Part 2
Let me sleep among the shadows of the mountains when I die, In the murmur of the pines and sliding streams, Where the long day loiters by Like a cloud across the sky And the moon-drenched night is musical with dreams.
Lay me down within a canyon of the mountains, far away, In a valley filled with dim and rosy light, Where the flashing rivers play Out across the golden day And a noise of many waters brims the night.
Let me lie where glinting rivers ramble down the slanted glade Under bending alders garrulous and cool, Where they gather in the shade To the dazzling, sheer cascade, Where they plunge and sleep within the pebbled pool.
All the wisdom, all the beauty, I have lived for unaware Came upon me by the rote of highland rills; I have seen God walking there In the solemn soundless air When the morning wakened wonder in the hills.
I am what the mountains made me of their green and gold and gray, Of the dawnlight and the moonlight and the foam. Mighty mothers far away, Ye who washed my soul in spray, I am coming, mother mountains, coming home.
When I draw my dreams about me, when I leave the darkling plain Where my soul forgets to soar and learns to plod, I shall go back home again To the kingdoms of the rain, To the blue purlieus of heaven, nearer God.
Where the rose of dawn blooms earlier across the miles of mist, Between the tides of sundown and moonrise, I shall keep a lover's tryst With the gold and amethyst, With the stars for my companions in the skies.
UNITY
Where the long valley slopes away Five miles across the dreaming day A maple sends a scarlet prayer Into the still autumnal air, Three golden-smouldering hickories Are fanned to flame beneath the breeze And one great crimson oak tree fires The sky-line over the Concord spires.
In worship mystically sweet The rimy asters at my feet And spiring gentian bells that burn Blue incense in an azure urn Breathe softly from the aspiring sod: "This is our utmost. Take it, God,-- This chant of green, this prayer of blue. This is the best thy clay can do."
* * * * *
O lonely heart and widowed brain Sick with philosophies that strain Body from spirit, flesh from soul,-- Worship with asters and be whole; Live simply as still water flows Till soul shall border brain so close No blade of wit can thrust between And hearts are pure as grass is green; Pray with the maple tree and trust The ancient ritual of the dust.
VISTAS
As I walked through the rumorous streets Of the wind-rustled, elm-shaded city Where all of the houses were friends And the trees were all lovers of her, The spell of its old enchantment Was woven again to subdue me With magic of flickering shadows, Blown branches and leafy stir.
Street after street, as I passed, Lured me and beckoned me onward With memories frail as the odor Of lilac adrift on the air. At the end of each breeze-blurred vista She seemed to be watching and waiting, With leaf shadows over her gown And sunshine gilding her hair.
For there was a dream that the kind God Withheld, while granting us many-- But surely, I think, we shall come Sometime, at the end, she and I, To the heaven He keeps for all tired souls, The quiet suburban gardens Where He Himself walks in the evening Beneath the rose-dropping sky And watches the balancing elm trees Sway in the early starshine When high in their murmurous arches The night breeze ruffles by.
A NUN
One glance and I had lost her in the riot Of tangled cries. She trod the clamor with a cloistral quiet Deep in her eyes As though she heard the muted music only That silence makes Among dim mountain summits and on lonely Deserted lakes.
There is some broken song her heart remembers From long ago, Some love lies buried deep, some passion's embers Smothered in snow, Far voices of a joy that sought and missed her Fail now, and cease.... And this has given the deep eyes of God's sister Their dreadful peace.
LOVE AMONG THE CLOVER
"If you dare," she said, And oh, her breath was clover-sweet! Clover nodded over her, Her lips were clover red. Blackbirds fluted down the wind, The bobolinks were mad with joy, The wind was playing in her hair, And "If you dare," she said.
Clover billowed down the wind Far across the happy fields, Clover on the breezy hills Leaned along the skies And all the nodding clover heads And little clouds with silver sails And all the heaven's dreamy blue Were mirrored in her eyes.
Her laughing lips were clover-red When long ago I kissed her there And made for one swift moment all My heaven and earth complete. I've loved among the roses since And love among the lilies now, But love among the clover... Her breath was clover-sweet.
O wise, wise-hearted boy and girl Who played among the clover bloom! I think I was far wiser then Than now I dare to be. For I have lost that Eden now, I cannot find my Eden now, And even should I find it now, I've thrown away the key.
CERTAIN AMERICAN POETS
They cowered inert before the study fire While mighty winds were ranging wide and free, Urging their torpid fancies to aspire With "Euhoe! Bacchus! Have a cup of tea."
They tripped demure from church to lecture-hall, Shunning the snare of farthingales and curls. Woman they thought half angel and half doll, The Muses' temple a boarding-school for girls.
Quaffing Pierian draughts from Boston pump, They toiled to prove their homiletic art Could match with nasal twang and pulpit thump In maxims glib of meeting-house and mart.
Serenely their ovine admirers graze. Apollo wears frock-coats, the Muses stays.
THE SINGER'S QUEST
I've been wandering, listening for a song, Dreaming of a melody, all my life long ... The lilting tune that God sang to rock the tides asleep And crooned above the cradled stars before they learned to creep.
O, there was laughter in it and many a merry chime Before He had turned moralist, grown old before His time, And He was happy, trolling out His great blithe-hearted tune, Before He slung the little earth beneath the sun and moon.
But I know that somewhere that song is rolling on, Like flutes along the midnight, like trumpets in the dawn; It throbs across the sunset and stirs the poplar tree And rumbles in the long low thunder of the sea.
* * * * *
First-love sang me one note and heart-break taught me two, A child has told me three notes, and soon I'll know it through; And when I stand before the Throne I'll hum it low and sly, Watching for a great light of welcome in His eye...
"Put a white raiment on him and a harp into his hand And golden sandals on his feet and tell the saints to stand A little farther off unless they wish to hear the truth, For this blessed lucky sinner is going to sing about my youth!"
DEAD MAGDALEN
Cover her over with pallid white roses, Her who had none but red roses to wear; All that her last grim lover bestows is Virginal white for her bosom and hair. Cover the folds of the glimmering sheet Clear from her eyelids weary and sweet Down to her nevermore wayward feet. Then They may find her fair.
Lovingly, tenderly, let us array her Fair as a bride for the way she must go, Leaving no lingering stain to betray her, Letting them see we have sullied her so. Over the curve of the fair young breast Leave we this maidenly lily to rest White as the snow in its snow-soft nest. Now They will never know.
THE ADVENTURER
He came not in the red dawn Nor in the blaze of noon, And all the long bright highway Lay lonely to the moon,
And nevermore, we know now, Will he come wandering down The breezy hollows of the hills That gird the quiet town.
For he has heard a voice cry A starry-faint "Ahoy!" Far up the wind, and followed Unquestioning after joy.
But we are long forgetting The quiet way he went, With looks of love and gentle scorn So sweetly, subtly blent.
We cannot cease to wonder, We who have loved him, how He fares along the windy ways His feet must travel now.
But we must draw the curtain And fasten bolts and bars And talk here in the firelight Of him beneath the stars.
THE GOLDFINCH
Down from the sky on a sudden he drops Into the mullein and juniper tops, Flushed from his bath in the midsummer shine Flooding the meadowland, drunk with the wine Spilled from the urns of the blue, like a bold Sky-buccaneer in his sable and gold.
Lightly he sways on the pendulous stem, Vividly restless, a fluttering gem, Then with a flash of bewildering wings Dazzles away up and down, and he sings Clear as a bell at each dip as he flies Bounding along on the wave of the skies.
Sunlight and laughter, a winged desire, Motion and melody married to fire, Lighter than thistle-tuft borne on the wind, Frailer than violets, how shall we find Words that will match him, discover a name Meet for this marvel, this lyrical flame?
How shall we fashion a rhythm to wing with him, Find us a wonderful music to sing with him Fine as his rapture is, free as the rollicking Song that the harlequin drops in his frolicking Dance through the summer sky, singing so merrily High in the burning blue, winging so airily?
(_ Mount Vernon, New Hampshire_)
ORIOLES
Wings in a blur of gold High in the elm trees, Looping like tawny flame Through the green shadows, Now at an airy height Pausing a heart beat Quite at the twig's tip, Pendulous, bending.
Golden against the blue, Gold in an azure cup, Golden wine bubbling Out of blue goblets... Cool, smooth and reedy notes Fly low across the noon While through the drowsy heat Drums the cicada.
Tropical wing and song Bound from Bolivia... All the blue Amazon Sings to New England.... Flute-noted orioles, Flame-coated orioles, Gold-throated orioles, Spirits of summer.
BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM
Where the rivulet swept by a sycamore root With a turbulent voice and a hurrying foot, I bent by the water and spoke in my dream To the wavering, restless, unlingering stream: "Oh, turbulent rivulet hastening past, For what wonderful goal do you hope at the last That never you pause in the shimmering green Of the undulant shade where the sycamores lean Or rest in the moss-curtained, cool dripping halls Hidden under the veils of your musical falls Or loiter at peace by the tremulous fern-- White wandering waters that never return?"
And I dreamed by the rivulet's wavering side That a myriad ripple of voices replied: "Aloft on the mountain, afar on the steep, A voice that we knew cried aloud in our sleep, 'Come, hasten ye down to the vale and to me, Your begetter, destroyer, preserver, the Sea!' We must carry our feebleness down to the Strong, We must mingle us deep in the Whole, and ere long All the numberless host of the heaven shall ride With the pale Lady Moon on our slumbering tide."
The voices swept out and away through the door Of the canyon, and on to the infinite shore.
Oh, vast in thy destiny, slender of span, Wild rivulet, how thou art like to a man!
(_Cold Brook, California_, 1912)
APRIL
(_To Bliss Carman_)
There's a murmur in the patient forest alleys, There's an elfin echo whispering through the trees, Lonely pipes are lifted softly in the valleys... All the air is filled with waking melodies.
From the crucibles of Erebus and Endor, Flame of emerald has fallen by the rills, And it flashes up the slope and sits in splendor In the glory of the beauty of the hills.
Now my heart will yearn again to voice its wonder And my song must sing again between the words With a mutter of unutterable thunder And a twitter of inimitable birds.
(_April_, 1903)
A CHAPEL BY THE SEA
(_To Paul Dowling_)
There's a mouldering mountain chapel gazing out across the sea From beneath the lisping shelter of a eucalyptus tree That has drawn the ancient silence from the mountain's heart and fills And subdues a fevered spirit with the quiet of the hills.
For silvery in the morning the chimes go dropping down Across the vales of purple mist that gird the island town And golden in the evening the vesper bells again Call back the weary fishing folk along the leafy lane.
I'd like to be the father priest and call the folk to prayer Up through the winding dewy ways that climb the morning air, And send them down at even-song with all the silent sky Of early starshine teaching them far deeper truth than I.
I'd like to lie at rest there beneath a mossy stone Above the crooning sea's low distant monotone, Lulled by the lisping whisper of the eucalyptus tree That shades my mountain chapel gazing out across the sea.
(_Avalon, Christmas Day_, 1913)
EPHEMEROS
A firefly cried across the night: "O lofty star, O streaming light, Clear eye of heaven, immortal lamp Set high above the dew and damp, Thou great high-priest to heaven's King And chief of all the choirs that sing Their golden, endless antiphons Of praise before the eternal thrones-- Hear thou my prayer of worship! Thine The glory, all the dimness mine. I am a feeble glimmering spark Vagrant along the lower dark."
The star called down from heaven's roof With a humble heart and mild reproof: "The Power that made, the Breath that blew My fire aglow has kindled you With equal love and equal pain And equal toil of heart and brain. For I am only a wandering light, Your elder comrade in the night. We are two sisters, you and I, And when we two burn out and die It will be hardly known from far Which was the firefly, which the star."
WANDERLUST
(_To Willard_)
The birds were beating north again with faint and starry cries Along their ancient highway that spans the midnight skies, And out across the rush of wings my heart went crying too, Straight for the morning's windy walls and lakes of misted blue.
They gave me place among them, for well they understood The magic wine of April working madness in my blood, And we were kin in thought and dream as league by league together We kept that pace of straining wings across the starry weather.
The dim blue tides of Fundy, green slopes of Labrador Slid under us ... our course was set for earth's remotest shore; But tingling through the ether and searching star by star A lonely voice went crying that drew me down from far.
Farewell, farewell, my brothers! I see you far away Go drifting down the sunset across the last green bay, But I have found the haven of this lonely heart and wild-- My falconer has called me--I am prisoned by a child.
(_Easter Day_, 1916)
THE IDEAL
Serenely, from her mountain height sublime, She mocks my hopeless labor as I creep Each day a day's strength farther from the deep And nearer to her side for which I climb. So may she mock when for the sad last time I fall, my face still upward, upon sleep, With faithful hands still yearning up the steep In patient and pathetic pantomime.
I am content, O ancient, young-eyed child Of love and longing. Pity not our wars Of frail-spun flesh, and keep thee undefiled By all our strife that only breaks and mars. But let us see from far thy footing, wild And wayward still against the eternal stars!
THE FIRST CHRISTIAN
A little wandering wind went up the hill. It had a lonely voice as though it knew What it should find before it came to where The broken body of him that had been Christ Hung in the ruddy glow. A bowshot down The bleak rock-shouldered hill the soldiery Had piled a fire, and when the searching wind Came stronger from the distant sea and dashed The shadows and the gleam together, songs Of battle and lust were blown along the slope Mingled with clash of swords on cuisse and shield. But of the women sitting by the cross Even she whose life had been as gravely sweet And sheltered as a lily's did not flinch. Her face was buried in her shrouding cloak. And she who knew too sorrowfully well The cruelty and bitterness of life Heard not. She sat erect, her shadowy hair Blown back along the darkness and her eyes That searched the distant spaces of the night Splendid and glowing with an inward joy. And at the darkest hour came three or four From round the fire and would have driven them thence; But one who knew them, gazing in their eyes, Said: "Nay. It is his mother and his love, The scarlet Magdalena. Let them be." So, in the gloom beside that glimmering cross, Beneath the broken body of him they loved, They wept and watched--the lily and the rose.
At last the deep, low voice of Magdalen, Toned like a distant bell, broke on the hush: "We are so weak! What can poor women do? So pitifully frail! God pity us! How he did pity us! He understood... Out of his own great strength he understood How it might feel to be so very weak... To be a tender lily of the field, To be a lamb lost in the windy hills Far from the fold and from the shepherd's voice, To be a child with no strength, only love. And ah, he knew, if ever a man can know, What 't is to be a woman and to live, Strive how she may to out-soar and overcome, Tied to this too frail body of too fair earth!
"Oh, had I been a man to shield him then In his great need with loving strong right arm! One of the twelve--ha!--of that noble twelve That ran away, and two made mock of him Or else betrayed him ere they ran? Ah no! And yet, a man's strength with a woman's love... That might have served him somewhat ere the end."
Then with a weary voice the mother said: "What can we do but only watch and weep, Sit with weak hands and watch while strong men rend And break and ruin, bringing all to nought The beauty we have nearly died to make?
"It is not true to say that he was strong. He did not claim the kingdom that was his, He did not even seek for wealth and power, He did not win a woman's love and get Strong children to live after him, and all That strong men strive for he passed heedless by. Because that he was weak I loved him so... For that and for his soft and gentle ways, The tender patient calling of his voice And that dear trick of smiling with his eyes. Ah no! I have had dreams--a mother's dreams-- But now I cannot dream them any more.
"I sorrowed little as the happy days Sped by and by that still the fair-haired lad Who lay at first beside me in the stall, The cattle stall outside Jerusalem, Found no great throne to dazzle his mother's eye. He was so good a workman ... axe and saw Did surely suit him better than a sword. I was content if only he would wed Some village girl of little Nazareth And get me children with his own slow smile, Deep thoughtful eyes and golden kingly brow.
"It seems but yesterday he played among The shavings strewn on Joseph's work-shop floor. The sunlight of the morning slanted through The window--'t was in springtime--and across The bench where Joseph sat, and then it lay In golden glory on the boy's bright hair And on the shavings that were golden too. I saw him through the open door. I thought, 'My little king has found his golden crown.' But unto Joseph I said nought at all.
"But now, ah me! he won no woman's love, Nor loved one either as most men call love, And so he had no child and he is gone And I am left without him and alone."
So by her son's pale broken body mourned The mother, dreaming on departed days. And as with one who looks into the west, Watching the embers of the outburned day Crumble and cool and slowly droop and fade, And will not take the darkling eastward path Where lies his way until the last faint glow Has left the sky and the early stars shine forth, So did her dream cling to the ruined past And all the joy they had in Nazareth Before the years of doubt and trouble came. Then, while loud laughter sounded up the hill Where yet that ribald crew sang o'er the wine, She bowed her head above her cradling arms And softly sang, as to herself, the songs Of Israel that once had served her well To soothe the wakeful child.
But Magdalen Arose upon her feet and tossed her cloak Back from the midnight of her wind-blown hair And lifted up her eyes into the dark As though, beyond this circle of all our woe, To read a hidden meaning in the stars.
"Aye, it is dark," she said. "The night comes on. He was the sunshine of our little day. The clouds unsettled softly and we saw Ladders of glory climbing into light Unspeakable, with dazzling interchange Of Majesties and Powers. But suddenly The tides of darkness whelm us round again And this drear dwindled earth becomes once more What it has ever been--a core of shade And steaming vapor spinning in the dark, A deeper clot of blackness in the void!
"The night comes on. 'T is hard to pierce the dark. And if to me who loved him, whom he loved-- Though well thou sayest, 'Not as most men call love'-- Far harder will it be for those who hold In memory no gesture of his hand, No haunting echo of his patient voice, Nor that dear trick of smiling with his eyes.
"O ceaseless tramp of armies down the years! O maddened cries of 'Christ' and 'Son of Mary!' While o'er the crying screams the hurtling death.... Thou gentle shepherd of the quiet fold, Mild man of sorrows, hast thou done this thing, Who camest not to bring peace but a sword? Ah no, not thou, but only our childishness, The pitifully childish heart of man That cannot learn and know beyond a little.
"The priests and captains and the little kings Will tear each other at the throat and cry: 'Thus said he, lived he; swear it or thou diest!' But these shall pass and perish in the dark While the lorn strays and outcasts of the world, The souls whose pain has seared their pride to dust And burned a way for love to enter in-- These only know his meaning and shall live.
"So is it as with one whose feet have trod The valley of the shadow, who has seen His dearest lowered into endless night. All music holds for him a deeper strain Of nobler meaning, and the flush of dawn, High wind at noonday, crumbling sunset gold, And the dear pathetic look of children's eyes-- All beauty pierces closer to his heart.
"Yea, thou thyself, pale youth upon the cross-- The godlike strength of thee was rooted deep In human weakness. Even she who bore thee, Seeing the man too nearly, missed the God, Erring as fits the mother. Some will say In coming years, I feel it in my heart, That thou didst face thy death a conscious God, Knowing almighty hands were stretched to snatch And lift thee from the greedy clutching grave. Falsely! Forgetting dark Gethsemane,-- Not knowing, as I know, what doubt assailed Thy human heart until the latest breath. Ah, what a trumpery death, what mockery And mere theatric mimicry of pain, If thou didst surely know thou couldst not die! Thou didst not know. And whether even now Thy straying ghost, like some great moth of night Blown seaward through the shadow, flies and drifts Along dim coasts and headlands of the dark, A homeless wanderer up and down the void, Or whether indeed thou art enthroned above In light and life, I know not. This I know-- That in the moment of sheer certainty My soul will die.