Here the shores are irised; grassesClump the water gray that glassesBroken wood and deepened distance:Far the musical persistenceOf a field-lark lingers lowIn the west where tulips blow.White before us flames one pointedStar; and Day hath Night anointedKing; from out her azure ewerPouring starry fire, truerThan true gold. Star-crowned he standsWith the starlight in his hands.Will the moon bleach through the raggedTree-tops ere we reach yon jaggedRock, that rises gradually?Pharos of our homeward valley.Down the dusk burns golden-red;Embers are the stars o'erhead.At my soul some Protean elf is:You 're Simaetha, I am Delphis;You are Sappho and her Phaon—I. We love. There lies a ray onAll the dark Æolian seas'Round the violet Lesbian leas.On we drift. He loves you. NearerLooms our island. Rosier, clearerThe Leucadian cliff we follow,Where the temple of ApolloLifts a pale and pillared fire—Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre;Out of Hellas blows the breezeSinging to the Sapphic seas.
Here the shores are irised; grassesClump the water gray that glassesBroken wood and deepened distance:Far the musical persistenceOf a field-lark lingers lowIn the west where tulips blow.
White before us flames one pointedStar; and Day hath Night anointedKing; from out her azure ewerPouring starry fire, truerThan true gold. Star-crowned he standsWith the starlight in his hands.
Will the moon bleach through the raggedTree-tops ere we reach yon jaggedRock, that rises gradually?Pharos of our homeward valley.Down the dusk burns golden-red;Embers are the stars o'erhead.
At my soul some Protean elf is:You 're Simaetha, I am Delphis;You are Sappho and her Phaon—I. We love. There lies a ray onAll the dark Æolian seas'Round the violet Lesbian leas.
On we drift. He loves you. NearerLooms our island. Rosier, clearerThe Leucadian cliff we follow,Where the temple of ApolloLifts a pale and pillared fire—Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre;Out of Hellas blows the breezeSinging to the Sapphic seas.
Night, Night, 't is night. The moon before to love us,And all the moonlight tangled in the stream:Love, love, my love, and all the stars above us,The stars above and every star a dream.In odorous purple, where the falling warbleOf water cascades and the plunged foam glows,A columned ruin heaps its sculptured marbleCurled with the chiselled rebeck and the rose.
Night, Night, 't is night. The moon before to love us,And all the moonlight tangled in the stream:Love, love, my love, and all the stars above us,The stars above and every star a dream.
In odorous purple, where the falling warbleOf water cascades and the plunged foam glows,A columned ruin heaps its sculptured marbleCurled with the chiselled rebeck and the rose.
Sleep, Sleep, sweet Sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller,And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain—Love, love, my love, ah bid thy heart be stiller,And, hark! the music of the harping main.What flowers are those that blow their balm unto us?Bow white their brows' aromas each a flame?Ah, child, too kind the love we know, that knew us,That kissed our eyes that we might see the same.
Sleep, Sleep, sweet Sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller,And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain—Love, love, my love, ah bid thy heart be stiller,And, hark! the music of the harping main.
What flowers are those that blow their balm unto us?Bow white their brows' aromas each a flame?Ah, child, too kind the love we know, that knew us,That kissed our eyes that we might see the same.
Night! night! good night! no dream it is to vanish,The temple and the nightingale are there;The thornless roses bruising none to banish,The moon and one wild poppy in thy hair.
Night! night! good night! no dream it is to vanish,The temple and the nightingale are there;The thornless roses bruising none to banish,The moon and one wild poppy in thy hair.
Night! night! good night! and love's own star before thee,And love's star-image in the starry sea;Yes, yes, ah yes! a presence to watch o'er thee—Night! night! good night and good the gods to thee!
Night! night! good night! and love's own star before thee,And love's star-image in the starry sea;Yes, yes, ah yes! a presence to watch o'er thee—Night! night! good night and good the gods to thee!
O simple offerings of the common hills;Love's lowly names, that make you trebly sweet!One Johnny-jump-up, but an apron-fullOf starry crowfoot, making mossy dellsDim with heaven's morning blue; dew-dripping plumesOf waxen "dog-mouths"; red the tippling cupsOf gypsy-lilies all along the creek,Where dull the freckled silence sleeps, and darkThe water runs when, at high noon, the cowsWade knee-deep and the heat hums drowsy withThe drone of dizzy flies;—one Samson-flowerBlue-streaked and crystal as a summer's cloud;White violets, milk-weed, scarlet Indian-pinks,All fragile-scented and familiar asPink baby faces and blue infant eyes.O fair suggestions of a life more fair!Love's fragrant whispers of an untaught faith,High habitations 'neath a godlier blueBeyond the sin of Earth, in heavens prepared—What is it?—halcyon to utter calm,Faith? such as wrinkled wisdom, doubting, hasYearned for and sought in miser'd lore of worlds,And vainly?—Love?—Oh, have I learned to live?
O simple offerings of the common hills;Love's lowly names, that make you trebly sweet!One Johnny-jump-up, but an apron-fullOf starry crowfoot, making mossy dellsDim with heaven's morning blue; dew-dripping plumesOf waxen "dog-mouths"; red the tippling cupsOf gypsy-lilies all along the creek,Where dull the freckled silence sleeps, and darkThe water runs when, at high noon, the cowsWade knee-deep and the heat hums drowsy withThe drone of dizzy flies;—one Samson-flowerBlue-streaked and crystal as a summer's cloud;White violets, milk-weed, scarlet Indian-pinks,All fragile-scented and familiar asPink baby faces and blue infant eyes.
O fair suggestions of a life more fair!Love's fragrant whispers of an untaught faith,High habitations 'neath a godlier blueBeyond the sin of Earth, in heavens prepared—What is it?—halcyon to utter calm,Faith? such as wrinkled wisdom, doubting, hasYearned for and sought in miser'd lore of worlds,And vainly?—Love?—Oh, have I learned to live?
Would you have known it seeing it?Could you have seen it being it?Waving me out of the budding landSunbeam-jewelled a bloom-white hand,Wafting me life and hope and love,Life with the hope of the love thereof,Love.—"What is the value of knowing it?"—Only the worth of owing it;Need of the bud contents the light;Dew at dawn and nard at night,Beauty, aroma, honey at heart,Which is debtor, part for part,Heart?Thoughts, when the heart is heedable,Then to the heart are readable;I in the texts of your eyes have readDeep as the depth of the living dead,Measures of truth in unsaid songLearned from the soul to haunt me long,Song.Love perpends each laudableThought of the soul made audible,Said in gardens of bliss or pain:Moonlight rays in drops of rain,Feels the faith in its sleep awake,Wish of the silent words that shakeSleep.
Would you have known it seeing it?Could you have seen it being it?Waving me out of the budding landSunbeam-jewelled a bloom-white hand,Wafting me life and hope and love,Life with the hope of the love thereof,Love.
—"What is the value of knowing it?"—Only the worth of owing it;Need of the bud contents the light;Dew at dawn and nard at night,Beauty, aroma, honey at heart,Which is debtor, part for part,Heart?
Thoughts, when the heart is heedable,Then to the heart are readable;I in the texts of your eyes have readDeep as the depth of the living dead,Measures of truth in unsaid songLearned from the soul to haunt me long,Song.
Love perpends each laudableThought of the soul made audible,Said in gardens of bliss or pain:Moonlight rays in drops of rain,Feels the faith in its sleep awake,Wish of the silent words that shakeSleep.
If love I have had of thee thou hadst of me,No loss was in giving it over;Could I give aught but that I had of thee,Being no more than thy lover?And let it cease. When what befalls befalls,You cannot love me less,Loving me much now. Neither weeks nor walls,With bitterest distress,Shall all avail. Despair will find reprieve,Though dark the soul be tossed,In past possession of that love you grieve,The love which you have lost.Ponder the morning, or the midnight moon,The wilding of the wold,The morning slitting from night's brown cocoonWide wings of flaxen gold:The moon that, had not darkness been before,Had never shone to lead;And think that, though you are, you are not poor,Since you have loved indeed.From flower to star read upward; you shall seeThe purposes of loss,Deep hierograms of gracious deity,And comfort in your cross.
If love I have had of thee thou hadst of me,No loss was in giving it over;Could I give aught but that I had of thee,Being no more than thy lover?And let it cease. When what befalls befalls,You cannot love me less,Loving me much now. Neither weeks nor walls,With bitterest distress,Shall all avail. Despair will find reprieve,Though dark the soul be tossed,In past possession of that love you grieve,The love which you have lost.Ponder the morning, or the midnight moon,The wilding of the wold,The morning slitting from night's brown cocoonWide wings of flaxen gold:The moon that, had not darkness been before,Had never shone to lead;And think that, though you are, you are not poor,Since you have loved indeed.From flower to star read upward; you shall seeThe purposes of loss,Deep hierograms of gracious deity,And comfort in your cross.
If love I have had of thee thou hadst of me,No loss was in giving it over;Could I give aught but that I had of thee,Being no more than thy lover?
And let it cease. When what befalls befalls,You cannot love me less,Loving me much now. Neither weeks nor walls,With bitterest distress,
Shall all avail. Despair will find reprieve,Though dark the soul be tossed,In past possession of that love you grieve,The love which you have lost.
Ponder the morning, or the midnight moon,The wilding of the wold,The morning slitting from night's brown cocoonWide wings of flaxen gold:
The moon that, had not darkness been before,Had never shone to lead;And think that, though you are, you are not poor,Since you have loved indeed.
From flower to star read upward; you shall seeThe purposes of loss,Deep hierograms of gracious deity,And comfort in your cross.
Sunday shall we ride together?Not the root-rough, rambling wayThrough the woods we went that day,In the sultry summer weather,Past the Methodist Camp-Meeting,Where religion helped the hymnGather volume, and a slimMinister with textful greetingWelcomed us and still expounded.From the service on the hillWe had rode three hills and stillFar away the singing sounded.Nor that road through weed and berryDrowsy days led me and youTo the old-time barbecue,Where the country-side made merry.Dusty vehicles together;Darkies with the horses by'Neath the soft Kentucky sky,And a smell of bark and leather;When you smiled, "Our modern tourney:Gallantry and politicsDinner, dance and intermix."As we went the homeward journey'Twixt hot chaparrals and thickets,Heard brisk fiddles, scraping still,Drone and thump the quaint quadrille,Like a worried band of crickets.—Neither road. The shady quietOf that way by beech and birch,Winding to the ruined churchOn the Fork that sparkles by it.Where the silent Sundays listenFor the preacher whom we bring,In our hearts to preach and singWeek-day shade to Sabbath glisten.
Sunday shall we ride together?Not the root-rough, rambling wayThrough the woods we went that day,In the sultry summer weather,
Past the Methodist Camp-Meeting,Where religion helped the hymnGather volume, and a slimMinister with textful greeting
Welcomed us and still expounded.From the service on the hillWe had rode three hills and stillFar away the singing sounded.
Nor that road through weed and berryDrowsy days led me and youTo the old-time barbecue,Where the country-side made merry.
Dusty vehicles together;Darkies with the horses by'Neath the soft Kentucky sky,And a smell of bark and leather;
When you smiled, "Our modern tourney:Gallantry and politicsDinner, dance and intermix."As we went the homeward journey
'Twixt hot chaparrals and thickets,Heard brisk fiddles, scraping still,Drone and thump the quaint quadrille,Like a worried band of crickets.—
Neither road. The shady quietOf that way by beech and birch,Winding to the ruined churchOn the Fork that sparkles by it.
Where the silent Sundays listenFor the preacher whom we bring,In our hearts to preach and singWeek-day shade to Sabbath glisten.
Yes, to-morrow; when the morn,Pentecost of flame, unclosesPortals that the stars adorn,Whence a golden presence throws hisFiery swords and burning rosesAt the wide wood's world of wall,Spears of sparkle at each fall;Then together let us rideDown deep-wood cathedral places,Where the pilgrim wild-flowers hide,Praying Sabbath in their faces;Where in truest untaught phrases,Worship in each rhythmic word,Sings no migratory bird....Pearl on pearl the high stars dightJewels of divine devices'Round the Afric throat of Night;Where yon misty glimmer risesSoon the white moon crystallizesOut of darkness, like a spell.—Late, 't is late. Till dawn, farewell.
Yes, to-morrow; when the morn,Pentecost of flame, unclosesPortals that the stars adorn,Whence a golden presence throws hisFiery swords and burning rosesAt the wide wood's world of wall,Spears of sparkle at each fall;
Then together let us rideDown deep-wood cathedral places,Where the pilgrim wild-flowers hide,Praying Sabbath in their faces;Where in truest untaught phrases,Worship in each rhythmic word,Sings no migratory bird....
Pearl on pearl the high stars dightJewels of divine devices'Round the Afric throat of Night;Where yon misty glimmer risesSoon the white moon crystallizesOut of darkness, like a spell.—Late, 't is late. Till dawn, farewell.
Now rests the season in forgetfulness,Careless in beauty of maturity;The ripened roses 'round brown temples, sheFulfils completion in a dreamy guess:Now Time grants night the more and day the less;The gray decides; and brownDim golds and reds in dulling greens expressThemselves and broaden as the year goes down.Sadder the croft where, thrusting gray and highTheir balls of seeds, the hoary onions die,Where, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie:Deeper each wilderness;Sadder the blue of hills that lounge alongThe lonesome west; sadder the songOf the wild red-bird in the leafage yellow,Deeper and dreamier, aye!Than woods or waters, leans the languid skyAbove lone orchards where the cider-pressDrips and the russets mellow.Nature grows liberal; under woodland leavesThe beech-nuts' burs their little pockets poke,Plump with the copper of the nuts that choke;Above our bristling way the spider weavesA glittering web for which the Dawn designsThrice twenty rows of sparkles. By the oak,That rolls old roots in many gnarly lines,The acorn thimble, smoothly broke,Shines by its saucer. On sonorous pinesThe far wind organs; but the forest hereTo no weak breeze hath woke;Far off the wind, but crumbling near and near,—Each tingling twig expectant, and the graySurmise of heaven pilots it the way,Rippling the leafy spines,Until the wildwood, one exultant sway,Booms, and the sunlight, arrowing through it, shinesVisible applause you hear.How glows the garden! though the white mists keepThe vagabond in flowers reminded ofDecay that comes to slay in open love,When the full moon hangs cold and night is deep,Unheeding such their cardinal colors leapGay in the crescent of the blade of death;Spaced innocents in swaths he weeps to reap,Waiting his scythe a breath,To gravely lay them dead with one last sweep.—Long, long admireTheir splendors manifold:—The scarlet salvia showered with spurts of fire;Cascading lattices, dark vines that creep,Nightshade and cypress; there the marigoldBurning—a shred of orange sunset caughtAnd elfed in petals that eve's goblins broughtFrom elfland; there, predominant red,The dahlia lifts its headBy the white balsams' red-bruised horns of honey,In humming spaces sunny.The crickets singing dirges noon and nightFor morn-born flowers, at dusk already dead,For dusk-dead flowers weep;While tired Summer white,Where yonder aster whispering odor rocks,—The withered poppies knotted in her locks,—Sighs, 'mong her sleepy hollyhocks asleep.
Now rests the season in forgetfulness,Careless in beauty of maturity;The ripened roses 'round brown temples, sheFulfils completion in a dreamy guess:Now Time grants night the more and day the less;The gray decides; and brownDim golds and reds in dulling greens expressThemselves and broaden as the year goes down.Sadder the croft where, thrusting gray and highTheir balls of seeds, the hoary onions die,Where, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie:Deeper each wilderness;Sadder the blue of hills that lounge alongThe lonesome west; sadder the songOf the wild red-bird in the leafage yellow,Deeper and dreamier, aye!Than woods or waters, leans the languid skyAbove lone orchards where the cider-pressDrips and the russets mellow.
Nature grows liberal; under woodland leavesThe beech-nuts' burs their little pockets poke,Plump with the copper of the nuts that choke;Above our bristling way the spider weavesA glittering web for which the Dawn designsThrice twenty rows of sparkles. By the oak,That rolls old roots in many gnarly lines,The acorn thimble, smoothly broke,Shines by its saucer. On sonorous pinesThe far wind organs; but the forest hereTo no weak breeze hath woke;Far off the wind, but crumbling near and near,—Each tingling twig expectant, and the graySurmise of heaven pilots it the way,Rippling the leafy spines,Until the wildwood, one exultant sway,Booms, and the sunlight, arrowing through it, shinesVisible applause you hear.
How glows the garden! though the white mists keepThe vagabond in flowers reminded ofDecay that comes to slay in open love,When the full moon hangs cold and night is deep,Unheeding such their cardinal colors leapGay in the crescent of the blade of death;Spaced innocents in swaths he weeps to reap,Waiting his scythe a breath,To gravely lay them dead with one last sweep.—Long, long admireTheir splendors manifold:—The scarlet salvia showered with spurts of fire;Cascading lattices, dark vines that creep,Nightshade and cypress; there the marigoldBurning—a shred of orange sunset caughtAnd elfed in petals that eve's goblins broughtFrom elfland; there, predominant red,The dahlia lifts its headBy the white balsams' red-bruised horns of honey,In humming spaces sunny.The crickets singing dirges noon and nightFor morn-born flowers, at dusk already dead,For dusk-dead flowers weep;While tired Summer white,Where yonder aster whispering odor rocks,—The withered poppies knotted in her locks,—Sighs, 'mong her sleepy hollyhocks asleep.
The hips were reddening on the rose,The haws hung slips of fire;We went the woodland way that goesUp hills of branch and briar.The hooked thorn held her gown and seemedImploring her be stayingThe sunlight of herself that beamedBeside it gently swaying.Low bent the golden saxifrage;Its yellow bells like banglesThe foxglove fluttered. Like a page—From out the rail-fence angles—With crimson plume the sumach, hosedIn Lincoln green, attendedMy lady of the elder, posedIn blue-black jewels splendid.And as we mounted up the hillThe rocky path that stumbledSpread smooth; and all the day was stillAnd odorous with umbledTops of wild-carrots drying gray;And there, soft-sunned before us,An orchard dwindling awayWith dappled boughs bent o'er us.An orchard where the pippin fellWorm-bitten, bruised, and dusty;And hornet-stung, each like a bell,The Bartlett ripened rusty;The smell of tawny peach and plum,That offered luscious yellow;Of wasp and bee the hidden hum,Made all the warm air mellow.And on we went where many-huedHung wild the morning-glory,Their blue balloons in shadows, dewedWith frost-white dew-drops hoary;In bush and burgrass far awayBeneath us stretched the valley,Cleft by one creek that laughed with dayAnd babbled musically.The brown, the bronze, the gray, the redOf weed and briar ran riotFlush to dark woodland walls that ledTo nooks of whispering quiet.Long, feathering bursts of golden-rodRan golden woolly patches—Bloom-sunsets of the withered sodThe dying summer catches.Then o'er the hills, loose-tumbling rolled—O'erleaping expectation—The sunset, flaming marigold,A system's conflagration:And homeward turning, she and IWent as one self in being—God met us in the earth and skyAnd Love had purged our seeing.
The hips were reddening on the rose,The haws hung slips of fire;We went the woodland way that goesUp hills of branch and briar.The hooked thorn held her gown and seemedImploring her be stayingThe sunlight of herself that beamedBeside it gently swaying.
Low bent the golden saxifrage;Its yellow bells like banglesThe foxglove fluttered. Like a page—From out the rail-fence angles—With crimson plume the sumach, hosedIn Lincoln green, attendedMy lady of the elder, posedIn blue-black jewels splendid.
And as we mounted up the hillThe rocky path that stumbledSpread smooth; and all the day was stillAnd odorous with umbledTops of wild-carrots drying gray;And there, soft-sunned before us,An orchard dwindling awayWith dappled boughs bent o'er us.
An orchard where the pippin fellWorm-bitten, bruised, and dusty;And hornet-stung, each like a bell,The Bartlett ripened rusty;The smell of tawny peach and plum,That offered luscious yellow;Of wasp and bee the hidden hum,Made all the warm air mellow.
And on we went where many-huedHung wild the morning-glory,Their blue balloons in shadows, dewedWith frost-white dew-drops hoary;In bush and burgrass far awayBeneath us stretched the valley,Cleft by one creek that laughed with dayAnd babbled musically.
The brown, the bronze, the gray, the redOf weed and briar ran riotFlush to dark woodland walls that ledTo nooks of whispering quiet.Long, feathering bursts of golden-rodRan golden woolly patches—Bloom-sunsets of the withered sodThe dying summer catches.
Then o'er the hills, loose-tumbling rolled—O'erleaping expectation—The sunset, flaming marigold,A system's conflagration:And homeward turning, she and IWent as one self in being—God met us in the earth and skyAnd Love had purged our seeing.
Say, my dear, O my dear,These are the eves for speaking;There is no wight will work us spiteBeneath the sunset's streaking.Yes, my dear, O my dear,These are the eves for telling;To walk together in starry weatherEre springs o' the moon are welling.O my dear, yes, my dear,These are the dusks for staying;When twilight dreams of night who seemsAmong long-purples praying."No, my dear!"—"Yes, my dear!"These are the nights to kiss itTimes twice-a-twenty: they grow a-plentyOn lips that will not miss it.
Say, my dear, O my dear,These are the eves for speaking;There is no wight will work us spiteBeneath the sunset's streaking.
Yes, my dear, O my dear,These are the eves for telling;To walk together in starry weatherEre springs o' the moon are welling.
O my dear, yes, my dear,These are the dusks for staying;When twilight dreams of night who seemsAmong long-purples praying.
"No, my dear!"—"Yes, my dear!"These are the nights to kiss itTimes twice-a-twenty: they grow a-plentyOn lips that will not miss it.
To dream where silence sleepsA sorrow's sleep that sighs;Where all heaven's azure peepsBlue from one wildflower's eyesWhere, in reflecting deeps,—Of cloudier woods and skies,—Another gray world lies.Divining God from thingsHumble as weeds and bees;From songs the free bird singsLearn all are vain but these;In light-delighted springs,Wise, star-familiar trees,Seek love's philosophies.
To dream where silence sleepsA sorrow's sleep that sighs;Where all heaven's azure peepsBlue from one wildflower's eyesWhere, in reflecting deeps,—Of cloudier woods and skies,—Another gray world lies.
Divining God from thingsHumble as weeds and bees;From songs the free bird singsLearn all are vain but these;In light-delighted springs,Wise, star-familiar trees,Seek love's philosophies.
Here where the days are dimmest,Each old, big-hearted treeGives bounteous sympathy;Here where dead nights sit grimmestIn druid company;Here where the days are dimmest.Leaves of my lone communion,Leaves; and the listening sighOf silence wanders by;While on my soul the unionIs—of the wood and sky—Leaves of my lone communion.And eyes with tears are aching,While life waits wistfullyFor love that may not be:In visions vain of wakingLives all it can not see.—And eyes with tears are aching,And eyes with tears are aching.
Here where the days are dimmest,Each old, big-hearted treeGives bounteous sympathy;Here where dead nights sit grimmestIn druid company;Here where the days are dimmest.
Leaves of my lone communion,Leaves; and the listening sighOf silence wanders by;While on my soul the unionIs—of the wood and sky—Leaves of my lone communion.
And eyes with tears are aching,While life waits wistfullyFor love that may not be:In visions vain of wakingLives all it can not see.—And eyes with tears are aching,And eyes with tears are aching.
And here alone I sit and see it so.A vale of willows swelling into knobs,A bulwark eastward. Sloping lowWestward the scooping waters flowUnder a rocky culvert's arch that throbsWith clanging wheels of transient trains that goScreaming to north and south.Here all the weary waters, stagnant stayed,Sleep at the culvert's mouth;The current's hungry hiccup still afraid,Haply, that I should never knowThe secret 'neath the striate scum o' the streamThe devil and the dream,I, dropping gravels so the echo sobMocking and thin as music of a shadeIn shades that wring from rocks a hollow woe,Complaining phantoms of faint whispers rob.There, up the valley where the lank grass leapsBlades each a crooked kris,The currents strike or missDream melodies: No wide-belled mallow sleepsMonandrous flowers oval as a kiss;No mandrake curling convolutions upLoops heavy blossoms, each a conical cupThat swoons moon-nectar and a serpent's hiss;No tiger-lily, where the crayfish play,Mirrors a savage face, a copper hueStreaked with a crimson dew;No dragon-fly in endless error keepsSewing the pale-gold gown of dayWith tangled stitches of a burning blue,—Whose brilliant body but a needle is,An azurn and incarnate ray:—But here, where haunted with the shade,The dull stream stales and dies,Are beauties none or few,Such sinister and new;And one at widest noon-gaze shrinks afraidBeneath the timid skies;So, if you ask me why I answer this:—You know not; only where the kildees wadeThere in the foamy scum,There where the wet rocks ail,—Low rocks to which the water-reptiles come,Basking pied bodies in the brindled shade,—Dim as a bubble's prism on the grailBelow, an angled sparkle rayed,While lights and shadows aidFrom breeze-blown clouds that lounge at sunny loss,Deep down, a sense of wavy features quailThe heart; with lips that writhe and fadeAnd clench; tough, rooty limbs that twist and cross,And flabby hair of smoky moss.A brimstone sunset. And at nightThe twinkling flies in will-o'-the-wisp dance wheelThrough copse and open, all a gnomish green.I hear the water, and the wave is whiteThere where the boulder plants a keel,And each taunt ripple 's sheen.—Where instant insects dotThe dark with spurts of sulphur—bright,Beneath the hazy height,No bitter-almond trees make wan the night,Building bloom ridges of a ghostly lustre,But white-tops tossing cluster over cluster:Huge-seen within that twilight spot—As if a hill-born giant, half asleep,Had dropped his night-cap while he drove his sheepFoldward through fallow brownsAnd foxy grays,—a something crownsThe knoll—is it the odorous peakOf one June-savory timothy stack?Now, one dead ash behind,A weak moon shows a withered cheekOf Quaker quiet, wasted o'er the vines'Appentice ruins roofing pillared pines:Beyond these, back and back,An oak-wood stretches black—And here the whining were-wolves of the windSnuff snarling: but their eyes are blind,Although their fangs are fierce;And though they never pierceBeyond the bad, bedevilled woodland streak,I hear them, yes, I hearA padding o' footsteps near,A prowling pant in earAnd can not fly!—yes!—no!—What horror holds me?—That uncoiling slow,Sure, mastering chimera there,Hooping firm unseen feelers 'round my neckA binding, bruising coil ...The waters burn and boil;The fire-flies the dappled darkness fleckWith impish dabs of blazing wizard's oil ...Deep, deep into the black eye of the beckI stare, magnetic fixed, and little reckIf all the writhing shadow slips,Dripping around me, to the eyes and hips,Where grinning murder leers with lupine lips.
And here alone I sit and see it so.A vale of willows swelling into knobs,A bulwark eastward. Sloping lowWestward the scooping waters flowUnder a rocky culvert's arch that throbsWith clanging wheels of transient trains that goScreaming to north and south.Here all the weary waters, stagnant stayed,Sleep at the culvert's mouth;The current's hungry hiccup still afraid,Haply, that I should never knowThe secret 'neath the striate scum o' the streamThe devil and the dream,I, dropping gravels so the echo sobMocking and thin as music of a shadeIn shades that wring from rocks a hollow woe,Complaining phantoms of faint whispers rob.
There, up the valley where the lank grass leapsBlades each a crooked kris,The currents strike or missDream melodies: No wide-belled mallow sleepsMonandrous flowers oval as a kiss;No mandrake curling convolutions upLoops heavy blossoms, each a conical cupThat swoons moon-nectar and a serpent's hiss;No tiger-lily, where the crayfish play,Mirrors a savage face, a copper hueStreaked with a crimson dew;No dragon-fly in endless error keepsSewing the pale-gold gown of dayWith tangled stitches of a burning blue,—Whose brilliant body but a needle is,An azurn and incarnate ray:—But here, where haunted with the shade,The dull stream stales and dies,Are beauties none or few,Such sinister and new;And one at widest noon-gaze shrinks afraidBeneath the timid skies;So, if you ask me why I answer this:—
You know not; only where the kildees wadeThere in the foamy scum,There where the wet rocks ail,—Low rocks to which the water-reptiles come,Basking pied bodies in the brindled shade,—Dim as a bubble's prism on the grailBelow, an angled sparkle rayed,While lights and shadows aidFrom breeze-blown clouds that lounge at sunny loss,Deep down, a sense of wavy features quailThe heart; with lips that writhe and fadeAnd clench; tough, rooty limbs that twist and cross,And flabby hair of smoky moss.
A brimstone sunset. And at nightThe twinkling flies in will-o'-the-wisp dance wheelThrough copse and open, all a gnomish green.I hear the water, and the wave is whiteThere where the boulder plants a keel,And each taunt ripple 's sheen.—Where instant insects dotThe dark with spurts of sulphur—bright,Beneath the hazy height,No bitter-almond trees make wan the night,Building bloom ridges of a ghostly lustre,But white-tops tossing cluster over cluster:Huge-seen within that twilight spot—As if a hill-born giant, half asleep,Had dropped his night-cap while he drove his sheepFoldward through fallow brownsAnd foxy grays,—a something crownsThe knoll—is it the odorous peakOf one June-savory timothy stack?
Now, one dead ash behind,A weak moon shows a withered cheekOf Quaker quiet, wasted o'er the vines'Appentice ruins roofing pillared pines:Beyond these, back and back,An oak-wood stretches black—And here the whining were-wolves of the windSnuff snarling: but their eyes are blind,Although their fangs are fierce;And though they never pierceBeyond the bad, bedevilled woodland streak,I hear them, yes, I hearA padding o' footsteps near,A prowling pant in earAnd can not fly!—yes!—no!—What horror holds me?—That uncoiling slow,Sure, mastering chimera there,Hooping firm unseen feelers 'round my neckA binding, bruising coil ...The waters burn and boil;The fire-flies the dappled darkness fleckWith impish dabs of blazing wizard's oil ...Deep, deep into the black eye of the beckI stare, magnetic fixed, and little reckIf all the writhing shadow slips,Dripping around me, to the eyes and hips,Where grinning murder leers with lupine lips.
What can it mean for me? what have I done to her?I in our freedom of love as a sun to her;She to our liberty goddess and slumberlessMoon of the stars shining silver and numberless:Who on my life, that was thorny and showery,Came—and made dewyness; smiled—and made flowery;Mine! the affinitized one of humanity:Mine! the elected of soul over vanity—What have I done to her, what have I done!What can it mean for me? what have I said to her?I, who have idolized, worshipped, and pled to her;Sung for her, laughed for her, sorrowed and sighed for her,Lived for her, hated and gladly had died for her!See; she has written me thus! she has written me—Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me!Would they had shrivelled or ever they'd read of it!Eyes, that are wide to the bitterest dread of it—What have I said to her, what have I said!What shall I make of it, I, who am tremblingFearful of loss?—Oh, enamored, dissemblingFlame!—of the candle that burning, but guttering,Flatters the moth that comes circling and flutteringOut of the summer night; trusting, importunate,Quitting cool flowers for this—O unfortunate!—Such has she been to me making me such to her,Slaying me, saying I never was much to her—What shall I make of it, what can I make!Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionlessLook, I have fallen; the evil is potionless:I, with no thought but the heavens that lock us in,Set naked feet 'mid the cottonmouth, moccasinUnder wild-roses, the Cherokee, eying me:—In the sweet blue with the egrets that, flying me,Loosened like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderlyWhite and pale pink; where the mocking-bird tenderlySang, making vistas of mosses melodious,Wandered unheeding my steps in the odiousSlime that was venom; I followed the fieryViolet curve of thy star falling wiry—So was I lost in night, thus am undone!...Have I not told to her—living alone for her—Purposed unfoldments of love I had sown for herHere in the soil of my soul? their varietyEndless; and ever she answered with piety.—See! it has come to this ... all the tale's suavityAt the ninth chapter grows stupid with gravity;Duller than death all our beautiful history—Close it!—thefinisis more than a mystery.—Yes, I will tell her this; yes, I will tell.
What can it mean for me? what have I done to her?I in our freedom of love as a sun to her;She to our liberty goddess and slumberlessMoon of the stars shining silver and numberless:Who on my life, that was thorny and showery,Came—and made dewyness; smiled—and made flowery;Mine! the affinitized one of humanity:Mine! the elected of soul over vanity—What have I done to her, what have I done!
What can it mean for me? what have I said to her?I, who have idolized, worshipped, and pled to her;Sung for her, laughed for her, sorrowed and sighed for her,Lived for her, hated and gladly had died for her!See; she has written me thus! she has written me—Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me!Would they had shrivelled or ever they'd read of it!Eyes, that are wide to the bitterest dread of it—What have I said to her, what have I said!
What shall I make of it, I, who am tremblingFearful of loss?—Oh, enamored, dissemblingFlame!—of the candle that burning, but guttering,Flatters the moth that comes circling and flutteringOut of the summer night; trusting, importunate,Quitting cool flowers for this—O unfortunate!—Such has she been to me making me such to her,Slaying me, saying I never was much to her—What shall I make of it, what can I make!
Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionlessLook, I have fallen; the evil is potionless:I, with no thought but the heavens that lock us in,Set naked feet 'mid the cottonmouth, moccasinUnder wild-roses, the Cherokee, eying me:—In the sweet blue with the egrets that, flying me,Loosened like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderlyWhite and pale pink; where the mocking-bird tenderlySang, making vistas of mosses melodious,Wandered unheeding my steps in the odiousSlime that was venom; I followed the fieryViolet curve of thy star falling wiry—So was I lost in night, thus am undone!...
Have I not told to her—living alone for her—Purposed unfoldments of love I had sown for herHere in the soil of my soul? their varietyEndless; and ever she answered with piety.—See! it has come to this ... all the tale's suavityAt the ninth chapter grows stupid with gravity;Duller than death all our beautiful history—Close it!—thefinisis more than a mystery.—Yes, I will tell her this; yes, I will tell.
I seem to hear her speak and seeThat blue-hung room. Her perfume comesFrom lavender folds vined dreamily—A-blossom with brocaded blooms,—A stuff of Orient looms.Again I hear her speak and back,Where steals the showery sunlight, pilesA whatnot dainty bric-a-bracBeside a tall clock; each glazed tile'sBlue-patterned profile smiles.I hear her say, "Ah, had we known,Could what has been have ever been?—And now!"... How hurt the hard ache shoneIn eyes whose sadness seemed to leanOn something far, unseen!And as in sleep my own self seemsOutside my suffering self: I flushIn mists of undetermined dreams;Behold her musing in that hushOf lilac light and plush.Smiling but tortured. Yes, I feelDespite that face, not seeming sad,In those calm temples thoughts like steelRemorseless bore. I had gone madHad I once deemed her glad.Unconsciously, with eyes that yearnTo pierce beyond the present far,Searching some future hope, I turn;—There in her garden one fierce star,Beyond the window's bar,—Vermilion as a storm-sunk sun,—A phyllocactus?—all the lifeOf torrid middays in but oneRich crimson bloom—flames red as strife;And near it, rankly rife—Deep coreopsis?—heavy huesOf soft seal-bronze and satiny gold,Sway girandoles whose jets of dewsBurn points of starlight diamond-cold,Warm-colored, manifold.She dare not speak; I can not. YetAn intercourse 'twixt brain and brainGoes feverish on.—Crushed, smelling wet,Through silken curtains drift againVerbena-scents of rain.I in the doorway turn and stay;Angry her cameo beauty markSet in that smile—Oh! will she sayNo farewell? no regret? one sparkOf hope to cheer the dark?That sepia-sketch—conceive it so—A roguish head with jaunty eyesLaughing beneath a rose-chapeau,Silk-masked, unmasking—it deniesThe full-faced flower surprise;Hung o'er her davenport.... We readThe true beneath the false; perceiveThe smile that hides the ache.—Indeed!Whosesoul unmasks?... not mine!—I grieveHere, here, but laugh and leave....
I seem to hear her speak and seeThat blue-hung room. Her perfume comesFrom lavender folds vined dreamily—A-blossom with brocaded blooms,—A stuff of Orient looms.
Again I hear her speak and back,Where steals the showery sunlight, pilesA whatnot dainty bric-a-bracBeside a tall clock; each glazed tile'sBlue-patterned profile smiles.
I hear her say, "Ah, had we known,Could what has been have ever been?—And now!"... How hurt the hard ache shoneIn eyes whose sadness seemed to leanOn something far, unseen!
And as in sleep my own self seemsOutside my suffering self: I flushIn mists of undetermined dreams;Behold her musing in that hushOf lilac light and plush.
Smiling but tortured. Yes, I feelDespite that face, not seeming sad,In those calm temples thoughts like steelRemorseless bore. I had gone madHad I once deemed her glad.
Unconsciously, with eyes that yearnTo pierce beyond the present far,Searching some future hope, I turn;—There in her garden one fierce star,Beyond the window's bar,—
Vermilion as a storm-sunk sun,—A phyllocactus?—all the lifeOf torrid middays in but oneRich crimson bloom—flames red as strife;And near it, rankly rife—
Deep coreopsis?—heavy huesOf soft seal-bronze and satiny gold,Sway girandoles whose jets of dewsBurn points of starlight diamond-cold,Warm-colored, manifold.
She dare not speak; I can not. YetAn intercourse 'twixt brain and brainGoes feverish on.—Crushed, smelling wet,Through silken curtains drift againVerbena-scents of rain.
I in the doorway turn and stay;Angry her cameo beauty markSet in that smile—Oh! will she sayNo farewell? no regret? one sparkOf hope to cheer the dark?
That sepia-sketch—conceive it so—A roguish head with jaunty eyesLaughing beneath a rose-chapeau,Silk-masked, unmasking—it deniesThe full-faced flower surprise;
Hung o'er her davenport.... We readThe true beneath the false; perceiveThe smile that hides the ache.—Indeed!Whosesoul unmasks?... not mine!—I grieveHere, here, but laugh and leave....
Beyond the knotty apple-treesThat fade about the old brick-barn,Its tattered arms and tattered kneesA scare-crow tosses to the breezeAmong the shocks of corn.All things grow gray in earth and sky;The cold wind sounding drearilyMakes all the rusty branches fly;The rustling leaves a-rotting lie;The year is waning wearily.At night I hear the far wild geeseHonk in frost-bitten heavens, underArcturus. Though I seem to ceaseOutside myself and sleep in peace,I drowse awake and wonder.I know torn thistles by the creekHang hairy with the frost; the tentedBrown acres of the corn stretch bleakAnd ghostly in the moonlight, weakIn hollows bitter-scented.Dream back the ways we strolled at mornThrough woods of summer ever singing;Moon-trysts beneath the crooked thorn,The tasselled meads of cane and cornTheir restless shadows swinging....I stand and oar our boat amongThe dripping lilies of the river;I reach her hat the grape-vine longStruck in the stream; we sing a song,That song ... I wake and shiver.And then my feverish mind revertsTo our sad words and sadder partingIn days long gone; and, oh! it hurtsWithin here, for the soul assertsMine the fool fault from starting.And I must lie awake and thinkOf her with such regrets as gladlyNo unrebuking conscience shrink;And hear the wild-fowls' clangor sinkThrough plaintive starlight sadly.When all are overflown and deepThe stoic night is left forsaken,For company I well would weep,Since all my spirit fears to sleep,Sleep of such visions shaken.Grave visions of dead deeds that flawOur waking hours, ever haunting;Else were we, lacking love and law,Rude scare-crow things of sticks and strawUndaunted and undaunting.
Beyond the knotty apple-treesThat fade about the old brick-barn,Its tattered arms and tattered kneesA scare-crow tosses to the breezeAmong the shocks of corn.
All things grow gray in earth and sky;The cold wind sounding drearilyMakes all the rusty branches fly;The rustling leaves a-rotting lie;The year is waning wearily.
At night I hear the far wild geeseHonk in frost-bitten heavens, underArcturus. Though I seem to ceaseOutside myself and sleep in peace,I drowse awake and wonder.
I know torn thistles by the creekHang hairy with the frost; the tentedBrown acres of the corn stretch bleakAnd ghostly in the moonlight, weakIn hollows bitter-scented.
Dream back the ways we strolled at mornThrough woods of summer ever singing;Moon-trysts beneath the crooked thorn,The tasselled meads of cane and cornTheir restless shadows swinging....
I stand and oar our boat amongThe dripping lilies of the river;I reach her hat the grape-vine longStruck in the stream; we sing a song,That song ... I wake and shiver.
And then my feverish mind revertsTo our sad words and sadder partingIn days long gone; and, oh! it hurtsWithin here, for the soul assertsMine the fool fault from starting.
And I must lie awake and thinkOf her with such regrets as gladlyNo unrebuking conscience shrink;And hear the wild-fowls' clangor sinkThrough plaintive starlight sadly.
When all are overflown and deepThe stoic night is left forsaken,For company I well would weep,Since all my spirit fears to sleep,Sleep of such visions shaken.
Grave visions of dead deeds that flawOur waking hours, ever haunting;Else were we, lacking love and law,Rude scare-crow things of sticks and strawUndaunted and undaunting.
The sun a splintered splendor wasIn sober trees that broke and blurred,That afternoon we went togetherIn droning hum and whirling buzz,Where hard the dinning locust whirred,Through fields of golden-rod a-feather.So sweet it was to look and leanTo your young face and feel the lightOf eyes that fondled mine unsaddened!The laugh that left lips more serene;The words that blossomed like the whiteLife-everlasting there and gladdened.Maturing Summer, you were fraughtWith wiser beauties then than nowParades rich Autumn's red November;This stuns: there dreams no subtle thoughtAs then on hinting bush and bough—But now I am alone, remember.
The sun a splintered splendor wasIn sober trees that broke and blurred,That afternoon we went togetherIn droning hum and whirling buzz,Where hard the dinning locust whirred,Through fields of golden-rod a-feather.
So sweet it was to look and leanTo your young face and feel the lightOf eyes that fondled mine unsaddened!The laugh that left lips more serene;The words that blossomed like the whiteLife-everlasting there and gladdened.
Maturing Summer, you were fraughtWith wiser beauties then than nowParades rich Autumn's red November;This stuns: there dreams no subtle thoughtAs then on hinting bush and bough—But now I am alone, remember.
Through iron-weeds and rosesAnd bronzing beech and oak,Old porches it discloses,Above the briars and rosesFall's feeble sunbeams soak.Neglected walks that tangleThe dodder-strangled grass;Its chimney shows one angleHeaped with dead leaves that spangleThe paths that round it pass.The early mists that buryAnd hide them in its rooms,From spider closets—veryDim with old webs—will hurryOut in the raining glooms.They haunt each stair and basement;They stand on hearth and porch;Lean from each paneless casement,Or in the moonlight's lacementFly with a phantom torch.There is a sense of frost here;And gusts that sob awayOf something that was lost here,Long, long ago was lost here,But what, they can not say.There croons no owl to startleDespondency within;No raven o'er its portalTo scare the daring mortalAnd guard its cellared sin.The creaking road descries itThis side the dusty toll;The farmer passing eyes it;None stops t' philosophize it,This symbol of a soul.
Through iron-weeds and rosesAnd bronzing beech and oak,Old porches it discloses,Above the briars and rosesFall's feeble sunbeams soak.
Neglected walks that tangleThe dodder-strangled grass;Its chimney shows one angleHeaped with dead leaves that spangleThe paths that round it pass.
The early mists that buryAnd hide them in its rooms,From spider closets—veryDim with old webs—will hurryOut in the raining glooms.
They haunt each stair and basement;They stand on hearth and porch;Lean from each paneless casement,Or in the moonlight's lacementFly with a phantom torch.
There is a sense of frost here;And gusts that sob awayOf something that was lost here,Long, long ago was lost here,But what, they can not say.
There croons no owl to startleDespondency within;No raven o'er its portalTo scare the daring mortalAnd guard its cellared sin.
The creaking road descries itThis side the dusty toll;The farmer passing eyes it;None stops t' philosophize it,This symbol of a soul.