Chapter 5

War and Disaster, Famine and Pestilence, Vaunt-couriers of the Century that comes, Behold them shaking their tremendous plumes Above the world! where all the air grows dense With rumors of destruction and a sense, Cadaverous, of corpses and of tombs Predestined; while,--like monsters in the glooms,-- Bristling with battle, shadowy and immense, The Nations rise in wild apocalypse.-- Where now the boast Earth makes of civilization? Its brag of Christianity?--In vain We seek to see them in the dread eclipse Of hell and horror, all the devastation Of Death triumphant on his hills of slain.

CAVERNS.

_Written of Colossal Cave, Kentucky._

Aisles and abysses; leagues no man explores, Of rock that labyrinths and night that drips; Where everlasting silence broods, with lips Of adamant, o'er earthquake-builded floors. Where forms, such as the Demon-World adores, Laborious water carves; whence echo ships Wild-tongued o'er pools where petrifaction strips Her breasts of crystal from which crystal pours.-- Here where primordial fear, the Gorgon, sits Staring all life to stone in ghastly mirth, I seem to tread, with awe no tongue can tell,-- Beneath vast domes, by torrent-tortured pits, 'Mid wrecks terrific of the ruined Earth,-- An ancient causeway of forgotten Hell.

OF THE SLUMS.

Red-faced as old carousal, and with eyes A hard, hot blue; her hair a frowsy flame, Bold, dowdy-bosomed, from her widow-frame She leans, her mouth all insult and all lies. Or slattern-slippered and in sluttish gown, With ribald mirth and words too vile to name, A new Doll Tearsheet, glorying in her shame, Armed with her Falstaff now she takes the town. The flaring lights of alley-way saloons, The reek of hideous gutters and black oaths Of drunkenness from vice-infested dens, Are to her senses what the silvery moon's Chaste splendor is, and what the blossoming growths Of earth and bird-song are to innocence.

THE WINDS.

Those hewers of the clouds, the winds,--that lair At the four compass-points,--are out to-night; I hear their sandals trample on the height, I hear their voices trumpet through the air. Builders of Storm, God's workmen, now they bear, Up the steep stair of sky, on backs of might, Huge tempest bulks, while,--sweat that blinds their sight,-- The rain is shaken from tumultuous hair: Now, sweepers of the firmament, they broom, Like gathered dust, the rolling mists along Heaven's floors of sapphire; all the beautiful blue Of skyey corridor and aëry room Preparing, with large laughter and loud song, For the white moon and stars to wander through.

PROTOTYPES.

Whether it be that we in letters trace The pure exactness of a woodbird's strain, And name it song; or with the brush attain The high perfection of a wildflower's face; Or mold in difficult marble all the grace We know as man; or from the wind and rain Catch elemental rapture of refrain And mark in music to due time and place: The aim of art is nature; to unfold Her truth and beauty to the souls of men In close suggestions; in whose forms is cast Nothing so new but 'tis long eons old; Nothing so old but 'tis as young as when The mind conceived it in the ages past.

TOUCHES.

In heavens of rivered blue, that sunset dyes With glaucous flame, deep in the west the Day Stands Midas-like; or, wading on his way, Touches with splendor all the twilight skies. Each cloud that, like a stepping-stone, he tries With rosy foot, transforms its sober gray To burning gold; while, ray on crystal ray, Within his wake the stars like bubbles rise. So should the artist in his work accord All things with beauty, and communicate His soul's high magic and divinity To all he does; and, hoping no reward, Toil onward, making darkness aureate With light of worlds that are and worlds to be.

THE WOMAN SPEAKS.

Why have you come? to see me in my shame? A thing to spit on, to despise and scorn?-- And then to ask me! You, by whom was torn And then cast by, like some vile rag, my name! What shelter could you give me, now, that blame And loathing would not share? that wolves of vice Would not besiege with eyes of glaring ice? Wherein Sin sat not with her face of flame? "You love me"?--God!--If yours be love, for lust Hell must invent another synonym! If yours be love, then hatred is the way To Heaven and God! and not with soul but dust Must burn the faces of the Cherubim,-- O lie of lies, if yours be love, I say!

LOVE, THE INTERPRETER.

Thou art the music that I hear in sleep, The poetry that lures me on in dreams; The magic, thou, that holds my thought with themes Of young romance in revery's mystic keep. The lily's aura, and the damask deep That clothes the rose; the whispering soul that seems To haunt the wind; the rainbow light that streams, Like some wild spirit, 'thwart the cataract's leap-- Are glimmerings of thee and thy loveliness, Pervading all my world; interpreting The marvel and the wonder these disclose: For, lacking thee, to me were meaningless Life, love and hope, the joy of every thing, And all the beauty that the wide world knows.

UNANSWERED.

How long ago it is since we went Maying! Since she and I went Maying long ago! The years have left my forehead lined, I know, Have thinned my hair around the temples graying. Ah, time will change us; yea, I hear it saying,-- "She, too, grows old: the face of rose and snow Has lost its freshness: in the hair's brown glow Some strands of silver sadly, too, are straying. The form you knew, whose beauty so enspelled, Has lost the litheness of its loveliness: And all the gladness that her blue eyes held Tears and the world have hardened with distress."-- "True! true!" I answer, "O ye years that part! These things are changed, but is her heart, her heart?"

EARTH AND MOON.

I saw the day like some great monarch die, Gold-couched, behind the clouds' rich tapestries. Then, purple-sandaled, clad in silences Of sleep, through halls of skyey lazuli. The twilight, like a mourning queen, trailed by, Dim-paged of dreams and shadowy mysteries; And now the night, the star-robed child of these, In meditative loveliness draws nigh. Earth,--like to Romeo,--deep in dew and scent, Beneath Heaven's window, watching till a light, Like some white blossom, in its square be set,-- Lifts a faint face unto the firmament, That, with the moon, grows gradually bright, Bidding him climb and clasp his Juliet.

PEARLS.

Baroque, but beautiful, between the lanes, The valves of nacre of a mussel-shell, Behold, a pearl! shaped like the burnished bell Of some strange blossom that long afternoons Of summer coax to open: all the moon's Chaste lustre in it; hues that only dwell With purity.... It takes me, like a spell, Back to a day when, whistling truant tunes, A barefoot boy I waded 'mid the rocks, Searching for shells deep in the creek's slow swirl, Unconscious of the pearls that 'round me lay: While, 'mid wild-roses,--all her tomboy locks Blond-blowing,--stood, unnoticed then, a girl, My sweetheart once, the pearl I flung away.

IN THE FOREST.

One well might deem, among these miles of woods, Such were the Forests of the Holy Grail,-- Broceliand and Dean; where, clothed in mail, The Knights of Arthur rode, and all the broods Of legend laired.--And, where no sound intrudes Upon the ear, except the glimmering wail Of some far bird; or, in some flowery swale, A brook that murmurs to the solitudes, Might think he hears the laugh of Vivien Blent with the moan of Merlin, muttering bound By his own magic to one stony spot; And in the cloud, that looms above the glen,-- In which the sun burns like the Table Round,-- Might dream he sees the towers of Camelot.

ENCHANTMENT.

The deep seclusion of this forest path,-- O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy, Along which bluet and anemone Spread a dim carpet; where the twilight hath Her dark abode; and, sweet as aftermath. Wood-fragrance breathes,--has so enchanted me, That yonder blossoming bramble seems to be Some sylvan resting, rosy from her bath: Has so enspelled me with tradition's dreams, That every foam-white stream that twinkling flows, And every bird that flutters wings of tan, Or warbles hidden, to my fancy seems A Naiad dancing to a Faun who blows Wild woodland music on the pipes of Pan.

DUSK.

Corn-colored clouds upon a sky of gold, And 'mid their sheaves,--where, like a daisy bloom Left by the reapers to the gathering gloom, The star of twilight flames,--as Ruth, 'tis told, Dreamed homesick 'mid the harvest fields of old, The Dusk goes gleaning color and perfume From Bible slopes of heaven, that illume Her pensive beauty deep in shadows stoled. Hushed is the forest; and blue vale and hill Are still, save for the brooklet, sleepily Stumbling the stone, its foam like some white foot: Save for the note of one far whippoorwill, And in my heart _her_ name,--like some sweet bee Within a flow'r,--blowing a fairy flute.

THE BLUE BIRD.

From morn till noon upon the window-pane The tempest tapped with rainy finger-nails, And all the afternoon the blustering gales Beat at the door with furious feet of rain. The rose, near which the lily bloom lay slain, Like some red wound dripped by the garden rails, On which the sullen slug left slimy trails-- Meseemed the sun would never shine again. Then in the drench, long, loud and full of cheer,-- A skyey herald tabarded in blue,-- A bluebird bugled ... and at once a bow Was bent in heaven, and I seemed to hear God's sapphire spaces crystallizing through The strata'd clouds in azure tremolo.

CAN SUCH THINGS BE?

Meseemed that while she played, while lightly yet Her fingers fell, as roses bloom by bloom, I listened--dead within a mighty room Of some old palace where great casements let Gaunt moonlight in, that glimpsed a parapet Of statued marble: in the arrased gloom Majestic pictures towered, dim as doom, The dreams of Titian and of Tintoret. And then, it seemed, along a corridor, A mile of oak, a stricken footstep came. Hurrying, yet slow ... I thought long centuries Passed ere she entered--she, I loved of yore, For whom I died, who wildly wailed my name And bent and kissed me on the mouth and eyes.

THE PASSING GLORY.

Slow sinks the sun,--a great carbuncle ball Red in the cavern of a sombre cloud,-- And in her garden, where the dense weeds crowd. Among her dying asters stands the Fall, Like some lone woman in a ruined hall, Dreaming of desolation and the shroud; Or through decaying woodlands goes, down-bowed, Hugging the tatters of her gipsy shawl. The gaunt wind rises, like an angry hand, And sweeps the sprawling spider from its web, Smites frantic music in the twilight's ear; And all around, like melancholy sand, Rains dead leaves down--wild leaves, that mark the ebb, In Earth's dark hour-glass, of another year.

SEPTEMBER.

The bubbled blue of morning-glory spires, Balloon-blown foam of moonflowers, and sweet snows Of clematis, through which September goes, Song-hearted, rich in realized desires, Are flanked by hotter hues: by tawny fires Of acrid marigolds,--that light long rows Of lamps,--and salvias, red as day's red close,-- That torches seem,--by which the Month attires Barbaric beauty; like some Asian queen, Towering imperial in her two-fold crown Of harvest and of vintage; all her form Majestic gold and purple: in her mien The might of motherhood; her baby brown, Abundance, high on one exultant arm.

HOODOO.

She mutters and stoops by the lone bayou-- The little green leaves are hushed on the trees-- An owl in an oak cries "Who-oh-who," And a fox barks back where the moon slants through The moss that sways to a sudden breeze ... Or _That_ she sees. Whose eyes are coals in the light o' the moon-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

She mutters and kneels and her bosom is bare-- The little green leaves are stirred on the trees-- A black bat brushes her unkempt hair, And the hiss of a snake glides 'round her there ... Or is it the voice of the ghostly breeze, Or _That_ she sees, Whose mouth is flame in the light o' the moon?-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

She mutters and digs and buries it deep-- The little green leaves are wild on the trees-- And nearer and nearer the noises creep, That gibber and maunder and whine and weep ... Or is it the wave and the weariless breeze, Or _That_ she sees, Which hobbles away in the light o' the moon?-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

In the hut where the other girl sits with him-- The little green leaves hang limp on the trees-- All on a sudden the moon grows dim ... Is it the shadow of cloud or of limb, Cast in the door by the moaning breeze? Or _That_ she sees, Which limps and leers in the light o' the moon?-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear it croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

It has entered in at the open door-- The little green leaves fall dead from the trees-- And she in the cabin lies stark on the floor, And she in the woods has her lover once more ... And--is it the hoot of the dying breeze? Or _him_ who sees, Who mocks and laughs in the light o' the moon:-- "_Soon, oh, soon_," hear him croon, "_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"

THE OTHER WOMAN.

You have shut me out from your tears and grief Over the man laid low and hoary. Listen to me now: I am no thief!-- You have shut me out from your tears and grief,-- Listen to me, I will tell my story.

The love of a man is transitory.-- What do you know of his past? the years He gave to another his manhood's glory?-- The love of a man is transitory. Listen to me now: open your ears.

Over the dead have done with tears! Over the man who loved to madness Me the woman you met with sneers,-- Over the dead have done with tears! Me the woman so sunk in badness.

He loved me ever, and that is gladness!-- There by the dead now tell _her_ so; There by the dead where she bows in sadness.-- He loved me ever, and that is gladness!-- Mine the gladness and hers the woe.

The best of his life was mine. Now go, Tell her this that her pride may perish, Her with his name, his wife, you know! The best of his life was mine. Now go, Tell her this so she cease to cherish.

Bury him then with pomp and flourish! Bury him now without my kiss! Here is a thing for your hearts to nourish,-- Bury him then with pomp and flourish! Bury him now I have told you this.

A SONG FOR LABOR.

I.

Oh, the morning meads, the dewy meads, Where he ploughs and harrows and sows the seeds, Singing a song of manly deeds, In the blossoming springtime weather; The heart in his bosom as high as the word Said to the sky by the mating bird, While the beat of an answering heart is heard, His heart and love's together.

II.

Oh, the noonday heights, the sunny heights, Where he stoops to the harvest his keen scythe smites, Singing a song of the work that requites, In the ripening summer weather; The soul in his body as light as the sigh Of the little cloud-breeze that cools the sky, While he bears an answering soul reply, His soul and love's together.

III.

Oh, the evening vales, the twilight vales, Where he labors and sweats to the thud of flails, Singing a song of the toil that avails, In the fruitful autumn weather; In heart and in soul as free from fears As the first white star in the sky that clears, While the music of life and of love he hears, Of life and of love together.

AFTERWORD.

_What vague traditions do the golden eves. What legends do the dawns Inscribe in fire on Heaven's azure leaves, The red sun colophons?_

_What ancient Stories do the waters verse? What tales of war and love Do winds within the Earth's vast house rehearse, God's stars stand guard above?--_

_Would I could know them as they are expressed In hue and melody! And say, in words, the beauties they suggest. Language their mystery!_

_And in one song magnificently rise, The music of the spheres, That more than marble should immortalize My name in after years._

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

2. The original text incorrectly listed "The Path by the Creek" as beginning on page 3 in the Contents. The poem actually starts on page 2 and this printer error has been corrected in the Contents section.

3. The listing "Sunset and Song" in Contents has been changed to "Sunset and Storm" in accordance with the title above the poem.

4. The original indentation for "Poppies" stanza has been ignored for consistency with other stanzas' indentation in the "Musings" section.

5. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained.