The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder

I am the spirit of the morning sea;
I am the awakening and the glad surprise;
I fill the skies
With laughter and with light.
Not tears, but jollity
At birth of day brim the strong man-child's eyes.
Behold the white
Wide threefold beams that from the hidden sun
Rise swift and far—
One where Orion keeps
His armèd watch, and one
That to the midmost starry heaven upleaps;
The third blots out the firm-fixt Northern Star.

I am the wind that shakes the glittering wave,
Hurries the snowy spume along the shore
And dies at last in some far, murmuring cave.
My voice thou hearest in the breaker's roar—
That sound which never failed since time began,
And first around the world the shining tumult ran.

II

I light the sea and wake the sleeping land.
My footsteps on the hills make music, and my hand
Plays like a harper's on the wind-swept pines.

With the wind and the day
I follow round the world—away! away!
Wide over lake and plain my sunlight shines
And every wave and every blade of grass
Doth know me as I pass;
And me the western sloping mountains know, and me
The far-off, golden sea.

O sea, whereon the passing sun doth lie!
O man, who watchest by that golden sea!
Grieve not, O, grieve not thou, but lift thine eye
And see me glorious in the sunset sky!

III

I love not the night
Save when the stars are bright,
Or when the moon
Fills the white air with silence like a tune.
Yea, even the night is mine
When the Northern Lights outshine,
And all the wild heavens throb in ecstasy divine;—
Yea, mine deep midnight, tho' the black sky lowers,
When the sea burns white and breaks on the shore in starry showers.

IV

I am the laughter of the new-born child
On whose soft-breathing sleep an angel smiled.
And I all sweet first things that are:
First songs of birds, not perfect as at last,—
Broken and incomplete,—
But sweet, O, sweet!
And I the first faint glimmer of a star
To the wreckt ship that tells the storm is past;
The first keen smells and stirrings of the Spring;

First snowflakes, and first May-flowers after snow;
The silver glow
Of the new moon's ethereal ring;
The song the morning stars together made,
And the first kiss of lovers under the first June shade.

V

My sword is quick, my arm is strong to smite
In the dread joy and fury of the fight.
I am with those who win, not those who fly;
With those who live I am, not those who die.
Who die? Nay, nay, that word
Where I am is unheard;
For I am the spirit of youth that cannot change,
Nor cease, nor suffer woe;
And I am the spirit of beauty that doth range
Through natural forms and motions, and each show
Of outward loveliness. With me have birth
All gentleness and joy in all the earth.
Raphael knew me, and showed the world my face;
Me Homer knew, and all the singing race—
For I am the spirit of light, and life, and mirth.

A SONG OF EARLY SUMMER

Not yet the orchard lifted
Its cloudy bloom to the sky,
Nor through the dim twilight drifted
The whippoorwill's low cry;

The gray rock had not made
Of the vine its glistening kirtle;
Nor shook in the locust shade
The purple bells of the “myrtle.”

Not yet up the chimney-hollow
Was heard in the darkling night
The boom and whir of the swallow,
And the twitter that follows the flight;

Before the foamy whitening
Of the water below the mill;
Ere yet the summer lightning
Shone red at the edge of the hill;

In the time of sun and showers,
Of skies half black, half clear;
'Twixt melting snows and flowers;
At the poise of the flying year;

When woods flusht pink and yellow
In dreams of leafy June;
And days were keen or mellow
Like tones in a changing tune;

Before the birds had broken
Forth in their song divine,
O, then the word was spoken
That made my darling mine.

A MIDSUMMER SONG

O, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day,
And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay,
And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill,
While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will:
“Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?”

From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound—
A murmur as of waters from skies and trees and ground.
The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo,
And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo:
“Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?”

Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom,
And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom.
Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows,
And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose.
But Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?

How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter!
The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what's the matter.
O, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill,
While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill.
But Polly!—Polly!—The cows are in the corn!
O, where's Polly?

“ON THE WILD ROSE TREE”

On the wild rose tree
Many buds there be,
Yet each sunny hour
Hath but one perfect flower.

Thou who wouldst be wise
Open wide thine eyes;
In each sunny hour
Pluck the one perfect flower!

“BEYOND ALL BEAUTY IS THE UNKNOWN GRACE”

Beyond all beauty is the unknown grace;
Above all bliss a higher; and above
The lovingest is a more loving love
That shows not the still anguish of its face.
Than death there is a deathlier. Brief space
Behind despair the blacker shadows rove;
Beneath all life a deeper life doth move:
So, friends of mine, when empty is my place,—
For me no more grass grows, dead leaves are stirred,—
And still the songs that once you loved to hear;
True friends whom well I thank for every word
Of heart-help,—praise or blame,—as you draw near
I pray that 'mid your tears this may be heard:
“For what he never did he is most dear.”

THE VIOLET

A violet lay in the grass,
A tear in its golden eye;
And it said: “Alas and alas!
The night is over and gone,
Another day is anigh,
And I am alone, alone!
There is none to care if I die,
There is none to be glad that I live;
The lovers they pass me by

And never a glance they give.
And I could love so well, so well!
If one would but tarry and tell
A tale that was told to me only:—
My lover might go his ways,
But through all the nights and the days
I should never again be lonely!”

Then sudden there fell a look
Into that violet's heart.
It lifted its face with a start;
It arose; it trembled and shook.
“At last, O, at last!” it cried;
Down drooped its head, and it died.

Is God in Heaven! Is the light
Of the moons, and the stars, and the suns,
His—or the Evil One's,
Is He cruel, or mad, or right!

The lily that grew by the wall,
Its heart was heavy with bliss.
In the night it heard a call;
It listened, it felt a kiss;
Then a loving Wind did fall
On its breast, and shiver with gladness:
The morning brought love's madness
To light,—and the lover fled.
But the eyes that burned in his head
Shot love through each and all,
For the lily that bloomed by the wall
Shone sweet in every place,—
In the earth, and the sky above,
And the lover saw never the face
Of the flower that died of love.

Hush! Hush! Let no sorrow be spoken!
Tho' it perish, no pity shall flout it.
Better to die heart-broken
Of love than to live without it!

THE YOUNG POET

I

When I am dead and buried, then
There will be mourning among men.
I hear one musing on my dust:
“How hard he fought to win his crust.”
And one, “He was too sensitive
In this cold-wintered world to live.”
Another, weeping, “Ah, how few
So gentle-hearted and so true.”
“I saw him only once, and yet
I think I never shall forget
The strange, sad look in those young eyes,”
Another says, and then with wise
And solemn-shaking head—“No doubt
The hot heart burned that frail frame out.”

II

Good friends, a discount on your grief!
A little present help were worth
More than a sorrow-stricken earth
When I am but a withered leaf.
An outstretched hand were better to me
Than your glib graveyard sympathy.
You need not pity and rhyme and paint me,
You need not weep for, and sigh for, and saint me
After you've starved me—driven me dead.
Friends! do you hear? What I want is bread!

A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN

When late in summer the streams run yellow,
Burst the bridges and spread into bays;
When berries are black and peaches are mellow,
And hills are hidden by rainy haze;

When the goldenrod is golden still,
But the heart of the sunflower is darker and sadder;
When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill,
And slides o'er the path the stripèd adder;

When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket,
Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf;
When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the cricket,
Grasshoppers' rasp, and rustle of sheaf;

When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle,
And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown;
When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle,
And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone.

When heavy and hollow the robin's whistle
And shadows are deep in the heat of noon;
When the air is white with the down o' the thistle,
And the sky is red with the harvest moon;

O, then be chary, young Robert and Mary,
No time let slip, not a moment wait!
If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning,
And they who would wed must be done with their mooning;
So, let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle,
And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate!

THE BUILDING OF THE CHIMNEY

I

My chimney is builded
On a hill by the sea,
At the edge of a wood
That the sunset has gilded
Since time was begun
And the earth first was done:
For mine and for me
And for you, John Burroughs,
My friend old and good,
At the edge of a wood
On a hill by the sea
My chimney is builded.

II

My chimney gives forth
All its heat to the north,
While its right arm it reaches
Toward the meadows and beaches,
And its left it extends
To its pine-tree friends.
All its heat to the north
My chimney gives forth.

III

My chimney is builded
Of red and gray granite:
Of great split boulders
Are its thighs and its shoulders;
Its mouth—try to span it.

'T is a nine-foot block—
The shelf that hangs over

The stout hearth-rock.
Then the lines they upswell
Like a huge church-bell,
Or a bellying sail
In a stiff south gale
When the ship rolls well,
With a blue sky above her.

IV

My chimney—come view it,
And I'll tell you, John Burroughs,
What is built all through it:
First the derrick's shrill creak,
That perturbed the still air
With a cry of despair.
The lone traveler who past
At the fall of the night
If he saw not its mast
Stood still with affright
At a sudden strange sound—
Hark! a woman's wild shriek?
Or the baying of a hound?

Then the stone-hammer's clink
And the drill's sharp tinkle,
And bird-songs that sprinkle
Their notes through the wood
(With pine odors scented),
On the swift way to drink
At the spring cold and good
That bubbles 'neath the stone
Where the red chieftain tented
In the days that are gone.

Yes, 'twixt granite and mortar
Many songs, long or shorter,
Are imprisoned in the wall;
And when red leaves shall fall,—
Coming home, all in herds,
From the air to the earth,—
When I have my heart's desire,
And we sit by the hearth
In the glow of the fire,
You and I, John of Birds,
We shall hear as they call
From the gray granite wall;
You shall name one and all.

There's the crow's caw-cawing
From the pine-tree's hight,
And the cat-bird's sawing,
The hissing of the adder
That climbed the rock ladder,
And the song of Bob White;
The robin's loud clatter,
The chipmunk's chatter,
And the mellow-voiced bell
That the cuckoo strikes well;
Yes, betwixt the stones and in
There is built a merry din.

But not all bright and gay
Are the songs we shall hear;
For as day turns to gray
Comes a voice low and clear—
Whippoorwill sounds his wail
Over hill, over dale,
Till the soul fills with fright.

'T is the bird that was heard
On the fields drenched with blood
By the dark southern flood
When they died in the night.

V

But you cannot split granite
Howsoe'er you may plan it,
Without bringing blood;
(There's a drop of mine there
On that block four-square).
Certain oaths, I'm aware,
Sudden, hot, and not good
(May Heaven cleanse the guilt!)
In these stone walls are built;—
With the wind through the pine-wood blowing,
The creak of tree on tree,
Child-laughter, and the lowing
Of the homeward-driven cattle,
The sound of wild birds singing,
Of steel on granite ringing,
The memory of battle,
And tales of the roaring sea.

VI

For my chimney was builded
By a Plymouth County sailor,
An old North Sea whaler.
In the warm noon spell
'T was good to hear him tell
Of the great September blow
A dozen years ago:—
How at dawn of the day
The wind began to play,

Till it cut the waves flat
Like the brim of your hat.
There was no sea about,
But it blew straight out
Till the ship lurcht over;
But 't was quick to recover,
When, all of a stroke,
The hurricane broke.
Great heavens! how it roared,
And how the rain poured;
The thirty-fathom chain
Dragged out all in vain.
“What next?” the captain cried
To the mate by his side;
Then Tip Ryder he replied:
“Fetch the ax—no delay—
Cut the mainmast away;
If you want to save the ship
Let the mainmast rip!”
But another said, “Wait!”
And they did—till too late.
On her beam-ends she blew,
In the sea half the crew—
Struggling back through the wrack,
There to cling day and night.
Not a sail heaves in sight;
And, the worst, one in thirst
(Knows no better, the poor lad!)
Drinks salt water and goes mad.
Eighty hours blown and tost,
Five good sailors drowned and lost,
And the rest brought to shore;
—Some to sail as before;

“Not Tip Ryder, if he starves
Building chimneys, building wharves.”

VII

Now this was the manner
Of the building of the chimney.
('T is a good old-timer,
As you, friend John, will own.)
Old man Vail cut the stone;
William Ryder was the builder;
Stanford White was the planner;
And the owner and rhymer
Is Richard Watson Gilder.

“A WORD SAID IN THE DARK”

A word said in the dark
And hands prest, for a token;
“Now, little maiden, mark
The word that you have spoken;
Be not your promise broken!”

His lips upon her cheek
Felt tears among their kisses;
“O, pardon I bespeak
If for my doubting this is!
Now all my doubting ceases.”

A RIDDLE OF LOVERS

Of my fair lady's lovers there were two
Who loved her more than all; nor she, nor they
Guessed which of these loved better, for one way
This had of loving, that another knew.

One round her neck brave arms of empire threw
And covered her with kisses where she lay;
The other sat apart, nor did betray
Sweet sorrow at that sight; but rather drew
His pleasure of his lady through the soul
And sense of this one. So there truly ran
Two separate loves through one embrace; the whole
This lady had of both, when one began
To clasp her close, and win her dear lips' goal.
Now read my lovers' riddle if you can.

THE DARK ROOM

(A PARABLE)

I

A maiden sought her love in a dark room,—
So early had she yearned from yearning sleep,
So hard it was from her true love to keep,—
And blind she went through that all-silent gloom,
Like one who wanders weeping in a tomb.
Heavy her heart, but her light fingers leap
With restless grasp and question in that deep
Unanswering void. Now when a hand did loom
At last, how swift her warm impassioned face
Prest 'gainst the black and solemn-yielding air,
As near more near she groped to that bright place,
And seized the hand, and drowned it with her hair,
And bent her body to his fierce embrace,
And knew what joy was in the darkness there.

II

Great God! the arms wherein that maiden fell
Were not her lover's; I am her lover—I,

Who sat here in the shadows silently,
Thinking—at last the longed-for miracle!
Thinking to me she moved, and all was well.
She saw me not, yet dimly could descry
That beautiful hand of his, and with a sigh
Sank on his fair and treacherous breast. The spell
Of the Evil One was on me. All in vain
I strove to speak—my parchèd lips were dumb.
See! see! the wan and whitening window-pane!
See, in the night, the awful morning bloom!
Too late she will know all! Heaven! send thy rain
Of death, nor let the sun of wakening come!

BEFORE SUNRISE

The winds of morning move and sing;
The western stars are lingering;
In the pale east one planet still
Shines large above King Philip's hill;—

And near, in gold against the blue,
The old moon, in its arms the new.
Lo, the deep waters of the bay
Stir with the breath of hurrying day.

Wake, loved one, wake and look with me
Across the narrow, dawn-lit sea!
Such beauty is not wholly mine
Till thou, dear heart, hast made it thine.

“THE WOODS THAT BRING THE SUNSET NEAR”

The wind from out the west is blowing;
The homeward-wandering cows are lowing;

Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear—
The woods that bring the sunset near.

When o'er wide seas the sun declines,
Far off its fading glory shines,—
Far off, sublime, and full of fear,—
The pine-woods bring the sunset near.

This house that looks to east, to west,
This, dear one, is our home, our rest;
Yonder the stormy sea, and here
The woods that bring the sunset near.

SUNSET FROM THE TRAIN

I

But then the sunset smiled,
Smiled once and turned toward dark,
Above the distant, wavering line of trees that filed
Along the horizon's edge;
Like hooded monks that hark
Through evening air
The call to prayer;—
Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away;
When, like a changing dream, the long cloud-wedge,
Brown-gray,
Grew saffron underneath and, ere I knew,
The interspace, green-blue—
The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore,
The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once more.

II

Thee, absent loved one, did I think on now,
Wondering if thy deep brow

In dreams of me were lifted to the skies,
Where, by our far sea-home, the sunlight dies;
If thou didst stand, alone,
Watching the day pass slowly, slow, as here,
But closer and more dear,
Beyond the meadow and the long, familiar line
Of blackening pine;
When lo! that second smile;—dear heart, it was thine own.

“AFTER SORROW'S NIGHT”

After sorrow's night
Dawned the morning bright.
In dewy woods I heard
A golden-throated bird,
And “Love, love, love,” it sang,
And “Love, love, love.”

Evening shadows fell
In our happy dell.
From glimmering woods I heard
A golden-throated bird,
And “Love, love, love,” it sang,
And “Love, love, love.”

O, the summer night
Starry was and bright.
In the dark woods I heard
A golden-throated bird,
And “Love, love, love,” it sang,
And “Love, love, love.”

A NOVEMBER CHILD

November winds, blow mild
On this new-born child!
Spirit of the autumn wood,
Make her gentle, make her good!
Still attend her,
And befriend her,
Fill her days with warmth and color;
Keep her safe from winter's dolor.

On thy bosom
Hide this blossom
Safe from summer's rain and thunder!
When those eyes of light and wonder
Tire at last of earthly places—
Full of years and full of graces,
Then, O, then
Take her back to heaven again!

AT NIGHT

The sky is dark, and dark the bay below
Save where the midnight city's pallid glow
Lies like a lily white
On the black pool of night.

O rushing steamer, hurry on thy way
Across the swirling Kills and gusty bay,
To where the eddying tide
Strikes hard the city's side!

For there, between the river and the sea,
Beneath that glow,—the lily's heart to me,—
A sleeping mother mild,
And by her breast a child!

CRADLE SONG

In the embers shining bright
A garden grows for thy delight,
With roses yellow, red, and white.

But, O my child, beware, beware!
Touch not the blossoms blowing there,
For every rose a thorn doth bear.

“NINE YEARS”

Nine years to heaven had flown,
And June came, with June's token—
The wild rose that had known
A maiden's silence broken.

'T was thus the lover spoke,
And thus she leaned and listened
(Below, the billows broke,
The blue sea shook and glistened):—

“We have been happy, Love,
Through bright and stormy weather,
Happy all hope above,
For we have been together.

“To meet, to love, to wed,—
Joy without stint or measure,—
This was our lot,” he said,
“To find untouched our treasure;

“But had some blindfold fate
Bound each unto another—
To turn from Heaven's gate,
Each heart-throb hide and smother!

“O dear and faithful heart,
If thus had we been fated;
To meet, to know, to part—
Too early, falsely, mated!

“Were this our bitter plight,
Ah, could we have dissembled?”
Her cheek turned pale with fright;
She hid her face, and trembled.

“BACK FROM THE DARKNESS TO THE LIGHT AGAIN”

“Back from the darkness to the light again!”—
Not from the darkness, Love, for hadst thou lain
Within the shadowy portal of the tomb,
Thy light had warmed the darkness into bloom.

University of Virginia Library

1. PART I

ODE

I

II

III

IV

V