Augusta Kautz.

A world my own online

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Dorothy Sheldon Scott



The friends who love me,
The friends I know are true,

The heaven that shines above me,
And waits my spirit too."







"When the world is dark and cold in seeming,
And friends 1 love have changed or flown,
I wander away in spirit, dreaming

Of light and beauty in a world my own."

tAnon .



"We Musicians Know." 5

Ethereal Messengers 6

Irresponsive 7

Midnight on the Prairie 8

Unity 9

A Prairie Scene I0

My Soul I2

I Wonder I3

The Seeking Soul I4

Air Castles I5

Easter Morning Z 6

My Last Request T 6

The Soul I7

Life s Problem jg

The White Lily by Moonlight Ig

The Spiritually Learned 20

Soul Tethered to the Body 21

Unsatisfied 22

Somehow 23

Too Late 24

Life s Song 2 ^

October 2 6

The First Frost of Autumn <? 7

The Rivals 28

"Night Bringeth All Things Home." 28

Farewell, Darling 2Q

Inconstancy I


The Mountain Storm 32

After Many Years . . , 33

Beauty 34

Sunset in the Mountains 35

The Mountain s Midnight Gloom 36

I Love Thee, Mountains! 38

Archer 38

San Diego 39

Good-night 41

Lake Ontario 42

My Dream 43

Hades 44

Nature s At-one-ment 45

Youth 46

Night 47

Dawn 47

Time s Tillage of the Heart 48

Fancied Bondage 50

Midnight 50

Thy Will Be Done 51

My Own Shall Come to Me 52

I Want to Know 53

Is Nature Depraved 54

Each Wants Its Own 54

Delayed Spring 55

My Little Book 56

We Musicians

f ( T A 7 X-N 7\A^-i-r/^i-^M4-^-^-,x-xx-si ~\ jF ^^ ~. T . \ ) )


poet, who with mortal eyes

Sees past cerulean distance,
Would bring to earth those bending skies

To brighten earth existence ;
But fails to snare the soul s lost words,

And, lacking that assistance,
His speech, for songs of skyey birds,

Derides by its resistance.

Ethereal Messengers,

, hush ! Do not say that to beautify thought

I seek, in my poor little rhymes ;
True thought is the soul of the universe, wrought

Too subtile for my jangling chimes;
But out from its bounty holy whispers are kept

Afloat, like sweet incense away ;
And I only seek to their route intercept,

To rehearse what the messengers say.

So subtile their meanings, my gross finite sense

Can never quite understand.
Heaven s wayfaring guests, they are journeying whence

Some song-loving poet shall stand,
Rehearsing in song those strains of the skies,

Which never shall echo again ;
For songs so intense but echo in cries

The throes of a sanctified pain.


"Y/OU say I shall sing you a word-song,

A melody, to impart
The joyous thrill of a bird-song

To a sobbing, broken heart.
I have listened to the birds and the breezes,

My pen at my ringer tips ;
Not a chord in all their music

Will spring to my pen or my lips.

Then how can I tune my dumb lyre

To sounds I myself do not know?
Once my heart sang the songs you desire,

But that was a long time ago.
There never was song worth the singing,

But rang from a soul s overflow ;
But what sets the measures a-ringing,

No one shall ever know.

Who plead our Father still to bless
The midnight prairie wilderness.

Midr|igb,t or) trie Prairie


5r "PIS midnight on the prairie.
Methinks if I had angel wings,

To soar to yonder star,
The silence there would be less still

Than midnights on the prairies are.

Above, around, is solitude,

Fresh from the Maker s hand,
Repose as pure as Paradise

Ere sin was in the land.
The dew-tears on that bud are pure,

Not wept o er sin or shame ;
Those flowers hide no cruel grave,

For here death never came.

The moonlight falls with reverence there,

As if twere holy shrine;
The hush is like the hush of prayer

Of angel s evening time.

The starlight shimmers on the scene,
Where hallowed, voiceless air,

So dreamy, peaceful and serene,
Seems answering angels prayer,

Who plead our Father still to bless

The midnight prairie wilderness.


tide of the universe throbs in me,
A pulsing current strong;

My great-heart-beats for a higher life
Are timed with Nature s song.

The ardor of my upward strife
Will bloom in the vet-to-be.

A Prairie Scerie.


IN the Prairie s still hush,
Where the wild-flowers blush,

And stars watch the stillness so deep,
Is the grave of a stranger,
Of a brave Texas ranger,

But no friend ever goes there to weep.

Perfumed breezes caress

Blooms no footstep shall press
On that prairie, the " Garden of God ; "

For no guests ever wander

To the grave over yonder,
Where so sadly the green grasses nod.

There the wild-flowers twine

A sepulchral vine,
That nods to the darkness around ;

And the night-wind s low whisper

Wakes but fairies to list her,
While she sings a low dirge o er the mound


Is it fancy makes seem,
Like the shade of a dream?
Or do serpents huge arms hug the clods ?
Or when storms march to battle,
And the rains meet to prattle,

Do I hear mournful wails o er the sods?

-x- % * *

Oh ! The shadows fall dark
On some hearth, where they hark
For a step they shall nevermore hear !
Little think he is sleeping
Where the hushed hours are keeping

Lonely vigils of grief all the year.
x- * * *

Little think the boatman, pale,

Hung his oar, reefed his sail,-
Till life s chain slowly loosed captive bands,

Freed a soul for its Giver,

To be borne o er the river,
To rejoice in the bright summer lands.

My Soul,

QH, Life ! Oh, Soul !
Invisible river ! roll,
And seek unseen, that unseen sea,

Thou soundless song!
Oh, roll, dream-voice, along!
Thou note of the Universe! Of it be
Part Harmony.

Oh, unseen Giver,
Unite this unseen river
To that strange, unseen, tideless sea,

Pass by earth s shore,
Thou unseen breeze! Oh, soar
Past heaven s verge! Thy flight shall be

Oh, child divine,
Heaven s grandeur is thine,
To tread the march of Time s rehearse
Of the Universe.


I Wonder.


OW strangely hues of childhood mingle

With threadbare cares of years,
Like sunbeams spun of sheeny splendor,

All woven in with tears ;
Like silvery warp with woof of ashes ;

Like moonbeams knit with clouds ;
Night tangled tight with lightning s tresses,

Bright angels clothed in shrouds.

Will this life mock the life up yonder

By mingling with its flow ?
Or will it be a life, I wonder,

Unedged by hems of woe ?
Life s bitterness be quite forgot,

Forgot its loves and bains?
Or memory, like immortal shadows,

Belink our joys and pains.


Has heaven s portal higher threshold

Than reach our neighbor s door?
Is heaven aught but u inner kingdom

Within us," nothing more ?
If joys, and tears, and sins forgot,

Then self s forgotten, too,
Annihilating us completely

As atheists could do.

Seeding Soul,

OR there are times when earthy headlands high

Encroach upon the threshold of the sky,

And heaven and earth unite in holy place,

And spirit earthy and divine embrace.

The crystal sea shall cleanse earth s turbid main,

If human hate in arms of love is slain ;

For love reborn our inner priesthood shrives,

And earth and heaven mingle in our lives.


Air Castles,

() life is so meager, so sad, or so empty,

But o er it some brightness has shone.
It has known all the bliss of a youth s early dreaming,

With that magical beauty, its own.

The castle then built had no airy-like seeming
When we tripped through its halls, all alone,

And planned no less bliss down life s arches was beaming,
Than o er all those corridors shone.

I love yet to linger by its tumble-down portal,

And rehearse the bright visions it hid.
I reverence that memory so bright and immortal,

If pilgrim to shrine ever did.

Though life gives us more of its nettles than roses,
And life s failures have brought so much woe,

Yet I think we all find life s best gift still reposes
In the old tumbled-down long ago.


T^HAT power which keeps, through winter storms,

Bright blossoms of blue and gold,
Placed gems more rare, in human forms,
Kept safe neath life s dank mold.

Each violet s birth is no new wrought gift :
Its germ is the Infinite s thought,

Their safety beneath winter s downy drift,
With infinite meaning fraught.

Each soul has its nights, and wintery drifts,

Its springtime it has as well,
Its Easter morn, when it skyward lifts,

And blooms like the asphodel.

My Last Request,


I ONLY ask, when life s last evening dips

Its lamp in the western sea,
Ere its flickering ray down the darkness slips,-
A light in the East I see.

Trie SoUl

AA/HAT discovers our soul when in upward flight

We reach for our heart s ideal,
Which ever keeps calling by day and night,

Yet so lofty it fails to reveal
Its beautiful face to our soul alight

Mong debris of the lowly real.
If by wearisome flight, we shall seek its height,

It, ascending, escapes our zeal,
Thus keeping our soul to the arduous fate

Of continuous upward eyre,
Like a lone weary bird that is seeking its mate

Up a mountain s upward stair.

Oh ! mystery vaster, pro founder ever,

My ideal, my soul, and me.
Life s meaning is truly a ceaseless endeavor

To unite this triune three.

Life s Problem.

\A/B oft in life like sailors stand,

On deck in stormy seas.
From up on high, in accents grand,
A stranger voice is calling :
"Go search life s black sky s meaning out,

Its secret understand !
With naught but seething waves about,
And far away from land,

Hear not ye voices calling ? "

Life s surges roll ; we beat about

Upon life s tumbling tide.
We drift, and drift, and drifting out,

Aloft rings out the warning :
Go search ! Nor linger, plead, or ask !

Interpret life yet more !
Tis late to learn life s cruel task
When cast upon its shore

On that supernal morning.

So oft does awe and mystery blend

Quite to life s bending edge.
When loved ones leap, where pathways end,

Down depths of awful silence,
We call, and call. The depths are dumb ;

No answer comes below,
lyife has its envoy ; Death has none
Except its awful silence.

Trie Wriite Lily by Moonlight

H^HOU sprite of the vale ! Thou moonlight s bride !

In bridal robes of white.
Thou angel bright, of wings denied,

Berobed in lustrous light !
Thou white-robed nun, so soulful sweet,

Moonbeams you glorified !
Or art them spirit, whose winding sheet

The grave has scintillized ?

Spiritually Learned.

n^HE storm may shake the clouds in its grasp,

The welkin s thunders roar;
Still stars shine on at their wonted task,
As calmly as heretofore.

As stars shine on, though the night be dark,
And gems rieath gowns of sands,

So the deathless soul, that living spark,
All darksome depths withstands.

The clouds shall seek their ocean crypt,
And splash in the breakers brine;

With immortal burnish, stars are tipped,
And shall forever shine.

Who knows no sin his soul shall dim

Knows what soul treasures be.
He knows their sheen is God in him,

And immortality.


Soul Tethered to tl^e Body

)OORsoul! Meek captive ! Dost heed thy bitter fate ?
Fast bound to one lone comrade, not genial mate,
One, coarse by nature, not fellow, nor yet friend,
And thou, to guide that wretch, and guard him to the end ?
For long thy captor may hold his captive bound,
Thy counsel scorned, thy low voice in coarse jest drowned.
Poor soul ! Held fast in close embracing arms of clod ;
And thou, the much loved child of most High God !
When midnight s hushed repose has curtained off the day,
And deathlike slumber has bound thy charge of clay,
Then yearn st thou not for Father, and for Father s home ?
Why shun st thou, then, the path which spans the space-

ful gloam ?

Thou child immortal ! Whatever can it be
So links my mortal part with thy eternity ?



What does it signify

That life ne er rounds to full completeness,
Nor joys attain an unmixed sweetness,

And pleasures ever flee

With strangest fleetness,
And quite brimful nothing ever seems to be ?

And sorrows multiply.
Experience bringing grief unending,
Yet never quite affects a mending

Of ills which fill life s day,

Despite the recommending
That knowledge bought by years is better every way.

Will nothing satisfy ?
Will souls, this side of life s fulfillment,
Be taught by tasks of life s instillment,

And ever come to know

The sweet enthrillment
Of knowing all the meaning of our life s work here below?


FEEL to-day at life s edge I wait
For Death to open the border gate.
I know not why, I have felt alway,
That I, not Death, would court delay.
I ne er till now felt my life work o er,
But hoped, somehow, to accomplish more.
To-day, in counting of all I ve wrought,
On each white page I found, but naught.

I hoped I d heritage wondrous fair,
That I was one to earth s glory heir.
I sought it well, nor in lowly place;
I gazed aloft for its heaven-lit face;
I felt, somehow, it was pure and vast,
Though not of earth, yet of earthy cast,

A gem not given to deck my brow,
But one whose lustre would cheer, somehow,
Poor human hearts when faint with woe,
As the sun bends backward its gorgeous glow

Of ruffly gilt to be-edge the night,

And dot it over with specks of light.

My dream, somehow, must have played me false

I missed my path in my life s mad waltz.

Was I too earthy ? Or hopes too high ?

I never reached where the jewels lie.

Or were my eyes so dimmed by tears,

I missed possession all these years ?

No matter now; the hour grows late;

Haste, Death, and open the border gate!

Too Late.

H, Time, unloose the clasp of thy painful hand!

Up yonder path we came together.
I must return and touch my childhood s hand,

And say, " Farewell, farewell, forever!"

Life s Sor}g,


H ! could I all things wrong surrender,

With ardor seek celestial splendor,

My love for Him a yearning be,

As yearns the rill for the mighty sea,

Which bears upon its tuneful tide

Sweet music for the world beside ;

If life bore plans, and words, and deeds,

Befitting all of human needs,

Life s current set to sweetest tunes,

Kept true Decembers, as in Junes,

My life like music of the rills,

Which ocean s depths keeps singing still-

A song immortal then would be,

A river s song in a soundful sea.


QCTOBER is here,
The best of the year,

I know by this display.
She rifled the bow
Of beatific glow

To deck her own array ;
Bespangled the green,
With bright leaves between,

Then added a sprinkle of gray ;
Hung a bright golden sheen,
With the apple leaves green,

And purple along the vines way.
O er the brown, tangled weeds,
And the beautiful reeds,

She scattered a soft, silvery spray,
Which the sunshine bright
Beglitters with light,

Like diamond aurora.
Even painted at eve
The clouds that wreathe

The ramparts of retreating day.


Trie First Frost of

NlOVEMBER, fleeing, frowned in anger,

And drew her drapery tight.
Chill breezes whispered low, in languor,

November s last good-night.
The frost gleamed white, in sheeny splendor,

On flower, leaf and tree ;
For silvery moonlight, cool and tender,

Walked o er the gem-lit lea.
Its silvery woof with frost warp mingles

Its weaving left and right,
O er leafy dells and drowzy dingles

Spreads blankets dazzling white.
The North King sends his Arctic tribute,

Boreas icy car,
Well lade with jewels for December

To scatter near and far.


Trie Rivals.


ROM out October s ruddy car

Stepped stately, cold November,
A princess from the cold North star,

With a retinue of splendor.
December scorned the icy pride

Of the haughty Northern princess.
He tallied time for Christmas tide,

And called his hoary ministress.
She strode Boreas steed to ride,

And lassoed Arctic splendor

Of ermine clouds, in white to hide

The luster of November.

Bringeth All Thipgs |-lon?e.

DIKE S evening bringeth us all to our home.
k No sunset shall gild that heavenly dome.
The fervor of sunrise shall be its adorning.
Twill not be our evening, but be morning.


Farewell, Darling

T DIKE S glamour is faded, life s hopes rudely broken ;

And compelled, at the last, these sad words have been spoken,

Farewell, darling, my dearest!

Ah! little we thought in our love s sunny May time,
When we thought of each other, by night-time, and daytime,
To say, ever say, Farewell, darling, my dearest!

How could we have thought, when so happy together,

We, compelled, would speak words that would ring out forever,

Farewell, darling, my dearest!

Can my heart e er be taught that it faints not, or calls not ?
Can my hands press my ears, that your dear accent falls not ?

That calls, ever calls, Farewell, darling, my dearest?

Will your words, like a ghost-song, forever come thither ?

Will they come, on each breeze, with such pleadings that quiver ?

Farewell, darling, my dearest!

When our love is consumed on love s own strange built altar,
Then our hearts will they cry not, or lips pale not, nor falter

To say, sadly say, Farewell, darling, my dearest!


I ween darkened halls of my heart will be guestless;

Night and day they will echo than the sea waves more restless,

Farewell, darling, my dearest!
It is said that each bosom some sepulcher closes,
That some weed will grow green on the bed of dead roses,

But naught can replace my lost darling, my dearest!

Perhaps in life s flow my heart s cry shall be stifled,
And my heart cease to cry out, that it has been rifled.

Farewell, darling, my dearest.

The thorns were all spared, but my roses were taken,
Hushed each song, save the wind s mocking cry love forsaken !

And cries, ever cries, Farewell, darling, my dearest!

Though I olden by a wild laugh, and a still wilder weeping,
Though I mutter again, and again, when I am sleeping,

Farewell, darling, my dearest!

Though my lips may grow pale, and my pale brow more whitened,
Though my mad lips may whisper, with maddened eyes brightened,

They will say, Thou, my darling, art dearest!

Pangs of anguish once borne, the green grave never covers.
Phantom bells will forever ring the knell of the lovers.
Farewell, darling, my dearest!

And methinks that the wild winds, in fierce, fitful blowing,
Though sepulchral vines above me be growing,

Will shriek, wildly shriek, Farewell, darling, my dearest !


n^HB morning s golden glories meet

The mountain tops to flatter,
Then kiss the flowers at their feet.

Was morn sincere ? No matter!
For mountains bade the clouds to ride

Upon their ragged pillows,
Then thrust them down, in wrath, to bide

Among the sheltering willows.

Trie Mountain Stornq,

n^HE clouds climbed after each other up the mountains high,
Then strode across the fenceless desert of the sky.
The raindrops fell like scattered grain of the husbandman.
The mountain torrents shouted the gale, then onward ran.

The lightning, like hissing serpents tongues of flame,
Scourged the huge rocks, that thundered downward, rent in twain.
The writhing pine trees palavered to the angry wind.
The bellowing thunder all the mountain valleys dinned.

The timid moon, with cloudy mantles about her rolled,
Was safely hidden in their bedraggled draperies fold.
And only the mountains stood mute, and knew no angry thrill
While fiercely raged the tempest, they stood statelily and still

After Marty Years

[ MUSED with awe where mountain gloom
Filled crannied nook and rocky coombe.
Huge rocks like monsters of the holm
Came weirdly out the gathering gloam.
Dark shadows peeped, then forward crept,
Like drowsy gnomes who long had slept.
Then one by one the stars were tipped
With sacred fires from holy crypt.
Soft breezes crept like living things,
That seemed the sound of rustling wings.

A stream dashed madly down the fell.
All cast o er me a magic spell.
My life, spread broad in fabric, lay
A dismal, dark and dingy gray.
And this was to my hearing brought :
u I gave good woof, but this you wrought,
A worthless weft. Your warp is spent,
Your shuttles empty, spindles bent."


Oh, pity, Father ! then I cried ;

To weave this pattern sweet I tried.

I toiled, and toiled, and I am sure

My pattern was quite spotless, pure.

This rag to dark oblivion leave,

And bless that which I meant to weave.

Your gifts were all of silvery thread,
But what I wove seems gray instead.
Mid dust and sand for years I spun,
And meant to weave a charming one ;
But earthy strife, which soiled my hands,
Has tarnished all the lovely strands.


IF thoughts kept pure expanded white,

In deeds of blossomed beauty,

No misty haze, but radiant light,

Would mark our path of duty.


Subset irj t^e Mountains

T\ LL flushed, the face of the mountains reach

For caresses of its lover,
And pillows its head on the sky s fond breast,

As he ardently bends over.
The weary day shuts the outer door,

Draws curtains of purply billows.
And firefly lamps, a blazing score,

Light up the tangled willows.

The moon dives deep into cloudy seas,

And drowns her radiant splendor.
The pine trees nod to the hoyden breeze,

Which kisses them so tender.
The cricket calls to its dusky mate.

Stars shrink into misty caverns.
The frogs carouse both early and late

In Nature s wayside taverns.


tylouptair/s JVIidnight Gloom

steepest cliffs and rocky canons,

What dismal shadows fall.
Each tree s dark shade appears the yawning

Of some wide cavern s wall.
Uncanny rocks seem mountain monsters

Beside broad burrowed halls.
The coyote s howl suggests as meaning

A ghoul s or goblin s cry.
The pain-wrenched pine trees shriek and quiver,

As mad winds trample by.
Few stars above the scene are scattered

Like owlets in the sky.
The moon seems, even too, to falter,

Where breastworks tower high.


Anon comes strangest, stillest silence,
As if all Nature knelt ;

And angels bowed in reverent feeling,

Such awe has Nature felt.
While o er the scene a spell seemed stealing,

As if genii dwelt
Neath rocks, ravines and caverns ceiling,

And awful silence dealt,
As Influence weird, to aid revealing,

Their mystic rites respelt.


Anon, the sun, in sheeny splendor,

Bursts from his nighty tomb,
With benediction, soft and tender,

Disperses all the gloom.
Each bud s "Good morning" sweetly uttered

By bursting into bloom.
The wakened birds, with wings a-fluttered,

Sing loud from rocky coombe.
All Nature smiles, so soon forgot

The midnight s wretched doom.


I love thy gloomy ghoulish shadows,
Thy summits golden, sunset s meadows.

I Love Tl^ee, Mountains!


T LOVE thy gloomy, ghoulish shadows,
Thy summits golden, sunset s meadows,
Thy robe of clouds, with ruffly trailing,
Be-edged about with fleecy veiling.
Thy rocks seem altars, trees seem steeples.
Thy canon aisles my fancy peoples
With trains of worshipers ascending
To grasp Jehovah s hand depending.

T CANNOT think of those little hands

As part of the dim unknown,
But worse, by far, of the satin bands,
They wear in their coffin lone.

For many years have those waxen hands
In their satiny bands held still.

Must sheaves of eons bind their bands,
Nor yet thy touch my pulses thrill ?

A binding of billowy, raggedy spray.

Like the ravely edge of the ocean s mantle.

Sar] Diego

sailed north from Natividad,
Till his caravel furrowed a fallow bay.

A sequestered realm, bare and solitaire,
For leagues upon leagues to the inland lay.

Ouivera s broad plain, or Cibola fair,
Might engraft on the stem of Eastern lands ;

But San Diego, apart like a wild beast s lair,
Was hermitical land. There a hermit city stands,

A hermit secure in a crescent fastness.
On the west bends the hem of a quiet bay;

On the east rises high, hilly vastness,
Where solitude cradles in mountain gloom

The unsingable song of an austere silence.
Far away the Pacific s wide waters boom

A retort to the tempest s rude violence.
A binding of billowy, raggedy spray,

Like the ravely edge of the ocean s mantle,
Whips the sands in the glee of a childish play,

Where the waves on the westerly thresholds trample.


Round the bare mountain breasts of the Eastern rim,
Blushing cloudlets the folds of their curtains double.

Down the swift sloping curves of the mountainous brim
Gleams the rich golden fields of sunset s stubble.

When the Yule-tiding falls, then Boreas stops

To peep o er the easterly border,
His frost fingers clutching the bare mountain tops,


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