Chapter I: Front Matter

ROSE AND ROOF-TREE:

POEMS

by

GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP

Upon the enchanted ladder of his rhymes,
Round after round and patiently
The poet ever upward climbs.

_DEDICATION_.

_I need give my verse no hint as to whom it sings for. The rose, knowing her own right, makes servitors of the light-rays to carry her color. So every line here shall in some sense breathe of thee, and in its very face bear record of her whom, however unworthily, it seeks to serve and honor._

CONTENTS.

WINDFALLS.

ROSE AND ROOF-TREE
MUSIC OF GROWTH
A SONG LONG AGO
MELANCHOLY
CONTENTMENT

PART FIRST.

AN APRIL ARIA
THE BOBOLINK
THE SUN-SHOWER
JUNE LONGINGS
A RUNE OF THE RAIN
THE SONG-SPARROW
FAIRHAVEN BAY
CHANT FOR AUTUMN
BEFORE THE SNOW
THE GHOSTS OF GROWTH
THE LILY-POND

PART SECOND.

FIRST GLANCE
"THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES"
"WHEN, LOOKING DEEPLY IN THY FACE"
WITHIN A YEAR
THE SINGING WIRE
MOODS OF LOVE:
I. In Absence
II. Heart's Fountain
III. South-Wind Song
IV. The Lover's Year
V. New Worlds
VI. Wedding-Night
LOVE'S DEFEAT
MAY AND MARRIAGE
THE FISHER OF THE CAPE
SAILOR'S SONG
JESSAMINE
GRIEF'S HERO
A FACE IN THE STREET
THE BATHER
HELEN AT THE LOOM
"O WHOLESOME DEATH"
BURIAL-SONG FOR SUMNER
ARISE, AMERICAN!
THE SILENT TIDE

WINDFALLS.

ROSE AND ROOF-TREE.

O wayward rose, why dost thou wreathe so high,
Wasting thyself in sweet-breath'd ecstasy?

"The pulses of the wind my life uplift,
And through my sprays I feel the sunlight sift;

"And all my fibres, in a quick consent
Entwined, aspire to fill their heavenward bent.

"I feel the shaking of the far-off sea,
And all things growing blend their life with me:

"When men and women on me look, there glows
Within my veins a life not of the rose.

"Then let me grow, until I touch the sky,
And let me grow and grow until I die!"

So, every year, the sweet rose shooteth higher,
And scales the roof upon its wings of fire,

And pricks the air, in lovely discontent,
With thorns that question still of its intent.

But when it reached the roof-tree, there it clung,
Nor ever farther up its blossoms flung.

O wayward rose, why hast thou ceased to climb?
Hast thou forgot the ardor of thy prime?

"O hearken!"--thus the rose-spray, listening,--
"With what weird music sweet these full hearts ring!

"What mazy ripples of deep, eddying sound,
Rise, touch the roof-tree old, and drift around,

"Bearing aloft the burden musical
Of joys and griefs from human hearts that fall!

"Green stem and fair, flush'd circle I will lay
Along the roof, and listen here alway;

"For rose and tree, and every leafy growth
That toward the sky unfolds with spiry blowth,

"No purpose hath save this, to breathe a grace
O'er men, and in men's hearts to seek a place.

"Therefore, O poet, thou who gav'st to me
The homage of thy humble sympathy,

"No longer vest thy verse in rose-leaves frail:--
Let the heart's voice loud through thy pæan wail!"

* * * * *

Lo, at my feet the wind of autumn throws
A hundred turbulent blossoms of the rose,

Full of the voices of the sea and grove
And air, and full of hidden, murmured love,

And warm with passion through the roof-tree sent;
Dew-drenched with tears;--all in one wild gush spent!

MUSIC OF GROWTH.

Music is in all growing things;
And underneath the silky wings
Of smallest insects there is stirred
A pulse of air that must be heard.
Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings.

If poet from the vibrant strings
Of his poor heart a measure flings,
Laugh not, that he no trumpet blows:
It may be that Heaven hears and knows
His language of low listenings.

A SONG LONG AGO.

Through the pauses of thy fervid singing
Fell crystal sound
That thy fingers from the keys were flinging
Lightly around:
I felt the vine-like harmonies close clinging
About my soul;
And to my eyes, as fruit of their sweet bringing,
The full tear stole!

MELANCHOLY.

Daughter of my nobler hope
That dying gave thee birth,
Sweet Melancholy!
For memory of the dead,
In her dear stead,
'Bide thou with me,
Sweet Melancholy!
As purple shadows to the tree,
When the last sun-rays sadly slope
Athwart the bare and darkening earth,
Art thou to me,
Sweet Melancholy!

CONTENTMENT.

Glad hours have been when I have seen
Life's scope and each dry day's intent
United; so that I could stand
In silence, covering with my hand
The circle of the universe,
Balance the blessing and the curse,
And trust in deeds without chagrin,
Free from to-morrow and yesterday--content.

PART FIRST.

AN APRIL ARIA.

When the mornings dankly fall
With a dim forethought of rain,
And the robins richly call
To their mates mercurial,
And the tree-boughs creak and strain
In the wind;
When the river's rough with foam,
And the new-made clearings smoke,
And the clouds that go and come
Shine and darken frolicsome,
And the frogs at evening croak
Undefined
Mysteries of monotone,
And by melting beds of snow
Wind-flowers blossom all alone;
Then I know
That the bitter winter's dead.
Over his head
The damp sod breaks so mellow,--
Its mosses tipped with points of yellow,--
I cannot but be glad;
Yet this sweet mood will borrow
Something of a sweeter sorrow,
To touch and turn me sad.

THE BOBOLINK.

How sweetly sang the bobolink,
When thou, my Love, wast nigh!
His liquid music from the brink
Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink,
Built in the blue-domed sky.

How sadly sings the bobolink!
No more my Love is nigh:
Yet rise, my spirit, rise, and drink
Once more from that cloud-fountain's brink,--
Once more before I die!

THE SUN-SHOWER.

A penciled shade the sky doth sweep,
And transient glooms creep in to sleep
Amid the orchard;
Fantastic breezes pull the trees
Hither and yon, to vagaries
Of aspect tortured.

Then, like the downcast dreamy fringe
Of eyelids, when dim gates unhinge
That locked their tears,
Falls on the hills a mist of rain,--
So faint, it seems to fade again;
Yet swiftly nears.

Now sparkles the air, all steely-bright,
With drops swept down in arrow-flight,
Keen, quivering lines.
Ceased in a breath the showery sound;
And teasingly, now, as I look around,
Sweet sunlight shines!

JUNE LONGINGS.

Lo, all about the lofty blue are blown
Light vapors white, like thistle-down,
That from their softened silver heaps opaque
Scatter delicate flake by flake,
Upon the wide loom of the heavens weaving
Forms of fancies past believing,
And, with fantastic show of mute despair,
As for some sweet hope hurt beyond repair,
Melt in the silent voids of sunny air.

All day the cooing brooklet runs in tune:
Half sunk i' th' blue, the powdery moon
Shows whitely. Hark, the bobolink's note! I hear it,
Far and faint as a fairy spirit!
Yet all these pass, and as some blithe bird, winging,
Leaves a heart-ache for his singing,
A frustrate passion haunts me evermore
For that which closest dwells to beauty's core.
O Love, canst thou this heart of hope restore?

A RUNE OF THE RAIN.