The wind slipt over the hillAnd down the valley.He dimpled the cheek of the rillWith a cooling kiss.Then hid on the bank a-gleeAnd began to rallyThe rushes—Oh,I love the wind for this!A cloud blew out of the westAnd spilt his showerUpon the lily-bud crestAnd the clematis.Then over the virgin cornBesprinkled a dowerOf dew-gems—And,I love the cloud for this!
The wind slipt over the hillAnd down the valley.He dimpled the cheek of the rillWith a cooling kiss.Then hid on the bank a-gleeAnd began to rallyThe rushes—Oh,I love the wind for this!
A cloud blew out of the westAnd spilt his showerUpon the lily-bud crestAnd the clematis.Then over the virgin cornBesprinkled a dowerOf dew-gems—And,I love the cloud for this!
1Thy mellow passioning amid the leaves,That tremble dimly in the summer dusk,Falls sad along the oatland's sallow sheavesAnd haunts above the runnel's voice a-huskWith plashy willow and bold-wading reed.The solitude's dim spell it breaketh not,But softer mourns unto me from the meadThan airs that in the wood intoning start,Or breath of silences in dells begotTo soothe some grief-wan soul with sin a-smart.2A votaress art thou of Simplicity,Who hath one fane—the heaven above thy nest;One incense—love; one stealing litanyOf peace from rivered vale and upland crest.Yea, thou art Hers, who makes prayer of the breeze,Hope of the cool upwelling from sweet soils,Faith of the darkening distance, charitiesOf vesper scents, and of the glow-worm's throbJoy whose first leaping rends the care-wound coilsThat would earth of its heavenliness rob.3But few, how few her worshippers! For weCast at a myriad shrines our souls, to riseBeliefless, unanointed, bound not free,To sacrificing a vain sacrifice!Let thy lone innocence then quickly nullWithin our veins doubt-led and wrong desire—Or drugging knowledge that but fills o'erfullOf feverous mystery the days we drain!Be thy warm notes like an Orphean lyreTo lead us to life's Arcady again!
1
Thy mellow passioning amid the leaves,That tremble dimly in the summer dusk,Falls sad along the oatland's sallow sheavesAnd haunts above the runnel's voice a-huskWith plashy willow and bold-wading reed.The solitude's dim spell it breaketh not,But softer mourns unto me from the meadThan airs that in the wood intoning start,Or breath of silences in dells begotTo soothe some grief-wan soul with sin a-smart.
2
A votaress art thou of Simplicity,Who hath one fane—the heaven above thy nest;One incense—love; one stealing litanyOf peace from rivered vale and upland crest.Yea, thou art Hers, who makes prayer of the breeze,Hope of the cool upwelling from sweet soils,Faith of the darkening distance, charitiesOf vesper scents, and of the glow-worm's throbJoy whose first leaping rends the care-wound coilsThat would earth of its heavenliness rob.
3
But few, how few her worshippers! For weCast at a myriad shrines our souls, to riseBeliefless, unanointed, bound not free,To sacrificing a vain sacrifice!Let thy lone innocence then quickly nullWithin our veins doubt-led and wrong desire—Or drugging knowledge that but fills o'erfullOf feverous mystery the days we drain!Be thy warm notes like an Orphean lyreTo lead us to life's Arcady again!
O Tintern, Tintern! evermore my dreamsTroubled by thy grave beauty shall be born;Thy crumbling loveliness and ivy streamsShall speak to me for ever, from this morn;The wind-wild daws about thy arches drifting,Clouds sweeping o'er thy ruin to the sea,Gray Tintern, all the hills about thee, liftingTheir misty waving woodland verdancy!The centuries that draw thee to the earthIn envy of thy desolated charm,The summers and the winters, the sky's girthOf sunny blue or bleakness, seek thy harm.But would that I were Time, then only tenderTouch upon thee should fall as on I sped;Of every pillar would I be defender,Of every mossy window—of thy dead!Thy dead beneath obliterated stonesUpon the sod that is at last thy floor,Who list the Wye not as it lonely moansNor heed thy Gothic shadows grieving o'er.O Tintern, Tintern! trysting-place, where neverAre wanting mysteries that move the breast,I'll hear thy beauty calling, ah, for ever—Till sinks within me the last voice to rest!
O Tintern, Tintern! evermore my dreamsTroubled by thy grave beauty shall be born;Thy crumbling loveliness and ivy streamsShall speak to me for ever, from this morn;The wind-wild daws about thy arches drifting,Clouds sweeping o'er thy ruin to the sea,Gray Tintern, all the hills about thee, liftingTheir misty waving woodland verdancy!
The centuries that draw thee to the earthIn envy of thy desolated charm,The summers and the winters, the sky's girthOf sunny blue or bleakness, seek thy harm.But would that I were Time, then only tenderTouch upon thee should fall as on I sped;Of every pillar would I be defender,Of every mossy window—of thy dead!
Thy dead beneath obliterated stonesUpon the sod that is at last thy floor,Who list the Wye not as it lonely moansNor heed thy Gothic shadows grieving o'er.O Tintern, Tintern! trysting-place, where neverAre wanting mysteries that move the breast,I'll hear thy beauty calling, ah, for ever—Till sinks within me the last voice to rest!
Oh, go not out upon the storm,Go not, my sweet, to Swalchie pool!A witch tho' she be dead may charmThee and befool.A wild night 'tis! her lover's moan,Down under ooze and salty weed,She'll make thee hear—and then her own!Till thou shalt heed.And it will suck upon thy heart—The sorcery within her cry—Till madness out of thee upstart,And rage to die.For him she loved, she laughed to death!And as afloat his chill hand lay,"Ha, ha! to hell I sent his wraith!"Did she not say?And from his finger strive to drawThe ring that bound him to her spell?Till on her closed his hand whose aweNo curse could quell?Oh, yea! and tho' she struggled pale,Did it not hold her cold and fast,Till crawled the tide o'er rock and swale,To her at last?Down in the pool where she was sweptHe holds her—Oh, go not a-near!For none has heard her cry but weptAnd died that year.
Oh, go not out upon the storm,Go not, my sweet, to Swalchie pool!A witch tho' she be dead may charmThee and befool.
A wild night 'tis! her lover's moan,Down under ooze and salty weed,She'll make thee hear—and then her own!Till thou shalt heed.
And it will suck upon thy heart—The sorcery within her cry—Till madness out of thee upstart,And rage to die.
For him she loved, she laughed to death!And as afloat his chill hand lay,"Ha, ha! to hell I sent his wraith!"Did she not say?
And from his finger strive to drawThe ring that bound him to her spell?Till on her closed his hand whose aweNo curse could quell?
Oh, yea! and tho' she struggled pale,Did it not hold her cold and fast,Till crawled the tide o'er rock and swale,To her at last?
Down in the pool where she was sweptHe holds her—Oh, go not a-near!For none has heard her cry but weptAnd died that year.
We, spoke of God and Fate,And of that Life—which some await—Beyond the grave,"It will be fair," she said,"But love is here!I only crave thy breastNot God's when I am dead.For He nor wants nor needsMy little love.But it may be, if I love theeAnd those whose sorrow daily bleeds,He knows—and somehow heeds!"
We, spoke of God and Fate,And of that Life—which some await—Beyond the grave,"It will be fair," she said,"But love is here!I only crave thy breastNot God's when I am dead.For He nor wants nor needsMy little love.But it may be, if I love theeAnd those whose sorrow daily bleeds,He knows—and somehow heeds!"
What are the heaths and hills to me?I'm a-longing for the sea!What are the flowers that dapple the dell,And the ripple of swallow-wings over the dusk;What are the church and the folk who tellTheir hearts to God?—my heart is a husk!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)Aye! for there is no peace to me—But on the peaceless sea!Never a child was glad at my knee,And the soul of a woman has never been mine.What can a woman's kisses be?—I fear to think how her arms would twine.(I'm a-longing for the sea!)So, not a home and ease for me—But still the homeless sea!Where I may swing my sorrow to sleepIn a hammock hung o'er the voice of the waves,Where I may wake when the tempests heapAnd hurl their hate—and a brave ship saves.(I'm a-longing for the sea!)Then when I die, a grave for me—But in the graveless sea!Where is no stone for an eye to spellThro' the lichen a name, a date and a verse.Let me be laid in the deeps that swellAnd sigh and wander—an ocean hearse!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
What are the heaths and hills to me?I'm a-longing for the sea!What are the flowers that dapple the dell,And the ripple of swallow-wings over the dusk;What are the church and the folk who tellTheir hearts to God?—my heart is a husk!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
Aye! for there is no peace to me—But on the peaceless sea!Never a child was glad at my knee,And the soul of a woman has never been mine.What can a woman's kisses be?—I fear to think how her arms would twine.(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
So, not a home and ease for me—But still the homeless sea!Where I may swing my sorrow to sleepIn a hammock hung o'er the voice of the waves,Where I may wake when the tempests heapAnd hurl their hate—and a brave ship saves.(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
Then when I die, a grave for me—But in the graveless sea!Where is no stone for an eye to spellThro' the lichen a name, a date and a verse.Let me be laid in the deeps that swellAnd sigh and wander—an ocean hearse!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)
See, see!—the blows at his breast,The abyss at his back,The perils and pains that pressed,The doubts in a pack,That hunted to drag him downHave triumphed? and nowHe sinks, who climbed for the crownTo the Summit's brow?No!—though at the foot he lies,Fallen and vain,With gaze to the peak whose skiesHe could not attain,The victory is, with strength—No matter the past!—He'd dare it again, the dark length,And the fall at last!
See, see!—the blows at his breast,The abyss at his back,The perils and pains that pressed,The doubts in a pack,That hunted to drag him downHave triumphed? and nowHe sinks, who climbed for the crownTo the Summit's brow?
No!—though at the foot he lies,Fallen and vain,With gaze to the peak whose skiesHe could not attain,The victory is, with strength—No matter the past!—He'd dare it again, the dark length,And the fall at last!
The weedy fallows winter-worn,Where cattle shiver under sodden hay.The plough-lands long and lorn—The fading day.The sullen shudder of the brook,And winds that wring the writhen trees in vainFor drearier sound or look—The lonely rain.The crows that train o'er desert skiesIn endless caravans that have no goalBut flight—where darkness flies—From Pole to Pole.The sombre zone of hills aroundThat shrink in misty mournfulness from sight,With sunset aureoles crowned—Before the night.
The weedy fallows winter-worn,Where cattle shiver under sodden hay.The plough-lands long and lorn—The fading day.
The sullen shudder of the brook,And winds that wring the writhen trees in vainFor drearier sound or look—The lonely rain.
The crows that train o'er desert skiesIn endless caravans that have no goalBut flight—where darkness flies—From Pole to Pole.
The sombre zone of hills aroundThat shrink in misty mournfulness from sight,With sunset aureoles crowned—Before the night.
The seraphs would sing to herAnd from the RiverDip her cool grails of radiant Life.The angels would bring to her,Sadly a-quiver,Laurels she never had won in earth-strife.And often they'd fly with herO'er the star-spaces—Silent by worlds where mortals are pent.Yea, even would sigh with her,Sigh with wan faces!When she sat weeping of strange discontent.But one said, "Why weepest thouHere in God's heaven—Is it not fairer than soul can see?""'Tis fair, ah!—but keepest thouNot me deprivenOf some one—somewhere—who needeth most me?"For tho' the day never fadesOver these meadows,Tho' He has robed me and crowned—yet, yet!Some love-fear for ever shadesAll with sere shadows—Had I no childthere—whom I forget?"
The seraphs would sing to herAnd from the RiverDip her cool grails of radiant Life.The angels would bring to her,Sadly a-quiver,Laurels she never had won in earth-strife.
And often they'd fly with herO'er the star-spaces—Silent by worlds where mortals are pent.Yea, even would sigh with her,Sigh with wan faces!When she sat weeping of strange discontent.
But one said, "Why weepest thouHere in God's heaven—Is it not fairer than soul can see?""'Tis fair, ah!—but keepest thouNot me deprivenOf some one—somewhere—who needeth most me?
"For tho' the day never fadesOver these meadows,Tho' He has robed me and crowned—yet, yet!Some love-fear for ever shadesAll with sere shadows—Had I no childthere—whom I forget?"
"Beauty! all—all—is beauty?"Was ever a bird so wrong!"No young in the nest, no mate, no duty?"Ribald! is this your song?"Glad it is ended," are you?The Spring and its nuptial fear?"And freedom is better than love?" beware you,There will be May next year!"Beauty!" again, still "beauty"?Wait till the winter comes!Till kestrel and hungry kite seek bootyAnd the bleak cold benumbs!Wait? nay, fling it to heavenThe false little song you prate!Too sweet are its fancies not to leavenEven the rudest fate!
"Beauty! all—all—is beauty?"Was ever a bird so wrong!"No young in the nest, no mate, no duty?"Ribald! is this your song?
"Glad it is ended," are you?The Spring and its nuptial fear?"And freedom is better than love?" beware you,There will be May next year!
"Beauty!" again, still "beauty"?Wait till the winter comes!Till kestrel and hungry kite seek bootyAnd the bleak cold benumbs!
Wait? nay, fling it to heavenThe false little song you prate!Too sweet are its fancies not to leavenEven the rudest fate!
The world may hearThe wind at his trees,The lark in her skies,The sea on his leas;May hear Song riseOn words as immortalAs any that soundThro' Heaven's Portal.But I have a music they can never know—The touch of you, soul of you, heart of you, Oh!All else that is said or sung 's but a part of you—Be it forever so!
The world may hearThe wind at his trees,The lark in her skies,The sea on his leas;May hear Song riseOn words as immortalAs any that soundThro' Heaven's Portal.But I have a music they can never know—The touch of you, soul of you, heart of you, Oh!All else that is said or sung 's but a part of you—Be it forever so!
Not only the lark but the robin too(Oh, heart o' my heart, come into the wood!)Is singing the air to gladness newAs the breaking budAnd the freshet's flood!Not only the peeping grass and the scent—(Oh, love o' my life, fly unto me here!)Of violets coming ere April's spent—But the frog's shrill cheerAnd the crow's wild jeer!Not only the blue, not only the breeze,(Oh, soul o' my heart, why tarry so long!)But sun that is sweeter upon the treesThan rills that throngTo the brooklet's song!Oh, heart o' my heart, oh, heart o' my love,(Oh soul o' my soul, haste unto me, haste!)For spring is below and God is above—But all is a wasteWithout thee—haste!
Not only the lark but the robin too(Oh, heart o' my heart, come into the wood!)Is singing the air to gladness newAs the breaking budAnd the freshet's flood!
Not only the peeping grass and the scent—(Oh, love o' my life, fly unto me here!)Of violets coming ere April's spent—But the frog's shrill cheerAnd the crow's wild jeer!
Not only the blue, not only the breeze,(Oh, soul o' my heart, why tarry so long!)But sun that is sweeter upon the treesThan rills that throngTo the brooklet's song!
Oh, heart o' my heart, oh, heart o' my love,(Oh soul o' my soul, haste unto me, haste!)For spring is below and God is above—But all is a wasteWithout thee—haste!
The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing!What shall we do with the April days!Kingcups soon will be up and swinging—What shall we do with May's!The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!"Out on the bough he flutters, a flame.Thrush-flutes echo, "For mating's elating!Love is its other name!"They know! know it! but better, oh, better,Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring,Know we to make each moment debtorUnto love's burgeoning!
The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing!What shall we do with the April days!Kingcups soon will be up and swinging—What shall we do with May's!
The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!"Out on the bough he flutters, a flame.Thrush-flutes echo, "For mating's elating!Love is its other name!"
They know! know it! but better, oh, better,Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring,Know we to make each moment debtorUnto love's burgeoning!
Could I, a poet,Implant the truth of you,Seize it and sow itAs Spring on the world.There were no needTo fling (forsooth) of youFancies that only lovers heed!No, but unfurled,The bloom, the sweet of you,(As unto me they are opened oft)Would with their beauty's breath repeat of youAll that my heart breathes loud or soft!
Could I, a poet,Implant the truth of you,Seize it and sow itAs Spring on the world.There were no needTo fling (forsooth) of youFancies that only lovers heed!No, but unfurled,The bloom, the sweet of you,(As unto me they are opened oft)Would with their beauty's breath repeat of youAll that my heart breathes loud or soft!
My love's a guardian-angelWho camps about thy heart,Never to See thine enemy,Nor from thee turn apart.Whatever dark may shroud theeAnd hide thy stars away,With vigil sweet his wings shall beatAbout thee till the day.
My love's a guardian-angelWho camps about thy heart,Never to See thine enemy,Nor from thee turn apart.
Whatever dark may shroud theeAnd hide thy stars away,With vigil sweet his wings shall beatAbout thee till the day.
Come to the window, you who are mine.Waken! the night is calling.Sit by me here—with the moon's fair shineInto your deep eyes falling.The sea afar is a fearful gloom;Lean from the casement, listen!Anear it breaks with a faery spume,Spraying the rocks that glisten.The little white town below lies deepAs eternity in slumber.O, you who are mine, how a glance can reapBeauties beyond all number!And, how as sails that at anchor rideOur spirits rock togetherOn a sea of love—lit as this tideWith tenderest star-weather!Till the gray dawn is redd'ning up,Over the moon low-lying.Come, come away—we have drunk the cup:Ours is the dream undying!
Come to the window, you who are mine.Waken! the night is calling.Sit by me here—with the moon's fair shineInto your deep eyes falling.
The sea afar is a fearful gloom;Lean from the casement, listen!Anear it breaks with a faery spume,Spraying the rocks that glisten.
The little white town below lies deepAs eternity in slumber.O, you who are mine, how a glance can reapBeauties beyond all number!
And, how as sails that at anchor rideOur spirits rock togetherOn a sea of love—lit as this tideWith tenderest star-weather!
Till the gray dawn is redd'ning up,Over the moon low-lying.Come, come away—we have drunk the cup:Ours is the dream undying!
A storm broods far on the foam of the deep;The moon-path gleams before.A day and a night, a night and a day,And the way, love, will be o'er.Six thousand wandering miles we have comeAnd never a sail have seen.The sky above and the sea belowAnd the drifting clouds between.Yet in our hearts unheaving hopeAnd light and joy have slept.Nor ever lonely has seemed the waveTho' heaving wild it leapt.For there is talismanic mightWithin our vows of loveTo breathe us over all seas of life—On to that Port, above,Where the great Captain of all shipsShall anchor them or sendThem forth on a vaster Voyage, yea,On one that shall not end.And uponthatwe two, I think,Together still shall sail.Oh, may it be, my own, or mayWe perish in death's gale!
A storm broods far on the foam of the deep;The moon-path gleams before.A day and a night, a night and a day,And the way, love, will be o'er.
Six thousand wandering miles we have comeAnd never a sail have seen.The sky above and the sea belowAnd the drifting clouds between.
Yet in our hearts unheaving hopeAnd light and joy have slept.Nor ever lonely has seemed the waveTho' heaving wild it leapt.
For there is talismanic mightWithin our vows of loveTo breathe us over all seas of life—On to that Port, above,
Where the great Captain of all shipsShall anchor them or sendThem forth on a vaster Voyage, yea,On one that shall not end.
And uponthatwe two, I think,Together still shall sail.Oh, may it be, my own, or mayWe perish in death's gale!
Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes(Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves).Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashesHis limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven(Sins of the revelous days of June)—Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven,Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging,(Long will the day-god aloof frown cold),Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging—Till the dark beads of his days are told.
Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes(Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves).Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashesHis limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.
He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven(Sins of the revelous days of June)—Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven,Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.
Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging,(Long will the day-god aloof frown cold),Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging—Till the dark beads of his days are told.
Ah, what a changeling!Yester you dashed from the west,Altho' it is Spring,And scattered the hail with maniac zestThro' the shivering corn—in scornFor the labour of God and man.And now from the plentiful South you haste,With lovingest fingers,To ruefully lift and wooingly fanThe lily that lingers a-faint on the stalk:As if the chill wasteOf the earth's May-dreams,The flowers so full of her joy,Were not—as it seems—A wanton attempt to destroy.
Ah, what a changeling!Yester you dashed from the west,Altho' it is Spring,And scattered the hail with maniac zestThro' the shivering corn—in scornFor the labour of God and man.And now from the plentiful South you haste,With lovingest fingers,To ruefully lift and wooingly fanThe lily that lingers a-faint on the stalk:As if the chill wasteOf the earth's May-dreams,The flowers so full of her joy,Were not—as it seems—A wanton attempt to destroy.
Down the road which asters tangle,Thro' the gap where green-briar twines,By the path where dry leaves dangleSere from the ivy vinesWe go—by sedgy fallowsAnd along the stifled brook,Till it stops in lushy mallowsJust at the bridge's crook.Then, again, o'er fence, thro' thicket,To the mouth of the rough ravine,Where the weird leaf-hidden cricketChirrs thro' the weirder green,There's a way, o'er rocks—but quickerIs the beat of heart and foot,As the beams above us flickerSun upon moss and root!And we leap—as wildness tinglesFrom the air into our blood—With a cry thro' golden dinglesHid in the heart of the wood.Oh, the wood with winds a-wrestle!With the nut and acorn strown!Oh, the wood where creepers trestleTree unto tree o'ergrown!With a climb the ledging summitOf the hill is reached in glee.For an hour we gaze off from itInto the sky's blue sea.But a bell and sunset's crimsonSoon recall the homeward path.And we turn as the glory dims onThe hay-field's mounded math.Thro' the soft and silent twilightWe come, to the stile at last,As the clear undying eyelightOf the stars tells day is past.
Down the road which asters tangle,Thro' the gap where green-briar twines,By the path where dry leaves dangleSere from the ivy vines
We go—by sedgy fallowsAnd along the stifled brook,Till it stops in lushy mallowsJust at the bridge's crook.
Then, again, o'er fence, thro' thicket,To the mouth of the rough ravine,Where the weird leaf-hidden cricketChirrs thro' the weirder green,
There's a way, o'er rocks—but quickerIs the beat of heart and foot,As the beams above us flickerSun upon moss and root!
And we leap—as wildness tinglesFrom the air into our blood—With a cry thro' golden dinglesHid in the heart of the wood.
Oh, the wood with winds a-wrestle!With the nut and acorn strown!Oh, the wood where creepers trestleTree unto tree o'ergrown!
With a climb the ledging summitOf the hill is reached in glee.For an hour we gaze off from itInto the sky's blue sea.
But a bell and sunset's crimsonSoon recall the homeward path.And we turn as the glory dims onThe hay-field's mounded math.
Thro' the soft and silent twilightWe come, to the stile at last,As the clear undying eyelightOf the stars tells day is past.
Ah, it was here—SeptemberAnd silence filled the air—I came last year to remember,And muse, hid away from care.It was here I came—the thistleWas trusting her seed to the wind;The quail in the croft gave whistleAs now—and the fields lay thinned.I know how the hay was steeping,Brown mows under mellow haze;How a frail cloud-flock was creepingAs now over lone sky-ways.Just there where the catbird's callingHer mock-hurt note by the shed,The use-worn wain was stallingIn the weedy brook's dry bed.And the cricket, lone little chimerOf day-long dreams in the vines,Chirred on like a doting rhymerO'er-vain of his firstling lines.He's near me now by the aster,Beneath whose shadowy sprayA sultry bee seeps fasterAs the sun slips down the day.And there are the tall primrosesLike maidens waiting to dance.They stood in the same shy posesLast year, as if to entranceThe stately mulleins to wakenFrom death and lead them around:And still they will stand untaken,Till drops their gold to the ground.Yes, it was here—SeptemberAnd silence round me yearned.Again I've come to remember,Again for musing returnedTo the searing fields' assuaging,And the falling leaves' sad balm:Away from the world's keen waging—To harvest and hills and calm.
Ah, it was here—SeptemberAnd silence filled the air—I came last year to remember,And muse, hid away from care.It was here I came—the thistleWas trusting her seed to the wind;The quail in the croft gave whistleAs now—and the fields lay thinned.
I know how the hay was steeping,Brown mows under mellow haze;How a frail cloud-flock was creepingAs now over lone sky-ways.Just there where the catbird's callingHer mock-hurt note by the shed,The use-worn wain was stallingIn the weedy brook's dry bed.
And the cricket, lone little chimerOf day-long dreams in the vines,Chirred on like a doting rhymerO'er-vain of his firstling lines.He's near me now by the aster,Beneath whose shadowy sprayA sultry bee seeps fasterAs the sun slips down the day.
And there are the tall primrosesLike maidens waiting to dance.They stood in the same shy posesLast year, as if to entranceThe stately mulleins to wakenFrom death and lead them around:And still they will stand untaken,Till drops their gold to the ground.
Yes, it was here—SeptemberAnd silence round me yearned.Again I've come to remember,Again for musing returnedTo the searing fields' assuaging,And the falling leaves' sad balm:Away from the world's keen waging—To harvest and hills and calm.
Oh ... there was love in her heart—no doubt of it—Under the anger.But see what came out of it!Not a knave, he!—A smitten rhyme-smatterer,Cloaking in languorAnd heartache to flatter her.And just as a woman will—even the best of them—She yielded—brittle.God spare me the rest of them!For! though but kisses—she swore!—he had of her,Was it so little?She thought 'twas not bad of her,Said I would lavish a burning hour-fullOn any grisette.And silenced me, powerful!But she was mine, and blood is inflammable—For a Lisette!My rage was undammable....Could a stiletto's one prick be prettier?Look at the gaping.No?—then you're her pitier!Pah! she's the better, and I ... I'm your prisoner.Loose me the strapping—I'll lay one more kiss on her.
Oh ... there was love in her heart—no doubt of it—Under the anger.But see what came out of it!
Not a knave, he!—A smitten rhyme-smatterer,Cloaking in languorAnd heartache to flatter her.
And just as a woman will—even the best of them—She yielded—brittle.God spare me the rest of them!
For! though but kisses—she swore!—he had of her,Was it so little?She thought 'twas not bad of her,
Said I would lavish a burning hour-fullOn any grisette.And silenced me, powerful!
But she was mine, and blood is inflammable—For a Lisette!My rage was undammable....
Could a stiletto's one prick be prettier?Look at the gaping.No?—then you're her pitier!
Pah! she's the better, and I ... I'm your prisoner.Loose me the strapping—I'll lay one more kiss on her.
I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose,Thy hair like rippled sunbeams, and thine eyesLike violets, April-rich and sprung of God.My barren gaze can never know what throesSuch boons of beauty waken, tho' I riseEach day a-tremble with the ruthless hopeThat light will pierce my useless lids—then gropeTill night, blind as the worm within his clod.Yet unto me thou art not less divine,I touch thy cheek—and know the mystery hidWithin the twilight breeze; I smooth thy hairAnd understand how slipping hours may twineThemselves into eternity: yea, ridOf all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seemTo see all beauty God Himself may dream.Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?
I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose,Thy hair like rippled sunbeams, and thine eyesLike violets, April-rich and sprung of God.My barren gaze can never know what throesSuch boons of beauty waken, tho' I riseEach day a-tremble with the ruthless hopeThat light will pierce my useless lids—then gropeTill night, blind as the worm within his clod.
Yet unto me thou art not less divine,I touch thy cheek—and know the mystery hidWithin the twilight breeze; I smooth thy hairAnd understand how slipping hours may twineThemselves into eternity: yea, ridOf all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seemTo see all beauty God Himself may dream.Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?
When Autumn's melancholy robes the landWith silence, and sad fadings mysticalOf other years move thro' the mellow fields,I turn unto this meadow of the dead,Strewn with the leaves stormed from October trees,And wonder if my resting shall be dugHere by this cedar's moan or under the swayOf yonder cypress—lair of winds that roveAs Valkyries sent from Valhalla's courtIn search of worthy slain.And sundry times with questioning I teaseThe entombed of their estate—seeking to knowWhether 'tis sweeter in the grave to feelThe oblivion of Nature's silent flow,Or here to wander wistful o'er her face.Whether the harvesting of pain and joyWhich men call Life ends so, or whether deathPours the warm chrism of ImmortalityInto each human heart whose glow is spent.And oft the Silence hears me. For a voiceOf sighing wind may answer, or a gaze,Though wordless, from a marble seraph's face.Or sometimes from unspeakable deeps of gold,That ebb along the west, revealings wingAnd tremble, like ethereal swift tonguesUnskilled of human speech, about my heart—Till youth, age, death, even earth's all, it seems,Are but brave moments wakened in that Soul,To whom infinities are as a span,Eternities as bird-flights o'er the sun,And worlds as sands blown from Sahara's wildsInto the ceaseless surging of the sea....Then twilight hours lead back my wandered spiritFrom out the wilderness of mysteryWhence none may find a path to the Unknown,And chastened to content I turn me home.
When Autumn's melancholy robes the landWith silence, and sad fadings mysticalOf other years move thro' the mellow fields,I turn unto this meadow of the dead,Strewn with the leaves stormed from October trees,And wonder if my resting shall be dugHere by this cedar's moan or under the swayOf yonder cypress—lair of winds that roveAs Valkyries sent from Valhalla's courtIn search of worthy slain.And sundry times with questioning I teaseThe entombed of their estate—seeking to knowWhether 'tis sweeter in the grave to feelThe oblivion of Nature's silent flow,Or here to wander wistful o'er her face.Whether the harvesting of pain and joyWhich men call Life ends so, or whether deathPours the warm chrism of ImmortalityInto each human heart whose glow is spent.
And oft the Silence hears me. For a voiceOf sighing wind may answer, or a gaze,Though wordless, from a marble seraph's face.Or sometimes from unspeakable deeps of gold,That ebb along the west, revealings wingAnd tremble, like ethereal swift tonguesUnskilled of human speech, about my heart—Till youth, age, death, even earth's all, it seems,Are but brave moments wakened in that Soul,To whom infinities are as a span,Eternities as bird-flights o'er the sun,And worlds as sands blown from Sahara's wildsInto the ceaseless surging of the sea....
Then twilight hours lead back my wandered spiritFrom out the wilderness of mysteryWhence none may find a path to the Unknown,And chastened to content I turn me home.
Oh, the long dawn, the weary, endless dawn,When sleep's oblivion is torn awayFrom love that died with dying yesterdayBut still unburied in the heart lies on!Oh, the sick gray, the twitter in the trees,The sense of human waking o'er the earth!The quivering memories of love's fair birthNow strown as deathless flowers o'er its decease!Oh, the regret, and oh, regretlessness,Striving for sovranty within the soul!Oh, fear that life shall never more be whole,And immortality but make it less!
Oh, the long dawn, the weary, endless dawn,When sleep's oblivion is torn awayFrom love that died with dying yesterdayBut still unburied in the heart lies on!
Oh, the sick gray, the twitter in the trees,The sense of human waking o'er the earth!The quivering memories of love's fair birthNow strown as deathless flowers o'er its decease!
Oh, the regret, and oh, regretlessness,Striving for sovranty within the soul!Oh, fear that life shall never more be whole,And immortality but make it less!
Dusking amber dimly creepsOver the vale,Lit by the kildee's silver sweeps,Sad with his wail.Eastward swing the silent cloudsInto the night.Burdens of day they seem—in crowdsHurled from earth's sight.Tilting gulls whip whitely farOver the lake,Tirelessly on o'er buoy and sparTill they o'ertakeShadow and mingled mist—and thenVanish to wingStill the bewildering night-fen,Where the waves ring.Dusking amber dimly diesOut of the vale.Dead from the dunes the winds arise—Ghosts of the gale.
Dusking amber dimly creepsOver the vale,Lit by the kildee's silver sweeps,Sad with his wail.
Eastward swing the silent cloudsInto the night.Burdens of day they seem—in crowdsHurled from earth's sight.
Tilting gulls whip whitely farOver the lake,Tirelessly on o'er buoy and sparTill they o'ertake
Shadow and mingled mist—and thenVanish to wingStill the bewildering night-fen,Where the waves ring.
Dusking amber dimly diesOut of the vale.Dead from the dunes the winds arise—Ghosts of the gale.
I lingered still when you were gone,When tryst and trust were o'er,While memory like a wounded swanIn sorrow sung love's lore.I lingered till the whippoorwillHad cried delicious painOver the wild-wood—in its thrillI heard your voice again.I lingered and the mellow breezeBlew to me sweetly dewed—Its touch awoke the sorceriesYour last caresses brewed.But when the night with silent startHad sown her starry seed,The harvest which sprang in my heartWas loneliness and need.
I lingered still when you were gone,When tryst and trust were o'er,While memory like a wounded swanIn sorrow sung love's lore.
I lingered till the whippoorwillHad cried delicious painOver the wild-wood—in its thrillI heard your voice again.
I lingered and the mellow breezeBlew to me sweetly dewed—Its touch awoke the sorceriesYour last caresses brewed.
But when the night with silent startHad sown her starry seed,The harvest which sprang in my heartWas loneliness and need.
Oh, who is he will follow meWith a singing,Down sunny roads where windy odesOf the woods are ringing?Where leaves are tossed from branches lostIn a tangleOf vines that vie to clamber high—But to vault and dangle!Oh, who is he?—His eye must beAs a lover'sTo leap and woo the chicory's hueIn the hazel-hovers!His hope must dance like radianceThat hurriesTo scatter shades from the silent gladesWhere the quick hare scurries.And he must see that Autumn's gleeAnd her laughterFrom his lips and heart will quell all smart—Of before and after!
Oh, who is he will follow meWith a singing,Down sunny roads where windy odesOf the woods are ringing?
Where leaves are tossed from branches lostIn a tangleOf vines that vie to clamber high—But to vault and dangle!
Oh, who is he?—His eye must beAs a lover'sTo leap and woo the chicory's hueIn the hazel-hovers!
His hope must dance like radianceThat hurriesTo scatter shades from the silent gladesWhere the quick hare scurries.
And he must see that Autumn's gleeAnd her laughterFrom his lips and heart will quell all smart—Of before and after!
When at evening smothered lightningsBurn the clouds with fretted fires;When the stars forget to glisten,And the winds refuse to listenTo the song of my desires,Oh, my love, unto thee!When the livid breakers angeredChurn against my stormy tower;When the petrel flying fasterBrings an omen to the masterOf his vessel's fated hour—Oh, the reefs! ah, the sea!Then I climb the climbing stairway,Turn the light across the storm;You are watching, fisher-maidenFor the token-flashes ladenWith a love death could not harm—Lo, they come, swift and free!One—that means, "I think of thee!"Two—"I swear me thine!"Three—Ah, hear me tho' you sleep!—Is, that I know thee mine!Thro' the darkness, One, Two, Three,All the night they sweep:Thro' raging darkness o'er the deep,One—and Two—and Three.
When at evening smothered lightningsBurn the clouds with fretted fires;When the stars forget to glisten,And the winds refuse to listenTo the song of my desires,Oh, my love, unto thee!
When the livid breakers angeredChurn against my stormy tower;When the petrel flying fasterBrings an omen to the masterOf his vessel's fated hour—Oh, the reefs! ah, the sea!
Then I climb the climbing stairway,Turn the light across the storm;You are watching, fisher-maidenFor the token-flashes ladenWith a love death could not harm—Lo, they come, swift and free!
One—that means, "I think of thee!"Two—"I swear me thine!"Three—Ah, hear me tho' you sleep!—Is, that I know thee mine!Thro' the darkness, One, Two, Three,All the night they sweep:Thro' raging darkness o'er the deep,One—and Two—and Three.