Part 2

Then, when I knew your voyage over,—then, —For surely now, at last, I may confess, Now that I have outgrown its bitterness, Though, sometimes, I can almost feel again, Remembering those days, that keen distress, Yes, jealousy it was! not any less, That constantly Wrapped all my thoughts of you beyond the sea!— I feared lest other lives, more large and wide Than mine has been, might, day by day, divide And win your life and love away from me. And I was fearful for dear nature, too; I could not bear To think that heaven anywhere should wear A hue more deeply, more divinely blue Than this home sky that we together knew; Or that there grew Strange bud or bloom to make the earth more fair. —A most unworthy fancy, it is true; Since nature is but nature everywhere, The same kind mother, in whatever land; So too, maybe, could we but understand, All hearts and loves are only as a part Of one great Heart Whose universal pulses so expand That any lesser life that therein beats Should no more dream of this word “jealousy” Than yonder shining flakes of bloom should be Jealous, forsooth, of the whole hawthorn tree That is but one with their own mass of sweets. And so, at last, through blind, unreasoning grief Beyond belief, Brightly within my heart there did uprise Love’s loyalty, rebuking in this wise: “Has she not spoken, oft and oft again, These three plain words ‘I love you’? Wherefore, then, What right have you To deem mere distance could her love undo? To fancy aught exists that could estrange Her heart from yours, wherein there is no change, Or judge her own to be less simply true?”

And then, in shame, I swiftly put aside All faintest questioning; thenceforth to abide In trust as pure, as boundless, and as wide As still sea-deeps, unvexed of any tide. Nay, I have learned to cherish rightly, too, All light and life that minister to you. I hold most dear Whatever least thing brings you smallest cheer; And, day by day, my ceaseless prayer is this, That from the changeful, many-colored grace Of time and place, Your grief may come to weave a chrysalis Round its dead hopes, till waking, by and by, It shall find wings to bear it to the sky. —But, dear,—God knows I would not do you wrong, Nor touch one heart-string if it be not strong,— But O, so long, So long it seems! You have been gone so long! The feather-grass is growing green and high, And, piping gaily in an azure throng, The bluebirds spangle all the air with song; Again aflame the rosy peach boughs burn; —Can not you, too, return?

On slender stems the nodding wind-flowers blow, And bloodroots grow Where high the hedges fling their lacing frets Along the lanes; while, softly sifting through Tall plumy weeds and silver spider-nets, The yellow sunbeams filter down below Until I know Not any fair Italian sky is blue As is our earth to-day with violets! Nor do I think that even that Syrian sun You watched ride high above Damascus’ towers, In purer light or richer splendor glowed Than any one Of these most lovely golden dawns of ours That wake the birds along the river road. The green ravines are newly fringed with fern; From out the brake a robin red-breast calls; The stream repeats, at rippling intervals, “Can you not now return?”

But what avail in striving to compare Earth’s endless beauties, whether east or west! All lands are lovely, and I am aware That unto me this little spot seems fair, More rare Than all the gathered glories of the rest, Because I love it best. And so, in truth, I feel that chief I plead A selfish need; I too, like nature, long to greet the spring! Indeed I think I never have confessed, Nor have you guessed How much of May it is your gift to bring. You never knew how wintry was the cloud Of haunting sadness, that would ofttimes shroud My inmost being, and creep up to chill The warmer currents of my life,—until, In knowing you, I felt a pulse like that sweet, joyous thrill That breaks the buds when all the skies are blue! The bitter storms of grief I did not fear When you were near. But sometimes now I have grown half afraid That unforgotten frost of pain that used To wrap my nature will again invade The singing streams your April touch had loosed. Spring’s subtler spells alone I can not learn, —Ah, will you not return?

Yet if it chance that prayed-for peace you sought Be not at length to full perfection wrought, If still in vain Time strives with memory,—then, dear, I would fain Let be as naught All I have uttered; and I will refrain From any whispered wish, or word, or thought, That might to you in anywise complain. However much my eager heart may miss, How much for you my very soul may yearn, I will seek patience, confident in this, That some time, surely, Love shall conquer pain, And then, dear heart, I know you will return.

_SEA-DREAMS_

I sat upon the mossy rocks Beside the southern sea, While overhead the summer clouds Were drifting lazily.

I watched their purple shadows trail Across the sea and hide Within the hollows of the waves That rode the rising tide.

Sometimes the little flakes of foam Dashed up in twinkling spray; And out along their silver paths The ships sailed far away.

As through the sun I followed them With straining, eager eyes, From out the sparkling waves I saw A shining vision rise.

It seemed a ghostly castle white, With battlement and tower, That hung on the horizon’s verge By some unearthly power.

I saw its spectral turrets gleam As white as ivory, And wondered who the wizard king That reigned upon the sea.

—But while, with breathless gaze, I watched This castle, by and by It vanished in the underworld Beyond the sea and sky!

_IDEALS_

I would that I could weave a song As airy and as light, As are the roundelays that throng Within my heart to-night.

I would that I might set to tune The beauty of this hour, When, like a primrose bud, the moon Breaks into golden flower.

And all the happy, lilting notes, Beyond divinest words, That nestle in the downy throats Of little sleeping birds,

The breeze-borne scent of mignonette, That in the garden grows, Where, strung like pearls, the dew is wet Upon the briar-rose,

These things it is, whose voices I Have sought for overlong; Yet still their cunning tones defy The artifice of song.

_TO THE “WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE”_

Thou wonder of the warrior prow, Supreme, immortal Victory! Before thy majesty I bow And all my soul flames forth to thee!

Within the shadow of thy wings A thousand voices sound for me; In far, tumultuous murmurings, I catch the echo of the sea; The salty surge that rolls more near, Till loud and clear In mighty thunder tones I hear The rush of old Ægean tides, The bright, white waves that from the shore Sweep seaward with unceasing roar; In dawning skies the day-star guides, Across the surf the seabirds call, Whilst white and tall With swift sails swelling over all, The shield-hung warship rides.

And like the heaven-born dreams that soar From hero spirits, eagle-wise, And urge to deeds of great emprise And fly before The eager, throbbing hearts that know No goal but victory, even so, Above the restless breakers’ roar, Upon the high cliff evermore Thou standest with bright wings outspread, In all thy fresh-wrought godlihead, Beloved of the conqueror!

And as I gaze I seem to trace The features of thy fearless face, The matchless marvel of its grace That like a star Across the seas of Samothrace Shone forth afar; I hear the southern winds intone Whilst backward blown Thy trailing garments, fluttering From out the slender girdle, cling About thy limbs and so confess Their lines of perfect loveliness; Then suddenly o’er everything Great shouts and martial echoes ring! I see thee, storm-like, rushing past Thy hand upon the carven mast, And harken whilst thy proud lips fling The loud, triumphal trumpet blast!

O glorious image! what if time Hath smitten with ungentle touch Thy perfect beauty? Still sublime Thou art a conqueror, and still All men unite to name thee such! Before thee all my pulses thrill, Old hopes and dreams awake in me; O Victory, Lead, lead but thou mine eager will, I follow fast and far until Some day my ship shall harbor thee!

_AS TO THE SUMMER AIR THE ROSE_

As to the summer air the rose Pours forth her perfume all the day, For every careless wind that blows To scatter far away,

So gives my heart to thee the rare Fine fragrance of its sweetest thought, And thou art heedless as the air Whereto the rose is naught!

_A WOOD FANCY_

The mandrakes lift, like little mosques, Their domes between the vines, And butterflies for worshipers Are flocking to their shrines.

And from tall, tapering mullein towers And minarets of green, The honey-bee muezzins drone To bloodroot buds between,

That pilgrim-wise along the road Come trooping to the light, In pale green caftans closely wound And turbans spotless white.

While all the way with budding things Is tufted thicker than The praying mats the Persian weaves In streets of Ispahan.

And listen! with a lordly note Like joyous burst of drums, In gorgeous gown of gold and black The oriole sultan comes!

_THE THRUSH_

The creamy dogwood branches, The rosy redbud trees, The drifts of sweet wild-plum bloom O’erhung by honey bees, The gleaming buckeye blossoms The south wind blew apart, Oh, all the woods awaking, They overfilled my heart!

Then clear, from out a thicket, There rang that golden note That flutes from none but only The tawny thrush’s throat; So charged with all sweet secrets The April has to tell, I bowed my head and harkened, Enchanted by its spell.

Till presently that magic Heart-melting melody Drew all my soul to meet it In sudden ecstasy. My spirit found its pinions In blessed bird-like birth, And knew the joyous passion That thrilled through all the earth.

The while the thrush was singing, I heard the violets stir, And through the dreamy woodlands The breaking buds confer; I half divined the glories Of all the springs to be, —When, O, the song was silent! The thrush had flown, ah me!

_MONTEZUMA_

On a lofty mountain summit In a tawny, desert land, Lo, a mighty human profile, But not hewn by human hand; In the living rock forever Looming dark, majestic, grand.

O’er its outline, heaven fronting, When the dawn’s first radiance streams With its rosy touch, and tender, Then this face of granite seems As a sleeper’s unawakened From the thrall of peaceful dreams.

But when down the western heavens Sinks the setting sun, blood-red, Then the mountain mists that mantle Cover close that quiet head, As men draw a pall of purple Round about their kingly dead.

And the stars, like lighted tapers, Flicker forth in golden rows From the heaven’s holy altar, Whilst the night-wind as it blows Seems to chant a solemn requiem For the passing soul’s repose.

Head of royal Montezuma, So the ancient legends tell; Montezuma, granite shrouded By some great enchanter’s spell, Lying lordly by the borders Of the land he loved so well.

But in silence unrevealing Still that calm face fronts the sky; Heeding neither tears nor laughter, Nor if sun or storm go by; Keeping still its primal counsel, In repose, serene and high.

_BETWEEN SEASONS_

The cherry trees are haunted By hordes of robber jays, And warmer winds are fanning The poppies to a blaze.

And loosed in fitful flurries, The sweet syringas fall, To lie like little snow-drifts Against the garden wall.

Upon the laden lattice, In softly rounding shapes, A wealth of tiny clusters Are growing into grapes.

Heigho! a drowsy shimmer Enfolds the sunny hours; And humming-birds are hidden In scarlet trumpet-flowers.

The tenderness of springtime Is almost overpast; But O, the gracious summer, It comes, it comes at last!

_A LITTLE LOVE SONG_

My heart was like a sunless, cold, Unlovely land of ice and snow, Wherein no blessed buds unfold, Nor singing waters flow.

Then all at once the April skies Laughed in your look, and at that hour My spirit melted, torrent-wise, My life broke into flower!

O dearest heart, I had not guessed What marvel of immortal seeds Lay hidden deep within my breast, Beneath its barren weeds!

But now I know, but now I know The glory of the flower of love, The joyous splendor of its glow, The subtile pain thereof!

_JUNE_

High overhead, By summer breezes sped, From every latest burgeoned bough The last, spring petals fall; And red, red, red, Along the garden bed, The poppy plants are holding now Their crimson carnival.

Clear, sweet, and strong, I hear the robin’s song, And catch the merry caroling Of some bold bobolink; And phlox flowers throng The garden ways along, While peonies and roses bring Their pageantries of pink.

White, gold, and green, The lily spires are seen, And hollyhocks, in stately rows, With tufted buds are set; Tall, in between, The growing sunflowers lean, And thick the sweet alyssum shows Among the mignonette.

Ho! truant May! Have you, then, gone astray, Unwitting that in realms of June Return were no avail? Ah, well-a-day! So wings the spring away; The summer’s ever oversoon, But June, sweet June, all hail!

_A SONG OF THOUGHT_

O, the ships have sails for the swelling gales, The falcon flies in the wake of the wind, In the speed of the steed of the Bedouin breed The blood leaps high to the hoof-beats’ lead, As the leagues are left behind. But what care I For the birds that fly, Or all the vessels that sail the sea; The blasts that blow Till the trees bend low, Or the barbs of Araby!

I spring to birth with the dust of earth, Yet span the heaven from pole to pole; Or flashing far as the farthermost star, I know no barrier, bound nor bar To hold from my boldest goal. The storm’s red spark As it cleaves the dark, With my viewless wings it can not keep pace; More fleet than light My measureless flight To the starless ends of space!

_IN THE MOONLIGHT_

The moonbeams filter softly through The leaves upon the linden tree; And as I sit alone, dear heart, My spirit yearns for thee!

Yet in some gracious-wise to-night We do not seem far worlds apart; I reach my empty arms and dream I fold thee to my heart.

I close my brimming eyes, and see The strange, sweet beauty of thy smile, And fancy that our palms are met In loving clasp the while.

In soft, clear tones, I seem to hear The long-hushed voice I loved so well; —I tremble, lest a breath should break This moment’s happy spell!

O brother mine, could it be true Thine own dear presence hovers near To comfort with this heavenly peace Thy little sister here?

_BINDWEED_

Along the lane I idly pass Unheeding where the footpath goes, And loiter through the ripe wild-grass That down the open roadway grows In feathery, tall tufts that rise In filmy tangles, misty-wise; The grass that when the south wind blows, Shines out and shows Shot through with silver lights and rose, And tiny gold and violet seeds That quiver off each gleaming stem And powder all the wayside weeds, And like a glory cover them.

With eager palms I gently press Soft sheaves of it against my lips In sheer delight; and so caress And fondle with light finger-tips, And watch its beauty when the bright, Clear spears of light Pierce through its slender leaves and smite Their rose and purple, till my sight Is dazzled with its loveliness!

In verdant nets along the way The tendrils of a wild-grape vine Through elder thickets intertwine; And poising lightly on a spray Of fruited bramble stems where shine Close clustering berries, red as wine, A little thistle-bird, still gay In April’s yellow plumage, clings With airy grace, and slowly swings, And lifts his wings In dainty, drowsy flutterings; They flicker like bright flakes of gold, And fan his body, small and slim, While lovingly the winds enfold And summer’s heart broods over him.

The sky is softer than the blue Of cornflower buds beneath the dew; And down below Upon the marshy meadow swales The bindweed weaves its rosy veils Where thick the blowing rushes grow Among the tasseled reeds and rue; And up between the mossy rails It lightly climbs, and clambers through The growing corn, and barley, too, And winds the fallow weeds and trails Along the creek where cowslips grew.

O lavish stems, that fondly fling Close clasp about the earth, and cling In wreaths of fragrant flowering, Ev’n as ye do To that dear soil wherefrom ye spring, So does my love cleave thereunto! And so my full heart-blossoms bind The bright midsummer fields, and find Sweet fellowships with everything!

_THE SUMMER SHOWER_

The air is shot with spangling drops, But heedless of the rain The sun laughs, through a silver veil, Upon the golden grain.

And lightly arching up the east In faintly penciled lines, That throb and flush to tinted bars, A double rainbow shines.

It seems to touch the fragrant earth, Till, tangled in the breeze, It winds a film of irised light About the distant trees.

In frothy clusters down the road The blooming elders lean, With dripping buds that shine like pearls Within a sea of green.