How long had I sat there and had not beheldThe gleam of the glow-worm till something compelled!...The heaven was starless, the forest was deep,And the vistas of darkness stretched silent in sleep.And late 'mid the trees had I lingered untilNo thing was awake but the lone whippoorwill.And haunted of thoughts for an hour I satOn a lichen-gray rock where the moss was a mat.And thinking of one whom my heart had held dear,Like terrible waters, a gathering fear.Came stealing upon me with all the distressOf loss and of yearning and powerlessness:Till the hopes and the doubts and the sleepless unrestThat, swallow-like, built in the home of my breast,Now hither, now thither, now heavenward flew,Wild-winged as the winds are: now suddenly drew,My soul to abysses of nothingness whereAll light was a shadow, all hope, a despair:Where truth, that religion had set upon high,The darkness distorted and changed to a lie:And dreams of the beauty ambition had fedLike leaves of the autumn fell blighted and dead.And I rose with my burden of anguish and doom,And cried, "O my God, had I died in the womb!"Than born into night, with no hope of the morn,An heir unto shadows, to live so forlorn!"All effort is vain; and the planet called FaithSinks down; and no power is real but death."Oh, light me a torch in the deepening darkSo my sick soul may follow, my sad heart may mark!"—And then in the darkness the answer!—It cameFrom Earth not from Heaven—a glimmering flame,Behold, at my feet! In the shadow it shoneMysteriously lovely and dimly alone:An ember; a sparkle of dew and of glower;Like the lamp that a spirit hangs under a flower:As goldenly green as the phosphorus starA fairy may wear in her diadem's bar:An element essence of moonlight and dawnThat, trodden and trampled, burns on and burns on.And hushed was my soul with the lesson of lightThat God had revealed to me there in the night:Though mortal its structure, material its form,The spiritual message of worm unto worm.
How long had I sat there and had not beheldThe gleam of the glow-worm till something compelled!...
The heaven was starless, the forest was deep,And the vistas of darkness stretched silent in sleep.
And late 'mid the trees had I lingered untilNo thing was awake but the lone whippoorwill.
And haunted of thoughts for an hour I satOn a lichen-gray rock where the moss was a mat.
And thinking of one whom my heart had held dear,Like terrible waters, a gathering fear.
Came stealing upon me with all the distressOf loss and of yearning and powerlessness:
Till the hopes and the doubts and the sleepless unrestThat, swallow-like, built in the home of my breast,
Now hither, now thither, now heavenward flew,Wild-winged as the winds are: now suddenly drew,
My soul to abysses of nothingness whereAll light was a shadow, all hope, a despair:
Where truth, that religion had set upon high,The darkness distorted and changed to a lie:
And dreams of the beauty ambition had fedLike leaves of the autumn fell blighted and dead.
And I rose with my burden of anguish and doom,And cried, "O my God, had I died in the womb!
"Than born into night, with no hope of the morn,An heir unto shadows, to live so forlorn!
"All effort is vain; and the planet called FaithSinks down; and no power is real but death.
"Oh, light me a torch in the deepening darkSo my sick soul may follow, my sad heart may mark!"—
And then in the darkness the answer!—It cameFrom Earth not from Heaven—a glimmering flame,
Behold, at my feet! In the shadow it shoneMysteriously lovely and dimly alone:
An ember; a sparkle of dew and of glower;Like the lamp that a spirit hangs under a flower:
As goldenly green as the phosphorus starA fairy may wear in her diadem's bar:
An element essence of moonlight and dawnThat, trodden and trampled, burns on and burns on.
And hushed was my soul with the lesson of lightThat God had revealed to me there in the night:
Though mortal its structure, material its form,The spiritual message of worm unto worm.
Was it the strain of the waltz that, repeating"Love," so bewitched me? or only the gleamThere of the lustres, that set my heart beating,Feeling your presence as one feels a dream?For, on a sudden, the woman of fashion,Soft at my side in her diamonds and lace,Vanished, and pale with reproach or with passion,You, my dead sweetheart, smiled up in my face.Music, the nebulous lights, and the siftingFragrance of women made amorous the air;Born of these three and my thoughts you came drifting,Clad in dim muslin, a rose in your hair.There in the waltz, that followed the lancers,Hard to my breast did I crush you and hold;Far through the stir and the throng of the dancersOnward I bore you as often of old.Pale were your looks; and the rose in your tressesPaler of hue than the dreams we have lost;—"Who," then I said, "is it sees or who guesses,Here in the hall, that I dance with a ghost?"Gone! And the dance and the music are ended.Gone! And the rapture dies out of the skies.And, on my arm, in her elegance splendid,The woman of fashion smiles up in my eyes.Had I forgotten? and did you remember?—You, who are dead, whom I cannot forget;You, for whose sake all my heart is an emberCovered with ashes of dreams and regret.
Was it the strain of the waltz that, repeating"Love," so bewitched me? or only the gleamThere of the lustres, that set my heart beating,Feeling your presence as one feels a dream?
For, on a sudden, the woman of fashion,Soft at my side in her diamonds and lace,Vanished, and pale with reproach or with passion,You, my dead sweetheart, smiled up in my face.
Music, the nebulous lights, and the siftingFragrance of women made amorous the air;Born of these three and my thoughts you came drifting,Clad in dim muslin, a rose in your hair.
There in the waltz, that followed the lancers,Hard to my breast did I crush you and hold;Far through the stir and the throng of the dancersOnward I bore you as often of old.
Pale were your looks; and the rose in your tressesPaler of hue than the dreams we have lost;—"Who," then I said, "is it sees or who guesses,Here in the hall, that I dance with a ghost?"
Gone! And the dance and the music are ended.Gone! And the rapture dies out of the skies.And, on my arm, in her elegance splendid,The woman of fashion smiles up in my eyes.
Had I forgotten? and did you remember?—You, who are dead, whom I cannot forget;You, for whose sake all my heart is an emberCovered with ashes of dreams and regret.
Far in the purple valleys of illusionI see her waiting, like the soul of music,With deep eyes, lovelier than cerulean pansies,Shadow and fire, yet merciless as poison;With red lips, sweeter than Arabian storax,Yet bitterer than myrrh.—O tears and kisses!O eyes and lips, that haunt my soul forever!Again Spring walks transcendent on the mountains:The woods are hushed: the vales are blue with shadows:Above the heights, steeped in a thousand splendors,Like some vast canvas of the gods, hangs burningThe sunset's wild sciography: and slowlyThe moon treads heaven's proscenium,—night's statelyWhite queen of love and tragedy and madness.Again I know forgotten dreams and longings;Ideals lost; desires dead and buriedBeside the altar sacrifice erectedWithin the heart's high sanctuary. StrangelyAgain I know the horror and the rapture,The utterless awe, the joy akin to anguish,The terror and the worship of the spirit.Again I feel her eyes pierce through and through me;Her deep eyes, lovelier than imperial pansies,Velvet and flame, through which her fierce will holds me,Powerless and tame, and draws me on and onwardTo sad, unsatisfied and animal yearnings,Wild, unrestrained—the brute within the human—To fling me panting on her mouth and bosom.Again I feel her lips like ice and fire,Her red lips, odorous as Arabian storax,Fragrance and fire, within whose kiss destructionLies serpent-like. Intoxicating languorsResistlessly embrace me, soul and body;And we go drifting, drifting—she is laughing—Outcasts of God, into the deep's abysm.
Far in the purple valleys of illusionI see her waiting, like the soul of music,With deep eyes, lovelier than cerulean pansies,Shadow and fire, yet merciless as poison;With red lips, sweeter than Arabian storax,Yet bitterer than myrrh.—O tears and kisses!O eyes and lips, that haunt my soul forever!
Again Spring walks transcendent on the mountains:The woods are hushed: the vales are blue with shadows:Above the heights, steeped in a thousand splendors,Like some vast canvas of the gods, hangs burningThe sunset's wild sciography: and slowlyThe moon treads heaven's proscenium,—night's statelyWhite queen of love and tragedy and madness.
Again I know forgotten dreams and longings;Ideals lost; desires dead and buriedBeside the altar sacrifice erectedWithin the heart's high sanctuary. StrangelyAgain I know the horror and the rapture,The utterless awe, the joy akin to anguish,The terror and the worship of the spirit.
Again I feel her eyes pierce through and through me;Her deep eyes, lovelier than imperial pansies,Velvet and flame, through which her fierce will holds me,Powerless and tame, and draws me on and onwardTo sad, unsatisfied and animal yearnings,Wild, unrestrained—the brute within the human—To fling me panting on her mouth and bosom.
Again I feel her lips like ice and fire,Her red lips, odorous as Arabian storax,Fragrance and fire, within whose kiss destructionLies serpent-like. Intoxicating languorsResistlessly embrace me, soul and body;And we go drifting, drifting—she is laughing—Outcasts of God, into the deep's abysm.
So we had come at last, my soul and I,Into that land of shadowy plain and peak,On which the dawn seemed ever about to breakOn which the day seemed ever about to die.
So we had come at last, my soul and I,Into that land of shadowy plain and peak,On which the dawn seemed ever about to breakOn which the day seemed ever about to die.
Long had we sought fulfillment of our dreams,The everlasting wells of Joy and Youth;Long had we sought the snow-white flow'r of Truth,That blooms eternal by eternal streams.
Long had we sought fulfillment of our dreams,The everlasting wells of Joy and Youth;Long had we sought the snow-white flow'r of Truth,That blooms eternal by eternal streams.
And, fonder still, we hoped to find the sweetImmortal presence, Love; the bird DelightBeside her; and, eyed with sidereal night,Faith, like a lion, fawning at her feet.
And, fonder still, we hoped to find the sweetImmortal presence, Love; the bird DelightBeside her; and, eyed with sidereal night,Faith, like a lion, fawning at her feet.
But, scorched and barren, in its arid well,We found our dreams' forgotten fountain-head;And by black, bitter waters, crushed and dead,Among wild weeds, Truth's trampled asphodel.
But, scorched and barren, in its arid well,We found our dreams' forgotten fountain-head;And by black, bitter waters, crushed and dead,Among wild weeds, Truth's trampled asphodel.
And side by side with pallid Doubt and Pain,Not Love, but Grief did meet us there: afarWe saw her, like a melancholy star,Or pensive moon, move towards us o'er the plain.
And side by side with pallid Doubt and Pain,Not Love, but Grief did meet us there: afarWe saw her, like a melancholy star,Or pensive moon, move towards us o'er the plain.
Sweet was her face as song that sings of home;And filled our hearts with vague, suggestive spellsOf pathos, as sad ocean fills its shellsWith sympathetic moanings of its foam.
Sweet was her face as song that sings of home;And filled our hearts with vague, suggestive spellsOf pathos, as sad ocean fills its shellsWith sympathetic moanings of its foam.
She raised one hand and pointed silently,Then passed; her eyes, gaunt with a thirst unslaked,Were worlds of woe, where tears in torrents ached,Yet never fell. And like a winter sea,—
She raised one hand and pointed silently,Then passed; her eyes, gaunt with a thirst unslaked,Were worlds of woe, where tears in torrents ached,Yet never fell. And like a winter sea,—
Whose caverned crags are haunts of wreck and wrath,That house the condor pinions of the storm,—My soul replied; and, weeping, arm in arm,To'ards those dim hills, by that appointed path,
Whose caverned crags are haunts of wreck and wrath,That house the condor pinions of the storm,—My soul replied; and, weeping, arm in arm,To'ards those dim hills, by that appointed path,
We turned and went. Arrived, we did discernHow Beauty beckoned, white 'mid miles of flowers,Through which, behold, the amaranthine HoursLike maidens went each holding up an urn;
We turned and went. Arrived, we did discernHow Beauty beckoned, white 'mid miles of flowers,Through which, behold, the amaranthine HoursLike maidens went each holding up an urn;
Wherein, it seemed—drained from long chalicesOf those slim flow'rs—they bore mysterious wine;A poppied vintage, full of sleep divineAnd pale forgetting of all miseries.
Wherein, it seemed—drained from long chalicesOf those slim flow'rs—they bore mysterious wine;A poppied vintage, full of sleep divineAnd pale forgetting of all miseries.
Then to my soul I said, "No longer weep.Come, let us drink; for hateful is the sky,And earth is full of care, and life's a lie.So let us drink; yea, let us drink and sleep."
Then to my soul I said, "No longer weep.Come, let us drink; for hateful is the sky,And earth is full of care, and life's a lie.So let us drink; yea, let us drink and sleep."
Then from their brimming urns we drank sweet must,While, all around us, rose-crowned faces laughedInto our eyes; but hardly had we quaffedWhen, one by one, these crumbled into dust.
Then from their brimming urns we drank sweet must,While, all around us, rose-crowned faces laughedInto our eyes; but hardly had we quaffedWhen, one by one, these crumbled into dust.
And league on league the eminence of blooms,That flashed and billowed like a summer sea,Rolled out a waste of thorns and tombs; where beeAnd butterfly and bird hung dead in looms
And league on league the eminence of blooms,That flashed and billowed like a summer sea,Rolled out a waste of thorns and tombs; where beeAnd butterfly and bird hung dead in looms
Of worm and spider. And through tomb and brier,A thin wind, parched with thirsty dust and sand,Went wailing as if mourning some lost landOf perished empire, Babylon or Tyre.
Of worm and spider. And through tomb and brier,A thin wind, parched with thirsty dust and sand,Went wailing as if mourning some lost landOf perished empire, Babylon or Tyre.
Long, long with blistered feet we wandered inThat land of ruins, through whose sky of brassHate's Harpy shrieked; and in whose iron grassThe Hydra hissed of undestroyable Sin.
Long, long with blistered feet we wandered inThat land of ruins, through whose sky of brassHate's Harpy shrieked; and in whose iron grassThe Hydra hissed of undestroyable Sin.
And there at last, behold, the House of Doom,—Red, as if Hell had glared it into life,Blood-red, and howling with incessant strife,—With burning battlements, towered in the gloom.
And there at last, behold, the House of Doom,—Red, as if Hell had glared it into life,Blood-red, and howling with incessant strife,—With burning battlements, towered in the gloom.
And throned within sat Darkness.—Who might gazeUpon that form, that threatening presence there,Crowned with the flickering corpse-lights of Despair,And yet escape sans madness and amaze?
And throned within sat Darkness.—Who might gazeUpon that form, that threatening presence there,Crowned with the flickering corpse-lights of Despair,And yet escape sans madness and amaze?
And we had hoped to find among these hillsThe House of Beauty!—Curst, yea, thrice accurst,The hope that lures one on from last to firstWith vain illusions that no time fulfills!
And we had hoped to find among these hillsThe House of Beauty!—Curst, yea, thrice accurst,The hope that lures one on from last to firstWith vain illusions that no time fulfills!
Why will we struggle to attain, and strive,When all we gain is but an empty dream?—Better, unto my thinking, doth it seemTo end it all and let who will survive;
Why will we struggle to attain, and strive,When all we gain is but an empty dream?—Better, unto my thinking, doth it seemTo end it all and let who will survive;
To find at last all beauty is but dust;That love and sorrow are the very same;That joy is only suffering's sweeter name;And sense is but the synonym of lust.
To find at last all beauty is but dust;That love and sorrow are the very same;That joy is only suffering's sweeter name;And sense is but the synonym of lust.
Far better, yea, to me it seems to die;To set glad lips against the lips of Death—The only thing God gives that comforteth,The only thing we do not find a lie.
Far better, yea, to me it seems to die;To set glad lips against the lips of Death—The only thing God gives that comforteth,The only thing we do not find a lie.
Where hast thou folded thy pinions,Spirit of Dreams?Hidden elusive garmentsWoven of gleams?In what divine dominions,Brighter than day,Far from the world's dark torments,Dost thou stay, dost thou stay?—When shall my yearnings reach theeAgain?Not in vain let my soul beseech thee!Not in vain! not in vain!
Where hast thou folded thy pinions,Spirit of Dreams?Hidden elusive garmentsWoven of gleams?In what divine dominions,Brighter than day,Far from the world's dark torments,Dost thou stay, dost thou stay?—When shall my yearnings reach theeAgain?Not in vain let my soul beseech thee!Not in vain! not in vain!
I have longed for thee as a loverFor her, the one;As a brother for a sisterLong dead and gone.I have called thee over and overNames sweet to hear;With words than music trister,And thrice as dear.How long must my sad heart woo thee,Yet fail?How long must my soul pursue thee,Nor avail, nor avail?
I have longed for thee as a loverFor her, the one;As a brother for a sisterLong dead and gone.I have called thee over and overNames sweet to hear;With words than music trister,And thrice as dear.How long must my sad heart woo thee,Yet fail?How long must my soul pursue thee,Nor avail, nor avail?
All night hath thy loving mother,Beautiful Sleep,Lying beside me, listenedAnd heard me weep.But ever thou soughtest anotherWho sought thee not;For him thy soft smile glistened—I was forgot.When shall my soul behold theeAs before?When shall my heart infold thee?—Nevermore? nevermore?
All night hath thy loving mother,Beautiful Sleep,Lying beside me, listenedAnd heard me weep.But ever thou soughtest anotherWho sought thee not;For him thy soft smile glistened—I was forgot.When shall my soul behold theeAs before?When shall my heart infold thee?—Nevermore? nevermore?
Teach me the secret of thy loveliness,That, being made wise, I may aspire to beAs beautiful in thought, and so expressImmortal truths to earth's mortality;Though to my soul ability be lessThan 't is to thee, O sweet anemone.
Teach me the secret of thy loveliness,That, being made wise, I may aspire to beAs beautiful in thought, and so expressImmortal truths to earth's mortality;Though to my soul ability be lessThan 't is to thee, O sweet anemone.
Teach me the secret of thy innocence,That in simplicity I may grow wise;Asking from Art no other recompenseThan the approval of her own just eyes;So may I rise to some fair eminence,Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.
Teach me the secret of thy innocence,That in simplicity I may grow wise;Asking from Art no other recompenseThan the approval of her own just eyes;So may I rise to some fair eminence,Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.
Teach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I,—When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins,And brought me home, as all are brought, to lieIn that vast house, common to serfs and Thanes,—I shall not die, I shall not utterly die,For beauty born of beauty—thatremains.
Teach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I,—When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins,And brought me home, as all are brought, to lieIn that vast house, common to serfs and Thanes,—I shall not die, I shall not utterly die,For beauty born of beauty—thatremains.
The memory of what we've lostIs with us more than what we've won;Perhaps because we count the costBy what we could, yet have not done.'Twixt act and purpose fate hath drawnInvisible threads we can not break,And puppet-like these move us onThe stage of life, and break or make.Less than the dust from which we're wrought,We come and go, and still are hurledFrom change to change, from naught to naught,Heirs of oblivion and the world.
The memory of what we've lostIs with us more than what we've won;Perhaps because we count the costBy what we could, yet have not done.
'Twixt act and purpose fate hath drawnInvisible threads we can not break,And puppet-like these move us onThe stage of life, and break or make.
Less than the dust from which we're wrought,We come and go, and still are hurledFrom change to change, from naught to naught,Heirs of oblivion and the world.
Within the hollowed hand of God,Blood-red they lie, the dice of fate,That have no time nor period,And know no early and no late.Postpone you can not, nor advanceSuccess or failure that's to be;All fortune, being born of chance,Is bastard-child to destiny.Bow down your head, or hold it high,Consent, defy—no smallest partOf this you change, although the dieWas fashioned from your living heart.
Within the hollowed hand of God,Blood-red they lie, the dice of fate,That have no time nor period,And know no early and no late.
Postpone you can not, nor advanceSuccess or failure that's to be;All fortune, being born of chance,Is bastard-child to destiny.
Bow down your head, or hold it high,Consent, defy—no smallest partOf this you change, although the dieWas fashioned from your living heart.
Through some strange sense of sight or touchI find what all have found before,The presence I have feared so much,The unknown's immaterial door.I seek not and it comes to me:I do not know the thing I find:The fillet of fatalityDrops from my brows that made me blind.Point forward now or backward, light!The way I take I may not choose:Out of the night into the night,And in the night no certain clews.But on the future, dim and vast,And dark with dust and sacrifice,Death's towering ruin from the pastMakes black the land that round me lies.
Through some strange sense of sight or touchI find what all have found before,The presence I have feared so much,The unknown's immaterial door.
I seek not and it comes to me:I do not know the thing I find:The fillet of fatalityDrops from my brows that made me blind.
Point forward now or backward, light!The way I take I may not choose:Out of the night into the night,And in the night no certain clews.
But on the future, dim and vast,And dark with dust and sacrifice,Death's towering ruin from the pastMakes black the land that round me lies.
An heritage of hopes and fearsAnd dreams and memory,And vices of ten thousand yearsGod gives to thee.A house of clay, the home of Fate,Haunted of Love and Sin,Where Death stands knocking at the gateTo let him in.
An heritage of hopes and fearsAnd dreams and memory,And vices of ten thousand yearsGod gives to thee.
A house of clay, the home of Fate,Haunted of Love and Sin,Where Death stands knocking at the gateTo let him in.
Within the soul are throned two powers,One, Love; one, Hate. Begot of these,And veiled between, a presence towers,The shadowy keeper of the keys.With wild command or calm persuasionThis one may argue, that compel;Vain are concealment and evasion—For each he opens heaven and hell.
Within the soul are throned two powers,One, Love; one, Hate. Begot of these,And veiled between, a presence towers,The shadowy keeper of the keys.
With wild command or calm persuasionThis one may argue, that compel;Vain are concealment and evasion—For each he opens heaven and hell.
Morn's mystic rose is reddening on the hills,Dawn's irised nautilus makes glad the sea;There is a lyre of flame that throbs and fillsFar heaven and earth with hope's wild ecstasy.—With lilied field and grove,Haunts of the turtle-dove,Here is the land of Love.
Morn's mystic rose is reddening on the hills,Dawn's irised nautilus makes glad the sea;There is a lyre of flame that throbs and fillsFar heaven and earth with hope's wild ecstasy.—With lilied field and grove,Haunts of the turtle-dove,Here is the land of Love.
The chariot of the noon makes blind the blueAs towards the goal his burning axle glares;There is a fiery trumpet thrilling throughWide heaven and earth with deeds of one who dares.—With peaks of splendid name,Wrapped round with astral flame,Here is the land of Fame.
The chariot of the noon makes blind the blueAs towards the goal his burning axle glares;There is a fiery trumpet thrilling throughWide heaven and earth with deeds of one who dares.—With peaks of splendid name,Wrapped round with astral flame,Here is the land of Fame.
The purple priesthood of the evening waitsWith golden pomp within the templed skies;There is a harp of worship at the gatesOf heaven and earth that bids the soul arise.—With columned cliffs and longVales, music breathes among,Here is the land of Song.
The purple priesthood of the evening waitsWith golden pomp within the templed skies;There is a harp of worship at the gatesOf heaven and earth that bids the soul arise.—With columned cliffs and longVales, music breathes among,Here is the land of Song.
Moon-crowned, the epic of the night unrollsIts starry utterance o'er height and deep;There is a voice of beauty at the soulsOf heaven and earth that lulls the heart asleep.—With storied woods and streams,Where marble glows and gleams,Here is the land of Dreams.
Moon-crowned, the epic of the night unrollsIts starry utterance o'er height and deep;There is a voice of beauty at the soulsOf heaven and earth that lulls the heart asleep.—With storied woods and streams,Where marble glows and gleams,Here is the land of Dreams.
When all the world was Mayday,And all the skies were blue,Young innocence made playdayAmong the flowers and dew;Then all of life was Mayday,And clouds were none or few.
When all the world was Mayday,And all the skies were blue,Young innocence made playdayAmong the flowers and dew;Then all of life was Mayday,And clouds were none or few.
When all the world was Summer,And morn shone overhead,Love was the sweet newcomerWho led youth forth to wed;Then all of life was Summer,And clouds were golden red.
When all the world was Summer,And morn shone overhead,Love was the sweet newcomerWho led youth forth to wed;Then all of life was Summer,And clouds were golden red.
When earth was all October,And days were gray with mist,On woodways, sad and sober,Grave memory kept her tryst;Then life was all October,And clouds were twilight-kissed.
When earth was all October,And days were gray with mist,On woodways, sad and sober,Grave memory kept her tryst;Then life was all October,And clouds were twilight-kissed.
Now all the world's December,And night is all alarm,Above the last dim emberGrief bends to keep him warm;Now all of life's December,And clouds are driven storm.
Now all the world's December,And night is all alarm,Above the last dim emberGrief bends to keep him warm;Now all of life's December,And clouds are driven storm.
Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens,Their old rock-fences, that our day inherits;Their doors, 'round which the great trees stand like wardens;Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.I see them gray among their ancient acres,Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.I love their orchards where the gay woodpeckerFlits, flashing o'er you, like a wingéd jewel;Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checkerWith half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul foreverTheir peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,With simple faith; like friendship, draw me afterThe dreamy patience that is theirs forever.
Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens,Their old rock-fences, that our day inherits;Their doors, 'round which the great trees stand like wardens;Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.
I see them gray among their ancient acres,Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.
Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.
I love their orchards where the gay woodpeckerFlits, flashing o'er you, like a wingéd jewel;Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checkerWith half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.
Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul foreverTheir peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,With simple faith; like friendship, draw me afterThe dreamy patience that is theirs forever.
There is a field, that leans upon two hills,Foamed o'er with flowers and twinkling with clear rills;That in its girdle of wild acres bearsThe anodyne of rest that cures all cares;Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blentAnd fragrance—as in some old instrumentSweet chords—calm things, that nature's magic spellDistils from heaven's azure crucible,And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.There lies the path, they say—Come, away! come, away!There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;That in its league-long hand of trunk and leafLifts a green wand that charms away all grief;Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings,Dews and cool shadows—that the mystic soulOf nature permeates with suave control,And waves o'er earth to make the sad heart whole.There lies the road, they say—Come, away! come, away!
There is a field, that leans upon two hills,Foamed o'er with flowers and twinkling with clear rills;That in its girdle of wild acres bearsThe anodyne of rest that cures all cares;Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blentAnd fragrance—as in some old instrumentSweet chords—calm things, that nature's magic spellDistils from heaven's azure crucible,And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.There lies the path, they say—Come, away! come, away!
There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;That in its league-long hand of trunk and leafLifts a green wand that charms away all grief;Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings,Dews and cool shadows—that the mystic soulOf nature permeates with suave control,And waves o'er earth to make the sad heart whole.There lies the road, they say—Come, away! come, away!
A tranquil barOf rosy twilight under dusk's first star.A glimmering soundOf whispering waters over grassy ground.A sun-sweet smellOf fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell.A lazy breezeJostling the ripeness from the apple-trees.A vibrant cry,Passing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky.And faintly nowThe katydid upon the shadowy bough.And far-off thenThe little owl within the lonely glen.And soon, full soon,The silvery arrival of the moon.And, to your door,The path of roses I have trod before.And, sweetheart, you!Among the roses and the moonlit dew.
A tranquil barOf rosy twilight under dusk's first star.
A glimmering soundOf whispering waters over grassy ground.
A sun-sweet smellOf fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell.
A lazy breezeJostling the ripeness from the apple-trees.
A vibrant cry,Passing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky.
And faintly nowThe katydid upon the shadowy bough.
And far-off thenThe little owl within the lonely glen.
And soon, full soon,The silvery arrival of the moon.
And, to your door,The path of roses I have trod before.
And, sweetheart, you!Among the roses and the moonlit dew.
Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.Her cheeks, with their happy blood,Were pink as the apple-bud.Her eyes, with their deep delight,Were glad as the stars of night.Her curls, with their romp and fun,Were hoiden as wind and sun.Her lips, with their laughter shrill,Were wild as a woodland rill.Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.And I,—who leaned on the fence,Watching her innocence,As, under the boughs that bent,Now high, now low, she went,In her soul the ecstasiesOf the stars, the brooks, the breeze,—Had given the rest of my years,With their blessings, and hopes, and fears,To have been as she was then;And, just for a moment, again,A boy in the old rope-swingUnder the boughs of spring.
Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.
Her cheeks, with their happy blood,Were pink as the apple-bud.
Her eyes, with their deep delight,Were glad as the stars of night.
Her curls, with their romp and fun,Were hoiden as wind and sun.
Her lips, with their laughter shrill,Were wild as a woodland rill.
Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.
And I,—who leaned on the fence,Watching her innocence,
As, under the boughs that bent,Now high, now low, she went,
In her soul the ecstasiesOf the stars, the brooks, the breeze,—
Had given the rest of my years,With their blessings, and hopes, and fears,
To have been as she was then;And, just for a moment, again,
A boy in the old rope-swingUnder the boughs of spring.
Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay;Around her, flowers scattered earth with gold,Or down the path in insolence held sway—Like cavaliers who ride the elves' highway—Scarlet and blue, within a garden old.Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood,Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town;Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewedThe purple west as if, with God imbued,Her mighty pallet Nature there laid down.Amid such flowers, underneath such skies,Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair,She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes,White as a star that comes to emphasizeThe mingled beauty of the earth and air.Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees,Gray with its twinkling windows—like the faceOf calm old-age that sits and smiles at ease—Porched with old roses, haunts of honey-bees,The homestead loomed dim in a glimmering space.Ah! whom she waited in the afterglow,Soft-eyed and dreamy 'mid the lily and rose,I do not know, I do not wish to know;—It is enough I keep her picture so,Hung up, like poetry, o'er my life's dull prose.A fragrant picture, where I still may findHer face untouched of sorrow or regret,Unspoiled of contact, ever young and kind,Glad spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind,She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.
Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay;Around her, flowers scattered earth with gold,Or down the path in insolence held sway—Like cavaliers who ride the elves' highway—Scarlet and blue, within a garden old.
Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood,Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town;Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewedThe purple west as if, with God imbued,Her mighty pallet Nature there laid down.
Amid such flowers, underneath such skies,Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair,She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes,White as a star that comes to emphasizeThe mingled beauty of the earth and air.
Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees,Gray with its twinkling windows—like the faceOf calm old-age that sits and smiles at ease—Porched with old roses, haunts of honey-bees,The homestead loomed dim in a glimmering space.
Ah! whom she waited in the afterglow,Soft-eyed and dreamy 'mid the lily and rose,I do not know, I do not wish to know;—It is enough I keep her picture so,Hung up, like poetry, o'er my life's dull prose.
A fragrant picture, where I still may findHer face untouched of sorrow or regret,Unspoiled of contact, ever young and kind,Glad spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind,She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.
When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is still,And pale on the pools, where the creek-frogs croon,Glimmering gray is the light o' the moon;And under the willows, where waters lie,The torch of the firefly wanders by;They say that the miller walks here, walks here,All covered with chaff, with his crooked staff,And his horrible hobble and hideous laugh;The old lame miller hung many a year:When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,He walks alone by the rotting mill.When the bark of the fox comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is shrill,And faint, on the ways where the crickets creep,The starlight fails and the shadows sleep;And under the willows, that toss and moan,The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone;They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead,In a weedy space that the lilies lace,A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face,The miller's young wife with a gash in her head:When the bark of the fox comes over the hill,She floats alone by the rotting mill.When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is ill,And the thunder mutters and forests sob,And the fox-fire glows like the lamp of a Lob;And under the willows, that gloom and glance,The will-o'-the-wisps hold a devils' dance;They say that that crime is re-acted again,And each cranny and chink of the mill doth winkWith the light o' hell or the lightning's blink,And a woman's shrieks come wild through the rain:When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,That murder returns to the rotting mill.
When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is still,And pale on the pools, where the creek-frogs croon,Glimmering gray is the light o' the moon;And under the willows, where waters lie,The torch of the firefly wanders by;They say that the miller walks here, walks here,All covered with chaff, with his crooked staff,And his horrible hobble and hideous laugh;The old lame miller hung many a year:When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,He walks alone by the rotting mill.
When the bark of the fox comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is shrill,And faint, on the ways where the crickets creep,The starlight fails and the shadows sleep;And under the willows, that toss and moan,The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone;They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead,In a weedy space that the lilies lace,A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face,The miller's young wife with a gash in her head:When the bark of the fox comes over the hill,She floats alone by the rotting mill.
When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is ill,And the thunder mutters and forests sob,And the fox-fire glows like the lamp of a Lob;And under the willows, that gloom and glance,The will-o'-the-wisps hold a devils' dance;They say that that crime is re-acted again,And each cranny and chink of the mill doth winkWith the light o' hell or the lightning's blink,And a woman's shrieks come wild through the rain:When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,That murder returns to the rotting mill.
Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Far to the East lay the ocean palingUnder the skies of Augustine.—There, in the boat as we sat together,Soft in the glow of the turquoise weather,Light as the foam or a seagull's feather,Fair of form and of face serene,Sweet at my side I felt you lean,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.
Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Far to the East lay the ocean palingUnder the skies of Augustine.—There, in the boat as we sat together,Soft in the glow of the turquoise weather,Light as the foam or a seagull's feather,Fair of form and of face serene,Sweet at my side I felt you lean,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.
Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Pine and palm, to the West, hung, trailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it the wind that sighed above you?Was it the wave that whispered of you?Was it my soul that said "I love you"?Was it your heart that murmured between,Answering, shy as a bird unseen?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.
Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Pine and palm, to the West, hung, trailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it the wind that sighed above you?Was it the wave that whispered of you?Was it my soul that said "I love you"?Was it your heart that murmured between,Answering, shy as a bird unseen?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.