SUMMER

The tanned and tired Noon climbs highUp burning reaches of the sky;Below the drowsy belts of pinesThe rock-ledged river leaps and shines;And over rainless hill and dellIs blown the harvest’s sultry smell:While, in the fields, one sees and hearsThe brawny-throated harvesters,—Their red brows beaded with the heat,—By twos and threes among the wheatFlash their hot scythes; behind them pressThe binders—men and maids who singLike some mad troop of piping Pan;—While all the hillsides, echoing, ringSuch sounds of Ariel airinessAs haunted freckled Caliban.“O ho! O ho! ’tis noon I say.The roses blow.Away, away, above the hay,To the song o’ the bees the roses sway;The love-lays that they hum all day,So low! so low!The roses’ Minnesingers they.”Up velvet lawns of lilac skiesThe tawny moon begins to riseBehind low, blue-black hills of trees,—As rises up, in siren seas,To rock in purple deeps, hip-hid,A virgin-bosomed Oceanid.—Gaunt shadows crouch by tree and scaur,Dusk’s shaggy Satyrs waiting forThe Nymphs of moon, the Dryads white,Who take with loveliness the night,And glorify it with their love.The sweet, far notes I hear, I hear,Beyond dim pines and mellow ways;The song of some fair harvester,The lovely Limnad of the grove,Whose singing charms me while it slays.“O deep! O deep! the earth and airAre sunk in sleep.Adieu to care! Now everywhereIs rest; and by the old oak thereThe maiden with the nut-brown hairDoth keep, doth keepTryst with her lover the young and fair.”

“O ho! O ho! ’tis noon I say.The roses blow.Away, away, above the hay,To the song o’ the bees the roses sway;The love-lays that they hum all day,So low! so low!The roses’ Minnesingers they.”

Up velvet lawns of lilac skiesThe tawny moon begins to riseBehind low, blue-black hills of trees,—As rises up, in siren seas,To rock in purple deeps, hip-hid,A virgin-bosomed Oceanid.—Gaunt shadows crouch by tree and scaur,Dusk’s shaggy Satyrs waiting forThe Nymphs of moon, the Dryads white,Who take with loveliness the night,And glorify it with their love.The sweet, far notes I hear, I hear,Beyond dim pines and mellow ways;The song of some fair harvester,The lovely Limnad of the grove,Whose singing charms me while it slays.

“O deep! O deep! the earth and airAre sunk in sleep.Adieu to care! Now everywhereIs rest; and by the old oak thereThe maiden with the nut-brown hairDoth keep, doth keepTryst with her lover the young and fair.”

Like Atalanta’s spheres of gold,Within the orchard, apples rolledFrom sudden hands of boughs that layTheir leaves, like palms, against the day;And near them pears of rusty brownRolled bruised; and peaches, pink with down,And furry as the ears of Pan;Or, like Diana’s cheeks, a tanBeneath which burnt a tender fire;Or wan as Psyche’s with desire.And down the orchard vistas,—young,A hickory basket by him swung,A hat of straw against the sunDrawn shadowy o’er his face,—he strode;As if he looked to find some one,His eyes searched every bend of road.Before him, like a living burr,Rattled the noisy grasshopper.And where the cows’ melodious bellsTrailed music up and down the dells,Beside the spring, that o’er the groundWent whimpering like a fretful hound,He saw her waiting, fair and slim,Her pail forgotten there, for him.Yellow as sunset skies and paleAs fairy clouds that stay or sailThrough azure vaults of summer, blueAs summer heavens, the wildflowers grew;And blossoms on which spurts of lightFell laughing—like the lips one mightFeign once were Hebe’s, or a girl’sThat laughter lights with rows of pearls.Long ferns, in murmuring masses heaped;And mosses moist, in beryl steepedAnd musk aromas of the woodAnd silence of the solitude:And everything that near her blewThe spring had showered thick with dew.—Across the rambling fence she leaned,Her fresh, round arms all white and bare;Her artless beauty, bonnet-screened,Simplicity from feet to hair.A wood-thrush gurgled in a vine—Ah! ’tis his step, ’tis he she hears;The wild-rose smelt like some rare wine—He comes, ah, yes! ’tis he who nears.And her brown eyes and happy faceSaid welcome. And with rustic graceHe leant beside her; and they hadSome talk with youthful laughter glad:I know not what: I know but this—Its final period was a kiss.

Hang out your loveliest star, O Night! O Night!Your richest rose, O Dawn!To greet sweet Summer, her, who, clothed in light,Leads Earth’s best hours on.Hark! how the wild birds of the woodsThroat it within the dewy solitudes!The brook sings low and soft,The trees make song,As, from her heaven aloft,Comes blue-eyed Summer like a girl along.

And as the Day, her lover, leads her in,How bright his beauty glows!How red his lips, that ever try to winHer mouth’s delicious rose!And from the beating of his heartWarm winds arise and sighing thence depart:And from his eyes and hairThe light and dewFall round her everywhere,And heaven above her is an arch of blue.

Come to the forest, or the treeless meadowsDeep with their hay or grain;Come where the hills lift high their thrones of shadows,And tawny orchards reign.Come where the reapers whet the scythe;Where golden sheaves are heaped; where berriers blithe,With willow-basket and with pail,Swarm knoll and plain;Where flowers freckle every vale,And Beauty goes with hands of berry-stain.

Come where the dragonflies, a brassy blue,Flit round the wildwood streams,And, sucking at some horn of honey-dew,The wild-bee hums and dreams.Come where the butterfly waves wings of sleep,Gold-disked and mottled, over blossoms deep:Come where beneath the rustic bridgeThe creek-frog cries;Or in the shade the rainbowed midge,Above the emerald pools, with murmurings flies.

Come where the cattle browse within the brake,As red as oak and strong;Where cattle-bells the echoes faintly wake,And milkmaids sing their song.Come where the vine-trailed rocks, with waters hoary,Tell to the sun some legend old or story;Or where the sunset to the landSpeaks words of gold;Where Ripeness walks, a wheaten bandAbout her brow, making the buds unfold.

Come where the woods lift up their stalwart armsUnto the star-sown skies;Knotted and gnarled, that to the winds and stormsFling mighty rhapsodies:Or to the moon repeat what they have seen,When Night upon their shoulders vast doth lean.Come where the dew’s clear syllableSlips from the rose;And where the fireflies fillThe dark with golden music of their glows.

Now while the dingles and the vine-roofed glensWhisper their flowery taleUnto the silence; and the lakes and fensUnto the moonlight paleMurmur their rapture, let us seek her out,Her of the honey throat and peach-sweet pout,Summer! and at her feet,The love of oldLay like a sheaf of wheat,And of our hearts the purest gold of gold.

The dawn is a warp of fever,The eve is a woof of fire;And the month is a singing weaverWeaving a red desire.With stars Dawn dices with EvenFor the rosy gold they heapOn the blue of the day’s broad heaven,On the black of the night’s wide deep.It’s—“Reins to the blood!” and “Marry!”The Season’s a prince who burnsWith the teasing lusts that harryHis heart for a wench who spurns.It’s—“Crown us a beaker with sherry,To drink to the doxy’s heels;A tankard of wine o’ the berry,To lips like a cloven peel’s.“’S death! if a king be saddened,Right so let a fool laugh lies:But wine! when a king is gladdened,And a woman’s waist and her eyes.”He hath shattered the loom of the weaver,And left but a leaf that flits,He hath seized heaven’s gold, and a feverOf mist and of frost is its.He hath tippled the buxom beauty,And gotten her hug and her kiss—The wide world’s royal bootyTo pile at her feet for this.

The dawn is a warp of fever,The eve is a woof of fire;And the month is a singing weaverWeaving a red desire.

With stars Dawn dices with EvenFor the rosy gold they heapOn the blue of the day’s broad heaven,On the black of the night’s wide deep.

It’s—“Reins to the blood!” and “Marry!”The Season’s a prince who burnsWith the teasing lusts that harryHis heart for a wench who spurns.

It’s—“Crown us a beaker with sherry,To drink to the doxy’s heels;A tankard of wine o’ the berry,To lips like a cloven peel’s.

“’S death! if a king be saddened,Right so let a fool laugh lies:But wine! when a king is gladdened,And a woman’s waist and her eyes.”

He hath shattered the loom of the weaver,And left but a leaf that flits,He hath seized heaven’s gold, and a feverOf mist and of frost is its.

He hath tippled the buxom beauty,And gotten her hug and her kiss—The wide world’s royal bootyTo pile at her feet for this.

O dark-eyed spirit of the marble brow,Whose look is silence and whose touch is night,Who walkest lonely through the world, O thou,Who sittest lonely with Life’s blown-out light;Who in the hollow hours of night’s noonCriest like some lost child;Whose anguish-fevered eyeballs seek the moonTo cool their pulses wild.Thou who dost bend to kiss Joy’s sister cheek,Turning its rose to alabaster; yea,Thou who art terrible and mad and meek,Why in my heart art thou enshrined to-day?Sorrow, O say! O say!

Now Spring is here and all the world is white,I will go forth, and where the forest robesItself in green, and every hill and heightCrowns its fair head with blossoms,—spirit globesOf hyacinth and crocus dashed with dew,—I will forget my grief,And thee, O Sorrow, gazing at the blue,Beneath a last year’s leaf,Of some brief violet the south-wind woos,Or bluet, whence the west-wind raked the snow;The baby eyes of love, the darling huesOf happiness, that thou canst never know,Mother of pain and woe.

On some hoar upland, hoar with clustered thorns,Hard by a river’s windy white of waves,I shall sit down with Spring,—whose eyes are mornsOf light; whose cheeks the rose of health enslaves,—And so forget thee, braiding in Spring’s hairThe snowdrop, tipped with green,The cool-eyed primrose and the trillium fair,And moony celandine.Contented so to lie within her arms,Forgetting all the sere and sad and wan,Remembering Love alone, who, o’er earth’s storms,High on the mountains of perpetual dawn,Leads the glad Hours on.

Or in the peace that follows storm, when Even,Within the west, stands dreaming, lone and far,Clad on with green and silver, and the HeavenIs brightly brooched with one gold-glittering star,I will lie down beside a mountain lake,Round which the tall pines sigh,And, breathing musk of rain from boughs that shakeStorm balsam, blowing by,Make friends of Dream and Contemplation high,And Music, listening to the mocking-bird,—Who through the hush sends its melodious cry,—And so forget a while that other word,That all loved things must die.

Out of the East, as from an unknown shore,Thou comest with thy children in thine arms,—Slumber and Dream,—whom mortals so adore,—Their flowing raiment sculptured to their charms:Soft on thy breast thy lovely children rest,Laid like two roses in one balmy nest.Silent thou comest, swiftly too and slow.There is no other presence like to thine,When thou approachest with thy babes divine,Thy shadowy face above them bending low,Blowing the ringlets from their brows of snow.Oft have I taken Sleep from thy dark arms,And fondled her fair head, with poppies wreathed,Within my bosom’s depths, until its stormsWith her were hushed and I but faintly breathed:And then her sister, Dream, with frolic artArose from rest, and in my sleeping heartBlew bubbles of dreams where elfin worlds were lost;Worlds where my stranger soul looked down at me,Or walked with spirits by a rainbowed sea,Or smiled, an unfamiliar shape of frost,Floating on gales of breathless melody.Day comes to us in garish glory garbed;But thou, thou bringest to the tired heartRest and sweet silence, wherein are absorbedAll the vain tumults of the mind and mart.Whether thou comest with hands full of stars,Or clothed in storm and cloud, the lightning bars,Rolling the thunder like a mighty dress,God moves with thee; we seem to hear His feet,Wind-like, along the floors of Heaven beat;To see His face, revealed in awfulness,Through thee, O Night, to ban us or to bless.

Oft have I taken Sleep from thy dark arms,And fondled her fair head, with poppies wreathed,Within my bosom’s depths, until its stormsWith her were hushed and I but faintly breathed:And then her sister, Dream, with frolic artArose from rest, and in my sleeping heartBlew bubbles of dreams where elfin worlds were lost;Worlds where my stranger soul looked down at me,Or walked with spirits by a rainbowed sea,Or smiled, an unfamiliar shape of frost,Floating on gales of breathless melody.

Day comes to us in garish glory garbed;But thou, thou bringest to the tired heartRest and sweet silence, wherein are absorbedAll the vain tumults of the mind and mart.Whether thou comest with hands full of stars,Or clothed in storm and cloud, the lightning bars,Rolling the thunder like a mighty dress,God moves with thee; we seem to hear His feet,Wind-like, along the floors of Heaven beat;To see His face, revealed in awfulness,Through thee, O Night, to ban us or to bless.

The shadows sit and stand about its doorLike uninvited guests and poor;And all the long, hot summer dayThe ceaseless locust dins its roundelayIn one old sycamore.The squirrel leaves upon its rotting roofIts wandering tracksIn empty hulls; and in its clapboard cracksThe spider weaves a windy woof,And cells of clay the mud-wasp packs.The she-fox whelps upon its floor;And o’er its sun warped doorThe owlet roosts; and where the mosses run,The freckled snake basks in the sun.

The children of what fathers sleepBeneath those melancholy pines?The slow slugs slime their headstones there where creepThe doddered poison-vines.The orchard, near the meadow deep,Lifts up decrepit arms,Black-lichened in a withering heap.No sap swells up to make it leapAnd shout against spring’s storms;No blossom lulls its age asleep;The winds bring sad alarms.Big, bell-round pears and pippins, russet-red,No maiden gathers now;The worm-bored trunks weep tears of gum instead,Oozing from each old bough.

The woodlands around it are solitaryAnd fold it like gaunt hands;The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary,The hum of the country is lonesome and weary,And the bees go by in bandsTo gladder and lovelier lands.The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower;The loneliness,—dank and rankAs a chamber where lies for a lonely hourAn old-man’s corpse with many a flower,—Is hushed and blank.And even the birds have passed it by,Gone with their songs to a happier sky,A happier sky and bank.

In its desolate halls are lying,Gold, blood-red, and browned,Drifted leaves of autumn dying;And the winds, above them sighing,Turn them round and round,Make a ghostly soundAs of footsteps falling, flying,Ghostly footsteps, faintly flyingThrough the haunted house.

Gazing down in her white shroud,Wov’n of windy cloud,Comes at night the phantom moon;Comes, and all the shadows soon,Crowding chambers of the house,Haunting whispering rooms, arouse;—Shadows, ghosts, her rays lead on,Till beneath the cloudLike a ghost she’s gone,In her gusty shroud,O’er the haunted house.

I oft have met her slowly wanderingBeside a leafy stream, her locks blown wild,Her cheeks a hectic flush, more fair than Spring,As if on her the scarlet copse had smiled:Or I have seen her sitting, dark and tall,—Her gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim,—Beneath a twisted oak from whose red leavesShe wound great drowsy wreaths and let them fall;The west-wind in her hair, that made it swimFar out behind, brown as the rustling sheaves.Or in the hill-lands I have often seenThe marvel of her passage; glimpses faintOf glimmering woods that glanced the hills between,Like Indian faces, fierce with forest paint.Or I have met her ’twixt two beechen hills,Within a dingled valley near a fall,Held in her nut-brown hand one cardinal flower;Or wading dimly where the leaf-dammed rillsWent babbling through the wildwood’s arrased hall,Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.Or I have met her by a ruined mill,Where trailed the crimson creeper, serpentine,On fallen leaves that stirred and rustled, chill,And watched her swinging in the wildgrapevine.While Beauty, sad among the vales and mountains,More sad than death, or all that death can teach,Dreamed of decay and stretched appealing arms,Where splashed the murmur of the forest’s fountains:With all her loveliness did she beseech,And all the sorrow of her wildwood charms.Once only in a hollow, girt with trees,A-dream amid wild asters filled with rain,I glimpsed her cheeks, red-berried by the breeze,In her dark eyes the night’s sidereal stain.And once upon an orchard’s tangled path,Where all the goldenrod had turned to brown,Where russets rolled and leaves lay sweet of breath,I did behold her ’mid her aftermathOf blossoms standing, in her gypsy gown,Within her gaze the dreams of life and death.

Or in the hill-lands I have often seenThe marvel of her passage; glimpses faintOf glimmering woods that glanced the hills between,Like Indian faces, fierce with forest paint.Or I have met her ’twixt two beechen hills,Within a dingled valley near a fall,Held in her nut-brown hand one cardinal flower;Or wading dimly where the leaf-dammed rillsWent babbling through the wildwood’s arrased hall,Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.

Or I have met her by a ruined mill,Where trailed the crimson creeper, serpentine,On fallen leaves that stirred and rustled, chill,And watched her swinging in the wildgrapevine.While Beauty, sad among the vales and mountains,More sad than death, or all that death can teach,Dreamed of decay and stretched appealing arms,Where splashed the murmur of the forest’s fountains:With all her loveliness did she beseech,And all the sorrow of her wildwood charms.

Once only in a hollow, girt with trees,A-dream amid wild asters filled with rain,I glimpsed her cheeks, red-berried by the breeze,In her dark eyes the night’s sidereal stain.And once upon an orchard’s tangled path,Where all the goldenrod had turned to brown,Where russets rolled and leaves lay sweet of breath,I did behold her ’mid her aftermathOf blossoms standing, in her gypsy gown,Within her gaze the dreams of life and death.

Athwart a sky of brass long welts of gold;A river of flame the wide Ohio lies;Beneath the sunset, billowing manifold,The dark-blue hill-tops rise.And, westering, dips the crescent of the moonThrough great cloud-feathers, flushed with rosy ray,That close around the crystal of her luneThe redbird wings of Day.A little skiff slips o’er the burnished stream;A wake of flame, that broadens far behind,Follows in ripples; and the paddles gleamAgainst the evening wind.Was it the boat, the solitude, and hush,That with dead Indians peopled all the glooms?That made each bank, meseemed, and every bush,Start into eagle-plumes?That made me seem to hear the breaking brush,And, as the stag’s great antlers swelled in view,To hear the arrow twang from cane and rush,That dipped to the canoe?To see the glimmering wigwams by the waves?And, wildly clad, around the camp-fires’ glow,The Shawnee chieftains with their painted braves,Each with his battle-bow?...But now the vision like the sunset fades,The clouds of ribbéd gold have oozed their light;And from the west, like sombre sachem shades,Gallop the shades of night.The broad Ohio glitters to the stars;And many murmurs wander through its woods—Is it the mourning of dead warriorsFor their lost solitudes?The moon is set; but, like another moon,The crescent of the river shimmers there,Unchanged as when the eyes of Daniel BooneBeheld it flowing fair.

Athwart a sky of brass long welts of gold;A river of flame the wide Ohio lies;Beneath the sunset, billowing manifold,The dark-blue hill-tops rise.

And, westering, dips the crescent of the moonThrough great cloud-feathers, flushed with rosy ray,That close around the crystal of her luneThe redbird wings of Day.

A little skiff slips o’er the burnished stream;A wake of flame, that broadens far behind,Follows in ripples; and the paddles gleamAgainst the evening wind.

Was it the boat, the solitude, and hush,That with dead Indians peopled all the glooms?That made each bank, meseemed, and every bush,Start into eagle-plumes?

That made me seem to hear the breaking brush,And, as the stag’s great antlers swelled in view,To hear the arrow twang from cane and rush,That dipped to the canoe?

To see the glimmering wigwams by the waves?And, wildly clad, around the camp-fires’ glow,The Shawnee chieftains with their painted braves,Each with his battle-bow?...

But now the vision like the sunset fades,The clouds of ribbéd gold have oozed their light;And from the west, like sombre sachem shades,Gallop the shades of night.

The broad Ohio glitters to the stars;And many murmurs wander through its woods—Is it the mourning of dead warriorsFor their lost solitudes?

The moon is set; but, like another moon,The crescent of the river shimmers there,Unchanged as when the eyes of Daniel BooneBeheld it flowing fair.

Red-winding from the sleepy town,One takes the lone, forgotten laneStraight through the hills. A brush-bird brownBubbles in thorn-flowers sweet with rain,Where breezes bend the gleaming grainAnd cautious drip of higher leavesThe lower dips that drip again,Above the tangled trees it heavesIts gables and its haunted eaves.One creeper, gnarled and blossomless,O’erforests all its eastern wall;The sighing cedars rake and pressDark boughs along the panes they sprawl;While, where the sun beats, drone and drawlThe mud-wasps; and one bushy bee,Gold-dusty, hurls along the hallTo crowd into a crack.—To meThe shadows seem too scared to flee.Of ragged chimneys martins makeHuge pipes of music; twittering, hereThey build and brood.—My footfalls wakeStrange stealing echoes, till I fearI’ll see my pale self drawing near,My phantom self as in a glass;Or one, men murdered, buried—where?—Dim in gray, stealthy glimmer, passWith lips that seem to moan “Alas!”

One creeper, gnarled and blossomless,O’erforests all its eastern wall;The sighing cedars rake and pressDark boughs along the panes they sprawl;While, where the sun beats, drone and drawlThe mud-wasps; and one bushy bee,Gold-dusty, hurls along the hallTo crowd into a crack.—To meThe shadows seem too scared to flee.

Of ragged chimneys martins makeHuge pipes of music; twittering, hereThey build and brood.—My footfalls wakeStrange stealing echoes, till I fearI’ll see my pale self drawing near,My phantom self as in a glass;Or one, men murdered, buried—where?—Dim in gray, stealthy glimmer, passWith lips that seem to moan “Alas!”

The water-flag and wild cane growRound banks whereon the sunbeams sowEphemeral gold when, on its shores,The wind sighs through the sycamores.In one green angle, just in reach,Between a willow-tree and beech,Moss-grown and leaky lies a boatThe thick-grown lilies keep afloat.And through its waters, half-awake,Slow swims the spotted water-snake;And near its edge, like some gray streak,Stands gaunt the still fly-up-the-creek.Between the lily-pads and bloomsThe water-spirits set their looms,And weave the lace-like light that dimsThe glimmering leaves of under limbs.Each lily is the hiding-placeOf some dim wood-thing’s elvish face,That watches you with gold-green eyesWhere bubbles of its breathing rise.I fancy, when the waxing moonLeans through the trees and dreams of June;And when the black bat slants its wing,And lonelier the green-frogs sing;I fancy, when the whippoorwillIn some old tree sings wildly shrill,With glow-worm eyes that dot the dark,—Each holding high a firefly spark,To torch its way,—the wood-imps come:And some float rocking here; and someUnmoor the lily-leaves and oarAround the old boat by the shore.They climb through oozy weeds and moss;They swarm its rotting sides and tossTheir firefly torches o’er its edgeOr hang them in the tangled sedge.The boat is loosed. The moon is pale.Around the dam they slowly sail.Upon its bow, to pilot it,A jack-o’-lantern flame doth sit.Yes; I have seen it all in dreams:Naught is forgotten—naught, it seems—The strangled face, the matted hair,Drown’d, of the woman trailing there.

The water-flag and wild cane growRound banks whereon the sunbeams sowEphemeral gold when, on its shores,The wind sighs through the sycamores.

In one green angle, just in reach,Between a willow-tree and beech,Moss-grown and leaky lies a boatThe thick-grown lilies keep afloat.

And through its waters, half-awake,Slow swims the spotted water-snake;And near its edge, like some gray streak,Stands gaunt the still fly-up-the-creek.

Between the lily-pads and bloomsThe water-spirits set their looms,And weave the lace-like light that dimsThe glimmering leaves of under limbs.

Each lily is the hiding-placeOf some dim wood-thing’s elvish face,That watches you with gold-green eyesWhere bubbles of its breathing rise.

I fancy, when the waxing moonLeans through the trees and dreams of June;And when the black bat slants its wing,And lonelier the green-frogs sing;

I fancy, when the whippoorwillIn some old tree sings wildly shrill,With glow-worm eyes that dot the dark,—Each holding high a firefly spark,

To torch its way,—the wood-imps come:And some float rocking here; and someUnmoor the lily-leaves and oarAround the old boat by the shore.

They climb through oozy weeds and moss;They swarm its rotting sides and tossTheir firefly torches o’er its edgeOr hang them in the tangled sedge.

The boat is loosed. The moon is pale.Around the dam they slowly sail.Upon its bow, to pilot it,A jack-o’-lantern flame doth sit.

Yes; I have seen it all in dreams:Naught is forgotten—naught, it seems—The strangled face, the matted hair,Drown’d, of the woman trailing there.

Thus did I dream:It seemed the afternoonOf some deep, tropic day; and yet the moonHung, round and bright with golden alchemy,High in a heaven sapphire as the sea.Long, lawny lengths of perishable cloudTempled the west, o’er rolling forests bowed;Clouds raining colors, gold and violet,That, opening, seemed from inner worlds to letDown hints of Parian beauty and lost charmsOf old romance, peopled with fairy forms.And all about me fruited orchards grew,Pear, quince, and peach, and plums of dusty blue;Rose-apricots, and apples streaked with fire,Kissed into ripeness by some sun’s desire,And big with juice. And on far, fading hills,Down which it seemed a hundred torrent rillsFlashed silent silver, vines and vines and vinesTerraced the world with vintage, cooling wines,Pleasant and fragrant as the heart of June,Their delicate tang drawn from the wine-white moon.And from the clouds o’er this sweet world there drippedAn odorous music, strange and feverish-lipped,That swung and swooned and panted as with sighs;Investing at each throb the air with eyesAnd forms of sensuous spirits, limpid white,Clad on with raiment as of starry night;Fair, frail embodiments of melody,From out whose hearts of crystal one could seeThe music stream like light through delicate handsHollowing a lamp. And as on sounding sandsThe ocean murmur haunts the rosy shells,—Within whose convolutions beauty dwells,—My soul became a harp of vibrant loveReëchoing all the harmony above.

Thus did I dream:

It seemed the afternoonOf some deep, tropic day; and yet the moonHung, round and bright with golden alchemy,High in a heaven sapphire as the sea.Long, lawny lengths of perishable cloudTempled the west, o’er rolling forests bowed;Clouds raining colors, gold and violet,That, opening, seemed from inner worlds to letDown hints of Parian beauty and lost charmsOf old romance, peopled with fairy forms.And all about me fruited orchards grew,Pear, quince, and peach, and plums of dusty blue;Rose-apricots, and apples streaked with fire,Kissed into ripeness by some sun’s desire,And big with juice. And on far, fading hills,Down which it seemed a hundred torrent rillsFlashed silent silver, vines and vines and vinesTerraced the world with vintage, cooling wines,Pleasant and fragrant as the heart of June,Their delicate tang drawn from the wine-white moon.

And from the clouds o’er this sweet world there drippedAn odorous music, strange and feverish-lipped,That swung and swooned and panted as with sighs;Investing at each throb the air with eyesAnd forms of sensuous spirits, limpid white,Clad on with raiment as of starry night;Fair, frail embodiments of melody,From out whose hearts of crystal one could seeThe music stream like light through delicate handsHollowing a lamp. And as on sounding sandsThe ocean murmur haunts the rosy shells,—Within whose convolutions beauty dwells,—My soul became a harp of vibrant loveReëchoing all the harmony above.

The sun set late; and left along the westA furious ruby; o’er which billowy snowsOf clouds unrolled; each cloud a mighty breastBlooming with almond-rose.The sun set late; and wafts of wind beat down,And cuffed the blossoms from the blossoming quince;Scattered the petals of the poppy’s crown,And made the clover wince.By dusking forests, through whose fretful boughsIn flying fragments shot the evening’s flame,Adown the tangled lane the quiet cowsWith dreamy tinklings came.The sun set late; but scarcely had he goneWhen o’er the moon’s gold-litten crescent there,Bright Phosphor, polished as a precious stone,Burned in fair deeps of air.As from faint stars the glory waned and waned,The crickets made the old-time garden shrill;Beyond the luminous pasture-lands complainedThe first far whippoorwill.

The sun set late; and left along the westA furious ruby; o’er which billowy snowsOf clouds unrolled; each cloud a mighty breastBlooming with almond-rose.

The sun set late; and wafts of wind beat down,And cuffed the blossoms from the blossoming quince;Scattered the petals of the poppy’s crown,And made the clover wince.

By dusking forests, through whose fretful boughsIn flying fragments shot the evening’s flame,Adown the tangled lane the quiet cowsWith dreamy tinklings came.

The sun set late; but scarcely had he goneWhen o’er the moon’s gold-litten crescent there,Bright Phosphor, polished as a precious stone,Burned in fair deeps of air.

As from faint stars the glory waned and waned,The crickets made the old-time garden shrill;Beyond the luminous pasture-lands complainedThe first far whippoorwill.

On southern winds shot through with amber light,Breathing soft balm and clothed in cloudy white,The lily-fingered Spring came o’er the hills,Waking the crocus and the daffodils.O’er the cold Earth she breathed a tender sigh—The maples sang and flung their banners high,Their crimson tasselled pennons, and the elmBound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.Beneath the musky rot of last year’s leaves,Under the forest’s myriad naked eaves,Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,Robed in the starlight of the twinkling dew.With timid tread adown the barren woodSpring held her way, when, lo! before her stoodWhite-mantled Winter nodding his white head,Stormy his brow and stormily he said:“The God of Terror, and the King of Storm,Must I remind thee how my iron armRaised rebel standards ’mid these conquered bowers,Turning their green to crimson?—Thou, with flowers,Thouwouldst supplant me! nay! usurp my throne!—Audacious one!”—And at her breast he tossedA glittering spear of ice and piercing frost,And struck her down, dead on th’ unfeeling mold.The fragile blossoms, gathered in the foldOf her young bosom, fell in desolate rowsAbout her beauty; and, like fragrant snows,Covered her lovely hands and beautiful feet,Or on her lips lay like last kisses sweetThat died there. Lilacs, musky of the May,And bluer violets and snowdrops layEntombed in crystal, icy faint and fair,Like teardrops scattered through her heavenly hair.Alas! sad heart, break not beneath the pain!Time changeth all; the Beautiful wakes again.—We should not question such; a higher powerKnows best what bud is ripest, or what flower,Silently plucks it at the fittest hour.

And at her breast he tossedA glittering spear of ice and piercing frost,And struck her down, dead on th’ unfeeling mold.The fragile blossoms, gathered in the foldOf her young bosom, fell in desolate rowsAbout her beauty; and, like fragrant snows,Covered her lovely hands and beautiful feet,Or on her lips lay like last kisses sweetThat died there. Lilacs, musky of the May,And bluer violets and snowdrops layEntombed in crystal, icy faint and fair,Like teardrops scattered through her heavenly hair.

Alas! sad heart, break not beneath the pain!Time changeth all; the Beautiful wakes again.—We should not question such; a higher powerKnows best what bud is ripest, or what flower,Silently plucks it at the fittest hour.

Whiten, oh, whiten, O clouds of lawn!Lily-like clouds that whiten above,Now like a dove, and now like a swan,But never, oh, never—pass on! pass on!—Never as white as the throat of my love.Blue-black night on the mountain peaks—Oh, not so black as the locks o’ my love!Stars that shine through the evening’s streaksOver the torrent that flashes and breaks,Brighter the eyes of my love, my love!Moon in a cloud, as white as snow,Mist in the vale where the rivulet bounds,Dropping from ledge to ledge below,Turning to gold in the sunset’s glow,Softer and sweeter her footstep sounds.Sound o’ May winds in the blossoming trees,Oh, not so sweet as her laugh that rings;Song o’ wild birds on the morning breeze,Birds and brooks and murmur o’ bees,Sweeter her voice when she laughs or sings.The rose o’ my heart is she; my dawn!My star o’ the east, my moon above!My soul takes ship for the AvalonOf her heart of hearts, and shall sail onTill it anchors safe in its haven of love.

Whiten, oh, whiten, O clouds of lawn!Lily-like clouds that whiten above,Now like a dove, and now like a swan,But never, oh, never—pass on! pass on!—Never as white as the throat of my love.

Blue-black night on the mountain peaks—Oh, not so black as the locks o’ my love!Stars that shine through the evening’s streaksOver the torrent that flashes and breaks,Brighter the eyes of my love, my love!

Moon in a cloud, as white as snow,Mist in the vale where the rivulet bounds,Dropping from ledge to ledge below,Turning to gold in the sunset’s glow,Softer and sweeter her footstep sounds.

Sound o’ May winds in the blossoming trees,Oh, not so sweet as her laugh that rings;Song o’ wild birds on the morning breeze,Birds and brooks and murmur o’ bees,Sweeter her voice when she laughs or sings.

The rose o’ my heart is she; my dawn!My star o’ the east, my moon above!My soul takes ship for the AvalonOf her heart of hearts, and shall sail onTill it anchors safe in its haven of love.

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