 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
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THE HERMITAGE, AND OTHER POEMS
THE HERMITAGE
California, Bay of San Francisco, 1866
I.
A life,—a common, cleanly, quiet life,Full of good citizenship and repute,
New, but with promise of prosperity,—
A well-bred, fair, young-gentlemanly life,—
What business had a girl to bring her eyes,
And her blonde hair, and her clear, ringing voice,
And break up life, as a bell breaks a dream?
Had Love Christ's wrath, and did this life sell doves
In the world's temple, that Love scourged it forth
Beyond the gates? Within, the worshipers,—
Without, the waste, and the hill-country, where
The life, with smarting shoulders and stung heart,
Unknowing that the hand which scourged could heal,
Drave forth, blind, cursing, in despair to die,
Or work its own salvation out in fear.
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Old World—old, foolish, wicked World—farewell!
Since the Time-angel left my soul with thee,
Thou hast been a hard stepmother unto me.
Now I at last rebel
Against thy stony eyes and cruel hands.
I will go seek in far-off lands
Some quiet corner, where my years shall be
Still as the shadow of a brooding bird
That stirs but with her heart-beats. Far, unheard
May wrangle on the noisy human host,
While I will face my Life, that silent ghost,
And force it speak what it would have with me.
Since the Time-angel left my soul with thee,
Thou hast been a hard stepmother unto me.
Now I at last rebel
Against thy stony eyes and cruel hands.
I will go seek in far-off lands
Some quiet corner, where my years shall be
Still as the shadow of a brooding bird
That stirs but with her heart-beats. Far, unheard
May wrangle on the noisy human host,
While I will face my Life, that silent ghost,
And force it speak what it would have with me.
Not of the fair young Earth,
The snow-crowned, sunny-belted globe;
Not of its skies, nor Twilight's purple robe,
Nor pearly dawn; not of the flowers' birth,
And Autumn's forest-funerals; not of storms,
And quiet seas, and clouds' incessant forms;
Not of the sanctuary of the night,
With its solemnities, nor any sight
And pleasant sound of all the friendly day:
But I am tired of what we call our lives;
Tired of the endless humming in the hives,—
Sick of the bitter honey that we eat,
And sick of cursing all the shallow cheat.
The snow-crowned, sunny-belted globe;
Not of its skies, nor Twilight's purple robe,
Nor pearly dawn; not of the flowers' birth,
And Autumn's forest-funerals; not of storms,
And quiet seas, and clouds' incessant forms;
Not of the sanctuary of the night,
With its solemnities, nor any sight
And pleasant sound of all the friendly day:
But I am tired of what we call our lives;
Tired of the endless humming in the hives,—
Sick of the bitter honey that we eat,
And sick of cursing all the shallow cheat.
Let me arise, and away
To the land that guards the dying day,
Whose burning tear, the evening-star,
Drops silently to the wave afar;
The land where summers never cease
Their sunny psalm of light and peace.
Whose moonlight, poured for years untold,
Has drifted down in dust of gold;
Whose morning splendors, fallen in showers,
Leave ceaseless sunrise in the flowers.
To the land that guards the dying day,
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Drops silently to the wave afar;
The land where summers never cease
Their sunny psalm of light and peace.
Whose moonlight, poured for years untold,
Has drifted down in dust of gold;
Whose morning splendors, fallen in showers,
Leave ceaseless sunrise in the flowers.
There I will choose some eyrie in the hills,
Where I may build, like a lonely bird,
And catch the whispered music heard
Out of the noise of human ills.
Where I may build, like a lonely bird,
And catch the whispered music heard
Out of the noise of human ills.
So, I am here at last;
A purer world, whose feet the old, salt Past
Washes against, and leaves it fresh and free
As a new island risen from the sea.
A purer world, whose feet the old, salt Past
Washes against, and leaves it fresh and free
As a new island risen from the sea.
Three dreamy weeks we lay on Ocean's breast,
Rocked asleep, by gentle winds caressed,
Or crooned with wild wave-lullabies to rest.
A memory of foam and glassy spray;
Wave chasing wave, like young sea-beasts at play;
Stretches of misty silver 'neath the moon,
And night-airs murmuring many a quiet tune.
Three long, delicious weeks' monotony
Of sky, and stars, and sea,
Broken midway by one day's tropic scene
Of giant plants, tangles of luminous green,
With fiery flowers and purple fruits between.
Rocked asleep, by gentle winds caressed,
Or crooned with wild wave-lullabies to rest.
A memory of foam and glassy spray;
Wave chasing wave, like young sea-beasts at play;
Stretches of misty silver 'neath the moon,
And night-airs murmuring many a quiet tune.
Three long, delicious weeks' monotony
Of sky, and stars, and sea,
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Of giant plants, tangles of luminous green,
With fiery flowers and purple fruits between.
I have found a spot for my hermitage,—
No dank and sunless cave,—
I come not for a dungeon, nor a cage,—
Not to be Nature's slave,
But, as a weary child,
Unto the mother's faithful arms I flee,
And seek the sunniest footstool at her knee,
Where I may sit beneath caresses mild,
And hear the sweet old songs that she will sing to me.
No dank and sunless cave,—
I come not for a dungeon, nor a cage,—
Not to be Nature's slave,
But, as a weary child,
Unto the mother's faithful arms I flee,
And seek the sunniest footstool at her knee,
Where I may sit beneath caresses mild,
And hear the sweet old songs that she will sing to me.
'T is a grassy mountain-nook,
In a gorge, whose foaming brook
Tumbles through from the heights above,
Merrily leaping to the light
From the pine-wood's haunted gloom,—
As a romping child,
Affrighted, from a sombre room
Leaps to the sunshine, laughing with delight:
Be this my home, by man's tread undefiled.
Here sounds no voice but of the mourning dove,
Nor harsher footsteps on the sands appear
Than the sharp, slender hoof-marks of the deer,
Or where the quail has left a zigzag row
Of lightly printed stars her track to show.
In a gorge, whose foaming brook
Tumbles through from the heights above,
Merrily leaping to the light
From the pine-wood's haunted gloom,—
As a romping child,
Affrighted, from a sombre room
Leaps to the sunshine, laughing with delight:
Be this my home, by man's tread undefiled.
Here sounds no voice but of the mourning dove,
Nor harsher footsteps on the sands appear
Than the sharp, slender hoof-marks of the deer,
Or where the quail has left a zigzag row
Of lightly printed stars her track to show.
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Above me frowns a front of rocky wall,
Deep cloven into ruined pillars tall
And sculptures strange; bald to its dizzy edge,
Save where, in some deep crevice of a ledge
Buttressed by its black shadow hung below,
A solitary pine has cleft the rock,—
Straight as an arrow, feathered to the tip,
As if a shaft from the moon-huntress' bow
Had struck and grazed the cliff's defiant lip,
And stood, still stiffly quivering with the shock.
Deep cloven into ruined pillars tall
And sculptures strange; bald to its dizzy edge,
Save where, in some deep crevice of a ledge
Buttressed by its black shadow hung below,
A solitary pine has cleft the rock,—
Straight as an arrow, feathered to the tip,
As if a shaft from the moon-huntress' bow
Had struck and grazed the cliff's defiant lip,
And stood, still stiffly quivering with the shock.
Beyond the gorge a slope runs half-way up,
With hollow curve as for a giant's cup,
Brimming with blue pine-shadows: then in air
The gray rock rises bare,
Its front deep-fluted by the sculptor-storms
In moulded columns, rounded forms,
As if great organ-pipes were chiseled there,
Whose anthems are the torrent's roar below,
And chanting winds that through the pine-tops go.
Here bursts of requiem music sink and rise,
When the full moonlight, slowly streaming, lies
Like panes of gold on some cathedral pave,
While floating mists their silver incense wave,
And from on high, through fleecy window-bars,
Gaze down the saintly faces of the stars.
With hollow curve as for a giant's cup,
Brimming with blue pine-shadows: then in air
The gray rock rises bare,
Its front deep-fluted by the sculptor-storms
In moulded columns, rounded forms,
As if great organ-pipes were chiseled there,
Whose anthems are the torrent's roar below,
And chanting winds that through the pine-tops go.
Here bursts of requiem music sink and rise,
When the full moonlight, slowly streaming, lies
Like panes of gold on some cathedral pave,
While floating mists their silver incense wave,
And from on high, through fleecy window-bars,
Gaze down the saintly faces of the stars.
Against the huge trunk of a storm-snapped tree,
(Whose hollow, ready-hewn by long decay,
Above, a chimney, lined with slate and clay,
Below, a broad-arched fireplace makes for me,)
I 've built of saplings and long limbs a hut.
The roof with lacing boughs is tightly shut,
Thatched with thick-spreading palms of pine,
And tangled over by a wandering vine,
Uprooted from the woods close by,
Whose clasping tendrils climb and twine,
Waving their little hands on high,
As if they loved to deck this nest of mine.
Within, by smooth white stones from the brook's beach
My rooms are separated, each from each.
On yonder island-rock my table 's spread,
Brook-ringed, that no stray, fasting ant may come
To make himself with my wild fare at home.
(Whose hollow, ready-hewn by long decay,
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Below, a broad-arched fireplace makes for me,)
I 've built of saplings and long limbs a hut.
The roof with lacing boughs is tightly shut,
Thatched with thick-spreading palms of pine,
And tangled over by a wandering vine,
Uprooted from the woods close by,
Whose clasping tendrils climb and twine,
Waving their little hands on high,
As if they loved to deck this nest of mine.
Within, by smooth white stones from the brook's beach
My rooms are separated, each from each.
On yonder island-rock my table 's spread,
Brook-ringed, that no stray, fasting ant may come
To make himself with my wild fare at home.
Here will I live, and here my life shall be
Serene, still, rooted steadfastly,
Yet pointing skyward, and its motions keep
A rhythmic balance, as that cedar tall,
Whose straight shaft rises from the chasm there,
Through the blue, hollow air,
And, measuring the dizzy deep,
Leans its long shadow on the rock's gray wall.
Through the sharp gap of the gorge below,Serene, still, rooted steadfastly,
Yet pointing skyward, and its motions keep
A rhythmic balance, as that cedar tall,
Whose straight shaft rises from the chasm there,
Through the blue, hollow air,
And, measuring the dizzy deep,
Leans its long shadow on the rock's gray wall.
From my mountains' feet the gaze may go
Over a stretch of fields, broad-sunned,
Then glance beyond,
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To that dim ridge, a score of miles away,
Lifting its clear-cut outline high,
Azure with distance on the azure sky,
Whose flocks of white clouds brooding on its crests
Have winged from ocean to their piny nests.
Beyond the bright blue water's further rim,
Where waves seem ripples on its far-off brim,
The rich young city lies,
Diminished to an ant-hill's size.
I trace its steep streets, ribbing all the hill
Like narrow bands of steel,
Binding the city on the shifting sand:
Thick-pressed between them stand
Broad piles of buildings, pricked through here and there
By a sharp steeple; and above, the air
Murky with smoke and dust, that seem to show
The bright sky saddened by the sin below.
The voice of my wild brook is marvelous;
Leaning above it from a jutting rock
To watch the image of my face, that forms
And breaks, and forms again (as the image of God
Is broken and re-gathered in a soul),
I listen to the chords that sink and swell
From many a little fall and babbling run.
That hollow gurgle is the deepest bass;
Over the pebbles gush contralto tones,
While shriller trebles tinkle merrily,
Running, like some enchanted-fingered flute,
Endless chromatics.
Now it is the hum
And roar of distant streets; the rush of winds
Through far-off forests: now the noise of rain
Drumming the roof; the hiss of ocean-foam:
Now the swift ripple of piano-keys
In mad mazurkas, danced by laughing girls.
Leaning above it from a jutting rock
To watch the image of my face, that forms
And breaks, and forms again (as the image of God
Is broken and re-gathered in a soul),
I listen to the chords that sink and swell
From many a little fall and babbling run.
That hollow gurgle is the deepest bass;
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While shriller trebles tinkle merrily,
Running, like some enchanted-fingered flute,
Endless chromatics.
Now it is the hum
And roar of distant streets; the rush of winds
Through far-off forests: now the noise of rain
Drumming the roof; the hiss of ocean-foam:
Now the swift ripple of piano-keys
In mad mazurkas, danced by laughing girls.
So, night and day, the hurrying brook goes on;
Sometimes in noisy glee, sometimes far down,
Silent along the bottom of the gorge,
Like a deep passion hidden in the soul,
That chafes in secret hunger for its sea:
Yet not so still but that heaven finds its course;
And not so hid but that the yearning night
Broods over it, and feeds it with her stars.
Sometimes in noisy glee, sometimes far down,
Silent along the bottom of the gorge,
Like a deep passion hidden in the soul,
That chafes in secret hunger for its sea:
Yet not so still but that heaven finds its course;
And not so hid but that the yearning night
Broods over it, and feeds it with her stars.
When earth has Eden spots like this for man,
Why will he drag his life where lashing storms
Whip him indoors, the petulant weather's slave?
There he is but a helpless, naked snail,
Except he wear his house close at his back.
Here the wide air builds him his palace walls,—
Some little corner of it roofed, for sleep;
Or he can lie all night, bare to the sky,
And feel updrawn against the breast of heaven,
Letting his thoughts stretch out among the stars,
As the antennæ of an insect grope
Blindly for food, or as the ivy's shoots
Clamber from cope and tower to find the light,
And drink the electric pulses of the sun.
Why will he drag his life where lashing storms
Whip him indoors, the petulant weather's slave?
There he is but a helpless, naked snail,
Except he wear his house close at his back.
Here the wide air builds him his palace walls,—
Some little corner of it roofed, for sleep;
Or he can lie all night, bare to the sky,
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Letting his thoughts stretch out among the stars,
As the antennæ of an insect grope
Blindly for food, or as the ivy's shoots
Clamber from cope and tower to find the light,
And drink the electric pulses of the sun.
As from that sun we draw the coarser fire
That swells the veins, and builds the brain and bone,
So from each star a finer influence streams,
Kindling within the mortal chrysalis
The first faint thrills of its new life to come.
That swells the veins, and builds the brain and bone,
So from each star a finer influence streams,
Kindling within the mortal chrysalis
The first faint thrills of its new life to come.
Here is no niggard gap of sky above,
With murk and mist below, but all sides clear,—
Not an inch bated from the full-swung dome;
Each constellation to the horizon's rim
Keen-glittering, as if one only need
Walk to the edge there, spread his wings, and float,
The dark earth spurned behind, into the blue.
With murk and mist below, but all sides clear,—
Not an inch bated from the full-swung dome;
Each constellation to the horizon's rim
Keen-glittering, as if one only need
Walk to the edge there, spread his wings, and float,
The dark earth spurned behind, into the blue.
I love thee, thou brown, homely, dear old Earth!
Those fairer planets whither fate may lead,
Whatever marvel be their bulk or speed,
Ringed with what splendor, belted round with fire,
In glory of perpetual moons arrayed,
Can ne'er give back the glow and fresh desire
Of youth in that old home where man had birth,
Whose paths he trod through wholesome light and shade.
Out of their silver radiance to thy dim
And clouded orb his eye will turn,
As an old man looks back to where he played
About his father's hearth, and finds for him
No splendor like the fires which there did burn.
Those fairer planets whither fate may lead,
Whatever marvel be their bulk or speed,
Ringed with what splendor, belted round with fire,
In glory of perpetual moons arrayed,
Can ne'er give back the glow and fresh desire
Of youth in that old home where man had birth,
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Out of their silver radiance to thy dim
And clouded orb his eye will turn,
As an old man looks back to where he played
About his father's hearth, and finds for him
No splendor like the fires which there did burn.
See: I am come to live alone with thee.
Thou hast had many a one, grown old and worn,
Come to thee weary and forlorn,
Bent with the weight of human vanity.
But I come with my life almost untried,
In thy perpetual presence to abide.
Teach me thy wisdom; let me learn the flowers,
And know the rocks and trees,
And touch the springs of all thy hidden powers.
Let the still gloom of thy rock-fastnesses
Fall deep upon my spirit, till the voice
Of brooks become familiar, and my heart rejoice
With joy of birds and winds; and all the hours,
Unmaddened by the babble of vain men,
Bring thy most inner converse to my ken.
So shall it be, that, when I stand
On that next planet's ruddy-shimmering strand,
I shall not seem a pert and forward child
Seeking to dabble in abstruser lore
With alphabet unlearned, who in disgrace
Returns, upon his primer yet to pore—
But those examiners, all wise and mild,
Shall gently lead me to my place,
As one that faithfully did trace
These simpler earthly records o'er and o'er.
Thou hast had many a one, grown old and worn,
Come to thee weary and forlorn,
Bent with the weight of human vanity.
But I come with my life almost untried,
In thy perpetual presence to abide.
Teach me thy wisdom; let me learn the flowers,
And know the rocks and trees,
And touch the springs of all thy hidden powers.
Let the still gloom of thy rock-fastnesses
Fall deep upon my spirit, till the voice
Of brooks become familiar, and my heart rejoice
With joy of birds and winds; and all the hours,
Unmaddened by the babble of vain men,
Bring thy most inner converse to my ken.
So shall it be, that, when I stand
On that next planet's ruddy-shimmering strand,
I shall not seem a pert and forward child
Seeking to dabble in abstruser lore
With alphabet unlearned, who in disgrace
Returns, upon his primer yet to pore—
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Shall gently lead me to my place,
As one that faithfully did trace
These simpler earthly records o'er and o'er.
Beckoned at sunrise by the surf's white hand,
I have strayed down to sit upon the beach,
And hear the oratorio of the Sea.
On this steep, crumbling bank, where the high tides
Have crunched the earth away, a crooked oak—
A hunch-backed dwarf, whose limbs, cramped down by gales,
Have twisted stiffening back upon themselves—
Spreads me a little arbor from the sun.
I have strayed down to sit upon the beach,
And hear the oratorio of the Sea.
On this steep, crumbling bank, where the high tides
Have crunched the earth away, a crooked oak—
A hunch-backed dwarf, whose limbs, cramped down by gales,
Have twisted stiffening back upon themselves—
Spreads me a little arbor from the sun.
On the brown, shining beach, all ripple-carved,
Gleams now and then a pool; so smooth and clear,
That, though I cannot see the plover there
Pacing its farther edge (so much he looks
The color of the sand), yet I can trace
His image hanging in the glassy brine—
Slim legs and rapier-beak—like silver-plate
With such a pictured bird clean-etched upon it.
Gleams now and then a pool; so smooth and clear,
That, though I cannot see the plover there
Pacing its farther edge (so much he looks
The color of the sand), yet I can trace
His image hanging in the glassy brine—
Slim legs and rapier-beak—like silver-plate
With such a pictured bird clean-etched upon it.
Beyond, long curves of little shallow waves
Creep, tremulous with ripples, to the shore,
Till the whole bay seems slowly sliding in,
With edge of snow that melts against the sand.
Creep, tremulous with ripples, to the shore,
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With edge of snow that melts against the sand.
Above its twinkling blue, where ceaselessly
The white curve of a slender arm of foam
Is reached along the water, and withdrawn,
A flock of sea-birds darken into specks;
Then whiten, as they wheel with sunlit wings,
Winking and wavering against the sky.
The white curve of a slender arm of foam
Is reached along the water, and withdrawn,
A flock of sea-birds darken into specks;
Then whiten, as they wheel with sunlit wings,
Winking and wavering against the sky.
The earth for form, the sea for coloring,
And overhead, fair daughters of the two,
The clouds, whose curves were moulded on the hills,
Whose tints of pearl and foam the ocean gave.
And overhead, fair daughters of the two,
The clouds, whose curves were moulded on the hills,
Whose tints of pearl and foam the ocean gave.
O Sea, thou art all-beautiful, but dumb!
Thou hast no utterance articulate
For human ears; only a restless moan
Of barren tides, that loathe the living earth
As alien, striving towards the barren moon.
Thou art no longer infinite to man:
Has he not touched thy boundary-shores, and now
Laid his electric fetters round thy feet?
Thy dumb moan saddens me; let me go back
And listen to the silence of the hills.
Thou hast no utterance articulate
For human ears; only a restless moan
Of barren tides, that loathe the living earth
As alien, striving towards the barren moon.
Thou art no longer infinite to man:
Has he not touched thy boundary-shores, and now
Laid his electric fetters round thy feet?
Thy dumb moan saddens me; let me go back
And listen to the silence of the hills.
At last I live alone:
No human judgment-seats are here
Thrust in between man and his Maker's throne,
With praise to covet, or with frown to fear:
No small, distorted judgments bless, or blame;
Only to Him I own
The inward sense of worth, or flush of shame.
No human judgment-seats are here
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With praise to covet, or with frown to fear:
No small, distorted judgments bless, or blame;
Only to Him I own
The inward sense of worth, or flush of shame.
God made the man alone;
And all that first grand morning walked he so.
Then was he strong and wise, till at the noon,
When tired with joyous wonder he lay prone
For rest and sleep, God let him know
The subtile sweetness that is bound in Two.
And all that first grand morning walked he so.
Then was he strong and wise, till at the noon,
When tired with joyous wonder he lay prone
For rest and sleep, God let him know
The subtile sweetness that is bound in Two.
Man rises best alone:
Upward his thoughts stream, like the leaping flame,
Whose base is tempest-blown;
Upward and skyward, since from thence they came,
And thither they must flow.
But when in twos we go,
The lightnings of the brain weave to and fro,
Level across the abyss that parts us all;
If upward, only slantwise, as we scale
Slowly together that night-shrouded wall
Which bounds our reason, lest our reason fail.
If linked in threes, and fives,
However heavenward the spirit strives,
The lowest stature draws the highest down,—
The king must keep the level of the clown.
The grosser matter has the greater power
In all attraction; every hour
We slide and slip to lower scales,
Till weary aspiration fails,
And that keen fire which might have pierced the skies
Is quenched and killed in one another's eyes.
Upward his thoughts stream, like the leaping flame,
Whose base is tempest-blown;
Upward and skyward, since from thence they came,
And thither they must flow.
But when in twos we go,
The lightnings of the brain weave to and fro,
Level across the abyss that parts us all;
If upward, only slantwise, as we scale
Slowly together that night-shrouded wall
Which bounds our reason, lest our reason fail.
If linked in threes, and fives,
However heavenward the spirit strives,
The lowest stature draws the highest down,—
The king must keep the level of the clown.
The grosser matter has the greater power
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We slide and slip to lower scales,
Till weary aspiration fails,
And that keen fire which might have pierced the skies
Is quenched and killed in one another's eyes.
A child had blown a bubble fair
That floated in the sunny air:
A hundred rainbows danced and swung
Upon its surface, as it hung
In films of changing color rolled,
Crimson, and amethyst, and gold,
With faintest streaks of azure sheen,
And curdling rivulets of green.
“If so the surface shines,” cried he,
“What marvel must the centre be!”
He caught it— on his empty hands
A drop of turbid water stands!
That floated in the sunny air:
A hundred rainbows danced and swung
Upon its surface, as it hung
In films of changing color rolled,
Crimson, and amethyst, and gold,
With faintest streaks of azure sheen,
And curdling rivulets of green.
“If so the surface shines,” cried he,
“What marvel must the centre be!”
He caught it— on his empty hands
A drop of turbid water stands!
With men, to help the moments fly,
I tossed the ball of talk on high,
With glancing jest, and random stings,
Grazing the crests of thoughts and things,
In many a shifting ray of speech
That shot swift sparkles, each to each.
I thought, “Ah, could we pierce below
To inner soul, what depths would show!”
In friendships many, loves a few,
I pierced the inner depths, and knew
'T was but the shell that splendor caught:
Within, one sour and selfish thought.
I tossed the ball of talk on high,
With glancing jest, and random stings,
Grazing the crests of thoughts and things,
In many a shifting ray of speech
That shot swift sparkles, each to each.
I thought, “Ah, could we pierce below
To inner soul, what depths would show!”
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I pierced the inner depths, and knew
'T was but the shell that splendor caught:
Within, one sour and selfish thought.
I found a grotto, hidden in the gorge,
Paved by the brook in rare mosaic work
Of sand, and lucent depths, and shadow-streaks
Veining the amber of the sun-dyed wave.
Between two mossy masses of gray rock
Lay a clear basin, which, with sun and shade
Bewitched, a great transparent opal made,
Over whose broken rims the water ran.
Above each rocky side leaned waving trees
Whose lace of branches wove a restless roof,
Trailed over by green vines that sifted down
A dust of sunshine through the chilly shade.
Paved by the brook in rare mosaic work
Of sand, and lucent depths, and shadow-streaks
Veining the amber of the sun-dyed wave.
Between two mossy masses of gray rock
Lay a clear basin, which, with sun and shade
Bewitched, a great transparent opal made,
Over whose broken rims the water ran.
Above each rocky side leaned waving trees
Whose lace of branches wove a restless roof,
Trailed over by green vines that sifted down
A dust of sunshine through the chilly shade.
Leaning against a trunk of oak, rock-wedged,
Whose writhen roots were clenched upon the stones,
I was a Greek, and caught the sudden flash
Of a scared Dryad's vanishing robe, and heard
The laughter, half-suppressed, of hiding Fauns.
Up the dark stairway of the tumbling stream
The sun shot through, and struck each foamy fall
Into a silvery veil of dazzling fire.
Along its shady course, the tossing drops
By some swift sunbeam ever caught, were lit
To sparkling stars, that fell, and flashed, and fell,
Incessantly rekindled. Bubble-troops
Came dancing by, to break just at my feet;
Lo! every bubble mirrored the whole scene—
The streak of blue between the roofing-boughs,
And on it my own face in miniature
Quaintly distorted, as if some small elf
Peered up at me beneath his glassy dome.
Whose writhen roots were clenched upon the stones,
I was a Greek, and caught the sudden flash
Of a scared Dryad's vanishing robe, and heard
The laughter, half-suppressed, of hiding Fauns.
Up the dark stairway of the tumbling stream
The sun shot through, and struck each foamy fall
Into a silvery veil of dazzling fire.
Along its shady course, the tossing drops
By some swift sunbeam ever caught, were lit
To sparkling stars, that fell, and flashed, and fell,
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Came dancing by, to break just at my feet;
Lo! every bubble mirrored the whole scene—
The streak of blue between the roofing-boughs,
And on it my own face in miniature
Quaintly distorted, as if some small elf
Peered up at me beneath his glassy dome.
If men but knew the mazes of the brain
And all its crowded pictures, they would need
No Louvre or Vatican: behind our brows
Intricate galleries are built, whose walls
Are rich with all the splendors of a life.
Each crimson leaf of every autumn walk,
Dewdrops of childhood's mornings, every scene
From any window where we 've chanced to stand,
Forgotten sunsets, summer afternoons,
Hang fresh in those immortal galleries.
Few ever can unlock them, till great Death
Unrolls our lifelong memory as a scroll.
One key is solitude, and silence one,
And one a quiet mind, content to rest
In God's sufficiency, and take His world,
Not dabbling all the Master's work to death
With our small interference. God is God.
And all its crowded pictures, they would need
No Louvre or Vatican: behind our brows
Intricate galleries are built, whose walls
Are rich with all the splendors of a life.
Each crimson leaf of every autumn walk,
Dewdrops of childhood's mornings, every scene
From any window where we 've chanced to stand,
Forgotten sunsets, summer afternoons,
Hang fresh in those immortal galleries.
Few ever can unlock them, till great Death
Unrolls our lifelong memory as a scroll.
One key is solitude, and silence one,
And one a quiet mind, content to rest
In God's sufficiency, and take His world,
Not dabbling all the Master's work to death
With our small interference. God is God.
Yet we must give the children leave to use
Our garden-tools, though they spoil tool and plant
In learning. So the Master may not scorn
Our awkwardness, as with these bungling hands
We try to uproot the ill, and plant with good
Life's barren soil: the child is learning use.
Perhaps the angels even are forbid
To laugh at us, or may not care to laugh,
With kind eyes pitying our little hurts.
Our garden-tools, though they spoil tool and plant
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Our awkwardness, as with these bungling hands
We try to uproot the ill, and plant with good
Life's barren soil: the child is learning use.
Perhaps the angels even are forbid
To laugh at us, or may not care to laugh,
With kind eyes pitying our little hurts.
'T is ludicrous that man should think he roams
Freely at will a world planned for his use.
Lo, what a mite he is! Snatched hither and yon,
Tossed round the sun, and in its orbit flashed
Round other centres, orbits without end;
His bit of brain too small to even feel
The spinning of the little hailstone, Earth.
So his creeds glibly prate of choice and will,
When his whole fate is an invisible speck
Whirled through the orbits of Eternity.
We think that we believeFreely at will a world planned for his use.
Lo, what a mite he is! Snatched hither and yon,
Tossed round the sun, and in its orbit flashed
Round other centres, orbits without end;
His bit of brain too small to even feel
The spinning of the little hailstone, Earth.
So his creeds glibly prate of choice and will,
When his whole fate is an invisible speck
Whirled through the orbits of Eternity.
That human souls shall live, and live,
When trees have rotted into mould,
And all the rocks which these long hills enfold
Have crumbled, and beneath new oceans lie.
But why—ah, why—
If puny man is not indeed to die,
Watch I with such disdain
That human speck creeping along the plain,
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Back to the mountain's brow again,
And feel more pleased that some small, fluttering thing
Trusts me and hovers near on fearless wing,
Than if the proudest man in all the land
Had offered me in friendliness his hand?
However small the present creature man,—
Ridiculous imitation of the gods,
Weak plagiarism on some completer world,—
Yet we can boast of that strong race to be.
The savage broke the attraction which binds fast
The fibres of the oak, and we to-day
By cunning chemistry can force apart
The elements of the air. That coming race
Shall loose the bands by which the earth attracts;
A drop of occult tincture, a spring touched
Shall outwit gravitation; men shall float,
Or lift the hills and set them where they will.
The savage crossed the lake, and we the sea.
That coming race shall have no bounds or bars,
But, like the fledgeling eaglet, leave the nest,—
Our earthly eyrie up among the stars,—
And freely soar, to tread the desolate moon,
Or mingle with the neighbor folk of Mars.
Yea, if the savage learned by sign and sound
To bridge the chasm to his fellow's brain,
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That race shall signal over the abyss
To those bright souls who throng the outer courts
Of life, impatient who shall greet men first
And solve the riddles that we die to know.
'T is night: I sit alone among the hills.
There is no sound, except the sleepless brook,
Whose voice comes faintly from the depths below
Through the thick darkness, or the sombre pines
That slumber, murmuring sometimes in their dreams.
Hark! on a fitful gust there came the sound
Of the tide rising yonder on the bay.
It dies again: 't was like the rustling noise
Of a great army mustering secretly.
There rose an owl's cry, from the woods below,
Like a lost spirit's.—Now all 's still again.—
'T is almost fearful to sit here alone
And feel the deathly silence and the dark.
I will arise and shout, and hear at least
My own voice answer.—Not an echo even!
I wish I had not uttered that wild cry;
It broke with such a shock upon the air,
Whose leaden silence closed up after it,
And seemed to clap together at my ears.
The black depths of these muffled woods are thronged
With shapes that wait some signal to swoop out,
And swirl around and madden me with fear.
I will go climb that bare and rocky height
Into the clearer air.
There is no sound, except the sleepless brook,
Whose voice comes faintly from the depths below
Through the thick darkness, or the sombre pines
That slumber, murmuring sometimes in their dreams.
Hark! on a fitful gust there came the sound
Of the tide rising yonder on the bay.
It dies again: 't was like the rustling noise
Of a great army mustering secretly.
There rose an owl's cry, from the woods below,
Like a lost spirit's.—Now all 's still again.—
'T is almost fearful to sit here alone
And feel the deathly silence and the dark.
I will arise and shout, and hear at least
My own voice answer.—Not an echo even!
I wish I had not uttered that wild cry;
It broke with such a shock upon the air,
Whose leaden silence closed up after it,
And seemed to clap together at my ears.
The black depths of these muffled woods are thronged
With shapes that wait some signal to swoop out,
And swirl around and madden me with fear.
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Into the clearer air.
So, here I breathe;
That silent darkness smothered me.
Away
Across the bay, the city with its lights
Twinkling against the horizon's dusky line,
Looks a sea-dragon, crawled up on the shore,
With rings of fire across his rounded back,
And luminous claws spread out among the hills.
Above, the glittering heavens.—Magnificent!
Oh, if a man could be but as a star,
Having his place appointed, here to rise,
And there to set, unchanged by earthly change,
Content if it can guide some wandering bark,
Or be a beacon to some homesick soul!
That silent darkness smothered me.
Away
Across the bay, the city with its lights
Twinkling against the horizon's dusky line,
Looks a sea-dragon, crawled up on the shore,
With rings of fire across his rounded back,
And luminous claws spread out among the hills.
Above, the glittering heavens.—Magnificent!
Oh, if a man could be but as a star,
Having his place appointed, here to rise,
And there to set, unchanged by earthly change,
Content if it can guide some wandering bark,
Or be a beacon to some homesick soul!
Those city-lights again: they draw my gaze
As if some secret human sympathy
Still held my heart down from the lonely heaven.
A new-born constellation, settling there
Below the Sickle's ruby-hilted curve,
They gleam—Not so! No constellation they;
I mock the sad, strong stars that never fail
In their eternal patience; from below
Comes that pale glare, like the faint, sulphurous flame
Which plays above the ashes of a fire:
So trembles the dull flicker of those lamps
Over the burnt-out energies of man.
As if some secret human sympathy
Still held my heart down from the lonely heaven.
A new-born constellation, settling there
Below the Sickle's ruby-hilted curve,
They gleam—Not so! No constellation they;
I mock the sad, strong stars that never fail
In their eternal patience; from below
Comes that pale glare, like the faint, sulphurous flame
Which plays above the ashes of a fire:
So trembles the dull flicker of those lamps
Over the burnt-out energies of man.
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II.
A month since I last laid my pencil down,—
An April, fairer than the Atlantic June,
Whose calendar of perfect days was kept
By daily blossoming of some new flower.
The fields, whose carpets now were silken white,
Next week were orange-velvet, next, sea-blue.
It was as if some central fire of bloom,
From which in other climes a random root
Is now and then shot up, here had burst forth
And overflowed the fields, and set the land
Aflame with flowers. I watched them day by day,
How at the dawn they wake, and open wide
Their little petal-windows, how they turn
Their slender necks to follow round the sun,
And how the passion they express all day
In burning color, steals forth with the dew
All night in odor.
An April, fairer than the Atlantic June,
Whose calendar of perfect days was kept
By daily blossoming of some new flower.
The fields, whose carpets now were silken white,
Next week were orange-velvet, next, sea-blue.
It was as if some central fire of bloom,
From which in other climes a random root
Is now and then shot up, here had burst forth
And overflowed the fields, and set the land
Aflame with flowers. I watched them day by day,
How at the dawn they wake, and open wide
Their little petal-windows, how they turn
Their slender necks to follow round the sun,
And how the passion they express all day
In burning color, steals forth with the dew
All night in odor.
I have wandered much
These weeks, but everywhere a restless mind
Has dogged me like the shadow at my heels.
Sometimes I watched the morning mist arise,
Like an imprisoned Genie from the stream,
And wished that death would come on me like dawn,
Drawing the spirit, that white, vaporous mist,
Up from this noisy, fretted stream of life,
To fall where God will, in his bounteous showers.
Sometimes I walked at sunset on the edge
Of the steep gorge, and saw my shadow pace
Along a shadow-wall across the abyss,
And felt that we, with all our phantom deeds,
Are but far-slanted shadows of some life
That walks between our planet and its God.
All the long nights—those memory-haunted nights,
When sleepless conscience would not let me sleep,
But stung, and stung, and pointed to the world
Which like a coward I had left behind,
I watched the heavens, where week by week the moon
Slow swelled its silver bud, blossomed full gold,
And slowly faded.
These weeks, but everywhere a restless mind
Has dogged me like the shadow at my heels.
Sometimes I watched the morning mist arise,
Like an imprisoned Genie from the stream,
And wished that death would come on me like dawn,
Drawing the spirit, that white, vaporous mist,
Up from this noisy, fretted stream of life,
To fall where God will, in his bounteous showers.
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Of the steep gorge, and saw my shadow pace
Along a shadow-wall across the abyss,
And felt that we, with all our phantom deeds,
Are but far-slanted shadows of some life
That walks between our planet and its God.
All the long nights—those memory-haunted nights,
When sleepless conscience would not let me sleep,
But stung, and stung, and pointed to the world
Which like a coward I had left behind,
I watched the heavens, where week by week the moon
Slow swelled its silver bud, blossomed full gold,
And slowly faded.
Laid the pencil down—
Why not? Are there not books enough? Is man
A sick child that must be amused by songs,
Or be made sicker with their foolish noise?
Why not? Are there not books enough? Is man
A sick child that must be amused by songs,
Or be made sicker with their foolish noise?
Then illness came: I should have argued, once,
That the ill body gave me those ill thoughts;
But I have learned that spirit, though it be
Subtile, and hard to trace, is mightier
Than matter, and I know the poisoned mind
Poisoned its shell. Three days of fever-fire
Burned out my strength, leaving me scarcely power
To reach the brook's side and my scanty food.
What would I not have given to hear the voice
Of some one who would raise my throbbing head
And shade the fevering sun, and cool my hand
In her moist palms! But I lay there, alone.
Blessed be sickness, which cuts down our pride
And bares our helplessness. I have had new thoughts.
I think the fever burned away some lies
Which clogged the truthful currents of the brain.
Am I quite happy here? Have I the right,
As wholly independent, to scorn men?
What do I owe them—self? Should I be I,
Born in these hills? A savage rather! Food,
The sailor-bread? Yes, that took mill and men:
Yet flesh and fowl are free; but powder and gun—
What human lives went to the making of them?
I am dependent as the villager
Who lives by the white wagon's daily round.
Yea, better feed upon the ox, to which
The knife is mercy after slavery,
Than kill the innocent birds, and trustful deer
Whose big blue eyes have almost human pain;
That 's murder!
I scorned books: to those same books
I owe the power to scorn them.
I despised
Men: from themselves I drew the pure ideal
By which to measure them.
At woman's love
I laughed: but to that love I owe
The hunger for a more abiding love.
Their nestlings in our hearts leave vacant there
These hollow places, like a lark's round nest
Left empty in the grass, and filled with flowers.
That the ill body gave me those ill thoughts;
But I have learned that spirit, though it be
Subtile, and hard to trace, is mightier
Than matter, and I know the poisoned mind
Poisoned its shell. Three days of fever-fire
Burned out my strength, leaving me scarcely power
To reach the brook's side and my scanty food.
What would I not have given to hear the voice
Of some one who would raise my throbbing head
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In her moist palms! But I lay there, alone.
Blessed be sickness, which cuts down our pride
And bares our helplessness. I have had new thoughts.
I think the fever burned away some lies
Which clogged the truthful currents of the brain.
Am I quite happy here? Have I the right,
As wholly independent, to scorn men?
What do I owe them—self? Should I be I,
Born in these hills? A savage rather! Food,
The sailor-bread? Yes, that took mill and men:
Yet flesh and fowl are free; but powder and gun—
What human lives went to the making of them?
I am dependent as the villager
Who lives by the white wagon's daily round.
Yea, better feed upon the ox, to which
The knife is mercy after slavery,
Than kill the innocent birds, and trustful deer
Whose big blue eyes have almost human pain;
That 's murder!
I scorned books: to those same books
I owe the power to scorn them.
I despised
Men: from themselves I drew the pure ideal
By which to measure them.
At woman's love
I laughed: but to that love I owe
The hunger for a more abiding love.
Their nestlings in our hearts leave vacant there
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Left empty in the grass, and filled with flowers.
What do I here alone? 'T was not so strange,
Weary of discords, that I chose to hear
The one, clear, perfect note of solitude;
But now it plagues the ear, that one shrill note:
Give me the chords back, even though some ring false.
Weary of discords, that I chose to hear
The one, clear, perfect note of solitude;
But now it plagues the ear, that one shrill note:
Give me the chords back, even though some ring false.
Unmarried to the steel, the flint is cold:
Strike one to the other, and they wake in fire.
Strike one to the other, and they wake in fire.
A solitary fagot will not burn:
Bring two, and cheerily the flame ascends.
Alone, man is a lifeless stone; or lies
A charring ember, smouldering into ash.
If the man riding yonder looks a speck,Bring two, and cheerily the flame ascends.
Alone, man is a lifeless stone; or lies
A charring ember, smouldering into ash.
The town an ant-hill, that is but the trick
Of our perspective: wisdom merely means
Correction of the angles at the eye.
I hold my hand up, so, before my face,—
It blots ten miles of country, and a town.
This little lying lens, that twists the rays,
So cheats the brain that My house, My affairs,
My hunger, or My happiness, My ache,
And My religion, fill immensity!
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'T is well God does not measure a man's worth
By the image on his neighbor's retina.
I am alone: the birds care not for me,
Except to sing a little farther off,
With looks that say, “What does this fellow here:
The loud brook babbles only for the flowers:
The mountain and the forest take me not
Into their meditations; I disturb
Their silence, as a child that drags his toy
Across a chapel's porch. The viewless ones
Who flattered me to claim their company
By gleams of thought they tossed to me for alms,
About their grander matters turn, nor deign
To notice me, unless it were to say—
As we put off a troublesome child—“There, go!
Men are your fellows, go and mate with them!”
If I could find one soul that would not lie,
I would go back, and we would arm our hands,
And strike at every ugly weed that stands
In God's wide garden of the world, and try,
Obedient to the Gardener's commands,
To set some smallest flowers before we die.
I would go back, and we would arm our hands,
And strike at every ugly weed that stands
In God's wide garden of the world, and try,
Obedient to the Gardener's commands,
To set some smallest flowers before we die.
One such I had found,—
But she was bound,
Fettered and led, bid for and sold,
Chained to a stone by a ring of gold.
But she was bound,
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Chained to a stone by a ring of gold.
In a stony sense the stone loved her, too:
Between our places the river was broad,
Should she tread on a broken heart to go through—
Could she put a man's life in mid-stream to be trod,
To come over dry-shod?
Between our places the river was broad,
Should she tread on a broken heart to go through—
Could she put a man's life in mid-stream to be trod,
To come over dry-shod?
Shame! that a man with hand and brain
Should, like a love-lorn girl, complain,
Rhyming his dainty woes anew,
When there is honest work to do!
Should, like a love-lorn girl, complain,
Rhyming his dainty woes anew,
When there is honest work to do!
What work, what work? Is God not wise
To rule the world He could devise?
Yet see thou, though the realm be His,
He governs it by deputies.
Enough to know of Chance and Luck,
The stroke we choose to strike is struck;
The deed we slight will slighted be,
In spite of all Necessity.
The Parcæ's web of good and ill
They weave with human shuttle still,
And fate is fate through man's free will.
To rule the world He could devise?
Yet see thou, though the realm be His,
He governs it by deputies.
Enough to know of Chance and Luck,
The stroke we choose to strike is struck;
The deed we slight will slighted be,
In spite of all Necessity.
The Parcæ's web of good and ill
They weave with human shuttle still,
And fate is fate through man's free will.
With sullen thoughts that smoulder hour by hour
In vague expectancy of help or hope
Which still eludes my brain, waiting I sit
Like a blind beggar at a palace-gate,
Who hears the rustling past of silks, and airs
Of costly odor mock him blowing by,
And feels within a dull and aching wish
That the proud wall would let some coping down
To crush him dead, and let him have his rest.
In vague expectancy of help or hope
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Like a blind beggar at a palace-gate,
Who hears the rustling past of silks, and airs
Of costly odor mock him blowing by,
And feels within a dull and aching wish
That the proud wall would let some coping down
To crush him dead, and let him have his rest.
No help from men: they could not, if they would.
And God? He lets His world be wrung with pain.
No help at all then? Let life be in vain:
To get no help is surely greatest gain;
To taunt the hunger down is sweetest food.
O mocker, Memory! From what floating cloud,And God? He lets His world be wrung with pain.
No help at all then? Let life be in vain:
To get no help is surely greatest gain;
To taunt the hunger down is sweetest food.
Or from what witchery of the haunted wood,
Or faintest perfumes, softly drifting through
The lupines' lattice-bars of white and blue,
Steals back upon my soul this weaker mood?
My heart is dreaming;—in a shadowy room
I breathe the vague scent of a jasmin-bloom
That floats on waves of music, softer played,
Till song and odor all the brain pervade;
Swiftly across my cheek there sweeps the thrill
Of burning lips,—then all is hushed and still;
And round the vision in unearthly awe
Deeps of enchanted starlight seem to draw,
In which my soul sinks, falling noiselessly—
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Out of a child's hand slips a pebble white,
Glimmering and fading down the awful sea.
That night, which pushed me out of Paradise,
When the last guest had taken his mask of smiles
And gone, she wheeled a sofa from the light
Where I sat touching the piano-keys,
And begged me play her weariness away.
I played all sweet and solemn airs I knew,
And when, with music mesmerized, she slept,
I made the deep chords tell her dreams my love.
Once, when they grew too passionate, I saw
The faint blush ripen in their glow, and chide,
Even in dreams, the rash, tumultuous thought.
Then when I made them say, “Sleep on, dream on,
For now we are together; when thou wak'st
Forevermore we are alone—alone,”
She sighed in sleep, and waked not: then I rose,
And softly stooped my head, and, half in awe,
Half passion-rapt, I kissed her lips farewell.
—Only the meek-mouthed blossoms kiss I now,
Or the cold cheek that sometimes comes at night
In haunted dreams, and brushes past my own.
When the last guest had taken his mask of smiles
And gone, she wheeled a sofa from the light
Where I sat touching the piano-keys,
And begged me play her weariness away.
I played all sweet and solemn airs I knew,
And when, with music mesmerized, she slept,
I made the deep chords tell her dreams my love.
Once, when they grew too passionate, I saw
The faint blush ripen in their glow, and chide,
Even in dreams, the rash, tumultuous thought.
Then when I made them say, “Sleep on, dream on,
For now we are together; when thou wak'st
Forevermore we are alone—alone,”
She sighed in sleep, and waked not: then I rose,
And softly stooped my head, and, half in awe,
Half passion-rapt, I kissed her lips farewell.
—Only the meek-mouthed blossoms kiss I now,
Or the cold cheek that sometimes comes at night
In haunted dreams, and brushes past my own.
Ah, what hast thou to do with me, sweet song—
Why hauntest thou and vexest so my dreams?
Have I not turned away from thee so long—
So long, and yet the starry midnight seems
Astir with tremulous music, as of old,—
Forbidden memories opening, fold on fold?
Why hauntest thou and vexest so my dreams?
Have I not turned away from thee so long—
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Astir with tremulous music, as of old,—
Forbidden memories opening, fold on fold?
O ghost of Love, why, with thy rose-leaf lips,
Dost thou still mock my sleep with kisses warm,
Torturing my dreams with touching finger tips,
That madden me to clasp thy phantom form?
Have I not earned, by all these tears, at last,
The right to rest untroubled by that Past?
Unto thy patient heart, my mother Earth,Dost thou still mock my sleep with kisses warm,
Torturing my dreams with touching finger tips,
That madden me to clasp thy phantom form?
Have I not earned, by all these tears, at last,
The right to rest untroubled by that Past?
I come, a weary child.
I have no claim, save that thou gav'st me birth,
And hast sustained me with thy nurture mild.
I have stood up alone these many years;
Now let me come and lie upon my face,
And spread my hands among the dewy grass,
Till the slow wind's mesmeric touches pass
Above my brain, and all its throbbing chase;
Into thy bosom take these bitter tears,
And let them seem unto the innocent flowers
Only as dew, or heaven's gentle showers;
Till, quieted and hushed against thy breast,
I can forget to weep,
And sink at last to sleep,—
Long sleep and rest.
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Her face!
It must have been her face,—
No other one was ever half so fair,—
No other head e'er bent with such meek grace
Beneath that weight of beautiful blonde hair.
In a carriage on the street of the town,
Where I had strayed in walking from the bay,
Just as the sun was going down,
Shielding her sight from his latest ray,
She sat, and scanned with eager eye
The faces of the passers-by.
Whom was she looking for? Not me—
Yet what wild purpose can it be
That tempted her to this wild land?
—I marked that on her lifted hand
The diamonds no longer shine
Of the ring that meant, not mine—not mine!
It must have been her face,—
No other one was ever half so fair,—
No other head e'er bent with such meek grace
Beneath that weight of beautiful blonde hair.
In a carriage on the street of the town,
Where I had strayed in walking from the bay,
Just as the sun was going down,
Shielding her sight from his latest ray,
She sat, and scanned with eager eye
The faces of the passers-by.
Whom was she looking for? Not me—
Yet what wild purpose can it be
That tempted her to this wild land?
—I marked that on her lifted hand
The diamonds no longer shine
Of the ring that meant, not mine—not mine!
Ah fool—fool—fool! crawl back to thy den,
Like a wounded beast as thou art, again;
Whosever she be, not thine—not thine!
Like a wounded beast as thou art, again;
Whosever she be, not thine—not thine!
I sat last night on yonder ridge of rocks
To see the sun set over Tamalpais,
Whose tented peak, suffused with rosy mist,
Blended the colors of the sea and sky
And made the mountain one great amethyst
Hanging against the sunset.
To see the sun set over Tamalpais,
Whose tented peak, suffused with rosy mist,
Blended the colors of the sea and sky
And made the mountain one great amethyst
Hanging against the sunset.
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In the west
There lay two clouds which parted company,
Floating like two soft-breasted swans, and sailed
Farther and farther separate, till one stayed
To make a mantle for the evening-star;
The other wept itself away in rain.
A fancy seized me;—if, in other worlds,
That Spirit from afar should call to me!
Across some starry chasm impassable,
Weeping, “Oh, hadst thou only come to me!—
I loved you so!—I prayed each night that God
Would send you to me! Now, alas! too late,
Too late—farewell!” and still again, “farewell!”
Like the pulsation of a silenced bell
Whose sobs beat on within the brain.
There lay two clouds which parted company,
Floating like two soft-breasted swans, and sailed
Farther and farther separate, till one stayed
To make a mantle for the evening-star;
The other wept itself away in rain.
A fancy seized me;—if, in other worlds,
That Spirit from afar should call to me!
Across some starry chasm impassable,
Weeping, “Oh, hadst thou only come to me!—
I loved you so!—I prayed each night that God
Would send you to me! Now, alas! too late,
Too late—farewell!” and still again, “farewell!”
Like the pulsation of a silenced bell
Whose sobs beat on within the brain.
I rose,
And smote my staff strongly against the ground,
And set my face homeward, and set my heart
Firm in a passionate purpose: there, in haste,
With that one echo goading me to speed,
“If it should be too late—if it should be
Too late—too late!” I took a pen and wrote:
And smote my staff strongly against the ground,
And set my face homeward, and set my heart
Firm in a passionate purpose: there, in haste,
With that one echo goading me to speed,
“If it should be too late—if it should be
Too late—too late!” I took a pen and wrote:
“Dear Soul, if I am mad to speak to thee,
And this faint glimmer which I call a hope
Be but the corpse-light on the grave of hope—
If thou, O darling Star, art in the West
To be my Evening-star, and watch my day
Fade slowly into desolate twilight, burn
This folly in the flames; and scattered with
Its ashes, let my madness be forgot.
But if not so, oh be my Morning-star,
And crown my East with splendor: come to me!”
And this faint glimmer which I call a hope
Be but the corpse-light on the grave of hope—
If thou, O darling Star, art in the West
To be my Evening-star, and watch my day
105
This folly in the flames; and scattered with
Its ashes, let my madness be forgot.
But if not so, oh be my Morning-star,
And crown my East with splendor: come to me!”
A stern, wild, broken place for a man to walk
And muse on broken fortunes; a rare place,—
There in the Autumn weather, cool and still,
With the warm sunshine clinging round the rocks
Softly, in pity, like a woman's love,—
To wait for some one who can never come
As a man there was waiting. Overhead
A happy bird sang quietly to himself,
Unconscious of such sombre thoughts below,
To which the song was background:—
And muse on broken fortunes; a rare place,—
There in the Autumn weather, cool and still,
With the warm sunshine clinging round the rocks
Softly, in pity, like a woman's love,—
To wait for some one who can never come
As a man there was waiting. Overhead
A happy bird sang quietly to himself,
Unconscious of such sombre thoughts below,
To which the song was background:—
“Yet how men
Sometimes will struggle, writhe, and scream at death!
It were so easy now, in the mild air,
To close the senses, slowly sleep, and die;
To cease to be the shaped and definite cloud,
And melt away into the fathomless blue;—
Only to touch this crimson thread of life,
Whose steady ripple pulses in my wrist,
And watch the little current soak the grass,
Till the haze came, then darkness, and then rest.
Would God be angry if I stopped one life
Among His myriads—such a worthless one?
If I should pray, I wonder would He send
An angel down out of that great, white cloud,
(He surely could spare one from praising Him,)
To tell if there is any better way
Than—Look! Why, that is grand, now! (Am I mad?
I did not think I should go mad!) That 's grand—
One of the blessed spirits come like this
To meet a poor, lean man among the rocks,
And answer questions for him?”
Sometimes will struggle, writhe, and scream at death!
It were so easy now, in the mild air,
To close the senses, slowly sleep, and die;
To cease to be the shaped and definite cloud,
And melt away into the fathomless blue;—
Only to touch this crimson thread of life,
Whose steady ripple pulses in my wrist,
And watch the little current soak the grass,
Till the haze came, then darkness, and then rest.
Would God be angry if I stopped one life
106
If I should pray, I wonder would He send
An angel down out of that great, white cloud,
(He surely could spare one from praising Him,)
To tell if there is any better way
Than—Look! Why, that is grand, now! (Am I mad?
I did not think I should go mad!) That 's grand—
One of the blessed spirits come like this
To meet a poor, lean man among the rocks,
And answer questions for him?”
There she stood,
With blonde hair blowing back, as if the breeze
Blew a light out of it, that ever played
And hovered at her shoulders. Such blue eyes
Mirrored the dreamy mountain distances,—
(Yet, are the angels' faces thin and wan
Like that; and do they have such mouths, so drawn,
As if a sad song, some sad time, had died
Upon the lips, and left its echo there?)
With blonde hair blowing back, as if the breeze
Blew a light out of it, that ever played
And hovered at her shoulders. Such blue eyes
Mirrored the dreamy mountain distances,—
(Yet, are the angels' faces thin and wan
Like that; and do they have such mouths, so drawn,
As if a sad song, some sad time, had died
Upon the lips, and left its echo there?)
And the man rose, and stood with folded hands
And head bent, and his downcast looks in awe
Touching her garment's hem, that, when she spoke,
Trembled a little where it met her feet.
And head bent, and his downcast looks in awe
Touching her garment's hem, that, when she spoke,
Trembled a little where it met her feet.
“I am come, because you called to me to come.
What were all other voices when I heard
The voice of my own soul's soul call to me?
You knew I loved you—oh, you must have known!
Was it a noble thing to do, you think,
To leave a lonely girl to die down there
In the great empty world, and come up here
To make a martyr's pillar of your pride?
There has been nobler work done, there in the world,
Than you have done this year!”
What were all other voices when I heard
107
You knew I loved you—oh, you must have known!
Was it a noble thing to do, you think,
To leave a lonely girl to die down there
In the great empty world, and come up here
To make a martyr's pillar of your pride?
There has been nobler work done, there in the world,
Than you have done this year!”
Then cried the man:
“O voice that I have prayed for—O sad voice,
And woeful eyes, spare me if I have sinned!
There was a little ring you used to wear”—
“O voice that I have prayed for—O sad voice,
And woeful eyes, spare me if I have sinned!
There was a little ring you used to wear”—
“O strange, wild Fates, that balance bliss and woe
On such poor straws! It was a brother's gift.”
On such poor straws! It was a brother's gift.”
“You never told me”—
“Did you ever ask?”
“You, too, were surely prouder then than now!”
“Dear, I am sadder now: the head must bend
A little, when one 's weeping.”
A little, when one 's weeping.”
Then the man,—
While half his mind, bewildered, at a flash
Took in the wide, lone place, the singing bird,
The sunshine streaming past them like a wind,
And the broad tree that moved as though it breathed:
“Oh, if 't is possible that in the world
There lies some low, mean work for me to do,
Let me go there alone: I am ashamed
To wear life's crown when I flung down its sword.
Crammed full of pride, and lust, and littleness,
O God, I am not worthy of thy gifts!
Let me find penance, till, years hence, perchance,
Made pure by toil, and scourged with pain and prayer”—
While half his mind, bewildered, at a flash
Took in the wide, lone place, the singing bird,
The sunshine streaming past them like a wind,
108
“Oh, if 't is possible that in the world
There lies some low, mean work for me to do,
Let me go there alone: I am ashamed
To wear life's crown when I flung down its sword.
Crammed full of pride, and lust, and littleness,
O God, I am not worthy of thy gifts!
Let me find penance, till, years hence, perchance,
Made pure by toil, and scourged with pain and prayer”—
Then a voice answered through His creature's lips,—
“God asks no penance but a better life.
He purifies by pain—He only; 't is
A remedy too dangerous for our
Blind pharmacy. Lo! we have tried that way,
And borne what fruit, or blossoms even, save one
Poor passion-flower! Come, take thy happiness;
In happy hearts are all the sunbeams forged
That brighten up our weatherbeaten world.
Come back with me—Come! for I love you—Come!”
If it was not a dream: perchance it was—“God asks no penance but a better life.
He purifies by pain—He only; 't is
A remedy too dangerous for our
Blind pharmacy. Lo! we have tried that way,
And borne what fruit, or blossoms even, save one
Poor passion-flower! Come, take thy happiness;
In happy hearts are all the sunbeams forged
That brighten up our weatherbeaten world.
Come back with me—Come! for I love you—Come!”
Often it seems so, and I wonder when
I shall awaken on the mountain-side,
With a little bitter taste left in the mouth
Of too much sleep, or too much happiness,
And sigh, and wish that I might dream again.
109
SUNDOWN
A sea of splendor in the West,
Purple, and pearl, and gold,
With milk-white ships of cloud, whose sails
Slowly the winds unfold.
Purple, and pearl, and gold,
With milk-white ships of cloud, whose sails
Slowly the winds unfold.
Brown cirrus-bars, like ribbed beach sand,
Cross the blue upper dome;
And nearer flecks of feathery white
Blow over them like foam.
Cross the blue upper dome;
And nearer flecks of feathery white
Blow over them like foam.
But when that transient glory dies
Into the twilight gray,
And leaves me on the beach alone
Beside the glimmering bay;
Into the twilight gray,
And leaves me on the beach alone
Beside the glimmering bay;
And when I know that, late or soon,
Love's glory finds a grave,
And hearts that danced like dancing foam
Break like the breaking wave;
Love's glory finds a grave,
And hearts that danced like dancing foam
Break like the breaking wave;
A little dreary, homeless thought
Creeps sadly over me,
Like the shadow of a lonely cloud
Moving along the sea.
Creeps sadly over me,
Like the shadow of a lonely cloud
Moving along the sea.
110
THE ARCH
Just where the street of the village ends,
Over the road an oak-tree tall,
Curving in more than a crescent, bends
With an arch like the gate of a Moorish wall.
Over the road an oak-tree tall,
Curving in more than a crescent, bends
With an arch like the gate of a Moorish wall.
Over across the river there,
Looking under the arch, one sees
The sunshine slant through the distant air,
And burn on the cliff and the tufted trees.
Looking under the arch, one sees
The sunshine slant through the distant air,
And burn on the cliff and the tufted trees.
Each day, hurrying through the town,
I stop an instant, early or late,
As I cross the street, and glancing down
I catch a glimpse through the Moorish gate.
I stop an instant, early or late,
As I cross the street, and glancing down
I catch a glimpse through the Moorish gate.
Only a moment there I stand,
But I look through that loop in the dusty air,
Into a far-off fairyland,
Where all seems calm, and kind, and fair.
But I look through that loop in the dusty air,
Into a far-off fairyland,
Where all seems calm, and kind, and fair.
So sometimes at the end of a thought,
Where with a vexing doubt we 've striven,
A sudden, sunny glimpse is caught
Of an open arch, and a peaceful heaven.
Where with a vexing doubt we 've striven,
A sudden, sunny glimpse is caught
Of an open arch, and a peaceful heaven.
111
APRIL IN OAKLAND
Was there last night a snowstorm?
So thick the orchards stand,
With drift on drift of blossom-flakes
Whitening all the land.
So thick the orchards stand,
With drift on drift of blossom-flakes
Whitening all the land.
Or have the waves of life that swelled
The green buds, day by day,
Broken at once in clinging foam
And scattered odor-spray?
The green buds, day by day,
Broken at once in clinging foam
And scattered odor-spray?
The winds come drowsy with the breath
Of cherry and of pear,
Sighing their perfume-laden wings
No more of sweet can bear.
Of cherry and of pear,
Sighing their perfume-laden wings
No more of sweet can bear.
Over the garden-gateway
That parts the tufted hedge,
Rimming the idly twinkling bay,
Sleeps the blue mountains' edge.
That parts the tufted hedge,
Rimming the idly twinkling bay,
Sleeps the blue mountains' edge.
Yon fleece of clouds in heaven,
So delicate and fair,
Seems a whole league of orchard-bloom
Sailing along the air.
So delicate and fair,
Seems a whole league of orchard-bloom
Sailing along the air.
112
Oh, loveliness of nature!
Oh, sordid minds of men!
Without, a world of bloom and balm—
A sour, sad soul within.
Oh, sordid minds of men!
Without, a world of bloom and balm—
A sour, sad soul within.
O winds that sweep the orchard
With Orient spices sweet,
Why bring ye with that desolate sound
The dead leaves to my feet?
With Orient spices sweet,
Why bring ye with that desolate sound
The dead leaves to my feet?
Ah, sweeter were the fragrance
That I to-day have found,
If last year's crumbled leaves of love
Were buried under ground;
That I to-day have found,
If last year's crumbled leaves of love
Were buried under ground;
And fairer were the shadowed troops
That fleck the distant hill,
If shades of clouds that will not pass
Dimmed not my memory still.
That fleck the distant hill,
If shades of clouds that will not pass
Dimmed not my memory still.
Better than all the beauty
Which cloud or blossom shows
Is the blue sky that arches all
With measureless repose.
Which cloud or blossom shows
Is the blue sky that arches all
With measureless repose.
And better than the bright blue sky,
To know that far away
Sweep all the silent host of stars
Behind the veil of day.
To know that far away
Sweep all the silent host of stars
Behind the veil of day.
113
And best to feel that there and here,
About us and above,
Move on the purposes of God
In justice and in love.
About us and above,
Move on the purposes of God
In justice and in love.
114
TO CHILD SARA
I looked in a dew-drop's heart to-day
As it clung on a leaf of clover,
Holding a sparkle of starry light,
Like a liquid drop of opal bright
With diamond dusted over.
As it clung on a leaf of clover,
Holding a sparkle of starry light,
Like a liquid drop of opal bright
With diamond dusted over.
In that least globe of quivering dew
The sunny scene around,
Diminished to a grass-blade's width—
Scarcely a fairy's finger-breadth
All imaged there I found:
The sunny scene around,
Diminished to a grass-blade's width—
Scarcely a fairy's finger-breadth
All imaged there I found:
The spreading oak, the fir's soft fringe,
The grain-field's brightening green,
The linnet that flew fluttering by,
And, over all, the dear blue sky,
The bending boughs between:
The grain-field's brightening green,
The linnet that flew fluttering by,
And, over all, the dear blue sky,
The bending boughs between:
And all the night, as from its nest
It gazes up afar,
Its bosom holds the heavens deep,
Whose constellations o'er it sweep,
And mirrors every star.
It gazes up afar,
Its bosom holds the heavens deep,
Whose constellations o'er it sweep,
And mirrors every star.
115
Child, is that drop of dew—your soul—
With mirrored heaven as bright?
(Forgive me that I ask of you,
Whose heart I know is pure and true
And stainless as the light):
With mirrored heaven as bright?
(Forgive me that I ask of you,
Whose heart I know is pure and true
And stainless as the light):
The sunshine, and the starlight too,—
Fair hope, and faith as fair,
Courage, and patience, silent power,
And wisdom for each troubled hour,—
Tell me, are they all there?
Fair hope, and faith as fair,
Courage, and patience, silent power,
And wisdom for each troubled hour,—
Tell me, are they all there?
Your quiet grace and kindly words
Have influence sweet and strong;
Your hand and voice can calm the brain
And cheer the heavy hearts of men
With music and with song:
Have influence sweet and strong;
Your hand and voice can calm the brain
And cheer the heavy hearts of men
With music and with song:
Let the soul answer—can it give
That music clear and calm—
The rhythmic years, the holier aim,
The scorn of pleasure, fortune, fame—
To make our life a psalm?
That music clear and calm—
The rhythmic years, the holier aim,
The scorn of pleasure, fortune, fame—
To make our life a psalm?
All round the house, your birthday morn
The budded orchards stand;
And we can watch from every room
The trees all blushing into bloom—
Blossoms on every hand:
The budded orchards stand;
And we can watch from every room
The trees all blushing into bloom—
Blossoms on every hand:
116
So may your Life be, many a year,
A fair and goodly tree;
Not blossoming only, but sublime
With fruit, so hastening the time
When Earth shall Eden be.
A fair and goodly tree;
Not blossoming only, but sublime
With fruit, so hastening the time
When Earth shall Eden be.
117
EASTERN WINTER
Cold—cold—the very sun looks cold,
With those thin rays of chilly gold
Laid on that gap of bluish sky
That glazes like a dying eye.
With those thin rays of chilly gold
Laid on that gap of bluish sky
That glazes like a dying eye.
The naked trees are shivering,
Each cramped and bare branch quivering,
Cutting the bleak wind into blades,
Whose edge to brain and bone invades.
Each cramped and bare branch quivering,
Cutting the bleak wind into blades,
Whose edge to brain and bone invades.
That hard ground seems to ache, all day,
Even for a sheet of snow, to lay
Upon its icy feet and knees,
Stretched stiffly there to freeze and freeze.
Even for a sheet of snow, to lay
Upon its icy feet and knees,
Stretched stiffly there to freeze and freeze.
And yon shrunk mortal—what 's within
That nipped and winter-shriveled skin?
The pinched face drawn in peevish lines,
The voice that through his blue lips whines,—
That nipped and winter-shriveled skin?
The pinched face drawn in peevish lines,
The voice that through his blue lips whines,—
The frost has got within, you see,—
Left but a selfish me and me:
The heart is chilled, its nerves are numb,
And love has long been frozen dumb.
Left but a selfish me and me:
The heart is chilled, its nerves are numb,
And love has long been frozen dumb.
118
Ah, give me back the clime I know,
Where all the year geraniums blow,
And hyacinth-buds bloom white for snow;
Where all the year geraniums blow,
And hyacinth-buds bloom white for snow;
Where hearts beat warm with life's delight,
Through radiant winter's sunshine bright,
And summer's starry deeps of night;
Through radiant winter's sunshine bright,
And summer's starry deeps of night;
Where man may let earth's beauty thaw
The wintry creed which Calvin saw,
That God is only Power and Law;
The wintry creed which Calvin saw,
That God is only Power and Law;
And out of Nature's Bible prove,
That here below as there above
Our Maker—Father—God—is Love.
That here below as there above
Our Maker—Father—God—is Love.
119
SLEEPING
Hushed within her quiet bed
She is lying all the night,
In her pallid robes of white,
Eyelids on the pure eyes pressed,
Soft hands folded on the breast,—
And you thought I meant it—dead?
She is lying all the night,
In her pallid robes of white,
Eyelids on the pure eyes pressed,
Soft hands folded on the breast,—
And you thought I meant it—dead?
Nay! I smile at your shocked face:
In the morning she will wake,
Turn her dreams to sport, and make
All the household glad and gay,
Yet for many a merry day,
With her beauty and her grace.
In the morning she will wake,
Turn her dreams to sport, and make
All the household glad and gay,
Yet for many a merry day,
With her beauty and her grace.
But some summer 't will be said,—
“She is lying all the night,
In her pallid robes of white,
Eyelids on the tired eyes pressed,
Hands that cross upon the breast:”
We shall understand it—dead!
“She is lying all the night,
In her pallid robes of white,
Eyelids on the tired eyes pressed,
Hands that cross upon the breast:”
We shall understand it—dead!
Yet 't will only be a sleep:
When, with songs and dewy light,
Morning blossoms out of night,
She will open her blue eyes
'Neath the palms of Paradise,
While we foolish ones shall weep.
When, with songs and dewy light,
Morning blossoms out of night,
She will open her blue eyes
'Neath the palms of Paradise,
While we foolish ones shall weep.
120
STARLIGHT
They think me daft, who nightly meet
My face turned starward, while my feet
Stumble along the unseen street;
My face turned starward, while my feet
Stumble along the unseen street;
But should man's thoughts have only room
For Earth, his cradle and his tomb,
Not for his Temple's grander gloom?
For Earth, his cradle and his tomb,
Not for his Temple's grander gloom?
And must the prisoner all his days
Learn but his dungeon's narrow ways
And never through its grating gaze?
Learn but his dungeon's narrow ways
And never through its grating gaze?
Then let me linger in your sight,
My only amaranths! blossoming bright
As over Eden's cloudless night.
My only amaranths! blossoming bright
As over Eden's cloudless night.
The same vast belt, and square, and crown,
That on the Deluge glittered down,
And lit the roofs of Bethlehem town!
That on the Deluge glittered down,
And lit the roofs of Bethlehem town!
Ye make me one with all my race,
A victor over time and space,
Till all the path of men I pace.
A victor over time and space,
Till all the path of men I pace.
121
Far-speeding backward in my brain
We build the Pyramids again,
And Babel rises from the plain;
We build the Pyramids again,
And Babel rises from the plain;
And climbing upward on your beams
I peer within the Patriarchs' dreams,
Till the deep sky with angels teems.
I peer within the Patriarchs' dreams,
Till the deep sky with angels teems.
My Comforters!—Yea, why not mine?
The power that kindled you doth shine,
In man, a mastery divine;
The power that kindled you doth shine,
In man, a mastery divine;
That Love which throbs in every star,
And quickens all the worlds afar,
Beats warmer where his children are.
And quickens all the worlds afar,
Beats warmer where his children are.
The shadow of the wings of Death
Broods over us; we feel his breath:
“Resurgam” still the spirit saith.
Broods over us; we feel his breath:
“Resurgam” still the spirit saith.
These tired feet, this weary brain,
Blotted with many a mortal stain,
May crumble earthward—not in vain.
Blotted with many a mortal stain,
May crumble earthward—not in vain.
With swifter feet that shall not tire,
Eyes that shall fail not at your fire
Nearer your splendors I aspire.
Eyes that shall fail not at your fire
Nearer your splendors I aspire.
122
A DEAD BIRD IN WINTER
The cold, hard sky and hidden sun,
The stiffened trees that shiver so,
With bare twigs naked every one
To these harsh winds that freeze the snow,—
The stiffened trees that shiver so,
With bare twigs naked every one
To these harsh winds that freeze the snow,—
It was a bitter place to die,
Poor birdie! Was it easier, then,
On such a world to shut thine eye,
And sleep away from life, than when
Poor birdie! Was it easier, then,
On such a world to shut thine eye,
And sleep away from life, than when
The apple-blossoms tint the air,
And, twittering in the sunny trees,
Thy fellow-songsters flit and pair,
Breasting the warm, caressing breeze?
And, twittering in the sunny trees,
Thy fellow-songsters flit and pair,
Breasting the warm, caressing breeze?
Nay, it were easiest, I feel,
Though 't were a brighter Earth to lose,
To let the summer shadows steal
About thee, bringing their repose;
Though 't were a brighter Earth to lose,
To let the summer shadows steal
About thee, bringing their repose;
When the noon hush was on the air,
And on the flowers the warm sun shined,
And Earth seemed all so sweet and fair,
That He who made it must be kind.
And on the flowers the warm sun shined,
And Earth seemed all so sweet and fair,
That He who made it must be kind.
123
So I, too, could not bear to go
From Life in this unfriendly clime,
To lie beneath the crusted snow,
When the dead grass stands stiff with rime;
From Life in this unfriendly clime,
To lie beneath the crusted snow,
When the dead grass stands stiff with rime;
But under those blue skies of home,
Far easier were it to lie down
Where the perpetual violets bloom
And the rich moss grows never brown;
Far easier were it to lie down
Where the perpetual violets bloom
And the rich moss grows never brown;
Where linnets never cease to build
Their nests, in boughs that always wave
To odorous airs, with blessing filled
From nestled blossoms round my grave.
Their nests, in boughs that always wave
To odorous airs, with blessing filled
From nestled blossoms round my grave.
124
SPRING TWILIGHT
Singing in the rain, robin?
Rippling out so fast
All thy flute-like notes, as if
This singing were thy last!
Rippling out so fast
All thy flute-like notes, as if
This singing were thy last!
After sundown, too, robin?
Though the fields are dim,
And the trees grow dark and still,
Dripping from leaf and limb.
Though the fields are dim,
And the trees grow dark and still,
Dripping from leaf and limb.
'T is heart-broken music,—
That sweet, faltering strain,—
Like a mingled memory,
Half ecstasy, half pain.
That sweet, faltering strain,—
Like a mingled memory,
Half ecstasy, half pain.
Surely thus to sing, robin,
Thou must have in sight
Beautiful skies behind the shower,
And dawn beyond the night.
Thou must have in sight
Beautiful skies behind the shower,
And dawn beyond the night.
Would thy faith were mine, robin!
Then, though night were long,
All its silent hours should melt
Their sorrow into song.
Then, though night were long,
All its silent hours should melt
Their sorrow into song.
125
EVENING
The Sun is gone: those glorious chariot-wheels
Have sunk their broadening spokes of flame, and left
Thin rosy films wimpled across the West,
Whose last faint tints melt slowly in the blue,
As the last trembling cadence of a song
Fades into silence sweeter than all sound.
Have sunk their broadening spokes of flame, and left
Thin rosy films wimpled across the West,
Whose last faint tints melt slowly in the blue,
As the last trembling cadence of a song
Fades into silence sweeter than all sound.
Now the first stars begin to tremble forth
Like the first instruments of an orchestra
Touched softly, one by one.—There in the East
Kindles the glory of moonrise: how its waves
Break in a surf of silver on the clouds!—
White, motionless clouds, like soft and snowy wings
Which the great Earth spreads, sailing round the Sun.
Like the first instruments of an orchestra
Touched softly, one by one.—There in the East
Kindles the glory of moonrise: how its waves
Break in a surf of silver on the clouds!—
White, motionless clouds, like soft and snowy wings
Which the great Earth spreads, sailing round the Sun.
O silent stars! that over ages past
Have shone serenely as ye shine to-night,
Unseal, unseal the secret that ye keep!
Is it not time to tell us why we live?
Through all these shadowy corridors of years
(Like some gray Priest, who through the Mysteries
Led the blindfolded Neophyte in fear),
Time leads us blindly onward, till in wrath
Tired Life would seize and throttle its stern guide,
And force him tell us whither and how long.
But Time gives back no answer—only points
With motionless finger to eternity,
Which deepens over us, as that deep sky
Darkens above me: only its vestibule
Glimmers with scattered stars; and down the West
A silent meteor slowly slides afar,
As though, pacing the garden-walks of heaven,
Some musing seraph had let fall a flower.
Have shone serenely as ye shine to-night,
Unseal, unseal the secret that ye keep!
Is it not time to tell us why we live?
Through all these shadowy corridors of years
(Like some gray Priest, who through the Mysteries
Led the blindfolded Neophyte in fear),
Time leads us blindly onward, till in wrath
Tired Life would seize and throttle its stern guide,
126
But Time gives back no answer—only points
With motionless finger to eternity,
Which deepens over us, as that deep sky
Darkens above me: only its vestibule
Glimmers with scattered stars; and down the West
A silent meteor slowly slides afar,
As though, pacing the garden-walks of heaven,
Some musing seraph had let fall a flower.
127
THE ORGAN
It is no harmony of human making,
Though men have built those pipes of burnished gold;
Their music, out of Nature's heart awaking,
Forever new, forever is of old.
Though men have built those pipes of burnished gold;
Their music, out of Nature's heart awaking,
Forever new, forever is of old.
Man makes not—only finds—all earthly beauty,
Catching a thread of sunshine here and there,
Some shining pebble in the path of duty,
Some echo of the songs that flood the air.
Catching a thread of sunshine here and there,
Some shining pebble in the path of duty,
Some echo of the songs that flood the air.
That prelude is a wind among the willows,
Rising until it meets the torrent's roar;
Now a wild ocean, beating his great billows
Among the hollow caverns of the shore.
Rising until it meets the torrent's roar;
Now a wild ocean, beating his great billows
Among the hollow caverns of the shore.
It is the voice of some vast people, pleading
For justice from an ancient shame and wrong,—
The tramp of God's avenging armies, treading
With shouted thunders of triumphant song.
For justice from an ancient shame and wrong,—
The tramp of God's avenging armies, treading
With shouted thunders of triumphant song.
O soul, that sittest chanting dreary dirges,
Couldst thou but rise on some divine desire,
As those deep chords upon their swelling surges
Bear up the wavering voices of the choir!
Couldst thou but rise on some divine desire,
128
Bear up the wavering voices of the choir!
But ever lurking in the heart, there lingers
The trouble of a false and jarring tone,
As some great Organ which unskillful fingers
Vex into discords when the Master's gone.
The trouble of a false and jarring tone,
As some great Organ which unskillful fingers
Vex into discords when the Master's gone.
129
LOST LOVE
Bury it, and sift
Dust upon its light,—
Death must not be left,
To offend the sight.
Dust upon its light,—
Death must not be left,
To offend the sight.
Cover the old love—
Weep not on the mound—
Grass shall grow above,
Lilies spring around.
Weep not on the mound—
Grass shall grow above,
Lilies spring around.
Can we fight the law,
Can our natures change—
Half-way through withdraw—
Other lives exchange?
Can our natures change—
Half-way through withdraw—
Other lives exchange?
You and I must do
As the world has done,
There is nothing new
Underneath the sun.
As the world has done,
There is nothing new
Underneath the sun.
Fill the grave up full—
Put the dead love by—
Not that men are dull,
Not that women lie,—
Put the dead love by—
Not that men are dull,
Not that women lie,—
130
But 't is well and right—
Safest, you will find—
That the Out of Sight
Should be Out of Mind
Safest, you will find—
That the Out of Sight
Should be Out of Mind
131
A MEMORY
Upon the barren, lonely hillWe sat to watch the sinking sun;
Below, the land grew dim and still,
Whose evening shadow had begun.
Her finger parted the shut book,—
At “Aylmer's Field” the leaf was turned,—
Round her meek head and sainted look
The sunset like a halo burned.
She knew not that I watched her face—
Her spirit through her eyes was gone
To some far-off and Sabbath place,
And left me gazing there alone.
Could she have known, that quiet hour,
What ghosts her presence raised in me,
What graves were opened by the power
Of that unconscious witchery,
She would not thus have sat and seen
The bird that balanced far below
On the blue air, and watched the sheen
Along his broad wings come and go.
For was she not another's bride?
And I—what right had I to feast
Upon those eyes in revery wide,
With hungering gaze like famished beast?
132
The human fate, the mighty law—
To hunger for the heart I felt,
And love the lovely face I saw?
Or was it only that the brow,
Or some sweet trick of hand or tone,
Brought from the Past to haunt me now
Her ghost whose love was mine alone?
I know not; but we went to rest
That eve, from songs that haunt me still,
And all night long, in visions blest,
I walked with angels on the hill.
133
LIFE
Forenoon and afternoon and night,—Forenoon,And afternoon, and night,—Forenoon, and—what!
The empty song repeats itself. No more?
Yea, that is Life: make this forenoon sublime,
This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer,
And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won.
134
FERTILITY
Clear water on smooth rockCould give no foothold for a single flower,
Or slenderest shaft of grain:
The stone must crumble under storm and rain,
The forests crash beneath the whirlwind's power,
And broken boughs from many a tempest-shock,
And fallen leaves of many a wintry hour,
Must mingle in the mould,
Before the harvest whitens on the plain,
Bearing an hundred-fold.
Patience, O weary heart!
Let all thy sparkling hours depart,
And all thy hopes be withered with the frost,
And every effort tempest-tost—
So, when all life's green leaves
Are fallen, and mouldered underneath the sod,
Thou shalt go not too lightly to thy God,
But heavy with full sheaves.
135
THREE SONGS
Sing me, thou Singer, a song of gold!
Said a careworn man to me:
So I sang of the golden summer days,
And the sad, sweet autumn's yellow haze,
Till his heart grew soft, and his mellowed gaze
Was a kindly sight to see.
Said a careworn man to me:
So I sang of the golden summer days,
And the sad, sweet autumn's yellow haze,
Till his heart grew soft, and his mellowed gaze
Was a kindly sight to see.
Sing me, dear Singer, a song of love!
A fair girl asked of me:
Then I sang of a love that clasps the Race,
Gives all, asks naught—till her kindled face
Was radiant with the starry grace
Of blessed Charity.
A fair girl asked of me:
Then I sang of a love that clasps the Race,
Gives all, asks naught—till her kindled face
Was radiant with the starry grace
Of blessed Charity.
Sing me, O Singer, a song of life!
Cried an eager youth to me:
And I sang of the life without alloy,
Beyond our years, till the heart of the boy
Caught the golden beauty, and love, and joy
Of the great Eternity.
Cried an eager youth to me:
And I sang of the life without alloy,
Beyond our years, till the heart of the boy
Caught the golden beauty, and love, and joy
Of the great Eternity.
136
THE WORLD'S SECRET
I know the splendor of the Sun,
And beauty in the leaves, and moss, and grass;
I love the birds' small voices every one,
And all the hours have kindness as they pass;
And beauty in the leaves, and moss, and grass;
I love the birds' small voices every one,
And all the hours have kindness as they pass;
But still the heart can apprehend
A deeper purport than the brain may know:
I see it at the dying daylight's end,
And hear it when the winds begin to blow.
A deeper purport than the brain may know:
I see it at the dying daylight's end,
And hear it when the winds begin to blow.
It strives to speak from all the world,
Out of dumb earth, and moaning ocean-tides;
And brooding Night, beneath her pinions furled,
Some message writ in starry cipher hides.
Out of dumb earth, and moaning ocean-tides;
And brooding Night, beneath her pinions furled,
Some message writ in starry cipher hides.
Must I go seeking everywhere
The meanings that behind our objects be—
A depth serener in the azure air,
A something more than peace upon the sea?
The meanings that behind our objects be—
A depth serener in the azure air,
A something more than peace upon the sea?
Not one least deed one soul to bless?
Unto the stern-eyed Future shall I bear
Only the sense of pain without redress,
Self-sickness, and a dull and stale despair?
Unto the stern-eyed Future shall I bear
Only the sense of pain without redress,
Self-sickness, and a dull and stale despair?
137
Nay, let me shape, in patience slow,
My years, like the Holy Child his bird of clay,
Till suddenly the clod its Master know,
And thrill with life, and soar with songs away.
My years, like the Holy Child his bird of clay,
Till suddenly the clod its Master know,
And thrill with life, and soar with songs away.
138
SEEMING AND BEING
The brave old motto, “Seem not—only be,”—
Would it were set ablaze against the sky
In golden letters, where the world must read!
What is there done for the honest doing's sake,
In these poor times gone mad with self-parade?
There 's not a picture of the Cross but bears
The painter's name as prominent as the Christ's:
There 's not a scene, of such peculiar grace
That one would fain forget men's meanness there,
But from the rocks some rascal clothier's name
Stares in great capitals, till one could wish
The knave hung from his signboard, for a sign:
There 's not a graveyard in the land, but lo!
On the white tablets of the dead, full cut
Below their sacred names, his shameless name
Who carved the marble!
Would it were set ablaze against the sky
In golden letters, where the world must read!
What is there done for the honest doing's sake,
In these poor times gone mad with self-parade?
There 's not a picture of the Cross but bears
The painter's name as prominent as the Christ's:
There 's not a scene, of such peculiar grace
That one would fain forget men's meanness there,
But from the rocks some rascal clothier's name
Stares in great capitals, till one could wish
The knave hung from his signboard, for a sign:
There 's not a graveyard in the land, but lo!
On the white tablets of the dead, full cut
Below their sacred names, his shameless name
Who carved the marble!
Is it not pitiful?
We are all actors, and all audience.
Yea, such a dreary farce we make our lives,
That something is expected of a man
Upon his deathbed: “Hark ye now, good friends,
These fine last words, this notable bravery,—see!”
So even the grim cross-bones of awful Death
Must take an attitude, and the skull smirk
For a last picture.
We are all actors, and all audience.
Yea, such a dreary farce we make our lives,
That something is expected of a man
Upon his deathbed: “Hark ye now, good friends,
These fine last words, this notable bravery,—see!”
So even the grim cross-bones of awful Death
139
For a last picture.
Here is a nation, too
(God help it!), that dare scarcely act its mind,
But walks the world's stage, quaking with the thought,
“What will great England think of me for this?”
(God help it!), that dare scarcely act its mind,
But walks the world's stage, quaking with the thought,
“What will great England think of me for this?”
The poet scoffs at fame, then sets himself,
Full-titled, with a portrait at the front;
Each beautiful impatient soul who left
The world he scorned, still lingered near enough
To listen, not displeased, and hear the world
Admiringly relate how he had scorned it;
Even our great doubting Thomas, in young days
When he praised silence, did it with loud speech,
That ever too distinctly told, “'T is I,
Thomas, so noisily abuse your noise!”
Full-titled, with a portrait at the front;
Each beautiful impatient soul who left
The world he scorned, still lingered near enough
To listen, not displeased, and hear the world
Admiringly relate how he had scorned it;
Even our great doubting Thomas, in young days
When he praised silence, did it with loud speech,
That ever too distinctly told, “'T is I,
Thomas, so noisily abuse your noise!”
Is it not enough for the trumpet that the god
Has chosen it to sound his message through?
Must the brass blare in its own petty praise?
And can we never do the right, and do it
As though we were alone upon the earth,
And the gods blind?
Has chosen it to sound his message through?
Must the brass blare in its own petty praise?
And can we never do the right, and do it
As though we were alone upon the earth,
And the gods blind?
140
WEATHER-BOUND
Thou pitiless, false sea!
How, like a woman, thou wilt softly sigh
With heaving breast where bubble-jewels shine,
Or, beckoning, toss thy foam-white arms on high,
And laugh with those blue sunny eyes of thine!
How, like a woman, thou wilt softly sigh
With heaving breast where bubble-jewels shine,
Or, beckoning, toss thy foam-white arms on high,
And laugh with those blue sunny eyes of thine!
Ah, crouching, creeping sea!
Thou tiger-cat! how, while the winds make pause
To stroke thy long smooth back in quiet play,
Thou canst unsheathe thy velvet-hidden claws
And spring all unawares upon thy prey!
Thou tiger-cat! how, while the winds make pause
To stroke thy long smooth back in quiet play,
Thou canst unsheathe thy velvet-hidden claws
And spring all unawares upon thy prey!
Thou treacherous, cruel sea!
How thou wilt show thy glittering smile at night,
Hiding thy fangs, hushing thy fiendish cry,
And rise all gentle sport from licking white
The bones of men that underneath thee lie!
How thou wilt show thy glittering smile at night,
Hiding thy fangs, hushing thy fiendish cry,
And rise all gentle sport from licking white
The bones of men that underneath thee lie!
O bitter, bitter sea!
Didst thou not fawn about my naked feet,
When I stood with thee on the beach, and say
That thou wouldst bear me swiftly home to meet
My darling, waiting there in vain to-day?
Didst thou not fawn about my naked feet,
When I stood with thee on the beach, and say
That thou wouldst bear me swiftly home to meet
My darling, waiting there in vain to-day?
141
Yea, thou most mighty sea!
Keep then that promise murmured on the shore;
Put thy great shoulders to our loitering keel,
Not as in rage and wrath thou hast before—
Let the good ship thy help gigantic feel.
Keep then that promise murmured on the shore;
Put thy great shoulders to our loitering keel,
Not as in rage and wrath thou hast before—
Let the good ship thy help gigantic feel.
Thou answerest me, O sea!
Lifting in silence, o'er the waters stilled,
The shattered fragment of a rainbow fair,
A mocking promise, ne'er to be fulfilled,
Based on the waves and broken in mid-air.
Lifting in silence, o'er the waters stilled,
The shattered fragment of a rainbow fair,
A mocking promise, ne'er to be fulfilled,
Based on the waves and broken in mid-air.
142
SUMMER AFTERNOON
Far in hollow mountain cañons
Brood with purple-folded pinions,
Flocks of drowsy distance-colors on their nests;
And the bare round slopes for forests
Have cloud-shadows, floating forests,
On their breasts.
Brood with purple-folded pinions,
Flocks of drowsy distance-colors on their nests;
And the bare round slopes for forests
Have cloud-shadows, floating forests,
On their breasts.
Winds are wakening and dying,
Questions low with low replying,
Through the oak a hushed and trembling whisper goes:
Faint and rich the air with odors,
Hyacinth and spicy odors
Of the rose.
Questions low with low replying,
Through the oak a hushed and trembling whisper goes:
Faint and rich the air with odors,
Hyacinth and spicy odors
Of the rose.
Even the flowerless acacia
Is one flower—such slender stature,
With its latticed leaves a-tremble in the sun:
They have shower-drops for blossoms,
Quivering globes of diamond blossoms,
Every one.
Is one flower—such slender stature,
With its latticed leaves a-tremble in the sun:
They have shower-drops for blossoms,
Quivering globes of diamond blossoms,
Every one.
In the blue of heaven holy
Clouds go floating, floating slowly,
Pure in snowy robe and sunny silver crown;
And they seem like gentle angels—
Leisure-full and loitering angels,
Looking down.
Clouds go floating, floating slowly,
143
And they seem like gentle angels—
Leisure-full and loitering angels,
Looking down.
Half the birds are wild with singing,
And the rest with rhythmic winging
Sing in melody of motion to the sight;
Every little sparrow twitters,
Cheerily chirps, and cheeps, and twitters
His delight.
And the rest with rhythmic winging
Sing in melody of motion to the sight;
Every little sparrow twitters,
Cheerily chirps, and cheeps, and twitters
His delight.
Sad at heart amid the splendor,
Dull to all the radiance tender,
What can I for such a world give back again?
Could I only hint the beauty—
Some least shadow of the beauty,
Unto men!
Dull to all the radiance tender,
What can I for such a world give back again?
Could I only hint the beauty—
Some least shadow of the beauty,
Unto men!
144
A POET'S APOLOGY
Truth cut on high in tablets of hewn stone,
Or on great columns gorgeously adorned,
Perchance were left alone,
Passed by and scorned;
But Truth enchased upon a jewel rare,
A man would keep, and next his bosom wear.
Or on great columns gorgeously adorned,
Perchance were left alone,
Passed by and scorned;
But Truth enchased upon a jewel rare,
A man would keep, and next his bosom wear.
So, many an hour, I sit and carve my gems—
Ten spoiled, for one in purer beauty set:
Not for kings' diadems—
Some amulet
That may be worn o'er hearts that toil and plod,—
Though but one pearl that bears the name of God.
Ten spoiled, for one in purer beauty set:
Not for kings' diadems—
Some amulet
That may be worn o'er hearts that toil and plod,—
Though but one pearl that bears the name of God.
145
A PRAYER
O God, our Father, if we had but truth!
Lost truth—which thou perchance
Didst let man lose, lest all his wayward youth
He waste in song and dance;
That he might gain, in searching, mightier powers
For manlier use in those foreshadowed hours.
Lost truth—which thou perchance
Didst let man lose, lest all his wayward youth
He waste in song and dance;
That he might gain, in searching, mightier powers
For manlier use in those foreshadowed hours.
If, blindly groping, he shall oft mistake,
And follow twinkling motes
Thinking them stars, and the one voice forsake
Of Wisdom for the notes
Which mocking Beauty utters here and there,
Thou surely wilt forgive him, and forbear!
And follow twinkling motes
Thinking them stars, and the one voice forsake
Of Wisdom for the notes
Which mocking Beauty utters here and there,
Thou surely wilt forgive him, and forbear!
Oh, love us, for we love thee, Maker—God!
And would creep near thy hand,
And call thee “Father, Father,” from the sod
Where by our graves we stand,
And pray to touch, fearless of scorn or blame,
Thy garment's hem, which Truth and Good we name.
And would creep near thy hand,
And call thee “Father, Father,” from the sod
Where by our graves we stand,
And pray to touch, fearless of scorn or blame,
Thy garment's hem, which Truth and Good we name.
146
A DAILY MIRACLE
June's sunshine on the broad porch shines
Through tangled curtains of crossing vines;
The restless dancing of the leaves
Dusky webs of shadow weaves,
That wander on the oaken floor,
Or cross the threshold of the door.
Scattered where'er their mazes run
Lie little phantoms of the sun:
Whatever chink the sunbeam found,
Crooked or narrow, on the ground
The shadowy image still is round.
Through tangled curtains of crossing vines;
The restless dancing of the leaves
Dusky webs of shadow weaves,
That wander on the oaken floor,
Or cross the threshold of the door.
Scattered where'er their mazes run
Lie little phantoms of the sun:
Whatever chink the sunbeam found,
Crooked or narrow, on the ground
The shadowy image still is round.
So the image of God in the heart of a man,
Which truth makes, rifting as it can
Through the narrow crooked ways
Of our restless deeds and days,
Still is His image—bright or dim—
And scorning it is scorning Him.
Which truth makes, rifting as it can
Through the narrow crooked ways
Of our restless deeds and days,
Still is His image—bright or dim—
And scorning it is scorning Him.
147
INFLUENCES
From the scarlet sea of sunset,
Tossing up its waves of fire
To a floating spray of splendor,
Kindles through me mad desire
Now—now—now to call her mine!
Tossing up its waves of fire
To a floating spray of splendor,
Kindles through me mad desire
Now—now—now to call her mine!
From the ashen gray of twilight
Musings dark as shadows linger,
Slowly creeping, leave me weeping—
While in silence round my finger
That long glossy lock I twine.
Musings dark as shadows linger,
Slowly creeping, leave me weeping—
While in silence round my finger
That long glossy lock I twine.
From the holy hush of starlight
Sinks a peace upon my spirit,
And a voice of hope and patience—
All the quiet night I hear it—
Whispers, “Wait, for she is thine!”
Sinks a peace upon my spirit,
And a voice of hope and patience—
All the quiet night I hear it—
Whispers, “Wait, for she is thine!”
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |