When late at night the owlet hoots,And hoots, and hoots;And wild winds make of keyholes flutes:When to the door the goodman’s bootsStamp through the snow the light strains red,The firelight’s red;There is nothing to do, and all is said,And you quaff your cider and go to bedAnd dream of the summer, dearie.
When late at night the owlet hoots,And hoots, and hoots;And wild winds make of keyholes flutes:When to the door the goodman’s bootsStamp through the snow the light strains red,The firelight’s red;There is nothing to do, and all is said,And you quaff your cider and go to bedAnd dream of the summer, dearie.
When late at night the owlet hoots,And hoots, and hoots;And wild winds make of keyholes flutes:When to the door the goodman’s bootsStamp through the snow the light strains red,The firelight’s red;There is nothing to do, and all is said,And you quaff your cider and go to bedAnd dream of the summer, dearie.
When, nearing dawn, the black cock crows,And crows, and crows;And from the barn the milch-cow lows:And the milkmaid’s cheeks have each a rose,And the still skies show a star or two,Or one or two;There is little to say, and much to do,And the heartier done the happier you,With a song of the winter, dearie.
When, nearing dawn, the black cock crows,And crows, and crows;And from the barn the milch-cow lows:And the milkmaid’s cheeks have each a rose,And the still skies show a star or two,Or one or two;There is little to say, and much to do,And the heartier done the happier you,With a song of the winter, dearie.
When, nearing dawn, the black cock crows,And crows, and crows;And from the barn the milch-cow lows:And the milkmaid’s cheeks have each a rose,And the still skies show a star or two,Or one or two;There is little to say, and much to do,And the heartier done the happier you,With a song of the winter, dearie.
How does the Autumn in her mind concludeThe tragic masque her frosty pencil writes,Broad on the pages of the days and nights,In burning lines of orchard, wold, and wood?What lonelier forms—that at the year’s door stoodAt spectral wait—with wildly wasted lightsShall enter? and with melancholy ritesInaugurate their sadder sisterhood?—Sorrow, who lifts a signal hand, and slowThe green leaf fevers, falling ere it dies;Regret, whose pale lips summon: and gaunt WoeWakes the wild wind-harps with sonorous sighs;And Sleep, who sits with poppied eyes and seesThe earth and sky grow dream-accessories.
How does the Autumn in her mind concludeThe tragic masque her frosty pencil writes,Broad on the pages of the days and nights,In burning lines of orchard, wold, and wood?What lonelier forms—that at the year’s door stoodAt spectral wait—with wildly wasted lightsShall enter? and with melancholy ritesInaugurate their sadder sisterhood?—Sorrow, who lifts a signal hand, and slowThe green leaf fevers, falling ere it dies;Regret, whose pale lips summon: and gaunt WoeWakes the wild wind-harps with sonorous sighs;And Sleep, who sits with poppied eyes and seesThe earth and sky grow dream-accessories.
How does the Autumn in her mind concludeThe tragic masque her frosty pencil writes,Broad on the pages of the days and nights,In burning lines of orchard, wold, and wood?What lonelier forms—that at the year’s door stoodAt spectral wait—with wildly wasted lightsShall enter? and with melancholy ritesInaugurate their sadder sisterhood?—Sorrow, who lifts a signal hand, and slowThe green leaf fevers, falling ere it dies;Regret, whose pale lips summon: and gaunt WoeWakes the wild wind-harps with sonorous sighs;And Sleep, who sits with poppied eyes and seesThe earth and sky grow dream-accessories.
The frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring,Year after year, about the forest tossed,The magic touch of the enchanter, Frost,Back from the Heaven of the Flow’rs doth bring;Each branch and bush in silence visitingWith phantom beauty of its blooms long lost:Each dead weed bends, white-haunted of its ghost,Each dead flower stands ghostly with blossoming.This is the wonder-legend Nature tellsTo the gray moon and mist a winter’s night;The fairy-tale which from her fancy wellsWith all the glamour of her soul’s delight:Before the summoning sorcery of her eyesRising, as might a dream materialize.
The frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring,Year after year, about the forest tossed,The magic touch of the enchanter, Frost,Back from the Heaven of the Flow’rs doth bring;Each branch and bush in silence visitingWith phantom beauty of its blooms long lost:Each dead weed bends, white-haunted of its ghost,Each dead flower stands ghostly with blossoming.This is the wonder-legend Nature tellsTo the gray moon and mist a winter’s night;The fairy-tale which from her fancy wellsWith all the glamour of her soul’s delight:Before the summoning sorcery of her eyesRising, as might a dream materialize.
The frail eidolons of all blossoms Spring,Year after year, about the forest tossed,The magic touch of the enchanter, Frost,Back from the Heaven of the Flow’rs doth bring;Each branch and bush in silence visitingWith phantom beauty of its blooms long lost:Each dead weed bends, white-haunted of its ghost,Each dead flower stands ghostly with blossoming.This is the wonder-legend Nature tellsTo the gray moon and mist a winter’s night;The fairy-tale which from her fancy wellsWith all the glamour of her soul’s delight:Before the summoning sorcery of her eyesRising, as might a dream materialize.
A mist that froze beneath the moon and shookMinutest frosty crystals in the air.All night the wind was still as lonely CareWho sighs before her shivering inglenook.The face of Winter wore a cruder lookThan when he shakes the icicles from his hair,And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stareFreeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook.He is the despot now who sits and dreamsOf desolation and despair, and smilesAt poverty, who hath no place to rest,Who wanders o’er Life’s snow-made-pathless miles,And sees the Home-of-Comfort’s window gleams,Hugging her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.
A mist that froze beneath the moon and shookMinutest frosty crystals in the air.All night the wind was still as lonely CareWho sighs before her shivering inglenook.The face of Winter wore a cruder lookThan when he shakes the icicles from his hair,And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stareFreeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook.He is the despot now who sits and dreamsOf desolation and despair, and smilesAt poverty, who hath no place to rest,Who wanders o’er Life’s snow-made-pathless miles,And sees the Home-of-Comfort’s window gleams,Hugging her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.
A mist that froze beneath the moon and shookMinutest frosty crystals in the air.All night the wind was still as lonely CareWho sighs before her shivering inglenook.The face of Winter wore a cruder lookThan when he shakes the icicles from his hair,And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stareFreeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook.He is the despot now who sits and dreamsOf desolation and despair, and smilesAt poverty, who hath no place to rest,Who wanders o’er Life’s snow-made-pathless miles,And sees the Home-of-Comfort’s window gleams,Hugging her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.
Deep in the dell I watched her as she rose,A face of icy fire, o’er the hills;With snow-sad eyes that froze the forest rills,And snow-sad feet that bleached the meadow snows:Pale as some young witch who, a-listening, goesTo her first meeting with the Fiend; whose fearsFix demon eyes behind each bush she nears;Stops, yet must on, fearful of following foes.And so I chased her, startled in the woodLike a discovered oread, who fliesThe faun who found her sleeping, each nude limbGlittering betrayal through the solitude;Till in a frosty cloud I saw her swimLike a drowned face, a blur beneath the ice.
Deep in the dell I watched her as she rose,A face of icy fire, o’er the hills;With snow-sad eyes that froze the forest rills,And snow-sad feet that bleached the meadow snows:Pale as some young witch who, a-listening, goesTo her first meeting with the Fiend; whose fearsFix demon eyes behind each bush she nears;Stops, yet must on, fearful of following foes.And so I chased her, startled in the woodLike a discovered oread, who fliesThe faun who found her sleeping, each nude limbGlittering betrayal through the solitude;Till in a frosty cloud I saw her swimLike a drowned face, a blur beneath the ice.
Deep in the dell I watched her as she rose,A face of icy fire, o’er the hills;With snow-sad eyes that froze the forest rills,And snow-sad feet that bleached the meadow snows:Pale as some young witch who, a-listening, goesTo her first meeting with the Fiend; whose fearsFix demon eyes behind each bush she nears;Stops, yet must on, fearful of following foes.And so I chased her, startled in the woodLike a discovered oread, who fliesThe faun who found her sleeping, each nude limbGlittering betrayal through the solitude;Till in a frosty cloud I saw her swimLike a drowned face, a blur beneath the ice.
Ten-thousand deep the drifted daisies breakHere at the hill’s foot; on its top, the wheatHangs meagre-bearded; and, in vague retreat,The wisp-like blooms of the moth-mulleins shake.And where the wild-pink drops a crimson flake,And morning-glories, like young lips, make sweetThe shadowed hush, low in the honeyed heat,The wild-bees hum—as if afraid to wakeOne sleeping here, with no white stone to tellIf it be youth or maiden. Just the stemOf one wild rose, towering o’er brier and weed,Where all the day the wild-birds requiem;Within whose shade the timid violets spellAn epitaph, the stars alone can read.
Ten-thousand deep the drifted daisies breakHere at the hill’s foot; on its top, the wheatHangs meagre-bearded; and, in vague retreat,The wisp-like blooms of the moth-mulleins shake.And where the wild-pink drops a crimson flake,And morning-glories, like young lips, make sweetThe shadowed hush, low in the honeyed heat,The wild-bees hum—as if afraid to wakeOne sleeping here, with no white stone to tellIf it be youth or maiden. Just the stemOf one wild rose, towering o’er brier and weed,Where all the day the wild-birds requiem;Within whose shade the timid violets spellAn epitaph, the stars alone can read.
Ten-thousand deep the drifted daisies breakHere at the hill’s foot; on its top, the wheatHangs meagre-bearded; and, in vague retreat,The wisp-like blooms of the moth-mulleins shake.And where the wild-pink drops a crimson flake,And morning-glories, like young lips, make sweetThe shadowed hush, low in the honeyed heat,The wild-bees hum—as if afraid to wakeOne sleeping here, with no white stone to tellIf it be youth or maiden. Just the stemOf one wild rose, towering o’er brier and weed,Where all the day the wild-birds requiem;Within whose shade the timid violets spellAn epitaph, the stars alone can read.
There, from its entrance, lost in matted vines,—Where in the valley foams a waterfall,—Is glimpsed a ruined mill’s remaining wall;Here, by the road, the black-eyed Susan minesHot brass and bronze; the trumpet-trailer shinesRed as the plumage of the cardinal.Faint from the forest comes the rain-crow’s callWhere dusty Summer dreams among the pines.This is the spot where Spring writes wildflower versesIn primrose pink, while, drowsing o’er his reins,The ploughman, all unnoticing, plods along:And where the Autumn opens weedy pursesOf sleepy silver, while the corn-piled wainsRumble the bridge like some deep throat of song.
There, from its entrance, lost in matted vines,—Where in the valley foams a waterfall,—Is glimpsed a ruined mill’s remaining wall;Here, by the road, the black-eyed Susan minesHot brass and bronze; the trumpet-trailer shinesRed as the plumage of the cardinal.Faint from the forest comes the rain-crow’s callWhere dusty Summer dreams among the pines.This is the spot where Spring writes wildflower versesIn primrose pink, while, drowsing o’er his reins,The ploughman, all unnoticing, plods along:And where the Autumn opens weedy pursesOf sleepy silver, while the corn-piled wainsRumble the bridge like some deep throat of song.
There, from its entrance, lost in matted vines,—Where in the valley foams a waterfall,—Is glimpsed a ruined mill’s remaining wall;Here, by the road, the black-eyed Susan minesHot brass and bronze; the trumpet-trailer shinesRed as the plumage of the cardinal.Faint from the forest comes the rain-crow’s callWhere dusty Summer dreams among the pines.This is the spot where Spring writes wildflower versesIn primrose pink, while, drowsing o’er his reins,The ploughman, all unnoticing, plods along:And where the Autumn opens weedy pursesOf sleepy silver, while the corn-piled wainsRumble the bridge like some deep throat of song.
Calling, the heron flies athwart the blueThat sleeps above it; reach on rocky reachOf water sings by sycamore and beech,In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.It is a page whereon the sun and dewScrawl sparkling words in dawn’s delicious speech;A laboratory where the wood-winds teach,Dissect each scent and analyze each hue.Not otherwise than beautiful, doth itRecord the happenings of each summer day;Where we may read, as in a catalogue,When passed a thresher; when a load of hay;Or when a rabbit; or a bird, that lit;And now a barefoot truant and his dog.
Calling, the heron flies athwart the blueThat sleeps above it; reach on rocky reachOf water sings by sycamore and beech,In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.It is a page whereon the sun and dewScrawl sparkling words in dawn’s delicious speech;A laboratory where the wood-winds teach,Dissect each scent and analyze each hue.Not otherwise than beautiful, doth itRecord the happenings of each summer day;Where we may read, as in a catalogue,When passed a thresher; when a load of hay;Or when a rabbit; or a bird, that lit;And now a barefoot truant and his dog.
Calling, the heron flies athwart the blueThat sleeps above it; reach on rocky reachOf water sings by sycamore and beech,In whose warm shade bloom lilies not a few.It is a page whereon the sun and dewScrawl sparkling words in dawn’s delicious speech;A laboratory where the wood-winds teach,Dissect each scent and analyze each hue.Not otherwise than beautiful, doth itRecord the happenings of each summer day;Where we may read, as in a catalogue,When passed a thresher; when a load of hay;Or when a rabbit; or a bird, that lit;And now a barefoot truant and his dog.
The hornets build in plaster dropping rooms,And on its mossy porch the lizard lies;Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies,And on its roof the locusts snow their blooms.Like some sad thought that broods here, old perfumesHaunt its dim stairs; the cautious zephyr triesEach gusty door, like some dead hand, then sighsWith ghostly lips among the attic glooms.And now a heron, now a kingfisher,Flits in the willows where the riffle seemsAt each faint fall to hesitate to leap,Fluttering the silence with a little stir.Here Summer seems a placid face asleep,And the near world a figment of her dreams.
The hornets build in plaster dropping rooms,And on its mossy porch the lizard lies;Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies,And on its roof the locusts snow their blooms.Like some sad thought that broods here, old perfumesHaunt its dim stairs; the cautious zephyr triesEach gusty door, like some dead hand, then sighsWith ghostly lips among the attic glooms.And now a heron, now a kingfisher,Flits in the willows where the riffle seemsAt each faint fall to hesitate to leap,Fluttering the silence with a little stir.Here Summer seems a placid face asleep,And the near world a figment of her dreams.
The hornets build in plaster dropping rooms,And on its mossy porch the lizard lies;Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies,And on its roof the locusts snow their blooms.Like some sad thought that broods here, old perfumesHaunt its dim stairs; the cautious zephyr triesEach gusty door, like some dead hand, then sighsWith ghostly lips among the attic glooms.And now a heron, now a kingfisher,Flits in the willows where the riffle seemsAt each faint fall to hesitate to leap,Fluttering the silence with a little stir.Here Summer seems a placid face asleep,And the near world a figment of her dreams.
Sad on the hills the poppied sunset died.Slow as a fungus breaking through the crustsOf forest leaves, the waning half-moon thrustsThrough gray-brown clouds one milky silver side;In her vague light the dogwoods, dim-descried,Seem dying torches flourished by the gusts;The apple-orchards seem the restless dustsOf wind-thinned mists upon the hills they hide.It is a night of omens whom late MayMeets, like a wraith, among her train of hours;An apparition with appealing eyeAnd hesitant foot, that walks a willowed way,And, speaking through the fading moon and flowers,Bids her prepare her gentle soul to die.
Sad on the hills the poppied sunset died.Slow as a fungus breaking through the crustsOf forest leaves, the waning half-moon thrustsThrough gray-brown clouds one milky silver side;In her vague light the dogwoods, dim-descried,Seem dying torches flourished by the gusts;The apple-orchards seem the restless dustsOf wind-thinned mists upon the hills they hide.It is a night of omens whom late MayMeets, like a wraith, among her train of hours;An apparition with appealing eyeAnd hesitant foot, that walks a willowed way,And, speaking through the fading moon and flowers,Bids her prepare her gentle soul to die.
Sad on the hills the poppied sunset died.Slow as a fungus breaking through the crustsOf forest leaves, the waning half-moon thrustsThrough gray-brown clouds one milky silver side;In her vague light the dogwoods, dim-descried,Seem dying torches flourished by the gusts;The apple-orchards seem the restless dustsOf wind-thinned mists upon the hills they hide.It is a night of omens whom late MayMeets, like a wraith, among her train of hours;An apparition with appealing eyeAnd hesitant foot, that walks a willowed way,And, speaking through the fading moon and flowers,Bids her prepare her gentle soul to die.
Not as the eye hath seen shall we beholdRomance and beauty when we’ve passed away;That robed the dull facts of the intimate dayIn life’s wild raiment of unusual gold:Not as the ear hath heard shall we be told,Hereafter, myth and legend once that layWarm at the heart of Nature, clothing clayIn attributes of no material mold.These were imperfect of necessity,That wrought through imperfection for far endsOf perfectness—as calm philosophy,Teaching a child, from his high heaven descendsTo earth’s familiar things; informinglyVesting his thoughts in that it comprehends.
Not as the eye hath seen shall we beholdRomance and beauty when we’ve passed away;That robed the dull facts of the intimate dayIn life’s wild raiment of unusual gold:Not as the ear hath heard shall we be told,Hereafter, myth and legend once that layWarm at the heart of Nature, clothing clayIn attributes of no material mold.These were imperfect of necessity,That wrought through imperfection for far endsOf perfectness—as calm philosophy,Teaching a child, from his high heaven descendsTo earth’s familiar things; informinglyVesting his thoughts in that it comprehends.
Not as the eye hath seen shall we beholdRomance and beauty when we’ve passed away;That robed the dull facts of the intimate dayIn life’s wild raiment of unusual gold:Not as the ear hath heard shall we be told,Hereafter, myth and legend once that layWarm at the heart of Nature, clothing clayIn attributes of no material mold.These were imperfect of necessity,That wrought through imperfection for far endsOf perfectness—as calm philosophy,Teaching a child, from his high heaven descendsTo earth’s familiar things; informinglyVesting his thoughts in that it comprehends.
Earth hath her images of utterance,Her hieroglyphic meanings which elude;A symbol language of similitude,Into whose secrets science may not glance;In which the Mind-in-Nature doth romanceIn miracles that baffle if pursued—No guess shall search them and no thought intrudeBeyond the limits of her sufferance.So doth the great Intelligence aboveHide His own thought’s creations; and attireForms in the dream’s ideal, which He dowersWith immaterial loveliness and love—As essences of fragrance and of fire—Preaching th’ evangels of the stars and flowers.
Earth hath her images of utterance,Her hieroglyphic meanings which elude;A symbol language of similitude,Into whose secrets science may not glance;In which the Mind-in-Nature doth romanceIn miracles that baffle if pursued—No guess shall search them and no thought intrudeBeyond the limits of her sufferance.So doth the great Intelligence aboveHide His own thought’s creations; and attireForms in the dream’s ideal, which He dowersWith immaterial loveliness and love—As essences of fragrance and of fire—Preaching th’ evangels of the stars and flowers.
Earth hath her images of utterance,Her hieroglyphic meanings which elude;A symbol language of similitude,Into whose secrets science may not glance;In which the Mind-in-Nature doth romanceIn miracles that baffle if pursued—No guess shall search them and no thought intrudeBeyond the limits of her sufferance.So doth the great Intelligence aboveHide His own thought’s creations; and attireForms in the dream’s ideal, which He dowersWith immaterial loveliness and love—As essences of fragrance and of fire—Preaching th’ evangels of the stars and flowers.
There are some souls who may look in on theseEssential peoples of the earth and air—That have the stars and flowers in their care—And read their soul-suggestive secrecies:Heart-intimates and comrades of the trees,Who from them learn, what no known schools declare,God’s knowledge; and from winds, that, singing, fare,God’s gospel, filled with mighty harmonies.Souls, unto whom the waves impart a wordOf fuller faith; the sunset and the dawnPreach sermons more inspired even thanThe tongues of Pentecost; as, distant heardIn forms of change, through Nature upward drawn,God doth address th’ immortal part of Man.
There are some souls who may look in on theseEssential peoples of the earth and air—That have the stars and flowers in their care—And read their soul-suggestive secrecies:Heart-intimates and comrades of the trees,Who from them learn, what no known schools declare,God’s knowledge; and from winds, that, singing, fare,God’s gospel, filled with mighty harmonies.Souls, unto whom the waves impart a wordOf fuller faith; the sunset and the dawnPreach sermons more inspired even thanThe tongues of Pentecost; as, distant heardIn forms of change, through Nature upward drawn,God doth address th’ immortal part of Man.
There are some souls who may look in on theseEssential peoples of the earth and air—That have the stars and flowers in their care—And read their soul-suggestive secrecies:Heart-intimates and comrades of the trees,Who from them learn, what no known schools declare,God’s knowledge; and from winds, that, singing, fare,God’s gospel, filled with mighty harmonies.Souls, unto whom the waves impart a wordOf fuller faith; the sunset and the dawnPreach sermons more inspired even thanThe tongues of Pentecost; as, distant heardIn forms of change, through Nature upward drawn,God doth address th’ immortal part of Man.
I looked upon a dead girl’s face and heardWhat seemed the voice of Death cry out to me,Deep in her heart, all of the agonyOf her lost dreams, complaining word on word:—How on her soul no soul had touched, or stirredHer life’s sad depths to rippling melody,Or made the imaged longing, there, to beThe realization of a hope deferred.So in her life had Love behaved to her.Between the lonely chapters of her yearsAnd her young eyes making no golden blurWith god-bright face and hair; who led me toHer side at last, and bade me, through my tears,With Death’s dumb lips, too late, to see and know.
I looked upon a dead girl’s face and heardWhat seemed the voice of Death cry out to me,Deep in her heart, all of the agonyOf her lost dreams, complaining word on word:—How on her soul no soul had touched, or stirredHer life’s sad depths to rippling melody,Or made the imaged longing, there, to beThe realization of a hope deferred.So in her life had Love behaved to her.Between the lonely chapters of her yearsAnd her young eyes making no golden blurWith god-bright face and hair; who led me toHer side at last, and bade me, through my tears,With Death’s dumb lips, too late, to see and know.
I looked upon a dead girl’s face and heardWhat seemed the voice of Death cry out to me,Deep in her heart, all of the agonyOf her lost dreams, complaining word on word:—How on her soul no soul had touched, or stirredHer life’s sad depths to rippling melody,Or made the imaged longing, there, to beThe realization of a hope deferred.So in her life had Love behaved to her.Between the lonely chapters of her yearsAnd her young eyes making no golden blurWith god-bright face and hair; who led me toHer side at last, and bade me, through my tears,With Death’s dumb lips, too late, to see and know.
She gropes and hobbles, where the dropsied rocksAre hairy with the lichens and the twistOf knotted wolf’s-bane, mumbling in the mist,Hawk-nosed and wrinkle-eyed with scrawny locks.At her bent back the moon, slow-sinking, mocks,Like some lewd evil whom the Fiend hath kissed;Once at her feet the slipping serpent hissed,And once the owl called to the forest fox.—What Sabboth brew does she intend? What rootNow seek for, seal for what satanic spellOf incantations and demonic fire?—From her rude hut, hill-huddled in the brier,What dark Familiar points her sure pursuit,There, with gaunt eyes, red with the glow of Hell?
She gropes and hobbles, where the dropsied rocksAre hairy with the lichens and the twistOf knotted wolf’s-bane, mumbling in the mist,Hawk-nosed and wrinkle-eyed with scrawny locks.At her bent back the moon, slow-sinking, mocks,Like some lewd evil whom the Fiend hath kissed;Once at her feet the slipping serpent hissed,And once the owl called to the forest fox.—What Sabboth brew does she intend? What rootNow seek for, seal for what satanic spellOf incantations and demonic fire?—From her rude hut, hill-huddled in the brier,What dark Familiar points her sure pursuit,There, with gaunt eyes, red with the glow of Hell?
She gropes and hobbles, where the dropsied rocksAre hairy with the lichens and the twistOf knotted wolf’s-bane, mumbling in the mist,Hawk-nosed and wrinkle-eyed with scrawny locks.At her bent back the moon, slow-sinking, mocks,Like some lewd evil whom the Fiend hath kissed;Once at her feet the slipping serpent hissed,And once the owl called to the forest fox.—What Sabboth brew does she intend? What rootNow seek for, seal for what satanic spellOf incantations and demonic fire?—From her rude hut, hill-huddled in the brier,What dark Familiar points her sure pursuit,There, with gaunt eyes, red with the glow of Hell?
Oaks and a water. By the water—eyes,Ice-green and steadfast as still stars; and hairYellow as eyes deep in a she-wolf’s lair;And limbs—like mist the lightning’s flicker dyes.The humped oaks huddle under iron skies;The dry wind whirls the dead leaves everywhere;White on the water falls a vulture-glareOf moon, and black the circling raven flies.Again the power of this thing hath laidCompulsion on me: and I seem to hearA sweet voice calling me beyond the gatesTo longed-for love: I come: each forest gladeSeems reaching out white arms to draw me near—Nearer and nearer to the death that waits.
Oaks and a water. By the water—eyes,Ice-green and steadfast as still stars; and hairYellow as eyes deep in a she-wolf’s lair;And limbs—like mist the lightning’s flicker dyes.The humped oaks huddle under iron skies;The dry wind whirls the dead leaves everywhere;White on the water falls a vulture-glareOf moon, and black the circling raven flies.Again the power of this thing hath laidCompulsion on me: and I seem to hearA sweet voice calling me beyond the gatesTo longed-for love: I come: each forest gladeSeems reaching out white arms to draw me near—Nearer and nearer to the death that waits.
Oaks and a water. By the water—eyes,Ice-green and steadfast as still stars; and hairYellow as eyes deep in a she-wolf’s lair;And limbs—like mist the lightning’s flicker dyes.The humped oaks huddle under iron skies;The dry wind whirls the dead leaves everywhere;White on the water falls a vulture-glareOf moon, and black the circling raven flies.Again the power of this thing hath laidCompulsion on me: and I seem to hearA sweet voice calling me beyond the gatesTo longed-for love: I come: each forest gladeSeems reaching out white arms to draw me near—Nearer and nearer to the death that waits.
On reading De Quincey’s “Confessions of an Opium Eater.”
I seemed to stand before a temple walledFrom shadows and night’s unrealities;Filled with dark music of dead memories,And voices,—lost in darkness,—deep that called.I entered. And beneath the dome’s high-halledImmensity one forced me to my kneesBefore a blackness—throned ’mid semblancesAnd spectres—crowned with flames of emerald.Then, lo! two shapes that thundered at mine earsThe names of Horror and Oblivion,—Priests of this god,—and bade me die and dream.Then, in the heart of Hell, a thousand yearsMeseemed I lay—dead! while the iron streamOf Time beat out the seconds, one by one.
I seemed to stand before a temple walledFrom shadows and night’s unrealities;Filled with dark music of dead memories,And voices,—lost in darkness,—deep that called.I entered. And beneath the dome’s high-halledImmensity one forced me to my kneesBefore a blackness—throned ’mid semblancesAnd spectres—crowned with flames of emerald.Then, lo! two shapes that thundered at mine earsThe names of Horror and Oblivion,—Priests of this god,—and bade me die and dream.Then, in the heart of Hell, a thousand yearsMeseemed I lay—dead! while the iron streamOf Time beat out the seconds, one by one.
I seemed to stand before a temple walledFrom shadows and night’s unrealities;Filled with dark music of dead memories,And voices,—lost in darkness,—deep that called.I entered. And beneath the dome’s high-halledImmensity one forced me to my kneesBefore a blackness—throned ’mid semblancesAnd spectres—crowned with flames of emerald.Then, lo! two shapes that thundered at mine earsThe names of Horror and Oblivion,—Priests of this god,—and bade me die and dream.Then, in the heart of Hell, a thousand yearsMeseemed I lay—dead! while the iron streamOf Time beat out the seconds, one by one.
These have a life that hath no part in death:These circumscribe the soul and make it strong:Between the breathing of a dream and song,Building a world of beauty in a breath.Unto the heart the voice of this one saithIdeals, its emotions live among;Unto the mind the other speaks a tongueOf visions, where the guess,—men christen Faith,—May face the fact of immortality—As may a rose its unembodied scent,Or star its own reflected radiance.We do not know these save subconsciously,To whose mysterious shadows God hath lentNo certain shape, no certain countenance.
These have a life that hath no part in death:These circumscribe the soul and make it strong:Between the breathing of a dream and song,Building a world of beauty in a breath.Unto the heart the voice of this one saithIdeals, its emotions live among;Unto the mind the other speaks a tongueOf visions, where the guess,—men christen Faith,—May face the fact of immortality—As may a rose its unembodied scent,Or star its own reflected radiance.We do not know these save subconsciously,To whose mysterious shadows God hath lentNo certain shape, no certain countenance.
These have a life that hath no part in death:These circumscribe the soul and make it strong:Between the breathing of a dream and song,Building a world of beauty in a breath.Unto the heart the voice of this one saithIdeals, its emotions live among;Unto the mind the other speaks a tongueOf visions, where the guess,—men christen Faith,—May face the fact of immortality—As may a rose its unembodied scent,Or star its own reflected radiance.We do not know these save subconsciously,To whose mysterious shadows God hath lentNo certain shape, no certain countenance.
Now to my lips lift thou some opiateOf dull forgetfulness! while in thy gazeStill lures the loveless beauty that betrays,And in thy mouth the music that is hate.No promise more hast thou to make me wait;No smile to cozen my sick heart with praise!Far, far behind thee stretch laborious days,And far before thee, labors soon and late.Thine is the fen-fire that we deem a star,Flying before us, ever fugitive,Thy mocking policy still holds afar:And thine the voice to which our longings giveHope’s siren face, that speaks us sweet and fair,Only at last to whelm us with despair.
Now to my lips lift thou some opiateOf dull forgetfulness! while in thy gazeStill lures the loveless beauty that betrays,And in thy mouth the music that is hate.No promise more hast thou to make me wait;No smile to cozen my sick heart with praise!Far, far behind thee stretch laborious days,And far before thee, labors soon and late.Thine is the fen-fire that we deem a star,Flying before us, ever fugitive,Thy mocking policy still holds afar:And thine the voice to which our longings giveHope’s siren face, that speaks us sweet and fair,Only at last to whelm us with despair.
Now to my lips lift thou some opiateOf dull forgetfulness! while in thy gazeStill lures the loveless beauty that betrays,And in thy mouth the music that is hate.No promise more hast thou to make me wait;No smile to cozen my sick heart with praise!Far, far behind thee stretch laborious days,And far before thee, labors soon and late.Thine is the fen-fire that we deem a star,Flying before us, ever fugitive,Thy mocking policy still holds afar:And thine the voice to which our longings giveHope’s siren face, that speaks us sweet and fair,Only at last to whelm us with despair.
Not all the bravery that day puts onOf gold and azure, ardent or austere,Shall ease my soul of sorrow; grief, more dearThan all the joy that heavenly hope may don.Far up the skies the rumor of the dawnMay run, and eve like some wild torch appear;These shall not change the darkness, gathered here,Of thought that rusts like an old sword undrawn.Oh, for a place far-sunken from the sun!A wildwood cave of primitive rocks and moss!Where Sleep and Silence—breast to married breast—Lie with their child, night-eyed Oblivion;Where, freed from all the burden of my cross,I might forget, I might forget—and rest!
Not all the bravery that day puts onOf gold and azure, ardent or austere,Shall ease my soul of sorrow; grief, more dearThan all the joy that heavenly hope may don.Far up the skies the rumor of the dawnMay run, and eve like some wild torch appear;These shall not change the darkness, gathered here,Of thought that rusts like an old sword undrawn.Oh, for a place far-sunken from the sun!A wildwood cave of primitive rocks and moss!Where Sleep and Silence—breast to married breast—Lie with their child, night-eyed Oblivion;Where, freed from all the burden of my cross,I might forget, I might forget—and rest!
Not all the bravery that day puts onOf gold and azure, ardent or austere,Shall ease my soul of sorrow; grief, more dearThan all the joy that heavenly hope may don.Far up the skies the rumor of the dawnMay run, and eve like some wild torch appear;These shall not change the darkness, gathered here,Of thought that rusts like an old sword undrawn.Oh, for a place far-sunken from the sun!A wildwood cave of primitive rocks and moss!Where Sleep and Silence—breast to married breast—Lie with their child, night-eyed Oblivion;Where, freed from all the burden of my cross,I might forget, I might forget—and rest!
Shut in with phantoms of life’s hollow hopes,And shadows of old sins satiety slew,And the young ghosts of the dead dreams love knew,Out of the day into the night she gropes.Behind her, high the silvered summit slopesOf hope and faith, she will not turn to view;But towards the cave of heartbreak, harsh of hue,She goes, where all the dropsied horror ropes.There is a voice of waters in her ears,And on her brow a wind that never dies:One is the anguish of desired tears;One is the sorrow of unuttered sighs;And, burdened with the immemorial years,Downward she goes with never lifted eyes.
Shut in with phantoms of life’s hollow hopes,And shadows of old sins satiety slew,And the young ghosts of the dead dreams love knew,Out of the day into the night she gropes.Behind her, high the silvered summit slopesOf hope and faith, she will not turn to view;But towards the cave of heartbreak, harsh of hue,She goes, where all the dropsied horror ropes.There is a voice of waters in her ears,And on her brow a wind that never dies:One is the anguish of desired tears;One is the sorrow of unuttered sighs;And, burdened with the immemorial years,Downward she goes with never lifted eyes.
Shut in with phantoms of life’s hollow hopes,And shadows of old sins satiety slew,And the young ghosts of the dead dreams love knew,Out of the day into the night she gropes.Behind her, high the silvered summit slopesOf hope and faith, she will not turn to view;But towards the cave of heartbreak, harsh of hue,She goes, where all the dropsied horror ropes.There is a voice of waters in her ears,And on her brow a wind that never dies:One is the anguish of desired tears;One is the sorrow of unuttered sighs;And, burdened with the immemorial years,Downward she goes with never lifted eyes.
Above his misered embers, gaunt and gray,With toil-gnarled limbs he stoops: around his hut,Want, like a hobbling hag, goes, night and day,Trying the windows and the doors tight-shut.
Above his misered embers, gaunt and gray,With toil-gnarled limbs he stoops: around his hut,Want, like a hobbling hag, goes, night and day,Trying the windows and the doors tight-shut.
Above his misered embers, gaunt and gray,With toil-gnarled limbs he stoops: around his hut,Want, like a hobbling hag, goes, night and day,Trying the windows and the doors tight-shut.
Craft’s silent sister and the daughter deepOf Contemplation, she, who spreads belowA hostile tent soft comfort for her foe,With eyes of Jael watching till he sleep.
Craft’s silent sister and the daughter deepOf Contemplation, she, who spreads belowA hostile tent soft comfort for her foe,With eyes of Jael watching till he sleep.
Craft’s silent sister and the daughter deepOf Contemplation, she, who spreads belowA hostile tent soft comfort for her foe,With eyes of Jael watching till he sleep.
With helms of lightning, glittering in the skies,On steeds of thunder, form on cloudy form,Terrific beauty in their hair and eyes,Sweep down the wild Valkyries of the storm.
With helms of lightning, glittering in the skies,On steeds of thunder, form on cloudy form,Terrific beauty in their hair and eyes,Sweep down the wild Valkyries of the storm.
With helms of lightning, glittering in the skies,On steeds of thunder, form on cloudy form,Terrific beauty in their hair and eyes,Sweep down the wild Valkyries of the storm.
The spirit Spring, in rainy raiment, metThe spirit Summer for a moonlit hour:Sweet from their greeting kisses, warm and wet,Was born the fragrant beauty of this flower.
The spirit Spring, in rainy raiment, metThe spirit Summer for a moonlit hour:Sweet from their greeting kisses, warm and wet,Was born the fragrant beauty of this flower.
The spirit Spring, in rainy raiment, metThe spirit Summer for a moonlit hour:Sweet from their greeting kisses, warm and wet,Was born the fragrant beauty of this flower.
With shadowy immortelles of memoryAbout her brow, she sits with eyes that lookUpon the stream of Lethe wearily,In hesitant hands Death’s partly-opened book.
With shadowy immortelles of memoryAbout her brow, she sits with eyes that lookUpon the stream of Lethe wearily,In hesitant hands Death’s partly-opened book.
With shadowy immortelles of memoryAbout her brow, she sits with eyes that lookUpon the stream of Lethe wearily,In hesitant hands Death’s partly-opened book.
Among the meadows of Life’s sad unease—In labor still renewing her soul’s youth—With trust, for patience, and with love, for peace,Singing she goes with the calm face of Ruth.
Among the meadows of Life’s sad unease—In labor still renewing her soul’s youth—With trust, for patience, and with love, for peace,Singing she goes with the calm face of Ruth.
Among the meadows of Life’s sad unease—In labor still renewing her soul’s youth—With trust, for patience, and with love, for peace,Singing she goes with the calm face of Ruth.
Of our own selves God makes a glass, whereinTwo shades are imaged, passing like a breath:And one is Life, whose other name is Sin;And one is Love, whose other name is Death.
Of our own selves God makes a glass, whereinTwo shades are imaged, passing like a breath:And one is Life, whose other name is Sin;And one is Love, whose other name is Death.
Of our own selves God makes a glass, whereinTwo shades are imaged, passing like a breath:And one is Life, whose other name is Sin;And one is Love, whose other name is Death.
Death takes her hand and leads her through the wasteOf her own soul, wherein she hears the voiceOf lost Love’s tears, and, famishing, can but tasteThe dead-sea fruit of Life’s remembered joys.
Death takes her hand and leads her through the wasteOf her own soul, wherein she hears the voiceOf lost Love’s tears, and, famishing, can but tasteThe dead-sea fruit of Life’s remembered joys.
Death takes her hand and leads her through the wasteOf her own soul, wherein she hears the voiceOf lost Love’s tears, and, famishing, can but tasteThe dead-sea fruit of Life’s remembered joys.
Not for myself, but for the sake of Song,Would I succeed as others have who gaveTheir lives unto her, shaping sure and strongHer lovely limbs that made them god and slave.Not for myself, but for the sake of Art,Would I advance beyond the others’ best,Winning a deeper secret from her heartTo hang it moonlike ’mid the starry rest.
Not for myself, but for the sake of Song,Would I succeed as others have who gaveTheir lives unto her, shaping sure and strongHer lovely limbs that made them god and slave.Not for myself, but for the sake of Art,Would I advance beyond the others’ best,Winning a deeper secret from her heartTo hang it moonlike ’mid the starry rest.
Not for myself, but for the sake of Song,Would I succeed as others have who gaveTheir lives unto her, shaping sure and strongHer lovely limbs that made them god and slave.
Not for myself, but for the sake of Art,Would I advance beyond the others’ best,Winning a deeper secret from her heartTo hang it moonlike ’mid the starry rest.
In the first rare Spring of song,In my heart’s young hours,In my youth ’twas thus I sang,Choosing ’mid the flowers:—“Fair the Dandelion is,But for me too lowly;And the winsome VioletIs, forsooth, too holy.‘But the Touch-me-not?’—Go to!What! a face that’s speckledLike a common milking-maid’s,Whom the sun hath freckled.Then the Wild-Rose is a flirt;And the Trillium-Lily,In her spotless gown, ’s a prude,Sanctified and silly.By her cap the Columbine,To my mind, ’s too merry—Gossips, I would sooner wooSome plebeian Berry.And the shy Anemone—Well, her face shows sorrow;Pale, goodsooth! alive to-day,Dead and gone to-morrow.Then that hold-eyed, buxom wench,Big and blond and lazy,—She’s been chosen over oft!—Sirs, I mean the Daisy.Pleasant persons are they all,And their virtues many;Faith! I know but good of each,And naught ill of any.But I choose a May-Apple;She shall be my Lady;Blooming, hidden and refined,Sweet in places shady.”In my youth ’twas thus I sang,In my heart’s young hours,In the first rare Spring of song,Choosing ’mid the flowers.So I hesitated whenTime alone was reckonedBy the hours that Fancy smiled,Love and Beauty beckoned.Hard it was for me to chooseFrom the flowers that flattered;And the blossom that I choseSoon lay dead and scattered.Hard I found it then, ah me!Hard I found the choosing;Harder, harder since I’ve found,All too hard, the losing.Haply had I chosen thenFrom the weeds that tangleWayside, woodland, and the wallOf my garden’s angle,I had chosen better, yea,For these later hours—Longer live the weeds, and oftSweeter are than flowers.
In the first rare Spring of song,In my heart’s young hours,In my youth ’twas thus I sang,Choosing ’mid the flowers:—“Fair the Dandelion is,But for me too lowly;And the winsome VioletIs, forsooth, too holy.‘But the Touch-me-not?’—Go to!What! a face that’s speckledLike a common milking-maid’s,Whom the sun hath freckled.Then the Wild-Rose is a flirt;And the Trillium-Lily,In her spotless gown, ’s a prude,Sanctified and silly.By her cap the Columbine,To my mind, ’s too merry—Gossips, I would sooner wooSome plebeian Berry.And the shy Anemone—Well, her face shows sorrow;Pale, goodsooth! alive to-day,Dead and gone to-morrow.Then that hold-eyed, buxom wench,Big and blond and lazy,—She’s been chosen over oft!—Sirs, I mean the Daisy.Pleasant persons are they all,And their virtues many;Faith! I know but good of each,And naught ill of any.But I choose a May-Apple;She shall be my Lady;Blooming, hidden and refined,Sweet in places shady.”In my youth ’twas thus I sang,In my heart’s young hours,In the first rare Spring of song,Choosing ’mid the flowers.So I hesitated whenTime alone was reckonedBy the hours that Fancy smiled,Love and Beauty beckoned.Hard it was for me to chooseFrom the flowers that flattered;And the blossom that I choseSoon lay dead and scattered.Hard I found it then, ah me!Hard I found the choosing;Harder, harder since I’ve found,All too hard, the losing.Haply had I chosen thenFrom the weeds that tangleWayside, woodland, and the wallOf my garden’s angle,I had chosen better, yea,For these later hours—Longer live the weeds, and oftSweeter are than flowers.
In the first rare Spring of song,In my heart’s young hours,In my youth ’twas thus I sang,Choosing ’mid the flowers:—
“Fair the Dandelion is,But for me too lowly;And the winsome VioletIs, forsooth, too holy.‘But the Touch-me-not?’—Go to!What! a face that’s speckledLike a common milking-maid’s,Whom the sun hath freckled.Then the Wild-Rose is a flirt;And the Trillium-Lily,In her spotless gown, ’s a prude,Sanctified and silly.By her cap the Columbine,To my mind, ’s too merry—Gossips, I would sooner wooSome plebeian Berry.And the shy Anemone—Well, her face shows sorrow;Pale, goodsooth! alive to-day,Dead and gone to-morrow.Then that hold-eyed, buxom wench,Big and blond and lazy,—She’s been chosen over oft!—Sirs, I mean the Daisy.Pleasant persons are they all,And their virtues many;Faith! I know but good of each,And naught ill of any.But I choose a May-Apple;She shall be my Lady;Blooming, hidden and refined,Sweet in places shady.”
In my youth ’twas thus I sang,In my heart’s young hours,In the first rare Spring of song,Choosing ’mid the flowers.So I hesitated whenTime alone was reckonedBy the hours that Fancy smiled,Love and Beauty beckoned.Hard it was for me to chooseFrom the flowers that flattered;
And the blossom that I choseSoon lay dead and scattered.Hard I found it then, ah me!Hard I found the choosing;Harder, harder since I’ve found,All too hard, the losing.Haply had I chosen thenFrom the weeds that tangleWayside, woodland, and the wallOf my garden’s angle,I had chosen better, yea,For these later hours—Longer live the weeds, and oftSweeter are than flowers.
First of the insect choir, in the springWe hear his faint voice fluttering in the grass,Beneath some blossom’s rosy covering,Or frond of fern, upon a wildwood pass.When in the marsh, in clamorous orchestras,The shrill hylodes pipe; when, in the haw’sBee-swarming blooms, or tasseling sassafras,Sweet threads of silvery song the sparrow draws,Bow-like, athwart the vibrant atmosphere,—Like some dim dream low-breathed in slumber’s ear,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
First of the insect choir, in the springWe hear his faint voice fluttering in the grass,Beneath some blossom’s rosy covering,Or frond of fern, upon a wildwood pass.When in the marsh, in clamorous orchestras,The shrill hylodes pipe; when, in the haw’sBee-swarming blooms, or tasseling sassafras,Sweet threads of silvery song the sparrow draws,Bow-like, athwart the vibrant atmosphere,—Like some dim dream low-breathed in slumber’s ear,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
First of the insect choir, in the springWe hear his faint voice fluttering in the grass,Beneath some blossom’s rosy covering,Or frond of fern, upon a wildwood pass.When in the marsh, in clamorous orchestras,The shrill hylodes pipe; when, in the haw’sBee-swarming blooms, or tasseling sassafras,Sweet threads of silvery song the sparrow draws,Bow-like, athwart the vibrant atmosphere,—Like some dim dream low-breathed in slumber’s ear,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
All summer long the mellowing meadows thrillTo his blithe music. Be it day or night,Close gossip of the grass, on field and hillHe serenades the silence with delight:Silence, that hears the melon slowly splitWith ripeness; and the plump peach, hornet-bit,Loosen and fall; and everywhere the white,Warm, silk-like stir of leafy lights that flitAs breezes blow; above which, loudly clear,—Like joy who sings of life and has no fear,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
All summer long the mellowing meadows thrillTo his blithe music. Be it day or night,Close gossip of the grass, on field and hillHe serenades the silence with delight:Silence, that hears the melon slowly splitWith ripeness; and the plump peach, hornet-bit,Loosen and fall; and everywhere the white,Warm, silk-like stir of leafy lights that flitAs breezes blow; above which, loudly clear,—Like joy who sings of life and has no fear,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
All summer long the mellowing meadows thrillTo his blithe music. Be it day or night,Close gossip of the grass, on field and hillHe serenades the silence with delight:Silence, that hears the melon slowly splitWith ripeness; and the plump peach, hornet-bit,Loosen and fall; and everywhere the white,Warm, silk-like stir of leafy lights that flitAs breezes blow; above which, loudly clear,—Like joy who sings of life and has no fear,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
Then in the autumn, by the waterside,Leaf-huddled; or along the weed-grown walks,He dirges low the flowers that have died,Or with their ghosts holds solitary talks.Lover of warmth, all day above the clickAnd crunching of the sorghum-press, through thickSweet steam of juice; all night when, white as chalk,The hunter’s-moon hangs o’er the rustling rick,Within the barn ’mid munching cow and steer,—Soft as a memory the heart holds dear,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
Then in the autumn, by the waterside,Leaf-huddled; or along the weed-grown walks,He dirges low the flowers that have died,Or with their ghosts holds solitary talks.Lover of warmth, all day above the clickAnd crunching of the sorghum-press, through thickSweet steam of juice; all night when, white as chalk,The hunter’s-moon hangs o’er the rustling rick,Within the barn ’mid munching cow and steer,—Soft as a memory the heart holds dear,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
Then in the autumn, by the waterside,Leaf-huddled; or along the weed-grown walks,He dirges low the flowers that have died,Or with their ghosts holds solitary talks.Lover of warmth, all day above the clickAnd crunching of the sorghum-press, through thickSweet steam of juice; all night when, white as chalk,The hunter’s-moon hangs o’er the rustling rick,Within the barn ’mid munching cow and steer,—Soft as a memory the heart holds dear,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
Kinsman and cousin of the Faëry Race,All winter long he sets his sober mirth,—That brings good-luck to many a fireplace,—To folk-lore song and saga of the hearth.Between the back-log’s bluster and the slimHigh twittering of the kettle,—sounds that hymnHome-comforts,—when, outside, the starless earthIs icicled in every laden limb,—Defying frost and all the sad and sere,—Like love that dies not and is always near,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
Kinsman and cousin of the Faëry Race,All winter long he sets his sober mirth,—That brings good-luck to many a fireplace,—To folk-lore song and saga of the hearth.Between the back-log’s bluster and the slimHigh twittering of the kettle,—sounds that hymnHome-comforts,—when, outside, the starless earthIs icicled in every laden limb,—Defying frost and all the sad and sere,—Like love that dies not and is always near,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
Kinsman and cousin of the Faëry Race,All winter long he sets his sober mirth,—That brings good-luck to many a fireplace,—To folk-lore song and saga of the hearth.Between the back-log’s bluster and the slimHigh twittering of the kettle,—sounds that hymnHome-comforts,—when, outside, the starless earthIs icicled in every laden limb,—Defying frost and all the sad and sere,—Like love that dies not and is always near,—We hear hisCheer, cheer, cheer.
Secluded, solitary on some underboughOr cradled in a leaf, ’mid glimmering light,Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply watching howThe slow toadstool comes bulging, moony white,Through loosening loam; or how, against the night,The glow-worm gathers silver to endowThe darkness with; or how the dew conspiresTo hang at dusk with lamps of chilly firesEach blade that shrivels now.
Secluded, solitary on some underboughOr cradled in a leaf, ’mid glimmering light,Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply watching howThe slow toadstool comes bulging, moony white,Through loosening loam; or how, against the night,The glow-worm gathers silver to endowThe darkness with; or how the dew conspiresTo hang at dusk with lamps of chilly firesEach blade that shrivels now.
Secluded, solitary on some underboughOr cradled in a leaf, ’mid glimmering light,Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply watching howThe slow toadstool comes bulging, moony white,Through loosening loam; or how, against the night,The glow-worm gathers silver to endowThe darkness with; or how the dew conspiresTo hang at dusk with lamps of chilly firesEach blade that shrivels now.
O vague confederate of the whippoorwill,Of owl and cricket and the katydid!Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrillVibrating note and send’st it where, half hidIn cedars, twilight sleeps—each azure lidDrooping a line of golden eyeball still.—Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voiceWithin the Garden of the Hours apoiseOn dusk’s deep daffodil.
O vague confederate of the whippoorwill,Of owl and cricket and the katydid!Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrillVibrating note and send’st it where, half hidIn cedars, twilight sleeps—each azure lidDrooping a line of golden eyeball still.—Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voiceWithin the Garden of the Hours apoiseOn dusk’s deep daffodil.
O vague confederate of the whippoorwill,Of owl and cricket and the katydid!Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrillVibrating note and send’st it where, half hidIn cedars, twilight sleeps—each azure lidDrooping a line of golden eyeball still.—Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voiceWithin the Garden of the Hours apoiseOn dusk’s deep daffodil.
Minstrel of moisture! silent when high noonShows her tanned face among the thirsting cloverAnd parching meadows, thy tenebrious tuneWakes with the dew or when the rain is over.Thou troubadour of wetness and damp loverOf all cool things! admitted comrade boonOf twilight’s hush, and little intimateOf eve’s first fluttering star and delicateRound rim of rainy moon!
Minstrel of moisture! silent when high noonShows her tanned face among the thirsting cloverAnd parching meadows, thy tenebrious tuneWakes with the dew or when the rain is over.Thou troubadour of wetness and damp loverOf all cool things! admitted comrade boonOf twilight’s hush, and little intimateOf eve’s first fluttering star and delicateRound rim of rainy moon!
Minstrel of moisture! silent when high noonShows her tanned face among the thirsting cloverAnd parching meadows, thy tenebrious tuneWakes with the dew or when the rain is over.Thou troubadour of wetness and damp loverOf all cool things! admitted comrade boonOf twilight’s hush, and little intimateOf eve’s first fluttering star and delicateRound rim of rainy moon!
Art trumpeter of Dwarfland? does thy hornInform the gnomes and goblins of the hourWhen they may gambol under haw and thorn,Straddling each winking web and twinkling flower?Or bell-ringer of Elfland? whose tall towerThe liriodendron is? from whence is borneThe elfin music of thy bell’s deep bass,To summon Fairies to their starlit maze,To summon them or warn.
Art trumpeter of Dwarfland? does thy hornInform the gnomes and goblins of the hourWhen they may gambol under haw and thorn,Straddling each winking web and twinkling flower?Or bell-ringer of Elfland? whose tall towerThe liriodendron is? from whence is borneThe elfin music of thy bell’s deep bass,To summon Fairies to their starlit maze,To summon them or warn.
Art trumpeter of Dwarfland? does thy hornInform the gnomes and goblins of the hourWhen they may gambol under haw and thorn,Straddling each winking web and twinkling flower?Or bell-ringer of Elfland? whose tall towerThe liriodendron is? from whence is borneThe elfin music of thy bell’s deep bass,To summon Fairies to their starlit maze,To summon them or warn.
When, one by one, the stars have trembled throughEve’s shadowy hues of violet, rose, and fire—As on a pansy-bloom the limpid dewOrbs its bright beads;—and, one by one, the choirOf insects wakes on nodding bush and brier:Then through the woods—where wandering winds pursueA ceaseless whisper—like an eery lyreStruck in the Erl-king’s halls, where ghosts and dreamsHold revelry, your goblin music screams,Shivering and strange as some strange thought come true.
When, one by one, the stars have trembled throughEve’s shadowy hues of violet, rose, and fire—As on a pansy-bloom the limpid dewOrbs its bright beads;—and, one by one, the choirOf insects wakes on nodding bush and brier:Then through the woods—where wandering winds pursueA ceaseless whisper—like an eery lyreStruck in the Erl-king’s halls, where ghosts and dreamsHold revelry, your goblin music screams,Shivering and strange as some strange thought come true.
When, one by one, the stars have trembled throughEve’s shadowy hues of violet, rose, and fire—As on a pansy-bloom the limpid dewOrbs its bright beads;—and, one by one, the choirOf insects wakes on nodding bush and brier:Then through the woods—where wandering winds pursueA ceaseless whisper—like an eery lyreStruck in the Erl-king’s halls, where ghosts and dreamsHold revelry, your goblin music screams,Shivering and strange as some strange thought come true.
Brown as the agaric that frills dead trees,Or those fantastic fungi of the woodsThat crowd the dampness—are you kin to theseIn some mysterious way that still eludesMy fancy? you, who haunt the solitudesWith hag-like wailings? voice, that seems to freezeOut of the darkness,—like the scent which broods,Rank and rain-sodden, over autumn nooks,—That, to the mind, might well suggest such looks,Ghastly and gray, as pale clairvoyance sees.
Brown as the agaric that frills dead trees,Or those fantastic fungi of the woodsThat crowd the dampness—are you kin to theseIn some mysterious way that still eludesMy fancy? you, who haunt the solitudesWith hag-like wailings? voice, that seems to freezeOut of the darkness,—like the scent which broods,Rank and rain-sodden, over autumn nooks,—That, to the mind, might well suggest such looks,Ghastly and gray, as pale clairvoyance sees.
Brown as the agaric that frills dead trees,Or those fantastic fungi of the woodsThat crowd the dampness—are you kin to theseIn some mysterious way that still eludesMy fancy? you, who haunt the solitudesWith hag-like wailings? voice, that seems to freezeOut of the darkness,—like the scent which broods,Rank and rain-sodden, over autumn nooks,—That, to the mind, might well suggest such looks,Ghastly and gray, as pale clairvoyance sees.
You people night with weirdness: lone and drear,Beneath the stars, you cry your wizard runes;And in the haggard silence, filled with fear,Your shuddering hoot seems some wild grief that croonsMockery and terror; or,—beneath the moon’sCloud-hurrying glimmer,—to the startled ear,Crazed, madman snatches of old, perished tunes,The witless wit of outcast Edgar thereIn the wild night; or, wan with all despair,The mirthless laughter of the Fool in Lear.
You people night with weirdness: lone and drear,Beneath the stars, you cry your wizard runes;And in the haggard silence, filled with fear,Your shuddering hoot seems some wild grief that croonsMockery and terror; or,—beneath the moon’sCloud-hurrying glimmer,—to the startled ear,Crazed, madman snatches of old, perished tunes,The witless wit of outcast Edgar thereIn the wild night; or, wan with all despair,The mirthless laughter of the Fool in Lear.
You people night with weirdness: lone and drear,Beneath the stars, you cry your wizard runes;And in the haggard silence, filled with fear,Your shuddering hoot seems some wild grief that croonsMockery and terror; or,—beneath the moon’sCloud-hurrying glimmer,—to the startled ear,Crazed, madman snatches of old, perished tunes,The witless wit of outcast Edgar thereIn the wild night; or, wan with all despair,The mirthless laughter of the Fool in Lear.