Chapter 3

The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies, Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves, Nor bird, nor bee; and even the butterflies, Languid with noon, forget their painted loves, Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves. Only at times a little breeze will stir, And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream, Or run its fingers through the willows' hair, And sway the rushes momently agleam-- Then all fall back again into a dream.

A RAINY DAY

The beauty of this rainy day, All silver-green and dripping gray, Has stolen quite my heart away From all the tasks I meant to do, Made me forget the resolute blue And energetic gold of things . . . So soft a song the rain-bird sings.

Yet am I glad to miss awhile The sun's huge domineering smile, The busy spaces mile on mile, Shut in behind this shimmering screen Of falling pearls and phantom green; As in a cloister walled with rain, Safe from intrusions, voices vain, And hurry of invading feet, Inviolate in my retreat: Myself, my books, my pipe, my fire-- So runs my rainy-day desire.

Or I old letters may con o'er, And dream on faces seen no more, The buried treasure of the years, Too visionary now for tears; Open old cupboards and explore Sometimes, for an old sweetheart's sake, A delicate romantic ache, Sometimes a swifter pang of pain To read old tenderness again, As though the ink were scarce yet dry, And She still She and I still I. What if I were to write as though Her letter came an hour ago! An hour ago!--This post-mark says . . . But out upon these rainy days! Come tie the packet up again, The sun is back--enough of rain.

IN THE CITY

Away from the silent hills and the talking of upland waters, The high still stars and the lonely moon in her quarters, I fly to the city, the streets, the faces, the towers; And I leave behind me the hush and the dews and the flowers, The mink that steals by the stream a-shimmer among the rocks, The hawk o'er the barn-yard sailing, the little cub-bear and the fox, The woodchuck and his burrow, and the little snake at noon, And the house of the yellow-jacket, and the cricket's endless tune.

And what shall I find in the city that shall take the place of these? O I shall find my love there, and fall at her silken knees, And for the moon her breast, and for the stars her eyes, And under her shadowed hair the gardens of Paradise.

COUNTRY LARGESSE

I bring a message from the stream To fan the burning cheeks of town, From morning's tower Of pearl and rose I bring this cup of crystal down, With brimming dews agleam, And from my lady's garden close I bring this flower.

O walk with me, ye jaded brows, And I will sing the song I found Making a lonely rippling sound Under the boughs. The tinkle of the brook is there, And cow-bells wandering through the fern, And silver calls From waterfalls, And echoes floating through the air From happiness I know not where, And hum and drone where'er I turn Of little lives that buzz and die; And sudden lucent melodies, Like hidden strings among the trees Roofing the summer sky.

The soft breath of the briar I bring, And wafted scents of mint and clover, Rain-distilled balms the hill-winds fling, Sweet-thoughted as a lover; Incense from lilied urns a-swaying, And the green smell of grass Where men are haying.

As through the streets I pass, With their shrill clatter, This largesse from the hills and streams, This quietude of flowers and dreams, Round me I scatter.

MORN

Morn hath a secret that she never tells: 'Tis on her lips and in her maiden eyes-- I think it is the way to Paradise, Or of the Fount of Youth the crystal wells. The bee hath no such honey in her cells Sweet as the balm that in her bosom lies, As in her garden of the budding skies She walks among the silver asphodels.

He that is loveless and of heart forlorn, Let him but leave behind his haunted bed, And set his feet toward yonder singing star, Shall have for sweetheart this same secret morn; She shall come running to him from afar, And on her cool breast lay his lonely head.

THE SOURCE

Water in hidden glens From the secret heart of the mountains, Where the red fox hath its dens And the gods their crystal fountains; Up runnel and leaping cataract, Boulder and ledge, I climbed and tracked, Till I came to the top of the world and the fen That drinks up the clouds and cisterns the rain, And down through the floors of the deep morass The procreant woodland essences drain-- The thunder's home, where the eagles scream And the centaurs pass; But, where it was born, I lost my stream.

'Twas in vain I said: "'Tis here it springs, Though no more it leaps and no more it sings;" And I thought of a poet whose songs I knew Of morning made and shining dew-- I remembered the mire of the marshes too.

AUTUMN

The sad nights are here and the sad mornings, The air is filled with portents and with warnings, Clouds that vastly loom and winds that cry, A mournful prescience Of bright things going hence; Red leaves are blown about the widowed sky, And late disconsolate blooms Dankly bestrew The garden walks, as in deserted rooms The parted guest, in haste to bid adieu, Trinklets and shreds forgotten left behind, Torn letters and a ribbon once so brave-- Wreckage none cares to save, And hearts grow sad to find; And phantom echoes, as of old foot-falls, Wander and weary out in the thin air, And the last cricket calls-- A tiny sorrow, shrilling "Where? ah! where?"

THE ROSE IN WINTER

When last I saw this opening rose That holds the summer in its hand, And with its beauty overflows And sweetens half a shire of land, It was a black and cindered thing, Drearily rocking in the cold, The relic of a vanished spring, A rose abominably old.

Amid the stainless snows it grinned, A foul and withered shape, that cast Ribbed shadows, and the gleaming wind Went rattling through it as it passed; It filled the heart with a strange dread, Hag-like, it made a whimpering sound, And gibbered like the wandering dead In some unhallowed burial-ground.

Whoso on that December day Had seen it so deject and lorn, So lone a symbol of decay, Had dreamed of it this summer morn? Divined the power that should relume A flame so spent, and once more bring That blackened being back to bloom,-- Who could have dreamed so strange a thing?

THE FROZEN STREAM

Stream that leapt and danced Down the rocky ledges, All the summer long, Past the flowered sedges, Under the green rafters, With their leafy laughters, Murmuring your song: Strangely still and tranced, All your singing ended, Wizardly suspended, Icily adream; When the new buds thicken, Can this crystal quicken, Now so strangely sleeping, Once more go a-leaping Down the rocky ledges, All the summer long, Murmuring its song?

WINTER MAGIC

Winter that hath few friends yet numbers those Of spirit erect and delicate of eye; All may applaud sweet Summer, with her rose, And Autumn, with her banners in the sky; But when from the earth's cheek the colour goes, Her old adorers from her presence fly.

So cold her bosom seems, such icy glare Is in her eyes, while on the frozen mere The shrill ice creaks in the congealing air; Where is the lover that shall call her dear, Or the devotion that shall find her fair? The white-robed widow of the vanished year.

Yet hath she loveliness and many flowers, Dreams hath she too and tender reveries, Tranced mid the rainbows of her gleaming bowers, Or the hushed temples of her pillared trees; Summer has scarce such soft and silent hours, Autumn has no such antic wizardries.

Yea! he that takes her to his bosom knows, Lost in the magic crystal of her eyes, Upon her vestal cheek a fairer rose, What rapture and what passionate surprise Awaits his kiss beneath her mask of snows, And what strange fire beneath her pallor lies.

Beauty is hers all unconfused of sense, Lustral, austere, and of the spirit fine; No cloudy fumes of myrrh and frankincense Drug in her arms the ecstasy divine; But stellar awe that kneels in high suspense, And hallowed glories of the inner shrine.

And, for the idle summer, in our blood Pleasures hath she of rapid tingling joy, With ruddy laughter 'neath her frozen hood, Purging our mortal metal of alloy, Stern benefactress of beatitude, Turning our leaden age to girl and boy.

A LOVER'S UNIVERSE

When winter comes and takes away the rose, And all the singing of sweet birds is done, The warm and honeyed world lost deep in snows, Still, independent of the summer sun, In vain, with sullen roar, December shakes my door, And sleet upon the pane Threatens my peace in vain, While, seated by the fire upon my knee, My love abides with me.

For he who, wise in time, his harvest yields Reaped into barns, sweet-smelling and secure, Smiles as the rain beats sternly on his fields, For wealth is his no winter can make poor; Safe all his waving gold Shut in against the cold, Treasure of summer grass-- So sit I with my lass, My harvest sheaves of all her garnered charms Safe in my happy arms.

Still fragrant in the garden of her breast, The flowers that fled with summer softly bloom, The birds that shook with song each empty nest Still, when she speaks, fill all the listening room, Deep-sheltered from the storm Within her blossoming form. Flower-breathed and singing sweet Is she from head to feet; All summer in my sweetheart doth abide, Though winter be outside.

So all the various wonder of the world, The wizard moon and stars, the haunted sea, In her small being mystically furled, She brings as in a golden cup to me; Within no other book My eyes for wisdom look, That have her eyes for lore; And when the flaming door Opens into the dark, what shall I fear Adventuring with my dear?

TO THE GOLDEN WIFE

With laughter always on the darkest day, She danced before the very face of dread, Starry companion of my mortal way, Pre-destined merrily to be my mate, With eyes as calm, she met the eyes of Fate: "For this it was that you and I were wed-- What else?" she smiled and said.

Fair-weather wives are any man's to find, The pretty sisters of the butterfly, Gay when the sun is out, and skies are kind; The daughters of the rainbow all may win-- Pity their lovers when the sun goes in! _Her_ smiles are brightest 'neath the stormiest sky-- Thrice blest and all unworthy I!

BURIED TREASURE

When the musicians hide away their faces, And all the petals of the rose are shed, And snow is drifting through the happy places, And the last cricket's heart is cold and dead; O Joy, where shall we find thee? O Love, where shall we seek? For summer is behind thee, And cold is winter's cheek.

Where shall I find me violets in December? O tell me where the wood-thrush sings to-day! Ah! heart, our summer-love dost thou remember Where it lies hidden safe and warm away? When woods once more are ringing With sweet birds on the bough, And brooks once more are singing, Will it be there--thinkst thou?

When Autumn came through bannered woodlands sighing, We found a place of moonlight and of tears, And there, with yellow leaves for it to lie in, Left it to dream, watched over by the spheres. It lies like buried treasure Beneath the winter's cold, The love beyond all measure, In heaps of living gold.

When April's here, with all her sweet adorning, And all the joys steal back December hid, Shall we not laughing run, some happy morning, And of our treasure lift the leafy lid? Again to find it dreaming, Just as we left it still, Our treasure far out-gleaming Crocus and daffodil.

THE NEW HUSBANDMAN

Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed, God give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting, Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud, And all about it ever the birds sing.

Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mine That sowed there stars along with good white grain, But reaped thereof--be better fortune thine-- Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain.

Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance, Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil, Till I sowed poppies 'gainst remembrance, And took to other furrows my laughing toil.

And other men as I that ploughed before Shall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reap Where we have sown, and on your threshing floor Have honest grain within thy barns to keep.

PATHS THAT WIND . . .

Paths that wind O'er the hills and by the streams I must leave behind-- Dawns and dews and dreams. Trails that go Through the woods and down the slopes To the vale below; Done with fears and hopes, I must wander on Till the purple twilight ends, Where the sun has gone-- Faces, flowers and friends.

THE IMMORTAL GODS

The gods are there, they hide their lordly faces From you that will not kneel-- Worship, and they reveal, Call--and 'tis they! They have not changed, nor moved from their high places, The stars stream past their eyes like drifted spray; Lovely to look on are they as bright gold, They are wise with beauty, as a pool is wise. Lonely with lilies; very sweet their eyes-- Bathed deep in sunshine are they, and very cold.

III

BALLADE OF WOMAN

A woman! lightly the mysterious word Falls from our lips, lightly as though we knew Its meaning, as we say--a flower, a bird, Or say the moon, the stream, the light, the dew, Simple familiar things, mysterious too; Or as a star is set down on a chart, Named with a name, out yonder in the blue: A woman--and yet how much more thou art!

So lightly spoken, and so lightly heard, And yet, strange word, who shall thy sense construe? What sage hath yet fit designation dared? Yet I have sought the dictionaries through, And of thy meaning found me not a clue; Blessing and breaking still the firmest heart, So fairy false, yet so divinely true: A woman--and yet how much more thou art!

Mother of God, and Circe, bosom-bared, That nursed our manhood, and our manhood slew; First dream, last sigh, all the long way we fared, Sweeter than honey, bitterer than rue; Thou fated radiance sorrowing men pursue, Thou art the whole of life--the rest but part Of thee, all things we ever dream or do; A woman--and yet how much more thou art!

ENVOI

Princess, that all this craft of moonlight threw Across my path, this deep immortal smart Shall still burn on when winds my ashes strew: A woman--and yet how much more thou art!

THE MAGIC FLOWER

You bear a flower in your hand, You softly take it through the air, Lest it should be too roughly fanned, And break and fall, for all your care.

Love is like that, the lightest breath Shakes all its blossoms o'er the land, And its mysterious cousin, Death, Waits but to snatch it from your hand.

O some day, should your hand forget, Your guardian eyes stray otherwhere, Your cheeks shall all in vain be wet, Vain all your penance and your prayer.

God gave you once this creature fair, You two mysteriously met; By Time's strange stream There stood this Dream, This lovely Immortality Given your mortal eyes to see, That might have been your darling yet; But in the place Of her strange face Sorrow will stand forever more, And Sorrow's hand be on your brow, And vainly you shall watch the door For her so lightly with you now, And all the world be as before. Ah; Spring shall sing and Summer bloom, And flowers fill Life's empty room, And all the singers sing in vain, Nor bring you back your flower again.

O have a care!--for this is all: Let not your magic blossom fall.

BALLADE OF LOVE'S CLOISTER

Had I the gold that some so vainly spend, For my lost loves a temple would I raise, A shrine for each dear name: there should ascend Incense for ever, and hymns of golden praise; And I would live the remnant of my days, Where hallowed windows cast their painted gleams, At prayer before each consecrated face, Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.

And each fair altar, like a priest, I'd tend, Trimming the tapers to a constant blaze, And to each lovely and beloved friend Garlands I'd bring, and virginal soft sprays From April's bodice, and moon-breasted May's, And there should be a sound for ever of streams And birds 'mid happy leaves in that still place,-- Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.

O'er missals of hushed memories would I bend, And thrilling scripts of bosom-scented phrase, Telling of love that never hath an end, And sacred relics of wonder-working grace, Strands of bright hair, and tender webs of lace, Press to my lips--until the Present seems The Past again to my ensorcelled gaze,-- Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.

ENVOI

Princesses unforgot, your lover lays His heart upon your altars, and he deems He treads again the fair love-haunted ways-- Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.

AN OLD LOVE LETTER

I was reading a letter of yours to-day, The date--O a thousand years ago! The postmark is there--the month was May: How, in God's name, did I let you go? What wonderful things for a girl to say! And to think that I hadn't the sense to know-- What wonderful things for a man to hear! O still beloved, O still most dear.

"Duty" I called it, and hugged the word Close to my side, like a shirt of hair; You laughed, I remember, laughed like a bird, And somehow I thought that you didn't care. Duty!--and Love, with her bosom bare! No wonder you laughed, as we parted there-- Then your letter came with this last good-by-- And I sat splendidly down to die.

Nor Duty, nor Death, would have aught of me: "He is Love's," they said, "he cannot be ours;" And your laugh pursued me o'er land and sea, And your face like a thousand flowers. "Tis her gown!" I said to each rustling tree, "She is coming!" I said to the whispered showers; But you came not again, and this letter of yours Is all that endures--all that endures.

These aching words--in your swift firm hand, That stirs me still as the day we met--- That now 'tis too late to understand, Say "hers is the face you shall ne'er forget;" That, though Space and Time be as shifting sand, We can never part--we are meeting yet. This song, beloved, where'er you be, Your heart shall hear and shall answer me.

TOO LATE

Too late I bring my heart, too late 'tis yours; Too late to bring the true love that endures; Too long, unthrift, I gave it here and there, Spent it in idle love and idle song; Youth seemed so rich, with kisses all to spare-- Too late! too long!

Too late, O fairy woman; dreams and dust Are in your hair, your face is dimly thrust Among the flowers; and Time, that all forgets, Even you forgets, and only I prolong The face I love, with ache of vain regrets-- Too late! too long!

Too long I tarried, and too late I come, O eyes and lips so strangely sealed and dumb: My heart--what is it now, beloved, to you? My love--that doth your holy silence wrong? Ah! fairy face, star-crowned and chrismed with dew-- Too late! too long!

THE DOOR AJAR

My door is always left ajar, Lest you should suddenly slip through, A little breathless frightened star; Each footfall sets my heart abeat, I always think it may be you, Stolen in from the street.

My ears are evermore attent, Waiting in vain for one blest sound-- The little frock, with lilac scent, That used to whisper up the stair; Then in my arms with one wild bound-- Your lips, your eyes, your hair. Never the south wind through the rose, Brushing its petals with soft hand, Made such sweet talking as your clothes, Rustling and fragrant as you came, And at my aching door would stand-- Then vanish into flame.

CHIPMUNK

Little chipmunk, do you know All you mean to me?-- She and I and Long Ago, And you there in the tree; With that nut between your paws, Half-way to your twittering jaws, Jaunty with your stripèd coat, Puffing out your furry throat, Eyes like some big polished seed, Plumed tail curved like half a lyre . . .

We pretended not to heed-- You, as though you would inquire "Can I trust them?" . . . then a jerk, And you'd skipped three branches higher, Jaws again at work; Like a little clock-work elf, With all the forest to itself.

She was very fair to see, She was all the world to me, She has gone whole worlds away; Yet it seems as though to-day, Chipmunk, I can hear her say; "Get that chipmunk, dear, for me----" Chipmunk, you can never know All she was to me. That's all--it was long ago.

BALLADE OF THE DEAD FACE THAT NEVER DIES

The peril of fair faces all his days No man shall 'scape: be it for joy or woe, Each is the thrall of some predestined face Divinely doomed to work his overthrow, Transiently fair, as flowers in gardens blow, Then fade, and charm no more our listless eyes; But some fair faces ever fairer grow-- Beware of the dead face that never dies.

No snare young beauty for thy manhood lays, No honeyed kiss the girls of Paphos know, Shall hold thee as the silent smiling ways Of her that went--yet only seemed to go-- With April blossoms and with last year's snow; Each year she comes again in subtler guise, And beckons us to her green bed below-- Beware of the dead face that never dies.

The living fade before her lunar gaze, Her phantom youth their ruddy veins out-glow, She lays cold fingers on the lips that praise Aught save her lovely face of long ago; Oblivious poppies all in vain we sow Before the opening gates of Paradise; There shalt thou find her pacing to and fro-- Beware of the dead face that never dies.

ENVOI

Prince, take thy fill of love, for even so Sad men grow happy and no other wise; But love the quick--and as thy mortal foe Beware of the dead face that never dies.

THE END OF LAUGHTER

O never laugh again! Laughter is dead, Deep hiding in her grave, A sacred thing. O never laugh again, Never take hands and run Through the wild streets, Or sing, Glad in the sun: For she, the immortal sweetness of all sweets, Took laughter with her When she went away With sleep.

O never laugh again! Ours but to weep, Ours but to pray.

THE SONG THAT LASTS

Songs I sang of lordly matters, Life and death, and stars and sea; Nothing of them now remains But the song I sang for thee.

Vain the learned elaborate metres, Vain the deeply pondered line; All the rest are dust and ashes But that little song of thine.

THE BROKER OF DREAMS

Bring not your dreams to me-- Blown dust, and vapour, and the running stream-- Saying, "He, too, doth dream, Touched of the moon."

Nay! wouldst thou vanish see Thy darling phantoms, Bring them then to me! For my hard business--though so soft it seems-- Was ever dreams and dreams.