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Read Ebook: A Day with a Tramp and Other Days by Wyckoff Walter A Walter Augustus
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Ebook has 64 lines and 3522 words, and 2 pages
PAGE
GLOUCESTER MOORS 1
GOOD FRIDAY NIGHT 5
ROAD-HYMN FOR THE START 9
AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION 12
THE QUARRY 22
ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES 24
UNTIL THE TROUBLING OF THE WATERS 26
JETSAM 39
THE BRUTE 49
THE MENAGERIE 55
THE GOLDEN JOURNEY 62
HEART'S WILD-FLOWER 65
HARMONICS 67
ON THE RIVER 68
THE BRACELET OF GRASS 70
THE DEPARTURE 72
FADED PICTURES 74
A GREY DAY 75
THE RIDE BACK 76
SONG-FLOWER AND POPPY 80
HOW THE MEAD-SLAVE WAS SET FREE 86
A DIALOGUE IN PURGATORY 89
THE DAGUERREOTYPE 98
POEMS
GLOUCESTER MOORS
A mile behind is Gloucester town Where the fishing fleets put in, A mile ahead the land dips down And the woods and farms begin. Here, where the moors stretch free In the high blue afternoon, Are the marching sun and talking sea, And the racing winds that wheel and flee On the flying heels of June.
Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, Blue is the quaker-maid, The wild geranium holds its dew Long in the boulder's shade. Wax-red hangs the cup From the huckleberry boughs, In barberry bells the grey moths sup, Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up Sweet bowls for their carouse.
This earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship.
These summer clouds she sets for sail, The sun is her masthead light, She tows the moon like a pinnace frail Where her phosphor wake churns bright. Now hid, now looming clear, On the face of the dangerous blue The star fleets tack and wheel and veer, But on, but on does the old earth steer As if her port she knew.
God, dear God! Does she know her port, Though she goes so far about? Or blind astray, does she make her sport To brazen and chance it out? I watched when her captains passed: She were better captainless. Men in the cabin, before the mast, But some were reckless and some aghast, And some sat gorged at mess.
Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue, Blue is the quaker-maid, The alder-clump where the brook comes through Breeds cresses in its shade. To be out of the moiling street With its swelter and its sin! Who has given to me this sweet, And given my brother dust to eat? And when will his wage come in?
Scattering wide or blown in ranks, Yellow and white and brown, Boats and boats from the fishing banks Come home to Gloucester town. There is cash to purse and spend, There are wives to be embraced, Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend, And hearts to take and keep to the end,-- O little sails, make haste!
But thou, vast outbound ship of souls, What harbor town for thee? What shapes, when thy arriving tolls, Shall crowd the banks to see? Shall all the happy shipmates then Stand singing brotherly? Or shall a haggard ruthless few Warp her over and bring her to, While the many broken souls of men Fester down in the slaver's pen, And nothing to say or do?
GOOD FRIDAY NIGHT
At last the bird that sang so long In twilight circles, hushed his song: Above the ancient square The stars came here and there.
Good Friday night! Some hearts were bowed, But some amid the waiting crowd Because of too much youth Felt not that mystic ruth;
And of these hearts my heart was one: Nor when beneath the arch of stone With dirge and candle flame The cross of passion came,
Did my glad spirit feel reproof, Though on the awful tree aloof, Unspiritual, dead, Drooped the ensanguined Head.
To one who stood where myrtles made A little space of deeper shade ,
I said, "These youths who bear along The symbols of their Saviour's wrong, The spear, the garment torn, The flaggel, and the thorn,--
"Why do they make this mummery? Would not a brave man gladly die For a much smaller thing Than to be Christ and king?"
He answered nothing, and I turned. Throned in its hundred candles burned The jeweled eidolon Of her who bore the Son.
The crowd was prostrate; still, I felt No shame until the stranger knelt; Then not to kneel, almost Seemed like a vulgar boast.
I knelt. The doll-face, waxen white, Flowered out a living dimness; bright Dawned the dear mortal grace Of my own mother's face.
When we were risen up, the street Was vacant; all the air hung sweet With lemon-flowers; and soon The sky would hold the moon.
More silently than new-found friends To whom much silence makes amends For the much babble vain While yet their lives were twain,
We walked along the odorous hill. The light was little yet; his will I could not see to trace Upon his form or face.
So when aloft the gold moon broke, I cried, heart-stung. As one who woke He turned unto my cries The anguish of his eyes.
"Friend! Master!" I cried falteringly, "Thou seest the thing they make of thee. Oh, by the light divine My mother shares with thine,
"I beg that I may lay my head Upon thy shoulder and be fed With thoughts of brotherhood!" So through the odorous wood,
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