Part 10

The bird, that sang so sweet, is still At dusk and dawn; No more it makes the silence thrill Of wood and lawn. In vain the buds, when it is near, Open each pink and perfumed ear,-- The song it sings she will not hear Who now is gone, Is dead and gone.

Ah, well she sleeps who loved them well, The birds and bowers; The fair, the young, the lovable, Who once was ours. Alas! that loveliness must pass! Must come to lie beneath the grass! That youth and joy must fade, alas! And die like flowers, Earth’s sweetest flowers!

THE QUEST

I

First I asked the honey-bee, Busy in the balmy bowers; Saying, “Sweetheart, tell it me: Have you seen her, honey-bee? She is cousin to the flowers-- All the sweetness of the south In her wild-rose face and mouth.”-- But the bee passed silently.

II

Then I asked the forest-bird, Warbling by the woodland waters; Saying, “Dearest, have you heard, Have you heard her, forest-bird? She is one of Music’s daughters-- Never song so sweet by half As the music of her laugh.”-- But the bird said not a word.

III

Next I asked the evening-sky, Hanging out its lamps of fire; Saying, “Loved one, passed she by? Tell me, tell me, evening-sky! She, the star of my desire-- Sister whom the Pleiads lost, And my soul’s high pentecost.”-- But the sky made no reply.

IV

Where is she? ah, where is she? She to whom both love and duty Bind me, yea, immortally.-- Where is she? ah, where is she? Symbol of the Earth-soul’s beauty. I have lost her. Help my heart Find her! her, who is a part Of the pagan soul of me!

BEFORE THE RAIN

Before the rain, low in the obscure east, Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray; Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased, Wove an enormous web, wherein it lay Like some white spider hungry for its prey. Vindictive looked the scowling firmament, In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray, Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.

The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stone The peevish cricket raised a creaking cry. Within the world these sounds were heard alone, Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky, Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh; Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed, That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by, Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.

Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passed Before was heard the thunder’s sullen drum Rumbling night’s hollow; and the Earth at last, Restless with waiting,--like a woman, dumb With doubting of the love that should have clomb Her casement hours ago,--avowed again, ’Mid protestations, joy that he had come. And all night long I heard the Heavens explain.

AFTER RAIN

Behold the blossom-bosomed Day again, With all the star-white Hours in her train, Laughs out of pearl-lights through a golden ray, That, leaning on the woodland wildness, blends A sprinkled amber with the showers that lay Their oblong emeralds on the leafy ends. Behold her bend with maiden-braided brows Above the wildflower, sidewise with its strain Of dewy happiness, to kiss again Each drop to death; or, under rainy boughs, With fingers, fragrant as the woodland rain, Gather the sparkles from the sycamore, To set within the core Of crimson roses girdling her hips, Where each bud dreams and drips.

Smoothing her blue-black hair,--where many a tusk Of iris flashes,--like the falchions keen Of Faery round blue banners of their Queen,-- Is it a Naiad singing in the dusk, That haunts the spring, where all the moss is musk With footsteps of the flowers on the banks? Or but a wild-bird voluble with thanks?

Balm for each blade of grass: the Hours prepare A festival each weed’s invited to. Each bee is drunken with the honied air: And all the heaven is eloquent with blue. The wet hay glitters, and the harvester Tinkles his scythe,--as twinkling as the dew,-- That shall not spare Blossom or brier in its sweeping path; And, ere it cut one swath, Rings them they die, and tells them to prepare.

What is the spice that haunts each glen and glade? A Dryad’s lips, who slumbers in the shade? A Faun, who lets the heavy ivy-wreath Slip to his thigh as, reaching up, he pulls The chestnut blossoms in whole bosomfuls? A sylvan Spirit, whose sweet mouth doth breathe Her viewless presence near us, unafraid? Or troops of ghosts of blooms, that whitely wade The brook? whose wisdom knows no other song But that the bird sings where it builds beneath The wild-rose and sits singing all day long.

Oh, let me sit with silence for a space, A little while forgetting that fierce part Of man that struggles in the toiling mart; Where God can look into my heart’s own heart From unsoiled heights made amiable with grace; And where the sermons that the old oaks keep Can steal into me.--And what better then Than, turning to the moss a quiet face, To fall asleep? a little while to sleep And dream of wiser worlds and wiser men.

SUNSET CLOUDS

Low clouds, the lightning veins and cleaves, Torn from the wilderness of storm, Sweep westward like enormous leaves O’er field and farm.

And in the west, on burning skies, Their wrath is quenched, their hate is hushed, And deep their drifted thunder lies With splendor flushed.

The black turns gray, the gray turns gold; And sea’d in deeps of radiant rose, Summits of fire, manifold, They now repose.

What dreams they bring! what thoughts reveal! That have their source in loveliness, Through which the doubts I often feel Grow less and less.

Through which I see that other night, That cloud called Death, transformed of Love To flame, and pointing with its light To life above.

RICHES

What mines the morning heavens unfold! What far Alaskas of the skies! That, veined with elemental gold, Sierra on Sierra rise.

Heap up the gold of all the world, The ore that makes men fools and slaves: What is it to the gold, cloud-curled, That rivers through the sunset’s caves.

Search Earth for riches all who will, The gold that soils, that turns to dust-- Mine be the wealth no thief can steal, The gold of Beauty naught can rust.

THE AGE OF GOLD

The clouds that tower in storm, that beat Arterial thunder in their veins; The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet, Their perfect faces from the plains,-- All high, all lowly things of Earth For no vague end have had their birth.

Low strips of mist, that mesh the moon Above the foaming waterfall; And mountains that God’s hand hath hewn, And forests where the great winds call,-- Within the grasp of such as see Are parts of a conspiracy;

To seize the soul with beauty; hold The heart with love: and thus fulfill Within ourselves the Age of Gold, That never died, and never will,-- As long as one true nature feels The wonders that the world reveals.

A SONG FOR LABOR

I

Oh, the morning meads, the dewy meads, Where he ploughs and harrows and sows the seeds, Singing a song of manly deeds, In the blossoming springtime weather: The heart in his bosom as high as the word Said to the sky by the mating bird, While the beat of an answering heart is heard, His heart and hers together.

II

Oh, the noonday heights, the sunlit heights, Where he stoops to the harvest his keen scythe smites, Singing a song of the work that requites, In the ripening summer weather: The soul in his body as light as the sigh Of the little cloud-breeze that cools the sky, While he hears an answering soul reply, His soul and hers together.

III

Oh, the evening vales, the twilight vales, Where he labors and sweats to the thud of flails, Singing a song of the toil that he hails, In the fruitful autumn weather: In heart and in soul as free from fears As the first white star in the sky that appears, While the music of life and of love he hears, Her life and his together.

THE LOVE OF LOVES

I have not seen her face, and yet She is more sweet than anything Of earth--than rose or violet That winds of May and sunbeams bring. Of all we know, past or to come, That beauty holds within its net, She is the high compendium: And yet--

I have not touched her robe, and still She is more dear than lyric words And music; or than strains that fill The throbbing throats of forest birds. Of all we mean by poetry, That rules the soul and charms the will, She is the deep epitome: And still--

She is my world: ah, pity me! A dream that flies whom I pursue: Whom all pursue, whoe’er they be, Who toil for Art and dare and do. The shadow-love for whom they sigh, The far ideal affinity, For whom they live and gladly die-- Ah me!

THREE THINGS

There are three things of Earth That help us more Than those of heavenly birth That all implore-- Than Love or Faith or Hope, For which we strive and grope.

The first one is Desire,-- Who takes our hand And fills our hearts with fire None may withstand;-- Through whom we’re lifted far Above both moon and star.

The second one is Dream,-- Who leads our feet By an immortal gleam To visions sweet;-- Through whom our forms put on Dim attributes of dawn.

The last of these is Toil,-- Who maketh true, Within the world’s turmoil The other two;-- Through whom we may behold Ourselves with kings enrolled.

IMMORTELLES

I

As some warm moment of repose In one rich rose Sums all the summer’s lovely bloom And pure perfume-- So did her soul epitomize All hopes that make life wise, Who lies before us now with lidded eyes, Faith’s amaranth of truth Crowning her youth.

II

As some melodious note or strain May so contain All of sweet music in one chord, Or lyric word-- So did her loving heart suggest All dreams that make life blessed, Who lies before us now with pulseless breast, Love’s asphodel of duty Crowning her beauty.

A LULLABY

I

In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleep The twilight comes like a little goose-girl, Herding her owls with many “Tu-whoos,” Her little brown owls in the forest deep, Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes, And gown of glimmering pearl.

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep: This is the road to Rockaby Town. Rockaby, lullaby, where dreams are cheap; Here you can buy any dream for a crown. Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; The cradle you lie in is soft and is deep, The wagon that takes you to Rockaby Town. Now you go up, sweet, now you go down, Rockaby, lullaby, now you go down.

II

And after the twilight comes midnight, who wears A mantle of purple so old, so old! Who stables the lily-white moon, it is said, In a wonderful chamber with violet stairs, Up which you can see her come, silent of tread, On hoofs of pale silver and gold.

Dream, dream, little one, dream: This is the way to Lullaby Land. Lullaby, rockaby, where, white as cream, Sugar-plum bowers drop sweets in your hand. Dream, dream, little one, dream; The cradle you lie in is tight at each seam, The boat that goes sailing to Lullaby Land. Over the sea, sweet, over the sand, Lullaby, rockaby, over the sand.

III

The twilight and midnight are lovers, you know, And each to the other is true, is true! And there on the moon through the heavens they ride, With the little brown owls all huddled a-row, Through meadows of heaven where, every side, Blossom the stars and the dew.

Rest, rest, little one, rest: Rockaby Town is in Lullaby Isle. Rockaby, lullaby, set like a nest Deep in the heart of a song and a smile. Rest, rest, little one, rest; The cradle you lie in is warm as my breast, The white bird that bears you to Lullaby Isle. Out of the East, sweet, into the West, Rockaby, lullaby, into the West.

PESTILENCE

High on a throne of noisome ooze and heat, ’Mid rotting trees of bayou and lagoon, Ghastly she sits beneath the skeleton moon, A tawny horror coiling at her feet-- Fever, whose eyes keep watching, serpent-like, Until her eyes shall bid him rise and strike.

MUSINGS

I

_Inspiration_

All who have toiled for Art, who’ve won or lost, Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost; Only the chrism and sacrament of flame, Anointing all, inspired not all the same.

II

_Apportionment_

How often in our search for joy below Hoping for happiness we chance on woe.

III

_Victory_

They who take courage from their own defeat Are victors too, no matter how much beat.

IV

_Preparation_

How often hope’s fair flower blooms richest where The soul was fertilized with black despair.

V

_Disillusion_

Those unrequited in their love who die Have never drained life’s chief illusion dry.

VI

_Success_

Success allures us in the earth and skies: We seek to win her, but, too amorous, Mocking, she flees us.--Haply, were we wise, We should not strive and she would come to us.

VII

_Science_

Miranda-like, above the world she waves The wand of Prospero; and, beautiful, Ariel the airy, Caliban the dull,-- Lightning and Steam,--are her unwilling slaves.

VIII

_The Universal Wind_

Wild son of Heav’n, with laughter and alarm, Now east, now west, now north, now south he goes, Bearing in one harsh hand dark death and storm, And in the other, sunshine and a rose.

IX

_Compensation_

Yea, whom He loves the Lord God chasteneth With disappointments, so that this side death, Through suffering and failure, they know Hell To make them worthy in that Heaven to dwell Of Love’s attainment, where they come to be Parts of its beauty and divinity.

X

_Poppies_

Summer met Sleep at sunset, Dreaming within the south,-- Drugged with his soul’s deep slumber, Red with her heart’s hot drouth, These are the drowsy kisses She pressed upon his mouth.

XI

_Her Eyes and Mouth_

There is no Paradise like that which lies Deep in the heavens of her azure eyes: There is no Eden here on Earth that glows Like that which smiles rich in her mouth’s red rose.

XII

_Her Soul_

To me not only does her soul suggest Palms and the peace of tropic shore and wood, But, oceaned far beyond the golden West, The Fortunate Islands of true Womanhood.

XIII

_Her Face_

The gladness of our Southern spring; the grace Of summer; and the dreaminess of fall Are parts of her sweet nature.--Such a face Was Ruth’s, methinks, divinely spiritual.

THE MESSAGE OF THE LILIES

My soul and I went walking Beneath the moon of spring; The lilies pale were talking, We heard them murmuring.

From dimly moonlit places They thrust long throats of white, And lifted fairy faces Of fragrant snow and light.

Their language was an essence, Yet clear as any bird’s; And from it grew a presence, As music grows from words.

A spirit born of silence And chastity and dew Among Elysian islands Were not more white to view.

A spirit born of fire And holiness and snow, Within the Heaven’s desire, Were not more pure to know.

He smiled among them, lifting Pale hands of prayer and peace-- And through the moonlight, drifting, Came words to me like these:--

“We are His lilies, lilies, Whose praises here we sing! We are the lilies, lilies Of Christ our Lord and King!”

ANTHEM OF DAWN

I

Then up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced the crescent,-- Up and far up and over,--the heaven grew erubescent, Vibrant with rose and with ruby from hands of the harpist Dawn, Smiting symphonic fire on the firmament’s barbiton; And the East was a priest who adored with offerings of gold and of gems, And a wonderful carpet unrolled for the inaccessible hems Of the glittering robes of her limbs; that, lily and amethyst, Swept glorying on and on through temples of cloud and mist.

II

Then out of the splendor and richness, that burned like a magic stone, The torrent suffusion that deepened and dazzled and broadened and shone, The pomp and the pageant of color, triumphal procession of glare, The sun, like a king in armor, breathing splendor from feet to hair, Stood forth with majesty girdled, as a hero who towers afar Where the bannered gates are bristling hells and the walls are roaring war: And broad on the back of the world, like a Cherubin’s fiery blade, The effulgent gaze of his aspect fell in glittering accolade.

III

Then billowing blue, like an ocean, rolled from the shores of dawn to even: And the stars like rafts went down; and the moon, like a ghost-ship driven, A feather of foam, from port to port of the cloud-built isles that dotted, With pearl and cameo, bays of the day,--her canvas webbed and rotted,-- Lay lost in the gulf of heaven; while over her mixed and melted The beautiful children of Morn, whose bodies are opal-belted; The beautiful daughters of Dawn, who, over and under and after The rivered radiance wrestled; and rainbowed heaven with laughter Of halcyon sapphire.--O Dawn! thou visible mirth, Thou hallelujah of heaven! hosanna of Earth!

AT THE LANE’S END

I

No more to strip the roses from The rose-sprays of her porch’s place!-- I dreamed last night that I was home Kissing a rose--her face.

I must have smiled in sleep--who knows?-- The rose-aroma filled the lane; I saw her white hand’s lifted rose That welcomed home again.

And yet when I awoke--so wan, My old face wet with icy tears-- Somehow, it seems, she was not gone, Though dead now thirty years.

II

The clouds roll up and the clouds roll down Over the roofs of the little town; Out in the hills, where the pike winds by Fields of clover and bottoms of rye, You will hear no sound but the barking cough Of the striped chipmunk where the lane leads off; You will hear no bird but the sapsuckér Far off in the forest,--that seems to purr, As the warm wind fondles its top, grown hot, Like the docile back of an ocelot: You will see no thing but the shine and shade Of briers that climb and of weeds that wade The glittering creeks of the heat, that fills The dusty road and the red-keel hills.-- And all day long in the pennyroyal The grasshoppers at their anvils toil; Thick click of their tireless hammers thrum, And the wheezy belts of their bellows hum; Tinkers who solder the silence and heat To make the loneliness more complete. Around old rails where the blackberries Are reddening ripe, and the bumblebees Are a drowsy rustle of Summer’s skirts, And the bob-white’s wing is the fan she flirts; Under the hill, through the ironweeds And ox-eyed daisies and milkweeds, leads The path forgotten of all but one. Where elder-bushes are sick with sun, And wild raspberries branch big, blue veins O’er the face of the rock where the old spring rains Its sparkling splinters of molten spar On the gravel bed where the tadpoles are,-- You will find the pales of a fallen fence, And the tangled orchard and vineyard, dense With the weedy neglect of thirty years. The garden there,--where the soft sky clears Like an old sweet face that has dried its tears;-- The garden-plot where the cabbage grew And the pompous pumpkin; and beans that blew Balloons of white by the melon patch; Maize; and tomatoes that seemed to catch Oblong amber and agate balls Globed of the sun in the frosty falls: Long rows of currants and gooseberries, And the balsam-gourd with its honey-bees. And here was a nook for the princess-plumes, The snapdragons and the poppy-blooms, Quaint sweet-williams and pansy-flowers, And the morning-glories’ bewildered bowers, Tipping their cornucopias up For the humming-birds that came to sup. And over it all was the Sabbath peace Of the land whose lap was the love of these; And the old log-house where my innocence died, With my boyhood buried side by side. Shall a man with a face as withered and gray As the wasp-nest stowed in a loft away,-- Where the hornets haunt and the mortar drops From the loosened logs of the clapboard tops;-- Whom vice has aged as the rotting rooms The rain where memories haunt the glooms; A hitch in his joints like the rheum that gnars In the rasping hinge of the door that jars; A harsh, cracked throat like the old stone flue Where the swallows build the summer through;-- Shall a man, I say, with the spider sins That the long years spin in the outs and ins Of his soul, returning to see once more His boyhood’s home, where his life was poor With toil and tears and their fretfulness, But rich with health and the hopes that bless The unsoiled wealth of a vigorous youth; Shall he not take comfort and know the truth In its threadbare raiment of falsehood?--Yea! In his crumbled past he shall kneel and pray, Like a pilgrim come to the shrine again Of the homely saints that shall soothe his pain, And arise and depart made clean again!

III

Years of care can not efface Visions of the hills and trees Closing in its dam and race; Nor the mile-long memories Of the mill-stream’s lovely place.

How the sunsets used to stain Mirrors of the waters lying Under eaves made dark with rain! Where the red-bird, westward flying, Lit to try its song again.

Dingles, hills and woods, and springs, Where we came in calm and storm, Swinging in the grapevine swings, Wading where the rocks were warm, With our fishing-nets and strings.

Here the road plunged down the hill, Under ash and chinquapin,-- Where the grasshoppers would drill Ears of silence with their din,-- To the willow-girdled mill.

There the path beyond the ford Takes the woodside; just below Shallows that the lilies sword, Where the scarlet blossoms blow Of the trumpet-vine and gourd.

Summer winds, that sink with heat, On the pelted waters winnow Moony petals that repeat Crescents, where the startled minnow Beats a glittering retreat.

Summer winds that bear the scent Of the ironweed and mint, Weary with sweet freight and spent, On the deeper pools imprint Stumbling steps, whose ripples dent.

Summer winds, that split the husk Of the peach and nectarine, Trail along the amber dusk Hazy skirts of gold and green, Spilling balms of dew and musk.

Where with balls of bursting juice Summer sees the red wild-plum Strew the gravel; ripened loose, Autumn hears the pawpaw drum Plumpness on the rocks that bruise: