Part 10

For, all around me, upon field and hill, Enchantment lies as of mysterious flutes; As if the music of a god's good-will Had taken on material attributes In blooms, like chords; and in the water-gleam, That runs its silvery scales on every stream; In sunbeam bars, up which the butterfly, A golden note, vibrates then flutters on-- Inaudible tunes, blown on the pipes of Pan, That have assumed a visible entity, And drugged the air with beauty so, a Faun, Behold, I seem, and am no more a man.

DITHYRAMBICS

I

_Tempest_

Wrapped round of the night, as a monster is wrapped of the ocean, Down, down through vast storeys of darkness, behold, in the tower Of the heaven, the thunder! on stairways of cloudy commotion, Colossal of tread, like a giant, from echoing hour to hour Goes striding in rattling armor.... The Nymph, at her billow-roofed dormer Of foam; and the Sylvan--green-housed--at her window of leaves appears; --As a listening woman, who hears The approach of her lover, who comes to her arms in the night; And, loosening the loops of her locks, With eyes full of love and delight, From the couch of her rest in ardor and haste arises.-- The Nymph, as if born of the tempest, like fire surprises The riotous bands of the rocks, That face, with a roar, the shouting charge of the seas. The Sylvan,--through troops of the trees, Whose clamorous clans with gnarly bosoms keep hurling Themselves on the guns of the wind,--goes wheeling and whirling. The Nymph, of the waves' exultation upheld, her green tresses Knotted with flowers of the hollow white foam, dives screaming; Then bounds to the arms of the storm, who boisterously presses Her hair and wild form to his breast that is panting and streaming. The Sylvan,--hard-pressed by the wind, the Pan-footed air,-- On the violent backs of the hills,-- Like a flame that tosses and thrills From crag to crag when the world of spirits is out,-- Is borne, as her rapture wills, With glittering gesture and shout. Now here in the darkness, now there, From the rain-wild sweep of her hair,-- Bewilderingly volleyed o'er eyes and o'er lips,-- To the lambent swell of her limbs, her breasts and her hips, She flashes her beautiful nakedness out in the glare Of the tempest that bears her away,-- That bears _me_ away! Away, over forest and foam, over tree and spray, Far swifter than thought, far swifter than sound or than flame; Over ocean and pine, In arms of tumultuous shadow and shine.--

Though Sylvan and Nymph do not Exist, and only what Of terror and beauty I feel and I name As parts of the storm, the awe and the rapture divine That here in the tempest are mine,-- The two are the same, the two are forever the same.

II

_Calm_

Beautiful-bosomed, O night, in thy noon Move with majesty onward! bearing, as lightly As a singer may bear the notes of an exquisite tune, The stars and the moon Through the clerestories high of the heaven, the firmament's halls: Under whose sapphirine walls, June, hesperian June, Robed in divinity wanders. Daily and nightly The turquoise touch of her robe, that the violets star, The silvery fall of her feet, that lilies are, Fill the land with languorous light and perfume.-- Is it the melody mute of bourgeoning leaf and of bloom? The music of Nature, that silently shapes in the gloom Immaterial hosts Of spirits that have the flowers and leaves in their keep, That I hear, that I hear? With their sighs of silver and pearl? Invisible ghosts,-- Each one a beautiful girl,-- Who whisper in leaves and glimmer in blossoms and hover In color and fragrance and loveliness, breathed from the deep World-soul of the mother, Nature;--who, over and over, Both sweetheart and lover, Goes singing her songs from one sweet month to the other,-- That appear, that appear? In forest and field, on hill-land and lea, As crystallized harmony, Materialized melody, An uttered essence peopling far and near The hyaline atmosphere?...

Behold how it sprouts from the grass and blooms from flower and tree! In waves of diaphanous moonlight and mist, In fugue upon fugue of gold and of amethyst, Around me, above me it spirals; now slower, now faster, Like symphonies born of the thought of a musical master.-- O music of Earth! O God, who the music inspired! Let me breathe of the life of thy breath! And so be fulfilled and attired In resurrection, triumphant o'er time and o'er death!

HYMN TO DESIRE

I

Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers Breathed on the eyelids of love by music that slumbers, Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow, Thou comest mysterious, In beauty imperious, Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know, Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken, Helplessly shaken and tossed, And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken, My lips, unsatisfied, thirst; Mine eyes are accurst With longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken; And mine ears, in listening lost, Yearn, yearn for the note of a chord that will never awaken.

II

Like palpable music thou comest, like moon-light; and far,-- Resonant bar upon bar,-- The vibrating lyre Of the spirit responds with melodious fire, As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake, With flame and with flake, The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung, Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded from mire.

III

Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire! Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of love! Make of my heart an Israfel burning above, A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer! Smite every rapturous wire With golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor, Crying--"Awake! awake! Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour, With its mountains of magic, its fountains of faery, the spar-sprung, Hast thou wandered away, O Heart! Come, oh, come and partake Of necromance banquets of beauty; and slake Thy thirst in the waters of Art, That are drawn from the streams Of love and of dreams.

IV

"Come, oh come! No longer shall language be dumb! Thy vision shall grasp-- As one doth the glittering hasp Of a dagger made splendid with gems and with gold-- The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely. And out of the stark Eternity, awful and dark, Immensity silent and cold,-- Universe-shaking as trumpets, or thunderous metals That cymbal; yet pensive and pearly And soft as the rosy unfolding of petals, Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,-- The majestic music of Death, where he plays On the organ, eternal and vast, of eons and days."

NYMPH AND FAUN

With her soft face half turned to me Like an arrested moonbeam, she Stood in the cirque of that deep tree.

I took her by the hands; she raised Her face to mine; and, half amazed, I kissed her; and we stood and gazed.

How good to kiss her throat and hair, And say no word!--Her throat was bare, And, as the slim moon, young and fair.--

Had God not given us life for this? The world-old, amorous happiness Of arms that clasp, and lips that kiss.

O eloquence of limbs and arms! O rhetoric of breasts, whose charms Say to the sluggish blood what warms!

Had God not smiled upon this hour That bloomed,--where love had all of power,-- The senses' aphrodisiac flower?

The dawn was far away: the night Hung savage stars of sultry white, Lamp-like, above to give us light.

Night, night, who led us each to each, Where heart with heart could hold sweet speech, With life's best gift within our reach.

And here it was--between the goals Of flesh and spirit, sex controls-- Took place the marriage of our souls.

PARTING OF LEANDER AND HERO

I

Brows pale through blue-black tresses Wet with the rain's cold kisses; Hair that the sea-wind tosses, Wild as wild wings in flight; Pale brows, some sad thought crosses, One kiss and then--good night.

II

Nay, love! thou wilt undo me When in the heavy waves!-- Come, smile! and make unto me The billows' backs as slaves To bear me and indue me With strength o'er ocean's graves.

III

Weep not, as heavy-hearted Before I go! lest thou Shouldst follow as we parted.-- Come, gaze at me glad-hearted! Not with sweet lips distorted With fear; and eyes tear-smarted!-- Let me remember how Thy face looks when thou smilest And with soft words beguilest My soul.--From feet to brow, Come, strengthen thy strong lover To breast the waves that cover Deep caves where sea-nymphs hover, Eager to seize him now.

IV

Thy image, love, shall follow With breast pressed close to mine: With arms from out whose hollow No death can tear me. Follow, Come, light me through the brine, Dark eyes, fixed bright on mine, And mouth as red as wine!-- Yea, give me wine of kisses, Whose fire shall help me home, Sweetheart, through foam that hisses, The long wild miles of foam.

V

Sweet! cease thy sighs and weeping! 'Tis time for rest and sleeping, And Venus-vestured dreams, Where thy Leander, stooping, Thou'lt see as now, undrooping, With eyes all unaccusing: Not as thou saw'st, it seems, In sleep last night, in dreams, His curls with ocean oozing, And wan of cheek and brow: But, Hero, even as now, Fair-favored as can make him Thy smile, which is a might, A hope, a god, to take him Safe through this hell of night.

VI

Here in thy throat's white hollow One last long kiss.--I go.-- Ah, Sweet! a kiss to follow Down from thy throat's white hollow Unto thy breast that's whiter:-- Thine arms, that clasp me tighter; One kiss then on thy mouth, Warmer than all the South; And eyes, than waters brighter Wherein the far stars glow. Smile on me now I leave thee!-- And kiss me on the brow!-- Smile on me, love, nor grieve thee! No thing can harm me now!

THE SPIRIT OF THE FOREST SPRING

Over the rocks she trails her locks, Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip: Her sparkling eyes smile at the skies In friendship-wise and fellowship: While the gleam and glance of her countenance Lull into trance the woodland places, As over the rocks she trails her locks, Her dripping locks that the long fern graces.

She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips: And all the day its crystal spray Is heard to play from her finger-tips: And the slight, soft sound makes haunted ground Of the woods around that the sunlight laces, As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, Its dripping cruse that no man traces.

She swims and swims with glimmering limbs, With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip: Where beechen boughs build a leafy house, Where her form may drowse or her feet may trip; And the liquid beat of her rippling feet Makes three times sweet the forest mazes, As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs, With dripping limbs through the twilight's hazes.

Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps, She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips: Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist, And, starry-whist, through the night she slips: While the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleam The falls that stream and the foam that races, As wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps, She dripping sleeps or starward gazes.

TO A PANSY-VIOLET

_Found Solitary Among the Hills_

I

O pansy-violet, With early April wet, How frail and lone you look Lost in this sylvan nook Of heaven-holding hills: Down which the hurrying rills Fling scrolls of melodies; O'er which the birds and bees Weave gossamers of song, Invisible, but strong: Sweet music-webs they spin To snare the spirit in.

II

O pansy-violet, Unto your face I set My lips, and--do you speak? Or is it but some freak Of fancy, love imparts Through you unto the heart's Desire? whispering low A secret none may know But me, who sit and dream Here by this forest-stream.

III

O pansy-violet, O wilding floweret, Hued like some dædal gem Starring the diadem Of fay or sylvan sprite, Who, in the woods, all night Is busy with the blooms, Young leaves and wild perfumes, Through you I seem t' have seen All that our dreams may mean.

IV

O pansy-violet, Long, long ago we met-- 'Twas in a Fairy tale: Two children in a vale Sat underneath the stars, Far from the world of wars: Each loved the other well: _Her_ eyes were like the spell Of dusk and dawning skies-- The purple dark that dyes The midnight: _his_ were blue As heaven the day shines through.

V

O pansy-violet, What is this vague regret, This yearning, so like tears, That touches me through years Long past, when myth and fable In all strange things were able To beautify the Earth, Things of immortal worth?-- This longing, that to me Is like a memory, Lived long ago, of two Fair forest children who Loved with no mortal love; Whom heaven smiled above, Fostering; and when they died Laid side by loving side.

VI

O pansy-violet, Do you remember yet That wood-god-guarded tomb, Out of whose moss your bloom Sprang, with three petals wan As are the eyes of dawn; And two as darkly deep As are the eyes of sleep?

VII

O flower,--that seems to hold Some memory of old, A hope, a happiness, At which I can but guess,-- You are a sign to me Of immortality: Through you my spirit sees The deathless purposes Of death, that still evolves The beauty it resolves; The change that still fulfils Life's meaning as God wills.

PAGAN

The gods, who could loose and bind In the long ago, The gods, who were stern and kind To men below, Where shall we seek and find, Or, finding, know?

Where Greece, with king on king, Dreamed in her halls; Where Rome kneeled worshiping, The owl now calls, And clambering ivies cling, And the moonbeam falls.

They have served, and passed away From the earth and sky, And their creeds are a record gray, Where the passer-by Reads, "Live and be glad to-day, For to-morrow ye die."

And shall it be so, indeed, When we are no more, That nations to be shall read,-- As we have before,-- In the dust of a Christian Creed, But pagan lore?

BEAUTY AND ART

The gods are dead; but still for me Lives on in wildwood brook and tree Each myth, each old divinity.

For me still laughs among her rocks The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks Drop perfume on the wildflower flocks.

The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam; And, whiter than the wind-blown foam, The Oread haunts her mountain home.

To him, whose mind is fain to dwell With loveliness no time can quell, All things are real, imperishable.

To him--whatever facts may say-- Who sees the soul beneath the clay, Is proof of a diviner day.

The very stars and flowers preach A gospel old as God, and teach Philosophy a child may reach;

That can not die; that shall not cease; That lives through idealities Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece:

That lifts the soul above the clod, And, working out some period Of art, is part and proof of God.

THE OLD WATER-MILL

Wild ridge on ridge the wooded hills arise, Between whose breezy vistas gulfs of skies Pilot great clouds like towering argosies, And hawk and buzzard breast the azure breeze. With many a foaming fall and glimmering reach Of placid murmur, under elm and beech, The creek goes twinkling through long gleams and glooms Of woodland quiet, summered with perfumes: The creek, in whose clear shallows minnow-schools Glitter or dart; and by whose deeper pools The blue kingfishers and the herons haunt; That, often startled from the freckled flaunt Of blackberry-lilies--where they feed and hide-- Trail a lank flight along the forestside With eery clangor. Here a sycamore, Smooth, wave-uprooted, builds from shore to shore A headlong bridge; and there, a storm-hurled oak Lays a long dam, where sand and gravel choke The water's lazy way. Here mistflower blurs Its bit of heaven; there the oxeye stirs Its gloaming hues of pearl and gold; and here, A gray, cool stain, like dawn's own atmosphere, The dim wild-carrot lifts its crumpled crest: And over all, at slender flight or rest, The dragon-flies, like coruscating rays Of lapis-lazuli and chrysoprase, Drowsily sparkle through the summer days: And, dewlap-deep, here from the noontide heat The bell-hung cattle find a cool retreat; And through the willows girdling the hill, Now far, now near, borne as the soft winds will, Comes the low rushing of the water-mill.

Ah, lovely to me from a little child, How changed the place! wherein once, undefiled, The glad communion of the sky and stream Went with me like a presence and a dream. Where once the brambled meads and orchard-lands Poured ripe abundance down with mellow hands Of summer; and the birds of field and wood Called to me in a tongue I understood; And in the tangles of the old rail-fence Even the insect tumult had some sense, And every sound a happy eloquence: And more to me than wisest books can teach The wind and water said; whose words did reach My soul, addressing their magnificent speech,-- Raucous and rushing,--from the old mill-wheel, That made the rolling mill-cogs snore and reel, Like some old ogre in a fairy tale Nodding above his meat and mug of ale.

How memory takes me back the ways that lead-- As when a boy--through woodland and through mead! To orchards fruited; or to fields in bloom; Or briery fallows, like a mighty room, Through which the winds swing censers of perfume, And where deep blackberries spread miles of fruit;-- A splendid feast, that stayed the ploughboy's foot When to the tasseling acres of the corn He drove his team, fresh in the primrose morn; And from the liberal banquet, nature lent, Took dewy handfuls as he whistling went.-- A boy once more, I stand with sunburnt feet And watch the harvester sweep down the wheat; Or laze with warm limbs in the unstacked straw Nearby the thresher, whose insatiate maw Devours the sheaves, hot drawling out its hum-- Like some great sleepy bee, above a bloom, Made drunk with honey--while, grown big with grain, The bulging sacks receive the golden rain. Again I tread the valley, sweet with hay, And hear the bob-white calling far away, Or wood-dove cooing in the elder-brake; Or see the sassafras bushes madly shake As swift, a rufous instant, in the glen The red fox leaps and gallops to his den; Or, standing in the violet-colored gloam, Hear roadways sound with holiday riding home From church, or fair, or county barbecue, Which the whole country to some village drew.

How spilled with berries were its summer hills, And strewn with walnuts all its autumn rills-- And chestnuts, burring from the spring's long flowers!-- When from their tops the trees seemed streaming showers Of slender silver, cool, crepuscular, And like a nebulous radiance shone afar.-- And maples! how their sappy hearts would gush Rude troughs of syrup, when the winter bush Steamed with the sugar-kettle, day and night, And, red, the snow was streaked with fire-light. Then was it glorious! the mill-dam's edge, One slope of frosty crystal, laid a ledge Of pearl across; above which, sleeted trees Tossed arms of ice, that, clashing in the breeze, Tinkled the ringing creek with icicles, Thin as the peal of far-off Elfland bells: A sound that in my city dreams I hear, That brings before me, under skies that clear, The old mill in its winter garb of snow, Its frozen wheel like a hoar beard below, And its west windows, two deep eyes aglow.

Ah, ancient mill, still do I picture o'er Thy cobwebbed stairs and loft and grain-strewn floor; Thy door,--like some brown, honest hand of toil, And honorable with labor of the soil,-- Forever open; through which, on his back The prosperous farmer bears his bursting sack, And while the miller measures out his toll, Again I hear, above the cogs' loud roll,-- That makes stout joist and rafter groan and sway,-- The harmless gossip of the passing day: Good country talk, that tells how so-and-so Has died or married; how curculio And codling-moth have ruined half the fruit, And blight plays mischief with the grapes to boot; Or what the news from town; next county fair; How well the crops are looking everywhere: Now this, now that, on which their interests fix, Prospects for rain or frost, and politics. While all around, the sweet smell of the meal Filters, warm-pouring from the grinding wheel Into the bin; beside which, mealy white, The miller looms, dim in the dusty light.

Again I see the miller's home, between The crinkling creek and hills of beechen green: Again the miller greets me, gaunt and brown, Who oft o'erawed my youth with gray-browed frown And rugged mien: again he tries to reach My youthful mind with fervid scriptural speech.-- For he, of all the country-side confessed, The most religious was and goodliest; A Methodist, and one whom faith still led, No books except the Bible had he read-- At least so seemed it to my younger head.-- All things in Earth and Heav'n he'd prove by this, Be it a fact or mere hypothesis; For to his simple wisdom, reverent, "_The Bible says_" was all of argument.-- God keep his soul! his bones were long since laid Among the sunken gravestones in the shade Of those black-lichened rocks, that wall around The family burying-ground with cedars crowned; Where bristling teasel and the brier combine With clambering wood-rose and the wild-grape vine To hide the stone whereon his name and dates Neglect, with mossy hand, obliterates.

THE RAIN-CROW

I

Can freckled August,--drowsing warm and blond Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead, In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound,-- O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed To thee? when no plumed weed, no feather'd seed Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond, That gleams like flint within its rim of grasses, Through which the dragon-fly forever passes Like splintered diamond.

II