xt7jdf6k162v https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7jdf6k162v/data/mets.xml Noe, Cotton, 1864-1953. 1917  books b96-8-34457013 English R.G. Badger, : Boston : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Loom of life  : Cotton Noe. text Loom of life  : Cotton Noe. 1917 2002 true xt7jdf6k162v section xt7jdf6k162v 




         THE

LOOM OF LIFE

     COTTON NOE

     Author of "The Blood of
     Rachel and Other Poems"



RICHARD G. BADGER
  THE GORHAM PRESS
     BOSTON



I

 




Copyright, 1917, by Richard G. Badger


         All Rights Reserved



THE GoatHA Pzsse, BOSTON. U. S. A.

 


                   TO
        SIDNEY STANFILL NOE
Like her who wrought at the Old-fashioned Loom,
  And toiled at Distaff and Wheel,-
The grace of the Lily, the breath of its bloom,-
  The flame of the Martyr's zeal,-
She has woven the Web of a beautiful Life-
Oh, consecrate LOVE, my WIFE, my WIFE!

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   NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION
   The Loom of Life was published late in 1912. It
has had an unusual sale for a first volume of poetry,
and there is still a steady demand for the book, which
has been out of print for some months. This Second
Edition is issued to meet that demand.
                            THE PUBLISHER

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               CONTENTS

Proem .................................
            A SKEIN OF SILVER
The Old-Fashioned Loom.................
The Old Old Clock.....................
The Old Spinning Wheel .................
The Old Water Mill ....................
Waterloo ........
In the Happy Long Ago ..................
The Old Drinking Gourd ................

             A SPOOL OF SILK



Solitude ...............
Love's Triumph .......
My Guiding Star ......
Rhymes and Roses ......
There's Nothing Dark A
  Hair ...............
Blind Tom ............
A Sonnet of the Season . .
Euterpe ..............
Scarlet Days ..........
Her Eyes Are Brown ...
The Naturalist ........
Dedication ............
Nearing the Meridian ...
Our Pilgrimage ........
Ante Nuptial ..........
Dr. Miles Saunders ....
Worship ..............



. ....
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'bout



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Her



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But



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32



... .
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... .
Her



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Contents



GOLD AND GOSSAMER



To the Mocking Bird .
A Rondel ...........
The Play is O'er .....
A Rondeau .........
The Red Bird ......
Sunset in Breathitt ...
Eyes Divine ........
Jack Frost ..........
Ad Aquilam .........
The Ice King in the Sol
Fettered .
Helen of Troy ......
Cow Bells ..........
Hollyhocks ..........
Burns ..............
Robert Loveman .....
Books ..............
Songs Unsung .......
The Rainbow's End ..



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... ... ....
,.........
ith ......



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.... ......  51
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.-..-.---.  53
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              LINEN AND LACE
Down Lover's Lane .....................
Beneath the Chestnut Tree ................
Jack and Jill ...........................
Natura ................................
Her Eyes ..............................
The Rose of Love ......................
My Jewels .............................
A Recollection ..........................
The Moonshiners .......................
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74
77
78
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Contents



Silhouettes .............
Wade .....
A Song ................
The Bloom of Love ....
My Muse .............



         A HANK OF HOMESPUN
The School of Skinny ..............
One-Armed Joe ...................
Wes Perkins ......................
The First Mess of Greens ..........
Wes Banks .......................
Philosophy at a Banquet .............
Anent Halley's Comet ..............



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                PROEM

Warp and woof from the loom of Life-
a fabric wrought in endless strife:-
Lights and shadows, night and day,
A thousand tints of gold and gray-
Ten thousand shades in leaf and bloom,
WARP and WOOF from Life's great Loom.

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A SKEIN OF SILVER

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A Skein of Silver



      THE OLD-FASHIONED LOOM
The old log house where Margaret lived, whose
  roof had mossy grown,
Reposed amid its clump of trees, a queen upon her
  throne.
The landscape round smiled proudly and the flowers
  shed sweet perfume,
When Margaret plied the shuttle of the rude old-
  fashioned loom.
The world has grown fastidious-demands things
  ever new-
But we could once see beauties in the rainbow's
  every hue;
The bee could then find nectar in a common clover
  bloom,
And simple hearts hear music in the shuttle of the
  loom.
The picture that my memory paints is never seen
  to-day-
The April sun of by-gone years has lost its bright-
  est ray:
A fancy-wrought piano in a quaint, antique old
  room,
But Margaret sang her sweetest to the music of the
  loom.
She wore a simple home-spun dress, for Margaret's
  taste was plain,
Yet life was like a song to her, with work a sweet
  ref rain.
                      '5

 

A Skein of Silver



The sunshine filled her days with joy, night's shad-
  ows brought no gloom.
When Margaret plied the shuttle of the old old-
  fashioned loom.

Her warp of life was toiling hard, but love its
  beauteous woof.
The web she wove, a character beyond the world's
  reproof.
o girls of wealth and beauty vain, who dress in rich
  costume,
How sweet the shuttle's music of this rare old-fash-
  ioned loom.

The world may grow fastidious in art and nature
  too,
And say there is no beauty in the rainbow's every
  hue;
And yet the bee finds nectar in a common clover
  bloom,
And I still love the music of the old old-fashioned
  loom.



I6

 


A Skein of Silver



          THE OLD OLD CLOCK

Dear old Old Clock, thy grave tick tock
  I heard in my childhood days,
In the solemn night, when the fire burned bright,
  And the lamp cast feeble rays;
When grandmother close by the mantelpiece,
Sat dozing or knitting, or carding fleece,
  Or watching the dying blaze;
When mother was young and her beautiful hair
  Had never a silver thread;
When her life was fair as her love was rare,
  In the years that have swiftly sped.

Thy grave tick tock, dear old Old Clock,
  Unchanged through the changing years,
Still beating time in a ceaseless rhyme
  To the dirge of the rolling spheres,-
Unmindful that she by the mantelpiece
Is gone with her knitting and carding fleece,-
  Unmoved by our sorrowing tears-
Brings back the days when mother's hair
  Had never a silver thread,
And the life still fair in its beauty rare
  When the snows had crowned her head.



I7

 

A Skein of Silver



      THE OLD SPINNING WHEEL

A cabin! It nestled amid the green hills
  Where grew no bramble or thistle,-
Mid meadows melodious with music and trills
And song that the wild-throated mocking bird spills
  On the air from his marvelous whistle.
No carpets were seen on the broad puncheon floors,
  No paintings that wealth would reveal;
But a statue was there that Art can not know,
That filled the rude room with a musical glow,-
  'Twas Ruth at the Old Spinning Wheel!

Long years have passed by; its music was stilled
  At rattle and whirr of machinery.
And the pea-fowl now screams where the mocking
  bird trilled,
And the landscape is dead where once the heart
  thrilled
  At wildwood and picturesque scenery.
The opera may boast the diva of song,
  To me she makes no appeal;
To flute obligato my heart is still dumb,
But oh! for the song and musical hum
  Of Ruth and the Old Spinning Wheel!

She lived but a simple, plain rustic life,
Yet charming in sooth was her beauty.
In her untutored heart was love ever rife,

 


A Skein of Silver



The seat of no conflict, no struggle or strife
  'Twixt a selfish will and duty.
I bow at her altar of beauty and truth,
  At the shrine of her heart do I kneel,
With a prayer no mortal ever lifted above,
Till my soul is atune with the music of love
  She sings to the Old Spinning Wheel!

This unlettered maiden was poor, but high-bred,
  Oh, women of fashion far above vou!
And I thrilled at the graceful poise of her head
And the radiant smile of my love when she said,
  "Why James, you know that I love vou."
Nymph-like her lithe form swayed as in dance,
  I awkwardly sat at the recl-
A moment's surcease of monotonous thrum,-
Melodious the lull in the song and the hum
  Of Ruth and the Old Spinning Wheel!

The glow of the incandescent light
  Has banished the tallow candle;
And the ox-cart is gone at steam's rapid flight,
But Love is too subtle, is too recondite
  For Learning or Genius to handle.
All honor to Science, let her keep her mad pace,
  I abate not a tittle her zeal;
But the splendors of life can never efface
The picture of Ruth in plain rustic grace
  Who wrought at the Old Spinning Wheel!



'9

 

A Skein of Silver



      THE OLD WATER MILL

'Twas grinding day at the Old Water Mill,
  But holiday with me,
For I knew ere I reached the foot of the hill
And heard the voice of the happy rill,
  The miller's beautiful child was there
  That wore the tresses of sun-lit hair
    And smile of witchery;
  And the twittering swallows awhirl in the air,
      Told in their ecstacy
That Rachel, the Golden Daffodil,
Was blooming again by the Old Water Mill.

Together we cross the moss-covered log
  That spans the old mill race,
And we hear through the mists and rising fog
  The boom of the dam, the croak of the frog,
  That wakes, on the banks of the glinting stream,
  The violet tranced in her winter dream,
    Where lights and shadows lace;
  And the cowslip, like the meteor's gleam,
    Darts from her hiding-place,
While the cataracts leap in their haste to fill
The floats of the wheel at the Old Water Mill.

We sit by the dam of the placid stream
  And watch the whirl and churn
Of the pouring floods that bubble and steam
And glitter and flash in the bright sunbeam,
  While steadily rolls the dripping wheel
                     20

 

a Skein of Silver



  That slowly grinds the farmers' meal,
    Who restless wait their turn;
  But the lights in the miller's face reveal
    Never the least concern,
Who takes his toll, and whistles until
The hopper is drained at the Old Water Mill.

To-day we passed where the Old Water Mill
  Had stood in the long ago,
But the cataracts leap no more on the hill,
And the boom of the roaring dam is still,
  For the gleaming stream in its grief went dry,
  When the ruthless hand of Art passed by
    And laid the Old Mill low;
  And the violets, cold in death, now lie
    Wrapped in the glistening snow;
And the biting air is crisp and chill
Around the ruins of the Old Water Mill.

And now we sit by the R-ver of Time
  And gaze at the waves below,
But its brink is covered by frost and rime,
And we hear on the wind a muffled chime
  Proclaiming the end of a brief sojourn:
  Yet the floods of life still whirl and churn
    As the currents ebb and flow-
  By the rolling wheel we wait our turn
    Calm, but ready to go!
The hopper is drained, but unmoved still,
The Miller who grinds in Time's Water Mill.



2I

 

A Skein of Silver



            WATERLOO
A meeting-house, no church at all,
  With stained cathedral glass,
With lofty spire and arching hall,
  And terraced lawns of grass:
No organ peals, no chanting choir,
  No frescoed walls that men admire
  Had this old meeting-house;
But roses wild their petals piled
  About its sacred door,
And locust bloom shed rich perfume,
  Upon the air, galore,
    Around the meeting-house.
It stood upon a limpid stream
  My childhood thought divine,
Whose waters pure did ever gleam
  Like shimmering shine of wine;
It stood, alas! but stands no more
  Upon the bank or pebbly shore
    Of sunny Pleasant Run;
Yet in my dreams, it often seems
  I see thee, Waterloo,
And see the flash of beaded splash
  Upon the waters too,
    While crossing Pleasant Run.
Yes, in my dreams, I often hear
  The songs they used to sing-
Those solemn lays of reverent fear,
  When Christ indeed was King:
Then sinners bowed when prayer was led
                  22

 

A Skein of Silver



By some poor saint the ravens fed
    At holy Waterloo.
How free from lust, the simple trust
  Of soul that worshipped there;
How free from guile were men erstwhile
  Whose creed was song and prayer,
    The creed of Waterloo.
The meeting days were always fair-
  God smiled on Waterloo!
And mother rode the dark brown mare,
  And took the mule colt, too;
For fashion then did not beguile
  A mother's heart with worldly wvile,
    Ah! happy days agone!
Oh! days no more when mothers wore
  Sunhood and riding skirt,
And fathers dressed their Sunday best,
  A plain check-cotton-shirt,-
    Ah! happy days agone!
The sunlight dances on the hills
  That shelter Waterloo;
I see the gold of daffodils
That bloom the meadow throu-h-
The hour has come, for meeting's broke,
  And now the simple country folk
    Are leaving Waterloo!
The horses neigh; away, away!
  Away, but not for home;
Grandma to-day will laugh and say,
  "My boy, my boy has come."
    Oh, blessed Waterloo!
                  23

 

a Skein of Silver



  IN THE HAPPY LONG AGO
Yes, I see him, still he's sitting
  By his little cabin door!
Ah! but Dinah's gone! She left him
  For the shining, golden shore;
Left old Isham where he's dreaming
  With his head bowed deep and low,
Thinking only now of Dinah,
And the happy long ago.
Long the kinky wool was creamy,
  Now as white as any snow;
And his eyes are red and dreamy,
  Thinking of the long ago.
Massa sleeps beneath the ivy,
  Missus, where the daisies blow;
Near them Dinah, and old Isham's
  Dreaming of the long ago;-
Thinking of the days when Dinah
  Won old Missus' heart and praise,
By her wondrous dainty cooking,
  And her charming well-bred ways:-
When his own black arm was brawny-
  Swift the step that now is slow-
When he stole the heart of Dinah,
  In the happy long ago.
What care they for big corn shuckings -
  Negroes versed in modern lore
"What a fool is poor old Isham
  Dozing by his cabin door!"
Ah! I know why Isham's dreaming
                 24

 

a Skein of Silver



    Where the gourd-vines twine and grow;
  He is living still with Dinah,
    In the happy long ago!

    THE OLD DRINKING GOURD
A deep alcove where clambering vine
  Enfashioned wreathes of green festoon,
  Where through the long, long afternoon
No ray of summer's sultry shine
  E'er kissed the rustic grape-vine swing:
High up the purpling muscadine
Clung close to where the waters poured,
    And he saw the glint of the redbird's wing
    In the crystal wave of the mossy spring,
As she stooped for the Old Drinking Gourd.
The odor tint of elder bloom
  The zephyrs wafted through the spray
  Was fresh as dew at dawn of day,
Caught in the geometric loom,
  Arachne plies with subtle hand:
A pigeon bathed his snowy plume,
A fading speck the vulture soared;
  And a tide swept in across the sand
  As they stood on the brink of the golden strand
And drank from the Old Drinking Gourd.
                            
A palace wrought of art sublime
  Where antique paintings haunt the walls,
  And gilded foot as silent falls
In depths of plush, as flight of time,
                     25

 
a Skein of Silver



  And liquid music softer blows
Than Hymen's mellow golden chime:
They plighted troth beneath the sword
    Of the knight that wore the blood red rose;
    But they drank of the cup that never flows
From the bowl of the Old Drinking Gourd.

Now sunset spills his scarlet dyes
  Through fleecy rifts of snowy cloud,
  And night puts on her ebon shroud,
And stars look out of wintry skies:
  Still spacious halls with revels ring
Where chivalry with beauty vies,
And red-wine flows at festive board.
    But oh ! for the cove where the redbirds sing
    By the crystal wave of the mossy spring,
And a draught from the Old Drinking Gourd.



26

 

















A SPOOL OF SILK

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A Spool of Silk



                 SOLITUDE

To live alone where man nor beast e'er stood,
  Ten-thousand miles beyond the site of home;
  To walk at night the catacombs of Rome,
Or dwell within some deep death-haunted wood;
To feel like Bonaparte with power endued,
  Yet doomed to sleep beneath the starry dome,
  And listen to the ocean chafe and foam,-
Not this, not all of these, is solitude.

But oh, to be alone within the hive
  Of teeming life, where thousands live and move
And have their shallow beings,-there to strive
  With doubt and faith, and feel the soul expand
Beyond the utmost reach of those we love,
  And know that they can never understand.



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A Spool of Silk



             LOVE'S TRIUMPH

         To Hart's Triumph of Chastity
               (destroyed by fire)
Ah, shattered form, thy beauty, chaste as frost,
  Once held in thrall the heart of lord and swain.
  While Cupid sped his strongest shafts in vain
Thou didst not dream the price thy triumph cost,
Or know thy charm would be forever lost,
  When Time with jealous wind or flood should
      stain
  Thy snowy brow in grime or part in twain
Thy marble heart in fervent holocaust!

Thy spell is gone; but oh, the maid whose heart
  Was riven by the little wing-ed god
    That dipped his arrow in the scarlet stream
Of my own life, shall triumph over Art
  And Time,-my love, whose ardent pulsing blood
    Shall quicken other lives and reign supreme!



30

 

A Spool of Silk



             MY GUIDING STAR

Adrift alone on life's bleak ocean waste,
  Through starless nights and dreary sunless days;
  Wherever currents led o'er pathless maze,
I plied the oars of aimless toil, and faced
Defeat impatiently, nor ever traced
  One ray of hope along the murky haze
  Of life's horizon, till I caught the blaze
Of one lone star, whose light was virgin-chaste.

But now I sail through seas where fortune smiles,
  And not a cloud the brilliant sky doth mar;
    For, ever twinkling near that blazing light,
A little orb my every care beguiles:
  My radiant wife is that lone guiding star,
    My laughing blue-eyed boy its satellite!



3'

 

A Spool of Silk



             AFTER READING
       SAMUEL MINTURN PECK'S
          RHYMES AND ROSES

The drowsy drone of honey-laden bees,
  The poppied breath of gardens blooming fair,
  The scent of elder blossoms, sweet and rare,
Come stealing in on balmy southern breeze;
And dying lays, whose long lost melodies
  Still haunt old storied ruins everywhere,
  Are dimly floating through the fragrant air-
I dream beneath the blooming apple trees:

A merry orchestra of nymphs and fays
  Has gathered in the pine-tree's elfin shade,
    With naiad shell and fairy reed and string,
While Minturn Peck the magic baton sways.
And when the band his "Rhymes and Roses," played,
    The dryads' voices made the woodlands ring!



32

 

A Spool of Silk



           THERE'S NOTHING
  DARK ABOUT HER BUT HER HAIR

There's nothing dark about her but her hair!
  Her liquid eyes, as blue as Grecian seas,
  Affect me, like a moonlit southern breeze,
From off the fields of sweet magnolias rare;
Her sympathetic soul is pure and fair
  And spotless as the petals of a rose:
  Her gown is like a drift of northern snows-
There's nothing dark about her but her hair!
But oh, her hair, ye priests, ye gods, her hair!
  Those silken strands of raveled midnight wove
  Into a Cupid's mesh, a net of love!
Ah, I confess that I'm entangled there!
  But Susan's life as spotless as a dove,-
There's nothing dark about her but her hair.



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a Spool of Silk



                BLIND TOM

Oh, happy, sad, mysterious, wondrous soul!
  Imprisoned in a living dungeon deep
  The fates have bound thee; but they can not keep
For ay that spirit in their dark control
Who hear'st the music of the spheres that roll
  Through silent time; those beauteous orbs that
      sweep
  Through space and glitter in the boundless deep,
Will yet thy blind, benighted life console.

What sin didst thou commit, or whom offend
  That doomed thee to a carnal cell so gross
    That scarce a hint of what thou really art
Has ever reached the world,-who couldst transcend
  In matchless music, purged of all thy dross,
    The great Beethoven or divine Mozart.



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a Spool of Silk



      A SONNET OF THE SEASON

The carol in my heart I send to you:
  It comes from out the depths of brooding time
  To cheer and bless in every place and clime;
To purge the false, to chasten and subdue;
To lift the drooping life, inspire the true
  To nobler deeds and thoughts of love sublime.
  This anthem-which I sing in sonnet rhyme-
Judean shepherds heard and angels knew!

And now we fear no longer war's alarms,
  For red-eyed Mars has fled at last our home:
Christ took the little children in his arms
  And blessed them, saying, Suffer them to come
To me that all the sons of men may find
My kingdom here within the child-like mind.



35

 

a Spool of Silk



                  EUTERPE

0 lyric muse, thou didst not tune alone
The lyre that loving Orpheus smote
  With subtle touch, who struck the golden note
That pierced dread Pluto's heart of stone,
And won again Eurydice his own;
  Nor yet Erate's lute, nor Sappho's throat
  That thrilled the ear in Grecian isles remote,
Where Homer sang, and Art had built her throne:
But thou, Euterpe, touched blind Milton's tongue,
  And swept the thousand chords of Shakespeare's
      soul;
    Woke Byron from his hours of idle dream,
And then he sang mankind a deathless song.
  But thou at last didst reach the lyric goal
    Of art in Tennyson's immortal theme.



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A Spool of Silk



              SCARLET DAYS

              To F. W. B. Family

Those scarlet days come back to me to-night
  Across the span of many happy years-
  Dreams, haunted by the music of the spheres,
And glowing skies of gold and chrysolite.
The world of science bursting on my sight,
  And words of wisdom falling on my ears,
The rhythmic thought of poets, priests, and seers,
Wrought in my life a spell of wild delight.

Not all: three figures-Faith and Hope and Love-
  I see them still through years of mist and haze-
    Hope crowned with light, and Faith of godly
      ken;
And Love was like a meek unconscious dove.
  Dear God, although I count those scarlet days,
    To-night I would not have them back again.



37

 

a Spool of Silk



          HER EYES ARE BROWN

Her eyes are brown, oh, Edith's eyes are brown!
  I will not boast the midnight of her hair,
  Nor yet because her radiant cheek is fair,
And like the touch of autumn's thistle down;
I will not swear I have not seen her frown;
  She may be rich and proud and debonair,
  For aught I know, I'm sure I do not care:
But oh, her eyes, her eyes are Edith's crown!

I've gazed upon the stars of northern skies
  And breathed the perfume of the southern breeze;
  I've listened to the boom of far-off seas
On mystic shores; I've seen the full moon rise
  Through branch and bloom of old magnolia trees!
There's nothing like the thrill of Edith's eyes!



38

 

A Spool of Silk



            THE NATURALIST

The shouts of happy boys he does not hear,
  Nor knows that wretched men must toil for bread;
  The tragedy of life he has not read,
Or deems it but the comedy of fear:
He never lifts his eyes above the ground
  To gaze upon the glittering world of stars;
  The poet's richest music only mars
The rasping of the locust's strident sound.
And yet I've never seen a wilder light
  Glow in the beauteous eyes of dawning love,
Than flashes from this strange man's soul at sight
  Of some rare flower he finds in mountain cove:
Mere fungus, or the poisonous, dank mushroom,
Enchants him more than rich magnolia bloom!



39

 

4 Spool of Silk



               DEDICATION
               (To H. H. T.)
O soul responsive to the subtlest thought
  That flashes o'er the mind's electric wire,
  Or ever swept the strings of fancy's lyre
To music learned in schools where Shakespeare
      taught:
O thou who knowest the springs whence Sappho
      caught
  Love's brimming cup that did her song inspire,
  Yet dost my plain, unlettered muse admire,
Who lived in better days when maidens wrought-

To thee, I dedicate my fondest rhymes
  In memory of happy days of yore,
    Together on the Cumberland, where Ruth,
The charming rustic maid of olden times
  First won our love, less for her lack of lore,
    Than for her sweet simplicity and truth.



40

 
A Spool of Silk



        NEARING THE MERIDIAN

               (To M. E. W.)

I dream to-night of happy childhood days;
  I see two humble homes and thrill with joy;
  The years come back when I was but a boy,
And you had ringlets for the gods to praise:
The old Old Swing, the fields of golden maize;
  The moving pictures in the clouds above;
  The mating birds, their nests, their songs of
      love-
All this, dear Lord, through years of mist and haze!

And then I turn and look beyond the Shade,
  And those who wrought for us are waiting there:
  Our mothers with their crowns of silver hair,
And radiant smiles of love that will not fade;
  Our fathers with the keys to all the creeds
  Are there still strong in faith and pure in deeds.



41

 

A Spool of Silk



            OUR PILGRIMAGE

            (To the Canterbury Club)

The merry band that started long ago
  Upon their journey to a-Becket's shrine,
  Were happy that a poet's pen divine
Inspired by all a genial wit can know,
Or sympathetic human heart bestow,
  Recorded in immortal rhythmic line,
  As sweet as breath of old Provencal wine,
Their pilgrim tales and songs of joy and woe.

We start to-night upon our pilgrimage,
  Who worship at a holier shrine than they-
    The living temple of the sacred muse:
    May she who is our patron saint infuse,
  Illume our souls; and raise some Pen, I pray,
To leave the world a noble heritage.



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A Spool of Silk



              ANTE NUPTIAL

       (To a Physician engaged to a Nurse)

When young Dan Cupid dipped his fiery shaft
  Deep in the liquid blue of Psyche's eyes,
  Then took three strands of raveled midnight skies
And strung his silver bow with these, and laughed,
Thy doom, 0 son of Esculapius' craft,
  Was sealed:-the fatalest dart that flies
  Is Eros' bolt, and surest of its prize-
And now, physician, take thy healing draft.

Ah, no; it is not unto death but life,
  That thou art sick, although pierced through the
      heart!
Wondrous disease that no physician's art
Can heal, that will not yield to surgeon's knife,-
  A blessed wound that ever must grow worse.
  How fortunate, 0 man, that she's a nurse!



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A Spool of Silk



        DR. MILES SAUNDERS

He held the key to every mystic door
  Of Egypt's shrine; he knew the sacred rite
  Of druid, sage and seer; and loved the light
Of Babylonian and Assyrian lore:
He saw old Enoch when he walked with God;
  He watched Elijah smite the prophets dead;
  He knew the Israelites whom Moses led;
And looked upon the bloom of Aaron's rod!
And yet this man who gazed on gods and kings,
  And saw and felt whatever mortal can,
  Was like his Christ, the lowly Son of Man,
A tender minister in humble things.
  He had a royal mind, a priestly ken;
But best of all he loved and helped young men.



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a Spool of Silk



                WORSHIP
The crown of Caesar glittering on his brow,
  The sword of Nero clanking at his side,
  His giant hand made crimson in the tide
Of Life, insatiate Mammon feigns to bow
Before the altar of the Prince of Peace.
  How long, 0 God in heaven, wilt thou bide
  This mockery of the lowly Christ who died
That sin and greed and enmity might cease

Not Holy Wars nor death of heretics,
  Nor rich cathedrals towering to the sky,
Nor bended knee before the crucifix,
  Nor any faith in form can sanctify;
But Brotherhood devoid of selfish strife,
And Love, the incense of a noble life.



45

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GOLD AND GOSSAMER

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Gold and Gossamer



        TO THE MOCKING BIRD

Whence is thy song,
  Voluptuous soul of the amorous South!
  Oh! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth;
    The dews of eve; the mists of morn;
    The bloom of rose; the thistle's thorn;
    Whence light of love; whence dark of scorn;
Whence joy; whence grief; Death, born of wrong-
Ah! whence is life ten-thousand passions throng-
Thence is thy song!

Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor,
  The passionate love of Juliet;
  Thy villainous art can weave a net
  With shreds of song, that never yet
Hath lover escaped, however noble and pure.
  Ophelia's broken heart is thine,
    And Desdemona's, true and good;
    Thou paintest the damn-ed spot of blood
  That will not out in stain or line!
Oh Lear! Oh Fool! Oh Witch Macbeth!
And wondrous Hamlet in a breath!
  Who knows thy heart thy song thy words
  Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds!



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Gold and Gossamer



               A RONDEL

October, queen of autumn days,
  WVith green and crimson leaves is crowned;
  Her russet cheeks are sun-embrowned,
Her hair all golden in the haze:

She sits upon a throne ablaze,
  Her limbs with royal robes are gowned-
October, queen of autumn days,
  With green and crimson leaves encrowned

But now o'erwhelmed in sad amaze
  She hears a far-off rising sound;
  The hills and booming seas resound;
The plaintive wind her requiem plays-
October, queen of autumn days.



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Gold and Gossamer



        THE PLAY IS O'ER

The play is o'er! Great Wolsey's dead-
That scarlet power once England's dread;
  And lustful Henry's brutal sin
  Hath slain the noble Catharine,-
More stainless wife was never wed.

Anne Boleyn shares the royal bed
And wears upon her graceless head
  The good queen's crown without chagrin-
    The play is o'er!

A few brief months have swiftly sped,
The faithless consort's blood is shed.
  What means the mighty noise within
  The trumpet's blare, the cymbal's din
Jane Seymour's to the altar led,-
    The play is o'er!



5'

 

Gold and Gossamer



           A RONDEAU
His heart was pure: he loved the child
  That dwelt among untrodden ways
  And dared to lift his voice in praise
Of humblest wight in highlands wild.

Poor, wretched man by sin defiled,
  He sang in sympathetic lays-
    His heart was pure.

The blithe cuckoo and daisy mild,
  The daffodils, like elfin fays,
  The mystery of sunset haze
O'er barren moors, his pen beguiled-
    His heart was pure.



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Gold and Gossamer



THE RED BIRD



Animated, flashing, flame of scarlet,
Teasing, tantalizing, madcap varlet,
Glooming, glinting through the boughs,
Making, breaking lover's vows;
Dashing leader of the choir,
Standing on the topmost spire,
Scintillating song and fire,
  Calls me: Come up-come up-higher, higher,
      higher!



Daytime meteor trailing light,
Like a shooting star at night-
Just a moment of delight,
  Followed by a mad desire:
But the flaming flash of scarlet,
Tantalizing madcap varlet,
Hiding from my aching sight-
  This time just a little nigher-
Laughing from his leafy height,
  Mocks me: Come up-come up-higher, higher,
      higher!



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Gold and Gossamer



         SUNSET IN BREATHITT

Through purple haze of evening mountain mist,
  A spiral thread of dark blue smoke arose
    From hidden cove and rugged steep defile;
    While like a ball of blood o'er some far magic
        isle,
  The sun a moment hung in deep repose,
Above a placid sea of amethyst,
In mystic prophecy of death and doom,-
Then dropped and splashed the sky with crimson
        spray and spume!



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Gold and Gossamer



         EYES DIVINE

His eyes divine were shot with light
Like flashes in a northern night,
  Magnetic gleam that wrought a spell
    On whom its star-like shimmer fell-
A spell of wonder and delight;-

Enchantment such as gods excite
With glowing depths of chrysolite,
  Or blooming beds of asphodel-
      His eyes divine!

In metaphysics