
   |  Once more in those desired lands;
   |  Another night, yet one more day,
   |  For these I do not make demands;

   |  For when the ripened hour is past
   |  Things such as these are asked in vain:
   |  His first day's love,—were that the last
   |  I were repaid for this new pain.

   |  Out of his love great joy I had
   |  For many days; and even now
   |  I do not dare to be but glad
   |  When I remember, often, how

   |  He said he had great joy of me.
   |  The while he loved, no man, I think,
   |  Exceeded him in constancy;
   |  My passion, even, seemed to shrink

   |  Almost to nothing, when he came
   |  And told me all of love's strange things:
   |  The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame,
   |  Its silent hours, its rapid wings....

   |  *The moon still waited, watching her*
   |  *(The cloud still stretched there, close above;*
   |  *The trees beneath); it could not stir,*
   |  *And yet it seemed the shape thereof,*

   |  *Since she looked first, some change had known.*
   |  *In places it had burned away,*
   |  *And one side had much thinner grown;*
   |  *—What light that came from it was gray.*

   |  *It was not curved from east to west.*
   |  *But lay upon its back; like one*
   |  *Wounded, or weary of some quest,*
   |  *Or by strong enemies undone.*

   |  *Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;*
   |  *She knew they were burned out and dead*
   |  *Because no clouds went, drifting by,*
   |  *Across the light the strange moon shed.*

   |  Now, I can hope for naught but death.
   |  I would not stay to give him pain,
   |  Or say the words a woman saith
   |  When love hath called aloud in vain

   |  And got no answer anywhere.
   |  It were far better I should die,
   |  And have rough strangers come to bear
   |  My body far away, where I

   |  Shall know the quiet of the tomb;
   |  That they should leave me, with no tears,
   |  To think and think within the gloom
   |  For many years, for many years.

   |  The thought of that strange, narrow place
   |  Is hard for me to bear, indeed;
   |  I do not fear cold Death's embrace,
   |  And where black worms draw nigh to feed

   |  On my white body, then, I know
   |  That I shall make no mournful cry:
   |  But that I should be hidden so
   |  Where I no more may see the sky,—

   |  The wide sky filled with many a star,
   |  Or all around the yellow sun,
   |  Or even the sky where great clouds are
   |  That wait until the rain be done,

   |  —That is an evil thing for me....
   |  *Across the sky the cloud swung still*
   |  *And pressed the moon down heavily*
   |  *Where leafless trees grew on the hill.*

   |  *The pale moon now was very thin.*
   |  *There was no water near the place,*
   |  *Else would the moon that slept therein*
   |  *Have frightened her with its gray face.*

   |  How shall I wish to see the sky!
   |  For that alone mine eyes shall weep;
   |  I care not where they make me lie,
   |  Nor if my grave be diggéd deep,

   |  So they leave loose my coffin's lid
   |  And throw on me no mouldy clay,
   |  That the white stars may not be hid:
   |  This little thing is all I pray.

   |  Then I shall move me wearily,
   |  And clasp each bone that was my wrist,
   |  Around each slender bony knee;
   |  And wind my hair, that once he kissed,

   |  Around my body wasted thin,
   |  To keep me from the grave's cold breath;
   |  And on my knees rest my poor chin,
   |  And think of what I lose by death.

   |  I shall be happy, being dead....
   |  *The moon, by now, had nearly gone,*
   |  *As if it knew its time was sped*
   |  *And feared the coming of the dawn.*

   |  *It had not risen; one could see*
   |  *The cloud was strong to keep it back;*
   |  *It merely faded utterly,*
   |  *And where it was the sky grew black.*

   |  *Till suddenly the east turned gray,*
   |  *Although no stars were overhead;*
   |  *And though the moon had died away,*
   |  *There came faint glimmerings of red;*

   |  *Then larger waves of golden light*
   |  *Heralded that the day was born,*
   |  *And on the furthest eastern height*
   |  *With swift feet came the waited morn.*

   |  *With swift feet came the morn, but lo!*
   |  *Just as its triumph was begun,*
   |  *The first wild onset of the snow*
   |  *Strangled the glad imperial sun!*


.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NUNC DIMITTIS`:

.. class:: noindent large

   NUNC DIMITTIS

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray:
   |  Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay,
   |  Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way;

   |  Because the memories of the things that were—
   |  That little blessed while with Thee and her—
   |  Make me a heavy-hearted traveller.

   |  And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill,
   |  I—knowing that Thy will was once our will—
   |  Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still,

   |  And only waitest—Thou and she alone—
   |  Until I know again as I have known
   |  The glory that abideth near our throne.




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BETWEEN THE BATTLES`:

.. class:: noindent large

   BETWEEN THE BATTLES

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  Let us bury him here,
   |  Where the maples are red!
   |  He is dead,
   |  And he died thanking God that he fell with the
   |      fall of the leaf and the year.

   |  Where the hillside is sheer,
   |  Let it echo our tread
   |  Whom he led;
   |  Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who
   |      never knew fear.

   |  Ere he died, they had fled;
   |  Yet they heard his last cheer
   |  Ringing clear,—
   |  When we lifted him up, he would fain have
   |      pursued, but grew dizzy instead.

   |  Break his sword and his spear!
   |  Let this last prayer be said
   |  By the bed
   |  We have made underneath the wet wind in the
   |      maple trees moaning so drear:

   |  "O Lord God, by the red
   |  Sullen end of the year
   |  That is here,
   |  We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our
   |      swords till his slayers be dead!"

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE QUIET VALLEY`:

.. class:: noindent large

   THE QUIET VALLEY

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  They pity me who have grown old,—
   |  So old, mine eyes may not behold
   |  If any wolf chance near the fold.

   |  They pity me, because, alas!
   |  I lie and dream among the grass,
   |  And let the herds unheeded pass.

   |  They deem I must be sorrowing,
   |  Because I note not when the Spring
   |  Is over me and everything.

   |  They know not why I am forlorn,—
   |  How could they know?—They were not born
   |  When he rode here that April morn.

   |  They were not living when he came
   |  Into this valley, swift like flame,—
   |  Perchance they have not heard his name!

   |  My men were very valiant men—
   |  (Alas, that I had only ten!
   |  These people were not living then.)

   |  But when one is not yet awake
   |  His banner is not hard to take,
   |  His spears are easy things to break.

   |  And dazed men are not hard to slay
   |  When many foes, as strong as they,
   |  With swords and spears come down their way.

   |  This valley now has quiet grown;
   |  And I lie here content, alone,
   |  Dreaming of things that I have known;

   |  And count the mounds of waving grass—
   |  (Ten,—yea, and ten more, by the Mass!)
   |  And let the restless cattle pass.


.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE KINGFISHER`:

.. class:: noindent large

   THE KINGFISHER

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  *Under the sun, the Kingfisher*
   |  *From his high place was watching her.*

   |  He knew she came from some far place;
   |  For when she threw her body down,
   |  She seemed quite tired; and her face
   |  Had dust upon it; and her gown,
   |  That had been yellow, now was brown.

   |  She lay near where the shadows lie
   |  At noontime when they meet the sun.
   |  The water floated slowly by
   |  Her feet.  Her hair was all undone,
   |  And with the grass its gold was spun.

   |  The trees were tall and green behind,
   |  And hid the house upon the hill.
   |  This place was sheltered from the wind,
   |  And all the little leaves were still,
   |  And every fern and daffodil.

   |  Her face was hidden in her hands;
   |  And through the grass, and through her hair,
   |  The sunlight found the golden bands
   |  About her wrists.  (It was aware,
   |  Also, that her two arms were bare.)

   |  *From his high branch, the Kingfisher*
   |  *Looked down on her and pitied her.*

   |  He wondered who that she could be,—
   |  This dear, strange lady, who had come
   |  To vex him with her misery;
   |  And why her days were wearisome,
   |  And what far country was her home.

   |  Her home must be far off indeed,
   |  Wherein such bitter grief could grow.
   |  Had there been no one there to plead
   |  For her when they had wronged her so?
   |  Did none her perfect honor know?

   |  Was there no sword or pennoned lance
   |  Omnipotent in hall or field
   |  For her complete deliverance?
   |  To make them cry, "We yield! we yield
   |  Were not her colors on some shield?

   |  *Had he been there? the Kingfisher,*
   |  *How he had fought and died for her!*

   |  A little yellow bird flew by;
   |  And where the water-weeds were still,
   |  Hovered a great blue dragon-fly;
   |  Small fishes set the streams a-thrill
   |      The Kingfisher forgot to kill.

   |  He only thought of her who lay
   |  Upon the ground and was so fair,—
   |  As fair as she who came one day
   |  And sat long with her lover there.
   |  The same gold sun was in her hair.

   |  They had come down, because of love,
   |  From the great house on the hillside:
   |  This lady had no share thereof,
   |  For now this place was sanctified!
   |  Had this fair lady's lover died?

   |  Was this dear lady's lover dead?
   |  Had she come here to wait until
   |  Her heart and soul were comforted?
   |  Why was it not within her will
   |  To seek the lady on the hill?

   |  She, too, was lonely; for he had
   |  Beheld her just this morning, when
   |  Her last kiss made her lover glad
   |  Who went to fight the heathen-men:
   |  (He said he would return again!)

   |  That lady would have charity
   |  He knew, because her love was great;
   |  And this one—fairer even than she—
   |  Should enter in her open gate
   |  And be no more disconsolate!

   |  *Under the sun, the Kingfisher*
   |  *Knew no one else might comfort her.*




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CONQUEROR`:

.. class:: noindent large

   THE CONQUEROR

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  I will go now where my dear Lady is,
   |  And tell her how I won in this great fight;
   |  Ye know not death who say this shape is his
   |  That loometh up between me and the light.

   |  As if death could wish anything of one
   |  Who hath to-day brought many men to death!
   |  Why should it not grow dark?—Surely the sun
   |  Hath seen since morning much that wearieth.

   |  Dead bodies; red, red blood upon the land;
   |  Torn sails of scattered ships upon the sea;
   |  And dead forgotten men stretched on the sand
   |  Close to the sea's edge, where the waves are free;

   |  What day hath seen such things and hath not fled?
   |  What day hath stayed, hearing, for frequent sounds,
   |  The flashing swords of men well-helmeted,
   |  The moans of warriors sick of many wounds?

   |  Ye know not death; this thing is but the night.
   |  Wherefore I should be glad that it is come:
   |  For when I left my Lady for this fight,
   |  I said, "At sunset I am coming home."

   |  "When you return, I shall be here," she said,
   |  "God knows that I must pray a little while."
   |  And as she put my helmet on my head,
   |  She kissed me; and her blue eyes tried to smile.

   |  And still she waiteth underneath the trees.
   |  (When we had gone a little on our way
   |  I turned and looked; she knelt there on her knees:
   |  I heard her praying many times to-day.)

   |  Nay, nay, I need no wine!  She waiteth still
   |  Watching and praying till I come to her.
   |  She saw the sun drop down behind the hill
   |  And wondereth I am a loiterer.

   |  So I must go.  Bring me my shield and sword!
   |  (Is there no unstained grass will clean this stain?)
   |  This day is won;—but now the great reward
   |  Cometh!  O Love, thy prayers were not in vain!

   |  I am well rested now.—Nay, I can rise
   |  Without your help!  Why do ye look at me
   |  With so much pain and pity in your eyes,
   |  Who gained with me to-day this victory?

   |  I think we should be glad we are not dead,
   |  —Only, perchance, no Lady waiteth you,
   |  No Lady who is all uncomforted,
   |  And who hath watched and prayed these long hours through.

   |  Yea, I must go.—What?  Am I tired yet?
   |  Let me lie here and rest my aching side.
   |  The thought of her hath made me quite forget
   |  How sharp his sword was just before he died.




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.. _`THE KING'S HOSTEL`:

.. class:: noindent large

   THE KING'S HOSTEL

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  Let us make it fit for him!
   |  He will come ere many hours
   |  Are passed over.  Strew these flowers
   |  Where the floor is hard and bare!
   |  Ever was his royal whim
   |  That his place of rest were fair.

   |  Such a narrow little room!
   |  Think you he will deign to use it?
   |  Yes, we know he would not choose it
   |  Were there any other near;
   |  Here there is such damp and gloom,
   |  And such quietness is here.

   |  That he loved the light, we know;
   |  And we know he was the gladdest
   |  Always when the mirth was maddest
   |  And the laughter drowned the song;
   |  When the fire's shade and glow
   |  Fell upon the loyal throng.

   |  Yet it may be, if he come,
   |  Now, to-night, he will be tired;
   |  And no more will be desired
   |  All the music once he knew;
   |  He will joy the lutes are dumb
   |  And be glad the lights are few.

   |  Heard you how the fight has gone?
   |  Surely it will soon be ended!
   |  Was their stronghold well defended
   |  Ere it fell before his might?
   |  Did it yield soon after dawn,
   |  Or when noon was at its height?

   |  Hark! his trumpet!  It is done.
   |  Smooth the bed.  And for a cover
   |  Drape those scarlet colors over;
   |  And upon these dingy walls
   |  Hang what banners he has won.
   |  Hasten ere the twilight falls!

   |  They are here!—We knew the best
   |  When we set us to prepare him
   |  Such a place; for they that bear him
   |  —They as he—seem weary too;
   |  Peace! and let him have his rest;
   |  There is nothing more to do.




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.. _`BETWEEN THE WINTER AND THE SPRING`:

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   BETWEEN THE WINTER AND THE SPRING

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..

   |  Between the Winter and the Spring
   |  One came to me at dead of night;
   |  I heard him well as any might,
   |  Although his lips, unmurmuring.
   |  Made no sweet sounds for my delight;
   |  Also, I knew him, though long days
   |  (It seemed) had fallen across my ways
   |  Since I had felt his comforting.

   |  It was quite dark, but I could see
   |  His hair was yellow as the sun;
   |  And his soft garments, every one,
   |  Were white as angels' throats may be;
   |  And as some man whose pain is done
   |  At last, and peace is surely his,
   |  His eyes were perfect with great bliss
   |  And seemed so glad to look at me.

   |  I knew that he had come to bring
   |  The change that I was waiting for,
   |  And, as he crossed my rush-strewn floor,
   |  I had no thought of questioning;
   |  And then he kissed me, o'er and o'er,
   |  Upon the eyes; so I fell
   |  Asleep unfrightened,—knowing well
   |  That morning would fulfil the Spring.

   |  And when they came at early morn
   |  And found that I at last was dead,
   |  Some two or three knelt by my bed
   |  And prayed for one they deemed forlorn;
   |  But he they wept for only said
   |  (Thinking of when the old days were),
   |  "Alas that God had need of her
   |  The very morning Spring was born!"




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.. _`THE MOTHER`:

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   THE MOTHER

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  The long dark night crawled slowly on;
   |  I waited patiently,
   |  Knowing at last the sudden dawn,
   |  Sometime, would surely be.

   |  It came,—to tell me everything
   |  Was Winter's quiet slave:
   |  I waited still, aware that Spring
   |  Was strong to come and save.

   |  And then Spring came, and I was glad
   |  A few expectant hours;
   |  Until I learned the things I had
   |  Were only withered flowers

   |  Because there came not with the Spring
   |  As in the ancient days—
   |  The sound of his feet pattering
   |  Along Spring's open ways;

   |  Because his sweetly serious eyes
   |  Looked into mine no more;
   |  Because no more in childish-wise
   |  He brought his gathered store

   |  Of dandelions to my bed,
   |  And violets and grass,—
   |  Deeming I would be comforted
   |  That Spring had come to pass.

   |  And now these unused toys and I
   |  Have little dread or care
   |  For any season that drifts by
   |  The silences we share;

   |  And sometimes, when we think to pray,
   |  Across the vacant years
   |  We see God watching him at play
   |  And pitying our tears.

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.. _`THE WINDOW OF DREAMS`:

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   THE WINDOW OF DREAMS

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  It was quite dark within the room
   |  Wherein the Lady Alice sat;
   |  One had not seen, who looked thereat,
   |  The gathered dust upon her loom,
   |  There was such gloom.

   |  And though the hangings on the wall
   |  Were wrought so well and cunningly
   |  That many had come far to see
   |  Their glory once (for they were all
   |  Of cardinal,

   |  And gold, and silk, and curious glass)
   |  The ladies with the long red hair
   |  Thereon, the strong men fighting there,
   |  The little river edged with grass,—
   |  Were now, alas,

   |  As if they had been always gray.
   |  Likewise the lily, whose perfume
   |  Had once been over all the room,
   |  In which dark corner now it lay,—
   |  What man might say?

   |  She did not see these things, or know
   |  That they had changed since she had seen.
   |  She liked it best to sit between
   |  Two little firs (they used to grow,
   |  Once, long ago!)

   |  That stood each in an earthen pot
   |  Upon the window's either side.
   |  They had been green before they died,
   |  But like the rest fell out their lot,—
   |  To be forgot.

   |  Yet what cared she for such as these,
   |  Whose window was toward the sun
   |  At sun-rising?  There was not one
   |  Of them so strong and sure to please,
   |  Or bring her ease,

   |  As what she saw when she looked through
   |  Her window just before the dawn.
   |  These were the sights she gazed upon:
   |  *Sir John, whose silken pennon flew,*
   |  *Yellow and blue,*

   |  *And proud to be upon his lance;*
   |  *The horse he rode being gray and white;*
   |  *A few men, unafraid to fight,*
   |  *Followed (there were some men in France*
   |  *Were brave, perchance!)*

   |  *And they were armed with swords and spears;*
   |  *Their horses, too, were mostly gray.*
   |  *—They seemed not sad to go away,*
   |  *For they were men had lost their fears*
   |  *With their child-years.*

   |  *They had such hope, there was but one*
   |  *Looked back: Sir John had strength to look.*
   |  *His men saw not that his lance shook*
   |  *A little, for though night was done,*
   |  *There was no sun.*

   |  *And so they rode into the dawn*
   |  *That waited just behind the hill;*
   |  *(In France there were some men to kill!)*
   |  These were the things she looked upon
   |  Till they were gone.

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                     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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..

   |  The room was dark, and full of fear;
   |  And so the Lady Alice stayed
   |  Beside the window.  Here she prayed
   |  Each morning, and when night drew near,
   |  Year after year.

   |  Beside her lay some unused things:
   |  A trumpet that had long been mute;
   |  A vellum book; a little lute
   |  That once had ten unrusted strings;
   |  And four gold rings;

   |  A piece of faded cloth-of-gold;
   |  And three black pennies that were white
   |  As silver once:—the great delight
   |  She had of all these things of old
   |  Was now quite cold.

   |  Only the things that she could see
   |  Out of the window gladdened her;
   |  After the morning, those things were
   |  *A ship that rode triumphantly*
   |  (This sight would be

   |  Plainest a little ere the noon)
   |  *On wide blue waters, with the wind*
   |  *Strong from the west that lay behind;*
   |  *Its sail curved like a slender moon,*
   |  *Born into June.*

   |  *An empty ship beside the shore*
   |  *Of some unconquered foreign land;*
   |  *Some brave men fighting on the sand*
   |  *As they had never fought before*
   |  *In any war;*

   |  *A few men fleeing to the hills*
   |  (This came a little after noon),
   |  *God, but the fight was ended soon!*
   |  *They were not hard to wound and kill!*
   |  *A trumpet shrill*

   |  *Echoes, and many knights pursue!*
   |  *And on the hillside dead men lie,*
   |  *Who learned before they came to die*
   |  *The yellow flags the victors flew*
   |  *Were crossed with blue!*

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

                     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  No wonder that this window-place
   |  Could make the Lady Alice glad,
   |  When sights like these were what she had!
   |  Yet there was one that made her face
   |  For a little space

   |  Grow like a face that God has known.
   |  I think she was the happiest
   |  When the sun dropped into the west;
   |  This was the thing she then was shown,
   |  And this alone:

   |  *A laden ship that followed fast*
   |  *The way the setting sun had led;*
   |  *In the east wind her great sail spread;*
   |  *A brave knight standing near the mast;*
   |  *The shore at last!*

   |  Of all things, this the best did seem.
   |  And now the gathering darkness fell;
   |  The morn would bring him, she knew well;
   |  She slept; and in her sleep, I deem,
   |  She had one dream.

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                     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  Against the window-side she slept.
   |  This window-place was very strange;
   |  Since it was made it had known change.
   |  Beneath it once no women wept,
   |  And no vines crept

   |  And twisted in the broken glass.
   |  Some time ago, the little tree
   |  That she had planted tenderly
   |  Was not much higher than tall grass;
   |  But now, alas,

   |  Its branches were the greatest where
   |  Her window looked toward the sun.
   |  One branch, indeed, its way had won
   |  Into her room,—it did not bear
   |  Green leaves in here.

   |  Above the window, and inside,
   |  Great spider-webs were spun across.
   |  Where stone was, there was wet green moss
   |  Wherein small creeping things did hide
   |  Until they died.

   |  The leaves that looked toward the room
   |  Were hardly anything but veins;
   |  They had been wasted by the rains,
   |  Like some dead naked girl in the gloom
   |  Of some old tomb.

   |  But those outside were broad and green,
   |  And lived between the sun and shade.
   |  A perfect bower they had made,—
   |  Beneath them there should sit some queen,
   |  Born to be seen!

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                     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  It was quite dark within the place
   |  Wherein the Lady Alice slept.
   |  I heard the girls below who wept,
   |  But God did not (of His good grace)
   |  Show me her face.


.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RELIEF OF WET WILLOWS`:

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   THE RELIEF OF WET WILLOWS

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  *Now this is the ballad of seven men*
   |  *Who rode to Wet Willows and back again.*

   |  It was only an hour before the dawn
   |  When they deemed it best to awaken Sir John.

   |  For they knew his sword long years had hung
   |  On the wall, unhandled.  (Once he was young,—

   |  They did not remember; the tale had been told
   |  To them by their fathers, ere they grew old—

   |  And then his sword was a dreaded thing
   |  When the men from the North came a-warfaring!)

   |  But the women said that the things they knew
   |  Were best made known to their master, too:

   |  How, down at Wet Willows, there lay on the ground
   |  Some men who were dead and some who were bound

   |  And unable to succor the women who wept
   |  That the North-King had come while their warriors slept.

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                     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  So it came to pass, with the wind of the dawn,
   |  Six men with their armor girded on

   |  Had ridden around to the Eastern gate;
   |  It was there that Sir John had told them to wait.

   |  And when he came they were unafraid,
   |  And knew no envy for those who stayed

   |  Where the walls of the castle were strong and high;
   |  There were none save some women to bid them good-by,

   |  And they saw, as the sky in the East grew gray,
   |  That Sir John and his men were some miles on their way.

.. vspace:: 1

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                     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  *These things were heard and seen by the sun*
   |  *When noon at Wet Willows was nearly done.*

   |  After the battle, the King from the North
   |  Bade his men lead the seven horses forth,

   |  And bind, one on each, the Southern man
   |  Who had dared to ride it when day began.

   |  The words that the Northern King had said
   |  Sir John and his men heard not, being dead;

   |  (Nor heard they the sobs of the women who knew
   |  That Sir John's son's son in the East was true

   |  To the cross that was white on the shield that he had);
   |  Nor knew they their home-going horses were glad;

   |  Nor did they remember the trees by the way,
   |  Or the streams that they crossed, or the dead leaves that lay

   |  By the roadside.  And when the moon rose, red and near,
   |  They saw not its splendor; no more did they hear

   |  The wind that was moaning from hill unto hill:
   |  Their leader,—his will was his horse's will.

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                     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  In the Eastern sky faint streaks of gray
   |  Were changed to red, and it was day.

   |  The women had waited all night long
   |  Where the castle tower was high and strong;

   |  And now, at last, they beheld Sir John,
   |  And his men, and the horses they rode upon,

   |  Just crossing the brow of the nearest hill.
   |  The women's cries rose loud and shrill,

   |  And in their joy they pitied not,
   |  The men Sir John and his men had fought

   |  And slain at Wet Willows.  (Sir John was not young
   |  They knew well; but the might of his sword as it swung,

   |  In the old fighting days, was a thing they well knew,—
   |  A shield was but glass as it clove its way through!)

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                     \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  So they who had waited and watched and prayed
   |  The long night through were no more afraid

   |  To open the gate,—for Sir John and his men
   |  Who had fought at Wet Willows were home again.




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BUILDER`:

.. class:: noindent large

   THE BUILDER

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  Come and let me make thee glad
   |  In this house that I have made!
   |  No where (I am unafraid!)
   |  Canst thou find its like on Earth:
   |  Come, and learn the perfect worth
   |  Of the labor I have had.

   |  I have fashioned it for thee,
   |  Every room and pictured wall;
   |  Every marble pillar tall,
   |  Every door and window-place;
   |  All were done that thy fair face
   |  Might look kindlier on me.

   |  Here, moreover, thou shalt find
   |  Strange, delightful, far-brought things:
   |  Dulcimers, whose tightened strings,
   |  Once, dead women loved to touch;
   |  (Deeming they could mimic much
   |  Of the music of the wind!)

   |  Heavy candlesticks of brass;
   |  Chess-men carved of ivory;
   |  Mass-books written perfectly
   |  By some patient monk of old;
   |  Flagons wrought of thick, red gold,
   |  Set with gems and colored glass;

   |  Burnished armor, once some knight
   |  (Dead, I deem, long wars ago!)
   |  Its great strength was glad to know
   |  When his Lady needed him:
   |  (Now that both his eyes are dim
   |  Both his sword and shield are bright!)

   |  Come, and share these things with me,
   |  Men have died to leave to us!
   |  We shall find life glorious
   |  In this splendid house of love;
   |  Come, and claim thy part thereof,—
   |  I have fashioned it for thee!




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TE DEUM LAUDAMUS`:

.. class:: noindent large

   TE DEUM LAUDAMUS

.. vspace:: 1

..

   |  I will praise God alway for each new year,
   |  Knowing that it shall be most worthy of
   |  His kindness and His pity and His love
   |  I will wait patient, till, from sphere to sphere,
   |  Across large times and spaces, ringeth clear
   |  The voice of Him who sitteth high above,
   |  Saying, "Behold! thou hast had pain enough;
   |  Come; for thy Love is waiting for thee here!"
   |  I know that it must happen as God saith.
   |  I know it well.  Yet, also, I know well
   |  That where birds sing and yellow wild-flowers dwell,
   |  Or where some strange new sunset lingereth,
   |  All Earth shall alway of her presence tell
   |  Who liveth not for me this side of death.

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS BOOK CONSISTS
   OF FIVE HUNDRED COPIES WITH THIRTY-FIVE
   ADDITIONAL COPIES ON ENGLISH
   HAND MADE PAPER PRINTED BY THE
   ROCKWELL AND CHURCHILL PRESS OF
   BOSTON DURING NOVEMBER 1896

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.. pgfooter::