With a turn of his magical rod,That extended and suddenly shone,From the round of his glory some godLooks forth and is gone.To the summit of heaven the cloudsAre rolling aloft like steam;There's a break in their infinite shrouds,And below it a gleam.O'er the drift of the river a whiffComes out from the blossoming shore;And the meadows are greening, as ifThey never were green before.The islands are kindled with goldAnd russet and emerald dye;And the interval waters outrolledAre more blue than the sky.From my feet to the heart of the hillsThe spirits of May intervene,And a vapor of azure distillsLike a breath on the opaline green.Only a moment!—and thenThe chill and the shadow decline,On the eyes of rejuvenate menThat were wide and divine.
With a turn of his magical rod,That extended and suddenly shone,From the round of his glory some godLooks forth and is gone.
To the summit of heaven the cloudsAre rolling aloft like steam;There's a break in their infinite shrouds,And below it a gleam.O'er the drift of the river a whiffComes out from the blossoming shore;And the meadows are greening, as ifThey never were green before.
The islands are kindled with goldAnd russet and emerald dye;And the interval waters outrolledAre more blue than the sky.From my feet to the heart of the hillsThe spirits of May intervene,And a vapor of azure distillsLike a breath on the opaline green.
Only a moment!—and thenThe chill and the shadow decline,On the eyes of rejuvenate menThat were wide and divine.
The full, clear moon uprose and spreadHer cold, pale splendor o'er the sea;A light-strewn path that seemed to leadOutward into eternity.Between the darkness and the gleamAn old-world spell encompassed me:Methought that in a godlike dreamI trod upon the sea.And lo! upon that glimmering road,In shining companies unfurled,The trains of many a primal god,The monsters of the elder world;Strange creatures that, with silver wings,Scarce touched the ocean's thronging floor,The phantoms of old tales, and thingsWhose shapes are known no more.Giants and demi-gods who onceWere dwellers of the earth and sea,And they who from Deucalion's stones,Rose men without an infancy;Beings on whose majestic lidsTime's solemn secrets seemed to dwell,Tritons and pale-limbed Nereids,And forms of heaven and hell.Some who were heroes long of yore,When the great world was hale and young;And some whose marble lips yet pourThe murmur of an antique tongue;Sad queens, whose names are like soft moans,Whose griefs were written up in gold;And some who on their silver thronesWere goddesses of old.As if I had been dead indeed,And come into some after-land,I saw them pass me, and take heed,And touch me with each mighty hand;And evermore a murmurous stream,So beautiful they seemed to me,Not less than in a godlike dreamI trod the shining sea.
The full, clear moon uprose and spreadHer cold, pale splendor o'er the sea;A light-strewn path that seemed to leadOutward into eternity.Between the darkness and the gleamAn old-world spell encompassed me:Methought that in a godlike dreamI trod upon the sea.
And lo! upon that glimmering road,In shining companies unfurled,The trains of many a primal god,The monsters of the elder world;Strange creatures that, with silver wings,Scarce touched the ocean's thronging floor,The phantoms of old tales, and thingsWhose shapes are known no more.
Giants and demi-gods who onceWere dwellers of the earth and sea,And they who from Deucalion's stones,Rose men without an infancy;Beings on whose majestic lidsTime's solemn secrets seemed to dwell,Tritons and pale-limbed Nereids,And forms of heaven and hell.
Some who were heroes long of yore,When the great world was hale and young;And some whose marble lips yet pourThe murmur of an antique tongue;Sad queens, whose names are like soft moans,Whose griefs were written up in gold;And some who on their silver thronesWere goddesses of old.
As if I had been dead indeed,And come into some after-land,I saw them pass me, and take heed,And touch me with each mighty hand;And evermore a murmurous stream,So beautiful they seemed to me,Not less than in a godlike dreamI trod the shining sea.
What would'st thou have for easement after grief,When the rude world hath used thee with despite,And care sits at thine elbow day and night,Filching thy pleasures like a subtle thief?To me, when life besets me in such wise,'Tis sweetest to break forth, to drop the chain,And grasp the freedom of this pleasant earth,To roam in idleness and sober mirth,Through summer airs and summer lands, and drainThe comfort of wide fields unto tired eyes.By hills and waters, farms and solitudes,To wander by the day with wilful feet;Through fielded valleys wide with yellowing wheat;Along gray roads that run between deep woods,Murmurous and cool; through hallowed slopes of pine,Where the long daylight dreams, unpierced, unstirred,And only the rich-throated thrush is heard;By lonely forest brooks that froth and shineIn bouldered crannies buried in the hills;By broken beeches tangled with wild vine,And log-strewn rivers murmurous with mills.In upland pastures, sown with gold, and sweetWith the keen perfume of the ripening grass,Where wings of birds and filmy shadows pass,Spread thick as stars with shining marguerite;To haunt old fences overgrown with brier,Muffled in vines, and hawthorns, and wild cherries,Rank poisonous ivies, red-bunched elderberries,And pièd blossoms to the heart's desire,Gray mullein towering into yellow bloom,Pink-tasseled milkweed, breathing dense perfume,And swarthy vervain, tipped with violet fire.To hear at eve the bleating of far flocks,The mud-hen's whistle from the marsh at morn;To skirt with deafened ears and brain o'erborneSome foam-filled rapid charging down its rocksWith iron roar of waters; far awayAcross wide-reeded meres, pensive with noon,To hear the querulous outcry of the loon;To lie among deep rocks, and watch all dayOn liquid heights the snowy clouds melt by;Or hear from wood-capped mountain-brows the jayPierce the bright morning with his jibing cry.To feast on summer sounds; the jolted wains,The thrasher humming from the farm near by,The prattling cricket's intermittent cry,The locust's rattle from the sultry lanes;Or in the shadow of some oaken spray,To watch, as through a mist of light and dreams,The far-off hay-fields, where the dusty teamsDrive round and round the lessening squares of hay,And hear upon the wind, now loud, now low,With drowsy cadence half a summer's day,The clatter of the reapers come and go.Far violet hills, horizons filmed with showers,The murmur of cool streams, the forest's gloom,The voices of the breathing grass, the humOf ancient gardens overbanked with flowers:Thus, with a smile as golden as the dawn,And cool fair fingers radiantly divine,The mighty mother brings us in her hand,For all tired eyes and foreheads pinched and wan,Her restful cup, her beaker of bright wine:Drink, and be filled, and ye shall understand!
What would'st thou have for easement after grief,When the rude world hath used thee with despite,And care sits at thine elbow day and night,Filching thy pleasures like a subtle thief?To me, when life besets me in such wise,'Tis sweetest to break forth, to drop the chain,And grasp the freedom of this pleasant earth,To roam in idleness and sober mirth,Through summer airs and summer lands, and drainThe comfort of wide fields unto tired eyes.
By hills and waters, farms and solitudes,To wander by the day with wilful feet;Through fielded valleys wide with yellowing wheat;Along gray roads that run between deep woods,Murmurous and cool; through hallowed slopes of pine,Where the long daylight dreams, unpierced, unstirred,And only the rich-throated thrush is heard;By lonely forest brooks that froth and shineIn bouldered crannies buried in the hills;By broken beeches tangled with wild vine,And log-strewn rivers murmurous with mills.
In upland pastures, sown with gold, and sweetWith the keen perfume of the ripening grass,Where wings of birds and filmy shadows pass,Spread thick as stars with shining marguerite;To haunt old fences overgrown with brier,Muffled in vines, and hawthorns, and wild cherries,Rank poisonous ivies, red-bunched elderberries,And pièd blossoms to the heart's desire,Gray mullein towering into yellow bloom,Pink-tasseled milkweed, breathing dense perfume,And swarthy vervain, tipped with violet fire.
To hear at eve the bleating of far flocks,The mud-hen's whistle from the marsh at morn;To skirt with deafened ears and brain o'erborneSome foam-filled rapid charging down its rocksWith iron roar of waters; far awayAcross wide-reeded meres, pensive with noon,To hear the querulous outcry of the loon;To lie among deep rocks, and watch all dayOn liquid heights the snowy clouds melt by;Or hear from wood-capped mountain-brows the jayPierce the bright morning with his jibing cry.
To feast on summer sounds; the jolted wains,The thrasher humming from the farm near by,The prattling cricket's intermittent cry,The locust's rattle from the sultry lanes;Or in the shadow of some oaken spray,To watch, as through a mist of light and dreams,The far-off hay-fields, where the dusty teamsDrive round and round the lessening squares of hay,And hear upon the wind, now loud, now low,With drowsy cadence half a summer's day,The clatter of the reapers come and go.
Far violet hills, horizons filmed with showers,The murmur of cool streams, the forest's gloom,The voices of the breathing grass, the humOf ancient gardens overbanked with flowers:Thus, with a smile as golden as the dawn,And cool fair fingers radiantly divine,The mighty mother brings us in her hand,For all tired eyes and foreheads pinched and wan,Her restful cup, her beaker of bright wine:Drink, and be filled, and ye shall understand!
On such a day the shrunken streamSpends its last water and runs dry;Clouds like far turrets in a dreamStand baseless in the burning sky.On such a day at every rodThe toilers in the hay-field halt,With dripping brows, and the parched sodYields to the crushing foot like salt.But here a little wind astir,Seen waterward in jetting lines,From yonder hillside topped with firComes pungent with the breath of pines;And here when all the noon hangs still,White-hot upon the city tiles,A perfume and a wintry chillBreathe from the yellow lumber-piles.And all day long there falls a blurOf noises upon listless ears,The rumble of the trams, the stirOf barges at the clacking piers;The champ of wheels, the crash of steam,And ever, without change or stay,The drone, as through a troubled dream,Of waters falling far away.A tug-boat up the farther shoreHalf pants, half whistles, in her draught;The cadence of a creaking oarFalls drowsily; a corded raftCreeps slowly in the noonday gleam,And wheresoe'er a shadow sleepsThe men lie by, or half a-dream,Stand leaning at the idle sweeps.And all day long in the quiet bayThe eddying amber depths retard,And hold, as in a ring, at play,The heavy saw-logs notched and scarred;And yonder between cape and shoal,Where the long currents swing and shift,An aged punt-man with his poleIs searching in the parted drift.At moments from the distant glareThe murmur of a railway stealsRound yonder jutting point the airIs beaten with the puff of wheels;And here at hand an open mill,Strong clamor at perpetual drive,With changing chant, now hoarse, now shrill,Keeps dinning like a mighty hive.A furnace over field and mead,The rounding noon hangs hard and white;Into the gathering heats recedeThe hollows of the Chelsea height;But under all to one quiet tune,A spirit in cool depths withdrawn,With logs, and dust, and wrack bestrewn,The stately river journeys on.I watch the swinging currents goFar down to where, enclosed and piled,The logs crowd, and the GatineauComes rushing from the northern wild.I see the long low point, where closeThe shore-lines, and the waters end,I watch the barges pass in rowsThat vanish at the tapering bend.I see as at the noon's pale core—A shadow that lifts clear and floats—The cabin'd village round the shore,The landing and the fringe of boats;Faint films of smoke that curl and wreathe,And upward with the like desireThe vast gray church that seems to breatheIn heaven with its dreaming spire.And there the last blue boundaries rise,That guard within their compass furledThis plot of earth: beyond them liesThe mystery of the echoing world;And still my thought goes on, and yieldsNew vision and new joy to me,Far peopled hills, and ancient fields,And cities by the crested sea.I see no more the barges pass,Nor mark the ripple round the pier,And all the uproar, mass on mass,Falls dead upon a vacant ear.Beyond the tumult of the mills,And all the city's sound and strife,Beyond the waste, beyond the hills,I look far out and dream of life.
On such a day the shrunken streamSpends its last water and runs dry;Clouds like far turrets in a dreamStand baseless in the burning sky.On such a day at every rodThe toilers in the hay-field halt,With dripping brows, and the parched sodYields to the crushing foot like salt.
But here a little wind astir,Seen waterward in jetting lines,From yonder hillside topped with firComes pungent with the breath of pines;And here when all the noon hangs still,White-hot upon the city tiles,A perfume and a wintry chillBreathe from the yellow lumber-piles.
And all day long there falls a blurOf noises upon listless ears,The rumble of the trams, the stirOf barges at the clacking piers;The champ of wheels, the crash of steam,And ever, without change or stay,The drone, as through a troubled dream,Of waters falling far away.
A tug-boat up the farther shoreHalf pants, half whistles, in her draught;The cadence of a creaking oarFalls drowsily; a corded raftCreeps slowly in the noonday gleam,And wheresoe'er a shadow sleepsThe men lie by, or half a-dream,Stand leaning at the idle sweeps.
And all day long in the quiet bayThe eddying amber depths retard,And hold, as in a ring, at play,The heavy saw-logs notched and scarred;And yonder between cape and shoal,Where the long currents swing and shift,An aged punt-man with his poleIs searching in the parted drift.
At moments from the distant glareThe murmur of a railway stealsRound yonder jutting point the airIs beaten with the puff of wheels;And here at hand an open mill,Strong clamor at perpetual drive,With changing chant, now hoarse, now shrill,Keeps dinning like a mighty hive.
A furnace over field and mead,The rounding noon hangs hard and white;Into the gathering heats recedeThe hollows of the Chelsea height;But under all to one quiet tune,A spirit in cool depths withdrawn,With logs, and dust, and wrack bestrewn,The stately river journeys on.
I watch the swinging currents goFar down to where, enclosed and piled,The logs crowd, and the GatineauComes rushing from the northern wild.I see the long low point, where closeThe shore-lines, and the waters end,I watch the barges pass in rowsThat vanish at the tapering bend.
I see as at the noon's pale core—A shadow that lifts clear and floats—The cabin'd village round the shore,The landing and the fringe of boats;Faint films of smoke that curl and wreathe,And upward with the like desireThe vast gray church that seems to breatheIn heaven with its dreaming spire.
And there the last blue boundaries rise,That guard within their compass furledThis plot of earth: beyond them liesThe mystery of the echoing world;And still my thought goes on, and yieldsNew vision and new joy to me,Far peopled hills, and ancient fields,And cities by the crested sea.
I see no more the barges pass,Nor mark the ripple round the pier,And all the uproar, mass on mass,Falls dead upon a vacant ear.Beyond the tumult of the mills,And all the city's sound and strife,Beyond the waste, beyond the hills,I look far out and dream of life.
Now hath the summer reached her golden close,And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul,Scarcely perceives from her divine reposeHow near, how swift, the inevitable goal:Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feetThe bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,And through the soft long wondering days goes onThe silent sere decadence sad and sweet.The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled,Children of light, too fearful of the gloom;The sun falls low, the secret word is said,The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb;Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace,The cone-flower and the marguerite; and no more,Across the river's shadow-haunted floor,The paths of skimming swallows interlace.Already in the outland wildernessThe forests echo with unwonted dins;In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen pressNorthward, and the stern winter's toil begins.Around the long low shanties, whose rough linesBreak the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake,Already in the frost-clear morns awakeThe crash and thunder of the falling pines.Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free,Naked and yellow from the harvest lies,By many a loft and busy granary,The hum and tumult of the thrashers rise;There the tanned farmers labor without slack,Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill,Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will,Pitching waist-deep upon the dusty stack.Still a brief while, ere the old year quite pass,Our wandering steps and wistful eyes shall greetThe leaf, the water, the beloved grass;Still from these haunts and this accustomed seatI see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light,The blue long-shadowed distance, and, between,The dotted farm-lands with their parcelled green,The dark pine forest and the watchful height.I see the broad rough meadow stretched awayInto the crystal sunshine, wastes of sod,Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray,Branches of aster, groves of goldenrod;And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewnWith shadowy boulders, crowned and swathed with weed,Stand ranks of silken thistles, blown to seed,Long silver fleeces shining like the noon.In far-off russet corn-fields, where the dryGray shocks stand peaked and withering, half concealedIn the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie,Full-ribbed; and in the windless pasture-fieldThe sleek red horses o'er the sun-warmed groundStand pensively about in companies,While all around them from the motionless treesThe long clean shadows sleep without a sound.Under cool elm-trees floats the distant stream,Moveless as air; and o'er the vast warm earthThe fathomless daylight seems to stand and dream,A liquid cool elixir—all its girthBound with faint haze, a frail transparency,Whose lucid purple barely veils and fillsThe utmost valleys and the thin last hills,Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity.Thus without grief the golden days go by,So soft we scarcely notice how they wend,And like a smile half happy, or a sigh,The summer passes to her quiet end;And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eavesSly frosts shall take the creepers by surprise,And through the wind-touched reddening woods shall riseOctober with the rain of ruined leaves.
Now hath the summer reached her golden close,And, lost amid her corn-fields, bright of soul,Scarcely perceives from her divine reposeHow near, how swift, the inevitable goal:Still, still, she smiles, though from her careless feetThe bounty and the fruitful strength are gone,And through the soft long wondering days goes onThe silent sere decadence sad and sweet.
The kingbird and the pensive thrush are fled,Children of light, too fearful of the gloom;The sun falls low, the secret word is said,The mouldering woods grow silent as the tomb;Even the fields have lost their sovereign grace,The cone-flower and the marguerite; and no more,Across the river's shadow-haunted floor,The paths of skimming swallows interlace.
Already in the outland wildernessThe forests echo with unwonted dins;In clamorous gangs the gathering woodmen pressNorthward, and the stern winter's toil begins.Around the long low shanties, whose rough linesBreak the sealed dreams of many an unnamed lake,Already in the frost-clear morns awakeThe crash and thunder of the falling pines.
Where the tilled earth, with all its fields set free,Naked and yellow from the harvest lies,By many a loft and busy granary,The hum and tumult of the thrashers rise;There the tanned farmers labor without slack,Till twilight deepens round the spouting mill,Feeding the loosened sheaves, or with fierce will,Pitching waist-deep upon the dusty stack.
Still a brief while, ere the old year quite pass,Our wandering steps and wistful eyes shall greetThe leaf, the water, the beloved grass;Still from these haunts and this accustomed seatI see the wood-wrapt city, swept with light,The blue long-shadowed distance, and, between,The dotted farm-lands with their parcelled green,The dark pine forest and the watchful height.
I see the broad rough meadow stretched awayInto the crystal sunshine, wastes of sod,Acres of withered vervain, purple-gray,Branches of aster, groves of goldenrod;And yonder, toward the sunlit summit, strewnWith shadowy boulders, crowned and swathed with weed,Stand ranks of silken thistles, blown to seed,Long silver fleeces shining like the noon.
In far-off russet corn-fields, where the dryGray shocks stand peaked and withering, half concealedIn the rough earth, the orange pumpkins lie,Full-ribbed; and in the windless pasture-fieldThe sleek red horses o'er the sun-warmed groundStand pensively about in companies,While all around them from the motionless treesThe long clean shadows sleep without a sound.
Under cool elm-trees floats the distant stream,Moveless as air; and o'er the vast warm earthThe fathomless daylight seems to stand and dream,A liquid cool elixir—all its girthBound with faint haze, a frail transparency,Whose lucid purple barely veils and fillsThe utmost valleys and the thin last hills,Nor mars one whit their perfect clarity.
Thus without grief the golden days go by,So soft we scarcely notice how they wend,And like a smile half happy, or a sigh,The summer passes to her quiet end;And soon, too soon, around the cumbered eavesSly frosts shall take the creepers by surprise,And through the wind-touched reddening woods shall riseOctober with the rain of ruined leaves.
With what doubting eyes, oh sparrow,Thou regardest me,Underneath yon spray of yarrow,Dipping cautiously.Fear me not, oh little sparrow,Bathe and never fear,For to me both pool and yarrowAnd thyself are dear.
With what doubting eyes, oh sparrow,Thou regardest me,Underneath yon spray of yarrow,Dipping cautiously.
Fear me not, oh little sparrow,Bathe and never fear,For to me both pool and yarrowAnd thyself are dear.
Think not, oh master of the well-tilled field,This earth is only thine; for after thee,When all is sown and gathered and put by,Comes the grave poet with creative eye,And from these silent acres and clean plots,Bids with his wand the fancied after-yield,A second tilth and second harvest, be,The crop of images and curious thoughts.
Think not, oh master of the well-tilled field,This earth is only thine; for after thee,When all is sown and gathered and put by,Comes the grave poet with creative eye,And from these silent acres and clean plots,Bids with his wand the fancied after-yield,A second tilth and second harvest, be,The crop of images and curious thoughts.
No wind there is that either pipes or moans;The fields are cold and still; the skyIs covered with a blue-gray sheetOf motionless cloud; and at my feetThe river, curling softly by,Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.Along the chill green slope that dips and heavesThe road runs rough and silent, linedWith plum-trees, misty and blue-gray,And poplars pallid as the day,In masses spectral, undefined,Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves.And on beside the river's sober edgeA long fresh field lies black. Beyond,Low thickets gray and reddish stand,Stroked white with birch; and near at hand,Over a little steel-smooth pond,Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge.Across a waste and solitary riseA ploughman urges his dull team,A stooped gray figure with prone browThat plunges bending to the ploughWith strong, uneven steps. The streamRings and re-echoes with his furious cries.Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn,Comes from far off; and crows in stringsPass on the upper silences.A flock of small gray goldfinches,Flown down with silvery twitterings,Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.This day the season seems like one that heeds,With fixèd ear and lifted hand,All moods that yet are known on earth,All motions that have faintest birth,If haply she may understandThe utmost inward sense of all her deeds.
No wind there is that either pipes or moans;The fields are cold and still; the skyIs covered with a blue-gray sheetOf motionless cloud; and at my feetThe river, curling softly by,Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.
Along the chill green slope that dips and heavesThe road runs rough and silent, linedWith plum-trees, misty and blue-gray,And poplars pallid as the day,In masses spectral, undefined,Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves.
And on beside the river's sober edgeA long fresh field lies black. Beyond,Low thickets gray and reddish stand,Stroked white with birch; and near at hand,Over a little steel-smooth pond,Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge.
Across a waste and solitary riseA ploughman urges his dull team,A stooped gray figure with prone browThat plunges bending to the ploughWith strong, uneven steps. The streamRings and re-echoes with his furious cries.
Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn,Comes from far off; and crows in stringsPass on the upper silences.A flock of small gray goldfinches,Flown down with silvery twitterings,Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.
This day the season seems like one that heeds,With fixèd ear and lifted hand,All moods that yet are known on earth,All motions that have faintest birth,If haply she may understandThe utmost inward sense of all her deeds.
With loitering step and quiet eye,Beneath the low November sky,I wandered in the woods, and foundA clearing, where the broken groundWas scattered with black stumps and briers,And the old wreck of forest fires.It was a bleak and sandy spot,And, all about, the vacant plotWas peopled and inhabitedBy scores of mulleins long since dead.A silent and forsaken broodIn that mute opening of the wood,So shrivelled and so thin they were,So gray, so haggard, and austere,Not plants at all they seemed to me,But rather some spare companyOf hermit folk, who long ago,Wandering in bodies to and fro,Had chanced upon this lonely way,And rested thus, till death one daySurprised them at their compline prayer,And left them standing lifeless there.There was no sound about the woodSave the wind's secret stir. I stoodAmong the mullein-stalks as stillAs if myself had grown to beOne of their sombre company,A body without wish or will.And as I stood, quite suddenly,Down from a furrow in the skyThe sun shone out a little spaceAcross that silent sober place,Over the sand heaps and brown sod,The mulleins and dead goldenrod,And passed beyond the thickets gray,And lit the fallen leaves that lay,Level and deep within the wood,A rustling yellow multitude.And all around me the thin light,So sere, so melancholy bright,Fell like the half-reflected gleamOr shadow of some former dream;A moment's golden reveryPoured out on every plant and treeA semblance of weird joy, or less,A sort of spectral happiness;And I, too, standing idly there,With muffled hands in the chill air,Felt the warm glow about my feet,And shuddering betwixt cold and heat,Drew my thoughts closer, like a cloak,While something in my blood awoke,A nameless and unnatural cheer,A pleasure secret and austere.
With loitering step and quiet eye,Beneath the low November sky,I wandered in the woods, and foundA clearing, where the broken groundWas scattered with black stumps and briers,And the old wreck of forest fires.It was a bleak and sandy spot,And, all about, the vacant plotWas peopled and inhabitedBy scores of mulleins long since dead.A silent and forsaken broodIn that mute opening of the wood,So shrivelled and so thin they were,So gray, so haggard, and austere,Not plants at all they seemed to me,But rather some spare companyOf hermit folk, who long ago,Wandering in bodies to and fro,Had chanced upon this lonely way,And rested thus, till death one daySurprised them at their compline prayer,And left them standing lifeless there.
There was no sound about the woodSave the wind's secret stir. I stoodAmong the mullein-stalks as stillAs if myself had grown to beOne of their sombre company,A body without wish or will.And as I stood, quite suddenly,Down from a furrow in the skyThe sun shone out a little spaceAcross that silent sober place,Over the sand heaps and brown sod,The mulleins and dead goldenrod,And passed beyond the thickets gray,And lit the fallen leaves that lay,Level and deep within the wood,A rustling yellow multitude.
And all around me the thin light,So sere, so melancholy bright,Fell like the half-reflected gleamOr shadow of some former dream;A moment's golden reveryPoured out on every plant and treeA semblance of weird joy, or less,A sort of spectral happiness;And I, too, standing idly there,With muffled hands in the chill air,Felt the warm glow about my feet,And shuddering betwixt cold and heat,Drew my thoughts closer, like a cloak,While something in my blood awoke,A nameless and unnatural cheer,A pleasure secret and austere.
Now overhead,Where the rivulet loiters and stops,The bittersweet hangs from the topsOf the alders and cherriesIts bunches of beautiful berries,Orange and red.And the snowbirds flee,Tossing up on the far brown field,Now flashing and now concealed,Like fringes of sprayThat vanish and gleam on the grayField of the sea.Flickering light,Come the last of the leaves down borne,And patches of pale white cornIn the wind complain,Like the slow rustle of rainNoticed by night.Withered and thinned,The sentinel mullein looms,With the pale gray shadowy plumesOf the goldenrod;And the milkweed opens its pod,Tempting the wind.Aloft on the hill,A cloudrift opens and shinesThrough a break in its gorget of pines,And it dreams at my feetIn a sad, silvery sheet,Utterly still.All things that beSeem plunged into silence, distraught,By some stern, some necessitous thought:It wraps and enthrallsMarsh, meadow, and forest; and fallsAlso on me.
Now overhead,Where the rivulet loiters and stops,The bittersweet hangs from the topsOf the alders and cherriesIts bunches of beautiful berries,Orange and red.
And the snowbirds flee,Tossing up on the far brown field,Now flashing and now concealed,Like fringes of sprayThat vanish and gleam on the grayField of the sea.
Flickering light,Come the last of the leaves down borne,And patches of pale white cornIn the wind complain,Like the slow rustle of rainNoticed by night.
Withered and thinned,The sentinel mullein looms,With the pale gray shadowy plumesOf the goldenrod;And the milkweed opens its pod,Tempting the wind.
Aloft on the hill,A cloudrift opens and shinesThrough a break in its gorget of pines,And it dreams at my feetIn a sad, silvery sheet,Utterly still.
All things that beSeem plunged into silence, distraught,By some stern, some necessitous thought:It wraps and enthrallsMarsh, meadow, and forest; and fallsAlso on me.
Along the narrow sandy heightI watch them swiftly come and go,Or round the leafless wood,Like flurries of wind-driven snow,Revolving in perpetual flight,A changing multitude.Nearer and nearer still they sway,And, scattering in a circled sweep,Rush down without a sound;And now I see them peer and peep,Across yon level bleak and gray,Searching the frozen ground,—Until a little wind upheaves,And makes a sudden rustling there,And then they drop their play,Flash up into the sunless air,And like a flight of silver leavesSwirl round and sweep away.
Along the narrow sandy heightI watch them swiftly come and go,Or round the leafless wood,Like flurries of wind-driven snow,Revolving in perpetual flight,A changing multitude.
Nearer and nearer still they sway,And, scattering in a circled sweep,Rush down without a sound;And now I see them peer and peep,Across yon level bleak and gray,Searching the frozen ground,—
Until a little wind upheaves,And makes a sudden rustling there,And then they drop their play,Flash up into the sunless air,And like a flight of silver leavesSwirl round and sweep away.
White are the far-off plains, and whiteThe fading forests grow;The wind dies out along the height,And denser still the snow,A gathering weight on roof and tree,Falls down scarce audibly.The road before me smooths and fillsApace, and all aboutThe fences dwindle, and the hillsAre blotted slowly out;The naked trees loom spectrallyInto the dim white sky.The meadows and far-sheeted streamsLie still without a sound;Like some soft minister of dreamsThe snow-fall hoods me round;In wood and water, earth and air,A silence everywhere.Save when at lonely intervalsSome farmer's sleigh, urged on,With rustling runners and sharp bells,Swings by me and is gone;Or from the empty waste I hearA sound remote and clear;The barking of a dog, or callTo cattle, sharply pealed,Borne echoing from some wayside stallOr barnyard far a-field;Then all is silent, and the snowFalls, settling soft and slow.The evening deepens, and the grayFolds closer earth and sky;The world seems shrouded far away;Its noises sleep, and I,As secret as yon buried stream,Plod dumbly on, and dream.
White are the far-off plains, and whiteThe fading forests grow;The wind dies out along the height,And denser still the snow,A gathering weight on roof and tree,Falls down scarce audibly.
The road before me smooths and fillsApace, and all aboutThe fences dwindle, and the hillsAre blotted slowly out;The naked trees loom spectrallyInto the dim white sky.
The meadows and far-sheeted streamsLie still without a sound;Like some soft minister of dreamsThe snow-fall hoods me round;In wood and water, earth and air,A silence everywhere.
Save when at lonely intervalsSome farmer's sleigh, urged on,With rustling runners and sharp bells,Swings by me and is gone;Or from the empty waste I hearA sound remote and clear;
The barking of a dog, or callTo cattle, sharply pealed,Borne echoing from some wayside stallOr barnyard far a-field;Then all is silent, and the snowFalls, settling soft and slow.
The evening deepens, and the grayFolds closer earth and sky;The world seems shrouded far away;Its noises sleep, and I,As secret as yon buried stream,Plod dumbly on, and dream.
From this windy bridge at rest,In some former curious hour,We have watched the city's hue,All along the orange west,Cupola and pointed tower,Darken into solid blue.Tho' the biting north wind breaksFull across this drifted hold,Let us stand with icèd cheeksWatching westward as of old;Past the violet mountain-headTo the farthest fringe of pine,Where far off the purple-redNarrows to a dusky line,And the last pale splendors dieSlowly from the olive sky;Till the thin clouds wear awayInto threads of purple-gray,And the sudden stars betweenBrighten in the pallid green;Till above the spacious east,Slow returnèd one by one,Like pale prisoners releasedFrom the dungeons of the sun,Capella and her train appearIn the glittering Charioteer;Till the rounded moon shall growGreat above the eastern snow,Shining into burnished gold;And the silver earth outrolled,In the misty yellow light,Shall take on the width of night.
From this windy bridge at rest,In some former curious hour,We have watched the city's hue,All along the orange west,Cupola and pointed tower,Darken into solid blue.
Tho' the biting north wind breaksFull across this drifted hold,Let us stand with icèd cheeksWatching westward as of old;
Past the violet mountain-headTo the farthest fringe of pine,Where far off the purple-redNarrows to a dusky line,And the last pale splendors dieSlowly from the olive sky;
Till the thin clouds wear awayInto threads of purple-gray,And the sudden stars betweenBrighten in the pallid green;
Till above the spacious east,Slow returnèd one by one,Like pale prisoners releasedFrom the dungeons of the sun,Capella and her train appearIn the glittering Charioteer;
Till the rounded moon shall growGreat above the eastern snow,Shining into burnished gold;And the silver earth outrolled,In the misty yellow light,Shall take on the width of night.
Subtly conscious, all awake,Let us clear our eyes, and breakThrough the cloudy chrysalis,See the wonder as it is.Down a narrow alley, blind,Touch and vision, heart and mind;Turned sharply inward, still we plod,Till the calmly smiling godLeaves us, and our spirits growMore thin, more acrid, as we go.Creeping by the sullen wall,We forego the power to see,The threads that bind us to the All,God or the Immensity;Whereof on the eternal roadMan is but a passing mode.Too blind we are, too little seeOf the magic pageantry,Every minute, every hour,From the cloudflake to the flower,Forever old, forever strange,Issuing in perpetual changeFrom the rainbow gates of Time.But he who through this common airSurely knows the great and fair,What is lovely, what sublime,Becomes in an increasing span,One with earth and one with man,One, despite these mortal scars,With the planets and the stars;And Nature from her holy place,Bending with unveilèd face,Fills him in her divine employWith her own majestic joy.Up the fielded slopes at morn,Where light wefts of shadow pass,Films upon the bending corn,I shall sweep the purple grass.Sun-crowned heights and mossy woods,And the outer solitudes,Mountain-valleys, dim with pine,Shall be home and haunt of mine.I shall search in crannied hollows,Where the sunlight scarcely follows,And the secret forest brookMurmurs, and from nook to nookForever downward curls and cools,Frothing in the bouldered pools.Many a noon shall find me laidIn the pungent balsam shade,Where sharp breezes spring and shiverOn some deep rough-coasted river,And the plangent waters come,Amber-hued and streaked with foam;Where beneath the sunburnt hillsAll day long the crowded millsWith remorseless champ and screamOverlord the sluicing stream,And the rapids' iron roarHammers at the forest's core;Where corded rafts creep slowly on,Glittering in the noonday sun,And the tawny river-dogs,Shepherding the branded logs,Bind and heave with cadenced cry;Where the blackened tugs go by,Panting hard and straining slow,Laboring at the weighty tow,Flat-nosed barges all in trim,Creeping in long cumbrous line,Loaded to the water's brimWith the clean, cool-scented pine.Perhaps in some low meadow-land,Stretching wide on either hand,I shall see the belted beesRocking with the tricksy breezeIn the spirèd meadow-sweet,Or with eager trampling feetBurrowing in the boneset blooms,Treading out the dry perfumes.Where sun-hot hay-fields newly mownClimb the hillside ruddy brown,I shall see the haymakers,While the noonday scarcely stirs,Brown of neck and booted gray,Tossing up the rustling hay,While the hay-racks bend and rock,As they take each scented cock,Jolting over dip and rise;And the wavering butterfliesO'er the spaces brown and bareLight and wander here and there.I shall stray by many a stream,Where the half-shut lilies gleam.Napping out the sultry daysIn the quiet secluded bays;Where the tasseled rushes tower,O'er the purple pickerel-flower.And the floating dragon-fly—Azure glint and crystal gleam—Watches o'er the burnished streamWith his eye of ebony;Where the bull-frog lolls at restOn his float of lily-leaves,That the swaying water weaves,And distends his yellow breast,Lowing out from shore to shoreWith a hollow vibrant roar;Where the softest wind that blowsAs it lightly comes and goes,O'er the jungled river meads,Stirs a whisper in the reeds,And wakes the crowded bull-rushesFrom their stately reveries,Flashing through their long-leaved hordesLike a brandishing of swords;There, too, the frost-like arrow-flowersTremble to the golden core,Children of enchanted hours,Whom the rustling river boreIn the night's bewildered noon,Woven of water and the moon.I shall hear the grasshoppersFrom the parched grass rehearse,And with drowsy note prolongEvermore the same thin song.I shall hear the crickets tellStories by the humming well,And mark the locust, with quaint eyes,Caper in his cloak of grayLike a jester in disguiseRattling by the dusty way.I shall dream by upland fences,Where the season's wealth condensesOver many a weedy wreck,Wild, uncared-for, desert places,That sovereign Beauty loves to deckWith her softest, dearest graces.There the long year dreams in quiet,And the summer's strength runs riot.Shall I not remember these,Deep in winter reveries?Berried brier and thistle-bloom,And milkweed with its dense perfume;Slender vervain towering upIn a many-branchèd cup,Like a candlestick, each spireKindled with a violet fire;Matted creepers and wild cherries,Purple-bunchèd elderberries,And on scanty plots of sodGroves of branchy goldenrod.What though autumn mornings now,Winterward with glittering brow,Stiffen in the silver grass;And what though robins flock and pass,With subdued and sober call,To the old year's funeral;Though October's crimson leavesRustle at the gusty door,And the tempest round the eavesAlternate with pipe and roar;I sit, as erst, unharmed, secure,Conscious that my store is sure,Whatsoe'er the fencèd fields,Or the untilled forest yieldsOf unhurt remembrances,Or thoughts, far-glimpsed, half-followed, theseI have reaped and laid away,A treasure of unwinnowed grain,To the garner packed and grayGathered without toil or strain.And when the darker days shall come,And the fields are white and dumb;When our fires are half in vain,And the crystal starlight weavesMockeries of summer leaves,Pictured on the icy pane;When the high aurora gleamsFar above the Arctic streamsLike a line of shifting spears,And the broad pine-circled meres,Glimmering in that spectral light,Thunder through the northern night;Then within the bolted doorI shall con my summer store;Though the fences scarcely showBlack above the drifted snow,Though the icy sweeping windWhistle in the empty tree,Safe within the sheltered mind,I shall feed on memory.Yet across the windy nightComes upon its wings a cry;Fashioned forms and modes take flight,And a vision sad and highOf the laboring world down there,Where the lights burn red and warm,Pricks my soul with sudden stare,Glowing through the veils of storm.In the city yonder sleepThose who smile and those who weep,Those whose lips are set with care,Those whose brows are smooth and fair;Mourners whom the dawning lightShall grapple with an old distress;Lovers folded at midnightIn their bridal happiness;Pale watchers by belovèd beds,Fallen a-drowse with nodding heads,Whom sleep captured by surprise,With the circles round their eyes;Maidens with quiet-taken breath,Dreaming of enchanted bowers;Old men with the mask of death;Little children soft as flowers;Those who wake wild-eyed and startIn some madness of the heart;Those whose lips and brows of stoneEvil thoughts have graven upon,Shade by shade and line by line,Refashioning what was once divine.All these sleep, and through the night,Comes a passion and a cry,With a blind sorrow and a might,I know not whence, I know not why,A something I cannot control,A nameless hunger of the soul.It holds me fast. In vain, in vain,I remember how of oldI saw the ruddy race of men,Through the glittering world outrolled,A gay-smiling multitude,All immortal, all divine,Treading in a wreathèd lineBy a pathway through a wood.
Subtly conscious, all awake,Let us clear our eyes, and breakThrough the cloudy chrysalis,See the wonder as it is.Down a narrow alley, blind,Touch and vision, heart and mind;Turned sharply inward, still we plod,Till the calmly smiling godLeaves us, and our spirits growMore thin, more acrid, as we go.Creeping by the sullen wall,We forego the power to see,The threads that bind us to the All,God or the Immensity;Whereof on the eternal roadMan is but a passing mode.
Too blind we are, too little seeOf the magic pageantry,Every minute, every hour,From the cloudflake to the flower,Forever old, forever strange,Issuing in perpetual changeFrom the rainbow gates of Time.
But he who through this common airSurely knows the great and fair,What is lovely, what sublime,Becomes in an increasing span,One with earth and one with man,One, despite these mortal scars,With the planets and the stars;And Nature from her holy place,Bending with unveilèd face,Fills him in her divine employWith her own majestic joy.
Up the fielded slopes at morn,Where light wefts of shadow pass,Films upon the bending corn,I shall sweep the purple grass.Sun-crowned heights and mossy woods,And the outer solitudes,Mountain-valleys, dim with pine,Shall be home and haunt of mine.I shall search in crannied hollows,Where the sunlight scarcely follows,And the secret forest brookMurmurs, and from nook to nookForever downward curls and cools,Frothing in the bouldered pools.
Many a noon shall find me laidIn the pungent balsam shade,Where sharp breezes spring and shiverOn some deep rough-coasted river,And the plangent waters come,Amber-hued and streaked with foam;Where beneath the sunburnt hillsAll day long the crowded millsWith remorseless champ and screamOverlord the sluicing stream,And the rapids' iron roarHammers at the forest's core;Where corded rafts creep slowly on,Glittering in the noonday sun,And the tawny river-dogs,Shepherding the branded logs,Bind and heave with cadenced cry;Where the blackened tugs go by,Panting hard and straining slow,Laboring at the weighty tow,Flat-nosed barges all in trim,Creeping in long cumbrous line,Loaded to the water's brimWith the clean, cool-scented pine.
Perhaps in some low meadow-land,Stretching wide on either hand,I shall see the belted beesRocking with the tricksy breezeIn the spirèd meadow-sweet,Or with eager trampling feetBurrowing in the boneset blooms,Treading out the dry perfumes.Where sun-hot hay-fields newly mownClimb the hillside ruddy brown,I shall see the haymakers,While the noonday scarcely stirs,Brown of neck and booted gray,Tossing up the rustling hay,While the hay-racks bend and rock,As they take each scented cock,Jolting over dip and rise;And the wavering butterfliesO'er the spaces brown and bareLight and wander here and there.
I shall stray by many a stream,Where the half-shut lilies gleam.Napping out the sultry daysIn the quiet secluded bays;Where the tasseled rushes tower,O'er the purple pickerel-flower.And the floating dragon-fly—Azure glint and crystal gleam—Watches o'er the burnished streamWith his eye of ebony;Where the bull-frog lolls at restOn his float of lily-leaves,That the swaying water weaves,And distends his yellow breast,Lowing out from shore to shoreWith a hollow vibrant roar;Where the softest wind that blowsAs it lightly comes and goes,O'er the jungled river meads,Stirs a whisper in the reeds,And wakes the crowded bull-rushesFrom their stately reveries,Flashing through their long-leaved hordesLike a brandishing of swords;There, too, the frost-like arrow-flowersTremble to the golden core,Children of enchanted hours,Whom the rustling river boreIn the night's bewildered noon,Woven of water and the moon.
I shall hear the grasshoppersFrom the parched grass rehearse,And with drowsy note prolongEvermore the same thin song.I shall hear the crickets tellStories by the humming well,And mark the locust, with quaint eyes,Caper in his cloak of grayLike a jester in disguiseRattling by the dusty way.
I shall dream by upland fences,Where the season's wealth condensesOver many a weedy wreck,Wild, uncared-for, desert places,That sovereign Beauty loves to deckWith her softest, dearest graces.There the long year dreams in quiet,And the summer's strength runs riot.Shall I not remember these,Deep in winter reveries?Berried brier and thistle-bloom,And milkweed with its dense perfume;Slender vervain towering upIn a many-branchèd cup,Like a candlestick, each spireKindled with a violet fire;Matted creepers and wild cherries,Purple-bunchèd elderberries,And on scanty plots of sodGroves of branchy goldenrod.
What though autumn mornings now,Winterward with glittering brow,Stiffen in the silver grass;And what though robins flock and pass,With subdued and sober call,To the old year's funeral;Though October's crimson leavesRustle at the gusty door,And the tempest round the eavesAlternate with pipe and roar;I sit, as erst, unharmed, secure,Conscious that my store is sure,Whatsoe'er the fencèd fields,Or the untilled forest yieldsOf unhurt remembrances,Or thoughts, far-glimpsed, half-followed, theseI have reaped and laid away,A treasure of unwinnowed grain,To the garner packed and grayGathered without toil or strain.
And when the darker days shall come,And the fields are white and dumb;When our fires are half in vain,And the crystal starlight weavesMockeries of summer leaves,Pictured on the icy pane;When the high aurora gleamsFar above the Arctic streamsLike a line of shifting spears,And the broad pine-circled meres,Glimmering in that spectral light,Thunder through the northern night;Then within the bolted doorI shall con my summer store;Though the fences scarcely showBlack above the drifted snow,Though the icy sweeping windWhistle in the empty tree,Safe within the sheltered mind,I shall feed on memory.
Yet across the windy nightComes upon its wings a cry;Fashioned forms and modes take flight,And a vision sad and highOf the laboring world down there,Where the lights burn red and warm,Pricks my soul with sudden stare,Glowing through the veils of storm.In the city yonder sleepThose who smile and those who weep,Those whose lips are set with care,Those whose brows are smooth and fair;Mourners whom the dawning lightShall grapple with an old distress;Lovers folded at midnightIn their bridal happiness;Pale watchers by belovèd beds,Fallen a-drowse with nodding heads,Whom sleep captured by surprise,With the circles round their eyes;Maidens with quiet-taken breath,Dreaming of enchanted bowers;Old men with the mask of death;Little children soft as flowers;Those who wake wild-eyed and startIn some madness of the heart;Those whose lips and brows of stoneEvil thoughts have graven upon,Shade by shade and line by line,Refashioning what was once divine.
All these sleep, and through the night,Comes a passion and a cry,With a blind sorrow and a might,I know not whence, I know not why,A something I cannot control,A nameless hunger of the soul.It holds me fast. In vain, in vain,I remember how of oldI saw the ruddy race of men,Through the glittering world outrolled,A gay-smiling multitude,All immortal, all divine,Treading in a wreathèd lineBy a pathway through a wood.