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Orlie Wilde

A goddess, with a siren's grace,—A sun-haired girl on a craggy

Above a bay where fish-boats

Drifting about like birds of prey.

Wrought was she of a painter's dream,—Wise only as are artists wise,

My artist-friend,

Rolf Herschkelhiem,

With deep sad eyes of oversize,

And face of melancholy guise.

I pressed him that he tell to

This masterpiece's history.

He turned—Returned—and thus

Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde:—"We artists live ideally:

We breed our firmest facts of air;

We make our own reality—We dream a thing and it is so.

The fairest scenes we ever

Are mirages of memory;

The sweetest thoughts we ever

We plagiarize from Long Ago:

And as the girl on canvas

Is marvelously rare and fair,'Tis only inasmuch as

Is dumb and may not speak to me!"He tapped me with his

The picture,—and went on again:"Orlie Wilde, the fisher's child—I see her yet, as fair and

As ever nursling summer

Dreamed on the bosom of the bay:

For I was twenty then, and

Alone and long-haired—all

With promises of sounding

And fantasies of future fame,

And thoughts that now my mind

As editor a fledgling bard's."At evening once I chanced to go,

With pencil and portfolio,

Adown the street of silver

That winds beneath this craggy land,

To make a sketch of some old

Of driftage, nosing through the surfA splintered mast, with knarl and

Of rigging-rope and tattered

Of flag and streamer and of

That fluttered idly in the

Or whipped themselves to sadder shreds.

The while I wrought, half listlessly,

On my dismantled subject, cameA sea-bird, settling on the

With plaintive moan, as though that

Had lost his mate upon the sea;

And—with my melancholy trend—It brought dim dreams half understood—It wrought upon my morbid mood,—I thought of my own

That had no end—that have no end.—And, like the sea-bird,

I made

That I was loveless and alone.

And when at last with weary

It went upon its wanderings,

With upturned face I watched its

Until this picture met my sight:

A goddess, with a siren's grace,—A sun-haired girl on a craggy

Above a bay where fish-boats

Drifting about like birds of prey."In airy poise she, gazing, stoodA machless form of womanhood,

That brought a thought that if for

Such eyes had sought across the sea,

I could have swum the widest

That ever mariner defied,

And, at the shore, could on have

To that high crag she stood upon,

To there entreat and say, 'My Sweet,

Behold thy servant at thy feet.'And to my soul I said: 'Above,

There stands the idol of thy love!'"In this rapt, awed, ecstatic stateI gazed—till lo!

I was awareA fisherman had joined her there—A weary man, with halting gait,

Who toiled beneath a basket's weight:

Her father, as I guessed, for

Had run to meet him

And ta'en his burden to herself,

That perched upon her shoulder's

So lightly that she, tripping, nearedA jutting crag and disappeared;

But she left the echo of a

That thrills me yet, and will as

As I have being! . . .. . . "Evenings

And went,—but each the same—the same:

She watched above, and even soI stood there watching from below;

Till, grown so bold at last,

I sung,—(What matter now the theme thereof!)—It brought an answer from her tongue—Faint as the murmur of a dove,

Yet all the more the song of love. . . ."I turned and looked upon the bay,

With palm to forehead—eyes

In the sea's smile—meant but for her!—I saw the fish-boats far

In misty distance, lightly

In chalk-dots on the horizon—Looked back at her, long, wistfully;—And, pushing off an empty skiff,

I beckoned her to quit the

And yield me her rare

Upon a little pleasure-cruise.—She stood, as loathful to refuse,

To muse for full a moment's time,—Then answered back in pantomime'She feared some danger from the

Were she discovered thus with me.'I motioned then to ask her ifI might not join her on the

And back again, with graceful

Of lifted arm, she anwer gave'She feared some danger from the sea.'"Impatient, piqued, impetuous,

Sprang in the boat, and flung 'Good-by'From pouted mouth with angry hand,

And madly pulled away from

With lusty stroke, despite that

Held out her hands entreatingly:

And when far out, with covert eyeI shoreward glanced,

I saw her

In reckless haste adown the crag,

Her hair a-flutter like a

Of gold that danced across the

In little mists of silver sand.

All curious I, pausing,

To fancy what it all implied,—When suddenly I found my

Were wet; and, underneath the

On which I sat,

I heard the

Of gurgling waters, and I

The boat aleak alarmingly. . . .

I turned and looked upon the sea,

Whose every wave seemed mocking me;

I saw the fishers' sails once more—In dimmer distance than before;

I saw the sea-bird wheeling by,

With foolish wish that I could fly:

I thought of firm earth, home and friends—I thought of everything that

To drive a man to frenzy

To wholly lose his own command;

I thought of all my waywardness—Thought of a mother's deep distress;

Of youthful follies yet unpurged—Sins, as the seas, about me surged—Thought of the printer's ready

To-morrow drowning me again;—A million things without a name—I thought of everything but—Fame. . . ."A memory yet is in my mind,

So keenly clear and sharp-defined,

I picture every phase and

Of life and death, and neither mine,—While some fair seraph, golden-haired,

Bends over me,—with white arms bared,

That strongly plait themselves

My drowning weight and lift me out—With joy too great for words to

Or tongue to dare articulate!"And this seraphic

And heroine was Orlie Wilde:

And thus it was I came to

Her voice's music in my ear—Ay, thus it was Fate paved the

That I walk desolate to-day!" . . .

The artist paused and bowed his

Within his palms a little space,

While reverently on his formI bent my gaze and marked a

That shook his frame as

As some typhoon of agony,

And fraught with sobs—the more

For that peculiar laughing

We hear when strong men weep. . . .

I

With warmest sympathy—I

To stroke with soothing hand his brow,

He murmuring—"Tis over now!—And shall I tie the silken

Of my frail romance?" "Yes," I said.—He faintly smiled; and then, with

In kneading palm, as one in dread—His tasseled cap pushed from his head" 'Her voice's music,' I repeat,"He said,—" 'twas sweet—O passing sweet!—Though she herself, in

Its melody, proved not the

Of loveliness my dreams made

For me—there, yearning, at her feet—Prone at her feet—a worshiper,—For lo! she spake a tongue," moaned he,"Unknown to me;—unknown to

As mine to her—as mine to her."

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James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley (October 7, 1849 – July 22, 1916) was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. During his lifetime he was known a…

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