Custer, and Other Poems Part 8

=Sestina=

I wandered o'er the vast green plains of youth, And searched for Pleasure. On a distant height Fame's silhouette stood sharp against the skies.

Beyond vast crowds that thronged a broad high-way I caught the glimmer of a golden goal, While from a blooming bower smiled siren Love.

Straight gazing in her eyes, I laughed at Love, With all the haughty insolence of youth, As past her bower I strode to seek my goal.

"Now will I climb to glory's dizzy height,"

I said, "for there above the common way Doth pleasure dwell companioned by the skies."

But when I reached that summit near the skies, So far from man I seemed, so far from Love-- "Not here," I cried, "doth Pleasure find her way,"

Seen from the distant borderland of youth.

Fame smiles upon us from her sun-kissed height, But frowns in shadows when we reach the goal.

Then were mine eyes fixed on that glittering goal, Dear to all sense--sunk souls beneath the skies.

Gold tempts the artist from the lofty height, Gold lures the maiden from the arms of Love, Gold buys the fresh ingenuous heart of youth, "And gold," I said, "will show me Pleasure's way."

But ah! the soil and discord of that way, Where savage hordes rushed headlong to the goal, Dead to the best impulses of their youth, Blind to the azure beauty of the skies; Dulled to the voice of conscience and of love, They wandered far from Truth's eternal height.

Then Truth spoke to me from that n.o.ble height, Saying: "Thou didst pa.s.s Pleasure on the way, She with the yearning eyes so full of Love, Whom thou disdained to seek for glory's goal."

Two blending paths beneath G.o.d's arching skies Lead straight to Pleasure. Ah, blind heart of youth, Not up fame's height, not toward the base G.o.d's goal, Doth Pleasure make her way, but 'neath calm skies Where Duty walks with Love in endless youth.

=The Optimist=

The fields were bleak and sodden. Not a wing Or note enlivened the depressing wood, A soiled and sullen, stubborn snowdrift stood Beside the roadway. Winds came muttering Of storms to be, and brought the chilly sting Of icebergs in their breath. Stalled cattle mooed Forth plaintive pleadings for the earth's green food.

No gleam, no hint of hope in anything.

The sky was blank and ashen, like the face Of some poor wretch who drains life's cup too fast.

Yet, swaying to and fro, as if to fling About chilled Nature its lithe arms of grace, Smiling with promise in the wintry blast, The optimistic Willow spoke of spring.

=The Pessimist=

The pessimistic locust, last to leaf, Though all the world is glad, still talks of grief.

=The Hammock's Complaint=

Who thinks how desolate and strange To me must seem the autumn's change, When housed in attic or in chest, A lonely and unwilling guest, I lie through nights of bleak December, And think in silence, and remember.

I think of hempen fields, where I Once played with insects floating by, And joyed alike in sun and rain, Unconscious of approaching pain.

I dwell upon my later lot, Where, swung in some secluded spot Between two tried and trusted trees, All summer long I wooed the breeze.

With song of bee and call of bird And lover's secrets overheard, And sight and scent of blooming flowers, To fill the happy sunlight's hours.

When verdant fields grow bare and brown, When forest leaves come raining down, When frost has mated with the weather And all the birds go south together, When drying boats turn up their keels, Who wonders how the hammock feels?

=Life's Harmonies=

Let no man pray that he know not sorrow, Let no soul ask to be free from pain, For the gall of to-day is the sweet of to-morrow, And the moment's loss is the lifetime's gain.

Through want of a thing does its worth redouble, Through hunger's pangs does the feast content, And only the heart that has harbored trouble, Can fully rejoice when joy is sent.

Let no man shrink from the bitter tonics Of grief, and yearning, and need, and strife, For the rarest chords in the soul's harmonies, Are found in the minor strains of life.

=Preaching vs. Practice=

It is easy to sit in the sunshine And talk to the man in the shade; It is easy to float in a well-trimmed boat, And point out the places to wade.

But once we pa.s.s into the shadows, We murmur and fret and frown, And, our length from the bank, we shout for a plank, Or throw up our hands and go down.

It is easy to sit in your carriage, And counsel the man on foot, But get down and walk, and you'll change your talk, As you feel the peg in your boot.

It is easy to tell the toiler How best he can carry his pack, But no one can rate a burden's weight Until it has been on his back.

The up-curled mouth of pleasure, Can prate of sorrow's worth, But give it a sip, and a wryer lip, Was never made on earth.

=An Old Man To His Sleeping Young Bride=

As when the old moon lighted by the tender And radiant crescent of the new is seen, And for a moment's s.p.a.ce suggests the splendor Of what in its full prime it once has been, So on my waning years you cast the glory Of youth and pleasure, for a little hour; And life again seems like an unread story, And joy and hope both stir me with their power.

Can blooming June be fond of bleak December?

I dare not wait to hear my heart reply.

I will forget the question--and remember Alone the priceless feast spread for mine eye, That radiant hair that flows across the pillows, Like shimmering sunbeams over drifts of snow; Those heaving b.r.e.a.s.t.s, like undulating billows, Whose dangers or delights but Love can know.

That crimson mouth from which sly Cupid borrowed The pattern for his bow, nor asked consent; That smooth, unruffled brow which has not sorrowed-- All these are mine; should I not be content?

Yet are these treasures mine, or only lent me?