Chapter 5
And daydawn brows, whereover hung The twilight of dark locks: wild birds, Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongue Of fragrance-voweled words.
I will not tell of cheeks and chin, That held me as sweet language holds; Nor of the eloquence within Her breasts' twin-moonéd molds.
Nor of her body's languorous Wind-grace, that glanced like starlight through Her clinging robe's diaphanous Web of the mist and dew.
There is no star so pure and high As was her look; no fragrance such As her soft presence; and no sigh Of music like her touch.
Not while I live may I forget That garden of dim dreams, where I And Beauty born of Music met, Whose spirit passed me by.
THE PATH TO FAERY
I
When dusk falls cool as a rained-on rose, And a tawny tower the twilight shows, With the crescent moon, the silver moon, the curved new moon in a space that glows, A turret window that grows alight; There is a path that my Fancy knows, A glimmering, shimmering path of night, That far as the Land of Faery goes.
II
And I follow the path, as Fancy leads, Over the mountains, into the meads, Where the firefly cities, the glowworm cities, the faery cities are strung like beads, Each city a twinkling star: And I live a life of valorous deeds, And march with the Faery King to war, And ride with his knights on milk-white steeds.
III
Or it's there in the whirl of their life I sit, Or dance in their houses with starlight lit, Their blossom houses, their flower houses, their elfin houses, of fern leaves knit, With fronded spires and domes: And there it is that my lost dreams flit, And the ghost of my childhood, smiling, roams With the faery children so dear to it.
IV
And it's there I hear that they all come true, The faery stories, whatever they do-- Elf and goblin, dear elf and goblin, loved elf and goblin, and all the crew Of witch and wizard and gnome and fay, And prince and princess, that wander through The storybooks we have put away, The faerytales that we loved and knew.
V
The face of Adventure lures you there, And the eyes of Danger bid you dare, While ever the bugles, the silver bugles, the far-off bugles of Elfland blare, The faery trumpets to battle blow; And you feel their thrill in your heart and hair, And you fain would follow and mount and go And march with the Faeries anywhere.
VI
And she--she rides at your side again, Your little sweetheart whose age is ten: She is the princess, the faery princess, the princess fair that you worshiped when You were a prince in a faerytale; And you do great deeds as you did them then, With your magic spear, and enchanted mail, Braving the dragon in his den.
VII
And you ask again,--"Oh, where shall we ride, Now that the monster is slain, my bride?"-- "Back to the cities, the firefly cities, the glowworm cities where we can hide, The beautiful cities of Faeryland. And the light of my eyes shall be your guide, The light of my eyes and my snow-white hand-- And there forever we two will abide."
THERE ARE FAERIES
I
There are faeries, bright of eye, Who the wildflowers' warders are: Ouphes, that chase the firefly; Elves, that ride the shooting-star: Fays, who in a cobweb lie, Swinging on a moonbeam bar; Or who harness bumblebees, Grumbling on the clover leas, To a blossom or a breeze-- That's their faery car. If you care, you too may see There are faeries.--Verily, There are faeries.
II
There are faeries. I could swear I have seen them busy, where Roses loose their scented hair, In the moonlight weaving, weaving,
Out of starlight and the dew, Glinting gown and shimmering shoe; Or, within a glowworm lair, From the dark earth slowly heaving Mushrooms whiter than the moon, On whose tops they sit and croon, With their grig-like mandolins, To fair faery ladykins, Leaning from the windowsill Of a rose or daffodil, Listening to their serenade All of cricket-music made. Follow me, oh, follow me! Ho! away to Faërie! Where your eyes like mine may see There are faeries.--Verily, There are faeries.
III
There are faeries. Elves that swing In a wild and rainbow ring Through the air; or mount the wing Of a bat to courier news To the faery King and Queen: Fays, who stretch the gossamers On which twilight hangs the dews;
Who, within the moonlight sheen, Whisper dimly in the ears Of the flowers words so sweet That their hearts are turned to musk And to honey; things that beat In their veins of gold and blue: Ouphes, that shepherd moths of dusk-- Soft of wing and gray of hue-- Forth to pasture on the dew.
IV
There are faeries; verily; Verily: For the old owl in the tree, Hollow tree, He who maketh melody For them tripping merrily, Told it me. There are faeries.--Verily, There are faeries.
THE SPIRIT OF THE FOREST SPRING
Over the rocks she trails her locks, Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip: Her sparkling eyes smile at the skies In friendship-wise and fellowship: While the gleam and glance of her countenance Lull into trance the woodland places, As over the rocks she trails her locks, Her dripping locks that the long fern graces.
She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips: And all the day its limpid spray Is heard to play from her finger tips: And the slight, soft sound makes haunted ground Of the woods around that the sunlight laces, As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, Its dripping cruse that no man traces.
She swims and swims with glimmering limbs, With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip: Where beechen boughs build a leafy house, Where her eyes may drowse or her beauty trip: And the liquid beat of her rippling feet Makes three times sweet the forest mazes, As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs, With dripping limbs through the twilight hazes.
Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps, She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips: Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist, And, starry-whist, through the dark she slips: While the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleam The falls that stream and the foam that races, As wrapped in the deeps of the wild she sleeps, She dripping sleeps or starward gazes.
IN A GARDEN
The pink rose drops its petals on The moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn; The moon, like some wide rose of white, Drops down the summer night. No rose there is As sweet as this-- Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss.
The lattice of thy casement twines With jasmine vines, with jasmine vines; The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lie About the glimmering sky. No jasmine tress Can so caress Like thy white arms' soft loveliness.
About thy door magnolia blooms Make sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms; A moon-magnolia is the dusk Closed in a dewy husk. However much, No bloom gives such Soft fragrance as thy bosom's touch.
The flowers blooming now will pass, And strew the grass, and strew the grass; The night, like some frail flower, dawn Will soon make gray and wan. Still, still above, The flower of True love shall live forever, Love.
IN THE LANE
When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock, And the brown bee drones i' the rose; And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock, And summer is near its close-- It's oh, for the gate and the locust lane, And dusk and dew and home again!
When the katydid sings and the cricket cries, And ghosts of the mists ascend; And the evening star is a lamp i' the skies, And summer is near its end-- It's oh, for the fence and the leafy lane, And the twilight peace and the tryst again!
When the owlet hoots in the dogwood tree, That leans to the rippling Run; And the wind is a wildwood melody, And summer is almost done-- It's oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane, And the fragrant hush and her hands again!
When fields smell sweet with the dewy hay, And woods are cool and wan, And a path for dreams is the Milky Way, And summer is nearly gone-- It's oh, for the rock and the woodland lane, And the silence and stars and her lips again!
When the weight of the apples breaks down the boughs, And muskmelons split with sweet; And the moon is a light in Heaven's house, And summer has spent its heat-- It's oh, for the lane, the trysting lane, The deep-mooned night and her love again!
THE WINDOW ON THE HILL
Among the fields the camomile Seems blown mist in the lightning's glare: Cool, rainy odors drench the air; Night speaks above; the angry smile Of storm within her stare.
The way that I shall take to-night Is through the wood whose branches fill The road with double darkness, till, Between the boughs, a window's light Shines out upon the hill.
The fence; and then the path that goes Around a trailer-tangled rock, Through puckered pink and hollyhock, Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose, And door whereat I knock.
Bright on the oldtime flower place The lamp streams through the foggy pane; The door is opened to the rain: And in the door--her happy face And outstretched arms again.
THE PICTURE
Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay: Around her, flowers flattered earth with gold, Or down the path in insolence held sway-- Like cavaliers who ride the king's highway-- Scarlet and buff, within a garden old.
Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood, Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town: Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewed The purple west as if, with God imbued, Her mighty palette Nature there laid down.
Amid such flowers, underneath such skies, Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair, She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes, Fair as a star that comes to emphasize The mingled beauty of the earth and air.
Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees, Gray with its twinkling windows--like the face Of calm old age that sits and dreams at ease-- Porched with old roses, haunts of honeybees, The homestead loomed within a lilied space.
For whom she waited in the afterglow, Star-eyed and golden 'mid the poppy and rose, I do not know; I do not care to know,-- It is enough I keep her picture so, Hung up, like poetry, in my life's dull prose.
A fragrant picture, where I still may find Her face untouched of sorrow or regret, Unspoiled of contact; ever young and kind; The spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind, She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.
MOLY
When by the wall the tiger-flower swings A head of sultry slumber and aroma; And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast-- Between the pansy fire of the west, And poppy mist of moonrise in the east, This heartache will have ceased.
The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep-- Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit, And white dreams reap me as strong reapers reap The ripened grain and full blown blossom near it; Let me behold how gladness gives the whole The transformed countenance of my own soul-- Between the sunset and the risen moon Let sorrow vanish soon.
And these things then shall keep me company: The elfins of the dew; the spirit of laughter Who haunts the wind; the god of melody Who sings within the stream, that reaches after
The flow'rs that rock themselves to his caress: These of themselves shall shape my happiness, Whose visible presence I shall lean upon, Feeling that care is gone.
Forgetting how the cankered flower must die; The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup; How joy, begotten 'twixt a sigh and sigh, Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup,-- Remembering how within the hollow lute Soft music sleeps when music's voice is mute; And in the heart, when all seems black despair, Hope sits, awaiting there.
POPPY AND MANDRAGORA
Let us go far from here! Here there is sadness in the early year: Here sorrow waits where joy went laughing late: The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hate Above the woodland and the meadowland; And Spring hath taken fire in her hand Of frost and made a dead bloom of her face, Which was a flower of marvel once and grace, And sweet serenity and stainless glow. Delay not. Let us go.
Let us go far away Into the sunrise of a fairer May: Where all the nights resign them to the moon, And drug their souls with odor and soft tune, And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hours Teach immortality with fadeless flowers; And all the day the bee weights down the bloom, And all the night the moth shakes strange perfume, Like music, from the flower-bells' affluence. Let us go far from hence.
Why should we sit and weep, And yearn with heavy eyelids still to sleep? Forever hiding from our hearts the hate,-- Death within death,--life doth accumulate, Like winter snows along the barren leas And sterile hills, whereon no lover sees The crocus limn the beautiful in flame; Or hyacinth and jonquil write the name Of Love in fire, for each passer-by. Why should we sit and sigh?
We will not stay and long, Here where our souls are wasting for a song; Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars, No silvery water strikes melodious bars; And in the rocks and forest-covered hills No quick-tongued echo from her grotto fills With eery syllables the solitude-- The vocal image of the voice that wooed-- She, of wild sounds the airy looking-glass. Our souls are tired, alas!
What should we say to her?-- To Spring, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir: Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto: Too busy with the birth of flowers and dew, And vague gold wings within the chrysalis; Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kiss To give your soul or the sad soul of me, Who bound our hearts to her in poesy, Long since, and wear her badge of service still.-- Have we not served our fill?
We will go far away. Song will not care, who slays our souls each day With the dark daggers of denying eyes, And lips of silence! ... Had she sighed us lies, Not passionate, yet falsely tremulous, And lent her mouth to ours in mockery; thus Smiled from calm eyes as if appreciative; Then, then our love had taught itself to live Feeding itself on hope, and recompense. But no!--So let us hence.
So be the Bible shut Of all her Beauty, and her wisdom but A clasp for memory! We will not seek The light that came not when the soul was weak With longing, and the darkness gave no sign Of star-born comfort. Nay! why kneel and whine Sad psalms of patience and hosannas of Old hope and dreary canticles of love?-- Let us depart, since, as we long supposed, For us God's book was closed.
A ROAD SONG
It's--Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some one With a vagabond foot that follows! And a cheer-up hand that he claps upon Your arm with the hearty words, "Come on! We'll soon be out of the hollows, My heart! We'll soon be out of the hollows."
It's--Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some one With a renegade foot that doubles! And a jolly lilt that he flings to the sun As he turns with the friendly laugh, "Come on! We'll soon be out of the troubles, My heart! We'll soon be out of the troubles!"
PHANTOMS
This was her home; one mossy gable thrust Above the cedars and the locust trees: This was her home, whose beauty now is dust, A lonely memory for melodies The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees.
Here every evening is a prayer: no boast Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth; Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower's ghost, A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth; And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth.
In vagabond velvet, on the placid day, A stain of crimson, lolls the butterfly; The south wind sows with ripple and with ray The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye.
Their melancholy quaver, lone and low, When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat: The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow, Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat, In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat.
He comes not yet: not till the dusk is dead, And all the western glow is far withdrawn; Not till,--a sleepy mouth love's kiss makes red,-- The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn, Breathing sweet guesses at the dreamed-of dawn.
When in the shadows, like a rain of gold, The fireflies stream steadily; and bright Along the moss the glowworm, as of old, A crawling sparkle--like a crooked light In smoldering vellum--scrawls a square of night,--
Then will he come; and she will lean to him,-- She,--the sweet phantom,--memory of that place,-- Between the starlight and his eyes; so dim With suave control and soul-compelling grace, He cannot help but speak her, face to face.
INTIMATIONS OF THE BEAUTIFUL
I
The hills are full of prophecies And ancient voices of the dead; Of hidden shapes that no man sees, Pale, visionary presences, That speak the things no tongue hath said, No mind hath thought, no eye hath read.
The streams are full of oracles, And momentary whisperings; An immaterial beauty swells Its breezy silver o'er the shells With wordless speech that sings and sings The message of diviner things.
No indeterminable thought is theirs, The stars', the sunsets' and the flowers'; Whose inexpressible speech declares Th' immortal Beautiful, who shares This mortal riddle which is ours, Beyond the forward-flying hours.
II
It holds and beckons in the streams; It lures and touches us in all The flowers of the golden fall-- The mystic essence of our dreams: A nymph blows bubbling music where Faint water ripples down the rocks; A faun goes dancing hoiden locks, And piping a Pandean air, Through trees the instant wind shakes bare.
Our dreams are never otherwise Than real when they hold us so; We in some future life shall know Them parts of it and recognize Them as ideal substance, whence The actual is--(as flowers and trees, From color sources no one sees, Draw dyes, the substance of a sense)-- Material with intelligence.
III
What intimations made them wise, The mournful pine, the pleasant beech? What strange and esoteric speech?-- (Communicated from the skies In runic whispers)--that invokes The boles that sleep within the seeds, And out of narrow darkness leads The vast assemblies of the oaks.
Within his knowledge, what one reads The poems written by the flowers? The sermons, past all speech of ours, Preached by the gospel of the weeds?-- O eloquence of coloring! O thoughts of syllabled perfume! O beauty uttered into bloom! Teach me your language! let me sing!
IV
Along my mind flies suddenly A wildwood thought that will not die; That makes me brother to the bee, And cousin to the butterfly: A thought, such as gives perfume to The blushes of the bramble-rose, And, fixed in quivering crystal, glows A captive in the prismed dew.
It leads the feet no certain way; No frequent path of human feet: Its wild eyes follow me all day; All day I hear its wild heart beat: And in the night it sings and sighs The songs the winds and waters love; Its wild heart lying tranced above, And tranced the wildness of its eyes.
V
Oh, joy, to walk the way that goes Through woods of sweet-gum and of beech! Where, like a ruby left in reach, The berry of the dogwood glows: Or where the bristling hillsides mass, 'Twixt belts of tawny sassafras, Brown shocks of corn in wigwam rows!
Where, in the hazy morning, runs The stony branch that pools and drips, The red-haws and the wild-rose hips Are strewn like pebbles; and the sun's Own gold seems captured by the weeds; To see, through scintillating seeds, The hunters steal with glimmering guns!
Oh, joy, to go the path which lies Through woodlands where the trees are tall! Beneath the misty moon of fall, Whose ghostly girdle prophesies A morn wind-swept and gray with rain; When, o'er the lonely, leaf-blown lane, The night-hawk like a dead leaf flies!
To stand within the dewy ring Where pale death smites the boneset blooms, And everlasting's flowers, and plumes Of mint, with aromatic wing! And hear the creek,--whose sobbing seems A wild-man murmuring in his dreams,-- And insect violins that sing.
Or where the dim persimmon tree Rains on the path its frosty fruit, And in the oak the owl doth hoot, Beneath the moon and mist, to see The outcast Year go,--Hagar-wise,-- With far-off, melancholy eyes, And lips that sigh for sympathy.
VI
Towards evening, where the sweet-gum flung Its thorny balls among the weeds, And where the milkweed's sleepy seeds,-- A faery Feast of Lanterns,--swung; The cricket tuned a plaintive lyre, And o'er the hills the sunset hung A purple parchment scrawled with fire.
From silver-blue to amethyst The shadows deepened in the vale; And belt by belt the pearly-pale Aladdin fabric of the mist Built up its exhalation far; A jewel on an Afrit's wrist, One star gemmed sunset's cinnabar.
Then night drew near, as when, alone, The heart and soul grow intimate; And on the hills the twilight sate With shadows, whose wild robes were sown With dreams and whispers;--dreams, that led The heart once with love's monotone, And memories of the living-dead.
VII
All night the rain-gusts shook the leaves Around my window; and the blast Rumbled the flickering flue, and fast The storm streamed from the dripping eaves. As if--'neath skies gone mad with fear-- The witches' Sabboth galloped past, The forests leapt like startled deer.
All night I heard the sweeping sleet; And when the morning came, as slow As wan affliction, with the woe Of all the world dragged at her feet, No spear of purple shattered through The dark gray of the east; no bow Of gold shot arrows swift and blue.
But rain, that whipped the windows; filled The spouts with rushings; and around The garden stamped, and sowed the ground With limbs and leaves; the wood-pool filled With overgurgling.--Bleak and cold The fields looked, where the footpath wound Through teasel and bur-marigold.
Yet there's a kindness in such days Of gloom, that doth console regret With sympathy of tears, which wet Old eyes that watch the back-log blaze.-- A kindness, alien to the deep Glad blue of sunny days that let No thought in of the lives that weep.
VIII
This dawn, through which the Autumn glowers,-- As might a face within our sleep, With stone-gray eyes that weep and weep, And wet brows bound with sodden flowers,-- Is sunset to some sister land; A land of ruins and of palms; Rich sunset, crimson with long calms,-- Whose burning belt low mountains bar,-- That sees some brown Rebecca stand Beside a well the camel-band Winds down to 'neath the evening star.
O sunset, sister to this dawn! O dawn, whose face is turned away! Who gazest not upon this day, But back upon the day that's gone! Enamored so of loveliness, The retrospect of what thou wast, Oh, to thyself the present trust! And as thy past be beautiful With hues, that never can grow less! Waiting thy pleasure to express New beauty lest the world grow dull.
IX