Part 5

She was mine--yes! still is mine: And my frosty memory Reels about her, as with wine Warmed into young eyes that see All of her that was divine.

Yes, I loved her, and have grown Melancholy in that love, And the memory alone Of perfection such whereof She could sanctify each stone.

And where'er the poppies swing-- There we walk,--as if a bee Bent them with its airy wing,-- Down her garden shadowy In the hush the evenings bring.

A FLOWER OF THE FIELDS

Bee-bitten in the orchard hung The peach; or, fallen in the weeds, Lay rotting, where still sucked and sung The gray bee, boring to its seed's Pink pulp and honey blackly stung.

The orchard-path, which led around The garden,--with its heat one twinge Of dinning locusts,--picket-bound And ragged, brought me where one hinge Held up the gate that scraped the ground.

All seemed the same: the martin-box-- Sun-warped with pigmy balconies-- Still stood, with all its twittering flocks, Perched on its pole above the peas And silvery-seeded onion-stocks.

The clove-pink and the rose; the clump Of coppery sunflowers, with the heat Sick to the heart: the garden stump, Red with geranium-pots, and sweet With moss and ferns, this side the pump.

I rested, with one hesitant hand Upon the gate. The lonesome day, Droning with insects, made the land One dry stagnation. Soaked with hay And scents of weeds the hot wind fanned.

I breathed the sultry scents, my eyes Parched as my lips. And yet I felt My limbs were ice.--As one who flies To some wild woe.--How sleepy smelt The hay-sweet heat that soaked the skies!

Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomer For one long, plaintive, forest-side Bird-quaver.--And I knew me near Some heartbreak anguish.... She had died. I felt it, and no need to hear!

I passed the quince and pear-tree; where, All up the porch, a grape-vine trails-- How strange that fruit, whatever air Or earth it grows in, never fails To find its native flavour there!

And she was as a flower, too, That grows its proper bloom and scent No matter what the soil: she, who, Born better than her place, still lent Grace to the lowliness she knew....

They met me at the porch, and were Sad-eyed with weeping.--Then the room Shut out the country's heat and purr, And left light stricken into gloom-- So love and I might look on her.

THE FEUD

Rocks, trees and rocks; and down a mossy stone The murmuring ooze and trickle of a stream Through bushes, where the mountain spring lies lone,-- A gleaming cairngorm where the shadows dream,-- And one wild road winds like a saffron seam.

Here sang the thrush, whose pure, mellifluous note Dropped golden sweetness on the fragrant June; Here cat--and blue-bird and wood-sparrow wrote Their presence on the silence with a tune; And here the fox drank 'neath the mountain moon.

Frail ferns and dewy mosses and dark brush,-- Impenetrable briers, deep and dense, And wiry bushes,--brush, that seemed to crush The struggling saplings with its tangle, whence Sprawled out the ramble of an old rail-fence.

A wasp buzzed by; and then a butterfly In orange and amber, like a floating flame; And then a man, hard-eyed and very sly, Gaunt-cheeked and haggard and a little lame, With an old rifle, down the mountain came.

He listened, drinking from a flask he took Out of the ragged pocket of his coat; Then all around him cast a stealthy look; Lay down; and watched an eagle soar and float, His fingers twitching at his hairy throat.

The shades grew longer; and each Cumberland height Loomed, framed in splendours of the dolphin dusk. Around the road a horseman rode in sight; Young, tall, blonde-bearded. Silent, grim, and brusque, He in the thicket aimed--The gun ran husk;

And echoes barked among the hills and made Repeated instants of the shot's distress.-- Then silence--and the trampled bushes swayed;-- Then silence, packed with murder and the press Of distant hoofs that galloped riderless.

LYNCHERS

At the moon's down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree....

The red-rock road of the underbush, Where the woman came through the summer hush.

The sumach high and the elder thick, Where we found the stone and the ragged stick

The trampled road of the thicket, full Of footprints down to the quarry pool.

The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead, Where we found her lying stark and dead.

The scraggy wood; the negro hut, With its doors and windows locked and shut.

A secret signal; a foot's rough tramp; A knock at the door; a lifted lamp.

An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks; A voice that answers a voice that asks.

A group of shadows; the moon's red fleck; A running noose and a man's bared neck.

A word, a curse, and a shape that swings; The lonely night and a bat's black wings....

At the moon's down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.

DEAD MAN'S RUN

He rode adown the autumn wood, A man dark-eyed and brown; A mountain girl before him stood Clad in a homespun gown.

'To ride this road is death for you! My father waits you there; My father and my brother, too,-- You know the oath they swear.'

He holds her by one berry-brown wrist, And by one berry-brown hand; And he hath laughed at her and kissed Her cheek the sun hath tanned.

'The feud is to the death, sweetheart; But forward will I ride.'-- 'And if you ride to death, sweetheart, My place is at your side.'

Low hath he laughed again and kissed And helped her with his hand; And they have ridd'n into the mist That belts the autumn land.

And they had passed by Devil's Den, And come to Dead Man's Run, When in the brush rose up two men, Each with a levelled gun.

'Down! down! my sister!' cries the one;-- She gives the reins a twirl.-- The other shouts, 'He shot my son! And now he steals my girl!'

The rifles crack: she will not wail: He will not cease to ride: But, oh! her face is pale, is pale, And the red blood stains her side.

'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The road is rough to ride!'-- The road is rough by gulch and bluff, And her hair blows wild and wide.

'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The bank is steep to ride!'-- The bank is steep for a strong man's leap, And her eyes are staring wide.

'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The Run is swift to ride!'-- The Run is swift with mountain drift, And she sways from side to side.

Is it a wash of the yellow moss, Or drift of the autumn's gold, The mountain torrent foams across For the dead pine's roots to hold?

Is it the bark of the sycamore, Or peel of the white birch-tree, The mountaineer on the other shore Hath followed and still can see?

No mountain moss or leaves, dear heart! No bark of birchen gray!-- Young hair of gold and a face death-cold The wild stream sweeps away.

AUGUST

I

Clad on with glowing beauty and the peace, Benign, of calm maturity, she stands Among her meadows and her orchard-lands, And on her mellowing gardens and her trees, Out of the ripe abundance of her hands Bestows increase And fruitfulness, as, wrapped in sunny ease, Blue-eyed and blonde she goes Upon her bosom Summer's richest rose.

II

And he who follows where her footsteps lead, By hill and rock, by forest-side and stream, Shall glimpse the glory of her visible dream, In flower and fruit, in rounded nut and seed: She, in whose path the very shadows gleam; Whose humblest weed Seems lovelier than June's loveliest flower, indeed, And sweeter to the smell Than April's self within a rainy dell.

III

Hers is a sumptuous simplicity Within the fair Republic of her flowers, Where you may see her standing hours on hours, Breast-deep in gold, soft-holding up a bee To her hushed ear; or sitting under bowers Of greenery, A butterfly a-tilt upon her knee; Or lounging on her hip, Dancing a cricket on her finger-tip.

IV

Ay, let me breathe hot scents that tell of you; The hoary catnip and the meadow-mint, On which the honour of your touch doth print Itself as odour. Let me drink the hue Of iron-weed and mist-flow'r here that hint, With purple and blue, The rapture that your presence doth imbue Their inmost essence with, Immortal though as transient as a myth.

V

Yea, let me feed on sounds that still assure Me where you hide: the brooks', whose happy din Tells where, the deep retired woods within, Disrobed, you bathe; the birds', whose drowsy lure Tells where you slumber, your warm nestling chin Soft on the pure, Pink cushion of your palm.... What better cure For care and memory's ache Than to behold you so, and watch you wake!

THE BUSH-SPARROW

I

Ere wild-haws, looming in the glooms, Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms; And in the whistling hollow there The red-bud bends, as brown and bare As buxom Roxy's up-stripped arm; From some gray hickory or larch, Sighed o'er the sodden meads of March, The sad heart thrills and reddens warm To hear you braving the rough storm, Frail courier of green-gathering powers; Rebelling sap in trees and flowers; Love's minister come heralding-- O sweet saint-voice among bleak bowers! O brown-red pursuivant of Spring!

II

'Moan' sob the woodland waters still Down bloomless ledges of the hill; And gray, gaunt clouds like harpies hang In harpy heavens, and swoop and clang Sharp beaks and talons of the wind: Black scowl the forests, and unkind The far fields as the near: while song Seems murdered and all beauty wrong. One weak frog only in the thaw Of spawny pools wakes cold and raw, Expires a melancholy bass And stops as if bewildered: then Along the frowning wood again, Flung in the thin wind's vulture face, From woolly tassels of the proud, Red-bannered maples, long and loud, 'The Spring is come! is here! her Grace! her Grace!'

III

'Her Grace, the Spring! her Grace! her Grace! Climbs, beautiful and sunny browed, Up, up the kindling hills and wakes Blue berries in the berry brakes: With fragrant flakes, that blow and bleach, Deep-powders smothered quince and peach: Eyes dogwoods with a thousand eyes: Teaches each sod how to be wise With twenty wild-flowers to one weed, And kisses germs that they may seed. In purest purple and sweet white Treads up the happier hills of light, Bloom, cloudy-borne, song in her hair And balm and beam of odorous air. Winds, her retainers; and the rains Her yeomen strong that sweep the plains: Her scarlet knights of dawn, and gold Of eve, her panoply unfold: Her herald tabarded behold! Awake to greet! prepare to sing! She comes, the darling Duchess, Spring!'

QUIET

A log-hut in the solitude, A clapboard roof to rest beneath! This side, the shadow-haunted wood; That side, the sunlight-haunted heath.

At daybreak Morn shall come to me In raiment of the white winds spun; Slim in her rosy hand the key That opes the gateway of the sun.

Her smile shall help my heart enough With love to labour all the day, And cheer the road, whose rocks are rough, With her smooth footprints, each a ray.

At dusk a voice shall call afar, A lone voice like the whippoorwill's; And, on her shimmering brow one star, Night shall descend the western hills.

She at my door till dawn shall stand, With gothic eyes, that, dark and deep, Are mirrors of a mystic land, Fantastic with the towns of sleep.

MUSIC

Thou, oh, thou! Thou of the chorded shell and golden plectrum, thou Of the dark eyes and pale pacific brow! Music, who by the plangent waves, Or in the echoing night of labyrinthine caves, Or on God's mountains, lonely as the stars, Touchest reverberant bars Of immemorial sorrow and amaze;-- Keeping regret and memory awake, And all the immortal ache Of love that leans upon the past's sweet days In retrospection!--now, oh, now, Interpreter and heart-physician, thou Who gazest on the heaven and the hell Of life, and singest each as well, Touch with thy all-mellifluous finger-tips, Or thy melodious lips, This sickness named my soul, Making it whole As is an echo of a chord, Or some symphonic word, Or sweet vibrating sigh, That deep, resurgent still doth rise and die On thy voluminous roll; Part of the beauty and the mystery That axles Earth with music; as a slave, Swinging it round and round on each sonorous pole, 'Mid spheric harmony, And choral majesty, And diapasoning of wind and wave; Speeding it on its far elliptic way 'Mid vasty anthemings of night and day.-- O cosmic cry Of two eternities, wherein we see The phantasms, Death and Life, At endless strife Above the silence of a monster grave.

THE PURPLE VALLEYS

Far in the purple valleys of illusion I see her waiting, like the soul of music, With deep eyes, lovelier than cerulean pansies, Shadow and fire, yet merciless as poison; With red lips sweeter than Arabian storax, Yet bitterer than myrrh. O tears and kisses! O eyes and lips, that haunt my soul for ever!

Again Spring walks transcendent on the mountains: The woods are hushed: the vales are blue with shadows: Above the heights, steeped in a thousand splendours, Like some vast canvas of the gods, hangs burning The sunset's wild sciography: and slowly The moon treads heaven's proscenium,--night's stately White queen of love and tragedy and madness.

Again I know forgotten dreams and longings; Ideals lost; desires dead and buried Beside the altar sacrifice erected Within the heart's high sanctuary. Strangely Again I know the horror and the rapture, The utterless awe, the joy akin to anguish, The terror and the worship of the spirit.

Again I feel her eyes pierce through and through me; Her deep eyes, lovelier than imperial pansies, Velvet and flame, through which her fierce will holds me, Powerless and tame, and draws me on and onward To sad, unsatisfied and animal yearnings, Wild, unrestrained--the brute within the human-- To fling me panting on her mouth and bosom.

Again I feel her lips like ice and fire, Her red lips, odorous as Arabian storax, Fragrance and fire, within whose kiss destruction Lies serpent-like. Intoxicating languors Resistlessly embrace me, soul and body; And we go drifting, drifting--she is laughing-- Outcasts of God, into the deep's abysm.

A DREAM SHAPE

With moon-white hearts that held a gleam I gathered wild-flowers in a dream, And shaped a woman, whose sweet blood Was odour of the wildwood bud.

From dew, the starlight arrowed through, I wrought a woman's eyes of blue; The lids that on her eyeballs lay, Were rose-pale petals of the May.

Out of a rosebud's veins I drew The fragrant crimson beating through The languid lips of her, whose kiss Was as a poppy's drowsiness.

Out of the moonlight and the air I wrought the glory of her hair, That o'er her eyes' blue heaven lay Like some gold cloud o'er dawn of day.

I took the music of the breeze And water, whispering in the trees, And shaped the soul that breathed below A woman's blossom breasts of snow.

A shadow's shadow in the glass Of sleep, my spirit saw her pass: And thinking of it now, meseems We only live within our dreams.

For in that time she was to me More real than our reality; More real than Earth, more real than I-- The unreal things that pass and die.

THE OLD BARN

Low, swallow-swept and gray, Between the orchard and the spring, All its wide windows overflowing hay, And crannied doors a-swing, The old barn stands to-day.

Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides A round white nest; and, humming soft On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides, Black in the sun-shot loft, The building hornet glides.

Along its corn-crib, cautiously As thieving fingers, skulks the rat; Or in warped stalls of fragrant timothy, Gnaws at some loosened slat, Or passes shadowy.

A dream of drouth made audible Before its door, hot, smooth, and shrill All day the locust sings.... What other spell Shall hold it, lazier still Than the long day's, now tell:--

Dusk and the cricket and the strain Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars That burn above the rich west's ribbed stain; And dropping pasture bars, And cow-bells up the lane.

Night and the moon and katydid, And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs; And mazy shadows that the fireflies thrid; And sweet breath of the cows, And the lone owl here hid.

THE WOOD WITCH

There is a woodland witch who lies With bloom-bright limbs and beam-bright eyes, Among the water-flags that rank The slow brook's heron-haunted bank. The dragon-flies, brass-bright and blue, Are signs she works her sorcery through; Weird, wizard characters she weaves Her spells by under forest leaves,-- These wait her word, like imps, upon The gray flag-pods; their wings, of lawn And gauze; their bodies, gleaming green. While o'er the wet sand,--left between The running water and the still,-- In pansy hues and daffodil, The fancies that she doth devise Take on the forms of butterflies, Rich-coloured.--And 'tis she you hear, Whose sleepy rune, hummed in the ear Of silence, bees and beetles purr, And the dry-droning locusts whirr; Till, where the wood is very lone, Vague monotone meets monotone, And slumber is begot and born, A faery child beneath the thorn. There is no mortal who may scorn The witchery she spreads around Her din demesne, wherein is bound The beauty of abandoned time, As some sweet thought 'twixt rhyme and rhyme. And through her spells you shall behold The blue turn gray, the gray turn gold Of hollow heaven; and the brown Of twilight vistas twinkled down With fireflies; and in the gloom Feel the cool vowels of perfume Slow-syllabled of weed and bloom. But, in the night, at languid rest,-- When like a spirit's naked breast The moon slips from a silver mist,-- With star-bound brow, and star-wreathed wrist, If you should see her rise and wave You welcome--ah! what thing could save You then? for evermore her slave!

AT SUNSET

Into the sunset's turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge Enchantment sails through magic seas To fairyland Hesperides, Over the hills and away.

Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown, The young-eyed Dusk comes slowly down; Her apron filled with stars she stands, And one or two slip from her hands Over the hills and away.

Above the wood's black caldron bends The witch-faced Night and, muttering, blends The dew and heat, whose bubbles make The mist and musk that haunt the brake Over the hills and away.

Oh, come with me, and let us go Beyond the sunset lying low, Beyond the twilight and the night Into Love's kingdom of long light Over the hills and away.

MAY

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed, That spangle the woods and dance-- No gleam of gold that the twilights hold Is strong as their necromance: For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead, The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed Are the May's own utterance.

The azure stars of the bluet bloom, That sprinkle the woodland's trance-- No blink of blue that a cloud lets through Is sweet as their countenance: For, over the knolls that the woods perfume, The azure stars of the bluet bloom Are the light of the May's own glance.

With her wondering words and her looks she comes, In a sunbeam of a gown; She needs but think and the blossoms wink, But look, and they shower down. By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums, With her wondering words and her looks she comes Like a little maid to town.

RAIN

I

Around, the stillness deepened; then the grain Went wild with wind; and every briery lane Was swept with dust; and then, tempestuous black, Hillward the tempest heaved a monster back, That on the thunder leaned as on a cane; And on huge shoulders bore a cloudy pack, That gullied gold from many a lightning-crack: One great drop splashed and wrinkled down the pane, And then field, hill, and wood were lost in rain.

II

At last, through clouds,--as from a cavern hewn Into night's heart,--the sun burst, angry roon; And every cedar, with its weight of wet, Against the sunset's fiery splendour set, Frightened to beauty, seemed with rubies strewn: Then in drenched gardens, like sweet phantoms met, Dim odours rose of pink and mignonette; And in the East a confidence, that soon Grew to the calm assurance of the moon.

TO FALL

Sad-hearted spirit of the solitudes, Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods! Gray-gowned with fog, gold-girdled with the gloom Of tawny twilights; burdened with perfume Of rain-wet uplands, chilly with the mist; And all the beauty of the fire-kissed Cold forests crimsoning thy indolent way, Odorous of death and drowsy with decay. I think of thee as seated 'mid the showers Of languid leaves that cover up the flowers,-- The little flower-sisterhoods, whom June Once gave wild sweetness to, as to a tune A singer gives her soul's wild melody,-- Watching the squirrel store his granary. Or, 'mid old orchards I have pictured thee: Thy hair's profusion blown about thy back; One lovely shoulder bathed with gypsy black; Upon thy palm one nestling cheek, and sweet The rosy russets tumbled at thy feet. Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers? A heart-sick bird that sang of happier hours? A cricket dirging days that soon must die? Or did the ghost of Summer wander by?

SUNSET IN AUTUMN

Blood-coloured oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass; Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras, And broom-sedge strips of smoky-pink and pearl-gray clumps of grass In which, beneath the ragged sky, the rain pools gleam like glass.

From West to East, from wood to wood, along the forest-side, The winds,--the sowers of the Lord,--with thunderous footsteps stride; Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed, Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide.

The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds rings a faint fairy bell; And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed's windy shell Glimmers; while, wrapped in withered dreams, the wet autumnal smell Of loam and leaf, like some sad ghost, steals over field and dell.