The Project Gutenberg EBook of New York Nocturnes and Other Poems, by Charles G. D. Roberts This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: New York Nocturnes and Other Poems Author: Charles G. D. Roberts Release Date: January 23, 2018 [EBook #56418] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW YORK NOCTURNES AND OTHER POEMS *** Produced by Larry B. Harrison and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) New York Nocturnes And Other Poems BY THE SAME AUTHOR. VERSE: ORION AND OTHER POEMS. (Out of Print.) Lippincott. IN DIVERS TONES. D. Lothrop Co. SONGS OF THE COMMON DAY. Longmans, Green & Co. THE BOOK OF THE NATIVE. Lamson, Wolffe & Co. PROSE: THE CANADIANS OF OLD. FROM THE FRENCH OF DE Gaspé. D. Appleton & Co. AROUND THE CAMP FIRE. T. Y. Crowell & Co. EARTH’S ENIGMAS. Lamson, Wolffe & Co. A HISTORY OF CANADA. Lamson, Wolffe & Co. THE FORGE IN THE FOREST. Lamson, Wolffe & Co. A SISTER TO EVANGELINE. A ROMANCE OF OLD ACADIA. (In Press.) Lamson, Wolffe & Co. New York Nocturnes And Other Poems By Charles G. D. Roberts Lamson, Wolffe and Company Boston, New York and London MDCCCXCVIII Copyright, 1898, By Lamson, Wolffe and Company. All rights reserved. THE IDEAL 5 To Her, when life was little worth, When hope, a tide run low, Between dim shores of emptiness Almost forgot to flow,— Faint with the city’s fume and stress I came at night to Her. Her cool white fingers on my face— How wonderful they were! More dear they were to fevered lids Than lilies cooled in dew. They touched my lips with tenderness, Till life was born anew. The city’s clamour died in calm; And once again I heard The moon-white woodland stillnesses Enchanted by a bird; The wash of far, remembered waves; The sigh of lapsing streams; And one old garden’s lilac leaves Conferring in their dreams. A breath from childhood daisy fields Came back to me again, Here in the city’s weary miles Of city-wearied men. CONTENTS NEW YORK NOCTURNES PAGE The Ideal 5 In the Crowd 9 Night in a Down-town Street 10 At the Railway Station 13 Nocturnes of the Honeysuckle, I 16 Nocturnes of the Honeysuckle, II 17 My Garden 18 Presence 21 Twilight on Sixth Avenue 22 The Street Lamps 24 In Darkness 25 In the Solitude of the City 26 A Nocturne of Exile 28 A Street Vigil 30 6 A Nocturne of Trysting 32 In a City Room 34 A Nocturne of Consecration 36 OTHER POEMS An Evening Communion 45 Life and Art 48 Beyond the Tops of Time 49 Dream-Fellows 55 The Atlantic Cable 61 When the Clover Blooms Again 63 At Tide Water 65 The Falling Leaves 67 Marjory 68 The Solitary Woodsman 72 The Stirrup Cup 77 Ice 78 The Hermit 79 “O Thou who bidd’st” 82 Ascription 83 New York Nocturnes Ὦ Θεοί, τίς ἆρα Κύπρις, ἢ τίς ἵμερος, τοῦδε ξυνήψατο; New York Nocturnes In the Crowd 7 8 9 I walk the city square with thee. The night is loud; the pavements roar. Their eddying mirth and misery Encircle thee and me. The street is full of lights and cries. The crowd but brings thee close to me. I only hear thy low replies; I only see thine eyes. Night in a Down-town Street Not in the eyed, expectant gloom, Where soaring peaks repose And incommunicable space Companions with the snows; Not in the glimmering dusk that crawls Upon the clouded sea, Where bourneless wave on bourneless wave Complains continually; Not in the palpable dark of woods Where groping hands clutch fear, Does Night her deeps of solitude Reveal unveiled as here. The street is a grim cañon carved In the eternal stone, That knows no more the rushing stream It anciently has known. The emptying tide of life has drained The iron channel dry. Strange winds from the forgotten day Draw down, and dream, and sigh. The narrow heaven, the desolate moon Made wan with endless years, Seem less immeasurably remote Than laughter, love, or tears. At the Railway Station 10 11 12 13 Here the night is fierce with light, Here the great wheels come and go, Here are partings, waitings, meetings, Mysteries of joy and woe. Here is endless haste and change, Here the ache of streaming eyes, Radiance of expectant faces, Breathless askings, brief replies. Here the jarred, tumultuous air Throbs and pauses like a bell, Gladdens with delight of greeting, Sighs and sorrows with farewell. Here, ah, here with hungry eyes I explore the passing throng. Restless I await your coming Whose least absence is so long. Faces, faces pass me by, Meaningless, and blank, and dumb, Till my heart grows faint and sickens Lest at last you should not come. Then—I see you. And the blood Surges back to heart and brain. Eyes meet mine,—and Heaven opens. You are at my side again. Nocturnes of the Honeysuckle I Forever shed your sweetness on the night, Dear honeysuckle, flower of our delight! Forever breathe the mystery of that hour When her hand touched me, lightlier than a flower,— And life became forever strange and sweet, A gift to lay with worship at her feet. Nocturnes of the Honeysuckle II 14 15 16 17 Oh, flower of the honeysuckle, Tell me how often the long night through She turns in her dream to the open window, She turns in her dream to you. Oh, flower of the honeysuckle, Tell me how tenderly out of the dew You breathe her a dream of that night of wonder When life was fashioned anew. Oh, flower of the honeysuckle, Tell me how long ere, the sweet night through, She will turn not to you but to me in the darkness, And dream and desire come true. My Garden I have a garden in the city’s grime Where secretly my heart keeps summer time; Where blow such airs of rapture on my eyes As those blest dreamers know in Paradise, Who after lives of longing come at last Where anguish of vain love is overpast. When the broad noon lies shadeless on the street, And traffic roars, and toilers faint with heat, Where men forget that ever woods were green, The wonders of my garden are not seen. Only at night the magic doors disclose Its labyrinths of lavender and rose; And honeysuckle, white beneath its moon, Whispers me softly thou art coming soon; And led by Love’s white hand upon my wrist Beside its glimmering fountains I keep tryst. O Love, this moving fragrance on my hair,— Is it thy breath, or some enchanted air From far, uncharted realms of mystery Which I have dreamed of but shall never see? O Love, this low, wild music in my ears, Is it the heart-beat of thy hopes and fears, Or the faint cadence of some fairy song On winds of boyhood memory blown along? O Love, what poignant ecstasy is this Upon my lips and eyes? Thy touch,—thy kiss. 18 19 20 Presence Dawn like a lily lies upon the land Since I have known the whiteness of your hand. Dusk is more soft and more mysterious where Breathes on my eyes the perfume of your hair. Waves at your coming break in livelier blue; And solemn woods are glad because of you. Brooks of your laughter learn their liquid notes. Birds to your voice attune their pleading throats. Fields to your feet grow smoother and more green; And happy blossoms tell where you have been. Twilight on Sixth Avenue Over the tops of the houses Twilight and sunset meet. The green, diaphanous dusk Sinks to the eager street. Astray in the tangle of roofs Wanders a wind of June. The dial shines in the clock-tower Like the face of a strange-scrawled moon. The narrowing lines of the houses Palely begin to gleam, And the hurrying crowds fade softly Like an army in a dream. Above the vanishing faces A phantom train flares on With a voice that shakes the shadows,— Diminishes, and is gone. And I walk with the journeying throng In such a solitude As where a lonely ocean Washes a lonely wood. The Street Lamps Eyes of the city, Keeping your sleepless watch from sun to sun, Is it for pity You tremble, seeing innocence undone; Or do you laugh, to think men thus should set Spies on the folly day would fain forget? 21 22 23 24 In Darkness I have faced life with courage,—but not now! O Infinite, in this darkness draw thou near. Wisdom alone I asked of thee, but thou Hast crushed me with the awful gift of fear. In the Solitude of the City Night; and the sound of voices in the street. Night; and the happy laughter where they meet, The glad boy lover and the trysting girl. But thou—but thou—I cannot find thee, Sweet! Night; and far off the lighted pavements roar. Night; and the dark of sorrow keeps my door. I reach my hand out trembling in the dark. Thy hand comes not with comfort any more. O Silent, Unresponding! If these fears Lie not, nor other wisdom come with years, No day shall dawn for me without regret, No night go uncompanioned by my tears. A Nocturne of Exile 25 26 27 28 Out of this night of lonely noise, The city’s crowded cries, Home of my heart, to thee, to thee I turn my longing eyes. Years, years, how many years I went In exile wearily, Before I lifted up my face And saw my home in thee. I had come home to thee at last. I saw thy warm lights gleam. I entered thine abiding joy,— Oh, was it but a dream? Ere I could reckon with my heart The sum of our delight, I was an exile once again Here in the hasting night. Thy doors were shut; thy lights were gone From my remembering eyes.— Only the city’s endless throng! Only the crowded cries! A Street Vigil Here is the street Made holy by the passing of her feet,— The little, tender feet, more sweet than myrrh, Which I have washed with tears for love of her. Here she has gone Until the very stones have taken on A glory from her passing, and the place Is tremulous with memory of her face. Here is the room That holds the light to lighten all my gloom. Beyond that blank white window she is sleeping Who hath my hope, my health, my fame, in keeping. A little peace Here for a little, ere my vigil cease And I turn homeward, shaken with the strife Of hope that struggles hopeless, sick for life. Surely the power That lifted me from darkness that one hour To a dear heaven whereof no word can tell Not wantonly will thrust me back to hell. A Nocturne of Trysting 29 30 31 32 Broods the hid glory in its sheath of gloom Till strikes the destined hour, and bursts the bloom, A rapture of white passion and perfume. So the long day is like a bud That aches with coming bliss, Till flowers in light the wondrous night That brings me to thy kiss. Then, with a thousand sorrows forgotten in one hour, In thy pure eyes and at thy feet I find at last my goal; And life and hope and joy seem but a faint prevision Of the flower that is thy body and the flame that is thy soul. In a City Room O city night of noises and alarms, Your lights may flare, your cables clang and rush, But in the sanctuary of my love’s arms Your blinding tumult dies into a hush. My doors are surged about with your unrest; Your plangent cares assail my realm of peace; But when I come unto her quiet breast How suddenly your jar and clamor cease! Then even remembrance of your strifes and pains Diminishes to a ghost of sorrows gone, Remoter than a dream of last year’s rains Gusty against my window in the dawn. A Nocturne of Consecration I talked about you, Dear, the other night, Having myself alone with my delight. Alone with dreams and memories of you, All the divine-houred summer stillness through I talked of life, of love the always new, Of tears, and joy,—yet only talked of you. To the sweet air That breathed upon my face The spirit of lilies in a leafy place, Your breath’s caress, the lingering of your hair, I said—“In all your wandering through the dusk, Your waitings on the marriages of flowers Through the long, intimate hours When soul and sense, desire and love confer, You must have known the best that God has made. What do you know of Her?” Said the sweet air— “Since I have touched her lips, 33 34 35 36 37 “Since I have touched her lips, Bringing the consecration of her kiss, Half passion and half prayer, And all for you, My various lore has suffered an eclipse. I have forgot all else of sweet I knew.” To the wise earth, Kind, and companionable, and dewy cool, Fair beyond words to tell, as you are fair, And cunning past compare To leash all heaven in a windless pool, I said—“The mysteries of death and birth Are in your care. You love, and sleep; you drain life to the lees; And wonderful things you know. Angels have visited you, and at your knees Learned what I learn forever at her eyes, The pain that still enhances Paradise. You in your breast felt her first pulses stir; And you have thrilled to the light touch of her feet, Blindingly sweet. Now make me wise with some new word of Her.” Said the wise earth— “She is not all my child. But the wild spirit that rules her heart-beats wild Is of diviner birth And kin to the unknown light beyond my ken. All I can give to Her have I not given? Strength to be glad, to suffer, and to know; The sorcery that subdues the souls of men; The beauty that is as the shadow of heaven; The hunger of love And unspeakable joy thereof. And these are dear to Her because of you. You need no word of mine to make you wise Who worship at her eyes And find there life and love forever new!” To the white stars, Eternal and all-seeing, In their wide home beyond the wells of being, I said—“There is a little cloud that mars The mystical perfection of her kiss. Mine, mine, She is, As far as lip to lip, and heart to heart; And spirit to spirit when lips and hands must part, Can make her mine. But there is more than this,— More, more of Her to know. For still her soul escapes me unaware, To dwell in secret where I may not go. Take, and uplift me. Make me wholly Hers.” Said the white stars, the heavenly ministers,— “This life is brief, but it is only one. Before to-morrow’s sun For one or both of you it may be done. This love of yours is only just begun. Will all the ecstasy that may be won Before this life its little course has run At all suffice The love that agonizes in your eyes? Therefore be wise. Content you with the wonder of love that lies Between her lips and underneath her eyes. If more you should surprise, What would be left to hope from Paradise? In other worlds expect another joy Of Her, which blundering fate shall not annoy, Nor time nor change destroy.” 38 39 40 41 42 Nor time nor change destroy.” So, Dear, I talked the long, divine night through, And felt you in the chrismal balms of dew. The thing then learned Has ever since within my bosom burned— One life is not enough for love of you. Other Poems An Evening Communion The large first stars come out Above the open hill, And in the west the light Is lingering still. The wide and tranquil air Of evening washes cool On open hill, and vale, And shining pool. The calm of endless time Is in the spacious hour, Whose mystery unfolds To perfect flower. The silence and my heart Expect a voice I know,— A voice we have not heard Since long ago. Since long ago thy face, Thy smile, I may not see, True comrade, whom the veil Divides from me. But when earth’s hidden word I almost understand, I dream that on my lips I feel thy hand. Thy presence is the light Upon the open hill. Thou walkest with me here, True comrade still. My pain and my unrest Thou tak’st into thy care. The world becomes a dream, And life a prayer. 43–44 45 46 47 Life and Art Said Life to Art—“I love thee best Not when I find in thee My very face and form, expressed With dull fidelity, “But when in thee my craving eyes Behold continually The mystery of my memories And all I long to be.” Beyond the Tops of Time How long it was I did not know, That I had waited, watched, and feared. It seemed a thousand years ago The last pale lights had disappeared. I knew the place was a narrow room Up, up beyond the reach of doom. Then came a light more red than flame;— No sun-dawn, but the soul laid bare Of earth and sky and sea became A presence burning everywhere; And I was glad my narrow room Was high above the reach of doom. Windows there were in either wall, Deep cleft, and set with radiant glass, Wherethrough I watched the mountains fall, The ages wither up and pass. I knew their doom could never climb My tower beyond the tops of Time. A sea of faces then I saw, Of men who had been, men long dead. Figured with dreams of joy and awe The heavens unrolled in lambent red; While far below the faces cried— “Give us the dream for which we died!” Ever the woven shapes rolled by Above the faces hungering. With quiet and incurious eye I noted many a wondrous thing,— Seas of clear glass, and singing streams, In that high pageantry of dreams; Cities of sard and chrysoprase Where choired Hosannas never cease; Valhallas of celestial frays, And lotus-pools of endless peace; But still the faces gaped and cried— “Give us the dream for which we died!” At length my quiet heart was stirred, Hearing them cry so long in vain. But while I listened for a word That should translate them from their pain, I saw that here and there a face 48 49 50 51 52 I saw that here and there a face Shone, and was lifted from its place, And flashed into the moving dome An ecstasy of prismed fire. And then said I, “A soul has come To the deep zenith of desire!” But still I wondered if it knew The dream for which it died was true. I wondered—who shall say how long? (One heart-beat?—Thrice ten thousand years?) Till suddenly there was no throng Of faces to arraign the spheres,— No more white faces there to cry To those great pageants of the sky. Then quietly I grew aware Of one who came with eyes of bliss And brow of calm and lips of prayer. Said I—“How wonderful is this! Where are the faces once that cried— ‘Give us the dream for which we died’?” The answer fell as soft as sleep,— “I am of those who, having cried So long in that tumultuous deep, Have won the dream for which we died.” And then said I—“Which dream was true? For many were revealed to you!” He answered—“To the soul made wise All true, all beautiful they seem. But the white peace that fills our eyes Outdoes desire, outreaches dream. For we are come unto the place Where always we behold God’s face!” Dream-Fellows Behind the veil that men call sleep I came upon a golden land. A golden light was in the leaves And on the amethystine strand. Amber and gold and emerald The unimaginable wood. And in a joy I could not name Beside the emerald stream I stood. Down from a violet hill came one Running to meet me on the shore. I clasped his hand. He seemed to be One I had long been waiting for. All the sweet sounds I ever heard In his low greeting seemed to blend. His were the eyes of my true love. His was the mouth of my true friend. We spoke; and the transfigured words Meant more than words had ever meant. Our lips at last forgot to speak, 53 54 55 56