Part 3

They felt the vessel dip and trim, And settle down from list to list; They saw the sea-plain heave and swim As gently as a rising mist.

And down so slowly, down and down, Rivet by rivet, plank by plank; A little flood of ocean flown Across the deck, she sank and sank.

From knee to breast the water wore, It crept and crept; ere they were ware Gone was the angel at the prore, They felt the water float their hair.

They saw the salt plain spark and shine, They threw their faces to the sky; Beneath a deepening film of brine They saw the star-flash blur and die.

She sank and sank by yard and mast, Sank down the shimmering gradual dark; A little drooping pennon last Showed like the black fin of a shark.

And down she sank till, keeled in sand, She rested safely balanced true, With all her upward gazing band, The piper and the dreaming crew.

And there, unmarked of any chart, In unrecorded deeps they lie, Empearled within the purple heart Of the great sea for aye and aye.

Their eyes are ruby in the green Long shaft of sun that spreads and rays, And upward with a wizard sheen A fan of sea-light leaps and plays.

Tendrils of or and azure creep, And globes of amber light are rolled, And in the gloaming of the deep Their eyes are starry pits of gold.

And sometimes in the liquid night The hull is changed, a solid gem, That glows with a soft stony light, The lost prince of a diadem.

And at the keel a vine is quick, That spreads its bines and works and weaves O’er all the timbers veining thick A plenitude of silver leaves.

AT LES ÉBOULEMENTS.

A glamour on the phantom shore Of golden pallid green, Gray purple in the flats before, The river streams between.

From hazy hamlets, one by one, Beyond the island bars, The casements in the setting sun Flash back in violet stars.

A brig is straining out for sea, To Norway or to France she goes, And all her happy flags are free, Her sails are flushed with rose.

THE WOLF.

Whoo—whoo— The rain in the hollow The wan gray sleet will follow, The shaggy moor Will lie at the door, Heavy with mould, Dead with cold, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loô—yu-loô.

Whoo—whoo— The wind in the willow, The snow heaped up for a pillow, The shell of ice, Will crush in a trice, An iron mould, To have and to hold, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loô—yu-loô.

Whoo—whoo— The frost in the furrow, Heat takes long to burrow, The fire on the hearth Shakes its mirth At one of God’s poor, Outside the door, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loô—yu-loô.

Whoo—whoo— Weary and worry him, Gnaw him, tug him, and carry him; Dig him a pit, Shallow and fit, In the colder cold It will hold or unfold, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loô—yu-loô.

Whoo—whoo— The steam from the thatches, The casement tawny in patches; Look not yet, You might never forget The ghost of breath, Or the leper Death, Whoo—whoo;—yu-loô—yu-loô.

RAIN AND THE ROBIN.

A robin in the morning, In the morning early, Sang a song of warning, “There’ll be rain, there’ll be rain.” Very, very clearly From the orchard Came the gentle horning, “There’ll be rain.” But the hasty farmer Cut his hay down, Did not heed the charmer From the orchard, And the mower’s clatter Ceased at noontide, For with drip and spatter Down came the rain. Then the prophet robin Hidden in the crab-tree Railed upon the farmer, “I told you so, I told you so.” As the rain grew stronger, And his heart grew prouder, Notes so full and slow Coming blither, louder, “I told you so, I told you so,” “I told you so.”

THE DAME REGNANT.

Ah! Dame Gossip fabulous! You have worn the quiet smile, Till your mouth is drawn as trim As a Quaker’s beaver brim; And when rumor runs a mile, You don’t know the soles he wears, Never heard the rascal’s name; If the neighbors bring the shoe, Tug and tug it won’t fit you; If it does, ah! shifty Dame, Rumor’s last must be the same! Hey! this comedy began When the earth was blithe and young, When the less fair of the fair Daughters of the world of men, Whispered in their errant hair, How their sisters of the glance, Clear and deep of star in blue, Met the eager sons of God, In the valley, in the dew, On the myrtle-scented sod: And the truants from the spheres Heard like donging of herd-bells, In the flow of harp and flute, How those others in eclipse, Withered up in jealousies, Crowning malice in the eyes, Over malice on the lips, Hissed their word of hate and lies. Ah! these truants from the spheres Learnt the human in the note Of the goddess, and were ware How of all the torrent gold Snakes were half and half was hair.

Yet the ages were as one Heap of burnt and calcined stars, Ere her popular crown was run In the mould of human fears, Ere her sceptre had been cast, Tempered steel with foolish tears. Now they view her at the last, Personed like a regnant queen, Cold as pole-ice, hard as quartz, Loathly as the livid, lean Adder of the triple tongue, Basilisk eyes that reap and glean, And a mind alert, elate, With the splendor of her wit, Springing through a smoky fate, With a gleam of hell-fire lit.

And she wanders from her throne (So these cringing lieges state), While her shape still glooms it there; And but give the wizard crone Two small juttings in the air, Spiderlike she weaves her web, From her ancient ventral store, Till the whole great house is meshed With her legends, grim and hoar. Or she starts a quiet mouse, Feeding in the native cheese, And a wolf springs from the rind, Bloated out to what you please. What she does not say she thinks; Crafty, with a few dry winks, Drops her poison in the eye, Watching while it works and sinks; When the eye is diamond clear, Comes she with a slimy sigh, Bred to catch the dullard ear, Opening with the formula, Stereoed to the devil’s phrase In the human words, “They say;” Then the burden of the tale Crawls in after like a snail. And if the dear vassal’s wild, Why, her countenance is blank, And her eye is dull as dulse; But the finger dwells awhile Calming on the plunging pulse, Just for, say, a nunnery smile, Till with magic overmuch, All the story is conveyed, Through the nerves intensive played, Innuendo of the touch.

Once afoot the quarry flies, From the hunter in the mind; With a prudent, vacant smile, Dull Saint Virgin drops her eyes, Gives the word with quiet guile, Guarding with her sainted wish, For the error of the tale, The dear souls from blast and bale. And the fighter to his trull Tells his version of the yarn; With his bull-brain all afire, Charges down the ruddy rag Of the world above his ire, Tramps the tale in slag and mire. And the comments run from “Pish,” To the most convenient curse, In the beggar’s damning purse. So the story rolls and grows Crescive as a cloudy head, Budding silver in the blue, From black root of thunder bred, With the lightning splitting through. Every subject stricken blind With black fearing of the Dame, Strained of nerve and lean of loin, Passes on the strangest talk, Like a counterfeited coin; And the fear of her is wild, Works like acid in the blood, And the man is worse than child, Saved by innocent hardihood. How he supplicates and whines, When he knows his fame is out, And sees springing into lines All the fables, shout on shout. Thinks to run the talk to earth, Talk that carries rumor’s lease; Cloudy talk of vapor birth, Chases on the plains of peace, Or where tides of trade convulse; Something mantled like a shape Grasps at last with pounding pulse— Mist he holds; while mocking rings All the riot sprung anew, With the flap and clap of wings.

Nay, my craven, you who fear All this cackle of the crew, Carping at your coward ear! We who know the Dame so well, Whence she sprang and how she grew, Do not crown her deep with hell; She is but an earthly shape Springing from the parent ape, Nothing wild with power or eld, Nothing older than the race; And this skull-face that you dread, Is the image of your head. Here where Comedy is held Deep in honor as the star, Spreading sparkle over sea, You may see the Dame at will, Nothing formed for dread or dree, Contemplate her and be still: She has worn that quiet smile, Till her mouth is drawn as trim As a Quaker’s beaver brim: Her light eyes seem clear of guile, And her smile is half demure, Half malicious. Let her play One of her protean pranks, Show her fangs and start her prey. Now she dares the comic sprite, Laughter only comes to light; Ripples outward like a flag Over towers inviolate, Sparkles April as a brook, Breaks where sun and shadow flit; Laughter silver and secure, From the crystal wells of wit, Springing sanely, springing pure. Mark your Dame of many crowns, How she hardens into sphinx, When she hears the airy ring Of the master that she owns, How, amorphous bulk, she shrinks, How she trails and leers and winks, Just a moment of gray rags, Ere the wind has pounced and packed All her baggage and her bags Into limbo, and the dust Rises in a smoke, and wracked Drives the cloud in shreds and shags. Laughter falling coolly clear, Widens air and broaches sun, Comes as healing to a fear But of self and shadow spun: Self, a lantern-candle, throws Hugeous spottings on the wall; Dance the tragic giant Oes, Rayed from pin-points punctured small, In the battered shadow-tin Fused of deed and circumstance: Coward in the gaping ring, Bound without and look within, Learn where fable flows and whence.

Speech is but the fluid mind, Reaching outward over life. Where quick speech is dammed we find Cactus deserts sharp and dim, Dead for water, ruin lined, With a mirage on the rim Of the sundown. Let speech flow Like the air, which is the soul Of the world, from pole to pole; Shaking in the swamp of death With the poison bred of heat, Timing with a tidal breath The deep swaying of the wheat. Not till mind is massed as near Servant of the lucid soul, Sensitive as ether clear, Joining planets pole to pole, Shall we have a dearth of this Talk that lays the lash on life. Only when the mind rings true To the deep-held undertone Heard where Nature moulds her young, Will the fancy fail to brew Noisome liquor for the tongue. Heighten mind and heighten life, Heighten comment above lure, Heighten laughter above strife, Bred to scourge the fancy pure. Then will come the days of men, When the mind will govern power; When clear speech will spring again, Flower unto a lovelier flower; When dear laughter, victor browed, From her scorning of your Dame, Will play out a lambent flame Over life to saneness vowed.

Contrast to the present hour! As a sage might leave a coast Where the cities shambles are, And the people herded flesh, Climb the uplands into wood Where the trees are vined in mesh, Where noon dreams with eyes of eve, Where the beck is flecked with gold, And the silver violets fold, Under leafage cool and lush, Where the moss is drenched with sleep, Where the music-memoried thrush Broods in dingles dusk and deep, Upward to the brow of hill, Where the wind soars cool with scent, And the twilights end in stars, Where upon the glimmering plain Fire-flies with the lights are blent From the huts and haunts of men, Jewels in the crown content.

THE CUP.

Here is pleasure; drink it down. Here is sorrow; drain it dry. Tilt the goblet, don’t ask why. Here is madness; down it goes. Here’s a dagger and a kiss, Don’t ask what the reason is. Drink your liquor, no one knows; Drink it bravely like a lord. Do not roll a coward eye, Pain and pleasure is one sword Hacking out your destiny; Do not say, “It is not just.” That word won’t apply to life; You must drink because you must; Tilt the goblet, cease the strife. Here at last is something good, Just to warm your flagging blood. Don’t take breath— At the bottom of the cup Here is death: Drink it up.

THE HAPPY FATALIST.

We plough the field, And harrow the clod, And hurl the seed. Trust for trust: The germ yields, The wheat brairds, We gather the sheaf, Deed for deed: The stubble moulds, The chaff is cast, Dust for dust: The man is worn, His days are bound, But his labor returns, The child learns Round for round: The god is astir, Firm and free, Weaving his plan, Swelling the tree, Bracing the man: All is for good, Sweet or acerb, Laughter or pain, Freedom or curb: Follow your bent, Cry life is joy, Cry life is woe, The god is content, Impartial in power, Tranquil—and lo! Like the kernels in quern, Each in turn, Comes to his hour, Nor fast nor slow: It is well: even so.

SONG.

When the ash-tree buds and the maples, And the osier wands are red, And the fairy sunlight dapples Dales where the leaves are spread, The pools are full of spring water, Winter is dead.

When the bloodroot blows in the tangle, And the lithe brooks run, And the violets gleam and spangle The glades in the golden sun, The showers are bright as the sunlight, April has won.

When the color is free in the grasses, And the martins whip the mere, And the Maryland-yellow-throat passes, With his whistle quick and clear, The willow is full of catkins; May is here.

Then cut a reed by the river, Make a song beneath the lime, And blow with your lips a-quiver, While your sweetheart carols the rhyme; The glamour of love, the lyric of life, The springtime—the springtime.

A SONG.

TO B. W. B.

The world is spinning for change, And life has rapid wings; Oh, one needs a steady heart Not to falter while he sings.

But this is made for my Dear One When we are far apart; That she may have wherever she goes A song of mine in her heart.

A song that will move with a memory Of something she loves best; A song that will throb at her waking, A song that will lull her to rest.

A song that will serve for an anchor, Compass, and pilot, and chart; A song that will bid her remember That love is the crown of art.

A song that will bid her remember The north nights cool and still, With the thrushes fluting deep, deep, Deep on the pine-wood hill,

With a star at her open window, When the cuckoo wakes with a start: Oh! can she ever forget me With a song of mine in her heart?

SONG.

The wind is wild to-night, In the dark he turns and stirs, Or he falls into dream and quiet, In the gloomy heart of the firs.

He springs upon the trees, And he shakes the sleeping nest; And every little water-pool Has a troubled breast.

He has come from a weary land, Where the rivers of memory spring; Their waters are bitter, are bitter, And have dampened his wing.

The very flowers are musing On something they longed to be, In a land of peace and promise, In a province of the sea.

The birds cry out and are silent, They are dreaming once again Of the tawny-throated hollow, And the fern in the glen.

And the wind raves out like a spirit, With his hands hid in his hair, And my heart is leaping, and leaping, To follow him—where?

A SONG.

In the ruddy heart of the sunset, Fading and fading still, A planet throbs and smoulders, Over the sapphire hill.

A mist steals up from the marshes, Spreading tender and bright; A heron floats from his haunt in the reeds, Through the ruby light.

The elm-trees towered with shadow Seem dripping and cool with dew; There’s a sigh in the cedar covert, But never a breeze comes through.

A thrush keeps ringing and ringing— Ringing—now he is still, There’s a starry light in a window On the dark, dark hill.

The home that’s far away Comes stealing back to me, With the calling of the thrushes In the bonny birch-tree.

My eyes are full of tears For to-day and yesterday, For the yearning and the yearning, And the heart that’s far away.

SONG. October 3rd, 1893.

Sorrow is come like a swallow to nest, Winging him up from the wind and the foam; Mine is the heart that he loves the best, He dreams of it when he dreams of home.

Strange! in the daylight off he flies, Swift to the south away to the sea; But when in the west the ruby dies, With the growing stars he comes back to me.