Chapter III

Then heaven and ocean were sprinkled
With splendor; for every sheet
And spar, and its hollow hull twinkled
With mother-of-pearl. And the feet
Of spirits, that followed it, crinkled
The billows that under it beat.

IN NOVEMBER

No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine!
No windy white, but low and sodden gray,
That holds the melancholy skies and kills
The wild song and the wild-bird. Yet, ah me!
Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods,
Brown, sighing forests dying that I love!
Thy long, dead leaves, deep, deep about my feet,
Slow, dragging feet that halt or wander on;
Thy deep, sweet, crimson leaves that burn and die
With silent fever of the sickened wood.

I love to hear in all thy wind-swept coignes,
Rain-wet and choked with bleached and ruined weeds,
The withered whisper of the many leaves,
That, fallen on barren ways--like fallen hopes--
Once held so high upon the Summer's heart
Of stalwart trees, now seem the desolate voice
Of Earth lamenting in hushed undertones
Her green departed glory vanished so.

IN LATE FALL

O days, that break the wild-bird's heart,
That slay the wild-bird and its songs!
Why should death play so sad a part
With you to whom such sweet belongs?

Why are your eyes so filled with tears,
As with the rain the frozen flowers?
Why are your hearts so swept with fears,
Like winds among the ruined bowers?

Farewell! farewell! for she is dead,
The old gray month; I saw her die:
Go, light your torches round her head,
The last red leaves, and let her lie.

WITH THE SEASONS

I

You will not love me, sweet,
When this brief year is past;
Or love, now at my feet,
At other feet you'll cast,
At fairer feet you'll cast.
You will not love me, sweet,
When this brief year is past.

II

Now 'tis the Springtime, dear,
And crocus-cups hold flame,
Brimmed to the pregnant year,
All bashful as with shame,
Who blushes as with shame.
Now 'tis the Springtime, dear,
And crocus-cups hold flame.

III

Soon Summer will be queen,
At her brown throat one rose,
And poppy-pod, and bean,
Will rustle as she goes,
As down the garth she goes.
Soon Summer will be queen,
At her brown throat one rose.

IV

Then Autumn come, a prince,
A gipsy crowned with gold;
Gold weight the fruited quince,
Gold strew the leafy wold,
The wild and wind-swept wold.
Then Autumn come, a prince,
A gipsy crowned with gold.

V

Then Winter will be king,
Snow-driven from feet to head;
No song-birds then will sing,
The winds will wail instead,
The wild winds weep instead.
Then Winter will be king,
Snow-driven from feet to head.

VI

Then shall I weep, who smiled,
And curse the coming years,
You and myself, and child,
Born unto shame and tears,
A mother's shame and tears.
Then shall I weep, who smiled,
And curse the coming years.

TYRANNY

What is there now more merciless
Than such fast lips that will not speak;
That stir not if one curse or bless
A God who made them weak?

More maddening to one there is naught
Than such white eyelids sealed on eyes,
Eyes vacant of the thing named thought,
An exile in the skies.

Ah, silent tongue! ah, dull, closed ear!
What angel utterances low
Have wooed you? so you may not hear
Our mortal words of woe!

WHAT YOU WILL

I

When the season was dry and the sun was hot,
And the hornet sucked, gaunt on the apricot,
And the ripe peach dropped, to its seed a-rot,
With a lean, red wasp that stung and clung:
When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden plot,
More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot,
Then all had been said and been sung,
And meseemed that my heart had forgot.

II

When the black grape bulged with the juice that burst
Through its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,
And the round, ripe pippins, that summer had nursed,
In the yellowing leaves o' the orchard hung:
When the farmer, his lips with whistling pursed,
To his sun-tanned brow in the corn was immersed,
Then something was said or was sung,
And I remembered as much as I durst.