Once more the June with her great moonPoured harvest o'er the golden fields;Once more her days in hot, bright shieldsShe bore from morn to drooping noon.A rhymer, sick of work and rhyme,Disheartened by a poor success,I sought the woods to loll the timeIn one long month of quietness.It was the time when one will thrillFor indolent fields, serener skies;For Nature's softening subtletiesOf higher cloud and gullied rill.When crumpled poppies strew the hallsOf all the East, where mounts the Dawn,And in the eve the skyey lawnGold kingcups heap 'neath Night's gray walls.The silver peace of distant wolds,Of far-seen lakes a glimmering dance,Fresh green of undulating hills,Old woodlands silent with romance.Intenser stars, a lazier moon,The moonlit torrent on the peak,And at one's side a maiden meekAnd lovely as the balmy June.The toll-gate stood beside the road,The highway from the city's smoke;Its long, well white-washed spear-point brokeThe clean sky o'er the pike and showedThe draught-horse where his rest should be.The locusts tall with shade on shadeThe trough of water cool beneath,From heat and toil a Sabbath made.Beyond were pastures where the kineWould browse, and where a young bull roared;And here would pass a peeping hoardOf duck and brood in waddling line.A week flew by on wings of ease.I walked along a rutty lane;I stopped to list some picker's strainSung in a patch of raspberries.Upon the fence's lanky railsI leaned to stare into great eyesGlooming beneath a bonnet whiteBowed 'neath a chin of dimpled prize.Phœbe, the toll-man's daughter she;I knew her by a slow, calm smile,Whose source seemed distant many a mile,Brimming her eyes' profundity.Elastic as a filly's treadHer modest step, and full and warmThe graceful contour of her formHarmonious swelled from foot to head.And such a head!—You'd thought that thereThe languid night, in frowsy bliss,Had curled brown rays for her deep hairAnd stained them with the starlight's kiss.A face as beautiful and bright,As crystal fair as twilight skies,Lit with the stars of hazel eyes,And lashed with black of dusky night.She stood waist-deep amid the briers;Above in twisted lengths were rolledThe sunset's tangled whorls of gold,Blown from the West's mist-fueled fires.A shuddering twilight dashed with goldDown smouldering hills the fierce day fell,And bubbling over star on starThe night's blue cisterns 'gan to well,With the dusk crescent of his wingsA huge crane cleaves the wealthy West,While up the East a silver breastOf chastity the full moon brings.For her, I knew, where'er she trod,Each dew-drop raised a limpid glassTo flash her beauty from the grass;That wild flowers bloomed along the sod,Or, whisp'ring, murmured when she smiled;The wood-bird hushed to hark her song,Or, all enamored, from his wildBefore her feet flew flutt'ring long.The brook droned mystic melodies,Eddied in laughter when she kissedWith naked feet its amethystOf waters stained by blooming trees.
Once more the June with her great moonPoured harvest o'er the golden fields;Once more her days in hot, bright shieldsShe bore from morn to drooping noon.A rhymer, sick of work and rhyme,Disheartened by a poor success,I sought the woods to loll the timeIn one long month of quietness.It was the time when one will thrillFor indolent fields, serener skies;For Nature's softening subtletiesOf higher cloud and gullied rill.
When crumpled poppies strew the hallsOf all the East, where mounts the Dawn,And in the eve the skyey lawnGold kingcups heap 'neath Night's gray walls.The silver peace of distant wolds,Of far-seen lakes a glimmering dance,Fresh green of undulating hills,Old woodlands silent with romance.Intenser stars, a lazier moon,The moonlit torrent on the peak,And at one's side a maiden meekAnd lovely as the balmy June.
The toll-gate stood beside the road,The highway from the city's smoke;Its long, well white-washed spear-point brokeThe clean sky o'er the pike and showedThe draught-horse where his rest should be.The locusts tall with shade on shadeThe trough of water cool beneath,From heat and toil a Sabbath made.Beyond were pastures where the kineWould browse, and where a young bull roared;And here would pass a peeping hoardOf duck and brood in waddling line.
A week flew by on wings of ease.I walked along a rutty lane;I stopped to list some picker's strainSung in a patch of raspberries.Upon the fence's lanky railsI leaned to stare into great eyesGlooming beneath a bonnet whiteBowed 'neath a chin of dimpled prize.Phœbe, the toll-man's daughter she;I knew her by a slow, calm smile,Whose source seemed distant many a mile,Brimming her eyes' profundity.
Elastic as a filly's treadHer modest step, and full and warmThe graceful contour of her formHarmonious swelled from foot to head.And such a head!—You'd thought that thereThe languid night, in frowsy bliss,Had curled brown rays for her deep hairAnd stained them with the starlight's kiss.A face as beautiful and bright,As crystal fair as twilight skies,Lit with the stars of hazel eyes,And lashed with black of dusky night.
She stood waist-deep amid the briers;Above in twisted lengths were rolledThe sunset's tangled whorls of gold,Blown from the West's mist-fueled fires.A shuddering twilight dashed with goldDown smouldering hills the fierce day fell,And bubbling over star on starThe night's blue cisterns 'gan to well,With the dusk crescent of his wingsA huge crane cleaves the wealthy West,While up the East a silver breastOf chastity the full moon brings.
For her, I knew, where'er she trod,Each dew-drop raised a limpid glassTo flash her beauty from the grass;That wild flowers bloomed along the sod,Or, whisp'ring, murmured when she smiled;The wood-bird hushed to hark her song,Or, all enamored, from his wildBefore her feet flew flutt'ring long.The brook droned mystic melodies,Eddied in laughter when she kissedWith naked feet its amethystOf waters stained by blooming trees.
Down silver precipices drawnThe red-wine cataracts of dawnPour soundless torrents wide and far,Deluging each warm, floating star.A sound of winds and brooks and wings,Sweet woodland-fluted carolings,Star radiance dashed on moss and fern,Wet leaves that quiver, breathe, and burn;Wet hills, hung heavily with woods,Dew-drenched and drunken solitudesFaint-murmuring elfin canticles;Sound, light, and spicy boisterous smells,And flowers and buds; tumultuous bees,Wind-wafts and genii of the trees.Thro' briers that trammel, one by one,With swinging pails comes laughing onA troop of youthful berriers,Their wet feet glitt'ring where they passThro' dew-drop studded tufts of grass:And oh! their cheers, their merry cheers,Wake Echo on her shrubby rock,Whom dale and mountain answering mockWith rapid fairy horns, as ifEach mossy hill and weedy cliffHad its imperial Oberon,Who, seeking his Titania hidIn bloomy coverts him to shun,In kingly wrath had called and chid.
Down silver precipices drawnThe red-wine cataracts of dawnPour soundless torrents wide and far,Deluging each warm, floating star.A sound of winds and brooks and wings,Sweet woodland-fluted carolings,Star radiance dashed on moss and fern,Wet leaves that quiver, breathe, and burn;Wet hills, hung heavily with woods,Dew-drenched and drunken solitudesFaint-murmuring elfin canticles;Sound, light, and spicy boisterous smells,And flowers and buds; tumultuous bees,Wind-wafts and genii of the trees.Thro' briers that trammel, one by one,With swinging pails comes laughing onA troop of youthful berriers,Their wet feet glitt'ring where they passThro' dew-drop studded tufts of grass:And oh! their cheers, their merry cheers,Wake Echo on her shrubby rock,Whom dale and mountain answering mockWith rapid fairy horns, as ifEach mossy hill and weedy cliffHad its imperial Oberon,Who, seeking his Titania hidIn bloomy coverts him to shun,In kingly wrath had called and chid.
Cloud-feathers oozing rich with light,Slow trembling in the locks of Night,Her dusky waist with sultry goldGirdled and buckled fold on fold.High stars; a sound of bleating flocks;Gray, burly shadows fall'n 'mid rocks,Like giant curses overthrownBy some Arthurian champion;Soft-swimming sorceries of mistHaunting glad glens of amethyst;Low tinklings in dim clover dellsOf bland-eyed kine with brazen bells;And where the marsh in reed and grassBurns angry as a shattered glass.The flies blur sudden blasts of shine,Like wasted draughts of amber wineSpun high by reeling BacchanalsWhen Bacchus bredes his curling hairWith vine-leaves, and from ev'ry lairVoluptuous Mænads lovely calls.They come, they come, a happy throng,The berriers with gibe and song;Deep pails brimmed black to tin-white eavesWith luscious fruit kept cool with leavesOf aromatic sassafras,'Twixt which some sparkling berry slips,Like laughter, from the purple mass,Wine swollen as Silenus' lips.
Cloud-feathers oozing rich with light,Slow trembling in the locks of Night,Her dusky waist with sultry goldGirdled and buckled fold on fold.High stars; a sound of bleating flocks;Gray, burly shadows fall'n 'mid rocks,Like giant curses overthrownBy some Arthurian champion;Soft-swimming sorceries of mistHaunting glad glens of amethyst;Low tinklings in dim clover dellsOf bland-eyed kine with brazen bells;And where the marsh in reed and grassBurns angry as a shattered glass.
The flies blur sudden blasts of shine,Like wasted draughts of amber wineSpun high by reeling BacchanalsWhen Bacchus bredes his curling hairWith vine-leaves, and from ev'ry lairVoluptuous Mænads lovely calls.They come, they come, a happy throng,The berriers with gibe and song;Deep pails brimmed black to tin-white eavesWith luscious fruit kept cool with leavesOf aromatic sassafras,'Twixt which some sparkling berry slips,Like laughter, from the purple mass,Wine swollen as Silenus' lips.
The tanned and sultry noon climbs highUp gleaming reaches of the sky;Below the balmy belts of pinesThe cliff-lunged river laps and shines;Adown the aromatic dellSifts the warm harvest's musky smell.And, oh! above one sees and hearsThe brawny-throated harvesters;Their red brows beaded with the heat,By twos and threes among the wheatFlash their hot sickles' slendernessIn loops of shine; and sing, and sing,Like some mad troop of piping Pan,Along the hills that swoon or ringWith sounds of Ariel airinessThat haunted freckled Caliban:"O ho! O ho! 'tis noon, I say;The roses blow.Away, away, above the hayThe burly bees to the roses gayHum love-tunes all the livelong day,So low! so low!The roses' Minnesingers they."
The tanned and sultry noon climbs highUp gleaming reaches of the sky;Below the balmy belts of pinesThe cliff-lunged river laps and shines;Adown the aromatic dellSifts the warm harvest's musky smell.And, oh! above one sees and hearsThe brawny-throated harvesters;Their red brows beaded with the heat,By twos and threes among the wheatFlash their hot sickles' slendernessIn loops of shine; and sing, and sing,Like some mad troop of piping Pan,Along the hills that swoon or ringWith sounds of Ariel airinessThat haunted freckled Caliban:
"O ho! O ho! 'tis noon, I say;The roses blow.Away, away, above the hayThe burly bees to the roses gayHum love-tunes all the livelong day,So low! so low!The roses' Minnesingers they."
Up velvet lawns of lilac skiesThe tawny moon begins to riseBehind low blue-black hills of trees,As rises from faint Siren seas,To rock in purple deeps, hip-hid,A virgin-bosom'd Oceanid.Gaunt shadows crouch by rock and wood,Like hairy Satyrs, grim and rude,Till the white Dryads of the moonCome noiseless in their silver shoonTo beautify them with their love.The sweet, sad notes I hear, I hear,Beyond dim pines and mellow hills,Of some fair maiden harvester,The lovely Limnad of the groveWhose singing charms me while it kills:"O deep! O deep! the twilight rarePales on to sleep;And fair, so fair! fades the rich air.The fountain shines in its ferny lair,Where the cold Nymph sits in her oozy hairTo weep, to weep,For a mortal youth who is not there."
Up velvet lawns of lilac skiesThe tawny moon begins to riseBehind low blue-black hills of trees,As rises from faint Siren seas,To rock in purple deeps, hip-hid,A virgin-bosom'd Oceanid.Gaunt shadows crouch by rock and wood,Like hairy Satyrs, grim and rude,Till the white Dryads of the moonCome noiseless in their silver shoonTo beautify them with their love.The sweet, sad notes I hear, I hear,Beyond dim pines and mellow hills,Of some fair maiden harvester,The lovely Limnad of the groveWhose singing charms me while it kills:
"O deep! O deep! the twilight rarePales on to sleep;And fair, so fair! fades the rich air.The fountain shines in its ferny lair,Where the cold Nymph sits in her oozy hairTo weep, to weep,For a mortal youth who is not there."
I.The juice-big apples' sullen gold,Like lazy Sultans laughed and lolled'Mid heavy mats of leaves that layGreen-flatten'd 'gainst the glaring day;And here a pear of rusty brown,And peaches on whose brows the downWaxed furry as the ears of Pan,And, like Diana's cheeks, whose tanBurnt tender secresies of fire,Or wan as Psyche's with desireOf lips that love to kiss or tasteVoluptuous ripeness there sweet placed.And down the orchard vistas he,—Barefooted, trousers out at knee,Face shadowing from the sloping sunA hat of straw, brim-sagging broad,—Came, lowly whistling some vague tune,Upon the sunbeam-sprinkled road.Lank in his hand a twig with whichIn boyish thoughtlessness he crushedRare pennyroyal myriads richIn pungent souls that warmly gushed.Before him whirled in rattling fearThe saffron-bellied grasshopper;And ringing from the musky dellsCame faint the cows' melodious bells,Where whimp'ring like a fretful houndThe fountain bubbled up in sound.II.Yellow as sunset skies and paleAs fairy clouds that stay or sailThro' azure vaults of summer, blueAs summer heavens the violets grew;And mosses on which spurts of lightFell laughing, like the lips one mightFeign for a Hebe or a girlWhose mouth heat-lightens up with pearl;Limp ferns in murmuring shadows shrunkAnd silent as if stunned or drunkWith moist aromas of the wood;Dry rustlings of the quietude;On silver fronds' thin tresses newCold limpid blisters of the dew.Across the rambling fence she leaned:A gingham gown to ankles bare;Her artless beauty, bonnet-screened,Tempestuous with its stormy hair.A rain-crow gurgled in a vine,—She heard it not—a step she hears;The wild rose smelt like delicate wine,—She knew it not—'tis he that nears.With smiles of greeting all her faceGrew musical; with rustic graceHe leant beside her, and they hadSome parley, with light laughter glad;I know not what; I know but this,Its final period was a kiss.
I.
The juice-big apples' sullen gold,Like lazy Sultans laughed and lolled'Mid heavy mats of leaves that layGreen-flatten'd 'gainst the glaring day;And here a pear of rusty brown,And peaches on whose brows the downWaxed furry as the ears of Pan,And, like Diana's cheeks, whose tanBurnt tender secresies of fire,Or wan as Psyche's with desireOf lips that love to kiss or tasteVoluptuous ripeness there sweet placed.And down the orchard vistas he,—Barefooted, trousers out at knee,Face shadowing from the sloping sunA hat of straw, brim-sagging broad,—Came, lowly whistling some vague tune,Upon the sunbeam-sprinkled road.Lank in his hand a twig with whichIn boyish thoughtlessness he crushedRare pennyroyal myriads richIn pungent souls that warmly gushed.Before him whirled in rattling fearThe saffron-bellied grasshopper;And ringing from the musky dellsCame faint the cows' melodious bells,Where whimp'ring like a fretful houndThe fountain bubbled up in sound.
II.
Yellow as sunset skies and paleAs fairy clouds that stay or sailThro' azure vaults of summer, blueAs summer heavens the violets grew;And mosses on which spurts of lightFell laughing, like the lips one mightFeign for a Hebe or a girlWhose mouth heat-lightens up with pearl;Limp ferns in murmuring shadows shrunkAnd silent as if stunned or drunkWith moist aromas of the wood;Dry rustlings of the quietude;On silver fronds' thin tresses newCold limpid blisters of the dew.Across the rambling fence she leaned:A gingham gown to ankles bare;Her artless beauty, bonnet-screened,Tempestuous with its stormy hair.A rain-crow gurgled in a vine,—She heard it not—a step she hears;The wild rose smelt like delicate wine,—She knew it not—'tis he that nears.With smiles of greeting all her faceGrew musical; with rustic graceHe leant beside her, and they hadSome parley, with light laughter glad;I know not what; I know but this,Its final period was a kiss.
I.Wafted o'er purple seas,From gold Hesperides,Mixed with the southern breeze,Hail to us spirits!Dripping with fragrant rains,Fire of our ardent veins,Life of the barren plains,Woodlands and germs that the woodland inherits.II.Wan as the creamy mist,Tinged with pale amethyst,Warm with the sun that kissedVine-tangled mountainsLooming o'er tropic lakes,Where ev'ry air that shakesTamarisk coverts makesMusic that haunts like the falling of fountains.III.Swift are our flashing feet,Fleet with the winds that meet,Winds that, blown, billow sweet,And with light porous,Boom with the drunken bees,Sigh with the surge of seas,Rush with the rush of trees,Birds and wild wings and of torrents sonorous.IV.Stars in our liquid eyes,Stars of the darkest skies,And on our fingers liesStarlight; and shadows,Unmooned, of nights that creepHide in our tresses deep,And in our limbs white sleepDreams like a baby in asphodel meadows.V.Music of many streams,Strength of a million beams,Fire and sainted dreams,Murmuring lowly,Pulse on hot lips of light,Which, what they kiss of blight,Quicken and blossom white,Raise to be beautiful, perfect, and holy.VI.Oh, will you sit and wait,When fields, erst desolate,Now are intoxicateWith life that flowers?Purple with love and rifeWith their fierce budded life,Passion and rosy strifeDrained from warm winds and the turbulent showers?VII.Nay! at our feet you'll lie:For the winds lullaby,For our completest sky,And largess flyingOf pinky pearls of blooms,For the one bee that booms,And the warm-spilled perfumesForget for a moment already we're dying!
I.
Wafted o'er purple seas,From gold Hesperides,Mixed with the southern breeze,Hail to us spirits!Dripping with fragrant rains,Fire of our ardent veins,Life of the barren plains,Woodlands and germs that the woodland inherits.
II.
Wan as the creamy mist,Tinged with pale amethyst,Warm with the sun that kissedVine-tangled mountainsLooming o'er tropic lakes,Where ev'ry air that shakesTamarisk coverts makesMusic that haunts like the falling of fountains.
III.
Swift are our flashing feet,Fleet with the winds that meet,Winds that, blown, billow sweet,And with light porous,Boom with the drunken bees,Sigh with the surge of seas,Rush with the rush of trees,Birds and wild wings and of torrents sonorous.
IV.
Stars in our liquid eyes,Stars of the darkest skies,And on our fingers liesStarlight; and shadows,Unmooned, of nights that creepHide in our tresses deep,And in our limbs white sleepDreams like a baby in asphodel meadows.
V.
Music of many streams,Strength of a million beams,Fire and sainted dreams,Murmuring lowly,Pulse on hot lips of light,Which, what they kiss of blight,Quicken and blossom white,Raise to be beautiful, perfect, and holy.
VI.
Oh, will you sit and wait,When fields, erst desolate,Now are intoxicateWith life that flowers?Purple with love and rifeWith their fierce budded life,Passion and rosy strifeDrained from warm winds and the turbulent showers?
VII.
Nay! at our feet you'll lie:For the winds lullaby,For our completest sky,And largess flyingOf pinky pearls of blooms,For the one bee that booms,And the warm-spilled perfumesForget for a moment already we're dying!
Ere the birth of Death and of Time,Ere the birth of Hell and its torments,Ere the orbs of heat and of rimeAnd the winds to the heavens were as garments,Worm-like in the womb of Space,Worm-like from her monster womb,We sprung, a myriad raceOf thunder and tempest and gloom.
Ere the birth of Death and of Time,Ere the birth of Hell and its torments,Ere the orbs of heat and of rimeAnd the winds to the heavens were as garments,Worm-like in the womb of Space,Worm-like from her monster womb,We sprung, a myriad raceOf thunder and tempest and gloom.
As from the evil goodSprings like a fire,As bland beatitudeWells from the dire,So was the Chaos broodOf us the sire.
As from the evil goodSprings like a fire,As bland beatitudeWells from the dire,So was the Chaos broodOf us the sire.
We had lain for gaunt ages asleep'Neath her breast in a bulk of torpor,When down through the vasts of the deepClove a sound like the notes of a harper;Clove a sound, and the horrors grewTumultuous with turbulent night,With whirlwinds of blackness that blew,And storm that was godly in might.And the walls of our prison were shatteredLike the crust of a fire-wrecked world;Like torrents of clouds that are scatteredOn the face of the Night we are hurled.
We had lain for gaunt ages asleep'Neath her breast in a bulk of torpor,When down through the vasts of the deepClove a sound like the notes of a harper;Clove a sound, and the horrors grewTumultuous with turbulent night,With whirlwinds of blackness that blew,And storm that was godly in might.And the walls of our prison were shatteredLike the crust of a fire-wrecked world;Like torrents of clouds that are scatteredOn the face of the Night we are hurled.
Us, in unholy thoughtPatiently lying,Eons of violence wrought,Violence defying.When on a mighty wind,—Born of a godly mindLarge with a motive kind,—Girdled with wonder,Flame and a strength of songRushed in a voice along,Burst and, lo! we were strong—Strong as the thunder.
Us, in unholy thoughtPatiently lying,Eons of violence wrought,Violence defying.When on a mighty wind,—Born of a godly mindLarge with a motive kind,—Girdled with wonder,Flame and a strength of songRushed in a voice along,Burst and, lo! we were strong—Strong as the thunder.
We lurk in the upper spaces,Where the oceans of tempest are born,Where the scowls of our shadowy facesAre safe from the splendors of morn.Our homes are wrecked worlds and each planetWhose sun is a light that is sped;Bleak moons whose cold bodies of graniteAre hollow and flameless and dead.
We lurk in the upper spaces,Where the oceans of tempest are born,Where the scowls of our shadowy facesAre safe from the splendors of morn.Our homes are wrecked worlds and each planetWhose sun is a light that is sped;Bleak moons whose cold bodies of graniteAre hollow and flameless and dead.
We in the living sunLive like a passion;Ere all his stars begunWe and the sun were one,As God did fashion.Lo! from our burning hands,Flung like inspired brands,Hurled we the stars, like sandsWhirled in the ocean;And all our breath was life,Life to those worlds and rifeWith ever-moving strife,Passion for motion.
We in the living sunLive like a passion;Ere all his stars begunWe and the sun were one,As God did fashion.Lo! from our burning hands,Flung like inspired brands,Hurled we the stars, like sandsWhirled in the ocean;And all our breath was life,Life to those worlds and rifeWith ever-moving strife,Passion for motion.
Our beds are the tombs of the mortals;We feed on their crimes and the thoughtThat falters and halts at the portalsOf actions, intentions unwrought.We cover the face of to-morrow;We frown in the hours that be;We breathe in the presence of sorrow,And death and destruction are we.
Our beds are the tombs of the mortals;We feed on their crimes and the thoughtThat falters and halts at the portalsOf actions, intentions unwrought.We cover the face of to-morrow;We frown in the hours that be;We breathe in the presence of sorrow,And death and destruction are we.
We are the hope and ease,Joy and the pleasure,Authors of love and peace,Love that shall never cease,Free as the azure.Birth of our eyes—the might,Power and strength of light,Victor o'er death and night,Flesh and its yearnings:And from our utt'rance streamsBeauty with burningsAfter completer dreams,Fuller discernings.Morning and birth are ours,Dew that is blownFrom our light lips like flowers;Clouds and the beating showers,Stars that are sown;Song and the bursting buds,Life of the many floods,Winds that are strown.Ye in your darkness areDark and infernal;Subject to death and mar!But in the spaces far,Like our effulgent star,We are eternal!
We are the hope and ease,Joy and the pleasure,Authors of love and peace,Love that shall never cease,Free as the azure.Birth of our eyes—the might,Power and strength of light,Victor o'er death and night,Flesh and its yearnings:And from our utt'rance streamsBeauty with burningsAfter completer dreams,Fuller discernings.
Morning and birth are ours,Dew that is blownFrom our light lips like flowers;Clouds and the beating showers,Stars that are sown;Song and the bursting buds,Life of the many floods,Winds that are strown.
Ye in your darkness areDark and infernal;Subject to death and mar!But in the spaces far,Like our effulgent star,We are eternal!
I.O tear-eyed goddess of the marble brow,Who showerest snows of tresses on the nightOf anguished temples! lonely watcher, thouWho bendest o'er the couch of life's dead light!Who in the hollow hours of night's noonRockest the cradle of the child,Whose fever-blooded eyeballs seek the moonTo cool their pulses wild.Thou who dost stoop to kiss a sister's cheek,Which rules the alabastar death with youth;Thou who art mad and strangely meek,—Empress of passions, couth, uncouth,We kneel to thee!II.O Sorrow, when the sapless world grows white,And singing gathers on her springtide robes,On some bleak steep which takes the ruby lightOf day, braid in thy locks the spirit globesOf cool, weak snowdrops dashed with frozen dew,And hasten to the leas belowWhere Spring may wandered be from the rich blueWhich rims yon clouds of snow.From the pied crocus and the violet's hues,Think then how thou didst rake the bosoming snow,To show some mother the soft bluesOf baby eyes, the sparkling glowOf dimple-dotted cheeks.III.On some hoar upland, hoar with clustered thorns,Hard by a river's wind-blown lisp of waves,Sit with young white-skinned Spring, whose dewy mornsLaugh in his pouting cheeks which Health enslaves.There feast thee on the brede of his long hair,Where half-grown roses royal blaze.And cool-eyed primroses wide-diskéd bare,Frail stars of moonish haze,Contented lie wound in his breathing arms:—'Tis meet that grief should mingle with the wan,That blue of calms and gloom of stormsReign on the burning throne of dawnTo glorify the world.IV.Or in the peaceful calm of stormy evens,When the sick, bloodless West doth winding spreadA sheeted shroud of silver o'er the heavensAnd brooches it with one rich star's gold head,Low lay thee down beside a mountain lake,Which dimples at the twilight's sigh,Couched on plush mosses 'neath green bosks that shakeStorm fragrance from on high,—The cold, pure spice of rain-drenched forests deep,—And gorge thy grief upon the nightingale,Who with the hush a war doth keepThat bubbles down the starlit valeTo Silence's rapt ear.
I.
O tear-eyed goddess of the marble brow,Who showerest snows of tresses on the nightOf anguished temples! lonely watcher, thouWho bendest o'er the couch of life's dead light!Who in the hollow hours of night's noonRockest the cradle of the child,Whose fever-blooded eyeballs seek the moonTo cool their pulses wild.Thou who dost stoop to kiss a sister's cheek,Which rules the alabastar death with youth;Thou who art mad and strangely meek,—Empress of passions, couth, uncouth,We kneel to thee!
II.
O Sorrow, when the sapless world grows white,And singing gathers on her springtide robes,On some bleak steep which takes the ruby lightOf day, braid in thy locks the spirit globesOf cool, weak snowdrops dashed with frozen dew,And hasten to the leas belowWhere Spring may wandered be from the rich blueWhich rims yon clouds of snow.From the pied crocus and the violet's hues,Think then how thou didst rake the bosoming snow,To show some mother the soft bluesOf baby eyes, the sparkling glowOf dimple-dotted cheeks.
III.
On some hoar upland, hoar with clustered thorns,Hard by a river's wind-blown lisp of waves,Sit with young white-skinned Spring, whose dewy mornsLaugh in his pouting cheeks which Health enslaves.There feast thee on the brede of his long hair,Where half-grown roses royal blaze.And cool-eyed primroses wide-diskéd bare,Frail stars of moonish haze,Contented lie wound in his breathing arms:—'Tis meet that grief should mingle with the wan,That blue of calms and gloom of stormsReign on the burning throne of dawnTo glorify the world.
IV.
Or in the peaceful calm of stormy evens,When the sick, bloodless West doth winding spreadA sheeted shroud of silver o'er the heavensAnd brooches it with one rich star's gold head,Low lay thee down beside a mountain lake,Which dimples at the twilight's sigh,Couched on plush mosses 'neath green bosks that shakeStorm fragrance from on high,—The cold, pure spice of rain-drenched forests deep,—And gorge thy grief upon the nightingale,Who with the hush a war doth keepThat bubbles down the starlit valeTo Silence's rapt ear.
On southern winds shot through with amber light,Breeding soft balm, and clothed in cloudy white,The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hillsWaking the crocus and the daffodils.O'er the cold earth she breathed a tender sigh,—The maples sang and flung their banners high,Their crimson-tasseled pennons, and the elmBound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves,Under the forest's myriad naked eaves,Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,Robed in the star-light of the twinkling dew.With timid tread adown the barren woodSpring held her way, when, lo! before her stoodWhite-mantled Winter wagging his white head,Stormy his brow, and stormily he said:—"Sole lord of terror, and the fiend of storm,Crowned king of despots, my envermeiled armSlew these vast woodlands crimsoning all their bowers!Thou, Spirit of Beauty, with thy bursting flowers,Swollen with pride, wouldst thou usurp my throne,Long planted here deep in the waste's wild moan?Sworn foe of beauty, with a band of iceI'll strangle thee tho' thou be welcomer thrice!"So round her throat a band of blasting frost,Her sainted throat of snow, he coiled and crossed,And cast her on the dark, unfeeling mold;Her tender blossoms, blighted in the foldOf her warm bosoms, trembling bowed their browsIn holy meekness, or in scattered rowsHuddled about her white and silent feet,Or on pale lips laid fond last kisses sweet,And died: lilacs all musky for the May,And bluer violets, and snow drops laySilent and dead, but yet divinely fair,Like ice gems glist'ning in Spring's lovely hair.The Beautiful, so innocent, sweet, and pure,Why must thou perish, and the evil still endure?Too soon must pass the Beautiful away!Too long doth Terror hold anarchal sway!Alas! sad heart, bow not beneath the pain,Time changeth all, the Beautiful wakes again!We can not question such; a higher powerKnows best what bud is ripest in its flower;Silently plucks it at the fittest hour.
On southern winds shot through with amber light,Breeding soft balm, and clothed in cloudy white,The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hillsWaking the crocus and the daffodils.O'er the cold earth she breathed a tender sigh,—The maples sang and flung their banners high,Their crimson-tasseled pennons, and the elmBound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves,Under the forest's myriad naked eaves,Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,Robed in the star-light of the twinkling dew.With timid tread adown the barren woodSpring held her way, when, lo! before her stoodWhite-mantled Winter wagging his white head,Stormy his brow, and stormily he said:—"Sole lord of terror, and the fiend of storm,Crowned king of despots, my envermeiled armSlew these vast woodlands crimsoning all their bowers!Thou, Spirit of Beauty, with thy bursting flowers,Swollen with pride, wouldst thou usurp my throne,Long planted here deep in the waste's wild moan?Sworn foe of beauty, with a band of iceI'll strangle thee tho' thou be welcomer thrice!"So round her throat a band of blasting frost,Her sainted throat of snow, he coiled and crossed,And cast her on the dark, unfeeling mold;Her tender blossoms, blighted in the foldOf her warm bosoms, trembling bowed their browsIn holy meekness, or in scattered rowsHuddled about her white and silent feet,Or on pale lips laid fond last kisses sweet,And died: lilacs all musky for the May,And bluer violets, and snow drops laySilent and dead, but yet divinely fair,Like ice gems glist'ning in Spring's lovely hair.The Beautiful, so innocent, sweet, and pure,Why must thou perish, and the evil still endure?Too soon must pass the Beautiful away!Too long doth Terror hold anarchal sway!Alas! sad heart, bow not beneath the pain,Time changeth all, the Beautiful wakes again!We can not question such; a higher powerKnows best what bud is ripest in its flower;Silently plucks it at the fittest hour.
The hoar-frost hisses 'neath the feet,And the worm-fence's straggling length,Smote by the morning's slanted strength,Sparkles one rib of virgin sleet.To withered fields the crisp breeze talks,And silently and sadly liftsThe bronz'd leaves from the beech and driftsThem wadded down the woodland walks.Reluctantly and one by oneThe worthless leaves sift slowly down,And thro' the mournful vistas blownDrop rustling, and their rest is won.Where stands the brook beneath its fall,Thin-scaled with ice the pool is bound,And on the pebbles scattered 'roundThe ooze is frozen; one and allWhite as rare crystals shining fair.There stirs no life: the faded woodMourns sighing, and the solitudeSeems shaken with a mighty care.Decay and silence sadly drapeThe vigorous limbs of oldest trees,The rotting leaves and rocks whose kneesAre shagged with moss, with misty crape.To sullenness the surly crowAll his derisive feeling yields,And o'er the barren stubble-fieldsFlaps cawless, wrapped in hungry woe.The eve comes on: the teasel stoopsIts spike-crowned head before the blast;The tattered leaves drive whirling pastLike skeletons in whistling troops.The pithy elder copses sigh;Their broad blue combs with berries weighed,Like heavy pendulums are swayedWith ev'ry gust that hurries by.Thro' matted walls of tangled brierThat hedge the lane, the sumachs thrustTheir scarlet torches red as rust,Burning with flames of stolid fire.The evening's here—cold, hard, and drear;The lavish West with bullion brightOf molten silver walls the nightFar as one star's thin rays appear.Wedged toward the West's cold luridnessThe wild geese fly 'neath roseless domes;The wild cry of the leader comesDistant and harsh with loneliness.The pale West dies, and in its cupBubble on bubble pours the night:The East glows with a mystic light;The stars are keen; the moon is up.
The hoar-frost hisses 'neath the feet,And the worm-fence's straggling length,Smote by the morning's slanted strength,Sparkles one rib of virgin sleet.
To withered fields the crisp breeze talks,And silently and sadly liftsThe bronz'd leaves from the beech and driftsThem wadded down the woodland walks.
Reluctantly and one by oneThe worthless leaves sift slowly down,And thro' the mournful vistas blownDrop rustling, and their rest is won.
Where stands the brook beneath its fall,Thin-scaled with ice the pool is bound,And on the pebbles scattered 'roundThe ooze is frozen; one and all
White as rare crystals shining fair.There stirs no life: the faded woodMourns sighing, and the solitudeSeems shaken with a mighty care.
Decay and silence sadly drapeThe vigorous limbs of oldest trees,The rotting leaves and rocks whose kneesAre shagged with moss, with misty crape.
To sullenness the surly crowAll his derisive feeling yields,And o'er the barren stubble-fieldsFlaps cawless, wrapped in hungry woe.
The eve comes on: the teasel stoopsIts spike-crowned head before the blast;The tattered leaves drive whirling pastLike skeletons in whistling troops.
The pithy elder copses sigh;Their broad blue combs with berries weighed,Like heavy pendulums are swayedWith ev'ry gust that hurries by.
Thro' matted walls of tangled brierThat hedge the lane, the sumachs thrustTheir scarlet torches red as rust,Burning with flames of stolid fire.
The evening's here—cold, hard, and drear;The lavish West with bullion brightOf molten silver walls the nightFar as one star's thin rays appear.
Wedged toward the West's cold luridnessThe wild geese fly 'neath roseless domes;The wild cry of the leader comesDistant and harsh with loneliness.
The pale West dies, and in its cupBubble on bubble pours the night:The East glows with a mystic light;The stars are keen; the moon is up.
From gray, bleak hills 'neath steely skiesThro' beards of ice the forests roar;Along the river's humming shoreThe skimming skater bird-like flies.On windy meads where wave white breaks,Where fettered briers' glist'ning handsReach to the cold moon's ghastly lands,Hoots the lorn owl, and crouching quakes.With frowsy snow blanched is the world;Stiff sweeps the wind thro' murmuring pines,Then fiend-like deep-entangled whinesThro' the dead oak, that vagrant twirledPhantoms the cliff o'er the wild wold:Ghost-vested willows rim the stream,Low hang lank limbs where in a dreamThe houseless hare leaps o'er the coldOn snow-tressed crags that twinkling flash,Like champions mailed for clanking war,Glares down large Phosphor's quiv'ring star,Where teeth of foam the fierce seas gnash.Slim o'er the tree-tops weighed with whiteThe country church's spire doth swell,A scintillating icicle,While fitfully the village lightIn sallow stars stabs the gray dark;Homeward the creaking wagons strainThro' knee-deep drifts; the steeple's vaneA flitting ghost whirls in its sark.Down from the flaky North with clash,Swathed in his beard of flashing sleet,With steeds of winds that jangling beatLife from the world, and roaring dash,—Loud Winter! ruddy as a roseBlown by the June's mild, musky lips;The high moon dims her horn that dips,And fold on fold roll down the snows.
From gray, bleak hills 'neath steely skiesThro' beards of ice the forests roar;Along the river's humming shoreThe skimming skater bird-like flies.
On windy meads where wave white breaks,Where fettered briers' glist'ning handsReach to the cold moon's ghastly lands,Hoots the lorn owl, and crouching quakes.
With frowsy snow blanched is the world;Stiff sweeps the wind thro' murmuring pines,Then fiend-like deep-entangled whinesThro' the dead oak, that vagrant twirled
Phantoms the cliff o'er the wild wold:Ghost-vested willows rim the stream,Low hang lank limbs where in a dreamThe houseless hare leaps o'er the cold
On snow-tressed crags that twinkling flash,Like champions mailed for clanking war,Glares down large Phosphor's quiv'ring star,Where teeth of foam the fierce seas gnash.
Slim o'er the tree-tops weighed with whiteThe country church's spire doth swell,A scintillating icicle,While fitfully the village light
In sallow stars stabs the gray dark;Homeward the creaking wagons strainThro' knee-deep drifts; the steeple's vaneA flitting ghost whirls in its sark.
Down from the flaky North with clash,Swathed in his beard of flashing sleet,With steeds of winds that jangling beatLife from the world, and roaring dash,—
Loud Winter! ruddy as a roseBlown by the June's mild, musky lips;The high moon dims her horn that dips,And fold on fold roll down the snows.
I.Now Lucifer ignites her taper brightTo greet the wild-flowered Dawn,Who leads the tasseled Summer draped with lightDown heaven's gilded lawn.Hark to the minstrels of the woods,Tuning glad harps in haunted solitudes!List to the rillet's music soft,The tree's hushed song:Flushed from her star aloftComes blue-eyed Summer stepping meek along.II.And as the lusty lover leads her in,Clad in soft blushes red,With breezy lips her love he tries to win,Doth many a tear-drop shed:While airy sighs, dyed in his heart,Like Cupid's arrows, flame-tipped o'er her dart,He bends his yellow head and cravesThe timid maidFor one sweet kiss, and lavesHer rose-crowned locks with tears until 'tis paid.III.Come to the forest or the musky meadowsBrown with their mellow grain;Come where the cascades shake green shadows,Where tawny orchards reign.Come where fall reapers ply the scythe,Where golden sheaves are heaped by damsels blithe:Come to the rock-rough mountain old,Tree-pierced and wild;Where freckled flowers paint the wold,Hail laughing Summer, sunny-haired, blonde child!IV.Come where the dragon-flies in coats of blueFlit o'er the wildwood streams,And fright the wild bee from the honey-dewWhere if long-sipping dreams.Come where the touch-me-nots shy peepGold-horned and speckled from the cascades steep:Come where the daisies by the rustic bridgeDisplay their eyes,Or where the lilied sedgeFrom emerald forest-pools, lance-like, thick rise.V.Come where the wild deer feed within the brakeAs red as oak and strong;Come where romantic echoes wildly wakeOld hills to mystic song.Come to the vine-hung woodlands hoary,Come to the realms of hunting song and story;But come when Summer decks the landWith garb of gold,With colors myriad as the sand—A birth-fair child, tho' thousand summers old.VI.Come where the trees extend their shining armsUnto the star-sown skies;Displaying wrinkled age in limb-gnarled charmsWhen Night, moon-eyed, brown liesUpon their bending lances seenWith fluttered pennons in the moon's broad sheen.Come where the pearly dew is spreadUpon the rose;Come where the fire-flies wedThe drowsy Night flame-stained with sudden glows.VII.Come to the vine-dark dingle's whispering glensWhite with their blossoms pale;Come to the willowed weed-haired lakes and fens;Come to the tedded vale.Come all, and greet the brown-browed childWith lips of honey red as a poppy wild,Clothed in her vernal robes of old,Her hair with wheatAll tawny as with gold;Hail Summer with her sandaled grain-bound feet!
I.
Now Lucifer ignites her taper brightTo greet the wild-flowered Dawn,Who leads the tasseled Summer draped with lightDown heaven's gilded lawn.Hark to the minstrels of the woods,Tuning glad harps in haunted solitudes!List to the rillet's music soft,The tree's hushed song:Flushed from her star aloftComes blue-eyed Summer stepping meek along.
II.
And as the lusty lover leads her in,Clad in soft blushes red,With breezy lips her love he tries to win,Doth many a tear-drop shed:While airy sighs, dyed in his heart,Like Cupid's arrows, flame-tipped o'er her dart,He bends his yellow head and cravesThe timid maidFor one sweet kiss, and lavesHer rose-crowned locks with tears until 'tis paid.
III.
Come to the forest or the musky meadowsBrown with their mellow grain;Come where the cascades shake green shadows,Where tawny orchards reign.Come where fall reapers ply the scythe,Where golden sheaves are heaped by damsels blithe:Come to the rock-rough mountain old,Tree-pierced and wild;Where freckled flowers paint the wold,Hail laughing Summer, sunny-haired, blonde child!
IV.
Come where the dragon-flies in coats of blueFlit o'er the wildwood streams,And fright the wild bee from the honey-dewWhere if long-sipping dreams.Come where the touch-me-nots shy peepGold-horned and speckled from the cascades steep:Come where the daisies by the rustic bridgeDisplay their eyes,Or where the lilied sedgeFrom emerald forest-pools, lance-like, thick rise.
V.
Come where the wild deer feed within the brakeAs red as oak and strong;Come where romantic echoes wildly wakeOld hills to mystic song.Come to the vine-hung woodlands hoary,Come to the realms of hunting song and story;But come when Summer decks the landWith garb of gold,With colors myriad as the sand—A birth-fair child, tho' thousand summers old.
VI.
Come where the trees extend their shining armsUnto the star-sown skies;Displaying wrinkled age in limb-gnarled charmsWhen Night, moon-eyed, brown liesUpon their bending lances seenWith fluttered pennons in the moon's broad sheen.Come where the pearly dew is spreadUpon the rose;Come where the fire-flies wedThe drowsy Night flame-stained with sudden glows.
VII.
Come to the vine-dark dingle's whispering glensWhite with their blossoms pale;Come to the willowed weed-haired lakes and fens;Come to the tedded vale.Come all, and greet the brown-browed childWith lips of honey red as a poppy wild,Clothed in her vernal robes of old,Her hair with wheatAll tawny as with gold;Hail Summer with her sandaled grain-bound feet!