The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 26

Not a hand has lifted the latchet Since she went out of the door-- No footstep shall cross the threshold, Since she can come in no more.

There is rust upon locks and hinges, And mold and blight on the walls, And silence faints in the chambers, And darkness waits in the halls--

Waits as all things have waited Since she went, that day of spring, Borne in her pallid splendor To dwell in the Court of the King:

With lilies on brow and bosom, With robes of silken sheen, And her wonderful, frozen beauty, The lilies and silk between.

Red roses she left behind her, But they died long, long ago 'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom That seemed through the dusk to glow.

The garments she left mock the shadows With hints of womanly grace, And her image swims in the mirror That was so used to her face.

The birds make insolent music Where the sunshine riots outside, And the winds are merry and wanton With the summer's pomp and pride.

But into this desolate mansion, Where Love has closed the door, Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter, Since she can come in no more.

L.C. MOULTON.

A Tropical Morning at Sea.

Sky in its lucent splendor lifted Higher than cloud can be; Air with no breath of earth to stain it, Pure on the perfect sea.

Crests that touch and tilt each other, Jostling as they comb; Delicate crash of tinkling water, Broken in pearling foam.

Plashings--or is it the pinewood's whispers, Babble of brooks unseen, Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms, Brushing aside the green?

Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle; Foam-wreaths slipping by, Soft as a snow of broken roses Afloat over mirrored sky.

Off to the east the steady sun-track Golden meshes fill Webs of fire, that lace and tangle, Never a moment still.

Liquid palms but clap together, Fountains, flower-like, grow-- Limpid bells on stems of silver-- Out of a slope of snow.

Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets-- Blue as a summer sky, When you blink at its arch sprung over Where in the gra.s.s you lie.

Dimly an orange bit of rainbow Burns where the low west clears, Broken in air, like a pa.s.sionate promise Born of a moment's tears.

Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver, Clouds in the distance dwell, Clouds that are cool, for all their color, Pure as a rose-lipped sh.e.l.l.

Fleets of wool in the upper heavens Gossamer wings unfurl; Sailing so high they seem but sleeping Over yon bar of pearl.

What would the great world lose, I wonder-- Would it be missed or no-- If we stayed in the opal morning, Floating forever so?

Swung to sleep by the swaying water, Only to dream all day-- Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting, Scatter such dreams away!

E.R. SILL.

Memory.

My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour-- 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May-- The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

T.B. ALDRICH.

A Mood.

A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness-- Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness; A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence; A tense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence; A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken-- Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.

T.B. ALDRICH.

The Way to Arcady.[12]

_Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_ _To Arcady, to Arcady;_ _Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_ _Where all the leaves are merry?_

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?

The spring is rustling in the tree-- The tree the wind is blowing through-- It sets the blossoms flickering white.

I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light.

They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?

Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.

How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon?

Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.

I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread.

_Oh, I am bound for Arcady,_ _And if you but keep pace with me_ _You tread the way to Arcady._

And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be?

_Ah, that_ (quoth he) _I do not know--_ _Across the clover and the snow--_ _Across the frost, across the flowers--_ _Through summer seconds and winter hours._ _I've trod the way my whole life long,_ _And know not now where it may be;_ _My guide is but the stir to song._ _That tells me I can not go wrong,_ _Or clear or dark the pathway be_ _Upon the road to Arcady._

But how shall I do who cannot sing?

I was wont to sing, once on a time-- There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

_'Tis strange you cannot sing_ (quoth he), _The folk all sing in Arcady._