The braces of the sky Were in its girth, That it should feel no jar Of the swinging earth;

That sun and wind might bleach But not destroy The house that he had builded For his joy.

"Here will I stay," he said, "And roam no more, And dust when I am dead Shall keep the door."

There trooping dreams by night Go by, go by.

The walls are rosy white In the sun's eye.

The windows are more clear Than sky or sea; He made them after G.o.d's Transparency.

It is a dearer place Than kirk or inn; Such joy on joy as there Has never been.

There may my longed-for rest And welcome be, When Love himself unbars The door for me!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

_The Lodger_

I cannot quite recall When first he came, So reticent and tall, With his eyes of flame.

The neighbors used to say (They know so much!) He looked to them half way Spanish or Dutch.

Outlandish certainly He is--and queer!

He has been lodged with me This thirty year;

All the while (it seems absurd!) We hardly have Exchanged a single word.

Mum as the grave!

Minds only his own affairs, Goes out and in, And keeps himself upstairs With his violin.

Mum did I say? And yet That talking smile You never can forget, Is all the while

Full of such sweet reproofs The darkest day, Like morning on the roofs In flush of May.

Like autumn on the hills; At four o'clock The sun like a herdsman spills For drove and flock

Peace with their provender, And they are fed.

The day without a stir Lies warm and red.

Ah, sir, the summer land For me! That is Like living in G.o.d's hand, Compared to this.

His smile so quiet and deep Reminds me of it.

I see it in my sleep, And so I love it.

An anarchist, say some; But tush, say I, When a man's heart is plumb, Can his life be awry?

Better than charity And bigger too, That heart. You've seen the sea?

Of course. To you

'T is common enough, no doubt.

But here in town, With G.o.d's world all shut out, Save the leaden frown

Of the sky, a slant of rain, And a straggling star, Such memories remain The wonders they are.

Once at the Isles of Shoals, And it was June . . .

Now hear me dote! He strolls Across my noon,

Like the sun that day, where sleeps My soul; his gaze Goes glimmering down my deeps Of yesterdays,

Searching and searching, till Its light consumes The reluctant shapes that fill Those purple glooms.

Let others applaud, defame, And the noise die down; His voice saying your name, Is enough renown.

Too patient pitiful, Too fierce at wrong, To patronize the dull, Or praise the strong.

And yet he has a soul Of wrath, though pent Even when that white ghoul Comes for his rent.

The landlord? Hush! My G.o.d!

I think the walls Take notes to help him prod Us up. He galls

My very soul to strife, With his death's-head face.

He is foul too in his life, Some hid disgrace,

Some secret thing he does, I warrant you, For all his cheek to us Is shaved so blue.

He takes good care (by the shade Of seven wives!) That the undertaker's trade He lives by thrives.

Nor chick nor child has he.

So servile smug, With that cringe in his knee,-- G.o.d curse his lug!

But him, you should have seen Him yesterday; The landlord's smirk turned green At his smile. The way

He served that bloodless fish, Were like to freeze him.

But meeting elsewhere, pish!

He never sees him.

Yet such a gentleman, So sure and slow.

The vilest harridan Is not too low,

If there is pity's need; And no man born, For cruelty or greed Escapes that scorn.

Most of all things, it seems, He loves the town.

Watching the bright-faced streams Go up and down,

I have surprised him often On Tremont street, And marked the grave face soften, The mouth grow sweet,