From out the hills, where twilight stands,Above the shadowy pasture lands,With strained and strident cry,Beneath pale skies that sunset bands,The bull-bats fly.A cloud hangs over, strange of shape,And, colored like the half-ripe grape,Seems some uneven stainOn heaven's azure, thin as crape,And blue as rain.By ways, that sunset's sardonyxO'erflares, and gates the farmboy clicks,Through which the cattle came,The mullein stalks seem giant wicksOf downy flame.From woods no glimmer enters in,Above the streams that wandering winFrom out the violet hills,Those haunters of the dusk begin,The whippoorwills.Adown the dark the firefly marksIts flight in golden-emerald sparks;And, loosened from his chain,The shaggy watchdog bounds and barks,And barks again.Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay;And now an owlet, far away,Cries twice or thrice, "Twohoo;"And cool dim moths of mottled grayFlit through the dew.The silence sounds its frog-bassoon,Where on the woodland creek's lagoon,Pale as a ghostly girlLost 'mid the trees, looks down the moonWith face of pearl.Within the shed where logs, late hewed,Smell forest-sweet, and chips of woodMake blurs of white and brown,The brood-hen cuddles her warm broodOf teetering down.The clattering guineas in the treeDin for a time; and quietlyThe henhouse, near the fence,Sleeps, save for some brief rivalryOf cocks and hens.A cow-bell tinkles by the rails,Where, streaming white in foaming pails,Milk makes an uddery sound;While overhead the black bat trailsAround and 'round.The night is still. The slow cows chewA drowsy cud. The bird that flewAnd sang is in its nest.It is the time of falling dew,Of dreams and rest.The brown bees sleep; and 'round the walk,The garden path, from stalk to stalkThe bungling beetle booms,Where two soft shadows stand and talkAmong the blooms.The stars are thick: the light is deadThat dyed the West: and Drowsyhead,Tuning his cricket-pipe,Nods, and some apple, round and red,Drops over ripe.Now down the road, that shambles by,A window, shining like an eyeThrough climbing rose and gourd,Shows where Toil sups and these things lie,His heart and hoard.
From out the hills, where twilight stands,Above the shadowy pasture lands,With strained and strident cry,Beneath pale skies that sunset bands,The bull-bats fly.
A cloud hangs over, strange of shape,And, colored like the half-ripe grape,Seems some uneven stainOn heaven's azure, thin as crape,And blue as rain.
By ways, that sunset's sardonyxO'erflares, and gates the farmboy clicks,Through which the cattle came,The mullein stalks seem giant wicksOf downy flame.
From woods no glimmer enters in,Above the streams that wandering winFrom out the violet hills,Those haunters of the dusk begin,The whippoorwills.
Adown the dark the firefly marksIts flight in golden-emerald sparks;And, loosened from his chain,The shaggy watchdog bounds and barks,And barks again.
Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay;And now an owlet, far away,Cries twice or thrice, "Twohoo;"And cool dim moths of mottled grayFlit through the dew.
The silence sounds its frog-bassoon,Where on the woodland creek's lagoon,Pale as a ghostly girlLost 'mid the trees, looks down the moonWith face of pearl.
Within the shed where logs, late hewed,Smell forest-sweet, and chips of woodMake blurs of white and brown,The brood-hen cuddles her warm broodOf teetering down.
The clattering guineas in the treeDin for a time; and quietlyThe henhouse, near the fence,Sleeps, save for some brief rivalryOf cocks and hens.
A cow-bell tinkles by the rails,Where, streaming white in foaming pails,Milk makes an uddery sound;While overhead the black bat trailsAround and 'round.
The night is still. The slow cows chewA drowsy cud. The bird that flewAnd sang is in its nest.It is the time of falling dew,Of dreams and rest.
The brown bees sleep; and 'round the walk,The garden path, from stalk to stalkThe bungling beetle booms,Where two soft shadows stand and talkAmong the blooms.
The stars are thick: the light is deadThat dyed the West: and Drowsyhead,Tuning his cricket-pipe,Nods, and some apple, round and red,Drops over ripe.
Now down the road, that shambles by,A window, shining like an eyeThrough climbing rose and gourd,Shows where Toil sups and these things lie,His heart and hoard.
To it the forest tellsThe mystery that haunts its heart and foldsIts form in cogitation deep, that holdsThe shadow of each myth that dwellsIn nature—be it Nymph or Fay or Faun—And whispering of them to the dales and dells,It wanders on and on.To it the heaven showsThe secret of its soul; true imagesOf dreams that form its aspect; and with theseReflected in its countenance it goes,With pictures of the skies, the dusk and dawn,Within its breast, as every blossom knows,For them to gaze upon.Through it the world-soul sendsIts heart's creating pulse that beats and singsThe music of maternity whence springsAll life; and shaping earthly ends,From the deep sources of the heavens drawn,Planting its ways with beauty, on it wends,On and forever on.
To it the forest tellsThe mystery that haunts its heart and foldsIts form in cogitation deep, that holdsThe shadow of each myth that dwellsIn nature—be it Nymph or Fay or Faun—And whispering of them to the dales and dells,It wanders on and on.
To it the heaven showsThe secret of its soul; true imagesOf dreams that form its aspect; and with theseReflected in its countenance it goes,With pictures of the skies, the dusk and dawn,Within its breast, as every blossom knows,For them to gaze upon.
Through it the world-soul sendsIts heart's creating pulse that beats and singsThe music of maternity whence springsAll life; and shaping earthly ends,From the deep sources of the heavens drawn,Planting its ways with beauty, on it wends,On and forever on.
The slender snail clings to the leaf,Gray on its silvered underside:And slowly, slowlier than the snail, with briefBright steps, whose ripening touch foretells the sheaf,Her warm hands berry-dyed,Comes down the tanned Noontide.The pungent fragrance of the mintAnd pennyroyal drench her gown,That leaves long shreds of trumpet-blossom tintAmong the thorns, and everywhere the glintOf gold and white and brownHer flowery steps waft down.The leaves, like hands with emerald veined,Along her way try their wild bestTo reach the jewel—whose hot hue was drainedFrom some rich rose that all the June contained—The butterfly, soft pressedUpon her sunny breast.Her shawl, the lace-like elder bloom,She hangs upon the hillside brake,Smelling of warmth and of her breast's perfume,And, lying in the citron-colored gloomBeside the lilied lake,She stares the buds awake.Or, with a smile, through watery deepsShe leads the oaring turtle's legs;Or guides the crimson fish, that swims and sleeps,From pad to pad, from which the young frog leaps;And to its nest's green eggsThe bird that pleads and begs.Then 'mid the fields of unmown hayShe shows the bees where sweets are found;And points the butterflies, at airy play,And dragonflies, along the water-way,Where honeyed flowers aboundFor them to flicker 'round.Or where ripe apples pelt with goldSome barn—around which, coned with snow,The wild-potato blooms—she mounts its oldMossed roof, and through warped sides, the knots have holed,Lets her long glances glowInto the loft below.To show the mud-wasp at its cellSlenderly busy; swallows, too,Packing against a beam their nest's clay shell;And crouching in the dark the owl as wellWith all her downy crewOf owlets gray of hue.These are her joys, and until duskLounging she walks where reapers reap,From sultry raiment shaking scents of musk,Rustling the corn within its silken husk,And driving down heav'n's deepWhite herds of clouds like sheep.
The slender snail clings to the leaf,Gray on its silvered underside:And slowly, slowlier than the snail, with briefBright steps, whose ripening touch foretells the sheaf,Her warm hands berry-dyed,Comes down the tanned Noontide.
The pungent fragrance of the mintAnd pennyroyal drench her gown,That leaves long shreds of trumpet-blossom tintAmong the thorns, and everywhere the glintOf gold and white and brownHer flowery steps waft down.
The leaves, like hands with emerald veined,Along her way try their wild bestTo reach the jewel—whose hot hue was drainedFrom some rich rose that all the June contained—The butterfly, soft pressedUpon her sunny breast.
Her shawl, the lace-like elder bloom,She hangs upon the hillside brake,Smelling of warmth and of her breast's perfume,And, lying in the citron-colored gloomBeside the lilied lake,She stares the buds awake.
Or, with a smile, through watery deepsShe leads the oaring turtle's legs;Or guides the crimson fish, that swims and sleeps,From pad to pad, from which the young frog leaps;And to its nest's green eggsThe bird that pleads and begs.
Then 'mid the fields of unmown hayShe shows the bees where sweets are found;And points the butterflies, at airy play,And dragonflies, along the water-way,Where honeyed flowers aboundFor them to flicker 'round.
Or where ripe apples pelt with goldSome barn—around which, coned with snow,The wild-potato blooms—she mounts its oldMossed roof, and through warped sides, the knots have holed,Lets her long glances glowInto the loft below.
To show the mud-wasp at its cellSlenderly busy; swallows, too,Packing against a beam their nest's clay shell;And crouching in the dark the owl as wellWith all her downy crewOf owlets gray of hue.
These are her joys, and until duskLounging she walks where reapers reap,From sultry raiment shaking scents of musk,Rustling the corn within its silken husk,And driving down heav'n's deepWhite herds of clouds like sheep.
INow is it as if Spring had never been,And Winter but a memory and dream,Here where the Summer stands, her lap of greenHeaped high with bloom and beam,Among her blackberry-lilies, low that leanTo kiss her feet; or, freckle-browed, that stareUpon the dragonfly which, slimly seen,Like a blue jewel flickering in her hair,Sparkles above them there.IIKnee-deep among the tepid pools the cowsChew a slow cud or switch a slower tail.Half-sunk in sleep beneath the beechen boughs,Where thin the wood-gnats ail.From bloom to bloom the languid butterflies drowse;The sleepy bees make hardly any sound;The only things the sunrays can arouse,It seems, are two black beetles rolling 'roundUpon the dusty ground.IIIWithin its channel glares the creek and shrinks,Beneath whose rocks the furtive crawfish hidesIn stagnant places, where the green frog blinks,And water-spider glides.And water-spider glides.Far hotter seems it for the bird that drinks,The startled kingfisher that screams and flies;Hotter and lonelier for the purple pinksOf weeds that bloom, whose sultry perfumes riseStifling the swooning skies.IVFrom ragweed fallows, rye fields, heaped with sheaves,From blistering rocks, no moss or lichens crust,And from the road, where every hoof-stroke heavesA cloud of burning dust,The hotness quivers, making limp the leaves,That loll like tongues of panting hounds. The heatIs a wan wimple that the Summer weaves,A veil, in which she wraps, as in a sheet,The shriveling corn and wheat.VFurious, incessant in the weeds and briersThe sawing weed-bugs sing; and, heat-begot,The grasshoppers, so many strident wires,Staccato fiercely hot:A lash of whirling sound that never tires,The locust flails the noon, where harnessed Thirst,Beside the road-spring, many a shod hoof mires,Into the trough thrusts his hot head, immersed,'Round which cool bubbles burst.VIThe sad, sweet voice of some wood-spirit whoLaments while watching a loved oak tree die,From the deep forest comes the wood-dove's coo.A long, lost, lonely cry.Oh, for a breeze, a mighty wind to wooThe woods to stormy laughter; sow like grainThe world with freshness of invisible dew.And pile above far, fevered hill and plain.Vast bastions black with rain.
INow is it as if Spring had never been,And Winter but a memory and dream,Here where the Summer stands, her lap of greenHeaped high with bloom and beam,Among her blackberry-lilies, low that leanTo kiss her feet; or, freckle-browed, that stareUpon the dragonfly which, slimly seen,Like a blue jewel flickering in her hair,Sparkles above them there.
IIKnee-deep among the tepid pools the cowsChew a slow cud or switch a slower tail.Half-sunk in sleep beneath the beechen boughs,Where thin the wood-gnats ail.From bloom to bloom the languid butterflies drowse;The sleepy bees make hardly any sound;The only things the sunrays can arouse,It seems, are two black beetles rolling 'roundUpon the dusty ground.
IIIWithin its channel glares the creek and shrinks,Beneath whose rocks the furtive crawfish hidesIn stagnant places, where the green frog blinks,And water-spider glides.And water-spider glides.Far hotter seems it for the bird that drinks,The startled kingfisher that screams and flies;Hotter and lonelier for the purple pinksOf weeds that bloom, whose sultry perfumes riseStifling the swooning skies.
IVFrom ragweed fallows, rye fields, heaped with sheaves,From blistering rocks, no moss or lichens crust,And from the road, where every hoof-stroke heavesA cloud of burning dust,The hotness quivers, making limp the leaves,That loll like tongues of panting hounds. The heatIs a wan wimple that the Summer weaves,A veil, in which she wraps, as in a sheet,The shriveling corn and wheat.
VFurious, incessant in the weeds and briersThe sawing weed-bugs sing; and, heat-begot,The grasshoppers, so many strident wires,Staccato fiercely hot:A lash of whirling sound that never tires,The locust flails the noon, where harnessed Thirst,Beside the road-spring, many a shod hoof mires,Into the trough thrusts his hot head, immersed,'Round which cool bubbles burst.
VIThe sad, sweet voice of some wood-spirit whoLaments while watching a loved oak tree die,From the deep forest comes the wood-dove's coo.A long, lost, lonely cry.Oh, for a breeze, a mighty wind to wooThe woods to stormy laughter; sow like grainThe world with freshness of invisible dew.And pile above far, fevered hill and plain.Vast bastions black with rain.
Now 'tis the time when, tall,The long blue torches of the bellflower gleamAmong the trees; and, by the wooded stream.In many a fragrant ball.Blooms of the button-bush fall.Let us go forth and seekWoods where the wild plums redden and the beechPlumps its packed burs: and, swelling, just in reach.The pawpaw, emerald sleek.Ripens along the creek.Now 'tis the time when waysOf glimmering green flaunt white the misty plumesOf the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms,A blur of orange rays,The butterfly-blossoms blaze.Let us go forth and hearThe spiral music that the locusts beat,And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet,Dear to a country ear,The cricket's summer cheer.Now golden celandineIs hairy hung with silvery sacks of seeds.And bugled o'er with freckled gold, like beads.Beneath the fox-grape vine,The jewel-weed's blossoms shine.Let us go forth and seeThe dragon- and the butterfly, like gems,Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems,Weighed down by many a bee,Nodding mellifluously.Now morns are full of song;The catbird and the redbird and the jayUpon the hilltops rouse the rosy day,Who, dewy, blithe, and strong,Lures their wild wings along.Now noons are full of dreams;The clouds of heaven and the wandering breezeFollow a vision; and the flowers and trees,The hills and fields and streams,Are lapped in mystic gleams.The nights are full of love;The stars and moon take up the golden taleOf the sunk sun, and passionate and pale,Mixing their fires above,Grow eloquent thereof.Such days are like a sighThat beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss:Such nights are like the sweetness of a kissOn lips that half deny,The warm lips of July.
Now 'tis the time when, tall,The long blue torches of the bellflower gleamAmong the trees; and, by the wooded stream.In many a fragrant ball.Blooms of the button-bush fall.
Let us go forth and seekWoods where the wild plums redden and the beechPlumps its packed burs: and, swelling, just in reach.The pawpaw, emerald sleek.Ripens along the creek.
Now 'tis the time when waysOf glimmering green flaunt white the misty plumesOf the black-cohosh; and through bramble glooms,A blur of orange rays,The butterfly-blossoms blaze.
Let us go forth and hearThe spiral music that the locusts beat,And that small spray of sound, so grassy sweet,Dear to a country ear,The cricket's summer cheer.
Now golden celandineIs hairy hung with silvery sacks of seeds.And bugled o'er with freckled gold, like beads.Beneath the fox-grape vine,The jewel-weed's blossoms shine.
Let us go forth and seeThe dragon- and the butterfly, like gems,Spangling the sunbeams; and the clover stems,Weighed down by many a bee,Nodding mellifluously.
Now morns are full of song;The catbird and the redbird and the jayUpon the hilltops rouse the rosy day,Who, dewy, blithe, and strong,Lures their wild wings along.
Now noons are full of dreams;The clouds of heaven and the wandering breezeFollow a vision; and the flowers and trees,The hills and fields and streams,Are lapped in mystic gleams.
The nights are full of love;The stars and moon take up the golden taleOf the sunk sun, and passionate and pale,Mixing their fires above,Grow eloquent thereof.
Such days are like a sighThat beauty heaves from a full heart of bliss:Such nights are like the sweetness of a kissOn lips that half deny,The warm lips of July.
Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like breast,Makest meridian music, long and loud,Accentuating summer!—dost thy bestTo make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowdWith lonesomeness the long, close afternoonWhen Labor leans, swart-faced and beady browed,Upon his sultry scythe—thou tangible tuneOf heat, whose waves incessantly ariseQuivering and clear beneath the cloudless skies.Thou singest, and upon his haggard hillsDrouth yawns and rubs his heavy eyes and wakes;Brushes the hot hair from his face; and fillsThe land with death as sullenly he takesDownward his dusty way: 'midst woods and fieldsAt every pool his burning thirst he slakes:No grove so deep, no bank so high it shieldsA spring from him; no creek evades his eye;He needs but look and they are withered dry.Thou singest, and thy song is as a spellOf somnolence to charm the land with sleep;A thorn of sound that pierces dale and dell,Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.Sleepy the forest, nodding sleepy boughs;The pastures sleepy with their sleepy sheep;Sleepy the creek where sleepily the cowsStand knee-deep: and the very heaven seemsSleepy and lost in undetermined dreams.Art thou a rattle that Monotony,Summer's dull nurse, old sister of slow Time,Shakes for Day's peevish pleasure, who in gleeTakes its discordant music for sweet rhyme?Or oboe that the Summer Noontide plays,Sitting with Ripeness 'neath the orchard-tree,Trying repeatedly the same shrill phrase,Until the musky peach with drowsinessDrops, and the hum of bees grows less and less?
Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like breast,Makest meridian music, long and loud,Accentuating summer!—dost thy bestTo make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowdWith lonesomeness the long, close afternoonWhen Labor leans, swart-faced and beady browed,Upon his sultry scythe—thou tangible tuneOf heat, whose waves incessantly ariseQuivering and clear beneath the cloudless skies.
Thou singest, and upon his haggard hillsDrouth yawns and rubs his heavy eyes and wakes;Brushes the hot hair from his face; and fillsThe land with death as sullenly he takesDownward his dusty way: 'midst woods and fieldsAt every pool his burning thirst he slakes:No grove so deep, no bank so high it shieldsA spring from him; no creek evades his eye;He needs but look and they are withered dry.
Thou singest, and thy song is as a spellOf somnolence to charm the land with sleep;A thorn of sound that pierces dale and dell,Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.Sleepy the forest, nodding sleepy boughs;The pastures sleepy with their sleepy sheep;Sleepy the creek where sleepily the cowsStand knee-deep: and the very heaven seemsSleepy and lost in undetermined dreams.
Art thou a rattle that Monotony,Summer's dull nurse, old sister of slow Time,Shakes for Day's peevish pleasure, who in gleeTakes its discordant music for sweet rhyme?Or oboe that the Summer Noontide plays,Sitting with Ripeness 'neath the orchard-tree,Trying repeatedly the same shrill phrase,Until the musky peach with drowsinessDrops, and the hum of bees grows less and less?
IWith a look and a laugh where the stream was flowing,September led me along the land;Where the golden-rod and lobelia, glowing,Seemed burning torches within her hand.And faint as the thistle's or milk-weed's featherI glimpsed her form through the sparkling weather.IINow 'twas her hand and now her hairThat tossed me welcome everywhere;That lured me onward through the stately roomsOf forest, hung and carpeted with glooms,And windowed wide with azure, doored with green.Through which rich glimmers of her robe were seen—Now, like some deep marsh-mallow, rosy gold;Now, like the great Joe-Pye-weed, fold on foldOf heavy mauve; and now, like the intenseMassed iron-weed, a purple opulence.IIIAlong the bank in a wild processionOf gold and sapphire the blossoms blew;And borne on the breeze came their soft confessionIn syllables musk of honey and dew;In words unheard that their lips kept saying,Sweet as the lips of children praying.IVAnd so, meseemed, I heard them tellHow here her loving glance once fellUpon this bank, and from its azure grewThe ageratum mist-flower's happy hue:How from her kiss, as crimson as the dawn,The cardinal-flow'r drew its vermilion;And from her hair's blond touch th' elecampaneEvolved the glory of its golden rain;White from her starry footsteps, redolent,The aster pearled its flowery firmament.
IWith a look and a laugh where the stream was flowing,September led me along the land;Where the golden-rod and lobelia, glowing,Seemed burning torches within her hand.And faint as the thistle's or milk-weed's featherI glimpsed her form through the sparkling weather.
IINow 'twas her hand and now her hairThat tossed me welcome everywhere;That lured me onward through the stately roomsOf forest, hung and carpeted with glooms,And windowed wide with azure, doored with green.Through which rich glimmers of her robe were seen—Now, like some deep marsh-mallow, rosy gold;Now, like the great Joe-Pye-weed, fold on foldOf heavy mauve; and now, like the intenseMassed iron-weed, a purple opulence.
IIIAlong the bank in a wild processionOf gold and sapphire the blossoms blew;And borne on the breeze came their soft confessionIn syllables musk of honey and dew;In words unheard that their lips kept saying,Sweet as the lips of children praying.
IVAnd so, meseemed, I heard them tellHow here her loving glance once fellUpon this bank, and from its azure grewThe ageratum mist-flower's happy hue:How from her kiss, as crimson as the dawn,The cardinal-flow'r drew its vermilion;And from her hair's blond touch th' elecampaneEvolved the glory of its golden rain;White from her starry footsteps, redolent,The aster pearled its flowery firmament.
White from her chrysalis of cloud,The moth-like moon swings upward through the night;And all the bee-like stars that crowdThe hollow hive of heav'n wane in her light.Along the distance, folds of mistHang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray;Tinting the trees with amethyst,Touching with pearl and purple every spray.All night the stealthy frost and fogConspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers:To strip of wealth the woods, and clogWith piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers.I seem to see their Spirits stand,Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face,Now reaching high a chilly handTo pluck some walnut from its spicy place:Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold,Splitting the wahoo's pods of rose, and thinThe bittersweet's balls o' gold,To show the coal-red berries packed within:Now on dim threads of gossamerStringing pale pearls of moisture; necklacingThe flow'rs; and spreading cobweb fur,Crystaled with stardew, over everything:While 'neath the moon, with moon-white feet,They go and, chill, a moon-soft music drawFrom wan leaf-cricket flutes—the sweet,Sad dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw.
White from her chrysalis of cloud,The moth-like moon swings upward through the night;And all the bee-like stars that crowdThe hollow hive of heav'n wane in her light.
Along the distance, folds of mistHang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray;Tinting the trees with amethyst,Touching with pearl and purple every spray.
All night the stealthy frost and fogConspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers:To strip of wealth the woods, and clogWith piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers.
I seem to see their Spirits stand,Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face,Now reaching high a chilly handTo pluck some walnut from its spicy place:
Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold,Splitting the wahoo's pods of rose, and thinThe bittersweet's balls o' gold,To show the coal-red berries packed within:
Now on dim threads of gossamerStringing pale pearls of moisture; necklacingThe flow'rs; and spreading cobweb fur,Crystaled with stardew, over everything:
While 'neath the moon, with moon-white feet,They go and, chill, a moon-soft music drawFrom wan leaf-cricket flutes—the sweet,Sad dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw.
When on the leaves the rain persists,And every gust brings showers down;When all the woodland smokes with mists,I take the old road out of townInto the hills through which it twists.I find the vale where catnip grows,Where boneset blooms, with moisture bowed;The vale through which the red creek flows,Turbid with hill-washed clay, and loudAs some wild horn a hunter blows.Around the root the beetle glides,A living beryl; and the ant,Large, agate-red, a garnet, slidesBeneath the rock; and every plantIs roof for some frail thing that hides.Like knots against the trunks of treesThe lichen-colored moths are pressed;And, wedged in hollow blooms, the beesSeem clots of pollen; in its nestThe wasp has crawled and lies at ease.The locust harsh, that sharply sawsThe silence of the summer noon;The katydid that thinly drawsIts fine file o'er the bars of moon;And grasshopper that drills each pause:The mantis, long-clawed, furtive, lean—Fierce feline of the insect hordes—And dragonfly, gauze-winged and green,Beneath the wild-grape's leaves and gourd's,Have housed themselves and rest unseen.The butterfly and forest-birdAre huddled on the same gnarled bough,From which, like some rain-voweled wordThat dampness hoarsely utters now,The tree-toad's voice is vaguely heard.I crouch and listen; and againThe woods are filled with phantom forms—With shapes, grotesque in mystic train,That rise and reach to me cool armsOf mist; the wandering wraiths of rain.I see them come; fantastic, fair;Chill, mushroom-colored: sky and earthGrow ghostly with their floating hairAnd trailing limbs, that have their birthIn wetness—fungi of the air.O wraiths of rain! O ghosts of mist!Still fold me, hold me, and pursue!Still let my lips by yours be kissed!Still draw me with your hands of dewUnto the tryst, the dripping tryst.
When on the leaves the rain persists,And every gust brings showers down;When all the woodland smokes with mists,I take the old road out of townInto the hills through which it twists.
I find the vale where catnip grows,Where boneset blooms, with moisture bowed;The vale through which the red creek flows,Turbid with hill-washed clay, and loudAs some wild horn a hunter blows.
Around the root the beetle glides,A living beryl; and the ant,Large, agate-red, a garnet, slidesBeneath the rock; and every plantIs roof for some frail thing that hides.
Like knots against the trunks of treesThe lichen-colored moths are pressed;And, wedged in hollow blooms, the beesSeem clots of pollen; in its nestThe wasp has crawled and lies at ease.
The locust harsh, that sharply sawsThe silence of the summer noon;The katydid that thinly drawsIts fine file o'er the bars of moon;And grasshopper that drills each pause:
The mantis, long-clawed, furtive, lean—Fierce feline of the insect hordes—And dragonfly, gauze-winged and green,Beneath the wild-grape's leaves and gourd's,Have housed themselves and rest unseen.
The butterfly and forest-birdAre huddled on the same gnarled bough,From which, like some rain-voweled wordThat dampness hoarsely utters now,The tree-toad's voice is vaguely heard.
I crouch and listen; and againThe woods are filled with phantom forms—With shapes, grotesque in mystic train,That rise and reach to me cool armsOf mist; the wandering wraiths of rain.
I see them come; fantastic, fair;Chill, mushroom-colored: sky and earthGrow ghostly with their floating hairAnd trailing limbs, that have their birthIn wetness—fungi of the air.
O wraiths of rain! O ghosts of mist!Still fold me, hold me, and pursue!Still let my lips by yours be kissed!Still draw me with your hands of dewUnto the tryst, the dripping tryst.
When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,And the brown bee drones i' the rose,And the west is a red-streaked four-o'-clock,And summer is near its close—It's—Oh, for the gate and the locust laneAnd dusk and dew and home again!When the katydid sings and the cricket cries,And ghosts of the mists ascend,And the evening-star is a lamp i' the skies,And summer is near its end—It's—Oh, for the fence and the leafy lane,And the twilight peace and the tryst again!When the owlet hoots in the dogwood-tree,That leans to the rippling Run,And the wind is a wildwood melody,And summer is almost done—It's—Oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane,And the fragrant hush and her hands again!When fields smell moist with the dewy hay,And woods are cool and wan,And a path for dreams is the Milky-way,And summer is nearly gone—It's—Oh, for the rock and the woodland laneAnd the silence and stars and her lips again!When the weight of the apples breaks down the boughs,And musk-melons split with sweet,And the moon is a-bloom in the Heaven's house,And summer has spent its heat—It's—Oh, for the lane, the trysting lane,And the deep-mooned night and her love again!
When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,And the brown bee drones i' the rose,And the west is a red-streaked four-o'-clock,And summer is near its close—It's—Oh, for the gate and the locust laneAnd dusk and dew and home again!
When the katydid sings and the cricket cries,And ghosts of the mists ascend,And the evening-star is a lamp i' the skies,And summer is near its end—It's—Oh, for the fence and the leafy lane,And the twilight peace and the tryst again!
When the owlet hoots in the dogwood-tree,That leans to the rippling Run,And the wind is a wildwood melody,And summer is almost done—It's—Oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane,And the fragrant hush and her hands again!
When fields smell moist with the dewy hay,And woods are cool and wan,And a path for dreams is the Milky-way,And summer is nearly gone—It's—Oh, for the rock and the woodland laneAnd the silence and stars and her lips again!
When the weight of the apples breaks down the boughs,And musk-melons split with sweet,And the moon is a-bloom in the Heaven's house,And summer has spent its heat—It's—Oh, for the lane, the trysting lane,And the deep-mooned night and her love again!
IBeneath an old beech-treeThey sat together,Fair as a flower was sheOf summer weather.They spoke of life and love,While, through the boughs above,The sunlight, like a dove,Dropped many a feather.IIAnd there the violet,The bluet near it,Made blurs of azure wet—As if some spirit,Or woodland dream, had goneSprinkling the earth with dawn,When only Fay and FaunCould see or hear it.IIIShe with her young, sweet faceAnd eyes gray-beaming,Made of that forest placeA spot for dreaming:A spot for OreadsTo smooth their nut-brown braids,For Dryads of the gladesTo dance in, gleaming.IVSo dim the place, so blest.One had not wonderedHad Dian's moonéd breastThe deep leaves sundered,And there on them awhileThe goddess deigned to smile.While down some forest aisleThe far hunt thundered.VI deem that hour perchanceWas but a mirrorTo show them Earth's romanceAnd draw them nearer:A mirror where, meseems.All that this Earth-life dreams,All loveliness that gleams,Their souls saw clearer.VIBeneath an old beech-treeThey dreamed of blisses;Fair as a flower was sheThat summer kisses:They spoke of dreams and days,Of love that goes and stays,Of all for which life prays,Ah me! and misses.
IBeneath an old beech-treeThey sat together,Fair as a flower was sheOf summer weather.They spoke of life and love,While, through the boughs above,The sunlight, like a dove,Dropped many a feather.
IIAnd there the violet,The bluet near it,Made blurs of azure wet—As if some spirit,Or woodland dream, had goneSprinkling the earth with dawn,When only Fay and FaunCould see or hear it.
IIIShe with her young, sweet faceAnd eyes gray-beaming,Made of that forest placeA spot for dreaming:A spot for OreadsTo smooth their nut-brown braids,For Dryads of the gladesTo dance in, gleaming.
IVSo dim the place, so blest.One had not wonderedHad Dian's moonéd breastThe deep leaves sundered,And there on them awhileThe goddess deigned to smile.While down some forest aisleThe far hunt thundered.
VI deem that hour perchanceWas but a mirrorTo show them Earth's romanceAnd draw them nearer:A mirror where, meseems.All that this Earth-life dreams,All loveliness that gleams,Their souls saw clearer.
VIBeneath an old beech-treeThey dreamed of blisses;Fair as a flower was sheThat summer kisses:They spoke of dreams and days,Of love that goes and stays,Of all for which life prays,Ah me! and misses.
He told a story to her,A story old yet new—And was it of the Faëry FolkThat dance along the dew?The night was hung with silenceAs a room is hung with cloth,And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush,Swooned dim the down-white moth.Along the east a shimmer,A tenuous breath of flame,From which, as from a bath of light,Nymph-like, the girl-moon came.And pendent in the purpleOf heaven, like fireflies,Bubbles of gold the great stars blewFrom windows of the skies.He told a story to her,A story full of dreams—And was it of the Elfin thingsThat haunt the thin moonbeams?Upon the hill a thorn-tree,Crooked and gnarled and gray,Against the moon seemed some crutch'd hagDragging a child away.And in the vale a runnel,That dripped from shelf to shelf,Seemed, in the night, a woodland witchWho muttered to herself.Along the land a zephyr,Whose breath was wild perfume,That seemed a sorceress who woveSweet spells of beam and bloom.He told a story to her,A story young yet old—And was it of the mystic thingsMen's eyes shall ne'er behold?They heard the dew drip faintlyFrom out the green-cupped leaf;They heard the petals of the roseUnfolding from their sheaf.They saw the wind light-footingThe waters into sheen;They saw the starlight kiss to sleepThe blossoms on the green.They heard and saw these wonders;These things they saw and heard;And other things within the heartFor which there is no word.He told a story to her,The story men call Love,Whose echoes fill the ages past,And the world ne'er tires of.
He told a story to her,A story old yet new—And was it of the Faëry FolkThat dance along the dew?
The night was hung with silenceAs a room is hung with cloth,And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush,Swooned dim the down-white moth.
Along the east a shimmer,A tenuous breath of flame,From which, as from a bath of light,Nymph-like, the girl-moon came.
And pendent in the purpleOf heaven, like fireflies,Bubbles of gold the great stars blewFrom windows of the skies.
He told a story to her,A story full of dreams—And was it of the Elfin thingsThat haunt the thin moonbeams?
Upon the hill a thorn-tree,Crooked and gnarled and gray,Against the moon seemed some crutch'd hagDragging a child away.
And in the vale a runnel,That dripped from shelf to shelf,Seemed, in the night, a woodland witchWho muttered to herself.
Along the land a zephyr,Whose breath was wild perfume,That seemed a sorceress who woveSweet spells of beam and bloom.
He told a story to her,A story young yet old—And was it of the mystic thingsMen's eyes shall ne'er behold?
They heard the dew drip faintlyFrom out the green-cupped leaf;They heard the petals of the roseUnfolding from their sheaf.
They saw the wind light-footingThe waters into sheen;They saw the starlight kiss to sleepThe blossoms on the green.
They heard and saw these wonders;These things they saw and heard;And other things within the heartFor which there is no word.
He told a story to her,The story men call Love,Whose echoes fill the ages past,And the world ne'er tires of.
ISunflowers wither and lilies die,Poppies are pods of seeds;The first red leaves on the pathway lie,Like blood of a heart that bleeds.Weary alway will it be to-day,Weary and wan and wet;Dawn and noon will the clouds hang gray,And the autumn wind will sigh and say,"He comes not yet, not yet.Weary alway, alway!"IIHollyhocks bend all tattered and torn,Marigolds all are gone;The last pale rose lies all forlorn,Like love that is trampled on.Weary, ah me! to-night will be,Weary and wild and hoar;Rain and mist will blow from the sea,And the wind will sob in the autumn tree,"He comes no more, no more.Weary, ah me! ah me!"
ISunflowers wither and lilies die,Poppies are pods of seeds;The first red leaves on the pathway lie,Like blood of a heart that bleeds.
Weary alway will it be to-day,Weary and wan and wet;Dawn and noon will the clouds hang gray,And the autumn wind will sigh and say,"He comes not yet, not yet.Weary alway, alway!"
IIHollyhocks bend all tattered and torn,Marigolds all are gone;The last pale rose lies all forlorn,Like love that is trampled on.
Weary, ah me! to-night will be,Weary and wild and hoar;Rain and mist will blow from the sea,And the wind will sob in the autumn tree,"He comes no more, no more.Weary, ah me! ah me!"
There is nothing that eases my heart so muchAs the wind that blows from the purple hills;'Tis a hand of balsam whose healing touchUnburdens my bosom of ills.There is nothing that causes my soul to rejoiceLike the sunset flaming without a flaw:'Tis a burning bush whence God's own voiceAddresses my spirit with awe.There is nothing that hallows my mind, meseems,Like the night with its moon and its stars above;'Tis a mystical lily whose golden gleamsFulfill my being with love.There is nothing, no, nothing, we see and feel.That speaks to our souls some beautiful thought,That was not created to help us, and healOur lives that are overwrought.
There is nothing that eases my heart so muchAs the wind that blows from the purple hills;'Tis a hand of balsam whose healing touchUnburdens my bosom of ills.
There is nothing that causes my soul to rejoiceLike the sunset flaming without a flaw:'Tis a burning bush whence God's own voiceAddresses my spirit with awe.
There is nothing that hallows my mind, meseems,Like the night with its moon and its stars above;'Tis a mystical lily whose golden gleamsFulfill my being with love.
There is nothing, no, nothing, we see and feel.That speaks to our souls some beautiful thought,That was not created to help us, and healOur lives that are overwrought.
IPESSIMISTThere is never a thing we dream or doBut was dreamed and done in the ages gone;Everything's old; there is nothing that's new,And so it will be while the world goes on.The thoughts we think have been thought before;The deeds we do have long been done;We pride ourselves on our love and loreAnd both are as old as the moon and sun.We strive and struggle and swink and sweat,And the end for each is one and the same;Time and the sun and the frost and wetWill wear from its pillar the greatest name.No answer comes for our prayer or curse,No word replies though we shriek in air;Ever the taciturn universeStretches unchanged for our curse or prayer.With our mind's small light in the dark we crawl,—Glow-worm glimmers that creep about,—Tilt the Power that shaped us, over us allPoises His foot and treads us out.Unasked He fashions us out of clay,A little water, a little dust,And then in our holes He thrusts us away,With never a word, to rot and rust.'Tis a sorry play with a sorry plot,This life of hate and of lust and pain,Where we play our parts and are soon forgot,And all that we do is done in vain.IIOPTIMISTThere is never a dream but it shall come true,And never a deed but was wrought by plan;And life is filled with the strange and new,And ever has been since the world began.As mind develops and soul maturesThese two shall parent Earth's mightier acts;Love is a fact, and 'tis love endures'Though the world make wreck of all other facts.Through thought alone shall our Age obtainAbove all Ages gone before;The tribes of sloth, of brawn, not brain,Are the tribes that perish, are known no more.Within ourselves is a voice of Awe,And a hand that points to Balanced Scales;The one is Love and the other Law,And their presence alone it is avails.For every shadow about our wayThere is a glory of moon and sun;But the hope within us hath more of rayThan the light of the sun and moon in one.Behind all being a purpose lies,Undeviating as God hath willed;And he alone it is who dies,Who leaves that purpose unfulfilled.Life is an epic the Master sings,Whose theme is Man, and whose music, Soul,Where each is a word in the Song of Things,That shall roll on while the ages roll.
IPESSIMISTThere is never a thing we dream or doBut was dreamed and done in the ages gone;Everything's old; there is nothing that's new,And so it will be while the world goes on.
The thoughts we think have been thought before;The deeds we do have long been done;We pride ourselves on our love and loreAnd both are as old as the moon and sun.
We strive and struggle and swink and sweat,And the end for each is one and the same;Time and the sun and the frost and wetWill wear from its pillar the greatest name.
No answer comes for our prayer or curse,No word replies though we shriek in air;Ever the taciturn universeStretches unchanged for our curse or prayer.
With our mind's small light in the dark we crawl,—Glow-worm glimmers that creep about,—Tilt the Power that shaped us, over us allPoises His foot and treads us out.
Unasked He fashions us out of clay,A little water, a little dust,And then in our holes He thrusts us away,With never a word, to rot and rust.
'Tis a sorry play with a sorry plot,This life of hate and of lust and pain,Where we play our parts and are soon forgot,And all that we do is done in vain.
IIOPTIMISTThere is never a dream but it shall come true,And never a deed but was wrought by plan;And life is filled with the strange and new,And ever has been since the world began.
As mind develops and soul maturesThese two shall parent Earth's mightier acts;Love is a fact, and 'tis love endures'Though the world make wreck of all other facts.
Through thought alone shall our Age obtainAbove all Ages gone before;The tribes of sloth, of brawn, not brain,Are the tribes that perish, are known no more.
Within ourselves is a voice of Awe,And a hand that points to Balanced Scales;The one is Love and the other Law,And their presence alone it is avails.
For every shadow about our wayThere is a glory of moon and sun;But the hope within us hath more of rayThan the light of the sun and moon in one.
Behind all being a purpose lies,Undeviating as God hath willed;And he alone it is who dies,Who leaves that purpose unfulfilled.
Life is an epic the Master sings,Whose theme is Man, and whose music, Soul,Where each is a word in the Song of Things,That shall roll on while the ages roll.