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PATH FLOWER




_All rights reserved_




            PATH FLOWER
                AND
           OTHER VERSES

                BY
          OLIVE T. DARGAN


             [Device]


              MCMXIV
  LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
 NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS




CONTENTS


                                       PAGE
 PATH FLOWER                              1
 THE PIPER                                6
 TO A HERMIT THRUSH                       8
 THANKSGIVING                            14
 THE ROAD                                16
 LA DAME REVOLUTION                      23
 THE REBEL                               24
 THESE LATTER DAYS                       25
 ABNEGATION                              26
 THE LITTLE TREE                         27
 THE GAME                                28
 BALLAD                                  31
 A DIRGE                                 37
 HIS ARGUMENT                            39
 THE CONQUEROR                           40
 TO MOINA                                41
 "THERE'S ROSEMARY"                      42
 AT THE GRAVE OF HEINE                   43
 TO A LOST COMRADE                       45
 FOR M. L. P.                            46
 TO SLEEP                                47
 "LE PENSEUR"                            48
 VISION                                  49
 SAFE                                    50
 ON BOSWORTH FIELD                       52
 OLD FAIRINGDOWN                         53
 THE KISS                                58
 YOUTH                                   60
 TO MIRIMOND                             62
 SOROLLA                                 63
 IN THE BLUE RIDGE                       66
 YE WHO ARE TO SING                      70
 "AND THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST"           73
 MAGDALEN TO HER POET                    76
 FRIENDS                                 85
 TRYST                                   89
 IN THE STUDIO                           90
 LOVERS' LEAP                            91
 HAVENED                                 94
 MID-MAY                                102
 THE LOSS                               104
 CALLED                                 105
 SONG OF TO-MORROW                      108
 LITTLE DAUGHTERS                       110




    _The author thanks the editors of "Scribner's Magazine," "The
    Century," "The Atlantic Monthly," and "M'Clure's" for permission to
    reprint the greater part of the verse included in this volume._




PATH FLOWER


    A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
      A lark o'er Golder's lane,
    As I the April pathway trod
      Bound west for Willesden.

    At foot each tiny blade grew big
      And taller stood to hear,
    And every leaf on every twig
      Was like a little ear.

    As I too paused, and both ways tried
      To catch the rippling rain,--
    So still, a hare kept at my side
      His tussock of disdain,--

    Behind me close I heard a step,
      A soft pit-pat surprise,
    And looking round my eyes fell deep
      Into sweet other eyes;

    The eyes like wells, where sun lies too,
      So clear and trustful brown,
    Without a bubble warning you
      That here's a place to drown.

    "How many miles?" Her broken shoes
      Had told of more than one.
    She answered like a dreaming Muse,
      "I came from Islington."

    "So long a tramp?" Two gentle nods,
      Then seemed to lift a wing,
    And words fell soft as willow-buds,
      "I came to find the Spring."

    A timid voice, yet not afraid
      In ways so sweet to roam,
    As it with honey bees had played
      And could no more go home.

    Her home! I saw the human lair,
      I heard the hucksters bawl,
    I stifled with the thickened air
      Of bickering mart and stall.

    Without a tuppence for a ride,
      Her feet had set her free.
    Her rags, that decency defied,
      Seemed new with liberty.

    But she was frail. Who would might note
      The trail of hungering
    That for an hour she had forgot
      In wonder of the Spring.

    So shriven by her joy she glowed
      It seemed a sin to chat.
    (A tea-shop snuggled off the road;
      Why did I think of that?)

    Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept,--
      But she was passing on,
    And I but muddled "You'll accept
      A penny for a bun?"

    Then up her little throat a spray
      Of rose climbed for it must;
    A wilding lost till safe it lay
      Hid by her curls of rust;

    And I saw modesties at fence
      With pride that bore no name;
    So old it was she knew not whence
      It sudden woke and came;

    But that which shone of all most clear
      Was startled, sadder thought
    That I should give her back the fear
      Of life she had forgot.

    And I blushed for the world we'd made,
      Putting God's hand aside,
    Till for the want of sun and shade
      His little children died;

    And blushed that I who every year
      With Spring went up and down,
    Must greet a soul that ached for her
      With "penny for a bun!"

    Struck as a thief in holy place
      Whose sin upon him cries,
    I watched the flowers leave her face,
      The song go from her eyes.

    Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout,
      And of her charity
    A hand of grace put softly out
      And took the coin from me.

    A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
      A lark o'er Golder's lane;
    But I, alone, still glooming stood,
      And April plucked in vain;

    Till living words rang in my ears
      And sudden music played:
    _Out of such sacred thirst as hers
      The world shall be remade._

    Afar she turned her head and smiled
      As might have smiled the Spring,
    And humble as a wondering child
      I watched her vanishing.




THE PIPER


    I met a crone 'twixt wood and wood,
    Who pointed down the piper's road
    With shaken staff and fearsome glance,--
    "Ware, ware the dance!"

    But when the piper me did greet,
    The wind, the wind was in my feet,
    The rose and leaf on eager boughs
    Unvestalled them of dew-writ vows,
    And I as light as leaf and rose
    Danced to the summer's close.

    Now every tree is weary grown,
    Of singing birds there is not one;
    All, all the world droops into grey,--
    O piper Love, must thou yet play?
    The wildest note of all he blew,
    And fast my worn feet flew.

    Old is the year, the leaf and rose
    Are long, long gone;
    So chill, so chill the grey wind blows
    Through heart and bone;
    No grasses warm the winter ways
    That wound my feet;
    But with unwearied fingers yet,
    Bold, undelayed on stop and fret,
    Unmercifully sweet,
    The piper plays....




TO A HERMIT THRUSH


    Dweller among leaves, and shining twilight boughs
    That fold cool arms about thine altar place,
    What joyous race
    Of gods dost serve with such unfaltering vows?

    Weave me a time-fringed tale
    Of slumbering, haunted trees,
    And star-sweet fragrances
    No day defiled;
    Of bowering nights innumerable,
    And nestling hours breath-nigh a dryad's heart
    That sleeping yet was wild
    With dream-beat that thou mad'st a part
    Of thy dawn-fluting; ay, and keep'st it still,
    Striving so late these godless woods to fill
    With undefeated strain,
    And in one hour build the old world again.
    Wast thou found singing when Diana drew
    Her skirts from the first night?
    Didst feel the sun-breath when the valleys grew
    Warm with the love of light,
    Till blades of flower-lit green gave to the wind
    The mystery that made sweet
    The earth forever,--strange and undefined
    As life, as God, as this thy song complete
    That holds with me twin memories
    Of time ere men,
    And ere our ways
    Lay sundered with the abyss of air between?

          _List, I will lay
          The world, my song,
          Deep in the heart of day,
          Day that is long
          As the ages dream or the stars delay!
          Keep thou from me,
          Sigh-throated man,
          Forever to be
          Under the songless wanderer's ban.
          I am of time
          That counteth no dawn;
          Thy aeons yet climb
          To skies I have won,
          Seeking for aye an unrisen sun!_

    Soft as a shadow slips
    Before the moon, I creep beneath the trees,
    Even to the boughs whose lowest circling tips
    Whisper with the anemones
    Thick-strewn as though a cloud had made
    Its drifting way through spray and leafy braid
    And sunk with unremembering ease
    To humbler heaven upon the mossy heaps.
    And here a warmer flow
    Urges thy melody, yet keeps
    The cool of bowers; as might a rose blush through
    Its unrelinquished dew;
    Or bounteous heart that knows not woe,
    Put on the robe of sighs, and fain
    Would hold in love's surmise a neighbour's pain.

    Ah, I have wronged thee, sprite!
    So tender now thy song in flight,
    So sweet its lingerings are,
    It seems the liquid memory
    Of time when thou didst try
    Thy gleaning wing through human years,
    And met, ay, knew the sigh
    Of men who pray, the tears
    That hide the woman's star,
    The brave ascending fire
    That is youth's beacon and too soon his pyre,--
    Yea, all our striving, bateless and unseeing,
    That builds each day our Heaven new.
    More deep in time's unnearing blue,
    Farther and ever fleeing
    The dream that ever must pursue.

          _Heart-need is sorest
          When the song dies:
          Come to the forest,
          Brother of the sighs.
          Heart-need is song-need,
          Brother, give me thine!
          Song-meed is heart-meed,
          Brother, take mine!
          I go the still way,
          Cover me with night;
          Thou goest the will way
          Into the light.
          Dust and the burden
          Thou shall outrun;
          Bear then my guerdon,
          Song, to the sun!_

    O little pagan with the heart of Christ,
    I go bewildered from thine altar place,
    These brooding boughs and grey-lit forest wings,
    Nor know if thou deniest
    My destiny and race,
    Man's goalward falterings,
    To sing the perfect joy that lay
    Along the path we missed somewhere,
    That led thee to thy home in air,
    While we, soil-creepers, bruise our way
    Toward heights and sunrise bounds
    That wings may know nor feet may win
    For all their scars, for all their wounds;
    Or have I heard within thy strain
    Not sorrow's self, but sorrowing
    That thou did'st seek the way more free,
    Nor took with us the trail of pain
    That endeth not, e'er widening
    To life that knows what Life may be;
    And ere thou fall'st to silence long
    Would golden parting fling:

    _Go, man, through death unto thy star;
    I journey not so far;
    My wings must fail e'en with my song._




THANKSGIVING


    Supremest Life and Lord of All,
      I bring my thanks to thee;
    Not for the health that does not fail,
      And wings me over land and sea;
    Not for this body's pearl and rose,
      And radiance made sure
    By thine enduring life that flows
      In sky-print swift and pure;

    Not for the thought whose glowing power
      Glides far, eternal, free,
    And surging back in thy full hour
      Bears the wide world to me;
    Not for the friends whose presence is
      The warm, sweet heart of things
    Where leans the body for the kiss
      That gives the soul its wings;

    Not for the little hands that cling,
      The little feet that run,
    And make the earth a fitter thing
      For thee to look upon;
    Not for mine ease within my door,
      My roof when rains beat strong,
    My bed, my fire, my food in store,
      My book when nights are long;

    But, Lord, I know where on lone sands
      A leper rots and cries;
    Find thou my offering in his hands,
      My worship in his eyes.
    As thou dost give to him, thy least,
      Thou givest unto me;
    As he is fed I make my feast,
      And lift my thanks to thee.




THE ROAD


    On Gilead road the shadows creep;
      ('Tis noon, and I forget;)
    By Gilead road the ferns are deep,
      And waves run emerald, wind-beset,
    To some unsanded shore
      Of doe and dove and fay;
    And I for love of that before,
      Forget the hindward way.

    By Gilead road a river runs,
      (To what unshadowed sea?)
    Bough-hidden here,--there by the sun's
      Gold treachery unbared to me.
    O Beauty in retreat,
      From beckoned eyes you steal,
    But the pursuing heart, more fleet,
      Lifts your secretest veil.

    A thrush! What unbuilt temples rear
      Their domes where thrushes sing!
    My heart glides in, a worshipper
      At shrines that ne'er knew offering,
    Nor eye hath seen, and yet
      What soul hath not been there,
    Deep in song's fane where we forget
      To pray, for we are prayer.

    And now the shadows start and glide;
      I hear soft, woodland feet;
    And who are they that deeper bide
      Where beechen twilights meet?
    What tranced beings smile
      On things I may not see?
    As with a dream they would beguile
      Their own eternity?

    I too shall find my own as they;
      ('Tis eve, and I forget;)
    Here in this world where mortals play
      As gods with no god's leave or let.
    My hope in high purlieus
      Desire erst lockt and kept,
    On wing unbarred shall seek and choose,--
      Ay, choose, when I have slept.

    For happy roads may yet be long,
      And bliss must sometime bed.
    Fern-deep I fall, lose sight and song,
      The slim palms close above my head,
    And Life, the Shadow, weaves
      The charm on sleepers laid
    Till Time's spent ghost comes not nor grieves
      An hourless Gilead.

    Ay me, I dream my eyes are wet;
      I sigh, I turn, I weep.
    Alack, that waking we forget
      But to remember when we sleep!
    O vision of closed eyes,
      That burns the heart awake!
    O the forgotten truth's reprise
      For the forsaken's sake!

    Far land, blood-red, I feel again
      Thy hot, unsilenced breath;
    Meet thy unburied eyes of pain
      That, dying ever, find no death;
    See childhood's one gold hour
      Bartered for crust and bed,
    And man's o'erdriven noon devour
      His evening peace and bread.

    I hear men sob,--ay, men,--and shout
      To souls on Gilead road:
    "Tell us the way--we sent ye out--
      We bought ye free--we paid our blood!"
    Gaunt arms make signal mad;
      O, feel the woe-waves break!
    Does no one hear in Gilead?
      Will one, not one turn back?

    Rolls higher from the land blood-red
      That sea-surge of despair!
    A flame creeps over Gilead,
      Unseen, unfelt by any there.
    They look not back, the while
      Doom shadows round them dance,
    And smile meets slow, unstartled smile
      As in it sleep's mid-chance.

    "We give our days, we give our blood,
      We send ye far to see!
    We break beneath the double load
      That ye may walk unbowed and free!
    'Tis ours, the healing shade;
      'Tis ours, the singing stream;
    'Tis ours, the charm on sleepers laid;
      'Tis ours, the toil-won dream!"

    Dim grown is Gilead, ashen, lost
      To me who hear that cry.
    "Our every star is hid with dust;
      The way, the way! Let us not die!"
    Up from the trampled ferns,
      (O Beauty's praying hands!)
    I stricken start, as one who turns
      From plague's unholy lands.

    Pale is the dream we dream alone,
      An unresolving fire,
    Till beacon hearts make it their own
      And men are lit with man's desire.
    I mourn no Gilead fair,
      Back to my own I speed,
    And all my tears are falling where
      They sell the sun for bread.

    Mine too the blow, the unwept scar;
      Mine too the flames that sere;
    And on my breast not one proud star
      That leaves a brother's heaven bare.
    Life is the search of God
      For His own unity;
    I walk stone-bare till all are shod,
      No gold may sandal me.

    I come, O comrades, faster yet!
      For me no bough-hung shade
    Till every burning foot be set
      In ferns of Gilead.
    The old, old pain of kind,
      Once mine, is mine once more;
    And