Chapter IV

Now all the world's December,
And night is all alarm,
Above the last dim ember
Grief bends to keep him warm;
Now all of life's December,
And clouds are driven storm.

_Old Homes_

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens, Their old rock-fences, that our day inherits; Their doors, 'round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.

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

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

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

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

_Field and Forest Call_

There is a field, that leans upon two hills, Foamed o'er with flowers and twinkling with clear rills; That in its girdle of wild acres bears The anodyne of rest that cures all cares; Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent And fragrance--as in some old instrument Sweet chords--calm things, that nature's magic spell Distils from heaven's azure crucible, And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well. There lies the path, they say-- Come, away! come, away!

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

_Meeting in Summer_

A tranquil bar
Of rosy twilight under dusk's first star.

A glimmering sound
Of whispering waters over grassy ground.

A sun-sweet smell
Of fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell.

A lazy breeze
Jostling the ripeness from the apple-trees.

A vibrant cry,
Passing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky.

And faintly now
The katydid upon the shadowy bough.

And far-off then
The little owl within the lonely glen.

And soon, full soon,
The silvery arrival of the moon.

And, to your door,
The path of roses I have trod before.

And, sweetheart, you!
Among the roses and the moonlit dew.

_Swinging_

Under the boughs of spring She swung in the old rope-swing.

Her cheeks, with their happy blood, Were pink as the apple-bud.

Her eyes, with their deep delight, Were glad as the stars of night.

Her curls, with their romp and fun, Were hoiden as wind and sun.

Her lips, with their laughter shrill, Were wild as a woodland rill.

Under the boughs of spring She swung in the old rope-swing.

And I,--who leaned on the fence, Watching her innocence,

As, under the boughs that bent, Now high, now low, she went,

In her soul the ecstasies Of the stars, the brooks, the breeze,--

Had given the rest of my years, With their blessings, and hopes, and fears,

To have been as she was then; And, just for a moment, again

A boy in the old rope-swing Under the boughs of spring.

_Rosemary_

Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay; Around her, flowers scattered earth with gold, Or down the path in insolence held sway-- Like cavaliers who ride the elves' highway-- Scarlet and blue, within a garden old.

Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood, Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town; Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewed The purple west as if, with God imbued, Her mighty pallet Nature there laid down.

Amid such flowers, underneath such skies, Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair, She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes, White as a star that comes to emphasize The mingled beauty of the earth and air.

Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees, Gray with its twinkling windows--like the face Of calm old-age that sits and smiles at ease-- Porched with old roses, haunts of honey-bees, The homestead loomed dim in a glimmering space.

Ah! whom she waited in the afterglow, Soft-eyed and dreamy 'mid the lily and rose, I do not know, I do not wish to know;-- It is enough I keep her picture so, Hung up, like poetry, o'er my life's dull prose.

A fragrant picture, where I still may find Her face untouched of sorrow or regret, Unspoiled of contact, ever young and kind, Glad spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind, She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.

_Ghost Stories_

When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill, At twelve o'clock when the night is still, And pale on the pools, where the creek-frogs croon, Glimmering gray is the light o' the moon; And under the willows, where waters lie, The torch of the firefly wanders by; They say that the miller walks here, walks here, All covered with chaff, with his crooked staff, And his horrible hobble and hideous laugh; The old lame miller hung many a year: When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill, He walks alone by the rotting mill.

When the bark of the fox comes over the hill, At twelve o'clock when the night is shrill, And faint, on the ways where the crickets creep, The starlight fails and the shadows sleep; And under the willows, that toss and moan, The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone; They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead, In a weedy space that the lilies lace, A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face, The miller's young wife with a gash in her head: When the bark of the fox comes over the hill, She floats alone by the rotting mill.

When the howl of the hound comes over the hill, At twelve o'clock when the night is ill, And the thunder mutters and forests sob, And the fox-fire glows like the lamp of a Lob; And under the willows, that gloom and glance, The will-o'-the-wisps hold a devils' dance; They say that that crime is re-acted again, And each cranny and chink of the mill doth wink With the light o' hell or the lightning's blink, And a woman's shrieks come wild through the rain: When the howl of the hound comes over the hill, That murder returns to the rotting mill.

_Dolce far Niente_

I

Over the bay as our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine, Far to the East lay the ocean paling Under the skies of Augustine.-- There, in the boat as we sat together, Soft in the glow of the turquoise weather, Light as the foam or a seagull's feather, Fair of form and of face serene, Sweet at my side I felt you lean, As over the bay our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine.

II

Over the bay as our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine, Pine and palm, to the West, hung, trailing Under the skies of Augustine.-- Was it the wind that sighed above you? Was it the wave that whispered of you? Was it my soul that said "I love you"? Was it your heart that murmured between, Answering, shy as a bird unseen? As over the bay our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine.

III

Over the bay as our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine, Gray and low flew the heron wailing Under the skies of Augustine.-- Naught was spoken. We watched the simple Gulls wing past. Your hat's white wimple Shadowed your eyes. And your lips, a-dimple, Smiled and seemed from your soul to wean An inner beauty, an added sheen, As over the bay our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine.

IV

Over the bay as our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine, Red on the marshes the day flared, failing Under the skies of Augustine.-- Was it your thought, or the transitory Gold of the West, like a dreamy story, Bright on your brow, that I read? the glory And grace of love, like a rose-crowned queen Pictured pensive in mind and mien? As over the bay our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine.

V

Over the bay as our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine, Wan on the waters the mist lay veiling Under the skies of Augustine.-- Was it the joy that begot the sorrow?-- Joy that was filled with the dreams that borrow Prescience sad of a far To-morrow,-- There in the Now that was all too keen, That shadowed the fate that might intervene? As over the bay our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine.

VI

Over the bay as our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine, The marsh-hen cried and the tide was ailing Under the skies of Augustine.-- And so we parted. No vows were spoken. No faith was plighted that might be broken. But deep in our hearts each bore a token Of life and of love and of all they mean, Beautiful, thornless and ever green, As over the bay our boat went sailing Under the skies of Augustine.

_St. Augustine, Fla_.

_Words_

I cannot tell what I would tell thee,
What I would say, what thou shouldst hear:
Words of the soul that should compell thee,
Words of the heart to draw thee near.

For when thou smilest, thou, who fillest
My life with joy, and I would speak,
'T is then my lips and tongue are stillest,
Knowing all language is too weak.

Look in my eyes: read there confession:
The truest love has least of art:
Nor needs it words for its expression
When soul speaks soul and heart speaks heart.

_Reasons_

I

Yea, why I love thee let my heart repeat:
I look upon thy face and then divine
How men could die for beauty, such as thine,--
Deeming it sweet
To lay my life and manhood at thy feet,
And for a word, a glance,
Do deeds of old romance.

II

Yea, why I love thee let my heart unfold:
I look into thy heart and then I know
The wondrous poetry of the long-ago,
The Age of Gold,
That speaks strange music, that is old, so old,
Yet young, as when 't was born,
With all the youth of morn.

III

Yea, why I love thee let my heart conclude:
I look into thy soul and realize
The undiscovered meaning of the skies,--
That long have wooed
The world with far ideals that elude,--
Out of whose dreams, maybe,
God shapes reality.

_Evasion_

Why do I love you, who have never given
My heart encouragement or any cause?
Is it because, as earth is held of heaven,
Your soul holds mine by some mysterious laws?
Perhaps, unseen of me, within your eyes
The answer lies, the answer lies.

II

From your sweet lips no word hath ever fallen
To tell my heart its love is not in vain--
The bee that wooes the flow'r hath honey and pollen
To cheer him on and bring him back again:
But what have I, your other friends above,
To feed my love, to feed my love?

III

Still, still you are my dream and my desire;
Your love is an allurement and a dare
Set for attainment, like a shining spire,
Far, far above me in the starry air:
And gazing upward, 'gainst the hope of hope,
I breast the slope, I breast the slope.

_In May_

I

When you and I in the hills went Maying,
You and I in the sweet May weather,
The birds, that sang on the boughs together,
There in the green of the woods, kept saying
All that my heart was saying low,
Love, as glad as the May's glad glow,--
And did you know?
When you and I in the hills went Maying.

II

There where the brook on its rocks went winking,
There by its banks where the May had led us,
Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows,
Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinking
All that my soul was thinking there,
Love, as pure as the May's pure air,--
And did you care?
There where the brook on its rocks went winking.