Chapter 2
"O wire more soft than seasoned lute, Hast thou no sunlit word for me? Though long to me so coyly mute, Sure she may speak through thee!"
I listened; but it was in vain. At first, the wind's old, wayward will Drew forth the tearless, sad refrain: That ceased, and all was still.
But suddenly some kindling shock Struck flashing through the wire: a bird, Poised on it, screamed and flew; the flock Rose with him, wheeled, and whirred.
Then to my soul there came this sense: "Her heart has answered unto thine; She comes, to-night. Go, hie thee hence! Meet her: no more repine!"
Mayhap the fancy was far-fetched; And yet, mayhap, it hinted true. Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was stretched In mine, that gave me--you!
And so more dear to me has grown, Than rarest tones swept from the lyre, The minor-movement of that moan In yonder singing wire.
Nor care I for the will of states. Or aught besides, that smites that string, Since then so close it knit our fates, What time the bird took wing!
MOODS OF LOVE.
I.
IN ABSENCE.
My love for thee is like a winged seed Blown from the heart of thy rare beauty's flower, And deftly guided by some breezy power To fall and rest, where I should never heed, In deepest caves of memory. There, indeed, With virtue rife of many a sunny hoar,-- Ev'n making cold neglect and darkness dower Its roots with life,--swiftly it 'gan to breed, Till now wide-branching tendrils it outspreads Like circling arms, to prison its own prison, Fretting the walls with blooms by myriads, And blazoning in my brain full summer-season: Thy face, whose dearness presence had not taught. In absence multiplies, and fills all thought.
II.
HEART'S FOUNTAIN.
Her moods are like the fountain's, changing ever, That spouts aloft a sudden, watery dome, Only to fall again in shattering foam, Just where the wedded jets themselves dissever, And palpitating downward, downward quiver, Unfolded like a swift ethereal flower, That sheds white petals in a blinding shower, And straightway soars anew with blithe endeavor.
The sun may kindle it with healthful fire; Upon it falls the cloud-gray's leaden load; At night the stars shall haunt the whirling spire: Yet these have but a transient garb bestowed. So her glad life, whate'er the hours impart, Plays still 'twixt heaven's cope and her own clear heart.
III.
SOUTH-WIND SONG.
Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease (Sweet breath, whereof the violet's life is made!) Through lips moist-warm, as thou hadst lately stayed 'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these Loth blushes faint and maidenly--rich Breeze, Still doth thy honeyed blowing bring a shade Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid The power to build or blight rich fruit of trees, The deep, cool grass, and field of thick-combed grain.
Even so my Love may bring me joy or woe, Both measureless, but either counted gain Since given by her. For pain and pleasure flow Like tides upon us of the self-same sea. Tears are the gems of joy and misery!
IV.
THE LOVER'S YEAR
Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve, My Summer and my Winter, Spring and Fall; For Nature left on thee a touch of all The moods that come to gladden or to grieve The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve From lagging sameness. So do these forestall In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave.
Scenes that I love to me always remain Beautiful, whether under summer's sun Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain. So, through all humors, thou 'rt the same sweet one: Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see Thy constant change is changeful constancy.
V.
NEW WORLDS.
With my beloved I lingered late one night. At last the hour when I must leave her came: But, as I turned, a fear I could not name Possessed me that the long sweet evening might Prelude some sudden storm, whereby delight Should perish. What if Death, ere dawn, should claim One of us? What, though living, not the same Each should appear to each in morning-light?
Changed did I find her, truly, the next day: Ne'er could I see her as of old again. That strange mood seemed to draw a cloud away, And let her beauty pour through every vein Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus the lover With each new morn a new world may discover.
VI.
WEDDING-NIGHT.
At night, with shaded eyes, the summer moon In tender meditation downward glances At the dark earth, far-set in dim expanses, And, welcomer than blazoned gold of noon, Down through the air her steady lights are strewn. The breezy forests sigh in moonlit trances, And the full-hearted poet, waking, fancies The smiling hills will break in laughter soon.
Oh thus, thou gentle Nature, dost thou shine On me to-night. My very limbs would melt, Like rugged earth beneath yon ray divine, Into faint semblance of what they have felt: Thine eye doth color me, O wife, O mine, With peace that in thy spirit long hath dwelt!
LOVE'S DEFEAT.
A thousand times I would have hoped, A thousand times protested; But still, as through the night I groped, My torch from me was wrested, and wrested.
How often with a succoring cup Unto the hurt I hasted! The wounded died ere I came up; My cup was still untasted,-- Untasted.
Of darkness, wounds, and harsh disdain Endured, I ne'er repented. 'T is not of these I would complain: With these I were contented,-- Contented.
Here lies the misery, to feel No work of love completed; In prayerless passion still to kneel, And mourn, and cry: "Defeated Defeated!"
MAY AND MARRIAGE.
THE LOVER WHO THINKS.
Dost thou remember, Love, those hours Shot o'er with random rainy showers, When the bold sun would woo coy May? She smiled, then wept--and looked another way.
We, learning from the sun and season, Together plotted joyous treason 'Gainst maiden majesty, to give Each other troth, and henceforth wedded live.
But love, ah, love we know is blind! Not always what they seek they find When, groping through dim-lighted natures, Fond lovers look for old, ideal statures.
What then? Is all our purpose lost? The balance broken, since Fate tossed Uneven weights? Oh well beware That thought, my sweet: 't were neither fit nor fair!
Seek not for any grafted fruits From souls so wedded at the roots; But whatsoe'er our fibres hold, Let that grow forth in mutual, ample mold!
No sap can circle without flaw Into the perfect sphere we saw Hanging before our happy eyes Amid the shade of marriage-mysteries;
But all that in the heart doth lurk Must toward the mystic shaping work: Sweet fruit and bitter both must fall When the boughs bend, at each year's autumn-call.
Ah, dear defect! that aye shall lift Us higher, not through craven shift Of fault on common frailty;--nay, But twofold hope to help with generous stay!
I shall be nearer, understood: More prized art thou than perfect good. And since thou lov'st me, I shall grow Thy other self--thy Life, thy Joy, thy Woe!
THE FISHER OF THE CAPE.
At morn his bark like a bird Slips lightly oceanward-- Sail feathering smooth o'er the bay And beak that drinks the wild spray. In his eyes beams cheerily A light like the sun's on the sea, As he watches the waning strand, Where the foam, like a waving hand Of one who mutely would tell Her love, flutters faintly, "Farewell."
But at night, when the winds arise And pipe to driving skies, And the moon peers, half afraid, Through the storm-cloud's ragged shade, He hears her voice in the blast That sighs about the mast, He sees her face in the clouds As he climbs the whistling shrouds; And a power nerves his hand, Shall bring the bark to land.
SAILOR'S SONG.
The sea goes up; the sky comes down. Oh, can you spy the ancient town,-- The granite hills so hard and gray, That rib the land behind the bay? O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
Three years? Is it so long that we Have lived upon the lonely sea? Oh, often I thought we'd see the town, When the sea went up, and the sky came down. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
Even the winter winds would rouse A memory of my father's house; For round his windows and his door They made the same deep, mouthless roar. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
And when the summer's breezes beat, Methought I saw the sunny street Where stood my Kate. Beneath her hand She gazed far out, far out from land. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
Farthest away, I oftenest dreamed That I was with her. Then, it seemed A single stride the ocean wide Had bridged, and brought me to her side. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home. O ye ho!
But though so near we're drawing, now, 'T is farther off----I know not how. We sail and sail: we see no home. Would we into the port were come! O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
At night, the same stars o'er the mast: The mast sways round--however fast We fly--still sways and swings around One scanty circle's starry bound. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
Ah, many a month those stars have shone, And many a golden morn has flown, Since that so solemn, happy morn, When, I away, my babe was born. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
And, though so near we're drawing, now, 'T is farther off--I know not how-- I would not aught amiss had come To babe or mother there, at home! O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
'T is but a seeming: swiftly rush The seas, beneath. I hear the crush Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow. Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
Patience, my mates! Though not this eve We cast our anchor, yet believe, If but the wind holds, short the run: We 'll sail in with to-morrow's sun. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Fair winds, boys: send her home! O ye ho!
JESSAMINE.
Here stands the great tree still, with broad, bent head, And wide arms grown aweary, yet outspread With their old blessing. But wan memory weaves Strange garlands now amongst the darkening leaves. _And the moon hangs low in the elm_.
Beneath these glimmering arches Jessamine Walked with her lover long ago, and in This moon-made shade he questioned; and she spoke: Then on them both love's rarer radiance broke. _And the moon hangs low in the elm_.
Sweet Jessamine we called her; for she shone Like blossoms that in sun and shade have grown, Gathering from each alike a perfect white, Whose rich bloom breaks opaque through darkest night. _And the moon hangs low in the elm_.
And for this sweetness Walt, her lover, sought To win her; wooed her here, his heart full-fraught With fragrance of her being, and gained his plea. So "We will wed," they said, "beneath this tree." _And the moon hangs low in the elm_.
Was it unfaith, or faith more full to her, Made him, for fame and fortune longing, spur Into the world? Far from his home he sailed: And life paused; while she watched joy vanish, vailed. _And the moon hangs low in the elm_.
Oh, better at the elm tree's sun-browned feet If he had been content to let life fleet Its wonted way!--there rearing his small house; Mowing and milking, lord of corn and cows! _And the moon hangs low in the elm_.
For as against a snarling sea one steers, Ever he battled with the beetling years; And ever Jessamine must watch and pine, Her vision bounded by the bleak sea-line. _And the moon hangs low in the elm_.
At last she heard no more. The neighbors said That Walt had married, faithless, or was dead. Yet naught her trust could move; the tryst she kept Each night still, 'neath this tree, before she slept. _And the moon hangs low in the elm._
So, circling years went by; and in her face Slow melancholy wrought a tempered grace Of early joy with sorrow's rich alloy-- Refinèd, rare, no doom should e'er destroy. _And the moon hangs low in the elm._
Sometimes at twilight, when sweet Jessamine, Slow-footed, weary-eyed, passed by to win The elm, we smiled for pity of her, and mused On love that so could live with love refused. _And the moon hangs low in the elm._
Nor none could hope for her. But she had grown Too high in love for hope, and bloomed alone, Aloft in pure sincerity secure; For fortune's failures, in her faith too sure. _And the moon hangs low in the elm._
Oh, well for Walt, if he had known her soul! Discouraged on disaster's changeful shoal Wrecking, he rested; starved on selfish pride Long years; nor would obey love's homeward tide. _And the moon hangs low in the elm._
But, bitterly repenting of his sin, Oh, bitterly he learned to look within Sweet Jessamine's clear depth--when the past, dead, Mocked him, and wild, waste years forever fled! _And the moon hangs low in the elm._
Late, late, oh, late beneath the tree stood two! In awe and anguish wondering: "Is it true?" Two that were each most like to some wan wraith: Yet each on each looked with a living faith. _And the moon hangs low in the elm._
Even to the tree-top sang the wedding-bell; Even to the tree-top tolled the passing knell. Beneath it Walt and Jessamine were wed; Beneath it many a year she lieth dead! _And the moon hangs low in the elm._
Here stands the great tree still. But age has crept Through every coil, while Walt each night has kept The tryst alone. Hark! with what windy might The boughs chant o'er her grave their burial-rite! _And the moon hangs low in the elm. _
GRIEF'S HERO.
A youth unto herself Grief took, Whom everything of joy forsook, And men passed with denying head, Saying: "'T were better he were dead."
Grief took him, and with master-touch Molded his being. I marveled much To see her magic with the clay, So much she gave--and took away. Daily she wrought, and her design Grew daily clearer and more fine, To make the beauty of his shape Serve for the spirit's free escape. With liquid fire she filled his eyes. She graced his lips with swift surmise Of sympathy for others' woe, And made his every fibre flow In fairer curves. On brow and chin And tinted cheek, drawn clean and thin, She sculptured records rich, great Grief! She made him loving, made him lief.
I marveled; for, where others saw A failing frame with many a flaw, Meseemed a figure I beheld Fairer than anything of eld Fashioned from sunny marble. Here Nature was artist with no peer. No chisel's purpose could have caught These lines, nor brush their secret wrought. Not so the world weighed, busily Pursuing drossy industry; But, saturated with success, Well-guarded by a soft excess Of bodily ease, gave little heed To him that held not by their creed, Save o'er the beauteous youth to moan: "A pity that he is not grown To our good stature and heavier weight, To bear his share of our full freight." Meanwhile, thus to himself he spoke: "Oh, noble is the knotted oak, And sweet the gush of sylvan streams, And good the great sun's gladding beams, The blush of life upon the field, The silent might that mountains wield. Still more I love to mix with men, Meeting the kindly human ken; To feel the force of faithful friends-- The thirst for smiles that never ends.
"Yet precious more than all of these I hold great Sorrow's mysteries, Whereby Gehenna's sultry gale Is made to lift the golden veil 'Twixt heaven's starry-spherèd light Of truth and our dim, sun-blent sight. Joy comes to ripen; but 'tis Grief That garners in the grainy sheaf. Time was I feared to know or feel The spur of aught but gilded weal; To bear aloft the victor, Fame, Would ev'n have champed a stately shame Of bit and bridle. But my fears Fell off in the pure bath of tears. And now with sinews fresh and strong I stride, to summon with a song The deep, invigorating truth That makes me younger than my youth. "O Sorrow, deathless thy delight! Deathless it were but for our slight Endurance! Truth like thine, too rare, We dare but take in scantiest share."
He died: the creatures of his kind Fared on. Not one had known his mind.
But the unnamed yearnings of the air, The eternal sky's wide-searching stare, The undertone of brawling floods, And the old moaning of the woods Grew full of memory.
The sun Many a brave heart has shone upon Since then, of men who walked abroad For joy and gladness praising God. But widowed Grief lives on alone: She hath not chosen, of them, one.
A FACE IN THE STREET.
Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair, Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of lust-- Thy star-like beauty, dimm'd with earthly dust, Yet breathing of a purer native air;-- They who whilom, cursed vultures, sought a share Of thy dead womanhood, their greed unjust Have satisfied, have stripped and left thee bare. Still, like a leaf warped by the autumn gust, And driving to the end, thou wrapp'st in flame And perfume all thy hollow-eyed decay, Feigning on those gray cheeks the blush that Shame Took with her when she fled long since away. Ah God! rain fire upon this foul-souled city That gives such death, and spares its men,--for pity!
THE BATHER.
Standing here alone, Let me pause awhile, Drinking in the light Ere, with plunge of white limbs prone, I raise the sparkling flight Of foam-flakes volatile.
Now, in natural guise, I woo the deathless breeze, Through me rushing fleet The joy of life, in swift surprise: I grow with growing wheat, And burgeon with the trees.
Lo! I fetter Time, So he cannot run; And in Eden again-- Flash of memory sublime!-- Dwell naked, without stain, Beneath the dazed sun.
All yields brotherhood; Each least thing that lives, Wrought of primal spores, Deepens this wild sense of good That, on these shaggy shores, Return to nature gives.
Oh, that some solitude Were ours, in woodlands deep, Where, with lucent eyes, Living lithe and limber-thewed, Our life's shape might arise Like mountains fresh from sleep!
To sounds of water falling, Hosts of delicate dreams Should lull us and allure With a dim, enchanted calling, Blameless to live and pure Like these sweet springs and streams.
But in a wilderness Alone may such life be? Why of all things framed, In my human form confessed Should I be ashamed, And blush for honesty?
Rounded, strengthy limbs That knit me to my kind-- Your glory turns to grief! Shall I for my soul sing hymns, Yet for my body find No clear, divine belief?
Let me rather die, Than by faith uphold Dogmas weak that dare The form that once Christ wore deny Afraid with him to share A purity twofold;
Yet, while sin remains On this saddened earth, Humbly walk my ways! For my garments are as chains; And I fear to praise My frame with careless mirth.
Joy and penance go Hand in hand, I see! Would I could live so well, Soul of me should never know When my coverings fell, Nor feel this nudity!
HELEN AT THE LOOM.
Helen, in her silent room, Weaves upon the upright loom, Weaves a mantle rich and dark, Purpled over-deep. But mark How she scatters o'er the wool Woven shapes, till it is full Of men that struggle close, complex; Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necks Arching high; spear, shield, and all The panoply that doth recall Mighty war, such war as e'en For Helen's sake is waged, I ween. Purple is the groundwork: good! All the field is stained with blood. Blood poured out for Helen's sake; (Thread, run on; and, shuttle, shake!) But the shapes of men that pass Are as ghosts within a glass, Woven with whiteness of the swan, Pale, sad memories, gleaming wan From the garment's purple fold Where Troy's tale is twined and told. Well may Helen, as with tender Touch of rosy fingers slender She doth knit the story in Of Troy's sorrow and her sin, Feel sharp filaments of pain Reeled off with the well-spun skein, And faint blood-stains on her hands From the shifting sanguine strands. Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow: What has been must be to-morrow; Meekly to her fate she bows. Heavenly beauties still will rouse Strife and savagery in men: Shall the lucid heavens, then, Lose their high serenity, Sorrowing over what must be? If she taketh to her shame, Lo, they give her not the blame,-- Priam's wisest counselors, Aged men, not loving wars: When she goes forth, clad in white, Day-cloud touched by first moonlight, With her fair hair, amber-hued As vapor by the moon imbued With burning brown, that round her clings, See, she sudden silence brings On the gloomy whisperers Who would make the wrong all hers.
So, Helen, in thy silent room, Labor at the storied loom; (Thread, run on; and, shuttle, shake!) Let thy aching sorrow make Something strangely beautiful Of this fabric, since the wool Comes so tinted from the Fates, Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates. Thou shalt work with subtle force All thy deep shade of remorse In the texture of the weft, That no stain on thee be left;-- Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief, Grief and wrong, to soft relief. Speed the garment! It may chance. Long hereafter, meet the glance Of none; when her lord, Now thy Paris, shall go t'ward Ida, at his last sad end, Seeking her, his early friend, Who alone can cure his ill Of all who love him, if she will. It were fitting she should see In that hour thine artistry, And her husband's speechless corse In the garment of remorse! But take heed that in thy work Naught unbeautiful may lurk. Ah, how little signifies Unto thee what fortunes rise, What others fall! Thou still shalt rule, Still shalt work the colored crewl. Though thy yearning woman's eyes Burn with glorious agonies, Pitying the waste and woe, And the heroes falling low In the war around thee, here, Yet that exquisitest tear 'Twixt thy lids shall dearer be Than life, to friend or enemy.
There are people on the earth Doomed with doom of too great worth. Look on Helen not with hate, Therefore, but compassionate. If she suffer not too much, Seldom does she feel the touch Of that fresh, auroral joy Lighter spirits may decoy To their pure and sunny lives. Heavy honey 't is, she hives. To her sweet but burdened soul All that here she doth control-- What of bitter memories, What of coming fate's surmise, Paris' passion, distant din Of the war now drifting in To her quiet--idle seems; Idle as the lazy gleams Of some stilly water's reach, Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleach A heavy arch, and, looking through, Far away the doubtful blue Glimmers, on a drowsy day, Crowded with the sun's rich gray, As she stands within her room, Weaving, weaving at the loom.
"O WHOLESOME DEATH."