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A Voice on the Wind, and Other Poems
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Год написания книги: 2017
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TO THE LOCUST
Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like breast,Makest meridian music, long and loud,Accentuating summer! – dost thy bestTo make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowdWith lonesomeness the long, close afternoonWhen Labor leans, swart-faced and beady browed,Upon his sultry scythe – thou tangible tuneOf heat, whose waves incessantly ariseQuivering and clear beneath the cloudless skies.Thou singest, and upon his haggard hillsDrouth yawns and rubs his heavy eyes and wakes;Brushes the hot hair from his face; and fillsThe land with death as sullenly he takesDownward his dusty way: 'midst woods and fieldsAt every pool his burning thirst he slakes:No grove so deep, no bank so high it shieldsA spring from him; no creek evades his eye;He needs but look and they are withered dry.Thou singest, and thy song is as a spellOf somnolence to charm the land with sleep;A thorn of sound that pierces dale and dell,Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.Diffusing slumber over vale and steep.Sleepy the forest, nodding sleepy boughs;The pastures sleepy with their sleepy sheep;Sleepy the creek where sleepily the cowsStand knee-deep: and the very heaven seemsSleepy and lost in undetermined dreams.Art thou a rattle that Monotony,Summer's dull nurse, old sister of slow Time,Shakes for Day's peevish pleasure, who in gleeTakes its discordant music for sweet rhyme?Or oboe that the Summer Noontide plays,Sitting with Ripeness 'neath the orchard-tree,Trying repeatedly the same shrill phrase,Until the musky peach with drowsinessDrops, and the hum of bees grows less and less?YOUNG SEPTEMBER
IWith a look and a laugh where the stream was flowing,September led me along the land;Where the golden-rod and lobelia, glowing,Seemed burning torches within her hand.And faint as the thistle's or milk-weed's featherI glimpsed her form through the sparkling weather.IINow 'twas her hand and now her hairThat tossed me welcome everywhere;That lured me onward through the stately roomsOf forest, hung and carpeted with glooms,And windowed wide with azure, doored with green.Through which rich glimmers of her robe were seen —Now, like some deep marsh-mallow, rosy gold;Now, like the great Joe-Pye-weed, fold on foldOf heavy mauve; and now, like the intenseMassed iron-weed, a purple opulence.IIIAlong the bank in a wild processionOf gold and sapphire the blossoms blew;And borne on the breeze came their soft confessionIn syllables musk of honey and dew;In words unheard that their lips kept saying,Sweet as the lips of children praying.IVAnd so, meseemed, I heard them tellHow here her loving glance once fellUpon this bank, and from its azure grewThe ageratum mist-flower's happy hue:How from her kiss, as crimson as the dawn,The cardinal-flow'r drew its vermilion;And from her hair's blond touch th' elecampaneEvolved the glory of its golden rain;White from her starry footsteps, redolent,The aster pearled its flowery firmament.UNDER THE HUNTER'S MOON
White from her chrysalis of cloud,The moth-like moon swings upward through the night;And all the bee-like stars that crowdThe hollow hive of heav'n wane in her light.Along the distance, folds of mistHang frost-pale, ridging all the dark with gray;Tinting the trees with amethyst,Touching with pearl and purple every spray.All night the stealthy frost and fogConspire to slay the rich-robed weeds and flowers:To strip of wealth the woods, and clogWith piled-up gold of leaves the creek that cowers.I seem to see their Spirits stand,Molded of moonlight, faint of form and face,Now reaching high a chilly handTo pluck some walnut from its spicy place:Now with fine fingers, phantom-cold,Splitting the wahoo's pods of rose, and thinThe bittersweet's balls o' gold,To show the coal-red berries packed within:Now on dim threads of gossamerStringing pale pearls of moisture; necklacingThe flow'rs; and spreading cobweb fur,Crystaled with stardew, over everything:While 'neath the moon, with moon-white feet,They go and, chill, a moon-soft music drawFrom wan leaf-cricket flutes – the sweet,Sad dirge of Autumn dying in the shaw.RAIN IN THE WOODS
When on the leaves the rain persists,And every gust brings showers down;When all the woodland smokes with mists,I take the old road out of townInto the hills through which it twists.I find the vale where catnip grows,Where boneset blooms, with moisture bowed;The vale through which the red creek flows,Turbid with hill-washed clay, and loudAs some wild horn a hunter blows.Around the root the beetle glides,A living beryl; and the ant,Large, agate-red, a garnet, slidesBeneath the rock; and every plantIs roof for some frail thing that hides.Like knots against the trunks of treesThe lichen-colored moths are pressed;And, wedged in hollow blooms, the beesSeem clots of pollen; in its nestThe wasp has crawled and lies at ease.The locust harsh, that sharply sawsThe silence of the summer noon;The katydid that thinly drawsIts fine file o'er the bars of moon;And grasshopper that drills each pause:The mantis, long-clawed, furtive, lean —Fierce feline of the insect hordes —And dragonfly, gauze-winged and green,Beneath the wild-grape's leaves and gourd's,Have housed themselves and rest unseen.The butterfly and forest-birdAre huddled on the same gnarled bough,From which, like some rain-voweled wordThat dampness hoarsely utters now,The tree-toad's voice is vaguely heard.I crouch and listen; and againThe woods are filled with phantom forms —With shapes, grotesque in mystic train,That rise and reach to me cool armsOf mist; the wandering wraiths of rain.I see them come; fantastic, fair;Chill, mushroom-colored: sky and earthGrow ghostly with their floating hairAnd trailing limbs, that have their birthIn wetness – fungi of the air.O wraiths of rain! O ghosts of mist!Still fold me, hold me, and pursue!Still let my lips by yours be kissed!Still draw me with your hands of dewUnto the tryst, the dripping tryst.IN THE LANE
When the hornet hangs in the hollyhock,And the brown bee drones i' the rose,And the west is a red-streaked four-o'-clock,And summer is near its close —It's – Oh, for the gate and the locust laneAnd dusk and dew and home again!When the katydid sings and the cricket cries,And ghosts of the mists ascend,And the evening-star is a lamp i' the skies,And summer is near its end —It's – Oh, for the fence and the leafy lane,And the twilight peace and the tryst again!When the owlet hoots in the dogwood-tree,That leans to the rippling Run,And the wind is a wildwood melody,And summer is almost done —It's – Oh, for the bridge and the bramble lane,And the fragrant hush and her hands again!When fields smell moist with the dewy hay,And woods are cool and wan,And a path for dreams is the Milky-way,And summer is nearly gone —It's – Oh, for the rock and the woodland laneAnd the silence and stars and her lips again!When the weight of the apples breaks down the boughs,And musk-melons split with sweet,And the moon is a-bloom in the Heaven's house,And summer has spent its heat —It's – Oh, for the lane, the trysting lane,And the deep-mooned night and her love again!A FOREST IDYL
IBeneath an old beech-treeThey sat together,Fair as a flower was sheOf summer weather.They spoke of life and love,While, through the boughs above,The sunlight, like a dove,Dropped many a feather.IIAnd there the violet,The bluet near it,Made blurs of azure wet —As if some spirit,Or woodland dream, had goneSprinkling the earth with dawn,When only Fay and FaunCould see or hear it.IIIShe with her young, sweet faceAnd eyes gray-beaming,Made of that forest placeA spot for dreaming:A spot for OreadsTo smooth their nut-brown braids,For Dryads of the gladesTo dance in, gleaming.IVSo dim the place, so blest.One had not wonderedHad Dian's moonéd breastThe deep leaves sundered,And there on them awhileThe goddess deigned to smile.While down some forest aisleThe far hunt thundered.VI deem that hour perchanceWas but a mirrorTo show them Earth's romanceAnd draw them nearer:A mirror where, meseems.All that this Earth-life dreams,All loveliness that gleams,Their souls saw clearer.VIBeneath an old beech-treeThey dreamed of blisses;Fair as a flower was sheThat summer kisses:They spoke of dreams and days,Of love that goes and stays,Of all for which life prays,Ah me! and misses.UNDER THE ROSE
He told a story to her,A story old yet new —And was it of the Faëry FolkThat dance along the dew?The night was hung with silenceAs a room is hung with cloth,And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush,Swooned dim the down-white moth.Along the east a shimmer,A tenuous breath of flame,From which, as from a bath of light,Nymph-like, the girl-moon came.And pendent in the purpleOf heaven, like fireflies,Bubbles of gold the great stars blewFrom windows of the skies.He told a story to her,A story full of dreams —And was it of the Elfin thingsThat haunt the thin moonbeams?Upon the hill a thorn-tree,Crooked and gnarled and gray,Against the moon seemed some crutch'd hagDragging a child away.And in the vale a runnel,That dripped from shelf to shelf,Seemed, in the night, a woodland witchWho muttered to herself.Along the land a zephyr,Whose breath was wild perfume,That seemed a sorceress who woveSweet spells of beam and bloom.He told a story to her,A story young yet old —And was it of the mystic thingsMen's eyes shall ne'er behold?They heard the dew drip faintlyFrom out the green-cupped leaf;They heard the petals of the roseUnfolding from their sheaf.They saw the wind light-footingThe waters into sheen;They saw the starlight kiss to sleepThe blossoms on the green.They heard and saw these wonders;These things they saw and heard;And other things within the heartFor which there is no word.He told a story to her,The story men call Love,Whose echoes fill the ages past,And the world ne'er tires of.IN AUTUMN
ISunflowers wither and lilies die,Poppies are pods of seeds;The first red leaves on the pathway lie,Like blood of a heart that bleeds.Weary alway will it be to-day,Weary and wan and wet;Dawn and noon will the clouds hang gray,And the autumn wind will sigh and say,"He comes not yet, not yet.Weary alway, alway!"IIHollyhocks bend all tattered and torn,Marigolds all are gone;The last pale rose lies all forlorn,Like love that is trampled on.Weary, ah me! to-night will be,Weary and wild and hoar;Rain and mist will blow from the sea,And the wind will sob in the autumn tree,"He comes no more, no more.Weary, ah me! ah me!"EPIPHANY
There is nothing that eases my heart so muchAs the wind that blows from the purple hills;'Tis a hand of balsam whose healing touchUnburdens my bosom of ills.There is nothing that causes my soul to rejoiceLike the sunset flaming without a flaw:'Tis a burning bush whence God's own voiceAddresses my spirit with awe.There is nothing that hallows my mind, meseems,Like the night with its moon and its stars above;'Tis a mystical lily whose golden gleamsFulfill my being with love.There is nothing, no, nothing, we see and feel.That speaks to our souls some beautiful thought,That was not created to help us, and healOur lives that are overwrought.LIFE
IPESSIMISTThere is never a thing we dream or doBut was dreamed and done in the ages gone;Everything's old; there is nothing that's new,And so it will be while the world goes on.The thoughts we think have been thought before;The deeds we do have long been done;We pride ourselves on our love and loreAnd both are as old as the moon and sun.We strive and struggle and swink and sweat,And the end for each is one and the same;Time and the sun and the frost and wetWill wear from its pillar the greatest name.No answer comes for our prayer or curse,No word replies though we shriek in air;Ever the taciturn universeStretches unchanged for our curse or prayer.With our mind's small light in the dark we crawl, —Glow-worm glimmers that creep about, —Tilt the Power that shaped us, over us allPoises His foot and treads us out.Unasked He fashions us out of clay,A little water, a little dust,And then in our holes He thrusts us away,With never a word, to rot and rust.'Tis a sorry play with a sorry plot,This life of hate and of lust and pain,Where we play our parts and are soon forgot,And all that we do is done in vain.IIOPTIMISTThere is never a dream but it shall come true,And never a deed but was wrought by plan;And life is filled with the strange and new,And ever has been since the world began.As mind develops and soul maturesThese two shall parent Earth's mightier acts;Love is a fact, and 'tis love endures'Though the world make wreck of all other facts.Through thought alone shall our Age obtainAbove all Ages gone before;The tribes of sloth, of brawn, not brain,Are the tribes that perish, are known no more.Within ourselves is a voice of Awe,And a hand that points to Balanced Scales;The one is Love and the other Law,And their presence alone it is avails.For every shadow about our wayThere is a glory of moon and sun;But the hope within us hath more of rayThan the light of the sun and moon in one.Behind all being a purpose lies,Undeviating as God hath willed;And he alone it is who dies,Who leaves that purpose unfulfilled.Life is an epic the Master sings,Whose theme is Man, and whose music, Soul,Where each is a word in the Song of Things,That shall roll on while the ages roll.NEVER
(Song)Love hath no place in her,Though in her bosom beLove-thoughts and dreams that stirLongings that know not me:Love hath no place in her,No place for me.Never within her eyesDo I the love-light see;Never her soul repliesTo the sad soul in me:Never with soul and eyesSpeaks she to me.She is a star, a rose,I but a moth, a bee;High in her heaven she glows,Blooms far away from me:She is a star, a rose,Never for me.Why will I think of herTo my heart's misery?Dreaming how sweet it wereHad she a thought of me:Why will I think of her!Why, why, ah me!MEETING IN THE WOODS
Through ferns and moss the path wound toA hollow where the touchmenotsSwung horns of honey filled with dew;And where – like foot-prints – violets blueAnd bluets made sweet sapphire blots,'Twas there that she had passed he knew.The grass, the very wildernessOn either side, breathed rapture ofHer passage: 'twas her hand or dressThat touched some tree – a slight caress —That made the wood-birds sing above;Her step that made the flowers up-press.He hurried, till across his way,Foam-footed, bounding through the wood,A brook, like some wild girl at play,Went laughing loud its roundelay;And there upon its bank she stood,A sunbeam clad in woodland gray.And when she saw him, all her faceGrew to a wildrose by the stream;And to his breast a moment's spaceHe gathered her; and all the placeSeemed conscious of some happy dreamCome true to add to Earth its grace.Some joy, on which Heav'n was intent —For which God made the world – the bliss,The love, that raised her innocentPure face to his that, smiling, bentAnd sealed confession with a kiss —Life needs no other testament.A MAID WHO DIED OLD
Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn,That life has carved with care and doubt!So weary waiting, night and morn,For that which never came about!Pale lamp, so utterly forlorn.In which God's light at last is out.Gray hair, that lies so thin and primOn either side the sunken brows!And soldered eyes, so deep and dim,No word of man could now arouse!And hollow hands, so virgin slim,Forever clasped in silent vows!Poor breasts! that God designed for love,For baby lips to kiss and press!That never felt, yet dreamed thereof,The human touch, the child caress —That lie like shriveled blooms aboveThe heart's long-perished happiness.O withered body, Nature gaveFor purposes of death and birth,That never knew, and could but craveThose things perhaps that make life worth —Rest now, alas! within the grave,Sad shell that served no end of Earth.COMMUNICANTS
Who knows the things they dream, alas!Or feel, who lie beneath the ground?Perhaps the flowers, the leaves, and grassThat close them round.In spring the violets may spellThe moods of them we know not of;Or lilies sweetly syllableTheir thoughts of loveHaply, in summer, dew and scentOf all they feel may be a part;Each red rose be the testamentOf some rich heart.The winds of fall be utterance,Perhaps, of saddest things they say;Wild leaves may word some dead romanceIn some dim way.In winter all their sleep profoundThrough frost may speak to grass and stream;The snow may be the silent soundOf all they dream.THE DEAD DAY
The West builds high a sepulchreOf cloudy granite and of gold.Where twilight's priestly hours interThe day like some great king of old,A censer, rimmed with silver fire,The new moon swings above his tomb;While, organ-stops of God's own choir,Star after star throbs in the gloom.And night draws near, the sadly sweet —A nun whose face is calm and fair —And kneeling at the dead day's feetHer soul goes up in silent prayer.In prayer, we feel through dewy gleamAnd flowery fragrance, and – aboveAll Earth – the ecstasy and dreamThat haunt the mystic heart of love.KNIGHT-ERRANT
Onward he gallops through enchanted gloom.The spectres of the forest, dark and dim,And shadows of vast death environ him —Onward he spurs victorious over doom.Before his eyes that love's far fires illume —Where courage sits, impregnable and grim —The form and features of her beauty swim,Beckoning him on with looks that fears consume.The thought of her distress, her lips to kiss,Mails him with triple might; and so at lastTo Lust's huge keep he comes; its giant wall,Wild-towering, frowning from the precipice;And through its gate, borne like a bugle blast,O'er night and hell he thunders to his all.THE END OF SUMMER
Pods are the poppies, and slim spires of podsThe hollyhocks; the balsam's pearly bredesOf rose-stained snow are little sacs of seedsCollapsing at a touch; the lote, that sodsThe pond with green, has changed its flowers to rodsAnd discs of vesicles; and all the weeds,Around the sleepy water and its reeds.Are one white smoke of seeded silk that nods.Summer is dead, ay me! sweet Summer's dead!The sunset clouds have built her funeral pyre,Through which, e'en now, runs subterranean fire:While from the East, as from a garden bed,Mist-vined, the Dusk lifts her broad moon – like someGreat golden melon – saying, "Fall has come."LIGHT AND WIND
Where, through the leaves of myriad forest trees,The daylight falls, beryl and chrysoprase,The glamour and the glimmer of its raysSeem visible music, tangible melodies:Light that is music; music that one sees —Wagnerian music – where forever swaysThe spirit of romance, and gods and faysTake form, clad on with dreams and mysteries.And now the wind's transmuting necromanceTouches the light and makes it fall and rise,Vocal, a harp of multitudinous wavesThat speaks as ocean speaks – an utteranceOf far-off whispers, mermaid-murmuring sighs —Pelagian, vast, deep-down in coral caves.SUPERSTITION
In the waste places, in the dreadful night,When the wood whispers like a wandering mind,And silence sits and listens to the wind,Or, 'mid the rocks, to some wild torrent's flight;Bat-browed thou wadest with thy wisp of lightAmong black pools the moon can never find;Or, owlet-eyed, thou hootest to the blindDeep darkness from some cave or haunted height.He who beholds but once thy fearsome face,Never again shall walk alone! but wanAnd terrible attendants shall be his —Unutterable things that have no placeIn God or Beauty – that compel him on,Against all hope, where endless horror is.UNCALLED
As one, who, journeying westward with the sun,Beholds at length from the up-towering hills,Far off, a land unspeakable beauty fills,Circean peaks and vales of Avalon:And, sinking weary, watches, one by one,The big seas beat between; and knows it skillsNo more to try; that now, as Heaven wills,This is the helpless end, that all is done:So 'tis with him, whom long a vision ledIn quest of Beauty, and who finds at lastShe lies beyond his effort. All the wavesOf all the world between them: While the dead,The myriad dead, who people all the PastWith failure, hail him from forgotten graves.LOVE DESPISED
Can one resolve and hunt it from one's heart?This love, this god and fiend, that makes a hellOf many a life, in ways no tongue can tell,No mind divine, nor any word impart.Would not one think the slights that make hearts smart,The ice of love's disdain, the wint'ry wellOf love's disfavor, love's own fire would quell?Or school its nature, too, to its own art.Why will men cringe and cry forever hereFor that which, once obtained, may prove a curse?Why not remember that, however fair,Decay is wed to Beauty? That each yearTakes somewhat from the riches of her purse,Until at last her house of pride stands bare?THE DEATH OF LOVE
So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old!And in the sorrow of our hearts' hushed hallsA lute lies broken and a flower falls;Love's house is empty and his hearth is cold.Lone in dim places, where sweet vows were told.In walks grown desolate, by ruined walls,Beauty decays; and on their pedestalsDreams crumble, and th' immortal gods are mould.Music is slain or sleeps; one voice alone,One voice awakes, and like a wandering ghostHaunts all the echoing chambers of the Past —The voice of Memory, that stills to stoneThe soul that hears; the mind that, utterly lost,Before its beautiful presence stands aghast.GERALDINE, GERALDINE
Geraldine, Geraldine,Do you remember whereThe willows used to screenThe water flowing fair?The mill-stream's banks of greenWhere first our love begun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Geraldine, Geraldine,Do you remember howFrom th' old bridge we would lean —The bridge that's broken now —To watch the minnows sheen,And the ripples of the Run,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Geraldine, Geraldine,Do you remember tooThe old beech-tree, betweenWhose roots the wild flowers grew?Where oft we met at e'en,When stars were few or none,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Geraldine, Geraldine,The bark has grown aroundThe names I cut therein,And the truelove-knot that bound;The love-knot, clear and clean,I carved when our love begun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Geraldine, Geraldine,The roof of the farmhouse grayIs fallen and mossy green;Its rafters rot away:The old path scarce is seenWhere oft our feet would run,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.Geraldine, Geraldine,Through each old tree and boughThe lone winds cry and keen —The place is haunted now,With ghosts of what-has-been,With dreams of love-long-done,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.Geraldine, Geraldine,There, in your world of wealth,There, where you move a queen,Broken in heart and health,Does there ever rise a sceneOf days, your soul would shun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one?Geraldine, Geraldine,Here, 'mid the rose and rue,Would God that your grave were green.And I were lying too!Here on the hill, I mean,Where oft we laughed i' the sun,When you were seventeen,And I was twenty-one.ALLUREMENT
Across the world she sends me word,From gardens fair as Falerina's,Now by a blossom, now a bird,To come to her, who long has luredWith magic sweeter than Alcina's.I know not what her word may mean,I know not what may mean the voicesShe sends as messengers serene,That through the silvery silence lean,To tell me where her heart rejoices.But I must go! I must away!Must take the path that is appointed!God grant I find her realm some day!Where, by her love, as by a ray,My soul shall be anointed.BLACK VESPER'S PAGEANTS
The day, all fierce with carmine, turnsAn Indian face towards Earth and dies;The west, like some gaunt vase, inurnsIts ashes under smouldering skies,Athwart whose bowl one red cloud streams,Strange as a shape some Aztec dreams.Now shadows mass above the world,And night comes on with wind and rain;The mulberry-colored leaves are hurledLike frantic hands against the pane.And through the forests, bending low,Night stalks like some gigantic woe.In hollows where the thistle shakesA hoar bloom like a witch's-light,From weed and flower the rain-wind rakesDead sweetness – as a wildman might,From out the leaves, the woods among,Dig some dead woman, fair and young.Now let me walk the woodland ways,Alone! except for thoughts, that areAkin to such wild nights and days;A portion of the storm that farFills Heaven and Earth tumultuously,And my own soul with ecstasy.
