Chapter VII

And then for a minute, may be,--
A pearl, hollow-worn, of the sea,--
A glimmer of moon will smile,
And a star, rinsed clean, through the dusk:
And a freshness of moonlit musk
O’er the showery lawns blow brusque
As spice from an Indian Isle.

THE MOOD O’ THE EARTH

My heart is high as the day is clear,
As the wind in the wood that blows;
My heart is high with a mood that’s cheer,
And glows like a sun-blown rose.

My heart is high, and up and away
Like a bird in the skies’ deep blue;
My heart goes singing through the day,
As glad as a bee i’ the dew.

My heart, my heart is high; its beat
Is wild as the scent o’ the wood,
The wild sweet wind, with its pulse of heat,
And its musk of blossom and bud.

My heart is high; and it leads my feet
Where the sense of summer is full,
To woods and waters where lovers meet
To hills where the creeks run cool.

My heart is one, is one with the heart,
With the joy o’ the bee that comes
And sucks i’ the flowers, that dip apart
For his dusty body that hums.

My heart is glad as the glad redstart,
The flame-flecked bird, the spotted bird,
Whose lilt my soul has got by heart,
Fitting each note with a word.

God’s love! I tread the wind and air!
Am one with the hoiden wind;
And the stars that swim in the blue, I swear,
Right soon in my hair I’ll find.

To live high up, a life o’ the mist,
With the cloud-things in white skies,--
With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst,--
That laugh cerulean eyes!

To creep and to suck, like an elfin thing,
In the aching heart of a rose;
In the bluebell’s ear to cling and swing,
And whisper what no one knows!

To live on wild-honey, as fresh, as thin
As the rain that’s left in a flower!
And roll forth, golden from feet to chin,
In the pollen’s Danaë-shower!

Or free, bird-hearted, bend back the throat,
With a vigorous look at the blue,
And launch from my soul one wild, true note,
Is the thing that my heart would do!

God’s life! the blood o’ the earth is mine!
And the mood o’ the earth I’ll take,
And brim my soul with her wonderful wine,
And sing till my heart doth break!

NOONING

I

Weak winds that make the waters wink;
White clouds that sail from lands of Fable
To white Utopias, vague, that brink
Sky-gulfs of blue unfathomable:
Their rolling shadows, drifting
O’er hills of forest, lifting
Wild peaks of purple range, that loom and sink.

II

Warm knolls, whereon the Summer dreams;
And droning dells, where all her brightness
Lies, lulled with hymns of mountain-streams’
Far-foaming falls of windy whiteness:
Where, from the glooming hollow,
With cawing crows that follow,
The hunted hawk wings wearily and screams.

III

Dry-buzzing heat and drought that shrills
With one harsh locust’s lonesome whirring;
No voice amid the answering hills
Recedes in echoes far-recurring;
As when, with twilight wimpled,
The Morning, rosy dimpled,
From dewy tops called o’er responding rills.

IV

Wan with sweet summer hangs the deep
Hot heaven with the high sun hearted--
A great, wide bluebell bloom asleep
With golden-pistiled petals parted.--
So lone, one would not startle
If from yon wood should dartle
Some wildwood Dream, some Myth the wildwoods keep.

THE LOG-BRIDGE

I

Last month, where the old log-bridge is laid
O’er the woodland creek, in the belts o’ the shade,
To the right and the left, pink-packed, was made
A gloaming glory of scented tangle
By the bramble roses there--that wade,
High-heaped, from the banks--with many a braid
That, wilting, powdered the ruts, and swayed,
To the waters beneath, loose loops of spangle;
Where the breeze that blew and the beam that rayed
Were murmurous-soft with the bees awrangle.

II

This month--’tis August--the lane that leads
To the bramble-bridge runs waste with weeds,
That bloom bright saffron, or satin seeds
Of thistle-fleece blow at you, hazy:
Starry the lane with the thousand bredes
Of the yellow daisy, and bud-like beads
Of marigold eyes, around which speeds
The butterfly, sumptuous with mottle and lazy;
Whereunder the pewee picks and pleads,
On the sumach’s tassel that dips to the daisy.

III

All golden the spot in the noon’s gold shine,
Where the yellow-bird sits with eyes like wine
And swings and whistles; where, line on line,
In coils of warmth the sunbeams nestle;
Where cool by the pool (where the crawfish, fine
As a shadow’s shadow, darts dim) to mine
The wet creek-clay with their peevish whine,
Come mason-hornets; and roll and wrestle
With balls of clay they carry, and twine
In hollow nests on the joists o’ the trestle.