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Title: Herbs and Apples Author: Helen Hay Whitney Illustrator: Lucretia Van Horn Release date: August 6, 2013 [eBook #43406] Language: English Credits: Produced by Greg Bergquist, Diane Monico, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERBS AND APPLES *** Produced by Greg Bergquist, Diane Monico, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) HERBS AND APPLES [Illustration: "TO BE ALONE, TO WATCH THE DUSK AND WEEP"] HERBS AND APPLES BY HELEN HAY WHITNEY AUTHOR OF "SONGS AND SONNETS," "GYPSY VERSES," ETC. [Illustration] NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD MCMX Copyright, 1910 BY JOHN LANE COMPANY THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. I give you this, the bitter and the sweet. It holds my heart, can you not hear it beat? So poor a gift to put within your hand-- Apples and Herbs!--but you will understand. CONTENTS PAGE TO NEIGHBOR LIFE 1 THE UNBURIED 2 UP A LITTLE ROAD 3 ON CEDAR STREET, NEW YORK 4 CHE SARÀ SARÀ 5 THE DEAD WANTON 6 LEAVEN 7 QUAERITUR 8 LOVE LAND 9 BY THE WESTERN GATE 10 FOR MUSIC 11 THE LITTLE GHOST 12 MADONNA EVE 13 A CONVERSATION 14 BE BRAVE 15 FORFEITURE 16 THE SEARCH 17 DUST 18 NATURE'S CHILD 19 VERITATIS 20 THE PEACOCK 21 ANTICIPATION 22 THE WAYFARER 23 RENUNCIATION 24 ARABESQUE 25 THE ARCHITECTS 26 AMBUSH 27 THE SCALES 28 THE OLD TRAGEDY 29 TABOO 30 THE RIVALS 31 ALONE 32 BENEATH THE MASK 33 THOTH 34 LITTLE DANCER 35 SIC ITUR AD ASTRA 36 THE JUDGES 37 THE SPRING PLANTING 38 AN IMPRESSIONIST PICTURE 39 SUCH HELP FOR SINGING 40 TEMPUS EDAX RERUM 41 THE COWARD 42 THE LOST ROMANY 43 COMPENSATION 44 UNTAMED 45 TO PERVANCHE 46 THE BELLE 47 RELEASE 48 THE THIEF 49 I WILL WRITE LETTERS TO THE GRASS 50 ONLY THIS 51 THE SURVIVOR 52 MEGAERA 53 THE SONG OF MOKAI 54 TO THE GYPSY MAN 55 THERE IS NO DANGER IN DISDAIN 56 THE PLAYMATE 57 AFTERWARDS 58 THE OLD MAID 59 MADNESS? 60 THE SCHOLAR 61 WISDOM'S SECRET 62 CAGED 63 THE WIFE SPEAKS 64 THE ALTAR 65 _Acknowledgment is made to Messrs. Harper & Bros., the Century Company, The Metropolitan Magazine, and Collier's Weekly, for courteous permission to reproduce certain of the verses included in this volume._ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "TO BE ALONE, TO WATCH THE DUSK AND WEEP" 32 _Frontispiece_ "SMILING SHE FLOUTS DEMOSTHENES" 6 THE PEACOCK 21 LITTLE DANCER 35 THE ROMANY 43 PERVANCHE 46 "AND WRAP MY HEART CLOSE SHROUDED IN THE HOURS" 50 HERBS AND APPLES TO NEIGHBOR LIFE Neighbor Life, I love you well, Have you any goods to sell? Let me buy or let me borrow Joy, to tide me o'er the morrow; I will give you in exchange Baskets full of thoughts that range, Bright utensils of my brain; Coins of feeling you shall gain. All I ask in equal measure Is your store of joy and pleasure. Neighbor Life, I love you well, Have you any joy to sell? THE UNBURIED In the wood the dead trees stand, Dead and living, hand to hand, Being Winter, who can tell Which is sick and which is well? Standing upright, day by day Sullenly their hearts decay Till a wise wind lays them low, Prostrate, empty, then we know. So thro' forests of the street, Men stand dead upon their feet, Corpses without epitaph; God withholds his wind of wrath, So we greet them, and they smile, Dead and doomed a weary while, Only sometimes thro' their eyes We can see the worm that plies. UP A LITTLE ROAD Up a little road with the morning in my arms, Drenched with dew and tipsy with the madness of the May, Leafy fingers on my face, I stop not for your charms! Love is waiting round the turn, to be my Love to-day. Shouting as I ride on the springing ringing sod, Ah! my pony knows the goal to which his course is laid, Galloping thro' dawn he knows he bears a little god Bacchus-mad with happiness who burns to meet his maid. ON CEDAR STREET, NEW YORK I, whose totem was a tree In the days when earth was new, Joyous leafy ancestry Known of twilight and of dew, Now within this iron wall Slave of tasks that irk the soul, To my parents send one call-- That they give me of their dole. Thro' the roar of alien sound Grimy noise of work-a-day, Secretly a voice, half drowned, Whispers thro' the evening's grey, "Child, we know the path you tread, Ghost and manes, we are true; Cedar spirits, long since dead, Calm and sweet abide with you." CHE SARÀ SARÀ Deep as the permanent earth is deep, Fierce as its central fire, Man is his own conclusion, Woman her great desire. THE DEAD WANTON She was so light, so frail a thing, She had no wisdom but her face, Which caught men's fancy like the Spring Yet held them but a moment's space. She is the youngest of the dead, And so the great lean round her feet; They strive to learn from her fair head Why far-forgotten life was sweet. For now she knows what Plato knows, And lapped in languor she agrees With Kant, and as her soft hair blows, Smiling, she flouts Demosthenes. [Illustration: "SMILING, SHE FLOUTS DEMOSTHENES"] LEAVEN Others furnish bread and meat, Busy hucksters on the street, They will give you what you need, All the facts your life to feed. Mine are not these wares of earth, I can give my love but mirth; Let, oh let this part be mine, I would be your salt and wine. QUAERITUR What if to-day, when I have made so sure That love is utterly and wholly mine, What if I found that faith should not endure And all my trust in you I should resign; That when I send my thoughts like homing birds To your dear heart they find no resting place, But all misunderstood, far, foreign words, They die away like strangers at your face. Love, make me certain, make the circuit true, And when I wonder, give the faith I seek Perfectly trusting, let me end in you Heart against heart, and cheek upon your cheek. LOVE LAND Where is El Dorado? Where is bright Cathay? These are lands where we should go To live and love to-day. Miles of glistening beaches Over all the sun, Tropic, spicy-laden breeze To lull when day is done. Gypsy lass and lover With the tides we'd rove; We be natives of no land Save the land of love. BY THE WESTERN GATE You and you only!--By the Western gate That fronts the falling sun I shade my face And watch for you. As one who's lost the race Tries to demand no further gift from Fate Lest he be hurled more low, so I, who wait And want you, ask no pity of your grace On my defeat, I only long to trace My lost heart; come to me, my need is great. I see the young men with their crystal eyes, They stand about my door, their hearts, I know Are breaking in the poppies that they bring. I cannot love them for I am not wise; Ah, come, or else forever let me go, I grow so tired with waiting in the Spring. FOR MUSIC The Indian Summer and Love have fled, Oh, red, red lips like a crimson rose, Oh, slender hands with the tips of red, You are lost in the land of Nobody-knows. The sweet breeze blows but it comes not back, The water flows in a silver stream, But never returns on its moon-white track, They are gone, past recall, like a lovely dream. Ah, crimson lips like a tilted flower, Where sweetest honey awaits the bee; Come back, come back for a single hour, Dear Love, my Summer, come back to me. THE LITTLE GHOST The little one who loved the sun Who only lived for play, Ah, why was she the one condemned To dark and dreams for aye! The perfect perfume of her life Was as a rose's breath, And now she treads eternally The gusty walks of Death. MADONNA EVE From what far spicery derives your hair The sweet faint fragrance that enslaves my sense? What subtle love trick taught you to be fair With overt lure and covert reticence? Madonna Eve, you bear upon your breast A hungry emerald like the desiring sea, But warm upon your heart lie pearls of rest What man could exorcise such witchery? A CONVERSATION "Laddy, leave your pedant's task, Rove the world with me. Fields and towns and pretty lands Together we would see. There be workers everywhere, You would not be missed. Come, ah come, and take for yours The mouth you never kissed!" "Lady, I am fain for play, So I may not go. Only those who hate to toil The true enjoyment know; But could you love a larrikin Whose task he'd so resign?" "Yes!--I'd love a larrikin If only he were mine." BE BRAVE Be brave about yourselves, you little ones, If in the crazy warp and woof you gleam With the insistence of determined suns, Shine, being true and modest in your dream. If to the peace of nature you respond Draw from her breast your milk, nor weep the high Duties for lack of which you now despond, Made for historic planets thro' the sky. Knowing yourself a gay and careless weed, Be you courageous in your light despair; Sure that you fill a space of unknown need, Idle and green in the bright coat you wear. Strive to the uttermost to find your worth, Jester or Gypsy, Body, Brain or Soul, Filling with perfect cheer your place on earth, So shall the tapestry of Time be whole. FORFEITURE So I have lost you. When the utter ache Shall fade at length to mere despondency What will the answer to this problem be? They say that nothing dies, that all we stake Brings some unknown return; what then shall make An adequate exchange for love, to see Your hand held out in friendship?--as for me The episode is ended, for life's sake. You want me still for that small joy I gave, But now it ends for you. I am not brave To love you seared; I have no happy days To brood upon at dusk, and so I claim, As all the wager that good fortune pays, Complete obliteration of your name. THE SEARCH I tire of the struggle, the search for the ultimate I, There hangs the chalice of sapphire, the infinite sky, Why thro' the space of despair should my spirit be hurled Seeking for truth, when beneath lies this pearl of a world? Seers may direct us thro' pain to discover the soul, Comforting joy may not give us the absolute whole, But if the seers should be wrong, may the truth not be ours Thanking dear Life for its light and its beautiful hours? DUST Motes of the city dust, could this thing be That midst your myriad particles for me Might come one atom out of Ispahan, One spiced far memory of caravan. Indrawn upon my breath I'd know an urge To dissipate monotony, and purge The spirit of its spleen; one with the man Who takes the sun blue air of Ispahan. NATURE'S CHILD I had a friend whose soul was very fair, His word was wisdom and his strength was sure; His courage in the ills he had to bear Made others strong and able to endure. I asked no love, no tribute of the sense For his companionship was recompense. I thought I was beloved, but did not care, He smiled on me as he on others smiled, But one grey day a chill was in the air And then to prove that I was Nature's child, He spoke--"I do not love you very much--" And all my friendship shattered at the touch. VERITATIS Seated among the shards of Potiphar I pondered. Shall we still strive on? forsooth There is no better, that is good as Best, There is no truer that is true as Truth. [Illustration: THE PEACOCK] THE PEACOCK She was more beautiful than tropic night, Luring, compelling as the smile of Fate; Like a poor wastrel, I for her delight Squandered my soul and gained her idle hate. Peacock and paroquet!--at last I know The sorriest songsters make the bravest show. ANTICIPATION The joy is in the making. While we sow Our dream is wonderful with flowers, we name The purlieus of our garden and the aim Is worth the effort, yet we cannot know The garden will be just a garden, so The dream is heaven. This way mothers frame The child's high dedication to its fame, Repaid for all reality may show. God knows this, so He lets us have the best, The vast anticipation, rugged man Joys in the struggle, triumphs over throes, Vanquished a thousand times he still finds zest In hope and all his pleasure in a plan To be fulfilled at length in Heaven?--who knows. THE WAYFARER Half way to happiness, The whole way back again, Stumbling up the stubborn hill From the luring lane. Little sunset House of Hearts Standing all alone, I could come and sweep the leaves From your stepping stone. I, and he, could light your fires Laughing at the rain But O it's far to Happiness, A short way back again. RENUNCIATION Not what I ask, but what I do not ask, O my Beloved, proves my love for you. And love can set to love no harder task Than wistful silence, reticence to sue. I lock my lips, I force a wise content With all my being wailing for a sign. Ah, if men knew what woman's smiling meant When fierce and hard the heart cries out "He's mine." Mothers of men are we, we barren ones Who say "Be happy, dear, and play your part." What matter how we yearn, you are our sons Whose every footfall breaks a woman's heart. ARABESQUE Gold fish, rose and red As lady Lillith's hair, Mauve and blue as curling smoke And water-sapphires there. At the fountain's brim I built a little dream, As a goldsmith cunningly I made it flash and gleam. I wrought a maiden shape, I colored it with love, Scarlet mouth and breast of pearl And eyes of turtle dove. Thro' hours of moony dark, I woo'd her for my bride But ah! I could not build her soul, So with the dawn she died. THE ARCHITECTS How shall we build it curiously well, Our house to live and love in?--Shall it be Only significant to you and me, Or shall it be a palace where may dwell Those whom our spirits notice? May we tell An architect to loose his fancy free To toss up towers in soaring ecstasy With Doric dignity or temple bell? Or shall we build it with our hands, alone, Working together over wood and stone To learn an art we never knew, and strive, Patient, to raise with faith and trust and love, Fashioned so cunningly it must survive, A secret cottage in a silent grove? AMBUSH Crafty Chieftain, where you lie You can see the clouds drift by, Waiting in the dusky fern For your enemy's return. Does the beauty of that place Never tell you of my face, I, you left, to plot and plan For the ending of a man?-- You had better sought my aid, I have met him unafraid, We have wandered all alone Underneath a yellow moon. We have found the end of strife Is the waking up to life-- Therefore you, who forced my vow, Take my all of wisdom now. Love has taught me but one truth-- Love is merry, love is youth, We be children, he and I. Where is your sagacity? THE SCALES I wonder if the store of joy And love is limited, And if because my heart is glad Some other heart has bled. Believing this, a balance just Of recompense, I pray That my beloved gained the joy I did not have to-day. THE OLD TRAGEDY Did I allure you?--I only meant to love you, I only meant to be so dear you could not let me go. I held you close against my heart, bending down above you, As mothers brood above their babes, I loved you, loved you so. 'T was passion that moved you, called to you and caught you; You never felt my tenderness full launched on your desire. You never knew the friendship and sympathy I brought you. Ah, Mary pity women when their veins are filled with fire. And so I have lost you, I who never won you; You thought me but a siren by your crafty arts beguiled. I hate myself and scorn you for the honor I have done you. I leave you, bitter woman, and I came to you a child. TABOO Now am I sacred, for that holy thing, Your touch, has made me as a god; to-day I am magnificent, I am a king To whom my fellow men must cringe and pray. Such is taboo; but when to-morrow comes I may look once upon the sun and you; Then, thro' the dawn, with wailing and sad drums I pay the utter price.--Such is taboo! THE RIVALS Seated in my ingle nook With Duty by my side, How I strove to see her charms And take her for my bride! "Sweet," I said, "I love you so"-- And suddenly I heard The laughing call of Beauty's voice And all my soul was stirred. Once again she cried my name And gone was every doubt, For who could stay at Duty's side When Beauty calls without? ALONE I only wanted room to be alone. I saw the days like little silver moons Cool and restrained shine forth; there were no noons To make me glad with glory, to atone. I dreamed of solitude. When one has known Ardent and eager verity, the tunes Of semi-truths are sweet, as subtle runes Attest the bud more dear than flower full blown. To be alone, to watch the dusk and weep For beauty's face that is so veiled, to know How exquisite the earth breaths come and go, To feel my life a silent, empty room Where lovely thoughts might take new shape and bloom,-- This is the dream that is more dear than sleep. BENEATH THE MASK I said that men were cowards, I thought that men were brave, I said that women gained no faith For all the love they gave. Beneath a mask of scorning I wore a heart of trust, But laughed in all my lovers' eyes And vowed their vows were dust. Time showed my words were true ones, My thoughts have proved no test, But still beneath my mask, I say I know my dreams were best. THOTH Hewn from basalt, black as sin, Blind eyes staring, hands on knees,-- This is Thoth, who shall survive All your fair divinities. Mars and Venus, piping Pan, White Diana, Cupid sweet,-- All their beauty, all their pride, Lie like ashes round his feet. Vast and calm and ultimate Ere this orb dissolves in space Life's last glimpse to man shall be Thoth, with his impassive face. [Illustration: LITTLE DANCER] LITTLE DANCER O little dancer, slim as a new moon, A candle flame blown by the wind--how soon Will all this be forgotten! Do you care The pagan poppies dying in your hair; Do you despair to think that even as they Your lovely life will tarnish in a day? How can we keep you, butterfly!--O must Such lovely grace resolve itself in dust? We must believe that some day when you lie Hid from the lights, beneath the open sky The trees will bend more perfectly above you, The flowers dance gayer for they'll know and love you, And we will mind a little less the cold, Remembering your grace when we are old. SIC ITUR AD ASTRA If it be educational to breast Salt lipped the wave that is the woe of Earth, Who could be called a fool? There is no rest From sorrow in this island of re-birth. And yet, ringed 'round with shadow as we are, In the penumbra we may all discern Glowing and gay the promise of a star For the adventurer with faith to yearn. THE JUDGES Watch me, eyes of the wind and rain, See if I come to the dusk with stain, Search me, eyes of the soaring sun, See what mischief my hands have done. If there be beauty of word or deed, If there be truth or a scorn of greed, Give me the peace of your dark, sweet hours, Let me be still as your moon and flowers. If there be harm to a heart that trusts, If there be pander to sordid lusts, Curse and condemn me to wide-eyed pain, Judge, and pay me, eyes of the rain. THE SPRING PLANTING "What shall we plant for our Summer, my boy,-- Seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy? Brave little cuttings of laughter and light? Then shall our Summer be flowery and bright." "Nay!--You are wrong in your planting," said he, "Have we not grass and the weeds and a tree? Why should we water and weary away For sake of a flower that lives but a day!" So she made gardens which he would not dig, Tended her apricot, apple and fig. Then, when one morning he chanced to appear, Sadly he noticed--"No trespassing here." AN IMPRESSIONIST PICTURE "How do you do," I said; the yellow coat She wore was like a golden serpent's skin. I took her white gloved hand, my voice grew thin As tho' her hand were tight about my throat. The air was green with heat, a flaccid note I did not fail to see, for heat might win My cause; her weary soul looked from within And saw the white sails flapping on my boat. "Coolness and rest" my eyes were whispering, In Isles where morn grows never afternoon, Where Passion buds forever with the Spring, Nor wanes with shifting tides of sea and moon, But--"How are you?" she said, and that was all, And tho' she smiled, she passed beyond recall. SUCH HELP FOR SINGING Such help I have for singing! The little winds a-stir Touch gently on the lisping leaves Like dainty dulcimer. The sights and scents of April-- What dreams, what themes they bring-- While gaunt crows cry their gasconade Down all the ways of Spring. Such happy help for singing! And round, below, above The air is thrilling with my joy Of love, love, love. TEMPUS EDAX RERUM Upon the silence of my unconcern The little noise that was your name falls dead. I can remember how your mouth was red, In the lost years, but tho' the senses yearn For some unguessed desire, they never turn To that vitality, your face!--We sped So swiftly thro' our burning hour. We said Drink deep, 't will never end; too late we learn That lovely passion's face so soon is grey, That notes too often pressed upon grow dumb, That after the high climax crowns a day The dusk seems long and empty. We who come To taste again Life's feast, why must it be We meet such ghosts to chill our revelry? THE COWARD Wishful of many honors, He was too lame to climb, And so he sat to wait for Death, Forgetting to be brave. He never saw the windfalls, From off the trees of Time, Drop down in mellow chance to him The while he digged his grave. [Illustration: THE ROMANY] THE LOST ROMANY The Romany has gone, he has taken all my kisses, I knew I could not keep him, so I laughed and let him go. I do not know the road where his freedom and his bliss is, So take my sober spinning where no gypsy winds can blow. I will find my life serene, I will wed a pleasant lover, I may think no more of perfume and the lingering in the lane; I will rear me sturdy children, and my soul I will discover, For I will not love a Romany in all this world again. COMPENSATION If one grew blind thro' gazing Wide-eyed upon the sun, What matter when such memoried light Would last till life were done. If one should die of loving, Divinely wild, and brave, What matter with such dreams to dream Within the quiet grave. UNTAMED Ah, we weary so with kisses, Weary so with your caresses, As the hooded hawk returning To its tinkling bells and jesses, So we flutter to the prison Of your arms, in meek surrender, And we grieve when you are angry, And we smile when you are tender, But our souls, untamed, are soaring Where no blandishments can teach them, Free our hearts, and free our spirits, Where your hands can never reach them. TO PERVANCHE If you were mine--(for all the little flowers That see you, weary of their innocence)-- If prayers that have been pale with penitence Grew purple with our passion, all the hours From sun to sun would be unique with bliss, Little red mouth that is not mine to kiss! You are not mine and you will never be, And so I am magnanimous, I give My love and you to Time, and you shall live Bride of his avid passion. I will see The moon of all this lure and beauty set, And I will turn from you and quite forget. [Illustration: PERVANCHE] THE BELLE She spread her atlas petticoat So rare, so fine to see. Her bonnet was of Tuscan straw, Her shawl was Turkey red. She peacocked gay before men's eyes, This lady of degree, On slippered tiny feet, and ah! She wished that she were dead. At every ball, at every rout She was the toast of town; But no one knew who called her cold What cruel wound had she. The laughing gallant that she loved Had scorned her high renown, And now another bore his babe, And held it on her knee. RELEASE How may we be released from memories? One dreads each green renewal of the grain, Reviving ancient life. If but the brain Might be made clean of last year's withered lies, Blown like brown leaves across the April skies In hateful resurrection, and retain Only the springs of promise, fine and sane, And a kind, leading hand to make us wise. If with the running sap a royal birth Each year might be accomplished, strong and free With the sweet prescience of virginity, Then were we true inheritors of earth, And the large lonely stars no more should see The age worn phoenix-lives that make our dearth. THE THIEF Did you see the rascal with the rain-grey eyes? He robbed me of my happiness before I knew its worth. He stole into my garden and took it by surprise, When midnight hid his wicked ways upon the sleeping earth. How shall I arrest him, for he took away my Spring, Took away my April 'neath his cloak of steaming rain. Tho' he left his Summer and a choir of birds that sing, Nothing will content me for I want my Spring again. I WILL WRITE LETTERS TO THE GRASS I will write letters to my friend the grass, I will sing all my songs to lilac flowers Gather the spices in the airs that pass, And wrap my heart close shrouded in the hours. I dread man's huge impertinence; he creeps Thro' the inviolate silences of Spring Like a marauder, waking that which sleeps To gather strength for lyric blossoming. I will write all my letters to the grass. The world shall be resolved into a cry Faint as a little voice that cries Alas! And I will laugh alone beneath the sky. [Illustration: "AND WRAP MY HEART CLOSE SHROUDED IN THE HOURS"] ONLY THIS We need demand no further gift from Heaven, We might dispense with documents and creeds, If but this one great grace to us were given-- The strength to follow where our reason leads. THE SURVIVOR Beauty will crumble with tasking, Love rarely lasts for a year, Virtue is sold for the asking, Bravery fades before fear. Youth never lives till the morrow, One thing of all is alive, Joy cannot quench it, or sorrow, Folly alone shall survive. Folly, from cradle to burning, Toys for the great and the small, None shall escape her by learning-- Folly has rattles for all! MEGAERA Always to suffer so, to want and weep With woe that groweth every day more deep; To don the green robe of tormented scorn, And ever curse the hour that love was born! Furies, my Sisters! have you no surcease For me to whom no death shall bring release? They name me Jealous One. They hate my name, The ages hold me high to endless shame; How, if I suffer so, does no one care And pity, for the wrath that I must bear? Gods! let me go, your service wrecks and sears, The vase must break that holds so many tears. THE SONG OF MOKAI He's dead, I watched him die. He cast a spell on my mate, They loved, and the moon whirled 'round the sky, They mocked at my rage and hate. Blood red from the burning sea The sun rose, and I knew! My soul whined wild little songs to me, I did what I had to do. I have taken the bone of his thigh, I have fashioned it into a horn; And I sing my soul's song, shrill and high, And curse the day he was born. TO THE GYPSY MAN Is there no room in your gypsy heart Where a woman's love might lie Warm and sheltered, your prize and song, As you wander beneath the sky? No, for you say, "I'll carry no weight, I must be free, be free; I'll carry no love in my gypsy heart To make a drag for me." Little you know, then, love is the cloak That shelters you from the storm; Love makes the shoes for your gypsy feet, Love is your coat so warm. Though you take no purse and you take no staff You cannot escape the load Of a woman's longing and woman's love That follows you down the road. THERE IS NO DANGER IN DISDAIN There is no danger in disdain, No grief in perfidy; The meek they are who taste of pain And matchless misery. The hearts who give, and giving, die, Could they but learn the way To take, and laugh and then deny, They still might live their day. THE PLAYMATE Brown boy running on a wide wet beach, Free as the water and the wind are free; Eyes of an odalisque and skin of a peach, O for such a playmate to play with me!-- Drenched with the sunshine of the long brave hours, How we would tumble in the white wild spray; Then, drowsy children, fall asleep like the flowers, And wake keen and merry to a new clean day. AFTERWARDS You know how I came to you, World beaten, tossed aside; Ready for death at a hangman's hand, Stript of all hope or pride. Leaning, you gathered me up Close to your great sweet heart, Lulled me and told me to be a man, Taught me your wonderful art. Now I am very wise, Proud with your love's true vow; Glorious with power,--I am more than a man, What will you do with me now! THE OLD MAID Ah, Heaven! How soon my body will be old! I powder and I perfume and I tire With the long wasting of my one desire. I choose fair colors, furs, and antique gold To draw men's eyes and hands, and yet how cold, How careless are their eyes. I see the fire Flame from my neighbor, and I can aspire To only friendship. I have tried the bold, The luring attitude, the timid mien, The boyish, wise, or simple, all in vain. I know the women laugh at me, but oh, How can I let my dreamed perfection go? I am a woman, I must have a man Only to ratify my nature's plan. MADNESS? They say I'm mad because I stare And look as tho' they were not there, Because I only speak when aught Occurs to me by way of thought. Instead of serving Fashion's creeds, I cut my coat to fit my needs. I laugh at grief and only weep When noisy life disturbs my sleep. My dreams are delicate and wild; Was ever wise man so beguiled?-- Mad, am I mad!--then pray that you May some day hope for madness too! THE SCHOLAR From what sweet masters have I fathomed doubt, What love and laughter taught me to be blind; How patient did they point the letters out Latin and Greek to my bewildered mind. Now I am very wise, I know the 'a' The little 'a' of doubt's first faint distress Then, letter perfect, I recall the way Thro' all the alphabet of bitterness. WISDOM'S SECRET Coerced by Furies who persuaded me That life was imminent with idleness, Their jibes made mad, their lashes aided me To grasp the accident of bitterness. Come storm! I cried, come passion and despair, For calm inhibits growth!--I called on fire To sear my comfortable days, and wear The nights to wastes of torment and desire. Then pausing breathless, in a little wood I met with Wisdom laughing in the sun; She said, "Lie still, for idleness is good, And grow in peace as I myself have done." CAGED Once I had wings--I had no heart to fly, They put me in a cage, I did not die. They tamed me, taught me tricks and bade me sing; I waited, bore it patiently; one thing I knew, that some day it might be The cage would open and I should be free. I waited endlessly,--at last the day! Faint with delight I thought to fly away, Ah, but the mockery of that open door!-- My wings were powerless, I could fly no more. THE WIFE SPEAKS Not all those women you have loved and left, O my Beloved, can stir my jealousy; Not the light loves which you forgot for me, For my heart's fingers made by life most deft Have mended all the rents their arrows cleft And from their old enchantments set you free. But one is my despair, and only she, The one who loved you, hopeless and bereft. How can I give as much, who hold your heart As she, unloved who gave with scorn of gain? So do the angels; at her name I smart And feel a sordid bargainer who gives For fair exchange; I cannot heal the pain, I am defeated by her while she lives. THE ALTAR Some take comfort from a star, Thro' the slow grey surge of Time, Some take joy from ruddy war, Lust of conflict, heat of crime. In these days of codes and creeds, Gods may wander newly born, Every day for each man's needs Bringing blessings thro' the morn. I will take a happy word, Open heart and hand for play, And a song which none have heard For my altar of the day. [Illustration] * * * * * RECENT POETRY THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM WATSON UNIFORM EDITION. 3 vols. Cloth. 12 mo. $4.00 net per set. Postage 25 cents. Half Morocco. $12.00 net. Postage 25 cents. _Sold separately as follows_ POEMS. 2 vols. $2.50 net. Half Morocco, $7.50 net. Photogravure Portrait. Postage and packing 20 cents. The lover of poetry cannot fail to rejoice in this handsome edition.--_Philadelphia Press._ A glow of inspiration that merits better than that of any living poet the high adjective, Vergilian.--_New York Evening Post._ Work which will live, one may venture to say, as long as the language.--_Philadelphia Public Ledger._ NEW POEMS. $1.50 net. Half Morocco, $5.00 net. Postage and packing 12 cents. Contains "On Hearing Samaroff Play," "Vivisection," "Leopold of Belgium," "To Richard Watson Gilder," "To the Invincible Republic," "Sonnets to Miranda," and "The Woman With the Serpent's Tongue." "To the Invincible Republic" is full of a generous and admiring appreciation. All of these poems are explicit, strong, and interesting.--_New York Sun._ _Times_--William Watson is, above all things, an artist who is proud of his calling and conscientious in every syllable that he writes. To appreciate his work you must take it as a whole, for he is in line with the high priests of poetry, reared, like Ion, in the shadow of the Delphic presences and memories, and weighing every word of his utterance before it is given to the world. _Athenæum_--His poetry is a "criticism of life," and, viewed as such, it is magnificent in its lucidity, its elegance, its dignity.... We revere and admire Mr. Watson's pursuit of a splendid ideal; and we are sure that his artistic self-mastery will be rewarded by a secure place in the ranks of our poets.... We may express our belief that Mr. Watson will keep his high and honorable station when many showier but shallower reputations have withered away, and must figure in any representative anthology of English poetry.... "Wordsworth's Grave" is, in our judgment, Mr. Watson's masterpiece ... its music is graver and deeper, its language is purer and clearer, than the frigid droning and fugitive beauties of the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard." SABLE AND PURPLE. $1.25 net. Postage 10 cents. _Boston Transcript_--Still the poet whose inspirational fantasy gives distinction to modern English Literature. _Spectator_--A great artist, "Sable and Purple" is of a high excellence. THE WORKS OF LAURENCE HOPE INDIA'S LOVE LYRICS, including "The Garden of Kama." 12mo. $1.50 net. Postage 10 cents. Half morocco, $4.00 net. STARS OF THE DESERT: POEMS. 12mo. $1.50 net. Postage 10 cents. Half morocco, $4.00 net. LAST POEMS. Translations from the "Book of Indian Love." 12mo. $1.50 net. Postage 10 cents. Half morocco, $4.00 net. COMPLETE WORKS. Uniform Edition. 3 volumes. In box. INDIA'S LOVE LYRICS. STARS OF THE DESERT. LAST POEMS. Cloth, $4.50 net. Postage 35 cents. Half morocco, $12.00 net. Postage 50 cents. SONGS FROM THE GARDEN OF KAMA. Illustrated from photographs by Mrs. Eardsley Wilmot. Cloth. 4to. $3.00 net. Postage 15 cents. INDIA'S LOVE LYRICS BY LAURENCE HOPE _The New York Commercial_: Its colors are elemental, silver and gold and red. It is heavy with the breath of citron groves, cool with the tinkling of temple bells, and the air of night, and the cries of wild peacocks and parrots.... In many ways this volume of translation is the most important contribution to poetry that the season has as yet brought forth. _The Baltimore Sun_: There is nothing stale or hackneyed in this book; newness, freshness, and variety are found on every page. These poems are true lyrics, for they give us true glimpses into the hearts of men. _The Chicago Tribune_: A volume of passionate love poems written by a true poet. _The Chicago Inter-Ocean_: They are in several metres, handled always with graceful ease, and often with intensity. The coloring is vivid and the music subtle. The book is redolent with the atmosphere of the Arabian Nights. _The Boston Evening Transcript_: Mr. Hope is a thorough artist to his fingertips, and his choice of words and images is as keen and exact as his ability to adapt Indian literature to the more prosaic mood and tongue of the Anglo-Saxon. _The Athenæum_: Mr. Hope has caught admirably the dominant notes of this Indian love poetry, its delirious absorption in the instant, its out-of-door air, its melancholy. STARS OF THE DESERT BY LAURENCE HOPE _The Washington Mirror_: The author has so completely infused the charm of the Orient into this volume that one is transported for the time and lost in the poetic beauty of his surroundings, finds no jarring chord nor is disposed to shrink from the frankness of this translation of oriental verse. _The Chicago Tribune_: It is still a question whether these are direct translations or whether they are written in the Hindu style by Laurence Hope. Perhaps she has done for the Hindu poets what FitzGerald did for Omar. _The Conservator_: He seems to exhale an oriental atmosphere. He sings musically. I can follow the delicate strain by which Hope saves himself from stepping beyond the bounds of a vital reserve. _The New York Star_: The author is imbued with the glowing passion of Eastern romance. _The New York Globe_: The theme, in almost every instance love, is treated with feverish abandon. KING ALFRED'S JEWEL _THIRD EDITION_ BY KATRINA TRASK. Author of "Night and Morning," "Mors et Victoria," etc. Cloth, 12mo. $1.25 net. Postage 10 cents. With Colored Frontispiece reproducing the Jewel now at Oxford. The English speaking world has waited a thousand years for a worthy dramatic impersonation of King Alfred. And here it is.... The play will stand not alone upon the grateful response it wins from the English national heart, but as a work of art.... The author is supremely a poet, the master of metaphor not less than of melody.... It is a play not only to be read but to be acted.... This vivid drama is not cast in the conventional classic mould. It is distinctly and wholly English in spirit and form, and intensely modern--but breathing the air of morning, of springtime, of fresh adventure.--HENRY MILLS ALDEN, _The New York Times Saturday Review_. King Alfred's noble and vigorous character is limned with great skill, while Elfreda, a graceful and innocent maiden, flits through the play like a woodland fairy.--_The Glasgow Evening News_, Scotland. The living Alfred lives in this gracious play, for the author has fashioned his great spirit out of the mist of time.--JAMES DOUGLAS, _The Star_, London. ARTHUR SYMONS POEMS A Collected Edition of the Poet's work, issued in two volumes, with a Photogravure Portrait as Frontispiece. 8vo. $3.00 _net_. Postage 24 cents. Half morocco, $10.00 _net_. THE FOOL OF THE WORLD AND OTHER POEMS 12mo. $1.50 _net_. Postage 15 cents. Half morocco, $5.00 _net_. Stands at the head of all British poets of his generation.--_New York Evening Post._ One of the truest poets that modern England owns.--_Bookman._ THE POEMS OF ERNEST DOWSON Illustrations and a Cover-design by Aubrey Beardsley. An Introductory Memoir by Arthur Symons, and a Portrait. 12mo. $1.50 _net_. Half morocco, $4.00. Postage 10 cents. Belongs to the class that Rossetti does, with a touch of Herrick, and something which is Dowson, and Dowson alone.--DR. TALCOTT WILLIAMS in _Book News_. POEMS OF ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON. Cloth. 12mo. $1.50 _net_. Postage 12 cents. In this volume we have a welcome gathering together of the principal poems issued by Mr. Arthur Christopher Benson during the past sixteen years.... In this new form his poems should make new friends.--_London Daily Telegraph._ CARMINA. BY THOMAS A. DALY. Cloth. 12mo. $1.00 _net_. Postage 10 cents. A collection of poems by this well-known author of Italian, Irish and American verse. The volume contains all of the most popular verses from "Canzoni," in addition to many new ones of equal appeal. NEW POEMS. BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. Cloth. 12mo. $1.50. THE WIND AMONG THE REEDS. POEMS By W. B. YEATS. 12mo. $1.25 _net_. Half morocco, $4.00. Postage 10 cents. The genuine spirit of Irish antiquity and Irish folk lore--the very spirit of the myth-makers is in him.--MR. WILLIAM ARCHER. THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM Cloth, 50 cents _net_; Leather, 75 cents _net_. Postage 4 cents. Rendered into English verse by EDWARD FITZGERALD. With 9 illustrations. THE ROSARY AND OTHER POEMS By ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS. 12mo. $1.25 _net_. Half morocco, $4.00. Postage 10 cents. A Landorian touch of divine simplicity.--_The Dial._ THE WORKS OF FRANCIS THOMPSON POEMS. Square 12mo. $1.75 net. Postage 10 cents. SISTER SONGS: An Offering to Two Sisters. With Frontispiece by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. Square 12mo. $1.75 net. Postage 10 cents. NEW POEMS. Cloth. Square 12mo. $1.75 net. Postage 10 cents. THE HOUND OF HEAVEN. Special Edition. 16mo. 50 cents net. Postage 5 cents. (Also included in "Poems.") SELECTED POEMS. Cloth, 16mo. $1.50 net. Postage 10 cents. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE POEMS OF. Edited with an Introduction by ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE, and numerous Illustrations by GERALD METCALFE. 8vo. $3.50 net. Postage extra. The only complete, definitive, illustrated edition of the poems of the author of "Christabel," "The Ancient Mariner," etc. Several hitherto unpublished poems are included in this edition. A. E. HOUSMAN A SHROPSHIRE LAD. New Edition. Cloth, 16mo. $1.00 net. Postage 4 cents. Half morocco, $3.00 net; postage 5 cents. SAPPHO Memoir, Text, Selected Renderings, and a Literal Translation by HENRY THORNTON WHARTON. Illustrated in Photogravure. New Edition. $2.00 net. Postage 10 cents. THE POETRY OF STEPHEN PHILLIPS PAOLO AND FRANCESCA: A Tragedy in Four Acts. By STEPHEN PHILLIPS. New Edition with Photogravure Frontispiece after the painting by G. F. WATTS, R. A. 12mo Twelfth Edition $1.25 net _New York Times_--Nothing finer has come to us from an English pen in the way of a poetic and literary play since the appearance of Taylor's "Philip van Artevelde." _Brooklyn Daily Eagle_--It is not too much to say that "Paolo and Francesca" is the most important example of English dramatic poetry that has appeared since Browning died. _Philadelphia Press_--"Paolo and Francesca" has beauty, passion, and power.... The poem deserves a wide reading on account of its intrinsic merit and interest. HEROD: A Tragedy. By STEPHEN PHILLIPS. 12mo Twenty-First Thousand $1.25 net _Times_--Here, then, is a noble work of dramatic imagination dealing greatly with great passions; multicolored and exquisitely musical. Mr. Stephen Phillips is not only a poet, but that still rarer thing, a dramatic poet. MR. WILLIAM ARCHER (in _The World_)--The elder Dumas speaking with the voice of Milton. _Athenæum_--Not unworthy of the author of "The Duchess of Malfi." POEMS. By STEPHEN PHILLIPS. Including "Marpessa" and "Christ in Hades." 12mo Thirteenth Edition $1.25 net _Times_--Mr. Phillips is a poet, one of the half dozen men of the younger generation, whose writings contain the indefinable quality which makes for permanence. _Spectator_--In his new volume Mr. Stephen Phillips more than sustains the promise made by his "Christ in Hades"; here is real poetic achievement--the veritable gold of song. _Literature_--No such remarkable book of verse as this has appeared for several years. MARPESSA. By STEPHEN PHILLIPS. With Illustrations by PHILIP CONNARD. Cloth, 50 cents net Leather, 75 cents net WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS--Tennyson at his age had not done better. NEW POEMS. Including "Iole: A Tragedy in One Act"; "Launcelot and Guinevere," "Endymion," and many other hitherto unpublished poems. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25 net. Half mor., $4.00 net. Postage 10 cts. RECENT POETRY SELECTED POEMS OF JOHN DAVIDSON 12mo Leather, $1.50 net Cloth, $1.25 net _The Nation_--An uncommonly masculine volume. _Chicago Record-Herald_--What every admirer of this virile poet desires, a brief summary of his important work from which an adequate conception of his style and versatility can be obtained. _Athenæum_--There is urgent need for a collected edition of Mr. Davidson's poems and plays. The volume and variety of his poetry ought to win for it wider acceptance. It is indeed curious that poetry so splendid as Mr. Davidson's should fail to get fuller recognition. There are many aspects of his genius which ought to make his work popular in the best sense of the word. He has almost invented the modern ballad.... He handles the metre with masterly skill, filling it with imaginative life and power. _Times_--There are not more than two or three living writers of English verse out of whose poems so good a selection could be made. The poems in the selection are not only positive--they are visible. _Literary World_--We count ourselves among those to whom Mr. Davidson has made himself indispensable. _Daily Mail_--Mr. Davidson is our most individual singer. His variety is as surprising as his virility of diction and thought. _St. James's Gazette_--This volume may serve as an introduction to a poet of noble and distinctive utterance. _New Age_--The book contains much that Mr. Davidson's warmest admirers would best wish to remember him by. There is a subtle charm about these poems which eludes definition, which defies analysis. _T. P.'s Weekly_--Mr. Davidson is one of the most individual of living poets; he has a rare lyrical faculty. _Morning Post_--Mr. Davidson is as true a poet as we have now among us ... he has included nothing that we do not admire. _Daily Graphic_--This delightful volume. _Dundee Advertiser_--Its poetry gives out a masterful note.... Mr. Davidson's poem pictures. Transcriber's Notes In _The Chicago Tribune_ review for STARS OF THE DESERT by Laurence Hope, "she" may be a typo for "he." (Perhaps she has done for the Hindu poets what FitzGerald did) *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERBS AND APPLES *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. 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