The Project Gutenberg eBook of On old Cape Cod This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: On old Cape Cod Author: Ferdinand C. Lane Illustrator: Rena V. Rockwell Release date: July 31, 2025 [eBook #76602] Language: English Original publication: Orleans, Mass: The Cape Codder Printery, 1961 Credits: Steve Mattern and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON OLD CAPE COD *** ON OLD CAPE COD _By Ferdinand C. Lane_ _Drawings by Rena V. Rockwell_ SECOND EDITION To Emma - my Wife Copyright 1961 by Ferdinand C. Lane [Illustration] ON OLD CAPE COD How rich is life on old Cape Cod Where autumn smiles in golden rod, And marshes flame, though not with fire - A region blest of heart’s desire. In vain we’d roam the Seven Seas There are no quainter shores than these. Here nature in indulgent mood Enfolds us with her solitude; And here her cleansing winds combine The tonic of the salt and pine, The while old ocean’s muffled swells Are chiming like cathedral bells. The days drift by without a care As sweet fern odors scent the air, And watching wheeling gulls at play The world of strife seems far away. It must have been a kindly God Who shaped the sands of old Cape Cod. TABLE OF CONTENTS On Monomoy 5 The Song of the Sea Shell 6 Winds of the Cape 7 The Enchanted Marsh 8 The Fragrance of the Cape 9 Sea Lavender 10 The Final Rose 10 Fairy Rings 11 Beach Plums 12 On Truro Hills 13 My Drift Wood Fire 15 The Sand Piper 16 The Whistling Buoy off Nauset 17 Peaked Hill Bars 18 The Rime of the Three Captains 19 Storm Signals 20 Neptune’s Coursers 21 To a Spider Web wet with Dew 22 The Dunes 23 The Flight of the Wild Geese 25 Sweet Fern 26 White Sail 26 The Humming Bird 27 O Road that Winds Among the Hills 28 The Beach Grass Threnody 28 To a Rose Jar 29 Blue Berries 30 The Watcher 31 The Sea Shell Boat 32 Flotsam 33 The Ancient Log Book 34 The Dance of the Moon Beams 35 Marshes of Sandwich 37 The Smile of the Sea 37 Our Cape Cod Home 38 Thunder Storm Off Race Point 40 To a Scrimshawed Whale’s Tooth 41 Creeping Fog 42 Wooden Sailor 43 The Dreamer 44 The Chant of the Night Wind 45 Midnight 46 The Golden Rod 47 Wild Roses 48 The Coast Guard Station 49 Keeper of the Light 50 On Chatham Bars 51 The Old Timer’s Lament 52 Revery 53 The Old Hulk 54 The Modernists 55 When the Locusts are In Bloom 57 The Harvest of the Sea 58 Beach Grass 59 The Swamp Heron 61 The Throes of Creation 62 Hog’s Back Church 63 Beyond the Point 66 The Winds of Time 67 To an Aged Willow 68 The Old Woods Road 69 The Poverty Weed 70 The Sweep of the Tides 71 Lost Billingsgate 73 Transformed 74 Haunting Echoes 74 Lost at Sea 75 The Aspen 76 The Song of the Sea Gulls 77 Broken Fragments 78 Workers of Magic 79 My Golden Fleece 80 The Lone Lilac 81 Friendly Lights 82 To My Cherry Blossom 83 Grains of Sand 84 The Funeral Wreath 84 Memory 85 The Stoker 89 Imagination 91 In Wellfleet by the Sea 95 ON MONOMOY Gigantic finger, joint by joint, Thrust out in warning from the land To lurking shoals, along your point We tread a skeleton of sand, Till at the end we seem to be Where all the world dissolves in sea On Monomoy. O’er Stone Horse shoal and Pollock Rip The sullen tides sweep on apace Where many a gallant sailing ship Has found her final resting place; But of the dead - no man may say Till redly dawns the judgment day On Monomoy. For fishermen tell ghastly tales Of wrecks and shuddering moons that mark Red murder done, and spectral hails Of Yo-Hoes keening from the dark! So in the night when breakers moan Fear trails his steps who walks alone On Monomoy. Waif of the seas and old Cape Cod Where Gosnold voyaged long ago, Where bold Champlain in armor trod, What tales the muttering undertow Could Whisper - or the sea birds scream To brooding dune and marsh adream On Monomoy. THE SONG OF THE SEA SHELL Come press your coral lip against my ear Frail vagrant of the sea, And sing to me the songs I love to hear From ocean’s symphony. Of tides that set in far off palmy isles Where ukuleles strum, And star eyed maidens wreathed in flowers and smiles Dance to your rhythmic hum. No plaintive bird, full throated with the spring, Warbles a sweeter note Than those enchanting melodies that ring Within your pearly throat. Sonorous chords that sound a minor key, Sea chanties hoarse and low, The echoes of the mermaid’s minstrelsy, And songs the sirens know. But now a bit of flotsam on the beach Imprisoned in my hand, I listen to the mysteries you teach And strive to understand. Your music leaves me in a brooding vein Sweet chantress of the deep, For in those elfin strains you wake again From death’s engulfing sleep And when, like you, upon life’s farthest shore Time bears my empty shell, O may such songs as your immortal store Be mine as well! WINDS OF THE CAPE Winds of the Cape, go tearing by Down the wild canyons of the sky! When winter’s cold has stripped the trees, And fields are bare and waters freeze, We hear them in the dead of night Careering on their headlong flight - The formless horsemen of the blast In gales of darkness rushing past! Winds of the Cape in gladness ring With all the lilting songs of spring! When fresh and clean the world awakes, And petals fall in snowy flakes From beach plum bush and apple tree There comes the haunting melody From sky land’s caravans once more - Wild geese in flight for Labrador! Winds of the Cape in Summer days When shore and dune dissolve in haze, Come drifting down the heavenly leas From cloudland’s floating Hebrides, Caressing with your langorous calm, And coolness like a healing balm; And whispering tales of Araby Palm fringing some enchanted sea. Winds of the Cape, what sadness blends In those wild gusts that Autumn sends Down empty hallways of the sky, To echo ever mournfully The footsteps of the dying year; To grieve o’er woods and meadows sere For things we loved so much - but lost Like blossoms withered by the frost. THE ENCHANTED MARSH O ripples in the marshland grass Like waves on an enchanted sea, The winds, with trailing garments pass Invisible adown the lea Each footprint, evanescent, pressed In shadowed highlight, trough and crest. No spray upon those waves is seen To splash upon the marshy bank; Uncanny sea so strangely green! While lurking in those coverts dank What things of the abyss may dwell Only the fear hushed winds might tell. Far off where dunes aspiring melt Into the sky, those currents flow In turmoil neither heard nor felt How furtively they come and go! Things yet undreamed of well might be Submerged beneath so weird a sea. No surges break but in our ear An elfin murmuring seems to sound, So vague it is we scarce may hear. O can it be the far off pound Of foamless surf on sands unseen Beyond that shimmering waste of green? And we who sail that eerie sea Go drifting on a tide of dreams To unknown isles in fantasy, Borne on the undulating beams Of sun, dim litten, or the moon That cringes o’er the farthest dune. How timelessly it ebbs and flows, That sea of ever changing light, And whence it bears us no one knows To what wild chasms of the night Where fancy, yearning to explore Pauses, aghast, upon the shore. THE FRAGRANCE OF THE CAPE The sun, that sovereign alchemist, and winds That do his bidding, gleaning from the wilds Sweet essences and savory condiments Have mingled them in that vast crucible Of hill and hollow, swamp and circling sea, And like the witch’s cauldrons, from that brew Evoked a fragrance sweet as Araby. The honeyed breath of Mayflowers in the spring, The nectar lingering in the elfin cups Of purple lilacs, fairy scents distilled By pendant locust blossoms, essences That lade the air when the wild roses bloom In scarlet flames that beautify the hills; The resinous aroma of the pines In summer heats when crows call languidly To droning bumble bees and gulls float past Like wisps of snowy cloud; the musk of swamps Where swaying cat tails shimmer in the sun And the noon stillness echoes to the calls Of blackbirds clarion shrill; the pungent smell Of sage grass by the tidal pool, the spice Of sweet fern from the hillsides redolent With beachplum and the subtle frankincense Of waxen bayberry, and over all The faint, elusive permeating scent Of sand and salt and spray from shore and sea. The mace and cinnamon of far off isles Are in that odor intimate and quaint And lasting as the memories that cling To weathered houses, gardens colorful With hollyhocks and dahlias, rimmed with shells; Or stranded hulls that brood in lonely coves By crumbling piers where once proud vessels lay. The romance and adventure of those days When stanch descendants of the Pilgrim band Carved out from sand and wilderness their homes And wrung a hard subsistence from the deep, Still linger in the memories of that time, And in the perfume subtle, vague and strange That charm elusive as the whispering breeze, Sad as the setting sun athwart the dunes, Mysterious as the ever changing sea, The wild sweet, haunting fragrance of the Cape. SEA LAVENDER Upon the marsh a filmy blur As delicate as gossamer; A wraith of fog, a vaporous wisp With stem and leaves and branches crisp, Their fibre toughened by the gale, Can plant so hardy seem so frail? Half hidden mid its stalks of green The flowerets are scarcely seen As dainty specks of ocean’s blue, Or bits of sky that filtered through, To melt in tints of amethyst As evanescent as the mist. And now through many a lacey line That fairy fingers intertwine Upon my mantelpiece at last You shed the fragrance of the past; A wraith of marshland witchery - A floral memory of the sea. THE FINAL ROSE From an ember bud that glows, In September flames a rose. Bursting prison doors of bark, Blithely risen like a lark. Sweetly winging to my room, Ever singing in perfume. Tardy comer, woodsprite blest, Dying summer’s last and best! [Illustration] FAIRY RINGS Far and near on every hand Fairy rings bedeck the sand, Footprints of the sportive elves Dancing gaily with themselves; Hand in hand and round and round Treading circles on the ground Nightly, by the glow worm’s ray To the cricket’s roundelay. Ardently each woodland gnome Clasps a fairy from the foam, Waltzing till the wondering moon Sees each circle as a rune In a maze of mystery For the puzzled stars to see, While the revellers at dawn Leave a myriad circles drawn. Or perchance the compass grass Whirled by wandering airs that pass Has engraved those strange designs In its circumscribed confines. Archimedes never drew Circles more exact or true Than each needle pointed blade Razor edged and green as jade. Can we delve the cryptic sense From each grooved circumference? In the grass that etched those rings What immortal spirit springs? Or what inspirations stir The bewitched geometer To such elfin tracery On the sands beside the sea? BEACH PLUMS How daintily your blossoms cling Like memories of winter snows; The maiden promises of spring That Nature, wakening, bestows; White as a bridal veil of gauze O’er branches gnarled like eagle’s claws. How richly ripe and purple hued You lure the eager appetite When autumn yields in kindliest mood Those luscious globules of delight! The sylvan elves must brew that taste From sea and dune and scented waste. For only skill like theirs could blend From woodland wild and rolling brine Such flavors. Or perchance they lend Their elven powers to those divine So that the tang of earth and sky Is mingled in their alchemy. Or were some darker rites invoked Some ritual of the churchman’s hell; Malignant imps and beldams cloaked In blackness capering neath the spell Of gibbous moons obscure and lone - Such witchcraft we might yet condone. Yes, though we know not whence you came Your sweet caresses to the tongue Would still delight us just the same Whether from day or darkness sprung; Content and carefree, from the stems To pluck such epicurean gems. ON TRURO HILLS Upon those dome like hills of sand A wonderous carpet has been laid, Rich as the rugs of Samarkand And gorgeous as some rare brocade Wrought on the looms of far Cathay Or by the shrines of Mandalay. It covers well those hills of sand That glaciers rounded long ago, Nor can the dyes of Samarkand Display a stranger, deeper glow Such tints of red and gray and green With gold and amber in between. To rolling slopes the lichens cling And tufts of bunch grass russet sere, Through them the murmurous breezes sing While clustering sweet fern, far and near Wafts spicy smells like incense o’er Those lonely hills from wood to shore The wild bearberry shyly twines Its sinuous length through grass and moss, How glossy are its clinging vines From green to rusty red. Across Its sheen the sunbeams dreamily Play like the waves upon the sea. Blueberry clumps in curving lines Mingle with waxen bayberry To trace their arabesque designs On richly wrought embroidery, With borders in the marshy sedge And fringing beach grass for the edge. A treeless waste it seems, but no The scrub oak, lichen crusted, cowers And dwarf pines, gnarled and twisted, grow By beach plum thickets, white with flowers A waste that blooms with rarer dyes Than jungles turn to tropic skies. And there are thread bare patches too That add more color to the heath For where the texture is worn through It shows the golden sands beneath, While in the afternoon’s slant rays All outlines blur in purple haze. Uncanny moorland, desolate And in the dusk how weirdly still, A landscape one can ne’er forget. O’er ghostly hollow wraithlike hill What timid moonsprites nightly flee The muttering demons of the sea! The ebbing seasons merely change That coverlet from day to day, By shifting, in their varied range From sober hues to some more gay, While from the sea and sky and air Fresh color splashes everywhere. That turf rough seeded by the wind And nurtured by the pensive sun, Is richer than the shawls of Ind, Or that famed carpet once begun By Jinns and Peris, known of yore, That through the air the Genii bore. Perhaps on some enchanted breeze From Kurdistan or Araby Those Genii over unknown seas Have borne this priceless tapestry, This fabric wrought in Faery land To beautify a barren strand. ’Tis woven on the loom of time Spun from the filaments of dreams, This magic carpet. Age nor clime Can match its pattern, or the streams Of color lavish Nature spills O’er Truro’s ancient, windswept hills MY DRIFT WOOD FIRE Heap high the wood on my rusty grate As I sit enthroned like a potentate In my old arm chair, while the crackling blaze Unbars the gates, to my dazzled gaze, Of a flame bright world that my fancy weaves Though the storm may batter the creaking eaves. There is Norway pine from the Arctic’s chill From wrecks that splintered off Peaked Hill; There is stout oak fashioned by broad axe blows, And stranger wood that the jungle grows; For such is the tribute I levy, - these Are the far flung gifts of the seven seas. The surf that claws at the wind swept beach Like skeleton fingers seems to reach For my lonely shelter; but staunch it stands Though its walls resound to the rattling sands In volleys hurled by the howling blasts; - Pile on those staves and that stump of mast! Up the roaring chimney the black smoke goes But O the glory that ebbs and flows On the heat warped ceiling and buckled floor, In green and purple; with ruddy ore That glints in gold where the salt burns through Mid flames that dance in an elfin blue! My home may seem but a weathered shack Where the cold creeps in through many a crack; But my fire’s bright magic has changed all these To a castle hall where I take my ease, With the window flaunting in sparkling lines My royal crest that the frost designs. Yes, I am a king carefree and bold And I laugh at the gale and the winter’s cold. My grate? ’Tis a jewel vault of Ind. That music wild? - It is not the wind But my minstrel’s songs, for my heart’s desire I have found at last in my drift wood fire! THE SAND PIPER Quaint manikin, what bids you keep Such formal distance with your droll Divertisements, the while I stroll In solitude beside the deep? Your mannerisms first suggest A Puritan sedate and prim; Then change you by capricious whim Into a gnome with hooded crest, Or bit of animated foam, Or e’en a cloud wisp drifting by, - What region in the sea or sky Or lonely dune can you call home? Your footsteps mincing gleefully Thread in and out along the verge Embroidering the creamy surge, - Strange little old man of the sea! But in your antic frolicking, Your beak grotesque and solemn eye, Your stilt-like legs, your piping cry, And sudden ecstasies of wing, There is a kinship with the spray Wind driven, and the restless sand, A mingling of the sea and land, The hither and the far away. Blithe atomy, bold Nature’s child Within you pulses glad and free With joyous spontaneity The tameless spirit of the wild! THE WHISTLING BUOY OFF NAUSET Voice of unutterable woe Wailing alone at sea! Borne on the shuddering winds that blow Out of the dark to me. Now far - now near To the frightened ear Comes that monody wild and free. Mingled of menace and grief and fear With a maniac chuckle of glee - O hear! That note of demoniac glee! Prophet of peril and storm, Harbinger, Triton and brute, Mariners peering to glimpse your form Cheer at your hoarse salute - That gurgling sound Of a sob half drowned That is vague as the muttering foam! Staggering drunkenly to and fro, You buffet the tide rips and undertow, A fettered gnome In the grip of the shoals below. Hark to that ominous roar Freezing the blood with dread! Vampire waves on a spectral shore Ravening over the dead. O-oo, O-oo! Is your wild adieu To the souls that the winds have sped! Breakers are howling like wolves on the trail, Foaming and gnashing and leaping the rail, Where a shrieking crew Are lost in the maddened gale. Wraith of the dangerous seas, Haunting the skeleton sands, Creature of iron and billow and breeze Wrought by a mortal’s hands. Your eerie moan So weird - so lone Is a medley of boding and rapture and groan. Roisterer, mourner and demon I wis Strangest of beings in ocean’s abyss Your elfin cry Is a note of its infinite mystery. PEAKED HILL BARS On the dread bars at Peaked Hill The sullen waves are strangely still; And o’er that eerie sand dune’s crest The winds, beguiling, seem at rest; As the wild flare of Highland Light Goes surging up into the night. What sinister serenity Pervades that graveyard of the sea, Where sand bars, white as bone, submerge Down where the tides intone a dirge For houseless and unhallowed souls - ’Tis Death who broods among the shoals! For hark, it comes, the thunderous gale That makes those dunes and beaches quail, As the wild winds and waves embroil Those shoals until they seem to boil And lift to heaven as loud a din As though the fiends were caged within. No mariners of old e’er sailed More dangerous seas. Charybdis veiled No starker terrors than those blue And greenish shallows hide from view, Where, crouched like tigers on the kill, Lurk the dread bars at Peaked Hill! THE RIME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS Three captains lounged before the blaze Of drift wood burning cheerily, And they warmed to ventures of other days In salty tales of the sea. Tarred were the ropes coiled under the eaves, Tar had dripped on the warping floor, Beach sand fluttered like withered leaves And sifted under the door. The salt that crusted the chimney wide Had tinged the flames with yellows and reds; Salt were the wavelets that lapped outside, And white as the salt were their heads. Visions of many a tropic clime In the firelight seemed to come and go; Till friends they had known in their youthful prime Took form in the radiant glow. As time cracked voices droned away Through strange adventures in days gone by, One voyaged with them to far Cathay And spice swept Araby. Quaint were the islands they knew so well Zanzibar, Pitcairn, and Celebes; Isles enchanted where reigned the spell Of other and lonelier seas. Seas that cringed at the typhoon’s wrath When his thunderous roar was heard; Silent seas in the calm of death Where never a whisper stirred. And the pulses quickened to hear their tales of voices hailing from spectral sands; Of dead men’s ships with their ghastly sails Unfurled by skeleton hands! Legends weird of an unplumbed deep Where galleons foundered in days of yore; And sightless monsters that grope and creep In the slime of the ocean floor. Sagas of shipwreck in days long gone, Of pirate treasure and revelry, Of clashing cutlass and fights hard won In some blood stained mutiny. On decks awash how they held their own When faced by the knives of a cursing crew. And they spoke of shoals and of ledges lone Which only the sea birds knew. Youth flushed once more on withered cheeks, Bent shoulders squared defiantly, At such deeds as fired the warlike Greeks In their legended Odyssey. And the murmuring tide ebbed once again, And the fire burned low e’re the captains three Recalled with a sigh they were old, old men Who were done with their toil on the sea. STORM SIGNALS Red blur against the western sky A banner flutters threateningly The sport of every treacherous air It flaunts its warning note - “Beware” Each wrinkle in its protean form A portent of impending storm. The darkening smudge where sank the sun In bloody embers smoulders on With brooding wrath. But angrier red Invests that standard with the dread Of unseen terrors. For it holds Death’s shadow in its writhing folds! NEPTUNE’S COURSERS Horses of Neptune that bound and dash Maddened with fear at the tempest’s lash, Pawing the sand with their thudding feet In a crashing rhythm of thunderous beat, Swift as the startled winds they race, Straining ever at fleeter pace; Forms that curve where the billows comb, Breasting a welter of seething foam, What unseen riders spur them on In a fierce stampede to be up and gone? Out of the hoary deep they come, Surging on with a booming roar, Pounding ever along the shore, Till the senses whirl and the ear grows numb. Manes that stream in the wind swept spume, Necks that arch in the breakers’ crest, Hoofs resounding like drums of doom, Rearing forward with frantic zest, Wild are the steeds of the storm scarred deep! Trident driven, they plunge and leap, With nostrils spread and their eyes aglow, And fetlocks gripped by the undertow, Boisterous, raging, uncanny steeds Out of an ocean waste that breeds Chargers fit for a sea god’s needs - Neptune’s coursers, untamed and free, Fleeing the wrath of the unknown sea! TO A SPIDER WEB WET WITH DEW Suspended o’er the grass there floats a web More delicate than strands of gossamer Wet with the morning dew, in pendant gems That flame with reds and greens and darting blues From the bright sun. A filmy nothingness Made visible by jeweled drops and etched, Like frosted silver, on a background dark Of drooping pines. An airy talisman As lustrous as a diamond necklace draped About a Peri’s throat. What fleeting glimpse Of loveliness ethereal and unreal Inspired that rapt enchantment of design, That harp of strings attuned to elfin songs, That ladder for the moonsprites nightly trail From sky to earth. What miracle of line, What shimmering grace, what witchery of form! So fragile that a fallen leaf may rend Its warp of magic ne’er to know the woof Of hard reality. A diagram Of elfin tracery impalpable; Each angle and its intersections squared By that grotesque geometer who spins Unseen, a hateful spider, ogre grim To all the insect world. Can ugliness So venomous create a thing so fair Beyond the range of art? In pensive mood We pause a moment to admire and scan Its meaning. Can such fairy elegance Spring from so foul a source? Yet legends tell How crippled Vulcan, grimed with dust and smoke, In darkness wrought the glorious shield of Mars. The water lily, blossom honey sweet, Draws nectar from the mire. Nor time nor bounds May curb that hidden beauty that wells up From secret springs in nooks obscure and dark, Till gems of dew upon a spider’s web Glow like the Pleiades in frosted skies. [Illustration] THE DUNES The dunes, the silent sentinels of the land That range along the lea, In revery unbroken, there they stand And gaze far out to sea Across their wind swept crests the breezes play In cadence sad and sweet, The restless sands whip ever day by day Their surf tormented feet. The dying sunbeams gild their crags with gold Then purple into night, Around their slopes the elves of twilight fold A film of spectral light. A landscape wild that one might see in dreams Or on the pallid moon, Blue shadows traced in silver by her beams In many a cryptic rune. Or etched against the winter sky they show An outline weird and stark, Their pale sands melting like the sparser snow Into a background dark. With scudding clouds, reflected on the dull Gray mirror of the sea. Cut by the wing points of a lonely gull In poised expectancy. The distant sand bars mark the skeletons Of other vanished dunes, Their crests were once upreared to other suns And other ghostly moons. The seething shoals once foamed beneath your feet And maddened tide rips swirled Whence risen proudly you can stand and greet The older, firmer world. Unstable element of shifting sand Whose contours ever change, But moulded by great nature’s groping hand In shapes bizarre and strange. We too, from sand have fashioned castled towers For waves to wash away, But her creations crumble much like ours Though in a grander way. Nature, like man, forever vainly strives To conquer time and tide; She toils long aeons, we our briefer lives And both unsatisfied! THE FLIGHT OF THE WILD GEESE Out of the sky they call to me Honking geese in the far flung V Of an angle traced on the filmy skies As they float along, and their plaintive cries Are the pipes of an elfin roundelay. Tis the call of the wild to the Far-away! “Northward Ho!” is their haunting chant Down the rocking winds their long lines slant, And the old gray gander who takes command How he marshals the files of his climbing band, As they wing their flight with a tireless haste, To the ice rimmed seas and the tundra waste. To the spruce fringed lakes and the virgin sod Where never the foot of man has trod; To the empty lands unspoiled and clean That never the eye of man has seen; Where the frost wraiths flee in the melting nights That throb to the dance of the northern lights. On their venturous voyage no compass guides Through the murmuring reefs and the chartless tides Of the upper air. But their leader hoarse, Like a pilot sage directs their course To the sheltered fens and the coves they share With the snow white fox and the arctic hare. How we follow the wild geese’s homing flight Till their chorus dies and they fade from sight, And our pulses thrill to be up and away Joyously buoyant, as free as they. For their far off challenge seems to ring “Awake, glad world, to the songs of Spring!” SWEET FERN Strange perfume of the wilderness, Elusive as an elfin child That broods above the landscape wild - And haunting as a last caress. From thickets broken and obscure That spicy fragrance down the lea, Brings to the ever murmuring sea The sweetness of the barren moor. Low risen thickets, scarcely seen Among the clumps of reindeer moss; What elfin traceries emboss Your leafy arabesques of green! And if no lonely passer by Has trod your solitude to share That incense - every wandering air Has borne it to the bending sky. WHITE SAIL White sail beyond yon point of sand Set like a gem upon the blue, A fairy bark for elfin land Receding gradually from view; White sail a snow flake come to rest Like thistledown, upon the sea; A distant beacon on the breast Of watery immensity. White sail, a finger tip that seems To beckon from the ocean’s rim, To some enchanted isle of dreams Beyond the skyline, vague and dim. White sail that like a lonely tern Fades out against the dying day, We watch till you are gone and yearn To voyage into the far away. THE HUMMING BIRD Blithe wanderer from some happier sphere What hither darting brought you here Swift as a flash of light, With rainbow spatters on your throat Aflutter like a dancing mote Upon a sunbeam bright. Bold atom of exultant life With energy and action rife And pinions all ablurr, What glad exuberance of wing Like harping on a fairy string Evokes that vibrant whirr? With humming, strumming melody Like some supernal bumble bee You flit about to sup On honey dew. Your fearless beak Probes, lancet like, those sweets to seek Within each nectared cup. Ah birdikin, now here, now there, Poised elfinlike, upon the air Aglitter like the dawn, How ardently we would beguile So fair a sprite to rest a while But flash! and you are gone. Yet the unspoken word you bring Still lingers. Time is on the wing And never may be stayed. So let us sip each honeyed hour For life itself is but a flower That all too soon will fade. O ROAD THAT WINDS AMONG THE HILLS O road that winds among the hills With sinuous curves that lure the eye Up distant slopes to meet the sky, And wake a wanderlust that thrills To scenes which beckon far beyond From steep Kashmir or Trebizon. How like a bird, we’d love to roam Beyond the gray Horizon’s rim That shuts us like a prison grim Within that narrow niche - our home While thoughts unfettered steal away To Istanbul and far Cathay. O road we tread in toil and strife That climbs to greet the bending air, The long, long trail to none knows where - The weary highway we call Life - What lies beyond? Ah, who can say But we shall see and know - some day! THE BEACH GRASS THRENODY Lo in the wind the beach grass sings A medley of fantastic things That stirs the silence of the ear With elfin notes we scarce may hear, From formless shapes grotesque and strange That lurk beyond the vision’s range. The fingers of what moon beam sprite, Or lonely demon of the night, Have strummed those sweetly plaintive strings To the weird melody that wrings A note of haunting mystery From the chill vastness of the sea. TO A ROSE JAR Fair chalice in your spicy store The roses seem to blow And childhood’s simple faith restore In legend’s long ago; Such as the Arab’s jewelled prose Where Genii from the bottle rose The magician’s command obeyed And at his feet whole kingdoms laid. From odorous depths I summon thee O spirit of the past! Weave all your spells of fantasy And may your visions last. Bring to my ear the murmuring breeze The drowsy, far off hum of bees, Unfolding to my raptured gaze Those scenes beloved, of olden days. Once more within this scented gloom Forgotten sunbeams rest On hedges drooped with odorous bloom By blushing lips caressed. Those roses faded with the dusk - Her lips grew cold, but fixed in musk The fragrance lingers - and her eyes Do they smile down from Paradise? Prophetic incense, subtly rare, O may I understand The poignant messages you bear From Memory’s holy land For petals torn from withered stems Have filled this treasure casque with gems And their sweet perfume brings to me A hint of immortality. BLUE BERRIES From elfland’s glades and coverts green Peering through bars of sun and shade Are friendly little eyes, I ween, That glow like sapphires set in jade, And shyly veil their azure spheres In summer’s filmiest atmospheres. There banqueting, we half recline And sip the perfume redolent With sweet fern, aromatic pine, And bayberries’ seductive scent, An incense rare as smoking spice That censers raise to Paradise. The stillness brooding like a pall O’er thickets and entangled trees Is stabbed by the shrill blackbird’s call, And rippled by the wandering breeze That trails a buzzing dragon fly Where bumble bees hum drowsily. Athwart the slant rays of the sun Far off there glides a cloudland sail To faery shores. Our task is done - Our treasure won - a brimming pail. And no blithe argonaut e’er bore From legend’s quest a richer store! THE WATCHER A frail old lady bent and gray She gazes out into the west. To her it seems but yesterday He sailed away with eager zest “I pinned a rose upon his coat” She falters, clutching at her throat. A mariner he put to sea, Twas more than fifty years ago, The neighbors nod in sympathy, She cannot understand they know. What fancies throng her poor old head “My Robert lost? He can’t be dead.” And she is right. Her clearer eye Sees through the storms and stress of years, Full well she knows he did not die The rainbow glistens through her tears Enshrined within her heart in truth Her Robert lives in deathless youth. From her lone window on the shore She nightly sets a lamp to burn A beacon when the breakers roar To guide him on his safe return. No matter what the neighbors say These two shall meet again some day! THE SEA SHELL BOAT How now, little maid, in your bonnet arrayed With that quaint little shell in your hand! Not a shell but a boat? Ah, I see, let it float Far away from these mountains of sand. It will sail so I’m told, down the pathway of gold Where the sun paves the sea with its beams, To some fortunate isle where the skies ever smile Upon childhood’s endeavors and dreams. But, Honey, don’t cry if it sinks bye and bye Like a fluttering bird to its nest; For the wild waves at play in their blundering way, Like the oncoming years never rest. My hopes were aglow in the long, long ago When my own little ship left the shore; But my hair has grown grey since it drifted away And it never came back any more! [Illustration] FLOTSAM O flotsam stranded on the beach Half buried in the oozing sand, A sudden step, an outstretched hand, And you are snatched beyond the reach Of clutching waves. What brought you here From far off climes beyond the seas, The sport of every furtive breeze, A wanderer for many a year? What gulfs of ocean’s nether world Your paths have plumbed, I cannot know, To what abyss the Krakens go, Or where Leviathan was hurled. What current dark, I wonder, links Your lot with mine on this lone shore, - But there is only silence more Unbroken than the Memphian spinx. And am I fain to speculate Upon the burden of your past? When I, myself, am flotsam cast Ashore a little while to wait For Time’s resistless tides that sweep In endless waves of night and day Across the shoaling milky way From some vast, unimagined deep! THE ANCIENT LOG BOOK ’Tis a time eaten volume with pages so blurred That they seem to peer out through a fog, But our fancy illumines each lustreless word Of that battered old “wind-jammer’s” log. Till our eyes gazing out through those angular lines Like windows, transparent, behold Far vistas of seas where adventure combines With “spices” and “teak wood” and “gold.” “Off the Horn” where the “greybeards” loomed up “mountain high” All “our topsails were carried away”; Then ’twas “cutlass and pike” when the “pirates drew nigh” As “becalmed off Macassar we lay.” “One man hurt” then a later notation, “he’s dead” And “was buried at sea” all we know, He “signed from Tahiti” a “good man” they said, “The fo’castle hands called him ‘Joe’” Lone wanderer far from his native lagoon Was he mourned by some garlanded maid? We ponder till jarred by a “roaring Typhoon” And “there on our beam ends we laid”. “With our water casks low” when our “Bread had give out” “We fetched by some island unknown” Though we “dragged on the coral” while “Going about” We added “their stores” to our own. There’s the wash and the surge of the murmurous deep In each billowing flourish of ink. Though the captains are silent in fathomless sleep What they tersely inscribed is a link. With a past, when our banner, its glory aflame To the winds of the heavens was flung; And their deeds are forever an epic of fame Such as Homer of old might have sung. THE DANCE OF THE MOON BEAMS O the moonbeams dance down the broad expanse Of a path o’er the heaving sea, And they blithely trip from tip to tip Of the billows ranging free. Down a highway bright of silvery light They dance to the ghostly moon, In the sprightly set of a minuet And the whirl of a rigadoon. To our lonely shore like a burnished floor Streams that river of luminous sheen; ’Tis a fairy track through the shadows black ’Tis a bridge that spans between. The regions here and that unseen sphere Far off in the western sky, Where the day is done with the setting sun And the sunsets fade and die. Where the moon holds court and her minions sport As over the seas they roam, And they dance their way through the glistening spray And laugh in the rippling foam. “O the night is ours and its witching powers “And there’s never an eye to mark, “For the demons sleep in the caverned deep “And the goblins of the dark. “Are far away where the shadows gray “On the spectral sand dunes lie, “So join in our mirth that is not of the earth “But more of the sea and the sky!” To the rhythmic beat of their twinkling feet The creaming breakers fret, As to and fro on a rollicking toe They gracefully pirouette. For the surges roll o’er the murmuring shoal Through a brooding harmony And the night wind sings of unspoken things In an eerie melody. “O cast your cares on the buoyant airs “Where the star points smoulder dim” Is their lilting song as they float along To the skyline’s molten rim. As their footsteps pave o’er the frosted wave A path to the magic west, With a carefree shout we would join the rout And follow their homing quest. But our feet are banned from that faery land Though our vaulting fancy yearns As it throbs in tune to the dying moon Till the morning redly burns. With our hearts in tune to the dying moon We stand in the hush of dawn; There are cryptic runes on the windswept dunes But that luminous path has gone. And the wet sands lie neath the empty sky As drear as the lifeless sea, But through our dreams flit the elfin beams Of that moonsprite revelry. MARSHES OF SANDWICH Marshes of Sandwich where slow currents wind Languidly seeking the outermost sea Drifting, some ultimate haven to find, Where far horizons stretch, boundless and free! Out there beyond the white sea wall of dunes, Murmurs of ocean that breathe faint and low Looming like mountain peaks crusted with snow Weaving blue shadows through hot afternoons. Languorous meadows where dragon flies dream, Level green solitudes soothing the eye, Golden with mist from the sun’s slanting beam Purpled by patches of cloud floating by. Prairies beloved of the homing wild geese Nature’s hurt children are healed by your balm; How we have longed for the infinite peace Born of your timeless, unchangeable calm! THE SMILE OF THE SEA O the sun’s molten gold seems to spatter and spill O’er the wavelets so dazzlingly bright, As they dance to the songs of the sandpiper’s shrill With their numberless sparkles of light. For the languorous winds with their deft fingers press Those wrinkles of sapphire and flame, And the fires they enkindle all surge to express A shout of exultant acclaim. How they twinkle and glitter like sparks from the steel While the gilded foam chuckles with glee, Till all nature, attuned to the rapture they feel Seems aglow with the smile of the sea. [Illustration] OUR CAPE COD HOME O ancient Cape Cod house whose drooping eaves Prim as the bonnet of a Pilgrim maid Are sere and grey as Autumn’s driven leaves, What comfort seems to drowse beneath their shade Comfort that fairly drips like Heaven’s own dew - The tranquil calm that our forefathers knew. How many gales about those eaves have roared, How many summer heats have come and gone, And left their imprint on each weathered board Time seasoned and discolored, handed on To younger generations. Quaint and queer You seem, but O your wealth of homey cheer! Your architects were of a sombre breed, Their doctrines gnarled and knotty to the core, And yet you gave them refuge, ’twas their need; What battlemented towers had yielded more? A treasure galleon, in your roomy hold Were sanctuary from the storm and cold. And beauty thralled them too, those builders dour, Though beauty was to them, sedate and plain; They wrought in harmony with marsh and moor In simple lines, and time’s enduring stain On crumbling shingles, where the lichens grow To mingle with the greys their golden glow. With broad axe and with adze those builders wrought And in the wilderness foundations laid For our great nation. Liberty they sought With toil and thrift - sound virtues roughly made Of homespun stuff, quite like the clothes they wore As out of fashion as your buckled floor! The times were hard, the men who lived them rude, They lacked the many luxuries we know; The life within your walls was drab and crude, At least our demagogues have told us so; And yet along your pathway rimmed with flowers How shallow flows this flippant life of ours! The new apartment in the city’s maze Has fixtures that your age had never seen, Machine made gadgets, till our very days Seem spun for us, upon a vast machine; And we ourselves an inconspicuous part Of some grim Frankenstein without a heart. Caught in the maelstrom of the times we strive To please our gods of gold with feet of clay; Exchange your solace for a noisy hive; Clutch at the shell and throw the pearl away; And your unbounded views of ocean’s foam Shut out with walls that never can be home. O quaint old Cape Cod house, precarious link Between the past and present, Life, no doubt, Means progress, - so at least we’re taught to think Though often wonder what ’tis all about - But as we smile at customs you have known How are the angels saddened at our own! THUNDER STORM OFF RACE POINT Beyond the dunes what monstrous shapes are these Like Titans rearing out of the abyss To menace heaven? Terrible they loom Upheaving with their shoulders till the sky Is warped and yielding, and the trampled sea Pales into death white foam. Impending doom Sweeps to engulf the world, when flash on flash, As far heat lightnings glint on burnished arms, The wild Valkyries come! Their jet black steeds Outpace the furious winds; and hark, the stroke Of Thor, the Thunder God! His hammer dread Splinters the silence, crashing downward, stuns The firmament. That glare that blinds the eye Is Woden’s Sword! It pierces coil on coil Night’s writing dragon, pouring forth its flood Of venomed gloom. Redoubled is the din The powers of Tartarus and Heaven locked, In mortal strife. The adamantine base Foundationing the everlasting hills, And the resounding archways of the sky, Reverberate and tremble! Wildly burst Like pent up tears, the rains that hurtle down Sodden with chill; while whimpering, the surge All tempest frayed and besomed, choked with sobs, Fingers the whining sands. Ages it seems, Tumultuous aeons, e’er the torrents cease And tides of blackness ebb. Far out to sea The mighty conflict drifts, the thunders die As scorpion whips of forked lightnings scourge The cringing giants of the cloud that flee Down to their dungeons in the vasty deep; While o’er their tatters rides the full orbed moon Glorious, resplendent like the shield of Mars, Triumphant o’er the terrors of the storm. TO A SCRIMSHAWED WHALE’S TOOTH Quaint relic that the mellowing years Have tinged with Autumn’s ripened gold, What scene of olden time veneers Your ivory surface smooth and cold! Hard bitten by some huge sperm whale You often gored the giant squid, That nightmare of the deep, amid Unfathomed gulfs of crag and vale. Remotest seas, their bounds unknown, That old bull whale was wont to cross By ways uncharted, he alone, Shared with the wandering albatross. Marauder savage and morose, He spurned the waves in pride and wrath, No killer dared dispute the path The monarch of the ocean chose. Then came the whaler’s crew - and this Lone carven fragment now remains Of all his bulk, that the abyss Long since engulfed. Yet it explains A graphic story. Clothed with life Its dead white surface - line by line - Unfolds in intricate design A sailor’s dreams - etched by his knife. Through many an hour of summer haze While the long swells rocked languidly His patient fingers graved that maze Of intertwining tracery. And that sweet face with hair so trim, Love’s arrow, and two hearts that bleed, What touching romance we may read In “H to J” - to Her from Him. Old Time united them we trust - Initials linked but separate - Though both long mingled with the dust Their story we may still translate From this rude sketch. Devotedly They passed a lifetime richly blest And safe at home, together rest In sad, sweet graves beside the sea. Or did perchance, Fate intervene To bow that head in sorrow low For lover lost - what came between Those twain we cannot hope to know. The sadness of a far off day The fading of a golden dream Dim memories, how fresh they seem To ever youthful H and J! Enshrined as on a magic page A clasp knife for his only aid, Still fondly lingers age by age The love a sailor bore a maid. His name, nor hers, no one can say, No evidence besides, endures, But silent eloquence like yours Immortalizes H and J! THE CREEPING FOG Rolling in from the sea, rolling on Ghostly floods chill as death, in the dawn Swallow up all the world in their sweep As the grey currents stealthily creep Over marshland and dune, while the sun Dripping mist, scarce proclaims day begun To a landscape all eerie and wan Drowned in fog, rolling in, rolling on! Trees by oceans of droplets bedimmed Loom like shapes that our fancy has limned; Beacons set where the weird torrents range Through invisible channels and change All the loved, olden landmarks we know, Till dissolved in that strange overflow Earth and sky seem to blend and begin In the fog’s swelling tide, rolling in! WOODEN SAILOR Wooden sailor swinging war clubs On my lawn with furious tempo, Like the Don of Spanish legend He of old, who braved the windmills Looming up like giants, charged them Splintering his lance and bruising His frail bones on mad illusions; You resemble him - bold warrior, Struggling with the summer breezes, Lunging at the clouds above you. But your ludicrous gyrations In my yard, your droll gymnastics Point a world of deeper meaning, For we too, are often harried By imaginary perils; Spend the years in aimless striving Wearying the heart and sinews On fantastic undertakings; Cursed by impotent endeavor Unproductive, never-ending. If we smile at your contortions Toiling furiously for - nothing It is less in mirth than sadness. For I fear we fail to equal Your stout heart and resolution Wigwagging your bold defiance. Yes, while we are battling shadows, Wasting life in futile effort, Can we wonder that the angels Grieve in Heaven at our folly? THE DREAMER He lounges on the wharf and whittles pegs While his pathetic gaze drifts out to sea, Around him fishnets, anchors, empty kegs And coils of rope are stored. His revery Though deep, is sometimes broken by a sigh As strange lights kindle in his faded eye. A shapeless hat seems floating on his hair Of wavy white. His clothes are patched and worn His fingers palsy shaken, and an air Of pathos and of helplessness forlorn Enfolds him, as he lays his pipe aside And gazes sadly at the ebbing tide. His vision seems athirst to drink its fill Of ocean’s mystery that he loves so well, For he has lived adventure, lives it still, Though age, long since, has yielded to the spell Of brooding calm. No idle dreamer he, His thoughts are busied on some far off sea. Stern old Magellan and Sir Francis Drake Heard tales from just such ancient sailor men, Tales that inspired a zeal to undertake Those stirring voyages beyond the ken Of their small world. Discoverers bold, - and yet They steered the course some unknown dreamer set! THE CHANT OF THE NIGHT WIND O the wind in the chimney place thrums a wild strain A chant that no mortal has known, And my soul deeply stirs at its eerie refrain In my dim lighted chamber, - alone. For strange lifting cadences mark its sweet song With gladness and beauty and fear, Till chords, long forgotten, in memory throng Like a shell that I press to my ear. O where have you wandered, melodious breeze That sounds such a magical note, Have you winged on your journey, o’er limitless seas From some Ultima Thule remote? A region no mortal may ever explore Whose legended boundaries lie On foam whitened beaches and sinister shore And crags that are gnashing the sky! Where ice fields aglow in the dark of the moon Reflect the volcano’s red glare - We may ponder and doubt - but our souls are in tune To the verve of that uncanny air! For the spirits of night strum their wild elfin lyres And they harp on invisible strings, While a music, unearthly, floats down from those wires Like the tremulous flutter of wings. For those notes so elusive, so mystically sweet, We may sense but their vague undertone, For they baffle our hearing, so faintly they beat On the verge of the audible zone. O restless and fitful, those wandering airs, As the sad breezes sigh to the rain, Then dying, evasively mock at our prayers, For silent, we hear them again! ’Tis the music of elfland that rings in our ears With its haunting notes witching and low, Like the voices of friends that have gone with the years Or the echoes of songs long ago. MIDNIGHT In the dead watches of the night As time drifts by on endless flight, Drowsing upon our couch we hear A distant clock sound faint but clear, And chiming from its lonely tower Ring out the solemn midnight hour. That warning stirs the unquiet air A golden day has flown - but where? Another burns to greet the dawn But one day has forever gone - And pendulum and iron tongue Their mournful requiem have sung. Aghast the present moment flies Midway between eternities, As, winging on without a stay Tomorrow flees from yesterday, And vanished moments that have been Will never come to us again! THE GOLDEN ROD What dazzling shape is this that seems to rise At the command Of some magician, till it glorifies The barren sand? A stately canopy for some proud elve! And that rich sheen The grand creation of the gnomes that delve Grotesque, unseen, In caverns dim. There while the forges ring To blow on blow Those humble artisans are burnishing That wondrous glow! How gorgeously the molten yellow gleams As they combine The sand’s bright ore with sunlight’s minted beams In rare design. Until the wealth that jade green leaves disguise And buds enfold! Wells upward with resplendent ecstasies In jets of gold! Fountains that o’er the sterile desert play Erect and tall With pendent droplets from their golden spray That never fall. Oases of enchantment where the bees And beetles come, To mingle with the murmur of the seas Their drowsy hum. Such splendor glitters in each regal nod Of gilded bloom We pause in doubt; is this the golden rod, Or seraph’s plume? A scepter, or perchance a magic wand For elfin kings? Our fancy pictures in each jewelled frond Fantastic things. And still our wonder grows, and a vague fear Of regions banned Steals o’er us--lest our footsteps draw too near To fairyland! WILD ROSES Whence comes that swooning fragrance on the air That riot of rich color on the hill Like smouldering embers? red, deep red, and fair They are, beyond our groping words. We thrill To inner surgings of unuttered things When we behold, strewn o’er this alien lea Exotic bloom that to our spirit sings In perfume sweet as lifting melody, Fresh from immortal Eden’s radiant bowers Where angels coveted our earthly flowers. Like elfin torches tipped with odorous fire Raining their ashen petals on the grass, These flowering censers rouse a wild desire For beauty yet unseen, in those who pass This solitary way. O incense sweet! The bees are drunken with it, the wild bees And dragon flies that hunt this still retreat Far from the world of men. Is it for these That Nature lavishes her perfume rare To scent this moorland waste and wandering air? Wild roses, O but they were meant to be More than the sweet companions of an hour; Theirs is a loftier role, their destiny In this sad world, to glorify the power Of beauty welling up beyond the range Of mortal view. Strange ecstasies concealed Aforetime from our blighting frost and change Aurora’s swinging gates have here revealed; Such perfect beauty as the seraph knows Hid in that floral miracle - a rose. THE COAST GUARD STATION Stout fortress on the battle line Of shrieking winds and thunderous surge, A barbican against the brine, A challenge to the breakers’ dirge; Not all the wild Atlantic’s wrath Can bar your men from life boats frail, Nor all the fury of the gale Can swerve them from their destined path! The churning foam may pelt and freeze, The stinging sleet cut to the bone, They venture forth on perilous seas, They venture forth, unsung, alone. Like knights of olden time arrayed In oilskin armor, theirs the role To battle with the raging shoal And beard the tempest unafraid! No martial strains ring in their ears, No banners blaze their desperate way; Only a wife or mother peers From distant sand dunes through the spray. And yet no crown that fame may give Can e’re transcend the solemn pride Of men, whatever may betide, Who risk their lives that men may live. KEEPER OF THE LIGHT Aloft within the beacon tower alone She trims the lamps that send their luminous beams Far out into the night. The eerie moan Of the wild shoal is smothered by the screams Of winds that make the thrumming walls resound With deafening din. She listens, mute with dread, To voices mingling vaguely in the sound Of the storm maddened waves, and shakes her head. “Is it the waves?” she mutters. Bent and old Her fingers tremble so,--but not from cold! Her husband tosses on his cot below Burning with fever, often calls her name. But she must stand his watch though none may know Of her long vigil. Vestal of a flame Whose warning beams guide mariners aright Mid perilous reefs, through all engulfing gloom Though unclean spirits rage throughout the night Riding the furious winds in rain and spume, No matter if she shivers and turns pale, Her courage, like her light, endures the gale. But what drives hard like spray against the glass Hurtling from out the dark? a tiny form With battered wings, a tern which flees, alas, Like some lost soul from the pursuing storm Dashed to the rocks below. “Dear God!” she cries “Why must my light that points great ships the way “Be blooded by his piteous sacrifice? “Life saving beams, who gave them power to slay? “How hopelessly must good and evil blend “When harmless birds meet such a cruel end.” ON CHATHAM BARS On Chatham bars the surges moan And sea birds cry; A gull goes winging stark and lone Across the sky; While on the shore, with menace low, Mutters the seething undertow. O’er Chatham bars a frighted cloud Goes driven fast; The shoals are answering hoarse and loud The roaring blast, And joining that wild revelry Of frenzied winds and raging sea. Through blinding sands with bended head The coast guard goes By Chatham bars, in silent dread For well he knows, That surf may leave, on its retreat, Some ghastly trophy at his feet! On Easter morn the mourners stand On Chatham hill, To chant again His high command, Of - “Peace be still” And scatter flowers upon the wave To drift above some nameless grave. For Chatham bars are silent now On Easter Day, Before that solemn group who bow Their heads and pray To Him, the Risen One, Who said, “Then shall the sea give up its dead.” THE OLD TIMER’S LAMENT O where is the Cape that I used to know In the quaint old days of the long ago? The weathered house with its friendly smoke From the looming background of silver oak; And the huge brick oven that flanked the grate Where the fireplace yawned like the flaming gate Of a fairy world to my childish gaze While the russets sputtered before the blaze-- Was there ever such comfort and homey cheer As the Cape that my memory holds so dear? There were braided rugs on the sanded floor And that queer round cellar--what bounteous store Of pickle and relish and sweet preserve Seemed overflowing each ample curve! What jars of berries and stewed beach plum And jugs--half hidden--of cherry rum-- And jugs that frothed with potato yeast, And the dainties saved for Thanksgiving’s feast I think of them often and sigh--“Heigh-ho” O where is the Cape that I used to know? And that open chamber and corded bed Where I listened to pattering rain overhead. Rope handled sea chests and leathern trunks And models of clippers and Chinese junks, And apples drying in clustered strings With numberless other wonderful things. No cave from the storied Arabian Nights Was filled with more treasures and marvelous sights Than our storehouse under the eaves could show-- O where is the Cape that I used to know? And the fragrant gardens that memory links With the olden days--O those sweet Cape pinks, And the hollyhocks and the columbine, And the savory herbs by the ivy vine, With the fish nets drying along the slope Mid tangles of buoys and fresh tarred rope-- Yes the modern gardens are trim and neat But I often think--“Do they smell as sweet “As those beds where the roses loved to grow?” O where is the Cape that I used to know? The captains turned from the seven seas To end their days in such homes as these; And the tales they spun for my youthful ear I have waited a lifetime their like to hear. But they sleep where the mournful willows bend O’er that silent city where voyages end; Though their memory lingers in many a page Of log books crumbling with salt and age, And many a rare old curio-- O where is the Cape that I used to know? But time flows on like the ceaseless tide And cabins clutter the country side Like nesting gulls. Where the horse, hock deep, Once plodded the sands the autos sweep Before my eyes in a dizzy blur Of mad confusion and noise and stir. For peace and quiet have never a place In this modern world with its feverish pace With its movie glare and its radio-- O where is the Cape that I used to know? REVERY Sweet angel of the backward look And trailing wings, We wander by Time’s restless brook Of transient things That from some far off, unseen nook Forever springs. Old Time may lay aside his glass For just a day, Let not the jewelled moments pass But bid them stay, The while we stretch upon the grass In revery. [Illustration] THE OLD HULK Moored to the decaying piling Of a ruined wharf, and whiling Endless hours away in dreams of days gone by, Lies a battered hulk, dismasted, Broken backed and tempest blasted, Like a dolphin fast aground and left to die. Deck awash and planking slanted Like a broken lily planted In the mud, where every tide the eddies swirl, Years have gone since last it floated And the sea growths all unnoted, Underneath its rotting timbers twine and curl. Often when my footsteps tended To that lonely shore that ended All its voyagings there sounded in my ear, What the shrilling sea birds uttered And the voiceless current muttered Solemn messages it meant for me to hear; “Far off seas no more beguile me “But their memories reconcile me “To the shelter of this silver mirrored cove “Where my outline seems engraven “Like an etching. Safe in haven “I am home at last, and nevermore shall rove.” THE MODERNISTS Bam, wham! Clangor of cymbals and shriek of a fife, That stabs like a knife. Zam, slam! Bang on the tambourine, beat on the drums, Symphony comes! Greet her with tom-toms while savages dance, Let any discord the riot enhance, Down with all melody, harmony, poise, Give us more noise! Tonal inebriates, drunken with sound, Pound, brothers, pound! Furiously, frenziedly, round and around Whirls the mad medley of ear splitting notes, Like the yelling of demons with flame blackened throats. Music is stricken, is dying, ’tis said, Over her head, Set all the boiler works off on a spree! Jazz and more jazz in a mad jamboree, Music is dead! But still in the morning the song sparrow sings And blithely she wings, And from her gay throat a sweet melody springs, Old as the Pyramids, new as the dawn, Music will live when this madness has gone. Blah, blurb! Pronoun and verb. For poetry give us a barbaric yawp Slop, Stop! The stuff that some long haired Bohemian raves Would make Keats and Tennyson turn in their graves Miscalled free verse, And trash that is worse. Nothing too banal or trite or absurd, Such is the artistic triumph preferred, To melodies sung When old Homer was young. Out with the rhyming brook, limpid and pure, Open a sewer! Let the nymph Poesy cover her face, Downcast and blushing at such a disgrace. Garbage of words and cesspool of thought Columns and pages of rubbish and rot, Only a blot! This is not Poesy spawned in the mire, High on Olympus she still sounds her lyre With the immortals. Her rapt, vibrant fire Blasts like a flame All the abortions brought forth in her name. Smear, daub! Plaster on canvas an unsightly gob Yellow and scarlet and purple and pink, Looks like a mess that has spilled in the sink. But call it a sunset o’er Harlem, in truth Or a beautiful woman enamoured with youth. Just a name, any name that you think of will do, And if you insert a poor outline or two, Be sure that you violate all the known rules. The masters were fools! For painting is only a sleep walker’s trance. Walpurgis is with us so on with the dance! For the forms that great Phidias carved out of stone Misshapen monstrosities, muscle and bone Now simper and leer, At vapid admirers who openly jeer At beauty of tinting or outline or form And foment a storm, Of sickly approval at each newest fright That clutters our galleries, angers our sight. For art is a blight! O that some genius great hearted and sane Would banish such trash of a disordered brain! For beauty will ever be noble and fine And speaking through music or color or line Her voice is divine! WHEN THE LOCUSTS ARE IN BLOOM When the locusts are in bloom Every bud - a riven tomb Yields a spirit form, emerging pure as snow, Dancing lightly on the breeze Like the foam on fairy seas, Swinging like enchanted censers to and fro. And the moonbeams, white and chaste, Through the branches interlaced, How they seem to drip into each ivory cup, Where anon, the summer heats Mingle all those honeyed sweets That the bee, with nectar drunken, loves to sup. Wondrous pendants set with gems Clinging to the swaying stems How each chalice overflows into the stream Of the scented hours that glide Down a timeless, golden tide To the islands where the lotus eaters dream. So we idly float along On the bluebird’s lilting song To a region where the blossoms never die. For through all the cloying hours In the thralldom of the flowers Fancy roams in far off cloudlands of the sky. THE HARVEST OF THE SEA It is harvest time in the teeming sea And the surges labor tirelessly Like toil bent reapers with sickles of foam They garner the harvest and carry it home, Till the beaches throb to the rhythmic beat As they strew it in windrows at our feet. Slender strands like a whip lash, tear At the cowering sands - ’tis the Dead-Man’s Hair And the rockweed bulges with bulbous lumps All yellow and brown, with the jagged stumps Of kelp stalks wrenched by the undertow From sunken glens where the sea things grow. Eel grass rolled by the waves at play In fresh cut swaths like the new mown hay; Lettuce that glints with a fragile sheen: And Irish moss with its mottled green And cream and purple and pink and brown From the matted gulfs where sailors drown! Algae dyed like a fresh blown rose Red is their telltale hue that glows On the white sands edging the brooding sea. A network of delicate imagery Like the thin fine lines of an etching traced That the blundering surges have not erased. Harvest from tide tilled fields that bloom Deep down where the sunlight fades in gloom. Gardens of sinister mystery Under the waves of the heaving sea. Gardens the living may never know Where dead men drift in the ebb and flow! Jungles where fishes and creatures strange Through the lush profusion may freely range. Not for the living but for the dead Are those fields submerged that we may not tread, But their harvest is scattered within our reach By the wild waves mourning along the beach. BEACH GRASS Tremulous as elfin lances Are the thin shafts of the beach grass, Blades and tufted points that quiver Eerily to winds of midnight; Magic strings on lyres enchanted, Strings that strum a lilting cadence Played upon by fairy fingers. Beach grass blades that whirl and struggle In the clutch of boisterous breezes. Needle tips that mark strange circles In the cowering sands beneath them, Tracings of a fairy stylus, Runic etchings vague and ghostlike. Tenuous roots, like bamboo jointed Delving, burrowing neath the surface Of the rough hewn sand dunes moulded By great Nature’s groping fingers; (Waves and tempests are her fingers) With their living network binding Crumbling sands that melt and vanish - In a woven web of fibre. Threading with tenacious purpose Mantles lovely and protective, Till the battered landscape brightens Smiles through scars and cruel gashes Smiles in glossy, rippling beach grass Undulating in the breezes Like a field of ripened barley. Beach grass, desperate, clinging, gripping Braving wrath of winter tempests, Scourged by sands that sting like nettles, Blinding clouds that lash and smother, Wet with driven spume and frosted, With the salt and oft half buried, As the tortured dunes roll landward, Uncouth monsters, struggling, straining By the rage of Neptune driven Stumbling, sprawling, lurching onward. But the beach grass, fragile, yielding Like a seine whose mesh entangles, Binds their heaving bulks together - In a fibrous web of rootlets; Gripping fiercely for each foothold Yielding grudgingly and battling Till the storm winds howl in fury, And the baffled ocean smothers Futile wrath in foam and roaring, Till the lowly beach grass triumphs; Holds in magic chains the forces Of ungovernable chaos. Beach grass drawing life and nurture From the sterile sands, a living Energy from out the desert. Hardy warrior, silent tamer Of primeval urgings rampant, Barrier to the clamorous ocean, Staunch preserver of the landscape, Not content with curbing surges Or restraining restless sand dunes, How you bless that sterile desert With your wild and pensive beauty; Cover o’er its savage harshness With the mantle of your verdure Till your patient, steadfast purpose Glorifies the vanquished sea shore. THE SWAMP HERON “Quawk”, comes that harshly guttural note In the night stillness, hear it? “Quawk”. A hoarse “good hunting” from the throat Of a night heron, feathered gawk, Ungainly, droll, the awkward child And threadbare outcast of the wild. ’Tis not his custom to intrude Where others are, while on his way To his beloved solitude Nor has he overmuch to say; His only greeting is a squawk But filled with cheer, a friendly “Quawk”. Thanks, humble neighbor of the moors For such philosophy is rare; Though neither grace nor charm are yours You envy no one, nor compare Their lissome poise - your stilt like walk! Their lilting song - your throaty “Quawk”. He knows, illfavored bird of night The finest feathers in the dark Are little worth, nor pleasing flight Nor beauty’s form with none to mark; Contented but to nightly stalk His supper like a wise old quawk. THE THROES OF CREATION Crash and a smother of foam Drowned in a booming roar! That is the way the surge comes home Pounding along the shore. Hiss and a seething tongue Laps at the crumbling sand! That is the way the sea has wrung Room from the grudging land. Rasp of the undertow As its white tongue flays the beach, Flensing the pebbles to and fro Into its treacherous reach. Ever the sob and moan Of the tortured ledges rings Grinding to dust and welding to stone Ever the hammer swings. Never a solid ground Nor a fixed and steadfast place; Shoals new risen and islands drowned Sculpture the landscape’s face. Thus were the corners laid For the continents and the seas; That is the way the world was made Out of such conflicts as these. Up from the ocean’s bed; Into the ocean cast Surging through infinite ages ahead Out of an infinite past. [Illustration: The Methodist Meeting House at South Truro was known to many old timers as Hog’s Back Church. The following verses were written while it was still standing, though long deserted and neglected. But to those who knew and admired it, as I did, it deserves something more than the simple granite slab that marks its site. For it remains a lasting memory of a former era on old Cape Cod.] HOG’S BACK CHURCH Foursquare it stands! A stalwart witness year by year To courage steadfast but austere. The toilworn hands That shaped its beams and laid its floors Are folded now. The toilers lie In marble dotted rows nearby Though some found graves on distant shores And some were lost at sea! This fickle, carefree world might heed Those iron men of Pilgrim breed, Though rude their lives and stern their bent They built a during monument To strict integrity. Foursquare it stands! And gazes out o’er Pamet Bay Once whitened by the sails that lay Where now are choking sands. The weathered houses prim and square That marked the hillsides everywhere Have disappeared, But that old church in stately pride Still dominates the countryside; Is still revered. Foursquare it stands! The dust upon the pulpit lies Whence lurid texts and prophecies Were hurled like burning brands. No more the silent walls are stirred By thunders of Jehovah’s wrath That seekers for the “Narrow Path” Once, trembling, heard; They reverenced an awful Name And glimpsed the pit of quenchless flame In God’s own word. Foursquare it stands on hallowed ground And from its lonely windswept height A landmark like a beacon light Its spire is seen for leagues around. Though times may change, and changing creeds Are modified to modern needs Still staunch and true, Memorial of a former age It keeps the priceless heritage From olden time to new. The plaster from the ceiling falls On creaking floors, and in the dead Of night there sounds the ghostly tread Of phantom footsteps. But the walls Still battle with the winter gale That roars about the ancient spire, Nor all its torrents can avail To drown that spark of living fire - The spirit of that temple set On crowning heights, lest men forget! Foursquare it stands! The bell, long silent, seems to ring And to the world its message fling; “I yield alone to God’s commands. “Though all about may change, not I. “True to my settled destiny “I still remain. “Though constancy be but a wraith “Steadfastly I have kept the faith “And shall maintain “That faith, unfaltering, down the years “Through all the shoals of doubts and fears, “A lighthouse on that shoreless sea “That broadens to Eternity”. There, like the Sphinx the old church broods Among its deepening solitudes. In simple grandeur let it stand For years unborn, to bless the land, And when its timeworn tower has gone Still may its memory linger on. * * * * * _Struck by lightning in a thunder storm on the night of March 21, 1940 and totally destroyed._ BEYOND THE POINT A ridge of sand dunes barricades the rim Of the horizon like a gilded bar To roving sight; a lonely point, the brim Of earth against the moaning surge. Afar My glances wander, wistfull, ill at ease From longing to explore those far off seas. The murmuring tide creeps up before my feet And leaves a shell or two, a broken spray Of strange sea growth; then to some chill retreat In ocean’s depths it slowly ebbs away. How blithely thought can trail the screaming terns Beyond the boundaries that the eye discerns! On the horizon looms that point beside The pathless main, a prison door to me; For I would follow on that restless tide To lands remote beyond a shoreless sea; Through shimmering haze how like a magic wand That dune ridged finger beckons me beyond! The rolling hills enclose me and the sky Bends overhead, but these are different things; Somehow they do not seem to press so nigh As that wind fretted wall of sand that rings My little world about, and intervenes To shut my vision from enchanted scenes. And though in happier days I sailed those seas Around the globe upon the buoyant trades To Ceylon, Singapore and Celebes, Beheld their fanes and trod their tropic glades Those voyages leave me still unsatisfied In this lone cottage where I now abide. Beyond the point what vistas of romance Of golden kingdoms still their wealth unfold: Though fettered by the bonds of circumstance My failing vision and my limbs grown old Among the embers of my memories One lingering flame, adventure, never dies. THE WINDS OF TIME O the winds of time sweep the lonely years Like withered leaves down the path of night, And their notes, like a dirge, sound in our ears As our eyes are strained for a glimpse of light. And our sad heart utters a voiceless prayer - Whence do ye come - ye bitter winds, Where do ye go - O where? Through the swarming suns where the Zodiac’s blaze Fades out in the awful deeps of space, As you hurry us on your unknown ways, Shall our feet leave never a trace? Rushed from the light to the silent dark, Tell us, tell us, O mocking winds Is there a voice - O hark! And the wondrous things we planned to do In those far off days when our hearts were young. But the task was long and the hours were few And the songs we dreamed of are still unsung. Will our hopes fade out when the light is gone? Whisper, whisper, O pitiless winds, Is there another dawn? Where are the friends that we used to know? Like the fallen leaves gone one by one. And the scenes that we loved in the long ago Faint shadows still in the setting sun. They have gone - we go - for the wild winds rave - “The path that ye tread in silent dread Leads on to an open grave!” But those voices hushed, they linger yet Like the haunting chords of a lost refrain. And those scenes we can see with a sweet regret Though their outlines are blurred they still remain Shall they live - those things - in our groping brain, Like the ocean’s surge in an empty shell Nor live elsewhere again? TO AN AGED WILLOW Ancient willow, drooping low Gnarled old trunk and withered bough. Though they say you’re dying now I can never have it so. Massive limbs against the sky Wrestling with the winds of heaven, E’en the thunder crashing levin Like old Ajax you defy. Where your mournful branches bend Countless birds their nests have made Woodland songsters unafraid. You, old willow, were their friend. And you sheltered me as well, Often in the summer’s heat Idly musing at your feet I have felt your soothing spell. Rustling softly through the leaves Pendulous to every air, Peace and solace everywhere Dripped like raindrops from the eaves. And the white clouds floating by Bore me to the shores of dreams - Blissful yet the memory seems - Loved companion, must you die? No cathedral’s gloomy nave Or cold monument for me, Rather let me have a tree As a marker for my grave. And the Land of Yet-to-Be Where sun risen glories play, May it see you clothed some day In immortal greenery. [Illustration] THE OLD WOODS ROAD It blunders off through ways obscure The old woods road I used to tread, Until its columned walls immure The sunbeams dripping overhead. Through scented gloom it seems to wind O’er fallen branches mossy green, And leaving all the world behind Gropes blindly toward a world unseen. The ancient wheel ruts disappear With pine and scrub oak overgrown, No creaking wain for many a year Has trailed its coverts wild and lone. “I wonder where that old road goes?” I hear some blithe young voices say And I might tell them if I chose “Back to the land of yesterday.” THE POVERTY WEED O the poverty weed is so shabby and poor That she seems to disfigure the land, The russet clad waif of the desolate moor She buries her face in the sand. Her threadbare old mantle all faded and frayed What beauty can ever adorn? As she cowers in the background this shy desert maid So lowly, despised and forlorn. But over that moorland in splashes of gold Like sunbeams enriching the gloom, What visions of loveliness seem to unfold When the poverty weed is in bloom! Aglow are those hillsides once barren and lone And golden those patches of green, When this poor floral outcast comes into her own And the blossoms all bow to their queen. THE SWEEP OF THE TIDES Out of the fathomless ocean Shaking the earth with their strides, Chaos resurgent in motion, Battle the foam bearded tides. Titans stupendous, upheaving, Flouting the roaring Monsoon, Hoarse with the joy of achieving Freedom to reach for the moon. Titans whose dungeons are riven Sped on their turbulent path, Not by Poseidon driven Nor by grim Eolus’ wrath, Clamorous, never delaying, Scouring the outermost dune, Sullen but ever obeying That mocking enchantress - the moon. Fundy is choked with their foaming, Fiercely they snarl ’round the Horn, Glinting like steel in the gloaming, Patined with gold at morn; White with the ice of the Behring, Green with sargassum strewn Wolves of the deep, never nearing, But ever pursuing the moon. Round and around and forever Dizzily circling the globe; Torn by impassioned endeavor Clutching, to touch but her robe; Wraithlike that robe, but enduring, Trailing her silvery lune, Woven of moonbeams alluring, Tracing the path to the moon. Formless, uncouth, terrifying, Goading the indolent seas; Breathing out clouds with their sighing, Draining the deep of its lees, Mountainous troughing and cresting, Then calm as a coral lagoon, Limitless yearning and questing Madness bewitched by the moon. Monstrous caress of the ocean Fondling the obdurate land, Urged by abyssmal emotion Granite may hardly withstand, Beats of a world olden measure Savage but roughly in tune, Floodtime and ebb at the pleasure Of that horned enchantress - the moon. Alternate plunge and upheaval Strong as earth giants who strove Grandly in aeons primeval Braving omnipotent Jove; Forces terrific, whose rages Drown out the shrieking Typhoon Storming through infinite ages After a phantom - the moon! LOST BILLINGSGATE From Billingsgate the beacons’s flash No longer stabs the quivering dark, But fang like breakers foam and gnash Above its sand bars ribbed and stark. Where whispering grasses used to grow And nesting terns their shelter made, Now snarls the rasping undertow And breezes mutter - half afraid! For it has gone like Lyonnesse Of Arthur’s reign - enchanted realm Of dreamy eyed forgetfulness That saw the ocean overwhelm Her shores, till e’en the towers were drowned Where Merlin spun his evil spells, And fishers startle - when the sound Wells upward as from sunken bells! Yes, Billingsgate is lost to view Beneath the all engulfing sea, The lonely Isle the Pilgrims knew - But still it lives in memory. And sometimes in the dead of night We hear the shoal bemoan its fate Clothed in a shroud of breakers white - The ghost of vanished Billingsgate! TRANSFORMED A battered thing it seems That salt encrusted drift wood, but the skies Showed never rainbow with more gorgeous dyes Than gild that firelight’s beams. The cloud banks dull and grey Far in the west, are but a canvas spread For supernatural scenes in gold and red When ends the dying day. The icy Frost King lays His finger on the leaves and lo, the fires Of fairy land on autumn’s funeral pyres Seem everywhere ablaze. And so each inner trace Of life’s deep grief and cankered bitterness Is graven in those lines of kindliness Upon an aged face. HAUNTING ECHOES The music dies upon the strings But lingers on Like other sweetly treasured things Here once - and gone. The breeze that blurs the mirror pool Cannot erase The outline of the forest cool Upon its face. The haunting fragrance of the flowers Of yesterday Not all the intervening hours Can steal away. And loving friends we used to know Nor e’er forget Although they left us long ago Seem with us yet. LOST AT SEA Through bushes half obscured, a marble slab Peers out like a pale face. Inscribed upon Its weathered surface that the lichen growth And winter’s storms have blurred, a few brief words The curious eye may spell with labored care. To “H” and “M” - perhaps - and the terse phrase So haunting in its stark simplicity And pathos, - “Lost at sea.” The changeless gulfs Of ocean knew the dead man mentioned here Where bushes riot o’er an empty grave, But what old friend remembers him today? Ofttimes, no doubt, upon the wet sea sand He traced his name in childhood, while the waves Erased the halting script. Another hand Has etched that name in form more durable; But year by year, the ceaseless ebb and flow Of time’s remorseless tides obliterate The letters shrunken to initials faint, And that last solemn statement - “Lost at sea”. Much has been written on the vanity Of human life, but never penned more tense With meaning than this lonely epitaph Set in a thicket on a crumbling stone. THE ASPEN Lonely aspen rising high Straight and true you greet the eye. Bent by every passing breeze Weakest, slenderest of trees; Yet what grace, what stateliness Every leaf and twig express! Brittle limbs of little worth, How from out thy meager girth May we fashion wood for use? What may be the frail excuse For thy lovely shaft of green On the verge of my ravine? But the aspen, wise and shy Never deigned to make reply. Swayed to every wandering air Shed its beauty everywhere, Till its friendly dignity Made its message clear to me. God designed thee, aspen slim Who am I to question Him? In the mighty scheme of things You and I play minor strings Yet your part has been well done Mine is only half begun! [Illustration] THE SONG OF THE SEA GULLS Hark how the sea gulls are screaming with glee Piercing as Pipes of Pan! Keening their songs to the beach and the sea Sung since the world began; O’er breakers combing in jubilant strife, Flecked with their foaming and throbbing with life, Here they come homing - O shrill as a fife List to their wild elan! They are the spirits exultant and free, Up in the clouds they belong. Ever aspiring in skyland to be, Theirs is the verve of the strong. Here they go steering through canyons of air, Onward careering, and eager to dare, Scornful of fearing with never a care List to the lilt of their song! BROKEN FRAGMENTS Only a bit of broken glass Half concealed in the tangled grass, But the sunbeam found a pathway through On its arrow flight from the vault of blue And straight through the weed grown thicket came To touch that glass with its kindling flame. Only a sunbeam’s glinting gold On a splintered bit that we now behold Rich with crimson and purple sheen Autumn yellow and vernal green Until, transfigured, it glows arrayed In the rainbow aura the sunbeam made. Only an old man bent and gray Gazing into the far-away. Human wreckage forlorn and lone But his face with a sudden glory shone. Was it the sunbeam’s magic wand Or hidden splendors he glimpsed beyond? Only a bit of shattered glass, And a poor old man that we idly pass, But the shard like a diamond, glittered bright And the time worn face suffused with light, When the gates in the jasper walls swung wide And those broken fragments were glorified. WORKERS OF MAGIC Immured in the downy cocoon A marvelous artisan spins With threads like the beams of the moon So gossamer fine. Have the Djinns Who dream in the mulberry trees, O weaver beyond compare, Bewitched with the shimmer of orient seas Your fabric so lustrous and fair? Toiler imprisoned who weaves and weaves A silken glory from naught but leaves. To the mollusc, tormented, which holds The irritant sand in his shell, What radiant vision unfolds Invoked by the mermaiden’s spell? As he fashions that shape, and imbues It with colors he never has seen, With opalescent and rainbow hues, A pearl with the fairylike sheen Of the sea. O artist whom fate condemns To gild with beauty this queen of gems. In his desolate attic alone In the gloom of the midnight hour, The poet, despondent, unknown Is thrilled by that wizardly power That the silk worm and pearl oyster feel The urge to create! And his brain Like the anvil resounding to steel In a minstrelsy vibrant with pain, Sends sparkles blazing through singing lines As the verse with his burning thought combines. MY GOLDEN FLEECE When but a child my eyes would oft forsake The blurring page, and through the window seek Like an escaping bird, the wonderland Of dreams, till my instructor, grave, enquired “Wool gathering again?” So mid the halls Of classic learning out into the world Of bruise and bitterness but softening all As summer haze dissolves the jagged peaks And makes the deserts bloom - my fancy blithe, Drinking the waters of eternal youth, Has ventured many a lordly enterprise Wool gathering down the years. Now older grown Calm in the tranqil gloaming of my life I dwell apart, the while my mellow lamp With tapestry of shadow drapes the wall And e’en the crickets shrilling greets my ear Like pipes of Arcady. There friends long gone Cluster about with gladsomeness, and scenes From recollection gleaned or fancy limned Expand my chamber to horizons vast Till pensively I muse “Wool gathering still?” Bless all kind fairies of fond Memory’s brood, Or those which grace Imaginations court, For treasures such as these. Jason of old, Who led his argonauts through seas of blood Seeking the golden fleece, has set the course For dreamers through all ages yet to come. O Hero legended, thine be the goal My yearning eyes would glimpse. What cloudland slopes Feed those immortal sheep whose fleeces bright Are woven into dreams are ever hid Beyond my ken. But the great quest is mine To glorify the drabness of the years Life’s sterile day by day. One need not gain The fabled hoard that marks the rainbow’s end To feel, beholding that resplendent arch A link with faery land. Wool gathering - yes But rather say the guerdon wisdom brings, The magic touch that gilds the commonplace With beauty and delight, the lustrous threads In life’s rough fabric drawn from fleece of gold. THE LONE LILAC Only a cellar broken Down to a dimpled mound, Of the olden time a token In the brier entangled ground. And a lonely lilac vagrant As a sunbeam lost in gloom, Close by like a garland fragrant At the door of a crumbling tomb. Full many a tree appearing Has ploughed through the sodden loam Where once was a fertile clearing Protecting a friendly home. And sweet as the perfume welling From the lilac over the way, Was life in that quaint old dwelling In that long forgotten day. Under the eaves, enfolded It mothered its little brood; But the sills long since have molded To dust in that solitude. Now through the locusts treading (A grove from a single one) Like the virile banyan spreading Neath the burning Indian sun. We can vision those fields in culture; And the beds once bright with flowers, Where a crow now sits like a vulture, And broods through the sunlit hours. While stark through the verdure risen Like the tides in the distant bay, Through a cleft in its leafy prison Peers the lilac over the way. Anon as the breezes bluster, Then die and are strangely mute, The echoing memories cluster Like strains from a far off lute. We can almost hear the fingers Strumming an elfin lay - For the soul of that home still lingers In the lilac over the way. FRIENDLY LIGHTS Welcome greetings through the dark From the lamp light burning clear In some lonely home, a spark Radiating warmth and cheer. Lighthouse darting from the lea Flaming lances o’er the foam, Wandering mariners at sea You are guiding safely home. Glow worm on a summer night Torch within an elfin hand, Marking by your zig zag flight Ways obscure to fairy land. Starry twinkle in the blue To illumine worlds on high Far off orb we share with you Friendliness of earth and sky. TO MY CHERRY BLOSSOM From old Japan beyond the sea A fairy vision beckons me, A vale where cool the shadows rest From Fujiyama’s towering crest, A ruined temple’s crumbling wall Lulled by a drowsy waterfall, A shrine in whose corroding bell Faint murmurs, long forgotten, dwell, And Buddha, brooding day by day Dreams the slow centuries away In old Japan. There might the careworn find release In calm Nirvana’s perfect peace. There might the traveler inhale The haunting sweetness of that vale, An incense from the flowery gloom Where clustering cherry blossoms bloom In petaled purity that glows Like Fujiyama’s drifting snows; The fragrance of a far off clime From some remote, forgotten time In old Japan. There might I roam in fancy free That Orient vale beyond the sea, By Nippon’s shores an Eden seek Neath Fujiyama’s storied peak. But here, - where happier far, I’d be A CHERRY BLOSSOM blooms for me. I glimpse within her starry eyes A nearer view of Paradise, My Shrine and Eden is our home, Nor need my wandering fancy roam To old Japan. GRAINS OF SAND Fine gleanings of the ledges, golden grains That ponderous glaciers reaped long, long ago From battlemented crags and furrowed plains Grinding and crushing with resistless flow, To mingle with the melting seas, and heap Their flinty harvestings in windrows; strew The granite kernels for the thunderous deep To winnow endlessly and grind anew. Where are those lordly peaks that once defied The fury of the gales, nor deigned to bow To heaven’s own lightning? How the scornful tide Washes about and putters with them now; Yes, even my weak fingers have the power To fashion as I will or idly thrust Into a glass to mark the fleeting hour, These grains of sand - some crumbled mountain’s dust THE FUNERAL WREATH There is a cottage trim and neat, Who dwelt within I cannot say, It seemed so homey a retreat, My steps have often led that way. But now a wreath is hung before Its silent door. A funeral wreath of sombre tone Where Death has shed a ray of gloom; And someone mourns for someone gone Within a vacant darkened room. So eloquent of human grief Is every leaf! Such is the laurel crown that waits Our journey’s end through toil and tears; The emblem grim that decorates Your door and mine, e’er many years So that some idle passer by May wonder why! MEMORY She crouches in the caves of thought Enchantress, brooding o’er the fire, And those her mystic charms have sought Shall sometime gain their heart’s desire. With mumblings and averted gaze She weaves her spells, while to and fro Like shadows from the mounting blaze, Upon the walls there come and go The scenes of far off happier days Faint visions of the long ago. The eastern tyrant steals in dead of night Down rock hewn stairs and through an iron door; And feasts his eyes by flaring torch’s light Upon the wealth heaped on his treasury floor; On bursting sacks of coin, caskets of gems Scepters of ruby, diamond diadems, A kingdom’s plunder. We, like him, have stored Our hidden wealth, and memory keeps the key, No jewels lustreless, are in our hoard But trophies of a richer dynasty, The sweet experiences that time endears Sifted and winnowed gleanings of the years. With halting steps and labored breath we climb The attic stairs and rummage sadly through The toys and trifling things our childhood knew, Until our brooding thoughts are lost to time, And like the dust motes dancing in the beams Come thronging memories through a mist of dreams. Forth from an aged tome there falls a flower Faded and crumbling, yet its petals glow, Once more in the sweet memory of that hour When loving fingers gave it long ago. As through the spectral city of the dead With downcast eyes and reverential tread We note the broken columns and the urns In marble draped, and e’er our gaze returns To our own name graved on the granite bare The death date blank - yet it will soon be there! Then Memory leads us with a sad, sweet smile Among those grass grown mounds. On many a stone Are names of those we loved - A little while And we shall be with them among our own. We seem to hear their welcoming voices ring; A whisper comes - “O death where is thy sting?” Alone we came into this world - alone We venture forth. And recollections fond Are all that we may bear to the beyond To lay, some day, before a great white throne! Our life has been a path forlorn that winds Forever on through gnarled and twisted years Of forest gloom. A path that memory finds And helps us trace it backward through our tears. Upon a beechen trunk, deep in the bark Two carven hearts by single arrow cleft: How many years since youth, with ardent hand Inscribed them there. Two hearts and one bereft! In the long autumn afternoons we go By russet moors and watch the slanting rays Bathe all the landscape with a golden haze That melts its harsher outlines. Thus the flow Of years has smoothed away each grief and pain Of childhood and life’s later bitterness, While Memory, with a witching tenderness, Has glorified the things that still remain. In pensive revery our fancy turns Out to the west where the red sunset burns, Fain would we ponder when our sun may set And yield to the sad sweetness of regret, But Memory thrills with wild ecstasies Before that miracle of blazing skies. In awe we gaze as lengthening shadows loom And night peers forth. But Memory hovers near We clutch her fingers in the deepening gloom And trembling hang upon her words of cheer, Till with a hopeful glance she points afar Where, like a gem on velvet, gleams a star! We stand aghast beneath the vaulted dome Aglitter with creation’s rhapsodies The countless stars. And let our fancy roam Through space unfathomed, past the Pleiades Out to the deeps beyond. Until the veil That shuts us from the past seems strangely stirred And recollections vague - beyond the pale - Flit through our brain, half thoughts confused and blurred. A former life upon some sunnier sphere! Things long forgot and dimly sensed again Far off, for one rapt moment hover near. We strive to clutch them, but we strive in vain. Does Memory mock us, or in fear perchance Shield us from some grim Terror’s Gorgon glance That glares unseen, from out the dark! Farflung A wisp of cloud darts like a dragon’s tongue And laps Orion’s belt. At glowing dawn The constellations fade - the veil is drawn! The blood stained trail of history winds away Through ruined cities and past crumbling walls Half buried, where the tottering columns sway To winds that blunder through the vacant halls. Beyond lie relics of remoter time Dolmens and cromlechs, monoliths of stone Inscriptions weird and uncouth monsters carved On cavern walls, and bits of splintered bone Traced when the hairy mammoth ranged among Wild fens and woodlands when the world was young. For all the runes inscribed on History’s page As Time’s slow finger etched them age by age For our dim eyes to see, Are but the priceless, deathless heritage Of Memory. The traveler venturing into deserts grim That shimmer on the hot horizon’s rim, Does battle with the demons of the heat While sands like burning fingers, claw his feet But other wayfarers have braved the wrath Of scorching wastes - their bones still mark the path! Our counsellor and guide, calm Memory holds The golden balances whose scale unfolds The wisdom of the tried - experience true. The balance trembles, what ought we to do? It dips, it falls, the standard points the way Today’s decisions rest on yesterday. Upon the shores of Time’s vast sea we stand And peer into the gathering mists that rise Dark and portentious before our eyes, While through our fingers slip the grains of sand. We know the waves advancing, will not stay But wash our stumbling footprints all away. Into that sea have sailed the winged hours Like argosies by youthful fancy sent On joyous quest to some far Orient Created in our dreams, pagoda’d towers To bold adventure beckoning gaily on, While tropic skies lent their romantic lure. But those exotic hours, alas, have gone And broken memories alone endure. O time may rob us of our dearest friends. But not our memories! The present blends Into the vanished vistas of the past. Riches have taken wings but at the last A pittance left us. Old, we yet may drink From youth’s eternal fount. A golden link Still binds us with the loved we see no more. The lamp lit circle on our chamber floor Our little kingdom bounds. Within its space Our eyes, through Memory’s magic, see a face That shed, long years ago, a reliance there, A form adorned that graced a vacant chair. How rich and full was life, how barren now! Forsaken in our poverty we bow To Fate’s decree. But in despairing mood Kind Memory, pitying, shares our solitude. Are memories but the vain desire For happier hours that once were mine? The embers of a dying fire. The dwindled lees of life’s rich wine? Or echoes from a seraph’s lyre But lightly touched by hands divine? THE STOKER _While a student at college, I voyaged to Naples in the steerage of an Italian liner. That was long before the days of the modern oil burner and the engine room was a fair reproduction of Dante’s Inferno. One afternoon a young stoker, begrimed and perspiring, crept up the iron ladder from the stoke hold and sat for a few minutes gazing out of an open port. His wistful face remains a vivid memory and occasioned the following lines._ Framed in the iron port there looms a face That Rembrandt’s stilus or the sombre muse Of Dante might have etched. Pale cheeks and eyes That gaze unseeing, out - a forehead damp With sweat and smeared with grime - a haunting face Through which there peers in wistful apathy A parched and withered soul. Some stoker crept, Gasping for air up from that hell below, Of lurid fires and gloom, where engines groan Like blinded Titans, and with giant strength Shoulder the huge hulk forward through the brine. What thoughts beguile the furrows of that brow Does he perchance, recall the sunlit days Of childhood in some cottage gay with flowers Where Italy, enthroned among her rocks Broods o’er her vanished grandeur? Does the spell Of romance conjure up the golden past When his proud forbears bore the pomp of Rome To seas remote, when Roman legions ruled The servile world? Did he in flaunting crest, And burnished armour tread the galley deck? Or did a scourging destiny condemn His pain wracked shoulders to the oaken oar? To his dulled ears float strains of music sweet From gilded cabins where the zest of life Enthralls the voyagers, while his the hand That drives the moving palace on her course Through seas of shimmering light. A gnome begrimed, Breathing foul dust and blistered by the heat In caverns far below. A galley slave Heaving and straining at a deadlier oar - An iron bar that burns the calloused palm. Whene’er the furnace gapes its dragon jaws And blasts him with its breath, with reckless hand He flings his youth into that Moloch’s maw! And his reward? O bargain infamous A mess of pottage for a birth right riven Like Esau’s ancient sin. Repulsive fare A stinking hole to kennel like a cur Battling with vermin, foul and desperate Too bitter punishment for branded crime. Chained by the manacles of circumstance To Vulcan’s smoking forge, a fate more dire Than once befell Prometheus wracked upon His cross of crags on grizzled Caucausus; With every shovel speed the winged hours His hopes, his dreams, his life but sordid lumps Of coal to feed those flames insatiate. Then Death, the pitiful, brings welcome rest. His body, warped and shrivelled, slides adown The tilted hatchway, weighted at the feet A burned out clinker cast into the sea! IMAGINATION Blest Being from some happier sphere O bend thy luminous footsteps near Were Heaven’s gates ajar, When down a moonlit path you came With dazzling smile and wings of flame Fair as the morning star? Imagination, radiant sprite With crescent crown and stars bedight, And seraph’s eyes; O guide us up that filmy stair By ladders raised on buoyant air To vaulting skies! Imagination is the singing rhyme In life’s dull prose. She blooms among the cruel thorns of time A beauteous rose. No Circe’s spell is hers, the poppy’s lure From present pain In drug engendered dreams; but calm and pure Is her sweet reign. Her finger traces in the storm cloud gray The rainbow’s arc; She sees within the gnarled volcanic clay The diamond’s spark; Forecasts the harvests in the sodded rows The plough shares fling; When all the world is buried neath the snows She dreams of spring. The cave man followed up the savage road The torch she bore, She marks within life’s rock encumbered lode The glinting ore. Imagination melts in purple mist The jagged peaks; And petty things yield to this alchemist The gold she seeks. No priestess of illusions, vague, unreal And not of earth, She rather helps us know and see and feel A thing’s true worth. Along the wistful trail of yesterdays Backward sad Memory directs her gaze And points her withered hand. “Tomorrow” is the magic word that cheers Imagination onward through the years Where lies her promised land. Imagination only can explain Those jewelled etchings on our window pane By fairies of the frost; From icy peaks and breaker fretted seas To elven glens beneath snow laden trees So cunningly embossed. Calm reason tells us there is nothing there But mists congealing in the frosted air; ’Tis false, calm reason lies. For in that witching square the eye beholds A glittering world of wonder that unfolds Its luminious mysteries. Imagination plumbs the deeps of space To roam among the stars, She gilds the workshop, lights the market place, And sunders prison bars. Her inspiration made Da Vinci thrill And o’er his canvas shone, And Michelangelo’s god like visions still Endure in living stone. Beyond the sunset’s molten lava flood Lie mysteries yet untold - Imagination sails those seas of blood And mounts those walls of gold. Her finger laid on blind old Milton’s eyes Kindled no earthly glow - And deaf Beethoven thrilled to melodies No mortal ear may know. Imagination decks the naked tree With candles burning clear, Until transfigured by her witchery It blooms with Christmas cheer. Life’s pathway leads us to the yawning tomb And there it seems to end - Imagination peering through the gloom Sees visions that transcend. Imagination marked the goal That fired Columbus’ burning soul, Till like a vision through the haze A new world burst upon his gaze That voyage of destiny. And ancient chroniclers relate Magellan, groping through the strait, Beyond the blue horizon’s rim Saw far off islands beckon him Out to an unknown sea! “Imagination rules the world” so said The great Napoleon, and at the head Of conquering armies drove his ruthless way Made Afric sands and Russian snows obey His iron decrees. Upon an Alpine height Poised like an eagle, terrible as night, He swooped on Italy. His boundless reign Was the creation of his lonely brain. On upstart thrones he set his underlings. Like puppets played with kingdoms and with kings - His fingers marked their bounds, his will their power Earth’s dictator, in that tremendous hour He dreamed like Lucifer, as grandly wove His dreams into realty, then strove For Godlike heights, and from those heights was hurled And in his meteor fall amazed the world! The naked truth itself is never true. Stern facts are but the skeleton that binds Our living fancies. If we seek to view Truth absolute, her grisly horror blinds Our eyes, for her’s is but the mocking skull, Stark, hideous, the poor grain’s withered hull After the kernel dies. The glance, the smile, Expression, character, the soul beguile When, taking form o’er Truth’s repellent base Imagination beams with radiant face. Imagination is the martial strain That fires disheartened soldiers for the fray; Her pitying fingers smooth the brow of pain, She whispers low, - “This too, shall pass away.” Her’s is the vision, the all seeing eye That pierces where truth’s nuggets lie concealed. Illusions crumble at her query, “Why?” The Sphinx’s ancient wisdom is revealed To her clear sight. She holds the golden key That can unlock the guarded door of fate. She is the lodestar of our destiny, Her’s is the Godlike impulse to create. The treasure that Prometheus once stole From Heaven’s high altar is her sacred fire; To the insensate clod she is the soul, The Phoenix risen from the funeral pyre! The atoms spin, the elements adhere Till matter forms like mold: and vaunted life A fungus growth upon a dying sphere Whirls on into the dark. “The futile strife “Of some vast mechanism’s grinding gears.” - Grim science tells us - but the vision comes Of life immortal ranging down the years Through endless vistas of milleniums! IN WELLFLEET BY THE SEA “Why do you dwell in Wellfleet by the sea?” Inquires some wondering friend, “Is this quaint village in the dunes the end To life’s bright trail, the world that you have known Shut out behind you? From a weed draped stone “A barnacle might thus survey the sky, “As the grand pageant of mankind sweeps by.” To this I answer, “Not this quiet place But vaster regions are his home as well Who humbly seeks where the immortals dwell, Those kingly souls of every clime and race. The seven branching candlestick ablaze With wisdom’s radiant light Brightens his studious library at night And sheds its all illuminating rays Across the lengthening years, Till loving presences sages and seers, Are his true friends. Must he alone abide With Socrates or Shakespeare as his guide? Art’s priceless treasures stored in Greece or Rome The mighty masters limned By the slow lapse of centuries undimmed. Fade into nothingness beneath the dome Whereon a mightier Artist graves His lines And blocks His bold designs; For He can etch with lightnings, and His dyes Are wrung from clouds that drip with red and gold, While silent watchers, awestruck, may behold His wonders blazoned on the midnight skies. One need not dwell alone beside the sea, There are no bars To sunder Him who walked on Galilee Or blur the vision of the loftiest stars No solitary being, set apart, Is he who feels the soul sustaining calm Steal o’er his spirit like a healing balm From Mother Nature’s all embracing heart. His dreams are lulled by the resounding sea, The rhythm of the waves that never tire, While sweeter than the strains of Orpheus’ lyre The dying wind’s melodious minstrelsy, Ranging this narrow bourne of surf and sand, Seems echoing from the horns of fairyland. And when he strolls in solitude, the breeze That breathes upon his face, Was never curbed by this confining space, For once it roamed the lonely Hebrides. The murmuring tide That swells the shallows of this pleasant bay, Washed coral islands half a world away And coursed through boundless oceans far and wide. Rather he looks with sympathetic eye As with their faces tense and shut from heaven By scorpion whips of fear and envy driven The jostling multitudes of men rush by; Spurning the bounties kindly Nature gave As though in haste for an untimely grave. No shadows cast by avarice or pride Darken this countryside; That tyrant trinity, fame, wealth, and power Have somehow lost their spell. Each passing hour Bears costlier freight than theirs, the gifts divine - Health, gratitude, content. Those gifts are mine So why should reckless wastrels pity me With all my wealth, in Wellfleet by the sea? PRINTED BY THE CAPE CODDER PRINTERY ORLEANS, MASSACHUSETTS Transcriber’s Notes Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected. Unusual punctuation has been retained as printed. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON OLD CAPE COD *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. START: FULL LICENSE THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license. Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works 1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. 1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. 1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others. 1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States. 1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: 1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed: This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. 1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. 1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. 1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License. 1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. 1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that: • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works. • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work. • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. 1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. 1.F. 1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. 1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE. 1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem. 1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. 1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. 1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause. Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life. Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS. The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate. While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate. International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate. Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org. This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.