Identity

    The wind of evening cried along the darkening trees,
    Along the darkening trees, heavy with ancient pain,
    Heavy with ancient pain from faded centuries,
    From faded centuries....    O foolish thought and vain!

    O foolish thought and vain to think the wind could know,
    To think the wind could know the griefs of men who died,
    The griefs of men who died and mouldered long ago:
    "And mouldered long ago," the wind of evening cried.

Moon is a usurer, whose gain,
Seldom or never knows a wain,
Only Moon's conscience, we confess,
That ebbs from pity less and less.

Dry leaves upon the wall,
Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape,
A single frosted cluster on the grape
Still hangs--and that is all.

It hangs forgotten quite,--
Forgotten in the purple vintage-day,
Left for the sharp and cruel frosts to slay,
The daggers of the night.

It knew the thrill of spring;
It had its blossom-time, its perfumed noons;
Its pale-green spheres were rounded to soft runes
Of summer's whispering.

Through balmy morns of May;
Through fragrances of June and bright July,
And August, hot and still, it hung on high
And purpled day by day.

Of fair and mantling shapes,
No braver, fairer cluster on the tree;
And what then is this thing has come to thee
Among the other grapes,

Thou lonely tenan...

The trees fret fitfully and twist,
Shutters rattle and carpets heave,
Slime is the dust of yestereve,
And in the streaming mist
Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list.

But to his feet,
Drawing nigh and nigher
A hidden seat,
The fog is sweet
And the wind a lyre.

A vacant sameness grays the sky,
A moisture gathers on each knop
Of the bramble, rounding to a drop,
That greets the goer-by
With the cold listless lustre of a dead man's eye.

But to her sight,
Drawing nigh and nigher
Its deep delight,
The fog is bright
And the wind a lyre.

Put in the sickles and reap;
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long large ranks of the corn
Coloured and clothed as the morn
Stand thick in the fields and deep
For them that faint to be fed.
Let all that hunger and weep
Come hither, and who would have bread
Put in the sickles and reap.

Coloured and clothed as the morn,
The grain grows ruddier than gold,
And the good strong sun is alight
In the mists of the day-dawn white,
And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,
In the fear of his face turns cold
As the snakes of the night-time that creep
From the flag of our faith unrolled.
Put in the sickles and reap.

In the mists of the day-dawn white
That roll round the morning star,
The large flame lightens and grows
Till the red...

- His Own Words

IN MEMORY OF KIFFIN ROCKWELL

    *        *        *        *        *

Eagle, whose fearless
Flight in vast spaces
Clove the inane,
While we stood tearless,
White with rapt faces
In wonder and pain. ...

Heights could not awe you,
Depths could not stay you.
Anguished we saw you,
Saw Death way-lay you
Where the storm flings
Black clouds to thicken
Round France's defender!
Archangel stricken
From ramparts of splendor -
Shattered your wings! ...

But Lafayette called you,
Rochambeau beckoned.
Duty enthralled you.
For France you had reckoned
Her gift and your debt.
Dull hearts could harden
Half-gods could palter.
For you never pardon
If Liberty's altar
Yo...

Poor Dick nah sleeps quietly, his labor is done,
Deeath shut off his steam tother day;
His engine, long active, has made its last run,
An his boiler nah falls to decay.
Maybe he'd his faults, but he'd vartues as well,
An tho' dearly he loved a gooid spree;
If he did onny harm it wor done to hissel: -
He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His heart it wor tender, - his purse it wor free,
To a friend or a stranger i' need;
An noa matter ha humble or poor they might be,
At his booard they wor welcome to feed.
Wi' his pipe an his glass bi his foirside he'd sit,
Yet some fowk wi' him couldn't agree,
An tho' monny's the time 'at we've differed a bit,
He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His word wor his bond, for he hated a lie,
An sickophants doubly des...

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll! a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear? weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read, the funeral song be sung!
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young,
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her, that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read? the requiem how be sung
By you- by yours, the evil eye, by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and l...

There is no summit you may not attain,
    No purpose which you may not yet achieve,
    If you will wait serenely and believe
Each seeming loss is but a step toward gain.

Between the mountain-tops lie vale and plain;
    Let nothing make you question, doubt or grieve;
    Give only good, and good alone receive;
And as you welcome joy, so welcome pain.

That which you most desire awaits your word;
    Throw wide the door and bid it enter in.
Speak, and the strong vibrations shall be stirred;
    Speak, and above earth's loud, unmeaning din
Your silent declarations shall be heard.
    All things are possible to God's own kin.

Roses about my way, and roses still!
0, I must pick and have my very fill!
Red for my heart and white upon my hair
And still I shall have roses and to spare!
    My child, I save thee thorns! Dear little friend,
        This is the end!

So long the road, so lone the road and gray,
My bleeding feet must travel many a day!
With not an inn where I may stop and rest,
With not a roof that claims me for its guest!
        Hush! the road vanishes! Yes, yes, poor friend,
            This is the end!

O Lord, let thou thy servant go in peace!
Now I have rounded out life's perfect lease,
Spare me the clouded brain, the dark'ning eye,
Nor let me be a burden ere I die!
        Thou shalt not he! Nay, even now, old friend,
            This ...