Before the rathe song-sparrow singsAmong the haw-trees in the lane,And to the wind the locust flingsIts early clusters fresh with rain;Beyond the morning-star, that swingsIts rose of fire above the spire,Between the morning’s watchet wings,A wild voice rings o’er brooks and boughs—“Arouse! arouse!”Before the first brown owlet criesAmong the grape-vines on the hill,And in the dam with half-shut eyesThe lilies rock above the mill;Beyond the oblong moon, that flies,A pearly flower, above the tower,Between the twilight’s primrose skies,A soft voice sighs, from east to west—“To rest! to rest!”
Before the rathe song-sparrow singsAmong the haw-trees in the lane,And to the wind the locust flingsIts early clusters fresh with rain;Beyond the morning-star, that swingsIts rose of fire above the spire,Between the morning’s watchet wings,A wild voice rings o’er brooks and boughs—“Arouse! arouse!”Before the first brown owlet criesAmong the grape-vines on the hill,And in the dam with half-shut eyesThe lilies rock above the mill;Beyond the oblong moon, that flies,A pearly flower, above the tower,Between the twilight’s primrose skies,A soft voice sighs, from east to west—“To rest! to rest!”
Before the rathe song-sparrow singsAmong the haw-trees in the lane,And to the wind the locust flingsIts early clusters fresh with rain;Beyond the morning-star, that swingsIts rose of fire above the spire,Between the morning’s watchet wings,A wild voice rings o’er brooks and boughs—“Arouse! arouse!”
Before the first brown owlet criesAmong the grape-vines on the hill,And in the dam with half-shut eyesThe lilies rock above the mill;Beyond the oblong moon, that flies,A pearly flower, above the tower,Between the twilight’s primrose skies,A soft voice sighs, from east to west—“To rest! to rest!”
I hear the hoofs of horsesGalloping over the hill,Galloping on and galloping on,When all the night is shrillWith wind and rain that beats the pane—And my soul with awe is still.For every dripping windowTheir headlong rush makes bound,Galloping up, and galloping by,Then back again and around,Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs,And the draughty cellars sound.And then I hear black horsemenHallooing in the night;Hallooing and hallooing,They ride o’er vale and height,And the branches snap and the shutters clapWith the fury of their flight.Then at each door a horseman,—With burly bearded lipHallooing through the keyhole,—Pauses with cloak a-drip;And the door-knob shakes and the panel quakes’Neath the anger of his whip.All night I hear their gallop,And their wild halloo’s alarm;The tree-tops sound and the vanes go roundIn forest and on farm;But never a hair of a thing is there—Only the wind and storm.
I hear the hoofs of horsesGalloping over the hill,Galloping on and galloping on,When all the night is shrillWith wind and rain that beats the pane—And my soul with awe is still.For every dripping windowTheir headlong rush makes bound,Galloping up, and galloping by,Then back again and around,Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs,And the draughty cellars sound.And then I hear black horsemenHallooing in the night;Hallooing and hallooing,They ride o’er vale and height,And the branches snap and the shutters clapWith the fury of their flight.Then at each door a horseman,—With burly bearded lipHallooing through the keyhole,—Pauses with cloak a-drip;And the door-knob shakes and the panel quakes’Neath the anger of his whip.All night I hear their gallop,And their wild halloo’s alarm;The tree-tops sound and the vanes go roundIn forest and on farm;But never a hair of a thing is there—Only the wind and storm.
I hear the hoofs of horsesGalloping over the hill,Galloping on and galloping on,When all the night is shrillWith wind and rain that beats the pane—And my soul with awe is still.
For every dripping windowTheir headlong rush makes bound,Galloping up, and galloping by,Then back again and around,Till the gusty roofs ring with their hoofs,And the draughty cellars sound.
And then I hear black horsemenHallooing in the night;Hallooing and hallooing,They ride o’er vale and height,And the branches snap and the shutters clapWith the fury of their flight.
Then at each door a horseman,—With burly bearded lipHallooing through the keyhole,—Pauses with cloak a-drip;And the door-knob shakes and the panel quakes’Neath the anger of his whip.
All night I hear their gallop,And their wild halloo’s alarm;The tree-tops sound and the vanes go roundIn forest and on farm;But never a hair of a thing is there—Only the wind and storm.
“I belt the morn with ribboned mist;With baldricked blue I gird the noon,And dusk with purple, crimson-kissed,White-buckled with the hunter’s-moon.“These follow me,” the Season says:“Mine is the frost-pale hand that packsTheir scrips, and speeds them on their ways,With gipsy gold that weighs their backs.”
“I belt the morn with ribboned mist;With baldricked blue I gird the noon,And dusk with purple, crimson-kissed,White-buckled with the hunter’s-moon.“These follow me,” the Season says:“Mine is the frost-pale hand that packsTheir scrips, and speeds them on their ways,With gipsy gold that weighs their backs.”
“I belt the morn with ribboned mist;With baldricked blue I gird the noon,And dusk with purple, crimson-kissed,White-buckled with the hunter’s-moon.
“These follow me,” the Season says:“Mine is the frost-pale hand that packsTheir scrips, and speeds them on their ways,With gipsy gold that weighs their backs.”
A daybreak horn the Autumn blows,As with a sun-tanned hand he partsWet boughs whereon the berry glows;And at his feet the red fox starts.The leafy leash that holds his houndsIs loosed; and all the noonday hushIs startled; and the hillside soundsBehind the fox’s bounding brush.When red dusk makes the western skyA fire-lit window through the firs,He stoops to see the red fox dieAmong the chestnut’s broken burrs.Then fanfaree and fanfaree,His bugle sounds; the world belowGrows hushed to hear; and two or threeSoft stars dream through the afterglow.
A daybreak horn the Autumn blows,As with a sun-tanned hand he partsWet boughs whereon the berry glows;And at his feet the red fox starts.The leafy leash that holds his houndsIs loosed; and all the noonday hushIs startled; and the hillside soundsBehind the fox’s bounding brush.When red dusk makes the western skyA fire-lit window through the firs,He stoops to see the red fox dieAmong the chestnut’s broken burrs.Then fanfaree and fanfaree,His bugle sounds; the world belowGrows hushed to hear; and two or threeSoft stars dream through the afterglow.
A daybreak horn the Autumn blows,As with a sun-tanned hand he partsWet boughs whereon the berry glows;And at his feet the red fox starts.
The leafy leash that holds his houndsIs loosed; and all the noonday hushIs startled; and the hillside soundsBehind the fox’s bounding brush.
When red dusk makes the western skyA fire-lit window through the firs,He stoops to see the red fox dieAmong the chestnut’s broken burrs.
Then fanfaree and fanfaree,His bugle sounds; the world belowGrows hushed to hear; and two or threeSoft stars dream through the afterglow.
Like some black host the shadows fall,And blackness camps among the trees;Each wildwood road, a Goblin Hall,Grows populous with mysteries.Night comes with brows of ragged storm,And limbs of writhen cloud and mist;The rain-wind hangs upon his armLike some wild girl who cries unkissed.By his gaunt hands the leaves are shedIn headlong troops and nightmare herds;And, like a witch who calls the dead,The hill-stream whirls with foaming words.Then all is sudden silence andDark fear—like his who can not see,Yet hears, lost in a haunted land,Death rattling on a gallow’s-tree.
Like some black host the shadows fall,And blackness camps among the trees;Each wildwood road, a Goblin Hall,Grows populous with mysteries.Night comes with brows of ragged storm,And limbs of writhen cloud and mist;The rain-wind hangs upon his armLike some wild girl who cries unkissed.By his gaunt hands the leaves are shedIn headlong troops and nightmare herds;And, like a witch who calls the dead,The hill-stream whirls with foaming words.Then all is sudden silence andDark fear—like his who can not see,Yet hears, lost in a haunted land,Death rattling on a gallow’s-tree.
Like some black host the shadows fall,And blackness camps among the trees;Each wildwood road, a Goblin Hall,Grows populous with mysteries.
Night comes with brows of ragged storm,And limbs of writhen cloud and mist;The rain-wind hangs upon his armLike some wild girl who cries unkissed.
By his gaunt hands the leaves are shedIn headlong troops and nightmare herds;And, like a witch who calls the dead,The hill-stream whirls with foaming words.
Then all is sudden silence andDark fear—like his who can not see,Yet hears, lost in a haunted land,Death rattling on a gallow’s-tree.
The days approach again; the daysWhose mantles stream, whose sandals dragWhen in the haze by puddled waysThe gnarled thorn seems a crookéd hag.When rotting orchards reek with rain;And woodlands crumble, leaf and log;And in the drizzling yard againThe gourd is tagged with points of fog.Now let me seat my soul amongThe woods’ dim dreams, and come in touchWith melancholy, sad of tongueAnd sweet, who says so much, so much.
The days approach again; the daysWhose mantles stream, whose sandals dragWhen in the haze by puddled waysThe gnarled thorn seems a crookéd hag.When rotting orchards reek with rain;And woodlands crumble, leaf and log;And in the drizzling yard againThe gourd is tagged with points of fog.Now let me seat my soul amongThe woods’ dim dreams, and come in touchWith melancholy, sad of tongueAnd sweet, who says so much, so much.
The days approach again; the daysWhose mantles stream, whose sandals dragWhen in the haze by puddled waysThe gnarled thorn seems a crookéd hag.
When rotting orchards reek with rain;And woodlands crumble, leaf and log;And in the drizzling yard againThe gourd is tagged with points of fog.
Now let me seat my soul amongThe woods’ dim dreams, and come in touchWith melancholy, sad of tongueAnd sweet, who says so much, so much.
O heart,—that beat the bird’s blithe blood,The blithe bird’s strain, and understoodThe song it sang to leaf and bud,—What dost thou in the wood?O soul,—that kept the brook’s glad flow,The glad brook’s word to sun and moon,—What dost thou here where song lies low,Dead as the dreams of June?Where once was heard a voice of song,The hautboys of the mad winds sing;Where once a music flowed along,The rain’s wild bugles ring.The weedy water frets and ails,And moans in many a sunless fall;And, o’er the melancholy, trailsThe black crow’s eldritch call.Unhappy brook! O withered wood!O days, whom death makes comrades of!Where are the birds that thrilled the bloodWhen Life struck hands with Love?A song, one soared against the blue;A song, one bubbled in the leaves:A song, one threw where orchards grewRed-appled to the eaves.The birds are flown; the flowers are dead;And sky and earth are bleak and gray;The wild winds hang i’ the boughs instead,And wild leaves strew the way.
O heart,—that beat the bird’s blithe blood,The blithe bird’s strain, and understoodThe song it sang to leaf and bud,—What dost thou in the wood?O soul,—that kept the brook’s glad flow,The glad brook’s word to sun and moon,—What dost thou here where song lies low,Dead as the dreams of June?Where once was heard a voice of song,The hautboys of the mad winds sing;Where once a music flowed along,The rain’s wild bugles ring.The weedy water frets and ails,And moans in many a sunless fall;And, o’er the melancholy, trailsThe black crow’s eldritch call.Unhappy brook! O withered wood!O days, whom death makes comrades of!Where are the birds that thrilled the bloodWhen Life struck hands with Love?A song, one soared against the blue;A song, one bubbled in the leaves:A song, one threw where orchards grewRed-appled to the eaves.The birds are flown; the flowers are dead;And sky and earth are bleak and gray;The wild winds hang i’ the boughs instead,And wild leaves strew the way.
O heart,—that beat the bird’s blithe blood,The blithe bird’s strain, and understoodThe song it sang to leaf and bud,—What dost thou in the wood?
O soul,—that kept the brook’s glad flow,The glad brook’s word to sun and moon,—What dost thou here where song lies low,Dead as the dreams of June?
Where once was heard a voice of song,The hautboys of the mad winds sing;Where once a music flowed along,The rain’s wild bugles ring.
The weedy water frets and ails,And moans in many a sunless fall;And, o’er the melancholy, trailsThe black crow’s eldritch call.
Unhappy brook! O withered wood!O days, whom death makes comrades of!Where are the birds that thrilled the bloodWhen Life struck hands with Love?
A song, one soared against the blue;A song, one bubbled in the leaves:A song, one threw where orchards grewRed-appled to the eaves.
The birds are flown; the flowers are dead;And sky and earth are bleak and gray;The wild winds hang i’ the boughs instead,And wild leaves strew the way.
The rainy smell of a ferny dell,Whose shadow no sun-ray flaws,When Autumn sits in the wayside weedsTelling her beadsOf haws.
The rainy smell of a ferny dell,Whose shadow no sun-ray flaws,When Autumn sits in the wayside weedsTelling her beadsOf haws.
The rainy smell of a ferny dell,Whose shadow no sun-ray flaws,When Autumn sits in the wayside weedsTelling her beadsOf haws.
The phantom mist, that is moonbeam-kissed,On hills where the trees are thinned,When Autumn leans at the oak-root’s scarp,Touching a harpOf wind.
The phantom mist, that is moonbeam-kissed,On hills where the trees are thinned,When Autumn leans at the oak-root’s scarp,Touching a harpOf wind.
The phantom mist, that is moonbeam-kissed,On hills where the trees are thinned,When Autumn leans at the oak-root’s scarp,Touching a harpOf wind.
The cricket’s chirr ’neath brier and burr,By leaf-strewn pools and streams,When Autumn stands ’mid the dropping nuts,With the book, she shuts,Of dreams.
The cricket’s chirr ’neath brier and burr,By leaf-strewn pools and streams,When Autumn stands ’mid the dropping nuts,With the book, she shuts,Of dreams.
The cricket’s chirr ’neath brier and burr,By leaf-strewn pools and streams,When Autumn stands ’mid the dropping nuts,With the book, she shuts,Of dreams.
The gray “Alas” of the days that pass,And the hope that says “Adieu,”A parting sorrow, a shriveled flower,And one ghost’s hourWith you.
The gray “Alas” of the days that pass,And the hope that says “Adieu,”A parting sorrow, a shriveled flower,And one ghost’s hourWith you.
The gray “Alas” of the days that pass,And the hope that says “Adieu,”A parting sorrow, a shriveled flower,And one ghost’s hourWith you.
The moon, like a round deviceOn a shadowy shield of war,Hangs white in a heaven of iceWith a solitary star.The wind is sunk to a sigh,And the waters are steeled with frost;And gray in the eastern skyThe last snow-cloud is lost.White fields, that are winter-starved;Black woods, that are winter-fraught;And Earth like a face death-carvedWith the iron of some black thought.
The moon, like a round deviceOn a shadowy shield of war,Hangs white in a heaven of iceWith a solitary star.The wind is sunk to a sigh,And the waters are steeled with frost;And gray in the eastern skyThe last snow-cloud is lost.White fields, that are winter-starved;Black woods, that are winter-fraught;And Earth like a face death-carvedWith the iron of some black thought.
The moon, like a round deviceOn a shadowy shield of war,Hangs white in a heaven of iceWith a solitary star.
The wind is sunk to a sigh,And the waters are steeled with frost;And gray in the eastern skyThe last snow-cloud is lost.
White fields, that are winter-starved;Black woods, that are winter-fraught;And Earth like a face death-carvedWith the iron of some black thought.
It’s, Oh, for the hills, where the wind’s some oneWith a vagabond foot that follows!And a cheer-up hand that he claps uponYour arm with the hearty words, “Come on!We’ll soon be out of the hollows,My heart!We’ll soon be out of the hollows!”
It’s, Oh, for the hills, where the wind’s some oneWith a vagabond foot that follows!And a cheer-up hand that he claps uponYour arm with the hearty words, “Come on!We’ll soon be out of the hollows,My heart!We’ll soon be out of the hollows!”
It’s, Oh, for the hills, where the wind’s some oneWith a vagabond foot that follows!And a cheer-up hand that he claps uponYour arm with the hearty words, “Come on!We’ll soon be out of the hollows,My heart!We’ll soon be out of the hollows!”
It’s, Oh, for the songs, where the hope’s some oneWith a renegade foot that doubles!And a kindly look that he turns uponYour face with the friendly laugh, “Come on!We’ll soon be out of the troubles,My heart!We’ll soon be out of the troubles!”
It’s, Oh, for the songs, where the hope’s some oneWith a renegade foot that doubles!And a kindly look that he turns uponYour face with the friendly laugh, “Come on!We’ll soon be out of the troubles,My heart!We’ll soon be out of the troubles!”
It’s, Oh, for the songs, where the hope’s some oneWith a renegade foot that doubles!And a kindly look that he turns uponYour face with the friendly laugh, “Come on!We’ll soon be out of the troubles,My heart!We’ll soon be out of the troubles!”
Deep in baby Mary’s eyes,Baby Mary’s sweet blue eyes,Dwell the golden memoriesOf the music once her earsHeard in far-off Paradise:So she has no time for tears,—Baby Mary,—Listening to the songs she hears.Soft in baby Mary’s face,Baby Mary’s lovely face,If you watch, you, too, may traceDreams her spirit-self hath seenIn some far-off Eden-place,Whence her soul she can not wean,—Baby Mary,—Dreaming in a world between.
Deep in baby Mary’s eyes,Baby Mary’s sweet blue eyes,Dwell the golden memoriesOf the music once her earsHeard in far-off Paradise:So she has no time for tears,—Baby Mary,—Listening to the songs she hears.Soft in baby Mary’s face,Baby Mary’s lovely face,If you watch, you, too, may traceDreams her spirit-self hath seenIn some far-off Eden-place,Whence her soul she can not wean,—Baby Mary,—Dreaming in a world between.
Deep in baby Mary’s eyes,Baby Mary’s sweet blue eyes,Dwell the golden memoriesOf the music once her earsHeard in far-off Paradise:So she has no time for tears,—Baby Mary,—Listening to the songs she hears.
Soft in baby Mary’s face,Baby Mary’s lovely face,If you watch, you, too, may traceDreams her spirit-self hath seenIn some far-off Eden-place,Whence her soul she can not wean,—Baby Mary,—Dreaming in a world between.
Wide in the west a lakeOf flame that seems to shakeAs if the Midgard snakeDeep down did breathe:An isle of purple glow,Where rosy rivers flowDown peaks of cloudy snowWith fire beneath.And there the Tower-of-Night,With windows all a-light,Frowns on a burning height,Wherein she sleeps,—Young through the years of doom,—Veiled with her hair’s gold gloom,She, the Valkyrie, whomEnchantment keeps.
Wide in the west a lakeOf flame that seems to shakeAs if the Midgard snakeDeep down did breathe:An isle of purple glow,Where rosy rivers flowDown peaks of cloudy snowWith fire beneath.And there the Tower-of-Night,With windows all a-light,Frowns on a burning height,Wherein she sleeps,—Young through the years of doom,—Veiled with her hair’s gold gloom,She, the Valkyrie, whomEnchantment keeps.
Wide in the west a lakeOf flame that seems to shakeAs if the Midgard snakeDeep down did breathe:An isle of purple glow,Where rosy rivers flowDown peaks of cloudy snowWith fire beneath.
And there the Tower-of-Night,With windows all a-light,Frowns on a burning height,Wherein she sleeps,—Young through the years of doom,—Veiled with her hair’s gold gloom,She, the Valkyrie, whomEnchantment keeps.
The misty rain makes dim my face,The night’s black cloak is o’er me;I tread the dripping cypress-place,A flickering light before me.Out of the death of leaves that rotAnd ooze and weedy water,My form was breathed to haunt this spot,Death’s immaterial daughter.The owl that whoops upon the yew,The snake that lairs within it,Have seen my wild face flashing blueFor one fantastic minute.But should you follow where my eyesLike some pale lamp decoy you,Beware! lest suddenly I riseWith love that shall destroy you.
The misty rain makes dim my face,The night’s black cloak is o’er me;I tread the dripping cypress-place,A flickering light before me.Out of the death of leaves that rotAnd ooze and weedy water,My form was breathed to haunt this spot,Death’s immaterial daughter.The owl that whoops upon the yew,The snake that lairs within it,Have seen my wild face flashing blueFor one fantastic minute.But should you follow where my eyesLike some pale lamp decoy you,Beware! lest suddenly I riseWith love that shall destroy you.
The misty rain makes dim my face,The night’s black cloak is o’er me;I tread the dripping cypress-place,A flickering light before me.
Out of the death of leaves that rotAnd ooze and weedy water,My form was breathed to haunt this spot,Death’s immaterial daughter.
The owl that whoops upon the yew,The snake that lairs within it,Have seen my wild face flashing blueFor one fantastic minute.
But should you follow where my eyesLike some pale lamp decoy you,Beware! lest suddenly I riseWith love that shall destroy you.
Witch-hazel, dogwood, and the maple here;And there the oak and hickory;Linn, poplar, and the beech-tree, far and nearAs the eased eye can see.Wild-ginger; wahoo, with its flat balloons;And brakes of briers of a twilight green;And fox-grapes plumed with summer; and strung moonsOf mandrake flowers between.Deep gold-green ferns, and mosses green and gray,—Mats for what naked myth’s white feet?—And, cool and calm, a cascade far awayWith ever-even beat.Old logs, made sweet with death; rough bits of bark;And tangled twig and knotted root;And sunshine splashes and great pools of dark;And many a wild-bird’s flute.Here let me sit until the Indian, Dusk,With copper-colored face, comes down;Sowing the wildwood with star-fire and musk,And shadows blue and brown.Then side by side with some magician Dream,I’ll take the owlet-haunted lane,—Half-roofed with vines,—led by a firefly gleam,That brings me home again.
Witch-hazel, dogwood, and the maple here;And there the oak and hickory;Linn, poplar, and the beech-tree, far and nearAs the eased eye can see.Wild-ginger; wahoo, with its flat balloons;And brakes of briers of a twilight green;And fox-grapes plumed with summer; and strung moonsOf mandrake flowers between.Deep gold-green ferns, and mosses green and gray,—Mats for what naked myth’s white feet?—And, cool and calm, a cascade far awayWith ever-even beat.Old logs, made sweet with death; rough bits of bark;And tangled twig and knotted root;And sunshine splashes and great pools of dark;And many a wild-bird’s flute.Here let me sit until the Indian, Dusk,With copper-colored face, comes down;Sowing the wildwood with star-fire and musk,And shadows blue and brown.Then side by side with some magician Dream,I’ll take the owlet-haunted lane,—Half-roofed with vines,—led by a firefly gleam,That brings me home again.
Witch-hazel, dogwood, and the maple here;And there the oak and hickory;Linn, poplar, and the beech-tree, far and nearAs the eased eye can see.
Wild-ginger; wahoo, with its flat balloons;And brakes of briers of a twilight green;And fox-grapes plumed with summer; and strung moonsOf mandrake flowers between.
Deep gold-green ferns, and mosses green and gray,—Mats for what naked myth’s white feet?—And, cool and calm, a cascade far awayWith ever-even beat.
Old logs, made sweet with death; rough bits of bark;And tangled twig and knotted root;And sunshine splashes and great pools of dark;And many a wild-bird’s flute.
Here let me sit until the Indian, Dusk,With copper-colored face, comes down;Sowing the wildwood with star-fire and musk,And shadows blue and brown.
Then side by side with some magician Dream,I’ll take the owlet-haunted lane,—Half-roofed with vines,—led by a firefly gleam,That brings me home again.
There is a flute that follows meFrom tree to tree:A water flute a spirit setsTo silver lips in waterfalls,And through the breath of violetsA sparkling music calls:—“Hither! halloo! Oh, follow!Down leafy hill and hollow,Where, through clear swirls,With feet like pearls,Wade down the blue-eyed country girls.Hither! halloo! Oh, follow!”
There is a flute that follows meFrom tree to tree:A water flute a spirit setsTo silver lips in waterfalls,And through the breath of violetsA sparkling music calls:—“Hither! halloo! Oh, follow!Down leafy hill and hollow,Where, through clear swirls,With feet like pearls,Wade down the blue-eyed country girls.Hither! halloo! Oh, follow!”
There is a flute that follows meFrom tree to tree:A water flute a spirit setsTo silver lips in waterfalls,And through the breath of violetsA sparkling music calls:—“Hither! halloo! Oh, follow!Down leafy hill and hollow,Where, through clear swirls,With feet like pearls,Wade down the blue-eyed country girls.Hither! halloo! Oh, follow!”
There is a pipe that plays to meFrom tree to tree:A bramble pipe an elfin holdsTo golden lips in berry brakes,And, swinging o’er the elder wolds,A flickering music makes:—“Come over! Come overThe new-mown clover!Come over the fresh-cut hay!Where, there by the berries,With cheeks like cherries,And locks with which the warm wind merries,Brown girls are hilling the hay,All day!Come over the fields and away!—Come over! Come over!”
There is a pipe that plays to meFrom tree to tree:A bramble pipe an elfin holdsTo golden lips in berry brakes,And, swinging o’er the elder wolds,A flickering music makes:—“Come over! Come overThe new-mown clover!Come over the fresh-cut hay!Where, there by the berries,With cheeks like cherries,And locks with which the warm wind merries,Brown girls are hilling the hay,All day!Come over the fields and away!—Come over! Come over!”
There is a pipe that plays to meFrom tree to tree:A bramble pipe an elfin holdsTo golden lips in berry brakes,And, swinging o’er the elder wolds,A flickering music makes:—“Come over! Come overThe new-mown clover!Come over the fresh-cut hay!Where, there by the berries,With cheeks like cherries,And locks with which the warm wind merries,Brown girls are hilling the hay,All day!Come over the fields and away!—Come over! Come over!”
Hills of the west, that girdForest and farm,Home of the nesting bird,Housing from harm,When, on your tops, is heardStorm.Hills of the west, that barBelts of the gloam,Under the twilight’s star,Where the mists roam,Take ye the wandererHome.Hills of the west, that dreamUnder the moon,Making of wind and stream,Late heard and soon,Parts of your lives that seemTune.Hills of the west, that takeSilence to ye,Be it for sorrow’s sakeOr memory,Part of such silence makeMe.
Hills of the west, that girdForest and farm,Home of the nesting bird,Housing from harm,When, on your tops, is heardStorm.Hills of the west, that barBelts of the gloam,Under the twilight’s star,Where the mists roam,Take ye the wandererHome.Hills of the west, that dreamUnder the moon,Making of wind and stream,Late heard and soon,Parts of your lives that seemTune.Hills of the west, that takeSilence to ye,Be it for sorrow’s sakeOr memory,Part of such silence makeMe.
Hills of the west, that girdForest and farm,Home of the nesting bird,Housing from harm,When, on your tops, is heardStorm.
Hills of the west, that barBelts of the gloam,Under the twilight’s star,Where the mists roam,Take ye the wandererHome.
Hills of the west, that dreamUnder the moon,Making of wind and stream,Late heard and soon,Parts of your lives that seemTune.
Hills of the west, that takeSilence to ye,Be it for sorrow’s sakeOr memory,Part of such silence makeMe.
The wind that breathes of columbinesAnd celandines that crowd the rocks;That shakes the balsam of the pinesWith music from his airy locks,Stops at my city door and knocks.He calls me far a-forest, whereThe twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom;And, circled by the amber air,Life sits with beauty and perfumeWeaving the new web of her loom.He calls me where the waters runThrough fronding fern where wades the hern;And, sparkling in the equal sun,Song leans beside her brimming urn,And dreams the dreams that love shall learn.The wind has summoned, and I go:To con God’s meaning in each lineThe wildflow’rs write; and, walking slow,God’s purpose, of which song is sign,—The wind’s great, gusty hand in mine.
The wind that breathes of columbinesAnd celandines that crowd the rocks;That shakes the balsam of the pinesWith music from his airy locks,Stops at my city door and knocks.He calls me far a-forest, whereThe twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom;And, circled by the amber air,Life sits with beauty and perfumeWeaving the new web of her loom.He calls me where the waters runThrough fronding fern where wades the hern;And, sparkling in the equal sun,Song leans beside her brimming urn,And dreams the dreams that love shall learn.The wind has summoned, and I go:To con God’s meaning in each lineThe wildflow’rs write; and, walking slow,God’s purpose, of which song is sign,—The wind’s great, gusty hand in mine.
The wind that breathes of columbinesAnd celandines that crowd the rocks;That shakes the balsam of the pinesWith music from his airy locks,Stops at my city door and knocks.
He calls me far a-forest, whereThe twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom;And, circled by the amber air,Life sits with beauty and perfumeWeaving the new web of her loom.
He calls me where the waters runThrough fronding fern where wades the hern;And, sparkling in the equal sun,Song leans beside her brimming urn,And dreams the dreams that love shall learn.
The wind has summoned, and I go:To con God’s meaning in each lineThe wildflow’rs write; and, walking slow,God’s purpose, of which song is sign,—The wind’s great, gusty hand in mine.
Lush green the grass that grows betweenThe willows of the bottom-land;Edged by the careless water, tall and greenThe brown-topped cat-tails stand.The cows come gently here to browse,Slow through the great-leafed sycamores:You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed houseWith cedars round its doors.Then all is quiet as the wingsOf the one buzzard floating there:Anon a woman’s high-pitched voice that singsAn old camp-meeting air.A cock that flaps and crows; and then—Heard drowsy through the rustling corn—A flutter, and the cackling of a henWithin a hay-sweet barn.How still again! no water stirs:No wind is heard: although the weedsAre waved a little: and from silk-filled burrsDrift by a few soft seeds.So drugged with dreams the place, that youExpect to see her gliding by,—Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew,—The Spirit of July.
Lush green the grass that grows betweenThe willows of the bottom-land;Edged by the careless water, tall and greenThe brown-topped cat-tails stand.The cows come gently here to browse,Slow through the great-leafed sycamores:You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed houseWith cedars round its doors.Then all is quiet as the wingsOf the one buzzard floating there:Anon a woman’s high-pitched voice that singsAn old camp-meeting air.A cock that flaps and crows; and then—Heard drowsy through the rustling corn—A flutter, and the cackling of a henWithin a hay-sweet barn.How still again! no water stirs:No wind is heard: although the weedsAre waved a little: and from silk-filled burrsDrift by a few soft seeds.So drugged with dreams the place, that youExpect to see her gliding by,—Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew,—The Spirit of July.
Lush green the grass that grows betweenThe willows of the bottom-land;Edged by the careless water, tall and greenThe brown-topped cat-tails stand.
The cows come gently here to browse,Slow through the great-leafed sycamores:You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed houseWith cedars round its doors.
Then all is quiet as the wingsOf the one buzzard floating there:Anon a woman’s high-pitched voice that singsAn old camp-meeting air.
A cock that flaps and crows; and then—Heard drowsy through the rustling corn—A flutter, and the cackling of a henWithin a hay-sweet barn.
How still again! no water stirs:No wind is heard: although the weedsAre waved a little: and from silk-filled burrsDrift by a few soft seeds.
So drugged with dreams the place, that youExpect to see her gliding by,—Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew,—The Spirit of July.
Red clouds and reddest flowers,And now two redder wingsSwim through the rosy hours;Red wings among the flowers;And now the red-bird sings.God makes the red clouds ripplesOf flame that seem to splitIn rubies and in dripplesOf rose where rills and ripplesThe singing flame that lit.Red clouds of sundered splendor;God whispered one small word,Rich, sweet, and wild and tender—Straight, in the vibrant splendor,The word became a bird.He flies beneath the garnetOf clouds that flame and float,—When summer hears the hornetHum round the plum, turned garnet,—Heaven’s music in his throat.
Red clouds and reddest flowers,And now two redder wingsSwim through the rosy hours;Red wings among the flowers;And now the red-bird sings.God makes the red clouds ripplesOf flame that seem to splitIn rubies and in dripplesOf rose where rills and ripplesThe singing flame that lit.Red clouds of sundered splendor;God whispered one small word,Rich, sweet, and wild and tender—Straight, in the vibrant splendor,The word became a bird.He flies beneath the garnetOf clouds that flame and float,—When summer hears the hornetHum round the plum, turned garnet,—Heaven’s music in his throat.
Red clouds and reddest flowers,And now two redder wingsSwim through the rosy hours;Red wings among the flowers;And now the red-bird sings.
God makes the red clouds ripplesOf flame that seem to splitIn rubies and in dripplesOf rose where rills and ripplesThe singing flame that lit.
Red clouds of sundered splendor;God whispered one small word,Rich, sweet, and wild and tender—Straight, in the vibrant splendor,The word became a bird.
He flies beneath the garnetOf clouds that flame and float,—When summer hears the hornetHum round the plum, turned garnet,—Heaven’s music in his throat.
Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks,The pleated, crimson hollyhocksAre bending;And, smouldering in the breaking brown,Above the hills that rim the town,The day is ending.The air is heavy with the damp;And, one by one, each cottage lampIs lighted;Infrequent passers of the streetStroll on or stop to talk or greet,Benighted.I look beyond my city yard,And watch the white moon struggling hard,Cloud-buried;The wind is driving toward the east,A wreck of pearl, all cracked and creasedAnd serried.At times the moon, erupting, streaksSome long cloud, raised in mountain peaksOf shadow,—That, seamed with silver, vein on vein,Grows to a far volcano chainOf Eldorado.The wind, that blows from out the hills,Is like a woman’s touch that stillsA sorrow:The moon sits high with many a starIn the deep calm: and fair and farAbides to-morrow.
Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks,The pleated, crimson hollyhocksAre bending;And, smouldering in the breaking brown,Above the hills that rim the town,The day is ending.The air is heavy with the damp;And, one by one, each cottage lampIs lighted;Infrequent passers of the streetStroll on or stop to talk or greet,Benighted.I look beyond my city yard,And watch the white moon struggling hard,Cloud-buried;The wind is driving toward the east,A wreck of pearl, all cracked and creasedAnd serried.At times the moon, erupting, streaksSome long cloud, raised in mountain peaksOf shadow,—That, seamed with silver, vein on vein,Grows to a far volcano chainOf Eldorado.The wind, that blows from out the hills,Is like a woman’s touch that stillsA sorrow:The moon sits high with many a starIn the deep calm: and fair and farAbides to-morrow.
Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks,The pleated, crimson hollyhocksAre bending;And, smouldering in the breaking brown,Above the hills that rim the town,The day is ending.
The air is heavy with the damp;And, one by one, each cottage lampIs lighted;Infrequent passers of the streetStroll on or stop to talk or greet,Benighted.
I look beyond my city yard,And watch the white moon struggling hard,Cloud-buried;The wind is driving toward the east,A wreck of pearl, all cracked and creasedAnd serried.
At times the moon, erupting, streaksSome long cloud, raised in mountain peaksOf shadow,—That, seamed with silver, vein on vein,Grows to a far volcano chainOf Eldorado.
The wind, that blows from out the hills,Is like a woman’s touch that stillsA sorrow:The moon sits high with many a starIn the deep calm: and fair and farAbides to-morrow.
Ah me! too soon the Autumn comesAmong these purple-plaintive hills!Too soon among the forest gumsPremonitory flame she spills,Bleak, melancholy flame that kills.Her white fogs veil the morn, that rimsWith wet the moon-flow’r’s elfin moons;And, like exhausted starlight, dimsThe last slim lily-disk; and swoonsWith scents of hazy afternoons.Her gray mists haunt the sunset skies,And build the west’s cadaverous fire,Where Sorrow sits with lonely eyes,And hands that wake her ancient lyre,Beside the ghost of dead Desire.
Ah me! too soon the Autumn comesAmong these purple-plaintive hills!Too soon among the forest gumsPremonitory flame she spills,Bleak, melancholy flame that kills.Her white fogs veil the morn, that rimsWith wet the moon-flow’r’s elfin moons;And, like exhausted starlight, dimsThe last slim lily-disk; and swoonsWith scents of hazy afternoons.Her gray mists haunt the sunset skies,And build the west’s cadaverous fire,Where Sorrow sits with lonely eyes,And hands that wake her ancient lyre,Beside the ghost of dead Desire.
Ah me! too soon the Autumn comesAmong these purple-plaintive hills!Too soon among the forest gumsPremonitory flame she spills,Bleak, melancholy flame that kills.
Her white fogs veil the morn, that rimsWith wet the moon-flow’r’s elfin moons;And, like exhausted starlight, dimsThe last slim lily-disk; and swoonsWith scents of hazy afternoons.
Her gray mists haunt the sunset skies,And build the west’s cadaverous fire,Where Sorrow sits with lonely eyes,And hands that wake her ancient lyre,Beside the ghost of dead Desire.
Though Summer walks the world to-dayWith corn-crowned hours for her guard,Her thoughts have clad themselves in gray,And wait in Autumn’s weedy yard.And where the larkspur and the phloxSpread carpets for her feet to pass,She stands with sombre, dripping locksBound bleak with fog-washed zinnias.Sad terra-cotta-colored flowers,Whose disks the trickling wet has tingedWith dingy lustre, like the bowers,Flame-flecked with leaves, the frost has singed.She, with slow feet,—’mid gaunt gold bloomsOf marigolds her fingers twist,—Passes, dim-swathed in Fall’s perfumesAnd dreams of sullen rain and mist.
Though Summer walks the world to-dayWith corn-crowned hours for her guard,Her thoughts have clad themselves in gray,And wait in Autumn’s weedy yard.And where the larkspur and the phloxSpread carpets for her feet to pass,She stands with sombre, dripping locksBound bleak with fog-washed zinnias.Sad terra-cotta-colored flowers,Whose disks the trickling wet has tingedWith dingy lustre, like the bowers,Flame-flecked with leaves, the frost has singed.She, with slow feet,—’mid gaunt gold bloomsOf marigolds her fingers twist,—Passes, dim-swathed in Fall’s perfumesAnd dreams of sullen rain and mist.
Though Summer walks the world to-dayWith corn-crowned hours for her guard,Her thoughts have clad themselves in gray,And wait in Autumn’s weedy yard.
And where the larkspur and the phloxSpread carpets for her feet to pass,She stands with sombre, dripping locksBound bleak with fog-washed zinnias.
Sad terra-cotta-colored flowers,Whose disks the trickling wet has tingedWith dingy lustre, like the bowers,Flame-flecked with leaves, the frost has singed.
She, with slow feet,—’mid gaunt gold bloomsOf marigolds her fingers twist,—Passes, dim-swathed in Fall’s perfumesAnd dreams of sullen rain and mist.
The days that clothed white limbs with heat,And rocked the red rose on their breast,Have passed with amber-sandaled feet,Into the ruby-gated west.These were the days that filled the heartWith overflowing riches ofLife; in whose soul no dream shall startBut hath its origin in love.Now come the days gray-huddled inThe haze; whose foggy footsteps drip;Who pin beneath a gypsy chinThe frosty marigold and hip.—The days, whose forms fall shadowyAthwart the heart; whose misty breathShapes saddest sweets of memoryOut of the bitterness of death.
The days that clothed white limbs with heat,And rocked the red rose on their breast,Have passed with amber-sandaled feet,Into the ruby-gated west.These were the days that filled the heartWith overflowing riches ofLife; in whose soul no dream shall startBut hath its origin in love.Now come the days gray-huddled inThe haze; whose foggy footsteps drip;Who pin beneath a gypsy chinThe frosty marigold and hip.—The days, whose forms fall shadowyAthwart the heart; whose misty breathShapes saddest sweets of memoryOut of the bitterness of death.
The days that clothed white limbs with heat,And rocked the red rose on their breast,Have passed with amber-sandaled feet,Into the ruby-gated west.
These were the days that filled the heartWith overflowing riches ofLife; in whose soul no dream shall startBut hath its origin in love.
Now come the days gray-huddled inThe haze; whose foggy footsteps drip;Who pin beneath a gypsy chinThe frosty marigold and hip.—
The days, whose forms fall shadowyAthwart the heart; whose misty breathShapes saddest sweets of memoryOut of the bitterness of death.
Gnarled acorn-oaks against a westOf copper, cavernous with fire;A wind of frost that gives no restTo such lean leaves as haunt the brier,And hide the cricket’s vibrant wire.Sere, shivering shocks, and stubble blurredWith bramble-blots of dull maroon;And creekless hills whereon no herdFinds pasture, and whereo’er the loonFlies, haggard as the rainless moon.
Gnarled acorn-oaks against a westOf copper, cavernous with fire;A wind of frost that gives no restTo such lean leaves as haunt the brier,And hide the cricket’s vibrant wire.Sere, shivering shocks, and stubble blurredWith bramble-blots of dull maroon;And creekless hills whereon no herdFinds pasture, and whereo’er the loonFlies, haggard as the rainless moon.
Gnarled acorn-oaks against a westOf copper, cavernous with fire;A wind of frost that gives no restTo such lean leaves as haunt the brier,And hide the cricket’s vibrant wire.
Sere, shivering shocks, and stubble blurredWith bramble-blots of dull maroon;And creekless hills whereon no herdFinds pasture, and whereo’er the loonFlies, haggard as the rainless moon.
When in dry hollows, hilled with hay,The vesper-sparrow sings afar;And golden gray dusk dies awayBeneath the amber evening-star:There, where a warm and shadowy armThe woodland lays around the farm,I’ll meet you at the tryst, the tryst!And kiss your lips no man hath kissed!I’ll meet you at the twilight tryst,—With a hey and a ho!—Sweetheart!I’ll kiss you at the tryst!When clover fields smell cool with dew,And crickets cry, and roads are still;And faint and few the fireflies strewThe dark where calls the whippoorwill;There, in the lane, where sweet againThe petals of the wild-rose rain,I’ll take in mine your hand, your hand!And say the words you’ll understand!Your soft hand nestling in my hand,—With a hey and a ho!—Sweetheart!All loving hand in hand!
When in dry hollows, hilled with hay,The vesper-sparrow sings afar;And golden gray dusk dies awayBeneath the amber evening-star:There, where a warm and shadowy armThe woodland lays around the farm,I’ll meet you at the tryst, the tryst!And kiss your lips no man hath kissed!I’ll meet you at the twilight tryst,—With a hey and a ho!—Sweetheart!I’ll kiss you at the tryst!When clover fields smell cool with dew,And crickets cry, and roads are still;And faint and few the fireflies strewThe dark where calls the whippoorwill;There, in the lane, where sweet againThe petals of the wild-rose rain,I’ll take in mine your hand, your hand!And say the words you’ll understand!Your soft hand nestling in my hand,—With a hey and a ho!—Sweetheart!All loving hand in hand!
When in dry hollows, hilled with hay,The vesper-sparrow sings afar;And golden gray dusk dies awayBeneath the amber evening-star:There, where a warm and shadowy armThe woodland lays around the farm,I’ll meet you at the tryst, the tryst!And kiss your lips no man hath kissed!I’ll meet you at the twilight tryst,—With a hey and a ho!—Sweetheart!I’ll kiss you at the tryst!
When clover fields smell cool with dew,And crickets cry, and roads are still;And faint and few the fireflies strewThe dark where calls the whippoorwill;There, in the lane, where sweet againThe petals of the wild-rose rain,I’ll take in mine your hand, your hand!And say the words you’ll understand!Your soft hand nestling in my hand,—With a hey and a ho!—Sweetheart!All loving hand in hand!
When black frosts pluck the acorns down,And in the lane the waters freeze;And ’thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies,And death sits grimly in the trees;When home-lights glitter through the brownOf dusk like shaggy eyes,—Before the door his feet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet.
When black frosts pluck the acorns down,And in the lane the waters freeze;And ’thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies,And death sits grimly in the trees;When home-lights glitter through the brownOf dusk like shaggy eyes,—Before the door his feet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet.
When black frosts pluck the acorns down,And in the lane the waters freeze;And ’thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies,And death sits grimly in the trees;When home-lights glitter through the brownOf dusk like shaggy eyes,—Before the door his feet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet.
When ways are drifted with the leaves,And winds make music in the thorns;And lone and lost above the frostThe new-moon shows its silver horns;When underneath the lamplit eavesThe opened door is crossed,—A happy heart and light, sweetheart,And lips that kiss good night, sweetheart,And lips that kiss good night.
When ways are drifted with the leaves,And winds make music in the thorns;And lone and lost above the frostThe new-moon shows its silver horns;When underneath the lamplit eavesThe opened door is crossed,—A happy heart and light, sweetheart,And lips that kiss good night, sweetheart,And lips that kiss good night.
When ways are drifted with the leaves,And winds make music in the thorns;And lone and lost above the frostThe new-moon shows its silver horns;When underneath the lamplit eavesThe opened door is crossed,—A happy heart and light, sweetheart,And lips that kiss good night, sweetheart,And lips that kiss good night.
He sang a song as he sowed the field,Sowed the field at break of day:“When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yieldBalm and balsam, and Spring,—concealedIn the odorous green,—is so revealed,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the woods and the far away!”
He sang a song as he sowed the field,Sowed the field at break of day:“When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yieldBalm and balsam, and Spring,—concealedIn the odorous green,—is so revealed,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the woods and the far away!”
He sang a song as he sowed the field,Sowed the field at break of day:“When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yieldBalm and balsam, and Spring,—concealedIn the odorous green,—is so revealed,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the woods and the far away!”
He trilled a song as he mowed the mead,Mowed the mead as noon begun:“When the hills are gold with the ripened seed,As the sunset stairs of the clouds that leadTo the sky where Summer knows naught of need,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!”
He trilled a song as he mowed the mead,Mowed the mead as noon begun:“When the hills are gold with the ripened seed,As the sunset stairs of the clouds that leadTo the sky where Summer knows naught of need,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!”
He trilled a song as he mowed the mead,Mowed the mead as noon begun:“When the hills are gold with the ripened seed,As the sunset stairs of the clouds that leadTo the sky where Summer knows naught of need,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!”
He hummed a song as he swung the flail,Swung the flail in the afternoon:“When the idle fields are a wrecker’s tale,That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale,As the Year turns seaward a crimson sail,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the fields and the hunter’s-moon!”
He hummed a song as he swung the flail,Swung the flail in the afternoon:“When the idle fields are a wrecker’s tale,That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale,As the Year turns seaward a crimson sail,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the fields and the hunter’s-moon!”
He hummed a song as he swung the flail,Swung the flail in the afternoon:“When the idle fields are a wrecker’s tale,That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale,As the Year turns seaward a crimson sail,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the fields and the hunter’s-moon!”
He whistled a song as he shouldered his axe,Shouldered his axe in the evening storm:“When the snow of the road shows the rabbit’s tracks,And the wind is a whip that the Winter cracks,With a herdsman’s cry, o’er the clouds black backs,Halloo and oh!Hallo for home and a fire to warm!”
He whistled a song as he shouldered his axe,Shouldered his axe in the evening storm:“When the snow of the road shows the rabbit’s tracks,And the wind is a whip that the Winter cracks,With a herdsman’s cry, o’er the clouds black backs,Halloo and oh!Hallo for home and a fire to warm!”
He whistled a song as he shouldered his axe,Shouldered his axe in the evening storm:“When the snow of the road shows the rabbit’s tracks,And the wind is a whip that the Winter cracks,With a herdsman’s cry, o’er the clouds black backs,Halloo and oh!Hallo for home and a fire to warm!”
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—The path that takes me, in the spring,Past quince-trees where the bluebirds sing,Where peonies are blossoming,Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,Around whose steps May-lilies blow,A fair girl reaches down among,Her arm more white than their sweet snow.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—The path that takes me, in the spring,Past quince-trees where the bluebirds sing,Where peonies are blossoming,Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,Around whose steps May-lilies blow,A fair girl reaches down among,Her arm more white than their sweet snow.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—The path that takes me, in the spring,Past quince-trees where the bluebirds sing,Where peonies are blossoming,Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,Around whose steps May-lilies blow,A fair girl reaches down among,Her arm more white than their sweet snow.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—Another path that leads me, whenThe summer-time is here again,Past hollyhocks that shame the westWhen the red sun has sunk to rest;To roses bowering a nest,A lattice, ’neath which mignonetteAnd deep geraniums surge and sough,Where, in the twilight, starless yet,A fair girl’s eyes are stars enough.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—Another path that leads me, whenThe summer-time is here again,Past hollyhocks that shame the westWhen the red sun has sunk to rest;To roses bowering a nest,A lattice, ’neath which mignonetteAnd deep geraniums surge and sough,Where, in the twilight, starless yet,A fair girl’s eyes are stars enough.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—Another path that leads me, whenThe summer-time is here again,Past hollyhocks that shame the westWhen the red sun has sunk to rest;To roses bowering a nest,A lattice, ’neath which mignonetteAnd deep geraniums surge and sough,Where, in the twilight, starless yet,A fair girl’s eyes are stars enough.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that takes me, when the daysOf autumn wrap the hills in haze,Beneath the pippin-pelting tree,’Mid flitting butterfly and bee;Unto a door where, fiery,The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued,The cock’s-comb and the dahlia flare,And in the door, where shades intrude,Gleams bright a fair girl’s sunbeam hair.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that takes me, when the daysOf autumn wrap the hills in haze,Beneath the pippin-pelting tree,’Mid flitting butterfly and bee;Unto a door where, fiery,The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued,The cock’s-comb and the dahlia flare,And in the door, where shades intrude,Gleams bright a fair girl’s sunbeam hair.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that takes me, when the daysOf autumn wrap the hills in haze,Beneath the pippin-pelting tree,’Mid flitting butterfly and bee;Unto a door where, fiery,The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued,The cock’s-comb and the dahlia flare,And in the door, where shades intrude,Gleams bright a fair girl’s sunbeam hair.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that brings me through the frostOf winter, when the moon is tossedIn clouds; beneath great cedars, weakWith shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleakWith shivering leaves; to eaves that leakThe tattered ice, whereunder isA fire-flickering window-space;And in the light, with lips to kiss,A fair girl’s welcome-giving face.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that brings me through the frostOf winter, when the moon is tossedIn clouds; beneath great cedars, weakWith shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleakWith shivering leaves; to eaves that leakThe tattered ice, whereunder isA fire-flickering window-space;And in the light, with lips to kiss,A fair girl’s welcome-giving face.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that brings me through the frostOf winter, when the moon is tossedIn clouds; beneath great cedars, weakWith shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleakWith shivering leaves; to eaves that leakThe tattered ice, whereunder isA fire-flickering window-space;And in the light, with lips to kiss,A fair girl’s welcome-giving face.
When in the wind the vane turns round,And round, and round;And in his kennel whines the hound:When all the gable eaves are boundWith icicles of ragged gray,A tattered gray;There is little to do, and much to say,And you hug your fire and pass the dayWith a thought of the springtime, dearie.
When in the wind the vane turns round,And round, and round;And in his kennel whines the hound:When all the gable eaves are boundWith icicles of ragged gray,A tattered gray;There is little to do, and much to say,And you hug your fire and pass the dayWith a thought of the springtime, dearie.
When in the wind the vane turns round,And round, and round;And in his kennel whines the hound:When all the gable eaves are boundWith icicles of ragged gray,A tattered gray;There is little to do, and much to say,And you hug your fire and pass the dayWith a thought of the springtime, dearie.