has destiny
     Set mortal between us?"  I buried my face
     In my hands, and I moaned as I stood in my place.

     VIII.

     'Twas her year to be young.  She was tall, she was fair
     Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?
     'Twas her year to be young.  She was fair, she was tall
     And I knew she was true as I lifted my face
     And saw her press down her rich robe to its place
     With a hand white and small as a babe's with a doll,
     And her feet—why, her feet, in the white shining sand,
     Were so small they might nest in my one brawny hand.
     Then she pushed back her hair with a round hand that shone
     And flashed in the light with a white starry stone.

     IX.

     Then, my love she was rich.  My love she was fair.
     Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?
     She was gorgeous with wealth, "Thank God, she has bread,"
     I said to myself.  Then I humbled my head
     In gratitude.  Then I questioned me where
     Was her palace? her parents?  What name did she bear?
     What mortal on earth came nearest her heart?
     Who touched the small hand till it thrilled to a smart?
     'Twas her day to be young.  She was proud, she was fair.
     Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?

     X.

     Now she turned, reached a hand; then a tall gondolier
     That had leaned on his oar, like a long lifted spear,
     Shot sudden and swift and all silently
     And drew to her side as she turned from the tide. . .
     It was odd, such a thing, and I counted it queer
     That a princess like this, whether virgin or bride,
     Should abide thus apart, and should bathe in that sea;
     And I shook back my hair, and so unsatisfied.
     Then I fluttered the doves that were perched close about,
     As I strode up and down in dismay and in doubt.

     XI.

     Then she stood in the boat on the borders of night
     As a goddess might stand on that far wonder land
     Of eternal sweet life, which men have named Death.
     I turned to the sea and I caught at my breath,
     As she drew from the boat through her white baby hand
     Her vestment of purple imperial, and white.
     Then the gondola shot! swift, sharp from the shore.
     There was never the sound of a song or of oar
     But the doves hurried home in white clouds to Saint Mark,
     And the lion loomed high o'er the sea in the dark.

     XII.

     Then I cried, "Quick!  Follow her.  Follow her.  Fast!
     Come!  Thrice double fare if you follow her true
     To her own palace door."  There was plashing of oar
     And rattle of rowlock. . . .  I sat leaning low
     Looking far in the dark, looking out as we sped
     With my soul all alert, bending down, leaning low.
     But only the oaths of the men as we passed
     When we jostled them sharp as we sudden shot thro'
     The watery town.  Then a deep, distant roar—
     The rattle of rowlock, the rush of the oar.

     XIII.

     Then an oath.  Then a prayer!  Then a gust that made rents
     Through the yellow sailed fishers.  Then suddenly
     Came sharp forked fire!  Then far thunder fell
     Like the great first gun!  Ah, then there was route
     Of ships like the breaking of regiments
     And shouts as if hurled from an upper hell.
     Then tempest!  It lifted, it spun us about,
     Then shot us ahead through the hills of the sea
     As if a great arrow shot shoreward in wars—
     Then heaven split open till we saw the blown stars.

     XIV.

     On!  On!  Through the foam, through the storm, through the town,
     She was gone.  She was lost in the wilderness
     Of palaces lifting their marbles of snow.
     I stood in my gondola.  Up and all down
     I pushed through the surge of the salt-flood street
     Above me, below. . .  Twas only the beat
     Of the sea's sad heart. . .  Then I heard below
     The water-rat building, but nothing but that;
     Not even the sea bird screaming distress,
     As she lost her way in that wilderness.

     XV.

     I listened all night.  I caught at each sound;
     I clutched and I caught as a man that drown'd. . . .
     Only the sullen low growl of the sea
     Far out the flood street at the edge of the ships.
     Only the billow slow licking his lips,
     Like a dog that lay crouching there watching for me;
     Growling and showing white teeth all the night,
     Reaching his neck and as ready to bite—
     Only the waves with their salt flood tears
     Fawning white stones of a thousand years.

     XVI.

     Only the birds in the wilderness
     Of column and dome and of glittering spire
     That thrust to heaven and held the fire
     Of the thunder still:  The bird's distress
     As he struck his wings in that wilderness,
     On marbles that speak and thrill and inspire. . .
     The night below and the night above;
     The water-rat building, the startled white dove,
     The wide-winged, dolorous sea bird's call
     The water-rat building, but that was all.

     XVII.

     Lo! pushing the darkness from pillar to post,
     The morning came silent and gray like a ghost
     Slow up the canal.  I leaned from the prow
     And listened.  Not even the bird in distress
     Screaming above through the wilderness;
     Not even the stealthy old water-rat now.
     Only the bell in the fisherman's tower
     Slow tolling a-sea and telling the hour
     To kneel to their sweet Santa Barbara
     For tawny fishers a-sea and pray.

     *     *     *     *     *     *

     XVIII.

     My dream it is ended, the curtain withdrawn.
     The night that lay hard on the breast of earth,
     Deep and heavy as a horrid nightmare,
     Moves by, and I look to the rosy dawn. . . . .
     I shall leave you here, with a leader fair;
     One gentle, with faith and fear of her worth.
     She shall lead you on through that Italy
     That the gods have loved; and may it be
     A light-hearted hour that, hand in hand,
     You wander the warm and the careless love-land.

     XIX.

     By the windy waters of the Michigan
     She invokes the gods. . . .  Be it bright or dim,
     Who does his endeavor as best he can
     Does bravely, indeed.  The rest is with Him.
     Let a new star dance in the Occident
     Till it shakes through the gossamer floors of God
     And shines, o'er Chicago. . .  The Orient
     Is hoar with glories.  Let Illini sod
     Bear glory as well as the gleaming grain,
     And engines smoking along her plain.

MAE MADDEN.

CHAPTER I.