Part 2

The pungent fragrance of the mint And pennyroyal drench her gown, That leaves long shreds of trumpet-blossom tint Among the thorns, and everywhere the glint Of gold and white and brown Her flowery steps waft down.

The leaves, like hands with emerald veined, Along her way try their wild best To reach the jewel--whose hot hue was drained From some rich rose that all the June contained-- The butterfly, soft pressed Upon her sunny breast.

Her shawl, the lace-like elder bloom, She hangs upon the hillside brake, Smelling of warmth and of her breast's perfume, And, lying in the citron-colored gloom Beside the lilied lake, She stares the buds awake.

Or, with a smile, through watery deeps She leads the oaring turtle's legs; Or guides the crimson fish, that swims and sleeps, From pad to pad, from which the young frog leaps; And to its nest's green eggs The bird that pleads and begs.

Then 'mid the fields of unmown hay She shows the bees where sweets are found; And points the butterflies, at airy play, And dragonflies, along the water-way, Where honeyed flowers abound For them to flicker 'round.

Or where ripe apples pelt with gold Some barn--around which, coned with snow, The wild-potato blooms--she mounts its old Mossed roof, and through warped sides, the knots have holed, Lets her long glances glow Into the loft below.

To show the mud-wasp at its cell Slenderly busy; swallows, too, Packing against a beam their nest's clay shell; And crouching in the dark the owl as well With all her downy crew Of owlets gray of hue.

These are her joys, and until dusk Lounging she walks where reapers reap, From sultry raiment shaking scents of musk, Rustling the corn within its silken husk, And driving down heav'n's deep White herds of clouds like sheep.

HEAT

I

Now is it as if Spring had never been, And Winter but a memory and dream, Here where the Summer stands, her lap of green Heaped high with bloom and beam, Among her blackberry-lilies, low that lean To kiss her feet; or, freckle-browed, that stare Upon the dragonfly which, slimly seen, Like a blue jewel flickering in her hair, Sparkles above them there.

II

Knee-deep among the tepid pools the cows Chew a slow cud or switch a slower tail. Half-sunk in sleep beneath the beechen boughs, Where thin the wood-gnats ail. From bloom to bloom the languid butterflies drowse; The sleepy bees make hardly any sound; The only things the sunrays can arouse, It seems, are two black beetles rolling 'round Upon the dusty ground.

III

Within its channel glares the creek and shrinks, Beneath whose rocks the furtive crawfish hides In stagnant places, where the green frog blinks, And water-spider glides.

Far hotter seems it for the bird that drinks, The startled kingfisher that screams and flies; Hotter and lonelier for the purple pinks Of weeds that bloom, whose sultry perfumes rise Stifling the swooning skies.

IV

From ragweed fallows, rye fields, heaped with sheaves, From blistering rocks, no moss or lichens crust, And from the road, where every hoof-stroke heaves A cloud of burning dust, The hotness quivers, making limp the leaves, That loll like tongues of panting hounds. The heat Is a wan wimple that the Summer weaves, A veil, in which she wraps, as in a sheet, The shriveling corn and wheat.

V

Furious, incessant in the weeds and briers The sawing weed-bugs sing; and, heat-begot, The grasshoppers, so many strident wires, Staccato fiercely hot: A lash of whirling sound that never tires, The locust flails the noon, where harnessed Thirst, Beside the road-spring, many a shod hoof mires, Into the trough thrusts his hot head, immersed, 'Round which cool bubbles burst.

VI

The sad, sweet voice of some wood-spirit who Laments while watching a loved oak tree die, From the deep forest comes the wood-dove's coo. A long, lost, lonely cry. Oh, for a breeze, a mighty wind to woo The woods to stormy laughter; sow like grain The world with freshness of invisible dew. And pile above far, fevered hill and plain. Vast bastions black with rain.

JULY

Now 'tis the time when, tall, The long blue torches of the bellflower gleam Among the trees; and, by the wooded stream. In many a fragrant ball. Blooms of the button-bush fall.

Let us go forth and seek Woods where the wild plums redden and the beech Plumps its packed burs: and, swelling, just in reach. The pawpaw, emerald sleek. Ripens along the creek.

Now 'tis the time when ways Of glimmering green flaunt white the misty plumes Of the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms, A blur of orange rays, The butterfly-blossoms blaze.

Let us go forth and hear The spiral music that the locusts beat, And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet, Dear to a country ear, The cricket's summer cheer.

Now golden celandine Is hairy hung with silvery sacks of seeds. And bugled o'er with freckled gold, like beads. Beneath the fox-grape vine, The jewel-weed's blossoms shine.

Let us go forth and see The dragon- and the butterfly, like gems, Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems, Weighed down by many a bee, Nodding mellifluously.

Now morns are full of song; The catbird and the redbird and the jay Upon the hilltops rouse the rosy day, Who, dewy, blithe, and strong, Lures their wild wings along.

Now noons are full of dreams; The clouds of heaven and the wandering breeze Follow a vision; and the flowers and trees, The hills and fields and streams, Are lapped in mystic gleams.

The nights are full of love; The stars and moon take up the golden tale Of the sunk sun, and passionate and pale, Mixing their fires above, Grow eloquent thereof.

Such days are like a sigh That beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss: Such nights are like the sweetness of a kiss On lips that half deny, The warm lips of July.

TO THE LOCUST

Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like 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; The pastures sleepy 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 drowsiness Drops, and the hum of bees grows less and less?

YOUNG SEPTEMBER

I

With a look and a laugh where the stream was flowing, September led me along the land; Where the golden-rod and lobelia, glowing, Seemed burning torches within her hand. And faint as the thistle's or milk-weed's feather I glimpsed her form through the sparkling weather.

II

Now 'twas her hand and now her hair That tossed me welcome everywhere; That lured me onward through the stately rooms Of forest, hung and carpeted with glooms, And windowed wide with azure, doored with green. Through which rich glimmers of her robe were seen-- Now, like some deep marsh-mallow, rosy gold; Now, like the great Joe-Pye-weed, fold on fold Of heavy mauve; and now, like the intense Massed iron-weed, a purple opulence.

III

Along the bank in a wild procession Of gold and sapphire the blossoms blew; And borne on the breeze came their soft confession In syllables musk of honey and dew; In words unheard that their lips kept saying, Sweet as the lips of children praying.

IV

And so, meseemed, I heard them tell How here her loving glance once fell Upon this bank, and from its azure grew The ageratum mist-flower's happy hue: How from her kiss, as crimson as the dawn, The cardinal-flow'r drew its vermilion; And from her hair's blond touch th' elecampane Evolved the glory of its golden rain; White from her starry footsteps, redolent, The aster pearled its flowery firmament.

UNDER THE HUNTER'S MOON

White from her chrysalis of cloud, The moth-like moon swings upward through the night; And all the bee-like stars that crowd The hollow hive of heav'n wane in her light.

Along the distance, folds of mist Hang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray; Tinting the trees with amethyst, Touching with pearl and purple every spray.

All night the stealthy frost and fog Conspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers: To strip of wealth the woods, and clog With piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers.

I seem to see their Spirits stand, Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face, Now reaching high a chilly hand To pluck some walnut from its spicy place:

Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold, Splitting the wahoo's pods of rose, and thin The bittersweet's balls o' gold, To show the coal-red berries packed within:

Now on dim threads of gossamer Stringing pale pearls of moisture; necklacing The flow'rs; and spreading cobweb fur, Crystaled with stardew, over everything:

While 'neath the moon, with moon-white feet, They go and, chill, a moon-soft music draw From wan leaf-cricket flutes--the sweet, Sad dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw.

RAIN IN THE WOODS

When on the leaves the rain persists, And every gust brings showers down; When all the woodland smokes with mists, I take the old road out of town Into the hills through which it twists.

I find the vale where catnip grows, Where boneset blooms, with moisture bowed; The vale through which the red creek flows, Turbid with hill-washed clay, and loud As some wild horn a hunter blows.

Around the root the beetle glides, A living beryl; and the ant, Large, agate-red, a garnet, slides Beneath the rock; and every plant Is roof for some frail thing that hides.

Like knots against the trunks of trees The lichen-colored moths are pressed; And, wedged in hollow blooms, the bees Seem clots of pollen; in its nest The wasp has crawled and lies at ease.

The locust harsh, that sharply saws The silence of the summer noon; The katydid that thinly draws Its fine file o'er the bars of moon; And grasshopper that drills each pause:

The mantis, long-clawed, furtive, lean-- Fierce feline of the insect hordes-- And dragonfly, gauze-winged and green, Beneath the wild-grape's leaves and gourd's, Have housed themselves and rest unseen.

The butterfly and forest-bird Are huddled on the same gnarled bough, From which, like some rain-voweled word That dampness hoarsely utters now, The tree-toad's voice is vaguely heard.

I crouch and listen; and again The woods are filled with phantom forms-- With shapes, grotesque in mystic train, That rise and reach to me cool arms Of mist; the wandering wraiths of rain.

I see them come; fantastic, fair; Chill, mushroom-colored: sky and earth Grow ghostly with their floating hair And trailing limbs, that have their birth In wetness--fungi of the air.

O wraiths of rain! O ghosts of mist! Still fold me, hold me, and pursue! Still let my lips by yours be kissed! Still draw me with your hands of dew Unto the tryst, the dripping tryst.

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 moist 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 musk-melons split with sweet, And the moon is a-bloom in the Heaven's house, And summer has spent its heat-- It's--Oh, for the lane, the trysting lane, And the deep-mooned night and her love again!

A FOREST IDYL

I

Beneath an old beech-tree They sat together, Fair as a flower was she Of summer weather. They spoke of life and love, While, through the boughs above, The sunlight, like a dove, Dropped many a feather.

II

And there the violet, The bluet near it, Made blurs of azure wet-- As if some spirit, Or woodland dream, had gone Sprinkling the earth with dawn, When only Fay and Faun Could see or hear it.

III

She with her young, sweet face And eyes gray-beaming, Made of that forest place A spot for dreaming: A spot for Oreads To smooth their nut-brown braids, For Dryads of the glades To dance in, gleaming.

IV

So dim the place, so blest. One had not wondered Had Dian's mooned breast The deep leaves sundered, And there on them awhile The goddess deigned to smile. While down some forest aisle The far hunt thundered.

V

I deem that hour perchance Was but a mirror To show them Earth's romance And draw them nearer: A mirror where, meseems. All that this Earth-life dreams, All loveliness that gleams, Their souls saw clearer.

VI

Beneath an old beech-tree They dreamed of blisses; Fair as a flower was she That summer kisses: They spoke of dreams and days, Of love that goes and stays, Of all for which life prays, Ah me! and misses.

UNDER THE ROSE

He told a story to her, A story old yet new-- And was it of the Faery Folk That dance along the dew?

The night was hung with silence As a room is hung with cloth, And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush, Swooned dim the down-white moth.

Along the east a shimmer, A tenuous breath of flame, From which, as from a bath of light, Nymph-like, the girl-moon came.

And pendent in the purple Of heaven, like fireflies, Bubbles of gold the great stars blew From windows of the skies.

He told a story to her, A story full of dreams-- And was it of the Elfin things That haunt the thin moonbeams?

Upon the hill a thorn-tree, Crooked and gnarled and gray, Against the moon seemed some crutch'd hag Dragging a child away.

And in the vale a runnel, That dripped from shelf to shelf, Seemed, in the night, a woodland witch Who muttered to herself.

Along the land a zephyr, Whose breath was wild perfume, That seemed a sorceress who wove Sweet spells of beam and bloom.

He told a story to her, A story young yet old-- And was it of the mystic things Men's eyes shall ne'er behold?

They heard the dew drip faintly From out the green-cupped leaf; They heard the petals of the rose Unfolding from their sheaf.

They saw the wind light-footing The waters into sheen; They saw the starlight kiss to sleep The blossoms on the green.

They heard and saw these wonders; These things they saw and heard; And other things within the heart For which there is no word.

He told a story to her, The story men call Love, Whose echoes fill the ages past, And the world ne'er tires of.

IN AUTUMN

I

Sunflowers wither and lilies die, Poppies are pods of seeds; The first red leaves on the pathway lie, Like blood of a heart that bleeds.

Weary alway will it be to-day, Weary and wan and wet; Dawn and noon will the clouds hang gray, And the autumn wind will sigh and say, "_He comes not yet, not yet. Weary alway, alway!_"

II

Hollyhocks bend all tattered and torn, Marigolds all are gone; The last pale rose lies all forlorn, Like love that is trampled on.

Weary, ah me! to-night will be, Weary and wild and hoar; Rain and mist will blow from the sea, And the wind will sob in the autumn tree, "_He comes no more, no more. Weary, ah me! ah me!_"

EPIPHANY

There is nothing that eases my heart so much As the wind that blows from the purple hills; 'Tis a hand of balsam whose healing touch Unburdens my bosom of ills.

There is nothing that causes my soul to rejoice Like the sunset flaming without a flaw: 'Tis a burning bush whence God's own voice Addresses my spirit with awe.

There is nothing that hallows my mind, meseems, Like the night with its moon and its stars above; 'Tis a mystical lily whose golden gleams Fulfill my being with love.

There is nothing, no, nothing, we see and feel. That speaks to our souls some beautiful thought, That was not created to help us, and heal Our lives that are overwrought.

LIFE

I

PESSIMIST

There is never a thing we dream or do But was dreamed and done in the ages gone; Everything's old; there is nothing that's new, And so it will be while the world goes on.

The thoughts we think have been thought before; The deeds we do have long been done; We pride ourselves on our love and lore And both are as old as the moon and sun.

We strive and struggle and swink and sweat, And the end for each is one and the same; Time and the sun and the frost and wet Will wear from its pillar the greatest name.

No answer comes for our prayer or curse, No word replies though we shriek in air; Ever the taciturn universe Stretches unchanged for our curse or prayer.

With our mind's small light in the dark we crawl,-- Glow-worm glimmers that creep about,-- Tilt the Power that shaped us, over us all Poises His foot and treads us out.

Unasked He fashions us out of clay, A little water, a little dust, And then in our holes He thrusts us away, With never a word, to rot and rust.

'Tis a sorry play with a sorry plot, This life of hate and of lust and pain, Where we play our parts and are soon forgot, And all that we do is done in vain.

II

OPTIMIST

There is never a dream but it shall come true, And never a deed but was wrought by plan; And life is filled with the strange and new, And ever has been since the world began.

As mind develops and soul matures These two shall parent Earth's mightier acts; Love is a fact, and 'tis love endures 'Though the world make wreck of all other facts.

Through thought alone shall our Age obtain Above all Ages gone before; The tribes of sloth, of brawn, not brain, Are the tribes that perish, are known no more.

Within ourselves is a voice of Awe, And a hand that points to Balanced Scales; The one is Love and the other Law, And their presence alone it is avails.

For every shadow about our way There is a glory of moon and sun; But the hope within us hath more of ray Than the light of the sun and moon in one.

Behind all being a purpose lies, Undeviating as God hath willed; And he alone it is who dies, Who leaves that purpose unfulfilled.

Life is an epic the Master sings, Whose theme is Man, and whose music, Soul, Where each is a word in the Song of Things, That shall roll on while the ages roll.

NEVER

(Song)

Love hath no place in her, Though in her bosom be Love-thoughts and dreams that stir Longings that know not me: Love hath no place in her, No place for me.

Never within her eyes Do I the love-light see; Never her soul replies To the sad soul in me: Never with soul and eyes Speaks she to me.

She is a star, a rose, I but a moth, a bee; High in her heaven she glows, Blooms far away from me: She is a star, a rose, Never for me.

Why will I think of her To my heart's misery? Dreaming how sweet it were Had she a thought of me: Why will I think of her! Why, why, ah me!

MEETING IN THE WOODS

Through ferns and moss the path wound to A hollow where the touchmenots Swung horns of honey filled with dew; And where--like foot-prints--violets blue And bluets made sweet sapphire blots, 'Twas there that she had passed he knew.

The grass, the very wilderness On either side, breathed rapture of Her passage: 'twas her hand or dress That touched some tree--a slight caress-- That made the wood-birds sing above; Her step that made the flowers up-press.

He hurried, till across his way, Foam-footed, bounding through the wood, A brook, like some wild girl at play, Went laughing loud its roundelay; And there upon its bank she stood, A sunbeam clad in woodland gray.

And when she saw him, all her face Grew to a wildrose by the stream; And to his breast a moment's space He gathered her; and all the place Seemed conscious of some happy dream Come true to add to Earth its grace.

Some joy, on which Heav'n was intent-- For which God made the world--the bliss, The love, that raised her innocent Pure face to his that, smiling, bent And sealed confession with a kiss-- Life needs no other testament.

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.

COMMUNICANTS

Who knows the things they dream, alas! Or feel, who lie beneath the ground? Perhaps the flowers, the leaves, and grass That close them round.