Chapter XXIII: Foreword

_In the first rare Spring of song,
In my heart’s young hours,
In my youth ’twas thus I sang,
Choosing ’mid the flowers_:--

“_Fair the Dandelion is,
But for me too lowly;
And the winsome Violet
Is, forsooth, too holy.
‘But the Touch-me-not?’--Go to!
What! a face that’s speckled
Like a common milking-maid’s,
Whom the sun hath freckled.
Then the Wild-Rose is a flirt;
And the Trillium-Lily,
In her spotless gown, ’s a prude,
Sanctified and silly.
By her cap the Columbine,
To my mind, ’s too merry--
Gossips, I would sooner woo
Some plebeian Berry.
And the shy Anemone--
Well, her face shows sorrow;
Pale, goodsooth! alive to-day,
Dead and gone to-morrow.
Then that hold-eyed, buxom wench,
Big and blond and lazy,--
She’s been chosen over oft!--
Sirs, I mean the Daisy.
Pleasant persons are they all,
And their virtues many;
Faith! I know but good of each,
And naught ill of any.
But I choose a May-Apple;
She shall be my Lady;
Blooming, hidden and refined,
Sweet in places shady.”_

_In my youth ’twas thus I sang,
In my heart’s young hours,
In the first rare Spring of song,
Choosing ’mid the flowers.
So I hesitated when
Time alone was reckoned
By the hours that Fancy smiled,
Love and Beauty beckoned.
Hard it was for me to choose
From the flowers that flattered;_

_And the blossom that I chose
Soon lay dead and scattered.
Hard I found it then, ah me!
Hard I found the choosing;
Harder, harder since I’ve found,
All too hard, the losing.
Haply had I chosen then
From the weeds that tangle
Wayside, woodland, and the wall
Of my garden’s angle,
I had chosen better, yea,
For these later hours--
Longer live the weeds, and oft
Sweeter are than flowers._

WEEDS BY THE WALL

THE CRICKET

I

First of the insect choir, in the spring
We hear his faint voice fluttering in the grass,
Beneath some blossom’s rosy covering,
Or frond of fern, upon a wildwood pass.
When in the marsh, in clamorous orchestras,
The shrill hylodes pipe; when, in the haw’s
Bee-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_.

II

All summer long the mellowing meadows thrill
To his blithe music. Be it day or night,
Close gossip of the grass, on field and hill
He serenades the silence with delight:
Silence, that hears the melon slowly split
With ripeness; and the plump peach, hornet-bit,
Loosen and fall; and everywhere the white,
Warm, silk-like stir of leafy lights that flit
As breezes blow; above which, loudly clear,--
Like joy who sings of life and has no fear,--
We hear his _Cheer, cheer, cheer_.

III

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 click
And crunching of the sorghum-press, through thick
Sweet 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_.

IV

Kinsman and cousin of the Faëry Race,
All winter long he sets his sober mirth,--
That brings good-luck to many a fireplace,--
To folk-lore song and saga of the hearth.
Between the back-log’s bluster and the slim
High twittering of the kettle,--sounds that hymn
Home-comforts,--when, outside, the starless earth
Is icicled in every laden limb,--
Defying frost and all the sad and sere,--
Like love that dies not and is always near,--
We hear his _Cheer, cheer, cheer_.

THE TREE TOAD

I

Secluded, solitary on some underbough
Or cradled in a leaf, ’mid glimmering light,
Like Puck thou crouchest: Haply watching how
The slow toadstool comes bulging, moony white,
Through loosening loam; or how, against the night,
The glow-worm gathers silver to endow
The darkness with; or how the dew conspires
To hang at dusk with lamps of chilly fires
Each blade that shrivels now.

II

O vague confederate of the whippoorwill,
Of owl and cricket and the katydid!
Thou gatherest up the silence in one shrill
Vibrating note and send’st it where, half hid
In cedars, twilight sleeps--each azure lid
Drooping a line of golden eyeball still.--
Afar, yet near, I hear thy dewy voice
Within the Garden of the Hours apoise
On dusk’s deep daffodil.

III

Minstrel of moisture! silent when high noon
Shows her tanned face among the thirsting clover
And parching meadows, thy tenebrious tune
Wakes with the dew or when the rain is over.
Thou troubadour of wetness and damp lover
Of all cool things! admitted comrade boon
Of twilight’s hush, and little intimate
Of eve’s first fluttering star and delicate
Round rim of rainy moon!

IV

Art trumpeter of Dwarfland? does thy horn
Inform the gnomes and goblins of the hour
When they may gambol under haw and thorn,
Straddling each winking web and twinkling flower?
Or bell-ringer of Elfland? whose tall tower
The liriodendron is? from whence is borne
The elfin music of thy bell’s deep bass,
To summon Fairies to their starlit maze,
To summon them or warn.

THE SCREECH-OWL

I

When, one by one, the stars have trembled through
Eve’s shadowy hues of violet, rose, and fire--
As on a pansy-bloom the limpid dew
Orbs its bright beads;--and, one by one, the choir
Of insects wakes on nodding bush and brier:
Then through the woods--where wandering winds pursue
A ceaseless whisper--like an eery lyre
Struck in the Erl-king’s halls, where ghosts and dreams
Hold revelry, your goblin music screams,
Shivering and strange as some strange thought come true.

II

Brown as the agaric that frills dead trees,
Or those fantastic fungi of the woods
That crowd the dampness--are you kin to these
In some mysterious way that still eludes
My fancy? you, who haunt the solitudes
With hag-like wailings? voice, that seems to freeze
Out 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.

III

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 wild grief that croons
Mockery and terror; or,--beneath the moon’s
Cloud-hurrying glimmer,--to the startled ear,
Crazed, madman snatches of old, perished tunes,
The witless wit of outcast Edgar there
In the wild night; or, wan with all despair,
The mirthless laughter of the Fool in Lear.

THE CHIPMUNK

I

He makes a roadway of the crumbling fence,
Or on the fallen tree,--brown as a leaf
Fall stripes with russet,--gambols down the dense
Green twilight of the woods. We see not whence
He 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.

II

What harlequin mood of nature qualified
Him so with happiness? and limbed him with
Such young activity as winds, that ride
The ripples, have, that dance on every side?
As sunbeams know, that urge the sap and pith
Through hearts of trees? yet made him to delight,
Gnome-like, in darkness,--like a moonlight myth,--
Lairing in labyrinths of the under night.

III

Here, by a rock, beneath the moss, a hole
Leads to his home, the den wherein he sleeps;
Lulled by near noises of the cautious mole
Tunnelling its mine--like some ungainly Troll
--Or by the tireless cricket there that keeps
Picking its drowsy and monotonous lute;
Or slower sounds of grass that creeps and creeps,
And trees unrolling mighty root on root.