AN OUT-WORN SAPPHOHow tired I am! I sink down all aloneHere by the wayside of the Present. Lo,Even as a child I hide my face and moan—A little girl that may no farther go;The path above me only seems to growMore rugged, climbing still, and ever brieredWith keener thorns of pain than these below;And O the bleeding feet that falter soAnd are so very tired!Why, I have journeyed from the far-off LandsOf Babyhood—where baby-lilies blewTheir trumpets in mine ears, and filled my handsWith treasures of perfume and honey-dew,And where the orchard shadows ever drewTheir cool arms round me when my cheeks were firedWith too much joy, and lulled mine eyelids to,And only let the starshine trickle throughIn sprays, when I was tired!Yet I remember, when the butterflyWent flickering about me like a flameThat quenched itself in roses suddenly,How oft I wished thatImight blaze the same,And in some rose-wreath nestle with my name,While all the world looked on it and admired.—Poor moth!—Along my wavering flight toward fameThe winds drive backward, and my wings are lameAnd broken, bruised and tired!I hardly know the path from those old times;I know at first it was a smoother oneThan this that hurries past me now, and climbsSo high, its far cliffs even hide the sunAnd shroud in gloom my journey scarce begun.I could not do quite all the world required—I could not do quite all I should have done,And in my eagerness I have outrunMy strength—and I am tired....Just tired! But when of old I had the stayOf mother-hands, O very sweet indeedIt was to dream that all the weary wayI should but follow where I now must lead—For long ago they left me in my need,And, groping on alone, I tripped and miredAmong rank grasses where the serpents breedIn knotted coils about the feet of speed.—There first it was I tired.And yet I staggered on, and bore my loadRight gallantly: The sun, in summer-time,In lazy belts came slipping down the roadTo woo me on, with many a glimmering rhymeRained from the golden rim of some fair clime,That, hovering beyond the clouds, inspiredMy failing heart with fancies so sublimeI half forgot my path of dust and grime,Though I was growing tired.And there were many voices cheering me:I listened to sweet praises where the windWent laughing o'er my shoulders gleefullyAnd scattering my love-songs far behind;—Until, at last, I thought the world so kind—So rich in all my yearning soul desired—So generous—so loyally inclined,I grew to love and trust it.... I was blind—Yea, blind as I was tired!And yet one hand held me in creature-touch:And O, how fair it was, how true and strong,How it did hold my heart up like a crutch,Till, in my dreams, I joyed to walk alongThe toilsome way, contented with a song—'Twas all of earthly things I had acquired,And 'twas enough, I feigned, or right or wrong,Since, binding me to man—a mortal thong—It stayed me, growing tired....Yea, I had e'en resigned me to the straitOf earthly rulership—had bowed my headAcceptant of the master-mind—the greatOne lover—lord of all,—the perfectedKiss-comrade of my soul;—had stammering saidMy prayers to him;—all—all that he desiredI rendered sacredly as we were wed.—Nay—nay!—'twas but a myth I worshippéd.—And—God of love!—how tired!For, O my friends, to lose the latest grasp—To feel the last hope slipping from its hold—To feel the one fond hand within your claspFall slack, and loosen with a touch so coldIts pressure may not warm you as of oldBefore the light of love had thus expired—To know your tears are worthless, though they rolledTheir torrents out in molten drops of gold.—God's pity! I am tired!And I must rest.—Yet do not say "Shedied,"In speaking of me, sleeping here alone.I kiss the grassy grave I sink beside,And close mine eyes in slumber all mine own:Hereafter I shall neither sob nor moanNor murmur one complaint;—all I desired,And failed in life to find, will now be known—So let me dream. Good night! And on the stoneSay simply: She was tired.THE PASSING OF A HEARTO touch me with your hands—For pity's sake!My brow throbs ever on with such an acheAs only your cool touch may take away;And so, I prayYou, touch me with your hands!Touch—touch me with your hands.—Smooth back the hairYou once caressed, and kissed, and called so fairThat I did dream its gold would wear alway,And lo, to-day—O touch me with your hands!Just touch me with your hands,And let them pressMy weary eyelids with the old caress,And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,That Death may say:He touched her with his hands."DREAM"Because her eyes were far too deepAnd holy for a laugh to leapAcross the brink where sorrow triedTo drown within the amber tide;Because the looks, whose ripples kissedThe trembling lids through tender mist,Were dazzled with a radiant gleam—Because of this I call her "Dream."Because the roses growing wildAbout her features when she smiledWere ever dewed with tears that fellWith tenderness ineffable;Because her lips might spill a kissThat, dripping in a world like this,Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter streamTo sweetness—so I called her "Dream."Because I could not understandThe magic touches of a handThat seemed, beneath her strange control,To smooth the plumage of the soulAnd calm it, till, with folded wings,It half forgot its flutterings,And, nestled in her palm, did seemTo trill a song that called her "Dream."Because I saw her, in a sleepAs dark and desolate and deepAnd fleeting as the taunting nightThat flings a vision of delightTo some lorn martyr as he liesIn slumber ere the day he dies—Because she vanished like a gleamOf glory, do I call her "Dream."HE CALLED HER INIHe called her in from me and shut the door.And she so loved the sunshine and the sky!—She loved them even better yet than IThat ne'er knew dearth of them—my mother dead,Nature had nursed me in her lap instead:And I had grown a dark and eerie childThat rarely smiled,Save when, shut all alone in grasses high,Looking straight up in God's great lonesome skyAnd coaxing Mother to smile back on me.'Twas lying thus, this fair girl suddenlyCame to me, nestled in the fields besideA pleasant-seeming home, with doorway wide—The sunshine beating in upon the floorLike golden rain.—O sweet, sweet face above me, turn againAnd leave me! I had cried, but that an acheWithin my throat so gripped it I could makeNo sound but a thick sobbing. Cowering so,I felt her light hand laidUpon my hair—a touch that ne'er beforeHad tamed me thus, all soothed and unafraid—It seemed the touch the children used to knowWhen Christ was here, so dear it was—so dear,—At once I loved her as the leaves love dewIn midmost summer when the days are new.Barely an hour I knew her, yet a curlOf silken sunshine did she clip for meOut of the bright May-morning of her hair,And bound and gave it to me laughingly,And caught my hands and called me"Little girl,"Tiptoeing, as she spoke, to kiss me there!And I stood dazed and dumb for very stressOf my great happiness.She plucked me by the gown, nor saw how meanThe raiment—drew me with her everywhere:Smothered her face in tufts of grasses green:Put up her dainty hands and peeped betweenHer fingers at the blossoms—crooned and talkedTo them in strange, glad whispers, as we walked,—Saidthisone was her angel mother—this,Her baby-sister—come back, for a kiss,Clean from the Good-World!—smiled and kissed them, thenClosed her soft eyes and kissed them o'er again.And so did she beguile me—so we played,—She was the dazzling Shine—I, the dark Shade—And we did mingle like to these, and thus,Together, madeThe perfect summer, pure and glorious.So blent we, till a harsh voice broke uponOur happiness.—She, startled as a fawn,Cried, "Oh, 'tis Father!"—all the blossoms goneFrom out her cheeks as those from out her grasp.—Harsher the voice came:—She could only gaspAffrightedly, "Good-bye!—good-bye! good-bye!"And lo, I stood alone, with that harsh cryRinging a new and unknown sense of shameThrough soul and frame,And, with wet eyes, repeating o'er and o'er,—"He called her in from me and shut the door!"IIHe called her in from me and shut the door!And I went wandering alone again—So lonely—O so very lonely then,I thought no little sallow star, aloneIn all a world of twilight, e'er had knownSuch utter loneliness. But that I woreAbove my heart that gleaming tress of hairTo lighten up the night of my despair,I think I might have groped into my graveNor cared to waveThe ferns above it with a breath of prayer.And how I hungered for the sweet, sweet faceThat bent above me in my hiding-placeThat day amid the grasses there besideHer pleasant home!—"Herpleasanthome!" I sighed,Remembering;—then shut my teeth and feignedThe harsh voice callingme,—then clinched my nailsSo deeply in my palms, the sharp wounds pained,And tossed my face toward heaven, as one who palesIn splendid martrydom, with soul serene,As near to God as high the guillotine.And I hadenviedher? Not that—O no!But I had longed for some sweet haven so!—Wherein the tempest-beaten heart might rideSometimes at peaceful anchor, and abideWhere those that loved me touched me with their hands,And looked upon me with glad eyes, and slippedSmooth fingers o'er my brow, and lulled the strandsOf my wild tresses, as they backward tippedMy yearning face and kissed it satisfied.Then bitterly I murmured as before,—"He called her in from me and shut the door!"IIIHe called her in from me and shut the door!After long struggling with my pride and pain—A weary while it seemed, in which the moreI held myself from her, the greater fainWas I to look upon her face again;—At last—at last—half conscious where my feetWere faring, I stood waist-deep in the sweetGreen grasses there where sheFirst came to me.—The very blossoms she had plucked that day,And, at her father's voice, had cast away,Around me lay,Still bright and blooming in these eyes of mine;And as I gathered each one eagerly,I pressed it to my lips and drank the wineHer kisses left there for the honey-bee.Then, after I had laid them with the tressOf her bright hair with lingering tenderness,I, turning, crept on to the hedge that boundHer pleasant-seeming home—but all aroundWas never sign of her!—The windows allWere blinded; and I heard no rippling fallOf her glad laugh, nor any harsh voice call;—But clutching to the tangled grasses, caughtA sound as though a strong man bowed his headAnd sobbed alone—unloved—uncomforted!—And then straightway beforeMy tearless eyes, all vividly, was wroughtA vision that is with me evermore:—A little girl that lies asleep, nor hearsNor heeds not any voice nor fall of tears.—And I sit singing o'er and o'er and o'er,—"God called her in from him and shut the door!"HER FACE AND BROWAh, help me! but her face and browAre lovelier than lilies areBeneath the light of moon and starThat smile as they are smiling now—White lilies in a pallid swoonOf sweetest white beneath the moon—White lilies, in a flood of brightPure lucidness of liquid lightCascading down some plenilune,When all the azure overheadBlooms like a dazzling daisy-bed.—So luminous her face and brow,The luster of their glory, shedIn memory, even, blinds me now.HER BEAUTIFUL EYESO her beautiful eyes! they are blue as the dewOn the violet's bloom when the morning is new,And the light of their love is the gleam of the sunO'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows runAs the morn shifts the mists and the clouds from the skies-So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes.And her beautiful eyes are as mid-day to me,When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee,And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat,And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweetAnd delirious breaths of the air's lullabies—So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes.O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine ownAs a glory glanced down from the glare of the Throne;And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afarFell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star,And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise—So I groped through the night of her beautiful eyes.WHEN SHE COMES HOMEWhen she comes home again! A thousand waysI fashion, to myself, the tendernessOf my glad welcome: I shall tremble—yes;And touch her, as when first in the old daysI touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraiseMine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress.Then silence: And the perfume of her dress:The room will sway a little, and a hazeCloy eyesight—soulsight, even—for a space:And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,To know that I so ill deserve the placeHer arms make for me; and the sobbing noteI stay with kisses, ere the tearful faceAgain is hidden in the old embrace.LET US FORGETLet us forget. What matters it that weOnce reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago,And talked of love, and let our voices low,And ruled for some brief sessions royally?What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe?It has availed not anything, and soLet it go by that we may better knowHow poor a thing is lost to you and me.But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yetDid thrill you not enough to shake the dewFrom your drenched lids—and missed, with no regret,Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you:And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wetWith all this waste of tears, let us forget!LEONAINIELeonainie—Angels named her;And they took the lightOf the laughing stars and framed herIn a smile of white;And they made her hair of gloomyMidnight, and her eyes of bloomyMoonshine, and they brought her to meIn the solemn night.—In a solemn night of summer,When my heart of gloomBlossomed up to greet the comerLike a rose in bloom;All forebodings that distressed meI forgot as Joy caressed me-(LyingJoy! that caught and pressed meIn the arms of doom!)Only spake the little lisperIn the Angel-tongue;Yet I, listening, heard her whisper—"Songs are only sungHere below that they may grieve you-Tales but told you to deceive you,—So must Leonainie leave youWhile her love is young,"Then God smiled and it was morningMatchless and supremeHeaven's glory seemed adorningEarth with its esteem:Every heart but mine seemed giftedWith the voice of prayer, and liftedWhere my Leonainie driftedFrom me like a dream.HER WAITING FACEIn some strange placeOf long-lost lands he finds her waiting face—Comes marveling upon it, unaware,Set moonwise in the midnight of her hair.THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEWIAs one in sorrow looks uponThe dead face of a loyal friend,By the dim light of New Year's dawnI saw the Old Year end.Upon the pallid features layThe dear old smile—so warm and brightEre thus its cheer had died awayIn ashes of delight.The hands that I had learned to loveWith strength of passion half divine,Were folded now, all heedless ofThe emptiness of mine.The eyes that once had shed their brightSweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,And ever lidded from the lightThat made them beautiful.IIThe chimes of bells were in the air,And sounds of mirth in hall and street,With pealing laughter everywhereAnd throb of dancing feet:The mirth and the convivial dinOf revelers in wanton glee,With tunes of harp and violinIn tangled harmony.But with a sense of nameless dread,I turned me, from the merry faceOf this newcomer, to my dead;And, kneeling there a space,I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:—By this dear face so fixed and cold,O Lord, let not this New Year beAs happy as the old!THEIR SWEET SORROWThey meet to say farewell: Their wayOf saying this is hard to say.—He holds her hand an instant, whollyDistressed—and she unclasps it slowly.He bendshisgaze evasivelyOver the printed page that sheRecurs to, with a new-moon shoulderGlimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.The clock, beneath its crystal cup,Discreetly clicks—"Quick! Act! Speak up!"A tension circles both her slenderWrists—and her raised eyes flash in splendor,Even as he feels his dazzled own.—Then, blindingly, round either thrown,They feel a stress of arms that everStrain tremblingly—and "Never! Never!"Is whispered brokenly, with halfA sob, like a belated laugh,—While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes,Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.JUDITHO Her eyes are amber-fine—Dark and deep as wells of wine,While her smile is like the noonSplendor of a day of June,If she sorrow—lo! her faceIt is like a flowery spaceIn bright meadows, overlaidWith light clouds and lulled with shade.If she laugh—it is the trillOf the wayward whippoorwillOver upland pastures, heardEchoed by the mocking-birdIn dim thickets dense with bloomAnd blurred cloyings of perfume.If she sigh—- a zephyr swellsOver odorous asphodelsAnd wall lilies in lush plotsOf moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.Then, the soft touch of her hand—Takes all breath to understandWhat to liken it thereto!—Never roseleaf rinsed with dewMight slip soother-suave than slipsHer slow palm, the while her lipsSwoon through mine, with kiss on kissSweet as heated honey is.HE AND IJust drifting on together—He and I—As through the balmy weatherOf JulyDrift two thistle-tufts imbeddedEach in each—by zephyrs wedded—Touring upward, giddy-headed,For the sky.And, veering up and onward,Do we seemForever drifting dawnwardIn a dream,Where we meet song-birds that know us,And the winds their kisses blow us,While the years flow far below usLike a stream.And we are happy—very—He and I—Aye, even glad and merryThough on highThe heavens are sometimes shroudedBy the midnight storm, and cloudedTill the pallid moon is crowdedFrom the sky.My spirit ne'er expressesAny choiceBut to clothe him with caressesAnd rejoice;And as he laughs, it is inSuch a tone the moonbeams glistenAnd the stars come out to listenTo his voice.And so, whate'er the weather,He and I,—With our lives linked thus together,Float and flyAs two thistle-tufts imbeddedEach in each—by zephyrs wedded—Touring upward, giddy-headed,For the sky.THE LOST PATHAlone they walked—their fingers knit together,And swaying listlessly as might a swingWherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weatherOf some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring.Within the clover-fields the tickled cricketLaughed lightly as they loitered down the lane,And from the covert of the hazel-thicketThe squirrel peeped and laughed at them again.The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vasesAlong the road-side in the shadows dim,Went following the blossoms of their facesAs though their sweets must needs be shared with himBetween the pasture bars the wondering cattleStared wistfully, and from their mellow bellsShook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattleFell swooningly away in faint farewells.And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er themAnd folded all the landscape from their eyes,They only knew the dusky path before themWas leading safely on to Paradise.MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BEO soul of mine, look out and seeMy bride, my bride that is to be!Reach out with mad, impatient hands,And draw aside futurityAs one might draw a veil aside—And so unveil her where she standsMadonna-like and glorified—The queen of undiscovered landsOf love, to where she beckons me—My bride—my bride that is to be.The shadow of a willow-treeThat wavers on a garden-wallIn summertime may never fallIn attitude as gracefullyAs my fair bride that is to be;—Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brownAs lightly flutter to the lawnAs fall her fairy-feet uponThe path of love she loiters down.—O'er drops of dew she walks, and yetNot one may stain her sandal wet—Aye, she mightdanceupon the wayNor crush a single drop to spray,So airy-like she seems to me,—My bride, my bride that is to be.I know not if her eyes are lightAs summer skies or dark as night,—I only know that they are dimWith mystery: In vain I peerTo make their hidden meaning clear,While o'er their surface, like a tearThat ripples to the silken brim,A look of longing seems to swimAll worn and wearylike to me;And then, as suddenly, my sightIs blinded with a smile so bright,Through folded lids I still may seeMy bride, my bride that is to be.Her face is like a night of JuneUpon whose brow the crescent-moonHangs pendant in a diademOf stars, with envy lighting them.—And, like a wild cascade, her hairFloods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist,Till only through a gleaming mistI seem to see a siren there,With lips of love and melodyAnd open arms and heaving breastWherein I fling myself to rest,The while my heart cries hopelesslyFor my fair bride that is to be ...Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes!My bride hath need of no disguise.—But, rather, let her come to meIn such a form as bent aboveMy pillow when in infancyI knew not anything but love.—O let her come from out the landsOf Womanhood—not fairy isles,—And let her come with Woman's handsAnd Woman's eyes of tears and smiles,—With Woman's hopefulness and graceOf patience lighting up her face:And let her diadem be wroughtOf kindly deed and prayerful thought,That ever over all distressMay beam the light of cheerfulness.—And let her feet be brave to fareThe labyrinths of doubt and care,That, following, my own may findThe path to Heaven God designed.—O let her come like this to me—My bride—my bride that is to be.HOW IT HAPPENEDI got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone—And all her sisters married off, and none but her and JohnA-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way,And him a blame' old bachelor, confirm'der ev'ry day!I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the timeHe settled in the neighberhood, and hadn't airy a dimeEr dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on!—So I got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone!I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she doneThat all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one,And her without no chances—and the best girl of the pack—An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on,When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John,And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be blineTo not see what a wife they'd git if they got Evaline!I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction sheWas sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly,—She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane,And talk ofher ownmother 'at she'd never see again—Maybe sometimes cry together—though, fer the most part sheWould have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at weFelt lonesomer 'n ever when she'd put her bonnet onAnd say she'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,—and more and moreI'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,—Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters goneAnd married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John—You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her lifeFer a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife—'Less some one marriedEvalineand packed her off some day!—So I got to thinkin' of her—and it happened that-away.WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUEIWhen my dreams come true—when my dreams come true—Shall I lean from out my casement, in the starlight and the dew,To listen—smile and listen to the tinkle of the stringsOf the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings?And the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view,Shall I vanish from his vision—when my dreams come true?When my dreams come true—shall the simple gown I wearBe changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hairBe raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold,To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold?—Or "the summer of my tresses" shall my lover liken to"The fervor of his passion"—when my dreams come true?IIWhen my dreams come true—I shall bide among the sheavesOf happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leavesShall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun,Till the moon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work is done—Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers doThe meanest sheaf of harvest—when my dreams come true.When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true!True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew;The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eyeThan any lily born of pride that looms against the sky:And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you,My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true.NOTHIN' TO SAYNothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me—Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother—where is she?You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:Like her, too, aboutlivin'here,—becauseshecouldn't stay:It'll 'most seem like you was dead—like her!—But I hain't got nothin' to say!She left you her little Bible—writ yer name acrost the page—And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away—Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then!And now yer—how oldairyou? W'y, child, not"twenty!"When?And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day?... I wisht yer mother was livin'!—But—I hain't got nothin' to say!Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there—I'll bresh it off—turn around.(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!)Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!IKE WALTON'S PRAYERI crave, dear Lord,No boundless hoardOf gold and gear,Nor jewels fine,Nor lands, nor kine,Nor treasure-heaps of anything.—Let but a little hut be mineWhere at the hearthstone I may hearThe cricket sing,And have the shineOf one glad woman's eyes to make,For my poor sake,Our simple home a place divine;—Just the wee cot—the cricket's chirr—Love, and the smiling face of her.I pray not forGreat riches, norFor vast estates, and castle-halls,—Give me to hear the bare footfallsOf children o'erAn oaken floor,New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespreadWith but the tiny coverletAnd pillow for the baby's head;And pray Thou, mayThe door stand open and the daySend ever in a gentle breeze,With fragrance from the locust-trees,And drowsy moan of doves, and blurOf robin-chirps, and drone of bees,With afterhushes of the stirOf intermingling sounds, and thenThe good-wife and the smile of herFilling the silences again—The cricket's call,And the wee cot,Dear Lord of all,Deny me not!I pray not thatMen tremble atMy power of placeAnd lordly sway,—I only pray for simple graceTo look my neighbor in the faceFull honestly from day to day—Yield me his horny palm to hold,And I'll not prayFor gold;—The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,It hath the kingliest smile on earth—The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,Hath never need of coronet.And so I reach,Dear Lord, to Thee,And do beseechThou givest meThe wee cot, and the cricket's chirr,Love, and the glad sweet face of her.ILLILEOIllileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales—The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales;The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails;And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone,With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone,There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertoneSo mystically, musically mellow as your own.You whispered low, Illileo—so low the leaves were mute,And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit;And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute:And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss,What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this?—Let them reeling reach to win me—- even Heaven I would miss,Grasping earthward!—I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss!And blossoms should grow odorless—and lilies all aghast—And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast,Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last.—So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throwsLike a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos,A moan goes with the music that may vex the high reposeOf a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.THE WIFE-BLESSÉDIn youth he wrought, with eyes ablurLorn-faced and long of hair—In youth—in youth he painted herA sister of the air—Could clasp her not, but felt the stirOf pinions everywhere.IIShe lured his gaze, in braver days,And tranced him sirenwise;And he did paint her, through a hazeOf sullen paradise,With scars of kisses on her faceAnd embers in her eyes.IIIAnd now—nor dream nor wild conceit—Though faltering, as before—Through tears he paints her, as is meet,Tracing the dear face o'erWith lilied patience meek and sweetAs Mother Mary wore.MY MARYMy Mary, O my Mary!The simmer-skies are blue;The dawnin' brings the dazzle,An' the gloamin' brings the dew?—The mirk o' nicht the gloryO' the moon, an' kindles, too,The stars that shift aboon the lift.—-But nae thing brings me you!Where is it, O my Mary,Ye are biding a' the while?I ha' wended by your window—I ha' waited by the stile,An' up an' down the riverI ha' won for mony a mile,Yet never found, adrift or drown'd,Your lang-belated smile.Is it forgot, my Mary,How glad we used to be?—The simmer-time when bonny bloomedThe auld trysting-tree,—How there I carved the name for you,An' you the name for me;An' the gloamin' kenned it onlyWhen we kissed sae tenderly.Speek ance to me, my Mary!—-But whisper in my earAs light as ony sleeper's breath,An' a' my soul will hear;My heart shall stap its beatingAn' the soughing atmosphereBe hushed the while I leaning smileAn' listen to you, dear!My Mary, O my Mary!The blossoms bring the bees;The sunshine brings the blossoms,An' the leaves on a' the trees;The simmer brings the sunshineAn' the fragrance o' the breeze,—But O wi'out you, Mary,I care nae thing for these!We were sae happy, Mary!O think how ance we said—Wad ane o' us gae fickle,Or are o' us lie dead,—To feel anither's kissesWe wad feign the auld instead,And ken the ither's footstepsIn the green grass owerhead.My Mary, O my Mary!Are ye daughter o' the air,That ye vanish aye before meAs I follow everywhere?—Or is it ye are onlyBut a mortal, wan wi' care?—Syne I search through a' the kirkyirdAn' I dinna find ye there!HOME AT NIGHTWhen chirping crickets fainter cry,And pale stars blossom in the sky,And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloomAnd blurred the butterfly:When locust-blossoms fleck the walk,And up the tiger-lily stalkThe glow-worm crawls and clings and fallsAnd glimmers down the garden-walls:When buzzing things, with double wingsOf crisp and raspish flutterings,Go whizzing by so very nighOne thinks of fangs and stings:—O then, within, is stilled the dinOf crib she rocks the baby in,And heart and gate and latch's weightAre lifted—- and the lips of Kate,WHEN LIDE MARRIEDHIMWhen Lide marriedhim—w'y, she had to jes dee-fyThe whole poppilation!—But she never bat' an eye!Her parents begged, andthreatened—she must give him up—thatheWuz jes "a common drunkard!"—And hewuz, appearantly.—Swore they'd chase him off the placeEf he ever showed his face—Long after she'delopedwith him andmarriedhim fer shore!—When Lide marriedhim, it wuz"Katy, bar the door!"When Lide marriedhim—Well! she had to go and beAhired girlin town somewheres—while he tromped round to seeWhathecould git thathecould do,—you might say, jes sawed woodFrom door to door!—that's what he done—'cause that wuz best he could!And the strangest thing, i jing!Wuz, he didn'tdrinka thing,—But jes got down to bizness, like he somewaywantedto,When Lide marriedhim, like they warned hernotto do!When Lide marriedhim—er, ruther,hadben marriedA little up'ards of a year—some feller come and carriedThathired girlaway with him—a rutherstylishfellerIn a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller:And he whispered, as they drivTords the country,"Now we'll live!"—Andsomepin' elseshelaughedto hear, though both her eyes wuz dim,'Bout"trustin' Love and Heav'n above, sence Lide marriedhim!"HER HAIRThe beauty of her hair bewilders me—Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tideSwirling about the ears on either sideAnd storming around the neck tumultuously:Or like the lights of old antiquityThrough mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide,Spilled moltenly o'er figures deifiedIn chastest marble, nude of drapery.And so I love it.—Either unconfined;Or plaited in close braidings manifold;Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twinedIn careless knots whose coilings come unrolledAt any lightest kiss; or by the windWhipped out in flossy ravelings of gold.LAST NIGHT—AND THISLast night—how deep the darkness was!And well I knew its depths, becauseI waded it from shore to shore,Thinking to reach the light no more.She would not even touch my hand.—The winds rose and the cedars fannedThe moon out, and the stars fled backIn heaven and hid—and all was black!But ah! To-night a summons came,Signed with a teardrop for a name,—For as I wondering kissed it, lo,A line beneath it told me so.Andnowthe moon hangs over meA disk of dazzling brilliancy,And every star-tip stabs my sightWith splintered glitterings of light!A DISCOURAGING MODELJust the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing,Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,And a knot of red roses sown in under thereWhere the shadows are lost in her hair.Then a cameo face, carven in on a groundOf that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faintAnd as sweet as the masters of old used to paintRound the lips of their favorite saint!And that lace at her throat—and the fluttering handsSnowing there, with a grace that no art understandsThe flakes of their touches—first fluttering atThe bow—then the roses—the hair—and then thatLittle tilt of the Gainsborough hat.What artist on earth, with a model like this,Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss,Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair,Nor the gold of her smile—O what artist could dareTo expect a result so fair?
AN OUT-WORN SAPPHO
How tired I am! I sink down all aloneHere by the wayside of the Present. Lo,Even as a child I hide my face and moan—A little girl that may no farther go;The path above me only seems to growMore rugged, climbing still, and ever brieredWith keener thorns of pain than these below;And O the bleeding feet that falter soAnd are so very tired!
Why, I have journeyed from the far-off LandsOf Babyhood—where baby-lilies blewTheir trumpets in mine ears, and filled my handsWith treasures of perfume and honey-dew,And where the orchard shadows ever drewTheir cool arms round me when my cheeks were firedWith too much joy, and lulled mine eyelids to,And only let the starshine trickle throughIn sprays, when I was tired!Yet I remember, when the butterflyWent flickering about me like a flameThat quenched itself in roses suddenly,How oft I wished thatImight blaze the same,And in some rose-wreath nestle with my name,While all the world looked on it and admired.—Poor moth!—Along my wavering flight toward fameThe winds drive backward, and my wings are lameAnd broken, bruised and tired!I hardly know the path from those old times;I know at first it was a smoother oneThan this that hurries past me now, and climbsSo high, its far cliffs even hide the sunAnd shroud in gloom my journey scarce begun.I could not do quite all the world required—I could not do quite all I should have done,And in my eagerness I have outrunMy strength—and I am tired....Just tired! But when of old I had the stayOf mother-hands, O very sweet indeedIt was to dream that all the weary wayI should but follow where I now must lead—For long ago they left me in my need,And, groping on alone, I tripped and miredAmong rank grasses where the serpents breedIn knotted coils about the feet of speed.—There first it was I tired.And yet I staggered on, and bore my loadRight gallantly: The sun, in summer-time,In lazy belts came slipping down the roadTo woo me on, with many a glimmering rhymeRained from the golden rim of some fair clime,That, hovering beyond the clouds, inspiredMy failing heart with fancies so sublimeI half forgot my path of dust and grime,Though I was growing tired.And there were many voices cheering me:I listened to sweet praises where the windWent laughing o'er my shoulders gleefullyAnd scattering my love-songs far behind;—Until, at last, I thought the world so kind—So rich in all my yearning soul desired—So generous—so loyally inclined,I grew to love and trust it.... I was blind—Yea, blind as I was tired!
Yet I remember, when the butterflyWent flickering about me like a flameThat quenched itself in roses suddenly,How oft I wished thatImight blaze the same,And in some rose-wreath nestle with my name,While all the world looked on it and admired.—Poor moth!—Along my wavering flight toward fameThe winds drive backward, and my wings are lameAnd broken, bruised and tired!
I hardly know the path from those old times;I know at first it was a smoother oneThan this that hurries past me now, and climbsSo high, its far cliffs even hide the sunAnd shroud in gloom my journey scarce begun.I could not do quite all the world required—I could not do quite all I should have done,And in my eagerness I have outrunMy strength—and I am tired....
Just tired! But when of old I had the stayOf mother-hands, O very sweet indeedIt was to dream that all the weary wayI should but follow where I now must lead—For long ago they left me in my need,And, groping on alone, I tripped and miredAmong rank grasses where the serpents breedIn knotted coils about the feet of speed.—There first it was I tired.
And yet I staggered on, and bore my loadRight gallantly: The sun, in summer-time,In lazy belts came slipping down the roadTo woo me on, with many a glimmering rhymeRained from the golden rim of some fair clime,That, hovering beyond the clouds, inspiredMy failing heart with fancies so sublimeI half forgot my path of dust and grime,Though I was growing tired.
And there were many voices cheering me:I listened to sweet praises where the windWent laughing o'er my shoulders gleefullyAnd scattering my love-songs far behind;—Until, at last, I thought the world so kind—So rich in all my yearning soul desired—So generous—so loyally inclined,I grew to love and trust it.... I was blind—Yea, blind as I was tired!
And yet one hand held me in creature-touch:And O, how fair it was, how true and strong,How it did hold my heart up like a crutch,Till, in my dreams, I joyed to walk alongThe toilsome way, contented with a song—'Twas all of earthly things I had acquired,And 'twas enough, I feigned, or right or wrong,Since, binding me to man—a mortal thong—It stayed me, growing tired....Yea, I had e'en resigned me to the straitOf earthly rulership—had bowed my headAcceptant of the master-mind—the greatOne lover—lord of all,—the perfectedKiss-comrade of my soul;—had stammering saidMy prayers to him;—all—all that he desiredI rendered sacredly as we were wed.—Nay—nay!—'twas but a myth I worshippéd.—And—God of love!—how tired!For, O my friends, to lose the latest grasp—To feel the last hope slipping from its hold—To feel the one fond hand within your claspFall slack, and loosen with a touch so coldIts pressure may not warm you as of oldBefore the light of love had thus expired—To know your tears are worthless, though they rolledTheir torrents out in molten drops of gold.—God's pity! I am tired!And I must rest.—Yet do not say "Shedied,"In speaking of me, sleeping here alone.I kiss the grassy grave I sink beside,And close mine eyes in slumber all mine own:Hereafter I shall neither sob nor moanNor murmur one complaint;—all I desired,And failed in life to find, will now be known—So let me dream. Good night! And on the stoneSay simply: She was tired.THE PASSING OF A HEARTO touch me with your hands—For pity's sake!My brow throbs ever on with such an acheAs only your cool touch may take away;And so, I prayYou, touch me with your hands!Touch—touch me with your hands.—Smooth back the hairYou once caressed, and kissed, and called so fairThat I did dream its gold would wear alway,And lo, to-day—O touch me with your hands!Just touch me with your hands,And let them pressMy weary eyelids with the old caress,And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,That Death may say:He touched her with his hands."DREAM"Because her eyes were far too deepAnd holy for a laugh to leapAcross the brink where sorrow triedTo drown within the amber tide;Because the looks, whose ripples kissedThe trembling lids through tender mist,Were dazzled with a radiant gleam—Because of this I call her "Dream."Because the roses growing wildAbout her features when she smiledWere ever dewed with tears that fellWith tenderness ineffable;Because her lips might spill a kissThat, dripping in a world like this,Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter streamTo sweetness—so I called her "Dream."Because I could not understandThe magic touches of a handThat seemed, beneath her strange control,To smooth the plumage of the soulAnd calm it, till, with folded wings,It half forgot its flutterings,And, nestled in her palm, did seemTo trill a song that called her "Dream."Because I saw her, in a sleepAs dark and desolate and deepAnd fleeting as the taunting nightThat flings a vision of delightTo some lorn martyr as he liesIn slumber ere the day he dies—Because she vanished like a gleamOf glory, do I call her "Dream."HE CALLED HER INIHe called her in from me and shut the door.And she so loved the sunshine and the sky!—She loved them even better yet than IThat ne'er knew dearth of them—my mother dead,Nature had nursed me in her lap instead:And I had grown a dark and eerie childThat rarely smiled,Save when, shut all alone in grasses high,Looking straight up in God's great lonesome skyAnd coaxing Mother to smile back on me.'Twas lying thus, this fair girl suddenlyCame to me, nestled in the fields besideA pleasant-seeming home, with doorway wide—The sunshine beating in upon the floorLike golden rain.—O sweet, sweet face above me, turn againAnd leave me! I had cried, but that an acheWithin my throat so gripped it I could makeNo sound but a thick sobbing. Cowering so,I felt her light hand laidUpon my hair—a touch that ne'er beforeHad tamed me thus, all soothed and unafraid—It seemed the touch the children used to knowWhen Christ was here, so dear it was—so dear,—At once I loved her as the leaves love dewIn midmost summer when the days are new.Barely an hour I knew her, yet a curlOf silken sunshine did she clip for meOut of the bright May-morning of her hair,And bound and gave it to me laughingly,And caught my hands and called me"Little girl,"Tiptoeing, as she spoke, to kiss me there!And I stood dazed and dumb for very stressOf my great happiness.She plucked me by the gown, nor saw how meanThe raiment—drew me with her everywhere:Smothered her face in tufts of grasses green:Put up her dainty hands and peeped betweenHer fingers at the blossoms—crooned and talkedTo them in strange, glad whispers, as we walked,—Saidthisone was her angel mother—this,Her baby-sister—come back, for a kiss,Clean from the Good-World!—smiled and kissed them, thenClosed her soft eyes and kissed them o'er again.And so did she beguile me—so we played,—She was the dazzling Shine—I, the dark Shade—And we did mingle like to these, and thus,Together, madeThe perfect summer, pure and glorious.So blent we, till a harsh voice broke uponOur happiness.—She, startled as a fawn,Cried, "Oh, 'tis Father!"—all the blossoms goneFrom out her cheeks as those from out her grasp.—Harsher the voice came:—She could only gaspAffrightedly, "Good-bye!—good-bye! good-bye!"And lo, I stood alone, with that harsh cryRinging a new and unknown sense of shameThrough soul and frame,And, with wet eyes, repeating o'er and o'er,—"He called her in from me and shut the door!"IIHe called her in from me and shut the door!And I went wandering alone again—So lonely—O so very lonely then,I thought no little sallow star, aloneIn all a world of twilight, e'er had knownSuch utter loneliness. But that I woreAbove my heart that gleaming tress of hairTo lighten up the night of my despair,I think I might have groped into my graveNor cared to waveThe ferns above it with a breath of prayer.And how I hungered for the sweet, sweet faceThat bent above me in my hiding-placeThat day amid the grasses there besideHer pleasant home!—"Herpleasanthome!" I sighed,Remembering;—then shut my teeth and feignedThe harsh voice callingme,—then clinched my nailsSo deeply in my palms, the sharp wounds pained,And tossed my face toward heaven, as one who palesIn splendid martrydom, with soul serene,As near to God as high the guillotine.And I hadenviedher? Not that—O no!But I had longed for some sweet haven so!—Wherein the tempest-beaten heart might rideSometimes at peaceful anchor, and abideWhere those that loved me touched me with their hands,And looked upon me with glad eyes, and slippedSmooth fingers o'er my brow, and lulled the strandsOf my wild tresses, as they backward tippedMy yearning face and kissed it satisfied.Then bitterly I murmured as before,—"He called her in from me and shut the door!"IIIHe called her in from me and shut the door!After long struggling with my pride and pain—A weary while it seemed, in which the moreI held myself from her, the greater fainWas I to look upon her face again;—At last—at last—half conscious where my feetWere faring, I stood waist-deep in the sweetGreen grasses there where sheFirst came to me.—The very blossoms she had plucked that day,And, at her father's voice, had cast away,Around me lay,Still bright and blooming in these eyes of mine;And as I gathered each one eagerly,I pressed it to my lips and drank the wineHer kisses left there for the honey-bee.Then, after I had laid them with the tressOf her bright hair with lingering tenderness,I, turning, crept on to the hedge that boundHer pleasant-seeming home—but all aroundWas never sign of her!—The windows allWere blinded; and I heard no rippling fallOf her glad laugh, nor any harsh voice call;—But clutching to the tangled grasses, caughtA sound as though a strong man bowed his headAnd sobbed alone—unloved—uncomforted!—And then straightway beforeMy tearless eyes, all vividly, was wroughtA vision that is with me evermore:—A little girl that lies asleep, nor hearsNor heeds not any voice nor fall of tears.—And I sit singing o'er and o'er and o'er,—"God called her in from him and shut the door!"HER FACE AND BROWAh, help me! but her face and browAre lovelier than lilies areBeneath the light of moon and starThat smile as they are smiling now—White lilies in a pallid swoonOf sweetest white beneath the moon—White lilies, in a flood of brightPure lucidness of liquid lightCascading down some plenilune,When all the azure overheadBlooms like a dazzling daisy-bed.—So luminous her face and brow,The luster of their glory, shedIn memory, even, blinds me now.HER BEAUTIFUL EYESO her beautiful eyes! they are blue as the dewOn the violet's bloom when the morning is new,And the light of their love is the gleam of the sunO'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows runAs the morn shifts the mists and the clouds from the skies-So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes.And her beautiful eyes are as mid-day to me,When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee,And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat,And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweetAnd delirious breaths of the air's lullabies—So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes.O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine ownAs a glory glanced down from the glare of the Throne;And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afarFell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star,And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise—So I groped through the night of her beautiful eyes.WHEN SHE COMES HOMEWhen she comes home again! A thousand waysI fashion, to myself, the tendernessOf my glad welcome: I shall tremble—yes;And touch her, as when first in the old daysI touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraiseMine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress.Then silence: And the perfume of her dress:The room will sway a little, and a hazeCloy eyesight—soulsight, even—for a space:And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,To know that I so ill deserve the placeHer arms make for me; and the sobbing noteI stay with kisses, ere the tearful faceAgain is hidden in the old embrace.LET US FORGETLet us forget. What matters it that weOnce reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago,And talked of love, and let our voices low,And ruled for some brief sessions royally?What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe?It has availed not anything, and soLet it go by that we may better knowHow poor a thing is lost to you and me.But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yetDid thrill you not enough to shake the dewFrom your drenched lids—and missed, with no regret,Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you:And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wetWith all this waste of tears, let us forget!LEONAINIELeonainie—Angels named her;And they took the lightOf the laughing stars and framed herIn a smile of white;And they made her hair of gloomyMidnight, and her eyes of bloomyMoonshine, and they brought her to meIn the solemn night.—In a solemn night of summer,When my heart of gloomBlossomed up to greet the comerLike a rose in bloom;All forebodings that distressed meI forgot as Joy caressed me-(LyingJoy! that caught and pressed meIn the arms of doom!)Only spake the little lisperIn the Angel-tongue;Yet I, listening, heard her whisper—"Songs are only sungHere below that they may grieve you-Tales but told you to deceive you,—So must Leonainie leave youWhile her love is young,"Then God smiled and it was morningMatchless and supremeHeaven's glory seemed adorningEarth with its esteem:Every heart but mine seemed giftedWith the voice of prayer, and liftedWhere my Leonainie driftedFrom me like a dream.HER WAITING FACEIn some strange placeOf long-lost lands he finds her waiting face—Comes marveling upon it, unaware,Set moonwise in the midnight of her hair.THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEWIAs one in sorrow looks uponThe dead face of a loyal friend,By the dim light of New Year's dawnI saw the Old Year end.Upon the pallid features layThe dear old smile—so warm and brightEre thus its cheer had died awayIn ashes of delight.The hands that I had learned to loveWith strength of passion half divine,Were folded now, all heedless ofThe emptiness of mine.The eyes that once had shed their brightSweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,And ever lidded from the lightThat made them beautiful.IIThe chimes of bells were in the air,And sounds of mirth in hall and street,With pealing laughter everywhereAnd throb of dancing feet:The mirth and the convivial dinOf revelers in wanton glee,With tunes of harp and violinIn tangled harmony.But with a sense of nameless dread,I turned me, from the merry faceOf this newcomer, to my dead;And, kneeling there a space,I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:—By this dear face so fixed and cold,O Lord, let not this New Year beAs happy as the old!THEIR SWEET SORROWThey meet to say farewell: Their wayOf saying this is hard to say.—He holds her hand an instant, whollyDistressed—and she unclasps it slowly.He bendshisgaze evasivelyOver the printed page that sheRecurs to, with a new-moon shoulderGlimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.The clock, beneath its crystal cup,Discreetly clicks—"Quick! Act! Speak up!"A tension circles both her slenderWrists—and her raised eyes flash in splendor,Even as he feels his dazzled own.—Then, blindingly, round either thrown,They feel a stress of arms that everStrain tremblingly—and "Never! Never!"Is whispered brokenly, with halfA sob, like a belated laugh,—While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes,Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.JUDITHO Her eyes are amber-fine—Dark and deep as wells of wine,While her smile is like the noonSplendor of a day of June,If she sorrow—lo! her faceIt is like a flowery spaceIn bright meadows, overlaidWith light clouds and lulled with shade.If she laugh—it is the trillOf the wayward whippoorwillOver upland pastures, heardEchoed by the mocking-birdIn dim thickets dense with bloomAnd blurred cloyings of perfume.If she sigh—- a zephyr swellsOver odorous asphodelsAnd wall lilies in lush plotsOf moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.Then, the soft touch of her hand—Takes all breath to understandWhat to liken it thereto!—Never roseleaf rinsed with dewMight slip soother-suave than slipsHer slow palm, the while her lipsSwoon through mine, with kiss on kissSweet as heated honey is.HE AND IJust drifting on together—He and I—As through the balmy weatherOf JulyDrift two thistle-tufts imbeddedEach in each—by zephyrs wedded—Touring upward, giddy-headed,For the sky.And, veering up and onward,Do we seemForever drifting dawnwardIn a dream,Where we meet song-birds that know us,And the winds their kisses blow us,While the years flow far below usLike a stream.And we are happy—very—He and I—Aye, even glad and merryThough on highThe heavens are sometimes shroudedBy the midnight storm, and cloudedTill the pallid moon is crowdedFrom the sky.My spirit ne'er expressesAny choiceBut to clothe him with caressesAnd rejoice;And as he laughs, it is inSuch a tone the moonbeams glistenAnd the stars come out to listenTo his voice.And so, whate'er the weather,He and I,—With our lives linked thus together,Float and flyAs two thistle-tufts imbeddedEach in each—by zephyrs wedded—Touring upward, giddy-headed,For the sky.THE LOST PATHAlone they walked—their fingers knit together,And swaying listlessly as might a swingWherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weatherOf some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring.Within the clover-fields the tickled cricketLaughed lightly as they loitered down the lane,And from the covert of the hazel-thicketThe squirrel peeped and laughed at them again.The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vasesAlong the road-side in the shadows dim,Went following the blossoms of their facesAs though their sweets must needs be shared with himBetween the pasture bars the wondering cattleStared wistfully, and from their mellow bellsShook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattleFell swooningly away in faint farewells.And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er themAnd folded all the landscape from their eyes,They only knew the dusky path before themWas leading safely on to Paradise.MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BEO soul of mine, look out and seeMy bride, my bride that is to be!Reach out with mad, impatient hands,And draw aside futurityAs one might draw a veil aside—And so unveil her where she standsMadonna-like and glorified—The queen of undiscovered landsOf love, to where she beckons me—My bride—my bride that is to be.The shadow of a willow-treeThat wavers on a garden-wallIn summertime may never fallIn attitude as gracefullyAs my fair bride that is to be;—Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brownAs lightly flutter to the lawnAs fall her fairy-feet uponThe path of love she loiters down.—O'er drops of dew she walks, and yetNot one may stain her sandal wet—Aye, she mightdanceupon the wayNor crush a single drop to spray,So airy-like she seems to me,—My bride, my bride that is to be.I know not if her eyes are lightAs summer skies or dark as night,—I only know that they are dimWith mystery: In vain I peerTo make their hidden meaning clear,While o'er their surface, like a tearThat ripples to the silken brim,A look of longing seems to swimAll worn and wearylike to me;And then, as suddenly, my sightIs blinded with a smile so bright,Through folded lids I still may seeMy bride, my bride that is to be.Her face is like a night of JuneUpon whose brow the crescent-moonHangs pendant in a diademOf stars, with envy lighting them.—And, like a wild cascade, her hairFloods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist,Till only through a gleaming mistI seem to see a siren there,With lips of love and melodyAnd open arms and heaving breastWherein I fling myself to rest,The while my heart cries hopelesslyFor my fair bride that is to be ...Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes!My bride hath need of no disguise.—But, rather, let her come to meIn such a form as bent aboveMy pillow when in infancyI knew not anything but love.—O let her come from out the landsOf Womanhood—not fairy isles,—And let her come with Woman's handsAnd Woman's eyes of tears and smiles,—With Woman's hopefulness and graceOf patience lighting up her face:And let her diadem be wroughtOf kindly deed and prayerful thought,That ever over all distressMay beam the light of cheerfulness.—And let her feet be brave to fareThe labyrinths of doubt and care,That, following, my own may findThe path to Heaven God designed.—O let her come like this to me—My bride—my bride that is to be.HOW IT HAPPENEDI got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone—And all her sisters married off, and none but her and JohnA-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way,And him a blame' old bachelor, confirm'der ev'ry day!I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the timeHe settled in the neighberhood, and hadn't airy a dimeEr dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on!—So I got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone!I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she doneThat all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one,And her without no chances—and the best girl of the pack—An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on,When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John,And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be blineTo not see what a wife they'd git if they got Evaline!I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction sheWas sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly,—She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane,And talk ofher ownmother 'at she'd never see again—Maybe sometimes cry together—though, fer the most part sheWould have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at weFelt lonesomer 'n ever when she'd put her bonnet onAnd say she'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,—and more and moreI'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,—Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters goneAnd married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John—You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her lifeFer a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife—'Less some one marriedEvalineand packed her off some day!—So I got to thinkin' of her—and it happened that-away.WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUEIWhen my dreams come true—when my dreams come true—Shall I lean from out my casement, in the starlight and the dew,To listen—smile and listen to the tinkle of the stringsOf the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings?And the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view,Shall I vanish from his vision—when my dreams come true?When my dreams come true—shall the simple gown I wearBe changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hairBe raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold,To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold?—Or "the summer of my tresses" shall my lover liken to"The fervor of his passion"—when my dreams come true?IIWhen my dreams come true—I shall bide among the sheavesOf happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leavesShall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun,Till the moon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work is done—Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers doThe meanest sheaf of harvest—when my dreams come true.When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true!True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew;The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eyeThan any lily born of pride that looms against the sky:And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you,My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true.NOTHIN' TO SAYNothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me—Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother—where is she?You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:Like her, too, aboutlivin'here,—becauseshecouldn't stay:It'll 'most seem like you was dead—like her!—But I hain't got nothin' to say!She left you her little Bible—writ yer name acrost the page—And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away—Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then!And now yer—how oldairyou? W'y, child, not"twenty!"When?And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day?... I wisht yer mother was livin'!—But—I hain't got nothin' to say!Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there—I'll bresh it off—turn around.(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!)Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!IKE WALTON'S PRAYERI crave, dear Lord,No boundless hoardOf gold and gear,Nor jewels fine,Nor lands, nor kine,Nor treasure-heaps of anything.—Let but a little hut be mineWhere at the hearthstone I may hearThe cricket sing,And have the shineOf one glad woman's eyes to make,For my poor sake,Our simple home a place divine;—Just the wee cot—the cricket's chirr—Love, and the smiling face of her.I pray not forGreat riches, norFor vast estates, and castle-halls,—Give me to hear the bare footfallsOf children o'erAn oaken floor,New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespreadWith but the tiny coverletAnd pillow for the baby's head;And pray Thou, mayThe door stand open and the daySend ever in a gentle breeze,With fragrance from the locust-trees,And drowsy moan of doves, and blurOf robin-chirps, and drone of bees,With afterhushes of the stirOf intermingling sounds, and thenThe good-wife and the smile of herFilling the silences again—The cricket's call,And the wee cot,Dear Lord of all,Deny me not!I pray not thatMen tremble atMy power of placeAnd lordly sway,—I only pray for simple graceTo look my neighbor in the faceFull honestly from day to day—Yield me his horny palm to hold,And I'll not prayFor gold;—The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,It hath the kingliest smile on earth—The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,Hath never need of coronet.And so I reach,Dear Lord, to Thee,And do beseechThou givest meThe wee cot, and the cricket's chirr,Love, and the glad sweet face of her.ILLILEOIllileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales—The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales;The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails;And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone,With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone,There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertoneSo mystically, musically mellow as your own.You whispered low, Illileo—so low the leaves were mute,And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit;And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute:And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss,What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this?—Let them reeling reach to win me—- even Heaven I would miss,Grasping earthward!—I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss!And blossoms should grow odorless—and lilies all aghast—And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast,Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last.—So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throwsLike a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos,A moan goes with the music that may vex the high reposeOf a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.THE WIFE-BLESSÉDIn youth he wrought, with eyes ablurLorn-faced and long of hair—In youth—in youth he painted herA sister of the air—Could clasp her not, but felt the stirOf pinions everywhere.IIShe lured his gaze, in braver days,And tranced him sirenwise;And he did paint her, through a hazeOf sullen paradise,With scars of kisses on her faceAnd embers in her eyes.IIIAnd now—nor dream nor wild conceit—Though faltering, as before—Through tears he paints her, as is meet,Tracing the dear face o'erWith lilied patience meek and sweetAs Mother Mary wore.MY MARYMy Mary, O my Mary!The simmer-skies are blue;The dawnin' brings the dazzle,An' the gloamin' brings the dew?—The mirk o' nicht the gloryO' the moon, an' kindles, too,The stars that shift aboon the lift.—-But nae thing brings me you!Where is it, O my Mary,Ye are biding a' the while?I ha' wended by your window—I ha' waited by the stile,An' up an' down the riverI ha' won for mony a mile,Yet never found, adrift or drown'd,Your lang-belated smile.Is it forgot, my Mary,How glad we used to be?—The simmer-time when bonny bloomedThe auld trysting-tree,—How there I carved the name for you,An' you the name for me;An' the gloamin' kenned it onlyWhen we kissed sae tenderly.Speek ance to me, my Mary!—-But whisper in my earAs light as ony sleeper's breath,An' a' my soul will hear;My heart shall stap its beatingAn' the soughing atmosphereBe hushed the while I leaning smileAn' listen to you, dear!My Mary, O my Mary!The blossoms bring the bees;The sunshine brings the blossoms,An' the leaves on a' the trees;The simmer brings the sunshineAn' the fragrance o' the breeze,—But O wi'out you, Mary,I care nae thing for these!
And yet one hand held me in creature-touch:And O, how fair it was, how true and strong,How it did hold my heart up like a crutch,Till, in my dreams, I joyed to walk alongThe toilsome way, contented with a song—'Twas all of earthly things I had acquired,And 'twas enough, I feigned, or right or wrong,Since, binding me to man—a mortal thong—It stayed me, growing tired....
Yea, I had e'en resigned me to the straitOf earthly rulership—had bowed my headAcceptant of the master-mind—the greatOne lover—lord of all,—the perfectedKiss-comrade of my soul;—had stammering saidMy prayers to him;—all—all that he desiredI rendered sacredly as we were wed.—Nay—nay!—'twas but a myth I worshippéd.—And—God of love!—how tired!
For, O my friends, to lose the latest grasp—To feel the last hope slipping from its hold—To feel the one fond hand within your claspFall slack, and loosen with a touch so coldIts pressure may not warm you as of oldBefore the light of love had thus expired—To know your tears are worthless, though they rolledTheir torrents out in molten drops of gold.—God's pity! I am tired!And I must rest.—Yet do not say "Shedied,"In speaking of me, sleeping here alone.I kiss the grassy grave I sink beside,And close mine eyes in slumber all mine own:Hereafter I shall neither sob nor moanNor murmur one complaint;—all I desired,And failed in life to find, will now be known—So let me dream. Good night! And on the stoneSay simply: She was tired.
And I must rest.—Yet do not say "Shedied,"In speaking of me, sleeping here alone.I kiss the grassy grave I sink beside,And close mine eyes in slumber all mine own:Hereafter I shall neither sob nor moanNor murmur one complaint;—all I desired,And failed in life to find, will now be known—So let me dream. Good night! And on the stoneSay simply: She was tired.
THE PASSING OF A HEARTO touch me with your hands—For pity's sake!My brow throbs ever on with such an acheAs only your cool touch may take away;And so, I prayYou, touch me with your hands!Touch—touch me with your hands.—Smooth back the hairYou once caressed, and kissed, and called so fairThat I did dream its gold would wear alway,And lo, to-day—O touch me with your hands!Just touch me with your hands,And let them pressMy weary eyelids with the old caress,And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,That Death may say:He touched her with his hands.
THE PASSING OF A HEART
O touch me with your hands—For pity's sake!My brow throbs ever on with such an acheAs only your cool touch may take away;And so, I prayYou, touch me with your hands!
Touch—touch me with your hands.—Smooth back the hairYou once caressed, and kissed, and called so fairThat I did dream its gold would wear alway,And lo, to-day—O touch me with your hands!
Just touch me with your hands,And let them pressMy weary eyelids with the old caress,And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,That Death may say:He touched her with his hands.
"DREAM"Because her eyes were far too deepAnd holy for a laugh to leapAcross the brink where sorrow triedTo drown within the amber tide;Because the looks, whose ripples kissedThe trembling lids through tender mist,Were dazzled with a radiant gleam—Because of this I call her "Dream."Because the roses growing wildAbout her features when she smiledWere ever dewed with tears that fellWith tenderness ineffable;Because her lips might spill a kissThat, dripping in a world like this,Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter streamTo sweetness—so I called her "Dream."Because I could not understandThe magic touches of a handThat seemed, beneath her strange control,To smooth the plumage of the soulAnd calm it, till, with folded wings,It half forgot its flutterings,And, nestled in her palm, did seemTo trill a song that called her "Dream."Because I saw her, in a sleepAs dark and desolate and deepAnd fleeting as the taunting nightThat flings a vision of delightTo some lorn martyr as he liesIn slumber ere the day he dies—Because she vanished like a gleamOf glory, do I call her "Dream."
"DREAM"
Because her eyes were far too deepAnd holy for a laugh to leapAcross the brink where sorrow triedTo drown within the amber tide;Because the looks, whose ripples kissedThe trembling lids through tender mist,Were dazzled with a radiant gleam—Because of this I call her "Dream."
Because the roses growing wildAbout her features when she smiledWere ever dewed with tears that fellWith tenderness ineffable;Because her lips might spill a kissThat, dripping in a world like this,Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter streamTo sweetness—so I called her "Dream."
Because I could not understandThe magic touches of a handThat seemed, beneath her strange control,To smooth the plumage of the soulAnd calm it, till, with folded wings,It half forgot its flutterings,And, nestled in her palm, did seemTo trill a song that called her "Dream."
Because I saw her, in a sleepAs dark and desolate and deepAnd fleeting as the taunting nightThat flings a vision of delightTo some lorn martyr as he liesIn slumber ere the day he dies—Because she vanished like a gleamOf glory, do I call her "Dream."
HE CALLED HER INIHe called her in from me and shut the door.And she so loved the sunshine and the sky!—She loved them even better yet than IThat ne'er knew dearth of them—my mother dead,Nature had nursed me in her lap instead:And I had grown a dark and eerie childThat rarely smiled,Save when, shut all alone in grasses high,Looking straight up in God's great lonesome skyAnd coaxing Mother to smile back on me.'Twas lying thus, this fair girl suddenlyCame to me, nestled in the fields besideA pleasant-seeming home, with doorway wide—The sunshine beating in upon the floorLike golden rain.—O sweet, sweet face above me, turn againAnd leave me! I had cried, but that an acheWithin my throat so gripped it I could makeNo sound but a thick sobbing. Cowering so,I felt her light hand laidUpon my hair—a touch that ne'er beforeHad tamed me thus, all soothed and unafraid—It seemed the touch the children used to knowWhen Christ was here, so dear it was—so dear,—At once I loved her as the leaves love dewIn midmost summer when the days are new.Barely an hour I knew her, yet a curlOf silken sunshine did she clip for meOut of the bright May-morning of her hair,And bound and gave it to me laughingly,And caught my hands and called me"Little girl,"Tiptoeing, as she spoke, to kiss me there!And I stood dazed and dumb for very stressOf my great happiness.She plucked me by the gown, nor saw how meanThe raiment—drew me with her everywhere:Smothered her face in tufts of grasses green:Put up her dainty hands and peeped between
HE CALLED HER IN
I
He called her in from me and shut the door.And she so loved the sunshine and the sky!—She loved them even better yet than IThat ne'er knew dearth of them—my mother dead,Nature had nursed me in her lap instead:And I had grown a dark and eerie childThat rarely smiled,Save when, shut all alone in grasses high,Looking straight up in God's great lonesome skyAnd coaxing Mother to smile back on me.'Twas lying thus, this fair girl suddenlyCame to me, nestled in the fields besideA pleasant-seeming home, with doorway wide—The sunshine beating in upon the floorLike golden rain.—O sweet, sweet face above me, turn againAnd leave me! I had cried, but that an acheWithin my throat so gripped it I could makeNo sound but a thick sobbing. Cowering so,I felt her light hand laidUpon my hair—a touch that ne'er beforeHad tamed me thus, all soothed and unafraid—It seemed the touch the children used to knowWhen Christ was here, so dear it was—so dear,—At once I loved her as the leaves love dewIn midmost summer when the days are new.Barely an hour I knew her, yet a curlOf silken sunshine did she clip for meOut of the bright May-morning of her hair,And bound and gave it to me laughingly,And caught my hands and called me"Little girl,"Tiptoeing, as she spoke, to kiss me there!And I stood dazed and dumb for very stressOf my great happiness.She plucked me by the gown, nor saw how meanThe raiment—drew me with her everywhere:Smothered her face in tufts of grasses green:Put up her dainty hands and peeped between
Her fingers at the blossoms—crooned and talkedTo them in strange, glad whispers, as we walked,—Saidthisone was her angel mother—this,Her baby-sister—come back, for a kiss,Clean from the Good-World!—smiled and kissed them, thenClosed her soft eyes and kissed them o'er again.And so did she beguile me—so we played,—She was the dazzling Shine—I, the dark Shade—And we did mingle like to these, and thus,Together, madeThe perfect summer, pure and glorious.So blent we, till a harsh voice broke uponOur happiness.—She, startled as a fawn,Cried, "Oh, 'tis Father!"—all the blossoms goneFrom out her cheeks as those from out her grasp.—Harsher the voice came:—She could only gaspAffrightedly, "Good-bye!—good-bye! good-bye!"And lo, I stood alone, with that harsh cryRinging a new and unknown sense of shameThrough soul and frame,And, with wet eyes, repeating o'er and o'er,—"He called her in from me and shut the door!"IIHe called her in from me and shut the door!And I went wandering alone again—So lonely—O so very lonely then,I thought no little sallow star, aloneIn all a world of twilight, e'er had knownSuch utter loneliness. But that I woreAbove my heart that gleaming tress of hairTo lighten up the night of my despair,I think I might have groped into my graveNor cared to waveThe ferns above it with a breath of prayer.And how I hungered for the sweet, sweet faceThat bent above me in my hiding-placeThat day amid the grasses there besideHer pleasant home!—"Herpleasanthome!" I sighed,Remembering;—then shut my teeth and feignedThe harsh voice callingme,—then clinched my nailsSo deeply in my palms, the sharp wounds pained,And tossed my face toward heaven, as one who palesIn splendid martrydom, with soul serene,As near to God as high the guillotine.
Her fingers at the blossoms—crooned and talkedTo them in strange, glad whispers, as we walked,—Saidthisone was her angel mother—this,Her baby-sister—come back, for a kiss,Clean from the Good-World!—smiled and kissed them, thenClosed her soft eyes and kissed them o'er again.And so did she beguile me—so we played,—She was the dazzling Shine—I, the dark Shade—And we did mingle like to these, and thus,Together, madeThe perfect summer, pure and glorious.So blent we, till a harsh voice broke uponOur happiness.—She, startled as a fawn,Cried, "Oh, 'tis Father!"—all the blossoms goneFrom out her cheeks as those from out her grasp.—Harsher the voice came:—She could only gaspAffrightedly, "Good-bye!—good-bye! good-bye!"And lo, I stood alone, with that harsh cryRinging a new and unknown sense of shameThrough soul and frame,And, with wet eyes, repeating o'er and o'er,—"He called her in from me and shut the door!"
II
He called her in from me and shut the door!And I went wandering alone again—So lonely—O so very lonely then,I thought no little sallow star, aloneIn all a world of twilight, e'er had knownSuch utter loneliness. But that I woreAbove my heart that gleaming tress of hairTo lighten up the night of my despair,I think I might have groped into my graveNor cared to waveThe ferns above it with a breath of prayer.And how I hungered for the sweet, sweet faceThat bent above me in my hiding-placeThat day amid the grasses there besideHer pleasant home!—"Herpleasanthome!" I sighed,Remembering;—then shut my teeth and feignedThe harsh voice callingme,—then clinched my nailsSo deeply in my palms, the sharp wounds pained,And tossed my face toward heaven, as one who palesIn splendid martrydom, with soul serene,As near to God as high the guillotine.
And I hadenviedher? Not that—O no!But I had longed for some sweet haven so!—Wherein the tempest-beaten heart might rideSometimes at peaceful anchor, and abideWhere those that loved me touched me with their hands,And looked upon me with glad eyes, and slippedSmooth fingers o'er my brow, and lulled the strandsOf my wild tresses, as they backward tippedMy yearning face and kissed it satisfied.Then bitterly I murmured as before,—"He called her in from me and shut the door!"IIIHe called her in from me and shut the door!After long struggling with my pride and pain—A weary while it seemed, in which the moreI held myself from her, the greater fainWas I to look upon her face again;—At last—at last—half conscious where my feetWere faring, I stood waist-deep in the sweetGreen grasses there where sheFirst came to me.—The very blossoms she had plucked that day,And, at her father's voice, had cast away,Around me lay,Still bright and blooming in these eyes of mine;And as I gathered each one eagerly,I pressed it to my lips and drank the wineHer kisses left there for the honey-bee.Then, after I had laid them with the tressOf her bright hair with lingering tenderness,I, turning, crept on to the hedge that boundHer pleasant-seeming home—but all aroundWas never sign of her!—The windows allWere blinded; and I heard no rippling fallOf her glad laugh, nor any harsh voice call;—But clutching to the tangled grasses, caughtA sound as though a strong man bowed his headAnd sobbed alone—unloved—uncomforted!—And then straightway beforeMy tearless eyes, all vividly, was wroughtA vision that is with me evermore:—A little girl that lies asleep, nor hearsNor heeds not any voice nor fall of tears.—And I sit singing o'er and o'er and o'er,—"God called her in from him and shut the door!"
And I hadenviedher? Not that—O no!But I had longed for some sweet haven so!—Wherein the tempest-beaten heart might rideSometimes at peaceful anchor, and abideWhere those that loved me touched me with their hands,And looked upon me with glad eyes, and slippedSmooth fingers o'er my brow, and lulled the strandsOf my wild tresses, as they backward tippedMy yearning face and kissed it satisfied.Then bitterly I murmured as before,—"He called her in from me and shut the door!"
III
He called her in from me and shut the door!After long struggling with my pride and pain—A weary while it seemed, in which the moreI held myself from her, the greater fainWas I to look upon her face again;—At last—at last—half conscious where my feetWere faring, I stood waist-deep in the sweetGreen grasses there where sheFirst came to me.—The very blossoms she had plucked that day,And, at her father's voice, had cast away,Around me lay,Still bright and blooming in these eyes of mine;And as I gathered each one eagerly,I pressed it to my lips and drank the wineHer kisses left there for the honey-bee.Then, after I had laid them with the tressOf her bright hair with lingering tenderness,I, turning, crept on to the hedge that boundHer pleasant-seeming home—but all aroundWas never sign of her!—The windows allWere blinded; and I heard no rippling fallOf her glad laugh, nor any harsh voice call;—But clutching to the tangled grasses, caughtA sound as though a strong man bowed his headAnd sobbed alone—unloved—uncomforted!—And then straightway beforeMy tearless eyes, all vividly, was wroughtA vision that is with me evermore:—A little girl that lies asleep, nor hearsNor heeds not any voice nor fall of tears.—And I sit singing o'er and o'er and o'er,—"God called her in from him and shut the door!"
HER FACE AND BROWAh, help me! but her face and browAre lovelier than lilies areBeneath the light of moon and starThat smile as they are smiling now—White lilies in a pallid swoonOf sweetest white beneath the moon—White lilies, in a flood of brightPure lucidness of liquid lightCascading down some plenilune,When all the azure overheadBlooms like a dazzling daisy-bed.—So luminous her face and brow,The luster of their glory, shedIn memory, even, blinds me now.HER BEAUTIFUL EYESO her beautiful eyes! they are blue as the dewOn the violet's bloom when the morning is new,And the light of their love is the gleam of the sunO'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows runAs the morn shifts the mists and the clouds from the skies-So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes.And her beautiful eyes are as mid-day to me,When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee,And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat,And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweetAnd delirious breaths of the air's lullabies—So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes.O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine ownAs a glory glanced down from the glare of the Throne;And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afarFell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star,And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise—So I groped through the night of her beautiful eyes.
HER FACE AND BROW
Ah, help me! but her face and browAre lovelier than lilies areBeneath the light of moon and starThat smile as they are smiling now—White lilies in a pallid swoonOf sweetest white beneath the moon—White lilies, in a flood of brightPure lucidness of liquid lightCascading down some plenilune,When all the azure overheadBlooms like a dazzling daisy-bed.—So luminous her face and brow,The luster of their glory, shedIn memory, even, blinds me now.
HER BEAUTIFUL EYES
O her beautiful eyes! they are blue as the dewOn the violet's bloom when the morning is new,And the light of their love is the gleam of the sunO'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows runAs the morn shifts the mists and the clouds from the skies-So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes.
And her beautiful eyes are as mid-day to me,When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee,And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat,And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweetAnd delirious breaths of the air's lullabies—So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes.
O her beautiful eyes! they have smitten mine ownAs a glory glanced down from the glare of the Throne;And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afarFell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star,And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise—So I groped through the night of her beautiful eyes.
WHEN SHE COMES HOMEWhen she comes home again! A thousand waysI fashion, to myself, the tendernessOf my glad welcome: I shall tremble—yes;And touch her, as when first in the old daysI touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraiseMine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress.Then silence: And the perfume of her dress:The room will sway a little, and a hazeCloy eyesight—soulsight, even—for a space:And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,To know that I so ill deserve the placeHer arms make for me; and the sobbing noteI stay with kisses, ere the tearful faceAgain is hidden in the old embrace.
WHEN SHE COMES HOME
When she comes home again! A thousand waysI fashion, to myself, the tendernessOf my glad welcome: I shall tremble—yes;And touch her, as when first in the old daysI touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraiseMine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress.Then silence: And the perfume of her dress:The room will sway a little, and a hazeCloy eyesight—soulsight, even—for a space:And tears—yes; and the ache here in the throat,To know that I so ill deserve the placeHer arms make for me; and the sobbing noteI stay with kisses, ere the tearful faceAgain is hidden in the old embrace.
LET US FORGETLet us forget. What matters it that weOnce reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago,And talked of love, and let our voices low,And ruled for some brief sessions royally?What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe?It has availed not anything, and soLet it go by that we may better knowHow poor a thing is lost to you and me.But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yetDid thrill you not enough to shake the dewFrom your drenched lids—and missed, with no regret,Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you:And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wetWith all this waste of tears, let us forget!
LET US FORGET
Let us forget. What matters it that weOnce reigned o'er happy realms of long-ago,And talked of love, and let our voices low,And ruled for some brief sessions royally?What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe?It has availed not anything, and soLet it go by that we may better knowHow poor a thing is lost to you and me.But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yetDid thrill you not enough to shake the dewFrom your drenched lids—and missed, with no regret,Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you:And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wetWith all this waste of tears, let us forget!
LEONAINIELeonainie—Angels named her;And they took the lightOf the laughing stars and framed herIn a smile of white;And they made her hair of gloomyMidnight, and her eyes of bloomyMoonshine, and they brought her to meIn the solemn night.—In a solemn night of summer,When my heart of gloomBlossomed up to greet the comerLike a rose in bloom;All forebodings that distressed meI forgot as Joy caressed me-(LyingJoy! that caught and pressed meIn the arms of doom!)Only spake the little lisperIn the Angel-tongue;Yet I, listening, heard her whisper—"Songs are only sungHere below that they may grieve you-Tales but told you to deceive you,—So must Leonainie leave youWhile her love is young,"Then God smiled and it was morningMatchless and supremeHeaven's glory seemed adorningEarth with its esteem:Every heart but mine seemed giftedWith the voice of prayer, and liftedWhere my Leonainie driftedFrom me like a dream.
LEONAINIE
Leonainie—Angels named her;And they took the lightOf the laughing stars and framed herIn a smile of white;And they made her hair of gloomyMidnight, and her eyes of bloomyMoonshine, and they brought her to meIn the solemn night.—
In a solemn night of summer,When my heart of gloomBlossomed up to greet the comerLike a rose in bloom;All forebodings that distressed meI forgot as Joy caressed me-(LyingJoy! that caught and pressed meIn the arms of doom!)
Only spake the little lisperIn the Angel-tongue;Yet I, listening, heard her whisper—"Songs are only sungHere below that they may grieve you-Tales but told you to deceive you,—So must Leonainie leave youWhile her love is young,"
Then God smiled and it was morningMatchless and supremeHeaven's glory seemed adorningEarth with its esteem:Every heart but mine seemed giftedWith the voice of prayer, and liftedWhere my Leonainie driftedFrom me like a dream.
HER WAITING FACEIn some strange placeOf long-lost lands he finds her waiting face—Comes marveling upon it, unaware,Set moonwise in the midnight of her hair.
HER WAITING FACE
In some strange placeOf long-lost lands he finds her waiting face—Comes marveling upon it, unaware,Set moonwise in the midnight of her hair.
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEWIAs one in sorrow looks uponThe dead face of a loyal friend,By the dim light of New Year's dawnI saw the Old Year end.Upon the pallid features layThe dear old smile—so warm and brightEre thus its cheer had died awayIn ashes of delight.The hands that I had learned to loveWith strength of passion half divine,Were folded now, all heedless ofThe emptiness of mine.
THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW
I
As one in sorrow looks uponThe dead face of a loyal friend,By the dim light of New Year's dawnI saw the Old Year end.
Upon the pallid features layThe dear old smile—so warm and brightEre thus its cheer had died awayIn ashes of delight.
The hands that I had learned to loveWith strength of passion half divine,Were folded now, all heedless ofThe emptiness of mine.
The eyes that once had shed their brightSweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,And ever lidded from the lightThat made them beautiful.IIThe chimes of bells were in the air,And sounds of mirth in hall and street,With pealing laughter everywhereAnd throb of dancing feet:The mirth and the convivial dinOf revelers in wanton glee,With tunes of harp and violinIn tangled harmony.But with a sense of nameless dread,I turned me, from the merry faceOf this newcomer, to my dead;And, kneeling there a space,I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:—By this dear face so fixed and cold,O Lord, let not this New Year beAs happy as the old!THEIR SWEET SORROWThey meet to say farewell: Their wayOf saying this is hard to say.—He holds her hand an instant, whollyDistressed—and she unclasps it slowly.He bendshisgaze evasivelyOver the printed page that sheRecurs to, with a new-moon shoulderGlimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.The clock, beneath its crystal cup,Discreetly clicks—"Quick! Act! Speak up!"A tension circles both her slenderWrists—and her raised eyes flash in splendor,Even as he feels his dazzled own.—Then, blindingly, round either thrown,They feel a stress of arms that everStrain tremblingly—and "Never! Never!"Is whispered brokenly, with halfA sob, like a belated laugh,—While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes,Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.
The eyes that once had shed their brightSweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,And ever lidded from the lightThat made them beautiful.
II
The chimes of bells were in the air,And sounds of mirth in hall and street,With pealing laughter everywhereAnd throb of dancing feet:
The mirth and the convivial dinOf revelers in wanton glee,With tunes of harp and violinIn tangled harmony.
But with a sense of nameless dread,I turned me, from the merry faceOf this newcomer, to my dead;And, kneeling there a space,
I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:—By this dear face so fixed and cold,O Lord, let not this New Year beAs happy as the old!
THEIR SWEET SORROW
They meet to say farewell: Their wayOf saying this is hard to say.—He holds her hand an instant, whollyDistressed—and she unclasps it slowly.
He bendshisgaze evasivelyOver the printed page that sheRecurs to, with a new-moon shoulderGlimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.
The clock, beneath its crystal cup,Discreetly clicks—"Quick! Act! Speak up!"A tension circles both her slenderWrists—and her raised eyes flash in splendor,
Even as he feels his dazzled own.—Then, blindingly, round either thrown,They feel a stress of arms that everStrain tremblingly—and "Never! Never!"
Is whispered brokenly, with halfA sob, like a belated laugh,—While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes,Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.
JUDITHO Her eyes are amber-fine—Dark and deep as wells of wine,While her smile is like the noonSplendor of a day of June,If she sorrow—lo! her faceIt is like a flowery spaceIn bright meadows, overlaidWith light clouds and lulled with shade.If she laugh—it is the trillOf the wayward whippoorwillOver upland pastures, heardEchoed by the mocking-birdIn dim thickets dense with bloomAnd blurred cloyings of perfume.If she sigh—- a zephyr swellsOver odorous asphodelsAnd wall lilies in lush plotsOf moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.Then, the soft touch of her hand—Takes all breath to understandWhat to liken it thereto!—Never roseleaf rinsed with dewMight slip soother-suave than slipsHer slow palm, the while her lipsSwoon through mine, with kiss on kissSweet as heated honey is.
JUDITH
O Her eyes are amber-fine—Dark and deep as wells of wine,While her smile is like the noonSplendor of a day of June,If she sorrow—lo! her faceIt is like a flowery spaceIn bright meadows, overlaidWith light clouds and lulled with shade.If she laugh—it is the trillOf the wayward whippoorwillOver upland pastures, heardEchoed by the mocking-birdIn dim thickets dense with bloomAnd blurred cloyings of perfume.If she sigh—- a zephyr swellsOver odorous asphodelsAnd wall lilies in lush plotsOf moon-drown'd forget-me-nots.Then, the soft touch of her hand—Takes all breath to understandWhat to liken it thereto!—Never roseleaf rinsed with dewMight slip soother-suave than slipsHer slow palm, the while her lipsSwoon through mine, with kiss on kissSweet as heated honey is.
HE AND IJust drifting on together—He and I—As through the balmy weatherOf JulyDrift two thistle-tufts imbeddedEach in each—by zephyrs wedded—Touring upward, giddy-headed,For the sky.And, veering up and onward,Do we seemForever drifting dawnwardIn a dream,Where we meet song-birds that know us,And the winds their kisses blow us,While the years flow far below usLike a stream.And we are happy—very—He and I—Aye, even glad and merryThough on highThe heavens are sometimes shroudedBy the midnight storm, and cloudedTill the pallid moon is crowdedFrom the sky.My spirit ne'er expressesAny choiceBut to clothe him with caressesAnd rejoice;And as he laughs, it is inSuch a tone the moonbeams glistenAnd the stars come out to listenTo his voice.And so, whate'er the weather,He and I,—With our lives linked thus together,Float and flyAs two thistle-tufts imbeddedEach in each—by zephyrs wedded—Touring upward, giddy-headed,For the sky.
HE AND I
Just drifting on together—He and I—As through the balmy weatherOf JulyDrift two thistle-tufts imbeddedEach in each—by zephyrs wedded—Touring upward, giddy-headed,For the sky.
And, veering up and onward,Do we seemForever drifting dawnwardIn a dream,Where we meet song-birds that know us,And the winds their kisses blow us,While the years flow far below usLike a stream.
And we are happy—very—He and I—Aye, even glad and merryThough on highThe heavens are sometimes shroudedBy the midnight storm, and cloudedTill the pallid moon is crowdedFrom the sky.
My spirit ne'er expressesAny choiceBut to clothe him with caressesAnd rejoice;And as he laughs, it is inSuch a tone the moonbeams glistenAnd the stars come out to listenTo his voice.
And so, whate'er the weather,He and I,—With our lives linked thus together,Float and flyAs two thistle-tufts imbeddedEach in each—by zephyrs wedded—Touring upward, giddy-headed,For the sky.
THE LOST PATHAlone they walked—their fingers knit together,And swaying listlessly as might a swingWherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weatherOf some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring.Within the clover-fields the tickled cricketLaughed lightly as they loitered down the lane,And from the covert of the hazel-thicketThe squirrel peeped and laughed at them again.The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vasesAlong the road-side in the shadows dim,Went following the blossoms of their facesAs though their sweets must needs be shared with himBetween the pasture bars the wondering cattleStared wistfully, and from their mellow bellsShook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattleFell swooningly away in faint farewells.And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er themAnd folded all the landscape from their eyes,They only knew the dusky path before themWas leading safely on to Paradise.
THE LOST PATH
Alone they walked—their fingers knit together,And swaying listlessly as might a swingWherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weatherOf some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring.
Within the clover-fields the tickled cricketLaughed lightly as they loitered down the lane,And from the covert of the hazel-thicketThe squirrel peeped and laughed at them again.
The bumble-bee that tipped the lily-vasesAlong the road-side in the shadows dim,Went following the blossoms of their facesAs though their sweets must needs be shared with him
Between the pasture bars the wondering cattleStared wistfully, and from their mellow bellsShook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattleFell swooningly away in faint farewells.
And though at last the gloom of night fell o'er themAnd folded all the landscape from their eyes,They only knew the dusky path before themWas leading safely on to Paradise.
MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BEO soul of mine, look out and seeMy bride, my bride that is to be!Reach out with mad, impatient hands,And draw aside futurityAs one might draw a veil aside—And so unveil her where she standsMadonna-like and glorified—The queen of undiscovered landsOf love, to where she beckons me—My bride—my bride that is to be.The shadow of a willow-treeThat wavers on a garden-wallIn summertime may never fallIn attitude as gracefullyAs my fair bride that is to be;—Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brownAs lightly flutter to the lawnAs fall her fairy-feet uponThe path of love she loiters down.—O'er drops of dew she walks, and yetNot one may stain her sandal wet—Aye, she mightdanceupon the wayNor crush a single drop to spray,So airy-like she seems to me,—My bride, my bride that is to be.I know not if her eyes are lightAs summer skies or dark as night,—I only know that they are dimWith mystery: In vain I peerTo make their hidden meaning clear,While o'er their surface, like a tearThat ripples to the silken brim,A look of longing seems to swim
MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE
O soul of mine, look out and seeMy bride, my bride that is to be!Reach out with mad, impatient hands,And draw aside futurityAs one might draw a veil aside—And so unveil her where she standsMadonna-like and glorified—The queen of undiscovered landsOf love, to where she beckons me—My bride—my bride that is to be.The shadow of a willow-treeThat wavers on a garden-wallIn summertime may never fallIn attitude as gracefullyAs my fair bride that is to be;—Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brownAs lightly flutter to the lawnAs fall her fairy-feet uponThe path of love she loiters down.—O'er drops of dew she walks, and yetNot one may stain her sandal wet—Aye, she mightdanceupon the wayNor crush a single drop to spray,So airy-like she seems to me,—My bride, my bride that is to be.
I know not if her eyes are lightAs summer skies or dark as night,—I only know that they are dimWith mystery: In vain I peerTo make their hidden meaning clear,While o'er their surface, like a tearThat ripples to the silken brim,A look of longing seems to swim
All worn and wearylike to me;And then, as suddenly, my sightIs blinded with a smile so bright,Through folded lids I still may seeMy bride, my bride that is to be.Her face is like a night of JuneUpon whose brow the crescent-moonHangs pendant in a diademOf stars, with envy lighting them.—And, like a wild cascade, her hairFloods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist,Till only through a gleaming mistI seem to see a siren there,With lips of love and melodyAnd open arms and heaving breastWherein I fling myself to rest,The while my heart cries hopelesslyFor my fair bride that is to be ...Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes!My bride hath need of no disguise.—But, rather, let her come to meIn such a form as bent aboveMy pillow when in infancyI knew not anything but love.—O let her come from out the landsOf Womanhood—not fairy isles,—And let her come with Woman's handsAnd Woman's eyes of tears and smiles,—With Woman's hopefulness and graceOf patience lighting up her face:And let her diadem be wroughtOf kindly deed and prayerful thought,That ever over all distressMay beam the light of cheerfulness.—And let her feet be brave to fareThe labyrinths of doubt and care,That, following, my own may findThe path to Heaven God designed.—O let her come like this to me—My bride—my bride that is to be.
All worn and wearylike to me;And then, as suddenly, my sightIs blinded with a smile so bright,Through folded lids I still may seeMy bride, my bride that is to be.
Her face is like a night of JuneUpon whose brow the crescent-moonHangs pendant in a diademOf stars, with envy lighting them.—And, like a wild cascade, her hairFloods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist,Till only through a gleaming mistI seem to see a siren there,With lips of love and melodyAnd open arms and heaving breastWherein I fling myself to rest,The while my heart cries hopelesslyFor my fair bride that is to be ...
Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes!My bride hath need of no disguise.—But, rather, let her come to meIn such a form as bent aboveMy pillow when in infancyI knew not anything but love.—O let her come from out the landsOf Womanhood—not fairy isles,—And let her come with Woman's handsAnd Woman's eyes of tears and smiles,—With Woman's hopefulness and graceOf patience lighting up her face:And let her diadem be wroughtOf kindly deed and prayerful thought,That ever over all distressMay beam the light of cheerfulness.—And let her feet be brave to fareThe labyrinths of doubt and care,That, following, my own may findThe path to Heaven God designed.—O let her come like this to me—My bride—my bride that is to be.
I got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone—And all her sisters married off, and none but her and JohnA-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way,And him a blame' old bachelor, confirm'der ev'ry day!I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the timeHe settled in the neighberhood, and hadn't airy a dimeEr dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on!—So I got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone!I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she doneThat all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one,And her without no chances—and the best girl of the pack—An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on,When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John,And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be blineTo not see what a wife they'd git if they got Evaline!I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction sheWas sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly,—She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane,And talk ofher ownmother 'at she'd never see again—Maybe sometimes cry together—though, fer the most part sheWould have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at weFelt lonesomer 'n ever when she'd put her bonnet onAnd say she'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!
I got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone—And all her sisters married off, and none but her and JohnA-livin' all alone there in that lonesome sort o' way,And him a blame' old bachelor, confirm'der ev'ry day!I'd knowed 'em all from childern, and their daddy from the timeHe settled in the neighberhood, and hadn't airy a dimeEr dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on!—So I got to thinkin' of her—both her parents dead and gone!
I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she doneThat all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one,And her without no chances—and the best girl of the pack—An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!And Mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes' take on,When none of 'em was left, you know, but Evaline and John,And jes' declare to goodness 'at the young men must be blineTo not see what a wife they'd git if they got Evaline!
I got to thinkin' of her; in my great affliction sheWas sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neighberly,—She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane,And talk ofher ownmother 'at she'd never see again—Maybe sometimes cry together—though, fer the most part sheWould have the child so riconciled and happy-like 'at weFelt lonesomer 'n ever when she'd put her bonnet onAnd say she'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!
I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,—and more and moreI'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,—Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters goneAnd married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John—You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her lifeFer a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife—'Less some one marriedEvalineand packed her off some day!—So I got to thinkin' of her—and it happened that-away.
I got to thinkin' of her, as I say,—and more and moreI'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,—Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters goneAnd married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John—You might say jes' a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her lifeFer a man 'at hadn't pride enough to git hisse'f a wife—'Less some one marriedEvalineand packed her off some day!—So I got to thinkin' of her—and it happened that-away.
WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUEIWhen my dreams come true—when my dreams come true—Shall I lean from out my casement, in the starlight and the dew,
WHEN MY DREAMS COME TRUE
I
When my dreams come true—when my dreams come true—Shall I lean from out my casement, in the starlight and the dew,
To listen—smile and listen to the tinkle of the stringsOf the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings?And the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view,Shall I vanish from his vision—when my dreams come true?When my dreams come true—shall the simple gown I wearBe changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hairBe raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold,To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold?—Or "the summer of my tresses" shall my lover liken to"The fervor of his passion"—when my dreams come true?IIWhen my dreams come true—I shall bide among the sheavesOf happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leavesShall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun,Till the moon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work is done—Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers doThe meanest sheaf of harvest—when my dreams come true.When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true!True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew;The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eyeThan any lily born of pride that looms against the sky:And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you,My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true.
To listen—smile and listen to the tinkle of the stringsOf the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings?And the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view,Shall I vanish from his vision—when my dreams come true?
When my dreams come true—shall the simple gown I wearBe changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hairBe raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold,To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold?—Or "the summer of my tresses" shall my lover liken to"The fervor of his passion"—when my dreams come true?
II
When my dreams come true—I shall bide among the sheavesOf happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the leavesShall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun,Till the moon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners' work is done—Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers doThe meanest sheaf of harvest—when my dreams come true.When my dreams come true! when my dreams come true!True love in all simplicity is fresh and pure as dew;The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eyeThan any lily born of pride that looms against the sky:And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you,My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true.
NOTHIN' TO SAYNothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me—Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother—where is she?You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:Like her, too, aboutlivin'here,—becauseshecouldn't stay:It'll 'most seem like you was dead—like her!—But I hain't got nothin' to say!She left you her little Bible—writ yer name acrost the page—And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away—Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then!And now yer—how oldairyou? W'y, child, not"twenty!"When?And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day?... I wisht yer mother was livin'!—But—I hain't got nothin' to say!Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there—I'll bresh it off—turn around.(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!)Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
NOTHIN' TO SAY
Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me—Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother—where is she?
You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size;And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes:Like her, too, aboutlivin'here,—becauseshecouldn't stay:It'll 'most seem like you was dead—like her!—But I hain't got nothin' to say!
She left you her little Bible—writ yer name acrost the page—And left her ear bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away—Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then!And now yer—how oldairyou? W'y, child, not"twenty!"When?And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day?... I wisht yer mother was livin'!—But—I hain't got nothin' to say!
Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found!There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there—I'll bresh it off—turn around.(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!)Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!
IKE WALTON'S PRAYERI crave, dear Lord,No boundless hoardOf gold and gear,Nor jewels fine,Nor lands, nor kine,Nor treasure-heaps of anything.—Let but a little hut be mineWhere at the hearthstone I may hearThe cricket sing,And have the shineOf one glad woman's eyes to make,For my poor sake,Our simple home a place divine;—Just the wee cot—the cricket's chirr—Love, and the smiling face of her.I pray not forGreat riches, norFor vast estates, and castle-halls,—Give me to hear the bare footfallsOf children o'erAn oaken floor,New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespreadWith but the tiny coverletAnd pillow for the baby's head;And pray Thou, mayThe door stand open and the daySend ever in a gentle breeze,With fragrance from the locust-trees,And drowsy moan of doves, and blurOf robin-chirps, and drone of bees,
IKE WALTON'S PRAYER
I crave, dear Lord,No boundless hoardOf gold and gear,Nor jewels fine,Nor lands, nor kine,Nor treasure-heaps of anything.—Let but a little hut be mineWhere at the hearthstone I may hearThe cricket sing,And have the shineOf one glad woman's eyes to make,For my poor sake,Our simple home a place divine;—Just the wee cot—the cricket's chirr—Love, and the smiling face of her.
I pray not forGreat riches, norFor vast estates, and castle-halls,—Give me to hear the bare footfallsOf children o'erAn oaken floor,New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespreadWith but the tiny coverletAnd pillow for the baby's head;And pray Thou, mayThe door stand open and the daySend ever in a gentle breeze,With fragrance from the locust-trees,And drowsy moan of doves, and blurOf robin-chirps, and drone of bees,
With afterhushes of the stirOf intermingling sounds, and thenThe good-wife and the smile of herFilling the silences again—The cricket's call,And the wee cot,Dear Lord of all,Deny me not!I pray not thatMen tremble atMy power of placeAnd lordly sway,—I only pray for simple graceTo look my neighbor in the faceFull honestly from day to day—Yield me his horny palm to hold,And I'll not prayFor gold;—The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,It hath the kingliest smile on earth—The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,Hath never need of coronet.And so I reach,Dear Lord, to Thee,And do beseechThou givest meThe wee cot, and the cricket's chirr,Love, and the glad sweet face of her.
With afterhushes of the stirOf intermingling sounds, and thenThe good-wife and the smile of herFilling the silences again—The cricket's call,And the wee cot,Dear Lord of all,Deny me not!
I pray not thatMen tremble atMy power of placeAnd lordly sway,—I only pray for simple graceTo look my neighbor in the faceFull honestly from day to day—Yield me his horny palm to hold,And I'll not prayFor gold;—The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,It hath the kingliest smile on earth—The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,Hath never need of coronet.And so I reach,Dear Lord, to Thee,And do beseechThou givest meThe wee cot, and the cricket's chirr,Love, and the glad sweet face of her.
ILLILEOIllileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales—The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales;The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails;And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone,With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone,There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertoneSo mystically, musically mellow as your own.You whispered low, Illileo—so low the leaves were mute,And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit;And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute:And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss,What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this?—Let them reeling reach to win me—- even Heaven I would miss,Grasping earthward!—I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss!And blossoms should grow odorless—and lilies all aghast—And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast,Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last.—So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throwsLike a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos,A moan goes with the music that may vex the high reposeOf a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.
ILLILEO
Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales—The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered scales;The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails;And all your words were sweeter than the notes of nightingales.
Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone,With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved of stone,There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertoneSo mystically, musically mellow as your own.
You whispered low, Illileo—so low the leaves were mute,And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain pursuit;And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute:And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the fruit.Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss,What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus in this?—Let them reeling reach to win me—- even Heaven I would miss,Grasping earthward!—I would cling here, though I clung by just a kiss!
And blossoms should grow odorless—and lilies all aghast—And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through the vast,Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last.—So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the past.
Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throwsLike a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos,A moan goes with the music that may vex the high reposeOf a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a rose.
THE WIFE-BLESSÉDIn youth he wrought, with eyes ablurLorn-faced and long of hair—In youth—in youth he painted herA sister of the air—Could clasp her not, but felt the stirOf pinions everywhere.IIShe lured his gaze, in braver days,And tranced him sirenwise;And he did paint her, through a hazeOf sullen paradise,With scars of kisses on her faceAnd embers in her eyes.IIIAnd now—nor dream nor wild conceit—Though faltering, as before—Through tears he paints her, as is meet,Tracing the dear face o'erWith lilied patience meek and sweetAs Mother Mary wore.
THE WIFE-BLESSÉD
In youth he wrought, with eyes ablurLorn-faced and long of hair—In youth—in youth he painted herA sister of the air—Could clasp her not, but felt the stirOf pinions everywhere.
II
She lured his gaze, in braver days,And tranced him sirenwise;And he did paint her, through a hazeOf sullen paradise,With scars of kisses on her faceAnd embers in her eyes.
III
And now—nor dream nor wild conceit—Though faltering, as before—Through tears he paints her, as is meet,Tracing the dear face o'erWith lilied patience meek and sweetAs Mother Mary wore.
MY MARYMy Mary, O my Mary!The simmer-skies are blue;The dawnin' brings the dazzle,An' the gloamin' brings the dew?—The mirk o' nicht the gloryO' the moon, an' kindles, too,The stars that shift aboon the lift.—-But nae thing brings me you!Where is it, O my Mary,Ye are biding a' the while?I ha' wended by your window—I ha' waited by the stile,An' up an' down the riverI ha' won for mony a mile,Yet never found, adrift or drown'd,Your lang-belated smile.Is it forgot, my Mary,How glad we used to be?—The simmer-time when bonny bloomedThe auld trysting-tree,—How there I carved the name for you,An' you the name for me;An' the gloamin' kenned it onlyWhen we kissed sae tenderly.Speek ance to me, my Mary!—-But whisper in my earAs light as ony sleeper's breath,An' a' my soul will hear;My heart shall stap its beatingAn' the soughing atmosphereBe hushed the while I leaning smileAn' listen to you, dear!
MY MARY
My Mary, O my Mary!The simmer-skies are blue;The dawnin' brings the dazzle,An' the gloamin' brings the dew?—The mirk o' nicht the gloryO' the moon, an' kindles, too,The stars that shift aboon the lift.—-But nae thing brings me you!
Where is it, O my Mary,Ye are biding a' the while?I ha' wended by your window—I ha' waited by the stile,An' up an' down the riverI ha' won for mony a mile,Yet never found, adrift or drown'd,Your lang-belated smile.
Is it forgot, my Mary,How glad we used to be?—The simmer-time when bonny bloomedThe auld trysting-tree,—How there I carved the name for you,An' you the name for me;An' the gloamin' kenned it onlyWhen we kissed sae tenderly.
My Mary, O my Mary!The blossoms bring the bees;The sunshine brings the blossoms,An' the leaves on a' the trees;The simmer brings the sunshineAn' the fragrance o' the breeze,—But O wi'out you, Mary,I care nae thing for these!
We were sae happy, Mary!O think how ance we said—Wad ane o' us gae fickle,Or are o' us lie dead,—To feel anither's kissesWe wad feign the auld instead,And ken the ither's footstepsIn the green grass owerhead.My Mary, O my Mary!Are ye daughter o' the air,That ye vanish aye before meAs I follow everywhere?—Or is it ye are onlyBut a mortal, wan wi' care?—Syne I search through a' the kirkyirdAn' I dinna find ye there!
We were sae happy, Mary!O think how ance we said—Wad ane o' us gae fickle,Or are o' us lie dead,—To feel anither's kissesWe wad feign the auld instead,And ken the ither's footstepsIn the green grass owerhead.
My Mary, O my Mary!Are ye daughter o' the air,That ye vanish aye before meAs I follow everywhere?—Or is it ye are onlyBut a mortal, wan wi' care?—Syne I search through a' the kirkyirdAn' I dinna find ye there!
HOME AT NIGHTWhen chirping crickets fainter cry,And pale stars blossom in the sky,And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloomAnd blurred the butterfly:When locust-blossoms fleck the walk,And up the tiger-lily stalkThe glow-worm crawls and clings and fallsAnd glimmers down the garden-walls:When buzzing things, with double wingsOf crisp and raspish flutterings,Go whizzing by so very nighOne thinks of fangs and stings:—O then, within, is stilled the dinOf crib she rocks the baby in,And heart and gate and latch's weightAre lifted—- and the lips of Kate,
HOME AT NIGHT
When chirping crickets fainter cry,And pale stars blossom in the sky,And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloomAnd blurred the butterfly:
When locust-blossoms fleck the walk,And up the tiger-lily stalkThe glow-worm crawls and clings and fallsAnd glimmers down the garden-walls:
When buzzing things, with double wingsOf crisp and raspish flutterings,Go whizzing by so very nighOne thinks of fangs and stings:—
O then, within, is stilled the dinOf crib she rocks the baby in,And heart and gate and latch's weightAre lifted—- and the lips of Kate,
WHEN LIDE MARRIEDHIMWhen Lide marriedhim—w'y, she had to jes dee-fyThe whole poppilation!—But she never bat' an eye!Her parents begged, andthreatened—she must give him up—thatheWuz jes "a common drunkard!"—And hewuz, appearantly.—Swore they'd chase him off the placeEf he ever showed his face—Long after she'delopedwith him andmarriedhim fer shore!—When Lide marriedhim, it wuz"Katy, bar the door!"When Lide marriedhim—Well! she had to go and beAhired girlin town somewheres—while he tromped round to seeWhathecould git thathecould do,—you might say, jes sawed woodFrom door to door!—that's what he done—'cause that wuz best he could!And the strangest thing, i jing!Wuz, he didn'tdrinka thing,—But jes got down to bizness, like he somewaywantedto,When Lide marriedhim, like they warned hernotto do!When Lide marriedhim—er, ruther,hadben marriedA little up'ards of a year—some feller come and carriedThathired girlaway with him—a rutherstylishfellerIn a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller:And he whispered, as they drivTords the country,"Now we'll live!"—Andsomepin' elseshelaughedto hear, though both her eyes wuz dim,'Bout"trustin' Love and Heav'n above, sence Lide marriedhim!"
WHEN LIDE MARRIEDHIM
When Lide marriedhim—w'y, she had to jes dee-fyThe whole poppilation!—But she never bat' an eye!Her parents begged, andthreatened—she must give him up—thatheWuz jes "a common drunkard!"—And hewuz, appearantly.—Swore they'd chase him off the placeEf he ever showed his face—Long after she'delopedwith him andmarriedhim fer shore!—When Lide marriedhim, it wuz"Katy, bar the door!"
When Lide marriedhim—Well! she had to go and beAhired girlin town somewheres—while he tromped round to seeWhathecould git thathecould do,—you might say, jes sawed woodFrom door to door!—that's what he done—'cause that wuz best he could!And the strangest thing, i jing!Wuz, he didn'tdrinka thing,—But jes got down to bizness, like he somewaywantedto,When Lide marriedhim, like they warned hernotto do!
When Lide marriedhim—er, ruther,hadben marriedA little up'ards of a year—some feller come and carriedThathired girlaway with him—a rutherstylishfellerIn a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller:And he whispered, as they drivTords the country,"Now we'll live!"—Andsomepin' elseshelaughedto hear, though both her eyes wuz dim,'Bout"trustin' Love and Heav'n above, sence Lide marriedhim!"
HER HAIRThe beauty of her hair bewilders me—Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tideSwirling about the ears on either sideAnd storming around the neck tumultuously:Or like the lights of old antiquityThrough mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide,Spilled moltenly o'er figures deifiedIn chastest marble, nude of drapery.And so I love it.—Either unconfined;Or plaited in close braidings manifold;Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twinedIn careless knots whose coilings come unrolledAt any lightest kiss; or by the windWhipped out in flossy ravelings of gold.LAST NIGHT—AND THISLast night—how deep the darkness was!And well I knew its depths, becauseI waded it from shore to shore,Thinking to reach the light no more.She would not even touch my hand.—The winds rose and the cedars fannedThe moon out, and the stars fled backIn heaven and hid—and all was black!But ah! To-night a summons came,Signed with a teardrop for a name,—For as I wondering kissed it, lo,A line beneath it told me so.Andnowthe moon hangs over meA disk of dazzling brilliancy,And every star-tip stabs my sightWith splintered glitterings of light!
HER HAIR
The beauty of her hair bewilders me—Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tideSwirling about the ears on either sideAnd storming around the neck tumultuously:Or like the lights of old antiquityThrough mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide,Spilled moltenly o'er figures deifiedIn chastest marble, nude of drapery.And so I love it.—Either unconfined;Or plaited in close braidings manifold;Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twinedIn careless knots whose coilings come unrolledAt any lightest kiss; or by the windWhipped out in flossy ravelings of gold.
LAST NIGHT—AND THIS
Last night—how deep the darkness was!And well I knew its depths, becauseI waded it from shore to shore,Thinking to reach the light no more.
She would not even touch my hand.—The winds rose and the cedars fannedThe moon out, and the stars fled backIn heaven and hid—and all was black!
But ah! To-night a summons came,Signed with a teardrop for a name,—For as I wondering kissed it, lo,A line beneath it told me so.
Andnowthe moon hangs over meA disk of dazzling brilliancy,And every star-tip stabs my sightWith splintered glitterings of light!
A DISCOURAGING MODELJust the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing,Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,And a knot of red roses sown in under thereWhere the shadows are lost in her hair.
A DISCOURAGING MODEL
Just the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing,With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing,Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air,And a knot of red roses sown in under thereWhere the shadows are lost in her hair.
Then a cameo face, carven in on a groundOf that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faintAnd as sweet as the masters of old used to paintRound the lips of their favorite saint!And that lace at her throat—and the fluttering handsSnowing there, with a grace that no art understandsThe flakes of their touches—first fluttering atThe bow—then the roses—the hair—and then thatLittle tilt of the Gainsborough hat.
Then a cameo face, carven in on a groundOf that shadowy hair where the roses are wound;And the gleam of a smile O as fair and as faintAnd as sweet as the masters of old used to paintRound the lips of their favorite saint!
What artist on earth, with a model like this,Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss,Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair,Nor the gold of her smile—O what artist could dareTo expect a result so fair?