Part 2

Chapter 23,699 wordsPublic domain

For a poem I'd read, a simple thing, A little lyric that had the power To make the brush-sparrow come and sing, And the winter woodlands flower.

THE OLD BYWAY

Its rotting fence one scarcely sees Through sumach and wild blackberries, Thick elder and the white wild-rose, Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees Hang droning in repose.

The limber lizards glide away Gray on its moss and lichens gray; Warm butterflies float in the sun, Gay Ariels of the lonesome day; And there the ground squirrels run.

The red-bird stays one note to lift; High overhead dark swallows drift; 'Neath sun-soaked clouds of beaten cream, Through which hot bits of azure sift, The gray hawks soar and scream.

Among the pungent weeds they fill Dry grasshoppers pipe with a will; And in the grass-grown ruts, where stirs The basking snake, mole-crickets shrill; O'er head the locust whirrs.

At evening, when the sad West turns To dusky Night a cheek that burns, The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing, And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns The wind wakes whispering.

DIURNAL.

A molten ruby clear as wine Along the east the dawning swims; The morning-glories swing and shine, The night dews bead their satin rims; The bees rob sweets from shrub and vine, The gold hangs on their limbs.

Sweet morn, the South, A royal lover, From his fragrant mouth, Sweet morn, the South Breathes on and over Keen scents of wild honey and rosy clover.

Beside the wall the roses blow Long summer noons the winds forsake; Beside the wall the poppies glow So full of fire their hearts do ache; The dipping butterflies come slow, Half dreaming, half awake.

Sweet noontide, rest, A slave-girl weary With her babe at her breast; Sweet noontide, rest, The day grows dreary As soft limbs that are tired and eyes that are teary.

III

Along lone paths the cricket cries Sad summer nights that know the dew; One mad star thwart the heavens flies Curved glittering on the glassy blue; Now grows the big moon on the skies. The stars are faint and few.

Sweet night, breathe thou With a passion taken From a Romeo's vow; Sweet night, breathe thou Like a beauty shaken Of amorous dreams that have made her waken.

THE WOOD-PATH.

Here doth white Spring white violets show, Broadcast doth white, frail wind-flowers sow Through starry mosses amber-fair, As delicate as ferns that grow, Hart's-tongue and maiden-hair.

Here fungus life is beautiful, White mushroom and the thick toad-stool As various colored as wild blooms; Existences that love the cool, Distinct in rank perfumes.

Here stray the wandering cows to rest, The calling cat-bird builds her nest In spice-wood bushes dark and deep; Here raps the woodpecker his best, And here young rabbits leap.

Tall butternuts and hickories, The pawpaw and persimmon trees, The beech, the chestnut, and the oak, Wall shadows huge, like ghosts of bees Through which gold sun-bits soak.

Here to pale melancholy moons. In haunted nights of dreamy Junes, Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill, Whose mournful and demonic tunes Wild woods with phantoms fill.

DEFICIENCY.

Ah, God! were I away, away, By woodland-belted hills! There might be more in Thy bright day Than my poor spirit thrills.

The elder coppice, banks of blooms, The spice-wood brush, the field Of tumbled clover, and perfumes Hot, weedy pastures yield.

The old rail-fence whose angles hold Bright briar and sassafras, Sweet priceless wild flowers blue and gold Starred through the moss and grass.

The ragged path that winds unto Lone cow-behaunted nooks, Through brambles to the shade and dew Of rocks and woody brooks.

To see the minnows turn and gleam White sparkling bellies, all Shoot in gray schools adown the stream Let but a dead leaf fall.

The buoyant pleasure and delight Of floating feathered seeds. Capricious wanderers soft and white Born of silk-bearing weeds.

Ah, God! were I away, away, Among wild woods and birds! There were more soul within Thy day Than one might bless with words.

HE WHO LOVES.

For him God's birds each merry morn Make of wild throats melodious flutes To trill such love from brush and thorn As might brim eyes of brutes: Who would believe of such a thing, That 'tis her heart which makes them sing?

For him the faultless skies of noon Grow farther in eternal blue, As heavens that buoy the balanced moon, And sow the stars and dew: Who would believe that such deep skies Are miracles only through her eyes?

For him mad sylphs adown domed nights Stud golden globules radiant, Or glass-green transient trails of lights Spin from their orbs and slant: Who would believe a soul were hers To make for him a universe?

THE MONASTERY CROFT.

Big-stomached, like friars Who ogle a nun, Quaff deep to their bellies' desires From the old abbey's tun, Grapes fatten with fires Warm-filtered from moon and from sun.

As a novice who muses,-- Lips a rosary tell, While her thoughts are--a love she refuses? --Nay! mourns as not well: The ripe apple looses Its holding to rot where it fell.

THE DRYAD.

I have seen her limpid eyes Large with gradual laughter rise Through wild-roses' nettles, Like twin blossoms grow and stare, Then a hating, envious air Whisked them into petals.

I have seen her hardy cheek Like a molten coral leak Through the leafage shaded Of thick Chickasaws, and then, When I made more sure, again To a red plum faded.

I have found her racy lips, And her graceful finger-tips, But a haw and berry; Glimmers of her there and here, Just, forsooth, enough to cheer And to make me merry.

Often on the ferny rocks Dazzling rimples of loose locks At me she hath shaken, And I've followed--'twas in vain-- They had trickled into rain Sun-lit on the braken.

Once her full limbs flashed on me, Naked where some royal tree Powdered all the spaces With wan sunlight and quaint shade, Such a haunt romance hath made For haunched satyr-races.

There, I wot, hid amorous Pan, For a sudden pleading ran Through the maze of myrtle, Whiles a rapid violence tossed All its flowerage,--'twas the lost Cooings of a turtle.

"THE SWEET O' THE YEAR."

How can I help from laughing while The daffodilies at me smile; The tickled dew winks tipsily In clusters of the lilac-tree; The crocuses and hyacinths Storm through the grassy labyrinths A mirth of gold and violet; And roses, bud by bud, Flash from each dainty-lacing net Red lips of maidenhood?

How can I help from singing when The swallow and the hawk again Are noisy in the hyaline Of happy heavens clear as wine; The robin lustily and shrill Pipes on the timber-bosomed hill; And o'er the fallow skim the bold, Mad orioles that glow Like shining shafts of ingot gold Shot from the morning's bow?

III

How can I help from loving, dear, Since love is of the sweetened year? The very vermin feel her power, And chip and chirrup hour by hour: It is the grasshopper at noon, The cricket's at it in the moon, Whiles lizzards glitter in the dew, And bats be on the wing; Such days of joy are short and few. Grant me thy love this spring.

WITH THE SEASONS.

You will not love me, sweet. When this fair year is past; Or love now at my feet At others' feet be cast. You will not love me, sweet, When this fair year is past.

Now 'tis the Springtide, dear, The crocus cups hold flame Brimmed to the pregnant year. Who crimsons as with shame. Now 'tis the Springtide, dear, The crocus cups hold flame.

III

Ah, heart, the Summer's queen, At her brown throat one rose; The poppies now are seen With seed-pods thrust in rows. Dear heart, the Summer's queen, At her brown throat one rose.

Now Autumn reigns, a prince Fierce, gipsy-dark; live gold Weighs down the fruited quince, The last chilled violet's told. The Autumn reigns, a prince, A despot crowned with gold.

Alas! rude Winter's king, Snow-driven from chin to head; No wild birds pipe and sing, The wild winds sing instead. Ah me! rude Winter's king, Snow-driven from chin to head.

Weep now, you once who smiled, Sweet hope that had few fears! And this the end, my child!-- Thyself, my shame and tears! Weep now, you once who smiled, Sweet hope, that had few fears!

UNATTAINABLE.

What though the soul be tired For that to which 'twas fired, The far, dear, still desired, Beyond the heaven's scope; Beyond us and above us, The thing we would have love us, That will know nothing of us, But only bids us hope.

It still behooves us ever From loving ne'er to sever, To love it though it never Reciprocate our care; For love, when freely given, Lets in soft hints of heaven In memories that leaven Black humors of despair.

III

For in this life diurnal All earthly, gross, infernal, Conflicts with that eternal To make its love as lust; To rot the fairest flower Of thought which is a power, All happiness to sour, And burn our eyes with dust.

Believe, some power higher Breathes in us this desire With purpose strange as fire, And soft though seeming hard; Who to such starved endeavor And wasted love, that never Seems recompensed, forever Gives in His way reward.

BEYOND.

Hangs stormed with stars the night, Deep over deep, A majesty, a might, To feel and keep.

Ah! what is such and such, Love, canst thou tell? That shrinks--though 'tis not much-- To weep farewell.

That hates the dawn and lark; Would have the wail,-- Sobbed through the ceaseless dark,-- O' the nightingale.

Yes, earth, thy life were worth Not much to me, Were there not after earth Eternity.

God gave thee life to keep-- And what hath life?-- Love, faith, and care, and sleep Where dreams are rife.

Death's sleep, whose shadows start The tears in eyes Of love, that fill the heart That breaks and dies.

And faith is never given Without some care, That leadeth us to heaven By ways of prayer.

The nightingale and dark Are thine then here; Beyond, the light and lark Eternal there.

SHADOWS.

Ha! help!--'twas palpable! A ghost that thronged Up from the mind or hell Of one I wronged!

'Tis past and--silence!--naught!-- A vision born Of the scared mind o'erwrought With dreams forlorn:

The bastard brood of Death And Sleep that wakes Grim fancies with its breath, And reason shakes.

Would that the grave _could_ rot Like flesh the soul, Gnaw through with worms and not Leave it thus whole,

More than it was in earth Beyond the grave, Much more in death than birth To conscience slave!

CHECK AND COUNTER-CHECK.

Vent all your coward's wrath Upon me so!-- Yes, I have crossed your path And will not go!

Storm at me hate, and name Me all that's vile, "Lust," "filth," "disease," and "shame," I only smile.

Me brute rage can not hurt, It only flings In your own eyes blind dirt That bites and stings.

Rave at your like such whine, Your fellow-men, This wrath!--great God! and mine!-- What is it then?

No words! no oaths! such hate As devils smile When raw success cries "wait!" And "afterwhile!"

A woman I and ill, A courtesan You wearied of, would kill, And you--a man!

You, you--unnamable! A thing there's not, Too base to burn in Hell, Too vile to rot.

SEMPER IDEM.

Hold up thy head and crush Thy heart's despair; From thy wan temples brush The tear-wet hair.

Look on me thus as I Gaze upon thee; Nor question how nor why Such things can be.

Thou thought'st it love!--poor fool! That which was lust! Which made thee, beautiful, Vile as the dust!

Thy flesh I craved, thy face!-- Love shrinks at this-- Now on thy lips to place One farewell kiss!--

Weep not, but die!--'tis given-- And so--farewell!-- Die!--that which makes death heaven, Makes life a hell.

TWO LIVES.

"There is no God," one said, And love is lust; When I am dead I'm _dead_, And all is dust.

"Be merry while you can Before you're gray; With some wild courtesan Drink care away."

One said, "A God there is, And God is love; Death is not _death_, but bliss, And life above.

"Above all flesh is mind; And faith and truth God's gifts to poor mankind That make life youth."

One from a harlot's side Arose at morn; One cursing God had died That night forlorn.

FOREVERMORE.

O heart that vainly follows The flight of summer swallows, Far over holts and hollows, O'er frozen buds and flowers; To violet seas and levels, Where Love Time's locks dishevels With merry mimes and revels Of aphrodisiac Hours.

O Love who, dreaming, borrows Dead love from sad to-morrows, The broken heart that sorrows, The blighted hopes that weep; Pale faces pale with sleeping; Red eyelids red with weeping; Dead lips dead secrets keeping, That shake the deeps of sleep!

III

O Memory that showers About the withered hours White, ruined, sodden flowers, Dead dust and bitter rain; Dead loves with faces teary; Dead passions wan and dreary; The weary, weary, weary, Dead heart-ache and the pain!

O give us back the blisses, Lost madness of moist kisses, The youth, the joy, the tresses, The fragrant limbs of white; The high heart like a jewel Alive with subtle fuel, Lips beautiful and cruel, Eyes' incarnated light!

Instead of tears, wild laughter The old hot passions after, The houri sweets that dafter Made flesh and soul a slave! Enough of tearful sorrows; Enough of rank to-morrows; The life that whines and borrows But memories of the grave!

The grave that breaks no netting Of care or spint's fretting, No long, long sweet forgetting For those who would forget; And those who stammer by it Hope of an endless quiet, Within them voiceless riot When they and it have met.

VII

And God we pray beseeching,-- But Life with finger reaching, Stone-stern, remaineth teaching Our hearts to turn to stone; Then fain are we to follow The last, lorn, soaring swallow Past bourns of holt and hollow Forevermore alone.

A BLOWN ROSE.

Lay but a finger on That pallid petal sweet, It trembles gray and wan Beneath the passing feet.

But soft! blown rose, we know A merriment of bloom, A life of sturdy glow,-- But no such dear perfume.

As some good bard, whose page Of life with beauty's fraught, Grays on to ripe old age Sweet-mellowed through with thought.

So when his hoary head Is wept into the tomb, The mind, which is not dead, Sheds round it rare perfume.

TO-MORROW.

A Lorelei full fair she sits Throned on the stream that dimly rolls; Still, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knits To her from year to year men's souls.

They hear her harp, they hear her song, Led by the wizard beauty high, Like blind brutes maddened rush along, Sink at her cold feet, gasp and die.

MNEMOSYNE.

In classic beauty, cold, immaculate, A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands, Upon her brow deep chiseled love and hate, That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands.

THE SIRENS.

Wail! wail! and smite your lyres' sonorous gold, And beckon naked beauty from the sea In arms and breasts and hips of godly mold, Dark, strangling hair carousing to the knee.

In vain! in vain! and dull in unclosed ears To one loved voice sweet calling o'er the foam, Which in my heart like some strong hand appears To gently, firmly draw my vessel home.

THE VINTAGER.

Among the fragrant grapes she bows; Long, violet clusters heap her hands; About her satyr throats and brows Flush at her smiled commands.

And from her sun-burnt throat at times, As bubbles burst on new-made wine, A happy fit of merry rhymes Rings down the hills of vine.

From out one heart, remorseless sweet, She plucked the big-grape passion there; Trod in the wine-press of her feet, It grew into despair:

Until she drained its honeyed must, Which, tingling inward part by part, Fierce mounted thro' her glowing bust And centered in her heart.

A STORMY SUNSET.

Soul of my body! what a death For such a day of envious gloom, Unbroken passion of the sky! As if the pure, kind-hearted breath Of some soft power, ever nigh, Had, cleaving in the bitter sheath, Burst from its grave a gorgeous bloom.

The majesty of clouds that swarm. Expanding in a furious length Of molten-metal petals, flows Unutterable, and where the warm, Full fire is centered, swims and glows The evening star fresh-faced with strength, A shimmering rain-drop of the storm.

ON A DIAL.

To-morrow and to-morrow Is but to-day: The world wags but to borrow Time that grows gray:-- Grammercy! time's but sorrow And--well away!

Since time hales but to sadness And to decay, Men needs wax fools for madness, Laugh, curse, and pray; Death grapples with their badness-- The Devil's to pay.

UNUTTERABLE.

There is a sorrow in the wind to-night That haunteth me; she, like a penitent, Heaps on rent hairs the snow's thin ashes white And moans and moans, her swaying body bent.

And Superstition gliding softly shakes With wasted hands, that vainly grope and seek, The rustling curtains; of each cranny makes Cold, ghostly lips that wailing fain would speak.

MIDSUMMER.

The red blood clings in her cheeks and stings Through their tan with a fever that lightens, And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springs In her dark eyes dusks and brightens. And her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swings With the youths in the sinewy games, When the hot air sings thro' the hair it flings, And the circus roars hoarse with their names, As they fly to the goal that flames.

A voice as deep as wan waters that sweep Thro' the musical reeds of a river; A song of red reapers that bind and reap, With the ring of curved scythes that quiver. The note-like lisp of the pippins that leap, Ripe-mellowed to gold, to the ground; The murmurous sleep that the cool leaves keep On close lips that trickle with sound.

And sweet is the beat of her glowing feet, And her smiles as wide heavens are gracious; And the creating might of her hands of heat As a god's or a goddess's spacious. The elastic veins thro' her heart that beat Are rich with a perishless fire, And her bosoms most sweet are the ardent seat Of a mother that never will tire.

Wherever she fares her soft voice bears High powers of being that thicken In fruits, as the winds made Thessalian mares Of old mysteriously quicken; The apricots' juice and the juice of the pears, The wine great grape-clusters hold, These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares In her corn's vast billows of gold.

All hail to her lips, and her fruitful hips, And her motherly thickness of tresses; All hail to the sweetness that slips and drips From her breasts which the light caresses. A toiler, whose fair arm heaps and whips Great chariots that heavily creak; A worker, who sweats on the groaning ships. And never grows weary or weak.

A FAIRY CAVALIER.

By a mushroom in the moon, White as bud from budded berry, Silver buckles on my shoon,-- Ho! the moon shines merry.

Here I sit and drink my grog,-- Stocks and tunic ouphen yellow, Skinned from belly of a frog,-- Quite a fine, fierce fellow.

My good cloak a bat's wing gave, And a beetle's wings my bonnet, And a moth's head grew the brave, Gallant feather on it.

Faith! I have rich jewels rare, Rings and carcanets all studded Thick with spiders' eyes, that glare Like great rubies blooded.

And I swear, sirs, by my blade, "Sirrah, a good stabbing hanger!"-- From a hornet's stinger made,-- When I am in anger.

Fill the lichen pottles up! Honey pressed from hearts of roses; Cheek by jowl, up with each cup Till we hide our noses.

Good, sirs!--marry!--'tis the cock! Hey, away! the moon's lost fire! Ho! the cock our dial and clock-- Hide we 'neath this brier.

THE FARMSTEAD.

Yes, a lovely homestead; there In the Spring your lilacs blew Plenteous perfume everywhere; There your gladiolas grew, Parallels of scarlet glare.

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

Roses glorious and lush, Rich in tender-tinted dyes, Like a gay, tempestuous rush Of unnumbered butterflies Lighting on each bending bush.

Here the fire-bush and the 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 wild-wood dove With its throat of amethyst Ruffled 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 the leafy shadows green, Then at eve the katydid With its hard, unvaried din.

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