Part 3

And heaped around them, pink as shells, The roses are in flower, While earth and sky are freshly keyed To sweetness by the shower.

_AT NIGHT_

Come, draw more near! Clasp hands with me! Ah close, and closer still! The night spreads to infinity! And through my heart a sudden chill, —I pray loose not your loving hold!— A fear, a loneliness untold Smites sharply, till mine eyes o’erfill! Nor have I strength nor stress of will To set my spirit free.

The cold, the darkness, and the dread Immensity of space, The great, wan moon, whose ghostly face For ages has been dead, The weird lights wheeling overhead, The unknown worlds that onward roll, In endless wanderings ever led, That find no goal, The spectral mists that overspread With pallid light the lesser stars, The lurid glow that glimmers red Across the front of Mars, —O dearest heart, when all is said, I am afraid! and from the whole Wide waste of worlds I hide my sight, And from the boundless night!

The ancient mystery of the skies, Their silent depths from pole to pole, The void, the vastness terrifies! —O, let me rather search your eyes, And with your sweet, warm touch disperse This terror of the universe That strikes into my soul!

_THE HOME FIELDS_

The fields are full of sunlight, And leafy golden-green, And misty purple shadows Are flitting in between; The flaky elder flowers Are drenched with honey-dew, And all the distant woodlands Stand veiled in tender blue.

Half seen between green thickets Of grape-vine and wild rose, In twinkling swirls of silver The lazy river flows; While down the grassy roadside The milkweed balls are bright, And waving prince’s-feather Is tipped with snowy white.

Ah, ever-dearest home-land, ’Tis here my spirit sings! And as my heart caresses The sweet, familiar things, Such rare midsummer magic Distills through all the air, I think these fields are fairer Than any anywhere!

_SYMPATHY_

To-night a little child lies dead; I never saw its face; I try to fancy now instead Its lines of baby grace.

And for the sake of her who weeps These lonely watches through So wakefully my spirit keeps A weary vigil, too.

A thousand thoughts appeal to me In close-besieging crowd; But through them all I only see A little, snow-white shroud.

Nor may I set dull grief at naught, However I am fain; Since when the heart-strings are distraught, The will must strive in vain.

Ah me! there breaks the dawning sun, In golden light serene; Yet still I mourn this little one, Whom I have never seen!

_IN SUMMER DEEPS_

Through sunny spaces overhead A gray hawk’s lazy pinions spread, And poppies open wide and red Where golden harvests grew.

In rosy wreaths upon the swales And fallow fields the bindweed trails, And late-sown buckwheat swiftly pales To blossoming anew.

The pond within the pasture land Reflects the cattle as they stand In depths of dipping sedges and Of tangled meadow-rue.

In silver splashes through the green, Fine, filmy spider-webs are seen, And crumpled cockle-flowers between Are rifts of tender blue.

On stately stalks of standing corn A wealth of cresting plumes are borne, And tawny tasseled tufts adorn The ripened barley, too.

So, steeping nature far and wide, Deep sweeps the flood of summer-tide, Till all things that therein abide Are richly tinctured through.

_SONG_

O, fresh from off the ocean The salt wind riots through The fragrant fern and bay-leaves And dripping honey-dew.

The morning’s on the moorland, And flashing, far away, I glimpse the foam-white seagulls And feathers of the spray.

O hasten! let us hasten! The tide sings up the sand The song my heart has harkened Across long leagues of land.

So far, far have I journeyed, Such weary ways, O sea! Breathe, breathe me breath of life now, And steep the soul of me!

_IMPATIENT_

Some day, when summer’s overpast, And loosed by frost, in gold and brown These greenly clinging leaves drift down, When shrill winds hush The robin red-breast and the thrush, When all the skies are overcast With racks of rain, so chill and gray Not any burgeoning may be,— Some day, Across far foreign lands and vast Unbounded spaces of the sea, So homeward, homeward, journeying fast, At last She will come back to me!

I reckon up, in daily sum, The time until that scarlet date; I think the fall will never come, So wearily I wait! The hours seem leaguing to belate The days, that never crept so slow; And yet, I used to love the summer so! But now my heart may only fret And pray for it to go. And yearning so, with lashes wet, I half forget The greenery on every bough, How red the poppies are, and how Amid the tufted mignonette The scented south-winds gently blow; I heed them not,—I only know Time never seemed so long as now!

I search the azure skies in vain, No hint of autumn rain! No hint of fall from bluebirds, nor Green fields of growing grain. Then idly reckoning, as before, I strive anew to make less far That glad date on the calendar; To number less the days that are, The changes fixed for sun and star, The moons that yet must wax and wane; Thus evermore With fresh impatience, o’er and o’er, I count the hours;—yet still am fain To tell them over once again.

O hasten, hasten, autumn days! Sear swift this dewy, summer green! I am grown weary with delays; Speed! Speed! Bring bitter winds and chill, nor heed The mellow sweets between! What if the dead leaves strew the ways, And southward all the songs take wing? Despite all cheerless frosts that be, My eager heart awaits the spring, So knowing she will surely bring The birds and May to me.

_RAIN ON THE RIVER_

The skies are gray, where far and wide, Beyond the water-willows, The marshes spread their emerald tide Of blossom-crested billows.

And on the vague horizon’s rim, In vaporous purple masses, The distant woods show soft and dim Across the lush, green grasses.

An east wind stirs the ivory balls Upon the button-bushes; And hark! a hidden rain-bird calls From out the blowing rushes.

Within the water, yonder spray Of rosy mallow flowers Turns faint and pale, till not more gray The cloudy heaven lowers.

And all the birches’ tender green An ashen hue is growing; While mottled with a silver sheen The ruffled waves are flowing.

Then softly through the forest leaves, That turn, and toss, and quiver, The rain, with murmurous cadence, weaves A roundel in the river.

It dots the waves with dancing pearls, It gleams, and streams, and twinkles; It sweeps and sinks in silvery swirls, And rings, and sings, and tinkles.

The clustering sedges dip and sway, Till, after fitful failing, The sun bursts gaily through the gray, And craggy clouds are sailing

Where, southward, in a brilliant sky, As light as any feather, The little moon curves white and high, In token of fair weather.

_OVER THE SIERRA_

From out the depths of the abyss, Faint echoes of a torrent’s roar O’er crags whence lordly eagles soar To poise above the precipice.

A dizzy pathway, sheer and steep; A startled catching of the breath; And, bearing menaces of death, A loosened snow-drift’s sudden sweep!

Then, blown from out the upper sky, Keen, fitful gusts of icy air, So light, so tenuous and rare, The heart leaps strangely swift thereby.

The white moon floating in the calm Still ether space, so near, it seems, To grasp his eager childhood dreams, One need but thither reach his palm.

A sense of majesties and mights, An exaltation born of these; —The summit’s awful silences; A glimpse of Godhead from the heights!

_ON THE PRAIRIE_

Across the dewy prairie The morning wind is borne, Beyond the new-mown hayfields, And through the tasseled corn.

Upon the silver-maples It lifts the swinging leaves, And steals a subtile sweetness From rows of golden sheaves.

Within the sunny orchard The harvest apples fall, While from the tossing branches The saucy jay-birds call.

In crinkled, fringy clusters The scarlet poppies burn, Where, softly opening, eastward The yellow sunflowers turn.

And nibbling in the garden, Between the cherry trees, I see a robber rabbit Among the pink sweet-peas.

While with a fitful fanning, The lazy wind-mill swings, About the bloomy peaches A robin redbreast sings.

And in the far horizon There dwells such tender hue, These azure cornflower blossoms Are not so sweet and blue.

_BY THE KANKAKEE_

Beneath the forest trees I lie, And watch the deep blue summer sky, And count the white cranes floating by On level wings; And in the undergrowth I hear A bittern softly treading near, While through the willows, sweet and clear, A wood-thrush sings.

And flashing, plashing, close to me, With murmurous, melting melody, The swirling, crystal Kankakee Flows deep and swift Through liquid tints and tones untold Of topaz, turquoise, bronze and gold, That in its lucent depths unfold And drift, and sift,

Till down among the pearly shells A wealth of changeful color dwells; And like a string of silver bells The ripples ring Through trailing water-weeds that raise Their tangled, yellow blossom-sprays Where in a green and golden maze Tall rushes swing.

And far across the glassy tide, The marshes shimmer, low and wide, Where birds and bees and wild things hide In reedy grass Whose wavering, evanescent hues Pale, darken, change, and interfuse, Till my enchanted senses lose All things that pass,

And only feel an exquisite Glad throb of light and life complete; While like some subtile essence sweet, The wilderness, The perfumes warm of wave and wood The silence of the solitude, All merge and mingle in my mood, Till half I guess

The secrets that the winds impart, And draw so near to nature’s heart I feel her inmost pulses start; While happily I sink upon her fragrant breast, Like yonder thrush within its nest, And deep, entrancing sense of rest Steals over me.

_THE FISHER FOLK_

I know a little village Where fisher folk abide; The dark pine woods behind it, The southern sea beside.

There rosy pink crape-myrtles In every dooryard grow, And through the glossy live-oaks The salt sea breezes blow.

At break of day the fishers Sail out to sea to reap The harvest that they sowed not, The harvest of the deep.

Then, when their nets are emptied, They set their sails for land, To heap the shining fishes Upon the shining sand.

Where little barefoot children Await them, eager-eyed, And play the while with sea-shells Cast upward by the tide.

And all seem so content there, From worldly care so free, I would that I could find it, This secret of the sea!

_THE CACTUS LAND_

Land of strange, unearthly beauty, Tawny Desert, over me Thou hast cast the deep enchantment Of some subtile sorcery!

These thine endless barren reaches Where no fruitful harvests grow, Unto some bring nameless heartache; But to me thou dost not so!

Here, where all the air seems newly From the springs of life distilled, Every breath is like a beaker With rare, sparkling rapture filled!

And my heart exults and glories In the strange, compelling power Of enchanting, changeful color, That is thy supremest dower.

Joy to me thine ever cloudless Sky of purest turquoise hue, And thy rosy mountain ranges Wrapped in pale, translucent blue.

Beautiful the rainbow ether Shifting, shimmering evermore, In diaphanous, dazzling splendors Over all thy boundless floor,

Where the low-boughed silver sage-bush Softly tufts the tawny land, And the tropic Spanish bayonet Clusters tall on every hand.

While for leagues and leagues the cactus, Child of sun and sand and bare Rainless regions, lifts its columns Through the rare, transparent air.

Wild and splendid in thy freedom, Unsubdued as is the sea, From the first, O lordly Desert, Thou hast drawn my heart to thee!

Desolate thou art, and silent, Barren both of fruit and flower; Yet I love thine arid grandeur That defies man’s utmost power!

_THE LAST SURVIVOR FROM THE LIFE-BOAT_

Beneath his pillow, hid away From careless sight, the nurses say, And safe from any stranger’s view, As miser might some treasure rare, So does he guard, with jealous care, A baby’s shoe.

And evermore by day and night, With burning eyeballs fever-bright, This wan survivor of the sea Scans each blank, closing wall in turn, In dim endeavor to discern If sail there be.

And then the weary sigh that slips Suspiring from those parching lips No heart may hear nor bleed therefor! As, with hot tears that fall like rain, He soothes a dying baby’s pain And o’er and o’er

Croons snatches of soft lullabies To empty arms held cradle-wise. —O human heart-break, love and grief! God pity him in his distress, Ev’n as the sea was pitiless Beyond belief!

God comfort, as with straining breath, Unheeding either life or death, Yet still with faint unwitting smile, His fingers fondly seek and fold The little sea-stained shoe, and hold And stroke the while.

_THE CASCADE RAVINE_

From off the traveled road that lay Between wide fields of wheat and corn, An old gate, gray and weather-worn, Led down a shady woodland way.

One scarce might trace the narrow path, So green it was and overgrown With springtime’s seeded aftermath; Tall grasses that had never known The mower’s scythe or sickle’s scath, And rosy mayweed lightly sown Where’er the summer winds had blown; And all their tangled stems the red Sweet clover blossoms overspread.

Near by, through scented, leafy veils Of wreathing vines, and dewy, dense Green underwood, a brood of quails Sped swiftly past the ragged rails That tilted off a mossy fence; And over it, on airy wing, A robin paused in glad content Where budding elder-bushes leant And brambles clambered flowering.

Then, suddenly, a low, sweet sound Rose, faintly quivering on the breeze, And all that blossom-studded ground Seemed charged with murmurous mysteries! As if all rarest forest keys In dreamful chords divinely blent, Sang forth from some sweet instrument; While pulsing through, with rhythmic beat, In slumberous melodies there went The soft susurrus of the trees, The wind that wandered through the wheat, And all the changeful strains of these.

And as I listened, marveling Where those light, liquid tones might be, Forgetting all and everything Save that enchanting minstrelsy, I wandered slowly through the wood, Till all at once the parted green Revealed its secret, for I stood Upon the verge of a ravine Wherein the sunbeams broke between Tall rustling hemlock boughs, and bright As burnished silver in the light, A tiny stream ran tinkling through, While hidden somewhere out of sight, A little spring made music, too.

The shining water slipped and slipped Adown the mossy rocks, and dripped From off fine fringing ferns, in drops Of endless threaded pearls that tipped The tasseled sedge and alder tops With flickering light,—and then it sipped A drowsy draught of sun, and dipped Beneath small clustering buds, and hid Among lush marigolds, and slid Between tall serried ranks of reeds, And stroked their little leaves and lipped The flower-spangled jewel-weeds; Then, speeding suddenly amid Faint shimmering spray, it lightly tripped Across white pebbly sand, and stripped The marsh flowers’ gold, and fled, half seen, A splash of silver through the green.

And all the while that music sweet Kept softly murmuring at my feet, As down the rocks in ceaseless streams The limpid cascades poured, and still The slumberous light in yellow beams Bathed the green hemlock boughs,—until I seemed to lose all waking will, And all my soul was lulled to dreams; Wherethrough there floated, drowsy-wise, Bright glints of bird-wings, gracious gleams Of tender, sunlit summer skies, And fleet, sweet visions of the rare Deep, shadowy hearts the forests bear.

_FOREBODING_

The scarlet briars trailed across The grave I journeyed far to see; Upon the stone, half hid in moss, “Prepare for death, and follow me.”

The birds flew southward down the sky; Upon a golden linden tree The leaves that fluttered seemed to sigh, “Prepare for death, and follow me.”

My father’s father slept below So dreamless deep and silently, I spelled the message soft and slow, “Prepare for death, and follow me.”

—Ah me! ’twas years ago the birds Fled swift o’er that far golden tree; And wherefore now come back these words, “Prepare for death, and follow me”?

_IN LATE SEPTEMBER_

Among the hardy marigolds The spicy gillyflower unfolds, And in the elm a catbird scolds With saucy, outspread wings; To mellow sweets the pippins speed, The sunflower disks are brown with seed, And round about them finches feed In clinging, yellow rings.

The latest poppy fires are dead, But bright as blossoms overhead In shining sheaves of bronze and red, The frost-tipped pear leaves show; While from their branches blackbirds sing Or break to noisy chattering; And slender silken cobwebs string The tall grass down below.