 | The Baroness of New York |  |
11
PRELUDE.
In a land so far that you wonder whether
The God would know it should you fall dead,
In a land so far through the wilds and weather,
That the sun falls weary and flushed and red,—
That the sea and the sky seem coming together,
Seem closing together as a book that is read:
The God would know it should you fall dead,
In a land so far through the wilds and weather,
That the sun falls weary and flushed and red,—
That the sea and the sky seem coming together,
Seem closing together as a book that is read:
In the nude weird West, where an unnamed river
Rolls restless in bed of bright silver and gold;
Where white flashing mountains flow rivers of silver
As a rock of the desert flowed fountains of old;
By a dark wooded river that calls to the dawn,
And makes mouths at the sea with his dolorous swan:
Rolls restless in bed of bright silver and gold;
Where white flashing mountains flow rivers of silver
As a rock of the desert flowed fountains of old;
By a dark wooded river that calls to the dawn,
And makes mouths at the sea with his dolorous swan:
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In the land of the wonderful sun and weather,
With green under foot and with gold over head,
Where the sun takes flame and you wonder whether
'Tis an isle of fire in his foamy bed:
Where the ends of the earth they are welding together
In a rough-hewn fashion, in a forge flame red:
With green under foot and with gold over head,
Where the sun takes flame and you wonder whether
'Tis an isle of fire in his foamy bed:
Where the ends of the earth they are welding together
In a rough-hewn fashion, in a forge flame red:
In the land where the rabbits dance delicate measures,
At night by the moon in the sharp chapparral;
Where the squirrels build homes in the earth and hoard treasures:
Where the wolves fight in armies, fight faithful and well,
Fight almost like Christians; fight on and find pleasures
In strife, like to man turning earth into hell:
At night by the moon in the sharp chapparral;
Where the squirrels build homes in the earth and hoard treasures:
Where the wolves fight in armies, fight faithful and well,
Fight almost like Christians; fight on and find pleasures
In strife, like to man turning earth into hell:
Where the plants are as trees; where the trees are as towers
That toy, as it seems, with the stars at night;
Where the roses are forests; where the wild-wood flowers
Are dense unto darkness; where, reaching for light,
They spill in your bosom their fragrance in showers
Like incense spilled down in some sacrament rite:
That toy, as it seems, with the stars at night;
Where the roses are forests; where the wild-wood flowers
Are dense unto darkness; where, reaching for light,
They spill in your bosom their fragrance in showers
Like incense spilled down in some sacrament rite:
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'Tis the new-finished world; how silent with wonder
Stand all things around you: the flowers are faint
And lean on your shoulder. You wander on under
The broad gnarly boughs so colossal and quaint,
You breathe the sweet balsam where boughs break asunder—
The world seems so new, as if smelling of paint.
Stand all things around you: the flowers are faint
And lean on your shoulder. You wander on under
The broad gnarly boughs so colossal and quaint,
You breathe the sweet balsam where boughs break asunder—
The world seems so new, as if smelling of paint.
The place is unfinished. Yon footfall retreating,
It might be the Maker disturbed at his task.
The footfall of God or the far pheasant beating,
It is one and the same whatever the mask
It may wear unto man. The woods keep repeating
The old sacred sermons whatever you ask.
It might be the Maker disturbed at his task.
The footfall of God or the far pheasant beating,
It is one and the same whatever the mask
It may wear unto man. The woods keep repeating
The old sacred sermons whatever you ask.
Here brown-muzzled cattle come stealthy to drink,
The wild forest cattle, with high horns as trim
As the elk at their side. Their sleek necks are slim
And alert like the deer; they come, then they shrink
As afraid of their fellows, or of shadow-beasts seen
In the deeps of the dark wooded waters of green.
The wild forest cattle, with high horns as trim
As the elk at their side. Their sleek necks are slim
And alert like the deer; they come, then they shrink
As afraid of their fellows, or of shadow-beasts seen
In the deeps of the dark wooded waters of green.
The settlers are silent; the newly-built mill
Has strong burly men, but a dull muffled sound
Is all that you hear. The waters are still.
The wagons drag sullen and dull on the ground;
The iron-toothed mill in the moss-mantled trees
Makes only a sound like the buzzing of bees.
Has strong burly men, but a dull muffled sound
Is all that you hear. The waters are still.
14
The iron-toothed mill in the moss-mantled trees
Makes only a sound like the buzzing of bees.
Lo! all things are awed; the wild is so vast,
The hush is so loud through the dense gloaming land,
No man dares assert. The brute comes at last
To turn, to make sign with a black hairy hand
And pass unrestrained, while man awed and mute
Sees a type of his face in the face of the brute.
The hush is so loud through the dense gloaming land,
No man dares assert. The brute comes at last
To turn, to make sign with a black hairy hand
And pass unrestrained, while man awed and mute
Sees a type of his face in the face of the brute.
The bull-dog, deep-mouthed, sits sullen and still,
He turns round and round, and he licks his loose jaws,
He lies down in his bed while the black bear at will
Steals forth from his fen and lifts his black paws
And points to the white Mason mark on his breast
While the awed hunter rests with his rifle at rest.
He turns round and round, and he licks his loose jaws,
He lies down in his bed while the black bear at will
Steals forth from his fen and lifts his black paws
And points to the white Mason mark on his breast
While the awed hunter rests with his rifle at rest.
By the sea, when the cyclone is wild in the wail;
When the pine-tops are bent like the battle-borne spear;
And the sea thunders in on the bright shining shale,
And the sombre earth shakes as if shaken with fear;
Then the brutes crouching near lift their eyes to men's eyes
And question such questions as know no replies.
When the pine-tops are bent like the battle-borne spear;
And the sea thunders in on the bright shining shale,
And the sombre earth shakes as if shaken with fear;
15
And question such questions as know no replies.
It is man in his garden scarce wakened as yet
From the sleep that fell on him when woman was made.
The new-finished garden is humid and wet
From the hand that new-fashioned its unpeopled shade;
And the wonder still looks from the fair woman's eyes
As she shines through the wood like the light from the skies.
From the sleep that fell on him when woman was made.
The new-finished garden is humid and wet
From the hand that new-fashioned its unpeopled shade;
And the wonder still looks from the fair woman's eyes
As she shines through the wood like the light from the skies.
And a ship now and then from the far Ophir's shore
Draws in from the sea. It lies close to the bank,
Then a dull muffled sound of the slow-shuffled plank
As they load the black ship, but you hear nothing more,
And the dark dewy vines and the tall tow'ring wood
Like twilight droop over the deep sweeping flood.
Draws in from the sea. It lies close to the bank,
Then a dull muffled sound of the slow-shuffled plank
As they load the black ship, but you hear nothing more,
And the dark dewy vines and the tall tow'ring wood
Like twilight droop over the deep sweeping flood.
The black masts are tangled with branches that cross,
The rich fragrant gums fall from branches to deck,
The thin ropes are swinging with streamers of moss
That mantle all things like the shreds of a wreck;
The long mosses swing, there is never a breath:
The river is still as the river of death.
The rich fragrant gums fall from branches to deck,
The thin ropes are swinging with streamers of moss
That mantle all things like the shreds of a wreck;
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The river is still as the river of death.
One boundless black forest, unnamed and unknown;
One sea of black forest, yet at east of that sea
Curves a white shining crescent; then a vast snowy cone
Starts up from mid crescent, sharp, suddenly,
And pierces blue heaven. It looms up alone;
As white and as lone as the great white throne.
One sea of black forest, yet at east of that sea
Curves a white shining crescent; then a vast snowy cone
Starts up from mid crescent, sharp, suddenly,
And pierces blue heaven. It looms up alone;
As white and as lone as the great white throne.
| The Baroness of New York | |