A GRAY DAY

Thou sit’st among the sunny silencesOf terraced hills and woodland galleries,Thou utterance of all calm melodies,Thou lutanist of Earth’s most fecund lute,—Where no false note intrudesTo mar the silent music,—branch and root,Playing the fields ripe, orchards and deep woods,To song similitudesOf flower and seed and fruit.

Oft have I felt thee, in some sensuous air,Bewitch the wide wheat-acres everywhereTo imitated gold of thy rich hair:The peach, by thy red lips’ delicious trouble,Blown into gradual dyesOf crimson, have I seen: have watched thee double—With interluded music of thine eyes—The grapes’ rotundities,Bubble by purple bubble.

Deliberate uttered into life intense,Out of thy song’s melodious eloquenceBeauty evolves its just preëminence:The lily, from some pensive-smitten chordDrawing significanceOf purity, a visible hush stands: starredWith splendor, from thy passionate utterance,The rose tells its romanceIn blushing word on word.

As star by star day harps in evening,The inspiration of all things that singIs in thy hands and from their touch takes wing:All brooks, all birds,—whom song can never sate,—Even the wind and rain,And frogs and insects, singing soon and late,Thy sympathies inspire, thy heart’s refrain,Whose sounds invigorateWith rest life’s weary brain.

And as the night, like some mysterious rune,Its beauty makes emphatic with the moon,Thou lutest us no immaterial tune:But where dim whispers haunt the cane and corn,By thy still strain made strong,Earth’s awful avatar,—in whom is bornThy own deep music,—labors all night longWith growth, assuring mornAssumes like onward song.

Long volleys of wind and of rain,And the rain on the drizzled pane,And the day ends chill and murk;But on yesterday’s eve, I trow,The new-moon’s thorn-thin bowStabbed rosy through gold and through glow,Like a rich, barbaric dirk.

The throats of the snapdragons,—Cool-colored with gold like the dawnsThat come with spring o’er the hills,—Are filled with a sweet rain, fine,Of starry, scintillant shine,A faery vat of thin wine,That the rain for the elfins fills.

Dabbled the poppies shrink,And the coxcomb and the pink;And the candytuft’s damp crownDroops, dribbled, low bowed i’ the wet;And rows of the mignonetteLittle musk-sacks open set,Which the weight o’ the dew drags down.

Stretched taunt ’twixt the blades of grass,A gossamer-fibered glass,That the garden-spider spun,The web, where the round rain clingsIn the sag o’ its middle, swings—A hammock for elfin thingsWhen the stars succeed the sun.

And, mark, where the pale gourd growsAs high as the climbing rose,How the tiger-moth is pressedTo that wide leaf’s under side.—And I know where the red wasps hide,And the brown bees,—that defiedThe first strong gusts,—distressed.

Yet I feel that the gray will blowAside for an afterglow;And the wind, on a sudden, tossDrenched boughs; a pattering showerAthwart the red dusk in a glower,Big drops heard hard on each flower,The grass and the flowering moss.

And then for a minute, may be,—A pearl, hollow-worn, of the sea,—A glimmer of moon will smile,And a star, rinsed clean, through the dusk:And a freshness of moonlit muskO’er the showery lawns blow brusqueAs spice from an Indian Isle.

My heart is high as the day is clear,As the wind in the wood that blows;My heart is high with a mood that’s cheer,And glows like a sun-blown rose.My heart is high, and up and awayLike a bird in the skies’ deep blue;My heart goes singing through the day,As glad as a bee i’ the dew.My heart, my heart is high; its beatIs wild as the scent o’ the wood,The wild sweet wind, with its pulse of heat,And its musk of blossom and bud.My heart is high; and it leads my feetWhere the sense of summer is full,To woods and waters where lovers meetTo hills where the creeks run cool.My heart is one, is one with the heart,With the joy o’ the bee that comesAnd sucks i’ the flowers, that dip apartFor his dusty body that hums.My heart is glad as the glad redstart,The flame-flecked bird, the spotted bird,Whose lilt my soul has got by heart,Fitting each note with a word.God’s love! I tread the wind and air!Am one with the hoiden wind;And the stars that swim in the blue, I swear,Right soon in my hair I’ll find.To live high up, a life o’ the mist,With the cloud-things in white skies,—With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst,—That laugh cerulean eyes!To creep and to suck, like an elfin thing,In the aching heart of a rose;In the bluebell’s ear to cling and swing,And whisper what no one knows!To live on wild-honey, as fresh, as thinAs the rain that’s left in a flower!And roll forth, golden from feet to chin,In the pollen’s Danaë-shower!Or free, bird-hearted, bend back the throat,With a vigorous look at the blue,And launch from my soul one wild, true note,Is the thing that my heart would do!God’s life! the blood o’ the earth is mine!And the mood o’ the earth I’ll take,And brim my soul with her wonderful wine,And sing till my heart doth break!

My heart is high as the day is clear,As the wind in the wood that blows;My heart is high with a mood that’s cheer,And glows like a sun-blown rose.

My heart is high, and up and awayLike a bird in the skies’ deep blue;My heart goes singing through the day,As glad as a bee i’ the dew.

My heart, my heart is high; its beatIs wild as the scent o’ the wood,The wild sweet wind, with its pulse of heat,And its musk of blossom and bud.

My heart is high; and it leads my feetWhere the sense of summer is full,To woods and waters where lovers meetTo hills where the creeks run cool.

My heart is one, is one with the heart,With the joy o’ the bee that comesAnd sucks i’ the flowers, that dip apartFor his dusty body that hums.

My heart is glad as the glad redstart,The flame-flecked bird, the spotted bird,Whose lilt my soul has got by heart,Fitting each note with a word.

God’s love! I tread the wind and air!Am one with the hoiden wind;And the stars that swim in the blue, I swear,Right soon in my hair I’ll find.

To live high up, a life o’ the mist,With the cloud-things in white skies,—With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst,—That laugh cerulean eyes!

To creep and to suck, like an elfin thing,In the aching heart of a rose;In the bluebell’s ear to cling and swing,And whisper what no one knows!

To live on wild-honey, as fresh, as thinAs the rain that’s left in a flower!And roll forth, golden from feet to chin,In the pollen’s Danaë-shower!

Or free, bird-hearted, bend back the throat,With a vigorous look at the blue,And launch from my soul one wild, true note,Is the thing that my heart would do!

God’s life! the blood o’ the earth is mine!And the mood o’ the earth I’ll take,And brim my soul with her wonderful wine,And sing till my heart doth break!

Weak winds that make the waters wink;White clouds that sail from lands of FableTo white Utopias, vague, that brinkSky-gulfs of blue unfathomable:Their rolling shadows, driftingO’er hills of forest, liftingWild peaks of purple range, that loom and sink.

Warm knolls, whereon the Summer dreams;And droning dells, where all her brightnessLies, lulled with hymns of mountain-streams’Far-foaming falls of windy whiteness:Where, from the glooming hollow,With cawing crows that follow,The hunted hawk wings wearily and screams.

Dry-buzzing heat and drought that shrillsWith one harsh locust’s lonesome whirring;No voice amid the answering hillsRecedes in echoes far-recurring;As when, with twilight wimpled,The Morning, rosy dimpled,From dewy tops called o’er responding rills.

Wan with sweet summer hangs the deepHot heaven with the high sun hearted—A great, wide bluebell bloom asleepWith golden-pistiled petals parted.—So lone, one would not startleIf from yon wood should dartleSome wildwood Dream, some Myth the wildwoods keep.

Last month, where the old log-bridge is laidO’er the woodland creek, in the belts o’ the shade,To the right and the left, pink-packed, was madeA gloaming glory of scented tangleBy the bramble roses there—that wade,High-heaped, from the banks—with many a braidThat, wilting, powdered the ruts, and swayed,To the waters beneath, loose loops of spangle;Where the breeze that blew and the beam that rayedWere murmurous-soft with the bees awrangle.

This month—’tis August—the lane that leadsTo the bramble-bridge runs waste with weeds,That bloom bright saffron, or satin seedsOf thistle-fleece blow at you, hazy:Starry the lane with the thousand bredesOf the yellow daisy, and bud-like beadsOf marigold eyes, around which speedsThe butterfly, sumptuous with mottle and lazy;Whereunder the pewee picks and pleads,On the sumach’s tassel that dips to the daisy.

All golden the spot in the noon’s gold shine,Where the yellow-bird sits with eyes like wineAnd swings and whistles; where, line on line,In coils of warmth the sunbeams nestle;Where cool by the pool (where the crawfish, fineAs a shadow’s shadow, darts dim) to mineThe wet creek-clay with their peevish whine,Come mason-hornets; and roll and wrestleWith balls of clay they carry, and twineIn hollow nests on the joists o’ the trestle.

Where the horsemint shoots through the grasses,—highOn the root-thick rivage that roofs,—a dryGray knob that bristles with pink, the sighOf crickets is heard; and the leaves’ deep bosomsAre pierced, at dusk, with a bird’s quick cry,A passing bird that twitters by:And the frogs’ grave antiphons rise and die;And here, to drink, come the wild opossums:And here, to-night, will you and ILinger and lean while the great moon blossoms.

There is a place embanked with brushThree wooded knobs beyond,Lost, in a valley, where the lushWild eglantine blows blond.Where light the dogwoods earliestTheir torches of white fires,And, bee-bewildered, east and westThe red haws build their spires.The wild crab-apples’ flowery spraysBlur through the pensive gloomA fragrant pink; and by lone waysThe close blackberries bloom.I love the spot: a shallow brookSlips from the forest, nearA cane-brake and a violet nook;Its rustling depths so clearThe minnows glimmer where they glideAbove its rocky bed:A boyhood-haunted brook, not wide,That has its sparkling headAmong the rainy hills; and dropsBy five low waterfalls—Wild music of a hundred stops—Between the forests’ walls:Down to a water-gate, that hangsAcross the stream; a dullPortcullis rude, whose wooden fangsThe moss makes beautiful.The brass-bright dragonflies aboutIts seeding grasses swim;The streaked wasps, worrying in and out,Dart sleepily and slim.Here in the moon-gold moss, that glowsLike pools of moonlight, diesThe pale anemone; and blowsThe bluet, blue as skies.And, where in April tenderlyThe wild geranium madeA thin, peculiar fragrance, we,Cool in pellucid shade,Found wild strawberries just a-bud;Wild berries, tart and fresh,—Pale scarlet as a wood-bird’s blood,—That May’s low vines would mesh.Once from that hill a farm-house ’midDeep orchards—cozy brown,—In lilacs and old roses hid,—With picket-fence looked down.O’er ruins now the roses guard;The plum and seckel-pearAnd apricot rot on the swardTheir wasted ripeness there.Again when huckleberries blowTheir waxen bells I’ll treadThat dear accustomed way; and goAdown that orchard; ledTo that avoided spot, which seemsThe haunt of vanished springs;Lost as the hills in drowsy dreamsOf visionary things.

There is a place embanked with brushThree wooded knobs beyond,Lost, in a valley, where the lushWild eglantine blows blond.

Where light the dogwoods earliestTheir torches of white fires,And, bee-bewildered, east and westThe red haws build their spires.

The wild crab-apples’ flowery spraysBlur through the pensive gloomA fragrant pink; and by lone waysThe close blackberries bloom.

I love the spot: a shallow brookSlips from the forest, nearA cane-brake and a violet nook;Its rustling depths so clearThe minnows glimmer where they glideAbove its rocky bed:A boyhood-haunted brook, not wide,That has its sparkling head

Among the rainy hills; and dropsBy five low waterfalls—Wild music of a hundred stops—Between the forests’ walls:

Down to a water-gate, that hangsAcross the stream; a dullPortcullis rude, whose wooden fangsThe moss makes beautiful.

The brass-bright dragonflies aboutIts seeding grasses swim;The streaked wasps, worrying in and out,Dart sleepily and slim.

Here in the moon-gold moss, that glowsLike pools of moonlight, diesThe pale anemone; and blowsThe bluet, blue as skies.

And, where in April tenderlyThe wild geranium madeA thin, peculiar fragrance, we,Cool in pellucid shade,

Found wild strawberries just a-bud;Wild berries, tart and fresh,—Pale scarlet as a wood-bird’s blood,—That May’s low vines would mesh.

Once from that hill a farm-house ’midDeep orchards—cozy brown,—In lilacs and old roses hid,—With picket-fence looked down.

O’er ruins now the roses guard;The plum and seckel-pearAnd apricot rot on the swardTheir wasted ripeness there.

Again when huckleberries blowTheir waxen bells I’ll treadThat dear accustomed way; and goAdown that orchard; led

To that avoided spot, which seemsThe haunt of vanished springs;Lost as the hills in drowsy dreamsOf visionary things.

Here on this jutting headland, where the treesSpread a dusk carpet for the sun to castAnd count his golden guineas on, we’ll rest.Behold th’ Ohio Falls: see how it seethes!Though hardly heard from this high, wooded point,Yet how it still confuses tongue and earWith its subdued and low monotonous roar!Not as it did, however, when we stoodAnd marked it from the spanning of the bridgeRushing beneath, impetuous as a herd,—A tameless herd, with manes of flying spray,—Between the pillars towering above.No more does it confound us and confuse;Its clamor here is softened to a sound,Incessant and subdued, like that which hauntsThe groves of spring, when, like some dim surprise,A wind, precursor of the rain, rides downFrom a gray cloud and sets the leafy tonguesCool-gossiping of the approaching shower.There runs the dam; and where its dark line cutsThe river’s sheen, already you may seeThe ripples glancing to the summer sun,As if a host had couched a thousand spearsAnd tossed a thousand plumes of fleecy foam,In answer to the challenge of the Falls,Blown from his limestone battlements, and criedFrom his wave-builded city’s roaring walls.And there, you see, the waves like champions charge;Crowding, wild form on form, their foam-hoofs beatThe ragged rocks that roll them on their way:Billowing they come; knight-like, to ringing lists,With shout on shout, tossing a thousand plumes,A thousand spears in sparkling tournament;Lifting, opposing each, a silvery shieldOr shining pennon, now that sinks or soars,And many a glittering sword of twinkling foam,And many a helmet, shattered in flakes of froth,That, to the trumpeting wind, hisses away:While, o’er it all, swell out the rush and roarOf onset, as of battle borne afar.—On, on they come, a beautiful, mad troop!On, on, along the sandy banks that flingRed pebble-freckled arms far out to stayTheir ruinous rush, the knightly strife of waves,Warring, and winding wild their watery horns.Look, where a thousand oily eddies whirl,And turn and turn like wheels of liquid steelBelow this headland! ’Tis a place that noneHas bottomed yet with sounding lead and line.Like some huge kraken, coiling vast its length,The Eddy sleeps; and, bending from the shores,The spotted sycamores have gazed and gazed,Watching its slumber as gray giants mightA dragon in the hollow of gaunt hills,Its serpent bulk wound round some magic hoard.So long they’ve watched, their ancient backs have grownHumped, gnarled, and bent, but still they gaze and gaze,Leaning above; and from the glassy wavesTheir images stare back their wonderment.Haply they see the guardian Genius lieAt the dark bottom in an oozy caveOf coral; webbed, recumbent on his maceOf mineral; his locks of dripping greenCircling a crown of ore; his fishy eyesDull with the aqueous dullness of his realms.But when the storm’s abroad and whips the wavesWith stinging lashes of the myriad rain,Or scars with thunder some ancestral oak,Sire of a forest, then he wakes in wrath,And on the dark foundation of the streamRises, a monarch, crowned with iron crown,And hurls his challenge upward at the storm,And rages through the waters; heaves and breaksThrough the wild waves, whose round and murky bulks,Ribbed white with foam, wallow their monster way,Like giant herds, along yon edge of rockO’erstrewn with petrifactions of far time;Mollusk and trilobite and honeycombOf whitest coral; and with mass on massOf root-like reptiles; writhings turned to rock;Huge saurian bulks that, haply, sported there,Convolved; and, in a moment, when the change,—Which made and unmade continents and seas,That teemed and groaned with mammoth and plesiosaur,—Came, with upheaval of the universe,Thro’ all their monster spines were struck to stone.There where uprises a wild knoll, o’erstrewnWith wrecks of ancient forest, in mid-streamOnce rose an island, green and beautifulWith willow and beech, poplar and sycamore;A river-island where the woodman built,—Stream-guarded from the savage-haunted shore,—His rude log cabin. Here he sowed his maize;Here saw it tassel in the summer heat,And glance like ranks of feathered Indians throughThe glimmering vistas of the broken wood;Here reaped and sheaved its stalks, all ivory-eared,In shocks like wigwam rows, when like a maid,An Indian maid, ruddy in dogwood beads,The autumn came, soft o’er the sunset hills,That blushed for love, and underneath her feetCast untold gold in leaves and yellow fruit.Here dwelt the pioneer and here he died,And mingled his rough dust with the raw earthAnd loam of what was once an island; nowA bed of limestone rock and water pools,—Where, in the quarry, you may see the blastSpout heavenward the dust and dirt and stone,And flap and pound its echoes round the hillsIn giant strokes as of some Titan hammer;—A mound of stump-pierced soil where once an isle,—As rich and fair in forest and in fieldAs any isle that rises to a sailIn tropic seas,—arose to kiss the sun.There lies the other half of what was onceCorn Island: broad the channel beats between.Lower it lies, and mantled with dwarf brakesOf willow and of cottonwood and beech,Degenerate offsprings of the mighty bolesThat once o’erbrowed the stream in majestyOf tall primeval beauty. In the morn,Ere yet the east assumes its faintest blush,Here you may hear the melancholy snipePiping, or see her paddling in the poolsThat splash the low bed of the rocky soil.Here once the Indian stole in natural craftFrom wahoo-bush to bush, from tree to tree,His head plumes like a bird, below, above,Fluttering and nodding ’mid the undergrowth;In his brown hand the pliant, polished bow,And at his back his gaudy quiver filledWith tufted arrows headed blue with flint.And while the deep flamingo-colored westFlamed on his ruddy cheek, and airy fireStruck rosy ’thwart the stream, he, swift as thought,Strung his quick bow and through the gray wild goose,That rose with clamor from the rushy pool,Sent a fleet arrow; crested with the quillsWhich yesterday, perhaps, its mate’s gray wingMade beautiful; and plucked to decorateThe painted shaft that should to-day speed homeAnd redden all their white with kindred blood:It falling, gasping at his moccasined feet,Breathed out its wild life, while the lonely braveWhooped to the sunset, and yon faint blue hillsAnswered his exultation with a whoop.

Look, where a thousand oily eddies whirl,And turn and turn like wheels of liquid steelBelow this headland! ’Tis a place that noneHas bottomed yet with sounding lead and line.Like some huge kraken, coiling vast its length,The Eddy sleeps; and, bending from the shores,The spotted sycamores have gazed and gazed,Watching its slumber as gray giants mightA dragon in the hollow of gaunt hills,Its serpent bulk wound round some magic hoard.So long they’ve watched, their ancient backs have grownHumped, gnarled, and bent, but still they gaze and gaze,Leaning above; and from the glassy wavesTheir images stare back their wonderment.Haply they see the guardian Genius lieAt the dark bottom in an oozy caveOf coral; webbed, recumbent on his maceOf mineral; his locks of dripping greenCircling a crown of ore; his fishy eyesDull with the aqueous dullness of his realms.But when the storm’s abroad and whips the wavesWith stinging lashes of the myriad rain,Or scars with thunder some ancestral oak,Sire of a forest, then he wakes in wrath,And on the dark foundation of the streamRises, a monarch, crowned with iron crown,And hurls his challenge upward at the storm,And rages through the waters; heaves and breaksThrough the wild waves, whose round and murky bulks,Ribbed white with foam, wallow their monster way,Like giant herds, along yon edge of rockO’erstrewn with petrifactions of far time;Mollusk and trilobite and honeycombOf whitest coral; and with mass on massOf root-like reptiles; writhings turned to rock;Huge saurian bulks that, haply, sported there,Convolved; and, in a moment, when the change,—Which made and unmade continents and seas,That teemed and groaned with mammoth and plesiosaur,—Came, with upheaval of the universe,Thro’ all their monster spines were struck to stone.

There where uprises a wild knoll, o’erstrewnWith wrecks of ancient forest, in mid-streamOnce rose an island, green and beautifulWith willow and beech, poplar and sycamore;A river-island where the woodman built,—Stream-guarded from the savage-haunted shore,—His rude log cabin. Here he sowed his maize;Here saw it tassel in the summer heat,And glance like ranks of feathered Indians throughThe glimmering vistas of the broken wood;Here reaped and sheaved its stalks, all ivory-eared,In shocks like wigwam rows, when like a maid,An Indian maid, ruddy in dogwood beads,The autumn came, soft o’er the sunset hills,That blushed for love, and underneath her feetCast untold gold in leaves and yellow fruit.Here dwelt the pioneer and here he died,And mingled his rough dust with the raw earthAnd loam of what was once an island; nowA bed of limestone rock and water pools,—Where, in the quarry, you may see the blastSpout heavenward the dust and dirt and stone,And flap and pound its echoes round the hillsIn giant strokes as of some Titan hammer;—A mound of stump-pierced soil where once an isle,—As rich and fair in forest and in fieldAs any isle that rises to a sailIn tropic seas,—arose to kiss the sun.

There lies the other half of what was onceCorn Island: broad the channel beats between.Lower it lies, and mantled with dwarf brakesOf willow and of cottonwood and beech,Degenerate offsprings of the mighty bolesThat once o’erbrowed the stream in majestyOf tall primeval beauty. In the morn,Ere yet the east assumes its faintest blush,Here you may hear the melancholy snipePiping, or see her paddling in the poolsThat splash the low bed of the rocky soil.

Here once the Indian stole in natural craftFrom wahoo-bush to bush, from tree to tree,His head plumes like a bird, below, above,Fluttering and nodding ’mid the undergrowth;In his brown hand the pliant, polished bow,And at his back his gaudy quiver filledWith tufted arrows headed blue with flint.And while the deep flamingo-colored westFlamed on his ruddy cheek, and airy fireStruck rosy ’thwart the stream, he, swift as thought,Strung his quick bow and through the gray wild goose,That rose with clamor from the rushy pool,Sent a fleet arrow; crested with the quillsWhich yesterday, perhaps, its mate’s gray wingMade beautiful; and plucked to decorateThe painted shaft that should to-day speed homeAnd redden all their white with kindred blood:It falling, gasping at his moccasined feet,Breathed out its wild life, while the lonely braveWhooped to the sunset, and yon faint blue hillsAnswered his exultation with a whoop.

1885.

Far off a wind blew, and I heardWild echoes of the woods reply—The herald of some royal word,With bannered trumpet, blown on high,Meseemed, then passed me by:Who summoned marvels there to meet,In pomp, upon a cloth of gold;Where berries of the bitter-sweet,That, splitting, showed the coals they hold,Sowed garnets through the wold:Where, under tents of maples, seedsOf smooth carnelian, oval red,The spice-bush spangled: where, like beads,The dogwood’s rounded rubies—fedWith fire—blazed and bled.And there I saw amid the routOf months, in richness cavalier,A minnesinger—lips apout;A gypsy face; straight as a spear;A rose stuck in his ear:Eyes, sparkling like old German wine,All mirth and moonlight; naught to spareOf slender beard, that lent a lineUnto his lip; October there,With chestnut curling hair.His blue baretta swept its plumeWhite through the leaves; his purple hose,Puffed at the thighs, made gleam of gloom;His tawny doublet, slashed with rose,And laced with crimson bows,Outshone the wahoo’s scarlet pride,The haw, in rich vermilion dressed:A dagger dangling at his side,A slim lute, banded to his breast,Whereon his hands did rest,I saw him come.... And, lo, to hearThe lilt of his approaching lute,No wonder that the regnant YearBent down her beauty, blushing mute,Her heart beneath his foot.

Far off a wind blew, and I heardWild echoes of the woods reply—The herald of some royal word,With bannered trumpet, blown on high,Meseemed, then passed me by:

Who summoned marvels there to meet,In pomp, upon a cloth of gold;Where berries of the bitter-sweet,That, splitting, showed the coals they hold,Sowed garnets through the wold:

Where, under tents of maples, seedsOf smooth carnelian, oval red,The spice-bush spangled: where, like beads,The dogwood’s rounded rubies—fedWith fire—blazed and bled.

And there I saw amid the routOf months, in richness cavalier,A minnesinger—lips apout;A gypsy face; straight as a spear;A rose stuck in his ear:

Eyes, sparkling like old German wine,All mirth and moonlight; naught to spareOf slender beard, that lent a lineUnto his lip; October there,With chestnut curling hair.

His blue baretta swept its plumeWhite through the leaves; his purple hose,Puffed at the thighs, made gleam of gloom;His tawny doublet, slashed with rose,And laced with crimson bows,

Outshone the wahoo’s scarlet pride,The haw, in rich vermilion dressed:A dagger dangling at his side,A slim lute, banded to his breast,Whereon his hands did rest,

I saw him come.... And, lo, to hearThe lilt of his approaching lute,No wonder that the regnant YearBent down her beauty, blushing mute,Her heart beneath his foot.

Bulged from its cup the dark brown acorn falls,And by its gnarly saucer, in the stream’sClear puddles, swells; the sweet-gum’s spike-crowned ballsBeside them lie; and, opening all their seams,Beneath the chestnut-tree the hurry hullsSplit, and, within, each nut like copper gleams.Burst silver white, nods,—an exploded huskOf snowy, woolly smoke,—the milk-weed’s puffAlong the orchard’s fence; where in the duskAnd ashen weeds,—as some grim Satyr’s roughRed, breezy cheeks burn through his beard,—the brusqueCrab-apples glow, wind-tumbled from above.And under withered leaves the crickets’ clicksSeem some dim dirge sighed into memory’s ears;One bird sits in the sumach, flits and picksIts sour seeds. Thro’ all the wood one hearsThe dropping hickories. Round the hay’s railed ricks,Among the fields, gather the lowing steers.Some slim, bud-bound Leimoniad hath flocked,Like birds, the flowers, herding from their homesTo warmer woods and skies. Where once were rockedUnnumbered bees within unnumbered blooms,One feeble bee clings to one bloom, or, lockedWithin it, dreams of summer’s oozing combs.Winds shake the maples, and all suddenlyA storm of leafy stars around you freaks,—Some Dryad’s tattered raiment. To her kneeWading, the Naiad haunts her stream that streaksThrough woodland waifs. Hark! Pan for HelikeFlutes in the forest, while he seeks and seeks.

Burst silver white, nods,—an exploded huskOf snowy, woolly smoke,—the milk-weed’s puffAlong the orchard’s fence; where in the duskAnd ashen weeds,—as some grim Satyr’s roughRed, breezy cheeks burn through his beard,—the brusqueCrab-apples glow, wind-tumbled from above.

And under withered leaves the crickets’ clicksSeem some dim dirge sighed into memory’s ears;One bird sits in the sumach, flits and picksIts sour seeds. Thro’ all the wood one hearsThe dropping hickories. Round the hay’s railed ricks,Among the fields, gather the lowing steers.

Some slim, bud-bound Leimoniad hath flocked,Like birds, the flowers, herding from their homesTo warmer woods and skies. Where once were rockedUnnumbered bees within unnumbered blooms,One feeble bee clings to one bloom, or, lockedWithin it, dreams of summer’s oozing combs.

Winds shake the maples, and all suddenlyA storm of leafy stars around you freaks,—Some Dryad’s tattered raiment. To her kneeWading, the Naiad haunts her stream that streaksThrough woodland waifs. Hark! Pan for HelikeFlutes in the forest, while he seeks and seeks.

The hoar frost crisps beneath the feet;And, sparkling in the morning’s strength,The fence, along its straggling length,Gleams as if wrought of virgin sleet.On broom-sedge fields and sassafrasNeglectfully the dim wind liftsThe dead leaves; and around me driftsThe milkweed, shaken from the grass.Reluctantly and one by oneThe useless leaves drift slowly down;And, seen through woodland vistas, brownThe nut-tree patters in the sun.Where pools the brook beneath its fallWith scales of ice its edge is bound;And on the pebbles scattered roundThe ooze is frozen; each a ball,It seems, of crystal fallen there.And now the wind sweeps through the woodWith sighings, and the solitudeSeems shaken with a mighty care.Decay and melancholy drapeThe near-by hills in mysteriesOf mist, through which the rocks and treesLoom, hazy, each a phantom shape.To sullenness the surly crowAll his derisive being yields,And o’er the barren stubble-fieldsFlaps, cawless, wrapped in hungry woe.

The hoar frost crisps beneath the feet;And, sparkling in the morning’s strength,The fence, along its straggling length,Gleams as if wrought of virgin sleet.

On broom-sedge fields and sassafrasNeglectfully the dim wind liftsThe dead leaves; and around me driftsThe milkweed, shaken from the grass.

Reluctantly and one by oneThe useless leaves drift slowly down;And, seen through woodland vistas, brownThe nut-tree patters in the sun.

Where pools the brook beneath its fallWith scales of ice its edge is bound;And on the pebbles scattered roundThe ooze is frozen; each a ball,

It seems, of crystal fallen there.And now the wind sweeps through the woodWith sighings, and the solitudeSeems shaken with a mighty care.

Decay and melancholy drapeThe near-by hills in mysteriesOf mist, through which the rocks and treesLoom, hazy, each a phantom shape.

To sullenness the surly crowAll his derisive being yields,And o’er the barren stubble-fieldsFlaps, cawless, wrapped in hungry woe.

As eve comes on the teasel stoopsIts spike-crowned cone before the blast:The tattered leaves drive whirling pastIn frantic and fantastic troops.The matted elder-copses sigh;Their broad, blue combs, with berries weighed,Like heavy pendulums are swayedWith every gust that wanders by.Through broken walls of tangled brier,That hedge the lane, the sumachs thrustTheir scarlet torches, red as rust,Lit with the sunset’s stolid fire.The eve is here: Cold, hard, and drearThe cloudless west with livid whiteOf flaming silver walls the nightFar as one star’s thin rays appear.Wedged ’thwart the west’s white luridnessThe wild geese wing; from roseless domesThe far “honk” of the leader comesLonely and harsh and colorless.The west dies down; and in its cup,Shadow on shadow, pours the night;The east glows with a mystic light;The stars are keen; the moon comes up.

As eve comes on the teasel stoopsIts spike-crowned cone before the blast:The tattered leaves drive whirling pastIn frantic and fantastic troops.

The matted elder-copses sigh;Their broad, blue combs, with berries weighed,Like heavy pendulums are swayedWith every gust that wanders by.

Through broken walls of tangled brier,That hedge the lane, the sumachs thrustTheir scarlet torches, red as rust,Lit with the sunset’s stolid fire.

The eve is here: Cold, hard, and drearThe cloudless west with livid whiteOf flaming silver walls the nightFar as one star’s thin rays appear.

Wedged ’thwart the west’s white luridnessThe wild geese wing; from roseless domesThe far “honk” of the leader comesLonely and harsh and colorless.

The west dies down; and in its cup,Shadow on shadow, pours the night;The east glows with a mystic light;The stars are keen; the moon comes up.

On hills, beneath the steely skies,The wind-tossed forests rock and roar:Along the river’s ringing shoreHomeward the skimming skater flies.On windy meads of icy brakes,Where, sheathed in sleet, the haw-tree stands,The moon looks down on glistening lands,Where with the cold each bramble shakes.Last night the sleet made white the world:All day the wind moaned in the pines:Now like a wolf, that whines and whines,Like some wild wolf its hate is hurledAgainst the hut upon the wold,And the one willow by the stream:Where, huddled, in the moon’s chill gleam,The houseless hare leaps through the cold.The moon sinks low, the thin new-moon,And with it, like a bit of spar,Sinks down the large white evening-star,Beneath which earth seems crystal-hewn.Slim o’er the tree-tops, weighed with white,The country church’s spire doth swell,A scintillating icicle;While fitfully the village lightStabs, stains with sallow stars the dark:Homeward the creaking wagons strain:The smithy glares: the tavern’s vanePoints northward in its ghostly sark.And from the north, with stinging lash,Driving his herds of snow and sleet,Upon his steed of wind, whose feetHurl through the iron woods and crashAlong the hills, with blow on blow,The tempest sweeps; before his shoutThe moon and stars are blotted out,And fold on fold rolls down the snow.

On hills, beneath the steely skies,The wind-tossed forests rock and roar:Along the river’s ringing shoreHomeward the skimming skater flies.

On windy meads of icy brakes,Where, sheathed in sleet, the haw-tree stands,The moon looks down on glistening lands,Where with the cold each bramble shakes.

Last night the sleet made white the world:All day the wind moaned in the pines:Now like a wolf, that whines and whines,Like some wild wolf its hate is hurled

Against the hut upon the wold,And the one willow by the stream:Where, huddled, in the moon’s chill gleam,The houseless hare leaps through the cold.

The moon sinks low, the thin new-moon,And with it, like a bit of spar,Sinks down the large white evening-star,Beneath which earth seems crystal-hewn.

Slim o’er the tree-tops, weighed with white,The country church’s spire doth swell,A scintillating icicle;While fitfully the village light

Stabs, stains with sallow stars the dark:Homeward the creaking wagons strain:The smithy glares: the tavern’s vanePoints northward in its ghostly sark.

And from the north, with stinging lash,Driving his herds of snow and sleet,Upon his steed of wind, whose feetHurl through the iron woods and crash

Along the hills, with blow on blow,The tempest sweeps; before his shoutThe moon and stars are blotted out,And fold on fold rolls down the snow.

My thoughts have borne me far awayTo beauties of an older day,Where, crowned with roses, stands the Dawn,Striking her seven-stringed barbitonOf flame, whose chords give being toThe seven colors, hue for hue;The music of the color-dreamShe builds the day from, beam by beam.My thoughts have borne me far awayTo myths of a diviner day,Where, sitting on the mountain, NoonSings to the pines a sun-soaked tuneOf rest and shade and clouds and skies,Wherein her calm dreams idealizeLight as a presence, heavenly fair,Sleeping with all her beauty bare.My thoughts have borne me far awayTo visions of a wiser day,Where, stealing through the wilderness,Night walks, a sad-eyed votaress,And prays with mystic words she hearsBehind the thunder of the spheres,The starry utterance that is hersWith which she fills the universe.

My thoughts have borne me far awayTo myths of a diviner day,Where, sitting on the mountain, NoonSings to the pines a sun-soaked tuneOf rest and shade and clouds and skies,Wherein her calm dreams idealizeLight as a presence, heavenly fair,Sleeping with all her beauty bare.

My thoughts have borne me far awayTo visions of a wiser day,Where, stealing through the wilderness,Night walks, a sad-eyed votaress,And prays with mystic words she hearsBehind the thunder of the spheres,The starry utterance that is hersWith which she fills the universe.

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