Chapter 2
You people night with weirdness: lone and drear, Beneath the stars, you cry your wizard runes; And in the haggard silence, filled with fear, Your shuddering hoot seems some bleak grief that croons Mockery and terror; or,--beneath the moon's Cloud-hurrying glimmer,--to the startled ear, Crazed, madman snatches of old, perished tunes, The witless wit of outcast Edgar there In the wild night; or, wan with all despair, The mirthless laughter of the Fool in Lear.
THE CHIPMUNK.
He makes a roadway of the crumbling fence, Or on the fallen tree,--brown as a leaf Fall stripes with russet,--gambols down the dense Green twilight of the woods. We see not whence He comes, nor whither--'tis a time too brief!-- He vanishes;--swift carrier of some Fay, Some pixy steed that haunts our child-belief-- A goblin glimpse from woodland way to way.
What harlequin mood of nature qualified Him so with happiness? and limbed him with Such young activity as winds, that ride The ripples, have, that dance on every side? As sunbeams know, that urge the sap and pith Through hearts of trees? yet made him to delight, Gnome-like, in darkness,--like a moonlight myth,-- Lairing in labyrinths of the under night.
Here, by a rock, beneath the moss, a hole Leads to his home, the den wherein he sleeps; Lulled by near noises of the cautious mole Tunnelling its mine--like some ungainly Troll-- Or by the tireless cricket there that keeps Picking its drowsy and monotonous lute; Or slower sounds of grass that creeps and creeps, And trees unrolling mighty root on root.
Such is the music of his sleeping hours. Day hath another--'tis a melody He trips to, made by the assembled flowers, And light and fragrance laughing 'mid the bowers, And ripeness busy with the acorn-tree. Such strains, perhaps, as filled with mute amaze-- The silent music of Earth's ecstasy-- The Satyr's soul, the Faun of classic days.
LOVE AND A DAY.
I.
In girandoles of gladioles The day had kindled flame; And Heaven a door of gold and pearl Unclosed when Morning,--like a girl, A red rose twisted in a curl,-- Down sapphire stairways came.
Said I to Love: "What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?" Said I to Love: "What must I do? All on a summer's morning."
Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." Said Love to me: "Go woo. If she be milking, follow, O! And in the clover hollow, O! While through the dew the bells clang clear, Just whisper it into her ear, All on a summer's morning."
II.
Of honey and heat and weed and wheat The day had made perfume; And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised, Whence Noon, like some wan woman, gazed-- A sunflower withering at her waist-- Within a crystal room.
Said I to Love: "What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?" Said I to Love: "What must I do, All in the summer nooning?"
Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." Said Love to me: "Go woo. If she be 'mid the rakers, O! Among the harvest acres, O! While every breeze brings scents of hay, Just hold her hand and not take 'nay,' All in the summer nooning."
III.
With song and sigh and cricket cry The day had mingled rest; And Heaven a casement opened wide Of opal, whence, like some young bride, The Twilight leaned, all starry-eyed, A moonflower on her breast.
Said I to Love: "What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?" Said I to Love: "What must I do, All in the summer gloaming?"
Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo." Said Love to me: "Go woo. Go meet her at the trysting, O! And, 'spite of her resisting, O! Beneath the stars and afterglow, Just clasp her close and kiss her so, All in the summer gloaming."
DROUTH.
I.
The hot sunflowers by the glaring pike Lift shields of sultry brass; the teasel tops, Pink-thorned, advance with bristling spike on spike Against the furious sunlight. Field and copse Are sick with summer: now, with breathless stops, The locusts cymbal; now grasshoppers beat Their castanets: and rolled in dust, a team,-- Like some mean life wrapped in its sorry dream,-- An empty wagon rattles through the heat.
II.
Where now the blue, blue flags? the flow'rs whose mouths Are moist and musky? Where the sweet-breathed mint, That made the brook-bank herby? Where the South's Wild morning-glories, rich in hues, that hint At coming showers that the rainbows tint? Where all the blossoms that the wildwood knows?-- The frail oxalis hidden in its leaves; The Indian-pipe, pale as a soul that grieves; The freckled touch-me-not and forest-rose.
III.
Dead! dead! all dead besides the drouth-burnt brook, Shrouded in moss or in the shriveled grass. Where waved their bells,--from which the wild-bee shook The dew-drop once,--gaunt, in a nightmare mass, The rank weeds crowd; through which the cattle pass, Thirsty and lean, seeking some meagre spring, Closed in with thorns, on which stray bits of wool The panting sheep have left, that sought the cool, From morn till evening wearily wandering.
IV.
No bird is heard; no throat to whistle awake The sleepy hush; to let its music leak Fresh, bubble-like, through bloom-roofs of the brake: Only the green-blue heron, famine weak,-- Searching the stale pools of the minnowless creek,-- Utters its call; and then the rain-crow, too, False prophet now, croaks to the stagnant air; While overhead,--still as if painted there,-- A buzzard hangs, black on the burning blue.
BEFORE THE RAIN.
Before the rain, low in the obscure east, Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray; Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased, Wove an enormous web, wherein it lay Like some white spider hungry for its prey. Vindictive looked the scowling firmament, In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray, Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.
The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stone The peevish cricket raised a creaking cry. Within the world these sounds were heard alone, Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky, Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh; Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed, That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by, Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.
Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passed Before was heard the thunder's sullen drum Rumbling night's hollow; and the Earth at last, Restless with waiting,--like a woman, dumb With doubting of the love that should have clomb Her casement hours ago,--avowed again, 'Mid protestations, joy that he had come. And all night long I heard the Heavens explain.
THE BROKEN DROUTH.
It seemed the listening forest held its breath Before some vague and unapparent form Of fear, approaching with the wings of death, On the impending storm.
Above the hills, big, bellying clouds loomed, black And ominous, yet silent as the blue That pools calm heights of heaven, deepening back 'Twixt clouds of snowdrift hue.
Then instantly, as when a multitude Shout riot and war through some tumultuous town, Innumerable voices swept the wood As wild the wind rushed down.
And fierce and few, as when a strong man weeps, Great rain-drops dashed the dust; and, overhead, Ponderous and vast down the prodigious deeps, Went slow the thunder's tread.
And swift and furious, as when giants fence, The lightning foils of tempest went insane; Then far and near sonorous Earth grew dense With long sweet sweep of rain.
FEUD.
A mile of lane,--hedged high with iron-weeds And dying daisies,--white with sun, that leads Downward into a wood; through which a stream Steals like a shadow; over which is laid A bridge of logs, worn deep by many a team, Sunk in the tangled shade.
Far off a wood-dove lifts its lonely cry; And in the sleepy silver of the sky A gray hawk wheels scarce larger than a hand. From point to point the road grows worse and worse, Until that place is reached where all the land Seems burdened with some curse.
A ragged fence of pickets, warped and sprung,-- On which the fragments of a gate are hung,-- Divides a hill, the fox and ground-hog haunt, A wilderness of briers; o'er whose tops A battered barn is seen, low-roofed and gaunt, 'Mid fields that know no crops.
Fields over which a path, o'erwhelmed with burs And ragweeds, noisy with the grasshoppers, Leads,--lost, irresolute as paths the cows Wear through the woods,--unto a woodshed; then, With wrecks of windows, to a huddled house, Where men have murdered men.
A house, whose tottering chimney, clay and rock, Is seamed and crannied; whose lame door and lock Are bullet-bored; around which, there and here, Are sinister stains.--One dreads to look around.-- The place seems thinking of that time of fear And dares not breathe a sound.
Within is emptiness: the sunlight falls On faded journals papering its walls; On advertisement chromos, torn with time, Around a hearth where wasps and spiders build.-- The house is dead; meseems that night of crime It, too, was shot and killed.
UNANOINTED.
I.
Upon the Siren-haunted seas, between Fate's mythic shores, Within a world of moon and mist, where dusk and daylight wed, I see a phantom galley and its hull is banked with oars, With ghostly oars that move to song, a song of dreams long dead:
"Oh, we are sick of rowing here! With toil our arms are numb; With smiting year on weary year Salt-furrows of the foam: Our journey's end is never near, And will no nearer come-- Beyond our reach the shores appear Of far Elysium."
II.
Within a land of cataracts and mountains old and sand, Beneath whose heavens ruins rise, o'er which the stars burn red, I see a spectral cavalcade with crucifix in hand And shadowy armor march and sing, a song of dreams long dead:
"Oh, we are weary marching on! Our limbs are travel-worn; With cross and sword from dawn to dawn We wend with raiment torn: The leagues to go, the leagues we've gone Are sand and rock and thorn-- The way is long to Avalon Beyond the deeps of morn."
III.
They are the curs'd! the souls who yearn and evermore pursue The vision of a vain desire, a splendor far ahead; To whom God gives the poet's dream without the grasp to do, The artist's hope without the scope between the quick and dead:
I, too, am weary toiling where The winds and waters beat; When shall I ease the oar I bear And rest my tired feet? When will the white moons cease to glare, The red suns veil their heat? And from the heights blow sweet the air Of Love's divine retreat?
THE END OF ALL.
I.
I do not love you now, O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride! You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still denied Food when mine hungered, and of which love died-- I do not love you now.
II.
I do not love you now, O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive! You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did give No drop to drink to help my love to live-- I do not love you now.
III.
I do not love you now! But did I love you in the old, old way, And knew you loved me--'though the words should slay Me and your love forever, I would say, "I do not love you now! I do not love you now!"
SUNSET AND STORM.
Deep with divine tautology, The sunset's mighty mystery Again has traced the scroll-like West With hieroglyphs of burning gold: Forever new, forever old, Its miracle is manifest.
Time lays the scroll away. And now Above the hills a giant brow Night lifts of cloud; and from her arm, Barbaric black, upon the world, With thunder, wind and fire, is hurled Her awful argument of storm.
What part, O man, is yours in such? Whose awe and wonder are in touch With Nature,--speaking rapture to Your soul,--yet leaving in your reach No human word of thought or speech Expressive of the thing you view.
BEECH BLOOMS.
The wild oxalis Among the valleys Lifts up its chalice Of pink and pearl; And, balsam-breathing, From out their sheathing, The myriad wreathing Green leaves uncurl.
The whole world brightens With spring, that lightens The foot that frightens The building thrush; Where water tosses On ferns and mosses The squirrel crosses The beechen hush.
And vision on vision,-- Like ships elysian On some white mission,-- Sails cloud on cloud; With scents of clover The winds brim over, And in the cover The stream is loud.
'Twixt bloom that blanches The orchard branches Old farms and ranches Gleam in the gloam; 'Mid blossoms blowing, Through fields for sowing, The cows come lowing, The cows come home.
Where ways are narrow, A vesper-sparrow Flits like an arrow Of living rhyme; The red sun poises, And farmyard noises Mix with glad voices Of milking-time.
When dusk disposes Of all its roses, And darkness closes, And work is done, A moon's white feather In starry weather And two together Whose hearts are one.
WORSHIP.
I.
The mornings raise Voices of gold in the Almighty's praise; The sunsets soar In choral crimson from far shore to shore: Each is a blast, Reverberant, of color,--seen as vast Concussions,--that the vocal firmament In worship sounds o'er every continent.
II.
Not for our ears The cosmic music of the rolling spheres, That sweeps the skies! Music we hear, but only with our eyes. For all too weak Our mortal frames to bear the words these speak, Those detonations that we name the dawn And sunset--hues Earth's harmony puts on.
UNHEARD.
All things are wrought of melody, Unheard, yet full of speaking spells; Within the rock, within the tree, A soul of music dwells.
A mute symphonic sense that thrills The silent frame of mortal things; Its heart beats in the ancient hills, In every flower sings.
To harmony all growth is set-- Each seed is but a music mote, From which each plant, each violet, Evolves its purple note.
Compact of melody, the rose Woos the soft wind with strain on strain Of crimson; and the lily blows Its white bars to the rain.
The trees are pæans; and the grass One long green fugue beneath the sun-- Song is their life; and all shall pass, Shall cease, when song is done.
REINCARNATION.
High in the place of outraged liberty, He ruled the world, an emperor and god His iron armies swept the land and sea, And conquered nations trembled at his nod.
By him the love that fills man's soul with light, And makes a Heaven of Earth, was crucified; Lust-crowned he lived, yea, lived in God's despite, And old in infamies, a king he died.
Justice begins now.--Many centuries In some vile body must his soul atone As slave, as beggar, loathsome with disease, Less than the dog at which we fling a stone.
ON CHENOWETH'S RUN.
I thought of the road through the glen, With its hawk's nest high in the pine; With its rock, where the fox had his den, 'Mid tangles of sumach and vine, Where she swore to be mine.
I thought of the creek and its banks, Now glooming, now gleaming with sun; The rustic bridge builded of planks, The bridge over Chenoweth's Run, Where I wooed her and won.
I thought of the house in the lane, With its pinks and its sweet mignonette; Its fence and the gate with the chain, Its porch where the roses hung wet, Where I kissed her and met.
Then I thought of the family graves, Walled rudely with stone, in the West, Where the sorrowful cedar-tree waves, And the wind is a spirit distressed, Where they laid her to rest.
And my soul, overwhelmed with despair, Cried out on the city and mart!-- How I longed, how I longed to be there, Away from the struggle and smart, By her and my heart!
By her and my heart in the West,-- Laid sadly together as one;-- On her grave for a moment to rest, Far away from the noise and the sun, On Chenoweth's Run.
HOME AGAIN.
Far down the lane A window pane Gleams 'mid the trees through night and rain. The weeds are dense Through which a fence Of pickets rambles, none sees whence, Before a porch, all indistinct of line, O'er-grown and matted with wistaria-vine.
No thing is heard, No beast or bird, Only the rain by which are stirred The draining leaves, And trickling eaves Of crib and barn one scarce perceives; And garden-beds where old-time flow'rs hang wet The phlox, the candytuft, and mignonette.
The hour is late-- At any rate She has not heard him at the gate: Upon the roof The rain was proof Against his horse's galloping hoof: And when the old gate with its weight and chain Creaked, she imagined 'twas the wind and rain.
Along he steals With cautious heels, And by the lamplit window kneels: And there she sits, And rocks and knits Within the shadowy light that flits On face and hair, so sweetly sad and gray, Dreaming of him she thinks is far away.
Upon his cheeks-- Is it the streaks Of rain, as now the old porch creaks Beneath his stride? Then, warm and wide, The door flings and she's at his side-- "Mother!"--and he, back from the war, her boy, Kisses her face all streaming wet with joy.
A STREET OF GHOSTS.
The drowsy day, with half-closed eyes, Dreams in this quaint forgotten street, That, like some old-world wreckage, lies,-- Left by the sea's receding beat,-- Far from the city's restless feet.
Abandoned pavements, that the trees' Huge roots have wrecked, whose flagstones feel No more the sweep of draperies; And sunken curbs, whereon no wheel Grinds, nor the gallant's spur-bound heel.
Old houses, walled with rotting brick, Thick-creepered, dormered, weather-vaned,-- Like withered faces, sad and sick,-- Stare from each side, all broken paned, With battered doors the rain has stained.
And though the day be white with heat, Their ancient yards are dim and cold; Where now the toad makes its retreat, 'Mid flower-pots green-caked with mold, And naught but noisome weeds unfold.
The slow gray slug and snail have trailed Their slimy silver up and down The beds where once the moss-rose veiled Rich beauty; and the mushroom brown Swells where the lily tossed its crown.
The shadowy scents, that haunt and flit Along the walks, beneath the boughs, Seem ghosts of sweethearts here who sit, Or wander 'round each empty house, Wrapped in the silence of dead vows.
And, haply, when the evening droops Her amber eyelids in the west, Here one might hear the swish of hoops, Or catch the glint of hat or vest, As two dim lovers past him pressed.
And, instant as some star's slant flame, That scores the swarthy cheek of night, Perhaps behold Colonial dame And gentleman in stately white Go glimmering down the pale moonlight.
In powder, patch, and furbelow, Cocked-hat and sword; and every one,-- Tory and whig of long ago,-- As real as in the days long done, The courtly days of Washington.
IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEECHES.
In the shadow of the beeches, Where the fragile wildflowers bloom; Where the pensive silence pleaches Green a roof of cool perfume, Have you felt an awe imperious As when, in a church, mysterious Windows paint with God the gloom?
In the shadow of the beeches, Where the rock-ledged waters flow; Where the sun's sloped splendor bleaches Every wave to foaming snow, Have you felt a music solemn As when minster arch and column Echo organ-worship low?
In the shadow of the beeches, Where the light and shade are blent; Where the forest-bird beseeches, And the breeze is brimmed with scent,-- Is it joy or melancholy That o'erwhelms us partly, wholly, To our spirit's betterment?
In the shadow of the beeches Lay me where no eye perceives; Where,--like some great arm that reaches Gently as a love that grieves,-- One gnarled root may clasp me kindly While the long years, working blindly, Slowly change my dust to leaves.
REQUIESCAT.
The roses mourn for her who sleeps Within the tomb; For her each lily-flower weeps Dew and perfume. In each neglected flower-bed Each blossom droops its lovely head,-- They miss her touch, they miss her tread, Her face of bloom, Of happy bloom.
The very breezes grieve for her, A lonely grief; For her each tree is sorrower, Each blade and leaf. The foliage rocks itself and sighs, And to its woe the wind replies,-- They miss her girlish laugh and cries, Whose life was brief, Was very brief.
The sunlight, too, seems pale with care, Or sick with woe; The memory haunts it of her hair, Its golden glow. No more within the bramble-brake The sleepy bloom is kissed awake-- The sun is sad for her dear sake, Whose head lies low, Lies dim and low.
The bird, that sang so sweet, is still At dusk and dawn; No more it makes the silence thrill Of wood and lawn. In vain the buds, when it is near, Open each pink and perfumed ear,-- The song it sings she will not hear Who now is gone, Is dead and gone.
Ah, well she sleeps who loved them well, The birds and bowers; The fair, the young, the lovable, Who once was ours. Alas! that loveliness must pass! Must come to lie beneath the grass! That youth and joy must fade, alas! And die like flowers, Earth's sweetest flowers!
THE QUEST.
I.
First I asked the honey-bee, Busy in the balmy bowers; Saying, "Sweetheart, tell it me: Have you seen her, honey-bee? She is cousin to the flowers-- Wild-rose face and wild-rose mouth, And the sweetness of the south."-- But it passed me silently.
II.
Then I asked the forest-bird, Warbling to the woodland waters; Saying, "Dearest, have you heard, Have you heard her, forest-bird? She is one of Music's daughters-- Music is her happy laugh; Never song so sweet by half."-- But it answered not a word.
III.
Next I asked the evening sky, Hanging out its lamps of fire; Saying, "Loved one, passed she by? Tell me, tell me, evening sky! She, the star of my desire-- Planet-eyed and hair moon-glossed, Sister whom the Pleiads lost."-- But it never made reply.
IV.
Where is she? ah, where is she? She to whom both love and duty Bind me, yea, immortally.-- Where is she? ah, where is she? Symbol of the Earth-soul's beauty. I have lost her. Help my heart Find her, nevermore to part.-- Woe is me! ah, woe is me!
MEETING AND PARTING.
I.
When from the tower, like some sweet flower, The bell drops petals of the hour, That says the world is homing, My heart puts off its garb of care And clothes itself in gold and vair, And hurries forth to meet her there Within the purple gloaming.
It's--Oh! how slow the hours go, How dull the moments move! Till soft and clear the bells I hear, That say, like music, in my ear, "Go meet the one you love."
II.