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diff --git a/34234.txt b/34234.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..85030cd --- /dev/null +++ b/34234.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2075 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Lonely Flute, by Odell Shepard + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Lonely Flute + +Author: Odell Shepard + +Release Date: November 7, 2010 [EBook #34234] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LONELY FLUTE *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + +A LONELY FLUTE + + +BY + +ODELL SHEPARD + + + + +BOSTON AND NEW YORK + +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + +_The Riverside Press Cambridge_ + +1917 + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY ODELL SHEPARD + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + +_Published April 1917_ + + + + +TO + +M. F. S. + + + + + _And now 't was like all instruments, + Now like a lonely flute; + And now it is an angel's song + That makes the Heavens be mute._ + + COLERIDGE. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PROEM + LAUS MARIAE + RECOLLECTION + NIGHTFALL + A BALLAD OF LOVE AND DEATH + BIRDS OF PASSAGE + WASTE + THE WATCHER IN THE SKY + HOUSEMATES + POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE + THE HIDDEN WEAVER + VANITAS + SPENSER'S "FAERIE QUEENE" + MORNING ROAD SONG + EVENING ROAD SONG + WINDY MORNING + THE GRAVE OF THOREAU + EARTH-BORN + "WHENCE COMETH MY HELP" + UNITY + VISTAS + A NUN + LOVE AMONG THE CLOVER + CERTAIN AMERICAN POETS + THE SINGER'S QUEST + DEAD MAGDALEN + THE ADVENTURER + THE GOLDFINCH + ORIOLES + BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM + APRIL + A CHAPEL BY THE SEA + EPHEMEROS + WANDERLUST + THE IDEAL + THE FIRST CHRISTIAN + + + + + A LONELY FLUTE + + + + + PROEM + + Beyond the pearly portal, + Beyond the last dim star, + Pale, perfect, and immortal, + The eternal visions are, + That never any rapture + Of sorrow or of mirth + Of any song shall capture + To dwell with men on earth. + + Many a strange and tragic + Old sorrow still is mute + And melodies of magic + Still slumber in the flute, + Many a mighty vision + Has caught my yearning eye + And swept with calm derision + In robes of splendor by. + + The rushing susurration + Of some eternal wing + Beats mighty variation + Through all the song I sing; + The vague, deep-mouthed commotion + From its ancestral home + Booms like the shout of ocean + Across the crumbling foam; + And these low lyric whispers + Make answer wistfully + As sea-shells ... dreaming lispers + Beside the eternal sea. + + + + + LAUS MARIAE + + There is a name like some deep melody + Hallowed by sundown, delicate as the plash + Of lonely waves on solitary lakes + And rounded as the sudden-bursting bloom + Of bold, deep-throated notes in a midnight cloud + When shadowy belfries far away roll out + Across the dark their avalanche of sound. + + It is a wild voice lost in the wail of the wind; + The silvery-twinkling plectrum of the rain + Plays in the poplar tree no other tune + And pines intone it softly as a prayer + In leafy litanies. + The name is raised + Even to God's ear from ancient arches dim + With caverned twilight and dull altar smoke + Where tapers weave athwart the azure haze + Innumerable pageantries of dusk. + + Low-voiced and soft-eyed women must they live + Who bear that holy name. And now for one + Time has no other honor than to be + The meaning of an unremembered rhyme, + The breath of a forgotten singer's song. + + (_October_, 1903) + + + + + RECOLLECTION + + I must forget awhile the mellow flutes + And all the lyric wizardry of strings; + The fragile clarinet, + Tremulous over meadows rich with dawn, + Must knock against my vagrant heart + And throb and cry no more. + + For I am shaken by the loveliness + And lights and laughter and beguiling song + Of all this siren world; + The regal beauty of women, round on round, + The swift, lithe slenderness of girls, + And children's loyal eyes, + + Hill rivers and the lilac fringe of seas + Lazily plunging, glow of city nights + And faces in the glow-- + These things have stolen my heart away, I lie + Parcelled abroad in sound and hue, + Dispersed through all I love. + + I must go far away to a still place + And draw the shadows down across my eyes + And wait and listen there + For wings vibrating from beyond the stars, + Wide-ranging, swiftly winnowing wings + Bearing me back mine own. + + So soon, now, I shall lie deep hidden away + From sound or sight, with hearing strangely dull + And heavy-lidded eyes,-- + 'T is time, O passionate soul, for me to go + Some far, hill-folded road apart + And learn the ways of peace. + + + + + NIGHTFALL + + In a crumbling glory sets + The unhastening sun; + The fishers draw their shining nets; + The day is done. + + Across the ruddy wine + That brims the sea + Black boats drag shoreward through the brine + Dreamily, + + And dark against the glow + Firing the west, + By three and two the great gulls go + Seaward to rest. + + Beneath the gradual host + Of heaven, pale + And glimmering, rides a dim sea-ghost, + A large slow sail. + + Slowly she cometh on + Day's last faint breath, + Drifting across the water, wan + And gray as death. + + From what far-lying land + Swimmeth thy keel, + Dim ship? And what mysterious hand + Is at thy wheel? + + What far-borne news for me? + What vast release? + Quiet is in my heart, and on the sea + Peace. + + (_Balboa, California_) + + + + + A BALLAD OF LOVE AND DEATH + + She winded on the castle horn, + She clamored long and bold, + For she was way-spent and forlorn + And she was sore a-cold. + + And she stood lonely in the snow. + Vague quiet filled the air.... + From heaven's roof looked down aloof + The stars, with steady stare. + + She heard the droning drift of snow + And the wolf-wind on the hill.... + No other sound.... For leagues around + The night was very still. + + She cried aloud in sudden fright, + "Open! Warder ho! + Here is a pilgrim guest to-night + Who can no farther go." + + The steady beat of mailed feet + In angry answer rang + Along the floor. The castle door + Gave in with iron clang + + And the warder strode into his tower + And saw her standing there + Weary, like a storm-tossed flower, + And, like an angel, fair. + + "Here is no lodging for the night, + No bread and wine for thee, + No ingle bright, no warm firelight, + No cheerful company. + + "Here is no inn nor any kin + Of thine to harbor guest, + Nor thee to house will any rouse + Out of his ancient rest." + + Unearthly, dark, nocturnal things + With faint and furtive stir + Hovered on feather-muffled wings + Round the fair face of her + + As she made answer wearily: + "Ah! open now the gate. + Though I was fleet with willing feet, + I have come very late. + + "Yea, though I came through flood and flame, + Through tempest, flood, and fire, + And left the wind to trail behind + The wings of my desire, + + "And though I prayed the stars for aid + And seas for wind and tide, + And though God gave me goodly pave + And ran, Himself, beside... + + "Aye, though my feet have been thus fleet, + Unto one heart, I know, + Whose sleep is still beneath the hill, + My coming has been slow." + + And he bent gently down above, + A soft light in his eye... + "Is not the holy name of Love + The name men call thee by? + + "Ah, Love, I know thee, for thy face + Is other-worldly fair; + A great light of some heavenly place + Is on thy shining hair. + + "But thou, Love, who canst tread the stars, + Whose seat is by God's throne, + Why wilt thou bend thee to the dust + And walk the dark alone? + + "Thy ways are not our mortal ways. + Hast thou nought else to do + Than wander with thy dream-lit face + Our glimmering darkness through?" + + But Love made answer, and her voice + Was as God's voice to him; + As tall and fair she towered there + As heavenly seraphim... + + "Open the gate! for Love shall dwell + Even among the dead + And in the darkest deeps of hell! + Open! For God hath said!" + + + + + BIRDS OF PASSAGE + + Dropping round and clear across the still miles, + Ringing down the midnight's marble stair, + A bird's cry is falling through the darkness, + Falling from the fields of upper air. + + Through the rainy fragrance of the April night + Slow it falls, circling in the fall, + And all the sheeted lake of sleeping silences + Is troubled by the solitary call. + + Each human heart awake knows the loneliness + Of that strange voice clear and far, + That lost voice searching through the midnight, + That lonely star calling to a star. + + Old memories are thronging through the darkness... + Slow tears are blinding sleepless eyes... + O lonely hearts remembering in the midnight! + O dark and empty skies! + + + + + WASTE + + Reluctant, groping fog crept gray and cold + Up from the fields where now the guns were still; + Far off the thundering surge of battle rolled + And darkness brooded on the quiet hill; + Clearly, across the listening night, the shrill + And rhythmic cry of a lonely cricket fell + On ears long deafened by the scream of shot and shell. + + And there were two who listened wistfully + To that glad voice, that sad last voice of all, + Who on the morrow after reveille + Would make no answer to the muster call; + Others would eat their mess, others would fall + When the lines formed again into their places, + And soon their marching comrades would forget their faces. + + One moaned a little and the other turned + Painfully sidewise, peering up the bare + Shell-furrowed slope. Then, while his deep wound burned, + He crawled, slow inch by weary inch, to where + The boy lay,--young, he thought, and strangely fair. + "You see, I came," he said. "It was a wrench. + I thought I'd die. Let's have a light here. What! You're French! + + "No matter ... we'll be going pretty soon... + Dying 's a lonesome business at the best, + And when there's nothing but a ghastly moon + And fog for company, I lose my zest. + There's a girl somewhere ... well... you know the rest. + I'm glad I came. It's hand in hand now, brother. + I think I laid you here. I wish 't had been another. + + "I never meant it, and you did n't mean + For me this ugly gash along my side. + Something has pushed us on. Our slate is clean. + And long and long after we two have died + Some learnedest of doctors will decide + What thing it was. But we ... we'll never know. + Our business now 's to help make next year's harvest grow. + + "You've been at school? College de France! You know + Next year I should have heard your Bergson there,-- + Greatest since Hegel. Think of Haeckel, though, + At my own Jena! Mighty men they were. + Not mighty enough for what they had to bear. + They read and wrote and taught, but you and I, + How have we profited at last? Well, here we lie. + + "If I had known you by the silver Rhine, + That dreamy country where I had my birth, + The land of golden corn and golden wine + And surely, I think, the world's most lovely earth,-- + I should have loved you, brother, and known your worth. + But you were born beside the racing Rhone. + Ah, yes, that made the difference. That thing alone. + + "We might have fronted this world's stormy weather + Hand clasped in hand and seeing eye to eye. + What was there we could not have done together? + Who dares to say we should have feared to die, + Shoulder to shoulder standing, you and I? + But now you are slain by me, your unknown friend. + I die by your unknowing hand. This ... this is the end! + + "And all the love that might have been is blown + Far off like clouds that fade across the blue; + The game is over and the night shuts down, + Blotting the little dreams of me and you + And all our hope of all we longed to do. + But courage, comrade! It's not hard to die. + It's not so lonely now. If only we know why!" + + The fog-damp folded closer round the hill + And stillness deepened, but the cricket's song + Tore at the heavy hem of silence still-- + One small voice left of love in a world of wrong. + A few dim stars looked down. The yelling throng + Of guns had passed beyond the mountain's brow + When once again he spoke, but slowly, faintlier now. + + "Something discovered that it didn't need us-- + Me in the Fatherland and you in France. + We were less worth than what it took to feed us, + And so life gave us only a little glance. + It's true to say we never had a chance. + It's like this fog, around, above, below. + Reach out your hand to me. Good-night. We'll never know." + + And then they lay so still they seemed asleep, + For death was near and they had little pain. + The midnight did not hear them moan or weep + For life and love and gladness lost in vain + And faces they would never see again,-- + Old friends, old lovers. All seemed at a distance. + The minutes crept and crept. They made no strong resistance. + + They only lay and looked up at the stars, + Feeling they had not known how fair they were. + I think their hearts were far from those loud wars + As they lay listening to the cricket's chirr + Until it faded to a drowsy blur, + Dwindled, and died, lost in the distant roar + Of waves that plunged and broke on some eternal shore. + + + + + THE WATCHER IN THE SKY + + She has grown pale and spectral with our wounds + And she is worn with memories of woe + Older than Karnak. Multitudinous feet + Of all the phantom armies of the world + Resounding down the hollow halls of time, + Have kept their far-off rumor in her ear. + For she was old when Nineveh and Tyre + And Baalbec of the waste went down in blood; + Pompey and Tamburlaine and Genghis Khan + Are dreams of only yesternight to her. + And still she keeps, chained to a loathsome thing, + Her straining, distant paces up and down + The vaulted cell, but wistful of an end + When all our swarm of shuddering life shall drop + Like some dead cooling cinder down the void, + Leaving her clean, in blessed barrenness. + + (_August_, 1914) + + + + + HOUSEMATES + + This little flickering planet + Is such a lonely spark + Among the million mighty fires + That blaze in the outer dark, + + The homeless waste about us + Leaves such a narrow span + To this dim lodging for a night, + This bivouac of man, + + That all the heavens wonder + In all their alien stars + To see us wreck our fellowship + In mad fraternal wars. + + + + + POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE + + With a shout of trumpets and roll of drums, + Down the road the music comes + And all my heart leaps up to greet + The steady tread of the marching feet. + + Blare of bugle and shriek of fife... + This is the triumphing wine of life! + My senses reel and my glad heart sings, + My spirit soars on jubilant wings. + + Fluttering banners and gonfalons + Cover with beauty the murderous guns; + 'T is sweet to live, 't were great to die + With this vast music marching by. + + For all my heart leaps up to greet + The steady tread of the marching feet + When down the road the music comes + With a shout of trumpets and roll of drums. + + + + + THE HIDDEN WEAVER + + There where he sits in the cold, in the gloom, + Of his far-away place by his thundering loom, + He weaves on the shuttles of day and of night + The shades of our sorrow and shapes of delight. + He has wrought him a glimmering garment to fling + Over the sweet swift limbs of the Spring, + He has woven a fabric of wonder to be + For a blue and a billowy robe to the sea, + He has fashioned in sombre funereal dyes + A tissue of gold for the midnight skies. + + But sudden the woof turns all to red. + Has he lost his craft? Has he snapped his thread? + Sudden the web all sanguine runs. + Does he hear the yell of the thirsting guns? + While the scarlet crimes and the crimson sins + Grow from the dizzying outs and ins + Of the shuttle that spins, does he see it and feel? + Or is he the slave of a tyrannous wheel? + + Inscrutable faces, mysterious eyes, + Are watching him out of the drifting skies; + Exiles of chaos crowd through the gloom + Of the uttermost cold to that thundering room + And whisper and peer through the dusk to mark + What thing he is weaving there in the dark. + Will he leave the loom that he won from them + And rend his fabric from hem to hem? + Is he weaving with daring and skill sublime + A wonderful winding-sheet for time? + + Ah, but he sits in a darkling place, + Hiding his hands, hiding his face, + Hiding his art behind the shine + Of the web that he weaves so long and fine. + Loudly the great wheel hums and rings + And we hear not even the song that he sings. + Over the whirr of the shuttles and all + The roar and the rush, does he hear when we call? + + Only the colors that grow and glow + Swift as the hurrying shuttles go, + Only the figures vivid or dim + That flow from the hastening hands of him, + Only the fugitive shapes are we, + Wrought in the web of eternity. + + + + + VANITAS + + Three queens of old in Yemen + Beside forgotten streams, + Three tall and stately women, + Dreamt three great stately dreams + Of love and power and pleasure and conquering quinqueremes. + + They dreamt of love that squandered + All Egypt for a kiss, + They dreamt of fame and pondered + On proud Persepolis, + But most they yearned for the wild delights of pale Semiramis. + + They had for lords and lovers + Dark kings of Araby, + Corsairs and wild sea-rovers + From many an alien lea,-- + Black-bearded men who loved and fought and won them cruelly. + + They reared a dreamlike palace + Stately and white and tall + As a lily's ivory chalice + Where every echoing hall + Was rumorous with rustling leaves and plashing water's fall. + + There to the tinkling zither + And passionate guitars + They footed hence and hither + Beneath the breathless stars, + From bare round breast and shoulder waved their glimmering cymars. + + Theirs was an empire's treasure + Of gems and rich attire, + Love had they beyond measure + And wine that burnt like fire; + Each stately queen in Yemen found verily her desire. + + But beauty waned and smouldered, + Love languished into lust, + The centuries have mouldered + Their raven hair to rust, + The desert sand is over them, their darkling eyes are dust. + + Their bosoms' pride is sunken + Beneath the purple pall, + Their smooth round limbs are shrunken, + Through clasp and anklet crawl + Lithe little snakes, upon their tombs lean lizards twitch and sprawl. + + + + + SPENSER'S "FAERIE QUEENE" + + Like some clear well of water in the waste, + Some magic well beside the weary miles, + This beauty is. I turn aside and taste + The cool Lethean drink. Suddenly smiles + A leafy world upon me,--peristyles + Of flickering shade! The hush is only stirred + Where silver runlets brighten down the aisles, + From pool to pool rehearsing one low word + Answered at drowsy intervals by a lonely bird. + + Along the rustling arches and through vast + Dim caverns of green solitude are rolled + The wintry leaves of all the withered past, + One confraternity of common mould. + From summers perished, autumn's tarnished gold + Long blown to dust in many a fallen glade + Is reared this rumorous temple million-boled, + This shrine of peace, this whispering colonnade + Trembling from court to court with restless sun and shade. + + And here a while may weary Fancy turn + And loiter by the rote of guttural streams. + Brushing the skirts of silence, the stirred fern + Breathes softly "hush" and "hush"--a sound that seems + Only the fluttering sigh of deepest dreams. + Here comes no sound or sight of fevered things... + No sight or sound. Green-gold the daylight beams, + And deep in the heart of dusk a far bird sings + Faint as the feathered beat of her own wavering wings. + + * * * * * + + Calm singer in the chambers of the dawn, + Our hearts are weary singing in the heat + When all thy dewy matin hopes are gone + And all thy raptures, prophesyings sweet, + And fair, false dreams are flying in defeat. + O thou, the poet's poet, from thy sky + Of ancient morning look thou down and greet + Thy brothers of the noon with gentle eye. + Lift them from out the dust. Forlorn and low they lie! + + Heart-easing poet, sing to us like bells + Across wide waters paven by the stains + Of sunset; like a vagrant breeze that swells + And rises lingering, fails and grows and wanes + Along a listening wood; like April rains + In which the anemones of dream are born. + And though you cannot save us from the pains + Of life,--the heat, the insensate noise, the scorn,-- + Here may we find our rose, forget a while the thorn. + + + + + MORNING ROAD SONG + + Let me have my fill of the wide blue air + And the emerald cup of the sea + And a wandering road blown bright and bare + And it is enough for me. + + The love of a man is a goodly thing + And the love of a woman is true, + But give me a rollicking song to sing + And a love that is always new. + + For I am a rover and cannot stay + And blithe at heart am I + When free and afoot on a winding way + Beneath the great blue sky. + + + + + EVENING ROAD SONG + + It's a long road and a steep road + And a weary road to climb. + The air bites chill on the windy hill. + At home it is firelight time. + + The sunset pales ... along the vales + The cottage candles shine + And twinkle through the early dew. + Thank God that one is mine! + + And dark and late she'll watch and wait + Beyond the last long mile + For the weary beat of homing feet + With her wise and patient smile. + + + + + WINDY MORNING + + Dawn with a jubilant shout + Leaps on the shivering sea + And puffs the last pale planet out + And scatters the flame-bright clouds about + Like the leaves of a frost-bitten tree. + + Does a gold seed split the rosy husk? + Nay, a sword ... a shield ... a spear! + The kindler of all fires that burn + Deep in the day's cerulean urn + Rides up across the clear + And tramples down the cowering dusk + Like a strong-browed charioteer. + + Blow out and far away + The dim, the dull, the dun; + Prosper the crimson, blight the gray, + And blow us clean of yesterday, + Stern morning fair begun, + Till the earth is an opal bathed in dew, + Flashing with emerald, gold, and blue, + Held where the skies wash through and through + High up against the sun. + + (_Catalina Island_, 1913) + + + + + THE GRAVE OF THOREAU + + Brown earth, blue sky, and solitude,-- + Three things he loved, three things he wooed + Lifelong; and now no rhyme can tell + How ultimately all is well + With his wild heart that worshipped God's + Epiphany in crumbling sods + And like an oak brought all its worth + Back to the kindly mother earth. + + But something starry, something bold, + Eludes the clutch of dark and mould,-- + Something that will not wholly die + Out of the old familiar sky. + No spell in all the lore of graves + Can still the plash of Walden waves + Or wash away the azure stain + Of Concord skies from heart and brain. + Clear psalteries and faint citoles + Only recall the orioles + Fluting reveille to the morn + Across the acres of the corn + He wanders somewhere lonely still + Along a solitary hill + And sits by ever lonelier fires + Remote from heaven's bright rampires, + A hermit in the blue Beyond + Beside some dim celestial pond + With beans to hoe and wood to hew + And halcyon days to loiter through + And angel visitors, no doubt, + Who shut the air and sunlight out. + But he who scoffed at human ways + And, finding us unworthy of praise, + Sang misanthropic paeans to + The muskrat and the feverfew, + Will droop those archangelic wings + With praise of how we manage things, + Prefer his Walden tupelo + To even the Tree of Life, and grow + A little wistful looking down + Across the fields of Concord town. + + + + + EARTH-BORN + + No lapidary's heaven, no brazier's hell for me, + For I am made of dust and dew and stream and plant and tree; + I'm close akin to boulders, I am cousin to the mud, + And all the winds of all the skies make music in my blood. + + I want a brook and pine trees, I want a storm to blow + Loud-lunged across the looming hills with rain and sleet and snow; + Don't put me off with diadems and thrones of chrysoprase,-- + I want the winds of northern nights and wild March days. + + My blood runs red with sunset, my body is white with rain, + And on my heart auroral skies have set their scarlet stain, + My thoughts are green with spring time, among the meadow rue + I think my very soul is growing green and gold and blue. + + What will be left, I wonder, when Death has washed me clean + Of dust and dew and sundown and April's virgin green? + If there's enough to make a ghost, I'll bring it back again + To the little lovely earth that bore me, body, soul, and brain. + + + + + "WHENCE COMETH MY HELP" + + Let me sleep among the shadows of the mountains when I die, + In the murmur of the pines and sliding streams, + Where the long day loiters by + Like a cloud across the sky + And the moon-drenched night is musical with dreams. + + Lay me down within a canyon of the mountains, far away, + In a valley filled with dim and rosy light, + Where the flashing rivers play + Out across the golden day + And a noise of many waters brims the night. + + Let me lie where glinting rivers ramble down the slanted glade + Under bending alders garrulous and cool, + Where they gather in the shade + To the dazzling, sheer cascade, + Where they plunge and sleep within the pebbled pool. + + All the wisdom, all the beauty, I have lived for unaware + Came upon me by the rote of highland rills; + I have seen God walking there + In the solemn soundless air + When the morning wakened wonder in the hills. + + I am what the mountains made me of their green and gold and gray, + Of the dawnlight and the moonlight and the foam. + Mighty mothers far away, + Ye who washed my soul in spray, + I am coming, mother mountains, coming home. + + When I draw my dreams about me, when I leave the darkling plain + Where my soul forgets to soar and learns to plod, + I shall go back home again + To the kingdoms of the rain, + To the blue purlieus of heaven, nearer God. + + Where the rose of dawn blooms earlier across the miles of mist, + Between the tides of sundown and moonrise, + I shall keep a lover's tryst + With the gold and amethyst, + With the stars for my companions in the skies. + + + + + UNITY + + Where the long valley slopes away + Five miles across the dreaming day + A maple sends a scarlet prayer + Into the still autumnal air, + Three golden-smouldering hickories + Are fanned to flame beneath the breeze + And one great crimson oak tree fires + The sky-line over the Concord spires. + + In worship mystically sweet + The rimy asters at my feet + And spiring gentian bells that burn + Blue incense in an azure urn + Breathe softly from the aspiring sod: + "This is our utmost. Take it, God,-- + This chant of green, this prayer of blue. + This is the best thy clay can do." + + * * * * * + + O lonely heart and widowed brain + Sick with philosophies that strain + Body from spirit, flesh from soul,-- + Worship with asters and be whole; + Live simply as still water flows + Till soul shall border brain so close + No blade of wit can thrust between + And hearts are pure as grass is green; + Pray with the maple tree and trust + The ancient ritual of the dust. + + + + + VISTAS + + As I walked through the rumorous streets + Of the wind-rustled, elm-shaded city + Where all of the houses were friends + And the trees were all lovers of her, + The spell of its old enchantment + Was woven again to subdue me + With magic of flickering shadows, + Blown branches and leafy stir. + + Street after street, as I passed, + Lured me and beckoned me onward + With memories frail as the odor + Of lilac adrift on the air. + At the end of each breeze-blurred vista + She seemed to be watching and waiting, + With leaf shadows over her gown + And sunshine gilding her hair. + + For there was a dream that the kind God + Withheld, while granting us many-- + But surely, I think, we shall come + Sometime, at the end, she and I, + To the heaven He keeps for all tired souls, + The quiet suburban gardens + Where He Himself walks in the evening + Beneath the rose-dropping sky + And watches the balancing elm trees + Sway in the early starshine + When high in their murmurous arches + The night breeze ruffles by. + + + + + A NUN + + One glance and I had lost her in the riot + Of tangled cries. + She trod the clamor with a cloistral quiet + Deep in her eyes + As though she heard the muted music only + That silence makes + Among dim mountain summits and on lonely + Deserted lakes. + + There is some broken song her heart remembers + From long ago, + Some love lies buried deep, some passion's embers + Smothered in snow, + Far voices of a joy that sought and missed her + Fail now, and cease.... + And this has given the deep eyes of God's sister + Their dreadful peace. + + + + + LOVE AMONG THE CLOVER + + "If you dare," she said, + And oh, her breath was clover-sweet! + Clover nodded over her, + Her lips were clover red. + Blackbirds fluted down the wind, + The bobolinks were mad with joy, + The wind was playing in her hair, + And "If you dare," she said. + + Clover billowed down the wind + Far across the happy fields, + Clover on the breezy hills + Leaned along the skies + And all the nodding clover heads + And little clouds with silver sails + And all the heaven's dreamy blue + Were mirrored in her eyes. + + Her laughing lips were clover-red + When long ago I kissed her there + And made for one swift moment all + My heaven and earth complete. + I've loved among the roses since + And love among the lilies now, + But love among the clover... + Her breath was clover-sweet. + + O wise, wise-hearted boy and girl + Who played among the clover bloom! + I think I was far wiser then + Than now I dare to be. + For I have lost that Eden now, + I cannot find my Eden now, + And even should I find it now, + I've thrown away the key. + + + + + CERTAIN AMERICAN POETS + + They cowered inert before the study fire + While mighty winds were ranging wide and free, + Urging their torpid fancies to aspire + With "Euhoe! Bacchus! Have a cup of tea." + + They tripped demure from church to lecture-hall, + Shunning the snare of farthingales and curls. + Woman they thought half angel and half doll, + The Muses' temple a boarding-school for girls. + + Quaffing Pierian draughts from Boston pump, + They toiled to prove their homiletic art + Could match with nasal twang and pulpit thump + In maxims glib of meeting-house and mart. + + Serenely their ovine admirers graze. + Apollo wears frock-coats, the Muses stays. + + + + + THE SINGER'S QUEST + + I've been wandering, listening for a song, + Dreaming of a melody, all my life long ... + The lilting tune that God sang to rock the tides asleep + And crooned above the cradled stars before they learned to creep. + + O, there was laughter in it and many a merry chime + Before He had turned moralist, grown old before His time, + And He was happy, trolling out His great blithe-hearted tune, + Before He slung the little earth beneath the sun and moon. + + But I know that somewhere that song is rolling on, + Like flutes along the midnight, like trumpets in the dawn; + It throbs across the sunset and stirs the poplar tree + And rumbles in the long low thunder of the sea. + + * * * * * + + First-love sang me one note and heart-break taught me two, + A child has told me three notes, and soon I'll know it through; + And when I stand before the Throne I'll hum it low and sly, + Watching for a great light of welcome in His eye... + + "Put a white raiment on him and a harp into his hand + And golden sandals on his feet and tell the saints to stand + A little farther off unless they wish to hear the truth, + For this blessed lucky sinner is going to sing about my youth!" + + + + + DEAD MAGDALEN + + Cover her over with pallid white roses, + Her who had none but red roses to wear; + All that her last grim lover bestows is + Virginal white for her bosom and hair. + Cover the folds of the glimmering sheet + Clear from her eyelids weary and sweet + Down to her nevermore wayward feet. + Then They may find her fair. + + Lovingly, tenderly, let us array her + Fair as a bride for the way she must go, + Leaving no lingering stain to betray her, + Letting them see we have sullied her so. + Over the curve of the fair young breast + Leave we this maidenly lily to rest + White as the snow in its snow-soft nest. + Now They will never know. + + + + + THE ADVENTURER + + He came not in the red dawn + Nor in the blaze of noon, + And all the long bright highway + Lay lonely to the moon, + + And nevermore, we know now, + Will he come wandering down + The breezy hollows of the hills + That gird the quiet town. + + For he has heard a voice cry + A starry-faint "Ahoy!" + Far up the wind, and followed + Unquestioning after joy. + + But we are long forgetting + The quiet way he went, + With looks of love and gentle scorn + So sweetly, subtly blent. + + We cannot cease to wonder, + We who have loved him, how + He fares along the windy ways + His feet must travel now. + + But we must draw the curtain + And fasten bolts and bars + And talk here in the firelight + Of him beneath the stars. + + + + + THE GOLDFINCH + + Down from the sky on a sudden he drops + Into the mullein and juniper tops, + Flushed from his bath in the midsummer shine + Flooding the meadowland, drunk with the wine + Spilled from the urns of the blue, like a bold + Sky-buccaneer in his sable and gold. + + Lightly he sways on the pendulous stem, + Vividly restless, a fluttering gem, + Then with a flash of bewildering wings + Dazzles away up and down, and he sings + Clear as a bell at each dip as he flies + Bounding along on the wave of the skies. + + Sunlight and laughter, a winged desire, + Motion and melody married to fire, + Lighter than thistle-tuft borne on the wind, + Frailer than violets, how shall we find + Words that will match him, discover a name + Meet for this marvel, this lyrical flame? + + How shall we fashion a rhythm to wing with him, + Find us a wonderful music to sing with him + Fine as his rapture is, free as the rollicking + Song that the harlequin drops in his frolicking + Dance through the summer sky, singing so merrily + High in the burning blue, winging so airily? + + (_ Mount Vernon, New Hampshire_) + + + + + ORIOLES + + Wings in a blur of gold + High in the elm trees, + Looping like tawny flame + Through the green shadows, + Now at an airy height + Pausing a heart beat + Quite at the twig's tip, + Pendulous, bending. + + Golden against the blue, + Gold in an azure cup, + Golden wine bubbling + Out of blue goblets... + Cool, smooth and reedy notes + Fly low across the noon + While through the drowsy heat + Drums the cicada. + + Tropical wing and song + Bound from Bolivia... + All the blue Amazon + Sings to New England.... + Flute-noted orioles, + Flame-coated orioles, + Gold-throated orioles, + Spirits of summer. + + + + + BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM + + Where the rivulet swept by a sycamore root + With a turbulent voice and a hurrying foot, + I bent by the water and spoke in my dream + To the wavering, restless, unlingering stream: + "Oh, turbulent rivulet hastening past, + For what wonderful goal do you hope at the last + That never you pause in the shimmering green + Of the undulant shade where the sycamores lean + Or rest in the moss-curtained, cool dripping halls + Hidden under the veils of your musical falls + Or loiter at peace by the tremulous fern-- + White wandering waters that never return?" + + And I dreamed by the rivulet's wavering side + That a myriad ripple of voices replied: + "Aloft on the mountain, afar on the steep, + A voice that we knew cried aloud in our sleep, + 'Come, hasten ye down to the vale and to me, + Your begetter, destroyer, preserver, the Sea!' + We must carry our feebleness down to the Strong, + We must mingle us deep in the Whole, and ere long + All the numberless host of the heaven shall ride + With the pale Lady Moon on our slumbering tide." + + The voices swept out and away through the door + Of the canyon, and on to the infinite shore. + + Oh, vast in thy destiny, slender of span, + Wild rivulet, how thou art like to a man! + + (_Cold Brook, California_, 1912) + + + + + APRIL + + (_To Bliss Carman_) + + There's a murmur in the patient forest alleys, + There's an elfin echo whispering through the trees, + Lonely pipes are lifted softly in the valleys... + All the air is filled with waking melodies. + + From the crucibles of Erebus and Endor, + Flame of emerald has fallen by the rills, + And it flashes up the slope and sits in splendor + In the glory of the beauty of the hills. + + Now my heart will yearn again to voice its wonder + And my song must sing again between the words + With a mutter of unutterable thunder + And a twitter of inimitable birds. + + (_April_, 1903) + + + + + A CHAPEL BY THE SEA + + (_To Paul Dowling_) + + There's a mouldering mountain chapel gazing out across the sea + From beneath the lisping shelter of a eucalyptus tree + That has drawn the ancient silence from the mountain's heart and fills + And subdues a fevered spirit with the quiet of the hills. + + For silvery in the morning the chimes go dropping down + Across the vales of purple mist that gird the island town + And golden in the evening the vesper bells again + Call back the weary fishing folk along the leafy lane. + + I'd like to be the father priest and call the folk to prayer + Up through the winding dewy ways that climb the morning air, + And send them down at even-song with all the silent sky + Of early starshine teaching them far deeper truth than I. + + I'd like to lie at rest there beneath a mossy stone + Above the crooning sea's low distant monotone, + Lulled by the lisping whisper of the eucalyptus tree + That shades my mountain chapel gazing out across the sea. + + (_Avalon, Christmas Day_, 1913) + + + + + EPHEMEROS + + A firefly cried across the night: + "O lofty star, O streaming light, + Clear eye of heaven, immortal lamp + Set high above the dew and damp, + Thou great high-priest to heaven's King + And chief of all the choirs that sing + Their golden, endless antiphons + Of praise before the eternal thrones-- + Hear thou my prayer of worship! Thine + The glory, all the dimness mine. + I am a feeble glimmering spark + Vagrant along the lower dark." + + The star called down from heaven's roof + With a humble heart and mild reproof: + "The Power that made, the Breath that blew + My fire aglow has kindled you + With equal love and equal pain + And equal toil of heart and brain. + For I am only a wandering light, + Your elder comrade in the night. + We are two sisters, you and I, + And when we two burn out and die + It will be hardly known from far + Which was the firefly, which the star." + + + + + WANDERLUST + + (_To Willard_) + + The birds were beating north again with faint and starry cries + Along their ancient highway that spans the midnight skies, + And out across the rush of wings my heart went crying too, + Straight for the morning's windy walls and lakes of misted blue. + + They gave me place among them, for well they understood + The magic wine of April working madness in my blood, + And we were kin in thought and dream as league by league together + We kept that pace of straining wings across the starry weather. + + The dim blue tides of Fundy, green slopes of Labrador + Slid under us ... our course was set for earth's remotest shore; + But tingling through the ether and searching star by star + A lonely voice went crying that drew me down from far. + + Farewell, farewell, my brothers! I see you far away + Go drifting down the sunset across the last green bay, + But I have found the haven of this lonely heart and wild-- + My falconer has called me--I am prisoned by a child. + + (_Easter Day_, 1916) + + + + + THE IDEAL + + Serenely, from her mountain height sublime, + She mocks my hopeless labor as I creep + Each day a day's strength farther from the deep + And nearer to her side for which I climb. + So may she mock when for the sad last time + I fall, my face still upward, upon sleep, + With faithful hands still yearning up the steep + In patient and pathetic pantomime. + + I am content, O ancient, young-eyed child + Of love and longing. Pity not our wars + Of frail-spun flesh, and keep thee undefiled + By all our strife that only breaks and mars. + But let us see from far thy footing, wild + And wayward still against the eternal stars! + + + + + THE FIRST CHRISTIAN + + A little wandering wind went up the hill. + It had a lonely voice as though it knew + What it should find before it came to where + The broken body of him that had been Christ + Hung in the ruddy glow. A bowshot down + The bleak rock-shouldered hill the soldiery + Had piled a fire, and when the searching wind + Came stronger from the distant sea and dashed + The shadows and the gleam together, songs + Of battle and lust were blown along the slope + Mingled with clash of swords on cuisse and shield. + But of the women sitting by the cross + Even she whose life had been as gravely sweet + And sheltered as a lily's did not flinch. + Her face was buried in her shrouding cloak. + And she who knew too sorrowfully well + The cruelty and bitterness of life + Heard not. She sat erect, her shadowy hair + Blown back along the darkness and her eyes + That searched the distant spaces of the night + Splendid and glowing with an inward joy. + And at the darkest hour came three or four + From round the fire and would have driven them thence; + But one who knew them, gazing in their eyes, + Said: "Nay. It is his mother and his love, + The scarlet Magdalena. Let them be." + So, in the gloom beside that glimmering cross, + Beneath the broken body of him they loved, + They wept and watched--the lily and the rose. + + At last the deep, low voice of Magdalen, + Toned like a distant bell, broke on the hush: + "We are so weak! What can poor women do? + So pitifully frail! God pity us! + How he did pity us! He understood... + Out of his own great strength he understood + How it might feel to be so very weak... + To be a tender lily of the field, + To be a lamb lost in the windy hills + Far from the fold and from the shepherd's voice, + To be a child with no strength, only love. + And ah, he knew, if ever a man can know, + What 't is to be a woman and to live, + Strive how she may to out-soar and overcome, + Tied to this too frail body of too fair earth! + + "Oh, had I been a man to shield him then + In his great need with loving strong right arm! + One of the twelve--ha!--of that noble twelve + That ran away, and two made mock of him + Or else betrayed him ere they ran? Ah no! + And yet, a man's strength with a woman's love... + That might have served him somewhat ere the end." + + Then with a weary voice the mother said: + "What can we do but only watch and weep, + Sit with weak hands and watch while strong men rend + And break and ruin, bringing all to nought + The beauty we have nearly died to make? + + "It is not true to say that he was strong. + He did not claim the kingdom that was his, + He did not even seek for wealth and power, + He did not win a woman's love and get + Strong children to live after him, and all + That strong men strive for he passed heedless by. + Because that he was weak I loved him so... + For that and for his soft and gentle ways, + The tender patient calling of his voice + And that dear trick of smiling with his eyes. + Ah no! I have had dreams--a mother's dreams-- + But now I cannot dream them any more. + + "I sorrowed little as the happy days + Sped by and by that still the fair-haired lad + Who lay at first beside me in the stall, + The cattle stall outside Jerusalem, + Found no great throne to dazzle his mother's eye. + He was so good a workman ... axe and saw + Did surely suit him better than a sword. + I was content if only he would wed + Some village girl of little Nazareth + And get me children with his own slow smile, + Deep thoughtful eyes and golden kingly brow. + + "It seems but yesterday he played among + The shavings strewn on Joseph's work-shop floor. + The sunlight of the morning slanted through + The window--'t was in springtime--and across + The bench where Joseph sat, and then it lay + In golden glory on the boy's bright hair + And on the shavings that were golden too. + I saw him through the open door. I thought, + 'My little king has found his golden crown.' + But unto Joseph I said nought at all. + + "But now, ah me! he won no woman's love, + Nor loved one either as most men call love, + And so he had no child and he is gone + And I am left without him and alone." + + So by her son's pale broken body mourned + The mother, dreaming on departed days. + And as with one who looks into the west, + Watching the embers of the outburned day + Crumble and cool and slowly droop and fade, + And will not take the darkling eastward path + Where lies his way until the last faint glow + Has left the sky and the early stars shine forth, + So did her dream cling to the ruined past + And all the joy they had in Nazareth + Before the years of doubt and trouble came. + Then, while loud laughter sounded up the hill + Where yet that ribald crew sang o'er the wine, + She bowed her head above her cradling arms + And softly sang, as to herself, the songs + Of Israel that once had served her well + To soothe the wakeful child. + + But Magdalen + Arose upon her feet and tossed her cloak + Back from the midnight of her wind-blown hair + And lifted up her eyes into the dark + As though, beyond this circle of all our woe, + To read a hidden meaning in the stars. + + "Aye, it is dark," she said. "The night comes on. + He was the sunshine of our little day. + The clouds unsettled softly and we saw + Ladders of glory climbing into light + Unspeakable, with dazzling interchange + Of Majesties and Powers. But suddenly + The tides of darkness whelm us round again + And this drear dwindled earth becomes once more + What it has ever been--a core of shade + And steaming vapor spinning in the dark, + A deeper clot of blackness in the void! + + "The night comes on. 'T is hard to pierce the dark. + And if to me who loved him, whom he loved-- + Though well thou sayest, 'Not as most men call love'-- + Far harder will it be for those who hold + In memory no gesture of his hand, + No haunting echo of his patient voice, + Nor that dear trick of smiling with his eyes. + + "O ceaseless tramp of armies down the years! + O maddened cries of 'Christ' and 'Son of Mary!' + While o'er the crying screams the hurtling death.... + Thou gentle shepherd of the quiet fold, + Mild man of sorrows, hast thou done this thing, + Who camest not to bring peace but a sword? + Ah no, not thou, but only our childishness, + The pitifully childish heart of man + That cannot learn and know beyond a little. + + "The priests and captains and the little kings + Will tear each other at the throat and cry: + 'Thus said he, lived he; swear it or thou diest!' + But these shall pass and perish in the dark + While the lorn strays and outcasts of the world, + The souls whose pain has seared their pride to dust + And burned a way for love to enter in-- + These only know his meaning and shall live. + + "So is it as with one whose feet have trod + The valley of the shadow, who has seen + His dearest lowered into endless night. + All music holds for him a deeper strain + Of nobler meaning, and the flush of dawn, + High wind at noonday, crumbling sunset gold, + And the dear pathetic look of children's eyes-- + All beauty pierces closer to his heart. + + "Yea, thou thyself, pale youth upon the cross-- + The godlike strength of thee was rooted deep + In human weakness. Even she who bore thee, + Seeing the man too nearly, missed the God, + Erring as fits the mother. Some will say + In coming years, I feel it in my heart, + That thou didst face thy death a conscious God, + Knowing almighty hands were stretched to snatch + And lift thee from the greedy clutching grave. + Falsely! Forgetting dark Gethsemane,-- + Not knowing, as I know, what doubt assailed + Thy human heart until the latest breath. + Ah, what a trumpery death, what mockery + And mere theatric mimicry of pain, + If thou didst surely know thou couldst not die! + Thou didst not know. And whether even now + Thy straying ghost, like some great moth of night + Blown seaward through the shadow, flies and drifts + Along dim coasts and headlands of the dark, + A homeless wanderer up and down the void, + Or whether indeed thou art enthroned above + In light and life, I know not. This I know-- + That in the moment of sheer certainty + My soul will die. + + "No! On thy spirit lay + All the dark weight and mystery of pain + And all our human doubt and flickering hope, + Deathless despairs and treasuries of tears, + Gropings of spirit blindfold by the flesh + And grapplings with the fiend. Else were thy death + Less like a God's than even mine may be. + + "Thou broken mother who canst see in him + Only the quiet man, the needful child, + And most of all the Babe of Bethlehem, + Let it suffice thee. Thy reward is great. + Who loveth God that never hath loved man? + Who knoweth man but cometh to know God? + Thou sacred, sorrowing mother, canst thou learn-- + Thou who hast gone so softly in God's sight-- + Of me, the scarlet woman of old days? + Come, let us talk together, thou and I. + Apart, we see him darkly, through a glass; + Together, we shall surely see aright. + Bring thou thine innocence, thy stainless soul, + And I will bring deep lore of suffering, + My dear-bought wisdom of defeat and pain. + For out of these may come, believe it thou, + Sanctities not like thine, but fit to bear + The bitter storms and whirlwinds of this world. + Aye, out of evil often springeth good, + And sweetest honey from the lion's mouth. + And that he knew. That very thing he meant + When he withdrew me from the pits of shame. + 'T is I who see God shining through the man. + I see the deity, the godlike strength + In his supreme capacity for pain. + Nor have I known the cruel love of men + These many years to err when now I say + This man loved not like men but like a God. + Thou broken mother, weep not for the child, + Mourn not the man. Acclaim the risen Christ!" + + She turned and touched the other lovingly, + Then stooped and peered into her darkened face. + The mother slept, forspent and overborne + By weariness and woe too great to bear. + + She gently smiled. "So it is best," she said. + + Tall and elate she stood, her shadowy hair + Blown back along the darkness and her eyes + That searched the distant spaces of the night + Splendid and glowing with an inward joy. + And over that dark hill of tragedy + And triumph, victory and dull despair, + Over the sleeping Roman soldiery, + Over the three stark crosses and the two + Who loved Him most, the lily and the rose, + Shone still and clear the great compassionate stars. + + + + + THE END + + + + +NOTE + +Some of these poems have been published before in _The Sunset Magazine, +The Smart Set, Munsey's Magazine, The Bellman, The International, The +Overland Monthly, The Youth's Companion, Poetry--A Magazine of Verse, +The Harvard Graduates' Magazine, The Book News Monthly, Current +Opinion, The Literary Digest, The Boston Transcript_, and the +_Anthologies of Magazine Verse_ for 1915 and 1916. I wish to thank the +editors of those publications in which they originally appeared for +permission to reprint. + + + + +The Riverside Press + +CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS + +U . S . A + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Lonely Flute, by Odell Shepard + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LONELY FLUTE *** + +***** This file should be named 34234.txt or 34234.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/2/3/34234/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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