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diff --git a/old/52448-0.txt b/old/52448-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3a4d4d1..0000000 --- a/old/52448-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2485 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of the Trees & Other Poems, by -Ethelwyn Wetherald - -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/license - - -Title: The House of the Trees & Other Poems - -Author: Ethelwyn Wetherald - -Release Date: June 30, 2016 [EBook #52448] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE TREES *** - - - - -Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - [Illustration: portrait of the author.] - - - - - [Illustration: - - THE HOUSE OF THE TREES - & OTHER POEMS - - · ETHELWYN · - · WETHERALD · - - LAMSON, WOLFFE & CO. - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - WILLIAM BRIGGS, TORONTO] - - Copyright, 1895, - By Lamson, Wolffe, & Co. - All rights reserved. - - To F. B. - -Many of the poems in this volume are printed here for the first time; -several, however, have appeared in either the “New York Independent,” -the “New England Magazine,” the “Youth’s Companion,” the “Toronto Week,” -or the “Travelers’ Record,” and to their editors thanks are due for -permission to reprint them. - - - - -Contents - - -The House of the Trees Page 3 - -The Sun on the Trees 4 - -Moonlight 5 - -Pine Needles 6 - -The Sound of the Axe 7 - -The Prayer of the Year 9 - -The Hay Field 10 - -Twilight 12 - -The Sky Path 13 - -Fall and Spring 14 - -The Woodside Way 15 - -A Rainy Day 16 - -When Twilight Comes 17 - -Leafless April 18 - -The Visitors 19 - -Autumn Days 20 - -Woodland Worship 21 - -When Days Are Long 22 - -Out of Doors 23 - -Make Room 24 - -The Humming Bird 25 - -September 26 - -The March Orchard 28 - -The Blind Man 30 - -To the October Wind 32 - -A Midday in Midsummer 33 - -A Slow Rain 35 - -The Patient Earth 36 - -At Dawn 39 - -In the Crowd 41 - -By Fields of Grass 42 - -October 43 - -Winter 44 - -The Snow-Storm 45 - -To February 46 - -Rest 47 - -The Shy Sun 48 - -In April 49 - -Apple Blossoms 50 - -The Big Moon 51 - -The Twins 53 - -Autumn Fire 55 - -In the Grass 56 - -The Fields of Dark 57 - -Children in the City 59 - -Where Pleasures Grow 60 - -In the Heart of the Woods 61 - -Frost 62 - -The Chipmunk 63 - -Give Me the Poorest Weed 64 - -The Weeks that Walk in Green 65 - -Noonday of the Year 66 - -The Wind World 67 - -At the Window 68 - -Come Back Again 69 - -A Rainy Morning 71 - -June Apples 72 - -Beginning and End 73 - -Not at Home 75 - -The Wind of Memory 76 - -Philippa 78 - -The Student 79 - -Unspoken 80 - -Under the King 83 - -The Secret 84 - -Limitation 85 - -Three Years Old 86 - -Sometime, I Fear 88 - -Joy 89 - -In the Dark 91 - -Words 92 - -The Wind of Death 93 - - - - - The House of the Trees - - - - - The House of the Trees - - - Ope your doors and take me in, - Spirit of the wood; - Wash me clean of dust and din, - Clothe me in your mood. - - Take me from the noisy light - To the sunless peace, - Where at midday standeth Night, - Signing Toil’s release. - - All your dusky twilight stores - To my senses give; - Take me in and lock the doors, - Show me how to live. - - Lift your leafy roof for me, - Part your yielding walls, - Let me wander lingeringly - Through your scented halls. - - Ope your doors and take me in, - Spirit of the wood; - Take me--make me next of kin - To your leafy brood. - - - - - The Sun on the Trees - - - The sun within the leafy woods - Is like a midday moon, - So soft upon these solitudes - Is bent the face of noon. - - Loosed from the outside summer blaze - A few gold arrows stray; - A vagrant brilliance droops or plays - Through all the dusky day. - - The gray trunk feels a touch of light, - While, where dead leaves are deep, - A gleam of sunshine golden white - Lies like a soul asleep. - - And just beyond dank-rooted ferns, - Where darkening hemlocks sigh - And leaves are dim, the bare road burns - Beneath a dazzling sky. - - - - - Moonlight - - - When I see the ghost of night - Stealing through my window-pane, - Silken sleep and silver light - Struggle for my soul in vain; - Silken sleep all balmily - Breathes upon my lids oppressed, - Till I sudden start to see - Ghostly fingers on my breast. - - White and skyey visitant, - Bringing beauty such as stings - All my inner soul to pant - After undiscovered things, - Spare me this consummate pain! - Silken weavings intercreep - Round my senses once again, - I am mortal--let me sleep. - - - - - Pine Needles - - - Here where the pine tree to the ground - Lets slip its fragrant load, - My footsteps fall without a sound - Upon a velvet road. - - O poet pine, that turns thy gaze - Alone unto the sky, - How softly on earth’s common ways - Thy sweet thoughts fall and lie! - - So sweet, so deep, seared by the sun, - And smitten by the rain, - They pierce the heart of every one - With fragrance keen as pain. - - Or if some pass nor heed their sweet, - Nor feel their subtle dart, - Their softness stills the noisy feet, - And stills the noisy heart. - - O poet pine, thy needles high - In starry light abode, - And now for footsore passers-by - They make a velvet road. - - - - - The Sound of the Axe - - - With the sound of an axe on the light wind’s tracks - For my only company, - And a speck of sky like a human eye - Blue, bending over me, - - I lie at rest on the low moss pressed, - Whose loose leaves downward drip; - As light they move as a word of love - Or a finger to the lip. - - ’Neath the canopies of the sunbright trees - Pierced by an Autumn ray, - To rich red flakes the old log breaks - In exquisite decay. - - While in the pines where no sun shines - Perpetual morning lies. - What bed more sweet could stay her feet, - Or hold her dreaming eyes? - - No sound is there in the middle air - But sudden wings that soar, - As a strange bird’s cry goes drifting by-- - And then I hear once more - - That sound of an axe till the great tree cracks, - Then a crash comes as if all - The winds that through its bright leaves blew - Were sorrowing in its fall. - - - - - The Prayer of the Year - - - Leave me Hope when I am old, - Strip my joys from me, - Let November to the cold - Bare each leafy tree; - Chill my lover, dull my friend, - Only, while I grope - To the dark the silent end, - Leave me Hope! - - Blight my bloom when I am old, - Bid my sunlight cease; - If it need be from my hold - Take the hand of Peace. - Leave no springtime memory, - But upon the slope - Of the days that are to be, - Leave me Hope! - - - - - The Hay Field - - - With slender arms outstretching in the sun - The grass lies dead; - The wind walks tenderly, and stirs not one - Frail, fallen head. - - Of baby creepings through the April day - Where streamlets wend, - Of childlike dancing on the breeze of May, - This is the end. - - No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew, - No more they reach, - To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue - A whispered speech. - - No more they part their arms, and wreathe them close - Again to shield - Some love-full little nest--a dainty house - Hid in a field. - For them no more the splendor of the storm, - The fair delights - Of moon and star-shine, glimmering faint and warm - On summer nights. - - Their little lives they yield in summer death, - And frequently - Across the field bereaved their dying breath - Is brought to me. - - - - - Twilight - - - I saw her walking in the rain, - And sweetly drew she nigh; - And then she crossed the hills again - To bid the day good-by. - “Good-by! good-by! - The world is dim as sorrow; - But close beside the morning sky - I’ll say a glad Good-morrow!” - - O dweller in the darling wood, - When near to death I lie, - Come from your leafy solitude, - And bid my soul good-by. - Good-by! good-by! - The world is dim as sorrow; - But close beside the morning sky - O say a glad Good-morrow! - - - - - The Sky Path - - - I hear the far moon’s silver call - High in the upper wold; - And shepherd-like it gathers all - My thoughts into its fold. - - Oh happy thoughts, that wheresoe’er - They wander through the day, - Come home at eve to upper air - Along a shining way. - - Though some are weary, some are torn, - And some are fain to grieve, - And some the freshness of the morn - Have kept until the eve, - - And some perversely seek to roam - E’en from their shepherd bright, - Yet all are gathered safely home, - And folded for the night. - - Oh happy thoughts, that with the streams - The trees and meadows share - The sky path to the gate of dreams, - In their white shepherd’s care. - - - - - Fall and Spring - - - From the time the wind wakes - To the time of snowflakes, - That’s the time the heart aches - Every cloudy day; - That’s the time the heart takes - Thought of all its heart-breaks, - That’s the time the heart makes - Life a cloudy way. - - From the time the grass creeps - To the time the wind sleeps, - That’s the time the heart leaps - To the golden ray; - That’s the time that joy sweeps - Through the depths of heart-deeps, - That’s the time the heart keeps - Happy holiday. - - - - - The Woodside Way - - - I wandered down the woodside way, - Where branching doors ope with the breeze, - And saw a little child at play - Among the strong and lovely trees; - The dead leaves rustled to her knees; - Her hair and eyes were brown as they. - - “Oh, little child,” I softly said, - “You come a long, long way to me; - The trees that tower overhead - Are here in sweet reality, - But you’re the child I used to be, - And all the leaves of May you tread.” - - - - - A Rainy Day - - - It has been twilight all the day, - And as the twilight peace - On daily fetters seems to lay - The finger of release, - - So, needless as to tree and flower - Seem care and fear and pain; - Our hearts grow fresher every hour, - And brighten in the rain. - - - - - When Twilight Comes - - - All out of doors for all life’s way, - The fields and the woods and the good sunlight; - And then in the chill of the evening gray, - A sheltered nook and the hearth-fire bright. - - No hearth, no shelter attend my way! - Not late, dear life, linger not too late; - But before the chill and before the gray, - Let the sunset gild the grave-stone date. - - - - - Leafless April - - - Leafless April chased by light, - Chased by dark and full of laughter, - Stays a moment in her flight - Where the warmest breezes waft her, - By the meadow brook to lean, - Or where winter rye is growing, - Showing in a lovelier green - Where her wayward steps are going. - - Blithesome April brown and warm, - Showing slimness through her tatters, - Chased by sun or chased by storm-- - Not a whit to her it matters. - Swiftly through the violet bed, - Down to where the stream is flooding - Light she flits--and round her head - See the orchard branches budding! - - - - - The Visitors - - - In the room where I was sleeping - The sun came to the floor; - Its silent thought went leaping - To where in woods of yore - It felt the sun before. - - At noon the rain was slanting - In gray lines from the west; - A hurried child all panting - It pattered to my nest, - And smiled when sun-caressed. - - At eve the wind was flying - Bird-like from bed to chair, - Of brown leaves sere and dying - It brought enough to spare, - And dropped them here and there. - - At night-time without warning, - I felt almost to pain - The soul of the sun in the morning, - And the soul of the wind and rain - In my sleeping-room remain. - - - - - Autumn Days - - - Autumn days are sun crowned, - Full of laughing breath; - Light their leafy feet are dancing - Down the way to death. - - Scarlet-shrouded to the grave - I watch them gayly go; - So may I as blithely die - Before November snow. - - - - - Woodland Worship - - - Here ’mid these leafy walls - Are sylvan halls, - And all the Sabbaths of the year - Are gathered here. - - Upon their raptured mood - My steps intrude, - Then wait--as some freed soul might wait - At heaven’s gate. - - Nowhere on earth--nowhere - On sea or air, - Do I as easily escape - This earthly shape, - - As here upon the white - And dizzy height - Of utmost worship, where it seems - Too still for dreams. - - - - - When Days Are Long - - - When twilight late delayeth, - And morning wakes in song, - And fields are full of daisies, - I know the days are long; - When Toil is stretched at nooning, - Where leafy pleasures throng, - When nights o’errun in music, - I know the days are long. - - When suns afoot are marching, - And rains are quick and strong, - And streams speak in a whisper, - I know the days are long. - When hills are clad in velvet, - And winds can do no wrong, - And woods are deep and dusky, - I know the days are long. - - - - - Out of Doors - - - In the urgent solitudes - Lies the spur to larger moods; - In the friendship of the trees - Dwell all sweet serenities. - - - - - Make Room - - - Room for the children out of doors, - For heads of gold or gloom; - For raspberry lips and rose-leaf cheeks and palms, - Make room--make room! - - Room for the springtime out of doors, - For buds in green or bloom; - For every brown bare-handed country weed - Make room--make room! - - Room for earth’s sweetest out of doors, - And for its worst a tomb; - For housed-up griefs and fears, and scorns, and sighs, - No room--no room! - - - - - The Humming Bird - - - Against my window-pane - He plunges at a mass - Of buds--and strikes in vain - The intervening glass. - - O sprite of wings and fire - Outstretching eagerly, - My soul with like desire - To probe thy mystery, - - Comes close as breast to bloom, - As bud to hot heart-beat, - And gains no inner room, - And drains no hidden sweet. - - - - - September - - - But yesterday all faint for breath, - The Summer laid her down to die; - And now her frail ghost wandereth - In every breeze that loiters by. - Her wilted prisoners look up, - As wondering who hath broke their chain, - Too deep they drank of summer’s cup, - They have no strength to rise again. - - How swift the trees, their mistress gone, - Enrobe themselves for revelry! - Ungovernable winds upon - The wold are dancing merrily. - With crimson fruits and bursting nuts, - And whirling leaves and flushing streams, - The spirit of September cuts - Adrift from August’s languid dreams. - - A little while the revellers - Shall flame and flaunt and have their day, - And then will come the messengers - Who travel on a cloudy way. - And after them a form of light, - A sense of iron in the air, - Upon the pulse a touch of might - And winter’s legions everywhere. - - - - - The March Orchard - - - Unleaved, undrooping, still, they stand, - This stanch and patient pilgrim band; - October robbed them of their fruit, - November stripped them to the root, - The winter smote their helplessness - With furious ire and stormy stress, - And now they seem almost to stand - In sight of Summer’s Promised Land. - - Yet seen through frosty window-panes, - When bared and bound in wintry chains, - Their lightsome spirits seemed to play - With February as with May. - The snow that turned the skies afrown - Enwrapt them in the softest down, - And rains that dulled the landscape o’er - But left them livelier than before. - - But now this June-like day of March - With patient strength their branches arch, - Not as unmindful of the breeze - That makes midsummer melodies, But knowing Spring a fickle maid, - And that rough days must dawn and fade - Before, all blossoming bright, they stand - In sight of Summer’s Promised Land. - - - - - The Blind Man - - - The blind man at his window bars - Stands in the morning dewy dim; - The lily-footed dawn, the stars - That wait for it, are naught to him. - - And naught to his unseeing eyes - The brownness of a sunny plain, - Where worn and drowsy August lies, - And wakens but to sleep again. - - And naught to him a greening slope, - That yearns up to the heights above, - And naught the leaves of May, that ope - As softly as the eyes of love. - - And naught to him the branching aisles, - Athrong with woodland worshippers, - And naught the fields where summer smiles - Among her sunburned laborers. - - The way a trailing streamlet goes, - The barefoot grasses on its brim, - The dew a flower cup o’erflows - With silent joy, are hid from him. - To him no breath of nature calls; - Upon his desk his work is laid; - He looks up at the dingy walls, - And listens to the voice of Trade. - - - - - To the October Wind - - - Old playmate, showering the way - With thick leaf storms in red and gold, - I’m only six years old to-day, - You’ve made me feel but six years old. - In yellow gown and scarlet hood - I whirled, a leaf among the rest, - Or lay within the thinning wood, - And played that you were Red-of-breast. - - Old comrade, lift me up again; - Your arms are strong, your feet are swift, - And bear me lightly down the lane - Through all the leaves that drift and drift, - And out into the twilight wood, - And lay me softly down to rest, - And cover me just as you would - If you were really Red-of-breast. - - - - - A Midday in Midsummer - - - The sky’s great curtains downward steal, - The earth’s fair company - Of trees and streams and meadows feel - A sense of privacy. - - Upon the vast expanse of heat - Light-footed breezes pace; - To waves of gold they tread the wheat, - They lift the sunflower’s face. - - The cruel sun is blotted out, - The west is black with rain, - The drooping leaves in mingled doubt - And hope look up again. - - The weeds and grass on tiptoe stand, - A strange exultant thrill - Prepares the dazed uncertain land - For the wild tempest’s will. - - The wind grows big and breathes aloud - As it runs hurrying past; - At one sharp blow the thunder-cloud - Lets loose the furious blast. - The earth is beaten, drenched and drowned, - The elements go mad; - Swift streams of joy flow o’er the ground, - And all the leaves are glad. - - Then comes a momentary lull, - The darkest clouds are furled, - And lo, new washed and beautiful - And breathless gleams the world. - - - - - A Slow Rain - - - A drowsy rain is stealing - In slowness without stop; - The sun-dried earth is feeling - Its coolness, drop by drop. - - The clouds are slowly wasting - Their too long garnered store, - Each thirsty clod is tasting - One drop--and then one more. - - Oh, ravishing as slumber - To wearied limbs and eyes, - And countless as the number - Of stars in wintry skies, - - And sweet as the caresses - By baby fingers made, - These delicate rain kisses - On leaf and flower and blade. - - - - - The Patient Earth - - - I - - The patient earth that loves the grass, - The flocks and herds that o’er it pass, - That guards the smallest summer nest - Within her scented bosom pressed, - And gives to beetle, moth, and bee - A lavish hospitality, - Still waits through weary years to bind - The hearts of suffering human kind. - - - II - - How far we roamed away from her, - The tender mother of us all! - Yet ’mid the city’s noises stir - The sound of birds that call and call, - Wind melodies that rise and fall - Along the perfumed woodland wall - We looked upon with childhood’s eyes; - The ugly streets are all a blur, - And in our hearts are homesick cries. - - - - III - - The loving earth that roots the trees - So closely to her inmost heart, - Has rooted us as well as these, - Not long from her we live apart; - We draw upon a lengthening string, - For months perhaps, perhaps for years, - And plume ourselves that we are free, - And then--we hear a robin sing - Where starving grass shows stunted spears, - Or haycart moving fragrantly - Where creaking tavern sign-boards swing; - Then closer, tighter draws the chain, - The man, too old and worn for tears, - Goes back to be a child again. - - - IV - - The greed that took us prisoner - First led our steps away from her; - For lust of gold we gave up life, - And sank heart-deep in worldly strife. - And when Success--belovèd name-- - At last with faltering footsteps came, - The city’s rough, harsh imps of sound - And Competition’s crush and cheat - Were in her wreath securely bound; - Her fruits still savored of the street, - Its choking dust, its wearied feet, - Her poorest like her richest prize - Was rotted o’er with envious eyes, - And sickened with the human heat - Of hands that strove to clutch it fast, - And struggling gave it up at last. - Not so where nature summer-crowned - Makes fields and woods a pleasure-ground, - Sky-blest, wind-kissed, and circled round - With waters lapsing cool and sweet. - - - V - - O Earth, sweet Mother, take us back! - With woodland strength and orchard joy, - And river peace without alloy, - Flood us who on the city’s track - Have followed stifling sordid years, - Cleanse us with dew and meadow rain, - Till life’s horizon lights and clears, - And nature claims us once again. - - - - - At Dawn - - - A spirit through - My window came when earth was soft with dew, - Close at the tender edge of dawn when all - The spring was new, - - And bore me back - Along her rose-and-starry tinted track, - And showed me how the full-winged day emerged - From out the black. - - She knew the speech - Of all the deep-pink blossoms of the peach, - Told in my ear the meanings of the trees, - The thoughts of each; - - Explained to me - The language of the bird and frog and bee, - The messages the streams and rivers take - Unto the sea. - Alas! Alas! - I have forgot. The dream did from me pass. - I know not e’en the meaning dear and sweet - Of common grass. - - And now when I - Roam this strange earth beneath a stranger sky, - Soft syllables of that forgotten speech - Faint as a sigh, - - Come back again, - With sweet solicitings that urge like pain, - And brood like love--as full of light and dark - As April rain. - - - - - In the Crowd - - - Here in the crowded city’s busy street, - Swayed by the eager, jostling, hasting throng, - Where Traffic’s voice grows harsher and more strong, - I see within the stream of hurrying feet - A company of trees in their retreat, - Dew-bathed, dream-wrapped, and with a thrush’s song - Emparadising all the place, along - Whose paths I hear the pulse of Beauty beat. - - ’Twas yesterday I walked beneath the trees, - To-day I tread the city’s stony ways; - And still the spell that o’er my spirit came - Turns harshest sounds to shy bird ecstasies, - Pours scent of pine through murky chimney haze, - And gives each careworn face a woodland frame. - - - - - By Fields of Grass - - - By fields of grass and woodland silences - The city’s tumult is encamped around; - The jingling, clanging, shrieking fiends of sound - Expire within the wide world-circling breeze. - The soul amid a multitude of trees, - Or grass enveloped on the fragrant ground, - Is lifted to its utmost starry round, - And listens to celestial harmonies. - - From this unspeakably divine rebirth, - Its sordid life returning shows through rifts - How purely spreads the sky, how musical - The streams and breezes flow across the earth, - How light the tree its fruity load uplifts, - How easily the weed is beautiful. - - - - - October - - - Against the winter’s heav’n of white the blood - Of earth runs very quick and hot to-day; - A storm of fiery leaves are out at play - Around the lingering sunset of the wood. - Where rows of blackberries unnoticed stood, - Run streams of ruddy color wildly gay; - The golden lane half dreaming picks its way - Through ’whelming vines, as through a gleaming flood. - - O warm, outspoken earth, a little space - Against thy beating heart my heart shall beat, - A little while they twain shall bleed and burn, - And then the cold touch and the gray, gray face, - The frozen pulse, the drifted winding-sheet, - And speechlessness, and the chill burial urn. - - - - - Winter - - - Now that the earth has hid her lovely brood - Of green things in her breast safe out of sight, - And all the trees have stripped them for the fight, - The winter comes with wild winds singing rude - Hoarse battle songs--so furious in feud - That nothing lives that has not felt their bite. - They sound a trumpet in the dead of night - That makes more solitary solitude. - - Against the forest doors how fierce they beat! - Against the porch, against the school-bound boy - With crimson cheek bent to his shaggy coat. - The earth is pale but steadfast, hearing sweet - But far--how far away! the stream of joy - Outpouring from a bluebird’s tender throat. - - - - - The Snow-Storm - - - The great, soft, downy snow-storm like a cloak - Descends to wrap the lean world head to feet; - It gives the dead another winding-sheet, - It buries all the roofs until the smoke - Seems like a soul that from its clay has broke; - It broods moon-like upon the Autumn wheat, - And visits all the trees in their retreat, - To hood and mantle that poor shiv’ring folk. - - With wintry bloom it fills the harshest grooves - In jagged pine stump fences. Every sound - It hushes to the footstep of a nun. - Sweet Charity! that brightens where it moves, - Inducing darkest bits of churlish ground - To give a radiant answer to the sun. - - - - - To February - - - O master-builder, blustering as you go - About your giant work, transforming all - The empty woods into a glittering hall, - And making lilac lanes and footpaths grow - As hard as iron under stubborn snow, - Though every fence stand forth a marble wall, - And windy hollows drift to arches tall, - There comes a might that shall your might o’erthrow. - - Build high your white and dazzling palaces, - Strengthen your bridges, fortify your towers, - Storm with a loud and a portentous lip; - And April with a fragmentary breeze, - And half a score of gentle, golden hours, - Shall leave no trace of your stern workmanship. - - - - - Rest - - - From the depths of dreams I am drawn - To the inner depth of a pine, - That near my window keeps the dawn-- - A dawn that is wholly mine. - Dream-rest and pine-rest, - And a cool, gray path between-- - A cool, gray path from the night’s breast - To the heart of the living green. - - To the depths of dreams I go - On the sounds of falling rain, - That in the night-time gently flow - In a stream on my window-pane. - Stream-rest and dream-rest, - And a cool, dark path between-- - A cool, dark path from the rain’s breast - To the heart of the soft unseen. - - - - - The Shy Sun - - - The sun went with me to the wood, - And lingered at the door; - One glance he gave from where he stood, - But dared not venture more, - - Nor knew that in the heart of her - Who felt his presence nigh, - His love was all the lovelier - Because his look was shy. - - - - - In April - - - When Spring unbound comes o’er us like a flood, - My spirit slips its bars, - And thrills to see the trees break into bud - As skies break into stars; - - And joys that earth is green with eager grass, - The heavens gray with rain, - And quickens when the spirit breezes pass, - And turn and pass again; - - And dreams upon frog melodies at night, - Bird ecstasies at dawn, - And wakes to find sweet April at her height - And May still beck’ning on; - - And feels its sordid work, its empty play, - Its failures and its stains - Dissolved in blossom dew, and washed away - In delicate spring rains. - - - - - Apple Blossoms - - - Amid the young year’s breathing hopes, - When eager grasses wrap the earth, - I see on greening orchard slopes - The blossoms trembling into birth. - They open wide their rosy palms - To feel the hesitating rain, - Or beg a longed-for golden alms - From skies that deep in clouds have lain. - - They mingle with the bluebird’s songs, - And with the warm wind’s reverie; - To sward and stream their snow belongs, - To neighboring pines in flocks they flee. - O doubly crowned, with breathing hopes - The branches bending down to earth, - That feel on greening orchard slopes - Their blossoms trembling into birth. - - - - - The Big Moon - - - The big moon came to the edge of the sky, - And pierced me with its dart; - I strove to put its brightness by - Before it burned my heart. - - I wrapped the windows thick and well, - I closely barred the door, - The light of my penny candles fell - On low-built wall and floor. - - The little room and the little light - Began to comfort me; - But I heard--I heard the golden night - Call like a sounding sea. - - I knew the moon swam in the sky, - And the earth swam in the moon; - I went outside in the grass to lie, - To yield to the deadly swoon. - - My soul was filled with white moon rain - Till it ran o’er and o’er, - My soul was thrilled with bright moon pain - Till it could bear no more; - I stole back through the curtained gloom - Up stairs unlit and steep, - And in a low-ceiled darkened room - My hurt was healed with sleep. - - - - - The Twins - - - I - - The old man and his apple-tree - Are verging close on eighty-three; - ’Twas planted there when he was two, - And almost side by side they grew. - How strong and straight they were at eight, - One leafy, one with curly pate. - How fine at twenty, how alive - And prosperous at twenty-five. - What health and grace in every limb, - Was said of it--was said of him. - - - II - - Then when he blushed, a marriage groom, - The tree outvied the bride in bloom; - And in the after years there played - Within its ample sweep of shade - A little child, with cheeks as red - As had the apples overhead. - Her father called the tree his twin, - And surely it was next of kin. - - - - III - - The best of life came to the twain, - The beauty of the stars, the rain, - Soft stepping, and the liquid notes - That overflow from feathered throats. - Unto the soul that selfish strives - Was borne the fragrance of their lives, - And anxious folk with brow down bent - Bathed in their dewy cool content. - They held their heads up in the storm, - And gloried when the winds were warm; - Their shadows lay but at their feet, - And all of life above was sweet. - - - IV - - And now that they are eighty-three - They’re almost as they used to be. - The blossoms are as pink and white, - The old man’s heart as pure and light. - The apples--fragrant balls of flame-- - Are looking, tasting, just the same. - And just the same his uttered thought - Of mirth and wisdom quaintly wrought. - Through all their years they kept their truth, - Their strength, and that sweet look of youth. - - - - - Autumn Fire - - - The fires of Autumn are burning high; - Bright the trees in the woods are blazing-- - A wall of flame from the brilliant sky - Down to the fields where the cattle are grazing. - O the warm, warm end of the year! - Even the shrubs their red hearts render; - All the bushes are bright with cheer - And the tamest vine has a touch of splendor. - - The fires of Autumn are burning low; - Blow, ye winds, and cease not blowing! - Blow the flames to a ruddier show, - Heap the coals to a hotter glowing. - Ah, the chill, chill end of the year! - Naught is left but a few leaf flashes; - White is the death stone, white and drear, - Over a desolate world of ashes. - - - - - In the Grass - - - Face downward on the grass in reverie, - I found how cool and sweet - Are the green glooms that often thoughtlessly - I tread beneath my feet. - - In this strange mimic wood where grasses lean-- - Elf trees untouched of bark-- - I heard the hum of insects, saw the sheen - Of sunlight framing dark, - - And felt with thoughts I cannot understand, - And know not how to speak, - A daisy reaching up its little hand - To lay it on my cheek. - - - - - The Fields of Dark - - - The wreathing vine within the porch - Is in the heart of me, - The roses that the noondays scorch - Shall burn in memory; - Alone at night I quench the light, - And without star or spark - The grass and trees press to my knees, - And flowers throng the dark. - - The leaves that loose their hold at noon - Drop on my face like rain, - And in the watches of the moon - I feel them fall again. - By day I stray how far away - To stream and wood and steep, - But on my track they all come back - To haunt the vale of sleep. - - The fields of light are clover-brimmed, - Or grassed or daisy-starred, - The fields of dark are softly dimmed, - And safely twilight-barred; - But in the gloom that fills my room - I cannot fail to mark - The grass and trees about my knees, - The flowers in the dark. - - - - - Children in the City - - - Thousands of childish ears, rough chidden, - Never a sweet bird-note have heard, - Deep in the leafy woodland hidden - Dies, unlistened to, many a bird. - For small soiled hands in the sordid city - Blossoms open and die unbreathed; - For feet unwashed by the tears of pity - Streams around meadows of green are wreathed. - - Warm, unrevelled in, still they wander, - Summer breezes out in the fields; - Scarcely noticed, the green months squander - All the wealth that the summer yields. - Ah, the pain of it! Ah, the pity! - Opulent stretch the country skies - Over solitudes, while in the city - Starving for beauty are childish eyes. - - - - - Where Pleasures Grow - - - Where pleasures grow as thick as grass, - And joys of silence, soft, profound, - Are sweeter e’en than joys of sound, - The long, long days of summer pass. - - I see them sitting in the sun, - Or moving river-like between - The climbing and down-bending green, - I watch them vanish one by one, - - And strive to clasp them as they flee, - But only hold their shadows fast-- - The summer shadows that they cast - Upon the path of memory. - - - - - In the Heart of the Woods - - - I lost my heart in the heart of the woods; - It stayed there through the day, - It stayed there through the solitudes - Of a night with no moon ray. - - Through the day so dusty, worn and sere - My heart was cool and free, - Through the wild night, tempest-tossed and drear, - My heart slept peacefully. - - I found my heart in the heart of the woods, - I looked on it and smiled; - And over it still the woodland broods, - As a mother over her child. - - - - - Frost - - - When the sun is growing weaker, - And his look is meek and meeker, - Comes the frost--the pale betrayer-- - Light of foot, a stealthy slayer. - - In the night abroad he stealeth, - For each trembling leaf he feeleth; - Something softened by its pleading, - Kills it not but leaves it bleeding. - - - - - The Chipmunk - - - To-day the green hill was at strife - With me; it robbed my feet of life. - The wind that loudly speaks his mind, - Said in my presence nothing kind. - The sky’s clear face was from me turned, - Behind a cloud his great fire burned. - - An exile in his native cot, - Who finds his very name forgot, - Was I this afternoon, until - At the wood’s edge behind the hill, - A chipmunk flashed, and leapt a limb, - And took my heart away with him. - - - - - Give Me the Poorest Weed - - - Give me the poorest weed - To satisfy my spirit’s need. - The brownest blade of grass - Will know and greet me when I pass. - - Of their own feeling wrought, - They live like simple, vital thought; - The mind could not invent - A better thing than Nature meant. - - - - - The Weeks that Walk in Green - - - The weeks that walk in green - Came to my willow lane, - And wrapt me in their leafy screen - Against the sun and rain. - - Then far and far we went - By stream and wood and steep, - Until, all love-worn and joy-spent, - I yielded me to sleep. - - And they--they died unseen; - Their ghosts are haunting me-- - The gentle ghosts that walk in green - Through vales of memory. - - - - - Noonday of the Year - - - The streams that chattered in the cold - Are sleeping in the sun; - The winds of March were overbold - Until their race was run. - - O mad with haste the morning went, - But now love-warm and deep, - The fields, their first ambition spent, - Lie in their noonday sleep. - - - - - The Wind World - - - Alone within the wind I lie, - And reck not how the seasons go; - The winter struggling through its snow, - The light-winged summer flitting by. - - I am not of the cloud nor mold, - I move between the stars and flowers, - I know the tingling touch of hours - When all the storms of night unfold. - - Within the wind world drifting free - I hear naught of earth’s murmurings, - Naught but the sound of songs and wings - Among the tree-tops comes to me. - - At night earth stars flash out below, - And heaven stars shine out above; - I look down on the lights of love, - And feel the higher love-lights glow. - - - - - At the Window - - - How thick about the window of my life - Buzz insect-like the tribe of petty frets: - Small cares, small thoughts, small trials, and small strife, - Small loves and hates, small hopes and small regrets. - - If ’mid this swarm of smallnesses remain - A single undimmed spot, with wondering eye - I note before my freckled window-pane - The outstretched splendor of the earth and sky. - - - - - Come Back Again - - - Child-thoughts, child-thoughts, come back again! - Faint, fitful, as you used to be; - The dusty chambers of my brain - Have need of your fair company, - As when my child-head reached the height - Of the wild rose-bush at the door, - And all of heaven and its delight - Bloomed in the flow’rs the old bush bore. - - Come back, sweet long-departed year, - When, sitting in a hollow oak, - I heard the sheep bells far and clear, - I heard a voice that silent spoke, - And felt in both a vague appeal, - And both were mingled in my dreams - With leaves that viewless breezes feel, - And skies clear mirrored in the streams. - - Child-heart, child-thoughts, come back again! - Bring back the tall grass at my cheek, - The grief more swift than summer rain, - The joy that knew no words to speak. - The buttercup’s uplifted gold - That strives to reach my hands in vain, - The love that never could grow cold-- - Child-heart, child-thoughts, come back again! - - - - - A Rainy Morning - - - The low sky, and the warm, wet wind, - And the tender light on the eyes; - A day like a soul that has never sinned, - New dropped from Paradise. - - And ’tis oh, for a long walk in the rain, - By the side of the warm, wet breeze, - With the thoughts washed clean of dust and stain - As the leaves on the shining trees. - - - - - June Apples - - - Green apple branches full of green apples - All around me unfurled, - Here where the shade and the sunlight dapples - A grass-green, apple-green world. - - Little green children stirred with the heaving - Of the warm breast of the air, - When your old nurse, the wind, is grieving - Comfortlessly you fare. - - But now an old-time song she is crooning, - Nestle your heads again, - While I dream on through the golden nooning, - Or look for the first red stain - - On some round cheek that the sunshine dapples, - Near me where I lie curled - Under green trees athrong with green apples, - In a grass-green, apple-green world. - - - - - Beginning and End - - - Once it was in my life’s beginning, - Roses were tall in their summer beds, - Dandelions within my fingers - Thrust their confident golden heads; - Wading waist-deep ’mid the daisies, - Feeling the grasses about me climb-- - Thus it was in my life’s beginning; - What have you done to me, Father Time? - - So shall it be when life has ended: - Roses shall bloom above my head, - Dandelions will know I am lying - Hidden in grass from foot to head. - Hidden in grass and hidden in daisies, - Over my breast I shall feel them climb, - Thus it will be when life has ended; - This will you do to me, Father Time. - - - - - Not at Home - - - The Weariness of Idleness, - She waited all the day - In the parlor of her neighbor, - The Weariness of Labor-- - A visit she had long meant to pay. - - But not until the evening - Did her hostess come in sight; - Then the Weariness of Labor - Explained unto her neighbor - That she lived but a brief hour at night. - - - - - The Wind of Memory - - - Red curtains shut the storm from sight, - The inner rooms are live with light; - The fireside faces all aglow - See not the pale ghost in the snow, - The pale ghost at the window pressed, - With the wind moaning in her breast. - - She sees the face she hurt with scorn, - The other face where joy, new born, - Died out at her cheap mockery; - The eyes she filled, how bitterly! - The head that drooped beneath her jest-- - The wind is moaning in her breast. - - Invisible, unfelt, unknown, - She lingers trembling. She alone - Notes tenderly her vacant place, - And sees in it her vanished face; - She only--of this happy nest! - The wind is moaning in her breast. - - Star-like the happy windows glow, - Framed in with mile on mile of snow; - And from their light a thing of death, - Of grief and memory vanisheth, - Her sin not deep but unredressed, - And the wind moaning in her breast. - - - - - Philippa - - - A generous gentleness that flowed, - Stream-like, beside a dusty road; - Gave laborers shade, and prisoners sun, - And easeful joy to every one; - With liquid melodies for such - As worked or wearied overmuch, - And ministrations cool and sweet - For fevered hands and aching feet. - - So delicately fair she moved-- - That stream-like girl, of all beloved. - Along her path no grief nor care - But lulled and lightened unaware. - She bore the sky within her breast, - And child-like winds her soul caressed, - Until her spring of life was dried, - And with a smile Philippa died. - - - - - The Student - - - The student sits within his room, - So small and worn and white; - His lamp flames out remote and strange - Through all the hours of night. - - And all day long within his face, - So small and worn and white, - His eyes flame out--those lamp-like eyes, - So weirdly, strangely bright. - - - - - Unspoken - - - My lover comes down the long leafy street - Through tenderly falling rain; - His footsteps near our portal veer, - Go past--then turn again. - - O can it be he is knocking below, - Or here at my door above? - So gentle and small it sounds in the hall, - So loud in the ear of love. - - But never a word of love has he said, - And never a word crave I, - For why should one long for the daylight strong - When the dawn is in the sky? - - O a dewy rose-garden is the house, - A garden shut from the sun; - The breath of it sweet floats up, as my feet - Float down to my waiting one. - - But if ever a word of love thinks he, - It falls from his heart still-born; - Who bends to the rose does not haste to close - His hand around bud and thorn. - - The beautiful soul that is in him turns - His beautiful face agleam; - My own soul flies to feast in his eyes, - Where the silent love-words teem. - - Our talk is of books, and of thoughts and moods, - Of the wild flowers in the rain; - And he leans his cheek, when we do not speak, - On his chair where my hand had lain. - - Yet never a word of love does he say, - And never a word crave I; - For the faint green May would wither away - At the quick touch of July. - - And at last--at last we look our last, - And the dim day grows more dim; - But his eyes still shine in these eyes of mine, - And my soul goes forth with him. - For though not a word of love does he say, - Still never a word crave I; - For the words of earth are of little worth - When a song drops out of the sky. - - - - - Under the King - - - Love with the deep eyes and soft hair, - Love with the lily throat and hands, - Is done to death, and free as air - Am I of all my King’s commands. - - How shall I celebrate my joy? - Or dance with feet that once were fleet - In his adorable employ? - Or laugh with lips that felt his sweet? - - How can I at his lifeless face - Aim any sharp or bitter jest, - Since roguish destiny did place - That tender target in my breast? - - Nay, let me be sincere and strong; - I cannot rid me of my chains, - I cannot to myself belong, - My King is dead--his soul still reigns. - - - - - The Secret - - - Some chance moment life confesses - That her insect nothingnesses - Carry honey with their stings, - But ’tis only to their kings-- - Those who know how best to use them, - Those who know how to refuse them-- - That the secret is made free, - And souls are loosed from tyranny. - - - - - Limitation - - - Beyond the far horizon’s farthest bound - A farther boundary lies; - No spirit wing can reach the utmost round, - No spirit eyes. - - The soul has limitations such as space, - Such as eternity; - The farthest star to which thou setst thy face - Belongs to thee. - - - - - Three Years Old - - - What is it like, I wonder, to roam - Down through the tall grass hidden quite? - To feel very far away from home - When the dear house is out of sight? - - To want to play with the broken moon - In the star garden of the skies? - To sleep through twilight eves of June - Beneath the sound of lullabies? - - To hold up hurts for all to see, - Sob at imaginary harms, - To clasp in welcome a father’s knee, - And fit so well to a mother’s arms? - - To have life bounded by one dull road, - A wood and a pond, and to feel no lack, - To gaze with pleasure upon a toad, - And caress a mud-turtle’s horny back? - - To follow the robin’s cheerful hop - With all the salt small hands can hold, - And plead in vain for it to stop-- - What is it like to be three years old? - - Ah, once I knew, but ’twas long ago; - I try to recall it in vain--in vain! - And now I know I shall never know - What it is to be a child again. - - - - - Sometime, I Fear - - - Sometime, I fear, but God alone knows when, - Mine eyes shall gaze on your unseeing eyes, - On your unheeding ears shall fall my cries, - Your clasp shall cease, your soul go from my ken, - Your great heart be a fire burned out.--Ah, then, - What shall remain for me beneath the skies - Of glad, or good, or beautiful, or wise, - That can relume and thrill my life again? - - This shall remain, a love that cannot fail, - A life that joys in your great joy, yet grieves - In memory of sweet days fled too soon. - Sadness divine! as when November pale - Sits broken-hearted ’mong her withered leaves, - And feels the wind about her warm as June. - - - - - Joy - - - When airy joy doth hail me - I follow on behind, - And lest my feet should fail me - I follow on the wind; - I hear her lightsome laughter - Go floating past the door, - And swift I follow after - As she flies on before. - - When I am faint and falling, - And lose her skyey wings, - I hear her liquid calling, - And feel the charm she flings - On all the earth and o’er me, - Then eagerly I rise, - And see her skirts before me - Go glittering up the skies. - - The best of life would daunt me - Ungirdled by her grace, - And foreign demons haunt me - Whene’er she hides her face. - Up roughest steeps with laughter - My airy joy doth soar, - As wind-like I come after, - And she flies on before. - - - - - In the Dark - - - All in the dark he crossed the border! - All in the dark, for the lamp of faith - Had never been used, and was not in order-- - So all in the dark he encountered Death. - - - - - Words - - - I like those words that carry in their veins - The blood of lions. “Liberty” is one, - And “Justice,” and the heart leaps to the sun - When the thrilled note of “Courage! Courage!” rains - Upon the sorely stricken will. No pains - Survive when “Life” and “Light,” twin glories, run - From the quick page to some poor soul undone, - And beggar by their glow all other gains. - - How splendidly does “Morning” flood our night! - How the word “Ocean” drowns our insect cares, - And drives a strong wind through our housed-up grief. - While “Honor” lifts us to the mountain height; - And “Loyalty” the heaviest burden bears - As lightly as a tree a crimson leaf. - - - - - The Wind of Death - - - The wind of death that softly blows - The last warm petal from the rose, - The last dry leaf from off the tree, - To-night has come to breathe on me. - - There was a time I learned to hate - As weaker mortals learn to love; - The passion held me fixed as fate, - Burned in my veins early and late-- - But now a wind falls from above-- - - The wind of death, that silently - Enshroudeth friend and enemy. - - There was a time my soul was thrilled - By keen ambition’s whip and spur; - My master forced me where he willed, - And with his power my life was filled, - But now the old-time pulses stir - - How faintly in the wind of death! - That bloweth lightly as a breath. - And once, but once, at Love’s dear feet - I yielded strength and life and heart; - His look turned bitter into sweet, - His smile made all the world complete-- - The wind blows loves like leaves apart-- - - The wind of death, that tenderly - Is blowing ’twixt my love and me. - - O wind of death, that darkly blows - Each separate ship of human woes - Far out on a mysterious sea, - I turn, I turn my face to thee. - - -Printed at the Everett Press Boston - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of the Trees & Other Poems, by -Ethelwyn Wetherald - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE TREES *** - -***** This file should be named 52448-0.txt or 52448-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/4/4/52448/ - -Produced by Larry B. 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