SONG

Thisis the acre of unfathomed rest,These stones, with weed and lichen bound, encloseNo active grief, no uncompleted woes,But only finished work and harboured quest,And balm for ills;And the last gold that smote the ashen westLies garnered here between the harvest hills.This spot has never known the heat of toil,Save when the angel with the mighty spadeHas turned the sod and built the house of shade;But here old chance is guardian of the soil;Green leaf and grey,The barrows blossom with the tangled spoil,And God’s own weeds are fair in God’s own way.Sweet flowers may gather in the ferny wood:Hepaticas, the morning stars of spring;The bloodroots with their milder ministering,Like planets in the lonelier solitude;And that white throng,Which shakes the dingles with a starry brood,And tells the robin his forgotten song.These flowers may rise amid the dewy fern,They may not root within this antique wall,The dead have chosen for their coronal,No buds that flaunt of life and flare and burn;They have agreed,To choose a beauty puritan and stern,The universal grass, the homely weed.This is the paradise of common things,The scourged and trampled here find peace to grow,The frost to furrow and the wind to sow,The mighty sun to time their blossomings;And now they keepA crown reflowering on the tombs of kings,Who earned their triumph and have claimed their sleep.Yea, each is here a prince in his own right,Who dwelt disguised amid the multitude,And when his time was come, in haughty mood,Shook off his motley and reclaimed his might;His sombre throneIn the vast province of perpetual night,He holds secure, inviolate, alone.The poor forgets that ever he was poor,The priest has lost his science of the truth,The maid her beauty, and the youth his youth,The statesman has forgot his subtle lure,The old his age,The sick his suffering, and the leech his cure,The poet his perplexed and vacant page.These swains that tilled the uplands in the sunHave all forgot the field’s familiar face,And lie content within this ancient place,Whereto when hands were tired their thought would runTo dream of rest,When the last furrow was turned down, and wonThe last harsh harvest from the earth’s patient breast.O dwellers in the valley vast and fair,I would that calling from your tranquil clime,You make a truce for me with cruel time;For I am weary of this eager careThat never dies;I would be born into your tranquil air,Your deserts crowned and sovereign silences.I would, but that the world is beautiful,And I am more in love with the sliding years,They have not brought me frantic joy or tears,But only moderate state and temperate rule;Not to forgetThis quiet beauty, not to be Time’s fool,I will be man a little longer yet.For lo, what beauty crowns the harvest hills!—The buckwheat acres gleam like silver shields;The oats hang tarnished in the golden fields;Between the elms the yellow wheat-land fills;The apples dropWithin the orchard, where the red tree spills,The fragrant fruitage over branch and prop.The cows go lowing through the lovely vale;The clarion peacock warns the world of rain,Perched on the barn a gaudy weather-vane;The farm lad holloes from the shifted rail,Along the groveHe beats a measure on his ringing pail,And sings the heart-song of his early love.There is a honey scent along the air;The hermit thrush has tuned his fleeting note.Among the silver birches far remoteHis spirit voice appeareth here and there,To fail and fade,A visionary cadence falling fair,That lifts and lingers in the hollow shade.And now a spirit in the east, unseen,Raises the moon above her misty eyes,And travels up the veiled and starless skies,Viewing the quietude of her demesne;Stainless and slow,I watch the lustre of her planet’s sheen,From burnished gold to liquid silver flow.And now I leave the dead with you, O night;You wear the semblance of their fathomless state,For you we long when the day’s fire is great,And when stern life is cruellest in his might,Of death we dream:A country of dim plain and shadowy height,Crowned with strange stars and silences supreme:Rest here, for day is hot to follow you,Rest here until the morning star has come,Until is risen aloft dawn’s rosy dome,Based deep on buried crimson into blue,And morn’s desireHas made the fragile cobweb drenched with dewA net of opals veiled with dreamy fire.

This spot has never known the heat of toil,Save when the angel with the mighty spadeHas turned the sod and built the house of shade;But here old chance is guardian of the soil;Green leaf and grey,The barrows blossom with the tangled spoil,And God’s own weeds are fair in God’s own way.

Sweet flowers may gather in the ferny wood:Hepaticas, the morning stars of spring;The bloodroots with their milder ministering,Like planets in the lonelier solitude;And that white throng,Which shakes the dingles with a starry brood,And tells the robin his forgotten song.

These flowers may rise amid the dewy fern,They may not root within this antique wall,The dead have chosen for their coronal,No buds that flaunt of life and flare and burn;They have agreed,To choose a beauty puritan and stern,The universal grass, the homely weed.

This is the paradise of common things,The scourged and trampled here find peace to grow,The frost to furrow and the wind to sow,The mighty sun to time their blossomings;And now they keepA crown reflowering on the tombs of kings,Who earned their triumph and have claimed their sleep.

Yea, each is here a prince in his own right,Who dwelt disguised amid the multitude,And when his time was come, in haughty mood,Shook off his motley and reclaimed his might;His sombre throneIn the vast province of perpetual night,He holds secure, inviolate, alone.

The poor forgets that ever he was poor,The priest has lost his science of the truth,The maid her beauty, and the youth his youth,The statesman has forgot his subtle lure,The old his age,The sick his suffering, and the leech his cure,The poet his perplexed and vacant page.

These swains that tilled the uplands in the sunHave all forgot the field’s familiar face,And lie content within this ancient place,Whereto when hands were tired their thought would runTo dream of rest,When the last furrow was turned down, and wonThe last harsh harvest from the earth’s patient breast.

O dwellers in the valley vast and fair,I would that calling from your tranquil clime,You make a truce for me with cruel time;For I am weary of this eager careThat never dies;I would be born into your tranquil air,Your deserts crowned and sovereign silences.

I would, but that the world is beautiful,And I am more in love with the sliding years,They have not brought me frantic joy or tears,But only moderate state and temperate rule;Not to forgetThis quiet beauty, not to be Time’s fool,I will be man a little longer yet.

For lo, what beauty crowns the harvest hills!—The buckwheat acres gleam like silver shields;The oats hang tarnished in the golden fields;Between the elms the yellow wheat-land fills;The apples dropWithin the orchard, where the red tree spills,The fragrant fruitage over branch and prop.

The cows go lowing through the lovely vale;The clarion peacock warns the world of rain,Perched on the barn a gaudy weather-vane;The farm lad holloes from the shifted rail,Along the groveHe beats a measure on his ringing pail,And sings the heart-song of his early love.

There is a honey scent along the air;The hermit thrush has tuned his fleeting note.Among the silver birches far remoteHis spirit voice appeareth here and there,To fail and fade,A visionary cadence falling fair,That lifts and lingers in the hollow shade.

And now a spirit in the east, unseen,Raises the moon above her misty eyes,And travels up the veiled and starless skies,Viewing the quietude of her demesne;Stainless and slow,I watch the lustre of her planet’s sheen,From burnished gold to liquid silver flow.

And now I leave the dead with you, O night;You wear the semblance of their fathomless state,For you we long when the day’s fire is great,And when stern life is cruellest in his might,Of death we dream:A country of dim plain and shadowy height,Crowned with strange stars and silences supreme:

Rest here, for day is hot to follow you,Rest here until the morning star has come,Until is risen aloft dawn’s rosy dome,Based deep on buried crimson into blue,And morn’s desireHas made the fragile cobweb drenched with dewA net of opals veiled with dreamy fire.

I havedone,Put by the lute;Songs and singing soon are over,Soon as airy shades that hoverUp above the purple clover—I have done, put by the lute.Once I sang as early thrushesSing about the dewy bushes,Now I’m mute;I am like a weary linnet,For my throat has no song in it,I have had my singing minute.I have done,Put by the lute.

Inher chamber, wheresoe’erTime shall build the walls of it,Melodies shall minister,Mellow sounds shall flitThrough a dusk of musk and myrrh.Lingering in the spaces vague,Like the breath within a flute,Winds shall move along the stair;When she walketh muteMusic meet shall greet her there.Time shall make a truce with Time,All the languid dials tellIrised hours of gossamer,Eve perpetualShall the night or light defer.From her casement she shall seeDown a valley wild and dim,Swart with woods of pine and fir;Shall the sunsets swimRed with untold gold to her.From her terrace she shall seeLines of birds like dusky motesFalling in the heated glare;How an eagle floatsIn the wan unconscious air.From her turret she shall seeVision of a cloudy place,Like a group of opal flowersOn the verge of space,Or a town, or crown of towers.From her garden she shall hearFall the cones between the pines;She shall seem to hear the sea,Or behind the vinesSome small noise, a voice may be.But no thing shall habit there,There no human foot shall fall,No sweet word the silence stir,Naught her name shall call,Nothing come to comfort her.But about the middle night,When the dusk is loathéd most,Ancient thoughts and words long said,Like an alien host,There shall come unsummonéd.With her forehead on her wristShe shall lean against the wallAnd see all the dream go by;In the intervalTime shall turn Eternity.But the agony shall pass—Fainting with unuttered prayer,She shall see the world’s outlinesAnd the weary glareAnd the bare unvaried pines.

Inher chamber, wheresoe’erTime shall build the walls of it,Melodies shall minister,Mellow sounds shall flitThrough a dusk of musk and myrrh.

Lingering in the spaces vague,Like the breath within a flute,Winds shall move along the stair;When she walketh muteMusic meet shall greet her there.

Time shall make a truce with Time,All the languid dials tellIrised hours of gossamer,Eve perpetualShall the night or light defer.

From her casement she shall seeDown a valley wild and dim,Swart with woods of pine and fir;Shall the sunsets swimRed with untold gold to her.

From her terrace she shall seeLines of birds like dusky motesFalling in the heated glare;How an eagle floatsIn the wan unconscious air.

From her turret she shall seeVision of a cloudy place,Like a group of opal flowersOn the verge of space,Or a town, or crown of towers.

From her garden she shall hearFall the cones between the pines;She shall seem to hear the sea,Or behind the vinesSome small noise, a voice may be.

But no thing shall habit there,There no human foot shall fall,No sweet word the silence stir,Naught her name shall call,Nothing come to comfort her.

But about the middle night,When the dusk is loathéd most,Ancient thoughts and words long said,Like an alien host,There shall come unsummonéd.

With her forehead on her wristShe shall lean against the wallAnd see all the dream go by;In the intervalTime shall turn Eternity.

But the agony shall pass—Fainting with unuttered prayer,She shall see the world’s outlinesAnd the weary glareAnd the bare unvaried pines.

Thelady Lillian knelt upon the sward,Between the arbour and the almond leaves;Beyond, the barley gathered into sheaves;A blade of gladiolus, like a sword,Flamed fierce against the gold; and down towardThe limpid west, a pallid poplar woveA spell of shadow; through the meadow droveA deep unbroken brook without a ford.A fountain flung and poised a golden ball;On the soft grass a frosted serpent lay,With oval spots of opal over all;Upon the basin’s edge within the spray,Lulled by some craft of laughter in the fall,An ancient crow dreamed hours and hours away.

A fountain flung and poised a golden ball;On the soft grass a frosted serpent lay,With oval spots of opal over all;Upon the basin’s edge within the spray,Lulled by some craft of laughter in the fall,An ancient crow dreamed hours and hours away.

Thelady watched the serpent and the crowFor days, then came a little naked lad,And smote the serpent with a spear he had;Then stooped and caught the coil, and straining slow,Took the lithe weight upon his shoulder, so,And tugged, but could not move the ponderous thing,Then flushing red with rage, his spear did fling,And cut the gladiolus at one blow.Then back he swung his flaming weapon high,And smote the snake and called a magic name;Then the whole garden vanished utterly,And through a mist the lightning went and came,And flooded all the caverns of the sky,A rosy gulf of unimprisoned flame.

Then back he swung his flaming weapon high,And smote the snake and called a magic name;Then the whole garden vanished utterly,And through a mist the lightning went and came,And flooded all the caverns of the sky,A rosy gulf of unimprisoned flame.

There’sa town where shadows runIn the sparkle and the blue,By the river and the sunSwept and flooded thro’ and thro’.There the sailor trolls a song,There the sea-gull dips her wing,There the wind is clear and strong,There the waters break and swing.But at night with leaden sweepCome the clouds along the flood,Lifting in the vaulted deepPinions of a giant brood.Charging by the slip, the wholeRiver rushes black and sheer,There the great fish heave and rollIn the gloom beyond the pier.All the lonely hollow townTowers above the windy quay,And the ancient tide goes downWith its secret to the sea.

There’sa town where shadows runIn the sparkle and the blue,By the river and the sunSwept and flooded thro’ and thro’.

There the sailor trolls a song,There the sea-gull dips her wing,There the wind is clear and strong,There the waters break and swing.

But at night with leaden sweepCome the clouds along the flood,Lifting in the vaulted deepPinions of a giant brood.

Charging by the slip, the wholeRiver rushes black and sheer,There the great fish heave and rollIn the gloom beyond the pier.

All the lonely hollow townTowers above the windy quay,And the ancient tide goes downWith its secret to the sea.

Themoon, Capella, and the PleiadesSilver the river’s grey uncertain floor;Only a heron haunts the grassy shore;A fox barks sharply in the cedar trees;Then comes the lift and lull of plangent seas,Swaying the light marish grasses more and moreUntil they float, and the slow tide brims o’er,And then a rivulet runs along the breeze.O night! thou art so beautiful, so strange, so sad;I feel that sense of scope and ancientness,Of all the mighty empires thou hast hadDreaming of power beneath thy palace dome,Of how thou art untouched by their distress,Supreme above this dreaming land, my home.

O night! thou art so beautiful, so strange, so sad;I feel that sense of scope and ancientness,Of all the mighty empires thou hast hadDreaming of power beneath thy palace dome,Of how thou art untouched by their distress,Supreme above this dreaming land, my home.

Thebay is set with ashy sails,With purple shades that fade and flee,And curling by in silver wales,The tide is straining from the sea.The grassy points are slowly drowned,The water laps and over-rolls,The wicker pêche; with shallow soundA light wave labours on the shoals.The crows are feeding in the foam,They rise in crowds tumultuously,‘Come home,’ they cry, ‘come home, come home,And leave the marshes to the sea.’

Thebay is set with ashy sails,With purple shades that fade and flee,And curling by in silver wales,The tide is straining from the sea.

The grassy points are slowly drowned,The water laps and over-rolls,The wicker pêche; with shallow soundA light wave labours on the shoals.

The crows are feeding in the foam,They rise in crowds tumultuously,‘Come home,’ they cry, ‘come home, come home,And leave the marshes to the sea.’

I restedon the breezy height,In cooler shade and clearer air,Beneath a maple tree;Below, the mighty river tookIts sparkling shade and sheeny lightDown to the sombre sea,And clustered by the leaping brook,The roofs of white St. Irénée.The sapphire hills on either handBroke down upon the silver tide,The river ran in streams,In streams of mingled azure-grey,With here a broken purple band,And whorls of drab, and beamsOf shattered silver light astray,Where far away the south shore gleams.I walked a mile along the heightBetween the flowers upon the road,Asters and golden-rod;And in the gardens pinks and stocks,And gaudy poppies shaking light,And daisies blooming near the sod,And lowly pansies set in flocks,With purple monkshood overawed.And there I saw a little childBetween the tossing golden-rod,Coming along to me;She was a tender little thing,So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild,I thought her name Marie;No other name methought could clingTo any one so fair as she.And when we came at last to meet,I spoke a simple word to her,‘Where are you going, Marie?’She answered and she did not smile,But oh! her voice,—her voice so sweet,‘Down to St. Irénée,’And so passed on to walk her mile,And left the lonely road to me.And as the night came on apace,With stars above the darkened hills,I heard perpetually,Chiming along the falling hours,On the deep dusk that mellow phrase,‘Down to St. Irénée:’It seemed as if the stars and flowersShould all go there with me.

The sapphire hills on either handBroke down upon the silver tide,The river ran in streams,In streams of mingled azure-grey,With here a broken purple band,And whorls of drab, and beamsOf shattered silver light astray,Where far away the south shore gleams.

I walked a mile along the heightBetween the flowers upon the road,Asters and golden-rod;And in the gardens pinks and stocks,And gaudy poppies shaking light,And daisies blooming near the sod,And lowly pansies set in flocks,With purple monkshood overawed.

And there I saw a little childBetween the tossing golden-rod,Coming along to me;She was a tender little thing,So fragile-sweet, so Mary-mild,I thought her name Marie;No other name methought could clingTo any one so fair as she.

And when we came at last to meet,I spoke a simple word to her,‘Where are you going, Marie?’She answered and she did not smile,

But oh! her voice,—her voice so sweet,‘Down to St. Irénée,’And so passed on to walk her mile,And left the lonely road to me.

And as the night came on apace,With stars above the darkened hills,I heard perpetually,Chiming along the falling hours,On the deep dusk that mellow phrase,‘Down to St. Irénée:’It seemed as if the stars and flowersShould all go there with me.

WhenApril moved in maiden guiseHiding her sweet inviolate eyes,You saw about the hazel roots,Beyond the ruddy osier shoots,The violets rise.At even, in the lower woods,Amid the cedarn solitudes,You heard afar amid the hushThe argent utterance of the thrushIn slower interludes.When bees above in arboured roomsWere busy in the basswood blooms,You drowsed within the sombre drone,Dreaming, and deemed yourself alone,Harboured in glooms.The singing of the sentient beesBrought wisdom for perplexities;They taught you all the murmured loreOf seas around an ancient shore,Of streams and trees.You saw the web of life unrolled,Fold and inweave, weave and unfold,Crimson and azure strand on strand,From some great gulf in vision-land,Deep and untold.And as the soft clouds opal-grayAgainst the confines of the daySeem lighter for the depth of skies,So, lighter for your saddened eyes,Your fair thoughts stray.I pluck a bunch before the spring,Of field-flowers reflowering,Upon a fell that fancy weaves,A memory lingers in their leavesOf songs you sing.You must have rested here sometime,When thought was high and words in chime,Your seed thoughts left for sun and showersHave blossomed into pleasant flowers,Instead of rhyme.And so I bring them back to you,These pensile buds of tender hue,Of crimson, pink and purple sheen,Of yellow deep, and delicate green,Of white and blue.

WhenApril moved in maiden guiseHiding her sweet inviolate eyes,You saw about the hazel roots,Beyond the ruddy osier shoots,The violets rise.

At even, in the lower woods,Amid the cedarn solitudes,You heard afar amid the hushThe argent utterance of the thrushIn slower interludes.

When bees above in arboured roomsWere busy in the basswood blooms,You drowsed within the sombre drone,Dreaming, and deemed yourself alone,Harboured in glooms.

The singing of the sentient beesBrought wisdom for perplexities;They taught you all the murmured loreOf seas around an ancient shore,Of streams and trees.

You saw the web of life unrolled,Fold and inweave, weave and unfold,Crimson and azure strand on strand,From some great gulf in vision-land,Deep and untold.

And as the soft clouds opal-grayAgainst the confines of the daySeem lighter for the depth of skies,So, lighter for your saddened eyes,Your fair thoughts stray.

I pluck a bunch before the spring,Of field-flowers reflowering,Upon a fell that fancy weaves,A memory lingers in their leavesOf songs you sing.

You must have rested here sometime,When thought was high and words in chime,Your seed thoughts left for sun and showersHave blossomed into pleasant flowers,Instead of rhyme.

And so I bring them back to you,These pensile buds of tender hue,Of crimson, pink and purple sheen,Of yellow deep, and delicate green,Of white and blue.

O shipincoming from the seaWith all your cloudy tower of sail,Dashing the water to the lee,And leaning grandly to the gale;The sunset pageant in the westHas filled your canvas curves with rose,And jewelled every toppling crestThat crashes into silver snows!You know the joy of coming home,After long leagues to France or Spain;You feel the clear Canadian foamAnd the gulf water heave again.Between these sombre purple hillsThat cool the sunset’s molten bars,You will go on as the wind wills,Beneath the river’s roof of stars.You will toss onward toward the lightsThat spangle over the lonely pier,By hamlets glimmering on the heights,By level islands black and clear.You will go on beyond the tide,Through brimming plains of olive sedge,Through paler shallows light and wide,The rapids piled along the ledge.At evening off some reedy bayYou will swing slowly on your chain,And catch the scent of dewy hay,Soft blowing from the pleasant plain.

O shipincoming from the seaWith all your cloudy tower of sail,Dashing the water to the lee,And leaning grandly to the gale;

The sunset pageant in the westHas filled your canvas curves with rose,And jewelled every toppling crestThat crashes into silver snows!

You know the joy of coming home,After long leagues to France or Spain;You feel the clear Canadian foamAnd the gulf water heave again.

Between these sombre purple hillsThat cool the sunset’s molten bars,You will go on as the wind wills,Beneath the river’s roof of stars.

You will toss onward toward the lightsThat spangle over the lonely pier,By hamlets glimmering on the heights,By level islands black and clear.

You will go on beyond the tide,Through brimming plains of olive sedge,Through paler shallows light and wide,The rapids piled along the ledge.

At evening off some reedy bayYou will swing slowly on your chain,And catch the scent of dewy hay,Soft blowing from the pleasant plain.

Youhad two girls—Baptiste—One is Virginie—Hold hard—Baptiste!Listen to me.The whole drive was jammedIn that bend at the Cedars,The rapids were dammedWith the logs tight rammedAnd crammed; you might knowThe Devil had clinched them below.We worked three days—not a budge,‘She’s as tight as a wedge, on the ledge,’Says our foreman;‘Mon Dieu! boys, look here,We must get this thing clear.’He cursed at the menAnd we went for it then;With our cant-dogs arow,We just gave he-yo-ho;When she gave a big shoveFrom above.The gang yelled and toreFor the shore,The logs gave a grindLike a wolf’s jaws behind,And as quick as a flash,With a shove and a crash,They were down in a mash,But I and ten more,All but Isaac Dufour,Were ashore.He leaped on a log in the front of the rush,And shot out from the bindWhile the jam roared behind;As he floated alongHe balanced his poleAnd tossed us a song.But just as we cheered,Up darted a log from the bottom,Leaped thirty feet square and fair,And came down on his own.He went up like a blockWith the shock,And when he was thereIn the air,Kissed his handTo the land;When he droppedMy heart stopped,For the first logs had caught himAnd crushed him;When he rose in his placeThere was blood on his face.There were some girls, Baptiste,Picking berries on the hillside,Where the river curls, Baptiste,You know—on the still sideOne was down by the water,She saw IsaacFall back.She did not scream, Baptiste,She launched her canoe;It did seem, Baptiste,That she wanted to die too,For before you could thinkThe birch cracked like a shellIn that rush of hell,And I saw them both sink—Baptiste!—He had two girls,One is Virginie,What God calls the otherIs not known to me.

Youhad two girls—Baptiste—One is Virginie—Hold hard—Baptiste!Listen to me.

The whole drive was jammedIn that bend at the Cedars,The rapids were dammedWith the logs tight rammedAnd crammed; you might knowThe Devil had clinched them below.

We worked three days—not a budge,‘She’s as tight as a wedge, on the ledge,’Says our foreman;‘Mon Dieu! boys, look here,We must get this thing clear.’

He cursed at the menAnd we went for it then;With our cant-dogs arow,We just gave he-yo-ho;When she gave a big shoveFrom above.

The gang yelled and toreFor the shore,The logs gave a grindLike a wolf’s jaws behind,And as quick as a flash,With a shove and a crash,They were down in a mash,But I and ten more,All but Isaac Dufour,Were ashore.

He leaped on a log in the front of the rush,And shot out from the bindWhile the jam roared behind;As he floated alongHe balanced his poleAnd tossed us a song.But just as we cheered,Up darted a log from the bottom,Leaped thirty feet square and fair,And came down on his own.

He went up like a blockWith the shock,And when he was thereIn the air,Kissed his handTo the land;When he droppedMy heart stopped,For the first logs had caught himAnd crushed him;When he rose in his placeThere was blood on his face.

There were some girls, Baptiste,Picking berries on the hillside,Where the river curls, Baptiste,You know—on the still sideOne was down by the water,She saw IsaacFall back.

She did not scream, Baptiste,She launched her canoe;It did seem, Baptiste,That she wanted to die too,For before you could thinkThe birch cracked like a shellIn that rush of hell,And I saw them both sink—

Baptiste!—He had two girls,One is Virginie,What God calls the otherIs not known to me.

I hearthe bells at eventidePeal slowly one by one,Near and far off they break and glide,Across the stream float faintly beautifulThe antiphonal bells of Hull;The day is done, done, done,The day is done.The dew has gathered in the flowers,Lake tears from some unconscious deep:The swallows whirl around the towers,The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars,And leaves the single stars;’Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep,’Tis time for sleep.The hermit thrush begins again,—Timorous eremite—That song of risen tears and pain,As if the one he loved was far away:‘Alas! another day—’‘And now Good Night, Good Night,’‘Good Night.’

The dew has gathered in the flowers,Lake tears from some unconscious deep:The swallows whirl around the towers,The light runs out beyond the long cloud bars,And leaves the single stars;’Tis time for sleep, sleep, sleep,’Tis time for sleep.

The hermit thrush begins again,—Timorous eremite—That song of risen tears and pain,As if the one he loved was far away:‘Alas! another day—’‘And now Good Night, Good Night,’‘Good Night.’

Bya dim shore where water darkeningTook the last light of spring,I went beyond the tumult, hearkeningFor some diviner thing.Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves,Over the ebon poolBrooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grievesLands ancient, bountiful.I saw the fireflies shine below the wood,Above the shallows dank,As Uriel from some great altitude,The planets rank on rank.And now unseen along the shrouded meadOne went under the hill;He blew a cadence on his mellow reed,That trembled and was still.It seemed as if a line of amber fireHad shot the gathered dusk,As if had blown a wind from ancient TyreLaden with myrrh and musk.He gave his luring note amid the fern;Its enigmatic fallHaunted the hollow dusk with golden turnAnd argent interval.I could not know the message that he bore,The springs of life from meHidden; his incommunicable loreAs much a mystery.And as I followed far the magic playerHe passed the maple wood,And when I passed the stars had risen there,And there was solitude.

Bya dim shore where water darkeningTook the last light of spring,I went beyond the tumult, hearkeningFor some diviner thing.

Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves,Over the ebon poolBrooded the bittern’s cry, as one that grievesLands ancient, bountiful.

I saw the fireflies shine below the wood,Above the shallows dank,As Uriel from some great altitude,The planets rank on rank.

And now unseen along the shrouded meadOne went under the hill;He blew a cadence on his mellow reed,That trembled and was still.

It seemed as if a line of amber fireHad shot the gathered dusk,As if had blown a wind from ancient TyreLaden with myrrh and musk.

He gave his luring note amid the fern;Its enigmatic fallHaunted the hollow dusk with golden turnAnd argent interval.

I could not know the message that he bore,The springs of life from meHidden; his incommunicable loreAs much a mystery.

And as I followed far the magic playerHe passed the maple wood,And when I passed the stars had risen there,And there was solitude.

Overthe field the bright air clings and tingles,In the gold sunset while the red wind swoops;Upon the nibbled knolls and from the dingles,The sheep are gathering in frightened groups.From the wide field the laggards bleat and follow,A drover hurls his cry and hooting laugh;And one young swain, too glad to whoop or hollo,Is singing wildly as he whirls his staff.Now crowding into little groups and eddiesThey swirl about and charge and try to pass;The sheep-dog yelps and heads them off and steadiesAnd rounds and moulds them in a seething mass.They stand a moment with their heads upliftedTill the wise dog barks loudly on the flank,They all at once roll over and are driftedDown the small hill toward the river bank.Covered with rusty marks and purple blotchesAround the fallen bars they flow and leap;The wary dog stands by and keenly watchesAs if he knew the name of every sheep.Now down the road the nimble sound decreases,The drovers cry, the dog delays and whines,And now with twinkling feet and glimmering fleecesThey round and vanish past the dusky pines.The drove is gone, the ruddy wind grows colder,The singing youth puts up the heavy bars,Beyond the pines he sees the crimson smoulder,And catches in his eyes the early stars.

Overthe field the bright air clings and tingles,In the gold sunset while the red wind swoops;Upon the nibbled knolls and from the dingles,The sheep are gathering in frightened groups.

From the wide field the laggards bleat and follow,A drover hurls his cry and hooting laugh;And one young swain, too glad to whoop or hollo,Is singing wildly as he whirls his staff.

Now crowding into little groups and eddiesThey swirl about and charge and try to pass;The sheep-dog yelps and heads them off and steadiesAnd rounds and moulds them in a seething mass.

They stand a moment with their heads upliftedTill the wise dog barks loudly on the flank,They all at once roll over and are driftedDown the small hill toward the river bank.

Covered with rusty marks and purple blotchesAround the fallen bars they flow and leap;The wary dog stands by and keenly watchesAs if he knew the name of every sheep.

Now down the road the nimble sound decreases,The drovers cry, the dog delays and whines,And now with twinkling feet and glimmering fleecesThey round and vanish past the dusky pines.

The drove is gone, the ruddy wind grows colder,The singing youth puts up the heavy bars,Beyond the pines he sees the crimson smoulder,And catches in his eyes the early stars.

Allher hair is softly set,Like a misty coronet,Massing darkly on her brow,Like the pines above the snow;And her eyebrows lightly drawn,Slender clouds above the dawn,Or like ferns above her eyes,Ferns and pools in Paradise.Her sweet mouth is like a flower,Like a poppy full of power,Shaken light and crimson stain,Pressed together by the rain,Glowing liquid in the sun,When the rain is done.When she moves, her motioningsSeem to shadow hidden wings;So the cuckoo going to lightTakes a little further flight,Fluttering onward, poised there,Half in grass and half in air.When she speaks, her girlish voiceMakes a very pleasant noise,Like a brook that hums alongUnder leaves an undersong:When she sings, her voice is clear,Like the waters swerving sheer,In the sunlight magical,Down a ringing fall.Here her spirit came to dwellFrom the passionate Israfel;One of those great songs of hisRounded to a soul like this;And when she seems so strange at even,He must be singing in the heaven;When she wears that charméd smile,Listening, listening all the while,She is stirred with kindred things,Starry fire and sweeping wings,And the seraph’s sobbing strings.

Her sweet mouth is like a flower,Like a poppy full of power,Shaken light and crimson stain,Pressed together by the rain,Glowing liquid in the sun,When the rain is done.

When she moves, her motioningsSeem to shadow hidden wings;So the cuckoo going to lightTakes a little further flight,Fluttering onward, poised there,Half in grass and half in air.

When she speaks, her girlish voiceMakes a very pleasant noise,Like a brook that hums alongUnder leaves an undersong:When she sings, her voice is clear,Like the waters swerving sheer,In the sunlight magical,Down a ringing fall.

Here her spirit came to dwellFrom the passionate Israfel;One of those great songs of hisRounded to a soul like this;And when she seems so strange at even,He must be singing in the heaven;When she wears that charméd smile,Listening, listening all the while,She is stirred with kindred things,Starry fire and sweeping wings,And the seraph’s sobbing strings.

Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes,A tender touch on either lid;They cover, as a cloud, the skiesWhere like a star your soul lies hid.My love is like a fire that flows,This touch will leave a tiny scar,I’ll claim you by it for my rose,My rose, my own, where’er you are.And when you bind your hair, and whenYou lie within your silken nest,This kiss will visit you again,You will not rest, my love, you will not rest.

Good-night, Marie, I kiss thine eyes,A tender touch on either lid;They cover, as a cloud, the skiesWhere like a star your soul lies hid.

My love is like a fire that flows,This touch will leave a tiny scar,I’ll claim you by it for my rose,My rose, my own, where’er you are.

And when you bind your hair, and whenYou lie within your silken nest,This kiss will visit you again,You will not rest, my love, you will not rest.

Thefield pools gathered into frosted lace;An icy glitter lined the iron ruts,And bound the circle of the musk-rat huts;A junco flashed about a sunny spaceWhere rose stems made a golden amber grace;Between the dusky alders’ woven ranks,A stream thought yet about his summer banks,And made an August music in the place.Along the horizon’s faded shrunken lines,Veiling the gloomy borders of the night,Hung the great snow clouds washed with pallid gold;And stealing from his covert in the pines,The wind, encouraged to a stinging flight,Dropped in the hollow conquered by the cold.

Along the horizon’s faded shrunken lines,Veiling the gloomy borders of the night,Hung the great snow clouds washed with pallid gold;And stealing from his covert in the pines,The wind, encouraged to a stinging flight,Dropped in the hollow conquered by the cold.

Thena light cloud rose up for hardihood,Trailing a veil of snow that whirled and broke,Blown softly like a shroud of steam or smoke,Sallied across a knoll where maples stood,Charged over broken country for a rood,Then seeing the night withdrew his force and fled,Leaving the ground with snow-flakes thinly spread,And traces of the skirmish in the wood.The stars sprang out and flashed serenely near,The solid frost came down with might and main,It set the rivers under bolt and bar;Bang! went the starting eaves beneath the strain,And e’er Orion saw the morning-starThe winter was the master of the year.

The stars sprang out and flashed serenely near,The solid frost came down with might and main,It set the rivers under bolt and bar;Bang! went the starting eaves beneath the strain,And e’er Orion saw the morning-starThe winter was the master of the year.

Theruddy sunset liesBanked along the west;In flocks with sweep and riseThe birds are going to rest.The air clings and cools,And the reeds look cold,Standing above the pools,Like rods of beaten gold.The flaunting golden-rodHas lost her worldly mood,She’s given herself to God,And taken a nun’s hood.The wild and wanton horde,That kept the summer revel,Have taken the serge and cord,And given the slip to the Devil.The winter’s loose somewhere,Gathering snow for a fight;From the feel of the airI think it will freeze to-night.

Theruddy sunset liesBanked along the west;In flocks with sweep and riseThe birds are going to rest.

The air clings and cools,And the reeds look cold,Standing above the pools,Like rods of beaten gold.

The flaunting golden-rodHas lost her worldly mood,She’s given herself to God,And taken a nun’s hood.

The wild and wanton horde,That kept the summer revel,Have taken the serge and cord,And given the slip to the Devil.

The winter’s loose somewhere,Gathering snow for a fight;From the feel of the airI think it will freeze to-night.

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