Part 11

Now in the hollow of a hill,-- Like a glow-worm held in a giant hand,-- Under the sunset’s last red band, And one star hued like a daffodil, The windowed lamp of a cabin glows; The charcoal-burner’s, whose hut is poor But always open; beside whose door An oak grows gnarled and a pine stands slim. Clean of soul, though of feature grim, Here he houses where no one knows, His only neighbors the cawing crows, That make a roost of the pine’s top limb: His only friend the fiddle he bows As he sits at his door in the eve’s repose Making it chuckle and sing and speak, Lovingly pressed to his swarthy cheek.

And over many a root, through flowers and weeds, Past lonely places where the raccoon breeds, By many a rock and water lying dim, Roofed with the brier and the bramble-rose, Under a star and the new-moon’s rim, Downward the wood-way leads to him, Down where his lone lamp gleams and glows, A pencil slim Of marigold light under leaf and limb.

XIV

Ere that small sisterhood of misty stars, The Pleiadës, consents to grace the sky; While still through sunset’s golds and cinnabars The evening-star, like an Aladdin eye Of bright enchantment, at the day’s last hour, Looks downward from its twilight-builded tower, Listen, and you may hear, now low, now high, A voice, a summons, fainter than a flower.

There is a fellowship so still and sweet, A brotherhood, that speaks, unwordable, In every tree, in every stream you meet, The soul is fain to dream beneath its spell.-- And heart-admitted to their presence there, Those intimacies of the earth and air, It shall hear things too wonderful to tell, Too deep to interpret, and more sweet than prayer.

And you may see the things that are unseen, And hear the things that never have been heard: The whisper of the woods, in gray and green, Will walk by you, its heart a wildwood bird; Or by your side, in hushed and solemn wise, The silence sit; and clothed in glimmering dyes Of pearl and purple, with a sunset word, The dusk steal to you with tenebrious eyes.

Then through the ugliness that toils in night. Uncouth, obscure, that hates the glare of day, Dull things that pierce the earth, avoid the light, And hide themselves in clamminess and clay,-- The dumb, ungainly things, that make a home Of mud and mire they hill and honeycomb,-- Through these, perhaps, in some mysterious way Beauty may speak, fairer than wind-wild foam.

Not as it speaks--an eagle message--drawn In starry vastness from night’s labyrinths: Not uttering itself from forth the dawn In egret hues: nor from the cloud-built plinths Of sunset’s splendor, speaking burningly Unto the spirit; nor from flow’rs the bee Makes mouths of musk of, cymes of hyacinths,-- But from the things that type humility.

From things despised.--Ev’n from the crawfish there, Hollowing its house of ooze--a wet, vague sound Of sleepy slime; or from the mole, whose lair, Blind-tunneled, corridors the earth around-- Beauty may draw her truths, as draws its wings The butterfly from the dull worm that clings, Cocoon and chrysalis; and from the ground Address the soul through even senseless things.

The soul, that oft hath heard the trees’ huge roots Fumble the darkness, clutching at the soil; The bird-like beaks of the imprisoned shoots Peck through the bark and into leaves uncoil; Hath heard the buried seed split through its pod, Groping its blind way up to light and God; The fungus, laboring with gnome-like toil, Heave slow its white orb through the encircling sod.

The winds and waters, stars and streams and flowers, The very stones have tongues: and moss and fern And even lichens speak. This world of ours Is eloquent with things that bid us learn To pierce appearances, and so to mark, Within the rock and underneath the bark, Heard through some inward sense, the dreams that turn Outward to light and beauty from the dark.

XV

Then it came to pass as I gazed on space That I met with Mystery, face to face. Within her eyes my wondering soul beheld The eons past, the eons yet to come At cosmic labor; and the stars,--that swelled, Flaming or nebulous, from the darkness dumb, In their appointed places, world and sun, I saw were truths made visible, whose sum Proclaimed one truth, the Word of Him, the One.

And it came to pass as I went my ways That I met with Beauty, face to face. Within her eyes my worshiping spirit saw The moments busy with the dreams whence spring Earth’s lovelinesses: and all things that awe Man’s soul with their perfection--everything That buds and bourgeons, blossoming above-- I saw were letters of enduring law, Whose chapters make the beautiful book of Love.

THE MAN HUNT

The woods stretch deep to the mountain side, And the brush is wild where a man may hide.

They have brought the bloodhounds up again To the roadside rock where they found the slain.

They have brought the bloodhounds up, and they Have taken the trail to the mountain way.

Three times they circled the trail and crossed, And thrice they found it and thrice they lost.

Now straight through the trees and the underbrush They follow the scent through the forest’s hush.

And their deep-mouthed bay is a pulse of fear In the heart of the wood that the man must hear.

The man who crouches among the trees From the stern-faced men who follow these.

A huddle of rocks that the ooze has mossed And the trail of the hunted again is lost.

An upturned pebble, a bit of ground A heel has trampled--the trail is found.

And the woods reëcho the bloodhounds’ bay As again they take to the mountain way.

A rock, a ribbon of road, a ledge, With a pine tree clutching its crumbling edge.

A pine, that the lightning long since clave, Whose huge roots hollow a ragged cave.

A shout, a curse, and a face aghast, And the human quarry is laired at last.

The human quarry with clay-clogged hair And eyes of terror who waits them there.

That glares and crouches and rising then Hurls clods and curses at dogs and men.

Until the blow of a gun-butt lays Him stunned and bleeding upon his face.

A rope; a prayer; and an oak-tree near, And a score of hands to swing him clear.

A grim, black thing for the setting sun And the moon and the stars to look upon.

THE FOREST OF SHADOWS

Deep in the hush of a mighty wood I came to a place of dread and dream, And forms of shadows, whose shapes elude The searching swords of the sun’s dim gleam, Builders of silence and solitude. And there, where a glimmering water crept From rock to rock with a slumberous sound, Tired to tears, on the mossy ground, Under a tree I lay and slept.

Was it the heart of an olden oak? Was it the soul of a flower that died? Or was it the wild-rose there that spoke, The wilding lily that palely sighed?-- For all on a sudden it seemed I awoke: And the leaves and the flowers were all intent On a visible something of light and bloom-- A presence, felt as a wild perfume, Or beautiful music, that came and went.

And all the grief I had known was gone, And all the anguish of heart and soul; And the burden of care that had made me wan Lifted and left me young and whole As once in the flush of my youth’s dead dawn. And lo! it was night. And the oval moon, A silvery spectre, paced the wood: And there in its light, like snow, she stood, As starry still as a star a-swoon.

At first I thought that I looked into A shadowy water of violet, Where the faint reflection of one I knew, Long dead, gazed up from its mirror wet, Till she smiled in my face as the living do: Till I felt her touch, and heard her say, In a voice as still as a rose unfolds,-- “You have come at last: now nothing holds: Give me your hand: let us wander away.

“Let us wander away through the Shadow Wood, Through the Shadow Wood to the Shadow Land, Where the trees have speech and the blossoms brood, Like visible music; and, hand in hand, The winds and the waves go, rainbow-hued: Where ever the voice of beauty sighs, And ever the dance of dreams goes on; Where nothing grows old: and the dead and gone, And the loved and the lost, smile into your eyes.

“Let us wander away! let us wander away!-- Do you hear them calling, ‘Come here and live’? Do you hear what the trees and the flowers say, Wonderful, wild, and imperative, Hushed as the hues of the dawn of day?-- They say, ‘Your life, that was rose and rue, In a world of shadows where all things die, Where beauty is dust, and love, a lie, Is ended. Come! we are waiting for you.’”

And she took my hand: and the trees around Seemed whispering something I dared not hear; And the taciturn flowers, that strewed the ground, Seemed thinking something I felt with fear-- A beautiful something that made no sound.-- And she led me on through the forest old, Where the moon and the midnight stood on guard,-- Sentinel spirits that shimmered the sward, Silver and sable and glimmering gold.

And then in a moment I knew.... I knew What the trees had whispered, the winds had said; What the flowers had thought in their hearts of dew, And the stars had syllabled overhead-- And she bent above me and smiled, “’Tis true! Heart of my heart, you have heard aright.-- Look in my eyes and draw me near! Look in my face and have no fear!-- Heart of my heart, you died to-night!”

“ROSE LEAVES, WHEN THE ROSE IS DEAD”

See how the rose leaves fall, The rose leaves fall and fade; And by the wall, in shade funereal, How leaf on leaf is laid, Withered and soiled and frayed!

How red the rose leaves fall-- And in the ancient trees, That stretch their ghostly arms about the Hall, Burdened with mysteries, How sadly sighs the breeze!

How soft the rose leaves fall-- The rose leaves fall and lie! While over them dull slugs and beetles crawl, And, palely glimmering by, The glow-worm trails its eye.

How thick the rose leaves fall, And strew the garden way! For snails to slime and spotted toads to sprawl, And, plodding past each day, Coarse feet to tread in clay.

How fast they fade and fall Where Beauty, carved in stone, With broken hands veils her dead eyes, and, tall, White in the moonlight lone, Stands like a marble moan.

How slow they drift and fall And strew the fountained pool, That, in the nymph-carved basin by the wall, Reflects, in darkness cool, Ruin made beautiful.

How red the rose leaves fall, Fall, and like blood remain Upon the dial’s disk, whose pedestal, Black-mossed, and dark with stain, Crumbles in sun and rain.

How dim they seem to fall Around one where she stands, Deep in their midst, beyond the years’ recall, Reaching pale, passionate hands Into the past’s vague lands.

How still the rose leaves fall Around them as they meet As oft of old! she, in her gem-pinned shawl Of white; and he, complete In black from head to feet.

How faint the rose leaves fall Around them where, it seems, He holds her clasped, parting from her and all His heart’s wild hopes and dreams, There in the moon’s pale beams!

Around them rose leaves fall-- And in the stress and urge Of winds that strew them wanly over all, With deep, autumnal surge, There floats a funeral dirge:--

“See how the rose leaves fall Upon thy dead, O soul! The rose leaves of the love that once in thrall Held thee, beyond control, Making thy heart’s world whole.

“God help them still to fall Around thee, bowed above The face within thy heart, beneath the pall, The perished face thereof, The beautiful face of Love.”

MUSIC AND MOONLIGHT

White roses, like a mist Upon a terraced height; And ’mid the roses, opal, moonbeam kissed, A fountain falling white.

And as the full moon flows, Orb’d fire, into a cloud, There is a fragrant sound as if a rose Sighed its sweet soul aloud.

There is a whisper pale, As if a rose awoke, And, having heard in sleep the nightingale, Still dreaming of it spoke.

Now, as from some vast shell A giant pearl rolls white, From the dividing cloud, that winds compel, The moon sweeps, big and bright.

Moon-mists and pale perfumes, Wind-wafted through the dusk: There is a sound as if unfolding blooms Voiced their sweet thoughts in musk.

A spirit is abroad Of music and of sleep; The moon and mists have made for it a road Adown the violet deep.

It breathes a tale to me, A tale of ancient day; And, like a dream, again I seem to see Those towers old and gray.

That castle by the foam, Where once our hearts made moan: And through the night again you seem to come Down statued stairs of stone.

Again I feel your hair, Dark, fragrant, deep and cool: You lift your face up, pale with its despair, And wildly beautiful.

Again your form I strain, Again, unto my heart; Again your lips, again and yet again, I press ... and then we part.

As centuries ago We did in Camelot; Where once we lived that life of bliss and woe, That you remember not.

When you were Guinevere, And I was Launcelot.... I have remembered many and many a year, And you--you have forgot.

THE AWAKENING

God made that night of pearl and ivory, Perfect and holy as a holy thought Born of perfection, dreams, and ecstasy, In love and silence wrought. And she, who lay where, through the casement falling, The moonlight clasped with arms of vapory gold Her Danaë beauty, seemed to hear a calling Deep in the garden old.

And then it seemed, through some strange sense, she heard The roses softly speaking in the night,-- Or was it but the nocturne of a bird Haunting the white moonlight? It seemed a fragrant whisper vaguely roaming From rose to rose, a language sweet that blushed, Saying, “Who comes? Who is this swiftly coming, With face so dim and hushed?

“And now, and now we hear a wild heart beating-- Whose heart is this that beats among our blooms? Whose every pulse in rapture keeps repeating Wild words like wild perfumes?” ... And then it ceased: and then she heard a sigh, As if a lily syllabled sweet scent,-- Or was it but the wind that silverly Touched some stringed instrument?

And then again a rumor she detected Among the roses, words of musk and myrrh, Saying, “He comes! the one she hath expected, Who long hath sought for her. The one whose coming made her soul awaken, Whose face is fragrance and whose feet are fire: The one by whom her being shall be shaken With dreams and deep desire.”

And then she rose, and to the casement hastened, And flung it wide and, leaning outward, gazed: Above, the night hung, moon and starlight chastened; Below, with shadows mazed, The garden bloomed. Around her and o’erhead All seemed at pause--save one wild star that streamed, One rose that fell.--And then she sighed and said, “I must have dreamed, have dreamed.”

And then again she seemed to hear it speak, A moth that murmured of a star attained,-- Or was it but the fountain whispering weak, White where the moonbeams rained? And still it grew; and still the sound insisted, Louder and sweeter, burning into form, Until at last a presence, starlight-misted, It shone there rosy warm:

Crying, “Come down! long have I watched and waited! Come down! draw near! or, like some splendid flower, Let down thy hair! so I may climb as fated Into thy heart’s high tower. Lower! bend lower, so thy heart may hear me! Thy soul may clasp me!... Beautiful above All beautiful things, behold me, yea, draw near me; Behold! for I am Love.”

THE VALE OF TEMPE

All night I lay upon the rocks: And now the dawn comes up this way, One great star trembling in her locks Of rosy ray.

I can not tell the things I’ve seen, The things I’ve heard I dare not speak The dawn is breaking, gold and green, O’er vale and peak.

My soul hath kept its tryst again With _her_ as once in ages past, In that lost life, I know not when, Which was my last:

When she was dryad, I was faun, And lone we loved in Tempe’s Vale, Where once we saw Endymion Pass passion-pale:

Where once we saw him clasp and meet Among the pines, with kiss on kiss, Moon-breasted and most heavenly sweet, White Artemis.

Where often, Bacchus-borne, we heard The Mænad shout, wild-revelling: And filled with witchcraft, past all word, The Limnad sing.

Bloom-bodied ’mid the twilight trees We saw the Oread, who shone Fair as the forms Praxiteles Carved out of stone.

And oft, goat-footed, in a glade We marked the Satyrs dance, and great, Man-muscled, like the oaks that shade Dodona’s gate,

Fierce Centaurs hoof a torrent’s bank With wind-tossed manes, or leap a crag, While swift, the arrow in its flank, Swept by the stag.

And minnow-white the Naiad there We watched, foam-shouldered, in her stream, Wringing the moisture from her hair Of emerald gleam.

We saw the oak unclose and, brown, Sap-scented, from its door of bark The Hamadryad young step down: Or, crouching dark

Within the oak’s old heart, we felt Her eyes, that pierced the fibrous gloom; Her breath, that was the musk we smelt, The wild perfume.

There is no flower that opens glad Wide eyes of dawn and sunset hue, As fair as the Leimoniad We saw there too:

That flower-divinity, rose-born, Of sunlight and white dew, whose blood Is fragrance, and whose heart of morn A crimson bud.

There is no star that rises white, To tiptoe down the deeps of dusk, Sweet as the moony Nymphs of Night With breasts of musk, We met among the mystery And hush of forests, where, afar, We watched their hearts beat glimmeringly, Each heart a star.

There is no beam that rays the marge Of mist that trails from cape to cape, From panther-haunted gorge to gorge, Bright as the shape

Of her, the one Auloniad, That, born of wind and grassy gleams, Silvered upon our sight, dim-clad In foam of streams.

All, all of these I saw again, Or dreamed I saw, as there, ah me! Upon the cliffs, above the plain, In Thessaly,

I lay, while Mount Olympus helmed Its brow with moon-effulgence deep, And, far below, vague, overwhelmed With reedy sleep,

Peneus flowed, and, murmuring, sighed, Meseemed, for its dead gods, whose ghosts Through its dark forests seemed to glide In whispering hosts....

’Mid whose pale shapes again I spoke With her, my soul, as I divine, Dim ’neath some gnarled Olympian oak, Or Ossan pine,

Till down the slopes of heaven came Those daughters of the Dawn, the Hours, Clothed on with raiment blue of flame, And crowned with flowers;

When she, with whom my soul once more Had trysted--limbed of light and air-- Whom to my breast,--(as oft of yore In Tempe there,

When she was dryad, I was faun)-- I clasped and held, and pressed and kissed, Within my arms, as broke the dawn, Became a mist.

THE BALLAD OF LOW-LIE-DOWN

John-a-dreams and Harum-Scarum Came a-riding into town: At the Sign o’ the Jug-and-Jorum There they met with Low-lie-down.

Brave in shoes of Romany leather, Bodice blue and gipsy gown, And a cap of fur and feather, In the inn sat Low-lie-down.

Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly, Smiled into her eyes of brown, Clasped her waist and held her tightly, Laughing, “Lovely Low-lie-down!”

Then with many an oath and swagger, As a man of great renown, On the board he clapped his dagger, Called for sack and sat him down.

So a while they laughed together; Then he rose and with a frown Sighed, “While still ’tis pleasant weather, I must leave thee, Low-lie-down.”

So away rode Harum-Scarum, With a song rode out of town; At the Sign o’ the Jug-and-Jorum Weeping lingered Low-lie-down.

Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters, In his pocket ne’er a crown, Touched her saying, “Wench, what matters! Dry your eyes and, come, sit down.

“Here’s my hand: we’ll roam together, Far away from thorp and town. Here’s my heart,--for any weather,-- And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down.

“Some men call me dreamer, poet: Some men call me fool and clown-- What I am but you shall know it, Only you, sweet Low-lie-down.”

For a little while she pondered: Smiled: then said, “Let care go drown!” Rose and kissed him.... Forth they wandered, John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down.

VAGABONDS

I

It’s ho, it’s ho! when haw-trees blow Among the hills that Springtime thrills; When huckleberries, row on row, Hang out their blossom-bells of snow Around the rills that music fills: When haw-trees blow among the hills, It’s ho, it’s ho! oh let us go, My love and I, where fancy wills.

II

It’s hey, it’s hey! when daisies sway Among the meads where Summer speeds; When ripeness bends each fruited spray, And harvest wafts adown the day The feathered seeds of golden weeds: When daisies sway among the meads, It’s hey, it’s hey! oh, let’s away, My heart and I, where longing leads.

III

It’s ay, it’s ay! when red leaves fly, And strew the ways where Autumn strays; When round the beech and chestnut lie The sturdy burrs where creeks run dry, And frosts and haze turn golds to grays: When red leaves fly and strew the ways, It’s ay, it’s ay! oh, let us hie, My love and I, where dreaming says.

IV

Wassail! wassail! when snow and hail Make white the lands where Winter stands; When wild winds from the forests flail The last dead leaves, and, in the gale, The trees wring hands in ghostly bands: When snow and hail make white the lands, Wassail! wassail! oh, let us trail, My heart and I, where love commands.

REVEALMENT

A sense of sadness in the golden air, A pensiveness, that has no part in care, As if the Season, by some woodland pool, Braiding the early blossoms in her hair, Seeing her loveliness reflected there, Had sighed to find herself so beautiful.

A breathlessness, a feeling as of fear, Holy and dim, as of a mystery near, As if the World, about us, listening went, With lifted finger and hand-hollowed ear, Harkening a music, that we can not hear, Haunting the quickening earth and firmament.

A prescience of the soul that has no name, Expectancy that is both wild and tame, As if the Earth, from out its azure ring Of heavens, looked to see, as white as flame,-- As Perseus once to chained Andromeda came,-- The swift, divine revealment of the Spring.

A YELLOW ROSE