Tossing, throughout this tense and nervous nightSleepless I drowse. My soul, for lack of rest,Sinks like a bird, that after flight on flightMisses the shelter of its well-loved nest.So would I gain your side and seek, my love,The comfortable heaven of your breast.
Once more to lie beside the window seat,And see, far off, the ribboned river-lights,The yellow gas-lamps in the dusky street—And pressing close, from proud and alien heights,The noble skies and the inviolate starsSurround and bless us these autumnal nights.
No words—the silence and your breathless nameAre all that's in the world; and faint and fairThe distant church-bells solemnly proclaimTo all the meek and sabbath-scented air...I take you in my arms ... and I awakeGroping, with restless anger, for a prayer.
We sat together at the ocean's edge,The night was mystical and warm.From every rambling roadside hedgeWild roses followed us with a swarmOf scents; the pines and every odorous treeTriumphed and rose above the languid sea.The stars were dim—The world was hushed, as though before a shrine...We sat together at the ocean's rim,Your hand in mine.
Then came the moon—A calm, benignant moon,Like some indulgent mother that has smiledOn every wayward child.The breathing stillness, like a wordless croon,Made the soft heart of heaven doubly mild;And the salt air mingled with the air of June...
The vast and intimate Silence—and your lips...
Faintly we saw the lanterns of three ships,Three swaying sparks of sudden red and green...We spoke no word; we heard unseenA night-bird wearily flapping.And nothing murmured in that world of wonder—Only the hushing waters' gentle lapping.
A distant trembling, as of ghostly thunder;Then, poignantly and plain,The lonely whistle of a weary train...And once again the Silence—and your lips.
Oh let me never cease to thank you for that night;That night that eased and fortified my heart.When radiant peace, dearer than all delight,Bathed every old and feverish smart,Wiped out all memories of the uncleanly fight...Cradled in that great beauty, and your arms,The cries and mad alarmsWere lulled and all the bitter banners furled.The tumult vanished, and the thought thereof...In you I knew the sweet contentment of the world,The balm of silence and the strength of love.
Dusk—and a hunger for your faceThat grows, with brooding twilight, deeper,While in this hushed and cheerless place,The world lies, like a careless sleeper.Oh for a brave, red wave of soundTo send Life flowing somehow through me;Oh for the blatant, human roundTo end these hours lone and gloomy.
At last—the friendly summer night,And children's voices calling after.Long avenues sing out with light;Murmurs arise and bursts of laughter.I hear the lisp of happy feet—Life goes by like a rushing river—A boy comes whistling up the street...And I am lonelier than ever.
Back she came through the trembling dusk;And her mother spoke and said:"What is it makes you late to-day,And why do you smile and sing as gayAs though you just were wed?""Oh mother, my hen that never had chicksHas hatched out six!"
Back she came through the flaming dusk;And her mother spoke and said:"What gives your eyes that dancing light,What makes your lips so strangely bright,And why are your cheeks so red?""Oh mother, the berries I ate in the laneHave left a stain."
Back she came through the faltering dusk;And her mother spoke and said:"You are weeping; your footstep is heavy with care—What makes you totter and cling to the stair,And why do you hang your head?""Oh mother—oh mother—you never can know—I loved him so!"
Boy, my boy, it is lonely in the city,Days that have no pity and the nights without a tearFollow all too slowly and I can no more dissemble;I am frightened and I tremble—and I would that you were here.Oh boy—God keep you.
Boy, my boy, I had sworn to weep no longer.Time I thought was stronger than the evenings long gone by;The ardent looks, the eager hands, the whispers hot and hurried—But they all come back unburied and not one of them will die.Oh boy—God save you.
Boy, my boy, you were bold with youth and power;Your love was like a flower that you wore upon your sleeve.And wherever you may go there'll be a girl with eyes that glisten;A girl to watch and listen, and a girl for you to leave.Oh boy—God help her!
The willow and the riverRipple with silver speech,And one refrain foreverThey murmur each to each:
"Brook with the silver gravel,Would that your lot were mine;To wander free, to travelWhere greener valleys shine—Strange ventures, fresh revealings,And, at the end—the sea!Brook, with your turns and wheelings,How rich your life must be."
"Tree with the golden rustling,Would that I were so blessed,To cease this stumbling, jostling,This feverish unrest.I join the ocean's riot;You stand song-filled—and free!Tree, with your peace and quiet,How rich your life must be."
The willow and the riverRipple with silver speech,And one refrain foreverThey murmur each to each.
Again I comeWith my handful of Song—With my trumpery gift tricked out and made showy with rhyme.It is Spring, and the timeWhen your thoughts are long;When the blossoming world in its confident primeWhispers and wakens imperative dreams;When you color and startWith the airiest schemesAnd the laughter of children is stirring your heart...
With all of these voices that rise to restore youTo gladness again,With your heart full of things that sing and adore you,I come with my strain—I come with my tinkling that patters like rainOn a rickety pane;With a jingle of words and old tunes which have longDone duty in song;Spreading my verse, like a showman, before you...And you turn to the world, as you turn to the bosom that bore you.
In all this singing at your heart,In all this ringing through the day,In the bravado of the MayI have no part....For I am not one with the conquering yearThat wakes without fearThe lyrical souls of the feathery throng,That flames in the heavens when evenings are long;That surges with power and urges with cheerThe boldness of love, the laugh of the strong,And the confident song...
I am no longer the masterful loverStorming my way to the shrine of your heart;Reckless with youth and the zest to discoverAll that the world sets apart.I am no longerWiser and stronger;No longer I shout in the face of the world;No longer my challenge is sounded and hurledWith such fury that even the heavens must hear it.No longer I mount on a passionate flood—Something has changed my arrogant spirit,Something has left my braggart blood.Something has left me—something has entered in—Something I knew not, something beyond my desire.Deeper and gentler I hold you; all that has beenSeems like a spark that is lost in a forest of fire.Minor my song is, for still the old memories burn—Only in you and your thought do I find my release...I have done with the blustering airs, and I turnFrom the clamorous strife to the greater heroics of peace.
Take me againOut of the cries and alarmsAll of the tumult is vain...Here in your arms.
Hold me again—Oft have we wandered apart;Now it is all made plain...Here in your heart.
Heal me again—Cleanse me with tears that removePain and the ruins of pain...Here in your love.
Minor my song was—abashed I must lower my voice;Something has touched me with nobler and holier fire;Something that thrills, as when trumpets and children rejoice;Something I knew not, something beyond my desire...Minor no longer—the sighing and droning depart;In a chorus of triumph the jubilant spirits increase—Shelter and spur me forever in the merciful strength of your heart,You who have soothed me with passion and roused me withpassionate peace.
At last the great, red sun sank low,An evil, blood-shot eye,And cooling airs sprang up to blowThe sea that challenged, glow for glow,The angry face of the sky.
Still burned the streets we had left behind,Where, tortured and broken down,The millions scarcely hoped to findA moment's escape from the maddening grindIn the terrible furnace of town.
And, blotting out cities, the twilight fellWith a single star at seven...The sea grew wider beneath the spellAnd the moon, like a broken silver shell,Lay on the shore of heaven.
Grow not so fast, glow not so warm;Thy hidden fires burn too wild—Too perfect is thy rounded form;Cling close, my child.
Be yet my babe, rest quiet whenThe great sea-urges beat and call;Too soon wilt thou be ripe for men,The world and all.
Thy shining skin, thy silken sheath,These will undo thee all too soon;And men will fight for thee beneathSome paler moon...
Aye, thou my own, my undefiled,Shalt make the lewd world dream and start,When they have seized and torn thee, child,Out of my heart.
With velvets shall thy bed be laid;A royal captive thou shalt be—And oh, what prices will be paidTo ransom thee.
Thy path shall be a track of gold,Of lust, of death and countless crimes;Bought by a sensual world—and soldA thousand times...
And each shall lose thee at the last,Hating, yet still desiring thee...While I lie, where I have been cast,Back in the sea.
So wait—and, lest the world transformThy soul and make thee wanton-wild,Grow not so fast, glow not so warm,Cling close, my child.
We sat together close and warm,My little tired boy and I—Watching across the evening skyThe coming of the storm.
No rumblings rose, no thunders crashed,The west-wind scarcely sang aloud;But from a huge and solid cloudThe summer lightnings flashed.
And then he whispered "Father, watch;I think God's going to light His moon—""And when, my boy" ... "Oh, very soon—I saw Him strike a match!"
The winds like a pack of houndsSnap at my dragging heelsWith sudden leapings and playful boundsThey urge me out to the greener groundsWhere the butterfly sinks and the swallow reelsGiddy with Spring, with its smells and sounds—And I go...
For of late I have fretted and sulked, and clung to my booksand the house;Lethargic with winter fancies and dulled with a torpid mood—But now I am called by the grasses; the rumor of blossoming boughs;The hints of a thousand singers and the ancient thrill of the wood.
For the streets run over with sunlight and spillA glory on bricks and the dustiest sill;And Life, like a great drum, pulses and pounds—I follow the world and I follow my will,And I go to see what the park revealsWhen the winds, like a pack of buoyant hounds,Snap at my dragging heels...
Once with the green againHow I am changed—Lo, I have seen againFriends long estranged.Once more the lyricalRose-bush and river;Once more the miracle,Greater than ever!
Where is there dulness now—Rich with new urgesLife in its fullness nowSurges and purgesAll that is brash in me—Sunlight and SongThese things will fashion meSplendid and strong.
Splendid and strong I shall grow once again;Joyful and clean as the mind of a child,As tears after pain,Or hearts reconciled,As woods washed with rain,As love in the wild,Or that bird to whom all things but singing is vain.
"Bird, there were songs in your heart just as rapturousAs these that you bring—Why when we longed for your magic to capture usDid you not sing?Now with the world making music we heed you not.Coward, for all your fine challenge, we need you not—We too are brave with the Spring!"
So I sang—but a something was missing; the songand the sunlight were stale,Though a squirrel had sat on my shoulder and sparrowshad fed from my hand;Though I heard the white laughter of ripples and the breezes'faint answering hail,And somewhere a bird's voice I knew not—yet hearing couldhalf understand...
And lo, at my doorstep I saw it; it shouted to me as I came—It laughed in its simple revealment, a miracle common and wild;Plainly I heard and beheld it, bright as a forest of flame—And its face was the face of a mother, and its voice was thevoice of a child.
Your eyes—and a thousand starsLeap from the night to aid me;I scale the impossible bars,I laugh at a world that dismayed me.
Your voice—and the thundering skiesTremble and cease to appall me—Coward no longer, I riseSpurred for what battles may call me.
Your arms—and my purpose grows strong;Your lips—and high passions complete me...For your love, it is armor and Song—And where is the thing to defeat me!
Make way for Spring—Spring that's a stranger in the city,Spring that's a truant in the town.Make way for Spring, for she has no pityAnd she will tear your barriers down—Make way for Spring!
See from her hidden valleys,With mirth that never palls,She comes with songs and sallies,With bells and magic calls,And dances down your alleys,And whispers through your walls.
You who never once have missed herIn your town of pomp and prideNow in vain you will resist her—You will feel her at your side;Even in the smallest street,Even in the densest throng,She will follow at your feet,She will walk with you along.She will stop you as you startHere and there, and growing bolder,She will touch you on the shoulder,She will clutch you at the heart...
Merchant, you who drink your meadFrom a golden cup,Shut your ears, and do not heed;Look not up.Beware—for she is light as air,And her charm will work confusion;Spring is but an old delusionAnd a snare....Merchant, you who drink your meadWhile the thirsty die,Shut your eyes, and do not heed—Pass her by.
Maiden with the nun-like eyesDo not pause to greet her;Spring is far too wild and wise—Do not meet her.Do not listen while she tellsHer persuasive lures and spells;Do not learn her secrets, lestShe should plant them in your breast;Whisper things to shame and shock you,Make your heart beat fast—and mock you;Send you dreams that rob your rest...Maiden with the nun-like eyesSpring is far too wild and wise.
And you, my friend, with hasty strideThink you to escape her;Ah, like fire touching paper,She will burn into your side.She will rouse you once again;She will sway you, till you followLike the smallest singing swallowIn her train.
Put irons on your feet, my friend,And chain your soul with golden weights,Lest she should move you in the endAnd lead you past the city gates;And make you frolic with the wind;And play a thousand godlike parts;And sing—until within you startsA pity for the senseless blind,The deaf, the dumb and all their kindWhose eager, aimless footsteps windForever to the frantic marts,Through every mad and breathless street..,My friend, put irons on your feet.
So—and that is right, my friend;Do not yield.Send her on her way, and endAll her follies; let her spendHer reckless days and nights concealedIn wood and field......The paths beyond the town are clear;These skies are wan—Bid her begone.What is she doing here?
What is she doing here—and why?The city is no place for Spring.What can she have; what can she bringThat you would care to buy.Her songs? Alas, you do not sing.Her smiles? You have no time to try.Her wings? You do not care to fly—Spring has not fashioned anythingTo tempt your jaded eye.
The city is no place for her—It is too violent and shrill;Too full of graver things—but stillBeneath the throbbing surge and stir,Her spirit lives and moves, untilEven the dullest feel the spurOf an awakened will.
Make way then—Life, rejoicing,Calls, with a lyric rout,Till in this mighty voicingThe very stones sing out;Till nowhere is a singleSleeping or silent thing,And worlds that meet and mingleFairly tingle with the Spring.
Make way for Her—For the fervor of Life,For the passions that stir,For the courage of Strife;For the struggles that bringA more vivid day—Make way for Spring;Make way!
Rain—and the lights of the city,Blurred by the mist on the pane.A thing without passion or pity—This is the rain.
It beats on the roof with derision,It howls at the doors of the cab—Phantoms go by in a vision,Distorted and drab.
Torpor and dreariness greet me;All of the things I abhorRise to confront and defeat me,As I ride to your door...
At last you have come; you have banishedThe gloom of each rain-haunted street—The tawdry surroundings have vanished;The evening is sweet.
Now the whole city is dreamlike;The rain plays the lightest of tunes;The lamps through the mist make it seem likeA city of moons.
No longer my fancies run riot;I hold the most magic of charms—You smile at me, warm and unquiet,Here in my arms.
I do not wonder or witnessWhether it rains or is fair;I only can think of your sweetness,And the scent of your hair.
I am deaf to the clatter and drumming,And life is a thing to ignore...Alas, my beloved, we are comingOnce more to your door!...
You have gone; it is listless and lonely;The evening is empty again;The world is a blank—there is onlyThe desolate rain.
Night is the city's disease.The streets and the people one seesGlow with a light that is strangely inhuman;A fever that never grows cold.Heaven completes the disgrace;For now, with her star-pitted face,Night has the leer of a dissolute woman,Cynical, moon-scarred and old.
And I think of the country roads;Of the quiet, sleeping abodes,Where every tree is a silent brotherAnd the hearth is a thing to cling to.And I sicken and long for it now—To feel clean winds on my brow,Where Night bends low, like an all-wise motherLooking for children to sing to.
Between the moss and stoneThe lonely lilies rise;Wasted and overgrownThe tangled garden lies.Weeds climb about the stoopAnd clutch the crumbling walls;The drowsy grasses droop—The night wind falls.
The place is like a wood;No sign is there to tellWhere rose and iris stoodThat once she loved so well.Where phlox and asters grew,A leafless thornbush stands,And shrubs that never knewHer tender hands...
Over the broken fenceThe moonbeams trail their shrouds;Their tattered cerementsCling to the gauzy clouds,In ribbons frayed and thin—And startled by the light,Silence shrinks deeper inThe depths of night.
Useless lie spades and rakes;Rust's on the garden-tools.Yet, where the moonlight makesNebulous silver pools,A ghostly shape is cast—Something unseen has stirred.Was it a breeze that passed?Was it a bird?
Dead roses lift their headsOut of a grassy tomb;From ruined pansy-bedsA thousand pansies bloom.The gate is opened wide—The garden that has been,Now blossoms like a bride...Who entered in?
Fling the stones and let them allLie;Take a breath, and toss the ballHigh—And before it strikes the floorOf the hoar and aged shore,Sweep them up, though there should beEven more than two or three.
Add a pebble, then once moreFling the stones and let them allLie;Take a breath, and toss the ballHigh....
Rises now the sound of ancient chantsAnd the circling figure moves more slowly.Thus the stately gods themselves must danceWhile the world grows rapturous and holy.Thus the gods might weave a great RomanceSinging to the sighs of flute and psalter;Till the last of all the many chants,And the priestess sinks before the altar.
Cease, oh cease the murmured singing;Hush the numbers brave or blithe,For she enters gravely swinging,Lowering and lithe—Dark and vengeful as the ringingScythe meets scythe.
While the flame is fiercely sweepingAll her virgin airs depart;She is, without smiles and weepingOr a maiden's art,Stern and savage as the leapingHeart meets heart!
Now the tune grows frantic,Now the torches flare—Wild and corybanticEchoes fill the air.With a sudden sallyAll the voices shout;And the bacchic rallyTurns into a rout.
Here is life that surgesThrough each burning vein;Here is joy that purgesEvery creeping pain.Even sober SadnessCasts aside her pall,Till with buoyant madnessShe must swoon and fall...
Faint preludings on a fluteAnd she swims before us;Shadows follow in pursuit,Like a phantom chorus.Sense and sound are intertwinedThrough her necromancy,Till our dreaming souls are blindTo all things but fancy.
Haunted woods and perfumed nights,Swift and soft desires,Roses, violet-colored lights,And the sound of lyres,Vague chromatics on a flute—All are subtly blended,Till the instrument grows muteAnd the dance is ended.
Sing of the rose or of the mire; sing strifeOr rising moons; the silence or the throng...Poet, it matters not, if LifeIs in the song.
If Life rekindles it, and if the rhymesBear Beauty as their eloquent refrain,Though it were sung a thousand times,Sing it again!
Thrill us with song—let others preach or rage;Make us so thirst for Beauty that we ceaseThese struggles, and this strident ageGrows sweet with peace.
I do not envy God—There is no thing in all the skies or underTo startle and awaken Him to wonder;No marvel can appearTo stir His placid soul with terrible thunder—He was not born with awe nor blessed with fear.
I do not envy God—He is not burned with Spring and April madness;The rush of Life—its rash, impetuous gladnessHe cannot hope to know.He cannot feel the fever and the sadnessThe leaping fire, the insupportable glow.
I do not envy God—Forever He must watch the planets crawlingTo flaming goals where sun and star are falling;He cannot wander free.For He must face, through centuries appalling,A vast and infinite monotony.
I do not envy God—He cannot die, He dare not even slumber.Though He be God and free from care and cumber,I would not share His place;For He must live when years have lost their numberAnd Time sinks crumbling into shattered Space.
I do not envy God—Nay more, I pity Him His lonely heaven;I pity Him each lonely morn and even,His splendid lonely throne:For He must sit and wait till all is rivenAlone—through all eternity—alone.