| Summary: | Edition of 200 copies by the Blue Sky Press; UU copy number 155. Drawing from the great number of Chicago artists and writers of the time, three ambitious young men - Fred Langworthy, Thomas Stevens, and Alden Nobel - all students at the new Armour Institute, produced almost fifty books and a monthly magazine, under the name of The Blue Sky Press between 1899 and 1907. The publications, part of the international renaissance of bookmaking led by William Morris, represent a successful press producing handmade limited editions and a significant chapter in the history of American fine press in the early twentieth century. SSS SS SS —— : > === = ms : = = =; See Seee SS es = — === === eae a SS = =~ a ao erecaresae 53 ae > BS ue Mg g Cie SAS Me aye ain Uf aS ee sal | The gyi Fee mele | | ~ OY . i Morning Road UW For permission to reprint certain of the verses in this book acknowledgement is made to the publishers of The House Beautiful, Town and Country, and Out West also to Alwil Shop for the verses in- cluded in its edition of “The Unsought Shrine.” eT Copyright rgoz2, by Langworthy &F Stevens To Harry Everetr TownsEND, WHO, IN THE SAME QUEST, AND OF OUR FELLOWSHIP, TREADS WITH us THE MorninG Roap. BALLADES Contents FRIENDSHIP-S EAD Kincpoms-NV D N CHILDHOODOp Fanciges-NV N THE BuccaANEER STHE GARRET- TITIAN THE Boy-S A BREATH OF OrRPHEUS- N In Time oF Rest- S SONG OF THE Sun-NV THE SpHinx - NV Arizona-S Tue Unsoucut Surine-S Her Acco.tape-NV Mat1pen - V THe Mapness of Tristram -S LIoNARDO AND Lisa-S THe Exite-§ Tue Dracon Fry-8§ Tue Muse or Four-YEArs-O._pTHE Sprrit OF THE Dunes-S§ Cuant To Dionysius-S A Pirate Sonc-N I | NV LYRICS Sweet lady on whose teeming shrine-S II As the swallows on the wing- V IV V Purl of the sibilant waters - V I cannot find in faith or love§ III VI I dare not touch thy hand -S Inthe praise of the Queen - NV VII Each dance we tread -J§ A Faint are the lights - NV Princess of morning- S§ VIII Heart of red in swelling breast- NV IX Ecuoss- NV noc-N ae NW Paice een e Titian, the Boy A dreamer in the branches ponders a silent song, A dreamer of the days of eld, young and still and strong, Ponders ‘neath soft Italian skies the Romance of the Fleece— A young Venetian dreamer sees afar the Isles of Greece. He sees the tide-girt rocks that rim the classic land, And, far within, the temples that the elder dreamers planned; He sees the nymphs, unmaddened, whose sight hath maddened men, And the brown fauns of the forest, and the naiads of the fen. In his ears the song of mznads around the mystic wine Rings clear and unforbidden from the far, forbidden shrine} He knows the soul of Delphi, whose words are all unknown, He feels the Grecian love of love, the Attic passion lone. He hears the voice of the Blind One, of falling Eastern walls, And a little of the wisdom that the subtle hemlock calls — And yet he is not Grecian, — within his dreaming eyes The Grecian clouds are drifting across Italian skies. A Breath of Orpheus Lift I the golden lyre with the ringing swaying strings And tune the chords to a music beyond man’s ear to gage, And there with the breath delicious of a million myriad Springs I sing to my splendid goddess,— the queen ofa royal age. Thine, thou white and stainless ! from the deeps of the dimmer year, Down with the whirling tempest along the ocean Brey, Dressed in the plumes of triumph, moist with the dew of fear, Bright and red in the darkness, dark in the blinding day,— | he The song goes thrilling toward you, wheeling aslant the wind, Echoing io the spaces beyond the Outer oom, Thine from Persephone’s garden, the place where thou shalt find The souls of thy former minstrels, cold in a frigid tomb. But mine is the fearless singing that bids old Death beware; Dauntless, sullen, uncaring, flinging thy glories free, Heedless of doom and danger, militant unto care, I raise my voice in a chant of lyrical praise to thee. Thine from the womb of the desert, dim and dusty and dread, Under the : el oquent urging of the luminous brazen un, [14] Lost in the zons of zons glorious head that have bowed thy Since with the birth of the soul thy glamorous life was begun Down from the spume of the Arctic where the night is a winter long, Out from the swell of the surges that sweep to the utter shore Where the impervious beaches list to the swaying song Sung by undaunted sons of sires that were slain of yore; Thine from the southern waters and the opening eastern gates — I hurl my paean to heaven and all the founts of earth, Up from the carven ages wherein the specter waits Pallid and horrid and silent, the Death that is thine from Birth. Down from the constellations that scatter an eddying gleam Far above and around us with reckless prodigal hand,— One with the breath of April to foster a poet’s dream, Lulling the restless bosom of a newly-wakened land; Thine from the House of the Morning where Phcebus halts to kiss The beauty of high Olympus before he takes his flight Buoyant and merry and daring,— where the fair Semiramis Envies Apollo’s kisses as she yearns from the Stygian night. [15] The gleaming hair of the houri is lit with a thousand suns, Her eyes flare red in the gloaming before her house of pain As she worships the glowing Phoebus at his splendid orisons — The love of a lovelier goddess — and knows her _ worship vain. So, thine from the bright Olympus,— fairer than fairest, thou ! Fairer than Phoebus’ goddess my heart would have thee fair, Worthy the death of all minstrels, fit for a nation’s vow,— Mine be the death and the pride, that thy song outlast the air. In Time of Rest ’Tis yours to wake within the Pearl of Dawn, To sit in its grey chamber, and to see The first faint glow that trembles through the dusk Warmer the hint of day the welcoming east In silence draws the green out of the dark: Beyond the riven pearl the morning sky Flames, and the dew-fires kindle in the grass; Sudden, the day: arise with outstretched arms — The Sun invades again his ancient home. How many dawns the earth hath known Of joyous days and days of moan! Yet as the Sun his datly cup Drinks of the nightly falling dew, Think you he wearies? He lifts up Gladly the draught. Each dawn 1s new. The flood of noon that flows around the world, Upon whose crest we struggle and exult, To you is but a tide of light and melody And rest. The harvest never seems to toil In waxing rich,— the rose in growing sweet. And mid-day only murmurs the content Of insects seeking new and tiny fare, And indolently singing in the quest; The trees are still among the hills the clouds Gather in dark rebellion ’gainst the blue. The light that drives our dreams away, And the fond vestments that our idols wear, The light relentless on the feet of clay We fear,— but need we find the truth less fair ? The hours we learn, the hours we toil Are not so sweet as hours we dream and sing; The lute, the dance, Romance’s cotl Fade in the noon-light. Hath the truth a sting ¢ [17] When Pheebus ’lights upon the western hill And leads his pageant to the fount of sleep, You see the banners of his triumph glow, And hear the sunset pan of his praise. But dearer is the maiden gaze of Artemis, The calmer splendour of her silver shield Dearer her hand that on the brow of earth Rests cool and hopeful. When she comes to hear We grow more trusting, speak of nearer things, Open our hearts to her that constant is In her inconstancy. Yea, she doth lure Our secrets from us as the sea in tides, And still we throng her dim confessional. Hleart that speaks to aching heart — Humble hearts before the shrine — Hidden grief and smiling care, All the faith our souls can share, All of truth that words can dare,— Artemis, these things are thine. V INUIA | Song of the Sun Loose me the scourge of the morning in glittering lashes, Swing free the hissing whips that silence the song of the dawn, Scatter the mists that beset thee with withering flashes, — 4 Rise thou a king, triumphant o’er fabled eternities gone. Sullen and gray are the fog-hosts, impenetrant, bounding Thy castle unseen,— unsuspected its glory of impotent gold — abate Tufted and plumed they gather, vindictive surrounding, Rise and destroy, O Sluggard ! smite as thou smotest of old. Gone is the indolent twilight, the shroud intervening Soft as the breath of a flower, ’twixt the eye and the empyrean tomb; Gone is the menacing storm-forest, fitfully leaning, Wavering, rearing on high its vehement head in the gloom Gone is the night and forgotten; and melodies olden Glide from a celebrant harp, ghostly, intangible, sweet,— Singing the pzan of morn, to the morn-wind beholden For breath to arouse the zolian heart from its slumberous beat. [19] The soul of the world’s in the dawn, for thy victory The Sphinx Over the hosts thou must drive to obey thy des- Above her head the sky is hung blue-arching, pil- yearning : potic desire,— Waiting the hour of thy triumph, when gorgeously burning, Thou shalt rise to thy panoplied, chivalrous might in a fabric of fire. Rise as a ruler tyrannic, imperious yellow Zoning thy ae heart with its hate and the heat of it all; Blinding thy glances,— now bitter, now genial and mellow,— Regal thy shadows, for they fall. purple is regal. a sta ben and | baal Bright was the birth of the world, when with trembling fingers Phcebus essayed to guide his course through a virginal sky,— Bright thou wert then in thy splendour, thy glory _ Still lingers, Holding its sway with the pride ofa ruler who never can die. Loose me the scourge of the morning in glittering : lared-white With banked clouds that reach across to dunes of ghastly grey — The sky that drowned the ships of stars in all the seas of Night And loosed Osiris’ bloodhounds on the fugitives of Day. Hers is a rock-hewn citadel whereon hath flickered faint The clang of dread and dusty wars, of far and foolish hosts Her breast has stored unnumbered vows that hailed her as a saint Against her soul unheeded beat Time’s pestilential ghosts. The heat the sand hath hugged so long 1s rising in blue thrills, Her bulk impassive quivers not, her pulse doth never change — Below the sky-line, out of sight, are hid the haunting hills lashes, That rim the ends of earth along the utter oceanrange. the dawn, The womb Swing free the hissing whips that silence the song of Scatter the mists that beset thee, with wither ing ,— lashes Rise thou a king, triumphant oer fabled eterniti es gone. of all the world is parched beneath the tropic breeze, The earth’s a flameless furnace that taints the outer air,— Beneath that sand no man can say what cities lie at a peace, Within that breast no man can guess what brand of soul is there; [21] Hidden behind that stolid brow were spun the vast intrigues That swayed the arms of Empire to conquest — and to death; The silent voice that calls and calls across the barren leagues Doth hover in that throat that lacks the benison of breath Trusting the lips that never ope, the tongu e that it2t murmurs not, Within that heart the phantoms lie of countless empty biers, Around those feet the wrecks of wills are foundered and forgot, Across that face the winds have hurled the dust of powdered years. Her ears are filled as like a shell where in the ocean roars Of fleet and fairest argosy and pagea nts on far seas, The lure is sweet 6 f Ages Past, as sirens on the shores That draw their dupes to breathe their last before the gleaming knees And Memory, that dwells withi n that outer chill, is hot: Perchance she sees the kings of Eld, of heritage unguessed, Perchance her spirit-eye withi n is brooding o’er the grot herein the Passion-Queen received her warriors on her breast; The rock above is silent green, the floor beneath is laid With carpetings in deathless dye, and rugs the Mullahs wove, The borders of them marvelous of myths that haply strayed Within the woof and speechless spoke the threaded loom of love; The constant sands are lying grey outside the throbbing cave, The steeds that bear her lovers race invisible in dust, While dark behind and out of sight is sunk the final grave, For Life must live and Love must die, lest Hassan’s blade should rust. She sees across the desert reaches, endless caravans Of midnight sheiks and conquerors that swept from sea to sea And bore the maids to charm the eyes of Eblis with a dance And work the mystic glamour of the East’s slim sorcery. The captains of the northerland have had their triumphs here, The boom of distant shouting wakes an echo for her now, The asphodels have long since bloomed upon the captive’s bier,— Who bore the crown of Egypt asa laurel on her brow. Perhaps (since queen should dwell with queen) she sees that One who crossed The grey grim plain of Memphis as a fire fangs the sky, Who fain had killed all lovers for one lover whom she lost,— Who loved —a night, and on the morn swift whispered “Let him die. ” She who was born to Savage pomps and destini es and thrones, Whose eyes held thrice the yearning of the Lotus of the South, Whose murdered lovers died in bliss, if fair between their groans, They caught one smile of crimson pity on her cruel mouth; She who upon the Cydnus’ tide, prou d-panoplied in gold, Floated adown, as down the years have floated flecks of her, Who queens all queens when all is said, and every song is told,— Yet perished aspic-smitten, conq uering her conqueror; Aye, dead and cold that breas t, and cold and dead the pierced arm, The thrilling love-light shines no more, no more exults that smile To snare our fallen princes: dead is that rich passion-charm That wooed the Sun in breathless haste across the southern dial. . [24] Haply, this Other being gone, the Queen of Stone ’s content That she too slumbers there untouched except of Isis’ gleam, With voiceless wooing of dim ghosts in all the breezes blent To live again the splendour of that Egyptina dream. tO Arizona The kings of the world have waxed and died In narrower states than mine; And realms have risen to rampant power To sink in drear decline, That were poor by the measure of my wealth — The creditors of the brine. For I am cursed with the curse of dearth To dry the heart of youth And my needs are the same as the needs of bell: For in the morn I woke again And the love of him was dead. I rose and thrust him from my side Although he loved me well, And he was wroth to leave a house For the wailing winds to dwell He cursed me with his father’s curse, We struggled, and he fell. And on that morn across my brow He seared an open scar, W ater and women and truth. As the fingers of the Younger Sea Across my purple peaks the snows The brides that have one time been his, And Are For Till But in my heart I hide the wealth He gave the night before, Fall scant and dry away, the breasts of earth that should be full withered and rimed and grey the chill is mine of the dewless night the barren, aching day. I call to my heedless, jewelled sky — The shimmering wanton smiles, Flinging her bacchant robes of cloud Across the thirsty miles, And the intimate stars come near in the night To bare her mocking wiles. I call on his hastening trails the wind, Where the mad dust-demons glide, But he answers me with the sting ofa lash Have branded with a star Where his roving foot-prints are. And little men find to A little that dreams of But they may not face The Sea’s dear gifts of lure them on — more, the wrath that guards yore. For I dare not show the first love’s gifts To him that now is lord, As I am faithful to the Sun In all things save the hoard Of hidden gems of the banished Sea That in my breast is stored. Now since the Sun hath held me queen And only a pause to chide; And his forefront sweeps as a gloomy flame And kissed my lips with fire, For I was old when the Younger Sea Stifling the dream of other days Where the silence stretches wide. Arose to seek my bed, And in my tale ’tis but a night I have risen young each morn again And robed in queen’s attire, In the heat of his desire. That he and I were wed, [26] [27] So am I cursed with the curse of dearth Lo dry the heart of youth And my needs are the same as the needs of bell: Water and women and truth. The Unsought Shrine Friend, I have sat here many sleepy days, Here, in the corner of the market place, Here, where the jangling cries of trade Announce the opening treasures of the South; Here, underneath the guardian tower, Where all the hurrying merchants strive And barter for the good of sordid goods. And while I sit, the worldly folk who pass Speak of me now and then and shake their heads As though to say: “That old and maudlin fool, “What waits he here? Ah, well, leave him alone, “He does no harm, and many kinds of folk “Find place in this so strangely ordered world.” And I — what do I wait? Ah, friend of mine, I only sit where habit placeth me. And my wares? I keep them from the foolish gaze. Oft I bethink the time I TT} first came here, For I had wrought a thing through all my days; (I was a man one time, such as these men; A common man of ordinary lot, Toiling and spending, modest in my joys, And prosperous.) And then —then came a dream. It was a dream such as none ever dreampt, A vision of the fullness of the fruit Ofa soul’s labor — wrought in stubborn steel And cunningly contrived, with figured frets Of virgin gold; and all at last to be A Shrine unto the god that wrought the dream — I left the futile toil of day and day To build the Shrine. And For that I knew no craft, had but little skill in handiwork, My toil was slow; through all my manhood’s years [29] I worked, with doubly certain care and pains, And spent my substance for my daily want. For by the dream I knew that when ’twas done I would expose it in the market square, And then would come a virtuous devotee Of that bright selfsame god, and he would buy And place the Shrine aloft, to worship at: So that should be the issue of my toil. Then, when at last the thing was made And I could alter not a single touch For better end, I brought it and sat here. Well I remember how I took a place And sat me with the Shrine before my feet, Thus bound and swathed with this same covering. I sat a while and mused, amid the throng That poured in ceaseless stream along For in my fervor of accomplishment It seemed so sweet to wait and feel my To know that all the bustling folk who Knew not the secret that this coverin g PT a the way, power, passed hid, Nor could they feel the presence of the Shrine, Nor know that I had brought a master piece To lay before them. When I raised the cloth At length — my heart leapt fierce and strong, And then — I let the shimmering sunlight in To play about the glitter of my Shrine. And lo ! Not one that passed who paused to look Nor view the product of the labor I had done, But all went on about their several ways, Nor cared to see the ending of my handiwork; Save when some curious children in their play Paused for a moment thus to gaze, and smile, And query why the shining thing was made. They did not feel the presence of the god. But when I saw that none would seek the Shrine, I fell into a rage, and cursed the god, [30] And would have crushed the thing, but that I saw, Just as I raised my hand to strike, a fault, And spared my Shrine that I might make it right. When that Who stood And looked As one who was done there stopped a passer-by and smiled a gentle sort of smile, upon the Shrine with loving eyes, understood the dream might look. And then at last he spoke; “This, old man, “Well with true untiring care, “This glittering thing, who wrought it out?” “| made it,” then said I, my heart full warm, For in his eyes was written kindly praise. But when he spoke — I lost my dream of gods. hast thou wrought, “But to what purpose? None will buy this thing. “What? None?” I cried. “Nay, none will buy.’ And in my soul I felt his word’s calm truth, So that my rebel heart cried in despair, “Then who shall pay me for the making it? ge “Who shall buy back my years of solitary toil? “Hast thou made of this thing a perfect thing “So that no further work could better it? i “Yea,” I said and waited till he spoke again. “Then is thy wage full paid,” he said at last, “Thy sweet reward is such that none may steal, “Nor question of the fullness of the tale. And so I sit here every day and watch The shifting pageants of the city’s trade And keep the cloth about the Shrine. Ah no, I dare not lift it off, for fear to find Another fault, or to be seized with rage That ifI saw again, [ might destroy. Her Accolade Read ye the answer in his face? Ye dare to try, yet may not read, Some soul-remembered dawn hath grace To steel his spirit for this need; The armour, felt but never seen, Bespeaks a lover of the Queen. The Queen hath come, the Queen hath fled As artic ice in tropic seas, The love that lay about her head In bright unpondered mysteries Is now despoiled of head to rim,— Yet still Her mercy guardeth him. Ay, still it guardeth him who laid His homage for her heart to hold, The faith he clasps all unafraid Hath shot the desolate dusk with gold; Rell meee The image that his fancy limned Hath eyes star-luminous and dimmed. The odour of her in the air, The music of her on the breeze, The echo of her, like a prayer, Drawing her lover to his knees, Like some dim Druid that of old Made mute confessor of the wold; The choking that hath gripped his throat, Who framed soft speech for her alone, The evanescent gleams that float Down from her far resplendent throne,— Be these the remnants of her reign, The tokens that she lives again. [32] Dies she because she is not nigh To praise his worth or soothe his ill? Nay, underneath the self-same sky Her heart is beating pure and still The Sun rejoices on his way For he hath touched her lips today. Of hate and envy, and the foe that creeps Maiden A bud is blown; to-day a bud is blown. In all the world was e’er a bud so fair As this, whose fresh virginity is thrown Ope to the stings of all the bees who dare? Was there a bud who fluttered ever less To loose her trembling petals to the Sun, Blushing unconscious of her loveliness, Daring not even to her heart confess Her maiden terrors for the change begun Looked in earth’s garden one so fair to us Who saw her, newly-risen, tremulous, Enter the throbbing radiance that swept A ray of peace to mother-heart that wept Because the bud had blown into a rose. Throughout the greater Mother runs the tale; Nature hath never dared allow to wait Her little loves of poignant mystery — nel| Te Hath never dared to risk her blooms to fail By overlong postponement of their state, For all their terrors of reluctancy And as we closer to our Mother stray More firm and more inexorable she seems, Exacts her lawful penance to a day, Permits no tricksy subterfuge to break As intervention ’twixt her hand and dreams. Mortals dare wait for blooming as they may, The woman in the child remain awake,— But Nature wills no trifling, so at last The first sweet fearful boundaries are past. Sad? Is the mother only sad, who knows The pangs and sorrow, loneliness and pain That must assail the newly-wakened rose, Fresh with her dewy life-blood of the rain She hath not learnt the myriad piercing stings [34] In guise of friendship, under loving wings And breeds his malice as his smile he keeps, Sweeter for being sinful, on his lips. The bud that has been and can never be Is now a rose, and she must bend and sway And curtsy to all comers gracefully, Blushing beneath the blandishments of Day. Her heart that hath been hid so far within Is bared to myriad malices and scorns, And no protection may she hope to win From her too frail and futile guardian thorns, For they are tender too, yet tenderer Her heart —ah, should she ever learn to hide That tenderness which is the soul of her What mercy then for us can ever stir— What magic then can make us deified? Today her soul is open to the winds, They press their kisses on her virgin mouth Yet all the new enchantment that she finds Within the soft embraces of the South She may not welcome to her soul because The wind hath many roses kissed before, Left wrecks of wooings on far-sundered haws,— Because she knows the future has in store So many fickle lovers that she dare Not trust the one to whom her heart is fain, Yet since that heart is naked to the air Hides she not all her virgin love in vain? She thrills to hear the wooing of that breeze, To hear the murmur as the waters roll At night beneath the predatory trees That sway aloft in rustling mysteries, Crooning an endless echo o’er and o’er, Seeking an answer to their restless soul She knows the world is there, and half afraid [35] el Would shrink again, a bud become once more And still with flush of girlhood on her brow, Re-live the careless heaven ofa maid; The dainty perfume of some guarding leaf Is like a sweet regret around her now That joy hath been too short and youth too brief. Yet would the fair rose-mother, gazing down Upon her child half eager to return Into her shielding chrysalidic gown,— Would she, the mother, then forbear to yearn For the dear vanished girlhood of her child At seeing her the queen of all the flowers That Wealth can breed or Nature nurture wild To soothe the dread of dying from the hours? And would it recompense the new-born Queen To scan the water-mirror that is loathe To lose her crimson from its clasp of green,— That clings all jealous to her image, yet Reflects enough to glorify them both? Would it not comfort her and make forget aL Her fair unwilling terrors to be born, To see the crown that on her head is set,— A crown of Beauty for the realm of Morn? The Madness of Tristram Maiden, beware! old wounds are mine that bleed, Old scars that burn, and the recrescent pangs Of all my clashing battles since, untried, I fought for Cornwall’s truage, and King Mark; These mortal scars the fervent queen hath kissed — Isoud the Queen hath kissed, and healed them not. Nay, let me run half-clad, servant of clowns And fellow to the herds; they do not know: They see no phantom shield upon my arm, Hear in my voice no challenge of lost kings; For them there is no vision of the face — The face I sought across the fairer world — The light that shone for me above the cross, And sheathed my lance with flame invincible; They have not seen French vineyards, purplestol’d, Russet and blue of autumn and the hills, Revel of Southern Springtime, — nor the house Where sleeps my virgin with the milk-white hands: Nor the green, singing island whence I brought King Mark his queen —and ruin for my soul. When by the mouldering gate of Mereek Hold She stood among the maids, as fair as death, Sweeter than midnight in a joust of Days,— I came and thrilled but knew her not, and fought For mine own worship, and to light her eyes. Then from the royal sire I took her hence, For she was white, and Mark desired a queen— A guerdon only for the king I loved, A burning candle for a friendly saint. Maiden, behold the swinging night of deeps, And the Storm lashing on the Sea’s sad face. We clung together to our wounded ship While the false billows taunted us with love, [37] Rocking and roaring when her hands sought mine, Lionardo Gave only comfort. Then the phial she found, I pray I pray W bile Of thy Though but in fear of night they sought, and I And sudden as a thrust, the night blazed out — Dim lamps of love burned on each foam-shot crest, The red gold of the sun awoke in us, The ocean staggered and our love trod wild, Wet flames were in our eyes, and ancient fates Took us and bound us, burning, to our stars. Years, and our open shame, and speeding youth, Lights in far castles, quests and chastening seas, Strange conquerings in dragon-haunted lands, Dark roads, wide marches, and fair traitor days; Glory one other only hath, and like to him Grappled with Honour doth my potion cling. and Lisa thee, Madonna, be patient, thee, Madonna, be kind, I mirror the fanciful fabric quaintly mystical mind. A tapestry wondrously woven, a marvel of gossamer sheen,— Inconsistent as woman, yet through its intangible line Form of the central compulsion and swirl of the definite scene — Order in orderless chaos and rule in unruly design; To feel dear kisses and to hear sweet words When the chill wind doth beat my face with stings Betimes in every tree of this deep wood I see her beckon, lithe and tall, the queen, Harmonies blent of the summers, memories pearl and of rose, igs Sweet with old joys and dead laughter, dim in the nights of the past, Hours of the sun and the starlight, and the west wind yare as it blows, And mounts above the wood, and stains the skies. Beware, thou woman with a calmer heart, Memories dear in fulfillment, memories bitter of tears, Dreams that have faded and bubbles with rainbow Maid, I have come to be caressed in dreams — About me maddening — everywhere Isoud, Till the dread wind brings up our shame, And wraps me in it, till it covers me, For I am mad upon old love denied; Get hence, lest from the ringing hell Of my dark soul a demon glide, and stamp Upon thy face the face of her I love, And cheat me with a fancy of her eyes. Drifting of musical ripples or shadows old tragedies cast; traceries wrought, Broken and lost in the clasping, wrongs of the tyrannous years, Riches of human remembrance, and passion of battles unfought. Powers: yea, the power of loosing the grip of the demon of wrath, Fingers to smoothe from the brow the lines of implacable pain, [39] Power of uplifting, inspiring, the power that Apollo hath, Blind in its merciful wonder — the power of the spring and the rain. Pictures from out of the ages Romances or ever the Sun Lifting across the figean, blinked at the jealous walls Guarding the Trojan mothers, ere a Trojan prince had won The shame, and the name, and the beauty that weeps when the Trojan falls Fables the Grecian fountains poured forth for the Grecian youth, Signs and symbols and statues, oracles, wreaths, and gods, Glories of Attic fancy, virtue of Attic truth, UT ee Myths of the world’s brief hour when Beauty ruled with rods Stories the Latian shepherds had learned from the winds that blew Far from the Persian gardens and the Macedonian hills, Loves that the dark Egyptians and the hot-heart Romans knew, Passions of East and of West, and of antique war that thrills; Sagas of chill Valhalla, fair vikings that went forth Strong with the tang of the ice-fields, in open ships _ and free, Sweeping the coast of the world from the barren house of the North,— Children in soulful arts, but brothers of the sea; [40] Missals of churchly gloom and chantings of stolen oy, Wonderful saints that groped with faith in foolish words, Knights of red blood, and ladies, and tales the years destroy, Quests and the Grail, strange vows and demands, and tourneys and swords. These things are patterned and blazoned, wrought in the fabric clear, These and a thousand fancies, and merriment, and smiles, Lights of humour, and dashes of scarlet, and gold of the mere, Sympathy out of the heart, and little woman’s wiles: These in the pattern are blended yet over them, over them all High where the midnight breathes in the mystery of gloom, Deep in the sky I dare not, heedless ifI should fall, Bright as the beacon of hope, or the past in the face of doom, Flames that pierce the arras, shining reluctant through, Betraying the fabric of colours with a hint of an ultimate goal, Blaze the two stars soft-glowing, unfearing and final and true, The stars behind the curtain, that prove the silver soul. The Exile The Dragon Fly If in the long unfolding years the wreath Of bays my head should crown, If fame should come, or worthy work of mine Mine is the song of the soul, of the spirit immortal of life Waking in dread and joy from the slumberous rest of the night, Stand in my people’s sight, and twine My name with glory in the common breath, Would you regret my ruined humble shrine — If you had torn a Poet’s birthplace down? What matters it? If all my toil to naught Time razes in his rout, And as the unknown to unending rest I follow in my turn, my highest crest Still shadowed in the valley where I fought— That house to me were not less richly blest, Although no pilgrim feet shall seek it out. The land is yours: for me the house still stands In memories wrought; The gold and grey of days that children know, ORL) meee The The And For wonder of the dawn’s re-entrant glow, touch of happiness my mother’s hands, on her temples the benignant snow — me live there. ’T' was but the land you bought. Crowned with the seal of the ghost, I glory and — yearn to the strife To follow and master the ways of the tune and the tear and the light. In streams of shimmering slime my lazy life began, In the paths of the mystic places, in the sound of the secret things Mine was the revel of youth, in the world that the ripples span, Till the summer-gods taught the song, the Song of the Glittering Wings. Then to my spirit was granted the mutable kingdom of air, The blaze of the sun upon water, the pearl of a misty moon,— These are the treasures they gave me, to hold and to conquer and share, Till the tale of my days was written in a reckless, wildering rune. And now my treasure is empty, my prodigal song is done, The road the sunshine showed me is lost in a silent wood The gods can aid no further, the goal of the flight is won — The glittering wings shall fold, and the peace at the last shall be good. [43] The Muse of Four-Years-Old When I was young, so long ago, Back where the clouds have hid the sun, How much there was I did not know When all my world was scarce begun, My wit was dull, my step was slow, With toys and games my matins rung, I sought for Pleasure, high and low, For I was young. But since that I have seen to rise T’en thousand suns and seen them fall] Red, gold, and yellow, orange-wise, I know that Pleasure is not all; You sing of Joy in lullabyes — In vain henceforward those are sung, I’ve not been fooled by women’s lies Since I was young. or aee & | TT al Your “Go and play” I do not hear 5 You women do not comprehend The stern and solemn atmosphere These virgin bifurcations lend; With inward scorn and brow austere, From ashes of my youth among Now, phcenix-like, I reappear, Who once was young. For me is now the coil of Fate, The ring of War, and of Roma nce: Your childish joys are come too late To him who now is Wearing pants; Time was, I thought I’d celeb rate When off my female garb I'd flung , But— Mirth’s not meet for Man’ s estate,: I am not young. [44] The Spirit of the Dunes Where bleak defiance swelling soft Shifts with the gale or drinks the sun, Thy wayward, homeless home is made, Thy watch is keen on fields long won The ghost of Dearth that Time hath sired Still brooding guards the undesired. Thy fingers twining in the wind As lovers’ hands with tresses play, Remould thine empire in the night, And bring new states to greet the day : New hills —yea, mortal hills shall rise To boast before the changing skies. For though thy voice doth wail in woe, The cedars dare thy heart to find, And, nestling to thy barren breast, The humbler shrubs still call thee kind. Though bare the house and bleak the path And false the bills —all is not wrath. Chant to Dionysos Song The sea swings mad in the raging grip Of the seething stinging gale, Immortal crowned with youth of old — That bids fair cheeks go pale,— Thou child of thunder and tears, From the loom of the passionate years, Enwoven of summers art thou, and ours From the sea. Lier in sunlight and lover of showers, Master of nights when the moon is hid, For thee our leaping pulses bid An ecstacy For thee the dappled menads writhe In antic frenzied mirth, and lithe As serpents to the thyrsus clinging It moans its hate with a yearning wrath But fill the bowl to its brimming top, Drink ! for to-night we sail. Ay, fill the bowl and drain the bowl, Sing heigh for the brimming ale, And fill and drain — again — again — Till the smoking wassails fail, Then hurl the bow! at the trembling host, Drink! for to-night we sail. To yield when springtime woos, and yet— The sleet beats down like a rain of blows Ona coat of iron mail, And faint and thin through the ringing din Is heard the lookout’s hail, But it’s up and up with the foaming cup, Drink ! for to-night we sail. lacchus, for thee And it’s hurl the cup at the landlord’s head, And little his threats avail For the unpaid score, — with joyous roar While the frantic measure winging Of mystery For thee the trees that bless are sown Tea ea Ta! Pirate Lord of the indolent autumn, Lord of the purple and gold, We hail thee! vlVvil A Brides of the summer that is gone — Bear fruits of love when winter’s threat Tears from them saffron robes of shame; Apollo’s flame doth smoulder in the dusk Of grapes that clasp in turgent hearts His thrilling light and love and musk And melody When the rich passion of the sun departs. It’s jeer at the beckoning gaol, | And it’s sing farewell through the night of hell,— Drink ! for to-night we sail. I Sweet Lady, on whose teeming shrine The roses of my life are laid, Shall I be sad if fate entwine In wreaths by alien fingers made With them the daisies of new Springs, And passion-flowers that bloom and fade? For me the rose blooms slow and pale, Of breath how deep, of mouth how small : In richer gardens every gale Doth bid a thousand petals fall Stillin my spirit rapture rings That wreath holds rose of mine at all. I dare not touch thy hand, O Queen, (Fingers have erring hearts betrayed) Lest, cold, my touch might dalliance be, Or trembling hot, make thee afraid. I’m bound in chains of silence chill, Fettered and bound with foolish fears, I may not hope to lean on hope Nor look for mercy in the years. My crime it is to dream of thee, (If dreams of mine disturb thy soul) The only right I had in thee Was one sweet glimpse — and that I stole. iv \ Pla Pet) II As the swallows on the wing Flirt and wheel adown the breeze That, to stir the heart of Spring, Restless through the eager trees Summons straying memories Of the year it bids to die,— Through the laughter of the Spring Rings old Winter’s faint Goodbye. So adown the reaches lorn Of the ages insincere On the buoyant ether borne, Calling potent, far and clear, Through the changes of the year, Ever new —and yet the same — Of the sunlight golden born Rings the echo of her name. [48] Purl of the sibilant waters, Call ofa wooing bird, Clear ofa bell or a sea-song,— Such is the voice I heard. Odour of intimate roses, Echo of hurrying wind, Loom of the star-gleaming heaven,— Such is the woof of her mind. Sheen of the sun o’ the summer, Pale of the moon i’ the mist, Whisper of murmuring midnight,— Such are the eyes I kissed. Vv I can not find in faith or love Thy Lyric of the Deep, Nor in the ways of trackless light Where wheeling star-beams sweep, Nor in the song of earth and sea That toil and toiling sleep. The silent pageants ofa dream Blare far too strong; To silences of midnight skies I’ve listened long— But far more still must be the world To hear that song. AeA Tht oar al Vi In the praise of the Queen May the lyre be strung, When the garlands are green Her tresses among, May her crown wreathe her head When the choral is sung And the sunset is red. To the Queen is the pride And the praise and the song, When the silence is wide And the heavens are long: May the lyrical rune ‘Scape the hurrying throng And rejoice with the moon. VII Each dance we tread — As a pearl it slips From a broken thread; And my lady trips Through the spinning maze As the thistle-down Through the mellow days When the hills are brown; For each dance we tread The night grows old, For each rose that is dead Let another unfold. And for us the night With the spangled skies, — And the dancing light In my lady’s eyes. Vill Heart of red in swelling breast, Hair of gold o’er gleaming brow, Faint are the lights that guide me, Afar doth the beacon shine, Beauty unforgotten now,— Weird roads are mixed in mine, But like a wraith beside me You warp my way to thine Like the vine that clings in clasping Hands the gods had fain caressed — Lives forever as a test Of the strength of mortals’ vow. In the fire of that flare Lost we our sincerity, Beauty smiled to see us dare, Laughed at our apostacy,— Still we spurned the vital air, Glad for such a dream to die. Heart o’ red and hair o’ gold, JVtl PRETTa Hand that glimmers fair and white,— Through the summer and the cold, Through the reverential night,— Deck the diadem of old With the gems of dead delight. Strange crags and rills deride me, The rugged rock-ribbed hill, I have felt the silk of your heart-strings Round the iron of my will. The love of the breast that bare me Hath kept your worship pure, Though hapless the hopes that dare me, Though terrible lips allure, Though alien gods ensnare me,— The lift of your song is sure; Like the floss of the silver cob- web On the bars of a prison-still, I have felt the silk of your heart-strings Round the iron of my will. TUL Princess of morning, in whose eyes The glitter of the dew doth shine, As when the enkindling suns that rise To burn away the spider-line Fill all the dawn with flamelets fine: Princess, our devoir to thy state,— Maid of the opening Orient Gate. Into the grey-lit garden close, When all the stars are dying pale, The distant odour of his Rose — Like far horizon-hidden sail That trembles through the misty gale — Creeps fervent-sweet, and wakes thy breath Under the fickle kiss of Death. The rose hath ope’d; along the sky Its flame hath leapt, and banners are The dark hung arras that on high Sheltered the last defiant star Before thy love went forth to war: Ah, maid, he comes what fragrant fire Canst thou oppose to his desire ? Princess, the kiss that on thy mouth The lips of Death have lightly laid When in the twilight of the South Thou wert not ashamed, nor he afraid,— Forget that kiss (who hath not strayed? ) Thy glowing hair, thine eyes of light Are spoils for him who conquers Night. A Ballade of Friendship When smiles deny thy inner woe Or griefis hid in calm disdain, Have I the right to learn to know The secret of the inner fane? If laughing lips the heart distrain, Am I so far from human kin, Unworthy of the trust of pain ? — Open thy heart and let me in. Or when the joy of June doth flow, And tangled pleasures swift enchain, When summer winds unbidden blow The gladness of the summer rain When through each full and fervent vein The pulse of life is strong to win, When in thy kingdom mirth doth reign,— Open thy heart and let me in. Give me to share the chill and glow, Give me to feel both spur and rein, Teach me to conquer and forego, Teach me to clasp and to refrain; Nor, trusting, be thy trust in vain — The key to that dear store within I hold with fingers unprofane — Open thy heart and let me in. LYENVOI Friend, though we twain may never know When joy must end and pain begin, By interlacing ways we go — Open thy heart and let me in. TO H. F. B. Pl mee A Ballade of Dead Kingdoms A Ballade of Childhood Troy stood, a sceptre in her mighty hand, Beside the dark A‘gean’s darker blue, As children love each other, hate, and turn Their fickle faces near —and then away — As they unite and separate, and yearn For coming of the new unhappy day Whereon the child must leave the glad array Of youth for that dread rolling of the spheres,— So do they find in life’s unceasing fray Their love and grief, their merriment and tears, With all the pain of youth old age may burn, Old faiths may waver and old sins may slay, Andin her streets the Grecians’ dread demand The very turrets recognized and knew, — The streets wherein triumphant Trojans slew Are quiet now in never-broken shade, Their light is dying to a sullen hue,— The pictures of the ages flare and fade. The pomps of empires builded on the sand Of fickle fate, have died as was their The eagles’ shrilling o’er the Gallic Is silent now that once the Romans The lust of proud dominion proved due, land knew; untrue And by her greatness was the Great betrayed, And Rome became a fading image, too,— The pictures of the ages flare and fade. So satrapies and kingdoms rise and stand And fall as there have fallen all their crew The wraiths of former happiness return To mock at us and laugh at our dismay,— The pleasures of the Present may not weigh Against the Past’s triumphant storm of jeers, And to their graves those hours shall bear away Their love and grief, their merriment and tears. Weare but children, so we do not learn When we should curse and when we ought to pray, Of fellow-monarchies on every hand; How will it be the ages through and through? When to embrace and better, when to spurn A hope that might our blinded souls betray If thus Democracy be not obeyed? L’ENVOI With all the royalty of childhood’s peers, And live and love with them, and know as they Their love and grief, their merriment and tears. L’ENVOI That men call Fame — and curse the jilting jade; Let me bide here, while in the night with you The pictures of the ages flare and fade. TO W.R. Ah, lord of childhood’s merry disarray And all the trappings that thy youth endears, Teach me the secret of the children’s play, Their love and grief, their merriment and tears. H ow in the future will the Furies do All kings must fall before the stern review,— The pictures of the ages flare and fade. Take then thy monarchies and pomps, thou Shrew ’'T were wiser if as children we should stay TO G. M. MCC. A Ballade of Old The The The That The The The Who Fancies mists of night that hang above the Sea, thrill of yearning in the dying hymn, storied secrets of antiquity lurk within that sepulchre so dim, gloom that shrouds the fallen seraphim, lilt of triumph that the victor sung,— legends of the years are plain to him stores old fancies in a heart that ’s young. The racing seasons leave a legacy Of lights that flicker and of eyes that dim,— The Past hath lost itself, in courtesy, And left the Future’s fingers free to limn His Fancy’s likeness on the carven rim Wherefrom the draught of Lethe bathes the tongue,— One image lives impregnable for him LL mera Who stores old fancies in a heart that ’s young. A treasure Time has guarded jealously, An Image, beautiful, elusive, slim, A marvel of unearthly witchery,— Fair as a feery and as light of limb As they who danced by phantom river’s brim,— By such remembrance in his spirit wrung A wraith from Long Ago is loved of him Who stores old fancies in a heart that’s young. LYENVOI Dear Lady, I your shrine with garlands trim, Where should the spoils of emperors be hung,— Be thou my Image; let me stand for him Who stores old fancies in a heart that’s young. TO C. G. B. [58] The Ballade of the Buccaneer Long live the King. The King is dead— He who had sworn to rule for aye Where I swear now to reign instead O’er hearts that hate and hands that slay Hearts that hate as hot as they; Hark to my blooded sea-dogs sing: (For fallen lord, small care have they) “The King is dead; long live the King.” Beneath his keel the waves were red From tropic tide to Baltic bay, Voices of vengeance on his head, In dying gasps from lips of grey, Livened the langour of his way If those dead souls do know this thing Chuckle they not to hear men say: “The King is dead: long live the King?” The fame he wooed, my name shall wed, A world shall bow beneath my sway, For every crimson drop he shed Ten drops shall I, from out this day When first, in battle-scarred array, I heard my blooded sea-dogs sing, Standing above him where he lay: “The King is dead; long live the King.” L’ENVOI Dead foe, yours is the wisest way, For Time to me this hour must bring When, dying, I shall hear them say : “The King is dead; long live the King.” TO F. B. R. Ballade of The Garret A Ballade of Echoes Abode of ghosts and penury, Perchance the ring of spurs that glitter blue, Perchance the clarion that riots free For gleaming battle-axe and bended yew, This house of dark and winding stairs A room as bare as misery — A home for him who dreams and dares — Where through the chinks the frosty airs Or else the bray of bugles on the lea, The lover-song of warring chivalry,— Sweep eagerly the unswept floor, The leaping loves of helmets and of spears, And echoes of an ancient minstrelsy May sound in all the silence of the years. A dreamer’s home, its mystery His pain hath known, and his despairs, A warning sign for him who fares — To guard the else unguarded door. Perchance we all of us have chosen, too, Some well-loved lyric wherein He or She Shall sing to us as they our spirits woo Though they themselves are done with tragedy,— Perchance these relics of departed glee May ease remembrance of forgotten tears, A voice we loved by land or sky or sea May sound in all the silence of the years. A temple with a living key To which the suppliant genius bears A song, a flame, an ecstacy, A soul wherein Apollo shares; ‘The shrine we pass all unawares Our children’s children shall adore, And glory the dead poet wears Shall guard the else unguarded door. Or else, perhaps, a lay that once we knew, A fleeting sparkle of dull Memory, A tale of deeds our pulses leapt to do, A lift of lands our eyes have strained to see,— A wraith of former Singing-yet-to-be May find a place within our future ears And living phantoms of dead melody May sound in all the silence of the years. And Dearth commands a troop of cares To guard the else unguarded door. A shrine of pride whose votary Defiant kneels before his Lares; For faithless hope and hopeless prayers To gods that other men forswore; L’ENVOI LENVOI Muse, when thy sacred hearth-light flares And when thy lovers sing their lore, Forget not humbler poets’ prayers, And guard the else unguarded door. Ah, minstrel, weave us then a melody Wherein no fickle Ghost of Time appears Where songs forgotten, with the songs to be, May sound in all the silence of the years. TO H.I.S. TO [60] F. W. A. A Ballade of Ping-Pong The Ballade of Unwritten She wears a rose-bud in her hair Sweet, when we count the tales we love, and say,— These are the poets’ dearest, these we hold Our richest relics of Romance’s day, Our golden fragments from a past of gold— Forget not, Sweet, the hearts that now are cold, Whose ancient passions burned alert and strong, The hearts that now the mists of time enfold, The loves that ne’er were woven into song. To mock me as it tosses free, Were I more wise or she less fair I know that I should never be A victim to such witchery, For at her wiles and lovely arts I’m forced to laugh with her, while she Plays ping-pong with my heart of hearts. The play ’s the thing: I wonder where What courtier with what courtesy First played it with what lady fair To music of what minstrelsy ? — I wonder, did he seem to see Such eyes, wherein a sun-beam starts, And did he love (as I) while she Played ping-pong with his heart of hearts? UW TT For battledore they called it, there In courts of gilded gallantry, No lover ever lived to dare To doubt its airy potency, But now that all the majesty Of those dead emperors departs, I dream that she, in memory, Plays ping-pong with my heart of hearts. L’ENVOI Ah, maiden, I must sail a sea Tales Before us glides the pageant’s deep array Of luring Beauty in her wonder stoled, Of battle bright and clashing dark affray, Of lovers pale that in the night are bold, Of vows and deaths and crowns and glories old, Of faith betrayed, and choice foredoomed to wrong — Yet statelier pageants lie beneath the mold: The tales that ne’er were woven into song. How few we follow in Romance’s way; How many to Oblivion were sold That in as noble paths had learned to stray, That lived as free in castle, cot, or wold,— As rich in strife, as daring to uphold Defenceless honour : what a goodly throng Have dreamed and loved and died, with lives un- told: The dreams that ne’er were woven into song. Whereof there are no maps or charts L’ENVOI Play ping-pong with my heart of hearts? Sweet, let me make for thee some antic lay That in the silent night hath lain too long— Wilt thou sail too, and there with me TOW, R.R. Full of warm kisses and of foes to slay: A tale that ne’er was woven into song. [62] TOL. M. [63] Here ends Zhe Morning Road, as written by Thomas Wood Stevens and Alden Charles Noble. Of this edition two hundred copies on paper and fifteen on Japan vellum have been printed at the Blue Sky Press, 4732 Kenwood Avenue, Chicago, during the month of November, 1902; this being number eer TITS ‘S'S, Fven r we: Ra Petyt)| Men ™ ' &y Wa. Ye item att mT pial Mei ates tai ot
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