I.O Life! O Death! O God!Have I not striven?Have I not known thee, God,As thy stars know Heaven?Have I not held thee true,True as thy deepest,Sweet and immaculate blue,Of nights that feel thy dew?Have I notknownthee true,O God that keepest?II.O God, my father, God!Didst give me fireTo rise above the clod,And soar, aspire!What tho' I strive and strive,And all my life says live,The sneerful scorn of menBut beats it down again;And, O! sun-centered high,O God! grand poet!Beneath thy tender skyEach day new Keatses die,And thou dost know it!III.They know thee beautiful!They know thee bitter!And all their eyes are full,O God! most beautiful!Of tears that glitter.Thou art above their tears;Thou art beyond their years;Thou sittest, God of Hosts,Among thy glorious ghosts,So high and holy;And canst thou know the tears,The strivings and the fears,O God of godly peers!Of such so lowly?IV.They who were fondly fainTo tell what mother painOf Nature makes the rain;They who were glad to knowThe sorrow of her snow,Of her wild winds the woe;The magic of her light,The passion of her night,And of her death the might;They who had tears and sighsFor every bud that diesWhile the dew on it lies;They who had utterance forEach warm, rose-hearted starThat stammers from afar;The demon of vast seas,The lips of lyric trees,Lays of sonorous bees;The fragrance-fays that dowerEach wildwood bosk and bowerWith its faint musk of flower;Of Time the feverish flight;Earth, man, and, last, man's rightTo thee, O Infinite!
I.
O Life! O Death! O God!Have I not striven?Have I not known thee, God,As thy stars know Heaven?Have I not held thee true,True as thy deepest,Sweet and immaculate blue,Of nights that feel thy dew?Have I notknownthee true,O God that keepest?
II.
O God, my father, God!Didst give me fireTo rise above the clod,And soar, aspire!What tho' I strive and strive,And all my life says live,The sneerful scorn of menBut beats it down again;And, O! sun-centered high,O God! grand poet!Beneath thy tender skyEach day new Keatses die,And thou dost know it!
III.
They know thee beautiful!They know thee bitter!And all their eyes are full,O God! most beautiful!Of tears that glitter.Thou art above their tears;Thou art beyond their years;Thou sittest, God of Hosts,Among thy glorious ghosts,So high and holy;And canst thou know the tears,The strivings and the fears,O God of godly peers!Of such so lowly?
IV.
They who were fondly fainTo tell what mother painOf Nature makes the rain;
They who were glad to knowThe sorrow of her snow,Of her wild winds the woe;
The magic of her light,The passion of her night,And of her death the might;
They who had tears and sighsFor every bud that diesWhile the dew on it lies;
They who had utterance forEach warm, rose-hearted starThat stammers from afar;
The demon of vast seas,The lips of lyric trees,Lays of sonorous bees;
The fragrance-fays that dowerEach wildwood bosk and bowerWith its faint musk of flower;
Of Time the feverish flight;Earth, man, and, last, man's rightTo thee, O Infinite!
On the tremulous coppice,From her plenteous hair,Large golden-rayed poppiesOf moon-litten airThe Night hath flung there.In the fern-favored hollowThe fire-flies fleetUncertainly followPale phantoms of heat,Druid shadows that meet.Hidden flowers are fragrant;The night hazes furlO'er the solitudes vagrantIn purple and pearl,Sway-swinging and curl.From moss-cushioned valleyWhere the red sunlight fails,Rocks where musicallyThe hollow spring wails,And the limber fern trails,With a ripple and twinkleOf luminous arms,Of voices that tinkle,And feet that are stormsOf chaste, naked charms,Like echoes that revelOn hills, where the brierVaults roofs of dishevelAnd green, greedy fire,They come as a choir.At the root of the mountainWhere the dim forest lies,By the spar-spouting fountainWhere the low lily dies,With their star-stinging eyes.They gather sweet singingIn voices that seemFaint ringing and clingingIn dreams that we dream,In visions that gleam.Sweet lisping of kisses,Dry rustle of hair;A footfall that hissesLike a leaf in the airWhen the brown boughs are bare.The music that scattersFrom love-litten eyes;The music that flattersIn words and low sighs,In laughter that dies:"Come hither, come hither,In the million-eyed night,Ere the moon-flowers witherAnd the harvester white,Morning reaps them with light."Come hither, where singingIs pleasant as tears,Or dead kisses, clingingTo the murdering years,In memory's ears."Come hither where kissesAre waiting for you,For lips and long tresses,As for wild flowers blueThe moon-heated dew."Come hither from coppiceAnd violet dale,The mountain whose top isIn vapors that sailWith pearly hail pale."Why tarry? come hitherWhile the molten moon beams,Ere the golden spark witherOf the glow-worm that gleamsLike a star in still streams!"
On the tremulous coppice,From her plenteous hair,Large golden-rayed poppiesOf moon-litten airThe Night hath flung there.
In the fern-favored hollowThe fire-flies fleetUncertainly followPale phantoms of heat,Druid shadows that meet.
Hidden flowers are fragrant;The night hazes furlO'er the solitudes vagrantIn purple and pearl,Sway-swinging and curl.
From moss-cushioned valleyWhere the red sunlight fails,Rocks where musicallyThe hollow spring wails,And the limber fern trails,
With a ripple and twinkleOf luminous arms,Of voices that tinkle,And feet that are stormsOf chaste, naked charms,
Like echoes that revelOn hills, where the brierVaults roofs of dishevelAnd green, greedy fire,They come as a choir.
At the root of the mountainWhere the dim forest lies,By the spar-spouting fountainWhere the low lily dies,With their star-stinging eyes.
They gather sweet singingIn voices that seemFaint ringing and clingingIn dreams that we dream,In visions that gleam.
Sweet lisping of kisses,Dry rustle of hair;A footfall that hissesLike a leaf in the airWhen the brown boughs are bare.
The music that scattersFrom love-litten eyes;The music that flattersIn words and low sighs,In laughter that dies:
"Come hither, come hither,In the million-eyed night,Ere the moon-flowers witherAnd the harvester white,Morning reaps them with light.
"Come hither, where singingIs pleasant as tears,Or dead kisses, clingingTo the murdering years,In memory's ears.
"Come hither where kissesAre waiting for you,For lips and long tresses,As for wild flowers blueThe moon-heated dew.
"Come hither from coppiceAnd violet dale,The mountain whose top isIn vapors that sailWith pearly hail pale.
"Why tarry? come hitherWhile the molten moon beams,Ere the golden spark witherOf the glow-worm that gleamsLike a star in still streams!"
Had fallen a fragrant shower;The leaves were dripping yet;Each fern and rain-weighed flowerAround were gleaming wet;On ev'ry bosky bowerA million gems were set.The dust's moist odors siftedCool with the summer rain,Mixed with the musk that driftedFrom orchard and from plain;—Her garden's fence white liftedIts length along the lane.The moon the clouds had shatteredIn curdled peaks of pearl;The honeysuckle scatteredWarm odors from each curl,Where the white moonlight, flattered,Hung molten 'round a girl.Then grew the night completerWith light and cloud and air;Aromas sweet blew sweeter,Sweet flowers fair, more fair;Fleet feet and fast grew fleeterThro' that fair sorceress there.
Had fallen a fragrant shower;The leaves were dripping yet;Each fern and rain-weighed flowerAround were gleaming wet;On ev'ry bosky bowerA million gems were set.
The dust's moist odors siftedCool with the summer rain,Mixed with the musk that driftedFrom orchard and from plain;—Her garden's fence white liftedIts length along the lane.
The moon the clouds had shatteredIn curdled peaks of pearl;The honeysuckle scatteredWarm odors from each curl,Where the white moonlight, flattered,Hung molten 'round a girl.
Then grew the night completerWith light and cloud and air;Aromas sweet blew sweeter,Sweet flowers fair, more fair;Fleet feet and fast grew fleeterThro' that fair sorceress there.
Mildewed and gray the marble stairsRise from their balustraded urnsTo where a chiseled satyr glaresFrom a luxuriant bed of ferns;A pebbled walk that labyrinths'Twixt parallels of verdant boxTo where, broad-based on grotesque plinths,'Mid cushions of moss-padded rocks,Rises a ruined pleasure-house,Of shattered column, broken dome,Where, reveling in thick carouse,The buoyant ivy makes its home.And here from bank, and there from bed,Down the mad rillet's jubilant lymph,The lavish violet's odors shedIn breathings of a fountain nymph.And where, in lichened hoariness,The broken marble dial-plateBasks in the Summer's sultriness,Rich houri roses palpitate.Voluptuous, languid with perfumes,As were the beauties that of old,In damask satins, jeweled plumes,With powdered gallants here that strolled.When slender rapiers, proud with gems,Sneered at the sun their haughty hues,And Touchstone wit and apothegmsLaughed down the long, cool avenues.Two pleated bowers of woodbine pave,'Neath all their heaviness of musk,Two fountains of pellucid wave,With sunlight-tessellated dusk.Beholding these, I seem to feelAn exodus of earthly sight,An influx of ecstatic wealPoured thro' my eyes in jets of light.And so I see the fountains twainOf hate and love in Arden there;The time of regal Charlemagne,Of Roland and of Oliver.Rinaldo of Montalban's towersSleeps by the spring of hate; aboveBows, spilling all his face with flowers,Angelica, who quaffed of love.
Mildewed and gray the marble stairsRise from their balustraded urnsTo where a chiseled satyr glaresFrom a luxuriant bed of ferns;
A pebbled walk that labyrinths'Twixt parallels of verdant boxTo where, broad-based on grotesque plinths,'Mid cushions of moss-padded rocks,
Rises a ruined pleasure-house,Of shattered column, broken dome,Where, reveling in thick carouse,The buoyant ivy makes its home.
And here from bank, and there from bed,Down the mad rillet's jubilant lymph,The lavish violet's odors shedIn breathings of a fountain nymph.
And where, in lichened hoariness,The broken marble dial-plateBasks in the Summer's sultriness,Rich houri roses palpitate.
Voluptuous, languid with perfumes,As were the beauties that of old,In damask satins, jeweled plumes,With powdered gallants here that strolled.
When slender rapiers, proud with gems,Sneered at the sun their haughty hues,And Touchstone wit and apothegmsLaughed down the long, cool avenues.
Two pleated bowers of woodbine pave,'Neath all their heaviness of musk,Two fountains of pellucid wave,With sunlight-tessellated dusk.
Beholding these, I seem to feelAn exodus of earthly sight,An influx of ecstatic wealPoured thro' my eyes in jets of light.
And so I see the fountains twainOf hate and love in Arden there;The time of regal Charlemagne,Of Roland and of Oliver.
Rinaldo of Montalban's towersSleeps by the spring of hate; aboveBows, spilling all his face with flowers,Angelica, who quaffed of love.
Sullen gold down all the sky,In the roses sultry musk;Nightingales hid in the duskYonder sob and sigh.You are here; and I could weep,Weep for joy and suffering."Where is he?" He'd have me sing;—There he sits asleep.Think not of him! he is deadFor the moment to us twain;He were dead but for this painDrumming in my head."Am I happy?" Ask the fireWhen it bursts its bounds and thrillsSome mad hours as it willsIf those hours tire.He had gold. As for the rest—Well you know how they were set,Saying that I must forget,And 'twas for the best.I forget! but let it go!—Kiss me as you did of old.There! your kisses are not cold!Can you love me so,Knowing what I am to himSitting in his gouty chairOn the breezy terrace whereAmber fire-flies swim?"Yes?"—Your cheek a tear-drop wets,But your kisses on my lipFall as warm as bees that sipSweets from violets.See! the moon has risen whiteAs this bursten lily hereRocking on the dusky mereLike a silent light.Let us walk. We soon must part—All too soon! but he may miss!Give me but another kiss;It will heat my heartAnd the bitter winter there.So; we part, my Launcelot,My true knight! and am I notYour true Guinevere?Oft they parted thus they tellIn that mystical romance.Were they placed, think you, perchance,For such love in hell?No! it can not, can not be!Love is God and God is love,And they live and love above,Guinevere and he!I must go now. See! there fell,Molten into purple light,One wild star. Kiss me good-night;And, once more, farewell!
Sullen gold down all the sky,In the roses sultry musk;Nightingales hid in the duskYonder sob and sigh.
You are here; and I could weep,Weep for joy and suffering."Where is he?" He'd have me sing;—There he sits asleep.
Think not of him! he is deadFor the moment to us twain;He were dead but for this painDrumming in my head.
"Am I happy?" Ask the fireWhen it bursts its bounds and thrillsSome mad hours as it willsIf those hours tire.
He had gold. As for the rest—Well you know how they were set,Saying that I must forget,And 'twas for the best.
I forget! but let it go!—Kiss me as you did of old.There! your kisses are not cold!Can you love me so,
Knowing what I am to himSitting in his gouty chairOn the breezy terrace whereAmber fire-flies swim?
"Yes?"—Your cheek a tear-drop wets,But your kisses on my lipFall as warm as bees that sipSweets from violets.
See! the moon has risen whiteAs this bursten lily hereRocking on the dusky mereLike a silent light.
Let us walk. We soon must part—All too soon! but he may miss!Give me but another kiss;It will heat my heart
And the bitter winter there.So; we part, my Launcelot,My true knight! and am I notYour true Guinevere?
Oft they parted thus they tellIn that mystical romance.Were they placed, think you, perchance,For such love in hell?
No! it can not, can not be!Love is God and God is love,And they live and love above,Guinevere and he!
I must go now. See! there fell,Molten into purple light,One wild star. Kiss me good-night;And, once more, farewell!
All through the tepid Summer nightThe starless sky had poured a coolMonotony of pleasant rainIn music beautiful.And for an hour I'd sat to watchClouds moving on majestic feet,Had heard down avenues of nightTheir hearts of thunder beat;Saw ponderous limbs far-veined with goldPulse fiery life o'er wood and plain,While scattered, fell from monstrous palmsThe largess of the rain;Beholding at each lightning's flashThe generous silver on the sod,In meek devotion bowed, I thankedThese almoners of God.
All through the tepid Summer nightThe starless sky had poured a coolMonotony of pleasant rainIn music beautiful.
And for an hour I'd sat to watchClouds moving on majestic feet,Had heard down avenues of nightTheir hearts of thunder beat;
Saw ponderous limbs far-veined with goldPulse fiery life o'er wood and plain,While scattered, fell from monstrous palmsThe largess of the rain;
Beholding at each lightning's flashThe generous silver on the sod,In meek devotion bowed, I thankedThese almoners of God.
I.The slanted storm tossed at their feetThe frost-nipped Autumn leaves;The park's high pines were caked with sleetAnd ice-spears armed the eaves.They strolled adown the pillared pinesTo part where wet and twisted vinesAbout the gate-posts flapped and beat.She watched him dimming in the rainAlong the river's misty shore,And laughed with lips that sneered disdain"To meet no more!"II.'Mong heavy roses weighed with dewThe chirping crickets hid;Down the honeysuckle avenueCreaked the green katydid.The scattered stars smiled thro' the pines;Thro' stately windows draped with vinesThe rising moonlight's silver blew.He stared at lips proud, white, and dead,A chiseled calm that wore;Despair moaned on the lips that said"To meet no more."
I.
The slanted storm tossed at their feetThe frost-nipped Autumn leaves;The park's high pines were caked with sleetAnd ice-spears armed the eaves.They strolled adown the pillared pinesTo part where wet and twisted vinesAbout the gate-posts flapped and beat.She watched him dimming in the rainAlong the river's misty shore,And laughed with lips that sneered disdain"To meet no more!"
II.
'Mong heavy roses weighed with dewThe chirping crickets hid;Down the honeysuckle avenueCreaked the green katydid.The scattered stars smiled thro' the pines;Thro' stately windows draped with vinesThe rising moonlight's silver blew.He stared at lips proud, white, and dead,A chiseled calm that wore;Despair moaned on the lips that said"To meet no more."
A broken rainbow on the skies of MayTouching the sodden roses and low clouds,And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost:Upon the heaven of a soul the ghostOf a great love, perfect in its pure ray,Touching the roses moist of memoryTo die within the Present's grief of clouds—A broken rainbow on the skies of May.A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers,Or red or white; its darting length of tongueSucking and drinking all the cell-stored sweet,And now the surfeit and the hurried fleet:A love that put into expanding bowersOf one's large heart a tongue's persuasive powersTo cream with joy, and riffled, so was gone—A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers.A foamy moon which thro' a night of fleeceMoves amber girt into a bulk of dark,And, lost to eye, rims all the black with froth:A love of smiles, that, tinctured like a moth,Moved thro' a soul's night-dun and made a peace—More bland than Melancholy's white—to ceaseIn blanks of Time zoned with pale Memory's spark—A foamy moon that brinks a storm with fleece.A blaze of living thunder—not a leap—Momental spouting balds the piléd storm,The ghastly mountains and the livid ocean,The pine-roared crag, then blots the sight's commotion:A love that swiftly pouring bared the deep,Which cleaves white Life from Death, Death from white Sleep,And, ceasing, gave a brain one blur of storm—Blank blast of midnight, love for Death and Sleep.
A broken rainbow on the skies of MayTouching the sodden roses and low clouds,And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost:Upon the heaven of a soul the ghostOf a great love, perfect in its pure ray,Touching the roses moist of memoryTo die within the Present's grief of clouds—A broken rainbow on the skies of May.
A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers,Or red or white; its darting length of tongueSucking and drinking all the cell-stored sweet,And now the surfeit and the hurried fleet:A love that put into expanding bowersOf one's large heart a tongue's persuasive powersTo cream with joy, and riffled, so was gone—A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers.
A foamy moon which thro' a night of fleeceMoves amber girt into a bulk of dark,And, lost to eye, rims all the black with froth:A love of smiles, that, tinctured like a moth,Moved thro' a soul's night-dun and made a peace—More bland than Melancholy's white—to ceaseIn blanks of Time zoned with pale Memory's spark—A foamy moon that brinks a storm with fleece.
A blaze of living thunder—not a leap—Momental spouting balds the piléd storm,The ghastly mountains and the livid ocean,The pine-roared crag, then blots the sight's commotion:A love that swiftly pouring bared the deep,Which cleaves white Life from Death, Death from white Sleep,And, ceasing, gave a brain one blur of storm—Blank blast of midnight, love for Death and Sleep.
I saw her twins of eyelids listless swoonMesmeric eyes,Like the mild lapsing of a lulling tuneOn wide surprise,While slow the graceful presence of a moonMellowed the purple skies.And had she dreamed or had in fancy goneAs one who soughtTo hail the influx of a godly dawnOf heavenly thought,Trod trembling o'er old sainted hill and lawnWith intense angels fraught?Sailed thro' majestic domes of the deep nightBy isles of stars,Wand'ring like some pure blessing warm with lightFrom worldly jarsTo the high halls of morning, pearly white,And heaped with golden bars.Past temples vast, deluged with sandy seas,Whose ruins standLike bleaching bones of dead monstrositiesCrashed to the land,Stupendous homes of cursed idolatriesFallen to dust and sand.Ugly and bestial gods caked thick with gold—Their hideousnessBlaspheming Christ—'mid shattered altars rolledTo rottenness,Their slaves abolished and their priests of oldTrodden to nothingness.Thro' Syrian plains curtained with curling mistThe grass she trailed,Where the shy floweret; by the dew-drop kissed,Sweet blushing quailed;And drowned in purple vales of amethystThe moon-mad bulbuls wailed.On glimmering wolds had seemed to hear the bleatOf folded flocks;Seen broad-browed sages pass with sandaled feetAnd hoary locks,While swimming in a bath of molten heatA great star glorious rocks.In fancy o'er a beaming baby bent—Cradled amissIn a rude manger—on its brow to printOne holy kiss,While down the slant winds faint aromas wentAnd anthems deep of bliss....And then she woke. The winter moon aboveBurst on her sight;And with strange sweetness all her dream was woveIn its far flight,For jubilant bells rocked booming "peace and love"Down all the aisles of night.
I saw her twins of eyelids listless swoonMesmeric eyes,Like the mild lapsing of a lulling tuneOn wide surprise,While slow the graceful presence of a moonMellowed the purple skies.
And had she dreamed or had in fancy goneAs one who soughtTo hail the influx of a godly dawnOf heavenly thought,Trod trembling o'er old sainted hill and lawnWith intense angels fraught?
Sailed thro' majestic domes of the deep nightBy isles of stars,Wand'ring like some pure blessing warm with lightFrom worldly jarsTo the high halls of morning, pearly white,And heaped with golden bars.
Past temples vast, deluged with sandy seas,Whose ruins standLike bleaching bones of dead monstrositiesCrashed to the land,Stupendous homes of cursed idolatriesFallen to dust and sand.
Ugly and bestial gods caked thick with gold—Their hideousnessBlaspheming Christ—'mid shattered altars rolledTo rottenness,Their slaves abolished and their priests of oldTrodden to nothingness.
Thro' Syrian plains curtained with curling mistThe grass she trailed,Where the shy floweret; by the dew-drop kissed,Sweet blushing quailed;And drowned in purple vales of amethystThe moon-mad bulbuls wailed.
On glimmering wolds had seemed to hear the bleatOf folded flocks;Seen broad-browed sages pass with sandaled feetAnd hoary locks,While swimming in a bath of molten heatA great star glorious rocks.
In fancy o'er a beaming baby bent—Cradled amissIn a rude manger—on its brow to printOne holy kiss,While down the slant winds faint aromas wentAnd anthems deep of bliss....
And then she woke. The winter moon aboveBurst on her sight;And with strange sweetness all her dream was woveIn its far flight,For jubilant bells rocked booming "peace and love"Down all the aisles of night.
I oft have net thee, Autumn, wanderingBeside a misty stream, thy locks flung wild;Thy cheeks a hectic flush more fair than Spring,As if on thee the scarlet copse had smiled.Or thee I've seen a twisted oak beneath,Thy gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,Beneath a faded oak from whose tinged leavesThou woundedst drowsy wreaths, while the soft breathOf Morn did kiss thy locks and make them swimFar out behind, brown as the rustling sheaves.Oft have I thee upon a hillock seen,Dream-visaged, all agaze at glimpses faintOf glimmering woods that glanced the hills betweenWith Indian faces from thy airy paint.Or I have met thee 'twixt two dappled hillsWithin a dingled valley nigh a fall,Clasped in thy tinted hand a ruddy flower,And lowly stooping where the leaf-dammed rillsWent babbling low thro' wildwood's arrased hall,Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.Oft have I seen thee in a ruined mill,Where basked the crimson creeper serpentine;Where fallen leaves did stir and rustle chill,And saw thee rest beneath a wild grape-vine.While Echo, sad amid his deep-voiced mountains—More sad than erst—did raise a dreamy speechAnd call thee to his youthful, amorous arms,Where splashed the murmuring forest's limpid fountains;And tho' his words thy pink-shell ears did reach,Thou wouldst not heed or guile him with thy charms.Once saw thee in a hollow girt with trees,A-dream amid the harvest's tawny grain;Thy plushy cheek faint flushing in the breeze,In thy deep eyes a drowsy sky's blue stain.And where within the woodland's twilight pathThe cloud-winged skies did peep all speechless down,And stirred the gaudy leaves with fragrant breath,I've seen thee walk, nor fear the Winter's wrath;There drop asleep clad in thy gipsy gown,While Echo bending o'er dropp'd tears upon thy wreath.
I oft have net thee, Autumn, wanderingBeside a misty stream, thy locks flung wild;Thy cheeks a hectic flush more fair than Spring,As if on thee the scarlet copse had smiled.Or thee I've seen a twisted oak beneath,Thy gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,Beneath a faded oak from whose tinged leavesThou woundedst drowsy wreaths, while the soft breathOf Morn did kiss thy locks and make them swimFar out behind, brown as the rustling sheaves.
Oft have I thee upon a hillock seen,Dream-visaged, all agaze at glimpses faintOf glimmering woods that glanced the hills betweenWith Indian faces from thy airy paint.Or I have met thee 'twixt two dappled hillsWithin a dingled valley nigh a fall,Clasped in thy tinted hand a ruddy flower,And lowly stooping where the leaf-dammed rillsWent babbling low thro' wildwood's arrased hall,Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.
Oft have I seen thee in a ruined mill,Where basked the crimson creeper serpentine;Where fallen leaves did stir and rustle chill,And saw thee rest beneath a wild grape-vine.While Echo, sad amid his deep-voiced mountains—More sad than erst—did raise a dreamy speechAnd call thee to his youthful, amorous arms,Where splashed the murmuring forest's limpid fountains;And tho' his words thy pink-shell ears did reach,Thou wouldst not heed or guile him with thy charms.
Once saw thee in a hollow girt with trees,A-dream amid the harvest's tawny grain;Thy plushy cheek faint flushing in the breeze,In thy deep eyes a drowsy sky's blue stain.And where within the woodland's twilight pathThe cloud-winged skies did peep all speechless down,And stirred the gaudy leaves with fragrant breath,I've seen thee walk, nor fear the Winter's wrath;There drop asleep clad in thy gipsy gown,While Echo bending o'er dropp'd tears upon thy wreath.
Like some sad spirit from an unknown shoreThou comest with two children in thine arms:Flushed, poppied Sleep, whom mortals aye adore,Her flowing raiment sculptured to her charms.Soft on thy bosom in pure baby restClasped as a fair white rose in musky nest;But on thy other, like a thought of woe,Her brother, lean, cold Death doth thin recline,To thee as dear as she, thy maid divine,Whose frowsy hair his hectic breathings blowIn poppied ringlets billowing all her marble brow.Oft have I taken Sleep from thy vague armsAnd fondled her faint head, with poppies wreath'd,Within my bosom's depths, until its stormsWith her were hushed and I but mildly breath'd.And then this child, O Night! with frolic artArose from rest, and on my panting heartBlew bubbles of dreams where elfin worlds were lost,Until my airy soul smiled light on meFrom some far land too dim for day to see,And wandered in a shape of limpid frostWithin a dusky dale where soundless streams did flee.Welcome to Earth, O Night the saintly garbed!Slip meek as love into the Day's flushed heart!Drop in a dream from where the meteors orbedWander past systems scorning map or chart;Or sit aloft, thy hands brimmed full of stars,Or come in garb of storms 'mid thunder jars,When lightning-frilled gleams wide thy cloud-frounced dress,Then art thou grand! but, oh, when thy pure feetAlong the star-strewn floors of Heaven beat,And thy cool breath the heated world doth bless,Thou art God's angel of true love and gentleness!
Like some sad spirit from an unknown shoreThou comest with two children in thine arms:Flushed, poppied Sleep, whom mortals aye adore,Her flowing raiment sculptured to her charms.Soft on thy bosom in pure baby restClasped as a fair white rose in musky nest;But on thy other, like a thought of woe,Her brother, lean, cold Death doth thin recline,To thee as dear as she, thy maid divine,Whose frowsy hair his hectic breathings blowIn poppied ringlets billowing all her marble brow.
Oft have I taken Sleep from thy vague armsAnd fondled her faint head, with poppies wreath'd,Within my bosom's depths, until its stormsWith her were hushed and I but mildly breath'd.And then this child, O Night! with frolic artArose from rest, and on my panting heartBlew bubbles of dreams where elfin worlds were lost,Until my airy soul smiled light on meFrom some far land too dim for day to see,And wandered in a shape of limpid frostWithin a dusky dale where soundless streams did flee.
Welcome to Earth, O Night the saintly garbed!Slip meek as love into the Day's flushed heart!Drop in a dream from where the meteors orbedWander past systems scorning map or chart;Or sit aloft, thy hands brimmed full of stars,Or come in garb of storms 'mid thunder jars,When lightning-frilled gleams wide thy cloud-frounced dress,Then art thou grand! but, oh, when thy pure feetAlong the star-strewn floors of Heaven beat,And thy cool breath the heated world doth bless,Thou art God's angel of true love and gentleness!
As slaughter red the long creek crawlsFrom solitary forest walls,Out where the eve's wild glory falls.One wiry leg drowned in his breast,Neck-shrunk, flame-gilded with the West,Stark-stately he the evening wears.
As slaughter red the long creek crawlsFrom solitary forest walls,Out where the eve's wild glory falls.One wiry leg drowned in his breast,Neck-shrunk, flame-gilded with the West,Stark-stately he the evening wears.
The whimp'ring creek breaks on the stone;The new moon came, but now is gone;White, tingling stars wink out alone.Lank specter of wet, windy lands,The melancholy heron stands;Then, clamoring, dives into the stars.
The whimp'ring creek breaks on the stone;The new moon came, but now is gone;White, tingling stars wink out alone.Lank specter of wet, windy lands,The melancholy heron stands;Then, clamoring, dives into the stars.
I.Life has fled; she is dead,Sleeping in the flow'ry valeWhere the fleeting shades are shedGhost-like o'er her features pale.Lay her 'neath the violets wild,Lay her like a dreaming child'Neath the waving grassWhere the shadows pass.II.Gone she has to happy restWith white flowers for her pillow;Moons look sadly on her breastThro' an ever-weeping willow.Fold her hands, frail flakes of snow,Waxen as white roses blowLike herself so fair,Free from world and care.III.Twine this wreath of lilies wan'Round her sculptured brow so white;Let her rest here, white as dawn,Like a lily quenched in night.Wreath this rosebud wild and pale,Wreath it 'mid her fingers frail;On her dreamless breastLet it dreaming rest.IV.Gently, gently lay her down,Gently lay her form to sleep;Gently let her soul be blownFar away, while low we weep.Hush! the earth no more can harm herNow that choirs of angels charm her!Dreams of life are brief;Naught amendeth grief.V.Speed away! speed away!Angels called her here to sleep;Let us leave her here to stay:Speed away! and, speeding, weep.Where the roses blow and die,'Neath them she a rose doth lieWilted in the grassWhere the shadows pass.
I.
Life has fled; she is dead,Sleeping in the flow'ry valeWhere the fleeting shades are shedGhost-like o'er her features pale.Lay her 'neath the violets wild,Lay her like a dreaming child'Neath the waving grassWhere the shadows pass.
II.
Gone she has to happy restWith white flowers for her pillow;Moons look sadly on her breastThro' an ever-weeping willow.Fold her hands, frail flakes of snow,Waxen as white roses blowLike herself so fair,Free from world and care.
III.
Twine this wreath of lilies wan'Round her sculptured brow so white;Let her rest here, white as dawn,Like a lily quenched in night.Wreath this rosebud wild and pale,Wreath it 'mid her fingers frail;On her dreamless breastLet it dreaming rest.
IV.
Gently, gently lay her down,Gently lay her form to sleep;Gently let her soul be blownFar away, while low we weep.Hush! the earth no more can harm herNow that choirs of angels charm her!Dreams of life are brief;Naught amendeth grief.
V.
Speed away! speed away!Angels called her here to sleep;Let us leave her here to stay:Speed away! and, speeding, weep.Where the roses blow and die,'Neath them she a rose doth lieWilted in the grassWhere the shadows pass.
I.The shadows sit and stand within its doorLike uninvited guests and poor,And all the long, hot summer dayA dry green locust whirs its roundelay,And the shadows halt at the door.The sheeted iron upon the roofStretches its weary hide and cracks;The spider weaves his windy woofIn dingy closet cracks,And all a something lacks.The freckled snake crawls o'er the floor,Tongues at the shadows in the door,And where the musty mosses runBasks in the sun.II.The children of the fathers sleepBeneath the melancholy pines;Earth-worms within grim skulls forever creepAnd the glow-worm shines;The orchards in the meadow deepLift up their stained, gnarled arms,Mossed, lichened where limp lizards peep.No youth swells up to make them leapAnd cry against the storms;No blossom lulls their age asleep,Each wind brings sad alarms.Big-bellied apples gold or bell-round pearsNo maiden gathers now;The moistures drip great reeking tearsFrom each old, crippled bough.III.The orchards are yellow and solitary,The winds beat down their hands;The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary,The hum of the country is lonesome and weary,And the bees go by in bandsTo other happier lands.The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower;The orchards smell dank and rankAs a chamber where lay for a lonely hourA corpse unclad in the taper's glower,Chill, white, and lank.So the bees go by in murmurous bands,Drowsily wand'ring to happier landsWhere the lilies draggle the bank.IV.In the desolate halls are lying,Gold, blood-red, and browned,Shriveled leaves of Autumn dying,And the shadows o'er them flyingTurn them 'round and 'round,Make a dreary soundThro' the echoing chambers cryingIn the haunted house.V.Gazing down in her white shroudFrom the edging cloudComes at night the dimpled moon,Comes, and like a ghost is gone'Neath the flying cloudO'er the haunted house.
I.
The shadows sit and stand within its doorLike uninvited guests and poor,And all the long, hot summer dayA dry green locust whirs its roundelay,And the shadows halt at the door.The sheeted iron upon the roofStretches its weary hide and cracks;The spider weaves his windy woofIn dingy closet cracks,And all a something lacks.The freckled snake crawls o'er the floor,Tongues at the shadows in the door,And where the musty mosses runBasks in the sun.
II.
The children of the fathers sleepBeneath the melancholy pines;Earth-worms within grim skulls forever creepAnd the glow-worm shines;The orchards in the meadow deepLift up their stained, gnarled arms,Mossed, lichened where limp lizards peep.No youth swells up to make them leapAnd cry against the storms;No blossom lulls their age asleep,Each wind brings sad alarms.Big-bellied apples gold or bell-round pearsNo maiden gathers now;The moistures drip great reeking tearsFrom each old, crippled bough.
III.
The orchards are yellow and solitary,The winds beat down their hands;The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary,The hum of the country is lonesome and weary,And the bees go by in bandsTo other happier lands.The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower;The orchards smell dank and rankAs a chamber where lay for a lonely hourA corpse unclad in the taper's glower,Chill, white, and lank.So the bees go by in murmurous bands,Drowsily wand'ring to happier landsWhere the lilies draggle the bank.
IV.
In the desolate halls are lying,Gold, blood-red, and browned,Shriveled leaves of Autumn dying,And the shadows o'er them flyingTurn them 'round and 'round,Make a dreary soundThro' the echoing chambers cryingIn the haunted house.
V.
Gazing down in her white shroudFrom the edging cloudComes at night the dimpled moon,Comes, and like a ghost is gone'Neath the flying cloudO'er the haunted house.
What am I, and what is heWho can cull and tear a heart,As one might a rose for sportIn its royalty?What am I, that he has madeAll this love a bitter foam,Blown about a life of loamThat must break and fade?He who of my heart could makeHollow crystal where his faceLike a passion had its placeHoly and then break!Shatter with insensate jeers!—But these weary eyes are dry,Tearless clear, and if I dieThey shall know no tears.Yet my heart weeps;—let it weep!Let it weep in sullen pain,And this anguish in my brainCry itself to sleep.Ah! the afternoon is warm,And yon fields are glad and fair;Many happy creatures thereThro' the woodland swarm.All the summer land is still,And the woodland stream is darkWhere the lily rocks its barqueJust below the mill.If they found me icy there'Mid the lilies and pale whorlsOf the cresses in my curlsWet of raven hair—Fool and coward! are you such?Would you have him thus to knowThat you died for utter woeAnd despair o'ermuch?No! my face a marble bust!As the Sphynx, impassioned, stern!—Passions hid, as in an urn,Burnt to bitter dust!And I'll write him as he wrote,Making, with his worded scorn,Tyrant,—crowned with stinging thorn,—His cold, cruel note."You'll forget," he says, "and IFeel 'tis better for us twain:It may give you some small pain,But, 'twill soon be by."You are dark, and Maud is light;I am dark; and it is saidOpposites are better wed;—So I think I'm right.""You are dark and Maud is fair!"I could laugh at this excuseIf this aching, mad abuseWere not more than hair!But I'll write him as a-gladSome few happy words and light,Touching on some past delight,That last year we had.Not one line of broken vows,Sighs or hurtful tears unshed,Faithless lips far better dead,Nor a withered rose.But a rose, thisPerleto wear,—Perle des JardinsdelicateWith faint fragrant life elate,—When he weds her there.So; 'tis finished! It is well!Go, thou rose! I have no tear,Kiss, or word for thee to bear,And no woe to tell.Only be thus full of life,Cold and calm, impassionate,Filled with neither love nor hate,When he calls her wife!
What am I, and what is heWho can cull and tear a heart,As one might a rose for sportIn its royalty?
What am I, that he has madeAll this love a bitter foam,Blown about a life of loamThat must break and fade?
He who of my heart could makeHollow crystal where his faceLike a passion had its placeHoly and then break!
Shatter with insensate jeers!—But these weary eyes are dry,Tearless clear, and if I dieThey shall know no tears.
Yet my heart weeps;—let it weep!Let it weep in sullen pain,And this anguish in my brainCry itself to sleep.
Ah! the afternoon is warm,And yon fields are glad and fair;Many happy creatures thereThro' the woodland swarm.
All the summer land is still,And the woodland stream is darkWhere the lily rocks its barqueJust below the mill.
If they found me icy there'Mid the lilies and pale whorlsOf the cresses in my curlsWet of raven hair—
Fool and coward! are you such?Would you have him thus to knowThat you died for utter woeAnd despair o'ermuch?
No! my face a marble bust!As the Sphynx, impassioned, stern!—Passions hid, as in an urn,Burnt to bitter dust!
And I'll write him as he wrote,Making, with his worded scorn,Tyrant,—crowned with stinging thorn,—His cold, cruel note.
"You'll forget," he says, "and IFeel 'tis better for us twain:It may give you some small pain,But, 'twill soon be by.
"You are dark, and Maud is light;I am dark; and it is saidOpposites are better wed;—So I think I'm right."
"You are dark and Maud is fair!"I could laugh at this excuseIf this aching, mad abuseWere not more than hair!
But I'll write him as a-gladSome few happy words and light,Touching on some past delight,That last year we had.
Not one line of broken vows,Sighs or hurtful tears unshed,Faithless lips far better dead,Nor a withered rose.
But a rose, thisPerleto wear,—Perle des JardinsdelicateWith faint fragrant life elate,—When he weds her there.
So; 'tis finished! It is well!Go, thou rose! I have no tear,Kiss, or word for thee to bear,And no woe to tell.
Only be thus full of life,Cold and calm, impassionate,Filled with neither love nor hate,When he calls her wife!
Here I have heard on hills the battle clashRoar to the windy sea that roared again:When, drunk with wrath, upon the clanking plainBarbaric kings did meet in war and dashTheir mailéd thousands down, heard onset crashLike crags contending 'gainst the battering main.Torrents of helms, beaming like streams of rain,Blue-billowing 'neath the pale moon's fitful flash;Saw the scared moon hang over the black woodLike a pale wreath of foam; shields, spears, and swordsShoot green as meteors thro' the steely flood,Or shine like ripples 'round their heathen lordsStanding like stubborn rocks, whence the wild waveOf war circled in steel and foamed out brave on brave.
Here I have heard on hills the battle clashRoar to the windy sea that roared again:When, drunk with wrath, upon the clanking plainBarbaric kings did meet in war and dashTheir mailéd thousands down, heard onset crashLike crags contending 'gainst the battering main.Torrents of helms, beaming like streams of rain,Blue-billowing 'neath the pale moon's fitful flash;Saw the scared moon hang over the black woodLike a pale wreath of foam; shields, spears, and swordsShoot green as meteors thro' the steely flood,Or shine like ripples 'round their heathen lordsStanding like stubborn rocks, whence the wild waveOf war circled in steel and foamed out brave on brave.