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Poems
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Год написания книги: 2018
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OVERSEAS
Non numero horas nisi serenas When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems In soul I am a part of it; A portion of its humid beams, A form of fog, I seem to flit From dreams to dreams…. An old château sleeps 'mid the hills Of France: an avenue of sorbs Conceals it: drifts of daffodils Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs Like iron bills. I pass the gate unquestioned; yet, I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make Dark pools of restless violet. Between high bramble banks a lake,— As in a net The tangled scales twist silver,—shines…. Gray, mossy turrets swell above A sea of leaves. And where the pines Shade ivied walls, there lies my love, My heart divines. I know her window, slimly seen From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged: Her garden, with the nectarine Espaliered, and the peach tree, wedged 'Twixt walls of green. Cool-babbling a fountain falls From gryphons' mouths in porphyry; Carp haunt its waters; and white balls Of lilies dip it when the bee Creeps in and drawls. And butterflies—each with a face Of faery on its wings—that seem Beheaded pansies, softly chase Each other down the gloom and gleam Trees interspace. And roses! roses, soft as vair, Round sylvan statues and the old Stone dial—Pompadours, that wear Their royalty of purple and gold With wanton air…. Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe The perfume of her touch; her gloves, Modeling the daintiness they sheathe; Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves, Lie there beneath A bank of eglantine, that heaps A rose-strewn shadow.—Naïve-eyed, With lips as suave as they, she sleeps; The romance by her, open wide, O'er which she weeps.PROBLEMS
Man's are the learnings of his books— What is all knowledge that he knows Beside the wit of winding brooks, The wisdom of the summer rose! How soil distills the scent in flowers Baffles his science: heaven-dyed, How, from the palette of His hours, God gives them colors, hath defied. What dream of heaven begets the light? Or, ere the stars beat burning tunes, Stains all the hollow edge of night With glory as of molten moons? Who is it answers what is birth Or death, that nothing may retard? Or what is love, that seems of Earth, Yet wears God's own divine regard?TO A WINDFLOWER
I Teach me the secret of thy loveliness, That, being made wise, I may aspire to be As beautiful in thought, and so express Immortal truths to Earth's mortality; Though to my soul ability be less Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone.II Teach me the secret of thy innocence, That in simplicity I may grow wise; Asking of Art no other recompense Than the approval of her own just eyes; So may I rise to some fair eminence, Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.III Teach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I,— When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,— I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, For beauty born of beauty—that remains.VOYAGERS
Where are they, that song and tale Tell of? lands our childhood knew? Sea-locked Faerylands that trail Morning summits, dim with dew, Crimson o'er a crimson sail. Where in dreams we entered on Wonders eyes have never seen: Whither often we have gone, Sailing a dream-brigantine On from voyaging dawn to dawn. Leons seeking lands of song; Fabled fountains pouring spray; Where our anchors dropped among Corals of some tropic bay, With its swarthy native throng. Shoulder ax and arquebus!— We may find it!—past yon range Of sierras, vaporous, Rich with gold and wild and strange That lost region dear to us. Yet, behold, although our zeal Darien summits may subdue, Our Balboa eyes reveal But a vaster sea come to— New endeavor for our keel. Yet! who sails with face set hard Westward,—while behind him lies Unfaith,—where his dreams keep guard Round it, in the sunset skies, He may reach it—afterward.THE SPELL
"We have the receipt of fern seed: we walk invisible."
—HENRY IV And we have met but twice or thrice!— Three times enough to make me love!— I praised your hair once; then your glove; Your eyes; your gown;—you were like ice; And yet this might suffice, my love, And yet this might suffice. St. John hath told me what to do: To search and find the ferns that grow The fern seed that the faeries know; Then sprinkle fern seed in my shoe, And haunt the steps of you, my dear, And haunt the steps of you. You'll see the poppy pods dip here; The blow-ball of the thistle slip, And no wind breathing—but my lip Next to your anxious cheek and ear, To tell you I am near, my love, To tell you I am near. On wood-ways I shall tread your gown— You'll know it is no brier!—then I'll whisper words of love again, And smile to see your quick face frown: And then I'll kiss it down, my dear, And then I'll kiss it down. And when at home you read or knit,— Who'll know it was my hands that blotted The page?—or all your needles knotted? When in your rage you cry a bit: And loud I laugh at it, my love, And loud I laugh at it. The secrets that you say in prayer Right so I'll hear: and, when you sing, The name you speak; and whispering I'll bend and kiss your mouth and hair, And tell you I am there, my dear, And tell you I am there. Would it were true what people say!— Would I could find that elfin seed! Then should I win your love, indeed, By being near you night and day— There is no other way, my love, There is no other way. Meantime the truth in this is said: It is my soul that follows you; It needs no fern seed in the shoe,— While in the heart love pulses red, To win you and to wed, my dear, To win you and to wed.UNCERTAINTY
"'He cometh not,' she said."—MARIANA
It will not be to-day and yet I think and dream it will; and let The slow uncertainty devise So many sweet excuses, met With the old doubt in hope's disguise. The panes were sweated with the dawn; Yet through their dimness, shriveled drawn, The aigret of one princess-feather, One monk's-hood tuft with oilets wan, I glimpsed, dead in the slaying weather. This morning, when my window's chintz I drew, how gray the day was!—Since I saw him, yea, all days are gray!— I gazed out on my dripping quince, Defruited, gnarled; then turned away To weep, but did not weep: but felt A colder anguish than did melt About the tearful-visaged year!— Then flung the lattice wide, and smelt The autumn sorrow: Rotting near The rain-drenched sunflowers bent and bleached, Up which the frost-nipped gourd-vines reached And morning-glories, seeded o'er With ashen aiglets; whence beseeched One last bloom, frozen to the core. The podded hollyhocks,—that Fall Had stripped of finery,—by the wall Rustled their tatters; dripped and dripped, The fog thick on them: near them, all The tarnished, haglike zinnias tipped. I felt the death and loved it: yea, To have it nearer, sought the gray, Chill, fading garth. Yet could not weep, But wandered in an aimless way, And sighed with weariness for sleep. Mine were the fog, the frosty stalks; The weak lights on the leafy walks; The shadows shivering with the cold; The breaking heart; the lonely talks; The last, dim, ruined marigold. But when to-night the moon swings low— A great marsh-marigold of glow— And all my garden with the sea Moans, then, through moon and mist, I know My love will come to comfort me.IN THE WOOD
The waterfall, deep in the wood, Talked drowsily with solitude, A soft, insistent sound of foam, That filled with sleep the forest's dome, Where, like some dream of dusk, she stood Accentuating solitude. The crickets' tinkling chips of sound Strewed dim the twilight-twinkling ground; A whippoorwill began to cry, And glimmering through the sober sky A bat went on its drunken round, Its shadow following on the ground. Then from a bush, an elder-copse, That spiced the dark with musky tops, What seemed, at first, a shadow came And took her hand and spoke her name, And kissed her where, in starry drops, The dew orbed on the elder-tops. The glaucous glow of fireflies Flickered the dusk; and foxlike eyes Peered from the shadows; and the hush Murmured a word of wind and rush Of fluttering waters, fragrant sighs, And dreams unseen of mortal eyes. The beetle flung its burr of sound Against the hush and clung there, wound In night's deep mane: then, in a tree, A grig began deliberately To file the stillness: all around A wire of shrillness seemed unwound. I looked for those two lovers there; His ardent eyes, her passionate hair. The moon looked down, slow-climbing wan Heaven's slope of azure: they were gone: But where they'd passed I heard the air Sigh, faint with sweetness of her hair.SINCE THEN
I found myself among the trees What time the reapers ceased to reap; And in the sunflower-blooms the bees Huddled brown heads and went to sleep, Rocked by the balsam-breathing breeze. I saw the red fox leave his lair, A shaggy shadow, on the knoll; And tunneling his thoroughfare Beneath the soil, I watched the mole— Stealth's own self could not take more care. I heard the death-moth tick and stir, Slow-honeycombing through the bark; I heard the cricket's drowsy chirr, And one lone beetle burr the dark— The sleeping woodland seemed to purr. And then the moon rose: and one white Low bough of blossoms—grown almost Where, ere you died, 'twas our delight To meet,—dear heart!—I thought your ghost…. The wood is haunted since that night.DUSK IN THE WOODS
Three miles of trees it is: and I Came through the woods that waited, dumb, For the cool summer dusk to come; And lingered there to watch the sky Up which the gradual splendor clomb. A tree-toad quavered in a tree; And then a sudden whippoorwill Called overhead, so wildly shrill The sleeping wood, it seemed to me, Cried out and then again was still. Then through dark boughs its stealthy flight An owl took; and, at drowsy strife, The cricket tuned its faery fife; And like a ghost-flower, silent white, The wood-moth glimmered into life. And in the dead wood everywhere The insects ticked, or bored below The rotted bark; and, glow on glow, The lambent fireflies here and there Lit up their jack-o'-lantern show. I heard a vesper-sparrow sing, Withdrawn, it seemed, into the far Slow sunset's tranquil cinnabar; The crimson, softly smoldering Behind the trees, with its one star. A dog barked: and down ways that gleamed, Through dew and clover, faint the noise Of cowbells moved. And then a voice, That sang a-milking, so it seemed, Made glad my heart as some glad boy's. And then the lane: and, full in view, A farmhouse with its rose-grown gate, And honeysuckle paths, await For night, the moon, and love and you— These are the things that made me late.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 quince-trees where the bluebirds sing, And 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 the hills 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 bright 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 through 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-smiling face.THE QUEST
I First I asked the honeybee, Busy in the balmy bowers; Saying, "Sweetheart, tell it me: Have you seen her, honeybee? She is cousin to the flowers— All the sweetness of the south In her wild-rose face and mouth." But the bee passed silently.II Then I asked the forest bird, Warbling by the woodland waters; Saying, "Dearest, have you heard? Have you heard her, forest bird? She is one of music's daughters— Never song so sweet by half As the music of her laugh." But the bird said not a word.III Next I asked the evening sky, Hanging out its lamps of fire; Saying, "Loved one, passed she by? Tell me, tell me, evening sky! She, the star of my desire— Sister whom the Pleiads lost, And my soul's high pentecost." But the sky made no reply.IV Where is she? ah, where is she? She to whom both love and duty Bind me, yea, immortally.— Where is she? ah, where is she? Symbol of the Earth-Soul's beauty. I have lost her. Help my heart Find her! her, who is a part Of the pagan soul of me.THE GARDEN OF DREAMS
Not while I live may I forget That garden which my spirit trod! Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet, And beautiful as God. Not while I breathe, awake, adream, Shall live again for me those hours, When, in its mystery and gleam, I met her 'mid the flowers. Eyes, talismanic heliotrope, Beneath mesmeric lashes, where The sorceries of love and hope Had made a shining lair. And daydawn brows, whereover hung The twilight of dark locks: wild birds, Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongue Of fragrance-voweled words. I will not tell of cheeks and chin, That held me as sweet language holds; Nor of the eloquence within Her breasts' twin-moonéd molds. Nor of her body's languorous Wind-grace, that glanced like starlight through Her clinging robe's diaphanous Web of the mist and dew. There is no star so pure and high As was her look; no fragrance such As her soft presence; and no sigh Of music like her touch. Not while I live may I forget That garden of dim dreams, where I And Beauty born of Music met, Whose spirit passed me by.THE PATH TO FAERY
I When dusk falls cool as a rained-on rose, And a tawny tower the twilight shows, With the crescent moon, the silver moon, the curved new moon in a space that glows, A turret window that grows alight; There is a path that my Fancy knows, A glimmering, shimmering path of night, That far as the Land of Faery goes.II And I follow the path, as Fancy leads, Over the mountains, into the meads, Where the firefly cities, the glowworm cities, the faery cities are strung like beads, Each city a twinkling star: And I live a life of valorous deeds, And march with the Faery King to war, And ride with his knights on milk-white steeds.III Or it's there in the whirl of their life I sit, Or dance in their houses with starlight lit, Their blossom houses, their flower houses, their elfin houses, of fern leaves knit, With fronded spires and domes: And there it is that my lost dreams flit, And the ghost of my childhood, smiling, roams With the faery children so dear to it.IV And it's there I hear that they all come true, The faery stories, whatever they do— Elf and goblin, dear elf and goblin, loved elf and goblin, and all the crew Of witch and wizard and gnome and fay, And prince and princess, that wander through The storybooks we have put away, The faerytales that we loved and knew.V The face of Adventure lures you there, And the eyes of Danger bid you dare, While ever the bugles, the silver bugles, the far-off bugles of Elfland blare, The faery trumpets to battle blow; And you feel their thrill in your heart and hair, And you fain would follow and mount and go And march with the Faeries anywhere.VI And she—she rides at your side again, Your little sweetheart whose age is ten: She is the princess, the faery princess, the princess fair that you worshiped when You were a prince in a faerytale; And you do great deeds as you did them then, With your magic spear, and enchanted mail, Braving the dragon in his den.VII And you ask again,—"Oh, where shall we ride, Now that the monster is slain, my bride?"— "Back to the cities, the firefly cities, the glowworm cities where we can hide, The beautiful cities of Faeryland. And the light of my eyes shall be your guide, The light of my eyes and my snow-white hand— And there forever we two will abide."THERE ARE FAERIES
I There are faeries, bright of eye, Who the wildflowers' warders are: Ouphes, that chase the firefly; Elves, that ride the shooting-star: Fays, who in a cobweb lie, Swinging on a moonbeam bar; Or who harness bumblebees, Grumbling on the clover leas, To a blossom or a breeze— That's their faery car. If you care, you too may see There are faeries.—Verily, There are faeries.II There are faeries. I could swear I have seen them busy, where Roses loose their scented hair, In the moonlight weaving, weaving, Out of starlight and the dew, Glinting gown and shimmering shoe; Or, within a glowworm lair, From the dark earth slowly heaving Mushrooms whiter than the moon, On whose tops they sit and croon, With their grig-like mandolins, To fair faery ladykins, Leaning from the windowsill Of a rose or daffodil, Listening to their serenade All of cricket-music made. Follow me, oh, follow me! Ho! away to Faërie! Where your eyes like mine may see There are faeries.—Verily, There are faeries.III There are faeries. Elves that swing In a wild and rainbow ring Through the air; or mount the wing Of a bat to courier news To the faery King and Queen: Fays, who stretch the gossamers On which twilight hangs the dews; Who, within the moonlight sheen, Whisper dimly in the ears Of the flowers words so sweet That their hearts are turned to musk And to honey; things that beat In their veins of gold and blue: Ouphes, that shepherd moths of dusk— Soft of wing and gray of hue— Forth to pasture on the dew.IV There are faeries; verily; Verily: For the old owl in the tree, Hollow tree, He who maketh melody For them tripping merrily, Told it me. There are faeries.—Verily, There are faeries.THE SPIRIT OF THE FOREST SPRING
Over the rocks she trails her locks, Her mossy locks that drip, drip, drip: Her sparkling eyes smile at the skies In friendship-wise and fellowship: While the gleam and glance of her countenance Lull into trance the woodland places, As over the rocks she trails her locks, Her dripping locks that the long fern graces. She pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, Its crystal cruse that drips, drips, drips: And all the day its limpid spray Is heard to play from her finger tips: And the slight, soft sound makes haunted ground Of the woods around that the sunlight laces, As she pours clear ooze from her heart's cool cruse, Its dripping cruse that no man traces. She swims and swims with glimmering limbs, With lucid limbs that drip, drip, drip: Where beechen boughs build a leafy house, Where her eyes may drowse or her beauty trip: And the liquid beat of her rippling feet Makes three times sweet the forest mazes, As she swims and swims with glimmering limbs, With dripping limbs through the twilight hazes. Then wrapped in deeps of the wild she sleeps, She whispering sleeps and drips, drips, drips: Where moon and mist wreathe neck and wrist, And, starry-whist, through the dark she slips: While the heavenly dream of her soul makes gleam The falls that stream and the foam that races, As wrapped in the deeps of the wild she sleeps, She dripping sleeps or starward gazes.IN A GARDEN
The pink rose drops its petals on The moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn; The moon, like some wide rose of white, Drops down the summer night. No rose there is As sweet as this— Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss. The lattice of thy casement twines With jasmine vines, with jasmine vines; The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lie About the glimmering sky. No jasmine tress Can so caress Like thy white arms' soft loveliness. About thy door magnolia blooms Make sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms; A moon-magnolia is the dusk Closed in a dewy husk. However much, No bloom gives such Soft fragrance as thy bosom's touch. The flowers blooming now will pass, And strew the grass, and strew the grass; The night, like some frail flower, dawn Will soon make gray and wan. Still, still above, The flower of True love shall live forever, Love.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 lane, And 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 sweet 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 lane, And the silence and stars and her lips again! When the weight of the apples breaks down the boughs, And muskmelons split with sweet; And the moon is a light in Heaven's house, And summer has spent its heat— It's oh, for the lane, the trysting lane, The deep-mooned night and her love again!THE WINDOW ON THE HILL
Among the fields the camomile Seems blown mist in the lightning's glare: Cool, rainy odors drench the air; Night speaks above; the angry smile Of storm within her stare. The way that I shall take to-night Is through the wood whose branches fill The road with double darkness, till, Between the boughs, a window's light Shines out upon the hill. The fence; and then the path that goes Around a trailer-tangled rock, Through puckered pink and hollyhock, Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose, And door whereat I knock. Bright on the oldtime flower place The lamp streams through the foggy pane; The door is opened to the rain: And in the door—her happy face And outstretched arms again.THE PICTURE
Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay: Around her, flowers flattered earth with gold, Or down the path in insolence held sway— Like cavaliers who ride the king's highway— Scarlet and buff, within a garden old. Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood, Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town: Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewed The purple west as if, with God imbued, Her mighty palette Nature there laid down. Amid such flowers, underneath such skies, Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair, She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes, Fair as a star that comes to emphasize The mingled beauty of the earth and air. Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees, Gray with its twinkling windows—like the face Of calm old age that sits and dreams at ease— Porched with old roses, haunts of honeybees, The homestead loomed within a lilied space. For whom she waited in the afterglow, Star-eyed and golden 'mid the poppy and rose, I do not know; I do not care to know,— It is enough I keep her picture so, Hung up, like poetry, in my life's dull prose. A fragrant picture, where I still may find Her face untouched of sorrow or regret, Unspoiled of contact; ever young and kind; The spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind, She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.
