First of the insect choir, in the springWe hear his faint voice fluttering in the grass,Beneath some blossom's rosy coveringOr frond of fern upon a wildwood pass.When in the marsh, in clamorous orchestras,The shrill hylodes pipe; when, in the haw'sBee-swarming blooms, or tasseling sassafras,Sweet threads of silvery song the sparrow draws,Bow-like, athwart the vibrant atmosphere,—Like some dim dream low-breathed in slumber's ear,—We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
First of the insect choir, in the springWe hear his faint voice fluttering in the grass,Beneath some blossom's rosy coveringOr frond of fern upon a wildwood pass.When in the marsh, in clamorous orchestras,The shrill hylodes pipe; when, in the haw'sBee-swarming blooms, or tasseling sassafras,Sweet threads of silvery song the sparrow draws,Bow-like, athwart the vibrant atmosphere,—Like some dim dream low-breathed in slumber's ear,—We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
All summer through the mellowing meadows thrillTo his blithe music. Be it day or night,Close gossip of the grass, on field and hillHe serenades the silence with delight:Silence, that hears the melon slowly splitWith ripeness; and the plump peach, hornet-bit,Loosen and fall; and everywhere the white,Warm, silk-like stir of leafy lights that flitAs breezes blow; above which, loudly clear,—Like joy who sings of life and has no fear,—We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
All summer through the mellowing meadows thrillTo his blithe music. Be it day or night,Close gossip of the grass, on field and hillHe serenades the silence with delight:Silence, that hears the melon slowly splitWith ripeness; and the plump peach, hornet-bit,Loosen and fall; and everywhere the white,Warm, silk-like stir of leafy lights that flitAs breezes blow; above which, loudly clear,—Like joy who sings of life and has no fear,—We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
Then in the autumn, by the waterside,Leaf-huddled; or along the weed-grown walks,He dirges low the flowers that have died,Or with their ghosts holds solitary talks.Lover of warmth, all day above the clickAnd crunching of the sorghum-press, through thickSweet steam of juice; all night when, white as chalk,The hunter's-moon hangs o'er the rustling rick,Within the barn 'mid munching cow and steer,—Soft as a memory the heart holds dear,—We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
Then in the autumn, by the waterside,Leaf-huddled; or along the weed-grown walks,He dirges low the flowers that have died,Or with their ghosts holds solitary talks.Lover of warmth, all day above the clickAnd crunching of the sorghum-press, through thickSweet steam of juice; all night when, white as chalk,The hunter's-moon hangs o'er the rustling rick,Within the barn 'mid munching cow and steer,—Soft as a memory the heart holds dear,—We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
Kinsman and cousin of the Faëry Race,All winter long he sets his sober mirth,—That brings good-luck to many a fire-place,—To folk-lore song and story of the hearth.Between the back-log's bluster and the slimHigh twittering of the kettle,—sounds that hymnHome-comforts,—when, outside, the starless EarthIs icicled in every laden limb,—Defying frost and all the sad and sear,—Like love that dies not and is always near,—We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
Kinsman and cousin of the Faëry Race,All winter long he sets his sober mirth,—That brings good-luck to many a fire-place,—To folk-lore song and story of the hearth.Between the back-log's bluster and the slimHigh twittering of the kettle,—sounds that hymnHome-comforts,—when, outside, the starless EarthIs icicled in every laden limb,—Defying frost and all the sad and sear,—Like love that dies not and is always near,—We hear his "Cheer, cheer, cheer."
When blood-root blooms and trillium flowersUnclasp their stars to sun and rain,My heart strikes hands with winds and showersAnd wanders in the woods again.O urging impulse, born of spring,That makes glad April of my soul,No bird, however wild of wing,Is more impatient of control.Impetuous of pulse it beatsWithin my blood and bears me hence;Above the housetops and the streetsI hear its happy eloquence.It tells me all that I would know,Of birds and buds, of blooms and bees;I seem tohearthe blossoms blow,And leaves unfolding on the trees.I seem to hear the blue-bells ringFaint purple peals of fragrance; andThe honey-throated poppies flingTheir golden laughter o'er the land.It calls to me; it sings to me;I hear its far voice night and day;I can not choose but go when treeAnd flower clamor, "Come, away!"
When blood-root blooms and trillium flowersUnclasp their stars to sun and rain,My heart strikes hands with winds and showersAnd wanders in the woods again.
O urging impulse, born of spring,That makes glad April of my soul,No bird, however wild of wing,Is more impatient of control.
Impetuous of pulse it beatsWithin my blood and bears me hence;Above the housetops and the streetsI hear its happy eloquence.
It tells me all that I would know,Of birds and buds, of blooms and bees;I seem tohearthe blossoms blow,And leaves unfolding on the trees.
I seem to hear the blue-bells ringFaint purple peals of fragrance; andThe honey-throated poppies flingTheir golden laughter o'er the land.
It calls to me; it sings to me;I hear its far voice night and day;I can not choose but go when treeAnd flower clamor, "Come, away!"
What joy you take in making hotness hotter,In emphasizing dullness with your buzz,Making monotony more monotonous!When Summer comes, and drouth hath dried the waterIn all the creeks, we hear your ragged raspFiling the stillness. Or,—as urchins beatA stagnant pond whereon the bubbles gasp,—Your switch-like music whips the midday heat.O bur of sound caught in the Summer's hair,We hear you everywhere!We hear you in the vines and berry-brambles,Along the unkempt lanes, among the weeds,Amid the shadeless meadows, gray with seeds,And by the wood 'round which the rail-fence rambles,Sawing the sunlight with your sultry saw.Or,—like to tomboy truants, at their playWith noisy mirth among the barn's deep straw,—You sing away the careless summer-day.O brier-like voice that clings in idlenessTo Summer's drowsy dress!You tramp of insects, vagrant and unheeding,Improvident, who of the summer makeOne long green mealtime, and for winter takeNo care, aye singing or just merely feeding!Happy-go-lucky vagabond,—'though frostShall pierce, ere long, your green coat or your brown,And pinch your body,—let no song be lost,But as you lived into your grave go down—Like some small poet with his little rhyme,Forgotten of all time.
What joy you take in making hotness hotter,In emphasizing dullness with your buzz,Making monotony more monotonous!When Summer comes, and drouth hath dried the waterIn all the creeks, we hear your ragged raspFiling the stillness. Or,—as urchins beatA stagnant pond whereon the bubbles gasp,—Your switch-like music whips the midday heat.O bur of sound caught in the Summer's hair,We hear you everywhere!
We hear you in the vines and berry-brambles,Along the unkempt lanes, among the weeds,Amid the shadeless meadows, gray with seeds,And by the wood 'round which the rail-fence rambles,Sawing the sunlight with your sultry saw.Or,—like to tomboy truants, at their playWith noisy mirth among the barn's deep straw,—You sing away the careless summer-day.O brier-like voice that clings in idlenessTo Summer's drowsy dress!
You tramp of insects, vagrant and unheeding,Improvident, who of the summer makeOne long green mealtime, and for winter takeNo care, aye singing or just merely feeding!Happy-go-lucky vagabond,—'though frostShall pierce, ere long, your green coat or your brown,And pinch your body,—let no song be lost,But as you lived into your grave go down—Like some small poet with his little rhyme,Forgotten of all time.
Secluded, solitary on some underbough,Or cradled in a leaf, 'mid glimmering light,Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply watching howThe slow toad-stool comes bulging, moony white,Through loosening loam; or how, against the night,The glow-worm gathers silver to endowThe darkness with; or how the dew conspiresTo hang at dusk with lamps of chilly firesEach blade that shrivels now.
Secluded, solitary on some underbough,Or cradled in a leaf, 'mid glimmering light,Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply watching howThe slow toad-stool comes bulging, moony white,Through loosening loam; or how, against the night,The glow-worm gathers silver to endowThe darkness with; or how the dew conspiresTo hang at dusk with lamps of chilly firesEach blade that shrivels now.
O vague confederate of the whippoorwill,Of owl and cricket and the katydid!Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrillVibrating note and send'st it where, half hidIn cedars, twilight sleeps—each azure lidDrooping a line of golden eyeball still.—Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voiceWithin the Garden of the Hours apoiseOn dusk's deep daffodil.
O vague confederate of the whippoorwill,Of owl and cricket and the katydid!Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrillVibrating note and send'st it where, half hidIn cedars, twilight sleeps—each azure lidDrooping a line of golden eyeball still.—Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voiceWithin the Garden of the Hours apoiseOn dusk's deep daffodil.
Minstrel of moisture! silent when high noonShows her tanned face among the thirsting cloverAnd parching meadows, thy tenebrious tuneWakes with the dew or when the rain is over.Thou troubadour of wetness and damp loverOf all cool things! admitted comrade boonOf twilight's hush, and little intimateOf eve's first fluttering star and delicateRound rim of rainy moon!
Minstrel of moisture! silent when high noonShows her tanned face among the thirsting cloverAnd parching meadows, thy tenebrious tuneWakes with the dew or when the rain is over.Thou troubadour of wetness and damp loverOf all cool things! admitted comrade boonOf twilight's hush, and little intimateOf eve's first fluttering star and delicateRound rim of rainy moon!
Art trumpeter of Dwarfland? does thy hornInform the gnomes and goblins of the hourWhen they may gambol under haw and thorn,Straddling each winking web and twinkling flower?Or bell-ringer of Elfland? whose tall towerThe liriodendron is? from whence is borneThe elfin music of thy bell's deep bass,To summon fairies to their starlit maze,To summon them or warn.
Art trumpeter of Dwarfland? does thy hornInform the gnomes and goblins of the hourWhen they may gambol under haw and thorn,Straddling each winking web and twinkling flower?Or bell-ringer of Elfland? whose tall towerThe liriodendron is? from whence is borneThe elfin music of thy bell's deep bass,To summon fairies to their starlit maze,To summon them or warn.
When, one by one, the stars have trembled throughEve's shadowy hues of violet, rose, and fire—As on a pansy-bloom the limpid dewOrbs its bright beads;—and, one by one, the choirOf insects wakes on nodding bush and brier:Then through the woods—where wandering winds pursueA ceaseless whisper—like an eery lyreStruck in the Erl-king's halls, where ghosts and dreamsHold revelry, your goblin music screams,Shivering and strange as some strange thought come true.Brown as the agaric that frills dead trees,Or those fantastic fungi of the woodsThat crowd the dampness—are you kin to theseIn some mysterious way that still eludesMy fancy? you, who haunt the solitudesWith witch-like wailings? voice, that seems to freezeOut of the darkness,—like the scent which broods,Rank and rain-sodden, over autumn nooks,—That, to the mind, might well suggest such looks,Ghastly and gray, as pale clairvoyance sees.You people night with weirdness: lone and drear,Beneath the stars, you cry your wizard runes;And in the haggard silence, filled with fear,Your shuddering hoot seems some bleak grief that croonsMockery and terror; or,—beneath the moon'sCloud-hurrying glimmer,—to the startled ear,Crazed, madman snatches of old, perished tunes,The witless wit of outcast Edgar thereIn the wild night; or, wan with all despair,The mirthless laughter of the Fool in Lear.
When, one by one, the stars have trembled throughEve's shadowy hues of violet, rose, and fire—As on a pansy-bloom the limpid dewOrbs its bright beads;—and, one by one, the choirOf insects wakes on nodding bush and brier:Then through the woods—where wandering winds pursueA ceaseless whisper—like an eery lyreStruck in the Erl-king's halls, where ghosts and dreamsHold revelry, your goblin music screams,Shivering and strange as some strange thought come true.
Brown as the agaric that frills dead trees,Or those fantastic fungi of the woodsThat crowd the dampness—are you kin to theseIn some mysterious way that still eludesMy fancy? you, who haunt the solitudesWith witch-like wailings? voice, that seems to freezeOut of the darkness,—like the scent which broods,Rank and rain-sodden, over autumn nooks,—That, to the mind, might well suggest such looks,Ghastly and gray, as pale clairvoyance sees.
You people night with weirdness: lone and drear,Beneath the stars, you cry your wizard runes;And in the haggard silence, filled with fear,Your shuddering hoot seems some bleak grief that croonsMockery and terror; or,—beneath the moon'sCloud-hurrying glimmer,—to the startled ear,Crazed, madman snatches of old, perished tunes,The witless wit of outcast Edgar thereIn the wild night; or, wan with all despair,The mirthless laughter of the Fool in Lear.
He makes a roadway of the crumbling fence,Or on the fallen tree,—brown as a leafFall stripes with russet,—gambols down the denseGreen twilight of the woods. We see not whenceHe comes, nor whither—'tis a time too brief!—He vanishes;—swift carrier of some Fay,Some pixy steed that haunts our child-belief—A goblin glimpse from woodland way to way.What harlequin mood of nature qualifiedHim so with happiness? and limbed him withSuch young activity as winds, that rideThe ripples, have, that dance on every side?As sunbeams know, that urge the sap and pithThrough hearts of trees? yet made him to delight,Gnome-like, in darkness,—like a moonlight myth,—Lairing in labyrinths of the under night.Here, by a rock, beneath the moss, a holeLeads to his home, the den wherein he sleeps;Lulled by near noises of the cautious moleTunnelling its mine—like some ungainly Troll—Or by the tireless cricket there that keepsPicking its drowsy and monotonous lute;Or slower sounds of grass that creeps and creeps,And trees unrolling mighty root on root.Such is the music of his sleeping hours.Day hath another—'tis a melodyHe trips to, made by the assembled flowers,And light and fragrance laughing 'mid the bowers,And ripeness busy with the acorn-tree.Such strains, perhaps, as filled with mute amaze—The silent music of Earth's ecstasy—The Satyr's soul, the Faun of classic days.
He makes a roadway of the crumbling fence,Or on the fallen tree,—brown as a leafFall stripes with russet,—gambols down the denseGreen twilight of the woods. We see not whenceHe comes, nor whither—'tis a time too brief!—He vanishes;—swift carrier of some Fay,Some pixy steed that haunts our child-belief—A goblin glimpse from woodland way to way.
What harlequin mood of nature qualifiedHim so with happiness? and limbed him withSuch young activity as winds, that rideThe ripples, have, that dance on every side?As sunbeams know, that urge the sap and pithThrough hearts of trees? yet made him to delight,Gnome-like, in darkness,—like a moonlight myth,—Lairing in labyrinths of the under night.
Here, by a rock, beneath the moss, a holeLeads to his home, the den wherein he sleeps;Lulled by near noises of the cautious moleTunnelling its mine—like some ungainly Troll—Or by the tireless cricket there that keepsPicking its drowsy and monotonous lute;Or slower sounds of grass that creeps and creeps,And trees unrolling mighty root on root.
Such is the music of his sleeping hours.Day hath another—'tis a melodyHe trips to, made by the assembled flowers,And light and fragrance laughing 'mid the bowers,And ripeness busy with the acorn-tree.Such strains, perhaps, as filled with mute amaze—The silent music of Earth's ecstasy—The Satyr's soul, the Faun of classic days.
In girandoles of gladiolesThe day had kindled flame;And Heaven a door of gold and pearlUnclosed when Morning,—like a girl,A red rose twisted in a curl,—Down sapphire stairways came.Said I to Love: "What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?"Said I to Love: "What must I do?All on a summer's morning."Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."Said Love to me: "Go woo.If she be milking, follow, O!And in the clover hollow, O!While through the dew the bells clang clear,Just whisper it into her ear,All on a summer's morning."
In girandoles of gladiolesThe day had kindled flame;And Heaven a door of gold and pearlUnclosed when Morning,—like a girl,A red rose twisted in a curl,—Down sapphire stairways came.
Said I to Love: "What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?"Said I to Love: "What must I do?All on a summer's morning."
Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."Said Love to me: "Go woo.If she be milking, follow, O!And in the clover hollow, O!While through the dew the bells clang clear,Just whisper it into her ear,All on a summer's morning."
Of honey and heat and weed and wheatThe day had made perfume;And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised,Whence Noon, like some wan woman, gazed—A sunflower withering at her waist—Within a crystal room.Said I to Love: "What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?"Said I to Love: "What must I do,All in the summer nooning?"Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."Said Love to me: "Go woo.If she be 'mid the rakers, O!Among the harvest acres, O!While every breeze brings scents of hay,Just hold her hand and not take 'nay,'All in the summer nooning."
Of honey and heat and weed and wheatThe day had made perfume;And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised,Whence Noon, like some wan woman, gazed—A sunflower withering at her waist—Within a crystal room.
Said I to Love: "What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?"Said I to Love: "What must I do,All in the summer nooning?"
Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."Said Love to me: "Go woo.If she be 'mid the rakers, O!Among the harvest acres, O!While every breeze brings scents of hay,Just hold her hand and not take 'nay,'All in the summer nooning."
With song and sigh and cricket cryThe day had mingled rest;And Heaven a casement opened wideOf opal, whence, like some young bride,The Twilight leaned, all starry-eyed,A moonflower on her breast.Said I to Love: "What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?"Said I to Love: "What must I do,All in the summer gloaming?"Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."Said Love to me: "Go woo.Go meet her at the trysting, O!And, 'spite of her resisting, O!Beneath the stars and afterglow,Just clasp her close and kiss her so,All in the summer gloaming."
With song and sigh and cricket cryThe day had mingled rest;And Heaven a casement opened wideOf opal, whence, like some young bride,The Twilight leaned, all starry-eyed,A moonflower on her breast.
Said I to Love: "What must I do?What shall I do? what can I do?"Said I to Love: "What must I do,All in the summer gloaming?"
Said Love to me: "Go woo, go woo."Said Love to me: "Go woo.Go meet her at the trysting, O!And, 'spite of her resisting, O!Beneath the stars and afterglow,Just clasp her close and kiss her so,All in the summer gloaming."
The hot sunflowers by the glaring pikeLift shields of sultry brass; the teasel tops,Pink-thorned, advance with bristling spike on spikeAgainst the furious sunlight. Field and copseAre sick with summer: now, with breathless stops,The locusts cymbal; now grasshoppers beatTheir castanets: and rolled in dust, a team,—Like some mean life wrapped in its sorry dream,—An empty wagon rattles through the heat.
The hot sunflowers by the glaring pikeLift shields of sultry brass; the teasel tops,Pink-thorned, advance with bristling spike on spikeAgainst the furious sunlight. Field and copseAre sick with summer: now, with breathless stops,The locusts cymbal; now grasshoppers beatTheir castanets: and rolled in dust, a team,—Like some mean life wrapped in its sorry dream,—An empty wagon rattles through the heat.
Where now the blue, blue flags? the flow'rs whose mouthsAre moist and musky? Where the sweet-breathed mint,That made the brook-bank herby? Where the South'sWild morning-glories, rich in hues, that hintAt coming showers that the rainbows tint?Where all the blossoms that the wildwood knows?—The frail oxalis hidden in its leaves;The Indian-pipe, pale as a soul that grieves;The freckled touch-me-not and forest-rose.
Where now the blue, blue flags? the flow'rs whose mouthsAre moist and musky? Where the sweet-breathed mint,That made the brook-bank herby? Where the South'sWild morning-glories, rich in hues, that hintAt coming showers that the rainbows tint?Where all the blossoms that the wildwood knows?—The frail oxalis hidden in its leaves;The Indian-pipe, pale as a soul that grieves;The freckled touch-me-not and forest-rose.
Dead! dead! all dead besides the drouth-burnt brook,Shrouded in moss or in the shriveled grass.Where waved their bells,—from which the wild-bee shookThe dew-drop once,—gaunt, in a nightmare mass,The rank weeds crowd; through which the cattle pass,Thirsty and lean, seeking some meagre spring,Closed in with thorns, on which stray bits of woolThe panting sheep have left, that sought the cool,From morn till evening wearily wandering.
Dead! dead! all dead besides the drouth-burnt brook,Shrouded in moss or in the shriveled grass.Where waved their bells,—from which the wild-bee shookThe dew-drop once,—gaunt, in a nightmare mass,The rank weeds crowd; through which the cattle pass,Thirsty and lean, seeking some meagre spring,Closed in with thorns, on which stray bits of woolThe panting sheep have left, that sought the cool,From morn till evening wearily wandering.
No bird is heard; no throat to whistle awakeThe sleepy hush; to let its music leakFresh, bubble-like, through bloom-roofs of the brake:Only the green-blue heron, famine weak,—Searching the stale pools of the minnowless creek,—Utters its call; and then the rain-crow, too,False prophet now, croaks to the stagnant air;While overhead,—still as if painted there,—A buzzard hangs, black on the burning blue.
No bird is heard; no throat to whistle awakeThe sleepy hush; to let its music leakFresh, bubble-like, through bloom-roofs of the brake:Only the green-blue heron, famine weak,—Searching the stale pools of the minnowless creek,—Utters its call; and then the rain-crow, too,False prophet now, croaks to the stagnant air;While overhead,—still as if painted there,—A buzzard hangs, black on the burning blue.
Before the rain, low in the obscure east,Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray;Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased,Wove an enormous web, wherein it layLike some white spider hungry for its prey.Vindictive looked the scowling firmament,In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray,Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stoneThe peevish cricket raised a creaking cry.Within the world these sounds were heard alone,Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky,Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh;Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed,That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by,Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passedBefore was heard the thunder's sullen drumRumbling night's hollow; and the Earth at last,Restless with waiting,—like a woman, dumbWith doubting of the love that should have clombHer casement hours ago,—avowed again,'Mid protestations, joy that he had come.And all night long I heard the Heavens explain.
Before the rain, low in the obscure east,Weak and morose the moon hung, sickly gray;Around its disc the storm mists, cracked and creased,Wove an enormous web, wherein it layLike some white spider hungry for its prey.Vindictive looked the scowling firmament,In which each star, that flashed a dagger ray,Seemed filled with malice of some dark intent.
The marsh-frog croaked; and underneath the stoneThe peevish cricket raised a creaking cry.Within the world these sounds were heard alone,Save when the ruffian wind swept from the sky,Making each tree like some sad spirit sigh;Or shook the clumsy beetle from its weed,That, in the drowsy darkness, bungling by,Sharded the silence with its feverish speed.
Slowly the tempest gathered. Hours passedBefore was heard the thunder's sullen drumRumbling night's hollow; and the Earth at last,Restless with waiting,—like a woman, dumbWith doubting of the love that should have clombHer casement hours ago,—avowed again,'Mid protestations, joy that he had come.And all night long I heard the Heavens explain.
It seemed the listening forest held its breathBefore some vague and unapparent formOf fear, approaching with the wings of death,On the impending storm.Above the hills, big, bellying clouds loomed, blackAnd ominous, yet silent as the blueThat pools calm heights of heaven, deepening back'Twixt clouds of snowdrift hue.Then instantly, as when a multitudeShout riot and war through some tumultuous town,Innumerable voices swept the woodAs wild the wind rushed down.And fierce and few, as when a strong man weeps,Great rain-drops dashed the dust; and, overhead,Ponderous and vast down the prodigious deeps,Went slow the thunder's tread.And swift and furious, as when giants fence,The lightning foils of tempest went insane;Then far and near sonorous Earth grew denseWith long sweet sweep of rain.
It seemed the listening forest held its breathBefore some vague and unapparent formOf fear, approaching with the wings of death,On the impending storm.
Above the hills, big, bellying clouds loomed, blackAnd ominous, yet silent as the blueThat pools calm heights of heaven, deepening back'Twixt clouds of snowdrift hue.
Then instantly, as when a multitudeShout riot and war through some tumultuous town,Innumerable voices swept the woodAs wild the wind rushed down.
And fierce and few, as when a strong man weeps,Great rain-drops dashed the dust; and, overhead,Ponderous and vast down the prodigious deeps,Went slow the thunder's tread.
And swift and furious, as when giants fence,The lightning foils of tempest went insane;Then far and near sonorous Earth grew denseWith long sweet sweep of rain.
A mile of lane,—hedged high with iron-weedsAnd dying daisies,—white with sun, that leadsDownward into a wood; through which a streamSteals like a shadow; over which is laidA bridge of logs, worn deep by many a team,Sunk in the tangled shade.Far off a wood-dove lifts its lonely cry;And in the sleepy silver of the skyA gray hawk wheels scarce larger than a hand.From point to point the road grows worse and worse,Until that place is reached where all the landSeems burdened with some curse.A ragged fence of pickets, warped and sprung,—On which the fragments of a gate are hung,—Divides a hill, the fox and ground-hog haunt,A wilderness of briers; o'er whose topsA battered barn is seen, low-roofed and gaunt,'Mid fields that know no crops.Fields over which a path, o'erwhelmed with bursAnd ragweeds, noisy with the grasshoppers,Leads,—lost, irresolute as paths the cowsWear through the woods,—unto a woodshed; then,With wrecks of windows, to a huddled house,Where men have murdered men.A house, whose tottering chimney, clay and rock,Is seamed and crannied; whose lame door and lockAre bullet-bored; around which, there and here,Are sinister stains.—One dreads to look around.—The place seems thinking of that time of fearAnd dares not breathe a sound.Within is emptiness: the sunlight fallsOn faded journals papering its walls;On advertisement chromos, torn with time,Around a hearth where wasps and spiders build.—The house is dead; meseems that night of crimeIt, too, was shot and killed.
A mile of lane,—hedged high with iron-weedsAnd dying daisies,—white with sun, that leadsDownward into a wood; through which a streamSteals like a shadow; over which is laidA bridge of logs, worn deep by many a team,Sunk in the tangled shade.
Far off a wood-dove lifts its lonely cry;And in the sleepy silver of the skyA gray hawk wheels scarce larger than a hand.From point to point the road grows worse and worse,Until that place is reached where all the landSeems burdened with some curse.
A ragged fence of pickets, warped and sprung,—On which the fragments of a gate are hung,—Divides a hill, the fox and ground-hog haunt,A wilderness of briers; o'er whose topsA battered barn is seen, low-roofed and gaunt,'Mid fields that know no crops.
Fields over which a path, o'erwhelmed with bursAnd ragweeds, noisy with the grasshoppers,Leads,—lost, irresolute as paths the cowsWear through the woods,—unto a woodshed; then,With wrecks of windows, to a huddled house,Where men have murdered men.
A house, whose tottering chimney, clay and rock,Is seamed and crannied; whose lame door and lockAre bullet-bored; around which, there and here,Are sinister stains.—One dreads to look around.—The place seems thinking of that time of fearAnd dares not breathe a sound.
Within is emptiness: the sunlight fallsOn faded journals papering its walls;On advertisement chromos, torn with time,Around a hearth where wasps and spiders build.—The house is dead; meseems that night of crimeIt, too, was shot and killed.
Upon the Siren-haunted seas, between Fate's mythic shores,Within a world of moon and mist, where dusk and daylight wed,I see a phantom galley and its hull is banked with oars,With ghostly oars that move to song, a song of dreams long dead:"Oh, we are sick of rowing here!With toil our arms are numb;With smiting year on weary yearSalt-furrows of the foam:Our journey's end is never near,And will no nearer come—Beyond our reach the shores appearOf far Elysium."
Upon the Siren-haunted seas, between Fate's mythic shores,Within a world of moon and mist, where dusk and daylight wed,I see a phantom galley and its hull is banked with oars,With ghostly oars that move to song, a song of dreams long dead:
"Oh, we are sick of rowing here!With toil our arms are numb;With smiting year on weary yearSalt-furrows of the foam:Our journey's end is never near,And will no nearer come—Beyond our reach the shores appearOf far Elysium."
Within a land of cataracts and mountains old and sand,Beneath whose heavens ruins rise, o'er which the stars burn red,I see a spectral cavalcade with crucifix in handAnd shadowy armor march and sing, a song of dreams long dead:"Oh, we are weary marching on!Our limbs are travel-worn;With cross and sword from dawn to dawnWe wend with raiment torn:The leagues to go, the leagues we've goneAre sand and rock and thorn—The way is long to AvalonBeyond the deeps of morn."
Within a land of cataracts and mountains old and sand,Beneath whose heavens ruins rise, o'er which the stars burn red,I see a spectral cavalcade with crucifix in handAnd shadowy armor march and sing, a song of dreams long dead:
"Oh, we are weary marching on!Our limbs are travel-worn;With cross and sword from dawn to dawnWe wend with raiment torn:The leagues to go, the leagues we've goneAre sand and rock and thorn—The way is long to AvalonBeyond the deeps of morn."
They are the curs'd! the souls who yearn and evermore pursueThe vision of a vain desire, a splendor far ahead;To whom God gives the poet's dream without the grasp to do,The artist's hope without the scope between the quick and dead:I, too, am weary toiling whereThe winds and waters beat;When shall I ease the oar I bearAnd rest my tired feet?When will the white moons cease to glare,The red suns veil their heat?And from the heights blow sweet the airOf Love's divine retreat?
They are the curs'd! the souls who yearn and evermore pursueThe vision of a vain desire, a splendor far ahead;To whom God gives the poet's dream without the grasp to do,The artist's hope without the scope between the quick and dead:
I, too, am weary toiling whereThe winds and waters beat;When shall I ease the oar I bearAnd rest my tired feet?When will the white moons cease to glare,The red suns veil their heat?And from the heights blow sweet the airOf Love's divine retreat?
I do not love you now,O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride!You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still deniedFood when mine hungered, and of which love died—I do not love you now.
I do not love you now,O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride!You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still deniedFood when mine hungered, and of which love died—I do not love you now.
I do not love you now,O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive!You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did giveNo drop to drink to help my love to live—I do not love you now.
I do not love you now,O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive!You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did giveNo drop to drink to help my love to live—I do not love you now.
I do not love you now!But did I love you in the old, old way,And knew you loved me—'though the words should slayMe and your love forever, I would say,"I do not love you now!I do not love you now!"
I do not love you now!But did I love you in the old, old way,And knew you loved me—'though the words should slayMe and your love forever, I would say,"I do not love you now!I do not love you now!"
Deep with divine tautology,The sunset's mighty mysteryAgain has traced the scroll-like WestWith hieroglyphs of burning gold:Forever new, forever old,Its miracle is manifest.Time lays the scroll away. And nowAbove the hills a giant browNight lifts of cloud; and from her arm,Barbaric black, upon the world,With thunder, wind and fire, is hurledHer awful argument of storm.What part, O man, is yours in such?Whose awe and wonder are in touchWith Nature,—speaking rapture toYour soul,—yet leaving in your reachNo human word of thought or speechExpressive of the thing you view.
Deep with divine tautology,The sunset's mighty mysteryAgain has traced the scroll-like WestWith hieroglyphs of burning gold:Forever new, forever old,Its miracle is manifest.
Time lays the scroll away. And nowAbove the hills a giant browNight lifts of cloud; and from her arm,Barbaric black, upon the world,With thunder, wind and fire, is hurledHer awful argument of storm.
What part, O man, is yours in such?Whose awe and wonder are in touchWith Nature,—speaking rapture toYour soul,—yet leaving in your reachNo human word of thought or speechExpressive of the thing you view.
The wild oxalisAmong the valleysLifts up its chaliceOf pink and pearl;And, balsam-breathing,From out their sheathing,The myriad wreathingGreen leaves uncurl.The whole world brightensWith spring, that lightensThe foot that frightensThe building thrush;Where water tossesOn ferns and mossesThe squirrel crossesThe beechen hush.And vision on vision,—Like ships elysianOn some white mission,—Sails cloud on cloud;With scents of cloverThe winds brim over,And in the coverThe stream is loud.'Twixt bloom that blanchesThe orchard branchesOld farms and ranchesGleam in the gloam;'Mid blossoms blowing,Through fields for sowing,The cows come lowing,The cows come home.Where ways are narrow,A vesper-sparrowFlits like an arrowOf living rhyme;The red sun poises,And farmyard noisesMix with glad voicesOf milking-time.When dusk disposesOf all its roses,And darkness closes,And work is done,A moon's white featherIn starry weatherAnd two togetherWhose hearts are one.
The wild oxalisAmong the valleysLifts up its chaliceOf pink and pearl;And, balsam-breathing,From out their sheathing,The myriad wreathingGreen leaves uncurl.
The whole world brightensWith spring, that lightensThe foot that frightensThe building thrush;Where water tossesOn ferns and mossesThe squirrel crossesThe beechen hush.
And vision on vision,—Like ships elysianOn some white mission,—Sails cloud on cloud;With scents of cloverThe winds brim over,And in the coverThe stream is loud.
'Twixt bloom that blanchesThe orchard branchesOld farms and ranchesGleam in the gloam;'Mid blossoms blowing,Through fields for sowing,The cows come lowing,The cows come home.
Where ways are narrow,A vesper-sparrowFlits like an arrowOf living rhyme;The red sun poises,And farmyard noisesMix with glad voicesOf milking-time.
When dusk disposesOf all its roses,And darkness closes,And work is done,A moon's white featherIn starry weatherAnd two togetherWhose hearts are one.
The mornings raiseVoices of gold in the Almighty's praise;The sunsets soarIn choral crimson from far shore to shore:Each is a blast,Reverberant, of color,—seen as vastConcussions,—that the vocal firmamentIn worship sounds o'er every continent.
The mornings raiseVoices of gold in the Almighty's praise;The sunsets soarIn choral crimson from far shore to shore:Each is a blast,Reverberant, of color,—seen as vastConcussions,—that the vocal firmamentIn worship sounds o'er every continent.
Not for our earsThe cosmic music of the rolling spheres,That sweeps the skies!Music we hear, but only with our eyes.For all too weakOur mortal frames to bear the words these speak,Those detonations that we name the dawnAnd sunset—hues Earth's harmony puts on.
Not for our earsThe cosmic music of the rolling spheres,That sweeps the skies!Music we hear, but only with our eyes.For all too weakOur mortal frames to bear the words these speak,Those detonations that we name the dawnAnd sunset—hues Earth's harmony puts on.
All things are wrought of melody,Unheard, yet full of speaking spells;Within the rock, within the tree,A soul of music dwells.A mute symphonic sense that thrillsThe silent frame of mortal things;Its heart beats in the ancient hills,In every flower sings.To harmony all growth is set—Each seed is but a music mote,From which each plant, each violet,Evolves its purple note.Compact of melody, the roseWoos the soft wind with strain on strainOf crimson; and the lily blowsIts white bars to the rain.The trees are pæans; and the grassOne long green fugue beneath the sun—Song is their life; and all shall pass,Shall cease, when song is done.
All things are wrought of melody,Unheard, yet full of speaking spells;Within the rock, within the tree,A soul of music dwells.
A mute symphonic sense that thrillsThe silent frame of mortal things;Its heart beats in the ancient hills,In every flower sings.
To harmony all growth is set—Each seed is but a music mote,From which each plant, each violet,Evolves its purple note.
Compact of melody, the roseWoos the soft wind with strain on strainOf crimson; and the lily blowsIts white bars to the rain.
The trees are pæans; and the grassOne long green fugue beneath the sun—Song is their life; and all shall pass,Shall cease, when song is done.
High in the place of outraged liberty,He ruled the world, an emperor and godHis iron armies swept the land and sea,And conquered nations trembled at his nod.By him the love that fills man's soul with light,And makes a Heaven of Earth, was crucified;Lust-crowned he lived, yea, lived in God's despite,And old in infamies, a king he died.Justice begins now.—Many centuriesIn some vile body must his soul atoneAs slave, as beggar, loathsome with disease,Less than the dog at which we fling a stone.
High in the place of outraged liberty,He ruled the world, an emperor and godHis iron armies swept the land and sea,And conquered nations trembled at his nod.
By him the love that fills man's soul with light,And makes a Heaven of Earth, was crucified;Lust-crowned he lived, yea, lived in God's despite,And old in infamies, a king he died.
Justice begins now.—Many centuriesIn some vile body must his soul atoneAs slave, as beggar, loathsome with disease,Less than the dog at which we fling a stone.
I thought of the road through the glen,With its hawk's nest high in the pine;With its rock, where the fox had his den,'Mid tangles of sumach and vine,Where she swore to be mine.I thought of the creek and its banks,Now glooming, now gleaming with sun;The rustic bridge builded of planks,The bridge over Chenoweth's Run,Where I wooed her and won.I thought of the house in the lane,With its pinks and its sweet mignonette;Its fence and the gate with the chain,Its porch where the roses hung wet,Where I kissed her and met.Then I thought of the family graves,Walled rudely with stone, in the West,Where the sorrowful cedar-tree waves,And the wind is a spirit distressed,Where they laid her to rest.And my soul, overwhelmed with despair,Cried out on the city and mart!—How I longed, how I longed to be there,Away from the struggle and smart,By her and my heart!By her and my heart in the West,—Laid sadly together as one;—On her grave for a moment to rest,Far away from the noise and the sun,On Chenoweth's Run.
I thought of the road through the glen,With its hawk's nest high in the pine;With its rock, where the fox had his den,'Mid tangles of sumach and vine,Where she swore to be mine.
I thought of the creek and its banks,Now glooming, now gleaming with sun;The rustic bridge builded of planks,The bridge over Chenoweth's Run,Where I wooed her and won.
I thought of the house in the lane,With its pinks and its sweet mignonette;Its fence and the gate with the chain,Its porch where the roses hung wet,Where I kissed her and met.
Then I thought of the family graves,Walled rudely with stone, in the West,Where the sorrowful cedar-tree waves,And the wind is a spirit distressed,Where they laid her to rest.
And my soul, overwhelmed with despair,Cried out on the city and mart!—How I longed, how I longed to be there,Away from the struggle and smart,By her and my heart!
By her and my heart in the West,—Laid sadly together as one;—On her grave for a moment to rest,Far away from the noise and the sun,On Chenoweth's Run.
Far down the laneA window paneGleams 'mid the trees through night and rain.The weeds are denseThrough which a fenceOf pickets rambles, none sees whence,Before a porch, all indistinct of line,O'er-grown and matted with wistaria-vine.No thing is heard,No beast or bird,Only the rain by which are stirredThe draining leaves,And trickling eavesOf crib and barn one scarce perceives;And garden-beds where old-time flow'rs hang wetThe phlox, the candytuft, and mignonette.The hour is late—At any rateShe has not heard him at the gate:Upon the roofThe rain was proofAgainst his horse's galloping hoof:And when the old gate with its weight and chainCreaked, she imagined 'twas the wind and rain.Along he stealsWith cautious heels,And by the lamplit window kneels:And there she sits,And rocks and knitsWithin the shadowy light that flitsOn face and hair, so sweetly sad and gray,Dreaming of him she thinks is far away.Upon his cheeks—Is it the streaksOf rain, as now the old porch creaksBeneath his stride?Then, warm and wide,The door flings and she's at his side—"Mother!"—and he, back from the war, her boy,Kisses her face all streaming wet with joy.
Far down the laneA window paneGleams 'mid the trees through night and rain.The weeds are denseThrough which a fenceOf pickets rambles, none sees whence,Before a porch, all indistinct of line,O'er-grown and matted with wistaria-vine.
No thing is heard,No beast or bird,Only the rain by which are stirredThe draining leaves,And trickling eavesOf crib and barn one scarce perceives;And garden-beds where old-time flow'rs hang wetThe phlox, the candytuft, and mignonette.
The hour is late—At any rateShe has not heard him at the gate:Upon the roofThe rain was proofAgainst his horse's galloping hoof:And when the old gate with its weight and chainCreaked, she imagined 'twas the wind and rain.
Along he stealsWith cautious heels,And by the lamplit window kneels:And there she sits,And rocks and knitsWithin the shadowy light that flitsOn face and hair, so sweetly sad and gray,Dreaming of him she thinks is far away.
Upon his cheeks—Is it the streaksOf rain, as now the old porch creaksBeneath his stride?Then, warm and wide,The door flings and she's at his side—"Mother!"—and he, back from the war, her boy,Kisses her face all streaming wet with joy.