THE Pa.s.sING GLORY.

Slow sinks the sun,--a great carbuncle ball Red in the cavern of a sombre cloud,-- And in her garden, where the dense weeds crowd.

Among her dying asters stands the Fall, Like some lone woman in a ruined hall, Dreaming of desolation and the shroud; Or through decaying woodlands goes, down-bowed, Hugging the tatters of her gipsy shawl.

The gaunt wind rises, like an angry hand, And sweeps the sprawling spider from its web, Smites frantic music in the twilight's ear; And all around, like melancholy sand, Rains dead leaves down--wild leaves, that mark the ebb, In Earth's dark hour-gla.s.s, of another year.

SEPTEMBER.

The bubbled blue of morning-glory spires, Balloon-blown foam of moonflowers, and sweet snows Of clematis, through which September goes, Song-hearted, rich in realized desires, Are flanked by hotter hues: by tawny fires Of acrid marigolds,--that light long rows Of lamps,--and salvias, red as day's red close,-- That torches seem,--by which the Month attires Barbaric beauty; like some Asian queen, Towering imperial in her two-fold crown Of harvest and of vintage; all her form Majestic gold and purple: in her mien The might of motherhood; her baby brown, Abundance, high on one exultant arm.

HOODOO.

She mutters and stoops by the lone bayou-- The little green leaves are hushed on the trees-- An owl in an oak cries "Who-oh-who,"

And a fox barks back where the moon slants through The moss that sways to a sudden breeze ...

Or _That_ she sees.

Whose eyes are coals in the light o' the moon-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

She mutters and kneels and her bosom is bare-- The little green leaves are stirred on the trees-- A black bat brushes her unkempt hair, And the hiss of a snake glides 'round her there ...

Or is it the voice of the ghostly breeze, Or _That_ she sees, Whose mouth is flame in the light o' the moon?-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

She mutters and digs and buries it deep-- The little green leaves are wild on the trees-- And nearer and nearer the noises creep, That gibber and maunder and whine and weep ...

Or is it the wave and the weariless breeze, Or _That_ she sees, Which hobbles away in the light o' the moon?-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

In the hut where the other girl sits with him-- The little green leaves hang limp on the trees-- All on a sudden the moon grows dim ...

Is it the shadow of cloud or of limb, Cast in the door by the moaning breeze?

Or _That_ she sees, Which limps and leers in the light o' the moon?-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear it croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

It has entered in at the open door-- The little green leaves fall dead from the trees-- And she in the cabin lies stark on the floor, And she in the woods has her lover once more ...

And--is it the hoot of the dying breeze?

Or _him_ who sees, Who mocks and laughs in the light o' the moon:-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear him croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

THE OTHER WOMAN.

You have shut me out from your tears and grief Over the man laid low and h.o.a.ry.

Listen to me now: I am no thief!-- You have shut me out from your tears and grief,-- Listen to me, I will tell my story.

The love of a man is transitory.-- What do you know of his past? the years He gave to another his manhood's glory?-- The love of a man is transitory.

Listen to me now: open your ears.

Over the dead have done with tears!

Over the man who loved to madness Me the woman you met with sneers,-- Over the dead have done with tears!

Me the woman so sunk in badness.

He loved me ever, and that is gladness!-- There by the dead now tell _her_ so; There by the dead where she bows in sadness.-- He loved me ever, and that is gladness!-- Mine the gladness and hers the woe.

The best of his life was mine. Now go, Tell her this that her pride may perish, Her with his name, his wife, you know!

The best of his life was mine. Now go, Tell her this so she cease to cherish.

Bury him then with pomp and flourish!

Bury him now without my kiss!

Here is a thing for your hearts to nourish,-- Bury him then with pomp and flourish!

Bury him now I have told you this.

A SONG FOR LABOR.

I.

Oh, the morning meads, the dewy meads, Where he ploughs and harrows and sows the seeds, Singing a song of manly deeds, In the blossoming springtime weather; The heart in his bosom as high as the word Said to the sky by the mating bird, While the beat of an answering heart is heard, His heart and love's together.

II.

Oh, the noonday heights, the sunny heights, Where he stoops to the harvest his keen scythe smites, Singing a song of the work that requites, In the ripening summer weather; The soul in his body as light as the sigh Of the little cloud-breeze that cools the sky, While he bears an answering soul reply, His soul and love's together.

III.

Oh, the evening vales, the twilight vales, Where he labors and sweats to the thud of flails, Singing a song of the toil that avails, In the fruitful autumn weather; In heart and in soul as free from fears As the first white star in the sky that clears, While the music of life and of love he hears, Of life and of love together.

AFTERWORD.

_What vague traditions do the golden eves.

What legends do the dawns Inscribe in fire on Heaven's azure leaves, The red sun colophons?_

_What ancient Stories do the waters verse?

What tales of war and love Do winds within the Earth's vast house rehea.r.s.e, G.o.d's stars stand guard above?--_

_Would I could know them as they are expressed In hue and melody!

And say, in words, the beauties they suggest.