The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shapes and Shadows, by Madison Cawein
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shapes and Shadows
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Title: Shapes and Shadows
Author: Madison Julius Cawein
Release date: July 8, 2010 [eBook #33112]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, David Garcia, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAPES AND SHADOWS ***
MADISON CAWEIN
Under the Stars and Stripes.
High on the world did our fathers of old, Under the stars and stripes, Blazon the name that we now must uphold, Under the stars and stripes. Vast in the past they have builded an arch Over which Freedom has lighted her torch. Follow it! Follow it! Come, let us march Under the stars and stripes!
We in whose bodies the blood of them runs, Under the stars and stripes, We will acquit us as sons of their sons, Under the stars and stripes. Ever for justice, our heel upon wrong, We in the light of our vengeance thrice strong! Rally together! Come tramping along Under the stars and stripes!
Out of our strength and a nation's great need, Under the stars and stripes, Heroes again as of old we shall breed, Under the stars and stripes. Broad to the winds be our banner unfurled! Straight in Spain's face let defiance be hurled! God on our side, we will battle the world Under the stars and stripes!
Day after Day, young with eternal beauty, Pays flowery duty to the month and clime; Night after night erects a vasty portal Of stars immortal for the march of Time.
But where are now the Glory and the Rapture, That once did capture me in cloud and stream? Where now the Joy that was both speech and silence? Where the beguilance that was fact and dream?
I know that Earth and Heaven are as golden As they of olden made me feel and see; Not in themselves is lacking aught of power Through star and flower—something's lost in me.
Return! Return! I cry, O Visions vanished, O Voices banished, to my Soul again!— The near Earth blossoms and the far Skies glisten, I look and listen, but, alas! in vain.
Clad on with glowing beauty and the peace, Benign, of calm maturity, she stands Among her meadows and her orchard-lands, And on her mellowing gardens and her trees, Out of the ripe abundance of her hands, Bestows increase And fruitfulness, as, wrapped in sunny ease, Blue-eyed and blonde she goes, Upon her bosom Summer's richest rose.
II
And he who follows where her footsteps lead, By hill and rock, by forest-side and stream, Shall glimpse the glory of her visible dream, In flower and fruit, in rounded nut and seed: She in whose path the very shadows gleam; Whose humblest weed Seems lovelier than June's loveliest flower, indeed, And sweeter to the smell Than April's self within a rainy dell.
III
Hers is a sumptuous simplicity Within the fair Republic of her flowers, Where you may see her standing hours on hours, [3]Breast-deep in gold, soft-holding up a bee To her hushed ear; or sitting under bowers Of greenery, A butterfly a-tilt upon her knee; Or, lounging on her hip, Dancing a cricket on her finger-tip.
IV
Aye, let me breathe hot scents that tell of you: The hoary catnip and the meadow-mint, On which the honour of your touch doth print Itself as odour. Let me drink the hue Of ironweed and mist-flow'r here that hint, With purple and blue, The rapture that your presence doth imbue Their inmost essence with, Immortal though as transient as a myth.
V
Yea, let me feed on sounds that still assure Me where you hide: the brooks', whose happy din Tells where, the deep retired woods within, Disrobed, you bathe; the birds', whose drowsy lure Tells where you slumber, your warm-nestling chin Soft on the pure Pink cushion of your palm ... What better cure For care and memory's ache Than to behold you so and watch you wake!
There are some things that entertain me more Than men or books; and to my knowledge seem A key of Poetry, made of magic lore Of childhood, opening many a fabled door Of superstition, mystery, and dream Enchantment locked of yore.
For, when through dusking woods my pathway lies, Often I feel old spells, as o'er me flits The bat, like some black thought that, troubled, flies Round some dark purpose; or before me cries The owl that, like an evil conscience, sits A shadowy voice and eyes.
Then, when down blue canals of cloudy snow The white moon oars her boat, and woods vibrate With crickets, lo, I hear the hautboys blow Of Elf-land; and when green the fireflies glow, See where the goblins hold a Fairy Fête With lanthorn row on row.
Strange growths, that ooze from long-dead logs and spread A creamy fungus, where the snail, uncoiled, And fat slug feed at morn, are Pixy bread Made of the yeasted dew; the lichens red, Besides these grown, are meat the Brownies broiled Above a glow-worm bed. [6]
The smears of silver on the webs that line The tree's crook'd roots, or stretch, white-wove, within The hollow stump, are stains of Faëry wine Spilled on the cloth where Elf-land sat to dine, When night beheld them drinking, chin to chin, O' the moon's fermented shine.
What but their chairs the mushrooms on the lawn, Or toadstools hidden under flower and fern, Tagged with the dotting dew!—With knees updrawn Far as his eyes, have I not come upon Puck seated there? but scarcely 'round could turn Ere, presto! he was gone.
And so though Science from the woods hath tracked The Elfin; and with prosy lights of day Unhallowed all his haunts; and, dulling, blacked Our eyesight, still hath Beauty never lacked For seers yet; who, in some wizard way, Prove Fancy real as Fact.
My thoughts have borne me far away To Beauties of an older day, Where, crowned with roses, stands the Dawn, Striking her seven-stringed barbiton Of flame, whose chords give being to The seven colours, hue for hue; The music of the colour-dream She builds the day from, beam by beam.
My thoughts have borne me far away To Myths of a diviner day, Where, sitting on the mountain, Noon Sings to the pines a sun-soaked tune Of rest and shade and clouds and skies, Wherein her calm dreams idealize Light as a presence, heavenly fair, Sleeping with all her beauty bare.
My thoughts have borne me far away To Visions of a wiser day, Where, stealing through the wilderness, Night walks, a sad-eyed votaress, And prays with mystic words she hears Behind the thunder of the spheres, The starry utterance that's hers, With which she fills the Universe. [8]
The Old House.
Quaint and forgotten, by an unused road, An old house stands: around its doors the dense Blue iron-weeds grow high; The chipmunks make a highway of its fence; And on its sunken flagstones slug and toad Silent as lichens lie.
The timid snake upon its hearth's cool sand Sleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof; And in the clapboard sides Of closets, dim with many a spider woof, Like the uncertain tapping of a hand, The beetle-borer hides.
Above its lintel, under mossy eaves, The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floor Of its neglected porch The black bees nest. Through each deserted door, Vague as a phantom's footsteps, steal the leaves, And dropped cones of the larch.
But come with me when sunset's magic old Transforms the ruin of that ancient house; When windows, one by one,— [9]Like age's eyes, that youth's love-dreams arouse,— Grow lairs of fire; and glad mouths of gold Its wide doors, in the sun.
Or let us wait until each rain-stained room Is carpeted with moonlight, pattened oft With the deep boughs o'erhead; And through the house the wind goes rustling soft, As might the ghost—a whisper of perfume— Of some sweet girl long dead.
Here, at its base, in dingled deeps Of spice-bush, where the ivy creeps, The cold spring scoops its hollow; And there three mossy stepping-stones Make ripple murmurs; undertones Of foam that blend and follow With voices of the wood that drones.
The quail pipes here when noons are hot; And here, in coolness sunlight-shot Beneath a roof of briers, The red-fox skulks at close of day; And here at night, the shadows gray Stand like Franciscan friars, With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.
Here yawns the ground-hog's dark-dug hole; And there the tunnel of the mole Heaves under weed and flower; A sandy pit-fall here and there The ant-lion digs and lies a-lair; And here, for sun and shower, The spider weaves a silvery snare.
The poison-oak's rank tendrils twine The rock's south side; the trumpet-vine, [11]With crimson bugles sprinkled, Makes green its eastern side; the west Is rough with lichens; and, gray-pressed Into an angle wrinkled, The hornets hang an oblong nest.
The north is hid from sun and star, And here,—like an Inquisitor Of Faëry Inquisition, That roots out Elf-land heresy,— Deep in the rock, with mystery Cowled for his grave commission, The Owl sits magisterially.
Around, the stillness deepened; then the grain Went wild with wind; and every briery lane Was swept with dust; and then, tempestuous black, Hillward the tempest heaved a monster back, That on the thunder leaned as on a cane; And on huge shoulders bore a cloudy pack, That gullied gold from many a lightning-crack: One great drop splashed and wrinkled down the pane, And then field, hill, and wood were lost in rain.
At last, through clouds,—as from a cavern hewn Into night's heart,—the sun burst, angry roon; And every cedar, with its weight of wet, Against the sunset's fiery splendour set, Frightened to beauty, seemed with rubies strewn; Then in drenched gardens, like sweet phantoms met, Dim odours rose of pink and mignonette; And in the East a confidence, that soon Grew to the calm assurance of the Moon.
A weed-grown slope, whereon the rain Has washed the brown rocks bare, Leads tangled from a lonely lane Down to a creek's broad stair Of stone, that, through the solitude, Winds onward to a quiet wood.
An intermittent roof of shade The beech above it throws; Along its steps a balustrade Of beauty builds the rose; In which, a stately lamp of green At intervals the cedar's seen.
The water, carpeting each ledge Of rock that runs across, Glints 'twixt a flow'r-embroidered edge Of ferns and grass and moss; And in its deeps the wood and sky Seem patterns of the softest dye.
Long corridors of pleasant dusk Within the house of leaves It reaches; where, on looms of musk, The ceaseless locust weaves [14]A web of summer; and perfume Trails a sweet gown from room to room.
Green windows of the boughs, that swing, It passes, where the notes Of birds are glad thoughts entering, And butterflies are motes; And now a vista where the day Opens a door of wind and ray.
It is a stairway for all sounds That haunt the woodland sides; On which, boy-like, the southwind bounds, Girl-like, the sunbeam glides; And, like fond parents, following these, The oldtime dreams of rest and peace.
The blackened walnut in its spicy hull Rots where it fell; And, in the orchard, where the trees stand full, The pear's ripe bell Drops; and the log-house in the bramble lane, From whose low door Stretch yellowing acres of the corn and cane, He sees once more.
The cat-bird sings upon its porch of pine; And o'er its gate, All slender-podded, twists the trumpet-vine, A leafy weight; And in the woodland, by the spring, mayhap, With eyes of joy Again he bends to set a rabbit-trap, A brown-faced boy.
Then, whistling, through the underbrush he goes, Out of the wood, Where, with young cheeks, red as an Autumn rose, Beneath her hood, His sweetheart waits, her school-books on her arm; And now it seems Beside his chair he sees his wife's fair form— The old man dreams.
I found myself among the trees What time the reapers ceased to reap; And in the berry blooms the bees Huddled wee heads and went to sleep, Rocked by the silence and the breeze.
I saw the red fox leave his lair, A shaggy shadow, on the knoll; And, tunnelling his thoroughfare Beneath the loam, 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 crickets' drowsy chirr, And one lone beetle burr the dark— The sleeping woodland seemed to purr.
And then the moon rose; and a white Low bough of blossoms—grown almost Where, ere you died, 'twas our delight To tryst,—dear heart!—I thought your ghost.... The wood is haunted since that night.
Down through the woods, along the way That fords the stream; by rock and tree, Where in the bramble-bell the bee Swings; and through twilights green and gray The red-bird flashes suddenly, My thoughts went wandering to-day.
I found the fields where, row on row, The blackberries hang black with fruit; Where, nesting at the elder's root, The partridge whistles soft and low; The fields, that billow to the foot Of those old hills we used to know.
There lay the pond, still willow-bound, On whose bright surface, when the hot Noon burnt above, we chased the knot Of water-spiders; while around Our heads, like bits of rainbow, shot The dragonflies without a sound.
The pond, above which evening bent To gaze upon her rosy face; Wherein the twinkling night would place A vague, inverted firmament, [22]In which the green frogs tuned their bass, And firefly sparkles came and went.
The oldtime woods we often ranged, When we were playmates, you and I; The oldtime fields, with boyhood's sky Still blue above them!—Naught was changed! Nothing!—Alas, then tell me why Should we be? whom long years estranged.
Come to the hills, the woods are green— The heart is high whenLoveis sweet— There is a brook that flows between Two mossy trees where we can meet, Where we can meet and speak unseen.
I hear you laughing in the lane— The heart is high whenLoveis sweet— The clover smells of sun and rain And spreads a carpet for our feet, Where we can sit and dream again.
Come to the woods, the dusk is here— The heart is high whenLoveis sweet— A bird upon the branches near Sets music to our hearts' glad beat, Our hearts that beat with something dear.
I hear your step; the lane is passed;— The heart is high whenLoveis sweet— The little stars come bright and fast, Like happy eyes to see us greet, To see us greet and kiss at last.
No eve of summer ever can attain The gladness of that eve of late July, When 'mid the roses, filled with musk and rain, Against the wondrous topaz of the sky, I met you, leaning on the pasture bars,— While heaven and earth grew conscious of the stars.
No night of blackest winter can repeat The bitterness of that December night, When at your gate, gray-glittering with sleet, Within the glimmering square of window-light, We parted,—long you clung unto my arm,— While heaven and earth surrendered to the storm.
Deep in the West a berry-coloured bar Of sunset gleams; against which one tall fir Is outlined dark; above which—courier Of dew and dreams—burns dusk's appointed star. And flash on flash, as when the elves wage war In Goblinland, the fireflies bombard The stillness; and, like spirits, o'er the sward The glimmering winds bring fragrance from afar. And now withdrawn into the hill-wood belts A whippoorwill; while, with attendant states Of purple and silver, slow the great moon melts Into the night—to show me where she waits,— Like some slim moonbeam,—by the old beech-tree, Who keeps her lips, fresh as a flower, for me.
There is a place hung o'er with summer boughs And drowsy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps; Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps, Like silvery prisms that the winds arouse, The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cows Tinkle the stillness, and the bob-white keeps Calling from meadows where the reaper reaps, And children's laughter haunts an old-time house; A place where life wears ever an honest smell Of hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom— Like some dear, modest girl—within her hair: Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwell Far from the city's strife whose cares consume— Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.
Can I forget how Love once led the ways Of our two lives together, joining them; How every hour was his anadem, And every day a tablet in his praise! Can I forget how, in his garden place, Among the purple roses, stem to stem, We heard the rumour of his robe's bright hem, And saw the aureate radiance of his face!— Though I behold my soul's high dreams down-hurled, And Falsehood sit where Truth once towered white, And in Love's place, usurping lust and shame.... Though flowers be dead within the winter world, Are flowers not there? and starless though the night, Are stars not there, eternal and the same?
Vast are its halls, as vast the halls and lone Where Death stalks listening to the wind and rain; And dark that house, where I shall meet again My long-dead Sin in some dread way unknown; For I have dreamed of stairs of haunted stone, And spectre footsteps I have fled in vain; And windows glaring with a blood-red stain, And horrible eyes, that burn me to the bone, Within a face that looks as that black night It looked when deep I dug for it a grave,— The dagger wound above the brow, the thin Blood trickling down slantwise the ghastly white;— And I have dreamed not even God can save Me and my soul from that risen Sin.
I looked into the night and saw God writing with tumultuous flame Upon the thunder's front of awe,— As on sonorous brass,—the Law, Terrific, of His judgement name.
Weary of all life's best and worst, With hands of hate, I—who had pled, I, who had prayed for death at first And had not died—now stood and cursed God, yet he would not strike me dead.
Here where Love lies perishèd, Look not in upon the dead; Lest the shadowy curtains, shaken In my Heart's dark chamber, waken Ghosts, beneath whose garb of sorrow Whilom gladness bows his head: When you come at morn to-morrow, Look not in upon the dead, Here where Love lies perishèd.
Here where Love lies cold interred, Let no syllable be heard; Lest the hollow echoes, housing In my Soul's deep tomb, arousing Wake a voice of woe, once laughter Claimed and clothed in joy's own word: When you come at dusk or after, Let no syllable be heard, Here where Love lies cold interred.
The wind was on the forest, And silence on the wold; And darkness on the waters, And heaven was starry cold; When Sleep, with mystic magic, Bade me this thing behold:
This side, an iron woodland; That side, an iron waste; And heaven, a tower of iron, Wherein the wan moon paced, Still as a phantom woman, Ice-eyed and icy-faced.
And through the haunted tower Of silence and of night, My Soul and I went only, My Soul, whose face was white, Whose one hand signed me listen, One bore a taper-light.
For, lo! a voice behind me Kept sighing in my ear The dreams my flesh accepted, My mind refused to hear— Of one I loved and loved not, Whose spirit now spake near. [33]
And, lo! a voice before me Kept calling constantly The hopes my mind accepted, My flesh refused to see— Of one I loved and loved not, Whose spirit spake to me.
This way the one would bid me; This way the other saith:— Sweet is the voice behind me Of Life that followeth; And sweet the voice before me Of Life whose name is Death.
Blood-coloured oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass; Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras, And broom-sedge strips of smoky pink and pearl-gray clumps of grass, In which, beneath the ragged sky, the rain-pools gleam like glass.
From West to East, from wood to wood, along the forest-side, The winds,—the sowers of the Lord,—with thunderous footsteps stride; Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed, Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide.
The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds rings a faint fairy bell; And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed's windy shell Glimmers; while wrapped in withered dreams, the wet autumnal smell Of loam and leaf, like some sad ghost, steals over field and dell. [35]
The oaks against a copper sky—o'er which, like some black lake Of Dis, dark clouds, like surges fringed with sullen fire, break— Loom sombre as Doom's citadel above the vales, that make A pathway to a land of mist the moon's pale feet shall take.
Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a Limbo-litten pane, Within its wall of storm, the West opens to hill and plain, On which the wild geese ink themselves, a far triangled train; And then the shuttering clouds close down—and night is here again.
The year was dying, and the day Was almost dead; The West, beneath a sombre gray, Was sombre red. The gravestones in the ghostly light, 'Mid trees half bare, Seemed phantoms, clothed in glimmering white, That haunted there.
I stood beside the grave of one, Who, here in life, Had wronged my home; who had undone My child and wife. I stood beside his grave until The moon came up— As if the dark, unhallowed hill Lifted a cup.
No stone was there to mark his grave, No flower to grace— 'T was meet that weeds alone should wave In such a place. I stood beside his grave until The stars swam high, And all the night was iron still From sky to sky. [37]
What cared I if strange eyes seemed bright Within the gloom! If, evil blue, a wandering light Burnt by each tomb! Or that each crookèd thorn-tree seemed A witch-hag cloaked! Or that the owl above me screamed, The raven croaked!
For I had cursed him when the day Was sullen red; Had cursed him when the West was gray, And day was dead; And now when night made dark the pole, Both soon and late I cursed his body, yea, and soul, With the hate of hate.
Once in my soul I seemed to hear A low voice say,— 'T were better to forgive,—and fear Thy God,—and pray. I laughed; and from pale lips of stone On sculptured tombs A mocking laugh replied alone Deep in the glooms. [38]
And then I felt, I felt—as if Some force should seize The body; and its limbs stretch stiff, And, fastening, freeze Down, downward deeper than the knees Into the earth— While still among the twisted trees That voice made mirth.
And in my Soul was fear, despair,— Like lost ones feel, When knotted in their pitch-stiff hair, They feel the steel Of devils' forks lift up, through sleet Of hell's slant fire, Then plunge,—as white from head to feet I grew entire.
A voice without me, yet within, As still as frost, Intoned: Thy sin is thrice a sin, Thrice art thou lost. Behold, how God would punish thee! For this thy crime— Thy crime of hate and blasphemy— Through endless time! [39]
O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive, Record what good He did on earth! and let him live Loved, understood! Be memory thine of all the worst He did thine own! There at the head of him I cursed I stood—a stone.
Last night I watched for Death— So sick of life was I!— When in the street beneath I heard his watchman cry The hour, while passing by.
I called. And in the night I heard him stop below, His owlish lanthorn's light Blurring the windy snow— How long the time and slow!
I said, Why dost thou cower There at my door and knock? Come in! It is the hour! Cease fumbling at the lock! Naught's well! 'Tis no o'clock!
Black through the door with him Swept in the Winter's breath; His cloak was great and grim— But he, who smiled beneath, Had the face of Love not Death.
The wine-loud laughter of indulged Desire Upon his lips, and, in his eyes, the fire Of uncontrol, he takes in reckless hands,— And interrupts with discords,—the sad lyre Of Love's deep soul, and never understands.
When the wine-cup at the lip Slants its sparkling fire, O'er its level, while you sip, Have you marked the finger-tip Of the god Desire slip, Of the god Desire? Saying—Lo, the hours run! Live your day before 't is done!
When the empty goblet lies At the ended revel, In the glass, the wine-stain dyes, Have you marked the hollow eyes Of a mocking Devil rise, Of a mocking Devil? Saying—Lo, the day is through! Look on joy it gave to you!
I know not how I found you With your wild hair a-blow, Nor why the world around you Would never let me know: Perhaps 't was Heaven relented, Perhaps 't was Hell resented My dream, and grimly vented Its hate upon me so.
In Shadowland I met you Where all dim shadows meet; Within my heart I set you, A phantom bitter-sweet: No hope for me to win you, Though I with soul and sinew Strive on and on, when in you There is no heart or heat!
Yet ever, aye, and ever, Although I knew you lied, I followed on, but never Would your white form abide: [44]With loving arms stretched meward, As Sirens beckon seaward To some fair vessel leeward, Before me you would glide.
But like an evil fairy, That mocks one with a light, Now near, you led your airy, Now far, your fitful flight: With red-gold tresses blowing, And eyes of sapphire glowing, With limbs like marble showing, You lured me through the night.
To some unearthly revel Of mimes, a motley crew, 'Twixt Angel-land and Devil, You lured me on, I knew, And lure me still! soft whiling The way with hopes beguiling, While dark Despair sits smiling Behind the eyes of you!
Now nights grow cold and colder, And North the wild vane swings, And round each tree and boulder The driving snow-storm sings— Come, make my old heart older, O memory of lost things!
Of Hope, when promise sung her Brave songs and I was young, That banquets now on hunger Since all youth's songs are sung; Of Love, who walks with younger Sweethearts the flowers among.
Ah, well! while Life holds levee, Death's ceaseless dance goes on. So let the curtains, heavy About my couch, be drawn— The curtains, sad and heavy, Where all shall sleep anon.
Night and vast caverns of rock and of iron; Voices like water, and voices like wind; Horror and tempests of hail that environ Shapes and the shadows of two who have sinned.
Wan on the whirlwind, in loathing uplifting Faces that loved once, forever they go, Tristam and Isolt, the lovers, go drifting, The sullen laughter of Hell below.
Her life was bound to crutches: pale and bent, But smiling ever, she would go and come: For of her soul God made an instrument Of strength and comfort to an humble home.
Better a life of toil and slow disease That Love companions through the patient years, Than one whose heritage is loveless ease, That never knows the blessedness of tears.
Three miles of hill 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 sunset clomb.
A tree-toad quavered in a tree; And then a sudden whip-poor-will Called overhead, so wildly shrill, The startled woodland seemed to see How very lone it was and still.
Then through dark boughs its stealthy flight An owl took; and, at sleepy strife, The cricket turned its fairy fife; And through the dead leaves, in the night, Soft rustlings stirred of unseen life.
And in the punk-wood everywhere The inserts ticked, or bored below The rotted bark; and, glow on glow, The gleaming fireflies here and there Lit up their Jack-o'-lantern show. [49]
I heard a vesper-sparrow sing, Withdrawn, it seemed, into the far Slow sunset's tranquil cinnabar; The sunset, softly smouldering Behind gaunt trunks, with its one star.
A dog barked; and down ways, that gleamed, Through dew and clover faint the noise Of cow-bells 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 a rose-grown gate, And honeysuckle paths, await For night's white moon and love and you— These are the things that made me late.
Oh, dim and wan came in the dawn, And gloomy closed the day; The killdee whistled among the weeds, The heron flapped in the river reeds, And the snipe piped far away.
At dawn she stood—her dark gray hood Flung back—in the ferry-boat; Sad were the eyes that watched him ride, Her raider love, from the riverside, His kiss on her mouth and throat.
Like some wild spell the twilight fell, And black the tempest came; The heavens seemed filled with the warring dead, Whose batteries opened overhead With thunder and with flame.
At night again in the wind and rain, She toiled at the ferry oar; For she heard a voice in the night and storm, And it seemed that her lover's shadowy form Beckoned her to the shore. [51]
And swift to save she braved the wave, And reached the shore and found His riderless horse, with head hung low, A blur of blood on the saddle-bow, And the empty night around.
Her violin!—Again begin The dream-notes of her violin; And dim and fair, with gold-brown hair, I seem to see her standing there, Soft-eyed and sweetly slender: The room again, with strain on strain, Vibrates to Love's melodious pain, As, sloping slow, is poised her bow, While round her form the golden glow Of sunset spills its splendour.
II
Her violin!—now deep, now thin, Again I hear her violin; And, dream by dream, again I seem To see the love-light's tender gleam Beneath her eyes' long lashes: While to my heart she seems a part Of her pure song's inspirèd art; And, as she plays, the rosy grays Of twilight halo hair and face, While sunset burns to ashes.
III
O violin!—Cease, cease within My soul, O haunting violin! [53]In vain, in vain, you bring again Back from the past the blissful pain Of all the love then spoken; When on my breast, at happy rest, A sunny while her head was pressed— Peace, peace to these wild memories! For, like my heart naught remedies, Her violin lies broken.
The Summer lightning comes and goes In one pale cloud above the hill, As if within its soft repose A burning heart were never still— As in my bosom pulses beat Before the coming of his feet.
All drugged with odorous sleep, the rose Breathes dewy balm about the place, As if the dreams the garden knows Took immaterial form and face— As in my heart sweet thoughts arise Beneath the ardour of his eyes.
The moon above the darkness shows An orb of silvery snow and fire, As if the night would now disclose To heav'n her one divine desire— As in the rapture of his kiss All of my soul is drawn to his.
The cloud, it knows not that it glows; The rose knows nothing of its scent; Nor knows the moon that it bestows Light on our earth and firmament— So is the soul unconscious of The beauties it reveals through Love.
What is there left for us to say, Now it has come to say good-by? And all our dreams of yesterday Have vanished in the sunset sky— What is there left for us to say, Now different ways before us lie?
A word of hope, a word of cheer, A word of love, that still shall last, When we are far to bring us near Through memories of the happy past; A word of hope, a word of cheer, To keep our sad hearts true and fast.
What is there left for us to do, Now it has come to say farewell? And care, that bade us once adieu, Returns again with us to dwell— What is there left for us to do, Now different ways our fates compel?
Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile, And look the love that shall remain— When severed so by many a mile— The sweetest balm for bitterest pain; Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile, And trust in God to meet again.
When Spring is here and Margery Goes walking in the woods with me, She is so white, she is so shy, The little leaves clap hands and cry— Perdie! So white is she, so sky is she, Ah me! The maiden May hath just passed by!
II
When Summer's here and Margery Goes walking in the fields with me, She is so pure, she is so fair, The wildflowers eye her and declare— Perdie! So pure is she, so fair is she, Just see, Where our sweet cousin takes the air!
III
Why is it that my Margery Hears nothing that these say to me? She is so good, she is so true, [60]My heart it maketh such ado; Perdie! So good is she, so true is she, You see, She can not hear the other two.
Beyond the orchard, in the lane, The crested red-bird sings again— O bird, whose song says, Have no care. Should I not care when Constance there,— My Constance, with the bashful gaze, Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,— If I declare my love, just says Some careless thing as if in mock? Like—Past the orchard, in the lane, How sweet the red-bird sings again!
There, while the red-bird sings his best, His listening mate sits on the nest— O bird, whose patience says, All's well, How can it be with me, now tell? When Constance, with averted eyes,— Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,— If I speak marriage, just replies With some such quaint irrelevancy, As, While the red-bird sings his best, His loving mate sits on the nest.
What shall I say? what can I do? Would such replies mean aught to you, O birds, whose gladness says, Be glad? Have I not reason to be sad [62]When Constance, with demurest glance, Her face a-poppy with distress, If I reproach her, pouts, perchance, And answers so in waywardness?— What shall I say? what can I do? My meaning should be plain to you!
When first I gazed on Gertrude's face, Beheld her loveliness and grace; Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair, Her ways, more winsome than the kiss Spring gives the flowers; her smile, that is Brighter than all the summer air Made sweet with birds:—I did declare,— And still declare!—there is no one, No girl beneath the moon or sun, So beautiful to look upon! And to my thoughts, that on her dwell, Nothing seems more desirable— Not Ophir gold nor Orient pearls— Than seems this jewel-girl of girls.
Serious but smiling, stately and serene, And dreamier than a flower; A girl in whom all sympathies convene As perfumes in a bower; Through whom one feels what soul and heart may mean, And their resistless power.
Eyes, that commune with the frank skies of truth, Where thought like starlight curls; Lips of immortal rose, where love and youth Nestle like two sweet pearls; Hair, that suggests the Bible braids of Ruth, Deeper than any girl's.
When first I saw you, 't was as if within My soul took shape some song— Played by a master of the violin— A music pure and strong, That rapt my soul above all earthly sin To heights that know no wrong.
She has the eyes of some barbarian Queen Leading her wild tribes into battle; eyes, Wherein th' unconquerable soul defies, And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.
And I have thought that Liberty, alone Among the mountain stars, might look like her, Kneeling to GOD, her only emperor, Kindling her torch on Freedom's altar-stone.
For in her self, regal with riches of Beauty and youth, again those Queens seem born— Boadicea, meeting scorn with scorn, And Ermengarde, returning love for love.
Some things are good on Autumn nights, When with the storm the forest fights, And in the room the heaped hearth lights Old-fashioned press and rafter: Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat, A mug of cider, sharp and sweet, And at your side a face petite, With lips of laughter.
Upon the roof the rolling rain, And tapping at the window-pane, The wind that seems a witch's cane That summons spells together: A hand within your own awhile; A mouth reflecting back your smile; And eyes, two stars, whose beams exile All thoughts of weather.
And, while the wind lulls, still to sit And watch her fire-lit needles flit A-knitting, and to feel her knit Your very heartstrings in it: Then, when the old clock ticks 'tis late, To rise, and at the door to wait, Two words, or at the garden gate, A kissing minute.
If God should say to me, Behold!— Yea, who shall doubt?— They who love others more than me, Shall I not turn, as oft of old, My face from them and cast them out? So let it be with thee, behold!— I should not care, for in your face Is all God's grace.
If God should say to me, Behold!— Is it not well?— They who have other gods than me, Shall I not bid them, as of old, Depart into the outerHell? So let it be with thee, behold!— I should not care, for in your eyes Is Paradise.
I know not if she be unkind, If she have faults I do not care; Search through the world—where will you find A face like hers, a form, a mind? I love her to despair.
If she be cruel, cruelty Is a great virtue, I will swear; If she be proud—then pride must be Akin to Heaven's divinest three— I love her to despair.
Why speak to me of that and this? All you may say weighs not a hair! In her,—whose lips I may not kiss,— To me naught but perfection is!— I love her to despair.
When roads are mired with ice and snow, And the air of morn is crisp with rime; When the holly hangs by the mistletoe, And bells ring in the Christmas time:— It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride away, To the sweet-faced girl with the eyes of gray! Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring— A man's strong love and a wedding-ring— It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride!
When vanes veer North and storm-winds blow, And the sun of noon is a blur o'erhead; When the holly hangs by the mistletoe, And the Christmas service is sung and said:— It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait awhile, Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle, For the gifts that the church now gives to you— A woman's hand and a heart that's true. It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait!
When rooms gleam warm with the fire's glow, And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane; When the holly hangs by the mistletoe, And Christmas revels begin again:— It's—Home, O my Heart, and love, at last! [72]And her happy breast to your own held fast; A song to sing and a tale to tell, A good-night kiss, and all is well. It's—Home, O my Heart, and love!
When my old heart was young, my dear, The Earth and Heaven were so near That in my dreams I oft could hear The steps of unseen races; In woodlands, where bright waters ran, On hills, God's rainbows used to span, I followed voices not of man, And smiled in spirit faces.
Now my old heart is old, my sweet, No longer Earth and Heaven meet; All Life is grown to one long street Where fact with fancy clashes; The voices now that speak to me Are prose instead of poetry: And in the faces now I see Is less of flame than ashes.
Beyond the moon, within a land of mist, Lies the dim Garden of all Dead Desires, Walled round with morning's clouded amethyst, And haunted of the sunset's shadowy fires; There all lost things we loved hold ghostly tryst— Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
Sad are the stars that day and night exist Above the Garden of all Dead Desires; And sad the roses that within it twist Deep bow'rs; and sad the wind that through it quires; But sadder far are they who there hold tryst— Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
There, like a dove, upon the twilight's wrist, Soft in the Garden of all Dead Desires, Sleep broods; and there, where never a serpent hissed, On the wan willows music hangs her lyres, Æolian dials by which phantoms tryst— Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
There you shall hear low voices; kisses kissed, Faint in the Garden of all Dead Desires, By lips the anguish of vain song makes whist; [77]And meet with shapes that art's despair attires; And gaze in eyes where all sweet sorrows tryst— Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
Thither we go, dreamer and realist, Bound for the Garden of all Dead Desires, Where we shall find, perhaps, all Life hath missed, All Life hath longed for when the soul aspires, All Earth's elusive loveliness at tryst— Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
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