 | The hill of stones and other poems |  |
40
A TALE UNTOLD.
Swiftly over purple clover,
Through and under swaying leaves,
Past the brookside's dipping willows,
In among the upland sheaves,
Through and under swaying leaves,
Past the brookside's dipping willows,
In among the upland sheaves,
Where the tumbled grasses sparkle,
Comes the wholesome northern breeze,
Shaking, breaking, mending shadows,
'Neath the thin leaved orchard trees.
Comes the wholesome northern breeze,
Shaking, breaking, mending shadows,
'Neath the thin leaved orchard trees.
Shut your eyes, dear love, I whispered,
While your own heart sings a song,
Something the wind shall tell, but haste—
Hide me not those sweet eyes long.
While your own heart sings a song,
Something the wind shall tell, but haste—
Hide me not those sweet eyes long.
41
A song will come as your birds at call;
Fill it full of the mystic power
That climbs the sun-warmed trunks, and brings
Yearning dreams to bird and flower.
Fill it full of the mystic power
That climbs the sun-warmed trunks, and brings
Yearning dreams to bird and flower.
And so she lay with brown eyes shut,
Eyes more sweet than any be,
And murmured faint: The ships of thought
Come swift across a fairy sea.
Eyes more sweet than any be,
And murmured faint: The ships of thought
Come swift across a fairy sea.
Royal gifts thy galleons bring thee,
Ventures strange of sunset gold,—
Poet songs in love dreams murmured,
Cargoes rare of stories old.
Ventures strange of sunset gold,—
Poet songs in love dreams murmured,
Cargoes rare of stories old.
Then passed her merry mood away;—
Love, she cried, not mine the tale,
By thought's swift stream I sit to hear
Its waters, that laugh or wail.
Love, she cried, not mine the tale,
By thought's swift stream I sit to hear
Its waters, that laugh or wail.
42
And love, I quake to hear how wild,
And sorrow to hear how sweet,
The murmured songs I cannot keep,
The thoughts that die at my feet.
And sorrow to hear how sweet,
The murmured songs I cannot keep,
The thoughts that die at my feet.
Yet one quaint song I hold in thrall,
To tell ere the lordly freight
Shall perish with the fairy ships
Your fancy launched but of late.
To tell ere the lordly freight
Shall perish with the fairy ships
Your fancy launched but of late.
An easy flow of warbled words,
Quaint as the antique tongue of birds,
Akin to theirs in likeness sweet,
Full thronged with meanings incomplete;
For she had shared, I think, with these,
Of nature's woodland mysteries;
Because, to hear her speech aright,
The booming bee would check his flight,
And, like to one in foreign lands,
Who hears a tongue he understands,
The startled swallow dipped so near
He almost touched my lady's ear.
Love-treason were it I should tell
The charm-words of that dainty spell;
As lief would I, if well I knew
The secret of each forest bower,
Their virgin whispers tell to you,
To while away a common hour.
Or could I learn what gracious words
Wake up betimes the drowsy birds,
When in the first-born morning breeze
Take exercise the stately trees,
With great limbs swinging full of strength,
As when a giant's easy length
Doth take delight on buoyant seas.
'T were vain to ask with me to share
The thoughts of earth, or sea, or air,
Because their voice to understand
You must have been sea, air, or land.
But if the riddle sound untrue,
Some woman witch will read it you.
So is it I would only share
With woodland folk her song of prayer,—
With these plumed citizens of June,
Her echoes of their joyous tune;
With them alone the graver chants
That roused their choir in orchard haunts,
And answered with a loving grace
The challenge of my yearning face.
Quaint as the antique tongue of birds,
Akin to theirs in likeness sweet,
Full thronged with meanings incomplete;
For she had shared, I think, with these,
Of nature's woodland mysteries;
Because, to hear her speech aright,
The booming bee would check his flight,
And, like to one in foreign lands,
Who hears a tongue he understands,
43
He almost touched my lady's ear.
Love-treason were it I should tell
The charm-words of that dainty spell;
As lief would I, if well I knew
The secret of each forest bower,
Their virgin whispers tell to you,
To while away a common hour.
Or could I learn what gracious words
Wake up betimes the drowsy birds,
When in the first-born morning breeze
Take exercise the stately trees,
With great limbs swinging full of strength,
As when a giant's easy length
Doth take delight on buoyant seas.
'T were vain to ask with me to share
The thoughts of earth, or sea, or air,
Because their voice to understand
You must have been sea, air, or land.
But if the riddle sound untrue,
44
So is it I would only share
With woodland folk her song of prayer,—
With these plumed citizens of June,
Her echoes of their joyous tune;
With them alone the graver chants
That roused their choir in orchard haunts,
And answered with a loving grace
The challenge of my yearning face.
69
NIGHT-LAKE HELEN.
I lie in my red canoe
On the waters still and deep,
And o'er me darkens the sky,
And beneath the billows sleep;
On the waters still and deep,
And o'er me darkens the sky,
And beneath the billows sleep;
Till, between the stars above
And those in the lake's embrace,
I seem to float like the dead
In the noiselessness of space.
And those in the lake's embrace,
I seem to float like the dead
In the noiselessness of space.
Betwixt two worlds I drift,
A bodiless soul again—
Between the still thoughts of God
And those which belong to men;
A bodiless soul again—
70
And those which belong to men;
And out of the height above,
And out of the deep below,
A thought that is like a ghost
Doth gather and gain and grow,
And out of the deep below,
A thought that is like a ghost
Doth gather and gain and grow,
That now and forevermore
This silence of death shall hold,
While the nations fade and die,
And the countless years are rolled.
This silence of death shall hold,
While the nations fade and die,
And the countless years are rolled.
But I turn the light canoe,
And, darting across the night,
Am glad of the paddles' noise
And the camp-fire's honest light.
And, darting across the night,
Am glad of the paddles' noise
And the camp-fire's honest light.
75
PADDLE-SONG.
The mist is thick, the waters quick,
And fast we slit along;
The foam-bells flash, the paddles splash,—
Sing us a merry song.
And fast we slit along;
The foam-bells flash, the paddles splash,—
Sing us a merry song.
What 's this I see come swift to me
Across the rapids dark?
A princess fair, with yellow hair,
A red canoe of bark.
Across the rapids dark?
76
A red canoe of bark.
Her golden hair floats thick and fair
Far, far behind her lee,
And pike and trout come leaping out,
Her merry locks to see.
Far, far behind her lee,
And pike and trout come leaping out,
Her merry locks to see.
With a silver gun, a silver gun,
The tall white swan she slew:
He moaned a hymn, his sight grew dim,
It might have been I or you.
The tall white swan she slew:
He moaned a hymn, his sight grew dim,
It might have been I or you.
The feathers, white as the still moonlight,
Toss red on the waters free,
And gay trout break the silent lake,
The small white boats to see.
Toss red on the waters free,
And gay trout break the silent lake,
The small white boats to see.
The silver ball has found his heart:
It might have hit you or me.
The round white ball has found his heart:
Ah sad! ah sad to see!
It might have hit you or me.
77
Ah sad! ah sad to see!
Quick is the flash of her paddle's dash,
And far and free behind,
In the roar and splash of the rapids' crash,
Her hair floats on the wind.
And far and free behind,
In the roar and splash of the rapids' crash,
Her hair floats on the wind.
Turn not to view her swift canoe;
Ave Maria! beware! beware!
Look not behind, where wave and wind
Roll out her rippled hair.
Ave Maria! beware! beware!
Look not behind, where wave and wind
Roll out her rippled hair.
80
FRAGMENT OF A CHIPPEWA LEGEND.
Despairing and sunburnt and thirsty,The forest-trees bend o'er the lake-brink,
Where, mocking them, chatter the squirrels
At play on the mouldering mosses;
While over them, blue and relentless,
Rise, cloudless and sultry, the heavens.
And where, cried the pine-tree in anger,
Ah, where is my warrior North Wind?
Asleep, quoth the gossiping chipmunk,
On white-bosomed snows of the Northland.
And where, moaned the glossy-limbed beeches,
Where hide our sweet chiefs of the summer,
The rose-breathing South and the West Wind?
Shrilled sharply the loon, from the water,
In gardens of jasmine they wander,
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Spake sadly the tamarack stately:
O'er forest and mountain top vainly
A-weary I watch for the East Wind,—
My wild warring rover, the East Wind,
Who smites the dark sea in his fury,
And comes to me eager and angry.
Forgotten, forgotten, forgotten,
The nightingale sings from the elders.
82
THE MARSIL.
Safely moored on the dappled water,
The broad green lily-pads dip and sway,
While, like a skipper, a gray frog rides
The biggest leaf in the tiny bay.
The broad green lily-pads dip and sway,
While, like a skipper, a gray frog rides
The biggest leaf in the tiny bay.
Merrily leap the brown-cheeked waves
To seize the sunlight's liberal gold,
Which shakes and flickers among the reeds,
And on the stones of the beach is rolled.
To seize the sunlight's liberal gold,
Which shakes and flickers among the reeds,
And on the stones of the beach is rolled.
O'er marish meadows, and far beyond,
Silken and green or velvety gray,
Tufted grasses with shifting colors
In the wholesome north wind toss and play.
Silken and green or velvety gray,
Tufted grasses with shifting colors
In the wholesome north wind toss and play.
83
Lonely and sad, on the sea of green,
The cardinal-flower a light-house stands,—
A scarlet blaze in the morning sun,
To guide the honey-bees' toiling bands.
The cardinal-flower a light-house stands,—
A scarlet blaze in the morning sun,
To guide the honey-bees' toiling bands.
What was it for, this flower's beauty,
Its royal color's marvelous glow?
Not, like a good deed, still rejoicing
The soul that grew it, though no one know.
Its royal color's marvelous glow?
Not, like a good deed, still rejoicing
The soul that grew it, though no one know.
All unconscious, only a flower,
Life without zest, and death without thought;
Lost as a stone to the sweet, deep pleasure
Its scarlet wonder to me has brought.
Life without zest, and death without thought;
Lost as a stone to the sweet, deep pleasure
Its scarlet wonder to me has brought.
Has it, I ponder, no sense of pleasing,
No least estate in the world of joy?
Have the leaf and the grass no conscious sense
Of what they give us,—no want or cloy?
No least estate in the world of joy?
Have the leaf and the grass no conscious sense
Of what they give us,—no want or cloy?
84
Not so unlike us. The words that weight us
With keenest sorrow and longest pain
Fall oft from lips that rest unconscious
If that they give us be loss or gain.
With keenest sorrow and longest pain
Fall oft from lips that rest unconscious
If that they give us be loss or gain.
Do I only have power to fill me
From sun and flower with joy intense?
Has yon cold frog on his lonely leaf raft
No lower share through a duller sense?
From sun and flower with joy intense?
Has yon cold frog on his lonely leaf raft
No lower share through a duller sense?
Think you the ladies he woos are sought
For form, or color, or beauty's sake?
That, touched with sorrow, he mourns to-day
Some mottled Helen beneath the lake?
For form, or color, or beauty's sake?
That, touched with sorrow, he mourns to-day
Some mottled Helen beneath the lake?
Why should fret us this constant riddle,
To know if Nature be kind or harsh
To the pensive frog on his green-ribbed float,
The scarlet queen of the lonely marsh?
To know if Nature be kind or harsh
To the pensive frog on his green-ribbed float,
The scarlet queen of the lonely marsh?
85
Haply, in thought-spheres far above us,
Some may watch us with larger powers,
Asking if we have wit or reason,
Asking if pain or joy be ours.
Some may watch us with larger powers,
Asking if we have wit or reason,
Asking if pain or joy be ours.
But does it vex me, this endless riddle
I toss about in my helpless brain,
To know if life be worth the having,
If just mere being be any gain?
I toss about in my helpless brain,
To know if life be worth the having,
If just mere being be any gain?
Scarce can I answer. Something surely
The thought has brought me this summer morn,—
Something for me in life were missing
If frog and flower had ne'er been born.
The thought has brought me this summer morn,—
Something for me in life were missing
If frog and flower had ne'er been born.
86
A CONCEIT.
Loitering scents from the garden come,
Blown from shelter of wind-stirred trees;
Like bits of song from the lips we love,
They rise and fade on the evening breeze.
Blown from shelter of wind-stirred trees;
Like bits of song from the lips we love,
They rise and fade on the evening breeze.
And shall we marry in wedlock sweet
The poet's soul and the floweret's breath,
And, musing, wonder what many tongues
The yearning singer may gain in death?
The poet's soul and the floweret's breath,
And, musing, wonder what many tongues
The yearning singer may gain in death?
Who wilt thou hear in the rich wild scents
Of the ancient gardens' well-trimmed shade?
Who shall the jessamine's laureate be,
And who for the summer's noble maid?
Of the ancient gardens' well-trimmed shade?
Who shall the jessamine's laureate be,
And who for the summer's noble maid?
87
The great red rose shall tell us in song
Her tender passion of sweet perfume;
And whose shall the frail clematis be,
With its faint aroma and fringe of bloom?
Her tender passion of sweet perfume;
And whose shall the frail clematis be,
With its faint aroma and fringe of bloom?
Wilt give unto Keats the waiting rose;
To Shelley's voice the violet's scent;
And Spenser's measure of stately song,
To haunt the lily's silvery tent.
To Shelley's voice the violet's scent;
And Spenser's measure of stately song,
To haunt the lily's silvery tent.
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