In a brown study over The men and women.

An unsuspected rover That, for our Common.

When the first jonquils come, And spring is sold On the street corners, some Of the pretty gold

Is sure to find its way Home in his hand.

And many a winter day At some cab-stand,

He'll watch the cabmen feed The pigeon flocks, Or bid some liner speed From the icy docks.

His rooms? I much regret You cannot see His rooms, but they were let With guarantee

Of his seclusion there-- Except myself.

Each morning, table, chair, Lamp, hearth, and shelf,

I rearrange, refreshen, Put all to rights, Then leave him in possession.

Ah, but the nights,

The nights! Sir, if I dared But once set eye To keyhole, nor be scared, From playing Paul Pry,

I doubt not I should learn A wondrous thing Or two; and in return Go blind till spring.

The light under his door Is glory enough, It outshines any star That I know of.

Wirrah, my lad, my lad, 'T is fearsome strange, The hints we all have had Pa.s.sing the range

Of science, knowledge, law, Or what you will, Whose intangible touch of awe Makes reason nil.

Many a night I start, Sudden awake, Feeling my smothered heart Flutter and quake;

Like an aspen at dead of noon, When not a breath Is stirring to trouble the boon Valley. A wraith

Or a fetch, it must be, shivers The soul of the tree Till every leaf of it quivers.

And so with me.

Was it the shuffle of feet I heard go by, With m.u.f.fled drums in the street?

Was it the cry

Of a rider riding the night Into ashes and dawn, With news in his nostrils and fright Where his hoof-beats had gone?

Did the pipes, at "Bonny Dundee,"

Bid regiments form?

Did a renegade's soul get free On a wail of the storm?

Did a flock of wild geese honk As they cleared the hill?

Or only a bittern cronk, Then all was still?

Was it a night stampede Of a thousand head?

I know I shook like a reed There on my bed.

Nameless and void and wild Was the fear before me, Ere I bethought me and smiled As the truth flashed o'er me.

Of course, it was only his hand Freeing the ba.s.s Of his old Amati, grand In the silence' face.

Rummaging up and down, From string to string, Bidding the discords drown, The harmonies spring,

Where tides and tide-winds rove Far out from land, On the ocean of music a-move At the will of his hand.

Sobbing and grieving now, Now glad as a bird, Thou, thou, thou Of the joys unheard,

Luminous radiant sea Of the sounds and time, Surely, surely by thee Is eternal prime.

Holy and beautiful deep, Spread down before The imperial coming of sleep, Endure, endure!

And sleep, be thou the ranger Over it wan.

And dream, be thou no stranger There with the dawn.

Then wings of the sun, go abroad As a scarlet desire, Unwearied, unwaning, unawed, To quest and aspire,

Till the drench of the dusk you drink In the poppy-field west; Then veer and settle and sink As a gull to her nest.

Wind, Away, away!

And hurry your phantom kind Through the gates of day,

Or ever the king's dark cup With its studs and spars Be inverted, and earth look up To the shuddering stars.

Blaring and triumphing now, Now quailing and lone, Thou, thou, thou Of the joys unknown!

Unknown and wild, wild, Where the merrymen be, Sink to sleep, soul of a child, Slumber, thou sea!

All this his fiddle plays, And many a thing As strange, when his mood so lays The bow to the string.

Sleepless! He never sleeps That I can find.

I marvel how he keeps A bit of his mind.

There is neither sight nor sound In the world of sense, But he has fathomed and found In the silvery tense

Keen cords on the amber wood.

As he wrings them thence, Death smiles at his hardihood For recompense.

Oh fair they are, so fair!

No tongue can tell How he sets them chiming there Clear as a bell.

An orchard of birds in June, The winds that stream, The cold sea-brooks that croon, The storms that scream,

The planets that float and swing Like buoys on the tide, The north-going legions in spring, The hills that abide,

The frigate-bird clouds that range, The vagabond moon-- That wilful lover of change-- And the workaday sun,