I'll tell you how the leaves came down.The great Tree to his children said,"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,Yes, very sleepy, little Red;It is quite time you went to bed."
"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,"Let us a little longer May;Dear Father Tree, behold our grief,'Tis such a very pleasant dayWe do not want to go away."
So, just for one more merry dayTo the great Tree the leaflets clung,Frolicked and danced and had their way,Upon the autumn breezes swung,Whispering all their sports among,
"Perhaps the great Tree will forgetAnd let us stay until the springIf we all beg and coax and fret."But the great Tree did no such thing;He smiled to hear their whispering.
"Come, children all, to bed," he cried;And ere the leaves could urge their prayerHe shook his head, and far and wide,Fluttering and rustling everywhere,Down sped the leaflets through the air.
I saw them; on the ground they lay,Golden and red, a huddled swarm,Waiting till one from far away,White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm,Should come to wrap them safe and warm.
The great bare Tree looked down and smiled."Good-night, dear little leaves" he said;And from below each sleepy childReplied "Good-night," and murmured,"It is so nice to go to bed."
Over the lapsing lagune all the dayUrging my gondola with oar-strokes light,Always beside one shadowy waterwayI pause and peer, with eager, jealous sight,Toward the Piazza where Pepita stands,Wooing the hungry pigeons from their flight.
Dark the canal; but she shines like the sun,With yellow hair and dreaming, wine-brown eyes.Thick crowd the doves for food. She gives ME none.She sees and will not see. Vain are my sighs.One slow, reluctant stroke. Aha! she turns,Gestures and smiles, with coy and feigned surprise.
Shifting and baffling is our Lido track,Blind and bewildering all the currents flow.Me they perplex not. In the midnight blackI hold my way secure and fearless row,But ah! what chart have I to her, my Sea,Whose fair, mysterious depths I long to know?
Subtle as sad mirage; true and untrueShe seems, and, pressing ever on in vain,I yearn across the mocking, tempting blue.Never she draws more near, never I gainA furlong's space toward where she sits and a miles;Smiles and cares nothing for my love and pain.
How shall I win her? What may strong arm doAgainst such gentle distance? I can sayNo more than this, that when she stands to wooThe doves beside the shadowy waterway,And when I look and long, sometimes—she smilesPerhaps she will do more than smile one day!
Light and darkness, brown and fair,Ha! they think I do not see,—I behind them, swiftly rowing.Rowing? Yes, but eyes are free,Eyes and fancies:—
Now what fire in looks and glances!Now the dark head bends, grown bolder.Ringlets mingle—silence—broken(All unconscious of beholder)By a kiss!
What could lovers ask or missIn such moonlight, such June weather,But a boat like this, (me rowing!)And forever and togetherTo be floating?
Ah! if she and I such boatingMight but share one day, some fellowWith strong arms behind, Pasquale,Or Luigi, with gay awning,(She likes yellow!)
She—I mean Pepita—mellowMoonlight on the waves, no otherTo break silence or catch whispers,All the love which now I smotherTold and spoken,—
Listened to, a kiss for token:How, my Signor? What! so soonHomeward bound? We, born of Venice,Live by night and nap by noon.If 'twere me, now,
With my brown-eyed girl, this prowWould not turn for hours still;But the Signor bids, commands,I am here to do his will,He is master.
Glide we on; so, faster, faster.Now the two are safely landed.Buono mano, grazie, Signor,They who love are open-handed.Now, Pepita!
She has said "yes," and the world is a-smite.There she sits as she sat in my dream;There she sits, and the blue waves gleam,And the current bears us along the whileFor happy mile after happy mile,A fairy boat on a fairy stream.
The Angelus bells siring to and fro,And the sunset lingers to hear their swell,For the sunset loves such music well.A big, bright moon is hovering low,Where the edge of the sky is all aglow,Like the middle heart of a red, red shell.
The Lido floats like a purple flower;Orange and rose are the sails at sea;Silk and pink the surf-line freeTumbles and chimes, and the perfect hourClasps us and folds us in its power,Folds us and holds us, my love and me.
Can there be sadness anywhereIn the world to-night? Or tears or sighsBeneath such festal moon and skies?Can there be memory or despair?What is it, beloved? Why point you there,With sudden dew in those dearest eyes?
Yes! one sad thing on the happy earth!Like a mourner's veil in the bridal array,Or a sorrowful sigh in the music gay,A shade on the sun, in the feast a dearth,Drawn like a ghost across our way,Torcello sits and rebukes our mirth.
She sits a widow who sat as queen,Ashes on brows once crowned and bright;Woe in the eyes once full of light;Her sad, fair roses and manifold green,All bitter and pallid and heavy with night,Are full of the shadows of woes unseen.
Let us hurry away from her face unblest,Row us away, for the song is done,The Angelus bells cease, one by one,Pepita's head lies on my breast;But, trembling and full of a vague unrest,I long for the morrow and for the sun.
Yes, God has made me a woman,And I am content to beJust what He meant, not reaching outFor other things, since HeWho knows me best and loves me most has ordered this for me.
A woman, to live my life outIn quiet womanly ways,Hearing the far-off battle,Seeing as through a hazeThe crowding, struggling world of men fight through their busydays.
I am not strong or valiant,I would not join the fightOr jostle with crowds in the highwaysTo sully my garments white;But I have rights as a woman, and here I claim my right.
The right of a rose to bloomIn its own sweet, separate way,With none to question the perfumed pinkAnd none to utter a nayIf it reaches a root or points, a thorn, as even a rose-tree may.
The right of the lady-birch to grow,To grow as the Lord shall please,By never a sturdy oak rebuked,Denied nor sun nor breeze,For all its pliant slenderness, kin to the stronger trees.
The right to a life of my own,—Not merely a casual bitOf somebody else's life, flung outThat, taking hold of it,I may stand as a cipher does after a numeral writ.
The right to gather and gleanWhat food I need and canFrom the garnered store of knowledgeWhich man has heaped for man,Taking with free hands freely and after an ordered plan.
The right—ah, best and sweetest!—To stand all undismayedWhenever sorrow or want or sinCall for a woman's aid,With none to call or question, by never a look gainsaid.
I do not ask for a ballot;Though very life were at stake,I would beg for the nobler justiceThat men for manhood's sakeShould give ungrudgingly, nor withhold till I must fight and take.
The fleet foot and the feeble footBoth seek the self-same goal,The weakest soldier's name is writOn the great army-roll,And God, who made man's body strong, made too the woman's soul
I sit at evening's scented close,In fulness of the summer-tide;All dewy fair the lily glows,No single petal of the row;Has fallen to dim the rose's pride.
Sweet airs, sweet harmonies of hue,Surround, caress me everywhere;The spells of dusk, the spells of dew,My senses steal, my reason woo,And sing a lullaby to tare,
But vainly do the warm airs sing,All vain the roses' rapturous breath;A chill blast, as from wintry wing,Smites on my heart, and, shuddering,I see the beauty changed to death.
Afar I see it loom and rise,That pitiless and icy shape.It blots the blue, it dims the skies;Amid the summer land it cries,"I come, and there is no escape!"
O, bitter drop in bloom and sweet!O, canker on the smiling day!Have we but climbed the hill to meetThy fronting fare, thy eyes of sleet?To hate, yet dare not turn away?
I sit beneath a leaden sky,Amid the piled and drifted snow;My feet are on the graves where lieThe roses which made haste to dieSo long, so very long ago.
The sobbing wind is fierce and strong,Its cry is like a human wail,But in my heart it sings this song:"Not long, O Lord! O Lord, not long!Surely thy spring-time shall prevail."
Out of the darkness and the cold,Out of the wintry depths I lean,And lovingly I clasp and holdThe promises, and see unrolledA vision of the summer green.
O, life in death, sweet plucked from pain!O, distant vision fair to see!Up the long hill we press and strain;We can bear all things and attain,If once our faces turn to Thee!
Sitting all day in a silver mist,In silver silence all the day,Save for the low, soft kiss of spray,And the lisp of sands by waters kissed,As the tide draws up the bay.
Little I hear and nothing I see,Wrapped in that veil by fairies spun;The solid earth is vanished for me,And the shining hours speed noiselessly,A web of shadow and sun.
Suddenly out of the shifting veilA magical bark, by the sunbeams lit,Flits like a dream,—or seems to flit,—With a golden prow and a gossamer sail,And the waves make room for it.
A fair, swift bark from some radiant realm,Its diamond cordage cuts the skyIn glittering lines; all silentlyA seeming spirit holds the helmAnd steers: will he pass me by?
Ah, not for me is the vessel here!Noiseless and fast as a sea-bird's, flight,She swerves and vanishes from my sight;No flap of sail, no parting cheer,—She has passed into the light.
Sitting some day in a deeper mist,Silent, alone, some other day,An unknown bark from an unknown bay,By unknown waters lapped and kissed,Shall near me through the spray.
No flap of sail, no scraping of keel:Shadow, dim, with a banner dark,It will hover, will pause, and I shall feelA hand which beckons, and, shivering, stealTo the cold strand and embark.
Embark for that far mysterious realm,Whence the fathomless, trackless waters flow.Shall I see a Presence dim, and knowA Gracious Hand upon the helm,Nor be afraid to go?
And through black wave and stormy blast,And out of the fog-wreath dense and dun,Guided and held, shall the vessel run,Gain the fair haven, night being past,And anchor in the sun?
Could my heart hold another one?I cannot tell.Sometimes it seems an ample dome,Sometimes a cell,
Sometimes a temple filled with saints,Serene and fair,Whose eyes are pure from mortal taintsAll lilies are.
Sometimes a narrow shrine, in whichOne precious fareSmiles ever from its guarded niche,With deathless grace.
Sometimes a nest, where weary things,And weal; and shy,Are brooded under mother wingsTill they can fly.
And then a palace, with wide roomsAdorned and dressed,Where eager slaves pour sweet perfumesFor each new guest.
Whiche'er it be, I know alwaysWithin that door—Whose latch it is not mine to raise—Blows evermore,
With breath of balm upon its wing,A soft, still air,Which makes each closely folded thingLook always fair.
My darlings, do you feel me near,As every dayInto this hidden place and dearI take my way?
Always you stand in radiant guise,Always I seeA noiseless welcome in the eyesYou turn on me.
And, whether I come soon or late,Whate'er befall,Always within the guarded gateI find you all.
All green and fair the Summer lies,Just budded from the bud of Spring,With tender blue of wistful skies,And winds which softly sing.
Her clock has struck its morning hours;Noon nears—the flowery dial is true;But still the hot sun veils its powers,In deference to the dew.
Yet there amid the fresh new green,Amid the young broods overhead,A single scarlet branch is seen,Swung like a banner red;
Tinged with the fatal hectic flushWhich, when October frost is in the near,Flames on each dying tree and bush,To deck the dying year.
And now the sky seems not so blue,The yellow sunshine pales its ray,A sorrowful, prophetic hueLies on the radiant day,
As mid the bloom and tendernessI catch that scarlet menace there,Like a gray sudden wintry tressSet in a child's bright hair.
The birds sing on, the roses blow,But like a discord heard but now,A stain upon the petal's snowIs that one sad, red bough.
The aloes grow upon the sand,The aloes thirst with parching heat;Year after year they waiting stand,Lonely and calm, and front the beatOf desert winds; and still a sweetAnd subtle voice thrills all their veins:"Great patience wins; it still remains,After a century of pains,To you to bloom and be complete."
I grow upon a thorny waste;Hot noontide lies on all the way,And with its scorching breath makes hasteEach freshening dawn to burn and slay,Yet patiently I bide and stay:Knowing the secret of my fate,The hour of bloom, dear Lord, I wait,Come when it will, or soon or late,A hundred years are but a day.
I know where it lurks and hides,In the midst of the busy house,In the midst of the children's glee,All clay its shadow bides:Nobody knows but me.
On a closet-shelf it dwells,In the darkest corner of all,Mid rolls of woollen and fur,And faint, forgotten smellsOf last year's lavender.
That a ghost has its dwelling thereNobody else would guess,—"Only a baby's shoe,A curl of golden hair,"You would say, "a toy or two,—
"A broken doll, whose lipsAnd cheeks of waxen bloomShow dents of fingers small,—Little, fair finger-tips,—A worn sash,—that is all."
Little to see or to guess;But whenever I open the door,There, faithful to its post,With its eyes' sad tenderness,I see my little ghost.
And I hasten to shut the door,I shut it tight and fast,Lest the sweet, sad thing get free,Lest it flit beside on the floor,And sadden the day for me,
Lest between me and the sun,And between me and the heavens,And the laugh in the children's eyes,The shadowy feet should run,The faint gold curls arise
Like a gleam of moonlight pale,And all the warmth and the lightShould die from the summer day,And the laughter turn to wail,And I should forget to pray.
So I keep the door shut fast,And my little ghost shut in,And whenever I cross the hallI shiver and hurry past;But I love it best of all.
How did they keep his birthday then,The little fair Christ, so long ago?O, many there were to be housed and fed,And there was no place in the inn, they said,So into the manger the Christ must go,To lodge with the cattle and not with men.
The ox and the ass they munched their hayThey munched and they slumbered, wondering not,And out in the midnight cold and blueThe shepherds slept, and the sheep slept too,Till the angels' song and the bright star rayGuided the wise men to the spot.
But only the wise men knelt and praised,And only the shepherds came to see,And the rest of the world cared not at allFor the little Christ in the oxen's stall;And we are angry and amazedThat such a dull, hard thing should be!
How do we keep his birthday now?We ring the bells and we raise the strain,We hang up garland, everywhereAnd bid the tapers, twinkle fair,And feast and frolic—and then we goBack to the Mine old lives again.
Are we so better, then, than theyWho failed the new-born Christ to see?To them a helpless babe,—to usHe shines a Saviour glorious,Our Lord, our Friend, our All—yet weAre half asleep this Christmas day.
Thank God for life: life is not sweet always.Hands may he heavy-laden, hearts care full,Unwelcome nights follow unwelcome days,And dreams divine end in awakenings dull.Still it is life, anil life is cause for praise.This ache, this restlessness, this quickening sting,Prove me no torpid and inanimate thing,Prove me of Him who is of life the Spring.I am alive!—and that is beautiful.
Thank God for Love: though Love may hurt and woundThough set with sharpest thorns its rose may be,Roses are not of winter, all attunedMust be the earth, full of soft stir, and freeAnd warm ere dawns the rose upon its tree.Fresh currents through my frozen pulses run;My heart has tasted summer, tasted sun,And I can thank Thee, Lord, although not oneOf all the many roses blooms for me.