We met her first in Arcady, Where visions fair are apt to be, Roaming beneath the arching trees— Her laughter cheering up the breeze; Sometimes as gay as Colinette, Then fond and sad as Juliet. And when we’d had enough of anguish She’d make us laugh as Lydia Languish. No mask or mood was twice the same— Yet one fair face behind each name. As that bright vixen of the mind, The fascinating Rosalīnd— As Imogen or Viola, Or, best of all, sweet Barbara— Always the same alluring grace And wit that sparkles in her face! The road to Arcady is far And sometimes lonely for a star— But all the phantoms of the air And poets’ dreams that wander there Would miss the welcome we extend, Not to her Art—just to a friend!
TO C. H. M. AND H. H. M
Here is the story— I haven’t half told it; The fun and the glory, A volume can’t hold it. But this is a spray, Withered leaves and pressed flowers, From a faded bouquet That was plucked in gay hours, Within sound of the waves Of the gentle Pacific, Where Nature enslaves And the days beatific Are sandalled with gold And wear gems on their fingers. All the tale is not told Which slow Fancy weaves, But a faint odor lingers About these dry leaves That may bring recollection Of prairie and loch With a hint of affection
From
Yours ever,
Droch.
Dedication of The Monterey Wedding
TO MY MOTHER
Long years you’ve kept the door ajar To greet me, coming from afar; Long years in my accustomed place I’ve read my welcome in your face, And felt the sunlight of your love Drive back the years and gently move The telltale shadow ’round to youth. You’ve found the very spring, in truth, That baffles time—the kindling joy That keeps me in your heart a boy. And now I send an unknown guest To bide with you and snugly rest Beside the old home’s ingle-nook.— For love of me you’ll love my book.
Dedication of Overheard in Arcady
A BOOK’S SOLILOQUY
My lady’s room is full of books And easy-chairs and curtained nooks, And dainty tea-things on a table, And poetry, and tale, and fable, And on the hearth a crackling fire That welcome gives, and when you tire Of pleasant talk you still may find A tempting pasture where the mind May browse awhile, and read the pages Which poets wrote, or fools, or sages.
And here I come to ask a place Among these worthies, face to face! To be allowed on some low shelf To rest and dream, and pride myself On being in such company— To watch fair women drinking tea; And if, perchance, on some lone day, The gentle mistress looks my way And softly says, “Now I shall see What’s going on in Arcady!” Then I’ll rejoice that I’m a book At which my lady deigns to look.
ENVOY
THE SHEPHERD TO HIS FLOCK
The sun is warm upon the ridges now; The way was rough and steep; I’ll seek the shelter of a leafy bough And watch my grazing sheep. The smoke is rising from the valley there, The hum of wheels and trade; The stress of life is in the whirling air While I pipe in the shade. Where work is fierce amid the striving throng And music’s voice is mute, Some one may catch the echo of a song— The faint note of a lute.