Valleys lay in sunny vapor,And a radiance mild was shedFrom each tree that like a taperAt a feast stood. Then we said,"Our feast, too, shall soon be spread,Of good Thanksgiving turkey."
And already still NovemberDrapes her snowy table here.Fetch a log, then; coax the ember;Fill your hearts with old-time cheer;Heaven be thanked for one more year,And our Thanksgiving turkey!
Welcome, brothers—all our partyGathered in the homestead old!Shake the snow off and with heartyHand-shakes drive away the cold;Else your plate you'll hardly holdOf good Thanksgiving turkey.
When the skies are sad and murky,'Tis a cheerful thing to meetRound this homely roast of turkey—Pilgrims, pausing just to greet,Then, with earnest grace, to eatA new Thanksgiving turkey.
And the merry feast is freightedWith its meanings true and deep.Those we've loved and those we've hated,All, to-day, the rite will keep,All, to-day, their dishes heapWith plump Thanksgiving turkey.
But how many hearts must tingleNow with mournful memories!In the festal wine shall mingleUnseen tears, perhaps from eyesThat look beyond the board where liesOur plain Thanksgiving turkey.
See around us, drawing nearer,Those faint yearning shapes of air—Friends than whom earth holds none dearer!No—alas! they are not there:Have they, then, forgot to shareOur good Thanksgiving turkey?
Some have gone away and tarriedStrangely long by some strange wave;Some have turned to foes; we carriedSome unto the pine-girt grave:They 'll come no more so joyous-braveTo take Thanksgiving turkey.
Nay, repine not. Let our laughterLeap like firelight up again.Soon we touch the wide Hereafter,Snow-field yet untrod of men:Shall we meet once more—and when?—To eat Thanksgiving turkey.
Autumn is gone: through the blue woodlands bareShatters the rainy wind. A myriad leaves,Like birds that fly the mournful Northern air.Flutter away from the old forest's eaves.
Autumn is gone: as yonder silent rill,Slow eddying o'er thick leaf-heaps lately shed,My spirit, as I walk, moves awed and still,By thronging fancies wild and wistful led.
Autumn is gone: alas, how long agoThe grapes were plucked, and garnered was the grain!How soon death settles on us, and the snowWraps with its white alike our graves, our gain!
Yea, autumn's gone! Yet it robs not my moodOf that which makes moods dear,—some shoot of springStill sweet within me; or thoughts of yonder woodWe walked in,—memory's rare environing.
And, though they die, the seasons only takeA ruined substance. All that's best remainsIn the essential vision that can makeOne light for life, love, death, their joys, their pains.
(TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)
(TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES)
Strange spell of youth for age, and age for youth,Affinity between two forms of truth!—As if the dawn and sunset watched each other,Like and unlike as children of one motherAnd wondering at the likeness. Ardent eyesOf young men see the prophecy ariseOf what their lives shall be when all is told;And, in the far-off glow of years called old,Those other eyes look back to catch a traceOf what was once their own unshadowed grace.But here in our dear poet both are blended—Ripe age begun, yet golden youth not ended;—Even as his song the willowy scent of springDoth blend with autumn's tender mellowing,And mixes praise with satire, tears with fun,In strains that ever delicately run;So musical and wise, page after page,The sage a minstrel grows, the bard a sage.The dew of youth fills yet his late-sprung flowers,And day-break glory haunts his evening hours.Ah, such a life prefigures its own moral:That first "Last Leaf" is now a leaf of laurel,Which—smiling not, but trembling at the touch—Youth gives back to the hand that gave so much.
EVENING OF DECEMBER 3, 1879.
"How shall we honor the man who creates?"Asked the Bedouin chief, the poet Antar;—"Who unto the truth flings open our gates,Or fashions new thoughts from the light of a star;Or forges with craft of his finger and brainSome marvelous weapon we copy in vain;Or chants to the winds a wild song that shallwander forever undying?
"See! His reward is in envies and hates;In lips that deny, or in stabs that may kill.""Nay," said the smith; "for there's one here who waitsHumbly to serve you with unmeasured skill,Sure that no utmost devotion can fail,Offered toyou, nor unfriended assailThe heart of the hero and poet Antar, whosefame is undying!"
"Speak," said the chief. Then the smith: "O Antar,It is I who would serve you! I know, by the soulOf the poet within you, no envy can barThe stream of your gratitude,—once let it roll.Listen. The lightning, your camel that slew,Icaught, and wrought in this sword-blade for you;—Sword that no foe shall encounter unhurt, ordepart from undying."
Burst from the eyes of Antar a swift rain,—Gratitude'sglittering drops,—as he threwOne shining arm round the smith, like a chain.Closer the man to his bosom he drew;Thankful, caressing, with "Great is my debt.""Yea," said the smith, and his eyelids were wet:"I knew the sword Dham would unite me withyou in an honor undying."
"So?" asked the chief, as his thumb-point at willSilently over the sword's edge played.—"Ay!" said the smith, "but there's one thing, still:Who is the smiter, shall smite with this blade?"Jealous, their eyes met; and fury awoke."Iam the smiter!" Antar cried. One strokeRolled the smith's head from his neck, and gavehim remembrance undying.
"Seek now who may, no search will avail:No man the mate of this weapon shall own!"Yet, in his triumph, the chieftain made wail:"Slain is the craftsman, the one friend aloneAble to honor the man who creates.I slew him—I, who am poet! O fates,Grant that the envious blade slaying artists shallmake them undying!"
Before the golden gate she stands,With drooping head, with idle handsLoose-clasped, and bent beneath the weightOf unseen woe. Too late, too late!Those carved and fretted,Starred, resettedPanels shall not open everTo her who seeks the perfect mate.
Only the tearless enter there:Only the soul that, like a prayer,No bolt can stay, no wall may bar,Shall dream the dreams grief cannot mar.No door of cedar,Alas, shall lead herUnto the stream that shows foreverLove's face like some reflected star!
They say that golden barrier hidesA realm where deathless spring abides;Where flowers shall fade not, and there floatsThro' moon-rays mild or sunlit motes—'Mid dewy alleysThat gird the palace,And fountain'd spray's unceasing quiver—A dulcet rain of song-birds' notes.
The sultan lord knew not her name;But to the door that fair shape came:The hour had struck, the way was right,Traced by her lamp's pale, flickering light.But ah, whose errorHas brought this terror?Whose fault has foiled her fond endeavor?The gate swings to: her hope takes flight.
The harp, the song, the nightingalesShe hears, beyond. The night-wind wailsWithout, to sound of feast within,While here she stands, shut out by sin.And be that revelOf angel or devil,She longs to sit beside the giver,That she at last her prize may win.
Her lamp has fallen; her eyes are wet;Frozen she stands, she lingers yet;But through the garden's gladness stealsA whisper that each heart congeals—A moan of grievingBeyond relieving,Which makes the proudest of them shiver.And suddenly the sultan kneels!
The lamp was quenched; he found her dead,When dawn had turned the threshold red.Her face was calm and sad as fate:His sin, not hers, made her too late.Some think, unbiddenShe brought him, hidden,A truer bliss that came back neverTo him, unblest, who closed the gate.
Unarmed she goeth; yet her handsStrike deeper awe than steel-caparison'd bands.No fatal hurt of foe she fears,—Veiled, as with mail, in mist of gentle tears.
'Gainst her thou canst not bar the door:Like air she enters, where none dared before.Even to the rich she can forgiveTheir regal selfishness,—and let them live!
Helen, in her silent room,Weaves upon the upright loom;Weaves a mantle rich and dark,Purpled over, deep. But markHow she scatters o'er the woolWoven shapes, till it is fullOf men that struggle close, complex;Short-clipp'd steeds with wrinkled necksArching high; spear, shield, and allThe panoply that doth recallMighty war; such war as e'enFor Helen's sake is waged, I ween.Purple is the groundwork: good!All the field is stained with blood—Blood poured out for Helen's sake;(Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!)But the shapes of men that passAre as ghosts within a glass,Woven with whiteness of the swan,Pale, sad memories, gleaming wanFrom the garment's purple foldWhere Troy's tale is twined and told.Well may Helen, as with tenderTouch of rosy fingers slenderShe doth knit the story inOf Troy's sorrow and her sin,Feel sharp filaments of painReeled off with the well-spun skein,And faint blood-stains on her handsFrom the shifting, sanguine strands.
Gently, sweetly she doth sorrow:What has been must be to-morrow;Meekly to her fate she bows.Heavenly beauties still will rouseStrife and savagery in men:Shall the lucid heavens, then,Lose their high serenity,Sorrowing over what must be?If she taketh to her shame,Lo, they give her not the blame,—Priam's wisest counselors,Aged men, not loving wars.When she goes forth, clad in white,Day-cloud touched by first moonlight,With her fair hair, amber-huedAs vapor by the moon imbuedWith burning brown, that round her clings,See, she sudden silence bringsOn the gloomy whisperersWho would make the wrong all hers.So, Helen, in thy silent room,Labor at the storied loom;(Thread, run on; and shuttle, shake!)Let thy aching sorrow makeSomething strangely beautifulOf this fabric; since the woolComes so tinted from the Fates,Dyed with loves, hopes, fears, and hates.Thou shalt work with subtle forceAll thy deep shade of remorseIn the texture of the weft,That no stain on thee be left;—Ay, false queen, shalt fashion grief,Grief and wrong, to soft relief.Speed the garment! It may chance,Long hereafter, meet the glance,Of Oenone; when her lord,Now thy Paris, shall go tow'rdIda, at his last sad end,Seeking her, his early friend,Who alone can cure his ill,Of all who love him, if she will.It were fitting she should seeIn that hour thine artistry,And her husband's speechless corseIn the garment of remorse!
But take heed that in thy workNaught unbeautiful may lurk.Ah, how little signifiesUnto thee what fortunes rise,What others fall! Thou still shall rule,Still shalt twirl the colored spool.Though thy yearning woman's eyesBurn with glorious agonies,Pitying the waste and woe,And the heroes falling lowIn the war around thee, here,Yet the least, quick-trembling tear'Twixt thy lids shall dearer beThan life, to friend or enemy.
There are people on the earthDoomed with doom of too great worth.Look on Helen not with hate,Therefore, but compassionate.If she suffer not too much,Seldom does she feel the touchOf that fresh, auroral joyLighter spirits may decoyTo their pure and sunny lives.Heavy honey 'tis she hives.To her sweet but burdened soulAll that here she may control—What of bitter memories,What of coming fate's surmise,Paris' passion, distant dinOf the war now drifting inTo her quiet—idle seems;Idle as the lazy gleamsOf some stilly water's reach,Seen from where broad vine-leaves pleachA heavy arch; and, looking through,Far away the doubtful blueGlimmers, on a drowsy day,Crowded with the sun's rich gray;—As she stands within her room,Weaving, weaving at the loom.
Deep, smoldering colors of the land and seaBurn in these stones, that, by some mystery,Wrap fire in sleep and never are consumed.Scarlet of daybreak, sunset gleams half spentIn thick white cloud; pale moons that may have lentLight to love's grieving; rose-illumined snows,And veins of gold no mine depth ever gloomed;All these, and green of thin-edged waves, are there.I think a tide of feeling through them flowsWith blush and pallor, as if some being of air,—Some soul once human,—wandering, in the snareOf passion had been caught, and henceforth doomedIn misty crystal here to lie entombed.
And so it is, indeed. Here prisoned sleepThe ardors and the moods and all the painThat once within a man's heart throbbed. He gaveThese opals to the woman whom he loved;And now, like glinting sunbeams through the rain,The rays of thought that through his spirit movedLeap out from these mysterious forms again.
The colors of the jewels laugh and weepAs with his very voice. In them the waveOf sorrow and joy that, with a changing sweep,Bore him to misery or else made him blestStill surges in melodious, wild unrest.So when each gem in place I touch and take,It murmurs what he thought or what he spake.
My heart is like an opalMade to lie upon your breastIn dreams of ardor, clouded o'erBy endless joy's unrest.
And forever it shall haunt youWith its mystic, changing ray:Its light shall live when we lie dead,With hearts at the heart of day!
If, from a careless hold,One gem of these should fall,No power of art or goldIts wholeness could recall:The lustrous wonder diesIn gleams of irised rain,As light fades out from the eyesWhen a soul is crushed by pain.Take heed that from your holdMy love you do not cast:Dim, shattered, vapor-cold—That day would be its last.
He won her love; and so this opal singsWith all its tints in maze, that seem to quakeAnd leap in light, as if its heart would break:
Gleam of the sea,Translucent air,Where every leaf alive with gleeGlows in the sun without shadow of grief—You speak of spring,When earth takes wingAnd sunlight, sunlight is everywhere!Radiant life,Face so fair—Crowned with the gracious glory of wife—Your glance lights all this happy day,Your tender glowAnd murmurs lowMake miracle, miracle, everywhere.
Earth takes wingWith birds—do I careWhether of sorrow or joy they sing?No; for they make not my life nor destroy!My soul awakesAt a smile that breaksIn sun; and sunlight is everywhere!
Then dawned a mood of musing thoughtfulness;As if he doubted whether he could blessHer wayward spirit, through each fickle hour,With love's serenity of flawless power,Or she remain a vision, as when firstShe came to soothe his fancy all athirst.
We were alone: the perfumed night,Moonlighted, like a flowerGrew round us and exhaled delightTo bless that one sweet hour.
You stood where, 'mid the white and gold,The rose-fire through the gloomTouched hair and cheek and garment's foldWith soft, ethereal bloom.
And when the vision seemed to swerve,'T was but the flickering shineThat gave new grace, a lovelier curve,To every dream-like line.
O perfect vision! Form and faceOf womanhood complete!O rare ideal to embraceAnd hold, from head to feet!
Could I so hold you ever—couldYour eye still catch the glowOf mine—it were an endless good:Together we should grow
One perfect picture of our love!...Alas, the embers oldFell, and the moonlight fell, above—Dim, shattered, vapor-cold.
What ill befell these lovers? Shall I say?What tragedy of petty care and sorrow?Ye all know, who have lived and loved: if nay,Then those will know who live and love tomorrow.But here at least is what this opal said,The fifth in number: and the next two boreMy fancy toward that dim world of the dead,Where waiting spirits muse the past life o'er:
I dreamed my kisses on your hairTurned into roses. Circling bloomCrowned the loose-lifted tresses there."O Love," I cried, "foreverDwell wreathed, and perfume-hauntedBy my heart's deep honey-breath!"But even as I bending looked, I sawThe roses were not; and, instead, there layPale, feathered flakes and scentlessAshes upon your hair!
The love I gave, the love I gave,Wherewith I sought to win you—Ah, long and close to you it claveWith life and soul and sinew!My gentleness with scorn you cursed:You knew not what I gave.The strongest man may die of thirst:My love is in its grave!
You say these jewels were accurst—With evil omen fraught.You should have known it from the first!This was the truth they taught:
No treasured thing in heaven or earthHolds potency more weirdThan our hearts hold, that throb from birthWith wavering flames insphered.
And when from me the gems you took,On that strange April day,My nature, too, I gave, that shookWith passion's fateful play.
The mingled fate my love should giveIn these mute emblems shone,That more intensely burn and live—While I am turned to stone.
Listen now to what is saidBy the eighth opal, flashing redAnd pale, by turns, with every breath—The voice of the lover after death.
I did not know beforeThat we dead could rise and walk;That our voices, as of yore,Would blend in gentle talk.
I did not know her eyesWould so haunt mine after death,Or that she could hear my sighs,Low as the harp-string's breath.
But, ah, last night we met!From our stilly trance we rose,Thrilled with all the old regret—The grieving that God knows.
She asked: "Am I forgiven?"—"And dost thou forgive?" I said,Ah! how long for joy we'd striven!But now our hearts were dead.
Alas, for the lips I kissedAnd the sweet hope, long ago!On her grave chill hangs the mist;On mine, white lies the snow.
Hearkening still, I hear this strainFrom the ninth opal's varied vein:
In the mountains of Mexico,Where the barren volcanoes throwTheir fierce peaks high to the sky,With the strength of a tawny bruteThat sees heaven but to defy,And the soft, white hand of the snowTouches and makes them mute,—
Firm in the clasp of the groundThe opal is found.By the struggle of frost and fireCreated, yet caught in a spellFrom which only human desireCan free it, what passion profoundIn its dim, sweet bosom may dwell!
So was it with us, I think,Whose souls were formed on the brinkOf a crater, where rain and flameHad mingled and crystallized.One venturous day Love came;Found us; and bound with a linkOf gold the jewels he prized.
The agonies old of the earth,Its plenitude and its dearth,The torrents of flame and of tears,All these in our souls were inborn.And we must endure through the yearsThe glory and burden of birthThat filled us with fire of the morn.
Let the diamond lie in its mine;Let ruby and topaz shine;The beryl sleep, and the emerald keepIts sunned-leaf green! We knowThe joy of sufferings deepThat blend with a love divine,And the hidden warmth of the snow!
Colors that tremble and perish,Atoms that follow the law,You mirror the truth which we cherish,You mirror the spirit we saw.Glow of the daybreak tender,Flushed with an opaline gleam,And passionate sunset-splendor—Ye both but embody a dream.Visions of cloud-hidden gloryBreaking from sources of lightMimic the mist of life's story.Mingled of scarlet and white.Sunset-clouds iridescent,Opals, and mists of the day,Are thrilled alike with the crescentDelight of a deathless rayShot through the hesitant troubleOf particles floating in space,And touching each wandering bubbleWith tints of a rainbowed grace.So through the veil of emotionTrembles the light of the truth;And so may the light of devotionGlorify life—age and youth.Sufferings,—pangs that seem cruel,—These are but atoms adrift:The light streams through, and a jewelIs formed for us, Heaven's own gift!
Dear face—bright, glinting hair;Dear life, whose heart is mine—The thought of you is prayer,The love of you divine.
In starlight, or in rain;In the sunset's shrouded glow;Ever, with joy or pain,To you my quick thoughts go
Like winds or clouds, that fleetAcross the hungry spaceBetween, and find you, sweet,Where life again wins grace.
Now, as in that once youngYear that so softly drewMy heart to where it clung,I long for, gladden in you.
And when in the silent hoursI whisper your sacred name,Like an altar-fire it showersMy blood with fragrant flame!
Perished is all that grieves;And lo, our old-new joysAre gathered as in sheaves,Held in love's equipoise.
Ours is the love that lives;Its springtime blossoms blow'Mid the fruit that autumn gives,And its life outlasts the snow.
Over the mossy walls,Above the slumbering fieldsWhere yet the ground no fruitage yields,Save as the sunlight fallsIn dreams of harvest-yellow,What voice remembered calls,—So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow?
A darting, azure-feathered arrowFrom some lithe sapling's bow-curve, fleetThe bluebird, springing light and narrow,Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet:
"Out of the South I wing,Blown on the breath of Spring:The little faltering songThat in my beak I bringSome maiden shall catch and sing,Filling it with the longingAnd the blithe, unfettered throngingOf her spirit's blossoming.
"Warbling alongIn the sunny weather,Float, my notes,Through the sunny motes,Falling light as a feather!Flit, flit, o'er the fertile land'Mid hovering insects' hums;Fall into the sower's hand:Then, when his harvest comes,The seed and the song shall have flowered together.
"From the Coosa and Altamaha,With a thought of the dim blue Gulf;From the Roanoke and Kanawha;From the musical Southern rivers,O'er the land where the fierce war-wolfLies slain and buried in flowers;I come to your chill, sad hoursAnd the woods where the sunlight shivers.I come like an echo: 'Awake!'I answer the sky and the lakeAnd the clear, cool color that quiversIn all your azure rills.I come to your wan, bleak hillsFor a greeting that rises dearer,To homely hearts draws me nearerThan the warmth of the rice-fields or wealth of the ranches.
"I will charm away your sorrow,For I sing of the dewy morrow:My melody sways like the branchesMy light feet set astir:I bring to the old, as I hover,The days and the joys that were,And hope to the waiting lover!Then, take my note and sing,Filling it with the longingAnd the blithe, unfettered throngingOf your spirit's blossoming!"
Not long that music lingers:Like the breath of forgotten singersIt flies,—or like the March-cloud's shadowThat sweeps with its wing the faded meadowNot long! And yet thy fleeting,Thy tender, flute-toned greeting,O bluebird, wakes an answer that remainsThe purest chord in all the year's refrains.
I warn, like the one drop of rainOn your face, ere the storm;Or tremble in whispered refrainWith your blood, beating warm.I am the presence that everBaffles your touch's endeavor,—Gone like the glimmer of dustDispersed by a gust.I am the absence that taunts you,The fancy that haunts you;The ever unsatisfied guessThat, questioning emptiness,Wins a sigh for reply.Nay; nothing am I,But the flight of a breath—For I am Death!
O wholesome Death, thy sombre funeral-carLooms ever dimly on the lengthening wayOf life; while, lengthening still, in sad array,My deeds in long procession go, that areAs mourners of the man they helped to mar.I see it all in dreams, such as waylayThe wandering fancy when the solid dayHas fallen in smoldering ruins, and night's star,Aloft there, with its steady point of lightMastering the eye, has wrapped the brain in sleep.Ah, when I die, and planets hold their flightAbove my grave, still let my spirit keepSometimes its vigil of divine remorse,'Midst pity, praise, or blame heaped o'er my corse!
When the leaves, by thousands thinned,A thousand times have whirled in the wind,And the moon, with hollow cheek,Staring from her hollow height,Consolation seems to seekFrom the dim, reechoing night;And the fog-streaks dead and whiteLie like ghosts of lost delightO'er highest earth and lowest sky;Then, Autumn, work thy witchery!
Strew the ground with poppy-seeds,And let my bed be hung with weeds,Growing gaunt and rank and tall,Drooping o'er me like a pall.Send thy stealthy, white-eyed mistAcross my brow to turn and twistFold on fold, and leave me blindTo all save visions in the mind.Then, in the depth of rain-fed streamsI shall slumber, and in dreamsSlide through some long glen that burnsWith a crust of blood-red fernsAnd brown-withered wings of brakeLike a burning lava-lake;—So, urged to fearful, faster flowBy the awful gasp, "Hahk! hahk!" of the crow,Shall pass by many a haunted roodOf the nutty, odorous wood;Or, where the hemlocks lean and loom,Shall fill my heart with bitter gloom;Till, lured by light, reflected cloud,I burst aloft my watery shroud,And upward through the ether sailFar above the shrill wind's wail;—But, falling thence, my soul involveWith the dust dead flowers dissolve;And, gliding out at last to sea,Lulled to a long tranquillity,The perfect poise of seasons keepWith the tides that rest at neap.So must be fulfilled the riteThat giveth me the dead year's might;And at dawn I shall ariseA spirit, though with human eyes,A human form and human face;And where'er I go or stay,There the summer's perished graceShall be with me, night and day.
[PLYMOUTH PLANTATION: 1622]
[PLYMOUTH PLANTATION: 1622]
The strong and the tender,The young and the old,Unto Death we must render;—Our silver, our gold.
To break their long sleepingNo voice may avail:They hear not our weeping—Our famished love's wail.
Yea, those whom we cherishDepart, day by day.Soon we, too, shall perishAnd crumble to clay.
And the vine and the berryAbove us will bloom;The wind shall make merryWhile we lie in gloom.
Fear not! Though thou starvest,Provision is made:God gathers His harvestWhen our hopes fade!