To it the forest tellsThe mystery that haunts its heart and foldsIts form in cogitation deep, that holdsThe shadow of each myth that dwellsIn nature—be it Nymph or Fay or Faun—And whispering of them to the dales and dells,It wanders on and on.To it the heaven showsThe secret of its soul; true imagesOf dreams that form its aspect; and with theseReflected in its countenance it goes,With pictures of the skies, the dusk and dawn,Within its breast, as every blossom knows,For them to gaze upon.Through it the world-soul sendsIts heart’s creating pulse that beats and singsThe music of maternity whence springsAll life; and shaping earthly ends,—From the deep sources of the heavens drawn,—Planting its ways with beauty, on it wends,On and for ever on.
To it the forest tellsThe mystery that haunts its heart and foldsIts form in cogitation deep, that holdsThe shadow of each myth that dwellsIn nature—be it Nymph or Fay or Faun—And whispering of them to the dales and dells,It wanders on and on.To it the heaven showsThe secret of its soul; true imagesOf dreams that form its aspect; and with theseReflected in its countenance it goes,With pictures of the skies, the dusk and dawn,Within its breast, as every blossom knows,For them to gaze upon.Through it the world-soul sendsIts heart’s creating pulse that beats and singsThe music of maternity whence springsAll life; and shaping earthly ends,—From the deep sources of the heavens drawn,—Planting its ways with beauty, on it wends,On and for ever on.
To it the forest tellsThe mystery that haunts its heart and foldsIts form in cogitation deep, that holdsThe shadow of each myth that dwellsIn nature—be it Nymph or Fay or Faun—And whispering of them to the dales and dells,It wanders on and on.
To it the heaven showsThe secret of its soul; true imagesOf dreams that form its aspect; and with theseReflected in its countenance it goes,With pictures of the skies, the dusk and dawn,Within its breast, as every blossom knows,For them to gaze upon.
Through it the world-soul sendsIts heart’s creating pulse that beats and singsThe music of maternity whence springsAll life; and shaping earthly ends,—From the deep sources of the heavens drawn,—Planting its ways with beauty, on it wends,On and for ever on.
Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.Her cheeks, with their happy blood,Glowed pink as the apple-bud.Her eyes, with their deep delight,Shone glad as the stars of night.Her curls, with their romp and fun,Tossed hoiden to wind and sun.Her lips, with their laughter shrill,Rippled like some wild rill.Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.And I,—who leaned on the fence,Watching her innocence,As, under the boughs that bent,Now high, now low, she went,In her soul the ecstasiesOf the stars, the brooks, the breeze,—Had given the rest of my years,With their, blessings, and hopes, and fears,To have been as she was then;And, just for a moment, againA boy in the old rope-swingUnder the boughs of spring.
Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.Her cheeks, with their happy blood,Glowed pink as the apple-bud.Her eyes, with their deep delight,Shone glad as the stars of night.Her curls, with their romp and fun,Tossed hoiden to wind and sun.Her lips, with their laughter shrill,Rippled like some wild rill.Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.And I,—who leaned on the fence,Watching her innocence,As, under the boughs that bent,Now high, now low, she went,In her soul the ecstasiesOf the stars, the brooks, the breeze,—Had given the rest of my years,With their, blessings, and hopes, and fears,To have been as she was then;And, just for a moment, againA boy in the old rope-swingUnder the boughs of spring.
Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.
Her cheeks, with their happy blood,Glowed pink as the apple-bud.
Her eyes, with their deep delight,Shone glad as the stars of night.
Her curls, with their romp and fun,Tossed hoiden to wind and sun.
Her lips, with their laughter shrill,Rippled like some wild rill.
Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.
And I,—who leaned on the fence,Watching her innocence,
As, under the boughs that bent,Now high, now low, she went,
In her soul the ecstasiesOf the stars, the brooks, the breeze,—
Had given the rest of my years,With their, blessings, and hopes, and fears,
To have been as she was then;And, just for a moment, again
A boy in the old rope-swingUnder the boughs of spring.
I feel thee as one feels a flower’s,A dead flower’s fragrance in a room,—A dim, gray grief that haunts the hoursWith sad perfume.Thou charm’st me as a ghostly lilyMight charm a garden’s withered space,With the pale pathos and the chillyHush of thy face.I hearken in thy fogs; I hearkenWhen, like the phantom of dead Night,With immaterial limbs they darkenThe day with white.With wrecks of rain and mad winds, heapingRed ruins of riven rose and leaf,Make sad my heart, O Autumn! sweepingThe world with grief.
I feel thee as one feels a flower’s,A dead flower’s fragrance in a room,—A dim, gray grief that haunts the hoursWith sad perfume.Thou charm’st me as a ghostly lilyMight charm a garden’s withered space,With the pale pathos and the chillyHush of thy face.I hearken in thy fogs; I hearkenWhen, like the phantom of dead Night,With immaterial limbs they darkenThe day with white.With wrecks of rain and mad winds, heapingRed ruins of riven rose and leaf,Make sad my heart, O Autumn! sweepingThe world with grief.
I feel thee as one feels a flower’s,A dead flower’s fragrance in a room,—A dim, gray grief that haunts the hoursWith sad perfume.
Thou charm’st me as a ghostly lilyMight charm a garden’s withered space,With the pale pathos and the chillyHush of thy face.
I hearken in thy fogs; I hearkenWhen, like the phantom of dead Night,With immaterial limbs they darkenThe day with white.
With wrecks of rain and mad winds, heapingRed ruins of riven rose and leaf,Make sad my heart, O Autumn! sweepingThe world with grief.
How does it come that now I goDown ways made blue with bluets’ eyes?Along the creek-road as the crowWith mocking laughter flies?A wild bird beats a crippled wingTo lure me from its brush-built nest;Then, like a brook, I hear it singIts wildwood happiest.Beyond the orchard hills are dellsOf knee-deep huckleberries, whiteWith little bell-blooms, May-time swellsWith sweetness and delight.The faun wakes in me, wild and keen,And, with the joy the rathe months hold,Kicks happy heels in deeps of greenAnd rolls in deeper gold.My Shakespeare falls: I wake: and frostAnd ice seam every flower-bed:Where once each stalk, an Edgar, tossed,Poor Tom now shakes instead.Where once th’ gladiole, gleaming, shookA wand of folly at the sun,The humped stock hath a withered look—The poor, pale Fool is done.A great, gray beard the rose-bush hath,—An old king’s,—where hangs many a tear,Near the dead lily by the path—Cordelia and Lear.
How does it come that now I goDown ways made blue with bluets’ eyes?Along the creek-road as the crowWith mocking laughter flies?A wild bird beats a crippled wingTo lure me from its brush-built nest;Then, like a brook, I hear it singIts wildwood happiest.Beyond the orchard hills are dellsOf knee-deep huckleberries, whiteWith little bell-blooms, May-time swellsWith sweetness and delight.The faun wakes in me, wild and keen,And, with the joy the rathe months hold,Kicks happy heels in deeps of greenAnd rolls in deeper gold.My Shakespeare falls: I wake: and frostAnd ice seam every flower-bed:Where once each stalk, an Edgar, tossed,Poor Tom now shakes instead.Where once th’ gladiole, gleaming, shookA wand of folly at the sun,The humped stock hath a withered look—The poor, pale Fool is done.A great, gray beard the rose-bush hath,—An old king’s,—where hangs many a tear,Near the dead lily by the path—Cordelia and Lear.
How does it come that now I goDown ways made blue with bluets’ eyes?Along the creek-road as the crowWith mocking laughter flies?
A wild bird beats a crippled wingTo lure me from its brush-built nest;Then, like a brook, I hear it singIts wildwood happiest.
Beyond the orchard hills are dellsOf knee-deep huckleberries, whiteWith little bell-blooms, May-time swellsWith sweetness and delight.
The faun wakes in me, wild and keen,And, with the joy the rathe months hold,Kicks happy heels in deeps of greenAnd rolls in deeper gold.
My Shakespeare falls: I wake: and frostAnd ice seam every flower-bed:Where once each stalk, an Edgar, tossed,Poor Tom now shakes instead.
Where once th’ gladiole, gleaming, shookA wand of folly at the sun,The humped stock hath a withered look—The poor, pale Fool is done.
A great, gray beard the rose-bush hath,—An old king’s,—where hangs many a tear,Near the dead lily by the path—Cordelia and Lear.
Bee-bitten in the orchard hungThe peach; or, fallen in the weeds,Lay rotting, where still sucked and sungThe gray bee, boring to the seed’sPink pulp and honey blackly stung.The orchard-path, which wound aroundThe garden,—with its heat one twingeOf dinning locusts,—picket-boundAnd ragged, brought me where one hingeHeld up the gate that scraped the ground.All seemed the same: the martin-box—Sun-warped, with pygmy balconies—Still stood, with all its twittering flocks,Perched on its pole above the peasAnd silvery-seeded onion-stocks.The clove-pink and the rose; the clumpOf coppery sunflowers, with the heatSick to the heart: the garden stump,Red with geranium-pots, and sweetWith moss and ferns, this side the pump.I rested with one hesitant handUpon the gate. The lonesome day,Droning with insects, made the landOne dry stagnation. Soaked with hayAnd scents of weeds the hot wind fanned.I breathed the sultry scents, my eyesParched as my lips. And yet I feltMy limbs were ice.—As one who fliesTo some wild woe.—How sleepy smeltThe hay-hot heat that soaked the skies!Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomerFor one long, plaintive, forest-sideBird-quaver.—And I knew me nearSome heartbreak anguish.... She had died.I felt it, and no need to hear.I passed the quince-and pear-tree; where,All up the porch, a grape-vine trails.—How strange that fruit, whatever airOr earth it grows in, never failsTo find its native flavor there!And she was as a flower, too,That grows its proper bloom and scentNo matter what the soil: she, who,Born better than her place, still lentGrace to the lowliness she knew....They met me at the porch and wereGaunt-eyed with weeping.—Then the roomShut out the country’s heat and purr,And left light stricken into gloom—So love and I might look on her.
Bee-bitten in the orchard hungThe peach; or, fallen in the weeds,Lay rotting, where still sucked and sungThe gray bee, boring to the seed’sPink pulp and honey blackly stung.The orchard-path, which wound aroundThe garden,—with its heat one twingeOf dinning locusts,—picket-boundAnd ragged, brought me where one hingeHeld up the gate that scraped the ground.All seemed the same: the martin-box—Sun-warped, with pygmy balconies—Still stood, with all its twittering flocks,Perched on its pole above the peasAnd silvery-seeded onion-stocks.The clove-pink and the rose; the clumpOf coppery sunflowers, with the heatSick to the heart: the garden stump,Red with geranium-pots, and sweetWith moss and ferns, this side the pump.I rested with one hesitant handUpon the gate. The lonesome day,Droning with insects, made the landOne dry stagnation. Soaked with hayAnd scents of weeds the hot wind fanned.I breathed the sultry scents, my eyesParched as my lips. And yet I feltMy limbs were ice.—As one who fliesTo some wild woe.—How sleepy smeltThe hay-hot heat that soaked the skies!Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomerFor one long, plaintive, forest-sideBird-quaver.—And I knew me nearSome heartbreak anguish.... She had died.I felt it, and no need to hear.I passed the quince-and pear-tree; where,All up the porch, a grape-vine trails.—How strange that fruit, whatever airOr earth it grows in, never failsTo find its native flavor there!And she was as a flower, too,That grows its proper bloom and scentNo matter what the soil: she, who,Born better than her place, still lentGrace to the lowliness she knew....They met me at the porch and wereGaunt-eyed with weeping.—Then the roomShut out the country’s heat and purr,And left light stricken into gloom—So love and I might look on her.
Bee-bitten in the orchard hungThe peach; or, fallen in the weeds,Lay rotting, where still sucked and sungThe gray bee, boring to the seed’sPink pulp and honey blackly stung.
The orchard-path, which wound aroundThe garden,—with its heat one twingeOf dinning locusts,—picket-boundAnd ragged, brought me where one hingeHeld up the gate that scraped the ground.
All seemed the same: the martin-box—Sun-warped, with pygmy balconies—Still stood, with all its twittering flocks,Perched on its pole above the peasAnd silvery-seeded onion-stocks.
The clove-pink and the rose; the clumpOf coppery sunflowers, with the heatSick to the heart: the garden stump,Red with geranium-pots, and sweetWith moss and ferns, this side the pump.
I rested with one hesitant handUpon the gate. The lonesome day,Droning with insects, made the landOne dry stagnation. Soaked with hayAnd scents of weeds the hot wind fanned.
I breathed the sultry scents, my eyesParched as my lips. And yet I feltMy limbs were ice.—As one who fliesTo some wild woe.—How sleepy smeltThe hay-hot heat that soaked the skies!
Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomerFor one long, plaintive, forest-sideBird-quaver.—And I knew me nearSome heartbreak anguish.... She had died.I felt it, and no need to hear.
I passed the quince-and pear-tree; where,All up the porch, a grape-vine trails.—How strange that fruit, whatever airOr earth it grows in, never failsTo find its native flavor there!
And she was as a flower, too,That grows its proper bloom and scentNo matter what the soil: she, who,Born better than her place, still lentGrace to the lowliness she knew....
They met me at the porch and wereGaunt-eyed with weeping.—Then the roomShut out the country’s heat and purr,And left light stricken into gloom—So love and I might look on her.
O cheerly, cheerly by the road,And merrily down the hillet,And where the bottom-lands are sowedWith bristle-bearded millet;Then o’er a pebbled path it goesThrough woodland dale and dingle,Unto a farmstead’s windowed rose,And roof of moss and shingle.Then darkly, darkly through the brush,And dimly round the boulder,Where cane and water-weeds grow lush,Its current clear flows colder.Then by the cedared way that leads,Through burr and bramble-thickets,Unto a burial-ground of weedsFenced in with broken pickets.Then slowly, slowly down the vale,And wearily through the rushes,Where sunlight of the noon is pale,Its shadowy water hushes.For oft her young face smiled uponIts deeps here, willow-shaded;And oft with bare feet in the sunIts shallows there she waded.No more beneath the twinkling leavesShall stand the farmer’s daughter!—softly past the cottage eaves,O memory-haunted water!No more shall bend her laughing faceAbove it where the rose is!—Sigh softly past the burial-placeWhere all her youth reposes.
O cheerly, cheerly by the road,And merrily down the hillet,And where the bottom-lands are sowedWith bristle-bearded millet;Then o’er a pebbled path it goesThrough woodland dale and dingle,Unto a farmstead’s windowed rose,And roof of moss and shingle.Then darkly, darkly through the brush,And dimly round the boulder,Where cane and water-weeds grow lush,Its current clear flows colder.Then by the cedared way that leads,Through burr and bramble-thickets,Unto a burial-ground of weedsFenced in with broken pickets.Then slowly, slowly down the vale,And wearily through the rushes,Where sunlight of the noon is pale,Its shadowy water hushes.For oft her young face smiled uponIts deeps here, willow-shaded;And oft with bare feet in the sunIts shallows there she waded.No more beneath the twinkling leavesShall stand the farmer’s daughter!—softly past the cottage eaves,O memory-haunted water!No more shall bend her laughing faceAbove it where the rose is!—Sigh softly past the burial-placeWhere all her youth reposes.
O cheerly, cheerly by the road,And merrily down the hillet,And where the bottom-lands are sowedWith bristle-bearded millet;
Then o’er a pebbled path it goesThrough woodland dale and dingle,Unto a farmstead’s windowed rose,And roof of moss and shingle.
Then darkly, darkly through the brush,And dimly round the boulder,Where cane and water-weeds grow lush,Its current clear flows colder.
Then by the cedared way that leads,Through burr and bramble-thickets,Unto a burial-ground of weedsFenced in with broken pickets.
Then slowly, slowly down the vale,And wearily through the rushes,Where sunlight of the noon is pale,Its shadowy water hushes.
For oft her young face smiled uponIts deeps here, willow-shaded;And oft with bare feet in the sunIts shallows there she waded.
No more beneath the twinkling leavesShall stand the farmer’s daughter!—softly past the cottage eaves,O memory-haunted water!
No more shall bend her laughing faceAbove it where the rose is!—Sigh softly past the burial-placeWhere all her youth reposes.
Among the fields the camomileSeems blown mist in the lightning’s glare:Cool, rainy odors drench the air;Night speaks above; the angry smileOf storm within her stare.The way that I shall take to-nightIs through the wood whose branches fillThe road with double darkness, till,Between the boughs, a window’s lightShines out upon the hill.The fence; and then the path that goesAround a trailer-tangled rock,Through puckered pink and hollyhock,Unto a latch-gate’s unkempt rose,And door whereat I knock.Bright on the old-time flower-placeThe lamp streams through the foggy paneThe door is opened to the rain:And in the door—her happy faceAnd outstretched hands again.
Among the fields the camomileSeems blown mist in the lightning’s glare:Cool, rainy odors drench the air;Night speaks above; the angry smileOf storm within her stare.The way that I shall take to-nightIs through the wood whose branches fillThe road with double darkness, till,Between the boughs, a window’s lightShines out upon the hill.The fence; and then the path that goesAround a trailer-tangled rock,Through puckered pink and hollyhock,Unto a latch-gate’s unkempt rose,And door whereat I knock.Bright on the old-time flower-placeThe lamp streams through the foggy paneThe door is opened to the rain:And in the door—her happy faceAnd outstretched hands again.
Among the fields the camomileSeems blown mist in the lightning’s glare:Cool, rainy odors drench the air;Night speaks above; the angry smileOf storm within her stare.
The way that I shall take to-nightIs through the wood whose branches fillThe road with double darkness, till,Between the boughs, a window’s lightShines out upon the hill.
The fence; and then the path that goesAround a trailer-tangled rock,Through puckered pink and hollyhock,Unto a latch-gate’s unkempt rose,And door whereat I knock.
Bright on the old-time flower-placeThe lamp streams through the foggy paneThe door is opened to the rain:And in the door—her happy faceAnd outstretched hands again.
Three miles of trees it is: and ICame through the woods that waited, dumb,For the cool summer dusk to come;And lingered there to watch the skyUp which the gradual sunset clomb.A tree-toad quavered in a tree;And then a sudden whippoorwillCalled overhead, so wildly shrillThe sleeping wood, it seemed to me,Cried out and then again was still.Then through dark boughs its stealthy flightAn owl took; and, at drowsy strife,The cricket tuned its fairy fife;And like a ghostflower, silent white,The wood-moth glimmered into life.And in the punk-wood everywhereThe insects ticked, or bored belowThe rotted bark; and, glow on glow,The lambent fireflies here and thereLit up their jack-o’-lantern show.I heard a vesper-sparrow sing,Withdrawn, it seemed, into the farSlow sunset’s tranquil cinnabar;The crimson, softly smoulderingBehind gaunt trunks, with its one star.A dog barked: and down ways that gleamed,Through dew and clover, faint the noiseOf cow-bells moved. And then a voice,That sang a-milking, so it seemed,Made glad my heart as some glad boy’s.And then the lane: and, full in view,A farm-house with a rose-grown gate,And honeysuckle paths, awaitFor night, the moon, and love and you—These are the things that made me late.
Three miles of trees it is: and ICame through the woods that waited, dumb,For the cool summer dusk to come;And lingered there to watch the skyUp which the gradual sunset clomb.A tree-toad quavered in a tree;And then a sudden whippoorwillCalled overhead, so wildly shrillThe sleeping wood, it seemed to me,Cried out and then again was still.Then through dark boughs its stealthy flightAn owl took; and, at drowsy strife,The cricket tuned its fairy fife;And like a ghostflower, silent white,The wood-moth glimmered into life.And in the punk-wood everywhereThe insects ticked, or bored belowThe rotted bark; and, glow on glow,The lambent fireflies here and thereLit up their jack-o’-lantern show.I heard a vesper-sparrow sing,Withdrawn, it seemed, into the farSlow sunset’s tranquil cinnabar;The crimson, softly smoulderingBehind gaunt trunks, with its one star.A dog barked: and down ways that gleamed,Through dew and clover, faint the noiseOf cow-bells moved. And then a voice,That sang a-milking, so it seemed,Made glad my heart as some glad boy’s.And then the lane: and, full in view,A farm-house with a rose-grown gate,And honeysuckle paths, awaitFor night, the moon, and love and you—These are the things that made me late.
Three miles of trees it is: and ICame through the woods that waited, dumb,For the cool summer dusk to come;And lingered there to watch the skyUp which the gradual sunset clomb.
A tree-toad quavered in a tree;And then a sudden whippoorwillCalled overhead, so wildly shrillThe sleeping wood, it seemed to me,Cried out and then again was still.
Then through dark boughs its stealthy flightAn owl took; and, at drowsy strife,The cricket tuned its fairy fife;And like a ghostflower, silent white,The wood-moth glimmered into life.
And in the punk-wood everywhereThe insects ticked, or bored belowThe rotted bark; and, glow on glow,The lambent fireflies here and thereLit up their jack-o’-lantern show.
I heard a vesper-sparrow sing,Withdrawn, it seemed, into the farSlow sunset’s tranquil cinnabar;The crimson, softly smoulderingBehind gaunt trunks, with its one star.
A dog barked: and down ways that gleamed,Through dew and clover, faint the noiseOf cow-bells moved. And then a voice,That sang a-milking, so it seemed,Made glad my heart as some glad boy’s.
And then the lane: and, full in view,A farm-house with a rose-grown gate,And honeysuckle paths, awaitFor night, the moon, and love and you—These are the things that made me late.
Down through the woods, along the wayThat fords the stream; by rock and tree,Where in the bramble-bell the beeSwings; and through twilights green and grayThe red-bird flashes suddenly,My thoughts went wandering to-day.I found the fields where, row on row,The blackberries hang black their fruit;Where, nesting at the elder’s root,The partridge whistles soft and low;The fields, that billow to the footOf those old hills we used to know.There lay the pond, still willow-bound,On whose bright surface, when the hotNoon burnt above, we chased the knotOf water-striders; while aroundOur heads, like bits of rainbow, shotThe dragon-flies without a sound.The pond, above which evening bentTo gaze upon her gypsy face;Wherein the twinkling night would traceA vague, inverted firmament;In which the green frogs tuned their bass,And firefly sparkles came and went.The old-time woods we often ranged,When we were playmates, you and I;The old-time fields, with boyhood’s skyStill blue above them!—Naught was changed!Nothing!—Alas! then tell me whyShould we be? whom the years estranged.
Down through the woods, along the wayThat fords the stream; by rock and tree,Where in the bramble-bell the beeSwings; and through twilights green and grayThe red-bird flashes suddenly,My thoughts went wandering to-day.I found the fields where, row on row,The blackberries hang black their fruit;Where, nesting at the elder’s root,The partridge whistles soft and low;The fields, that billow to the footOf those old hills we used to know.There lay the pond, still willow-bound,On whose bright surface, when the hotNoon burnt above, we chased the knotOf water-striders; while aroundOur heads, like bits of rainbow, shotThe dragon-flies without a sound.The pond, above which evening bentTo gaze upon her gypsy face;Wherein the twinkling night would traceA vague, inverted firmament;In which the green frogs tuned their bass,And firefly sparkles came and went.The old-time woods we often ranged,When we were playmates, you and I;The old-time fields, with boyhood’s skyStill blue above them!—Naught was changed!Nothing!—Alas! then tell me whyShould we be? whom the years estranged.
Down through the woods, along the wayThat fords the stream; by rock and tree,Where in the bramble-bell the beeSwings; and through twilights green and grayThe red-bird flashes suddenly,My thoughts went wandering to-day.
I found the fields where, row on row,The blackberries hang black their fruit;Where, nesting at the elder’s root,The partridge whistles soft and low;The fields, that billow to the footOf those old hills we used to know.
There lay the pond, still willow-bound,On whose bright surface, when the hotNoon burnt above, we chased the knotOf water-striders; while aroundOur heads, like bits of rainbow, shotThe dragon-flies without a sound.
The pond, above which evening bentTo gaze upon her gypsy face;Wherein the twinkling night would traceA vague, inverted firmament;In which the green frogs tuned their bass,And firefly sparkles came and went.
The old-time woods we often ranged,When we were playmates, you and I;The old-time fields, with boyhood’s skyStill blue above them!—Naught was changed!Nothing!—Alas! then tell me whyShould we be? whom the years estranged.
Here, at its base, in dingled deepsOf spice-bush, where the ivy creeps,The cold spring scoops its hollow;And there, three mossy stepping-stonesMake ripple murmurs; undertonesOf foam, whose low falls followA voice far in the wood that drones.The quail pipes here when noons are hot;And here, in coolness sunlight-shot,Beneath a roof of briers,The red fox skulks at close of day;And here, at night, the shadows grayStand like Franciscan friars,With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.Here yawns the woodchuck’s dark-dug hole;And there the tunnel of the moleHeaves under weed and flower;A sandy pit-fall here and thereThe ant-lion digs and lies a-lairAnd here, for sun and shower,The spider weaves a silvery snare.The poison-oak’s rank tendrils twineThe rock’s south side; the trumpet-vine,With crimson bugles sprinkled,Makes green its eastern side; the westIs rough with lichens; and, gray-pressedInto an angle wrinkled,The hornets hang an oblong nest.The north is hid from sun and star,And here,—like an InquisitorOf Faëry Inquisition,Who roots out Elfland heresy,—Deep in the rock, cowled shadowyAnd grave as his commission,The owl sits magisterially.
Here, at its base, in dingled deepsOf spice-bush, where the ivy creeps,The cold spring scoops its hollow;And there, three mossy stepping-stonesMake ripple murmurs; undertonesOf foam, whose low falls followA voice far in the wood that drones.The quail pipes here when noons are hot;And here, in coolness sunlight-shot,Beneath a roof of briers,The red fox skulks at close of day;And here, at night, the shadows grayStand like Franciscan friars,With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.Here yawns the woodchuck’s dark-dug hole;And there the tunnel of the moleHeaves under weed and flower;A sandy pit-fall here and thereThe ant-lion digs and lies a-lairAnd here, for sun and shower,The spider weaves a silvery snare.The poison-oak’s rank tendrils twineThe rock’s south side; the trumpet-vine,With crimson bugles sprinkled,Makes green its eastern side; the westIs rough with lichens; and, gray-pressedInto an angle wrinkled,The hornets hang an oblong nest.The north is hid from sun and star,And here,—like an InquisitorOf Faëry Inquisition,Who roots out Elfland heresy,—Deep in the rock, cowled shadowyAnd grave as his commission,The owl sits magisterially.
Here, at its base, in dingled deepsOf spice-bush, where the ivy creeps,The cold spring scoops its hollow;And there, three mossy stepping-stonesMake ripple murmurs; undertonesOf foam, whose low falls followA voice far in the wood that drones.
The quail pipes here when noons are hot;And here, in coolness sunlight-shot,Beneath a roof of briers,The red fox skulks at close of day;And here, at night, the shadows grayStand like Franciscan friars,With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.
Here yawns the woodchuck’s dark-dug hole;And there the tunnel of the moleHeaves under weed and flower;A sandy pit-fall here and thereThe ant-lion digs and lies a-lairAnd here, for sun and shower,The spider weaves a silvery snare.
The poison-oak’s rank tendrils twineThe rock’s south side; the trumpet-vine,With crimson bugles sprinkled,Makes green its eastern side; the westIs rough with lichens; and, gray-pressedInto an angle wrinkled,The hornets hang an oblong nest.
The north is hid from sun and star,And here,—like an InquisitorOf Faëry Inquisition,Who roots out Elfland heresy,—Deep in the rock, cowled shadowyAnd grave as his commission,The owl sits magisterially.
A weed-grown slope, whereon the rainHas washed the brown rocks bare,Leads tangled from a lonely laneDown to a creek’s broad stairOf stone, that, through the solitude,Winds onward to a quiet wood.An intermittent roof of shadeThe beech above it throws;Along its steps a balustradeOf beauty builds the rose;In which, a stately lamp of green,At intervals, the cedar’s seen.The water, carpeting each ledgeOf rock that runs across,Glints ’twixt a flow’r-embroidered edgeOf ferns and grass and moss;And in its deeps the wood and skySeem patterns of the softest dye.Long corridors of pleasant duskWithin the house of leavesIt reaches; where, on looms of musk,The ceaseless locust weavesA web of summer; and perfumeTrails a sweet gown from room to room.Green windows of the boughs, that swing,It passes, where the notesOf birds are glad thoughts entering,And butterflies are motes;And now a vista where the dayOpens a door of wind and ray.It is a stairway for all soundsThat haunt the woodland sides;On which, boy-like, the Southwind bounds,Girl-like, the sunbeam glides;And, like fond parents, following these,The old-time dreams of rest and peace.
A weed-grown slope, whereon the rainHas washed the brown rocks bare,Leads tangled from a lonely laneDown to a creek’s broad stairOf stone, that, through the solitude,Winds onward to a quiet wood.An intermittent roof of shadeThe beech above it throws;Along its steps a balustradeOf beauty builds the rose;In which, a stately lamp of green,At intervals, the cedar’s seen.The water, carpeting each ledgeOf rock that runs across,Glints ’twixt a flow’r-embroidered edgeOf ferns and grass and moss;And in its deeps the wood and skySeem patterns of the softest dye.Long corridors of pleasant duskWithin the house of leavesIt reaches; where, on looms of musk,The ceaseless locust weavesA web of summer; and perfumeTrails a sweet gown from room to room.Green windows of the boughs, that swing,It passes, where the notesOf birds are glad thoughts entering,And butterflies are motes;And now a vista where the dayOpens a door of wind and ray.It is a stairway for all soundsThat haunt the woodland sides;On which, boy-like, the Southwind bounds,Girl-like, the sunbeam glides;And, like fond parents, following these,The old-time dreams of rest and peace.
A weed-grown slope, whereon the rainHas washed the brown rocks bare,Leads tangled from a lonely laneDown to a creek’s broad stairOf stone, that, through the solitude,Winds onward to a quiet wood.
An intermittent roof of shadeThe beech above it throws;Along its steps a balustradeOf beauty builds the rose;In which, a stately lamp of green,At intervals, the cedar’s seen.
The water, carpeting each ledgeOf rock that runs across,Glints ’twixt a flow’r-embroidered edgeOf ferns and grass and moss;And in its deeps the wood and skySeem patterns of the softest dye.
Long corridors of pleasant duskWithin the house of leavesIt reaches; where, on looms of musk,The ceaseless locust weavesA web of summer; and perfumeTrails a sweet gown from room to room.
Green windows of the boughs, that swing,It passes, where the notesOf birds are glad thoughts entering,And butterflies are motes;And now a vista where the dayOpens a door of wind and ray.
It is a stairway for all soundsThat haunt the woodland sides;On which, boy-like, the Southwind bounds,Girl-like, the sunbeam glides;And, like fond parents, following these,The old-time dreams of rest and peace.
Clouds of the autumn night,Under the hunter’s-moon,—Ghostly and windy white,—Whither, like leaves wild strewn,Take ye your stormy flight?Out of the west, where dusk,From her red window-sill,Leaned with a wand of tusk,Witch-like, and wood and hillPhantomed with mist and muskInto the east, where mornSleeps in a shadowy close,Shut with a gate of horn,Round which the dreams she knowsFlutter with rose and thorn.Blow from the west! oh, blow,Clouds that the tempest steers!And with your rain and snowBear of my heart the tears,And of my soul the woe.Into the east then pass,Clouds that the night-winds sweep!And on her grave’s sere grass,There where she lies asleep,There let them fall, alas!
Clouds of the autumn night,Under the hunter’s-moon,—Ghostly and windy white,—Whither, like leaves wild strewn,Take ye your stormy flight?Out of the west, where dusk,From her red window-sill,Leaned with a wand of tusk,Witch-like, and wood and hillPhantomed with mist and muskInto the east, where mornSleeps in a shadowy close,Shut with a gate of horn,Round which the dreams she knowsFlutter with rose and thorn.Blow from the west! oh, blow,Clouds that the tempest steers!And with your rain and snowBear of my heart the tears,And of my soul the woe.Into the east then pass,Clouds that the night-winds sweep!And on her grave’s sere grass,There where she lies asleep,There let them fall, alas!
Clouds of the autumn night,Under the hunter’s-moon,—Ghostly and windy white,—Whither, like leaves wild strewn,Take ye your stormy flight?
Out of the west, where dusk,From her red window-sill,Leaned with a wand of tusk,Witch-like, and wood and hillPhantomed with mist and musk
Into the east, where mornSleeps in a shadowy close,Shut with a gate of horn,Round which the dreams she knowsFlutter with rose and thorn.
Blow from the west! oh, blow,Clouds that the tempest steers!And with your rain and snowBear of my heart the tears,And of my soul the woe.
Into the east then pass,Clouds that the night-winds sweep!And on her grave’s sere grass,There where she lies asleep,There let them fall, alas!
[Image unavailable: Ghostly and windy white Page 168]
Ghostly and windy whitePage 168Clouds of the Autumn Night
Ghostly and windy whitePage 168Clouds of the Autumn Night
Ghostly and windy whitePage 168Clouds of the Autumn Night
When my old heart was young, my dear,The earth and heaven were so nearThat in my dreams I oft could hearThe steps of airy races;In woodlands, where bright waters ran,On hills, God’s rainbows used to span,I followed voices not of man,And smiled in spirit faces.Now my old heart is old, my sweet,No longer earth and heaven meet;All life is grown to one dull streetWhere fact with fancy clashes;The voices now that speak to meAre prose instead of poetry;And in the faces now I seeIs less of flame than ashes.
When my old heart was young, my dear,The earth and heaven were so nearThat in my dreams I oft could hearThe steps of airy races;In woodlands, where bright waters ran,On hills, God’s rainbows used to span,I followed voices not of man,And smiled in spirit faces.Now my old heart is old, my sweet,No longer earth and heaven meet;All life is grown to one dull streetWhere fact with fancy clashes;The voices now that speak to meAre prose instead of poetry;And in the faces now I seeIs less of flame than ashes.
When my old heart was young, my dear,The earth and heaven were so nearThat in my dreams I oft could hearThe steps of airy races;In woodlands, where bright waters ran,On hills, God’s rainbows used to span,I followed voices not of man,And smiled in spirit faces.
Now my old heart is old, my sweet,No longer earth and heaven meet;All life is grown to one dull streetWhere fact with fancy clashes;The voices now that speak to meAre prose instead of poetry;And in the faces now I seeIs less of flame than ashes.
Deep in the west a berry-colored barOf sunset gleams; against which one tall firStands outlined dark; above which—courierOf dew and dreams—burns dusk’s appointed star.And flash on flash, as when the elves wage warIn Goblinland, the fireflies bombardThe silence; and, like spirits, o’er the swardThe twilight winds bring fragrance from afar.And now, withdrawn into the hill-wood belts,A whippoorwill; while, with attendant statesOf pearl and silver, slow the great moon meltsInto the night—to show me whereshewaits,—Like some slim moonbeam,—by the old beech-tree,Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.
Deep in the west a berry-colored barOf sunset gleams; against which one tall firStands outlined dark; above which—courierOf dew and dreams—burns dusk’s appointed star.And flash on flash, as when the elves wage warIn Goblinland, the fireflies bombardThe silence; and, like spirits, o’er the swardThe twilight winds bring fragrance from afar.And now, withdrawn into the hill-wood belts,A whippoorwill; while, with attendant statesOf pearl and silver, slow the great moon meltsInto the night—to show me whereshewaits,—Like some slim moonbeam,—by the old beech-tree,Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.
Deep in the west a berry-colored barOf sunset gleams; against which one tall firStands outlined dark; above which—courierOf dew and dreams—burns dusk’s appointed star.And flash on flash, as when the elves wage warIn Goblinland, the fireflies bombardThe silence; and, like spirits, o’er the swardThe twilight winds bring fragrance from afar.And now, withdrawn into the hill-wood belts,A whippoorwill; while, with attendant statesOf pearl and silver, slow the great moon meltsInto the night—to show me whereshewaits,—Like some slim moonbeam,—by the old beech-tree,Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.
There is a place hung o’er of summer boughsAnd dreamy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps;Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps,Like silvery prisms where the sunbeams drowse,The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cowsTinkle the stillness; and the bob-white keepsCalling from meadows where the reaper reaps,And children’s laughter haunts an old-time house:A place where life wears ever an honest smellOf hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom—Like some sweet, modest girl—within her hair;Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwellFar from the city’s strife, whose cares consume—Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.
There is a place hung o’er of summer boughsAnd dreamy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps;Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps,Like silvery prisms where the sunbeams drowse,The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cowsTinkle the stillness; and the bob-white keepsCalling from meadows where the reaper reaps,And children’s laughter haunts an old-time house:A place where life wears ever an honest smellOf hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom—Like some sweet, modest girl—within her hair;Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwellFar from the city’s strife, whose cares consume—Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.
There is a place hung o’er of summer boughsAnd dreamy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps;Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps,Like silvery prisms where the sunbeams drowse,The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cowsTinkle the stillness; and the bob-white keepsCalling from meadows where the reaper reaps,And children’s laughter haunts an old-time house:A place where life wears ever an honest smellOf hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom—Like some sweet, modest girl—within her hair;Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwellFar from the city’s strife, whose cares consume—Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.
Here in the golden darknessAnd green night of the woods,A flitting form I follow,A shadow that eludes—Or is it but the phantomOf former forest moods?The phantom of some fancyI knew when I was young,And in my dreaming boyhood,The wildwood flow’rs among,Young face to face with FaërySpoke in no unknown tongue.Blue were her eyes, and goldenThe nimbus of her hair;And scarlet as a flowerHer mouth that kissed me there;That kissed and bade me follow,And smiled away my care.A magic and a marvelLived in her word and look,As down among the blossomsShe sate me by the brook,And read me wonder-legendsIn Nature’s Story Book.Loved fairy-tales forgotten,She never reads again,Of beautiful enchantmentsThat haunt the sun and rain,And, in the wind and water,Chant a mysterious strain.And so I search the forest,Wherein my spirit feels,In stream, or tree, or flowerHerself she still conceals—But now she flies who followed,Whom Earth no more reveals.
Here in the golden darknessAnd green night of the woods,A flitting form I follow,A shadow that eludes—Or is it but the phantomOf former forest moods?The phantom of some fancyI knew when I was young,And in my dreaming boyhood,The wildwood flow’rs among,Young face to face with FaërySpoke in no unknown tongue.Blue were her eyes, and goldenThe nimbus of her hair;And scarlet as a flowerHer mouth that kissed me there;That kissed and bade me follow,And smiled away my care.A magic and a marvelLived in her word and look,As down among the blossomsShe sate me by the brook,And read me wonder-legendsIn Nature’s Story Book.Loved fairy-tales forgotten,She never reads again,Of beautiful enchantmentsThat haunt the sun and rain,And, in the wind and water,Chant a mysterious strain.And so I search the forest,Wherein my spirit feels,In stream, or tree, or flowerHerself she still conceals—But now she flies who followed,Whom Earth no more reveals.
Here in the golden darknessAnd green night of the woods,A flitting form I follow,A shadow that eludes—Or is it but the phantomOf former forest moods?
The phantom of some fancyI knew when I was young,And in my dreaming boyhood,The wildwood flow’rs among,Young face to face with FaërySpoke in no unknown tongue.
Blue were her eyes, and goldenThe nimbus of her hair;And scarlet as a flowerHer mouth that kissed me there;That kissed and bade me follow,And smiled away my care.
A magic and a marvelLived in her word and look,As down among the blossomsShe sate me by the brook,And read me wonder-legendsIn Nature’s Story Book.
Loved fairy-tales forgotten,She never reads again,Of beautiful enchantmentsThat haunt the sun and rain,And, in the wind and water,Chant a mysterious strain.
And so I search the forest,Wherein my spirit feels,In stream, or tree, or flowerHerself she still conceals—But now she flies who followed,Whom Earth no more reveals.
With eyes hand-arched he looks intoThe morning’s face, then turns awayWith school-boy feet, all wet with dew,Out for a holiday.The hill brook sings; incessant stars,Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast;And where he wades its water-barsIts song is happiest.A comrade of the chinquapin,He looks into its knotty eyesAnd sees its heart; and, deep within,Its soul that makes him wise.The wood-thrush knows and follows him,Who whistles up the birds and bees;And round him all the perfumes swimOf woodland loam and trees.Where’er he pass the supple springs’Foam-people sing the flowers awake;And sappy lips of bark-clad thingsLaugh ripe each fruited brake.His touch is a companionship;His word, an old authority:He comes, a lyric on his lip,Unstudied Poesy.
With eyes hand-arched he looks intoThe morning’s face, then turns awayWith school-boy feet, all wet with dew,Out for a holiday.The hill brook sings; incessant stars,Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast;And where he wades its water-barsIts song is happiest.A comrade of the chinquapin,He looks into its knotty eyesAnd sees its heart; and, deep within,Its soul that makes him wise.The wood-thrush knows and follows him,Who whistles up the birds and bees;And round him all the perfumes swimOf woodland loam and trees.Where’er he pass the supple springs’Foam-people sing the flowers awake;And sappy lips of bark-clad thingsLaugh ripe each fruited brake.His touch is a companionship;His word, an old authority:He comes, a lyric on his lip,Unstudied Poesy.
With eyes hand-arched he looks intoThe morning’s face, then turns awayWith school-boy feet, all wet with dew,Out for a holiday.
The hill brook sings; incessant stars,Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast;And where he wades its water-barsIts song is happiest.
A comrade of the chinquapin,He looks into its knotty eyesAnd sees its heart; and, deep within,Its soul that makes him wise.
The wood-thrush knows and follows him,Who whistles up the birds and bees;And round him all the perfumes swimOf woodland loam and trees.
Where’er he pass the supple springs’Foam-people sing the flowers awake;And sappy lips of bark-clad thingsLaugh ripe each fruited brake.
His touch is a companionship;His word, an old authority:He comes, a lyric on his lip,Unstudied Poesy.
Unto the soul’s companionshipOf things that only seem to be,Earth points with magic finger-tipAnd bids thee seeHow Fancy keeps thee company.For oft at dawn hast not beheldA spirit of prismatic hueBlow wide the buds, which night hath swelled?And stain them throughWith heav’n’s ethereal gold and blue?While at her side another wentWith gleams of enigmatic white?A spirit who distributes scent,To vale and height,In footsteps of the rosy light?And oft at dusk hast thou not seenThe star-fays bring their caravansOf dew, and glitter all the green,Night’s shadow tans,With drops the rain-hung cobweb spans?Nor watched with these the elfins goWho tune faint instruments—that soundLike that moon-music insects blow?—Then haunted groundThou hast not trodden, never found!
Unto the soul’s companionshipOf things that only seem to be,Earth points with magic finger-tipAnd bids thee seeHow Fancy keeps thee company.For oft at dawn hast not beheldA spirit of prismatic hueBlow wide the buds, which night hath swelled?And stain them throughWith heav’n’s ethereal gold and blue?While at her side another wentWith gleams of enigmatic white?A spirit who distributes scent,To vale and height,In footsteps of the rosy light?And oft at dusk hast thou not seenThe star-fays bring their caravansOf dew, and glitter all the green,Night’s shadow tans,With drops the rain-hung cobweb spans?Nor watched with these the elfins goWho tune faint instruments—that soundLike that moon-music insects blow?—Then haunted groundThou hast not trodden, never found!
Unto the soul’s companionshipOf things that only seem to be,Earth points with magic finger-tipAnd bids thee seeHow Fancy keeps thee company.
For oft at dawn hast not beheldA spirit of prismatic hueBlow wide the buds, which night hath swelled?And stain them throughWith heav’n’s ethereal gold and blue?
While at her side another wentWith gleams of enigmatic white?A spirit who distributes scent,To vale and height,In footsteps of the rosy light?
And oft at dusk hast thou not seenThe star-fays bring their caravansOf dew, and glitter all the green,Night’s shadow tans,With drops the rain-hung cobweb spans?
Nor watched with these the elfins goWho tune faint instruments—that soundLike that moon-music insects blow?—Then haunted groundThou hast not trodden, never found!
The spirits of the forest,That to the winds give voice—I lie the livelong April dayAnd wonder what it is they sayThat makes the leaves rejoice.The spirits of the forest,That breathe in bud and bloom—I walk within the haw-tree brakeAnd wonder how it is they makeThe bubbles of perfume.The spirits of the forest,That dwell in every spring—I lean above the brook’s bright blueAnd wonder what it is they doThat makes the water sing.The spirits of the forest,That haunt the sun’s green glow—Down fungus ways of fern I stealAnd would surprise what they conceal,In dew, that twinkles so.O spirits of the forest,Here are my heart and hand!—Oh, send a gleam or glow-worm rayTo guide my soul the firefly wayThat leads to Fairyland.
The spirits of the forest,That to the winds give voice—I lie the livelong April dayAnd wonder what it is they sayThat makes the leaves rejoice.The spirits of the forest,That breathe in bud and bloom—I walk within the haw-tree brakeAnd wonder how it is they makeThe bubbles of perfume.The spirits of the forest,That dwell in every spring—I lean above the brook’s bright blueAnd wonder what it is they doThat makes the water sing.The spirits of the forest,That haunt the sun’s green glow—Down fungus ways of fern I stealAnd would surprise what they conceal,In dew, that twinkles so.O spirits of the forest,Here are my heart and hand!—Oh, send a gleam or glow-worm rayTo guide my soul the firefly wayThat leads to Fairyland.
The spirits of the forest,That to the winds give voice—I lie the livelong April dayAnd wonder what it is they sayThat makes the leaves rejoice.
The spirits of the forest,That breathe in bud and bloom—I walk within the haw-tree brakeAnd wonder how it is they makeThe bubbles of perfume.
The spirits of the forest,That dwell in every spring—I lean above the brook’s bright blueAnd wonder what it is they doThat makes the water sing.
The spirits of the forest,That haunt the sun’s green glow—Down fungus ways of fern I stealAnd would surprise what they conceal,In dew, that twinkles so.
O spirits of the forest,Here are my heart and hand!—Oh, send a gleam or glow-worm rayTo guide my soul the firefly wayThat leads to Fairyland.
The time when dog-tooth violetsHold up inverted horns of gold,—The elvish cups that Spring upsetsWith dripping feet, when April wetsThe sun-and-shadow-marbled wold,—Is come. And by each leafing wayThe sorrel drops pale blots of pink;And, like an angled star a faySets on her forehead’s pallid day,The blossoms of the trillium wink.Within the vale, by rock and stream,—A fragile, fairy porcelain,—Blue as a baby’s eyes a-dream,The bluets blow; and gleam in gleamThe sun-shot dogwoods flash with rain.It is the time to cast off care;To make glad intimates of these:—The frank-faced sunbeam laughing there:The great-heart wind, that bids us shareThe optimism of the trees.
The time when dog-tooth violetsHold up inverted horns of gold,—The elvish cups that Spring upsetsWith dripping feet, when April wetsThe sun-and-shadow-marbled wold,—Is come. And by each leafing wayThe sorrel drops pale blots of pink;And, like an angled star a faySets on her forehead’s pallid day,The blossoms of the trillium wink.Within the vale, by rock and stream,—A fragile, fairy porcelain,—Blue as a baby’s eyes a-dream,The bluets blow; and gleam in gleamThe sun-shot dogwoods flash with rain.It is the time to cast off care;To make glad intimates of these:—The frank-faced sunbeam laughing there:The great-heart wind, that bids us shareThe optimism of the trees.
The time when dog-tooth violetsHold up inverted horns of gold,—The elvish cups that Spring upsetsWith dripping feet, when April wetsThe sun-and-shadow-marbled wold,—
Is come. And by each leafing wayThe sorrel drops pale blots of pink;And, like an angled star a faySets on her forehead’s pallid day,The blossoms of the trillium wink.
Within the vale, by rock and stream,—A fragile, fairy porcelain,—Blue as a baby’s eyes a-dream,The bluets blow; and gleam in gleamThe sun-shot dogwoods flash with rain.
It is the time to cast off care;To make glad intimates of these:—The frank-faced sunbeam laughing there:The great-heart wind, that bids us shareThe optimism of the trees.
The white ghosts of the flowers,The gray ghosts of the trees,Rise when the April showers,And haunt the wildwood bowers,And trail along the breeze:The white ghosts of the flowers,The gray ghosts of the trees.Oft in the woodless placesI feel their dim control;The wildflowers’ perished faces,The great trees’ vanished races,That meet me soul to soul:Oft in the woodless placesI feel their dim control.
The white ghosts of the flowers,The gray ghosts of the trees,Rise when the April showers,And haunt the wildwood bowers,And trail along the breeze:The white ghosts of the flowers,The gray ghosts of the trees.Oft in the woodless placesI feel their dim control;The wildflowers’ perished faces,The great trees’ vanished races,That meet me soul to soul:Oft in the woodless placesI feel their dim control.
The white ghosts of the flowers,The gray ghosts of the trees,Rise when the April showers,And haunt the wildwood bowers,And trail along the breeze:The white ghosts of the flowers,The gray ghosts of the trees.
Oft in the woodless placesI feel their dim control;The wildflowers’ perished faces,The great trees’ vanished races,That meet me soul to soul:Oft in the woodless placesI feel their dim control.
Crab-apple buds, whose bellsThe mouth of April kissed;That hang,—like rosy shellsAround a Naiad’s wrist,—Pink as dawn-tinted mist.And paw-paw buds, whose darkDeep auburn blossoms shakeOn boughs,—as ’neath the barkA dryad’s eyes awake,—Brown as a midnight lake.These, with symbolic bloomsOf wind-flower and wild-phlox,I found among the gloomsOf hill-lost woods and rocks,Lairs of the hare and fox.The beetle in the brush,The bird about the creek,The bee within the hush,And I, whose love was meek,Stood still to hear these speakThe language that records,In flower-syllables,The hieroglyphic wordsOf beauty, who enspellsThe world and aye compels.
Crab-apple buds, whose bellsThe mouth of April kissed;That hang,—like rosy shellsAround a Naiad’s wrist,—Pink as dawn-tinted mist.And paw-paw buds, whose darkDeep auburn blossoms shakeOn boughs,—as ’neath the barkA dryad’s eyes awake,—Brown as a midnight lake.These, with symbolic bloomsOf wind-flower and wild-phlox,I found among the gloomsOf hill-lost woods and rocks,Lairs of the hare and fox.The beetle in the brush,The bird about the creek,The bee within the hush,And I, whose love was meek,Stood still to hear these speakThe language that records,In flower-syllables,The hieroglyphic wordsOf beauty, who enspellsThe world and aye compels.
Crab-apple buds, whose bellsThe mouth of April kissed;That hang,—like rosy shellsAround a Naiad’s wrist,—Pink as dawn-tinted mist.
And paw-paw buds, whose darkDeep auburn blossoms shakeOn boughs,—as ’neath the barkA dryad’s eyes awake,—Brown as a midnight lake.
These, with symbolic bloomsOf wind-flower and wild-phlox,I found among the gloomsOf hill-lost woods and rocks,Lairs of the hare and fox.
The beetle in the brush,The bird about the creek,The bee within the hush,And I, whose love was meek,Stood still to hear these speak
The language that records,In flower-syllables,The hieroglyphic wordsOf beauty, who enspellsThe world and aye compels.
Not till the wildman wind is shrill,Howling upon the hillIn every wolfish tree, whose boisterous boughs,Like desperate arms, gesture and beat the night,And down huge clouds, in chasms of stormy white,The frightened moon hurries above the house,Shall I lie down; and, deep,—Letting the mad wind keepIts shouting revel round me,—fall asleep.
Not till the wildman wind is shrill,Howling upon the hillIn every wolfish tree, whose boisterous boughs,Like desperate arms, gesture and beat the night,And down huge clouds, in chasms of stormy white,The frightened moon hurries above the house,Shall I lie down; and, deep,—Letting the mad wind keepIts shouting revel round me,—fall asleep.
Not till the wildman wind is shrill,Howling upon the hillIn every wolfish tree, whose boisterous boughs,Like desperate arms, gesture and beat the night,And down huge clouds, in chasms of stormy white,The frightened moon hurries above the house,Shall I lie down; and, deep,—Letting the mad wind keepIts shouting revel round me,—fall asleep.
Not till its dark halloo is hushed,And where wild waters rushed,—Like some hoof’d terror underneath its whipAnd spur of foam,—remainsA ghostly glass, hill-framed; whereover stainsOf moony mists and rains,And stealthy starbeams, still as spectres, slip;Shall I—with thoughts that takeUnto themselves the acheOf silence as a sound—from sleep awake.
Not till its dark halloo is hushed,And where wild waters rushed,—Like some hoof’d terror underneath its whipAnd spur of foam,—remainsA ghostly glass, hill-framed; whereover stainsOf moony mists and rains,And stealthy starbeams, still as spectres, slip;Shall I—with thoughts that takeUnto themselves the acheOf silence as a sound—from sleep awake.
Not till its dark halloo is hushed,And where wild waters rushed,—Like some hoof’d terror underneath its whipAnd spur of foam,—remainsA ghostly glass, hill-framed; whereover stainsOf moony mists and rains,And stealthy starbeams, still as spectres, slip;Shall I—with thoughts that takeUnto themselves the acheOf silence as a sound—from sleep awake.
There is a song the wet leaves lispWhen Morn comes down the woodland way;And misty as a thistle-wispHer gown gleams, windy gray:A song that seems to say,“Awake! ’tis day!”There is a sigh when Day sits downBeside the sunlight-lulled lagoon;While on her glistening hair and gownThe rose of rest is strew:A sigh, that seems to croon,“Come rest! ’tis noon!”There is a whisper when the stars,Above an evening-purpled height,Crown the dead Day with nenupharsOf fire, gold and white:A voice, that seems t’ invite,“Come love! ’tis night!”
There is a song the wet leaves lispWhen Morn comes down the woodland way;And misty as a thistle-wispHer gown gleams, windy gray:A song that seems to say,“Awake! ’tis day!”There is a sigh when Day sits downBeside the sunlight-lulled lagoon;While on her glistening hair and gownThe rose of rest is strew:A sigh, that seems to croon,“Come rest! ’tis noon!”There is a whisper when the stars,Above an evening-purpled height,Crown the dead Day with nenupharsOf fire, gold and white:A voice, that seems t’ invite,“Come love! ’tis night!”
There is a song the wet leaves lispWhen Morn comes down the woodland way;And misty as a thistle-wispHer gown gleams, windy gray:A song that seems to say,“Awake! ’tis day!”
There is a sigh when Day sits downBeside the sunlight-lulled lagoon;While on her glistening hair and gownThe rose of rest is strew:A sigh, that seems to croon,“Come rest! ’tis noon!”
There is a whisper when the stars,Above an evening-purpled height,Crown the dead Day with nenupharsOf fire, gold and white:A voice, that seems t’ invite,“Come love! ’tis night!”