And could I love it more—this simple sceneOf cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested,That lie as if forgotten were all green,So bare, so dead!Or could my gaze more tenderly entwineEach pallid beech and silvery sycamoreOutreaching arms in patience to divineIf winter's o'er?Ah no, the wind has blown into my veinsThe blue infinity of sky, the senseOf meadows free to-day from icy pains—From wintry vents.And sunny peace more virgin than the glowFalling from eve's first star into the night,Brings hope believing what it ne'er can knowWith mortal sight.
And could I love it more—this simple sceneOf cot-strewn hills and fields long-harvested,That lie as if forgotten were all green,So bare, so dead!
Or could my gaze more tenderly entwineEach pallid beech and silvery sycamoreOutreaching arms in patience to divineIf winter's o'er?
Ah no, the wind has blown into my veinsThe blue infinity of sky, the senseOf meadows free to-day from icy pains—From wintry vents.
And sunny peace more virgin than the glowFalling from eve's first star into the night,Brings hope believing what it ne'er can knowWith mortal sight.
I knew she would come!Sarcastic NovemberLaughed cold and glumOn the last red emberOf forest leaves.He was laughing, the scorner,At me forlornerThan any that grieves—Because I asked him if June would come!But I knew she would comeWhen snow-hearted winterGripped river and loam,And the wind sped flinterOn icy heel,I was chafing my sorrowAnd yearning to borrowA hope that would stealAcross the hours—till June should come.And now she is here—The wanton!—I followHer steps, ever near,To the shade of the hollowWhere violets blow:And chide her for leaving,Tho' half believingShe taunted me so,To make her abided return more dear.
I knew she would come!Sarcastic NovemberLaughed cold and glumOn the last red emberOf forest leaves.He was laughing, the scorner,At me forlornerThan any that grieves—Because I asked him if June would come!
But I knew she would comeWhen snow-hearted winterGripped river and loam,And the wind sped flinterOn icy heel,I was chafing my sorrowAnd yearning to borrowA hope that would stealAcross the hours—till June should come.
And now she is here—The wanton!—I followHer steps, ever near,To the shade of the hollowWhere violets blow:And chide her for leaving,Tho' half believingShe taunted me so,To make her abided return more dear.
Spirit of rain—With all thy mountain mists that wander lonelyAs a gray trainOf souls newly discarnate seeking new life only!Spirit of rain!Leading them thro' dim torii, up fane-ways onwardTill not in vainThey tremble upon the peaks and plunge rejoicing dawnward.Spirit of rain!So would I lead my dead thoughts high and higher,Till they regainBirth and the beauty of a new life's fire.
Spirit of rain—With all thy mountain mists that wander lonelyAs a gray trainOf souls newly discarnate seeking new life only!
Spirit of rain!Leading them thro' dim torii, up fane-ways onwardTill not in vainThey tremble upon the peaks and plunge rejoicing dawnward.
Spirit of rain!So would I lead my dead thoughts high and higher,Till they regainBirth and the beauty of a new life's fire.
Brown dropping of leaves,Soft rush of the wind,Slow searing of sheavesOn the hill;Green plunging of frogs,Cool lisp of the brook,Far barking of dogsAt the mill;Hot hanging of clouds,High poise of the hawk,Flush laughter of crowdsFrom the Ridge;Nut-falling, quail-calling,Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling—Oh, sadness, gladness, madness,Of an autumn day at the bridge!
Brown dropping of leaves,Soft rush of the wind,Slow searing of sheavesOn the hill;Green plunging of frogs,Cool lisp of the brook,Far barking of dogsAt the mill;Hot hanging of clouds,High poise of the hawk,Flush laughter of crowdsFrom the Ridge;Nut-falling, quail-calling,Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling—Oh, sadness, gladness, madness,Of an autumn day at the bridge!
Do women weep when men have died?It cannot be!For I have sat here by his side,Breathing dear names against his face,That he must list to, were his placeOver God's throne—Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.Do women weep—not gaze stone-eyed?Grief seems in vain.Do women weep?—I was his bride—They brought him to me cold and pale—Upon his lids I saw the trailOf deathly pain.They said, "Her tears will fall like autumn rain."I cannot weep! Not if hot tears,Dropped on his lids,Might burn him back to life and yearsOf yearning love, would any riseTo flood the anguish from my eyes—And I'm his bride!Ah me, do women weep when men have died?
Do women weep when men have died?It cannot be!For I have sat here by his side,Breathing dear names against his face,That he must list to, were his placeOver God's throne—Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.
Do women weep—not gaze stone-eyed?Grief seems in vain.Do women weep?—I was his bride—They brought him to me cold and pale—Upon his lids I saw the trailOf deathly pain.They said, "Her tears will fall like autumn rain."
I cannot weep! Not if hot tears,Dropped on his lids,Might burn him back to life and yearsOf yearning love, would any riseTo flood the anguish from my eyes—And I'm his bride!Ah me, do women weep when men have died?
Upon how many a hill,Across how many a field,Beside how many a river's restful flowing,They stand, with eyes a-thrill,And hearts of day-rue healed,Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!They have forgotten life,Forgotten sunless death;Desire is gone—is it not gone for ever?No memory of strifeHave they, or pain-sick breath.No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.Silent the gold steals downThe west, and mysteryMoves deeper in their hearts and settles darker.'Tis faded—the day's crown;But strange and shadowyThey see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.Like priests whose altar firesAre spent, immovableThey stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted.Zephyrs awake tree-lyres,The starry deeps are full,Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.Ah, sunset-lovers, thoughTime were but pulsing pain,And death no more than its eternal ceasing,Would you not choose the throe,Hold the oblivion vain,To have beheld so many a day's releasing?
Upon how many a hill,Across how many a field,Beside how many a river's restful flowing,They stand, with eyes a-thrill,And hearts of day-rue healed,Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!
They have forgotten life,Forgotten sunless death;Desire is gone—is it not gone for ever?No memory of strifeHave they, or pain-sick breath.No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.
Silent the gold steals downThe west, and mysteryMoves deeper in their hearts and settles darker.'Tis faded—the day's crown;But strange and shadowyThey see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.
Like priests whose altar firesAre spent, immovableThey stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted.Zephyrs awake tree-lyres,The starry deeps are full,Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.
Ah, sunset-lovers, thoughTime were but pulsing pain,And death no more than its eternal ceasing,Would you not choose the throe,Hold the oblivion vain,To have beheld so many a day's releasing?
The eve of Golgotha had come,And Christ lay shrouded in the garden Tomb:Among the olives, Oh, how dumb,How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!The hill grew dim—the pleading crossReached empty arms toward the closing gate.Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss!Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!Reached bleeding arms—but how in vain!The murmurous multitude within the wallAlready had forgot His pain—To-morrow would forget the cross—and all!They knew not Rome, before its sign,Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne,Would sweep all lands from Nile to RhineIn servitude unto the Nazarene.Nor knew that millions would forsakeAncestral shrines great with the glow of time,And lifting up its token shakeAeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.With empty arms aloft it stood:Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well!The cross emblotted with His bloodMounts, highest Hope of men, against earth's hell!
The eve of Golgotha had come,And Christ lay shrouded in the garden Tomb:Among the olives, Oh, how dumb,How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!
The hill grew dim—the pleading crossReached empty arms toward the closing gate.Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss!Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!
Reached bleeding arms—but how in vain!The murmurous multitude within the wallAlready had forgot His pain—To-morrow would forget the cross—and all!
They knew not Rome, before its sign,Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne,Would sweep all lands from Nile to RhineIn servitude unto the Nazarene.
Nor knew that millions would forsakeAncestral shrines great with the glow of time,And lifting up its token shakeAeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.
With empty arms aloft it stood:Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well!The cross emblotted with His bloodMounts, highest Hope of men, against earth's hell!
Not grief nor the sunny wineOf gladness steeps my spirit as I gazeOver these meads that lie engarmentedIn stubble robes of winter-weary brown.For, as those solitary trees afarHave reached unbudding boughs to the dim dayAnd melted on the infinite calm of space,So have I reached, and am no more distraughtWith the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday.But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair,Of rest that rises as a tide of sleep,Of care borne on the plumes of swan-swift cloudsAway to the sullen shades of the low west,Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude—And lent it faith's illimitable Peace.
Not grief nor the sunny wineOf gladness steeps my spirit as I gazeOver these meads that lie engarmentedIn stubble robes of winter-weary brown.For, as those solitary trees afarHave reached unbudding boughs to the dim dayAnd melted on the infinite calm of space,So have I reached, and am no more distraughtWith the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday.But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair,Of rest that rises as a tide of sleep,Of care borne on the plumes of swan-swift cloudsAway to the sullen shades of the low west,Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude—And lent it faith's illimitable Peace.
Her voice is vibrant beauty diptIn dreams of infinite sorrow and delight.Thro' an awaiting soul 'tis sliptAnd lo, words spring that breathe immortal.
Her voice is vibrant beauty diptIn dreams of infinite sorrow and delight.Thro' an awaiting soul 'tis sliptAnd lo, words spring that breathe immortal.
1Out of the night of lovelessness I callThee, as, in a chill chamber where no raysOf unbelievable light and freedom fall,Might cry one manacled! And tho' the waysThou'lt come I cannot see; tho' my heart's soreWith emptiness when morning's silent graysWake me to long aloneness; yet I knowThou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt goBeside me, when I have found thee, evermore!2So in the garden of my heart each dayI plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace,And now the lily, faith—or now a sprayOf the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er ceaseAround the still unblossoming rose of loveTo bend in fragrant tribute to her sway.Then—for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns,The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runsWith brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.3But where now art thou? Watching with love's eyeThe eve-star wander? Listening through dim treesSome thrilled muezzin of the forest cryFrom his leafy minaret? Or by the sea'sBlue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangsLike the faery isle of Avalon, do theseMy yearnings speak to thee of days thy feetHave never trod?—Sweet, sweet, oh, more than sweet,My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.4And will be soon! For last night near to-day,Dreaming, God called me thro' the space-built sphereOf heaven and said, "Come, waiting one, and layThine ear unto my Heart—there thou shalt hearThe secrets of this world where evils war."Such things I heard as must rend mortal clayTo tell, and trembled—till God, pitying,Said, "Listen" ... Oh, my love, I heard thee singOut of thy window to the morning star!
1
Out of the night of lovelessness I callThee, as, in a chill chamber where no raysOf unbelievable light and freedom fall,Might cry one manacled! And tho' the waysThou'lt come I cannot see; tho' my heart's soreWith emptiness when morning's silent graysWake me to long aloneness; yet I knowThou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt goBeside me, when I have found thee, evermore!
2
So in the garden of my heart each dayI plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace,And now the lily, faith—or now a sprayOf the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er ceaseAround the still unblossoming rose of loveTo bend in fragrant tribute to her sway.Then—for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns,The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runsWith brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.
3
But where now art thou? Watching with love's eyeThe eve-star wander? Listening through dim treesSome thrilled muezzin of the forest cryFrom his leafy minaret? Or by the sea'sBlue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangsLike the faery isle of Avalon, do theseMy yearnings speak to thee of days thy feetHave never trod?—Sweet, sweet, oh, more than sweet,My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.
4
And will be soon! For last night near to-day,Dreaming, God called me thro' the space-built sphereOf heaven and said, "Come, waiting one, and layThine ear unto my Heart—there thou shalt hearThe secrets of this world where evils war."Such things I heard as must rend mortal clayTo tell, and trembled—till God, pitying,Said, "Listen" ... Oh, my love, I heard thee singOut of thy window to the morning star!
Tossing, swirling, swept by the wind,Beaten abaft by the rain,The swallows high in the sodden skyCircle oft and again.They rise and sink and drift and swing,Twitterless in the chill;A-haste, for stark is the coming darkOver the wet of the hill.Wildly, swiftly, at last they streamInto their chimney home.A livid gash in the west, a crash—Then silence, sadness, gloam.
Tossing, swirling, swept by the wind,Beaten abaft by the rain,The swallows high in the sodden skyCircle oft and again.
They rise and sink and drift and swing,Twitterless in the chill;A-haste, for stark is the coming darkOver the wet of the hill.
Wildly, swiftly, at last they streamInto their chimney home.A livid gash in the west, a crash—Then silence, sadness, gloam.
A host of bloody centuries lie proneUpon the fields of Time—but still the wakeOf Progress loud is haunted with the groanOf myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slakeHis scarlet thirst, has War, fierce PolyphemeOf fate, insatiately drunk life's stream.We bid the courier lightning leap alongIts instant path with spirit speed—commandStars lost in night-eternity to throngBefore the magnet eye of Science—standOn Glory's peak and triumphingly cryOut mastery of earth and sea and air.But unto War's necessity we bareOur piteous breasts—and impotently die.
A host of bloody centuries lie proneUpon the fields of Time—but still the wakeOf Progress loud is haunted with the groanOf myriads, from whose peaceful veins, to slakeHis scarlet thirst, has War, fierce PolyphemeOf fate, insatiately drunk life's stream.We bid the courier lightning leap alongIts instant path with spirit speed—commandStars lost in night-eternity to throngBefore the magnet eye of Science—standOn Glory's peak and triumphingly cryOut mastery of earth and sea and air.But unto War's necessity we bareOur piteous breasts—and impotently die.
Tho' thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delightUpon these airs, bird of the poet's love,Yet must I sing thy singing! For the NightHas poured her jewels o'er the lap of heavenAs they who hear thee say thou dost aboveThe wood such ecstasies as were not givenBy nestling breasts of Venus to the dove.2Oft have I watched the moon with her fair goldStill clung to by the tattered mists of dayArise and look for thee. Then hope grew bold.And almost I could see how the near laurelsWould tremble with thy trembling: but the swayOf bards who wreathed thee with unfading choralsHas held my longing lips from this poor lay.3But take it now. And if the lark—who isToo high for earth—may vie for praise with theeIn aery rhapsody, yet it is hisTo sing of day and joy, while thou of sorrowAnd night o'erhovering singest. So thou'lt beMore dear than he—till hearts shall cease to borrowFrom grief the healing for life's mystery.
Tho' thou hast ne'er unpent thy pain's delightUpon these airs, bird of the poet's love,Yet must I sing thy singing! For the NightHas poured her jewels o'er the lap of heavenAs they who hear thee say thou dost aboveThe wood such ecstasies as were not givenBy nestling breasts of Venus to the dove.
2
Oft have I watched the moon with her fair goldStill clung to by the tattered mists of dayArise and look for thee. Then hope grew bold.And almost I could see how the near laurelsWould tremble with thy trembling: but the swayOf bards who wreathed thee with unfading choralsHas held my longing lips from this poor lay.
3
But take it now. And if the lark—who isToo high for earth—may vie for praise with theeIn aery rhapsody, yet it is hisTo sing of day and joy, while thou of sorrowAnd night o'erhovering singest. So thou'lt beMore dear than he—till hearts shall cease to borrowFrom grief the healing for life's mystery.
To drift with the drifting clouds,And blow with the blow of breezes,To ripple with waves and murmur with cavesTo soar, as the sea-mew pleases!To dip with the dipping sails,And burn with the burning heaven—My life! my soul! for the infinite rollOf a day to wildness given!
To drift with the drifting clouds,And blow with the blow of breezes,To ripple with waves and murmur with cavesTo soar, as the sea-mew pleases!
To dip with the dipping sails,And burn with the burning heaven—My life! my soul! for the infinite rollOf a day to wildness given!
Summer's last moon has waned—WanedAs amber firesOf an Aztec shrine.The invisible breath of coming death has stainedThe withering leaves with its nepenthean wine—Autumn's near.Winds in the woodland moan—MoanAs memoriesOf a chilling yore.Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strownFrom crimson pods along the earth's sere floor—Autumn's near.Solitude slowly steals,StealsHer silent wayBy the songless brook.At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels,The musing joy of sadness in her look—Autumn's near.Yes, with her golden days—DaysWhen hope and toilAre at peace and rest—Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praiseLies down with leaf and blossom on his breast—Autumn's near.
Summer's last moon has waned—WanedAs amber firesOf an Aztec shrine.The invisible breath of coming death has stainedThe withering leaves with its nepenthean wine—Autumn's near.
Winds in the woodland moan—MoanAs memoriesOf a chilling yore.Magnolia seeds like Indian beads are strownFrom crimson pods along the earth's sere floor—Autumn's near.
Solitude slowly steals,StealsHer silent wayBy the songless brook.At the gnarly yoke of a solemn oak she kneels,The musing joy of sadness in her look—Autumn's near.
Yes, with her golden days—DaysWhen hope and toilAre at peace and rest—Autumn is near, and the tired year 'mid praiseLies down with leaf and blossom on his breast—Autumn's near.
A-bask in the mellow beauty of the ripening sun,Sad with the lingering sense of summer's purpose done,The shorn and searing fields stretch from me one by oneAlong the creek.The corn-stalks drop their shadows down the fallow hill;Wearing autumnal warmth the farm sleeps by the mill,Around each heavy eave low smoke hangs blue and still—Life's flow is weak.Along the weedy roads and lanes I walk—or pause—Ponder a fallen nut or quirking crow whose cawsSeem with prehuman hintings fraught or ancient awesOf forest deeps.Of forest deeps the pale-face hunter never trod,Nor Indian, with the silent stealth of Nature shod;Deeps tense with the timelessness and solitude of God,Who never sleeps.And many times has Autumn, on her harvest way,Gathered again into the earth leaf, fruit, and spray;Here many times dwelt rueful as she dwells to-day,The while she reaps.
A-bask in the mellow beauty of the ripening sun,Sad with the lingering sense of summer's purpose done,The shorn and searing fields stretch from me one by oneAlong the creek.
The corn-stalks drop their shadows down the fallow hill;Wearing autumnal warmth the farm sleeps by the mill,Around each heavy eave low smoke hangs blue and still—Life's flow is weak.
Along the weedy roads and lanes I walk—or pause—Ponder a fallen nut or quirking crow whose cawsSeem with prehuman hintings fraught or ancient awesOf forest deeps.
Of forest deeps the pale-face hunter never trod,Nor Indian, with the silent stealth of Nature shod;Deeps tense with the timelessness and solitude of God,Who never sleeps.
And many times has Autumn, on her harvest way,Gathered again into the earth leaf, fruit, and spray;Here many times dwelt rueful as she dwells to-day,The while she reaps.
The clouds in woe hang far and dim:I look again, and lo,Only a faint and shadow lineOf shore—I watch it go.The gulls have left the ship and wheelBack to the cliff's gray wraith.Will it be so of all our thoughtsWhen we set sail on Death?And what will the last sight be of lifeAs lone we fare and fast?Grief and the face we love in mist—Then night and awe too vast?Or the dear light of Hope—like that,Oh, see, from the lost shoreKindling and calling "Onward, youShall reach the Evermore!"
The clouds in woe hang far and dim:I look again, and lo,Only a faint and shadow lineOf shore—I watch it go.
The gulls have left the ship and wheelBack to the cliff's gray wraith.Will it be so of all our thoughtsWhen we set sail on Death?
And what will the last sight be of lifeAs lone we fare and fast?Grief and the face we love in mist—Then night and awe too vast?
Or the dear light of Hope—like that,Oh, see, from the lost shoreKindling and calling "Onward, youShall reach the Evermore!"
Silence is song unheard,Is beauty never born,Is light forgotten—left unstirredUpon Creation's morn.
Silence is song unheard,Is beauty never born,Is light forgotten—left unstirredUpon Creation's morn.