Part 4

Moon in a cloud, as white as snow, Mist in the vale where the rivulet bounds, Dropping from ledge to ledge below, Turning to gold in the sunset’s glow, Softer and sweeter her footstep sounds.

Sound o’ May winds in the blossoming trees, Oh, not so sweet as her laugh that rings; Song o’ wild birds on the morning breeze, Birds and brooks and murmur o’ bees, Sweeter her voice when she laughs or sings.

The rose o’ my heart is she; my dawn! My star o’ the east, my moon above! My soul takes ship for the Avalon Of her heart of hearts, and shall sail on Till it anchors safe in its haven of love.

“A BROKEN RAINBOW ON THE SKIES OF MAY”

A broken rainbow on the skies of May, Touching the dripping roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost:-- So in the sorrow of her soul the ghost Of one great love, of iridescent ray, Spanning the roses gray of memory, Against the tumult of life’s rushing crowds-- A broken rainbow on the skies of May.

A flashing humming-bird among the flowers, Deep-colored blooms; its slender tongue and bill Sucking the calyxed and the honeyed myrrhs, Till, sick of sweets, to other flow’rs it whirrs:-- Such was his love that won her heart’s full bowers To yield to him their all, their sweets in showers, The flower from which he drank his body’s fill-- A flashing humming-bird among the flowers.

A moon, moth-white, that through far mists, like fleece, Moves amber-girt into a bulk of black, And, lost to sight, rims all the black with froth:-- A love that swept its moon, like some great moth, Across the heaven of her soul’s young peace; And, smoothly passing, in the clouds did cease Of time, through which its burning light comes back-- A moon, moth-white, that moves through mists like fleece.

A bolt of living thunder downward hurled, Momental blazing from the piled-up storm, That etches out the mountains and the ocean, The towering rocks, then blots the sight’s commotion:-- Love, love that swiftly coming bared the world, The deeps of life, round which fate’s clouds are curled, And, ceasing, left all night and black alarm-- A bolt of living thunder downward hurled.

ORGIE

On nights like this, when bayou and lagoon Swoon in the moonlight’s mystic radiance, I seem to walk like one deep in a trance With old-world myths born of the mist and moon.

Lascivious eyes and mouths of sensual rose Smile into mine: and breasts of luring light, And tresses streaming golden to the night, Persuade me onward where the forest glows.

And then it seems along the haunted hills There falls a flutter as of beautiful feet, As if tempestuous troops of Mænads meet To drain deep bowls and shout and have their wills.

And then I feel her limbs will be revealed Like some great snow-white moth among the trees; Her vampire beauty, waiting there to seize And drag me downward where my doom is sealed.

THE FARMSTEAD

Yes, I love the Farmstead. There In the spring the lilacs blew Plenteous perfume everywhere; There in summer gladioles drew Parallels of scarlet glare.

And the moon-hued primrose cool, Satin-soft and redolent; Honeysuckles beautiful, Filling all the air with scent; Roses red or white as wool.

Roses, glorious and lush, Rich in tender-tinted dyes, Like the gay tempestuous rush Of unnumbered butterflies, Clustering o’er each bending bush.

Here japonica and box, And the wayward violets; Clumps of star-enameled phlox, And the myriad flowery jets Of the twilight four-o’-clocks.

Ah, the beauty of the place! When the June made one great rose, Full of musk and mellow grace, In the garden’s humming close, Of her comely mother face!

Bubble-like the hollyhocks Budded, burst, and flaunted wide Gypsy beauty from their stocks; Morning-glories, bubble-dyed, Swung in honey-hearted flocks.

Tawny tiger-lilies flung Doublets slashed with crimson on; Graceful slave-girls, fair and young, Like Circassians, in the sun Alabaster lilies swung.

Ah, the droning of the bee; In his dusty pantaloons Tumbling in the fleurs-de-lis; In the drowsy afternoons Dreaming in the pink sweet-pea.

Ah, the moaning wildwood dove! With its throat of amethyst Rippled like a shining cove Which a wind to pearl hath kissed, Moaning, moaning of its love.

And the insects’ gossip thin-- From the summer hotness hid-- In lone, leafy deeps of green; Then at eve the katydid With its hard, unvaried din.

Often from the whispering hills, Borne from out the golden dusk,-- Gold with gold of daffodils,-- Thrilled into the garden’s musk The wild wail of whippoorwills.

From the purple-tangled trees, Like the white, full heart of night, Solemn with majestic peace, Swam the big moon, veined with light, Like some gorgeous golden-fleece.

She was there with me.--And who, In the magic of the hour, Had not sworn that they could view, Beading on each blade and flower Moony blisters of the dew?

And each fairy of our home,-- Firefly,--its taper lit In the honey-scented gloam, Dashing down the dusk with it Like an instant-flaming foam.

And we heard the calling, calling, Of the brown owl in the brake; Where the trumpet-vine hung, crawling Down the ledge, into the lake Heard the sighing streamlet falling.

Then we wandered to the creek Where the water-lilies, growing Thick as stars, lay white and weak; Or against the brooklet’s flowing Stooped and bathed a bashful cheek.

And the moonlight, rippling golden, Fell in virgin aureoles On their bosoms, half-unfolden, Where, it seemed, the fairies’ souls Dreamed as perfume,--unbeholden;--

Lying sleeping, pearly-tented, Baby-cribbed within each bud, While the night-wind, pinewood-scented, Swooning over field and flood, Rocked them on the waters dented.

Then the low, melodious bell Of a sleeping heifer tinkled, In some berry-briered dell, As her satin dewlap wrinkled With the cud that made it swell.

And, returning home, we heard, In a beech-tree at the gate, Some brown, dream-behaunted bird, Singing of its absent mate, Of the mate that never heard.

And, you see, now I am gray, Why within the old, old place, With such memories, I stay: Fancy out her absent face Long since passed away.

She was mine--yes! still is mine: And my frosty memory Reels about her, as with wine Warmed into young eyes that see All the past that was divine.

Yes, I loved her, and have grown Melancholy in that love, And the memory alone Of her loveliness whereof She did sanctify each stone.

And where’er her flowers swing, There she walks,--as if a bee Fanned them with its airy wing,-- Down her garden, shadowy In the hush the evenings bring.

THE BOY COLUMBUS

And he had mused on lands each bird,-- That winged from realms of Falerina, O’er seas of the Enchanted Sword,-- In romance sang him, till he heard Far foam on Islands of Alcina.

For rich Levant and old Castile Let other seamen freight their galleys; With Polo he and Mandeville Through stranger seas a dreamy keel Sailed into wonder-peopled valleys.

Far continents of flow’r and fruit, Of everlasting spring; where fountains ’Mid flow’rs, with human faces, shoot; Where races dwell, both man and brute, In cities under golden mountains.

Where cataracts their thunders hurl From heights the tempest has at mercy; Vast peaks that touch the moon, and whirl Wild torrents down of gold and pearl; And forests strange as those of Circe.

Let rapiered Love lute, in the shade Of royal gardens, to the Palace And Court, that haunt the balustrade Of terraces and still parade Their vanity and guile and malice.

Him something calls, diviner yet Than Love, more mighty than a lover; Heroic Truth, that will not let Deed lag; a purpose, westward set, In eyes far-seeing to discover.

NORTH BEACH, FLORIDA

Surge upon surge, the miles of surf uncurl Volutes of murmur; and the far shore foams; The thundering billows, boiling into pearl, The sea-wind clouds and combs.

Wave upon wave,--as when the Nereids pour, With streaming tresses, landward, when the arms Of Tritons reach them, racing towards the shore,-- Bursts on the beach that storms.

Oh, thou primeval solitude! that rolled Out of creation when the world was young! That shall roll on when man is not, and old The ages yet unsung!

Time shall not flaw thy music!--thou hast heard God’s spirit on thy waters, and no night Annuls the memory of that one Word Which blossomed into light.

With such impression as upon thy face The soaring seagulls make, man comes and came; And countless myriads, race on warring race, Have found thee thus--the same.

Thy part is--to destroy, and still remain Immutable ’midst mutability: The symbol of all change, that clothes again Mystery in mystery.

THE STORM

Thor, Thor is out on the hills! The frown of his fierce brow showing; His breath through his red beard blowing, With rain, through his beard that it fills.

The forests are taken; The mightiest oaks Are twisted and shaken As by chariot-spokes, Where mountains awaken To th’ hoofs of his yokes, Reined sheer with the strength of his arm-- Ride forth, O Spirit of Storm!

What hope for the sparrow, Or nest of the bird! Where fords were once narrow, What hope for the herd! When arrow on arrow He empties the third Of his quiver against their alarm-- Descend, O Spirit of Storm!

You may measure the might that he brings By the welkin that echoes his felloes; By the fork of the lightning,--that yellows The darkness,--the hammer he swings.

The cattle are scattered And low from the shore; The roses are shattered That grew at the door; The swallows look tattered, And twitter and soar, Made glad with the force of his form-- Rejoice, O Spirit of Storm!

On levels that sunder The roar of the main He ploughs with the thunder, And sows with the rain: No sunbeam shall blunder Through black till the plain Is planted with storm as a farm-- Sweep on, O Spirit of Storm!

His path is the abysm, which heaps The wild wind behind him, and hovers A whirlwind before, that uncovers The hurricane-lair where he sleeps.

At night,--through the wrestle Of winds that contend,-- To guard the good vessel From rocks that would rend, Like a star let it nestle, The light, to defend The seaman and his from all harm-- From thee, O Spirit of Storm!

ON THE JELLICO SPUR OF THE CUMBERLANDS

_To ..._

You remember how the mist, When we climbed to Devil’s Den, Pearl-white in the mountain glen, And above us, amethyst,

Throbbed and circled? then away, Through the wildwoods opposite, Torn and scattered, morning-lit, Vanished into dewy gray?--

Vague as in romance we saw, From the fog one riven trunk, Talon-like with branches shrunk, Thrust a monster dragon claw.

And we climbed for hours through The dawn-dripping Jellicoes, To a wooded rock, whence those Undulating leagues of blue

Summits,--mountain-chains that lie Dark with forest, bar on bar,-- Ranged their wild, irregular, Purple peaks beneath a sky

Ocean-azure. Range on range Billowed their enormous spines, Where the rocks and priestly pines Sat eternal, without change.

We were sons of Nature then: She had taken us to her, Drawn us, bound with brier and burr, Closer her than other men:

Intimates of all her moods, From her bloom-anointed looks, Wisdom of no man-made books Learned we in those solitudes:

How the seed contained the flower; How the acorn held the oak; How within the vine awoke The wild impulse still to tower:

How in fantasy or mirth, Springing when she summoned there, Sponge-like fungi everywhere Bulged, exuded from the earth:

Coral-vegetable things, That the underworld exhaled, Bulbous, fluted, ribbed, and scaled, Many colored and in rings,

Like the Indian-Pipe that grew Pink and white in loamy cracks, Flowers of a natural wax, She had turned her fancy to.--

On that laureled precipice, Where the chestnuts dropped their burrs, Warm with balsam of the firs, First we felt her mother-kiss

Full of heaven and the wind; While the forests, wood on wood, Murmured like a multitude Giving praise where none hath sinned.--

Freedom met us there; we saw Freedom giving audience; In her face the eloquence, Lightning-like, of love and law:

Round her, on majestic hips, Lounged the giant mountains, where Streaming cataracts tossed their hair, God and thunder on their lips.--

Oft an eagle, or a hawk, Or a scavenger, we knew Winged above us through the blue By its shadow on the rock.

Or a cloud of templed white Moved, a lazy berg of pearl, Through the sky’s pacific swirl, Shot with cool, cerulean light.

So we dreamed an hour upon That high rock the lichens mossed, While around us, glimmering, tossed Golden mintings of the sun:

Then arose; and a ravine, Which a torrent once had worn, Made our roadway to the corn In the valley, deep and green;

And the farm-house with its bees, Where old-fashioned flowers spun Gay rag-carpets in the sun, Gray among the apple-trees.

Here we watched the evening fall: O’er Wolf Mountain sunset made, Huge, a rhododendron, rayed Round the sun’s cloud-calyxed ball.

Then through scents of herb and soil, To the mining-camp we turned, In the twinkling dusk discerned With its white-washed homes of toil.

* * * * *

Ah, those nights!--We wandered forth On some haunted mountain path, When the moon rose late; and rathe The large stars, sowed south and north,

Splashed with gold the purple skies; And the milky zodiac, Rolled athwart the belted black, Seemed a path to Paradise.

And we walked or tarried till, In the valley-land beneath, Like the vapor of a breath Breathed in frost, arose the still Architecture of the mist: And the moon-dawn’s necromance Touched the mist and made it glance Terraced pearl and amethyst.

Then around us, sharp and brusque, Night’s shrill insects strident strung Fairy viols that buzzed and sung, Pixy music of the dusk.

And we seemed to hear soft sighs, And hushed steps of ghostly things, Fluttered feet and rustled wings All around us. Fireflies,

Gleaming in the tangled glade, Seemed the eyes of warriors, Stealing under watching stars To some phantom ambuscade;

To the tepees there that gloomed, Wigwams of the mist, that slept By the woodland side, whence crept Shadowy Shawnees moonbeam-plumed.

When the moon rose, like a cup Lay the valley, brimming shine Of mesmeric mist, like wine, To the sky’s dim face held up.

As she rose from out the mines Of the nacreous darkness, Night Met her, clad in dewy light ’Mid Pine Mountain’s sachem pines.

As through fragmentary fleece Of the clouds her circle broke, Orey-seamed, about us woke Myths of Italy and Greece.

As, an orb of sparry quartz, Her serene circumference grew, Home we turned. And all night through Slept the sleep of happy hearts.

THE WHIPPOORWILL

I

Above lone woodland ways that led To dells the stealthy twilights tread The west was hot geranium red; And still, and still, Along old lanes the locusts sow With clustered pearls the Maytimes blow, Deep in the crimson afterglow, We heard the homeward cattle low, And then, far off, like some far woe, The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill.

II

Beneath the idle beechen boughs We heard the slow bells of the cows Come softly, jangling towards the house; And still, and still, Beyond the light that would not die Out of the scarlet-haunted sky, Beyond the evening-star’s white eye Of glittering chalcedony, Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry Of “whippoorwill,” of “whippoorwill.”

III

And in the city oft, when swims The pale moon o’er the smoke that dims Its disc, I dream of wildwood limbs, And still, and still, I seem to hear, where shadows grope ’Midst ferns and flowers that dewdrops rope,-- Lost in faint deeps of heliotrope Above the clover-sweetened slope,-- Retreat, despairing, past all hope, The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill.

IN THE WILDWOOD

I lie where silence sleeps, And twilight dreams and sighs; Where all heaven’s azure peeps Blue from one wildflower’s eyes; Where, in reflecting deeps, A world, inverted, lies, Of dimmer woods and skies:

Divining God from things Humble as weed and bee; From songs the wild bird sings Guessing at poetry; And from each flower that swings, Each star-familiar tree, Learning philosophy.

A HOLLOW OF THE HILLS

I

How oft the swallow darted Above its deeps of blue, Where leaves close clung or parted To let the sunlight through! Where roses, honey-hearted, Hung full of living dew!

II

How oft, from out the heaven, Upon me blew the balm Of soft winds, summer-driven From continents of calm! With rustlings as of riven, Sea-sounding pine and palm!

III

Oft from its leafy cover I watched the red-bird slip; And marked, like some rude lover, The bee, with robber lip, Bend down the snowy clover, Or make the wild-rose dip.

IV

Still darts the soaring swallow Above it; and the rose Still blooms within its hollow Where still the runnel flows; The brook,--that I shall follow No more,--that seaward goes.

V

There still the white moon shineth At night through rifted trees; Upon the stream that twineth Through blooms that no one sees; And on,--as I divineth,-- My soul that sighs for these.

BENEATH THE BEECHES

I

I long, oh, long to lie ’Neath beechen branches, twisted, Green ’twixt the summer sky; The woodland shadows nigh Like dryads sunbeam-wristed: The livelong day to dream Beside a wildwood stream.

II

I long, oh, long to hear The claustral forest breathing, Sound soothing to the ear; To see the wild-vine near Its scarlet blooms unsheathing: The livelong day to cross Slow o’er the nut-strewn moss.

III

I long, oh, long to see The nesting red-bird singing Glad on the wood-rose tree: To watch the breezy bee, Half in the wildflower, swinging: God’s livelong day to pass Deep in cool forest grass.

IV

Oh, soul, so builded in With mart and booth and steeple, Brick alley-ways of sin, What hope for you to win Ways free of pelf and people! Ways of the leaf and root And soft Mygdonian flute!

THE BRIDLE-PATH

I

Through meadows of the ironweeds, Whose purple blooms hang, slipping The morning dew in twinkling beads, The thin path twists and, winding, leads Through woodland hollows dripping; Down to a creek of rocks and reeds; On to a lilied dam that feeds A mill, whose wheel through willow-bredes Winks, the white water whipping.

II

It wends through meads of mint and brush Where silvery seeds drift drowsy, Or swoon along the heatful hush; And where the bobwhite, in the bush, The elder, blooming frowsy, Keeps calling clear: then through a crush Of crowded saplings, low and lush; Then by a pool of flag and rush With brier-rose petaled blowsy.

III

Thence, o’er the ragweed fallow-lot, Whose low rail-fence encumbers The dense-packed berries ripening hot; Where, in the heaven, one far spot Of gray, the gray hawk slumbers; Then through the greenwood where the rot Of leaves and loam smells cool; and, shot With dotting dark, the touch-me-not Swings curling horns in numbers.

IV

It winds round rocks that bulge and lie Deep in damp ferns and mosses,-- Each like a giant on his thigh Watching some forest quarry die;-- And thence it frailly crosses A bramble-bridge; whence, whirring high, A partridge startles,--’thwart the sky A jarring light,--where, babbling by, The brook its diamonds tosses.

V

And here the cohosh swings its snow, Gaunt from the forest springing; There gold the sorrel blossoms blow; Here vari-colored toadstools sow, Or swell the soil; and, swinging, The trumpet-vine hangs red and low Near boughs,--on which the beech-burrs glow,-- The woodland wind sways to and fro, O’er waters wildly ringing.

VI

It leads us deep into the cane Through spice-bush belts, where “tinkle” One stray bell sounds, and then again, Lost in some lone and leafy lane Where smooth the clay ruts wrinkle ... A cloud looms up,--a grayish stain Against the blue;--and wet with rain The wind blows, denting down the grain And leaves, the first drops sprinkle.

VII

The dust is drilled with raindrops.--One, Then two quick gleams, then thunder; And, scurrying with the dust, we run Into a whiff of hay and sun, Of cribs and barns; and under Low martin-builded eaves,--where dun The sparrows shelter,--watch the spun Blue rain sweep down, that seems to stun The world with wind and wonder.

VIII

A crashing wedge of stormy light, Vibrating, blinds, and dashes A monster elm to splinters white: Then roaring rain: then, blinding bright, A bolt again that crashes.... The storm is over. Left and right The clouds break; and, with green delight, Fresh rain scents blow from wood and height Where each blade drips and flashes.

IX

A ghostly gold burns slowly through The chasm’d clouds; and blended With rainy rose and rainy blue, The heavens, pearled with many a hue, Die like a dolphin splendid.... High-buoyed in wrack, now one or two Slight stars peep out--the pirate clue To night’s rich hoard.--In dusk and dew Here is our pathway ended.

THE OLD FARM

Dormered and verandaed, cool, Locust-girdled on the hill, Stained with weather-wear; at Yule And Midsummer every sill Thresholding the beautiful,

Still I see it standing there, Brown above the woodland deep, Wrapped in lights of lavender, And slow shadows, rocked asleep By the warm wind everywhere.

I remember how the spring, Liberal-lapped, bewildered its Acred orchards, murmuring, With the blossoms’ budded bits, Where the wood-thrush came to sing.

Barefoot Spring, at first who trod, Like a beggarmaid, adown The wet woodland, where the god, With the bright sun for a crown And the firmament for rod,