The Path of Dreams Part 7

The Poet

One fluting on sad wolds Pan's flight left drear, One crying down the wayward wind of Chance, One piping unto feet that will not dance And mourning unto ears that will not hear.

Shylock

Cold craft and avarice look from out his eyes, His face with evil pa.s.sion marred and seamed, Looks frowningly upon a Christian world.

Behind that hateful mask a demon lurks To urge the narrow soul to darksome deeds Of violence and greed, of hate and ruth.

His G.o.d, a G.o.d of wrath, a tyrant force To mete to helpless souls eternal doom; A Juggernaut, a hard unsentient power,-- But yet less potent than the yellow gold Those crooked talons clutch, and for the which The miser Shylock fain would sell his soul.

Sonnet

(To Charles J. O'Malley.)

As when above orchestral undertone, The plaining wail of muted violin, The hushed oboe and the distant din, Of m.u.f.fled drum or viol's raucous groan-- Sudden arises one pure voice-like tone, A silver trumpet's tongue that stirs the soul To feel the theme, and the harmonious whole A sonant setting seems for that alone; So, high above earth's murmurous stir and strife, Riseth thy voice in clear enringing song-- No minor plaint of dull despairing pain, But one true note of hope that bids us long For higher things; and all the din of life Seems to subserve the sweetness of thy strain.

Ant.i.thesis

The poet wrought a song of sadness, fraught With all the pain the world's sad heart hath proved; He sang of doubt, and dreams that end in naught ...

Then, smiling, turned and kissed the lips he loved.

The poet wrought a song of joyance, thrilled With all the peace the world's glad heart hath kept; He sang of hope and happy dreams fulfilled ...

Then bent his face upon his hands and wept.

In Fortune's Twilight

The old house totters 'neath its weight of years, Bowed, like the form of him who shelters there, Old, friendless, lone--save for the wanton, Care, Who flouts him, mocks his grief with gibes and jeers And laughs to see his piteous hopes grow fears.

Not his the joy of placid, sun-crowned age-- His dim eyes falter as he scans the page Of Life's worn alb.u.m, blotted with his tears.

He sees in dreams the wife he loved--long dead; The son--once proud to bear his father's name-- Who mixed his honest blood with dire disgrace; The wayward girl who wrought her father shame ...

He sits alone with Care; the day has fled And twilight falls, upon the furrowed face.

Fate

Thro' countless aeons sunless and remote A Soul went searching for its spirit mate, Thro' star-stained s.p.a.ce, o'er wind-swept deep, afloat, Forever desolate.

Anon, another spirit, lone of heart Goes forth thro' voiceless void to seek its mate; Eftsoon they meet, these twain, strike hands ... and part!

And this is Fate.

The Path of Dreams

Beside the stream that silverly steals on To swell the song of that far-sounding sea Which breaks upon the utmost sh.o.r.e of Thought, They who have drunk at Song's immortal spring Walk with glad feet the upland path of dreams That whitely winds thro' long low-lying lands-- By one, yclept the Way of Fools--a plain Of dust and ashes and of Dead Sea fruit; But by another called the Path of Hope That leads far up the slope of heart's desire;-- And haply both speak truth--for oft the way Is set with stones that tear the climbing feet, And oft for roses there is bitter rue, And oft for singing there is idle scorn, And sneers full oft for smiles. Yet well we know The upland Path of Dreams that whitely winds (Yclept or Way of Fools or Path of Hope) Leads upward ever to the Hills of Song!

Beside the silent stream whose soundless tide Sets ever to the unknown tideless sea They who have drunk of Slumber's poppied draught Walk with unsandalled feet the path of dreams That winds thro' gray, low-lying fields of sleep To dim dream sh.o.r.es girt with dim spectre-trees, Swayed ever by the sweep of unseen wings, Slow-stirring palms and arabesques of ferns And fields of sombre bloom and scentless flowers Not of their wonted hue, but dimly gray, Where songless birds like shades of shadows flit, And silent winds from poppied meadows blow-- And here dear presences to us denied By sterner Day, approach to cry us hail; And here a little do we taste the joy Of kisses dreamed on lips forever mute, A little know the bliss of Hope fulfilled, And dreams that seem as true as very Truth ...

Yet well we know that with the stir of dawn, Waking, we must return from Sleep's far fields!

Beside the Lethean stream whose soundless tide Sets ever to the unknown tideless Sea That breaks upon the farthest unknown sh.o.r.e-- They who have quaffed dark Asrael's mystic draught Walk with still feet the viewless Path of Dreams That winds thro' long, low-lying fields of Sleep To fields Elysian or Tartarian glooms; And haply, longed-for presences denied By sterner Life shall come to cry us hail,-- Bright radiances from realms of light eterne, Or shadows from the shades of awful Dis-- But whether here we taste of Hope fulfilled, Or find our dreams are but as drifted dust-- From dark of Dis or realms of Light eterne, Full well we know we shall return no more!

An Autumn Song

The dim sun slips adown the sky That dies from gold to gray; The homing birds that Southward fly To my heart's hailing make reply, Piping "Good-bye, good-bye!"

Southward I turn my wistful eyes, Southward, where all my treasure lies, Whither the homing sparrow flies, Piping, "Good-bye, good-bye!"

The chill blast sweeps the steely sky That glooms a sullen gray; Soft summer winds that Southward fly To my soul's sighing make reply Breathing "Good-bye, good-bye!"

Southward I turn my longing eyes, Southward my yearning spirit hies, Whither or bird or zephyr flies Sighing "Good-bye, good-bye!"

Vain

Wreath of laurel and crown of bay And the noisy trump of Fame, Praise for the singer's deathless lay, And a listening world's acclaim.

But the singer sits with his grief alone Where love lies cold and dead.

The plaudits fall on a heart of stone; The Soul of the song has fled.