Part 17

And I think of the hands that signal The hours there in the gloom, And wonder what angel watchers Wait in the darkened room.

And I think of the smiling faces That used to watch and wait, Till the click of the clock was answered By the click of the opening gate.--

They are not there now in the evening-- Morning or noon--not there; Yet I know that they keep their vigil, And wait for me Somewhere.

THE IRON HORSE

No song is mine of Arab steed-- My courser is of nobler blood, And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, And greater strength and hardihood Than ever cantered wild and free Across the plains of Araby.

Go search the level desert land From Sana on to Samarcand-- Wherever Persian prince has been, Or Dervish, Sheik, or Bedouin, And I defy you there to point Me out a steed the half so fine-- From tip of ear to pastern-joint-- As this old iron horse of mine.

You do not know what beauty is-- You do not know what gentleness His answer is to my caress!-- Why, look upon this gait of his,-- A touch upon his iron rein-- He moves with such a stately grace The sunlight on his burnished mane Is barely shaken in its place; And at a touch he changes pace, And, gliding backward, stops again.

And talk of mettle--Ah! my friend, Such passion smolders in his breast That when awakened it will send A thrill of rapture wilder than E'er palpitated heart of man When flaming at its mightiest. And there's a fierceness in his ire-- A maddened majesty that leaps Along his veins in blood of fire, Until the path his vision sweeps Spins out behind him like a thread Unraveled from the reel of time, As, wheeling on his course sublime, The earth revolves beneath his tread.

Then stretch away, my gallant steed! Thy mission is a noble one: Thou bear'st the father to the son, And sweet relief to bitter need; Thou bear'st the stranger to his friends; Thou bear'st the pilgrim to the shrine, And back again the prayer he sends That God will prosper me and mine,-- The star that on thy forehead gleams Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.

Then speed thee on thy glorious race! The mother waits thy ringing pace; The father leans an anxious ear The thunder of thy hooves to hear; The lover listens, far away, To catch thy keen exultant neigh; And, where thy breathings roll and rise, The husband strains his eager eyes, And laugh of wife and baby-glee Ring out to greet and welcome thee. Then stretch away! and when at last The master's hand shall gently check Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, The world will pat thee on the neck.

DEAD LEAVES

DAWN

As though a gipsy maiden with dim look, Sat crooning by the roadside of the year, So, Autumn, in thy strangeness, thou art here To read dark fortunes for us from the book Of fate; thou flingest in the crinkled brook The trembling maple's gold, and frosty-clear Thy mocking laughter thrills the atmosphere, And drifting on its current calls the rook To other lands. As one who wades, alone, Deep in the dusk, and hears the minor talk Of distant melody, and finds the tone, In some wierd way compelling him to stalk The paths of childhood over,--so I moan, And like a troubled sleeper, groping, walk.

DUSK

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day Into the dusky forest-lands of gray And somber twilight. Far, and faint, and high The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry Sad as the wail of some poor castaway Who sees a vessel drifting far astray Of his last hope, and lays him down to die. The children, riotous from school, grow bold And quarrel with the wind, whose angry gust Plucks off the summer hat, and flaps the fold Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.

NIGHT

Funereal Darkness, drear and desolate, Muffles the world. The moaning of the wind Is piteous with sobs of saddest kind; And laughter is a phantom at the gate Of memory. The long-neglected grate Within sprouts into flame and lights the mind With hopes and wishes long ago refined To ashes,--long departed friends await Our words of welcome: and our lips are dumb And powerless to greet the ones that press Old kisses there. The baby beats its drum, And fancy marches to the dear caress Of mother-arms, and all the gleeful hum Of home intrudes upon our loneliness.

OVER THE EYES OF GLADNESS

"The voice of One hath spoken, And the bended reed is bruised-- The golden bowl is broken, And the silver cord is loosed."

Over the eyes of gladness The lids of sorrow fall, And the light of mirth is darkened Under the funeral pall.

The hearts that throbbed with rapture In dreams of the future years, Are wakened from their slumbers, And their visions drowned in tears.

. . . . . . . Two buds on the bough in the morning-- Twin buds in the smiling sun, But the frost of death has fallen And blighted the bloom of one.

One leaf of life still folded Has fallen from the stem, Leaving the symbol teaching There still are two of them,--

For though--through Time's gradations, The LIVING bud may burst,-- The WITHERED one is gathered, And blooms in Heaven first.

ONLY A DREAM

Only a dream! Her head is bent Over the keys of the instrument, While her trembling fingers go astray In the foolish tune she tries to play. He smiles in his heart, though his deep, sad eyes Never change to a glad surprise As he finds the answer he seeks confessed In glowing features, and heaving breast.

Only a dream! Though the fete is grand, And a hundred hearts at her command, She takes no part, for her soul is sick Of the Coquette's art and the Serpent's trick,-- She someway feels she would like to fling Her sins away as a robe, and spring Up like a lily pure and white, And bloom alone for HIM to-night.

Only a dream That the fancy weaves. The lids unfold like the rose's leaves, And the upraised eyes are moist and mild As the prayerful eyes of a drowsy child. Does she remember the spell they once Wrought in the past a few short months? Haply not--yet her lover's eyes Never change to the glad surprise.