What if the sea foam mountainously high With waves that had in Hell their fiery birth? What if black peril hover in the sky, And bursting shell wound deep the trembling earth? All evil things must harmlessly pass by Her who doth bear the Talisman of Mirth. * * * * * BIRTHDAY POEM, 1915 TO MY MOTHER SINGING Out of the golden valleys of old years, You have recalled so many a lovely thing. Forgotten splendours glimmer when you sing, With their long vanished light of mirth and tears. Gay lovers flout their love’s delicious fears. The proud swords clash for Charles, the rightful King, A woman weeps, and turns her “Silver Ring.” The “Men of Harlech” charge with level spears. Yet, I crowned with my crown of vanity, Have been more happy when you sang and played The songs wherein your art had succoured me. As starry note on starry note was laid, Then my chained rhymes, by your designs set free, Flew Heavenward on the radiant wings you made. * * * * * TO MY MOTHER, OCTOBER, 1915 There fell a flood of devastating flame On half the world, and all its joy was dead. The sky was black, the troubled sea was red, And from all mouths a lamentation came. But you, in calm and hurricane the same, Went with gay lips, brave heart and unbowed head. What was the charm, from which all danger fled? What did you say, what cabalistic name? It was my love that sent its quickening breath On all the waves that bore your ship along. My love held out, against the flying death, That clove the sea, a shield than steel more strong, Bringing you back, where no war harrieth, Stars in your eyes, and in your heart a song. * * * * * AUGUST FOURTH, NINETEEN SIXTEEN The Berkshire Hills are gay With a gladder tint to-day, And Mount Graylock rears his mighty head in pride. For the lady that they knew Long ago, to them is true, And has come within their shadow to reside. And across the troubled sea, Yorkshire hill and Cambridge lea, Send their love to you by every wind that blows. And a greater love than these Hurries Northward on the breeze From the little hills they call the Ramapos. * * * * * VALENTINE FOR MY MOTHER, 1917 If some day, as you idly turn the pages, Whereon my verses are, You find a flower where angry winter rages, On the black earth a star; If in dead words you come on something living, Some fair and vibrant line-- It is the message that my heart is giving, It is your Valentine.