What shall her silence keepUnder the sun?Here, where the willows weepAnd waters run;Here, where she lies asleep,And all is done.Lights, when the tree-top swings;Scents that are sown;Sounds of the wood-bird's wings;And the bee's drone:These be her comfortingsUnder the stone.What shall watch o'er her hereWhen day is fled?Here, when the night is nearAnd skies are red;Here, where she lieth dearAnd young and dead.Shadows, and winds that spillDew; and the tuneOf the wild whippoorwill;And the white moon;These be the watchers stillOver her stone.
What shall her silence keepUnder the sun?Here, where the willows weepAnd waters run;Here, where she lies asleep,And all is done.
Lights, when the tree-top swings;Scents that are sown;Sounds of the wood-bird's wings;And the bee's drone:These be her comfortingsUnder the stone.
What shall watch o'er her hereWhen day is fled?Here, when the night is nearAnd skies are red;Here, where she lieth dearAnd young and dead.
Shadows, and winds that spillDew; and the tuneOf the wild whippoorwill;And the white moon;These be the watchers stillOver her stone.
Under the brindled beech,Deep in the mottled shade,Where the rocks hang in reachFlower and ferny blade,Let him be laid.Here will the brooks, that roveUnder the mossy trees,Grave with the music ofUnderworld melodies,Lap him in peace.Here will the winds, that blowOut of the haunted west,Gold with the dreams that glowThere on the heaven's breast,Lull him to rest.Here will the stars and moon,Silent and far and deep,Old with the mystic runeOf the slow years that creep,Charm him with sleep.Under the ancient beech,Deep in the mossy shade,Where the hill moods may reach,Where the hill dreams may aid,Let him be laid.
Under the brindled beech,Deep in the mottled shade,Where the rocks hang in reachFlower and ferny blade,Let him be laid.
Here will the brooks, that roveUnder the mossy trees,Grave with the music ofUnderworld melodies,Lap him in peace.
Here will the winds, that blowOut of the haunted west,Gold with the dreams that glowThere on the heaven's breast,Lull him to rest.
Here will the stars and moon,Silent and far and deep,Old with the mystic runeOf the slow years that creep,Charm him with sleep.
Under the ancient beech,Deep in the mossy shade,Where the hill moods may reach,Where the hill dreams may aid,Let him be laid.
The sunlight that makes of the heavenA pathway for sylphids to throng;The wind that makes harps of the forestsFor spirits to smite into song,Are the image and voice of a visionThat comforts my heart and makes strong.I look in one's face, and the shadowsAre lifted: and, lo, I can see,Through windows of evident being,That open on eternity,The form of the essence of BeautyGod clothes with His own mystery.I lean to one's voice, and the wrangleOf living hath pause: and I hearThrough doors of invisible spirit,That open on light that is clear,The radiant raiment of MusicIn the hush of the heavens sweep near.
The sunlight that makes of the heavenA pathway for sylphids to throng;The wind that makes harps of the forestsFor spirits to smite into song,Are the image and voice of a visionThat comforts my heart and makes strong.
I look in one's face, and the shadowsAre lifted: and, lo, I can see,Through windows of evident being,That open on eternity,The form of the essence of BeautyGod clothes with His own mystery.
I lean to one's voice, and the wrangleOf living hath pause: and I hearThrough doors of invisible spirit,That open on light that is clear,The radiant raiment of MusicIn the hush of the heavens sweep near.
She is so dear the wildflowers nearEach path she passes by,Are over fain to kiss againHer feet and then to die.She is so fair the wild birds thereThat sing upon the bough,Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh,And sing no other now.Alas! that she should never see,Should never care to know,The wildflower's love, the bird's above,And his, who loves her so!
She is so dear the wildflowers nearEach path she passes by,Are over fain to kiss againHer feet and then to die.
She is so fair the wild birds thereThat sing upon the bough,Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh,And sing no other now.
Alas! that she should never see,Should never care to know,The wildflower's love, the bird's above,And his, who loves her so!
This is the face of herI've dreamed of long;Here in my heart's despair,This is the face of herPictured in song.Look on the lily lids,The eyes of dawn,Deep as a Nereid's,Swimming with dewy lidsIn waters wan.Look on the brows of snow,The locks brown-bright;Only young sleep can showSuch brows of placid snow,Such locks of night.The cheeks, like rosy moons,The lips of fire;Love thinks no sweeter tunesUnder enchanted moonsThan their desire.Loved lips and eyes and hair,Lo, this is she!She, who sits smiling thereOver my heart's despair,Never for me!
This is the face of herI've dreamed of long;Here in my heart's despair,This is the face of herPictured in song.
Look on the lily lids,The eyes of dawn,Deep as a Nereid's,Swimming with dewy lidsIn waters wan.
Look on the brows of snow,The locks brown-bright;Only young sleep can showSuch brows of placid snow,Such locks of night.
The cheeks, like rosy moons,The lips of fire;Love thinks no sweeter tunesUnder enchanted moonsThan their desire.
Loved lips and eyes and hair,Lo, this is she!She, who sits smiling thereOver my heart's despair,Never for me!
The pink rose drops its petals onThe moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn;The moon, like some wide rose of white,Drops down the summer night.No rose there isAs sweet as this—Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss.The lattice of thy casement twinesWith jasmine vines, with jasmine vines;The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lieAbout the glimmering sky.No jasmine tressCan so caressAs thy white arms' soft loveliness.About thy door magnolia bloomsMake sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms;A moon-magnolia is the duskClosed in a dewy husk.However much,No bloom gives suchSoft fragrance as thy bosom's touch.The flowers, blooming now, shall pass,And strew the grass, and strew the grass;The night, like some frail flower, dawnShall soon make gray and wan.Still, still above,The flower ofTrue love shall live forever, love.
The pink rose drops its petals onThe moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn;The moon, like some wide rose of white,Drops down the summer night.No rose there isAs sweet as this—Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss.
The lattice of thy casement twinesWith jasmine vines, with jasmine vines;The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lieAbout the glimmering sky.No jasmine tressCan so caressAs thy white arms' soft loveliness.
About thy door magnolia bloomsMake sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms;A moon-magnolia is the duskClosed in a dewy husk.However much,No bloom gives suchSoft fragrance as thy bosom's touch.
The flowers, blooming now, shall pass,And strew the grass, and strew the grass;The night, like some frail flower, dawnShall soon make gray and wan.Still, still above,The flower ofTrue love shall live forever, love.
There is no flower of wood or lea,No April flower, as fair as she:O white anemone, who hastThe wind's wild grace,Know her a cousin of thy race,Into whose faceA presence like the wind's hath passed.
There is no flower of wood or lea,No April flower, as fair as she:O white anemone, who hastThe wind's wild grace,Know her a cousin of thy race,Into whose faceA presence like the wind's hath passed.
There is no flower of wood or lea,No Maytime flower, as fair as she:O bluebell, tender with the blueOf limpid skies,Thy lineage hath kindred tiesIn her, whose eyesThe heav'n's own qualities imbue.
There is no flower of wood or lea,No Maytime flower, as fair as she:O bluebell, tender with the blueOf limpid skies,Thy lineage hath kindred tiesIn her, whose eyesThe heav'n's own qualities imbue.
There is no flower of wood or lea,No Juneday flower, as fair as she:Rose,—odorous with beauty ofLife's first and best,—Behold thy sister here confessed!Whose maiden breastIs fragrant with the dreams of love.
There is no flower of wood or lea,No Juneday flower, as fair as she:Rose,—odorous with beauty ofLife's first and best,—Behold thy sister here confessed!Whose maiden breastIs fragrant with the dreams of love.
She is so much to me, to me,And, oh! I love her so,I look into my soul and seeHow comfort keeps me companyIn hopes she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.So dear she is to me, so dear,And, oh! I love her so,I listen in my heart and hearThe voice of gladness singing nearIn thoughts she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.So much she is to me, so much,And, oh! I love her so,In heart and soul I feel the touchOf angel callers, that are suchDreams as she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.
She is so much to me, to me,And, oh! I love her so,I look into my soul and seeHow comfort keeps me companyIn hopes she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.
So dear she is to me, so dear,And, oh! I love her so,I listen in my heart and hearThe voice of gladness singing nearIn thoughts she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.
So much she is to me, so much,And, oh! I love her so,In heart and soul I feel the touchOf angel callers, that are suchDreams as she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.
In her dark eyes dreams poetize;The soul sits lost in love:There is no thing in all the skies,To gladden all the world I prize,Like the deep love in her dark eyes,Or one sweet dream thereof.In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise,Her soul's soft moods I see:Of hope and faith, that make life wise;And charity, whose food is sighs—Not truer than her own true eyesIs truth's divinity.In her dark eyes the knowledge liesOf an immortal sod,Her soul once trod in angel-guise,Nor can forget its heavenly ties,Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyesOnce gazed the eyes of God.
In her dark eyes dreams poetize;The soul sits lost in love:There is no thing in all the skies,To gladden all the world I prize,Like the deep love in her dark eyes,Or one sweet dream thereof.
In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise,Her soul's soft moods I see:Of hope and faith, that make life wise;And charity, whose food is sighs—Not truer than her own true eyesIs truth's divinity.
In her dark eyes the knowledge liesOf an immortal sod,Her soul once trod in angel-guise,Nor can forget its heavenly ties,Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyesOnce gazed the eyes of God.
The wind, that gives the rose a kissWith murmured music of the south,Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this,—The wind, that gives the rose a kiss—The perfume of her mouth.The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,And echoes in a grottoed place,Hath held a fairer thing than these,—The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,—The image of her face.O happy wind! O happy brook!So dear before, so free of cares!How dearer since her kiss and look,—O happy wind! O happy brook!—Have blessed you unawares!
The wind, that gives the rose a kissWith murmured music of the south,Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this,—The wind, that gives the rose a kiss—The perfume of her mouth.
The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,And echoes in a grottoed place,Hath held a fairer thing than these,—The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,—The image of her face.
O happy wind! O happy brook!So dear before, so free of cares!How dearer since her kiss and look,—O happy wind! O happy brook!—Have blessed you unawares!
The rosy hills of her high breasts,Whereon, like misty morning, restsThe breathing lace; her auburn hair,Wherein, a star point sparkling there,One jewel burns; her eyes, that keepRecorded dreams of song and sleep;Her mouth, with whose comparisonThe richest rose were poor and wan;Her throat, her form—what masterpieceOf man can picture half of these!She comes! a classic from the handOf God! wherethrough I understandWhat Nature means and Art and Love,And all the lovely Myths thereof.
The rosy hills of her high breasts,Whereon, like misty morning, restsThe breathing lace; her auburn hair,Wherein, a star point sparkling there,One jewel burns; her eyes, that keepRecorded dreams of song and sleep;Her mouth, with whose comparisonThe richest rose were poor and wan;Her throat, her form—what masterpieceOf man can picture half of these!She comes! a classic from the handOf God! wherethrough I understandWhat Nature means and Art and Love,And all the lovely Myths thereof.
Deep in baby Mary's eyes,Baby Mary's sweet blue eyes,Dwell the golden memoriesOf the music once her earsHeard in far-off Paradise;So she has no time for tears,—Baby Mary,—Listening to the songs she hears.Soft in baby Mary's face,Baby Mary's lovely face,If you watch, you, too, may traceDreams her spirit-self hath seenIn some far-off Eden-place,Whence her soul she can not wean,—Baby Mary,—Dreaming in a world between.
Deep in baby Mary's eyes,Baby Mary's sweet blue eyes,Dwell the golden memoriesOf the music once her earsHeard in far-off Paradise;So she has no time for tears,—Baby Mary,—Listening to the songs she hears.
Soft in baby Mary's face,Baby Mary's lovely face,If you watch, you, too, may traceDreams her spirit-self hath seenIn some far-off Eden-place,Whence her soul she can not wean,—Baby Mary,—Dreaming in a world between.
To-night he sees their star burn, dewy-bright,Deep in the pansy, eve hath made for it,Low in the west; a placid purple litAt its far edge with warm auroral light:Love's planet hangs above a cedared height;And there in shadow, like gold music writOf dusk's dark fingers, scale-like fire-flies flitNow up, now down the balmy bars of night.How different from that eve a year ago!Which was a stormy flower in the hairOf dolorous day, whose sombre eyes looked, blurred,Into night's sibyl face, and saw the woeOf parting near, and imaged a despair,As now a hope caught from a homing word.
To-night he sees their star burn, dewy-bright,Deep in the pansy, eve hath made for it,Low in the west; a placid purple litAt its far edge with warm auroral light:Love's planet hangs above a cedared height;And there in shadow, like gold music writOf dusk's dark fingers, scale-like fire-flies flitNow up, now down the balmy bars of night.How different from that eve a year ago!Which was a stormy flower in the hairOf dolorous day, whose sombre eyes looked, blurred,Into night's sibyl face, and saw the woeOf parting near, and imaged a despair,As now a hope caught from a homing word.
She came unto him—as the springtime doesUnto the land where all lies dead and cold,Until her rosary of days is toldAnd beauty, prayer-like, blossoms where death was.—Nature divined her coming—yea, the duskSeemed thinking of that happiness: behold,No cloud it had to blot its marigoldMoon, great and golden, o'er the slopes of musk;Whereon earth's voice made music; leaf and streamLilting the same low lullaby again,To coax the wind, who romped among the hillsAll day, a tired child, to sleep and dream:When through the moonlight of the locust-laneShe came, as spring comes through her daffodils.
She came unto him—as the springtime doesUnto the land where all lies dead and cold,Until her rosary of days is toldAnd beauty, prayer-like, blossoms where death was.—Nature divined her coming—yea, the duskSeemed thinking of that happiness: behold,No cloud it had to blot its marigoldMoon, great and golden, o'er the slopes of musk;Whereon earth's voice made music; leaf and streamLilting the same low lullaby again,To coax the wind, who romped among the hillsAll day, a tired child, to sleep and dream:When through the moonlight of the locust-laneShe came, as spring comes through her daffodils.
White as a lily molded of Earth's milkThat eve the moon swam in a hyacinth sky;Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:Bright as a naiad's leap, from shine to shade,The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,Flashed like a great, enchantment-welded blade.And when the western sky seemed some weird land,And night a witching spell at whose commandOne sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deepThe warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.
White as a lily molded of Earth's milkThat eve the moon swam in a hyacinth sky;Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:Bright as a naiad's leap, from shine to shade,The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,Flashed like a great, enchantment-welded blade.And when the western sky seemed some weird land,And night a witching spell at whose commandOne sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deepThe warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.
There where they part, the porch's step is strewnWith wind-tossed petals of the purple vine;Athwart the porch the shadow of a pineCleaves the white moonlight; and, like some calm runeHeaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;And now a meteor draws a lilac lineAcross the welkin, as if God would signThe perfect poem of this night of June.The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grassLike crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,The dew-drop trembles on the peony,As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.
There where they part, the porch's step is strewnWith wind-tossed petals of the purple vine;Athwart the porch the shadow of a pineCleaves the white moonlight; and, like some calm runeHeaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;And now a meteor draws a lilac lineAcross the welkin, as if God would signThe perfect poem of this night of June.The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grassLike crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,The dew-drop trembles on the peony,As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.
In after years shall she stand here again,In heart regretful? and with lonely sighsThink on that night of love, and realizeWhose was the fault whence grew the parting pain?And, in her soul, persuading still in vain,Shall doubt take shape, and all its old surmiseBid darker phantoms of remorse ariseTrailing the raiment of a dead disdain?Masks, unto whom shall her avowal yearn,With looks clairvoyant seeing how each isA different form, with eyes and lips that burnInto her heart with love's last look and kiss?—And, ere they pass, shall she behold them turnTo her a face which evermore is his?
In after years shall she stand here again,In heart regretful? and with lonely sighsThink on that night of love, and realizeWhose was the fault whence grew the parting pain?And, in her soul, persuading still in vain,Shall doubt take shape, and all its old surmiseBid darker phantoms of remorse ariseTrailing the raiment of a dead disdain?Masks, unto whom shall her avowal yearn,With looks clairvoyant seeing how each isA different form, with eyes and lips that burnInto her heart with love's last look and kiss?—And, ere they pass, shall she behold them turnTo her a face which evermore is his?
In after years shall he remember howDawn had no breeze soft as her murmured name?And day no sunlight that availed the sameAs her bright smile to cheer the world below?Nor had the conscious twilight's golds and graysHer soul's allurement, that was free of blame,—Nor dusk's gold canvas, where one star's white flameShone, more bewitchment than her own sweet ways.—Then as the night with moonlight and perfume,And dew and darkness, qualifies the wholeDim world with glamour, shall the past with dreams—That were the love-theme of their lives—illumeThe present with remembered hours, whose gleams,Unknown to him, shall face them soul to soul?
In after years shall he remember howDawn had no breeze soft as her murmured name?And day no sunlight that availed the sameAs her bright smile to cheer the world below?Nor had the conscious twilight's golds and graysHer soul's allurement, that was free of blame,—Nor dusk's gold canvas, where one star's white flameShone, more bewitchment than her own sweet ways.—Then as the night with moonlight and perfume,And dew and darkness, qualifies the wholeDim world with glamour, shall the past with dreams—That were the love-theme of their lives—illumeThe present with remembered hours, whose gleams,Unknown to him, shall face them soul to soul?
No! not for her and him that part;—-the Might-Have-Been's sad consolation;—where had bent,Haply, in prayer and patience penitent,Both, though apart, before no blown-out light.The otherwise of fate for them, when whiteThe lilacs bloom again, and, innocent,Spring comes with beauty for her testament,Singing the praises of the day and night.When orchards blossom and the distant hillIs vague with haw-trees as a ridge with mist,The moon shall see him where a watch he keepsBy her young form that lieth white and still,With lidded eyes and passive wrist on wrist,While by her side he bows himself and weeps.
No! not for her and him that part;—-the Might-Have-Been's sad consolation;—where had bent,Haply, in prayer and patience penitent,Both, though apart, before no blown-out light.The otherwise of fate for them, when whiteThe lilacs bloom again, and, innocent,Spring comes with beauty for her testament,Singing the praises of the day and night.When orchards blossom and the distant hillIs vague with haw-trees as a ridge with mist,The moon shall see him where a watch he keepsBy her young form that lieth white and still,With lidded eyes and passive wrist on wrist,While by her side he bows himself and weeps.
And, oh, what pain to see the blooms appearOf haw and dogwood in the spring again;The primrose leaning with the dragging rain,And hill-locked orchards swarming far and near.To see the old fields, that her steps made dear,Grow green with deepening plenty of the grain,Yet feel how this excess of life is vain,—How vain to him!—since she no more is here.What though the woodland burgeon, water flow,Like a rejoicing harp, beneath the boughs!The cat-bird and the hermit-thrush arouseDay with the impulsive music of their love!Beneath the graveyard sod she will not know,Nor what his heart is all too conscious of!
And, oh, what pain to see the blooms appearOf haw and dogwood in the spring again;The primrose leaning with the dragging rain,And hill-locked orchards swarming far and near.To see the old fields, that her steps made dear,Grow green with deepening plenty of the grain,Yet feel how this excess of life is vain,—How vain to him!—since she no more is here.What though the woodland burgeon, water flow,Like a rejoicing harp, beneath the boughs!The cat-bird and the hermit-thrush arouseDay with the impulsive music of their love!Beneath the graveyard sod she will not know,Nor what his heart is all too conscious of!
How blessed is he who, gazing in the tomb,Can yet behold, beneath th' investing maskOf mockery,—whose horror seems to askSphinx-riddles of the soul within the gloom,—Upon dead lips no dust of Love's dead bloom;And in dead hands no shards of Faith's rent flask;But Hope, who still stands at her starry task,Weaving the web of comfort on her loom!Thrice blessed! who, 'though he hear the tomb proclaim,How all is Death's and Life Death's other name;Can yet reply: "O Grave, these things are yours!But that is left which life indeed assures—Love, through whose touch I shall arise the same!Love, of whose self was wrought the universe!"
How blessed is he who, gazing in the tomb,Can yet behold, beneath th' investing maskOf mockery,—whose horror seems to askSphinx-riddles of the soul within the gloom,—Upon dead lips no dust of Love's dead bloom;And in dead hands no shards of Faith's rent flask;But Hope, who still stands at her starry task,Weaving the web of comfort on her loom!Thrice blessed! who, 'though he hear the tomb proclaim,How all is Death's and Life Death's other name;Can yet reply: "O Grave, these things are yours!But that is left which life indeed assures—Love, through whose touch I shall arise the same!Love, of whose self was wrought the universe!"
Not for you and me the pathWinding through the shadowlessFields of morning's dewiness!Where the brook, that hurries, hathLaughter lighter than a boy's;Where recurrent odors poise,Romp-like, with irreverent tresses,In the sun; and birds and boughsBuild a music-haunted houseFor the winds to hang their dresses,Whisper-silken, rustling in.Ours a path that led untoTwilight regions gray with dew;Where moon-vapors gathered thinOver acres sisterlessOf all healthy beauty; whereFungus growths made sad the airWith a phantom-like caress:Under darkness and strange stars,To the sorrow-silenced barsOf a dubious forestland,Where the wood-scents seemed to stand,And the sounds, on either hand,Clad like sleep's own servitorsIn the shadowy liveryOf the ancient house of dreams;That before us,—fitfully,With white intermittent gleamsOf its pale-lamped windows,—shone;Echoing with the dim unknown.
Not for you and me the pathWinding through the shadowlessFields of morning's dewiness!Where the brook, that hurries, hathLaughter lighter than a boy's;Where recurrent odors poise,Romp-like, with irreverent tresses,In the sun; and birds and boughsBuild a music-haunted houseFor the winds to hang their dresses,Whisper-silken, rustling in.Ours a path that led untoTwilight regions gray with dew;Where moon-vapors gathered thinOver acres sisterlessOf all healthy beauty; whereFungus growths made sad the airWith a phantom-like caress:Under darkness and strange stars,To the sorrow-silenced barsOf a dubious forestland,Where the wood-scents seemed to stand,And the sounds, on either hand,Clad like sleep's own servitorsIn the shadowy liveryOf the ancient house of dreams;That before us,—fitfully,With white intermittent gleamsOf its pale-lamped windows,—shone;Echoing with the dim unknown.
To say to hope,—Take all from me,And grant me naught:The rose, the song, the melody,The word, the thought:Then all my life bid me be slave,—Is all I crave.To say to time,—Be true to me,Nor grant me lessThe dream, the sigh, the memory,The heart's distress;Then unto death set me a task,Is all I ask.
To say to hope,—Take all from me,And grant me naught:The rose, the song, the melody,The word, the thought:Then all my life bid me be slave,—Is all I crave.
To say to time,—Be true to me,Nor grant me lessThe dream, the sigh, the memory,The heart's distress;Then unto death set me a task,Is all I ask.
I came to you when eve was young.And, where the park went downward toThe river, and, among the dew,One vesper moment lit and sungA bird, your eyes said something dear.How sweet it was to walk with you!How, with our souls, we seemed to hearThe darkness coming with its stars!How calm the moon sloped up her sphereOf fire-filled pearl through passive barsOf clouds that berged the tender east!While all the dark inanimateOf nature woke; initiateWith th' moon's arrival, something ceasedIn nature's soul; she stood againAnother self, that seemed t' have beenDormant, suppressed and so unseenAll day; a life, unknown and strangeAnd dream-suggestive, that had lain,—Masked on with light,—within the rangeOf thought, but unrevealed till now.It was the hour of love. And you,With downward eyes and pensive brow,Among the moonlight and the dew,—Although no word of love was spoken,—Heard the sweet night's confession brokenOf something here that spoke in me;A love, depth made inaudible,Save to your soul, that answered well,With eyes replying silently.
I came to you when eve was young.And, where the park went downward toThe river, and, among the dew,One vesper moment lit and sungA bird, your eyes said something dear.How sweet it was to walk with you!How, with our souls, we seemed to hearThe darkness coming with its stars!How calm the moon sloped up her sphereOf fire-filled pearl through passive barsOf clouds that berged the tender east!While all the dark inanimateOf nature woke; initiateWith th' moon's arrival, something ceasedIn nature's soul; she stood againAnother self, that seemed t' have beenDormant, suppressed and so unseenAll day; a life, unknown and strangeAnd dream-suggestive, that had lain,—Masked on with light,—within the rangeOf thought, but unrevealed till now.It was the hour of love. And you,With downward eyes and pensive brow,Among the moonlight and the dew,—Although no word of love was spoken,—Heard the sweet night's confession brokenOf something here that spoke in me;A love, depth made inaudible,Save to your soul, that answered well,With eyes replying silently.
Fair you are as a rose is fair,There where the shadows dew it;And the deeps of your brown, brown hair,Sweet as the cloud that lingers thereWith the sunset's auburn through it.Eyes of azure and throat of snow,Tell me what my heart would know!Every dream I dream of youHas a love-thought in it,And a hope, a kiss or two,Something dear and something true,Telling me each minute,With three words it whispers clear,What my heart from you would hear.
Fair you are as a rose is fair,There where the shadows dew it;And the deeps of your brown, brown hair,Sweet as the cloud that lingers thereWith the sunset's auburn through it.Eyes of azure and throat of snow,Tell me what my heart would know!
Every dream I dream of youHas a love-thought in it,And a hope, a kiss or two,Something dear and something true,Telling me each minute,With three words it whispers clear,What my heart from you would hear.
Summer came; the days grew kindWith increasing favors; deepWere the nights with rest and sleep:Fair, with poppies intertwinedOn their blonde locks, dreamy hours,Sunny-hearted as the rose,Went among the banded flowers,Teaching them, how no one knows,Fresher color and perfume.—In the window of your roomBloomed a rich azalea. Pink,As an egret's rosy plumes,Shone its tender-tufted blooms.From your care and love, I think,Love's rose-color it did drink,Growing rosier day by dayOf your 'tending hand's caress;And your own dear naturalnessHad imbued it in some way.Once you gave a blossom of it,Smiling, to me when I left:Need I tell you how I love itFaded though it is now!—ReftOf its fragrance and its color,Yet 'tis dearer now than then,As past happiness is whenWe regret. And dimmer, dullerThough its beauty be, when ILook upon it, I recallEvery part of that old wall;And the dingy window high,Where you sat and read; and allThe fond love that made your faceA soft sunbeam in that place:And the plant, that grew this bloomWithered here, itself long dead,Makes a halo overheadThere again—and through my room,Like faint whispers of perfume,Steal the words of love then said.
Summer came; the days grew kindWith increasing favors; deepWere the nights with rest and sleep:Fair, with poppies intertwinedOn their blonde locks, dreamy hours,Sunny-hearted as the rose,Went among the banded flowers,Teaching them, how no one knows,Fresher color and perfume.—In the window of your roomBloomed a rich azalea. Pink,As an egret's rosy plumes,Shone its tender-tufted blooms.From your care and love, I think,Love's rose-color it did drink,Growing rosier day by dayOf your 'tending hand's caress;And your own dear naturalnessHad imbued it in some way.Once you gave a blossom of it,Smiling, to me when I left:Need I tell you how I love itFaded though it is now!—ReftOf its fragrance and its color,Yet 'tis dearer now than then,As past happiness is whenWe regret. And dimmer, dullerThough its beauty be, when ILook upon it, I recallEvery part of that old wall;And the dingy window high,Where you sat and read; and allThe fond love that made your faceA soft sunbeam in that place:And the plant, that grew this bloomWithered here, itself long dead,Makes a halo overheadThere again—and through my room,Like faint whispers of perfume,Steal the words of love then said.
All of my love I send to you,I send to you,On thoughts, like paths, that wend to you,Here in my heart's glad garden,Wherein, its lovely warden,Your face, a lily seeming,Is dreaming.All of my life I bring to you,I bring to you,In deeds, like birds, that sing to you,Here, in my soul's sweet valley,Wherethrough, most musically,Your love, a fountain, glistens,And listens.My love, my life, how blessed in you!How blessed in you!Whose thoughts, whose deeds find rest in you,Here, on my self's dark ocean,Whereo'er, in heavenly motion,Your soul, a star, abideth,And guideth.
All of my love I send to you,I send to you,On thoughts, like paths, that wend to you,Here in my heart's glad garden,Wherein, its lovely warden,Your face, a lily seeming,Is dreaming.
All of my life I bring to you,I bring to you,In deeds, like birds, that sing to you,Here, in my soul's sweet valley,Wherethrough, most musically,Your love, a fountain, glistens,And listens.
My love, my life, how blessed in you!How blessed in you!Whose thoughts, whose deeds find rest in you,Here, on my self's dark ocean,Whereo'er, in heavenly motion,Your soul, a star, abideth,And guideth.
Where the old Kentucky woundThrough the land,—its stream betweenHills of primitive forest green,—Like a goodly belt aroundGiant breasts of grandeur; withMany an unknown Indian myth,On the boat we steamed. The landLike an hospitable handWelcomed us. Alone we satOn the under-deck, and sawFarm-house and plantation drawNear and vanish. 'Neath your hat,Your young eyes laughed; and your hair,Blown about them by the airOf our passage, clung and curled.Music, and the summer moon;And the hills' great shadows hewnOut of silence; and the tuneOf the whistle, when we whirledRound a moonlit bend in sight ofSome lone landing heaped with hayOr tobacco; where the light ofOne dim solitary lampSignaled through the evening's damp:Then a bell; and, dusky gray,Shuffling figures on the shoreWith the cable; rugged formsOn the gang-plank; backs and armsWith their cargo bending o'er;And the burly mate before.Then an iron bell, and puffOf escaping steam; and outWhere the stream is wheel-whipped rough;Music, and a parting shoutFrom the shore; the pilot's bellBeating on the deck below;Then the steady, quivering, slowSmooth advance again. UntilTwinkling lights beyond us tellThere's a lock or little town,Clasped between a hill and hill,Where the blue-grass fields slope down.—So we went. That summer-timeLingers with me like a rhymeLearned for dreamy beauty ofIts old-fashioned faith and love,In some musing moment; sithHeart-associated withJoy that moment's quiet bore,Thought repeated evermore.
Where the old Kentucky woundThrough the land,—its stream betweenHills of primitive forest green,—Like a goodly belt aroundGiant breasts of grandeur; withMany an unknown Indian myth,On the boat we steamed. The landLike an hospitable handWelcomed us. Alone we satOn the under-deck, and sawFarm-house and plantation drawNear and vanish. 'Neath your hat,Your young eyes laughed; and your hair,Blown about them by the airOf our passage, clung and curled.Music, and the summer moon;And the hills' great shadows hewnOut of silence; and the tuneOf the whistle, when we whirledRound a moonlit bend in sight ofSome lone landing heaped with hayOr tobacco; where the light ofOne dim solitary lampSignaled through the evening's damp:Then a bell; and, dusky gray,Shuffling figures on the shoreWith the cable; rugged formsOn the gang-plank; backs and armsWith their cargo bending o'er;And the burly mate before.Then an iron bell, and puffOf escaping steam; and outWhere the stream is wheel-whipped rough;Music, and a parting shoutFrom the shore; the pilot's bellBeating on the deck below;Then the steady, quivering, slowSmooth advance again. UntilTwinkling lights beyond us tellThere's a lock or little town,Clasped between a hill and hill,Where the blue-grass fields slope down.—So we went. That summer-timeLingers with me like a rhymeLearned for dreamy beauty ofIts old-fashioned faith and love,In some musing moment; sithHeart-associated withJoy that moment's quiet bore,Thought repeated evermore.
Three sweet things love lives upon:Music, at whose fountain's brinkStill he stoops his face to drink;Seeing, as the wave is drawn,His own image rise and sink.Three sweet things love lives upon.Three sweet things love lives upon:Odor, whose red roses wreatheHis bright brow that shines beneath;Hearing, as each bud is blown,His own spirit breathe and breathe.Three sweet things love lives upon.Three sweet things love lives upon:Color, to whose rainbow heLifts his dark eyes burningly;Feeling, as the wild hues dawn,His own immortality.Three sweet things love lives upon.
Three sweet things love lives upon:Music, at whose fountain's brinkStill he stoops his face to drink;Seeing, as the wave is drawn,His own image rise and sink.Three sweet things love lives upon.
Three sweet things love lives upon:Odor, whose red roses wreatheHis bright brow that shines beneath;Hearing, as each bud is blown,His own spirit breathe and breathe.Three sweet things love lives upon.
Three sweet things love lives upon:Color, to whose rainbow heLifts his dark eyes burningly;Feeling, as the wild hues dawn,His own immortality.Three sweet things love lives upon.
Memories of other days,With the whilom happiness,Rise before my musing gazeIn the twilight ... And your dressSeems beside me, like a hazeShimmering white; as when we went'Neath the star-strewn firmament,Love-led, with impatient feetDown the night that, summer-sweet,Sparkled o'er the lamp-lit street.Every look love gave us thenComes before my eyes again,Making music for my heartOn that path, that grew for usRoses, red and amorous,On that path, from which oft start,Out of recollected places,With remembered forms and faces,Dreams, love's ardent hands have wovenIn my life's dark tapestry,Beckoning, soft and shadowy,To the soul. And o'er the clovenGulf of time, I seem to hearWords, once whispered in the ear,Calling—as might friends long dead,With familiar voices, deep,Speak to those who lie asleep,Comforting—So I was ledBackward to forgotten things,Contiguities that spreadSudden unremembered wings;And across my mind's still blueFrom the nest they fledged in, flewDazzling shapes affection knew.
Memories of other days,With the whilom happiness,Rise before my musing gazeIn the twilight ... And your dressSeems beside me, like a hazeShimmering white; as when we went'Neath the star-strewn firmament,Love-led, with impatient feetDown the night that, summer-sweet,Sparkled o'er the lamp-lit street.Every look love gave us thenComes before my eyes again,Making music for my heartOn that path, that grew for usRoses, red and amorous,On that path, from which oft start,Out of recollected places,With remembered forms and faces,Dreams, love's ardent hands have wovenIn my life's dark tapestry,Beckoning, soft and shadowy,To the soul. And o'er the clovenGulf of time, I seem to hearWords, once whispered in the ear,Calling—as might friends long dead,With familiar voices, deep,Speak to those who lie asleep,Comforting—So I was ledBackward to forgotten things,Contiguities that spreadSudden unremembered wings;And across my mind's still blueFrom the nest they fledged in, flewDazzling shapes affection knew.
Ah! over full my heart isOf sadness and of pain;As a rose-flower in the gardenThe dull dusk fills with rain;As a blown red rose that shiversAnd bends to the wind and rain.So give me thy hands and speak meAs once in the days of yore,When love spoke sweetly to us,The love that speaks no more;The sound of thy voice may help himTo speak in our hearts once more.Ah! over grieved my soul is,And tired and sick for sleep,As a poppy-bloom that withers,Forgotten, where reapers reap;As a harvested poppy-flowerThat dies where reapers reap.So bend to my face and kiss meAs once in the days of yore,When the touch of thy lips was magicThat restored to life once more;The thought of thy kiss, which awakensTo life that love once more.
Ah! over full my heart isOf sadness and of pain;As a rose-flower in the gardenThe dull dusk fills with rain;As a blown red rose that shiversAnd bends to the wind and rain.
So give me thy hands and speak meAs once in the days of yore,When love spoke sweetly to us,The love that speaks no more;The sound of thy voice may help himTo speak in our hearts once more.
Ah! over grieved my soul is,And tired and sick for sleep,As a poppy-bloom that withers,Forgotten, where reapers reap;As a harvested poppy-flowerThat dies where reapers reap.
So bend to my face and kiss meAs once in the days of yore,When the touch of thy lips was magicThat restored to life once more;The thought of thy kiss, which awakensTo life that love once more.
Sitting often I have, oh!Often have desired you so—Yearned to kiss you as I didWhen your love to me you gave,In the moonlight, by the wave,And a long impetuous kissPressed upon your mouth that chid,And upon each dewy lid—That, all passion-shaken, IWith love language will addressEach dear thing I know you by,Picture, needle-work or frame:Each suggestive in the samePerfume of past happiness:Till, meseems, the ways we knewNow again I tread with youFrom the oldtime tryst: and thereFeel the pressure of your hairCool and easy on my cheek,And your breath's aroma: bareHand upon my arm, as weakAs a lily on a stream:And your eyes, that gaze at meWith the sometime witchery,To my inmost spirit speak.And remembered ecstacySweeps my soul again ... I seemDreaming, yet I do not dream.
Sitting often I have, oh!Often have desired you so—Yearned to kiss you as I didWhen your love to me you gave,In the moonlight, by the wave,And a long impetuous kissPressed upon your mouth that chid,And upon each dewy lid—That, all passion-shaken, IWith love language will addressEach dear thing I know you by,Picture, needle-work or frame:Each suggestive in the samePerfume of past happiness:Till, meseems, the ways we knewNow again I tread with youFrom the oldtime tryst: and thereFeel the pressure of your hairCool and easy on my cheek,And your breath's aroma: bareHand upon my arm, as weakAs a lily on a stream:And your eyes, that gaze at meWith the sometime witchery,To my inmost spirit speak.And remembered ecstacySweeps my soul again ... I seemDreaming, yet I do not dream.