Afterwhiles Part 4

And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you-- O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return--,

Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes--.

Mild and gentle, as he was brave--, When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things--: Where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to,

The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed:

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain--.

Think of him still as the same, I say: He is not dead-- he is just away!

_Who Bides His Time_

Who bides his time, and day by day Faces defeat full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay, However poor his fortunes be--, He will not fail in any qualm Of poverty-- the paltry dime It will grow golden in his palm, Who bides his time.

Who bides his time-- he tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltest tear; And though he fares with slowest feet, Joy runs to meet him, drawing near; The birds are heralds of his cause; And like a never-ending rhyme, The roadsides bloom in his applause, Who bides his time.

Who bides his time, and fevers not In the hot race that none achieves, Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought With crimson berries in the leaves; And he shall reign a goodly king, And sway his hand o'er every clime, With peace writ on his signet-ring, Who bides his time.

_From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay_

A troth, and a grief, and a blessing, Disguised them and came this way--, And one was a promise, and one was a doubt, And one was a rainy day.

And they met betimes with this maiden, And the promise it spake and lied, And the doubt it gibbered and hugged itself, And the rainy day-- she died.

_Laughter Holding Both His Sides_

Ay, thou varlet! Laugh away!

All the world's a holiday!

Laugh away, and roar and shout Till thy hoa.r.s.e tongue lolleth out!

Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine eyes Unto bursting; pelt thy thighs With thy swollen palms, and roar As thou never hast before!

l.u.s.tier! Wilt thou! Peal on peal!

Stiflest? Squat and grind thy heel-- Wrestle with thy loins, and then Wheeze thee whiles, and whoop again!

_Fame_

1 Once, in a dream, I saw a man, With haggard face and tangled hair, And eyes that nursed as wild a care As gaunt Starvation ever can; And in his hand he held a wand Whose magic touch gave life and thought Unto a form his fancy wrought And robed with coloring so grand, It seemed the reflex of some child Of Heaven, fair and undefiled-- A face of purity and love-- To woo him into worlds above: And as I gazed with dazzled eyes, A gleaming smile lit up his lips As his bright soul from its eclipse Went flas.h.i.+ng into Paradise.

Then tardy Fame came through the door And found a picture-- nothing more.

2 And once I saw a man alone, In abject poverty, with hand Uplifted o'er a block of stone That took a shape at his command And smiled upon him, fair and good-- A perfect work of womanhood, Save that the eyes might never weep, Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep, Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist, Be brushed away, caressed and kissed.

And as in awe I gazed on her, I saw the sculptor's chisel fall-- I saw him sink, without a moan, Sink life less at the feet of stone, And lie there like a wors.h.i.+pper.

Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, And found a statue-- that was all.

3 And once I saw a man who drew A gloom about him like cloak, And wandered aimlessly. The few Who spoke of him at all, but spoke Disparagingly of a mind The Fates had faultily designed: Too indolent for modern times-- Too fanciful, and full of whims-- For talking to himself in rhymes, And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, The idle life to which he clung Was worthless as the songs he sung!

I saw him, in my vision, filled With rapture o'er a spray of bloom The wind threw in his lonely room; And of the sweet perfume it spilled He drank to drunkenness, and flung His long hair back, and laughed and sung And clapped his hands as children do At fairy tales they listen to, While from his flying quill there dripped Such music on his ma.n.u.script That he who listens to the words May close his eyes and dream the birds Are twittering on every hand A language he can understand.

He journeyed on through life unknown, Without one friend to call his own; He tired. No kindly hand to press The cooling touch of tenderness Upon his burning brow, nor lift To his parched lips G.o.d's freest gift-- No sympathetic sob or sigh Of trembling lips-- no sorrowing eye Looked out through tears to see him die.

And Fame her greenest laurels brought To crown a head that heeded not.

And this is Fame! A thing indeed, That only comes when least the need: The wisest minds of every age The book of life from page to page Have searched in vain; each lesson conned Will promise it the page beyond-- Until the last, when dusk of night Falls over it, and reason's light Is smothered by that unknown friend Who signs his nom de plume, The End.

_The Ripest Peach_

The ripest peach is highest on the tree-- And so her love, beyond the reach of me, Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes bow Her heart down to me where I wors.h.i.+p now!

She looms aloft where every eye may see The ripest peach is highest on the tree.

Such fruitage as her love I know, alas!

I may not reach here from the orchard gra.s.s.

I drink the suns.h.i.+ne showered past her lips As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips.

The ripest peach is highest on the tree, And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly.

Why-- why do I not turn away in wrath And pluck some heart here hanging in my path--?

Lover's lower boughs bend with them-- but, ah me!

The ripest peach is highest on the tree!

_A Fruit Piece_

The afternoon of summer folds Its warm arms round the marigolds,

And with its gleaming fingers, pets The watered pinks and violets

That from the cas.e.m.e.nt vases spill, Over the cottage window-sill,

Their fragrance down the garden walks Where droop the dry-mouthed hollyhocks.

How vividly the suns.h.i.+ne scrawls The grape-vine shadows on the walls!

How like a truant swings the breeze In high boughs of the apple-trees!

The slender "free-stone" lifts aloof, Full languidly above the roof,

A h.o.a.rd of fruitage, stamped with gold And precious mintings manifold.

High up, through curled green leaves, a pear Hangs hot with ripeness here and there.