The Dreamers | Page 6

the Spring-time!
Thank God I still can think of them! _You're not docked for
thinking,--if the foreman doesn't know._
TWILIGHT
Below them in the twilight the quiet village lies,
And warm within its
holding, the old folks and the wise, But here within the open fields the
paths of Eden show, And, hand in hand, across them the little lovers go.
Below them in the village are peaceful folk and still,
They gossip of
old yesterdays, of merry times or ill.
But here beyond the twilight
stray two who only see
The promise of to-morrow--the dawn that is
to be.
Below them in the village the quiet hearth-flames glow, With friendly
word and greeting the neighbours come and go, But here the silence
folds them together, each to each, And lights within the mating eyes the
dream beyond their speech.
Below them in the village stay honest toil and truth,-- They rest there
who adventured the road of love and youth. Smile out, old hearts, when
once again two take the path you know, And, hand in hand, at twilight
the little lovers go.
A LOVE SONG

My love it should be silent, being deep--
And being very peaceful
should be still--
Still as the utmost depths of ocean keep--
Serenely
silent as some mighty hill.
Yet is my love so great it needs must fill
With very joy the inmost
heart of me,
The joy of dancing branches on the hill,
The joy of
leaping waves upon the sea.
OLD BOATS
I saw the old sea captain in his city daughter's house, Shaved till his
chin was pink, and brushed till his hair was flat, In a broadcloth suit
and varnished boots and a collar up to his ears. (I'd seen him last with a
slicker on and a tied down oilskin hat.)
And it happened that I went home last June, and saw in Mallory's yard
The old red dory that sprung a leak a couple of years ago, Dragged out
of good salt water and braced to stand in the grass And be filled with
dirt from stem to stern, where posies and such
could grow.
Painted to beat the band, with vines strung over the sides And red
geraniums in the bow,--a boat that was built for water Made into a
flower garden. I looked, but I didn't laugh, For I thought of the old sea
captain living in town with his daughter.
BEAUTY
Sometimes, slow moving through unlovely days,
The need to look on
beauty falls on me
As on the blind the anguished wish to see,
As on
the dumb the urge to rage or praise;
Beauty of marble where the eyes
may gaze
Till soothed to peace by white serenity,
Or canvas where
one master hand sets free
Great colours that like angels blend and
blaze.
O, there be many starved in this strange wise--
For this diviner food

their days deny,
Knowing beyond their vision beauty stands
With
pitying eyes--with tender, outstretched hands,
Eager to give to every
passer-by
The loveliness that feeds a soul's demands.
A SONG
I am as weary as a child
That weeps upon its mother's breast
For
joy of comforting. But I
Have no such place to rest.
I am as weary as a bird
Blown by wild winds far out to sea
When it
regains its nest. But, Oh,
There waits no nest for me.
What think you may sustain the bird
That finds no housing after
flight?
And what the little child console
Who weeps alone at night?
MOTHERS OF MEN
Mothers of men--the words are good indeed in the saying, Pride in the
very sound of them, strength in the sense of them, then Why is it their
faces haunt me, wistful faces as praying Ever some dear thing vanished
and ever a hope delaying,
Mothers of Men?
Mothers of Men, most patient, tenderly slow to discover The loss of the
old allegiance that may not return again. You give a man to the world,
you give a woman a lover-- Where is your solace then when the time of
giving is over,
Mothers of Men?
Mothers of Men, but surely, the title is worth the earning. You who are
brave in feigning must I ever behold you then By the door of an empty
heart with the lamp of faith still burning, Watching the ways of life for
the sight of a child returning,
Mothers of Men?

LOVELACE GROWN OLD
I
My life has been like a bee that roves
Through a scented garden close,

And 'tis I who have kept the honey of love,
The hoarded sweetness
and scent thereof,
For all I forget the rose.
Oh, exquisite gardens long forgot
That have made my store complete,

Though winter fall upon blossom and bee,
Yet the kisses I
garnered remain with me
Forever and ever sweet.
II
The Priest hath had his word and said his say--
A word i' faith more
honest than beguiling--
But now he turns upon his gloomy way--

Good soul, he leaves