The Project Gutenberg eBook of Moods

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Title: Moods

Prose poems

Author: Mercedes de Acosta

Release date: August 5, 2026 [eBook #79277]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Moffat, Yard and Company, 1919

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79277

Credits: Sam Lamb and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOODS ***

MOODS

MOODS

Prose Poems

by

Mercedes de Acosta

NEW YORK

MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY

1919

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY

MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY

CONTENTS

PAGE

M EMORY

3

F AITH

5

L OVE

7

D ISGUST

10

J OY

13

D ESPAIR

16

T ENDERNESS

18

H URT FEELINGS

22

W EARINESS

24

O PPORTUNITY

26

T IME

28

R EVELATION

31

F INDING GOD

34

B RAINSTORM

38

P EACE

41

T WILIGHT DREAMS

44

INTRODUCTION

There is a happy gift revealed in these little pastels, vignettes, or whatever one wishes to name such fragments that Miss de Acosta has written and which refuse to be catalogued and classified. They stand out in one’s reading in refreshing contrast to many opaque books of verse. They are not poetry; but they are the most singable prose, and they have a haunting quality, a breath of mystery, as though a ghost walked in a garden. They are strange, but they are human too; for if Miss de Acosta has anything it is a belief in, and an understanding of, her fellow human beings. In the little picture of the tired woman in the subway she shows with what feeling her heart is charged; and in the fragment of the studio, the climax is deftly approached. Brief as these glimpses of human experience are, they leave one with a sense of finality. It is as though a door were suddenly opened, or a window quickly raised—and then as suddenly closed again. But one has seen the room in its entirety, and the interior has been photographed on the brain.

Miss de Acosta, who comes forward here with her first volume, bears promise of even finer achievement. I like the perfume of these flowers. And I like her directness, her obvious sincerity, her passion for the truth as Life reveals it to her, and her endeavor to give the reader a swift, vivid picture. She may go very far.

CHARLES HANSON TOWNE.

MEMORY

Do you know I am living tonight in a

cloud of memory?

I, who always preach to you of looking

forward, am sitting here silently looking

backward and tearing the veil from off

the dead faces of the past.

Memory is a strange thing, so poignant and

alive in its insistence, so dead and

lifeless in its reality, so cruel and

portentous in its regrets.

It is curious how, merely in the brain,

wide vistas of recollection can be opened,

and whole pictures of the past stretch

before us by simply recalling the touch

of a hand, by the stirring of a soft

breath of wind, by a sad prolonged

street cry, or by the heavy atmospheric

pressure of a warm summer’s night.

Sometimes it is a strain of music across

far waters that brings back long-distant

years; again it is the odor of a box suddenly

opened, which gives forth the fragrance

of violets or rose leaves long since

dead and which instantly brings a tug

at the heart strings and fills the throat

with burning tears.

It seems to me a comparatively easy thing

to suppress our memories during the day, when

a host of things come clamoring and crowding

for us to accomplish.

But the past, with its sad, tragic eyes and

fantastic shapes, its shrill, melancholy wails

and dear, dead voices, its heavily perfumed

flowers, its vibrating, pulsing music, its

soft, caressing touches and maddening, heart-rending

regrets—these all come filing

back one by one and play upon the soul

and make the lips turn white....

Sometimes at night!

FAITH

I think it does not matter so much what we believe

as what we want to believe,—the desire seems

to me greater than the accomplishment.

They say “men live by hope,” but I feel men must

live by faith or else they perish.

Or perhaps faith and hope are very closely akin—

one being the Touch of God, and the other being

the Breath of a Divine Perfume He has tossed

out upon the world, so that man might still

find a smile where there seemed only to be tears.

Today I do not feel that I am groping my way

as I have heretofore done, but a strange exaltation

is in me as though a star had caught in my hair,

or as if a piece of the moon had come down and

brushed against my cheek.

I wonder could you understand if I told you why?

If I tell you that for days and nights my soul

has been writhing in a corner of darkness,—

oppressed by a thousand apprehensions and crushed

by the weight of fear?

Until today no light has come its way and yet

do you know that in that solitude and stillness

I have been conscious of a little something

stirring in me and trying to make me believe

that help would come?

But the dreariness came again and strange

grotesque shapes pressed about me and bade

me let go and sink and sink....

Then I lay despairing and could not move

or raise my eyes—but suddenly, when

my faith had almost ceased to be....

God put out His Hand and, stooping down—touched me!

LOVE

It seems absurd I did not recognize it at once,

but at first my thoughts were indefinite

and I did not know by what name to call it.

I had always looked upon it as something

so much more personal and individual, and

coming this way as it did, it seemed new and

strange. It came to me in the subway.

I remember it had been raining and as I

entered the train I remarked to myself on

the hideous smell of damp clothing and

dripping umbrellas. At first the crowd was

oppressive; I who hate crowds so, shrank

a little and tried to gain my balance. It

was just then the peculiar thing happened....

Suddenly, in spite of the fact that I was

pushed and pulled here and there I did not

seem to mind. A man rose giving me a seat,

and as I sank into it and the crowds thinned

out at a station, I looked across the train

and saw a woman dozing in the corner. Her

face was worn, white and pinched;

her clothes dirty and her hat sliding off.

Every time the train swayed her head lurched

forward, each second seeming to assume a more

uncomfortable position. I looked at her

pathetic face and longed with all my heart

to put her tired head upon my shoulder,

taking my coat and wrapping it around her

emaciated form.

Then I looked down the train and saw an old man;

he had apparently been to the hospital, because

his head was bandaged and his face contracted

from time to time in pain. He gazed slyly

about, and when he thought no one was looking

he spat upon the floor between his legs.

Ordinarily I should have wanted to kill

him for it, but then, oddly enough, I felt

no disgust but only a great pity and sympathy

for him.

A small child opposite was screaming shrilly

and every few seconds licking the window pane,

while his parents fought and argued with each

other beside him. I wanted to take their hands

and tell them not to quarrel and I longed to

take the child on my lap; cuddling it to me

and distracting it from the soiled window pane.

Then as I gazed at all the faces along the seats

a great understanding and sympathy for them sprang

up within me. I wished I could take them by

the hand one by one out into the sunlight, giving

them what they most desired, and then be able to

rejoice at their good fortune in which I would

share no part.

I forgot myself completely and a spirit of

exaltation came to me such as I had never

experienced before. The subway ceased to smell

and upon each face and in my heart I seemed to

discern a great light.

I held my breath while I felt as if I were being

carried on by some unknown harmony and rhythm;

I was sure that all the eyes in the train had

grown kindly and that no one harbored evil in

his heart.

Before the feeling faded away—as I knew it would—

and left me again my same selfish and miserable

self, I longed to ascertain what this sublime

mood could be. As I wondered, back from my brain

and all the way down to my heart I heard the

words beating and hammering my answer——

“This is love!” they cried.

DISGUST

Do you remember the day I left your house so

suddenly and rushed out on the street?

Or perhaps you do not recall it and did not

remark my absence,—you had so many people there,

and your house was fragrant with such quantities

of flowers, and every one seemed to pretend at being

gay, even if he were not.

And I? I left it all behind me because I heard

you boasting in such a light-hearted way of all we

had dreamed of and loved so well.

My heart trembled at your careless words and I

closed my ears and rushed out before you should have

killed my last illusion and made me hate you.

Your house, which a few moments before seemed gay

and bright, suddenly flung from out its windows the

flag of hypocrisy, and became meaningless and empty.

My head ached; and I hurried aimlessly along the

street peering into the faces of the passers-by,

thinking that in humanity I should find a solace and

an answer.... But they only pushed and knocked against

me and not one spirit spoke to me.

Then I went into the museum and thought that there

with art I could find revelation and be comforted.

So I walked through the galleries, but I was followed

unendingly by the same unsparing mob that

jostled me in the streets and suspicious guards

glared at me while all around hung low rows

of portraits in heterogeneous fashion which, melting

into one another, lost their personality and meant

nothing to me.

So I dragged myself out again into the spring

air and walked wearily toward the park. There,

reaching a bench, I sank down and thought

at last I could relax undisturbed.

But a drunken man came and sat beside

me and nudged my elbow, so I rose and moved

away and wondered if there were any place

in the whole wide world where one could be

really alone and unimbittered.

Friendship, art and all the things I cherished

seemed to have failed me.

Suddenly I thought of death!

Then, meditating on the last long sleep, a

sense of great peace and the solitude I

had longed for came over me....

But only for a brief instant, because I

remembered with anguish that, even in

death, one could not be alone; and the

thought of overcrowded and congested

cemeteries filled my soul with horror;

and I shuddered!

JOY

I looked out of the window at the snow

on the ground and something in the

sunlight made me throw aside my books

and go out.

I do not recall how I reached there,

but I found myself in the heart of the

park, and maybe because it was so

early, or I do not know quite why,—

it seemed empty,—I looked across the

white stretch of glistening snow and

my heart beat with joy at being alone.

Suddenly something very odd happened to me:

Everything and everyone in my life

seemed to drop away from me; I felt

as though my spirit had been freed

and as if no harm could ever come

to me again.

So I laughed and blew my breath out

in the cold air and waved it good-bye,

and I shouted aloud and tossed the

snow from side to side with my feet.

I knew you would be waiting for me and

be angry, but that and all things else

seemed very remote and far away, so

I dismissed it from my mind and did not

think of it again.

Then I pretended I was Columbus discovering

America and I called out “land ahead.”

But after, I changed and pretended I was

Jeanne d’Arc leading the French army,

and all the while sang the Marseillaise

because it thrilled me so and I waved my

arms and danced.

Then I decided to be the wind, and I

ran as fast as I could and fell down

in the snow, jumped up again and laughed

some more.

I threw kisses and made faces at the sun

and I tried to catch the little diamonds

that gleamed on the snow,—but each one

lured me on to another, until it seemed

like an eternal mirage,—so I stood still,

drew a long breath and thanked God for Life!

Then as I walked on I felt that I possessed

everything, because I had youth, health

and ambition.

And the whole world seemed to be stretching

out its alluring hands before me with

wonderful rose-tipped fingers!

DESPAIR

One day I said, “There is no such thing as

love,” and something closed up within

me; and although I looked upon people

I knew I did not see them. Some horrible

apprehension seemed to grip at my heart

with ice-boned hands. I felt nauseated

and sick.

I went home and closed my door and, for

the first time in my life, threw my

books into a corner and broke my pens

and pencils.

After that outburst I sat down and tried

to think, but all my thoughts seemed

draped in long garbs of black crepe that,

stealing in and out through my mind like

phantoms on tiptoe, gave me no peace.

I thought what a failure my life had been

and I believed every one had deserted me.

I longed to die!

I saw your roses, but I threw them

on the floor and stepped on them because

they seemed fresh and gay; and a thousand

sad thoughts rushed through my mind, while

I felt as if I were being oppressed by

all the nightmares of the world and beating

my soul against a closed iron door.

Then I remembered that people said “tears soothe

the heart;” so I prayed to be allowed to weep,

but instantly cursed myself for praying

and cried aloud, “There is no God!”

And all night long I sat in darkness, staring

into space with clenched hands, repeating the

words over and over again, “No love, no hope”—

“No love, no hope”....

TENDERNESS

They always said of her that she was selfish

and spoiled and that, although she lived in a

big house and had everything in the world

money could buy, no one really cared about her

for herself.

They admitted she had beauty, but they said her

face was hard and bitter and that her only

power lay in her worldly prosperity, which had

a certain empty, insincere following,—but

that she had no real influence because she did

not have a heart and no one loved her.

I used to hear them talking about her rudeness

and her detached indifference, and they seemed

to excite themselves greatly about her,

and grow angry and shrug their shoulders;

then they would always end by thanking God

they were not like her.

After these discussions—in which I took no

part—I always went home and thought about her.

And then one day I went to hear Kreisler play.

I think he played more exquisitely than I had

ever heard him before; perhaps it was the

music of Beethoven that moved me so or,

more likely, the mingling of both their spirits

that tore so plaintively at my soul.

Whatever the cause, I felt a great spell upon me,

and I saw nothing and was not conscious where

I was until, suddenly and accidentally, my eyes

fell upon her face; I was brought back to my

surroundings,—and all the things I had heard

about her came to me, and went crowding through

my mind.

She was not alone in the box, although she

sat apart in a corner, separated from the

other people as it seemed to me she always

was. She was leaning a bit forward with

her hands clasping her knees, her lips a

trifle apart and seeming singularly pale;

but what I noticed most was the expression

in her eyes, which had an entreaty and a

pathos in them I had never seen in any face

before,—and her mouth was strangely soft with a

look of sweetness about its corners.

She was not looking at Kreisler, but gazing out

before her as though at something we others could

not see, and I was filled with a peculiar sensation

that she understood and felt things which were remote

from other people.

Then I looked away because somehow I felt as if

I were spying at her with her mask off, and

looking upon her soul!

The violin stopped and, as the last notes vibrated

and died away and were swallowed up in the applause,

I looked at her again.

Once more the hard look was on her face and the

bitter pain in her eyes.

I saw the people she was with exchange a casual

remark with her, and then draw a little aside

and talk among themselves.

All at once a great wave of tenderness came over me,

and I longed with sudden eagerness to put my arms

about her and draw her to me. I wanted to tell

her not to be lonely and sad and bitter, because

I knew she was not all they said she was, and all

they had made her with their idle talk.

I wanted to hold her hand and tell her I understood

and sympathized with her, and that I knew she only

seemed all the things they said, simply because

no one ever kissed her.

HURT FEELINGS

You remember of course the day I acted so

queerly in your studio?

How happy we were going up the stairs, and how

we laughed and vowed it would be the most wonderful

day we had ever spent!

“The day of days,” you called it.

And do you remember how I tripped and

dropped the tea and sugar packages, and you dropped the cake in

an effort to steady me—and how we sat down on the

steps and laughed and laughed as though it was the

funniest thing in the whole wide world?

And then in the corridor you would not let me open

the door until you had kissed my hands.

But as soon as we were in the studio something

seemed to snap within me, my mood changed entirely

and I ceased to laugh; I put the packages on the table

and was very quiet.

Of course you thought I had one of my old-time

headaches, and you took out that absurd headache

cologne—which never does the slightest bit of good—

and insisted upon spraying it over me.

And you tried to make me laugh again and kissed my

neck, but in spite of the fact that you looked like

an injured little child, I stood looking out of the

window and, when you asked me what was the

matter, I merely replied “nothing.”

Then in the face of all your desperate entreaties

I left the studio, and went down the stairs out into

the street....

I am sorry now I did it and, although I

never meant to tell you the reason—now,

because it all seems so trivial, I think

I shall:

Do you remember how I stopped laughing the

instant you opened the door?

That was because I noticed at once the

little plant I gave you was placed in a

dark corner, withered and dead.

WEARINESS

No, I do not want to dance tonight,

nor talk nor play.

You think I am foolish because I

want to sit here and stare into the

night? I wonder!

You say I am lazy?

I wonder at that too. Well, no matter.

You go and dance and leave me here

alone; then when you return you will

tell me what you have accomplished by

your dancing, and if you feel any the

happier for it,—but no, do not bother—

I think I shall be too tired even to listen.

It is true you will be exercising

your legs, but I shall sit here

and travel far and wide among the stars—

and exercise my soul.

Do you know my body seems strangely

lax tonight?

I think I must be quite exhausted;

and I am sure that I could sit here

for years and years and never move

a muscle or enter into life at all again.

So tired am I.

Perhaps, if I sit here long enough,

all the generations of the future will come

and tell me their secrets because they

will know I should be far too weary

ever to repeat them.

OPPORTUNITY

It is strange how seldom people can judge

the psychological moment to reach forth

their hands and grasp what they desire.

How often does the gardener in the field of

life pick the rose before it has really

opened or just a little too late, when

it has already commenced to fade and drop

its petals,—but how divinely fortunate

is the one who plucks it just at the right

moment and, as a reward, not only has the

rose, but very often with it a tiny, glistening,

jewelled drop of dew!

We cannot say that this is merely chance,

but rather a God-like bit of intuition

that is wound about and entwined in some

souls.

Too often in our feebleness we say opportunity

makes us what we are; and we do not realize our

strength or we should say that we will make

opportunity for that which we wish to be!

I feel that opportunity is something which grows

often and plentifully in the lives of some but,

like the grass beneath our feet, it is very

seldom cultivated and springs up noiselessly

and silently so that we do not notice it.

Most of us, when we wish to do something very

much or attain a great desire, expect the

moment for fulfillment to come heralded with

blasts of trumpets—and when it does not

come that way, but through an unpretentious

medium, we cannot grasp its significance;

and so we pass it by....

The wise soul is he who expects and seeks

opportunity in all places—not graspingly

or shrewdly, but silently and with great

faith; and who knows and comprehends the

law that not always must we go out to seek

it, but perhaps, while merely contemplating

the stars, will we gain force—and so it

will come to us.

Not too obviously, perhaps, but with an interior

illumination that will give us the Vision

and show us the path onward.

TIME

Time and space mean very little to me today.

I am sitting here thinking of ten years ago

and marvelling because it seems so close and so

little forgotten,—infinitely nearer than those

moments of even yesterday, which seem already remote and distant.

How strange time is!

Do you know I often fancy that old Father Time

holds in his hand some musical instrument? Maybe

a harp or a lyre—instead of a scythe as he is

always depicted—and he plays and plays and

plays ... mostly very low; and then things

that occurred only yesterday seem vague, almost

forgotten and far away.

But sometimes he sees our hearts craving to recall

vividly some face, to live over again some

moment, or to hear once more an almost forgotten

echo—and then he takes compassion upon us and

he plays madly and loudly, and suddenly, as though

in a vision, we witness departed moments; or we

see a face or hear a voice close beside us, and

so real are they, that we have but to stretch out

our hands to touch and caress them, or turn

our heads to hear the cadence of a voice rise from

out the long-dead past.

Have you noticed how vividly old people recall

their childhood?

Ah, that is because Father Time, being so old

himself, has a profound attraction for old age,

based on reciprocal qualities which he knows them

to share in common with him.

So of course he loves them best and, realizing

that he has no earthly future to offer them, he

draws down his musical instrument and plays louder

and louder—and lo! they can sit for hours at

a time, slowly rocking backward and forward, and

all the while they are living over again some

cherished moment and hearing sweet, enchanted music.

And, if you listen closely during the silent

intervals between the squeaking and rocking of

their chairs, I am sure you will hear them saying

softly to themselves as they nod their heads slowly

to and fro—

“Why, it all seems only yesterday!”

REVELATION

It seems to me that life is absolutely

futile and incomplete until we realize that

no matter what we are doing, or whither

going, it is because of some preconceived

reason; and that in the end, when we have

reached the last turning of the road and

come to lay down our wearying burdens, no

matter what our regrets through life may have

been—we will know and fully comprehend

that the tending of our footsteps this or

that way was merely the working out of a

great end.

The orientation of our views is so limited

and circumscribed that, when something comes

to us which we have not desired, we can

only feel the bearing down of a cruel fate

upon our heads. And too often we toss those

same heads back in stubborn despair and grind

our teeth in the gale of what must be—

thereby losing our balance and sense of what

might be had we the courage to entwine

our strength with that of the Infinite!

Many times the inveiglement of an idea—a set

idea which perhaps we have nourished in our

hearts for days—will keep us from all

realization of the good we might gain by a

different shaping of our lives from that

which we had dreamed.

To some of us the revelation never comes;

and we go on pursuing life with our noses

pressed to the ground, without a glimmer

of comprehension of the great and superfine

machine which marks out and registers our lives.

To others, who are perhaps more worthy, the

revelation does come, and usually during or

after our darkest hours.

It is indeed a proof of the Divine that we should

receive light after darkness!

To these same it is strange how sometimes

it will come slowly like the rising of the

moon, and then again quickly as a flood

of sunlight after a darkening cloud has passed.

In the sad or desperate moments of our lives

when indeed we see nothing to go on for—

when we are torn and spent and there seems

no end to the coursing of the blood from

out our hearts—it is then that the knowledge

in a flash comes to us, that there must

be a reason, and that we could not be made

to suffer so without an ultimate beneficial

purpose.

And so all striving seems puerile and we cease

to beat our wings against the cage, lift our

torn hearts instead to the sweet rain of

heaven and ask to see the star that may guide us.

And, as small children who, seeing not, obey,

so we too, set forth; and, although unconsciously,

in our faith become as sages.

FINDING GOD

I have been reading tonight a book on

science which, I think, tends to

kill all spiritual hope and attributes

everything to the material; taking away

our dreams of miracles, crushing

our hopes in the Beyond and

tearing down the belief of a divine

intuition within us.

It explains all these things as springing

entirely from pathological causes and

seems to feed the intellect while

it starves the Soul.

I think so much has been said in this generation

about science, so much has been questioned and

delved into about it that I cannot help

feeling that science will eventually encompass

and satiate the world—that is, if we let it

engulf us completely and turn our hearts and

souls into rocks and machines; and insist in

believing that the still silent voice within

us, which we once called God, is merely the

emotion caused by a craving for food or sleep

or air, or some other physical necessity—

which will cease when we last close these

weary eyes of ours.

It is indeed true to call this the age of science

and “The Iron Age,” for what could tend to make

men’s hearts more thoroughly iron than to tell

them to stifle and kill all their emotions and

that we are, after all, only a part of the scheme

of the Whole, and must not look forward because

there is no Beyond?

“Where there is no vision the people perish.”

So in this age when men seek and in answer

find only a golden frame—with no color

picture inside to brighten the rooms of life—

but instead cold dismal facts, perhaps then

it is well that thousands of these poor

men should be killed off and not taste the bitter

poison to the end.

And yet, is it not the irony of fate that

science again with its machine guns, its

poisoned gas and all other improved and

advanced diabolical warfare should be the

hand to slay them?

Men’s ears that can only listen to the roar

of machinery, cannot hear the song of the

birds; men’s bodies and feet that are so well

clothed, cannot feel the clay of the earth nor

the poetry of the wind and sun on their bodies;

men’s eyes that are tired straining in the

research room or the laboratory cannot see the

stars, and men’s hearts that lead themselves into

believing that from the decay of these poor

bodies there is no future, cannot see God.

And by these words I do not mean to refute

the great and everlasting good that science

has done for the world, nor do I forget the

vast progress for the benefit of humanity in

surgery, hygiene and medicine, and the advancement

toward comfort, economy of time and manual labor

which it has donated to us by the efforts and

sacrifices of wonderful and brave men.

To all those who have toiled and still have been

able to Believe, I should like to write a eulogy.

But it is to those who, in their search in science,

have lost their ideal and come to live so scientifically

that their souls, as it were, have dried up and left

only the workings of their brains—

it is from these, that I would turn my face away.

To live really it is impossible to live scientifically.

We must live by the emotions to survive and find

God, because it is only by and through the emotions

that we truly palpitate and feel ... and reaching

out we extend our hands and lean far into the Vast

Space of the Infinite!

BRAINSTORM

How absurd people are! As if anyone could ever

understand anyone else! I am so tired of people

always trying to understand me, when I hold no

understanding of myself. Tonight I have no faith

and in my brain there are chaos and whirlwinds.

I have ceased to believe in God or man.

Do you remember when I used to talk to you of ideals

and truth and all such false things? That was when

I was quite mad, but tonight I am sane; sane and

weary of all control and pretenses. I am tired of

being polite, of talking low when I wish to shout, of

laughing when I want to cry. I am tired of convention

and going to dinners and saying “What a charming party

this is” when all the while I should like to tear the

table-cloth off and smash up the best china.

I am tired of shuffling feet, ever struggling onward

and leading nowhere. I am tired of weak vacillating

people and those who do not know real love—Love is

no love at all where for its sake one is not willing

to commit a crime. But I am also tired of loving and

of being loved—it seems to be the dark ages since

I spoke to you of love—I am tired of lies and truth—

more tired of truth since it only raises hopes and in the end fails.

How futile all these things are, how misguiding and tragically frail!

If Life only had long hair so that I might run my hand

through it and tear it from its roots! If I could

only be an earthquake and shake the very civilization

of life! Civilization, what a farce! As if there

existed any such thing. I wish I could be a hurricane

and crush down everything in my way, or a maddening

thunderstorm, with its flashes of blood and fire across the sky....

A thousand dead bodies tonight might lie in my way

and I should like to walk over them and, I wish that

Life itself were a strip of gauze so that I might tear

it asunder and throw it to the winds!

Chaotic wild thoughts are running through my brain,

but mostly darkness and a mad desire to end it all.

I am so very tired of Life, but most of all I am tired

of myself.

Oh, My God, let me break these chains....

I am so very tired of myself!

PEACE

It had been such a warm day. Toward sunset

do you remember how we stole away to the

beach and after driving for some time we

finally came to the dunes, got out of the

motor and walked the rest of the way?

I can remember now how white the sand was

and how our feet sank in it and, when we

drew them out again it seemed to cover our

tracks leaving hardly any impression behind us.

I remember also how the long reeds sprang up

and almost hid you from view; then we began

to climb the dunes and all out of breath

we reached the top, and there below us lay

the beach, and the ocean spreading out from

it as far as we could see.

I recall catching my breath as I always do

when I again perceive the ocean after having

been away from it. It always seems to fill

me with such inexhaustible wonder and pours

into my soul a peculiar strength and power

to go on with the dull and terrible things

of life ... forcing me to finish and, at

the end, to conquer them.

I can see now the blueness of the water and

feel again the great stillness that seemed

to be about us. Over our left shoulder

back of us lay the inlet, with the sun shining

on it and causing it to dazzle like a steel

needle; and the long thin white beach—like

a golden thread—stretching from it and

finally seeming to trail off to nothing and

burying itself in the foam of the sea.

Do you remember how we lay there for ever so

long and neither of us said a word? Finally

the sun went down and we watched the sand

change from gold to red; the sky became violet

with little shadings of green and pink and

then suddenly—as if by magic—the ocean

became quite calm and a fascinating little

star appeared reflecting and twinkling on the inlet.

Back on the main land we watched the little

lights of the houses come out one by one;

in the twilight at first they were very faint

and pale, but after as the night stooped

down and crept upon us, they grew brighter and stronger.

And then for the first time you broke the silence;

turning to me you asked, “What are you feeling?”

I answered, “Peace.”

TWILIGHT DREAMS

As I open the long windows and step out upon

the terrace, the presence of the mysterious

hour is upon me....

A strange undefined blue mist rises from the

earth and gently, like a magical veil, winds

itself around the trees and slowly rising,

presses its face against the sky as though to

peer into the eyes, and read the heart of the stars.

Fantastic trees dimly outlined, bend together

and whisper softly; suddenly I feel as though

the air were charged with all the wishes of the

world. Great and small, joyous and sad wishes,

all thrown out from the struggling desirous

heart of Life and, at twilight hour stealing

silently—some a little ashamed, some a little

proud—to nestle under the white moon—flowers

in hopes that some soul of the dead—which steal

about at twilight hour too—may be their friend

and help them to come true.

Timidly, and trembling a little from the embraces

of the mist, a tiny star shines out, while slowly

and reverently the darkness kneels down and kisses

the face of the earth.

A vast and deep silence has come over everything;

and I, with all else, find myself holding my

breath as I steal back into the room and sink into a chair.

Leaning back languidly I half close my eyes, while

far off I smell the salt and sadness of the sea....

Weirdly and ghostlike you creep in and, in my

twilight dreams, you come to me!

Transcriber’s Note

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Spelling was retained as in the original except for the following changes:

Page 11 : “by the same upsparing”

to

“by the same unsparing”

Page 16 : “my heart with ice boned”

to

“my heart with ice-boned”

Page 36 : “to live so scentifically”

to

“to live so scientifically”

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Table of Contents

MOODS

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

MEMORY

FAITH

LOVE

DISGUST

JOY

DESPAIR

TENDERNESS

HURT FEELINGS

WEARINESS

OPPORTUNITY

TIME

REVELATION

FINDING GOD

BRAINSTORM

PEACE

TWILIGHT DREAMS

Transcriber’s Note

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