Afterwhiles Part 2

And of raindrops turned to snow, If I knew what poets know?

Did I know what poets do, Would I sing a song Sadder than the pigeon's coo When the days are long?

Where I found a heart in pain, I would make it glad again; And the false should be the true, Did I know what poets do.

If I knew what poets know, I would find a theme Sweeter than the placid flow Of the fairest dream: I would sing of love that lives On the errors it forgives; And the world would better grow If I knew what poets know.

_Ike Walton's Prayer_

I crave, dear Lord, No boundless h.o.a.rd Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything--.

Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear The cricket sing, And have the s.h.i.+ne Of one glad woman's eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine--; Just the wee cot-- the cricket's chirr-- Love and the smiling face of her.

I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates and castle-halls--, Give me to hear the bare footfalls Of children o'er An oaken floor New-rinsed with suns.h.i.+ne, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby's head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, With after-hushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again-- The cricket's call And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not!

I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place And lordly sway--, I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day-- Yield me his h.o.r.n.y palm to hold.

And I'll not pray For gold--; The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth; The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet.

And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, Love and the glad sweet face of her!

_A Rough Sketch_

I caught, for a second, across the crowd-- Just for a second, and barely that-- A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed, Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim'd hat-- With small gray eyes, of a look as keen As the long, sharp nose that grew between.

And I said: 'Tis a sketch of Nature's own, Drawn i' the dark o' the moon, I swear, On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown Hither and thither and everywhere-- With its keen little sinister eyes of gray, And nose like the beak of a bird of prey!

_Our Kind of a Man_

1 The kind of a man for you and me!

He faces the world unflinchingly, And smites, as long as the wrong resists, With a knuckled faith and force like fists: He lives the life he is preaching of, And loves where most is the need of love; His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears, And his face sublime through the blind man's tears; The light s.h.i.+nes out where the clouds were dim, And the widow's prayer goes up for him; The latch is clicked at the hovel door And the sick man sees the sun once more, And out o'er the barren fields he sees Springing blossoms and waving trees, Feeling as only the dying may, That G.o.d's own servant has come that way, Smoothing the path as it still winds on Through the golden gate where his loved have gone.

2 The kind of a man for me and you!

However little of worth we do He credits full, and abides in trust That time will teach us how more is just.

He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds Of querulous and uneasy minds, And sympathizing, he shares the pain Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain; And knowing this, as we grasp his hand We are surely coming to understand!

He looks on sin with pitying eyes-- E'en as the Lord, since Paradise--, Else, should we read, Though our sins should glow As scarlet, they shall be white as snow--?

And feeling still, with a grief half glad, That the bad are as good as the good are bad, He strikes straight out for the Right-- and he Is the kind of a man for you and me!

_The Harper_

Like a drift of faded blossoms Caught in a slanting rain, His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp In a tremulous refrain:

Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip!

Ah! But the chords were rainy sweet!

And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip, As he played there in the street.

Patter, and drip, and tinkle!

And there was the little bed In the corner of the garret, And the rafters overhead!

And there was the little window-- Tinkle, and drip, and drip--!

The rain above, and a mother's love, And G.o.d's companions.h.i.+p!

_Old Aunt Mary's_

Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine, In those old days of the lost suns.h.i.+ne Of youth-- when the Sat.u.r.day's ch.o.r.es were through, And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen too, And we went visiting, "me and you,"

Out to Old Aunt Mary's?

It all comes back so clear to-day!

Though I am as bald as you are gray-- Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, We patter along in the dust again, As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

We cross the pasture, and through the wood Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry, And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing" sky And lolled and circled, as we went by Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And then in the dust of the road again; And the teams we met, and the countrymen; And the long highway, with suns.h.i.+ne spread As thick as b.u.t.ter on country bread, Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

Why, I see her now in the open door, Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me!

Wasn't it good for a boy to see-- And wasn't it good for a boy to be Out to Old Aunt Mary's?

The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade, And the cherry and quince "preserves'' she made!

And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--!

And the more we ate was the more to spare, Out to Old Aunt Mary's!

And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept-- Where the cream in a golden languor slept While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept-- Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

And O my brother, so far away, This is to tell you she waits to-day To welcome us--: Aunt Mary fell Asleep this morning, whispering-- "Tell The boys to come!" And all is well Out to Old Aunt Mary's.

_Illileo_

Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales-- The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales; The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails, And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.

Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone, There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone So mystically, musically mellow as your own.

You whispered low, Illileo-- so low the leaves were mute, And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit; And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute: And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.

Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this--?

Let them reeling reach to win me-- even Heaven I would miss, Grasping earthward--! I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss.

And blossoms should grow odorless-- and lilies all aghast-- And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast, Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last--.

So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.

IIlileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, A moan goes with the music that may vex the high repose Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.

_The King_

They rode right out of the morning sun-- A glimmering, glittering cavalcade Of knights and ladies and every one In princely sheen arrayed; And the king of them all, O he rode ahead, With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red That spurted about in the breeze and bled In the bloom of the everglade.

And they rode high over the dewy lawn, With brave, glad banners of every hue That rolled in ripples, as they rode on In splendor, two and two; And the tinkling links of the golden reins Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains As the castanets in a dream of Spain's Intensest gold and blue.