 | Western windows and other poems |  |
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SUNSHINE AND FIRELIGHT.
ROSE AND ROOT.
A FABLE OF TWO LIVES.
The Rose aloft in sunny air,
Beloved alike by bird and bee,
Takes for the dark Root little care,
That toils below it ceaselessly.
Beloved alike by bird and bee,
Takes for the dark Root little care,
That toils below it ceaselessly.
I put my question to the flower:
“Pride of the Summer, garden-queen,
Why livest thou thy little hour?”
And the Rose answer'd, “I am seen.”
“Pride of the Summer, garden-queen,
Why livest thou thy little hour?”
And the Rose answer'd, “I am seen.”
I put my question to the Root—
“I mine the earth content,” it said,
“A hidden miner underfoot;
I know a Rose is overhead.”
“I mine the earth content,” it said,
“A hidden miner underfoot;
I know a Rose is overhead.”
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HIGHER TENANTS.
After Winter fires were ended, and the last spark, vanishing
From the embers on our hearthstone, flew into the sky of spring:
From the embers on our hearthstone, flew into the sky of spring:
In the night-time, in the morning—when the air was hush'd around—
Throbbing vaguely on the silence, came a dull, mysterious sound:
Throbbing vaguely on the silence, came a dull, mysterious sound:
Like the sultry hum of thunder, at the sullen close of day,
Out of clouds that brood and threaten on the horizon far away.
Out of clouds that brood and threaten on the horizon far away.
“'Tis,” I said, “the April thunder,” and I thought of flowers that spring,
And of trees that stand in blossom, and of birds that fly and sing.
And of trees that stand in blossom, and of birds that fly and sing.
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But the sound, repeated often—nearer, more familiar grown—
From our chimney seem'd descending, and the swallow's wings were known.
From our chimney seem'd descending, and the swallow's wings were known.
Where the lithe flames leap'd and lighten'd, charm of host and cheer of guest,
There the emigrant of Summer chose its homestead, built its nest.
There the emigrant of Summer chose its homestead, built its nest.
Then I dream'd of poets dwelling, like the swallow, long ago,
Overhead in dusky places ere their songs were heard below;
Overhead in dusky places ere their songs were heard below;
Overhead in humble attics, ministers of higher things:
Underneath were busy people, overhead were heavenly wings!
Underneath were busy people, overhead were heavenly wings!
And I thought of homely proverbs that on simple lips had birth,
Born of gentle superstitions at old firesides of the earth:
Born of gentle superstitions at old firesides of the earth:
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How, where'er the swallow builded under human roofs its nest,
Something holier, purer, higher, in the house became a guest;
Something holier, purer, higher, in the house became a guest;
Peace, or Love, or Health, or Fortune—something Prosperous, from the air
'Lighting with the wings of swallows, breathed divine possession there.
'Lighting with the wings of swallows, breathed divine possession there.
“Friendly gods,” I said, “descending, make their gentler visits so,
Fill the air with benedictions—songs above and songs below!”
Fill the air with benedictions—songs above and songs below!”
Then I murmur'd, “Welcome, swallow; I, your landlord, stand content:
Even if song were not sufficient, higher Tenants pay your rent!”
Even if song were not sufficient, higher Tenants pay your rent!”
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NEW GRASS.
Along the sultry city street,
Faint subtile breaths of fragrance meet
Me, wandering unaware
(In April warmth, while yet the sun
For Spring no constant place has won)
By many a vacant square.
Faint subtile breaths of fragrance meet
Me, wandering unaware
(In April warmth, while yet the sun
For Spring no constant place has won)
By many a vacant square.
Whoever reads these lines has felt
That breath whose long-lost perfumes melt
The spirit—newly found
While the sweet, banished families
Of earth's forgotten sympathies
Rise from the sweating ground.
That breath whose long-lost perfumes melt
The spirit—newly found
While the sweet, banished families
Of earth's forgotten sympathies
Rise from the sweating ground.
It is the subtile breath of grass;
And as I pause, or lingering pass,
With half-shut eyes, behold!
Bright from old baptisms of dew
Fresh meadows burst upon my view,
And new becomes the old!
And as I pause, or lingering pass,
With half-shut eyes, behold!
Bright from old baptisms of dew
Fresh meadows burst upon my view,
And new becomes the old!
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Old longings (Pleasure kissing Pain),
Old visions visit me again—
Life's quiet deeps are stirr'd:
The fountain-heads of memory flow
Through channels dry so long ago,
With music long unheard.
Old visions visit me again—
Life's quiet deeps are stirr'd:
The fountain-heads of memory flow
Through channels dry so long ago,
With music long unheard.
I think of pastures, evermore
Greener than any hour before,
Where cattle wander slow,
Large-uddered in the sun, or chew
The cud content in shadows new,
Or, shadows, homeward low.
Greener than any hour before,
Where cattle wander slow,
Large-uddered in the sun, or chew
The cud content in shadows new,
Or, shadows, homeward low.
I dream of prairies dear to me:
Afar in town I seem to see
Their widening miles arise,
Where, like the butterfly anear,
Far off in sunny mist the deer,
That seems no larger, flies.
Afar in town I seem to see
Their widening miles arise,
Where, like the butterfly anear,
Far off in sunny mist the deer,
That seems no larger, flies.
Thy rural lanes, Ohio, come
Back to me, grateful with the hum
Of every thing that stirs:
Dear places, sadden'd by the years,
Lost to my sight send sudden tears,
Their secret messengers.
Back to me, grateful with the hum
Of every thing that stirs:
Dear places, sadden'd by the years,
Lost to my sight send sudden tears,
Their secret messengers.
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I think of paths a-swarm with wings
Of bird and bee—all lovely things
From sun or sunny clod;
Of play-grounds where the children play,
And fear not Time will come to-day,
And feel the warming sod.
Of bird and bee—all lovely things
From sun or sunny clod;
Of play-grounds where the children play,
And fear not Time will come to-day,
And feel the warming sod.
New grass: it grows by cottage doors,
In orchards hush'd with bloom, by shores
Of streams that flow as green,
On hill-slopes white with tents or sheep,
And where the sacred mosses keep
The holy dead unseen.
In orchards hush'd with bloom, by shores
Of streams that flow as green,
On hill-slopes white with tents or sheep,
And where the sacred mosses keep
The holy dead unseen.
It grows o'er distant graves I know—
Sweet grass! above them greener grow,
And guard them tenderly!
My brother's, not three summers green;
My sister's—new-made, only seen
Through far-off tears by me!
Sweet grass! above them greener grow,
And guard them tenderly!
My brother's, not three summers green;
My sister's—new-made, only seen
Through far-off tears by me!
It grows on battle-fields—alas!
Old battle-fields are lost in grass;
New battles wait the new:
Hark, is it the living warmth I hear?
The cannon far or bee anear?
The bee and cannon too!
Old battle-fields are lost in grass;
New battles wait the new:
Hark, is it the living warmth I hear?
The cannon far or bee anear?
The bee and cannon too!
Washington, April, 1863.
56
OUTGOING.
A wrathful dust, the spirit of the town,
Follows me, loth to let me free, until
I come to this close lane whose gateway leads
From the low, heated city to the peace,
The high domestic quiet, of the hills.
It is a narrow lane (on either side
A wall: the left of trees—the right of stone,
Roof'd with a hedge) and hides me from the dust
That like a baffled hunter flies beyond,
And welcomes me caressingly with airs
Breathed from a myriad things that hold the breath
Of Summer—weeds that blossom, thorns that flower;
And blesses me with dear and gentle sounds,
(That, mingled, make but quiet felt the more,)
And dewy sights that, seen however oft,
Make the eye always new and can not tire.
Follows me, loth to let me free, until
I come to this close lane whose gateway leads
From the low, heated city to the peace,
The high domestic quiet, of the hills.
It is a narrow lane (on either side
A wall: the left of trees—the right of stone,
Roof'd with a hedge) and hides me from the dust
That like a baffled hunter flies beyond,
And welcomes me caressingly with airs
Breathed from a myriad things that hold the breath
Of Summer—weeds that blossom, thorns that flower;
And blesses me with dear and gentle sounds,
(That, mingled, make but quiet felt the more,)
And dewy sights that, seen however oft,
Make the eye always new and can not tire.
At the cool opening of this guardless lane
I think the tender Mother whom I love,
Awaiting, whispers with her brooding voice—
Her single, gentle voice that is not heard
By the deaf ear but in the hearkening heart—
“Welcome, O child come back! for all the day
I long'd for thee, my child, and all the day
I dream'd thee lost in yonder barren town,
And sent my messengers to call for thee.
Didst thou not hear a bird beside thy pane
A tender moment—hear but hardly hear?
Didst thou not see a bee that came and went,
Striking thy window—see but hardly see?
Didst thou not feel a wind that turn'd thy page,
Intruding, playful, like a timid child
That fears repulses—feel but hardly feel?
Vexed by the flying leaf, thy blessing held
The breeze that linger'd, but thou didst not come.
I fear for thee, too long in yonder town,
For they forget me there—and wilt not thou?
But see my welcome; see my open door.”
So with the dear rebuke I enter in.
I think the tender Mother whom I love,
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Her single, gentle voice that is not heard
By the deaf ear but in the hearkening heart—
“Welcome, O child come back! for all the day
I long'd for thee, my child, and all the day
I dream'd thee lost in yonder barren town,
And sent my messengers to call for thee.
Didst thou not hear a bird beside thy pane
A tender moment—hear but hardly hear?
Didst thou not see a bee that came and went,
Striking thy window—see but hardly see?
Didst thou not feel a wind that turn'd thy page,
Intruding, playful, like a timid child
That fears repulses—feel but hardly feel?
Vexed by the flying leaf, thy blessing held
The breeze that linger'd, but thou didst not come.
I fear for thee, too long in yonder town,
For they forget me there—and wilt not thou?
But see my welcome; see my open door.”
So with the dear rebuke I enter in.
The trees in sunset tremble goldenly
Through all their leaves. I wander gladly down
Over a bridge across a troubled rill
(Fluttering from its dark with frighten'd wings);
Beyond, the roadway climbs around the hight,
And, look! beneath me, with a music heard
Best in the heart of silence far away,
A falling fleece of silver, shines the dam:
Above, the quiet mirror lets the duck
Float, brooding on its shadow, motionless;
Below, the shallows glitter every-where
As if with shoals of hurrying fish that leap
Over each other noisily in the sun;
And, farther down, the greenly-hidden race
Persuades the seeking eye to wander where,
Gray through the boughs of sycamore and elm,
Tremulous with its myriad-moving wheels,
With sullen thunder stands the busy mill.
While over all, through azure haze adust,
Show the thick spires and the bronz'd marble dome,
Transfigured, far-off, for my memory,
Made beautiful for my forgetfulness.
Through all their leaves. I wander gladly down
Over a bridge across a troubled rill
(Fluttering from its dark with frighten'd wings);
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And, look! beneath me, with a music heard
Best in the heart of silence far away,
A falling fleece of silver, shines the dam:
Above, the quiet mirror lets the duck
Float, brooding on its shadow, motionless;
Below, the shallows glitter every-where
As if with shoals of hurrying fish that leap
Over each other noisily in the sun;
And, farther down, the greenly-hidden race
Persuades the seeking eye to wander where,
Gray through the boughs of sycamore and elm,
Tremulous with its myriad-moving wheels,
With sullen thunder stands the busy mill.
While over all, through azure haze adust,
Show the thick spires and the bronz'd marble dome,
Transfigured, far-off, for my memory,
Made beautiful for my forgetfulness.
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THE BLACKBERRY FARM.
Nature gives with freëst handsRichest gifts to poorest lands:
When the lord has sown his last
And his field's to desert pass'd,
She begins to claim her own,
And—instead of harvests flown,
Sunburnt sheaves and golden ears—
Sends her hardier pioneers;
Barbarous brambles, outlaw'd seeds,
The first families of weeds
Fearing neither sun nor wind,
With the flowers of their kind
(Outcasts of the garden-bound),
Colonize the expended ground,
Using (none her right gainsay)
Confiscations of decay:
Thus she clothes the barren place,
Old disgrace, with newer grace.
Title-deeds, which cover lands
Ruled and reap'd by buried hands,
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Scorning their “to have and hold”—
Takes herself; the mouldering fence
Hides with her munificence;
O'er the crumbled gatepost twines
Her proprietary vines;
On the doorstep of the house
Writes in moss “Anonymous,”
And, that beast and bird may see,
“This is Public property;”
To the bramble makes the sun
Bearer of profusion:
Blossom-odors breathe in June
Promise of her later boon,
And in August's brazen heat
Grows the prophecy complete—
Lo, her largess glistens bright,
Blackness diamonded with light!
Then, behold, she welcomes all
To her annual festival:
“Mine the fruit but yours as well,”
Speaks the Mother Miracle;
“Rich and poor are welcome; come,
Make to-day millennium
In my garden of the sun:
Black and white to me are one.
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Here no landlord rides for rent;
I proclaim my jubilee,
In my Black Republic, free.
Come,” she beckons; “Enter, through
Gates of gossamer, doors of dew
(Lit with Summer's tropic fire),
My Liberia of the brier.”
Georgetown Heights, July, 1863.
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THE MORNING STREET.
Alone I walk the Morning Street,
Fill'd with the silence vague and sweet:
All seems as strange, as still, as dead
As if unnumber'd years had fled,
Letting the noisy Babel lie
Breathless and dumb against the sky;
The light wind walks with me alone
Where the hot day flame-like was blown,
Where the wheels roar'd, the dust was beat:
The dew is in the Morning Street.
Fill'd with the silence vague and sweet:
All seems as strange, as still, as dead
As if unnumber'd years had fled,
Letting the noisy Babel lie
Breathless and dumb against the sky;
The light wind walks with me alone
Where the hot day flame-like was blown,
Where the wheels roar'd, the dust was beat:
The dew is in the Morning Street.
Where are the restless throngs that pour
Along this mighty corridor
While the noon shines?—the hurrying crowd
Whose footsteps make the city loud—
The myriad faces—hearts that beat
No more in the deserted street?
Those footsteps in their dreaming maze
Cross thresholds of forgotten days;
Those faces brighten from the years
In rising suns long set in tears;
Those hearts—far in the Past they beat,
Unheard within the Morning Street.
Along this mighty corridor
While the noon shines?—the hurrying crowd
Whose footsteps make the city loud—
The myriad faces—hearts that beat
No more in the deserted street?
Those footsteps in their dreaming maze
Cross thresholds of forgotten days;
Those faces brighten from the years
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Those hearts—far in the Past they beat,
Unheard within the Morning Street.
A city of the world's gray prime,
Lost in some desert far from Time,
Where noiseless ages, gliding through,
Have only sifted sand and dew—
Yet a mysterious hand of man
Lying on all the haunted plan,
The passions of the human heart
Quickening the marble breast of Art—
Were not more strange to one who first
Upon its ghostly silence burst
Than this vast quiet where the tide
Of Life, upheav'd on either side,
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat
With human waves the Morning Street.
Lost in some desert far from Time,
Where noiseless ages, gliding through,
Have only sifted sand and dew—
Yet a mysterious hand of man
Lying on all the haunted plan,
The passions of the human heart
Quickening the marble breast of Art—
Were not more strange to one who first
Upon its ghostly silence burst
Than this vast quiet where the tide
Of Life, upheav'd on either side,
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat
With human waves the Morning Street.
Ay, soon the glowing morning flood
Breaks through the charméd solitude:
This silent stone, to music won,
Shall murmur to the rising sun;
The busy place, in dust and heat,
Shall rush with wheels and swarm with feet;
The Arachné-threads of Purpose stream
Unseen within the morning gleam;
The life shall move, the death be plain;
The bridal throng, the funeral train,
Together, face to face shall meet
And pass within the Morning Street.
Breaks through the charméd solitude:
This silent stone, to music won,
Shall murmur to the rising sun;
The busy place, in dust and heat,
Shall rush with wheels and swarm with feet;
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Unseen within the morning gleam;
The life shall move, the death be plain;
The bridal throng, the funeral train,
Together, face to face shall meet
And pass within the Morning Street.
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THE LOST HORIZON.
I stood at evening in the crimson air:
The trees shook off their dusky twilight glow;
The wind took up old burdens of despair,
And moan'd like Atlas with his world of woe.
The trees shook off their dusky twilight glow;
The wind took up old burdens of despair,
And moan'd like Atlas with his world of woe.
Like the great circle of a bronzed ring,
That clasp'd the vision of the vanish'd day,
I saw the vague horizon vanishing
Around me into darkness, far away.
That clasp'd the vision of the vanish'd day,
I saw the vague horizon vanishing
Around me into darkness, far away.
Then, while the night came fast with cloudy roar,
Lo, all about me, rays of hearths unknown
Sprang from the gloom with light unseen before,
And made a warm horizon of their own.
Lo, all about me, rays of hearths unknown
Sprang from the gloom with light unseen before,
And made a warm horizon of their own.
I sigh'd: “The wanderer in the desert sees
Strange ghosts of summer lands arising, sweet
With restless waters, green with gracious trees
Whose shadows beckon welcome to his feet.
Strange ghosts of summer lands arising, sweet
With restless waters, green with gracious trees
Whose shadows beckon welcome to his feet.
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“For erst, where now the desert far away
Stretches a wilderness of hopeless sand,
Clasping fair fields and sunburnt harvests lay
The heavenly girdles of a fruitful land.”
Stretches a wilderness of hopeless sand,
Clasping fair fields and sunburnt harvests lay
The heavenly girdles of a fruitful land.”
I thought of a sweet mirage now no more:
Warm windows radiant with a dancing flame—
Dear voices heard within a happy door—
A face that to the darkness, lighted, came.
Warm windows radiant with a dancing flame—
Dear voices heard within a happy door—
A face that to the darkness, lighted, came.
No hearth of mine was waiting, near or far;
No threshold for my coming footstep yearn'd
To touch its slumber; no warm window star,
The tender Venus, to my longing burn'd.
No threshold for my coming footstep yearn'd
To touch its slumber; no warm window star,
The tender Venus, to my longing burn'd.
The darken'd windows slowly lost their fire,
But shimmer'd with the ghostly ember-light:
A wanderer, with old embers of desire,
The lost horizon held me in the night.
But shimmer'd with the ghostly ember-light:
A wanderer, with old embers of desire,
The lost horizon held me in the night.
67
ANTAEUS.
Aweary of the restless will to know
Invisible heights, which men have sigh'd to reach,
And walk the deep sea, without faith, alone,
I thought of that lithe wrestler, born of Earth,
Who strove with him the hydra's conqueror,
Losing and winning. Lifted into air
He swoon'd defeated: touching then the sod,
His blood sprang full of wings and he arose,
The heaving pulses of the hills his own,
The sinews of the deserts in his thighs.
And, when I fell asleep at middle night,
My thought becoming portion of my sleep,
I wander'd into Libyan solitudes
(For so a dream confuses place and time)
And to me spake the giant of the Waste:
“I am Antaeus, darling of the Earth.
Whatever makes me stronger, man, is thine;
I am a man, but these ungirded arms,
Forever striving, writhe forever more,
Wrestling with gods and godlike challengers.
Born of the Earth, I cling to her for strength,
Her life is mine and mine is hers forever;
I feel my thews alone when standing fast,
A brother of the mountains, at their feet,
And dare to know my conquerors: they dwell
Aloft in myriad shapes and essences;
Sometimes they wait and seize me, unaware,
In whirlwinds of white frenzy, and I fall
Weak as a leaf whose last breath is gone out
In the first breath of Autumn: waking, then,
(Like one who, falling, wakens from his dream,)
I see a wingéd giant near the sun.
I know my place, my victors know their own:
Theirs the invisible Æther, mine below
Where the Earth breathes her breath, a breath of Life,
And if perchance I clasp them in my arms
Victorious here, I claim them as my own,
Servants of men and wingéd messengers.
Invisible heights, which men have sigh'd to reach,
And walk the deep sea, without faith, alone,
I thought of that lithe wrestler, born of Earth,
Who strove with him the hydra's conqueror,
Losing and winning. Lifted into air
He swoon'd defeated: touching then the sod,
His blood sprang full of wings and he arose,
The heaving pulses of the hills his own,
The sinews of the deserts in his thighs.
And, when I fell asleep at middle night,
My thought becoming portion of my sleep,
I wander'd into Libyan solitudes
(For so a dream confuses place and time)
And to me spake the giant of the Waste:
“I am Antaeus, darling of the Earth.
Whatever makes me stronger, man, is thine;
I am a man, but these ungirded arms,
Forever striving, writhe forever more,
Wrestling with gods and godlike challengers.
Born of the Earth, I cling to her for strength,
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I feel my thews alone when standing fast,
A brother of the mountains, at their feet,
And dare to know my conquerors: they dwell
Aloft in myriad shapes and essences;
Sometimes they wait and seize me, unaware,
In whirlwinds of white frenzy, and I fall
Weak as a leaf whose last breath is gone out
In the first breath of Autumn: waking, then,
(Like one who, falling, wakens from his dream,)
I see a wingéd giant near the sun.
I know my place, my victors know their own:
Theirs the invisible Æther, mine below
Where the Earth breathes her breath, a breath of Life,
And if perchance I clasp them in my arms
Victorious here, I claim them as my own,
Servants of men and wingéd messengers.
“I am Antaeus, darling of the Earth,
Wrestler with gods and godlike challengers,
But, oftentimes, aweary of my strife,
And of the clasp of those invisible arms,
Ready to catch and lift me up in swoon,
The death-in-life that I alone can know,
And weary of the wrestlers coming still
With challenges in the air, for rest I turn
To the dear bosom of my Mother Earth:
She, like a mother, holds me near her heart;
She, like a mother, kisses me asleep
On loving pillows hush'd for harmless dreams;
She, like a mother, with a mother's voice
At morning wakens me. Dear Mother Earth,
Dearest and tenderest Mother, quick with love,
Throbbing with vigor, full of gentleness,
I give myself to thee, and thou dost give
Thyself to me again; thy weary child,
Asleep upon thy bosom, wakens strong,
For thou awakest in my heart anew,
Rising immortal in my mortal strength.”
Wrestler with gods and godlike challengers,
But, oftentimes, aweary of my strife,
And of the clasp of those invisible arms,
Ready to catch and lift me up in swoon,
The death-in-life that I alone can know,
And weary of the wrestlers coming still
With challenges in the air, for rest I turn
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She, like a mother, holds me near her heart;
She, like a mother, kisses me asleep
On loving pillows hush'd for harmless dreams;
She, like a mother, with a mother's voice
At morning wakens me. Dear Mother Earth,
Dearest and tenderest Mother, quick with love,
Throbbing with vigor, full of gentleness,
I give myself to thee, and thou dost give
Thyself to me again; thy weary child,
Asleep upon thy bosom, wakens strong,
For thou awakest in my heart anew,
Rising immortal in my mortal strength.”
It was a voice and pass'd, as voices pass
From dreams but leave a wake of sound—a form
And vanish'd, leaving something for the sight,
Shadowy and vast, the shadow of a shade;
And I awoke, and o'er my head a vine
Bronzed with an early splendor, to and fro
A playful breeze within my window caught;
I heard the noise of morning; far away
I saw a ploughman, and a sower near
Dropp'd corn into his furrows, trusting still
All golden promises of growing gain;
And when I walk'd abroad my shadow made
A giant's bulk, my sunburnt breast beat full
Of the great blood which moved in giants' veins
When, as we speak, the Earth itself was young;
And, while I saw an engine drag its world,
And watch'd an eagle in his azure deeps,
I smiled at the vague medley of my dream,
But said, “I am Antaeus, born of Earth,
Her chosen wrestler; lifted into air
I swoon defeated: touching then the sod,
My blood springs full of wings and I am strong.”
From dreams but leave a wake of sound—a form
And vanish'd, leaving something for the sight,
Shadowy and vast, the shadow of a shade;
And I awoke, and o'er my head a vine
Bronzed with an early splendor, to and fro
A playful breeze within my window caught;
I heard the noise of morning; far away
I saw a ploughman, and a sower near
Dropp'd corn into his furrows, trusting still
All golden promises of growing gain;
And when I walk'd abroad my shadow made
A giant's bulk, my sunburnt breast beat full
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When, as we speak, the Earth itself was young;
And, while I saw an engine drag its world,
And watch'd an eagle in his azure deeps,
I smiled at the vague medley of my dream,
But said, “I am Antaeus, born of Earth,
Her chosen wrestler; lifted into air
I swoon defeated: touching then the sod,
My blood springs full of wings and I am strong.”
71
ONE OF TWO.
Listen and look! If you listen, you see
A nest with a bird in yonder tree:
Above, in the leaves that glitter with May,
The little half-owner is singing to-day:
“We are very proud, we are rich, and bless'd—
Come and look, if you please, at our nest.”
A nest with a bird in yonder tree:
Above, in the leaves that glitter with May,
The little half-owner is singing to-day:
“We are very proud, we are rich, and bless'd—
Come and look, if you please, at our nest.”
Listen and look! If you look, you hear
The sweetest song you have heard for a year:
Over the nest on the tremulous spray
The little half-owner is singing to-day:
“Soon, in the nest I have asked you to see,
Listen and look for our family!”
The sweetest song you have heard for a year:
Over the nest on the tremulous spray
The little half-owner is singing to-day:
“Soon, in the nest I have asked you to see,
Listen and look for our family!”
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THE OLD MAN AND THE SPRING-LEAVES.
Underneath the beechen tree
All things fall in love with me!
Birds, that sing so sweetly, sung
Ne'er more sweet when I was young;
Some sweet breeze, I will not see,
Steals to kiss me lovingly;
All the leaves, so blithe and bright,
Dancing sing in Maying light
Over me: “At last, at last,
He has stolen from the Past.”
All things fall in love with me!
Birds, that sing so sweetly, sung
Ne'er more sweet when I was young;
Some sweet breeze, I will not see,
Steals to kiss me lovingly;
All the leaves, so blithe and bright,
Dancing sing in Maying light
Over me: “At last, at last,
He has stolen from the Past.”
Wherefore, leaves, so gladly mad?
I am rather sad than glad.
I am rather sad than glad.
“He is the merry child that play'd
Underneath our beechen shade,
Years ago; whom all things bright
Gladden'd; glad with his delight!”
Underneath our beechen shade,
Years ago; whom all things bright
Gladden'd; glad with his delight!”
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I am not the child that play'd
Underneath your beechen shade;
I am not the boy ye sung
Songs to, in lost fairy-tongue.
He read fairy dreams below,
Legends leaves and flowers must know;
He dream'd fairy dreams, and ye
Changed to fairies, in your glee
Dancing, singing from the tree;
And, awaken'd, fairy-land
Circled childhood's magic wand!
Joy swell'd his heart, joy kiss'd his brow;
I am following funerals now.
Fairy shores from Time depart;
Lost horizons flush my heart.
I am not the child that play'd
Underneath your beechen shade.
Underneath your beechen shade;
I am not the boy ye sung
Songs to, in lost fairy-tongue.
He read fairy dreams below,
Legends leaves and flowers must know;
He dream'd fairy dreams, and ye
Changed to fairies, in your glee
Dancing, singing from the tree;
And, awaken'd, fairy-land
Circled childhood's magic wand!
Joy swell'd his heart, joy kiss'd his brow;
I am following funerals now.
Fairy shores from Time depart;
Lost horizons flush my heart.
I am not the child that play'd
Underneath your beechen shade.
“'T is the merry child that play'd
Underneath our beechen shade
Years ago; whom all things bright
Loved, made glad with his delight!”
Underneath our beechen shade
Years ago; whom all things bright
Loved, made glad with his delight!”
Ah! the bright leaves will not know
That an old man dreams below!
No; they will not hear nor see,
Clapping their hands at finding me,
Singing, dancing from their tree!
Ah! their happy voices steal
Time away: again I feel,
While they sing to me apart,
The lost child come in my heart:
In the enchantment of the Past,
The old man is the child at last!
That an old man dreams below!
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Clapping their hands at finding me,
Singing, dancing from their tree!
Ah! their happy voices steal
Time away: again I feel,
While they sing to me apart,
The lost child come in my heart:
In the enchantment of the Past,
The old man is the child at last!
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THE MASTER-KEY.
Lo! in my lifted hand a little Key:
What matter if of iron or of gold,
My simplest gift, my greatest gift, you see;
My life, Beloved, when it is given you hold.
What matter if of iron or of gold,
My simplest gift, my greatest gift, you see;
My life, Beloved, when it is given you hold.
Enter whene'er you choose: at vesper chime,
Or when the dewy lips of midnight, dumb,
Kiss the dumb world. Behold, at morning's prime
My doors are open, and the many come.
Or when the dewy lips of midnight, dumb,
Kiss the dumb world. Behold, at morning's prime
My doors are open, and the many come.
The many come—it matters little who:
I guard the place and welcome, evermore.
My sacred chambers, never closed to you,
Are closed for them: I keep the outer door.
I guard the place and welcome, evermore.
My sacred chambers, never closed to you,
Are closed for them: I keep the outer door.
Enter whene'er you will, for every room
Is yours in being mine. To you unknown,
This Key knows outward porch and inner gloom,
Each sky-ward stair, each closet dim and lone.
Is yours in being mine. To you unknown,
This Key knows outward porch and inner gloom,
Each sky-ward stair, each closet dim and lone.
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Dance in the echoing halls, Beloved, and sing
Away your heart to every echo sweet
(The echoes, too, are mine), with flitting wing
Of buoyant joy and scarce-alighting feet.
Away your heart to every echo sweet
(The echoes, too, are mine), with flitting wing
Of buoyant joy and scarce-alighting feet.
The lighted walls shall answer your delight,
With floating shapes and summer dreams of Art:
The Undine springing from her fountain bright,
The lithe Bacchanté with her panting heart.
With floating shapes and summer dreams of Art:
The Undine springing from her fountain bright,
The lithe Bacchanté with her panting heart.
Dream in the purple glooms, for dreaming made,
Where the white angel holds the lily white
Against her marble bosom (in the shade
Her wings forgotten), watching day and night.
Where the white angel holds the lily white
Against her marble bosom (in the shade
Her wings forgotten), watching day and night.
What though at times along the floors—unknown,
Unheard by others—echo phantom feet,
Weird faces start from veils, faint voices moan?
Know Life and Death in every passage meet.
Unheard by others—echo phantom feet,
Weird faces start from veils, faint voices moan?
Know Life and Death in every passage meet.
Open the chambers where the unburied dead,
While Memory there forever wakeful stands,
Show their thin ghostly radiance not yet fled—
Pure breathless faces, tender folded hands.
While Memory there forever wakeful stands,
Show their thin ghostly radiance not yet fled—
Pure breathless faces, tender folded hands.
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Around the death-beds, hush'd, familiar go,
And kiss for me the dear familiar clay,
While the dark funeral tapers waver slow
And the old death-watch is renew'd for aye.
And kiss for me the dear familiar clay,
While the dark funeral tapers waver slow
And the old death-watch is renew'd for aye.
Walk in my secret chapel when you will:
Lo! Visions come adown some unseen stair;
Sometimes high voices all the silence fill,
And St. Cecilia's soul is in the air.
Lo! Visions come adown some unseen stair;
Sometimes high voices all the silence fill,
And St. Cecilia's soul is in the air.
Fear not: the angel with the lily white
There watches, too, as in the dreaming place,
With wings uplifted in mysterious light
And some white morning on her lifted face.
There watches, too, as in the dreaming place,
With wings uplifted in mysterious light
And some white morning on her lifted face.
Enter, whene'er you choose, whatever door:
This Key will open, night and day, the whole.
Be Love with you, your guardian evermore;
Fear nothing. Take the Master of my Soul.
This Key will open, night and day, the whole.
Be Love with you, your guardian evermore;
Fear nothing. Take the Master of my Soul.
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PARTING.
We clasp our hands: we turn to go,
Our footsteps echoing years between;
We meet again: we hardly know
These ghosts of loved ones long unseen.
Our footsteps echoing years between;
We meet again: we hardly know
These ghosts of loved ones long unseen.
We clasp our hands: we turn and go,
Far travellers with strange hours and years;
The face, the form, the voice we know,
They come not back from time and tears.
Far travellers with strange hours and years;
The face, the form, the voice we know,
They come not back from time and tears.
We clasp our hands in loving trust;
We send our voices o'er the wave:
No hand can reach us—from the dust;
No voice can find us—in the grave.
We send our voices o'er the wave:
No hand can reach us—from the dust;
No voice can find us—in the grave.
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THE MONK'S VISION OF CHRIST.
Behold, unto a monk the vision grew
Of Him who waits for all, his loving Lord,
Him who, all-suffering, all patience knew,
And wore the crown of Hate for Love's reward.
Of Him who waits for all, his loving Lord,
Him who, all-suffering, all patience knew,
And wore the crown of Hate for Love's reward.
The perfect vision of most holy light,
The Guest of man, unto His follower dear,
Gave (He who gave the blind his mortal sight)—
Immortal light to see his Master near.
The Guest of man, unto His follower dear,
Gave (He who gave the blind his mortal sight)—
Immortal light to see his Master near.
Long gazed the monk; his rapture grew the more:
The Sight remained, nor grew his soul content,
Till in his heart a message from the poor,
Fed by his bounty, whisper'd, and he went.
The Sight remained, nor grew his soul content,
Till in his heart a message from the poor,
Fed by his bounty, whisper'd, and he went.
His duty called, Christ's own belovéd care,
While, in his room, Christ seem'd himself to stay;
But Christ was in his heart: so, keeping there
The vision sweet, he walk'd his Master's way.
While, in his room, Christ seem'd himself to stay;
But Christ was in his heart: so, keeping there
The vision sweet, he walk'd his Master's way.
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He walked His Way, fulfilling, as he went,
His Master's word and unforgotten will:
Returning—heaven-rewarded, self-content—
Lo, the dear vision waited for him still!
His Master's word and unforgotten will:
Returning—heaven-rewarded, self-content—
Lo, the dear vision waited for him still!
“Thy Will be done,” in many a prayer before
His heart had lifted. Lo, the Vision said
(His Will being done who visits still the poor)
Lowly: “Hadst thou remain'd, I must have fled.”
His heart had lifted. Lo, the Vision said
(His Will being done who visits still the poor)
Lowly: “Hadst thou remain'd, I must have fled.”
81
THE FIRST FIRE.
Dearest, to-night upon our Hearth
See the first fire of Autumn leap:
Oh, first that we with festal Mirth
For loving Memory keep!
Sweet Fairy of the Fireside, come
And guard our altar-flame of Home!
See the first fire of Autumn leap:
Oh, first that we with festal Mirth
For loving Memory keep!
Sweet Fairy of the Fireside, come
And guard our altar-flame of Home!
Without, October breathes the night—
Cold dews below, cold stars on high;
The chilly cricket sees our light
Reach welcoming arms anigh,
And sighs to sing his evening song
In our warm air the winter long.
Cold dews below, cold stars on high;
The chilly cricket sees our light
Reach welcoming arms anigh,
And sighs to sing his evening song
In our warm air the winter long.
Blithe cricket! welcome, singing, here!
I half-recall dead Autumns cold,
With half-shut eyelids dream, my dear,
Their sadness vague and old:
Ha! the lithe flame leaps red, and tries
With bursting sparks to blind my eyes!
I half-recall dead Autumns cold,
With half-shut eyelids dream, my dear,
Their sadness vague and old:
Ha! the lithe flame leaps red, and tries
With bursting sparks to blind my eyes!
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Ill-timed the gay conceit, I know:
On the dark hills that near us lie
(The Shadow will not, need not, go)
Beneath the Autumnal sky
Stand battle-tents, that, everywhere,
Keep ghostly white the moonless air.
On the dark hills that near us lie
(The Shadow will not, need not, go)
Beneath the Autumnal sky
Stand battle-tents, that, everywhere,
Keep ghostly white the moonless air.
The sentinel walks his lonely beat,
The soldier slumbers on the ground:
To one hearth-glimmers far are sweet,
One dreams of fireside sound!
From unforgotten doors they reach,
Dear sympathies, as dear as speech.
The soldier slumbers on the ground:
To one hearth-glimmers far are sweet,
One dreams of fireside sound!
From unforgotten doors they reach,
Dear sympathies, as dear as speech.
I think of all the homeless woe,
The battle-winter long;
Alas, the world—the hearth's aglow!
And, hark! the cricket's song
Within!—the Fairy's minstrel sings
Away the ghosts of saddest things!
The battle-winter long;
Alas, the world—the hearth's aglow!
And, hark! the cricket's song
Within!—the Fairy's minstrel sings
Away the ghosts of saddest things!
The firelight strikes our walls to bloom—
Home's tender warmth in flower, I deem;
And look, the pictures in the room
Shine in the restless gleam—
Dear, humble fancies of the heart
When Art was Love in love with Art:
Home's tender warmth in flower, I deem;
And look, the pictures in the room
Shine in the restless gleam—
Dear, humble fancies of the heart
When Art was Love in love with Art:
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The Torrent lost in rainbow spray;
The Flock (its shepherdess the moon)
Asleep; the Laureate-Lark of Day
At home some even in June;
The Window, wide for beam and bee:
A dove within—without, the sea!
The Flock (its shepherdess the moon)
Asleep; the Laureate-Lark of Day
At home some even in June;
The Window, wide for beam and bee:
A dove within—without, the sea!
A Cottage in a summer land,
With one whose shadow walks before:
Snow-peaks afar in sunset stand—
Vines flutter at the door,
Half-hiding in a sunlit place,
But cannot hide, a sunlit face;
With one whose shadow walks before:
Snow-peaks afar in sunset stand—
Vines flutter at the door,
Half-hiding in a sunlit place,
But cannot hide, a sunlit face;
The Mother, with her arms about
Her baby kiss'd from evening sleep—
Still rocks the cradle: laugh and shout
Within her bosom keep
Glad echoes—on her drooping hair
A sunbeam, 'lighting, lingers there;
Her baby kiss'd from evening sleep—
Still rocks the cradle: laugh and shout
Within her bosom keep
Glad echoes—on her drooping hair
A sunbeam, 'lighting, lingers there;
The Angel visiting her Child,
Hovering with a yearning grace,
Flush'd by the firelight, sweetly mild,
A mother's brooding face:
Her wings (the boy has dreaming eyes)
Show that she came from Paradise!
Hovering with a yearning grace,
Flush'd by the firelight, sweetly mild,
A mother's brooding face:
Her wings (the boy has dreaming eyes)
Show that she came from Paradise!
84
Blithe dance the flames and blest are we!
Without, the funeral of the year
Is preach'd by every mournful tree;
The tree in blossom here
Knows no lost leaves, no vanish'd wing—
In vain will Autumn preach to Spring!
Without, the funeral of the year
Is preach'd by every mournful tree;
The tree in blossom here
Knows no lost leaves, no vanish'd wing—
In vain will Autumn preach to Spring!
The cricket sings. His song? You know:
Warm prophecies of dearest days—
(Horizons lost of long ago
Crumble within the blaze!)
Of nights aglow with lights that bless
And wine from Home's enchanted press.
Warm prophecies of dearest days—
(Horizons lost of long ago
Crumble within the blaze!)
Of nights aglow with lights that bless
And wine from Home's enchanted press.
The cricket sings; and, as I dream,
Your face shows tender smile and tear—
What angels of the hearth, a-gleam,
Wingless, have lighted here?
Sing, cricket, sing of these to-night—
The First Fire of our Home is bright!
Your face shows tender smile and tear—
What angels of the hearth, a-gleam,
Wingless, have lighted here?
Sing, cricket, sing of these to-night—
The First Fire of our Home is bright!
Georgetown, D. C., October, 1861.
85
TAKING THE NIGHT-TRAIN.
A tremulous word, a lingering hand, the burning
Of restless passion smouldering—so we part;
Ah, slowly from the dark the world is turning
When midnight stars shine in a heavy heart.
Of restless passion smouldering—so we part;
Ah, slowly from the dark the world is turning
When midnight stars shine in a heavy heart.
The streets are lighted, and the myriad faces
Move through the gaslight, and the homesick feet
Pass by me, homeless; sweet and close embraces
Charm many a threshold—laughs and kisses sweet.
Move through the gaslight, and the homesick feet
Pass by me, homeless; sweet and close embraces
Charm many a threshold—laughs and kisses sweet.
From great hotels the stranger throng is streaming,
The hurrying wheels in many a street are loud;
Within the depot, in the gaslight gleaming,
A glare of faces, stands the waiting crowd.
The hurrying wheels in many a street are loud;
Within the depot, in the gaslight gleaming,
A glare of faces, stands the waiting crowd.
The whistle screams; the wheels are rumbling slowly,
The path before us glides into the light:
Behind, the city sinks in silence wholly;
The panting engine leaps into the night.
The path before us glides into the light:
Behind, the city sinks in silence wholly;
The panting engine leaps into the night.
86
I seem to see each street a mystery growing,
In mist of dreamland—vague, forgotten air:
Does no sweet soul, awaking, feel me going?
Loves no dear heart, in dreams, to keep me there?
In mist of dreamland—vague, forgotten air:
Does no sweet soul, awaking, feel me going?
Loves no dear heart, in dreams, to keep me there?
87
LEAVES AT MY WINDOW.
I watch the leaves that flutter in the wind,Bathing my eyes with coolness and my heart
Filling with springs of grateful sense anew,
Before my window—in the sun and rain.
And now the wind is gone and now the rain,
And all a motionless moment breathe, and now
Playful the wind comes back—again the shower,
Again the sunshine! Like a golden swarm
Of butterflies the leaves are fluttering,
The leaves are dancing, singing—all alive
(For Fancy gives her breath to every leaf)
For the blithe moment. Beautiful to me,
Of all inanimate things most beautiful,
And dear as flowers their kindred, are the leaves
In all their summer life; and, when a child,
I loved to lie through sunny afternoons
With half-shut eyes (familiar eyes with things
Long unfamiliar, knowing Fairyland
And all the unhidden mysteries of the Earth)
Using my kinship in those earlier days
With Nature and the humbler people, dear
88
The leaves had myriad voices, and their joy
One with the birds' that sang among them seem'd;
And, oftentimes, I lay in breezy shade
Till, creeping with the loving stealth he takes
In healthy temperaments, the blesséd Sleep
(Thrice blesséd and thrice-blessing now, because
Of sleepless things that will not give us rest)
Came with his weird processions—dreams that wore
All happy masks—blithe fairies numberless,
Forever passing, never more to pass,
The Spirits of the Leaves. Awaking then,
Behold the sun was swimming in my face
Through mists of his creations, swarming gold,
And all the leaves in sultry languor lay
Above me, for I waken'd when they dropp'd
Asleep, unmoving. Now, when Time has ceased
His holiday, and I am prison'd close
In his harsh service, master'd by his Hours,
The leaves have not forgotten me: behold,
They play with me like children who, awake,
Find one most dear asleep and waken him
To their own gladness from his sultry dream;
But nothing sweeter do they give to me
89
Watches like me the leaves and thinks of me
While o'er her window, sunnily, the shower
Touches all boughs to music, and the rose
Beneath swings lovingly toward the pane,
And She, whom Nature gave the freshest sense
For all her delicate life, rejoices in
The joy of birds that use the sun to sing
With breasts o'er-full of music. “Little Birds,”
She sings, “Sing to my little Bird below!”
And with her child-like fancy, half-belief,
She hears them sing and makes-believe they obey,
And the child, wakening, listens motionless.
90
CHARITY AT HOME.
Two children stand, with dimpled cheek and chin,
Pressing their loving foreheads to the pane
To see the forest black in twilight rain,
But only see their happy walls within,
Winking in firelight, wavering rosy-warm,
While rush without, roaring, the wings of storm.
Pressing their loving foreheads to the pane
To see the forest black in twilight rain,
But only see their happy walls within,
Winking in firelight, wavering rosy-warm,
While rush without, roaring, the wings of storm.
So, often, we who in charm'd circles stand,
Where the good Fairy, Fortune, smiling brings
God's transient gifts with ever-gracious wings,
Behold the world in her closed Fairyland:
For, warm within, from our sweet rooms we gaze
Into the dark, and see—our Fireside-blaze!
Where the good Fairy, Fortune, smiling brings
God's transient gifts with ever-gracious wings,
Behold the world in her closed Fairyland:
For, warm within, from our sweet rooms we gaze
Into the dark, and see—our Fireside-blaze!
91
MARIAN'S FIRST HALF-YEAR.
Maiden Marian, born in May,
When the earth with flowers was gay,
And the Hours by day and night
Wore the jewels of delight:
Half-a-year has vanish'd by
Like a wondrous pageantry—
Mother May with fairy flowers,
June with dancing leaf-crown'd Hours,
July red with harvest-rust,
Swarthy August white with dust,
Mild September clothed in gold,
Wise October, hermit old—
And the world, so new and strange,
Circled you in olden change,
Since the miracle-morn of birth
Made your May-day on the earth.
Half-a-year, sweet child, has brought
To your eyes the soul of thought;
To your lips, with cries so dumb,
Baby-syllables have come,
Dreams of fairy language known
To your mother's heart alone—
Anté-Hebrew words complete
(To old Noah obsolete);
You have learn'd expressions strange,
Miracles of facial change,
Winning gestures, supplications,
Stamp'd entreaties, exhortations—
Oratory eloquent
Where no more is said than meant;
You have lived philosophies
Older far than Socrates—
Holiest life you've understood
Better than oldest wise and good:
Such as erst in Eden's light
Shunn'd not God's nor angel's sight;
You have caught with subtler eyes
Close Pythagorean ties
In the bird and in the tree,
And in every thing you see;
You have found and practise well
(Moulding life of principle)
Epicurean doctrines old
Of the Hour's fruit of gold:
Lifted, Moses-like, you stand,
Looking, where the Promised Land
Dazzles far away your sight—
Milk-and-honey's your delight!
When the earth with flowers was gay,
And the Hours by day and night
Wore the jewels of delight:
Half-a-year has vanish'd by
Like a wondrous pageantry—
Mother May with fairy flowers,
June with dancing leaf-crown'd Hours,
July red with harvest-rust,
Swarthy August white with dust,
Mild September clothed in gold,
Wise October, hermit old—
And the world, so new and strange,
Circled you in olden change,
Since the miracle-morn of birth
Made your May-day on the earth.
Half-a-year, sweet child, has brought
To your eyes the soul of thought;
To your lips, with cries so dumb,
Baby-syllables have come,
92
To your mother's heart alone—
Anté-Hebrew words complete
(To old Noah obsolete);
You have learn'd expressions strange,
Miracles of facial change,
Winning gestures, supplications,
Stamp'd entreaties, exhortations—
Oratory eloquent
Where no more is said than meant;
You have lived philosophies
Older far than Socrates—
Holiest life you've understood
Better than oldest wise and good:
Such as erst in Eden's light
Shunn'd not God's nor angel's sight;
You have caught with subtler eyes
Close Pythagorean ties
In the bird and in the tree,
And in every thing you see;
You have found and practise well
(Moulding life of principle)
Epicurean doctrines old
Of the Hour's fruit of gold:
Lifted, Moses-like, you stand,
Looking, where the Promised Land
93
Milk-and-honey's your delight!
Maiden Marian, born in May,
Half-a-year has pass'd away;
Half-a-year of cannon-pealing,
('Twas your era of good feeling,)
You have scarce heard dreader sound
Than those privateers around,
Buzzing flies, a busy brood,
Lovers of sweet babyhood—
Than the hum of lullaby
Rock'd to dreamland tenderly;
Half-a-year of dreadest sights
Through bright days and fairy nights,
You have seen no dreader thing
Than the marvel of a wing,
Than the leaves whose shadows warm
Play'd in many a phantom swarm
On the floor, the table under,
Lighting your small face with wonder!
Half-a-year has pass'd away;
Half-a-year of cannon-pealing,
('Twas your era of good feeling,)
You have scarce heard dreader sound
Than those privateers around,
Buzzing flies, a busy brood,
Lovers of sweet babyhood—
Than the hum of lullaby
Rock'd to dreamland tenderly;
Half-a-year of dreadest sights
Through bright days and fairy nights,
You have seen no dreader thing
Than the marvel of a wing,
Than the leaves whose shadows warm
Play'd in many a phantom swarm
On the floor, the table under,
Lighting your small face with wonder!
Maiden Marian, born in May,
Half-a-year has pass'd away:
'Tis a dark November day;
Lifted by our window, lo!
Washington is whirl'd in snow!
But, within, the fluttering flame
Keeps you summer-warm the same,
And your mother (while I write),
Crimson'd by the ember light,
Murmurs sweeter things to you
Than I'd write a half-year through:
Baby-lyrics, lost to art,
Found within a mother's heart.
Half-a-year has pass'd away:
'Tis a dark November day;
Lifted by our window, lo!
Washington is whirl'd in snow!
But, within, the fluttering flame
94
And your mother (while I write),
Crimson'd by the ember light,
Murmurs sweeter things to you
Than I'd write a half-year through:
Baby-lyrics, lost to art,
Found within a mother's heart.
Maiden Marian, born in May,
I'll not question Time to-day
For the mysteries of your morrows,
Girlhood's joys or woman's sorrows,
But (while—side by side, alone—
We recall your summer flown,
And, with eyes that cannot look,
Hold his claspéd Mystery-Book)
I will trust when May is here
He shall measure you a year,
With another half-year sweet
Make the ring of light complete:
We will date our New-Years thence,
Full of summer songs and sense—
All the years begun that day
Shall be born and die in May!
I'll not question Time to-day
For the mysteries of your morrows,
Girlhood's joys or woman's sorrows,
But (while—side by side, alone—
We recall your summer flown,
And, with eyes that cannot look,
Hold his claspéd Mystery-Book)
I will trust when May is here
He shall measure you a year,
With another half-year sweet
Make the ring of light complete:
We will date our New-Years thence,
Full of summer songs and sense—
All the years begun that day
Shall be born and die in May!
November 7, 1862.
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FIRELIGHT ABROAD.
While the wide twilight hushes every thing,
And the unrisen moon's low mystery
Reddens the snow with smother'd Eastern fire,
And, issuing suddenly and bright from heaven,
Hangs yonder star and flutters, look, as bright,
Starting from their close heavens, one by one,
The stars that bless the ended day with peace
Shine steadfastly—the gentler stars of Home!
And the unrisen moon's low mystery
Reddens the snow with smother'd Eastern fire,
And, issuing suddenly and bright from heaven,
Hangs yonder star and flutters, look, as bright,
Starting from their close heavens, one by one,
The stars that bless the ended day with peace
Shine steadfastly—the gentler stars of Home!
As one who, thoughtful, gazing at a star,
Marvels what lovelier uplifted lives
Are bound and dwell within its shining air,
By my lone casement so I love to watch
That halo of the fireside shed abroad
Into the world—Home's holy breath of light—
Dreaming of spirits in its inner glow.
Marvels what lovelier uplifted lives
Are bound and dwell within its shining air,
By my lone casement so I love to watch
That halo of the fireside shed abroad
Into the world—Home's holy breath of light—
Dreaming of spirits in its inner glow.
There the young bride alights from charméd air
Into the real air, enchanted still,
Breathing a bower of roses evermore
Over her husband's dusty week-day toil—
Within the harvest lightening the sheaves,
The forge's hammer. There the mother smiles
Her patient days away in daily love,
With gentle lips and tender-touching hands.
There her blithe children, asking for her knees,
(Illumined by the climbing, dancing blaze,)
Cling warm forever, though the years have swept
Even the last spark in ashes, long ago,
From the dear hearthstone, in quick winds of change;
There play their dreams and, lisping dream-lik prayers,
Send them to Heaven and sleep at Heaven's door.
And there the old, remembering (they who seem
Like helpless trees of some strong forest gone,)
Watch the white ashes crumble from the flame.
Into the real air, enchanted still,
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Over her husband's dusty week-day toil—
Within the harvest lightening the sheaves,
The forge's hammer. There the mother smiles
Her patient days away in daily love,
With gentle lips and tender-touching hands.
There her blithe children, asking for her knees,
(Illumined by the climbing, dancing blaze,)
Cling warm forever, though the years have swept
Even the last spark in ashes, long ago,
From the dear hearthstone, in quick winds of change;
There play their dreams and, lisping dream-lik prayers,
Send them to Heaven and sleep at Heaven's door.
And there the old, remembering (they who seem
Like helpless trees of some strong forest gone,)
Watch the white ashes crumble from the flame.
If angels come from Heaven to our dim earth,
Thither they come, close visitors unseen,
To find their mortal kindred—as of old—
Troubled and sadden'd at their empty air;
And the three angels born in human hearts—
One playing hide-and-seek, a fickle child;
One, the strong blind believer close to God,
Whispering, through all darkness, “I have light;”
And she, the gentle Warmer of the hearth,
Kindling a flame where the last ember flies—
There in the firelight have their dwelling-place.
Thither they come, close visitors unseen,
To find their mortal kindred—as of old—
Troubled and sadden'd at their empty air;
And the three angels born in human hearts—
One playing hide-and-seek, a fickle child;
One, the strong blind believer close to God,
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And she, the gentle Warmer of the hearth,
Kindling a flame where the last ember flies—
There in the firelight have their dwelling-place.
The fireside! O, a warm breath fills the name!
The world's first good, the earth's last happiness,
Circle that warmth and breathe that sacred air,
The atmosphere of those soft lights of Home!
We climb for fame, we walk in mountain paths,
But there's a cottage down in yonder vale:
Through the long strife, the storm to take the hour,
Comes the cool wind from the green pathway thither;
Through the white-heated dust a sudden breath
Of the one rose that guards the happy gate;
From the jarr'd street the ever-opening door!
The world's first good, the earth's last happiness,
Circle that warmth and breathe that sacred air,
The atmosphere of those soft lights of Home!
We climb for fame, we walk in mountain paths,
But there's a cottage down in yonder vale:
Through the long strife, the storm to take the hour,
Comes the cool wind from the green pathway thither;
Through the white-heated dust a sudden breath
Of the one rose that guards the happy gate;
From the jarr'd street the ever-opening door!
Oh, there we warm our hearts when life is cold,
With memory of days that warm no more!
Circling the firelight from all exile lands,
The anchor that no wind can drift away
Still draws us back. One fireside lights the world!
With memory of days that warm no more!
Circling the firelight from all exile lands,
The anchor that no wind can drift away
Still draws us back. One fireside lights the world!
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A LOST GRAVEYARD
Near by, a soundless road is seen, o'ergrown with grass and brier;
Far off, the highway's signal flies—a hurrying dust of fire.
Far off, the highway's signal flies—a hurrying dust of fire.
But here, among forgotten graves, in June's delicious breath,
I linger where the living loved to dream of lovely death.
I linger where the living loved to dream of lovely death.
Worn letters, lit with heavenward thought, these crumbled headstones wear;
Fresh flowers (old epitaphs of Love) are fragrant here and there.
Fresh flowers (old epitaphs of Love) are fragrant here and there.
Years, years ago, these graves were made—no mourners come to-day:
Their footsteps vanish'd, one by one, moving the other way.
Their footsteps vanish'd, one by one, moving the other way.
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Through the loud world they walk, or lie—like those here left at rest—
With two long-folded useless arms on each forgotten breast.
With two long-folded useless arms on each forgotten breast.
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AT EVENING.
Hark, out of all the neighboring forest humThe mingled voices of a myriad things,
(A Sound that half is Silence listening)—
Birds, insects loud with summer, brooks that creep
Slow through the dark and flutter in the light
(As if with prison'd wings) and hurry on,
And the low, lazy turning evermore
Of restless leaves unnumber'd, half-asleep
And yet unsleeping. These, while twilight breathes
Great stealthy veils of silence over all,
Feed my old indolence with newer food,
Till, all forgetful of the hour, I see,
Winking above a western cloud, the star
Beloved by lovers and the lover's friend,
And, underneath the boughs and far and near,
The fireflies climbing into dusky air,
Lifting their million stars from grass and weed
Wet with the dew; meanwhile the stars on high
Start one by one—from cells invisible—
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Cotemporaries of the dreamy hour.
Oh, dear to me the coming forth of stars!
After the trivial tumults of the day
They fill the heaven, they hush the earth with awe,
And, when my life is fretted pettily
With transient nothings, it is good, I deem,
From darkling windows to look forth and gaze
At this new blossoming of Eternity
'Twixt each To-morrow and each dead To-day,
Or else with solemn footsteps modulate
To spheral music wander forth and know
Their radiant individualities
And feel their presence newly, hear again
The silence that is God's voice speaking, slow
In starry syllables, for evermore.
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THE UNHEARD BELL.
Somewhere a Bell speaks, deep and slow,
The ancient monotone of woe:
A child within a garden bright,
The Paradise of morning light,
Hears fountain-laughter, songs of birds,
And teaches Echo mirthful words.
The ancient monotone of woe:
A child within a garden bright,
The Paradise of morning light,
Hears fountain-laughter, songs of birds,
And teaches Echo mirthful words.
Somewhere a Bell speaks, deep and slow,
The ancient monotone of woe:
A youth in an enchanted grove
Hears maidens singing lays of love;
Restless he seeks them all the day,
To crown the loveliest Queen of May.
The ancient monotone of woe:
A youth in an enchanted grove
Hears maidens singing lays of love;
Restless he seeks them all the day,
To crown the loveliest Queen of May.
Somewhere a Bell speaks, deep and slow,
The ancient monotone of woe:
A man, in streets of dust and heat,
Hears the wide sound of busy feet,
The great world's moving, ceaselessly;
And dusk sails whiten far at sea.
The ancient monotone of woe:
A man, in streets of dust and heat,
Hears the wide sound of busy feet,
The great world's moving, ceaselessly;
And dusk sails whiten far at sea.
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Somewhere a Bell speaks, deep and slow,
The ancient monotone of woe:
An old man—deaf to wingéd song,
To maiden voice, or moving throng—
Hears not within his hearse the knell,
The black procession of the Bell.
The ancient monotone of woe:
An old man—deaf to wingéd song,
To maiden voice, or moving throng—
Hears not within his hearse the knell,
The black procession of the Bell.
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THE DARK STREET.
O weary feet that fill the nightly air!
No hearts I hear, no faces see above—
I feel your single yearning, everywhere,
Moving the way of Love!
No hearts I hear, no faces see above—
I feel your single yearning, everywhere,
Moving the way of Love!
Forever crowding weary, one by one
Ye pass no more through all the shadowy air;
The footsteps cease on thresholds dearly lone—
The hearts, the faces there!
Ye pass no more through all the shadowy air;
The footsteps cease on thresholds dearly lone—
The hearts, the faces there!
There all the voices of the heart arise,
Unheard along the darkling street before;
The faces light their loving lips and eyes—
The footsteps are no more!
Unheard along the darkling street before;
The faces light their loving lips and eyes—
The footsteps are no more!
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QUATRAINS.
THE MICROSCOPE AND TELESCOPE.
Look down into the Microscope, and knowThe boundless wonder in the hidden small;
Look up into the Telescope, and, lo!
The hidden greatness in the boundless all!
A DIAL AT A GRAVE.
To number sunny hours by shadows, whyIs here the dial shown,
Where from the Sunshine of Eternity
The Shadow, Time, is flown?
THE HIPPOGRIFF.
Spurn not Life's calls—though seeking higher things—Earth's loving fires for the celestial levin:
The hippogriff has feet as well as wings,
For highways of the world and paths of heaven.
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TO THE SUN.
Flower-wakener, that wakest the spheres in light.I worship thee alike in joy or sorrow:
Thou leavest behind thee the Eternal Night,
Thou bear'st before thee the Eternal Morrow.
FOR---, A POET.
To own a quarry proves no call of Art—'T is Nature's store you cannot keep nor give,
If at your touch the masses will not start,
Radiant processions, shapes that breathe and live!
TORCH-LIGHT IN FALL-TIME.
I lift this sumach-bough with crimson flareAnd, touch'd with subtle pangs of dreamy pain,
Through the dark wood a torch I seem to bear
In Autumn's funeral train.
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THE GOLDEN HAND.
Lo, from the city's heat and dust
A Golden Hand forever thrust,
Uplifting from a spire on high
A shining finger in the sky!
A Golden Hand forever thrust,
Uplifting from a spire on high
A shining finger in the sky!
I see it when the morning brings
Fresh tides of life to living things,
And the great world awakes: behold,
That lifted Hand in morning gold!
Fresh tides of life to living things,
And the great world awakes: behold,
That lifted Hand in morning gold!
I see it when the noontide beats
Pulses of fire in busy streets;
The dust flies in the flaming air:
Above, that quiet Hand is there.
Pulses of fire in busy streets;
The dust flies in the flaming air:
Above, that quiet Hand is there.
I see it when the twilight clings
To the dark earth with hovering wings:
Flashing with the last fluttering ray,
That Golden Hand remembers day.
To the dark earth with hovering wings:
Flashing with the last fluttering ray,
That Golden Hand remembers day.
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The midnight comes—the holy hour;
The city like a giant flower
Sleeps full of dew: that Hand, in light
Of moon and stars, how weirdly bright!
The city like a giant flower
Sleeps full of dew: that Hand, in light
Of moon and stars, how weirdly bright!
Below, in many a noisy street
Are toiling hands and striving feet;
The weakest rise, the strongest fall:
That equal Hand is over all.
Are toiling hands and striving feet;
The weakest rise, the strongest fall:
That equal Hand is over all.
Below, in courts to guard the land,
Gold buys the tongue and binds the hand:
Stealing in God's great scales the gold,
That awful Hand, above, behold!
Gold buys the tongue and binds the hand:
Stealing in God's great scales the gold,
That awful Hand, above, behold!
Below, the Sabbaths walk serene
With the great dust of Days between;
Preachers within their pulpits stand:
See, over all, that heavenly Hand!
With the great dust of Days between;
Preachers within their pulpits stand:
See, over all, that heavenly Hand!
But the hot dust, in crowded air
Below, arises never there:
O speech of one who cannot speak!
O Sabbath-witness of the Week!
Below, arises never there:
O speech of one who cannot speak!
O Sabbath-witness of the Week!
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THE GRAVE-ANGEL.
In the moonlight, on the tombstone,
Stands the Sculptor's marble dream:
From its face its soul is lifted,
And its wings soul-lifted seem.
Stands the Sculptor's marble dream:
From its face its soul is lifted,
And its wings soul-lifted seem.
On the tombstone stands the Angel,
And its left hand points below;
To its lips is press'd a finger:
'T is the Angel Death, I know.
And its left hand points below;
To its lips is press'd a finger:
'T is the Angel Death, I know.
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THE BURIED RING.
Across the door-step, worn and old,
The new bride, joyous, pass'd to-day;
The gray rooms show'd an artful gold,
All words were light, all faces gay.
The new bride, joyous, pass'd to-day;
The gray rooms show'd an artful gold,
All words were light, all faces gay.
Ah, many years have lived and died
Since she, the other vanish'd one,
Into that door, a timid bride,
Bore from the outer world the sun.
Since she, the other vanish'd one,
Into that door, a timid bride,
Bore from the outer world the sun.
O lily, with the rose's glow!
O rose, the lily's garment clad!—
The rooms were golden long ago,
All words were blithe, all faces glad.
O rose, the lily's garment clad!—
The rooms were golden long ago,
All words were blithe, all faces glad.
She wore upon her hand the ring,
Whose frail and human bond is gone—
A coffin keeps the jealous thing
Radiant in shut oblivion:
Whose frail and human bond is gone—
A coffin keeps the jealous thing
Radiant in shut oblivion:
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For she, (beloved, who loved so well,)
In the last tremors of her breath,
Whisper'd of bands impossible—
“She would not give her ring to Death.”
In the last tremors of her breath,
Whisper'd of bands impossible—
“She would not give her ring to Death.”
But he, who holds a newer face
Close to his breast with eager glow,
Has he forgotten her embrace,
The first shy maiden's, long ago?
Close to his breast with eager glow,
Has he forgotten her embrace,
The first shy maiden's, long ago?
Lo, in a ghostly dream of night,
A vision, over him she stands,
Her mortal face in heavenlier light,
With speechless blame but blessing hands!
A vision, over him she stands,
Her mortal face in heavenlier light,
With speechless blame but blessing hands!
And, smiling mortal sorrow's pain
Into immortal peace more deep,
She gives him back her ring again—
The new bride kisses him from sleep!
Into immortal peace more deep,
She gives him back her ring again—
The new bride kisses him from sleep!
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AT CHRISTMAS EVE.
I saw the tide of Christmas
Within the darkness rise:
It flow'd in the hearts of the children,
And leap'd in their loving eyes.
Within the darkness rise:
It flow'd in the hearts of the children,
And leap'd in their loving eyes.
The windows breathed the splendor
Of the joyous day at hand;
In the rainy streets of the city
Shone visions of Fairy-Land.
Of the joyous day at hand;
In the rainy streets of the city
Shone visions of Fairy-Land.
There were ships and cars and houses,
Built marvelously well;
Fruits from the Tropics of Fancy,
And flowers of Miracle!
Built marvelously well;
Fruits from the Tropics of Fancy,
And flowers of Miracle!
There were picture-books of enchantment
Gems from the wonder-mines;
The ark with the world's old family,
And myriad new designs.
Gems from the wonder-mines;
The ark with the world's old family,
And myriad new designs.
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There were birds and beasts unnumber'd,
Unnamed by me, I am sure;
And, wearing many costumes,
The world in miniature.
Unnamed by me, I am sure;
And, wearing many costumes,
The world in miniature.
“Many a Tree of Christmas
Is loaded with joy to-night;
Many a bough shall blossom,
Enchanted, at morning light!”
Is loaded with joy to-night;
Many a bough shall blossom,
Enchanted, at morning light!”
I said, and thought of the children,
In many a dancing home,
For the Angel of Christmas waiting
And longing for him to come.
In many a dancing home,
For the Angel of Christmas waiting
And longing for him to come.
“They press their joyous faces
Against the darken'd pane,
And the lighted world behind them
They see without in the rain!”
Against the darken'd pane,
And the lighted world behind them
They see without in the rain!”
I said, and thought of the children,
Abroad in the street at night,
Who know no Angel of Christmas
By gifts at morning light:
Abroad in the street at night,
Who know no Angel of Christmas
By gifts at morning light:
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“They press their saddened faces
Against the lighted pane
And the darken'd world behind them
They feel, without in the rain!”
Against the lighted pane
And the darken'd world behind them
They feel, without in the rain!”
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SUNDOWN.
While stealthy breezes kiss to frosty gold
The swells of foliage down the vale serene,
And all the sunset fills
The dreamland of the hills,
Now all the enchantment of October old
Feels a cold veil fall o'er its passing scene.
The swells of foliage down the vale serene,
And all the sunset fills
The dreamland of the hills,
Now all the enchantment of October old
Feels a cold veil fall o'er its passing scene.
Low sounds of Autumn creep along the plains,
Through the wide stillness of the woodlands brown,
Where the still waters glean
The melancholy scene;
The cattle, lingering slow through river lanes,
Brush yellowing vines that swing through elm-trees down.
Through the wide stillness of the woodlands brown,
Where the still waters glean
The melancholy scene;
The cattle, lingering slow through river lanes,
Brush yellowing vines that swing through elm-trees down.
The forests, climbing up the northern air,
Wear far an azure slumber through the light,
Showing, in pictures strange,
The stealthy wand of change;
The corn shows languid breezes, here and there—
Faint-heard o'er all the bottoms wide and bright.
Wear far an azure slumber through the light,
Showing, in pictures strange,
The stealthy wand of change;
The corn shows languid breezes, here and there—
Faint-heard o'er all the bottoms wide and bright.
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On many a silent circle slowly blown,
The hawk, in sun-flush'd calm suspended high,
With careless trust of might
Slides wing-wide through the light—
Now golden through the restless dazzle shown,
Now drooping down, now swinging up the sky.
The hawk, in sun-flush'd calm suspended high,
With careless trust of might
Slides wing-wide through the light—
Now golden through the restless dazzle shown,
Now drooping down, now swinging up the sky.
Wind-worn along their sunburnt gables old,
The barns are full of all the Indian sun,
In golden quiet wrought
Like webs of dreamy thought,
And in their Winter clasp serenely fold
The green year's earnest promise harvest-won.
The barns are full of all the Indian sun,
In golden quiet wrought
Like webs of dreamy thought,
And in their Winter clasp serenely fold
The green year's earnest promise harvest-won.
With evening bells that gather, low or loud,
A village, through the distance, poplar-bound,
O'er meadows silent grown,
And lanes with crisp leaves strown,
Lifts up one spire, aflame, against a cloud
That slumbers eastward, slow and silver-crowned.
A village, through the distance, poplar-bound,
O'er meadows silent grown,
And lanes with crisp leaves strown,
Lifts up one spire, aflame, against a cloud
That slumbers eastward, slow and silver-crowned.
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WHITE FROST.
The ghostly Frost is come;
I feel him in the night;
The breathless Leaves are numb,
Motionless with affright:
The moon, arisen late and still,
Sees all their faces beaded chill.
I feel him in the night;
The breathless Leaves are numb,
Motionless with affright:
The moon, arisen late and still,
Sees all their faces beaded chill.
The ghostly Frost is here,
I see him in the night;
Through all the meadows near
Waver his garments white:
Ha! at our window looking through?
Ah, Frost, this Fire would conquer you!
I see him in the night;
Through all the meadows near
Waver his garments white:
Ha! at our window looking through?
Ah, Frost, this Fire would conquer you!
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PASSENGERS.
Night held aloft the gentle star,
Her earliest watchfire in the dark,
And by the window of the car
Flutter'd and flew the hurrying spark.
Her earliest watchfire in the dark,
And by the window of the car
Flutter'd and flew the hurrying spark.
Its pathway finding through the snows,
The train rush'd on with tremulous roar—
Like one whose purpose burns and glows.
A torch to lead his life, before.
The train rush'd on with tremulous roar—
Like one whose purpose burns and glows.
A torch to lead his life, before.
The darkness grew around the face
Of every traveler for the night:
A sudden vision fill'd the place
And touch'd the gloom with tender light.
Of every traveler for the night:
A sudden vision fill'd the place
And touch'd the gloom with tender light.
Not from the holy world unknown:
A gentle mission of the air
From happy hearth and threshold flown,
Familiar angels, gather'd there.
A gentle mission of the air
From happy hearth and threshold flown,
Familiar angels, gather'd there.
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O prayers that breathe from faces bright,
O thoughts of love that will not sleep,
O dreams that give the soul by night
Its wings the body may not keep!
O thoughts of love that will not sleep,
O dreams that give the soul by night
Its wings the body may not keep!
Not unattended, far away,
The wanderer moves with throngs unknown;
Ye meet or follow, night or day—
I saw your heavenly shapes alone!
The wanderer moves with throngs unknown;
Ye meet or follow, night or day—
I saw your heavenly shapes alone!
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FORESIGHT OF FATE.
Mother and Child walk in a path of flowers,
Through a bright garden tended by the Hours.
Through a bright garden tended by the Hours.
From gentle blossoms, fragrant-hearted there,
Birds, singing, lift the child's heart into air.
Birds, singing, lift the child's heart into air.
Some dreadful House before them grows, unknown:
A ghost of grated casements stares from stone!
A ghost of grated casements stares from stone!
Whence came the phantom?—what enchantment wild?
The Mother sees it not nor can the child.
The Mother sees it not nor can the child.
Lo, some lost face, haunting with dreamy glare
The darkness, looking through the darkness there!
The darkness, looking through the darkness there!
How strange if he, lost to himself within,
Were that same child pure as a rose from sin;
Were that same child pure as a rose from sin;
And if that face, through those fierce bars aglare,
Saw that same Child cling to that Mother's care!
Saw that same Child cling to that Mother's care!
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TO ONE IN A DARKENED HOUSE.
O friend, whose loss is mine in part,
Your grief is mine in part, although
I can not measure in my heart
The immeasurable woe.
Your grief is mine in part, although
I can not measure in my heart
The immeasurable woe.
As from a shining window cast
The fireside's gleam abroad is known,
I knew the brightness that is pass'd—
Its inner warmth your own.
The fireside's gleam abroad is known,
I knew the brightness that is pass'd—
Its inner warmth your own.
O vanish'd firelight!—dark, without,
The late illumined sphere of space;
The warmth within has died about
Your darken'd heart and face.
The late illumined sphere of space;
The warmth within has died about
Your darken'd heart and face.
If I could hide your gloom with light,
Or breathe you back the warmth of old—
O vain! I stand in outer night
And feel your inner cold!
Or breathe you back the warmth of old—
O vain! I stand in outer night
And feel your inner cold!
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THE BIRTHDAYS.
O morning, sweet and bright and clear!
Anew the earth seems blossoming:
In Summer's swarthy heart I hear
The fountain-heads of Spring.
Anew the earth seems blossoming:
In Summer's swarthy heart I hear
The fountain-heads of Spring.
It is your birthday, dearest one—
Far-off from you this summer day,
I think of many another sun
That August took from May:
Far-off from you this summer day,
I think of many another sun
That August took from May:
When—for your honor—sweet and bright,
The month of dust and dead perfume
Remember'd May's delicious light,
Her gentle breath and bloom.
The month of dust and dead perfume
Remember'd May's delicious light,
Her gentle breath and bloom.
I dream of many a birthday blithe,
Baptizing earth with loving dew,
When Time the reaper hid his scythe
And gather'd flowers for you.
Baptizing earth with loving dew,
When Time the reaper hid his scythe
And gather'd flowers for you.
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Lo, first I see the morning, love,
That on your mother's tender breast,
A wingless bird from Heaven above,
You found your earthly nest.
That on your mother's tender breast,
A wingless bird from Heaven above,
You found your earthly nest.
Your childhood's birthdays come and go,
Stealing from shining day to day
A lovely child with whom, I know,
The fairies loved to play.
Stealing from shining day to day
A lovely child with whom, I know,
The fairies loved to play.
Your grand old kinsman, Boone, I guess—
Ulysses of the Indian wild—
Enjoy'd no dearer loneliness
Than you a wandering child.
Ulysses of the Indian wild—
Enjoy'd no dearer loneliness
Than you a wandering child.
Shy as the butterfly you went
On visits to your baby flowers,
Among the lonely birds content
To pass unlonely hours.
On visits to your baby flowers,
Among the lonely birds content
To pass unlonely hours.
Nature, I deem, those birthdays caught
You to her breast in solitude:
Her loveliest picture-books she brought
And read you in the wood.
You to her breast in solitude:
Her loveliest picture-books she brought
And read you in the wood.
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All lovely things she gave your love:
The humble flowers, the stars on high,
The lightning's awful wing above,
The tremulous butterfly.
The humble flowers, the stars on high,
The lightning's awful wing above,
The tremulous butterfly.
My fancy, love-created, goes
Lightly from passing year to year:
My little fairy maiden grows
To tender girlhood dear.
Lightly from passing year to year:
My little fairy maiden grows
To tender girlhood dear.
A dreaming girl, as shy as dew
In dells of Fairyland apart,
Within your soul a lily grew—
A rose within your heart.
In dells of Fairyland apart,
Within your soul a lily grew—
A rose within your heart.
I follow on your changeful way,
Lift all the burdens from your hours,
Make you my constant queen of May
And wreathe your birthday flowers.
Lift all the burdens from your hours,
Make you my constant queen of May
And wreathe your birthday flowers.
My fancy follows: ah, perchance,
I, Fairy Prince of fable true,
Found you asleep in fated trance
And kiss'd you ere you knew!
I, Fairy Prince of fable true,
Found you asleep in fated trance
And kiss'd you ere you knew!
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They come, they vanish—swift or slow—
Oh, long unmask'd, those maskéd years:
At last the birthdays that I know
I see, with smiles and tears.
Oh, long unmask'd, those maskéd years:
At last the birthdays that I know
I see, with smiles and tears.
Your birthdays which are mine draw nigh:
Lo, yours and mine are join'd in one!—
Mine with the blue-bird's prophecy,
Yours with the August sun!
Lo, yours and mine are join'd in one!—
Mine with the blue-bird's prophecy,
Yours with the August sun!
And, look, another joins the two:
The First of March, the August day
Mingle their tender light and dew
With Marian's in May!
The First of March, the August day
Mingle their tender light and dew
With Marian's in May!
126
TO GRACE AT CHRISTMAS.
WITH AN EASTERN FAIRY-BOOK.
Sweet Fairyland! at Christmas, lo!
Thy sunken splendors shine
To those who, Westward, farther go
Out of the East divine—
Dear wonder-world by childhood won,
Lost Miracle of the Morning sun!
Thy sunken splendors shine
To those who, Westward, farther go
Out of the East divine—
Dear wonder-world by childhood won,
Lost Miracle of the Morning sun!
A blind man prison'd in the light,
Still, as a blinded man, I look
At the old shapes of vanish'd sight
In Memory's Marvel-Book.
I turn the pages, leaf by leaf,
And Fancy makes-believe belief!
Still, as a blinded man, I look
At the old shapes of vanish'd sight
In Memory's Marvel-Book.
I turn the pages, leaf by leaf,
And Fancy makes-believe belief!
But now at charmed words, alas!
The treasure-doors have Treasury locks;
Aladdin's lamp (or gold or brass?)
I rub: the Genius knocks!—
This coal-oil lamp was just in place:
“Come in”—a Genius? No, a Grace!
The treasure-doors have Treasury locks;
Aladdin's lamp (or gold or brass?)
I rub: the Genius knocks!—
This coal-oil lamp was just in place:
“Come in”—a Genius? No, a Grace!
127
Sweet little maiden, to your sight
Fairies and Fairy-worlds may rise;
The East to you shows joyous light
Where in his cradle lies
God's Gentle Child—this lovely morn
I saw him dead and crown'd with thorn!
Fairies and Fairy-worlds may rise;
The East to you shows joyous light
Where in his cradle lies
God's Gentle Child—this lovely morn
I saw him dead and crown'd with thorn!
A dreamer's fancy—never mind;
You'd have a Fairy-Book, you said:
A gift of sunshine gives the blind
When the sweet dreams are dead,
I pray that from your eyes and heart
Faith, the True Fairy, 'll ne'er depart!
You'd have a Fairy-Book, you said:
A gift of sunshine gives the blind
When the sweet dreams are dead,
I pray that from your eyes and heart
Faith, the True Fairy, 'll ne'er depart!
December 25, 1862.
128
THE LAST FIRE.
The First Fire, one remember'd night
Of chilly fall, we kindled: bright
And beautiful were its gleams!
Warming the new world all our own
And welcoming radiant futures, shone
That prophecy of our dreams!
Of chilly fall, we kindled: bright
And beautiful were its gleams!
Warming the new world all our own
And welcoming radiant futures, shone
That prophecy of our dreams!
Our window burn'd against the cold,
And faces from the dark, behold!
In transient haloes came;
The household troubadour of mirth,
The cricket, took with song our hearth
And bless'd the blessing flame.
And faces from the dark, behold!
In transient haloes came;
The household troubadour of mirth,
The cricket, took with song our hearth
And bless'd the blessing flame.
O flushing firelight, rosy-warm!
O walls with many a floating form
Of dreamy shade a-bloom!
Fancy, by Love transfigured, wrought
All miracles of tender thought,
Transfiguring the room!
O walls with many a floating form
Of dreamy shade a-bloom!
Fancy, by Love transfigured, wrought
All miracles of tender thought,
Transfiguring the room!
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Beloved and bless'd and beautified,
God-given, Angel by my side!
The winter came and went,
And never, since the world began,
Grew sweeter happiness to man,
Or tenderer content.
God-given, Angel by my side!
The winter came and went,
And never, since the world began,
Grew sweeter happiness to man,
Or tenderer content.
At dawn we leave the place, so warm
And bright with you December's storm
Nor cold nor shadow brought:
The Last Fire warms our walls to-night;
The window breathes its wonted light,
But sadness haunts our thought.
And bright with you December's storm
Nor cold nor shadow brought:
The Last Fire warms our walls to-night;
The window breathes its wonted light,
But sadness haunts our thought.
By tenderest tides of feeling stirr'd
Your heart brings tears for every word:
I hear you murmur low,
“Here blossom'd Home for you and me—
Love walk'd without his glamoury
And stood diviner so.
Your heart brings tears for every word:
I hear you murmur low,
“Here blossom'd Home for you and me—
Love walk'd without his glamoury
And stood diviner so.
“Dear echoes, answering day by day—
We cannot take the past away!
The threshold and the floor,
Where Love's familiar steps have been
Repeated evermore within,
Are dear forever more!”
We cannot take the past away!
The threshold and the floor,
Where Love's familiar steps have been
Repeated evermore within,
Are dear forever more!”
130
Yes, but the place beloved shall be
Bequeath'd to loving Memory:
The spirits of the place,
The Larés of the household air,
Born of the heart, the heart must bear—
They know no stranger's face.
Bequeath'd to loving Memory:
The spirits of the place,
The Larés of the household air,
Born of the heart, the heart must bear—
They know no stranger's face.
The atmosphere we fill is ours:
It moves with us its sun and showers;
It is our world alone,
Vivid with all our souls create,
The plastic dream, the stone of Fate—
We take and keep our own.
It moves with us its sun and showers;
It is our world alone,
Vivid with all our souls create,
The plastic dream, the stone of Fate—
We take and keep our own.
So let the Last Fire flame and fall,
The ghostly ember-shadows crawl,
The ashes fill the hearth:
The cricket travels where we go,
And Home is but the Heaven below
Transfiguring the Earth!
The ghostly ember-shadows crawl,
The ashes fill the hearth:
The cricket travels where we go,
And Home is but the Heaven below
Transfiguring the Earth!
131
TO MY BROTHER GUY,
AFTER BUTTERFLIES.
I have watch'd you, little Guy,Chasing many a butterfly;
I have seen you, boy, by stealth
Strive to pluck the flying wealth
From the blossoms where it grew,
Miracle of a moment new;
I have seen your redden'd face,
Radiant from the bootless chase,
Happy-eyed, with gladness sweet
Laugh away each late defeat;
I have heard your panting heart,
Eager for another start,
Taking newer chances fair
For the elusive flower of air.
I'll not check your joyous chase,
Calling it a useless race;
I will not discourage you
With experience seeming-true,
132
Chrysales within my heart;
I'll not whisper, prophesying,
That the wings are golden, flying—
Dropping all their pretty dust
At the touch of the sweet trust:
Words of warm simplicity,
Fusing cold philosophy,
These would light your lips and brow—
You would chase them anyhow!
Chase them, fleet-foot champion,
Lithe knight-errant of the sun!
Chase the sultry butterflies,
Tropic summers in disguise!
Chase them, while your buoyant feet
Take the heart's ecstatic beat,
While your playmate is the breeze,
While the flowers will hide the bees,
While the birds come singing to you,
While the sunshine gladdens through you!
Butterflies, if caught or not,
Thorough many a gentle spot
They will lead—though vain the chase
It must be in the heaven's face:
133
In bright air, through sunny hours.
Chase them—nothing's dead nor dying:
Look, your butterflies are flying!
134
RESURRECTION.
No season, O friend, may seem
Dearer than that through which I seem'd to go
When the blind Fever, piloting my dream,
Drifted me to and fro.
Dearer than that through which I seem'd to go
When the blind Fever, piloting my dream,
Drifted me to and fro.
I thought that you were lost:
That Light in the dark, or Shadow in the sun,
Had taken you; and helpless I was toss'd—
Comfortless and undone!
That Light in the dark, or Shadow in the sun,
Had taken you; and helpless I was toss'd—
Comfortless and undone!
Through all familiar air
That you had breathed I wander'd, but I found
Only your absence in my own despair—
O never-healing wound!
That you had breathed I wander'd, but I found
Only your absence in my own despair—
O never-healing wound!
I could not find you, and
I knew I could not; in a grave you lay
Which I had seen not—over dust and sand
Blown in a wind's lost way!
I knew I could not; in a grave you lay
Which I had seen not—over dust and sand
Blown in a wind's lost way!
135
At last you came: behold,
I saw you—from among the dead, I deem'd:
Not free from Death, but bearing as of old
Your living child, you seem'd.
I saw you—from among the dead, I deem'd:
Not free from Death, but bearing as of old
Your living child, you seem'd.
White with the following light
Of some new world, whose darkness we but know
Who blindly look, you claim'd your dearest right,
The mother's place, below.
Of some new world, whose darkness we but know
Who blindly look, you claim'd your dearest right,
The mother's place, below.
A mother's tender heart,
That would not rest, had brought you to your own.
They told me soon again you must depart
And leave your world alone.
That would not rest, had brought you to your own.
They told me soon again you must depart
And leave your world alone.
But still you stay'd and still
You would not go, and Life again at last
Renew'd the warm persuasion of its will,
Breathing, and held you fast.
You would not go, and Life again at last
Renew'd the warm persuasion of its will,
Breathing, and held you fast.
And so my dream was gone.
Lo, I had wander'd almost to that brink
Where the great Darkness standing in the Dawn
Makes the night-traveler shrink.
Lo, I had wander'd almost to that brink
Where the great Darkness standing in the Dawn
Makes the night-traveler shrink.
136
'T was I had pass'd away,
And my return that brought you back to me;
I, blind in the mist—you, vanish'd in the day,
Return'd when I could see.
And my return that brought you back to me;
I, blind in the mist—you, vanish'd in the day,
Return'd when I could see.
And, still unwearying, lo!
Though worn and weary, you had trembled near,
O tender watcher, fearing I should go,
And hoping out your fear!
Though worn and weary, you had trembled near,
O tender watcher, fearing I should go,
And hoping out your fear!
137
MOONRISE.
'Tis midnight and the city lies
With dreaming heart and closéd eyes:
The giant's folded hands at rest,
Like Prayer asleep, are on his breast.
With dreaming heart and closéd eyes:
The giant's folded hands at rest,
Like Prayer asleep, are on his breast.
From windows hush'd, I see alone
The tide-worn streets so silent grown:
The dusty footprints of the day
Are bless'd with dew and steal away.
The tide-worn streets so silent grown:
The dusty footprints of the day
Are bless'd with dew and steal away.
Oh, scarce a pulse of sound! Afar,
Flashes upon a spire a star—
Lo, in the East a dusky light:
Ghost-like the moon moves through the night.
Flashes upon a spire a star—
Lo, in the East a dusky light:
Ghost-like the moon moves through the night.
Unveiling slow, a face of blood
She lifts into the solitude!
The city sleeps; above, behold
The moonrise kiss a cross of gold!
She lifts into the solitude!
The city sleeps; above, behold
The moonrise kiss a cross of gold!
138
Golden in air that cross: at rest
Below the city's sleeping breast;
And on the cross, moon-brighten'd, see!
Christ, dying, smiles down lovingly!
Below the city's sleeping breast;
And on the cross, moon-brighten'd, see!
Christ, dying, smiles down lovingly!
139
TO A CHILD.
Oh, while from me, this tender morn, depart
Dreams vague and vain and wild,
Sing, happy child, and dance into my heart,
Where I was once a child!
Dreams vague and vain and wild,
Sing, happy child, and dance into my heart,
Where I was once a child!
Your eyes they send the butterflies before,
Your lips they kiss the rose;
O gentle child, Joy opes your morning door—
Joy kisses your repose!
Your lips they kiss the rose;
O gentle child, Joy opes your morning door—
Joy kisses your repose!
The fairy Echo-children love you, try
To steal your loving voice;
Flying you laugh—they, laughing while you fly,
Gay with your glee rejoice.
To steal your loving voice;
Flying you laugh—they, laughing while you fly,
Gay with your glee rejoice.
Oh, while from me, this tender morn, depart
Dreams vague and vain and wild,
Play, happy child—sing, dance within my heart,
Where I will be child!
Dreams vague and vain and wild,
Play, happy child—sing, dance within my heart,
Where I will be child!
140
THE BLUE-BIRD'S BURIAL.
I.
After long rains November, in a brief dream of Spring,
Had the tearful eyes of April; some trees were blossoming.
Had the tearful eyes of April; some trees were blossoming.
But, long before, October dear April's bloom had bless'd—
Her goldenest hope lay ripen'd upon his swarthy breast.
Her goldenest hope lay ripen'd upon his swarthy breast.
Hush'd were the noons and leafless the boughs of the cherry tree,
Where the blue-bird sang as prophet, and as preacher humm'd the bee.
Where the blue-bird sang as prophet, and as preacher humm'd the bee.
Deep in her palace of honey the queen-bee dream'd of Spring,
And moved in winter slumber while the trees were blossoming.
And moved in winter slumber while the trees were blossoming.
141
And the blue-bird dropp'd—remember, we buried him, darling, found
With the dead leaves, nameless, homeless, and coffinless, on the ground.
With the dead leaves, nameless, homeless, and coffinless, on the ground.
We found him and bless'd and buried the prophet of blossom and bee,
With painted leaves for his cover, under his laurel tree:
With painted leaves for his cover, under his laurel tree:
Saying, “Dear poet and prophet, you bless'd the world, we know;
We give you the poet's guerdon—a grave in Winter snow.
We give you the poet's guerdon—a grave in Winter snow.
“But blesséd and blessing forever shall be the life you led;
Your breath was a breath of heaven—sleep warm in the Earth's cold bed.
Your breath was a breath of heaven—sleep warm in the Earth's cold bed.
“Forgotten and unremember'd?—remember'd and unforgot!
Your soul shall rise and flutter from many a poet's thought;
Your soul shall rise and flutter from many a poet's thought;
142
“And all the haunted silence deep in the poet's breast,
Of Spring and Love and Longing, shall rise with wings, express'd.
Of Spring and Love and Longing, shall rise with wings, express'd.
“Sleep, therefore, April's darling, twin of the violet dead,
With the ghost of song in your bosom, the starflower at your head.”
With the ghost of song in your bosom, the starflower at your head.”
II.
You found the star-flower, dearest. O never—though all the years
Go out with dirges and darkness and comfortless Rachel's tears—
Go out with dirges and darkness and comfortless Rachel's tears—
Shall flush the world with fragrance a Spring so lovely here
As the dream of Spring, in Autumn, to me you made so dear;
As the dream of Spring, in Autumn, to me you made so dear;
When, wandering in the woodland, that gentle day, we found
The blue-bird, nameless, homeless, and coffinless, on the ground;
The blue-bird, nameless, homeless, and coffinless, on the ground;
143
When, child at heart forever, but woman sweet and brave,
With world-old, tender fancies, you kiss'd the blue-bird's grave.
With world-old, tender fancies, you kiss'd the blue-bird's grave.
That night the late, hush'd moonrise came, dusky, large and red:
Jewel'd with frosty jewels it saw November dead.
Jewel'd with frosty jewels it saw November dead.
Within, our fire kept dancing to all sweet dreams and bright:
You said, “I hear the blue-bird sing in my heart to-night.”
You said, “I hear the blue-bird sing in my heart to-night.”
144
SLEEP.
The Mist crawls over the River,
Hiding the shore on either side,
And, under the veiling Mist forever,
Neither hear we nor feel we the tide.
Hiding the shore on either side,
And, under the veiling Mist forever,
Neither hear we nor feel we the tide.
But our skiff has the will of the River,
Though nothing is seen to be pass'd;
Though the Mist may hide it forever, forever
The current is drawing as fast.
Though nothing is seen to be pass'd;
Though the Mist may hide it forever, forever
The current is drawing as fast.
The matins sweet from the far-off town
Fill the air with their beautiful dream;
The vespers were hushing the twilight down
When we lost our oars on the stream.
Fill the air with their beautiful dream;
The vespers were hushing the twilight down
When we lost our oars on the stream.
145
FROST ON THE PANES.
Before my window standing
I see the dream-like glow
Of Frost against the dawning:
Old fancies come and go.
I see the dream-like glow
Of Frost against the dawning:
Old fancies come and go.
A little child is gazing,
With wonder-lighted eyes,
Before the white enchantment
That veils the morning skies.
With wonder-lighted eyes,
Before the white enchantment
That veils the morning skies.
His mother steals beside him:
The marvellous picture gleams—
The Fairy, Frost, has painted
His Fairy world of dreams!
The marvellous picture gleams—
The Fairy, Frost, has painted
His Fairy world of dreams!
Weird woodlands shine enchanted
With crystal boughs so bright,
Where ghouls alone have wander'd;
Strange castles haunt the hight.
With crystal boughs so bright,
Where ghouls alone have wander'd;
Strange castles haunt the hight.
146
Lo, while the child is gazing,
The white enchantment 's fled,
And I, alone, awaken,
And Fairyland is dead!
The white enchantment 's fled,
And I, alone, awaken,
And Fairyland is dead!
I look out through the window:
The market roars and beats,
With myriad wheels and footsteps
The crowded morning streets.
The market roars and beats,
With myriad wheels and footsteps
The crowded morning streets.
Tears stand upon the window,
For the frost-work's fragile gleam,
And on my cheek are tear-drops,
Old relics of my dream.
For the frost-work's fragile gleam,
And on my cheek are tear-drops,
Old relics of my dream.
Tears shine upon the window,
Where the frost-work flash'd before:
Ah, in Time's Eastern windows
Are frosted panes no more!
Where the frost-work flash'd before:
Ah, in Time's Eastern windows
Are frosted panes no more!
147
TO THE LARES.
Dear Household Deities, worshipp'd best, we deem,With gentle sacrifice of Love alone!
Guardians of Home, who make the hearthstone seem
Altar and shrine, O make our hearth your own:
Whether the North-wind walls the world away
With snowy bastions from his frozen lands,
Or Zephyr through our window, day by day,
Climbs like a child with roses in his hands.
149
FOR A GRAVESTONE.
The marble has no speech but that we give,And we are dumb, and, speechless, pass away;
The silence in which our affections live
Holds all we need to speak and can not say.
150
THE SIGHT OF ANGELS.
The angels come, the angels go,
Through open doors of purer air;
Their moving presence oftentimes we know,
It thrills us every-where.
Through open doors of purer air;
Their moving presence oftentimes we know,
It thrills us every-where.
Sometimes we see them: lo, at night,
Our eyes were shut but open'd seem:
The darkness breathes a breath of wondrous light,
And then it was a dream!
Our eyes were shut but open'd seem:
The darkness breathes a breath of wondrous light,
And then it was a dream!
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