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  Paul to Virginia

Fin de siècle [Fr. - end of an era / beginning of a new one]

I REALLY must confess, my dear,

   I cannot help but love you,

For of all girls I ever knew,

   There's none I place above you;

But then you know it's rather hard,

   To dangle aimless at your skirt,

And watch your every movement so,

   For I am jealous, and you're a flirt.



There's half a score of fellows round,

   You smile at every one,

And as I think to pride myself for basking in the sun

Of your sweet smiles, you laugh at me,

   And treat me like a lump of dirt,

Until I wish that I were dead,

   For I am jealous, and you're a flirt.



I'm sorry that I've ever known

   Your loveliness entrancing,

Or ever saw your laughing eyes,

   With girlish mischief dancing;

'Tis agony supreme and rare

To see your slender waist a-girt

With other fellows' arms, you see,

   For I am jealous, and you're a flirt.



Now, girlie, if you'll promise me,

   To never, never treat me mean,

I'll show you in a little while,

   The best sweetheart you've ever seen;

You do not seem to know or care,

   How often you've my feelings hurt,

While flying round with other boys,

   For I am jealous, and you're a flirt.

Alice Ruth Moore (Alice Dunbar)

  In Memoriam

THE light streams through the windows arched high,

   And o'er the stern, stone carvings breaks

   In warm rich gold and crimson waves,

Then steals away in corners dark to die.



And all the grand cathedral silence falls

   Into the hearts of those that worship low,

   Like tender waves of hushed nothingness,

Confined nor kept by human earthly walls.



Deep music in its thundering organ sounds,

   Grows diffuse through the echoing space,

   Till hearts grow still in sadness' mighty joy,

Or leap aloft in swift ecstatic bounds.



Mayhap 'twas but a dream that came to me,

   Or but a vision of the soul's desire,

   To see the nation in one mighty whole,

Do homage on its bended, worshipping knee.



Through time's heroic actions, the soul of man,

   Alone proves what that soul without earth's dross

   Could be, and this, through time's far-searching fire,

Hath proved thine white beneath the deepest scan.



A woman's tribute, 'tis a tiny dot,

   A merest flower from a frail, small hand,

   To lay among the many petaled wreaths

About thy form,--a tribute soon forgot.



But if in all the incense to arise

   In fragrance to the blue empyrean

   The blended sweetness of the womens' love

Goes pouring too, in all their heartfelt sighs.



And if one woman's sorrow be among them too,

   One woman's joy for labor past

   Be reckoned in the mighty teeming whole,

It is enough, there is not more to do.



Within the hearts of heroes small and great

   There 'bides a tenderness for weakling things

   Within thy heart, the sorrowing country knows

These passions, bravest and the tenderest mate.



When man is dust, before the gazing eyes

   Of all the gaping throng, his life lies wide

   For all to see and whisper low about

Or let their thoughts in discord's clatter rise.



But thine was pure and undefiled,

   A record of long brilliant, teeming days,

   Each thought did tend to further things,

But pure as the proverbial child.



Oh, people, that thy grief might find express

   To gather in some vast cathedral's hall,

   That then in unity we might kneel and hear

Sublimity in sounds, voice our distress.



Peace, peace, the men of God cry, ye be bold,

   The world hath known, 'tis Heaven who claims him now,

   And in our railings we but cast aside

The noble traits he bid us hold.



So though divided through the land, in dreams

   We see a people kneeling low,

   Bowed down in heart and soul to see

This fearful sorrow, crushing as it seems.



And all the grand cathedral silence falls

   Into the hearts of these that worship low,

   Like tender waves of hushed nothingness,

Confined, nor kept by human earthly walls.

Alice Ruth Moore (Alice Dunbar)

  At Bay St. Louis

SOFT breezes blow and swiftly show

   Through fragrant orange branches parted,

A maiden fair, with sun-flecked hair,

   Caressed by arrows, golden darted.

The vine-clad tree holds forth to me

   A promise sweet of purple blooms,

And chirping bird, scarce seen but heard

   Sings dreamily, and sweetly croons

   At Bay St. Louis.



The hammock swinging, idly singing,

   Lissome nut-brown maid

   Swings gaily, freely, to-and-fro;

The curling, green-white waters casting cool, clear shade,

   Rock small, shell boats that go

In circles wide, or tug at anchor's chain,

As though to skim the sea with cargo vain,

   At Bay St. Louis.



   The maid swings slower, slower to-and-fro,

And sunbeams kiss gray, dreamy half-closed eyes;

   Fond lover creeping on with foot steps slow,

Gives gentle kiss, and smiles at sweet surprise.



   *      *      *      *      *



   The lengthening shadows tell that eve is nigh,

   And fragrant zephyrs cool and calmer grow,

Yet still the lover lingers, and scarce breathed sigh,

   Bids the swift hours to pause, nor go,

   At Bay St. Louis.

Alice Ruth Moore (Alice Dunbar)

  New Year's Day

THE poor old year died hard; for all the earth lay cold

   And bare beneath the wintry sky;

While grey clouds scurried madly to the west,

   And hid the chill young moon from mortal sight.

Deep, dying groans the aged year breathed forth,

   In soughing winds that wailed a requiem sad

In dull crescendo through the mournful air.



The new year now is welcomed noisily

   With din and song and shout and clanging bell,

And all the glare and blare of fiery fun.

Sing high the welcome to the New Year's morn!

   Le roi est mort. Vive, vive le roi! cry out,            [Fr. - The King is Dead, Long live the king!]

And hail the new-born king of coming days.



Alas! the day is spent and eve draws nigh;

The king's first subject dies--for naught,

And wasted moments by the hundred score

   Of past years rise like spectres grim

To warn, that these days may not idly glide away.

Oh, New Year, youth of promise fair!

   What dost thou hold for me? An aching heart?

Or eyes burnt blind by unshed tears? Or stabs,

   More keen because unseen?

Nay, nay, dear youth, I've had surfeit

   Of sorrow's feast. The monarch dead

Did rule me with an iron hand. Be thou a friend,

   A tender, loving king--and let me know

The ripe, full sweetness of a happy year.

Alice Ruth Moore (Alice Dunbar)

  Amid the Roses

THERE is tropical warmth and languorous life

   Where the roses lie

   In a tempting drift

Of pink and red and golden light

Untouched as yet by the pruning knife.

And the still, warm life of the roses fair

   That whisper "Come,"

   With promises

Of sweet caresses, close and pure

Has a thorny whiff in the perfumed air.

There are thorns and love in the roses' bed,

   And Satan too

   Must linger there;

So Satan's wiles and the conscience stings,

Must now abide--the roses are dead.

Alice Ruth Moore (Alice Dunbar)

  The Idler

AN IDLE lingerer on the wayside's road,

He gathers up his work and yawns away;

A little longer, ere the tiresome load

Shall be reduced to ashes or to clay.



No matter if the world has marched along,

And scorned his slowness as it quickly passed;

No matter, if amid the busy throng,

He greets some face, infantile at the last.



His mission? Well, there is but one,

And if it is a mission he knows it, nay,

To be a happy idler, to lounge and sun,

And dreaming, pass his long-drawn days away.



So dreams he on, his happy life to pass

Content, without ambitions painful sighs,

Until the sands run down into the glass;

He smiles--content--unmoved and dies.



And yet, with all the pity that you feel

For this poor mothling of that flame, the world;

Are you the better for your desperate deal,

When you, like him, into infinitude are hurled?

Alice Ruth Moore (Alice Dunbar)

  If I Had Known

IF I had known

Two years ago how drear this life should be,

And crowd upon itself allstrangely sad,

Mayhap another song would burst from out my lips,

Overflowing with the happiness of future hopes;

Mayhap another throb than that of joy.

Have stirred my soul into its inmost depths,

            If I had known.



If I had known,

Two years ago the impotence of love,

The vainness of a kiss, how barren a caress,

Mayhap my soul to higher things have soarn,

Nor clung to earthly loves and tender dreams,

But ever up aloft into the blue empyrean,

And there to master all the world of mind,

            If I had known.

Alice Ruth Moore (Alice Dunbar)

  A Pliant

DEAR God, 'tis hard, so awful hard to lose

The one we love, and see him go afar,

With scarce one thought of aching hearts behind,

Nor wistful eyes, nor outstretched yearning hands.

Chide not, dear God, if surging thoughts arise.

And bitter questionings of love and fate,

But rather give my weary heart thy rest,

And turn the sad, dark memories into sweet.

Dear God, I fain my loved one were anear,

But since thou will'st that happy thence he'll be,

I send him forth, and back I'll choke the grief

Rebellious rises in my lonely heart.

I pray thee, God, my loved one joy to bring;

I dare not hope that joy will be with me,

But ah, dear God, one boon I crave of thee,

That he shall ne'er forget his hours with me.

Alice Ruth Moore (Alice Dunbar)

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