PART II

EARLY SUMMER

The cricket in the rose-bush hedge Sings by the vine-entangled gate; The slim moon slants a timid edge Of pearl through one low cloud of slate; Around dark door and window-ledge Like dreams the shadows wait. And through the summer dusk she goes, On her white breast a crimson rose.

I

_She delays, meditating. A rainy afternoon._

Gray skies and a foggy rain Dripping from streaming eaves; Over and over again Dull drop of the trickling leaves: And the woodward-winding lane, And the hill with its shocks of sheaves One scarce perceives.

Shall I go in such wet weather By the lane or over the hill?-- Where the blossoming milkweed’s feather The diamonded rain-drops fill; Where, draggled and drenched together, The ox-eyes rank the rill By the old corn-mill.

The creek by now is swollen, And its foaming cascades sound; And the lilies, smeared with pollen, In the dam look dull and drowned. ’Tis the path I oft have stolen To the bridge; that rambles round With willows bound.

Through a bottom wild with berry, And packed with the ironweeds And elder,--washed and very Fragrant,--the fenced path leads Past oak and wilding cherry, Where the tall wild-lettuce seeds, To a place of reeds.

The sun through the sad sky bleaches-- Is that a thrush that calls?-- A bird in the rain beseeches: And see! on the balsam’s balls, And leaves of the water-beeches-- One blister of wart-like galls-- No rain-drop falls.

My shawl instead of a bonnet!... ’Though the woods be dripping yet, Through the wet to the rock I’ll run it!-- How sweet to meet in the wet!-- Our rock with the vine upon it,-- Each flower a fiery jet,-- Where oft we ’ve met.

II

_They meet. He speaks_:

How fresh the purple clover Smells in its veil of rain! And where the leaves brim over How musky wild the lane! See, how the sodden acres, Forlorn of all their rakers, Their hay and harvest makers, Look green as spring again.

Drops from the trumpet-flowers Rain on us as we pass; And every zephyr showers, From tilted leaf or grass, Clear beads of moisture, seeming Pale, pointed emeralds gleaming; Where, through the green boughs streaming, The daylight strikes like glass.

_She speaks_:

How dewy, clean and fragrant Look now the green and gold!-- And breezes, trailing vagrant, Spill all the spice they hold. The west begins to glimmer; And shadows, stretching slimmer, Make gray the ways; and dimmer Grow field and forest old.

Beyond those rainy reaches Of woodland, far and lone, A whippoorwill beseeches; And now an owlet’s moan Drifts faint upon the hearing.-- These say the dusk is nearing. And, see, the heavens, clearing, Take on a tender tone.

How feebly chirps the cricket! How thin the tree-toads cry! Blurred in the wild-rose thicket Gleams wet the firefly.-- This way toward home is nearest; Of weeds and briers clearest.... We ’ll meet to-morrow, dearest; Till then, dear heart, good-by.

III

_They meet again under the greenwood tree. He speaks_:

Here at last! And do you know That again you ’ve kept me waiting? Wondering, anticipating That your “yes” meant “no.”

Now you ’re here we ’ll have our day.... Let us take this daisied hollow, And beneath these beeches follow This wild strip of way

To the stream; wherein are seen Stealing gar and darting minnow; Over which snake-feeders winnow Wings of black and green.

Like a cactus flames the sun; And the mighty weaver, Even, Tenuous colored, there in heaven, His rich weft ’s begun....

How I love you! from the time-- You remember, do you not?-- When, within your orchard-plot, I was reading rhyme,

As I told you. And ’t was thus:-- “By the blue Trinacrian sea, Far in pastoral Sicily With Theocritus”--

That I answered you who asked. But the curious part was this:-- That the whole thing was amiss; That the Greek but masked

Tales of old Boccaccio: Tall Decameronian maids Strolled for me among the glades, Smiling, sweet and slow.

And when you approached,--my book Dropped in wonder,--seemingly To myself I said, “’Tis she!” And arose to look

In Lauretta’s eyes and--true! Found them yours.--You shook your head, Laughing at me, as you said, “Did I frighten you?”

You had come for cherries; these Coatless then I climbed for while You still questioned with a smile, And still tried to tease.

Ah, love, just two years have gone Since then.... I remember, you Wore a dress of billowy blue Muslin.--_Was_ it “lawn”?--

And your apron still I see-- All its whiteness cherry-stained-- Which you held; wherein I rained Ripeness from the tree.

And I asked you--for, you know, To my eyes your serious eyes Said such deep philosophies-- If you ’d read Rousseau.

You remember how a chance, Somewhat like to mine, one June Happened him at castle Toune, Over there in France?

And a cherry dropping fair On your cheek, I, envying it, Cried--remembering Rousseau’s wit-- “Would my lips were there!” ...

Here we are at last. We ’ll row Down the stream.--The west has narrowed To one streak of rose, deep-arrowed.-- There ’s our skiff below.

IV

_Entering the skiff, she speaks_:

Waters flowing dark and bright In the sunlight or the moon, Fill my soul with such delight As some visible music might; As some slow, majestic tune Made material to the sight.

Blossoms colored like the skies, Sunset-hued and tame or wild, Fill my soul with such surmise As the mind might realize If one’s thoughts, all undefiled, Should take form before the eyes.

So to me do these appeal; So they sway me every hour: Letting all their beauty steal On my soul to make it feel Through a rivulet or flower, More than any words reveal.

V

_He speaks, rowing_:

See, sweetheart, how the lilies lay Their lambent leaves about our way; Or, pollen-dusty, bob and float Their nenuphars around our boat.-- The middle of the stream is reached Three strokes from where our boat was beached.

Look up. You scarce can see the sky, Through trees that lean, dark, dense and high; That, coiled with grape and trailing vine, Build vast a roof of shade and shine; A house of leaves, where shadows walk, And whispering winds and waters talk.

There is no path. The saplings choke The trunks they spring from. There an oak, Floods from the Alleghanies bore, Lies rotting; and that sycamore, Which lays its bulk from shore to shore,-- Uprooted by the rain,--perchance May be the bridge to some romance: Its heart of punk, a spongy white, Glows, ghostly foxfire, in the night.

Now opening through a willow fringe The waters creep, one tawny tinge Of sunset; and on either marge The cottonwoods make walls of shade, With breezy balsam pungent: large, The gradual hills loom; darkly fade The waters wherein herons wade, Or wing, like Faëry birds, from grass That mats the shore by which we pass.

_She speaks_:

On we pass; we rippling pass, On sunset waters still as glass. A vesper-sparrow flies above, Soft twittering, to its woodland love. A tufted-titmouse calls afar; And from the west, like some swift star, A glittering jay flies screaming. Slim The sand-snipes and kingfishers skim Before us; and some twilight thrush-- Who may discover where such sing?-- The silence rinses with a gush Of limpid music bubbling.

_He speaks_:

On we pass.--Now let us oar To yonder strip of ragged shore, Where, from a rock with lichens hoar, A ferny spring falls, babbling frore Through woodland mosses. Gliding by The sulphur-colored firefly Lights its pale lamp where mallows gloom, And wild-bean and wild-mustard bloom.-- Some hunter there within the woods Last fall encamped, those ashes say And campfire boughs.--The solitudes Grow dreamy with the death of day.

VI

_She sings_:

Over the fields of millet A young bird tries its wings; And wild as a woodland rillet, Its first mad music rings rings-- Soul of my soul, where the meadows roll What is the song it sings?

“Love, and a glad good-morrow, Heart where the rapture is! Good-morrow, good-morrow! Adieu to sorrow! Here is the road to bliss: Where all day long you may hearken my song, And kiss, kiss, kiss;”

Over the fields of clover, Where the wild bee drones and sways, The wind, like a shepherd lover, Flutes on the fragrant ways-- Heart of my heart, where the blossoms part, What is the air he plays?

“Love, and a song to follow, Soul with the face a-gleam! Come follow, come follow, O’er hill and through hollow, To the land o’ the bloom and beam: Where, under the flowers, you may listen for hours, And dream, dream, dream!”

VII

_He speaks, letting the boat drift_:

Here the shores are irised; grasses Clump the water gray, that glasses Broken wood and deepened distance. Far the musical persistence Of a field-lark lingers low In the west’s rich tulip-glow.

White before us flames one pointed Star; and Day hath Night anointed King; from out her azure ewer Pouring starry fire, truer Than pure gold. Star-crowned he stands With the starlight in his hands.

Will the moon bleach through the ragged Tree-tops ere we reach yon jagged Rock that rises gradually, Pharos of our homeward valley?-- All the west is smouldering red; Embers are the stars o’erhead.

At my soul some Protean elf is: You ’re Simætha; I am Delphis, You are Sappho and your Phaon, I.--We love.--There lies our way, on,-- Let us say,--Æolian seas, To the violet Lesbian leas.

On we drift. I love you. Nearer Looms our Island. Rosier, clearer, The Leucadian cliff we follow, Where the temple of Apollo Shines--a pale and pillared fire.... Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre!-- Out of Hellas blows the breeze Singing to the Sapphic seas.

VIII

_Landing, he sings_:

Night, night, ’t is night. The moon drifts low above us, And all its gold is tangled in the stream: Love, love, my love, and all the stars, that love us, The stars smile down and every star ’s a dream.

In odorous purple, where the falling warble Of water cascades and the plunged foam glows, A columned ruin lifts its sculptured marble Friezed with the chiselled rebeck and the rose.

_She sings_:

Sleep, sleep, sweet sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller, And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain-- Love, love, my love, ah, bid thy heart be stiller, And, hark! the music of the singing main.

What flowers are those that blow their balm unto us, From mouths of wild aroma, each a flame?-- Or is it Love that breathes? sweet Love who drew us, Who kissed our eyes and made us see the same?

_He speaks_:

Dreams; dreams we dream! no dream that we would banish! The temple and the nightingale _are_ there! Our love hath made them, nevermore to vanish, Real as yon moon, this wild-rose in your hair.

Night, night, ’tis night!--and Love’s own star ’s before us, Its starred reflection in the starry stream.-- Yes, yes, ah yes! his presence shall watch o’er us, To-night, to-night, and every night we dream.

IX

_Homeward through flowers; she speaks_:

Behold the offerings of the common hills! Whose lowly names have made them three times dear: One evening-primrose and an apron-full Of violets; and there, in multitudes, Dim-seen in moonlight, sweet cerulean wan, The bluet, making heaven of every dell With morn’s ambrosial blue: dew-dropping plumes Of the mauve beard’s-tongue; and the red-freaked cups Of blackberry-lilies all along the creek, Where, lulled, the freckled silence sleeps, and vague The water flows, when, at high noon, the cows Wade knee-deep, and the heat is honied with The drone of drowsy bees and dizzy flies. How bright the moon is on that fleur-de-lis; Blue, streaked with crystal like a summer day: And is it moonlight there? or is it flowers? White violets? lilies? or a daisy bed? And now the wind, with softest lullaby, Swings all their cradled heads and rocks-to-sleep Their fragrant faces and their golden eyes, Curtained, and frailly wimpled with the dew.

Simple suggestions of a life most fair! Flowers, you speak of love and untaught faith, Whose habitation is within the soul, Not of the Earth, yet for the Earth indeed....

What is it halcyons my heart? makes calm, With calmness not of knowledge, all my soul This night of nights?--Is ’t love? or faith? or both?-- The lore of all the world is less than these Simple suggestions of a life most fair, And love most sweet that I have learned to know!

X

_He speaks, musingly_:

Yes, I have known its being so; Long ago was I seeing so-- Beckoning on to a fairer land, Out of the flowers it waved its hand; Bidding me on to life and love, Life with the hope of the love thereof.

What is the value of knowing it, If you are shy in showing it?-- Need of the earth unfolds the flower, Dewy sweet, at the proper hour; And, in the world of the human heart, Love is the flower’s counterpart.

So when the soul is heedable, Then is the heart made readable.-- I in the book of your heart have read Words that are truer than truth hath said: Measures of love, the spirit’s song, Writ of your soul to haunt me long.

Love can hear each laudable Thought of the loved made audible, Spoken in wonder, or joy, or pain, And reëcho it back again: Ever responsive, ever awake, Ever replying with ache for ache.

XI

_She speaks, dreamily_:

Earth gives its flowers to us And heaven its stars. Indeed, _These_ are as lips that woo us, _Those_ are as lights that lead, With love that doth pursue us, With hope that still doth speed.

Yet shall the flowers lie riven, And lips forget to kiss; The stars fade out of heaven, And lights lead us amiss-- As love for which we ’ve striven; As hope that promises.

XII

_He laughs, wishing to dispel her seriousness_:

If love I have had of you, you had of me, Then doubtless our loving were over; One would be less than the other, you see; Since what you returned to your lover Were only his own; and--

XIII

_She interrupts him, speaking impetuously_:

But if I lose you, if you part with me, I will not love you less Loving so much now. If there is to be A parting and distress,-- What will avail to comfort or relieve The soul that’s anguished most?-- The knowledge that it once possessed, perceive, The love that it has lost. You must acknowledge, under sun and moon All that we feel is old; Let morning flutter from night’s brown cocoon Wide wings of flaxen gold; The moon burst through the darkness, soaring o’er, Like some great moth and white, These have been seen a myriad times before And with renewed delight.-- So ’tis with love;--how old yet new it is!-- This only should we heed,-- To once have known, to once have felt love’s bliss, Is to be rich indeed.-- Whether we win or lose, we lose or win, Within our gain or loss Some purpose lies, some end unseen of sin, Beyond our crown or cross.

XIV

_Nearing her home, he speaks_:

True, true!--Perhaps it would be best To be that lone star in the west; Above the earth, within the skies, Yet shining here in your blue eyes.

Or, haply, better here to blow A flower beneath your window low; That, brief of life and frail and fair, Finds yet a heaven in your hair.

Or well, perhaps, to be the breeze That sighs its soul out to the trees; A voice, a breath of rain or drouth, That has its wild will with your mouth.

These things I long to be. I long To be the burthen of some song You love to sing; a melody, Sure of sweet immortality.

XV

_At the gate. She speaks_:

Sunday shall we ride together? Not the root-rough, rambling way Through the wood we went that day, In last summer’s sultry weather.

Past the Methodist camp-meeting, Where religion helped the hymn Gather volume; and a slim Minister, with textful greeting,

Welcomed us and still expounded.-- From the service on the hill We had passed three hills and still Loud, though far, the singing sounded.

Nor that road through weed and berry Drowsy days led me and you To the old-time barbecue, Where the country-side made merry.

Dusty vehicles together; Darkies with the horses near Tied to trees; the atmosphere Redolent of bark and leather,

And of burgoo and of beef; there Roasting whole within the trench; Near which spread the long pine bench Under shading limb and leaf there.

As we went the homeward journey You exclaimed, “They intermix Pleasure there and politics, Love and war: our modern tourney.”

And the fiddles!--through the thickets, How they thumped the old quadrille! Scraping, droning on the hill, It was like a swarm of crickets....

Neither road! The shady quiet Of that path by beech and birch, Winding to the ruined church Near the stream that sparkles by it.

Where the silent Sundays listen For the preacher--Love--we bring In our hearts to preach and sing Week-day shade to Sabbath glisten.

XVI

_He, at parting_:

Yes, to-morrow. Early morn.-- When the House of Day uncloses Portals that the stars adorn,-- Whence Light’s golden presence throws his Flaming lilies, burning roses, At the wide wood’s world of wall, Spears of sparkle at each fall:

Then together we will ride To the wood’s cathedral places; Where, like prayers, the wildflowers hide, Sabbath in their fairy faces; Where, in truest, untaught phrases, Worship in each rhythmic word, God is praised by many a bird.

Look above you.--Pearly white, Star on star now crystallizes Out of darkness: Afric night Hangs them round her like devices Of strange jewels. Vapor rises, Glimmering, from each wood and dell.-- Till to-morrow, then, farewell.

XVII

_She tarries at the gate a moment, watching him disappear down the lane. He sings, and the sound of his singing grows fainter and fainter and at last dies away in the distance_:

Say, my heart, O my heart, These be the eves for speaking! There is no wight will work us spite Beneath the sunset’s streaking.

Yes, my sweet, O my sweet, Now is the time for telling! To walk together in starry weather Down lanes with elder smelling.

O my heart, yes, my heart, Now is the time for saying! When lost in dreams each wildflower seems And every blossom praying.

Lean, my sweet, listen, sweet,-- No sweeter time than this is,-- So says the rose, the moth that knows,-- To take sweet toll in kisses.