WHAT AM I WITHOUT THEE?

What am I without thee, Beloved?A mere stem, that hath no flower;A sea forever at storm, without its calms;A shrine, with the Virgin stolen out;A cloud void of lightning;A bleak moor where yearnings moan like the winter winds;A rock on sea-sand, whence the sea hath retired, and no longer claspeth and loveth it;A hollow oak with the heart riven thereout, living by the bark alone;A dark star;A bird with both wings broken;A Dryad in a place where no trees are;A brook that never reacheth the sea;A mountain without sunrise thereon and without springs therein;A wave that runneth on forever, to no shore;A raindrop suspended between Heaven and Earth, arrested in his course;A bud, that will never open;A hope that is always dying;An eye with no sparkle in it;A tear wept, dropped in the dust, cold;A bow whereof the string is snapped;An orchestra, wanting the violin;A poor poem;A bent lance;A play without plot ordénouement;An arrow, shot with no aim;Chivalry without his Ladye;A sound unarticulated;A water-lily left in a dry lake-bed;Sleep without a dream and without a waking-time;A pallid lip;A grave whereafter cometh neither Heaven nor hell;A broken javelin fixed in a breastplate;A heart that liveth, but throbbeth not;An Aurora of the North, dying upon the ice, in the night;A blurred picture;A lonesome, lonesome, lonesome yearning lover!

What am I without thee, Beloved?

A mere stem, that hath no flower;

A sea forever at storm, without its calms;

A shrine, with the Virgin stolen out;

A cloud void of lightning;

A bleak moor where yearnings moan like the winter winds;

A rock on sea-sand, whence the sea hath retired, and no longer claspeth and loveth it;

A hollow oak with the heart riven thereout, living by the bark alone;

A dark star;

A bird with both wings broken;

A Dryad in a place where no trees are;

A brook that never reacheth the sea;

A mountain without sunrise thereon and without springs therein;

A wave that runneth on forever, to no shore;

A raindrop suspended between Heaven and Earth, arrested in his course;

A bud, that will never open;

A hope that is always dying;

An eye with no sparkle in it;

A tear wept, dropped in the dust, cold;

A bow whereof the string is snapped;

An orchestra, wanting the violin;

A poor poem;

A bent lance;

A play without plot ordénouement;

An arrow, shot with no aim;

Chivalry without his Ladye;

A sound unarticulated;

A water-lily left in a dry lake-bed;

Sleep without a dream and without a waking-time;

A pallid lip;

A grave whereafter cometh neither Heaven nor hell;

A broken javelin fixed in a breastplate;

A heart that liveth, but throbbeth not;

An Aurora of the North, dying upon the ice, in the night;

A blurred picture;

A lonesome, lonesome, lonesome yearning lover!

My birds, my pretty pious buccaneersThat haunt the shores of daybreak and of dusk,Truly my birds did find to-dayA-strand out yonder on the Balsam hillsA bright bulk, where the night wave left it,High upon the Balsam peaks.Then my birds, my sweet, my heavenly [day prickers],Did open up the dayLike as some castaway bale of flotsam sunlight-stuffAnd jetsam of woven Easternry: one loud exclaimedUpon brocaded silver with more silver voice:And one, when gold embroideries flamed in golden songs of better broidered tones,Translated them. And one from out some rare tone-tissue in his soulShook fringes of sweet indecisive sound,And purfled all that ravishment of light with ravishment of music that not leftHeat, or dry longing, or any indictment of God,Or question.

My birds, my pretty pious buccaneers

That haunt the shores of daybreak and of dusk,

Truly my birds did find to-day

A-strand out yonder on the Balsam hills

A bright bulk, where the night wave left it,

High upon the Balsam peaks.

Then my birds, my sweet, my heavenly [day prickers],

Did open up the day

Like as some castaway bale of flotsam sunlight-stuff

And jetsam of woven Easternry: one loud exclaimed

Upon brocaded silver with more silver voice:

And one, when gold embroideries flamed in golden songs of better broidered tones,

Translated them. And one from out some rare tone-tissue in his soul

Shook fringes of sweet indecisive sound,

And purfled all that ravishment of light with ravishment of music that not left

Heat, or dry longing, or any indictment of God,

Or question.

[Lynn, N. C., August, 1881]

When into reasonable discourse plainOr russet terms of dealing and old useI would recast the joy, the tender painOf the silver birch, the rhododendron, the brook,Or, all blest particulars of beauty sumIn one most continent word that means somethingTo all men, to some men everything,To one all, but one will cover with satisfaction,That is love.Yet I well know this tree is a selfish [saver]-up of drinkMight else have nourished these laurels:Yea, and they did not hand round the cupTo the grass ere they drank,Nor the grass inquire if room is here for her and the phlox.Yet my spirit will have it that Love is the lost meaningof this Hate, and Peace the end of this Battle.Why? This is revelation. Here I find God: whatpower less than His could fancy such wild inconsequenceand unreason as flies out of this anguish, andLove out of this Murder.

When into reasonable discourse plain

Or russet terms of dealing and old use

I would recast the joy, the tender pain

Of the silver birch, the rhododendron, the brook,

Or, all blest particulars of beauty sum

In one most continent word that means something

To all men, to some men everything,

To one all, but one will cover with satisfaction,

That is love.

Yet I well know this tree is a selfish [saver]-up of drink

Might else have nourished these laurels:

Yea, and they did not hand round the cup

To the grass ere they drank,

Nor the grass inquire if room is here for her and the phlox.

Yet my spirit will have it that Love is the lost meaning

of this Hate, and Peace the end of this Battle.

Why? This is revelation. Here I find God: what

power less than His could fancy such wild inconsequence

and unreason as flies out of this anguish, and

Love out of this Murder.

[Lynn, N. C., August, 1881]

I awoke, and there my Gossip, Midnight, stoodFast by my head, and there the Balsams satRound about, and we talked together.

I awoke, and there my Gossip, Midnight, stood

Fast by my head, and there the Balsams sat

Round about, and we talked together.

And "Here is some news," quoth Midnight. "What is this word 'news' whereof we hear?" begged the Balsams: "What mean you by news? what thing is there which is not very old? Two neighbors in a cabin talking yesterday I heard giving and taking news; and one, for news, saith William is dead; and 'tother for news gave that a child is born at Anne's house. But what manner of people be these that call birth and death new? Birth and death were before aught else that we know was."

[Credo; Hymn of the Mountains]

[Lynn, N. C., August, 1881]

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTESilently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors.Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Transcriber's Note:The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

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