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diff --git a/7796.txt b/7796.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3d0e24a --- /dev/null +++ b/7796.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7436 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Madison Cawein + +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: Poems + +Author: Madison Cawein + +Posting Date: February 16, 2013 [EBook #7796] +Release Date: March, 2005 +First Posted: May 17, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Eric Eldred, S.R. Ellison, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + + + POEMS + + BY + + MADISON CAWEIN + + (SELECTED BY THE AUTHOR) + + WITH + A FOREWORD BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS + + 1911 + + + + +INTRODUCTORY NOTE + +The verses composing this volume have been selected by the author almost +entirely from the five-volume edition of his poems published by the +Bobbs-Merrill Company in 1907. A number have been included from the three +or four volumes which have been published since the appearance of the +Collected Poems; namely, three poems from the volume entitled "Nature +Notes and Impressions," E. P. Button & Co., New York; one poem from "The +Giant and the Star," Small, Maynard & Co., Boston; Section VII and part of +Section VIII of "An Ode" written in commemoration of the founding of the +Massachusetts Bay Colony, and published by John P. Morton & Co., +Louisville, Ky.; some five or six poems from "New Poems," published in +London by Mr. Grant Richards in 1909; and three or four selections from +the volume of selections entitled "Kentucky Poems," compiled by Mr. Edmund +Gosse and published in London by Mr. Grant Richards in 19O2. +Acknowledgment and thanks for permission to reprint the various poems +included in this volume are herewith made to the different publishers. + +The two poems, "in Arcady" and "The Black Knight" are new and are +published here for the first time. + +In making the selections for the present book Mr. Cawein has endeavored to +cover the entire field of his poetical labors, which extends over a +quarter of a century. With the exception of his dramatic work, as +witnessed by one volume only, "The Shadow Garden," a book of plays four in +number, published in 1910, the selection herewith presented by us is, in +our opinion, representative of the author's poetical work. + + + + + CONTENTS + + The Poetry of Madison Cawein. + + Hymn to Spiritual Desire. + Beautiful-Bosomed, O Night. + Discovery. + O Maytime Woods. + The Redbird. + A Niello. + In May. + Aubade. + Apocalypse. + Penetralia. + Elusion. + Womanhood. + The Idyll of the Standing-Stone. + Noera. + The Old Spring. + A Dreamer of Dreams. + Deep in the Forest + I. Spring on the Hills. + II. Moss and Fern. + III. The Thorn Tree. + IV. The Hamadryad. + Preludes. + May. + What Little Things. + + In the Shadow of the Beeches. + Unrequited. + The Solitary. + A Twilight Moth. + The Old Farm. + The Whippoorwill. + Revealment. + Hepaticas. + The Wind of Spring. + The Catbird. + A Woodland Grave. + Sunset Dreams. + The Old Byway. + "Below the Sunset's Range of Rose". + Music of Summer. + Midsummer. + The Rain-Crow. + Field and Forest Call. + Old Homes. + The Forest Way. + Sunset and Storm. + Quiet Lanes. + One who loved Nature. + Garden Gossip. + Assumption. + Senorita. + Overseas. + Problems. + To a Windflower. + Voyagers. + The Spell. + Uncertainty. + + In the Wood. + Since Then. + Dusk in the Woods. + Paths. + The Quest. + The Garden of Dreams. + The Path to Faery. + There are Faeries. + The Spirit of the Forest Spring. + In a Garden. + In the Lane. + The Window on the Hill. + The Picture. + Moly. + Poppy and Mandragora. + A Road Song. + Phantoms. + Intimations of the Beautiful. + October. + Friends. + Comradery. + Bare Boughs. + Days and Days. + Autumn Sorrow. + The Tree-Toad. + The Chipmunk. + The Wild Iris. + Drouth. + Rain. + At Sunset. + The Leaf-Cricket. + The Wind of Winter. + + The Owlet. + Evening on the Farm. + The Locust. + The Dead Day. + The Old Water-Mill. + Argonauts. + "The Morn that breaks its Heart of Gold". + A Voice on the Wind. + Requiem. + Lynchers. + The Parting. + Feud. + Ku Klux. + Eidolons. + The Man Hunt. + My Romance. + A Maid who died Old. + Ballad of Low-Lie-Down. + Romance. + Amadis and Oriana. + The Rosicrucian. + The Age of Gold. + Beauty and Art. + The Sea Spirit. + Gargaphie. + The Dead Oread. + The Faun. + The Paphian Venus. + Oriental Romance. + The Mameluke. + The Slave. + The Portrait. + + The Black Knight. + In Arcady. + Prototypes. + March. + Dusk. + The Winds. + Light and Wind. + Enchantment. + Abandoned. + After Long Grief. + Mendicants. + The End of Summer. + November. + The Death of Love. + Unanswered. + The Swashbuckler. + Old Sir John. + Uncalled. + + + + +THE POETRY OF MADISON CAWEIN + +When a poet begins writing, and we begin liking his work, we own willingly +enough that we have not, and cannot have, got the compass of his talent. +We must wait till he has written more, and we have learned to like him +more, and even then we should hesitate his definition, from all that he +has done, if we did not very commonly qualify ourselves from the latest +thing he has done. Between the earliest thing and the latest thing there +may have been a hundred different things, and in his swan-long life of a +singer there would probably be a hundred yet, and all different. But we +take the latest as if it summed him up in motive and range and tendency. +Many parts of his work offer themselves in confirmation of our judgment, +while those which might impeach it shrink away and hide themselves, and +leave us to our precipitation, our catastrophe. + +It was surely nothing less than by a catastrophe that I should have been +so betrayed in the volumes of Mr. Cawein's verse which reached me last +before the volume of his collected poems.... I had read his poetry and +loved it from the beginning, and in each successive expression of it, I +had delighted in its expanding and maturing beauty. I believe I had not +failed to own its compass, and when-- + + "He touched the tender stops of various quills," + +I had responded to every note of the changing music. I did not always +respond audibly either in public or in private, for it seemed to me that +so old a friend might fairly rest on the laurels he had helped bestow. But +when that last volume came, I said to myself, "This applausive silence has +gone on long enough. It is time to break it with open appreciation. +Still," I said, "I must guard against too great appreciation; I must mix +in a little depreciation, to show that I have read attentively, +critically, authoritatively." So I applied myself to the cheapest and +easiest means of depreciation, and asked, "Why do you always write Nature +poems? Why not Human Nature poems?" or the like. But in seizing upon an +objection so obvious that I ought to have known it was superficial, I had +wronged a poet, who had never done me harm, but only good, in the very +terms and conditions of his being a poet. I had not stayed to see that his +nature poetry was instinct with human poetry, with _his_ human poetry, +with mine, with yours. I had made his reproach what ought to have been his +finest praise, what is always the praise of poetry when it is not +artificial and formal. I ought to have said, as I had seen, that not one +of his lovely landscapes in which I could discover no human figure, but +thrilled with a human presence penetrating to it from his most sensitive +and subtle spirit until it was all but painfully alive with memories, with +regrets, with longings, with hopes, with all that from time to time +mutably constitutes us men and women, and yet keeps us children. He has +the gift, in a measure that I do not think surpassed in any poet, of +touching some smallest or commonest thing in nature, and making it live +from the manifold associations in which we have our being, and glow +thereafter with an inextinguishable beauty. His felicities do not seem +sought; rather they seem to seek him, and to surprise him with the delight +they impart through him. He has the inspiration of the right word, and the +courage of it, so that though in the first instant you may be challenged, +you may be revolted, by something that you might have thought uncouth, you +are presently overcome by the happy bravery of it, and gladly recognize +that no other word of those verbal saints or aristocrats, dedicated to the +worship or service of beauty, would at all so well have conveyed the sense +of it as this or that plebeian. + +If I began indulging myself in the pleasure of quotation, or the delight +of giving proofs of what I say, I should soon and far transcend the modest +bounds which the editor has set my paper. But the reader may take it from +me that no other poet, not even of the great Elizabethan range, can +outword this poet when it comes to choosing some epithet fresh from the +earth or air, and with the morning sun or light upon it, for an emotion or +experience in which the race renews its youth from generation to +generation. He is of the kind of Keats and Shelley and Wordsworth and +Coleridge, in that truth to observance and experience of nature and the +joyous expression of it, which are the dominant characteristics of his +art. It is imaginable that the thinness of the social life in the Middle +West threw the poet upon the communion with the fields and woods, the days +and nights, the changing seasons, in which another great nature poet of +ours declares they "speak in various language." But nothing could be +farther from the didactic mood in which "communion with the various forms" +of nature casts the Puritanic soul of Bryant, than the mood in which this +German-blooded, Kentucky-born poet, who keeps throughout his song the +sense of a perpetual and inalienable youth, with a spirit as pagan as that +which breathes from Greek sculpture--but happily not more pagan. Most +modern poets who are antique are rather over-Hellenic, in their wish not +to be English or French, but there is nothing voluntary in Mr. Cawein's +naturalization in the older world of myth and fable; he is too sincerely +and solely a poet to be a _posseur;_ he has his eyes everywhere except on +the spectator, and his affair is to report the beauty that he sees, as if +there were no one by to hear. + +An interesting and charming trait of his poetry is its constant theme of +youth and its limit within the range that the emotions and aspirations of +youth take. He might indeed be called the poet of youth if he resented +being called the poet of nature; but the poet of youth, be it understood, +of vague regrets, of "tears, idle tears," of "long, long thoughts," for +that is the real youth, and not the youth of the supposed hilarity, the +attributive recklessness, the daring hopes. Perhaps there is some such +youth as this, but it has not its home in the breast of any young poet, +and he rarely utters it; at best he is of a light melancholy, a smiling +wistfulness, and upon the whole, October is more to his mind than May. + +In Mr. Cawein's work, therefore, what is not the expression of the world +we vainly and rashly call the inanimate world, is the hardly more +dramatized, and not more enchantingly imagined story of lovers, rather +unhappy lovers. He finds his own in this sort far and near; in classic +Greece, in heroic England, in romantic Germany, where the blue flower +blows, but not less in beautiful and familiar Kentucky, where the blue +grass shows itself equally the emblem of poetry, and the moldering log in +the cabin wall or the woodland path is of the same poetic value as the +marble of the ruined temple or the stone of the crumbling castle. His +singularly creative fancy breathes a soul into every scene; his touch +leaves everything that was dull to the sense before glowing in the light +of joyful recognition. He classifies his poems by different names, and +they are of different themes, but they are after all of that unity which I +have been trying, all too shirkingly, to suggest. One, for instance, is +the pathetic story which tells itself in the lyrical eclogue "One Day and +Another." It is the conversation, prolonged from meeting to meeting, +between two lovers whom death parts; but who recurrently find themselves +and each other in the gardens and the woods, and on the waters which they +tell each other of and together delight in. The effect is that which is +truest to youth and love, for these transmutations of emotion form the +disguise of self which makes passion tolerable; but mechanically the +result is a series of nature poems. More genuinely dramatic are such +pieces as "The Feud," "Ku Klux," and "The Lynchers," three out of many; +but one which I value more because it is worthy of Wordsworth, or of +Tennyson in a Wordsworthian mood, is "The Old Mill," where, with all the +wonted charm of his landscape art, Mr. Cawein gives us a strongly local +and novel piece of character painting. + +I deny myself with increasing reluctance the pleasure of quoting the +stanzas, the verses, the phrases, the epithets, which lure me by scores +and hundreds in his poems. It must suffice me to say that I do not know +any poem of his which has not some such a felicity; I do not know any poem +of his which is not worth reading, at least the first time, and often the +second and the third time, and so on as often as you have the chance of +recurring to it. Some disappoint and others delight more than others; but +there is none but in greater or less measure has the witchery native to +the poet, and his place and his period. + +It is only in order of his later time that I would put Mr. Cawein first +among those Midwestern poets, of whom he is the youngest. Poetry in the +Middle West has had its development in which it was eclipsed by the +splendor, transitory if not vain, of the California school. But it is +deeply rooted in the life of the region, and is as true to its origins as +any faithful portraiture of the Midwestern landscape could be; you could +not mistake the source of the poem or the picture. In a certain tenderness +of light and coloring, the poems would recall the mellowed masterpieces of +the older literatures rather than those of the New England school, where +conscience dwells almost rebukingly with beauty.... + +W. D. HOWELLS. + +From _The North American Review_. Copyright, 1908, by the North American +Review Publishing Company. + + + + + POEMS + + + + + HYMN TO SPIRITUAL DESIRE + + I + + Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers + Breathed on the eyelids of Love by music that slumbers, + Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow, + Thou comest mysterious, + In beauty imperious, + Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know: + Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken, + Helplessly shaken and tossed, + And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken, + My lips, unsatisfied, thirst; + Mine eyes are accurst + With longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken; + And mine ears, in listening lost, + Yearn, waiting the note of a chord that will never awaken. + + II + + Like palpable music thou comest, like moonlight; and far,-- + Resonant bar upon bar,-- + The vibrating lyre + Of the spirit responds with melodious fire, + As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake, + With laughter and ache, + The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung, + Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded of mire. + + III + + Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire! + Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of Love! + Make of my heart an Israfel burning above, + A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer! + Smite every rapturous wire + With golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor, + Crying--"Awake! awake! + Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour + With its mountains of magic, its fountains of faery, the spar-sprung, + Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!" + + Come, oh, come and partake + Of necromance banquets of Beauty; and slake + Thy thirst in the waters of Art, + That are drawn from the streams + Of love and of dreams. + + IV + + "Come, oh, come! + No longer shall language be dumb! + Thy vision shall grasp-- + As one doth the glittering hasp + Of a sword made splendid with gems and with gold-- + The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely. + And out of the stark + Eternity, awful and dark, + Immensity silent and cold,-- + Universe-shaking as trumpets, or cymbaling metals, + Imperious; yet pensive and pearly + And soft as the rosy unfolding of petals, + Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,-- + The majestic music of God, where He plays + On the organ, eternal and vast, of eons and days." + + + + + BEAUTIFUL-BOSOMED, O NIGHT + + I + + Beautiful-bosomed, O Night, in thy noon + Move with majesty onward! soaring, as lightly + As a singer may soar the notes of an exquisite tune, + The stars and the moon + Through the clerestories high of the heaven, the firmament's halls: + Under whose sapphirine walls, + June, hesperian June, + Robed in divinity wanders. Daily and nightly + The turquoise touch of her robe, that the violets star, + The silvery fall of her feet, that lilies are, + Fill the land with languorous light and perfume.-- + Is it the melody mute of burgeoning leaf and of bloom? + The music of Nature, that silently shapes in the gloom + Immaterial hosts + Of spirits that have the flowers and leaves in their keep, + Whom I hear, whom I hear? + With their sighs of silver and pearl? + Invisible ghosts,-- + Each sigh a shadowy girl,-- + + Who whisper in leaves and glimmer in blossoms and hover + In color and fragrance and loveliness, breathed from the deep + World-soul of the mother, + Nature; who over and over,-- + Both sweetheart and lover,-- + Goes singing her songs from one sweet month to the other. + + II + + Lo! 'tis her songs that appear, appear, + In forest and field, on hill-land and lea, + As visible harmony, + Materialized melody, + Crystallized beauty, that out of the atmosphere + Utters itself, in wonder and mystery, + Peopling with glimmering essence the hyaline far and the near.... + + III + + Behold how it sprouts from the grass and blossoms from flower and tree! + In waves of diaphanous moonlight and mist, + In fugue upon fugue of gold and of amethyst, + Around me, above me it spirals; now slower, now faster, + Like symphonies born of the thought of a musical master.-- + O music of Earth! O God, who the music inspired! + Let me breathe of the life of thy breath! + And so be fulfilled and attired + In resurrection, triumphant o'er time and o'er death! + + + + + DISCOVERY + + What is it now that I shall seek + Where woods dip downward, in the hills?-- + A mossy nook, a ferny creek, + And May among the daffodils. + + Or in the valley's vistaed glow, + Past rocks of terraced trumpet vines, + Shall I behold her coming slow, + Sweet May, among the columbines? + + With redbud cheeks and bluet eyes, + Big eyes, the homes of happiness, + To meet me with the old surprise, + Her wild-rose hair all bonnetless. + + Who waits for me, where, note for note, + The birds make glad the forest trees?-- + A dogwood blossom at her throat, + My May among th' anemones. + + As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms, + And dews caress the moon's pale beams, + My soul shall drink her lips' perfumes, + And know the magic of her dreams. + + + + O MAYTIME WOODS! + + From the idyll "Wild Thorn and Lily" + + O Maytime woods! O Maytime lanes and hours! + And stars, that knew how often there at night + Beside the path, where woodbine odors blew + Between the drowsy eyelids of the dusk,-- + When, like a great, white, pearly moth, the moon + Hung silvering long windows of your room,-- + I stood among the shrubs! The dark house slept. + I watched and waited for--I know not what!-- + Some tremor of your gown: a velvet leaf's + Unfolding to caresses of the Spring: + The rustle of your footsteps: or the dew + Syllabling avowal on a tulip's lips + Of odorous scarlet: or the whispered word + Of something lovelier than new leaf or rose-- + The word young lips half murmur in a dream: + + Serene with sleep, light visions weigh her eyes: + And underneath her window blooms a quince. + The night is a sultana who doth rise + In slippered caution, to admit a prince, + Love, who her eunuchs and her lord defies. + + Are these her dreams? or is it that the breeze + Pelts me with petals of the quince, and lifts + The Balm-o'-Gilead buds? and seems to squeeze + Aroma on aroma through sweet rifts + Of Eden, dripping through the rainy trees. + + Along the path the buckeye trees begin + To heap their hills of blossoms.--Oh, that they + Were Romeo ladders, whereby I might win + Her chamber's sanctity!--where dreams must pray + About her soul!--That I might enter in!-- + + A dream,--and see the balsam scent erase + Its dim intrusion; and the starry night + Conclude majestic pomp; the virgin grace + Of every bud abashed before the white, + Pure passion-flower of her sleeping face. + + + + THE REDBIRD + + From "Wild Thorn and Lily" + + Among the white haw-blossoms, where the creek + Droned under drifts of dogwood and of haw, + The redbird, like a crimson blossom blown + Against the snow-white bosom of the Spring, + The chaste confusion of her lawny breast, + Sang on, prophetic of serener days, + As confident as June's completer hours. + And I stood listening like a hind, who hears + A wood nymph breathing in a forest flute + Among the beech-boles of myth-haunted ways: + And when it ceased, the memory of the air + Blew like a syrinx in my brain: I made + A lyric of the notes that men might know: + + He flies with flirt and fluting-- + As flies a crimson star + From flaming star-beds shooting-- + From where the roses are. + + Wings past and sings; and seven + Notes, wild as fragrance is,-- + That turn to flame in heaven,-- + Float round him full of bliss. + + He sings; each burning feather + Thrills, throbbing at his throat; + A song of firefly weather, + And of a glowworm boat: + + Of Elfland and a princess + Who, born of a perfume, + His music rocks,--where winces + That rosebud's cradled bloom. + + No bird sings half so airy, + No bird of dusk or dawn, + Thou masking King of Faery! + Thou red-crowned Oberon! + + + + A NIELLO + + I + + It is not early spring and yet + Of bloodroot blooms along the stream, + And blotted banks of violet, + My heart will dream. + + Is it because the windflower apes + The beauty that was once her brow, + That the white memory of it shapes + The April now? + + Because the wild-rose wears the blush + That once made sweet her maidenhood, + Its thought makes June of barren bush + And empty wood? + + And then I think how young she died-- + Straight, barren Death stalks down the trees, + The hard-eyed Hours by his side, + That kill and freeze. + + II + + When orchards are in bloom again + My heart will bound, my blood will beat, + To hear the redbird so repeat, + On boughs of rosy stain, + His blithe, loud song,--like some far strain + From out the past,--among the bloom,-- + (Where bee and wasp and hornet boom)-- + Fresh, redolent of rain. + + When orchards are in bloom once more, + Invasions of lost dreams will draw + My feet, like some insistent law, + Through blossoms to her door: + In dreams I'll ask her, as before, + To let me help her at the well; + And fill her pail; and long to tell + My love as once of yore. + + I shall not speak until we quit + The farm-gate, leading to the lane + And orchard, all in bloom again, + Mid which the bluebirds sit + And sing; and through whose blossoms flit + The catbirds crying while they fly: + Then tenderly I'll speak, and try + To tell her all of it. + + And in my dream again she'll place + Her hand in mine, as oft before,-- + When orchards are in bloom once more,-- + With all her young-girl grace: + And we shall tarry till a trace + Of sunset dyes the heav'ns; and then-- + We'll part; and, parting, I again + Shall bend and kiss her face. + + And homeward, singing, I shall go + Along the cricket-chirring ways, + While sunset, one long crimson blaze + Of orchards, lingers low: + And my dead youth again I'll know, + And all her love, when spring is here-- + Whose memory holds me many a year, + Whose love still haunts me so! + + III + + I would not die when Springtime lifts + The white world to her maiden mouth, + And heaps its cradle with gay gifts, + Breeze-blown from out the singing South: + Too full of life and loves that cling; + Too heedless of all mortal woe, + The young, unsympathetic Spring, + That Death should never know. + + I would not die when Summer shakes + Her daisied locks below her hips, + And naked as a star that takes + A cloud, into the silence slips: + Too rich is Summer; poor in needs; + In egotism of loveliness + Her pomp goes by, and never heeds + One life the more or less. + + But I would die when Autumn goes, + The dark rain dripping from her hair, + Through forests where the wild wind blows + Death and the red wreck everywhere: + Sweet as love's last farewells and tears + To fall asleep when skies are gray, + In the old autumn of my years, + Like a dead leaf borne far away. + + + + IN MAY + + I + + When you and I in the hills went Maying, + You and I in the bright May weather, + The birds, that sang on the boughs together, + There in the green of the woods, kept saying + All that my heart was saying low, + "I love you! love you!" soft and low,-- + And did you know? + When you and I in the hills went Maying. + + II + + There where the brook on its rocks went winking, + There by its banks where the May had led us, + Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows, + Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinking + All that my soul was thinking there, + "I love you! love you!" softly there-- + And did you care? + There where the brook on its rocks went winking. + + III + + Whatever befalls through fate's compelling, + Should our paths unite or our pathways sever, + In the Mays to come I shall feel forever + The wildflowers thinking, the wild birds telling, + In words as soft as the falling dew, + The love that I keep here still for you, + Both deep and true, + Whatever befalls through fate's compelling. + + + + AUBADE + + Awake! the dawn is on the hills! + Behold, at her cool throat a rose, + Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes, + Leaving her steps in daffodils.-- + Awake! arise! and let me see + Thine eyes, whose deeps epitomize + All dawns that were or are to be, + O love, all Heaven in thine eyes!-- + Awake! arise! come down to me! + + Behold! the dawn is up: behold! + How all the birds around her float, + Wild rills of music, note on note, + Spilling the air with mellow gold.-- + Arise! awake! and, drawing near, + Let me but hear thee and rejoice! + Thou, who keep'st captive, sweet and clear, + All song, O love, within thy voice! + Arise! awake! and let me hear! + + See, where she comes, with limbs of day, + The dawn! with wild-rose hands and feet, + Within whose veins the sunbeams beat, + And laughters meet of wind and ray. + Arise! come down! and, heart to heart, + Love, let me clasp in thee all these-- + The sunbeam, of which thou art part, + And all the rapture of the breeze!-- + Arise! come down! loved that thou art! + + + + APOCALYPSE + + Before I found her I had found + Within my heart, as in a brook, + Reflections of her: now a sound + Of imaged beauty; now a look. + + So when I found her, gazing in + Those Bibles of her eyes, above + All earth, I read no word of sin; + Their holy chapters all were love. + + I read them through. I read and saw + The soul impatient of the sod-- + Her soul, that through her eyes did draw + Mine--to the higher love of God. + + + + PENETRALIA + + I am a part of all you see + In Nature; part of all you feel: + I am the impact of the bee + Upon the blossom; in the tree + I am the sap,--that shall reveal + The leaf, the bloom,--that flows and flutes + Up from the darkness through its roots. + + I am the vermeil of the rose, + The perfume breathing in its veins; + The gold within the mist that glows + Along the west and overflows + With light the heaven; the dew that rains + Its freshness down and strings with spheres + Of wet the webs and oaten ears. + + I am the egg that folds the bird; + The song that beaks and breaks its shell; + The laughter and the wandering word + The water says; and, dimly heard, + The music of the blossom's bell + When soft winds swing it; and the sound + Of grass slow-creeping o'er the ground. + + I am the warmth, the honey-scent + That throats with spice each lily-bud + That opens, white with wonderment, + Beneath the moon; or, downward bent, + Sleeps with a moth beneath its hood: + I am the dream that haunts it too, + That crystallizes into dew. + + I am the seed within the pod; + The worm within its closed cocoon: + The wings within the circling clod, + The germ, that gropes through soil and sod + To beauty, radiant in the noon: + I am all these, behold! and more-- + I am the love at the world-heart's core. + + + + ELUSION + + I + + My soul goes out to her who says, + "Come, follow me and cast off care!" + Then tosses back her sun-bright hair, + And like a flower before me sways + Between the green leaves and my gaze: + This creature like a girl, who smiles + Into my eyes and softly lays + Her hand in mine and leads me miles, + Long miles of haunted forest ways. + + II + + Sometimes she seems a faint perfume, + A fragrance that a flower exhaled + And God gave form to; now, unveiled, + A sunbeam making gold the gloom + Of vines that roof some woodland room + Of boughs; and now the silvery sound + Of streams her presence doth assume-- + Music, from which, in dreaming drowned, + A crystal shape she seems to bloom. + + III + + Sometimes she seems the light that lies + On foam of waters where the fern + Shimmers and drips; now, at some turn + Of woodland, bright against the skies, + She seems the rainbowed mist that flies; + And now the mossy fire that breaks + Beneath the feet in azure eyes + Of flowers; now the wind that shakes + Pale petals from the bough that sighs. + + IV + + Sometimes she lures me with a song; + Sometimes she guides me with a laugh; + Her white hand is a magic staff, + Her look a spell to lead me long: + Though she be weak and I be strong, + She needs but shake her happy hair, + But glance her eyes, and, right or wrong, + My soul must follow--anywhere + She wills--far from the world's loud throng. + + V + + Sometimes I think that she must be + No part of earth, but merely this-- + The fair, elusive thing we miss + In Nature, that we dream we see + Yet never see: that goldenly + Beckons; that, limbed with rose and pearl, + The Greek made a divinity:-- + A nymph, a god, a glimmering girl, + That haunts the forest's mystery. + + + + WOMANHOOD + + I + + The summer takes its hue + From something opulent as fair in her, + And the bright heaven is brighter than it was; + Brighter and lovelier, + Arching its beautiful blue, + Serene and soft, as her sweet gaze, o'er us. + + II + + The springtime takes its moods + From something in her made of smiles and tears, + And flowery earth is flowerier than before, + And happier, it appears, + Adding new multitudes + To flowers, like thoughts, that haunt us evermore. + + III + + Summer and spring are wed + In her--her nature; and the glamour of + Their loveliness, their bounty, as it were, + Of life and joy and love, + Her being seems to shed,-- + The magic aura of the heart of her. + + + + THE IDYLL OF THE STANDING STONE + + The teasel and the horsemint spread + The hillside as with sunset, sown + With blossoms, o'er the Standing-Stone + That ripples in its rocky bed: + There are no treasuries that hold + Gold richer than the marigold + That crowns its sparkling head. + + 'Tis harvest time: a mower stands + Among the morning wheat and whets + His scythe, and for a space forgets + The labor of the ripening lands; + Then bends, and through the dewy grain + His long scythe hisses, and again + He swings it in his hands. + + And she beholds him where he mows + On acres whence the water sends + Faint music of reflecting bends + And falls that interblend with flows: + She stands among the old bee-gums,-- + Where all the apiary hums,-- + A simple bramble-rose. + + She hears him whistling as he leans, + And, reaping, sweeps the ripe wheat by; + She sighs and smiles, and knows not why, + Nor what her heart's disturbance means: + He whets his scythe, and, resting, sees + Her rose-like 'mid the hives of bees, + Beneath the flowering beans. + + The peacock-purple lizard creeps + Along the rail; and deep the drone + Of insects makes the country lone + With summer where the water sleeps: + She hears him singing as he swings + His scythe--who thinks of other things + Than toil, and, singing, reaps. + + + + NOERA + + Noera, when sad Fall + Has grayed the fallow; + Leaf-cramped the wood-brook's brawl + In pool and shallow; + When, by the woodside, tall + Stands sere the mallow. + + Noera, when gray gold + And golden gray + The crackling hollows fold + By every way, + Shall I thy face behold, + Dear bit of May? + + When webs are cribs for dew, + And gossamers + Streak by you, silver-blue; + When silence stirs + One leaf, of rusty hue, + Among the burrs: + + Noera, through the wood, + Or through the grain, + Come, with the hoiden mood + Of wind and rain + Fresh in thy sunny blood, + Sweetheart, again. + + Noera, when the corn, + Reaped on the fields, + The asters' stars adorn; + And purple shields + Of ironweeds lie torn + Among the wealds: + + Noera, haply then, + Thou being with me, + Each ruined greenwood glen + Will bud and be + Spring's with the spring again, + The spring in thee. + + Thou of the breezy tread; + Feet of the breeze: + Thou of the sunbeam head; + Heart like a bee's: + Face like a woodland-bred + Anemone's. + + Thou to October bring + An April part! + Come! make the wild birds sing, + The blossoms start! + Noera, with the spring + Wild in thy heart! + + Come with our golden year: + Come as its gold: + With the same laughing, clear, + Loved voice of old: + In thy cool hair one dear + Wild marigold. + + + + THE OLD SPRING + + I + + Under rocks whereon the rose + Like a streak of morning glows; + Where the azure-throated newt + Drowses on the twisted root; + And the brown bees, humming homeward, + Stop to suck the honeydew; + Fern- and leaf-hid, gleaming gloamward, + Drips the wildwood spring I knew, + Drips the spring my boyhood knew. + + II + + Myrrh and music everywhere + Haunt its cascades--like the hair + That a Naiad tosses cool, + Swimming strangely beautiful, + With white fragrance for her bosom, + And her mouth a breath of song-- + Under leaf and branch and blossom + Flows the woodland spring along, + Sparkling, singing flows along. + + III + + Still the wet wan mornings touch + Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such + Slender stars as dusk may have + Pierce the rose that roofs its wave; + Still the thrush may call at noontide + And the whippoorwill at night; + Nevermore, by sun or moontide, + Shall I see it gliding white, + Falling, flowing, wild and white. + + + + A DREAMER OF DREAMS + + He lived beyond men, and so stood + Admitted to the brotherhood + Of beauty:--dreams, with which he trod + Companioned like some sylvan god. + And oft men wondered, when his thought + Made all their knowledge seem as naught, + If he, like Uther's mystic son, + Had not been born for Avalon. + + When wandering mid the whispering trees, + His soul communed with every breeze; + Heard voices calling from the glades, + Bloom-words of the Leimoniaeds; + Or Dryads of the ash and oak, + Who syllabled his name and spoke + With him of presences and powers + That glimpsed in sunbeams, gloomed in showers. + + By every violet-hallowed brook, + Where every bramble-matted nook + Rippled and laughed with water sounds, + He walked like one on sainted grounds, + Fearing intrusion on the spell + That kept some fountain-spirit's well, + Or woodland genius, sitting where + Red, racy berries kissed his hair. + + Once when the wind, far o'er the hill, + Had fall'n and left the wildwood still + For Dawn's dim feet to trail across,-- + Beneath the gnarled boughs, on the moss, + The air around him golden-ripe + With daybreak,--there, with oaten pipe, + His eyes beheld the wood-god, Pan, + Goat-bearded, horned; half brute, half man; + Who, shaggy-haunched, a savage rhyme + Blew in his reed to rudest time; + And swollen-jowled, with rolling eye-- + Beneath the slowly silvering sky, + Whose rose streaked through the forest's roof-- + Danced, while beneath his boisterous hoof + The branch was snapped, and, interfused + Between gnarled roots, the moss was bruised. + + And often when he wandered through + Old forests at the fall of dew-- + A new Endymion, who sought + A beauty higher than all thought-- + Some night, men said, most surely he + Would favored be of deity: + That in the holy solitude + Her sudden presence, long-pursued, + Unto his gaze would stand confessed: + The awful moonlight of her breast + Come, high with majesty, and hold + His heart's blood till his heart grew cold, + Unpulsed, unsinewed, all undone, + And snatch his soul to Avalon. + + + + DEEP IN THE FOREST + + + + I. SPRING ON THE HILLS + + Ah, shall I follow, on the hills, + The Spring, as wild wings follow? + Where wild-plum trees make wan the hills, + Crabapple trees the hollow, + Haunts of the bee and swallow? + + In redbud brakes and flowery + Acclivities of berry; + In dogwood dingles, showery + With white, where wrens make merry? + Or drifts of swarming cherry? + + In valleys of wild strawberries, + And of the clumped May-apple; + Or cloudlike trees of haw-berries, + With which the south winds grapple, + That brook and byway dapple? + + With eyes of far forgetfulness,-- + Like some wild wood-thing's daughter, + Whose feet are beelike fretfulness,-- + To see her run like water + Through boughs that slipped or caught her. + + O Spring, to seek, yet find you not! + To search, yet never win you! + To glimpse, to touch, but bind you not! + To lose, and still continue, + All sweet evasion in you! + + In pearly, peach-blush distances + You gleam; the woods are braided + Of myths; of dream-existences.... + There, where the brook is shaded, + A sudden splendor faded. + + O presence, like the primrose's, + Again I feel your power! + With rainy scents of dim roses, + Like some elusive flower, + Who led me for an hour! + + + + II. MOSS AND FERN + + Where rise the brakes of bramble there, + Wrapped with the trailing rose; + Through cane where waters ramble, there + Where deep the sword-grass grows, + Who knows? + Perhaps, unseen of eyes of man, + Hides Pan. + + Perhaps the creek, whose pebbles make + A foothold for the mint, + May bear,--where soft its trebles make + Confession,--some vague hint, + (The print, + Goat-hoofed, of one who lightly ran,) + Of Pan. + + Where, in the hollow of the hills + Ferns deepen to the knees, + What sounds are those above the hills, + And now among the trees?-- + No breeze!-- + The syrinx, haply, none may scan, + Of Pan. + + In woods where waters break upon + The hush like some soft word; + Where sun-shot shadows shake upon + The moss, who has not heard-- + No bird!-- + The flute, as breezy as a fan, + Of Pan? + + Far in, where mosses lay for us + Still carpets, cool and plush; + Where bloom and branch and ray for us + Sleep, waking with a rush-- + The hush + But sounds the satyr hoof a span + Of Pan. + + O woods,--whose thrushes sing to us, + Whose brooks dance sparkling heels; + Whose wild aromas cling to us,-- + While here our wonder kneels, + Who steals + Upon us, brown as bark with tan, + But Pan? + + + + III. THE THORN TREE + + The night is sad with silver and the day is glad with gold, + And the woodland silence listens to a legend never old, + Of the Lady of the Fountain, whom the faery people know, + With her limbs of samite whiteness and her hair of golden glow, + Whom the boyish South Wind seeks for and the girlish-stepping Rain; + Whom the sleepy leaves still whisper men shall never see again: + She whose Vivien charms were mistress of the magic Merlin knew, + That could change the dew to glowworms and the glowworms into dew. + There's a thorn tree in the forest, and the faeries know the tree, + With its branches gnarled and wrinkled as a face with sorcery; + But the Maytime brings it clusters of a rainy fragrant white, + Like the bloom-bright brows of beauty or a hand of lifted light. + And all day the silence whispers to the sun-ray of the morn + How the bloom is lovely Vivien and how Merlin is the thorn: + How she won the doting wizard with her naked loveliness + Till he told her daemon secrets that must make his magic less. + + How she charmed him and enchanted in the thorn-tree's thorns to lie + Forever with his passion that should never dim or die: + And with wicked laughter looking on this thing which she had done, + Like a visible aroma lingered sparkling in the sun: + How she stooped to kiss the pathos of an elf-lock of his beard, + In a mockery of parting and mock pity of his weird: + But her magic had forgotten that "who bends to give a kiss + Will but bring the curse upon them of the person whose it is": + So the silence tells the secret.--And at night the faeries see + How the tossing bloom is Vivien, who is struggling to be free, + In the thorny arms of Merlin, who forever is the tree. + + + + IV. THE HAMADRYAD + + She stood among the longest ferns + The valley held; and in her hand + One blossom, like the light that burns + Vermilion o'er a sunset land; + And round her hair a twisted band + Of pink-pierced mountain-laurel blooms: + And darker than dark pools, that stand + + Below the star-communing glooms, + Her eyes beneath her hair's perfumes. + + I saw the moonbeam sandals on + Her flowerlike feet, that seemed too chaste + To tread true gold: and, like the dawn + On splendid peaks that lord a waste + Of solitude lost gods have graced, + Her face: she stood there, faultless-hipped, + Bound as with cestused silver,--chased + With acorn-cup and crown, and tipped + With oak leaves,--whence her chiton slipped. + + Limbs that the gods call loveliness!-- + The grace and glory of all Greece + Wrought in one marble shape were less + Than her perfection!--'Mid the trees + I saw her--and time seemed to cease + For me.--And, lo! I lived my old + Greek life again of classic ease, + Barbarian as the myths that rolled + Me back into the Age of Gold. + + + + PRELUDES + + I + + There is no rhyme that is half so sweet + As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat; + There is no metre that's half so fine + As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine; + And the loveliest lyric I ever heard + Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.-- + If the wind and the brook and the bird would teach + My heart their beautiful parts of speech, + And the natural art that they say these with, + My soul would sing of beauty and myth + In a rhyme and metre that none before + Have sung in their love, or dreamed in their lore, + And the world would be richer one poet the more. + + II + + A thought to lift me up to those + Sweet wildflowers of the pensive woods; + The lofty, lowly attitudes + Of bluet and of bramble-rose: + To lift me where my mind may reach + The lessons which their beauties teach. + + A dream, to lead my spirit on + With sounds of faery shawms and flutes, + And all mysterious attributes + Of skies of dusk and skies of dawn: + To lead me, like the wandering brooks, + Past all the knowledge of the books. + + A song, to make my heart a guest + Of happiness whose soul is love; + One with the life that knoweth of + But song that turneth toil to rest: + To make me cousin to the birds, + Whose music needs not wisdom's words. + + + + MAY + + The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed, + That spangle the woods and dance-- + No gleam of gold that the twilights hold + Is strong as their necromance: + For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead, + The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed + Are the May's own utterance. + + The azure stars of the bluet bloom, + That sprinkle the woodland's trance-- + No blink of blue that a cloud lets through + Is sweet as their countenance: + For, over the knolls that the woods perfume, + The azure stars of the bluet bloom + Are the light of the May's own glance. + + With her wondering words and her looks she comes, + In a sunbeam of a gown; + She needs but think and the blossoms wink, + But look, and they shower down. + By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums, + With her wondering words and her looks she comes + Like a little maid to town. + + + + WHAT LITTLE THINGS! + + From "One Day and Another" + + What little things are those + That hold our happiness! + A smile, a glance, a rose + Dropped from her hair or dress; + A word, a look, a touch,-- + These are so much, so much. + + An air we can't forget; + A sunset's gold that gleams; + A spray of mignonette, + Will fill the soul with dreams + More than all history says, + Or romance of old days. + + For of the human heart, + Not brain, is memory; + These things it makes a part + Of its own entity; + The joys, the pains whereof + Are the very food of love. + + + + IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEECHES + + In the shadow of the beeches, + Where the fragile wildflowers bloom; + Where the pensive silence pleaches + Green a roof of cool perfume, + Have you felt an awe imperious + As when, in a church, mysterious + Windows paint with God the gloom? + + In the shadow of the beeches, + Where the rock-ledged waters flow; + Where the sun's slant splendor bleaches + Every wave to foaming snow, + Have you felt a music solemn + As when minster arch and column + Echo organ worship low? + + In the shadow of the beeches, + Where the light and shade are blent; + Where the forest bird beseeches, + And the breeze is brimmed with scent,-- + Is it joy or melancholy + That o'erwhelms us partly, wholly, + To our spirit's betterment? + + In the shadow of the beeches + Lay me where no eye perceives; + Where,--like some great arm that reaches + Gently as a love that grieves,-- + One gnarled root may clasp me kindly, + While the long years, working blindly, + Slowly change my dust to leaves. + + + + UNREQUITED + + Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes: + One hand among the deep curls of her brow, + I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs: + She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow. + + So have I seen a clear October pool, + Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere + Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool, + Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year. + + Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet; + Whose face loaned language to melodious prayer. + Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat + Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair! + + So have I seen a wildflower's fragrant head + Sung to and sung to by a longing bird; + And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead, + No blossom wilted, for it had not heard. + + + + THE SOLITARY + + Upon the mossed rock by the spring + She sits, forgetful of her pail, + Lost in remote remembering + Of that which may no more avail. + + Her thin, pale hair is dimly dressed + Above a brow lined deep with care, + The color of a leaf long pressed, + A faded leaf that once was fair. + + You may not know her from the stone + So still she sits who does not stir, + Thinking of this one thing alone-- + The love that never came to her. + + + + A TWILIGHT MOTH + + Dusk is thy dawn; when Eve puts on its state + Of gold and purple in the marbled west, + Thou comest forth like some embodied trait, + Or dim conceit, a lily bud confessed; + Or of a rose the visible wish; that, white, + Goes softly messengering through the night, + Whom each expectant flower makes its guest. + + All day the primroses have thought of thee, + Their golden heads close-haremed from the heat; + All day the mystic moonflowers silkenly + Veiled snowy faces,--that no bee might greet, + Or butterfly that, weighed with pollen, passed;-- + Keeping Sultana charms for thee, at last, + Their lord, who comest to salute each sweet. + + Cool-throated flowers that avoid the day's + Too fervid kisses; every bud that drinks + The tipsy dew and to the starlight plays + Nocturnes of fragrance, thy wing'd shadow links + In bonds of secret brotherhood and faith; + O bearer of their order's shibboleth, + Like some pale symbol fluttering o'er these pinks. + + What dost them whisper in the balsam's ear + That sets it blushing, or the hollyhock's,-- + A syllabled silence that no man may hear,-- + As dreamily upon its stem it rocks? + What spell dost bear from listening plant to plant, + Like some white witch, some ghostly ministrant, + Some specter of some perished flower of phlox? + + O voyager of that universe which lies + Between the four walls of this garden fair,-- + Whose constellations are the fireflies + That wheel their instant courses everywhere,-- + Mid faery firmaments wherein one sees + Mimic Booetes and the Pleiades, + Thou steerest like some faery ship of air. + + Gnome-wrought of moonbeam-fluff and gossamer, + Silent as scent, perhaps thou chariotest + Mab or King Oberon; or, haply, her + His queen, Titania, on some midnight quest.-- + Oh for the herb, the magic euphrasy, + That should unmask thee to mine eyes, ah me! + And all that world at which my soul hath guessed! + + + + THE OLD FARM + + Dormered and verandaed, cool, + Locust-girdled, on the hill; + Stained with weather-wear, and dull- + Streak'd with lichens; every sill + Thresholding the beautiful; + + I can see it standing there, + Brown above the woodland deep, + Wrapped in lights of lavender, + By the warm wind rocked asleep, + Violet shadows everywhere. + + I remember how the Spring, + Liberal-lapped, bewildered its + Acred orchards, murmuring, + Kissed to blossom; budded bits + Where the wood-thrush came to sing. + + Barefoot Spring, at first who trod, + Like a beggermaid, adown + The wet woodland; where the god, + With the bright sun for a crown + And the firmament for rod, + + Met her; clothed her; wedded her; + Her Cophetua: when, lo! + All the hill, one breathing blur, + Burst in beauty; gleam and glow + Blent with pearl and lavender. + + Seckel, blackheart, palpitant + Rained their bleaching strays; and white + Snowed the damson, bent aslant; + Rambow-tree and romanite + Seemed beneath deep drifts to pant. + + And it stood there, brown and gray, + In the bee-boom and the bloom, + In the shadow and the ray, + In the passion and perfume, + Grave as age among the gay. + + Wild with laughter romped the clear + Boyish voices round its walls; + Rare wild-roses were the dear + Girlish faces in its halls, + Music-haunted all the year. + + Far before it meadows full + Of green pennyroyal sank; + Clover-dotted as with wool + Here and there; with now a bank + Hot of color; and the cool + + Dark-blue shadows unconfined + Of the clouds rolled overhead: + Clouds, from which the summer wind + Blew with rain, and freshly shed + Dew upon the flowerkind. + + Where through mint and gypsy-lily + Runs the rocky brook away, + Musical among the hilly + Solitudes,--its flashing spray + Sunlight-dashed or forest-stilly,-- + + Buried in deep sassafras, + Memory follows up the hill + Still some cowbell's mellow brass, + Where the ruined water-mill + Looms, half-hid in cane and grass.... + + Oh, the farmhouse! is it set + On the hilltop still? 'mid musk + Of the meads? where, violet, + Deepens all the dreaming dusk, + And the locust-trees hang wet. + + While the sunset, far and low, + On its westward windows dashes + Primrose or pomegranate glow; + And above, in glimmering splashes, + Lilac stars the heavens sow. + + Sleeps it still among its roses,-- + Oldtime roses? while the choir + Of the lonesome insects dozes: + And the white moon, drifting higher, + O'er its mossy roof reposes-- + Sleeps it still among its roses? + + + + THE WHIPPOORWILL + + I + + Above lone woodland ways that led + To dells the stealthy twilights tread + The west was hot geranium red; + And still, and still, + Along old lanes the locusts sow + With clustered pearls the Maytimes know, + Deep in the crimson afterglow, + We heard the homeward cattle low, + And then the far-off, far-off woe + Of "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!" + + II + + Beneath the idle beechen boughs + We heard the far bells of the cows + Come slowly jangling towards the house; + And still, and still, + Beyond the light that would not die + Out of the scarlet-haunted sky; + Beyond the evening-star's white eye + Of glittering chalcedony, + Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry + Of "whippoorwill," of "whippoorwill." + + III + + And in the city oft, when swims + The pale moon o'er the smoke that dims + Its disc, I dream of wildwood limbs; + And still, and still, + I seem to hear, where shadows grope + Mid ferns and flowers that dewdrops rope,-- + Lost in faint deeps of heliotrope + Above the clover-sweetened slope,-- + Retreat, despairing, past all hope, + The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill. + + + + REVEALMENT + + A sense of sadness in the golden air; + A pensiveness, that has no part in care, + As if the Season, by some woodland pool, + Braiding the early blossoms in her hair, + Seeing her loveliness reflected there, + Had sighed to find herself so beautiful. + + A breathlessness; a feeling as of fear; + Holy and dim, as of a mystery near, + As if the World, about us, whispering went + With lifted finger and hand-hollowed ear, + Hearkening a music, that we cannot hear, + Haunting the quickening earth and firmament. + + A prescience of the soul that has no name; + Expectancy that is both wild and tame, + As if the Earth, from out its azure ring + Of heavens, looked to see, as white as flame,-- + As Perseus once to chained Andromeda came,-- + The swift, divine revealment of the Spring. + + + + HEPATICAS + + In the frail hepaticas,-- + That the early Springtide tossed, + Sapphire-like, along the ways + Of the woodlands that she crossed,-- + I behold, with other eyes, + Footprints of a dream that flies. + + One who leads me; whom I seek: + In whose loveliness there is + All the glamour that the Greek + Knew as wind-borne Artemis.-- + I am mortal. Woe is me! + Her sweet immortality! + + Spirit, must I always fare, + Following thy averted looks? + Now thy white arm, now thy hair, + Glimpsed among the trees and brooks? + Thou who hauntest, whispering, + All the slopes and vales of Spring. + + Cease to lure! or grant to me + All thy beauty! though it pain, + Slay with splendor utterly! + Flash revealment on my brain! + And one moment let me see + All thy immortality! + + + + THE WIND OF SPRING + + The wind that breathes of columbines + And celandines that crowd the rocks; + That shakes the balsam of the pines + With laughter from his airy locks, + Stops at my city door and knocks. + + He calls me far a-forest, where + The twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom; + And, circled by the amber air, + Life sits with beauty and perfume + Weaving the new web of her loom. + + He calls me where the waters run + Through fronding ferns where wades the hern; + And, sparkling in the equal sun, + Song leans above her brimming urn, + And dreams the dreams that love shall learn. + + The wind has summoned, and I go: + To read God's meaning in each line + The wildflowers write; and, walking slow, + God's purpose, of which song is sign,-- + The wind's great, gusty hand in mine. + + + + THE CATBIRD + + I + + The tufted gold of the sassafras, + And the gold of the spicewood-bush, + Bewilder the ways of the forest pass, + And brighten the underbrush: + The white-starred drifts of the wild-plum tree, + And the haw with its pearly plumes, + And the redbud, misted rosily, + Dazzle the woodland glooms. + + II + + And I hear the song of the catbird wake + I' the boughs o' the gnarled wild-crab, + Or there where the snows of the dogwood shake, + That the silvery sunbeams stab: + And it seems to me that a magic lies + In the crystal sweet of its notes, + That a myriad blossoms open their eyes + As its strain above them floats. + + III + + I see the bluebell's blue unclose, + And the trillium's stainless white; + The birdfoot-violet's purple and rose, + And the poppy, golden-bright! + And I see the eyes of the bluet wink, + And the heads of the white-hearts nod; + And the baby mouths of the woodland-pink + And sorrel salute the sod. + + IV + + And this, meseems, does the catbird say, + As the blossoms crowd i' the sun:-- + "Up, up! and out! oh, out and away! + Up, up! and out, each one! + Sweethearts! sweethearts! oh, sweet, sweet, sweet! + Come listen and hark to me! + The Spring, the Spring, with her fragrant feet, + Is passing this way!--Oh, hark to the beat + Of her beelike heart!--Oh, sweet, sweet, sweet! + Come! open your eyes and see! + See, see, see!" + + + + A WOODLAND GRAVE + + White moons may come, white moons may go-- + She sleeps where early blossoms blow; + Knows nothing of the leafy June, + That leans above her night and noon, + Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon, + Watching her roses grow. + + The downy moth at twilight comes + And flutters round their honeyed blooms: + Long, lazy clouds, like ivory, + That isle the blue lagoons of sky, + Redden to molten gold and dye + With flame the pine-deep glooms. + + Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf; + The wind, that shakes the violet's sheaf; + The slender sound of water lone, + That makes a harp-string of some stone, + And now a wood bird's glimmering moan, + Seem whisperings there of grief. + + Her garden, where the lilacs grew, + Where, on old walls, old roses blew, + Head-heavy with their mellow musk, + Where, when the beetle's drone was husk, + She lingered in the dying dusk, + No more shall know that knew. + + Her orchard,--where the Spring and she + Stood listening to each bird and bee,-- + That, from its fragrant firmament, + Snowed blossoms on her as she went, + (A blossom with their blossoms blent) + No more her face shall see. + + White moons may come, white moons may go-- + She sleeps where early blossoms blow: + Around her headstone many a seed + Shall sow itself; and brier and weed + Shall grow to hide it from men's heed, + And none will care or know. + + + + SUNSET DREAMS + + The moth and beetle wing about + The garden ways of other days; + Above the hills, a fiery shout + Of gold, the day dies slowly out, + Like some wild blast a huntsman blows: + And o'er the hills my Fancy goes, + Following the sunset's golden call + Unto a vine-hung garden wall, + Where she awaits me in the gloom, + Between the lily and the rose, + With arms and lips of warm perfume, + The dream of Love my Fancy knows. + + The glowworm and the firefly glow + Among the ways of bygone days; + A golden shaft shot from a bow + Of silver, star and moon swing low + Above the hills where twilight lies: + And o'er the hills my Longing flies, + Following the star's far-arrowed gold, + Unto a gate where, as of old, + She waits amid the rose and rue, + With star-bright hair and night-dark eyes, + The dream, to whom my heart is true, + My dream of Love that never dies. + + + + THE OLD BYWAY + + Its rotting fence one scarcely sees + Through sumac and wild blackberries, + Thick elder and the bramble-rose, + Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees + Hang droning in repose. + + The little lizards lie all day + Gray on its rocks of lichen-gray; + And, insect-Ariels of the sun, + The butterflies make bright its way, + Its path where chipmunks run. + + A lyric there the redbird lifts, + While, twittering, the swallow drifts + 'Neath wandering clouds of sleepy cream,-- + In which the wind makes azure rifts,-- + O'er dells where wood-doves dream. + + The brown grasshoppers rasp and bound + Mid weeds and briers that hedge it round; + And in its grass-grown ruts,--where stirs + The harmless snake,--mole-crickets sound + Their faery dulcimers. + + At evening, when the sad west turns + To lonely night a cheek that burns, + The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing; + And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns + The winds wake, whispering. + + + + "BELOW THE SUNSET'S RANGE OF ROSE" + + Below the sunset's range of rose, + Below the heaven's deepening blue, + Down woodways where the balsam blows, + And milkweed tufts hang, gray with dew, + A Jersey heifer stops and lows-- + The cows come home by one, by two. + + There is no star yet: but the smell + Of hay and pennyroyal mix + With herb aromas of the dell, + Where the root-hidden cricket clicks: + Among the ironweeds a bell + Clangs near the rail-fenced clover-ricks. + + She waits upon the slope beside + The windlassed well the plum trees shade, + The well curb that the goose-plums hide; + Her light hand on the bucket laid, + Unbonneted she waits, glad-eyed, + Her gown as simple as her braid. + + She sees fawn-colored backs among + The sumacs now; a tossing horn + Its clashing bell of copper rung: + Long shadows lean upon the corn, + And slow the day dies, scarlet stung, + The cloud in it a rosy thorn. + + Below the pleasant moon, that tips + The tree tops of the hillside, fly + The flitting bats; the twilight slips, + In firefly spangles, twinkling by, + Through which _he_ comes: Their happy lips + Meet--and one star leaps in the sky. + + He takes her bucket, and they speak + Of married hopes while in the grass + The plum drops glowing as her cheek; + The patient cows look back or pass: + And in the west one golden streak + Burns as if God gazed through a glass. + + + + MUSIC OF SUMMER + + I + + Thou sit'st among the sunny silences + Of terraced hills and woodland galleries, + Thou utterance of all calm melodies, + Thou lutanist of Earth's most affluent lute,-- + Where no false note intrudes + To mar the silent music,--branch and root,-- + Charming the fields ripe, orchards and deep woods, + To song similitudes + Of flower and seed and fruit. + + II + + Oft have I seen thee, in some sensuous air, + Bewitch the broad wheat-acres everywhere + To imitated gold of thy deep hair: + The peach, by thy red lips' delicious trouble, + Blown into gradual dyes + Of crimson; and beheld thy magic double-- + Dark-blue with fervid influence of thine eyes-- + The grapes' rotundities, + Bubble by purple bubble. + + III + + Deliberate uttered into life intense, + Out of thy soul's melodious eloquence + Beauty evolves its just preeminence: + The lily, from some pensive-smitten chord + Drawing significance + Of purity, a visible hush stands: starred + With splendor, from thy passionate utterance, + The rose writes its romance + In blushing word on word. + + IV + + As star by star Day harps in Evening, + The inspiration of all things that sing + Is in thy hands and from their touch takes wing: + All brooks, all birds,--whom song can never sate,-- + The leaves, the wind and rain, + Green frogs and insects, singing soon and late, + Thy sympathies inspire, thy heart's refrain, + Whose sounds invigorate + With rest life's weary brain. + + V + + And as the Night, like some mysterious rune, + Its beauty makes emphatic with the moon, + Thou lutest us no immaterial tune: + But where dim whispers haunt the cane and corn, + By thy still strain made strong, + Earth's awful avatar,--in whom is born + Thy own deep music,--labors all night long + With growth, assuring Morn + Assumes with onward song. + + + + MIDSUMMER + + I + + The mellow smell of hollyhocks + And marigolds and pinks and phlox + Blends with the homely garden scents + Of onions, silvering into rods; + Of peppers, scarlet with their pods; + And (rose of all the esculents) + Of broad plebeian cabbages, + Breathing content and corpulent ease. + + II + + The buzz of wasp and fly makes hot + The spaces of the garden-plot; + And from the orchard,--where the fruit + Ripens and rounds, or, loosed with heat, + Rolls, hornet-clung, before the feet,-- + One hears the veery's golden flute, + That mixes with the sleepy hum + Of bees that drowsily go and come. + + III + + The podded musk of gourd and vine + Embower a gate of roughest pine, + That leads into a wood where day + Sits, leaning o'er a forest pool, + Watching the lilies opening cool, + And dragonflies at airy play, + While, dim and near, the quietness + Rustles and stirs her leafy dress. + + IV + + Far-off a cowbell clangs awake + The noon who slumbers in the brake: + And now a pewee, plaintively, + Whistles the day to sleep again: + A rain-crow croaks a rune for rain, + And from the ripest apple tree + A great gold apple thuds, where, slow, + The red cock curves his neck to crow. + + V + + Hens cluck their broods from place to place, + While clinking home, with chain and trace, + The cart-horse plods along the road + Where afternoon sits with his dreams: + Hot fragrance of hay-making streams + Above him, and a high-heaped load + Goes creaking by and with it, sweet, + The aromatic soul of heat. + + VI + + "Coo-ee! coo-ee!" the evenfall + Cries, and the hills repeat the call: + "Coo-ee! coo-ee!" and by the log + Labor unharnesses his plow, + While to the barn comes cow on cow: + "Coo-ee! coo-ee!"--and, with his dog, + Barefooted boyhood down the lane + "Coo-ees" the cattle home again. + + + + THE RAIN-CROW + + I + + Can freckled August,--drowsing warm and blond + Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead, + In her hot hair the yellow daisies wound,-- + O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed + To thee? when no plumed weed, no feathered seed + Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond, + That gleams like flint within its rim of grasses, + Through which the dragonfly forever passes + Like splintered diamond. + + II + + Drouth weights the trees; and from the farmhouse eaves + The locust, pulse-beat of the summer day, + Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leaves + Limp with the heat--a league of rutty way-- + Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hay + Breathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves-- + Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain, + In thirsty meadow or on burning plain, + That thy keen eye perceives? + + III + + But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true. + For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting, + When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue, + Great water-carrier winds their buckets bring + Brimming with freshness. How their dippers ring + And flash and rumble! lavishing large dew + On corn and forest land, that, streaming wet, + Their hilly backs against the downpour set, + Like giants, loom in view. + + IV + + The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower, + Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art; + The bumblebee, within the last half-hour, + Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart; + While in the barnyard, under shed and cart, + Brood-hens have housed.--But I, who scorned thy power, + Barometer of birds,--like August there,-- + Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair, + Like some drenched truant, cower. + + + + FIELD AND FOREST CALL + + I + + There is a field, that leans upon two hills, + Foamed o'er of flowers and twinkling with clear rills; + That in its girdle of wild acres bears + The anodyne of rest that cures all cares; + Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent + With fragrance--as in some old instrument + Sweet chords;--calm things, that Nature's magic spell + Distills from Heaven's azure crucible, + And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well. + There lies the path, they say-- + Come away! come away! + + II + + There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams, + Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams; + That in its league-long hand of trunk and leaf + Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief; + Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things, + Vague, whispering' touches, gleams and twitterings, + Dews and cool shadows--that the mystic soul + Of Nature permeates with suave control, + And waves o'er Earth to make the sad heart whole. + There lies the road, they say-- + Come away! come away! + + + + OLD HOMES + + Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens; + Their old rock fences, that our day inherits; + Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; + Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; + Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens. + + I see them gray among their ancient acres, + Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,-- + Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, + Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,-- + Serene among their memory-hallowed acres. + + Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies-- + Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers-- + Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, + And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers, + And all the hours are toilless as the lilies. + + I love their orchards where the gay woodpecker + Flits, flashing o'er you, like a winged jewel; + Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker + With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, + The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker. + + Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever + Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; + Like love they touch me, through the years that sever, + With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after + The dreamy patience that is theirs forever. + + + + THE FOREST WAY + + I + + I climbed a forest path and found + A dim cave in the dripping ground, + Where dwelt the spirit of cool sound, + Who wrought with crystal triangles, + And hollowed foam of rippled bells, + A music of mysterious spells. + + II + + Where Sleep her bubble-jewels spilled + Of dreams; and Silence twilight-filled + Her emerald buckets, star-instilled, + With liquid whispers of lost springs, + And mossy tread of woodland things, + And drip of dew that greenly clings. + + III + + Here by those servitors of Sound, + Warders of that enchanted ground, + My soul and sense were seized and bound, + And, in a dungeon deep of trees + Entranced, were laid at lazy ease, + The charge of woodland mysteries. + + IV + + The minions of Prince Drowsihead, + The wood-perfumes, with sleepy tread, + Tiptoed around my ferny bed: + And far away I heard report + Of one who dimly rode to Court, + The Faery Princess, Eve-Amort. + + V + + Her herald winds sang as they passed; + And there her beauty stood at last, + With wild gold locks, a band held fast, + Above blue eyes, as clear as spar; + While from a curved and azure jar + She poured the white moon and a star. + + + + SUNSET AND STORM + + Deep with divine tautology, + The sunset's mighty mystery + Again has traced the scroll-like west + With hieroglyphs of burning gold: + Forever new, forever old, + Its miracle is manifest. + + Time lays the scroll away. And now + Above the hills a giant brow + Of cloud Night lifts; and from his arm, + Barbaric black, upon the world, + With thunder, wind and fire, is hurled + His awful argument of storm. + + What part, O man, is yours in such? + Whose awe and wonder are in touch + With Nature,--speaking rapture to + Your soul,--yet leaving in your reach + No human word of thought or speech + Commensurate with the thing you view. + + + + QUIET LANES + + From the lyrical eclogue "One Day and Another" + + Now rests the season in forgetfulness, + Careless in beauty of maturity; + The ripened roses round brown temples, she + Fulfills completion in a dreamy guess. + Now Time grants night the more and day the less: + The gray decides; and brown + Dim golds and drabs in dulling green express + Themselves and redden as the year goes down. + Sadder the fields where, thrusting hoary high + Their tasseled heads, the Lear-like corn-stocks die, + And, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie.-- + Deepening with tenderness, + Sadder the blue of hills that lounge along + The lonesome west; sadder the song + Of the wild redbird in the leafage yellow.-- + Deeper and dreamier, aye! + Than woods or waters, leans the languid sky + Above lone orchards where the cider press + Drips and the russets mellow. + Nature grows liberal: from the beechen leaves + The beech-nuts' burrs their little purses thrust, + Plump with the copper of the nuts that rust; + Above the grass the spendthrift spider weaves + A web of silver for which dawn designs + Thrice twenty rows of pearls: beneath the oak, + That rolls old roots in many gnarly lines,-- + The polished acorns, from their saucers broke, + Strew oval agates.--On sonorous pines + The far wind organs; but the forest near + Is silent; and the blue-white smoke + Of burning brush, beyond that field of hay, + Hangs like a pillar in the atmosphere: + But now it shakes--it breaks, and all the vines + And tree tops tremble; see! the wind is here! + Billowing and boisterous; and the smiling day + Rejoices in its clamor. Earth and sky + Resound with glory of its majesty, + Impetuous splendor of its rushing by.-- + But on those heights the woodland dark is still, + Expectant of its coming.... Far away + Each anxious tree upon each waiting hill + Tingles anticipation, as in gray + Surmise of rapture. Now the first gusts play, + Like laughter low, about their rippling spines; + And now the wildwood, one exultant sway, + Shouts--and the light at each tumultuous pause, + The light that glooms and shines, + Seems hands in wild applause. + + How glows that garden!--Though the white mists keep + The vagabonding flowers reminded of + Decay that comes to slay in open love, + When the full moon hangs cold and night is deep; + Unheeding still their cardinal colors leap + Gay in the crescent of the blade of death,-- + Spaced innocents whom he prepares to reap,-- + Staying his scythe a breath + To mark their beauty ere, with one last sweep, + He lays them dead and turns away to weep.-- + Let me admire,-- + Before the sickle of the coming cold + Shall mow them down,--their beauties manifold: + How like to spurts of fire + That scarlet salvia lifts its blooms, which heap + With flame the sunlight. And, as sparkles creep + Through charring vellum, up that window's screen + The cypress dots with crimson all its green, + The haunt of many bees. + Cascading dark old porch-built lattices, + The nightshade bleeds with berries; drops of blood + Hanging in clusters 'mid the blue monk's-hood. + + There is a garden old, + Where bright-hued clumps of zinnias unfold + Their formal flowers; where the marigold + Lifts a pinched shred of orange sunset caught + And elfed in petals; the nasturtium, + Deep, pungent-leaved and acrid of perfume, + Hangs up a goblin bonnet, pixy-brought + From Gnomeland. There, predominant red, + And arrogant, the dahlia lifts its head, + Beside the balsam's rose-stained horns of honey, + Lost in the murmuring, sunny + Dry wildness of the weedy flower bed; + Where crickets and the weed-bugs, noon and night, + Shrill dirges for the flowers that soon shall die, + And flowers already dead.-- + I seem to hear the passing Summer sigh: + A voice, that seems to weep,-- + "Too soon, too soon the Beautiful passes by! + And soon, among these bowers + Will dripping Autumn mourn with all her flowers"-- + + If I, perchance, might peep + Beneath those leaves of podded hollyhocks, + That the bland wind with odorous murmurs rocks, + I might behold her,--white + And weary,--Summer, 'mid her flowers asleep, + Her drowsy flowers asleep, + The withered poppies knotted in her locks. + + + + ONE WHO LOVED NATURE + + I + + He was not learned in any art; + But Nature led him by the hand; + And spoke her language to his heart + So he could hear and understand: + He loved her simply as a child; + And in his love forgot the heat + Of conflict, and sat reconciled + In patience of defeat. + + II + + Before me now I see him rise-- + A face, that seventy years had snowed + With winter, where the kind blue eyes + Like hospitable fires glowed: + A small gray man whose heart was large, + And big with knowledge learned of need; + A heart, the hard world made its targe, + That never ceased to bleed. + + III + + He knew all Nature. Yea, he knew + What virtue lay within each flower, + What tonic in the dawn and dew, + And in each root what magic power: + What in the wild witch-hazel tree + Reversed its time of blossoming, + And clothed its branches goldenly + In fall instead of spring. + + IV + + He knew what made the firefly glow + And pulse with crystal gold and flame; + And whence the bloodroot got its snow, + And how the bramble's perfume came: + He understood the water's word + And grasshopper's and cricket's chirr; + And of the music of each bird + He was interpreter. + + V + + He kept no calendar of days, + But knew the seasons by the flowers; + And he could tell you by the rays + Of sun or stars the very hours. + He probed the inner mysteries + Of light, and knew the chemic change + That colors flowers, and what is + Their fragrance wild and strange. + + VI + + If some old oak had power of speech, + It could not speak more wildwood lore, + Nor in experience further reach, + Than he who was a tree at core. + Nature was all his heritage, + And seemed to fill his every need; + Her features were his book, whose page + He never tired to read. + + VII + + He read her secrets that no man + Has ever read and never will, + And put to scorn the charlatan + Who botanizes of her still. + He kept his knowledge sweet and clean, + And questioned not of why and what; + And never drew a line between + What's known and what is not. + + VIII + + He was most gentle, good, and wise; + A simpler heart earth never saw: + His soul looked softly from his eyes, + And in his speech were love and awe. + + Yet Nature in the end denied + The thing he had not asked for--fame! + Unknown, in poverty he died, + And men forget his name. + + + + GARDEN GOSSIP + + Thin, chisel-fine a cricket chipped + The crystal silence into sound; + And where the branches dreamed and dripped + A grasshopper its dagger stripped + And on the humming darkness ground. + + A bat, against the gibbous moon, + Danced, implike, with its lone delight; + The glowworm scrawled a golden rune + Upon the dark; and, emerald-strewn, + The firefly hung with lamps the night. + + The flowers said their beads in prayer, + Dew-syllables of sighed perfume; + Or talked of two, soft-standing there, + One like a gladiole, straight and fair, + And one like some rich poppy-bloom. + + The mignonette and feverfew + Laid their pale brows together:--"See!" + One whispered: "Did their step thrill through + Your roots?"--"Like rain."--"I touched the two + And a new bud was born in me." + + One rose said to another:--"Whose + Is this dim music? song, that parts + My crimson petals like the dews?" + "My blossom trembles with sweet news-- + It is the love of two young hearts." + + + + ASSUMPTION + + I + + A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood: + A mile of shadow and the odorous lane: + One large, white star above the solitude, + Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain, + Wild-roses wistful in a web of rain. + + II + + No star, no rose, to lesson him and lead; + No woodsman compass of the skies and rocks,-- + Tattooed of stars and lichens,--doth love need + To guide him where, among the hollyhocks, + A blur of moonlight, gleam his sweetheart's locks. + + III + + We name it beauty--that permitted part, + The love-elected apotheosis + Of Nature, which the god within the heart, + Just touching, makes immortal, but by this-- + A star, a rose, the memory of a kiss. + + + + SENORITA + + An agate-black, your roguish eyes + Claim no proud lineage of the skies, + No starry blue; but of good earth + The reckless witchery and mirth. + + Looped in your raven hair's repose, + A hot aroma, one red rose + Dies; envious of that loveliness, + By being near which its is less. + + Twin sea shells, hung with pearls, your ears, + Whose slender rosiness appears + Part of the pearls; whose pallid fire + Binds the attention these inspire. + + One slim hand crumples up the lace + About your bosom's swelling grace; + A ruby at your samite throat + Lends the required color note. + + The moon bears through the violet night + A pearly urn of chaliced light; + And from your dark-railed balcony + You stoop and wave your fan at me. + + O'er orange orchards and the rose + Vague, odorous lips the south wind blows, + Peopling the night with whispers of + Romance and palely passionate love. + + The heaven of your balcony + Smiles down two stars, that say to me + More peril than Angelica + Wrought with her beauty in Cathay. + + Oh, stoop to me! and, speaking, reach + My soul like song that learned sweet speech + From some dim instrument--who knows?-- + Or flower, a dulcimer or rose. + + + + OVERSEAS + + _Non numero horas nisi serenas_ + + When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems + In soul I am a part of it; + A portion of its humid beams, + A form of fog, I seem to flit + From dreams to dreams.... + + An old chateau sleeps 'mid the hills + Of France: an avenue of sorbs + Conceals it: drifts of daffodils + Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs + Like iron bills. + + I pass the gate unquestioned; yet, + I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make + Dark pools of restless violet. + Between high bramble banks a lake,-- + As in a net + + The tangled scales twist silver,--shines.... + Gray, mossy turrets swell above + A sea of leaves. And where the pines + Shade ivied walls, there lies my love, + My heart divines. + + I know her window, slimly seen + From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged: + Her garden, with the nectarine + Espaliered, and the peach tree, wedged + 'Twixt walls of green. + + Cool-babbling a fountain falls + From gryphons' mouths in porphyry; + Carp haunt its waters; and white balls + Of lilies dip it when the bee + Creeps in and drawls. + + And butterflies--each with a face + Of faery on its wings--that seem + Beheaded pansies, softly chase + Each other down the gloom and gleam + Trees interspace. + + And roses! roses, soft as vair, + Round sylvan statues and the old + Stone dial--Pompadours, that wear + Their royalty of purple and gold + With wanton air.... + + Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe + The perfume of her touch; her gloves, + Modeling the daintiness they sheathe; + Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves, + Lie there beneath + + A bank of eglantine, that heaps + A rose-strewn shadow.--Naive-eyed, + With lips as suave as they, she sleeps; + The romance by her, open wide, + O'er which she weeps. + + + + PROBLEMS + + Man's are the learnings of his books-- + What is all knowledge that he knows + Beside the wit of winding brooks, + The wisdom of the summer rose! + + How soil distills the scent in flowers + Baffles his science: heaven-dyed, + How, from the palette of His hours, + God gives them colors, hath defied. + + What dream of heaven begets the light? + Or, ere the stars beat burning tunes, + Stains all the hollow edge of night + With glory as of molten moons? + + Who is it answers what is birth + Or death, that nothing may retard? + Or what is love, that seems of Earth, + Yet wears God's own divine regard? + + + + TO A WINDFLOWER + + I + + Teach me the secret of thy loveliness, + That, being made wise, I may aspire to be + As beautiful in thought, and so express + Immortal truths to Earth's mortality; + Though to my soul ability be less + Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone. + + II + + Teach me the secret of thy innocence, + That in simplicity I may grow wise; + Asking of Art no other recompense + Than the approval of her own just eyes; + So may I rise to some fair eminence, + Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies. + + III + + Teach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I,-- + When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, + And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie + In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,-- + I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, + For beauty born of beauty--_that_ remains. + + + + VOYAGERS + + Where are they, that song and tale + Tell of? lands our childhood knew? + Sea-locked Faerylands that trail + Morning summits, dim with dew, + Crimson o'er a crimson sail. + + Where in dreams we entered on + Wonders eyes have never seen: + Whither often we have gone, + Sailing a dream-brigantine + On from voyaging dawn to dawn. + + Leons seeking lands of song; + Fabled fountains pouring spray; + Where our anchors dropped among + Corals of some tropic bay, + With its swarthy native throng. + + Shoulder ax and arquebus!-- + We may find it!--past yon range + Of sierras, vaporous, + Rich with gold and wild and strange + That lost region dear to us. + + Yet, behold, although our zeal + Darien summits may subdue, + Our Balboa eyes reveal + But a vaster sea come to-- + New endeavor for our keel. + + Yet! who sails with face set hard + Westward,--while behind him lies + Unfaith,--where his dreams keep guard + Round it, in the sunset skies, + He may reach it--afterward. + + + + THE SPELL + + _"We have the receipt of fern seed: we walk invisible."_ + --HENRY IV + + And we have met but twice or thrice!-- + Three times enough to make me love!-- + I praised your hair once; then your glove; + Your eyes; your gown;--you were like ice; + And yet this might suffice, my love, + And yet this might suffice. + + St. John hath told me what to do: + To search and find the ferns that grow + The fern seed that the faeries know; + Then sprinkle fern seed in my shoe, + And haunt the steps of you, my dear, + And haunt the steps of you. + + You'll see the poppy pods dip here; + The blow-ball of the thistle slip, + And no wind breathing--but my lip + Next to your anxious cheek and ear, + To tell you I am near, my love, + To tell you I am near. + + On wood-ways I shall tread your gown-- + You'll know it is no brier!--then + I'll whisper words of love again, + And smile to see your quick face frown: + And then I'll kiss it down, my dear, + And then I'll kiss it down. + + And when at home you read or knit,-- + Who'll know it was my hands that blotted + The page?--or all your needles knotted? + When in your rage you cry a bit: + And loud I laugh at it, my love, + And loud I laugh at it. + + The secrets that you say in prayer + Right so I'll hear: and, when you sing, + The name you speak; and whispering + I'll bend and kiss your mouth and hair, + And tell you I am there, my dear, + And tell you I am there. + + Would it were true what people say!-- + Would I _could_ find that elfin seed! + Then should I win your love, indeed, + By being near you night and day-- + There is no other way, my love, + There is no other way. + + Meantime the truth in this is said: + It is my soul that follows you; + It needs no fern seed in the shoe,-- + While in the heart love pulses red, + To win you and to wed, my dear, + To win you and to wed. + + + + UNCERTAINTY + + _"'He cometh not,' she said."_--MARIANA + + It will not be to-day and yet + I think and dream it will; and let + The slow uncertainty devise + So many sweet excuses, met + With the old doubt in hope's disguise. + + The panes were sweated with the dawn; + Yet through their dimness, shriveled drawn, + The aigret of one princess-feather, + One monk's-hood tuft with oilets wan, + I glimpsed, dead in the slaying weather. + + This morning, when my window's chintz + I drew, how gray the day was!--Since + I saw him, yea, all days are gray!-- + I gazed out on my dripping quince, + Defruited, gnarled; then turned away + + To weep, but did not weep: but felt + A colder anguish than did melt + About the tearful-visaged year!-- + Then flung the lattice wide, and smelt + The autumn sorrow: Rotting near + + The rain-drenched sunflowers bent and bleached, + Up which the frost-nipped gourd-vines reached + And morning-glories, seeded o'er + With ashen aiglets; whence beseeched + One last bloom, frozen to the core. + + The podded hollyhocks,--that Fall + Had stripped of finery,--by the wall + Rustled their tatters; dripped and dripped, + The fog thick on them: near them, all + The tarnished, haglike zinnias tipped. + + I felt the death and loved it: yea, + To have it nearer, sought the gray, + Chill, fading garth. Yet could not weep, + But wandered in an aimless way, + And sighed with weariness for sleep. + + Mine were the fog, the frosty stalks; + The weak lights on the leafy walks; + The shadows shivering with the cold; + The breaking heart; the lonely talks; + The last, dim, ruined marigold. + + But when to-night the moon swings low-- + A great marsh-marigold of glow-- + And all my garden with the sea + Moans, then, through moon and mist, I know + My love will come to comfort me. + + + + IN THE WOOD + + The waterfall, deep in the wood, + Talked drowsily with solitude, + A soft, insistent sound of foam, + That filled with sleep the forest's dome, + Where, like some dream of dusk, she stood + Accentuating solitude. + + The crickets' tinkling chips of sound + Strewed dim the twilight-twinkling ground; + A whippoorwill began to cry, + And glimmering through the sober sky + A bat went on its drunken round, + Its shadow following on the ground. + + Then from a bush, an elder-copse, + That spiced the dark with musky tops, + What seemed, at first, a shadow came + And took her hand and spoke her name, + And kissed her where, in starry drops, + The dew orbed on the elder-tops. + + The glaucous glow of fireflies + Flickered the dusk; and foxlike eyes + Peered from the shadows; and the hush + Murmured a word of wind and rush + Of fluttering waters, fragrant sighs, + And dreams unseen of mortal eyes. + + The beetle flung its burr of sound + Against the hush and clung there, wound + In night's deep mane: then, in a tree, + A grig began deliberately + To file the stillness: all around + A wire of shrillness seemed unwound. + + I looked for those two lovers there; + His ardent eyes, her passionate hair. + The moon looked down, slow-climbing wan + Heaven's slope of azure: they were gone: + But where they'd passed I heard the air + Sigh, faint with sweetness of her hair. + + + + SINCE THEN + + I found myself among the trees + What time the reapers ceased to reap; + And in the sunflower-blooms the bees + Huddled brown heads and went to sleep, + Rocked by the balsam-breathing breeze. + + I saw the red fox leave his lair, + A shaggy shadow, on the knoll; + And tunneling his thoroughfare + Beneath the soil, I watched the mole-- + Stealth's own self could not take more care. + + I heard the death-moth tick and stir, + Slow-honeycombing through the bark; + I heard the cricket's drowsy chirr, + And one lone beetle burr the dark-- + The sleeping woodland seemed to purr. + + And then the moon rose: and one white + Low bough of blossoms--grown almost + Where, ere you died, 'twas our delight + To meet,--dear heart!--I thought your ghost.... + The wood is haunted since that night. + + + + DUSK IN THE WOODS + + Three miles of trees it is: and I + Came through the woods that waited, dumb, + For the cool summer dusk to come; + And lingered there to watch the sky + Up which the gradual splendor clomb. + + A tree-toad quavered in a tree; + And then a sudden whippoorwill + Called overhead, so wildly shrill + The sleeping wood, it seemed to me, + Cried out and then again was still. + + Then through dark boughs its stealthy flight + An owl took; and, at drowsy strife, + The cricket tuned its faery fife; + And like a ghost-flower, silent white, + The wood-moth glimmered into life. + + And in the dead wood everywhere + The insects ticked, or bored below + The rotted bark; and, glow on glow, + The lambent fireflies here and there + Lit up their jack-o'-lantern show. + + I heard a vesper-sparrow sing, + Withdrawn, it seemed, into the far + Slow sunset's tranquil cinnabar; + The crimson, softly smoldering + Behind the trees, with its one star. + + A dog barked: and down ways that gleamed, + Through dew and clover, faint the noise + Of cowbells moved. And then a voice, + That sang a-milking, so it seemed, + Made glad my heart as some glad boy's. + + And then the lane: and, full in view, + A farmhouse with its rose-grown gate, + And honeysuckle paths, await + For night, the moon, and love and you-- + These are the things that made me late. + + + + PATHS + + I + + What words of mine can tell the spell + Of garden ways I know so well?-- + The path that takes me in the spring + Past quince-trees where the bluebirds sing, + And peonies are blossoming, + Unto a porch, wistaria-hung, + Around whose steps May-lilies blow, + A fair girl reaches down among, + Her arm more white than their sweet snow. + + II + + What words of mine can tell the spell + Of garden ways I know so well?-- + Another path that leads me, when + The summer time is here again, + Past hollyhocks that shame the west + When the red sun has sunk to rest; + To roses bowering a nest, + A lattice, 'neath which mignonette + And deep geraniums surge and sough, + Where, in the twilight, starless yet, + A fair girl's eyes are stars enough. + + III + + What words of mine can tell the spell + Of garden ways I know so well?-- + A path that takes me, when the days + Of autumn wrap the hills in haze, + Beneath the pippin-pelting tree, + 'Mid flitting butterfly and bee; + Unto a door where, fiery, + The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued, + The cock's-comb and the dahlia flare, + And in the door, where shades intrude, + Gleams bright a fair girl's sunbeam hair. + + IV + + What words of mine can tell the spell + Of garden ways I know so well?-- + A path that brings me through the frost + Of winter, when the moon is tossed + In clouds; beneath great cedars, weak + With shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleak + With shivering leaves; to eaves that leak + The tattered ice, whereunder is + A fire-flickering window-space; + And in the light, with lips to kiss, + A fair girl's welcome-smiling face. + + + + THE QUEST + + I + + First I asked the honeybee, + Busy in the balmy bowers; + Saying, "Sweetheart, tell it me: + Have you seen her, honeybee? + She is cousin to the flowers-- + All the sweetness of the south + In her wild-rose face and mouth." + But the bee passed silently. + + II + + Then I asked the forest bird, + Warbling by the woodland waters; + Saying, "Dearest, have you heard? + Have you heard her, forest bird? + She is one of music's daughters-- + Never song so sweet by half + As the music of her laugh." + But the bird said not a word. + + III + + Next I asked the evening sky, + Hanging out its lamps of fire; + Saying, "Loved one, passed she by? + Tell me, tell me, evening sky! + She, the star of my desire-- + Sister whom the Pleiads lost, + And my soul's high pentecost." + But the sky made no reply. + + IV + + Where is she? ah, where is she? + She to whom both love and duty + Bind me, yea, immortally.-- + Where is she? ah, where is she? + Symbol of the Earth-Soul's beauty. + I have lost her. Help my heart + Find her! her, who is a part + Of the pagan soul of me. + + + + THE GARDEN OF DREAMS + + Not while I live may I forget + That garden which my spirit trod! + Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet, + And beautiful as God. + + Not while I breathe, awake, adream, + Shall live again for me those hours, + When, in its mystery and gleam, + I met her 'mid the flowers. + + Eyes, talismanic heliotrope, + Beneath mesmeric lashes, where + The sorceries of love and hope + Had made a shining lair. + + And daydawn brows, whereover hung + The twilight of dark locks: wild birds, + Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongue + Of fragrance-voweled words. + + I will not tell of cheeks and chin, + That held me as sweet language holds; + Nor of the eloquence within + Her breasts' twin-mooned molds. + + Nor of her body's languorous + Wind-grace, that glanced like starlight through + Her clinging robe's diaphanous + Web of the mist and dew. + + There is no star so pure and high + As was her look; no fragrance such + As her soft presence; and no sigh + Of music like her touch. + + Not while I live may I forget + That garden of dim dreams, where I + And Beauty born of Music met, + Whose spirit passed me by. + + + + THE PATH TO FAERY + + I + + When dusk falls cool as a rained-on rose, + And a tawny tower the twilight shows, + With the crescent moon, the silver moon, the curved + new moon in a space that glows, + A turret window that grows alight; + There is a path that my Fancy knows, + A glimmering, shimmering path of night, + That far as the Land of Faery goes. + + II + + And I follow the path, as Fancy leads, + Over the mountains, into the meads, + Where the firefly cities, the glowworm cities, the faery + cities are strung like beads, + Each city a twinkling star: + And I live a life of valorous deeds, + And march with the Faery King to war, + And ride with his knights on milk-white steeds. + + III + + Or it's there in the whirl of their life I sit, + Or dance in their houses with starlight lit, + Their blossom houses, their flower houses, their elfin + houses, of fern leaves knit, + With fronded spires and domes: + And there it is that my lost dreams flit, + And the ghost of my childhood, smiling, roams + With the faery children so dear to it. + + IV + + And it's there I hear that they all come true, + The faery stories, whatever they do-- + Elf and goblin, dear elf and goblin, loved elf and goblin, + and all the crew + Of witch and wizard and gnome and fay, + And prince and princess, that wander through + The storybooks we have put away, + The faerytales that we loved and knew. + + V + + The face of Adventure lures you there, + And the eyes of Danger bid you dare, + While ever the bugles, the silver bugles, the far-off + bugles of Elfland blare, + The faery trumpets to battle blow; + And you feel their thrill in your heart and hair, + And you fain would follow and mount and go + And march with the Faeries anywhere. + + VI + + And she--she rides at your side again, + Your little sweetheart whose age is ten: + She is the princess, the faery princess, the princess fair + that you worshiped when + You were a prince in a faerytale; + And you do great deeds as you did them then, + With your magic spear, and enchanted mail, + Braving the dragon in his den. + + VII + + And you ask again,--"Oh, where shall we ride, + Now that the monster is slain, my bride?"-- + "Back to the cities, the firefly cities, the glowworm + cities where we can hide, + The beautiful cities of Faeryland. + And the light of my eyes shall be your guide, + The light of my eyes and my snow-white hand-- + And there forever we two will abide." + + + + THERE ARE FAERIES + + I + + There are faeries, bright of eye, + Who the wildflowers' warders are: + Ouphes, that chase the firefly; + Elves, that ride the shooting-star: + Fays, who in a cobweb lie, + Swinging on a moonbeam bar; + Or who harness bumblebees, + Grumbling on the clover leas, + To a blossom or a breeze-- + That's their faery car. + If you care, you too may see + There are faeries.--Verily, + There are faeries. + + II + + There are faeries. I could swear + I have seen them busy, where + Roses loose their scented hair, + In the moonlight weaving, weaving, + + Out of starlight and the dew, + Glinting gown and shimmering shoe; + Or, within a glowworm lair, + From the dark earth slowly heaving + Mushrooms whiter than the moon, + On whose tops they sit and croon, + With their grig-like mandolins, + To fair faery ladykins, + Leaning from the windowsill + Of a rose or daffodil, + Listening to their serenade + All of cricket-music made. + Follow me, oh, follow me! + Ho! away to Faerie! + Where your eyes like mine may see + There are faeries.--Verily, + There are faeries. + + III + + There are faeries. Elves that swing + In a wild and rainbow ring + Through the air; or mount the wing + Of a bat to courier news + To the faery King and Queen: + Fays, who stretch the gossamers + On which twilight hangs the dews; + + Who, within the moonlight sheen, + Whisper dimly in the ears + Of the flowers words so sweet + That their hearts are turned to musk + And to honey; things that beat + In their veins of gold and blue: + Ouphes, that shepherd moths of dusk-- + Soft of wing and gray of hue-- + Forth to pasture on the dew. + + IV + + There are faeries; verily; + Verily: + For the old owl in the tree, + Hollow tree, + He who maketh melody + For them tripping merrily, + Told it me. + There are faeries.--Verily, + There are faeries. + + + + THE SPIRIT OF THE FOREST SPRING + + Over the rocks she trails her locks, + Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip: + Her sparkling eyes smile at the skies + In friendship-wise and fellowship: + While the gleam and glance of her countenance + Lull into trance the woodland places, + As over the rocks she trails her locks, + Her dripping locks that the long fern graces. + + She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, + Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips: + And all the day its limpid spray + Is heard to play from her finger tips: + And the slight, soft sound makes haunted ground + Of the woods around that the sunlight laces, + As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, + Its dripping cruse that no man traces. + + She swims and swims with glimmering limbs, + With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip: + Where beechen boughs build a leafy house, + Where her eyes may drowse or her beauty trip: + And the liquid beat of her rippling feet + Makes three times sweet the forest mazes, + As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs, + With dripping limbs through the twilight hazes. + + Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps, + She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips: + Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist, + And, starry-whist, through the dark she slips: + While the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleam + The falls that stream and the foam that races, + As wrapped in the deeps of the wild she sleeps, + She dripping sleeps or starward gazes. + + + + IN A GARDEN + + The pink rose drops its petals on + The moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn; + The moon, like some wide rose of white, + Drops down the summer night. + No rose there is + As sweet as this-- + Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss. + + The lattice of thy casement twines + With jasmine vines, with jasmine vines; + The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lie + About the glimmering sky. + No jasmine tress + Can so caress + Like thy white arms' soft loveliness. + + About thy door magnolia blooms + Make sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms; + A moon-magnolia is the dusk + Closed in a dewy husk. + However much, + No bloom gives such + Soft fragrance as thy bosom's touch. + + The flowers blooming now will pass, + And strew the grass, and strew the grass; + The night, like some frail flower, dawn + Will soon make gray and wan. + Still, still above, + The flower of + True love shall live forever, Love. + + + + IN THE LANE + + When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock, + And the brown bee drones i' the rose; + And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock, + And summer is near its close-- + It's oh, for the gate and the locust lane, + And dusk and dew and home again! + + When the katydid sings and the cricket cries, + And ghosts of the mists ascend; + And the evening star is a lamp i' the skies, + And summer is near its end-- + It's oh, for the fence and the leafy lane, + And the twilight peace and the tryst again! + + When the owlet hoots in the dogwood tree, + That leans to the rippling Run; + And the wind is a wildwood melody, + And summer is almost done-- + It's oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane, + And the fragrant hush and her hands again! + + When fields smell sweet with the dewy hay, + And woods are cool and wan, + And a path for dreams is the Milky Way, + And summer is nearly gone-- + It's oh, for the rock and the woodland lane, + And the silence and stars and her lips again! + + When the weight of the apples breaks down the boughs, + And muskmelons split with sweet; + And the moon is a light in Heaven's house, + And summer has spent its heat-- + It's oh, for the lane, the trysting lane, + The deep-mooned night and her love again! + + + + THE WINDOW ON THE HILL + + Among the fields the camomile + Seems blown mist in the lightning's glare: + Cool, rainy odors drench the air; + Night speaks above; the angry smile + Of storm within her stare. + + The way that I shall take to-night + Is through the wood whose branches fill + The road with double darkness, till, + Between the boughs, a window's light + Shines out upon the hill. + + The fence; and then the path that goes + Around a trailer-tangled rock, + Through puckered pink and hollyhock, + Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose, + And door whereat I knock. + + Bright on the oldtime flower place + The lamp streams through the foggy pane; + The door is opened to the rain: + And in the door--her happy face + And outstretched arms again. + + + + THE PICTURE + + Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay: + Around her, flowers flattered earth with gold, + Or down the path in insolence held sway-- + Like cavaliers who ride the king's highway-- + Scarlet and buff, within a garden old. + + Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood, + Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town: + Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewed + The purple west as if, with God imbued, + Her mighty palette Nature there laid down. + + Amid such flowers, underneath such skies, + Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair, + She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes, + Fair as a star that comes to emphasize + The mingled beauty of the earth and air. + + Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees, + Gray with its twinkling windows--like the face + Of calm old age that sits and dreams at ease-- + Porched with old roses, haunts of honeybees, + The homestead loomed within a lilied space. + + For whom she waited in the afterglow, + Star-eyed and golden 'mid the poppy and rose, + I do not know; I do not care to know,-- + It is enough I keep her picture so, + Hung up, like poetry, in my life's dull prose. + + A fragrant picture, where I still may find + Her face untouched of sorrow or regret, + Unspoiled of contact; ever young and kind; + The spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind, + She had not been, perhaps, if we had met. + + + + MOLY + + When by the wall the tiger-flower swings + A head of sultry slumber and aroma; + And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings + Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a + White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast-- + Between the pansy fire of the west, + And poppy mist of moonrise in the east, + This heartache will have ceased. + + The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep-- + Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit, + And white dreams reap me as strong reapers reap + The ripened grain and full blown blossom near it; + Let me behold how gladness gives the whole + The transformed countenance of my own soul-- + Between the sunset and the risen moon + Let sorrow vanish soon. + + And these things then shall keep me company: + The elfins of the dew; the spirit of laughter + Who haunts the wind; the god of melody + Who sings within the stream, that reaches after + + The flow'rs that rock themselves to his caress: + These of themselves shall shape my happiness, + Whose visible presence I shall lean upon, + Feeling that care is gone. + + Forgetting how the cankered flower must die; + The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup; + How joy, begotten 'twixt a sigh and sigh, + Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup,-- + Remembering how within the hollow lute + Soft music sleeps when music's voice is mute; + And in the heart, when all seems black despair, + Hope sits, awaiting there. + + + + POPPY AND MANDRAGORA + + Let us go far from here! + Here there is sadness in the early year: + Here sorrow waits where joy went laughing late: + The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hate + Above the woodland and the meadowland; + And Spring hath taken fire in her hand + Of frost and made a dead bloom of her face, + Which was a flower of marvel once and grace, + And sweet serenity and stainless glow. + Delay not. Let us go. + + Let us go far away + Into the sunrise of a fairer May: + Where all the nights resign them to the moon, + And drug their souls with odor and soft tune, + And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hours + Teach immortality with fadeless flowers; + And all the day the bee weights down the bloom, + And all the night the moth shakes strange perfume, + Like music, from the flower-bells' affluence. + Let us go far from hence. + + Why should we sit and weep, + And yearn with heavy eyelids still to sleep? + Forever hiding from our hearts the hate,-- + Death within death,--life doth accumulate, + Like winter snows along the barren leas + And sterile hills, whereon no lover sees + The crocus limn the beautiful in flame; + Or hyacinth and jonquil write the name + Of Love in fire, for each passer-by. + Why should we sit and sigh? + + We will not stay and long, + Here where our souls are wasting for a song; + Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars, + No silvery water strikes melodious bars; + And in the rocks and forest-covered hills + No quick-tongued echo from her grotto fills + With eery syllables the solitude-- + The vocal image of the voice that wooed-- + She, of wild sounds the airy looking-glass. + Our souls are tired, alas! + + What should we say to her?-- + To Spring, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir: + Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto: + Too busy with the birth of flowers and dew, + And vague gold wings within the chrysalis; + Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kiss + To give your soul or the sad soul of me, + Who bound our hearts to her in poesy, + Long since, and wear her badge of service still.-- + Have we not served our fill? + + We will go far away. + Song will not care, who slays our souls each day + With the dark daggers of denying eyes, + And lips of silence! ... Had she sighed us lies, + Not passionate, yet falsely tremulous, + And lent her mouth to ours in mockery; thus + Smiled from calm eyes as if appreciative; + Then, then our love had taught itself to live + Feeding itself on hope, and recompense. + But no!--So let us hence. + + So be the Bible shut + Of all her Beauty, and her wisdom but + A clasp for memory! We will not seek + The light that came not when the soul was weak + With longing, and the darkness gave no sign + Of star-born comfort. Nay! why kneel and whine + Sad psalms of patience and hosannas of + Old hope and dreary canticles of love?-- + Let us depart, since, as we long supposed, + For us God's book was closed. + + + + A ROAD SONG + + It's--Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one + With a vagabond foot that follows! + And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon + Your arm with the hearty words, "Come on! + We'll soon be out of the hollows, + My heart! + We'll soon be out of the hollows." + + It's--Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some one + With a renegade foot that doubles! + And a jolly lilt that he flings to the sun + As he turns with the friendly laugh, "Come on! + We'll soon be out of the troubles, + My heart! + We'll soon be out of the troubles!" + + + + PHANTOMS + + This was her home; one mossy gable thrust + Above the cedars and the locust trees: + This was her home, whose beauty now is dust, + A lonely memory for melodies + The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees. + + Here every evening is a prayer: no boast + Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth; + Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower's ghost, + A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth; + And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth. + + In vagabond velvet, on the placid day, + A stain of crimson, lolls the butterfly; + The south wind sows with ripple and with ray + The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky + Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye. + + Their melancholy quaver, lone and low, + When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat: + The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow, + Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat, + In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat. + + He comes not yet: not till the dusk is dead, + And all the western glow is far withdrawn; + Not till,--a sleepy mouth love's kiss makes red,-- + The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn, + Breathing sweet guesses at the dreamed-of dawn. + + When in the shadows, like a rain of gold, + The fireflies stream steadily; and bright + Along the moss the glowworm, as of old, + A crawling sparkle--like a crooked light + In smoldering vellum--scrawls a square of night,-- + + Then will he come; and she will lean to him,-- + She,--the sweet phantom,--memory of that place,-- + Between the starlight and his eyes; so dim + With suave control and soul-compelling grace, + He cannot help but speak her, face to face. + + + + INTIMATIONS OF THE BEAUTIFUL + + I + + The hills are full of prophecies + And ancient voices of the dead; + Of hidden shapes that no man sees, + Pale, visionary presences, + That speak the things no tongue hath said, + No mind hath thought, no eye hath read. + + The streams are full of oracles, + And momentary whisperings; + An immaterial beauty swells + Its breezy silver o'er the shells + With wordless speech that sings and sings + The message of diviner things. + + No indeterminable thought is theirs, + The stars', the sunsets' and the flowers'; + Whose inexpressible speech declares + Th' immortal Beautiful, who shares + This mortal riddle which is ours, + Beyond the forward-flying hours. + + II + + It holds and beckons in the streams; + It lures and touches us in all + The flowers of the golden fall-- + The mystic essence of our dreams: + A nymph blows bubbling music where + Faint water ripples down the rocks; + A faun goes dancing hoiden locks, + And piping a Pandean air, + Through trees the instant wind shakes bare. + + Our dreams are never otherwise + Than real when they hold us so; + We in some future life shall know + Them parts of it and recognize + Them as ideal substance, whence + The actual is--(as flowers and trees, + From color sources no one sees, + Draw dyes, the substance of a sense)-- + Material with intelligence. + + III + + What intimations made them wise, + The mournful pine, the pleasant beech? + What strange and esoteric speech?-- + (Communicated from the skies + In runic whispers)--that invokes + The boles that sleep within the seeds, + And out of narrow darkness leads + The vast assemblies of the oaks. + + Within his knowledge, what one reads + The poems written by the flowers? + The sermons, past all speech of ours, + Preached by the gospel of the weeds?-- + O eloquence of coloring! + O thoughts of syllabled perfume! + O beauty uttered into bloom! + Teach me your language! let me sing! + + IV + + Along my mind flies suddenly + A wildwood thought that will not die; + That makes me brother to the bee, + And cousin to the butterfly: + A thought, such as gives perfume to + The blushes of the bramble-rose, + And, fixed in quivering crystal, glows + A captive in the prismed dew. + + It leads the feet no certain way; + No frequent path of human feet: + Its wild eyes follow me all day; + All day I hear its wild heart beat: + And in the night it sings and sighs + The songs the winds and waters love; + Its wild heart lying tranced above, + And tranced the wildness of its eyes. + + V + + Oh, joy, to walk the way that goes + Through woods of sweet-gum and of beech! + Where, like a ruby left in reach, + The berry of the dogwood glows: + Or where the bristling hillsides mass, + 'Twixt belts of tawny sassafras, + Brown shocks of corn in wigwam rows! + + Where, in the hazy morning, runs + The stony branch that pools and drips, + The red-haws and the wild-rose hips + Are strewn like pebbles; and the sun's + Own gold seems captured by the weeds; + To see, through scintillating seeds, + The hunters steal with glimmering guns! + + Oh, joy, to go the path which lies + Through woodlands where the trees are tall! + Beneath the misty moon of fall, + Whose ghostly girdle prophesies + A morn wind-swept and gray with rain; + When, o'er the lonely, leaf-blown lane, + The night-hawk like a dead leaf flies! + + To stand within the dewy ring + Where pale death smites the boneset blooms, + And everlasting's flowers, and plumes + Of mint, with aromatic wing! + And hear the creek,--whose sobbing seems + A wild-man murmuring in his dreams,-- + And insect violins that sing. + + Or where the dim persimmon tree + Rains on the path its frosty fruit, + And in the oak the owl doth hoot, + Beneath the moon and mist, to see + The outcast Year go,--Hagar-wise,-- + With far-off, melancholy eyes, + And lips that sigh for sympathy. + + VI + + Towards evening, where the sweet-gum flung + Its thorny balls among the weeds, + And where the milkweed's sleepy seeds,-- + A faery Feast of Lanterns,--swung; + The cricket tuned a plaintive lyre, + And o'er the hills the sunset hung + A purple parchment scrawled with fire. + + From silver-blue to amethyst + The shadows deepened in the vale; + And belt by belt the pearly-pale + Aladdin fabric of the mist + Built up its exhalation far; + A jewel on an Afrit's wrist, + One star gemmed sunset's cinnabar. + + Then night drew near, as when, alone, + The heart and soul grow intimate; + And on the hills the twilight sate + With shadows, whose wild robes were sown + With dreams and whispers;--dreams, that led + The heart once with love's monotone, + And memories of the living-dead. + + VII + + All night the rain-gusts shook the leaves + Around my window; and the blast + Rumbled the flickering flue, and fast + The storm streamed from the dripping eaves. + As if--'neath skies gone mad with fear-- + The witches' Sabboth galloped past, + The forests leapt like startled deer. + + All night I heard the sweeping sleet; + And when the morning came, as slow + As wan affliction, with the woe + Of all the world dragged at her feet, + No spear of purple shattered through + The dark gray of the east; no bow + Of gold shot arrows swift and blue. + + But rain, that whipped the windows; filled + The spouts with rushings; and around + The garden stamped, and sowed the ground + With limbs and leaves; the wood-pool filled + With overgurgling.--Bleak and cold + The fields looked, where the footpath wound + Through teasel and bur-marigold. + + Yet there's a kindness in such days + Of gloom, that doth console regret + With sympathy of tears, which wet + Old eyes that watch the back-log blaze.-- + A kindness, alien to the deep + Glad blue of sunny days that let + No thought in of the lives that weep. + + VIII + + This dawn, through which the Autumn glowers,-- + As might a face within our sleep, + With stone-gray eyes that weep and weep, + And wet brows bound with sodden flowers,-- + Is sunset to some sister land; + A land of ruins and of palms; + Rich sunset, crimson with long calms,-- + Whose burning belt low mountains bar,-- + That sees some brown Rebecca stand + Beside a well the camel-band + Winds down to 'neath the evening star. + + O sunset, sister to this dawn! + O dawn, whose face is turned away! + Who gazest not upon this day, + But back upon the day that's gone! + Enamored so of loveliness, + The retrospect of what thou wast, + Oh, to thyself the present trust! + And as thy past be beautiful + With hues, that never can grow less! + Waiting thy pleasure to express + New beauty lest the world grow dull. + + IX + + Down in the woods a sorcerer, + Out of rank rain and death, distills,-- + Through chill alembics of the air,-- + Aromas that brood everywhere + Among the whisper-haunted hills: + The bitter myrrh of dead leaves fills + Wet valleys (where the gaunt weeds bleach) + With rainy scents of wood-decay;-- + As if a spirit all the day + Sat breathing softly 'neath the beech. + + With other eyes I see her flit, + The wood-witch of the wild perfumes, + Among her elfin owls,--that sit, + A drowsy white, in crescent-lit + Dim glens of opalescent glooms:-- + Where, for her magic, buds and blooms + Mysterious perfumes, while she stands, + A thornlike shadow, summoning + The sleepy odors, that take wing + Like bubbles from her dewy hands. + + X + + Among the woods they call to me-- + The lights that haunt the wood and stream; + Voices of such white ecstasy + As moves with hushed lips through a dream: + They stand in auraed radiances, + Or flash with nimbused limbs across + Their golden shadows on the moss, + Or slip in silver through the trees. + + What love can give the heart in me + More hope and exaltation than + The hand of light that tips the tree + And beckons far from marts of man? + That reaches foamy fingers through + The broken ripple, and replies + With sparkling speech of lips and eyes + To souls who seek and still pursue. + + XI + + Give me the streams, that counterfeit + The twilight of autumnal skies; + The shadowy, silent waters, lit + With fire like a woman's eyes! + Slow waters that, in autumn, glass + The scarlet-strewn and golden grass, + And drink the sunset's tawny dyes. + + Give me the pools, that lie among + The centuried forests! give me those, + Deep, dim, and sad as darkness hung + Beneath the sunset's somber rose: + Still pools, in whose vague mirrors look-- + Like ragged gypsies round a book + Of magic--trees in wild repose. + + No quiet thing, or innocent, + Of water, earth, or air shall please + My soul now: but the violent + Between the sunset and the trees: + The fierce, the splendid, and intense, + That love matures in innocence, + Like mighty music, give me these! + + XII + + When thorn-tree copses still were bare + And black along the turbid brook; + When catkined willows blurred and shook + Great tawny tangles in the air; + In bottomlands, the first thaw makes + An oozy bog, beneath the trees, + Prophetic of the spring that wakes, + Sang the sonorous hylodes. + + Now that wild winds have stripped the thorn, + And clogged with leaves the forest-creek; + Now that the woods look blown and bleak, + And webs are frosty white at morn; + At night beneath the spectral sky, + A far foreboding cry I hear-- + The wild fowl calling as they fly? + Or wild voice of the dying Year? + + XIII + + And still my soul holds phantom tryst, + When chestnuts hiss among the coals, + Upon the Evening of All Souls, + When all the night is moon and mist, + And all the world is mystery; + I kiss dear lips that death hath kissed, + And gaze in eyes no man may see, + Filled with a love long lost to me. + + I hear the night-wind's ghostly glove + Flutter the window: then the knob + Of some dark door turn, with a sob + As when love comes to gaze on love + Who lies pale-coffined in a room: + And then the iron gallop of + The storm, who rides outside; his plume + Sweeping the night with dread and gloom. + + So fancy takes the mind, and paints + The darkness with eidolon light, + And writes the dead's romance in night + On the dim Evening of All Saints: + Unheard the hissing nuts; the clink + And fall of coals, whose shadow faints + Around the hearts that sit and think, + Borne far beyond the actual's brink. + + XIV + + I heard the wind, before the morn + Stretched gaunt, gray fingers 'thwart my pane, + Drive clouds down, a dark dragon-train; + Its iron visor closed, a horn + Of steel from out the north it wound.-- + No morn like yesterday's! whose mouth, + A cool carnation, from the south + Breathed through a golden reed the sound + Of days that drop clear gold upon + Cerulean silver floors of dawn. + + And all of yesterday is lost + And swallowed in to-day's wild light-- + The birth deformed of day and night, + The illegitimate, who cost + Its mother secret tears and sighs; + Unlovely since unloved; and chilled + With sorrows and the shame that filled + Its parents' love; which was not wise + In passion as the day and night + That married yestermorn with light. + + XV + + Down through the dark, indignant trees, + On indistinguishable wings + Of storm, the wind of evening swings; + Before its insane anger flees + Distracted leaf and shattered bough: + There is a rushing as when seas + Of thunder beat an iron prow + On reefs of wrath and roaring wreck: + 'Mid stormy leaves, a hurrying speck + Of flickering blackness, driven by, + A mad bat whirls along the sky. + + Like some sad shadow, in the eve's + Deep melancholy--visible + As by some strange and twilight spell-- + A gaunt girl stands among the leaves, + The night-wind in her dolorous dress: + Symbolic of the life that grieves, + Of toil that patience makes not less, + Her load of fagots fallen there.-- + A wilder shadow sweeps the air, + And she is gone.... Was it the dumb + Eidolon of the month to come? + + XVI + + The song birds--are they flown away? + The song birds of the summer time, + That sang their souls into the day, + And set the laughing hours to rhyme. + No catbird scatters through the bush + The sparkling crystals of its song; + Within the woods no hermit-thrush + Thridding with vocal gold the hush. + + All day the crows fly cawing past: + The acorns drop: the forests scowl: + At night I hear the bitter blast + Hoot with the hooting of the owl. + The wild creeks freeze: the ways are strewn + With leaves that clog: beneath the tree + The bird, that set its toil to tune, + And made a home for melody, + Lies dead beneath the snow-white moon. + + + + OCTOBER + + Far off a wind blew, and I heard + Wild echoes of the woods reply-- + The herald of some royal word, + With bannered trumpet, blown on high, + Meseemed then passed me by: + + Who summoned marvels there to meet, + With pomp, upon a cloth of gold; + Where berries of the bittersweet, + That, splitting, showed the coals they hold, + Sowed garnets through the wold: + + Where, under tents of maples, seeds + Of smooth carnelian, oval red, + The spice-bush spangled: where, like beads, + The dogwood's rounded rubies--fed + With fire--blazed and bled. + + And there I saw amid the rout + Of months, in richness cavalier, + A minnesinger--lips apout; + A gypsy face; straight as a spear; + A rose stuck in his ear: + + Eyes, sparkling like old German wine, + All mirth and moonlight; naught to spare + Of slender beard, that lent a line + To his short lip; October there, + With chestnut curling hair. + + His brown baretta swept its plume + Red through the leaves; his purple hose, + Puffed at the thighs, made gleam of gloom; + His tawny doublet, slashed with rose, + And laced with crimson bows, + + Outshone the wahoo's scarlet pride, + The haw, in rich vermilion dressed: + A dagger dangling at his side, + A slim lute, banded to his breast, + Whereon his hands were pressed. + + I saw him come.... And, lo, to hear + The lilt of his approaching lute, + No wonder that the regnant Year + Bent down her beauty, blushing mute, + Her heart beneath his foot. + + + + FRIENDS + + Down through the woods, along the way + That fords the stream; by rock and tree, + Where in the bramble-bell the bee + Swings; and through twilights green and gray + The redbird flashes suddenly, + My thoughts went wandering to-day. + + I found the fields where, row on row, + The blackberries hang dark with fruit; + Where, nesting at the elder's root, + The partridge whistles soft and low; + The fields, that billow to the foot + Of those old hills we used to know. + + There lay the pond, all willow-bound, + On whose bright face, when noons were hot, + We marked the bubbles rise; some plot + To lure us in; while all around + Our heads,--like faery fancies,--shot + The dragonflies without a sound. + + The pond, above which evening bent + To gaze upon her gypsy face; + Wherein the twinkling night would trace + A vague, inverted firmament; + In which the green frogs tuned their bass, + And firefly sparkles came and went. + + The oldtime place we often ranged, + When we were playmates, you and I; + The oldtime fields, with boyhood's sky + Still blue above them!--Naught was changed: + Nothing.--Alas! then, tell me why + Should we be? whom the years estranged. + + + + COMRADERY + + With eyes hand-arched he looks into + The morning's face; then turns away + With truant feet, all wet with dew, + Out for a holiday. + + The hill brook sings; incessant stars, + Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast; + And where he wades its water-bars + Its song is happiest. + + A comrade of the chinquapin, + He looks into its knotty eyes + And sees its heart; and, deep within, + Its soul that makes him wise. + + The wood-thrush knows and follows him, + Who whistles up the birds and bees; + And round him all the perfumes swim + Of woodland loam and trees. + + Where'er he pass the silvery springs' + Foam-people sing the flowers awake; + And sappy lips of bark-clad things + Laugh ripe each berried brake. + + His touch is a companionship; + His word an old authority: + He comes, a lyric on his lip, + The woodboy--Poesy. + + + + BARE BOUGHS + + O heart,--that beat the bird's blithe blood, + The blithe bird's strain, and understood + The song it sang to leaf and bud,-- + What dost thou in the wood? + + O soul,--that kept the brook's glad flow, + The glad brook's word to sun and moon,-- + What dost thou here where song lies low, + And dead the dreams of June? + + Where once was heard a voice of song, + The hautboys of the mad winds sing; + Where once a music flowed along, + The rain's wild bugle's ring. + + The weedy water frets and ails, + And moans in many a sunless fall; + And, o'er the melancholy, trails + The black crow's eldritch call. + + Unhappy brook! O withered wood! + O days, whom Death makes comrades of! + Where are the birds that thrilled the blood + When Life struck hands with Love? + + A song, one soared against the blue; + A song, one silvered in the leaves; + A song, one blew where orchards grew + Gold-appled to the eaves. + + The birds are flown; the flowers, dead; + And sky and earth are bleak and gray: + Where Joy once went, all light of tread, + Grief haunts the leaf-wild way. + + + + DAYS AND DAYS + + The days that clothed white limbs with heat, + And rocked the red rose on their breast, + Have passed with amber-sandaled feet + Into the ruby-gated west. + + These were the days that filled the heart + With overflowing riches of + Life, in whose soul no dream shall start + But hath its origin in love. + + Now come the days gray-huddled in + The haze; whose foggy footsteps drip; + Who pin beneath a gypsy chin + The frosty marigold and hip. + + The days, whose forms fall shadowy + Athwart the heart: whose misty breath + Shapes saddest sweets of memory + Out of the bitterness of death. + + + + AUTUMN SORROW + + Ah me! too soon the autumn comes + Among these purple-plaintive hills! + Too soon among the forest gums + Premonitory flame she spills, + Bleak, melancholy flame that kills. + + Her white fogs veil the morn, that rims + With wet the moonflower's elfin moons; + And, like exhausted starlight, dims + The last slim lily-disk; and swoons + With scents of hazy afternoons. + + Her gray mists haunt the sunset skies, + And build the west's cadaverous fires, + Where Sorrow sits with lonely eyes, + And hands that wake an ancient lyre, + Beside the ghost of dead Desire. + + + + THE TREE-TOAD + + I + + Secluded, solitary on some underbough, + Or cradled in a leaf, 'mid glimmering light, + Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply watching how + The slow toadstool comes bulging, moony white, + Through loosening loam; or how, against the night, + The glowworm gathers silver to endow + The darkness with; or how the dew conspires + To hang, at dusk, with lamps of chilly fires + Each blade that shrivels now. + + II + + O vague confederate of the whippoorwill, + Of owl and cricket and the katydid! + Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrill + Vibrating note and send'st it where, half hid + In cedars, twilight sleeps--each azure lid + Drooping a line of golden eyeball still.-- + Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voice + Within the Garden of the Hours apoise + On dusk's deep daffodil. + + III + + Minstrel of moisture! silent when high noon + Shows her tanned face among the thirsting clover + And parching meadows, thy tenebrious tune + Wakes with the dew or when the rain is over. + Thou troubadour of wetness and damp lover + Of all cool things! admitted comrade boon + Of twilight's hush, and little intimate + Of eve's first fluttering star and delicate + Round rim of rainy moon! + + IV + + Art trumpeter of Dwarfland? does thy horn + Inform the gnomes and goblins of the hour + When they may gambol under haw and thorn, + Straddling each winking web and twinkling flower? + Or bell-ringer of Elfland? whose tall tower + The liriodendron is? from whence is borne + The elfin music of thy bell's deep bass, + To summon Faeries to their starlit maze, + To summon them or warn. + + + + THE CHIPMUNK + + I + + He makes a roadway of the crumbling fence, + Or on the fallen tree,--brown as a leaf + Fall stripes with russet,--gambols down the dense + Green twilight of the woods. We see not whence + He comes, nor whither (in a time so brief) + He vanishes--swift carrier of some Fay, + Some pixy steed that haunts our child-belief-- + A goblin glimpse upon some wildwood way. + + II + + What harlequin mood of nature qualified + Him so with happiness? and limbed him with + Such young activity as winds, that ride + The ripples, have, dancing on every side? + As sunbeams know, that urge the sap and pith + Through hearts of trees? yet made him to delight, + Gnome-like, in darkness,--like a moonlight myth,-- + Lairing in labyrinths of the under night. + + III + + Here, by a rock, beneath the moss, a hole + Leads to his home, the den wherein he sleeps; + Lulled by near noises of the laboring mole + Tunneling its mine--like some ungainly Troll-- + Or by the tireless cricket there that keeps + Picking its rusty and monotonous lute; + Or slower sounds of grass that creeps and creeps, + And trees unrolling mighty root on root. + + IV + + Such is the music of his sleeping hours. + Day hath another--'tis a melody + He trips to, made by the assembled flowers, + And light and fragrance laughing 'mid the bowers, + And ripeness busy with the acorn-tree. + Such strains, perhaps, as filled with mute amaze + (The silent music of Earth's ecstasy) + The Satyr's soul, the Faun of classic days. + + + + THE WILD IRIS + + That day we wandered 'mid the hills,--so lone + Clouds are not lonelier, the forest lay + In emerald darkness round us. Many a stone + And gnarly root, gray-mossed, made wild our way: + And many a bird the glimmering light along + Showered the golden bubbles of its song. + + Then in the valley, where the brook went by, + Silvering the ledges that it rippled from,-- + An isolated slip of fallen sky, + Epitomizing heaven in its sum,-- + An iris bloomed--blue, as if, flower-disguised, + The gaze of Spring had there materialized. + + I have forgotten many things since then-- + Much beauty and much happiness and grief; + And toiled and dreamed among my fellow-men, + Rejoicing in the knowledge life is brief. + "'Tis winter now," so says each barren bough; + And face and hair proclaim 'tis winter now. + + I would forget the gladness of that spring! + I would forget that day when she and I, + Between the bird-song and the blossoming, + Went hand in hand beneath the soft May sky!-- + Much is forgotten, yea--and yet, and yet, + The things we would we never can forget. + + Nor I how May then minted treasuries + Of crowfoot gold; and molded out of light + The sorrel's cups, whose elfin chalices + Of limpid spar were streaked with rosy white: + Nor all the stars of twinkling spiderwort, + And mandrake moons with which her brows were girt. + + But most of all, yea, it were well for me, + Me and my heart, that I forget that flower, + The blue wild iris, azure fleur-de-lis, + That she and I together found that hour. + Its recollection can but emphasize + The pain of loss, remindful of her eyes. + + + + DROUTH + + I + + The hot sunflowers by the glaring pike + Lift shields of sultry brass; the teasel tops, + Pink-thorned, advance with bristling spike on spike + Against the furious sunlight. Field and copse + Are sick with summer: now, with breathless stops, + The locusts cymbal; now grasshoppers beat + Their castanets: and rolled in dust, a team,-- + Like some mean life wrapped in its sorry dream,-- + An empty wagon rattles through the heat. + + II + + Where now the blue wild iris? flowers whose mouths + Are moist and musky? Where the sweet-breathed mint, + That made the brook-bank herby? Where the South's + Wild morning-glories, rich in hues, that hint + At coming showers that the rainbows tint? + Where all the blossoms that the wildwood knows? + The frail oxalis hidden in its leaves; + The Indian-pipe, pale as a soul that grieves; + The freckled touch-me-not and forest rose. + + III + + Dead! dead! all dead beside the drouth-burnt brook, + Shrouded in moss or in the shriveled grass. + Where waved their bells, from which the wild-bee shook + The dewdrop once,--gaunt, in a nightmare mass, + The rank weeds crowd; through which the cattle pass, + Thirsty and lean, seeking some meager spring, + Closed in with thorns, on which stray bits of wool + The panting sheep have left, that sought the cool, + From morn till evening wearily wandering. + + IV + + No bird is heard; no throat to whistle awake + The sleepy hush; to let its music leak + Fresh, bubble-like, through bloom-roofs of the brake: + Only the green-gray heron, famine-weak,-- + Searching the stale pools of the minnowless creek,-- + Utters its call; and then the rain-crow, too, + False prophet now, croaks to the stagnant air; + While overhead,--still as if painted there,-- + A buzzard hangs, black on the burning blue. + + + + RAIN + + Around, the stillness deepened; then the grain + Went wild with wind; and every briery lane + Was swept with dust; and then, tempestuous black, + Hillward the tempest heaved a monster back, + That on the thunder leaned as on a cane; + And on huge shoulders bore a cloudy pack, + That gullied gold from many a lightning-crack: + One big drop splashed and wrinkled down the pane, + And then field, hill, and wood were lost in rain. + + At last, through clouds,--as from a cavern hewn. + Into night's heart,--the sun burst angry roon; + And every cedar, with its weight of wet, + Against the sunset's fiery splendor set, + Frightened to beauty, seemed with rubies strewn: + Then in drenched gardens, like sweet phantoms met, + Dim odors rose of pink and mignonette; + And in the east a confidence, that soon + Grew to the calm assurance of the moon. + + + + AT SUNSET + + Into the sunset's turquoise marge + The moon dips, like a pearly barge + Enchantment sails through magic seas + To faeryland Hesperides, + Over the hills and away. + + Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown, + The young-eyed Dusk comes slowly down; + Her apron filled with stars she stands, + And one or two slip from her hands + Over the hills and away. + + Above the wood's black caldron bends + The witch-faced Night and, muttering, blends + The dew and heat, whose bubbles make + The mist and musk that haunt the brake + Over the hills and away. + + Oh, come with me, and let us go + Beyond the sunset lying low; + Beyond the twilight and the night, + Into Love's kingdom of long light, + Over the hills and away. + + + + THE LEAF-CRICKET + + I + + Small twilight singer + Of dew and mist: thou ghost-gray, gossamer winger + Of dusk's dim glimmer, + How chill thy note sounds; how thy wings of shimmer + Vibrate, soft-sighing, + Meseems, for Summer that is dead or dying. + I stand and listen, + And at thy song the garden-beds, that glisten + With rose and lily, + Seem touched with sadness; and the tuberose chilly, + Breathing around its cold and colorless breath, + Fills the pale evening with wan hints of death. + + II + + I see thee quaintly + Beneath the leaf; thy shell-shaped winglets faintly-- + (As thin as spangle + Of cobwebbed rain)--held up at airy angle; + I hear thy tinkle + With faery notes the silvery stillness sprinkle; + + Investing wholly + The moonlight with divinest melancholy: + Until, in seeming, + I see the Spirit of Summer sadly dreaming + Amid her ripened orchards, russet-strewn, + Her great, grave eyes fixed on the harvest-moon. + + III + + As dewdrops beady; + As mist minute, thy notes ring low and reedy: + The vaguest vapor + Of melody, now near; now, like some taper + Of sound, far-fading-- + Thou will-o'-wisp of music aye evading. + Among the bowers, + The fog-washed stalks of Autumn's weeds and flowers, + By hill and hollow, + I hear thy murmur and in vain I follow-- + Thou jack-o'-lantern voice, thou pixy cry, + Thou dirge, that tellest Beauty she must die. + + IV + + And when the frantic + Wild winds of Autumn with the dead leaves antic; + And walnuts scatter + The mire of lanes; and dropping acorns patter + In grove and forest, + Like some frail grief with the rude blast thou warrest, + Sending thy slender + Far cry against the gale, that, rough, untender, + Untouched of sorrow, + Sweeps thee aside, where, haply, I to-morrow + Shall find thee lying--tiny, cold and crushed, + Thy weak wings folded and thy music hushed. + + + + THE WIND OF WINTER + + The Winter Wind, the wind of death, + Who knocked upon my door, + Now through the keyhole entereth, + Invisible and hoar: + He breathes around his icy breath + And treads the flickering floor. + + I heard him, wandering in the night, + Tap at my windowpane; + With ghostly fingers, snowy white, + I heard him tug in vain, + Until the shuddering candlelight + Did cringe with fear and strain. + + The fire, awakened by his voice, + Leapt up with frantic arms, + Like some wild babe that greets with noise + Its father home who storms, + With rosy gestures that rejoice, + And crimson kiss that warms. + + Now in the hearth he sits and, drowned + Among the ashes, blows; + Or through the room goes stealing round + On cautious-creeping toes, + Deep-mantled in the drowsy sound + Of night that sleets and snows. + + And oft, like some thin faery-thing, + The stormy hush amid, + I hear his captive trebles sing + Beneath the kettle's lid; + Or now a harp of elfland string + In some dark cranny hid. + + Again I hear him, implike, whine, + Cramped in the gusty flue; + Or knotted in the resinous pine + Raise goblin cry and hue, + While through the smoke his eyeballs shine, + A sooty red and blue. + + At last I hear him, nearing dawn, + Take up his roaring broom, + And sweep wild leaves from wood and lawn, + And from the heavens the gloom, + To show the gaunt world lying wan, + And morn's cold rose a-bloom. + + + + THE OWLET + + I + + When dusk is drowned in drowsy dreams, + And slow the hues of sunset die; + When firefly and moth go by, + And in still streams the new moon seems + Another moon and sky: + Then from the hills there comes a cry, + The owlet's cry: + A shivering voice that sobs and screams, + With terror screams:-- + + "Who is it, who is it, who-o-o? + Who rides through the dusk and dew, + With a pair of horns, + As thin as thorns, + And face a bubble-blue?-- + Who, who, who! + Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?" + + II + + When night has dulled the lily's white, + And opened wide the moonflower's eyes; + When pale mists rise and veil the skies, + And round the height in whispering flight + The night-wind sounds and sighs: + Then in the wood again it cries, + The owlet cries: + A shivering voice that calls in fright, + In maundering fright:-- + + "Who is it, who is it, who-o-o? + Who walks with a shuffling shoe + 'Mid the gusty trees, + With a face none sees, + And a form as ghostly, too?-- + Who, who, who! + Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?" + + III + + When midnight leans a listening ear + And tinkles on her insect lutes; + When 'mid the roots the cricket flutes, + And marsh and mere, now far, now near, + A jack-o'-lantern foots: + Then o'er the pool again it hoots, + The owlet hoots: + A voice that shivers as with fear, + That cries with fear:-- + + "Who is it, who is it, who-o-o? + Who creeps with his glowworm crew + Above the mire + With a corpse-light fire, + As only dead men do?-- + Who, who, who! + Who is it, who is it, who-o-o?" + + + + EVENING ON THE FARM + + From out the hills where twilight stands, + Above the shadowy pasture lands, + With strained and strident cry, + Beneath pale skies that sunset bands, + The bull-bats fly. + + A cloud hangs over, strange of shape, + And, colored like the half-ripe grape, + Seems some uneven stain + On heaven's azure; thin as crape, + And blue as rain. + + By ways, that sunset's sardonyx + O'erflares, and gates the farm-boy clicks, + Through which the cattle came, + The mullein-stalks seem giant wicks + Of downy flame. + + From woods no glimmer enters in, + Above the streams that, wandering, win + To where the wood pool bids, + Those haunters of the dusk begin,-- + The katydids. + + Adown the dark the firefly marks + Its flight in gold and emerald sparks; + And, loosened from his chain, + The shaggy mastiff bounds and barks, + And barks again. + + Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay; + And now an owlet, far away, + Cries twice or thrice, "T-o-o-w-h-o-o"; + And cool dim moths of mottled gray + Flit through the dew. + + The silence sounds its frog-bassoon, + Where, on the woodland creek's lagoon,-- + Pale as a ghostly girl + Lost 'mid the trees,--looks down the moon + With face of pearl. + + Within the shed where logs, late hewed, + Smell forest-sweet, and chips of wood + Make blurs of white and brown, + The brood-hen cuddles her warm brood + Of teetering down. + + The clattering guineas in the tree + Din for a time; and quietly + The henhouse, near the fence, + Sleeps, save for some brief rivalry + Of cocks and hens. + + A cowbell tinkles by the rails, + Where, streaming white in foaming pails, + Milk makes an uddery sound; + While overhead the black bat trails + Around and round. + + The night is still. The slow cows chew + A drowsy cud. The bird that flew + And sang is in its nest. + It is the time of falling dew, + Of dreams and rest. + + The beehives sleep; and round the walk, + The garden path, from stalk to stalk + The bungling beetle booms, + Where two soft shadows stand and talk + Among the blooms. + + The stars are thick: the light is dead + That dyed the west: and Drowsyhead, + Tuning his cricket-pipe, + Nods, and some apple, round and red, + Drops over-ripe. + + Now down the road, that shambles by, + A window, shining like an eye + Through climbing rose and gourd, + Shows Age and young Rusticity + Seated at board. + + + + THE LOCUST + + Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reedlike breast, + Makest meridian music, long and loud, + Accentuating summer!--Dost thy best + To make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowd + With lonesomeness the long, close afternoon-- + When Labor leans, swart-faced and beady-browed, + Upon his sultry scythe--thou tangible tune + Of heat, whose waves incessantly arise + Quivering and clear beneath the cloudless skies. + + Thou singest, and upon his haggard hills + Drouth yawns and rubs his heavy eyes and wakes; + Brushes the hot hair from his face; and fills + The land with death as sullenly he takes + Downward his dusty way. 'Midst woods and fields + At every pool his burning thirst he slakes: + No grove so deep, no bank so high it shields + A spring from him; no creek evades his eye: + He needs but look and they are withered dry. + + Thou singest, and thy song is as a spell + Of somnolence to charm the land with sleep; + A thorn of sound that pierces dale and dell, + Diffusing slumber over vale and steep. + Sleepy the forest, nodding sleepy boughs; + Sleepy the pastures with their sleepy sheep: + Sleepy the creek where sleepily the cows + Stand knee-deep; and the very heaven seems + Sleepy and lost in undetermined dreams. + + Art thou a rattle that Monotony, + Summer's dull nurse, old sister of slow Time, + Shakes for Day's peevish pleasure, who in glee + Takes its discordant music for sweet rhyme? + Or oboe that the Summer Noontide plays, + Sitting with Ripeness 'neath the orchard tree, + Trying repeatedly the same shrill phrase, + Until the musky peach with weariness + Drops, and the hum of murmuring bees grows less? + + + + THE DEAD DAY + + The west builds high a sepulcher + Of cloudy granite and of gold, + Where twilight's priestly hours inter + The Day like some great king of old. + + A censer, rimmed with silver fire, + The new moon swings above his tomb; + While, organ-stops of God's own choir, + Star after star throbs in the gloom. + + And Night draws near, the sadly sweet-- + A nun whose face is calm and fair-- + And kneeling at the dead Day's feet + Her soul goes up in mists like prayer. + + In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam + And flowery fragrance, and--above + All earth--the ecstasy and dream + That haunt the mystic heart of love. + + + + THE OLD WATER MILL + + Wild ridge on ridge the wooded hills arise, + Between whose breezy vistas gulfs of skies + Pilot great clouds like towering argosies, + And hawk and buzzard breast the azure breeze. + With many a foaming fall and glimmering reach + Of placid murmur, under elm and beech, + The creek goes twinkling through long gleams and glooms + Of woodland quiet, summered with perfumes: + The creek, in whose clear shallows minnow-schools + Glitter or dart; and by whose deeper pools + The blue kingfishers and the herons haunt; + That, often startled from the freckled flaunt + Of blackberry-lilies--where they feed or hide-- + Trail a lank flight along the forestside + With eery clangor. Here a sycamore + Smooth, wave-uprooted, builds from shore to shore + A headlong bridge; and there, a storm-hurled oak + Lays a long dam, where sand and gravel choke + The water's lazy way. Here mistflower blurs + Its bit of heaven; there the ox-eye stirs + Its gloaming hues of pearl and gold; and here, + A gray, cool stain, like dawn's own atmosphere, + The dim wild carrot lifts its crumpled crest: + And over all, at slender flight or rest, + The dragonflies, like coruscating rays + Of lapis-lazuli and chrysoprase, + Drowsily sparkle through the summer days: + And, dewlap-deep, here from the noontide heat + The bell-hung cattle find a cool retreat; + And through the willows girdling the hill, + Now far, now near, borne as the soft winds will, + Comes the low rushing of the water-mill. + + Ah, lovely to me from a little child, + How changed the place! wherein once, undefiled, + The glad communion of the sky and stream + Went with me like a presence and a dream. + Where once the brambled meads and orchardlands, + Poured ripe abundance down with mellow hands + Of summer; and the birds of field and wood + Called to me in a tongue I understood; + And in the tangles of the old rail-fence + Even the insect tumult had some sense, + And every sound a happy eloquence: + And more to me than wisest books can teach + The wind and water said; whose words did reach + My soul, addressing their magnificent speech,-- + Raucous and rushing,--from the old mill-wheel, + That made the rolling mill-cogs snore and reel, + Like some old ogre in a faerytale + Nodding above his meat and mug of ale. + + How memory takes me back the ways that lead-- + As when a boy--through woodland and through mead! + To orchards fruited; or to fields in bloom; + Or briery fallows, like a mighty room, + Through which the winds swing censers of perfume, + And where deep blackberries spread miles of fruit;-- + A wildwood feast, that stayed the plowboy's foot + When to the tasseling acres of the corn + He drove his team, fresh in the primrose morn; + And from the liberal banquet, nature lent, + Plucked dewy handfuls as he whistling went.-- + + A boy once more, I stand with sunburnt feet + And watch the harvester sweep down the wheat; + Or laze with warm limbs in the unstacked straw + Near by the thresher, whose insatiate maw + Devours the sheaves, hot-drawling out its hum-- + Like some great sleepy bee, above a bloom, + Made drunk with honey--while, grown big with grain, + The bulging sacks receive the golden rain. + Again I tread the valley, sweet with hay, + And hear the bobwhite calling far away, + Or wood-dove cooing in the elder-brake; + Or see the sassafras bushes madly shake + As swift, a rufous instant, in the glen + The red fox leaps and gallops to his den: + Or, standing in the violet-colored gloam, + Hear roadways sound with holiday riding home + From church or fair, or country barbecue, + Which half the county to some village drew. + + How spilled with berries were its summer hills, + And strewn with walnuts all its autumn rills!-- + And chestnuts too! burred from the spring's long flowers; + June's, when their tree-tops streamed delirious showers + Of blossoming silver, cool, crepuscular, + And like a nebulous radiance shone afar.-- + And maples! how their sappy hearts would pour + Rude troughs of syrup, when the winter hoar + Steamed with the sugar-kettle, day and night, + And, red, the snow was streaked with firelight. + Then it was glorious! the mill-dam's edge + One slope of frosty crystal, laid a ledge + Of pearl across; above which, sleeted trees + Tossed arms of ice, that, clashing in the breeze, + Tinkled the ringing creek with icicles, + Thin as the peal of far-off elfin bells: + A sound that in my city dreams I hear, + That brings before me, under skies that clear, + The old mill in its winter garb of snow, + Its frozen wheel like a hoar beard below, + And its west windows, two deep eyes aglow. + + Ah, ancient mill, still do I picture o'er + Thy cobwebbed stairs and loft and grain-strewn floor; + Thy door,--like some brown, honest hand of toil, + And honorable with service of the soil,-- + Forever open; to which, on his back + The prosperous farmer bears his bursting sack, + And while the miller measures out his toll, + Again I hear, above the cogs' loud roll,-- + That makes stout joist and rafter groan and sway,-- + The harmless gossip of the passing day: + Good country talk, that says how so-and-so + Lived, died, or wedded: how curculio + And codling-moth play havoc with the fruit, + Smut ruins the corn and blight the grapes to boot: + Or what is news from town: next county fair: + How well the crops are looking everywhere:-- + Now this, now that, on which their interests fix, + Prospects for rain or frost, and politics. + While, all around, the sweet smell of the meal + Filters, warm-pouring from the rolling wheel + Into the bin; beside which, mealy white, + The miller looms, dim in the dusty light. + + Again I see the miller's home between + The crinkling creek and hills of beechen green: + Again the miller greets me, gaunt and brown, + Who oft o'erawed my boyhood with his frown + And gray-browed mien: again he tries to reach + My youthful soul with fervid scriptural speech.-- + For he, of all the countryside confessed, + The most religious was and goodliest; + A Methodist, who at all meetings led; + Prayed with his family ere they went to bed. + No books except the Bible had he read-- + At least so seemed it to my younger head.-- + All things of Heaven and Earth he'd prove by this, + Be it a fact or mere hypothesis: + For to his simple wisdom, reverent, + _"The Bible says"_ was all of argument.-- + God keep his soul! his bones were long since laid + Among the sunken gravestones in the shade + Of those dark-lichened rocks, that wall around + The family burying-ground with cedars crowned: + Where bristling teasel and the brier combine + With clambering wood-rose and the wildgrape-vine + To hide the stone whereon his name and dates + Neglect, with mossy hand, obliterates. + + + + ARGONAUTS + + With argosies of dawn he sails, + And triremes of the dusk, + The Seas of Song, whereon the gales + Are myths that trail wild musk. + + He hears the hail of Siren bands + From headlands sunset-kissed; + The Lotus-eaters wave pale hands + Within a land of mist. + + For many a league he hears the roar + Of the Symplegades; + And through the far foam of its shore + The Isle of Sappho sees. + + All day he looks, with hazy lids, + At gods who cleave the deep; + All night he hears the Nereids + Sing their wild hearts asleep. + + When heaven thunders overhead, + And hell upheaves the Vast, + Dim faces of the ocean's dead + Gaze at him from each mast. + + He but repeats the oracle + That bade him first set sail; + And cheers his soul with, "All is well! + Go on! I will not fail." + + Behold! he sails no earthly bark + And on no earthly sea, + Who down the years into the dark,-- + Divine of destiny,-- + + Holds to his purpose,--ships of Greece,-- + Ideal-steered afar, + For whom awaits the Golden Fleece, + The fame that is his star. + + + + "THE MORN THAT BREAKS ITS HEART OF GOLD" + + From an ode "In Commemoration of the Founding of the + Massachusetts Bay Colony." + + The morn that breaks its heart of gold + Above the purple hills; + The eve, that spills + Its nautilus splendor where the sea is rolled; + The night, that leads the vast procession in + Of stars and dreams,-- + The beauty that shall never die or pass:-- + The winds, that spin + Of rain the misty mantles of the grass, + And thunder raiment of the mountain-streams; + The sunbeams, penciling with gold the dusk + Green cowls of ancient woods; + The shadows, thridding, veiled with musk, + The moon-pathed solitudes, + Call to my Fancy, saying, "Follow! follow!" + Till, following, I see,-- + Fair as a cascade in a rainbowed hollow,-- + A dream, a shape, take form, + Clad on with every charm,-- + + The vision of that Ideality, + Which lured the pioneer in wood and hill, + And beckoned him from earth and sky; + The dream that cannot die, + Their children's children did fulfill, + In stone and iron and wood, + Out of the solitude, + And by a stalwart act + Create a mighty fact-- + A Nation, now that stands + Clad on with hope and beauty, strength and song, + Eternal, young and strong, + Planting her heel on wrong, + Her starry banner in triumphant hands.... + + Within her face the rose + Of Alleghany dawns; + Limbed with Alaskan snows, + Floridian starlight in her eyes,-- + Eyes stern as steel yet tender as a fawn's,-- + And in her hair + The rapture of her rivers; and the dare, + As perishless as truth, + That o'er the crags of her Sierras flies, + Urging the eagle ardor through her veins, + Behold her where, + Around her radiant youth, + + The spirits of the cataracts and plains, + The genii of the floods and forests, meet, + In rainbow mists circling her brow and feet: + The forces vast that sit + In session round her; powers paraclete, + That guard her presence; awful forms and fair, + Making secure her place; + Guiding her surely as the worlds through space + Do laws sidereal; edicts, thunder-lit, + Of skyed eternity, in splendor borne + On planetary wings of night and morn. + + * * * * * + + From her high place she sees + Her long procession of accomplished acts, + Cloud-winged refulgences + Of thoughts in steel and stone, of marble dreams, + Lift up tremendous battlements, + Sun-blinding, built of facts; + While in her soul she seems, + Listening, to hear, as from innumerable tents, + AEonian thunder, wonder, and applause + Of all the heroic ages that are gone; + Feeling secure + That, as her Past, her Future shall endure, + As did her Cause + When redly broke the dawn + Of fierce rebellion, and, beneath its star, + The firmaments of war + Poured down infernal rain, + And North and South lay bleeding mid their slain. + And now, no less, shall her great Cause prevail, + More so in peace than war, + Through the thrilled wire and electric rail, + Carrying her message far: + Shaping her dream + Within the brain of steam, + That, with a myriad hands, + Labors unceasingly, and knits her lands + In firmer union; joining plain and stream + With steel; and binding shore to shore + With bands of iron;--nerves and arteries, + Along whose adamant forever pour + Her concrete thoughts, her tireless energies. + + + + A VOICE ON THE WIND + + I + + She walks with the wind on the windy height + When the rocks are loud and the waves are white, + And all night long she calls through the night, + "O my children, come home!" + Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud, + Tosses around her like a shroud, + While over the deep her voice rings loud,-- + "O my children, come home, come home! + O my children, come home!" + + II + + Who is she who wanders alone, + When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown? + Who walks all night and makes her moan, + "O my children, come home!" + Whose face is raised to the blinding gale; + Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale, + While over the world goes by her wail,-- + "O my children, come home, come home! + O my children, come home!" + + III + + She walks with the wind in the windy wood; + The dark rain drips from her hair and hood, + And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued, + "O my children, come home!" + Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear, + The owl and the fox crouch back with fear, + As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-- + "O my children, come home, come home! + O my children, come home!" + + IV + + Who is she who shudders by + When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly? + Who walks all night with her wailing cry, + "O my children, come home!" + Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue, + With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung, + Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-- + "O my children, come home, come home! + O my children, come home!" + + V + + 'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees, + The mother of Death and of Mysteries, + Who cries on the wind all night to these, + "O my children, come home!" + The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain, + Calling her children home again, + Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-- + "O my children, come home, come home! + O my children, come home!" + + + + REQUIEM + + I + + No more for him, where hills look down, + Shall Morning crown + Her rainy brow with blossom bands!-- + The Morning Hours, whose rosy hands + Drop wildflowers of the breaking skies + Upon the sod 'neath which he lies.-- + No more for him! No more! No more! + + II + + No more for him, where waters sleep, + Shall Evening heap + The long gold of the perfect days! + The Eventide, whose warm hand lays + Great poppies of the afterglow + Upon the turf he rests below.-- + No more for him! No more! no more! + + Ill + + No more for him, where woodlands loom, + Shall Midnight bloom + The star-flowered acres of the blue! + The Midnight Hours, whose dim hands strew + Dead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep, + Upon the grave where he doth sleep.-- + No more for him! No more! No more! + + IV + + The hills, that Morning's footsteps wake: + The waves that take + A brightness from the Eve; the woods + And solitudes, o'er which Night broods, + Their Spirits have, whose parts are one + With him, whose mortal part is done. + Whose part is done. + + + + LYNCHERS + + At the moon's down-going let it be + On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree. + + The red-rock road of the underbrush, + Where the woman came through the summer hush. + + The sumac high and the elder thick, + Where we found the stone and the ragged stick. + + The trampled road of the thicket, full + Of footprints down to the quarry pool. + + The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead, + Where we found her lying stark and dead. + + The scraggy wood; the negro hut, + With its doors and windows locked and shut. + + A secret signal; a foot's rough tramp; + A knock at the door; a lifted lamp. + + An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks; + A voice that answers a voice that asks. + + A group of shadows; the moon's red fleck; + A running noose and a man's bared neck. + + A word, a curse, and a shape that swings; + The lonely night and a bat's black wings. + + At the moon's down-going let it be + On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree. + + + + THE PARTING + + She passed the thorn-trees, whose gaunt branches tossed + Their spider-shadows round her; and the breeze, + Beneath the ashen moon, was full of frost, + And mouthed and mumbled to the sickly trees, + Like some starved hag who sees her children freeze. + + Dry-eyed she waited by the sycamore. + Some stars made misty blotches in the sky. + And all the wretched willows on the shore + Looked faded as a jaundiced cheek or eye. + She felt their pity and could only sigh. + + And then his skiff ground on the river rocks. + Whistling he came into the shadow made + By that dead tree. He kissed her dark brown locks; + And round her form his eager arms were laid. + Passive she stood, her secret unbetrayed. + + And then she spoke, while still his greeting kiss + Ached in her hair. She did not dare to lift + Her eyes to his--her anguished eyes to his, + While tears smote crystal in her throat. One rift + Of weakness humored might set all adrift. + + Fields over which a path, overwhelmed with burrs + And ragweeds, noisy with the grasshoppers, + Leads,--lost, irresolute as paths the cows + Wear through the woods,--unto a woodshed; then, + With wrecks of windows, to a huddled house, + Where men have murdered men. + + A house, whose tottering chimney, clay and rock, + Is seamed and crannied; whose lame door and lock + Are bullet-bored; around which, there and here, + Are sinister stains.--One dreads to look around.-- + The place seems thinking of that time of fear + And dares not breathe a sound. + + Within is emptiness: The sunlight falls + On faded journals papering the walls; + On advertisement chromos, torn with time, + Around a hearth where wasps and spiders build.-- + The house is dead: meseems that night of crime + It, too, was shot and killed. + + + + KU KLUX + + We have sent him seeds of the melon's core, + And nailed a warning upon his door: + By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more. + + Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack, + The roof of his low-porched house looms black; + Not a line of light at the door-sill's crack. + + Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride! + The hounds can sense though the fox may hide! + And for a word too much men oft have died. + + The clouds blow heavy toward the moon. + The edge of the storm will reach it soon. + The kildee cries and the lonesome loon. + + The clouds shall flush with a wilder glare + Than the lightning makes with its angled flare, + When the Ku Klux verdict is given there. + + In the pause of the thunder rolling low, + A rifle's answer--who shall know + From the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's black blow? + + Only the signature, written grim + At the end of the message brought to him-- + A hempen rope and a twisted limb. + + So arm and mount! and mask and ride! + The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!-- + For a word too much men oft have died. + + + + EIDOLONS + + The white moth-mullein brushed its slim + Cool, faery flowers against his knee; + In places where the way lay dim + The branches, arching suddenly, + Made tomblike mystery for him. + + The wild-rose and the elder, drenched + With rain, made pale a misty place,-- + From which, as from a ghost, he blenched; + He walking with averted face, + And lips in desolation clenched. + + For far within the forest,--where + Weird shadows stood like phantom men, + And where the ground-hog dug its lair, + The she-fox whelped and had her den,-- + The thing kept calling, buried there. + + One dead trunk, like a ruined tower, + Dark-green with toppling trailers, shoved + Its wild wreck o'er the bush; one bower + Looked like a dead man, capped and gloved, + The one who haunted him each hour. + + Now at his side he heard it: thin + As echoes of a thought that speaks + To conscience. Listening with his chin + Upon his palm, against his cheeks + He felt the moon's white finger win. + + And now the voice was still: and lo, + With eyes that stared on naught but night, + He saw?--what none on earth shall know!-- + Was it the face that far from sight + Had lain here, buried long ago? + + But men who found him,--thither led + By the wild fox,--within that place + Read in his stony eyes, 'tis said, + The thing he saw there, face to face, + The thing that left him staring dead. + + + + THE MAN HUNT + + The woods stretch deep to the mountain side, + And the brush is wild where a man may hide. + + They have brought the bloodhounds up again + To the roadside rock where they found the slain. + + They have brought the bloodhounds up, and they + Have taken the trail to the mountain way. + + Three times they circled the trail and crossed; + And thrice they found it and thrice they lost. + + Now straight through the trees and the underbrush + They follow the scent through the forest's hush. + + And their deep-mouthed bay is a pulse of fear + In the heart of the wood that the man must hear. + + The man who crouches among the trees + From the stern-faced men who follow these. + + A huddle of rocks that the ooze has mossed, + And the trail of the hunted again is lost. + + An upturned pebble; a bit of ground + A heel has trampled--the trail is found. + + And the woods re-echo the bloodhounds' bay + As again they take to the mountain way. + + A rock; a ribbon of road; a ledge, + With a pine tree clutching its crumbling edge. + + A pine, that the lightning long since clave, + Whose huge roots hollow a ragged cave. + + A shout; a curse; and a face aghast; + The human quarry is laired at last. + + The human quarry with clay-clogged hair + And eyes of terror who waits them there. + + That glares and crouches and rising then + Hurls clods and curses at dogs and men. + + Until the blow of a gun-butt lays + Him stunned and bleeding upon his face. + + A rope; a prayer; and an oak-tree near, + And a score of hands to swing him clear. + + A grim, black thing for the setting sun + And the moon and the stars to gaze upon. + + + + MY ROMANCE + + If it so befalls that the midnight hovers + In mist no moonlight breaks, + The leagues of the years my spirit covers, + And my self myself forsakes. + + And I live in a land of stars and flowers, + White cliffs by a silvery sea; + And the pearly points of her opal towers + From the mountains beckon me. + + And I think that I know that I hear her calling + From a casement bathed with light-- + Through music of waters in waters falling + Mid palms from a mountain height. + + And I feel that I think my love's awaited + By the romance of her charms; + That her feet are early and mine belated + In a world that chains my arms. + + But I break my chains and the rest is easy-- + In the shadow of the rose, + Snow-white, that blooms in her garden breezy, + We meet and no one knows. + + And we dream sweet dreams and kiss sweet kisses; + The world--it may live or die! + The world that forgets; that never misses + The life that has long gone by. + + We speak old vows that have long been spoken; + And weep a long-gone woe: + For you must know our hearts were broken + Hundreds of years ago. + + + + A MAID WHO DIED OLD + + Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn, + That life has carved with care and doubt! + So weary waiting, night and morn, + For that which never came about! + Pale lamp, so utterly forlorn, + In which God's light at last is out. + + Gray hair, that lies so thin and prim + On either side the sunken brows! + And soldered eyes, so deep and dim, + No word of man could now arouse! + And hollow hands, so virgin slim, + Forever clasped in silent vows! + + Poor breasts! that God designed for love, + For baby lips to kiss and press; + That never felt, yet dreamed thereof, + The human touch, the child caress-- + That lie like shriveled blooms above + The heart's long-perished happiness. + + O withered body, Nature gave + For purposes of death and birth, + That never knew, and could but crave + Those things perhaps that make life worth,-- + Rest now, alas! within the grave, + Sad shell that served no end of Earth. + + + + BALLAD OF LOW-LIE-DOWN + + John-A-Dreams and Harum-Scarum + Came a-riding into town: + At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum + There they met with Low-lie-down. + + Brave in shoes of Romany leather, + Bodice blue and gypsy gown, + And a cap of fur and feather, + In the inn sat Low-lie-down. + + Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly; + Smiled into her eyes of brown: + Clasped her waist and held her tightly, + Laughing, "Love me, Low-lie-down!" + + Then with many an oath and swagger, + As a man of great renown, + On the board he clapped his dagger, + Called for sack and sat him down. + + So a while they laughed together; + Then he rose and with a frown + Sighed, "While still 'tis pleasant weather, + I must leave thee, Low-lie-down." + + So away rode Harum-Scarum; + With a song rode out of town; + At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum + Weeping tarried Low-lie-down. + + Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters, + In his pocket ne'er a crown, + Touched her, saying, "Wench, what matters! + Dry your eyes and, come, sit down. + + "Here's my hand: we'll roam together, + Far away from thorp and town. + Here's my heart,--for any weather,-- + And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down. + + "Some men call me dreamer, poet: + Some men call me fool and clown-- + What I am but you shall know it, + Only you, sweet Low-lie-down." + + For a little while she pondered: + Smiled: then said, "Let care go drown!" + Up and kissed him.... Forth they wandered, + John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down. + + + + ROMANCE + + Thus have I pictured her:--In Arden old + A white-browed maiden with a falcon eye, + Rose-flushed of face, with locks of wind-blown gold, + Teaching her hawks to fly. + + Or, 'mid her boar-hounds, panting with the heat, + In huntsman green, sounding the hunt's wild prize, + Plumed, dagger-belted, while beneath her feet + The spear-pierced monster dies. + + Or in Breceliand, on some high tower, + Clad white in samite, last of her lost race, + My soul beholds her, lovelier than a flower, + Gazing with pensive face. + + Or, robed in raiment of romantic lore, + Like Oriana, dark of eye and hair, + Riding through realms of legend evermore, + And ever young and fair. + + Or now like Bradamant, as brave as just, + In complete steel, her pure face lit with scorn, + At giant castles, dens of demon lust, + Winding her bugle-horn. + + Another Una; and in chastity + A second Britomart; in beauty far + O'er her who led King Charles's chivalry + And Paynim lands to war.... + + Now she, from Avalon's deep-dingled bowers,-- + 'Mid which white stars and never-waning moons + Make marriage; and dim lips of musk-mouthed flowers + Sigh faint and fragrant tunes,-- + + Implores me follow; and, in shadowy shapes + Of sunset, shows me,--mile on misty mile + Of purple precipice,--all the haunted capes + Of her enchanted isle. + + Where, bowered in bosks and overgrown with vine, + Upon a headland breasting violet seas, + Her castle towers, like a dream divine, + With stairs and galleries. + + And at her casement, Circe-beautiful, + Above the surgeless reaches of the deep, + She sits, while, in her gardens, fountains lull + The perfumed wind asleep. + + Or, round her brow a diadem of spars, + She leans and hearkens, from her raven height, + The nightingales that, choiring to the stars, + Take with wild song the night. + + Or, where the moon is mirrored in the waves, + To mark, deep down, the Sea King's city rolled, + Wrought of huge shells and labyrinthine caves, + Ribbed pale with pearl and gold. + + There doth she wait forever; and the kings + Of all the world have wooed her: but she cares + For none but him, the Love, that dreams and sings, + That sings and dreams and dares. + + + + AMADIS AND ORIANA + + From "Beltenebros at Miraflores" + + O sunset, from the springs of stars + Draw down thy cataracts of gold; + And belt their streams with burning bars + Of ruby on which flame is rolled: + Drench dingles with laburnum light; + Drown every vale in violet blaze: + Rain rose-light down; and, poppy-bright, + Die downward o'er the hills of haze, + And bring at last the stars of night! + + The stars and moon! that silver world, + Which, like a spirit, faces west, + Her foam-white feet with light empearled, + Bearing white flame within her breast: + Earth's sister sphere of fire and snow, + Who shows to Earth her heart's pale heat, + And bids her mark its pulses glow, + And hear their crystal currents beat + With beauty, lighting all below. + + O cricket, with thy elfin pipe, + That tinkles in the grass and grain; + And dove-pale buds, that, dropping, stripe + The glen's blue night, and smell of rain; + O nightingale, that so dost wail + On yonder blossoming branch of snow, + Thrill, fill the wild deer-haunted dale, + Where Oriana, walking slow, + Comes, thro' the moonlight, dreamy pale. + + She comes to meet me!--Earth and air + Grow radiant with another light. + In her dark eyes and her dark hair + Are all the stars and all the night: + She comes! I clasp her!--and it is + As if no grief had ever been.-- + In all the world for us who kiss + There are no other women or men + But Oriana and Amadis. + + + + THE ROSICRUCIAN + + I + + The tripod flared with a purple spark, + And the mist hung emerald in the dark: + Now he stooped to the lilac flame + Over the glare of the amber embers, + Thrice to utter no earthly name; + Thrice, like a mind that half remembers; + Bathing his face in the magic mist + Where the brilliance burned like an amethyst. + + II + + "Sylph, whose soul was born of mine, + Born of the love that made me thine, + Once more flash on my eyes! Again + Be the loved caresses taken! + Lip to lip let our forms remain!-- + Here in the circle sense, awaken! + Ere spirit meet spirit, the flesh laid by, + Let me touch thee, and let me die." + + III + + Sunset heavens may burn, but never + Know such splendor! There bloomed an ever + Opaline orb, where the sylphid rose + A shape of luminous white; diviner + White than the essence of light that sows + The moons and suns through space; and finer + Than radiance born of a shooting-star, + Or the wild Aurora that streams afar. + + IV + + "Look on the face of the soul to whom + Thou givest thy soul like added perfume! + Thou, who heard'st me, who long had prayed, + Waiting alone at morning's portal!-- + Thus on thy lips let my lips be laid, + Love, who hast made me all immortal! + Give me thine arms now! Come and rest + Weariness out on my beaming breast!" + + V + + Was it her soul? or the sapphire fire + That sang like the note of a seraph's lyre? + Out of her mouth there fell no word-- + She spake with her soul, as a flower speaketh. + + Fragrant messages none hath heard, + Which the sense divines when the spirit seeketh.... + And he seemed alone in a place so dim + That the spirit's face, who was gazing at him, + For its burning eyes he could not see: + Then he knew he had died; that she and he + Were one; and he saw that this was she. + + + + THE AGE OF GOLD + + The clouds that tower in storm, that beat + Arterial thunder in their veins; + The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet, + Their perfect faces from the plains,-- + All high, all lowly things of Earth + For no vague end have had their birth. + + Low strips of mist that mesh the moon + Above the foaming waterfall; + And mountains, that God's hand hath hewn, + And forests, where the great winds call,-- + Within the grasp of such as see + Are parts of a conspiracy; + + To seize the soul with beauty; hold + The heart with love: and thus fulfill + Within ourselves the Age of Gold, + That never died, and never will,-- + As long as one true nature feels + The wonders that the world reveals. + + + + BEAUTY AND ART + + The gods are dead; but still for me + Lives on in wildwood brook and tree + Each myth, each old divinity. + + For me still laughs among the rocks + The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks + Drop perfume on the wildflower flocks. + + The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam; + And, whiter than the wind-blown foam, + The Oread haunts her mountain home. + + To him, whose mind is fain to dwell + With loveliness no time can quell, + All things are real, imperishable. + + To him--whatever facts may say-- + Who sees the soul beneath the clay, + Is proof of a diviner day. + + The very stars and flowers preach + A gospel old as God, and teach + Philosophy a child may reach; + + That cannot die; that shall not cease; + That lives through idealities + Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece. + + That lifts the soul above the clod, + And, working out some period + Of art, is part and proof of God. + + + + THE SEA SPIRIT + + Ah me! I shall not waken soon + From dreams of such divinity! + A spirit singing 'neath the moon + To me. + + Wild sea-spray driven of the storm + Is not so wildly white as she, + Who beckoned with a foam-white arm + To me. + + With eyes dark green, and golden-green + Long locks that rippled drippingly, + Out of the green wave she did lean + To me. + + And sang; till Earth and Heaven seemed + A far, forgotten memory, + And more than Heaven in her who gleamed + On me. + + Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home; + And death's immutability; + And music of the plangent foam, + For me! + + Sweep over her! with all thy ships, + With all thy stormy tides, O sea!-- + The memory of immortal lips + For me! + + + + GARGAPHIE + + "_Succinctae sacra Dianae_".--OVID + + There the ragged sunlight lay + Tawny on thick ferns and gray + On dark waters: dimmer, + Lone and deep, the cypress grove + Bowered mystery and wove + Braided lights, like those that love + On the pearl plumes of a dove + Faint to gleam and glimmer. + + II + + There centennial pine and oak + Into stormy cadence broke: + Hollow rocks gloomed, slanting, + Echoing in dim arcade, + Looming with long moss, that made + Twilight streaks in tatters laid: + Where the wild hart, hunt-affrayed, + Plunged the water, panting. + + III + + Poppies of a sleepy gold + Mooned the gray-green darkness rolled + Down its vistas, making + Wisp-like blurs of flame. And pale + Stole the dim deer down the vale: + And the haunting nightingale + Throbbed unseen--the olden tale + All its wild heart breaking. + + IV + + There the hazy serpolet, + Dewy cistus, blooming wet, + Blushed on bank and bowlder; + There the cyclamen, as wan + As first footsteps of the dawn, + Carpeted the spotted lawn: + Where the nude nymph, dripping drawn, + Basked a wildflower shoulder. + + V + + In the citrine shadows there + What tall presences and fair, + Godlike, stood!--or, gracious + As the rock-rose there that grew, + Delicate and dim as dew, + Stepped from boles of oaks, and drew + Faunlike forms to follow, who + Filled the forest spacious!-- + + VI + + Guarding that Boeotian + Valley so no foot of man + Soiled its silence holy + With profaning tread--save one, + The Hyantian: Actaeon, + Who beheld, and might not shun + Pale Diana's wrath; undone + By his own mad folly. + + VII + + Lost it lies--that valley: sleeps + In serene enchantment; keeps + Beautiful its banished + Bowers that no man may see; + Fountains that her deity + Haunts, and every rock and tree + Where her hunt goes swinging free + As in ages vanished. + + + + THE DEAD OREAD + + Her heart is still and leaps no more + With holy passion when the breeze, + Her whilom playmate, as before, + Comes with the language of the bees, + Sad songs her mountain cedars sing, + And water-music murmuring. + + Her calm white feet,--erst fleet and fast + As Daphne's when a god pursued,-- + No more will dance like sunlight past + The gold-green vistas of the wood, + Where every quailing floweret + Smiled into life where they were set. + + Hers were the limbs of living light, + And breasts of snow; as virginal + As mountain drifts; and throat as white + As foam of mountain waterfall; + And hyacinthine curls, that streamed + Like crag-born mists, and gloomed and gleamed. + + Her presence breathed such scents as haunt + Moist, mountain dells and solitudes; + Aromas wild as some wild plant + That fills with sweetness all the woods: + And comradeships of stars and skies + Shone in the azure of her eyes. + + Her grave be by a mossy rock + Upon the top of some wild hill, + Removed, remote from men who mock + The myths and dreams of life they kill: + Where all of beauty, naught of lust + May guard her solitary dust. + + + + THE FAUN + + The joys that touched thee once, be mine! + The sympathies of sky and sea, + The friendships of each rock and pine, + That made thy lonely life, ah me! + In Tempe or in Gargaphie. + + Such joy as thou didst feel when first, + On some wild crag, thou stood'st alone + To watch the mountain tempest burst, + With streaming thunder, lightning-sown, + On Latmos or on Pelion. + + Thy awe! when, crowned with vastness, Night + And Silence ruled the deep's abyss; + And through dark leaves thou saw'st the white + Breasts of the starry maids who kiss + Pale feet of moony Artemis. + + Thy dreams! when, breasting matted weeds + Of Arethusa, thou didst hear + The music of the wind-swept reeds; + And down dim forest-ways drew near + Shy herds of slim Arcadian deer. + + Thy wisdom! that knew naught but love + And beauty, with which love is fraught; + The wisdom of the heart--whereof + All noblest passions spring--that thought + As Nature thinks, "All else is naught." + + Thy hope! wherein To-morrow set + No shadow; hope, that, lacking care + And retrospect, held no regret, + But bloomed in rainbows everywhere, + Filling with gladness all the air. + + These were thine all: in all life's moods + Embracing all of happiness: + And when within thy long-loved woods + Didst lay thee down to die--no less + Thy happiness stood by to bless. + + + + THE PAPHIAN VENUS + + With anxious eyes and dry, expectant lips, + Within the sculptured stoa by the sea, + All day she waited while, like ghostly ships, + Long clouds rolled over Paphos: the wild bee + Hung in the sultry poppy, half asleep, + Beside the shepherd and his drowsy sheep. + + White-robed she waited day by day; alone + With the white temple's shrined concupiscence, + The Paphian goddess on her obscene throne, + Binding all chastity to violence, + All innocence to lust that feels no shame-- + Venus Mylitta born of filth and flame. + + So must they haunt her marble portico, + The devotees of Paphos, passion-pale + As moonlight streaming through the stormy snow; + Dark eyes desirous of the stranger sail, + The gods shall bring across the Cyprian Sea, + With him elected to their mastery. + + A priestess of the temple came, when eve + Blazed, like a satrap's triumph, in the west; + + And watched her listening to the ocean's heave, + Dusk's golden glory on her face and breast, + And in her hair the rosy wind's caress,-- + Pitying her dedicated tenderness. + + When out of darkness night persuades the stars, + A dream shall bend above her saying, "Soon + A barque shall come with purple sails and spars, + Sailing from Tarsus 'neath a low white moon; + And thou shalt see one in a robe of Tyre + Facing toward thee like the god Desire. + + "Rise then! as, clad in starlight, riseth Night-- + Thy nakedness clad on with loveliness! + So shalt thou see him, like the god Delight, + Breast through the foam and climb the cliff to press + Hot lips to thine and lead thee in before + Love's awful presence where ye shall adore." + + Thus at her heart the vision entered in, + With lips of lust the lips of song had kissed, + And eyes of passion laughing with sweet sin, + A shimmering splendor robed in amethyst,-- + Seen like that star set in the glittering gloam,-- + Venus Mylitta born of fire and foam. + + So shall she dream until, near middle night,-- + When on the blackness of the ocean's rim + The moon, like some war-galleon all alight + With blazing battle, from the sea shall swim,-- + A shadow, with inviolate lips and eyes, + Shall rise before her speaking in this wise: + + "So hast thou heard the promises of one,-- + Of her, with whom the God of gods is wroth,-- + For whom was prophesied at Babylon + The second death--Chaldaean Mylidoth! + Whose feet take hold on darkness and despair, + Hissing destruction in her heart and hair. + + "Wouldst thou behold the vessel she would bring?-- + A wreck! ten hundred years have smeared with slime: + A hulk! where all abominations cling, + The spawn and vermin of the seas of time: + Wild waves have rotted it; fierce suns have scorched; + Mad winds have tossed and stormy stars have torched. + + "Can lust give birth to love? The vile and foul + Be mother to beauty? Lo! can this thing be?-- + A monster like a man shall rise and howl + Upon the wreck across the crawling sea, + Then plunge; and swim unto thee; like an ape, + A beast all belly.--Thou canst not escape!" + + Gone was the shadow with the suffering brow; + And in the temple's porch she lay and wept, + Alone with night, the ocean, and her vow.-- + Then up the east the moon's full splendor swept, + And dark between it--wreck or argosy?-- + A sudden vessel far away at sea. + + + + ORIENTAL ROMANCE + + I + + Beyond lost seas of summer she + Dwelt on an island of the sea, + Last scion of that dynasty, + Queen of a race forgotten long.-- + With eyes of light and lips of song, + From seaward groves of blowing lemon, + She called me in her native tongue, + Low-leaned on some rich robe of Yemen. + + II + + I was a king. Three moons we drove + Across green gulfs, the crimson clove + And cassia spiced, to claim her love. + Packed was my barque with gums and gold; + Rich fabrics; sandalwood, grown old + With odor; gems; and pearls of Oman,-- + Than her white breasts less white and cold;-- + And myrrh, less fragrant than this woman. + + III + + From Bassora I came. We saw + Her eagle castle on a claw + Of soaring precipice, o'erawe + The surge and thunder of the spray. + Like some great opal, far away + It shone, with battlement and spire, + Wherefrom, with wild aroma, day + Blew splintered lights of sapphirine fire. + + IV + + Lamenting caverns dark, that keep + Sonorous echoes of the deep, + Led upward to her castle steep.... + Fair as the moon, whose light is shed + In Ramadan, was she, who led + My love unto her island bowers, + To find her.... lying young and dead + Among her maidens and her flowers. + + + + THE MAMELUKE + + I + + She was a queen. 'Midst mutes and slaves, + A mameluke, he loved her.----Waves + Dashed not more hopelessly the paves + Of her high marble palace-stair + Than lashed his love his heart's despair.-- + As souls in Hell dream Paradise, + He suffered yet forgot it there + Beneath Rommaneh's houri eyes. + + II + + With passion eating at his heart + He served her beauty, but dared dart + No amorous glance, nor word impart.-- + Taifi leather's perfumed tan + Beneath her, on a low divan + She lay 'mid cushions stuffed with down: + A slave-girl with an ostrich fan + Sat by her in a golden gown. + + III + + She bade him sing. Fair lutanist, + She loved his voice. With one white wrist, + Hooped with a blaze of amethyst, + She raised her ruby-crusted lute: + Gold-welted stuff, like some rich fruit, + Her raiment, diamond-showered, rolled + Folds pigeon-purple, whence one foot + Drooped in an anklet-twist of gold. + + IV + + He stood and sang with all the fire + That boiled within his blood's desire, + That made him all her slave yet higher: + And at the end his passion durst + Quench with one burning kiss its thirst.-- + O eunuchs, did her face show scorn + When through his heart your daggers burst? + And dare ye say he died forlorn? + + + + THE SLAVE + + He waited till within her tower + Her taper signalled him the hour. + + He was a prince both fair and brave.-- + What hope that he would love _her_ slave! + + He of the Persian dynasty; + And she a Queen of Araby!-- + + No Peri singing to a star + Upon the sea were lovelier.... + + I helped her drop the silken rope. + He clomb, aflame with love and hope. + + I drew the dagger from my gown + And cut the ladder, leaning down. + + Oh, wild his face, and wild the fall: + Her cry was wilder than them all. + + I heard her cry; I heard him moan; + And stood as merciless as stone. + + The eunuchs came: fierce scimitars + Stirred in the torch-lit corridors. + + She spoke like one who speaks in sleep, + And bade me strike or she would leap. + + I bade her leap: the time was short: + And kept the dagger for my heart. + + She leapt.... I put their blades aside, + And smiling in their faces--died. + + + + THE PORTRAIT + + In some quaint Nurnberg _maler-atelier_ + Uprummaged. When and where was never clear + Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom + 'Twas painted--who shall say? itself a gloom + Resisting inquisition. I opine + It is a Duerer. Mark that touch, this line; + Are they deniable?--Distinguished grace + Of the pure oval of the noble face + Tarnished in color badly. Half in light + Extend it so. Incline. The exquisite + Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn; + Imperial beauty; each, an icy thorn + Of light, disdainful eyes and ... well! no use! + Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuse + Of patience.--Often, vaguely visible, + The portrait fills each feature, making swell + The heart with hope: avoiding face and hair + Start out in living hues; astonished, "There!-- + The picture lives!" your soul exults, when, lo! + You hold a blur; an undetermined glow + Dislimns a daub.--"Restore?"--Ah, I have tried + Our best restorers, and it has defied. + + Storied, mysterious, say, perhaps a ghost + Lives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost; + A duchess', haply. Her he worshiped; dared + Not tell he worshiped. From his window stared + Of Nuremberg one sunny morn when she + Passed paged to court. Her cold nobility + Loved, lived for like a purpose. Seized and plied + A feverish brush--her face!--Despaired and died. + + The narrow Judengasse: gables frown + Around a humpbacked usurer's, where brown, + Neglected in a corner, long it lay, + Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as--say, + Retables done in tempera and old + Panels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings cold + Of martyrs and apostles,--names forgot,-- + Holbeins and Duerers, say; a haloed lot + Of praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance, + 'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance; + A crucifix and rosary; inlaid + Arms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayed + Niello of Byzantium; rich work, + In bronze, of Florence: here a murderous dirk, + There holy patens. + So.--My ancestor, + The first De Herancour, esteemed by far + This piece most precious, most desirable; + + Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked well + In the dark paneling above the old + Hearth of the room. The head's religious gold, + The soft severity of the nun face, + Made of the room an apostolic place + Revered and feared.-- + Like some lived scene I see + That Gothic room: its Flemish tapestry; + Embossed within the marble hearth a shield, + Carved 'round with thistles; in its argent field + Three sable mallets--arms of Herancour-- + Topped with the crest, a helm and hands that bore, + Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,-- + Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,-- + A vellum volume of black-lettered text. + Near by a taper, winking as if vexed + With silken gusts a nervous curtain sends, + Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends. + + And then I seem to see again the hall; + The stairway leading to that room.--Then all + The terror of that night of blood and crime + Passes before me.-- + It is Catherine's time: + The house De Herancour's. On floors, splashed red, + Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed. + Down carven corridors and rooms,--where couch + And chairs lie shattered and black shadows crouch + Torch-pierced with fear,--a sound of swords draws near-- + The stir of searching steel. + What find they here, + Torch-bearer, swordsman, and fierce halberdier, + On St. Bartholomew's?--A Huguenot! + Dead in his chair! Eyes, violently shot + With horror, glaring at the portrait there: + Coiling his neck a blood line, like a hair + Of finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,-- + Looking exalted visitation,--leaned + From its black panel; in its eyes a hate + Satanic; hair--a glowing auburn; late + A dull, enduring golden. + "Just one thread + Of the fierce hair around his throat," they said, + "Twisting a burning ray; he--staring dead." + + + + THE BLACK KNIGHT + + I had not found the road too short, + As once I had in days of youth, + In that old forest of long ruth, + Where my young knighthood broke its heart, + Ere love and it had come to part, + And lies made mockery of truth. + I had not found the road too short. + + A blind man, by the nightmare way, + Had set me right when I was wrong.-- + I had been blind my whole life long-- + What wonder then that on this day + The blind should show me how astray + My strength had gone, my heart once strong. + A blind man pointed me the way. + + The road had been a heartbreak one, + Of roots and rocks and tortured trees, + And pools, above my horse's knees, + And wandering paths, where spiders spun + 'Twixt boughs that never saw the sun, + And silence of lost centuries. + The road had been a heartbreak one. + + It seemed long years since that black hour + When she had fled, and I took horse + To follow, and without remorse + To slay her and her paramour + In that old keep, that ruined tower, + From whence was borne her father's corse. + It seemed long years since that black hour. + + And now my horse was starved and spent, + My gallant destrier, old and spare; + The vile road's mire in mane and hair, + I felt him totter as he went:-- + Such hungry woods were never meant + For pasture: hate had reaped them bare. + Aye, my poor beast was old and spent. + + I too had naught to stay me with; + And like my horse was starved and lean; + My armor gone; my raiment mean; + Bare-haired I rode; uneasy sith + The way I'd lost, and some dark myth + Far in the woods had laughed obscene. + I had had naught to stay me with. + + Then I dismounted. Better so. + And found that blind man at my rein. + And there the path stretched straight and plain. + I saw at once the way to go. + The forest road I used to know + In days when life had less of pain. + Then I dismounted. Better so. + + I had but little time to spare, + Since evening now was drawing near; + And then I thought I saw a sneer + Enter into that blind man's stare: + And suddenly a thought leapt bare,-- + What if the Fiend had set him here!-- + I still might smite him or might spare. + + I braced my sword: then turned to look: + For I had heard an evil laugh: + The blind man, leaning on his staff, + Still stood there where my leave I took: + What! did he mock me? Would I brook + A blind fool's scorn?--My sword was half + Out of its sheath. I turned to look: + + And he was gone. And to my side + My horse came nickering as afraid. + Did he too fear to be betrayed?-- + What use for him? I might not ride. + So to a great bough there I tied, + And left him in the forest glade: + My spear and shield I left beside. + + My sword was all I needed there. + It would suffice to right my wrongs; + To cut the knot of all those thongs + With which she'd bound me to despair, + That woman with her midnight hair, + Her Circe snares and Siren songs. + My sword was all I needed there. + + And then that laugh again I heard, + Evil as Hell and darkness are. + It shook my heart behind its bar + Of purpose, like some ghastly word. + But then it may have been a bird, + An owlet in the forest far, + A raven, croaking, that I heard. + + I loosed my sword within its sheath; + My sword, disuse and dews of night + Had fouled with rust and iron-blight. + I seemed to hear the forest breathe + A menace at me through its teeth + Of thorns 'mid which the way lay white. + I loosed my sword within its sheath. + + I had not noticed until now + The sun was gone, and gray the moon + Hung staring; pale as marble hewn;-- + Like some old malice, bleak of brow, + It glared at me through leaf and bough, + With which the tattered way was strewn. + I had not noticed until now. + + And then, all unexpected, vast + Above the tops of ragged pines + I saw a ruin, dark with vines, + Against the blood-red sunset massed: + My perilous tower of the past, + Round which the woods thrust giant spines. + I never knew it was so vast. + + Long while I stood considering.-- + This was the place and this the night. + The blind man then had set me right. + Here she had come for sheltering. + That ruin held her: that dark wing + Which flashed a momentary light. + Some time I stood considering. + + Deep darkness fell. The somber glare + Of sunset, that made cavernous eyes + Of those gaunt casements 'gainst the skies, + Had burnt to ashes everywhere. + Before my feet there rose a stair + Of oozy stone, of giant size, + On which the gray moon flung its glare. + + Then I went forward, sword in hand, + Until the slimy causeway loomed, + And huge beyond it yawned and gloomed + The gateway where one seemed to stand, + In armor, like a burning brand, + Sword-drawn; his visor barred and plumed. + And I went toward him, sword in hand. + + He should not stay revenge from me. + Whatever lord or knight he were, + He should not keep me long from her, + That woman dyed in infamy. + No matter. God or devil he, + His sword should prove no barrier.-- + Fool! who would keep revenge from me! + + And then I heard, harsh over all, + That demon laughter, filled with scorn: + It woke the echoes, wild, forlorn, + Dark in the ivy of that wall, + As when, within a mighty hall, + One blows a giant battle-horn. + Loud, loud that laugh rang over all. + + And then I struck him where he towered: + I struck him, struck with all my hate: + Black-plumed he loomed before the gate: + I struck, and found his sword that showered + Fierce flame on mine while black he glowered + Behind his visor's wolfish grate. + I struck; and taller still he towered. + + A year meseemed we battled there: + A year; ten years; a century: + My blade was snapped; his lay in three: + His mail was hewn; and everywhere + Was blood; it streaked my face and hair; + And still he towered over me. + A year meseemed we battled there. + + "Unmask!" I cried. "Yea, doff thy casque! + Put up thy visor! fight me fair! + I have no mail; my head is bare! + Take off thy helm, is all I ask! + Why dost thou hide thy face?--Unmask!"-- + My eyes were blind with blood and hair, + And still I cried, "Take off thy casque!" + + And then once more that laugh rang out + Like madness in the caves of Hell: + It hooted like some monster well, + The haunt of owls, or some mad rout + Of witches. And with battle shout + Once more upon that knight I fell, + While wild again that laugh rang out. + + Like Death's own eyes his glared in mine, + As with the fragment of my blade + I smote him helmwise; huge he swayed, + Then crashed, like some cadaverous pine, + Uncasqued, his face in full moonshine: + And I--I saw; and shrank afraid. + For, lo! behold! the face was mine. + + What devil's work was here!--What jest + For fiends to laugh at, demons hiss!-- + To slay myself? and so to miss + My hate's reward?--revenge confessed!-- + Was this knight I?--My brain I pressed.-- + Then who was he who gazed on this?-- + What devil's work was here!----What jest! + + It was myself on whom I gazed-- + My darker self!--With fear I rose.-- + I was right weak from those great blows.-- + I stood bewildered, stunned and dazed, + And looked around with eyes amazed.-- + I could not slay her now, God knows!-- + Around me there a while I gazed. + + Then turned and fled into the night, + While overhead once more I heard + That laughter, like some demon bird + Wailing in darkness.--Then a light + Made clear a woman by that knight. + I saw 'twas she, but said no word, + And silent fled into the night. + + + + IN ARCADY + + I remember, when a child, + How within the April wild + Once I walked with Mystery + In the groves of Arcady.... + Through the boughs, before, behind, + Swept the mantle of the wind, + Thunderous and unconfined. + + Overhead the curving moon + Pierced the twilight: a cocoon, + Golden, big with unborn wings-- + Beauty, shaping spiritual things, + Vague, impatient of the night, + Eager for its heavenward flight + Out of darkness into light. + + Here and there the oaks assumed + Satyr aspects; shadows gloomed, + Hiding, of a dryad look; + And the naiad-frantic brook, + Crying, fled the solitude, + Filled with terror of the wood, + Or some faun-thing that pursued. + + In the dead leaves on the ground + Crept a movement; rose a sound: + Everywhere the silence ticked + As with hands of things that picked + At the loam, or in the dew,-- + Elvish sounds that crept or flew,-- + Beak-like, pushing surely through. + + Down the forest, overhead, + Stammering a dead leaf fled, + Filled with elemental fear + Of some dark destruction near-- + One, whose glowworm eyes I saw + Hag with flame the crooked haw, + Which the moon clutched like a claw. + + Gradually beneath the tree + Grew a shape; a nudity: + Lithe and slender; silent as + Growth of tree or blade of grass; + Brown and silken as the bloom + Of the trillium in the gloom, + Visible as strange perfume. + + For an instant there it stood, + Smiling on me in the wood: + And I saw its hair was green + As the leaf-sheath, gold of sheen: + And its eyes an azure wet, + From within which seemed to jet + Sapphire lights and violet. + + Swiftly by I saw it glide; + And the dark was deified: + Wild before it everywhere + Gleamed the greenness of its hair; + And around it danced a light, + Soft, the sapphire of its sight, + Making witchcraft of the night. + + On the branch above, the bird + Trilled to it a dreamy word: + In its bud the wild bee droned + Honeyed greeting, drowsy-toned: + And the brook forgot the gloom, + Hushed its heart, and, wrapped in bloom, + Breathed a welcome of perfume. + + To its beauty bush and tree + Stretched sweet arms of ecstasy; + And the soul within the rock + Lichen-treasures did unlock + As upon it fell its eye; + And the earth, that felt it nigh, + Into wildflowers seemed to sigh.... + + Was it dryad? was it faun? + Wandered from the times long gone. + Was it sylvan? was it fay?-- + Dim survivor of the day + When Religion peopled streams, + Woods and rocks with shapes like gleams,-- + That invaded then my dreams? + + Was it shadow? was it shape? + Or but fancy's wild escape?-- + Of my own child's world the charm + That assumed material form?-- + Of my soul the mystery, + That the spring revealed to me, + There in long-lost Arcady? + + + + PROTOTYPES + + Whether it be that we in letters trace + The pure exactness of a wood bird's strain, + And name it song; or with the brush attain + The high perfection of a wildflower's face; + Or mold in difficult marble all the grace + We know as man; or from the wind and rain + Catch elemental rapture of refrain + And mark in music to due time and place: + The aim of Art is Nature; to unfold + Her truth and beauty to the souls of men + In close suggestions; in whose forms is cast + Nothing so new but 'tis long eons old; + Nothing so old but 'tis as young as when + The mind conceived it in the ages past. + + + + MARCH + + This is the tomboy month of all the year, + March, who comes shouting o'er the winter hills, + Waking the world with laughter, as she wills, + Or wild halloos, a windflower in her ear. + She stops a moment by the half-thawed mere + And whistles to the wind, and straightway shrills + The hyla's song, and hoods of daffodils + Crowd golden round her, leaning their heads to hear. + Then through the woods, that drip with all their eaves, + Her mad hair blown about her, loud she goes + Singing and calling to the naked trees; + And straight the oilets of the little leaves + Open their eyes in wonder, rows on rows, + And the first bluebird bugles to the breeze. + + + + DUSK + + Corn-colored clouds upon a sky of gold, + And 'mid their sheaves,--where, like a daisy-bloom + Left by the reapers to the gathering gloom, + The star of twilight glows,--as Ruth, 'tis told, + Dreamed homesick 'mid the harvest fields of old, + The Dusk goes gleaning color and perfume + From Bible slopes of heaven, that illume + Her pensive beauty deep in shadows stoled. + Hushed is the forest; and blue vale and hill + Are still, save for the brooklet, sleepily + Stumbling the stone with one foam-fluttering foot: + Save for the note of one far whippoorwill, + And in my heart _her_ name,--like some sweet bee + Within a rose,--blowing a faery flute. + + + + THE WINDS + + Those hewers of the clouds, the Winds,--that lair + At the four compass-points,--are out to-night; + I hear their sandals trample on the height, + I hear their voices trumpet through the air: + Builders of storm, God's workmen, now they bear, + Up the steep stair of sky, on backs of might, + Huge tempest bulks, while,--sweat that blinds heir sight,-- + The rain is shaken from tumultuous hair: + Now, sweepers of the firmament, they broom, + Like gathered dust, the rolling mists along + Heaven's floors of sapphire; all the beautiful blue + Of skyey corridor and celestial room + Preparing, with large laughter and loud song, + For the white moon and stars to wander through. + + + + LIGHT AND WIND + + Where, through the myriad leaves of forest trees, + The daylight falls, beryl and chrysoprase, + The glamour and the glimmer of its rays + Seem visible music, tangible melodies: + Light that is music; music that one sees-- + Wagnerian music--where forever sways + The spirit of romance, and gods and fays + Take form, clad on with dreams and mysteries. + And now the wind's transmuting necromance + Touches the light and makes it fall and rise, + Vocal, a harp of multitudinous waves + That speaks as ocean speaks--an utterance + Of far-off whispers, mermaid-murmuring sighs-- + Pelagian, vast, deep down in coral caves. + + + + ENCHANTMENT + + The deep seclusion of this forest path,-- + O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy; + Along which bluet and anemone + Spread dim a carpet; where the Twilight hath + Her cool abode; and, sweet as aftermath, + Wood-fragrance roams,--has so enchanted me, + That yonder blossoming bramble seems to be + A Sylvan resting, rosy from her bath: + Has so enspelled me with tradition's dreams, + That every foam-white stream that, twinkling, flows, + And every bird that flutters wings of tan, + Or warbles hidden, to my fancy seems + A Naiad dancing to a Faun who blows + Wild woodland music on the pipes of Pan. + + + + ABANDONED + + The hornets build in plaster-dropping rooms, + And on its mossy porch the lizard lies; + Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies, + And on its roof the locusts snow their blooms. + Like some sad thought that broods here, old perfumes + Haunt its dim stairs; the cautious zephyr tries + Each gusty door, like some dead hand, then sighs + With ghostly lips among the attic glooms. + And now a heron, now a kingfisher, + Flits in the willows where the riffle seems + At each faint fall to hesitate to leap, + Fluttering the silence with a little stir. + Here Summer seems a placid face asleep, + And the near world a figment of her dreams. + + + + AFTER LONG GRIEF + + There is a place hung o'er of summer boughs + And dreamy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps; + Where water flows, within whose lazy deeps, + Like silvery prisms where the sunbeams drowse, + The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cows + Tinkle the stillness; and the bobwhite keeps + Calling from meadows where the reaper reaps, + And children's laughter haunts an oldtime house: + A place where life wears ever an honest smell + Of hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom,-- + Like some sweet, simple girl,--within her hair; + Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwell + Far from the city's strife, whose cares consume.-- + Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there. + + + + MENDICANTS + + Bleak, in dark rags of clouds, the day begins, + That passed so splendidly but yesterday, + Wrapped in magnificence of gold and gray, + And poppy and rose. Now, burdened as with sins, + Their wildness clad in fogs, like coats of skins, + Tattered and streaked with rain; gaunt, clogged with clay, + The mendicant Hours take their somber way + Westward o'er Earth, to which no sunray wins. + Their splashing sandals ooze; their foosteps drip, + Puddle and brim with moisture; their sad hair + Is tagged with haggard drops, that with their eyes' + Slow streams are blent; each sullen fingertip + Rivers; while round them, in the grief-drenched air + Wearies the wind of their perpetual sighs. + + + + THE END OF SUMMER + + Pods the poppies, and slim spires of pods + The hollyhocks; the balsam's pearly bredes + Of rose-stained snow are little sacs of seeds + Collapsing at a touch: the lote, that sods + The pond with green, has changed its flowers to rods + And discs of vesicles; and all the weeds, + Around the sleepy water and its reeds, + Are one white smoke of seeded silk that nods. + Summer is dead, ay me! sweet Summer's dead! + The sunset clouds have built her funeral pyre, + Through which, e'en now, runs subterranean fire: + While from the east, as from a garden bed, + Mist-vined, the Dusk lifts her broad moon--like some + Great golden melon--saying, "Fall has come." + + + + NOVEMBER + + + + The shivering wind sits in the oaks, whose limbs, + Twisted and tortured, nevermore are still; + Grief and decay sit with it; they, whose chill + Autumnal touch makes hectic-red the rims + Of all the oak leaves; desolating, dims + The ageratum's blue that banks the rill; + And splits the milkweed's pod upon the hill, + And shakes it free of the last seed that swims. + Down goes the day despondent to its close: + And now the sunset's hands of copper build + A tower of brass, behind whose burning bars + The day, in fierce, barbarian repose, + Like some imprisoned Inca sits, hate-filled, + Crowned with the gold corymbus of the stars. + + II + + There is a booming in the forest boughs; + Tremendous feet seem trampling through the trees: + The storm is at his wildman revelries, + And earth and heaven echo his carouse. + Night reels with tumult; and, from out her house + Of cloud, the moon looks,--like a face one sees + In nightmare,--hurrying, with pale eyes that freeze + Stooping above with white, malignant brows. + The isolated oak upon the hill, + That seemed, at sunset, in terrific lands + A Titan head black in a sea of blood, + Now seems a monster harp, whose wild strings thrill + To the vast fingering of innumerable hands-- + Spirits of tempest and of solitude. + + + + THE DEATH OF LOVE + + So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old! + And in the sorrow of our hearts' hushed halls + A lute lies broken and a flower falls; + Love's house stands empty and his hearth lies cold. + Lone in dim places, where sweet vows were told, + In walks grown desolate, by ruined walls + Beauty decays; and on their pedestals + Dreams crumble and th' immortal gods are mold. + Music is slain or sleeps; one voice alone, + One voice awakes, and like a wandering ghost + Haunts all the echoing chambers of the Past-- + The voice of Memory, that stills to stone + The soul that hears; the mind, that, utterly lost, + Before its beautiful presence stands aghast. + + + + UNANSWERED + + How long ago it is since we went Maying! + Since she and I went Maying long ago!-- + The years have left my forehead lined, I know, + Have thinned my hair around the temples graying. + Ah, time will change us: yea, I hear it saying-- + "She too grows old: the face of rose and snow + Has lost its freshness: in the hair's brown glow + Some strands of silver sadly, too, are straying. + The form you knew, whose beauty so enspelled, + Has lost the litheness of its loveliness: + And all the gladness that her blue eyes held + Tears and the world have hardened with distress."-- + "True! true!" I answer, "O ye years that part! + These things are chaned--but is her heart, her heart?" + + + + UNCALLED + + As one, who, journeying westward with the sun, + Beholds at length from the up-towering hills, + Far-off, a land unspeakable beauty fills, + Circean peaks and vales of Avalon: + And, sinking weary, watches, one by one, + The big seas beat between; and knows it skills + No more to try; that now, as Heaven wills, + This is the helpless end, that all is done: + So 'tis with him, whom long a vision led + In quest of Beauty; and who finds at last + She lies beyond his effort; all the waves + Of all the world between them: while the dead, + The myriad dead, who people all the past + With failure, hail him from forgotten graves. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Madison Cawein + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 7796.txt or 7796.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/7/9/7796/ + +Produced by Eric Eldred, S.R. 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