Part 2
O season of the strong triumphant Sun! Bringer of exultation unto all! Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run. Over thy growing grain How the winds rise and cease! Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun-- There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain! Where trees are tall, Hear where young birds hold their high festival; And see where shallow waters know thy peace.
Will any of these things ever pain thine eyes, Summer, that thou shouldst go another way Than ours, or shouldst our offerings despise? Come with me further still Where, in sight of the sea, This garden liveth under mellow skies; Of its dear odors drink thine utmost fill, And deign to stay A moment mid its colors' glad array,-- Is not this place a pleasant one for thee?
Yea, thou wilt ever stay, I know full well! Why do I fear that thou wilt pass from us? Is not this earth thy home wherein to dwell? The perfect ways thereof Are thy desired ones; Earth hath no voice but of thy worth to tell. Therefore, as one who loves might praise his love, So, even thus, I hail thee, Summer, who art glorious, And know thy reign eternal as the Sun's!
THE PATH
Is this the path that knew your tread, Once, when the skies were just as blue As they are now, far overhead? Are these the trees that looked at you And listened to the words you said?
Along this moss did your dress sweep? And is this broken stem the one That gave its flower to you to keep? And here where the grasses knew the sun Before a sickle came to reap Did your dear shadow softly fall? This place is very like, and yet No shadow lieth here at all; With dew the mosses still are wet Although the grass no more is tall.
The small brown birds go rustling through The low-branched hemlock as of old; The tree-tops almost touch the blue; The sunlight falleth down like gold On one new flower that waiteth you.
THE LAST FLOWER
O golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun! Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee? This meadow is a barren thing to see, For here the reapers' toil is over and done. Of all her many birds there is but one Left to assail the last wild raspberry; The buttercups and daisies withered be, And yet thy reign hath only now begun. O sign of power and sway imperial! O sceptre thrust into the hands of Fall By Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot's tread! O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas, Even the trees have let their glory pass, And now with thy gold hair are garlanded!
AFTER HARVEST
O Earth, O Mother, thou hast earned our praise! The long year through thou hast been good to us. Forgive us were we ever mutinous Or unbelieving in thy strange, sure ways. Sometimes, alas, we watched with wild amaze Thy passing, for thou wert imperious Indeed; and our estate seemed perilous, And we as grass the wind unseeing sways. Then, we were blind: the least among us sees, Now, in each well-stripped vine and barren field, Each garden that is fast a-perishing, The promise April surely had revealed Had we had grace to bend our stubborn knees Who seek thee now with humble thanksgiving.
HEAT IN SEPTEMBER
And why shouldst thou come back to us, July, Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass? Where are thy sunflowers? Where thine uncut grass? Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky? Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh; Only the wind that bloweth in, alas, Telleth of fire where many a green tree was; And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high. Must I, like him who, seeing once again The long-awaited face of his lost love, Hath little strength to thank the gods above (Remembering most the ancient passion's pain), Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,-- Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain?
ON THE HILLSIDE
October's peace hath fallen on everything. In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill, With red and purple yet the heavens thrill-- The passing of the sun remembering. A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing, (In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!) Below, the little city lieth still; And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling. Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough, The cattle wander homeward slowly now; In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead. Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born; The maples will be desolate by morn. The last word of the summer hath been said.
SUMMER DYING
Last night the heavy moaning wind Bore unto me Warning from Him who hath designed That change shall be.
Beneath these mighty hills I lay, At rest at last, And thinking on the golden day But now gone past;
When softly came a faint, far cry That night made clear, "_Thy reign is over, thou must die;_ _Winter is near!_"
"_Winter is near!_" Yea, all night long Reechoed far The burden of that weary song Of hopeless war.
I prayed unto the fixed King Of changing Time For longer life, till sun-rising And morning's prime,
And while to-day I watched the sun Rise, slant, and die; And now is night the stronger one. Again the cry
Comes, louder now,--"_Thy reign is o'er!_" Yes, Lord, I know; And here I kneel on Earth's cold floor Once, ere I go,
And thank Thee for the long, long days Thou gavest me, And all the pleasant, laughing ways I walked with Thee.
I have been happy since the first Glad day I rose And found the river here had burst Through ice and snows
While I had slept. Blue places were Amidst the gray, Where water showed; and the water Most quiet lay.
Upon the ice great flocks of crows Were clamoring-- Lest my blue eyes again should close-- The eyes of Spring.
I stepped down to the frozen shore-- The snow was gone; And lo, where ice had been before, The river shone!
With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birds To the tall pines; These were the first of Spring's faint words And Summer's signs.
And now I hear Thee--"_Thou must die!_" Ah, might I stay, That I might hear one robin's cry Bringing the day;
That I might see the new grass come Where cattle range; The maples bud, wild roses bloom, Old willows change;
That I might know one night in June Two found most fair, And see again the great half-moon Shine through her hair;
Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie, Where orchards are, And hear some glad child's laughing cry Ring loud and far;
Or even, Lord, though near my end It surely be, Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and send One day to me,
One day--October's brown and red Cover the hills, And all the brakes and ferns are dead, And quiet fills
One place where many birds once sang? Then should I go Where heavy fir-trees overhang Their branches so,
And slim white birches, quivering, Loose yellow leaves, And aspens grow, and everything For Summer grieves.
Ah, there once more, ere day be done, To face the west, And see the sure and scarlet sun Sink to its rest
Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheer Up to the sky; To feel the last light disappear And silent die;
To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come; I hear Thy call; Reach me Thy hand and guide me home, Lest I should fall....
Back, Winter! Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead, Now come to Thee; I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said "_Let Winter be!_"
A NOVEMBER VIGIL
I wonder why my love for him Should grow so much these last three days, While he but stares as if some whim Had been discovered to his gaze;
Some foolish whim that brings but shame Whatever time he thinks thereof,-- To him my name is now the name Of some old half-forgotten love.
And yet I starve for his least kiss And faint because my love is great; I, who am now no more than this,-- An unseen beggar at his gate....
_She watched the moon and spake aloud._ _The moon seemed not to rise, but hung_ _Just underneath the long straight cloud_ _That low across the heavens swung,_
_As if to press the old moon back_ _Into its place behind the trees._ _The trees stood where the hill was black;_ _They were not vexed by any breeze._
_The moon was not as it had been_ _Before, when she had watched it rise;_ _It was misshapen now, and thin,_ _As if some trouble in the skies_
_Had happened more than it could bear,_ _Its color, too, was no more red;_ _Nor was it like her yellow hair;--_ _It looked as if its soul were dead._
I, who was once well-loved of him, Am as a beggar by his gate Whereon black carved things look grim At one who thinks to penetrate.
I do not ask if I may stray Once more in those desired lands; Another night, yet one more day, For these I do not make demands;
For when the ripened hour is past Things such as these are asked in vain: His first day's love,--were that the last I were repaid for this new pain.
Out of his love great joy I had For many days; and even now I do not dare to be but glad When I remember, often, how
He said he had great joy of me. The while he loved, no man, I think, Exceeded him in constancy; My passion, even, seemed to shrink
Almost to nothing, when he came And told me all of love's strange things: The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame, Its silent hours, its rapid wings....
_The moon still waited, watching her_ _(The cloud still stretched there, close above;_ _The trees beneath); it could not stir,_ _And yet it seemed the shape thereof,_
_Since she looked first, some change had known._ _In places it had burned away,_ _And one side had much thinner grown;_ _--What light that came from it was gray._
_It was not curved from east to west._ _But lay upon its back; like one_ _Wounded, or weary of some quest,_ _Or by strong enemies undone._
_Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;_ _She knew they were burned out and dead_ _Because no clouds went, drifting by,_ _Across the light the strange moon shed._
Now, I can hope for naught but death. I would not stay to give him pain, Or say the words a woman saith When love hath called aloud in vain
And got no answer anywhere. It were far better I should die, And have rough strangers come to bear My body far away, where I
Shall know the quiet of the tomb; That they should leave me, with no tears, To think and think within the gloom For many years, for many years.
The thought of that strange, narrow place Is hard for me to bear, indeed; I do not fear cold Death's embrace, And where black worms draw nigh to feed
On my white body, then, I know That I shall make no mournful cry: But that I should be hidden so Where I no more may see the sky,--
The wide sky filled with many a star, Or all around the yellow sun, Or even the sky where great clouds are That wait until the rain be done,
--That is an evil thing for me.... _Across the sky the cloud swung still_ _And pressed the moon down heavily_ _Where leafless trees grew on the hill._
_The pale moon now was very thin._ _There was no water near the place,_ _Else would the moon that slept therein_ _Have frightened her with its gray face._
How shall I wish to see the sky! For that alone mine eyes shall weep; I care not where they make me lie, Nor if my grave be digged deep,
So they leave loose my coffin's lid And throw on me no mouldy clay, That the white stars may not be hid: This little thing is all I pray.
Then I shall move me wearily, And clasp each bone that was my wrist, Around each slender bony knee; And wind my hair, that once he kissed,
Around my body wasted thin, To keep me from the grave's cold breath; And on my knees rest my poor chin, And think of what I lose by death.
I shall be happy, being dead.... _The moon, by now, had nearly gone,_ _As if it knew its time was sped_ _And feared the coming of the dawn._
_It had not risen; one could see_ _The cloud was strong to keep it back;_ _It merely faded utterly,_ _And where it was the sky grew black._
_Till suddenly the east turned gray,_ _Although no stars were overhead;_ _And though the moon had died away,_ _There came faint glimmerings of red;_
_Then larger waves of golden light_ _Heralded that the day was born,_ _And on the furthest eastern height_ _With swift feet came the waited morn._
_With swift feet came the morn, but lo!_ _Just as its triumph was begun,_ _The first wild onset of the snow_ _Strangled the glad imperial sun!_
NUNC DIMITTIS
Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray: Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay, Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way;
Because the memories of the things that were-- That little blessed while with Thee and her-- Make me a heavy-hearted traveller.
And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill, I--knowing that Thy will was once our will-- Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still,
And only waitest--Thou and she alone-- Until I know again as I have known The glory that abideth near our throne.
BETWEEN THE BATTLES
Let us bury him here, Where the maples are red! He is dead, And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall of the leaf and the year.
Where the hillside is sheer, Let it echo our tread Whom he led; Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who never knew fear.
Ere he died, they had fled; Yet they heard his last cheer Ringing clear,-- When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, but grew dizzy instead.
Break his sword and his spear! Let this last prayer be said By the bed We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple trees moaning so drear:
"O Lord God, by the red Sullen end of the year That is here, We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords till his slayers be dead!"
THE QUIET VALLEY
They pity me who have grown old,-- So old, mine eyes may not behold If any wolf chance near the fold.
They pity me, because, alas! I lie and dream among the grass, And let the herds unheeded pass.
They deem I must be sorrowing, Because I note not when the Spring Is over me and everything.
They know not why I am forlorn,-- How could they know?--They were not born When he rode here that April morn.
They were not living when he came Into this valley, swift like flame,-- Perchance they have not heard his name!
My men were very valiant men-- (Alas, that I had only ten! These people were not living then.)
But when one is not yet awake His banner is not hard to take, His spears are easy things to break.
And dazed men are not hard to slay When many foes, as strong as they, With swords and spears come down their way.
This valley now has quiet grown; And I lie here content, alone, Dreaming of things that I have known;
And count the mounds of waving grass-- (Ten,--yea, and ten more, by the Mass!) And let the restless cattle pass.
THE KINGFISHER
_Under the sun, the Kingfisher_ _From his high place was watching her._
He knew she came from some far place; For when she threw her body down, She seemed quite tired; and her face Had dust upon it; and her gown, That had been yellow, now was brown.
She lay near where the shadows lie At noontime when they meet the sun. The water floated slowly by Her feet. Her hair was all undone, And with the grass its gold was spun.
The trees were tall and green behind, And hid the house upon the hill. This place was sheltered from the wind, And all the little leaves were still, And every fern and daffodil.
Her face was hidden in her hands; And through the grass, and through her hair, The sunlight found the golden bands About her wrists. (It was aware, Also, that her two arms were bare.)
_From his high branch, the Kingfisher_ _Looked down on her and pitied her._
He wondered who that she could be,-- This dear, strange lady, who had come To vex him with her misery; And why her days were wearisome, And what far country was her home.
Her home must be far off indeed, Wherein such bitter grief could grow. Had there been no one there to plead For her when they had wronged her so? Did none her perfect honor know?
Was there no sword or pennoned lance Omnipotent in hall or field For her complete deliverance? To make them cry, "We yield! we yield Were not her colors on some shield?
_Had he been there? the Kingfisher,_ _How he had fought and died for her!_
A little yellow bird flew by; And where the water-weeds were still, Hovered a great blue dragon-fly; Small fishes set the streams a-thrill The Kingfisher forgot to kill.
He only thought of her who lay Upon the ground and was so fair,-- As fair as she who came one day And sat long with her lover there. The same gold sun was in her hair.
They had come down, because of love, From the great house on the hillside: This lady had no share thereof, For now this place was sanctified! Had this fair lady's lover died?
Was this dear lady's lover dead? Had she come here to wait until Her heart and soul were comforted? Why was it not within her will To seek the lady on the hill?
She, too, was lonely; for he had Beheld her just this morning, when Her last kiss made her lover glad Who went to fight the heathen-men: (He said he would return again!)
That lady would have charity He knew, because her love was great; And this one--fairer even than she-- Should enter in her open gate And be no more disconsolate!
_Under the sun, the Kingfisher_ _Knew no one else might comfort her._
THE CONQUEROR
I will go now where my dear Lady is, And tell her how I won in this great fight; Ye know not death who say this shape is his That loometh up between me and the light.
As if death could wish anything of one Who hath to-day brought many men to death! Why should it not grow dark?--Surely the sun Hath seen since morning much that wearieth.
Dead bodies; red, red blood upon the land; Torn sails of scattered ships upon the sea; And dead forgotten men stretched on the sand Close to the sea's edge, where the waves are free;
What day hath seen such things and hath not fled? What day hath stayed, hearing, for frequent sounds, The flashing swords of men well-helmeted, The moans of warriors sick of many wounds?
Ye know not death; this thing is but the night. Wherefore I should be glad that it is come: For when I left my Lady for this fight, I said, "At sunset I am coming home."
"When you return, I shall be here," she said, "God knows that I must pray a little while." And as she put my helmet on my head, She kissed me; and her blue eyes tried to smile.
And still she waiteth underneath the trees. (When we had gone a little on our way I turned and looked; she knelt there on her knees: I heard her praying many times to-day.)
Nay, nay, I need no wine! She waiteth still Watching and praying till I come to her. She saw the sun drop down behind the hill And wondereth I am a loiterer.
So I must go. Bring me my shield and sword! (Is there no unstained grass will clean this stain?) This day is won;--but now the great reward Cometh! O Love, thy prayers were not in vain!
I am well rested now.--Nay, I can rise Without your help! Why do ye look at me With so much pain and pity in your eyes, Who gained with me to-day this victory?
I think we should be glad we are not dead, --Only, perchance, no Lady waiteth you, No Lady who is all uncomforted, And who hath watched and prayed these long hours through.
Yea, I must go.--What? Am I tired yet? Let me lie here and rest my aching side. The thought of her hath made me quite forget How sharp his sword was just before he died.
THE KING'S HOSTEL
Let us make it fit for him! He will come ere many hours Are passed over. Strew these flowers Where the floor is hard and bare! Ever was his royal whim That his place of rest were fair.
Such a narrow little room! Think you he will deign to use it? Yes, we know he would not choose it Were there any other near; Here there is such damp and gloom, And such quietness is here.
That he loved the light, we know; And we know he was the gladdest Always when the mirth was maddest And the laughter drowned the song; When the fire's shade and glow Fell upon the loyal throng.
Yet it may be, if he come, Now, to-night, he will be tired; And no more will be desired All the music once he knew; He will joy the lutes are dumb And be glad the lights are few.
Heard you how the fight has gone? Surely it will soon be ended! Was their stronghold well defended Ere it fell before his might? Did it yield soon after dawn, Or when noon was at its height?
Hark! his trumpet! It is done. Smooth the bed. And for a cover Drape those scarlet colors over; And upon these dingy walls Hang what banners he has won. Hasten ere the twilight falls!
They are here!--We knew the best When we set us to prepare him Such a place; for they that bear him --They as he--seem weary too; Peace! and let him have his rest; There is nothing more to do.
BETWEEN THE WINTER AND THE SPRING
Between the Winter and the Spring One came to me at dead of night; I heard him well as any might, Although his lips, unmurmuring. Made no sweet sounds for my delight; Also, I knew him, though long days (It seemed) had fallen across my ways Since I had felt his comforting.
It was quite dark, but I could see His hair was yellow as the sun; And his soft garments, every one, Were white as angels' throats may be; And as some man whose pain is done At last, and peace is surely his, His eyes were perfect with great bliss And seemed so glad to look at me.
I knew that he had come to bring The change that I was waiting for, And, as he crossed my rush-strewn floor, I had no thought of questioning; And then he kissed me, o'er and o'er, Upon the eyes; so I fell Asleep unfrightened,--knowing well That morning would fulfil the Spring.
And when they came at early morn And found that I at last was dead, Some two or three knelt by my bed And prayed for one they deemed forlorn; But he they wept for only said (Thinking of when the old days were), "Alas that God had need of her The very morning Spring was born!"
THE MOTHER
The long dark night crawled slowly on; I waited patiently, Knowing at last the sudden dawn, Sometime, would surely be.
It came,--to tell me everything Was Winter's quiet slave: I waited still, aware that Spring Was strong to come and save.
And then Spring came, and I was glad A few expectant hours; Until I learned the things I had Were only withered flowers
Because there came not with the Spring As in the ancient days-- The sound of his feet pattering Along Spring's open ways;