Winds that cavern heaven and the cloudsAnd canyon with cerulean blue,—Great rifts down which the stormy sunlight crowdsLike some bright seraph, who,Mailed in intensity of silver mail,Flashes his splendor over hill and vale,—Now tramp, tremendous, the loud forest through:Or now, like mighty runners in a race,That swing, long pace to pace,Sweep round the hills, fresh as, at dawn’s first start,They swept, dew-dripping, fromThe crystal-crimson ruby of her heart,Shouting the dim world dumb.And with their passage the gray and greenOf the earth’s washed clean;And the cleansing breath of their might is wingsAnd warm aroma we know as Spring’s,And sap and strength to her bourgeonings.
Winds that cavern heaven and the cloudsAnd canyon with cerulean blue,—Great rifts down which the stormy sunlight crowdsLike some bright seraph, who,Mailed in intensity of silver mail,Flashes his splendor over hill and vale,—Now tramp, tremendous, the loud forest through:Or now, like mighty runners in a race,That swing, long pace to pace,Sweep round the hills, fresh as, at dawn’s first start,They swept, dew-dripping, fromThe crystal-crimson ruby of her heart,Shouting the dim world dumb.And with their passage the gray and greenOf the earth’s washed clean;And the cleansing breath of their might is wingsAnd warm aroma we know as Spring’s,And sap and strength to her bourgeonings.
Winds that cavern heaven and the cloudsAnd canyon with cerulean blue,—Great rifts down which the stormy sunlight crowdsLike some bright seraph, who,Mailed in intensity of silver mail,Flashes his splendor over hill and vale,—Now tramp, tremendous, the loud forest through:Or now, like mighty runners in a race,That swing, long pace to pace,Sweep round the hills, fresh as, at dawn’s first start,They swept, dew-dripping, fromThe crystal-crimson ruby of her heart,Shouting the dim world dumb.And with their passage the gray and greenOf the earth’s washed clean;And the cleansing breath of their might is wingsAnd warm aroma we know as Spring’s,And sap and strength to her bourgeonings.
My brow I bareTo the cool, clean air,That blows from the crests of the clouds that roll,Pearl-piled and berged as floes of Northern Seas,Banked gray and thunder-lowBig in the heaven’s peace;Clouds, borne from nowhere that we know,With nowhere for their goal;With here and there a silvery glowOf sunlight chasming deeps of sombre snow,Great gulfs that overflowWith sky, a sapphire-blue,Or opal, sapphire-kissed,Wide-welled and deep and swiftly rifting throughStratas of streaming mist;—Each opening like a pool,Serene, cerule,Set round with crag-like clouds ’mid which its eye gleams cool.
My brow I bareTo the cool, clean air,That blows from the crests of the clouds that roll,Pearl-piled and berged as floes of Northern Seas,Banked gray and thunder-lowBig in the heaven’s peace;Clouds, borne from nowhere that we know,With nowhere for their goal;With here and there a silvery glowOf sunlight chasming deeps of sombre snow,Great gulfs that overflowWith sky, a sapphire-blue,Or opal, sapphire-kissed,Wide-welled and deep and swiftly rifting throughStratas of streaming mist;—Each opening like a pool,Serene, cerule,Set round with crag-like clouds ’mid which its eye gleams cool.
My brow I bareTo the cool, clean air,That blows from the crests of the clouds that roll,Pearl-piled and berged as floes of Northern Seas,Banked gray and thunder-lowBig in the heaven’s peace;Clouds, borne from nowhere that we know,With nowhere for their goal;With here and there a silvery glowOf sunlight chasming deeps of sombre snow,Great gulfs that overflowWith sky, a sapphire-blue,Or opal, sapphire-kissed,Wide-welled and deep and swiftly rifting throughStratas of streaming mist;—Each opening like a pool,Serene, cerule,Set round with crag-like clouds ’mid which its eye gleams cool.
What blue is bluer than the bluebird’s blue!—’T is as if heaven itself sat on its wings;As if the sky in miniature it boreThe fields and forests through,Bringing the very heaven to our door;The daybreak of its back soft-wedded toThe sunset-auburn of its throat that sings.—The dithyrambics of the wind and rainStrive to, but can not, drown its strain:Again, and yet againI hear it where the maples tassel red,And blossoms of the crab round out o’erhead,And catkins make the willow-brakeA gossamer blur around the lakeThat lately was a stream,A little stream locked in its icy dream.
What blue is bluer than the bluebird’s blue!—’T is as if heaven itself sat on its wings;As if the sky in miniature it boreThe fields and forests through,Bringing the very heaven to our door;The daybreak of its back soft-wedded toThe sunset-auburn of its throat that sings.—The dithyrambics of the wind and rainStrive to, but can not, drown its strain:Again, and yet againI hear it where the maples tassel red,And blossoms of the crab round out o’erhead,And catkins make the willow-brakeA gossamer blur around the lakeThat lately was a stream,A little stream locked in its icy dream.
What blue is bluer than the bluebird’s blue!—’T is as if heaven itself sat on its wings;As if the sky in miniature it boreThe fields and forests through,Bringing the very heaven to our door;The daybreak of its back soft-wedded toThe sunset-auburn of its throat that sings.—The dithyrambics of the wind and rainStrive to, but can not, drown its strain:Again, and yet againI hear it where the maples tassel red,And blossoms of the crab round out o’erhead,And catkins make the willow-brakeA gossamer blur around the lakeThat lately was a stream,A little stream locked in its icy dream.
Invisible crystals of aërial ring,Against the wind I hear the bluebird flingIts notes; and where the oak’s mauve leaves uncurlI catch the skyey glitter of its wing;Its wing that lures me, like some magic charm,Far in the woodsAnd shadowy solitudes:And where the purple hills stretch under purple and pearlOf clouds that sweep and swirl,Its music seems to take material form;A form that beckons with cerulean armAnd bids me see and follow,Where, in the violet hollow,There at the wood’s far turn,On starry moss and fern,She shimmers, glimmering like a rainbowed shower,The Spirit of Spring,Diaphanous-limbed, who standsWith honeysuckle handsSowing the earth with many a firstling flower,Footed with fragrance of their blossoming,And clad in heaven as is the bluebird’s wing.
Invisible crystals of aërial ring,Against the wind I hear the bluebird flingIts notes; and where the oak’s mauve leaves uncurlI catch the skyey glitter of its wing;Its wing that lures me, like some magic charm,Far in the woodsAnd shadowy solitudes:And where the purple hills stretch under purple and pearlOf clouds that sweep and swirl,Its music seems to take material form;A form that beckons with cerulean armAnd bids me see and follow,Where, in the violet hollow,There at the wood’s far turn,On starry moss and fern,She shimmers, glimmering like a rainbowed shower,The Spirit of Spring,Diaphanous-limbed, who standsWith honeysuckle handsSowing the earth with many a firstling flower,Footed with fragrance of their blossoming,And clad in heaven as is the bluebird’s wing.
Invisible crystals of aërial ring,Against the wind I hear the bluebird flingIts notes; and where the oak’s mauve leaves uncurlI catch the skyey glitter of its wing;Its wing that lures me, like some magic charm,Far in the woodsAnd shadowy solitudes:And where the purple hills stretch under purple and pearlOf clouds that sweep and swirl,Its music seems to take material form;A form that beckons with cerulean armAnd bids me see and follow,Where, in the violet hollow,There at the wood’s far turn,On starry moss and fern,She shimmers, glimmering like a rainbowed shower,The Spirit of Spring,Diaphanous-limbed, who standsWith honeysuckle handsSowing the earth with many a firstling flower,Footed with fragrance of their blossoming,And clad in heaven as is the bluebird’s wing.
The tumult and the booming of the trees,Shaken with shoutings of the winds of March—No mightier music have I heard than these,—The rocking and the rushing of the trees,The organ-thunder of the forest’s arch.And in the wind their columned trunks become,Each one, a mighty pendulum,Swayed to and fro as if in timeTo some vast song, some roaring rhyme,Wind-shouted from sonorous hill to hill.The woods are never still:The dead leaves frenzy by,Innumerable and frantic as the danceThat whirled its madness once beneath the skyIn ancient Greece,—like withered Corybants:And I am caught and carried with their rush,Their countless panic—borne away,A brother to the wind, through the deep grayOf the old beech-wood, where the wild March-daySits dreaming, filling all the boisterous hushWith murmurous laughter and swift smiles of sun;Conspiring in its heart and plotting howTo load with leaves and blossoms every bough,And whispering to itself, “Now Spring’s begun!And soon her flowers shall golden through these leaves!—Away, ye sightless things and sere!Make room for that which shall appear!The glory and the gladness of the year;The loveliness my eye alone perceives,—Still hidden there beneath the covering leaves,—My song shall waken!—flowers, that this floorOf whispering woodland soon shall carpet o’erFor my sweet sisters’ feet to tread upon,Months kinder than myself, the stern and strong,Tempestuous-loving one,Whose soul is full of wild, tumultuous song,And whose rough hand now thrusts itself amongThe dead leaves; groping for the flowers that lieHuddled beneath, each like a sleep-closed eye:Gold adder’s-tongue and pinkOxalis; snow-pale bloodroot blooms;May-apple hoods, that parasol the brink,Screening their moons, of the slim woodland-stream:And the wild iris; trillium,—white as stars,—And bluebells, dream on dream:With harsh hand groping in the glooms,I grasp their slenderness and shakeTheir lovely eyes awake,Dispelling from their souls the sleep that mars;With heart-disturbing jarsClasping their forms, and with rude finger-tips,Through the dark rain that dripsLifting them shrinking to my stormy lips.
The tumult and the booming of the trees,Shaken with shoutings of the winds of March—No mightier music have I heard than these,—The rocking and the rushing of the trees,The organ-thunder of the forest’s arch.And in the wind their columned trunks become,Each one, a mighty pendulum,Swayed to and fro as if in timeTo some vast song, some roaring rhyme,Wind-shouted from sonorous hill to hill.The woods are never still:The dead leaves frenzy by,Innumerable and frantic as the danceThat whirled its madness once beneath the skyIn ancient Greece,—like withered Corybants:And I am caught and carried with their rush,Their countless panic—borne away,A brother to the wind, through the deep grayOf the old beech-wood, where the wild March-daySits dreaming, filling all the boisterous hushWith murmurous laughter and swift smiles of sun;Conspiring in its heart and plotting howTo load with leaves and blossoms every bough,And whispering to itself, “Now Spring’s begun!And soon her flowers shall golden through these leaves!—Away, ye sightless things and sere!Make room for that which shall appear!The glory and the gladness of the year;The loveliness my eye alone perceives,—Still hidden there beneath the covering leaves,—My song shall waken!—flowers, that this floorOf whispering woodland soon shall carpet o’erFor my sweet sisters’ feet to tread upon,Months kinder than myself, the stern and strong,Tempestuous-loving one,Whose soul is full of wild, tumultuous song,And whose rough hand now thrusts itself amongThe dead leaves; groping for the flowers that lieHuddled beneath, each like a sleep-closed eye:Gold adder’s-tongue and pinkOxalis; snow-pale bloodroot blooms;May-apple hoods, that parasol the brink,Screening their moons, of the slim woodland-stream:And the wild iris; trillium,—white as stars,—And bluebells, dream on dream:With harsh hand groping in the glooms,I grasp their slenderness and shakeTheir lovely eyes awake,Dispelling from their souls the sleep that mars;With heart-disturbing jarsClasping their forms, and with rude finger-tips,Through the dark rain that dripsLifting them shrinking to my stormy lips.
The tumult and the booming of the trees,Shaken with shoutings of the winds of March—No mightier music have I heard than these,—The rocking and the rushing of the trees,The organ-thunder of the forest’s arch.And in the wind their columned trunks become,Each one, a mighty pendulum,Swayed to and fro as if in timeTo some vast song, some roaring rhyme,Wind-shouted from sonorous hill to hill.The woods are never still:The dead leaves frenzy by,Innumerable and frantic as the danceThat whirled its madness once beneath the skyIn ancient Greece,—like withered Corybants:And I am caught and carried with their rush,Their countless panic—borne away,A brother to the wind, through the deep grayOf the old beech-wood, where the wild March-daySits dreaming, filling all the boisterous hushWith murmurous laughter and swift smiles of sun;Conspiring in its heart and plotting howTo load with leaves and blossoms every bough,And whispering to itself, “Now Spring’s begun!And soon her flowers shall golden through these leaves!—Away, ye sightless things and sere!Make room for that which shall appear!The glory and the gladness of the year;The loveliness my eye alone perceives,—Still hidden there beneath the covering leaves,—My song shall waken!—flowers, that this floorOf whispering woodland soon shall carpet o’erFor my sweet sisters’ feet to tread upon,Months kinder than myself, the stern and strong,Tempestuous-loving one,Whose soul is full of wild, tumultuous song,And whose rough hand now thrusts itself amongThe dead leaves; groping for the flowers that lieHuddled beneath, each like a sleep-closed eye:Gold adder’s-tongue and pinkOxalis; snow-pale bloodroot blooms;May-apple hoods, that parasol the brink,Screening their moons, of the slim woodland-stream:And the wild iris; trillium,—white as stars,—And bluebells, dream on dream:With harsh hand groping in the glooms,I grasp their slenderness and shakeTheir lovely eyes awake,Dispelling from their souls the sleep that mars;With heart-disturbing jarsClasping their forms, and with rude finger-tips,Through the dark rain that dripsLifting them shrinking to my stormy lips.
“Already spicewood and the sassafras,Like fragrant flames, beginTo tuft their boughs with topaz, ere they spinTheir beryl canopies—a glimmering mass,Mist-blurred, above the deepening grass.Already where the old beech standsClutching the lean soil as it were with handsTaloned and twisted,—on its trunk a knot,A huge excrescence, a great fungous clot,Like some enormous and distorting wart,—My eyes can see how, blot on beautiful blotOf blue, the violets blur throughThe musky and the loamy rotOf leaf-pierced leaves; and, heaven in their hue,A sunbeam at each blossom’s heart,The little bluets, crew on azure crew,Prepare their myriads for invasion too.
“Already spicewood and the sassafras,Like fragrant flames, beginTo tuft their boughs with topaz, ere they spinTheir beryl canopies—a glimmering mass,Mist-blurred, above the deepening grass.Already where the old beech standsClutching the lean soil as it were with handsTaloned and twisted,—on its trunk a knot,A huge excrescence, a great fungous clot,Like some enormous and distorting wart,—My eyes can see how, blot on beautiful blotOf blue, the violets blur throughThe musky and the loamy rotOf leaf-pierced leaves; and, heaven in their hue,A sunbeam at each blossom’s heart,The little bluets, crew on azure crew,Prepare their myriads for invasion too.
“Already spicewood and the sassafras,Like fragrant flames, beginTo tuft their boughs with topaz, ere they spinTheir beryl canopies—a glimmering mass,Mist-blurred, above the deepening grass.Already where the old beech standsClutching the lean soil as it were with handsTaloned and twisted,—on its trunk a knot,A huge excrescence, a great fungous clot,Like some enormous and distorting wart,—My eyes can see how, blot on beautiful blotOf blue, the violets blur throughThe musky and the loamy rotOf leaf-pierced leaves; and, heaven in their hue,A sunbeam at each blossom’s heart,The little bluets, crew on azure crew,Prepare their myriads for invasion too.
“And in my soul I see how, soon, shall rise,—Still hidden to men’s eyes,—Dim as the wind that round them treads,—Hosts of spring-beauties, streaked with rosy reds,And pale anemones, whose airy heads,As to some fairy rhyme,All day shall nod in delicate time:And now, even now, white peal on pealOf pearly bells,—that in bare boughs concealThemselves,—like snowy music, chime on chime,The huckleberries to my gaze reveal—Clusters, that soon shall tossAbove this green-starred moss,That, like an emerald fire, gleams acrossThis forest-side, and from its moist deeps liftsSlim, wire-like stems of seed;Or, lichen-colored, glows with many a beadOf cup-like blossoms: carpets where, I read,When through the night’s dark riftsThe moonlight’s glimpsing splendor sifts,The immaterial formsWith moonbeam-beckoning arms,Of Fable and Romance,—Myths that are born of whispers of the windAnd foam of falling waters, music-twinned—Shall lead the legendary dance;The dance that never stops,Of Earth’s wild beauty on the green hill-tops.”
“And in my soul I see how, soon, shall rise,—Still hidden to men’s eyes,—Dim as the wind that round them treads,—Hosts of spring-beauties, streaked with rosy reds,And pale anemones, whose airy heads,As to some fairy rhyme,All day shall nod in delicate time:And now, even now, white peal on pealOf pearly bells,—that in bare boughs concealThemselves,—like snowy music, chime on chime,The huckleberries to my gaze reveal—Clusters, that soon shall tossAbove this green-starred moss,That, like an emerald fire, gleams acrossThis forest-side, and from its moist deeps liftsSlim, wire-like stems of seed;Or, lichen-colored, glows with many a beadOf cup-like blossoms: carpets where, I read,When through the night’s dark riftsThe moonlight’s glimpsing splendor sifts,The immaterial formsWith moonbeam-beckoning arms,Of Fable and Romance,—Myths that are born of whispers of the windAnd foam of falling waters, music-twinned—Shall lead the legendary dance;The dance that never stops,Of Earth’s wild beauty on the green hill-tops.”
“And in my soul I see how, soon, shall rise,—Still hidden to men’s eyes,—Dim as the wind that round them treads,—Hosts of spring-beauties, streaked with rosy reds,And pale anemones, whose airy heads,As to some fairy rhyme,All day shall nod in delicate time:And now, even now, white peal on pealOf pearly bells,—that in bare boughs concealThemselves,—like snowy music, chime on chime,The huckleberries to my gaze reveal—Clusters, that soon shall tossAbove this green-starred moss,That, like an emerald fire, gleams acrossThis forest-side, and from its moist deeps liftsSlim, wire-like stems of seed;Or, lichen-colored, glows with many a beadOf cup-like blossoms: carpets where, I read,When through the night’s dark riftsThe moonlight’s glimpsing splendor sifts,The immaterial formsWith moonbeam-beckoning arms,Of Fable and Romance,—Myths that are born of whispers of the windAnd foam of falling waters, music-twinned—Shall lead the legendary dance;The dance that never stops,Of Earth’s wild beauty on the green hill-tops.”
The youth, the beauty and disdainOf birth, death does not know,Compel my heart with longing like to painWhen the spring breezes blow.The fragrance and the heatOf their soft breath, whose musk makes sweetEach woodland way, each wild retreat,Seem saying in my ear, “Hark, and behold!Before a week be goneThis barren woodside and this leafless woldA million flowers shall invadeWith argent and azure, pearl and gold,—Like rainbow fragments scattered of the dawn,—Here making bright, here wanEach foot of earth, each glen and glimmering glade,Each rood of windy wood,Where late gaunt Winter stood,Shaggy with snow and howling at the sky;Where even now the Springtime seems afraidTo whisper of the beauty she designs,The flowery campaign that she now outlinesWithin her soul; her heart’s conspiracyTo take the world with loveliness; defyAnd then o’erwhelm the Death—that Winter thronedAmid the trees,—with love that she hath ownedSince God informed her from His very breath,Giving her right triumphant over Death.And, irresistible,Her heart’s deep ecstasy shall swell,Taking the form of flower, leaf, and blade,Invading every dell,And sweeping, surge on surge,Around the world, like some exultant raid,Even to the heaven’s verge.Soon shall her legions stormDeath’s ramparts, planting Life’s fair standard there,The banner which her beauty hath in care,Beauty, that shall eventuateWith all the pomp and pageant and the state,That are a part of power, and that waitOn majesty, to which it, too, is heir.”
The youth, the beauty and disdainOf birth, death does not know,Compel my heart with longing like to painWhen the spring breezes blow.The fragrance and the heatOf their soft breath, whose musk makes sweetEach woodland way, each wild retreat,Seem saying in my ear, “Hark, and behold!Before a week be goneThis barren woodside and this leafless woldA million flowers shall invadeWith argent and azure, pearl and gold,—Like rainbow fragments scattered of the dawn,—Here making bright, here wanEach foot of earth, each glen and glimmering glade,Each rood of windy wood,Where late gaunt Winter stood,Shaggy with snow and howling at the sky;Where even now the Springtime seems afraidTo whisper of the beauty she designs,The flowery campaign that she now outlinesWithin her soul; her heart’s conspiracyTo take the world with loveliness; defyAnd then o’erwhelm the Death—that Winter thronedAmid the trees,—with love that she hath ownedSince God informed her from His very breath,Giving her right triumphant over Death.And, irresistible,Her heart’s deep ecstasy shall swell,Taking the form of flower, leaf, and blade,Invading every dell,And sweeping, surge on surge,Around the world, like some exultant raid,Even to the heaven’s verge.Soon shall her legions stormDeath’s ramparts, planting Life’s fair standard there,The banner which her beauty hath in care,Beauty, that shall eventuateWith all the pomp and pageant and the state,That are a part of power, and that waitOn majesty, to which it, too, is heir.”
The youth, the beauty and disdainOf birth, death does not know,Compel my heart with longing like to painWhen the spring breezes blow.The fragrance and the heatOf their soft breath, whose musk makes sweetEach woodland way, each wild retreat,Seem saying in my ear, “Hark, and behold!Before a week be goneThis barren woodside and this leafless woldA million flowers shall invadeWith argent and azure, pearl and gold,—Like rainbow fragments scattered of the dawn,—Here making bright, here wanEach foot of earth, each glen and glimmering glade,Each rood of windy wood,Where late gaunt Winter stood,Shaggy with snow and howling at the sky;Where even now the Springtime seems afraidTo whisper of the beauty she designs,The flowery campaign that she now outlinesWithin her soul; her heart’s conspiracyTo take the world with loveliness; defyAnd then o’erwhelm the Death—that Winter thronedAmid the trees,—with love that she hath ownedSince God informed her from His very breath,Giving her right triumphant over Death.And, irresistible,Her heart’s deep ecstasy shall swell,Taking the form of flower, leaf, and blade,Invading every dell,And sweeping, surge on surge,Around the world, like some exultant raid,Even to the heaven’s verge.Soon shall her legions stormDeath’s ramparts, planting Life’s fair standard there,The banner which her beauty hath in care,Beauty, that shall eventuateWith all the pomp and pageant and the state,That are a part of power, and that waitOn majesty, to which it, too, is heir.”
Already bluish pink and greenThe bloodroot’s buds and leaves are seenClumped in dim cirques; one from the otherHardly distinguished in the shadowy smotherOf last year’s leaves blown brown between.And, piercing through the layers of dead leaves,The searching eye perceivesThe dog’s-tooth violet, pointed needle-keen,Lifting its beak of mottled green;While near it heavesThe May-apple its umbrous spike, a ball,—Like to a round, green bean,That folds its blossom,—topping its tight-closed parasol:The clustered bluebell nearHollows its azure ear,Low-leaning to the earth as if to hearThe sound of its own growing and perfumeFlowing into its bloom:And softly thereThe twin-leaf’s stems preparePale tapers of transparent white,As if to lightThe Spirit of Beauty through the wood’s green night.
Already bluish pink and greenThe bloodroot’s buds and leaves are seenClumped in dim cirques; one from the otherHardly distinguished in the shadowy smotherOf last year’s leaves blown brown between.And, piercing through the layers of dead leaves,The searching eye perceivesThe dog’s-tooth violet, pointed needle-keen,Lifting its beak of mottled green;While near it heavesThe May-apple its umbrous spike, a ball,—Like to a round, green bean,That folds its blossom,—topping its tight-closed parasol:The clustered bluebell nearHollows its azure ear,Low-leaning to the earth as if to hearThe sound of its own growing and perfumeFlowing into its bloom:And softly thereThe twin-leaf’s stems preparePale tapers of transparent white,As if to lightThe Spirit of Beauty through the wood’s green night.
Already bluish pink and greenThe bloodroot’s buds and leaves are seenClumped in dim cirques; one from the otherHardly distinguished in the shadowy smotherOf last year’s leaves blown brown between.And, piercing through the layers of dead leaves,The searching eye perceivesThe dog’s-tooth violet, pointed needle-keen,Lifting its beak of mottled green;While near it heavesThe May-apple its umbrous spike, a ball,—Like to a round, green bean,That folds its blossom,—topping its tight-closed parasol:The clustered bluebell nearHollows its azure ear,Low-leaning to the earth as if to hearThe sound of its own growing and perfumeFlowing into its bloom:And softly thereThe twin-leaf’s stems preparePale tapers of transparent white,As if to lightThe Spirit of Beauty through the wood’s green night.
Why does Nature love the number five?Five-whorled leaves and five-tipped flowers?—Haply the bee i’ the voluble rose,Laboring aye to store its hive,And humming away the long noon hours,Haply it knows as it comes and goes:Or haply the butterfly,Or moth of pansy-dye,Flitting from bloom to bloomIn the forest’s violet gloom,It knows why:Or the irised fly, to whomEach bud, as it glitters near,Lends eager and ardent ear.—And, also, tellWhy Nature loves so wellTo prank her flowers in gold and blue.Haply the dew,That lies so close to them the whole night through,Hugged to each honeyed heart,Perhaps the dew the secret could impart:Or haply now the bluebird there that bears,Glad, unawares,God’s sapphire on its wings,The lapis-lazuliO’ the clean, clear sky,The heav’n of which he sings,Haply he, too, could tell me why:Or the maple there that swings,To the wind’s soft sigh,Its winglets, crystal red,A rainy ruby twinkling overhead:Or haply now the wind, that breathes of rainAmid the rosy boughs, it could explain:And even now, in words of mystery,—That haunt the heart of me,—Low-whispered, dim and bland,Tells me, but tells in vain,And strives to make me see and understand,Delaying whereThe feldspar fire of the violet breaks,And the starred myrtle achesWith heavenly blue; and the frail windflower shakesIts trembling tresses in the opal air.
Why does Nature love the number five?Five-whorled leaves and five-tipped flowers?—Haply the bee i’ the voluble rose,Laboring aye to store its hive,And humming away the long noon hours,Haply it knows as it comes and goes:Or haply the butterfly,Or moth of pansy-dye,Flitting from bloom to bloomIn the forest’s violet gloom,It knows why:Or the irised fly, to whomEach bud, as it glitters near,Lends eager and ardent ear.—And, also, tellWhy Nature loves so wellTo prank her flowers in gold and blue.Haply the dew,That lies so close to them the whole night through,Hugged to each honeyed heart,Perhaps the dew the secret could impart:Or haply now the bluebird there that bears,Glad, unawares,God’s sapphire on its wings,The lapis-lazuliO’ the clean, clear sky,The heav’n of which he sings,Haply he, too, could tell me why:Or the maple there that swings,To the wind’s soft sigh,Its winglets, crystal red,A rainy ruby twinkling overhead:Or haply now the wind, that breathes of rainAmid the rosy boughs, it could explain:And even now, in words of mystery,—That haunt the heart of me,—Low-whispered, dim and bland,Tells me, but tells in vain,And strives to make me see and understand,Delaying whereThe feldspar fire of the violet breaks,And the starred myrtle achesWith heavenly blue; and the frail windflower shakesIts trembling tresses in the opal air.
Why does Nature love the number five?Five-whorled leaves and five-tipped flowers?—Haply the bee i’ the voluble rose,Laboring aye to store its hive,And humming away the long noon hours,Haply it knows as it comes and goes:Or haply the butterfly,Or moth of pansy-dye,Flitting from bloom to bloomIn the forest’s violet gloom,It knows why:Or the irised fly, to whomEach bud, as it glitters near,Lends eager and ardent ear.—And, also, tellWhy Nature loves so wellTo prank her flowers in gold and blue.Haply the dew,That lies so close to them the whole night through,Hugged to each honeyed heart,Perhaps the dew the secret could impart:Or haply now the bluebird there that bears,Glad, unawares,God’s sapphire on its wings,The lapis-lazuliO’ the clean, clear sky,The heav’n of which he sings,Haply he, too, could tell me why:Or the maple there that swings,To the wind’s soft sigh,Its winglets, crystal red,A rainy ruby twinkling overhead:Or haply now the wind, that breathes of rainAmid the rosy boughs, it could explain:And even now, in words of mystery,—That haunt the heart of me,—Low-whispered, dim and bland,Tells me, but tells in vain,And strives to make me see and understand,Delaying whereThe feldspar fire of the violet breaks,And the starred myrtle achesWith heavenly blue; and the frail windflower shakesIts trembling tresses in the opal air.
The hurl and hurry of the winds of March,That tore the ash and bowed the pine and larch,And filled the night with rushings,—like the crewOf the Wild Huntsman,—and the days with hueAnd cry of storm, soft in the heaven’s porchHave laid them down:—loud winds, that trampled throughThe forests with enormous, scythe-like sweep,And from the darkened deep,The battlemented heavens, thunder-blue,Rumbled the arch,The rocking arch of all the booming oaks,With stormy chariot-spokes:Chariots, from which wild bugle-blasts they blewIn warlike challenge.... Now the windflower sweetMisses the fury of their ruining feet,The trumpet-thunder of resistless flight,Crashing and vast, obliterating light;Sweeping the skeleton madness downOf last-year’s leaves; and, overhead,Hurrying the giant foliage of night,Gaunt clouds that streamed with tempest.... Now each crownOf ancient woods, that clamored with their tread,The frenzy of their passage, stoops no more,Hearing no more their clarion-command,Their chariot-hurl and the wild whip in hand.No more, no more,The forests rock and roarAnd tumult with their shoutings.Hushed and stillIs the green-gleaming and the sunlit hill,Along whose sides,Flushing the dewy moss and rainy grass—Beneath the topaz-tinted sassafras,Pale, aromatic as some orient wine—The violet fire of the bluet glides,The amaranthine flameOf sorrel and of bluebell runs;And through the drabs and dunsOf rotting leaves, the moonéd celandine,Line upon lovely line,Deliberate, goldens into birth:And, ruby and rose, the moccasin-flower hides:Innumerable flowers, with which she writes her name,April, upon the page,The winter-withered parchment of old earth;Her fragrant autograph, that gives it worthAnd loveliness that take away its age.
The hurl and hurry of the winds of March,That tore the ash and bowed the pine and larch,And filled the night with rushings,—like the crewOf the Wild Huntsman,—and the days with hueAnd cry of storm, soft in the heaven’s porchHave laid them down:—loud winds, that trampled throughThe forests with enormous, scythe-like sweep,And from the darkened deep,The battlemented heavens, thunder-blue,Rumbled the arch,The rocking arch of all the booming oaks,With stormy chariot-spokes:Chariots, from which wild bugle-blasts they blewIn warlike challenge.... Now the windflower sweetMisses the fury of their ruining feet,The trumpet-thunder of resistless flight,Crashing and vast, obliterating light;Sweeping the skeleton madness downOf last-year’s leaves; and, overhead,Hurrying the giant foliage of night,Gaunt clouds that streamed with tempest.... Now each crownOf ancient woods, that clamored with their tread,The frenzy of their passage, stoops no more,Hearing no more their clarion-command,Their chariot-hurl and the wild whip in hand.No more, no more,The forests rock and roarAnd tumult with their shoutings.Hushed and stillIs the green-gleaming and the sunlit hill,Along whose sides,Flushing the dewy moss and rainy grass—Beneath the topaz-tinted sassafras,Pale, aromatic as some orient wine—The violet fire of the bluet glides,The amaranthine flameOf sorrel and of bluebell runs;And through the drabs and dunsOf rotting leaves, the moonéd celandine,Line upon lovely line,Deliberate, goldens into birth:And, ruby and rose, the moccasin-flower hides:Innumerable flowers, with which she writes her name,April, upon the page,The winter-withered parchment of old earth;Her fragrant autograph, that gives it worthAnd loveliness that take away its age.
The hurl and hurry of the winds of March,That tore the ash and bowed the pine and larch,And filled the night with rushings,—like the crewOf the Wild Huntsman,—and the days with hueAnd cry of storm, soft in the heaven’s porchHave laid them down:—loud winds, that trampled throughThe forests with enormous, scythe-like sweep,And from the darkened deep,The battlemented heavens, thunder-blue,Rumbled the arch,The rocking arch of all the booming oaks,With stormy chariot-spokes:Chariots, from which wild bugle-blasts they blewIn warlike challenge.... Now the windflower sweetMisses the fury of their ruining feet,The trumpet-thunder of resistless flight,Crashing and vast, obliterating light;Sweeping the skeleton madness downOf last-year’s leaves; and, overhead,Hurrying the giant foliage of night,Gaunt clouds that streamed with tempest.... Now each crownOf ancient woods, that clamored with their tread,The frenzy of their passage, stoops no more,Hearing no more their clarion-command,Their chariot-hurl and the wild whip in hand.No more, no more,The forests rock and roarAnd tumult with their shoutings.Hushed and stillIs the green-gleaming and the sunlit hill,Along whose sides,Flushing the dewy moss and rainy grass—Beneath the topaz-tinted sassafras,Pale, aromatic as some orient wine—The violet fire of the bluet glides,The amaranthine flameOf sorrel and of bluebell runs;And through the drabs and dunsOf rotting leaves, the moonéd celandine,Line upon lovely line,Deliberate, goldens into birth:And, ruby and rose, the moccasin-flower hides:Innumerable flowers, with which she writes her name,April, upon the page,The winter-withered parchment of old earth;Her fragrant autograph, that gives it worthAnd loveliness that take away its age.
Here where the woods are wet,The blossoms of the dog’s-tooth violetSeem meteors in a miniature firmamentOf wild-flowers, where, with rainy sound and scentOf breeze and blossom, dim the April went:Their tongue-like leaves of umber-mottled green,So thickly seen,Seem dropping words of gold,Inaudible syllables of a magic old.Beside them, near the wahoo-bush and haw,Blooms the hepatica;Its slender flowers upon swaying stemsLifting chaste, solitary blooms,Astral, and twilight-colored,—frail as gemsThat star the diademsOf elves and sylvans, piercing pale the glooms;—Or like the wands, the torches of the fays,That link lone, leafy waysWith slim, uncertain rays:—(The faëry people, whom no eye may see,Busy, so legend says,With budding bough and leafing tree,The blossom’s heart o’ honey and honey-sack o’ the bee,And all dim thoughts and dreams,That take the form of flowers, as it seems,And haunt the banks of greenwood streams,Showing in every line and curve,Commensurate with our love, an intimacy,A smiling confidence or sweet reserve.)There, at that leafy turn,Of trailered rocks, rise fronds of hart’s-tongue fern:Fronds that my fancy namesUncurling gleeds of emerald and gold,Whose feathering flamesWere kindled in the musky mould,And now, as stealthy as the graying morn,Thorn upon woolly thorn,Build up, and silently unfoldFaint, cool, green fires, that burnUneagerly, and spread aroundAn elfin light above the ground,Like that green, rayless glowA spirit, lamped with crystal, makes belowIn dripping caves of labyrinthine moss,Or grottoes of the weedy undertow.—And in the underwoods, around them, tossThe white-hearts with their penciled leaves,That, ’mid the shifting gleams and glooms,The interchanging shine and shade,Seem some soft garment madeBy visionary hands, that none perceives;Hands busy with invisible loomsOf woodland shine and shade; a shadowy light,Whose figments interbraid,Carpeting the woods with colors and perfumes.—Or, are they fragments left in flight,These flow’rs that scatter every gladeWith windy, rippling white,And breezy, fluttering blue,Of her wild gown that shone upon my sight,A moment, in the woods I wandered through?April’s, who fled this way?April, whom still I follow,Whom still my dreams pursue;Who leads me on by many a tangled clueOf loveliness, until in some green hollow,Born of her fragrance and her melody,But lovelier than herself and happier, too,Cradled in blossoms of the dogwood-tree,My soul shall see,White as a sunbeam in the heart of day,The infant, May.
Here where the woods are wet,The blossoms of the dog’s-tooth violetSeem meteors in a miniature firmamentOf wild-flowers, where, with rainy sound and scentOf breeze and blossom, dim the April went:Their tongue-like leaves of umber-mottled green,So thickly seen,Seem dropping words of gold,Inaudible syllables of a magic old.Beside them, near the wahoo-bush and haw,Blooms the hepatica;Its slender flowers upon swaying stemsLifting chaste, solitary blooms,Astral, and twilight-colored,—frail as gemsThat star the diademsOf elves and sylvans, piercing pale the glooms;—Or like the wands, the torches of the fays,That link lone, leafy waysWith slim, uncertain rays:—(The faëry people, whom no eye may see,Busy, so legend says,With budding bough and leafing tree,The blossom’s heart o’ honey and honey-sack o’ the bee,And all dim thoughts and dreams,That take the form of flowers, as it seems,And haunt the banks of greenwood streams,Showing in every line and curve,Commensurate with our love, an intimacy,A smiling confidence or sweet reserve.)There, at that leafy turn,Of trailered rocks, rise fronds of hart’s-tongue fern:Fronds that my fancy namesUncurling gleeds of emerald and gold,Whose feathering flamesWere kindled in the musky mould,And now, as stealthy as the graying morn,Thorn upon woolly thorn,Build up, and silently unfoldFaint, cool, green fires, that burnUneagerly, and spread aroundAn elfin light above the ground,Like that green, rayless glowA spirit, lamped with crystal, makes belowIn dripping caves of labyrinthine moss,Or grottoes of the weedy undertow.—And in the underwoods, around them, tossThe white-hearts with their penciled leaves,That, ’mid the shifting gleams and glooms,The interchanging shine and shade,Seem some soft garment madeBy visionary hands, that none perceives;Hands busy with invisible loomsOf woodland shine and shade; a shadowy light,Whose figments interbraid,Carpeting the woods with colors and perfumes.—Or, are they fragments left in flight,These flow’rs that scatter every gladeWith windy, rippling white,And breezy, fluttering blue,Of her wild gown that shone upon my sight,A moment, in the woods I wandered through?April’s, who fled this way?April, whom still I follow,Whom still my dreams pursue;Who leads me on by many a tangled clueOf loveliness, until in some green hollow,Born of her fragrance and her melody,But lovelier than herself and happier, too,Cradled in blossoms of the dogwood-tree,My soul shall see,White as a sunbeam in the heart of day,The infant, May.
Here where the woods are wet,The blossoms of the dog’s-tooth violetSeem meteors in a miniature firmamentOf wild-flowers, where, with rainy sound and scentOf breeze and blossom, dim the April went:Their tongue-like leaves of umber-mottled green,So thickly seen,Seem dropping words of gold,Inaudible syllables of a magic old.Beside them, near the wahoo-bush and haw,Blooms the hepatica;Its slender flowers upon swaying stemsLifting chaste, solitary blooms,Astral, and twilight-colored,—frail as gemsThat star the diademsOf elves and sylvans, piercing pale the glooms;—Or like the wands, the torches of the fays,That link lone, leafy waysWith slim, uncertain rays:—(The faëry people, whom no eye may see,Busy, so legend says,With budding bough and leafing tree,The blossom’s heart o’ honey and honey-sack o’ the bee,And all dim thoughts and dreams,That take the form of flowers, as it seems,And haunt the banks of greenwood streams,Showing in every line and curve,Commensurate with our love, an intimacy,A smiling confidence or sweet reserve.)
There, at that leafy turn,Of trailered rocks, rise fronds of hart’s-tongue fern:Fronds that my fancy namesUncurling gleeds of emerald and gold,Whose feathering flamesWere kindled in the musky mould,And now, as stealthy as the graying morn,Thorn upon woolly thorn,Build up, and silently unfoldFaint, cool, green fires, that burnUneagerly, and spread aroundAn elfin light above the ground,Like that green, rayless glowA spirit, lamped with crystal, makes belowIn dripping caves of labyrinthine moss,Or grottoes of the weedy undertow.—And in the underwoods, around them, tossThe white-hearts with their penciled leaves,That, ’mid the shifting gleams and glooms,The interchanging shine and shade,Seem some soft garment madeBy visionary hands, that none perceives;Hands busy with invisible loomsOf woodland shine and shade; a shadowy light,Whose figments interbraid,Carpeting the woods with colors and perfumes.—Or, are they fragments left in flight,These flow’rs that scatter every gladeWith windy, rippling white,And breezy, fluttering blue,Of her wild gown that shone upon my sight,A moment, in the woods I wandered through?April’s, who fled this way?April, whom still I follow,Whom still my dreams pursue;Who leads me on by many a tangled clueOf loveliness, until in some green hollow,Born of her fragrance and her melody,But lovelier than herself and happier, too,Cradled in blossoms of the dogwood-tree,My soul shall see,White as a sunbeam in the heart of day,The infant, May.
Up, up, my heart! and forth where none perceives!’Twas this which that sweet lay meantYou heard in dreams. Come, let us take rich payment,For every care that grieves,From Nature’s prodigal purse. ’Twas this that May meantBy sending forth the wind which round our eavesWhispered all night;—or was’t the spirit who weaves,From gold and glaucous green of early leaves,Spring’s regal raiment?—Up, up, my heart, and forth where none perceives!Come, let us forth, my heart, where none divines!Into far woodland places,Where we may meet the fair assembled races,Beneath the guardian pines,Of May’s first flowers.... Poppy-celandines,And starry trilliums, bugled columbines,With which her hair, her radiant hair she twines,And loops and laces.—Come, let us forth, my heart, where none divines!Forth, forth, my heart, and let us find our dreams,There, where they haunt each hollow!Dreams luring us with oread feet to follow,With flying feet of beams,Fleeter and lighter than the fleetest swallow:Dreams, holding us with dryad glooms and gleams,With Naiad eyes, far stiller than still streams,That have beheld and still reflect, it seems,The god Apollo.—Forth, forth, my heart, and let us find our dreams!Out, out, my heart, the world is white with spring.Long have our dreams been pleaders:Now let them be our firm but gentle leaders.Come, let us forth and singAmong the amber-emerald-tufted cedars,And balm-o’-Gileads, cotton-woods, a-swingLike giant censers, that, from leaf-cusps flingBalsams of gummy gold, bewilderingThe winds their feeders.Out, out, my heart, the world is white with spring.Up, up, my heart, and all thy hope put on.Array thyself in splendor.Like some bright dragon-fly, some May-fly slender,The irised lamels donOf thy new armor; and, where burns the centre,Refulgent, of the opening rose of dawn,Spread thy wild wings, and, ere the hour be gone,Bright as a blast from some bold clarion,Thy Dream-world enter.—Up, up, my heart, and all thy hope put on.
Up, up, my heart! and forth where none perceives!’Twas this which that sweet lay meantYou heard in dreams. Come, let us take rich payment,For every care that grieves,From Nature’s prodigal purse. ’Twas this that May meantBy sending forth the wind which round our eavesWhispered all night;—or was’t the spirit who weaves,From gold and glaucous green of early leaves,Spring’s regal raiment?—Up, up, my heart, and forth where none perceives!Come, let us forth, my heart, where none divines!Into far woodland places,Where we may meet the fair assembled races,Beneath the guardian pines,Of May’s first flowers.... Poppy-celandines,And starry trilliums, bugled columbines,With which her hair, her radiant hair she twines,And loops and laces.—Come, let us forth, my heart, where none divines!Forth, forth, my heart, and let us find our dreams,There, where they haunt each hollow!Dreams luring us with oread feet to follow,With flying feet of beams,Fleeter and lighter than the fleetest swallow:Dreams, holding us with dryad glooms and gleams,With Naiad eyes, far stiller than still streams,That have beheld and still reflect, it seems,The god Apollo.—Forth, forth, my heart, and let us find our dreams!Out, out, my heart, the world is white with spring.Long have our dreams been pleaders:Now let them be our firm but gentle leaders.Come, let us forth and singAmong the amber-emerald-tufted cedars,And balm-o’-Gileads, cotton-woods, a-swingLike giant censers, that, from leaf-cusps flingBalsams of gummy gold, bewilderingThe winds their feeders.Out, out, my heart, the world is white with spring.Up, up, my heart, and all thy hope put on.Array thyself in splendor.Like some bright dragon-fly, some May-fly slender,The irised lamels donOf thy new armor; and, where burns the centre,Refulgent, of the opening rose of dawn,Spread thy wild wings, and, ere the hour be gone,Bright as a blast from some bold clarion,Thy Dream-world enter.—Up, up, my heart, and all thy hope put on.
Up, up, my heart! and forth where none perceives!’Twas this which that sweet lay meantYou heard in dreams. Come, let us take rich payment,For every care that grieves,From Nature’s prodigal purse. ’Twas this that May meantBy sending forth the wind which round our eavesWhispered all night;—or was’t the spirit who weaves,From gold and glaucous green of early leaves,Spring’s regal raiment?—Up, up, my heart, and forth where none perceives!
Come, let us forth, my heart, where none divines!Into far woodland places,Where we may meet the fair assembled races,Beneath the guardian pines,Of May’s first flowers.... Poppy-celandines,And starry trilliums, bugled columbines,With which her hair, her radiant hair she twines,And loops and laces.—Come, let us forth, my heart, where none divines!
Forth, forth, my heart, and let us find our dreams,There, where they haunt each hollow!Dreams luring us with oread feet to follow,With flying feet of beams,Fleeter and lighter than the fleetest swallow:Dreams, holding us with dryad glooms and gleams,With Naiad eyes, far stiller than still streams,That have beheld and still reflect, it seems,The god Apollo.—Forth, forth, my heart, and let us find our dreams!
Out, out, my heart, the world is white with spring.Long have our dreams been pleaders:Now let them be our firm but gentle leaders.Come, let us forth and singAmong the amber-emerald-tufted cedars,And balm-o’-Gileads, cotton-woods, a-swingLike giant censers, that, from leaf-cusps flingBalsams of gummy gold, bewilderingThe winds their feeders.Out, out, my heart, the world is white with spring.
Up, up, my heart, and all thy hope put on.Array thyself in splendor.Like some bright dragon-fly, some May-fly slender,The irised lamels donOf thy new armor; and, where burns the centre,Refulgent, of the opening rose of dawn,Spread thy wild wings, and, ere the hour be gone,Bright as a blast from some bold clarion,Thy Dream-world enter.—Up, up, my heart, and all thy hope put on.
And then I heard it singing,The wind that touched my hair,A song of wild expression,A song that called in sessionThe wild-flowers sweetly swinging,The wild-flowers lightly flingingTheir tresses to the air.And first, beneath a bramble arch,The bloodroot rose; each bloom a torchOf hollow snow, within which, bright,The calyx grottoed golden light.Hepatica and bluet,And gold corydalis,Arose as to an aria;Then wild-phlox and dentaria,In rapture, ere they knew it,Trooped forward, nodding to it,Faint as a first star is.And then a music,—to the earInaudible,—I seemed to hear;A symphony that seemed to riseAnd speak in colors to the eyes.I saw the Jacob’s-ladderRing violet peal on pealOf perfume, azure-swinging;The bluebell slimly ringingIts purple chimes; and, gladder,Green note on note, the madderBells of the Solomon’s-seal.Now very near, now faintly lost,I saw their fragrant music tossed;Mixed dimly with white interludesOf trilliums starring cool the woods.Then choral, solitary,I saw the celandineSmite bright its golden cymbals,The starwort shake its timbrels,The whiteheart’s horns of Fairy,With many a flourish airy,Strike silvery into line.And, lo, my soul they seemed to draw,By chords of loveliness and aweInto a Fairy world afarWhere all man’s dreams and longings are.
And then I heard it singing,The wind that touched my hair,A song of wild expression,A song that called in sessionThe wild-flowers sweetly swinging,The wild-flowers lightly flingingTheir tresses to the air.And first, beneath a bramble arch,The bloodroot rose; each bloom a torchOf hollow snow, within which, bright,The calyx grottoed golden light.Hepatica and bluet,And gold corydalis,Arose as to an aria;Then wild-phlox and dentaria,In rapture, ere they knew it,Trooped forward, nodding to it,Faint as a first star is.And then a music,—to the earInaudible,—I seemed to hear;A symphony that seemed to riseAnd speak in colors to the eyes.I saw the Jacob’s-ladderRing violet peal on pealOf perfume, azure-swinging;The bluebell slimly ringingIts purple chimes; and, gladder,Green note on note, the madderBells of the Solomon’s-seal.Now very near, now faintly lost,I saw their fragrant music tossed;Mixed dimly with white interludesOf trilliums starring cool the woods.Then choral, solitary,I saw the celandineSmite bright its golden cymbals,The starwort shake its timbrels,The whiteheart’s horns of Fairy,With many a flourish airy,Strike silvery into line.And, lo, my soul they seemed to draw,By chords of loveliness and aweInto a Fairy world afarWhere all man’s dreams and longings are.
And then I heard it singing,The wind that touched my hair,A song of wild expression,A song that called in sessionThe wild-flowers sweetly swinging,The wild-flowers lightly flingingTheir tresses to the air.And first, beneath a bramble arch,The bloodroot rose; each bloom a torchOf hollow snow, within which, bright,The calyx grottoed golden light.
Hepatica and bluet,And gold corydalis,Arose as to an aria;Then wild-phlox and dentaria,In rapture, ere they knew it,Trooped forward, nodding to it,Faint as a first star is.
And then a music,—to the earInaudible,—I seemed to hear;A symphony that seemed to riseAnd speak in colors to the eyes.
I saw the Jacob’s-ladderRing violet peal on pealOf perfume, azure-swinging;The bluebell slimly ringingIts purple chimes; and, gladder,Green note on note, the madderBells of the Solomon’s-seal.
Now very near, now faintly lost,I saw their fragrant music tossed;Mixed dimly with white interludesOf trilliums starring cool the woods.Then choral, solitary,I saw the celandineSmite bright its golden cymbals,The starwort shake its timbrels,The whiteheart’s horns of Fairy,With many a flourish airy,Strike silvery into line.
And, lo, my soul they seemed to draw,By chords of loveliness and aweInto a Fairy world afarWhere all man’s dreams and longings are.
And then a spirit looked down at meOut of the deeps of the opal morn:Its eyes were blue as a sunlit sea,And young with the joy of a star that has just been born:And I seemed to hear, with my soul, the rose of its cool mouth say:—“Long I lay, long I lay,High on the Hills of the Break-of-Day,Where ever the light is green and gray,And the gleam of the moon is a silvery spray,And the stars are glimmering bubbles.Now from the Hills of the Break-of-DayI come, I come, on a rainbow ray,To laugh and sparkle, to leap and play,And blow from the face of the world away,Like mists, its griefs and troubles.”
And then a spirit looked down at meOut of the deeps of the opal morn:Its eyes were blue as a sunlit sea,And young with the joy of a star that has just been born:And I seemed to hear, with my soul, the rose of its cool mouth say:—“Long I lay, long I lay,High on the Hills of the Break-of-Day,Where ever the light is green and gray,And the gleam of the moon is a silvery spray,And the stars are glimmering bubbles.Now from the Hills of the Break-of-DayI come, I come, on a rainbow ray,To laugh and sparkle, to leap and play,And blow from the face of the world away,Like mists, its griefs and troubles.”
And then a spirit looked down at meOut of the deeps of the opal morn:Its eyes were blue as a sunlit sea,And young with the joy of a star that has just been born:And I seemed to hear, with my soul, the rose of its cool mouth say:—
“Long I lay, long I lay,High on the Hills of the Break-of-Day,Where ever the light is green and gray,And the gleam of the moon is a silvery spray,And the stars are glimmering bubbles.Now from the Hills of the Break-of-DayI come, I come, on a rainbow ray,To laugh and sparkle, to leap and play,And blow from the face of the world away,Like mists, its griefs and troubles.”
And now that the dawn is everywhere,Let us take this path through this wild, green place,Where the rattlesnake-weed shows its yellow face,And the lichens cover the rocks with lace:Where tannin-tinct is the woodland air,Let us take this path through the oaks where, thin,The low leaves whisper, “The day is fair”;And waters murmur, “Come in, come in,Where you can hark to our waterfalls,And the wind of their foam can play with your hair,And soothe away care.—Come here, come here, where our water calls.”Berry blossoms, that seem to flowAs the winds blow,Blackberry blossoms swing and swayTo and froAlong the way,Like ocean spray on a breezy day,Over the green of the grass as foam on the green of a bay,When the world is white and green with the white and the green of May.
And now that the dawn is everywhere,Let us take this path through this wild, green place,Where the rattlesnake-weed shows its yellow face,And the lichens cover the rocks with lace:Where tannin-tinct is the woodland air,Let us take this path through the oaks where, thin,The low leaves whisper, “The day is fair”;And waters murmur, “Come in, come in,Where you can hark to our waterfalls,And the wind of their foam can play with your hair,And soothe away care.—Come here, come here, where our water calls.”Berry blossoms, that seem to flowAs the winds blow,Blackberry blossoms swing and swayTo and froAlong the way,Like ocean spray on a breezy day,Over the green of the grass as foam on the green of a bay,When the world is white and green with the white and the green of May.
And now that the dawn is everywhere,Let us take this path through this wild, green place,Where the rattlesnake-weed shows its yellow face,And the lichens cover the rocks with lace:Where tannin-tinct is the woodland air,Let us take this path through the oaks where, thin,The low leaves whisper, “The day is fair”;And waters murmur, “Come in, come in,Where you can hark to our waterfalls,And the wind of their foam can play with your hair,And soothe away care.—Come here, come here, where our water calls.”
Berry blossoms, that seem to flowAs the winds blow,Blackberry blossoms swing and swayTo and froAlong the way,Like ocean spray on a breezy day,Over the green of the grass as foam on the green of a bay,When the world is white and green with the white and the green of May.
The dewberries are blooming now;The days are long, the nights are short;Each haw-tree and each dogwood boughIs bleached with bloom, and seems a part,—Reflected palely on her brow,—Of dreams that haunt the Year’s young heart.But this will pass; and presentlyThe world forget the spring that was;And underneath the wild-plum tree,’Mid hornet hum and wild-bee’s buzz,Summer, in dreamy reverie,Will sit all warm and amorous.Summer, with drowsy eyes and hair,Who walks the orchard aisles between;Whose hot touch tans the freckled pear,And crimsons peach and nectarine;And, in the vineyard everywhere,Bubbles with blue the grape’s ripe green.Where now the briers blossoming are,Soon will the berries darkly glow;Then Summer pass: and star on star,Where now the grass is strewn belowWith petals, soon, both near and far,Will lie the obliterating snow.
The dewberries are blooming now;The days are long, the nights are short;Each haw-tree and each dogwood boughIs bleached with bloom, and seems a part,—Reflected palely on her brow,—Of dreams that haunt the Year’s young heart.But this will pass; and presentlyThe world forget the spring that was;And underneath the wild-plum tree,’Mid hornet hum and wild-bee’s buzz,Summer, in dreamy reverie,Will sit all warm and amorous.Summer, with drowsy eyes and hair,Who walks the orchard aisles between;Whose hot touch tans the freckled pear,And crimsons peach and nectarine;And, in the vineyard everywhere,Bubbles with blue the grape’s ripe green.Where now the briers blossoming are,Soon will the berries darkly glow;Then Summer pass: and star on star,Where now the grass is strewn belowWith petals, soon, both near and far,Will lie the obliterating snow.
The dewberries are blooming now;The days are long, the nights are short;Each haw-tree and each dogwood boughIs bleached with bloom, and seems a part,—Reflected palely on her brow,—Of dreams that haunt the Year’s young heart.
But this will pass; and presentlyThe world forget the spring that was;And underneath the wild-plum tree,’Mid hornet hum and wild-bee’s buzz,Summer, in dreamy reverie,Will sit all warm and amorous.
Summer, with drowsy eyes and hair,Who walks the orchard aisles between;Whose hot touch tans the freckled pear,And crimsons peach and nectarine;And, in the vineyard everywhere,Bubbles with blue the grape’s ripe green.
Where now the briers blossoming are,Soon will the berries darkly glow;Then Summer pass: and star on star,Where now the grass is strewn belowWith petals, soon, both near and far,Will lie the obliterating snow.
But now the bluets blooming,The bluets brightly blue,O’er which the bees go booming,Drunk with the honey-dew,From wood-ways which they strew,Make eyes of love at you....O slender Quaker-ladies,With eyes of heavenly hue,Who, where the mossy shade is,Hold quiet Quaker-meeting,Now tell me, is it trueThat these wild-bees are raiders?Bold gold-galloonéd raiders?Gold-belted ambuscaders?—Or are they serenaders,Your gold-hipped serenaders,That, to your ears repeatingOld ballads, come to woo,And win the hearts of you,The golden hearts of you?And here the bells of th’ huckleberries toss, so it seems, in time,Delicate, tenderly white, thick by the wildwood way;Clusters swinging, it seems, inaudible peals of rhyme,Music visibly dropped from the virginal lips of the May,Crystally dropped, so it seems, bar upon blossoming bar,Pendent, pensively pale, star upon hollowed star.
But now the bluets blooming,The bluets brightly blue,O’er which the bees go booming,Drunk with the honey-dew,From wood-ways which they strew,Make eyes of love at you....O slender Quaker-ladies,With eyes of heavenly hue,Who, where the mossy shade is,Hold quiet Quaker-meeting,Now tell me, is it trueThat these wild-bees are raiders?Bold gold-galloonéd raiders?Gold-belted ambuscaders?—Or are they serenaders,Your gold-hipped serenaders,That, to your ears repeatingOld ballads, come to woo,And win the hearts of you,The golden hearts of you?And here the bells of th’ huckleberries toss, so it seems, in time,Delicate, tenderly white, thick by the wildwood way;Clusters swinging, it seems, inaudible peals of rhyme,Music visibly dropped from the virginal lips of the May,Crystally dropped, so it seems, bar upon blossoming bar,Pendent, pensively pale, star upon hollowed star.
But now the bluets blooming,The bluets brightly blue,O’er which the bees go booming,Drunk with the honey-dew,From wood-ways which they strew,Make eyes of love at you....O slender Quaker-ladies,With eyes of heavenly hue,Who, where the mossy shade is,Hold quiet Quaker-meeting,Now tell me, is it trueThat these wild-bees are raiders?Bold gold-galloonéd raiders?Gold-belted ambuscaders?—Or are they serenaders,Your gold-hipped serenaders,That, to your ears repeatingOld ballads, come to woo,And win the hearts of you,The golden hearts of you?
And here the bells of th’ huckleberries toss, so it seems, in time,Delicate, tenderly white, thick by the wildwood way;Clusters swinging, it seems, inaudible peals of rhyme,Music visibly dropped from the virginal lips of the May,Crystally dropped, so it seems, bar upon blossoming bar,Pendent, pensively pale, star upon hollowed star.
The star-flower now, that disks with goldThe woodland moss, the forest grass,Already in a day is old,Already doth its beauty pass;Soon, undistinguished, with the mould’Twill mingle and ’twill mix, alas.The bluet, too, that spreads its skies,Its little heavens, at our feet;And crowfoot-bloom, that, with soft eyesOf amber, now our eyes doth greet,Shall fade and pass, and none surmiseHow once they made the Maytime sweet.
The star-flower now, that disks with goldThe woodland moss, the forest grass,Already in a day is old,Already doth its beauty pass;Soon, undistinguished, with the mould’Twill mingle and ’twill mix, alas.The bluet, too, that spreads its skies,Its little heavens, at our feet;And crowfoot-bloom, that, with soft eyesOf amber, now our eyes doth greet,Shall fade and pass, and none surmiseHow once they made the Maytime sweet.
The star-flower now, that disks with goldThe woodland moss, the forest grass,Already in a day is old,Already doth its beauty pass;Soon, undistinguished, with the mould’Twill mingle and ’twill mix, alas.The bluet, too, that spreads its skies,Its little heavens, at our feet;And crowfoot-bloom, that, with soft eyesOf amber, now our eyes doth greet,Shall fade and pass, and none surmiseHow once they made the Maytime sweet.
But the crowfoot-bloom still trails its goldAlong the edges of the oak-wood old;And there, where spreads the pond, still white are seenThe lilies islanded betweenThe pads’ round archipelagoes of green;The jade-dark pads that paveThe water’s wrinkled wave;In which the vireo and the sparrow laveTheir fluttered breasts and wings,Preening their backs, with many twitterings,With necks the moisture streaks;Then dipping deep their beaks,To which the beaded coolness clings,They bend their mellow throatsAnd let the freshness trickle into notes.And now you hearThe red-capped woodpecker rap near;And now that acrobat,The yellow-breasted chat,Calls high and clear,Chuckling his grotesque music fromSome bough that he hath clomb.And now, and now,Upon another bough,Hark how the honey-throated thrushScatters the forest’s listening hushWith notes of limpid harmony,Taking the woods with witchery—Or is ’t a spirit, none can see.Hid in the top of some old tree,Who, in his house of leaves, of haunted green,Keeps trying, silver-sweet, his sunbeam flute serene?
But the crowfoot-bloom still trails its goldAlong the edges of the oak-wood old;And there, where spreads the pond, still white are seenThe lilies islanded betweenThe pads’ round archipelagoes of green;The jade-dark pads that paveThe water’s wrinkled wave;In which the vireo and the sparrow laveTheir fluttered breasts and wings,Preening their backs, with many twitterings,With necks the moisture streaks;Then dipping deep their beaks,To which the beaded coolness clings,They bend their mellow throatsAnd let the freshness trickle into notes.And now you hearThe red-capped woodpecker rap near;And now that acrobat,The yellow-breasted chat,Calls high and clear,Chuckling his grotesque music fromSome bough that he hath clomb.And now, and now,Upon another bough,Hark how the honey-throated thrushScatters the forest’s listening hushWith notes of limpid harmony,Taking the woods with witchery—Or is ’t a spirit, none can see.Hid in the top of some old tree,Who, in his house of leaves, of haunted green,Keeps trying, silver-sweet, his sunbeam flute serene?
But the crowfoot-bloom still trails its goldAlong the edges of the oak-wood old;And there, where spreads the pond, still white are seenThe lilies islanded betweenThe pads’ round archipelagoes of green;The jade-dark pads that paveThe water’s wrinkled wave;In which the vireo and the sparrow laveTheir fluttered breasts and wings,Preening their backs, with many twitterings,With necks the moisture streaks;Then dipping deep their beaks,To which the beaded coolness clings,They bend their mellow throatsAnd let the freshness trickle into notes.
And now you hearThe red-capped woodpecker rap near;And now that acrobat,The yellow-breasted chat,Calls high and clear,Chuckling his grotesque music fromSome bough that he hath clomb.And now, and now,Upon another bough,Hark how the honey-throated thrushScatters the forest’s listening hushWith notes of limpid harmony,Taking the woods with witchery—Or is ’t a spirit, none can see.Hid in the top of some old tree,Who, in his house of leaves, of haunted green,Keeps trying, silver-sweet, his sunbeam flute serene?
And then as I listened I seemed to see,Out of the sunset’s ruin of gold,A presence, a spirit, look down at me,With eyes that were grave with the grief of a world grown old;And I seemed to hear, with my soul, the flame of its sad mouth sigh:“Now good-by, now good-by.Down to the Caves of the Night go I;Where a shadowy couch of the purple sky,That the moon and the starlight curtain high,Is spread for my joy and sorrow:Down to the Caves of the Night go I,Where side by side with mysteryAnd all the Yesterdays I’ll lie;And where from my body, before I die,Will be born the young To-morrow.”
And then as I listened I seemed to see,Out of the sunset’s ruin of gold,A presence, a spirit, look down at me,With eyes that were grave with the grief of a world grown old;And I seemed to hear, with my soul, the flame of its sad mouth sigh:“Now good-by, now good-by.Down to the Caves of the Night go I;Where a shadowy couch of the purple sky,That the moon and the starlight curtain high,Is spread for my joy and sorrow:Down to the Caves of the Night go I,Where side by side with mysteryAnd all the Yesterdays I’ll lie;And where from my body, before I die,Will be born the young To-morrow.”
And then as I listened I seemed to see,Out of the sunset’s ruin of gold,A presence, a spirit, look down at me,With eyes that were grave with the grief of a world grown old;And I seemed to hear, with my soul, the flame of its sad mouth sigh:
“Now good-by, now good-by.Down to the Caves of the Night go I;Where a shadowy couch of the purple sky,That the moon and the starlight curtain high,Is spread for my joy and sorrow:Down to the Caves of the Night go I,Where side by side with mysteryAnd all the Yesterdays I’ll lie;And where from my body, before I die,Will be born the young To-morrow.”
And here where the dusk steals on, you see,Violet-mantled, from tree to tree,The milkwort’s spike of lavender hue,—Of rosy blue,—Tipped by the weight of a passing bee,—Nods like a goblin night-cap, slim, sedate,That night shall tassel with the dew,Beneath a canopy of rose and rue.And as the purple stateOf twilight crowds the sunset’s crimson gate,Now one, now two,Drifting the oaks’ dark vistas through,The screech-owl’s cry of “Who, oh, who,Who stays so late?”Drops like a challenge down to you.The silence deepens; it seems so still,That, if you laid to the tree your ear,You too might hearIts great roots growing into the hill;Or there on the twig of the oak-tree tall,The gray-green egg in the gray-green gallSplit, and the little round worm and white,That grows to a gnat in a summer night,Uncurl in its nest as it dreams of flight.In the heart of the weed that grows near by,—If you laid your earTo a leaflet near,—You too might hear, if you, too, would try,The little gray worm, that becomes a flyA gray wood-fly, a rainbowed fly,As it feels a yearning for wings within,Minute of movement, steadily,—As a leaf-bud pushes from forth a tree,—Under the milk of its larval skin,The outward pressure of wings begin.Far off a vesper-sparrow lifts its song,Lost in the woods that now are beryl-wan;The path is drowned in dusk, is almost gone,Where now a fox or rabbit steals along:Dark is each vine-roofed hollow where, withdrawn,The creek-frog sounds his guttural gong,Like some squat dwarf or gnome,Seated upon his temple’s oozy dome,Summoning the faithful unto prayer,Muezzin-like, the worshipers of the moon,The insect people of the earth and air,Who join him in his twilight tune.Along the path, where the lizard hides,An instant shadow, the spider glides;The hairy spider, that haunts the way,Crouching black by its earth-bored hole,An insect ogre, that lairs with the mole,Hungry, seeking its insect prey,Fast to follow and swift to slay.—And over your hands and over your faceThe cobweb brushes its phantom lace:And now, from many a stealthy place,Woolly-winged and gossamer-gray,The forest moths come fluttering,Marked and mottled with lichen hues,Seal-soft umbers and downy blues,Dark as the bark to which they cling.
And here where the dusk steals on, you see,Violet-mantled, from tree to tree,The milkwort’s spike of lavender hue,—Of rosy blue,—Tipped by the weight of a passing bee,—Nods like a goblin night-cap, slim, sedate,That night shall tassel with the dew,Beneath a canopy of rose and rue.And as the purple stateOf twilight crowds the sunset’s crimson gate,Now one, now two,Drifting the oaks’ dark vistas through,The screech-owl’s cry of “Who, oh, who,Who stays so late?”Drops like a challenge down to you.The silence deepens; it seems so still,That, if you laid to the tree your ear,You too might hearIts great roots growing into the hill;Or there on the twig of the oak-tree tall,The gray-green egg in the gray-green gallSplit, and the little round worm and white,That grows to a gnat in a summer night,Uncurl in its nest as it dreams of flight.In the heart of the weed that grows near by,—If you laid your earTo a leaflet near,—You too might hear, if you, too, would try,The little gray worm, that becomes a flyA gray wood-fly, a rainbowed fly,As it feels a yearning for wings within,Minute of movement, steadily,—As a leaf-bud pushes from forth a tree,—Under the milk of its larval skin,The outward pressure of wings begin.Far off a vesper-sparrow lifts its song,Lost in the woods that now are beryl-wan;The path is drowned in dusk, is almost gone,Where now a fox or rabbit steals along:Dark is each vine-roofed hollow where, withdrawn,The creek-frog sounds his guttural gong,Like some squat dwarf or gnome,Seated upon his temple’s oozy dome,Summoning the faithful unto prayer,Muezzin-like, the worshipers of the moon,The insect people of the earth and air,Who join him in his twilight tune.Along the path, where the lizard hides,An instant shadow, the spider glides;The hairy spider, that haunts the way,Crouching black by its earth-bored hole,An insect ogre, that lairs with the mole,Hungry, seeking its insect prey,Fast to follow and swift to slay.—And over your hands and over your faceThe cobweb brushes its phantom lace:And now, from many a stealthy place,Woolly-winged and gossamer-gray,The forest moths come fluttering,Marked and mottled with lichen hues,Seal-soft umbers and downy blues,Dark as the bark to which they cling.
And here where the dusk steals on, you see,Violet-mantled, from tree to tree,The milkwort’s spike of lavender hue,—Of rosy blue,—Tipped by the weight of a passing bee,—Nods like a goblin night-cap, slim, sedate,That night shall tassel with the dew,Beneath a canopy of rose and rue.And as the purple stateOf twilight crowds the sunset’s crimson gate,Now one, now two,Drifting the oaks’ dark vistas through,The screech-owl’s cry of “Who, oh, who,Who stays so late?”Drops like a challenge down to you.The silence deepens; it seems so still,That, if you laid to the tree your ear,You too might hearIts great roots growing into the hill;Or there on the twig of the oak-tree tall,The gray-green egg in the gray-green gallSplit, and the little round worm and white,That grows to a gnat in a summer night,Uncurl in its nest as it dreams of flight.In the heart of the weed that grows near by,—If you laid your earTo a leaflet near,—You too might hear, if you, too, would try,The little gray worm, that becomes a flyA gray wood-fly, a rainbowed fly,As it feels a yearning for wings within,Minute of movement, steadily,—As a leaf-bud pushes from forth a tree,—Under the milk of its larval skin,The outward pressure of wings begin.
Far off a vesper-sparrow lifts its song,Lost in the woods that now are beryl-wan;The path is drowned in dusk, is almost gone,Where now a fox or rabbit steals along:Dark is each vine-roofed hollow where, withdrawn,The creek-frog sounds his guttural gong,Like some squat dwarf or gnome,Seated upon his temple’s oozy dome,Summoning the faithful unto prayer,Muezzin-like, the worshipers of the moon,The insect people of the earth and air,Who join him in his twilight tune.
Along the path, where the lizard hides,An instant shadow, the spider glides;The hairy spider, that haunts the way,Crouching black by its earth-bored hole,An insect ogre, that lairs with the mole,Hungry, seeking its insect prey,Fast to follow and swift to slay.—And over your hands and over your faceThe cobweb brushes its phantom lace:And now, from many a stealthy place,Woolly-winged and gossamer-gray,The forest moths come fluttering,Marked and mottled with lichen hues,Seal-soft umbers and downy blues,Dark as the bark to which they cling.