THE DEAD OREAD

The South saluted her mouthTill her breath was sweet with the South.The North in her ear breathed low,Till her veins ran crystal and snow.The West 'neath her eyelids blew,Till her heart beat honey and dew.And the East with his magic oldChanged her body to pearl and gold.And she stood like a beautiful thoughtThat a godhead of love had wrought....How strange that the Power begot itOnly to kill it and rot it!

The South saluted her mouthTill her breath was sweet with the South.

The South saluted her mouth

Till her breath was sweet with the South.

The North in her ear breathed low,Till her veins ran crystal and snow.

The North in her ear breathed low,

Till her veins ran crystal and snow.

The West 'neath her eyelids blew,Till her heart beat honey and dew.

The West 'neath her eyelids blew,

Till her heart beat honey and dew.

And the East with his magic oldChanged her body to pearl and gold.

And the East with his magic old

Changed her body to pearl and gold.

And she stood like a beautiful thoughtThat a godhead of love had wrought....

And she stood like a beautiful thought

That a godhead of love had wrought....

How strange that the Power begot itOnly to kill it and rot it!

How strange that the Power begot it

Only to kill it and rot it!

Her heart is still and leaps no moreWith holy passion when the breeze,Her whilom playmate, as before,Comes with the language of the bees,Sad songs her mountain cedars sing,And water-music murmuring.Her calm, white feet,—once fleet and fastAs Daphne's when a god pursued,—No more will dance like sunlight pastThe gold-green vistas of the wood,Where every quailing floweretSmiled into life where they were set.Hers were the limbs of living light,And breasts of snow, as virginalAs mountain drifts; and throat as whiteAs foam of mountain waterfall;And hyacinthine curls, that streamedLike mountain mists, and gloomed and gleamed.Her presence breathed such scents as hauntDeep mountain dells and solitudes,Aromas wild,—like some wild plantThat fills with sweetness all the woods;—And comradeship with stars and skiesShone in the azure of her eyes.Her grave be by a mossy rockUpon the top of some high hill,Removed, remote from men who mockThe myths, the dreams of life they kill;Where all of love and naught of lustMay guard her solitary dust.

Her heart is still and leaps no moreWith holy passion when the breeze,Her whilom playmate, as before,Comes with the language of the bees,Sad songs her mountain cedars sing,And water-music murmuring.

Her heart is still and leaps no more

With holy passion when the breeze,

Her whilom playmate, as before,

Comes with the language of the bees,

Sad songs her mountain cedars sing,

And water-music murmuring.

Her calm, white feet,—once fleet and fastAs Daphne's when a god pursued,—No more will dance like sunlight pastThe gold-green vistas of the wood,Where every quailing floweretSmiled into life where they were set.

Her calm, white feet,—once fleet and fast

As Daphne's when a god pursued,—

No more will dance like sunlight past

The gold-green vistas of the wood,

Where every quailing floweret

Smiled into life where they were set.

Hers were the limbs of living light,And breasts of snow, as virginalAs mountain drifts; and throat as whiteAs foam of mountain waterfall;And hyacinthine curls, that streamedLike mountain mists, and gloomed and gleamed.

Hers were the limbs of living light,

And breasts of snow, as virginal

As mountain drifts; and throat as white

As foam of mountain waterfall;

And hyacinthine curls, that streamed

Like mountain mists, and gloomed and gleamed.

Her presence breathed such scents as hauntDeep mountain dells and solitudes,Aromas wild,—like some wild plantThat fills with sweetness all the woods;—And comradeship with stars and skiesShone in the azure of her eyes.

Her presence breathed such scents as haunt

Deep mountain dells and solitudes,

Aromas wild,—like some wild plant

That fills with sweetness all the woods;—

And comradeship with stars and skies

Shone in the azure of her eyes.

Her grave be by a mossy rockUpon the top of some high hill,Removed, remote from men who mockThe myths, the dreams of life they kill;Where all of love and naught of lustMay guard her solitary dust.

Her grave be by a mossy rock

Upon the top of some high hill,

Removed, remote from men who mock

The myths, the dreams of life they kill;

Where all of love and naught of lust

May guard her solitary dust.

II know that from thine eyesThe Spring her violets grew;Those bits of April skies,On which the green turf lies,Whereon they blossom blue.III know that Summer wroughtFrom thy sweet heart that rose,With such faint fragrance fraught,—Its pale, poetic thoughtOf peace and deep repose.—IIIThat Autumn, like some god,From thy delicious hair,—Lost sunlight 'neath the sod,—Shot up this goldenrodTo toss it everywhere.IVThat Winter from thy breastThe snowdrop's whiteness stole—Much kinder than the rest—Thy innocence confessed,The pureness of thy soul.

I know that from thine eyesThe Spring her violets grew;Those bits of April skies,On which the green turf lies,Whereon they blossom blue.

I know that from thine eyes

The Spring her violets grew;

Those bits of April skies,

On which the green turf lies,

Whereon they blossom blue.

I know that Summer wroughtFrom thy sweet heart that rose,With such faint fragrance fraught,—Its pale, poetic thoughtOf peace and deep repose.—

I know that Summer wrought

From thy sweet heart that rose,

With such faint fragrance fraught,—

Its pale, poetic thought

Of peace and deep repose.—

III

That Autumn, like some god,From thy delicious hair,—Lost sunlight 'neath the sod,—Shot up this goldenrodTo toss it everywhere.

That Autumn, like some god,

From thy delicious hair,—

Lost sunlight 'neath the sod,—

Shot up this goldenrod

To toss it everywhere.

That Winter from thy breastThe snowdrop's whiteness stole—Much kinder than the rest—Thy innocence confessed,The pureness of thy soul.

That Winter from thy breast

The snowdrop's whiteness stole—

Much kinder than the rest—

Thy innocence confessed,

The pureness of thy soul.

I heard the dead man, where he layWithin the open coffin, say:—"Why do they come to weep and cryAround me now?—Because I lieSo silent, and my heart's at rest?Because the pistons of my bloodNo more in this machinery thud?And on these eyes, that once were blessedWith magnetism and fire, are pressedThe soldered eyelids, like a sheath?On which the icy hand of DeathHath laid invisible coins of leadStamped with the image of his head?"Why will they weep and not have done?Why sorrow so? and all for one,Who, they believe, hath found the bestGod gives to us,—and that is rest.Why grieve?—Yea, rather let them liftThe voice in thanks for such a gift,That leaves the worn hands, long that wrought,And weary feet, that sought and sought,At peace; and makes what came to naught,In life, more real now than allThe good men strive for here on Earth:The love they seek; the things they callDesirable and full of worth;Yea, wisdom ev'n; and, like the South,The dreams that dewed the soul's sick drouth,And heart's sad barrenness.—God's rest,With every sigh and every tear,By them who weep above me here,Despite their Faith and Hope, 's confessedA doubt; a thing to dread and fear."Before them peacefully I lie.But, haply, not for me they sigh,But for themselves,—their loss. The roundOf daily labor still to doFor them, while for myself 'tis through;And all the unknown, too, is found,The bourn for which all hopes are bound,Where dreams are all made manifest:For this they grieve, perhaps. 'Tis well;Since 'tis through grief the soul is blessed,Not joy;—and yet, we can not tell,We do not know, we can not prove,We only feel that there is love,And something we call Heaven and Hell."Howbeit, here, you see, I lie,As all shall lie—for all must die—A cast-off, useless, empty shell,In which an essence once did dwell;That once, like fruit, the spirit held,And with its husk of flesh compelled:The mask of mind, the world of will,That laughed and wept and labored tillThe thing within, that never slept,The life essential, from it stept;The ichor-veined inhabitantWho made it all it was; in allIts aims the thing original,That held its course, like any star,Among its fellows; or a plant,Among its brother plants; 'mid whom,—The same and yet dissimilar,—Distinct and individual,It grew to microcosmic bloom."These were the words the dead man saidTo me who stood beside the dead.

I heard the dead man, where he layWithin the open coffin, say:—

I heard the dead man, where he lay

Within the open coffin, say:—

"Why do they come to weep and cryAround me now?—Because I lieSo silent, and my heart's at rest?Because the pistons of my bloodNo more in this machinery thud?And on these eyes, that once were blessedWith magnetism and fire, are pressedThe soldered eyelids, like a sheath?On which the icy hand of DeathHath laid invisible coins of leadStamped with the image of his head?

"Why do they come to weep and cry

Around me now?—Because I lie

So silent, and my heart's at rest?

Because the pistons of my blood

No more in this machinery thud?

And on these eyes, that once were blessed

With magnetism and fire, are pressed

The soldered eyelids, like a sheath?

On which the icy hand of Death

Hath laid invisible coins of lead

Stamped with the image of his head?

"Why will they weep and not have done?Why sorrow so? and all for one,Who, they believe, hath found the bestGod gives to us,—and that is rest.Why grieve?—Yea, rather let them liftThe voice in thanks for such a gift,That leaves the worn hands, long that wrought,And weary feet, that sought and sought,At peace; and makes what came to naught,In life, more real now than allThe good men strive for here on Earth:The love they seek; the things they callDesirable and full of worth;Yea, wisdom ev'n; and, like the South,The dreams that dewed the soul's sick drouth,And heart's sad barrenness.—God's rest,With every sigh and every tear,By them who weep above me here,Despite their Faith and Hope, 's confessedA doubt; a thing to dread and fear.

"Why will they weep and not have done?

Why sorrow so? and all for one,

Who, they believe, hath found the best

God gives to us,—and that is rest.

Why grieve?—Yea, rather let them lift

The voice in thanks for such a gift,

That leaves the worn hands, long that wrought,

And weary feet, that sought and sought,

At peace; and makes what came to naught,

In life, more real now than all

The good men strive for here on Earth:

The love they seek; the things they call

Desirable and full of worth;

Yea, wisdom ev'n; and, like the South,

The dreams that dewed the soul's sick drouth,

And heart's sad barrenness.—God's rest,

With every sigh and every tear,

By them who weep above me here,

Despite their Faith and Hope, 's confessed

A doubt; a thing to dread and fear.

"Before them peacefully I lie.But, haply, not for me they sigh,But for themselves,—their loss. The roundOf daily labor still to doFor them, while for myself 'tis through;And all the unknown, too, is found,The bourn for which all hopes are bound,Where dreams are all made manifest:For this they grieve, perhaps. 'Tis well;Since 'tis through grief the soul is blessed,Not joy;—and yet, we can not tell,We do not know, we can not prove,We only feel that there is love,And something we call Heaven and Hell.

"Before them peacefully I lie.

But, haply, not for me they sigh,

But for themselves,—their loss. The round

Of daily labor still to do

For them, while for myself 'tis through;

And all the unknown, too, is found,

The bourn for which all hopes are bound,

Where dreams are all made manifest:

For this they grieve, perhaps. 'Tis well;

Since 'tis through grief the soul is blessed,

Not joy;—and yet, we can not tell,

We do not know, we can not prove,

We only feel that there is love,

And something we call Heaven and Hell.

"Howbeit, here, you see, I lie,As all shall lie—for all must die—A cast-off, useless, empty shell,In which an essence once did dwell;That once, like fruit, the spirit held,And with its husk of flesh compelled:The mask of mind, the world of will,That laughed and wept and labored tillThe thing within, that never slept,The life essential, from it stept;The ichor-veined inhabitantWho made it all it was; in allIts aims the thing original,That held its course, like any star,Among its fellows; or a plant,Among its brother plants; 'mid whom,—The same and yet dissimilar,—Distinct and individual,It grew to microcosmic bloom."

"Howbeit, here, you see, I lie,

As all shall lie—for all must die—

A cast-off, useless, empty shell,

In which an essence once did dwell;

That once, like fruit, the spirit held,

And with its husk of flesh compelled:

The mask of mind, the world of will,

That laughed and wept and labored till

The thing within, that never slept,

The life essential, from it stept;

The ichor-veined inhabitant

Who made it all it was; in all

Its aims the thing original,

That held its course, like any star,

Among its fellows; or a plant,

Among its brother plants; 'mid whom,—

The same and yet dissimilar,—

Distinct and individual,

It grew to microcosmic bloom."

These were the words the dead man saidTo me who stood beside the dead.

These were the words the dead man said

To me who stood beside the dead.

II dreamed last night once more I stoodKnee-deep on purple clover leas;Her old home glimmered through its woodOf dark and melancholy trees:And on my brow I felt the breezeThat blew from out the solitude,With sounds of waters that pursued,And sleepy hummings of the bees.IIAnd ankle-deep in violet bloomsMethought I saw her standing there,A lawny light among the glooms,A crown of sunlight on her hair;The wood-birds, warbling everywhere,Above her head flashed happy plumes;About her clung the wild perfumes,And woodland gleams of shimmering air.IIIAnd then she called me: in my earsHer voice was music; and it ledMy sad soul back with all its fears;Recalled my spirit that had fled.—And in my dream it seemed she said,"Our hearts keep true through all the years;"And on my face I felt the tears,The blinding tears of her long dead.

I dreamed last night once more I stoodKnee-deep on purple clover leas;Her old home glimmered through its woodOf dark and melancholy trees:And on my brow I felt the breezeThat blew from out the solitude,With sounds of waters that pursued,And sleepy hummings of the bees.

I dreamed last night once more I stood

Knee-deep on purple clover leas;

Her old home glimmered through its wood

Of dark and melancholy trees:

And on my brow I felt the breeze

That blew from out the solitude,

With sounds of waters that pursued,

And sleepy hummings of the bees.

And ankle-deep in violet bloomsMethought I saw her standing there,A lawny light among the glooms,A crown of sunlight on her hair;The wood-birds, warbling everywhere,Above her head flashed happy plumes;About her clung the wild perfumes,And woodland gleams of shimmering air.

And ankle-deep in violet blooms

Methought I saw her standing there,

A lawny light among the glooms,

A crown of sunlight on her hair;

The wood-birds, warbling everywhere,

Above her head flashed happy plumes;

About her clung the wild perfumes,

And woodland gleams of shimmering air.

III

And then she called me: in my earsHer voice was music; and it ledMy sad soul back with all its fears;Recalled my spirit that had fled.—And in my dream it seemed she said,"Our hearts keep true through all the years;"And on my face I felt the tears,The blinding tears of her long dead.

And then she called me: in my ears

Her voice was music; and it led

My sad soul back with all its fears;

Recalled my spirit that had fled.—

And in my dream it seemed she said,

"Our hearts keep true through all the years;"

And on my face I felt the tears,

The blinding tears of her long dead.

Ah, God! were I away, awayBy woodland-belted hills!There might be more in this bright dayThan my poor spirit thrills.The elder coppice, banks of blooms;The spicewood brush; the fieldOf tumbled clover, and perfumesHot, weedy pastures yield.The old rail-fence, whose angles holdBright briar and sassafras;Sweet, priceless wildflowers, blue and gold,Starred through the moss and grass.The ragged path that winds untoLone, bird-melodious nooks,Through brambles to the shade and dewOf rocks and woody brooks.To see the minnows flash and gleamLike sparkling prisms; allShoot in gray schools adown the streamLet but a dead leaf fall!To feel the buoyance and delightOf floating, feathered seeds!Capricious wisps of wandering whiteBorn of silk-bearing weeds.Ah, God! were I away, awayAmong wild woods and birds,There were more soul in this bright dayThan one could bless with words.

Ah, God! were I away, awayBy woodland-belted hills!There might be more in this bright dayThan my poor spirit thrills.

Ah, God! were I away, away

By woodland-belted hills!

There might be more in this bright day

Than my poor spirit thrills.

The elder coppice, banks of blooms;The spicewood brush; the fieldOf tumbled clover, and perfumesHot, weedy pastures yield.

The elder coppice, banks of blooms;

The spicewood brush; the field

Of tumbled clover, and perfumes

Hot, weedy pastures yield.

The old rail-fence, whose angles holdBright briar and sassafras;Sweet, priceless wildflowers, blue and gold,Starred through the moss and grass.

The old rail-fence, whose angles hold

Bright briar and sassafras;

Sweet, priceless wildflowers, blue and gold,

Starred through the moss and grass.

The ragged path that winds untoLone, bird-melodious nooks,Through brambles to the shade and dewOf rocks and woody brooks.

The ragged path that winds unto

Lone, bird-melodious nooks,

Through brambles to the shade and dew

Of rocks and woody brooks.

To see the minnows flash and gleamLike sparkling prisms; allShoot in gray schools adown the streamLet but a dead leaf fall!

To see the minnows flash and gleam

Like sparkling prisms; all

Shoot in gray schools adown the stream

Let but a dead leaf fall!

To feel the buoyance and delightOf floating, feathered seeds!Capricious wisps of wandering whiteBorn of silk-bearing weeds.

To feel the buoyance and delight

Of floating, feathered seeds!

Capricious wisps of wandering white

Born of silk-bearing weeds.

Ah, God! were I away, awayAmong wild woods and birds,There were more soul in this bright dayThan one could bless with words.

Ah, God! were I away, away

Among wild woods and birds,

There were more soul in this bright day

Than one could bless with words.

The red blood stings through her cheeks and clingsIn their tan with a fever that lightens;And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springsIn her dark eyes dusks and brightens:Her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swingsWith the youths in the sinewy games,When the hot wind sings through the hair it flings,And the circus roars hoarse with their names,As they fly to the goal that flames.Her voice is as deep as the waters that sweepThrough the musical reeds of a river;A voice as of reapers who bind and reap,With the ring of curved scythes that quiver:A voice, singing ripe the orchards that heapWith crimson and gold the ground;That whispers like sleep, till the briars weepTheir berries, all ruby round,And vineyards are purple-crowned.Right sweet is the beat of her glowing feet,And her smile, as Heaven's, is gracious;The creating might of her hands of heatAs a god's or a goddess's spacious:The odorous blood in her heart a-beatIs rich with a perishless fire;And her bosom, most sweet, is the ardent seatOf a mother who never will tire,While the world has a breath to suspire.Wherever she fares her soft voice bearsFecundity; powers that thickenThe fruits,—as the wind made Thessalian maresOf old mysteriously quicken:—The apricots' honey, the milk of the pears,The wine, great grape-clusters hold,These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declaresIn the corn's long billows of gold,And flowers that jewel the wold.So, hail to her lips, and her sun-girt hips,And the glory she wears in her tresses!All hail to the balsam that dreams and dripsFrom her breasts that the light caresses!Midsummer! whose fair arm lovingly slipsRound the Earth's great waist of green,From whose mouth's aroma his hot mouth sipsThe life that is love unseen,And the beauty that God may mean.

The red blood stings through her cheeks and clings

In their tan with a fever that lightens;

And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springs

In her dark eyes dusks and brightens:

Her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swings

With the youths in the sinewy games,

When the hot wind sings through the hair it flings,

And the circus roars hoarse with their names,

As they fly to the goal that flames.

Her voice is as deep as the waters that sweepThrough the musical reeds of a river;A voice as of reapers who bind and reap,With the ring of curved scythes that quiver:A voice, singing ripe the orchards that heapWith crimson and gold the ground;That whispers like sleep, till the briars weepTheir berries, all ruby round,And vineyards are purple-crowned.

Her voice is as deep as the waters that sweep

Through the musical reeds of a river;

A voice as of reapers who bind and reap,

With the ring of curved scythes that quiver:

A voice, singing ripe the orchards that heap

With crimson and gold the ground;

That whispers like sleep, till the briars weep

Their berries, all ruby round,

And vineyards are purple-crowned.

Right sweet is the beat of her glowing feet,And her smile, as Heaven's, is gracious;The creating might of her hands of heatAs a god's or a goddess's spacious:The odorous blood in her heart a-beatIs rich with a perishless fire;And her bosom, most sweet, is the ardent seatOf a mother who never will tire,While the world has a breath to suspire.

Right sweet is the beat of her glowing feet,

And her smile, as Heaven's, is gracious;

The creating might of her hands of heat

As a god's or a goddess's spacious:

The odorous blood in her heart a-beat

Is rich with a perishless fire;

And her bosom, most sweet, is the ardent seat

Of a mother who never will tire,

While the world has a breath to suspire.

Wherever she fares her soft voice bearsFecundity; powers that thickenThe fruits,—as the wind made Thessalian maresOf old mysteriously quicken:—The apricots' honey, the milk of the pears,The wine, great grape-clusters hold,These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declaresIn the corn's long billows of gold,And flowers that jewel the wold.

Wherever she fares her soft voice bears

Fecundity; powers that thicken

The fruits,—as the wind made Thessalian mares

Of old mysteriously quicken:—

The apricots' honey, the milk of the pears,

The wine, great grape-clusters hold,

These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declares

In the corn's long billows of gold,

And flowers that jewel the wold.

So, hail to her lips, and her sun-girt hips,And the glory she wears in her tresses!All hail to the balsam that dreams and dripsFrom her breasts that the light caresses!Midsummer! whose fair arm lovingly slipsRound the Earth's great waist of green,From whose mouth's aroma his hot mouth sipsThe life that is love unseen,And the beauty that God may mean.

So, hail to her lips, and her sun-girt hips,

And the glory she wears in her tresses!

All hail to the balsam that dreams and drips

From her breasts that the light caresses!

Midsummer! whose fair arm lovingly slips

Round the Earth's great waist of green,

From whose mouth's aroma his hot mouth sips

The life that is love unseen,

And the beauty that God may mean.

IWith molten ruby, clear as wine,The East's great cup of daybreak brims;The morning-glories swing and shine;The night-dews bead their satin rims;The bees are busy in flower and vine,And load with gold their limbs.Sweet Morn, the SouthA loyal lover,Kisses thy mouth,Thy rosy mouth,And over and overWooes thee with scents of wild-honey and clover.IIBeside the wall the roses blowThat Noon's hot breezes scarcely shake;Beside the wall the poppies glow,So full of fire their deep hearts ache;The drowsy butterflies fly slow,Half sleeping, half awake.Sweet Noontide, Rest,—A reaper sleeping,—His head on thy breast,Thy redolent breast,Dreams of the reaping,While sounds of the scythes all around him are sweeping.IIIAlong lone paths the cricket cries,Where Night distils dim scent and dew;One mad star 'thwart the heaven flies,A glittering curve of molten blue;Now grows the big moon in the skies;The stars are faint and few.Sweet Night, the vowsOf love long taken,Against thy browsLay their pale brows,Till thy soul is shakenOf amorous dreams that make it awaken.

With molten ruby, clear as wine,The East's great cup of daybreak brims;The morning-glories swing and shine;The night-dews bead their satin rims;The bees are busy in flower and vine,And load with gold their limbs.

With molten ruby, clear as wine,

The East's great cup of daybreak brims;

The morning-glories swing and shine;

The night-dews bead their satin rims;

The bees are busy in flower and vine,

And load with gold their limbs.

Sweet Morn, the SouthA loyal lover,Kisses thy mouth,Thy rosy mouth,And over and overWooes thee with scents of wild-honey and clover.

Sweet Morn, the South

A loyal lover,

Kisses thy mouth,

Thy rosy mouth,

And over and over

Wooes thee with scents of wild-honey and clover.

Beside the wall the roses blowThat Noon's hot breezes scarcely shake;Beside the wall the poppies glow,So full of fire their deep hearts ache;The drowsy butterflies fly slow,Half sleeping, half awake.

Beside the wall the roses blow

That Noon's hot breezes scarcely shake;

Beside the wall the poppies glow,

So full of fire their deep hearts ache;

The drowsy butterflies fly slow,

Half sleeping, half awake.

Sweet Noontide, Rest,—A reaper sleeping,—His head on thy breast,Thy redolent breast,Dreams of the reaping,While sounds of the scythes all around him are sweeping.

Sweet Noontide, Rest,—

A reaper sleeping,—

His head on thy breast,

Thy redolent breast,

Dreams of the reaping,

While sounds of the scythes all around him are sweeping.

III

Along lone paths the cricket cries,Where Night distils dim scent and dew;One mad star 'thwart the heaven flies,A glittering curve of molten blue;Now grows the big moon in the skies;The stars are faint and few.

Along lone paths the cricket cries,

Where Night distils dim scent and dew;

One mad star 'thwart the heaven flies,

A glittering curve of molten blue;

Now grows the big moon in the skies;

The stars are faint and few.

Sweet Night, the vowsOf love long taken,Against thy browsLay their pale brows,Till thy soul is shakenOf amorous dreams that make it awaken.

Sweet Night, the vows

Of love long taken,

Against thy brows

Lay their pale brows,

Till thy soul is shaken

Of amorous dreams that make it awaken.

A wall of crumbling stones doth keepWatch o'er long barrows where they sleep,Old, chronicled grave-stones of its dead,On which oblivion's mosses creepAnd lichens gray as lead.Warm days, the lost cows, as they pass,Rest here and browse the juicy grassThat springs about its sun-scorched stones;Afar one hears their bells' deep brassWaft melancholy tones.Here the wild morning-glory goesA-rambling, and the myrtle grows;Wild morning-glories, pale as pain,With holy urns, that hint at woes,The night hath filled with rain.Here are the largest berries seen,Rich, winey-dark, whereon the leanBlack hornet sucks; noons, sick with heat,That bend not to the shadowed greenThe heavy, bearded wheat.At night, for its forgotten dead,A requiem, of no known wind said,Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs,While to the starlight overheadThe shivering screech-owl sobs.

A wall of crumbling stones doth keepWatch o'er long barrows where they sleep,Old, chronicled grave-stones of its dead,On which oblivion's mosses creepAnd lichens gray as lead.

A wall of crumbling stones doth keep

Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep,

Old, chronicled grave-stones of its dead,

On which oblivion's mosses creep

And lichens gray as lead.

Warm days, the lost cows, as they pass,Rest here and browse the juicy grassThat springs about its sun-scorched stones;Afar one hears their bells' deep brassWaft melancholy tones.

Warm days, the lost cows, as they pass,

Rest here and browse the juicy grass

That springs about its sun-scorched stones;

Afar one hears their bells' deep brass

Waft melancholy tones.

Here the wild morning-glory goesA-rambling, and the myrtle grows;Wild morning-glories, pale as pain,With holy urns, that hint at woes,The night hath filled with rain.

Here the wild morning-glory goes

A-rambling, and the myrtle grows;

Wild morning-glories, pale as pain,

With holy urns, that hint at woes,

The night hath filled with rain.

Here are the largest berries seen,Rich, winey-dark, whereon the leanBlack hornet sucks; noons, sick with heat,That bend not to the shadowed greenThe heavy, bearded wheat.

Here are the largest berries seen,

Rich, winey-dark, whereon the lean

Black hornet sucks; noons, sick with heat,

That bend not to the shadowed green

The heavy, bearded wheat.

At night, for its forgotten dead,A requiem, of no known wind said,Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs,While to the starlight overheadThe shivering screech-owl sobs.

At night, for its forgotten dead,

A requiem, of no known wind said,

Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs,

While to the starlight overhead

The shivering screech-owl sobs.

All through the tepid summer nightThe starless sky had poured a coolMonotony of pleasant rainIn music beautiful.And for an hour I sat to watchClouds moving on majestic feet;And heard down avenues of nightTheir hearts of thunder beat.Prodigious limbs, far-veined with gold,Pulsed fiery life o'er wood and plain,While, scattered, fell from giant handsThe largess of the rain.Beholding at each lightning flashTheir generous silver on the sod,In meek devotion bowed, I thankedThese almoners of God.

All through the tepid summer nightThe starless sky had poured a coolMonotony of pleasant rainIn music beautiful.

All through the tepid summer night

The starless sky had poured a cool

Monotony of pleasant rain

In music beautiful.

And for an hour I sat to watchClouds moving on majestic feet;And heard down avenues of nightTheir hearts of thunder beat.

And for an hour I sat to watch

Clouds moving on majestic feet;

And heard down avenues of night

Their hearts of thunder beat.

Prodigious limbs, far-veined with gold,Pulsed fiery life o'er wood and plain,While, scattered, fell from giant handsThe largess of the rain.

Prodigious limbs, far-veined with gold,

Pulsed fiery life o'er wood and plain,

While, scattered, fell from giant hands

The largess of the rain.

Beholding at each lightning flashTheir generous silver on the sod,In meek devotion bowed, I thankedThese almoners of God.

Beholding at each lightning flash

Their generous silver on the sod,

In meek devotion bowed, I thanked

These almoners of God.

IEVENINGA vein of flame, the long creek crawlsBeneath dark brows of woodland walls,Red where the sunset's crimson falls.One wiry leg drawn to his breast,Neck-shrunk, at solitary rest,The heron stands among the bars.IINIGHTThe whimpering creek breaks on the stone,Where for a while the new moon shoneWith one white star and one alone.Lank haunter of lone marshy landsThe melancholy heron stands,Then, clamoring, dives into the stars.

EVENING

A vein of flame, the long creek crawlsBeneath dark brows of woodland walls,Red where the sunset's crimson falls.One wiry leg drawn to his breast,Neck-shrunk, at solitary rest,The heron stands among the bars.

A vein of flame, the long creek crawls

Beneath dark brows of woodland walls,

Red where the sunset's crimson falls.

One wiry leg drawn to his breast,

Neck-shrunk, at solitary rest,

The heron stands among the bars.

NIGHT

The whimpering creek breaks on the stone,Where for a while the new moon shoneWith one white star and one alone.Lank haunter of lone marshy landsThe melancholy heron stands,Then, clamoring, dives into the stars.

The whimpering creek breaks on the stone,

Where for a while the new moon shone

With one white star and one alone.

Lank haunter of lone marshy lands

The melancholy heron stands,

Then, clamoring, dives into the stars.

IWhen the moon hangs lowOver an afterglow,Lilac and lily;When the stars are high,Wisps in a windless sky,Silverly stilly:—He, who will lean, his inner ear compelling,May hear the spirit of the forest streamIts story to a wildwood flower telling,That is no flower but some ascended dream.IIWhen the dawn's first linesShow dimly through the pinesAlong the mountain;When the stars are few,And starry lies the dewAround the fountain:—Who will, may hear, within her leafy dwelling,The spirit of the oak-tree, great and strong,Its romance to the wildwood streamlet telling,That is no stream but some descended song.

When the moon hangs lowOver an afterglow,Lilac and lily;When the stars are high,Wisps in a windless sky,Silverly stilly:—

When the moon hangs low

Over an afterglow,

Lilac and lily;

When the stars are high,

Wisps in a windless sky,

Silverly stilly:—

He, who will lean, his inner ear compelling,May hear the spirit of the forest streamIts story to a wildwood flower telling,That is no flower but some ascended dream.

He, who will lean, his inner ear compelling,

May hear the spirit of the forest stream

Its story to a wildwood flower telling,

That is no flower but some ascended dream.

When the dawn's first linesShow dimly through the pinesAlong the mountain;When the stars are few,And starry lies the dewAround the fountain:—

When the dawn's first lines

Show dimly through the pines

Along the mountain;

When the stars are few,

And starry lies the dew

Around the fountain:—

Who will, may hear, within her leafy dwelling,The spirit of the oak-tree, great and strong,Its romance to the wildwood streamlet telling,That is no stream but some descended song.

Who will, may hear, within her leafy dwelling,

The spirit of the oak-tree, great and strong,

Its romance to the wildwood streamlet telling,

That is no stream but some descended song.

Can I forget how, when you stood'Mid orchards whence the bloom had fled,Stars made the orchards seem a-bud,And weighed the sighing boughs o'erheadWith shining ghosts of blossoms dead?Or when you bowed, a lily tall,Above your drowsy lilies, slim,Transparent pale, that by the wallLike cups of moonlight seemed to swim,Brimmed with faint fragrance to the brim?And in the cloud that lingered low—A silent pallor in the west—There stirred and beat a golden glow,Like some great heart that could not rest,A heart of gold within its breast.Your heart, your soul were in the wild:You loved to hear the whippoorwillLament its love, when, dewy mild,The harvest scent made musk the hill.You loved to walk, where oft had trodThe red deer, o'er the fallen hushOf Fall's torn leaves, when th' ivy-todHung frosty by each berried bush.Still do the whippoorwills complainAbove your listless lilies, whereThe moonlight their white faces stain;Still flows the dreaming streamlet there,Whispering of rest an easeful air....O music of the falling rain,At night unto her painless restSound sweet not sad! and make her fainTo feel the wildflowers on her breastLift moist, pure faces up againTo breathe a prayer in fragrance blessed.Thick-pleated beeches long have crossedOld, gnarly arms above her tomb,Where oft I sit and dream her ghostSmiles, like a blossom, through the gloom;Dim as a mist,—that summer lost,—Of tangled starbeam and perfume.

Can I forget how, when you stood'Mid orchards whence the bloom had fled,Stars made the orchards seem a-bud,And weighed the sighing boughs o'erheadWith shining ghosts of blossoms dead?

Can I forget how, when you stood

'Mid orchards whence the bloom had fled,

Stars made the orchards seem a-bud,

And weighed the sighing boughs o'erhead

With shining ghosts of blossoms dead?

Or when you bowed, a lily tall,Above your drowsy lilies, slim,Transparent pale, that by the wallLike cups of moonlight seemed to swim,Brimmed with faint fragrance to the brim?

Or when you bowed, a lily tall,

Above your drowsy lilies, slim,

Transparent pale, that by the wall

Like cups of moonlight seemed to swim,

Brimmed with faint fragrance to the brim?

And in the cloud that lingered low—A silent pallor in the west—There stirred and beat a golden glow,Like some great heart that could not rest,A heart of gold within its breast.

And in the cloud that lingered low—

A silent pallor in the west—

There stirred and beat a golden glow,

Like some great heart that could not rest,

A heart of gold within its breast.

Your heart, your soul were in the wild:You loved to hear the whippoorwillLament its love, when, dewy mild,The harvest scent made musk the hill.You loved to walk, where oft had trodThe red deer, o'er the fallen hushOf Fall's torn leaves, when th' ivy-todHung frosty by each berried bush.

Your heart, your soul were in the wild:

You loved to hear the whippoorwill

Lament its love, when, dewy mild,

The harvest scent made musk the hill.

You loved to walk, where oft had trod

The red deer, o'er the fallen hush

Of Fall's torn leaves, when th' ivy-tod

Hung frosty by each berried bush.

Still do the whippoorwills complainAbove your listless lilies, whereThe moonlight their white faces stain;Still flows the dreaming streamlet there,Whispering of rest an easeful air....

Still do the whippoorwills complain

Above your listless lilies, where

The moonlight their white faces stain;

Still flows the dreaming streamlet there,

Whispering of rest an easeful air....

O music of the falling rain,At night unto her painless restSound sweet not sad! and make her fainTo feel the wildflowers on her breastLift moist, pure faces up againTo breathe a prayer in fragrance blessed.

O music of the falling rain,

At night unto her painless rest

Sound sweet not sad! and make her fain

To feel the wildflowers on her breast

Lift moist, pure faces up again

To breathe a prayer in fragrance blessed.

Thick-pleated beeches long have crossedOld, gnarly arms above her tomb,Where oft I sit and dream her ghostSmiles, like a blossom, through the gloom;Dim as a mist,—that summer lost,—Of tangled starbeam and perfume.

Thick-pleated beeches long have crossed

Old, gnarly arms above her tomb,

Where oft I sit and dream her ghost

Smiles, like a blossom, through the gloom;

Dim as a mist,—that summer lost,—

Of tangled starbeam and perfume.

White clouds and buds and birds and bees,Low wind-notes, piped down southern seas,Brought thee, a rose-white offering,A flower-like baby with the spring.She, with her April, gave to theeA soul of winsome witchery;Large, heavenly eyes and sparkling whenceShines the young mind's soft influence;Where love's eternal innocence,And smiles and tears of maidenhood,Gleam with the dreams of hope and good.She, with the dower of her MayGave thee a nature strong to swayMan's higher feelings; and a prideWhere all pride's smallness is denied.Limbs wrought of lilies; and a faceMade of a rose-bloom; and the graceOf water, that thy limbs expressIn each chaste billow of thy dress.She, with her dreamy June, brought downNight-deeps of hair that are thy crown;A voice like low winds musical,Or streams that in the moonlight fallO'er bars of pearl; and in thy heart,—True gold,—she set Joy's counterpart,A gem, that in thy fair face gleams,All radiance, when it speaks or dreams;And in thy soul the jewel TruthWhose beauty is perpetual youth.

White clouds and buds and birds and bees,Low wind-notes, piped down southern seas,Brought thee, a rose-white offering,A flower-like baby with the spring.

White clouds and buds and birds and bees,

Low wind-notes, piped down southern seas,

Brought thee, a rose-white offering,

A flower-like baby with the spring.

She, with her April, gave to theeA soul of winsome witchery;Large, heavenly eyes and sparkling whenceShines the young mind's soft influence;Where love's eternal innocence,And smiles and tears of maidenhood,Gleam with the dreams of hope and good.

She, with her April, gave to thee

A soul of winsome witchery;

Large, heavenly eyes and sparkling whence

Shines the young mind's soft influence;

Where love's eternal innocence,

And smiles and tears of maidenhood,

Gleam with the dreams of hope and good.

She, with the dower of her MayGave thee a nature strong to swayMan's higher feelings; and a prideWhere all pride's smallness is denied.Limbs wrought of lilies; and a faceMade of a rose-bloom; and the graceOf water, that thy limbs expressIn each chaste billow of thy dress.

She, with the dower of her May

Gave thee a nature strong to sway

Man's higher feelings; and a pride

Where all pride's smallness is denied.

Limbs wrought of lilies; and a face

Made of a rose-bloom; and the grace

Of water, that thy limbs express

In each chaste billow of thy dress.

She, with her dreamy June, brought downNight-deeps of hair that are thy crown;A voice like low winds musical,Or streams that in the moonlight fallO'er bars of pearl; and in thy heart,—True gold,—she set Joy's counterpart,A gem, that in thy fair face gleams,All radiance, when it speaks or dreams;And in thy soul the jewel TruthWhose beauty is perpetual youth.

She, with her dreamy June, brought down

Night-deeps of hair that are thy crown;

A voice like low winds musical,

Or streams that in the moonlight fall

O'er bars of pearl; and in thy heart,—

True gold,—she set Joy's counterpart,

A gem, that in thy fair face gleams,

All radiance, when it speaks or dreams;

And in thy soul the jewel Truth

Whose beauty is perpetual youth.

IThe slanted storm tossed at their feetThe frost-nipped autumn leaves;The park's high pines were caked with sleet,And ice-spears armed the eaves.They strolled adown the pillared pines,To part where wet and twisted vinesAbout the gate-posts blew and beat.She watched him riding through the rainAlong the river's misty shore,And turned with lips that laughed disdain:"To meet no more!"II'Mid heavy roses weighed with dewThe chirping crickets hid;I' the honeysuckle avenueSang the green katydid.Soft southern stars smiled through the pines.Through stately windows, draped with vines,The drifting moonlight's silver blew.She stared upon a face, now dead,A soldier calm that wore;Despair sobbed on the lips that said,"To meet no more."

The slanted storm tossed at their feetThe frost-nipped autumn leaves;The park's high pines were caked with sleet,And ice-spears armed the eaves.They strolled adown the pillared pines,To part where wet and twisted vinesAbout the gate-posts blew and beat.She watched him riding through the rainAlong the river's misty shore,And turned with lips that laughed disdain:"To meet no more!"

The slanted storm tossed at their feet

The frost-nipped autumn leaves;

The park's high pines were caked with sleet,

And ice-spears armed the eaves.

They strolled adown the pillared pines,

To part where wet and twisted vines

About the gate-posts blew and beat.

She watched him riding through the rain

Along the river's misty shore,

And turned with lips that laughed disdain:

"To meet no more!"

'Mid heavy roses weighed with dewThe chirping crickets hid;I' the honeysuckle avenueSang the green katydid.Soft southern stars smiled through the pines.Through stately windows, draped with vines,The drifting moonlight's silver blew.She stared upon a face, now dead,A soldier calm that wore;Despair sobbed on the lips that said,"To meet no more."

'Mid heavy roses weighed with dew

The chirping crickets hid;

I' the honeysuckle avenue

Sang the green katydid.

Soft southern stars smiled through the pines.

Through stately windows, draped with vines,

The drifting moonlight's silver blew.

She stared upon a face, now dead,

A soldier calm that wore;

Despair sobbed on the lips that said,

"To meet no more."

IWith lips that had hushed all their furyOf foam and of winds that were strewn,Of storm and of turbulent hurry,The ocean sighed; heralding soonA ship of miraculous glory,Of pearl and of fire—the moon.IIAnd up from the East, with a slippingAnd shudder and clinging of light,With a loos'ning of clouds and a dipping,Outbound for the Havens of Night,With a silence of sails and a dripping,The vessel came, wonderful white.IIIThen heaven and ocean were sprinkledWith splendor; for every sheetAnd spar, and its hollow hull twinkledWith mother-of-pearl. And the feetOf spirits, that followed it, crinkledThe billows that under it beat.

With lips that had hushed all their furyOf foam and of winds that were strewn,Of storm and of turbulent hurry,The ocean sighed; heralding soonA ship of miraculous glory,Of pearl and of fire—the moon.

With lips that had hushed all their fury

Of foam and of winds that were strewn,

Of storm and of turbulent hurry,

The ocean sighed; heralding soon

A ship of miraculous glory,

Of pearl and of fire—the moon.

And up from the East, with a slippingAnd shudder and clinging of light,With a loos'ning of clouds and a dipping,Outbound for the Havens of Night,With a silence of sails and a dripping,The vessel came, wonderful white.

And up from the East, with a slipping

And shudder and clinging of light,

With a loos'ning of clouds and a dipping,

Outbound for the Havens of Night,

With a silence of sails and a dripping,

The vessel came, wonderful white.

III

Then heaven and ocean were sprinkledWith splendor; for every sheetAnd spar, and its hollow hull twinkledWith mother-of-pearl. And the feetOf spirits, that followed it, crinkledThe billows that under it beat.

Then heaven and ocean were sprinkled

With splendor; for every sheet

And spar, and its hollow hull twinkled

With mother-of-pearl. And the feet

Of spirits, that followed it, crinkled

The billows that under it beat.

No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine!No windy white, but low and sodden gray,That holds the melancholy skies and killsThe wild song and the wild-bird. Yet, ah me!Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods,Brown, sighing forests dying that I love!Thy long, dead leaves, deep, deep about my feet,Slow, dragging feet that halt or wander on;Thy deep, sweet, crimson leaves that burn and dieWith silent fever of the sickened wood.I love to hear in all thy wind-swept coignes,Rain-wet and choked with bleached and ruined weeds,The withered whisper of the many leaves,That, fallen on barren ways—like fallen hopes—Once held so high upon the Summer's heartOf stalwart trees, now seem the desolate voiceOf Earth lamenting in hushed undertonesHer green departed glory vanished so.

No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine!

No windy white, but low and sodden gray,

That holds the melancholy skies and kills

The wild song and the wild-bird. Yet, ah me!

Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods,

Brown, sighing forests dying that I love!

Thy long, dead leaves, deep, deep about my feet,

Slow, dragging feet that halt or wander on;

Thy deep, sweet, crimson leaves that burn and die

With silent fever of the sickened wood.

I love to hear in all thy wind-swept coignes,Rain-wet and choked with bleached and ruined weeds,The withered whisper of the many leaves,That, fallen on barren ways—like fallen hopes—Once held so high upon the Summer's heartOf stalwart trees, now seem the desolate voiceOf Earth lamenting in hushed undertonesHer green departed glory vanished so.

I love to hear in all thy wind-swept coignes,

Rain-wet and choked with bleached and ruined weeds,

The withered whisper of the many leaves,

That, fallen on barren ways—like fallen hopes—

Once held so high upon the Summer's heart

Of stalwart trees, now seem the desolate voice

Of Earth lamenting in hushed undertones

Her green departed glory vanished so.

O days, that break the wild-bird's heart,That slay the wild-bird and its songs!Why should death play so sad a partWith you to whom such sweet belongs?Why are your eyes so filled with tears,As with the rain the frozen flowers?Why are your hearts so swept with fears,Like winds among the ruined bowers?Farewell! farewell! for she is dead,The old gray month; I saw her die:Go, light your torches round her head,The last red leaves, and let her lie.

O days, that break the wild-bird's heart,That slay the wild-bird and its songs!Why should death play so sad a partWith you to whom such sweet belongs?

O days, that break the wild-bird's heart,

That slay the wild-bird and its songs!

Why should death play so sad a part

With you to whom such sweet belongs?

Why are your eyes so filled with tears,As with the rain the frozen flowers?Why are your hearts so swept with fears,Like winds among the ruined bowers?

Why are your eyes so filled with tears,

As with the rain the frozen flowers?

Why are your hearts so swept with fears,

Like winds among the ruined bowers?

Farewell! farewell! for she is dead,The old gray month; I saw her die:Go, light your torches round her head,The last red leaves, and let her lie.

Farewell! farewell! for she is dead,

The old gray month; I saw her die:

Go, light your torches round her head,

The last red leaves, and let her lie.

IYou will not love me, sweet,When this brief year is past;Or love, now at my feet,At other feet you'll cast,At fairer feet you'll cast.You will not love me, sweet,When this brief year is past.IINow 'tis the Springtime, dear,And crocus-cups hold flame,Brimmed to the pregnant year,All bashful as with shame,Who blushes as with shame.Now 'tis the Springtime, dear,And crocus-cups hold flame.IIISoon Summer will be queen,At her brown throat one rose,And poppy-pod, and bean,Will rustle as she goes,As down the garth she goes.Soon Summer will be queen,At her brown throat one rose.IVThen Autumn come, a prince,A gipsy crowned with gold;Gold weight the fruited quince,Gold strew the leafy wold,The wild and wind-swept wold.Then Autumn come, a prince,A gipsy crowned with gold.VThen Winter will be king,Snow-driven from feet to head;No song-birds then will sing,The winds will wail instead,The wild winds weep instead.Then Winter will be king,Snow-driven from feet to head.VIThen shall I weep, who smiled,And curse the coming years,You and myself, and child,Born unto shame and tears,A mother's shame and tears.Then shall I weep, who smiled,And curse the coming years.

You will not love me, sweet,When this brief year is past;Or love, now at my feet,At other feet you'll cast,At fairer feet you'll cast.You will not love me, sweet,When this brief year is past.

You will not love me, sweet,

When this brief year is past;

Or love, now at my feet,

At other feet you'll cast,

At fairer feet you'll cast.

You will not love me, sweet,

When this brief year is past.

Now 'tis the Springtime, dear,And crocus-cups hold flame,Brimmed to the pregnant year,All bashful as with shame,Who blushes as with shame.Now 'tis the Springtime, dear,And crocus-cups hold flame.

Now 'tis the Springtime, dear,

And crocus-cups hold flame,

Brimmed to the pregnant year,

All bashful as with shame,

Who blushes as with shame.

Now 'tis the Springtime, dear,

And crocus-cups hold flame.

III

Soon Summer will be queen,At her brown throat one rose,And poppy-pod, and bean,Will rustle as she goes,As down the garth she goes.Soon Summer will be queen,At her brown throat one rose.

Soon Summer will be queen,

At her brown throat one rose,

And poppy-pod, and bean,

Will rustle as she goes,

As down the garth she goes.

Soon Summer will be queen,

At her brown throat one rose.

Then Autumn come, a prince,A gipsy crowned with gold;Gold weight the fruited quince,Gold strew the leafy wold,The wild and wind-swept wold.Then Autumn come, a prince,A gipsy crowned with gold.

Then Autumn come, a prince,

A gipsy crowned with gold;

Gold weight the fruited quince,

Gold strew the leafy wold,

The wild and wind-swept wold.

Then Autumn come, a prince,

A gipsy crowned with gold.

Then Winter will be king,Snow-driven from feet to head;No song-birds then will sing,The winds will wail instead,The wild winds weep instead.Then Winter will be king,Snow-driven from feet to head.

Then Winter will be king,

Snow-driven from feet to head;

No song-birds then will sing,

The winds will wail instead,

The wild winds weep instead.

Then Winter will be king,

Snow-driven from feet to head.

Then shall I weep, who smiled,And curse the coming years,You and myself, and child,Born unto shame and tears,A mother's shame and tears.Then shall I weep, who smiled,And curse the coming years.

Then shall I weep, who smiled,

And curse the coming years,

You and myself, and child,

Born unto shame and tears,

A mother's shame and tears.

Then shall I weep, who smiled,

And curse the coming years.

What is there now more mercilessThan such fast lips that will not speak;That stir not if one curse or blessA God who made them weak?More maddening to one there is naughtThan such white eyelids sealed on eyes,Eyes vacant of the thing named thought,An exile in the skies.Ah, silent tongue! ah, dull, closed ear!What angel utterances lowHave wooed you? so you may not hearOur mortal words of woe!

What is there now more mercilessThan such fast lips that will not speak;That stir not if one curse or blessA God who made them weak?

What is there now more merciless

Than such fast lips that will not speak;

That stir not if one curse or bless

A God who made them weak?

More maddening to one there is naughtThan such white eyelids sealed on eyes,Eyes vacant of the thing named thought,An exile in the skies.

More maddening to one there is naught

Than such white eyelids sealed on eyes,

Eyes vacant of the thing named thought,

An exile in the skies.

Ah, silent tongue! ah, dull, closed ear!What angel utterances lowHave wooed you? so you may not hearOur mortal words of woe!

Ah, silent tongue! ah, dull, closed ear!

What angel utterances low

Have wooed you? so you may not hear

Our mortal words of woe!

IWhen the season was dry and the sun was hot,And the hornet sucked, gaunt on the apricot,And the ripe peach dropped, to its seed a-rot,With a lean, red wasp that stung and clung:When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden plot,More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot,Then all had been said and been sung,And meseemed that my heart had forgot.IIWhen the black grape bulged with the juice that burstThrough its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,And the round, ripe pippins, that summer had nursed,In the yellowing leaves o' the orchard hung:When the farmer, his lips with whistling pursed,To his sun-tanned brow in the corn was immersed,Then something was said or was sung,And I remembered as much as I durst.IIINow the sky of December gray drips and drips,And eaves of the barn the icicle tips,And the cackling hen on the snow-path slips,And the cattle shiver the fields among:Now the ears of the milkmaid the north-wind nips,And the red-chapped cheeks of the farm-boy whips,What, what shall be said or be sung,With my lips pressed warm to your lips!

When the season was dry and the sun was hot,And the hornet sucked, gaunt on the apricot,And the ripe peach dropped, to its seed a-rot,With a lean, red wasp that stung and clung:When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden plot,More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot,Then all had been said and been sung,And meseemed that my heart had forgot.

When the season was dry and the sun was hot,

And the hornet sucked, gaunt on the apricot,

And the ripe peach dropped, to its seed a-rot,

With a lean, red wasp that stung and clung:

When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden plot,

More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot,

Then all had been said and been sung,

And meseemed that my heart had forgot.

When the black grape bulged with the juice that burstThrough its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,And the round, ripe pippins, that summer had nursed,In the yellowing leaves o' the orchard hung:When the farmer, his lips with whistling pursed,To his sun-tanned brow in the corn was immersed,Then something was said or was sung,And I remembered as much as I durst.

When the black grape bulged with the juice that burst

Through its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,

And the round, ripe pippins, that summer had nursed,

In the yellowing leaves o' the orchard hung:

When the farmer, his lips with whistling pursed,

To his sun-tanned brow in the corn was immersed,

Then something was said or was sung,

And I remembered as much as I durst.

III

Now the sky of December gray drips and drips,And eaves of the barn the icicle tips,And the cackling hen on the snow-path slips,And the cattle shiver the fields among:Now the ears of the milkmaid the north-wind nips,And the red-chapped cheeks of the farm-boy whips,What, what shall be said or be sung,With my lips pressed warm to your lips!

Now the sky of December gray drips and drips,

And eaves of the barn the icicle tips,

And the cackling hen on the snow-path slips,

And the cattle shiver the fields among:

Now the ears of the milkmaid the north-wind nips,

And the red-chapped cheeks of the farm-boy whips,

What, what shall be said or be sung,

With my lips pressed warm to your lips!

The dewdrop from the rose that dripsHath not the sparkle of her lips,My lady's lips.Than her long braids of yellow holdThe dandelion hath not more gold,Her braids of gold.The blue-bell hints not more of skiesThan do the flowers of her eyes,My lady's eyes.The sweet-pea bloom shows not more graceOf delicate pink than doth her face,My lady's face.So, heigh-ho! then, though skies be gray,Spring blossoms in my heart to-day,This winter day!

The dewdrop from the rose that dripsHath not the sparkle of her lips,My lady's lips.

The dewdrop from the rose that drips

Hath not the sparkle of her lips,

My lady's lips.

Than her long braids of yellow holdThe dandelion hath not more gold,Her braids of gold.

Than her long braids of yellow hold

The dandelion hath not more gold,

Her braids of gold.

The blue-bell hints not more of skiesThan do the flowers of her eyes,My lady's eyes.

The blue-bell hints not more of skies

Than do the flowers of her eyes,

My lady's eyes.

The sweet-pea bloom shows not more graceOf delicate pink than doth her face,My lady's face.

The sweet-pea bloom shows not more grace

Of delicate pink than doth her face,

My lady's face.

So, heigh-ho! then, though skies be gray,Spring blossoms in my heart to-day,This winter day!

So, heigh-ho! then, though skies be gray,

Spring blossoms in my heart to-day,

This winter day!

These are the flowers I bring to thee,Heart's-ease, euphrasy and rue,Grown in my Garden of Poetry;Wear them, sweet, on thy breast for me:The first for thoughts; and the other twoFor spiritual vision, that's always true,So thou with thy soul mayst ever seeThe love in my heart I keep for thee.

These are the flowers I bring to thee,

Heart's-ease, euphrasy and rue,

Grown in my Garden of Poetry;

Wear them, sweet, on thy breast for me:

The first for thoughts; and the other two

For spiritual vision, that's always true,

So thou with thy soul mayst ever see

The love in my heart I keep for thee.

Her hills and vales are dimmerThan sunset's shadowy shimmer;Thin mists, that curl, of poppy and pearl,Above her bowers glimmer;And, silvered o'er with sails of faery galleys,Far off the sea gleams, glimpsed through fountained valleys.The moon floats never higherThan one white peak of fire;And in its beams pale Beauty dreams,And Music tunes her lyre;And, Siren-like, beside the moonlit waters,Fair Fancy sits singing with Memory's daughters.A cloud, above and underThe ocean, white with wonder,Looms, starry steep; and, opening deep,Grows gold with silent thunder;Revealing far within, immeasurable,Lost Avalons of old Romance and Fable.Ah! could my spirit shatterThese bonds of flesh and matter,And, at a word, mount like a birdTo her through mists that scatter;And, raimented in love and inspiration,Look down on Earth from that exalted station:No mortal might inveigleMy soul, that, like an eagle,Would soar and soar from shore to shoreOf her, the rare and regal;And by her love made all a lyric rapture,A wild desire, wing far beyond all capture.

Her hills and vales are dimmer

Than sunset's shadowy shimmer;

Thin mists, that curl, of poppy and pearl,

Above her bowers glimmer;

And, silvered o'er with sails of faery galleys,

Far off the sea gleams, glimpsed through fountained valleys.

The moon floats never higherThan one white peak of fire;And in its beams pale Beauty dreams,And Music tunes her lyre;And, Siren-like, beside the moonlit waters,Fair Fancy sits singing with Memory's daughters.

The moon floats never higher

Than one white peak of fire;

And in its beams pale Beauty dreams,

And Music tunes her lyre;

And, Siren-like, beside the moonlit waters,

Fair Fancy sits singing with Memory's daughters.

A cloud, above and underThe ocean, white with wonder,Looms, starry steep; and, opening deep,Grows gold with silent thunder;Revealing far within, immeasurable,Lost Avalons of old Romance and Fable.

A cloud, above and under

The ocean, white with wonder,

Looms, starry steep; and, opening deep,

Grows gold with silent thunder;

Revealing far within, immeasurable,

Lost Avalons of old Romance and Fable.

Ah! could my spirit shatterThese bonds of flesh and matter,And, at a word, mount like a birdTo her through mists that scatter;And, raimented in love and inspiration,Look down on Earth from that exalted station:

Ah! could my spirit shatter

These bonds of flesh and matter,

And, at a word, mount like a bird

To her through mists that scatter;

And, raimented in love and inspiration,

Look down on Earth from that exalted station:

No mortal might inveigleMy soul, that, like an eagle,Would soar and soar from shore to shoreOf her, the rare and regal;And by her love made all a lyric rapture,A wild desire, wing far beyond all capture.

No mortal might inveigle

My soul, that, like an eagle,

Would soar and soar from shore to shore

Of her, the rare and regal;

And by her love made all a lyric rapture,

A wild desire, wing far beyond all capture.

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