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diff --git a/34741.txt b/34741.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..086d4cf --- /dev/null +++ b/34741.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2407 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Two Twilights, by Henry A. Beers + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Two Twilights + +Author: Henry A. Beers + +Release Date: December 24, 2010 [EBook #34741] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWO TWILIGHTS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +THE TWO TWILIGHTS + + +BY + +HENRY A. BEERS + + + + +BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER + +TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED + + + + +Copyright 1917 by Henry A. Beers + +All Rights Reserved + + + +Made in the United States of America + +The Gorham Press, Boston, U.S.A. + + + + +PREFACE + +The contents of this volume include selections from two early books of +verse, long out of print; a few pieces from The Ways of Yale (Henry +Holt & Co); and a handful of poems contributed of late years to the +magazines and not heretofore collected. + +For permission to use copyrighted material my thanks are due to Messrs. +Henry Holt & Co., and to the publishers of Harper's Monthly Magazine +and of the Yale Review. + +HENRY A. BEERS. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + The Thankless Muse + Blue Roses of Academus + The Winds of Dawn + Anacreontic + Bumble Bee + Water Lilies at Sunset + Between the Flowers + As You Like It + The Old City + Amethysts + Katy Did + Narcissus + Nunc Dimittis + Beaver Pond Meadow + High Island + Lotus Eating + The Mermaid's Glass + A Holiday Eclogue + A Memory + Amours Passageres + On a Miniature + Im Schwarzwald + Waiting for Winter + [Greek: To Pan] + The Singer of One Song + Posthumous + Hugh Latimer + Carcamon + Ecce in Deserto + To Imogen at the Harp + The Ideas of the Pure Reason + On Guard + Sursum Corda + Love, Death and Life + The Dying Pantheist to the Priest + The Upland + The Remainder + The Pasture Bars + The Rising of the Curtain + + + + + THE TWO TWILIGHTS + + + + + THE THANKLESS MUSE + + The muses ring my bell and run away. + I spy you, rogues, behind the evergreen: + You, wild Thalia, romper in the hay; + And you, Terpsichore, you long-legged quean. + When I was young you used to come and stay, + But, now that I grow older, 'tis well seen + What tricks ye put upon me. Well-a-day! + How many a summer evening have ye been + Sitting about my door-step, fain to sing + And tell old tales, while through the fragrant dark + Burned the large planets, throbbed the brooding sound + Of crickets and the tree-toads' ceaseless ring; + And in the meads the fire-fly lit her spark + Where from my threshold sank the vale profound. + + + + + BLUE ROSES OF ACADEMUS + + So late and long the shadows lie + Under the quadrangle wall: + From such a narrow strip of sky + So scant an hour the sunbeams fall, + They hardly come to touch at all + This cool, sequestered corner where, + Beside the chapel belfry tall, + I cultivate my small parterre. + + Poor, sickly blooms of Academe, + Recluses of the college close, + Whose nun-like pallor would beseem + The violet better than the rose: + There's not a bud among you blows + With scent or hue to lure the bee: + Only the thorn that on you grows-- + Only the thorn grows hardily. + + Pale cloisterers, have you lost so soon + The way to blush? Do you forget + How once, beneath the enamored moon, + You climbed against the parapet, + To touch the breast of Juliet + Warm with a kiss, wet with a tear, + In gardens of the Capulet, + Far south, my flowers, not here--not here? + + + + + THE WINDS OF DAWN + + Whither do ye blow? + For now the moon is low. + Whence is it that ye come, + And where is it ye go? + All night the air was still, + The crickets' song was shrill; + But now there runs a hum + And rustling through the trees. + A breath of coolness wakes, + As on Canadian lakes, + And on Atlantic seas, + And each high Alpine lawn + Begin the winds of dawn. + + + + + ANACREONTIC + + I would not be + A voyager on the windy seas: + More sweet to me + This bank where crickets chirp, and bees + Buzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies. + + I would not bide + On lonely heights where shepherds dwell. + At twilight tide + The sounds that from the valley swell, + Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell, + Are sweeter far + Than music of cold mountain rills. + The evening star + Wakes love and song below, but chills + With mist and breeze the gloomy hills. + + I would not woo + Some storm-browed Juno, queenly fair. + Soft eyes of blue + And sudden blushes unaware + Do net my heart in silken snare. + + I do not love + The eyrie, but low woodland nest + Of cushat dove: + Not wind, but calm; not toil, but rest + And sleep in grassy meadow's breast. + + + + + BUMBLE BEE + + As I lay yonder in tall grass + A drunken bumble-bee went past + Delirious with honey toddy. + The golden sash about his body + Could scarce keep in his swollen belly + Distent with honey-suckle jelly. + Rose liquor and the sweet pea wine + Had filled his soul with song divine; + Deep had he drunk the warm night through: + His hairy thighs were wet with dew. + Full many an antic he had played + While the world went round through sleep and shade. + Oft had he lit with thirsty lip + Some flower-cup's nectared sweets to sip, + When on smooth petals he would slip + Or over tangled stamens trip, + And headlong in the pollen rolled, + Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold. + Or else his heavy feet would stumble + Against some bud and down he'd tumble + Amongst the grass; there lie and grumble + In low, soft bass--poor maudlin bumble! + With tipsy hum on sleepy wing + He buzzed a glee--a bacchic thing + Which, wandering strangely in the moon, + He learned from grigs that sing in June, + Unknown to sober bees who dwell + Through the dark hours in waxen cell. + When south wind floated him away + The music of the summer day + Lost something: sure it was a pain + To miss that dainty star-light strain. + + + + + WATER LILIES AT SUNSET + + Mine eyes have seen when once at sunset hour + White lily flocks that edged a lonely lake + All rose and sank upon the lifting swell + That swayed their long stems lazily, and lapped + Their floating pads and stirred among the leaves. + And when the sun from western gates of day + Poured colored flames, they, kissed to ruddy shame, + So blushed through snowy petals, that they glowed + Like roses morning-blown in dewy bowers, + When garden-walks lie dark with early shade. + That so their perfumed chalices were brimmed + With liquid glory till they overflowed + And spilled rich lights and purple shadows out, + That splashed the pool with gold, and stained its waves + In tints of violet and ruby blooms. + But when the flashing gem that lit the day + Dropped in its far blue casket of the hills, + The rainbow paintings faded from the mere, + The wine-dark shades grew black, the gilding dimmed, + While, paling slow through tender amber hues, + The crimsoned lilies blanched to coldest white, + And wanly shivered in the evening breeze. + When twilight closed--when earliest dew-drops fell + All frosty-chill deep down their golden hearts, + They shrank at that still touch, as maidens shrink, + When love's first footstep frights with sweet alarms + The untrod wildness of their virgin breasts; + Then shut their ivory cups, and dipping low + Their folded beauties in the gloomy wave, + They nodded drowsily and heaved in sleep. + But sweeter far than summer dreams at dawn, + Their mingled breaths from out the darkness stole, + Across the silent lake, the winding shores, + The shadowy hills that rose in lawny slopes, + The marsh among whose reeds the wild fowl screamed, + And dusky woodlands where the night came down. + + + + + BETWEEN THE FLOWERS + + An open door and door-steps wide, + With pillared vines on either side, + And terraced flowers, stair over stair, + Standing in pots of earthenware + Where stiff processions filed around-- + Black on the smooth, sienna ground. + Tubers and bulbs now blossomed there + Which, in the moisty hot-house air, + Lay winter long in patient rows, + Glassed snugly in from Christmas snows: + Tuberoses, with white, waxy gems + In bunches on their reed-like stems; + Their fragrance forced by art too soon + To mingle with the sweets of June. + (So breathes the thin blue smoke, that steals + From ashes of the gilt pastilles, + Burnt slowly, as the brazier swings, + In dim saloons of eastern kings.) + I saw the calla's arching cup + With yellow spadix standing up, + Its liquid scents to stir and mix-- + The goldenest of toddy-sticks; + Roses and purple fuchsia drops; + Camellias, which the gardener crops + To make the sickening wreaths that lie + On coffins when our loved ones die. + These all and many more were there; + Monsters and grandifloras rare, + With tropical broad leaves, grown rank, + Drinking the waters of the tank + Wherein the lotus-lilies bathe; + All curious forms of spur and spathe, + Pitcher and sac and cactus-thorn, + There in the fresh New England morn. + But where the sun came colored through + Translucent petals wet with dew, + The interspace was carpeted + With oriel lights and nodes of red, + Orange and blue and violet, + That wove strange figures, as they met, + Of airier tissue, brighter blooms + Than tumble from the Persian looms. + So at the pontiff's feasts, they tell, + From the board's edge the goblet fell, + Spilled from its throat the purple tide + And stained the pavement far and wide. + Such steps wise Sheba trod upon + Up to the throne of Solomon; + So bright the angel-crowded steep + Which Israel's vision scaled in sleep. + What one is she whose feet shall dare + Tread that illuminated stair? + Like Sheba, queen; like angels, fair? + Oh listen! In the morning air + The blossoms all are hanging still-- + The queen is standing on the sill. + No Sheba she; her virgin zone + Proclaims her royalty alone: + (Such royalty the lions own.) + Yet all too cheap the patterned stone + That paves kings' palaces, to feel + The pressure of her gaiter's heel. + The girlish grace that lit her face + Made sunshine in a dusky place-- + The old silk hood, demure and quaint, + Wherein she seemed an altar-saint + Fresh-tinted, though in setting old + Of dingy carving and tarnished gold; + Her eyes, the candles in that shrine, + Making Madonna's face to shine. + Lingering I passed, but evermore + Abide with me the open door, + The doorsteps wide, the flowers that stand + In brilliant ranks on either hand, + The two white pillars and the vine + Of bitter-sweet and lush woodbine, + And--from my weary paths as far + As Sheba or the angels are-- + Between, upon the wooden sill, + Thou, Queen of Hearts, art standing still. + + + + + AS YOU LIKE IT + + Here while I read the light forsakes the pane; + Metempsychosis of the twilight gray-- + Into green aisles of Epping or Ardenne + The level lines of print stretch far away. + + The book-leaves whisper like the forest-leaves; + A smell of ancient woods, a breeze of morn, + A breath of violets from the mossy paths + And hark! the voice of hounds--the royal horn, + + Which, muffled in the ferny coverts deep, + Utters the three sweet notes that sound recall; + As, riding two by two between the oaks, + Come on the paladins and ladies all. + + The court will rest from chase in this smooth glade + That slopes to meet yon little rushy stream, + Where in the shallows nod the arrow-heads, + And the blue flower-de-luce's banners gleam. + + The gamekeepers are coupling of the hounds; + The pages hang bright scarfs upon the boughs; + The new-slain quarry lies upon the turf + Whereon but now he with the herd did browse. + + The silk pavilion shines among the trees; + The mighty pasties and the flagons strong + Give cheer to the dear heart of many a knight, + And many a dame whose beauty lives in song. + + Meanwhile a staging improvised and rude + Rises, whereon the masquers and the mimes + Play for their sport a pleasant interlude, + Fantastic, gallant, pointing at the times. + + Their green-room is the wide midsummer wood; + Down some far-winding gallery the deer-- + The dappled dead-head of that sylvan show-- + Starts as the distant ranting strikes his ear. + + They use no traverses nor painted screen + To help along their naked, out-door wit: + (Only the forest lends its leafy scene) + Yet wonderfully well they please the pit. + + The plaudits echo through the wide parquet + Where the fair audience upon the grass, + Each knight beside his lady-love, is set, + While overhead the merry winds do pass. + + The little river murmurs in its reeds, + And somewhere in the verdurous solitude + The wood-thrush drops a cool contralto note, + An orchestra well-tuned unto their mood. + + As runs the play so runs the afternoon; + The curtain and the sun fall side by side; + The epilogue is spoke, the twilight come; + Then homeward through the darkening glades they ride. + + + + + THE OLD CITY + + Ancient city, down thy street + Minstrels make their music sweet; + Sound of bells is on the air, + Fountains sing in every square, + Where, from dawn to shut of day, + Maidens walk and children play; + And at night, when all are gone, + The waters in the dark sing on, + Till the moonrise and the breeze + Whiten the horse-chestnut trees. + Cool thou liest, leisured, slow, + On the plains of long ago, + All unvexed of fretful trades + Through thy rich and dim arcades, + Overlooking lands below + Terraced to thy green plateau. + + Dear old city, it is long + Since I heard thy minstrels' song, + Since I heard thy church-bells deep, + Since I watched thy fountains leap. + Yet, whichever way I turn, + Still I see the sunset burn + At the ending of the street, + Where the chestnut branches meet; + Where, between the gay bazaars, + Maidens walk with eyes like stars, + And the slippered merchants go + On the pavements to and fro. + Upland winds blow through my sleep, + Moonrise glimmers, waters leap, + Till, awaking, thou dost seem + Like a city of a dream,-- + Like a city of the air, + Builded high, aloof and fair,-- + Such as childhood used to know + On the plains of long ago. + + + + + AMETHYSTS + + Not the green eaves of our young woods alone + Shelter new violets, by the spring rains kissed; + In the hard quartz, by some old April sown, + Blossoms Time's flower, the steadfast amethyst. + + "Here's pansies, they're for thoughts"--weak thoughts though fair; + June sees their opening, June their swift decay. + But those stone bourgeons stand for thoughts more rare, + Whose patient crystals colored day by day. + + Might I so cut my flowers within the rock, + And prison there their sweet escaping breath; + Their petals then the winter's frost should mock, + And only Time's slow chisel work their death. + + If out of those embedded purple blooms + Were quarried cups to hold the purple wine, + Greek drinkers thought the glorious, maddening fumes + Were cooled with radiance of that gem divine. + + Might I so wed the crystal and the grape, + Passion's red heart and plastic Art's endeavor, + Delirium should take on immortal shape, + Dancing and blushing in strong rock forever. + + + + + KATY DID + + In a windy tree-top sitting, + Singing at the fall of dew, + Katy watched the bats a-flitting, + While the twilight's curtains drew + Closer round her; till she only + Saw the branches and the sky-- + Rocking late and rocking lonely, + Anchored on the darkness high. + And the song that she was singing, + In the windy tree-tops swinging, + Was _under the tree, under the tree_ + _The fox is digging a pit for me_. + + When the early stars were sparkling + Overhead, and down below + Fireflies twinkled, through the darkling + Thickets she heard footsteps go-- + Voice of her false lover speaking, + Laughing to his sweetheart new:-- + "Half my heart for thee I'm breaking: + Did not Katy love me true?" + Then no longer she was singing, + But through all the wood kept ringing-- + _Katy did, Katy did, Katy did love thee_ + _And the fox is digging a grave for me_. + + + + + NARCISSUS + + Where the black hemlock slants athwart the stream + He came to bathe; the sun's pursuing beam + Laid a warm hand upon him, as he stood + Naked, while noonday silence filled the wood. + Holding the boughs o'erhead, with cautious foot + He felt his way along the mossy root + That edged the brimming pool; then paused and dreamed. + Half like a dryad of the tree he seemed, + Half like the naiad of the stream below, + Suspended there between the water's flow + And the green tree-top world; the love-sick air + Coaxing with softest touch his body fair + A little longer yet to be content + Outside of its own crystal element. + And he, still lingering at the brink, looked down + And marked the sunshine fleck with gold the brown + And sandy floor which paved that woodland pool. + But then, within the shadows deep and cool + Which the close hemlocks on the surface made, + Two eyes met his yet darker than that shade + And, shining through the watery foliage dim, + Two white and slender arms reached up to him. + "Comest thou again, now all the woods are still, + Fair shape, nor even Echo from the hill + Calls her Narcissus? Would her voice were thine, + Dear speechless image, and could answer mine! + Her I but hear and thee I may but see; + Yet, Echo, thou art happy unto me; + For though thyself art but a voice, sad maid, + Thy love the substance is and my love shade. + Alas! for never may I kiss those dumb + Sweet lips, nor ever hope to come + Into that shadow-world that lies somewhere-- + Somewhere between the water and the air. + Alas! for never shall I clasp that form + That mocks me yonder, seeming firm and warm; + But if I leap to its embrace, the cold + And yielding flood is all my arms enfold. + All creatures else, save only me, can share + My beauties, be it but to stroke my hair, + Or hold my hand in theirs, or hear me speak. + The village wives will laugh and clap my cheek; + The forest nymphs will beg me for a kiss, + To make me blush, or hide themselves by this + Clear brook to see me bathe. But I must pine, + Loving not me but this dear ghost of mine." + Then, bending down the boughs, until they dipped + Their broad green fronds, into the wave he slipped, + And, floating breast-high, from the branches hung, + His body with the current idly swung. + And ever and anon he caught the gleam + Of a white shoulder swimming in the stream, + Pressed close to his, and two young eyes of black + Under the dimpling surface answered back + His own, just out of kissing distance: then + The vain and passionate longing came again + Still baffled, still renewed: he loosed his hold + Upon the boughs and strove once more to fold + To his embrace that fine unbodied shape; + But the quick apparition made escape, + And once again his empty arms took in + Only the water and the shadows thin. + Thus every day, when noon lay bright and hot + On all the plains, there came to this cool spot, + Under the hemlocks by the deepening brook, + Narcissus, Phoebus' darling, there to look + And pore upon his picture in the flood: + Till once a peeping dryad of the wood, + Tracking his steps along the slender path + Which he between the tree trunks trodden hath, + Misses the boy on whom her amorous eyes + Where wont to feed; but where he stood she spies + A new-made yellow flower, that still doth seem + To woo his own pale reflex in the stream; + Whom Phoebus kisses when the woods are still + And only ceaseless Echo from the hill + Unprompted cries _Narcissus_! + + + + + NUNC DIMITTIS + + Highlands of Navesink, + By the blue ocean's brink, + Let your gray bases drink + Deep of the sea. + Tide that comes flooding up, + Fill me a stirrup cup, + Pledge me a parting sup, + Now I go free. + + Wall of the Palisades, + I know where greener glades, + Deeper glens, darker shades, + Hemlock and pine, + Far toward the morning lie + Under a bluer sky, + Lifted by cliffs as high, + Haunts that are mine. + + Marshes of Hackensack, + See, I am going back + Where the Quinnipiac + Winds to the bay, + Down its long meadow track, + Piled with the myriad stack, + Where in wide bivouac + Camps the salt hay. + + Spire of old Trinity, + Never again to be + Sea-mark and goal to me + As I walk down; + Chimes on the upper air, + Calling in vain to prayer, + Squandering your music where + Roars the black town: + + Bless me once ere I ride + Off to God's countryside, + Where in the treetops hide + Belfry and bell; + Tongue of the steeple towers, + Telling the slow-paced hours-- + Hail, thou still town of ours-- + Bedlam, farewell! + + + + + BEAVER POND MEADOW + + Thou art my Dismal Swamp, my Everglades: + Thou my Campagna, where the bison wades + Through shallow, steaming pools, and the sick air + Decays. Thou my Serbonian Bog art, where + O'er leagues of mud, black vomit of the Nile, + Crawls in the sun the myriad crocodile. + Or thou my Cambridge or my Lincoln fen + Shalt be--a lonely land where stilted men + Stalking across the surface waters go, + Casting long shadows, and the creaking, slow + Canal-barge, laden with its marshy hay, + Disturbs the stagnant ditches twice a day. + Thou hast thy crocodiles: on rotten logs + Afloat, the turtles swarm and bask: the frogs, + When come the pale, cold twilights of the spring, + Like distant sleigh-bells through the meadows ring. + The school-boy comes on holidays to take + The musk-rat in its hole, or kill the snake, + Or fish for bull-heads in the pond at night. + The hog-snout's swollen corpse, with belly white, + I find upon the footway through the sedge, + Trodden by tramps along the water's edge. + Not thine the breath of the salt marsh below + Where, when the tide is out, the mowers go + Shearing the oozy plain, that reeks with brine + More tonic than the incense of the pine. + Thou art the sink of all uncleanliness, + A drain for slaughter-pens, a wilderness + Of trenches, pockets, quagmires, bogs where rank + The poison sumach grows, and in the tank + The water standeth ever black and deep + Greened o'er with scum: foul pottages, that steep + And brew in that dark broth, at night distil + Malarious fogs bringing the fever chill. + Yet grislier horrors thy recesses hold: + The murdered peddler's body five days old + Among the yellow lily-pads was found + In yonder pond: the new-born babe lay drowned + And throttled on the bottom of this moat, + Near where the negro hermit keeps his boat; + Whose wigwam stands beside the swamp; whose meals + It furnishes, fat pouts and mud-spawned eels. + Even so thou hast a kind of beauty, wild, + Unwholesome--thou the suburb's outcast child, + Behind whose grimy skin and matted hair + Warm nature works and makes her creature fair. + Summer has wrought a blue and silver border + Of iris flags and flowers in triple order + Of the white arrowhead round Beaver Pond, + And o'er the milkweeds in the swamp beyond + Tangled the dodder's amber-colored threads. + In every fosse the bladderwort's bright heads + Like orange helmets on the surface show. + Richer surprises still thou hast: I know + The ways that to thy penetralia lead, + Where in black bogs the sundew's sticky bead + Ensnares young insects, and that rosy lass, + Sweet Arethusa, blushes in the grass. + Once on a Sunday when the bells were still, + Following the path under the sandy hill + Through the old orchard and across the plank + That bridges the dead stream, past many a rank + Of cat-tails, midway in the swamp I found + A small green mead of dry but spongy ground, + Entrenched about on every side with sluices + Full to the brim of thick lethean juices, + The filterings of the marsh. With line and hook + Two little French boys from the trenches took + Frogs for their Sunday meal and gathered messes + Of pungent salad from the water-cresses. + A little isle of foreign soil it seemed, + And listening to their outland talk, I dreamed + That yonder spire above the elm-tops calm + Rose from the village chestnuts of La Balme. + Yes, many a pretty secret hast thou shown + To me, O Beaver Pond, walking alone + On summer afternoons, while yet the swallow + Skimmed o'er each flaggy plash and gravelly shallow; + Or when September turned the swamps to gold + And purple. But the year is growing old: + The golden-rod is rusted, and the red + That streaked October's frosty cheek is dead; + Only the sumach's garnet pompons make + Procession through the melancholy brake. + Lo! even now the autumnal wind blows cool + Over the rippled waters of thy pool, + And red autumnal sunset colors brood + Where I alone and all too late intrude. + + + + + HIGH ISLAND + + Pleasant it was at shut of day, + When wind and wave had sunk away, + To hear, as on the rocks we lay, + The fog bell toll; + And grimly through the gathering night + The horn's dull blare from Faulkner's Light, + Snuffed out by ghostly fingers white + That round it stole. + + Somewhere behind its curtain, soon + The mist grew conscious of a moon: + No more we heard the diving loon + Scream from the spray; + But seated round our drift-wood fire + Watched the red sparks rise high and higher, + Then, wandering into night, expire + And pass away. + + Down the dark wood, the pines among, + A lurid glare the firelight flung; + So for a while we talked and sung, + And then to sleep; + And heard in dreams the light-house bell, + As all night long in solemn swell + The tidal waters rose and fell + With soundings deep. + + + + + LOTUS EATING + + Come up once more before mine eyes, + Sweet halcyon days, warm summer sea, + Faint orange of the morning skies + And dark-lined shores upon the lee! + Touched with the sunrise, sea and sky + All still on Memory's canvas lie: + The scattered isles with India ink + Dot the wide back-ground's gold and pink: + Unstirring in the Sunday calm, + Their profile cedars, sharply drawn, + Bold black against the flushing dawn, + Take shape like clumps of tropic palm. + Night shadows still the distance dim + (Ultra-marine) where ocean's brim + Upholdeth the horizon-rim. + + Once more in thought we seem to creep + By lonely reefs where sea-birds scream, + Ulysses-like, along the deep + Borne onward in the ocean-stream. + The sea-floor spreadeth glassy still; + No breath the idle sail doth fill; + Our oar-blades smite the heavy seas; + Under the world the morning breeze + Treads with the sun the unknown ways. + Thus steer we o'er the solemn main + Eating the Lotus-fruit again, + Dreaming that time forever stays, + Singing "Where, Absence, is thy sting?" + Listening to hear our echoes ring + Through the far rocks where Sirens sing. + + + + + THE MERMAID'S GLASS + + 'T was down among the Thimble Isles + That strew for many "liquid miles" + The waters of Long Island Sound: + Our yacht lay in a cove; around + The rocky isles with cedars green + And channels winding in between: + And here a low, black reef was spread, + And there a sunken "nigger-head" + Dimpled the surface of the tide. + From one tall island's cliffy side + We heard the shaggy goats that fed: + The gulls wheeled screaming overhead + Or settled in a snowy flock + Far out upon the lonely rock + Which, like a pillar, seemed to show + Some drowned acropolis below. + Meanwhile, in the warm sea about, + With many a plunge and jolly shout, + Our crew enjoyed their morning bath. + The hairy skipper in his wrath + Lay cursing on the gunwale's rim: + He loved a dip but could not swim; + So, now and then with plank afloat + He'd struggle feebly round the boat + And o'er the side climb puffing in, + Scraping wide areas off his skin, + Then lie and sun each hirsute limb + Once more upon the gunwale's rim + And shout, with curses unavailing, + "Come out! There's wind: let's do some sailing." + + A palm-leaf hat, that here and there + Bobbed on the water, showed him where + Some venturous swimmer outward bound + Escaped beyond his voice's sound. + All heedless of their skipper's call, + One group fought for the upset yawl. + The conqueror sat astride the keel + And deftly pounded with his heel + The hands that clutched his citadel, + Which showed--at distance--like the shell + Round which, unseen, the Naiad train + Sport naked on the middle main. + Myself had drifted far away, + Meanwhile, from where the sail-boat lay, + Till all unbroken I could hear + The wave's low whisper in my ear, + And at the level of mine eye + The blue vibration met the sky. + Sometimes upon my back I lay + And watched the clouds, while I and they + Were wafted effortless along.-- + Sudden I seemed to hear a song: + Yet not a song, but some weird strain + As though the inarticulate main + Had found a voice whose human tone + Interpreted its own dull moan; + Its foamy hiss; its surfy roar; + Its gentle lapping on the shore; + Its noise of subterranean waves + That grumble in the sea-cliff caves; + Its whish among the drifting miles + Of gulf-weed from the Indian Isles:-- + All--all the harmonies were there + Which ocean makes with earth or air. + Turning I saw a sunken ledge + Bared by the ebb, along whose edge + The matted sea-weed dripped: thereon, + Betwixt the dazzle of the sun + And the blue shimmer of the sea, + I saw--or else I seemed to see + A mermaid, crooning a wild song, + Combing with arm uplifted long + The hair that shed its meshes black + Down the slope whiteness of her back. + She held a mirror in her hand, + Wherein she viewed sky, sea, and land, + Her beauty's background and its frame. + But now, as toward the rock I came, + All suddenly across the glass + Some startling image seemed to pass; + For her song rose into a scream, + Over her shoulders one swift gleam + Of eyes unearthly fell on me, + And, 'twixt the flashing of the sea + And the blind dazzle of the sun, + I saw the rock, but thereupon + She sat no longer 'gainst the blue; + Only across the reef there flew + One snow-white tern and vanished too. + But, coasting that lone island round, + Among the slippery kelp I found + A little oval glass that lay + Upturned and flashing in the ray + Of the down-looking sun. Thereto + With scarce believing eyes I drew + And took it captive + A while there + I rested in the mermaid's lair, + And felt the merry breeze that blew, + And watched the sharpies as they flew, + And snuffed the sea's breath thick with brine, + And basked me in the sun's warm shine; + Then with my prize I made my way + Once more to where the sail-boat lay. + I kept the secret--and the glass; + By day across its surface pass + The transient shapes of common things + Which chance within its oval brings. + But when at night I strive to sound + The darkness of its face profound, + Again I seem to hear the breeze + That curls the waves on summer seas; + I see the isles with cedars green; + The channels winding in between; + The coves with beaches of white sand; + The reefs where warning spindles stand; + And, through the multitudinous shimmer + Of waves and sun, again the glimmer + Of eyes unearthly falls on me, + Deep with the mystery of the sea. + + + + + A HOLIDAY ECLOGUE + + ABOVE + + _First Mason:_ + + Tink-a-link! Tink-a-link! Hear the trowels ring; + Feel the merry breezes make the scaffold swing; + See the skimming swallow brush us with her wing:-- + Go it with your hammers, boys; time us while we sing. + + BELOW. + + _First Student:_ + + See the yellow sparkle of the Neckar in the glass, + And through the cedar branches sparkles blue the sea; + Hear the sweet piano--hear the German lass + Sing Freut" euch des Lebens--Oh! "I love I love the free!" + + _Second Student:_ + + I like the canary better; + Look, how he swells his throttle! + He gurgles like musical water + That dances and sings in a bottle. + + ABOVE. + + _Second Mason:_ + + D'ye mind the students down in the grove + Drinking their wine and beer? + That's an easy life they lead. + + _First Mason:_ + + So do we up here + When the weathercock points west + And the look-off's clear. + + _Third Mason:_ + + House-top Jim's the boy for work! + + _First Mason:_ + + True for you, my dear. + (_Whistles "The Girl I Left Behind me."_) + + BELOW. + + _First Student:_ + + See the Dutchmen on those settees: + Isn't it like the Rhine? + And the old church-tower up over the trees-- + Kellner! Noch ein Stein! + + _Third Student:_ + + I'd like to work with those masons there + Half way up the sky. + The air is sweet where the pigeons build, + And the world is all in their eye. + + _Second Student:_ + + But "Love is of the valley:" the Gretchen and the Kellner + Haunt the cheerful levels of the lower story. + Glory in the garret--comfort in the cellar: + I will keep the comfort--you may take the glory. + + ABOVE. + + _First Mason:_ + + Look up at the pointers: they 're drawing close together; + 'T is here we get the earliest news of sun, and moon, and weather; + We can hear time's pulse a-ticking, with the whistling weathercock. + Drop your mortar-boards, my lads, it's coming twelve o'clock. + + _Third Mason:_ + + Oh! it's hungry that I am with working in the wind, + But there's a shawl and bonnet--below there: do you mind? + It's Molly with the dinner-pail: she's coming in the door. + Faith, my belly thinks my throat is cut this half an hour and more. + + (_The church clock strikes the noon._) + + + + + A MEMORY + + I came across the marsh to-night, + And though the wind was cold, + I stayed a moment on the bridge + To note the paly gold + + That lingered on the darkening bay; + The creek which ran below + Was frozen dumb; the dreary flats + Were overspread with snow. + + The college bell began to ring, + And as the north wind blew + Its distant janglings out to sea, + I thought, dear Friend, of you; + + And how one warm September day, + While yet the woods were green, + We strayed across the happy hills + And this wide marsh between. + + The hay-stacks dotted here and there + The water-meadows wide: + The even lines of sluices black + Were filling with the tide. + + Then this salt stream, now winter bound, + Fled softly through the sedge, + Retreating from the sparkling Sound; + And there along its edge + + We strolled, and marked the far-off sloops, + And watched the cattle graze. + O'erhead the swallows rushed in troops, + While bright with purple haze, + + West Rock looked down the winding plain-- + Ah! this was long ago; + The summer's gone, and you are gone, + As everything must go. + + + + + AMOURS PASSAGERES + + Light loves and soon forgotten hates, + Heat-lightnings of the brooding summer sky-- + Ye too bred of the summer's heat, + Ye too, like summer, fleet-- + Ye have gone by. + Walks in the woods and whispers over gates, + Gay rivalries of tennis and croquet-- + Gone with the summer sweet, + Gone with the swallow fleet + Southward away! + + Breath of the rose, laughter of maids + Kissed into silence by the setting moon; + Wind of the morn that wakes and blows, + And hastening night that goes + Too soon--too soon! + Meetings and partings, tokens, serenades, + Tears--idle tears--and coy denials vain; + Flower of the summer's rose, + Say, will your leaves unclose + Ever again? + + + + + ON A MINIATURE + + Thine old-world eyes--each one a violet + Big as the baby rose that is thy mouth-- + Set me a dreaming. Have our eyes not met + In childhood--in a garden of the South? + + Thy lips are trembling with a song of France, + My cousin, and thine eyes are dimly sweet; + 'Wildered with reading in an old romance + All afternoon upon the garden seat. + + The summer wind read with thee, and the bees + That on the sunny pages loved to crawl: + A skipping reader was the impatient breeze, + And turned the leaves, but the slow bees read all. + + And now thy foot descends the terrace stair: + I hear the rustle of thy silk attire; + I breathe the musky odors of thy hair + And airs that from thy painted fan respire. + + Idly thou pausest in the shady walk, + Thine ear attentive to the fountain's fall: + Thou mark'st the flower-de-luce sway on her stalk, + The speckled vergalieus ripening on the wall. + + Thou hast the feature of my mother's race, + The gilded comb she wore, her smile, her eye: + The blood that flushes softly in thy face + Crawls through my veins beneath this northern sky. + + As one disherited, though next of kin, + Who lingers at the barred ancestral gate, + And sadly sees the happy heir within + Stroll careless through his forfeited estate; + + Even so I watch thy southern eyes, Lisette, + Lady of my lost paradise and heir + Of summer days there were my birthright. Yet + Beauty like thine makes usurpation fair. + + + + + IM SCHWARZWALD + + The winter sunset, red upon the snow, + Lights up the narrow way that I should go; + Winding o'er bare white hilltops, whereon lie + Dark churches and the holy evening sky. + That path would lead me deep into the west, + Even to the feet of her I love the best. + + But this scarce broken track in which I stand + Runs east, up through the tan-wood's midnight land; + Where now the newly risen moon doth throw + The shadows of long stems across the snow. + This path would take me to the Jaeger's Tree + Where stands the Swabian girl and waits for me. + + Her eyes are blacker than the woods at night + And witching as the moon's uncertain light; + And there are tones in that low voice of hers + Caught from the wind among the Schwarzwald firs, + And from the Gutach's echoing waters, when + Still evening listens in the Forsthaus glen. + + I must--I must! Thou wilt forgive me, sweet; + My heart flies west but eastward move my feet; + The mad moon brightens as the sunset dies, + And yonder hexie draws me with her eyes. + _Ruck, ruck an meine gruene Seit!_ she sings + And with her arms the frozen trunk enrings, + + And lays upon its bark her little face. + How canst thou be so dead in her embrace-- + So cold against her kisses, happy tree? + Thou hast no love beyond the western sea. + Methinks that at the lightest touch of her + Thy wooden trunk should tremble, thy boughs stir: + + But at the pressure of her tender form + Thy inmost pith should feel her and grow warm: + The torpid sap should race along the vein; + The resinous buds should swell, and once again + Fresh needles shoot, as though the breeze of spring + Already through the woods came whispering. + + + + + WAITING FOR WINTER + + What honey in the year's last flowers can hide, + These little yellow butterflies may know: + With falling leaves they waver to and fro, + Or on the swinging tops of asters ride. + But I am weary of the summer's pride + And sick September's simulated show: + Why do the colder winds delay to blow + And bring the pleasant hours that we abide; + To curtained alcove and sweet household talks, + Or sweeter silence by our flickering Lars, + Returning late from autumn evening walks + Upon the frosty hills, while reddening Mars + Hangs low between the withered mullein stalks, + And upward throngs the host of winter stars? + + + + + [Greek: To Pan] + + The little creek which yesterday I saw + Ooze through the sedges, and each brackish vein + That sluiced the marsh, now filled and then again + Sucked dry to glut the sea's unsated maw, + All ebb and flow by the same rhythmic law + That times the beat of the Atlantic main-- + They also fastened to the swift moon's train + By unseen cords that no less strongly draw. + So, poet, may thy life's small tributary + Threading some bitter marsh, obscure, alone, + Feel yet one pulse with the broad estuary + That bears an emperor's fleets through half a zone: + May wait upon the same high luminary + And pitch its voice to the same ocean's tone. + + + + + THE SINGER OF ONE SONG + + He sang one song and died--no more but that: + A single song and carelessly complete. + He would not bind and thresh his chance-grown wheat, + Nor bring his wild fruit to the common vat, + To store the acid rinsings, thin and flat, + Squeezed from the press or trodden under feet. + A few slow beads, blood-red and honey sweet, + Oozed from the grape, which burst and spilled its fat. + But Time, who soonest drops the heaviest things + That weight his pack, will carry diamonds long. + So through the poet's orchestra, which weaves + One music from a thousand stops and strings, + Pierces the note of that immortal song:-- + "High over all the lonely bugle grieves." + + + + + POSTHUMOUS + + Put them in print? + Make one more dint + In the ages' furrowed rock? No, no! + Let his name and his verses go. + These idle scraps, they would but wrong + His memory, whom we honored long; + And men would ask: "Is this the best-- + Is this the whole his life expressed?" + Haply he had no care to tell + To all the thoughts which flung their spell + Around us when the night grew deep, + Making it seem a loss to sleep, + Exalting the low, dingy room + To some high auditorium. + And when we parted homeward, still + They followed us beyond the hill. + The heaven had brought new stars to sight, + Opening the map of later night; + And the wide silence of the snow, + And the dark whispers of the pines, + And those keen fires that glittered slow + Along the zodiac's wintry signs, + Seemed witnesses and near of kin + To the high dreams we held within. + + Yet what is left + To us bereft, + Save these remains, + Which now the moth + Will fret, or swifter fire consume? + These inky stains + On his table-cloth; + These prints that decked his room; + His throne, this ragged easy-chair; + This battered pipe, his councillor. + This is the sum and inventory. + No son he left to tell his story, + No gold, no lands, no fame, no book. + Yet one of us, his heirs, who took + The impress of his brain and heart + May gain from Heaven the lucky art + His untold meanings to impart + In words that will not soon decay. + Then gratefully will such one say: + "This phrase, dear friend, perhaps, is mine; + The breath that gave it life was thine." + + + + + HUGH LATIMER + + His lips amid the flame outsent + A music strong and sweet, + Like some unearthly instrument + That's played upon by heat. + + As spice-wood tough, laid on the coal, + Sets all its perfume free, + The incense of his hardy soul + Rose up exceedingly. + + To open that great flower, too cold + Were sun and vernal rain; + But fire has forced it to unfold, + Nor will it shut again. + + + + + CARCAMON + + His steed was old, his armor worn, + And he was old and worn and gray: + The light that lit his patient eyes + It shone from very far away. + + Through gay Provence he journeyed on; + To one high quest his life was true, + And so they called him _Carcamon_-- + The knight who seeketh the world through. + + A pansy blossomed on his shield; + "A token 'tis," the people say, + "That still across the world's wide field + He seeks _la dame de ses pensees_." + + For somewhere on a painted wall, + Or in the city's shifting crowd, + Or looking from a casement tall, + Or shaped of dream or evening cloud-- + + Forgotten when, forgotten where-- + Her face had filled his careless eye + A moment ere he turned and passed, + Nor knew it was his destiny. + + But ever in his dreams it came + Divine and passionless and strong, + A smile upon the imperial lips + No lover's kiss had dared to wrong. + + He took his armor from the wall-- + Ah! gone since then was many a day-- + He led his steed from out the stall + And sought _la dame de ses pensees_. + + The ladies of the Troubadours + Came riding through the chestnut grove + "Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours + And sing us a gay song of love." + + "O ladies of the Troubadours, + My lute has but a single string; + Sirventes fit for paramours, + My heart is not in tune to sing. + + "The flower that blooms upon my shield + It has another soil and spring + Than that wherein the gaudy rose + Of light Provence is blossoming. + + "The lady of my dreams doth hold + Such royal state within my mind, + No thought that comes unclad in gold + To that high court may entrance find." + + So through the chestnut groves he passed, + And through the land and far away; + Nor know I whether in the world + He found _la dame de ses pensees_. + + Only I know that in the South + Long to the harp his tale was told; + Sweet as new wine within the mouth + The small, choice words and music old. + + To scorn the promise of the real; + To seek and seek and not to find; + Yet cherish still the fair ideal-- + It is thy fate, O restless Mind! + + + + + ECCE IN DESERTO + + The wilderness a secret keeps + Upon whose guess I go: + Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard; + And yet I know, I know, + + Some day the viewless latch will lift, + The airy door swing wide + To one lost chamber of the wood + Where those shy mysteries hide,-- + + One yet unfound, receding depth, + From which the wood-thrush sings, + Still luring in to darker shades, + In--in to colder springs. + + There is no wind abroad to-day. + But hark!--the pine-tops' roar, + That sleep and in their dreams repeat + The music of the shore. + + What wisdom in their needles stirs? + What song is that they sing? + Those airs that search the forest's heart, + What rumor do they bring? + + A hushed excitement fills the gloom, + And, in the stillness, clear + The vireo's tell-tale warning rings: + "'Tis near--'tis near--'tis near!" + + As, in the fairy-tale, more loud + The ghostly music plays + When, toward the enchanted bower, the prince + Draws closer through the maze. + + Nay--nay. I track a fleeter game, + A wilder than ye know, + To lairs beyond the inmost haunt + Of thrush or vireo. + + This way it passed: the scent lies fresh; + The ferns still lightly shake. + Ever I follow hard upon, + But never overtake. + + To other woods the trail leads on, + To other worlds and new, + Where they who keep the secret here + Will keep the promise too. + + + + + TO IMOGEN AT THE HARP + + _Die Geisterwelt ist nicht verschlossen: + Dein Sinn ist zu--dein Herz ist todt. + Auf, bade, Schueler, unrerdrossen + Die ird'sche Brust im Morgenroth!_ + FAUST. + + Hast thou seen ghosts? Hast thou at midnight heard + In the wind's talking an articulate word? + Or art thou in the secret of the sea, + And have the twilight woods confessed to thee? + So wild thy song, thy smile so faint, so far + Thine absent eyes from earthly vision are. + Thy song is done: why art thou listening? + Spent is the last vibration of the string + Along the waves of sound. Oh, doth thine ear + Pursue the ebbing chord in some fine sphere, + Where wraiths of vanished echoes live and roam, + And where thy thoughts, here strangered, find a home? + Teach me the path to that uncharted land; + Discovery's keel hath never notched its strand, + No passport may unbar its sealed frontier,-- + Too far for utmost sight, for touch too near. + Subtler than light, yet all opaque, the screen + Which shuts us from that world, outspread between + The shows of sense; like as an ether thin + Fills the vast microscopic space wherein + The molecules of matter lie enisled. + A world whose sound our silence is; too wild + Its elfin music beats, too shrill, too rare, + To stir the slow pulse of our thicker air. + + A world whose light our darkness is; that lies + With its sharp edges turned toward mortal eyes, + Like figures painted on a folded fan-- + The broken colors of some hidden plan. + The few who but an instant's look have had + At the spread pattern broadwise have gone mad. + As in a high-walled oriental street + A sudden door flies open, and a fleet + Departing dream the thirsty traveler sees + Of fountains leaping in the shade of trees, + So they who once have caught the glimpse divine: + They have but wet their lips with goblins' wine, + And, plagued with thirst immortal, must endure + The visions of the heavenly calenture,-- + Of springs and dewy evening meadows rave, + While hotly round them shines the tropic wave, + And the false islands of mirage appear, + Uplifted from some transcendental sphere + Far down below the blue horizon line. + And thirst like theirs is nursed by songs like thine. + For thou, in some crepscular dim hour, + When the weak umber moon had hardly power + To cast a shadow, and a wind, half-spent, + Creeping among the way-side bushes went, + Hast seen a cobweb spun across the moon, + A faint eclipse, penumbral, gone full soon, + Yet marking on the planet's smoky ring + A silhouette as of a living thing. + Or on the beach making thy lonely range, + Close upon sunset, when the light was strange + And the low wind had meanings, thou hast known + A presence nigh, betrayed by shadows thrown + On the red sand from bodies out of sight; + Even as, by the shell of curving light + Pared from the dark moon's edge, the eye can tell + Where her full circle rounds invisible. + + Teach me the path into that silent land. + Take once again the haunted wires in hand, + And pour the strain which, waking, thou hast heard + Whistled when night was deep by some lone bird + Hid in the dark and dewy sycamore,-- + When thou hast risen and unbarred the door + And walked the garden paths till night was flown, + Listening the message sent to thee alone. + Ah! once again thy harp, thy voice once more, + Fling back the refluent tide upon the shore. + All nature grows unearthly; all things seem + To break and waver off in shapes of dream, + And through the chinks of matter steals the dawn + Of skies beyond the solar road withdrawn. + Oh, flood my soul with that pure morning-red! + It is the sense that's shut, the heart that's dead: + All open still the world of spirits lies + Would we but bathe us in its red sunrise. + + + + + THE IDEAS OF THE PURE REASON + + I saw in dreams a constellation strange, + Thwarting the night; its big stars seemed to range + Northward across the zenith, and to keep + Calm footing along heaven's ridge-pole high, + While round the pole the sullen Bear did creep + And dizzily the wheeling spheres went by. + They from their watch-towers in the topmost sky + Looked down upon the rest, + Nor eastward swerved nor west, + Though Procyon's candle dipped below the verge, + And the great twins of Leda 'gan decline + Toward the horizon line, + And prone Orion, sprawling headlong, urge + His flight into the far Pacific surge. + + I heard a voice which said: "Those wonders bright + Are hung not on the hinges of the night; + But set to vaster harmonies, they run + Straight on, and turn not with the turning sphere, + Nor make an orbit about any sun. + No glass can track the courses that they steer, + By what dark paths they vanish and appear. + The starry flocks that still + Are climbing heaven's hill + Will pasture westward down its sloping lawn; + But yon wild herd of planets,--who can say + Through what far fields they stray, + Around what focus their ellipse is drawn, + Whose shining makes their transcendental dawn?" + + I told my vision to a learned man, + Who said: "On no celestial globe or plan + Can those unset, unrisen stars be found. + How might such uncomputed motions be + Among the ordered spheres? Heaven's clock is wound + To keep one time. Idle our dreams, and we, + Blown by the wind, as the light family + Of leaves." But still I dream, + And still those planets seem + Through heaven their high, unbending course to take; + And a voice cries: "Freedom and Truth are we, + And Immortality: + God is our sun." And though the morning break, + Across my soul still plays their shimmering wake. + + + + + ON GUARD + + _O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop_ + _To help me after.--Romeo and Juliet._ + + He has chosen the death that is easy + And left me the life that is hard. + He has emptied the cup to the lees, he + Has left me alone to keep guard. + + Remains not a drop in the beaker + Of the bitter-sweet cordial he quaffed: + The strong has forsaken his weaker + And stolen his anodyne draught. + + The cause that he taught me to cherish, + The weapons he trained me to wield, + He has given it over to perish + And thrown down the sword and the shield. + + O how shall the coward persever + When the hero slinks out of the fight; + Or weakness keep up the endeavor + Abandoned by desperate might? + + The hour of stern trial has found me: + The sentinel fires are burnt low, + And I hear in the shadows around me + The stealthy approach of the foe. + + Be it so then, my master, my leader: + These helpless ones, dear to you, these + Will I fend while I may, though I bleed, or + Am beaten with blows to my knees. + + Lo here, where your body lies fallen, + I draw from its scabbard the sword + And raise it--how feebly!--and call on + Your spirit, my captain, my lord. + + The watch-fire is sunken to embers, + With signals the darkness is starred. + Let them come! There is one who remembers-- + There is one who will stand upon guard. + + + + + SURSUM CORDA + + Take courage, heart. Why dost thou faint and falter? + Why is thy light turned darkness ere the noon? + The wind blows west, no clouds the heaven alter, + Night comes not yet; with night, too, comes the moon. + + "Alas, alas! the dewy morwing weather, + The tender light that on the meadows lay, + When Youth and Hope and I set out together,-- + Light Youth, false Hope, that left me on the way!" + + Take courage yet; thou are not unattended: + See Love and Peace keep step on either hand. + How green the vales! The sky how blue! How splendid + The strong white sunshine sleeps across the land! + + "Alas the thrushes' song hath long had ending + I heard at dawn among the pine woods cool. + The brook is still, whose rocky stair descending, + I drank at sunrise from each rosy pool." + + The noon is still; the songs of dawn are over; + Yet turn not back to prove thy memories vain. + The mist upon the hills canst thou recover, + Or bring to eastern skies the bloom again? + + But courage still! Without return or swerving, + Across the globe's huge shadow keep the track, + Till, unperceived, the slow meridian's curving, + That leads thee onward, yet shall lead thee back, + + To stand again with daybreak on the mountains, + And, where the paths of night and morning meet, + To drink once more of youth's forgotten fountains, + When thou hast put the world between thy feet. + + + + + LOVE, DEATH AND LIFE + + The warm wind comes in rushes, + The night is thick and sweet: + I cannot see the bushes-- + The tall syringa bushes + Above the gate that meet, + Whose fallen blooms she crushes + Under her heedless feet; + But their heavy, rich perfume + Is round us in the gloom + Which lends its friendly cover + To bashful maid and lover: + Which cheats me of her blushes + But makes her kiss complete. + 'Way down the village street + A lantern swings and dances + In front of the old church porch, + And throws its telltale glances + On the puddles and the plashes, + And flares in the wind like a torch, + And scatters sudden flashes + On the elm leaves overhead. + But you need have no dread + Of that harmless, far-off spark; + For the night is thick and dark, + O the dark is thick and sweet! + So, closer: let the beat + Of your heart encounter mine. + (How you tremble--like a leaf!) + O you do not need to fear + Any shame or any grief + While my arms around you twine + And the night wind pours its wine. + Come nearer, still more near; + Press closer, closer yet. + Your cheeks are warm and wet, + Like this wind from out the south, + And warm and wet your mouth; + And yon lantern won't discover + The maiden and her lover. + 'Tis only the sexton, nothing more-- + There was a funeral to-day-- + The sexton locking the church door, + Locking it up and going away. + Why should it fall on a day like this? + What has death to do in a world of bliss? + O passionate black night! + O rush of the southern breeze, + Laden with blossoms and rain, + Asserter of life and its right, + Cherisher, breeder of things, + Swelling the sap in the trees, + Swelling the blood in the vein, + Filling the rivers and springs: + Whisper the girl at my side, + Quicken her pulse with thy breath, + Teach her the way of a bride, + Teach her to take and to give. + What hast thou to do with us, Death? + By God, we live! + + + + + THE DYING PANTHEIST TO THE PRIEST + + Take your ivory Christ away: + No dying god shall have my knee, + While live gods breathe in this wild wind + And shout from yonder dashing sea. + + When March brings back the Adonis flower + No more the white processions meet, + With incense to the risen lord, + About the pillared temple's feet. + + From tusk of boar, from thrust of spear + The dead rise not. At Eastertide + The same sun dances on their graves-- + Love's darling and the Crucified. + + Yet still the year's returning tide + Flows greenly round each ruined plinth, + Breaking on fallen shafts in foam + Of crocus and of hyacinth: + + Tossing a spray of swallows high, + To flutter lightly on the breeze + And fleck with tiny spots of shade + The sunshine on the broken frieze. + + I know the gray-green asphodels + Still sheet the dim Elysian mead, + And ever by dark Lethe's wells + The poppy sheds her ghostly seed. + + And once--O once!--when sunset lay + Blood red across the winter sea, + Where on the sands we drained our flasks + And danced and cried our _Evoe_! + + Among the tossing cakes of ice + And spouting of the frozen spray, + We saw their white limbs twist and whirl-- + The ancient sea-gods at their play. + + The gold-brown liquor burned my heart, + The icy tempest stung my brow: + The twanging of Apollo's lyre-- + I heard it as I hear it now. + + O no, the old gods are not dead: + I think that they will never die; + But, I, who lie upon this bed + In mortal anguish--what am I? + + A wave that rises with a breath + Above the infinite watery plain, + To foam and sparkle in the sun + A moment ere it sink again. + + The eternal undulation runs: + A man, I die: perchance to be, + Next life, a white-throat on the wind, + A daffodil on Tempe's lea. + + They lied who said that Pan was dead: + Life was, life is, and life shall be. + So take away your crucifix-- + The everliving gods for me! + + + + + THE UPLAND + + We often go a-driving across the pleasant land, + In summer through the pine woods dark, or by the ocean strand; + But when the orchards blossom, and when the apples fall, + We seek the high hill country that props the mountain wall. + + Old farms with mossed stone fences, old grassy roads that wind + Forever on and upward to higher fields behind, + By ancient bush-grown pastures, bestrewn with boulders gray, + And lonely meadow slopes that bear thin crops of upland hay. + + As, terrace over terrace, we climb the mountain stair, + More solitary grow the ways, more wild the farms and rare, + And slenderer in their rocky beds the singing brooks that go + Down-slipping to the valley stream a thousand feet below. + + Above us and above us still the grim escarpments rise, + Till homeward we must turn at last, or ere the daylight dies, + And leave unscaled the summit height, the even ridge o'erhead, + Where smolder through the cedar screen the sunset embers red. + + What should we see, if once we won on that top step to stand? + A wondrous valley world beyond? A far-stretched tableland? + Almost it seems as though there lay the threshold of the sky, + And that the foot which crossed that sill would enter Heaven thereby. + + And when, dear heart, the years have left us once again alone, + And from our empty nest the broods have scattered forth and flown, + Shall we not have the old horse round and take the well-known track + Into the high hill country, and never more come back? + + + + + THE REMAINDER + + Now faith is dead and hope is deadly sick, + And joy--dear joy--she died so long ago + I have forgot her face; but these are quick, + Black care, and stinging shame, and bitter woe. + + Then what is left in my Pandora's chest? + Courage is left, but mated with despair, + Who should have wed with hope. Yet be ye blest-- + Rise up and take your blessing, happy pair! + + I lay in thine, sad bride, this princely hand-- + In all the world there is no nobler name-- + And thou, brave groom--though 'tis not what we planned-- + Take her, she will be true: be thou the same. + + Courage and sorrow: might these two give birth? + O thought too bold, O dream too sweet, too wild? + Though joy--dear joy--be dead and cold in earth, + Her ghost is peace, and love is sorrow's child. + + + + + THE PASTURE BARS + + The hunted stag, now nearly spent, + Turns homeward to his lair: + The wounded Bedouin seeks his tent + And finds safe shelter there. + + So life returns upon its track: + We toil, we fight, we roam, + Till the long shadows point us back, + And evening brings us home. + + To-night beside the pasture bars + I heard the whippoorwill, + While, one by one, the early stars + Came out above the hill. + + I heard the tinkle of the spring, + I heard the cattle pass + Slow through the dusk, and lingering + To crop the wayside grass. + + O weary world of fret and strife, + O noisy years and vain, + What have you paid me for my life + Since last, along this lane, + + A barefoot boy, I drove the cows + In summer twilights still, + And paused beneath the orchard boughs + To list the whippoorwill? + + Come, peace of God, that passeth all + Our understanding's sight: + Fall on me with the dews that fall, + And with the falling night. + + Among these native hills and plains, + By these baptismal streams, + Wash off the city's fever stains, + Bring back my boyhood's dreams. + + Beside the doors where life began + Here let it find its close; + And be its brief, remaining span + All given to repose. + + + + + THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN + + We sit before the curtain, and we heed the pleasant bustle: + The ushers hastening up the aisles, the fans' and programmes' rustle; + The boy that cries librettos, and the soft, incessant sound + Of talking and low laughter that buzzes all around. + + How very old the drop-scene looks! A thousand times before + I've seen that blue paint dashing on that red distemper shore; + The castle and the guazzo sky, the very ilex-tree,-- + They have been there a thousand years,--a thousand more shall be. + + All our lives we have been waiting for that weary daub to rise; + We have peeped behind its edges, "as if we were God's spies;" + We have listened for the signal; yet still, as in our youth, + The colored screen of matter hangs between us and the truth. + + When in my careless childhood I dwelt beside a wood, + I tired of the clearing where my father's cabin stood; + And of the wild young forest paths that coaxed me to explore, + Then dwindled down, or led me back to where I stood before. + + But through the woods before our door a wagon track went by, + Above whose utmost western edge there hung an open sky; + And there it seemed to make a plunge, or break off suddenly, + As though beneath that open sky it met the open sea. + + Oh, often have I fancied, in the sunset's dreamy glow, + That mine eyes had caught the welter of the ocean waves below; + And the wind among the pine-tops, with its low and ceaseless roar, + Was but an echo from the surf on that imagined shore. + + Alas! as I grew older, I found that road led down + To no more fair horizon than the squalid factory town: + So all life's purple distances, when nearer them I came, + Have played me still the same old cheat,--the same, the same, the same! + + And when, O King, the heaven departeth as a scroll, + Wilt thou once more the promise break thou madest to my soul? + Shall I see thy feasting presence thronged with baron, knight, and page? + Or will the curtain rise upon a dark and empty stage? + + For lo, quick undulations across the canvas run; + The foot-lights brighten suddenly, the orchestra has done; + And through the expectant silence rings loud the prompter's bell; + The curtain shakes,--it rises. Farewell, dull world, farewell! + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Two Twilights, by Henry A. Beers + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWO TWILIGHTS *** + +***** This file should be named 34741.txt or 34741.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/7/4/34741/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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