ORGIE

A broken rainbow on the skies of May,Touching the dripping roses and low clouds,And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost:—So in the sorrow of her soul the ghostOf one great love, of iridescent ray,Spanning the roses gray of memory,Against the tumult of life’s rushing crowds—A broken rainbow on the skies of May.A flashing humming-bird among the flowers,Deep-colored blooms; its slender tongue and billSucking the calyxed and the honeyed myrrhs,Till, sick of sweets, to other flow’rs it whirrs:—Such was his love that won her heart’s full bowersTo yield to him their all, their sweets in showers,The flower from which he drank his body’s fill—A flashing humming-bird among the flowers.A moon, moth-white, that through far mists, like fleece,Moves amber-girt into a bulk of black,And, lost to sight, rims all the black with froth:—A love that swept its moon, like some great moth,Across the heaven of her soul’s young peace;And, smoothly passing, in the clouds did ceaseOf time, through which its burning light comes back—A moon, moth-white, that moves through mists like fleece.A bolt of living thunder downward hurled,Momental blazing from the piled-up storm,That etches out the mountains and the ocean,The towering rocks, then blots the sight’s commotion:—Love, love that swiftly coming bared the world,The deeps of life, round which fate’s clouds are curled,And, ceasing, left all night and black alarm—A bolt of living thunder downward hurled.

A flashing humming-bird among the flowers,Deep-colored blooms; its slender tongue and billSucking the calyxed and the honeyed myrrhs,Till, sick of sweets, to other flow’rs it whirrs:—Such was his love that won her heart’s full bowersTo yield to him their all, their sweets in showers,The flower from which he drank his body’s fill—A flashing humming-bird among the flowers.

A moon, moth-white, that through far mists, like fleece,Moves amber-girt into a bulk of black,And, lost to sight, rims all the black with froth:—A love that swept its moon, like some great moth,Across the heaven of her soul’s young peace;And, smoothly passing, in the clouds did ceaseOf time, through which its burning light comes back—A moon, moth-white, that moves through mists like fleece.

A bolt of living thunder downward hurled,Momental blazing from the piled-up storm,That etches out the mountains and the ocean,The towering rocks, then blots the sight’s commotion:—Love, love that swiftly coming bared the world,The deeps of life, round which fate’s clouds are curled,And, ceasing, left all night and black alarm—A bolt of living thunder downward hurled.

On nights like this, when bayou and lagoonSwoon in the moonlight’s mystic radiance,I seem to walk like one deep in a tranceWith old-world myths born of the mist and moon.Lascivious eyes and mouths of sensual roseSmile into mine: and breasts of luring light,And tresses streaming golden to the night,Persuade me onward where the forest glows.And then it seems along the haunted hillsThere falls a flutter as of beautiful feet,As if tempestuous troops of Mænads meetTo drain deep bowls and shout and have their wills.And then I feel her limbs will be revealedLike some great snow-white moth among the trees;Her vampire beauty, waiting there to seizeAnd drag me downward where my doom is sealed.

On nights like this, when bayou and lagoonSwoon in the moonlight’s mystic radiance,I seem to walk like one deep in a tranceWith old-world myths born of the mist and moon.

Lascivious eyes and mouths of sensual roseSmile into mine: and breasts of luring light,And tresses streaming golden to the night,Persuade me onward where the forest glows.

And then it seems along the haunted hillsThere falls a flutter as of beautiful feet,As if tempestuous troops of Mænads meetTo drain deep bowls and shout and have their wills.

And then I feel her limbs will be revealedLike some great snow-white moth among the trees;Her vampire beauty, waiting there to seizeAnd drag me downward where my doom is sealed.

Yes, I love the Farmstead. ThereIn the spring the lilacs blewPlenteous perfume everywhere;There in summer gladioles drewParallels of scarlet glare.And the moon-hued primrose cool,Satin-soft and redolent;Honeysuckles beautiful,Filling all the air with scent;Roses red or white as wool.Roses, glorious and lush,Rich in tender-tinted dyes,Like the gay tempestuous rushOf unnumbered butterflies,Clustering o’er each bending bush.Here japonica and box,And the wayward violets;Clumps of star-enameled phlox,And the myriad flowery jetsOf the twilight four-o’-clocks.Ah, the beauty of the place!When the June made one great rose,Full of musk and mellow grace,In the garden’s humming close,Of her comely mother face!Bubble-like the hollyhocksBudded, burst, and flaunted wideGypsy beauty from their stocks;Morning-glories, bubble-dyed,Swung in honey-hearted flocks.Tawny tiger-lilies flungDoublets slashed with crimson on;Graceful slave-girls, fair and young,Like Circassians, in the sunAlabaster lilies swung.Ah, the droning of the bee;In his dusty pantaloonsTumbling in the fleurs-de-lis;In the drowsy afternoonsDreaming in the pink sweet-pea.Ah, the moaning wildwood dove!With its throat of amethystRippled like a shining coveWhich a wind to pearl hath kissed,Moaning, moaning of its love.And the insects’ gossip thin—From the summer hotness hid—In lone, leafy deeps of green;Then at eve the katydidWith its hard, unvaried din.Often from the whispering hills,Borne from out the golden dusk,—Gold with gold of daffodils,—Thrilled into the garden’s muskThe wild wail of whippoorwills.From the purple-tangled trees,Like the white, full heart of night,Solemn with majestic peace,Swam the big moon, veined with light,Like some gorgeous golden-fleece.She was there with me.—And who,In the magic of the hour,Had not sworn that they could view,Beading on each blade and flowerMoony blisters of the dew?And each fairy of our home,—Firefly,—its taper litIn the honey-scented gloam,Dashing down the dusk with itLike an instant-flaming foam.And we heard the calling, calling,Of the brown owl in the brake;Where the trumpet-vine hung, crawlingDown the ledge, into the lakeHeard the sighing streamlet falling.Then we wandered to the creekWhere the water-lilies, growingThick as stars, lay white and weak;Or against the brooklet’s flowingStooped and bathed a bashful cheek.And the moonlight, rippling golden,Fell in virgin aureolesOn their bosoms, half-unfolden,Where, it seemed, the fairies’ soulsDreamed as perfume,—unbeholden;—Lying sleeping, pearly-tented,Baby-cribbed within each bud,While the night-wind, pinewood-scented,Swooning over field and flood,Rocked them on the waters dented.Then the low, melodious bellOf a sleeping heifer tinkled,In some berry-briered dell,As her satin dewlap wrinkledWith the cud that made it swell.And, returning home, we heard,In a beech-tree at the gate,Some brown, dream-behaunted bird,Singing of its absent mate,Of the mate that never heard.And, you see, now I am gray,Why within the old, old place,With such memories, I stay:Fancy out her absent faceLong since passed away.She was mine—yes! still is mine:And my frosty memoryReels about her, as with wineWarmed into young eyes that seeAll the past that was divine.Yes, I loved her, and have grownMelancholy in that love,And the memory aloneOf her loveliness whereofShe did sanctify each stone.And where’er her flowers swing,There she walks,—as if a beeFanned them with its airy wing,—Down her garden, shadowyIn the hush the evenings bring.

Yes, I love the Farmstead. ThereIn the spring the lilacs blewPlenteous perfume everywhere;There in summer gladioles drewParallels of scarlet glare.

And the moon-hued primrose cool,Satin-soft and redolent;Honeysuckles beautiful,Filling all the air with scent;Roses red or white as wool.

Roses, glorious and lush,Rich in tender-tinted dyes,Like the gay tempestuous rushOf unnumbered butterflies,Clustering o’er each bending bush.

Here japonica and box,And the wayward violets;Clumps of star-enameled phlox,And the myriad flowery jetsOf the twilight four-o’-clocks.

Ah, the beauty of the place!When the June made one great rose,Full of musk and mellow grace,In the garden’s humming close,Of her comely mother face!

Bubble-like the hollyhocksBudded, burst, and flaunted wideGypsy beauty from their stocks;Morning-glories, bubble-dyed,Swung in honey-hearted flocks.

Tawny tiger-lilies flungDoublets slashed with crimson on;Graceful slave-girls, fair and young,Like Circassians, in the sunAlabaster lilies swung.

Ah, the droning of the bee;In his dusty pantaloonsTumbling in the fleurs-de-lis;In the drowsy afternoonsDreaming in the pink sweet-pea.

Ah, the moaning wildwood dove!With its throat of amethystRippled like a shining coveWhich a wind to pearl hath kissed,Moaning, moaning of its love.

And the insects’ gossip thin—From the summer hotness hid—In lone, leafy deeps of green;Then at eve the katydidWith its hard, unvaried din.

Often from the whispering hills,Borne from out the golden dusk,—Gold with gold of daffodils,—Thrilled into the garden’s muskThe wild wail of whippoorwills.

From the purple-tangled trees,Like the white, full heart of night,Solemn with majestic peace,Swam the big moon, veined with light,Like some gorgeous golden-fleece.

She was there with me.—And who,In the magic of the hour,Had not sworn that they could view,Beading on each blade and flowerMoony blisters of the dew?

And each fairy of our home,—Firefly,—its taper litIn the honey-scented gloam,Dashing down the dusk with itLike an instant-flaming foam.

And we heard the calling, calling,Of the brown owl in the brake;Where the trumpet-vine hung, crawlingDown the ledge, into the lakeHeard the sighing streamlet falling.

Then we wandered to the creekWhere the water-lilies, growingThick as stars, lay white and weak;Or against the brooklet’s flowingStooped and bathed a bashful cheek.

And the moonlight, rippling golden,Fell in virgin aureolesOn their bosoms, half-unfolden,Where, it seemed, the fairies’ soulsDreamed as perfume,—unbeholden;—

Lying sleeping, pearly-tented,Baby-cribbed within each bud,While the night-wind, pinewood-scented,Swooning over field and flood,Rocked them on the waters dented.

Then the low, melodious bellOf a sleeping heifer tinkled,In some berry-briered dell,As her satin dewlap wrinkledWith the cud that made it swell.

And, returning home, we heard,In a beech-tree at the gate,Some brown, dream-behaunted bird,Singing of its absent mate,Of the mate that never heard.

And, you see, now I am gray,Why within the old, old place,With such memories, I stay:Fancy out her absent faceLong since passed away.

She was mine—yes! still is mine:And my frosty memoryReels about her, as with wineWarmed into young eyes that seeAll the past that was divine.

Yes, I loved her, and have grownMelancholy in that love,And the memory aloneOf her loveliness whereofShe did sanctify each stone.

And where’er her flowers swing,There she walks,—as if a beeFanned them with its airy wing,—Down her garden, shadowyIn the hush the evenings bring.

And he had mused on lands each bird,—That winged from realms of Falerina,O’er seas of the Enchanted Sword,—In romance sang him, till he heardFar foam on Islands of Alcina.For rich Levant and old CastileLet other seamen freight their galleys;With Polo he and MandevilleThrough stranger seas a dreamy keelSailed into wonder-peopled valleys.Far continents of flow’r and fruit,Of everlasting spring; where fountains’Mid flow’rs, with human faces, shoot;Where races dwell, both man and brute,In cities under golden mountains.Where cataracts their thunders hurlFrom heights the tempest has at mercy;Vast peaks that touch the moon, and whirlWild torrents down of gold and pearl;And forests strange as those of Circe.Let rapiered Love lute, in the shadeOf royal gardens, to the PalaceAnd Court, that haunt the balustradeOf terraces and still paradeTheir vanity and guile and malice.Him something calls, diviner yetThan Love, more mighty than a lover;Heroic Truth, that will not letDeed lag; a purpose, westward set,In eyes far-seeing to discover.

And he had mused on lands each bird,—That winged from realms of Falerina,O’er seas of the Enchanted Sword,—In romance sang him, till he heardFar foam on Islands of Alcina.

For rich Levant and old CastileLet other seamen freight their galleys;With Polo he and MandevilleThrough stranger seas a dreamy keelSailed into wonder-peopled valleys.

Far continents of flow’r and fruit,Of everlasting spring; where fountains’Mid flow’rs, with human faces, shoot;Where races dwell, both man and brute,In cities under golden mountains.

Where cataracts their thunders hurlFrom heights the tempest has at mercy;Vast peaks that touch the moon, and whirlWild torrents down of gold and pearl;And forests strange as those of Circe.

Let rapiered Love lute, in the shadeOf royal gardens, to the PalaceAnd Court, that haunt the balustradeOf terraces and still paradeTheir vanity and guile and malice.

Him something calls, diviner yetThan Love, more mighty than a lover;Heroic Truth, that will not letDeed lag; a purpose, westward set,In eyes far-seeing to discover.

Surge upon surge, the miles of surf uncurlVolutes of murmur; and the far shore foams;The thundering billows, boiling into pearl,The sea-wind clouds and combs.Wave upon wave,—as when the Nereids pour,With streaming tresses, landward, when the armsOf Tritons reach them, racing towards the shore,—Bursts on the beach that storms.Oh, thou primeval solitude! that rolledOut of creation when the world was young!That shall roll on when man is not, and oldThe ages yet unsung!Time shall not flaw thy music!—thou hast heardGod’s spirit on thy waters, and no nightAnnuls the memory of that one WordWhich blossomed into light.With such impression as upon thy faceThe soaring seagulls make, man comes and came;And countless myriads, race on warring race,Have found thee thus—the same.Thy part is—to destroy, and still remainImmutable ’midst mutability:The symbol of all change, that clothes againMystery in mystery.

Surge upon surge, the miles of surf uncurlVolutes of murmur; and the far shore foams;The thundering billows, boiling into pearl,The sea-wind clouds and combs.

Wave upon wave,—as when the Nereids pour,With streaming tresses, landward, when the armsOf Tritons reach them, racing towards the shore,—Bursts on the beach that storms.

Oh, thou primeval solitude! that rolledOut of creation when the world was young!That shall roll on when man is not, and oldThe ages yet unsung!

Time shall not flaw thy music!—thou hast heardGod’s spirit on thy waters, and no nightAnnuls the memory of that one WordWhich blossomed into light.

With such impression as upon thy faceThe soaring seagulls make, man comes and came;And countless myriads, race on warring race,Have found thee thus—the same.

Thy part is—to destroy, and still remainImmutable ’midst mutability:The symbol of all change, that clothes againMystery in mystery.

Thor, Thor is out on the hills!The frown of his fierce brow showing;His breath through his red beard blowing,With rain, through his beard that it fills.The forests are taken;The mightiest oaksAre twisted and shakenAs by chariot-spokes,Where mountains awakenTo th’ hoofs of his yokes,Reined sheer with the strength of his arm—Ride forth, O Spirit of Storm!What hope for the sparrow,Or nest of the bird!Where fords were once narrow,What hope for the herd!When arrow on arrowHe empties the thirdOf his quiver against their alarm—Descend, O Spirit of Storm!You may measure the might that he bringsBy the welkin that echoes his felloes;By the fork of the lightning,—that yellowsThe darkness,—the hammer he swings.The cattle are scatteredAnd low from the shore;The roses are shatteredThat grew at the door;The swallows look tattered,And twitter and soar,Made glad with the force of his form—Rejoice, O Spirit of Storm!On levels that sunderThe roar of the mainHe ploughs with the thunder,And sows with the rain:No sunbeam shall blunderThrough black till the plainIs planted with storm as a farm—Sweep on, O Spirit of Storm!His path is the abysm, which heapsThe wild wind behind him, and hoversA whirlwind before, that uncoversThe hurricane-lair where he sleeps.At night,—through the wrestleOf winds that contend,—To guard the good vesselFrom rocks that would rend,Like a star let it nestle,The light, to defendThe seaman and his from all harm—From thee, O Spirit of Storm!

Thor, Thor is out on the hills!The frown of his fierce brow showing;His breath through his red beard blowing,With rain, through his beard that it fills.

The forests are taken;The mightiest oaksAre twisted and shakenAs by chariot-spokes,Where mountains awakenTo th’ hoofs of his yokes,Reined sheer with the strength of his arm—Ride forth, O Spirit of Storm!

What hope for the sparrow,Or nest of the bird!Where fords were once narrow,What hope for the herd!When arrow on arrowHe empties the thirdOf his quiver against their alarm—Descend, O Spirit of Storm!

You may measure the might that he bringsBy the welkin that echoes his felloes;By the fork of the lightning,—that yellowsThe darkness,—the hammer he swings.

The cattle are scatteredAnd low from the shore;The roses are shatteredThat grew at the door;The swallows look tattered,And twitter and soar,Made glad with the force of his form—Rejoice, O Spirit of Storm!

On levels that sunderThe roar of the mainHe ploughs with the thunder,And sows with the rain:No sunbeam shall blunderThrough black till the plainIs planted with storm as a farm—Sweep on, O Spirit of Storm!

His path is the abysm, which heapsThe wild wind behind him, and hoversA whirlwind before, that uncoversThe hurricane-lair where he sleeps.

At night,—through the wrestleOf winds that contend,—To guard the good vesselFrom rocks that would rend,Like a star let it nestle,The light, to defendThe seaman and his from all harm—From thee, O Spirit of Storm!

To ...

You remember how the mist,When we climbed to Devil’s Den,Pearl-white in the mountain glen,And above us, amethyst,Throbbed and circled? then away,Through the wildwoods opposite,Torn and scattered, morning-lit,Vanished into dewy gray?—Vague as in romance we saw,From the fog one riven trunk,Talon-like with branches shrunk,Thrust a monster dragon claw.And we climbed for hours throughThe dawn-dripping Jellicoes,To a wooded rock, whence thoseUndulating leagues of blueSummits,—mountain-chains that lieDark with forest, bar on bar,—Ranged their wild, irregular,Purple peaks beneath a skyOcean-azure. Range on rangeBillowed their enormous spines,Where the rocks and priestly pinesSat eternal, without change.We were sons of Nature then:She had taken us to her,Drawn us, bound with brier and burr,Closer her than other men:Intimates of all her moods,From her bloom-anointed looks,Wisdom of no man-made booksLearned we in those solitudes:How the seed contained the flower;How the acorn held the oak;How within the vine awokeThe wild impulse still to tower:How in fantasy or mirth,Springing when she summoned there,Sponge-like fungi everywhereBulged, exuded from the earth:Coral-vegetable things,That the underworld exhaled,Bulbous, fluted, ribbed, and scaled,Many colored and in rings,Like the Indian-Pipe that grewPink and white in loamy cracks,Flowers of a natural wax,She had turned her fancy to.—On that laureled precipice,Where the chestnuts dropped their burrs,Warm with balsam of the firs,First we felt her mother-kissFull of heaven and the wind;While the forests, wood on wood,Murmured like a multitudeGiving praise where none hath sinned.—Freedom met us there; we sawFreedom giving audience;In her face the eloquence,Lightning-like, of love and law:Round her, on majestic hips,Lounged the giant mountains, whereStreaming cataracts tossed their hair,God and thunder on their lips.—Oft an eagle, or a hawk,Or a scavenger, we knewWinged above us through the blueBy its shadow on the rock.Or a cloud of templed whiteMoved, a lazy berg of pearl,Through the sky’s pacific swirl,Shot with cool, cerulean light.So we dreamed an hour uponThat high rock the lichens mossed,While around us, glimmering, tossedGolden mintings of the sun:Then arose; and a ravine,Which a torrent once had worn,Made our roadway to the cornIn the valley, deep and green;And the farm-house with its bees,Where old-fashioned flowers spunGay rag-carpets in the sun,Gray among the apple-trees.Here we watched the evening fall:O’er Wolf Mountain sunset made,Huge, a rhododendron, rayedRound the sun’s cloud-calyxed ball.Then through scents of herb and soil,To the mining-camp we turned,In the twinkling dusk discernedWith its white-washed homes of toil.. . . . . . . . . .Ah, those nights!—We wandered forthOn some haunted mountain path,When the moon rose late; and ratheThe large stars, sowed south and north,Splashed with gold the purple skies;And the milky zodiac,Rolled athwart the belted black,Seemed a path to Paradise.And we walked or tarried till,In the valley-land beneath,Like the vapor of a breathBreathed in frost, arose the stillArchitecture of the mist:And the moon-dawn’s necromanceTouched the mist and made it glanceTerraced pearl and amethyst.Then around us, sharp and brusque,Night’s shrill insects strident strungFairy viols that buzzed and sung,Pixy music of the dusk.And we seemed to hear soft sighs,And hushed steps of ghostly things,Fluttered feet and rustled wingsAll around us. Fireflies,Gleaming in the tangled glade,Seemed the eyes of warriors,Stealing under watching starsTo some phantom ambuscade;To the tepees there that gloomed,Wigwams of the mist, that sleptBy the woodland side, whence creptShadowy Shawnees moonbeam-plumed.When the moon rose, like a cupLay the valley, brimming shineOf mesmeric mist, like wine,To the sky’s dim face held up.As she rose from out the minesOf the nacreous darkness, NightMet her, clad in dewy light’Mid Pine Mountain’s sachem pines.As through fragmentary fleeceOf the clouds her circle broke,Orey-seamed, about us wokeMyths of Italy and Greece.As, an orb of sparry quartz,Her serene circumference grew,Home we turned. And all night throughSlept the sleep of happy hearts.

You remember how the mist,When we climbed to Devil’s Den,Pearl-white in the mountain glen,And above us, amethyst,

Throbbed and circled? then away,Through the wildwoods opposite,Torn and scattered, morning-lit,Vanished into dewy gray?—

Vague as in romance we saw,From the fog one riven trunk,Talon-like with branches shrunk,Thrust a monster dragon claw.

And we climbed for hours throughThe dawn-dripping Jellicoes,To a wooded rock, whence thoseUndulating leagues of blue

Summits,—mountain-chains that lieDark with forest, bar on bar,—Ranged their wild, irregular,Purple peaks beneath a sky

Ocean-azure. Range on rangeBillowed their enormous spines,Where the rocks and priestly pinesSat eternal, without change.

We were sons of Nature then:She had taken us to her,Drawn us, bound with brier and burr,Closer her than other men:

Intimates of all her moods,From her bloom-anointed looks,Wisdom of no man-made booksLearned we in those solitudes:

How the seed contained the flower;How the acorn held the oak;How within the vine awokeThe wild impulse still to tower:

How in fantasy or mirth,Springing when she summoned there,Sponge-like fungi everywhereBulged, exuded from the earth:

Coral-vegetable things,That the underworld exhaled,Bulbous, fluted, ribbed, and scaled,Many colored and in rings,

Like the Indian-Pipe that grewPink and white in loamy cracks,Flowers of a natural wax,She had turned her fancy to.—

On that laureled precipice,Where the chestnuts dropped their burrs,Warm with balsam of the firs,First we felt her mother-kiss

Full of heaven and the wind;While the forests, wood on wood,Murmured like a multitudeGiving praise where none hath sinned.—

Freedom met us there; we sawFreedom giving audience;In her face the eloquence,Lightning-like, of love and law:

Round her, on majestic hips,Lounged the giant mountains, whereStreaming cataracts tossed their hair,God and thunder on their lips.—

Oft an eagle, or a hawk,Or a scavenger, we knewWinged above us through the blueBy its shadow on the rock.

Or a cloud of templed whiteMoved, a lazy berg of pearl,Through the sky’s pacific swirl,Shot with cool, cerulean light.

So we dreamed an hour uponThat high rock the lichens mossed,While around us, glimmering, tossedGolden mintings of the sun:

Then arose; and a ravine,Which a torrent once had worn,Made our roadway to the cornIn the valley, deep and green;

And the farm-house with its bees,Where old-fashioned flowers spunGay rag-carpets in the sun,Gray among the apple-trees.

Here we watched the evening fall:O’er Wolf Mountain sunset made,Huge, a rhododendron, rayedRound the sun’s cloud-calyxed ball.

Then through scents of herb and soil,To the mining-camp we turned,In the twinkling dusk discernedWith its white-washed homes of toil.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ah, those nights!—We wandered forthOn some haunted mountain path,When the moon rose late; and ratheThe large stars, sowed south and north,

Splashed with gold the purple skies;And the milky zodiac,Rolled athwart the belted black,Seemed a path to Paradise.

And we walked or tarried till,In the valley-land beneath,Like the vapor of a breathBreathed in frost, arose the stillArchitecture of the mist:And the moon-dawn’s necromanceTouched the mist and made it glanceTerraced pearl and amethyst.

Then around us, sharp and brusque,Night’s shrill insects strident strungFairy viols that buzzed and sung,Pixy music of the dusk.

And we seemed to hear soft sighs,And hushed steps of ghostly things,Fluttered feet and rustled wingsAll around us. Fireflies,

Gleaming in the tangled glade,Seemed the eyes of warriors,Stealing under watching starsTo some phantom ambuscade;

To the tepees there that gloomed,Wigwams of the mist, that sleptBy the woodland side, whence creptShadowy Shawnees moonbeam-plumed.

When the moon rose, like a cupLay the valley, brimming shineOf mesmeric mist, like wine,To the sky’s dim face held up.

As she rose from out the minesOf the nacreous darkness, NightMet her, clad in dewy light’Mid Pine Mountain’s sachem pines.

As through fragmentary fleeceOf the clouds her circle broke,Orey-seamed, about us wokeMyths of Italy and Greece.

As, an orb of sparry quartz,Her serene circumference grew,Home we turned. And all night throughSlept the sleep of happy hearts.

Above lone woodland ways that ledTo dells the stealthy twilights treadThe west was hot geranium red;And still, and still,Along old lanes the locusts sowWith clustered pearls the Maytimes blow,Deep in the crimson afterglow,We heard the homeward cattle low,And then, far off, like some far woe,The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill.

Beneath the idle beechen boughsWe heard the slow bells of the cowsCome softly, jangling towards the house;And still, and still,Beyond the light that would not dieOut of the scarlet-haunted sky,Beyond the evening-star’s white eyeOf glittering chalcedony,Drained out of dusk the plaintive cryOf “whippoorwill,” of “whippoorwill.”

And in the city oft, when swimsThe pale moon o’er the smoke that dimsIts disc, I dream of wildwood limbs,And still, and still,I seem to hear, where shadows grope’Midst ferns and flowers that dewdrops rope,—Lost in faint deeps of heliotropeAbove the clover-sweetened slope,—Retreat, despairing, past all hope,The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill.

I lie where silence sleeps,And twilight dreams and sighs;Where all heaven’s azure peepsBlue from one wildflower’s eyes;Where, in reflecting deeps,A world, inverted, lies,Of dimmer woods and skies:Divining God from thingsHumble as weed and bee;From songs the wild bird singsGuessing at poetry;And from each flower that swings,Each star-familiar tree,Learning philosophy.

Divining God from thingsHumble as weed and bee;From songs the wild bird singsGuessing at poetry;And from each flower that swings,Each star-familiar tree,Learning philosophy.

How oft the swallow dartedAbove its deeps of blue,Where leaves close clung or partedTo let the sunlight through!Where roses, honey-hearted,Hung full of living dew!

How oft, from out the heaven,Upon me blew the balmOf soft winds, summer-drivenFrom continents of calm!With rustlings as of riven,Sea-sounding pine and palm!

Oft from its leafy coverI watched the red-bird slip;And marked, like some rude lover,The bee, with robber lip,Bend down the snowy clover,Or make the wild-rose dip.

Still darts the soaring swallowAbove it; and the roseStill blooms within its hollowWhere still the runnel flows;The brook,—that I shall followNo more,—that seaward goes.

There still the white moon shinethAt night through rifted trees;Upon the stream that twinethThrough blooms that no one sees;And on,—as I divineth,—My soul that sighs for these.

I long, oh, long to lie’Neath beechen branches, twisted,Green ’twixt the summer sky;The woodland shadows nighLike dryads sunbeam-wristed:The livelong day to dreamBeside a wildwood stream.

I long, oh, long to hearThe claustral forest breathing,Sound soothing to the ear;To see the wild-vine nearIts scarlet blooms unsheathing:The livelong day to crossSlow o’er the nut-strewn moss.

I long, oh, long to seeThe nesting red-bird singingGlad on the wood-rose tree:To watch the breezy bee,Half in the wildflower, swinging:God’s livelong day to passDeep in cool forest grass.

Oh, soul, so builded inWith mart and booth and steeple,Brick alley-ways of sin,What hope for you to winWays free of pelf and people!Ways of the leaf and rootAnd soft Mygdonian flute!

Through meadows of the ironweeds,Whose purple blooms hang, slippingThe morning dew in twinkling beads,The thin path twists and, winding, leadsThrough woodland hollows dripping;Down to a creek of rocks and reeds;On to a lilied dam that feedsA mill, whose wheel through willow-bredesWinks, the white water whipping.

It wends through meads of mint and brushWhere silvery seeds drift drowsy,Or swoon along the heatful hush;And where the bobwhite, in the bush,The elder, blooming frowsy,Keeps calling clear: then through a crushOf crowded saplings, low and lush;Then by a pool of flag and rushWith brier-rose petaled blowsy.

Thence, o’er the ragweed fallow-lot,Whose low rail-fence encumbersThe dense-packed berries ripening hot;Where, in the heaven, one far spotOf gray, the gray hawk slumbers;Then through the greenwood where the rotOf leaves and loam smells cool; and, shotWith dotting dark, the touch-me-notSwings curling horns in numbers.

It winds round rocks that bulge and lieDeep in damp ferns and mosses,—Each like a giant on his thighWatching some forest quarry die;—And thence it frailly crossesA bramble-bridge; whence, whirring high,A partridge startles,—’thwart the skyA jarring light,—where, babbling by,The brook its diamonds tosses.

And here the cohosh swings its snow,Gaunt from the forest springing;There gold the sorrel blossoms blow;Here vari-colored toadstools sow,Or swell the soil; and, swinging,The trumpet-vine hangs red and lowNear boughs,—on which the beech-burrs glow,—The woodland wind sways to and fro,O’er waters wildly ringing.

It leads us deep into the caneThrough spice-bush belts, where “tinkle”One stray bell sounds, and then again,Lost in some lone and leafy laneWhere smooth the clay ruts wrinkle ...A cloud looms up,—a grayish stainAgainst the blue;—and wet with rainThe wind blows, denting down the grainAnd leaves, the first drops sprinkle.

The dust is drilled with raindrops.—One,Then two quick gleams, then thunder;And, scurrying with the dust, we runInto a whiff of hay and sun,Of cribs and barns; and underLow martin-builded eaves,—where dunThe sparrows shelter,—watch the spunBlue rain sweep down, that seems to stunThe world with wind and wonder.

A crashing wedge of stormy light,Vibrating, blinds, and dashesA monster elm to splinters white:Then roaring rain: then, blinding bright,A bolt again that crashes....The storm is over. Left and rightThe clouds break; and, with green delight,Fresh rain scents blow from wood and heightWhere each blade drips and flashes.

A ghostly gold burns slowly throughThe chasm’d clouds; and blendedWith rainy rose and rainy blue,The heavens, pearled with many a hue,Die like a dolphin splendid....High-buoyed in wrack, now one or twoSlight stars peep out—the pirate clueTo night’s rich hoard.—In dusk and dewHere is our pathway ended.

Dormered and verandaed, cool,Locust-girdled on the hill,Stained with weather-wear; at YuleAnd Midsummer every sillThresholding the beautiful,Still I see it standing there,Brown above the woodland deep,Wrapped in lights of lavender,And slow shadows, rocked asleepBy the warm wind everywhere.I remember how the spring,Liberal-lapped, bewildered itsAcred orchards, murmuring,With the blossoms’ budded bits,Where the wood-thrush came to sing.Barefoot Spring, at first who trod,Like a beggarmaid, adownThe wet woodland, where the god,With the bright sun for a crownAnd the firmament for rod,Met her; clothed her; wedded her;Her Cophetua: when, lo!All the hill, one breathing blur,Burst in blossom, gleam and glow,Peach and pearl and lavender.Seckel, blackheart, palpitant,Rained their bleaching strays; and whiteSnowed the damson, bent aslant;Rambow-tree and romaniteSeemed beneath deep drifts to pant.And it stood there, brown and gray,In the bee-boom and the bloom,In the shadow and the ray,In the passion and perfume,Grave as age among the gay.Sweet with laughter romped the clearBoyish voices round its walls;Rare wild-roses were the dearGirlish faces in its halls,Music-haunted all the year.Far before it meadows fullOf green pennyroyal sank;Clover-dotted as with woolHere and there; and now a bankOf wild color: and the coolDark blue shadows undefinedOf the clouds rolled overhead;Clouds, from which the summer windBlew with rain, and freshly shedDew upon the flowerkind.Where, through mint and gypsy-lily,Runs the rocky brook away,Musical among the hillySolitudes,—its flashing spraySunbeam-dashed or shadow-stilly,—Buried in thick sassafras,Memory follows up the hillStill some cowbell’s mellow brass,Where the ruined water-millLooms, half-hid in cane and grass.Ah, the old farm! is it setOn the hilltop still? ’mid muskOf the meads? where, violet,Deepens all the dreaming dusk,And the locust trees hang wet?While the sunset, far and low,On its westward windows dashesPrimrose or pomegranate glow?And above, in lilac splashes,Faint, first stars the heavens sow?Sleeps it still among its roses,Yellow roses? while the choirOf the lonesome insects dozes?And the white moon, filled with fire,O’er its mossy roof reposes—Sleeps it still among its roses?

Dormered and verandaed, cool,Locust-girdled on the hill,Stained with weather-wear; at YuleAnd Midsummer every sillThresholding the beautiful,

Still I see it standing there,Brown above the woodland deep,Wrapped in lights of lavender,And slow shadows, rocked asleepBy the warm wind everywhere.

I remember how the spring,Liberal-lapped, bewildered itsAcred orchards, murmuring,With the blossoms’ budded bits,Where the wood-thrush came to sing.

Barefoot Spring, at first who trod,Like a beggarmaid, adownThe wet woodland, where the god,With the bright sun for a crownAnd the firmament for rod,

Met her; clothed her; wedded her;Her Cophetua: when, lo!All the hill, one breathing blur,Burst in blossom, gleam and glow,Peach and pearl and lavender.

Seckel, blackheart, palpitant,Rained their bleaching strays; and whiteSnowed the damson, bent aslant;Rambow-tree and romaniteSeemed beneath deep drifts to pant.

And it stood there, brown and gray,In the bee-boom and the bloom,In the shadow and the ray,In the passion and perfume,Grave as age among the gay.

Sweet with laughter romped the clearBoyish voices round its walls;Rare wild-roses were the dearGirlish faces in its halls,Music-haunted all the year.

Far before it meadows fullOf green pennyroyal sank;Clover-dotted as with woolHere and there; and now a bankOf wild color: and the cool

Dark blue shadows undefinedOf the clouds rolled overhead;Clouds, from which the summer windBlew with rain, and freshly shedDew upon the flowerkind.

Where, through mint and gypsy-lily,Runs the rocky brook away,Musical among the hillySolitudes,—its flashing spraySunbeam-dashed or shadow-stilly,—

Buried in thick sassafras,Memory follows up the hillStill some cowbell’s mellow brass,Where the ruined water-millLooms, half-hid in cane and grass.

Ah, the old farm! is it setOn the hilltop still? ’mid muskOf the meads? where, violet,Deepens all the dreaming dusk,And the locust trees hang wet?

While the sunset, far and low,On its westward windows dashesPrimrose or pomegranate glow?And above, in lilac splashes,Faint, first stars the heavens sow?

Sleeps it still among its roses,Yellow roses? while the choirOf the lonesome insects dozes?And the white moon, filled with fire,O’er its mossy roof reposes—Sleeps it still among its roses?

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