Produced by Charlene Taylor, Susan Carr and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
COPYRIGHT, 1914 SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY
WHO BEST LOVED MY MUSE AND WHOSE LOVE WAS THE MINT THAT EVER MADE IT AN INSPIRATION AND JOY
I mused upon the strangeness of all things, So different from the dream Whereof the morning mounted up on wings Above the world agleam With light that trembled into life and love As when a censer swings And joy of promise sings-- “The dream whereof The gleam above The world is love!”
Oh, bitterness to muse and neither find The beauty of the Muse Nor yet the music which the soul divined Ere set the rosy hues In sombre lines that disenchant and fret The heart with growing grief Which struggles for relief-- “O Muse, but let My spirit yet The rue forget!”
As if to answer me a little child, To whom the sunshine’s glint Was gloom forever, on the corner smiled And vended sprigs of mint, As though there were in blindness still a bloom And fragrance which could reach The passer-by and teach-- “In glint or gloom There’s mint in bloom To earth perfume!”
The murky night hung dank and dark The Summer shower after; A distant dog’s staccato bark Disturbed the strollers’ laughter; The mournful whip-poor-will’s lament, The frogs’ and crickets’ chorus A weird, sepulchral feeling lent To meadow-lot and morass.
A thousand insect-lanterns flashed Their phosphorescent signals Of living sparks that dot-and-dashed Out swift electric riddles; For scarcely was the eye upon A single tiny glowlight When wink, it flitted and was gone Like prankish imp on show-night!
And while one guessed its next surprise Afar from where it dwindled A myriad others to the eyes All intercrossed and kindled Until the ghostly gloom became Illumined with manœuvres As though of fairies fanning flame Within a park of lovers.
And thus does fancy people night With fugitive creations Of phantom-folk whose fitful light Yet feeds our inspirations And teaches us there is no dark But fellowships the presence Of every soul that sheds its spark Of humble incandescence.
Everywhere I ramble In the ides of May, Through the boughs and bramble The wood-nymphs play. Where the sunshine dapples Shadows all a-creep Beneath the budding apples, Dances Bo-Peep.