HYMN TO DESIRE

ITempestWrapped round of the night, as a monster is wrapped of the ocean,Down, down through vast storeys of darkness, behold, in the towerOf the heaven, the thunder! on stairways of cloudy commotion,Colossal of tread, like a giant, from echoing hour to hourGoes striding in rattling armor....The Nymph, at her billow-roofed dormerOf foam; and the Sylvan—green-housed—at her window of leaves appears;—As a listening woman, who hearsThe approach of her lover, who comes to her arms in the night;And, loosening the loops of her locks,With eyes full of love and delight,From the couch of her rest in ardor and haste arises.—The Nymph, as if born of the tempest, like fire surprisesThe riotous bands of the rocks,That face, with a roar, the shouting charge of the seas.The Sylvan,—through troops of the trees,Whose clamorous clans with gnarly bosoms keep hurlingThemselves on the guns of the wind,—goes wheeling and whirling.The Nymph, of the waves' exultation upheld, her green tressesKnotted with flowers of the hollow white foam, dives screaming;Then bounds to the arms of the storm, who boisterously pressesHer hair and wild form to his breast that is panting and streaming.The Sylvan,—hard-pressed by the wind, the Pan-footed air,—On the violent backs of the hills,—Like a flame that tosses and thrillsFrom crag to crag when the world of spirits is out,—Is borne, as her rapture wills,With glittering gesture and shout.Now here in the darkness, now there,From the rain-wild sweep of her hair,—Bewilderingly volleyed o'er eyes and o'er lips,—To the lambent swell of her limbs, her breasts and her hips,She flashes her beautiful nakedness out in the glareOf the tempest that bears her away,—That bearsmeaway!Away, over forest and foam, over tree and spray,Far swifter than thought, far swifter than sound or than flame;Over ocean and pine,In arms of tumultuous shadow and shine.—Though Sylvan and Nymph do notExist, and only whatOf terror and beauty I feel and I nameAs parts of the storm, the awe and the rapture divineThat here in the tempest are mine,—The two are the same, the two are forever the same.IICalmBeautiful-bosomed, O night, in thy noonMove with majesty onward! bearing, as lightlyAs a singer may bear the notes of an exquisite tune,The stars and the moonThrough the clerestories high of the heaven, the firmament's halls:Under whose sapphirine walls,June, hesperian June,Robed in divinity wanders. Daily and nightlyThe turquoise touch of her robe, that the violets star,The silvery fall of her feet, that lilies are,Fill the land with languorous light and perfume.—Is it the melody mute of bourgeoning leaf and of bloom?The music of Nature, that silently shapes in the gloomImmaterial hostsOf spirits that have the flowers and leaves in their keep,That I hear, that I hear?With their sighs of silver and pearl?Invisible ghosts,—Each one a beautiful girl,—Who whisper in leaves and glimmer in blossoms and hoverIn color and fragrance and loveliness, breathed from the deepWorld-soul of the mother,Nature;—who, over and over,Both sweetheart and lover,Goes singing her songs from one sweet month to the other,—That appear, that appear?In forest and field, on hill-land and lea,As crystallized harmony,Materialized melody,An uttered essence peopling far and nearThe hyaline atmosphere?...Behold how it sprouts from the grass and blooms from flower and tree!In waves of diaphanous moonlight and mist,In fugue upon fugue of gold and of amethyst,Around me, above me it spirals; now slower, now faster,Like symphonies born of the thought of a musical master.—O music of Earth! O God, who the music inspired!Let me breathe of the life of thy breath!And so be fulfilled and attiredIn resurrection, triumphant o'er time and o'er death!

Tempest

Wrapped round of the night, as a monster is wrapped of the ocean,Down, down through vast storeys of darkness, behold, in the towerOf the heaven, the thunder! on stairways of cloudy commotion,Colossal of tread, like a giant, from echoing hour to hourGoes striding in rattling armor....The Nymph, at her billow-roofed dormerOf foam; and the Sylvan—green-housed—at her window of leaves appears;—As a listening woman, who hearsThe approach of her lover, who comes to her arms in the night;And, loosening the loops of her locks,With eyes full of love and delight,From the couch of her rest in ardor and haste arises.—The Nymph, as if born of the tempest, like fire surprisesThe riotous bands of the rocks,That face, with a roar, the shouting charge of the seas.The Sylvan,—through troops of the trees,Whose clamorous clans with gnarly bosoms keep hurlingThemselves on the guns of the wind,—goes wheeling and whirling.The Nymph, of the waves' exultation upheld, her green tressesKnotted with flowers of the hollow white foam, dives screaming;Then bounds to the arms of the storm, who boisterously pressesHer hair and wild form to his breast that is panting and streaming.The Sylvan,—hard-pressed by the wind, the Pan-footed air,—On the violent backs of the hills,—Like a flame that tosses and thrillsFrom crag to crag when the world of spirits is out,—Is borne, as her rapture wills,With glittering gesture and shout.Now here in the darkness, now there,From the rain-wild sweep of her hair,—Bewilderingly volleyed o'er eyes and o'er lips,—To the lambent swell of her limbs, her breasts and her hips,She flashes her beautiful nakedness out in the glareOf the tempest that bears her away,—That bearsmeaway!Away, over forest and foam, over tree and spray,Far swifter than thought, far swifter than sound or than flame;Over ocean and pine,In arms of tumultuous shadow and shine.—

Wrapped round of the night, as a monster is wrapped of the ocean,

Down, down through vast storeys of darkness, behold, in the tower

Of the heaven, the thunder! on stairways of cloudy commotion,

Colossal of tread, like a giant, from echoing hour to hour

Goes striding in rattling armor....

The Nymph, at her billow-roofed dormer

Of foam; and the Sylvan—green-housed—at her window of leaves appears;

—As a listening woman, who hears

The approach of her lover, who comes to her arms in the night;

And, loosening the loops of her locks,

With eyes full of love and delight,

From the couch of her rest in ardor and haste arises.—

The Nymph, as if born of the tempest, like fire surprises

The riotous bands of the rocks,

That face, with a roar, the shouting charge of the seas.

The Sylvan,—through troops of the trees,

Whose clamorous clans with gnarly bosoms keep hurling

Themselves on the guns of the wind,—goes wheeling and whirling.

The Nymph, of the waves' exultation upheld, her green tresses

Knotted with flowers of the hollow white foam, dives screaming;

Then bounds to the arms of the storm, who boisterously presses

Her hair and wild form to his breast that is panting and streaming.

The Sylvan,—hard-pressed by the wind, the Pan-footed air,—

On the violent backs of the hills,—

Like a flame that tosses and thrills

From crag to crag when the world of spirits is out,—

Is borne, as her rapture wills,

With glittering gesture and shout.

Now here in the darkness, now there,

From the rain-wild sweep of her hair,—

Bewilderingly volleyed o'er eyes and o'er lips,—

To the lambent swell of her limbs, her breasts and her hips,

She flashes her beautiful nakedness out in the glare

Of the tempest that bears her away,—

That bearsmeaway!

Away, over forest and foam, over tree and spray,

Far swifter than thought, far swifter than sound or than flame;

Over ocean and pine,

In arms of tumultuous shadow and shine.—

Though Sylvan and Nymph do notExist, and only whatOf terror and beauty I feel and I nameAs parts of the storm, the awe and the rapture divineThat here in the tempest are mine,—The two are the same, the two are forever the same.

Though Sylvan and Nymph do not

Exist, and only what

Of terror and beauty I feel and I name

As parts of the storm, the awe and the rapture divine

That here in the tempest are mine,—

The two are the same, the two are forever the same.

Calm

Beautiful-bosomed, O night, in thy noonMove with majesty onward! bearing, as lightlyAs a singer may bear the notes of an exquisite tune,The stars and the moonThrough the clerestories high of the heaven, the firmament's halls:Under whose sapphirine walls,June, hesperian June,Robed in divinity wanders. Daily and nightlyThe turquoise touch of her robe, that the violets star,The silvery fall of her feet, that lilies are,Fill the land with languorous light and perfume.—Is it the melody mute of bourgeoning leaf and of bloom?The music of Nature, that silently shapes in the gloomImmaterial hostsOf spirits that have the flowers and leaves in their keep,That I hear, that I hear?With their sighs of silver and pearl?Invisible ghosts,—Each one a beautiful girl,—Who whisper in leaves and glimmer in blossoms and hoverIn color and fragrance and loveliness, breathed from the deepWorld-soul of the mother,Nature;—who, over and over,Both sweetheart and lover,Goes singing her songs from one sweet month to the other,—That appear, that appear?In forest and field, on hill-land and lea,As crystallized harmony,Materialized melody,An uttered essence peopling far and nearThe hyaline atmosphere?...

Beautiful-bosomed, O night, in thy noon

Move with majesty onward! bearing, as lightly

As a singer may bear the notes of an exquisite tune,

The stars and the moon

Through the clerestories high of the heaven, the firmament's halls:

Under whose sapphirine walls,

June, hesperian June,

Robed in divinity wanders. Daily and nightly

The turquoise touch of her robe, that the violets star,

The silvery fall of her feet, that lilies are,

Fill the land with languorous light and perfume.—

Is it the melody mute of bourgeoning leaf and of bloom?

The music of Nature, that silently shapes in the gloom

Immaterial hosts

Of spirits that have the flowers and leaves in their keep,

That I hear, that I hear?

With their sighs of silver and pearl?

Invisible ghosts,—

Each one a beautiful girl,—

Who whisper in leaves and glimmer in blossoms and hover

In color and fragrance and loveliness, breathed from the deep

World-soul of the mother,

Nature;—who, over and over,

Both sweetheart and lover,

Goes singing her songs from one sweet month to the other,—

That appear, that appear?

In forest and field, on hill-land and lea,

As crystallized harmony,

Materialized melody,

An uttered essence peopling far and near

The hyaline atmosphere?...

Behold how it sprouts from the grass and blooms from flower and tree!In waves of diaphanous moonlight and mist,In fugue upon fugue of gold and of amethyst,Around me, above me it spirals; now slower, now faster,Like symphonies born of the thought of a musical master.—O music of Earth! O God, who the music inspired!Let me breathe of the life of thy breath!And so be fulfilled and attiredIn resurrection, triumphant o'er time and o'er death!

Behold how it sprouts from the grass and blooms from flower and tree!

In waves of diaphanous moonlight and mist,

In fugue upon fugue of gold and of amethyst,

Around me, above me it spirals; now slower, now faster,

Like symphonies born of the thought of a musical master.—

O music of Earth! O God, who the music inspired!

Let me breathe of the life of thy breath!

And so be fulfilled and attired

In resurrection, triumphant o'er time and o'er death!

IMother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbersBreathed on the eyelids of love by music that slumbers,Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow,Thou comest mysterious,In beauty imperious,Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know,Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken,Helplessly shaken and tossed,And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken,My lips, unsatisfied, thirst;Mine eyes are accurstWith longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken;And mine ears, in listening lost,Yearn, yearn for the note of a chord that will never awaken.IILike palpable music thou comest, like moon-light; and far,—Resonant bar upon bar,—The vibrating lyreOf the spirit responds with melodious fire,As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake,With flame and with flake,The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung,Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded from mire.IIIVested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire!Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of love!Make of my heart an Israfel burning above,A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer!Smite every rapturous wireWith golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor,Crying—"Awake! awake!Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour,With its mountains of magic, its fountains of faery, the spar-sprung,Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!Come, oh, come and partakeOf necromance banquets of beauty; and slakeThy thirst in the waters of Art,That are drawn from the streamsOf love and of dreams.IV"Come, oh come!No longer shall language be dumb!Thy vision shall grasp—As one doth the glittering haspOf a dagger made splendid with gems and with gold—The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely.And out of the starkEternity, awful and dark,Immensity silent and cold,—Universe-shaking as trumpets, or thunderous metalsThat cymbal; yet pensive and pearlyAnd soft as the rosy unfolding of petals,Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,—The majestic music of Death, where he playsOn the organ, eternal and vast, of eons and days."

Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbersBreathed on the eyelids of love by music that slumbers,Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow,Thou comest mysterious,In beauty imperious,Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know,Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken,Helplessly shaken and tossed,And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken,My lips, unsatisfied, thirst;Mine eyes are accurstWith longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken;And mine ears, in listening lost,Yearn, yearn for the note of a chord that will never awaken.

Mother of visions, with lineaments dulcet as numbers

Breathed on the eyelids of love by music that slumbers,

Secretly, sweetly, O presence of fire and snow,

Thou comest mysterious,

In beauty imperious,

Clad on with dreams and the light of no world that we know,

Deep to my innermost soul am I shaken,

Helplessly shaken and tossed,

And of thy tyrannous yearnings so utterly taken,

My lips, unsatisfied, thirst;

Mine eyes are accurst

With longings for visions that far in the night are forsaken;

And mine ears, in listening lost,

Yearn, yearn for the note of a chord that will never awaken.

Like palpable music thou comest, like moon-light; and far,—Resonant bar upon bar,—The vibrating lyreOf the spirit responds with melodious fire,As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake,With flame and with flake,The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung,Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded from mire.

Like palpable music thou comest, like moon-light; and far,—

Resonant bar upon bar,—

The vibrating lyre

Of the spirit responds with melodious fire,

As thy fluttering fingers now grasp it and ardently shake,

With flame and with flake,

The chords of existence, the instrument star-sprung,

Whose frame is of clay, so wonderfully molded from mire.

III

Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire!Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of love!Make of my heart an Israfel burning above,A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer!Smite every rapturous wireWith golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor,Crying—"Awake! awake!Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour,With its mountains of magic, its fountains of faery, the spar-sprung,Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!Come, oh, come and partakeOf necromance banquets of beauty; and slakeThy thirst in the waters of Art,That are drawn from the streamsOf love and of dreams.

Vested with vanquishment, come, O Desire, Desire!

Breathe in this harp of my soul the audible angel of love!

Make of my heart an Israfel burning above,

A lute for the music of God, that lips, which are mortal, but stammer!

Smite every rapturous wire

With golden delirium, rebellion and silvery clamor,

Crying—"Awake! awake!

Too long hast thou slumbered! too far from the regions of glamour,

With its mountains of magic, its fountains of faery, the spar-sprung,

Hast thou wandered away, O Heart!

Come, oh, come and partake

Of necromance banquets of beauty; and slake

Thy thirst in the waters of Art,

That are drawn from the streams

Of love and of dreams.

"Come, oh come!No longer shall language be dumb!Thy vision shall grasp—As one doth the glittering haspOf a dagger made splendid with gems and with gold—The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely.And out of the starkEternity, awful and dark,Immensity silent and cold,—Universe-shaking as trumpets, or thunderous metalsThat cymbal; yet pensive and pearlyAnd soft as the rosy unfolding of petals,Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,—The majestic music of Death, where he playsOn the organ, eternal and vast, of eons and days."

"Come, oh come!

No longer shall language be dumb!

Thy vision shall grasp—

As one doth the glittering hasp

Of a dagger made splendid with gems and with gold—

The wonder and richness of life, not anguish and hate of it merely.

And out of the stark

Eternity, awful and dark,

Immensity silent and cold,—

Universe-shaking as trumpets, or thunderous metals

That cymbal; yet pensive and pearly

And soft as the rosy unfolding of petals,

Or crumbling aroma of blossoms that wither too early,—

The majestic music of Death, where he plays

On the organ, eternal and vast, of eons and days."

With her soft face half turned to meLike an arrested moonbeam, sheStood in the cirque of that deep tree.I took her by the hands; she raisedHer face to mine; and, half amazed,I kissed her; and we stood and gazed.How good to kiss her throat and hair,And say no word!—Her throat was bare,And, as the slim moon, young and fair.—Had God not given us life for this?The world-old, amorous happinessOf arms that clasp, and lips that kiss.O eloquence of limbs and arms!O rhetoric of breasts, whose charmsSay to the sluggish blood what warms!Had God not smiled upon this hourThat bloomed,—where love had all of power,—The senses' aphrodisiac flower?The dawn was far away: the nightHung savage stars of sultry white,Lamp-like, above to give us light.Night, night, who led us each to each,Where heart with heart could hold sweet speech,With life's best gift within our reach.And here it was—between the goalsOf flesh and spirit, sex controls—Took place the marriage of our souls.

With her soft face half turned to meLike an arrested moonbeam, sheStood in the cirque of that deep tree.

With her soft face half turned to me

Like an arrested moonbeam, she

Stood in the cirque of that deep tree.

I took her by the hands; she raisedHer face to mine; and, half amazed,I kissed her; and we stood and gazed.

I took her by the hands; she raised

Her face to mine; and, half amazed,

I kissed her; and we stood and gazed.

How good to kiss her throat and hair,And say no word!—Her throat was bare,And, as the slim moon, young and fair.—

How good to kiss her throat and hair,

And say no word!—Her throat was bare,

And, as the slim moon, young and fair.—

Had God not given us life for this?The world-old, amorous happinessOf arms that clasp, and lips that kiss.

Had God not given us life for this?

The world-old, amorous happiness

Of arms that clasp, and lips that kiss.

O eloquence of limbs and arms!O rhetoric of breasts, whose charmsSay to the sluggish blood what warms!

O eloquence of limbs and arms!

O rhetoric of breasts, whose charms

Say to the sluggish blood what warms!

Had God not smiled upon this hourThat bloomed,—where love had all of power,—The senses' aphrodisiac flower?

Had God not smiled upon this hour

That bloomed,—where love had all of power,—

The senses' aphrodisiac flower?

The dawn was far away: the nightHung savage stars of sultry white,Lamp-like, above to give us light.

The dawn was far away: the night

Hung savage stars of sultry white,

Lamp-like, above to give us light.

Night, night, who led us each to each,Where heart with heart could hold sweet speech,With life's best gift within our reach.

Night, night, who led us each to each,

Where heart with heart could hold sweet speech,

With life's best gift within our reach.

And here it was—between the goalsOf flesh and spirit, sex controls—Took place the marriage of our souls.

And here it was—between the goals

Of flesh and spirit, sex controls—

Took place the marriage of our souls.

IBrows pale through blue-black tressesWet with the rain's cold kisses;Hair that the sea-wind tosses,Wild as wild wings in flight;Pale brows, some sad thought crosses,One kiss and then—good night.IINay, love! thou wilt undo meWhen in the heavy waves!—Come, smile! and make unto meThe billows' backs as slavesTo bear me and indue meWith strength o'er ocean's graves.IIIWeep not, as heavy-heartedBefore I go! lest thouShouldst follow as we parted.—Come, gaze at me glad-hearted!Not with sweet lips distortedWith fear; and eyes tear-smarted!—Let me remember howThy face looks when thou smilestAnd with soft words beguilestMy soul.—From feet to brow,Come, strengthen thy strong loverTo breast the waves that coverDeep caves where sea-nymphs hover,Eager to seize him now.IVThy image, love, shall followWith breast pressed close to mine:With arms from out whose hollowNo death can tear me. Follow,Come, light me through the brine,Dark eyes, fixed bright on mine,And mouth as red as wine!—Yea, give me wine of kisses,Whose fire shall help me home,Sweetheart, through foam that hisses,The long wild miles of foam.VSweet! cease thy sighs and weeping!'Tis time for rest and sleeping,And Venus-vestured dreams,Where thy Leander, stooping,Thou'lt see as now, undrooping,With eyes all unaccusing:Not as thou saw'st, it seems,In sleep last night, in dreams,His curls with ocean oozing,And wan of cheek and brow:But, Hero, even as now,Fair-favored as can make himThy smile, which is a might,A hope, a god, to take himSafe through this hell of night.VIHere in thy throat's white hollowOne last long kiss.—I go.—Ah, Sweet! a kiss to followDown from thy throat's white hollowUnto thy breast that's whiter:—Thine arms, that clasp me tighter;One kiss then on thy mouth,Warmer than all the South;And eyes, than waters brighterWherein the far stars glow.Smile on me now I leave thee!—And kiss me on the brow!—Smile on me, love, nor grieve thee!No thing can harm me now!

Brows pale through blue-black tressesWet with the rain's cold kisses;Hair that the sea-wind tosses,Wild as wild wings in flight;Pale brows, some sad thought crosses,One kiss and then—good night.

Brows pale through blue-black tresses

Wet with the rain's cold kisses;

Hair that the sea-wind tosses,

Wild as wild wings in flight;

Pale brows, some sad thought crosses,

One kiss and then—good night.

Nay, love! thou wilt undo meWhen in the heavy waves!—Come, smile! and make unto meThe billows' backs as slavesTo bear me and indue meWith strength o'er ocean's graves.

Nay, love! thou wilt undo me

When in the heavy waves!—

Come, smile! and make unto me

The billows' backs as slaves

To bear me and indue me

With strength o'er ocean's graves.

III

Weep not, as heavy-heartedBefore I go! lest thouShouldst follow as we parted.—Come, gaze at me glad-hearted!Not with sweet lips distortedWith fear; and eyes tear-smarted!—Let me remember howThy face looks when thou smilestAnd with soft words beguilestMy soul.—From feet to brow,Come, strengthen thy strong loverTo breast the waves that coverDeep caves where sea-nymphs hover,Eager to seize him now.

Weep not, as heavy-hearted

Before I go! lest thou

Shouldst follow as we parted.—

Come, gaze at me glad-hearted!

Not with sweet lips distorted

With fear; and eyes tear-smarted!—

Let me remember how

Thy face looks when thou smilest

And with soft words beguilest

My soul.—From feet to brow,

Come, strengthen thy strong lover

To breast the waves that cover

Deep caves where sea-nymphs hover,

Eager to seize him now.

Thy image, love, shall followWith breast pressed close to mine:With arms from out whose hollowNo death can tear me. Follow,Come, light me through the brine,Dark eyes, fixed bright on mine,And mouth as red as wine!—Yea, give me wine of kisses,Whose fire shall help me home,Sweetheart, through foam that hisses,The long wild miles of foam.

Thy image, love, shall follow

With breast pressed close to mine:

With arms from out whose hollow

No death can tear me. Follow,

Come, light me through the brine,

Dark eyes, fixed bright on mine,

And mouth as red as wine!—

Yea, give me wine of kisses,

Whose fire shall help me home,

Sweetheart, through foam that hisses,

The long wild miles of foam.

Sweet! cease thy sighs and weeping!'Tis time for rest and sleeping,And Venus-vestured dreams,Where thy Leander, stooping,Thou'lt see as now, undrooping,With eyes all unaccusing:Not as thou saw'st, it seems,In sleep last night, in dreams,His curls with ocean oozing,And wan of cheek and brow:But, Hero, even as now,Fair-favored as can make himThy smile, which is a might,A hope, a god, to take himSafe through this hell of night.

Sweet! cease thy sighs and weeping!

'Tis time for rest and sleeping,

And Venus-vestured dreams,

Where thy Leander, stooping,

Thou'lt see as now, undrooping,

With eyes all unaccusing:

Not as thou saw'st, it seems,

In sleep last night, in dreams,

His curls with ocean oozing,

And wan of cheek and brow:

But, Hero, even as now,

Fair-favored as can make him

Thy smile, which is a might,

A hope, a god, to take him

Safe through this hell of night.

Here in thy throat's white hollowOne last long kiss.—I go.—Ah, Sweet! a kiss to followDown from thy throat's white hollowUnto thy breast that's whiter:—Thine arms, that clasp me tighter;One kiss then on thy mouth,Warmer than all the South;And eyes, than waters brighterWherein the far stars glow.Smile on me now I leave thee!—And kiss me on the brow!—Smile on me, love, nor grieve thee!No thing can harm me now!

Here in thy throat's white hollow

One last long kiss.—I go.—

Ah, Sweet! a kiss to follow

Down from thy throat's white hollow

Unto thy breast that's whiter:—

Thine arms, that clasp me tighter;

One kiss then on thy mouth,

Warmer than all the South;

And eyes, than waters brighter

Wherein the far stars glow.

Smile on me now I leave thee!—

And kiss me on the brow!—

Smile on me, love, nor grieve thee!

No thing can harm me now!

Over the rocks she trails her locks,Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip:Her sparkling eyes smile at the skiesIn friendship-wise and fellowship:While the gleam and glance of her countenanceLull into trance the woodland places,As over the rocks she trails her locks,Her dripping locks that the long fern graces.She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse,Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips:And all the day its crystal sprayIs heard to play from her finger-tips:And the slight, soft sound makes haunted groundOf the woods around that the sunlight laces,As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse,Its dripping cruse that no man traces.She swims and swims with glimmering limbs,With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip:Where beechen boughs build a leafy house,Where her form may drowse or her feet may trip;And the liquid beat of her rippling feetMakes three times sweet the forest mazes,As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs,With dripping limbs through the twilight's hazes.Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps,She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips:Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist,And, starry-whist, through the night she slips:While the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleamThe falls that stream and the foam that races,As wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps,She dripping sleeps or starward gazes.

Over the rocks she trails her locks,

Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip:

Her sparkling eyes smile at the skies

In friendship-wise and fellowship:

While the gleam and glance of her countenance

Lull into trance the woodland places,

As over the rocks she trails her locks,

Her dripping locks that the long fern graces.

She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse,Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips:And all the day its crystal sprayIs heard to play from her finger-tips:And the slight, soft sound makes haunted groundOf the woods around that the sunlight laces,As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse,Its dripping cruse that no man traces.

She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse,

Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips:

And all the day its crystal spray

Is heard to play from her finger-tips:

And the slight, soft sound makes haunted ground

Of the woods around that the sunlight laces,

As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse,

Its dripping cruse that no man traces.

She swims and swims with glimmering limbs,With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip:Where beechen boughs build a leafy house,Where her form may drowse or her feet may trip;And the liquid beat of her rippling feetMakes three times sweet the forest mazes,As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs,With dripping limbs through the twilight's hazes.

She swims and swims with glimmering limbs,

With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip:

Where beechen boughs build a leafy house,

Where her form may drowse or her feet may trip;

And the liquid beat of her rippling feet

Makes three times sweet the forest mazes,

As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs,

With dripping limbs through the twilight's hazes.

Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps,She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips:Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist,And, starry-whist, through the night she slips:While the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleamThe falls that stream and the foam that races,As wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps,She dripping sleeps or starward gazes.

Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps,

She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips:

Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist,

And, starry-whist, through the night she slips:

While the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleam

The falls that stream and the foam that races,

As wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps,

She dripping sleeps or starward gazes.

Found Solitary Among the Hills

IO pansy-violet,With early April wet,How frail and lone you lookLost in this sylvan nookOf heaven-holding hills:Down which the hurrying rillsFling scrolls of melodies;O'er which the birds and beesWeave gossamers of song,Invisible, but strong:Sweet music-webs they spinTo snare the spirit in.IIO pansy-violet,Unto your face I setMy lips, and—do you speak?Or is it but some freakOf fancy, love impartsThrough you unto the heart'sDesire? whispering lowA secret none may knowBut me, who sit and dreamHere by this forest-stream.IIIO pansy-violet,O wilding floweret,Hued like some dædal gemStarring the diademOf fay or sylvan sprite,Who, in the woods, all nightIs busy with the blooms,Young leaves and wild perfumes,Through you I seem t' have seenAll that our dreams may mean.IVO pansy-violet,Long, long ago we met—'Twas in a Fairy tale:Two children in a valeSat underneath the stars,Far from the world of wars:Each loved the other well:Hereyes were like the spellOf dusk and dawning skies—The purple dark that dyesThe midnight:hiswere blueAs heaven the day shines through.VO pansy-violet,What is this vague regret,This yearning, so like tears,That touches me through yearsLong past, when myth and fableIn all strange things were ableTo beautify the Earth,Things of immortal worth?—This longing, that to meIs like a memory,Lived long ago, of twoFair forest children whoLoved with no mortal love;Whom heaven smiled above,Fostering; and when they diedLaid side by loving side.VIO pansy-violet,Do you remember yetThat wood-god-guarded tomb,Out of whose moss your bloomSprang, with three petals wanAs are the eyes of dawn;And two as darkly deepAs are the eyes of sleep?VIIO flower,—that seems to holdSome memory of old,A hope, a happiness,At which I can but guess,—You are a sign to meOf immortality:Through you my spirit seesThe deathless purposesOf death, that still evolvesThe beauty it resolves;The change that still fulfilsLife's meaning as God wills.

O pansy-violet,With early April wet,How frail and lone you lookLost in this sylvan nookOf heaven-holding hills:Down which the hurrying rillsFling scrolls of melodies;O'er which the birds and beesWeave gossamers of song,Invisible, but strong:Sweet music-webs they spinTo snare the spirit in.

O pansy-violet,

With early April wet,

How frail and lone you look

Lost in this sylvan nook

Of heaven-holding hills:

Down which the hurrying rills

Fling scrolls of melodies;

O'er which the birds and bees

Weave gossamers of song,

Invisible, but strong:

Sweet music-webs they spin

To snare the spirit in.

O pansy-violet,Unto your face I setMy lips, and—do you speak?Or is it but some freakOf fancy, love impartsThrough you unto the heart'sDesire? whispering lowA secret none may knowBut me, who sit and dreamHere by this forest-stream.

O pansy-violet,

Unto your face I set

My lips, and—do you speak?

Or is it but some freak

Of fancy, love imparts

Through you unto the heart's

Desire? whispering low

A secret none may know

But me, who sit and dream

Here by this forest-stream.

III

O pansy-violet,O wilding floweret,Hued like some dædal gemStarring the diademOf fay or sylvan sprite,Who, in the woods, all nightIs busy with the blooms,Young leaves and wild perfumes,Through you I seem t' have seenAll that our dreams may mean.

O pansy-violet,

O wilding floweret,

Hued like some dædal gem

Starring the diadem

Of fay or sylvan sprite,

Who, in the woods, all night

Is busy with the blooms,

Young leaves and wild perfumes,

Through you I seem t' have seen

All that our dreams may mean.

O pansy-violet,Long, long ago we met—'Twas in a Fairy tale:Two children in a valeSat underneath the stars,Far from the world of wars:Each loved the other well:Hereyes were like the spellOf dusk and dawning skies—The purple dark that dyesThe midnight:hiswere blueAs heaven the day shines through.

O pansy-violet,

Long, long ago we met—

'Twas in a Fairy tale:

Two children in a vale

Sat underneath the stars,

Far from the world of wars:

Each loved the other well:

Hereyes were like the spell

Of dusk and dawning skies—

The purple dark that dyes

The midnight:hiswere blue

As heaven the day shines through.

O pansy-violet,What is this vague regret,This yearning, so like tears,That touches me through yearsLong past, when myth and fableIn all strange things were ableTo beautify the Earth,Things of immortal worth?—This longing, that to meIs like a memory,Lived long ago, of twoFair forest children whoLoved with no mortal love;Whom heaven smiled above,Fostering; and when they diedLaid side by loving side.

O pansy-violet,

What is this vague regret,

This yearning, so like tears,

That touches me through years

Long past, when myth and fable

In all strange things were able

To beautify the Earth,

Things of immortal worth?—

This longing, that to me

Is like a memory,

Lived long ago, of two

Fair forest children who

Loved with no mortal love;

Whom heaven smiled above,

Fostering; and when they died

Laid side by loving side.

O pansy-violet,Do you remember yetThat wood-god-guarded tomb,Out of whose moss your bloomSprang, with three petals wanAs are the eyes of dawn;And two as darkly deepAs are the eyes of sleep?

O pansy-violet,

Do you remember yet

That wood-god-guarded tomb,

Out of whose moss your bloom

Sprang, with three petals wan

As are the eyes of dawn;

And two as darkly deep

As are the eyes of sleep?

VII

O flower,—that seems to holdSome memory of old,A hope, a happiness,At which I can but guess,—You are a sign to meOf immortality:Through you my spirit seesThe deathless purposesOf death, that still evolvesThe beauty it resolves;The change that still fulfilsLife's meaning as God wills.

O flower,—that seems to hold

Some memory of old,

A hope, a happiness,

At which I can but guess,—

You are a sign to me

Of immortality:

Through you my spirit sees

The deathless purposes

Of death, that still evolves

The beauty it resolves;

The change that still fulfils

Life's meaning as God wills.

The gods, who could loose and bindIn the long ago,The gods, who were stern and kindTo men below,Where shall we seek and find,Or, finding, know?Where Greece, with king on king,Dreamed in her halls;Where Rome kneeled worshiping,The owl now calls,And clambering ivies cling,And the moonbeam falls.They have served, and passed awayFrom the earth and sky,And their creeds are a record gray,Where the passer-byReads, "Live and be glad to-day,For to-morrow ye die."And shall it be so, indeed,When we are no more,That nations to be shall read,—As we have before,—In the dust of a Christian Creed,But pagan lore?

The gods, who could loose and bindIn the long ago,The gods, who were stern and kindTo men below,Where shall we seek and find,Or, finding, know?

The gods, who could loose and bind

In the long ago,

The gods, who were stern and kind

To men below,

Where shall we seek and find,

Or, finding, know?

Where Greece, with king on king,Dreamed in her halls;Where Rome kneeled worshiping,The owl now calls,And clambering ivies cling,And the moonbeam falls.

Where Greece, with king on king,

Dreamed in her halls;

Where Rome kneeled worshiping,

The owl now calls,

And clambering ivies cling,

And the moonbeam falls.

They have served, and passed awayFrom the earth and sky,And their creeds are a record gray,Where the passer-byReads, "Live and be glad to-day,For to-morrow ye die."

They have served, and passed away

From the earth and sky,

And their creeds are a record gray,

Where the passer-by

Reads, "Live and be glad to-day,

For to-morrow ye die."

And shall it be so, indeed,When we are no more,That nations to be shall read,—As we have before,—In the dust of a Christian Creed,But pagan lore?

And shall it be so, indeed,

When we are no more,

That nations to be shall read,—

As we have before,—

In the dust of a Christian Creed,

But pagan lore?

The gods are dead; but still for meLives on in wildwood brook and treeEach myth, each old divinity.For me still laughs among her rocksThe Naiad; and the Dryad's locksDrop perfume on the wildflower flocks.The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam;And, whiter than the wind-blown foam,The Oread haunts her mountain home.To him, whose mind is fain to dwellWith loveliness no time can quell,All things are real, imperishable.To him—whatever facts may say—Who sees the soul beneath the clay,Is proof of a diviner day.The very stars and flowers preachA gospel old as God, and teachPhilosophy a child may reach;That can not die; that shall not cease;That lives through idealitiesOf Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece:That lifts the soul above the clod,And, working out some periodOf art, is part and proof of God.

The gods are dead; but still for meLives on in wildwood brook and treeEach myth, each old divinity.

The gods are dead; but still for me

Lives on in wildwood brook and tree

Each myth, each old divinity.

For me still laughs among her rocksThe Naiad; and the Dryad's locksDrop perfume on the wildflower flocks.

For me still laughs among her rocks

The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks

Drop perfume on the wildflower flocks.

The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam;And, whiter than the wind-blown foam,The Oread haunts her mountain home.

The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam;

And, whiter than the wind-blown foam,

The Oread haunts her mountain home.

To him, whose mind is fain to dwellWith loveliness no time can quell,All things are real, imperishable.

To him, whose mind is fain to dwell

With loveliness no time can quell,

All things are real, imperishable.

To him—whatever facts may say—Who sees the soul beneath the clay,Is proof of a diviner day.

To him—whatever facts may say—

Who sees the soul beneath the clay,

Is proof of a diviner day.

The very stars and flowers preachA gospel old as God, and teachPhilosophy a child may reach;

The very stars and flowers preach

A gospel old as God, and teach

Philosophy a child may reach;

That can not die; that shall not cease;That lives through idealitiesOf Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece:

That can not die; that shall not cease;

That lives through idealities

Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece:

That lifts the soul above the clod,And, working out some periodOf art, is part and proof of God.

That lifts the soul above the clod,

And, working out some period

Of art, is part and proof of God.

Wild ridge on ridge the wooded hills arise,Between whose breezy vistas gulfs of skiesPilot great clouds like towering argosies,And hawk and buzzard breast the azure breeze.With many a foaming fall and glimmering reachOf placid murmur, under elm and beech,The creek goes twinkling through long gleams and gloomsOf woodland quiet, summered with perfumes:The creek, in whose clear shallows minnow-schoolsGlitter or dart; and by whose deeper poolsThe blue kingfishers and the herons haunt;That, often startled from the freckled flauntOf blackberry-lilies—where they feed and hide—Trail a lank flight along the forestsideWith eery clangor. Here a sycamore,Smooth, wave-uprooted, builds from shore to shoreA headlong bridge; and there, a storm-hurled oakLays a long dam, where sand and gravel chokeThe water's lazy way. Here mistflower blursIts bit of heaven; there the oxeye stirsIts gloaming hues of pearl and gold; and here,A gray, cool stain, like dawn's own atmosphere,The dim wild-carrot lifts its crumpled crest:And over all, at slender flight or rest,The dragon-flies, like coruscating raysOf lapis-lazuli and chrysoprase,Drowsily sparkle through the summer days:And, dewlap-deep, here from the noontide heatThe bell-hung cattle find a cool retreat;And through the willows girdling the hill,Now far, now near, borne as the soft winds will,Comes the low rushing of the water-mill.Ah, lovely to me from a little child,How changed the place! wherein once, undefiled,The glad communion of the sky and streamWent with me like a presence and a dream.Where once the brambled meads and orchard-landsPoured ripe abundance down with mellow handsOf summer; and the birds of field and woodCalled to me in a tongue I understood;And in the tangles of the old rail-fenceEven the insect tumult had some sense,And every sound a happy eloquence:And more to me than wisest books can teachThe wind and water said; whose words did reachMy soul, addressing their magnificent speech,—Raucous and rushing,—from the old mill-wheel,That made the rolling mill-cogs snore and reel,Like some old ogre in a fairy taleNodding above his meat and mug of ale.How memory takes me back the ways that lead—As when a boy—through woodland and through mead!To orchards fruited; or to fields in bloom;Or briery fallows, like a mighty room,Through which the winds swing censers of perfume,And where deep blackberries spread miles of fruit;—A splendid feast, that stayed the ploughboy's footWhen to the tasseling acres of the cornHe drove his team, fresh in the primrose morn;And from the liberal banquet, nature lent,Took dewy handfuls as he whistling went.—A boy once more, I stand with sunburnt feetAnd watch the harvester sweep down the wheat;Or laze with warm limbs in the unstacked strawNearby the thresher, whose insatiate mawDevours the sheaves, hot drawling out its hum—Like some great sleepy bee, above a bloom,Made drunk with honey—while, grown big with grain,The bulging sacks receive the golden rain.Again I tread the valley, sweet with hay,And hear the bob-white calling far away,Or wood-dove cooing in the elder-brake;Or see the sassafras bushes madly shakeAs swift, a rufous instant, in the glenThe red fox leaps and gallops to his den;Or, standing in the violet-colored gloam,Hear roadways sound with holiday riding homeFrom church, or fair, or county barbecue,Which the whole country to some village drew.How spilled with berries were its summer hills,And strewn with walnuts all its autumn rills—And chestnuts, burring from the spring's long flowers!—When from their tops the trees seemed streaming showersOf slender silver, cool, crepuscular,And like a nebulous radiance shone afar.—And maples! how their sappy hearts would gushRude troughs of syrup, when the winter bushSteamed with the sugar-kettle, day and night,And, red, the snow was streaked with fire-light.Then was it glorious! the mill-dam's edge,One slope of frosty crystal, laid a ledgeOf pearl across; above which, sleeted treesTossed arms of ice, that, clashing in the breeze,Tinkled the ringing creek with icicles,Thin as the peal of far-off Elfland bells:A sound that in my city dreams I hear,That brings before me, under skies that clear,The old mill in its winter garb of snow,Its frozen wheel like a hoar beard below,And its west windows, two deep eyes aglow.Ah, ancient mill, still do I picture o'erThy cobwebbed stairs and loft and grain-strewn floor;Thy door,—like some brown, honest hand of toil,And honorable with labor of the soil,—Forever open; through which, on his backThe prosperous farmer bears his bursting sack,And while the miller measures out his toll,Again I hear, above the cogs' loud roll,—That makes stout joist and rafter groan and sway,—The harmless gossip of the passing day:Good country talk, that tells how so-and-soHas died or married; how curculioAnd codling-moth have ruined half the fruit,And blight plays mischief with the grapes to boot;Or what the news from town; next county fair;How well the crops are looking everywhere:Now this, now that, on which their interests fix,Prospects for rain or frost, and politics.While all around, the sweet smell of the mealFilters, warm-pouring from the grinding wheelInto the bin; beside which, mealy white,The miller looms, dim in the dusty light.Again I see the miller's home, betweenThe crinkling creek and hills of beechen green:Again the miller greets me, gaunt and brown,Who oft o'erawed my youth with gray-browed frownAnd rugged mien: again he tries to reachMy youthful mind with fervid scriptural speech.—For he, of all the country-side confessed,The most religious was and goodliest;A Methodist, and one whom faith still led,No books except the Bible had he read—At least so seemed it to my younger head.—All things in Earth and Heav'n he'd prove by this,Be it a fact or mere hypothesis;For to his simple wisdom, reverent,"The Bible says" was all of argument.—God keep his soul! his bones were long since laidAmong the sunken gravestones in the shadeOf those black-lichened rocks, that wall aroundThe family burying-ground with cedars crowned;Where bristling teasel and the brier combineWith clambering wood-rose and the wild-grape vineTo hide the stone whereon his name and datesNeglect, with mossy hand, obliterates.

Wild ridge on ridge the wooded hills arise,

Between whose breezy vistas gulfs of skies

Pilot great clouds like towering argosies,

And hawk and buzzard breast the azure breeze.

With many a foaming fall and glimmering reach

Of placid murmur, under elm and beech,

The creek goes twinkling through long gleams and glooms

Of woodland quiet, summered with perfumes:

The creek, in whose clear shallows minnow-schools

Glitter or dart; and by whose deeper pools

The blue kingfishers and the herons haunt;

That, often startled from the freckled flaunt

Of blackberry-lilies—where they feed and hide—

Trail a lank flight along the forestside

With eery clangor. Here a sycamore,

Smooth, wave-uprooted, builds from shore to shore

A headlong bridge; and there, a storm-hurled oak

Lays a long dam, where sand and gravel choke

The water's lazy way. Here mistflower blurs

Its bit of heaven; there the oxeye stirs

Its gloaming hues of pearl and gold; and here,

A gray, cool stain, like dawn's own atmosphere,

The dim wild-carrot lifts its crumpled crest:

And over all, at slender flight or rest,

The dragon-flies, like coruscating rays

Of lapis-lazuli and chrysoprase,

Drowsily sparkle through the summer days:

And, dewlap-deep, here from the noontide heat

The bell-hung cattle find a cool retreat;

And through the willows girdling the hill,

Now far, now near, borne as the soft winds will,

Comes the low rushing of the water-mill.

Ah, lovely to me from a little child,How changed the place! wherein once, undefiled,The glad communion of the sky and streamWent with me like a presence and a dream.Where once the brambled meads and orchard-landsPoured ripe abundance down with mellow handsOf summer; and the birds of field and woodCalled to me in a tongue I understood;And in the tangles of the old rail-fenceEven the insect tumult had some sense,And every sound a happy eloquence:And more to me than wisest books can teachThe wind and water said; whose words did reachMy soul, addressing their magnificent speech,—Raucous and rushing,—from the old mill-wheel,That made the rolling mill-cogs snore and reel,Like some old ogre in a fairy taleNodding above his meat and mug of ale.

Ah, lovely to me from a little child,

How changed the place! wherein once, undefiled,

The glad communion of the sky and stream

Went with me like a presence and a dream.

Where once the brambled meads and orchard-lands

Poured ripe abundance down with mellow hands

Of summer; and the birds of field and wood

Called to me in a tongue I understood;

And in the tangles of the old rail-fence

Even the insect tumult had some sense,

And every sound a happy eloquence:

And more to me than wisest books can teach

The wind and water said; whose words did reach

My soul, addressing their magnificent speech,—

Raucous and rushing,—from the old mill-wheel,

That made the rolling mill-cogs snore and reel,

Like some old ogre in a fairy tale

Nodding above his meat and mug of ale.

How memory takes me back the ways that lead—As when a boy—through woodland and through mead!To orchards fruited; or to fields in bloom;Or briery fallows, like a mighty room,Through which the winds swing censers of perfume,And where deep blackberries spread miles of fruit;—A splendid feast, that stayed the ploughboy's footWhen to the tasseling acres of the cornHe drove his team, fresh in the primrose morn;And from the liberal banquet, nature lent,Took dewy handfuls as he whistling went.—A boy once more, I stand with sunburnt feetAnd watch the harvester sweep down the wheat;Or laze with warm limbs in the unstacked strawNearby the thresher, whose insatiate mawDevours the sheaves, hot drawling out its hum—Like some great sleepy bee, above a bloom,Made drunk with honey—while, grown big with grain,The bulging sacks receive the golden rain.Again I tread the valley, sweet with hay,And hear the bob-white calling far away,Or wood-dove cooing in the elder-brake;Or see the sassafras bushes madly shakeAs swift, a rufous instant, in the glenThe red fox leaps and gallops to his den;Or, standing in the violet-colored gloam,Hear roadways sound with holiday riding homeFrom church, or fair, or county barbecue,Which the whole country to some village drew.

How memory takes me back the ways that lead—

As when a boy—through woodland and through mead!

To orchards fruited; or to fields in bloom;

Or briery fallows, like a mighty room,

Through which the winds swing censers of perfume,

And where deep blackberries spread miles of fruit;—

A splendid feast, that stayed the ploughboy's foot

When to the tasseling acres of the corn

He drove his team, fresh in the primrose morn;

And from the liberal banquet, nature lent,

Took dewy handfuls as he whistling went.—

A boy once more, I stand with sunburnt feet

And watch the harvester sweep down the wheat;

Or laze with warm limbs in the unstacked straw

Nearby the thresher, whose insatiate maw

Devours the sheaves, hot drawling out its hum—

Like some great sleepy bee, above a bloom,

Made drunk with honey—while, grown big with grain,

The bulging sacks receive the golden rain.

Again I tread the valley, sweet with hay,

And hear the bob-white calling far away,

Or wood-dove cooing in the elder-brake;

Or see the sassafras bushes madly shake

As swift, a rufous instant, in the glen

The red fox leaps and gallops to his den;

Or, standing in the violet-colored gloam,

Hear roadways sound with holiday riding home

From church, or fair, or county barbecue,

Which the whole country to some village drew.

How spilled with berries were its summer hills,And strewn with walnuts all its autumn rills—And chestnuts, burring from the spring's long flowers!—When from their tops the trees seemed streaming showersOf slender silver, cool, crepuscular,And like a nebulous radiance shone afar.—And maples! how their sappy hearts would gushRude troughs of syrup, when the winter bushSteamed with the sugar-kettle, day and night,And, red, the snow was streaked with fire-light.Then was it glorious! the mill-dam's edge,One slope of frosty crystal, laid a ledgeOf pearl across; above which, sleeted treesTossed arms of ice, that, clashing in the breeze,Tinkled the ringing creek with icicles,Thin as the peal of far-off Elfland bells:A sound that in my city dreams I hear,That brings before me, under skies that clear,The old mill in its winter garb of snow,Its frozen wheel like a hoar beard below,And its west windows, two deep eyes aglow.

How spilled with berries were its summer hills,

And strewn with walnuts all its autumn rills—

And chestnuts, burring from the spring's long flowers!—

When from their tops the trees seemed streaming showers

Of slender silver, cool, crepuscular,

And like a nebulous radiance shone afar.—

And maples! how their sappy hearts would gush

Rude troughs of syrup, when the winter bush

Steamed with the sugar-kettle, day and night,

And, red, the snow was streaked with fire-light.

Then was it glorious! the mill-dam's edge,

One slope of frosty crystal, laid a ledge

Of pearl across; above which, sleeted trees

Tossed arms of ice, that, clashing in the breeze,

Tinkled the ringing creek with icicles,

Thin as the peal of far-off Elfland bells:

A sound that in my city dreams I hear,

That brings before me, under skies that clear,

The old mill in its winter garb of snow,

Its frozen wheel like a hoar beard below,

And its west windows, two deep eyes aglow.

Ah, ancient mill, still do I picture o'erThy cobwebbed stairs and loft and grain-strewn floor;Thy door,—like some brown, honest hand of toil,And honorable with labor of the soil,—Forever open; through which, on his backThe prosperous farmer bears his bursting sack,And while the miller measures out his toll,Again I hear, above the cogs' loud roll,—That makes stout joist and rafter groan and sway,—The harmless gossip of the passing day:Good country talk, that tells how so-and-soHas died or married; how curculioAnd codling-moth have ruined half the fruit,And blight plays mischief with the grapes to boot;Or what the news from town; next county fair;How well the crops are looking everywhere:Now this, now that, on which their interests fix,Prospects for rain or frost, and politics.While all around, the sweet smell of the mealFilters, warm-pouring from the grinding wheelInto the bin; beside which, mealy white,The miller looms, dim in the dusty light.

Ah, ancient mill, still do I picture o'er

Thy cobwebbed stairs and loft and grain-strewn floor;

Thy door,—like some brown, honest hand of toil,

And honorable with labor of the soil,—

Forever open; through which, on his back

The prosperous farmer bears his bursting sack,

And while the miller measures out his toll,

Again I hear, above the cogs' loud roll,—

That makes stout joist and rafter groan and sway,—

The harmless gossip of the passing day:

Good country talk, that tells how so-and-so

Has died or married; how curculio

And codling-moth have ruined half the fruit,

And blight plays mischief with the grapes to boot;

Or what the news from town; next county fair;

How well the crops are looking everywhere:

Now this, now that, on which their interests fix,

Prospects for rain or frost, and politics.

While all around, the sweet smell of the meal

Filters, warm-pouring from the grinding wheel

Into the bin; beside which, mealy white,

The miller looms, dim in the dusty light.

Again I see the miller's home, betweenThe crinkling creek and hills of beechen green:Again the miller greets me, gaunt and brown,Who oft o'erawed my youth with gray-browed frownAnd rugged mien: again he tries to reachMy youthful mind with fervid scriptural speech.—For he, of all the country-side confessed,The most religious was and goodliest;A Methodist, and one whom faith still led,No books except the Bible had he read—At least so seemed it to my younger head.—All things in Earth and Heav'n he'd prove by this,Be it a fact or mere hypothesis;For to his simple wisdom, reverent,"The Bible says" was all of argument.—God keep his soul! his bones were long since laidAmong the sunken gravestones in the shadeOf those black-lichened rocks, that wall aroundThe family burying-ground with cedars crowned;Where bristling teasel and the brier combineWith clambering wood-rose and the wild-grape vineTo hide the stone whereon his name and datesNeglect, with mossy hand, obliterates.

Again I see the miller's home, between

The crinkling creek and hills of beechen green:

Again the miller greets me, gaunt and brown,

Who oft o'erawed my youth with gray-browed frown

And rugged mien: again he tries to reach

My youthful mind with fervid scriptural speech.—

For he, of all the country-side confessed,

The most religious was and goodliest;

A Methodist, and one whom faith still led,

No books except the Bible had he read—

At least so seemed it to my younger head.—

All things in Earth and Heav'n he'd prove by this,

Be it a fact or mere hypothesis;

For to his simple wisdom, reverent,

"The Bible says" was all of argument.—

God keep his soul! his bones were long since laid

Among the sunken gravestones in the shade

Of those black-lichened rocks, that wall around

The family burying-ground with cedars crowned;

Where bristling teasel and the brier combine

With clambering wood-rose and the wild-grape vine

To hide the stone whereon his name and dates

Neglect, with mossy hand, obliterates.

ICan freckled August,—drowsing warm and blondBeside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead,In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound,—O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heedTo thee? when no plumed weed, no feather'd seedBlows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond,That gleams like flint within its rim of grasses,Through which the dragon-fly forever passesLike splintered diamond.IIDrouth weights the trees, and from the farm-house eavesThe locust, pulse-beat of the summer day,Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leavesLimp with the heat—a league of rutty way—Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hayBreathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves—Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain,In thirsty heaven or on burning plain,That thy keen eye perceives?IIIBut thou art right. Thou prophesiest true.For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting,When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue,Great water-carrier winds their buckets bringBrimming with freshness. How their dippers ringAnd flash and rumble! lavishing large dewOn corn and forestland, that, streaming wet,Their hilly backs against the downpour set,Like giants, loom in view.IVThe butterfly, safe under leaf and flower,Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art;The bumblebee, within the last half-hour,Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart;While in the barnyard, under shed and cart,Brood-hens have housed.—But I, who scorned thy power,Barometer of the birds,—like August there,—Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair,Like some drenched truant, cower.

Can freckled August,—drowsing warm and blondBeside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead,In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound,—O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heedTo thee? when no plumed weed, no feather'd seedBlows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond,That gleams like flint within its rim of grasses,Through which the dragon-fly forever passesLike splintered diamond.

Can freckled August,—drowsing warm and blond

Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead,

In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound,—

O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed

To thee? when no plumed weed, no feather'd seed

Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond,

That gleams like flint within its rim of grasses,

Through which the dragon-fly forever passes

Like splintered diamond.

Drouth weights the trees, and from the farm-house eavesThe locust, pulse-beat of the summer day,Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leavesLimp with the heat—a league of rutty way—Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hayBreathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves—Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain,In thirsty heaven or on burning plain,That thy keen eye perceives?

Drouth weights the trees, and from the farm-house eaves

The locust, pulse-beat of the summer day,

Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leaves

Limp with the heat—a league of rutty way—

Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hay

Breathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves—

Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain,

In thirsty heaven or on burning plain,

That thy keen eye perceives?

III

But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true.For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting,When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue,Great water-carrier winds their buckets bringBrimming with freshness. How their dippers ringAnd flash and rumble! lavishing large dewOn corn and forestland, that, streaming wet,Their hilly backs against the downpour set,Like giants, loom in view.

But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true.

For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting,

When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue,

Great water-carrier winds their buckets bring

Brimming with freshness. How their dippers ring

And flash and rumble! lavishing large dew

On corn and forestland, that, streaming wet,

Their hilly backs against the downpour set,

Like giants, loom in view.

The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower,Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art;The bumblebee, within the last half-hour,Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart;While in the barnyard, under shed and cart,Brood-hens have housed.—But I, who scorned thy power,Barometer of the birds,—like August there,—Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair,Like some drenched truant, cower.

The butterfly, safe under leaf and flower,

Has found a roof, knowing how true thou art;

The bumblebee, within the last half-hour,

Has ceased to hug the honey to its heart;

While in the barnyard, under shed and cart,

Brood-hens have housed.—But I, who scorned thy power,

Barometer of the birds,—like August there,—

Beneath a beech, dripping from foot to hair,

Like some drenched truant, cower.

IGlobed in Heav'n's tree of azure, golden mellowAs some round apple hungHigh on Hesperian boughs, thou hangest yellowThe branch-like clouds among:Within thy light a sunburnt youth, named Health,Rests 'mid the tasseled shocks, the tawny stubble;And by his side, clad on with rustic wealthOf field and farm, beneath thy amber bubble,A nut-brown maid, Content, sits smiling still:While through the quiet trees,The mossy rocks, the grassy hill,Thy silvery spirit glides to yonder mill,Around whose wheel the breezeAnd shimmering ripples of the water play,As, by their mother, little children may.IISweet Spirit of the Moon, who walkest,—lifting,Exhaustless on thy arm,A vase of pearly fire,—through the shiftingCloud-halls of calm and storm,Pour down thy blossoms! let me hear them come,Pelting with noiseless light the twinkling thickets,Making the darkness audible with the humOf many insect creatures, grigs and crickets:Until it seems the elves hold revelriesBy haunted stream and grove;Or, in the night's deep peace,The young-old presence of Earth's full increaseSeems telling thee her love,Ere, lying down, she turns to rest, and smiles,Hearing thy heart beat through the myriad miles.

Globed in Heav'n's tree of azure, golden mellowAs some round apple hungHigh on Hesperian boughs, thou hangest yellowThe branch-like clouds among:Within thy light a sunburnt youth, named Health,Rests 'mid the tasseled shocks, the tawny stubble;And by his side, clad on with rustic wealthOf field and farm, beneath thy amber bubble,A nut-brown maid, Content, sits smiling still:While through the quiet trees,The mossy rocks, the grassy hill,Thy silvery spirit glides to yonder mill,Around whose wheel the breezeAnd shimmering ripples of the water play,As, by their mother, little children may.

Globed in Heav'n's tree of azure, golden mellow

As some round apple hung

High on Hesperian boughs, thou hangest yellow

The branch-like clouds among:

Within thy light a sunburnt youth, named Health,

Rests 'mid the tasseled shocks, the tawny stubble;

And by his side, clad on with rustic wealth

Of field and farm, beneath thy amber bubble,

A nut-brown maid, Content, sits smiling still:

While through the quiet trees,

The mossy rocks, the grassy hill,

Thy silvery spirit glides to yonder mill,

Around whose wheel the breeze

And shimmering ripples of the water play,

As, by their mother, little children may.

Sweet Spirit of the Moon, who walkest,—lifting,Exhaustless on thy arm,A vase of pearly fire,—through the shiftingCloud-halls of calm and storm,Pour down thy blossoms! let me hear them come,Pelting with noiseless light the twinkling thickets,Making the darkness audible with the humOf many insect creatures, grigs and crickets:Until it seems the elves hold revelriesBy haunted stream and grove;Or, in the night's deep peace,The young-old presence of Earth's full increaseSeems telling thee her love,Ere, lying down, she turns to rest, and smiles,Hearing thy heart beat through the myriad miles.

Sweet Spirit of the Moon, who walkest,—lifting,

Exhaustless on thy arm,

A vase of pearly fire,—through the shifting

Cloud-halls of calm and storm,

Pour down thy blossoms! let me hear them come,

Pelting with noiseless light the twinkling thickets,

Making the darkness audible with the hum

Of many insect creatures, grigs and crickets:

Until it seems the elves hold revelries

By haunted stream and grove;

Or, in the night's deep peace,

The young-old presence of Earth's full increase

Seems telling thee her love,

Ere, lying down, she turns to rest, and smiles,

Hearing thy heart beat through the myriad miles.

There is a field, that leans upon two hills,Foamed o'er of flowers and twinkling with clear rills;That in its girdle of wild acres bears;The anodyne of rest that cures all cares;Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blentAnd fragrance—as in some old instrumentSweet chords—calm things, that nature's magic spellDistils from heaven's azure crucible,And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.There lies the path, they say—Come, away! come, away!There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;That in its league-long hand of trunk and leafLifts a green wand that charms away all grief;Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings,Dews and cool shadows—that the mystic soulOf nature permeates with suave control,And waves o'er Earth to make the sad heart whole.There lies the road, they say—Come, away! come, away!

There is a field, that leans upon two hills,

Foamed o'er of flowers and twinkling with clear rills;

That in its girdle of wild acres bears;

The anodyne of rest that cures all cares;

Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent

And fragrance—as in some old instrument

Sweet chords—calm things, that nature's magic spell

Distils from heaven's azure crucible,

And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.

There lies the path, they say—

Come, away! come, away!

There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;That in its league-long hand of trunk and leafLifts a green wand that charms away all grief;Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings,Dews and cool shadows—that the mystic soulOf nature permeates with suave control,And waves o'er Earth to make the sad heart whole.There lies the road, they say—Come, away! come, away!

There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,

Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;

That in its league-long hand of trunk and leaf

Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief;

Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,

Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings,

Dews and cool shadows—that the mystic soul

Of nature permeates with suave control,

And waves o'er Earth to make the sad heart whole.

There lies the road, they say—

Come, away! come, away!

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens,Their old rock-fences, that our day inherits;Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.I see them gray among their ancient acres,Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.I love their orchards where the gay woodpeckerFlits, flashing o'er you, like a wingéd jewel;Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checkerWith half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul foreverTheir peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,With simple faith; like friendship, draw me afterThe dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens,

Their old rock-fences, that our day inherits;

Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;

Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;

Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.

I see them gray among their ancient acres,Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.

I see them gray among their ancient acres,

Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—

Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,

Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—

Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.

Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.

Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—

Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—

Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,

And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,

And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.

I love their orchards where the gay woodpeckerFlits, flashing o'er you, like a wingéd jewel;Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checkerWith half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.

I love their orchards where the gay woodpecker

Flits, flashing o'er you, like a wingéd jewel;

Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker

With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,

The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.

Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul foreverTheir peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,With simple faith; like friendship, draw me afterThe dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever

Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;

Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,

With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after

The dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

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