Part 2

No boasting here, No meanness with minnows; Commonwealth of Bait Debts only finn-owes; And a great quiet kindness And much color blindness.

Maybe it comes from Looking down so deep, Where much is hidden And much lies asleep; With your eyes on the line, Given you to keep.

Quiet pipes lit, Quiet eyes reflective, Rips a silver fish From out the perspective; To go fishing on the wharf Is my one great Objective!

THE WALLACE DAISY FIELD.

Slim pointed pickets guard the summer dream, Glimpsing behind their lichen-scrolléd bars; Young shapes of white that in ethereal stream Toss starry incense to the summer stars. Ranked slender acolytes in harbor lane, Communion bear to many a churchless breast; Processional in falling summer rain, Recessional to gold and Gothic West.

Only a daisy field--yet one man’s care Enshrines it in immaculate gated reach; Inviolate flowers veil them mistily there, Spreading like moonlight to the moonlit beach ... Where the white patens disk the tabled green Is read the sacred Word of sea and skies; Chapelled within this occult daisy screen Is Sacrament for beauty-loving eyes.

YOUTH AND THE OLD MILL.

YOUTH

Old Mill, grind me corn For my house by the thorn, For I’m with the old folk, Where the pigs in the poke And the cows in the barn And the peat’s on the stone And the latchstring out-thrown.... Old Mill, grind me corn For the winter morn.

OLD MILL

No grain can I grind thee, Modern Child, My sails are tattered, My grind stones scattered; My cranks are riddled With rust defiled ... But I’ll turn you a dream, A Grey-Town dream, At which many have smiled And been beguiled.

YOUTH

Turn me a dream then, doughty Mill, Flaring there on your windy hill With your rickety arms spread on the sky; Black crows from the cornfields passing you by, Near the burying-ground where the Quakers sleep, And the sailors home from the ranging deep Turn me a dream, you strange old Mill, Keeping your watch on the windy hill.

OLD MILL

Shall I turn you a dream of the Town Crier calling His news ’gainst the tempest bawling? Shall I turn you a dream of Three Vikings sailing The rim of a low lying island hailing ...? Turn you a dream of a Smuggler grim And the underground path for his mates and him? Of Three forms walking a midnight road To a lonely farmhouse where one light showed And a paper signed with a white quill pen That helped bring freedom to slave-born men? Of a man who made a telescope And lassoed the stars with a mental rope-- Of the woman who worked in a cottage small, Whose name in science leads them all? Of a knight who came and built a school? Of a woman who broke a cast iron rule? Of the Quaker forms and the gentle ways That ruled all war out of the ways? Of the Indians, watching the sun go down? Of the whalers and gold seekers of renown?

YOUTH

Nay, Old Mill, I laugh in your face; Turn me no dream of a Quaker past, Turn me no dream of the tranquil ways, Turn me a dream for my own tense days, Turn me a dream for my cherishing-- A dream for believing; A dream for my strength!

OLD MILL

Shall I turn you a dream for your loneliness? A dream of the star-scattered faces about you, And the plans and pleasures and pains that flout you? Shall I tell of the voices that you must hear Before some one Voice calls you clear? (But whatever it be--for joy and sadness Or triumph, defeat, or grief or gladness-- That I cannot know, Said the Old Mill very low.)

YOUTH

Nay, Old Mill, if you know the voices That make for a bold life’s chance and choices, Turn me that dream!

OLD MILL

Only the sound of one voice, you shall hear, A Voice that has known your soul forever; A Voice that has called you and kept you wherever You failed or won in your high endeavor-- The Voice of your Dream!

YOUTH

O Mill, give me no mystery; I know the way of human history-- Turn me true dreams!

OLD MILL

Only the dream of Beauty, I know, The long sky paved with the afterglow; The moonlaced bog and the shimmering seas, The floating mist through moorland trees; The quiet color of twilight dunes, The night heron croaking its ebb-tide runes; The black-walled sky and the star-strung vines, The pooling spread of the Island pines. And the Sea’s voice borne on the salt mist breath, Where the chained arbutus wandereth.... The strange glad swerve of the moorland road And the great black shoulder of the wood.... (Only these things I know, Said the Old Mill very low.)

YOUTH

Then Old Mill, since no dream you grind me A dream of my own I will surely find me!

But as Youth weaves and catches the threads Of a hundred human joys and dreads, Youth sees the Old Mill standing there, High on the hill with the West aflare ... And dark as it looms on the sky, it seems The Old Mill steadily turns out dreams--. “All’s well,” grinds the grave Old Mill; “All’s well,” grinds the brave Old Mill; “If your eyes and your heart hold loveliness, And your mind and your soul know faithfulness, And your eyes and your hands know steadiness.... You shall walk straight over the rim of the years To the Vivid Land of all conquered fears; With your heart set true and your eyes set straight, You will grind good dreams from the grist of fate.” (But that’s all I know, Said the Old Mill very low.)

SCISSORS GRINDER.

“’Twas long ago” they said Of the country whence I came, “Greece is a dream that is dead, Athens only a name!” Yet on this April day As I go through the towns, I see soft Thessaly On these New England downs. I see the lilied plains Where the white cranes droop their bills; And the moving cattle trains Winding into the hills; While the farmer drums his bees, And the donkey shakes his bells Under the olive trees Where the Bay of Corinth swells, To great blue-silver gate Where the sea-bound temples wait, And the Eleusinian way Mistily winds the bay. On Knossos’ shady knolls I see the columned tiers; And the cool Ionic scrolls Throb to Olympian cheers. I see a gravelled stream Winding Olympian reeds; Again the Scythian dream Its wagoned people leads. The river-god drifts on, Raising a poppied head; A pipe sounds halcyon-- Nothing of Greece is dead ...!

But I, who walk the towns To sharpen knives at the gate, Feel sharper knives in the frown Of this New World’s estimate!

WHISPERS.

What was it the wind said, Blowing from the Orient To the Cross on the hill, And the fans of the Mill? What was it the wind said, Blowing at twilight, To New England?

The wind that blew from the East Blew dreamily, A low song and strange song had the sea. The Islanders sought each other’s eyes, And young men dreamed enterprise; Then sails put from the shores, And wives stood alone at the doors; For the old world, the strange world, called To New England!

White sails stole out On the silver sound, They ran into storms Outward bound; They could not stay home And they would not turn back, For the Old World, The dim world, Called to New England!

Now, in the old house Where the chimneys stretch wide, Young wives talk by the fireside; On the walls there is Delft, And the lacquered trays, Jades, teak and teapots, Fans of gallant days; China, tortoise and pearl, Ivory carved like lace; Chuddah, Cashmere, Sandal, In some secret place.... And what say the young wives, The frank young wives, To the stranger’s face?

“No one guessed how they knew, Nor what the wind said, And the sailors are gone And the merchants are dead; But the toppling summer sea, And the pale blue winter world, Came often and oft again, And the years like sails furled. Men died on the ships And were buried at sea, Men languished on wild coasts, Lost in mystery....”

“No one knows what was said Nor what answered again, When the wind blew a strange way, The wind blew a new way, For Nantucket men, And the Old World called to New England!”

NOT THE GIFT BUT THE GIVER.

Suppose that o’er the blue thin circling line Where low clouds sleep, some figure-head should shine; White swelling sails spread out on fan-streaked skies, And a new vessel in the west should rise. Suppose this vessel, from untraveled zones, Through savage suns and fierce Eurocyldons Should bring me deeply buried in its hold A mystic gift of jewels and blazing gold. And, having safely brought the precious thing, Should spread its sail, augment each shining wing, And calmly, like a night-bird through the stars, Speed on again, crossing the distant bars; Then through the mists go out before my eyes, Leaving me standing there beside the prize. I, left on lonely shores, would ever mourn The messenger that sailed beyond the bourne; I, left on lonely shores, would only pray To see again the ship that sailed away. I, searching the horizon’s purple round, Would follow ships, hither and thither bound, Longing for this--to see the dim prow lift, That brought to me my longing with my gift.

And so with thee, who broughtest me thy truth Ablaze with jewels, alight with mystic signs, Then vanished. Lo! with what utter ruth, The sorrow of my gift my soul divines. Holding with yearning talismans of thee, Who hath passed on beyond the touch of me.

THE BALL.

How do we see our world-- Formless? Vague? A rude sphere hurled through space? A green kaleidoscope of trees, And the flash of seas? And life and movement in every place?

I see my world with color wet; With the golden sap Pushing the green to the ardent sky. I see the ripeness, the warmth of fruits, Round to the sun, plumed melody, The clasp and the subtleties of roots; I see gods walk on the morning hills, Up the dappled brooks and the secret lanes And vistas leading to ferny haunts, Where the vivid crimson cardinal flaunts In calm of tree-pillared fanes.

I see my world star-fretted, caught In the web of enchained eternities-- With the age-old moon on her stair, cloud wrought, Climbing the night-sky’s precipice; I see the silver wheel of tides, The night spell hid in the forest breast, The gold splashed dawn that gravely glides Over grey mountain crest.

O World, whirling out with the sun, And holding us, everyone, When the golden skies twilighted lean To the purple hills--What have they seen, Who were born, still blind, in a web of days, To thy lessons written in simple ways? Dull streets choked with dusty forms? Crowds and houses and groups and swarms Who strive, and lose, and are gone again? A world of sordid women and men? A crowd of petty and dull and mean? Not a flower face nor a splash of green-- Unless--O world, they have seen it all-- The miracle of thy Wonder-Ball!

THE TOWN CLOCK GIVES ADVICE TO THE TOURIST.

If you walk on Main Street, Turn your fancy loose, Out of lace and lacquer You may pick and choose; Poetry of race and clan, Demure maid and solemn man, All the lore is stored away In these houses brick and grey. Puritan and worldly wise Trod these stones that meet your eyes; Hoary old aristocrats, Old chairs, parrots, lace and cats; Old umbrellas, ivory canes, Whale and ship for weather vanes; Soldiers’ Monument and bank, Shops and studios in rank; New sails spread or old sails furled.... Main Street’s where you meet the World!

If you turn in Salem Street, Better have a care; The Law is on your left And the red jail is there. They don’t burn witches But you’d better beware!

If you walk on Whale Street, Roll some in your gait; Make believe that caravels For your coming wait; Square-rigged and clipper-built, Wind jammer and schooner, Will bear you off on cruises If not later, sooner!

On North Water Street Salt creeps into speech; Looking down the little lanes You will see the beach. All along North Water Street, Please to make a note, All that’s worth saying Is said about a boat.

If you walk on Milk Street, Keep your wits about you; Don’t let any saucy star On Vestal Street scout you. Curtsey to the Old Mill, Snatch a rose from arbor; Milk Street’s a nice street To come in harbor.

If you walk through Pleasant Street, You are sure to see Many brilliant knockers Shine reflectingly; Gardens full of spicy bloom, And real ladies taking tea.

If you go through Orange Street, You will have a glance At Japanese poetry And English romance; You’ll smell paint, hear some radio, And see among the wise A scholar with a Christian’s face, And two great grey eyes.

If you walk through Centre Street, You will surely meet A true, true, woman With voice and manner sweet; And there the windows fairly talk, And the fences are so neat.

If you walk through Lily Street The sunset’s at the end Honeysuckle claims you Like an old friend; And quaintly blocked upon the skies Old houses on “Gull Island” rise.

If you walk through Quince Street, Never stand and stare, Hollyhocks will ask you To go otherwhere; Apples growing you may see, Raspberry and pear tree; Wisdom and a pretty wit If you know where to look for it.

If you walk through Joy Street, Take a little heed To keep a fairly sober air, Dignity you’ll need; There’s something about Joy Street Goes to the head indeed.

And when you are in Gay Street Choose a sober pace, Clematis along the fence, Shakes its stars like lace; And twinkling little cups of flowers Toss in a sheltered place.

If you look for money, There’s New Dollar Lane, And Mill Street, another street With a pirate pointing vane; Consulting maps and other code You’ll find the Thousand Dollar Road!

And last of all, wherever you walk, Stagger through Stone Alley, Slip along the cobbled stone, Slide methodically; Honeysuckle may evade, Birds shilly-shally, But a good place to meet a maid Is in Stone Alley.

How e’er you walk in any street, Wear a pleasant smile As if you hoped to meet a dream Before the next mile-- And you may find that dream Waiting by a stile!

CUP.

I walked among them with my cup of blue; It was aflame sometimes, and sometimes trembled With sweet of all the exquisite things I knew. Yet was I feared to tell the draught, dissembled, My wish to have these strangers taste the brew That to my lip all sky and sun resembled.

I walked among them, holding up my grail; Holding it steady, bidding to the drinking. It was the best I knew; luminous, pale, Changeful and fiery in its bubbled winking; I watched its vital depth grow warm and sunny, Ethereal-bitter--sometimes sweet as honey.

I walked among them with my cup of blue; They laughed and turned to chatter at my rapture. “What cup is this,” they asked, “of simple brew? What un-sure Wine, what grail of dullard’s capture? This is no drink to slake our fevered dryness; This mead for us would hold but acid wryness.”

I walk among them with my azure bowl, To fete and market-place and to the threshing; Today there is no feast, there is no soul But craves the cup I bring, nor its refreshing, And yet in vain I raise my flashing beaker And pledge my toast--to Truth and the Truth Seeker!

TO ABRAM QUARY

(The Last Indian on Nantucket)

When the long shadows fell across the wind, And the dense sheep moved grayly on the moor, How was it with you, Island Amerind, Sitting dream-bound beside your Shimmo door? Did tides that curved the ripples to that shore Remind you that somewhere the Source must be That sent you, outward ripple of a race half spent-- Bewildered son of hidden continent?

Dark, dying Indian, with grave hand bowed In untaught dreaming of dark ancestry, Saw’st coast and vineyard and the stalwart crowd Of young red men embarking on the sea? Or up great rivers in some land of rain, In swift canoes chasing the brilliant feather, Or dancing God-thoughts in the harvest weather?

All gone? No trail? No scrolléd birch barks sign To hand the tale from father down to son? What meaning was in totems’ reptiled line? What old taboo in crest and trophy won? What mightiest Chieftain led the hunting bout Or what dark Sachem fathered all the swarms Of circled fire lights’ solemn squatting forms?

Maybe the Outward Trail was marked with stars That shone of old in ancient weather book; Perhaps old campfires lit old forest scars, Or in the sky where some Great Spirit shook A mighty spear: perhaps thy brothers stayed To welcome thee, when stern and unafraid Thy moccasined feet fared those mysterious trails That Aqueous Time like clear brook water veils.

3 A. M.

He came and sat with me, that One Whom we so fear. And as I looked Closer upon him, lo! I felt Myself unfearing. “Death,” I asked, “Why is it that no man hath read, Nor understood thee?” Then he gazed With that dark glory of his eyes, Answering: “If men could know How I yearn toward them; if they saw The things that I would show them; Yea, Could trust, accept, come to me kind, Like little children! It were well! ’Twere well, indeed, if this could be. “I am afraid of Life,” said Death, and smiled at me.

ON THE JETTY.

Still the old rage, O Sea? Blue lightnings buried under snowy shock Of white foam-bodies dying on the rock; Such sobbing passion to be still more free-- Still the old yearning ... Sea?

Still the old secret ... Sky? Cloud galleons sailing for some coast of Dream, And robber winds a-gallop for the gleam Of Western gold where purple banners fly-- Still the old questing ... Sky?

Still the old bondage ... Heart? Slave to a beauty that defeats the mind; Enchained, whose bondage even yet may find True words, the whole glad wonder to impart Meaning of Sea and Sky and Thee ... O Heart!

WINDROW.

Old figures in a lane, Toward the grey church going; Vines tapping on a pane, Strong wind blowing.

Old comers by a lane, Heads bowed and hoary; Stiff knees and tapping cane, Wind knows the story.

Old patterns in a lane, Toward the grey church going; Follow through veils of rain, Brown leaves blowing.

Old blooming through the lane, Pods, grey and brittle; Wind ... bring all back again-- Young, gay, little!

THE SWIMMER.

Tonight the ocean calls, The stars respond, wide-scattered through the skies; Swift through the cool of curling wave he hies, Who swims far out, nor sees the shore receding-- Only his strength, his long bold measures heeding.

Proud in his power, strong, From hateful touch of hands that haunt him, free He plunges forward through dark wastes of sea, Passionate in the careless joy of roaming Through billowed gulfs, forgetful of his homing.

Tranced in the summer night, Lying far out on the high-breasted deep, He dreams alone. Lo! In illumined sleep, White Naiads gleam in dim sea-groves and hollows, Under the tide-drawn heaving path he follows.

Until the stars slip down, And to far shores the pale night drifts away; Then he turns back to meet the break of day, Through the broad surges in blind rapture leaping, Until he feels the sand and the foam creeping.

IN THE ANTIQUE SHOP.

All day the silver-headed craftsman bends Over the broken chain, the gemless rings, The voiceless clock, the fragile fan, and mends With delicate fingers rare broken things. I gaze on him, on gems and glimmering gold, See light restoring touches, magic skill; Till to my heart come strange imaginings Of ruined lives I know, shattered and still. O Craftsman! Here is mettle, dull and old; Look on these broken lives. Can’st thou remold? Can’st thou, with color, love designs refill-- Bring beauty out of sorrow’s patternings?

THE CARDINAL FLOWER.

Wrapped in his crimson gown and cowl, Beside her slender form he stood; There by the grassy brook they strayed, And sun-rise thrush and moonlight owl Knew that she listened while he wooed.

So blue her eyes, so golden fell The sunny hair about her face; She stepped with delicate sweet pride Along the grasses, close beside The brook’s cool lily-shadowed place.

“It was a shame that they should go Thus side by side, at last to part,” Earth said: “Mine all this color now, Her soft blue eyes, gold hair and brow, The red blood in his ardent heart.”

Men say, “They died.” They passed away; I am not sure what trail they took. But where the grasses bend and sway, Red Cardinal flower burns its way-- Forget-me-nots grow in the brook.

WILD BIRD.

I said I had tamed them all and caged them, The myriad birds of my dream; Called them by docile names and paged them, With law and precept I engaged them, And I sat with my tame birds all around me-- Sat where you others came and found me.

See, here is Ardor--his wings are clipped; And here is Truth (with spotted breast); Imagination, preening her plumes; Adventure, stolid, in golden barred rooms-- My myriad birds, my wild birds of no name, “All tame (like yours) I said--all tame now, Tame....”

And I sat with you, friends, and was suffered of you: “The Bird-Fancier has tamed her birds--no fears.” And I sat with you, listening through my tears.

For there was one wild bird (one I left wild, to see That there ever had been with me such as he)-- One wild bird, clean as the sky--and free....

There come cries sometimes--black ducks, grey gulls, Plover, wild swan, sickle billed curlews; There are long dotted streamers across the sky Of freedom and quest that cannot die.... There come songs.... And I sit and smile, with my tame birds preening, From my window leaning....

Then he flies by the casement.... A stir of wings--a shape on the stars; My head lifted, my heart on fire....

“My soul on your wings--Wild Bird!”

SABATIA POND.

Where the soft circle of Sabatia stars The water grasses in a sprinkled arc; And golden ripples break on sandy bars, And thin blue sails of dragon flies embark--

I think each year, how many sunsets weep; That day must die; and tinted tears must fall There where pond ripples to white clethra creep, And where the margin’s sweet with honey-ball.

I think that where those sky-tears placid lay, That golden evening stars have also lain; Reflected on the rosy surface, they Have dreamed a dream, and wandered on again.

So, where the sunset clouds in sorrow crept, Now rosy shapes through water grasses trail; And on that bed where gypsy starlight slept, Is left a rose-colored star-patterned veil.

THE LOST DRYAD.