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167

THE MORNING ROAD.

THE MORNING ROAD.

The Morning drew a shawl
Of misty lace around her,
And by the wood's high wall
Stood smiling, bright and tall,
When I, who heard her call,
Went forth and found her.
Upon the sun-kissed hill,
And in the vale below,
She'd dropped a daffodil,
Golden and chaste and chill,
And on the water-mill
A rose of snow.
She said, “At last you've come,
And left the world's carouse,
The palace and the slum;
No more shall soul be dumb;
Come; look at your new home—
A pleasant house.”
Then took me by the heart,
And led a magic way,
By paths that are a part
Of Faeryland, and start
From the forgotten mart
Of Yesterday.
168

And when we'd gone a mile,
She pointed me a place
O'er which there hung a smile;
And on its sill and stile
A promise, without guile,
As of a face.
And in the doorway there,
A baby at her breast,
One stood, quite young and fair,
Peace, with the golden hair,
Peace, that knows naught of care,
But only rest.
I knew at once 't was she,
For whom all mortals long,
Who, with simplicity,
And faith, that's sweet to see,
Dwells, guarding constantly,
Her child, named Song.
She bade me enter in;
Sit by her quiet fire;
Forget the world of din,
And safe from hate and sin,
With her and Song to win
My heart's desire.
169

MICHING MALLECHO.

“Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.”— Hamlet.

The crickets tease the dusk with tune,
And from the lily-padded pool
The green-frogs hail the rising moon,
Earth-summoned like a great toadstool.
The Elf of Mischief is abroad,
Torched by a jack-o'-lantern ray,
Hosting the woodland, rock and road,
With the wild minions of her play.
The spider casts a web across
Their revels that no eye perceives;
While slowly from concealing moss
The mushroom broad its table heaves.
The moth takes flight from bloom to bloom,
To courier news through all the dells;
And from the straitness of their room
The gnats put out their sentinels.
The beetle in the dead wood ticks—
An armored guard; the firefly,
With gleaming points, the darkness flicks—
The goblin watch of Witchery.
170

This is the path the Queen will pass
Upon her palfried snail, as planned,
Where Mystery has gemmed the grass
With dew, dim-dropping from her hand.
The fairy-life is out and waits
Its Queen, who holds her audience
Here in the heart of her estates—
The angle of this old rail-fence.
Round which the flowers have built a bower
Of lace, above which soon the moon
Will hang her lamp, and at which hour
You, too, shall see their twinkling shoon.

THE FAERY RING.

The moon, white as a cotton-flower,
Hung broad above the hill,
When from the old oak's toppling tower
The owl cried and was still.
There came a stealthy sound; and then
The cricket hushed its tune,
And here and there and back again
The bat dodged by the moon.
The woodland held its breath to see
What was it would befall;
And underneath each bush and tree
The flow'rs stood listening all.
171

Again there came that stealthy sound,
As secret as the dew;
And then I saw upon the ground
The toadstools thrusting through.
And at each toadstool's root there stood
An elfin-thing that pushed,
And leaned, and harkened in the wood
To hear if all was hushed.
Then round the toadstools, white as milk,
They danced, with flying locks,
Their trousers made of moonflower-silk,
Their gowns of four-o'-clocks.
A cricket piped, a frog drummed near—
In pixy minstrelsy.
And round and round in moonlight clear,
They led their revelry.
Until far off I heard a cock
Crow—and the elves were gone,
Leaving these toadstools by the rock
For us to see at dawn.

THE WOOD SPIRIT.

The old trees stood around,
Making no sound,
Breathless, and watching something on the ground.
172

As, tiptoe, I drew near,
A sense of fear
Grew in me of a wonder to appear.
The brook cried, “Have a care!”
A thrush, “Beware!”
And then I heard a wild foot dancing there.
Who could the dancer be?
What mystery
Held now the wood in such anxiety?
I stopped a while and spied
On every side—
Who danced there?—one the old trees sought to hide?
Was it a Faun?—or, what?
There was a plot
To keep me back, to hold me from the spot.
Again I made advance—
And, there! a glance
Of one, a girl, dancing a wildflower dance.
But hardly had I seen
When, quick, between
My eyes and her a great bough thrust its screen.
173

And the deep wood gave out
A mighty shout,
And in my face, ere I could turn about,
A bramble struck me fair.—
I did not care,
But through the thorny thicket burst to stare—
On no one.—Just a tree
Confronted me,
And looked as innocent as it could be.
Only, in trunk and bough,
I felt, somehow,
At my confusion it was laughing now.

AUTUMN.

In the misty valley, Autumn, moving drowsily,
Slipping rings of marigolds on her chilly fingers,
Binds her gipsy locks with gems as she wanders frowsily
'Mid the ageratum stalks where in dreams she lingers.
In the fields her footprints shine in aster-glimmerings.
And by streams, o'er which she leans as above a mirror,
174

Gazing on her face awhile in its lacy shimmerings
Of the mist that swathes her form when the dusk draws nearer.
In her hand she folds the bee, crooning soft and honeyly,
Then within a gentian-crib bids its heart be quiet;
And the butterfly she takes, winging over sunnily,
Drops it weary on a rose saying, “There! rest by it!”
And all night one hears her gown rustling sere and frostily
As her creaking shoes go by with their cricket-buckles;
Through the moonlight, past the door, stealing gray and ghostily,
Now upon the pane she taps with her twig-like knuckles.
Somewhere yonder, in the dark, where the owl hoots—meagrely
Death is waiting, grim and gaunt, in the fading forest;
Bleak of face and hollow-eyed, who shall seize her eagerly,
Drag her to the underworld when the storm is sorest.
175

RAGWEED.

To me
There is a mystery
In what the crickets sing,
The beetles drone, or, with its vibrant wing,
The grig may say,
Chanting both night and day.
I know there's sense
And beauty in the way
The mud-wasp molds the clay,
Fashioning its hollow cell.
There's no pretence
In Nature, son, for I have seen
Many a riddle solved, and been
Laughed at for being a fool by many a one.
Well, well!
But now to tell you, just for fun,
What happened to me yonder, in the sun,
The broad daylight, there by that old rail-fence:
Upon a ragweed stalk, like Puck, a-swing,
Green as a katydid's wing,
Snared in a spider's web, stretched taut and tense
176

Above a woodland spring,
I found a fairy thing,
Dressed in a tattered green;
A jaunty cap,
The emerald husk of some slim pod or bean,
Perched on his head; crook-kneed
He sat,
As watchful as a cat,
Alert and hard to find; a ragged scrap
Of weed himself; or like a roguish seed
That cuddles snugly in a pea-pod's flap.
I knew it for a goblin, without doubt,
The spiderweb had snared itself about—
He squatted, grinning, in the broad, bright noon,
Humming a small-gnat's tune.
And ho!
Right so
He eyed me, hide and hair,
At first severely,
A moment merely,
Then yawned, a tiny yawn, that hinted clearly,
That I could go!
177

That said,
With a side gesture of the head,
“I can dispense, sir, with your company!”
Then stretched himself as if to show
He did not care to know
Who the huge creature was that stopped to see
What he himself might be;
And stood to watch him swinging airily.
'T was all put on; designed indifference!
I had some sense,
Albeit he would not see,
Or not acknowledge it could be!
For he assumed a most offended air,
And fixed a stare,
Unmoving, on the old rail-fence;
And then,
Ere I had counted ten—
Tap, tap!
He stooped and gave a rap,
A tiny rap, upon the ragweed stalk;
Then bent and listened, leaning close an ear,
As if was aught to hear;
Mayhap the insect-talk
I' the heart o' the weed—
178

Some pixy thing, mayhap,
Not bigger than a seed—
Indeed—
Whose message seemed most urgent, that was clear;
Delivered in the whining of a gnat,
Or woodfly, busy with the sugar-sap,
And careful of his answer to the tap.
Then, suddenly, the ragweed stalk went fat,
Right in the smooth place where he leaned to rap;
And, like a solid bubble o' green, a knob,
Bulged outward; and from forth it blew a blob
Of yeasty white, a silvery slime and—scat!
As quick as that,
He vanished into it—shoes, coat, and hat—
And, where he'd sat,
A cowspit fleck, from which my clue was drawn,
Showed me the way he'd gone.
But quick!—
Knowing his trick—
I cut the very stick
Of ragweed through the middle,
179

The stalk I have here, which I know for sure
Holds him a prisoner.—
There where you see it frothed and swelled,
Tight as a fiddle
He hides inside.—Now! Watch me!—scut!
You see now where I held,
I hold and cut
The very spot! And—there!
Now mark him in his lair!—
Tut! tut!
I brought him home for you to see!
But,
He has escaped! and left, most cleverly
A small green worm to fool us, eh?
But that's his way!
And, let me tell you, sir, however that may be,
That small green worm is—he!

PAN OF THE BEECH WOODS.

Down there in the old beech woods,
Where the screech-owl sits and broods,
And the rocks fume with the creek,
Each a foam-fleck on its cheek,
Pan keeps company with my moods,
Running when a foot intrudes—
Goat-foot Pan who oft eludes.
180

Once I heard him, where he sat
On a ferned and mossy mat,
Whistling like a thrush or chat.
I, you see, had quit my plow—
Couldn't work that day somehow—
And I followed—seemed to me
Dronings of a pipe, or bee—
Couldn't tell you which, I vow;
But it led from bough to bough
To the place we're standing now.
There I watched him all that day,
While he piped and danced away,
With the forest-things at play.
In the creek I saw a fin
Wink; and then a terrapin
Lift its head. A toad hopped out,
Croaked, and crept Pan's feet about;
He quit piping; took it in
His brown hand and set its chin
To his pipe and said, “Begin!”
And the toad began to blow
Music such as quavers low
In the marsh when dusk comes slow.
Nearing sunset as I drew
Home, I glimpsed him, peering through
Bush and brake; he seemed to stand
With his Pan-pipes in one hand,
181

Beckoning with the other to
Something in the trees, that flew
Down and muttered, “Who are you?”
And Pan chuckled; set his oat
To the owlet's feathered throat,
Bade it blow a wildwood note.
As it blew I saw him smile;
Then he said, “You've had your trial!
You can hunt now. Twilight comes.
I must tune the beetle drums
And each cricket-harp and viol.”
Then he went. Each woodland aisle
Droned his passage. After while,
Far away upon a hill,
Heard him piping, “Whippoorwill!”
Listen! you may hear him still.

NIGHT'S REVELRIES.

Above the world,
Pale, dew-impearled,
Like lilies in blue pools of night,
The stars float white;
Enchantment is abroad with many a glowworm light
Of green and silver ... Look you! where,
With firefly-tangled hair,
She leans above the water there,
While, downy-winged, the great moon-moths take flight.
182

To me it would seem right
To see him now—Puck, brown and bare,
Upon that web a-sway,
Or sliding down a ray
Of starlight with some fair, attendant fay;
Or, on that toadstool's top astride,
Squatting with arms akimbo, mouth ear-wide,
And upright slits of flame instead of eyes,
Watching and waiting till the full moon rise.
But what are those
So busy 'round that rose?
Those moth-like things,
And shapes, with beetle wings;
And there! snail-gray in frog-like-fitting clothes—
Where green that firefly glows—
Leaving a trail of silver, what are those,
Stilt-eyed and slow,
That come and go below
The rainbowed rows
Of morning-glory bells
And wine-stained shells
Of balsam blooms?
Do you suppose
That they are grooms,
Disguised, of Oberon? grim warders of his rooms?
Or fairy maskers that the Night
Sends through the goblin dusk
To tag with wet each mushroom's rim,
183

Or tap and trim
Each bud until it open wide its petaled tusk?
Or brim
Its cup with dew and musk?
Let us steal near,
My dear.
Night's at her revelries
Among these flowers and trees.
Perhaps if we could seize
The moment, like those bees
So snugly huddled in that flow'r, we, too,
Might touch on things she dreams; and so behold
The invisible host, the crew
With which her heart makes bold
When all the world's asleep and no one looks,
Except the moon, who peeps in ferny nooks.

FAERY FOREST.

The freckled jewel-flower swings
Its blossom where the orchid blushed,
And, where the woodland deeps hung hushed,
The raptured veery sings. . . .
The Forest crooked an arm at me
And murmured with its leaves, “Come, see
The wonder and the mystery
That haunt the heart of things.”
184

And then I saw a spirit wild
That danced within the waterfall,
Or, like the beauty of a child,
Hung laughing over all;
I saw the fairy of the fern
Toss emerald locks at every turn;
And in the dew the elfin burn
That holds the rose in thrall.
I saw moon-presences of light
Glow into form and glimmer 'round;
And, with them, crystalling in sight,
The winds with wild flowers crowned.
I saw the Dryads sit at ease
Within the hiding hearts of trees;
And in the brambles, watching these,
The Faun that none hath found.
I saw the music all around,
The lisp of leaf, the water's song,
Evolve a form, a shape of sound,
That glimmered green along;
I saw the happiness that thrills
The heart of things, that ebbs and fills,
Dance with the rapture of the rills,
And leap the woods among.
A moment more and I had seen
The Fairy-Queen as on she fared;
And all that Nature's self may mean
To me had been declared.
185

But, lo! there came a sudden lull
In action, and a step fell dull—
A mortal's ... and the Beautiful
Fled, like a wild thing scared.

ELFIN.

I found a vale, a haunted dell,
Where, over all, there hung a spell;
And underneath a streaming stone
A glimmering spirit made its moan,
Now murmuring through a crystal shell,
Now on a harp of spar, while, blown
About the place, the wild foam fell.
I raised the rock that held it bound,
And, straight, it changed into a sound
That danced around me, dimly yet,
Smelling of fern and violet;
In mossy green and crystal gowned—
A silvery girl of shimmering wet,
Who round my form her cool arms wound.
Upon my eyes she kissed me thrice
With chilly lips of rosy ice;
And with her kisses, like the foam,
My heart grew light and fain to roam
Away from all Earth's human ties. ...
And so it was I left my home
To dwell with Love that never dies.
186

THE DANCER.

Those gold marauders of the air,
The brown bees, bustling everywhere,
Led me away
To where, in sulphur-colored showers,
The Autumn heaped her gold of flowers,
And bound her hair
With all the beauty of their disarray.
Above her head the birds took flight,
And by her side a shape of light
Danced like a Fay,
Who wove strange magic with the grace
Of glancing limbs and twinkling face,
And raiment bright,
That blew like gossamers about the day.
Who was this creature, dancing past?
Who came and went, now slow, now fast,
At airy play;
The goldenrod unto her feet
Kept time; and with her heart's wild beat,
To the very last,
The Blackeyed-Susans set their heads asway.
I asked of flower and of tree:
“Who is this Elfin? what is she,
So bright and gay?”
187

They murmured what I could not hear;
For she kept laughing in my ear,
Bewildering me,
And whispering words too wild for me to say.
Then, in a moment, she was gone,
Flying a veil of cloudy lawn,
Pinned with a ray;
And then I heard: “The Wind am I!
The Wind, who now must say good-bye,
And go till dawn
And dance with stars and waves upon the bay.”
And all night long, snug in my bed,
I heard her feet as far they led
The dancing spray;
And to the moon and stars a shout
She raised and tried to blow them out;
Then laughed and fled
To greet the dawn who walked on hilltops gray.

THE LOST GARDEN.

At close of day,
As once in childhood, through the meadows gray,
I took my way.
Faint scents of myrrh,
And twilight gleams of glimmering lavender,
Led me to her,
188

That fairy child,
Who, to her garden, with its beauty wild,
My soul beguiled.
I seemed to see
Her eyes again, like fireflies, 'neath a tree,
Regarding me.
She seemed to stand
Fluttering the moon-moths with a dewy hand
Across the land.
And, following slow,
I came into a place I used to know
Long years ago.
A place of peace,
Guarded about by many stately trees,
The home of bees.
A garden place
Of flowers and fruits, through which I oft would pace
In childhood's days.
And, following soft,
An elfin voice, that murmured oft and oft,
Far in the croft,
All suddenly
I saw her there, beneath a cedar tree,
Pale, beckoning me.
189

And with a smile
She took my hand and led my soul a while
Down many an aisle
Of flowers; and told
Of many dreams of beauty, known of old,
That now are mold.
And, as we walked
Along the paths the moonbeams whitely chalked,
The flowers talked.
A rose-bloom said:
“He is returned, who thought this garden dead—
It lives, instead.”
Another sighed:
“He is come back to her, who was his guide,
He dreamed had died.”
One said, “'Tis plain
She holds him still with all her elfin train
Through heart and brain.”
And all around
There grew a whisper, like a twinkling sound,
From air and ground.
It sang, “We've grown
Into the garden, making it our own
With dreams here known.
190

“With dreams, behold,
That, dancing, changed the darkness of its mold
To fairy gold.
“Making it sweet
With mental messages of spirit feet,
That here still meet.
“For still they weave
Their spells within here. He, too, may perceive—
We give him leave.”
And I, at that,
Beheld a secret place, a violet mat,
On which one sat.
A little lad,
Who seemed to have the face that once I had,
In days long glad.
And then a star
Fell, trailing heaven with a fiery scar.
And, from afar,
Glints of the moon
Showed where the elfins tripped it to a rune—
A cricket tune.
191

And, as they passed,
Around the boy their spirit spells were cast,
And held him fast.
Then they were gone,
Somewhere into the region of the dawn;
And night grew wan.
And in my ear
I heard a voice cry, “Wake! the dawn is near!
Be gone from here!”
And cold, afraid,
In that lost garden where, a child, I played,
I woke dismayed.

THE HOUSE OF DREAMS.

I know a house, that stands remote,
With garden, barn, and pigeon-cote,
Below a hill, beyond a wood.
Like some old face beneath a hood,
Its barn, with its one window-eye,
Gray-roofed, and musk with hay and rye,
Keeps watch upon the old post-road,
That wanders by,
Down which goes many a creaking load.
192

'Tis always Autumn there; the ways
Are strewn with leaves; all day a haze
Spreads o'er the land a glimmering veil;
At eve the lone wind lifts a wail,
And, nearing midnight, comes the rain
And taps each dripping window pane;
And in the barn, at dawn, a flail
Beats, and a wain
Pulls, apple-laden, to its rail.
Sleep carpets all its rooms, whose doors
And windows look on misty moors,
And on a marsh where wade and pipe
The wild duck and the long-billed snipe;
And over which the House beholds
The Morn come, wrapped in ghostly golds;
And Day retire, in wild estate
Of Storm—that folds
His couch with purple, glaring hate.
At dusk the moors disgorge the moon
Like some enormous egg; the loon
Screams somewhere, like a soul that's lost;
And everywhere a smell of frost
And sodden flowers and fruits and leaves
Makes mute the heart; a cricket grieves;
And one small window, seen afar,
Beneath vined eaves,
Gleams o'er the marsh like some bright star.
193

And there it sits and dreams its dreams,
The soul, that is a part, it seems,
Of this old house, unto whose door
Couriers come riding evermore,
Splashed with the leagues of clay and wet—
They bring strange news, that none may let,
Of days long past and days to be—
Days men forget,
And days no man shall ever see.

THE SPECKLED TROUT.

With rod and line I took a way
That led me through the gossip trees,
Where all the forest was asway
With hurry of the running breeze.
I took my hat off to a flower
That nodded welcome as I passed,
And, pelted by a morning shower,
Unto its heart a bee held fast.
A head of gold one great weed tossed,
And leaned to look when I went by;
And where the brook the roadway crossed
The daisy kept on me its eye.
And when I stooped to bathe my face,
And seat me at a great tree's foot,
I heard the stream say, “Mark the place,
And undermine it rock and root.”
194

And o'er the whirling water there
A dragonfly its shuttle plied,
Where wild a fern let down its hair,
And leaned to see the water's pride:
A speckled trout—the spotted elf,
Whom I had come so far to see,
Stretched out above a rocky shelf,
A shadow sleeping mockingly.
[OMITTED]
And I have sat here half the day
Regarding it. It has not stirred.
I hear the running water say:
“He does not know the magic word,
“The word that changes everything,
And brings all Nature to his hand;
That makes of this great trout a king,
And opes the way to Faeryland.”

THE TWILIGHT WITCH.

The Twilight Witch comes with her stars
And strews them through the blue,
And breathes below the sunset bars
A breath of meadow-rue;
She trails her veil across the skies,
And mutters to the trees;
195

Then in the weeds with firefly eyes
She wakes the Mysteries.
The Twilight Witch, with elf and fay,
Is creeping down the Slumber-Way.
Sleep, my dearest, sleep.
The Twilight Witch, with crescent moon,
Stoops on the wooded hill;
She answers to the owlet's croon,
And to the whippoorwill;
She bends above the reedy pool
And wakes the drowsy frog,
And with the toadstool, dim and cool,
Rims gray the old dead log.
The Twilight Witch comes stealing down
To take you off to Slumber-Town—
Sleep, my dearest, sleep.
The Twilight Witch with windy tread
Has entered in the room;
She creeps around your trundle-bed,
And whispers in the gloom;
She says, “I brought my steed along,
My fairy steed of gleams,
To bear you like a breath of song
Into the Land of Dreams.
I am the Witch, who takes your hand
And leads you off to Faeryland,
The far-off Land of Sleep.”
196

THE GRAY WOOD.

The gray wood stood,
Windy and whistling, with its winter dream;
Its leafy hood,
Tossed at its feet, shuffled into the stream.
Across its breast
Was drawn a band of crimson and of gold,
While in the west
The sunset's sullen fires, in rage, grew cold.
It gave a cry,
Then tossed its arms and let its huge head sink,
As 'thwart the sky
The wild-geese drew their harrow, black as ink.
Then up and down
It moved its shaggy shoulders, and was still;
Slipped on a gown
Of mist and sat there, dimly, on the hill.
Till, silver bright,
Out of the east there came a lamp of fire;
And in its light
It breathed again, and doffed its gray attire.
But all night long,
Wringing its hands, I heard it wail its love,
Weird, wild with wrong,
Unto the Moon that moved cold-eyed above.
197

Then, nearing dawn,
I heard a dripping and looked forth to see—
The moon was gone,
And wood and sky were weeping wearily.

DOPPLEGÄNGER.

Oh, I went down the old creek, the cold creek, the creek of other days,
And on the way I met a ghost, pale in the moonlight's rays,
The ghost of one, a little boy, with whom my heart still plays.
He looked at me, he nodded me, he beckoned with his pole,
To follow him where oft he'd gone to that old fishing-hole,
In checker of the shade and shine beneath the old beech bole.
The old hole, the dark hole, wherein we marked the gleam
Of minnows streaking, silvery rose, and in its deeps a dream
Of something gone forever down the glimmer of the stream.
198

The old hole, the deep hole, o'er which we watched the flash
Of bronze and brass of dragonflies, and listened for the splash
Of frogs that leapt from lilied banks when round them we would dash.
He stood beside me there again, with fishing-pole and line,
And looked into my eyes and said, “The fishing will be fine!”
And bade me follow down the stream and placed his hand in mine.
But it was strange; I could not speak, however I might try,
While all my heart choked up with tears, and I could only sigh
And whisper to myself, “Ah, God! if I could only die!”
He laughed at me, he beckoned me, but I—I stood wide-eyed;
A spell was on my soul, I knew, that kept me from his side,
A spell that held me back from him—my boyhood that had died.
'Twas there beside the old creek, the cold creek, the creek of long gone-by;
I stood upon its banks awhile when stars were in the sky,
And, oh, I met and walked with him, the child that once was I!
199

THE AMERICAN CUCKOO.

I.

Hark to the beat
Of strident-humming insects in the heat!
The pale-pink soapwort leans its anxious ears
Against the Summer, listening for the rain;
And where the vervain, like a face, appears,
With eyes a-strain,
To see the Wind, there is a voice that nears,
Whispering of storm again.

II.

It says, “The way
Was long and hot o'er fields of corn and hay,
And orchards, strewn with ruined fruit, that smelled
Of drouth; and vineyards where the filmy blue
Of grapes hung bubbles, hornet-stung, unswelled;
And gardens too,
Where worms were busy and huge spiders held
Sway in the webs they drew.
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III.

“So when I reached
A hollow of these hills, where woods had pleached
A cave to rest in, there I lay me down
And slept, until upon a bough there cried
A voice, that said, 'Awake! the fields are brown
With drouth, and all the creeks and springs are dried.
Put on thy gown
Of clouds, fringed blue with rain, and seek outside
Welcome from farm and town.

IV.

“'Go! take the road
Into the world on which the sun has glowed
Fiercely for days, withering up the land;
And, trailing wet along the dusty lane,
Cover the sun's face with thy cooling hand;
And sweep thy train
Of moisture over all, and take thy stand
By Fever's window pane.

V.

“‘'Till he shall see
His reign is over, and glad flower and tree
Laugh; and the cattle in the fields rejoice.—
Wake from thy sleep, thou sluggard! rise and go
Into the land and slay Heat's locust voice!
Let rivers flow,
And then above the sunset's beauty poise
The glory of thy bow!’”
201

VI.

It was a bird,
God's messenger, the cuckoo, that I heard.
The wind arose, put on its cloak and came—
And every flower, that leaned an ear and heard,
Danced; and the skies put off their garb of flame,
Shouting a word
Of blessing, 'mid which, calling its own name,
Rejoiced a jubilant bird.

BEAUTY.

Through pools of feldspar heav'n, above which lies
One cloud's flamingo wing, the Inca, Day,
Wades downward to his death; along his way
Run little ripples of the sunset skies;
And every stepping-stone of mist he tries
With Midas foot, transforms its stony gray
To burning gold; until, with one red ray,
He sinks, and o'er him, stars, like bubbles, rise.
So should all beauty pass; in rich accord
With its surroundings; touching earth till all
Conform to it as an accessory;
Transferring to its features the regard
Of its own dreams, through which the spiritual
At last attains its immortality.
202

SPIRITS OF THE AIR.

All immaterial beauty, night and storm,
And wind and light, assume a different splendor
To such as see with the mind's eye and render
Worship to Nature of invisible form;
The sunset is a cauldron, where a charm
Is brewed; and dusk, a mighty Witch of Endor,
Busy with mystery; evoking slender
Dream-spirits of the stars that round her swarm.
Who has not walked with such, not felt the air
Of their swift passage, on the wind from far,
And followed footsteps heard within the heart,
Shall never feel strange fingers in his hair,
Lifting his soul into some farthest star,
Nor of his dreams become immortal part.

THE PURPLE FLOWER.

There is a flower that blooms for ill or good
Within the grove of Life. Its stalk is frail
Yet strong, and bends to every passing gale,
That breathes or blusters through the solitude.
Some call it “Doubt-and-Dream,” and “red as blood”
Its bloom; and others, when their efforts fail,
Name it “Despair-and-Die,” and call it pale:
For unto each 'tis differently imbued.
203

And yet the flower, fashioned like a star,
Is neither white nor crimson, but deep blue;
Its name is “Hope and Wait.” The color-blind
But see it otherwise, and, seeing, mar
Its attributes, from which it takes its hue
According to man's attitude of mind.

THE WIND OF SPRING.

A wind, that smelled of honey and dew,
Out of the gates of the Morning drew,
And over the clover meadows blew.
It called to the bird on its bough, “Awake!
Breathe of my breath, and fill the brake
With joy of your song for its sweetness' sake.”
And the bird sat up on its bough and sang
'Till the leaves peeped out and for rapture sprang,
And all the aisles of the orchard rang.
And its mate came singing, and straightway they
Started to build on the topmost spray
Of the apple tree; and sang all day.
And the wind, to the boughs of the apple-tree,
Spoke a word: “Now, listen to me!
Open your eyes, so you may see!”
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And at its word, without ado,
The little buds crowded the brown bark through,
And took great joy of their own bright hue.
And the glad wind kissed them and farther fled,
And found on the earth a violet bed,
And stooped and whispered: “Lift your head!
“Wake! for Love, you know, is near—
The Love that the Earth holds very dear.
Here is a jewel for each one's ear.”
And straight there sparkled a drop of dew
In every violet's ear of blue,
To greet young Love as his feet passed through.
And Love, who was early up and out,
Heard the bustle and laugh and shout,
And wondered what 'twas all about.
And the Wind cried, “Come and follow me;
The Earth is waiting with blossom and bee
For you to walk 'neath the orchard tree.”
And Love came wondering, starry-eyed,
Like a little child, down the green hillside,
And before him went the Wind who cried:
“Come, birds, and bees, and butterflies;
And, blossoms, look with all your eyes!
This is the Love that never dies!”
205

THE MAY MOON.

Dusk lifts high an opal-tinted
Chalice brimmed with pearly wine;
And upon a salver, minted
Of the sunset, lets it shine
Deep within a golden shrine,
Showing there a moony line.
In its light, on owlet pinions,
Witchcraft takes her drowsy flight;
And Enchantment with her minions
Of the dew and glowworm-light,
Leads her pageant through the night
Over every vale and height.
In her train, as by it dances,
Lo, again a Dream I knew
In my youth, before me glances
Dimly in the moon and dew,
Dancing back, O Heart, to you,
Elfin-like, through rose and rue.

MIRACLES.

Ripple on ripple, from the east,
The golden stream of morning runs;
The dark world doffs its grays and duns;
And high o'erhead Night's robes are creased
With azure—deep as Solomon's
When he sat throned at feast.
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And glittering as David when
He rode to battle, brazen-helmed,
And prayed his God and overwhelmed
His foes and flamed among his men,
The sun comes forth—a king, proud-realmed,
Who takes his throne again.
One last long spear of golden-gray
The Twilight lifts, then lays aside;
And one white star, that tries to hide
Its flower there, reveals a ray;
Where, like to Ruth, dark, dewy-eyed,
Dusk goes her glimmering way.
Then like the state—which went before
Queen Sheba, when, with footsteps slow,
She paced the wise King's portico—
Eastward a light grows, more and more;
And then, a goddess, face aglow,
The moon, at Heaven's door.

THE WHARVES OF SLUMBER.

Upon the wharves of Slumber
I watched the Ships of Dreams
Come sailing in through mist and moon,
With glowworm lights and gleams.
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Their holds were stuffed with plunder
Of every land and time;
With Ophir gold and gods of Greece,
And scraps of ancient rhyme.
Pastiles of Cretan henbane,
And bales of Yemen silk,
With cassia buds and sandalwood
And Oman pearls like milk.
And slaves, both men and women,
Most fair to look upon,
Whose chanting made the breeze to blow
That swept the Dream Ships on.
I had the pick and taking
Of every cargo there—
The spice and gold, the gems and slaves,
And myrrh and pearls and vair.
But while I stood debating
What thing to take and choose,
A voice cried, “Lo! the good ship Dawn
Draws in across the dews.”
And all the Dream Ships vanished,
And left me wide awake
To think of many, many things
It had been mine to take.
208

NIGHT MAGIC.

In cobalt raiment, glinting
With stars, beneath the pines
Night walks, the forest printing
With moonbeam-jeweled lines.
Within her footsteps follow
The dews and glowworm-gleams,
And out of hill and hollow
The murmur of hushed streams.
The wildflowers there that dapple
The road and kiss her feet,
Lean over—rose, May-apple—
And whisper something sweet.
The wild bird, drowsy-dreaming,
For her indulgence begs,
And chants a song, in seeming,
That echoes in its eggs.
The bud, that nods unfolded,
That holds its flower in mind,
The mushroom, still unmolded,
Crowd her dim steps behind.
Agog to see who follow,
In fernseed-twinkling shoes—
The Fays, of hill and hollow,
Who bring the flowers news
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Of Elfland and its towers,
Where nothing ever dies,
That knows these are not flowers,
But Fairies in disguise.

THE TEMPLE OF NIGHT.

Columns of crystal lazulite
The stormy vapors pile,
Building a temple, vast, where Night,
Clothed like a queen in cloudy white,
On her dark face a smile,
Moves down a Titan aisle.
A robe of twice-dyed byssus drifts
Around her manifold,
As in her hands the moon she lifts,
Her beauty glimmering starry gifts
Of clustered pearl and gold,
King Chaos gave of old.
Around her troops a spirit-train,
Transparent as the air;
Peris and Afrites of the rain,
And Deev and Jinn, who bind again
The winds within their lair,
With wildly flowing hair.
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The azure darkness of her face
Assumes its old time charm;
And, lo! again, in pearly lace,
She walks; the moon—a crystal vase,
Under one cloudy arm—
Above the world's alarm.

DAWN IN THE HILLS.

Morn, like a hallelujah, storms the sky;
The colors vie
With one another—now in crimson dye,
And now in golden—as if saints went by
In clouds of glory with a mighty cry,
The mists, like censer smoke, far-circling, fly.
The Earth, in adoration, seems to kneel,
And, worshiping, feel
The awe and wonder that the heavens reveal;
Above her, whom the rapture seems to heal,
Splendor on splendor, wheel on burning wheel,
The hues, like vast cathedral music, reel.
Let us stand up, O Heart, and with one voice,
Like Heaven, rejoice!
Give praise to God! And, with the soul at poise,
Forget awhile the little, mean annoys
Of life! Its tools and all its foolish toys!
And like the hills and heavens make Beauty our high choice!
211

ABOVE THE HILLS.

Twilight, and whippoorwill, and firefly,
And then,
Within the evening sky,
One star,
As if, afar,
The Day would say, “Amen.”
Now 'tis as if one lifted up a face
And saw,
Just for a moment's space,
A presence,
Or godlike essence,
Passing, august, in awe.
Dusk and the cricket and the moon;
A bird
Quavering a good-night tune—
Or, no!
The afterglow
Speaking, low-breathed, a word.
And now from somewhere in the hills there comes
A sigh,
As when the world succumbs
To rest,
Her weary breast
Bidding all toil good-bye.
212

And, from the soil, soft mists arise, and airs,
It seems,
That are Earth's dreams and prayers.—
Ah, would
That we, too, could
Behold what 'tis she dreams!

HOME-RETURN.

Retired as Happiness, that holds
The memory of a grief that's gone,
The old house, like a man who folds
His arms and faces toward the dawn,
Stands there. Above it shines the star
Of twilight; and around its gate
Crowd many dreams, that naught may bar,
And memories no time can mar,
That our home-coming seem to wait.
All is at peace. The land around
Seems dreaming of divinities
That once in childhood here we found;
Or listening for the mysteries
That whispered to our innocence,
Of that which held a flower in thought,
Or of a tree's experience,
Or of the wind—in evidence
Of dreams with which our minds were fraught.
213

SUNSET CLOUDS.

Taloned with lightning, in the west—
Beneath whose breath the woods are bowed—
Like some vast monster o'er its nest,
There sweeps a cloud.
And near and far a blackness falls,
And Fear has no safe place to hide;
Then echoing through the sky's huge halls
There goes a stride.
And then a bow of flame is bent;
An arrow speeds, a burning wire;
The cloud's great heart is torn and rent,
And vomits fire.
Its huge wings droop; its bosom bleeds;
And, drowned in blood, it turns a fawn,
Whom night, o'er blue and starry meads,
Hunts on and on.

CLOUDS.

The sunset crowns itself with storm,
From which a form
Of demon darkness lifts an arm,
And into sight a mountain heaves.
A sun-ray touches it; it turns
An isle that burns,
Upon whose shores blaze giant ferns,
'Mid which the mortal eye perceives
214

Plumed savages that launch long boats;
Towards which there floats
The wreck of Sindbad; and far motes,
Like Rocs, that trail vermilion wings.
The island sinks; and in its place
An Afrite face
Glares, rising from a genii vase
Of stars and moon that Evening brings.
A Dream treads dimly down the Hall
Of Evenfall;
And from the Night's gigantic wall
Lets fall a scarf—a meteor.
And then, behold! a mighty hand,
That points a land
Of mysteries, no eye has scanned,
Where all Life's dreams and longings are.

MATINS.

What has the Dawn decided on?—
Silver and fawn?
Crimson and gold?
Or a gown of lawn?
Fold on fold,
A mantle of mist around her drawn,
As oft of old?
215

Yesterday she went her way
In a cloak of gray,
Laced with rain;
The like array
She may don again,
And, as a nun, with a face like clay,
Pace hill and plain.
Or, now suppose, as her way she goes,
She wears a rose
Of fire and dew,
And a cloak, that blows,
Of windy blue,
And a cap of red, where a feather glows,
A cloud or two.
In no other wise you will see her rise—
Her calm, clear eyes
With joy elate;
Before she tries
High Heaven's gate,
And down the Garden of the Skies
Leads bright her state.
And with her brings, oh, many things—
A lark that sings,
And gladness of heart;
A flower that springs,
And hope that's part
Of the soul, that lends to life new wings.
To soar and dart.
216

THE WOOD GIRL.

Sweet as an apple, rosy to the core,
Her bosom shone, bared to the wind and sun;
Musing she sat within the woodland hoar,
Watching the wild creek run.
She came upon me in the blossoming bush
As might a Naiad by enchantment bound,
Within a secret place of bloom and hush
And dewy-dripping sound.
But for the water, struggling with a stone,
And breeze that searched, playing at hide and seek,
That led me on, I never would have known—
It was so lone a creek.
But coming on her, so crepuscular,
A glimmering girl, watching the water flow,
She seemed a spirit from some other star,
Or Nymph of long ago;
Warden of minnows, shepherding their way;
An unreality, a woodland dream
She seemed; 'round whom the dragonflies, at play,
Flashed many an elfin gleam.
And now she leaned, listening a bubble-word
That warned the thrush of some awaiting snake,
That, hiding where the lonely water stirred,
Lay with dull eyes awake.
217

I watched her sitting, marveling at her face,
A thought had touched, a dream that held her fast—
A Naiad must have looked so in some place
There in the old Greek past.
And then I heard a note—a crystal sound—
A thrush; the syrinx, seeming, of a Faun;
A bramble snapped, and, quick, she turned around—
And, lo, the spell was gone.
And I was looking into wondering eyes—
A little girl's, who rose and fled from me,
Startled—as oft a Naiad, in surprise,
Fled there in Arcady.

AUTUMN EQUINOX.

The clouds build black a giant hall,
'Round which the winds like madmen stride,
Wild voices call from wall to wall,
And earth is tossed from side to side.
Fury and Madness meet at board,
And sit at feast. Anon they rise,
And thunderous sword smites thunderous sword,
And each one by the other dies.
Then suddenly a crimson hand
Hurls wide a window, deep as doom,
At which a Demon takes his stand,
Burning within a burning room.
218

The casement slowly closes down,
And leaves a crack at which appear
Two windy lights that glare and frown,
And seem the bloodshot eyes of Fear.
The sun is gone; and from the East
There comes a dripping step and lamp—
The wind's wild maunderings have ceased;
The moon looks down on dew and damp.

THE GIPSY.

Deep in a wood I met a maid,
Who had so wild an air
Her beauty made my heart afraid,
And filled me with despair.
She wore a gown of gipsy dyes,
That had a ragged look;
The brown felicity of her eyes
Was like a mountain brook.
Around her hair, of raven hue,
Was bound a gentian band,
And from each tree the wild birds flew
And fluttered to her hand.
The crow sat cawing in the thorn
As if it, too, would greet
Her coming; and the winds of morn
Made music for her feet.
219

Barefooted down the wood she came
Bearing a magic rod
That left the leaves it touched aflame
And aster-starred the sod.
I spoke to her! “Tell who you are!
So fair, so wild, so free!
A being from some other star?
Or wildwood witchery?”
She smiled, and, passing, turned and said:
“You do not know me then?
Why, I am she, you long deemed dead,
Autumn, returned again!”

AUTUMN WINDS.

What voices are these,
Crying upon the hills?
The Winds of Autumn
Tossing and bowing the giant trees!
Winds of Death,
Jubilant, acclaiming,
Filled with imperious portent,
Declaring, demanding;
Bidding the world put off its raiment of gold and of scarlet,
Its mantle of pride and arrogance,
And don the garments, ashen and sober,
Of melancholy and repentance.
220

I hear their voices, sonorous and mighty;
In their music
Shawms and cymbals and sackbuts vie with one another,
Reeling and reverberating to the marching of sombre hosts,
Giant-footed, funereal,
To whose sorrow the forests yield themselves,
Rocking to and fro
Like mad fanatics that toss and whirl,
Filled with the frenzy of death,
The god they celebrate—
Their stormy raiment whirling about them,
They dance, lugubrious
In their tattered mantles of leaves,
Intoning their hearts' desolation.

WHERE THE GRAY MISTS WHIRL.

At night, in the lonely marsh, 'tis dread,
When the autumn winds crowd 'round,
And the gray mists whirl, like the shrouded dead,
And the reeds make a ghostly sound.
At every step the moisture springs,
And down in the hollows a something sings,
And something mutters and mocks o'erhead,
And a footstep shuffles the ground.
221

A boy, who crosses it, hugs his book,
And runs like a hunted thing;
The winds blow hollow from every nook—
What noise is that they bring?
A sound of digging; a phantom spade,
That breaks the turf where a grave is made—
“Ho! ho!” What child would dare to look,
Hearing such laughter ring?
Like evil faces the black stumps stare,
And the pine-wood nods and leers;
What's that? Dead grass? or human hair?—
In the stream that now appears;
And there where it drizzles and drones and dins,
He knows it the demon-woman who spins,
The fiend that turns her wild wheel there,
In the rustling reeds he nears.
On, on he hurries; some hurt, some harm
Behind him doffs disguise;
Before his feet black bubbles swarm,
And scraps of music rise;
It is the skeleton fiddler, ho!
Who scrapes a devil's dance below—
That twisted thing, with horrible arm,
Who fiddles the coins from dead men's eyes.
The marshland laughs; and a cry of dole
Grows out of the laugh, like an evil threat;
“Woe! woe!” it wails, “My poor, lost soul!
Why does it wander yet?”
222

At that he runs like a wounded deer.
Is there no guardian angel near?
He seems to see in the bog a hole
Where his bones lie, moldering wet.
At last the earth, firm earth, he feels!
Thank God for the meadowlands!
A lamp-lit window a house reveals—
His home near the marsh that stands.
He gasps and shudders and, standing still,
Looks back at the swamp where it stretches chill,
And shrinking, thinks of the Fear that steals
There with its strangling hands.

THE TREES AND THE WIND.

Squirrels are chattering;
Nuts are pattering;
Let's go play
In the woods to-day,
Where the wind with the trees
Is having his way.
You can hear him say,
“Take care of these
As you do of the bees.
Winter is coming;
The partridge is drumming;
And you must provide
Snug rooms inside,
223

Where the little gray jackets may house and hide.
I will blow you down and break you in two
If you don't do the thing I tell you to do!”
And the trees look wise
With their knot-hole eyes;
And nod their heads in a knowing way
As if to say,
“We know our business; don't you worry.
Leave us alone; don't be in a hurry.
The squirrels are fed,
And ready each bed
Of leaves and moss.—
Don't be so cross.
You're always ready
To fume and fuss
And quarrel with us.
Wish you were steady
And willing as we
To help the squirrel, the bird, and bee.
But like some people we know, you see,
In whom some worry is always brewing,
You're better at talking, Sir, than doing.”
224

LET US BE GLAD.

O, Heart, be like the swallow!
The bird whose blithe wings follow
Spring over hill and hollow,
Where leap the laughing flowers
On violet leas and levels,
Where Love his locks dishevels,
In faun-like romps and revels,
Wild-dancing with the Hours.
Have done with care that borrows
Old dread of far to-morrows;
Have done with ancient sorrows,
And fears that wail and weep;
Despairs, that know no sleeping,
And mem'ries, pale with weeping,
And dreams, like shadows creeping,
That shake the deeps of sleep.
Learn promise of the flowers,
The wind and sun and showers,
That rainbow-span the hours,
And vista wood and plain!
Have done with what is dreary!
With all that makes life weary!
And hearken to the veery,
Joy, singing in the rain.
225

It sings, “Come! let in laughter,
Dear Heart! and ever after,
Though low your roof and rafter,
And near your door a grave,
Cast off regret and sorrow,
And fear of what's to-morrow,
And of good Earth go borrow
Song, like my own, that's brave.”

EFFORT.

Effort is a fairy flower,
That can ope the gate
Of Life's grim and gloomy tower,
Where the giant, Fate,
Sits and holds, within his power,
Fame, until shall strike the hour
Work will liberate.

THE FAËRY CHILD.

A wild rose in the east,
The rose of dawn;
A splendor, like the feast
Of Babylon.
A Faëry Child I met
Upon the way;
Her hair with dew was wet
And like a ray.
226

She met me with a laugh,
And then a word;
While leaning on my staff
I stood and heard:
“Come, let me walk with you
The morning way!
Look in my eyes of blue—
I am a Fay.
“I leave no songs unsung;
My heart is brave;
Mankind I walk among
To help and save.
“The world may have beguiled—
Give it no thought!
Think on the Faëry Child
It never caught.
“Who weaves you roses; rare,
An anadem;
And far away from care
Leads you 'mid them.”
A butterfly, a bee,
Now there, now here,
She flew, then kisses three
Gave eye and ear.
227

And all the road that leads
Into the glooms,
Dark, overgrown with weeds,
And marked with tombs,
Glittered in golden wise,
As if for trysts
Of spirits of the skies,
Clothed white in mists.
And lo! I looked again—
The child was gone;
And down the dewy lane
Came bright the dawn.

THE HOUSE OF LIFE.

To what old friend or foe
Do I this hostel owe?
This prison-house no presence knows but mine,
Part bestial, part divine;
This house wherein oft shine
The lamps of dreams, the taper-glow
Of thoughts; where ghosts glide to and fro—
Old ghosts of hate and love, that sunder
The silence with their breathings low;
228

And, pale with wonder,
Hope and Despair, with footsteps swift or slow,
Pace in the darkness, its chief chamber under,
And come and go
Around the living clock that beats below.
I fancy He who willed it,
And out of silence drew
This house of joy and rue,
And with the darkness filled it,
Thought, in His Heart's high essence,
The wisest thing to do,
For me as well as you,
Was, in the walls He builded,
To hide, somewhere, the clue
That leads us to His presence
Above the starry blue.

FLOWERS.

There are the flowers God gives to earth
For each at birth:
Heartsease, Rosemary, and Rue,
That there in the Garden of Eden grew.
The first for thoughts, whatever the way,
Of life each day;
From which shall spring the kindly seeds
Of noble dreams and deathless deeds.
229

The other two for memory
Of life to be,
That in the Garden of the Heart
Grow into Love's own counterpart.

THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE.

I.

When from the tower, like some big flower,
The bell drops petals of the hour,
That says, “It's getting late,”
For nothing else on earth I care
'Cept wash my face and comb my hair,
And hurry out to meet him there,—
My father at the gate.
It's—oh, how slow the hours go!
How hard it is to wait!
Till, drawing near, his step I hear,
And up he grabs me, lifts me clear
Above the garden gate.

II.

When, curved and white, a bugle bright,
The moon makes magic of the night,
A fairy trumpet calling,
To me this seems what's very best—
To kiss good-night and be undressed,
And held against my mother's breast,
Like Christmas snow a-falling.
230

It's—oh, how fast the time goes past!
The moments—how they leap!
Till mother lays me down and sings
A song, and, dreaming many things,
She leaves me fast asleep.

A POET.

All things must die, grow old—
We know this truth;
But Love, that is better than gold,
Shall outlast Youth.
The Love we give to Art,
That gives and gives
Itself in what is part
Of the soul that lives.
In song, that shall outlast
Marble and brass,
And with a word hold fast
All things that pass.
Praise for the poet, then!
Praise, that his rhyme
Keeps young the world for men
In spite of time.
231

THE COMING OF WINTER.

The hungry glitter of War's wolfish eyes
Gleamed where the sunset dies;
And then the Wind stopped at the door and laughed,
Like one who tries
To mask his purpose with designing craft.
I knew 'twas Winter, stripping all of worth
In the fair House of Earth—
Of all its hoarded gold—and in its place
Leaving lean Dearth
To ape the skeleton, Famine, with her face.
Balsam and pimpernel and all the pearls
Of flowers that decked the curls
Of Summer, lo! he seizes for his band
Of vandal churls,
Famine and Frost and Death, with icy hand.
The panther-tawny hills crouch round and gaze,
Gaunt-faced, at Heaven; or raise
Huge claws of forest, stretching them to seize
The fields of maize,
Who, in their terror, seem to shrink and freeze.
232

Some jewels Autumn dropped, when taking flight,
Mark with a starry white
The place she stood; and patches, red as fruit,
Among the blight,
Show, where she fled, the imprint of her foot.
Here lies the testament Earth keeps apart,
For Nature, in her heart;
Come, bend and read of all her joy and pride,
The beautiful art
She builds with, and that Love has sanctified.
In root and seed read of immortal things—
Of what again she brings
To life—dead Beauty, that no hand may bar;
Of Song's wild wings
And Color's palette, refuged now afar.
Take hope! though now she speaks her thoughts in weeds
Instead of flowers, and pleads
In winds instead of birds, her book, though sealed,
To him who reads,
Bears messages of Spring—to be revealed.
233

OLD CHRISTMAS.

A Carol.

I.

The north wind blows the snow-clouds up,
And through the snow the church bells ring,
While Love outside stands caroling;
So heap the fire and fill a cup,
And let us welcome Christmas in,
Who comes with goodly gifts for all,
Good gifts of Heaven and Earth for all,
To rich and poor with mirth for all,
To rich and poor with mirth!
Come, let us make sweet din, my dear,
To welcome Christmas in, my dear,
To welcome Christmas in;
And underneath the mistletoe,
Merrily, ho! merrily, ho!
Merrily, ho! begin.

II.

The frost is keen on field and knoll,
And lights are bright in church and hall;
Come, gather, gather, one and all,
And heap the fire and brew a bowl,
And welcome in old Christmastime;
Good will to all and peace to all,
Good will and peace on Earth to all,
Good will and joy and mirth to all,
Good will and joy and mirth!
234

Come, join in ringing rhyme, my dear,
To welcome Christmastime, my dear,
To welcome Christmastime!
And where the holly wreathes the wall,
Merrily all! merrily all!
Join in some Christmas mime!

III.

The snow falls fast; the ways are white;
The trees seem ghosts in winding sheets;
Loud on the pane the tempest beats;
Come, fill the house with candle-light,
And welcome in good Christmas-cheer;
Good cheer to all and love to all,
Good cheer and love on Earth to all,
Good cheer and love and mirth to all,
Good cheer and love and mirth!
Around the fir-tree here, my dear,
Come, welcome in good cheer, my dear,
Come, welcome in good cheer!
Then round the board till break of day—
Merrily, hey! merrily, hey!
Give a rouse for the coming year!
235

ON THE FARM.

With his boyhood who would be?
Back with friends so long apart!
Friends!—an oldtime company—
There to gossip, heart to heart,
Of the days that used to be!
With his boyhood who would be?
Home again, without a care?
Talking low and pleasantly
Of the things Life has to dare
In the days that are to be?
There the boy that used to be
Listens still with eyes like wine
To the tales of Faëry,
By the hearth-stone's crackling pine,
As in days of used to be.
With that boy who would not be
Back upon the road that leads
To the house beneath the tree,
Where Youth dreamed of mighty deeds
In the days of used to be?
Oh, my Heart! again to be
Back upon the oldtime farm,
Where Ambition gallantly
Wooed Achievement; took her arm,
Left the farm and poverty,
236

And Content!—Ah me! to be
Listening to the stories told
'Round the hearth's felicity,
In the winter's snow and cold,
While the wind roared in the tree!
There was comfort!—Let it be!
Gone the house with open door!
Gone the peace and—poverty!
And the friends we knew of yore
In the days of used to be!
My old Heart, come, let it be!
Let us seek some place to hide
Far away from memory,
And the dreams that still abide—
Dreams of days that used to be.

THE MAGICIAN

That old Magician, Fall, steps in and cries
Before the curtain of the sunset skies:
At which a gate unlatches,
And, red-cloaked to the chin,
The Day, in shreds, he matches,
Of leopard-colored skin,
Goes out, and Night comes in,
A moon-ray 'mid his patches.
237

Now East, now West he summons up a form,
That buttons close with stars a coat of storm:
Dim caps of purple asters,
And vests of iron-weeds,
The fields puts on; and, masters,
Blowing faint cricket-reeds,
Pass where the old lane leads
Into the mushroom-pastures.
The grass greens, satined white with frost,
A diamond carpet where his footsteps crossed:
Dawn enters; ruby glitter
Makes beautiful each trunk;
And in the fungous litter
Of woods, behold him sunk,
With his own magic drunk,
His bird-like mouth a-twitter.
At noonday he assumes a new disguise,
And on the hills a tawny panther lies:
How changed the world he touches!
The woodlands there reveal
Red gold within their clutches,
That hands, like leaves, conceal;
Or jewels, that appeal
Through forest rents, like smutches.
Deep crimson was his garb as he went by,
And on the mystic hills I heard him sigh:
“Now all my arts are ended.
Good-bye, sweet World, good-bye!”
And toward the West he wended,
Letting a feather fly,
That to his cap of sky,
One brilliant star pinned splendid.
238

PANDORA'S BOX.

Of fair Pandora and her Box, of old
You've heard, perhaps. It is a story told
Of how a woman brought into our world
The Evils, that have grown so manifold.
Sprung from that tribe of stones Deukalion hurled
Down Mount Parnassus, wise Prometheus came,
A Demigod, light-bringer, great of name,
And greater far of heart; and in his soul
There burned a fire, an all-consuming flame
To benefit mankind. And so he stole
Lightning from heaven; and, in hollow rods,
Brought it to man.
In punishment, the gods
Dispatched to Earth, bearing a Box, like gold,
A marvellous woman of celestial mold,
Endowed with every grace and charm the Hours
Bestow. Her name Pandora, whom the Powers,
Olympian, meant for Epimetheus,
The King, as wife,
And it was Mercury,
The cunning messenger of the gods, who brought
Pandora and her Box to Earth, and wrought
The world's undoing so.
239

Now it was thus:
Pandora, with the curiosity
Native to women, wondering what could be
Hidden within, and opening her Box to see,
Without intending, set the Evils free.
And thus it came that, crowned with blood and tears,
War entered on our planet; Hate and Greed;
Distrust and Envy, with their numerous breed;
Famine and Pestilence; and all man fears
For those he loves.
Aware of what she'd done,
Pandora, ere the last remaining one
Escaped, clapped down the lid; not knowing who
Remained a captive, whether bad or good,
But one she thought of that infernal brood
The gods had sent.
How glad she was to find
That it was Hope who had remained behind.
But here's the reason, and I'll vow it's true:
Hope is a woman, and the Evils' crew
Being all men, to joy and beauty blind,
In their wild eagerness to get away,
Saw not Pandora.
But of different kind,
Being a woman, was Hope. She changed her mind,
And so was caught, by making some delay,
Admiring Pandora and the way
Her gown was cut, or just her eyebrows, say.
240

FINIS.

Broad, silver discs the morning-glory drops
Where, by the wayside, Autumn's pageant stops:
An opening mussel-shell, that shows
A streak of rose,
The dawn is; ready to disclose
The sun's red pearl above the hills' blue tops.
The cold fires of the marigolds, that raise
Their dripping torches by the garden ways;
And salvia's chilly lamps, that burn
Twixt flames of fern,
That flicker from the terrace-urn,
Seem fairy lanterns in the morning haze.
Those clouds of crystal—look!—dissolving, seem
Shallops that sail along a magic stream:
And—was't the wind far-off you heard?
Or elfin bird?
Bidding you follow at its word
Into another world of waking dream.
It is a road on which new Beauty walks
With every Commonplace of life: With stalks
And stacks of grain; the rustling corn;
Old shed and barn;
And well-sweep standing so forlorn,
Pointing you back to times of which it talks.
241

So with the morning in your hearts and eyes,
Suffer the world to take you with surprise,
As when, in childhood, there, at first,
It held and nursed
Your wonder, ere with joy it burst
Suddenly on you in a new disguise.
[THE END]
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