How fresh the purple cloverSmells in its veil of rain!And where the leaves brim overHow fragrant is the lane!See, how the sodden acres,Forlorn of all their rakers,Their hay and harvest makers,Look green as spring again.Drops from the trumpet flowersRain on us as we pass;And every zephyr showers,From tilted leaf or grass,Clear beads of moisture, seemingPale, pointed emeralds gleaming;Where, through the green boughs streaming,The daylight strikes like glass.
How fresh the purple cloverSmells in its veil of rain!And where the leaves brim overHow fragrant is the lane!See, how the sodden acres,Forlorn of all their rakers,Their hay and harvest makers,Look green as spring again.
Drops from the trumpet flowersRain on us as we pass;And every zephyr showers,From tilted leaf or grass,Clear beads of moisture, seemingPale, pointed emeralds gleaming;Where, through the green boughs streaming,The daylight strikes like glass.
How dewy, clean and fragrantLook now the green and gold!—And breezes trailing vagrantSpill all the spice they hold.The west begins to glimmer;And shadows, stretching slimmer,Crouch on the ways; and dimmerGrow field and forest old.Beyond those rainy reachesOf woodland, far and lone,A whippoorwill beseeches;And now an owl's vague moanStrikes faint upon the hearing.—These say the dusk is nearing.And, see, the heavens clearingTake on a tender tone.How feebly chirps the cricket!How thin the tree-toads cry!Blurred in the wild-rose thicketGleams wet the firefly.—This way toward home is nearest;Of weeds and briars clearest....We'll meet to-morrow, dearest;Till then, dear heart, good-bye.
How dewy, clean and fragrantLook now the green and gold!—And breezes trailing vagrantSpill all the spice they hold.The west begins to glimmer;And shadows, stretching slimmer,Crouch on the ways; and dimmerGrow field and forest old.
Beyond those rainy reachesOf woodland, far and lone,A whippoorwill beseeches;And now an owl's vague moanStrikes faint upon the hearing.—These say the dusk is nearing.And, see, the heavens clearingTake on a tender tone.
How feebly chirps the cricket!How thin the tree-toads cry!Blurred in the wild-rose thicketGleams wet the firefly.—This way toward home is nearest;Of weeds and briars clearest....We'll meet to-morrow, dearest;Till then, dear heart, good-bye.
Here at last! And do you knowThat again you've kept me waiting?Wondering, anticipating,If your "yes" meant "no."Now you're here we'll have our day....Let us take this daisied hollow,And beneath these beeches followThis wild strip of wayTowards the stream; wherein are seenStealing gar and darting minnow;Over which snake-feeders winnowWings of black and green.Like a cactus flames the sun;And the mighty weaver, Even,Tenuous colored, there in heaven,His rich weft's begun....How I love you! from the time—You remember, do you not?—When, within your orchard-plot,I was reading rhyme,As I told you. And 'twas thus—"By the blue Trinacrian sea,Far in pastoral SicilyWith Theocritus"—That I answered you who asked.But the curious part was this:—That the whole thing was amiss;That the Greek but maskedTales of old Boccaccio—Tall Decameronian maidsStrolled among Italian glades,Smiling, sweet and slow.And when you approached,—my bookDropped in wonder,—seeminglyTo myself I said, "'Tis she!"And arose to lookIn Lauretta's eyes and—true!Found them yours.—You shook your head,Laughing at me, as you said,"Did I frighten you?"You had come for cherries; theseDreamily I climbed for whileYou still questioned with a smile,And still tried to tease.Ah, love, just two years have goneSince then. I remember, youWore a dress of billowy blueMuslin, or of lawn.And that apron still I see,—White, with cherry-juice red-stained,—Which you held; wherein I rainedRipeness from the tree.And I asked you—for, you know,To my eyes your serious eyesSpoke such sweet philosophies,—If you'd read Rousseau.You remember how a chance,Somewhat like to mine, one JuneHappened him at castle Toune,Over there in France?And a cherry dropping fairOn your cheek I, envying it,Said—remembering Rousseau's wit—"Would my lips were there!"How you laughed and blushed, I know.—Here's the stream. The west has narrowedTo a streak of gold, deep arrowed.—There's a skiff. Let's row.
Here at last! And do you knowThat again you've kept me waiting?Wondering, anticipating,If your "yes" meant "no."
Now you're here we'll have our day....Let us take this daisied hollow,And beneath these beeches followThis wild strip of way
Towards the stream; wherein are seenStealing gar and darting minnow;Over which snake-feeders winnowWings of black and green.
Like a cactus flames the sun;And the mighty weaver, Even,Tenuous colored, there in heaven,His rich weft's begun....
How I love you! from the time—You remember, do you not?—When, within your orchard-plot,I was reading rhyme,
As I told you. And 'twas thus—"By the blue Trinacrian sea,Far in pastoral SicilyWith Theocritus"—
That I answered you who asked.But the curious part was this:—That the whole thing was amiss;That the Greek but masked
Tales of old Boccaccio—Tall Decameronian maidsStrolled among Italian glades,Smiling, sweet and slow.
And when you approached,—my bookDropped in wonder,—seeminglyTo myself I said, "'Tis she!"And arose to look
In Lauretta's eyes and—true!Found them yours.—You shook your head,Laughing at me, as you said,"Did I frighten you?"
You had come for cherries; theseDreamily I climbed for whileYou still questioned with a smile,And still tried to tease.
Ah, love, just two years have goneSince then. I remember, youWore a dress of billowy blueMuslin, or of lawn.
And that apron still I see,—White, with cherry-juice red-stained,—Which you held; wherein I rainedRipeness from the tree.
And I asked you—for, you know,To my eyes your serious eyesSpoke such sweet philosophies,—If you'd read Rousseau.
You remember how a chance,Somewhat like to mine, one JuneHappened him at castle Toune,Over there in France?
And a cherry dropping fairOn your cheek I, envying it,Said—remembering Rousseau's wit—"Would my lips were there!"
How you laughed and blushed, I know.—Here's the stream. The west has narrowedTo a streak of gold, deep arrowed.—There's a skiff. Let's row.
Waters, flowing dark and brightIn the sunlight or the moon,Seize my soul with such delightAs a visible music might;As some slow, majestic tuneMade material to the sight.Blossoms colored like the skies,Sunset-hued and tame or wild,Fill my soul with such surmiseAs the mind might realizeIf our thoughts, all undefiled,Should take form before our eyes.So to me do these appeal;So they sway me every hour:Letting all their beauty stealOn my soul to make it feel,Through a rivulet or flower,More than any words reveal.
Waters, flowing dark and brightIn the sunlight or the moon,Seize my soul with such delightAs a visible music might;As some slow, majestic tuneMade material to the sight.
Blossoms colored like the skies,Sunset-hued and tame or wild,Fill my soul with such surmiseAs the mind might realizeIf our thoughts, all undefiled,Should take form before our eyes.
So to me do these appeal;So they sway me every hour:Letting all their beauty stealOn my soul to make it feel,Through a rivulet or flower,More than any words reveal.
See, sweetheart, how the lilies layTheir lambent leaves about our way;Or, pollen-dusty, nod and floatTheir moon-like flowers around our boat.—The middle of the stream we've reachedThree strokes from where our boat was beached.Look up. You scarce can see the sky,Through trees that lean, dark, deep, and high;And coiled with grape and trailing vineBuild a vast roof of shade and shine;A house of leaves, where shadows walk,And whispering winds and waters talk.There is no path. The saplings chokeThe trunks they spring from. There an oakLies rotting; and that sycamore,Which lays its bulk from shore to shore,—Uprooted by the floods,—perchance,May be the bridge to some romance.Now opening through a willow fringeThe waters creep, one tawny tingeOf sunset; and on either margeThe cottonwoods make walls of shade;And, near, the gradual hills loom largeWithin its mirror. Herons wade,Or fly, like Faery birds, from grassThat mats the shore by which we pass.
See, sweetheart, how the lilies layTheir lambent leaves about our way;Or, pollen-dusty, nod and floatTheir moon-like flowers around our boat.—The middle of the stream we've reachedThree strokes from where our boat was beached.
Look up. You scarce can see the sky,Through trees that lean, dark, deep, and high;And coiled with grape and trailing vineBuild a vast roof of shade and shine;A house of leaves, where shadows walk,And whispering winds and waters talk.
There is no path. The saplings chokeThe trunks they spring from. There an oakLies rotting; and that sycamore,Which lays its bulk from shore to shore,—Uprooted by the floods,—perchance,May be the bridge to some romance.
Now opening through a willow fringeThe waters creep, one tawny tingeOf sunset; and on either margeThe cottonwoods make walls of shade;And, near, the gradual hills loom largeWithin its mirror. Herons wade,Or fly, like Faery birds, from grassThat mats the shore by which we pass.
On we pass; we rippling pass,On sunset waters still as glass.A vesper-sparrow flies aboveSoft twittering to its woodland love.A whippoorwill now calls afar;And 'gainst the west, like some swift star,A glittering jay flies screaming. SlimThe sand-snipes and king-fishers skimBefore us; and some evening thrush—Who may discover where such sing?—The silence rinses with a gushOf mellow music bubbling.
On we pass; we rippling pass,On sunset waters still as glass.A vesper-sparrow flies aboveSoft twittering to its woodland love.A whippoorwill now calls afar;And 'gainst the west, like some swift star,A glittering jay flies screaming. SlimThe sand-snipes and king-fishers skimBefore us; and some evening thrush—Who may discover where such sing?—The silence rinses with a gushOf mellow music bubbling.
On we pass.—Now let us oarTo yonder strip of ragged shore,Where, from a rock with lichens hoar,A ferny spring wells. Gliding byThe sulphur-colored fireflyLights its pale lamp where mallows gloom,And wild-bean and wild-mustard bloom.—Some hunter there within the woodsLast fall encamped those ashes sayAnd campfire boughs.—The solitudesGrow dreamy with the death of day.
On we pass.—Now let us oarTo yonder strip of ragged shore,Where, from a rock with lichens hoar,A ferny spring wells. Gliding byThe sulphur-colored fireflyLights its pale lamp where mallows gloom,And wild-bean and wild-mustard bloom.—Some hunter there within the woodsLast fall encamped those ashes sayAnd campfire boughs.—The solitudesGrow dreamy with the death of day.
Over the fields of milletA young bird tries its wings;And sweet as a woodland rillet,Its first wild music rings—Soul of my soul, where the meadows rollWhat is the song it sings?"Love, and a glad good-morrow,Heart where the rapture is!Good-morrow, good-morrow!Adieu to sorrow!Here is the road to bliss:Where all day long you may hearken my song,And kiss, kiss, kiss!"Over the fields of clover,Where the wild bee drones and sways,The wind, like a shepherd lover,Flutes on the fragrant ways—Heart of my heart, where the blossoms part,What is the air he plays?"Love, and a song to follow,Soul with the face a-gleam!Come follow, come follow,O'er hill and o'er hollow,To the land o' the bloom and beam;Where under the flowers you may listen for hours,And dream, dream, dream!"
Over the fields of milletA young bird tries its wings;And sweet as a woodland rillet,Its first wild music rings—Soul of my soul, where the meadows rollWhat is the song it sings?
"Love, and a glad good-morrow,Heart where the rapture is!Good-morrow, good-morrow!Adieu to sorrow!Here is the road to bliss:Where all day long you may hearken my song,And kiss, kiss, kiss!"
Over the fields of clover,Where the wild bee drones and sways,The wind, like a shepherd lover,Flutes on the fragrant ways—Heart of my heart, where the blossoms part,What is the air he plays?
"Love, and a song to follow,Soul with the face a-gleam!Come follow, come follow,O'er hill and o'er hollow,To the land o' the bloom and beam;Where under the flowers you may listen for hours,And dream, dream, dream!"
Here the shores are irised. GrassesClump the water dark that glassesBroken wood and deepened distance.Far the musical persistenceOf a field-lark lingers lowIn the west where tulips blow.White before us flames one pointedStar; and Day hath Night anointedKing; from out her azure ewerPouring starry fire, truerThan pure gold. Star-crowned he standsWith the star-light in his hands.Will the moon bleach through the raggedTree-tops ere we reach yon jaggedRock, that rises gradually,Pharos of our homeward valley?—All the west is smouldering red;Embers are the stars o'erhead.At my soul some Protean elf is;You're Simaetha; I am Delphis.You are Sappho and your Phaon,I.—We love.—There lies a ray onAll the Dark Æolian seas'Round the violet Lesbian leas.On we drift. I love you. NearerLooms our island. Rosier, clearer,The Leucadian cliff we follow,Where the temple of ApolloShines—a pale and pillared fire....Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre!—While in Hellas still we seem,Let us sing of that we dream.
Here the shores are irised. GrassesClump the water dark that glassesBroken wood and deepened distance.Far the musical persistenceOf a field-lark lingers lowIn the west where tulips blow.
White before us flames one pointedStar; and Day hath Night anointedKing; from out her azure ewerPouring starry fire, truerThan pure gold. Star-crowned he standsWith the star-light in his hands.
Will the moon bleach through the raggedTree-tops ere we reach yon jaggedRock, that rises gradually,Pharos of our homeward valley?—All the west is smouldering red;Embers are the stars o'erhead.
At my soul some Protean elf is;You're Simaetha; I am Delphis.You are Sappho and your Phaon,I.—We love.—There lies a ray onAll the Dark Æolian seas'Round the violet Lesbian leas.
On we drift. I love you. NearerLooms our island. Rosier, clearer,The Leucadian cliff we follow,Where the temple of ApolloShines—a pale and pillared fire....Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre!—While in Hellas still we seem,Let us sing of that we dream.
Night, night, 'tis night. The moon drifts low above us,And all its gold is tangled in the stream:Love, love, my love, and all the stars, that love us,The stars smile down and every star's a dream.In odorous purple, where the falling warbleOf water cascades and the plunged foam glows,A columned ruin lifts its sculptured marbleFriezed with the chiselled rebeck and the rose.
Night, night, 'tis night. The moon drifts low above us,And all its gold is tangled in the stream:Love, love, my love, and all the stars, that love us,The stars smile down and every star's a dream.
In odorous purple, where the falling warbleOf water cascades and the plunged foam glows,A columned ruin lifts its sculptured marbleFriezed with the chiselled rebeck and the rose.
Sleep, Sleep, sweet Sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller,And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain—Love, love, my love, ah, bid thy heart be stiller,And, hark! the music of the resonant main.What flowers are those that blow their balm unto usFrom mouths of wild aroma, each a flame?—That breathe of love, of love we know that drew us,That kissed our eyes, so we might see the same.
Sleep, Sleep, sweet Sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller,And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain—Love, love, my love, ah, bid thy heart be stiller,And, hark! the music of the resonant main.
What flowers are those that blow their balm unto usFrom mouths of wild aroma, each a flame?—That breathe of love, of love we know that drew us,That kissed our eyes, so we might see the same.
Night, night, 'tis night!—no dream is this to banish;The temple and the nightingalearethere!Our love has made them, nevermore to vanish,Real as yon moon, this wild-rose in your hair.Night, night, 'tis night!—and love's own star's before us,Its bright reflection in the starry stream—Yes, yes, ah, yes! its presence shall watch o'er us,Night, night, to-night, and every night we dream.
Night, night, 'tis night!—no dream is this to banish;The temple and the nightingalearethere!Our love has made them, nevermore to vanish,Real as yon moon, this wild-rose in your hair.
Night, night, 'tis night!—and love's own star's before us,Its bright reflection in the starry stream—Yes, yes, ah, yes! its presence shall watch o'er us,Night, night, to-night, and every night we dream.
Behold the offerings of the common hills!Whose lowly names have made them three times dear:The evening-primrose and dim multitudesOf violets that sky the mossy dellsWith heaven's ambrosial blue; dew-dripping plumesOf mauve lobelias; and the red-stained cupsOf blackberry-lilies all along the creek,Where, lulled, the freckled silence sleeps, and vagueThe water flows; where, at high noon, the cowsWade knee-deep, and the heat is honied withThe drone of drowsy bees. The fleur-de-lis,Blue, streaked with crystal like a summer day,The monkey-flower and the touch-me-not,All frailly scented and familiar asFair baby faces and soft infant eyes.Simple suggestions of a life most fair!You whisper me of love and untaught faith,Whose habitation is within the soul,Not of the Earth, yet for the Earth indeed....What is it halcyons my heart? makes calm,With calmness not of wisdom, all my soulTo-night?—Is't love? or faith? or both?—The lore of all the world is less than theseSimple suggestions of a life most fair,And love most sweet; that I have learned to know!
Behold the offerings of the common hills!Whose lowly names have made them three times dear:The evening-primrose and dim multitudesOf violets that sky the mossy dellsWith heaven's ambrosial blue; dew-dripping plumesOf mauve lobelias; and the red-stained cupsOf blackberry-lilies all along the creek,Where, lulled, the freckled silence sleeps, and vague
The water flows; where, at high noon, the cowsWade knee-deep, and the heat is honied withThe drone of drowsy bees. The fleur-de-lis,Blue, streaked with crystal like a summer day,The monkey-flower and the touch-me-not,All frailly scented and familiar asFair baby faces and soft infant eyes.
Simple suggestions of a life most fair!You whisper me of love and untaught faith,Whose habitation is within the soul,Not of the Earth, yet for the Earth indeed....What is it halcyons my heart? makes calm,With calmness not of wisdom, all my soulTo-night?—Is't love? or faith? or both?—The lore of all the world is less than theseSimple suggestions of a life most fair,And love most sweet; that I have learned to know!
Yes, I have known its being so;Long ago was I seeing so—Beckoning on to a fairer land,Out of the flowers it waved its hand;Bidding me on to life and love;Life with the hope of the love thereof.What is the value of knowing it,If you are shy in showing it?—Need of the earth unfolds the flower,Dewy sweet at the proper hour;And in the world of the human heartLove is the flower's counterpart.So when the soul is heedable,Then is the heart made readable—I in the book of your heart have readWords that are truer than truth has said;Measures of love, the spirit's song,Writ of your soul to haunt me long.Love can hear each laudableThought of the loved made audible,Spoken in wonder, or bliss, or pain,And re-echo it back again;Ever responsive, ever awake,Ever replying with ache for ache.
Yes, I have known its being so;Long ago was I seeing so—Beckoning on to a fairer land,Out of the flowers it waved its hand;Bidding me on to life and love;Life with the hope of the love thereof.
What is the value of knowing it,If you are shy in showing it?—Need of the earth unfolds the flower,Dewy sweet at the proper hour;And in the world of the human heartLove is the flower's counterpart.
So when the soul is heedable,Then is the heart made readable—I in the book of your heart have readWords that are truer than truth has said;Measures of love, the spirit's song,Writ of your soul to haunt me long.
Love can hear each laudableThought of the loved made audible,Spoken in wonder, or bliss, or pain,And re-echo it back again;Ever responsive, ever awake,Ever replying with ache for ache.
Earth gives its flowers to usAnd heaven its stars. Indeed,These are as lips that woo us,Those are as lights that lead,With love that doth pursue us,With hope that still doth speed.Yet shall the flowers lie riven,And lips forget to kiss;The stars fade out of heaven,And lights lead us amiss—As love for which we've striven;As hope that promises.
Earth gives its flowers to usAnd heaven its stars. Indeed,These are as lips that woo us,Those are as lights that lead,With love that doth pursue us,With hope that still doth speed.
Yet shall the flowers lie riven,And lips forget to kiss;The stars fade out of heaven,And lights lead us amiss—As love for which we've striven;As hope that promises.
If love I have had of you, you had of me,Then doubtless our loving were over;One would be less than the other, you see;Since what you returned to your loverWere only his own; and—
If love I have had of you, you had of me,Then doubtless our loving were over;One would be less than the other, you see;Since what you returned to your loverWere only his own; and—
But if I lose you, if you part with me,I will not love you lessLoving so much now. If there is to beA parting and distress,—What will avail to comfort or reprieveThe soul that's anguished most?—The knowledge that it once possessed, perceive,The love that it has lost.You must acknowledge, under sun and moonAll that we feel is old;Let morning flutter from night's brown cocoonWide wings of flaxen gold;The moon split through the darkness, soaring o'er,Like some great moth and white,These have been seen a myriad times beforeAnd with the same delight.—So 'tis with love—how old yet new it is!—This only should we heed,—To once have known, to once have felt love's bliss,Is to be rich indeed.—Whether we win or lose, we lose or win,Within our gain or lossSome purpose lies, some end unseen of sin,Beyond our crown or cross.
But if I lose you, if you part with me,I will not love you lessLoving so much now. If there is to beA parting and distress,—What will avail to comfort or reprieveThe soul that's anguished most?—The knowledge that it once possessed, perceive,The love that it has lost.You must acknowledge, under sun and moonAll that we feel is old;Let morning flutter from night's brown cocoonWide wings of flaxen gold;The moon split through the darkness, soaring o'er,Like some great moth and white,These have been seen a myriad times beforeAnd with the same delight.—So 'tis with love—how old yet new it is!—This only should we heed,—To once have known, to once have felt love's bliss,Is to be rich indeed.—Whether we win or lose, we lose or win,Within our gain or lossSome purpose lies, some end unseen of sin,Beyond our crown or cross.
True, true!—Perhaps it would be bestTo be that star within the west;Above the earth, within the skies,Yet shining in your own blue eyes.Or, haply, better here to blowA flower beneath your window low;That, brief of life and frail and fair,Finds yet a heaven in your hair.Or well, perhaps, to be the breezeThat sighs its soul out to the trees;A voice, a breath of rain or drouth,That has its wild will with your mouth.These thing I long to be. I longTo be the burthen of some songYou love to sing; a melody,Sure of sweet immortality.
True, true!—Perhaps it would be bestTo be that star within the west;Above the earth, within the skies,Yet shining in your own blue eyes.
Or, haply, better here to blowA flower beneath your window low;That, brief of life and frail and fair,Finds yet a heaven in your hair.
Or well, perhaps, to be the breezeThat sighs its soul out to the trees;A voice, a breath of rain or drouth,That has its wild will with your mouth.
These thing I long to be. I longTo be the burthen of some songYou love to sing; a melody,Sure of sweet immortality.
Sunday shall we ride together?—Not the root-rough, rambling wayThrough the wood we went that day,In last summer's sultry weather.Past the Methodist camp-meeting,Where religion helped the hymnGather volume; and a slimMinister, with textful greetingWelcomed us and still expounded.—From the service on the hillWe had gone three hills and stillVery near the singing sounded.Nor that road through weed and berryDrowsy days led me and youTo the old-time barbecue,Where the country-side made merry.Dusty vehicles together;Darkies with the horses nearTied to trees; the atmosphereRedolent of bark and leather.As we went the homeward journeyYou exclaimed,—"They intermixPleasure there with politics.It reminds me of a tourney."And the fiddles!—through the thickets,How the wind brought from the hillRemnants of the old quadrille!—It was like the drone of crickets....Neither road. The shady quietOf that path by beech and birch,Winding to the ruined churchNear the stream that sparkles by it.Where the silent Sundays listenFor the preacher—Love—we bringIn our hearts to preach and singWeek-day shade to Sabbath glisten.
Sunday shall we ride together?—Not the root-rough, rambling wayThrough the wood we went that day,In last summer's sultry weather.
Past the Methodist camp-meeting,Where religion helped the hymnGather volume; and a slimMinister, with textful greeting
Welcomed us and still expounded.—From the service on the hillWe had gone three hills and stillVery near the singing sounded.
Nor that road through weed and berryDrowsy days led me and youTo the old-time barbecue,Where the country-side made merry.
Dusty vehicles together;Darkies with the horses nearTied to trees; the atmosphereRedolent of bark and leather.
As we went the homeward journeyYou exclaimed,—"They intermixPleasure there with politics.It reminds me of a tourney."
And the fiddles!—through the thickets,How the wind brought from the hillRemnants of the old quadrille!—It was like the drone of crickets....
Neither road. The shady quietOf that path by beech and birch,Winding to the ruined churchNear the stream that sparkles by it.
Where the silent Sundays listenFor the preacher—Love—we bringIn our hearts to preach and singWeek-day shade to Sabbath glisten.
Yes, to-morrow. Early morn.—When the House of Day unclosesPortals that the stars adorn,—Whence Light's golden presence throws hisFiery lilies, burning rosesOn the world,—how good to rideWith one's sweetheart at one's side!So to-morrow we will rideTo the wood's cathedral places;Where the prayer-like wildflowers hide,Sweet religion in their faces;Where, in truest, untaught phrases,Worship in each rhythmic word,God is praised by many a bird.Look above you.—Pearly white,Star on star now crystallizesOut of darkness; and the nightHangs them round her like devicesOf strange jewels. Vapour rises,Glimmering, from each wood and dell—Till to-morrow, then, farewell.
Yes, to-morrow. Early morn.—When the House of Day unclosesPortals that the stars adorn,—Whence Light's golden presence throws hisFiery lilies, burning rosesOn the world,—how good to rideWith one's sweetheart at one's side!
So to-morrow we will rideTo the wood's cathedral places;Where the prayer-like wildflowers hide,Sweet religion in their faces;Where, in truest, untaught phrases,Worship in each rhythmic word,God is praised by many a bird.
Look above you.—Pearly white,Star on star now crystallizesOut of darkness; and the nightHangs them round her like devicesOf strange jewels. Vapour rises,Glimmering, from each wood and dell—Till to-morrow, then, farewell.
Heat lightning flickers in one cloud,As in a flow'r a firefly;Some rain-drops, that the rose-bush bowed,Jar through the leaves and dimly lie;Among the trees, now low, now loud,The whispering breezes sigh.The place is lone; the night is hushed;Upon the path a rose lies crushed.
Heat lightning flickers in one cloud,As in a flow'r a firefly;Some rain-drops, that the rose-bush bowed,Jar through the leaves and dimly lie;Among the trees, now low, now loud,The whispering breezes sigh.The place is lone; the night is hushed;Upon the path a rose lies crushed.
Heat lightning flickers in one cloud,As in a flow'r a firefly;Some rain-drops, that the rose-bush bowed,Jar through the leaves and dimly lie;Among the trees, now low, now loud,The whispering breezes sigh.The place is lone; the night is hushed;Upon the path a rose lies crushed.
Now rests the season in forgetfulness,Careless in beauty of maturity;The ripened roses 'round brown temples, sheFulfils completion in a dreamy guess.Now Time grants night the more and day the less;The gray decides; and brownDim golds and drabs in dulling green expressThemselves and redden as the year goes down.Sadder the fields where, thrusting hoary highTheir tasseled heads, the Lear-like corn-stocks die,And, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie.—Deeper to tenderness,Sadder the blue of hills that lounge alongThe lonesome west; sadder the songOf the wild red-bird in the leafage yellow.—Deeper and dreamier, ay!Than woods or waters, leans the languid skyAbove lone orchards where the cider-pressDrips and the russets mellow.Nature grows liberal: from the beechen leavesThe beech-nuts' burs their little pockets thrust,Bulged with the copper of the nuts that rust;Above the grass the spendthrift spider weavesA web of silver for which Dawn designsThrice twenty rows of pearls; beneath the oak,That rolls old roots in many gnarly lines,—The polished acorns, from their saucers broke,Strew wildwood agates.—On sonorous pinesThe far wind organs, but the forest nearIs silent; and the blue-white smokeOf burning brush, beyond that field of hay,Hangs like a pillar in the atmosphere;But now it shakes—it breaks; and all the vinesAnd tree-tops tremble;—see! the wind is here!Billowing and boisterous; and the smiling dayRejoices with its clamor. Earth and skyResound with glory of its majesty,Impetuous splendor of its rushing by.—But on those heights the forest yet is still,Expectant of its coming. Far awayEach anxious tree upon each waiting hillTingles anticipation, as in graySurmise of rapture. Now the first gusts play,Like little laughs, about their rippling spines;And now the wildwood, one exultant sway,Shouts—and the light at each tumultuous pause,The light that glooms and shines,Seems hands in wild applause.How glows that garden! though the white mists keepThe vagabonding flowers reminded ofDecay that comes to slay in open love,When the full moon hangs cold and night is deep;Unheeding still, their happy colors leapAnd laugh encircled of the scythe of death,—Like lovely children he prepares to reap,—Staying his blade a breathTo mark their beauty ere, with one last sweep,He lays them dead and turns away to weep.—Let me admire,—Ere yet the sickle of the coming coldHas mown them down,—their beauties manifold:—How like to spurts of fireThat scarlet salvia lifts its blooms, which heapYon space of sunlight. And, as sparkles creepThrough charring parchment, up that window's screenThe cypress dots with crimson all its green,The haunt of many bees.And, showering down cascaded lattices,That nightshade bleeds with berries; drops of blood,In clusters hanging 'mid the blue monk's-hood.There in the garden oldThe bright-hued clumps of zinnias unfoldTheir formal flowers; and the marigoldLifts its pinched shred of orange sunset caughtAnd elfed in petals. The nasturtium,All pungent leaved and bitter of perfume,Hangs up its goblin bonnet, fairy boughtFrom Gnomeland. There, predominant, red,And arrogant the dahlia lifts its head,Beside the balsam's rosy horns of honey,Within the murmuring, sunnyDry wildness of the weedy flower bed;Where crickets and the weed-bugs, noon and night,Sing dirges for the flowers that soon will die,For flowers already dead.—I seem to hear the passing Summer sigh;A voice, that seems to weep,"Too soon, too soon the Beautiful passes by!"—If I perchance might peepBeneath those leaves of podded hollyhocks,That the bland wind with odorous whispers rocks,I might behold her,—whiteAnd weary,—Summer, 'mid her flowers asleep,Her drowsy flowers asleep,The withered poppies knotted in her locks.
Now rests the season in forgetfulness,Careless in beauty of maturity;The ripened roses 'round brown temples, sheFulfils completion in a dreamy guess.Now Time grants night the more and day the less;The gray decides; and brownDim golds and drabs in dulling green expressThemselves and redden as the year goes down.Sadder the fields where, thrusting hoary highTheir tasseled heads, the Lear-like corn-stocks die,And, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie.—Deeper to tenderness,Sadder the blue of hills that lounge alongThe lonesome west; sadder the songOf the wild red-bird in the leafage yellow.—Deeper and dreamier, ay!Than woods or waters, leans the languid skyAbove lone orchards where the cider-pressDrips and the russets mellow.
Nature grows liberal: from the beechen leavesThe beech-nuts' burs their little pockets thrust,Bulged with the copper of the nuts that rust;Above the grass the spendthrift spider weavesA web of silver for which Dawn designsThrice twenty rows of pearls; beneath the oak,That rolls old roots in many gnarly lines,—The polished acorns, from their saucers broke,Strew wildwood agates.—On sonorous pinesThe far wind organs, but the forest nearIs silent; and the blue-white smokeOf burning brush, beyond that field of hay,Hangs like a pillar in the atmosphere;But now it shakes—it breaks; and all the vinesAnd tree-tops tremble;—see! the wind is here!Billowing and boisterous; and the smiling dayRejoices with its clamor. Earth and skyResound with glory of its majesty,Impetuous splendor of its rushing by.—But on those heights the forest yet is still,Expectant of its coming. Far awayEach anxious tree upon each waiting hillTingles anticipation, as in graySurmise of rapture. Now the first gusts play,Like little laughs, about their rippling spines;And now the wildwood, one exultant sway,Shouts—and the light at each tumultuous pause,The light that glooms and shines,Seems hands in wild applause.
How glows that garden! though the white mists keepThe vagabonding flowers reminded ofDecay that comes to slay in open love,When the full moon hangs cold and night is deep;Unheeding still, their happy colors leapAnd laugh encircled of the scythe of death,—Like lovely children he prepares to reap,—Staying his blade a breathTo mark their beauty ere, with one last sweep,He lays them dead and turns away to weep.—Let me admire,—Ere yet the sickle of the coming coldHas mown them down,—their beauties manifold:—How like to spurts of fireThat scarlet salvia lifts its blooms, which heapYon space of sunlight. And, as sparkles creepThrough charring parchment, up that window's screenThe cypress dots with crimson all its green,The haunt of many bees.And, showering down cascaded lattices,That nightshade bleeds with berries; drops of blood,In clusters hanging 'mid the blue monk's-hood.
There in the garden oldThe bright-hued clumps of zinnias unfoldTheir formal flowers; and the marigoldLifts its pinched shred of orange sunset caughtAnd elfed in petals. The nasturtium,All pungent leaved and bitter of perfume,Hangs up its goblin bonnet, fairy boughtFrom Gnomeland. There, predominant, red,And arrogant the dahlia lifts its head,Beside the balsam's rosy horns of honey,Within the murmuring, sunnyDry wildness of the weedy flower bed;Where crickets and the weed-bugs, noon and night,Sing dirges for the flowers that soon will die,For flowers already dead.—I seem to hear the passing Summer sigh;A voice, that seems to weep,"Too soon, too soon the Beautiful passes by!"—If I perchance might peepBeneath those leaves of podded hollyhocks,That the bland wind with odorous whispers rocks,I might behold her,—whiteAnd weary,—Summer, 'mid her flowers asleep,Her drowsy flowers asleep,The withered poppies knotted in her locks.
The hips were reddening on this rose,Those haws were hung with fire,That day we went this way that goesUp hills of bough and brier.This hooked thorn caught her gown and seemedImploring her to linger;Upon her hair a sun-ray streamedLike some baptizing finger.This false-foxglove, so golden nowWith yellow blooms like bangles,Was fading then. But yonder bough,—The sumach's plume entangles,—Was like an Indian's painted face;And, like a squaw, attendedThat bush, in vague vermilion graceWith beads of berries splendid.And here we turned to mount that hill,Down which the wild brook tumbles;And, like to-day, that day was still,And soft winds swayed the umblesOf these wild carrots lawny gray;And there, deep-dappled o'er us,An orchard stretched; and in our wayDropped ripened fruit before us.A muffled thud the pippin fell,And at our feet rolled dusty;A hornet clinging to its bell,The pear lay bruised and rusty.The smell of pulpy peach and plum,From which the juice oozed yellow,Around which bees made sleepy hum,Filled warm the air and mellow.And then we came where, many hued,The wet wild-morning-gloryHung its balloons in shadows dewedFor dawning's offertory.With bush and bramble, far away,Beneath us stretched the valley,Cleft of one creek, as clear as day,That bickered musically.The brown, the bronze, the green, the redOf weed and brier ran riotTo walls of woods, whose vistas ledTo shadowy nooks of quiet.Long waves of feathering golden-rodRan through the gray in patches;As in a cloud the gold of GodBurns, that the sunset catches.And there, above the blue hills, rolled,Like some vast conflagration,The sunset, flaming rose and gold,We watched in exultation.Then turning homeward, she and IWent in love's sweet derangement—How different now seem earth and sky,Since this undreamed estrangement!
The hips were reddening on this rose,Those haws were hung with fire,That day we went this way that goesUp hills of bough and brier.This hooked thorn caught her gown and seemedImploring her to linger;Upon her hair a sun-ray streamedLike some baptizing finger.
This false-foxglove, so golden nowWith yellow blooms like bangles,Was fading then. But yonder bough,—The sumach's plume entangles,—Was like an Indian's painted face;And, like a squaw, attendedThat bush, in vague vermilion graceWith beads of berries splendid.
And here we turned to mount that hill,Down which the wild brook tumbles;And, like to-day, that day was still,And soft winds swayed the umblesOf these wild carrots lawny gray;And there, deep-dappled o'er us,An orchard stretched; and in our wayDropped ripened fruit before us.
A muffled thud the pippin fell,And at our feet rolled dusty;A hornet clinging to its bell,The pear lay bruised and rusty.The smell of pulpy peach and plum,From which the juice oozed yellow,Around which bees made sleepy hum,Filled warm the air and mellow.
And then we came where, many hued,The wet wild-morning-gloryHung its balloons in shadows dewedFor dawning's offertory.With bush and bramble, far away,Beneath us stretched the valley,Cleft of one creek, as clear as day,That bickered musically.
The brown, the bronze, the green, the redOf weed and brier ran riotTo walls of woods, whose vistas ledTo shadowy nooks of quiet.Long waves of feathering golden-rodRan through the gray in patches;As in a cloud the gold of GodBurns, that the sunset catches.
And there, above the blue hills, rolled,Like some vast conflagration,The sunset, flaming rose and gold,We watched in exultation.Then turning homeward, she and IWent in love's sweet derangement—How different now seem earth and sky,Since this undreamed estrangement!
Here where the day is dimmest,And silence company,Some might find sympathyFor loss, or grief the grimmest,In each great-hearted tree—Here where the day is dimmest—But, ah, there's none for me!In leaves might find communion,Returning sigh for sigh,For love the heavens deny;The love that yearns for union,Yet parts and knows not why.—In leaves might find communion—But, ah, not I, not I!My eyes with tears are aching.—Why has she written me?And will no longer see?—My heart with grief is breaking,With grief that this should be—My eyes with tears are aching—Why has she written me?
Here where the day is dimmest,And silence company,Some might find sympathyFor loss, or grief the grimmest,In each great-hearted tree—Here where the day is dimmest—But, ah, there's none for me!
In leaves might find communion,Returning sigh for sigh,For love the heavens deny;The love that yearns for union,Yet parts and knows not why.—In leaves might find communion—But, ah, not I, not I!
My eyes with tears are aching.—Why has she written me?And will no longer see?—My heart with grief is breaking,With grief that this should be—My eyes with tears are aching—Why has she written me?
Better is death than sleep,Better for tired eyes.—Why do we weep and weepWhen near us the solace lies?There in that stream, that, deep,—Reflecting woods and skies,—Could comfort all our sighs.The mystery of things,Of dreams, philosophies,'Round which the mortal clings,Thatcan unriddle these.—What is't the water sings?What is't it promises?—End to all miseries!
Better is death than sleep,Better for tired eyes.—Why do we weep and weepWhen near us the solace lies?There in that stream, that, deep,—Reflecting woods and skies,—Could comfort all our sighs.
The mystery of things,Of dreams, philosophies,'Round which the mortal clings,Thatcan unriddle these.—What is't the water sings?What is't it promises?—End to all miseries!
And here alone I sit and it is so!—O vales and hills! O valley lands and knobs!What cure have you for woe?None that my heart may know!—The wearying sameness!—yet this thing is so!—This thing is so, and still the waters flow,The leaves drop slowly down; the daylight throbsWith sun and wind, and yet this thing is so!—Here, at this culvert's mouth,The shadowy water, flowing towards the south,Seems deepest, stagnant-stayed.—What is there yonder that makes me afraid?—Of my own self afraid?—what is't below?What power draws me to the striate stream?What evil or what dream?—Me, dropping pebbles in the quiet wave,That echoes, strange as music in a cave,Hollow and thin; vibrating in the shadeLike sound of tears—the shadow of some woe,An ailing phantom that will not be laid,Since this is so, since this sad thing is so.There, in the water, how the lank green grassMats its rank blades, each blade a crooked kris,Making a marsh; 'mid which the currents missTheir rock-born melodies.But there, and there one seesThe wide-belled mallow, as within a glass,Long-pistiled, leaning o'erThe root-contorted shore,As if its own pink image it would kiss.And there the tangled wild-potato vineLifts conical blossoms, each a cup of wine,As pale as moonlight is.And there tall gipsy lilies, all a-sway,Their savage, coppery faces, fierce of hue,Dull purple-streaked, bend in inverted view.—And where the stream around those rushes creeps,The dragon-fly, in endless error, keepsSewing the pale gold gown of dayWith tangled stitches of a burning blue:Its brilliant body seems a needle fine,A thread of azure ray.But here below me where my pensive shadeLooks up at me, the stale stream stagnant lies,Deep, dark, but clear and silent; save the hissOf bursting bubbles in the spawny ooze.—All flowers here refuseTo grow or blossom; beauties, too, are few,That haunt its depths: no glittering minnows braidIts languid crystal; and no gravels strewWith colored orbs its bottom. Half afraidI shrink from my own eyesThere in its cairngorm skies—I know not why, and yet it seems 'tis this:—I know not what—but where the kildees wadeSlim in the foamy scum,From that direction hither doth it come,And makes my heart afraid.Nearer it draws to where those low rocks ail,Warm rocks on which some water-snake hath clombTo bask its spotted body, coiling numb.—At first it seemed a prism on the grail,A bubble's prism yonder; then a trail,An angled sparkle in a shadow, swayedFrog-like through deeps, to crouch a flaccid, pale,Squat bulk below.... Reflected trees and skies,And breeze-blown clouds that lounge at sunny loss,Seem in its stolid eyes,Deep down—the dim disguiseOf something ghoulish there, whose features fail,Then come again in rhythmic waviness,With arms like tentacles that seem to pressUp towards me. Limbs that writhe, and fade,And clench—tough limbs, that twist and crossThrough flabby hair like smoky moss.How horrible to see this thing at night!Or when the sunset slants its brimstone lightAbove the water! when, in phantom flight,The will-o'-the-wisps, perhaps, above it reel.Then haply would it rise, a rotting green,Up, up, and gather me with arms of steel,Soft steel, and drag me where the wave is white,Beneath that boulder there, that plants a keelAgainst the ripple there, a shoulder lean.—No! no! I must away before 'tis night!Before the fire-flies dotThe dusk with sulphur blurrings bright!Before upon yon heightThe white wild-carrots vanish from the sight;And boneset blossoms, tossing there in clusters,Fade to a ridge, a streak of ghostly lustres.And in yon sunlit spot,That cedar tree is not!—But a huge cap instead, that, half-asleep,Some giant dropped while driving home his sheep.And 'mid those fallow brownsAnd russet grays, the fragrant peakOf yonder timothy stack,Is not a stack, but something hideous, black,That threatens and, grotesquely demon, frowns.I must away from here.—Already dusk draws near.The owlet's dolorous hootSounds quavering as a gnome's wild flute;The toad, within the wet,Begins to tune its goblin flageolet.The slow sun sinks behindThose hills; and like a withered cheek,Distorted there, the spectral moon's definedAbove those trees; above that mass of vinesThat, like a wrecked appentice, roofs those pines.—Oh, I am faint and weak.—I must away, away,Before the close of day!—Already at my backI feel the woods grow black;And sense the evening wind,Guttural and gaunt and blind,Snarling behind me like a were-wolf pack.—When will it cease to pierce,This anguish dull and fierce,At heart and soul? when will it let me go?—At last, with footsteps slow,With half averted cheek,I've reached this woodland creek,Far from that place of fear;And still I seem to hearA dripping footstep near;A gurgling voice dim glimmering at my ear.I try to fly!—I can not!—yes, and no!—What horror holds me!—God! that obscene, slow,Sure mastering chimera thereHas yet some horrible feeler round my neck,Or in my scattered hair!—Off! off! thou devil's coil!—The waters, thrashing, boil—Once more I'm free! once more I'm free!Glad of that firefly fleck,That, like a lamp of golden fairy oil,Lights me the way I flee.—No more I stare, magnetic-fixed; nor reck,Nor little care to foilThe madness there! the murder there! that slipsBack to its lair of slime, that seeps and drips,That sought in vain to fasten on my lips.
And here alone I sit and it is so!—O vales and hills! O valley lands and knobs!What cure have you for woe?None that my heart may know!—The wearying sameness!—yet this thing is so!—This thing is so, and still the waters flow,The leaves drop slowly down; the daylight throbsWith sun and wind, and yet this thing is so!—Here, at this culvert's mouth,The shadowy water, flowing towards the south,Seems deepest, stagnant-stayed.—What is there yonder that makes me afraid?—Of my own self afraid?—what is't below?What power draws me to the striate stream?What evil or what dream?—Me, dropping pebbles in the quiet wave,That echoes, strange as music in a cave,Hollow and thin; vibrating in the shadeLike sound of tears—the shadow of some woe,An ailing phantom that will not be laid,Since this is so, since this sad thing is so.
There, in the water, how the lank green grassMats its rank blades, each blade a crooked kris,Making a marsh; 'mid which the currents missTheir rock-born melodies.But there, and there one seesThe wide-belled mallow, as within a glass,Long-pistiled, leaning o'erThe root-contorted shore,As if its own pink image it would kiss.And there the tangled wild-potato vineLifts conical blossoms, each a cup of wine,As pale as moonlight is.And there tall gipsy lilies, all a-sway,Their savage, coppery faces, fierce of hue,Dull purple-streaked, bend in inverted view.—And where the stream around those rushes creeps,The dragon-fly, in endless error, keepsSewing the pale gold gown of dayWith tangled stitches of a burning blue:Its brilliant body seems a needle fine,A thread of azure ray.But here below me where my pensive shadeLooks up at me, the stale stream stagnant lies,Deep, dark, but clear and silent; save the hissOf bursting bubbles in the spawny ooze.—All flowers here refuseTo grow or blossom; beauties, too, are few,That haunt its depths: no glittering minnows braidIts languid crystal; and no gravels strewWith colored orbs its bottom. Half afraidI shrink from my own eyesThere in its cairngorm skies—I know not why, and yet it seems 'tis this:—
I know not what—but where the kildees wadeSlim in the foamy scum,From that direction hither doth it come,And makes my heart afraid.Nearer it draws to where those low rocks ail,Warm rocks on which some water-snake hath clombTo bask its spotted body, coiling numb.—At first it seemed a prism on the grail,A bubble's prism yonder; then a trail,An angled sparkle in a shadow, swayedFrog-like through deeps, to crouch a flaccid, pale,Squat bulk below.... Reflected trees and skies,And breeze-blown clouds that lounge at sunny loss,Seem in its stolid eyes,Deep down—the dim disguiseOf something ghoulish there, whose features fail,Then come again in rhythmic waviness,With arms like tentacles that seem to pressUp towards me. Limbs that writhe, and fade,And clench—tough limbs, that twist and crossThrough flabby hair like smoky moss.
How horrible to see this thing at night!Or when the sunset slants its brimstone lightAbove the water! when, in phantom flight,The will-o'-the-wisps, perhaps, above it reel.Then haply would it rise, a rotting green,Up, up, and gather me with arms of steel,Soft steel, and drag me where the wave is white,Beneath that boulder there, that plants a keelAgainst the ripple there, a shoulder lean.—No! no! I must away before 'tis night!Before the fire-flies dotThe dusk with sulphur blurrings bright!Before upon yon heightThe white wild-carrots vanish from the sight;And boneset blossoms, tossing there in clusters,Fade to a ridge, a streak of ghostly lustres.And in yon sunlit spot,That cedar tree is not!—But a huge cap instead, that, half-asleep,Some giant dropped while driving home his sheep.And 'mid those fallow brownsAnd russet grays, the fragrant peakOf yonder timothy stack,Is not a stack, but something hideous, black,That threatens and, grotesquely demon, frowns.
I must away from here.—Already dusk draws near.The owlet's dolorous hootSounds quavering as a gnome's wild flute;The toad, within the wet,Begins to tune its goblin flageolet.The slow sun sinks behindThose hills; and like a withered cheek,Distorted there, the spectral moon's definedAbove those trees; above that mass of vinesThat, like a wrecked appentice, roofs those pines.—Oh, I am faint and weak.—I must away, away,Before the close of day!—Already at my backI feel the woods grow black;And sense the evening wind,Guttural and gaunt and blind,Snarling behind me like a were-wolf pack.—When will it cease to pierce,This anguish dull and fierce,At heart and soul? when will it let me go?—
At last, with footsteps slow,With half averted cheek,I've reached this woodland creek,Far from that place of fear;And still I seem to hearA dripping footstep near;A gurgling voice dim glimmering at my ear.I try to fly!—I can not!—yes, and no!—What horror holds me!—God! that obscene, slow,Sure mastering chimera thereHas yet some horrible feeler round my neck,Or in my scattered hair!—Off! off! thou devil's coil!—The waters, thrashing, boil—Once more I'm free! once more I'm free!Glad of that firefly fleck,That, like a lamp of golden fairy oil,Lights me the way I flee.—No more I stare, magnetic-fixed; nor reck,Nor little care to foilThe madness there! the murder there! that slipsBack to its lair of slime, that seeps and drips,That sought in vain to fasten on my lips.