Chapter II

Go your own ways. Who shall persuade me now
To seek with high face for a star of hope?
Or up endeavor's unsubmissive slope
Advance a bosom of desire, and bow
A back of patience in a thankless task?
Alone beside the grave of love I ask,
Shalt thou? or thou?

Leave go my hands. Fain would I walk alone
The easy ways of silence and of sleep.
What though I go with eyes that cannot weep,
And lips contracted with no uttered moan,
Through rocks and thorns, where every footprint bleeds,
A dead-sea path of desert night that leads
To one white stone!

Though sands be black and bitter black the sea,
Night lie before me and behind me night,
And God within far Heaven refuse to light
The consolation of the dawn for me,--
Between the shadowy bournes of Heaven and Hell,
It is enough love leaves my soul to dwell
With memory.

DAYS AND DAYS

The days that clothed white limbs with heat,
And rocked the red rose on their breast,
Have passed with amber-sandalled feet
Into the ruby-gated west.

These were the days that filled the heart
With overflowing riches of
Life; in whose soul no dream shall start
But hath its origin in love.

Now come the days gray-huddled in
The haze; whose foggy footsteps drip;
Who pin beneath a gipsy chin
The frosty marigold and hip.--

The days, whose forms fall shadowy
Athwart the heart; whose misty breath
Shapes saddest sweets of memory
Out of the bitterness of death.

DROUTH IN AUTUMN

Gnarled acorn-oaks against a west
Of copper, cavernous with fire;
A wind of frost that gives no rest
To such lean leaves as haunt the brier,
And hide the cricket's vibrant wire.

Sear, shivering shocks, and stubble blurred
With bramble-blots of dull maroon;
And creekless hills whereon no herd
Finds pasture, and whereo'er the loon
Flies, haggard as the rainless moon.

MID-WINTER

All day the clouds hung ashen with the cold; And through the snow the muffled waters fell; The day seemed drowned in grief too deep to tell, Like some old hermit whose last bead is told. At eve the wind woke, and the snow-clouds rolled Aside to leave the fierce sky visible; Harsh as an iron landscape of wan hell The dark hills hung framed in with gloomy gold. And then, towards night, the wind seemed some one at My window wailing: now a little child Crying outside the door; and now the long Howl of some starved beast down the flue. I sat And knew 'twas Winter with his madman song Of miseries, whereon he stared and smiled.

COLD

A mist that froze beneath the moon and shook Minutest frosty fire in the air. All night the wind was still as lonely Care Who sighs before her shivering ingle-nook. The face of Winter wore a crueler look Than when he shakes the icicles from his hair, And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stare Freeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook. He is the despot now who sits and dreams Of Desolation and Despair, and smiles At Poverty, who hath no place to rest, Who wanders o'er Life's snow-made pathless miles, And sees the Home-of-Comfort's window gleams, And hugs her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.

IN WINTER

I.

When black frosts pluck the acorns down, And in the lane the waters freeze; And 'thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies, And death sits grimly 'mid the trees; When home-lights glitter in the brown Of dusk like shaggy eyes,-- Before the door his feet, sweetheart, And two white arms that greet, sweetheart, And two white arms that greet.

II.

When ways are drifted with the leaves, And winds make music in the thorns; And lone and lost above the frost The new moon shows its silver horns; When underneath the lamp-lit eaves The opened door is crossed,-- A happy heart and light, sweetheart, And lips to kiss good-night, sweetheart, And lips to kiss good-night.

ON THE FARM

I.

He sang a song as he sowed the field, Sowed the field at break of day: "When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yield Balm and balsam, and Spring,--concealed In the odorous green,--is so revealed, Halloo and oh! Hallo for the woods and the far away!"

II.

He trilled a song as he mowed the mead, Mowed the mead as noon begun: "When the hills are gold with the ripened seed, As the sunset stairs that loom and lead To the sky where Summer knows naught of need, Halloo and oh! Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!"

III.

He hummed a song as he swung the flail, Swung the flail in the afternoon: "When the idle fields are a wrecker's tale, That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale, As the Year turns seaward a crimson sail, Halloo and oh! Hallo for the fields and the hunter's-moon!"

IV.

He whistled a song as he shouldered his axe, Shouldered his axe in the evening storm: "When the snow of the road shows the rabbit's tracks, And the wind is a whip that the Winter cracks, With a herdsman's cry, o'er the clouds' black backs, Halloo and oh! Hallo for home and a hearth to warm!"

PATHS

I.

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- The path that takes me, in the spring, Past quinces where the blue-birds sing, Where peonies are blossoming, Unto a porch, wistaria-hung, Around whose steps May-lilies blow, A fair girl reaches down among, Her arm more white than their sweet snow.

II.

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- Another path that leads me, when The summer-time is here again, Past hollyhocks that shame the west When the red sun has sunk to rest; To roses bowering a nest, A lattice, 'neath which mignonette And deep geraniums surge and sough, Where, in the twilight, starless yet, A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.

III.

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- A path that takes me, when the days Of autumn wrap themselves in haze, Beneath the pippin-pelting tree, 'Mid flitting butterfly and bee; Unto a door where, fiery, The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued, The cock's-comb and the dahlia flare, And in the door, where shades intrude, Gleams out a fair girl's sunbeam hair.

IV.

What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- A path that brings me o'er the frost Of winter, when the moon is tossed In clouds; beneath great cedars, weak With shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleak With shivering leaves; to eaves that leak The tattered ice, whereunder is A fire-flickering window-space; And in the light, with lips to kiss, A fair girl's welcome-giving face.

A SONG IN SEASON

I.

When in the wind the vane turns round, And round, and round; And in his kennel whines the hound; When all the gable eaves are bound With icicles of ragged gray, A glinting gray; There is little to do, and much to say, And you hug your fire and pass the day With a thought of the springtime, dearie.

II.

When late at night the owlet hoots, And hoots, and hoots; And wild winds make of keyholes flutes; When to the door the goodman's boots Stamp through the snow the light stains red, The fire-light's red; There is nothing to do, and all is said, And you quaff your cider and go to bed With a dream of the summer, dearie.

III.

When, nearing dawn, the black cock crows, And crows, and crows; And from the barn the milch-cow lows; And the milkmaid's cheeks have each a rose, And the still skies show a star or two, Or one or two; There is little to say, and much to do, And the heartier done the happier you, With a song of the winter, dearie.

APART

I.

While sunset burns and stars are few, And roses scent the fading light, And like a slim urn, dripping dew, A spirit carries through the night, The pearl-pale moon hangs new,-- I think of you, of you.

II.

While waters flow, and soft winds woo The golden-hearted bud with sighs; And, like a flower an angel threw, Out of the momentary skies A star falls burning blue,-- I dream of you, of you.

III.

While love believes, and hearts are true, So let me think, so let me dream; The thought and dream so wedded to Your face, that, far apart, I seem To see each thing you do, And be with you, with you.

FAERY MORRIS

I.

The winds are whist; and, hid in mist,
The moon hangs o'er the wooded height;
The bushy bee, with unkempt head,
Hath made the sunflower's disk his bed,
And sleeps half-hid from sight.
The owlet makes us melody--
Come dance with us in Faery,
Come dance with us to-night.

II.

The dew is damp; the glow-worm's lamp
Blurs in the moss its tawny light;
The great gray moth sinks, half-asleep,
Where, in an elfin-laundered heap,
The lily-gowns hang white.
The crickets make us minstrelsy--
Come dance with us in Faery,
Come dance with us to-night.