William Stanley Braithwaite was an unabashed lover of poetry, channeling his energy into reviews, anthologies, and teaching as well as his own verse. Born in Boston, the son of West Indian parents, in 1878, Braithwaite was largely self-taught, studying on his own the British poets of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. His poetry reflects his love of formal stanzaic deployment and the “universal” themes of loneliness and passion. Though his personal poetics tended toward the conservative, Braithwaite spoke and wrote in encouragement of the experimentalists emerging with modernism and the Harlem Renaissance.
Braithwaite served on the editorial staff of the Boston Transcript and between 1913 and 1929 published an annual Anthology of Magazines in Verse. Also to his editorial credit are The Book of Elizabethan Verse (1906), The Book of Georgian Verse (1908), and The Book of Restoration Verse (1909). His own Lyrics of Life was first published in 1904, The House of Falling Leaves in 1908. A professor of literature at Atlanta University, Braithwaite died in 1962.
I
Off our New England coast the sea to-night
Is moaning the full sorrow of its heart:
There is no will to comfort it apart
Since moon and stars are hidden from its sight.
And out beyond the furthest harbor-light
There runs a tide that marks not any chart
Wherewith man knows the ending and the start
Of that long voyage in the infinite.
If change and fate and hapless circumstance
May baffle and perplex the moaning sea,
And day and night in alternate advance
Still hold the primal Reasoning in fee,
Cannot my Grief be strong enough to chance
My voice across the tide I cannot see?
II
We go from house to house, from town to town,
And fill the distance full of smiles and words;
We take all pleasure that our strength affords
And care not if the sun be up or down.
The way of it no man has ever known—
But suddenly there is a snap of chords
Within the heart that sounds like hollow boards,—
We question every shadow that is thrown.
O to be near when the last word is said!
And see the last reflection in the eye—
For when the word is brought our friend is dead,
How bitter is the tear that will not dry,
Because so far away our steps are led
When Love should draw us close to say Good-bye!
III
Four seasons are there to the circling year:
Four horses where the dreams of men abide—
The stark and naked Winter without pride,
The Spring like a young maiden soft and fair;
The Summer like a bride about to bear
The issue of the love she deified;
And lastly, Autumn, on the turning tide
That ebbs the voice of nature to its bier.
Four houses with two spacious chambers each,
Named Birth and Death, wherein Time joys and grieves.
Is there no Fate so wise enough to teach
Into which door Life enters and retrieves?
What matter since his voice is out of reach,
And Sorrow fills My House of Falling Leaves!
IV
The House of Falling Leaves we entered in—
He and I—we entered in and found it fair;
At midnight some one called him up the stair,
And closed him in the Room I could not win.
Now must I go alone out in the din
Of hurrying days: for forth he cannot fare;
I must go on with Time, and leave him there
In Autumn’s house where dreams will soon grow thin.
When Time shall close the door unto the house
And opens that of Winter’s soon to be,
And dreams go moving through the ruined boughs—
He who went in comes out a Memory.
From his deep sleep no sound may e’er arouse,—
The moaning rain, nor wind-embattled sea.
Two women on the lone wet strand,
(The wind’s out with a will to roam)
The waves wage war on rocks and sand,
(And a ship is long due home.)
The sea sprays in the women’s eyes—
(Hearts can writhe like the sea’s wild foam)
Lower descend the tempestuous skies,
(For the wind’s out with a will to roam.)
“O daughter, thine eyes be better than mine,”
(The waves ascend high as yonder dome)
“North or south is there never a sign?”
(And a ship is long due home.)