Wampum and Old Gold HERVEY ALLEN NEW HAVEN * YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON * HUMPHREY MILFORD * OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS MDCCCCXXI COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS ACKNOWLEDGMENT For permission to reprint poems appearing in this volume, thanks are due to the editors of _The North American Review_, _The New Republic_, _Contemporary Verse_, _Life_, _La France_, _Harvey's Weekly_, _The Southern Review_, _The New York Times_, _The Boston Evening Transcript_. TO FRANCIS FOWLER HOGAN SOLDIER POET CORPORAL FOURTH UNITED STATES INFANTRY KILLED IN ACTION IN THE ARGONNE FOREST OCTOBER SEVENTEENTH 1918 "Though my hands have not learned to model The dreams of a groping mind, Though my lips have not spoken their music And are leaving no songs behind, Think not that my life has been futile, Nor grieve for an unsaid word, For all that my lips might never sing My singing heart has heard. "I have etched the light on a willow With neither a plate nor style; I have made a song of the crescent moon And a poem of only a smile; Are they less because lips could not know them, These songs that my heart has known? Am I wholly mute who have sung with my heart And sung with my heart alone?" F. F. H. CONTENTS. POEMS WRITTEN SINCE 1918: Confession Despair Vale Aftermath Hylas Bacchus Is Gone Tiger Lilies Three Landscape Moods: Youth High Tide o' Life Old Age The Hermitage of Bells The Seasons: Spring's Pilgrimage Summer Autumn Portents Autumn Invocation Dream Fragment When Shady Avenue Was Shady Lane Triangles vs. Circles The Old Judge Bewitched The Wingless Victory POEMS WRITTEN IN FRANCE AT THE FRONT: The Blindman Hands Off Soldier-Poet Doomed White Light Beaumont Villiers Le Bel Gonnesse Dragon's Breath We POEMS WRITTEN SINCE 1918 CONFESSION. I think, by God! It is no lie; I shall go dreaming till I die! There is no love so real to me As the cold passion of the sea. There is no little, wind-swept town By harbors where the roads go down, Or headland gray that sits and sips The cup of ocean at its lips, And gazes at the far-off ships-- Or tree or house or friend so real As visions and the dreams I feel. No--not the windy, vaultless arch Where all the white stars flame and march, Nor water at the river fords Like horses mad among the swords, Or oaks that lean from winter storms; These only give my vision forms. Away! White hands, I will not take! And kissing mouths that cry, "Awake!" For you I have no gramercy; So leave me by my lotus tree, To dream and gaze into the sky Where red suns wither up and die, I know! I know! I do not lie! I shall go dreaming till I die! DESPAIR.