THE WILD IRIS

He makes a roadway of the crumbling fence,Or on the fallen tree,—brown as a leafFall stripes with russet,—gambols down the denseGreen twilight of the woods. We see not whenceHe comes, nor whither—’tis a time too brief!—He vanishes;—swift carrier of some Fay,Some pixy steed that haunts our child-belief—A goblin glimpse from woodland way to way.

What harlequin mood of nature qualifiedHim so with happiness? and limbed him withSuch young activity as winds, that rideThe ripples, have, that dance on every side?As sunbeams know, that urge the sap and pithThrough hearts of trees? yet made him to delight,Gnome-like, in darkness,—like a moonlight myth,—Lairing in labyrinths of the under night.

Here, by a rock, beneath the moss, a holeLeads to his home, the den wherein he sleeps;Lulled by near noises of the cautious moleTunnelling its mine—like some ungainly Troll—Or by the tireless cricket there that keepsPicking its drowsy and monotonous lute;Or slower sounds of grass that creeps and creeps,And trees unrolling mighty root on root.

Such is the music of his sleeping hours.Day hath another—’tis a melodyHe trips to, made by the assembled flowers,And light and fragrance laughing ’mid the bowers,And ripeness busy with the acorn-tree.Such strains, perhaps, as filled with mute amaze—The silent music of Earth’s ecstasy—The Satyr’s soul, the Faun of classic days.

That day we wandered ’mid the hills,—so loneClouds are not lonelier,—the forest layIn emerald darkness round us. Many a stoneAnd gnarly root, gray-mossed, made wild our way:And many a bird the glimmering light alongShowered the golden bubbles of its song.Then in the valley, where the brook went by,Silvering the ledges that it rippled from,—An isolated slip of fallen sky,Epitomizing heaven in its sum,—An iris bloomed—blue, as if, flower-disguised,The gaze of Spring had there materialized.I have forgotten many things since then—Much beauty and much happiness and grief;And toiled and dreamed among my fellow-men,Rejoicing in the knowledge life is brief.“’Tis winter now,” so says each barren bough;And face and hair proclaim ’tis winter now.I would forget the gladness of that spring!I would forget that day when she and I,Between the bird-song and the blossoming,Went hand in hand beneath the soft spring sky!—Much is forgotten, yea—and yet, and yet,The things we would we never can forget.—Nor I how May then minted treasuriesOf crowfoot gold; and molded out of lightThe sorrel’s cups, whose elfin chalicesOf limpid spar were streaked with rosy white.Nor all the stars of twinkling spiderwort,And mandrake moons with which her brows were girt.But most of all, yea, it were well for me,Me and my heart, that I forget that flower,The blue wild-iris, azure fleur-de-lis,That she and I together found that hour.Its recollection can but emphasizeThe pain of loss, remindful of her eyes.

Then in the valley, where the brook went by,Silvering the ledges that it rippled from,—An isolated slip of fallen sky,Epitomizing heaven in its sum,—An iris bloomed—blue, as if, flower-disguised,The gaze of Spring had there materialized.

I have forgotten many things since then—Much beauty and much happiness and grief;And toiled and dreamed among my fellow-men,Rejoicing in the knowledge life is brief.“’Tis winter now,” so says each barren bough;And face and hair proclaim ’tis winter now.

I would forget the gladness of that spring!I would forget that day when she and I,Between the bird-song and the blossoming,Went hand in hand beneath the soft spring sky!—Much is forgotten, yea—and yet, and yet,The things we would we never can forget.—

Nor I how May then minted treasuriesOf crowfoot gold; and molded out of lightThe sorrel’s cups, whose elfin chalicesOf limpid spar were streaked with rosy white.Nor all the stars of twinkling spiderwort,And mandrake moons with which her brows were girt.

But most of all, yea, it were well for me,Me and my heart, that I forget that flower,The blue wild-iris, azure fleur-de-lis,That she and I together found that hour.Its recollection can but emphasizeThe pain of loss, remindful of her eyes.

There is a path that leadsThrough purple ironweeds,By button-bush and mallowAlong a creek;A path that wildflowers hallow,That wild-birds seek;Roofed thick with eglantineAnd grape and trumpet-vine.This side, the blackberries sweetGlow cobalt in the heat;That side, a creamy yellow,In summer-timeThe pawpaws slowly mellow:And autumn’s primeStrews red the Chickasaw,Persimmon brown and haw.The glittering dragon-fly,A wingéd gem, goes by;And tawny wasp and hornetMake drowsy drone;The beetle, like a garnet,Basks on the stone;And butterflies float there,Spangling with gold the air.Here the brown thrashers hide,And chat and cat-bird chide;The blue kingfisher housesAbove the stream,And here the heron drowses,Lost in his dream;The vireo’s flitting noteMakes woodlands more remote.And now a cow’s slow bellTinkles from dale to dell;Where breeze-dropped petals winnowFrom blossomy limbsOn waters, where the minnow,Faint-twinkling, swims;Where, in the root-arched shade,Slim prisms of light are laid.When in the tangled thornThe new-moon hangs a horn,Or, ’mid the sunset’s islands,Guides her canoe,The brown owl in the silenceCalls, and the dewBeads glimmering orbs of damp,Each one a glow-worm lamp.Then when the night is stillHere sings the whippoorwill;And stealthy sounds of crickets,And winds that pass,Whispering, through bramble thicketsAlong the grass,Faint with warm scents of hay,Seem feet of dreams astray.And where the water shinesDark through tree-twisted vines,Some water-spirit, dreaming,Braids in her hairA star’s reflection; seemingA jewel there;While all the sweet night longRipples her quiet song....Would I could imitate,O path, thy happy state!Making my life all beauty,All bloom and beam;Knowing no other dutyBut just to dream,And far from pain and woeLead feet that come and go.Leading to calm content,O’er ways the Master went,Through lowly things and humble,To peace and love;Teaching the lives that stumbleTo look above,Forget the world of toilAnd all its mad turmoil.

There is a path that leadsThrough purple ironweeds,By button-bush and mallowAlong a creek;A path that wildflowers hallow,That wild-birds seek;Roofed thick with eglantineAnd grape and trumpet-vine.

This side, the blackberries sweetGlow cobalt in the heat;That side, a creamy yellow,In summer-timeThe pawpaws slowly mellow:And autumn’s primeStrews red the Chickasaw,Persimmon brown and haw.

The glittering dragon-fly,A wingéd gem, goes by;And tawny wasp and hornetMake drowsy drone;The beetle, like a garnet,Basks on the stone;And butterflies float there,Spangling with gold the air.

Here the brown thrashers hide,And chat and cat-bird chide;The blue kingfisher housesAbove the stream,And here the heron drowses,Lost in his dream;The vireo’s flitting noteMakes woodlands more remote.

And now a cow’s slow bellTinkles from dale to dell;Where breeze-dropped petals winnowFrom blossomy limbsOn waters, where the minnow,Faint-twinkling, swims;Where, in the root-arched shade,Slim prisms of light are laid.

When in the tangled thornThe new-moon hangs a horn,Or, ’mid the sunset’s islands,Guides her canoe,The brown owl in the silenceCalls, and the dewBeads glimmering orbs of damp,Each one a glow-worm lamp.

Then when the night is stillHere sings the whippoorwill;And stealthy sounds of crickets,And winds that pass,Whispering, through bramble thicketsAlong the grass,Faint with warm scents of hay,Seem feet of dreams astray.

And where the water shinesDark through tree-twisted vines,Some water-spirit, dreaming,Braids in her hairA star’s reflection; seemingA jewel there;While all the sweet night longRipples her quiet song....

Would I could imitate,O path, thy happy state!Making my life all beauty,All bloom and beam;Knowing no other dutyBut just to dream,And far from pain and woeLead feet that come and go.

Leading to calm content,O’er ways the Master went,Through lowly things and humble,To peace and love;Teaching the lives that stumbleTo look above,Forget the world of toilAnd all its mad turmoil.

Where the violet shadows broodUnder cottonwoods and beeches,Through whose leaves the restless reachesOf the river glance, I’ve stood,While the red-bird and the thrushSet to song the morning hush.There,—when wakening woods encroachOn the shadowy winding waters,And the bluets, April’s daughters,At the darling Spring’s approach,Star their myriads through the trees,—All the land is one with peace.Under some imposing cliff,That, with bush and tree and boulder,Thrusts a gray, gigantic shoulderO’er the stream, I’ve oared a skiff,While great clouds of iceberg hueLounged along the noonday blue.There,—when harvest heights impendOver shores of rippling summer,And to greet the fair new-comer,—June,—the wildrose thickets bendIn a million blossoms dressed,—All the land is one with rest.On some rock, where gaunt the oakReddens and the sombre cedarDarkens, like a sachem leader,I have lain and watched the smokeOf the steamboat, far-away,Trailed along the dying day.There,—when margin waves reflectAutumn colors, gay and sober,And the Indian-girl, October,Wampum-like in berries decked,Leans above the leaf-strewn streams,—All the land is one with dreams.Through the bottoms where,—out-tossedBy the wind’s wild hands,—ashiverBend the willows o’er the river,I have walked in sleet and frost,While beneath the cold round moon,Frozen, gleamed the long lagoon.There,—when leafless woods upliftSpectral arms the storm-blasts splinter,And the hoary trapper, Winter,Builds his camp of ice and drift,With his snow-pelts furred and shod,—All the land is one with God.

Where the violet shadows broodUnder cottonwoods and beeches,Through whose leaves the restless reachesOf the river glance, I’ve stood,While the red-bird and the thrushSet to song the morning hush.

There,—when wakening woods encroachOn the shadowy winding waters,And the bluets, April’s daughters,At the darling Spring’s approach,Star their myriads through the trees,—All the land is one with peace.

Under some imposing cliff,That, with bush and tree and boulder,Thrusts a gray, gigantic shoulderO’er the stream, I’ve oared a skiff,While great clouds of iceberg hueLounged along the noonday blue.

There,—when harvest heights impendOver shores of rippling summer,And to greet the fair new-comer,—June,—the wildrose thickets bendIn a million blossoms dressed,—All the land is one with rest.

On some rock, where gaunt the oakReddens and the sombre cedarDarkens, like a sachem leader,I have lain and watched the smokeOf the steamboat, far-away,Trailed along the dying day.

There,—when margin waves reflectAutumn colors, gay and sober,And the Indian-girl, October,Wampum-like in berries decked,Leans above the leaf-strewn streams,—All the land is one with dreams.

Through the bottoms where,—out-tossedBy the wind’s wild hands,—ashiverBend the willows o’er the river,I have walked in sleet and frost,While beneath the cold round moon,Frozen, gleamed the long lagoon.

There,—when leafless woods upliftSpectral arms the storm-blasts splinter,And the hoary trapper, Winter,Builds his camp of ice and drift,With his snow-pelts furred and shod,—All the land is one with God.

When blood-root blooms and trillium flowersUnclasp their stars to sun and rain,My heart strikes hands with winds and showersAnd wanders in the woods again.O urging impulse, born of spring!That makes glad April of my soul,No bird, however wild of wing,Is more impatient of control.Impetuous of pulse it beatsWithin my blood and bears me hence;Above the housetops and the streetsI hear its happy eloquence.It tells me all that I would know,Of birds and buds, of blooms and bees;I seem to hear the blossoms blow,And leaves unfolding on the trees.I seem to hear the bluebells ringFaint purple peals of perfume; andThe honey-throated poppies flingTheir golden laughter o’er the land.It calls to me; it sings to me;I hear its far voice night and day;I can not choose but go when treeAnd flower clamor, “Come away!”

When blood-root blooms and trillium flowersUnclasp their stars to sun and rain,My heart strikes hands with winds and showersAnd wanders in the woods again.

O urging impulse, born of spring!That makes glad April of my soul,No bird, however wild of wing,Is more impatient of control.

Impetuous of pulse it beatsWithin my blood and bears me hence;Above the housetops and the streetsI hear its happy eloquence.

It tells me all that I would know,Of birds and buds, of blooms and bees;I seem to hear the blossoms blow,And leaves unfolding on the trees.

I seem to hear the bluebells ringFaint purple peals of perfume; andThe honey-throated poppies flingTheir golden laughter o’er the land.

It calls to me; it sings to me;I hear its far voice night and day;I can not choose but go when treeAnd flower clamor, “Come away!”

Over the hills as the pewee flies,Under the blue of the southern skies;Over the hills where the red-bird wings,Like a scarlet blossom, or sits and sings;Under the shadow of rock and tree,Where the warm wind drones with the honeybee;And the tall wild-carrots around you swayTheir lace-like flowers of cloudy gray:By the black-cohosh and its pearl-white plumeA-nod in the woodland’s odorous gloom;By the old rail-fence, in the elder’s shade,That the myriad hosts of the weeds invade:Where the butterfly-weed, like a coal of fire,Blurs orange-red through brush and brier;Where the pennyroyal and mint smell sweet,And blackberries tangle the humming heat,The old road leads; then crosses the creek,Where the minnow dartles, a silvery streak;Where the cows wade deep through the blue-eyed grass,And the flickering dragon-flies gleaming pass.That road is easy, however long,Which wends with beauty as toil with song;And the road we follow shall lead us straightPast creek and wood to a farm-house gate.Past hill and hollow, whence scents are blownOf dew-wet clover that scythes have mown;To a house that stands with porches wideAnd gray low roof on the green hill-side.Colonial, stately; ’mid shade and shineOf the locust tree and the southern pine;With its orchard acres and meadowlandsStretched out before it like welcoming hands.And gardens, where, in the myrrh-sweet June,Magnolias blossom with many a moonOf fragrance; and, in the feldspar lightOf August, roses bloom red and white.In a woodbine arbor, a perfumed place,A slim girl sits with listening face;Her bonnet by her, a sunbeam liesOn her lovely hair, in her earnest eyes.Her eyes, as blue as the distant deepsOf the heavens above where the high hawk sleeps;A book beside her, wherein she readTill she sawhimcoming, she heardhistread.Come home at last; come back from the war;In his eyes a smile, on his brow a scar:To the South come back—who wakes from her dreamTo the love and the peace of a new regime.

Over the hills as the pewee flies,Under the blue of the southern skies;Over the hills where the red-bird wings,Like a scarlet blossom, or sits and sings;

Under the shadow of rock and tree,Where the warm wind drones with the honeybee;And the tall wild-carrots around you swayTheir lace-like flowers of cloudy gray:

By the black-cohosh and its pearl-white plumeA-nod in the woodland’s odorous gloom;By the old rail-fence, in the elder’s shade,That the myriad hosts of the weeds invade:

Where the butterfly-weed, like a coal of fire,Blurs orange-red through brush and brier;Where the pennyroyal and mint smell sweet,And blackberries tangle the humming heat,The old road leads; then crosses the creek,Where the minnow dartles, a silvery streak;Where the cows wade deep through the blue-eyed grass,And the flickering dragon-flies gleaming pass.

That road is easy, however long,Which wends with beauty as toil with song;And the road we follow shall lead us straightPast creek and wood to a farm-house gate.

Past hill and hollow, whence scents are blownOf dew-wet clover that scythes have mown;To a house that stands with porches wideAnd gray low roof on the green hill-side.

Colonial, stately; ’mid shade and shineOf the locust tree and the southern pine;With its orchard acres and meadowlandsStretched out before it like welcoming hands.

And gardens, where, in the myrrh-sweet June,Magnolias blossom with many a moonOf fragrance; and, in the feldspar lightOf August, roses bloom red and white.

In a woodbine arbor, a perfumed place,A slim girl sits with listening face;Her bonnet by her, a sunbeam liesOn her lovely hair, in her earnest eyes.

Her eyes, as blue as the distant deepsOf the heavens above where the high hawk sleeps;A book beside her, wherein she readTill she sawhimcoming, she heardhistread.

Come home at last; come back from the war;In his eyes a smile, on his brow a scar:To the South come back—who wakes from her dreamTo the love and the peace of a new regime.

The hot sunflowers by the glaring pikeLift shields of sultry brass; the teasel tops,Pink-thorned, advance with bristling spike on spikeAgainst the furious sunlight. Field and copseAre sick with summer: now, with breathless stops,The locusts cymbal; now grasshoppers beatTheir castanets: and rolled in dust, a team,—Like some mean life wrapped in its sorry dream,—An empty wagon rattles through the heat.

Where now the blue, blue flags? the flow’rs whose mouthsAre moist and musky? Where the sweet-breathed mint,That made the brook-bank herby? Where the South’sWild morning-glories, rich in hues, that hintAt coming showers that the rainbows tint?Where all the blossoms that the wildwood knows?The frail oxalis hidden in its leaves;The Indian-pipe, pale as a soul that grieves;The freckled touch-me-not and forest rose.

Dead! dead! all dead beside the drouth-burnt brook,Shrouded in moss or in the shriveled grass.Where waved their bells,—from which the wild-bee shookThe dew-drop once,—gaunt, in a nightmare mass,The rank weeds crowd; through which the cattle pass,Thirsty and lean, seeking some meagre spring,Closed in with thorns, on which stray bits of woolThe panting sheep have left, that sought the cool,From morn till evening wearily wandering.

No bird is heard; no throat to whistle awakeThe sleepy hush; to let its music leakFresh, bubble-like, through bloom-roofs of the brake:Only the green-blue heron, famine-weak,—Searching the stale pools of the minnowless creek,—Utters its call; and then the rain-crow, too,False prophet now, croaks to the stagnant air;While overhead,—still as if painted there,—A buzzard hangs, black on the burning blue.

It seemed the listening forest held its breathBefore some vague and unapparent formOf fear, approaching with the wings of death,On the impending storm.Above the hills, big, bellying clouds loomed, blackAnd ominous; yet silent as the blueThat pools calm heights of heaven, deepening back’Twixt clouds of snowdrift hue.Then instantly, as when a multitudeShout riot and war through some tumultous town,Innumerable voices swept the woodAs wild the wind rushed down.And fierce and few, as when a strong man weeps,Great rain-drops dashed the dust; and, overhead,Ponderous and vast down the prodigious deeps,Went slow the thunder’s tread.And swift and furious, as when giants fence,The lightning foils of tempest went insane;Then far and near sonorous Earth grew denseWith long sweet sweep of rain.

It seemed the listening forest held its breathBefore some vague and unapparent formOf fear, approaching with the wings of death,On the impending storm.

Above the hills, big, bellying clouds loomed, blackAnd ominous; yet silent as the blueThat pools calm heights of heaven, deepening back’Twixt clouds of snowdrift hue.

Then instantly, as when a multitudeShout riot and war through some tumultous town,Innumerable voices swept the woodAs wild the wind rushed down.

And fierce and few, as when a strong man weeps,Great rain-drops dashed the dust; and, overhead,Ponderous and vast down the prodigious deeps,Went slow the thunder’s tread.

And swift and furious, as when giants fence,The lightning foils of tempest went insane;Then far and near sonorous Earth grew denseWith long sweet sweep of rain.

A mile of lane,—hedged high with ironweedsAnd dying daisies,—white with sun, that leadsDownward into a wood; through which a streamSteals like a shadow; over which is laidA bridge of logs, worn deep with many a team,Sunk in the tangled shade.Far off a wood-dove lifts its lonely cry;And in the sleepy silver of the skyA gray hawk wheels scarce larger than a hand.—From point to point the road grows worse and worse,Until that place is reached where all the landSeems burdened with some curse.A ragged fence of pickets, warped and sprung,—On which the fragments of a gate are hung,—Divides a hill, the fox and ground-hog haunt,A wilderness of briers; o’er whose topsA battered barn is seen, low-roofed and gaunt,’Mid fields that know no crops.Fields over which a path, o’erwhelmed with burrsAnd ragweeds, noisy with the grasshoppers,Leads,—lost, irresolute as paths the cowsWear through the woods,—unto a woodshed; then,With wrecks of windows, to a huddled house,Where men have murdered men.A house, whose tottering chimney, clay and rock,Is seamed and crannied; whose lame door and lockAre bullet-bored; around which, there and here,Are sinister stains.—One dreads to look around.—The place seems thinking of that time of fearAnd dares not breathe a sound.Within, is emptiness: the sunlight fallsOn faded journals papering its walls;On advertisement chromos, torn with timeAround a hearth where wasps and spiders build.—The house is dead: meseems that night of crimeIt, too, was shot and killed.

Far off a wood-dove lifts its lonely cry;And in the sleepy silver of the skyA gray hawk wheels scarce larger than a hand.—From point to point the road grows worse and worse,Until that place is reached where all the landSeems burdened with some curse.

A ragged fence of pickets, warped and sprung,—On which the fragments of a gate are hung,—Divides a hill, the fox and ground-hog haunt,A wilderness of briers; o’er whose topsA battered barn is seen, low-roofed and gaunt,’Mid fields that know no crops.

Fields over which a path, o’erwhelmed with burrsAnd ragweeds, noisy with the grasshoppers,Leads,—lost, irresolute as paths the cowsWear through the woods,—unto a woodshed; then,With wrecks of windows, to a huddled house,Where men have murdered men.

A house, whose tottering chimney, clay and rock,Is seamed and crannied; whose lame door and lockAre bullet-bored; around which, there and here,Are sinister stains.—One dreads to look around.—The place seems thinking of that time of fearAnd dares not breathe a sound.

Within, is emptiness: the sunlight fallsOn faded journals papering its walls;On advertisement chromos, torn with timeAround a hearth where wasps and spiders build.—The house is dead: meseems that night of crimeIt, too, was shot and killed.

Upon the Siren-haunted seas, between Fate’s mythic shores,Within a world of moon and mist, where dusk and daylight wed,I see a phantom galley and its hull is banked with oars,With ghostly oars that move to song, a song of dreams long dead:—

“Oh, we are sick of rowing here!With toil our arms are numb;With smiting year on weary yearSalt-furrows of the foam:Our journey’s end is never near,And will no nearer come—Beyond our reach the shores appearOf far Elysium.”

Within a land of cataracts and mountains old, and sand,Beneath whose heavens ruins rise, o’er which the stars burn red,I see a spectral cavalcade with crucifix in handAnd shadowy armor march and sing, a song of dreams long dead:—

“Oh, we are weary marching on!Our limbs are travel-worn;With cross and sword from dawn to dawnWe wend with raiment torn:The leagues to go, the leagues we’ve goneAre sand and rock and thorn—The way is long to AvalonBeyond the deeps of morn.”

They are the curs’d! the souls who yearn and evermore pursueThe vision of a vain desire, a splendor far ahead;To whom God gives the poet’s dream without the grasp to do,The artist’s hope without the scope between the quick and dead:—

I, too, am weary toiling whereThe winds and waters beat;When shall I ease the oar I bearAnd rest my tired feet?When will the white moons cease to glare,The red suns veil their heat?And from the heights blow sweet the airOf Love’s divine retreat?

Deep with divine tautology,The sunset’s mighty mysteryAgain has traced the scroll-like westWith hieroglyphs of burning gold:Forever new, forever old,Its miracle is manifest.Time lays the scroll away. And nowAbove the hills a giant browNight lifts of cloud; and from her arm,Barbaric black, upon the world,With thunder, wind and fire, is hurledHer awful argument of storm.What part, O man, is yours in such?Whose awe and wonder are in touchWith Nature,—speaking rapture toYour soul,—yet leaving in your reachNo human word of thought or speechExpressive of the thing you view.

Deep with divine tautology,The sunset’s mighty mysteryAgain has traced the scroll-like westWith hieroglyphs of burning gold:Forever new, forever old,Its miracle is manifest.

Time lays the scroll away. And nowAbove the hills a giant browNight lifts of cloud; and from her arm,Barbaric black, upon the world,With thunder, wind and fire, is hurledHer awful argument of storm.

What part, O man, is yours in such?Whose awe and wonder are in touchWith Nature,—speaking rapture toYour soul,—yet leaving in your reachNo human word of thought or speechExpressive of the thing you view.

Among the valleysThe wild oxalisLifts up its chaliceOf pink and pearl;And, balsam-breathingFrom out their sheathing,The myriad wreathingGreen leaves uncurl.The whole world brightensWith spring, that lightensThe foot that frightensThe building thrush;Where water tossesOn ferns and mossesThe squirrel crossesThe beechen hush.And vision on vision,—Like ships elysianOn some white mission,—Sails cloud on cloud;With scents of cloverThe winds brim over,And in the coverThe stream is loud.’Twixt bloom that blanchesThe orchard branchesOld farms and ranchesGleam in the gloam:Through fields for sowing,’Mid blossoms blowing,The cows come lowing,The cows come home.Where ways are narrow,A vesper-sparrowFlits like an arrowOf living rhyme;The red sun poises,And farm-yard noisesMix with glad voicesOf milking-time.When dusk disposesOf all its roses,And darkness closes,And work is done,A moon’s white featherIn starry weatherAnd two togetherWhose hearts are one.

Among the valleysThe wild oxalisLifts up its chaliceOf pink and pearl;And, balsam-breathingFrom out their sheathing,The myriad wreathingGreen leaves uncurl.

The whole world brightensWith spring, that lightensThe foot that frightensThe building thrush;Where water tossesOn ferns and mossesThe squirrel crossesThe beechen hush.

And vision on vision,—Like ships elysianOn some white mission,—Sails cloud on cloud;With scents of cloverThe winds brim over,And in the coverThe stream is loud.

’Twixt bloom that blanchesThe orchard branchesOld farms and ranchesGleam in the gloam:Through fields for sowing,’Mid blossoms blowing,The cows come lowing,The cows come home.

Where ways are narrow,A vesper-sparrowFlits like an arrowOf living rhyme;The red sun poises,And farm-yard noisesMix with glad voicesOf milking-time.

When dusk disposesOf all its roses,And darkness closes,And work is done,A moon’s white featherIn starry weatherAnd two togetherWhose hearts are one.

The mornings raiseVoices of gold in the Almighty’s praise;The sunsets soarIn choral crimson from far shore to shore:Each is a blast,Reverberant, of color,—seen as vastConcussions,—that the vocal firmamentIn worship sounds o’er every continent.

Not for our earsThe cosmic music of the rolling spheres,That sweeps the skies!Music we hear, but only with our eyes.For all too weakOur mortal frames to bear the words these speak,Those detonations that we name the dawnAnd sunset—hues Earth’s harmony puts on.

All things are wrought of melody,Unheard, yet full of speaking spells;Within the rock, within the tree,A soul of music dwells.A mute symphonic sense that thrillsThe silent frame of mortal things;Its heart beats in the ancient hills,And in each flow’r sings.To harmony all growth is set—Each seed is but a music mote,From which each plant, each violet,Evolves its purple note.Compact of melody, the roseWoos the soft wind with strain on strainOf crimson; and the lily blowsIts white bars to the rain.The trees are pæans; and the grassOne long green fugue beneath the sun—Song is their life; and all shall pass,Shall end, when song is done.

All things are wrought of melody,Unheard, yet full of speaking spells;Within the rock, within the tree,A soul of music dwells.

A mute symphonic sense that thrillsThe silent frame of mortal things;Its heart beats in the ancient hills,And in each flow’r sings.

To harmony all growth is set—Each seed is but a music mote,From which each plant, each violet,Evolves its purple note.

Compact of melody, the roseWoos the soft wind with strain on strainOf crimson; and the lily blowsIts white bars to the rain.

The trees are pæans; and the grassOne long green fugue beneath the sun—Song is their life; and all shall pass,Shall end, when song is done.

High in the place of outraged Liberty,He ruled the world, an emperor and god:His iron armies swept the land and sea,And conquered nations trembled at his nod.By him the love that fills man’s soul with light,And makes a heaven of earth, was crucified;Lust-crowned he lived, yea, lived in God’s despite,And old in infamies, a king he died.Justice begins now.—Many centuriesIn some vile body must his soul atoneAs slave, as beggar, loathsome with disease,Less than the dog at which we fling a stone.

High in the place of outraged Liberty,He ruled the world, an emperor and god:His iron armies swept the land and sea,And conquered nations trembled at his nod.

By him the love that fills man’s soul with light,And makes a heaven of earth, was crucified;Lust-crowned he lived, yea, lived in God’s despite,And old in infamies, a king he died.

Justice begins now.—Many centuriesIn some vile body must his soul atoneAs slave, as beggar, loathsome with disease,Less than the dog at which we fling a stone.

I thought of the road through the glen,With its hawk’s nest high in the pine;With its rock, where the fox had his den,’Mid tangles of sumach and vine,Where she swore to be mine.I thought of the creek and its banks,Now glooming, now gleaming with sun;The rustic bridge builded of planks,The bridge over Chenoweth’s Run,Where I wooed her and won.I thought of the house in the lane,With its pinks and its sweet mignonette;Its fence, and the gate with its chain,Its porch where the roses hung wet,Where I kissed her and met.Then I thought of the family graves,Walled rudely with stone, in the West,Where the sorrowful cedar-tree waves,And the wind is a spirit distressed,Where they laid her to rest.And my soul, overwhelmed with despair,Cried out on the city and mart!—How I longed, how I longed to be there,Away from the struggle and smart,By her and my heart.By her and my heart in the West,—Laid sadly together as one;—On her grave for a moment to rest,Far away from the noise and the sun,On Chenoweth’s Run.

I thought of the road through the glen,With its hawk’s nest high in the pine;With its rock, where the fox had his den,’Mid tangles of sumach and vine,Where she swore to be mine.

I thought of the creek and its banks,Now glooming, now gleaming with sun;The rustic bridge builded of planks,The bridge over Chenoweth’s Run,Where I wooed her and won.

I thought of the house in the lane,With its pinks and its sweet mignonette;Its fence, and the gate with its chain,Its porch where the roses hung wet,Where I kissed her and met.

Then I thought of the family graves,Walled rudely with stone, in the West,Where the sorrowful cedar-tree waves,And the wind is a spirit distressed,Where they laid her to rest.

And my soul, overwhelmed with despair,Cried out on the city and mart!—How I longed, how I longed to be there,Away from the struggle and smart,By her and my heart.

By her and my heart in the West,—Laid sadly together as one;—On her grave for a moment to rest,Far away from the noise and the sun,On Chenoweth’s Run.

The roses mourn for her who sleepsWithin the tomb;For her each lily-flower weepsDew and perfume.In each neglected flower-bedEach blossom droops its lovely head,—They miss her touch, they miss her tread,Her face of bloom,Of happy bloom.The very breezes grieve for her,A lonely grief;For her each tree is sorrower,Each blade and leaf.The foliage rocks itself and sighs,And to its woe the wind replies,—They miss her girlish laugh and cries,Whose life was brief,Was all too brief.The sunlight, too, seems pale with care,Or sick with woe;The memory haunts it of her hair,Its golden glow.No more within the bramble-brakeThe sleepy bloom is kissed awake—The sun is sad for her dear sake,Whose head lies low,Lies dim and low.The bird, that sang so sweet, is stillAt dusk and dawn;No more it makes the silence thrillOf wood and lawn.In vain the buds, when it is near,Open each pink and perfumed ear,—The song it sings she will not hearWho now is gone,Is dead and gone.Ah, well she sleeps who loved them well,The birds and bowers;The fair, the young, the lovable,Who once was ours.Alas! that loveliness must pass!Must come to lie beneath the grass!That youth and joy must fade, alas!And die like flowers,Earth’s sweetest flowers!

The very breezes grieve for her,A lonely grief;For her each tree is sorrower,Each blade and leaf.The foliage rocks itself and sighs,And to its woe the wind replies,—They miss her girlish laugh and cries,Whose life was brief,Was all too brief.

The sunlight, too, seems pale with care,Or sick with woe;The memory haunts it of her hair,Its golden glow.No more within the bramble-brakeThe sleepy bloom is kissed awake—The sun is sad for her dear sake,Whose head lies low,Lies dim and low.

The bird, that sang so sweet, is stillAt dusk and dawn;No more it makes the silence thrillOf wood and lawn.In vain the buds, when it is near,Open each pink and perfumed ear,—The song it sings she will not hearWho now is gone,Is dead and gone.

Ah, well she sleeps who loved them well,The birds and bowers;The fair, the young, the lovable,Who once was ours.Alas! that loveliness must pass!Must come to lie beneath the grass!That youth and joy must fade, alas!And die like flowers,Earth’s sweetest flowers!

First I asked the honey-bee,Busy in the balmy bowers;Saying, “Sweetheart, tell it me:Have you seen her, honey-bee?She is cousin to the flowers—All the sweetness of the southIn her wild-rose face and mouth.”—But the bee passed silently.

Then I asked the forest-bird,Warbling by the woodland waters;Saying, “Dearest, have you heard,Have you heard her, forest-bird?She is one of Music’s daughters—Never song so sweet by halfAs the music of her laugh.”—But the bird said not a word.

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