Part 14

Amber and emerald, cairngorm and chrysoprase, Stream through the autumn woods, scatter the beech-wood ways: Ways where the wahoo-bush brightens with scarlet; And where the aster-stalk lifts its last starlet.

Ways where the brier burns; poplars drop, one by one, Leaves that seem beaten gold, each like a splash of sun: Round which the beeches rise, tree upon golden tree, That, with each wind that blows, sound like a summer sea.

Ways where the papaw leans, great-leaved and beryl-green, Like some grand forester one in Romance hath seen; And like some Indian queen, sung of in story, Flaming the gum-tree stands, crowned with its glory.

Ways where the bittersweet, cleaving its pods of gold, Brightens the brake with flame, torches the dingle old: And where the dogwood, too, crimsons with ruby seeds; Spicewood and buckbush bend ruddy with rosy beads.

These are the woods of gold; forests our childhood knew, Where the Enchanted dwelt, she with the eyes of blue; She of the raven locks, and of the lovely looks, She who oft gazed at us out of the Story Books.

And with that Prince again, striding his snow-white steed, To her deliverance through the gold wood we speed; On through the wood of flame to the Dark Tower, Where like a light she gleams high in her bower.

THE WORD IN THE WOOD

I

The acorn-oak Sullens to sombre crimson all its leaves; And where it hugely heaves A giant head dark as congested blood, The gum-tree towers, against the sky a stroke Of purpling gold; and every blur of wood Is color on the pallet that she drops, The Autumn, dreaming on the hazed hilltops.

II

And as I went Through golden forests in a golden land, Where Magic waved her wand And dimmed the air with dreams my boyhood knew, Enchantment met me; and again she bent Her face to mine, and smiled with eyes of blue, And kissed me on the mouth and bade me heed Old tales again from books no man may read.

III

And at her word The wood became transfigured; and, behold! With hair of wavy gold A presence walked there; and its beauty was The beauty not of Earth: and then I heard Within my heart vague voices, murmurous And multitudinous as leaves that sow The firmament when winds of autumn blow.

IV

And I perceived The voices were but one voice made of sighs, That sorrowed in this wise: “I am the child-soul that grew up and died, The child-soul of the world that once believed, Believed in me, but long ago denied; The Faery Faith it needs no more to-day, The folk-lore Beauty long since passed away.”

THE NIGHT-WIND

I

I have heard the wind on a winter’s night, When the snow-cold moon looked icily through My window’s flickering firelight, Where the frost his witchery drew: I have heard the wind on a winter’s night, Wandering ways that were frozen white, Wail in my chimney-flue: And its voice was the voice,--so it seemed to me,-- The voice of the world’s vast misery.

II

I have heard the wind on a night of spring, When the leaves unclasped their girdles of gold, And the bird on the bough sang slumbering, In the lilac’s fragrant fold:

I have heard the wind on a night of spring, Shaking the musk from its dewy wing, Sigh in my garden old: And it seemed that it said, as it sighed above, “I am the voice of the Earth’s great love.”

III

I have heard the wind on a night of fall, When a devil’s-dance was the rain’s downpour, And the wild woods reeled to its demon call, And the carpet fluttered the floor: I have heard the wind on a night of fall, Heaping the leaves by the garden wall, Weep at my close-shut door: And its voice, so it seemed, as it sorrowed there, Was the old, old voice of the world’s despair.

IV

I have heard the wind on a summer night, When the myriad stars stormed heaven with fire, And the moon-moth glimmered in phantom flight, And the crickets creaked in choir: I have heard the wind on a summer night, Rocking the red rose and the white, Murmur in bloom and brier: And its voice was the voice,--so it seemed to me,-- Of Earth’s primordial mystery.

GOD’S GREEN BOOK

I

Out, out in the open fields, Where the great, green book of God,-- The book that its wisdom yields To each soul that is not a clod,-- Lies wide for the world to read, I would go; and in flower and weed, That letter the lines of the grass, Would read of a better creed Than that which the town-world has.

II

Too long in the city streets, The alleys of grime and sin, Have I heard the iron beats Of the heart of toil; whose din, And the throb of whose wild unrest Have stunned the song in my breast, Have marred its music and slain The bird that was once its guest, And my soul would find it again.

III

Out there where the great, green book, Whose leaves are the grass and trees, Lies open; where each may look, May muse and read as he please; The book, that is gilt with gleams, Whose pages are ribboned with streams; That says what our souls would say Of beauty that’s wrought of dreams And buds and blossoms of May.

A WET DAY

Dark, drear, and drizzly, with vapor grizzly, The day goes dully unto its close; Its wet robe smutches each thing it touches, Its fingers sully and wreck the rose.

Around the railing and garden-paling The dripping lily hangs low its head: A brood-mare whinnies; and hens and guineas Droop, damp and chilly, beneath the shed.

In splashing mire about the byre The cattle huddle, the farm-hand plods; While to some neighbor’s a wagon labors Through pool and puddle and clay that clods.

The day, unsplendid, at last is ended, Is dead and buried, and night has come;-- Night, blind and footless, and foul and fruitless, With weeping wearied, and sorrow-dumb.

Ah, God! for thunder! for winds to sunder The clouds and o’er us smite rushing bars! And through wild masses of storm, that passes, Roll calm the chorus of moon and stars.

AFTER STORM

Great clouds of sullen seal and gold Bar bleak the tawny west, From which all day the thunder rolled, And storm streamed, crest on crest.

Now silvery in its deeps of bronze The new moon fills its sphere; And point by point the darkness dons Its pale stars there and here.

But still behind the moon and stars, The peace of heaven remains Suspicion of the wrath that wars, That Nature now restrains.

As, lined ’neath tiger eyelids, glare The wild-beast eyes that sleep, So smoulders in its sunset lair The rage that rent the deep.

SUNSET ON THE RIVER

I

A sea of onyx are the skies, Cloud-islanded with fire; Such nacre-colored flame as dyes A sea-shell’s rosy spire; And at its edge one star sinks slow, Burning, into the overglow.

II

Save for the cricket in the grass, Or passing bird that twitters, The world is hushed. Like liquid glass The soundless river glitters Between the hills that hug and hold Its beauty like a hoop of gold.

III

The glory deepens; and, meseems, A vasty canvas, painted With revelations of God’s dreams And visions symbol-sainted, The west is, that each night-cowled hill Kneels down before in worship still.

IV

There is no thing to wake unrest; No sight or sound to jangle The peace that evening in the breast Brings, smoothing out the tangle Of gnarls and knots of care and strife That snarl the colored cord of life.

TABERNACLES

The little tents the wildflowers raise Are tabernacles where Love prays And Beauty preaches all the days.

I walk the woodland through and through, And everywhere I see their blue And gold where I may worship too.

All hearts unto their inmost shrine Of fragrance they invite; and mine Enters and sees the All Divine.

I hark; and with some inward ear Soft words of praise and prayer I hear, And bow my head and have no fear.

For God is present as I see In them; and gazes out at me Kneeling to His divinity.

Oh, holiness that Nature knows, That dwells within each thing that grows, Vestured with dreams, as is the rose

With perfume! whereof all things preach-- The birds, the brooks, the leaves that reach Our hearts and souls with loving speech;

That makes a tabernacle of The flow’rs; whose priests are Truth and Love, Who help our souls to rise above

The Earth and that which we name sin, Unto the knowledge, that is kin To Heaven, to which at last we win.

THE CAT-BIRD

I

The tufted gold of the sassafras, And the gold of the spicewood-bush, Bewilder the ways of the forest pass, And brighten the underbrush: The white-starred drifts of the wild-plum tree, And the haw with its pearly plumes, And the redbud, misted rosily, Dazzle the woodland glooms.

II

And I hear the song of the cat-bird wake I’ the boughs o’ the gnarled wild-crab, Or there where the snows of the dogwood shake, That the silvery sunbeams stab: And it seems to me that a magic lies In the crystal sweet of its notes, That a myriad blossoms open their eyes As its strain above them floats.

III

I see the bluebell’s blue unclose, And the trillium’s stainless white; The bird-foot violet’s purple and rose, And the poppy, golden-bright! And I see the eyes of the bluet wink, And the heads of the white-hearts nod; And the baby mouths of the woodland pink And the sorrel salute the sod.

IV

And this, meseems, does the cat-bird say, As the blossoms crowd i’ the sun:-- “Up, up! and out! oh, out and away! Up, up! and out, each one! Sweethearts! sweethearts! oh, sweet, sweet, sweet! Come listen and hark to me! The Spring, the Spring, with her fragrant feet, Is passing this way!--Oh, hark to the beat Of her bee-like heart!--Oh, sweet, sweet, sweet! Come! open your eyes and see! See, see, see!”

DAYS COME AND GO

Leaves fall and flowers fade, Days come and go: Now is sweet Summer laid Low in her leafy glade, Low like a fragrant maid, Low, low, ah, low.

Tears fall and eyelids ache, Hearts overflow: Here for our dead love’s sake Let us our farewells make-- Will he again awake? Ah, no, no, no.

Winds sigh and skies are gray, Days come and go: Wild birds are flown away: Where are the blooms of May?-- Dead, dead, this many a day, Under the snow.

Lips sigh and cheeks are pale, Hearts overflow: Will not some song or tale, Kiss, or a flower frail, With our dead love avail?-- Ah, no, no, no.

THE WANING YEAR

A sense of something that is sad and strange; Of something that is felt as death is felt,-- As shadows, phantoms, in a haunted grange,-- Around me seems to melt.

It rises, so it seems, from the decay Of the dim woods; from withered leaves and weeds, And dead flowers hanging by the woodland way Sad, hoary heads of seeds.

And from the cricket’s song,--so feeble now ’Tis like a sound heard in the heart, a call Dreamier than dreams;--and from the shaken bough, And acorns’ drowsy fall.

From scents and sounds it rises, sadly slow, This presence, that hath neither face nor form; That in the woods sits like demented woe, Whispering of wreck and storm.

A presence wrought of melancholy grief, And dreams that die; that, in the streaming night, I shall behold, like some fantastic leaf, Beat at my window’s light.

That I shall hear, outside my storm-lashed door, Moan like the wind in some rain-tortured tree; Or round my roof and down my chimney roar All the wild night to me.

GRAY NOVEMBER

I

Dull, dimly gleaming, The dawn looks downward Where, flowing townward, The river, steaming With mist, is hidden: Each bush, that huddles Beside the road,--the rain has pooled with puddles,-- Seems, in the fog, a hag or thing hag-ridden.

II

Where leaves hang tattered In forest tangles, And woodway angles Are acorn-scattered, Coughing and yawning The woodsman slouches, Or stands as silent as the hound that crouches Beside him, ghostly in the mist-drenched dawning.

III

Through roses, rotting Within the garden,-- With blooms, that harden, Of marigolds, knotting, (Each one an ember Dull, dead and dripping,) Her brow, from which their faded wreath is slipping, Mantled in frost and fog, comes in November.

WHAT OF IT THEN

I

Well, what of it then, if your heart be weighed with the yoke Of the world’s neglect? and the smoke Of doubt, blown into your eyes, makes night of your road? And the sting of the goad, The merciless goad of scorn, And the rise and fall Of the whip of necessity gall, Till your heart, forlorn, Indignant, in rage would rebel? And your bosom fill, And sobbingly swell, With bitterness, yea, against God and ’gainst Fate, Fate, and the world of men, What of it then?... Let it be as it will, If you labor and wait, You, too, will arrive, and the end for you, too, will be well. What of it then, say I! yea, what of it then!

II

Well, what of it then? if the hate of the world and of men Make wreck of your dreams again? What of it then If contumely and sneer, And ignorant jibe and jeer, Be heaped upon all that you do and dream: And the irresistible stream Of events overwhelm and submerge All effort--or so it may seem? Not all, not all shall be lost, Not all, in the merciless gurge And pitiless surge!-- Though you see it tempestuously tossed, Though you see it sink down or sweep by, Not in vain did you strive, not in vain! The struggle, the longing and toil Of hand and of heart and of brain, Not in vain was it all, say I! For out of the wild turmoil And seething and soil Of Time, some part of the whole will arise, Arise and remain, In spite of the wrath of the skies And the hate of men.-- What of it then, say I! yea, what of it then!

WOMANHOOD

I

The summer takes its hue From something opulent as fair in her, And the bright heav’n is brighter than it was; Brighter and lovelier, Arching its beautiful blue, Serene and soft, as her sweet gaze, o’er us.

II

The springtime takes its moods From something in her made of smiles and tears, And flowery earth is flowerier than before, And happier, it appears, Adding new multitudes To flowers, like thoughts, that haunt us evermore.

III

Summer and spring are wed In her--her nature; and the glamour of Their loveliness, their bounty, as it were, Of life, and joy, and love, Her being seems to shed, The magic aura of the heart of her.

THE ROSE’S SECRET

When down the west the new moon slipped, A curved canoe that dipped and tipped, When from the rose the dewdrop dripped, As if it shed its heart’s blood slow; As softly silent as a star I climbed a lattice that I know, A window lattice, held ajar By one slim hand as white as snow: The hand of her who set me here, A rose, to bloom from year to year.

I, who have heard the bird of June Sing all night long beneath the moon; I, who have heard the zephyr croon Soft music ’mid spring’s avenues, Heard then a sweeter sound than these, Among the shadows and the dews-- A heart that beat like any bee’s, Sweet with a name--and I know whose: Her heart that, leaning, pressed on me, A rose, she never looked to see. O star and moon! O wind and bird! Ye harkened, too, but never heard The secret sweet, the whispered word I heard, when by her lips his name Was murmured.--Then she saw me there!-- But that I heard was I to blame? Whom in the darkness of her hair She thrust since I had heard the same: Condemned within its deeps to lie, A rose, imprisoned till I die.

THE HUSHED HOUSE

I, who went at nightfall, came again at dawn; On Love’s door again I knocked.--Love was gone.

He who oft had bade me in, now would bid no more; Silence sat within his house; barred its door.

When the slow door opened wide through it I could see How the emptiness within stared at me.

Through the dreary chambers, long I sought and sighed, But no answering footstep came; naught replied.

Then at last I entered, dim, a darkened room: There a taper glimmered gray in the gloom.

And I saw one lying crowned with helichrys; Never saw I face as fair as was his.

Like a wintry lily was his brow in hue; And his cheeks were each a rose, wintry, too.

Then my soul remembered all that made us part, And what I had laughed at once--broke my heart.

UNFORGOTTEN

I

How many things, that we would remember, Sweet or sad, or great or small, Do our minds forget! and how one thing only, One little thing endures o’er all! For many things have I forgotten, But this one thing can never forget-- The scent of a primrose, woodland-wet, Long years ago I found in a far land; A fragile flower that April set, Rainy pink, in her forehead’s garland.

II

How many things by the heart are forgotten! Sad or sweet, or little or great! And how one thing that could mean nothing Stays knocking still at the heart’s red gate! For many things has my heart forgotten, But this one thing can never forget-- The face of a girl, a moment met, Who smiled in my eyes; whom I passed in pity; A flower-like face, with weeping wet, Flung to the streets of a mighty city.

UNSUCCESS

_A modern Poet addresses his Muse, to whom he has devoted the best Years of his Life_

I

Not here, O belovéd! not here let us part, in the city, but there! Out there where the storm can enfold us, on the hills, where its breast is made bare: Its breast, that is rainy and cool as the fern that drips by the fall In the luminous night of the woodland where winds to the waters call. Not here, O belovéd! not here! but there! out there in the storm! The rush and the reel of the heavens, the tempest, whose rapturous arm Shall seize us and sweep us together,--resistless as passions seize men,-- Through the rocking world of the woodland, with its multitude music, and then, With the rain on our lips, belovéd! in the heart of the night’s wild hell, One last, long kiss forever, and forever and ever farewell.

II

I am sick of the madness of men; of the bootless struggle and strife: Of the pain and the patience of waiting; the scoff and the scorning of life: I am sick of the shapes and the shadows; the sins and the sorrows that crowd The gateways of heart and of brain; of the laughter, the shout that is loud In the mouth of Success--Success, that was never for me, ah me!-- And all the wrong and neglect that are heaped beloved, on thee! I am sick of the whining of failure; the boast and the brag of Success; The vainness of effort and longing; the dreams and the days that oppress: I am sick of them all; but am sickest, am sickest in body and soul, Of the love that I bear thee, beloved! and only thy death can make whole.

III

Imperfect, imperfect God made us,--or the power that men call God.-- And I think that a Power so perfect, that made us with merely a nod, Could have fashioned us beings less faulty; more able to wear and to bear; Less open to mar and to fracture; less filled with the stuff of despair: Less damned with the unavailing; less empty of all good things-- The hopes and the dreams that mature not while the clay still to them clings: I am sick of it all, belovéd! of the world and the ways of God; The thorns that have pierced thy bosom; the shards of the paths we have trod: I am sick of going and coming; and of love I am sickest of all: The striving, the praying, the dreaming; and the things that never befall.-- So there in the storm and the darkness,--O fair, and O fugitive!-- Out there in the night, belovéd, must thou die so I may live!

THE FIRST QUARTER

I

_January_

Shaggy with skins of frost-furred gray and drab, Harsh, hoary hair framing a bitter face, He bends above the dead Year’s fireplace Nursing the last few embers of its slab To sullen glow: from pinched lips, cold and crab, The starved flame shrinks; his breath, like a menáce, Shrieks in the flue, fluttering its sooty lace, Piercing the silence like an icy stab. From rheum-gnarled knees he rises, slow with cold, And to the frost-bound window, muttering, goes, With iron knuckles knocking on the pane; And, lo! outside, his minions manifold Answer the summons: wolf-like shapes of woe, Hunger and suffering, trooping to his train.

II

_February_

Gray-muffled to his eyes in rags of cloud, His whip of winds forever in his hand, Driving the herded storms along the land,-- That shake the wild sleet from wild hair and crowd Heaven with tumultuous bulks,--he comes, low-browed And heavy-eyed; the hail, like stinging sand, Whirls white behind, swept backward by his band Of wild-hoofed gales that o’er the world ring loud. All day the tatters of his dark cloak stream Congealing moisture, till in solid ice The forests stand; and, clang on thunderous clang, All night is heard,--as in the moon’s cold gleam Tightens his grip of frost, his iron vise,-- The boom of bursting boughs that icicles fang.

III

_March_

This is the tomboy month of all the year, March, who comes shouting o’er the winter hills, Waking the world with laughter, as she wills, Or wild halloos, a windflower in her ear. She stops a moment by the half-thawed mere And whistles to the wind, and straightway shrills The hyla’s song, and hoods of daffodils Crowd golden round her, leaning their heads to hear. Then through the woods, that drip with all their eaves, Her mad hair blown about her, loud she goes Singing and calling to the naked trees, And straight the oilets of the little leaves Open their eyes in wonder, rows on rows, And the first bluebird bugles to the breeze.

ZERO

The gate, on ice-hoarse hinges, stiff with frost, Croaks open; and harsh wagon-wheels are heard Creaking through cold; the horses’ breath is furred Around their nostrils; and with snow deep-mossed The hut is barely seen, from which, uptossed, The wood-smoke pillars the icy air unstirred; And every sound, each axe-stroke and each word, Comes as through crystal, then again is lost. The sun strikes bitter on the frozen pane, And all around there is a tingling,--tense As is a wire stretched upon a disk Vibrating without sound:--It is the strain That Winter plays, to which each tree and fence, It seems, is strung, as ’twere of ringing bisque.

ON THE HILLTOP.