LYRICS

"It Shall go Hard With Him Through Thee, Unconquerable Blade"FrontispiecePAGEShe Raised Her Oblong Lute and Smote Some Chords(See page230)124In Her Ecstasy a Lovely Devil(See page303)250And Grasped of Both Wild Hands, Swung Trenchant(See page285)374

Wine-warm winds that sigh and singLed me, wrapped in many moods,Through the green, sonorous woodsOf belated spring.Till I came where, glad with heat,Waste and wild the fields were strewn,Olden as the olden moon,At my weary feet.Wild and white with starry bloom,One far milky-way that dashed,When some mad wind down it flashed,Into billowy foam.I, bewildered, gazed around,As one on whose heavy dreamsComes a sudden burst of beams,Like a mighty sound....If the grander flowers I sought,But these berry-blooms to you,Evanescent as the dew,Only these I brought.

Wine-warm winds that sigh and singLed me, wrapped in many moods,Through the green, sonorous woodsOf belated spring.

Wine-warm winds that sigh and sing

Led me, wrapped in many moods,

Through the green, sonorous woods

Of belated spring.

Till I came where, glad with heat,Waste and wild the fields were strewn,Olden as the olden moon,At my weary feet.

Till I came where, glad with heat,

Waste and wild the fields were strewn,

Olden as the olden moon,

At my weary feet.

Wild and white with starry bloom,One far milky-way that dashed,When some mad wind down it flashed,Into billowy foam.

Wild and white with starry bloom,

One far milky-way that dashed,

When some mad wind down it flashed,

Into billowy foam.

I, bewildered, gazed around,As one on whose heavy dreamsComes a sudden burst of beams,Like a mighty sound....

I, bewildered, gazed around,

As one on whose heavy dreams

Comes a sudden burst of beams,

Like a mighty sound....

If the grander flowers I sought,But these berry-blooms to you,Evanescent as the dew,Only these I brought.

If the grander flowers I sought,

But these berry-blooms to you,

Evanescent as the dew,

Only these I brought.

IWhat deity for dozing LazinessDevised the lounging leafiness of thisSecluded nook?—And how!—did I distressHis musing ease that fled but now? or hisCommunion with some forest-sister, fairAnd shy as is the whippoorwill-flower there,Did I disturb?—Still is the wild moss warmAnd fragrant with late pressure,—as the palmOf some hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap,Props her hale cheek upon it, while her armIs wildflower-buried; in her hair the balmOf a whole spring of blossoms and of sap.—IISee, how the dented moss, that pads the humpOf these distorted roots, elastic springsFrom that god's late reclining! Lump by lumpIts points, impressed, rise in resilient rings,As stars crowd, qualming through gray evening skies.—Invisible presence, still I feel thy eyesRegarding me, bringing dim dreams beforeMy half-closed gaze, here where great, green-veined leavesReach, waving at me, their innumerable hands,Stretched towards this water where the sycamoreStands burly guard; where every ripple weavesA ceaseless, wavy quivering as of bands.IIIOf elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold,Invisible march, making a twinkling sound.—What brought thee here?—this wind, that steals the oldGray legends from the forests and aroundWhispers them now? Or, in those purple weedsThe hermit brook so busy with his beads?—Lulling the silence with his prayers all day,Droning softAveson his rosaryOf bubbles.—Or, that butterfly didst markOn yon hag-taper, towering by the way,A witch's yellow torch?—Or didst, like me,Watch, drifting by, these curled, brown bits of bark?IVOr con the slender gold of this dim, stillUnmoving minnow 'neath these twisted roots,Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill?—Or, in this sunlight, did those insect flutes,Sleepy with summer, drowsily forlorn,Remind thee of Tithonos and the Morn?Until thine eyes dropped dew, the dimpled streamCrinkling with crystal o'er the winking grail?—Or didst perplex thee with some poet planTo drug this air with beauty to make dream,—Presence unseen, still watching in yon vale!—Me, wildwood-wandered from the haunts of man!

What deity for dozing LazinessDevised the lounging leafiness of thisSecluded nook?—And how!—did I distressHis musing ease that fled but now? or hisCommunion with some forest-sister, fairAnd shy as is the whippoorwill-flower there,Did I disturb?—Still is the wild moss warmAnd fragrant with late pressure,—as the palmOf some hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap,Props her hale cheek upon it, while her armIs wildflower-buried; in her hair the balmOf a whole spring of blossoms and of sap.—

What deity for dozing Laziness

Devised the lounging leafiness of this

Secluded nook?—And how!—did I distress

His musing ease that fled but now? or his

Communion with some forest-sister, fair

And shy as is the whippoorwill-flower there,

Did I disturb?—Still is the wild moss warm

And fragrant with late pressure,—as the palm

Of some hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap,

Props her hale cheek upon it, while her arm

Is wildflower-buried; in her hair the balm

Of a whole spring of blossoms and of sap.—

See, how the dented moss, that pads the humpOf these distorted roots, elastic springsFrom that god's late reclining! Lump by lumpIts points, impressed, rise in resilient rings,As stars crowd, qualming through gray evening skies.—Invisible presence, still I feel thy eyesRegarding me, bringing dim dreams beforeMy half-closed gaze, here where great, green-veined leavesReach, waving at me, their innumerable hands,Stretched towards this water where the sycamoreStands burly guard; where every ripple weavesA ceaseless, wavy quivering as of bands.

See, how the dented moss, that pads the hump

Of these distorted roots, elastic springs

From that god's late reclining! Lump by lump

Its points, impressed, rise in resilient rings,

As stars crowd, qualming through gray evening skies.—

Invisible presence, still I feel thy eyes

Regarding me, bringing dim dreams before

My half-closed gaze, here where great, green-veined leaves

Reach, waving at me, their innumerable hands,

Stretched towards this water where the sycamore

Stands burly guard; where every ripple weaves

A ceaseless, wavy quivering as of bands.

III

Of elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold,Invisible march, making a twinkling sound.—What brought thee here?—this wind, that steals the oldGray legends from the forests and aroundWhispers them now? Or, in those purple weedsThe hermit brook so busy with his beads?—Lulling the silence with his prayers all day,Droning softAveson his rosaryOf bubbles.—Or, that butterfly didst markOn yon hag-taper, towering by the way,A witch's yellow torch?—Or didst, like me,Watch, drifting by, these curled, brown bits of bark?

Of elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold,

Invisible march, making a twinkling sound.—

What brought thee here?—this wind, that steals the old

Gray legends from the forests and around

Whispers them now? Or, in those purple weeds

The hermit brook so busy with his beads?—

Lulling the silence with his prayers all day,

Droning softAveson his rosary

Of bubbles.—Or, that butterfly didst mark

On yon hag-taper, towering by the way,

A witch's yellow torch?—Or didst, like me,

Watch, drifting by, these curled, brown bits of bark?

Or con the slender gold of this dim, stillUnmoving minnow 'neath these twisted roots,Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill?—Or, in this sunlight, did those insect flutes,Sleepy with summer, drowsily forlorn,Remind thee of Tithonos and the Morn?Until thine eyes dropped dew, the dimpled streamCrinkling with crystal o'er the winking grail?—Or didst perplex thee with some poet planTo drug this air with beauty to make dream,—Presence unseen, still watching in yon vale!—Me, wildwood-wandered from the haunts of man!

Or con the slender gold of this dim, still

Unmoving minnow 'neath these twisted roots,

Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill?—

Or, in this sunlight, did those insect flutes,

Sleepy with summer, drowsily forlorn,

Remind thee of Tithonos and the Morn?

Until thine eyes dropped dew, the dimpled stream

Crinkling with crystal o'er the winking grail?—

Or didst perplex thee with some poet plan

To drug this air with beauty to make dream,—

Presence unseen, still watching in yon vale!—

Me, wildwood-wandered from the haunts of man!

INow let us forth to find the young witch Spring,Seated amid her bow'rs and birds and buds,Busy with loveliness.—And, wanderingAmong old forests that the sunlight floods,Or vales of hermit-holy solitudes,Dryads shall beckon us from where they cling,Their limbs an oak-bark brown; their hair—wild woodsHave perfumed—wreathed with earliest leaves: and they,Regarding us with a dew-sparkling eye,Shall whispering greet us, as the rain the rye,Or from wild lips melodious welcome fling,Like hidden waterfalls with winds at play.IILet us surprise the Naiad ere she slips—Nude at her toilette—in her fountain's glass;With damp locks dewy and evasive hips,Cool-dripping, but an instant seen, alas!When from indented moss and plushy grass—Fear in her great eyes' rainbow-blue—she dips,Irised, the cloven water; as we passMaking a rippled circle that shall hide,From our exploring eyes, what watery pathShe gleaming took; what crystal haunt she hathIn minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lips,Bubbling, make merry 'neath the rocky tide.IIIThen we may meet the Oread, whose eyesAre dewdrops where twin heavens shine confessed:She, all the maiden modesty's surpriseRosying her temples,—to slim loins and breastTempestuous, brown, bewildering tresses pressed,—Shall stand a moment's moiety in wiseOf some delicious dream, then shrink, distressed,Like some wild mist that, hardly seen, is gone,Footing the ferny hillside without sound;Or, like storm sunlight, her white limbs shall bound,A thistle's instant, towards a woody rise,A flying glimmer o'er the dew-drenched lawn.IVAnd we may see the Satyrs in the shadesOf drowsy dells pipe, and, goat-footed, dance;And Pan himself reel rollicking through the glades;Or, hidden in bosky bow'rs, the Lust, perchance,Faun-like, that waits with heated, animal glanceThe advent of the Loveliness that wadesThigh-deep through flowers, naked as Romance,All unsuspecting, till two hairy armsClasp her rebellious beauty, panting white,Whose tearful terror, struggling into might,Beats the brute brow resisting, but evadesNot him, for whom the gods designed her charms.

Now let us forth to find the young witch Spring,Seated amid her bow'rs and birds and buds,Busy with loveliness.—And, wanderingAmong old forests that the sunlight floods,Or vales of hermit-holy solitudes,Dryads shall beckon us from where they cling,Their limbs an oak-bark brown; their hair—wild woodsHave perfumed—wreathed with earliest leaves: and they,Regarding us with a dew-sparkling eye,Shall whispering greet us, as the rain the rye,Or from wild lips melodious welcome fling,Like hidden waterfalls with winds at play.

Now let us forth to find the young witch Spring,

Seated amid her bow'rs and birds and buds,

Busy with loveliness.—And, wandering

Among old forests that the sunlight floods,

Or vales of hermit-holy solitudes,

Dryads shall beckon us from where they cling,

Their limbs an oak-bark brown; their hair—wild woods

Have perfumed—wreathed with earliest leaves: and they,

Regarding us with a dew-sparkling eye,

Shall whispering greet us, as the rain the rye,

Or from wild lips melodious welcome fling,

Like hidden waterfalls with winds at play.

Let us surprise the Naiad ere she slips—Nude at her toilette—in her fountain's glass;With damp locks dewy and evasive hips,Cool-dripping, but an instant seen, alas!When from indented moss and plushy grass—Fear in her great eyes' rainbow-blue—she dips,Irised, the cloven water; as we passMaking a rippled circle that shall hide,From our exploring eyes, what watery pathShe gleaming took; what crystal haunt she hathIn minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lips,Bubbling, make merry 'neath the rocky tide.

Let us surprise the Naiad ere she slips—

Nude at her toilette—in her fountain's glass;

With damp locks dewy and evasive hips,

Cool-dripping, but an instant seen, alas!

When from indented moss and plushy grass—

Fear in her great eyes' rainbow-blue—she dips,

Irised, the cloven water; as we pass

Making a rippled circle that shall hide,

From our exploring eyes, what watery path

She gleaming took; what crystal haunt she hath

In minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lips,

Bubbling, make merry 'neath the rocky tide.

III

Then we may meet the Oread, whose eyesAre dewdrops where twin heavens shine confessed:She, all the maiden modesty's surpriseRosying her temples,—to slim loins and breastTempestuous, brown, bewildering tresses pressed,—Shall stand a moment's moiety in wiseOf some delicious dream, then shrink, distressed,Like some wild mist that, hardly seen, is gone,Footing the ferny hillside without sound;Or, like storm sunlight, her white limbs shall bound,A thistle's instant, towards a woody rise,A flying glimmer o'er the dew-drenched lawn.

Then we may meet the Oread, whose eyes

Are dewdrops where twin heavens shine confessed:

She, all the maiden modesty's surprise

Rosying her temples,—to slim loins and breast

Tempestuous, brown, bewildering tresses pressed,—

Shall stand a moment's moiety in wise

Of some delicious dream, then shrink, distressed,

Like some wild mist that, hardly seen, is gone,

Footing the ferny hillside without sound;

Or, like storm sunlight, her white limbs shall bound,

A thistle's instant, towards a woody rise,

A flying glimmer o'er the dew-drenched lawn.

And we may see the Satyrs in the shadesOf drowsy dells pipe, and, goat-footed, dance;And Pan himself reel rollicking through the glades;Or, hidden in bosky bow'rs, the Lust, perchance,Faun-like, that waits with heated, animal glanceThe advent of the Loveliness that wadesThigh-deep through flowers, naked as Romance,All unsuspecting, till two hairy armsClasp her rebellious beauty, panting white,Whose tearful terror, struggling into might,Beats the brute brow resisting, but evadesNot him, for whom the gods designed her charms.

And we may see the Satyrs in the shades

Of drowsy dells pipe, and, goat-footed, dance;

And Pan himself reel rollicking through the glades;

Or, hidden in bosky bow'rs, the Lust, perchance,

Faun-like, that waits with heated, animal glance

The advent of the Loveliness that wades

Thigh-deep through flowers, naked as Romance,

All unsuspecting, till two hairy arms

Clasp her rebellious beauty, panting white,

Whose tearful terror, struggling into might,

Beats the brute brow resisting, but evades

Not him, for whom the gods designed her charms.

Were it but May now, whileOur hearts are yearning,How they would bound and smile,The young blood burning!Around the tedious dialNo slow hands turning.Were it but May now!—say,What joy to go,Your hand in mine all day,Where blossoms blow!Your hand, more white than May,May's flowers of snow.Were it but May now!—think,What wealth she has!The bluet and wild-pink,Wild flowers,—that massAbout the wood-brook's brink,—And sassafras.Nights, that the large stars strew,Heaven on heaven rolled;Nights, pearled with stars and dew,Whose heavens holdAromas, and the newMoon's curve of gold.So mad, so wild is March!—I long, oh, longTo see the redbud's torchFlame far and strong;Hear, on my vine-climbed porch,The bluebird's song.How slow the Hours creep,Each with a crutch!—Ah, could my spirit leapIts bounds and touchThat day, no thing would keep—Or matter much!But now, with you away,Time halts and crawls,Feet clogged with winter clay,That never falls,While, distant still, that dayOf meeting calls.

Were it but May now, whileOur hearts are yearning,How they would bound and smile,The young blood burning!Around the tedious dialNo slow hands turning.

Were it but May now, while

Our hearts are yearning,

How they would bound and smile,

The young blood burning!

Around the tedious dial

No slow hands turning.

Were it but May now!—say,What joy to go,Your hand in mine all day,Where blossoms blow!Your hand, more white than May,May's flowers of snow.

Were it but May now!—say,

What joy to go,

Your hand in mine all day,

Where blossoms blow!

Your hand, more white than May,

May's flowers of snow.

Were it but May now!—think,What wealth she has!The bluet and wild-pink,Wild flowers,—that massAbout the wood-brook's brink,—And sassafras.

Were it but May now!—think,

What wealth she has!

The bluet and wild-pink,

Wild flowers,—that mass

About the wood-brook's brink,—

And sassafras.

Nights, that the large stars strew,Heaven on heaven rolled;Nights, pearled with stars and dew,Whose heavens holdAromas, and the newMoon's curve of gold.

Nights, that the large stars strew,

Heaven on heaven rolled;

Nights, pearled with stars and dew,

Whose heavens hold

Aromas, and the new

Moon's curve of gold.

So mad, so wild is March!—I long, oh, longTo see the redbud's torchFlame far and strong;Hear, on my vine-climbed porch,The bluebird's song.

So mad, so wild is March!—

I long, oh, long

To see the redbud's torch

Flame far and strong;

Hear, on my vine-climbed porch,

The bluebird's song.

How slow the Hours creep,Each with a crutch!—Ah, could my spirit leapIts bounds and touchThat day, no thing would keep—Or matter much!

How slow the Hours creep,

Each with a crutch!—

Ah, could my spirit leap

Its bounds and touch

That day, no thing would keep—

Or matter much!

But now, with you away,Time halts and crawls,Feet clogged with winter clay,That never falls,While, distant still, that dayOf meeting calls.

But now, with you away,

Time halts and crawls,

Feet clogged with winter clay,

That never falls,

While, distant still, that day

Of meeting calls.

Now when the first wild violets peerAll rain-filled at blue April skies,As on one smiles one's sweetheart dearWith the big teardrops in her eyes:Now when the May-apples, I wis,Bloom white along lone, greenwood creeks,As bashful as the cheeks you kiss,As waxen as your sweetheart's cheeks:Within the soul what longings riseTo stamp the town-dust from the feet!Fare forth to gaze in Spring's clean eyes,And kiss her cheeks so cool and sweet!

Now when the first wild violets peerAll rain-filled at blue April skies,As on one smiles one's sweetheart dearWith the big teardrops in her eyes:

Now when the first wild violets peer

All rain-filled at blue April skies,

As on one smiles one's sweetheart dear

With the big teardrops in her eyes:

Now when the May-apples, I wis,Bloom white along lone, greenwood creeks,As bashful as the cheeks you kiss,As waxen as your sweetheart's cheeks:

Now when the May-apples, I wis,

Bloom white along lone, greenwood creeks,

As bashful as the cheeks you kiss,

As waxen as your sweetheart's cheeks:

Within the soul what longings riseTo stamp the town-dust from the feet!Fare forth to gaze in Spring's clean eyes,And kiss her cheeks so cool and sweet!

Within the soul what longings rise

To stamp the town-dust from the feet!

Fare forth to gaze in Spring's clean eyes,

And kiss her cheeks so cool and sweet!

IHow can I help from laughing, whileThe daffodillies at me smile?The dancing dew winks tipsilyIn clusters of the lilac-tree,And crocus' mouths and hyacinths'Storm through the grassy labyrinthsA mirth of pearl and violet;While roses, bud by bud,Laugh from each dainty-lacing netRed lips of maidenhood.IIHow can I help from singing whenThe swallow and the hawk againAre noisy in the hyalineOf happy heavens, clear as wine?The robin, lustily and shrill,Pipes on the timber-belted hill;And o'er the fallow skim the bold,Mad orioles that glowLike shining shafts of ingot goldShot from the morning's bow.IIIHow can I help from loving, dear,Since love is of the sweetened year?—The very insects feel his power,And chirr and chirrup hour on hour;The bee and beetle in the noon,The cricket underneath the moon:—What else to do but follow too,Since youth is on the wing,Lord Life who follows through the dewLord Love a-carolling.

How can I help from laughing, whileThe daffodillies at me smile?The dancing dew winks tipsilyIn clusters of the lilac-tree,And crocus' mouths and hyacinths'Storm through the grassy labyrinthsA mirth of pearl and violet;While roses, bud by bud,Laugh from each dainty-lacing netRed lips of maidenhood.

How can I help from laughing, while

The daffodillies at me smile?

The dancing dew winks tipsily

In clusters of the lilac-tree,

And crocus' mouths and hyacinths'

Storm through the grassy labyrinths

A mirth of pearl and violet;

While roses, bud by bud,

Laugh from each dainty-lacing net

Red lips of maidenhood.

How can I help from singing whenThe swallow and the hawk againAre noisy in the hyalineOf happy heavens, clear as wine?The robin, lustily and shrill,Pipes on the timber-belted hill;And o'er the fallow skim the bold,Mad orioles that glowLike shining shafts of ingot goldShot from the morning's bow.

How can I help from singing when

The swallow and the hawk again

Are noisy in the hyaline

Of happy heavens, clear as wine?

The robin, lustily and shrill,

Pipes on the timber-belted hill;

And o'er the fallow skim the bold,

Mad orioles that glow

Like shining shafts of ingot gold

Shot from the morning's bow.

III

How can I help from loving, dear,Since love is of the sweetened year?—The very insects feel his power,And chirr and chirrup hour on hour;The bee and beetle in the noon,The cricket underneath the moon:—What else to do but follow too,Since youth is on the wing,Lord Life who follows through the dewLord Love a-carolling.

How can I help from loving, dear,

Since love is of the sweetened year?—

The very insects feel his power,

And chirr and chirrup hour on hour;

The bee and beetle in the noon,

The cricket underneath the moon:—

What else to do but follow too,

Since youth is on the wing,

Lord Life who follows through the dew

Lord Love a-carolling.

Now the fields are rolled into turbulent gold,And a ripple of fire and pearl is blentWith the emerald surges of wood and of wold,A flower-foam bursting redolent:Now the dingles and deeps of the woodland oldAre glad with a sibilant life new sent,Too rare to be told are the manifold,Sweet fancies that quicken, eloquent,In the heart that no longer is cold.How it knows of the wings of the hawk ere it swingsFrom the drippled dew scintillant seen!Where the redbird hides, ere it flies or sings,In melodious quiverings of green!How the sun to the dogwood such kisses bringsThat it laughs into blossoms of wonderful sheen;While the wind, to the strings of his lute that rings,Makes love to apple and nectarine,Till the sap in them rosily springs.Go seek in the ray for a sworded fay,The chestnut's buds into blooms that rips;And look in the brook, that runs laughing gay,For the Nymph with the laughing lips;In the brake for the Dryad whose eyes are gray,From whose bosom the perfume drips;The Faun hid away, where the branches sway,Thick ivy low down on his hips,Pursed lips on a syrinx at play.So, ho! for the rose, the Romeo rose,And the lyric it hides in its heart!And, oh, for the epic the oak-tree knows,Sonorous as Homer in art!And it's ho! for the prose of the weed that growsGreen-writing Earth's commonest part!—What God may propose let us learn of those,The songs and the dreams that startIn the heart of each blossom that blows.

Now the fields are rolled into turbulent gold,

And a ripple of fire and pearl is blent

With the emerald surges of wood and of wold,

A flower-foam bursting redolent:

Now the dingles and deeps of the woodland old

Are glad with a sibilant life new sent,

Too rare to be told are the manifold,

Sweet fancies that quicken, eloquent,

In the heart that no longer is cold.

How it knows of the wings of the hawk ere it swingsFrom the drippled dew scintillant seen!Where the redbird hides, ere it flies or sings,In melodious quiverings of green!How the sun to the dogwood such kisses bringsThat it laughs into blossoms of wonderful sheen;While the wind, to the strings of his lute that rings,Makes love to apple and nectarine,Till the sap in them rosily springs.

How it knows of the wings of the hawk ere it swings

From the drippled dew scintillant seen!

Where the redbird hides, ere it flies or sings,

In melodious quiverings of green!

How the sun to the dogwood such kisses brings

That it laughs into blossoms of wonderful sheen;

While the wind, to the strings of his lute that rings,

Makes love to apple and nectarine,

Till the sap in them rosily springs.

Go seek in the ray for a sworded fay,The chestnut's buds into blooms that rips;And look in the brook, that runs laughing gay,For the Nymph with the laughing lips;In the brake for the Dryad whose eyes are gray,From whose bosom the perfume drips;The Faun hid away, where the branches sway,Thick ivy low down on his hips,Pursed lips on a syrinx at play.

Go seek in the ray for a sworded fay,

The chestnut's buds into blooms that rips;

And look in the brook, that runs laughing gay,

For the Nymph with the laughing lips;

In the brake for the Dryad whose eyes are gray,

From whose bosom the perfume drips;

The Faun hid away, where the branches sway,

Thick ivy low down on his hips,

Pursed lips on a syrinx at play.

So, ho! for the rose, the Romeo rose,And the lyric it hides in its heart!And, oh, for the epic the oak-tree knows,Sonorous as Homer in art!And it's ho! for the prose of the weed that growsGreen-writing Earth's commonest part!—What God may propose let us learn of those,The songs and the dreams that startIn the heart of each blossom that blows.

So, ho! for the rose, the Romeo rose,

And the lyric it hides in its heart!

And, oh, for the epic the oak-tree knows,

Sonorous as Homer in art!

And it's ho! for the prose of the weed that grows

Green-writing Earth's commonest part!—

What God may propose let us learn of those,

The songs and the dreams that start

In the heart of each blossom that blows.

We stood where the fields were beryl,The redolent woodland was warm;And the heaven above us, now sterile,Was alive with the pulse-winds of storm.We had watched the green wheat brightenAnd gloom as it winced at each gust;And the turbulent maples whitenAs the lane blew gray with dust.White flakes from the blossoming cherry,Pink snows of the peaches were blown,And star-bloom wrecks of the berryAnd dogwood petals were sown.Then instantly heaven was sullied,And earth was thrilled with alarm,As a cloud, that the thunder had gullied,Thrust over the sunlight its arm.The birds to dry coverts had hurried,And hid in their leafy-built rooms;And the bees and the hornets had buriedThemselves in the bells of the blooms.Then down from the clouds, as from towers,Rode slant the tall lancers of rain,And charged the fair troops of the flowers,And trampled the grass of the plain.And the armies of blossoms were scattered;Their standards hung draggled and lank;And the rose and the lily were shattered,And the iris lay crushed on its bank.But high in the storm was the swallow,And the rock-loud voice of the fall,From its ramparts of forest, rang hollowDefiance and challenge o'er all.But the storm and its clouds passed over,And left but one cloud in the west,Wet wafts that were fragrant with clover,And the sun slow-sinking to rest.Rain-drippings and rain in the poppies,And scents as of honey and bees;A touch of wild light on the coppice,That turned into flames the drenched trees.Then the cloud in the sunset was riven,And bubbled and rippled with gold,And over the gorges of heaven,Like a gonfalon vast was unrolled.

We stood where the fields were beryl,The redolent woodland was warm;And the heaven above us, now sterile,Was alive with the pulse-winds of storm.

We stood where the fields were beryl,

The redolent woodland was warm;

And the heaven above us, now sterile,

Was alive with the pulse-winds of storm.

We had watched the green wheat brightenAnd gloom as it winced at each gust;And the turbulent maples whitenAs the lane blew gray with dust.

We had watched the green wheat brighten

And gloom as it winced at each gust;

And the turbulent maples whiten

As the lane blew gray with dust.

White flakes from the blossoming cherry,Pink snows of the peaches were blown,And star-bloom wrecks of the berryAnd dogwood petals were sown.

White flakes from the blossoming cherry,

Pink snows of the peaches were blown,

And star-bloom wrecks of the berry

And dogwood petals were sown.

Then instantly heaven was sullied,And earth was thrilled with alarm,As a cloud, that the thunder had gullied,Thrust over the sunlight its arm.

Then instantly heaven was sullied,

And earth was thrilled with alarm,

As a cloud, that the thunder had gullied,

Thrust over the sunlight its arm.

The birds to dry coverts had hurried,And hid in their leafy-built rooms;And the bees and the hornets had buriedThemselves in the bells of the blooms.

The birds to dry coverts had hurried,

And hid in their leafy-built rooms;

And the bees and the hornets had buried

Themselves in the bells of the blooms.

Then down from the clouds, as from towers,Rode slant the tall lancers of rain,And charged the fair troops of the flowers,And trampled the grass of the plain.

Then down from the clouds, as from towers,

Rode slant the tall lancers of rain,

And charged the fair troops of the flowers,

And trampled the grass of the plain.

And the armies of blossoms were scattered;Their standards hung draggled and lank;And the rose and the lily were shattered,And the iris lay crushed on its bank.

And the armies of blossoms were scattered;

Their standards hung draggled and lank;

And the rose and the lily were shattered,

And the iris lay crushed on its bank.

But high in the storm was the swallow,And the rock-loud voice of the fall,From its ramparts of forest, rang hollowDefiance and challenge o'er all.

But high in the storm was the swallow,

And the rock-loud voice of the fall,

From its ramparts of forest, rang hollow

Defiance and challenge o'er all.

But the storm and its clouds passed over,And left but one cloud in the west,Wet wafts that were fragrant with clover,And the sun slow-sinking to rest.

But the storm and its clouds passed over,

And left but one cloud in the west,

Wet wafts that were fragrant with clover,

And the sun slow-sinking to rest.

Rain-drippings and rain in the poppies,And scents as of honey and bees;A touch of wild light on the coppice,That turned into flames the drenched trees.

Rain-drippings and rain in the poppies,

And scents as of honey and bees;

A touch of wild light on the coppice,

That turned into flames the drenched trees.

Then the cloud in the sunset was riven,And bubbled and rippled with gold,And over the gorges of heaven,Like a gonfalon vast was unrolled.

Then the cloud in the sunset was riven,

And bubbled and rippled with gold,

And over the gorges of heaven,

Like a gonfalon vast was unrolled.

In the frail hepaticas—That the early Springtide tossed,Sapphire-like, along the waysOf the woodlands that she crossed—I behold, with other eyes,Footprints of a dream that flies.One who leads me; whom I seek:In whose loveliness there isAll the glamour that the GreekKnew as wind-borne Artemis.—I am mortal. Woe is me!Her sweet immortality!Spirit, must I always fare,Following thy averted looks?Now thy white arm, now thy hair,Glimpsed among the trees and brooks?Thou who hauntest, whispering,All the slopes and vales of Spring.Cease to lure! or grant to meAll thy beauty! though it pain,Slay with splendor utterly!Flash revealment on my brain!And one moment let me seeAll thy immortality!

In the frail hepaticas—That the early Springtide tossed,Sapphire-like, along the waysOf the woodlands that she crossed—I behold, with other eyes,Footprints of a dream that flies.

In the frail hepaticas—

That the early Springtide tossed,

Sapphire-like, along the ways

Of the woodlands that she crossed—

I behold, with other eyes,

Footprints of a dream that flies.

One who leads me; whom I seek:In whose loveliness there isAll the glamour that the GreekKnew as wind-borne Artemis.—I am mortal. Woe is me!Her sweet immortality!

One who leads me; whom I seek:

In whose loveliness there is

All the glamour that the Greek

Knew as wind-borne Artemis.—

I am mortal. Woe is me!

Her sweet immortality!

Spirit, must I always fare,Following thy averted looks?Now thy white arm, now thy hair,Glimpsed among the trees and brooks?Thou who hauntest, whispering,All the slopes and vales of Spring.

Spirit, must I always fare,

Following thy averted looks?

Now thy white arm, now thy hair,

Glimpsed among the trees and brooks?

Thou who hauntest, whispering,

All the slopes and vales of Spring.

Cease to lure! or grant to meAll thy beauty! though it pain,Slay with splendor utterly!Flash revealment on my brain!And one moment let me seeAll thy immortality!

Cease to lure! or grant to me

All thy beauty! though it pain,

Slay with splendor utterly!

Flash revealment on my brain!

And one moment let me see

All thy immortality!

IOver the summer seas,From the Hesperides,Warm as the southern breeze,Gather the Spirits,Clad on with sun and rain,Fire in each ardent vein,Who, with a wild refrain,Waken the germs that the Season inherits.IISee, where they come, like mist,Gleaming with amethyst,Trailing the light that kissedVine-tangled mountainsLooming o'er tropic lakes,Where every wind, that shakesTamarisk coverts, makesMusic that haunts like the falling of fountains.IIIYou may behold the beatOf their wild hearts of heat,And their rose-flashing feetFlying before us:Hear them among the treesWhispering like far-off seas,Waking the drowsy bees,Wild-birds and flowers and torrents sonorous.IVYou may behold their eyes,Star-like, that sapphire dyes,To which the blossoms riseStar-like; and shadowsFlee from: and, golden deep,As through the woods they sweep,See their wild curls that keepAsphodel memories that kindle the meadows.VMusic of forest-streams,Fragrance and dewy gleams,Daybreak and dawn and dreams,High things and lowly,Mix in their limbs of light,Which, what they touch of blight,Quicken to blossom white,Raise to be beautiful, perfect, and holy.VICome! do not sit and waitNow that once desolateFields are intoxicateWith birds and flowers!And all the woods are rifeWith resurrected life,Passion and purple strifeOf the warm winds and the turbulent showers.VIICome! let us lie and dreamHere by the wildwood stream,Where many a twinkling gleamFalls on the rootyBanks; and the forest gloomsRain down their redbud blooms,Armfuls of wild perfumes—Winds! or Auloniads busy with beauty.

Over the summer seas,From the Hesperides,Warm as the southern breeze,Gather the Spirits,Clad on with sun and rain,Fire in each ardent vein,Who, with a wild refrain,Waken the germs that the Season inherits.

Over the summer seas,

From the Hesperides,

Warm as the southern breeze,

Gather the Spirits,

Clad on with sun and rain,

Fire in each ardent vein,

Who, with a wild refrain,

Waken the germs that the Season inherits.

See, where they come, like mist,Gleaming with amethyst,Trailing the light that kissedVine-tangled mountainsLooming o'er tropic lakes,Where every wind, that shakesTamarisk coverts, makesMusic that haunts like the falling of fountains.

See, where they come, like mist,

Gleaming with amethyst,

Trailing the light that kissed

Vine-tangled mountains

Looming o'er tropic lakes,

Where every wind, that shakes

Tamarisk coverts, makes

Music that haunts like the falling of fountains.

III

You may behold the beatOf their wild hearts of heat,And their rose-flashing feetFlying before us:Hear them among the treesWhispering like far-off seas,Waking the drowsy bees,Wild-birds and flowers and torrents sonorous.

You may behold the beat

Of their wild hearts of heat,

And their rose-flashing feet

Flying before us:

Hear them among the trees

Whispering like far-off seas,

Waking the drowsy bees,

Wild-birds and flowers and torrents sonorous.

You may behold their eyes,Star-like, that sapphire dyes,To which the blossoms riseStar-like; and shadowsFlee from: and, golden deep,As through the woods they sweep,See their wild curls that keepAsphodel memories that kindle the meadows.

You may behold their eyes,

Star-like, that sapphire dyes,

To which the blossoms rise

Star-like; and shadows

Flee from: and, golden deep,

As through the woods they sweep,

See their wild curls that keep

Asphodel memories that kindle the meadows.

Music of forest-streams,Fragrance and dewy gleams,Daybreak and dawn and dreams,High things and lowly,Mix in their limbs of light,Which, what they touch of blight,Quicken to blossom white,Raise to be beautiful, perfect, and holy.

Music of forest-streams,

Fragrance and dewy gleams,

Daybreak and dawn and dreams,

High things and lowly,

Mix in their limbs of light,

Which, what they touch of blight,

Quicken to blossom white,

Raise to be beautiful, perfect, and holy.

Come! do not sit and waitNow that once desolateFields are intoxicateWith birds and flowers!And all the woods are rifeWith resurrected life,Passion and purple strifeOf the warm winds and the turbulent showers.

Come! do not sit and wait

Now that once desolate

Fields are intoxicate

With birds and flowers!

And all the woods are rife

With resurrected life,

Passion and purple strife

Of the warm winds and the turbulent showers.

VII

Come! let us lie and dreamHere by the wildwood stream,Where many a twinkling gleamFalls on the rootyBanks; and the forest gloomsRain down their redbud blooms,Armfuls of wild perfumes—Winds! or Auloniads busy with beauty.

Come! let us lie and dream

Here by the wildwood stream,

Where many a twinkling gleam

Falls on the rooty

Banks; and the forest glooms

Rain down their redbud blooms,

Armfuls of wild perfumes—

Winds! or Auloniads busy with beauty.

IThere dwells a goddess in the West,An Island in death-lonesome seas;No towered towns are hers confessed,No castled forts or palaces;Hers, simple worshipers at best,The buds, the birds, the bees.IIAnd she hath wonder-words of song,So heavenly beautiful and shedSo sweetly from her honeyed tongue,The savage creatures, it is said,Hark, marble-still, their wilds among,And nightingales fall dead.IIII know her not, nor have I known:I only feel that she is there:For when my heart is most alone,Her deep communion fills the air,—Her influence calls me from my own,—Miraculously fair.IVThen fain am I to sing and sing,And then again to fly and fly,Beyond the flight of cloud or wing,Far under azure arcs of sky;My love at her chaste feet to fling,Behold her face and—die.

There dwells a goddess in the West,An Island in death-lonesome seas;No towered towns are hers confessed,No castled forts or palaces;Hers, simple worshipers at best,The buds, the birds, the bees.

There dwells a goddess in the West,

An Island in death-lonesome seas;

No towered towns are hers confessed,

No castled forts or palaces;

Hers, simple worshipers at best,

The buds, the birds, the bees.

And she hath wonder-words of song,So heavenly beautiful and shedSo sweetly from her honeyed tongue,The savage creatures, it is said,Hark, marble-still, their wilds among,And nightingales fall dead.

And she hath wonder-words of song,

So heavenly beautiful and shed

So sweetly from her honeyed tongue,

The savage creatures, it is said,

Hark, marble-still, their wilds among,

And nightingales fall dead.

III

I know her not, nor have I known:I only feel that she is there:For when my heart is most alone,Her deep communion fills the air,—Her influence calls me from my own,—Miraculously fair.

I know her not, nor have I known:

I only feel that she is there:

For when my heart is most alone,

Her deep communion fills the air,—

Her influence calls me from my own,—

Miraculously fair.

Then fain am I to sing and sing,And then again to fly and fly,Beyond the flight of cloud or wing,Far under azure arcs of sky;My love at her chaste feet to fling,Behold her face and—die.

Then fain am I to sing and sing,

And then again to fly and fly,

Beyond the flight of cloud or wing,

Far under azure arcs of sky;

My love at her chaste feet to fling,

Behold her face and—die.

He lived beyond men, and so stoodAdmitted to the brotherhoodOf beauty; dreams, with which he trodCompanioned as some sylvan god.And oft men wondered, when his thoughtMade all their knowledge seem as naught,If he, like Uther's mystic son,Had not been born for Avalon.When wandering 'mid the whispering trees,His soul communed with every breeze;Heard voices calling from the glades,Bloom-words of the Leimoniads;Or Dryads of the ash and oak,Who syllabled his name and spokeWith him of presences and powersThat glimpsed in sunbeams, gloomed in showers.By every violet-hallowed brook,Where every bramble-matted nookRippled and laughed with water sounds,He walked like one on sainted grounds,Fearing intrusion on the spellThat kept some fountain-spirit's well,Or woodland genius, sitting whereRed, racy berries kissed his hair.Once when the wind, far o'er the hill,Had fall'n and left the wildwood stillFor Dawn's dim feet to glide across,—Beneath the gnarled boughs, on the moss,The air around him golden ripeWith daybreak,—there, with oaten pipe,His eyes beheld the wood-god, Pan,Goat-bearded, and half-brute, half-man;Who, shaggy-haunched, a savage rhymeBlew in his reed to rudest time;And swollen-jowled, with rolling eye—Beneath the slowly silvering sky,Whose light shone through the forest's roof—Danced, while beneath his boisterous hoofThe branch was snapped, and, interfusedBetween great roots, the moss was bruised.And often when he wandered throughOld forests at the fall of dew—A new Endymion who soughtA beauty higher than all thought—Some night, men said, most surely heWould favored be of deity:That in the holy solitudeHer sudden presence, long pursued,Unto his gaze would be confessed;The awful moonlight of her breastCome, high with majesty, and holdHis heart's blood till his heart were cold,Unpulsed, unsinewed, and undone,And snatch his soul to Avalon.

He lived beyond men, and so stood

Admitted to the brotherhood

Of beauty; dreams, with which he trod

Companioned as some sylvan god.

And oft men wondered, when his thought

Made all their knowledge seem as naught,

If he, like Uther's mystic son,

Had not been born for Avalon.

When wandering 'mid the whispering trees,His soul communed with every breeze;Heard voices calling from the glades,Bloom-words of the Leimoniads;Or Dryads of the ash and oak,Who syllabled his name and spokeWith him of presences and powersThat glimpsed in sunbeams, gloomed in showers.

When wandering 'mid the whispering trees,

His soul communed with every breeze;

Heard voices calling from the glades,

Bloom-words of the Leimoniads;

Or Dryads of the ash and oak,

Who syllabled his name and spoke

With him of presences and powers

That glimpsed in sunbeams, gloomed in showers.

By every violet-hallowed brook,Where every bramble-matted nookRippled and laughed with water sounds,He walked like one on sainted grounds,Fearing intrusion on the spellThat kept some fountain-spirit's well,Or woodland genius, sitting whereRed, racy berries kissed his hair.

By every violet-hallowed brook,

Where every bramble-matted nook

Rippled and laughed with water sounds,

He walked like one on sainted grounds,

Fearing intrusion on the spell

That kept some fountain-spirit's well,

Or woodland genius, sitting where

Red, racy berries kissed his hair.

Once when the wind, far o'er the hill,Had fall'n and left the wildwood stillFor Dawn's dim feet to glide across,—Beneath the gnarled boughs, on the moss,The air around him golden ripeWith daybreak,—there, with oaten pipe,His eyes beheld the wood-god, Pan,Goat-bearded, and half-brute, half-man;Who, shaggy-haunched, a savage rhymeBlew in his reed to rudest time;And swollen-jowled, with rolling eye—Beneath the slowly silvering sky,Whose light shone through the forest's roof—Danced, while beneath his boisterous hoofThe branch was snapped, and, interfusedBetween great roots, the moss was bruised.

Once when the wind, far o'er the hill,

Had fall'n and left the wildwood still

For Dawn's dim feet to glide across,—

Beneath the gnarled boughs, on the moss,

The air around him golden ripe

With daybreak,—there, with oaten pipe,

His eyes beheld the wood-god, Pan,

Goat-bearded, and half-brute, half-man;

Who, shaggy-haunched, a savage rhyme

Blew in his reed to rudest time;

And swollen-jowled, with rolling eye—

Beneath the slowly silvering sky,

Whose light shone through the forest's roof—

Danced, while beneath his boisterous hoof

The branch was snapped, and, interfused

Between great roots, the moss was bruised.

And often when he wandered throughOld forests at the fall of dew—A new Endymion who soughtA beauty higher than all thought—Some night, men said, most surely heWould favored be of deity:That in the holy solitudeHer sudden presence, long pursued,Unto his gaze would be confessed;The awful moonlight of her breastCome, high with majesty, and holdHis heart's blood till his heart were cold,Unpulsed, unsinewed, and undone,And snatch his soul to Avalon.

And often when he wandered through

Old forests at the fall of dew—

A new Endymion who sought

A beauty higher than all thought—

Some night, men said, most surely he

Would favored be of deity:

That in the holy solitude

Her sudden presence, long pursued,

Unto his gaze would be confessed;

The awful moonlight of her breast

Come, high with majesty, and hold

His heart's blood till his heart were cold,

Unpulsed, unsinewed, and undone,

And snatch his soul to Avalon.

IHaunter of green intricáciesWhere the sunlight's amber lacesDeeps of darkest violet;Where the shaggy Satyr chasesNymphs and Dryads, fair as Graces,Whose white limbs with dew are wet:Piper in hid mountain places,Where the blue-eyed Oread bracesWinds which in her sweet cheeks setOf Aurora rosy traces;While the Faun from myrtle mazesWatches with an eye of jet:What art thou and these dim races,Thou, O Pan, of many faces,Who art ruler yet?IITell me, piper, have I everHeard thy hollow syrinx quiverTrickling music in the trees?Where the hazel copses shiver,Have I heard its dronings severThe warm silence, or the bees?Ripple murmurings that neverCould be born of fall or river,Or the whispering breeze.IIIOnce in tempest it was givenMe to see thee,—where the levenLit the craggy wood with glare,—Dancing, while,—like wedges driven,—Thunder split the deeps of heaven,And the wild rain swept thy hair.—What art thou, whose presence, evenWhile with fear my heart was riven,Healed it as with prayer?

Haunter of green intricáciesWhere the sunlight's amber lacesDeeps of darkest violet;Where the shaggy Satyr chasesNymphs and Dryads, fair as Graces,Whose white limbs with dew are wet:Piper in hid mountain places,Where the blue-eyed Oread bracesWinds which in her sweet cheeks setOf Aurora rosy traces;While the Faun from myrtle mazesWatches with an eye of jet:What art thou and these dim races,Thou, O Pan, of many faces,Who art ruler yet?

Haunter of green intricácies

Where the sunlight's amber laces

Deeps of darkest violet;

Where the shaggy Satyr chases

Nymphs and Dryads, fair as Graces,

Whose white limbs with dew are wet:

Piper in hid mountain places,

Where the blue-eyed Oread braces

Winds which in her sweet cheeks set

Of Aurora rosy traces;

While the Faun from myrtle mazes

Watches with an eye of jet:

What art thou and these dim races,

Thou, O Pan, of many faces,

Who art ruler yet?

Tell me, piper, have I everHeard thy hollow syrinx quiverTrickling music in the trees?Where the hazel copses shiver,Have I heard its dronings severThe warm silence, or the bees?Ripple murmurings that neverCould be born of fall or river,Or the whispering breeze.

Tell me, piper, have I ever

Heard thy hollow syrinx quiver

Trickling music in the trees?

Where the hazel copses shiver,

Have I heard its dronings sever

The warm silence, or the bees?

Ripple murmurings that never

Could be born of fall or river,

Or the whispering breeze.

III

Once in tempest it was givenMe to see thee,—where the levenLit the craggy wood with glare,—Dancing, while,—like wedges driven,—Thunder split the deeps of heaven,And the wild rain swept thy hair.—What art thou, whose presence, evenWhile with fear my heart was riven,Healed it as with prayer?

Once in tempest it was given

Me to see thee,—where the leven

Lit the craggy wood with glare,—

Dancing, while,—like wedges driven,—

Thunder split the deeps of heaven,

And the wild rain swept thy hair.—

What art thou, whose presence, even

While with fear my heart was riven,

Healed it as with prayer?

ISoul of my body! what a deathFor such a day of grief and gloom,Unbroken sorrow of the sky!—'Tis as if God's own loving breathHad swept the piled-up thunder by,And, bursting through the tempest's sheath,Cleft from its pod a giant bloom.IISee how the glory grows! unrolled,Expanding length on radiant lengthOf cloud-wrought petals.—Vast, a roseThe western heavens of flame unfold,Where, sparkling thro' the splendor, glowsThe evening star, fresh-faced with strength—A raindrop in its heart of gold.

Soul of my body! what a deathFor such a day of grief and gloom,Unbroken sorrow of the sky!—'Tis as if God's own loving breathHad swept the piled-up thunder by,And, bursting through the tempest's sheath,Cleft from its pod a giant bloom.

Soul of my body! what a death

For such a day of grief and gloom,

Unbroken sorrow of the sky!—

'Tis as if God's own loving breath

Had swept the piled-up thunder by,

And, bursting through the tempest's sheath,

Cleft from its pod a giant bloom.

See how the glory grows! unrolled,Expanding length on radiant lengthOf cloud-wrought petals.—Vast, a roseThe western heavens of flame unfold,Where, sparkling thro' the splendor, glowsThe evening star, fresh-faced with strength—A raindrop in its heart of gold.

See how the glory grows! unrolled,

Expanding length on radiant length

Of cloud-wrought petals.—Vast, a rose

The western heavens of flame unfold,

Where, sparkling thro' the splendor, glows

The evening star, fresh-faced with strength—

A raindrop in its heart of gold.

White moons may come, white moons may go,She sleeps where early blossoms blow;Knows nothing of the leafy June,That leans above her, night and noon,Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon,Watching her roses grow.The downy moth at evening comesAnd flutters round their honeyed blooms:Long, languid clouds, like ivory,That isle the blue lagoons of sky,Grow red as molten gold and dyeWith flame the pine-dark glooms.Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf;The wind, that shakes the blossom's sheaf;The slender sound of water lone,That makes a harp-string of some stone,And now a wood-bird's twilight moan,Seem whisp'rings there of grief.Her garden, where the lilacs grew,Where, on old walls, old roses blew,Head-heavy with their mellow musk,Where, when the beetle's drone was husk,She lingered in the dying dusk,No more shall know that knew.Her orchard,—where the Spring and sheStood listening to each bird and bee,—That, from its fragrant firmament,Snowed blossoms on her as she went,(A blossom with their blossoms blent)No more her face shall see.White moons may come, white moons may go,She sleeps where early blossoms blow;Around her headstone many a seedShall sow itself; and briar and weedShall grow to hide it from men's heed,And none will care or know.

White moons may come, white moons may go,

She sleeps where early blossoms blow;

Knows nothing of the leafy June,

That leans above her, night and noon,

Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon,

Watching her roses grow.

The downy moth at evening comesAnd flutters round their honeyed blooms:Long, languid clouds, like ivory,That isle the blue lagoons of sky,Grow red as molten gold and dyeWith flame the pine-dark glooms.

The downy moth at evening comes

And flutters round their honeyed blooms:

Long, languid clouds, like ivory,

That isle the blue lagoons of sky,

Grow red as molten gold and dye

With flame the pine-dark glooms.

Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf;The wind, that shakes the blossom's sheaf;The slender sound of water lone,That makes a harp-string of some stone,And now a wood-bird's twilight moan,Seem whisp'rings there of grief.

Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf;

The wind, that shakes the blossom's sheaf;

The slender sound of water lone,

That makes a harp-string of some stone,

And now a wood-bird's twilight moan,

Seem whisp'rings there of grief.

Her garden, where the lilacs grew,Where, on old walls, old roses blew,Head-heavy with their mellow musk,Where, when the beetle's drone was husk,She lingered in the dying dusk,No more shall know that knew.

Her garden, where the lilacs grew,

Where, on old walls, old roses blew,

Head-heavy with their mellow musk,

Where, when the beetle's drone was husk,

She lingered in the dying dusk,

No more shall know that knew.

Her orchard,—where the Spring and sheStood listening to each bird and bee,—That, from its fragrant firmament,Snowed blossoms on her as she went,(A blossom with their blossoms blent)No more her face shall see.

Her orchard,—where the Spring and she

Stood listening to each bird and bee,—

That, from its fragrant firmament,

Snowed blossoms on her as she went,

(A blossom with their blossoms blent)

No more her face shall see.

White moons may come, white moons may go,She sleeps where early blossoms blow;Around her headstone many a seedShall sow itself; and briar and weedShall grow to hide it from men's heed,And none will care or know.

White moons may come, white moons may go,

She sleeps where early blossoms blow;

Around her headstone many a seed

Shall sow itself; and briar and weed

Shall grow to hide it from men's heed,

And none will care or know.

Its rotting fence one scarcely seesThrough sumac and wild blackberries.Thick elder and the bramble-rose,Big ox-eyed daisies where the beesHang droning in repose.The little lizards lie all dayGray on its rocks of lichen-gray;And there, gay Ariels of the sun,The butterflies make bright its way,And paths where chipmunks run.Its lyric there the redbird lifts,While, overhead, the swallow drifts'Neath sun-soaked clouds of palest cream,—In which the wind makes azure rifts,—And there the wood-doves dream.The brown grasshoppers rasp and bound'Mid weeds and briars that hedge it round;And in its grass-grown ruts,—where stirsThe harmless snake,—mole-crickets sound;O'erhead the locust whirs.At evening, when the sad west turnsTo lonely night a cheek that burns,The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing;And ghosts of long-dead flowers and fernsThe wind wakes, whispering.

Its rotting fence one scarcely seesThrough sumac and wild blackberries.Thick elder and the bramble-rose,Big ox-eyed daisies where the beesHang droning in repose.

Its rotting fence one scarcely sees

Through sumac and wild blackberries.

Thick elder and the bramble-rose,

Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees

Hang droning in repose.

The little lizards lie all dayGray on its rocks of lichen-gray;And there, gay Ariels of the sun,The butterflies make bright its way,And paths where chipmunks run.

The little lizards lie all day

Gray on its rocks of lichen-gray;

And there, gay Ariels of the sun,

The butterflies make bright its way,

And paths where chipmunks run.

Its lyric there the redbird lifts,While, overhead, the swallow drifts'Neath sun-soaked clouds of palest cream,—In which the wind makes azure rifts,—And there the wood-doves dream.

Its lyric there the redbird lifts,

While, overhead, the swallow drifts

'Neath sun-soaked clouds of palest cream,—

In which the wind makes azure rifts,—

And there the wood-doves dream.

The brown grasshoppers rasp and bound'Mid weeds and briars that hedge it round;And in its grass-grown ruts,—where stirsThe harmless snake,—mole-crickets sound;O'erhead the locust whirs.

The brown grasshoppers rasp and bound

'Mid weeds and briars that hedge it round;

And in its grass-grown ruts,—where stirs

The harmless snake,—mole-crickets sound;

O'erhead the locust whirs.

At evening, when the sad west turnsTo lonely night a cheek that burns,The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing;And ghosts of long-dead flowers and fernsThe wind wakes, whispering.

At evening, when the sad west turns

To lonely night a cheek that burns,

The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing;

And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns

The wind wakes, whispering.

Here Spring her first frail violets blows;Broadcast her whitest wind-flowers sowsThrough starry mosses amber-fair,And fronded ferns and briar-rose,Hart's-tongue and maidenhair.Here fungus life is beautiful;Slim mushroom and the thick toadstool,—As various colored as are blooms,—Dot their damp cones through shadows cool,And breathe forth rain perfumes.Here stray the wandering cows to rest;The calling cat-bird builds its nestIn spicewood bushes dark and deep;Here raps the woodpecker its best,And here young rabbits leap.Beech, oak, and cedar; hickories;The pawpaw and persimmon trees;And tangled vines and sumac-brush,Make dark the daylight, where the beesDrone, and the wood-springs gush.Here to pale melancholy moons,In haunted nights of dreamy Junes,Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill,Whose strains, like those the owlet croons,Wild woods with phantoms fill.

Here Spring her first frail violets blows;Broadcast her whitest wind-flowers sowsThrough starry mosses amber-fair,And fronded ferns and briar-rose,Hart's-tongue and maidenhair.

Here Spring her first frail violets blows;

Broadcast her whitest wind-flowers sows

Through starry mosses amber-fair,

And fronded ferns and briar-rose,

Hart's-tongue and maidenhair.

Here fungus life is beautiful;Slim mushroom and the thick toadstool,—As various colored as are blooms,—Dot their damp cones through shadows cool,And breathe forth rain perfumes.

Here fungus life is beautiful;

Slim mushroom and the thick toadstool,—

As various colored as are blooms,—

Dot their damp cones through shadows cool,

And breathe forth rain perfumes.

Here stray the wandering cows to rest;The calling cat-bird builds its nestIn spicewood bushes dark and deep;Here raps the woodpecker its best,And here young rabbits leap.

Here stray the wandering cows to rest;

The calling cat-bird builds its nest

In spicewood bushes dark and deep;

Here raps the woodpecker its best,

And here young rabbits leap.

Beech, oak, and cedar; hickories;The pawpaw and persimmon trees;And tangled vines and sumac-brush,Make dark the daylight, where the beesDrone, and the wood-springs gush.

Beech, oak, and cedar; hickories;

The pawpaw and persimmon trees;

And tangled vines and sumac-brush,

Make dark the daylight, where the bees

Drone, and the wood-springs gush.

Here to pale melancholy moons,In haunted nights of dreamy Junes,Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill,Whose strains, like those the owlet croons,Wild woods with phantoms fill.

Here to pale melancholy moons,

In haunted nights of dreamy Junes,

Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill,

Whose strains, like those the owlet croons,

Wild woods with phantoms fill.

When the ice was thick on the flower-beds,And the sleet was caked on the briar;When the frost was down in the brown bulb's heads,And the ways were clogged with mire:When the snow on syringa and spiræa-treeSeemed the ghosts of perished flowers;And the days were sorry as sorry could be,And Time limped, cursing his fardel of hours:Heigh-ho! had I not a book and the logs,That chirped with the sap in the burning?—Or was it the frogs in the far-off bogs?Or the bush-sparrow's song at the turning?And I strolled by ways that the Springtime knows,In her mossy dells, and her ferny passes;Where the earth was holy with lily and rose,And the myriad life of the grasses.And I spoke with the Spring as a lover, who speaksTo his sweetheart; to whom he has givenA kiss that has kindled the rose of her cheeks,And her eyes with the laughter of heaven.The sound of the sap!—What a simple thing!—But the sound of the sap had the powerTo make the song-sparrow come and sing,And the winter woodlands flower!

When the ice was thick on the flower-beds,And the sleet was caked on the briar;When the frost was down in the brown bulb's heads,And the ways were clogged with mire:

When the ice was thick on the flower-beds,

And the sleet was caked on the briar;

When the frost was down in the brown bulb's heads,

And the ways were clogged with mire:

When the snow on syringa and spiræa-treeSeemed the ghosts of perished flowers;And the days were sorry as sorry could be,And Time limped, cursing his fardel of hours:

When the snow on syringa and spiræa-tree

Seemed the ghosts of perished flowers;

And the days were sorry as sorry could be,

And Time limped, cursing his fardel of hours:

Heigh-ho! had I not a book and the logs,That chirped with the sap in the burning?—Or was it the frogs in the far-off bogs?Or the bush-sparrow's song at the turning?

Heigh-ho! had I not a book and the logs,

That chirped with the sap in the burning?—

Or was it the frogs in the far-off bogs?

Or the bush-sparrow's song at the turning?

And I strolled by ways that the Springtime knows,In her mossy dells, and her ferny passes;Where the earth was holy with lily and rose,And the myriad life of the grasses.

And I strolled by ways that the Springtime knows,

In her mossy dells, and her ferny passes;

Where the earth was holy with lily and rose,

And the myriad life of the grasses.

And I spoke with the Spring as a lover, who speaksTo his sweetheart; to whom he has givenA kiss that has kindled the rose of her cheeks,And her eyes with the laughter of heaven.

And I spoke with the Spring as a lover, who speaks

To his sweetheart; to whom he has given

A kiss that has kindled the rose of her cheeks,

And her eyes with the laughter of heaven.

The sound of the sap!—What a simple thing!—But the sound of the sap had the powerTo make the song-sparrow come and sing,And the winter woodlands flower!

The sound of the sap!—What a simple thing!—

But the sound of the sap had the power

To make the song-sparrow come and sing,

And the winter woodlands flower!

I have seen her limpid eyes,Large with gradual laughter, riseIn the wild-rose nettles;Slowly, like twin flowers, unfold,Smiling,—when the wind, behold!Whisked them into petals.I have seen her hardy cheek,Like a molten coral, leakThrough the leaves around itOf thick Chickasaws; but so,When I made more certain, lo!A red plum I found it.I have found her racy lips,And her roguish finger-tips,But a haw or berry;Glimmers of her there and here,Just, forsooth, enough to cheer,And to make me merry.Often from the ferny rocksDazzling rimples of her locksAt me she hath shaken;And I've followed—but in vain!—They had trickled into rain,Sunlit, on the braken.Once her full limbs flashed on me,Naked, where a royal treeCheckered mossy placesWith soft sunlight and dim shade,—Such a haunt as myths have madeFor the Satyr races.There, it seemed, hid amorous Pan;For a sudden pleading ranThrough the thicket, wooingMe to search and, suddenly,From the swaying elder-tree,Flew a wild-dove, cooing.

I have seen her limpid eyes,Large with gradual laughter, riseIn the wild-rose nettles;Slowly, like twin flowers, unfold,Smiling,—when the wind, behold!Whisked them into petals.

I have seen her limpid eyes,

Large with gradual laughter, rise

In the wild-rose nettles;

Slowly, like twin flowers, unfold,

Smiling,—when the wind, behold!

Whisked them into petals.

I have seen her hardy cheek,Like a molten coral, leakThrough the leaves around itOf thick Chickasaws; but so,When I made more certain, lo!A red plum I found it.

I have seen her hardy cheek,

Like a molten coral, leak

Through the leaves around it

Of thick Chickasaws; but so,

When I made more certain, lo!

A red plum I found it.

I have found her racy lips,And her roguish finger-tips,But a haw or berry;Glimmers of her there and here,Just, forsooth, enough to cheer,And to make me merry.

I have found her racy lips,

And her roguish finger-tips,

But a haw or berry;

Glimmers of her there and here,

Just, forsooth, enough to cheer,

And to make me merry.

Often from the ferny rocksDazzling rimples of her locksAt me she hath shaken;And I've followed—but in vain!—They had trickled into rain,Sunlit, on the braken.

Often from the ferny rocks

Dazzling rimples of her locks

At me she hath shaken;

And I've followed—but in vain!—

They had trickled into rain,

Sunlit, on the braken.

Once her full limbs flashed on me,Naked, where a royal treeCheckered mossy placesWith soft sunlight and dim shade,—Such a haunt as myths have madeFor the Satyr races.

Once her full limbs flashed on me,

Naked, where a royal tree

Checkered mossy places

With soft sunlight and dim shade,—

Such a haunt as myths have made

For the Satyr races.

There, it seemed, hid amorous Pan;For a sudden pleading ranThrough the thicket, wooingMe to search and, suddenly,From the swaying elder-tree,Flew a wild-dove, cooing.

There, it seemed, hid amorous Pan;

For a sudden pleading ran

Through the thicket, wooing

Me to search and, suddenly,

From the swaying elder-tree,

Flew a wild-dove, cooing.

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