The blackened walnut in its spicy hullRots where it fell;And, in the orchard, where the trees stand full,The pear's ripe bellDrops; and the log-house in the bramble lane,From whose low doorStretch yellowing acres of the corn and cane,He sees once more.The cat-bird sings upon its porch of pine;And o'er its gate,All slender-podded, twists the trumpet-vine,A leafy weight;And in the woodland, by the spring, mayhap,With eyes of joyAgain he bends to set a rabbit-trap,A brown-faced boy.Then, whistling, through the underbrush he goes,Out of the wood,Where, with young cheeks, red as anAutumnrose,Beneath her hood,His sweetheart waits, her school-books on her arm;And now it seemsBeside his chair he sees his wife's fair form—The old man dreams.
The blackened walnut in its spicy hullRots where it fell;And, in the orchard, where the trees stand full,The pear's ripe bellDrops; and the log-house in the bramble lane,From whose low doorStretch yellowing acres of the corn and cane,He sees once more.
The cat-bird sings upon its porch of pine;And o'er its gate,All slender-podded, twists the trumpet-vine,A leafy weight;And in the woodland, by the spring, mayhap,With eyes of joyAgain he bends to set a rabbit-trap,A brown-faced boy.
Then, whistling, through the underbrush he goes,Out of the wood,Where, with young cheeks, red as anAutumnrose,Beneath her hood,His sweetheart waits, her school-books on her arm;And now it seemsBeside his chair he sees his wife's fair form—The old man dreams.
Ifound myself among the treesWhat time the reapers ceased to reap;And in the berry blooms the beesHuddled wee heads and went to sleep,Rocked by the silence and the breeze.I saw the red fox leave his lair,A shaggy shadow, on the knoll;And, tunnelling his thoroughfareBeneath the loam, I watched the mole—Stealth's own self could not take more care.I heard the death-moth tick and stir,Slow-honeycombing through the bark;I heard the crickets' drowsy chirr,And one lone beetle burr the dark—The sleeping woodland seemed to purr.And then the moon rose; and a whiteLow bough of blossoms—grown almostWhere, ere you died, 'twas our delightTo tryst,—dear heart!—I thought your ghost....The wood is haunted since that night.
Ifound myself among the treesWhat time the reapers ceased to reap;And in the berry blooms the beesHuddled wee heads and went to sleep,Rocked by the silence and the breeze.
I saw the red fox leave his lair,A shaggy shadow, on the knoll;And, tunnelling his thoroughfareBeneath the loam, I watched the mole—Stealth's own self could not take more care.
I heard the death-moth tick and stir,Slow-honeycombing through the bark;I heard the crickets' drowsy chirr,And one lone beetle burr the dark—The sleeping woodland seemed to purr.
And then the moon rose; and a whiteLow bough of blossoms—grown almostWhere, ere you died, 'twas our delightTo tryst,—dear heart!—I thought your ghost....The wood is haunted since that night.
Down through the woods, along the wayThat fords the stream; by rock and tree,Where in the bramble-bell the beeSwings; and through twilights green and grayThe red-bird flashes suddenly,My thoughts went wandering to-day.I found the fields where, row on row,The blackberries hang black with fruit;Where, nesting at the elder's root,The partridge whistles soft and low;The fields, that billow to the footOf those old hills we used to know.There lay the pond, still willow-bound,On whose bright surface, when the hotNoon burnt above, we chased the knotOf water-spiders; while aroundOur heads, like bits of rainbow, shotThe dragonflies without a sound.The pond, above which evening bentTo gaze upon her rosy face;Wherein the twinkling night would placeA vague, inverted firmament,In which the green frogs tuned their bass,And firefly sparkles came and went.The oldtime woods we often ranged,When we were playmates, you and I;The oldtime fields, with boyhood's skyStill blue above them!—Naught was changed!Nothing!—Alas, then tell me whyShould we be? whom long years estranged.
Down through the woods, along the wayThat fords the stream; by rock and tree,Where in the bramble-bell the beeSwings; and through twilights green and grayThe red-bird flashes suddenly,My thoughts went wandering to-day.
I found the fields where, row on row,The blackberries hang black with fruit;Where, nesting at the elder's root,The partridge whistles soft and low;The fields, that billow to the footOf those old hills we used to know.
There lay the pond, still willow-bound,On whose bright surface, when the hotNoon burnt above, we chased the knotOf water-spiders; while aroundOur heads, like bits of rainbow, shotThe dragonflies without a sound.
The pond, above which evening bentTo gaze upon her rosy face;Wherein the twinkling night would placeA vague, inverted firmament,In which the green frogs tuned their bass,And firefly sparkles came and went.
The oldtime woods we often ranged,When we were playmates, you and I;The oldtime fields, with boyhood's skyStill blue above them!—Naught was changed!Nothing!—Alas, then tell me whyShould we be? whom long years estranged.
Come to the hills, the woods are green—The heart is high whenLoveis sweet—There is a brook that flows betweenTwo mossy trees where we can meet,Where we can meet and speak unseen.I hear you laughing in the lane—The heart is high whenLoveis sweet—The clover smells of sun and rainAnd spreads a carpet for our feet,Where we can sit and dream again.Come to the woods, the dusk is here—The heart is high whenLoveis sweet—A bird upon the branches nearSets music to our hearts' glad beat,Our hearts that beat with something dear.I hear your step; the lane is passed;—The heart is high whenLoveis sweet—The little stars come bright and fast,Like happy eyes to see us greet,To see us greet and kiss at last.
Come to the hills, the woods are green—The heart is high whenLoveis sweet—There is a brook that flows betweenTwo mossy trees where we can meet,Where we can meet and speak unseen.
I hear you laughing in the lane—The heart is high whenLoveis sweet—The clover smells of sun and rainAnd spreads a carpet for our feet,Where we can sit and dream again.
Come to the woods, the dusk is here—The heart is high whenLoveis sweet—A bird upon the branches nearSets music to our hearts' glad beat,Our hearts that beat with something dear.
I hear your step; the lane is passed;—The heart is high whenLoveis sweet—The little stars come bright and fast,Like happy eyes to see us greet,To see us greet and kiss at last.
No eve of summer ever can attainThe gladness of that eve of lateJuly,When 'mid the roses, filled with musk and rain,Against the wondrous topaz of the sky,I met you, leaning on the pasture bars,—While heaven and earth grew conscious of the stars.No night of blackest winter can repeatThe bitterness of thatDecembernight,When at your gate, gray-glittering with sleet,Within the glimmering square of window-light,We parted,—long you clung unto my arm,—While heaven and earth surrendered to the storm.
No eve of summer ever can attainThe gladness of that eve of lateJuly,When 'mid the roses, filled with musk and rain,Against the wondrous topaz of the sky,I met you, leaning on the pasture bars,—While heaven and earth grew conscious of the stars.
No night of blackest winter can repeatThe bitterness of thatDecembernight,When at your gate, gray-glittering with sleet,Within the glimmering square of window-light,We parted,—long you clung unto my arm,—While heaven and earth surrendered to the storm.
Deep in the West a berry-coloured barOf sunset gleams; against which one tall firIs outlined dark; above which—courierOf dew and dreams—burns dusk's appointed star.And flash on flash, as when the elves wage warIn Goblinland, the fireflies bombardThe stillness; and, like spirits, o'er the swardThe glimmering winds bring fragrance from afar.And now withdrawn into the hill-wood beltsA whippoorwill; while, with attendant statesOf purple and silver, slow the great moon meltsInto the night—to show me whereshewaits,—Like some slim moonbeam,—by the old beech-tree,Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.
Deep in the West a berry-coloured barOf sunset gleams; against which one tall firIs outlined dark; above which—courierOf dew and dreams—burns dusk's appointed star.And flash on flash, as when the elves wage warIn Goblinland, the fireflies bombardThe stillness; and, like spirits, o'er the swardThe glimmering winds bring fragrance from afar.And now withdrawn into the hill-wood beltsA whippoorwill; while, with attendant statesOf purple and silver, slow the great moon meltsInto the night—to show me whereshewaits,—Like some slim moonbeam,—by the old beech-tree,Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.
There is a place hung o'er with summer boughsAnd drowsy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps;Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps,Like silvery prisms that the winds arouse,The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cowsTinkle the stillness, and the bob-white keepsCalling from meadows where the reaper reaps,And children's laughter haunts an old-time house;A place where life wears ever an honest smellOf hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom—Like some dear, modest girl—within her hair:Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwellFar from the city's strife whose cares consume—Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.
There is a place hung o'er with summer boughsAnd drowsy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps;Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps,Like silvery prisms that the winds arouse,The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cowsTinkle the stillness, and the bob-white keepsCalling from meadows where the reaper reaps,And children's laughter haunts an old-time house;A place where life wears ever an honest smellOf hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom—Like some dear, modest girl—within her hair:Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwellFar from the city's strife whose cares consume—Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.
Can I forget howLoveonce led the waysOf our two lives together, joining them;How every hour was his anadem,And every day a tablet in his praise!Can I forget how, in his garden place,Among the purple roses, stem to stem,We heard the rumour of his robe's bright hem,And saw the aureate radiance of his face!—Though I behold my soul's high dreams down-hurled,AndFalsehoodsit where Truth once towered white,And inLove'splace, usurping lust and shame....Though flowers be dead within the winter world,Are flowers not there? and starless though the night,Are stars not there, eternal and the same?
Can I forget howLoveonce led the waysOf our two lives together, joining them;How every hour was his anadem,And every day a tablet in his praise!Can I forget how, in his garden place,Among the purple roses, stem to stem,We heard the rumour of his robe's bright hem,And saw the aureate radiance of his face!—Though I behold my soul's high dreams down-hurled,AndFalsehoodsit where Truth once towered white,And inLove'splace, usurping lust and shame....Though flowers be dead within the winter world,Are flowers not there? and starless though the night,Are stars not there, eternal and the same?
Vast are its halls, as vast the halls and loneWhereDeathstalks listening to the wind and rain;And dark that house, where I shall meet againMy long-dead Sin in some dread way unknown;For I have dreamed of stairs of haunted stone,And spectre footsteps I have fled in vain;And windows glaring with a blood-red stain,And horrible eyes, that burn me to the bone,Within a face that looks as that black nightIt looked when deep I dug for it a grave,—The dagger wound above the brow, the thinBlood trickling down slantwise the ghastly white;—And I have dreamed not evenGodcan saveMe and my soul from that risen Sin.
Vast are its halls, as vast the halls and loneWhereDeathstalks listening to the wind and rain;And dark that house, where I shall meet againMy long-dead Sin in some dread way unknown;For I have dreamed of stairs of haunted stone,And spectre footsteps I have fled in vain;And windows glaring with a blood-red stain,And horrible eyes, that burn me to the bone,Within a face that looks as that black nightIt looked when deep I dug for it a grave,—The dagger wound above the brow, the thinBlood trickling down slantwise the ghastly white;—And I have dreamed not evenGodcan saveMe and my soul from that risen Sin.
Far off I heard dark waters rush;The sky was cold; the dawn broke green;And wrapped in twilight and strange hushThe gray wind moaned between.A voice rang through the House of Sleep,And through its halls there went a tread;Mysterious raiment seemed to sweepAround the pallid dead.And then I knew that I had died,I, who had suffered so and sinned—And 't was myself I stood besideIn the wild dawn and wind.
Far off I heard dark waters rush;The sky was cold; the dawn broke green;And wrapped in twilight and strange hushThe gray wind moaned between.
A voice rang through the House of Sleep,And through its halls there went a tread;Mysterious raiment seemed to sweepAround the pallid dead.
And then I knew that I had died,I, who had suffered so and sinned—And 't was myself I stood besideIn the wild dawn and wind.
Ilooked into the night and sawGodwriting with tumultuous flameUpon the thunder's front of awe,—As on sonorous brass,—the Law,Terrific, ofHisjudgement name.Weary of all life's best and worst,With hands of hate, I—who had pled,I, who had prayed for death at firstAnd had not died—now stood and cursedGod, yet he would not strike me dead.
Ilooked into the night and sawGodwriting with tumultuous flameUpon the thunder's front of awe,—As on sonorous brass,—the Law,Terrific, ofHisjudgement name.
Weary of all life's best and worst,With hands of hate, I—who had pled,I, who had prayed for death at firstAnd had not died—now stood and cursedGod, yet he would not strike me dead.
Here whereLovelies perishèd,Look not in upon the dead;Lest the shadowy curtains, shakenIn my Heart's dark chamber, wakenGhosts, beneath whose garb of sorrowWhilom gladness bows his head:When you come at morn to-morrow,Look not in upon the dead,Here whereLovelies perishèd.Here whereLovelies cold interred,Let no syllable be heard;Lest the hollow echoes, housingIn my Soul's deep tomb, arousingWake a voice of woe, once laughterClaimed and clothed in joy's own word:When you come at dusk or after,Let no syllable be heard,Here whereLovelies cold interred.
Here whereLovelies perishèd,Look not in upon the dead;Lest the shadowy curtains, shakenIn my Heart's dark chamber, wakenGhosts, beneath whose garb of sorrowWhilom gladness bows his head:When you come at morn to-morrow,Look not in upon the dead,Here whereLovelies perishèd.
Here whereLovelies cold interred,Let no syllable be heard;Lest the hollow echoes, housingIn my Soul's deep tomb, arousingWake a voice of woe, once laughterClaimed and clothed in joy's own word:When you come at dusk or after,Let no syllable be heard,Here whereLovelies cold interred.
The wind was on the forest,And silence on the wold;And darkness on the waters,And heaven was starry cold;When Sleep, with mystic magic,Bade me this thing behold:This side, an iron woodland;That side, an iron waste;And heaven, a tower of iron,Wherein the wan moon paced,Still as a phantom woman,Ice-eyed and icy-faced.And through the haunted towerOf silence and of night,My Soul and I went only,My Soul, whose face was white,Whose one hand signed me listen,One bore a taper-light.For, lo! a voice behind meKept sighing in my earThe dreams my flesh accepted,My mind refused to hear—Of one I loved and loved not,Whose spirit now spake near.And, lo! a voice before meKept calling constantlyThe hopes my mind accepted,My flesh refused to see—Of one I loved and loved not,Whose spirit spake to me.This way the one would bid me;This way the other saith:—Sweet is the voice behind meOfLifethat followeth;And sweet the voice before meOfLifewhose name isDeath.
The wind was on the forest,And silence on the wold;And darkness on the waters,And heaven was starry cold;When Sleep, with mystic magic,Bade me this thing behold:
This side, an iron woodland;That side, an iron waste;And heaven, a tower of iron,Wherein the wan moon paced,Still as a phantom woman,Ice-eyed and icy-faced.
And through the haunted towerOf silence and of night,My Soul and I went only,My Soul, whose face was white,Whose one hand signed me listen,One bore a taper-light.
For, lo! a voice behind meKept sighing in my earThe dreams my flesh accepted,My mind refused to hear—Of one I loved and loved not,Whose spirit now spake near.
And, lo! a voice before meKept calling constantlyThe hopes my mind accepted,My flesh refused to see—Of one I loved and loved not,Whose spirit spake to me.
This way the one would bid me;This way the other saith:—Sweet is the voice behind meOfLifethat followeth;And sweet the voice before meOfLifewhose name isDeath.
Blood-coloured oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass;Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras,And broom-sedge strips of smoky pink and pearl-gray clumps of grass,In which, beneath the ragged sky, the rain-pools gleam like glass.From West to East, from wood to wood, along the forest-side,The winds,—the sowers of theLord,—with thunderous footsteps stride;Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed,Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide.The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds rings a faint fairy bell;And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed's windy shellGlimmers; while wrapped in withered dreams, the wet autumnal smellOf loam and leaf, like some sad ghost, steals over field and dell.The oaks against a copper sky—o'er which, like some black lakeOfDis, dark clouds, like surges fringed with sullen fire, break—Loom sombre as Doom's citadel above the vales, that makeA pathway to a land of mist the moon's pale feet shall take.Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a Limbo-litten pane,Within its wall of storm, the West opens to hill and plain,On which the wild geese ink themselves, a far triangled train;And then the shuttering clouds close down—and night is here again.
Blood-coloured oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass;Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras,And broom-sedge strips of smoky pink and pearl-gray clumps of grass,In which, beneath the ragged sky, the rain-pools gleam like glass.
From West to East, from wood to wood, along the forest-side,The winds,—the sowers of theLord,—with thunderous footsteps stride;Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed,Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide.
The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds rings a faint fairy bell;And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed's windy shellGlimmers; while wrapped in withered dreams, the wet autumnal smellOf loam and leaf, like some sad ghost, steals over field and dell.
The oaks against a copper sky—o'er which, like some black lakeOfDis, dark clouds, like surges fringed with sullen fire, break—Loom sombre as Doom's citadel above the vales, that makeA pathway to a land of mist the moon's pale feet shall take.
Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a Limbo-litten pane,Within its wall of storm, the West opens to hill and plain,On which the wild geese ink themselves, a far triangled train;And then the shuttering clouds close down—and night is here again.
The year was dying, and the dayWas almost dead;The West, beneath a sombre gray,Was sombre red.The gravestones in the ghostly light,'Mid trees half bare,Seemed phantoms, clothed in glimmering white,That haunted there.I stood beside the grave of one,Who, here in life,Had wronged my home; who had undoneMy child and wife.I stood beside his grave untilThe moon came up—As if the dark, unhallowed hillLifted a cup.No stone was there to mark his grave,No flower to grace—'T was meet that weeds alone should waveIn such a place.I stood beside his grave untilThe stars swam high,And all the night was iron stillFrom sky to sky.What cared I if strange eyes seemed brightWithin the gloom!If, evil blue, a wandering lightBurnt by each tomb!Or that each crookèd thorn-tree seemedA witch-hag cloaked!Or that the owl above me screamed,The raven croaked!For I had cursed him when the dayWas sullen red;Had cursed him when the West was gray,And day was dead;And now when night made dark the pole,Both soon and lateI cursed his body, yea, and soul,With the hate of hate.Once in my soul I seemed to hearA low voice say,—'T were better to forgive,—and fearThy God,—and pray.I laughed; and from pale lips of stoneOn sculptured tombsA mocking laugh replied aloneDeep in the glooms.And then I felt, I felt—as ifSome force should seizeThe body; and its limbs stretch stiff,And, fastening, freezeDown, downward deeper than the kneesInto the earth—While still among the twisted treesThat voice made mirth.And in my Soul was fear, despair,—Like lost ones feel,When knotted in their pitch-stiff hair,They feel the steelOf devils' forks lift up, through sleetOf hell's slant fire,Then plunge,—as white from head to feetI grew entire.A voice without me, yet within,As still as frost,Intoned:Thy sin is thrice a sin,Thrice art thou lost.Behold, how God would punish thee!For this thy crime—Thy crime of hate and blasphemy—Through endless time!O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive,Record what goodHe did on earth! and let him liveLoved, understood!Be memory thine of all the worstHe did thine own!There at the head of him I cursedI stood—a stone.
The year was dying, and the dayWas almost dead;The West, beneath a sombre gray,Was sombre red.The gravestones in the ghostly light,'Mid trees half bare,Seemed phantoms, clothed in glimmering white,That haunted there.
I stood beside the grave of one,Who, here in life,Had wronged my home; who had undoneMy child and wife.I stood beside his grave untilThe moon came up—As if the dark, unhallowed hillLifted a cup.
No stone was there to mark his grave,No flower to grace—'T was meet that weeds alone should waveIn such a place.I stood beside his grave untilThe stars swam high,And all the night was iron stillFrom sky to sky.
What cared I if strange eyes seemed brightWithin the gloom!If, evil blue, a wandering lightBurnt by each tomb!Or that each crookèd thorn-tree seemedA witch-hag cloaked!Or that the owl above me screamed,The raven croaked!
For I had cursed him when the dayWas sullen red;Had cursed him when the West was gray,And day was dead;And now when night made dark the pole,Both soon and lateI cursed his body, yea, and soul,With the hate of hate.
Once in my soul I seemed to hearA low voice say,—'T were better to forgive,—and fearThy God,—and pray.I laughed; and from pale lips of stoneOn sculptured tombsA mocking laugh replied aloneDeep in the glooms.
And then I felt, I felt—as ifSome force should seizeThe body; and its limbs stretch stiff,And, fastening, freezeDown, downward deeper than the kneesInto the earth—While still among the twisted treesThat voice made mirth.
And in my Soul was fear, despair,—Like lost ones feel,When knotted in their pitch-stiff hair,They feel the steelOf devils' forks lift up, through sleetOf hell's slant fire,Then plunge,—as white from head to feetI grew entire.
A voice without me, yet within,As still as frost,Intoned:Thy sin is thrice a sin,Thrice art thou lost.Behold, how God would punish thee!For this thy crime—Thy crime of hate and blasphemy—Through endless time!
O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive,Record what goodHe did on earth! and let him liveLoved, understood!Be memory thine of all the worstHe did thine own!There at the head of him I cursedI stood—a stone.
Last night I watched for Death—So sick of life was I!—When in the street beneathI heard his watchman cryThe hour, while passing by.I called. And in the nightI heard him stop below,His owlish lanthorn's lightBlurring the windy snow—How long the time and slow!I said,Why dost thou cowerThere at my door and knock?Come in! It is the hour!Cease fumbling at the lock!Naught's well! 'Tis no o'clock!Black through the door with himSwept in theWinter'sbreath;His cloak was great and grim—But he, who smiled beneath,Had the face of Love not Death.
Last night I watched for Death—So sick of life was I!—When in the street beneathI heard his watchman cryThe hour, while passing by.
I called. And in the nightI heard him stop below,His owlish lanthorn's lightBlurring the windy snow—How long the time and slow!
I said,Why dost thou cowerThere at my door and knock?Come in! It is the hour!Cease fumbling at the lock!Naught's well! 'Tis no o'clock!
Black through the door with himSwept in theWinter'sbreath;His cloak was great and grim—But he, who smiled beneath,Had the face of Love not Death.
The wine-loud laughter of indulged DesireUpon his lips, and, in his eyes, the fireOf uncontrol, he takes in reckless hands,—And interrupts with discords,—the sad lyreOfLove'sdeep soul, and never understands.
The wine-loud laughter of indulged DesireUpon his lips, and, in his eyes, the fireOf uncontrol, he takes in reckless hands,—And interrupts with discords,—the sad lyreOfLove'sdeep soul, and never understands.
When the wine-cup at the lipSlants its sparkling fire,O'er its level, while you sip,Have you marked the finger-tipOf the godDesireslip,Of the godDesire?Saying—Lo, the hours run!Live your day before 't is done!When the empty goblet liesAt the ended revel,In the glass, the wine-stain dyes,Have you marked the hollow eyesOf a mocking Devil rise,Of a mocking Devil?Saying—Lo, the day is through!Look on joy it gave to you!
When the wine-cup at the lipSlants its sparkling fire,O'er its level, while you sip,Have you marked the finger-tipOf the godDesireslip,Of the godDesire?Saying—Lo, the hours run!Live your day before 't is done!
When the empty goblet liesAt the ended revel,In the glass, the wine-stain dyes,Have you marked the hollow eyesOf a mocking Devil rise,Of a mocking Devil?Saying—Lo, the day is through!Look on joy it gave to you!
Iknow not how I found youWith your wild hair a-blow,Nor why the world around youWould never let me know:Perhaps 't was Heaven relented,Perhaps 't was Hell resentedMy dream, and grimly ventedIts hate upon me so.In Shadowland I met youWhere all dim shadows meet;Within my heart I set you,A phantom bitter-sweet:No hope for me to win you,Though I with soul and sinewStrive on and on, when in youThere is no heart or heat!Yet ever, aye, and ever,Although I knew you lied,I followed on, but neverWould your white form abide:With loving arms stretched meward,As Sirens beckon seawardTo some fair vessel leeward,Before me you would glide.But like an evil fairy,That mocks one with a light,Now near, you led your airy,Now far, your fitful flight:With red-gold tresses blowing,And eyes of sapphire glowing,With limbs like marble showing,You lured me through the night.To some unearthly revelOf mimes, a motley crew,'Twixt Angel-land and Devil,You lured me on, I knew,And lure me still! soft whilingThe way with hopes beguiling,While dark Despair sits smilingBehind the eyes of you!
Iknow not how I found youWith your wild hair a-blow,Nor why the world around youWould never let me know:Perhaps 't was Heaven relented,Perhaps 't was Hell resentedMy dream, and grimly ventedIts hate upon me so.
In Shadowland I met youWhere all dim shadows meet;Within my heart I set you,A phantom bitter-sweet:No hope for me to win you,Though I with soul and sinewStrive on and on, when in youThere is no heart or heat!
Yet ever, aye, and ever,Although I knew you lied,I followed on, but neverWould your white form abide:With loving arms stretched meward,As Sirens beckon seawardTo some fair vessel leeward,Before me you would glide.
But like an evil fairy,That mocks one with a light,Now near, you led your airy,Now far, your fitful flight:With red-gold tresses blowing,And eyes of sapphire glowing,With limbs like marble showing,You lured me through the night.
To some unearthly revelOf mimes, a motley crew,'Twixt Angel-land and Devil,You lured me on, I knew,And lure me still! soft whilingThe way with hopes beguiling,While dark Despair sits smilingBehind the eyes of you!
Now nights grow cold and colder,And North the wild vane swings,And round each tree and boulderThe driving snow-storm sings—Come, make my old heart older,O memory of lost things!Of Hope, when promise sung herBrave songs and I was young,That banquets now on hungerSince all youth's songs are sung;Of Love, who walks with youngerSweethearts the flowers among.Ah, well! while Life holds levee,Death's ceaseless dance goes on.So let the curtains, heavyAbout my couch, be drawn—The curtains, sad and heavy,Where all shall sleep anon.
Now nights grow cold and colder,And North the wild vane swings,And round each tree and boulderThe driving snow-storm sings—Come, make my old heart older,O memory of lost things!
Of Hope, when promise sung herBrave songs and I was young,That banquets now on hungerSince all youth's songs are sung;Of Love, who walks with youngerSweethearts the flowers among.
Ah, well! while Life holds levee,Death's ceaseless dance goes on.So let the curtains, heavyAbout my couch, be drawn—The curtains, sad and heavy,Where all shall sleep anon.
Night and vast caverns of rock and of iron;Voices like water, and voices like wind;Horror and tempests of hail that environShapes and the shadows of two who have sinned.Wan on the whirlwind, in loathing upliftingFaces that loved once, forever they go,TristamandIsolt, the lovers, go drifting,The sullen laughter of Hell below.
Night and vast caverns of rock and of iron;Voices like water, and voices like wind;Horror and tempests of hail that environShapes and the shadows of two who have sinned.
Wan on the whirlwind, in loathing upliftingFaces that loved once, forever they go,TristamandIsolt, the lovers, go drifting,The sullen laughter of Hell below.
Her life was bound to crutches: pale and bent,But smiling ever, she would go and come:For of her soulGodmade an instrumentOf strength and comfort to an humble home.Better a life of toil and slow diseaseThatLovecompanions through the patient years,Than one whose heritage is loveless ease,That never knows the blessedness of tears.
Her life was bound to crutches: pale and bent,But smiling ever, she would go and come:For of her soulGodmade an instrumentOf strength and comfort to an humble home.
Better a life of toil and slow diseaseThatLovecompanions through the patient years,Than one whose heritage is loveless ease,That never knows the blessedness of tears.
Three miles of hill it is; and ICame through the woods that waited, dumb,For the coolSummerdusk to come;And lingered there to watch the skyUp which the gradual sunset clomb.A tree-toad quavered in a tree;And then a sudden whip-poor-willCalled overhead, so wildly shrill,The startled woodland seemed to seeHow very lone it was and still.Then through dark boughs its stealthy flightAn owl took; and, at sleepy strife,The cricket turned its fairy fife;And through the dead leaves, in the night,Soft rustlings stirred of unseen life.And in the punk-wood everywhereThe inserts ticked, or bored belowThe rotted bark; and, glow on glow,The gleaming fireflies here and thereLit up their Jack-o'-lantern show.I heard a vesper-sparrow sing,Withdrawn, it seemed, into the farSlow sunset's tranquil cinnabar;The sunset, softly smoulderingBehind gaunt trunks, with its one star.A dog barked; and down ways, that gleamed,Through dew and clover faint the noiseOf cow-bells moved. And then a voice,That sang a-milking, so it seemed,Made glad my heart as some glad boy's.And then the lane; and full in viewA farmhouse with a rose-grown gate,And honeysuckle paths, awaitFor night's white moon and love and you—These are the things that made me late.
Three miles of hill it is; and ICame through the woods that waited, dumb,For the coolSummerdusk to come;And lingered there to watch the skyUp which the gradual sunset clomb.
A tree-toad quavered in a tree;And then a sudden whip-poor-willCalled overhead, so wildly shrill,The startled woodland seemed to seeHow very lone it was and still.
Then through dark boughs its stealthy flightAn owl took; and, at sleepy strife,The cricket turned its fairy fife;And through the dead leaves, in the night,Soft rustlings stirred of unseen life.
And in the punk-wood everywhereThe inserts ticked, or bored belowThe rotted bark; and, glow on glow,The gleaming fireflies here and thereLit up their Jack-o'-lantern show.
I heard a vesper-sparrow sing,Withdrawn, it seemed, into the farSlow sunset's tranquil cinnabar;The sunset, softly smoulderingBehind gaunt trunks, with its one star.
A dog barked; and down ways, that gleamed,Through dew and clover faint the noiseOf cow-bells moved. And then a voice,That sang a-milking, so it seemed,Made glad my heart as some glad boy's.
And then the lane; and full in viewA farmhouse with a rose-grown gate,And honeysuckle paths, awaitFor night's white moon and love and you—These are the things that made me late.
Oh, dim and wan came in the dawn,And gloomy closed the day;The killdee whistled among the weeds,The heron flapped in the river reeds,And the snipe piped far away.At dawn she stood—her dark gray hoodFlung back—in the ferry-boat;Sad were the eyes that watched him ride,Her raider love, from the riverside,His kiss on her mouth and throat.Like some wild spell the twilight fell,And black the tempest came;The heavens seemed filled with the warring dead,Whose batteries opened overheadWith thunder and with flame.At night again in the wind and rain,She toiled at the ferry oar;For she heard a voice in the night and storm,And it seemed that her lover's shadowy formBeckoned her to the shore.And swift to save she braved the wave,And reached the shore and foundHis riderless horse, with head hung low,A blur of blood on the saddle-bow,And the empty night around.
Oh, dim and wan came in the dawn,And gloomy closed the day;The killdee whistled among the weeds,The heron flapped in the river reeds,And the snipe piped far away.
At dawn she stood—her dark gray hoodFlung back—in the ferry-boat;Sad were the eyes that watched him ride,Her raider love, from the riverside,His kiss on her mouth and throat.
Like some wild spell the twilight fell,And black the tempest came;The heavens seemed filled with the warring dead,Whose batteries opened overheadWith thunder and with flame.
At night again in the wind and rain,She toiled at the ferry oar;For she heard a voice in the night and storm,And it seemed that her lover's shadowy formBeckoned her to the shore.
And swift to save she braved the wave,And reached the shore and foundHis riderless horse, with head hung low,A blur of blood on the saddle-bow,And the empty night around.
Her violin!—Again beginThe dream-notes of her violin;And dim and fair, with gold-brown hair,I seem to see her standing there,Soft-eyed and sweetly slender:The room again, with strain on strain,Vibrates toLove's melodious pain,As, sloping slow, is poised her bow,While round her form the golden glowOf sunset spills its splendour.
Her violin!—Again beginThe dream-notes of her violin;And dim and fair, with gold-brown hair,I seem to see her standing there,Soft-eyed and sweetly slender:The room again, with strain on strain,Vibrates toLove's melodious pain,As, sloping slow, is poised her bow,While round her form the golden glowOf sunset spills its splendour.
Her violin!—now deep, now thin,Again I hear her violin;And, dream by dream, again I seemTo see the love-light's tender gleamBeneath her eyes' long lashes:While to my heart she seems a partOf her pure song's inspirèd art;And, as she plays, the rosy graysOf twilight halo hair and face,While sunset burns to ashes.
Her violin!—now deep, now thin,Again I hear her violin;And, dream by dream, again I seemTo see the love-light's tender gleamBeneath her eyes' long lashes:While to my heart she seems a partOf her pure song's inspirèd art;And, as she plays, the rosy graysOf twilight halo hair and face,While sunset burns to ashes.
O violin!—Cease, cease withinMy soul, O haunting violin!In vain, in vain, you bring againBack from the past the blissful painOf all the love then spoken;When on my breast, at happy rest,A sunny while her head was pressed—Peace, peace to these wild memories!For, like my heart naught remedies,Her violin lies broken.
O violin!—Cease, cease withinMy soul, O haunting violin!In vain, in vain, you bring againBack from the past the blissful painOf all the love then spoken;When on my breast, at happy rest,A sunny while her head was pressed—Peace, peace to these wild memories!For, like my heart naught remedies,Her violin lies broken.
TheSummerlightning comes and goesIn one pale cloud above the hill,As if within its soft reposeA burning heart were never still—As in my bosom pulses beatBefore the coming of his feet.All drugged with odorous sleep, the roseBreathes dewy balm about the place,As if the dreams the garden knowsTook immaterial form and face—As in my heart sweet thoughts ariseBeneath the ardour of his eyes.The moon above the darkness showsAn orb of silvery snow and fire,As if the night would now discloseTo heav'n her one divine desire—As in the rapture of his kissAll of my soul is drawn to his.The cloud, it knows not that it glows;The rose knows nothing of its scent;Nor knows the moon that it bestowsLight on our earth and firmament—So is the soul unconscious ofThe beauties it reveals throughLove.
TheSummerlightning comes and goesIn one pale cloud above the hill,As if within its soft reposeA burning heart were never still—As in my bosom pulses beatBefore the coming of his feet.
All drugged with odorous sleep, the roseBreathes dewy balm about the place,As if the dreams the garden knowsTook immaterial form and face—As in my heart sweet thoughts ariseBeneath the ardour of his eyes.
The moon above the darkness showsAn orb of silvery snow and fire,As if the night would now discloseTo heav'n her one divine desire—As in the rapture of his kissAll of my soul is drawn to his.
The cloud, it knows not that it glows;The rose knows nothing of its scent;Nor knows the moon that it bestowsLight on our earth and firmament—So is the soul unconscious ofThe beauties it reveals throughLove.