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Title: Among the Trees Again

Author: Evaleen Stein

Release date: December 7, 2015 [eBook #50634]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, David Maranhao and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMONG THE TREES AGAIN *** 










 Among the Trees Again



























COPYRIGHT 1902


THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY


OCTOBER




















To the memory of my beloved brother


Orth Harper Stein










 CONTENTS












PAGE




AMONG THE TREES AGAIN
3



 



APRIL CONTRADICTIONS
21



 



APRIL MORNING
8



 



AS TO THE SUMMER AIR THE ROSE
34



 



AT NIGHT
50



 



BETWEEN SEASONS
40



 



BINDWEED
46



 



BY THE KANKAKEE
64



 



CACTUS LAND, THE
67



 



CASCADE RAVINE, THE
71



 



DREAM ECHOES
20



 



EARLY NOVEMBER
79



 



FISHER FOLK, THE
66



 



FOREBODING
74



 



GOLDEN WEDDING, THE
78



 



HOME FIELDS, THE
52



 



IDEALS
30



 



IMPATIENT
58



 



IN LATE SEPTEMBER
75



 



IN SUMMER DEEPS
54



 



IN THE MISSION GARDEN, SAN GABRIEL
16



 



IN THE MOONLIGHT
45



 



JANUARY THAW
84



 



JUNE
42



 



LAST SURVIVOR FROM THE LIFE BOAT, THE
69



 



LITTLE LOVE SONG, A
41



 



LITTLE SISTER, THE
88



 



MONTEZUMA
38



 



MORNING ON THE MOUNTAINS
85



 



MY LITTLE MASTER
12



 



NORTHMEN’S SONG OF THE POLE, THE
14



 



ON HEARING THE BALLAD “ALLEN PERCY”
11



 



ON THE PRAIRIE
62



 



OVER THE SIERRA
61



 



PERFECT FRIENDSHIP, THE
83



 



PLEA, A
22



 



RAIN ON THE RIVER
59



 



REDBIRD, THE
6



 



SEA-DREAMS
28



 



SEA-GARDENS OF SANTA CATALINA, THE
89



 



SONG
55



 



SONG OF THOUGHT, A
44



 



SUMMER SHOWER, THE
49



 



SUNNY NOON
77



 



SYMPATHY
53



 



TO THE “WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE”
31



 



THRUSH, THE
36



 



WHEREFORE WINGS?
81



 



WINTRY TINTS
82



 



WISHING-SPRING, THE
7



 



WOOD FANCY, A
35

















Among the Trees Again




















I saw a meadow-land, one day;


The grass stood green and high,


But naught appealed in any way


To stay the passer-by.






Till suddenly the sunlight strayed


Those leafy tangles through,


And touched to fire, on every blade


A golden network grew!






A million airy cobwebs gleamed


So silken-soft and bright,


That all the level lowland seemed


A tracery of light.






And as I watched the webs, I thought


The field of life along,


As slight as these, so I have wrought


With slender threads of song.






They bind the grass, and blossoms, too,


The bee and butterfly,


And some go faintly wavering through


The tender azure sky.






Yet still I wait that golden glow


Whose fine transmuting art


Must smite my web of song, and so


Reveal it to the heart.






Ah therefore, thou, I pray thee, touch


These frail threads I have spun,


With grace of sympathy, for such


Might light them like the sun!











 AMONG THE TREES AGAIN










Aye, throb, my heart! is it not sweet to be,


To breathe, to bide, by growing things once more!


We did not guess before


How close our life was locked in greenery.


Hark! how the sparrows in the apple tree


Are chattering, chirping, till their tiny throats


Are fairly brimmed and quivering through and through


With rollick notes!


Good morrow, little birds!


Good morrow! morrow!—O, I would I knew


Some light-winged language, kindred singing words


Wherein to say


This day, this day, at last this happy day


I come to be a neighbor unto you!






Too long, too long, we heard strange footsteps pass,


Harsh, strident echoes stricken out of stone;


But never softened by green, growing grass,


Or mellowed to faint, earthy undertone.


And then, O heart,


Did we not ofttimes feel ourselves apart,


Alone,


Wrought to vague discord by some touch unknown?


Did we not weary with a nameless grief,


In dreaming of tall clover, daisy sown,


Or music blown


From the wind-harping of some little leaf?






It was not that within the city’s core


There dwelt no sympathies, nor interests keen,


No human ties to temper its fatigues.


—’Twas only that we needed something more;


Some note rang wrong;


A foolish fancy, may be, but still strong,


That life sang sweeter snatched between the green


Close-lapping verdure of a fret of twigs.






Where all the ground was paven out of sight,


And only from a far-off strip of sky


My mother Nature strove to speak to me,


I could not harken to her voice aright;


I knew not why,


But ever to mine ears some whispering tree


Seemed of the inmost golden soul of her,


The best interpreter.


And so what wonder, Life, that you and I,


Shut out from such glad confidence, should miss


And grieve for this.






—But all this yearning we’ll forget; for now


Within my window,


So,


By finger-tips,


I’ll draw into mine arms this dancing bough,


And stroke its silky buds across my lips.


O generous-natured, friendly, neighbor tree!


Weave gentle blessings in the shade and shine;


And granting gracious patience to my plea,


Some simple lesson of your lore make mine,


Make mine, I pray!


O, be a kindly teacher unto me,


And I’ll pour out such worshipful heart-wine,


Not any bird that sings to you all day,


Or nestles to low, leafy lullaby,


Shall hold you in such dear observance, nay,


Nor love you half so tenderly as I.











 THE REDBIRD










Swept lightly by the south wind


The elm leaves softly stirred,


And in their pale green clusters


There straightway bloomed a bird!






His glossy feathers glistened


With dyes as richly red


As any tulip flaming


From out the garden bed.






But ah, unlike the tulips,


In joyous strain, ere long,


This redbird flower unfolded


A heart of golden song!











 THE WISHING-SPRING










I knelt beside the fairy spring,


Among the tasseled weeds;


Far off, with dreamy murmuring,


The wind piped through the reeds.






Once, twice, the brimming cup I raised


With trembling finger-tips,


And in its limpid crystal gazed,


Nor laid it to my lips.






Ah me! the eager heart-desires,


So thronging swift they came,


My spirit surged like wind-swept fires,


I knew not which to name.






—Then all at once, I quickly quaffed


The shining drops; but lo,


The wish with that enchanted draught


No man must ever know!











 APRIL MORNING










I lean upon the bridge’s rail,


In idle joy, and gazing down,


So watch the frothy bubbles sail,


And bits of tangled grasses trail


Along the current’s tawny brown.






The river flows at full to-day;


And though within the tide it pours


There grow no mocking sycamores,


Nor any crystal hints betray


The spicewood thickets, nor the pale


Soft willow wands of pearly gray,


Whose interwoven mazes veil


The fretted banks, yet here and there,


Adown some swirling eddy, where


A delving sunbeam shines,


What mines


Of gleaming, streaming, liquid gold


The waters hold!






And so, by rapid currents rolled


In billowy swells that break and chime


In riotous tumult uncontrolled,


The March flood plashes past the pier;


But through its sweeping tones, I hear


The sweet, receding murmurs rhyme


The burden of the April time;


And throbbing like a glad refrain,


Now far, now full, now far again,


The freshened breeze


Blows gaily, bringing pure and clear


The fitful, tinkling cadences.






But listen! faint, from out the sheer


Deep borders of the morning sky,


Slips down the distance-softened cry


Of shy wild geese that northward fly;


It vibrates nearer, and more near,


—And see!


There! wheeling into sight,


Far as the vision may descry.


A level-winged advancing “V,”


They keep their swift, unswerving flight.


North, north, beyond that scudding fleece


Of tiny clouds, like wilder geese,


That join their ranks, and journey, too,


On,—on,—into the farthest blue.






Then, from the boundless space above,


I drop my dazzled eyes to view


The soft field-grass and meadow-rue,


The restful, brown earth, that I love.


A trick of blinding sun, maybe,


That halo on the hills may prove—


And yet, they are so dear to me,


The golden glory that they wear


Is like none other anywhere,


And, in my heart, I hold it true.






Though, surely, what least loving eye


Could wander up the river there,


And see aught otherwise than I?


Or could deny


That yonder little glimpse is fair?


The slender point of jutting land


Where, faintly burgeoning anew


With rounds of downy buds, there stand


A score of water-willow trees


In clustered tufts, and twinkling through,


Across the stream, beside of these,


A line of shining yellow light;


And half in sight,


And hidden half, upon the right,


By wild red-sumac shrubberies,


A windmill, rising tall and white,


Slow turning in the breeze.






And then beyond—but how express,


What word in any tongue conveys


The depth of dreamy tenderness


That laps, and wraps, and overlays


The far blue hills,


And spills and fills


The valleys with pale purple haze?


O, what sweet syllables confess


The glad heart-happiness that plays


Through all my pulses as I gaze,


And drink the beauty, past all praise—


The old, immortal blessedness


Of April days!











 ON HEARING THE BALLAD “ALLEN PERCY”










A plaintive song, so strangely sweet and old,


That all my soul within itself would fold


And gently keep so quaint a melody,


That like a bird’s its notes of liquid gold


Might oft repeat their sweetness unto me.






A tale of joyless splendor long ago,


Of wedded lady and of loveless woe,


How she to soothe her sick heart’s misery


Cradled in vines her little child, and so


Sang of dear love beneath a greenwood tree.






And through it all there runs such saddest plaint,


As sweet as lutes, now murmurous, now faint,


Till, like the far-heard sighing of the sea,


It sweeps in gathering passion past restraint,


Then breaks, and croons in mournful minor key.






Ah, well-a-day! I listen breathless till


I half believe that sorrowing singer still


Dreams on divinely by the whispering tree;


For in your voice all tenderest heart-strings thrill,


And all the woodland’s marvelous minstrelsy!











 MY LITTLE MASTER










O little poet, winging through


The sheer, clear blue,


Is it the sky you’re singing to?


Or is it that afar you see


Some leafy, laden apple-tree,


And half concealed and half confessed,


A nest?


Ah, truly now, I would I knew


The happy secret of your glee,


That joy wherewith you birds are blest,


Red-breast!






So airy and so light of wing,


You soar and sing,


I pray, could you not softly fling,


My merry minstrel, down to me


Some echo of that melody


That spills from out your tiny bill?


Some trill


Of all those liquid tones that ring


So full of purest poetry,


That rhyme, and chime, and thrill, until


They fill


These vibrant seas of azure air,


Whose blue tides bear


Their witching sweetness everywhere?


O little master, heed to me!


And ah, so true, so tenderly,


I’ll learn to sing how lovely grows


This rose,


Till, by and by, dear heart, I’ll dare


To touch some bolder note, maybe,


Some chord whence deeper music flows;


Who knows?











 THE NORTHMEN’S SONG OF THE POLE










The roar of the seas where the freezing clouds lower,


The shriek of the storm-wind, the turbulent tide,


The conquering currents, all vaunt of their power,


And taunt with the centuries’ secret they hide.






Of towering icebergs and glittering floes,


The sun of the midnight in luminous rings,


Of hopes held at bay by beleaguering snows,


Of man in his weakness the fierce ocean sings.






Bright over the sky the aurora is red,


And crimson as life-blood the snowflakes below;


Swift updarting streamers of fire overspread


All heaven and earth with a roseate glow.






Hark! Hark! to the rumble, the thunderous roar


Of the ancient ice-mountains that shatter and rend


And crash with the tide dashing up on the shore,


In turmoil titanic and toil without end.






O, woe to the ship that the pitiless clutch


Of those crushing ice-demons drags down to her doom!


The path to the pole is o’er-scattered with such,


And deep sleep the heroes the tempests entomb.






Beneath the wan moon of the long arctic night


The frost-smitten sea stretches boundless and lone;


The Shores of the Dead Men loom spectral and white,


In Helheim, the death-goddess waits for her own.






But ho, to her hatred! the soul of the brave


He bears not who dares not her fury defy!


And ho, to her giants of wind and of wave!


We crave but to meet and defeat them, or die!






Farewell, and farewell!—the anchor rope strains,


Loose cable and canvas, and hasten we forth!


The fire of desire quivers hot in our veins,


We must sail with the gale, to the north! to the north!






Must speed with the blast to its ultimate goal,


The path of its pinions must follow and find


The lure of the ages, the boreal pole,


And the measureless halls of the house of the wind!











 IN THE MISSION GARDEN, SAN GABRIEL










O golden day, wherein at last,


Long leagues and wintry overpast,


I stand beneath a sky as blue


As April violets drenched in dew,


And live within a dream come true!






From rosy-berried pepper-trees


The winds blow spicy fragrances;


The palms sway softly to and fro,


And down below,


Between the glossy leaves of these,


The sparkling, yellow sunbeams steep


The mission garden, where the bees


Are hoarding deep


Of heliotrope that hangs the wall


As for some princely festival,


While white and tall


Bright lilies bloom in grace untold,


And those rare roses, passing all


In splendor, called “The Cloth of Gold!”






O heart, my heart, throb high and fast


With rapture! for how couldst thou know


Amid the far-off frost and snow


Where all the skies are overcast


And shrill and chill the north-winds blow,


How couldst thou know


December heavens anywhere


Could show such rare


Such tender and divinest guise,


That earth and air


Could weave such strange, resistless spell


As this that folds us flower-wise


At sweet San Gabriel!






San Gabriel! the holy words


Fall soft as music on the ear;


I think they are as sweet to hear


As any song of summer birds;


And harkening them, the while in clear,


Pure, quivering notes,


The ancient bells begin to chime,


In shadowy-wise before me floats


A vision of the vanished time.


I see again


The little band from sunny Spain,


Those godly ones, and full of grace,


And without stain,


Who, heeding neither toil nor pain,


Desiring men of every race,


That such might see sweet Jesus’ face,


And that at length the Lord might reign


Among all peoples, even so,


Sought in the wilderness this place,


And consecrated, long ago.






And gazing on the sacred pile


Their hands upreared in loving zeal,


My heart goes forth to them the while,


Those faithful fathers, true and leal!


How oft along each cloistered aisle


They counted o’er and o’er their beads,


While in this garden, unawares,


The fragrant flowers sowed their seeds.


—And richly as the flowers, the prayers


Bore fruit in gentle deeds!






In arched embrasures, lifted high


Against the sky,


The bells in clear-cut beauty show;


And loftier still, surmounting all,


And blessing thus the ancient wall,


A cross,—and on its summit, lo!


A slender bird with pearly breast


Sits peacefully at rest!






Ah me! Ah me! I know not why


This little bird with folded wings,


The cross, the tender azure sky,


Their pure, exceeding beauty brings


Swift tears, and smites my heart, till I


Am almost fain


To hide mine eyes for very pain!






Yet though thus for a little space


I bow my face,


Nor any grace


Of rose or lily can I see,


I know the while that memory,


Clear-eyed and free,


Upon my heart is graving deep


Each least, sweet loveliness, to keep


Through all the coming years for me.


And it shall be,


In afterwhiles, when far away,


When wintry skies are bleak and gray


And no birds sing,


I shall grow glad remembering


The sweetness of this scarlet day.











 DREAM ECHOES










A little while ago I caught,


In cadence pure and clear,


A waft of faintest music, wrought


Upon my inner ear.






A part of some elusive theme


Whose sweetly solemn air


My soul had harkened in a dream,


I know not when nor where.






I only know my heart-strings stirred


With strange, forgotten pain,


That crept upon me as I heard


That unremembered strain.






A sense of loneliness untold,


So boundless, deep, unknown,


I blindly reached my hands to hold


Your palms within my own!











 APRIL CONTRADICTIONS










I watch the little pear buds break


And slip their silky sheaths,


And flowers on the maples make


A thousand russet wreaths,


—Then something blinds my sight, and I


Am full of grief, yet know not why!






A rosy purple half betrays


The wealth the lilacs fold;


The torches of the tulips blaze


In flames of red and gold;


Peach boughs are blossoming above,


—But oh, the vague heartache thereof!






The blue sky wears in gentle wise


Its loveliness again;


All April sunshine,—yet mine eyes


Are brimmed with April rain!


The presage of sweet days to be,


So strange a sadness stirs in me!











 A PLEA










Two years ago, it is two years to-day,—


It seems a score!—since that sweet, bloomy May


When on the barren sea you sailed away.


The peach-trees then were in a rosy glow,


And down below,


The tulip buds had just begun to show.


—And yet, dear heart, I know


Though all the heaven smiled in tender blue,


It shone not so to you.


Sorrow had hooded all your skies in gray,


And when these dancing boughs put on their gay,


Bright May-time bravery, they only grieved


A heart bereaved.


And though glad robins sang to you to stay,


And by the stream the first sweet-flags unfurled


Seemed nature’s truce to sorrow,—every way


Held warring memories wherewith to gainsay


And send you wandering over half the world.






Ah, well do I remember how my prayers


Went with you, dear, and followed unawares;


So speeding ever, winging far and wide


About the path wherein your ship should ride,


And pleading Heaven that most gentle airs


And tempered tide


Might bear you safely to the farther side.






Then, when I knew your voyage over,—then,


—For surely now, at last, I may confess,


Now that I have outgrown its bitterness,


Though, sometimes, I can almost feel again,


Remembering those days, that keen distress,


Yes, jealousy it was! not any less,


That constantly


Wrapped all my thoughts of you beyond the sea!—


I feared lest other lives, more large and wide


Than mine has been, might, day by day, divide


And win your life and love away from me.


And I was fearful for dear nature, too;


I could not bear


To think that heaven anywhere should wear


A hue more deeply, more divinely blue


Than this home sky that we together knew;


Or that there grew


Strange bud or bloom to make the earth more fair.


—A most unworthy fancy, it is true;


Since nature is but nature everywhere,


The same kind mother, in whatever land;


So too, maybe, could we but understand,


All hearts and loves are only as a part


Of one great Heart


Whose universal pulses so expand


That any lesser life that therein beats


Should no more dream of this word “jealousy”


Than yonder shining flakes of bloom should be


Jealous, forsooth, of the whole hawthorn tree


That is but one with their own mass of sweets.


And so, at last, through blind, unreasoning grief


Beyond belief,


Brightly within my heart there did uprise


Love’s loyalty, rebuking in this wise:


“Has she not spoken, oft and oft again,


These three plain words ‘I love you’? Wherefore, then,


What right have you


To deem mere distance could her love undo?


To fancy aught exists that could estrange


Her heart from yours, wherein there is no change,


Or judge her own to be less simply true?”






And then, in shame, I swiftly put aside


All faintest questioning; thenceforth to abide


In trust as pure, as boundless, and as wide


As still sea-deeps, unvexed of any tide.


Nay, I have learned to cherish rightly, too,


All light and life that minister to you.


I hold most dear


Whatever least thing brings you smallest cheer;


And, day by day, my ceaseless prayer is this,


That from the changeful, many-colored grace


Of time and place,


Your grief may come to weave a chrysalis


Round its dead hopes, till waking, by and by,


It shall find wings to bear it to the sky.


—But, dear,—God knows I would not do you wrong,


Nor touch one heart-string if it be not strong,—


But O, so long,


So long it seems! You have been gone so long!


The feather-grass is growing green and high,


And, piping gaily in an azure throng,


The bluebirds spangle all the air with song;


Again aflame the rosy peach boughs burn;


—Can not you, too, return?






On slender stems the nodding wind-flowers blow,


And bloodroots grow


Where high the hedges fling their lacing frets


Along the lanes; while, softly sifting through


Tall plumy weeds and silver spider-nets,


The yellow sunbeams filter down below


Until I know


Not any fair Italian sky is blue


As is our earth to-day with violets!


Nor do I think that even that Syrian sun


You watched ride high above Damascus’ towers,


In purer light or richer splendor glowed


Than any one


Of these most lovely golden dawns of ours


That wake the birds along the river road.


The green ravines are newly fringed with fern;


From out the brake a robin red-breast calls;


The stream repeats, at rippling intervals,


“Can you not now return?”






But what avail in striving to compare


Earth’s endless beauties, whether east or west!


All lands are lovely, and I am aware


That unto me this little spot seems fair,


More rare


Than all the gathered glories of the rest,


Because I love it best.


And so, in truth, I feel that chief I plead


A selfish need;


I too, like nature, long to greet the spring!


Indeed I think I never have confessed,


Nor have you guessed


How much of May it is your gift to bring.


You never knew how wintry was the cloud


Of haunting sadness, that would ofttimes shroud


My inmost being, and creep up to chill


The warmer currents of my life,—until,


In knowing you,


I felt a pulse like that sweet, joyous thrill


That breaks the buds when all the skies are blue!


The bitter storms of grief I did not fear


When you were near.


But sometimes now I have grown half afraid


That unforgotten frost of pain that used


To wrap my nature will again invade


The singing streams your April touch had loosed.


Spring’s subtler spells alone I can not learn,


—Ah, will you not return?






Yet if it chance that prayed-for peace you sought


Be not at length to full perfection wrought,


If still in vain


Time strives with memory,—then, dear, I would fain


Let be as naught


All I have uttered; and I will refrain


From any whispered wish, or word, or thought,


That might to you in anywise complain.


However much my eager heart may miss,


How much for you my very soul may yearn,


I will seek patience, confident in this,


That some time, surely, Love shall conquer pain,


And then, dear heart, I know you will return.











 SEA-DREAMS










I sat upon the mossy rocks


Beside the southern sea,


While overhead the summer clouds


Were drifting lazily.






I watched their purple shadows trail


Across the sea and hide


Within the hollows of the waves


That rode the rising tide.






Sometimes the little flakes of foam


Dashed up in twinkling spray;


And out along their silver paths


The ships sailed far away.






As through the sun I followed them


With straining, eager eyes,


From out the sparkling waves I saw


A shining vision rise.






It seemed a ghostly castle white,


With battlement and tower,


That hung on the horizon’s verge


By some unearthly power.






I saw its spectral turrets gleam


As white as ivory,


And wondered who the wizard king


That reigned upon the sea.






—But while, with breathless gaze, I watched


This castle, by and by


It vanished in the underworld


Beyond the sea and sky!











 IDEALS










I would that I could weave a song


As airy and as light,


As are the roundelays that throng


Within my heart to-night.






I would that I might set to tune


The beauty of this hour,


When, like a primrose bud, the moon


Breaks into golden flower.






And all the happy, lilting notes,


Beyond divinest words,


That nestle in the downy throats


Of little sleeping birds,






The breeze-borne scent of mignonette,


That in the garden grows,


Where, strung like pearls, the dew is wet


Upon the briar-rose,






These things it is, whose voices I


Have sought for overlong;


Yet still their cunning tones defy


The artifice of song.











 TO THE “WINGED VICTORY OF
SAMOTHRACE”










Thou wonder of the warrior prow,


Supreme, immortal Victory!


Before thy majesty I bow


And all my soul flames forth to thee!






Within the shadow of thy wings


A thousand voices sound for me;


In far, tumultuous murmurings,


I catch the echo of the sea;


The salty surge that rolls more near,


Till loud and clear


In mighty thunder tones I hear


The rush of old Ægean tides,


The bright, white waves that from the shore


Sweep seaward with unceasing roar;


In dawning skies the day-star guides,


Across the surf the seabirds call,


Whilst white and tall


With swift sails swelling over all,


The shield-hung warship rides.






And like the heaven-born dreams that soar


From hero spirits, eagle-wise,


And urge to deeds of great emprise


And fly before


The eager, throbbing hearts that know


No goal but victory, even so,


Above the restless breakers’ roar,


Upon the high cliff evermore


Thou standest with bright wings outspread,


In all thy fresh-wrought godlihead,


Beloved of the conqueror!






And as I gaze I seem to trace


The features of thy fearless face,


The matchless marvel of its grace


That like a star


Across the seas of Samothrace


Shone forth afar;


I hear the southern winds intone


Whilst backward blown


Thy trailing garments, fluttering


From out the slender girdle, cling


About thy limbs and so confess


Their lines of perfect loveliness;


Then suddenly o’er everything


Great shouts and martial echoes ring!


I see thee, storm-like, rushing past


Thy hand upon the carven mast,


And harken whilst thy proud lips fling


The loud, triumphal trumpet blast!






O glorious image! what if time


Hath smitten with ungentle touch


Thy perfect beauty? Still sublime


Thou art a conqueror, and still


All men unite to name thee such!


Before thee all my pulses thrill,


Old hopes and dreams awake in me;


O Victory,


Lead, lead but thou mine eager will,


I follow fast and far until


Some day my ship shall harbor thee!











 AS TO THE SUMMER AIR THE ROSE










As to the summer air the rose


Pours forth her perfume all the day,


For every careless wind that blows


To scatter far away,






So gives my heart to thee the rare


Fine fragrance of its sweetest thought,


And thou art heedless as the air


Whereto the rose is naught!











 A WOOD FANCY










The mandrakes lift, like little mosques,


Their domes between the vines,


And butterflies for worshipers


Are flocking to their shrines.






And from tall, tapering mullein towers


And minarets of green,


The honey-bee muezzins drone


To bloodroot buds between,






That pilgrim-wise along the road


Come trooping to the light,


In pale green caftans closely wound


And turbans spotless white.






While all the way with budding things


Is tufted thicker than


The praying mats the Persian weaves


In streets of Ispahan.






And listen! with a lordly note


Like joyous burst of drums,


In gorgeous gown of gold and black


The oriole sultan comes!











 THE THRUSH










The creamy dogwood branches,


The rosy redbud trees,


The drifts of sweet wild-plum bloom


O’erhung by honey bees,


The gleaming buckeye blossoms


The south wind blew apart,


Oh, all the woods awaking,


They overfilled my heart!






Then clear, from out a thicket,


There rang that golden note


That flutes from none but only


The tawny thrush’s throat;


So charged with all sweet secrets


The April has to tell,


I bowed my head and harkened,


Enchanted by its spell.






Till presently that magic


Heart-melting melody


Drew all my soul to meet it


In sudden ecstasy.


My spirit found its pinions


In blessed bird-like birth,


And knew the joyous passion


That thrilled through all the earth.






The while the thrush was singing,


I heard the violets stir,


And through the dreamy woodlands


The breaking buds confer;


I half divined the glories


Of all the springs to be,


—When, O, the song was silent!


The thrush had flown, ah me!











 MONTEZUMA










On a lofty mountain summit


In a tawny, desert land,


Lo, a mighty human profile,


But not hewn by human hand;


In the living rock forever


Looming dark, majestic, grand.






O’er its outline, heaven fronting,


When the dawn’s first radiance streams


With its rosy touch, and tender,


Then this face of granite seems


As a sleeper’s unawakened


From the thrall of peaceful dreams.






But when down the western heavens


Sinks the setting sun, blood-red,


Then the mountain mists that mantle


Cover close that quiet head,


As men draw a pall of purple


Round about their kingly dead.






And the stars, like lighted tapers,


Flicker forth in golden rows


From the heaven’s holy altar,


Whilst the night-wind as it blows


Seems to chant a solemn requiem


For the passing soul’s repose.






Head of royal Montezuma,


So the ancient legends tell;


Montezuma, granite shrouded


By some great enchanter’s spell,


Lying lordly by the borders


Of the land he loved so well.






But in silence unrevealing


Still that calm face fronts the sky;


Heeding neither tears nor laughter,


Nor if sun or storm go by;


Keeping still its primal counsel,


In repose, serene and high.











 BETWEEN SEASONS










The cherry trees are haunted


By hordes of robber jays,


And warmer winds are fanning


The poppies to a blaze.






And loosed in fitful flurries,


The sweet syringas fall,


To lie like little snow-drifts


Against the garden wall.






Upon the laden lattice,


In softly rounding shapes,


A wealth of tiny clusters


Are growing into grapes.






Heigho! a drowsy shimmer


Enfolds the sunny hours;


And humming-birds are hidden


In scarlet trumpet-flowers.






The tenderness of springtime


Is almost overpast;


But O, the gracious summer,


It comes, it comes at last!











 A LITTLE LOVE SONG










My heart was like a sunless, cold,


Unlovely land of ice and snow,


Wherein no blessed buds unfold,


Nor singing waters flow.






Then all at once the April skies


Laughed in your look, and at that hour


My spirit melted, torrent-wise,


My life broke into flower!






O dearest heart, I had not guessed


What marvel of immortal seeds


Lay hidden deep within my breast,


Beneath its barren weeds!






But now I know, but now I know


The glory of the flower of love,


The joyous splendor of its glow,


The subtile pain thereof!











 JUNE










High overhead,


By summer breezes sped,


From every latest burgeoned bough


The last, spring petals fall;


And red, red, red,


Along the garden bed,


The poppy plants are holding now


Their crimson carnival.






Clear, sweet, and strong,


I hear the robin’s song,


And catch the merry caroling


Of some bold bobolink;


And phlox flowers throng


The garden ways along,


While peonies and roses bring


Their pageantries of pink.






White, gold, and green,


The lily spires are seen,


And hollyhocks, in stately rows,


With tufted buds are set;


Tall, in between,


The growing sunflowers lean,


And thick the sweet alyssum shows


Among the mignonette.






Ho! truant May!


Have you, then, gone astray,


Unwitting that in realms of June


Return were no avail?


Ah, well-a-day!


So wings the spring away;


The summer’s ever oversoon,


But June, sweet June, all hail!











 A SONG OF THOUGHT










O, the ships have sails for the swelling gales,


The falcon flies in the wake of the wind,


In the speed of the steed of the Bedouin breed


The blood leaps high to the hoof-beats’ lead,


As the leagues are left behind.


But what care I


For the birds that fly,


Or all the vessels that sail the sea;


The blasts that blow


Till the trees bend low,


Or the barbs of Araby!






I spring to birth with the dust of earth,


Yet span the heaven from pole to pole;


Or flashing far as the farthermost star,


I know no barrier, bound nor bar


To hold from my boldest goal.


The storm’s red spark


As it cleaves the dark,


With my viewless wings it can not keep pace;


More fleet than light


My measureless flight


To the starless ends of space!











 IN THE MOONLIGHT










The moonbeams filter softly through


The leaves upon the linden tree;


And as I sit alone, dear heart,


My spirit yearns for thee!






Yet in some gracious-wise to-night


We do not seem far worlds apart;


I reach my empty arms and dream


I fold thee to my heart.






I close my brimming eyes, and see


The strange, sweet beauty of thy smile,


And fancy that our palms are met


In loving clasp the while.






In soft, clear tones, I seem to hear


The long-hushed voice I loved so well;


—I tremble, lest a breath should break


This moment’s happy spell!






O brother mine, could it be true


Thine own dear presence hovers near


To comfort with this heavenly peace


Thy little sister here?











 BINDWEED










Along the lane I idly pass


Unheeding where the footpath goes,


And loiter through the ripe wild-grass


That down the open roadway grows


In feathery, tall tufts that rise


In filmy tangles, misty-wise;


The grass that when the south wind blows,


Shines out and shows


Shot through with silver lights and rose,


And tiny gold and violet seeds


That quiver off each gleaming stem


And powder all the wayside weeds,


And like a glory cover them.






With eager palms I gently press


Soft sheaves of it against my lips


In sheer delight; and so caress


And fondle with light finger-tips,


And watch its beauty when the bright,


Clear spears of light


Pierce through its slender leaves and smite


Their rose and purple, till my sight


Is dazzled with its loveliness!






In verdant nets along the way


The tendrils of a wild-grape vine


Through elder thickets intertwine;


And poising lightly on a spray


Of fruited bramble stems where shine


Close clustering berries, red as wine,


A little thistle-bird, still gay


In April’s yellow plumage, clings


With airy grace, and slowly swings,


And lifts his wings


In dainty, drowsy flutterings;


They flicker like bright flakes of gold,


And fan his body, small and slim,


While lovingly the winds enfold


And summer’s heart broods over him.






The sky is softer than the blue


Of cornflower buds beneath the dew;


And down below


Upon the marshy meadow swales


The bindweed weaves its rosy veils


Where thick the blowing rushes grow


Among the tasseled reeds and rue;


And up between the mossy rails


It lightly climbs, and clambers through


The growing corn, and barley, too,


And winds the fallow weeds and trails


Along the creek where cowslips grew.






O lavish stems, that fondly fling


Close clasp about the earth, and cling


In wreaths of fragrant flowering,


Ev’n as ye do


To that dear soil wherefrom ye spring,


So does my love cleave thereunto!


And so my full heart-blossoms bind


The bright midsummer fields, and find


Sweet fellowships with everything!











 THE SUMMER SHOWER










The air is shot with spangling drops,


But heedless of the rain


The sun laughs, through a silver veil,


Upon the golden grain.






And lightly arching up the east


In faintly penciled lines,


That throb and flush to tinted bars,


A double rainbow shines.






It seems to touch the fragrant earth,


Till, tangled in the breeze,


It winds a film of irised light


About the distant trees.






In frothy clusters down the road


The blooming elders lean,


With dripping buds that shine like pearls


Within a sea of green.






And heaped around them, pink as shells,


The roses are in flower,


While earth and sky are freshly keyed


To sweetness by the shower.











 AT NIGHT










Come, draw more near! Clasp hands with me!


Ah close, and closer still!


The night spreads to infinity!


And through my heart a sudden chill,


—I pray loose not your loving hold!—


A fear, a loneliness untold


Smites sharply, till mine eyes o’erfill!


Nor have I strength nor stress of will


To set my spirit free.






The cold, the darkness, and the dread


Immensity of space,


The great, wan moon, whose ghostly face


For ages has been dead,


The weird lights wheeling overhead,


The unknown worlds that onward roll,


In endless wanderings ever led,


That find no goal,


The spectral mists that overspread


With pallid light the lesser stars,


The lurid glow that glimmers red


Across the front of Mars,


—O dearest heart, when all is said,


I am afraid! and from the whole


Wide waste of worlds I hide my sight,


And from the boundless night!






The ancient mystery of the skies,


Their silent depths from pole to pole,


The void, the vastness terrifies!


—O, let me rather search your eyes,


And with your sweet, warm touch disperse


This terror of the universe


That strikes into my soul!











 THE HOME FIELDS










The fields are full of sunlight,


And leafy golden-green,


And misty purple shadows


Are flitting in between;


The flaky elder flowers


Are drenched with honey-dew,


And all the distant woodlands


Stand veiled in tender blue.






Half seen between green thickets


Of grape-vine and wild rose,


In twinkling swirls of silver


The lazy river flows;


While down the grassy roadside


The milkweed balls are bright,


And waving prince’s-feather


Is tipped with snowy white.






Ah, ever-dearest home-land,


’Tis here my spirit sings!


And as my heart caresses


The sweet, familiar things,


Such rare midsummer magic


Distills through all the air,


I think these fields are fairer


Than any anywhere!











 SYMPATHY










To-night a little child lies dead;


I never saw its face;


I try to fancy now instead


Its lines of baby grace.






And for the sake of her who weeps


These lonely watches through


So wakefully my spirit keeps


A weary vigil, too.






A thousand thoughts appeal to me


In close-besieging crowd;


But through them all I only see


A little, snow-white shroud.






Nor may I set dull grief at naught,


However I am fain;


Since when the heart-strings are distraught,


The will must strive in vain.






Ah me! there breaks the dawning sun,


In golden light serene;


Yet still I mourn this little one,


Whom I have never seen!











 IN SUMMER DEEPS










Through sunny spaces overhead


A gray hawk’s lazy pinions spread,


And poppies open wide and red


Where golden harvests grew.






In rosy wreaths upon the swales


And fallow fields the bindweed trails,


And late-sown buckwheat swiftly pales


To blossoming anew.






The pond within the pasture land


Reflects the cattle as they stand


In depths of dipping sedges and


Of tangled meadow-rue.






In silver splashes through the green,


Fine, filmy spider-webs are seen,


And crumpled cockle-flowers between


Are rifts of tender blue.






On stately stalks of standing corn


A wealth of cresting plumes are borne,


And tawny tasseled tufts adorn


The ripened barley, too.






So, steeping nature far and wide,


Deep sweeps the flood of summer-tide,


Till all things that therein abide


Are richly tinctured through.











 SONG










O, fresh from off the ocean


The salt wind riots through


The fragrant fern and bay-leaves


And dripping honey-dew.






The morning’s on the moorland,


And flashing, far away,


I glimpse the foam-white seagulls


And feathers of the spray.






O hasten! let us hasten!


The tide sings up the sand


The song my heart has harkened


Across long leagues of land.






So far, far have I journeyed,


Such weary ways, O sea!


Breathe, breathe me breath of life now,


And steep the soul of me!











 IMPATIENT










Some day, when summer’s overpast,


And loosed by frost, in gold and brown


These greenly clinging leaves drift down,


When shrill winds hush


The robin red-breast and the thrush,


When all the skies are overcast


With racks of rain, so chill and gray


Not any burgeoning may be,—


Some day,


Across far foreign lands and vast


Unbounded spaces of the sea,


So homeward, homeward, journeying fast,


At last


She will come back to me!






I reckon up, in daily sum,


The time until that scarlet date;


I think the fall will never come,


So wearily I wait!


The hours seem leaguing to belate


The days, that never crept so slow;


And yet,


I used to love the summer so!


But now my heart may only fret


And pray for it to go.


And yearning so, with lashes wet,


I half forget


The greenery on every bough,


How red the poppies are, and how


Amid the tufted mignonette


The scented south-winds gently blow;


I heed them not,—I only know


Time never seemed so long as now!






I search the azure skies in vain,


No hint of autumn rain!


No hint of fall from bluebirds, nor


Green fields of growing grain.


Then idly reckoning, as before,


I strive anew to make less far


That glad date on the calendar;


To number less the days that are,


The changes fixed for sun and star,


The moons that yet must wax and wane;


Thus evermore


With fresh impatience, o’er and o’er,


I count the hours;—yet still am fain


To tell them over once again.






O hasten, hasten, autumn days!


Sear swift this dewy, summer green!


I am grown weary with delays;


Speed! Speed!


Bring bitter winds and chill, nor heed


The mellow sweets between!


What if the dead leaves strew the ways,


And southward all the songs take wing?


Despite all cheerless frosts that be,


My eager heart awaits the spring,


So knowing she will surely bring


The birds and May to me.











 RAIN ON THE RIVER










The skies are gray, where far and wide,


Beyond the water-willows,


The marshes spread their emerald tide


Of blossom-crested billows.






And on the vague horizon’s rim,


In vaporous purple masses,


The distant woods show soft and dim


Across the lush, green grasses.






An east wind stirs the ivory balls


Upon the button-bushes;


And hark! a hidden rain-bird calls


From out the blowing rushes.






Within the water, yonder spray


Of rosy mallow flowers


Turns faint and pale, till not more gray


The cloudy heaven lowers.






And all the birches’ tender green


An ashen hue is growing;


While mottled with a silver sheen


The ruffled waves are flowing.






Then softly through the forest leaves,


That turn, and toss, and quiver,


The rain, with murmurous cadence, weaves


A roundel in the river.






It dots the waves with dancing pearls,


It gleams, and streams, and twinkles;


It sweeps and sinks in silvery swirls,


And rings, and sings, and tinkles.






The clustering sedges dip and sway,


Till, after fitful failing,


The sun bursts gaily through the gray,


And craggy clouds are sailing






Where, southward, in a brilliant sky,


As light as any feather,


The little moon curves white and high,


In token of fair weather.











 OVER THE SIERRA










From out the depths of the abyss,


Faint echoes of a torrent’s roar


O’er crags whence lordly eagles soar


To poise above the precipice.






A dizzy pathway, sheer and steep;


A startled catching of the breath;


And, bearing menaces of death,


A loosened snow-drift’s sudden sweep!






Then, blown from out the upper sky,


Keen, fitful gusts of icy air,


So light, so tenuous and rare,


The heart leaps strangely swift thereby.






The white moon floating in the calm


Still ether space, so near, it seems,


To grasp his eager childhood dreams,


One need but thither reach his palm.






A sense of majesties and mights,


An exaltation born of these;


—The summit’s awful silences;


A glimpse of Godhead from the heights!











 ON THE PRAIRIE










Across the dewy prairie


The morning wind is borne,


Beyond the new-mown hayfields,


And through the tasseled corn.






Upon the silver-maples


It lifts the swinging leaves,


And steals a subtile sweetness


From rows of golden sheaves.






Within the sunny orchard


The harvest apples fall,


While from the tossing branches


The saucy jay-birds call.






In crinkled, fringy clusters


The scarlet poppies burn,


Where, softly opening, eastward


The yellow sunflowers turn.






And nibbling in the garden,


Between the cherry trees,


I see a robber rabbit


Among the pink sweet-peas.






While with a fitful fanning,


The lazy wind-mill swings,


About the bloomy peaches


A robin redbreast sings.






And in the far horizon


There dwells such tender hue,


These azure cornflower blossoms


Are not so sweet and blue.











 BY THE KANKAKEE










Beneath the forest trees I lie,


And watch the deep blue summer sky,


And count the white cranes floating by


On level wings;


And in the undergrowth I hear


A bittern softly treading near,


While through the willows, sweet and clear,


A wood-thrush sings.






And flashing, plashing, close to me,


With murmurous, melting melody,


The swirling, crystal Kankakee


Flows deep and swift


Through liquid tints and tones untold


Of topaz, turquoise, bronze and gold,


That in its lucent depths unfold


And drift, and sift,






Till down among the pearly shells


A wealth of changeful color dwells;


And like a string of silver bells


The ripples ring


Through trailing water-weeds that raise


Their tangled, yellow blossom-sprays


Where in a green and golden maze


Tall rushes swing.






And far across the glassy tide,


The marshes shimmer, low and wide,


Where birds and bees and wild things hide


In reedy grass


Whose wavering, evanescent hues


Pale, darken, change, and interfuse,


Till my enchanted senses lose


All things that pass,






And only feel an exquisite


Glad throb of light and life complete;


While like some subtile essence sweet,


The wilderness,


The perfumes warm of wave and wood


The silence of the solitude,


All merge and mingle in my mood,


Till half I guess






The secrets that the winds impart,


And draw so near to nature’s heart


I feel her inmost pulses start;


While happily


I sink upon her fragrant breast,


Like yonder thrush within its nest,


And deep, entrancing sense of rest


Steals over me.











 THE FISHER FOLK










I know a little village


Where fisher folk abide;


The dark pine woods behind it,


The southern sea beside.






There rosy pink crape-myrtles


In every dooryard grow,


And through the glossy live-oaks


The salt sea breezes blow.






At break of day the fishers


Sail out to sea to reap


The harvest that they sowed not,


The harvest of the deep.






Then, when their nets are emptied,


They set their sails for land,


To heap the shining fishes


Upon the shining sand.






Where little barefoot children


Await them, eager-eyed,


And play the while with sea-shells


Cast upward by the tide.






And all seem so content there,


From worldly care so free,


I would that I could find it,


This secret of the sea!











 THE CACTUS LAND










Land of strange, unearthly beauty,


Tawny Desert, over me


Thou hast cast the deep enchantment


Of some subtile sorcery!






These thine endless barren reaches


Where no fruitful harvests grow,


Unto some bring nameless heartache;


But to me thou dost not so!






Here, where all the air seems newly


From the springs of life distilled,


Every breath is like a beaker


With rare, sparkling rapture filled!






And my heart exults and glories


In the strange, compelling power


Of enchanting, changeful color,


That is thy supremest dower.






Joy to me thine ever cloudless


Sky of purest turquoise hue,


And thy rosy mountain ranges


Wrapped in pale, translucent blue.






Beautiful the rainbow ether


Shifting, shimmering evermore,


In diaphanous, dazzling splendors


Over all thy boundless floor,






Where the low-boughed silver sage-bush


Softly tufts the tawny land,


And the tropic Spanish bayonet


Clusters tall on every hand.






While for leagues and leagues the cactus,


Child of sun and sand and bare


Rainless regions, lifts its columns


Through the rare, transparent air.






Wild and splendid in thy freedom,


Unsubdued as is the sea,


From the first, O lordly Desert,


Thou hast drawn my heart to thee!






Desolate thou art, and silent,


Barren both of fruit and flower;


Yet I love thine arid grandeur


That defies man’s utmost power!











 THE LAST SURVIVOR FROM THE
LIFE-BOAT










Beneath his pillow, hid away


From careless sight, the nurses say,


And safe from any stranger’s view,


As miser might some treasure rare,


So does he guard, with jealous care,


A baby’s shoe.






And evermore by day and night,


With burning eyeballs fever-bright,


This wan survivor of the sea


Scans each blank, closing wall in turn,


In dim endeavor to discern


If sail there be.






And then the weary sigh that slips


Suspiring from those parching lips


No heart may hear nor bleed therefor!


As, with hot tears that fall like rain,


He soothes a dying baby’s pain


And o’er and o’er






Croons snatches of soft lullabies


To empty arms held cradle-wise.


—O human heart-break, love and grief!


God pity him in his distress,


Ev’n as the sea was pitiless


Beyond belief!






God comfort, as with straining breath,


Unheeding either life or death,


Yet still with faint unwitting smile,


His fingers fondly seek and fold


The little sea-stained shoe, and hold


And stroke the while.











 THE CASCADE RAVINE










From off the traveled road that lay


Between wide fields of wheat and corn,


An old gate, gray and weather-worn,


Led down a shady woodland way.






One scarce might trace the narrow path,


So green it was and overgrown


With springtime’s seeded aftermath;


Tall grasses that had never known


The mower’s scythe or sickle’s scath,


And rosy mayweed lightly sown


Where’er the summer winds had blown;


And all their tangled stems the red


Sweet clover blossoms overspread.






Near by, through scented, leafy veils


Of wreathing vines, and dewy, dense


Green underwood, a brood of quails


Sped swiftly past the ragged rails


That tilted off a mossy fence;


And over it, on airy wing,


A robin paused in glad content


Where budding elder-bushes leant


And brambles clambered flowering.






Then, suddenly, a low, sweet sound


Rose, faintly quivering on the breeze,


And all that blossom-studded ground


Seemed charged with murmurous mysteries!


As if all rarest forest keys


In dreamful chords divinely blent,


Sang forth from some sweet instrument;


While pulsing through, with rhythmic beat,


In slumberous melodies there went


The soft susurrus of the trees,


The wind that wandered through the wheat,


And all the changeful strains of these.






And as I listened, marveling


Where those light, liquid tones might be,


Forgetting all and everything


Save that enchanting minstrelsy,


I wandered slowly through the wood,


Till all at once the parted green


Revealed its secret, for I stood


Upon the verge of a ravine


Wherein the sunbeams broke between


Tall rustling hemlock boughs, and bright


As burnished silver in the light,


A tiny stream ran tinkling through,


While hidden somewhere out of sight,


A little spring made music, too.






The shining water slipped and slipped


Adown the mossy rocks, and dripped


From off fine fringing ferns, in drops


Of endless threaded pearls that tipped


The tasseled sedge and alder tops


With flickering light,—and then it sipped


A drowsy draught of sun, and dipped


Beneath small clustering buds, and hid


Among lush marigolds, and slid


Between tall serried ranks of reeds,


And stroked their little leaves and lipped


The flower-spangled jewel-weeds;


Then, speeding suddenly amid


Faint shimmering spray, it lightly tripped


Across white pebbly sand, and stripped


The marsh flowers’ gold, and fled, half seen,


A splash of silver through the green.






And all the while that music sweet


Kept softly murmuring at my feet,


As down the rocks in ceaseless streams


The limpid cascades poured, and still


The slumberous light in yellow beams


Bathed the green hemlock boughs,—until


I seemed to lose all waking will,


And all my soul was lulled to dreams;


Wherethrough there floated, drowsy-wise,


Bright glints of bird-wings, gracious gleams


Of tender, sunlit summer skies,


And fleet, sweet visions of the rare


Deep, shadowy hearts the forests bear.











 FOREBODING










The scarlet briars trailed across


The grave I journeyed far to see;


Upon the stone, half hid in moss,


“Prepare for death, and follow me.”






The birds flew southward down the sky;


Upon a golden linden tree


The leaves that fluttered seemed to sigh,


“Prepare for death, and follow me.”






My father’s father slept below


So dreamless deep and silently,


I spelled the message soft and slow,


“Prepare for death, and follow me.”






—Ah me! ’twas years ago the birds


Fled swift o’er that far golden tree;


And wherefore now come back these words,


“Prepare for death, and follow me”?











 IN LATE SEPTEMBER










Among the hardy marigolds


The spicy gillyflower unfolds,


And in the elm a catbird scolds


With saucy, outspread wings;


To mellow sweets the pippins speed,


The sunflower disks are brown with seed,


And round about them finches feed


In clinging, yellow rings.






The latest poppy fires are dead,


But bright as blossoms overhead


In shining sheaves of bronze and red,


The frost-tipped pear leaves show;


While from their branches blackbirds sing


Or break to noisy chattering;


And slender silken cobwebs string


The tall grass down below.






Along the uplands, faintly seen


Across the fallow fields between,


The winter wheat grows bravely green


Despite the coming cold;


And studding all the stubbled ground


In tasseled shocks the corn is bound,


The ripened ears heaped close around


In piles of purest gold.






To smoky wreaths along the ways


The newly kindled brush-heaps blaze,


And filmy veils of purple haze


Mesh all the amber air;


Among the fleeces of the sheep


The yellow sunbeams softly creep,


And sweet contentment, wide and deep,


Rests gently everywhere.











 SUNNY NOON










The rose-trees and the barberries


Are strung with coral beads;


And fitful breezes lightly sift


The ripened poppy-seeds.






Still, heedless of the nipping frost,


Along the garden bed


The white and purple gillyflowers


Their spicy fragrance shed.






And weaving richest tapestries


Upon the lattice frame,


The woodbine laces in and out


In gold, and rose, and flame.






Along the wall the grapevines trace


Their brown and twisted frets,


And all the trailing clematis


Is hung with soft aigrettes.






Through fringes that the larches wave


The sky shows fair and blue,


And somewhere, from beneath the eaves,


I hear the pigeons coo.






The glory of the noonday sun


Pervades the dreamy air,


And the sweet heart of beauty throbs


In music everywhere.











 THE GOLDEN WEDDING










More sweet than all the buds that blow


Where summer’s rarest roses grow,


More splendid than white lily spires,


Or shining, scarlet poppy fires,


Love’s fragrant flower,—even so,


The blossom of the heart’s desires.






And richer than all fields enfold


Or all earth’s burdened branches hold,


Than any autumn vintage red,


Or yellow sheaves new harvested,


Love’s ripened fruit of mellow gold,


The sum of life, when all is said.











 EARLY NOVEMBER










O the sweetness of the jangle


Of the sheep-bells, in the tangle


Of the wild witch-hazel bushes and the spreading red-bud trees!


—Ah, the silence when it ceases!


But the beauty of the fleeces,


And the soft eyes peering at me through the woodbine lattices!






And beyond them, and the network


Of the dogwood, and the fretwork


Of the interlacing grapevines, and across the meadow land,


I can see the color showing


Where the winter-wheat is growing,


With the corn encamped about it like a plumed protecting band.






While among the many-seeded


Tufts of russet weeds, unheeded,


Truant ducks go idly twinkling through the yellow stubble-field;


Their white feathers like the glosses


Of the shining silver bosses


That adorn the tawny luster of an olden golden shield.






In long loops from off the hedges,


Trailing downward to the edges


Of the wayside grass and clover-leaves, fine cobweb threads are wound;


Fairy clues that lead my eager


Errant fancy to beleaguer


Some concealed, enchanted chamber in the richly covered ground.






Till the sun begins the lighting


Of his western fires, that smiting


Through the orchard boughs are splintered into spears of ruddy flame;


An irradiating splendor


That transfigures all the slender


Little leafless twigs and branches with a glory without name!






O, I know the year is going!


Neither reaping-time nor sowing


Will restore the tender beauty of its blossoms that are dead:


Yet I cherish all their sweetness


In the ripeness and completeness


Of the gold and crimson fruitage that my heart has harvested.











 WHEREFORE WINGS?










Heigho, sparrow! Reckless of the rain;


When chill the cheerless wind grows,


Chirping might and main!


Is it naught, then, when the rose


Blows again?






Beating, sleeting on your draggled coat!


Surely, ’tis enough to drown


Any happy note


Nestling in that downy brown


Little throat.






Ah me, sparrow! Had I but your power,


Think you in the freezing sleet


I would waste an hour?


—I’d sing my sweetest to a sweet


Orange flower!











 WINTRY TINTS










The sky is like an opal,


And the horizon’s ring


Is yellow, like a band of gold,


To hold so rich a thing.






The wheat-fields are as fleecy


As any cloud that blows,


But tawny tufts of standing corn


Prick lightly through the snows.






Beside the drift-bound wind-mill


A pearly shadow plays


In tones of tender violet,


And vague, elusive grays.






And tinged with quiet olive


The hedges fine and bare,


Whose thorny masses down the road


An alien softness wear.






O, subtile chords of color


Are fingered by the frost!


Though touched and tuned to colder key,


No grace of earth is lost.






For see! a deep red ruby


The opal heaven grows,


And yonder pool of ice is one


Great golden-hearted rose!











 THE PERFECT FRIENDSHIP










There is a garden so divinely fair


That in its magic bound, surpassing sweet,


The golden buds, so Persian songs repeat,


Spring forth immortal in enchanted air;


But, ah, a close there is, more heavenly rare,


Where, cherished warm within the heart’s retreat,


Love’s whitest lilies burgeon to complete


And fragrant flowering lovely past compare.






O dearest friend, such lilies have I found


Within my heart, undreamed-of but for thee!


Nor any fabled buds of genie’s ground


Are sweeter in their immortality;


When thou art near, like notes of happy birds,


My thoughts uprise in songs that need no words.











 JANUARY THAW










The brook has broken through its glass,


And where the snows were drifted


Round tangled blades of last year’s grass,


The yellow sun is sifted.






Uncovered by the melting night


And warm, deceiving day-time,


The myrtle bed is green and bright


As in the midst of Maytime!






I almost fancy that I hear


The hum of bees in clover,


And from the maples, glad and clear,


The first red-robin lover.






A mock spring laughs in mocking skies,


(O little buds, be wary!)


And masking in sweet April’s guise


The youthful year makes merry.











 MORNING ON THE MOUNTAIN










Upon the gray crags, steep and sheer,


The columbines’ gold tassels swing,


And wind-flowers cling,


Where, lightly poised, the mountain deer


Drink in the dewy atmosphere


In long, deep draughts of sun and spring;


From haunts that know no hunter’s snare


The hermit-thrush and wood-dove wing,


Whilst through green openings squirrels fare


And here and there


Great, silvery moths go fluttering.






Along the valley, in a trail


Of purple light, the mist clouds sail,


And, soft and pale


As wreaths of newly risen smoke,


They wrap the red-wood trees and veil


The topmost crests of pine and oak,


And balsam boughs and juniper


Wherethrough the west winds faintly stir


The underwood, and gently stroke


The tall young ferns, and smooth the fur


Of countless happy forest-folk.






Wild little hearts, that throb unknown


Save to the fondling winds alone,


Bright eyes, that sparkle free of fear,


O earth is sweet, and life is dear!


Here in these forests, still your own,


In primal peace, this many a year


God keep you here!


Here where across the waking lands


Young willows wave their bloomy wands,


Whilst up the heights and far away


The pine trees climb in singing bands


And feathery spruces surge and sway


And clap their cones, like little hands,


For gladness of the day!






Up, up, they clamber on until


The tenuous air smites keen and chill,


And far winds blow


From leagues of everlasting snow;


And then the mountain buds, more bold,


Their sheaths unfold


And light their golden fires and glow


With flame unquenched by frost or cold.






Whilst ever o’er them, shimmering high


Against the sky,


A glittering, crystal radiance streams,


Wherein the mountain floats and gleams


Through frosty fleeces, till it seems


That some great morning star, instead


Of earth, hangs trembling overhead,


A dream of all most lovely dreams!


An airy miracle, overspread


With veils of silvery tissue spun


Of ice and mist and snow and sun.


A dazzle of all lights in one!






I watch it till, tall towering there


Through brightening air,


Such special splendor does it wear


It seems the sun’s own citadel,


At sight whereof my lips grow dumb


With joy I find no voice to tell;


So stricken silent, as with some


Deep gladness of o’ermastering spell;


Nor any song of mine may dare


To follow where


The summit’s utmost radiant peak,


Bright as God’s chosen cherubim,


Soars through the smiling sky to seek


And fearless front the face of Him.











 THE LITTLE SISTER










Along the street a tiny pair


Of childish figures lately went;


The boy’s face wore a fearless air,


The little sister’s sweet content.






He closely clasped her chubby hand,


And led her through the throng, while she


Seemed perfectly to understand


He would protect her loyally.






And as I watched them pass from sight,


My heart began to ache, for so


I held my brother’s fingers tight


And toddled down the long ago.






Then all at once, beyond control,


The tears uprose in blinding rain,


Such hopeless yearning stirred my soul


To lay my hand in his again!











 THE SEA-GARDENS OF SANTA CATALINA










Lightly let the boat go drifting,


Neither hand nor oar uplifting,


Let no motion fret the ocean, and no sail be now unfurled;


Stranger than Aladdin’s story,


Lo, the dream-surpassing glory


And the marvel unimagined of the limpid underworld!






Gaze within the magic mirror


Of the water, crystal clearer


Than the gleaming glass enchanted, made by Merlin’s sorcery


And behold the secrets hidden


Through the ages, till unbidden


Sons of men came sailing, sailing down the blue Pacific sea.






See the pearl-encrusted portals


Of the caverns, wherein mortals


Dare not pierce with earthly vision, dare not fare with feet profane;


Coral-columned halls with golden


Thrones in emerald deeps withholden,


Lit with sparkling amber splendor, where the merry mermen reign.






See the long kelp banners flying


From their gardens underlying


All the rare, transparent surface of this sunny, southern sea;


Grasses, shot with silver spangles,


Wreathed and caught in starry tangles


Of the purple ocean-pansy and the fringed anemone.






And the brilliant sea-weeds scattered


Like a gay mosaic shattered


In a million shining fragments over all the ocean floor;


While the bright-hued fish go darting


In swift journeys, meeting, parting,


Weaving gold and scarlet patterns through the water evermore.






Through the light that throbs and quivers


Down the depths, and breaks and shivers


Into splintered flakes of brightness, that so melt and interfuse


Into all such strangest ranges


Of translucent color changes,


That the eye is thrilled, bewildered, with their rare enchanting hues.






—Ah, would thus upon the gleaming


Southern sea, in happy dreaming,


We might drift and drift forever! never shoreward guide the keel!


Azure skies, forever smiling,


Into visions sweet beguiling,


And beneath our boat the splendor of those rosy dreams made real!


















TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:




Original spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been kept unchanged.