Past midnight, gathering from the west,With rolling rain the storm came on,And tore and tossed until the dawn,Like some dark demon of unrest:The stairways creaked! the chimneys boomed;I heard the wild leaves blown aboutThe windy windows; and the shoutOf forests that the storm had doomed.I listened, and remembered howOn yesterday I went aloneA sunlit path through fields o’ergrownWith sumac brakes, turned crimson now;Where asters strung blue pearls and whiteBeside the goldenrod’s soft ruff;Where thistles, silvery puff on puff,Danced many a twinkling witch’s-light.Her joy the Autumn uttered soTo skies where gold and azure blent;Now storm is the embodimentOf all her utterance of woe:The two within me so abide,That of the two my mind partakes,—As one, who walks asleep, awakes,Walks on and thinks, “To-night I died.”
Past midnight, gathering from the west,With rolling rain the storm came on,And tore and tossed until the dawn,Like some dark demon of unrest:The stairways creaked! the chimneys boomed;I heard the wild leaves blown aboutThe windy windows; and the shoutOf forests that the storm had doomed.I listened, and remembered howOn yesterday I went aloneA sunlit path through fields o’ergrownWith sumac brakes, turned crimson now;Where asters strung blue pearls and whiteBeside the goldenrod’s soft ruff;Where thistles, silvery puff on puff,Danced many a twinkling witch’s-light.Her joy the Autumn uttered soTo skies where gold and azure blent;Now storm is the embodimentOf all her utterance of woe:The two within me so abide,That of the two my mind partakes,—As one, who walks asleep, awakes,Walks on and thinks, “To-night I died.”
Past midnight, gathering from the west,With rolling rain the storm came on,And tore and tossed until the dawn,Like some dark demon of unrest:The stairways creaked! the chimneys boomed;I heard the wild leaves blown aboutThe windy windows; and the shoutOf forests that the storm had doomed.
I listened, and remembered howOn yesterday I went aloneA sunlit path through fields o’ergrownWith sumac brakes, turned crimson now;Where asters strung blue pearls and whiteBeside the goldenrod’s soft ruff;Where thistles, silvery puff on puff,Danced many a twinkling witch’s-light.
Her joy the Autumn uttered soTo skies where gold and azure blent;Now storm is the embodimentOf all her utterance of woe:The two within me so abide,That of the two my mind partakes,—As one, who walks asleep, awakes,Walks on and thinks, “To-night I died.”
What sympathies of Heaven and EarthThe human ego enters in!The universal stain of sinWhich qualifies it from its birth,Denying it their highest worth.There is a parallel of kin’Twixt earth and man, that dignifiesEndeavor with such sympathies.The all mysterious wisdom waitsIn mountain, wood, and waterfall,Sky, rock and sea, to hear the callOf something—firmer than the Fates—Deep in the soul it elevates;And to the splendor of the AllAdvances, through the night’s immense,The spirit of experience.So think I now while, long and loud,The wind its maniac music beats,And storm a madman’s song repeatsTo echoes in the rushing cloud;While all the world to wrath is vowed,And nothing conquers or defeatsThe darkness and the rain that ravesAbove the all-unheeding graves.
What sympathies of Heaven and EarthThe human ego enters in!The universal stain of sinWhich qualifies it from its birth,Denying it their highest worth.There is a parallel of kin’Twixt earth and man, that dignifiesEndeavor with such sympathies.The all mysterious wisdom waitsIn mountain, wood, and waterfall,Sky, rock and sea, to hear the callOf something—firmer than the Fates—Deep in the soul it elevates;And to the splendor of the AllAdvances, through the night’s immense,The spirit of experience.So think I now while, long and loud,The wind its maniac music beats,And storm a madman’s song repeatsTo echoes in the rushing cloud;While all the world to wrath is vowed,And nothing conquers or defeatsThe darkness and the rain that ravesAbove the all-unheeding graves.
What sympathies of Heaven and EarthThe human ego enters in!The universal stain of sinWhich qualifies it from its birth,Denying it their highest worth.There is a parallel of kin’Twixt earth and man, that dignifiesEndeavor with such sympathies.
The all mysterious wisdom waitsIn mountain, wood, and waterfall,Sky, rock and sea, to hear the callOf something—firmer than the Fates—Deep in the soul it elevates;And to the splendor of the AllAdvances, through the night’s immense,The spirit of experience.So think I now while, long and loud,The wind its maniac music beats,And storm a madman’s song repeatsTo echoes in the rushing cloud;While all the world to wrath is vowed,And nothing conquers or defeatsThe darkness and the rain that ravesAbove the all-unheeding graves.
All night the rain-gusts shook the leavesAround my window; and the blastRumbled the flickering flue, and fastThe storm streamed from the dripping eaves.As if—’neath skies gone mad with fear—The witches’ Sabboth galloped past,The forests leapt like startled deer.All night I heard the sweeping sleet;And when the morning came, as slowAs pale affliction, with the woeOf all the world dragged at her feet,No spear of purple shattered throughThe dark-gray of the east; no bowOf gold, whose arrows cleft the blue.But rain, that whipped the windows; filledThe spouts with rushing; and aroundThe garden stamped, and sowed the groundWith limbs and leaves; the wood-pool filledWith overgurgling.—Bleak and coldThe fields looked, where the foot-path woundThrough teasel and bur-marigold....Yet there is kindness in such daysOf gloom, that doth console regretWith sympathy of tears, which wetOld eyes that watch the back-log blaze—A kindness, alien to the deepGlad blue of sunny days that letNo thought in of the lives that weep.
All night the rain-gusts shook the leavesAround my window; and the blastRumbled the flickering flue, and fastThe storm streamed from the dripping eaves.As if—’neath skies gone mad with fear—The witches’ Sabboth galloped past,The forests leapt like startled deer.All night I heard the sweeping sleet;And when the morning came, as slowAs pale affliction, with the woeOf all the world dragged at her feet,No spear of purple shattered throughThe dark-gray of the east; no bowOf gold, whose arrows cleft the blue.But rain, that whipped the windows; filledThe spouts with rushing; and aroundThe garden stamped, and sowed the groundWith limbs and leaves; the wood-pool filledWith overgurgling.—Bleak and coldThe fields looked, where the foot-path woundThrough teasel and bur-marigold....Yet there is kindness in such daysOf gloom, that doth console regretWith sympathy of tears, which wetOld eyes that watch the back-log blaze—A kindness, alien to the deepGlad blue of sunny days that letNo thought in of the lives that weep.
All night the rain-gusts shook the leavesAround my window; and the blastRumbled the flickering flue, and fastThe storm streamed from the dripping eaves.As if—’neath skies gone mad with fear—The witches’ Sabboth galloped past,The forests leapt like startled deer.
All night I heard the sweeping sleet;And when the morning came, as slowAs pale affliction, with the woeOf all the world dragged at her feet,No spear of purple shattered throughThe dark-gray of the east; no bowOf gold, whose arrows cleft the blue.
But rain, that whipped the windows; filledThe spouts with rushing; and aroundThe garden stamped, and sowed the groundWith limbs and leaves; the wood-pool filledWith overgurgling.—Bleak and coldThe fields looked, where the foot-path woundThrough teasel and bur-marigold....
Yet there is kindness in such daysOf gloom, that doth console regretWith sympathy of tears, which wetOld eyes that watch the back-log blaze—A kindness, alien to the deepGlad blue of sunny days that letNo thought in of the lives that weep.
This dawn, through which the Autumn glowers,—As might a face within our sleep,With stone-gray eyes that weep and weep,And wet brows bound with sodden flowers,—Is sunset to some sister land;A land of ruins and of palms;Rich sunset, crimson with long calms,—Whose burning belt low mountains bar,—That sees some brown Rebecca standBeside a well the camel-bandWinds down to ’neath the evening-star.O sunset, sister to this dawn!O dawn, whose face is turned away!Who gazest not upon this day,But back upon the day that’s gone!Enamored so of loveliness,The retrospect of what thou wast,Oh, to thyself the present trust!And as thy past make beautifulWith hues, that never can grow less!Waiting thy pleasure to expressNew beauty, lest the world grow dull.
This dawn, through which the Autumn glowers,—As might a face within our sleep,With stone-gray eyes that weep and weep,And wet brows bound with sodden flowers,—Is sunset to some sister land;A land of ruins and of palms;Rich sunset, crimson with long calms,—Whose burning belt low mountains bar,—That sees some brown Rebecca standBeside a well the camel-bandWinds down to ’neath the evening-star.O sunset, sister to this dawn!O dawn, whose face is turned away!Who gazest not upon this day,But back upon the day that’s gone!Enamored so of loveliness,The retrospect of what thou wast,Oh, to thyself the present trust!And as thy past make beautifulWith hues, that never can grow less!Waiting thy pleasure to expressNew beauty, lest the world grow dull.
This dawn, through which the Autumn glowers,—As might a face within our sleep,With stone-gray eyes that weep and weep,And wet brows bound with sodden flowers,—Is sunset to some sister land;A land of ruins and of palms;Rich sunset, crimson with long calms,—Whose burning belt low mountains bar,—That sees some brown Rebecca standBeside a well the camel-bandWinds down to ’neath the evening-star.
O sunset, sister to this dawn!O dawn, whose face is turned away!Who gazest not upon this day,But back upon the day that’s gone!Enamored so of loveliness,The retrospect of what thou wast,Oh, to thyself the present trust!And as thy past make beautifulWith hues, that never can grow less!Waiting thy pleasure to expressNew beauty, lest the world grow dull.
At daybreak from the woodland comeEchoes of hunting; or the chopOf some far woodman’s axe, that cleavesThe tingling oak, whose russet leavesDrop slowly where the white chips drop:The air is fragrant with the loam,Where, through the mists of steaming gold,The sudden sun strikes fold on fold.Out of the window, filmed with fog,I look into the wreck which wasThe kitchen-garden, drenched with rain;Among the death I mark againOne blue convolvulus—that drawsA gray vignette along a log,With pencilled tendrils washed and wan—The garden-story’s colophon.
At daybreak from the woodland comeEchoes of hunting; or the chopOf some far woodman’s axe, that cleavesThe tingling oak, whose russet leavesDrop slowly where the white chips drop:The air is fragrant with the loam,Where, through the mists of steaming gold,The sudden sun strikes fold on fold.Out of the window, filmed with fog,I look into the wreck which wasThe kitchen-garden, drenched with rain;Among the death I mark againOne blue convolvulus—that drawsA gray vignette along a log,With pencilled tendrils washed and wan—The garden-story’s colophon.
At daybreak from the woodland comeEchoes of hunting; or the chopOf some far woodman’s axe, that cleavesThe tingling oak, whose russet leavesDrop slowly where the white chips drop:The air is fragrant with the loam,Where, through the mists of steaming gold,The sudden sun strikes fold on fold.Out of the window, filmed with fog,I look into the wreck which wasThe kitchen-garden, drenched with rain;Among the death I mark againOne blue convolvulus—that drawsA gray vignette along a log,With pencilled tendrils washed and wan—The garden-story’s colophon.
More storm than calm, less gold than gray,Along the years our lives must tread,Makes sad the scenes around our way,Makes grave the heavens overhead:For on life’s storied page, behold,Are adumbrations of the dead!The neutral tint Time’s fingers layAround a tale that’s never told.Time writes with sunshine less than rain,With starlight less than mist, the scroll—A thousand memories of painTo one of joy—of his own soul:The golden hues of life occurIn his dim palimpsest, whose wholeDeath scrawls with dusty lines again,Making of all a leaden blur.
More storm than calm, less gold than gray,Along the years our lives must tread,Makes sad the scenes around our way,Makes grave the heavens overhead:For on life’s storied page, behold,Are adumbrations of the dead!The neutral tint Time’s fingers layAround a tale that’s never told.Time writes with sunshine less than rain,With starlight less than mist, the scroll—A thousand memories of painTo one of joy—of his own soul:The golden hues of life occurIn his dim palimpsest, whose wholeDeath scrawls with dusty lines again,Making of all a leaden blur.
More storm than calm, less gold than gray,Along the years our lives must tread,Makes sad the scenes around our way,Makes grave the heavens overhead:For on life’s storied page, behold,Are adumbrations of the dead!The neutral tint Time’s fingers layAround a tale that’s never told.
Time writes with sunshine less than rain,With starlight less than mist, the scroll—A thousand memories of painTo one of joy—of his own soul:The golden hues of life occurIn his dim palimpsest, whose wholeDeath scrawls with dusty lines again,Making of all a leaden blur.
Down in the woods a sorcerer,Out of rank rain and death, distils,—Through chill alembics of the air,—Aromas that brood everywhereAmong the dingles of the hills:The bitter myrrh of dead leaves fillsWet valleys (where the gaunt weeds bleach)With sodden scents of wood decay;—As if a spirit all the daySat breathing softly ’neath the beech.With other eyes I see her flit,The wood-witch of the wild perfumes,Among her sleepy owls,—that sit,A fluffy white, in crescent-litDim glens and opalescent glooms:—Where, for her magic, buds and bloomsMysterious perfumes, while she stands,A fragrant shadow, summoningThe eery odors that take wing,Like bubbles, from her rainy hands.
Down in the woods a sorcerer,Out of rank rain and death, distils,—Through chill alembics of the air,—Aromas that brood everywhereAmong the dingles of the hills:The bitter myrrh of dead leaves fillsWet valleys (where the gaunt weeds bleach)With sodden scents of wood decay;—As if a spirit all the daySat breathing softly ’neath the beech.With other eyes I see her flit,The wood-witch of the wild perfumes,Among her sleepy owls,—that sit,A fluffy white, in crescent-litDim glens and opalescent glooms:—Where, for her magic, buds and bloomsMysterious perfumes, while she stands,A fragrant shadow, summoningThe eery odors that take wing,Like bubbles, from her rainy hands.
Down in the woods a sorcerer,Out of rank rain and death, distils,—Through chill alembics of the air,—Aromas that brood everywhereAmong the dingles of the hills:The bitter myrrh of dead leaves fillsWet valleys (where the gaunt weeds bleach)With sodden scents of wood decay;—As if a spirit all the daySat breathing softly ’neath the beech.
With other eyes I see her flit,The wood-witch of the wild perfumes,Among her sleepy owls,—that sit,A fluffy white, in crescent-litDim glens and opalescent glooms:—Where, for her magic, buds and bloomsMysterious perfumes, while she stands,A fragrant shadow, summoningThe eery odors that take wing,Like bubbles, from her rainy hands.
With leagues of fog, which showed the sunAn agate-red without a ray,And drowned the world in ghostly gray,The chill, autumnal day begun:A phantom in the mist, a runFoamed over phantom ledges loneIn forests that seemed far away,Wild woods of immaterial stone.With horses saffron to the kneesA country cart drove through the fog;Its creaking wheels grown one great clogOf clay, and clanking swingletrees:Its smothered rumble did not ceaseTill hidden in the woodland mist,Where, leaning on his fresh-cut log,The muffled woodman blew his fist.Another world I wander inOf unlaid ghosts and dreams unfled;A twilight world of drowsy-headAnd mystery, built figment-thinBetween the worlds of death and sin:Where dim and strange and incomplete,And substanceless, seem things not dead,And sorrowful as dimly sweet.
With leagues of fog, which showed the sunAn agate-red without a ray,And drowned the world in ghostly gray,The chill, autumnal day begun:A phantom in the mist, a runFoamed over phantom ledges loneIn forests that seemed far away,Wild woods of immaterial stone.With horses saffron to the kneesA country cart drove through the fog;Its creaking wheels grown one great clogOf clay, and clanking swingletrees:Its smothered rumble did not ceaseTill hidden in the woodland mist,Where, leaning on his fresh-cut log,The muffled woodman blew his fist.Another world I wander inOf unlaid ghosts and dreams unfled;A twilight world of drowsy-headAnd mystery, built figment-thinBetween the worlds of death and sin:Where dim and strange and incomplete,And substanceless, seem things not dead,And sorrowful as dimly sweet.
With leagues of fog, which showed the sunAn agate-red without a ray,And drowned the world in ghostly gray,The chill, autumnal day begun:A phantom in the mist, a runFoamed over phantom ledges loneIn forests that seemed far away,Wild woods of immaterial stone.
With horses saffron to the kneesA country cart drove through the fog;Its creaking wheels grown one great clogOf clay, and clanking swingletrees:Its smothered rumble did not ceaseTill hidden in the woodland mist,Where, leaning on his fresh-cut log,The muffled woodman blew his fist.
Another world I wander inOf unlaid ghosts and dreams unfled;A twilight world of drowsy-headAnd mystery, built figment-thinBetween the worlds of death and sin:Where dim and strange and incomplete,And substanceless, seem things not dead,And sorrowful as dimly sweet.
Among the woods they call to me—The lights that haunt the strand and stream;Voices of such white ecstasyAs moves with hushed lips through a dream:They stand in nimbused radiances,Or flash with glittering limbs acrossTheir golden shadows on the moss,Or slip in silver through the trees.What love can give the heart in meMore hope and exaltation thanThe hand of light that tips the treeAnd beckons far from marts of man?That reaches foamy fingers throughThe broken ripple, and repliesWith sparkling speech of lips and eyesTo souls who seek and still pursue.
Among the woods they call to me—The lights that haunt the strand and stream;Voices of such white ecstasyAs moves with hushed lips through a dream:They stand in nimbused radiances,Or flash with glittering limbs acrossTheir golden shadows on the moss,Or slip in silver through the trees.What love can give the heart in meMore hope and exaltation thanThe hand of light that tips the treeAnd beckons far from marts of man?That reaches foamy fingers throughThe broken ripple, and repliesWith sparkling speech of lips and eyesTo souls who seek and still pursue.
Among the woods they call to me—The lights that haunt the strand and stream;Voices of such white ecstasyAs moves with hushed lips through a dream:They stand in nimbused radiances,Or flash with glittering limbs acrossTheir golden shadows on the moss,Or slip in silver through the trees.
What love can give the heart in meMore hope and exaltation thanThe hand of light that tips the treeAnd beckons far from marts of man?That reaches foamy fingers throughThe broken ripple, and repliesWith sparkling speech of lips and eyesTo souls who seek and still pursue.
Oh, bright the day, and calm and coolWith clouds, like cotton-fields that swoonBeneath the silver summer moon;And, quiet as a forest pool,—Where Autumn sits and combs her locks,And strews with rainbow leaves and roon,—The shadows rest upon the rocks.The sun pours airy amber onThe withered wood-ways, where the lateGreen-crickets’ shell-like wings vibrate:And, fainter than lost lines of dawn,The fields shine labyrinthed with rays,With gossamer-webs, that imitateCloud-figments, or a splintered haze.Beyond the yarrow’s meekness now,Wood-sorrel’s lowliness, and shyHepatica’s humility,The Year is grown: makes brave her browWith crowning crimson of the lands,And robes her limbs in cardinal dye,And by the lonely waters stands.
Oh, bright the day, and calm and coolWith clouds, like cotton-fields that swoonBeneath the silver summer moon;And, quiet as a forest pool,—Where Autumn sits and combs her locks,And strews with rainbow leaves and roon,—The shadows rest upon the rocks.The sun pours airy amber onThe withered wood-ways, where the lateGreen-crickets’ shell-like wings vibrate:And, fainter than lost lines of dawn,The fields shine labyrinthed with rays,With gossamer-webs, that imitateCloud-figments, or a splintered haze.Beyond the yarrow’s meekness now,Wood-sorrel’s lowliness, and shyHepatica’s humility,The Year is grown: makes brave her browWith crowning crimson of the lands,And robes her limbs in cardinal dye,And by the lonely waters stands.
Oh, bright the day, and calm and coolWith clouds, like cotton-fields that swoonBeneath the silver summer moon;And, quiet as a forest pool,—Where Autumn sits and combs her locks,And strews with rainbow leaves and roon,—The shadows rest upon the rocks.
The sun pours airy amber onThe withered wood-ways, where the lateGreen-crickets’ shell-like wings vibrate:And, fainter than lost lines of dawn,The fields shine labyrinthed with rays,With gossamer-webs, that imitateCloud-figments, or a splintered haze.
Beyond the yarrow’s meekness now,Wood-sorrel’s lowliness, and shyHepatica’s humility,The Year is grown: makes brave her browWith crowning crimson of the lands,And robes her limbs in cardinal dye,And by the lonely waters stands.
Pure thought-creations of the mind,Within the circle of the soul,—The emanations that controlLife to its God-predestined goal,—Are spirit shapes no flesh can bind:Within the soul desire ordainsAchievements which the will constrains;And far above us, on before,Our thoughts—a beautiful people—soar,To wait us on celestial plains.So Nature pours her thoughts in forms—Realities we move among—Of fragrance, color, and of song;Sense emanations which belong,Invisible, to spiritual charms;The sensuous substance of her thoughtFrom immaterial matter wrought—Matter, which death can not annul,That constitutes the Beautiful,And, dead, repeats itself from naught.
Pure thought-creations of the mind,Within the circle of the soul,—The emanations that controlLife to its God-predestined goal,—Are spirit shapes no flesh can bind:Within the soul desire ordainsAchievements which the will constrains;And far above us, on before,Our thoughts—a beautiful people—soar,To wait us on celestial plains.So Nature pours her thoughts in forms—Realities we move among—Of fragrance, color, and of song;Sense emanations which belong,Invisible, to spiritual charms;The sensuous substance of her thoughtFrom immaterial matter wrought—Matter, which death can not annul,That constitutes the Beautiful,And, dead, repeats itself from naught.
Pure thought-creations of the mind,Within the circle of the soul,—The emanations that controlLife to its God-predestined goal,—Are spirit shapes no flesh can bind:Within the soul desire ordainsAchievements which the will constrains;And far above us, on before,Our thoughts—a beautiful people—soar,To wait us on celestial plains.
So Nature pours her thoughts in forms—Realities we move among—Of fragrance, color, and of song;Sense emanations which belong,Invisible, to spiritual charms;The sensuous substance of her thoughtFrom immaterial matter wrought—Matter, which death can not annul,That constitutes the Beautiful,And, dead, repeats itself from naught.
Give me the streams, that counterfeitThe twilight of autumnal skies;The silent, shadowy waters, litWith fire like a woman’s eyes!Slow waters that, in autumn, glassThe scarlet-strewn and golden grass,And drink the sunset’s tawny dyes.Give me the pools, that lie amongThe centuried forests! give me those,Deep, dim, and sad as shadows hungDark ’neath the sunset’s sombre rose:Still pools, in whose vague mirrors look—Like ragged gipsies round a bookOf magic—trees in wild repose.No quiet thing, or innocent,Of water, earth, or air shall pleaseMy soul now: but the violentBetween the sunset and the trees:The fierce, the splendid, and intense,Like love matures in innocence,Like mighty music, give me these!
Give me the streams, that counterfeitThe twilight of autumnal skies;The silent, shadowy waters, litWith fire like a woman’s eyes!Slow waters that, in autumn, glassThe scarlet-strewn and golden grass,And drink the sunset’s tawny dyes.Give me the pools, that lie amongThe centuried forests! give me those,Deep, dim, and sad as shadows hungDark ’neath the sunset’s sombre rose:Still pools, in whose vague mirrors look—Like ragged gipsies round a bookOf magic—trees in wild repose.No quiet thing, or innocent,Of water, earth, or air shall pleaseMy soul now: but the violentBetween the sunset and the trees:The fierce, the splendid, and intense,Like love matures in innocence,Like mighty music, give me these!
Give me the streams, that counterfeitThe twilight of autumnal skies;The silent, shadowy waters, litWith fire like a woman’s eyes!Slow waters that, in autumn, glassThe scarlet-strewn and golden grass,And drink the sunset’s tawny dyes.
Give me the pools, that lie amongThe centuried forests! give me those,Deep, dim, and sad as shadows hungDark ’neath the sunset’s sombre rose:Still pools, in whose vague mirrors look—Like ragged gipsies round a bookOf magic—trees in wild repose.
No quiet thing, or innocent,Of water, earth, or air shall pleaseMy soul now: but the violentBetween the sunset and the trees:The fierce, the splendid, and intense,Like love matures in innocence,Like mighty music, give me these!
As Nature in herself resolvesAll parts of beauty to one whole,And from the perfect whole evolvesThe high ideas that controlAdvancement, till the time be ripeTo doff disguise and, type by type,Reveal the emanated soul:So should the Beautiful in manEvolve the best in him; to beThe lofty purpose life beganFor ends which only Heaven can see—The absolute, that sees how thoughtIts high ideal’s shape hath wroughtTo be its far affinity.
As Nature in herself resolvesAll parts of beauty to one whole,And from the perfect whole evolvesThe high ideas that controlAdvancement, till the time be ripeTo doff disguise and, type by type,Reveal the emanated soul:So should the Beautiful in manEvolve the best in him; to beThe lofty purpose life beganFor ends which only Heaven can see—The absolute, that sees how thoughtIts high ideal’s shape hath wroughtTo be its far affinity.
As Nature in herself resolvesAll parts of beauty to one whole,And from the perfect whole evolvesThe high ideas that controlAdvancement, till the time be ripeTo doff disguise and, type by type,Reveal the emanated soul:
So should the Beautiful in manEvolve the best in him; to beThe lofty purpose life beganFor ends which only Heaven can see—The absolute, that sees how thoughtIts high ideal’s shape hath wroughtTo be its far affinity.
I hold them here; they are no less;I see them still—the changeful graysOf threatening skies above the haze—My hills! that roll long, murmuring milesOf savage-painted wilderness,On which the saddened sunlight smiles;Or, like a fallen angel’s frown—Severe beneath a burning crown—Through sombre silvers, that oppressWith clouds its glory, rushes down.I hear the coming storm again;Again behold the streaming clouds;The autumn wind drives down and crowdsWild sibylline voices through the leaves,To whispering octaves of the rain:A wilder wind, vibrating, heavesVast music through the rolling woods—Upon my soul the grandeur broods,Like some archangel’s trumpet strain,Or organ-pomp that sweeps all moods.
I hold them here; they are no less;I see them still—the changeful graysOf threatening skies above the haze—My hills! that roll long, murmuring milesOf savage-painted wilderness,On which the saddened sunlight smiles;Or, like a fallen angel’s frown—Severe beneath a burning crown—Through sombre silvers, that oppressWith clouds its glory, rushes down.I hear the coming storm again;Again behold the streaming clouds;The autumn wind drives down and crowdsWild sibylline voices through the leaves,To whispering octaves of the rain:A wilder wind, vibrating, heavesVast music through the rolling woods—Upon my soul the grandeur broods,Like some archangel’s trumpet strain,Or organ-pomp that sweeps all moods.
I hold them here; they are no less;I see them still—the changeful graysOf threatening skies above the haze—My hills! that roll long, murmuring milesOf savage-painted wilderness,On which the saddened sunlight smiles;Or, like a fallen angel’s frown—Severe beneath a burning crown—Through sombre silvers, that oppressWith clouds its glory, rushes down.
I hear the coming storm again;Again behold the streaming clouds;The autumn wind drives down and crowdsWild sibylline voices through the leaves,To whispering octaves of the rain:A wilder wind, vibrating, heavesVast music through the rolling woods—Upon my soul the grandeur broods,Like some archangel’s trumpet strain,Or organ-pomp that sweeps all moods.
Such circumstance of passionate praiseHath no religion; and the creedsNo pomp of worship or of graceLike Nature’s, standing face to faceWith God, whose inmost thought she reads:No multitude of words she needs,Since all her worship is one wordOf love, like that creation heard.God leaves progression in her care:Through her it must materialize—Our Mother! with strong lips of prayer,Majestic-browed, with hands that bareImmortal fire from the skies:Who looks, with no evasive eyes,Through life, and, smiling, sees beneathThe beautiful, dark eyes of death.
Such circumstance of passionate praiseHath no religion; and the creedsNo pomp of worship or of graceLike Nature’s, standing face to faceWith God, whose inmost thought she reads:No multitude of words she needs,Since all her worship is one wordOf love, like that creation heard.God leaves progression in her care:Through her it must materialize—Our Mother! with strong lips of prayer,Majestic-browed, with hands that bareImmortal fire from the skies:Who looks, with no evasive eyes,Through life, and, smiling, sees beneathThe beautiful, dark eyes of death.
Such circumstance of passionate praiseHath no religion; and the creedsNo pomp of worship or of graceLike Nature’s, standing face to faceWith God, whose inmost thought she reads:No multitude of words she needs,Since all her worship is one wordOf love, like that creation heard.
God leaves progression in her care:Through her it must materialize—Our Mother! with strong lips of prayer,Majestic-browed, with hands that bareImmortal fire from the skies:Who looks, with no evasive eyes,Through life, and, smiling, sees beneathThe beautiful, dark eyes of death.
Between the sunset and the starsLong clouds lie—as fierce sachems loom,In war-paint and the eagle-plume,Among their wampumed warriors,When council fires burn red and setOn stoic cheeks the battle-bloom,That puff the smoking calumet.Beneath the stars and hunter’s-moonThe frost spreads ghostly pearls, that glanceLike dewy jewels in the danceThat whirls on fairied hills of June:The night is calm; no luminous veilConceals the spirit utteranceOf her dark beauty, pure and pale.
Between the sunset and the starsLong clouds lie—as fierce sachems loom,In war-paint and the eagle-plume,Among their wampumed warriors,When council fires burn red and setOn stoic cheeks the battle-bloom,That puff the smoking calumet.Beneath the stars and hunter’s-moonThe frost spreads ghostly pearls, that glanceLike dewy jewels in the danceThat whirls on fairied hills of June:The night is calm; no luminous veilConceals the spirit utteranceOf her dark beauty, pure and pale.
Between the sunset and the starsLong clouds lie—as fierce sachems loom,In war-paint and the eagle-plume,Among their wampumed warriors,When council fires burn red and setOn stoic cheeks the battle-bloom,That puff the smoking calumet.
Beneath the stars and hunter’s-moonThe frost spreads ghostly pearls, that glanceLike dewy jewels in the danceThat whirls on fairied hills of June:The night is calm; no luminous veilConceals the spirit utteranceOf her dark beauty, pure and pale.
I sat alone with song and sleep,And in the singing silence heardThe darkness draw from forth the deepWith star on star, like word on word:A sound of twilight and swift shadesMaterializing into night,Who hears the breaking waves of light,And towards the shores of morning wades.I sat alone with dawn and death,And in my waking vision sawThe form of silence, like a breathOf bodiless beauty and of awe,Whose sibyl eyes said unto meThe things the sealed lips would not word,That eons of the stars recordIn volumes of eternity.
I sat alone with song and sleep,And in the singing silence heardThe darkness draw from forth the deepWith star on star, like word on word:A sound of twilight and swift shadesMaterializing into night,Who hears the breaking waves of light,And towards the shores of morning wades.I sat alone with dawn and death,And in my waking vision sawThe form of silence, like a breathOf bodiless beauty and of awe,Whose sibyl eyes said unto meThe things the sealed lips would not word,That eons of the stars recordIn volumes of eternity.
I sat alone with song and sleep,And in the singing silence heardThe darkness draw from forth the deepWith star on star, like word on word:A sound of twilight and swift shadesMaterializing into night,Who hears the breaking waves of light,And towards the shores of morning wades.
I sat alone with dawn and death,And in my waking vision sawThe form of silence, like a breathOf bodiless beauty and of awe,Whose sibyl eyes said unto meThe things the sealed lips would not word,That eons of the stars recordIn volumes of eternity.
The dead gold of the marybud,The dusky, tarnished orange-redOf zinnias, flush the flower-bed,Like frosty autumn gleams that scudTempestuous dusks and stormy dawnsAbove the wind-dishevelled lawns.With tired eyes and heart grown grave,And thoughts more weary than the night,I watch the dwindling of the light,And hear the rising night-winds rave,As one might hear, when half asleep,Another self make moan and weep.
The dead gold of the marybud,The dusky, tarnished orange-redOf zinnias, flush the flower-bed,Like frosty autumn gleams that scudTempestuous dusks and stormy dawnsAbove the wind-dishevelled lawns.With tired eyes and heart grown grave,And thoughts more weary than the night,I watch the dwindling of the light,And hear the rising night-winds rave,As one might hear, when half asleep,Another self make moan and weep.
The dead gold of the marybud,The dusky, tarnished orange-redOf zinnias, flush the flower-bed,Like frosty autumn gleams that scudTempestuous dusks and stormy dawnsAbove the wind-dishevelled lawns.
With tired eyes and heart grown grave,And thoughts more weary than the night,I watch the dwindling of the light,And hear the rising night-winds rave,As one might hear, when half asleep,Another self make moan and weep.
Behold, the winds have speech and speak!The stars of heaven are eloquent!A voice within us bids us seekThe word the flowers say in scent:The paraclete encouragementOf beauty that the burning scrollsOf eve and morning give our souls.There is one language of the mart;Another of the rocks and trees:Unrest and greed is this one’s heart;The other’s heart is rest and peace:Within our souls we know of these;They lead us by the myths we love,Yet never see and know not of.
Behold, the winds have speech and speak!The stars of heaven are eloquent!A voice within us bids us seekThe word the flowers say in scent:The paraclete encouragementOf beauty that the burning scrollsOf eve and morning give our souls.There is one language of the mart;Another of the rocks and trees:Unrest and greed is this one’s heart;The other’s heart is rest and peace:Within our souls we know of these;They lead us by the myths we love,Yet never see and know not of.
Behold, the winds have speech and speak!The stars of heaven are eloquent!A voice within us bids us seekThe word the flowers say in scent:The paraclete encouragementOf beauty that the burning scrollsOf eve and morning give our souls.
There is one language of the mart;Another of the rocks and trees:Unrest and greed is this one’s heart;The other’s heart is rest and peace:Within our souls we know of these;They lead us by the myths we love,Yet never see and know not of.
When thorn-tree copses still were bareAnd black along the turbid brook;When catkined willows blurred and shookGreat tawny tangles in the air;In bottomlands, the first thaw makesAn oozy bog, beneath the trees,Prophetic of the spring that wakes,Sang the sonorous hylodes.Now that wild winds have stripped the thorn,And clogged with leaves the forest-creek;Now that the woods look brown and bleak,And webs are frosty white at morn;At night beneath the spectral sky,A far foreboding cry I hear—The wild-fowl calling as they fly?Or vague voice of the dying Year?
When thorn-tree copses still were bareAnd black along the turbid brook;When catkined willows blurred and shookGreat tawny tangles in the air;In bottomlands, the first thaw makesAn oozy bog, beneath the trees,Prophetic of the spring that wakes,Sang the sonorous hylodes.Now that wild winds have stripped the thorn,And clogged with leaves the forest-creek;Now that the woods look brown and bleak,And webs are frosty white at morn;At night beneath the spectral sky,A far foreboding cry I hear—The wild-fowl calling as they fly?Or vague voice of the dying Year?
When thorn-tree copses still were bareAnd black along the turbid brook;When catkined willows blurred and shookGreat tawny tangles in the air;In bottomlands, the first thaw makesAn oozy bog, beneath the trees,Prophetic of the spring that wakes,Sang the sonorous hylodes.
Now that wild winds have stripped the thorn,And clogged with leaves the forest-creek;Now that the woods look brown and bleak,And webs are frosty white at morn;At night beneath the spectral sky,A far foreboding cry I hear—The wild-fowl calling as they fly?Or vague voice of the dying Year?
Night,—who within heaven’s uttermostDark walls uncloses shadowy gates,—Beyond the Spirit of Light she hates,Speeds like a ghost before a ghostUpon the twilight-haunted coastOf death between the seas of sleep:Her lips are dumb with awe that hears;And in her eyes, that never weep,Is anguish of eternal tears.Out of the terrible gulfs of GodInto God’s awful deeps she goes,Revealing in heaven’s gold and roseThe ways her footsteps tread and trodFrom period to period:Her lips are still—for she hath heardGod’s voice that moves the universe:Her eyes are sad beyond the word—The eyes of Vastness gazed in hers.
Night,—who within heaven’s uttermostDark walls uncloses shadowy gates,—Beyond the Spirit of Light she hates,Speeds like a ghost before a ghostUpon the twilight-haunted coastOf death between the seas of sleep:Her lips are dumb with awe that hears;And in her eyes, that never weep,Is anguish of eternal tears.Out of the terrible gulfs of GodInto God’s awful deeps she goes,Revealing in heaven’s gold and roseThe ways her footsteps tread and trodFrom period to period:Her lips are still—for she hath heardGod’s voice that moves the universe:Her eyes are sad beyond the word—The eyes of Vastness gazed in hers.
Night,—who within heaven’s uttermostDark walls uncloses shadowy gates,—Beyond the Spirit of Light she hates,Speeds like a ghost before a ghostUpon the twilight-haunted coastOf death between the seas of sleep:Her lips are dumb with awe that hears;And in her eyes, that never weep,Is anguish of eternal tears.
Out of the terrible gulfs of GodInto God’s awful deeps she goes,Revealing in heaven’s gold and roseThe ways her footsteps tread and trodFrom period to period:Her lips are still—for she hath heardGod’s voice that moves the universe:Her eyes are sad beyond the word—The eyes of Vastness gazed in hers.
And still my soul holds phantom tryst,When chestnuts hiss among the coals,Upon the Evening of All Souls,When all the night is moon and mist,And all the world is mystery;I kiss dear lips that death hath kissed,And look in eyes no man may see,Filled with a love long lost to me.I hear the night-wind’s ghostly gloveFlutter the window: then the knobOf some dark door turn, with a sobAs when love comes to gaze on loveWho lies pale-coffined in a room:And then the iron gallop ofThe storm, who rides outside, his plumeSweeping the night with dread and gloom.So fancy takes my mind, and paintsThe darkness with eidolon light,And writes the deads’ romance in whiteOn the dim Evening of All Saints:Unheard the hissing nuts; the clinkOf falling coals, whose shadow faintsAround me where I sit and think,Borne far beyond the actual’s brink.
And still my soul holds phantom tryst,When chestnuts hiss among the coals,Upon the Evening of All Souls,When all the night is moon and mist,And all the world is mystery;I kiss dear lips that death hath kissed,And look in eyes no man may see,Filled with a love long lost to me.I hear the night-wind’s ghostly gloveFlutter the window: then the knobOf some dark door turn, with a sobAs when love comes to gaze on loveWho lies pale-coffined in a room:And then the iron gallop ofThe storm, who rides outside, his plumeSweeping the night with dread and gloom.So fancy takes my mind, and paintsThe darkness with eidolon light,And writes the deads’ romance in whiteOn the dim Evening of All Saints:Unheard the hissing nuts; the clinkOf falling coals, whose shadow faintsAround me where I sit and think,Borne far beyond the actual’s brink.
And still my soul holds phantom tryst,When chestnuts hiss among the coals,Upon the Evening of All Souls,When all the night is moon and mist,And all the world is mystery;I kiss dear lips that death hath kissed,And look in eyes no man may see,Filled with a love long lost to me.
I hear the night-wind’s ghostly gloveFlutter the window: then the knobOf some dark door turn, with a sobAs when love comes to gaze on loveWho lies pale-coffined in a room:And then the iron gallop ofThe storm, who rides outside, his plumeSweeping the night with dread and gloom.
So fancy takes my mind, and paintsThe darkness with eidolon light,And writes the deads’ romance in whiteOn the dim Evening of All Saints:Unheard the hissing nuts; the clinkOf falling coals, whose shadow faintsAround me where I sit and think,Borne far beyond the actual’s brink.
No thing occult of Heaven or Earth,Or influence of such, I feelBut hath a meaning and a worthGod, in His wisdom, doth conceal:Reflections of another birth,Existent with and kin to ours,Announcing through supernal powersFacts of a world it would reveal.In Nature I perceive it, too,This other life I can not see:A spirit sparkles in the dew,The trees have tongues that speak to me:That Earth is green and Heaven, blue,The sight alone may satisfy;The soul sees with a different eyeThe meaning ’neath the mystery.
No thing occult of Heaven or Earth,Or influence of such, I feelBut hath a meaning and a worthGod, in His wisdom, doth conceal:Reflections of another birth,Existent with and kin to ours,Announcing through supernal powersFacts of a world it would reveal.In Nature I perceive it, too,This other life I can not see:A spirit sparkles in the dew,The trees have tongues that speak to me:That Earth is green and Heaven, blue,The sight alone may satisfy;The soul sees with a different eyeThe meaning ’neath the mystery.
No thing occult of Heaven or Earth,Or influence of such, I feelBut hath a meaning and a worthGod, in His wisdom, doth conceal:Reflections of another birth,Existent with and kin to ours,Announcing through supernal powersFacts of a world it would reveal.
In Nature I perceive it, too,This other life I can not see:A spirit sparkles in the dew,The trees have tongues that speak to me:That Earth is green and Heaven, blue,The sight alone may satisfy;The soul sees with a different eyeThe meaning ’neath the mystery.
The shadow of uncertain thingsAnd all unearthly whisperings,—That premonitions death and blight,—Leans from the sepulchre of night;And on the Earth fall shadowings;And prophecies of near decay;But, lovelier than a dead delight,The starlit skies of glittering gray.Still shall the Season claim and keepHer wild-girl beauty; doubly deepThe purport of her dreams shall riseOut of her heart into her eyes,Till very dreaming makes her weep;And death, with pale, pure lips and arms,Shall touch her from the frosty skies,Making a memory of her charms.
The shadow of uncertain thingsAnd all unearthly whisperings,—That premonitions death and blight,—Leans from the sepulchre of night;And on the Earth fall shadowings;And prophecies of near decay;But, lovelier than a dead delight,The starlit skies of glittering gray.Still shall the Season claim and keepHer wild-girl beauty; doubly deepThe purport of her dreams shall riseOut of her heart into her eyes,Till very dreaming makes her weep;And death, with pale, pure lips and arms,Shall touch her from the frosty skies,Making a memory of her charms.
The shadow of uncertain thingsAnd all unearthly whisperings,—That premonitions death and blight,—Leans from the sepulchre of night;And on the Earth fall shadowings;And prophecies of near decay;But, lovelier than a dead delight,The starlit skies of glittering gray.Still shall the Season claim and keepHer wild-girl beauty; doubly deepThe purport of her dreams shall riseOut of her heart into her eyes,Till very dreaming makes her weep;And death, with pale, pure lips and arms,Shall touch her from the frosty skies,Making a memory of her charms.
Sometime shall Beauty hide no moreThe fair conceptions she conceivesBeneath the abstract veil she weavesBefore her face the few adore;The self-denying few, who longLive lofty lives of art and song,And, dying, leave the world less poor.No more are these alone when she,From the subjective world she rules,Confronts the falsehood of the schoolsWith her high front of purity:And on the dark and general wayLets fall her individual rayThat low as well as high may see.
Sometime shall Beauty hide no moreThe fair conceptions she conceivesBeneath the abstract veil she weavesBefore her face the few adore;The self-denying few, who longLive lofty lives of art and song,And, dying, leave the world less poor.No more are these alone when she,From the subjective world she rules,Confronts the falsehood of the schoolsWith her high front of purity:And on the dark and general wayLets fall her individual rayThat low as well as high may see.
Sometime shall Beauty hide no moreThe fair conceptions she conceivesBeneath the abstract veil she weavesBefore her face the few adore;The self-denying few, who longLive lofty lives of art and song,And, dying, leave the world less poor.
No more are these alone when she,From the subjective world she rules,Confronts the falsehood of the schoolsWith her high front of purity:And on the dark and general wayLets fall her individual rayThat low as well as high may see.
The ghost of what was lovelinessSits in the waning woods, with bareAnd bleeding feet, and wintry hair,And brows the thorns of care distress;She makes a passion of despairAnd, Rachel-like, with eyes wept red,Refuses to be comforted.To funeral torches for the Year,Tree by tall tree, the forests turned;Then, fiery coals in ashes, burnedA few last leaves among the sear;Where, robed in purple pomp, she yearnedTo die, like some sad queen, and diedCrowned with magnificence and pride.
The ghost of what was lovelinessSits in the waning woods, with bareAnd bleeding feet, and wintry hair,And brows the thorns of care distress;She makes a passion of despairAnd, Rachel-like, with eyes wept red,Refuses to be comforted.To funeral torches for the Year,Tree by tall tree, the forests turned;Then, fiery coals in ashes, burnedA few last leaves among the sear;Where, robed in purple pomp, she yearnedTo die, like some sad queen, and diedCrowned with magnificence and pride.
The ghost of what was lovelinessSits in the waning woods, with bareAnd bleeding feet, and wintry hair,And brows the thorns of care distress;She makes a passion of despairAnd, Rachel-like, with eyes wept red,Refuses to be comforted.
To funeral torches for the Year,Tree by tall tree, the forests turned;Then, fiery coals in ashes, burnedA few last leaves among the sear;Where, robed in purple pomp, she yearnedTo die, like some sad queen, and diedCrowned with magnificence and pride.
She meets us with impressive handsAnd eyes of earnest emphasisBetween the known and unknown lands,And fills our souls with untold bliss,This spirit of the solitudeNamed Meditation; thought-imbued,On whom all beauty ministers;Whose silent, dreaming worshipersLay unresisting hands in hers,Knowing their hearts are understood.The holy harp she holds and smitesWas tuned among concordant spheres;The heavenly pen with which she writesWas dipped in angel smiles and tears:Between her eyebrows and her eyesThe starry stamp of silence lies;Between her symboled lips and tongue,The song the stars of morning sung:To this her heavenly harp is strung,In that her holy pen is wise.
She meets us with impressive handsAnd eyes of earnest emphasisBetween the known and unknown lands,And fills our souls with untold bliss,This spirit of the solitudeNamed Meditation; thought-imbued,On whom all beauty ministers;Whose silent, dreaming worshipersLay unresisting hands in hers,Knowing their hearts are understood.The holy harp she holds and smitesWas tuned among concordant spheres;The heavenly pen with which she writesWas dipped in angel smiles and tears:Between her eyebrows and her eyesThe starry stamp of silence lies;Between her symboled lips and tongue,The song the stars of morning sung:To this her heavenly harp is strung,In that her holy pen is wise.
She meets us with impressive handsAnd eyes of earnest emphasisBetween the known and unknown lands,And fills our souls with untold bliss,This spirit of the solitudeNamed Meditation; thought-imbued,On whom all beauty ministers;Whose silent, dreaming worshipersLay unresisting hands in hers,Knowing their hearts are understood.
The holy harp she holds and smitesWas tuned among concordant spheres;The heavenly pen with which she writesWas dipped in angel smiles and tears:Between her eyebrows and her eyesThe starry stamp of silence lies;Between her symboled lips and tongue,The song the stars of morning sung:To this her heavenly harp is strung,In that her holy pen is wise.
Again the night is wild with rain;Again distracted with the gale:Upon the hills I hear a wailOf lamentation and of pain,As when, on some high burial-place,Moaning among the windy graves,The Indian squaws lament the braves,Who fell in battle for their race.Another day of storm shall dawnWithin the east; and, darkly lit,Like one, with brows abstraction-knit,Absorbed in moody thought, pass on.—Bear not too hard, is all I ask,Upon the hearts that toil and yearn,O day of clouds! but swiftly turnTo sunshine all your frowning mask.
Again the night is wild with rain;Again distracted with the gale:Upon the hills I hear a wailOf lamentation and of pain,As when, on some high burial-place,Moaning among the windy graves,The Indian squaws lament the braves,Who fell in battle for their race.Another day of storm shall dawnWithin the east; and, darkly lit,Like one, with brows abstraction-knit,Absorbed in moody thought, pass on.—Bear not too hard, is all I ask,Upon the hearts that toil and yearn,O day of clouds! but swiftly turnTo sunshine all your frowning mask.
Again the night is wild with rain;Again distracted with the gale:Upon the hills I hear a wailOf lamentation and of pain,As when, on some high burial-place,Moaning among the windy graves,The Indian squaws lament the braves,Who fell in battle for their race.
Another day of storm shall dawnWithin the east; and, darkly lit,Like one, with brows abstraction-knit,Absorbed in moody thought, pass on.—Bear not too hard, is all I ask,Upon the hearts that toil and yearn,O day of clouds! but swiftly turnTo sunshine all your frowning mask.
No wind is this which cries forlornAround the hilltops and the woods!—Earth, weary of her multitudesOf dead, despairing of the morn,Calls through illimitable nightThe wailing words no thing may know;Deep in her memory-haunted sightSleeps no remembrance of delight,But death and everlasting woe.No wind! a voice whose sense is form;A form whose sense is but a sound;That smites the constant skies around,And shakes the steadfast hills with storm:Adown life’s desolate deep it criesThe words death’s sterile lips must learnFrom Law, the Law that never dies—Such utterless, wild speech as sighsIn stone and cinerary urn.
No wind is this which cries forlornAround the hilltops and the woods!—Earth, weary of her multitudesOf dead, despairing of the morn,Calls through illimitable nightThe wailing words no thing may know;Deep in her memory-haunted sightSleeps no remembrance of delight,But death and everlasting woe.No wind! a voice whose sense is form;A form whose sense is but a sound;That smites the constant skies around,And shakes the steadfast hills with storm:Adown life’s desolate deep it criesThe words death’s sterile lips must learnFrom Law, the Law that never dies—Such utterless, wild speech as sighsIn stone and cinerary urn.
No wind is this which cries forlornAround the hilltops and the woods!—Earth, weary of her multitudesOf dead, despairing of the morn,Calls through illimitable nightThe wailing words no thing may know;Deep in her memory-haunted sightSleeps no remembrance of delight,But death and everlasting woe.
No wind! a voice whose sense is form;A form whose sense is but a sound;That smites the constant skies around,And shakes the steadfast hills with storm:Adown life’s desolate deep it criesThe words death’s sterile lips must learnFrom Law, the Law that never dies—Such utterless, wild speech as sighsIn stone and cinerary urn.
I heard the wind, before the mornStretched gaunt, gray fingers ’thwart my pane,Drive clouds down, a dark dragon train;Its iron visor closed, a hornOf steel from out the north it wound.—No morn like yesterday’s! whose mouth,A cool carnation, from the southBreathed through a golden reed the soundOf days that drop clear gold uponCerulean silver floors of dawn.And all of yesterday is lostAnd swallowed in to-day’s wild light—The birth deformed of day and night,The illegitimate, who costIts mother secret tears and sighs;Unlovely since unloved; and chilledWith sorrows and the shame that filledIts parents’ love; which was not wiseIn passion as the night and dayThat yestermorn made heaven all ray.
I heard the wind, before the mornStretched gaunt, gray fingers ’thwart my pane,Drive clouds down, a dark dragon train;Its iron visor closed, a hornOf steel from out the north it wound.—No morn like yesterday’s! whose mouth,A cool carnation, from the southBreathed through a golden reed the soundOf days that drop clear gold uponCerulean silver floors of dawn.And all of yesterday is lostAnd swallowed in to-day’s wild light—The birth deformed of day and night,The illegitimate, who costIts mother secret tears and sighs;Unlovely since unloved; and chilledWith sorrows and the shame that filledIts parents’ love; which was not wiseIn passion as the night and dayThat yestermorn made heaven all ray.
I heard the wind, before the mornStretched gaunt, gray fingers ’thwart my pane,Drive clouds down, a dark dragon train;Its iron visor closed, a hornOf steel from out the north it wound.—No morn like yesterday’s! whose mouth,A cool carnation, from the southBreathed through a golden reed the soundOf days that drop clear gold uponCerulean silver floors of dawn.
And all of yesterday is lostAnd swallowed in to-day’s wild light—The birth deformed of day and night,The illegitimate, who costIts mother secret tears and sighs;Unlovely since unloved; and chilledWith sorrows and the shame that filledIts parents’ love; which was not wiseIn passion as the night and dayThat yestermorn made heaven all ray.
We know not of one mood that’s hers,Or glad or grave, which has not drawnIts source from God’s deep universe,As th’ hours draw the day from dawn—Nature’s! who holds us quietlyBut earnestly, as by a spell,Whose contact with us seems to beActual and yet intangible.In us she thus asserts her claimsOf kinship and divine control;God-teacher of exalted aims,The high consents of heart and soul:Imperfectly man sees and feels,Through earthly mediums of his fate,The premonitions she revealsFor issues that shall elevate.
We know not of one mood that’s hers,Or glad or grave, which has not drawnIts source from God’s deep universe,As th’ hours draw the day from dawn—Nature’s! who holds us quietlyBut earnestly, as by a spell,Whose contact with us seems to beActual and yet intangible.In us she thus asserts her claimsOf kinship and divine control;God-teacher of exalted aims,The high consents of heart and soul:Imperfectly man sees and feels,Through earthly mediums of his fate,The premonitions she revealsFor issues that shall elevate.
We know not of one mood that’s hers,Or glad or grave, which has not drawnIts source from God’s deep universe,As th’ hours draw the day from dawn—Nature’s! who holds us quietlyBut earnestly, as by a spell,Whose contact with us seems to beActual and yet intangible.
In us she thus asserts her claimsOf kinship and divine control;God-teacher of exalted aims,The high consents of heart and soul:Imperfectly man sees and feels,Through earthly mediums of his fate,The premonitions she revealsFor issues that shall elevate.
Down through the dark, indignant trees,On indistinguishable wingsOf storm, the wind of evening swings;Before its insane anger fleesDistracted leaf and the shattered bough:There is a rushing, as when seasOf thunder beat an iron prowOn reefs of wrath and roaring wreck:’Mid stormy leaves, a hurrying speckOf flickering blackness, driven by,A mad bat whirls along the sky.Like some sad shadow, in the eve’sDeep melancholy—visibleAs by some strange and twilight spell—A gaunt girl stands among the leaves,The night-wind in her dolorous dress:Symbolic of the life that grieves,Of toil that patience makes not less,Her load of faggots fallen there.—A wilder shadow sweeps the air,And she is gone: Was it the dumbEidolon of the month to come?
Down through the dark, indignant trees,On indistinguishable wingsOf storm, the wind of evening swings;Before its insane anger fleesDistracted leaf and the shattered bough:There is a rushing, as when seasOf thunder beat an iron prowOn reefs of wrath and roaring wreck:’Mid stormy leaves, a hurrying speckOf flickering blackness, driven by,A mad bat whirls along the sky.Like some sad shadow, in the eve’sDeep melancholy—visibleAs by some strange and twilight spell—A gaunt girl stands among the leaves,The night-wind in her dolorous dress:Symbolic of the life that grieves,Of toil that patience makes not less,Her load of faggots fallen there.—A wilder shadow sweeps the air,And she is gone: Was it the dumbEidolon of the month to come?
Down through the dark, indignant trees,On indistinguishable wingsOf storm, the wind of evening swings;Before its insane anger fleesDistracted leaf and the shattered bough:There is a rushing, as when seasOf thunder beat an iron prowOn reefs of wrath and roaring wreck:’Mid stormy leaves, a hurrying speckOf flickering blackness, driven by,A mad bat whirls along the sky.
Like some sad shadow, in the eve’sDeep melancholy—visibleAs by some strange and twilight spell—A gaunt girl stands among the leaves,The night-wind in her dolorous dress:Symbolic of the life that grieves,Of toil that patience makes not less,Her load of faggots fallen there.—A wilder shadow sweeps the air,And she is gone: Was it the dumbEidolon of the month to come?
No songs but what are sorrowfulAnd sweet in pensive notes and words,Shall fill my heart,—as singing birdsMight build a nest within a skull....The nun-like days, in stoles of white,Chant requiems for the dying Year:The monk-like nights about her bier,In cowls of black, with lights that blear,The service for the dead recite.Into my soul the litaniesOf life and death strike golden bars:I hear the far, responding stars,—Uttering themselves within the skies,—Reverberate from cause to causeResults that terminate in man;From world to world, the rounding planOf change,—God’s mighty artisan,—Of which both life and death are laws.
No songs but what are sorrowfulAnd sweet in pensive notes and words,Shall fill my heart,—as singing birdsMight build a nest within a skull....The nun-like days, in stoles of white,Chant requiems for the dying Year:The monk-like nights about her bier,In cowls of black, with lights that blear,The service for the dead recite.Into my soul the litaniesOf life and death strike golden bars:I hear the far, responding stars,—Uttering themselves within the skies,—Reverberate from cause to causeResults that terminate in man;From world to world, the rounding planOf change,—God’s mighty artisan,—Of which both life and death are laws.
No songs but what are sorrowfulAnd sweet in pensive notes and words,Shall fill my heart,—as singing birdsMight build a nest within a skull....The nun-like days, in stoles of white,Chant requiems for the dying Year:The monk-like nights about her bier,In cowls of black, with lights that blear,The service for the dead recite.Into my soul the litaniesOf life and death strike golden bars:I hear the far, responding stars,—Uttering themselves within the skies,—Reverberate from cause to causeResults that terminate in man;From world to world, the rounding planOf change,—God’s mighty artisan,—Of which both life and death are laws.
No sunlight strews with gold the plain;No moonlight stains the hill with white;Clouds, sullen with the undropped rain,And motionless with unspent spite,Dome deep with uninvaded grayThe dull, ignoble term of day,The duller period of night.Yea, ev’n the mad, marauding Wind,Who whipped his wild steeds east and west,Whose whirlwind wheels rolled down and dinnedAlong the booming forest’s crest,Lies dead upon his mountains, whereHis sister Breezes beat the breastSighing through their unshaken hair.
No sunlight strews with gold the plain;No moonlight stains the hill with white;Clouds, sullen with the undropped rain,And motionless with unspent spite,Dome deep with uninvaded grayThe dull, ignoble term of day,The duller period of night.Yea, ev’n the mad, marauding Wind,Who whipped his wild steeds east and west,Whose whirlwind wheels rolled down and dinnedAlong the booming forest’s crest,Lies dead upon his mountains, whereHis sister Breezes beat the breastSighing through their unshaken hair.
No sunlight strews with gold the plain;No moonlight stains the hill with white;Clouds, sullen with the undropped rain,And motionless with unspent spite,Dome deep with uninvaded grayThe dull, ignoble term of day,The duller period of night.
Yea, ev’n the mad, marauding Wind,Who whipped his wild steeds east and west,Whose whirlwind wheels rolled down and dinnedAlong the booming forest’s crest,Lies dead upon his mountains, whereHis sister Breezes beat the breastSighing through their unshaken hair.
The griefs of Nature, like her joys,Are placid and yet passionate;These, in her heart which knows no hate,She for the beautiful employs....Behold how thoughts of happinessRainbow the tears on sorrow’s face!Upon, the brow of joy no lessAureates the light of seriousness!Each to the other lending grace.Oh, tenderness of grief that knowsSome happiness still lies before!That for the rose that blooms no moreWill bloom a no less perfect rose!Oh, pensiveness of joy that takesSweet dignity from grief that died!Remembering that though morning shakesHer bright locks from blue eyes and wakes,Night sleeps on the same mountain side.
The griefs of Nature, like her joys,Are placid and yet passionate;These, in her heart which knows no hate,She for the beautiful employs....Behold how thoughts of happinessRainbow the tears on sorrow’s face!Upon, the brow of joy no lessAureates the light of seriousness!Each to the other lending grace.Oh, tenderness of grief that knowsSome happiness still lies before!That for the rose that blooms no moreWill bloom a no less perfect rose!Oh, pensiveness of joy that takesSweet dignity from grief that died!Remembering that though morning shakesHer bright locks from blue eyes and wakes,Night sleeps on the same mountain side.
The griefs of Nature, like her joys,Are placid and yet passionate;These, in her heart which knows no hate,She for the beautiful employs....Behold how thoughts of happinessRainbow the tears on sorrow’s face!Upon, the brow of joy no lessAureates the light of seriousness!Each to the other lending grace.
Oh, tenderness of grief that knowsSome happiness still lies before!That for the rose that blooms no moreWill bloom a no less perfect rose!Oh, pensiveness of joy that takesSweet dignity from grief that died!Remembering that though morning shakesHer bright locks from blue eyes and wakes,Night sleeps on the same mountain side.