Part 2
I picked an apple from the ground, A perfect apple, red and round. Its spicy perfume shy and sweet, Stole from the ground beneath my feet, Borne on a wind that lightly flew, Through the deep dome of cloudless blue. A swarm of ants had found the prize, Before it met my wandering eyes, And careless in their busy pleasure, Ran o’er and o’er the fragrant treasure. I blew them off, nor cared to know Whither the luckless things might go. So He who holdeth in his hand This perfect world on which we stand, Blows us, ah, whither? with His breath, Our friends who miss us call it “Death!”
FOR EASTER DAY
I
This is the Easter! Day of rejoicing! Day of renewing! See how the roseate, Delicate, virginal Feet of the Morning Haste o’er the mountains Joyful to meet her!
II
Welcome the Easter! Day of renewing! Day of rejoicing! The snow has departed, The rain is assuaged, The winter is gone! Lo! on Earth’s bosom The rainbow of promise, The rainbow of springtime, The rainbow of flowers!
III
This is the Easter! Day of uprising! Day of renewing! Heart, take new courage! Look no more downward! See, the sun rising! Hark, the bird singing! See, the grass springing! The brook floweth free! Hand to the plough, man! Cut deep the furrow, Cast thy seed strongly!
Think not of sorrow! Of death or of sin! To-day, let thy future Burst from its cerements,-- Roll back the Grave stone! To-day, Life immortal! Oh, mortal! begin!
_New York, April 2, 1877._
ON ONE WHO DIED IN MAY
_John H. Ellis, May 3, 1870_
Why Death, what dost thou, here, This time o’ year? Peach-blow, and apple-blossom; Clouds, white as my love’s bosom; Warm wind o’ the West Cradling the robin’s nest; Young meadows, hasting their green laps to fill With golden dandelion and daffodil;-- These are fit sights for spring; But, oh, thou hateful thing, What dost thou here?
Why, Death, what dost thou here This time o’ year? Fair, at the old oak’s knee, The young anemone; Fair, the plash places set With dog-tooth violet; The first sloop-sail, The shad-flower pale; Sweet are all sights, Sweet are all sounds of Spring; But thou, thou ugly thing, What dost thou, here?
Dark Death let fall a tear. Why am I here? Oh, heart ungrateful! Will man never know I am his friend, nor ever was his foe? Whose the sweet season, then, if it be not mine? Mine, not the bobolink’s, that song divine Chasing the shadows o’er the flying wheat! ’Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds so sweet. Whose passionate heart burns in this flaming rose But his, whose passionate heart long since lay still? Whose wan hope pales this nun-like lily tall, Beside the garden wall, But hers, whose radiant eyes and lily grace, Sleep in the grave that crowns yon tufted hill! All Hope, all Memory Have their deep springs in me, And Love, that else might fade, By me immortal made, Spurns at the grave, leaps to the welcoming skies, And burns a steadfast star to steadfast eyes.
THE YEW TREE
Take this small slip of sombre yew And lay it on thy breast; There, underneath thy downcast eyes, Let the sad emblem rest-- Thy tears may fall upon it.
I pulled it from a little tree That just begins to grow-- Once only has it seen the sun And only once the snow-- Thy tears may rain upon it.
The garden where it grew is sad Before all other places, Death’s shadow up and down its walks Forever darkly paces-- Thy tears have fallen in it.
These yew trees stand, a pallid ring Upon the sunlit lawn-- He planted them the very year That we were left to mourn-- Our tears fell freely for it.
They stood like mourners round a grave Who look within, to see Where lie the ashes, while the fire Spires upward, clear and free.
THE IMMORTAL
Somewhere in silent starry lands, Forlorn with cold or faint with heat, He folds his ever active hands, And rest his never-resting feet.
A windless light illumes his skies; A moonless night, a sunless day, Unheeded by his careless eyes, Arise, and fade, and pass away.
All day his constant thoughts recall The blissful past, forever fled; A golden light illumines all The ghostly memories of the dead.
Once more adown his garden walks He moves serene from flower to flower: His wife beside him gaily talks, He listens gladly hour by hour.
But when he turns to kiss the lips, Or when he thinks the form to press Of her he loves--his hope’s eclipse Renews the former bitterness.
In nightly dreams his tireless wings Convey him far to where she lies Folded in slumber, while he sings Low in her ear his lullabies.
He wakes--the happy dream is o’er, The slow, dull heart-ache gnaws again, Within his soul forevermore A long-enduring death of pain.
With her the suns arise and set, The singing stars renew their light, Deep in her heart one wild regret Moans for his presence day and night.
I well believe God loves thee still, To whatsoever planet borne; Breathing the bright auroral airs That haunt some glad eternal morn.
Walking with fair, unclouded eyes Beside the slow unfailing streams, Lulled in the memories of the Past, An ever gliding dance of dreams.
The ills that fret our feeble hearts, The toils in which thy life had share, The slender joys that make us glad In quiet moments snatched from care.
These memories of a vanished life, Pass dim before thine altered mind, As visions of the earth and sky Come to a man whose eyes are blind.
To whom the sun in cloudless light Forever shines; forever grow The flowers; the woods in beauty wave Unchanged; the constant planets glow.
All night above thy peaceful head, The sky is bright with burning stars; To thee the opening morning brings No news of peace, nor sound of wars; Sole tenant of thy starry home; Uncheered by friend, unvexed by foe; Down the slow tide of lapsing time Thy tranquil days in silence go.
Waiting with calm, expectant eyes The hour that makes her wholly thine Secure from all the blows of Fate And all the mischiefs wrought by Time.
_Mrs. Downing’s, April, 1853._
TWO MAYS
Here is the stile on which I leaned;-- This golden willow bending over;-- Yonder’s the same blue sky that gleamed The day that I murmured, “I am thy lover.”
This is the stone on which she sat; See here the bright moss freshly springing, And look! overhead the same bluebirds Back and forth from the old nest winging.
Here is the briar whose flowers she pulled Leaf by leaf as she heard my pleading. Swayed by the same idle April wind That laughed as it flew, Love’s pang unheeding.
Sky, trees, flowers--the same; but _I_?-- Am I the same boy whose wild heart burning Leapt to one heart in the sweet wild world! Stilled on one bosom its passionate yearning?
Silk-soft hair and hazel eyes, Limbs that lightly moved or stood And a heart that beat with a loyal love For all things beautiful, true and good.
Follies that flecked this fairest fruit, Sins that spotted this whitest page, Changed without, but the same within, Life’s rose untouched by the frost of age.
Thou, too, beloved, art still the same, Deep heart, passionate, tender and true, The same clear spirit and glancing wit Piercing the armor of folly through.
Sad, olivaster, Spanish face, Sweet low brow under shadowy hair, Dark eyes mingled of tears and fire, Voice like a song-bird’s heard through a prayer.
Time! if thou steal her girlish beauty, Leave her spirit undimmed and free. Touch the rose with thy frosty fingers, But the rose’s perfume stays with me.
WIND HARPINGS
Faint smell of box In the evening air, Faint bleat of flocks From fields afar; On the gray rocks, The lap and lapse Of the wan water.
The sunset fields Stretch fair and far. Mid the winrowed clouds The sickle moon Has clipt a star! Pale golden bloom! First flower of the night! It trembles down To the sunset streak, Light lost in light!
In the pleached bower, In the garden old, Hand closed in hand, We sit together. We do not speak. A wind from the pine With fingers fine, Lays her warm hair Against my cheek.
Sweet silent hour! As flower to flower Heart speaks to heart As star to star! Oh, hawthorn bower Oh, garden old How dear, how sad Your memories are!
A VALENTINE
Bring me my lute, the sunlight fades; The evening breezes, soft and low, From the far South begin to blow.
Here will I watch the dying day: Here will I watch the pallid skies Flush with a myriad changing dyes.
What joy to see the fairy moon Cradled in folds of rosy light, The baby sovereign of the night.
What joy to hear, from far away, The rolling mill-stream roaring go Between his banks of ice and snow;
Or from the distant mountain’s side, To hear the murmuring wind, that brings Promise of Spring between its wings.
Here at my window will I sit; Here, will I let the peaceful hour Try on my heart her aëry power.
This happy season sings of Thee, Where’er I turn my careless eyes Thine image will before them rise;
Not as thou art in human form; I cannot shape thy phantom so, The fleeting shadows come and go.
Thy face is fair with roseate bloom-- I lift my eyes and lo! the sun Reddens the cloud he looks upon--
Thine eyes with deepening azure smile-- Beyond the hills a line of blue Recalls the sunlit morning’s dew.
On either side thy thoughtful brow Thy golden hair is floating free-- Yon golden cloud is fair to see--
As floating from the purple West, Its glory slowly gathers dun And fadeth with the fading sun.
Ah! was it all an idle dream? A fleeting sunset fed my thought, And all this cloudy vision wrought?
Or does the maiden somewhere bloom Whom Nature cannot paint aright Her beauty is so passing bright?
COMING--COME
How dreary are the crowded streets With not a soul abroad! How sunless is the sunny sky! No fire on hearth, no mirth at board! How long the nights, how slow the day! My love’s away! My love’s away!
How gay the crowded city streets! How cheerily shines the sun! Dances the fire, and round the board From lip to lip the greetings run! No longer in the dumps I roam-- My love’s come home! My love’s come home!
ULYSSES AND THE SIRENS
Oh ye maids, with deep and rosy bosoms! Oh ye maids, with darkly flowing locks! Wherefore is it that with songs ye woo me Sitting in the shadows of the rocks?
Well hath she, the enchantress Circe told me, All the evil that shall on me fall; If I follow where your white feet lead me Or give answer when your voices call.
Oh my comrades, bind me to the mainmast, Stop my ears with wax and bind my hands, Close my eyes that so no sight nor murmur Of the singer or the song steal to me from the sands.
In the west the blood-red sun is sinking. And the angry billows redly glow, With the dying breeze the song is dying. Ply the oars, my comrades, let us go!
_Tarrytown, 1844._
OTTILIA
_Miss Mary Hamilton, afterwards Mrs. George Schuyler_
A low, sad brow with folded hair; From whose deep night one pallid rose White moonlight through the darkness throws.
A head, whose lordly, only crown Of Pride, Olympian Juno might Have worn for the great God’s delight.
Deep eyes immixed of Night and Fire, In whose large motion you might see Her royal soul lived royally.
Unstained by any earthly soil, And only caring to walk straight The road ordained to her by Fate.
Her jewelled hands across the keys Flashed through the twilight of the room, A double light of gem and tune.
Still while she played you saw that hand Glide ghostly white, and fearless wave Dead faces up from Memory’s grave.
The firelight flickered on the wall; Sweet tears came to the heart’s relief; She sat and sang us into grief.
Yet now, she played some liquid song, A happy lover would have sung, If once he could have found a tongue--
And now the sparkling octaves ran Through the quick dance, where tangled braid Now caught the sunlight, now the shade.
And now the boatman’s evening song, As, rowing homeward down the stream, He sees his maiden’s garments gleam
Beside the trees, the trysting-place; While the sad singer whippoorwill, Cries from the willow by the mill.
Yet, howsoe’er her music ran, A sigh was in it, and a sense Of some dead voice that called us hence;
A voice that even now I hear, Although the hand that touched those keys Rests on her heart, that sleeps in peace.
_Newburgh, January 16, 1854._
A PORTRAIT
_Mrs. Carroll Dunham, September, 1877._
I know not wherein lay the charm She had in those remembered days. The Olympian gait, the welcoming hand, The frank soul looking from her face,
The manly manners all her own-- Nor yet coquette, nor cold, nor free: She puzzled, being each in turn; Or dazzled, mingling all the three.
Out of those gowns, so quaintly rich-- They grew, unshaped by Milan’s shears!-- Rose, like a tower, the ivory throat Ringed with the rings the Clytie wears.
But, when you sought the Roman face That on such columns grew--and grows! You found this wonder in its stead-- The sea-shell’s curves, the sea-shell’s rose!
Her eyes, the succory’s way-side blue; Her lips, the wilding way-side rose: But, Beauty dreamed a prouder dream, Throned on her forehead’s moonlit snows.
And, over all, the wreathéd hair That caught the sunset’s streaming gold, Where, now, a crocus bud was set, Or violet, hid in the braided fold!
But, she, so deep her conscious pride, So sure her knowledge she was fair-- What gowns she wore, or silk, or serge, She seemed to neither know, nor care.
She smiled on cat, or frowned on friend, Or gave her horse the hand denied. To-day, bewitched you with her wit, To-morrow, snubbed you from her side.
Loyal to truth, yet wed to whim, She held in fee her constant mind. Whatever tempests drove her bark, You felt her soul’s deep anchor bind.
In that dark day when, fever-driven, Her wits went wandering up and down, And seeming-cruel, friendly shears Closed on her girl-head’s glorious crown,
Another woman might have wept To see such gold so idly spilled. She only smiled, as curl and coil Fell, till the shearer’s lap was filled;
Then softly said: “Hair-sunsets fade As when night clips day’s locks of gold! Dear Death, thy priestly hands I bless, And, nun-like, seek thy convent-fold!”
Then slept, nor woke. O miser Death, What gold thou hidest in thy dust! What ripest beauty there decays, What sharpest wits there go to rust!
Hide not this jewel with the rest-- Base gems whose color fled thy breath-- But, worn on thine imperial hand, Make all the world in love with Death!
SONNET
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN
_Dedicated to E. C. H._
Oft had I heard thy beauty praised, dear flower, And often searched for thee through field and wood, Yet could I never find the secret bower Where thou dost lead in maiden solitude A cloistered life; but on one happy day Wandering in idle thought, with a dear friend, Through dying woods, listening the robin’s lay, I saw thy fairy flowers whose azure gemmed The fading grass beneath a cedar’s boughs. Oh never yet so glad a sight has met These eyes of mine! Depart, before the snows Of hastening winter thy fringed garments wet. Thine azure flowers should never fade nor die, But bloom, exhale, and gain their native sky.
_November, 1849._
TO GIULIA, SINGING
Sing me the song again, and yet again Waken the music as it dies away; Make twilight sadder with it, nor refrain While yet these sighing winds bemoan the day. Still let that wavering voice Make my young heart rejoice, Even tho’ one truant tear adown my cheek may stray.
Cease not thy singing, dearest, for mine eyes Feed on thy beauty, and I hear the song As one who, looking on the sunset skies, Hears over flowery meads the south winds blow, And down the purple hills the flashing waters flow.
An idle song; I cannot tell the meaning, Yet, sing I o’er and o’er, for in its wings It bringeth heavenly things: Dear memories of melodious hours, When all earth’s weeds were flowers; Dear memories of the loved ones far away Whom yet we hope to greet some happy day; Dear memories of the travellers from Life’s shore, Whom we shall greet again, ah! nevermore.
Cease, lady! Sing some song that brings again The golden past, meet for this sunset hour; Some breath of melody not fraught with pain, Some gayly-tinted flower! Let thy fair hand float o’er the willing keys, And all my sorrows ease.
_Home Journal, 1852._
YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY
But yesterday the laughing sun Came dancing up the rosy East-- You would have thought that it was May; The birds sang clear on every spray.
The heart with fuller motion beat, The sad eye flashed with brighter fire; Down to the ground the sunbeams came And lit the crocus’ slender flame.
The branches of the lonely pine Rocked to a glad harmonious hymn. The song-bird’s music and the breeze With double laughter shook the trees
That cluster round the southern wall, A feathery fringe against the sky; Their yellow branches in the sun Are very fair to look upon.
Far down between the rounded hills, I watched a wreath of morning mist Floating in shadow--rising slow, The sunlight glorified its snow.
The day was blesséd. Field and hill Dreamed, bathed in light and lulled with sound. All day my soul at peace within Went carolling her joyful hymn.
* * * * *
To-day you cannot see the sun, A blinding mist blots out the sky. You hear the angry waters flow, You hear the wintry breezes blow.
The branches of the lonely pine Mutter and sigh tossed to and fro; The birds that chanted in the sun Sit in the covert cold and dumb.
The maiden Spring that Yesterday Was born, To-Day, alas! is dead. The pitying heavens drop over all This silent snow for fittest pall.
The sobbing winds her requiem sing; The plashing waves upon the shore Sigh hour by hour; the dreary day In mist and silence fades away.
The heart is wintry as the earth-- Tossed with the storm, and drenched with gloom, And dark with doubts that round her throng, To choke with tears her heavenly song.
_March 18, 1852._
A SONNET IN PRAISE OF HIS LADY’S HANDS
_Translated from the Italian of “Qualcheduns.”_
How beautiful it is To see my lady’s hands; Whether adorned with rings, Or with their snowy lengths And rosy tips, Undecked with gems of gold.
When her light work she plies, Creating mimic flowers, Or drawing the fair thread Through folds of snowy lawn. How beautiful it is To see my lady’s hands; Often I, sitting, watch Their gliding to and fro, These lovely birds of snow.
Sometimes the evening shades Draw around us as we talk, Sometimes the tired sun, Drooping towards the West, Makes all the fields of heaven With autumn’s colors glow; Sometimes the sailing moon, Unclouded and serene, Rises between the misty woods That crown the distant hills; Then most I love to sit And watch my lady’s hands Blush with the sunset’s rose, Or whiten in the moon, Or, lucid in the amber evening air, Folded, repose.
Sometimes she paces slowly Among the garden flowers; Above her the trees tremble, And lean their leafage down, So much they love to see her; The flowers, white and red, Open their fragrant eyes, Gladder to hear her coming Than birds singing, Or bees humming. She, stooping, clad in grace, Gathers them one by one, Lily and crimson rose, With sprigs of tender green, And holds them in her hands.
Nothing can sweeter be Than, lying on the lawn, To see those graceful hands Drop all their odorous load Upon her snowy lap, And then, with magic skill And rosy fingers fine, To watch her intertwine Some wreath, not all unfitting Young brows divine.
How beautiful it is To see my lady’s hands; In moonlight sorrowful, Or sunlight fire, Busied with graceful toil, Or folded in repose, How beautiful it is To see my lady’s hands.