Back of the Now, with its filmy veil,
(You'll find him somewhere still)
There's a barefoot boy with a stone-bruised heel,
And a birdnote in his trill.

He knew how poverty built her nest,
Where sorrow had dwelt with pain;
He had felt the cry of a broken heart,
And the sunshine after the rain.

And it came to his heart as a prayer might come,
Or the dew that the flowers quaff,
That the drudging old world was poor and sad,
For the simple boon of a laugh.

Men passed him by in the maddened race
For glory and fame and gold;

They have left her all alone, with her keel turned to the sun;
They have left her, with a curse, for the deed that she has done.

Only sunbeams lave her sides as they float out to the west;
Only sand-drifts kiss the bow, where the sparkling wave has pressed.

Even little children pause and grow silent, with great eyes,
To point their rosy hands in awe upon her where she lies.

The laden boats go by with their snowy sails outspread;
The merry laughter echoes on the shore beside the dead;

She walks alone,—her bloated face unveiled
Above the glitter of her serpent's cloak,—
And by the slimy pool she makes her pause,
Where dark, unholy things the squatted toads do croak.

She haunts the shade where gnarléd trunks reveal
Their tortured hideousness in every part,—
To breathe the sickly vapors that arise,
Where damp and rottenness have eaten out the heart.

And where her foot hath pressed, the long, dank grass
Shakes with a noisome, chill, infectious breath;
And in the dark lagoon, the shivering owl,

There is feasting in Shushan, the palace,
Where dwells Ahasuerus the bold;
And the blood from the heart of the vineyard
Flows dark through the vessels of gold.

There is revel in Shushan, the palace,
Mirth rings o'er the pavements of light,
To die in the 'broidery of arras,
Aglow in their purple and white.

There, the glory of Media and Persia —
The grandeur that is, was, has been —
But the radiance of King Ahasuerus
Falls not upon Vashti, the Queen!

Alone, and the white stars above me,
Look down with a pitiless stare;

" Where you ever heavy-hearted, little May? "
She tossed her sunny head,
As right merrily she said:
" Heavy-hearted? No, not I;
Yet a little makes me cry,
And a little less than half
Makes me laugh —
My mother often calls me " April Day.". "

" Were you ever very happy, little May? "
Again she shook her head:
" I do not know, " she said;
" Very happy? Who is so?
Not a single soul, you know.
Mother often tells me this
With a kiss: —
Our life, she says, is like an April day. "

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

There was music on the hillside and singing in the glen,
And anthems heard in meadows when Christ was born to men:

The king slept on in blindness, though troubled in his sleep;
The high priest's ancient wisdom held no such lore in keep;

The trader and the merchant so bound by gain and rule,
And all the learned scholars who founded school on school,

The consul and the soldiers, their ears were stopped that night,
And only to the shepherds the angels brought delight. . . .

Lazarus, come forth! " The Great Compeller spoke,
Then, earthquake-rent, the grave-mouth heaved and broke,
And vomited forth, and pushed out, as with hands,
A reeling thing wrapped round in rotten bands. . . .

" Why didst thou call me forth? " moaned Lazarus,
" Why hast thou dragged my soul back earthward, thus?
Why didst thou waken me from out death's deep
And sweet oblivion, sweeter far than sleep?
What have I done to merit this? ...
Now I
A second time must die!

Oh, Mighty Lord, how can I shake from me

When I was young
I used to say:
Romance will come riding by
And I shall surely smile
And play with him awhile.

When I grew older
then I said:
Romance may come riding by
I wonder shall I smile
And play with him awhile?

But now —
Alas! I only say:
Romance never will come by
And I shall never smile
He has been dead the while!

There are roses for each, in the thorn-crown of life,
If only we troubled to find them;
There are shadows and shades on the breast of the lake,
But the ripples are dimpling behind them.

There are sighs for the hearts that are lightest to-day,
There are smiles for the eyes that are weeping;
There's a promise of fruit in the tree's tender hands,
Though the snow of her blossom is sleeping.

There is sunshine and love for the soul that will trust,
There are tears, briny tears, for the doubter;

Dead days of rapture and despair
I would your hours exhume,
Renew their wildness once again
Their rigors and perfume.