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                         THE HOUSE OF ORCHIDS
                            AND OTHER POEMS




                         THE HOUSE OF ORCHIDS
                            AND OTHER POEMS

                                  BY
                            GEORGE STERLING
                 Author of “The Testimony of the Suns”
                       and “A Wine of Wizardry”

                            A. M. ROBERTSON
                             SAN FRANCISCO
                                 1911


                               COPYRIGHT
                                 1911
                          BY GEORGE STERLING

                              _Printed by
                      The Stanley-Taylor Company
                            San Francisco_




                              TO MY WIFE




CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE

DUANDON                                                                9

ALDEBARAN AT DUSK                                                     22

THE CHARIOTS OF DAWN                                                  23

THE HUNTRESS OF STARS                                                 24

THE EVANESCENT                                                        25

MEMORY                                                                28

THE MOTH OF TIME                                                      29

THE BLACK VULTURE                                                     30

THE HOUSE OF ORCHIDS                                                  31

SONNETS ON THE SEA’S VOICE                                            40

AUTUMN                                                                44

STARS OF THE NOON                                                     46

THE APOTHECARY’S                                                      48

THE SWIMMERS                                                          51

BENEATH THE REDWOODS                                                  58

MUSIC AT DUSK                                                         60

THE TIDES OF CHANGE                                                   61

MORNING TWILIGHT                                                      62

AN ALTAR OF THE WEST                                                  64

THE FAUN                                                              77

THE VOICES                                                            80

A CHARACTER                                                           81

THE GUERDON OF THE SUN                                                84

THE GARDENS OF THE SEA                                                86

THE SIBYL OF DREAMS                                                   90

THE MUSIC OF SLEEP                                                    91

DUTY                                                                  92

THE ECHO AND THE QUEST                                                93

JUSTICE                                                               96

THE FLEET                                                            102

REMORSE                                                              105

MOONLIGHT IN THE PINES                                               107

AT THE GRAVE OF SERRA                                                111

WHITE MAGIC                                                          114

THREE SONNETS BY THE NIGHT SEA                                       117

AFTER THE STORM                                                      120

THE HARLOT’S AWAKENING                                               122

THE MIDGES                                                           124

TO AMBROSE BIERCE                                                    126

TO HALL B. RAND                                                      127

TO VERNON L. KELLOGG                                                 128

CHARLES WARREN STODDARD                                              129

THE ASHES IN THE SEA                                                 132

THE FORTY-THIRD CHAPTER OF JOB                                       135




           DUANDON


    Duandon, king of Aetria’s farthest bound
    And lord of isles the sea is loud around,
    Beheld the crimson fountains of the dawn
    Bear up the lark, a foam of song, till drawn
    By some new sorrow in the ocean’s tone,
    Thither he fared, expectant and alone.
    Thither he fared, fresh from the sea of sleep,
    And all the balmy land was blossomed deep,
    Nor could one wander save on helpless flow’rs,
    Where Summer made a garland of the hours
    And bound it on the dew-dipt brow of Morn,
    Bent low above the meadow’s blossom-bourn.
    But past all peace of bowers rang the call
    And invocation of the billows’ fall,
    And, clean from kingdoms of the sapphire vast,
    The winds of ocean smote his brow at last.
    Afar he saw the eddying petrel sweep
    O’er reefs where hoarser roared the thwarted deep,
    And soon before his eyes, exultant, fain,
    Heavy with azure gleamed the investing main,
    And quick with pulsings of a distant storm,
    Strong as that music floating Troy to form.
    Splendid the everlasting ocean shone
    As God’s blue robe upon a desert thrown;
    Landward he saw the sea-born breakers fare,
    Young as a wind and ancient as the air;
    August he saw the unending ranks uproll,
    With joy and wonder mastering the soul,
    With marvel on the hearing and the sight--
    Green fires, and billows tremulous with light,
    With shaken soul of light and shuddering blaze
    Of leaping emerald and cold chrysoprase,--
    The surge and suspiration of the sea,
    Great waters choral of eternity,--
    The mighty dirge that will not cease for day
    Nor all the stars’ invincible array,--
    The thunder that hath set, since Time began,
    Its sorrow in the lonely heart of man.

    Long stood the king before that wide review,
    Divining, deep beyond its sound and hue,
    Unfathomable mystery and dream,--
    Rapture and woe illusive but supreme;
    And as the pine against the sea-wind sighs,
    So thrilled his breast with whispers and surmise;
    Till, on a beach that only he might roam,
    The sea, from broadest tapestries of foam,
    From mighty looms immaculate and cold,
    A scarlet shell before his feet uprolled.
    Wet as with blood against the dawn it flamed,
    Deep-whorled and irised, lustrous and unnamed--
    A jewel of the sea that burned and shone
    Like some king-ruby ravished from a throne.
    And long Duandon wandered, all-amazed,
    And long upon the shell’s wild beauty gazed,
    Till, half-unwitting, swiftly to his ear
    He held it, fain as any child to hear
    That echo like the murmuring of seas--
    Astray forever on a mournful breeze
    And borne from some remote, nocturnal bound;
    Whereat a voice, in sorceries of sound
    To which the grace of vanished lyres had clung,
    Sang from the shell as never voice hath sung:

        _Far down, where virgin silence reigns,
          In jasper evenings of the sea,
          I toss my pearls, I wait for thee.
        The sea hath lent me all its stains:
          It is but treasure-house of me._

        _The corals of the deep have caught
          A Titan shell whose fragile dome_
          _Is crimson o’er mine ocean home--
        Mine opal chambers subtly wrought
          In semblance of the shaken foam._

        _Oh, come! and thou shalt dream with me
          By violet foam at twilight tost
          On strands of ocean islets lost
        To prows that seek them wearily,
          O’er seas by questing sunsets crost._

        _All dreams that Hope hath promised Love,
          All beauty thou hast sought in vain,
          All joy held once and lost again,
        These, and the mystery thereof,
          I guard beneath the sundering main._

    So rang that crystal cry, as from afar,
    Clear as the voice of Heaven’s whitest star,
    And strong Duandon pondered, with his gaze
    Set like twin stars above those azure ways.
    Keener his heart, a plummet, yearned to sound
    The gulf that held his soul amazed and bound,
    Where, darker for the sky’s unclouded dome,
    The waves took sudden coronals of foam,
    Till half he deemed he saw, far out, the white
    Flung arms and bosom of the ocean-sprite.
    Hour beyond hour, until the sun was fled,
    Strode he on sands that none but he might tread;
    Hour beyond hour one sight his vision drank--
    A foam-white arm that beckoned once, and sank.
    Then, wave to wave in deeper anthems roared,
    And realm by realm the belted sunset soared,
    As tho’ a city of the Titans burned
    In lands below the sea-line, undiscerned,
    Till desolation touched it, zone by zone,
    Its splendors gone, like jewels turned to stone,
    And sad with evening sang the ocean-choirs,
    Domed by the stars’ imperishable fires.
    But still Duandon lingered on the sands
    And clasped the shell with indecisive hands;
    Ghostly it gleamed, nor music would outpour
    Save of the sea on some disastrous shore.
    And still he stood, and listened but to hark
    The surf, like dragons battling in the dark;
    Implacable they ravened, ere the moon,
    A towering glory on the eastern dune,
    A frozen splendor on the seething strand,
    In silver webs had snared the sea and land.
    Then, as on hostile waves her arrows leapt,
    Duandon turned him from the sea, and slept.
    Slept, but the morning found him yet again
    A lonely searcher of the lonelier main;
    And night by night, and day by barren day,
    Silent he stood before the waves’ array--
    The victim of an unrelenting strife
    Of joy with death, of love with love of life.
    Ever at dawn the voice from out the shell
    Renewed within his heart the siren’s spell;
    Ever the wild, enchanting melody
    Rang as the sun was wedded to the sea.
    And still the royal pageant of the world
    Before his doom-bewildered eyes unfurled,
    With dusky stain of sunsets northward drawn
    And cloudy headlands of the coasts of dawn.
    Beyond that realm of jade and jade-bound bays,
    He saw the sapphire fields of ocean blaze;
    Heard the alliant waters chant their rune
    Before the turquoise battlements of noon,
    Where evening armies of the mist would roam
    As twilight mixed its purple with the foam,--
    Where sunlight, checked in its torrential leap,
    Would froth at dawn about some cloudland steep.
    Debarred was peace, tho’ Sleep, with tender hand,
    Led him awhile in her allaying land;
    For soon the sea flowed in upon his dream
    And far below he saw the Singer gleam--
    Her floating hair and pearly body’s grace,
    With sunken moonlight pure upon her face.
    So still he yearned, on whom her spell was laid,
    And ever sunset, like a golden blade,
    Cut day by day from life, and ever he
    Heard like the voice of Death the lordly sea,
    Chanting, enthroned on choric reef and bars,
    Its midnight song below the western stars,
    And all the stars seemed ministrant to doom
    As high Orion trod his arc of gloom.

    Broke then a morning when the weary sea
    Lay husht above its halls of mystery;
    Besieging fog hung mute on shore and vale,
    With pallid banners and with ashen mail,
    And ocean, grey as with oblivion,
    Lay hidden from the visage of the sun.
    High noon drave not the phantom army forth,
    Nor winds slow-seeping from the muffled North,
    And weary with its vigil of the deep,
    Duandon’s soul put out on seas of sleep;
    Dreamless he lay ere sunset, and the shell,
    Unguarded, from assenting fingers fell.
    Came then, nor spilt that anodyne of rest,
    His only son, impatient with the quest,
    New-fared from crimson victories of war,--
    Tall as the spears that lesser champions bore.
    To him the horizon was a smitten chord
    That rang in challenge to his youthful sword,
    And thrilled with all the murmurs of romance
    The realms remote from his insatiate lance.
    Silent awhile he stood, and ere he spoke,
    Routed at last, the sea-mist’s army broke,
    And, as its ranks fled landward to their knell,
    The consummating sunset smote the shell....

    Duandon woke below the evening star,
    And saw the foam’s incessant scimetar
    Leap from the billow’s sheath, and heard the cry
    Of winds unleashed upon the western sky;
    Forlorn beyond the darkling waters lay
    The sullen embers of the pyre of Day--
    Dull, ere obscuring night should make the sea
    One with the reaches of infinity;
    Then to the sands his gaze returned, to meet
    The seaward print of unreturning feet.
    Gone was the shell; a sword lay in its stead,
    From altars of the buried sun made red--
    A blade he knew so well from all the rest
    It seemed that instant to transfix his breast.
    Afar or near, on waters grey and lone,
    No swimmer drave, no arm uplifted shone;
    Austere and vacant rolled the cryptic main,
    Unsearchable: the prince came not again,
    Unseen on tawny beach or waters loud,--
    Gone like the shadow of a vanished cloud.

    Aye! better vanished, than to wait, as he,
    Duandon, silent by the unmastered sea,
    From which, till death, his heart was doomed to crave
    The uncomprehended tidings of the wave--
    An echo of that music from the shell
    Forever vibrant in its fall and swell--
    Was fated, still, from azure gulfs to dream
    He saw the arm of some white swimmer gleam,
    Flung for an instant from the shifting spray--
    Siren, or son, or both, he could not say.
    And feelest _thou_ no pangs of beauty lost,
    When morning waves or waters sunset-crost
    Cry to thy soul, unsatisfied, alone,
    Of Isles to which its younger dreams have flown?
    The might-have-been, the nevermore-to-be,
    Bears not the deep their antiphon to thee?
    For man has found, as man shall ever find,
    Some echo of his travail on the wind,
    And sigh of great Departures, and the breath
    Of pinions incontestable by Death.
    Of stars and shadows past to-morrow’s ken
    He finds him vision and announcement, when,
    As storms beyond the horizon-line prolong
    The sea’s imperious, eternal song,
    The thunder-chorded surf on yellow sands
    Resounds, like harps on which the gods lay hands.




           _THREE SONNETS OF THE NIGHT SKIES_




                I

           ALDEBARAN AT DUSK


    Thou art the star for which all evening waits--
      O star of peace, come tenderly and soon!
      As for the drowsy and enchanted moon,
    She dreams in silver at the eastern gates
    Ere yet she brim with light the blue estates
      Abandoned by the eagles of the noon.
      But shine thou swiftly on the darkling dune
    And woodlands where the twilight hesitates.

    Above that wide and ruby lake to-West
      Wherein the sunset waits reluctantly,
        Stir silently the purple wings of Night.
    She stands afar, upholding to her breast,
      As mighty murmurs reach her from the sea,
        Thy lone and everlasting rose of light.




                II

           THE CHARIOTS OF DAWN


    O Night, is this indeed the morning-star,
      That now with brandished and impatient beam
      On eastern heights of darkness flames supreme,
    Or some great captain of the dawn, whose car
    Scornful of all thy rear-guard ranks that bar
      His battle, now foreruns the helms that gleam
      Below horizons of dissevering dream,
    Who lifts his javelin to his hosts afar?

    Now am I minded of some ocean-king
      That in a war of gods has wielded arms,
    And still in slumber hears their harness ring
        And dreams of isles where golden altars fume,
      Till, mad for irretrievable alarms,
        He passes down the seas to some strange doom.




                III

           THE HUNTRESS OF STARS


    Tell me, O Night! what horses hale the moon!
      Those of the sun rear now on Syria’s day,
      But here the steeds of Artemis delay
    At heavenly rivers hidden from the noon,
    Or quench their starry thirst at cisterns hewn
      In midnight’s deepest sapphire, ere she slay
      The Bull, and hide the Pleiades’ dismay,
    Or drown Orion in a silver swoon.

    Are those the stars, and not their furious eyes,
      That now before her coming chariot glare?
        Is that their nebulous, phantasmal breath
    Trailed like a mist upon the winter skies,
        Or vapors from a Titan’s pyre of death--
      Far-wafted on the orbit of Altair?




           THE EVANESCENT


    The wind upon the mountain-side
      Sang to the dew: “My moments fly:
      In yonder valley I must die.
    How long thy restless gems abide!”

    Low to the bent and laden grass
      There came the whisper of the dew:
      “My lessening hours, how fleet and few!
    What months are thine ere thou shalt pass!”

    The grass made murmur to the tree:
      “My days a little time are fair;
      But oh! thy brooding years to share--
    The centuries that foster thee!”

    Ere died the wind the tree had said:
      “O mountain marvellous and strong,
      The aeons of thine age--how long,
    When I and all my kin lie dead!”

    The mountain spake: “O sea! thy strength
      Forevermore I shall not face.
      At last I sink to thine embrace;
    Thy waves await my ramparts’ length.”

    The deep gave moan: “O stars supreme!
      Your eyes shall see me mute in death.
      Before your gaze I fade like breath
    Of vapors in a mortal’s dream.”

    Then bore the Void a choral cry,
      Descendent from the starry throng:
      “A little, and our ancient song
    Dies at thy throne, Eternity!”

    Then, silence on the heavenly Deep,
      Wherein that music sank unheard,
      As shuts the midnight on a word
    Said by a dreamer in his sleep.




           MEMORY


    She stands beside the ocean of the Past,
      A diver. Pearls and hydras can she bring,
      Shells for the child and crystals for the king.
    Prone on her reefs the sea-essaying mast
    And keels that dared the hurricane are cast--
      Trophies of tides invincible that swing
      Around the islands where the Sirens sing,
    The magic of whose song is hers at last.

    Some shadow of the glory she restores,
      Tho’ wave and wind devour the Ships of Dream;
        For many mark her ere the fall of night,
    When the surf’s sound is mighty on her shores,
      Singing, as wildly on her bosom gleam
        The sea-dews, and the rubies of the light.




           THE MOTH OF TIME


    Lo! this audacious vision of the dust--
      This dream that it hath dreamt! Unresting wings,
      Too strong for Time, too frail for timeless things!
    Whence all thy thirst for God, thy piteous lust
    For life to be when matter’s chain shall rust?
      What pact hast thou with the undying kings,
      Silence and Death? What sibyl’s counsellings
    Assure thee that the eternal laws are just?

    Nay! all thy hopes are nothing to the Night,
      And justice but a figment of thy dream!
        Upon the waste what wide mirages glow,
    With hills that shift, and palms that mock the sight,
      And cities on the desert’s far extreme--
        Those veils we name, and dare to think we know!




           THE BLACK VULTURE


    Aloof upon the day’s immeasured dome,
      He holds unshared the silence of the sky.
      Far down his bleak, relentless eyes descry
    The eagle’s empire and the falcon’s home--
    Far down, the galleons of sunset roam;
      His hazards on the sea of morning lie;
      Serene, he hears the broken tempest sigh
    Where cold sierras gleam like scattered foam.

    And least of all he holds the human swarm--
      Unwitting now that envious men prepare
        To make their dream and its fulfilment one,
    When, poised above the caldrons of the storm,
      Their hearts, contemptuous of death, shall dare
        His roads between the thunder and the sun.




           THE HOUSE OF ORCHIDS

           Dedicated to Mrs. Joseph B. Coryell


      How swift a step from zone to zone!
        A moment since, the day
    Was cool with winds from linden-bowers flown
        And breath of mounded hay
        That ripens on the plains,
    Beneath the shadow of the western hill;
        But here the air is still,
    Warm as a Lesbian valley’s afternoon
        Made langourous with June
    And moist with spirits of unnumbered rains,
    Pervaded with a perfume that might be
    Of rainbow-haunted lands beyond the sea
        And ocean-ending sands--
    A ghost of fragrance whose elusive hands
    Touch not the hidden harp of memory.
        What sprites are those that gleam?
          Can eyes betray?
        Till now I did not deem
    That Beauty’s flaming hands could shape in bloom
    So marvelous and delicate designs.
        The vision here that shines
    Seems not a fabric of our mortal day
        And Nature’s tireless loom,
        By custom long defiled,
    But symbol of a loveliness supreme,
        A god’s forgotten dream
    In alabaster told by elfin skill
    In caverns underneath a haunted hill,
    Or in some palace of enchantment hewn
    From crystal in the twilights of the moon,
        Where white Astarte strays
    And Echo and the silver-footed fays
    Make alien music, fugitive and wild.
        Ye seem as flowers exiled,
    More beautiful because they die so soon;
    But who the gods that could have scorned
        Your tenderness unmarred?
      Put first ye forth your fragile wings,
    Less of the form than of the soul of things,
        Where seraphim had mourned
      In Eden’s evening, heavy-starred,
      When first the gates were barred
        And cruel Time began?
    For mystery hath lordship here, and ye
    Seem spirit-flowers born to startle man
    With intimations of eternity
    And hint of what the flowers of Heaven may be.
    Nor can your glamour greatly seem of earth:
        Her blossoms are of mirth,
    But ye with loveliness can tell of grief--
    Unhappy love most exquisite and brief.

        Wingéd ye seem and fleet,
        Such flowers pale as are
    Worn by the goddess of a distant star--
        Before whose holy eyes
        Beauty and evening meet,
    Mysterious beauty delicate and strange,
        And evening-calm that sighs
    With Music’s inexpressible surmise--
        Her question ere she dies.
        From form to form ye range,
          From hue to hue,
    And this, with petals wan and mystical,
    Seems votive to those spirits of the dew
    That weep at silvern twilights silently,
        With tears that gently fall
    On hidden elves dim-curtained by the rose.
      And thou, thy chalice better glows
    In purple grottos where the stainless sea
      On sands inviolable swirls--
        On evanescent pearls,
    That hold not all thy bosom’s purity.

        And thou, more white
      Than when on some blue lake,
      Just as the zephyrs wake,
      The ripples flash to light--
    Touched by a swan’s unsullied breast to foam,
    Hadst thou in melancholy halls thy home?
    For long ago thou seemest to have slept,
    Forlorn, in palace-glooms where queens have wept.
        Ah! they too slept at last,
    Whose sighs are half the music of the Past!

        But thou, O palest one!
        Dost seem to scorn the sun,
        And, in a tropic, dense,
        Languid magnificence,
      Desire to know thy former place,
        Where no man comes at night,
        And in its antic flight
    Behold the vampire-bat veer off from thee
        As from a phantom face,
    Or watch Antares’ light peer craftily
      Down from the dank and moonless sky,
        As goblins’ eyes might gleam
        Or baleful rubies glare,
    Muffled in smoke or incense-laden air.
    And thou, most weird companion, thou dost seem
        Some mottled moth of Hell,
        That stealthily might fly
    To hover there above the carnal bell
    Of some black lily, still and venomous,
        And poise forever thus.

      Chill, in thy drowsy aether warm,
      Softly thou gleamest, subtler form;
        Witch-bloom thou seem’st to be,
    For Lilith would have bound thee in her hair--
      Smiling at dusk inscrutably,
    And Circe gathered such for gods to wear,
        In evenings when the moon,
      A sorceress who steals in white
    Along the cloudy parapets of night,
    In every glade her ghostly pearl hath strewn.
        Thou art as violet-wan
    As eyelids of a vestal dead and meek.
    If after-life can come to blossoms gone,
        Surely Persephone
        Shall crown her brow with thee,
      In realms where burns nor star nor sun
    To show the dead what amaranths to seek.
        And ah--this other! none
    Of all thy kin more purely is arrayed--
      Pallid as Aphrodite’s cheek
      To some long passion-swoon betrayed,
        By ecstasy foretold;
      Yet as with blood thy bosom gleams;
      Red as Adonis’ wound it seems,
        By Syria mourned of old,
    Or scarlet lips that drink from bowls of jade,
    Slowly, an ivory poison, sweet and cold....

        Oh! mystically strange
    That speechless things should so have power to hint,
        With subtle form and tint
    That seize the heart’s high memories unaware,
    The sorrow and the mystery of Change,
    And elements in Fate’s controlling plan
    Not altogether ministrant to man
        Nor mindful of his care--
        Some joy to death akin,
    Or tragic kiss, or fruit malignly fair,
        Some garden built by Sin
        For Love to wander in,
    Some face whose beauty bids the heart despair!
        And yet, O blossoms pure!
        How marvelous the lure
    Of your fragility and innocence--
    This grace and wistfulness of helpless things
        That ask no recompense!
        Ye give the spirit wings,
    For yours the beauty that is near to pain,
        And stir the heart again
    With visions of the Flowers that abide--
          Ah! sweet
        As when love’s glances meet
    Across the music, heard at eventide!

           Lloyden, June, 1909.




           SONNETS ON THE SEA’S VOICE


                I

    Thou seem’st to call to that which will not hear,
      As man to Fate. Thine anthems uncontrolled,
      From winnowed sands and reefs reverberant rolled,
    Shake as with sorrow, and the hour is near
    Wherein thy voice shall seem a thing of fear,
      Like to a lion’s at the trembling fold;
      And men shall waken to the midnight cold,
    And feel that dawn is far, that night is drear.

    Thou wert ere Life, a dim but quenchless spark,
      Found vesture in thy vastness. Thou shalt be
    When Life hath crossed the threshold of the Dark,--
        When shackling ice hath zoned at last thy breast,
      And thy deep voice is hushed, O vanquished Sea!
        One with eternity that giveth rest.


                II

    No cloud is on the heavens, and on the sea
      No sail: the immortal, solemn ocean lies
      Unbroken sapphire to the walling skies--
    Immutable, supreme in majesty.
    The billows, where the charging foam leaps free,
      Burden the winds with thunder. Soul, arise!
      For ghostly trumpet-blasts and battle-cries
    Across the tumult wake the Past for thee.

    They call me to a dim, disastrous land,
      Where fallen marbles tell of mighty years,
        Heroic architraves, but where the gust
    Ripples forsaken waters. Lo! I stand
      With armies round about, and in mine ears
        The roar of harps reborn from legend’s dust.


                III

    How very still this odorous, dim space
      Amid the pines! the light is reverent,
      Pausing as one who stands with meek intent
    On thresholds of an everlasting place.
    A single iris waits in weary grace--
      Her countenance before the dawning bent,
      As Faith might linger, husht and innocent,
    With all an altar’s glory on her face.

    But silence now is hateful: I would be,
      By midnight dark and wild as Satan’s soul,
        Where the winds’ unreturning charioteers
    Lash, with the hurtling scourges of the sea,
      Their frantic steeds to some tempestuous goal--
        The deep’s enormous music in their ears.


                IV

    O thou unalterable sea! how vast
      Thine utterance! What portent in thy tone,
      As here thy giant choirs, august, alone,
    Roll forth their diapason to the blast!--
    Great waters hurled and broken and upcast
      In timeless splendour and immeasured moan,
      As tho’ Eternity to years unknown
    Bore witness of the sorrows of the Past.

    Thou callest to a deep within my soul--
      Untraversed and unsounded; at thy voice
        Abysses move with phantoms unbegot.
    What paeans haunt me and what pangs control!--
      Thunders wherewith the seraphim rejoice,
        And mighty hunger for I know not what.




           AUTUMN


          Now droops the troubled year
    And now her tiny sunset stains the leaf.
                A holy fear,
          A rapt, elusive grief,
    Make imminent the swift, exalting tear.

          The long wind’s weary sigh--
    Knowest, O listener! for what it wakes?
                Adown the sky
          What star of Time forsakes
    Her pinnacle? What dream and dreamer die?

          A presence half-divine
    Stands at the threshold, ready to depart
                Without a sign.
          Now seems the world’s deep heart
    About to break. What sorrow stirs in mine?

          A mist of twilight rain
    Hides now the orange edges of the day.
                In vain, in vain
          We labor that thou stay,
    Beauty who wast, and shalt not be again!




           STARS OF THE NOON


    Untaught, I meet the question of the hours--
          Travail and prayer and call;
    But ye, with stillness deeper than the flow’rs’,
          O stars! can answer all.

    Now, tho’ the sapphire walls of noon forbid
          Your beams compassionate,
    Witheld by light, as love by silence hid,
          Unchanging ye await,

    Till Day, whom all the swords of sunset bar
          From Edens daily lost,
    Pass, and your lonely armies sink afar
          To oceans nightly crost.

    Ah! when, ere long, I watch your kingdoms reach
          Past the departed sun,
    Will ye, in silence holier than speech,
          Tell that our ways are one?--

    That I, as ye, vanish awhile in day
          (The day we reckon night),
    Till dusks of birth reveal the backward way
          To darkness reckoned light?

    Come! for the ancient Altar waits your flame,
          The seas of shadow call,
    And, exile of a land I cannot name,
          Homesick, I question all.




           THE APOTHECARY’S


    Its red and emerald beacons from the night
    Draw human moths in melancholy flight,
    With beams whose gaudy glories point the way
    To safety or destruction--choose who may!
    Crystal and powder, oils or tincture clear,
    Such the dim sight of man beholds, but here
    Await, indisputable in their pow’r,
    Great Presences, abiding each his hour;
    And for a little price rash man attains
    This council of the perils and the pains--
    This parliament of death, and brotherhood
    Omniponent for evil and for good.

    Venoms of vision, myrrh of splendid swoons,
    They wait us past the green and scarlet moons.
    Here prisoned rest the tender hands of Peace,
    And there an angel at whose bidding cease
    The clamors of the tortured sense, the strife
    Of nerves confounded in the war of life.
    Within this vial pallid Sleep is caught,
    In that, the sleep eternal. Here are sought
    Such webs as in their agonizing mesh
    Draw back from doom the half-reluctant flesh.
    There beck the traitor joys to him who buys,
    And Death sits panoplied in gorgeous guise.

    The dusts of hell, the dews of heavenly sods,
    Water of Lethe or the wine of gods,
    Purchase who will, but, ere his task begin,
    Beware the service that you set the djinn!
    Each hath his mercy, each his certain law,
    And each his Lord behind the veil of awe;
    But ponder well the ministry you crave,
    Lest he be final master, you the slave.
    Each hath a price, and each a tribute gives
    To him who turns from life and him who lives.
    If so you win from Pain a swift release,
    His face shall haunt you in the house of Peace;
    If so from Pain you scorn an anodyne,
    Peace shall repay you with a draft divine.
    Tho’ toil and time be now by them surpast,
    Exact the recompense they take at last--
    These genii of the vials, wreaking still
    Their sorceries on human sense and will.




           THE SWIMMERS


    We were eight fishers of the western sea,
      Who sailed our craft beside a barren land,
      Where harsh with pines the herdless mountains stand
                And lonely beaches be.

    There no man dwells, and ships go seldom past;
      Yet sometimes there we lift our keels ashore,
      To rest in safety ’mid the broken roar
                And mist of surges vast.

    One strand we know, remote from all the rest,
      For north and south the cliffs are high and steep,
      Whose naked leagues of rock repel the deep,
                Insurgent from the west.

    Tawny it lies, untrodden e’er by man,
      Save when from storm we sought its narrow rift
      To beach our craft and light a fire of drift
                And sleep till day began.

    Along its sands no flower nor bird has home.
      Abrupt its breast, girt by no splendor save
      The whorled and curving emerald of the wave
                And scarves of rustling foam--

    A place of solemn beauty; yet we swore,
      By all the ocean stars’ unhasting flight,
      To seek no refuge for another night
                Upon that haunted shore.

    That year a sombre autumn held the earth.
      At dawn we sailed from out our village bay;
      We sang; a taut wind leapt along the day;
                The sea-birds mocked our mirth.

    Southwest we drave, like arrows to a mark;
      Ere set of sun the coast was far to lee,
      Where thundered over by the white-hooved sea
                The reefs lie gaunt and dark.

    But when we would have cast our hooks, the main
      Grew wroth a-sudden, and our captains said:
      “Seek we a shelter.” And the west was red;
                God gave his winds the rein.

    And eastward lay the sands of which I told;
      Thither we fled, and on the narrow beach
      Drew up our keels beyond the lessening reach
                Of waters green and cold.

    Then set the wounded sun. The wind blew clean
      The skies. A wincing star came forth at last.
      We heard like mighty tollings on the blast
                The shock of waves unseen.

    The wide-winged Eagle hovered overhead;
      The Scorpion crept slowly in the south
      To pits below the horizon; in its mouth
                Lay a young moon that bled.

    And from our fire the ravished flame swept back,
      Like yellow hair of one who flies apace,
      Compelled in lands barbarian to race
                With lions on her track.

    Then from the maelstroms of the surf arose
      Wild laughter, mystical, and up the sands
      Came Two that walked with intertwining hands
                Amid those ocean snows.

    Ghostly they shone before the lofty spray--
      Fairer than gods and naked as the moon,
      The foamy fillets at their ankles strewn
                Less marble-white than they.

    Laughing they stood, then to our beacon’s glare
      Drew nearer, as we watched in mad surprise
      The scarlet-flashing lips, the sea-green eyes,
                The red and tangled hair.

    Then spoke the god (goddess and god they seemed),
      In harplike accents of a tongue unknown--
      About his brows the dripping locks were blown;
                Like wannest gold he gleamed.

    Staring we sat; again the Vision spoke.
      Beyond his form we saw the billows rave,--
      The leap of those white leopards in the wave,--
                The spume of seas that broke.

    Yet sat we mute, for then a human word
      Seemed folly’s worst. And scorn began to trace
      Its presence on the wild, imperious face;
                Again the red lips stirred,

    But spoke not. In an instant we were free
      From that enchantment: fleet as deer they turned
      And sudden amber leapt the sands they spurned.
                We saw them meet the sea.

    We heard the seven-chorded surf, unquelled,
      Call in one thunder to the granite walls;
      But over all, like broken clarion-calls,
                Disdainful laughter welled.

    Then silence, save for cloven wave and wind.
      Our fire had faltered on its little dune.
      Far out a fog-wall reared, and hid the moon.
                The night lay vast and blind.

    Silent, we waited the assuring morn,
      Which rose on angered waters. But we set
      Our hooded prows to sea, and, tempest-wet,
                Beat up the coast forlorn.

    And no man scorned our tale, for well they knew
      Had mystery befallen: in our eyes
      Were alien terrors and unknown surmise.
                Men saw the tale was true.

    And no man seeks a refuge on that shore,
      Tho tempests gather in impelling skies;
      Unseen, unsolved, unhazarded it lies,
                Forsaken evermore.

    For on those sands immaculate and lone
      Perchance They list the sea’s immeasured lyre,
      When sunset casts an evanescent fire
                Thro billows thunder-sown.




           BENEATH THE REDWOODS


    O trees! so vast, so calm!
        Softly ye lay
      On heart and mind today
    The unpurchaseable balm.

    Ere yet the wind can cease,
        Your mighty sigh
      Is spirit of the sky--
    Half sorrow and half peace.

    Mourn ye your brothers slain,
        That now afar
      From hush and dews and star
    Man barters for his gain?

    Mourn them with all your boughs,
        For I must mourn,
      In seasons yet unborn,
    The cares that they will house.




           MUSIC AT DUSK


    O Twilight, Twilight! evermore to hear
      The wounded viols pleading to thy heart!
      To dream we watch thy purple wings depart;
    To wake, and know thy presence alway near!

    What dost thou on the pathway of the sun?
      Abide thy sister Night, while strains so pure
      Make heaven and all its beauty seem too sure,
    And all too certain her oblivion.

    One star awakes to turn thee from the south.
      Oh, linger in the shadows thou hast drawn,
      Ere Night cast dew before the feet of Dawn,
    Or Silence lay her kiss on Music’s mouth!




           THE TIDES OF CHANGE


    Wherewith is Beauty fashioned? Canst thou deem
        Her evanescent roses bourgeon save
        Within the sunlight tender on her grave?
    Awake no winds but bear her dust, a gleam
    In morning’s prophecy or sunset’s dream;
        And every cry that ever Sirens gave
        From islands mournful with the quiring wave
    Was echo of a music once supreme.

    All æons, conquests, excellencies, stars,
    All pain and peril of seraphic wars,
      Were met to shape thy soul’s divinity.
        Pause, for the breath of gods is on thy face!
      The ghost of dawns forgotten and to be
        Abides a moment in the twilight’s grace.




           MORNING TWILIGHT


    An early thrush acclaims the light--
      The wide, low-billowing day
    O’er dews and grasses chill with night
      Upcasts its foam of grey.

    Now end the darkness and its dreams.
      The ashen moon is low;
    Like petal-drift on placid streams
      We watch her sink and go.

    And like a dryad to her tree
      The morning star hath sped--
    Gone ere an eye essayed to see
      The path whereon she fled.

    Hark how, as here we stand the wards
      Of woodlands newly green,
    The pine’s innumerable chords
      Are touched by hands unseen!

    Hearing, the forest seems forlorn
      And all the air a sigh
    Of things that seek a vaster morn,
      And find it not, and die.

    O tranquil hour! the haggard noon
      Shall make a ghost of thee
    Soon to be memory’s, and soon
      Not even of memory.




           AN ALTAR OF THE WEST

(Point Lobos, the southern boundary of Carmel Bay.)


          Beauty, what dost thou here?
    Why hauntest thou this empery of pain
              Where men in vain
          Long for another sphere?
          Art not an exile shy,
          A dreamer ’mid the swords,
    Upon this iron world where men defy
          Time and its hidden lords?
    Thou waitest with a splendor on thy brow.
    And seem’st to watch with compensating eyes
      Each jest our dwarfing Fates devise;
          And after all the strife,
              ’Tis thou
    Who standest where the slayers’ feet have trod--
    Perchance a portion of this dream of God
          That will not go from life.

    All that man’s yearning finds beyond its reach
    Thou hast in promise, giving to his heart
    A rapturous sadness all too wild for speech,--
    A glory past the thresholds of his art,
      Tho Nature tell it with the wind
        And beckon him to find.
      Thou dost reward our barren years:
          Our very tears--
        The dews of memory--
    Were lovely as the dew, could Grief but see.
          What marvel fills
        Thine evenings, dawns and noons!--
        The dryad-haunted hills
    And gold of reeds that wait the lips of Pan;
    Silence and silver one in wasting moons;
              The stains
    Of mornings beautiful ere Time began,
    And wine-souled Autumn and the ghostly rains;
              A bird
    In moonlit valleys of enchantment heard;
        The fall of sunsets past the sea,
    And shadow of celestial pearls to be
          Where meet in day
    The night’s last star, the morning’s youngest ray.

    On thine incarnate face could we but look,
              Would not we die,
          Desiring overmuch?
              And yet we sigh,
    Who find on land and sea thy radiant touch
    And dream thou hast on earth a secret nook--
          A glade supremely blest
    In woodlands where thou wanderest unseen.
            Hath not the snowy North
    Or star-concealing ocean of the West
        A court wherein thou sittest queen,
        A temple whence thou goest forth,
            An altar for our quest?
            Goddess, one such I know,
              And fain would praise,
        Tho less the gift my words bestow
            Than tapers ’mid the blaze
    Of peaceless stars that gather at thy throne.
            Yet seems it most thine own.

    Past Carmel lies a headland that the deep--
            A Titan at his toil--
    Has graven with the measured surge and sweep
    Of waves that broke ten thousand years ago.
              Here winds assoil
                  That blow
            From unfamiliar skies
    And isolating waters of the West.
    Deep-channelled by the billows’ rage it lies,
              As tho the land
        Thrust forth a vast, tree-shaggy hand
    To bar the furious ocean from its breast.
          Here Beauty would I seek,
          For this I deem her home,
              And surely here
          The sea-adoring Greek,
          Poseidon, unto thee
    Thy loftiest temple had been swift to rear,
    Of chosen marble and chalcedony,
    Pure as the irrecoverable foam.

    Ere evening from this granite bulwark gaze,
    Above the deeper sapphire that the winds
              Drag to and fro.
                  A zone
              Of coldest chrysoprase
          Tells where the sunlight finds
            The glimmering shoal.
              How slow
      Yon clouds, like giants overthrown
      Sink to the ocean’s western verge,
          From whence incessant roll
          Thro unresponding years
    The waves whose anthem challenges the soul--
          The everlasting surge
    Whose ancient salt is in our blood and tears.
          Listen, with sight made blind,
    And dream thou hearest on the according wind
      The music of the gods again,
          The murmur of their slain
    And firmamental echo of great wars.
    See how the wave in sudden anger flings
    White arms about a rock to drag it down!
            No siren sings,
    But in that pool of crystal gleams her crown,
            Flung on a rocky shelf--
    Grey jewels cold and agates of the elf
    That in yon scarlet cavern still is hid,
            ’Mid shells that mock the dawn.
      Here, where the northern surge is swayed
    Upon a beach of amber where a faun
    Might clasp the beauty of a Nereid,
    Translucent waters cover loops of jade.
      Beyond, the sea-scourged walls uphold
    A mount of granite, steep and harsh, where cling
          Along its rugged length
    The cypress legions, melancholy, old.
          O’er wasting cliff and strand
      In terraced emerald they stand
              Against the sky,
          Each elder tree a king
    Whose fame the wordless billows magnify.
    A thousand winters of achieving storm
          Moulded each mighty form
            To beauty and to strength:
    A thousand more shall raven ere they die.

        But wander to the verge again
        Where the immeasurable main
    Below the red horizon rears its wall,
            The day’s enormous pyre
    Whence oft, in mighty sunsets of the West,
    The world seems menaced by invading fire.
              Dost hear no call
    From these hesperian Islands of the Blest
              That wait the quest
    Of galleys of adventure, launched at dawn
    And seaward on the tides of peril drawn?
    The sky-line’s crimson harbors seem to hold,
            At dusk, their prows of gold.
    Now, ere the stars come out along the wind,
            The veering sea-birds find
            The refuge that they crave
        On cliffs above the weedy mouth
          Of some reverberant cave
    In which the ocean’s monstrous chuckle wakes.
              Fast comes the night;
          The west witholds at last
    Those last red relics of departing light
              That once were noon.
          Hark how the billow breaks,
              Forever cast
    On reefs round which wild waters and the moon
    Weave silver garlands--foamy fillets strewn
    Along her shining pathway to the South!
              The stars arise,
    And westward now the Eagle holds their van.
          See how the Pleiades,
    Like hounds in leash before Aldebaran,
          Strain up the shifting skies!
              The cypress trees,
    Drenched in the milk o’ the moon, conspirant seem,
    The surf a chant of giants heard afar,
              While seaward gleam
    The lamps of Lyra and the evening star....

          The midnight hushes all;
              The winds are dumb;
    Eastward, Orion treads the mountain-wall.
    But lo! what visitant is on the gloom?
    Beauty and mystery and terror meet
          At this her chosen seat:
          The writhing fog is come,
          White as the moon’s cold hands
          Laid on a marble tomb.
          Slow swarm the dragon-bands--
    Those pallid monsters of the mist that nose
              The granite bare
          And glide along the flanks
    Of hill and headland where the cypress ranks
          Are crouched like silent foes,
          Relentless and aware.
      Far to the sombre hills they roam
          Like winds that have no home,
                And creep,
          Unhasting and intent,
          Along the muffled deep,
          As tho malignly sent
    From Lethe’s murmur and the starless foam.
    They pass, and now again the moon is free,
    Slow pacing with the Signs about her head;
    Soon shall the dawn arise and find her fled
          From yon blue battlement,
    As tho a pearl were hidden by the sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

          Beauty, what dost thou here?
    Why hauntest thou the House where Death is lord
          And o’er thy crown appear
    The inexorable shadow and the sword?
    Art not a mad mirage above a grave?
    The foam foredriven of a perished wave?
          A clarion afar?
    A lily on the waters of despond?
    A ray that leaping from our whitest star
          Shows but the night beyond?
    And yet thou seemest more than all the rest
          That eye and ear attest--
    A watch-tower on the mountains whence we see
              On future skies
          The rose of dawn to be;
    The altar of an undiscovered shore;
    A dim assurance and a proud surmise;
                  A gleam
          Upon the bubble, Time;
          The vision, fleet, sublime,
    Of sorrowed man, the brute that dared to dream.
              Ah! those, and more!
    Made veritable tho the heart descry
          No path to thy demesne
          And Music builds, unseen,
    Her Heaven we shall not enter tho we die.
              Still must thou speak,
          August and consecrate,
    Of that Reality we can but seek,
              Tho seeking fail--
    That Sun eternal and inviolate,
    Whereof thou art the portent and the veil.




           THE FAUN


    Now in the noontide peace I lie
      Where waving grass is green,
    With bosom open to the sky
      And not a cloud between;
    At dawn, one cast from out the blue
      A shadow on my lanes,
    Then vanished with the dwindling dew
      And not a wisp remains.

    An hour ago I watched an ant
      Haste homeward with her spoil;
    She had, by Jove his covenant,
      No quittance of her toil;
    Doubtless they be a thrifty race,
      Whose works shall not depart:
    O Jove, who grantest each his place,
      Teach not to me their art!

    I and my kin shall pass ere long,
      And ants shall ever be;
    But better now the linnet’s song
      Than their eternity.
    What tho my people perish soon?
      Awhile the dews we crush
    Where nights of summer mould the moon
      And laughters wake the thrush.

    From yonder hill I spy on man
      And marvel at his need,
    Who fashions, in a season’s span,
      A thousand fanes to Greed;
    Perchance from each, his worship done,
      He ventures forth repaid,
    But grant thou me the spendthrift sun
      And berries of the glade.

    At noon great Caesar’s chariot past,
      A poison on the air,
    But drive he slow or drive he fast,
      The journey’s end is Care--
    Care, at whose throne all mortals stand
      With tinsel crowns put by,
    Too weak to rove the billowed land,
      Too sad to watch the sky.

    Mid ivied trunks I see her gleam,
      The nymph, my forest-mate;
    She wanders by the lyric stream,
      To us articulate.
    A golden house let Caesar build,
      To hold his ghosts and gods--
    For me the summer eves are stilled,
      For me the flower nods.




           THE VOICES


    Last night the granite headland loomed
        A Titan on the night,
    About whose knees the billows boomed,
        Enormous, baffled, white.

    And now to morning’s throne of gold
        Murmurs the chastened sea:
    Its thunder and its whispers hold
        The selfsame mystery.




           A CHARACTER


    Blunt as a child, since child he was at heart,
    And sun-sincere, my friend to many seemed
    Dull, rude, aggressive, tactless. Add to all
    His bulk and hairiness and stormy laugh,
    And one can find them some excuse for that.
    ’Twas seeming only. We, who found his soul
    Thro friendship’s crystal, saw beyond the glass
    The elusive seraph. In his mind were met
    The faun, the cynic, the philosopher,
    But first of all, the poet. Give to such
    Apollo’s guise, and matters were not well.
    Too glad to pose, ofttimes he held his peace
    Before the jest that sought his heart; but let
    The whim appeal, and all his mind took fire--
    The shifted diamond’s instant shock of light.
    Beauty to him (as wine’s ecstatic draught,
    Richer than blood, and every drop a dream)
    Was like a wind some hidden world put forth
    To baffle, madden, lure--at times, betray,
    Then win him back to worship with a breath
    Of Edens never trodden. Yet he stood
    No dupe to Nature in her harlotry,
    Her guile, her blind injustice and the abrupt
    Ferocities of chance, but swift to face
    The unkempt fact, and swift no less to snatch
    Its honey from illusion’s stinging hive--
    No moth that beat upon Time’s enginery.
    Yet loved he Nature well, as one might love
    A half-tamed leopardess, for beauty’s grace
    Alone. Within his enigmatic soul
    Sorrow and Art made Love their servitor,
    For he would have no master but himself.
    To what best liken him? Some singer must
    Have used the star-souled geode’s rind and heart,
    Telling of such as he. Let me compare
    His rugged aspect and auroral mind
    To that wide shell our western ocean grants--
    Without, all harsh and hueless, with, perhaps,
    A group of barnacles or tattered weed;
    Within, such splendor as would make one guess
    That once a score of dawnings and a troop
    Of royal sunsets had condensed their pomp
    To rainbow lacquer which the ocean pow’rs
    Had lavished, godlike, on the gorgeous bowl.




           THE GUERDON OF THE SUN


    Of all the fonts from which man’s heart has drawn
      Some essence of the majesty of earth,
      Some intimation of the human worth,
    I reckon first the sunset and the dawn.

    For those were fires whose splendor smote his clay
      With witness of a light beyond the clod;
      Enshrined, he made of radiance a god,
    And found his benediction in the day.

    And all his eager hands have found to do,
      And all his tireless hope and love unite,
      In some wise take their symbol from the light,
    Our very Heaven based on heaven’s blue.

    Tilth beyond tilth, he waits upon the sun,
      The first to goad, the last to calm his breast,
      With dawns that like a clarion break his rest,
    And after-glows that crown his labor done.




           THE GARDENS OF THE SEA


    Beneath the ocean’s sapphire lid
      We gazed far down, and who had dreamed,
      Till pure and cold its treasures gleamed,
    What lucent jewels there lay hid?--

    Opal and jacinth, orb and shell,
      Calice and filament of jade,
      And fonts of malachite inlaid
    With lotus and with asphodel,--

    Red sparks that give the dolphin pause,
      Lamps of the ocean-elf, and gems
      Long lost from crystal diadems,
    And veiled in shrouds of glowing gauze.

    Below, the sifted sunlight passed
      To twilight, where the azure blaze
      Of scentless flowers from the haze
    About their dim pavilions cast

    Betrayed what seemed forgotten pearls,
      As shimmering weeds alert with light
      Enticed the half-reluctant sight
    To caverns where the sea-kelp swirls.

    Splendid and chill those gardens shone,
      Where sound is not, and tides are winds,--
      Where, fugitive, the naiad finds
    Eternal autumn, hushed and lone;

    Till one had said that in her bow’rs
      Were mixt the nacres of the dawn,
      That thence the sunset’s dyes were drawn,
    And there the rainbow sank its tow’rs.




           THE GARDENS OF THE SEA


    Where gorgeous flowers of chrysoprase
      In songless meadows bared their blooms,
      The deep’s unweariable looms
    With shifting splendors lured the gaze.

    And zoned on iridescent sands,
      Pellucid glories came and went--
      Silver and scarlet madly blent
    In living stars and blazoned bands.

    Hydras of emerald and blue
      Were part of swaying tapestries
      Whose woof from ivies of the seas
    Stole each inquietude of hue.

    And in those royal halls lay lost
      The oriflammes and golden oars
      Of argosies from lyric shores--
    ’Mid glimmering crowns and croziers tost.

    And purple poppies vespertine
      Glowed on the weird and sunken ledge,
      Beyond whose rich, vermillion edge
    Rose tentacles from shapes unseen--

    Undulant bronze and glossy toils
      That shuddered in the lustrous tide
      And forms in restless crimson dyed
    That caught the light in stealthy coils....

    Far down we gazed, nor dared to dream
      What final sorceries would be
      When in those gardens of the sea
    The lilies of the moon should gleam.




           THE SIBYL OF DREAMS


    The rose she gathers is invisible,
      But ah! its fragrance on the visioned air--
      The scent of Paphian flowers warm and fair;
    The breath of blossoms delicate and chill,
    By Dian tended on her vestal hill,
      And soul of that wan orchid of despair
      Found by Persephone, when, unaware,
    She bent to pluck, and hell and heaven grew still.

    Oh! in what lily’s deep and splendid cup
      Shall ever evening dryads hope to find
        So marvellous a nectar of delight--
    In valleys of enchantment gathered up
      By hesitating spirits of the wind,
        And borne in rapture to the lips of Night?




           THE MUSIC OF SLEEP


    What crown of dews and opals Morning wore
      I knew not, taken in the toils of Sleep;
      For mine it was the ways profound to keep
    Where seas of dream break on a phantom shore
    To mysteries of music evermore.
      There shone no star on headland nor on steep,
      And past the vague horizon of that deep
    On isles unknown I heard its billows roar.

    Eastward the everlasting fountains welled
      Till o’er my rest the dayspring’s golden tide
        On hills that are and nearer seas was whirled;
    But sealed within my haunted brows I held
      The forms that pass, the shadows that abide,
        And music of the soul’s dim under-world.




           DUTY


    White on its road we saw her chariot shine,
      And she, unturning, passed with lifted gaze,
      As Pleasure stood in arrogant amaze
    And looked in question on his scornéd wine;
    Love from her steeds leapt back with frightened eyne,
      Indignant, splendid, and the hostile blaze
      Of Pain’s effulgence from his hidden ways
    Seemed but her beacon to a goal divine.

    Then fell intensest shadow on her path,
      Whereat one cried, “Behold! the sword of Death!
    Shall mortal face unfaltering the Wrath?”
        And silence held our multitude. But she
      Passed on as to a thing of spectral breath,--
        A fantasy that was not nor could be.




           THE ECHO AND THE QUEST


    Now, as the west is red, O birds!
      My clumsy arts you bring to naught:
      A victim of the curse of thought,
    I tell its pain in trammeling words--

    Your music mocks the bitter lay!
      Idle as any song of mine
      The melody from copse or pine--
    Born at the dying of the day;

    But oh! the full accomplishment!
      Reproach unplanned but exquisite!
      Hark how the unpurchased throats transmit
    The tidings of a world content!

    To you the tale is all of joy,
      But we from rapture ask its pang;
      And tho’ an angel came and sang,
    Our hearts would worship--and destroy.

    And tho for ecstasy you sing,
      Our dim dissent awaits your tale,
      And in the song there seems to wail
    Another message than you bring:

    Unmastered still by disbelief,
      You tell our doubts in twilight strain;
      Untouched by man’s perennial pain,
    You give some echo of his grief;

    Or so we dream. The very wind
      Serves at the soul’s aeolian chords;
      Rulers dismayed, uncertain lords,
    In all we find, ourselves we find.

    But you escape the nets of care.
      Whither at last my feet shall go
      I know not: from your song I know
    You find the truth, and find it fair.




           JUSTICE


    Nila the youth, first-born, whose father’s name
    Was honored in his market-place of Ind,
    Loved Unda, and the dreaming twain, betrothed,
    Waited the springtide and their marriage-rites.
    The springtide came, but Nila’s joy came not,
    For she, the girl that was to be his bride,
    Was ravished from her lover, kin and home--
    Prey to the bull-necked Rajah on the hill.
    Then Nila, heedless of his father’s hope,
    Vanished. Anon before the palace gate
    That looked across the palm-tops to the south,
    And whence the road ran eastward to the town,
    There sat one cowled, a grey and mournful shape,
    Who spoke not, and was deemed, for silence, saint,--
    Who lived upon the offerings of the poor,
    And gave no sign, nor vision of his face,
    To slave nor councillor. “For,” said the youth,
    “It well may be that on some day she fare
    Forth to the temple, or to other ends:
    And I, shall I not know her as she goes,
    Tho’ jewelled curtains hide the loyal face?
    Aye! but to be as near to her as now
    And do her service once in all my days
    Were better than despair. Yet if men find
    That I am Nila, they may well discern
    Wherefore I wait, and so the Rajah know,
    Or, at the least, my kindred draw me hence.”

    He waiting, season after season came
    With weal and woe unto the sons of men--
    The time of sowing and the time to reap,
    Summer, and crashing of the winter rain,
    And plague and famine, gods that slew unseen.
    He heard the stars plot evil unto man,
    And saw the baleful meteor float to light
    And many suns look down upon man’s pain.
    The days had each their will of him. The years
    Wrought as with cunning chisels. Gaunt he grew,
    A silent watcher by the carven gate,
    And saw his kind go in and forth again,
    But never one whose coming, with a thrill,
    Sang to his heart: “Lo! I am even she!”
    Hooded, unknown, so sat he ’mid the crows--
    Sear as the summer, grey as any rain--
    And watched the flowers’ birth and death, and heard
    The sparrows’ song of mating, or the din
    Where the shrill apes held council in the grove.
    Often, in dreams that broke his daytime’s dream,
    He somehow, somewhere, found the long-betrothed,
    Far-wandered too in sleep’s Elysium,
    And clasped her form, and kissed her deathless lips,
    Hushed, in some garden of eternal dews;
    Then woke to silence and the dark, save where
    In one lean tower gleamed a shrouded lamp,
    Like some red planet still among the stars,
    Or, hung above the temple to the south,
    The failing lanthorn of the moon ... Far off
    A jackal barked ... A whisper touched the wind.

    So for two score of years his vigil ran,
    Unbroken save for slumber, till his hope,
    More faint at last, for all his hungering,
    Than shadows cast by firstling moons, was fled.
    But in the dust and detriments of noon,
    And in the midnight, still he longed for her,
    As, day by day, the marring seasons passed,
    Heedless of his despair. And yet he dreamt,
    Sustained by that which man must find at last--
    Patience, his answer to the sneer of Hell.
    Often he whispered prayer, and, in his age,
    Spoke unto children and to ancient men,
    But craved no word of her he loved, in dread
    Lest he be told her death. Then broke a day
    Whereon a hush seemed come to mortal things.
    A scarlet flower opened, near at hand,
    Scentless. Far up, he saw a lonely cloud,
    Cold-purple, like a bruise upon the sky.
    A restless wind plucked at the parent dust,
    And all the apes were silent in the grove.
    And Nila knew his end was near, and felt
    His soul rise wearily and welcome Death.
    Then one came forth from out the palace gate--
    Broken and desolate with foul-eyed age,
    And sat near by, nor held at all her peace,
    Lamenting o’er some matter of a hen.
    Whereat said Nila: “Woman, hast thou word
    Of one whom, long ago, the Rajah tore
    From lover and from kin--of her whose name
    Was Unda?” Then the crone bent low her head
    And pondered, reaching back to years agone,
    As one that in the darkness of the sea
    Gropes for a sunken gem. At last she spoke,
    Saying, “So long! So long ago! And yet
    Do I remember Unda, for alone
    Of all her band she mourned, nor would be still;
    Wherefore our lord at last was wroth with her
    And put her forth, for that she ever wept,
    By the northern gate, forbidding that she turn
    Again unto her kindred. And some say
    That she within the jungle perished, some
    That to a city of the west she fared
    And dwelt in shame. Doubtless she long is dead.”
    And Nila gazed upon the land and sky,
    Woven for man’s illusion, and beheld
    The scarlet petals fallen from their stem.
    The cloud had gone; the wind was fled away.
    And Nila turned him from the veils of Time,
    And bowed his head, and murmured: “God is just.”




           THE FLEET


    Stand fast! Though steel on clanging steel
    Make the contending turret reel;
      Though stern as Hell the battle-blast,
      From merciless horizons cast--
    Annihilation’s breath--
    Thunder no word but “Death!”
      Yea! though the blind sea rave
      And all its gulfs gape eager as the grave,
    Sure of your flesh at last,
    O human hearts! stand fast!
      And though untested nerve and sinew shrink,
      Trapped and astounded at the final brink--
    Tho’ hostile guns the march to silence toll,
    Beyond it lies the goal,
    And past the moment’s tremor smiles the soul.

    O brother hearts and brave,
    We know you strong to save,
      And strong to serve the Star
      That past the dusk of war
    Imperishable gleams.
    And O! how little seems
      The price of death men wait so glad to pay
      To hold undesecrated every ray!
    To serve thro’ many nights
    The youngest of the Lights
      Until it burns sublime
    From uncontested heights--
      The whitest beacon on the coasts of Time!

    Behold her, our dear country, where she stands
      Beneath the unconquered skies,
    The sword and trumpet in her sheathéd hands,
      But mercy in her eyes!
    Behold before her gates
      That bar the loyal sea,
      Foaming upon her threshholds ceaselessly,
    Each messenger that waits
    Armed for conclusive fates--
      Angels of death made mighty to fulfil
      ’Mid thunderings her will!
    Behold all these and know her wisdom’s length,
    Her beauty and her strength,
      And know that farther skies
      Age-hence shall see her rise,
    Hesperus of the high and starry plan
      When nations sit unarmored at the feast,
      Of freedom, West and East,
    Leagued in the deathless faith of men with Man.




           REMORSE

     At the sea’s verge, near Cypress Point, in Monterey County, the
     rain, wind, sun and sea have shaped a crag of the Santa Lucian
     granite into the form of a cowled or crowned figure, bent above the
     surf.


    Prelate or king (the twilight tells not which),
    Thou crouchest, silent, by the bitter sea.
    Immovable, immortal and alone,
    Abidest thou, and in thy stony ears
    The changeless moaning of the ancient deep
    Is less than prayer to Fate. The flaming noon
    Warms, and the spectral mists of evening chill:
    Thou heedest not, lapt in granitic dreams,
    Nor hast a glance for setting moon or star.
    What was thy crime? How long thy bleak remorse?
    For never venial sin had strength to bind
    In trance so grim despair so terrible.
    Gaze! but the stainless wave shall not assoil!
    Listen! but ever in thy soul must ring
    The ghostly death-cry of a Cause betrayed,--
    An empire lost, a people cast to doom!
    So might the Spirit of our tragic orb
    Behold, aghast with years, its fell result,
    And, blinded with the vision he had wrought,
    And dumb with clamors frozen at his heart,
    Ponder, unpitied by Eternity,
    Above the rising sea of human tears.




           MOONLIGHT IN THE PINES


    Full-starred, seraphic Night arose,
      Lifting the Pleiades’ dim lyre
    Above that solitude where glows
          Rose-red Aldebaran’s fire.

    Mute, ere the darkness could forget
      The crystal hour of evening’s trance,
    I felt the little winds that set
          The mirrored stars a-dance

    On restless leaves I heard them pass
      To touch the yellow vines that lay
    Like paler pythons in the grass,
          Beside a lonely way.

    To forest glades at last it led,
      By Silence chosen as her own:
    The pines’ soft sighing overhead
          Seemed but her whispers flown.

    Scarcely it seemed to cross the bound
      Where she, aloof, stood sorceress--
    That twilight where the feet of sound
          Pass unto nothingness.

    A little weary of the speech
      Of burdened man and troubled sea,
    I stood and dreamed that time would teach
          Her dream of peace to me,

    And, awed by the communing night,
      Forgot the haggard world withdrawn,
    Ere on my face there fell a light
          As of a spectral dawn.

    It gleamed beyond the barring pine--
      That shattered silver of the moon--
    The midnight’s asphodels divine
          On field and woodland strewn.

    Among the lesser trees it lay
      Like veiled and pallid ghosts that slept,
    About whose forms, as in dismay,
          The fearful shadows crept.

    But o’er the dale where Silence stood,
      With tranquil dews austerely crowned,
    A wilder glory touched the wood,--
          A sense of things profound.

    And subtlier on the enchanted air
      The moonlight’s nacre seemed to melt,
    While mosses like a witch’s hair
          Stirred to a wind unfelt.

    And, like a messenger of night,
      Mystical, ominous and slow,
    A fragile moth, in purposed flight,
          Went past on wings of snow.

    It may have been that elder pow’rs
      Stood, immaterial, in the glade;
    Perchance the moon’s phantasmal flow’rs
          At shrines unseen were laid.

    For in those isles it seemed there shone
      Forsaken marbles, pure and cold--
    The gleam of altars overthrown
          And ghostly fanes of old.

    And since that hour the night can thrill
      With haunting chords by day unstirred,
    And Beauty’s lips, refusing still,
          Move with a secret word.




           AT THE GRAVE OF SERRA


    ’Tis midnight, and the Eagle seeks the sea,
    Which, near at hand, eternally intones
    Its woe immeasurable. Thro the pane
    Of yonder casement giving on the south,
    The moonlight holds a chill and gleaming shaft
    Above the grave where Serra sleeps. O heart!
    Flaming, audacious heart, so long in dust!
    ’Twas thy reward to die ere died thy works,
    To perish, ere the Vision too was fled.
    The vineyard and the orchard and the fold
    Have passed, and passed as well that other Flock
    Thy tenderest concern, O spirit pure!
    Who, in an age of infamy and gold
    Saw souls alone. The timbers of thy fane
    Have men at last renewed; but where are they,
    The humble, dusky thousands of thy care?
    One mould with thee! About thy place of sleep
    The futile, peering pleasure-seekers come,
    Glance, and forget. Thy kin in Christ draw near,
    Little in numbers now, and less in faith;
    For where the faith that grasped thee like a hand
    And led thee on to peril and to pain?
    The lamp burns low. They ask for them a sign.

    Thou Power unseen whose hands implacable
    Close in despair what man begins in hope,--
    Unto what end, O Fate! unto what end
    Dost thou hale forth on quests irradiant
    Thy nobler sons? Is duty but a jest,
    Seeing its guerdon given? In thy sight
    Is Goodness even as Evil? Shall she find
    Her wages also death? Wilt thou deride
    Our ancient search for justice in thy ways?

    With bitter viands evermore appease
    Our hunger and our thirst for righteousness?
    Dost fashion beauty for a moth’s desire,
    And sow thee life to garner thee but dust?

    The soundless grave is not more still than Thou,
    The moon less husht in heaven ... About my feet
    The shadows change ... I hear the unchanging sea.




           WHITE MAGIC


    Keep ye her brow with starshine crost
      And bind with ghostly light her hair,
    O powers benign, lest I accost
      Song’s peaceless angel unaware!

    One eve her whisper came to earth,
      As eastward woke a thorny star,
    To tell me of her kingdom’s worth
      And what her liberations are:

    She hath the Edens in her gift
      And songs of sovereignties unborn;
    In realms agone her turrets lift,
      Wrought from the purples of the morn.

    Where swings to foam the dusky sea,
      She waits with sapphires in her hand
    Whose light shall make thy spirit be
      Lost in a still, enchanted land.

    Musing, she hears the subtle tunes
      From chords where faery fingers stray--
    A rain of pearl from crumbling moons
      Less clear and delicate than they.

    The strain we lost and could not find
      Think we her haunted heart forgets?
    She weaves it with a troubled wind
      And twilight music that regrets.

    Often she stands, unseen, aloof,
      To watch beside an ocean’s brink
    The gorgeous, evanescent woof
      Cast from the loom of suns that sink.

    Often, in eyries of the West,
      She waits a lover from afar--
    Frailties of blossom on her breast
      And o’er her brow the evening star.

    She stands to greet him unaware,
      Who cannot find her if he seek:
    A sigh, a scent of heavenly hair--
      And oh, her breath is on his cheek!




     THREE SONNETS BY THE NIGHT SEA


                I

    Surely the dome of unremembered nights
      Was heavy with those stars! The peaceless sea,
      Casting in foam their fallen shafts to me
    Makes ancient music to their awful heights.
    O quenchless and insuperable lights!
      What life shall meet your gaze and thence go free
      From litten midnights of eternity
    To havens open to your final flights?

    Abides nor goal nor ultimate of peace,
      Nor lifts a beacon on the cosmic deep
        To guide our wandering world on seas sublime,
    Nor any night to grant the soul release,
      Swung as a pendulum from life to sleep,
        From sleep to life, from Timelessness to Time.


                II

    Now, as I hear upon the caverned night
      The ocean’s ceaseless and stupendous dirge,
      And one by one the stars approach its verge,
    The deep seems all one prayer, and the light
    Of farthest suns but questions for the sight
      Of men who yet may test the Dark, to urge
      Life’s portent from the starlight and the surge,
    And read the ancient Mystery aright.

    Do blinded powers from their darkness seek,
      Thro human sight, that secret to attain?
        From fonts how distant is the spirit fed?
    And who are we? And is it we who speak
      The Why we utter to the night of pain,
        The Whither to the unresponding dead?


                III

    Thou seemest inexhaustible, O sea!
      And infinite of nature; yet I know
      That by divine permission could we go
    Within thy sealed and silent deeps, and be
    Of all thy glooms and treasuries made free,
      The soul at last each marvel would outgrow,
      Till each were vain as festal fires that glow
    Beneath the stars’ immortal scrutiny.

    And were all alien worlds and suns laid bare
      Till Mystery their secret should declare,
        The finite soon its utmost would impart,
    And sun nor world at last have power to thrill
      Man’s wayward and insatiable heart,
        Which God and all His truth alone can fill.




           AFTER THE STORM


          O turquoise morn!
        Had earth a sorrow?
      The happy larks, sing they
      To-day or yesterday,
    Or some enchanted morrow
          And winds unborn?

          To <DW72>s of green,
        Only the brook can tell--
        In low, elusive tones
        On smooth and fluting stones--
        Where flow the rains that fell
          By night, unseen.

          Ghost-moon, what way
        Wouldst thou be riding?
      On day’s blue diamond
      Thou art a flaw! Beyond,
    I know, the stars are hiding,
          Ere dusk betray.

          I would not see;
        For now the day is new,
        And now a yellow flow’r
        Suffices to the hour--
        That, and a star of dew
          It hoards for me.




           THE HARLOT’S WAKENING


    Ere dawn a spirit took my hand,
      And once again, a joyous child,
    I roamed an unforgotten land
          Of orchards fresh and mild.

    How fair the apple-blossoms were!
      How cool the long-delaying breeze!
    Where, half-asleep, I heard the stir
          And hum of happy bees.

    Clear in the meadow ran the brook,
      From pool to pool, in liquid grace,
    A glass o’er which I bent to look
          At my enmirrored face--

    A girlish face, with placid brow
      All-innocent of care and hate,--
    With eyes I cannot fathom now
          And lips undesecrate.

    My sister’s laugh, my brother’s call--
      So would the morning larks rejoice!
    But nearer, dearer far than all,
          I heard my mother’s voice.

    Her voice? Or did a music break
      Across the street’s harsh sea
    Whose thunder deepens? Christ! I wake
          To miserable me!




           THE MIDGES


    Alcon, the wood-god, wandering his realm,
    Found his son Astries in the meadowland
    At sunset, squatted on a fallen pine
    And much intent upon a swarm of gnats.
    To whom the godling: “Father, I have stayed
    This hour to wonder at yon tiny folk,
    Who dart, and hum, and make so much a-do,
    Mad with the sunlight. What it is they seek
    And whom they praise, and why, I do not know;
    But as the hour grows old, and twilight hills
    Put on the purple, this I see--that they
    With wilder zeal do dash this way and that,
    And where each in a foot of space had range,
    Now flits he two, and shriller grows the cry,
    Larger the host, and greater its concern.
    Dost note?” Whereat brown Alcon plucked a root
    And beat it on the pine, and briefly spake:
    “Aye! aye! they call it ‘progress’!” And the sun
    Sank on the forest, and the night was chill.




           TO AMBROSE BIERCE


    I saw a statue in the market-place--
      The guerdon of a life of noble toil.
      Austerely shone the marble that should foil
    Oblivion, tho’ the desecrated base,
    Round which the sullen huckster trod, bore trace
      Of dogs’ defilement--transitory moil
      That expiating rains would soon assoil;
    But oh, the sunlight on that tranquil face!

    What to the Titan were the mindless deed,
      Mire-born, and swiftly with the mire made one?
    No more than could the marble couldst thou heed
        The mongrel, and the hate of souls uncouth--
      Thou eagle who hast gazed upon the sun
        And canst endure the light which is the truth!




           TO HALL B. RAND


    Happy the man whose age attains
      Repute and rank among the best!
    Whose soul no breath of rumor stains
      Nor hath remorse for daily guest.

    On him the years as laurels sit,
      For Duty at his side hath stood;
    Thro him the grateful gods permit
      A living witness unto good.

    Him shall the love of men surround,
      And wisdom shield from darker cares,
    Who virtue to the end hath found
      And honor whiter than his hairs.




           TO VERNON L. KELLOGG


    ’Tis well, that man is slow to cry “Alas!”--
      That Nature’s heart seems eager to atone
      For music often ending in a moan
    By silence tender with the peace it has;
    But ever, as on morning ways I pass,
      I see the fields with hints of terror sown--
      A tuft of fur, or small and bleaching bone,
    Or heap of little feathers in the grass.

    How fares it with the lesser wards of life?--
      Always they seem so restless, so alert.
        Is fear to them an unrelenting care--
    The spirit of that dumb and ravenous strife
      No Power will justify and none avert?
        And in the deep--’tis well we see not there!




           CHARLES WARREN STODDARD


    O Muse! within thy western hall,
      To mellow chord and crystal string,
      At many harps thy chosen sing:
    His was the gentlest soul of all.

    He sang not as the leaping faun
      By voiceless rivers cool and clear,
      Nor yet as chants the visioned seer
    When darkness trembles with the dawn.

    A milder music held his lyre--
      A wistful strain, all human-sweet,
      Between the ashes at our feet
    And stars that pass in alien fire.

    His skies were sombre, but he lit
      His garden with a lamp of gold,
      Where tropic laughters left untold
    The sadness buried in his wit.

    Lonely, he harbored to the last
      A boyish spirit, large and droll;
      Tardy of flesh and swift of soul,
    He walked with angels of the Past.

    With tears his laurels still are wet;
      But now we smile, whose hearts have known
      The fault that harmed himself alone,--
    The art that left a world in debt.

    Of all he said, I best recall:
      “He knows the sky who knows the sod,
      And he who loves a flower, loves God.”
    Sky, flower and sod, he loved them all.

    From all he wrote (not for his day),
      A sense of marvel drifts to me--
      Of morning on a purple sea,
    And fragrant islands far away.




           THE ASHES IN THE SEA

           N. M. F.


    Whither, with blue and pleading eyes,--
      Whither, with cheeks that held the light
    Of winter’s dawn on cloudless skies,
          Evadne, was thy flight?

    Such as a sister’s was thy brow;
      Thy hair seemed fallen from the moon--
    Part of its radiance, as now
          Of shifting tide and dune.

    Did Autumn’s grieving lure thee hence,
      Or silence ultimate beguile?
    Ever our things of consequence
          Awakened but thy smile.

    Is it with thee that ocean takes
      A stranger sorrow to its tone?
    With thee the star of evening wakes
          More beautiful, more lone?

    For wave and hill and sky betray
      A subtle tinge and touch of thee;
    Thy shadow lingers in the day,
          Thy voice in winds to be.

    Beauty--hast thou discovered her
      By deeper seas no moons control?
    What stars have magic now to stir
          Thy swift and wilful soul?

    Or may thy heart no more forget
      The grievous world that once was home,
    That here, where love awaits thee yet,
          Thou seemest yet to roam?

    For most, far-wandering, I guess
      Thy witchery on the haunted mind,
    In valleys of thy loneliness,
          Made clean with ocean’s wind.

    And most thy presence here seems told,
      A waif of elemental deeps,
    When, at its vigils unconsoled,
          Some night of winter weeps.




           THE FORTY-THIRD CHAPTER OF JOB


     1. Moreover, the Lord made question of Job, and asked,

     2. To what end dost thou search Me, seeing that My wisdom is not as
     thine?

     3. Shalt thou question My ways, or have dreams concerning My
     justice? Am not I the Lord?

     4. Who hath strange laughter, Whose judgments are not as those of
     the elders;

     5. Who leadeth the lamb from the den of the she-wolf, and armies to
     the quicksand;

     6. Who slayeth the prince in his youth, and rulers at their
     marriage-feast, but maketh the slave to grow old in his bondage;

     7. Whose rains go forth on bitter waters, tho the land thirsteth;
     Who delivereth thee from the javelin thou beholdest not;

     8. Who maketh the king in his secret place and him that the
     vultures did devour to sleep the same sleep;

     9. Who confoundeth the sea, but leadeth the ant to her desire.

     10. Have not I sharpened the beak of the kite against the day of
     thy hope; the raven’s beak against the eyes of thy young men?

     11. I shall bar thee from thy joy with a thread of gossamer; I
     shall bind thy sin to thy children’s children with ropes of
     adamant.

     12. The rock is a bolt for My treasure-house. Thou knockest in vain
     upon the doors thereof.

     13. Who art thou that eternity should hold parley with thee, or the
     pits of the sky be thy fortress?

     14. Thou abidest in My sight as the smoke of a sacrifice, or as the
     grey moth in the conspection of the stars.

     15. What hast thou if thou hast not Me? Thou takest to thee strange
     wine, and the kiss of the asp that it comfort thee.

     16. Awake, let it be always day with thee! Know that I am the Lord,

     17. Who ordaineth His truth as the mountains, and the dust as stars
     that conceive;

     18. Who teacheth fear with an arrow, and bitter wisdom to thy young
     men of war;

     19. Who boundeth pain by peace, and setteth a term unto love;

     20. Who hath no truce with the day, and slayeth the dark with the
     sword of mighty mornings;

     21. Who buildeth the house of life with  beams, and the
     house of death without a door;

     22. Who hath set harps in hell, and given pure gold for the winding
     sheet of kings;

     23. By Whose breath are the Signs shaken; as a swarm of gnats are
     they troubled by the wind of His passing;

     24. Who yoketh stars to His harrow, and the whirlwind to drag his
     plough on great waters.

     25. Take counsel of Me; behold what shapes I have set as My
     servants.

     26. The sun is a coal of My hearth, the moon an ember that I have
     quenched;

     27. Shall not I make her a desolation, and a rock where devils
     worship?

     28. Shall not My gulfs conceive, and Mine angels whet their scythes
     against the day of My reaping?

     29. Be thou abased, for they are yet unborn that shall lay thee
     out; the worm is unhatched that shall consume thee.

     30. Wilt thou hold forth to Me thy heart in thy hand; or turn for
     Me its leaves that thou hast writ?

     31. Thy wisdom profiteth thee nothing, neither the guards within
     thy citadels.

     32. Shall I consider for long the mighty, or the habitations of the
     strong?

     33. Behold! blood shall be in their courts for wine, and the
     moaning of their concubines for the voice of the viol.

     34. I shall break their temples as a shard; their high pillars
     shall be snapt as a bow-string.

     35. My tempests shall neigh in the walled cities; My grass shall
     lift up her sword against them;

     36. The toad shall be judge there; the jackal shall collect the
     tax;

     37. The owl shall feed her young on their altars; the dung of lions
     shall be thereon for a testimony.

     38. Wert thou upon the flint when I confirmed it, or upon the
     granite when I laid its sheets?

     39. The thunder, was it thou that didst call? Was the rain the
     tears of thy bringing-forth?

     40. Be thou bowed down, nor question the pains that I have set over
     thee: for each thing have I ordained its shadow.

     41. My thoughts are from eternity; I change not by reason of thy
     dismay. Thou shalt know Me for the Lord.

     42. Who setteth Capella and Achernar to be gods for a term, and a
     guide upon the deep to strange peoples;

     43. Who maketh Altair and Rigel the captains of His host; Who
     leaneth His spear upon Sirius ere the trumpets call;

     44. Who holdeth Vega His armor-bearer, and hangeth his buckler upon
     Aldebaran;

     45. Who hath convoked their chariots against the lamps of Evil, and
     their swords against the abyss.

     46. Who healeth the day with night, and thy heart’s wound with the
     hands of little children;

     47. Even they that seek the breast in darkness, hushing the voices
     that were aforetime.

     48. The wind cometh, the dust is troubled for a season, but hath
     rest when the wind departeth.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Orchids and Other Poems, by 
George Sterling

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