The teasel and the horsemint spreadThe hillsides, as with sunset sown,Blooming along the Standing-StoneThat ripples in its rocky bed:There are no treasuries that holdGold yellower than the marigoldThat crowds its mouth and head.’T is harvest-time: a mower standsAmong the morning wheat and whetsHis scythe, and for a space forgetsThe labor of the ripening lands;Then bends, and through the dewy grainHis long scythe hisses, and againHe swings it in his hands.And she beholds him where he mowsOn acres whence the water sendsFaint music of reflecting bendsAnd falls that interblend with flows:She stands among the old bee-gums,—Where all the apiary hums,—Like some sweet bramble-rose.She hears him whistling as he leans,And, reaping, sweeps the ripe wheat by;She sighs and smiles and knows not why:—These are but simple country scenes:He whets his scythe again, and seesHer smiling near the hives of beesBeneath the flowering beans.The peacock-purple lizard creepsAlong the rail; and deep the droneOf insects makes the country loneWith summer where the water sleeps:She hears him singing as he swingsHis scythe; he thinks of other things—Not toil, and, singing, reaps.
The teasel and the horsemint spreadThe hillsides, as with sunset sown,Blooming along the Standing-StoneThat ripples in its rocky bed:There are no treasuries that holdGold yellower than the marigoldThat crowds its mouth and head.’T is harvest-time: a mower standsAmong the morning wheat and whetsHis scythe, and for a space forgetsThe labor of the ripening lands;Then bends, and through the dewy grainHis long scythe hisses, and againHe swings it in his hands.And she beholds him where he mowsOn acres whence the water sendsFaint music of reflecting bendsAnd falls that interblend with flows:She stands among the old bee-gums,—Where all the apiary hums,—Like some sweet bramble-rose.She hears him whistling as he leans,And, reaping, sweeps the ripe wheat by;She sighs and smiles and knows not why:—These are but simple country scenes:He whets his scythe again, and seesHer smiling near the hives of beesBeneath the flowering beans.The peacock-purple lizard creepsAlong the rail; and deep the droneOf insects makes the country loneWith summer where the water sleeps:She hears him singing as he swingsHis scythe; he thinks of other things—Not toil, and, singing, reaps.
The teasel and the horsemint spreadThe hillsides, as with sunset sown,Blooming along the Standing-StoneThat ripples in its rocky bed:There are no treasuries that holdGold yellower than the marigoldThat crowds its mouth and head.
’T is harvest-time: a mower standsAmong the morning wheat and whetsHis scythe, and for a space forgetsThe labor of the ripening lands;Then bends, and through the dewy grainHis long scythe hisses, and againHe swings it in his hands.
And she beholds him where he mowsOn acres whence the water sendsFaint music of reflecting bendsAnd falls that interblend with flows:She stands among the old bee-gums,—Where all the apiary hums,—Like some sweet bramble-rose.
She hears him whistling as he leans,And, reaping, sweeps the ripe wheat by;She sighs and smiles and knows not why:—These are but simple country scenes:He whets his scythe again, and seesHer smiling near the hives of beesBeneath the flowering beans.
The peacock-purple lizard creepsAlong the rail; and deep the droneOf insects makes the country loneWith summer where the water sleeps:She hears him singing as he swingsHis scythe; he thinks of other things—Not toil, and, singing, reaps.
Into the woods they went again,Over the wind-blown oats;Out of the acres of golden grain,In where the light was a violet stain,In where the lilies’ throatsWere brimmed with the summer rain.Hung on a bough a reaper’s hook,Over the wind-blown oats;A girl’s glad laugh and a girl’s glad look,And the hush and ripple of tree and brook,And a wild bird’s silvery notes,And a kiss that a strong man took.Out of the woods the lovers went,Over the wind-waved wheat;She with a face, where love was blent,Like to an open testament;He, from his head to feet,Dazed with his hope that was eloquent.Here how oft had they come to tryst,Over the wind-waved wheat!Here how oft had they laughed and kissed!Talked and tarried where no one wist,Here where the woods are sweet,Dim and deep as a dewy mist.
Into the woods they went again,Over the wind-blown oats;Out of the acres of golden grain,In where the light was a violet stain,In where the lilies’ throatsWere brimmed with the summer rain.Hung on a bough a reaper’s hook,Over the wind-blown oats;A girl’s glad laugh and a girl’s glad look,And the hush and ripple of tree and brook,And a wild bird’s silvery notes,And a kiss that a strong man took.Out of the woods the lovers went,Over the wind-waved wheat;She with a face, where love was blent,Like to an open testament;He, from his head to feet,Dazed with his hope that was eloquent.Here how oft had they come to tryst,Over the wind-waved wheat!Here how oft had they laughed and kissed!Talked and tarried where no one wist,Here where the woods are sweet,Dim and deep as a dewy mist.
Into the woods they went again,Over the wind-blown oats;Out of the acres of golden grain,In where the light was a violet stain,In where the lilies’ throatsWere brimmed with the summer rain.
Hung on a bough a reaper’s hook,Over the wind-blown oats;A girl’s glad laugh and a girl’s glad look,And the hush and ripple of tree and brook,And a wild bird’s silvery notes,And a kiss that a strong man took.
Out of the woods the lovers went,Over the wind-waved wheat;She with a face, where love was blent,Like to an open testament;He, from his head to feet,Dazed with his hope that was eloquent.
Here how oft had they come to tryst,Over the wind-waved wheat!Here how oft had they laughed and kissed!Talked and tarried where no one wist,Here where the woods are sweet,Dim and deep as a dewy mist.
Her pearls are blossoms-of-the-vale,Her only diamonds are the dews;Such jewels never can grow stale,Nor any value lose.Among the millet beards she stands:The languid wind lolls everywhere:There are wild roses in her hands,One wild rose in her hair.To-morrow, where the shade is warm,Among the unmown wheat she’ll stop,And from one daisy-loaded armOne ox-eyed daisy drop.She’ll meet his brown eyes, true and brave,With blue eyes, false yet dreamy sweet:He is her lover and her slave,Who mows among the wheat.
Her pearls are blossoms-of-the-vale,Her only diamonds are the dews;Such jewels never can grow stale,Nor any value lose.Among the millet beards she stands:The languid wind lolls everywhere:There are wild roses in her hands,One wild rose in her hair.To-morrow, where the shade is warm,Among the unmown wheat she’ll stop,And from one daisy-loaded armOne ox-eyed daisy drop.She’ll meet his brown eyes, true and brave,With blue eyes, false yet dreamy sweet:He is her lover and her slave,Who mows among the wheat.
Her pearls are blossoms-of-the-vale,Her only diamonds are the dews;Such jewels never can grow stale,Nor any value lose.
Among the millet beards she stands:The languid wind lolls everywhere:There are wild roses in her hands,One wild rose in her hair.
To-morrow, where the shade is warm,Among the unmown wheat she’ll stop,And from one daisy-loaded armOne ox-eyed daisy drop.
She’ll meet his brown eyes, true and brave,With blue eyes, false yet dreamy sweet:He is her lover and her slave,Who mows among the wheat.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
When buds broke on the apple treesShe wore an apple-blossom dress,And laughed with him across the leas,And love was all a guess.When goose-plums ripened in the rain,Plum-colored was her gown of red;He kissed her in the creek-road lane—She was his life, he said.When apples thumped the droughty land,A russet color was her gown:Another came, and—won her hand?—Nay! carried off to town....When grapes hung purple in the hot,None missed her and her simple dress,Save one, whom, haply, she forgot,Who loved her none the less.When snow made white each harvest sheaf,He sought her out amid her show;Her rubies, redder than the leafThat autumn forests sow.Not one regret her shame reveals;She smiles at him, then puts him by;He pleads; and she? she merely steelsHer heart and—lives her lie.
When buds broke on the apple treesShe wore an apple-blossom dress,And laughed with him across the leas,And love was all a guess.When goose-plums ripened in the rain,Plum-colored was her gown of red;He kissed her in the creek-road lane—She was his life, he said.When apples thumped the droughty land,A russet color was her gown:Another came, and—won her hand?—Nay! carried off to town....When grapes hung purple in the hot,None missed her and her simple dress,Save one, whom, haply, she forgot,Who loved her none the less.When snow made white each harvest sheaf,He sought her out amid her show;Her rubies, redder than the leafThat autumn forests sow.Not one regret her shame reveals;She smiles at him, then puts him by;He pleads; and she? she merely steelsHer heart and—lives her lie.
When buds broke on the apple treesShe wore an apple-blossom dress,And laughed with him across the leas,And love was all a guess.
When goose-plums ripened in the rain,Plum-colored was her gown of red;He kissed her in the creek-road lane—She was his life, he said.
When apples thumped the droughty land,A russet color was her gown:Another came, and—won her hand?—Nay! carried off to town....
When grapes hung purple in the hot,None missed her and her simple dress,Save one, whom, haply, she forgot,Who loved her none the less.
When snow made white each harvest sheaf,He sought her out amid her show;Her rubies, redder than the leafThat autumn forests sow.
Not one regret her shame reveals;She smiles at him, then puts him by;He pleads; and she? she merely steelsHer heart and—lives her lie.
And he returned when poppies strewedTheir golden blots o’er moss and leaf,—Blond little Esaus of the wood,So fair of face, of life so brief.—Did he forget?—Not he, in truth!—“No month,” he thought, “holds so much grace,No month of spring, such grace and youth,As the sweet April of her face.”In fall the frail gerardiaHung hints of sunset and of dawnOn root and rock, as if to drawHer lips, remind him of one gone:—Of one unworthy, in pursuitOf butterflies, who does not dreamA flower, broken by her foot,Sweeps, helpless, with her down the stream.
And he returned when poppies strewedTheir golden blots o’er moss and leaf,—Blond little Esaus of the wood,So fair of face, of life so brief.—Did he forget?—Not he, in truth!—“No month,” he thought, “holds so much grace,No month of spring, such grace and youth,As the sweet April of her face.”In fall the frail gerardiaHung hints of sunset and of dawnOn root and rock, as if to drawHer lips, remind him of one gone:—Of one unworthy, in pursuitOf butterflies, who does not dreamA flower, broken by her foot,Sweeps, helpless, with her down the stream.
And he returned when poppies strewedTheir golden blots o’er moss and leaf,—Blond little Esaus of the wood,So fair of face, of life so brief.—Did he forget?—Not he, in truth!—“No month,” he thought, “holds so much grace,No month of spring, such grace and youth,As the sweet April of her face.”
In fall the frail gerardiaHung hints of sunset and of dawnOn root and rock, as if to drawHer lips, remind him of one gone:—Of one unworthy, in pursuitOf butterflies, who does not dreamA flower, broken by her foot,Sweeps, helpless, with her down the stream.
If you had seen her waiting thereAmong the tiger-lily blooms,—That sowed their jewels everywhereAmong the woodland gleams and glooms,—You had confessed her very fair,And sweeter than the wood’s perfumes.A country girl with bare brown feet,She waits, while day slopes down the deeps:The afternoon is dead with heat,And all the weary shadow sleepsLike toil, arm-pillowed in the wheat,Beside the scythe with which he reaps.There is no sound more distant thanThe cow-bell on the vine-hung hill;No nearer than the locust’s spanOf noise that makes the silence shrill:And now there comes a sun-browned manThrough tiger-lilies of the rill.Long will they talk: till, in the end,The clear west glows, the east grows pale;Until the glow and pallor blendLike moonlight on a shifting sail;And then he ’ll clasp her; she will bendHer head, consenting. Day will fail:The west will flame, then fade awayThrough heavy orange, rose, and red,And leave the heavens violet grayAbove a gypsy-lily bed:Then they will go; and he will saySuch words to her as none has said.A million stars the night will winAbove them; and one fireflyPulse like a tangled starbeam inThe cedar dark against the sky:Then he will lift her dimpled chinAnd take the kiss she ’ll not deny.And when the moon, like the great bookOf Judgment, golden with the lightOf God, lies open o’er yon nookOf darkest wood and wildest height,Together they will cross the brookAnd reach the gate and kiss good night.
If you had seen her waiting thereAmong the tiger-lily blooms,—That sowed their jewels everywhereAmong the woodland gleams and glooms,—You had confessed her very fair,And sweeter than the wood’s perfumes.A country girl with bare brown feet,She waits, while day slopes down the deeps:The afternoon is dead with heat,And all the weary shadow sleepsLike toil, arm-pillowed in the wheat,Beside the scythe with which he reaps.There is no sound more distant thanThe cow-bell on the vine-hung hill;No nearer than the locust’s spanOf noise that makes the silence shrill:And now there comes a sun-browned manThrough tiger-lilies of the rill.Long will they talk: till, in the end,The clear west glows, the east grows pale;Until the glow and pallor blendLike moonlight on a shifting sail;And then he ’ll clasp her; she will bendHer head, consenting. Day will fail:The west will flame, then fade awayThrough heavy orange, rose, and red,And leave the heavens violet grayAbove a gypsy-lily bed:Then they will go; and he will saySuch words to her as none has said.A million stars the night will winAbove them; and one fireflyPulse like a tangled starbeam inThe cedar dark against the sky:Then he will lift her dimpled chinAnd take the kiss she ’ll not deny.And when the moon, like the great bookOf Judgment, golden with the lightOf God, lies open o’er yon nookOf darkest wood and wildest height,Together they will cross the brookAnd reach the gate and kiss good night.
If you had seen her waiting thereAmong the tiger-lily blooms,—That sowed their jewels everywhereAmong the woodland gleams and glooms,—You had confessed her very fair,And sweeter than the wood’s perfumes.
A country girl with bare brown feet,She waits, while day slopes down the deeps:The afternoon is dead with heat,And all the weary shadow sleepsLike toil, arm-pillowed in the wheat,Beside the scythe with which he reaps.
There is no sound more distant thanThe cow-bell on the vine-hung hill;No nearer than the locust’s spanOf noise that makes the silence shrill:And now there comes a sun-browned manThrough tiger-lilies of the rill.
Long will they talk: till, in the end,The clear west glows, the east grows pale;Until the glow and pallor blendLike moonlight on a shifting sail;And then he ’ll clasp her; she will bendHer head, consenting. Day will fail:
The west will flame, then fade awayThrough heavy orange, rose, and red,And leave the heavens violet grayAbove a gypsy-lily bed:Then they will go; and he will saySuch words to her as none has said.
A million stars the night will winAbove them; and one fireflyPulse like a tangled starbeam inThe cedar dark against the sky:Then he will lift her dimpled chinAnd take the kiss she ’ll not deny.
And when the moon, like the great bookOf Judgment, golden with the lightOf God, lies open o’er yon nookOf darkest wood and wildest height,Together they will cross the brookAnd reach the gate and kiss good night.
And now he wipes his hand alongThe beaded fire of his browHard toil has heated; and the strongFace flushes fuller health as nowHe fills his hay-fork to the prong,And, tossing it, again doth bow.And now he rests, and looks awayAcross the sun-fierce hills and meadsNo rolling cloud has cooled to-day;And from his face the brawny beadsDrip; and he marks the heaps of hay,The fields of corn, the fields of weeds.At last he sees the tempest buildBlack battlements along the west,Black breastworks that are thunder filled;And bares his brow; and on his chestThe sweat of toil is cooled; and stilledThe pulse of toil within his breast.A strong wind brings the odorous deathOf far hay-meadows, and the scentIs good within his nostrils’ breath:The mighty trees are bowed, that leantFor no man, as when Power saith“Bow down!” and stalwart men are bent.He laughs, long-gazing as he goesAlong the elder-sweetened lane:He feels the storm wind as it blowsAcross the sheaves of golden grain,And stops to pull one bramble-rose,And watch the swiftly coming rain.And there, ’mid locust trees, the farmDreams in a martin-haunted place:He marks the far-off streaks of stormThat, driven of the thunder, race:He sees his child upon her arm,And in the door his wife’s fair face.
And now he wipes his hand alongThe beaded fire of his browHard toil has heated; and the strongFace flushes fuller health as nowHe fills his hay-fork to the prong,And, tossing it, again doth bow.And now he rests, and looks awayAcross the sun-fierce hills and meadsNo rolling cloud has cooled to-day;And from his face the brawny beadsDrip; and he marks the heaps of hay,The fields of corn, the fields of weeds.At last he sees the tempest buildBlack battlements along the west,Black breastworks that are thunder filled;And bares his brow; and on his chestThe sweat of toil is cooled; and stilledThe pulse of toil within his breast.A strong wind brings the odorous deathOf far hay-meadows, and the scentIs good within his nostrils’ breath:The mighty trees are bowed, that leantFor no man, as when Power saith“Bow down!” and stalwart men are bent.He laughs, long-gazing as he goesAlong the elder-sweetened lane:He feels the storm wind as it blowsAcross the sheaves of golden grain,And stops to pull one bramble-rose,And watch the swiftly coming rain.And there, ’mid locust trees, the farmDreams in a martin-haunted place:He marks the far-off streaks of stormThat, driven of the thunder, race:He sees his child upon her arm,And in the door his wife’s fair face.
And now he wipes his hand alongThe beaded fire of his browHard toil has heated; and the strongFace flushes fuller health as nowHe fills his hay-fork to the prong,And, tossing it, again doth bow.
And now he rests, and looks awayAcross the sun-fierce hills and meadsNo rolling cloud has cooled to-day;And from his face the brawny beadsDrip; and he marks the heaps of hay,The fields of corn, the fields of weeds.
At last he sees the tempest buildBlack battlements along the west,Black breastworks that are thunder filled;And bares his brow; and on his chestThe sweat of toil is cooled; and stilledThe pulse of toil within his breast.
A strong wind brings the odorous deathOf far hay-meadows, and the scentIs good within his nostrils’ breath:The mighty trees are bowed, that leantFor no man, as when Power saith“Bow down!” and stalwart men are bent.
He laughs, long-gazing as he goesAlong the elder-sweetened lane:He feels the storm wind as it blowsAcross the sheaves of golden grain,And stops to pull one bramble-rose,And watch the swiftly coming rain.
And there, ’mid locust trees, the farmDreams in a martin-haunted place:He marks the far-off streaks of stormThat, driven of the thunder, race:He sees his child upon her arm,And in the door his wife’s fair face.
Below the sunset’s range of rose,Below the heaven’s bending blue,Down woodways where the balsam blows,And milkweed tufts hang, gray of hue,A Jersey heifer stops and lows—The cows come home by one, by two.There is no star yet: but the smellOf hay and pennyroyal mixWith herb-aromas of the dell;And the root-hidden cricket clicks:Among the ironweeds a bellClangs near the rail-fenced clover-ricks.She waits upon the slope besideThe windlassed well the plum-trees shade,The well-curb that the goose-plums hide;Her light hand on the bucket laid,Unbonneted she waits, glad-eyed,Her dress as simple as her braid.She sees fawn-colored backs amongThe sumacs now; a tossing horn;A clashing bell of brass that rung:Long shadows lean upon the corn,And all the day dies scarlet-stung,The cloud in it a rosy thorn.Below the pleasant moon, that tipsThe tree-tops of the hillside, flyThe evening bats; the twilight slipsSome fireflies like spangles by;She meets him, and their happy lipsTouch; and one star leaps in the sky.He takes her bucket, and they speakOf married hopes while in the grassThe plum lies glowing as her cheek;The patient cows look back or pass;And in the west one golden streakBurns like a great cathedral glass.
Below the sunset’s range of rose,Below the heaven’s bending blue,Down woodways where the balsam blows,And milkweed tufts hang, gray of hue,A Jersey heifer stops and lows—The cows come home by one, by two.There is no star yet: but the smellOf hay and pennyroyal mixWith herb-aromas of the dell;And the root-hidden cricket clicks:Among the ironweeds a bellClangs near the rail-fenced clover-ricks.She waits upon the slope besideThe windlassed well the plum-trees shade,The well-curb that the goose-plums hide;Her light hand on the bucket laid,Unbonneted she waits, glad-eyed,Her dress as simple as her braid.She sees fawn-colored backs amongThe sumacs now; a tossing horn;A clashing bell of brass that rung:Long shadows lean upon the corn,And all the day dies scarlet-stung,The cloud in it a rosy thorn.Below the pleasant moon, that tipsThe tree-tops of the hillside, flyThe evening bats; the twilight slipsSome fireflies like spangles by;She meets him, and their happy lipsTouch; and one star leaps in the sky.He takes her bucket, and they speakOf married hopes while in the grassThe plum lies glowing as her cheek;The patient cows look back or pass;And in the west one golden streakBurns like a great cathedral glass.
Below the sunset’s range of rose,Below the heaven’s bending blue,Down woodways where the balsam blows,And milkweed tufts hang, gray of hue,A Jersey heifer stops and lows—The cows come home by one, by two.
There is no star yet: but the smellOf hay and pennyroyal mixWith herb-aromas of the dell;And the root-hidden cricket clicks:Among the ironweeds a bellClangs near the rail-fenced clover-ricks.
She waits upon the slope besideThe windlassed well the plum-trees shade,The well-curb that the goose-plums hide;Her light hand on the bucket laid,Unbonneted she waits, glad-eyed,Her dress as simple as her braid.
She sees fawn-colored backs amongThe sumacs now; a tossing horn;A clashing bell of brass that rung:Long shadows lean upon the corn,And all the day dies scarlet-stung,The cloud in it a rosy thorn.
Below the pleasant moon, that tipsThe tree-tops of the hillside, flyThe evening bats; the twilight slipsSome fireflies like spangles by;She meets him, and their happy lipsTouch; and one star leaps in the sky.
He takes her bucket, and they speakOf married hopes while in the grassThe plum lies glowing as her cheek;The patient cows look back or pass;And in the west one golden streakBurns like a great cathedral glass.
The skies are amber, blue, and greenBefore the coming of the sun;And all the deep hills sleep, sereneAs if enchanted; every oneIs ribbed with morning mists that leanOn woods through which vague whispers run.Birds wake: and on the vine-hung knobs,Above the brook, a twitteringConfuses songs; one warbler robsAnother of its note; a wingBeats by; and now a wild throat throbsTriumphant; all the woodlands sing.The sun is up: the hills are heapedWith instant splendor; and the valesSurprised with shimmers that are steepedIn purple where the thin mist trails;The water-fall, the rock it leaped,Are burning gold that foams and fails.He drives his horses to the plowAlong the vineyard slopes, where baskDew-heavy grapes, half-ripened now,In sun-shot shafts of shade: no maskOf joy he wears; his face and browGlow as he enters on his task.Before him, soaring through the mist,The gray hawk wildly wings and screams;Its dewy back gleams, sunbeam-kissed,Above the wood that drips and dreams;He guides the plow with one strong fist;The soil rolls back in level seams.Packed to the right the sassafrasLifts leafy walls of spice that shadeThe blackberries, whose tendrils massBig berries in the coolness made;And drop their ripeness on the grassWhere trumpet-flowers fall and fade.White on the left the fence and treesThat mark the garden; and the smoke,Uncurling in the early breeze,Tells of the roof beneath the oak;He turns his team, and, turning, seesThe damp, dark soil his coulter broke.Bees hum; and o’er the berries poiseLean-bodied wasps; loud blackbirds turnFollowing the plow: there is a noiseOf insect wings that buzz and burn;—And now he hears his wife’s low voice,The song she sings to help her churn.
The skies are amber, blue, and greenBefore the coming of the sun;And all the deep hills sleep, sereneAs if enchanted; every oneIs ribbed with morning mists that leanOn woods through which vague whispers run.Birds wake: and on the vine-hung knobs,Above the brook, a twitteringConfuses songs; one warbler robsAnother of its note; a wingBeats by; and now a wild throat throbsTriumphant; all the woodlands sing.The sun is up: the hills are heapedWith instant splendor; and the valesSurprised with shimmers that are steepedIn purple where the thin mist trails;The water-fall, the rock it leaped,Are burning gold that foams and fails.He drives his horses to the plowAlong the vineyard slopes, where baskDew-heavy grapes, half-ripened now,In sun-shot shafts of shade: no maskOf joy he wears; his face and browGlow as he enters on his task.Before him, soaring through the mist,The gray hawk wildly wings and screams;Its dewy back gleams, sunbeam-kissed,Above the wood that drips and dreams;He guides the plow with one strong fist;The soil rolls back in level seams.Packed to the right the sassafrasLifts leafy walls of spice that shadeThe blackberries, whose tendrils massBig berries in the coolness made;And drop their ripeness on the grassWhere trumpet-flowers fall and fade.White on the left the fence and treesThat mark the garden; and the smoke,Uncurling in the early breeze,Tells of the roof beneath the oak;He turns his team, and, turning, seesThe damp, dark soil his coulter broke.Bees hum; and o’er the berries poiseLean-bodied wasps; loud blackbirds turnFollowing the plow: there is a noiseOf insect wings that buzz and burn;—And now he hears his wife’s low voice,The song she sings to help her churn.
The skies are amber, blue, and greenBefore the coming of the sun;And all the deep hills sleep, sereneAs if enchanted; every oneIs ribbed with morning mists that leanOn woods through which vague whispers run.
Birds wake: and on the vine-hung knobs,Above the brook, a twitteringConfuses songs; one warbler robsAnother of its note; a wingBeats by; and now a wild throat throbsTriumphant; all the woodlands sing.
The sun is up: the hills are heapedWith instant splendor; and the valesSurprised with shimmers that are steepedIn purple where the thin mist trails;The water-fall, the rock it leaped,Are burning gold that foams and fails.
He drives his horses to the plowAlong the vineyard slopes, where baskDew-heavy grapes, half-ripened now,In sun-shot shafts of shade: no maskOf joy he wears; his face and browGlow as he enters on his task.
Before him, soaring through the mist,The gray hawk wildly wings and screams;Its dewy back gleams, sunbeam-kissed,Above the wood that drips and dreams;He guides the plow with one strong fist;The soil rolls back in level seams.
Packed to the right the sassafrasLifts leafy walls of spice that shadeThe blackberries, whose tendrils massBig berries in the coolness made;And drop their ripeness on the grassWhere trumpet-flowers fall and fade.
White on the left the fence and treesThat mark the garden; and the smoke,Uncurling in the early breeze,Tells of the roof beneath the oak;He turns his team, and, turning, seesThe damp, dark soil his coulter broke.
Bees hum; and o’er the berries poiseLean-bodied wasps; loud blackbirds turnFollowing the plow: there is a noiseOf insect wings that buzz and burn;—And now he hears his wife’s low voice,The song she sings to help her churn.
There are no clouds that drift aroundThe moon’s pearl-kindled crystal, (whiteAs some sky-summoned spirit woundIn raiment lit with limbs of light),That have not softened like the soundOf harps when Heaven forgets to smite.The vales are deeper than the dark,And darker than the vales the woodsThat shadowy hill and meadow markWith broad, blurred lines, whereover broodsDeep calm; and now a fox-hound’s barkUpon the quietude intrudes.And though the night is never still,Yet what we name its noises makesIts silence:—now a whippoorwill;A frog, whose hoarser tremor breaksThe hush; then insect sounds that fillThe night; an owl that hoots and wakes.They lean against the gate that leadsInto the lane that lies betweenThe yard and orchard; flowers and weedsSmell sweeter than the odors keenThat day distils from hotness; beadsOf dew make cool the gray and green.Their infant sleeps. They feel the peaceOf something done that God has blessed,Still as the pulse that will not ceaseThere in the cloud that lights the west:The peace of love that shall increaseWhile soul to soul still gives its best.
There are no clouds that drift aroundThe moon’s pearl-kindled crystal, (whiteAs some sky-summoned spirit woundIn raiment lit with limbs of light),That have not softened like the soundOf harps when Heaven forgets to smite.The vales are deeper than the dark,And darker than the vales the woodsThat shadowy hill and meadow markWith broad, blurred lines, whereover broodsDeep calm; and now a fox-hound’s barkUpon the quietude intrudes.And though the night is never still,Yet what we name its noises makesIts silence:—now a whippoorwill;A frog, whose hoarser tremor breaksThe hush; then insect sounds that fillThe night; an owl that hoots and wakes.They lean against the gate that leadsInto the lane that lies betweenThe yard and orchard; flowers and weedsSmell sweeter than the odors keenThat day distils from hotness; beadsOf dew make cool the gray and green.Their infant sleeps. They feel the peaceOf something done that God has blessed,Still as the pulse that will not ceaseThere in the cloud that lights the west:The peace of love that shall increaseWhile soul to soul still gives its best.
There are no clouds that drift aroundThe moon’s pearl-kindled crystal, (whiteAs some sky-summoned spirit woundIn raiment lit with limbs of light),That have not softened like the soundOf harps when Heaven forgets to smite.
The vales are deeper than the dark,And darker than the vales the woodsThat shadowy hill and meadow markWith broad, blurred lines, whereover broodsDeep calm; and now a fox-hound’s barkUpon the quietude intrudes.
And though the night is never still,Yet what we name its noises makesIts silence:—now a whippoorwill;A frog, whose hoarser tremor breaksThe hush; then insect sounds that fillThe night; an owl that hoots and wakes.
They lean against the gate that leadsInto the lane that lies betweenThe yard and orchard; flowers and weedsSmell sweeter than the odors keenThat day distils from hotness; beadsOf dew make cool the gray and green.
Their infant sleeps. They feel the peaceOf something done that God has blessed,Still as the pulse that will not ceaseThere in the cloud that lights the west:The peace of love that shall increaseWhile soul to soul still gives its best.
The wild brook gleams on the sand and ripplesOver the rocks of the riffle; brimmingUnder the elms like a nymph who dripples,Dips and glimmers and shines in swimming:Under the linns and the ash-trees lodging,Loops of the limpid waters lie,Shaken of schools of the minnows, dodgingThe glancing wings of the dragon-fly.Lower, the loops are lines of laughterOver the stones and the crystal gravel;Afar they gloom, like a face seen afterMirth, where the waters slowly travel;Shadowy slow where the Fork is shakenOf the dropping bark of the sycamore,Where the water-snake, that the footsteps waken,Slides like a crooked root from shore.Peace of the forest; and silence, dimmerThan dreams. And now a wing that winnowsThe willow leaves, with their shadows slimmerIn the shallow there than a school of minnows:Calm of the creek; and a huge tree twisted,Ringed, and turned to a tree of pearl;A gray-eyed man, who is farmer-fisted,And a dark-eyed, sinewy country girl.The brow of the man is gnarled and wrinkledWith the weight of the words that have just been spoken;And the girl has smiled and her eyes have twinkled,Though the bonds and the bands of their love lie broken:She smiles, nor knows how the days have knottedHer to the heart of the man who says:“Let us follow the paths that we think allotted.I will go my ways and you your ways.“And the man between us is your decision.Worse or better he is your lover.—Shall I say he ’s worse since the sweet ElysianPrize he wins where I discoverOnly the hell of the luckless chooser?—Shall I say he ’s better than I, or more,Since he is winner and I am loser,His life ’s made rich and mine made poor?”“I tell you now as I oft and everHave told,” she answered, the laughter dyingDown in her eyes, “that his arms have neverHeld me!—no!—but you think me lying,And you are wrong. And I think it betterTo part forever than still to dwellWith the sad distrust, like an evil tetter,On our lives forever, and so farewell.”And she turned away; and he watched her going,The girlish pride in her eyes a-smoulder:He saw her go, and his lips were glowingFever that parched. And he stood, one shoulderSlouched to the tree; and he saw her stooping,There by the bank, with a reckless foot;Straighten; and tear from her breast his droopingLilies and fasten the pleurisy-root.With its orange fire he saw her passingOn and on; and the blood beat, burningHis brain to madness; and seemingly massingThe weight of the world on his heart in yearning ...Butterflies swarmed in the moist sand-alleys;A fairy fleet of Ionian sailsThey seemed with their wings, or of pirate galleys,Maroon and yellow, for Elfland gales.He watched her going; and harder, thickerThe pulse of his breath and his heart’s hard throbbing.—How should he know that her heart was sicker?How should he know that her soul was sobbing?—She never looked back: and he saw her vanishIn swirls of the startled butterflies,Like a storm of flowers; and he could not banishThe thought he had lost his all through lies.
The wild brook gleams on the sand and ripplesOver the rocks of the riffle; brimmingUnder the elms like a nymph who dripples,Dips and glimmers and shines in swimming:Under the linns and the ash-trees lodging,Loops of the limpid waters lie,Shaken of schools of the minnows, dodgingThe glancing wings of the dragon-fly.Lower, the loops are lines of laughterOver the stones and the crystal gravel;Afar they gloom, like a face seen afterMirth, where the waters slowly travel;Shadowy slow where the Fork is shakenOf the dropping bark of the sycamore,Where the water-snake, that the footsteps waken,Slides like a crooked root from shore.Peace of the forest; and silence, dimmerThan dreams. And now a wing that winnowsThe willow leaves, with their shadows slimmerIn the shallow there than a school of minnows:Calm of the creek; and a huge tree twisted,Ringed, and turned to a tree of pearl;A gray-eyed man, who is farmer-fisted,And a dark-eyed, sinewy country girl.The brow of the man is gnarled and wrinkledWith the weight of the words that have just been spoken;And the girl has smiled and her eyes have twinkled,Though the bonds and the bands of their love lie broken:She smiles, nor knows how the days have knottedHer to the heart of the man who says:“Let us follow the paths that we think allotted.I will go my ways and you your ways.“And the man between us is your decision.Worse or better he is your lover.—Shall I say he ’s worse since the sweet ElysianPrize he wins where I discoverOnly the hell of the luckless chooser?—Shall I say he ’s better than I, or more,Since he is winner and I am loser,His life ’s made rich and mine made poor?”“I tell you now as I oft and everHave told,” she answered, the laughter dyingDown in her eyes, “that his arms have neverHeld me!—no!—but you think me lying,And you are wrong. And I think it betterTo part forever than still to dwellWith the sad distrust, like an evil tetter,On our lives forever, and so farewell.”And she turned away; and he watched her going,The girlish pride in her eyes a-smoulder:He saw her go, and his lips were glowingFever that parched. And he stood, one shoulderSlouched to the tree; and he saw her stooping,There by the bank, with a reckless foot;Straighten; and tear from her breast his droopingLilies and fasten the pleurisy-root.With its orange fire he saw her passingOn and on; and the blood beat, burningHis brain to madness; and seemingly massingThe weight of the world on his heart in yearning ...Butterflies swarmed in the moist sand-alleys;A fairy fleet of Ionian sailsThey seemed with their wings, or of pirate galleys,Maroon and yellow, for Elfland gales.He watched her going; and harder, thickerThe pulse of his breath and his heart’s hard throbbing.—How should he know that her heart was sicker?How should he know that her soul was sobbing?—She never looked back: and he saw her vanishIn swirls of the startled butterflies,Like a storm of flowers; and he could not banishThe thought he had lost his all through lies.
The wild brook gleams on the sand and ripplesOver the rocks of the riffle; brimmingUnder the elms like a nymph who dripples,Dips and glimmers and shines in swimming:Under the linns and the ash-trees lodging,Loops of the limpid waters lie,Shaken of schools of the minnows, dodgingThe glancing wings of the dragon-fly.
Lower, the loops are lines of laughterOver the stones and the crystal gravel;Afar they gloom, like a face seen afterMirth, where the waters slowly travel;Shadowy slow where the Fork is shakenOf the dropping bark of the sycamore,Where the water-snake, that the footsteps waken,Slides like a crooked root from shore.
Peace of the forest; and silence, dimmerThan dreams. And now a wing that winnowsThe willow leaves, with their shadows slimmerIn the shallow there than a school of minnows:Calm of the creek; and a huge tree twisted,Ringed, and turned to a tree of pearl;A gray-eyed man, who is farmer-fisted,And a dark-eyed, sinewy country girl.
The brow of the man is gnarled and wrinkledWith the weight of the words that have just been spoken;And the girl has smiled and her eyes have twinkled,Though the bonds and the bands of their love lie broken:She smiles, nor knows how the days have knottedHer to the heart of the man who says:“Let us follow the paths that we think allotted.I will go my ways and you your ways.
“And the man between us is your decision.Worse or better he is your lover.—Shall I say he ’s worse since the sweet ElysianPrize he wins where I discoverOnly the hell of the luckless chooser?—Shall I say he ’s better than I, or more,Since he is winner and I am loser,His life ’s made rich and mine made poor?”
“I tell you now as I oft and everHave told,” she answered, the laughter dyingDown in her eyes, “that his arms have neverHeld me!—no!—but you think me lying,And you are wrong. And I think it betterTo part forever than still to dwellWith the sad distrust, like an evil tetter,On our lives forever, and so farewell.”
And she turned away; and he watched her going,The girlish pride in her eyes a-smoulder:He saw her go, and his lips were glowingFever that parched. And he stood, one shoulderSlouched to the tree; and he saw her stooping,There by the bank, with a reckless foot;Straighten; and tear from her breast his droopingLilies and fasten the pleurisy-root.
With its orange fire he saw her passingOn and on; and the blood beat, burningHis brain to madness; and seemingly massingThe weight of the world on his heart in yearning ...Butterflies swarmed in the moist sand-alleys;A fairy fleet of Ionian sailsThey seemed with their wings, or of pirate galleys,Maroon and yellow, for Elfland gales.
He watched her going; and harder, thickerThe pulse of his breath and his heart’s hard throbbing.—How should he know that her heart was sicker?How should he know that her soul was sobbing?—She never looked back: and he saw her vanishIn swirls of the startled butterflies,Like a storm of flowers; and he could not banishThe thought he had lost his all through lies.
He heard the cocks crow out the lonely hours.How long the night! how far away the dawn!It seemed long months since he had seen the flowers,The leaves, the sunlight, and the bee-hived lawn;Had heard the thrush flute in the tangled showers.His burning eyes ached, staring at the blackStolidity of midnight. Would God sendNo cool relief unto his mind,—a rackOf inquisition,—tortures to unbend,That stretched him forward and now strained him back?Incomprehensible and undivulged,The thought that took him back, retraced their walks,Through woods, on which the sudden perfumes bulged,The bird-songs and the brilliant-blossomed stalks;And all the freedom which their talk indulged.Oh, strong appeal! And he would almost yield;When, firmly forward, he could feel her faultOppose the error of a rock-like shield,And to resisting phalanxes cry halt—And, lo! bright cohorts broken on the field.O mulct of morning! to the despot nightCount down unminted gold, and let the dayWalk free from dungeons of the dark; delightHerself on mountains of the violet ray,Clad in white maidenhood and morning white!A melancholy coast, plunged deep in dreamAnd death and silence, stretched the drowsy dark,Wherein he heard a round-eyed screech-owl scream,In lamentation, and a watch-dog bark,Vague as oblivion, lost in night’s deep stream.And then hope moved him to divide the blindsTo see if those bright sparkles were a star’s,Or but his feverish eyelids, which the mind’sCommotion weighed.—No hint of morning barsWith glimmer heaven’s swart tapestry he finds.So he remained, impatient, till the firstExploring crevices of Aztec morn,Dim cracks of treasure, Eldorados burst:Then could he face his cowardice and scornHis jealousy that thus his life had cursed.Love knew no barriers now. And where he wentEach woodland path was musical with birds;Each flow’r was richer, more divine of scent;For love sought love with such expressive wordsThat dawn’s delivery was less eloquent.
He heard the cocks crow out the lonely hours.How long the night! how far away the dawn!It seemed long months since he had seen the flowers,The leaves, the sunlight, and the bee-hived lawn;Had heard the thrush flute in the tangled showers.His burning eyes ached, staring at the blackStolidity of midnight. Would God sendNo cool relief unto his mind,—a rackOf inquisition,—tortures to unbend,That stretched him forward and now strained him back?Incomprehensible and undivulged,The thought that took him back, retraced their walks,Through woods, on which the sudden perfumes bulged,The bird-songs and the brilliant-blossomed stalks;And all the freedom which their talk indulged.Oh, strong appeal! And he would almost yield;When, firmly forward, he could feel her faultOppose the error of a rock-like shield,And to resisting phalanxes cry halt—And, lo! bright cohorts broken on the field.O mulct of morning! to the despot nightCount down unminted gold, and let the dayWalk free from dungeons of the dark; delightHerself on mountains of the violet ray,Clad in white maidenhood and morning white!A melancholy coast, plunged deep in dreamAnd death and silence, stretched the drowsy dark,Wherein he heard a round-eyed screech-owl scream,In lamentation, and a watch-dog bark,Vague as oblivion, lost in night’s deep stream.And then hope moved him to divide the blindsTo see if those bright sparkles were a star’s,Or but his feverish eyelids, which the mind’sCommotion weighed.—No hint of morning barsWith glimmer heaven’s swart tapestry he finds.So he remained, impatient, till the firstExploring crevices of Aztec morn,Dim cracks of treasure, Eldorados burst:Then could he face his cowardice and scornHis jealousy that thus his life had cursed.Love knew no barriers now. And where he wentEach woodland path was musical with birds;Each flow’r was richer, more divine of scent;For love sought love with such expressive wordsThat dawn’s delivery was less eloquent.
He heard the cocks crow out the lonely hours.How long the night! how far away the dawn!It seemed long months since he had seen the flowers,The leaves, the sunlight, and the bee-hived lawn;Had heard the thrush flute in the tangled showers.
His burning eyes ached, staring at the blackStolidity of midnight. Would God sendNo cool relief unto his mind,—a rackOf inquisition,—tortures to unbend,That stretched him forward and now strained him back?
Incomprehensible and undivulged,The thought that took him back, retraced their walks,Through woods, on which the sudden perfumes bulged,The bird-songs and the brilliant-blossomed stalks;And all the freedom which their talk indulged.
Oh, strong appeal! And he would almost yield;When, firmly forward, he could feel her faultOppose the error of a rock-like shield,And to resisting phalanxes cry halt—And, lo! bright cohorts broken on the field.
O mulct of morning! to the despot nightCount down unminted gold, and let the dayWalk free from dungeons of the dark; delightHerself on mountains of the violet ray,Clad in white maidenhood and morning white!
A melancholy coast, plunged deep in dreamAnd death and silence, stretched the drowsy dark,Wherein he heard a round-eyed screech-owl scream,In lamentation, and a watch-dog bark,Vague as oblivion, lost in night’s deep stream.
And then hope moved him to divide the blindsTo see if those bright sparkles were a star’s,Or but his feverish eyelids, which the mind’sCommotion weighed.—No hint of morning barsWith glimmer heaven’s swart tapestry he finds.
So he remained, impatient, till the firstExploring crevices of Aztec morn,Dim cracks of treasure, Eldorados burst:Then could he face his cowardice and scornHis jealousy that thus his life had cursed.
Love knew no barriers now. And where he wentEach woodland path was musical with birds;Each flow’r was richer, more divine of scent;For love sought love with such expressive wordsThat dawn’s delivery was less eloquent.
Who is it hunts with his dogThere where the heron is flyingGray through the feathering fogOver the Fork, where is lying,Bridge-like, a butternut log,There where the horsemint is drying?Who is it hunts in the brush,Under the linns and the beeches,Here where the water-falls rush,Dark, where the noon never reaches?Here where the Fork is one crushOf flags with a bloom like the peach’s?He is handsome and supple and tall,Blond-haired and vigorous-chested,Blue-eyed as the bud by the fallWhere he listens,—his rifle half rested,Half leaned on the crumbling stone wall,—Whose briers he lately has breasted.He waits; and the sun on the dewOf the cedars and leaves of the bushesStrikes glittering frostiness through ...If a covey of partridges flushesWhat good will a Winchester do,Or the dog to his feet that he crushes?Then a man breaks strong through the weedsWhere the buck-bushes toss and the spiresOf the white-blossomed cohosh; ’mid reedsWild-carrots, and trammelling briers:It is he! to his loved one who speeds—And the man in the bushes—he fires....From leaves of the wind-shaken woodThe dew of the dawn is still falling:He is gone from the place where he stood,Just there where the black crow is calling:There is blood on the weeds: is it bloodOn the face of the man who is crawling?Red blood or a smudge of the dawn?—Now he lies with his gray eyes wide, staring,Stiff, still at the sun: he has drawnHis limbs in a heap: and the faringBee-martins light near or pass on,Not one of them knowing or caring.It is noon: and the wood-dove is deepIn the calm of its cooing: and overThe tops of the forest trees sweepThe shadows of buzzards that hover:Wide-winged they sail on as asleep:And the bob-white is whistling from cover.It is dusk: and the heat, that made wiltThe leaves and the wildflowers’ faces,Gives place to the dew-drops that tiltWith coolness the weeds where are tracesOf horror and darkness and guilt,That nothing can wash from those places.It is night: and the hoot-owlet mocksThe dove of the day with wild weeping,The Fork is scarce heard on its rocksWhere the man is so quietly sleeping:Through the woods snaps the bark of a fox;The lightning is fitfully leaping.
Who is it hunts with his dogThere where the heron is flyingGray through the feathering fogOver the Fork, where is lying,Bridge-like, a butternut log,There where the horsemint is drying?Who is it hunts in the brush,Under the linns and the beeches,Here where the water-falls rush,Dark, where the noon never reaches?Here where the Fork is one crushOf flags with a bloom like the peach’s?He is handsome and supple and tall,Blond-haired and vigorous-chested,Blue-eyed as the bud by the fallWhere he listens,—his rifle half rested,Half leaned on the crumbling stone wall,—Whose briers he lately has breasted.He waits; and the sun on the dewOf the cedars and leaves of the bushesStrikes glittering frostiness through ...If a covey of partridges flushesWhat good will a Winchester do,Or the dog to his feet that he crushes?Then a man breaks strong through the weedsWhere the buck-bushes toss and the spiresOf the white-blossomed cohosh; ’mid reedsWild-carrots, and trammelling briers:It is he! to his loved one who speeds—And the man in the bushes—he fires....From leaves of the wind-shaken woodThe dew of the dawn is still falling:He is gone from the place where he stood,Just there where the black crow is calling:There is blood on the weeds: is it bloodOn the face of the man who is crawling?Red blood or a smudge of the dawn?—Now he lies with his gray eyes wide, staring,Stiff, still at the sun: he has drawnHis limbs in a heap: and the faringBee-martins light near or pass on,Not one of them knowing or caring.It is noon: and the wood-dove is deepIn the calm of its cooing: and overThe tops of the forest trees sweepThe shadows of buzzards that hover:Wide-winged they sail on as asleep:And the bob-white is whistling from cover.It is dusk: and the heat, that made wiltThe leaves and the wildflowers’ faces,Gives place to the dew-drops that tiltWith coolness the weeds where are tracesOf horror and darkness and guilt,That nothing can wash from those places.It is night: and the hoot-owlet mocksThe dove of the day with wild weeping,The Fork is scarce heard on its rocksWhere the man is so quietly sleeping:Through the woods snaps the bark of a fox;The lightning is fitfully leaping.
Who is it hunts with his dogThere where the heron is flyingGray through the feathering fogOver the Fork, where is lying,Bridge-like, a butternut log,There where the horsemint is drying?
Who is it hunts in the brush,Under the linns and the beeches,Here where the water-falls rush,Dark, where the noon never reaches?Here where the Fork is one crushOf flags with a bloom like the peach’s?
He is handsome and supple and tall,Blond-haired and vigorous-chested,Blue-eyed as the bud by the fallWhere he listens,—his rifle half rested,Half leaned on the crumbling stone wall,—Whose briers he lately has breasted.
He waits; and the sun on the dewOf the cedars and leaves of the bushesStrikes glittering frostiness through ...If a covey of partridges flushesWhat good will a Winchester do,Or the dog to his feet that he crushes?
Then a man breaks strong through the weedsWhere the buck-bushes toss and the spiresOf the white-blossomed cohosh; ’mid reedsWild-carrots, and trammelling briers:It is he! to his loved one who speeds—And the man in the bushes—he fires....
From leaves of the wind-shaken woodThe dew of the dawn is still falling:He is gone from the place where he stood,Just there where the black crow is calling:There is blood on the weeds: is it bloodOn the face of the man who is crawling?
Red blood or a smudge of the dawn?—Now he lies with his gray eyes wide, staring,Stiff, still at the sun: he has drawnHis limbs in a heap: and the faringBee-martins light near or pass on,Not one of them knowing or caring.
It is noon: and the wood-dove is deepIn the calm of its cooing: and overThe tops of the forest trees sweepThe shadows of buzzards that hover:Wide-winged they sail on as asleep:And the bob-white is whistling from cover.
It is dusk: and the heat, that made wiltThe leaves and the wildflowers’ faces,Gives place to the dew-drops that tiltWith coolness the weeds where are tracesOf horror and darkness and guilt,That nothing can wash from those places.
It is night: and the hoot-owlet mocksThe dove of the day with wild weeping,The Fork is scarce heard on its rocksWhere the man is so quietly sleeping:Through the woods snaps the bark of a fox;The lightning is fitfully leaping.
All day, ’twixt hope and fear,She waited at the gate,Looking for him, more dearNow that he made her wait:Day went and night draws near:Stormy it grows and late.Still, still she waits: great limbsThe winds rend from the ridge;Each swollen shallow swimsHead-deep below the bridge;The drift, that breaks and brimsSwirls lighter than the midge.The night grows wildly grayWith lightning-litten rain;The forests sound and sway,An oak is rent in twain;The thunder rolls awayLike some vast bolt and chain.The Fork is whirling wreckOf field and farm and wood;And many a foaming fleckDrives where the rock-fence stood;—A torrent sweeps break-neckAbove the washed-out blood.Night deepens: still she waitsExpectant in despair:The Fork has reached the gates,The wood’s wreck everywhere.But when the storm abates,She thinks, he will be there.She sees the lightning rushIts blazing hells above;She hears the thunder crushHeaven as if earthquake-clove—Loud in the tempest’s hushShe calls with all her love.He comes, she feels; and standsThe rushing waters o’erHer feet, and on her handsAnd hair the wild down-pour,The lightnings are wild brandsTo light him to her door.Night deepens: but she knowsGod will not fail to sendHer love to soothe her woes,And one day’s errors mend.—The wild stream foams and flowsBooming in fall and bend.Again the lightnings lightThe night like some wild torch;The waters foam and fight;And one uprooted larchSweeps down, with something whiteWedged in it, by her porch.She stoops: the lurid rainBeats on her back and head—Ay! he hath come again!With livid lips once red!A bullet in his brainThe night hath brought him—dead!
All day, ’twixt hope and fear,She waited at the gate,Looking for him, more dearNow that he made her wait:Day went and night draws near:Stormy it grows and late.Still, still she waits: great limbsThe winds rend from the ridge;Each swollen shallow swimsHead-deep below the bridge;The drift, that breaks and brimsSwirls lighter than the midge.The night grows wildly grayWith lightning-litten rain;The forests sound and sway,An oak is rent in twain;The thunder rolls awayLike some vast bolt and chain.The Fork is whirling wreckOf field and farm and wood;And many a foaming fleckDrives where the rock-fence stood;—A torrent sweeps break-neckAbove the washed-out blood.Night deepens: still she waitsExpectant in despair:The Fork has reached the gates,The wood’s wreck everywhere.But when the storm abates,She thinks, he will be there.She sees the lightning rushIts blazing hells above;She hears the thunder crushHeaven as if earthquake-clove—Loud in the tempest’s hushShe calls with all her love.He comes, she feels; and standsThe rushing waters o’erHer feet, and on her handsAnd hair the wild down-pour,The lightnings are wild brandsTo light him to her door.Night deepens: but she knowsGod will not fail to sendHer love to soothe her woes,And one day’s errors mend.—The wild stream foams and flowsBooming in fall and bend.Again the lightnings lightThe night like some wild torch;The waters foam and fight;And one uprooted larchSweeps down, with something whiteWedged in it, by her porch.She stoops: the lurid rainBeats on her back and head—Ay! he hath come again!With livid lips once red!A bullet in his brainThe night hath brought him—dead!
All day, ’twixt hope and fear,She waited at the gate,Looking for him, more dearNow that he made her wait:Day went and night draws near:Stormy it grows and late.
Still, still she waits: great limbsThe winds rend from the ridge;Each swollen shallow swimsHead-deep below the bridge;The drift, that breaks and brimsSwirls lighter than the midge.
The night grows wildly grayWith lightning-litten rain;The forests sound and sway,An oak is rent in twain;The thunder rolls awayLike some vast bolt and chain.
The Fork is whirling wreckOf field and farm and wood;And many a foaming fleckDrives where the rock-fence stood;—A torrent sweeps break-neckAbove the washed-out blood.
Night deepens: still she waitsExpectant in despair:The Fork has reached the gates,The wood’s wreck everywhere.But when the storm abates,She thinks, he will be there.
She sees the lightning rushIts blazing hells above;She hears the thunder crushHeaven as if earthquake-clove—Loud in the tempest’s hushShe calls with all her love.
He comes, she feels; and standsThe rushing waters o’erHer feet, and on her handsAnd hair the wild down-pour,The lightnings are wild brandsTo light him to her door.
Night deepens: but she knowsGod will not fail to sendHer love to soothe her woes,And one day’s errors mend.—The wild stream foams and flowsBooming in fall and bend.
Again the lightnings lightThe night like some wild torch;The waters foam and fight;And one uprooted larchSweeps down, with something whiteWedged in it, by her porch.
She stoops: the lurid rainBeats on her back and head—Ay! he hath come again!With livid lips once red!A bullet in his brainThe night hath brought him—dead!
It is not early spring and yetOf bloodroot blooms along the stream,And blotted banks of violet,My heart will dream.Is it because the wind-flower apesThe beauty that was once her brow,That the white thought of it still shapesThe April now?Because the wild-rose learned its blushFrom her fresh cheeks of maidenhood,Their thought makes June of barren brushAnd empty wood?And then I think how young she died—Straight, barren death stalks down the trees,The hard-eyed hours by his sideThat kill and freeze.
It is not early spring and yetOf bloodroot blooms along the stream,And blotted banks of violet,My heart will dream.Is it because the wind-flower apesThe beauty that was once her brow,That the white thought of it still shapesThe April now?Because the wild-rose learned its blushFrom her fresh cheeks of maidenhood,Their thought makes June of barren brushAnd empty wood?And then I think how young she died—Straight, barren death stalks down the trees,The hard-eyed hours by his sideThat kill and freeze.
It is not early spring and yetOf bloodroot blooms along the stream,And blotted banks of violet,My heart will dream.
Is it because the wind-flower apesThe beauty that was once her brow,That the white thought of it still shapesThe April now?
Because the wild-rose learned its blushFrom her fresh cheeks of maidenhood,Their thought makes June of barren brushAnd empty wood?
And then I think how young she died—Straight, barren death stalks down the trees,The hard-eyed hours by his sideThat kill and freeze.
When orchards are in bloom againMy heart will bound, my blood will beat,To hear the red-bird so repeat,On boughs of rosy stain,His blithe, loud song,—like some far strainFrom out the past,—among the bloom,—(Where bee, and wasp, and hornet boom)—Fresh, redolent with rain.When orchards are in bloom once more,Invasions of lost dreams will drawMy feet, like some insistent law,Through blossoms to her door:In dreams I’ll ask her, as before,To let me help her at the well;And fill her pail; and long to tellMy love as once of yore.I shall not speak until we quitThe farm-gate, leading to the laneAnd orchard, all in bloom again,’Mid which the wood-doves sitAnd coo; and through whose blossoms flitThe cat-birds crying while they fly:Then tenderly I’ll speak, and tryTo tell her all of it.And in my dream again she’ll placeHer hand in mine, as oft before,—When orchards are in bloom once more,—With all her old-time grace:And we will tarry till a traceOf sunset dyes the heav’ns; and then—We’ll part, and, parting, I againWill bend and kiss her face.And homeward, dreaming, I will goAlong the cricket-chirring ways,While sunset, like one crimson blazeOf blossoms, lingers low:And my lost youth again I’ll know,And all her love, when spring is here—Hers! hers! now dead this many a yearWhose love still haunts me so.
When orchards are in bloom againMy heart will bound, my blood will beat,To hear the red-bird so repeat,On boughs of rosy stain,His blithe, loud song,—like some far strainFrom out the past,—among the bloom,—(Where bee, and wasp, and hornet boom)—Fresh, redolent with rain.When orchards are in bloom once more,Invasions of lost dreams will drawMy feet, like some insistent law,Through blossoms to her door:In dreams I’ll ask her, as before,To let me help her at the well;And fill her pail; and long to tellMy love as once of yore.I shall not speak until we quitThe farm-gate, leading to the laneAnd orchard, all in bloom again,’Mid which the wood-doves sitAnd coo; and through whose blossoms flitThe cat-birds crying while they fly:Then tenderly I’ll speak, and tryTo tell her all of it.And in my dream again she’ll placeHer hand in mine, as oft before,—When orchards are in bloom once more,—With all her old-time grace:And we will tarry till a traceOf sunset dyes the heav’ns; and then—We’ll part, and, parting, I againWill bend and kiss her face.And homeward, dreaming, I will goAlong the cricket-chirring ways,While sunset, like one crimson blazeOf blossoms, lingers low:And my lost youth again I’ll know,And all her love, when spring is here—Hers! hers! now dead this many a yearWhose love still haunts me so.
When orchards are in bloom againMy heart will bound, my blood will beat,To hear the red-bird so repeat,On boughs of rosy stain,His blithe, loud song,—like some far strainFrom out the past,—among the bloom,—(Where bee, and wasp, and hornet boom)—Fresh, redolent with rain.
When orchards are in bloom once more,Invasions of lost dreams will drawMy feet, like some insistent law,Through blossoms to her door:In dreams I’ll ask her, as before,To let me help her at the well;And fill her pail; and long to tellMy love as once of yore.
I shall not speak until we quitThe farm-gate, leading to the laneAnd orchard, all in bloom again,’Mid which the wood-doves sitAnd coo; and through whose blossoms flitThe cat-birds crying while they fly:Then tenderly I’ll speak, and tryTo tell her all of it.
And in my dream again she’ll placeHer hand in mine, as oft before,—When orchards are in bloom once more,—With all her old-time grace:And we will tarry till a traceOf sunset dyes the heav’ns; and then—We’ll part, and, parting, I againWill bend and kiss her face.
And homeward, dreaming, I will goAlong the cricket-chirring ways,While sunset, like one crimson blazeOf blossoms, lingers low:And my lost youth again I’ll know,And all her love, when spring is here—Hers! hers! now dead this many a yearWhose love still haunts me so.
I would not die when Springtime liftsThe white world to her maiden mouth,And heaps its cradle with gay gifts,Breeze-blown from out the singing South:Too full of life and loves that cling,Too heedless of all mortal woe,The young, unsympathetic Spring,That death should never know.I would not die when Summer shakesHer daisied locks below her hips,And, naked as a star that takesA cloud, into the silence slips.Too rich is Summer; poor in needs;Wrapped in her own warm lovelinessHer pomp goes by, and never heedsIf one be more or less.But I would die when Autumn goes,The sad rain dripping from her hair,Through forests where the wild wind blowsDeath and the red wreck everywhere:Sweet as love’s last farewells and tears’T would be to die, when heavens are gray,In the old autumn of my years,Like a dead leaf borne far away.
I would not die when Springtime liftsThe white world to her maiden mouth,And heaps its cradle with gay gifts,Breeze-blown from out the singing South:Too full of life and loves that cling,Too heedless of all mortal woe,The young, unsympathetic Spring,That death should never know.I would not die when Summer shakesHer daisied locks below her hips,And, naked as a star that takesA cloud, into the silence slips.Too rich is Summer; poor in needs;Wrapped in her own warm lovelinessHer pomp goes by, and never heedsIf one be more or less.But I would die when Autumn goes,The sad rain dripping from her hair,Through forests where the wild wind blowsDeath and the red wreck everywhere:Sweet as love’s last farewells and tears’T would be to die, when heavens are gray,In the old autumn of my years,Like a dead leaf borne far away.
I would not die when Springtime liftsThe white world to her maiden mouth,And heaps its cradle with gay gifts,Breeze-blown from out the singing South:Too full of life and loves that cling,Too heedless of all mortal woe,The young, unsympathetic Spring,That death should never know.
I would not die when Summer shakesHer daisied locks below her hips,And, naked as a star that takesA cloud, into the silence slips.Too rich is Summer; poor in needs;Wrapped in her own warm lovelinessHer pomp goes by, and never heedsIf one be more or less.
But I would die when Autumn goes,The sad rain dripping from her hair,Through forests where the wild wind blowsDeath and the red wreck everywhere:Sweet as love’s last farewells and tears’T would be to die, when heavens are gray,In the old autumn of my years,Like a dead leaf borne far away.
SPRING ON THE HILLS
Ah, shall I follow, on the hills,The Spring, as wild wings follow?Where wild-plum trees make wan the hills,Crab-apple trees the hollow,Haunts of the bee and swallow?In red-bud brakes and floweryAcclivities of berry;In dogwood dingles, showeryWith dew, where wrens make merry?Or drifts of swarming cherry?In valleys of wild-strawberries,And of the clumped May-apple;Or cloud-like trees of hawberries,With which the south-winds grapple,That brook and pathway dapple?With eyes of far forgetfulness,—Like some white wood-thing’s daughter,Whose feet are bee-like fretfulness,—To see her run like waterThrough boughs that slipped or caught her.O Spring, to seek, yet find you not,To search and still continue;To glimpse, to touch, but bind you not,To lose and then to win you,All sweet evasion in you.In pearly, peach-blush distancesYou gleam; the woods are braidedOf myths, of dream-existences;—There, where the brook is shaded,Some splendor surely faded.O presence, like the primrose’s,Once more I feel your power!In rainy scents of dim rosesI breathe you for an hour,Elusive as a flower.
Ah, shall I follow, on the hills,The Spring, as wild wings follow?Where wild-plum trees make wan the hills,Crab-apple trees the hollow,Haunts of the bee and swallow?In red-bud brakes and floweryAcclivities of berry;In dogwood dingles, showeryWith dew, where wrens make merry?Or drifts of swarming cherry?In valleys of wild-strawberries,And of the clumped May-apple;Or cloud-like trees of hawberries,With which the south-winds grapple,That brook and pathway dapple?With eyes of far forgetfulness,—Like some white wood-thing’s daughter,Whose feet are bee-like fretfulness,—To see her run like waterThrough boughs that slipped or caught her.O Spring, to seek, yet find you not,To search and still continue;To glimpse, to touch, but bind you not,To lose and then to win you,All sweet evasion in you.In pearly, peach-blush distancesYou gleam; the woods are braidedOf myths, of dream-existences;—There, where the brook is shaded,Some splendor surely faded.O presence, like the primrose’s,Once more I feel your power!In rainy scents of dim rosesI breathe you for an hour,Elusive as a flower.
Ah, shall I follow, on the hills,The Spring, as wild wings follow?Where wild-plum trees make wan the hills,Crab-apple trees the hollow,Haunts of the bee and swallow?
In red-bud brakes and floweryAcclivities of berry;In dogwood dingles, showeryWith dew, where wrens make merry?Or drifts of swarming cherry?
In valleys of wild-strawberries,And of the clumped May-apple;Or cloud-like trees of hawberries,With which the south-winds grapple,That brook and pathway dapple?
With eyes of far forgetfulness,—Like some white wood-thing’s daughter,Whose feet are bee-like fretfulness,—To see her run like waterThrough boughs that slipped or caught her.
O Spring, to seek, yet find you not,To search and still continue;To glimpse, to touch, but bind you not,To lose and then to win you,All sweet evasion in you.
In pearly, peach-blush distancesYou gleam; the woods are braidedOf myths, of dream-existences;—There, where the brook is shaded,Some splendor surely faded.
O presence, like the primrose’s,Once more I feel your power!In rainy scents of dim rosesI breathe you for an hour,Elusive as a flower.
THE WOOD SPIRIT