Above lone woodland ways that ledTo dells the stealthy twilights treadThe west was hot geranium red;And still, and still,Along old lanes the locusts sowWith clustered pearls the Maytimes know,Deep in the crimson afterglow,We heard the homeward cattle low,And then the far-off, far-off woeOf "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!"
Beneath the idle beechen boughsWe heard the far bells of the cowsCome slowly jangling towards the house;And still, and still,Beyond the light that would not dieOut of the scarlet-haunted sky;Beyond the evening-star's white eyeOf glittering chalcedony,Drained out of dusk the plaintive cryOf "whippoorwill," of "whippoorwill."
And in the city oft, when swimsThe pale moon o'er the smoke that dimsIts disc, I dream of wildwood limbs;And still, and still,I seem to hear, where shadows gropeMid ferns and flowers that dewdrops rope,—Lost in faint deeps of heliotropeAbove the clover-sweetened slope,—Retreat, despairing, past all hope,The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill.
A sense of sadness in the golden air;A pensiveness, that has no part in care,As if the Season, by some woodland pool,Braiding the early blossoms in her hair,Seeing her loveliness reflected there,Had sighed to find herself so beautiful.
A breathlessness; a feeling as of fear;Holy and dim, as of a mystery near,As if the World, about us, whispering wentWith lifted finger and hand-hollowed ear,Hearkening a music, that we cannot hear,Haunting the quickening earth and firmament.
A prescience of the soul that has no name;Expectancy that is both wild and tame,As if the Earth, from out its azure ringOf heavens, looked to see, as white as flame,—As Perseus once to chained Andromeda came,—The swift, divine revealment of the Spring.
In the frail hepaticas,—That the early Springtide tossed,Sapphire-like, along the waysOf the woodlands that she crossed,—I behold, with other eyes,Footprints of a dream that flies.
One who leads me; whom I seek:In whose loveliness there isAll the glamour that the GreekKnew as wind-borne Artemis.—I am mortal. Woe is me!Her sweet immortality!
Spirit, must I always fare,Following thy averted looks?Now thy white arm, now thy hair,Glimpsed among the trees and brooks?Thou who hauntest, whispering,All the slopes and vales of Spring.
Cease to lure! or grant to meAll thy beauty! though it pain,Slay with splendor utterly!Flash revealment on my brain!And one moment let me seeAll thy immortality!
The wind that breathes of columbinesAnd celandines that crowd the rocks;That shakes the balsam of the pinesWith laughter from his airy locks,Stops at my city door and knocks.
He calls me far a-forest, whereThe twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom;And, circled by the amber air,Life sits with beauty and perfumeWeaving the new web of her loom.
He calls me where the waters runThrough fronding ferns where wades the hern;And, sparkling in the equal sun,Song leans above her brimming urn,And dreams the dreams that love shall learn.
The wind has summoned, and I go:To read God's meaning in each lineThe wildflowers write; and, walking slow,God's purpose, of which song is sign,—The wind's great, gusty hand in mine.
The tufted gold of the sassafras,And the gold of the spicewood-bush,Bewilder the ways of the forest pass,And brighten the underbrush:The white-starred drifts of the wild-plum tree,And the haw with its pearly plumes,And the redbud, misted rosily,Dazzle the woodland glooms.
And I hear the song of the catbird wakeI' the boughs o' the gnarled wild-crab,Or there where the snows of the dogwood shake,That the silvery sunbeams stab:And it seems to me that a magic liesIn the crystal sweet of its notes,That a myriad blossoms open their eyesAs its strain above them floats.
I see the bluebell's blue unclose,And the trillium's stainless white;The birdfoot-violet's purple and rose,And the poppy, golden-bright!And I see the eyes of the bluet wink,And the heads of the white-hearts nod;And the baby mouths of the woodland-pinkAnd sorrel salute the sod.
And this, meseems, does the catbird say,As the blossoms crowd i' the sun:—"Up, up! and out! oh, out and away!Up, up! and out, each one!Sweethearts! sweethearts! oh, sweet, sweet, sweet!Come listen and hark to me!The Spring, the Spring, with her fragrant feet,Is passing this way!—Oh, hark to the beatOf her beelike heart!—Oh, sweet, sweet, sweet!Come! open your eyes and see!See, see, see!"
White moons may come, white moons may go—She sleeps where early blossoms blow;Knows nothing of the leafy June,That leans above her night and noon,Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon,Watching her roses grow.
The downy moth at twilight comesAnd flutters round their honeyed blooms:Long, lazy clouds, like ivory,That isle the blue lagoons of sky,Redden to molten gold and dyeWith flame the pine-deep glooms.
Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf;The wind, that shakes the violet's sheaf;The slender sound of water lone,That makes a harp-string of some stone,And now a wood bird's glimmering moan,Seem whisperings there of grief.
Her garden, where the lilacs grew,Where, on old walls, old roses blew,Head-heavy with their mellow musk,Where, when the beetle's drone was husk,She lingered in the dying dusk,No more shall know that knew.
Her orchard,—where the Spring and sheStood listening to each bird and bee,—That, from its fragrant firmament,Snowed blossoms on her as she went,(A blossom with their blossoms blent)No more her face shall see.
White moons may come, white moons may go—She sleeps where early blossoms blow:Around her headstone many a seedShall sow itself; and brier and weedShall grow to hide it from men's heed,And none will care or know.
The moth and beetle wing aboutThe garden ways of other days;Above the hills, a fiery shoutOf gold, the day dies slowly out,Like some wild blast a huntsman blows:And o'er the hills my Fancy goes,Following the sunset's golden callUnto a vine-hung garden wall,Where she awaits me in the gloom,Between the lily and the rose,With arms and lips of warm perfume,The dream of Love my Fancy knows.
The glowworm and the firefly glowAmong the ways of bygone days;A golden shaft shot from a bowOf silver, star and moon swing lowAbove the hills where twilight lies:And o'er the hills my Longing flies,Following the star's far-arrowed gold,Unto a gate where, as of old,She waits amid the rose and rue,With star-bright hair and night-dark eyes,The dream, to whom my heart is true,My dream of Love that never dies.
Its rotting fence one scarcely seesThrough sumac and wild blackberries,Thick elder and the bramble-rose,Big ox-eyed daisies where the beesHang droning in repose.
The little lizards lie all dayGray on its rocks of lichen-gray;And, insect-Ariels of the sun,The butterflies make bright its way,Its path where chipmunks run.
A lyric there the redbird lifts,While, twittering, the swallow drifts'Neath wandering clouds of sleepy cream,—In which the wind makes azure rifts,—O'er dells where wood-doves dream.
The brown grasshoppers rasp and boundMid weeds and briers that hedge it round;And in its grass-grown ruts,—where stirsThe harmless snake,—mole-crickets soundTheir faery dulcimers.
At evening, when the sad west turnsTo lonely night a cheek that burns,The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing;And ghosts of long-dead flowers and fernsThe winds wake, whispering.
Below the sunset's range of rose,Below the heaven's deepening blue,Down woodways where the balsam blows,And milkweed tufts hang, gray with dew,A Jersey heifer stops and lows—The cows come home by one, by two.
There is no star yet: but the smellOf hay and pennyroyal mixWith herb aromas of the dell,Where the root-hidden cricket clicks:Among the ironweeds a bellClangs near the rail-fenced clover-ricks.
She waits upon the slope besideThe windlassed well the plum trees shade,The well curb that the goose-plums hide;Her light hand on the bucket laid,Unbonneted she waits, glad-eyed,Her gown as simple as her braid.
She sees fawn-colored backs amongThe sumacs now; a tossing hornIts clashing bell of copper rung:Long shadows lean upon the corn,And slow the day dies, scarlet stung,The cloud in it a rosy thorn.
Below the pleasant moon, that tipsThe tree tops of the hillside, flyThe flitting bats; the twilight slips,In firefly spangles, twinkling by,Through whichhecomes: Their happy lipsMeet—and one star leaps in the sky.
He takes her bucket, and they speakOf married hopes while in the grassThe plum drops glowing as her cheek;The patient cows look back or pass:And in the west one golden streakBurns as if God gazed through a glass.
Thou sit'st among the sunny silencesOf terraced hills and woodland galleries,Thou utterance of all calm melodies,Thou lutanist of Earth's most affluent lute,—Where no false note intrudesTo mar the silent music,—branch and root,—Charming the fields ripe, orchards and deep woods,To song similitudesOf flower and seed and fruit.
Oft have I seen thee, in some sensuous air,Bewitch the broad wheat-acres everywhereTo imitated gold of thy deep hair:The peach, by thy red lips' delicious trouble,Blown into gradual dyesOf crimson; and beheld thy magic double—Dark-blue with fervid influence of thine eyes—The grapes' rotundities,Bubble by purple bubble.
Deliberate uttered into life intense,Out of thy soul's melodious eloquenceBeauty evolves its just preëminence:The lily, from some pensive-smitten chordDrawing significanceOf purity, a visible hush stands: starredWith splendor, from thy passionate utterance,The rose writes its romanceIn blushing word on word.
As star by star Day harps in Evening,The inspiration of all things that singIs in thy hands and from their touch takes wing:All brooks, all birds,—whom song can never sate,—The leaves, the wind and rain,Green frogs and insects, singing soon and late,Thy sympathies inspire, thy heart's refrain,Whose sounds invigorateWith rest life's weary brain.
And as the Night, like some mysterious rune,Its beauty makes emphatic with the moon,Thou lutest us no immaterial tune:But where dim whispers haunt the cane and corn,By thy still strain made strong,Earth's awful avatar,—in whom is bornThy own deep music,—labors all night longWith growth, assuring MornAssumes with onward song.
The mellow smell of hollyhocksAnd marigolds and pinks and phloxBlends with the homely garden scentsOf onions, silvering into rods;Of peppers, scarlet with their pods;And (rose of all the esculents)Of broad plebeian cabbages,Breathing content and corpulent ease.
The buzz of wasp and fly makes hotThe spaces of the garden-plot;And from the orchard,—where the fruitRipens and rounds, or, loosed with heat,Rolls, hornet-clung, before the feet,—One hears the veery's golden flute,That mixes with the sleepy humOf bees that drowsily go and come.
The podded musk of gourd and vineEmbower a gate of roughest pine,That leads into a wood where daySits, leaning o'er a forest pool,Watching the lilies opening cool,And dragonflies at airy play,While, dim and near, the quietnessRustles and stirs her leafy dress.
Far-off a cowbell clangs awakeThe noon who slumbers in the brake:And now a pewee, plaintively,Whistles the day to sleep again:A rain-crow croaks a rune for rain,And from the ripest apple treeA great gold apple thuds, where, slow,The red cock curves his neck to crow.
Hens cluck their broods from place to place,While clinking home, with chain and trace,The cart-horse plods along the roadWhere afternoon sits with his dreams:Hot fragrance of hay-making streamsAbove him, and a high-heaped loadGoes creaking by and with it, sweet,The aromatic soul of heat.
"Coo-ee! coo-ee!" the evenfallCries, and the hills repeat the call:"Coo-ee! coo-ee!" and by the logLabor unharnesses his plow,While to the barn comes cow on cow:"Coo-ee! coo-ee!"—and, with his dog,Barefooted boyhood down the lane"Coo-ees" the cattle home again.
Can freckled August,—drowsing warm and blondBeside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead,In her hot hair the yellow daisies wound,—O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heedTo thee? when no plumed weed, no feathered seedBlows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond,That gleams like flint within its rim of grasses,Through which the dragonfly forever passesLike splintered diamond.
Drouth weights the trees; and from the farmhouse eavesThe locust, pulse-beat of the summer day,Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leavesLimp with the heat—a league of rutty way—Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hayBreathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves—Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain,In thirsty meadow or on burning plain,That thy keen eye perceives?
But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true.For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting,When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue,Great water-carrier winds their buckets bringBrimming with freshness. How their dippers ringAnd flash and rumble! lavishing large dewOn corn and forest land, that, streaming wet,Their hilly backs against the downpour set,Like giants, loom in view.
The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower,Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art;The bumblebee, within the last half-hour,Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart;While in the barnyard, under shed and cart,Brood-hens have housed.—But I, who scorned thy power,Barometer of birds,—like August there,—Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair,Like some drenched truant, cower.
There is a field, that leans upon two hills,Foamed o'er of flowers and twinkling with clear rills;That in its girdle of wild acres bearsThe anodyne of rest that cures all cares;Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blentWith fragrance—as in some old instrumentSweet chords;—calm things, that Nature's magic spellDistills from Heaven's azure crucible,And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.There lies the path, they say—Come away! come away!
There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;That in its league-long hand of trunk and leafLifts a green wand that charms away all grief;Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,Vague, whispering' touches, gleams and twitterings,Dews and cool shadows—that the mystic soulOf Nature permeates with suave control,And waves o'er Earth to make the sad heart whole.There lies the road, they say—Come away! come away!
Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens;Their old rock fences, that our day inherits;Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.
I see them gray among their ancient acres,Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.
Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.
I love their orchards where the gay woodpeckerFlits, flashing o'er you, like a wingéd jewel;Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checkerWith half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.
Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul foreverTheir peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,With simple faith; like friendship, draw me afterThe dreamy patience that is theirs forever.
I climbed a forest path and foundA dim cave in the dripping ground,Where dwelt the spirit of cool sound,Who wrought with crystal triangles,And hollowed foam of rippled bells,A music of mysterious spells.
Where Sleep her bubble-jewels spilledOf dreams; and Silence twilight-filledHer emerald buckets, star-instilled,With liquid whispers of lost springs,And mossy tread of woodland things,And drip of dew that greenly clings.
Here by those servitors of Sound,Warders of that enchanted ground,My soul and sense were seized and bound,And, in a dungeon deep of treesEntranced, were laid at lazy ease,The charge of woodland mysteries.
The minions of Prince Drowsihead,The wood-perfumes, with sleepy tread,Tiptoed around my ferny bed:And far away I heard reportOf one who dimly rode to Court,The Faery Princess, Eve-Amort.
Her herald winds sang as they passed;And there her beauty stood at last,With wild gold locks, a band held fast,Above blue eyes, as clear as spar;While from a curved and azure jarShe poured the white moon and a star.
Deep with divine tautology,The sunset's mighty mysteryAgain has traced the scroll-like westWith hieroglyphs of burning gold:Forever new, forever old,Its miracle is manifest.
Time lays the scroll away. And nowAbove the hills a giant browOf cloud Night lifts; and from his arm,Barbaric black, upon the world,With thunder, wind and fire, is hurledHis awful argument of storm.
What part, O man, is yours in such?Whose awe and wonder are in touchWith Nature,—speaking rapture toYour soul,—yet leaving in your reachNo human word of thought or speechCommensurate with the thing you view.
From the lyrical eclogue "One Day and Another"
Now rests the season in forgetfulness,Careless in beauty of maturity;The ripened roses round brown temples, sheFulfills 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.—Deepening with tenderness,Sadder the blue of hills that lounge alongThe lonesome west; sadder the songOf the wild redbird in the leafage yellow.—Deeper and dreamier, aye!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' burrs their little purses thrust,Plump 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 oval 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 in its clamor. Earth and skyResound with glory of its majesty,Impetuous splendor of its rushing by.—But on those heights the woodland dark 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 laughter low, 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 cardinal colors leapGay in the crescent of the blade of death,—Spaced innocents whom he prepares to reap,—Staying his scythe a breathTo mark their beauty ere, with one last sweep,He lays them dead and turns away to weep.—Let me admire,—Before the sickle of the coming coldShall mow them down,—their beauties manifold:How like to spurts of fireThat scarlet salvia lifts its blooms, which heapWith flame the sunlight. And, as sparkles creepThrough charring vellum, up that window's screenThe cypress dots with crimson all its green,The haunt of many bees.Cascading dark old porch-built lattices,The nightshade bleeds with berries; drops of bloodHanging in clusters 'mid the blue monk's-hood.
There is a garden old,Where bright-hued clumps of zinnias unfoldTheir formal flowers; where the marigoldLifts a pinched shred of orange sunset caughtAnd elfed in petals; the nasturtium,Deep, pungent-leaved and acrid of perfume,Hangs up a goblin bonnet, pixy-broughtFrom Gnomeland. There, predominant red,And arrogant, the dahlia lifts its head,Beside the balsam's rose-stained horns of honey,Lost in the murmuring, sunnyDry wildness of the weedy flower bed;Where crickets and the weed-bugs, noon and night,Shrill dirges for the flowers that soon shall die,And 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!And soon, among these bowersWill dripping Autumn mourn with all her flowers"—
If I, perchance, might peepBeneath those leaves of podded hollyhocks,That the bland wind with odorous murmurs rocks,I might behold her,—whiteAnd weary,—Summer, 'mid her flowers asleep,Her drowsy flowers asleep,The withered poppies knotted in her locks.
He was not learned in any art;But Nature led him by the hand;And spoke her language to his heartSo he could hear and understand:He loved her simply as a child;And in his love forgot the heatOf conflict, and sat reconciledIn patience of defeat.
Before me now I see him rise—A face, that seventy years had snowedWith winter, where the kind blue eyesLike hospitable fires glowed:A small gray man whose heart was large,And big with knowledge learned of need;A heart, the hard world made its targe,That never ceased to bleed.
He knew all Nature. Yea, he knewWhat virtue lay within each flower,What tonic in the dawn and dew,And in each root what magic power:What in the wild witch-hazel treeReversed its time of blossoming,And clothed its branches goldenlyIn fall instead of spring.
He knew what made the firefly glowAnd pulse with crystal gold and flame;And whence the bloodroot got its snow,And how the bramble's perfume came:He understood the water's wordAnd grasshopper's and cricket's chirr;And of the music of each birdHe was interpreter.
He kept no calendar of days,But knew the seasons by the flowers;And he could tell you by the raysOf sun or stars the very hours.He probed the inner mysteriesOf light, and knew the chemic changeThat colors flowers, and what isTheir fragrance wild and strange.
If some old oak had power of speech,It could not speak more wildwood lore,Nor in experience further reach,Than he who was a tree at core.Nature was all his heritage,And seemed to fill his every need;Her features were his book, whose pageHe never tired to read.
He read her secrets that no manHas ever read and never will,And put to scorn the charlatanWho botanizes of her still.He kept his knowledge sweet and clean,And questioned not of why and what;And never drew a line betweenWhat's known and what is not.
He was most gentle, good, and wise;A simpler heart earth never saw:His soul looked softly from his eyes,And in his speech were love and awe.
Yet Nature in the end deniedThe thing he had not asked for—fame!Unknown, in poverty he died,And men forget his name.
Thin, chisel-fine a cricket chippedThe crystal silence into sound;And where the branches dreamed and drippedA grasshopper its dagger strippedAnd on the humming darkness ground.
A bat, against the gibbous moon,Danced, implike, with its lone delight;The glowworm scrawled a golden runeUpon the dark; and, emerald-strewn,The firefly hung with lamps the night.
The flowers said their beads in prayer,Dew-syllables of sighed perfume;Or talked of two, soft-standing there,One like a gladiole, straight and fair,And one like some rich poppy-bloom.
The mignonette and feverfewLaid their pale brows together:—"See!"One whispered: "Did their step thrill throughYour roots?"—"Like rain."—"I touched the twoAnd a new bud was born in me."
One rose said to another:—"WhoseIs this dim music? song, that partsMy crimson petals like the dews?""My blossom trembles with sweet news—It is the love of two young hearts."
A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood:A mile of shadow and the odorous lane:One large, white star above the solitude,Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain,Wild-roses wistful in a web of rain.
No star, no rose, to lesson him and lead;No woodsman compass of the skies and rocks,—Tattooed of stars and lichens,—doth love needTo guide him where, among the hollyhocks,A blur of moonlight, gleam his sweetheart's locks.
We name it beauty—that permitted part,The love-elected apotheosisOf Nature, which the god within the heart,Just touching, makes immortal, but by this—A star, a rose, the memory of a kiss.
An agate-black, your roguish eyesClaim no proud lineage of the skies,No starry blue; but of good earthThe reckless witchery and mirth.
Looped in your raven hair's repose,A hot aroma, one red roseDies; envious of that loveliness,By being near which its is less.
Twin sea shells, hung with pearls, your ears,Whose slender rosiness appearsPart of the pearls; whose pallid fireBinds the attention these inspire.
One slim hand crumples up the laceAbout your bosom's swelling grace;A ruby at your samite throatLends the required color note.
The moon bears through the violet nightA pearly urn of chaliced light;And from your dark-railed balconyYou stoop and wave your fan at me.
O'er orange orchards and the roseVague, odorous lips the south wind blows,Peopling the night with whispers ofRomance and palely passionate love.
The heaven of your balconySmiles down two stars, that say to meMore peril than AngelicaWrought with her beauty in Cathay.
Oh, stoop to me! and, speaking, reachMy soul like song that learned sweet speechFrom some dim instrument—who knows?—Or flower, a dulcimer or rose.
Non numero horas nisi serenas
When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seemsIn soul I am a part of it;A portion of its humid beams,A form of fog, I seem to flitFrom dreams to dreams….
An old château sleeps 'mid the hillsOf France: an avenue of sorbsConceals it: drifts of daffodilsBloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbsLike iron bills.
I pass the gate unquestioned; yet,I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks makeDark pools of restless violet.Between high bramble banks a lake,—As in a net
The tangled scales twist silver,—shines….Gray, mossy turrets swell aboveA sea of leaves. And where the pinesShade ivied walls, there lies my love,My heart divines.
I know her window, slimly seenFrom distant lanes with hawthorn hedged:Her garden, with the nectarineEspaliered, and the peach tree, wedged'Twixt walls of green.
Cool-babbling a fountain fallsFrom gryphons' mouths in porphyry;Carp haunt its waters; and white ballsOf lilies dip it when the beeCreeps in and drawls.
And butterflies—each with a faceOf faery on its wings—that seemBeheaded pansies, softly chaseEach other down the gloom and gleamTrees interspace.
And roses! roses, soft as vair,Round sylvan statues and the oldStone dial—Pompadours, that wearTheir royalty of purple and goldWith wanton air….
Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breatheThe perfume of her touch; her gloves,Modeling the daintiness they sheathe;Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves,Lie there beneath
A bank of eglantine, that heapsA rose-strewn shadow.—Naïve-eyed,With lips as suave as they, she sleeps;The romance by her, open wide,O'er which she weeps.
Man's are the learnings of his books—What is all knowledge that he knowsBeside the wit of winding brooks,The wisdom of the summer rose!
How soil distills the scent in flowersBaffles his science: heaven-dyed,How, from the palette of His hours,God gives them colors, hath defied.
What dream of heaven begets the light?Or, ere the stars beat burning tunes,Stains all the hollow edge of nightWith glory as of molten moons?
Who is it answers what is birthOr death, that nothing may retard?Or what is love, that seems of Earth,Yet wears God's own divine regard?
Teach me the secret of thy loveliness,That, being made wise, I may aspire to beAs beautiful in thought, and so expressImmortal truths to Earth's mortality;Though to my soul ability be lessThan 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone.
Teach me the secret of thy innocence,That in simplicity I may grow wise;Asking of Art no other recompenseThan the approval of her own just eyes;So may I rise to some fair eminence,Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.
Teach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I,—When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins,And brought me home, as all are brought, to lieIn that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,—I shall not die, I shall not utterly die,For beauty born of beauty—thatremains.
Where are they, that song and taleTell of? lands our childhood knew?Sea-locked Faerylands that trailMorning summits, dim with dew,Crimson o'er a crimson sail.
Where in dreams we entered onWonders eyes have never seen:Whither often we have gone,Sailing a dream-brigantineOn from voyaging dawn to dawn.
Leons seeking lands of song;Fabled fountains pouring spray;Where our anchors dropped amongCorals of some tropic bay,With its swarthy native throng.
Shoulder ax and arquebus!—We may find it!—past yon rangeOf sierras, vaporous,Rich with gold and wild and strangeThat lost region dear to us.
Yet, behold, although our zealDarien summits may subdue,Our Balboa eyes revealBut a vaster sea come to—New endeavor for our keel.
Yet! who sails with face set hardWestward,—while behind him liesUnfaith,—where his dreams keep guardRound it, in the sunset skies,He may reach it—afterward.
"We have the receipt of fern seed: we walk invisible."—HENRY IV
And we have met but twice or thrice!—Three times enough to make me love!—I praised your hair once; then your glove;Your eyes; your gown;—you were like ice;And yet this might suffice, my love,And yet this might suffice.
St. John hath told me what to do:To search and find the ferns that growThe fern seed that the faeries know;Then sprinkle fern seed in my shoe,And haunt the steps of you, my dear,And haunt the steps of you.
You'll see the poppy pods dip here;The blow-ball of the thistle slip,And no wind breathing—but my lipNext to your anxious cheek and ear,To tell you I am near, my love,To tell you I am near.
On wood-ways I shall tread your gown—You'll know it is no brier!—thenI'll whisper words of love again,And smile to see your quick face frown:And then I'll kiss it down, my dear,And then I'll kiss it down.
And when at home you read or knit,—Who'll know it was my hands that blottedThe page?—or all your needles knotted?When in your rage you cry a bit:And loud I laugh at it, my love,And loud I laugh at it.
The secrets that you say in prayerRight so I'll hear: and, when you sing,The name you speak; and whisperingI'll bend and kiss your mouth and hair,And tell you I am there, my dear,And tell you I am there.
Would it were true what people say!—Would Icouldfind that elfin seed!Then should I win your love, indeed,By being near you night and day—There is no other way, my love,There is no other way.
Meantime the truth in this is said:It is my soul that follows you;It needs no fern seed in the shoe,—While in the heart love pulses red,To win you and to wed, my dear,To win you and to wed.
"'He cometh not,' she said."—MARIANA
It will not be to-day and yetI think and dream it will; and letThe slow uncertainty deviseSo many sweet excuses, metWith the old doubt in hope's disguise.
The panes were sweated with the dawn;Yet through their dimness, shriveled drawn,The aigret of one princess-feather,One monk's-hood tuft with oilets wan,I glimpsed, dead in the slaying weather.
This morning, when my window's chintzI drew, how gray the day was!—SinceI saw him, yea, all days are gray!—I gazed out on my dripping quince,Defruited, gnarled; then turned away
To weep, but did not weep: but feltA colder anguish than did meltAbout the tearful-visaged year!—Then flung the lattice wide, and smeltThe autumn sorrow: Rotting near
The rain-drenched sunflowers bent and bleached,Up which the frost-nipped gourd-vines reachedAnd morning-glories, seeded o'erWith ashen aiglets; whence beseechedOne last bloom, frozen to the core.
The podded hollyhocks,—that FallHad stripped of finery,—by the wallRustled their tatters; dripped and dripped,The fog thick on them: near them, allThe tarnished, haglike zinnias tipped.
I felt the death and loved it: yea,To have it nearer, sought the gray,Chill, fading garth. Yet could not weep,But wandered in an aimless way,And sighed with weariness for sleep.
Mine were the fog, the frosty stalks;The weak lights on the leafy walks;The shadows shivering with the cold;The breaking heart; the lonely talks;The last, dim, ruined marigold.
But when to-night the moon swings low—A great marsh-marigold of glow—And all my garden with the seaMoans, then, through moon and mist, I knowMy love will come to comfort me.
The waterfall, deep in the wood,Talked drowsily with solitude,A soft, insistent sound of foam,That filled with sleep the forest's dome,Where, like some dream of dusk, she stoodAccentuating solitude.
The crickets' tinkling chips of soundStrewed dim the twilight-twinkling ground;A whippoorwill began to cry,And glimmering through the sober skyA bat went on its drunken round,Its shadow following on the ground.
Then from a bush, an elder-copse,That spiced the dark with musky tops,What seemed, at first, a shadow cameAnd took her hand and spoke her name,And kissed her where, in starry drops,The dew orbed on the elder-tops.
The glaucous glow of firefliesFlickered the dusk; and foxlike eyesPeered from the shadows; and the hushMurmured a word of wind and rushOf fluttering waters, fragrant sighs,And dreams unseen of mortal eyes.
The beetle flung its burr of soundAgainst the hush and clung there, woundIn night's deep mane: then, in a tree,A grig began deliberatelyTo file the stillness: all aroundA wire of shrillness seemed unwound.
I looked for those two lovers there;His ardent eyes, her passionate hair.The moon looked down, slow-climbing wanHeaven's slope of azure: they were gone:But where they'd passed I heard the airSigh, faint with sweetness of her hair.
I found myself among the treesWhat time the reapers ceased to reap;And in the sunflower-blooms the beesHuddled brown heads and went to sleep,Rocked by the balsam-breathing breeze.
I saw the red fox leave his lair,A shaggy shadow, on the knoll;And tunneling his thoroughfareBeneath the soil, I watched the mole—Stealth's own self could not take more care.
I heard the death-moth tick and stir,Slow-honeycombing through the bark;I heard the cricket's drowsy chirr,And one lone beetle burr the dark—The sleeping woodland seemed to purr.
And then the moon rose: and one whiteLow bough of blossoms—grown almostWhere, ere you died, 'twas our delightTo meet,—dear heart!—I thought your ghost….The wood is haunted since that night.
Three miles of trees it is: and ICame through the woods that waited, dumb,For the cool summer dusk to come;And lingered there to watch the skyUp which the gradual splendor clomb.
A tree-toad quavered in a tree;And then a sudden whippoorwillCalled overhead, so wildly shrillThe sleeping wood, it seemed to me,Cried out and then again was still.
Then through dark boughs its stealthy flightAn owl took; and, at drowsy strife,The cricket tuned its faery fife;And like a ghost-flower, silent white,The wood-moth glimmered into life.
And in the dead wood everywhereThe insects ticked, or bored belowThe rotted bark; and, glow on glow,The lambent fireflies here and thereLit up their jack-o'-lantern show.
I heard a vesper-sparrow sing,Withdrawn, it seemed, into the farSlow sunset's tranquil cinnabar;The crimson, softly smolderingBehind the trees, with its one star.
A dog barked: and down ways that gleamed,Through dew and clover, faint the noiseOf cowbells moved. And then a voice,That sang a-milking, so it seemed,Made glad my heart as some glad boy's.
And then the lane: and, full in view,A farmhouse with its rose-grown gate,And honeysuckle paths, awaitFor night, the moon, and love and you—These are the things that made me late.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—The path that takes me in the springPast quince-trees where the bluebirds sing,And peonies are blossoming,Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,Around whose steps May-lilies blow,A fair girl reaches down among,Her arm more white than their sweet snow.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—Another path that leads me, whenThe summer time is here again,Past hollyhocks that shame the westWhen the red sun has sunk to rest;To roses bowering a nest,A lattice, 'neath which mignonetteAnd deep geraniums surge and sough,Where, in the twilight, starless yet,A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that takes me, when the daysOf autumn wrap the hills in haze,Beneath the pippin-pelting tree,'Mid flitting butterfly and bee;Unto a door where, fiery,The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued,The cock's-comb and the dahlia flare,And in the door, where shades intrude,Gleams bright a fair girl's sunbeam hair.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that brings me through the frostOf winter, when the moon is tossedIn clouds; beneath great cedars, weakWith shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleakWith shivering leaves; to eaves that leakThe tattered ice, whereunder isA fire-flickering window-space;And in the light, with lips to kiss,A fair girl's welcome-smiling face.
First I asked the honeybee,Busy in the balmy bowers;Saying, "Sweetheart, tell it me:Have you seen her, honeybee?She is cousin to the flowers—All the sweetness of the southIn her wild-rose face and mouth."But the bee passed silently.
Then I asked the forest bird,Warbling by the woodland waters;Saying, "Dearest, have you heard?Have you heard her, forest bird?She is one of music's daughters—Never song so sweet by halfAs the music of her laugh."But the bird said not a word.
Next I asked the evening sky,Hanging out its lamps of fire;Saying, "Loved one, passed she by?Tell me, tell me, evening sky!She, the star of my desire—Sister whom the Pleiads lost,And my soul's high pentecost."But the sky made no reply.
Where is she? ah, where is she?She to whom both love and dutyBind me, yea, immortally.—Where is she? ah, where is she?Symbol of the Earth-Soul's beauty.I have lost her. Help my heartFind her! her, who is a partOf the pagan soul of me.
Not while I live may I forgetThat garden which my spirit trod!Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet,And beautiful as God.
Not while I breathe, awake, adream,Shall live again for me those hours,When, in its mystery and gleam,I met her 'mid the flowers.
Eyes, talismanic heliotrope,Beneath mesmeric lashes, whereThe sorceries of love and hopeHad made a shining lair.
And daydawn brows, whereover hungThe twilight of dark locks: wild birds,Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongueOf fragrance-voweled words.
I will not tell of cheeks and chin,That held me as sweet language holds;Nor of the eloquence withinHer breasts' twin-moonéd molds.
Nor of her body's languorousWind-grace, that glanced like starlight throughHer clinging robe's diaphanousWeb of the mist and dew.
There is no star so pure and highAs was her look; no fragrance suchAs her soft presence; and no sighOf music like her touch.
Not while I live may I forgetThat garden of dim dreams, where IAnd Beauty born of Music met,Whose spirit passed me by.
When dusk falls cool as a rained-on rose,And a tawny tower the twilight shows,With the crescent moon, the silver moon, the curvednew moon in a space that glows,A turret window that grows alight;There is a path that my Fancy knows,A glimmering, shimmering path of night,That far as the Land of Faery goes.
And I follow the path, as Fancy leads,Over the mountains, into the meads,Where the firefly cities, the glowworm cities, the faerycities are strung like beads,Each city a twinkling star:And I live a life of valorous deeds,And march with the Faery King to war,And ride with his knights on milk-white steeds.
Or it's there in the whirl of their life I sit,Or dance in their houses with starlight lit,Their blossom houses, their flower houses, their elfinhouses, of fern leaves knit,With fronded spires and domes:And there it is that my lost dreams flit,And the ghost of my childhood, smiling, roamsWith the faery children so dear to it.
And it's there I hear that they all come true,The faery stories, whatever they do—Elf and goblin, dear elf and goblin, loved elf and goblin,and all the crewOf witch and wizard and gnome and fay,And prince and princess, that wander throughThe storybooks we have put away,The faerytales that we loved and knew.
The face of Adventure lures you there,And the eyes of Danger bid you dare,While ever the bugles, the silver bugles, the far-offbugles of Elfland blare,The faery trumpets to battle blow;And you feel their thrill in your heart and hair,And you fain would follow and mount and goAnd march with the Faeries anywhere.
And she—she rides at your side again,Your little sweetheart whose age is ten:She is the princess, the faery princess, the princess fairthat you worshiped whenYou were a prince in a faerytale;And you do great deeds as you did them then,With your magic spear, and enchanted mail,Braving the dragon in his den.
And you ask again,—"Oh, where shall we ride,Now that the monster is slain, my bride?"—"Back to the cities, the firefly cities, the glowwormcities where we can hide,The beautiful cities of Faeryland.And the light of my eyes shall be your guide,The light of my eyes and my snow-white hand—And there forever we two will abide."
There are faeries, bright of eye,Who the wildflowers' warders are:Ouphes, that chase the firefly;Elves, that ride the shooting-star:Fays, who in a cobweb lie,Swinging on a moonbeam bar;Or who harness bumblebees,Grumbling on the clover leas,To a blossom or a breeze—That's their faery car.If you care, you too may seeThere are faeries.—Verily,There are faeries.
There are faeries. I could swearI have seen them busy, whereRoses loose their scented hair,In the moonlight weaving, weaving,
Out of starlight and the dew,Glinting gown and shimmering shoe;Or, within a glowworm lair,From the dark earth slowly heavingMushrooms whiter than the moon,On whose tops they sit and croon,With their grig-like mandolins,To fair faery ladykins,Leaning from the windowsillOf a rose or daffodil,Listening to their serenadeAll of cricket-music made.Follow me, oh, follow me!Ho! away to Faërie!Where your eyes like mine may seeThere are faeries.—Verily,There are faeries.
There are faeries. Elves that swingIn a wild and rainbow ringThrough the air; or mount the wingOf a bat to courier newsTo the faery King and Queen:Fays, who stretch the gossamersOn which twilight hangs the dews;
Who, within the moonlight sheen,Whisper dimly in the earsOf the flowers words so sweetThat their hearts are turned to muskAnd to honey; things that beatIn their veins of gold and blue:Ouphes, that shepherd moths of dusk—Soft of wing and gray of hue—Forth to pasture on the dew.
There are faeries; verily;Verily:For the old owl in the tree,Hollow tree,He who maketh melodyFor them tripping merrily,Told it me.There are faeries.—Verily,There are faeries.
Over the rocks she trails her locks,Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip:Her sparkling eyes smile at the skiesIn friendship-wise and fellowship:While the gleam and glance of her countenanceLull into trance the woodland places,As over the rocks she trails her locks,Her dripping locks that the long fern graces.
She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse,Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips:And all the day its limpid sprayIs heard to play from her finger tips:And the slight, soft sound makes haunted groundOf the woods around that the sunlight laces,As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse,Its dripping cruse that no man traces.
She swims and swims with glimmering limbs,With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip:Where beechen boughs build a leafy house,Where her eyes may drowse or her beauty trip:And the liquid beat of her rippling feetMakes three times sweet the forest mazes,As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs,With dripping limbs through the twilight hazes.
Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps,She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips:Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist,And, starry-whist, through the dark she slips:While the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleamThe falls that stream and the foam that races,As wrapped in the deeps of the wild she sleeps,She dripping sleeps or starward gazes.