 | Western windows and other poems |  |
194
FOOTSTEPS RETURNING
195
RIDING THE HORSE TO MARKET.
Old miracles happen every day:
That nothing's new in earth or air
It needs no Solomon to say.
That nothing's new in earth or air
It needs no Solomon to say.
Wonderful to the foaling mare,
Was dropp'd a colt of marvelous mettle.
'T was common stock, both dam and sire.
His mane was like a flying fire
When in the unbridled fields he flew,
And some believed him wingéd, too.
The use of such a skittish creature
The village folk could hardly settle;
No rider dared his dangerous back
Save one, a youth, whose mate he seem'd,
Who shunn'd like him the dusty track
With something of a kindred nature—
A boy who did not well but dream'd,
A vagabond with half-shut eyes
Who would not sow in Paradise:
To this one as his rider bow'd
The flying-footed—humble, proud.
Was dropp'd a colt of marvelous mettle.
'T was common stock, both dam and sire.
His mane was like a flying fire
When in the unbridled fields he flew,
And some believed him wingéd, too.
The use of such a skittish creature
The village folk could hardly settle;
No rider dared his dangerous back
Save one, a youth, whose mate he seem'd,
Who shunn'd like him the dusty track
With something of a kindred nature—
A boy who did not well but dream'd,
A vagabond with half-shut eyes
Who would not sow in Paradise:
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The flying-footed—humble, proud.
'T was plain he was not fit to plow;
For lead or wheel horse on the road
In vain were all attempts to break him—
(To lead right willing he, in truth,
Where none could follow him!) Forsooth,
He balk'd and scorn'd the curse or goad!
“He's good to look at, that is clear,
But little profit anyhow”—
A wrinkle cross'd the farmer's brow—
“And so we'll find him rather dear.
He eats enough—Lord knows—we know!
Here! mount your run-away and go—
To-morrow to the market take him!”
For lead or wheel horse on the road
In vain were all attempts to break him—
(To lead right willing he, in truth,
Where none could follow him!) Forsooth,
He balk'd and scorn'd the curse or goad!
“He's good to look at, that is clear,
But little profit anyhow”—
A wrinkle cross'd the farmer's brow—
“And so we'll find him rather dear.
He eats enough—Lord knows—we know!
Here! mount your run-away and go—
To-morrow to the market take him!”
The saying, then the doing: rare
The splendors of the morning show'd,
When ready for the journey there
Stood horse and rider on the road.
“For how much shall I sell him?” said
The youth with pangs of dumb regret:
“As much,” the old man hot and red,
“As he will bring and you will get!”
The splendors of the morning show'd,
When ready for the journey there
Stood horse and rider on the road.
“For how much shall I sell him?” said
The youth with pangs of dumb regret:
“As much,” the old man hot and red,
“As he will bring and you will get!”
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With many a shying make-pretense,
As half in earnest, half in play,
At sliding nothings on the way,
With dainty prance and flame-like bound,
Aërial miles of flying fence,
The dust behind, the wind before,
Townward the horse his rider bore—
Within the air, upon the ground.
At length at day's most noisy heat
They enter'd in the market street;
Among the buyers soon they come,
When—strange that it should happen so,
But so it often happens—lo,
The crowd for praise or blame are dumb:
The merits of the matchless steed,
Unrecognized, have little heed.
At last one cried—“What have we here?
A beggar come to market, clear!”
“What sorry jade is that?” another.
And, strange!—how strange it seem'd, indeed!—
Behold, the wondrous-mettled steed
Has lost the spirit late so plain
In forehead, foot, and mien and mane;
His eyes are dull, his flank no more
Shines with the sunshine, as before;
As half in earnest, half in play,
At sliding nothings on the way,
With dainty prance and flame-like bound,
Aërial miles of flying fence,
The dust behind, the wind before,
Townward the horse his rider bore—
Within the air, upon the ground.
At length at day's most noisy heat
They enter'd in the market street;
Among the buyers soon they come,
When—strange that it should happen so,
But so it often happens—lo,
The crowd for praise or blame are dumb:
The merits of the matchless steed,
Unrecognized, have little heed.
At last one cried—“What have we here?
A beggar come to market, clear!”
“What sorry jade is that?” another.
And, strange!—how strange it seem'd, indeed!—
Behold, the wondrous-mettled steed
Has lost the spirit late so plain
In forehead, foot, and mien and mane;
His eyes are dull, his flank no more
Shines with the sunshine, as before;
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Their breath his nostrils lose or smother;
His ribs look out, his head is dropp'd,
And, standing lost in public gaze,
His heavenly pulses flutter, stopp'd.
“You want to sell?” a jockey says—
“I think, whatever be your price,
Your buyer makes the sacrifice.”
“What are his good points?—let us know them.”
“As for his oats—why, let him show them!”
“How many minutes make his mile?”
“I have a dray-horse just his mate!”
“Here, smith, is something for your doing:
What hoofs!—he needs a deal of shoeing!”
And one, a punner, passing late,
“This was the wingéd horse, I vow:
That he 's gone up—you see it now!”
Spoke with a self-perceiving smile.
“Speaking of wings,” another cries,
“His can't be seen, you see: perhaps
His ears, which can be seen, he flaps
And thinks him flying—from the flies!”
His ribs look out, his head is dropp'd,
And, standing lost in public gaze,
His heavenly pulses flutter, stopp'd.
“You want to sell?” a jockey says—
“I think, whatever be your price,
Your buyer makes the sacrifice.”
“What are his good points?—let us know them.”
“As for his oats—why, let him show them!”
“How many minutes make his mile?”
“I have a dray-horse just his mate!”
“Here, smith, is something for your doing:
What hoofs!—he needs a deal of shoeing!”
And one, a punner, passing late,
“This was the wingéd horse, I vow:
That he 's gone up—you see it now!”
Spoke with a self-perceiving smile.
“Speaking of wings,” another cries,
“His can't be seen, you see: perhaps
His ears, which can be seen, he flaps
And thinks him flying—from the flies!”
The jockey's scorn, the jeerer's aim,
Meanwhile, the horse and rider both,
In mutual weakness, mutual shame,
Hear—for they must, however loth.
Till—at the last, when, weary grown,
The crowd disperse and leave them there
Unbought within the mart alone—
Awaken'd into buoyant air
From something like a dream of fame,
A poet sees the sultry gleam
Of morning on the city flame,
Far-off, and that deliverance came
Thanks God: the Pegasus he strode
And to the dusty market rode
Was the vague Nothing of his dream!
Meanwhile, the horse and rider both,
In mutual weakness, mutual shame,
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Till—at the last, when, weary grown,
The crowd disperse and leave them there
Unbought within the mart alone—
Awaken'd into buoyant air
From something like a dream of fame,
A poet sees the sultry gleam
Of morning on the city flame,
Far-off, and that deliverance came
Thanks God: the Pegasus he strode
And to the dusty market rode
Was the vague Nothing of his dream!
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THE FIRST TRYST.
She pulls a rose from her rose-tree,
Kissing its soul to him—
Far over years, far over dreams
And tides of chances dim.
Kissing its soul to him—
Far over years, far over dreams
And tides of chances dim.
He plucks from his heart a poem;
A flower-sweet messenger,
Far over years, far over dreams,
Flutters its soul to her.
A flower-sweet messenger,
Far over years, far over dreams,
Flutters its soul to her.
These are the world-old lovers,
Clasped in one twilight's gleam:
Yet he is but a dream to her,
And she a poet's dream.
Clasped in one twilight's gleam:
Yet he is but a dream to her,
And she a poet's dream.
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THE BURIED ORGAN.
Far in a valley green and lone,
Lying within some legend old,
Sometimes is heard an Organ's tone,
Trembling, into the silence roll'd:
In vanish'd years (the legend stands)
To save it from the unhallowing prey
Of foeman's sacrilegious hands,
The monks their Organ bore away.
Lying within some legend old,
Sometimes is heard an Organ's tone,
Trembling, into the silence roll'd:
In vanish'd years (the legend stands)
To save it from the unhallowing prey
Of foeman's sacrilegious hands,
The monks their Organ bore away.
None knows the spot wherein they laid
That body of the heavenly soul
Of Music: deep in forest shade,
Forgotten, lies the grave they stole;
But oftentimes, in Morning gold,
Or through the Twilight's hushing air,
Within that valley, green and old,
The Organ's soul arises there.
That body of the heavenly soul
Of Music: deep in forest shade,
Forgotten, lies the grave they stole;
But oftentimes, in Morning gold,
Or through the Twilight's hushing air,
Within that valley, green and old,
The Organ's soul arises there.
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Oh, low and sweet, and strange, and wild,
It whispers to the holier air,
Gentle as lispings of a child—
Mild as a mother's breathless prayer
While silence trembles, sweet and low:
Then rapture bursts into the skies,
And chanting angels, winging slow
On wings of music, seem to rise!
It whispers to the holier air,
Gentle as lispings of a child—
Mild as a mother's breathless prayer
While silence trembles, sweet and low:
Then rapture bursts into the skies,
And chanting angels, winging slow
On wings of music, seem to rise!
The herdsman sometimes, all alone,
Is lost within that haunted air:
He hears the buried Organ's tone—
His hands are cross'd, his breath is prayer!
And, while into his heart it steals,
With hushing footsteps, downcast eyes,
Some grand cathedral's awe he feels—
A church of air, and earth, and skies!
Is lost within that haunted air:
He hears the buried Organ's tone—
His hands are cross'd, his breath is prayer!
And, while into his heart it steals,
With hushing footsteps, downcast eyes,
Some grand cathedral's awe he feels—
A church of air, and earth, and skies!
Often, when the sweet wand of Spring
Has fill'd the woods with flowers unsown,
Or Autumn's dreamy breeze's wing
Flutters through falling leaves, alone
I wander forth, and leave behind
The city's dust, the sultry glare:
A lonely dell, far-off, I find—
I know the Buried Organ there!
Has fill'd the woods with flowers unsown,
Or Autumn's dreamy breeze's wing
Flutters through falling leaves, alone
I wander forth, and leave behind
The city's dust, the sultry glare:
A lonely dell, far-off, I find—
I know the Buried Organ there!
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Within the city's noisy air
I leave the creeds their Sabbath bells;
I cross my hands, my breath is prayer,
Hearing that Organ's mystic swells.
The sweet birds sing, the soft winds blow,
The flowers have whispers low, apart:
All wake within me, loud or low,
God's buried Organ—in my heart!
I leave the creeds their Sabbath bells;
I cross my hands, my breath is prayer,
Hearing that Organ's mystic swells.
The sweet birds sing, the soft winds blow,
The flowers have whispers low, apart:
All wake within me, loud or low,
God's buried Organ—in my heart!
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TWO PATRONS.
“What shall I sing,” I sigh'd and said,
“That men shall know me when my name
Is lost with kindred lips and dead
Are laurels of familiar fame?”
“That men shall know me when my name
Is lost with kindred lips and dead
Are laurels of familiar fame?”
Below, a violet in the dew
Breathed through the dark its vague perfume;
Above, a star in quiet blue
Touch'd with a gracious ray the gloom.
Breathed through the dark its vague perfume;
Above, a star in quiet blue
Touch'd with a gracious ray the gloom.
“Sing, friend, of me,” the violet sigh'd,
“That I may haunt your grave with love;”
“Sing, friend, of me,” the star replied,
“That I may light the dark above.”
“That I may haunt your grave with love;”
“Sing, friend, of me,” the star replied,
“That I may light the dark above.”
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GENIUS LOCI.
Yes, this is the place where my boyhood
Saw its beautiful season depart:
The butterfly flutter'd in sunshine,
The chrysalis lies in my heart!
Saw its beautiful season depart:
The butterfly flutter'd in sunshine,
The chrysalis lies in my heart!
Still green are the hills in the distance,
And breathing of Summer the farms,
But the years take the Present forever
To the Past with their shadowy arms.
And breathing of Summer the farms,
But the years take the Present forever
To the Past with their shadowy arms.
I wander in pathways familiar:
Old faces forget, or are blind;
The footsteps of strangers have trodden
The footprints I deem'd I would find.
Old faces forget, or are blind;
The footsteps of strangers have trodden
The footprints I deem'd I would find.
Come back to me, beautiful visions!
Steal over me, lovelier sky!
With the flower-like soul of my boyhood,
Blossom, sweet days gone by!
Steal over me, lovelier sky!
With the flower-like soul of my boyhood,
Blossom, sweet days gone by!
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My boyhood, come back! In the sunshine
A hoop is the world of his care:
He gazes at me for a moment,
And passes away in the air!
A hoop is the world of his care:
He gazes at me for a moment,
And passes away in the air!
Come back! From the school that is ended
Boy-faces rush joyous and bright:
One, only, among them remembers
And vanishes into the light!
Boy-faces rush joyous and bright:
One, only, among them remembers
And vanishes into the light!
Come back! With a kite in his heaven
His heart's happy wings are agleam:
He hearkens my call for a moment,
And flashes away with my dream!
His heart's happy wings are agleam:
He hearkens my call for a moment,
And flashes away with my dream!
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APART.
At sea are tossing ships;
On shore are dreaming shells,
And the waiting heart and the loving lips,
Blossoms and bridal bells.
On shore are dreaming shells,
And the waiting heart and the loving lips,
Blossoms and bridal bells.
At sea are sails a-gleam;
On shore are longing eyes,
And the far horizon's haunting dream
Of ships that sail the skies.
On shore are longing eyes,
And the far horizon's haunting dream
Of ships that sail the skies.
At sea are masts that rise
Like spectres from the deep;
On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries
That cross the waves of sleep.
Like spectres from the deep;
On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries
That cross the waves of sleep.
At sea are wrecks a-strand;
On shore are shells that moan,
Old anchors buried in barren sand,
Sea-mist and dreams alone.
On shore are shells that moan,
Old anchors buried in barren sand,
Sea-mist and dreams alone.
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AFTER A WHILE.
On the cold hills the moon lies white,
The ghostly Frost arises bright;
Lost winds wail in the homeless air,
Wandering wearily, every-where:
But, wrapt in dreams of summer mirth,
My cricket sings upon the hearth;
My heart to dreams his dreams beguile—
“After a while, after a while.”
The ghostly Frost arises bright;
Lost winds wail in the homeless air,
Wandering wearily, every-where:
But, wrapt in dreams of summer mirth,
My cricket sings upon the hearth;
My heart to dreams his dreams beguile—
“After a while, after a while.”
Below the embers ashes darkle;
Above, the lithe flames leap and sparkle,
Dancing to all fantastic forms
Of all that gladdens, cheers and warms;
And, singing to my fancies sweet,
The cricket's spell the flames repeat;
My heart to dreams their dreams beguile—
“After a while, after a while.”
Above, the lithe flames leap and sparkle,
Dancing to all fantastic forms
Of all that gladdens, cheers and warms;
And, singing to my fancies sweet,
The cricket's spell the flames repeat;
My heart to dreams their dreams beguile—
“After a while, after a while.”
I shut my eyes: my life I see—
Oh, miracle!—a blossoming tree!
(The world's sad winds, that cried for rest,
Cradled in blossoms slumber bless'd;)
And from its fragant-hearted May
Some sweet bird joins the cricket's lay;
Oh, tender songs my dreams beguile—
“After a while, after a while.”
Oh, miracle!—a blossoming tree!
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Cradled in blossoms slumber bless'd;)
And from its fragant-hearted May
Some sweet bird joins the cricket's lay;
Oh, tender songs my dreams beguile—
“After a while, after a while.”
Winds, rock the world in fairy dreams!
Rise, Frost, and haunt the sleeping streams!
Below the embers ashes darkle;
Above, the lithe flames leap and sparkle;
Sweet bird, bright flames, blithe cricket start
The same dear song of hearth and heart!—
I whisper low, with sigh and smile,
“After a while, after a while.”
Rise, Frost, and haunt the sleeping streams!
Below the embers ashes darkle;
Above, the lithe flames leap and sparkle;
Sweet bird, bright flames, blithe cricket start
The same dear song of hearth and heart!—
I whisper low, with sigh and smile,
“After a while, after a while.”
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‘To ---.”
THE CALL OF THE YOUNG MAN.
Beloved One—whose gentle, floating form
Visits my dreams in blissful heart and eyes—
Where art thou, Love? My heart is beating warm;
From dreams alone, I rise!
Visits my dreams in blissful heart and eyes—
Where art thou, Love? My heart is beating warm;
From dreams alone, I rise!
Long have I known thee: first I saw thy face,
With laughter ringing through thy girlhood years,
Kissing the Future with a buoyant grace,
The Past with lighted tears.
With laughter ringing through thy girlhood years,
Kissing the Future with a buoyant grace,
The Past with lighted tears.
Come from my dreaming to my waking heart!
Awake, within my soul there stands alone
Thy marble soul: in lovely dreams apart,
Thy sweet heart fills the stone!
Awake, within my soul there stands alone
Thy marble soul: in lovely dreams apart,
Thy sweet heart fills the stone!
Oft I have trembled with a maiden near,
In the dear dream that thou wast come at last,
Veil'd in her face: oh, empty atmosphere!—
Those dreams woke in the Past!
In the dear dream that thou wast come at last,
Veil'd in her face: oh, empty atmosphere!—
Those dreams woke in the Past!
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It may be, thou hast ne'er had mortal birth,
Or childhood's wings to Heaven with thee have flown,
My Eve in Paradise! O'er all the Earth
Must Adam walk alone?
Or childhood's wings to Heaven with thee have flown,
My Eve in Paradise! O'er all the Earth
Must Adam walk alone?
Oh, that thou breathest Earth or Heaven, I know;
I call, like Orpheus, into shadowy air:
Where art thou, dear? My heart makes answer low—
Its bridal chamber—“Where?”
I call, like Orpheus, into shadowy air:
Where art thou, dear? My heart makes answer low—
Its bridal chamber—“Where?”
Oh, waken in my morning thy pure eyes!
Thy voice from angel-air of dreams remove.
Sweet Chance! blow those strange seeds of Paradise
Together, flowering love!
Thy voice from angel-air of dreams remove.
Sweet Chance! blow those strange seeds of Paradise
Together, flowering love!
While yet my life is in warm bloom, appear;
Come ere the first veil from the years depart.
Cottage with thee to me were palace. Dear,
Thy palace be my heart!
Come ere the first veil from the years depart.
Cottage with thee to me were palace. Dear,
Thy palace be my heart!
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MELANCHOLY.
Where'er I laugh a buried echo sighs;
Some coffin full of ashes
Uplifts its dead; a sea-deep sorrow lies
Under a wave that flashes.
Some coffin full of ashes
Uplifts its dead; a sea-deep sorrow lies
Under a wave that flashes.
I know not why this moan steals into May,
To make its joy so hollow;
Some woful hearse keeps hushing through the day—
My thoughts, dark mourners, follow.
To make its joy so hollow;
Some woful hearse keeps hushing through the day—
My thoughts, dark mourners, follow.
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FOLDED DOWN.
We read together—here the book.
(Eyes tender-lidded, drooping, brown!)
The bees were in the roses. Look,
The leaf is folded down.
(Eyes tender-lidded, drooping, brown!)
The bees were in the roses. Look,
The leaf is folded down.
It is the story, dear and old,
Whisper'd forever warm and new:
The world is in its age of gold
When two are lovers true.
Whisper'd forever warm and new:
The world is in its age of gold
When two are lovers true.
We read together: in the sun
The brooklet laugh'd through grass and flowers,
All birds were singing; two in one
We clasp'd the fragrant hours.
The brooklet laugh'd through grass and flowers,
All birds were singing; two in one
We clasp'd the fragrant hours.
The poet's flower—the rose of Love,
Whence all our costliest honey flows—
Was rooted in the book: above,
Within our hearts the rose!
Whence all our costliest honey flows—
Was rooted in the book: above,
Within our hearts the rose!
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The poet's dream—the vision, Love,
For which all sleeping wake, I deem—
Shadow'd each page with wings: above,
Within our souls the dream!
For which all sleeping wake, I deem—
Shadow'd each page with wings: above,
Within our souls the dream!
We read of Loss that leaves the heart
A sea-shell on vague shores of fate,
Murmuring, dumb: there walk'd apart
A maiden desolate.
A sea-shell on vague shores of fate,
Murmuring, dumb: there walk'd apart
A maiden desolate.
A sail shone in the horizon's gleam
Where the moon came—a twilight ghost,
The specter of a vanish'd dream
That haunts a lonely coast.
Where the moon came—a twilight ghost,
The specter of a vanish'd dream
That haunts a lonely coast.
What spider from the rose you kiss'd
Crawl'd, that we read no more that day?
We learn in many an autumn mist
The brightness of the May.
Crawl'd, that we read no more that day?
We learn in many an autumn mist
The brightness of the May.
I turn the page—behold the prize:
The years like funeral ravens flown.
The sail 's reflected in the skies;
The shell has lost its moan.
The years like funeral ravens flown.
The sail 's reflected in the skies;
The shell has lost its moan.
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From shade to sun, to bliss from grief!
December's warm'd by gracious May;
Oh, fools! we miss'd the golden leaf.
I read alone to-day.
December's warm'd by gracious May;
Oh, fools! we miss'd the golden leaf.
I read alone to-day.
Is it a memory or a dream?
(Eyes tender-lidded, drooping, brown!)
In that sad poem, Life, I deem,
The leaf was folded down.
(Eyes tender-lidded, drooping, brown!)
In that sad poem, Life, I deem,
The leaf was folded down.
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CONFIDANTS.
All things that know a lover's heart
Know the warm secret closed in mine;
From all things eager whispers start—
“We know, we know it! she is thine.”
Know the warm secret closed in mine;
From all things eager whispers start—
“We know, we know it! she is thine.”
The swallow seeking southern skies,
Where some clear summer waters shine,
Circles my tropic dream and flies,
Singing, “I fly, but she is thine.”
Where some clear summer waters shine,
Circles my tropic dream and flies,
Singing, “I fly, but she is thine.”
Pale flowers, which Autumn's lips have kiss'd,
Whose far-off May gives back no sign,
Murmur farewell—their souls in mist—
But smile, in dying, “she is thine.”
Whose far-off May gives back no sign,
Murmur farewell—their souls in mist—
But smile, in dying, “she is thine.”
The cricket from my hearth at night
Thrills the vague hours with carols fine,
Singing the darkness into light,
“After a while, and she is thine.”
Thrills the vague hours with carols fine,
Singing the darkness into light,
“After a while, and she is thine.”
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THE DESERTED SMITHY.
At the end of the lane and in sight of the mill,
Is the smithy; I pass it to-day, in a dream
Of the days whose red blood in my bosom is warm
While the real alone as the vanish'd I deem:
For the years they may crumble to dust in the heart,
But the roses will bloom though the gravestones depart.
Is the smithy; I pass it to-day, in a dream
Of the days whose red blood in my bosom is warm
While the real alone as the vanish'd I deem:
For the years they may crumble to dust in the heart,
But the roses will bloom though the gravestones depart.
In the loneliest evenings of long ago,
The smithy was dear in the darkness to me,
When the clouds were all heaping the world with their snow,
And the wind shiver'd over dead leaves on the tree;
Through the snow-shower it seemed to be bursting aflame:
How the sparks in the dark from the chimney came!
The smithy was dear in the darkness to me,
When the clouds were all heaping the world with their snow,
And the wind shiver'd over dead leaves on the tree;
Through the snow-shower it seemed to be bursting aflame:
How the sparks in the dark from the chimney came!
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It was dear in the past—and still it is dear,
In the memory old of the vanishing time,
When the binging and banging, and clinging and clanging,
In the heart of my boyhood, were music and rhyme;
When the bellows groan'd to the furnace-glow,
And the lights thro' the chinks danced out in the snow.
In the memory old of the vanishing time,
When the binging and banging, and clinging and clanging,
In the heart of my boyhood, were music and rhyme;
When the bellows groan'd to the furnace-glow,
And the lights thro' the chinks danced out in the snow.
The irons within on the anvils were ringing:
There were glowing arms in the bursting gleam;
And shadows were glowering away in the gloaming,
That, suddenly bounding to giants, would seem
Now out of the open doorways to spring,
Now up in the rafters vanishing.
There were glowing arms in the bursting gleam;
And shadows were glowering away in the gloaming,
That, suddenly bounding to giants, would seem
Now out of the open doorways to spring,
Now up in the rafters vanishing.
The smith I remember: oh, many a smile
Has played on his lips with me, and kind
Were the words that would lighten the gloom of his face—
His face, at the memory, gleams in my mind!—
With a heart that could beat in the heart of a boy,
A heart for his sorrow, a heart for his joy!
Has played on his lips with me, and kind
Were the words that would lighten the gloom of his face—
His face, at the memory, gleams in my mind!—
With a heart that could beat in the heart of a boy,
A heart for his sorrow, a heart for his joy!
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Adown from the farm of my father once more
(That so long has forgotten us up on the hill)—
With the wings in my blood to the bound of the steed,
That passes the breezes so merry and shrill—
I seem to be flying; but, suddenly,
In the Past, alone, is my memory!
(That so long has forgotten us up on the hill)—
With the wings in my blood to the bound of the steed,
That passes the breezes so merry and shrill—
I seem to be flying; but, suddenly,
In the Past, alone, is my memory!
In a dream!—in a dream! But I pass it to-day:
No longer the furnace is bursting with flame;
No longer the music comes out of the door,
That, long ago, to the schoolboy came:
The winds whisper low thro' the window and door,
The chimney is part of the dust of the floor.
No longer the furnace is bursting with flame;
No longer the music comes out of the door,
That, long ago, to the schoolboy came:
The winds whisper low thro' the window and door,
The chimney is part of the dust of the floor.
Phœbe Morris! sweet Phœbe! the sweetest of girls
That brighten'd old dreams with a beautiful face!—
It may be she smiled from her father's lips,
And blossom'd her smile in the dusky place!
Ah, she smiles, to-day, in my boyhood for me,
With her lips that are kissing—a memory!
That brighten'd old dreams with a beautiful face!—
It may be she smiled from her father's lips,
And blossom'd her smile in the dusky place!
Ah, she smiles, to-day, in my boyhood for me,
With her lips that are kissing—a memory!
221
FALLEN LEAVES.
I love to steal my way
Through the bright woods, when Autumn's work is done
And through the tree-tops all the dream-like day
Breathes the soft golden sun;
Through the bright woods, when Autumn's work is done
And through the tree-tops all the dream-like day
Breathes the soft golden sun;
When all is hush'd and still,
Only a few last leaves, fluttering slow
Down the warm air with ne'er a breeze's will—
A ghost of sound below;
Only a few last leaves, fluttering slow
Down the warm air with ne'er a breeze's will—
A ghost of sound below;
When naught of song is heard,
Save the jay laughing while all nature grieves,
Or the lone chirp of some forgotten bird
Among the fallen leaves.
Save the jay laughing while all nature grieves,
Or the lone chirp of some forgotten bird
Among the fallen leaves.
Around me every-where
Lie leaves that trembled green the Summer long,
Holding the rainbow's tears in sunny air,
And roof'd the Summer's song.
Lie leaves that trembled green the Summer long,
Holding the rainbow's tears in sunny air,
And roof'd the Summer's song.
222
Why shun my steps to tread
These silent hosts that every-where are strown,
As if my feet were walking 'mong the dead,
And I alive alone?
These silent hosts that every-where are strown,
As if my feet were walking 'mong the dead,
And I alive alone?
Hast no bright trees, O Past!
Through whose bare boughs, once green, the sunshine grieves?
No hopes that flutter'd in the autumnal blast,
No memories—Fallen Leaves?
Through whose bare boughs, once green, the sunshine grieves?
No hopes that flutter'd in the autumnal blast,
No memories—Fallen Leaves?
223
AN ECHO.
“Come back,” I sigh'd—
The flower
I dropp'd upon the tide
Was vanish'd many an hour.
“Come back,” the Echo sigh'd
The flower
I dropp'd upon the tide
Was vanish'd many an hour.
“Come back,” the Echo sigh'd
“Come back,” I cried—
The love,
Flower-like I cast aside,
An angel bears above.
“Come back,” the Echo cried.
The love,
Flower-like I cast aside,
An angel bears above.
“Come back,” the Echo cried.
224
IN OCTOBER.
A flush'd cathedral, grand with loneliness,Gloomy with light and bright with shadow, seems
Thy catholic air, October. Holiest gleams
Alight like angels in each dim recess
Through the stain'd oriels of the east and west;
Thy floors float radiant with flutterings
Of moving shadows, ghosts of glorious wings;
Some organ's soul arises in the breast
Of him who walks thy aisles in revery bound:
The stops of silence tremble into sound.
Lo, Nature brings her dead for burial rite!
Upon thy solemn altars dress'd for Death
She lays her beautiful; the mother's brow
Is bow'd, while for her darling ones she grieves
And o'er their burial breathes her tenderest breath
As o'er their baptism in the April light;
And Autumn, gorgeous preacher, murmurs now
Sermons of dying flowers and falling leaves.
225
THE BIRDS OF LONGING.
The mournful Birds are flown
That flutter'd in my breast
Through all the days of Spring,
And fill'd me with unrest.
That flutter'd in my breast
Through all the days of Spring,
And fill'd me with unrest.
The Birds of Longing wild!
They came in April skies,
Among the blossoming boughs,
The wingéd prophecies.
They came in April skies,
Among the blossoming boughs,
The wingéd prophecies.
Of unknown summer lands
They sang their haunting dreams—
Poor tropic birds, asleep
To wake in Arctic gleams!
They sang their haunting dreams—
Poor tropic birds, asleep
To wake in Arctic gleams!
“Whence came ye, Birds?” I said:
They sang, “We have no home;
Lost are the nests we loved—
We long, and long must roam.
They sang, “We have no home;
Lost are the nests we loved—
We long, and long must roam.
226
“Blown by the vernal winds,
Warm blossom-bearers, we
From soul to soul in Spring
Drift over land and sea.”
Warm blossom-bearers, we
From soul to soul in Spring
Drift over land and sea.”
228
MOTHS.
At morn I walk in sunshine warm and tender;
My eyes look into Fairyland for hours:
The butterflies with Eastern lust and splendor
Grow wingéd counterparts to wingless flowers.
My eyes look into Fairyland for hours:
The butterflies with Eastern lust and splendor
Grow wingéd counterparts to wingless flowers.
At noon I dream in meadows sweet and sunny;
My heart with summer songs and perfume glows:
The bees on sunburnt voyages for honey
Reach their Hesperides in every rose.
My heart with summer songs and perfume glows:
The bees on sunburnt voyages for honey
Reach their Hesperides in every rose.
At eve I write by restless lamplight sitting;
My soul is full of shadowy, subtile things:
The ghostly moths around my lamp are flitting,
Guests of the light that, coming, lose their wings.
My soul is full of shadowy, subtile things:
The ghostly moths around my lamp are flitting,
Guests of the light that, coming, lose their wings.
My poems, butterflies at morning gleaming,
And bees at noon, are but vague moths at night:
Look, the flame beckons—from the darkness streaming,
Wingless they drop at thresholds of the light!
And bees at noon, are but vague moths at night:
Look, the flame beckons—from the darkness streaming,
Wingless they drop at thresholds of the light!
229
STEPS OF GHOSTS.
In the olden mansion lying,
That knew me long ago,
I see the far white river
Shivering in the snow.
That knew me long ago,
I see the far white river
Shivering in the snow.
The moon, so close by the window,
Freezes in the trees with her light—
A glitter of motionless silence,
All the ice-lit branches bright!
Freezes in the trees with her light—
A glitter of motionless silence,
All the ice-lit branches bright!
Jarring the drowsy stillness,
There are footsteps on the stair,
Lifting their ghostly echoes
From the chambers every-where!
There are footsteps on the stair,
Lifting their ghostly echoes
From the chambers every-where!
How near they startle the stairway!
I feel the opening door!
Now, far and fainter, and dying,
They echo in me no more!
I feel the opening door!
Now, far and fainter, and dying,
They echo in me no more!
230
In a moment the door will open!
How near they grow again!—
They have left the ghost of their silence
Walking within my brain!
How near they grow again!—
They have left the ghost of their silence
Walking within my brain!
Upon the haunted stairway
I have heard them oft before;
In this olden house, returning,
They haunt me evermore.
I have heard them oft before;
In this olden house, returning,
They haunt me evermore.
Strangers have never heard them—
I know they all are mine,
Rising, O heart, and dying
On that haunted stair of thine.
I know they all are mine,
Rising, O heart, and dying
On that haunted stair of thine.
To me forever returning
Myself forever fled,
Startling the stair forever and ever,
I hear my footsteps dead!
Myself forever fled,
Startling the stair forever and ever,
I hear my footsteps dead!
O life, make braver thy beating!
The terror on the stair
Is the long, long dread procession
That follows thee every-where!
The terror on the stair
Is the long, long dread procession
That follows thee every-where!
231
THE STRANGE ORGANIST.
Deep in the dim cathedral gloom,
Where incense all the ages rose,
I walk, alone. The mystic bloom
Of saintly silence round me glows.
Where incense all the ages rose,
I walk, alone. The mystic bloom
Of saintly silence round me glows.
High Church of Song! O hallow'd place,
Where haunt the hymns of bards of old!
Light shone on many a lifted face
When holy floods of music roll'd.
Where haunt the hymns of bards of old!
Light shone on many a lifted face
When holy floods of music roll'd.
Deep in the dim cathedral hush
I stand alone, the Organ's keys
Touching with wandering fingers—blush,
Sad soul, what harmonies are these!
I stand alone, the Organ's keys
Touching with wandering fingers—blush,
Sad soul, what harmonies are these!
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