Chapter 3

We, spoke of God and Fate, And of that Life--which some await-- Beyond the grave, "It will be fair," she said, "But love is here! I only crave thy breast Not God's when I am dead. For He nor wants nor needs My little love. But it may be, if I love thee And those whose sorrow daily bleeds, He knows--and somehow heeds!"

ASHORE

What are the heaths and hills to me? I'm a-longing for the sea! What are the flowers that dapple the dell, And the ripple of swallow-wings over the dusk; What are the church and the folk who tell Their hearts to God?--my heart is a husk! (I'm a-longing for the sea!)

Aye! for there is no peace to me-- But on the peaceless sea! Never a child was glad at my knee, And the soul of a woman has never been mine. What can a woman's kisses be?-- I fear to think how her arms would twine. (I'm a-longing for the sea!)

So, not a home and ease for me-- But still the homeless sea! Where I may swing my sorrow to sleep In a hammock hung o'er the voice of the waves, Where I may wake when the tempests heap And hurl their hate--and a brave ship saves. (I'm a-longing for the sea!)

Then when I die, a grave for me-- But in the graveless sea! Where is no stone for an eye to spell Thro' the lichen a name, a date and a verse. Let me be laid in the deeps that swell And sigh and wander--an ocean hearse! (I'm a-longing for the sea!)

THE VICTORY

See, see!--the blows at his breast, The abyss at his back, The perils and pains that pressed, The doubts in a pack, That hunted to drag him down Have triumphed? and now He sinks, who climbed for the crown To the Summit's brow?

No!--though at the foot he lies, Fallen and vain, With gaze to the peak whose skies He could not attain, The victory is, with strength-- No matter the past!-- He'd dare it again, the dark length, And the fall at last!

AT WINTER'S END

The weedy fallows winter-worn, Where cattle shiver under sodden hay. The plough-lands long and lorn-- The fading day.

The sullen shudder of the brook, And winds that wring the writhen trees in vain For drearier sound or look-- The lonely rain.

The crows that train o'er desert skies In endless caravans that have no goal But flight--where darkness flies-- From Pole to Pole.

The sombre zone of hills around That shrink in misty mournfulness from sight, With sunset aureoles crowned-- Before the night.

MOTHER-LOVE

The seraphs would sing to her And from the River Dip her cool grails of radiant Life. The angels would bring to her, Sadly a-quiver, Laurels she never had won in earth-strife.

And often they'd fly with her O'er the star-spaces-- Silent by worlds where mortals are pent. Yea, even would sigh with her, Sigh with wan faces! When she sat weeping of strange discontent.

But one said, "Why weepest thou Here in God's heaven-- Is it not fairer than soul can see?" "'Tis fair, ah!--but keepest thou Not me depriven Of some one--somewhere--who needeth most me?

"For tho' the day never fades Over these meadows, Tho' He has robed me and crowned--yet, yet! Some love-fear for ever shades All with sere shadows-- Had I no child _there_--whom I forget?"

TO A SINGING WARBLER

"Beauty! all--all--is beauty?" Was ever a bird so wrong! "No young in the nest, no mate, no duty?" Ribald! is this your song?

"Glad it is ended," are you? The Spring and its nuptial fear? "And freedom is better than love?" beware you, There will be May next year!

"Beauty!" again, still "beauty"? Wait till the winter comes! Till kestrel and hungry kite seek booty And the bleak cold benumbs!

Wait? nay, fling it to heaven The false little song you prate! Too sweet are its fancies not to leaven Even the rudest fate!

SONGS TO A. H. R.

I

THE WORLD'S, AND MINE

The world may hear The wind at his trees, The lark in her skies, The sea on his leas; May hear Song rise On words as immortal As any that sound Thro' Heaven's Portal. But I have a music they can never know-- The touch of you, soul of you, heart of you, Oh! All else that is said or sung 's but a part of you-- Be it forever so!

II

LOVE-CALL IN SPRING

Not only the lark but the robin too (Oh, heart o' my heart, come into the wood!) Is singing the air to gladness new As the breaking bud And the freshet's flood!

Not only the peeping grass and the scent-- (Oh, love o' my life, fly unto me here!) Of violets coming ere April's spent-- But the frog's shrill cheer And the crow's wild jeer!

Not only the blue, not only the breeze, (Oh, soul o' my heart, why tarry so long!) But sun that is sweeter upon the trees Than rills that throng To the brooklet's song!

Oh, heart o' my heart, oh, heart o' my love, (Oh soul o' my soul, haste unto me, haste!) For spring is below and God is above-- But all is a waste Without thee--haste!

III

MATING

The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing! What shall we do with the April days! Kingcups soon will be up and swinging-- What shall we do with May's!

The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!" Out on the bough he flutters, a flame. Thrush-flutes echo, "For mating's elating! Love is its other name!"

They know! know it! but better, oh, better, Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring, Know we to make each moment debtor Unto love's burgeoning!

IV

UNTOLD

Could I, a poet, Implant the truth of you, Seize it and sow it As Spring on the world. There were no need To fling (forsooth) of you Fancies that only lovers heed! No, but unfurled, The bloom, the sweet of you, (As unto me they are opened oft) Would with their beauty's breath repeat of you All that my heart breathes loud or soft!

V

LOVE-WATCH

My love's a guardian-angel Who camps about thy heart, Never to See thine enemy, Nor from thee turn apart.

Whatever dark may shroud thee And hide thy stars away, With vigil sweet his wings shall beat About thee till the day.

VI

AT AMALFI

Come to the window, you who are mine. Waken! the night is calling. Sit by me here--with the moon's fair shine Into your deep eyes falling.

The sea afar is a fearful gloom; Lean from the casement, listen! Anear it breaks with a faery spume, Spraying the rocks that glisten.

The little white town below lies deep As eternity in slumber. O, you who are mine, how a glance can reap Beauties beyond all number!

And, how as sails that at anchor ride Our spirits rock together On a sea of love--lit as this tide With tenderest star-weather!

Till the gray dawn is redd'ning up, Over the moon low-lying. Come, come away--we have drunk the cup: Ours is the dream undying!

VII

ON THE PACIFIC

A storm broods far on the foam of the deep; The moon-path gleams before. A day and a night, a night and a day, And the way, love, will be o'er.

Six thousand wandering miles we have come And never a sail have seen. The sky above and the sea below And the drifting clouds between.

Yet in our hearts unheaving hope And light and joy have slept. Nor ever lonely has seemed the wave Tho' heaving wild it leapt.

For there is talismanic might Within our vows of love To breathe us over all seas of life-- On to that Port, above,

Where the great Captain of all ships Shall anchor them or send Them forth on a vaster Voyage, yea, On one that shall not end.

And upon _that_ we two, I think, Together still shall sail. Oh, may it be, my own, or may We perish in death's gale!

THE ATONER

Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes (Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves). Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashes His limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.

He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven (Sins of the revelous days of June)-- Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven, Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.

Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging, (Long will the day-god aloof frown cold), Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging-- Till the dark beads of his days are told.

TO THE SPRING WIND

Ah, what a changeling! Yester you dashed from the west, Altho' it is Spring, And scattered the hail with maniac zest Thro' the shivering corn--in scorn For the labour of God and man. And now from the plentiful South you haste, With lovingest fingers, To ruefully lift and wooingly fan The lily that lingers a-faint on the stalk: As if the chill waste Of the earth's May-dreams, The flowers so full of her joy, Were not--as it seems-- A wanton attempt to destroy.

THE RAMBLE

Down the road which asters tangle, Thro' the gap where green-briar twines, By the path where dry leaves dangle Sere from the ivy vines

We go--by sedgy fallows And along the stifled brook, Till it stops in lushy mallows Just at the bridge's crook.

Then, again, o'er fence, thro' thicket, To the mouth of the rough ravine, Where the weird leaf-hidden cricket Chirrs thro' the weirder green,

There's a way, o'er rocks--but quicker Is the beat of heart and foot, As the beams above us flicker Sun upon moss and root!

And we leap--as wildness tingles From the air into our blood-- With a cry thro' golden dingles Hid in the heart of the wood.

Oh, the wood with winds a-wrestle! With the nut and acorn strown! Oh, the wood where creepers trestle Tree unto tree o'ergrown!

With a climb the ledging summit Of the hill is reached in glee. For an hour we gaze off from it Into the sky's blue sea.

But a bell and sunset's crimson Soon recall the homeward path. And we turn as the glory dims on The hay-field's mounded math.

Thro' the soft and silent twilight We come, to the stile at last, As the clear undying eyelight Of the stars tells day is past.

RETURN

Ah, it was here--September And silence filled the air-- I came last year to remember, And muse, hid away from care. It was here I came--the thistle Was trusting her seed to the wind; The quail in the croft gave whistle As now--and the fields lay thinned.

I know how the hay was steeping, Brown mows under mellow haze; How a frail cloud-flock was creeping As now over lone sky-ways. Just there where the catbird's calling Her mock-hurt note by the shed, The use-worn wain was stalling In the weedy brook's dry bed.

And the cricket, lone little chimer Of day-long dreams in the vines, Chirred on like a doting rhymer O'er-vain of his firstling lines. He's near me now by the aster, Beneath whose shadowy spray A sultry bee seeps faster As the sun slips down the day.

And there are the tall primroses Like maidens waiting to dance. They stood in the same shy poses Last year, as if to entrance The stately mulleins to waken From death and lead them around: And still they will stand untaken, Till drops their gold to the ground.

Yes, it was here--September And silence round me yearned. Again I've come to remember, Again for musing returned To the searing fields' assuaging, And the falling leaves' sad balm: Away from the world's keen waging-- To harvest and hills and calm.

LISETTE

Oh ... there was love in her heart--no doubt of it-- Under the anger. But see what came out of it!

Not a knave, he!--A smitten rhyme-smatterer, Cloaking in languor And heartache to flatter her.

And just as a woman will--even the best of them-- She yielded--brittle. God spare me the rest of them!

For! though but kisses--she swore!--he had of her, Was it so little? She thought 'twas not bad of her,

Said I would lavish a burning hour-full On any grisette. And silenced me, powerful!

But she was mine, and blood is inflammable-- For a Lisette! My rage was undammable....

Could a stiletto's one prick be prettier? Look at the gaping. No?--then you're her pitier!

Pah! she's the better, and I ... I'm your prisoner. Loose me the strapping-- I'll lay one more kiss on her.

FROM ONE BLIND

I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose, Thy hair like rippled sunbeams, and thine eyes Like violets, April-rich and sprung of God. My barren gaze can never know what throes Such boons of beauty waken, tho' I rise Each day a-tremble with the ruthless hope That light will pierce my useless lids--then grope Till night, blind as the worm within his clod.

Yet unto me thou art not less divine, I touch thy cheek--and know the mystery hid Within the twilight breeze; I smooth thy hair And understand how slipping hours may twine Themselves into eternity: yea, rid Of all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seem To see all beauty God Himself may dream. Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?

IN A CEMETERY

When Autumn's melancholy robes the land With silence, and sad fadings mystical Of other years move thro' the mellow fields, I turn unto this meadow of the dead, Strewn with the leaves stormed from October trees, And wonder if my resting shall be dug Here by this cedar's moan or under the sway Of yonder cypress--lair of winds that rove As Valkyries sent from Valhalla's court In search of worthy slain. And sundry times with questioning I tease The entombed of their estate--seeking to know Whether 'tis sweeter in the grave to feel The oblivion of Nature's silent flow, Or here to wander wistful o'er her face. Whether the harvesting of pain and joy Which men call Life ends so, or whether death Pours the warm chrism of Immortality Into each human heart whose glow is spent.

And oft the Silence hears me. For a voice Of sighing wind may answer, or a gaze, Though wordless, from a marble seraph's face. Or sometimes from unspeakable deeps of gold, That ebb along the west, revealings wing And tremble, like ethereal swift tongues Unskilled of human speech, about my heart-- Till youth, age, death, even earth's all, it seems, Are but brave moments wakened in that Soul, To whom infinities are as a span, Eternities as bird-flights o'er the sun, And worlds as sands blown from Sahara's wilds Into the ceaseless surging of the sea....

Then twilight hours lead back my wandered spirit From out the wilderness of mystery Whence none may find a path to the Unknown, And chastened to content I turn me home.

WAKING

Oh, the long dawn, the weary, endless dawn, When sleep's oblivion is torn away From love that died with dying yesterday But still unburied in the heart lies on!

Oh, the sick gray, the twitter in the trees, The sense of human waking o'er the earth! The quivering memories of love's fair birth Now strown as deathless flowers o'er its decease!

Oh, the regret, and oh, regretlessness, Striving for sovranty within the soul! Oh, fear that life shall never more be whole, And immortality but make it less!

STORM-EBB

Dusking amber dimly creeps Over the vale, Lit by the kildee's silver sweeps, Sad with his wail.

Eastward swing the silent clouds Into the night. Burdens of day they seem--in crowds Hurled from earth's sight.

Tilting gulls whip whitely far Over the lake, Tirelessly on o'er buoy and spar Till they o'ertake

Shadow and mingled mist--and then Vanish to wing Still the bewildering night-fen, Where the waves ring.

Dusking amber dimly dies Out of the vale. Dead from the dunes the winds arise-- Ghosts of the gale.

LINGERING

I lingered still when you were gone, When tryst and trust were o'er, While memory like a wounded swan In sorrow sung love's lore.

I lingered till the whippoorwill Had cried delicious pain Over the wild-wood--in its thrill I heard your voice again.

I lingered and the mellow breeze Blew to me sweetly dewed-- Its touch awoke the sorceries Your last caresses brewed.

But when the night with silent start Had sown her starry seed, The harvest which sprang in my heart Was loneliness and need.

FAUN-CALL

Oh, who is he will follow me With a singing, Down sunny roads where windy odes Of the woods are ringing?

Where leaves are tossed from branches lost In a tangle Of vines that vie to clamber high-- But to vault and dangle!

Oh, who is he?--His eye must be As a lover's To leap and woo the chicory's hue In the hazel-hovers!

His hope must dance like radiance That hurries To scatter shades from the silent glades Where the quick hare scurries.

And he must see that Autumn's glee And her laughter From his lips and heart will quell all smart-- Of before and after!

THE LIGHTHOUSEMAN

When at evening smothered lightnings Burn the clouds with fretted fires; When the stars forget to glisten, And the winds refuse to listen To the song of my desires, Oh, my love, unto thee!

When the livid breakers angered Churn against my stormy tower; When the petrel flying faster Brings an omen to the master Of his vessel's fated hour-- Oh, the reefs! ah, the sea!

Then I climb the climbing stairway, Turn the light across the storm; You are watching, fisher-maiden For the token-flashes laden With a love death could not harm-- Lo, they come, swift and free!

_One_--that means, "I think of thee!" _Two_--"I swear me thine!" _Three_--Ah, hear me tho' you sleep!-- Is, that I know thee mine! Thro' the darkness, One, Two, Three, All the night they sweep: Thro' raging darkness o'er the deep, One--and Two--and Three.

SERENITY

And could I love it more--this simple scene Of cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested, That lie as if forgotten were all green, So bare, so dead!

Or could my gaze more tenderly entwine Each pallid beech and silvery sycamore Outreaching arms in patience to divine If winter's o'er?

Ah no, the wind has blown into my veins The blue infinity of sky, the sense Of meadows free to-day from icy pains-- From wintry vents.

And sunny peace more virgin than the glow Falling from eve's first star into the night, Brings hope believing what it ne'er can know With mortal sight.

WANTON JUNE

I knew she would come! Sarcastic November Laughed cold and glum On the last red ember Of forest leaves. He was laughing, the scorner, At me forlorner Than any that grieves-- Because I asked him if June would come!

But I knew she would come When snow-hearted winter Gripped river and loam, And the wind sped flinter On icy heel, I was chafing my sorrow And yearning to borrow A hope that would steal Across the hours--till June should come.

And now she is here-- The wanton!--I follow Her steps, ever near, To the shade of the hollow Where violets blow: And chide her for leaving, Tho' half believing She taunted me so, To make her abided return more dear.

SPIRIT OF RAIN

(MIYANOSHITA, JAPAN, 1905)

Spirit of rain-- With all thy mountain mists that wander lonely As a gray train Of souls newly discarnate seeking new life only!

Spirit of rain! Leading them thro' dim torii, up fane-ways onward Till not in vain They tremble upon the peaks and plunge rejoicing dawnward.

Spirit of rain! So would I lead my dead thoughts high and higher, Till they regain Birth and the beauty of a new life's fire.

AUTUMN AT THE BRIDGE

Brown dropping of leaves, Soft rush of the wind, Slow searing of sheaves On the hill; Green plunging of frogs, Cool lisp of the brook, Far barking of dogs At the mill; Hot hanging of clouds, High poise of the hawk, Flush laughter of crowds From the Ridge; Nut-falling, quail-calling, Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling-- Oh, sadness, gladness, madness, Of an autumn day at the bridge!

TEARLESS

Do women weep when men have died? It cannot be! For I have sat here by his side, Breathing dear names against his face, That he must list to, were his place Over God's throne-- Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.

Do women weep--not gaze stone-eyed? Grief seems in vain. Do women weep?--I was his bride-- They brought him to me cold and pale-- Upon his lids I saw the trail Of deathly pain. They said, "Her tears will fall like autumn rain."

I cannot weep! Not if hot tears, Dropped on his lids, Might burn him back to life and years Of yearning love, would any rise To flood the anguish from my eyes-- And I'm his bride! Ah me, do women weep when men have died?

SUNSET-LOVERS

Upon how many a hill, Across how many a field, Beside how many a river's restful flowing, They stand, with eyes a-thrill, And hearts of day-rue healed, Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!

They have forgotten life, Forgotten sunless death; Desire is gone--is it not gone for ever? No memory of strife Have they, or pain-sick breath. No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.

Silent the gold steals down The west, and mystery Moves deeper in their hearts and settles darker. 'Tis faded--the day's crown; But strange and shadowy They see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.

Like priests whose altar fires Are spent, immovable They stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted. Zephyrs awake tree-lyres, The starry deeps are full, Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.

Ah, sunset-lovers, though Time were but pulsing pain, And death no more than its eternal ceasing, Would you not choose the throe, Hold the oblivion vain, To have beheld so many a day's releasing?

THE EMPTY CROSS

The eve of Golgotha had come, And Christ lay shrouded in the garden Tomb: Among the olives, Oh, how dumb, How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!

The hill grew dim--the pleading cross Reached empty arms toward the closing gate. Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss! Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!

Reached bleeding arms--but how in vain! The murmurous multitude within the wall Already had forgot His pain-- To-morrow would forget the cross--and all!

They knew not Rome, before its sign, Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne, Would sweep all lands from Nile to Rhine In servitude unto the Nazarene.

Nor knew that millions would forsake Ancestral shrines great with the glow of time, And lifting up its token shake Aeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.

With empty arms aloft it stood: Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well! The cross emblotted with His blood Mounts, highest Hope of men, against earth's hell!

UNBURTHENED