=* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *= This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please contact a FP administrator before proceeding. This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ The Rosary of Pan _Date of first publication:_ 1923 _Author:_ Alexander Maitland Stephen (1882-1942) _Date first posted:_ Mar. 14, 2016 _Date last updated:_ Mar. 14, 2016 Faded Page eBook #20160308 This ebook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net THE ROSARY OF PAN A·M·STEPHEN McCLELLAND & STEWART PUBLISHERS TORONTO Copyright, Canada, 1923 By McClelland & Stewart, Limited Printed in Canada Contents PAGE SHADOWS 7 ARCADY 9 A MEMORY 11 WOMAN 13 THE FACE 15 REVERIE 16 LOVE AND POWER 17 YOU WILL NOT DREAM 19 THE WANDERER 21 RED ROSES 24 THE SANCTUARY 26 SPIRIT OF BEAUTY 28 SONNET 30 DOUBT NOT 31 YOU ASK ME WHY 32 MEMORIES 34 THE DRYAD 36 THE ALTAR 39 TO MY COMRADE 41 A REMINISCENCE 43 A FRAGMENT 45 ONE EVENING 46 THE ROD 47 THE GODS 49 THE RETREAT 52 WIND, RAIN AND SUN 54 THE TORCH BEARERS 56 THE WALL 58 THE OPAL 59 THE HARP 61 IMMORTELLE 62 THE DEVOTEE 63 WHAT IS THIS LOVE? 65 SUPERMAN 67 THE QUEST 69 AD ASTRA 70 THE CRUCIBLE 72 THE TRINITY 74 SPRING 76 TO BLISS CARMAN 77 A. C. S. 78 THE LESSER LOVES 79 UKELELE SONG 81 O, LOVE, MY LOVE 83 UNDERSTANDING 84 VIA CRUCIS 86 WHY DO YOU FEAR ME? 87 THE PYRE 88 LONELINESS 91 GLADNESS 92 THE ROSE 93 THE SNAKE’S KISS 95 ADIEUX D’AMOUR 97 THE ROSE OF LIFE 99 THE BROKEN ROOD 100 THE WOMAN HEART 103 THE MAGDALENE 104 GLADIOLI 106 TWIN SCROLLS OF FATE 108 VOICES 109 SCARLET AND GOLD—THE MAPLES 111 IN THE PASS 114 SUNSET TRAIL 115 MAN—THE CREATOR 117 THE GYPSY STAR 119 THE TROUBADOUR 120 SYNCOPATION 121 CHRISTMAS—1922 124 THE AWAKENING 125 A SONG OF SWORDS 127 DRUNK AND DISORDERLY 129 THE CALL OF THE HILLS 134 THE BROOM 137 Shadows SING me a song of the shadows thrown By the Light which shone on high On a lonely hill in a skull-strewn land, And the lean years passing by. Sing me a song of the ghostly bands Who harvest their sheaves of dead— Of the hungry eyes of a passing age Whence the hope of love has fled. Sing me a song of a faith which failed, In a rood as frail as breath— Of a gray nun’s veil which strangled life And the love which conquers death. “Sweet!” we cry as the rose leaves fall, Blown by the heedless breath Of a wind from out of a darkling sky, Chill as the hands of death. “Bitter!” we moan as we place the leaves, Faded and brown and sere, In the folded page of the ancient book Of memories gray and drear. For this is the quest of a soul which dared To stake his life for a song, For the vagrant gleam of a star that paled When the sun of Love waxed strong. Who recked not of the dreams which pass Or of battles lost or won, Since lives as leaves from the Rose of Life Are scattered one by one. Arcady GIVE me an autumn day, a sky of blue, Massed clouds asleep above a hill, A roof of leaves the sunlight filters through, My cup of joy to fill. Give me the music of a sun-flecked stream, A symphony in golden browns and green, Murmuring like myriad voices in a dream, Whispering of things unseen. Give me a cove within the curvèd arms Of mossy banks with lush grass spread, Whose cloistered silence stills the world’s alarms, Whence cares and fears have fled. Give me a nut-brown maid, with lips that hold The scarlet of the berries in the brake, Whose gypsy tresses steal the fairy gold And weave it for my sake Into a veil for glamourie of eyes agleam With soft allurements, spells of ancient love When earth was young and life a dream Of beauty from above. Give me a voice whose cadence as a lute Blown by some lonely wood god blent With magic of the wind’s caress, to suit The measure of my heart’s content. To cleanse my soul of smaller memories, Give me an hour again like this to free Me quite,—I fain would be beneath the trees A prince again in Arcady. A Memory DEEP coolness of dim woodland cloisters, Where the feverish heat of the day, Transmuted to sibilant softness, Is as foam from the breast of the bay— In thy mystic alembic is mingled The madness of moonbeams with fire From the sun, and melodious echoes Windswept from the sevenfold lyre. Here twilight and dawn meet forever, Untouched by the tide of the years, Change or Death enter not through thy portals, Nor desire of the flesh nor its fears. Commingled with odors of tresses, There are memories, fragrant and dim, Of the lure of the breasts of our mother— Faint perfume of body and limb. We, Children of Morning, salute Thee! Thy voice is not new to our ears. Great God of the water and woodlands, We greet Thee with laughter not tears. For in dawns, far-distant and hoary, When all life was a flame and a song, We were Thine and Thy love was our guerdon, Ere earth was bereft of its strong. Ere the meek and the lowly, triumphant, Bound our Mother with bondage of sin— The Star not the Serpent ascendant— We praised Thee with paean and hymn. The shrine is re-builded. Thine altars Await but the touch of Thy breath, Cold flame of the Spirit to sunder The bondage of Darkness and Death. Thy presence is felt, though unspoken The word that would call on thy name. From the green gloom of silence unbroken Comes—a motion, a breath or a flame? Woman THIS want of you is like no other thing. It hammers at my heart the whole night through. It smites my soul with sudden sickening, As primal pain that birth begins anew— This want of you. ’Tis Trishna—thirst of life in form to dwell, To touch, to taste, to smell, to hear, to view This mother veil of matter, wrought so well And cunningly to make the false seem true— For want of you. Before the gods or worlds it was. As Space, Parent invisible of forms, it threw Its vast illusion over all Creation’s face. The heart of Being broke—the One made Two, For want of you. The tide of life that ever godward flows Was forced to grope and hunger through The rock, the plant, the beast and then it rose To man. Who more than dust-born Adam knew This want of you? In Eve and Lilith’s lure, your sweet embrace Was still the Spirit’s veil that softly drew Its primal beauty o’er the Pilgrim’s face. In Eden, Death was born to bring anew This want of you. The witchery of moonlit nights, soft summer skies, Young birds in spring, sunlight or wind or dew; All of earth, air or water or the fire that flies Like serpents’ tongues, eternally renew This want of you. From Thee we come and back to Thee we go To rest and dream a little and undo The tangled patterns of our lives that grow Beyond our strength to mend or make anew— Thro’ want of you. O Mother Substance—soul and sense, in fine, Of God’s own thought, whence stars and atoms grew, We call Thee Earth or Woman. Why not divine? Has God forgotten that He always knew This want of you? The Face I REFT my soul from out the strife of things. The self-forged fetters broken then set free That which the ages fashioned, in the dark, And lo, a tired child’s face looked forth at me. Curls tangled in a ghostly crown of thorns, Lips that knew not of laughter but of lies; ’Neath lashes dim with unshed tears, there slept The shadow of Golgotha in his eyes. This man-made image of the Son in Heaven Was Death incarnate, not the radiant Life That pulses in the stars thro’ endless aeons, Rising triumphant over pain and strife. Small wonder that with pangs of hell re-born, Earth pays the debt and with its withering breath Red war doth cleanse the nations, heavy laden, With Calvary’s cross—the harbinger of Death. Memories dim of times remote and golden Gleaming like fire thro’ mists that veil the day, Gods manifold there are and not forgotten. The flowerage of a fairer time were they. To break the bondage barren faiths have builded, To show the splendour of the larger plan, These greater Gods shall bring the old, new message— One name for Son of God and child of Man. Reverie DOWN by the sea-beach, where the breeze Makes melodies mid lichened trees, Of woodland haunts of flowers and bees, Murmuring its low love litanies, I sit at eve and think what gain, What larger Life—surcease of pain, Earth’s souls in sorrow could attain Were pain and pleasure one—not twain. Round rocky point and lone gray isle, The lengthening shadows creep the while Pan’s myriad moods in turn beguile My sated senses with their smile. ’Tis all a dream. And yet, O heart, Of this vast Whole thou art the Part! “I am!” though sea and sky depart. Sunlit, the soul replies, “Thou Art!” Love and Power THE velvet magic of your lips’ caress Awoke the Self encased in soul and ran Through throbbing veins, pouring their wine to bless The golden gift that makes a god of man. In that supernal moment, golden, rare, A blossom on the thorny stem of Time, The veil was lifted, leaving written there Before my eyes, the cosmic truth, sublime, That Power and Love, twin-flames that twine And bind the broken circle of the years, Are One, forever, in the plan Divine, Blending eternally our hopes and fears. The bitter hours, the loneliness, the pain, The soul’s dark night, when on the mundane cross Of matter broken, mortal strength seems vain To purge the spirit’s gold of earthly dross; All these and more, transmuted, are the power To scale the heights and wrest the sacred fire Prometheus stole from heaven, for an hour Immortal,—crown of all our heart’s desire. ’Twas not the Love, self-slain, bathed in tears Of blood, that hung on Calvary’s high hill; Not sweat of slaves or fruit of cringing fears, Too weak for speech nor strong enough to kill. Pure as the radiant breath of primal dawn When Love first blossomed and brought forth a world; Strong as the warring hosts from heaven withdrawn And proud as they from high Olympus hurled, This Love is Power, akashic, fiery force Whose rose-gold flame wreathes round Creation’s rim The circle of infinity—its course Divine, omnipotent, till stars grow dim. You Will Not Dream YOU will not dream? Self-centred in the mire And paltry dross of perishable clay, Proud of your shame and pitiful desire To shun the message of the larger day That bids you be and spurn Illusion’s sway. You will not dream? Nay, rather, purchase pain, Shadow of joy, with gold and blood as fee, Building a prison for the soul, in vain Attempt to stem the surging, crimson sea Of primal life that wills you to be free. You will not dream? Your unctuous priests have slain The song eternal welling in your heart, Love, Fount of Life, no law can curb or chain, Is cursed, outcast, a thing unclean, apart, A chattel bound and sold in street or mart. You will not dream? Can you not hear the tune Of tides eternal thunder in your ears Nor know how, ever, led by sun or moon, The seasons sing the rhythm of the years— That Joy is stronger than our utmost fears? You will not dream? Alas! then Love, the king, Destroyer of all fleeting forms that bind The spirit’s splendour in the souls that sing Love’s ancient paean, slays your sons to find For them, in death, the freedom you declined. You will not dream? Then withering fire shall flame Again to make you clean. The God of War Shall claim more millions in the sacred name Of Her, the Queen, beneath whose bleeding star Earth’s bravest legions died on fields afar. You will not dream? Then know what poets see, What sages teach and little children tell The birds and flowers in play—that Love is free! And only it endures. Though systems fell The Spirit lives and Love and all is well. The Wanderer THE _Wanderer_ am I, outcast of the starry ways, Self-doomed through devious infinite paths And twice ten million human years to seek That which is I. From mine own self divorced, Desolate, I strive to find my heart’s desire. Not in the radiant realms of bliss immutable, Devoid of form that dims the spirit’s light Shall I find Thee, mine own immortal Love. The roseate splendour of that undimmed flame Shed from the altar of the primal sacrifice In matter’s mystic veil is clothed and hidden. Through ages vast, in myriad ways, I sought thy face. In rocky adamant, in plant and beast and bird— In rubies, blood from the gentle bosom of the Earth, I found Thee prisoned for a passing age. I felt Thee call me in the crimson rose. Curves Tender folded thy beauty in a golden shrine. Thy petalled lips were mine. Thy fragrance Warm and sweet thrilled through my branches. Breezes, Soft harbingers of love, wafted my gold to thee. Thy lissome strength sprang forth, a leaping pard, A red-gold flame that flashed through tropic glades. I knew Thee then, beneath soft summer moons, My royal mate, untamed and swift. Then came The glorious hour when clay immortalized was _Man_— Fit temple of the living God, and Spirit first Was clothed in flesh. The cyclic fruit of Time Stood naked, gleaming, white, a palace fair With marbled columns, crowned with sculptured grace— A glittering symbol of the starry worlds— A Universe enthralled in mortal form—presage Of futures dim and vast when Time shall cease. Thy beauty drew me, Wanderer, forth to find Thee, waking or asleep. Life after life, my quest On land and sea, in storm or strife was still to win The golden gift thy hand alone can give— The knowledge of mine own divine estate. The lean, gray years, striving with shadowy things, With phantom fears that poison soul and sense Were all for Thee, God meshed in human form. The virus priests have bred, the subtle skein Of thought, philosophers have spun to tangle Human flies, strove with Satanic force to bind me Hand and feet—to veil thy glory from my hungry eyes. Through perils vast, on land or sea, in worlds unseen, My warrior soul sought ever for thy light. Time was, when wandering far from Thee, In mystic lore, in parchment pale and dusty tomes, In liturgies and cloistered cell, I lost my Self. My soul was reft from me and pallid Gods Were mine. Thy shrine was desecrate. Ashes gray On thy altar quenched the roseate flame of life. And yet, O flamen of the Gods of Greece, who built The morning stars, placing a song forever in the heart Of Pain, I know Thee now again, thy mysteries Invite once more my worship. Red flames of passions past, Embers in the ashes of dead loves and lives, Leap from thine altar. The white, chaste marbles Of the Temple glow with living light and Lo! The Red Gods laugh and fling a wine-red rose To Earth—Joy, Dionysian reigns re-born— The New Age dawns and Love and Life are one. I, Wanderer, outcast of Fate, my goal draw nigh And know Myself in knowing Love and Thee. Red Roses ROSES, red roses, from the deep, warm breast Of Her, whose progeny in Space and Time Are one with us, Her children,—latest, best And fairest fruitage of her prime— Within thy chaliced heart there glows The crimson tide of Life. The wine Of youth, eternal, welling, flows O’er thy curved rim, incarnadine. The fragrance of Her tresses, sweet As tender breezes that o’erflow The sun-kissed hills at dawn, and meet And whisper love to buds that blow; A pulsing flame—a sky that burns— A sun-god’s pyre and altar blent, Veiled by thy velvet breast that yearns To spill its gold and be content; The music of soft rains that beat With pattering fingers on our doors, In gusty, flying showers, replete With memories of the wind-swept moors; Of tender flesh, the keen, sweet tang; Of fruitful earth, the warm embrace That lured the lusty vine which sprang To bear aloft thy virile grace— Roses, red roses, jewelled Grails of Love And Sex—mysterious and more divine Thy symbols shine on high above The lilies pale on Mary’s shrine. The rich, red torrent of thy life made bold Since Time began, the hearts of men To sing of freedom and of joys untold— Inspired in turn the voice and pen Of those who know that Love is Power And Power is Love, beyond the reach Of mortal minds that halt and cower Before the truths thy roses teach. And yet, thy fire is in the bard Who sings of love or ruthless strife. Thy flame is in the hearts that guard The spirit’s growth from life to life Till forms shall fade and systems rest. The rhythm of thy magic pulse is stilled. Still flames thy symbol on the breast Of Isis, Ishtar—mother, matter filled. The snow-white wonder of Her form divine, Stretched cruciform with upturned face, Awaits with radiant joy the coming sign Of Him, Creation’s Lord, in Time and Space. Her eyes, eternal wells of loving light, The Beauty dread and high which Gods can know— And lo—within Her mighty heart, for Him, enshrined Roses, red roses ever-blooming glow. The Sanctuary A PLACE of dreams—a sun-drenched slope, Clothed fair with tawny grasses, met The waters of a strait which ran Between me and the mountain-wall which lay A rugged rampart of our Chosen Land. Framed by the sinuous line of sea and sky, Slim firs, lean sentinels drowsed in the glare Of noon, while whispering winds crept stealthily About. But all was silence saving where The pirate bees, on pillage bent, were caught Within the golden tangle of the broom. A place of dreams! High hopes without despair, And gleams of life, unmarred by pain, beauty Above all forms, the living light of Truth, Made manifest to eyes not sealed by doubt and fear Lived here in mute expectancy. Dewfall and moonrise, Dawn and noon-day’s beams evoked no voice To body forth the soul of this, their child. A place of dreams! ’Tis man’s sole gift, divine, To mould the form, to carve with lightning thought An image to enshrine the spirit’s flame and give To Truth and Beauty shape in space and time. Mayhap a leaf slid down to nestle in the grass. Perchance a spirit stooped to whisper as he passed: “Live on as if each moment were thy last. What we have given thee to know of Love’s Swift fire is as a spark of that great flame Which lights the worlds. The shadows are thine own. To _Know_ is well. Hast thou the _Will_ to cleave Thy way clear to the heart of God and _Dare_ To live within the splendour of this love?” O place of dreams! The voice, a windswept shadow, Passed. But in my heart enshrined Remains the vision of the days to be. The sun-lit sanctuary waits. Life calls for Love To fill his days. The answer lies with thee. Spirit of Beauty SPIRIT of Beauty, I have seen thy face And lived to tell of it—anon, The rapture of thy warm embrace has struck Through every vein its hidden fire and thrilled Like wandering music every chord of life, Till, like a wind-blown lyre its symphony Was one with Nature’s and the heart of God. Soft bloom of summer morns, whose smile Breaks through the mist and grows To laughter as the day spring floods the hills With light—the fragrance of all roses, which Have bloomed, in gardens old, for sweet Love’s sake— The gleam of waters under star-lit skies, that fling Like largesse all their wealth of jewels on high To watch them fall in broken lights below— The yearning touch of earth in spring—the clean, sharp Tang of leaf and bud, filled with the season’s urge To bear, in time, fulfilment—fruit and flower— All that quick, wistful wonder that the questing soul Feels pulsing through the world of sense— The hidden magic at the heart of things— All this and more are bodied in thy form, Limned in thy features and inwrought Into the shrine wherein thy godhead dwells. Yet these are but the vestures of thy soul— The clouds which veil and half reveal thy light As those, shell-tinted, which enfold the moon In iridescent robes. The ray that fell from darkness Through the primal void, kindling the morning stars, Was one with Thee. The pure, cold flame Of deathless will glows in thy wondrous eyes. He who has gazed into their depths will go Forth strong to conquer. He who has heard Thy laughter knows the primal sound Of limitless desire that burgeoned forth In sun and stars—the radiant flower of life. But he, who for an hour hath held thee close Will know himself a God—immortal as the Love Which gave thee birth. Sonnet NOT from the mind—that clips the wings of fire Whereon we reach the empyreal height Where Will and Wisdom’s blended light Burn clear and pure as that first, great Desire, The mighty breath which swept Apollo’s lyre— Came aught to aid us in the maze Of pain and joy which lures and oft betrays Our eager hearts in their swift, questing flight. Only when Love transcendent o’er the strife Of lesser lights, shone clear—a guiding star, Resplendent with the larger hope, afar— Did Gladness freely bloom—a Rose of Life, Sunlit—the sweet, clean breath of morn Stole softly in to greet our Joy, re-born. Doubt Not DOUBT not that if Love held you close And you gazed deep into His eyes, Some flower would blossom as the rose Unfolds beneath blue summer skies. Doubt not—be wise. This pale, gray anchorite who treads Through cloistered ways with eyes downcast, Lacks will to rise where passion spreads Broad wings to meet the tempest’s blast, Till storms are past. Summer and roses meet to tune Life’s harp to sound a nobler strain. Fear not—you heard this ageless rune Long since, when Joy had conquered Pain. Fear not again. Gods from high heaven stooped to hold A rose no rarer than the one we share. Why then seek heaven which Gods have sold To seek Love’s face and found it fair? ’Twas here—not there. Love lingers not where clouds are gray, Nor brooks delay but onward flies. Roses are born with each new day To greet the sun ’neath warmer skies. Doubt not—be wise. You Ask Me Why YOU ask me why I need you, dear? Why Love’s lone star must flame through skies To lead Life’s pilgrim feet—at last— To where the cradled First-born lies? To stem the bitter tide of years, Transmuting human dross to bright Gold, clean as primal fire that burned On God’s own altar through the Night; To bear within one’s heart the wounds Of shackled millions, who, in this world’s sty Trample their leaders in the rout Nor know the love they daily crucify; To live in every prisoned pain, to bear the blows Of those loved hands that are our very own; To dwell with Darkness in the outer courts And dare its legions to the fight alone— This guerdon brought my days and laid It in my path, already strown With thorns my own hands planted in the past— A barren way where never rose had blown. And if God lived, I ceased to care. His image marred I only saw. And Death’s gray shadow crept apace. Yet still I trusted in the Law Of equipoise—that somewhere Joy Clasped hands with Pain, and Life, complete, Stood victor crowned—his shadow, Death, A captive bound beneath his feet. Your hand touched mine. My soul saw God, The dark was cleft by living light That leaped from eyes which answered mine As beacons on the hills of night. Mysterious symbol of a truth divine, That Life is Love and both in man Are all of God that we can know Or need to know of that great plan Where orbèd angels fill the deeps of space With larger lights than those that shine Upon me from your eyes, where burns The love-flame that is all divine. You are to me the one sure sign That God is Love. My cross is light, If through its shadows I can feel Your lips on mine before I face the night. Memories SO slight the veil ’twixt Then and Now, A tress of silken hair flung back Was magic subtle as a yogin’s will. We rode, together, in those days long passed, Adown cool pathways, in an ancient wood. The moss, sun-flecked, about your palfrey’s hooves, Broke like the foam before an elfin keel. Wrapt in the silence of a summer noon The forest slept and we, ringed round, enthralled, Each by the other’s nearness, held no speech Save what was meet of weather, play, The jousts and balls. For you were Queen and I Your knight, who dared to hold you in my heart. A wind arose which rippled through the leaves Like rain. Sunlight and shadow merged and raced In fragments o’er the surface of my dream, As waves dissolving in some mountain lake The mirrored beauty of the circling shore. Darkness, hot, palpitant with strife and sound, Succeeded. Cloud wracks of struggling forms, Banners and torches, with the glint of steel, Like firelight on the marbled walls within A kingly hall, startled my soul, which knew Itself and glared through damp and tangled locks, Gripping with bleeding hands a broken sword, As backward borne by the wild rout, I stood At bay beneath a stair which wound aloft. Again the vision broke and passed. Methought I slept—but lightly—for a sudden, errant wind Touched with a cold caress my brow. I saw Myself beneath the stars, upon a hill. Afar The sky shone red above a blazing citadel, Whose strong towers fell like Titans cast From Heaven, in flames, defiant of the night Which whelmed them. Again the night wind stirred And blew a silken tress across my eyes. The quick breath drawn was held—lest blood Which sang or beating heart awake the Queen, Who slept. The Dryad O SOUL, what hast thou seen, In those enchanted lands Where strewn by elfin hands, And where man’s foot hath seldom been, The foam-flowers dance and pixies play Upon the golden sands? Proserpine’s host hold nightly sway Beneath the moonlight’s silvery ray. The night world and its shades obey Their lightning-like commands. A Dryad walked with me. Her white form gleamed among The gray-green moss which clung, A silken web from waist to knee. Diaphanous, golden-brown, her unbound hair, A misty splendour, hung O’er carven shoulders, glistening fair As marble. Twin breast-flowers blossomed where Her tangled tresses veiled her beauty, rare As Love when Earth was young. Scarce could my feet keep pace, As through the forest glade, She flitted like a shade Or shaft of moonlight. Nor could I trace Her slim, young form at times. Trees drew And hid her, as she played. Her white feet, twinkling, living things, Like merry moonbeams seemed or wings Of wood doves. Music, soft as hidden springs, Her gentle footfalls made. Her little hand touched mine; Warm as a rose-bud, curled, With tender petals furled, Flower-soft, it lay. A light divine That moment made my whole heart kin With all the round, green world. I knew no more of guilt and sin Or loves we lose our lives to win; Nor Pain nor Death could enter in. The forest round us swirled—— And shapes grew gray and dim. A great wind filled the wood. I, gazing where she stood, Saw every quivering limb Grow rosy red. A fierce joy shone Within her eyes nor could Their lashes hide the wondrous dawn Of an unwanted tender light. Anon, The mists swept in and half withdrawn, She seemed with fear imbued. Who taught the fairy folk To fear our mortal ways? Their joy in life allays All hint of pain or loss. Fear broke My dream. To pierce the deepening night, In vain my eager gaze. The winds died down. The moon’s white light Revealed no trace of her swift flight. An oak, with dewy pearls bedight, Stood glimmering in the haze. The Altar SILENCE in depth as infinite As dreams beyond the sense of time, Flowering like words, divine, in light Which clothes in form His thought sublime, Palpitant, imminent, enwraps thy fane, Where stars are born and sunsets wane. Strange echoes from thy gray, scarred face, Steal like a perfume of the past, Through heart and brain. Nor can we trace The mysteries in thy scroll sealed fast. Locked in thy adamantine soul they lie, Scenes lived beneath some softer, alien sky. These wheeling systems o’er thy mountain rim, Winged messengers, in each flaming sign, Sang, in earth’s morn, the self-same hymn, Hailing the risen Sun as Light divine, Great Pagan Lover of the sons of song, Light-bringer, Comrade of the free and strong. For when thy starry altar lights were dimmed, By this, the Sun-god’s breath of fire, A pact renewed on thy worn scarp was limned Stronger than death and deep as that desire Which waked the worlds from their aeonian sleep, Thrilling as laughter through the virgin deep. Great gods and loving, let thy red dawns light Our ancient faith—thy clean winds rend The sordid rags of self—arm for unending fight Our souls downcast and all wills bend To love as passionately pure and shining white, As snows eternal on thine altar’s height. To My Comrade COMRADE, without whom, incomplete, Life seeks to mount with crippled wings Where all the shining pathways meet Of souls re-born to greater things, Fear not. The gods, whose voice, in golden light, Called you to worship on their altar’s height Are close at hand. Like moonlight on half-hidden streams, The memories of their ancient fanes Flash through the vistaed aisle of dreams. Flower-scented winds breathe sweeter strains Than hymns of the pale Nazarene, Where from gilt shrines His lilies lean To cloy the soul. Although they deem us mad who hear The undines’ laughter in the rills— White-breasted nymphs, whose love notes clear Call from a thousand pine-clad hills To lure men from the withering curse of shame In their own manhood and re-light the flame Of life divine, We hold our faith, stronger than death or gray Ghosts, born of fear, miasmic as the mind Of sexless anchorites, who dare not face the day. Knowing, we face the sun nor heed what shadows blind Souls poisoned by the serpent kiss of sin. Heart-free, we worship at the shrine wherein Our god-head dwells. A Reminiscence I STOOD last night in a garden old, ’Neath an ivied tower, when the moon was high. Three men were we,—our names untold,— But one at heart, should we live or die. Through the starlit night we had ridden far. Our swords were red, but the deed was done. At a queen’s behest we had stayed a war, By a message brought ere the set of sun. Soldiers of fortune and comrades three, We had held high stakes in the game of life. For love and beauty, not fame or gold, We had risked our all in that midnight strife. Our whispered words scarce stirred a leaf Of the ivy draped o’er the latticed pane,— “She sleeps and her heart is wrung with grief, O’er her kingdom lost”—but our words were vain. A beam of light o’er the balustrade, Shot through the dark, like a shaft of dawn— A flutter of lace our whispers stayed— Three hearts beat high. Three swords were drawn, And flashed, blue-lit, by the moonlight’s glare, Crossed overhead—a salute of steel. Three plumed hats doffed—our heads were bare— “The Queen!”—we waited but did not kneel. No word was said but a rose, dropped down, Fell at my feet as my comrades two, With bowed heads, passed—and without a crown, I was king for a night, if the dream were true. A Fragment HAD we been friends would starlit eyes meet mine, Or roses bloom where winter’s frost had paled? Would sunlight love to banish from your hair The silvery ghosts which mark the passing years? The urge of Life’s insistent tide rose high, Swept Death’s gray legions from the field, And Love triumphant wrapt you in that hour To heights where dwell the immortal gods, Their youth eternal as the aeons vast. Then why, Dear Heart of mine, court death? Why fear that this small stagnant pool Which men call life shall merge into the sea— Lost in the shoreless waters of eternity? One Evening OUR prow, receding from the quay, passed through The tremulous, golden colonnade the shore-lights cast Within the water’s murky depths. So might a stately Barge, a part of some great sea-king’s carnival, Pass through a pillared entrance wrought from woodland Flowers and phosphorescent fire of southern seas. Before us lay the silver strait, now veiled By gathering mists; behind, tier upon glittering tier, The city’s lights rose upward from the shore As if these constellations sought to merge with those Which gemmed the twilight o’er the mountains’ rim. Silent we sat, folded within our dream, Watching the pageant of the night’s advance Pass o’er the enchanted land, where, hand in hand, We wandered through the summer day. Within The shadow of the cabin’s wall our forms stayed Motionless, while we, led by Love’s hand, yet unaware, Moved to the consummation of our hearts’ desire, One with the strength and beauty of the hills. The Rod FROM heights empyreal hurled I turn And strive in darkness, to discern the light That shines in those brief hours which burn, White-lit by Love’s compelling might. Faint through the shadows comes your voice But not the same—not wholly mine. The smaller world has claimed you—I alone Press onward in the quest divine. Thy gift bears fruit. The furrows sere Burgeon for days with golden grain. Life’s song strikes through each vibrant chord And for a space Joy masters Pain. Strange faces throng about me. Hollow hands Make plaint. The world’s need fills the hours Which once were willing captives bound By silken chains and garlanded with flowers. I will not wait. Why should I lie impaled On rocks, sharp-edged as my desires— Broken by waves of this resurgent sea Of Life—laved in its secret fires? I will not wait, nor fold my hands serene. “My own will come.” Yes, when my sovran will Shall draw it from the dark embrace Of slow, remorseless fates that kill The song within man’s heart and still The voice which bids him search the sky For heavens to match the glory of his dreams. All hells and heavens within me lie. Why wait—a cringing slave of shibboleths, Standing supine with downcast eyes, Till shadows deepen and the heights are veiled? Wait? Nay—grasp as a sword thy will and rise. “All will be well,” I hear you say. So said the priest, our ancient foe, And said, “God lives on high.” He lied. All will be well when _We_ have made it so. “Strength will be given.” Again the knell To orisons and bended knee. The Gods Without are deaf. For well I know That I alone am God. The rods That scourge are mine. The goal is mine. I am the Path—who treads as one with me Its thorns shall see its roses blow. Come then my Soul—I will you to be free! The Gods “THEY are not dead, the young, strong Gods Who held our love in fee, When Life through all our pulses sang The paean of the free?” So sang the strong, sweet Comrade, in my heart, Whose garnered wisdom is the flower of lives And fruitage fair of tears and joys long past. That elder Self brought memories multiform With morning’s light, when, in a saffron sky, One lone, last star kept watch on high O’er woods tumultuous with the winds of night. Lean hands were stretched to bar my way In through the temple doors. My soul alarmed Looked to the fastenings of her house of clay Nor willed to spoil the splendour of her dream, Whose glory dimmed the light of day, now cast, Like largesse, o’er the waking world of men. A gleam of that high vision lingered still Throughout the passing hours that haply bore Their freight of common cares and joys. But no wind thrilled a trembling flower, And no bird gave his heart in song; No cloudlet threw a wandering, playful shade O’er grassy waves that ever rippling, run In curving lines o’er fields and meadows green, But held a portent sweet and strange— A sign that some young God was there. And still my Comrade whispered, “Lo! “They are not dead—though altar smoke No longer rises in the glade. Their fanes are builded in the hearts Which feel the beauty they have made.” I wandered where the church spires point Their thin, gaunt fingers to a God so high That He is hidden from the hungry eyes, Which seek His light, where heavenly light is none. Within stone walls where Darkness only dwells, A voice of those who wailed of sin and love Called lust, to Christ, who, broken, idly swayed Outstretched above his living dead who kneeled In serried rows, was borne through arched doors. A chill, gray fog, that froze both heart and brain, Gave body to that sound. Fear gripped my soul, When, lo!—the Comrade, by my side, who said, “They are not dead! for Life is Joy, Though shadows round it play. Sing—for the soul of things is clean And the gray Gods fear the Day.” My soul was fain to leave the marts of men And temples, where the soul grows blind and faint For lack of food; where Truth is ever on a cross, Built by the hands outstretched to Him in prayer; Where fawning crowds are fed on husks and strut In purple, dyed with tears and blood of men; Where Love, an outcast, wanders in the streets, Because, forsooth, she will not sell her soul For a priest’s hire to bless a marriage ring; Where children kneel for justice and mothers Hide, beneath a cloak of shame, the gift, Divine, that Love’s own hand hath wrought. I wandered far to where a spit of land outflung A slender arm, as if to clasp and hold The bright-haired Nereids, and the sun-drenched waves Crooned sleepily their song to ease my hurt. Straight from my feet to that far, fiery heart Of Being—that God, whose radiant breath Is life to all the world, a pathway burned, Inlaid with tracery of rainbow hues. The way Was strown with foam-flowers, roses born to crown Our Queen of Love, long since, in Paphian bays. The vision came—that inner voice was raised In trumpet tones that mingled with the seas, “They are not dead—the glad, red Gods Call from the earth and sky! Light casts a shade. The shadows pass. Sing—for the dawn is nigh.” The Retreat IN the garden of my soul, a still retreat, Bowered by a screen arboreal, hung With tapestries of flower and leaf, complete With the awed silence of eternity among The wheeling vortices of systems, manifold, Draws me at times within its secret hold. Here dwell no shadows of the outer world; No voice discordant in this place has sound; No serpent lurks beneath the rose unfurled; No lips pour venom in the hidden wound. Life’s harp, re-tuned, breathes, freed from strife, Harmonious echoes of a larger life. Here there is light when darkness, like a shroud, Is drawn across the mirrored space ’Twixt birth and death. Nor can the proud, Impassioned heart find in a human face One kindred ray which knows that Love is all, And only lives though lives as dead leaves fall. Through paths once brilliant with the light of day— Now a dim labyrinth of the soul,—apart, Staggering, I beat my breathless way With bleeding hands to this one haven of the heart, This place of peace, where dwells that Elder One, Ancient of Days, whose place is in the sun. Alone, within the shrine, I ease my pain, Spent with the struggle. Unseen hands Draw with light touch the fever from my veins; Felt but not seen, a Presence o’er me stands. Love whispers, “Till the worlds grow cold, Lo—I am with you and My arms enfold.” Wind, Rain and Sun WHEN I, the wind, have borne you in my flight On swift wings stronger than the mad desire Of cloud-wracks battling to obscure the height Whose snow-white summit, tipped with fire, Is herald of the dawn within your eyes, Of Love’s soft light, The torrent of my breath is curbed and dies, A whispered cadence on the edge of night. When I, the rain, have swept your circling snows Down dark ravines and tortuous, riven ways To gleam in sapphire spray where, flushed with rose, The cataract spills its wealth through golden days, Touching with magic wand the parched dust, My largesse flows To glad men’s hearts, my riches spent, song hushed, I softly fall, as dew, at evening’s close. When I, the sun, have driven through each vein My molten fire, have thrilled to vibrant life The embers of your high resolve to gain, And hold the visioned beauty ’neath the strife Of light and shade, my cleansing flame will cleave Through heart and brain— Yet in my last, long ray at nightfall leave A kiss, flower soft, upon the heart of pain. O sad, brown earth, if I with strength triune, Wind, rain and sun, had loved you not, indeed, No lure of spring had brought the plenilune Of summer noons; no flower had come to seed; No scarlet splendour robed your autumn hills— Your witching rune Which weaves its magic round my heart and fills My soul with song were stilled too soon. The Torch Bearers WE, earth’s youngest, sons of morning, Chant loud our paean of the days to be. Our daystar risen with us, as a warning, Bids souls rejoice—Our swords make free. Deep calls to deep and nation calls to nation; The centuries tremble at our exultation; Our red dawn lightens sky and sea. Woven of dreams and dead they thought us, Who feared our ancient might and fire, Which shone where gods, our leaders, taught us, Man may to their estate aspire. Time held us captive and our light was hidden From all men’s eyes but still unbidden, We were the flamens of a world’s desire. Conquered they called us and our words were treasons. God was to witness that our day was done. Nor knew they how the cycles shift or seasons Bring spring again to banish winter’s sun. Prison and gibbet, stake and sword availed not Nor curses veiled as prayers prevailed not. Through myriad lives our way is won. Life’s rich, red wine we pour to lighten Souls darkened by the sense of sin. Roses we plant the paths of men to brighten, Where languorous lilies pale had been, And chancelled aisles resound with songs forbidden. Hearts dead revive and joy, in cerements hidden, Springs forth to greet us ere the days begin. When soul shall wed the sense of things and leaven Earth with the essence of the flame divine, Life’s harmony complete—the mystic seven Full-throated strings, with chant sublime, Shall build another tower, on Shinar founded, Eternal, on the square deific, grounded, Secure, inviolate on that ancient sign. The Wall THY love is round me as a wall, Embattled by the days we both have known, Rapt from this iron age and stress of Fate, Gilded by dreams—cemented by the faith, Stronger than time or death, that Love Must win at last—that no rose bloomed in vain But left some soul the richer for its birth. Without these ramparts throng the winged hosts Of little lusts, ignoble thoughts and worthless deeds— Blind waves of seas o’erpast, which beat In helpless fury at the gates of life. Finding no entrance there, like withered leaves Seared by the crystal splendour of your love They drift and falling, mingle with their clay. Within, with folded wings, brood memories, More holy than the dawn of earth’s first day— For Love was, ere the worlds came forth— Strong-pinioned hopes there too abide, Patient but watchful of the hour to come When Life shall crown them and thy soul be free. The Opal BENEATH the chaste, white radiance of thy veil, Rose-tinted mysteries and slumbering flames Gleam hotly, through thick mists which, pale At first, are flushed with amethystine hues, Subtle as sunshine through the morning dews. Was it a memory or a dream which wrought This story visioned in thy clouded depths? Some magic curtain lifted and I caught, From out the moonlit space, a startled cry— The flash of white-winged feet across the sky, And Iris, loveliest of all the immortal throng, Fled, like a cloud, before an angry wind. In close pursuit, some red god, strong, A falcon from the shining lands above, Sped like a thought, on vibrant wings of love. Poised, for an instant, then, she stayed her flight O’er the abysmal deep. The god’s arm held Her fast. Joy conquered fear. Her light Form vanished, leaving undone the deed he planned. Her soul alone remained—a tear-drop in his hand, Which slipped and fell, a silvery thread of light, Piercing the blackness of that sheer abyss. Long ages passed. Time in its ceaseless flight Cooled the primeval fires. Then man and maid Walked in the gardens where the gods had played. To deck the carven shoulders of some dusky queen, Men searched for jewels. Their quest led where Mid black-ribbed rocks and folds of serpentine, An opal lay and held, by them unknown, The rainbow’s spirit prisoned in a stone. The Harp HARP of the spirit, through whose slender frame Flows all the harmony of star and sun, Beating upon thy silvern strings as flame, Blending the minor chords of self in one Sweet song of life— Footsteps of dreams fall not so soft upon The ear, when thro’ the glimmering doors of sleep We pass into the Unknown. Breath of summer dawn Flushing the sombre features of the deep With lambent gold, Steals not so gently o’er the sense as when A slight touch wakes thy soul which thrills To beauty, as the illumined hearts of men Are flooded by the light divine which stills Their quest for God. Grant me a master’s hand—a touch so light, The harp alone may sense my soft caress And whisper low love litanies of pure delight, The secrets lovers only know and may confess To naught save one. Grant me a master’s hand that I may sweep The sevenfold gamut of thy mystery To swell the chorus of the souls from sleep Awakened—triumphal paean of the deathless free Who know not fear. Immortelle FAIR immortelle, Flower of the gods, I hold you tenderly for fear A sunbeam snatch your soul Away and leave me standing here Wistful—alone. In some far land Love gave you birth, And now, within our coarser air, Unless Love watch you night and day You languish—lose your perfume rare, Droop low and die. Within my heart, No chilling wind May blight your beauty, no swift gleam Of passion’s lightning cut the silver cord ’Twixt heaven and earth and this my dream End in a sigh. Love, let us guard This flower of life, Lest here on earth it bloom no more For us but in some brighter sphere May mock us as a wandering flame before Our tear-dimmed eyes. The Devotee WITH head bowed low and silently, I stand Before the pure, white splendour of your love As if a presence from the shining Deva land Had paused a moment in her flight above Our lonely star and dipt, with wings alight, To earth, blazing a trail of glory through the night. So, in my youth, when passion’s tide rose high And burned like molten lightning in my veins, I stood, bare-browed, beneath a pulsing, sunlit sky— Stretched my two arms in agony. To ease my pain, Earth breathed her fragrance and her beauty wrought A miracle of peace, calm as an angel’s thought. The earth gods smiled, when, lying on the breast Of Mother Earth, I swooned—entwined My fingers in her tresses green and pressed My heart to hers—drank her sweet breath, and blind With ecstasy, I sought with fevered, groping hands, To free my soul, enchained with verdant bands. Nor was there less of ardour in the mood, When, by the swinging censer’s misty beams, I sought the carven face of Christ, who stood The long lost Avatar of ageless dreams, Pale, passionately pure as ancient snow-crowned heights Faint flushed by dawn’s first, trembling lights. Hurled by that urge titanic through the planes Of sentient Being, beyond the abyss of space, Sheer to the heart of life, I sought the One who reigns Within the silence, there, above the changing race Of gods, the Self, whose shadows are our nights and days, Whose light is darkness—we His far-flung, broken rays. And now, again, I see the face of Love divine In yours. The flame which, wing-like, rose to blend My spirit with its source, your soul and mine Binds with its fiery circlet. No prayer ascends More sacred than this swift and deep desire To light Love’s torch with passion’s primal fire. What Is This Love? WHAT is this love?—this great heart hunger like A hurtling sea welling for ever in the bounds Of my own universe, whose tide-rip sweeps Resistless through each tributary vein and breaks In baffled agony on the cruel rocks of circumstance? Receding, with sullen urge, in monotones, Chanting the battle-song of life, it flows Back to the centre of my being, whence it came. In the dim caverns of my soul it bides and broods, As wistful pain and god-like discontent. If, by some art divine, my soul could gain and hold The freedom of the universe, would this suffice? If in its father star that soul were merged, If like a mist of dreams this solid flesh, This round green earth, had faded in the night, Which is no darkness but the light divine Of truth eternal, would then this heartache cease? Nay—for if love within the smaller round Is one with life, then in the larger heart Of cosmos must that law be imminent— Divine diastole which peoples virgin fields With starry multitudes—receptacles of Love— Ministrants of the flame of life which lights The myriad sparks that fill the depths of space. Hold, then, thy chalice to my lips, O Love, And I will drain its bitter dregs and sweet Elation to the lees. Beauty divine beyond the ken Of mortal sense will blossom as a rose Within the labyrinth of thy circling thorns. The one sure haven from the battling storms Must be thine arms, since losing faith in thee Then God is not and life a foolish dream Spawned in the brain of some delirious Bacchanal. Superman UP through the mass, seething, inchoate, Whirled by blind winds of destiny From rim to rim of earth’s horizon, Out of the darkness rising, like plummets dropping Into the abyss of nothingness— Up through these forms of clay, who see the stars Reflected in the muddy pools of self, On wings of dreams, woven of sounds which haunt The silences beyond our utmost thought, We rise to know ourselves possessors of the hand We strove to clasp and which throughout the gloom Led us, unseen but felt, to meet the light. “For ye shall be as gods!” The universe a song Within our hearts, the word creative on our lips Shall cleave as lightning through the unpeopled space. The torrent of our swift desire shall build New worlds to wander through the mazes of our mind Until our hour of sleep when all shall cease. “For ye shall be as gods!” These smaller selves shall be Trodden as worms beneath the foot of Love So vast that there is no more mine or thine, Nor good nor ill, but only One Sublime Reality Within whose mighty hand is held aloft The candelabra of the stars and suns. As Gods! And yet what price is this To pay? Our heart strings rent in twain; Sweet uses of a human love denied; The scented chalice of the earth down-flung, Among the shards, we build our temples Without hands or noise of them who toil. Seeking a changeless love, beyond, beneath The form, we miss the eternal truth That man is god—that when two hearts attuned are one, The Word is flesh and all of heaven glows Within the crucible of earthly form. We are as gods! The Quest ASTRAL bells, ringing through the recesses of my brain— Always, I hear the eternal, questing wail Of humanity in travail. Disguised As the search for happiness, I hear the murmur Of human flies caught in illusion’s web. Beneath the staccato notes of syncopation, Lurking in the laughter of painted women, Hushed in the eyes of successful men, In the undertones of the city’s maelstrom,— Everywhere present, insistent as life, terrible as death, I hear this plaint of myriads groping Through a labyrinth of shadows. . . . . . . . . . . . Yet—it was but yesterday—a voice, Exultant, vibrant with wonderment and joy, Met my ear. The questing cry which haunted me Was stilled. What had he found—this man, Whose voice spelled peace and victory? His whispered secret is no secret now. “Last night, I worshipped at a holier fane Than temples built by human hands. Within The white enchantment of Love’s arms My quest was ended.—God and I were one.” Ad Astra STAR of my soul, whose beacon light Shines clear across Life’s stormy sea, Though tempests thunder through the night And day seems far, I turn to thee! Within my heart, a lambent flame, Life’s torch, love-lit, to answer thine, Burns day and night and will reclaim My kingdom and my right divine To know my very self—to stand Beyond illusions, in the light Ineffable, where God’s own hand Dispels all shadows from my sight. The long reeds shiver as the night Wind sweeps along the ancient Nile. Long since, it trembled with delight To kiss thy cheek, in Karnak’s pile. Thy starlight flamed through eyes again Which met my own through laurel boughs, That screened the gleaming, marbled fane Where gods smiled nightly on our vows. Thy roseate ray shone faint and dim Beneath a cloak of sombre due. Love, outcast, heard thy prayer and hymn, In cloistered aisles, beyond his view. Now, breaking through the gloom of skies, Storm-swept, I catch thy radiant gleam. The proud, sweet passion of thine ageless eyes Lights all my days and shines through every dream. As flame meets flame, or lightning’s chain Binds earth to heaven, sky to sea, Love blends our light. No more, in vain, Star of my soul, I turn to thee! The Crucible FRAGILE and fair as those ethereal shapes, We mould in dreams, a thought may break; I scarce dare breathe thy name for fear The vision pass and leave me in the dark. And yet, I saw a great tree stand Desolate and broken by the winter storms. Beneath, the melting snows revealed a strip Of cold, brown earth, whereon there bloomed A flower of spring—its golden cup upheld Unscathed—strong in its very tenderness. What God, by his own ecstasy inspired, Wrought this fair temple for the soul, Imprisoning light within this slender vase, As vintage meet to slake a thirst divine? Thy lithe, sweet body as a crystal, glows With Life’s own joy and tinted as the light, Etheric film that veils a new-born rose. Only when life’s red wine is touched by Love, Within this cup it burns, a clear, white flame, Fusing in god-rapt splendour, soul and flesh. Fragrance distilled from mossy, woodland glades, Where filtered sunshine drips through verdurous ways, Flows from thy presence as the radiant Breath That thrilled through Space, enkindling stars and sun. Soft magic of the heart’s desire, I feel the fall Of that light step ere yet thy face is seen, Send smothered lightnings through my every vein. All that sweet glamour of the Pan life felt In Dryad-haunted groves where murmurous waters Croon their ancient songs of forest love ’Twixt tangled, scented roots and mosses green— All this and more is in thy voice! These strange powers blent within This crucible of airy form, With Love and Will—the spirit’s ray— Make Beauty one with Strength— Fit dwelling for the God that is to be! The Trinity BODY and soul and spirit—triune mystery— Earth, moon, and sun of my delight, I love you as God loved his worlds, Brought into being from the primal night. No less the temple than the soul enshrined Draws me an acolyte without its gate To worship beauty which is more divine Made manifest by time and wingèd fate. In the soft labyrinth of your hair entwined Sense rapt in ecstasy lies bound, As one who roams Elysian meads, Fettered by fragrance and with roses crowned. One touch of your white hand holds all Of earth’s rich consciousness of life, Forever welling in the urge of spring— Mating and blossoming in eternal strife. Your lithe, sweet grace, your voice, your eyes Are magic which the earth gods know. The world is good and sweet this earth— Myself a god—I love you so. The temple fades—earth’s roses dimmed Fade in the light of rarer hues, Whose silvery lustre mocks the moon, Seen sparkling through the midnight dews. The tremulous beauty of the aerial shrine, Woven of joys and tears, high thought And passionate purity, a starry veil Hiding the spirit’s splendour caught Like sunbeams in a cloud, is yours, Dear Heart, and yet not you. ’Tis one more garment of divinity— Another veil—a wall where through My soul, iron-willed must pierce To reach you. Light and sound Are one. Silence is vocal as the choir Of angels at creation’s dawn. Around Me falls the darkness that is light— There in the void a hand on mine— A face—your face or God’s—at last I hold you—one with Life Divine! Spring I SAW spring coming in the hills, Her vanguard singing waters and the rout Of burgeoning alders, which like purple mist Flowed upward through the firs to where The long, cold fingers of the snow Still lay within the hollows. I saw spring coming in the hills Not as a maiden shy with footfalls soft As fleeting showers, but radiant, flushed With all the imperial beauty of the earth— Her eyes twin stars which burned With passionate ecstasy. No wavering light was she which played With woodland shadows but a lithe limbed Dancing Bacchanal, whose golden tide Of unbound tresses floated free— Her supple form rose tinted as the dawn On April skies. And as she passed the echo of her throbbing pulses Thrilled as music sweet within our hearts. The world became the shadow of the love light in her eyes. To Bliss Carman “_On the occasion of his visit to British Columbia, 1921._” WHY have you come to be with us— You, who were heretofore a voice, resonant with joy And the freshness of the morning? Is it, that being wiser than we, following Our Western star, you come, bearing your gift of songs To light on these great, pagan altars of the West, The ancient flame of passionate love for beauty, Knowing that here, where sunsets guard Our gateway to the seas and red gods dwell, Greek may clasp hand with Greek again? Mayhap, when you are gone, our eyes, unsealed, Shall see more clearly by the light you leave; Shall see Marsyas by our woodland rills; May glimpse thy children singing by our sea, Or hear Pan piping from our fir-clad hills. A. C. S. IF wandering through some silent forest aisle, A light wind stirred its tapestries of light and shade And woke the myriad voices of the leaves, which swelled To symphonies antiphonal—orchestral waves of sound, Which beat like winged hosts in mad, tumultuous flight Through the deep solitudes of space— If blent with this were heard sunbursts of song, Resplendent jewels of light divine and melodies As soft as dewdrops falling o’er the rimmed And curved chalice of a rose— Then might I know the lyric power which thrilled Through Swinburne’s heart and hand, Which gloom of English skies nor priestly ban Could still the while he sang In flawless music of the soul of man. The Lesser Loves SLIGHT petals from a full-blown flower Lie lightly on the clay. Frail wings of lesser loves grow faint In the strong light of day. A moment sweet—they turn to dust. We, lesser grown, have lost some gleam Of a high vision, known of old In some past age and yet no dream. Bodiless, these wings and incomplete, Can bear us nowhere. Their delight As brief as summer showers. They slake No thirst in their swift flight. Why do they leave us nauseate and weak, Still hungering for a surer sign, A rarer vintage, if we have not drained Somewhere—sometime—a draught divine? These lovely shadows bring but pain And memories of the golden love; We, having sensed the larger light, Sink hardly from the heights above. As Morn with crimson banner sweeps Pale Dawn from out her fields, To Love’s all conquering might, perforce, These passing passions yield. But broken fragments of a whole Are they, not Love, but wings, Which lacking, Love forever sits, Dull-eyed, nor ever sings. Why gods when we have known God? Why chains when we are free? Body and soul and spirit—One— Twin symbol of infinity. Ukelele Song WHILE the sleet with mail-clad fingers Taps upon the window-panes, Bleak winds bear the hymn of waters Cloistered in their icy fanes And the plaint of life comparing Winter’s loss with April’s gains. CHORUS: Hear, O hear, the sirens singing On a coral reef the rune Of the primal tide of passion, ’Neath a flower-soft, Southern moon! Star-eyed lilies, seaward swaying While in chorus gently croon Moonlit waves on sands of silver, “Sailor, must you go—so soon?” But the cold and creeping malice Of the snow-bound world without Finds no place where it can enter, For a wizard puts to rout All the legions of the frost-sprites While his magic throws about Our minds its mad enchantment As the ukelele’s strings Fling their silver rain of music. Fearful then, our fancy clings For a moment to the present Then flies out on rainbow wings, To the land of lotus blossoms And the lure of sunlit seas, Wrapping in their warm caresses Islets crowned with fronded trees And we hear soft voices singing Mingling with the perfumed breeze. And the golden, keen insistence Of the love notes softly shrilling Beat like fire from Kilauea Molten, maddening, swiftly thrilling Through the blood which sings in answer To the strain which brooks no stilling. In the night of tresses heavy With the lure of earth in spring Glow the red hibiscus blossoms And these rosy censers fling As of old the sweet enchantment Which seduced the hearts of kings. Fades the vision, but the throbbing Of the drums its message sings In the heart which beats in tune To the tide of life that springs From the crimson fount of passion In the ukelele’s strings. O, Love, My Love O, LOVE, my love that bloomed—a rose More fair than spring or sunlit skies Which fade into the dusk at day’s sweet close Much have I given thee as in me lies. White flowers of light and peace serene Beyond desire and life’s sharp pain; Red fruit of tears and passions keen As Death on Love’s own altar slain; The burning flush of youth; the strength Of age; the bitter tang of blood That beat resistless as the length Of ravening waves in spring’s wild flood; If these avail not—if Time yield not fair Return for all this splendid waste, Regrets are vain. At least my heart may share This dream and sleep by Death and it embraced. Understanding O, HEART of Mine, that even as God, doth hold My life within its own in sacred trust, How can you fail to know me as I am— A growing flame still flickering in the dust, But reaching still through darkness to the light Where gemmed by sunfire glows the height Clothed in the light that changes not—as night to us Who trim our lamps to suit our feeble sight? If Love as winged Desire, with thunders crowned And shod with fire, dread as His hidden Name, Should shake the pillars of the shrine we built Why wonder if the spark break into flame? Fear Life? Then strike through quivering flesh The nails that bind Love’s bleeding hands! Fear that this little passing phase of _you_ Be whelmed by waves on unfamiliar strands? Beneath this angry sea which erstwhile shone With light and laughter in the sun, Sharp-fanged rocks lie hidden, say you? True, but Love knows them every one. Fear loss of what? Of this small self which feeds On pain, which mocks the light you knew When God unveiled his glory in the hours When you gave all nor recked the cost to you? Love reckons not the cost but gives. Deny his swift demand—hold back aghast— He still must give his all nor deem aught lost— Ask no return—trust till the storm be passed! Via Crucis MORE cruel than death are you we love? Nay, Death were kinder, bringing respite from pain. You, whom we worship, laying at your feet, A kingdom wrested from the powers of night; Storming the gates of heaven that you may feast Your eyes upon the glories there; Pouring our heart’s blood to incarnadine Your marble flesh with youth and bring To bloom the rose of life where lilies pale Had matched the pallor of your cerements; Only to know, at last, the deadly thrust Of steel within our souls when Love Is slain by your lips—your mortal mind Discounts Reality nor grants the boon we sought. Blinded and faint we grope for our dead faith, For Love is God and if Love cease to be Then God is not—the battle vain, And we but dust blown by the careless winds Of chance and eyeless destiny. Why Do You Fear Me? WHY do you fear me— You who are bound by fear and walk in darkness, Woven by your own imaginings? Why do you shrink from me and ask, “Who is this man, whose measurements Cannot be taken by our rules?” Why do I stand alone— Even when you say, “I love you And though all should turn from you I still would understand and wait Within the shadows of your cross?” Because I know the Truth, which is As darkness to your purblind eyes— Because I paid the price—dared make mistakes— Held your pretence as meet for cowards, Stripped off your cloak of lies And walked with shameless feet Through paths forbidden, drunk with the wine Of dreams, scatheless and careless Of your tears or hate. The Pyre O LOVE! with pitiless eyes, which close not in sleep, Holding me fast in relentless embrace, as the night Ebbs wearily out, through the gates of the deep Silence of dawn, say, have I asked for respite Or fled from your terror or quaked at the force of your might, Knowing that darkness must merge into light And your fierce eyes grow tender—the face of my foe Shine with the morning, as an angel’s, whose flight Cleaves, like a scimitar’s splendour, my uttermost woe Baring the innermost joy by the strength of its blow? I have dared you to battle. I have laughed at your fears— Have bathed in your flames and emerged as a god, Re-born to his kingdom. Redeemed from your tears, I have trodden your thorns underfoot, in the sod, Whence roses shall spring and scatter their incense abroad, Till their breath, as a vapour suspired from the cave Of your oracle, wraps in a vision of mantic insight The dull brain of the sluggard. The heart of the slave Shall thrill as a hero’s who girds for the fight, And a new day shall rise, then, re-made from the ruins of night. As a captive, firm bound, I have knelt at your feet— Felt the sting of your lash—ate the bitter, red fruit Of insatiate desire—poured ichor and wine to complete The sacrifice meet for the goddess who mocked my pursuit— Giving words—empty symbols—would Heaven the blind god were mute! But now I can smile in derision of pitiful deeds, Wrought well to appease your unending desires. I can mock as you mocked me, watch your heart as it bleeds, Till the ashes of sorrow have smothered its fires, Which my touch had awakened. Your altars shall blacken as pyres! Had you loved as I loved you—held faith as I taught you to hold— No pain could have entered, no serpent have crept, Through the paths of our Eden, no dress soiled the gold Of the pure flame of passion, which erstwhile had kept The light on your altar, while, careless, the acolyte slept. Once again, ere I leave you, I point you the way to the goal— Offer jewels on your altar—redeemed from a life, Rapt godward for your sake, which, making you whole, Shall bring to you peace in the places where discord is rife, The wisdom found only in freedom—surcease from the strife. Would I hold you?—nay—answer the call of your clay— The self made of shadows, which shrinks from the light And, while you are sleeping—lo!—winged on his way Love leaves you alone, in the gathering night To feed on the pain you have cherished, through fear of his might! Loneliness PAST days are not dead days. I find In memory all of sheer delight, Counting again my jewels confined In that dim treasure-house of night. The wild, sweet rapture of the hours we knew— Promethean fire—doth life’s own lamp renew. Those days alone are dead which hear No sound of your endearing voice, Whose lyric spell with cadence clear Makes every quivering nerve rejoice, Breathing, like incense of the spirit, peace, Bringing from pain a sweet and sure release. Those days are dead which end in nights, Sphered in the blackness of a soul apart. Downcast, but hungering for remembered heights, Loveless within Love’s universal heart, I wake to know how One Lone Man could be A whole world’s symbol in Gethsemane. Gladness LAST night I saw my soul Struggling, in your hands— Soft, flower-like hands, whose grip of steel, Coiled, serpent-like, about its throat. I, who had given it to you to keep, Stood helpless. In agony, I closed My eyes. But, still, spell-bound, I saw White hands crushing a crimson rose, Which dripped warm blood—not only Mine but hers whose sacrifice Availed not. Again, I looked through Blinding clouds of pain. I saw Your lips move—heard laughter like a knife Stab through the darkness and a voice Which whispered “Gladness.” The Rose WANDERING, within the garden of the world, I found A matchless rose, whose chaliced splendour held The rarest wine—elixir of a life profound— Deeper than death’s abyss. Therein beheld I all my heart’s desire, mirrored in beauty keen As pain which as a sword’s swift stroke unveiled Glories as yet unseen, Before whose light Life’s morning sunshine paled. Light, errant winds with trembling touch caressed The blossom which, as if by fairy music swayed In rhythmic, dream-like measure, ere it sank to rest Between soft, scented coverlets of coolest shade, Pillowed on satin leaves to dream of golden bees— Soft, loving thieves who dared to filch a kiss, Hoping some naughty breeze Might bear the blame for them of this sweet, stolen bliss. Here sheltered from Life’s storms and dangers rude, My rose dwelt carelessly and no wind came Which dared to break her happy dream nor could The birds or bees find heart to breathe the name Of sorrow. “She is so lovely, it were shame,” sighed they, “That she should know what lies beyond this moss-grown wall. Beauty must be always For beauty’s sake, and harmless live whatever else befall.” But I, unwise, and deeming Beauty’s fairest boon Might be to make the world more glad, thro’ me, Reached forth and plucked this rose, in life’s high noon, Reckless as youth is ever—beneath a sunlit sea No reefs might lie, no rose might bear a thorn, And Love was but a name for God. Oh, heart of Youth, Wherein all dreams are born, Is life then but a cloud which veils the sun of truth? When for unending strife, thy soul, full-panoplied, Must face the night, methinks, thy tender rose Would scarce prove shield to meet thy urgent need. Proudly it grew within this garden’s quiet close, Bravely its bannered petals flew to meet soft, summer days. As gossamer upon its velvet lips, its promises were fair. Now time nor hope allays The pain where on thy breast it droops with languid air. The Snake’s Kiss IF I had placed you with the sun In heaven and crowned you queen, Gave you my soul to keep, and spun A glittering robe of golden sheen To clothe the shrine of hopes and fears My heart had built with fire and tears; If with strong hands I reached to God And placed you at His side, Above His hosts with white fire shod, Supremely fair, a stainless bride; Then gave my heart’s blood mixt with fire Quickening the ashes of your dead desire; If all my faith were centred in your name, The secret word of power to make Me know my godhead in the flame, White-lit, of love for your dear sake, And heaven bowed down to meet me in the hour When you were mine, held by Love’s tender power; If then your eyes grew hard, your voice a sword Which pierced my heart and slew The spirit’s flower and stayed the word On lips blanched white for love of you; If other hands defiled the sacred shrine Of this fair temple which was wholly mine; If you plucked down and trampled in the dust Of common things the jewel Of deathless love to ease some itching lust Or some pale fear—pity—or man-made rule; Would it suffice—nay—could it e’er be true— “This was the highest and the best for you?” Poor pitiful excuse! As well to say For Christ’s sweet sake you drove the nails Which pierced his bleeding hands, and pray With shining face and faltering lip which fails To hide the lie, that God may praise the deed, Knowing you failed Him in his hour of need. Adieux D’Amour LOVE was an outcast and you took Him in. Shed not a single tear. The stranger goes and in his stead That which the church calls love is near. Have no regrets. Your course is plain And safe the harbour where you lie. This storm will pass and charted seas Will gleam beneath a clearer sky. This force which thrills through throbbing veins, This power to bend the wills of men Is yours, dear heart. You gave me Life. I did not ask it now nor then. The gift is yours to take again When it shall please you. Be it so. Your hand may still the song and stay The tide that once it bade to flow. I shall not shrink, though in my heart This hunger gnaw from year to year. The Spartan’s cloak may now be mine— They will not know—you need not fear. Strike swift and sure and do not spare The life that burgeoned for your sake. But make it swift and in your face Be there no pity as you take Your own again. For Love is free And Life lives on through endless days. My rose you bade me cast away, Lo, in its place the sword that slays! The Rose of Life IN the dark night of time, A red ember of divine passion, Blossomed the Rose of Life. And yet the perfumed distillate of life, The potent essence of the primal fire, Breathes through our being, incarnate, In forms more perfect than the Rose of Heaven. The archetypal beauty gleams enshrined In temples built without the sound Of workmen’s hands upon the clay. No rose which blossomed in the fields Of earth, nor that celestial prototype Can match the splendour of the human flower. The larger seasons, cycling in their rounds Through shade and sunshine, brought to birth No fairer, sturdier growth. Clean as the winds Which sweep some lonely, frozen waste; Pure as the dew which wets the velvet lips Of sister flowers; strong as the fostering sun Whose rays dispel the legioned fears of night— Thy beauty is the mirror of a universe, Within whose glass we darkly glimpse All that we know of God or man. The Broken Rood A DOOR has closed. Along the empty corridors, The Mother’s footfalls cease and I am left Alone with God—the god, whom she, in gentler mood, Has said is Love. A moment since, her eyes Shone like twin points of deadly steel. Her lips’ thin curve, a poisoned blade Whose venom chilled the sources of my life, Has striven to murder Love and trample on the corpse Of hopes which dared to call upon His name. Hard-eyed and tearless, my body turned to stone, I feel the darkness of the convent cell Close with a vise-like grip upon my soul. The dead god on the carven cross I hold Knew, in Gethsemane, no darker hour. For I have given all—have loved a son of man Completely—have so blent his life with mine That all his clay, transfigured, shone like gold Cleansed in the crucible of my desire. I have so breathed on him that soul caught fire. My beauty sang within his heart and winged, Immortal dreams were born within his brain. Then, in his hand I placed the spirit’s sword To smite the ancient evil. I sent him forth a god. Yet, this is sin! The black-veiled Mother crushed The rose he gave me and, in its place, she pressed This crucifix within my hand, this wooden Christ Whose white face mocks my agony. Alone! Yet not alone, for God is everywhere And He is Love. No sparrow falls but its light death Thrills through the universal heart as pain. Long since, so long it seems a dream Of other lives, a child, my playmates Birds and flowers, two swallows came And nested in our cottage eaves. I watched them mating—saw their plumage glow With warmer hues as life’s red wine raced through Their aery forms and lent a beauty rare To each sweet curve of throat and wing. I saw the roses waft their wealth of gold From chaliced breasts to slake the soft desire Of other yearning hearts. Was this, then, sin? I know that I, a flower of human life, Grew, as the roses, passionately pure. The same sun filled by veins with fire; The same winds swept my body clean Of poison vapours and the dews which laved Their censers was the same clear flood Which cooled my limbs in many a crystal pool; The same life throbbed within my heart And hid soft, summer lightnings in my eyes. I knew that I was beautiful. Was this a sin? My mother, too, was lovelier than some And she, they said, had lured men’s feet astray In paths forbidden. That I might not incur Her curse, they placed me here, a bride of Christ. Of Christ? Nay—of this gaunt god impaled On a dead tree—for He was Love incarnate. And Love is strong and beautiful! I know, For I have loved, and this pale anchorite In this gray tomb, this pale-faced pietist Whose hands have slain the babe of Bethlehem, Blasphemes. My Christ is Lord of Life— A radiant angel in the sun whose rays Are all the myriad lives “He loves!” She ceased. Without the night wind rose. The lattice, Opening, let the moonlight flood the room With sudden glory. Beneath her feet Lay, crushed, the fragments of a broken rood. The Woman Heart O, HEART of woman, wistful as the sea Yearning in murmurous discontent below These cliffs, implacable as time and fate— I hear thee call. The moon of my desire Whose silvern fingers stirred thy sleeping tides Flames to a sudden splendour, red as that Which glides, full-faced, above the harvest hills. I would possess thee wholly—match the beat Of thy wild pulses with the primal rhythm Of the creative urge—bear thee aloft on wings Of crimson flame to where sense, fainting, blent With soul, and passion, freed, is one With the white light which men call God. The Magdalene IN the long vigils of the night, Pondering upon the mystery of pain, Standing aloof from my body Which lay tense and quivering Under the burning lash of desire, As stars, framed by the encompassing darkness, I saw the faces of women I have loved. And all, with crossed hands, heads bowed, Faces shining with an holy light, Gazed into my fevered eyes and smiling, passed, Whispering; “Never can we forget What you have done for us. To animate the cold ashes of our lives, We took the fire you gave and healed, With your tears and blood, our souls. You did us only good, nor marred The chaste ideal of our childhood’s dream.” Then, one by one, they looked into my eyes And passed—the darkness took them in. Again night’s curtain parted and disclosed A vision of the Saviour’s agony, Stretched between earth and heaven On a hill, whence all had fled. Within the shadow of the cross there knelt Two silent figures—women both. And one whose dark hair veiled His bleeding feet, lifted her face Towards me, Shining with no self-righteous light, But clear-eyed as the morning star. I knew her. She, too, had loved me— Had given, at times, for gold, the gift Withheld by others—more often still For love alone had healed my pain. Outcast, denied as He, her heart Was all men’s home. In His hour supreme God shared the glory of the Magdalene. Gladioli “PEACE upon earth, goodwill to men”— To a little wayside inn, Came troops of angels, bearing sheaves Of lilies, sweet as sin. With faces pale, in stoles of white, A meek and holy brood, Like fleecy clouds which hide the sun, Lilies and angels stood. The incense of their scented breaths Like clouds of vapour rolled, Hiding the Light which came to men In a mist of earthly gold. And still about His shrine they weave Their spell of unctuous peace. Their fragile hands have sapped the life Which meant a world’s release. Would that a flower of nobler mien Might blossom from the graves Of these gray anchorites—these gods Of sycophants and slaves— Some flower-like symbol of the word, “Not peace—a sword I bring. Take it and strike unceasingly Till Every man be king.” Flame from the dust of passion spent In the age-long questing strife, A crimson edge of swift desire To serve the common life! Give me a flower whose sex is clean As an offering mete for Him, Not the sickly sweet of cloistered vice Which drips from the lily’s rim. As if in answer to my need, Last night I saw you wear Gladiola’s scarlet sword of flame In the dark night of your hair. Twin Scrolls of Fate LOOK upward, heart of mine! The shaded depths Of eyes which bid my soul Stand hushed before thy passionate purity, Mysterious as the whole Ensemble of the night, the secret holds, As some illumined scroll, Of all which crowns man king of fate— The mystery of the Breath Whose power has conquered Death— The signet royal of his divine estate. Voices ALONE, head pillowed on the mother heart Of earth, I lay upon a starlit peak. From out the shadows of the great ravines Strange whispers crept which seemed to speak In runlets of enchanting rhyme Of secrets older far than time. Sibilant as restless waves on shores asleep, As rain on summer leaves or grass Beneath a sudden breeze, the voices rose And upward flowed. I heard them pass To mingle with the infinite And wistful silence of the night. And then I knew that many times, by day And night, within the city’s heart, alone, My ears had sensed this eerie murmuring From out the walls of brick and stone— Beneath the din of human strife The plaintive wail of prisoned life. For Life is One, though mind and senses reel Upon the steeps precipitous of time And, trembling, shun the deep abyss surpassed— The long, long road the soul must climb To touch the stars—a radiant god Born from a chrysalis of sod. And thus to every listening soul the beat Of angels’ wings is audible as life Strains at its bonds of clay and yearns For the lost freedom. The endless strife And hunger for the hidden light Is voiced in whispers of the night. Scarlet and Gold—The Maples OF poppies red our poet sang, from Arras to the sea And gleaming Through our dreaming Their crimson hosts must flow. The violets pale in English lanes, the daisies on the lea Have stirred in lyric chorus And cast their glamour o’er us— Have bound us with the magic of their storied minstrelsy. The music of the motherlands Although it haply stayed our hands Our heart it cannot know. There is a story written no art can ever name And golden As of olden The fiery heralds run. Across the fields of Canada we trace their path of flame Within the dim translucent haze, The mellow mood of autumn days, We catch the regal glory which outvies the elder fame Of all the flowers of fairyland— The gold and scarlet saraband Of maples in the sun. To pagan eyes in Arcady before the break of day How fleetly And sweetly Like music on the wind The footfalls of a dancing faun, as light as silver spray Turned all to gold the living green. And yet within our glades is seen The writing of the exiled gods who came from far away To see, perchance, if there might be Where singing waters meet the sea, A country to their mind. In crimson robes and golden, here flits our forest queen Winging And singing— A rainbow in a dream. Her smile is even sweeter where the firs in sober green Stand guard beside her flaming car. We once had sight of her afar Beneath the blue Aegean skies, where in the iridescent sheen Of sunlit bays, her snowy doves, Were driven by soft winged loves Adown the sea-blue stream. The laurels of the southland inspire the classic theme Clinging And bringing The soul of Hellas back to birth, A chaste and solemn pageantry to gild a fading dream. The maples stir a deeper tide, For they in gold and scarlet ride. The vanguards of a greater race, their blood-red banners stream As in the white dawn of the world, The red gods from the sky were hurled To build a heaven on earth. In the Pass ACROSS the riven breast of earth we gazed In silent wonder at the adamantine towers Whose snow-clad battlements and mist-filled moats Gleamed like the fabled halls of Camelot, Titanic splendours of a wizard’s dream. Beauty and strength, twin flames of deity, Touched with their pentecostal fire the hills In ages past and yet within their visage glowed The glory of the enraptured hour when born From the dark womb of space they reached With giant hands towards the heavens Leaning maternal o’er their cradled forms. Beauty and strength as yet in these gray crags Unconscious lay as once Enceladus, entombed, Slept in the dim embrace of Aetna’s heart. And yet—their frozen majesty held no such power As the warm pressure of your hand in mine. The lustre of your unbound hair held more Of magic to enchant the soul of man Than all the blind, unwitting loveliness of earth. Sunset Trail WITH dying fires of sunset flushed, The serried rows of windows shone Like flaming cressets on the face Of some grey citadel of stone. The city streets, transfigured, caught The radiance from the sun-god’s throne. Nor could they know—this purblind crowd Which passed along the golden way, The stones beneath their feet were jewels, The walls on either side not clay But jacinth, amethyst and pearl— The spoils of Ind and old Cathay. And out beyond the farthest wall, Westward, the regal pathway went To where, upon the round world’s rim, Symbol divine from heaven sent, Within the sky’s clear crucible Were fire and water strangely blent. Water and fire, the primal pair Whence sprang the starry hosts of space, Mother and sire of aeons vast Born from their omnipotent embrace Here meet again. What new shapes rise? What heralds of the coming race? Through this last gateway of the west A mighty impulse streams. In this fair mountain land whereon The old day, dying, gleams While nations sleep, her young men walk The sunset trail of dreams. And ever the voice of them singing Flows eastward on the wind Through lonely mountain passes, O’er plains they crossed to find Spaces in which to break and lose Their gods grown gray and blind. Their feet are on the snow-clad heights. Their eyes perceive the whole. Sloughing the tattered rags of creeds, The chains which bind the soul, Following the sun’s path westward March the young men to their goal. At the trail’s end they shall gather The gold from the shining sea. From woof of dreams and warp of deeds, In their stalwart hands and free Shall grow the garment of beauty mete For the age that is to be. Man—The Creator WHO are ye who would bind him with fetters, Whose might is the measure of time, Whose fire fashioned gods to his liking From the depths of his infinite mind And builded their fanes for his pleasure And gilded their brows with his treasure? ’Tis ye who are blind! For your ears have been deaf to the footfalls Of the ages which guarded his growth. Ye prated of clay and the potter—lo, He whom ye slighted was both. Though the dust of your withering creeds Would clothe him with sackcloth and weeds, Of your gods he is loth. The form which ye draped with derision And smirched with the kiss which betrayed Was the holy of holies—yet ye wander unshriven And ask where your Saviour was laid. With the rags of dead creeds you have hidden The sun from your eyes but unbidden He mocks at your shade. In the shock of the tempest, the flash of the levin, Red glories of sunsets, the waves of the sea, In the crisp of a leaf or the kiss of a petal Ye sought the impress of a god who might be Your sign of salvation—an imminent glory Revealing in nature the time-worn story Of truth which makes free. In _Man’s_ eye sits the lightning of god-like decision; In his voice the tumultuous song of the spray; Through the prism of passion the ray of his willing Glows rich as the crimson red rose of the day. Earth, sea and sky hold no sign nor a token Of beauty more potent than this the unbroken Bright spell of his sway. Long have ye toiled, but in vain, to enfold Him In houses of cedar most wondrously wrought. In marble and rosewood ye sought to imprison The god who was born of your innermost thought. And the bells of His temples are pealing In vain o’er the worshippers kneeling To a power which is naught. Blind multitudes, lift up your faces, For the god ye have sought is not dead. In _your_ hands are the prints of the nails And the thorns have encircled _your_ head. Not marble but flesh is the temple—the crown Of the kingdom is yours—nay—bow not down— For _Man_—the _Creator_—is _God_! The Gypsy Star DANCING adown the highroad of the stars Which move in sombre measure through the night Comes this dear gypsy, with her face ashine With joy of life—a winsome, wayward sprite. And all these solemn chroniclers of time, Stern as grave elders in their carven seats, Bend frozen faces o’er their folded hands As through their aisles her dainty footfall beats. O gypsy star, fleet, wandering flame of life, A quest I have for you this night! Somewhere She sleeps whose soul was born of yours, Winged with eternal youth, white fire and air. Sometimes the radiance of the inner light, Starborn, is lost in earthly mist. At times the song of life is stilled Until her lips again of love be kissed. Fold thy bright wings, O sister star, and then, Kneeling beside her, touch her as a breath Lightly, and let thy heart and hers be one. For she was not born to taste of death. Tell her that she is light and life and love, Immortal, kindred of the flowers and sun, Her soul a dancing flame, a ray of purest joy. Till time be not, her star and she are one. The Troubadour IN swift processional, flung by the inner light Upon the retina of time, I see them pass. Gay cavalcades, with clashing harness, panoplied With gold and crimson, pennants fluttering From clustered spears, the glint of dauntless eyes Behind barred helmets and the pungent scent Of sweating steeds commingled with the dust And trampled roses on the hard won field, Onward they sweep, a pulsing scarlet wave Of life triumphant, as with loud acclaim They hail, enthroned on high in silken pride, The Queen of Beauty and all-conquering Love. To-night, I too, would crown her Queen, Plucking the priceless jewel of victory From the closed teeth of pain and then, On wings more swift than barbéd steed, Would scale forbidden heights, unbar The gates of heaven, and spurning fate, Lay all the starry kingdoms at her feet. Syncopation ELATION— Syncopation! Ah! sweet the bells of freedom pealing, In lyric love-notes softly stealing Through the tomb Of ages gray! The creeping doom We weave to-day Of priest and king, of cross and crown. Elation— Syncopation! The throbbing hum of drums which beat Across the level waste of sand Where brown-red limbs like copper gleam In wild abandon—saraband Of dusky green, Of brown, Of blue! The faint, far tinkle of a bell— A star Above the palm-fringed pool— A crash! A flare of murky red— The shadows of a forest limned Against a wind-whipped sky, The tom-tom’s muffled thud— The pale-face priest must die! A shriek! Within the gloom, Great ape-like forms Struggling, writhing! Elation— Syncopation! Light—floods of light, White light! The song of birds, of silver streams, Runlets of golden sound, Laughter of rain on thirsty leaves, Life—life and love! Roses— A shower of crimson fire— Fleetly, Sweetly. In a garden of dreams Is woven the garland of hopes and fears To circle the heart of youth— A palace of wonderful, wistful gleams And visions of truth— Forsooth! A dream, you sigh, And all dreams must die. Then, love of mine, in your soft, white arms Shield me from death and this— A kiss, A laugh, A shout, A rout Of gray gods driven Through flames, unshriven, Of Man their Maker. Shatter the shrines of pain— Strike Death! Dare Hell! The heavens are red— The glory of morning nigh! Christmas—1922 THREADING the labyrinth of the city streets, The channelled aisles of brick and stone, The silvery echoes of the Christmas chimes Tell us once more that Christ is born. Not that gaunt shape of gloom, emasculate, Stricken by Death’s pale hand, Which hangs supine above the heads Of these, Thy blinded worshippers— Not that dark shadow cast across The chill tomb of the years wherein They prisoned Thee, O Mighty One, Would my heart seek to-night; But Thee, the perfect rondure—all Of greatness in man’s utmost dreams Of strength and beauty—Risen Sun Of manhood’s might sublime! Radiant Thy form—Thy flesh no less Than soul shot through with light Beyond the gleam of our dim, earthly lamps— With fire of godhood crowned, Yea, Thou art God. Yet God we feel But in the ray reflected here From the great Central Sun. It helps Us more to know that Thou art man. Master of Fate, of Life and Death, In this sad time which knows not Thee, Grant us the wisdom, power and love To bear Thy torch as free men may! The Awakening IN the tangled gloom of forests, Through the neolithic slime, Blind and with groping fingers, We searched in that olden clime For the gleam of a hidden wonder Lost in the web of time. Kin of the mindless monsters Who slew in the misty fen The dinosaur and mammoth, Our forms were those of men But because we knew not Beauty Our souls were sleeping then. Within that primal darkness Brooded a memory dim Of light and love and laughter When on the morning’s rim The stars had sung in chorus Creation’s wakening hymn. At times our ears were quickened And we sent a quavering cry To the ghost who flitted by us, A shadow on our sky. Within our caves we chattered As the Presence passed us by. And for many days thereafter Our eyes could sense the light. Our awkward tongues grew sweeter. We tarried in our flight As a music long forgotten Came trembling through the night. Our hearts grew soft with anguish And the flame of hot desire To gaze once more with open eyes On the splendour of the fire Of Beauty and to hear again The message of her lyre. Ensouled by Her, we dimly felt We need not fear to die. Up through the cloudy silence Under the smouldering sky Our grimy hands beseeching Were stretched to God on high. Then Beauty touched our eyelids And lo! the veil was torn Which hid the ageless wonder And in our hearts was born The song which lifts us skyward To greet the rose of morn. And man, the uncouth creature Of bloody fang and claw Knew that his soul—immortal— Would thence forever draw Its strength from Love and Beauty Beneath the ancient law. A Song of Swords WHEN manhood was a crimson flower And Love and Beauty queens on earth, Honour and courtesy the dower Were held to be of highest worth. Grant us again an age of men When swords are mightier than the pen! When cravens yield a facile pen And cowards hide behind the law; When weakness struts in sight of men And boldly wields its rod of straw— Grant us, O God, our swords again— And more—to hold them, send us men! When Love is crucified for gold, When lies are currency of life, When human souls are bought and sold And priestly platitudes are rife— Send us red war to make men feel The cleansing song of steel on steel! The virus in a cleric’s soul May taint the hidden springs of life. Words are but fragments of the whole Truth lost amid the pious strife. Send us the sword—the first, white light Which cleft the primal heart of night! Symbol of that enduring Will Whose purpose through the ages ran, Thy hymn of battle soundeth still As freedom in the soul of man. Grant that we hear again, O Lord, The ringing song of sword on sword! Drunk and Disorderly “Drunk and disorderly—two broken panes Of costly glass which formed a colored screen In the main entrance to the Mayor’s house— He will not give his name? Back with him To the prison cell. Ten days of breaking stone May cool his insolence! The next case, please!” The portly pillar of the law, inflamed To wrath plethoric, wagged his bullet head. The prisoner stared with red rimmed eyes Which did not know or care. Meanwhile— A hand upon his shoulder and a voice, “This way!”—then the creaking rasp and clang Of bolts and hinges. He was alone again. And while from where he lay he strove to count The golden motes in a stray beam of light Which fell across his cot, the door unclosed, Let in a friend, a chum of boyhood’s days. The spotless linen, fur-tipped coat, the gloves, All spoke of comfort and of well-fed ease. The prisoner’s eyes remained entranced By the mad dance of whirling atoms Drunk with the sunbrewed summer wine. Like running waters in a dream he heard His friend’s mellifluous monotones recount The shame that he, a model husband, father, man Of virtue, rich, respectable, should so disgrace His friends by this unwonted madness, shocking Their feelings, making a nine day’s scandal—“Yes! Yes! Too bad, indeed!” He heard the scathing condemnation to the end Then answered, and by some strange inward force His broken body met the need for power To point his words:— “A child may dream but in his palace walls Built of thin moonshine and translucent dew If there appear the reflected image of his nurse The walls will crumble and the vision cease, And we, who pride ourselves as sane and men Put by our dreams, bar fast the prison doors Of hidden hopes and glories. In our hearts The boy, who sought the gleam of high emprise Sits mourning by his dead until the end of life Bring freedom from the bonds of fear. “You know, or mayhap, have forgot, in quest Of other baubles, baser coin, the wondrous time When, children both, we shared a common round Of tears and sunshine. I think you never knew The hidden world of fancy where as king I ruled my legioned elves, ethereal sprites Whose wands at will unlocked the golden doors To gardens, dim and cool, where gleamed By diamond-tinted fountains, flowers of hue More brilliant than the fleeting rainbows traced In tremulous beauty o’er the shining hills. Then, as the man quickened in the boy, Came shining visions of a queen, who rode A milk-white charger down the forest aisles To touch whose soft, white hand was heaven For him, the page, who followed her afar Hoping some danger dark might spring to light That he might die to save her. “Again, at times, the same fair face would bend Above his couch. Her golden hair unbound Swept her white shoulders in a silken shower As perfumed tresses brushed his burning cheek Searing, as if white flying flakes of fire Had touched him suddenly to wakefulness. And all his days were sweet with thoughts of her. From trees and flowers her beauty called to him. Her voice was in the song of birds, her eyes Shone in the sunset and the rays of dawn. Song stirred within his heart, in broken rhymes He sought to catch the music of her grace. His will grew strong and life the lists Where he might conquer evil for her sake. “So dreamed the boy of Love whose power Could wed his soul with God and truth. The man did as the world requires— Worked in accustomed grooves, amassed The perquisites of place, wealth, houses, lands, A name which banks accepted on a paper scroll. And then to cap the measure of propriety he sought A wife to bear him heirs, to grace his bed and board. And she, the bride, was young and beautiful, as mete To fill the honored place, of being owned and fed By one the world had deemed a proper man. Think not I speak with bitterness. She was all That good wives should be, faithful, quick To meet the needs which all men feel For creature comfort. When tired she brewed him drink Fetched his furred slippers and a padded chair, And, when his passion called, she gave herself Complacently—as when he called for tea. And so he might have lived and died. But wealth Brought leisure and his mind, long used To measure merchandise alone, was turned To books and art. The dreamer bound And gagged within him broke his rusty bonds. Once more the vision and a glory seen— Of Love which fed men’s hearts and souls Gleamed from the page and canvas where Inwrought were dreams immortal and his days And nights were haunted by a doubt— A hideous doubt—which shook with bony hands The pillars of his house and mocked and gibed Him as he trod the daily mill of life. Houses and lands, a bank account, a car, The unctuous praise of those who merely craved His friendship as a rung on which to mount The social ladder—and she—whose presence irked Save when he hungered bodily—this—this Was the measure of his manhood’s might? He who had dreamed of noble deeds, of victories Won in the realms of questing thought, of forms Of beauty moulded to uplift the souls Of other men, a life poured out like sacrificial wine To bring to light the latent God in man! And She—his boyhood’s queen, the flower of womanhood Whose voice thrilled all his thoughts to music, Whose gift of love meant strength and will To all high deeds, whose touch transmuted flesh To spirit and ensouled his clay with beauty— Where was She? For he knew She lived, Still waited for him somewhere while he strayed And wallowed in the mire of earth. “Could this have been—could he have met Her here Incarnate in sweet human flesh, how then Would life have blossomed as the Rose of Heaven! “Something within him snapped. A crown Of fire was pressed upon his brows. Thorns of flame Reached in and slew the god in him. Friend, I know that it was weak—unworthy! You do not know the blinding pain of hearts Hungering for the white light of Love beyond The damned inconsequence of human life! “No! Yet I have heard you say that God is Love!” The Call of the Hills ACROSS a strip of water Bright as a bluebird’s wing, The hills are calling, calling, Sweet with the lure of spring, And the voices of a thousand streams Through all my fancies sing. Heart of the hills, I hear you! Your systole divine, In pulsing waves of green and gold Merging song in sunshine, Is sound in color written By mightier hands than mine. And as a bird imprisoned Beats with impassioned wings In vain against its iron cage, My eager spirit springs To meet the primal call of earth And the spell of growing things. The magic of the windswept heights Soft-veiled in clinging mist Where, dark-robed brides of sun and air, The firs, by morning kissed, Shine like the trooping dryads who Go dancing as they list; The face, gray-scarped, of ancient walls Heaved by the Titan’s hands, Seamed by the frost of passing years, Where the lone outpost stands— A tumbled fragment, stark and grim, Of strange, forgotten lands; The shadows blue and dim which fold The secrets of the deep Fraught silences of canyons dark Where murmuring waters sleep Tangled in mosses cool, where through Their silver runlets creep; The laughter of the wildering rout Of racing, madcap streams Which leap from ledge to ledge in glee Like myriad dazzling gleams Of wondrous golden light which pierce The darkness of our dreams; The soft caress of velvet lips Of wild flowers blowing free; The tender touch of folded leaves, The fingers of a tree; The warm, rich perfume of the earth; Her sweet maternity— These are the voices crying, The beckoning hands which call From out the hills at daybreak. Their soft enchantments fall Luring my feet to wander— My heart to meet them all. The Broom (_Beacon Hill Park, Victoria, B.C., April, 1923_) I SAW God in a golden cloud Of broom upon the green Of hills whereon His breath awoke Music of choirs unseen. Our dull, insensate ears can catch No echo of the song divine Which thrills the heart of Being ’til, In color clothed, the voices shine. Then, robed in green and gold, the earth Is vocal. Symphonies outswell From every wayside hedge. The rocks’ Scarred lips intone a canticle. “Awake!” the voice of Beauty cries In words of rippling fire. A million fragrant blossoms bend In answer to her lyre. And we, who see the writing traced, Know that a hand is there Which, clasping, we may be akin To earth and fire and air. [Illustration] TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. [The end of _The Rosary of Pan_ by Alexander Maitland Stephen]