Fires of Driftwood | Page 4

perfection, holding up
Magic dew in topaz cup,
Alabaster,

amethyst--
Curling lips which Earth has kissed,
Folded hearts
where secrets hide,
Secrets old when Eve was bride!
Beauty's soul was born with wings,
Flight inspires all lovely things--

Would you gather rainbow fire?
See the rose of dawn's desire

Turn to ash beneath the moon?--
Crocuses must leave us soon.
The Vision
"O SISTER, sister, from the casement leaning,
What sees thy tranced
eye, what is the meaning
Of the strange rapture that thy features
know?"
"I see," she said, "the sunset's crimson glow."
"O sister, sister, from the casement turning,
What saw'st thou there
save sunset's sullen burning?
--Thy hand is ice, and fever lights thine
eye!"
"I saw," she said, "the twilight drifting by."
"O sister, oft the sun hath set and often
Have we beheld the twilight
fold and soften
The edge of day-- In this no mystery lies!"
"I saw,"
she said, "the crescent moon arise."
"O sister, speak! I fear when on me falleth
Thine empty glance which
some wild spell enthralleth!
--How chill the air blows through the
open door!"
"I saw," she said, "I saw"--and spake no more.
The Miracle
THERE'S not a leaf upon the tree
To show the sap is leaping,

There's not a blade and not an ear
Escaped from winter's keeping--

But there's a something in the air
A something here, a something
there,
A restless something everywhere--
A stirring in the sleeping!
A robin's sudden, thrilling note!
And see--the sky is bluer!
The
world, so ancient yesterday,
To-day seems strangely newer;
All that
was wearisome and stale
Has wrapped itself in rosy veil--
The

wraith of winter, grown so pale
That smiling spring peeps through
her!
The Homesteader
WIND-SWEPT and fire-swept and swept with bitter rain,
This was
the world I came to when I came across the sea-- Sun-drenched and
panting, a pregnant, waiting plain
Calling out to humankind, calling
out to me!
Leafy lanes and gentle skies and little fields all green,
This was the
world I came from when I fared across the sea-- The mansion and the
village and the farmhouse in between,
Never any room for more,
never room for me!
I've fought the wind and braved it; I cringe to it no more! I've fought
the creeping fire back and cheered to see it die. I've shut the bitter rain
outside and, safe within my door, Laughed to think I feared a thing not
so strong as I!
I mind the long, white road that ran between the hedgerows neat, In that
little, strange old world I left behind me long ago, I mind the air so full
of bells at evening, far and sweet-- All and all for someone else--I had
leave to go!
It cost a tear to leave it--but here across the sea
With miles and miles
of unused sky, and miles of unturned loam, And miles of room for
someone else, and miles of room for me I've found a bigger meaning
for the little word called "Home."
Wet Weather
IT is the English in me that loves the soft, wet weather--
The cloud
upon the mountain, the mist upon the sea,
The sea-gull flying low and
near with rain upon each feather, The scent of deep, green woodlands
where the buds are breaking free.

A world all hot with sunshine, with a hot, white sky above it-- Oh then
I feel an alien in a land I'd call my own;
The rain is like a friend's
caress, I lean to it and love it, 'Tis like a finger on a nerve that thrills for
it alone!
Is it the secret kinship which each new life is given
To link it by an
age-long chain to those whose lives are through, That wheresoever he
may go, by fate or fancy driven,
The home-star rises in his heart to
keep the compass true?
Ah, 'tis the English in me that loves the soft, gray weather-- The little
mists that trail along like bits of wind-flung foam, The primrose and the
violet--all wet and sweet together,
And the sound of water calling, as
it used to call at home.
*The Sleeping Beauty
SO has she lain for centuries unguessed,
Her waiting face to waiting
heaven turned,
While winds have wooed and ardent suns have burned

And stars have died to sentinel her rest.
Only the snow can reach her as she lies,
Far and serene, and with cold
finger-tips
Seal soft the lovely quiet of her lips
And lightly veil the
shadows of her eyes.
Man has no part--his little, noisy years
Rise to her silence thin and
impotent--
There are no echoes in that vast content,
No doubts, no
dreams, no laughter and no tears!
0. A formation of mountain peaks above Vancouver Harbor, outlining
the profile and form of a sleeping maiden.
Down at the Docks
DOWN at the docks--when the smoke clouds lie,
Wind-ript and red,
on an angry sky--
Coal-dumps and derricks and piled-up bales,
Tar
and the gear of forgotten sails,
Rusted chains and a broken spar


(Yesterday's breath on the things that are)
A lone, black cat and a