 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
94
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.
95
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
96
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
97
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!
98
'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,
99
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
100
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—
101
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—
102
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.
103
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.
104
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.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |