Chapter III

Still the wet wan morns may touch Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such Slender stars as dusk may have Pierce the rose that roofs its wave; Still the thrush may call at noontide, And the whippoorwill at night; Nevermore, by sun or moontide, Shall I see it gliding white, Falling, flowing, wild and white.

HILLS OF THE WEST

Hills of the west, that gird
Forest and farm,
Home of the nestling bird,
Housing from harm,
When on your tops is heard
Storm:

Hills of the west, that bar
Belts of the gloam,
Under the twilight star,
Where the mists roam,
Take ye the wanderer
Home.

Hills of the west, that dream
Under the moon,
Making of wind and stream,
Late-heard and soon,
Parts of your lives that seem
Tune.

Hills of the west, that take
Slumber to ye,
Be it for sorrow's sake
Or memory,
Part of such slumber make
Me.

FLOWERS

Oh, why for us the blighted bloom! The blossom that lies withering! The Master of Life's changeless loom Hath wrought for us no changeless thing.

Where grows the rose of fadeless Grace? Wherethrough the Spirit manifests The fact of an immortal race, The dream on which religion rests.

Where buds the lily of our Faith? That grows for us in unknown wise, Out of the barren dust of death, The pregnant bloom of Paradise.

In Heaven! so near that flowers know! That flowers see how near!--and thus Reflect the knowledge here below Of love and life unknown to us.

SECOND SIGHT

They lean their faces to me through
Green windows of the woods;
Their white throats sweet with honey-dew
Beneath low leafy hoods--
No dream they dream but hath been true
Here in the solitudes.

Star trillium, in the underbrush,
In whom Spring bares her face;
Sun eglantine, that breathes the blush
Of Summer's quiet grace;
Moon mallow, in whom lives the hush
Of Autumn's tragic pace.

For one hath heard the dryad's sighs
Behind the covering bark;
And one hath felt the satyr's eyes
Gleam in the bosky dark;
And one hath seen the naiad rise
In waters all a-spark.

I bend my soul unto them, stilled
In worship man hath lost;
The old-world myths that science killed
Are living things almost
To me through these whose forms are filled
With Beauty's pagan ghost.

And through new eyes I seem to see
The world these live within,--
A shuttered world of mystery,
Where unreal forms begin
The real of ideality
That has no unreal kin.

DEAD SEA FRUIT

All things have power to hold us back. Our very hopes build up a wall Of doubt, whose shadow stretches black O'er all.

The dreams, that helped us once, become Dread disappointments, that oppose Dead eyes to ours, and lips made dumb With woes.

The thoughts that opened doors before Within the mind's house, hide away; Discouragement hath locked each door For aye.

Come, loss, more frequently than gain! And failure than success! until The spirit's struggle to attain Is still!

THE WOOD WITCH

There is a woodland witch who lies With bloom-bright limbs and beam-bright eyes, Among the water-flags, that rank The slow brook's heron-haunted bank: The dragon-flies, in brass and blue, Are signs she works her sorcery through; Weird, wizard characters she weaves Her spells by under forest leaves,-- These wait her word, like imps, upon The gray flag-pods; their wings, of lawn And gauze; their bodies gleamy green. While o'er the wet sand,--left between The running water and the still,-- In pansy hues and daffodil, The fancies that she meditates Take on most sumptuous shapes, with traits Like butterflies. 'Tis she you hear, Whose sleepy rune, hummed in the ear Of silence, bees and beetles purr, And the dry-droning locusts whirr; Till, where the wood is very lone, Vague monotone meets monotone, And slumber is begot and born, A faery child, beneath the thorn. There is no mortal who may scorn The witchery she spreads around Her dim demesne, wherein is bound The beauty of abandoned time, As some sweet thought 'twixt rhyme and rhyme. And by her spell you shall behold The blue turn gray, the gray turn gold Of hollow heaven; and the brown Of twilight vistas twinkled down With fire-flies; and, in the gloom, Feel the cool vowels of perfume Slow-syllabled of weed and bloom. But, in the night, at languid rest,-- When like a spirit's naked breast The moon slips from a silver mist,-- With star-bound brow, and star-wreathed wrist, If you should see her rise and wave You welcome,--ah! what thing shall save You then? forevermore her slave!

AT SUNSET

Into the sunset's turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge Enchantment sails through magic seas, To fairyland Hesperides, Over the hills and away.

Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown, The young-eyed Dusk comes slowly down; Her apron filled with stars she stands, And one or two slip from her hands Over the hills and away.

Above the wood's black caldron bends The witch-faced Night and, muttering, blends The dew and heat, whose bubbles make The mist and musk that haunt the brake Over the hills and away.

Oh, come with me, and let us go Beyond the sunset lying low, Beyond the twilight and the night, Into Love's kingdom of long light, Over the hills and away.

MAY

The golden disks of the rattlesnake-weed, That spangle the woods and dance-- No gleam of gold that the twilights hold Is strong as their necromance: For, under the oaks where the wood-paths lead, The golden disks of the rattlesnake-weed Are the May's own utterance.

The azure stars of the bluet bloom That sprinkle the woodland's trance-- No blink of blue that a cloud lets through Is sweet as their countenance: For, over the knolls that the woods perfume, The azure stars of the bluet bloom Are the light of the May's own glance.

With her wondering words and her looks she comes, In a sunbeam of a gown; She needs but think and the blossoms wink, But look, and they shower down. By orchard ways, where the wild-bee hums, With her wondering words and her looks she comes, Like a little maid to town.

THE WIND OF SPRING

The wind that breathes of columbines And bleeding-hearts that crowd the rocks; That shakes the balsam of the pines With music from his flashing locks, Stops at my city door and knocks.

He calls me far a-forest; where The twin-leaf and the blood-root bloom; And, circled by the amber air, Life sits with beauty and perfume Weaving the new web of her loom.

He calls me where the waters run Through fronding ferns where haunts the hern; And, sparkling in the equal sun, Song leans beside her brimming urn, And dreams the dreams that love shall learn.

The wind has summoned, and I go,-- To con God's meaning in each line The flowers write, and, walking slow, God's purpose, of which song is sign,-- The wind's great, gusty hand in mine.

INTERPRETED

What magic shall solve us the secret
Of beauty that's born for an hour?
That gleams like the flight of an egret,
Or burns like the scent of a flower,
With death for a dower?

What leaps in the bosk but a satyr?
What pipes on the wind but a faun?
Or laughs in the waters that scatter,
But limbs of a nymph who is gone,
When we walk in the dawn?

What sings on the hills but a fairy?
Or sighs in the fields but a sprite?
What breathes through the leaves but the airy
Soft spirits of shadow and light,
When we walk in the night?

Behold how the world-heart is eager
To draw us and hold us and claim!
Through truths of the dreams that beleaguer
Her soul she makes ours the same,
And death but a name.

THE WILLOW BOTTOM

Lush green the grass that grows between The willows of the bottom-land; Verged by the careless water, tall and green, The brown-topped cat-tails stand.

The cows come gently here to browse, Slow through the great-leafed sycamores; You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed house With cedars round its doors.

Then all is quiet as the wings Of the high buzzard floating there; Anon a woman's high-pitched voice that sings An old camp-meeting air.

A flapping cock that crows; and then-- Heard drowsy through the rustling corn-- A flutter, and the cackling of a hen Within a hay-sweet barn.

How still again! no water stirs; No wind is heard; although the weeds Are waved a little; and from silk-filled burrs Drift by a few soft seeds.

So drugged with sleep and dreams, that you Expect to see her gliding by,-- Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew,-- The Spirit of July.

THE OLD BARN

Low, swallow-swept and gray, Between the orchard and the spring, All its wide windows overflowing hay, And crannied doors a-swing, The old barn stands to-day.

Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides A round white nest; and, humming soft On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides, Black in the sun-shot loft, The building hornet glides.

Along its corn-crib, cautiously As thieving fingers, skulks the rat; Or, in warped stalls of fragrant timothy, Gnaws at some loosened slat, Or passes shadowy.

A dream of drouth made audible Before its door, hot, smooth, and shrill All day the locust sings.... What other spell Shall hold it, lazier still Than the long day's, now tell?--

Dusk and the cricket and the strain Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars That burn above the rich west's ribbed stain; And dropping pasture bars, And cow-bells up the lane.

Night and the moon and katydid, And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs; And mazy shadows that the fire-flies thrid; And sweet breath of the cows; And the lone owl here hid.

CLEARING

Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks, The pleated crimson hollyhocks Are bending; And, smouldering in the breaking brown, Above the hills that edge the town, The day is ending.

The air is heavy with the damp; And, one by one, each cottage lamp Is lighted; Infrequent passers of the street Stroll on or stop to talk or greet, Benighted.

I look beyond my city yard, And watch the white moon struggling hard, Cloud-buried; The wind is driving toward the east, A wreck of pearl, all cracked and creased And serried.

At times the moon, erupting, streaks Some long cloud; like Andean peaks That double Horizon-vast volcano chains, The earthquake scars with lava veins That bubble.

The wind that blows from out the hills Is like a woman's touch that stills A sorrow: The moon sits high with many a star In the deep calm: and fair and far Abides to-morrow.

REQUIEM

I.

No more for him, where hills look down, Shall Morning crown Her rainy brow with blossom bands!-- Whose rosy hands Drop wild flowers of the breaking skies Upon the sod 'neath which he lies.-- No more! no more!

II.

No more for him where waters sleep, Shall Evening heap The long gold of the perfect days! Whose pale hand lays Great poppies of the afterglow Upon the turf he rests below.-- No more! no more!

III.

No more for him, where woodlands loom, Shall Midnight bloom The star-flow'red acres of the blue! Whose brown hands strew Dead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep, Upon the grave where he doth sleep.-- No more! no more!