 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
189
POEMS OF NATURE AND HOME.
IF AND IF.
If I were a painter, I could paint
The dwarfed and straggling wood,
And the hill-side where the meeting-house
With the wooden belfry stood,
A dozen steps from the door,—alone,
On four square pillars of rough gray stone.
The dwarfed and straggling wood,
And the hill-side where the meeting-house
With the wooden belfry stood,
A dozen steps from the door,—alone,
On four square pillars of rough gray stone.
We school-boys used to write our names
With our finger-tips each day
In th' dust o' th' cross-beams,—once it shone,
I have heard the old folks say,
(Praising the time past, as old folks will,)
Like a pillar o' fire on the side o' th' hill.
With our finger-tips each day
In th' dust o' th' cross-beams,—once it shone,
I have heard the old folks say,
(Praising the time past, as old folks will,)
Like a pillar o' fire on the side o' th' hill.
I could paint the lonesome lime-kilns,
And the lime-burners, wild and proud,
Their red sleeves gleaming in the smoke
Like a rainbow in a cloud,—
Their huts by the brook, and their mimicking crew—
Making believe to be lime-burners too!
And the lime-burners, wild and proud,
Their red sleeves gleaming in the smoke
Like a rainbow in a cloud,—
Their huts by the brook, and their mimicking crew—
Making believe to be lime-burners too!
I could paint the brawny wood-cutter,
With the patches at his knees,—
He 's been asleep these twenty years,
Among his friends, the trees:
The day that he died, the best oak o' the wood
Came up by the roots, and he lies where it stood.
With the patches at his knees,—
He 's been asleep these twenty years,
Among his friends, the trees:
The day that he died, the best oak o' the wood
Came up by the roots, and he lies where it stood.
I could paint the blacksmith's dingy shop,—
Its sign, a pillar of smoke;
The farm-horse halt, the rough-haired colt,
And the jade with her neck in a yoke;
The pony that made to himself a law,
And would n't go under the saddle, nor draw!
Its sign, a pillar of smoke;
The farm-horse halt, the rough-haired colt,
And the jade with her neck in a yoke;
The pony that made to himself a law,
And would n't go under the saddle, nor draw!
The poor old mare at the door-post,
With joints as stiff as its pegs,—
Her one white eye, and her neck awry,—
Trembling the flies from her legs,
And the thriftless farmer that used to stand
And curry her ribs with a kindly hand.
With joints as stiff as its pegs,—
Her one white eye, and her neck awry,—
Trembling the flies from her legs,
And the thriftless farmer that used to stand
And curry her ribs with a kindly hand.
I could paint his quaint old-fashioned house,
With its windows, square and small,
And the seams of clay running every way
Between the stones o' the wall:
The roof, with furrows of mosses green,
And new bright shingles set between.
With its windows, square and small,
And the seams of clay running every way
Between the stones o' the wall:
The roof, with furrows of mosses green,
And new bright shingles set between.
The oven, bulging big behind,
And the narrow porch before,
And the weather-cock for ornament
On the pole beside the door;
And th' row of milk-pans, shining bright
As silver, in the summer light.
And the narrow porch before,
And the weather-cock for ornament
On the pole beside the door;
And th' row of milk-pans, shining bright
As silver, in the summer light.
And I could paint his girls and boys,
Each and every one,
Hepzibah sweet, with her little bare feet,
And Shubal, the stalwart son,
And wife and mother, with homespun gown,
And roses beginning to shade into brown.
Each and every one,
Hepzibah sweet, with her little bare feet,
And Shubal, the stalwart son,
And wife and mother, with homespun gown,
And roses beginning to shade into brown.
190
I could paint the garden, with its paths
Cut smooth, and running straight,—
The gray sage bed, the poppies red,
And the lady-grass at the gate,—
The black warped slab with its hive of bees,
In the corner, under the apple-trees.
Cut smooth, and running straight,—
The gray sage bed, the poppies red,
And the lady-grass at the gate,—
The black warped slab with its hive of bees,
In the corner, under the apple-trees.
I could paint the fields, in the middle hush
Of winter, bleak and bare,
Some snow like a lamb that is caught in a bush,
Hanging here and there,—
The mildewed haystacks, all a-lop,
And the old dead stub with the crow at the top.
Of winter, bleak and bare,
Some snow like a lamb that is caught in a bush,
Hanging here and there,—
The mildewed haystacks, all a-lop,
And the old dead stub with the crow at the top.
The cow, with a board across her eyes,
And her udder dry as dust,
Her hide so brown, her horn turned down,
And her nose the color of rust,—
The walnut-tree so stiff and high,
With its black bark twisted all awry.
And her udder dry as dust,
Her hide so brown, her horn turned down,
And her nose the color of rust,—
The walnut-tree so stiff and high,
With its black bark twisted all awry.
The hill-side, and the small space set
With broken palings round,—
The long loose grass, and the little grave
With the head-stone on the ground,
And the willow, like the spirit of grace
Bending tenderly over the place.
With broken palings round,—
The long loose grass, and the little grave
With the head-stone on the ground,
And the willow, like the spirit of grace
Bending tenderly over the place.
The miller's face, half smile, half frown,
Were a picture I could paint,
And the mill, with gable steep and brown,
And dripping wheel aslant,—
The weather-beaten door, set wide,
And the heaps of meal-bags either side.
Were a picture I could paint,
And the mill, with gable steep and brown,
And dripping wheel aslant,—
The weather-beaten door, set wide,
And the heaps of meal-bags either side.
The timbers cracked to gaping seams,
The swallows' clay-built nests,
And the rows of doves that sit on the beams
With plump and glossy breasts,—
The bear by his post sitting upright to eat,
With half of his clumsy legs in his feet.
The swallows' clay-built nests,
And the rows of doves that sit on the beams
With plump and glossy breasts,—
The bear by his post sitting upright to eat,
With half of his clumsy legs in his feet.
I could paint the mill-stream, cut in two
By the heat o' the summer skies,
And the sand-bar, with its long brown back,
And round and bubbly eyes,
And the bridge, that hung so high o'er the tide,
Creaking and swinging from side to side.
By the heat o' the summer skies,
And the sand-bar, with its long brown back,
And round and bubbly eyes,
And the bridge, that hung so high o'er the tide,
Creaking and swinging from side to side.
The miller's pretty little wife,
In the cottage that she loves,—
Her hand so white, and her step so light,
And her eyes as brown as th' dove's,
Her tiny waist, and belt of blue,
And her hair that almost dazzles you.
In the cottage that she loves,—
Her hand so white, and her step so light,
And her eyes as brown as th' dove's,
Her tiny waist, and belt of blue,
And her hair that almost dazzles you.
I could paint the White-Hawk tavern, flanked
With broken and wind-warped sheds,
And the rock where the black clouds used to sit,
And trim their watery heads
With little sprinkles of shining light,
Night and morning, morning and night.
With broken and wind-warped sheds,
And the rock where the black clouds used to sit,
And trim their watery heads
With little sprinkles of shining light,
Night and morning, morning and night.
The road, where slow and wearily,
The dusty teamster came,—
The sign on its post and the round-faced host,
And the high arched door, aflame
With trumpet-flowers,—the well-sweep, high,
And the flowing water-trough, close by.
The dusty teamster came,—
The sign on its post and the round-faced host,
And the high arched door, aflame
With trumpet-flowers,—the well-sweep, high,
And the flowing water-trough, close by.
If I were a painter, and if my hand
Were cunning, as it is not,
I could paint you a picture that would stand
When all the rest were forgot;
But why should I tell you what it would be?
I never shall paint it, nor you ever see.
Were cunning, as it is not,
I could paint you a picture that would stand
When all the rest were forgot;
But why should I tell you what it would be?
I never shall paint it, nor you ever see.
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.
Oh, good painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Aye? Well, here is an order for you.
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Aye? Well, here is an order for you.
Woods and corn fields, a little brown,—
The picture must not be overbright,—
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room
Under their tassels,—cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,—
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)—
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,—
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush.
The picture must not be overbright,—
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
191
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing-room
Under their tassels,—cattle near,
Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,—
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)—
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,—
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush:
Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush.
Listen closer. When you have done
With woods and corn fields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon you must paint for me:
Oh, if I only could make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while,
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,—
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.
With woods and corn fields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon you must paint for me:
Oh, if I only could make you see
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul, and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while,
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,—
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.
Two little urchins at her knee
You must paint, sir: one like me,—
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea,—
God knoweth if he be living now,—
He sailed in the good ship Commodore,
Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, it is twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck:
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother's knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea!
You must paint, sir: one like me,—
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise:
At ten years old he went to sea,—
God knoweth if he be living now,—
He sailed in the good ship Commodore,
Nobody ever crossed her track
To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, it is twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck:
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.
Bright his hair was, a golden brown,
The time we stood at our mother's knee:
That beauteous head, if it did go down,
Carried sunshine into the sea!
Out in the fields one summer night
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade
Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,—
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the hay-stack's pointed top,
All of a tremble and ready to drop,
The first half-hour, the great yellow star,
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree,
Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—
Dead at the top,—just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day.
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,—
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat:
The berries we gave her she would n't eat,
But cried and cried, till we held her bill,
So slim and shining, to keep her still.
We were together, half afraid
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade
Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,—
Loitering till after the low little light
Of the candle shone through the open door,
And over the hay-stack's pointed top,
All of a tremble and ready to drop,
The first half-hour, the great yellow star,
That we, with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree,
Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—
Dead at the top,—just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,
From which it tenderly shook the dew
Over our heads, when we came to play
In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day.
Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs,—
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs,
Not so big as a straw of wheat:
The berries we gave her she would n't eat,
192
So slim and shining, to keep her still.
At last we stood at our mother's knee.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me:
I think 't was solely mine, indeed:
But that 's no matter,—paint it so;
The eyes of our mother—(take good heed)—
Looking not on the nestful of eggs,
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.
You, sir, know
That you on the canvas are to repeat
Things that are fairest, things most sweet,—
Woods and corn fields and mulberry-tree,—
The mother,—the lads, with their bird, at her knee:
But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!
High as the heavens your name I'll shout,
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.
Do you think, sir, if you try,
You can paint the look of a lie?
If you can, pray have the grace
To put it solely in the face
Of the urchin that is likest me:
I think 't was solely mine, indeed:
But that 's no matter,—paint it so;
The eyes of our mother—(take good heed)—
Looking not on the nestful of eggs,
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs,
But straight through our faces down to our lies,
And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise!
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though
A sharp blade struck through it.
You, sir, know
That you on the canvas are to repeat
Things that are fairest, things most sweet,—
Woods and corn fields and mulberry-tree,—
The mother,—the lads, with their bird, at her knee:
But, oh, that look of reproachful woe!
High as the heavens your name I'll shout,
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out.
THE SUMMER STORM.
At noon-time I stood in the door-way to see
The spots, burnt like blisters, as white as could be,
Along the near meadow, shoved in like a wedge
Betwixt the high-road, and the stubble-land's edge.
The spots, burnt like blisters, as white as could be,
Along the near meadow, shoved in like a wedge
Betwixt the high-road, and the stubble-land's edge.
The leaves of the elm-tree were dusty and brown,
The birds sat with shut eyes and wings hanging down,
The corn reached its blades out, as if in the pain
Of crisping and scorching it felt for the rain.
The birds sat with shut eyes and wings hanging down,
The corn reached its blades out, as if in the pain
Of crisping and scorching it felt for the rain.
Their meek faces turning away from the sun,
The cows waded up to their flanks in the run,
The sheep, so herd-loving, divided their flocks,
And singly lay down by the sides of the rocks.
The cows waded up to their flanks in the run,
The sheep, so herd-loving, divided their flocks,
And singly lay down by the sides of the rocks.
At sunset there rose and stood black in the east
A cloud with the forehead and horns of a beast,
That quick to the zenith went higher and higher,
With feet that were thunder and eyes that were fire.
A cloud with the forehead and horns of a beast,
That quick to the zenith went higher and higher,
With feet that were thunder and eyes that were fire.
Then came a hot sough, like a gust of his breath,
And the leaves took the tremble and whiteness of death,—
The dog, to his master, from kennel and kin,
Came whining and shaking, with back crouching in.
And the leaves took the tremble and whiteness of death,—
The dog, to his master, from kennel and kin,
Came whining and shaking, with back crouching in.
At twilight the darkness was fearful to see:
“Make room,” cried the children, “O mother, for me!”
As climbing her chair and her lap, with alarm,
And whisper,—“Was ever there seen such a storm!”
“Make room,” cried the children, “O mother, for me!”
As climbing her chair and her lap, with alarm,
And whisper,—“Was ever there seen such a storm!”
At morning, the run where the cows cooled their flanks
Had washed up a hedge of white roots from its banks;
The turnpike was left a blue streak, and each side
The gutters like rivers ran muddy and wide.
Had washed up a hedge of white roots from its banks;
The turnpike was left a blue streak, and each side
The gutters like rivers ran muddy and wide.
The barefooted lad started merry to school,
And the way was the nearest that led through the pool:
The red-bird wore never so shining a coat,
Nor the pigeon so glossy a ring on her throat.
And the way was the nearest that led through the pool:
The red-bird wore never so shining a coat,
Nor the pigeon so glossy a ring on her throat.
193
The teamster sat straight in his place, for the nonce,
And sang to his sweetheart and team, both at once;
And neighbors shook hands o'er the fences that day,
And talked of their homesteads instead of their hay.
And sang to his sweetheart and team, both at once;
And neighbors shook hands o'er the fences that day,
And talked of their homesteads instead of their hay.
THE SPECIAL DARLING.
Along the grassy lane one day,
Outside the dull old-fashioned town,
A dozen children were at play;
From noontide till the even-fall,
Curly-heads flaxen and curly-heads brown
Were busily bobbing up and down
Behind the blackberry wall.
Outside the dull old-fashioned town,
A dozen children were at play;
From noontide till the even-fall,
Curly-heads flaxen and curly-heads brown
Were busily bobbing up and down
Behind the blackberry wall.
And near these merry-makers wild
A piteous little creature was,
With face unlike the face of a child,—
Eyes fixed, and seeming frozen still,
And legs all doubled up in th' grass,
Disjointed from his will.
A piteous little creature was,
With face unlike the face of a child,—
Eyes fixed, and seeming frozen still,
And legs all doubled up in th' grass,
Disjointed from his will.
No dream deceived his dreary hours,
Nor made him merry nor made him grave;
He did not hear the children call,
Tumbling under the blackberry-wall,
With shoulders white with flowers;
But sat with great wide eyes one way,
And body limberly a-sway,
Like a water-plant in a wave.
Nor made him merry nor made him grave;
He did not hear the children call,
Tumbling under the blackberry-wall,
With shoulders white with flowers;
But sat with great wide eyes one way,
And body limberly a-sway,
Like a water-plant in a wave.
He did not hear the little stir
The ants made, working in their hills,
Nor see the pale, gray daffodils
Lifting about him their dull points,
Nor yet the curious grasshopper
Transport his green and angular joints
From bush to bush. Poor simple boy,—
His senses cheated of their birth,
He might as well have grown in th' earth,
For all he knew of joy.
The ants made, working in their hills,
Nor see the pale, gray daffodils
Lifting about him their dull points,
Nor yet the curious grasshopper
Transport his green and angular joints
From bush to bush. Poor simple boy,—
His senses cheated of their birth,
He might as well have grown in th' earth,
For all he knew of joy.
Near where the children took their fill
Of play, outside the dull old town,
And neighbored by a wide-flanked hill,
Where mists like phantoms up and down
Moved all the time, a homestead was,
With window toward the plot of grass
Where sat this child, and oft and again
Tender eyes peered through the pane,
Whose glances still were dim,
Till leaping under the blackberry-wall,
Curly-heads flaxen, brown and all,
They rested at last on him.
Of play, outside the dull old town,
And neighbored by a wide-flanked hill,
Where mists like phantoms up and down
Moved all the time, a homestead was,
With window toward the plot of grass
Where sat this child, and oft and again
Tender eyes peered through the pane,
Whose glances still were dim,
Till leaping under the blackberry-wall,
Curly-heads flaxen, brown and all,
They rested at last on him.
Ah, who shall say but that such love
Is the type of His who made us all,
And that from the Kingdom up above
The eyes that note the sparrow's fall,
O'er the incapable, weak and small,
Watch with tenderest care:
Such is my hope and prayer.
Is the type of His who made us all,
And that from the Kingdom up above
The eyes that note the sparrow's fall,
O'er the incapable, weak and small,
Watch with tenderest care:
Such is my hope and prayer.
A DREAM OF HOME.
Sunset! a hush is on the air,
Their gray old heads the mountains bare,
As if the winds were saying prayer.
Their gray old heads the mountains bare,
As if the winds were saying prayer.
The woodland, with its broad, green wing,
Shuts close the insect whispering,
And lo! the sea gets up to sing.
Shuts close the insect whispering,
And lo! the sea gets up to sing.
The day's last splendor fades and dies,
And shadows one by one arise,
To light the candles of the skies.
And shadows one by one arise,
To light the candles of the skies.
O wild flowers, wet with tearful dew,
O woods, with starlight shining through!
My heart is back to-night with you!
O woods, with starlight shining through!
My heart is back to-night with you!
I know each beech and maple tree,
Each climbing brier and shrub I see,—
Like friends they stand to welcome me.
Each climbing brier and shrub I see,—
Like friends they stand to welcome me.
Musing, I go along the streams,
Sweetly believing in my dreams;
For Fancy like a prophet seems.
Sweetly believing in my dreams;
For Fancy like a prophet seems.
Footsteps beside me tread the sod
As in the twilights gone they trod;
And I unlearn my doubts, thank God!
As in the twilights gone they trod;
And I unlearn my doubts, thank God!
Unlearn my doubts, forget my fears,
And that bad carelessness that sears,
And makes me older than my years.
And that bad carelessness that sears,
And makes me older than my years.
194
I hear a dear, familiar tone,
A loving hand is in my own,
And earth seems made for me alone.
A loving hand is in my own,
And earth seems made for me alone.
If I my fortunes could have planned,
I would not have let go that hand;
But they must fall who learn to stand.
I would not have let go that hand;
But they must fall who learn to stand.
And how to blend life's varied hues,
What ill to find, what good to lose,
My Father knoweth best to choose.
What ill to find, what good to lose,
My Father knoweth best to choose.
EVENING PASTIMES.
Sitting by my fire alone,
When the winds are rough and cold,
And I feel myself grow old
Thinking of the summers flown,
When the winds are rough and cold,
And I feel myself grow old
Thinking of the summers flown,
I have many a harmless art
To beguile the tedious time:
Sometimes reading some old rhyme
I already know by heart;
To beguile the tedious time:
Sometimes reading some old rhyme
I already know by heart;
Sometimes singing over words
Which in youth's dear day gone by
Sounded sweet, so sweet that I
Had no praises for the birds.
Which in youth's dear day gone by
Sounded sweet, so sweet that I
Had no praises for the birds.
Then, from off its secret shelf
I from dust and moth remove
The old garment of my love,
In the which I wrap myself.
I from dust and moth remove
The old garment of my love,
In the which I wrap myself.
And a little while am vain;
But its rose hue will not bear
The sad light of faded hair;
So I fold it up again,
But its rose hue will not bear
The sad light of faded hair;
So I fold it up again,
More in patience than regret
Not a leaf the forest through
But is sung and whispered to.
I shall wear that garment yet.
Not a leaf the forest through
But is sung and whispered to.
I shall wear that garment yet.
FADED LEAVES.
The hills are bright with maples yet;
But down the level land
The beech leaves rustle in the wind
As dry and brown as sand.
But down the level land
The beech leaves rustle in the wind
As dry and brown as sand.
The clouds in bars of rusty red
Along the hill-tops glow,
And in the still, sharp air, the frost
Is like a dream of snow.
Along the hill-tops glow,
And in the still, sharp air, the frost
Is like a dream of snow.
The berries of the brier-rose
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.
Have lost their rounded pride:
The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums
Are drooping heavy-eyed.
The cricket grows more friendly now,
The dormouse sly and wise,
Hiding away in the disgrace
Of nature, from men's eyes.
The dormouse sly and wise,
Hiding away in the disgrace
Of nature, from men's eyes.
The pigeons in black wavering lines
Are swinging toward the sun;
And all the wide and withered fields
Proclaim the summer done.
Are swinging toward the sun;
And all the wide and withered fields
Proclaim the summer done.
His store of nuts and acorns now
The squirrel hastes to gain,
And sets his house in order for
The winter's dreary reign.
The squirrel hastes to gain,
And sets his house in order for
The winter's dreary reign.
'T is time to light the evening fire,
To read good books, to sing
The low and lovely songs that breathe
Of the eternal spring.
To read good books, to sing
The low and lovely songs that breathe
Of the eternal spring.
THE LIGHT OF DAYS GONE BY.
Some comfort when all else is night,
About his fortune plays,
Who sets his dark to-days in the light
Of the sunnier yesterdays.
About his fortune plays,
Who sets his dark to-days in the light
Of the sunnier yesterdays.
In memory of joy that 's been
Something of joy is, still;
Where no dew is, we may dabble in
A dream of the dew at will.
Something of joy is, still;
Where no dew is, we may dabble in
A dream of the dew at will.
All with the dusty city's throng
Walled round, I mused to-day
Of flowery sheets lying white along
The pleasant grass of the way.
Walled round, I mused to-day
Of flowery sheets lying white along
The pleasant grass of the way.
Under the hedge by the brawling brook
I heard the woodpecker's tap,
And the drunken trills of the blackbirds shook
The sassafras leaves in my lap.
I heard the woodpecker's tap,
And the drunken trills of the blackbirds shook
The sassafras leaves in my lap.
I thought of the rainy morning air
Dropping down through the pine,
Of furrows fresh from the shining share,
And smelling sweeter than wine.
Dropping down through the pine,
Of furrows fresh from the shining share,
And smelling sweeter than wine.
Of the soft, thick moss, and how it grew
With silver beads impearled,
In the well that we used to think ran through
To the other side of the world.
With silver beads impearled,
195
To the other side of the world.
I thought of the old barn set about
With its stacks of sweet, dry hay;
Of the swallows flying in and out
Through the gables, steep and gray;
With its stacks of sweet, dry hay;
Of the swallows flying in and out
Through the gables, steep and gray;
Thought of the golden hum of the bees,
Of the cocks with their heads so high,
Making it morn in the tops of the trees
Before it was morn in the sky.
Of the cocks with their heads so high,
Making it morn in the tops of the trees
Before it was morn in the sky.
And of the home, of the dear old home,
With its brown and rose-bound wall,
Where we fancied death could never come—
I thought of it more than of all.
With its brown and rose-bound wall,
Where we fancied death could never come—
I thought of it more than of all.
Each childish play-ground memory claims,
Telling me here, and thus,
We called to the echoes by their names,
Till we made them answer us.
Telling me here, and thus,
We called to the echoes by their names,
Till we made them answer us.
Thank God, when other power decays,
And other pleasures die,
We still may set our dark to-days
In the light of days gone by.
And other pleasures die,
We still may set our dark to-days
In the light of days gone by.
A SEA SONG.
Come, make for me a little song—
'T was so a spirit said to me—
And make it just four verses long,
And made it sweet as it can be,
And make it all about the sea.
'T was so a spirit said to me—
And make it just four verses long,
And made it sweet as it can be,
And make it all about the sea.
Sing me about the wild waste shore,
Where, long and long ago, with me
You watched the silver sails that bore
The great, strong ships across the sea—
The blue, the bright, the boundless sea.
Where, long and long ago, with me
You watched the silver sails that bore
The great, strong ships across the sea—
The blue, the bright, the boundless sea.
Sing me about the plans we planned:
How one of those good ships should be
My way to find some flowery land
Away beyond the misty sea,
Where, alway, you should live with me.
How one of those good ships should be
My way to find some flowery land
Away beyond the misty sea,
Where, alway, you should live with me.
Sing, lastly, how our hearts were caught
Up into heaven, because that we
Knew not the flowery land we sought
Lay all beyond that other sea—
That soundless, sailless, solemn sea.
Up into heaven, because that we
Knew not the flowery land we sought
Lay all beyond that other sea—
That soundless, sailless, solemn sea.
SERMONS IN STONES.
Flower of the deep red zone,
Rain the fine light about thee, near and far,
Hold the wide earth, so as the evening star
Holdeth all heaven, alone,
And with thy wondrous glory make men see
His greater glory who did fashion thee!
Rain the fine light about thee, near and far,
Hold the wide earth, so as the evening star
Holdeth all heaven, alone,
And with thy wondrous glory make men see
His greater glory who did fashion thee!
Sing, little goldfinch, sing!
Make the rough billows lift their curly ears
And listen, fill the violet's eyes with tears,
Make the green leaves to swing
As in a dance, when thou dost hie along,
Showing the sweetness whence thou get'st thy song.
Make the rough billows lift their curly ears
And listen, fill the violet's eyes with tears,
Make the green leaves to swing
As in a dance, when thou dost hie along,
Showing the sweetness whence thou get'st thy song.
O daisies of the hills,
When winds do pipe to charm ye, be not slow.
Crowd up, crowd up, and make your shoulders show
White o'er the daffodils!
Yea, shadow forth through your excelling grace
With whom ye have held counsel face to face.
When winds do pipe to charm ye, be not slow.
Crowd up, crowd up, and make your shoulders show
White o'er the daffodils!
Yea, shadow forth through your excelling grace
With whom ye have held counsel face to face.
Fill full our desire,
Gray grasses; trick your lowly stems with green,
And wear your splendors even as a queen
Weareth her soft attire.
Unfold the cunning mystery of design
That combs out all your skirts to ribbons fine.
Gray grasses; trick your lowly stems with green,
And wear your splendors even as a queen
Weareth her soft attire.
Unfold the cunning mystery of design
That combs out all your skirts to ribbons fine.
And O my heart, my heart,
Be careful to go strewing in and out
Thy way with good deeds, lest it come about
That when thou shalt depart,
No low lamenting tongue be found to say,
The world is poorer since thou went'st away!
Be careful to go strewing in and out
Thy way with good deeds, lest it come about
That when thou shalt depart,
196
The world is poorer since thou went'st away!
Thou shouldst not idly beat,
While beauty draweth good men's thoughts to prayer
Even as the bird's wing draweth out the air,
But make so fair and sweet
Thy house of clay, some dusk shall spread about,
When death unlocks the door and lets thee out.
While beauty draweth good men's thoughts to prayer
Even as the bird's wing draweth out the air,
But make so fair and sweet
Thy house of clay, some dusk shall spread about,
When death unlocks the door and lets thee out.
MY PICTURE.
Ah, how the eye on the picture stops
Where the lights of memory shine!
My friend, to thee I will leave the sea,
If only this be mine,
For the thought of the breeze in the tops of the trees
Stirs my blood like wine!
Where the lights of memory shine!
My friend, to thee I will leave the sea,
If only this be mine,
For the thought of the breeze in the tops of the trees
Stirs my blood like wine!
I will leave the sea and leave the ships,
And the light-house, taper and tall,
The bar so low, whence the fishers go,
And the fishers' wives and all,
If thou wilt agree to leave to me
This picture for my wall.
And the light-house, taper and tall,
The bar so low, whence the fishers go,
And the fishers' wives and all,
If thou wilt agree to leave to me
This picture for my wall.
I leave thee all the palaces,
With their turrets in the sky—
The hunting-grounds, the hawks and hounds—
They please nor ear nor eye;
But the sturdy strokes on the sides o' the oaks
Make my pulses fly.
With their turrets in the sky—
The hunting-grounds, the hawks and hounds—
They please nor ear nor eye;
But the sturdy strokes on the sides o' the oaks
Make my pulses fly.
The old cathedral, filling all
The street with its shadow brown,
The organ grand, and the choiring band,
And the priest with his shaven crown;
'T is the wail of the hymn in the wildwood dim,
That bends and bows me down.
The street with its shadow brown,
The organ grand, and the choiring band,
And the priest with his shaven crown;
'T is the wail of the hymn in the wildwood dim,
That bends and bows me down.
The shepherd piping to his flock
In the merry month of the May,
The lady fair with the golden hair,
And the knight so gallant and gay—
For the wood so drear that is pictured here,
I give them all away.
In the merry month of the May,
The lady fair with the golden hair,
And the knight so gallant and gay—
For the wood so drear that is pictured here,
I give them all away.
I give the cities and give the sea,
The ships and the bar so low,
And fishers and wives whose dreary lives
Speak from the canvas so;
And for all of these I must have the trees—
The trees on the hills of snow!
The ships and the bar so low,
And fishers and wives whose dreary lives
Speak from the canvas so;
And for all of these I must have the trees—
The trees on the hills of snow!
And shall we be agreed, my friend?
Shall it stand as I have said?
For the sake of the shade wherein I played,
And for the sake of my dead,
That lie so low on the hills of snow,
Shall it be as I have said?
Shall it stand as I have said?
For the sake of the shade wherein I played,
And for the sake of my dead,
That lie so low on the hills of snow,
Shall it be as I have said?
MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS.
Morn on the mountains! streaks of roseate light
Up the high east athwart the shadows run;
The last low star fades softly out of sight,
And the gray mists go forth to meet the sun.
Up the high east athwart the shadows run;
The last low star fades softly out of sight,
And the gray mists go forth to meet the sun.
And now from every sheltering shrub and vine,
And thicket wild with many a tangled spray,
And from the birch and elm and rough-browed pine,
The birds begin to serenade the day.
And thicket wild with many a tangled spray,
And from the birch and elm and rough-browed pine,
The birds begin to serenade the day.
And now the cock his sleepy harem thrills
With clarion calls, and down the flowery dells;
And from their mossy hollows in the hills;
The sheep have started all their tinkling bells.
With clarion calls, and down the flowery dells;
And from their mossy hollows in the hills;
The sheep have started all their tinkling bells.
Lo, the great sun! and Nature everywhere
Is all alive, and sweet as she can be;
A thousand happy sounds are in the air,
A thousand by the rivers and the sea.
Is all alive, and sweet as she can be;
A thousand happy sounds are in the air,
A thousand by the rivers and the sea.
197
The dipping oar, the boatman's cheerful horn,
The well-sweep, creaking in its rise and fall;
And pleasantly along the springing corn.
The music of the ploughshare, best of all,—
The well-sweep, creaking in its rise and fall;
And pleasantly along the springing corn.
The music of the ploughshare, best of all,—
The insect's little hum, the whir and beat
Of myriad wings, the mower's song so blithe,
The patter of the school-boy's naked feet,
The joyous ringing of the whetted scythe,—
Of myriad wings, the mower's song so blithe,
The patter of the school-boy's naked feet,
The joyous ringing of the whetted scythe,—
The low of kine, the falling meadow bar,
The teamster's whistle gay, the droning round
Of the wet mill-wheel, and the tuneful jar
Of hollow milk-pans, swell the general sound.
The teamster's whistle gay, the droning round
Of the wet mill-wheel, and the tuneful jar
Of hollow milk-pans, swell the general sound.
And by the sea, and in each vale and glen
Are happy sights, as well as sounds to hear.
The world of things, and the great world of men,
All, all is busy, busy far and near.
Are happy sights, as well as sounds to hear.
The world of things, and the great world of men,
All, all is busy, busy far and near.
The ant is hard at work, and everywhere
The bee is balanced on her wings so brown:
And the black spider on her slender stair
Is running down and up, and up and down.
The bee is balanced on her wings so brown:
And the black spider on her slender stair
Is running down and up, and up and down.
The pine-wood smoke in bright, fantastic curls,
Above the low-roofed homestead sweeps away,
And o'er the groups of merry boys and girls
That pick the berries bright, or rake the hay.
Above the low-roofed homestead sweeps away,
And o'er the groups of merry boys and girls
That pick the berries bright, or rake the hay.
Morn on the mountains! the enkindling skies,
The flowery fields, the meadows, and the sea,
All are so fair, the heart within me cries,
How good, how wondrous good our God must be.
The flowery fields, the meadows, and the sea,
All are so fair, the heart within me cries,
How good, how wondrous good our God must be.
THE THISTLE FLOWER.
My homely flower that blooms along
The dry and dusty ways,
I have a mind to make a song,
And make it in thy praise;
For thou art favored of my heart,
Humble and outcast as thou art.
The dry and dusty ways,
I have a mind to make a song,
And make it in thy praise;
For thou art favored of my heart,
Humble and outcast as thou art.
Though never with the plants of grace
In garden borders set,
Full often have I seen thy face
With tender tear-drops wet,
And seen thy gray and ragged sleeves
All wringing with them, morns and eves.
In garden borders set,
Full often have I seen thy face
With tender tear-drops wet,
And seen thy gray and ragged sleeves
All wringing with them, morns and eves.
Albeit thou livest in a bush
Of such unsightly form,
Thou hast not any need to blush—
Thou hast thine own sweet charm;
And for that charm I love thee so,
And not for any outward show.
Of such unsightly form,
Thou hast not any need to blush—
Thou hast thine own sweet charm;
And for that charm I love thee so,
And not for any outward show.
The iron-weed, so straight and fine,
Above thy head may rise,
And all in glossy purple shine;
But to my partial eyes
It cannot harm thee—thou hast still
A place no finer flower can fill.
Above thy head may rise,
And all in glossy purple shine;
But to my partial eyes
It cannot harm thee—thou hast still
A place no finer flower can fill.
The fennel, she is courted at
The porch-side and the door—
Thou hast no lovers, and for that
I love thee all the more;
Only the wind and rain to be
Thy friends, and keep thee company.
The porch-side and the door—
Thou hast no lovers, and for that
I love thee all the more;
Only the wind and rain to be
Thy friends, and keep thee company.
So, being left to take thine ease
Behind thy thorny wall,
Thy little head with vanities
Has not been turned at all,
And all field beauties give me grace
To praise thee to thy very face.
Behind thy thorny wall,
Thy little head with vanities
Has not been turned at all,
And all field beauties give me grace
To praise thee to thy very face.
So, thou shalt evermore belong
To me from this sweet hour,
And I will take thee for my song,
And take thee for my flower,
And by the great, and proud, and high
Unenvied, we will live and die.
To me from this sweet hour,
And I will take thee for my song,
And take thee for my flower,
And by the great, and proud, and high
Unenvied, we will live and die.
198
MY DARLINGS.
My Rose, so red and round,
My Daisy, darling of the summer weather,
You must go down now, and keep house together,
Low underground!
My Daisy, darling of the summer weather,
You must go down now, and keep house together,
Low underground!
O little silver line
Of meadow water, ere the cloud rise darkling,
Slip out of sight, and with your comely sparkling
Make their hearth shine.
Of meadow water, ere the cloud rise darkling,
Slip out of sight, and with your comely sparkling
Make their hearth shine.
Leaves of the garden bowers,
The frost is coming soon,—your prime is over;
So gently fall, and make a soft, warm cover
To house my flowers.
The frost is coming soon,—your prime is over;
So gently fall, and make a soft, warm cover
To house my flowers.
Lithe willow, too, forego
The crown that makes you queen of woodland graces,
Nor leave the winds to shear the lady tresses
From your drooped brow.
The crown that makes you queen of woodland graces,
Nor leave the winds to shear the lady tresses
From your drooped brow.
Oak, held by strength apart
From all the trees, stop now your stems from growing,
And send the sap, while yet 't is bravely flowing,
Back to your heart.
From all the trees, stop now your stems from growing,
And send the sap, while yet 't is bravely flowing,
Back to your heart.
And ere the autumn sleet
Freeze into ice, or sift to bitter snowing,
Make compact with your peers for overstrowing
My darlings sweet.
Freeze into ice, or sift to bitter snowing,
Make compact with your peers for overstrowing
My darlings sweet.
So when their sleepy eyes
Shall be unlocked by May with rainy kisses,
They to the sweet renewal of old blisses
Refreshed may rise.
Shall be unlocked by May with rainy kisses,
They to the sweet renewal of old blisses
Refreshed may rise.
Lord, in that evil day
When my own wicked thoughts like thieves waylay me,
Or when pricked conscience rises up to slay me,
Shield me, I pray.
When my own wicked thoughts like thieves waylay me,
Or when pricked conscience rises up to slay me,
Shield me, I pray.
Aye, when the storm shall drive,
Spread thy two blessed hands like leaves above me,
And with thy great love, though none else should love me,
Save me alive!
Spread thy two blessed hands like leaves above me,
And with thy great love, though none else should love me,
Save me alive!
Heal with thy peace my strife;
And as the poet with his golden versing
Lights his low house, give me, thy praise rehearsing,
To light my life.
And as the poet with his golden versing
Lights his low house, give me, thy praise rehearsing,
To light my life.
Shed down thy grace in showers,
And if some roots of good, at thy appearing,
Be found in me, transplant them for the rearing
Of heavenly flowers.
And if some roots of good, at thy appearing,
Be found in me, transplant them for the rearing
Of heavenly flowers.
THE FIELD SWEET-BRIER.
I love the flowers that come about with spring,
And whether they be scarlet, white, or blue,
It mattereth to me not anything;
For when I see them full of sun and dew,
My heart doth get so full with its delight,
I know not blue from red, nor red from white.
And whether they be scarlet, white, or blue,
It mattereth to me not anything;
For when I see them full of sun and dew,
My heart doth get so full with its delight,
I know not blue from red, nor red from white.
Sometimes I choose the lily, without stain;
The royal rose sometimes the best I call;
Then the low daisy, dancing with the rain,
Doth seem to me the finest flower of all;
And yet if only one could bloom for me—
I know right well what flower that one would be!
The royal rose sometimes the best I call;
Then the low daisy, dancing with the rain,
Doth seem to me the finest flower of all;
And yet if only one could bloom for me—
I know right well what flower that one would be!
Yea, so I think my native wilding brier,
With just her thin four leaves, and stem so rough,
Could, with her sweetness, give me my desire,
Aye, all my life long give me sweets enough;
For though she be not vaunted to excel,
She in all modest grace aboundeth well.
With just her thin four leaves, and stem so rough,
Could, with her sweetness, give me my desire,
Aye, all my life long give me sweets enough;
199
She in all modest grace aboundeth well.
And I would have no whit the less content,
Because she hath not won the poet's voice,
To pluck her little stars for ornament,
And that no man were poorer for my choice,
Since she perforce must shine above the rest
In comely looks, because I love her best!
Because she hath not won the poet's voice,
To pluck her little stars for ornament,
And that no man were poorer for my choice,
Since she perforce must shine above the rest
In comely looks, because I love her best!
When fancy taketh wing, and wills to go
Where all selected glories blush and bloom,
I search and find the flower that used to grow
Close by the door-stone of the dear old home—
The flower whose knitted roots we did divide
For sad transplanting, when the mother died.
Where all selected glories blush and bloom,
I search and find the flower that used to grow
Close by the door-stone of the dear old home—
The flower whose knitted roots we did divide
For sad transplanting, when the mother died.
All of the early and the latter May,
And through the windless heats of middle June,
Our green-armed brier held for us day by day.
The morning coolness till the afternoon:
And every bird that took his grateful share,
Sang with a heavenlier tongue than otherwhere.
And through the windless heats of middle June,
Our green-armed brier held for us day by day.
The morning coolness till the afternoon:
And every bird that took his grateful share,
Sang with a heavenlier tongue than otherwhere.
And when from out the west the low sun shone,
If used to make our pulses leap and thrill
To see her lift her shadows from the stone,
And push it in among us o'er the sill—
O'erstrow with flowers, and then push softly in,
As if she were our very kith and kin.
If used to make our pulses leap and thrill
To see her lift her shadows from the stone,
And push it in among us o'er the sill—
O'erstrow with flowers, and then push softly in,
As if she were our very kith and kin.
So, seeing still at evening's golden close
This shadow with our childish shadows blend,
We came to love our simple four-leaved rose,
As if she were a sister or a friend.
And if my eyes all flowers but one must lose,
Our wild sweet-brier would be the one to choose.
This shadow with our childish shadows blend,
We came to love our simple four-leaved rose,
As if she were a sister or a friend.
And if my eyes all flowers but one must lose,
Our wild sweet-brier would be the one to choose.
THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL.
O Memory, be sweet to me—
Take, take all else at will,
So thou but leave me safe and sound,
Without a token my heart to wound,
The little house on the hill!
Take, take all else at will,
So thou but leave me safe and sound,
Without a token my heart to wound,
The little house on the hill!
Take all of best from east to west,
So thou but leave me still
The chamber, where in the starry light
I used to lie awake at night
And list to the whip-poor-will.
So thou but leave me still
The chamber, where in the starry light
I used to lie awake at night
And list to the whip-poor-will.
Take violet-bed, and rose-tree red,
And the purple flags by the mill,
The meadow gay, and the garden-ground,
But leave, oh leave me safe and sound
The little house on the hill!
And the purple flags by the mill,
The meadow gay, and the garden-ground,
But leave, oh leave me safe and sound
The little house on the hill!
The daisy-lane, and the dove's low plain
And the cuckoo's tender bill,
Take one and all, but leave the dreams
That turned the rafters to golden beams,
In the little house on the hill!
And the cuckoo's tender bill,
Take one and all, but leave the dreams
That turned the rafters to golden beams,
In the little house on the hill!
The gables brown, they have tumbled down,
And dry is the brook by the mill;
The sheets I used with care to keep
Have wrapt my dead for the last long sleep,
In the valley, low and still.
And dry is the brook by the mill;
The sheets I used with care to keep
Have wrapt my dead for the last long sleep,
In the valley, low and still.
But, Memory, be sweet to me,
And build the walls, at will,
Of the chamber where I used to mark,
So softly rippling over the dark,
The song of the whip-poor-will!
And build the walls, at will,
Of the chamber where I used to mark,
So softly rippling over the dark,
The song of the whip-poor-will!
Ah, Memory, be sweet to me!
All other fountains chill;
But leave that song so weird and wild,
Dear as its life to the heart of the child,
In the little house on the hill!
All other fountains chill;
But leave that song so weird and wild,
Dear as its life to the heart of the child,
In the little house on the hill!
200
THE OLD HOUSE.
My little birds, with backs as brown
As sand, and throats as white as frost,
I 've searched the summer up and down,
And think the other birds have lost
The tunes you sang, so sweet, so low,
About the old house, long ago.
As sand, and throats as white as frost,
I 've searched the summer up and down,
And think the other birds have lost
The tunes you sang, so sweet, so low,
About the old house, long ago.
My little flowers, that with your bloom
So hid the grass you grew upon,
A child's foot scarce had any room
Between you,—are you dead and gone?
I 've searched through fields and gardens rare,
Nor found your likeness anywhere.
So hid the grass you grew upon,
A child's foot scarce had any room
Between you,—are you dead and gone?
I 've searched through fields and gardens rare,
Nor found your likeness anywhere.
My little hearts, that beat so high
With love to God, and trust in men,
Oh, come to me, and say if I
But dream, or was I dreaming then,
What time we sat within the glow
Of the old house hearth, long ago?
With love to God, and trust in men,
Oh, come to me, and say if I
But dream, or was I dreaming then,
What time we sat within the glow
Of the old house hearth, long ago?
My little hearts, so fond, so true,
I searched the world all far and wide,
And never found the like of you:
God grant we meet the other side
The darkness 'twixt us now that stands,
In that new house not made with hands!
I searched the world all far and wide,
And never found the like of you:
God grant we meet the other side
The darkness 'twixt us now that stands,
In that new house not made with hands!
THE BLACKBIRD.
“I could not think so plain a bird
Could sing so fine a song.”
Could sing so fine a song.”
One on another against the wall
Pile up the books,—I am done with them all!
I shall be wise, if I ever am wise,
Out of my own ears, and of my own eyes.
Pile up the books,—I am done with them all!
I shall be wise, if I ever am wise,
Out of my own ears, and of my own eyes.
One day of the woods and their balmy light,—
One hour on the top of a breezy hill,
Where in the sassafras all out of sight
The blackbird is splitting his slender bill
For the ease of his heart!
Do you think if he said
I will sing like this bird with the mud-colored back
And the two little spots of gold over his eyes,
Or like to this shy little creature that flies
So low to the ground, with the amethyst rings
About her small throat,—all alive when she sings
With a glitter of shivering green,—for the rest,
Gray shading to gray, with the sheen of her breast
Half rose and half fawn,—
Or like this one so proud,
That flutters so restless, and cries out so loud,
With stiff horny beak and a topknotted head,
And a lining of scarlet laid under his wings,—
Do you think, if he said, “I'm ashamed to be black!”
That he could have shaken the sassafras-tree
As he does with the song he was born to? not he!
One hour on the top of a breezy hill,
Where in the sassafras all out of sight
The blackbird is splitting his slender bill
For the ease of his heart!
Do you think if he said
I will sing like this bird with the mud-colored back
And the two little spots of gold over his eyes,
Or like to this shy little creature that flies
So low to the ground, with the amethyst rings
About her small throat,—all alive when she sings
With a glitter of shivering green,—for the rest,
Gray shading to gray, with the sheen of her breast
Half rose and half fawn,—
Or like this one so proud,
That flutters so restless, and cries out so loud,
With stiff horny beak and a topknotted head,
And a lining of scarlet laid under his wings,—
Do you think, if he said, “I'm ashamed to be black!”
That he could have shaken the sassafras-tree
As he does with the song he was born to? not he!
CRADLE SONG.
All by the sides of the wide wild river
Surging sad through the sodden land,
There be the black reeds washing together—
Washing together in rain and sand;
Going, blowing, flowing, together—
Rough are the winds, and the tide runs high—
Hush little babe in thy silken cradle—
Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby!
Surging sad through the sodden land,
There be the black reeds washing together—
Washing together in rain and sand;
Going, blowing, flowing, together—
Rough are the winds, and the tide runs high—
Hush little babe in thy silken cradle—
Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby!
Father is riding home, little baby,
Riding home through the wind and rain;
Flinty hoofs on the flag stems beating
Thrum like a flail on the golden grain.
All in the wild, wet reeds of the lowlands,
Dashed and plashed with the freezing foam,
There be the blood-red wings of the starlings
Shining to light and lead him home.
Riding home through the wind and rain;
Flinty hoofs on the flag stems beating
Thrum like a flail on the golden grain.
All in the wild, wet reeds of the lowlands,
Dashed and plashed with the freezing foam,
There be the blood-red wings of the starlings
Shining to light and lead him home.
201
Spurring hard o'er the grass-gray ridges—
Slacking rein in the low, wet land,
Where be the black reeds washing together—
Washing together in rain and sand.
Down of the yellow-throated creeper—
Plumes of the woodcock, green and black—
Boughs of salix, and combs of honey—
These be the gifts he is bearing back.
Slacking rein in the low, wet land,
Where be the black reeds washing together—
Washing together in rain and sand.
Down of the yellow-throated creeper—
Plumes of the woodcock, green and black—
Boughs of salix, and combs of honey—
These be the gifts he is bearing back.
Yester morning four sweet ground-doves
Sung so gay to their nest in the wall—
Oh, by the moaning, and oh, by the droning,
The wild, wild water is over them all!
Come, O morning, come with thy roses,
Flame like a burning bush in the sky—
Hush, little babe, in thy silken cradle—
Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby!
Sung so gay to their nest in the wall—
Oh, by the moaning, and oh, by the droning,
The wild, wild water is over them all!
Come, O morning, come with thy roses,
Flame like a burning bush in the sky—
Hush, little babe, in thy silken cradle—
Lull lull, lull lull, lull lullaby!
GOING TO COURT.
The farm-lad quarried from the mow
The golden bundles, hastily,
And, giving oxen, colt, and cow
Their separate portions, he was free.
The golden bundles, hastily,
And, giving oxen, colt, and cow
Their separate portions, he was free.
Then, emptying all the sweet delight
Of his young heart into his eyes,
As if he might not go that night,
He lingered, looking at the skies.
Of his young heart into his eyes,
As if he might not go that night,
He lingered, looking at the skies.
The evening's silver plough had gone
Through twilight's bank of yellow haze,
And turned two little stars thereon—
Still artfully he stayed to praise
Through twilight's bank of yellow haze,
And turned two little stars thereon—
Still artfully he stayed to praise
The hedge-row's bloom—the trickling run—
The crooked lane, and valley low—
Each pleasant walk, indeed, save one,
And that the way he meant to go!
The crooked lane, and valley low—
Each pleasant walk, indeed, save one,
And that the way he meant to go!
In truth, for Nature's simple shows
He had no thoughts that night, to spare,
In vain to please his eyes, the rose
Climbed redly out upon the air.
He had no thoughts that night, to spare,
In vain to please his eyes, the rose
Climbed redly out upon the air.
The bean-flower, in her white attire
Displayed in vain her modest charms,
And apple-blossoms, all on fire,
Fell uninvited in his arms.
Displayed in vain her modest charms,
And apple-blossoms, all on fire,
Fell uninvited in his arms.
When Annie raked the summer hay
Last year, a little thorn he drew
Out of her white hand, such a way,
It pierced his heart all through and through.
Last year, a little thorn he drew
Out of her white hand, such a way,
It pierced his heart all through and through.
Poor farmer-lad! could he that night
Have seen how fortune's leaves were writ,
His eyes had emptied all their light
Back to his heart, and broken it.
Have seen how fortune's leaves were writ,
His eyes had emptied all their light
Back to his heart, and broken it.
ON THE SEA.
I will call her when she comes to me
My lily, and not my wife,
So whitely and so tenderly
She was set in my stormy life.
My lily, and not my wife,
So whitely and so tenderly
She was set in my stormy life.
In vain her gentle eyes to please
The year had done her best,
Setting her tides of crocuses
All softly toward the west:
The year had done her best,
Setting her tides of crocuses
All softly toward the west:
The bright west, where our love was born
And grew to perfect bloom,
And where the broad leaves of the corn
Hang low about her tomb.
And grew to perfect bloom,
And where the broad leaves of the corn
Hang low about her tomb.
I hid from men my cruel wound
And sailed away on the sea,
But like waves around some hulk aground
Her love enfoldeth me.
And sailed away on the sea,
But like waves around some hulk aground
Her love enfoldeth me.
My clumsy hands are cracked and brown;
My chin is rough as a bur,
But under the dry husk soft as down
Lieth my love for her.
My chin is rough as a bur,
But under the dry husk soft as down
Lieth my love for her.
One night when storms were in the sky—
Sailing away on the sea,
I dreamed that I was doomed to die,
And that she came to me.
Sailing away on the sea,
I dreamed that I was doomed to die,
And that she came to me.
They bound my eyes, but I had sight
And saw her take that hour
My head so bright in her apron white
As if it had been a flower!
And saw her take that hour
My head so bright in her apron white
As if it had been a flower!
202
No child when I sit alone at night
Comes climbing on my knee,
But I dream of love and my heart is light
As I sail away on the sea.
Comes climbing on my knee,
But I dream of love and my heart is light
As I sail away on the sea.
A FRAGMENT.
It was a sandy level wherein stood
The old and lonesome house; far as the eye
Could measure, on the green back of the wood,
The smoke lay always, low and lazily.
The old and lonesome house; far as the eye
Could measure, on the green back of the wood,
The smoke lay always, low and lazily.
Down the high gable windows, all one way,
Hung the long, drowsy curtains, and across
The sunken shingles, where the rain would stay,
The roof was ridged, a hand's breadth deep, with moss.
Hung the long, drowsy curtains, and across
The sunken shingles, where the rain would stay,
The roof was ridged, a hand's breadth deep, with moss.
The place was all so still you would have said
The picture of the Summer, drawn, should be
With golden ears, laid back against her head,
And listening to the far, low-lying sea.
The picture of the Summer, drawn, should be
With golden ears, laid back against her head,
And listening to the far, low-lying sea.
But from the rock, rough-grained and icy-crowned.
Some little flower from out some cleft will rise:
And in this quiet land my love I found,
With all their soft light, sleepy, in her eyes.
Some little flower from out some cleft will rise:
And in this quiet land my love I found,
With all their soft light, sleepy, in her eyes.
No bush to lure a bird to sing to her—
In depths of calm the gnats' faint hum was drowned,
And the wind's voice was like a little stir
Of the uneasy silence, not like sound.
In depths of calm the gnats' faint hum was drowned,
And the wind's voice was like a little stir
Of the uneasy silence, not like sound.
No tender trembles of the dew at close
Of day,—at morn, no insect choir;
No sweet bees at sweet work about the rose,
Like little housewife fairies round their fire.
Of day,—at morn, no insect choir;
No sweet bees at sweet work about the rose,
Like little housewife fairies round their fire.
And yet the place, suffused with her, seemed fair—
Ah, I would be immortal, could I write
How from her forehead fell the shining hair,
As morning falls from heaven—so bright! so bright.
Ah, I would be immortal, could I write
How from her forehead fell the shining hair,
As morning falls from heaven—so bright! so bright.
SHADOWS.
When I see the long wild briers
Waving in the winds like fires,
See the green skirts of the maples
Barred with scarlet and with gold,
See the sunflower, heavy-hearted,
Shadows then from days departed
Come and with their tender trembles
Wrap my bosom, fold on fold.
Waving in the winds like fires,
See the green skirts of the maples
Barred with scarlet and with gold,
See the sunflower, heavy-hearted,
Shadows then from days departed
Come and with their tender trembles
Wrap my bosom, fold on fold.
I can hear sweet invitations
Through the sobbing, sad vibrations
Of the winds that follow, follow,
As from self I seek to fly—
Come up hither! come up hither!
Leave the rough and rainy weather!
Come up where the royal roses
Never fade and never die!
Through the sobbing, sad vibrations
Of the winds that follow, follow,
As from self I seek to fly—
Come up hither! come up hither!
Leave the rough and rainy weather!
Come up where the royal roses
Never fade and never die!
'T was when May was blushing, blooming,
Brown bee, bluebirds, singing, humming,
That we built and walled our chamber
With the emerald of leaves;
Made our bed of yellow mosses,
Soft as pile of silken flosses,
Dreamed our dreams in dewy brightness
Radiant like the morns and eves.
Brown bee, bluebirds, singing, humming,
That we built and walled our chamber
With the emerald of leaves;
Made our bed of yellow mosses,
Soft as pile of silken flosses,
Dreamed our dreams in dewy brightness
Radiant like the morns and eves.
And it was when woods were gleaming,
And when clouds were wildly streaming
Gray and umber, white and ember,
Streaming in the north wind's breath,
That my little rose-mouthed blossom
Fell and faded on my bosom,
Cankered by the coming coldness,
Blighted by the frosts of death.
And when clouds were wildly streaming
Gray and umber, white and ember,
Streaming in the north wind's breath,
That my little rose-mouthed blossom
Fell and faded on my bosom,
Cankered by the coming coldness,
Blighted by the frosts of death.
Therefore, when I see the shadows,
Drifting in across the meadows,
See the troops of summer wild birds
Flying from us, cloud on cloud,
Memory with that May-time lingers,
And I seem to feel the fingers
Of my lost and lovely darling
Wrap my heart up in her shroud.
Drifting in across the meadows,
See the troops of summer wild birds
Flying from us, cloud on cloud,
Memory with that May-time lingers,
And I seem to feel the fingers
Of my lost and lovely darling
Wrap my heart up in her shroud.
203
APRIL.
The wild and windy March once more
Has shut his gates of sleet,
And given us back the April-time,
So fickle and so sweet.
Has shut his gates of sleet,
And given us back the April-time,
So fickle and so sweet.
Now blighting with our fears, our hopes—
Now kindling hopes with fears—
Now softly weeping through her smiles—
Now smiling through her tears.
Now kindling hopes with fears—
Now softly weeping through her smiles—
Now smiling through her tears.
Ah, month that comes with rainbows crowned,
And golden shadows dressed—
Constant to her inconstancy,
And faithful to unrest.
And golden shadows dressed—
Constant to her inconstancy,
And faithful to unrest.
The swallows 'round the homestead eaves—
The bluebirds in the bowers
Twitter their sweet songs for thy sake,
Gay mother of the flowers.
The bluebirds in the bowers
Twitter their sweet songs for thy sake,
Gay mother of the flowers.
The brooks that moaned but yesterday
Through bunches of dead grass,
Climb up their banks with dimpled hands,
And watch to see thee pass.
Through bunches of dead grass,
Climb up their banks with dimpled hands,
And watch to see thee pass.
The willow, for thy grace's sake,
Has dressed with tender spray,
And all the rivers send their mists
To meet thee on the way.
Has dressed with tender spray,
And all the rivers send their mists
To meet thee on the way.
The morning sets her rosy clouds
Like hedges in the sky,
And o'er and o'er their dear old tunes
The winds of evening try.
Like hedges in the sky,
And o'er and o'er their dear old tunes
The winds of evening try.
Before another week has gone,
Each bush, and shrub, and tree,
Will be as full of buds and leaves
As ever it can be.
Each bush, and shrub, and tree,
Will be as full of buds and leaves
As ever it can be.
I welcome thee with all my heart,
Glad herald of the spring,
And yet I cannot choose but think
Of all thou dost not bring.
Glad herald of the spring,
And yet I cannot choose but think
Of all thou dost not bring.
The violet opes her eyes beneath
The dew-fall and the rain—
But oh, the tender, drooping lids
That open not again!
The dew-fall and the rain—
But oh, the tender, drooping lids
That open not again!
Thou set'sts the red familiar rose
Beside the household door,
But oh, the friends, the sweet, sweet friends
Thou bringest back no more!
Beside the household door,
But oh, the friends, the sweet, sweet friends
Thou bringest back no more!
But shall I mourn that thou no more
A short-lived joy can bring,
Since death has lifted up the gates
Of their eternal spring?
A short-lived joy can bring,
Since death has lifted up the gates
Of their eternal spring?
POPPIES.
O ladies, softly fair,
Who curl and comb your hair,
And deck your dainty bodies, eve and morn,
With pearls, and flowery spray,
And knots of ribbons gay,
As if ye were for idlesse only born:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But foolish poppies in among the corn!
Who curl and comb your hair,
And deck your dainty bodies, eve and morn,
With pearls, and flowery spray,
And knots of ribbons gay,
As if ye were for idlesse only born:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But foolish poppies in among the corn!
Whose lives but parts repeat—
Whose little dancing feet
Swim lightly as the silverly mists of morn:
Whose pretty palms unclose
Like some fresh dewy rose,
For dainty dalliance, not for distaffs born;
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But flaunting poppies in among the corn!
Whose little dancing feet
Swim lightly as the silverly mists of morn:
Whose pretty palms unclose
Like some fresh dewy rose,
For dainty dalliance, not for distaffs born;
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But flaunting poppies in among the corn!
O women, sad of face,
Whose crowns of girlish grace
Sin has plucked off, and left ye all forlorn—
Whose pleasures do not please—
Whose hearts have no hearts'-ease—
Whose seeming honor is of honor shorn:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, one and all,
But painted poppies in among the corn!
Whose crowns of girlish grace
Sin has plucked off, and left ye all forlorn—
Whose pleasures do not please—
Whose hearts have no hearts'-ease—
Whose seeming honor is of honor shorn:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, one and all,
But painted poppies in among the corn!
Women, to name whose name
All good men blush for shame,
And bad men even, with the speech of scorn;
Who have nor sacred sight
For Vesta's lamps so white,
Nor hearing for old Triton's wreathèd horn:
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, one and all,
But poison poppies in among the corn!
All good men blush for shame,
And bad men even, with the speech of scorn;
Who have nor sacred sight
For Vesta's lamps so white,
204
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, one and all,
But poison poppies in among the corn!
Women, who will not cease
From toil, nor be at peace
Either at purple eve or yellowing morn,
But drive with pitiless hand,
Your ploughshares through the land
Quick with the lives of daisies yet unborn:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But troublous poppies in among the corn!
From toil, nor be at peace
Either at purple eve or yellowing morn,
But drive with pitiless hand,
Your ploughshares through the land
Quick with the lives of daisies yet unborn:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But troublous poppies in among the corn!
Blighting with fretful looks
The tender-tasseled stocks—
Sweeping your wide-floored barns with sighs forlorn
About the unfilled grains
And starving hunger-pains
That on the morrow, haply, shall be borne:
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But forward poppies in among the corn!
The tender-tasseled stocks—
Sweeping your wide-floored barns with sighs forlorn
About the unfilled grains
And starving hunger-pains
That on the morrow, haply, shall be borne:
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
But forward poppies in among the corn!
O virgins, whose pure eyes
Hold commerce with the skies—
Whose lives lament that ever ye were born;
The cross whose joy to wear
Never the rose, but only just the thorn:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
Better than poppies in among the corn!
Hold commerce with the skies—
Whose lives lament that ever ye were born;
The cross whose joy to wear
Never the rose, but only just the thorn:
Hearken to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all,
Better than poppies in among the corn!
What better? who abuse
The gifts wise women use,
With locks sheared off, and bosoms scourged and torn;
Lapping your veils so white
Betwixt ye and the light,
Composed in heaven's sweet cisterns, morn by morn:
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all
Better than poppies in among the corn!
The gifts wise women use,
With locks sheared off, and bosoms scourged and torn;
Lapping your veils so white
Betwixt ye and the light,
Composed in heaven's sweet cisterns, morn by morn:
Oh, hark to Wisdom's call—
What are ye, after all
Better than poppies in among the corn!
O women, rare and fine,
Whose mouths are red with wine
Of kisses of your children, night and morn,
Whose ways are virtue's ways—
Whose good works are your praise—
Whose hearts hold nothing God has made in scorn:
Though Fame may never call
Your names, ye are, for all,
The Ruths that stand breast-high amid the corn!
Whose mouths are red with wine
Of kisses of your children, night and morn,
Whose ways are virtue's ways—
Whose good works are your praise—
Whose hearts hold nothing God has made in scorn:
Though Fame may never call
Your names, ye are, for all,
The Ruths that stand breast-high amid the corn!
Your steadfast love and sure
Makes all beside it poor;
Your cares like royal ornaments are worn;
Wise women! what so sweet,
So queenly, so complete
To name ye by, since ever one was born?
Since she, whom poets call,
The sweetest of you all,
First gleaned with Boaz in among the corn.
Makes all beside it poor;
Your cares like royal ornaments are worn;
Wise women! what so sweet,
So queenly, so complete
To name ye by, since ever one was born?
Since she, whom poets call,
The sweetest of you all,
First gleaned with Boaz in among the corn.
A SEA SONG.
Nor far nor near grew shrub nor tree,
The bare hills stood up bleak behind,
And in between the marsh weeds gray
Some tawny-colored sand-drift lay,
Opening a pathway to the sea,
The which I took to please my mind.
The bare hills stood up bleak behind,
And in between the marsh weeds gray
Some tawny-colored sand-drift lay,
Opening a pathway to the sea,
The which I took to please my mind.
In full sight of the open seas
A patch of flowers I chance to find,
As if the May, being thereabout,
Had from her apron spilled them out;
And there I lay and took my ease,
And made a song to please my mind.
A patch of flowers I chance to find,
As if the May, being thereabout,
Had from her apron spilled them out;
And there I lay and took my ease,
And made a song to please my mind.
Sweet bed! if you should live full long,
A sweeter you will never find—
Some flowers were red, and some were white;
And in their low and tender light
I meditated on my song,
Fitting the words to please my mind.
A sweeter you will never find—
Some flowers were red, and some were white;
And in their low and tender light
I meditated on my song,
Fitting the words to please my mind.
Some sea-waves on the sands upthrown,
And left there by the wanton wind,
With lips all curled in homesick pain
For the old mother's arms again,
Moved me, and to their piteous moan
I set the tune to please my mind.
And left there by the wanton wind,
With lips all curled in homesick pain
For the old mother's arms again,
Moved me, and to their piteous moan
I set the tune to please my mind.
205
But now I would in very truth
The flowers I had not chanced to find,
Nor lain their speckled leaves along,
Nor set to that sad tune my song;
For that which pleased my careless youth
It faileth now to please my mind.
The flowers I had not chanced to find,
Nor lain their speckled leaves along,
Nor set to that sad tune my song;
For that which pleased my careless youth
It faileth now to please my mind.
And this thing I do know for true,
A truer you will never find,
No false step e'er so lightly rung
But that some echo giving tongue
Did like a hound all steps pursue,
Until the world was left behind.
A truer you will never find,
No false step e'er so lightly rung
But that some echo giving tongue
Did like a hound all steps pursue,
Until the world was left behind.
WINTER AND SUMMER.
The winter goes and the summer comes,
And the cloud descends in warm, wet showers;
The grass grows green where the frost has been,
And waste and wayside are fringed with flowers.
And the cloud descends in warm, wet showers;
The grass grows green where the frost has been,
And waste and wayside are fringed with flowers.
The winter goes and the summer comes,
And the merry bluebirds twitter and trill,
And the swallow swings on his steel-blue wings,
This way and that way, at wildest will.
And the merry bluebirds twitter and trill,
And the swallow swings on his steel-blue wings,
This way and that way, at wildest will.
The winter goes and the summer comes,
And the swallow he swingeth no more aloft.
And the bluebird's breast swells out of her nest.
And the horniest bill of them all grows soft.
And the swallow he swingeth no more aloft.
And the bluebird's breast swells out of her nest.
And the horniest bill of them all grows soft.
The summer goes and the winter comes,
And the daisy dies and the daffodil dies,
And the softest bill grows horny and still,
And the days set dimly and dimly rise.
And the daisy dies and the daffodil dies,
And the softest bill grows horny and still,
And the days set dimly and dimly rise.
The summer goes and the winter comes
And the red fire fades from the heart o' th' rose,
And the snow lies white where the grass was bright,
And the wild wind bitterly blows and blows.
And the red fire fades from the heart o' th' rose,
And the snow lies white where the grass was bright,
And the wild wind bitterly blows and blows.
The winter comes and the winter stays,
Aye, cold and long and long and cold,
And the pulses beat to the weary feet,
And the head feels sick and the heart grows cold.
Aye, cold and long and long and cold,
And the pulses beat to the weary feet,
And the head feels sick and the heart grows cold.
The winter comes and the winter stays,
And all the glory behind us lies,
The cheery light drops into the night,
And the snow drifts over our sightless eyes.
And all the glory behind us lies,
The cheery light drops into the night,
And the snow drifts over our sightless eyes.
AUTUMN.
Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips
The days, as through the sunset gates they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,
The days, as through the sunset gates they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,
Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,
And tries the old tunes over for an hour.
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,
And tries the old tunes over for an hour.
The wind, whose tender whisper in the May
Set all the young blooms listening through th' grove,
Sits rustling in the faded boughs today
And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.
Set all the young blooms listening through th' grove,
Sits rustling in the faded boughs today
And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.
The rose has taken off her tire of red—
The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost,
And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head
Against earth's chilly bosom, witched with frost.
The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost,
And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head
Against earth's chilly bosom, witched with frost.
206
The robin, that was busy all the June,
Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough,
Catching our hearts up in his golden tune,
Has given place to the brown cricket now.
Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough,
Catching our hearts up in his golden tune,
Has given place to the brown cricket now.
The very cock crows lonesomely at morn—
Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides—
Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn
Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides.
Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides—
Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn
Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides.
Shut up the door: who loves me must not look
Upon the withered world, but haste to bring
His lighted candle, and his story-book,
And live with me the poetry of spring.
Upon the withered world, but haste to bring
His lighted candle, and his story-book,
And live with me the poetry of spring.
DAMARIS.
You know th' forks of th' road, and th' brown mill?
And how th' mill-stream, where th' three elms grow,
Flattens its curly head and slips below
That shelf of rocks which juts from out th' hill?
And how th' mill-stream, where th' three elms grow,
Flattens its curly head and slips below
That shelf of rocks which juts from out th' hill?
You know th' field of sandstone, red and gray,
Sloped to th' south? and where th' sign-post stands,
Silently lifting up its two black hands
To point th' uneasy traveler on his way?
Sloped to th' south? and where th' sign-post stands,
Silently lifting up its two black hands
To point th' uneasy traveler on his way?
You must remember the long rippling ridge
Of rye, that cut the level land in two,
And changed from blue to green, from green to blue,
Summer after summer? And th' one-arched bridge,
Of rye, that cut the level land in two,
And changed from blue to green, from green to blue,
Summer after summer? And th' one-arched bridge,
Under the which, with joy surpassing words,
We stole to see beneath the speckled breast
Of th' wild mother, all the clay-built nest
Set round with shining heads of little birds.
We stole to see beneath the speckled breast
Of th' wild mother, all the clay-built nest
Set round with shining heads of little birds.
Well, midway 'twixt th' rye-ridge and th' mill,
In the old house with windows to the morn,
The village beauty, Damaris, was born—
There lives, in “maiden meditation,” still.
In the old house with windows to the morn,
The village beauty, Damaris, was born—
There lives, in “maiden meditation,” still.
Stop you and mark, if you that way should pass,
The old familiar quince and apple-trees,
Chafing against the wall with every breeze,
And at the door the flag-stones, set in grass.
The old familiar quince and apple-trees,
Chafing against the wall with every breeze,
And at the door the flag-stones, set in grass.
There is the sunflower, with her starry face
Leaned to her love; and there, with pride elate,
The prince's-feather—at th' garden-gate
The green-haired plants, all gracious in their place.
Leaned to her love; and there, with pride elate,
The prince's-feather—at th' garden-gate
The green-haired plants, all gracious in their place.
You'll think you have not been an hour away—
Seeing the stones, th' flowers, the knotty trees,
And 'twixt the palings, strings of yellow bees,
Shining like streaks of light—but, welladay!
Seeing the stones, th' flowers, the knotty trees,
And 'twixt the palings, strings of yellow bees,
Shining like streaks of light—but, welladay!
If Damaris happen at the modest door,
In gown of silver gray and cap of snow—
Your May-day sweetheart, forty years ago—
The brief delusion can delude no more.
In gown of silver gray and cap of snow—
Your May-day sweetheart, forty years ago—
The brief delusion can delude no more.
A LESSON.
Woodland, green and gay with dew,
Here, to-day, I pledge anew
All the love I gave to you
Here, to-day, I pledge anew
All the love I gave to you
When my heart was young and glad,
And in dress of homespun plaid,
Bright as any flower you had,
207
Bright as any flower you had,
Through your bushy ways I trod,
Or, lay hushed upon your sod
With my silence praising God.
Or, lay hushed upon your sod
With my silence praising God.
Never sighing for the town—
Never giving back a frown
To the sun that kissed me brown.
Never giving back a frown
To the sun that kissed me brown.
When my hopes were of such stuff,
That my days, though crude enough,
Were with golden gladness rough—
That my days, though crude enough,
Were with golden gladness rough—
Timid creatures of the air—
Little ground-mice, shy and fair—
You were friendly with me there.
Little ground-mice, shy and fair—
You were friendly with me there.
Beeches gray, and solemn firs,
Thickets full of bees and burs,
You were then my school-masters,
Thickets full of bees and burs,
You were then my school-masters,
Teaching me as best you could,
How the evil by the good—
Thorns by flowers must be construed.
How the evil by the good—
Thorns by flowers must be construed.
Rivulets of silvery sound,
Searching close, I always found
Fretting over stony ground.
Searching close, I always found
Fretting over stony ground.
And in hollows, cold and wet,
Violets purpled into jet
As if bad blood had been let;
Violets purpled into jet
As if bad blood had been let;
While in every sunny place,
Each one wore upon her face
Looks of true and tender grace.
Each one wore upon her face
Looks of true and tender grace.
Leaning from the hedge-row wall,
Gave the rose her sweets to all,
Like a royal prodigal.
Gave the rose her sweets to all,
Like a royal prodigal.
And the lily, priestly white,
Made a little saintly light
In her chapel out of sight.
Made a little saintly light
In her chapel out of sight.
Heedless how the spider spun—
Heedless of the brook that run
Boldly winking at the sun.
Heedless of the brook that run
Boldly winking at the sun.
When the autumn clouds did pack
Hue on hue, unto that black
That 's bluish, like a serpent's back,
Hue on hue, unto that black
That 's bluish, like a serpent's back,
Emptying all their cisterns out,
While the winds in fear and doubt
Whirled like dervises about,
While the winds in fear and doubt
Whirled like dervises about,
And the mushroom, brown and dry,
On the meadow's face did lie,
Shrunken like an evil eye—
On the meadow's face did lie,
Shrunken like an evil eye—
Shrunken all its fleshy skin,
Like a lid that wrinkles in
Where an eyeball once had been.
Like a lid that wrinkles in
Where an eyeball once had been.
How my soul within me cried,
As along the woodland side
All the flowers fell sick and died.
As along the woodland side
All the flowers fell sick and died.
But when Spring returned, she said,
“They were sleeping, and not dead—
Thus must light and darkness wed.”
“They were sleeping, and not dead—
Thus must light and darkness wed.”
Since that lesson, even death
Lies upon the glass of faith,
Like the dimness of a breath.
Lies upon the glass of faith,
Like the dimness of a breath.
KATRINA ON THE PORCH.
A BIT OF TURNER PUT INTO WORDS.
An old, old house by the side of the sea,
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the hearth is more to me
Than shimmer of air-built castle.
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the hearth is more to me
Than shimmer of air-built castle.
It fits as it grew to the landscape there—
One hardly feels as he stands aloof
Where the sandstone ends, and the red slate roof
Juts over the window, low and square,
That looks on the wild sea-water.
One hardly feels as he stands aloof
Where the sandstone ends, and the red slate roof
Juts over the window, low and square,
That looks on the wild sea-water.
From the top of the hill so green and high
There slopeth a level of golden moss,
That bars of scarlet and amber cross,
And rolling out to the farther sky
Is the world of wild sea-water.
There slopeth a level of golden moss,
That bars of scarlet and amber cross,
And rolling out to the farther sky
Is the world of wild sea-water.
Some starved grape-vineyards round about—
A zigzag road cut deep with ruts—
A little cluster of fisher's huts,
And the black sand scalloping in and out
'Twixt th' land and th' wild sea-water.
A zigzag road cut deep with ruts—
A little cluster of fisher's huts,
And the black sand scalloping in and out
'Twixt th' land and th' wild sea-water.
208
Gray fragments of some border towers,
Flat, pellmell on a circling mound,
With a furrow deeply worn all round
By the feet of children through the flowers,
And all by the wild sea-water.
Flat, pellmell on a circling mound,
With a furrow deeply worn all round
By the feet of children through the flowers,
And all by the wild sea-water.
And there, from the silvery break o' th' day
Till the evening purple drops to the land,
She sits with her cheek like a rose in her hand,
And her sad and wistful eyes one way—
The way of the wild sea-water.
Till the evening purple drops to the land,
She sits with her cheek like a rose in her hand,
And her sad and wistful eyes one way—
The way of the wild sea-water.
And there, from night till the yellowing morn
Falls over the huts and th' scallops of sand—
A tangle of curls like a torch in her hand—
She sits and maketh her moan so lorn,
With the moan of the wild sea-water.
Falls over the huts and th' scallops of sand—
A tangle of curls like a torch in her hand—
She sits and maketh her moan so lorn,
With the moan of the wild sea-water.
Only a study for homely eyes,
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the humblest hearth I prize
O'er the luminous air-built castle.
And never a picture poet would paint;
But I hold the woman above the saint,
And the light of the humblest hearth I prize
O'er the luminous air-built castle.
THE WEST COUNTRY.
Have you been in our wild west country? then
You have often had to pass
Its cabins lying like birds' nests in
The wild green prairie grass.
You have often had to pass
Its cabins lying like birds' nests in
The wild green prairie grass.
Have you seen the women forget their wheels
As they sat at the door to spin—
Have you seen the darning fall away
From their fingers worn and thin,
As they sat at the door to spin—
Have you seen the darning fall away
From their fingers worn and thin,
As they asked you news of the villages
Where they were used to be,
Gay girls at work in the factories
With their lovers gone to sea!
Where they were used to be,
Gay girls at work in the factories
With their lovers gone to sea!
Ah, have you thought of the bravery
That no loud praise provokes—
Of the tragedies acted in the lives
Of poor, hard-working folks!
That no loud praise provokes—
Of the tragedies acted in the lives
Of poor, hard-working folks!
Of the little more, and the little more
Of hardship which they press
Upon their own tired hands to make
The toil for the children less:
Of hardship which they press
Upon their own tired hands to make
The toil for the children less:
And not in vain; for many a lad
Born to rough work and ways,
Strips off his ragged coat, and makes
Men clothe him with their praise.
Born to rough work and ways,
Strips off his ragged coat, and makes
Men clothe him with their praise.
209
CONTRADICTION.
I love the deep quiet—all buried in leaves,
To sit the day long just as idle as air,
Till the spider grows tame at my elbow, and weaves,
And toadstools come up in a row round my chair.
To sit the day long just as idle as air,
Till the spider grows tame at my elbow, and weaves,
And toadstools come up in a row round my chair.
I love the new furrows—the cones of the pine,
The grasshopper's chirp, and the hum of the mote;
And short pasture-grass where the clover-blooms shine
Like red buttons set on a holiday coat.
The grasshopper's chirp, and the hum of the mote;
And short pasture-grass where the clover-blooms shine
Like red buttons set on a holiday coat.
Flocks packed in the hollows—the droning of bees,
The stubble so brittle—the damp and flat fen;
Old homesteads I love, in their clusters of trees,
And children and books, but not women nor men.
The stubble so brittle—the damp and flat fen;
Old homesteads I love, in their clusters of trees,
And children and books, but not women nor men.
Yet, strange contradiction! I live in the sound
Of a sea-girdled city—'t is thus that it fell,
And years, oh, how many! have gone since I bound
A sheaf for the harvest, or drank at a well.
Of a sea-girdled city—'t is thus that it fell,
And years, oh, how many! have gone since I bound
A sheaf for the harvest, or drank at a well.
And if, kindly reader, one moment you wait
To measure the poor little niche that you fill,
I think you will own it is custom or fate
That has made you the creature you are, not your will.
To measure the poor little niche that you fill,
I think you will own it is custom or fate
That has made you the creature you are, not your will.
MY DREAM OF DREAMS.
Alone within my house I sit;
The lights are not for me,
The music, nor the mirth; and yet
I lack not company.
The lights are not for me,
The music, nor the mirth; and yet
I lack not company.
So gayly go the gay to meet,
Nor wait my griefs to mend—
My entertainment is more sweet
Than thine, to-night, my friend.
Nor wait my griefs to mend—
My entertainment is more sweet
Than thine, to-night, my friend.
Whilst thou, one blossom in thy hand,
Bewail'st my weary hours,
Upon my native hills I stand
Waist-deep among the flowers.
Bewail'st my weary hours,
Upon my native hills I stand
Waist-deep among the flowers.
I envy not a joy of thine;
For while I sit apart
Soft summer, oh, fond friend of mine,
Is with me in my heart.
For while I sit apart
Soft summer, oh, fond friend of mine,
Is with me in my heart.
Aye, aye, I'm young to-night once more;
The years their hold have loosed,
And on the dear old homestead door
I'm watching, as I used,
The years their hold have loosed,
And on the dear old homestead door
I'm watching, as I used,
The sunset hang its scarlet fringe
Along the low white clouds,
While, radiant with their tender tinge,
My visions come in crowds.
Along the low white clouds,
210
My visions come in crowds.
The doves fly homeward over me,
The red rose bravely gleams,
And first and last and midst I see
The dream of all my dreams.
The red rose bravely gleams,
And first and last and midst I see
The dream of all my dreams.
I need not say what dream it was,
Nor how in life's lost hours
It made the glory of the grass
The splendor of the flowers.
Nor how in life's lost hours
It made the glory of the grass
The splendor of the flowers.
I need not wait to paint its glow
With rainbow light nor sun;
Who ever loved that did not know
There is no dream but one?
With rainbow light nor sun;
Who ever loved that did not know
There is no dream but one?
My frosty locks grow bright and brown;
My step is light once more;
The world now dropping darkly down
Comes greenly up before.
My step is light once more;
The world now dropping darkly down
Comes greenly up before.
Comes greenly up before my eyes,
With gracious splendor clad,
That world which now behind me lies
So darkly dim, so sad.
With gracious splendor clad,
That world which now behind me lies
So darkly dim, so sad.
Shot over with the purpling morn,
I see the long mists roll,
And hear beneath the tasseled corn
The winds make tender dole.
I see the long mists roll,
And hear beneath the tasseled corn
The winds make tender dole.
I hear, and all my pulses rouse
And give back trembling thrills,
The farm-boy calling with his cows
The echoes from the hills.
And give back trembling thrills,
The farm-boy calling with his cows
The echoes from the hills.
So soft the plashing of the rain
Upon the peach-tree leaves,
It hardly breaks the silvery skein
The dark-browed spider weaves.
Upon the peach-tree leaves,
It hardly breaks the silvery skein
The dark-browed spider weaves.
The grasshopper so faintly cries
Beneath the dock's round burs
That in the shadow where she lies
The silence scarcely stirs.
Beneath the dock's round burs
That in the shadow where she lies
The silence scarcely stirs.
Bright tangles of the wings of birds
Along the thickets shine,
But oh, how poor are common words
To tell of bliss divine!
Along the thickets shine,
But oh, how poor are common words
To tell of bliss divine!
So let thy soft tears cease to fall,
My friend, nor longer wait;
I have my recompense for all
Thou pitiest in my fate,
My friend, nor longer wait;
I have my recompense for all
Thou pitiest in my fate,
The joys thou hold'st within thy glance
Thou canst not make to last;
Mine are uplifted to romance—
Immortal, changeless, fast.
Thou canst not make to last;
Mine are uplifted to romance—
Immortal, changeless, fast.
When pleasures fly too far aloof,
Or pain too sorely crowds,
I go and sit beneath my roof
Of golden morning clouds.
Or pain too sorely crowds,
I go and sit beneath my roof
Of golden morning clouds.
There back to life my dead hope starts,
And well her pledge redeems,
As close within my heart of hearts
I hug my dream of dreams.
And well her pledge redeems,
As close within my heart of hearts
I hug my dream of dreams.
IN THE DARK.
Has the spring come back, my darling,
Has the long and soaking rain
Been moulded into the tender leaves
Of the gay and growing grain—
The leaves so sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain?
Oh, and I would I could see them grow,
Oh, and I would I could see them blow,
All over field and plain—
The billows sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain.
Has the long and soaking rain
Been moulded into the tender leaves
Of the gay and growing grain—
The leaves so sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain?
Oh, and I would I could see them grow,
Oh, and I would I could see them blow,
All over field and plain—
The billows sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain.
Are the flowers dressed out, my darling,
In their kerchiefs plain or bright—
The groundwort gay, and the lady of May,
In her petticoat pink and white?
The fair little flowers, the rare little flowers,
Taking and making the light?
Oh, and I would I could see them all,
The little and low, the proud and tall,
In their kerchiefs brave and bright,
Stealing out of the morns and eves,
To braid embroidery round their leaves,
The gold and scarlet light.
In their kerchiefs plain or bright—
The groundwort gay, and the lady of May,
In her petticoat pink and white?
The fair little flowers, the rare little flowers,
Taking and making the light?
Oh, and I would I could see them all,
The little and low, the proud and tall,
In their kerchiefs brave and bright,
Stealing out of the morns and eves,
To braid embroidery round their leaves,
The gold and scarlet light.
Have the birds come back, my darling,
The birds from over the sea?
Are they cooing and courting together
In bush and bower and tree?
The mad little birds, the glad little birds,
The birds from over the sea!
Oh, and I would I could hear them sing,
Oh, and I would I could see them swing
In the top of our garden tree!
The mad little birds, the glad little birds,
The birds from over the sea!
The birds from over the sea?
Are they cooing and courting together
In bush and bower and tree?
The mad little birds, the glad little birds,
The birds from over the sea!
Oh, and I would I could hear them sing,
211
In the top of our garden tree!
The mad little birds, the glad little birds,
The birds from over the sea!
Are they building their nests, my darling,
In the stubble, brittle and brown?
Are they gathering threads, and silken shreds,
And wisps of wool and down,
With their silver throats and speckled coats,
And eyes so bright and so brown?
Oh, and I would I could see them make
And line their nests for love's sweet sake,
With shreds of wool and down,
With their eyes so bright and brown!
In the stubble, brittle and brown?
Are they gathering threads, and silken shreds,
And wisps of wool and down,
With their silver throats and speckled coats,
And eyes so bright and so brown?
Oh, and I would I could see them make
And line their nests for love's sweet sake,
With shreds of wool and down,
With their eyes so bright and brown!
AN INVALID'S PLEA.
O summer! my beautiful, beautiful summer!
I look in thy face, and I long so to live;
But ah! hast thou room for an idle newcomer,
With all things to take, and with nothing to give?
With all things to take of thy dear loving-kindness.
The wine of thy sunshine, the dew of thy air;
And with nothing to give but the deafness and blindness
Begot in the depths of an utter despair?
I look in thy face, and I long so to live;
But ah! hast thou room for an idle newcomer,
With all things to take, and with nothing to give?
With all things to take of thy dear loving-kindness.
The wine of thy sunshine, the dew of thy air;
And with nothing to give but the deafness and blindness
Begot in the depths of an utter despair?
As if the gay harvester meant but to screen her,
The black spider sits in her low loom, and weaves:
A lesson of trust to the tender-eyed gleaner
That bears in her brown arms the gold of the sheaves.
The blue-bird that trills her low lay in the bushes
Provokes from the robin a merrier glee;
The rose pays the sun for his kiss with her blushes,
And all things pay tithes to thee—all things but me.
The black spider sits in her low loom, and weaves:
A lesson of trust to the tender-eyed gleaner
That bears in her brown arms the gold of the sheaves.
The blue-bird that trills her low lay in the bushes
Provokes from the robin a merrier glee;
The rose pays the sun for his kiss with her blushes,
And all things pay tithes to thee—all things but me.
At even, the fire-flies trim with their glimmers
The wild, weedy skirts of the field and the wood;
At morning, those dear little yellow-winged swimmers,
The butterflies, hasten to make their place good.
The violet, always so white and so saintly;
The cardinal, warming the frost with her blaze:
The ant, keeping house at her sand-hearth so quaintly
Reproaches my idle and indolent ways.
The wild, weedy skirts of the field and the wood;
At morning, those dear little yellow-winged swimmers,
The butterflies, hasten to make their place good.
The violet, always so white and so saintly;
The cardinal, warming the frost with her blaze:
The ant, keeping house at her sand-hearth so quaintly
Reproaches my idle and indolent ways.
When o'er the high east the red morning is breaking,
And driving the amber of starlight behind,
The land of enchantment I leave, on awaking,
Is not so enchanted as that which I find.
And when the low west by the sunset is flattered,
And locust and katydid sing up their best,
Peace comes to my thoughts, that were used to be fluttered,
Like doves when an eagle's wing darkens their nest.
And driving the amber of starlight behind,
The land of enchantment I leave, on awaking,
Is not so enchanted as that which I find.
And when the low west by the sunset is flattered,
And locust and katydid sing up their best,
Peace comes to my thoughts, that were used to be fluttered,
Like doves when an eagle's wing darkens their nest.
The green little grasshopper, weak as we deem her,
Chirps, day in and out, for the sweet right to live;
And canst thou, O summer! make room for a dreamer,
With all things to take, and with nothing to give?
Room only to wrap her hot cheeks in thy shadows,
And all on thy daisy-fringed pillows to lie,
And dream of the gates of the glorious meadows,
Where never a rose of the roses shall die!
Chirps, day in and out, for the sweet right to live;
And canst thou, O summer! make room for a dreamer,
With all things to take, and with nothing to give?
Room only to wrap her hot cheeks in thy shadows,
And all on thy daisy-fringed pillows to lie,
And dream of the gates of the glorious meadows,
Where never a rose of the roses shall die!
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |