COMMUNICANTS

Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn,That life has carved with care and doubt!So weary waiting, night and morn,For that which never came about!Pale lamp, so utterly forlorn,In which God’s light at last is out.Gray hair, that lies so thin and primOn either side the sunken brows!And soldered eyes, so deep and dim,No word of man could now arouse!And hollow hands, so virgin slim,Forever clasped in silent vows!Poor breasts! that God designed for love,For baby lips to kiss and press!That never felt, yet dreamed thereof,The human touch, the child caress—That lie like shriveled blooms aboveThe heart’s long-perished happiness.O withered body, Nature gaveFor purposes of death and birth,That never knew, and could but craveThose things perhaps that make life worth—Rest now, alas! within the grave,Sad shell that served no end of Earth.

Gray hair, that lies so thin and primOn either side the sunken brows!And soldered eyes, so deep and dim,No word of man could now arouse!And hollow hands, so virgin slim,Forever clasped in silent vows!

Poor breasts! that God designed for love,For baby lips to kiss and press!That never felt, yet dreamed thereof,The human touch, the child caress—That lie like shriveled blooms aboveThe heart’s long-perished happiness.

O withered body, Nature gaveFor purposes of death and birth,That never knew, and could but craveThose things perhaps that make life worth—Rest now, alas! within the grave,Sad shell that served no end of Earth.

Who knows the things they dream, alas!Or feel, who lie beneath the ground?Perhaps the flowers, the leaves and grassThat close them round.In spring the violets may spellThe moods of them we know not of;Or lilies sweetly syllableTheir thoughts of love.Haply, in summer, dew and scentOf all they feel may be a part;Each red rose be the testamentOf some rich heart.The winds of fall be utterance,Perhaps, of saddest things they say;Wild leaves may word some dead romanceIn some dim way.In winter all their sleep profoundThrough frost may speak to grass and stream,Stilling them with the silent soundOf all they dream.

Who knows the things they dream, alas!Or feel, who lie beneath the ground?Perhaps the flowers, the leaves and grassThat close them round.

In spring the violets may spellThe moods of them we know not of;Or lilies sweetly syllableTheir thoughts of love.

Haply, in summer, dew and scentOf all they feel may be a part;Each red rose be the testamentOf some rich heart.

The winds of fall be utterance,Perhaps, of saddest things they say;Wild leaves may word some dead romanceIn some dim way.

In winter all their sleep profoundThrough frost may speak to grass and stream,Stilling them with the silent soundOf all they dream.

The west builds high a sepulchreOf cloudy granite and of gold,Where twilight’s priestly hours interThe day like some great king of old.A censer, rimmed with silver fire,The new moon swings above his tomb;While, organ-stops of God’s own choir,Star after star throbs in the gloom.And night draws near, the sadly sweet—A nun whose face is calm and fair—And kneeling at the dead day’s feetHer soul goes up in silent prayer.In prayer, we feel through dewy gleamAnd flowery fragrance, and—aboveAll Earth—the ecstasy and dreamThat haunt the mystic heart of love.

The west builds high a sepulchreOf cloudy granite and of gold,Where twilight’s priestly hours interThe day like some great king of old.

A censer, rimmed with silver fire,The new moon swings above his tomb;While, organ-stops of God’s own choir,Star after star throbs in the gloom.

And night draws near, the sadly sweet—A nun whose face is calm and fair—And kneeling at the dead day’s feetHer soul goes up in silent prayer.

In prayer, we feel through dewy gleamAnd flowery fragrance, and—aboveAll Earth—the ecstasy and dreamThat haunt the mystic heart of love.

Across the world she sends me word,From gardens fair as Falerina’s,Now by a blossom, now a bird,To come to her, who long has luredWith magic sweeter than Alcina’s.I know not what her word may mean,I know not what may mean the voicesShe sends as messengers unseen,That through the hush around me lean,And whisper till my heart rejoices.Soon must I go. I must away.Must take the path that is appointed.God grant I reach her realm some day,Where by her love, as by a ray,My soul shall be anointed.

Across the world she sends me word,From gardens fair as Falerina’s,Now by a blossom, now a bird,To come to her, who long has luredWith magic sweeter than Alcina’s.

I know not what her word may mean,I know not what may mean the voicesShe sends as messengers unseen,That through the hush around me lean,And whisper till my heart rejoices.

Soon must I go. I must away.Must take the path that is appointed.God grant I reach her realm some day,Where by her love, as by a ray,My soul shall be anointed.

Clad on with glowing beauty and the peace,Benign, of calm maturity, she standsAmong her meadows and her orchard-lands,And on her mellowing gardens and her trees,Out of the ripe abundance of her handsBestows increaseAnd fruitfulness, as, wrapped in sunny ease,Blue-eyed and blonde she goes,Upon her bosom Summer’s richest rose.

And he who follows where her footsteps lead,By hill and rock, by forest-side and stream,May glimpse the glory of her visible dream,In flower and fruit, in rounded nut and seed:She, in whose path the very shadows gleam;Whose humblest weedSeems lovelier than June’s loveliest flower, indeed,And sweeter to the smellThan April’s self within a rainy dell.

Hers is a sumptuous simplicityWithin the fair Republic of her flowers,Where you may see her standing hours on hours,Breast-deep in gold, soft-holding up a beeTo her hushed ear; or sitting under bowersOf greenery,A butterfly a-tilt upon her knee;Or lounging on her hip,Dancing a cricket on her finger-tip.

Ay, let me breathe hot scents that tell of you:The hoary catnip and the meadow-mint,On which the honor of your touch doth printItself as odor. Let me drink the hueOf ironweed and mist-flower here that hintWith purple and blue,The rapture that your presence doth imbueTheir inmost essence with,Immortal, though as transient as a myth.

Yea, let me feed on sounds that still assureMe where you hide: the brooks’, whose happy dinTells where, the deep, retired woods within,Disrobed, you bathe; the birds’, whose drowsy lureTells where you slumber, your warm, nestling chinSoft on the pure,Pink cushion of your palm.... What better cureFor care and memory’s acheThan to behold you thus, and watch you wake.

Ere wild-haws, looming in the glooms,Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms;And in the whistling hollow thereThe red-bud bends, as brown and bareAs buxom Roxy’s up-stripped arm;From some gray hickory or larch,Sighed o’er the sodden meads of March,The sad heart thrills and reddens warmTo hear you braving the rough storm,Frail courier of green-gathering powers;Rebelling sap in trees and flowers;Love’s minister come heralding—O sweet saint-voice among bleak bowers!O brown-red pursuivant of Spring!

“Moan,” sob the woodland waters stillDown bloomless ledges of the hill;And gray, gaunt clouds like harpies hangIn harpy heavens, and swoop and clangSharp beaks and talons of the wind:Black scowl the forests, and unkindThe far fields as the near: while songSeems murdered and all beauty wrong.One weak frog only in the thawOf spawny pools wakes cold and raw,Expires a melancholy bassAnd stops as if bewildered: thenAlong the frowning wood again,Flung in the thin wind’s vulture face,From woolly tassels of the proud,Red-bannered maples, long and loud,“The Spring is come! is here! her Grace! her Grace!

“Her Grace, the Spring! her Grace! her Grace!Climbs, beautiful and sunny browed,Up, up the kindling hills and wakesBlue berries in the berry brakes:With fragrant flakes, that blow and bleach,Deep-powders smothered quince and peach:Eyes dogwoods with a thousand eyes:Teaches each sod how to be wiseWith twenty wildflowers to one weed,And kisses germs that they may seed.In purest purple and sweet whiteTreads up the happier hills of light,Bloom-, cloudy-borne, song in her hairAnd balm and beam of odorous air.Winds, her retainers; and the rainsHer yeomen strong who sweep the plains:Her scarlet knights of dawn, and goldOf eve, her panoply unfold:Her herald tabarded behold!Awake to greet! prepare to sing!She comes, the darling Duchess, Spring!”

A log-hut in the solitude,A clapboard roof to rest beneath!This side, the shadow-haunted wood;That side, the sunlight-haunted heath.At daybreak Morn will come to meIn raiment of the white winds spun;Slim in her rosy hand the keyThat opes the gateway of the sun.Her smile will help my heart enoughWith love to labor all the day,And cheer the road, whose rocks are rough,With her smooth footprints, each a ray.At dusk a voice will call afar,A lone voice like the whippoorwill’s;And, on her shimmering brow one star,Night will descend the western hills.She at my door till dawn will stand,With gothic eyes, that, dark and deep,Are mirrors of a mystic land,Fantastic with the towns of sleep.

A log-hut in the solitude,A clapboard roof to rest beneath!This side, the shadow-haunted wood;That side, the sunlight-haunted heath.

At daybreak Morn will come to meIn raiment of the white winds spun;Slim in her rosy hand the keyThat opes the gateway of the sun.

Her smile will help my heart enoughWith love to labor all the day,And cheer the road, whose rocks are rough,With her smooth footprints, each a ray.

At dusk a voice will call afar,A lone voice like the whippoorwill’s;And, on her shimmering brow one star,Night will descend the western hills.

She at my door till dawn will stand,With gothic eyes, that, dark and deep,Are mirrors of a mystic land,Fantastic with the towns of sleep.

Thou, oh, thou!Thou of the chorded shell and golden plectrum, thouOf the dark eyes and pale pacific brow!Music, who by the plangent waves,Or in the echoing night of labyrinthine caves,Or on God’s mountains, lonely as the stars,Touchest reverberant barsOf immemorial sorrow and amaze;—Keeping regret and memory awake,And all the immortal acheOf love that leans upon the past’s sweet daysIn retrospection!—now, oh, now,Interpreter and heart-physician, thouWho gazest on the heaven and the hellOf life, and singest each as well,Touch with thy all-mellifluous finger-tipsOr thy melodious lips,This sickness named my soul,Making it wholeAs is an echo of a chord,Or some symphonic word,Or sweet vibrating sigh,That deep, resurgent, still doth rise and dieOn thy voluminous roll;Part of the beauty and the mysteryThat axles Earth with music; as a slave,Swinging it round and round on each sonorous pole,’Mid spheric harmony,And choral majesty,And diapasoning of wind and wave;Speeding it on its far elliptic way’Mid vasty anthemings of night and day.—O cosmic cryOf two eternities, wherein we seeThe phantasms, Death and Life,At endless strifeAbove the silence of a monster grave.

With moon-white hearts that held a gleamI gathered wildflowers in a dream,And shaped a woman, whose sweet bloodWas odor of the wildwood bud.From dew, the starlight arrowed through,I wrought a woman’s eyes of blue;The lids that on her eyeballs layWere rose-pale petals of the May.Out of a rosebud’s veins I drewThe fragrant crimson beating throughThe languid lips of her, whose kissWas as a poppy’s drowsiness.Out of the moonlight and the airI wrought the glory of her hair,That o’er her eyes’ blue heaven layLike some gold cloud o’er dawn of day.

With moon-white hearts that held a gleamI gathered wildflowers in a dream,And shaped a woman, whose sweet bloodWas odor of the wildwood bud.

From dew, the starlight arrowed through,I wrought a woman’s eyes of blue;The lids that on her eyeballs layWere rose-pale petals of the May.

Out of a rosebud’s veins I drewThe fragrant crimson beating throughThe languid lips of her, whose kissWas as a poppy’s drowsiness.

Out of the moonlight and the airI wrought the glory of her hair,That o’er her eyes’ blue heaven layLike some gold cloud o’er dawn of day.

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My spirit saw her passPage 432A Dream Shape

My spirit saw her passPage 432

A Dream Shape

I took the music of the breezeAnd water, whispering in the trees,And shaped the soul that breathed belowA woman’s blossom breasts of snow.A shadow’s shadow in the glassOf sleep, my spirit saw her pass:And thinking of it now, meseemsWe only live within our dreams.For in that time she was to meMore real than our reality;More real than Earth, more real than I—The unreal things that pass and die.

I took the music of the breezeAnd water, whispering in the trees,And shaped the soul that breathed belowA woman’s blossom breasts of snow.

A shadow’s shadow in the glassOf sleep, my spirit saw her pass:And thinking of it now, meseemsWe only live within our dreams.

For in that time she was to meMore real than our reality;More real than Earth, more real than I—The unreal things that pass and die.

Low, swallow-swept and gray,Between the orchard and the spring,All its wide windows overflowing hay,And crannied doors a-swing,The old barn stands to-day.Deep in its hay the Leghorn hidesA round white nest; and, humming softOn roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides,Black in the sun-shot loft,The building hornet glides.Along its corn-crib, cautiouslyAs thieving fingers, skulks the rat;Or in warped stalls of fragrant timothy,Gnaws at some loosened slat,Or passes shadowy.A dream of drouth made audibleBefore its door, hot, harsh, and shrillAll day the locust sings.... What other spellShall hold it, lazier stillThan the long day’s, now tell:—Dusk and the cricket and the strainOf tree-toad and of frog; and starsThat burn above the rich west’s ribbéd stain;And dropping pasture bars,And cowbells up the lane.Night and the moon and katydid,And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs;And mazy shadows that the fireflies thrid;And sweet breath of the cows,And the lone owl here hid.

Low, swallow-swept and gray,Between the orchard and the spring,All its wide windows overflowing hay,And crannied doors a-swing,The old barn stands to-day.

Deep in its hay the Leghorn hidesA round white nest; and, humming softOn roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides,Black in the sun-shot loft,The building hornet glides.

Along its corn-crib, cautiouslyAs thieving fingers, skulks the rat;Or in warped stalls of fragrant timothy,Gnaws at some loosened slat,Or passes shadowy.

A dream of drouth made audibleBefore its door, hot, harsh, and shrillAll day the locust sings.... What other spellShall hold it, lazier stillThan the long day’s, now tell:—

Dusk and the cricket and the strainOf tree-toad and of frog; and starsThat burn above the rich west’s ribbéd stain;And dropping pasture bars,And cowbells up the lane.

Night and the moon and katydid,And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs;And mazy shadows that the fireflies thrid;And sweet breath of the cows,And the lone owl here hid.

There is a woodland witch who liesWith bloom-bright limbs and beam-bright eyes,Among the water-flags that rankThe slow brook’s heron-haunted bank.The dragonflies, in brass and blue,Are signs she works her sorcery through;Weird, wizard characters she weavesHer spells with under forest leaves,—These wait her word, like imps, uponThe gray flag-pods; their wings, of lawnAnd gauze; their bodies, gleaming green.While o’er the wet sand,—left betweenThe running water and the still,—In pansy hues and daffodil,The fancies that she doth deviseAssume the forms of butterflies,Rich-colored.—And ’tis she you hear,Whose sleepy rune, hummed in the earOf silence, bees and beetles purr,And the dry-droning locusts whirr;Till, where the wood is very lone,Vague monotone meets monotone,And Slumber is begot and born,A faery child beneath the thorn.There is no mortal who may scornThe witchery she spreads aroundHer dim demesne, wherein is boundThe beauty of abandoned time,As some sweet thought ’twixt rhyme and rhyme.And through her spells you shall beholdThe blue turn gray, the gray turn goldOf hollow heaven; and the brownOf twilight vistas twinkled downWith fireflies; and in the gloomFeel the cool vowels of perfumeSlow-syllabled of weed and bloom.But, in the night, at languid rest,—When like a spirit’s naked breastThe moon slips from a silver mist,—With star-bound brow, and star-wreathed wrist,If you should see her rise and waveYou welcome—ah! what thing could saveYou then? forevermore her slave!

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed,That spangle the woods and dance—No gleam of gold that the twilights holdIs strong as their necromance:For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead,The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weedAre the May’s own utterance.The azure stars of the bluet bloom,That sprinkle the woodland’s trance—No blink of blue that a cloud lets throughIs sweet as their countenance:For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,The azure stars of the bluet bloomAre the light of the May’s own glance.With her wondering words and her looks she comes,In a sunbeam of a gown;She needs but think and the blossoms wink,But look, and they shower down.By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums,With her wondering words and her looks she comesLike a little maid to town.

The azure stars of the bluet bloom,That sprinkle the woodland’s trance—No blink of blue that a cloud lets throughIs sweet as their countenance:For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,The azure stars of the bluet bloomAre the light of the May’s own glance.

With her wondering words and her looks she comes,In a sunbeam of a gown;She needs but think and the blossoms wink,But look, and they shower down.By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums,With her wondering words and her looks she comesLike a little maid to town.

Around, the stillness deepened; then the grainWent wild with wind; and every briery laneWas swept with dust; and then, tempestuous black,Hillward the tempest heaved a monster back,That on the thunder leaned as on a cane;And on huge shoulders bore a cloudy pack,That gullied gold from many a lightning crack:One great drop splashed and wrinkled down the pane,And then field, hill, and wood were lost in rain.

At last, through clouds,—as from a cavern hewnInto night’s heart,—the sun burst, angry roon;And every cedar, with its weight of wet,Against the sunset’s fiery splendor set,Startled to beauty, seemed with rubies strewn:Then in drenched gardens, like sweet phantoms met,Dim odors rose of pink and mignonette;And in the east a confidence, that soonGrew to the calm assurance of the moon.

Sad-hearted Spirit of the solitudes,Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods!Gray-gowned in fog, gold-girdled with the gloomOf tawny sunsets; burdened with perfumeOf rain-wet uplands, chilly with the mist;And all the beauty of the fire-kissedCold forests crimsoning thy indolent way,Odorous of death and drowsy with decay.I think of thee as seated ’mid the showersOf languid leaves that cover up the flowers,—The little flower-sisterhoods, whom JuneOnce gave wild sweetness to, as to a tuneA singer gives her soul’s wild melody,—Watching the squirrel store his granary.Or, ’mid old orchards, I have pictured thee:Thy hair’s profusion blown about thy back;One lovely shoulder bathed with gypsy black;Upon thy palm one nestling cheek, and sweetThe rosy russets tumbled at thy feet.Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers?Or heart-sick bird that sang of happier hours?A cricket dirging days that soon must die?Or did the ghost of Summer wander by?

Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers?Or heart-sick bird that sang of happier hours?A cricket dirging days that soon must die?Or did the ghost of Summer wander by?

Blood-colored oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass;Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras,And broom-sedge strips of smoky pink and pearl-gray clumps of grassIn which, beneath the ragged sky, the rain pools gleam like glass.From west to east, from wood to wood, along the forest-side,The winds,—the sowers of the Lord,—with thunderous footsteps stride;Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed,Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide.The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds sounds its far fairy-bell;And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed’s windy shellGlimmers; while, wrapped in withered dreams, the wet, autumnal smellOf loam and leaf, like Fall’s own ghost, steals over field and dell.The oaks, against a copper sky—o’er which, like some black lakeOf Dis, bronze clouds, (like surges fringed with sullen fire) break—Loom sombre as Doom’s citadel above the vales that makeA pathway to a land of mist the moon’s pale feet shall take.Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a limbo-litten pane,Red in wild walls of storm, the west opens to hill and plain,On which the wild-geese ink themselves, a far triangled train;And then the shuttering clouds close down—and night it comes again.

From west to east, from wood to wood, along the forest-side,The winds,—the sowers of the Lord,—with thunderous footsteps stride;Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed,Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide.

The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds sounds its far fairy-bell;And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed’s windy shellGlimmers; while, wrapped in withered dreams, the wet, autumnal smellOf loam and leaf, like Fall’s own ghost, steals over field and dell.

The oaks, against a copper sky—o’er which, like some black lakeOf Dis, bronze clouds, (like surges fringed with sullen fire) break—Loom sombre as Doom’s citadel above the vales that makeA pathway to a land of mist the moon’s pale feet shall take.

Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a limbo-litten pane,Red in wild walls of storm, the west opens to hill and plain,On which the wild-geese ink themselves, a far triangled train;And then the shuttering clouds close down—and night it comes again.

When I behold how some pursueFame that is Care’s embodiment,Or fortune, whose false face looks true,—An humble home with sweet contentIs all I ask for me and you.An humble home, where pigeons coo,Whose path leads under breezy linesOf frosty-berried cedars toA gate, one mass of trumpet-vines,Is all I ask for me and you.A garden, which, all summer through,The roses old make redolent,And morning-glories, gay of hue,And tansy with its homely scent,Is all I ask for me and you.An orchard, that the pippins strew,From whose bruised gold the juices spring;A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue,Wine-big and ripe for vintaging,Is all I ask for me and you.A lane, that leads to some far viewOf forest or of fallow-land,Bloomed o’er of rose and meadow-rue,Each with a bee in its hot hand,Is all I ask for me and you.At morn, a pathway deep with dew,And birds that vary time and tune;At eve, a sunset avenue,And whippoorwills that haunt the moon,Is all I ask for me and you.Dear heart, with wants so small and few,And faith, that’s better far than gold,A lowly friend; a child or two,To care for us when we are old,Is all I ask for me and you.

When I behold how some pursueFame that is Care’s embodiment,Or fortune, whose false face looks true,—An humble home with sweet contentIs all I ask for me and you.

An humble home, where pigeons coo,Whose path leads under breezy linesOf frosty-berried cedars toA gate, one mass of trumpet-vines,Is all I ask for me and you.

A garden, which, all summer through,The roses old make redolent,And morning-glories, gay of hue,And tansy with its homely scent,Is all I ask for me and you.

An orchard, that the pippins strew,From whose bruised gold the juices spring;A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue,Wine-big and ripe for vintaging,Is all I ask for me and you.

A lane, that leads to some far viewOf forest or of fallow-land,Bloomed o’er of rose and meadow-rue,Each with a bee in its hot hand,Is all I ask for me and you.

At morn, a pathway deep with dew,And birds that vary time and tune;At eve, a sunset avenue,And whippoorwills that haunt the moon,Is all I ask for me and you.

Dear heart, with wants so small and few,And faith, that’s better far than gold,A lowly friend; a child or two,To care for us when we are old,Is all I ask for me and you.

Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blowsA tourney-trumpet on the listed hill;Past is the splendor of the royal roseAnd duchess daffodil.Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden’s space,Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold,A ragged beggar with a lovely face,Reigns the sad marigold.And I, who sought June’s butterfly for days,Now find it—like a coreopsis bloom—Amber and seal, rain-murdered ’neath the blazeOf this sunflower’s plume.Here drones the bee; and there, sky-voyaging wingsDare the blue gulfs of heaven: the last songThe red-bird flings me as adieu, still ringsUpon that pear-tree’s prong.No angry sunset brims with rubier redThe bowl of heaven than the days, indeed,Pour in the blossoms of this salvia-bedWhere each leaf seems to bleed.And where the wood-gnats dance, a little mist,Above the efforts of the weedy stream,The girl, October, tired of the tryst,Dreams a diviner dream.One foot just dipping the caressing wave,One knee at languid angle; locks that drownHands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave,Watching the leaves drift down.

Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blowsA tourney-trumpet on the listed hill;Past is the splendor of the royal roseAnd duchess daffodil.

Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden’s space,Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold,A ragged beggar with a lovely face,Reigns the sad marigold.

And I, who sought June’s butterfly for days,Now find it—like a coreopsis bloom—Amber and seal, rain-murdered ’neath the blazeOf this sunflower’s plume.

Here drones the bee; and there, sky-voyaging wingsDare the blue gulfs of heaven: the last songThe red-bird flings me as adieu, still ringsUpon that pear-tree’s prong.

No angry sunset brims with rubier redThe bowl of heaven than the days, indeed,Pour in the blossoms of this salvia-bedWhere each leaf seems to bleed.

And where the wood-gnats dance, a little mist,Above the efforts of the weedy stream,The girl, October, tired of the tryst,Dreams a diviner dream.

One foot just dipping the caressing wave,One knee at languid angle; locks that drownHands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave,Watching the leaves drift down.

What is it now that I shall seekWhere woods dip downward, in the hills?—A mossy nook, a ferny creek,And May among the daffodils.Or in the valley’s vistaed glow,Past rocks of terraced trumpet-vines,Shall I behold her coming slow,Sweet May, among the columbines?With red-bud cheeks and bluet eyes,Big eyes, the homes of happiness,To meet me with the old surprise,Her hoiden hair all bonnetless.Who waits for me, where, note for note,The birds make glad the forest trees?A dogwood blossom at her throat,My May among th’ anemones.As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms,And dewdrops drink the moon’s bright beams,My soul shall kiss her lips’ perfumes,And drain the magic of her dreams.

What is it now that I shall seekWhere woods dip downward, in the hills?—A mossy nook, a ferny creek,And May among the daffodils.

Or in the valley’s vistaed glow,Past rocks of terraced trumpet-vines,Shall I behold her coming slow,Sweet May, among the columbines?

With red-bud cheeks and bluet eyes,Big eyes, the homes of happiness,To meet me with the old surprise,Her hoiden hair all bonnetless.

Who waits for me, where, note for note,The birds make glad the forest trees?A dogwood blossom at her throat,My May among th’ anemones.

As sweetheart breezes kiss the blooms,And dewdrops drink the moon’s bright beams,My soul shall kiss her lips’ perfumes,And drain the magic of her dreams.

Under rocks whereon the roseLike a strip of morning glows;Where the azure-throated newtDrowses on the twisted root;And the brown bees, humming homeward,Stop to suck the honeydew;Fern and leaf-hid gleaming gloamward,Drips the wildwood spring I knew,Drips the spring my boyhood knew.

Myrrh and music everywhereHaunt its cascades—like the hairThat a Naiad tosses cool,Swimming strangely beautiful,With white fragrance for her bosom,And her mouth a breath of song:—Under leaf and branch and blossomFlows the woodland spring along,Sparkling, singing flows along.

Still the wet wan mornings touchIts gray rocks, perhaps; and suchSlender stars as dusk may havePierce the rose that roofs its wave;Still the thrush may call at noontideAnd the whippoorwill at night;Nevermore, by sun or moontide,Shall I see it gliding white,Falling, flowing, wild and white.

Push back the brambles, berry-blue;The hollowed spring is full in view:Deep-tangled with luxuriant fernRipples its rock-embedded urn.Not for the loneliness that keepsThe coigne wherein its crystal sleeps;Not for wild butterflies that swayTheir pansy pinions all the dayAbove its mirror; nor the bee,Nor dragon-fly, that, passing, seeThemselves reflected in its spar;Not for the one white liquid starThat twinkles in its firmament;Nor moon-shot clouds, so slowly sentAthwart it when the kindly nightBeads its long grasses with the lightSmall jewels of the dimpled dew:Not for the day’s inverted blue,Nor the quaint, dimly colored stonesThat dance within it where it moans;Not for all these I love to sitIn silence and to gaze in it.But, lo! a nymph with merry eyesGreets mine within its laughing skies;A glimmering, shimmering nymph who playsAll the long fragrant summer daysWith instant sights of bees and birds,And talks with them in water-words;And for whose nakedness the airWeaves moony mists; and on whose hair,Unfilleted, the night will setThat lone star as a coronet.

Push back the brambles, berry-blue;The hollowed spring is full in view:Deep-tangled with luxuriant fernRipples its rock-embedded urn.

Not for the loneliness that keepsThe coigne wherein its crystal sleeps;Not for wild butterflies that swayTheir pansy pinions all the dayAbove its mirror; nor the bee,Nor dragon-fly, that, passing, seeThemselves reflected in its spar;Not for the one white liquid starThat twinkles in its firmament;Nor moon-shot clouds, so slowly sentAthwart it when the kindly nightBeads its long grasses with the lightSmall jewels of the dimpled dew:Not for the day’s inverted blue,Nor the quaint, dimly colored stonesThat dance within it where it moans;Not for all these I love to sitIn silence and to gaze in it.But, lo! a nymph with merry eyesGreets mine within its laughing skies;A glimmering, shimmering nymph who playsAll the long fragrant summer daysWith instant sights of bees and birds,And talks with them in water-words;And for whose nakedness the airWeaves moony mists; and on whose hair,Unfilleted, the night will setThat lone star as a coronet.

There is no joy of earth that thrillsMy bosom like the far-off hills!Th’ unchanging hills, that, shadowy,Beckon our mutabilityTo follow and to gaze uponFoundations of the dusk and dawn.Meseems the very heavens are massedUpon their shoulders, vague and vastWith all the skyey burden ofThe winds and clouds and stars above.Lo, how they sit before us, seeingThe laws that give all Beauty being!Behold! to them, when dawn draws near,The nomads of the air appear,Unfolding crimson camps of dayIn brilliant bands; then march away;And under burning battlementsOf evening plant their tinted tents.The truth of olden myths, that broodBy haunted stream and haunted wood,They see; and feel the happinessOf old at which we only guess:The dreams, the ancients loved and knew,Still as their rocks and trees are true:Not otherwise than presencesThe tempest and the calm to these:One, shouting on them all the night,Black-limbed and veined with lambent light:The other, with the ministryOf all soft things that companyWith music—whose embodied formFills all the solitude with charmOf leaves and waters and the peaceOf bird-begotten melodies—And who at night doth still conferWith the mild moon, that telleth herPale tale of lonely love, untilWan shadows of her passion fillThe heights with shapes that glimmer byClad on with sleep and memory.

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