Mortalchild, lay thee whereEarth is gift and giver;Midnight owl, witch, or bearShall disturb thee never!Softly, softly take thy place,Turn from man thy waning face;Fear not thou must lie alone,Sleep-mates thou shalt have anon.(Clock of Time none commands,Driveth not the winter floods,Where the silent, tireless sandsRun the ages of the gods.)Thine is not a jealous bed;Pillow here hath every head;All that are and all to beShall ask a little room of thee.(Feet of flame, haste nor creepWhere the stars are of thy pace;Heart of fire, in shadows sleep,With the sun in thy embrace.)Babe of Time, old in care,Sweet is Earth, the giver;Owlet, witch, or midnight bearShall disturb thee never.
Mortalchild, lay thee whereEarth is gift and giver;Midnight owl, witch, or bearShall disturb thee never!
Softly, softly take thy place,Turn from man thy waning face;Fear not thou must lie alone,Sleep-mates thou shalt have anon.
(Clock of Time none commands,Driveth not the winter floods,Where the silent, tireless sandsRun the ages of the gods.)
Thine is not a jealous bed;Pillow here hath every head;All that are and all to beShall ask a little room of thee.
(Feet of flame, haste nor creepWhere the stars are of thy pace;Heart of fire, in shadows sleep,With the sun in thy embrace.)
Babe of Time, old in care,Sweet is Earth, the giver;Owlet, witch, or midnight bearShall disturb thee never.
Onetime I wooed a maid (dear is she yet!)All in the revel eye of young Love's moon.Content she made me,—ah, my dimpling mate,My Springtime girl, who walked with flower-shoon!But near me, nearer, steals a deep-eyed maidWith creeping glance that sees and will not see,And blush that would those yea-sweet eyes upbraid,—O, might I woo her nor inconstant be!But is not Autumn dreamtime of the Spring?(Yon scarlet fruit-bell is a flower asleep;)And I am not forsworn if yet I keepDream-faith with Spring in Autumn's deeper kiss.Then so, brown maiden, take this true-love ring,And lay thy long, soft locks where my heart is.
Onetime I wooed a maid (dear is she yet!)All in the revel eye of young Love's moon.Content she made me,—ah, my dimpling mate,My Springtime girl, who walked with flower-shoon!But near me, nearer, steals a deep-eyed maidWith creeping glance that sees and will not see,And blush that would those yea-sweet eyes upbraid,—O, might I woo her nor inconstant be!But is not Autumn dreamtime of the Spring?(Yon scarlet fruit-bell is a flower asleep;)And I am not forsworn if yet I keepDream-faith with Spring in Autumn's deeper kiss.Then so, brown maiden, take this true-love ring,And lay thy long, soft locks where my heart is.
O Spring, that flutter'st the slow Winter by,To drop thy buds before his frosty feet,Dost thou not grieve to see thy darlings lieIn trodden death, and weep their beauty sweet?Yet must thou cast thy tender offering,And make thy way above thy mournèd dead,Or frowning Winter would be always king,And thou wouldst never walk with crownèd head.So gentle Love must make his venturous wayAmong the shaken buds of his own pain;And many a hope-blown garland meekly layBefore the chilly season of disdain;But as no beauty may the Spring outglow,So he, when throned, no greater lord doth know.
O Spring, that flutter'st the slow Winter by,To drop thy buds before his frosty feet,Dost thou not grieve to see thy darlings lieIn trodden death, and weep their beauty sweet?Yet must thou cast thy tender offering,And make thy way above thy mournèd dead,Or frowning Winter would be always king,And thou wouldst never walk with crownèd head.So gentle Love must make his venturous wayAmong the shaken buds of his own pain;And many a hope-blown garland meekly layBefore the chilly season of disdain;But as no beauty may the Spring outglow,So he, when throned, no greater lord doth know.
Therewere no heaven but for lovers' eyes;Save in their depths do all Elysiums fade;And gods were dead but for the life that liesIn kisses sweet on sweeter altars laid.There were no heroes did not lovers ride,And pyramid high deeds upon new time;Nor tale for feast, or field, or chimney-side,And harps were dumb and song had ne'er a rhyme.Then live, proud heart, in happy fealty,Nor sigh thee more thy dear bonds to remove;Thou art not thrall to liege of mean degree,For all are kings who bear the lance of love;No wight so poor but may his tatters lose,And find his purple if his lady choose.
Therewere no heaven but for lovers' eyes;Save in their depths do all Elysiums fade;And gods were dead but for the life that liesIn kisses sweet on sweeter altars laid.There were no heroes did not lovers ride,And pyramid high deeds upon new time;Nor tale for feast, or field, or chimney-side,And harps were dumb and song had ne'er a rhyme.Then live, proud heart, in happy fealty,Nor sigh thee more thy dear bonds to remove;Thou art not thrall to liege of mean degree,For all are kings who bear the lance of love;No wight so poor but may his tatters lose,And find his purple if his lady choose.
O lovethat is not love, but dear, so dear!That is not love because it goes so soon,Like flower born and dead within one moon,And yet is love for that it comes full nearThe guarded fane where love alone may peer,Ere like young Spring by Summer soon outshone,It trembles into death, but comes anon,As thoughts of Spring will come though Summer's here.O star full sweet, though one arose more fair,Within my heart I'll keep a heaven for theeWhere thou mayst freely come and freely go,Touching with thy pale gold the twilight airWhere dream-closed buds could never flower show,Yet fragrant keep the shadowy way for me.
O lovethat is not love, but dear, so dear!That is not love because it goes so soon,Like flower born and dead within one moon,And yet is love for that it comes full nearThe guarded fane where love alone may peer,Ere like young Spring by Summer soon outshone,It trembles into death, but comes anon,As thoughts of Spring will come though Summer's here.
O star full sweet, though one arose more fair,Within my heart I'll keep a heaven for theeWhere thou mayst freely come and freely go,Touching with thy pale gold the twilight airWhere dream-closed buds could never flower show,Yet fragrant keep the shadowy way for me.
South-heartof songIn winter drest,Death mends thy wrong;That is life's best.Bird, who didst singFrom a bare bough,Call, and what SpringWill answer now!And haste with herBud-legacy,—O, not to share,To take of thee!Thy night, slow, dark,Yet song-lit shone,Till who did harkMissed not the moon;When Morning foundThy cold, pierced breast,'Twas she who moaned,To thy thorn pressed.Here lies the thorn-wound of the dawnThrough whose high morn the bird sings on.
South-heartof songIn winter drest,Death mends thy wrong;That is life's best.
Bird, who didst singFrom a bare bough,Call, and what SpringWill answer now!
And haste with herBud-legacy,—O, not to share,To take of thee!
Thy night, slow, dark,Yet song-lit shone,Till who did harkMissed not the moon;
When Morning foundThy cold, pierced breast,'Twas she who moaned,To thy thorn pressed.
Here lies the thorn-wound of the dawnThrough whose high morn the bird sings on.
Wefound the spring at eager noon,And from one cup we drank;Then on until the forest croonIn twilight tangle sank;The night was ours, the stars, the dawn;The manna crust, bird-shared;And never failed our magic shoon,Whatever way we fared.If caged at last, ceased not the flowOf sky-gleam through the bars;And where were wounds I only knowTear-kisses hid the scars.And when, as round the world death-freeWe wind-embodied roam,I hear the gale that once was theeCry "Hollo!" I will come.
Wefound the spring at eager noon,And from one cup we drank;Then on until the forest croonIn twilight tangle sank;
The night was ours, the stars, the dawn;The manna crust, bird-shared;And never failed our magic shoon,Whatever way we fared.
If caged at last, ceased not the flowOf sky-gleam through the bars;And where were wounds I only knowTear-kisses hid the scars.
And when, as round the world death-freeWe wind-embodied roam,I hear the gale that once was theeCry "Hollo!" I will come.
RoseLove lay dreaming where I passed,Like flower blown from careless stem;So still I dared to touch at lastHer white robe's hem.Rose Love looked up and caught my hand,Though in her eyes the sea-birds were;When o'er my brow there blew a strandOf cold, grey hair.Rose Love stood up unriddling this,Till shadows in my eyes grew old;Then warmed the lock with sudden kiss;Now flames it gold.
RoseLove lay dreaming where I passed,Like flower blown from careless stem;So still I dared to touch at lastHer white robe's hem.
Rose Love looked up and caught my hand,Though in her eyes the sea-birds were;When o'er my brow there blew a strandOf cold, grey hair.
Rose Love stood up unriddling this,Till shadows in my eyes grew old;Then warmed the lock with sudden kiss;Now flames it gold.
O silentlover of a world day-worn,Taking the weary light to thy dusk arms,Stealing where pale forms lie, sun-hurt and torn,Waiting the balm of thy oblivious charms,Make me thy captive ere I guess pursuit,And cast me deep within some dreamless close,Where hopes stir not, and white, wronged lips are mute,And Pain's hot wings fold down o'er hushèd woes.And if ere morn thou choosest me to free,Let it not be, dear jailer, through the doorThat timeward opes, but to eternitySet thou the soul that needs thee nevermore;So I from sleep to death may softly wendAs one would pass from gentle friend to friend.
O silentlover of a world day-worn,Taking the weary light to thy dusk arms,Stealing where pale forms lie, sun-hurt and torn,Waiting the balm of thy oblivious charms,Make me thy captive ere I guess pursuit,And cast me deep within some dreamless close,Where hopes stir not, and white, wronged lips are mute,And Pain's hot wings fold down o'er hushèd woes.And if ere morn thou choosest me to free,Let it not be, dear jailer, through the doorThat timeward opes, but to eternitySet thou the soul that needs thee nevermore;So I from sleep to death may softly wendAs one would pass from gentle friend to friend.
Warmin this marble, that is stone no more,Life at wound-pause lifts ear to woundless mind;Backward the ages their slow clew unwind,And step by step, and star by star, lead o'erThe trail again, where eyeless passion toreIts red way to a soul. Mist-bound and blindNo more, the thinker waits, and God grown kindFlashes a foot-print where He goes before.Not to be followed! Falls the cloud again;Folds the stern form around the striving doubt,And curve betrays to curve the silent birthThat shall be voice to later times and men;While lone in unlit dark, within, without,He sits immortal on a godless earth.
Warmin this marble, that is stone no more,Life at wound-pause lifts ear to woundless mind;Backward the ages their slow clew unwind,And step by step, and star by star, lead o'erThe trail again, where eyeless passion toreIts red way to a soul. Mist-bound and blindNo more, the thinker waits, and God grown kindFlashes a foot-print where He goes before.
Not to be followed! Falls the cloud again;Folds the stern form around the striving doubt,And curve betrays to curve the silent birthThat shall be voice to later times and men;While lone in unlit dark, within, without,He sits immortal on a godless earth.
Lookin, O Mystic, on thy lease,Thou tenant soul in God's demesne;Forego the show of eyes that fail,And walk the world that cannot pale,Thine by a sealed and termless lienWithin His met eternities.Yet look thou out from thy still hourWith eyes that know and bear His fire;Till kindling on thy wonder's vergeThe transient days immortal mergeIn Him fulfilled as worlds expireIn nestled love, a song, a flower.
Lookin, O Mystic, on thy lease,Thou tenant soul in God's demesne;Forego the show of eyes that fail,And walk the world that cannot pale,Thine by a sealed and termless lienWithin His met eternities.
Yet look thou out from thy still hourWith eyes that know and bear His fire;Till kindling on thy wonder's vergeThe transient days immortal mergeIn Him fulfilled as worlds expireIn nestled love, a song, a flower.
Mydream-fruit tree a palace boreIn stone's reality,And friends and treasure, art and lore,Came in to dwell with me.But palaces for gods are made;I shrank to man, or less;Gold-barriered, yet chill, afraid,My soul shook shelterless.I found a cottage in a wood,Warmed by a hearth and maid,And fed and slept, and said 'twas good,—Ah, love-nest in the shade!The walls grew close, the roof pressed low,Soft arms my jailers were;My naked soul arose to go,And shivered bright and bare.No more I sought for covert kind;The blast blew on my head;And lo, with tempest and with windI felt me garmented.Here on the hills the writhing stormCloaks well and shelters me;I wrap me round and I am warm,Warm for eternity.
Mydream-fruit tree a palace boreIn stone's reality,And friends and treasure, art and lore,Came in to dwell with me.
But palaces for gods are made;I shrank to man, or less;Gold-barriered, yet chill, afraid,My soul shook shelterless.
I found a cottage in a wood,Warmed by a hearth and maid,And fed and slept, and said 'twas good,—Ah, love-nest in the shade!
The walls grew close, the roof pressed low,Soft arms my jailers were;My naked soul arose to go,And shivered bright and bare.
No more I sought for covert kind;The blast blew on my head;And lo, with tempest and with windI felt me garmented.
Here on the hills the writhing stormCloaks well and shelters me;I wrap me round and I am warm,Warm for eternity.
Here, Richard, didst thou fall, caparisonedWith kingdoms of thy lust;And here wouldst lie, by Fame's bent gleaners shunned,But came unto thy dustA swaggerer, perdy!Who cried "A horse, a horse!" and straightThou wert abroad again on kingly feetTo tread eternity.
Here, Richard, didst thou fall, caparisonedWith kingdoms of thy lust;And here wouldst lie, by Fame's bent gleaners shunned,But came unto thy dustA swaggerer, perdy!Who cried "A horse, a horse!" and straightThou wert abroad again on kingly feetTo tread eternity.
Softas a treader on mossesI go through the village that sleeps;The village too early abed,For the night still shuffles, a gipsy,In the woods of the east,And the west remembers the sun.Not all are asleep; there are facesThat lean from the walls of the gardens;Look sharply, or you will not see them,Or think them another stone in the wall.I spoke to a stone, and it answeredLike an aged rock that crumbles;Each falling piece was a word."Five have I buried," it said,"And seven are over the sea."Here is a hut that I pass,So lowly it has no brow,And dwarfs sit within at a table.A boy waits apart by the hearth;On his face the patience of firelight,But his eyes seek the door and a far world.It is not the call to the table he waits,But the call of the sea-rimmed forests,And cities that stir in a dream.I haste by the low-browed door,Lest my arms go in and betray me,A mother jealously passing.He will go, the pale dwarf, and walk tall among giants;The child with his eyes on the far land,And fame like a young, curled leaf in his heart.The stream that darts from the hanging hillLike a silver wing that must sing as it flies,Is folded and still on the breastOf the village that sleeps.Each mute, old house is more old than the other,And each wears its vines like ragged hairRound the half-blind windows.If a child should laugh, if a girl should sing,Would the houses rub the vines from their eyes,And listen and live?A voice comes now from a cottage,A voice that is young and must sing,A honeyed stab on the air,And the houses do not wake.I look through the leaf-blowzed window,And start as a gazer who, passing a death-vault,Sees life sitting hopeful within.She is young, but a woman, round-breasted,Waiting the peril of Eve;And she makes the shadows about her sweetAs the glooms that play in a pine-wood.She sits at a harpsichord (old as the walls are),And longing flows in the trickling, fairy notesLike a hidden brook in a forestSeeking and seeking the sun.I have watched a young tree on the edge of a woodWhen the mist is weaving and drifting.Slowly the boughs disappear and the leaves reach outLike the drowning hands of children,Till a grey blur quivers coldWhere the green grace drank of the sun.So now, as I gaze, the morrowsCreep weaving and winding their mistRound the beauty of her who sings.They hide the soft rings of her hair,Dear as a child's curling fingers;They shut out the trembling sun of eyesThat are deep as a bending mother's;And her bridal body is scarfed with their chill.For old and old is the story;Over and over I listen to murmursThat are always the same in these towns that sleep;Where grey and unwed a woman passes,Her cramped, drab gown the bounds of a worldShe holds with grief and silence;And a gossip whose tongue alone is unwitheredMumbles the tale by her affable gate;How the lad must go, and the girl must stay,Singing alone to the years and a dream;Then a letter, a rumour, a wordFrom the land that reaches for loversAnd gives them not back;And the maiden looks up with a face that is old;Her smile, as her body, is evermore barren,Her cheek like the bark of the beech-treeWhere climbs the grey winter.Now have I seen her young,The lone girl singing,With the full round breast and the berry lip,And heart that runs to a dawn-riseOn new-world mountains.The weeping ash in the dooryardGathers the song in its boughs,And the gown of dawn she will never wear.I can listen no more; good-bye, little town, old Fairingdown.I climb the long, dark hillside,But the ache I have found here I cannot outclimb.O Heart, if we had not heard, if we did not knowThere is that in the village that never will sleep!
Softas a treader on mossesI go through the village that sleeps;The village too early abed,For the night still shuffles, a gipsy,In the woods of the east,And the west remembers the sun.
Not all are asleep; there are facesThat lean from the walls of the gardens;Look sharply, or you will not see them,Or think them another stone in the wall.I spoke to a stone, and it answeredLike an aged rock that crumbles;Each falling piece was a word."Five have I buried," it said,"And seven are over the sea."
Here is a hut that I pass,So lowly it has no brow,And dwarfs sit within at a table.A boy waits apart by the hearth;On his face the patience of firelight,But his eyes seek the door and a far world.It is not the call to the table he waits,But the call of the sea-rimmed forests,And cities that stir in a dream.I haste by the low-browed door,Lest my arms go in and betray me,A mother jealously passing.He will go, the pale dwarf, and walk tall among giants;The child with his eyes on the far land,And fame like a young, curled leaf in his heart.
The stream that darts from the hanging hillLike a silver wing that must sing as it flies,Is folded and still on the breastOf the village that sleeps.Each mute, old house is more old than the other,And each wears its vines like ragged hairRound the half-blind windows.If a child should laugh, if a girl should sing,Would the houses rub the vines from their eyes,And listen and live?A voice comes now from a cottage,A voice that is young and must sing,A honeyed stab on the air,And the houses do not wake.
I look through the leaf-blowzed window,And start as a gazer who, passing a death-vault,Sees life sitting hopeful within.She is young, but a woman, round-breasted,Waiting the peril of Eve;And she makes the shadows about her sweetAs the glooms that play in a pine-wood.She sits at a harpsichord (old as the walls are),And longing flows in the trickling, fairy notesLike a hidden brook in a forestSeeking and seeking the sun.
I have watched a young tree on the edge of a woodWhen the mist is weaving and drifting.Slowly the boughs disappear and the leaves reach outLike the drowning hands of children,Till a grey blur quivers coldWhere the green grace drank of the sun.So now, as I gaze, the morrowsCreep weaving and winding their mistRound the beauty of her who sings.They hide the soft rings of her hair,Dear as a child's curling fingers;They shut out the trembling sun of eyesThat are deep as a bending mother's;And her bridal body is scarfed with their chill.
For old and old is the story;Over and over I listen to murmursThat are always the same in these towns that sleep;Where grey and unwed a woman passes,Her cramped, drab gown the bounds of a worldShe holds with grief and silence;And a gossip whose tongue alone is unwitheredMumbles the tale by her affable gate;How the lad must go, and the girl must stay,Singing alone to the years and a dream;Then a letter, a rumour, a wordFrom the land that reaches for loversAnd gives them not back;And the maiden looks up with a face that is old;Her smile, as her body, is evermore barren,Her cheek like the bark of the beech-treeWhere climbs the grey winter.
Now have I seen her young,The lone girl singing,With the full round breast and the berry lip,And heart that runs to a dawn-riseOn new-world mountains.The weeping ash in the dooryardGathers the song in its boughs,And the gown of dawn she will never wear.I can listen no more; good-bye, little town, old Fairingdown.I climb the long, dark hillside,But the ache I have found here I cannot outclimb.O Heart, if we had not heard, if we did not knowThere is that in the village that never will sleep!
I stoleinto the secret roomWhere Love lay dying;Mystic and faint perfumeMet me like sighing;As heaven had cast a still-born starHe lay nor stirred; the shell-thin handNerveless of high commandWhere once the lord-veins sped their fire.And I had thought me gladTo let him go. "He reapsHis own," I pious said.But this, ah, thisUnpleading helplessness!"Give me thy death," I cried,And took it from his lips.The windows burst them wide.The sun came in;And Love high at my sideStood sovereign.
I stoleinto the secret roomWhere Love lay dying;Mystic and faint perfumeMet me like sighing;As heaven had cast a still-born starHe lay nor stirred; the shell-thin handNerveless of high commandWhere once the lord-veins sped their fire.
And I had thought me gladTo let him go. "He reapsHis own," I pious said.But this, ah, thisUnpleading helplessness!"Give me thy death," I cried,And took it from his lips.The windows burst them wide.The sun came in;And Love high at my sideStood sovereign.
Hehears the hour's low hint and springsTo the chariot-side of Truth, while fastThe wild car swingsThrough dust and cloud;And the watchful elders, prophet-proud,Give o'er his bonesTo the wracking stones—But he has passed!A weft of sky, and castles stareHigh from a wizard shore,Sun-arrowed, tower-strong;Gold parapets in airDown-pour, down-pourSea-falls of peri song;Then earth, the dragon's lair;Cave eyes and burning breath;And the lance the Grail lords boreThis day flies swift and fair,This day of the dragon's death.Must doff the wind-wreath, find thee lone?Put on meek age's hood?Feel but the frost within the dawn?Wrap courage in a swaddling mood?His bare throat flingsAll-powered nay;The world, his vast, unfingered lyre,Stirs in her thousand strings;Lit with redemptive flameBurns miracle desire,And dedicated dayIs long as freedom's dream.Youth of the lance, youth of the lyre,How far, how far shalt go?Where will the halting be?Sun-courier, whose roads of fireBridge God's delay,The hearts that know thee, ah, they know,Ageless in clay,Sole immortality!
Hehears the hour's low hint and springsTo the chariot-side of Truth, while fastThe wild car swingsThrough dust and cloud;And the watchful elders, prophet-proud,Give o'er his bonesTo the wracking stones—But he has passed!
A weft of sky, and castles stareHigh from a wizard shore,Sun-arrowed, tower-strong;Gold parapets in airDown-pour, down-pourSea-falls of peri song;Then earth, the dragon's lair;Cave eyes and burning breath;And the lance the Grail lords boreThis day flies swift and fair,This day of the dragon's death.
Must doff the wind-wreath, find thee lone?Put on meek age's hood?Feel but the frost within the dawn?Wrap courage in a swaddling mood?His bare throat flingsAll-powered nay;The world, his vast, unfingered lyre,Stirs in her thousand strings;Lit with redemptive flameBurns miracle desire,And dedicated dayIs long as freedom's dream.
Youth of the lance, youth of the lyre,How far, how far shalt go?Where will the halting be?Sun-courier, whose roads of fireBridge God's delay,The hearts that know thee, ah, they know,Ageless in clay,Sole immortality!
Dostthink that Time, to whom stars vainly sue,Will for thy beauty keep one fixèd place?Or that he may, o'er-weighed with seasons due,Forget one Spring where veinlet tendrils laceRose over rose to make this flower, thy face?Look round thee now, dear dupe of sweet hey-day!Of what once blooming joy canst thou find traceSave in the bosom of a cold decay?What violet of Summer's yester swayUsurps these clouds to throne her slender moon?Look on the wrinkling year, the shrunken way,The wintry bier of all that gaudy shone,And gather love ere loveliness wear pall,If thou, when all is gone, wouldst still have all.
Dostthink that Time, to whom stars vainly sue,Will for thy beauty keep one fixèd place?Or that he may, o'er-weighed with seasons due,Forget one Spring where veinlet tendrils laceRose over rose to make this flower, thy face?Look round thee now, dear dupe of sweet hey-day!Of what once blooming joy canst thou find traceSave in the bosom of a cold decay?What violet of Summer's yester swayUsurps these clouds to throne her slender moon?Look on the wrinkling year, the shrunken way,The wintry bier of all that gaudy shone,And gather love ere loveliness wear pall,If thou, when all is gone, wouldst still have all.
"I amfleet," said the joy of the sun,Trembling then on the breastOf the summer, white, still;"I am fleet, I am gone!"Smiling came oneWith brush and a will,Undelaying, unpressed,And the glancing gold of the tremulous sunLingers for man, inescapable, won."Not here, nor yet there,"Cried the waves that fled,"Shall ye set us a snare.Motion is breath of us,Stillness is death of us;We live as we run,We pause and are sped!"Laughing came oneWith brush and a will,And the waves never die and are nevermore still."I pass," said the lightOn the joy-child's face;But softly came oneAnd it leaves not its place.Here Time shall replightHis faith with the dawn,And his ages, gaunt grey,Ever cycling, beholdTheir youth never flownIn a world never old,Though they pass and repass with their trailing decay."We stay," said the shadows, and hungOn the brush of the master; "we are thine own."Fearless he flungThe magical chains around them, and said,"Ye too shall be light, and to life bring the sun!"And man delayedBy the captive pain's revealing glowFeeleth earth's breathing woe,And his vow is made;"Ye shall pass, ye shadows, yea;And life, as the sun, be free;The God in me saith!"And the shadows go;For joy is the breathOf eternity,And sorrow the sigh of a day.
"I amfleet," said the joy of the sun,Trembling then on the breastOf the summer, white, still;"I am fleet, I am gone!"Smiling came oneWith brush and a will,Undelaying, unpressed,And the glancing gold of the tremulous sunLingers for man, inescapable, won.
"Not here, nor yet there,"Cried the waves that fled,"Shall ye set us a snare.Motion is breath of us,Stillness is death of us;We live as we run,We pause and are sped!"Laughing came oneWith brush and a will,And the waves never die and are nevermore still.
"I pass," said the lightOn the joy-child's face;But softly came oneAnd it leaves not its place.Here Time shall replightHis faith with the dawn,And his ages, gaunt grey,Ever cycling, beholdTheir youth never flownIn a world never old,Though they pass and repass with their trailing decay.
"We stay," said the shadows, and hungOn the brush of the master; "we are thine own."Fearless he flungThe magical chains around them, and said,"Ye too shall be light, and to life bring the sun!"And man delayedBy the captive pain's revealing glowFeeleth earth's breathing woe,And his vow is made;"Ye shall pass, ye shadows, yea;And life, as the sun, be free;The God in me saith!"And the shadows go;For joy is the breathOf eternity,And sorrow the sigh of a day.
Themountain night is shining, Jim of Tellico,Shining so it hurts the heart to seeThe gleam upon the laurel leaf, the locust shaking snowTo the rippling Nantahala that is laughing up to me,Hurts till the cry comes and the big tears are free.O, why should my heart cry to you that will not hear,Yonder where the ridges lie so still above the town?But the pain that's calling seems to bring you near,As the tears in my eyes bring the stars a-swimming down.Mother sits and cries, with my baby on her knee;Father curses deep, a-breathing hard your name;But never do I hear and never do I see,I with my head low, working out my shame,Eyes burning dry and my heart like a flame;For I hate you then—I hate you, Jim of Tellico,And grip my needle tighter, every stitch a sin,The hate growing bigger till the thing I sewSeems a shroud I'm glad a-making just to lay you in.But the slow sun passes with its day-long stare,Like a bold eye at the window when the blindIs missing and you mustn't know the eye is there,—Just shut your heart up close and hide the thing you mind;And comes the blessed twilight calling of its kind,When all the little creatures with soft voices stir,Little hiding things that cry so tremblingly,Till I lay my needle by,—O, how the sweet woods whirr!And fly down to the river that is laughing up to me.Then the hate goes out o' me with the moonlight creeping in,And the water crooning cool-like in my veins.Who could smell the white azalea thinking then of sin,Or look on laurel buds a-caring for her pains?It's just my heart breaks open and the wild flood rains.O beauty of the moon-mist winding, winding slow,Till the tall lynns quiver vainly up to holdOne leafy moment more the breathing, gliding flowOf the loosened wreath of silver lifting into gold!The moosewood bride is glowing, all her curls awave,The colt's-foot in millions makes the ground like a bed,So sweet-breathed and green now, in winter scarlet brave,And blossom lips of tulip trees are meeting overhead,But never shall a tear fall for their love spent and dead.Doves are building yonder in that clump of maples deep,Do maple leaves come soonest for they love to hideThe earliest nest and hear the first faint cheepTelling them of joy too dear, too sweet to bide?The joy that was my own, Jim, when our birdling came,Telling me that love is never spent and dead,—Though you left the tears to me, and left to me the shame,—For the wildwood broke in blossoms round my bed,And the fairest on my bosom laid its stainless head.Can God who made this night His own great heart to please,And made that other night like this a year ago,Be mad at us for loving? I fall upon my kneesAnd beg Him bless you, bless you ever, Jim of Tellico!
Themountain night is shining, Jim of Tellico,Shining so it hurts the heart to seeThe gleam upon the laurel leaf, the locust shaking snowTo the rippling Nantahala that is laughing up to me,Hurts till the cry comes and the big tears are free.O, why should my heart cry to you that will not hear,Yonder where the ridges lie so still above the town?But the pain that's calling seems to bring you near,As the tears in my eyes bring the stars a-swimming down.
Mother sits and cries, with my baby on her knee;Father curses deep, a-breathing hard your name;But never do I hear and never do I see,I with my head low, working out my shame,Eyes burning dry and my heart like a flame;For I hate you then—I hate you, Jim of Tellico,And grip my needle tighter, every stitch a sin,The hate growing bigger till the thing I sewSeems a shroud I'm glad a-making just to lay you in.
But the slow sun passes with its day-long stare,Like a bold eye at the window when the blindIs missing and you mustn't know the eye is there,—Just shut your heart up close and hide the thing you mind;And comes the blessed twilight calling of its kind,When all the little creatures with soft voices stir,Little hiding things that cry so tremblingly,Till I lay my needle by,—O, how the sweet woods whirr!And fly down to the river that is laughing up to me.
Then the hate goes out o' me with the moonlight creeping in,And the water crooning cool-like in my veins.Who could smell the white azalea thinking then of sin,Or look on laurel buds a-caring for her pains?It's just my heart breaks open and the wild flood rains.O beauty of the moon-mist winding, winding slow,Till the tall lynns quiver vainly up to holdOne leafy moment more the breathing, gliding flowOf the loosened wreath of silver lifting into gold!
The moosewood bride is glowing, all her curls awave,The colt's-foot in millions makes the ground like a bed,So sweet-breathed and green now, in winter scarlet brave,And blossom lips of tulip trees are meeting overhead,But never shall a tear fall for their love spent and dead.Doves are building yonder in that clump of maples deep,Do maple leaves come soonest for they love to hideThe earliest nest and hear the first faint cheepTelling them of joy too dear, too sweet to bide?
The joy that was my own, Jim, when our birdling came,Telling me that love is never spent and dead,—Though you left the tears to me, and left to me the shame,—For the wildwood broke in blossoms round my bed,And the fairest on my bosom laid its stainless head.Can God who made this night His own great heart to please,And made that other night like this a year ago,Be mad at us for loving? I fall upon my kneesAnd beg Him bless you, bless you ever, Jim of Tellico!
O silenceof all silences, where waitFame's unblown years whose choir my soul would greet!Graves, nor dead Time, are sealed so dumb in fate,For Death and Time must pass on echoing feet.No grass-locked vault, no sculptured winding-sheet,No age-embalmèd hour with mummied wing,Is bosomed in such stillness, vast, complete,As wraps the future, and no prayer may bringFrom that unfathomed pause one minstrel murmuring.Yet never earth a lyreless dawn shall know;No moon shall move unharped to her pale home;No midnight wreathe its chain of choric glowBut answering eye flash rhythmic to the dome.No path shall lie too deep in forest gloamFor the blithe singer's tread; no winds fore'erBlow lute-lorn barks o'er unawakened foam;Nor hidden isle sleep so enwaved but thereShall touch and land at last Apollo's mariner.And soon shall wake that morrow's melody,When men of labour shall be men of dream,With hand seer-guided, knowing DeityThat breathes in sonant wood and fluting stream,Shapes too the wheel, the shaft, the shouldering beam,Nor ceased to build when Magian toil beganTo lift its towered world. What chime supremeShall turn our tuneless march to music whenSings the achieving God in conscious hearts of men!And one voice shall be woman's, lifting layTill all the lark-heights of her being ring;Majestic she shall take the chanted way,And every song-peak's golden bourgeoningShall thrill beneath her feet that lyric springFrom ventured crest to crest. Strong, masterless,She, last in freedom, as the first shall sing,Who, great in freedom, takes by Love her place,Wife, mother,—more, her starward moving self—the race.Ay, ye shall come, ye spirits girt with lightThat falls o'er heaven's hills from dawn to be;Ye warders in the planet house of night,Gliding to unguessed doors with prophet key,And out where dim paths stir with minstrelsyWordless and strange to man until your clearDoubt-shriven strain interprets to the clay.Oh, might I hear ye as the world shall hear,Nearer, a poet's journey, to the Golden Year!Dear, honoured bards of centuries dim and sped,Yet glowing ever in your fadeless song,No dust shall heap its silence o'er ye dead,No cadent seas shall drown your chorus strongIn more melodious waves. I've lingered longBy your brave harps strung for eternity;But now runs my wild heart to meet the throngWho yet shall choir. O wondrous company,If graves may listen then, I then shall listening be!
O silenceof all silences, where waitFame's unblown years whose choir my soul would greet!Graves, nor dead Time, are sealed so dumb in fate,For Death and Time must pass on echoing feet.No grass-locked vault, no sculptured winding-sheet,No age-embalmèd hour with mummied wing,Is bosomed in such stillness, vast, complete,As wraps the future, and no prayer may bringFrom that unfathomed pause one minstrel murmuring.
Yet never earth a lyreless dawn shall know;No moon shall move unharped to her pale home;No midnight wreathe its chain of choric glowBut answering eye flash rhythmic to the dome.No path shall lie too deep in forest gloamFor the blithe singer's tread; no winds fore'erBlow lute-lorn barks o'er unawakened foam;Nor hidden isle sleep so enwaved but thereShall touch and land at last Apollo's mariner.
And soon shall wake that morrow's melody,When men of labour shall be men of dream,With hand seer-guided, knowing DeityThat breathes in sonant wood and fluting stream,Shapes too the wheel, the shaft, the shouldering beam,Nor ceased to build when Magian toil beganTo lift its towered world. What chime supremeShall turn our tuneless march to music whenSings the achieving God in conscious hearts of men!
And one voice shall be woman's, lifting layTill all the lark-heights of her being ring;Majestic she shall take the chanted way,And every song-peak's golden bourgeoningShall thrill beneath her feet that lyric springFrom ventured crest to crest. Strong, masterless,She, last in freedom, as the first shall sing,Who, great in freedom, takes by Love her place,Wife, mother,—more, her starward moving self—the race.
Ay, ye shall come, ye spirits girt with lightThat falls o'er heaven's hills from dawn to be;Ye warders in the planet house of night,Gliding to unguessed doors with prophet key,And out where dim paths stir with minstrelsyWordless and strange to man until your clearDoubt-shriven strain interprets to the clay.Oh, might I hear ye as the world shall hear,Nearer, a poet's journey, to the Golden Year!
Dear, honoured bards of centuries dim and sped,Yet glowing ever in your fadeless song,No dust shall heap its silence o'er ye dead,No cadent seas shall drown your chorus strongIn more melodious waves. I've lingered longBy your brave harps strung for eternity;But now runs my wild heart to meet the throngWho yet shall choir. O wondrous company,If graves may listen then, I then shall listening be!
Ofthe dumb, bayed god in men,Of the burdened mother eyes,Of the little, lifted hands,Of the passion and the dreamSighing up from trodden lands,Fearless, he is born again;Bold inquisitor of skies,Treading earth unmastered, free,And the way grows wide for himWalking with the day to be.Dead the grasp of custom then,Silent grows her voice and pen;Part as air the birth-wrong bands,Break as thread the steel-drawn strands,Graves no longer over-awe,Dust is dust and men are men;A living tongue again gives living law.Trophies ours by gold and gun,Little treasures, houses,—nay,Guerdons of our dearest fight,Now are fuel for his sun,And the dreams that lit the nightBurn as candles in the day.Yet we made thee, Man of Right,As our being plead to rise;Of our straining arm thy might;Even as we prayed for sight,Lo, afar thou hadst thy prophet eyes.Ay, thy gleaming spear is ours;Ours thy fearless, golden bow;And our shining arrows goFrom thy bright untaken towers.Thou art what we will to be,Sceptre, star, and wingèd cloud;We are blood and brawn of thee,Glowing up through sod and stone,Burning through thy rended shroud,Moving with thee, chainless, on,Till the world, a quickened whole,Truth-delivered, naked, free,Once again hath found its deathless soul.
Ofthe dumb, bayed god in men,Of the burdened mother eyes,Of the little, lifted hands,Of the passion and the dreamSighing up from trodden lands,Fearless, he is born again;Bold inquisitor of skies,Treading earth unmastered, free,And the way grows wide for himWalking with the day to be.
Dead the grasp of custom then,Silent grows her voice and pen;Part as air the birth-wrong bands,Break as thread the steel-drawn strands,Graves no longer over-awe,Dust is dust and men are men;A living tongue again gives living law.
Trophies ours by gold and gun,Little treasures, houses,—nay,Guerdons of our dearest fight,Now are fuel for his sun,And the dreams that lit the nightBurn as candles in the day.Yet we made thee, Man of Right,As our being plead to rise;Of our straining arm thy might;Even as we prayed for sight,Lo, afar thou hadst thy prophet eyes.
Ay, thy gleaming spear is ours;Ours thy fearless, golden bow;And our shining arrows goFrom thy bright untaken towers.Thou art what we will to be,Sceptre, star, and wingèd cloud;We are blood and brawn of thee,Glowing up through sod and stone,Burning through thy rended shroud,Moving with thee, chainless, on,Till the world, a quickened whole,Truth-delivered, naked, free,Once again hath found its deathless soul.
Takeback thy song; or let me hear what thouHeardst anciently from me,The woman; nowThis wassail drift on boughless shores;Once lyre-veined leading theeTo singing doorsOut of the coiling dark;Teaching thee harkEarth's virgin candours, blossomed wonderings,And sanctities inaudible till stringsOf lyric gentlenessWooed Heaven to confessHer world, and I was near,The earliest listener,Who of my bosom then made Arcady,And drew thy forest feet to Castaly.Take back thy pity. Is it not from manWho made that world his own?As barbicanSends out its darts, and after flingsA dole of myrrh where groanIs loudest, singsThy grace to me, me thusUnbeauteousBy thee. Uneased thy covenanted bitFrom Levite ark till now. Thy judges sit,Gods ruminant, to keepEarth pure for dulcet sleepOf babe and mother. Ay,Drones yet the lulling lie,Whilst I, Disease uncinctured, darkly mateWith guard and sentry of thy hierarchate.Thine ages, are they fair? Shall they yet drawChild-homage from our eyes?The woman aweAs her own babe? Far stretch the avid spansOf fame-drunk emperies,And all are man's;But from what tower of praiseDoes Justice gaze?Art is thy boast? "See how we garland her,The goddess of our hands?" Yea, yea, but whereIs Truth, save by whose breathArt is a laurelled death?"Our churches these, and thisOur Holy Writ; there wisOur altars high, and sanctuarised sod!"But what, care-taking soul, hast done with God?The bairning time I knew, the whispering breast,But in thy world no placeWas for my nest,Fragrant for perilous brooding pause.Thou went'st thy pace;My gathered strawsAnd grasses cast to dustTo make thy lustA wayside couch. Deep from the nation's root,The bower-tree where homes are nesting fruit,Thy blight creeps up unseenOn bitten way to the green,Till no hope-banneretMakes Spring in windy fretOf flagellant boughs that whip my fingers bare,Too chill at last to build, to bleed, to care.Must surge so late with Nature's spawning ruse?Her stintless passioningLest she should loseThe younglet of her dearest pang?To thee, her tenderling,She gave lust-fangTo run the jungle's harm;Now strives thee to disarm,And fend Life from that weapon lent thy wearTill thou, forsaking dust, mightst capture her.What need now of the bloodWhose wasteful plenitudeSwept thee through hostile slimeTo shores of light and time,Man-minim safe mid frost and poison dewsWhere naught could live that had not life to lose?Yet dost thou foster it as thy veinèd sun;Thy Heaven and Holy RoodBuild toppling onIts strifeful hell; root there thy art,Thy dreams of tenderest bud;Gaze on the heartOf its fetidity,This wreck of me,And sing. O God, what death, in eyes so bound,They see Life's beauty in her draining wound!Lay thou the blind thing downWith saurian tusk and bone,With dust of sworded mawAnd peril's fossil claw,Lest sexton Earth even Man inter, nor troverOf after-law untomb for Love her Lover!Her lover yet uncarnate; of thy raceTo be; long-dreamèd mateOf her embrace;Whose godling fruit, too prized, too dearFor bandit breath, shall waitThe Garnerer.Not then mute, anguished wives,Dumb in law's gyves,Shall shrink to mother a soul-famined brood,—Unbudding sentiencies of flowerhood,Shut miracles no wandMay touch, that from the handOf Toil, the reaver, fallTo dust, their grudgèd pall,Leaving imperial web to those who wearThat woof of blood and tears as gossamer.Not then! Where now the wailing way o'erteems,And baffled starvelings barThe way of dreams;Pouring to Want, grey-veined Disease,To Greed, and lurking War,—Brute goblinriesWith horde-lip sateless onGod-food dust-thrown,—Lover and Love shall pass, each babe of theirs,Darling of Life, born for the higher warsWhere knights of spirit sway,Summoned to holiest frayBy heralds never bareTo clodded vision. There,Shriven and sure, the sun-dipped lance shall leapTill Dream uncorselet clay and put off sleep.For me one rift! Through this sepultural blightA breath runs living, new;Unburdening lightAs when the flame-borne prophet onThe Syrian ploughman threwA people's dawn.The world is Heaven worth,The cradle earthCasts orphanhood, a Bethlehem God-swungFrom crimson grapple with his lyric young.Here triumph I, so low,Knowing that Lust shall go,With whited, anarch train,—Shall pass, this curbless, vainUsurping deity that would compelThe Mary-longing Love to yet mould Jezebel.Drag me with life that keeps Death shadow-nearTill I, unfrighted, wakeHis charnel fearIn every face that warifulMeets mine; this bud-mouth makeUnkissableWith kisses; and up-lapMy soul's youth sapTill 't withers to a clutch about the goldYou think pays all; yet from this reedy mould,This swamped, unfructant sedge,Gentility's marsh edge,I, on free wing, shall takeMy swan-course o'er the brake,Leaving the chanson of thy sin to theeWho hast not seen, not touched the unstainable me.Yet art thou dear, O singer! When we restPast all Life's hostel doors,On her home crest;And 'neath our feet the dark vat nightFrom pain's crushed star-grapes poursThe climbing light;There thou, beside me then,With moteless ken,Remembering these, thy pity and thy song,Dropped at the cross where thou didst nail me long,Shalt sereless 'scape the aimOf hot, lance-darting shame,For over thee shall fallThe dawn-tressed coronalOf Love I then shall be, wrapping thee inThe pity at whose touch dies every sin.
Takeback thy song; or let me hear what thouHeardst anciently from me,The woman; nowThis wassail drift on boughless shores;Once lyre-veined leading theeTo singing doorsOut of the coiling dark;Teaching thee harkEarth's virgin candours, blossomed wonderings,And sanctities inaudible till stringsOf lyric gentlenessWooed Heaven to confessHer world, and I was near,The earliest listener,Who of my bosom then made Arcady,And drew thy forest feet to Castaly.
Take back thy pity. Is it not from manWho made that world his own?As barbicanSends out its darts, and after flingsA dole of myrrh where groanIs loudest, singsThy grace to me, me thusUnbeauteousBy thee. Uneased thy covenanted bitFrom Levite ark till now. Thy judges sit,Gods ruminant, to keepEarth pure for dulcet sleepOf babe and mother. Ay,Drones yet the lulling lie,Whilst I, Disease uncinctured, darkly mateWith guard and sentry of thy hierarchate.
Thine ages, are they fair? Shall they yet drawChild-homage from our eyes?The woman aweAs her own babe? Far stretch the avid spansOf fame-drunk emperies,And all are man's;But from what tower of praiseDoes Justice gaze?Art is thy boast? "See how we garland her,The goddess of our hands?" Yea, yea, but whereIs Truth, save by whose breathArt is a laurelled death?"Our churches these, and thisOur Holy Writ; there wisOur altars high, and sanctuarised sod!"But what, care-taking soul, hast done with God?
The bairning time I knew, the whispering breast,But in thy world no placeWas for my nest,Fragrant for perilous brooding pause.Thou went'st thy pace;My gathered strawsAnd grasses cast to dustTo make thy lustA wayside couch. Deep from the nation's root,The bower-tree where homes are nesting fruit,Thy blight creeps up unseenOn bitten way to the green,Till no hope-banneretMakes Spring in windy fretOf flagellant boughs that whip my fingers bare,Too chill at last to build, to bleed, to care.
Must surge so late with Nature's spawning ruse?Her stintless passioningLest she should loseThe younglet of her dearest pang?To thee, her tenderling,She gave lust-fangTo run the jungle's harm;Now strives thee to disarm,And fend Life from that weapon lent thy wearTill thou, forsaking dust, mightst capture her.What need now of the bloodWhose wasteful plenitudeSwept thee through hostile slimeTo shores of light and time,Man-minim safe mid frost and poison dewsWhere naught could live that had not life to lose?
Yet dost thou foster it as thy veinèd sun;Thy Heaven and Holy RoodBuild toppling onIts strifeful hell; root there thy art,Thy dreams of tenderest bud;Gaze on the heartOf its fetidity,This wreck of me,And sing. O God, what death, in eyes so bound,They see Life's beauty in her draining wound!Lay thou the blind thing downWith saurian tusk and bone,With dust of sworded mawAnd peril's fossil claw,Lest sexton Earth even Man inter, nor troverOf after-law untomb for Love her Lover!
Her lover yet uncarnate; of thy raceTo be; long-dreamèd mateOf her embrace;Whose godling fruit, too prized, too dearFor bandit breath, shall waitThe Garnerer.Not then mute, anguished wives,Dumb in law's gyves,Shall shrink to mother a soul-famined brood,—Unbudding sentiencies of flowerhood,Shut miracles no wandMay touch, that from the handOf Toil, the reaver, fallTo dust, their grudgèd pall,Leaving imperial web to those who wearThat woof of blood and tears as gossamer.
Not then! Where now the wailing way o'erteems,And baffled starvelings barThe way of dreams;Pouring to Want, grey-veined Disease,To Greed, and lurking War,—Brute goblinriesWith horde-lip sateless onGod-food dust-thrown,—Lover and Love shall pass, each babe of theirs,Darling of Life, born for the higher warsWhere knights of spirit sway,Summoned to holiest frayBy heralds never bareTo clodded vision. There,Shriven and sure, the sun-dipped lance shall leapTill Dream uncorselet clay and put off sleep.
For me one rift! Through this sepultural blightA breath runs living, new;Unburdening lightAs when the flame-borne prophet onThe Syrian ploughman threwA people's dawn.The world is Heaven worth,The cradle earthCasts orphanhood, a Bethlehem God-swungFrom crimson grapple with his lyric young.Here triumph I, so low,Knowing that Lust shall go,With whited, anarch train,—Shall pass, this curbless, vainUsurping deity that would compelThe Mary-longing Love to yet mould Jezebel.
Drag me with life that keeps Death shadow-nearTill I, unfrighted, wakeHis charnel fearIn every face that warifulMeets mine; this bud-mouth makeUnkissableWith kisses; and up-lapMy soul's youth sapTill 't withers to a clutch about the goldYou think pays all; yet from this reedy mould,This swamped, unfructant sedge,Gentility's marsh edge,I, on free wing, shall takeMy swan-course o'er the brake,Leaving the chanson of thy sin to theeWho hast not seen, not touched the unstainable me.
Yet art thou dear, O singer! When we restPast all Life's hostel doors,On her home crest;And 'neath our feet the dark vat nightFrom pain's crushed star-grapes poursThe climbing light;There thou, beside me then,With moteless ken,Remembering these, thy pity and thy song,Dropped at the cross where thou didst nail me long,Shalt sereless 'scape the aimOf hot, lance-darting shame,For over thee shall fallThe dawn-tressed coronalOf Love I then shall be, wrapping thee inThe pity at whose touch dies every sin.